The night after her death I lie stunned in Bess's arms.
“We will remove to Kenninghall,” I tell her. “Just for a while. I will think there of what to do.”
Bess is wide-eyed and horrified. “Was any of those horrible things they said about Queen Anne true, Your Grace?” she asks in her tiny voice. “Any at all?”
I turn toward her. “It was as she said at the trial. Her one sin was not giving the king the respect due him. She was blameless, Bess.”
“And you sentenced her anyway? You said she was guilty, even though you knew she was not?”
“I had to, Bess. To preserve my own life,” I tell her.
Bess crawls out of bed and begins to back away from my outstretched hand. She is shaking her head in terror.
“Don't be afraid, Bess,” I tell her. “For God's sake, don't be afraid of me.”
“You would let me be killed, too,” she whispers in horror. “If you had to, you'd let everyone close to you die. Wouldn't you?”
“Come back to bed, Bess,” I order with impatience. “Get these thoughts out of your head.”
Bess inches forward, but when she again lies in my arms she is trembling.
I turn away so she cannot see the tears paving hot trails down my cheeks. What is the point of any of this anyway? Why don't I just retire to the country for good?
But I won't do it. I know I won't. I will not lose. I may retreat but I will not go away. I will rise again. I am Thomas Howard and I will survive this as I have survived everything else.
Days after the execution, the king marries Jane Seymour and crowns her queen. Her children will be the only heirs. My little grandniece, the pretty Elizabeth, is now among his growing list of bastards.
That same summer, my son-in-law Henry Fitzroy dies, supposedly of consumption but it is my belief that he was poisoned in a plot to remove him from the succession. It is a horrid time to be alive, waiting and wondering who will be struck down next.
I take my little girl to Kenninghall, my precious baby Mary, a widow mad with grief and who must now fight for her inheritance. There we will think of something. I will regain my favor with the king and come up with a new alliance for Mary. There is hope. She can still be useful to me, and at least with Fitzroy gone, I can keep her with me a little longer yet.
Yes, I will get through this.
I will press on.
The Redbourne Years
Elizabeth Howard
S
trange to think they both died in the same year, the true queen and the false one. I am sick with grief for both of them. I expected to mourn for my Catherine, but at least I am assured that she is in Heaven with her Lord and five children. Her suffering has ended at last. No longer do I have to fret over her in her exile, no longer do I have to worry about her failing health, no longer do I have to rail against all those who have shown her such profound disregard. I am at peace with Queen Catherine's death; far better she does not see what her husband has become.
It is what I feel upon learning of Anne's wrongful execution that stirs an unforeseen amount of grief in my aching breast. I think of all the terrible things I called her, all the accusations and confrontations and battles fought in her name. She was not the cause. She was a mere girl, a tool of greed and ambition. Her entire life, forces worked for and against her and all of them so much stronger than she could ever have been. Now at twenty-nine she is dead and a child is motherless.
The injustice of it all is like taking in the sight of a fortress for the first time: awe-inspiring for its sheer magnitude.
My daughter loses the husband she never had that same year and Thomas cloisters her at Kenninghall while Bess is in another one of his manors. I remain here, of course, and am not allowed to comfort my daughter in her time of bereavement, though what consolation I could give, I have no idea. Yet, if I could, I would tell her to be strong, that there is hope. She is a young woman with endless possibilities before her. She could know happiness and love yet if she would persevere. And if there is any of myself in her . . . but there is not. She is of another world altogether, made of some ethereal substance brilliant for its beautiful transience. And though I do not doubt her will and intelligence, I bear the inexplicable knowledge somewhere in the core of my being that Mary will be deprived of any true joy. So long as her father rules her. So long as she allows it. And she will allow it, that much I also know.
I must not think on her overmuch, else I be devoured in regret.
Instead, from the safety and loneliness of Redbourne, I learn of the happenings at court. My husband rises to prominence again when he puts down the Pilgrimage of Grace, a papist revolt against the dissolution of the monasteries and the king's general perversion of the Catholic faith. Our son Henry, Lord Surrey, fights alongside his idol and together they put down their fellow Catholics and are praised as heroes.
Jane Seymour gives birth to the desired heir, Prince Edward, only to die twelve days later. The country is thrust once more into grief and the hunt is on for her replacement.
The king is cursed, I believe. His own actions against his first wife have cursed his subsequent marriages, and no wife of his will ever know a day of happiness.
As these dramas unfold, I write to Thomas Cromwell, a rising star at the court of Henry VIII and a rival of my husband's. Now named Privy Seal, it is Cromwell who has the king's ear above all others, much to my husband's consternation. As such, Cromwell is my only hope for attaining some justice. I do not hope to win my husband from the arms of his harlot. What I need is money. I cannot live on this pathetic amount. I have servants to pay, a manor to run, and food to put on the table. My daily expenses are driving me into debt. If my daughter Mary can be granted a pension for an unconsummated marriage, then I must have some rights to claim.
I send appeal after appeal, pouring out to Cromwell every crime Thomas has ever committed against me without shame. I will humiliate Thomas into doing right by me. Cromwell's responses are polite and filled with empty promises. Nothing changes. Thomas's letters are filled with threats and remonstrations for my “slander.” If I recant and apologize, he will consider granting me a larger annuity.
But I remind him of the vow I spoke to him years ago, that I will speak only the truth, and thus avowed, I cannot recant or apologize for that would be lying.
I never receive a letter from Thomas again.
Thomas Howard, 1540
Cromwell thinks he is crafty and clever, the very right hand of the king, he thinks he is, but he will be brought down and I will be the one to do it. For too long he has been allowed to hover about, whispering in the royal ear, advising and manipulating to suit his desires. Knave and scoundrel! His taunts ring in my ears; he delights in throwing his correspondence with Elizabeth in my face.
“Norfolk, aren't you the happy man,” he chuckled when last we met. “Your wife has nothing on you, for if she did, I think she might undo you.” How his narrow eyes lit up with that statement, as though he could not wait to help her bring me down! But I will show him. I will show him just as I showed Wolsey. No one fights the Howards and wins.
Cromwell is victorious at the moment, however. His cleverness has secured for the king a Protestant sow from Germany in the hopes of Lutheranizing England. He will not succeed. As it is, Anne of Cleves's German maids will be replaced with good English ladies-in-waiting and I begin to scout out members of my family to secure places at court for as many Howard girls as possible before she arrives.
This task requires a visit to my stepmother's London residence, where I am told resides the daughter of my late brother Edmund. They await me in the parlor, the girl dressed in a gown that verifies my brother's modest estate. Despite this, her beauty is undeniable. Auburn hair cascades down her back in thick waves and her eyes sparkle as blue as the sunlit sea.
I nod to my stepmother and she curtