He turns a stricken face to me a moment, parts his lips to say something, then turns on his heel and leaves me alone, slamming the door behind him.
He is there and I am here.
As always.
Bess Holland
“Oh, I am a bad girl!” I sob in the duke's arms when he returns to me that night. “I should never have come between you and your lady wife!”
His Grace rocks me back and forth, stroking my hair and making little shushing noises. “Drivel, Bess, you've done nothing wrong. Happiness is rarely found and we must seize it when it is made available to us. And you are my happiness. I need you.”
He needs me. Does that make it right? But he is a duke, and dukes are much wiser than servant girls. Perhaps I should just listen to him. . . . It would make living with this far easier.
“What of the duchess?” I ask, fearing the woman with the cunning blue eyes.
“The duchess has her own life and will be compensated,” he assures me. He pulls away, cupping my face in the fashion I have come to love so well. “Bess. Listen to me. Whatever sin there is in this is on my head, do you see?”
“How can you absolve me?” I ask him. “You're not God.”
“Trust me, Bess,” he says after a moment's pause, as though he was considering the possibility of having the power of God.
“I trust you, Your Grace,” I say at last. “I trust you with my very life.”
“Oh, Bess,” he murmurs, drawing me against his chest. “Oh, my sweet little Bess . . .”
And he makes it right.
Being with him makes everything right.
The light of day reveals another story, however. Duchess Elizabeth is in a fury and has lost all subtlety.
“You are a churl's daughter, worse than the lowest harlot,” she seethes as we pour candle wax into molds. Her voice is so low I have to strain my ears to listen. To see us together, one would think we were the best of friends, our heads close together as we carry out this mundane chore.
“By day you play with my children and tout yourself as the innocent little maid, and by night you seduce my husband,” she goes on to say. “Have you no shame? Have you no care for your reputation? You are a young girl; you are marriageable. Don't you want to make a fine match? No one will want to have a duke's leavings.”
Tears fill my eyes. I bow my head. I do not know what to say. She is right. . . . I know she is right . . . and I do want to make a marriage someday. It will never be to whom I want, but I know this cannot last my whole life long. Oh, Jesus, what's to become of me!
“I want you to leave my husband alone,” she demands. “You hear me? Stay away.”
“I can't!” I cry. “How can I keep him away when
he
comes to
me?
” I know I am being disrespectful, but she has gone too far. Claiming I have control where I have none. “It's not my fault, Your Graceânot all of it,” I add, knowing I must take some responsibility. “I didn't drive His Grace awayâperhaps none of this would have happened if you didn't make him so unhappy!”
This earns me a stinging slap across the face.
“Insolent little fool!” she cries. “How dare you speak to me this way?”
“How dare
you,
my lady?” I cry, holding my burning cheek, blinking back tears. “I am sorry . . . I should not have spoken so. But you must understand that I have no more power than you.”
Duchess Elizabeth turns, covering her face with her hands. “Leave me.”
“My lady . . .”
“I said leave me!”
Rising, I run from the room, blinking away tears, marveling at how fast my life has changed and wondering how I will keep up.
Two Ladies
Thomas Howard, 1528
T
wo years, Bess has been beside me and still they fight over me like she-cats. Flattering as it may be, it still will not do. It is Elizabeth's fault. If she could just accept the situation like a good wife, all these endless battles and dramas could be avoided. Another solution will have to be reached.
But there are more urgent matters requiring my attention. Two other women occupy my mind. One is the steadfast Queen Catherine, whom the king seems to be setting aside in favor of my niece, Thomas Boleyn's girl Anne. She's a raven-haired, sharptongued wench who is far too thin to be considered comely in my eyes. If she suits the king, however, I shall extol her virtues to my very best ability. The king is besotted with my black-eyed niece, far more so, it seems, than any woman he has known thus far.
“This must be played out differently,” I tell Elizabeth one night. I am beyond knowing what guides me to herâit seems no matter how distracted I am, I always find my way to her apartments. There is no use trying to figure out anything where my wife and I are concerned. As it is, I am here, so I may as well stay a while. “We are after a bigger prize this time.”
Elizabeth arches a brow. She is sitting before her fire embroidering. “What prize could be bigger than the king's favor in your eyes?” she asks me in her low voice.
I smile and sit across from her. My limbs are tingling with excitement. “A crown, Elizabeth. A crown for the Howards!”
Elizabeth scowls at me, then shakes her head. “Are you mad to speak this treason?” she whispers. “How could you come here and tell me this, thinking I would support it? What kind of intrigue are you about, Thomas Howard?”
“The king is having an attack of conscience, it seems,” I tell her. “He believes he has not been allowed to conceive a healthy male heir with the queen because of consanguinity. He found a passage in Leviticus that states a man shall not âuncover the nakedness of his brother's widow.' He truly believes he has committed some grievous sin and wishes to solicit a papal dispensation granting an annulment of the marriage so that he might marry our Anne. Can you believe it?”
“No, I can't believe it,” Elizabeth snaps. “I can't believe he is willing to even
think
of putting his wonderful wife aside, not to mention the affect it would have on the princess. What will an annulment make her? A bastard no better than Fitzroy or Mary Carey's children? How can he even contemplate such a thing?”
“He's given it a great deal of thought,” I tell her. “So much thought that a papal legate is coming from Rome, a fellow by the name of Campeggio, to preside with Wolsey over a trial that will come up with a decision that, once reached, is final. The Pope will not challenge it.”
“No.” Elizabeth shakes her head in awe. “Thomas, no. What does that Anne girl possibly have that the queen does not?”
“A young, healthy body capable of producing heirs,” I say.
“Why would he not just keep her as a mistress if he needs her so badly? He can legitimize Fitzroy if he is so set on a male heir. Why does he have to wreak so much heartbreak?” Her voice is wavering.
“Elizabeth, you must understand civil war could break out if Fitzroy is named heir,” I explain. “There is not enough support for his cause as yet. The king wants an heir born of a legitimate bond.”
“But a bond with that little slut could not be called legitimate!” she cries, throwing her embroidery off her lap and rising. “There are a million reasons the king shouldn't marry her! What of the precontract she made with the Percy boy that got her sent from court that time? And while we're on the subject of consanguinity, it should be noted that His Majesty had her sister already, and some say he even bedded the mother!”
I laugh at her wild talk. “That may be so, but the king will fashion it all to his advantage; he has a veritable army of people willing to help him do it.”
“With you at its head,” she seethes.
“With me at its head,” I agree. “Elizabeth, I know how you love Catherine, but you must adjust to what is going to happenâif this is played right, we can have it all.”
“Now she's just Catherine?” Elizabeth cries. “You do not even have the respect for her to call her by her rightful title?”
I wave a hand in dismissal, then continue to air my thoughts aloud. “I will defer to the queen with the respect she deserves as long as she holds the title,” I say. “But it will not be for long, Elizabeth. Mark my words. Anne is in the ascendant.” I smile as I think of all the favors that will fall upon the Howards like a summer shower. “Anne will not be his mistress. She will be as upright and Christian as a lady can be. She will drive him wild with the chaseâI have made it clear to the girl that in no way should she compromise her virtue and give in until that crown is secured on her little head.”
“Do you hear yourself, Thomas?” my wife cries. “ âUpright'? âChristian'? As if any upright Christian woman in possession of her senses would plot to steal a king from under the nose of his anointed queen! Oh, Thomas, just when I thought you couldn't sink lowerâ”
I rise, seizing her shoulders. “You will never understand, will you?” I ask her. “You must do everything you can to support your niece and our endeavor. You have no idea the favor that is in store for us if we win this.”
Her face is slack with sadness. “No. Never, Thomas. I told you long ago where my loyalty lies. Queen Catherine is a princess of the blood. A queen anointed by God. I will never abandon her.”
At once her conviction startles and attracts me. Suddenly, I have never been confronted by a woman more beautiful than my wife. I reach up, tucking a stray tendril of hair, which has escaped from her hood, behind her ear, my hand lingering a moment to trace her jawline.
“Elizabeth,” I tell her with the utmost seriousness, “if you give up Catherine, I will give up Bess. I swear to you. I will send her away this very night.”
Elizabeth offers a laugh edgy with bitterness. “Oh, that's fair! Offer to give up something you should never have had to begin with! No, Thomas, you cannot tempt me by using your harlot as a bargaining chip,” she tells me. “If you were as Catholic as you proclaim, you would see that.” She purses her lips and closes her eyes. Her thick, long lashes sparkle with unshed tears. “I cannot give up my queen. I swore myself to her as a little girl. I will not abandon her.”
I drop my hand from her cheek and release her shoulder. I shake my head. “We have been called to court. You in your capacity, I in mine. Catherine will be dethroned, Elizabeth. It is inevitable. It may take time, but it will happen. I wish you wouldn't persist in tying yourself to the mast of a sinking ship.”
Elizabeth shrugs. It is as if she knows she is defeated and continues in her vein anyway. Somehow this show of strength and defiance touches me. On impulse I gather her in my arms, holding her fast.
“My girl, can't we work together, just once?” I whisper, swaying from side to side. “Think of everything we can gain.”
“I have never been as moved by that as you,” she tells me. She pulls away, tipping her face up toward mine. “I'm sorry, Thomas.”
“I am, too,” I say. “Because you are the one who will lose ultimately. You know it. And you stay your course anyway. I don't understand you, Elizabeth. I don't understand you at all.”
Elizabeth's lips quiver a moment. She bows her head. “No, I suppose you wouldn't,” she says in quiet tones lacking in accusation. It is as though she is just making an observation, a regrettable observation that I cannot understand in any way.
It was futile coming here; I don't know why I bother with her. With one last glance at the woman who forever stands alone, illuminated by the firelight that warms her skin with a golden glow and plays off the auburn threads in her chestnut hair, I shake my head, my heart gripped with inexplicable sadness and frustration. To think of everything that could be had if she'd only work
with
me!
I am done with her. I turn away and quit the room, then head directly to the chambers of the woman I promised just moments ago to give up should my stubborn wife do the same with her queen.
Bess listens to me; there are no arguments or reproaches. When I tell her about my niece's elevation in favor she says, “Oh, how wonderful for you, Your Grace!”
Just what I want to hear.
When at last I make it to my own apartments that night, I am surprised to find my daughter Mary waiting for me outside.
She sits against the door, her night shift drawn over her knees, head bowed, the light of the taper resting beside her dancing off her golden hair, which tumbles down her back in waves. Her arms are folded over her knees and her head is buried in them, and I cannot tell if she has fallen asleep in this strange locale.
“Mary!” I bark. I am wearied by the evening's various exertions, both mental and physical, and cannot imagine why this child would seek me out. I cannot summon to mind two words I've ever said to her consecutively.
The little girl's head snaps up, her wide green-gold eyes meeting mine in a mingling of shyness and fear. “I-I had a terrible dream,” she informs me.
“Well, where is the nurse?” I demand.
“I didn't want to wake her,” she says, her tone soft with apology. “I went to Bess's room, but I heard her talking to somebody and thought her brother must have been in there. I didn't want to interrupt.”
My heart leaps as I thank God that the child didn't walk in to discover what her beloved friend was really about.
“Well, what am I supposed to do about it?” I ask as I open the doors to my apartments, causing her to fall backward.
She catches herself with her hands. “I . . . I don't know, my lord. It's just thatâit's just that it was a terribly frightening dream and I'm afraid the nurse would think me evil if I repeated it.”
“Nonsense and drivel,” I tell her. “You can't control what you dream.”
She stares at me unconvinced, her little button mouth pursed in thought. I avert my eyes, stirred by her beauty and mysterious fancies that are forever reminiscent of another world, another time, when life was so very different from now.
“Where is your mother?”
Mary bows her head, hugging her knees to her chest again. Her little shoulders quiver a moment.
“Well?”
“I-I went to her, Your Grace,” she tells me. “I was going to go in her apartments but . . .”
“But what?” I demand, impatient with the child. I want nothing more than to lay head to feathers and not be bothered by this strange little creature.
She raises her head once more. Tears swim in her eyes; they are as bright as emeralds. “She was crying, my lord. So very hard. I-I was afraid to intrude.”
I grit my teeth against this news and heave a sigh. “Well, come in, then,” I say at last, since there seems to be no possibility of removing her at the present moment.
The little girl scrambles to her feet and slips her hand into mine as we progress inward. The gesture takes me by such surprise that I start. Cathy would never have done that; she is far too proper. And the boys seem to bear the intrinsic knowledge that I am not fond of being handled. But this child reaches up and seizes my hand as though it is the most natural thing in the world. She huddles close against my arm as we take to the settle.
I remove my shoes and sit, then with effort rest my pain-infused legs on the ottoman. My arm is on the back of the settle and Mary scoots in beside me, curling up as close as she can get without having the audacity to climb on my lap. She lays her head in the crook of my shoulder.
I am discomfited by her proximity and stiffen. I do not understand why, and somewhere I am troubled. If she were my little Maggie born of the princess, I would have sought her out for such moments. But everything is different with this child, this child whose birth sent me into a rage of madness, this child whose very presence causes my heart to lurch and twist in a strange agony I cannot identify or understand.
“Tell me about the dream, Mary,” I say in soft tones.
The child shudders against me. “You won't think I'm evil or possessed?”
I laugh. “I will think no such thing,” I assure her, for I do not believe in such utter nonsense as possession anyway. People are good or evil of their own accord; they do not need supernatural intervention.
She relaxes a bit. One hand strays to the lace on my doublet and idly fidgets with it as she talks. “Oh, Da.” Her voice catches. “There were pretty ladies all dressed fancy,” she tells me. “And they were taking turns wearing a beautiful ruby necklace. The first girl put it round her neck and was admiring herself in a pond full of black swans . . . but then . . . Oh, Da, then suddenly the rubies were dripping blood! But the girl didn't see it! Nobody saw it but me! I tried to warn them but no one listened. They just laughed at me! The bright blood dripped into the water, coloring it red, but all the while she kept admiring herself until at last she fainted dead away. Thenâthen another girl took the necklace and clasped it round her neck. It was just the same as before. At first it was just a collar of rubies, but thenâ” She is sobbing now, great gulping sobs that make it hard for me to understand her. “She began to twirl and dance until the necklace changed again! Blood began to drip down her neck onto her chest! Oh, Da, it was terrible. At last she, too, fainted and the necklace slipped off her neck onto the grass, just plain rubies once more.” Choked by tears, she is rocking back and forth. Not quite knowing how to respond to her hysteria, I reach out and stroke her hair. “And the very worst of it is, Da, is Henry . . .”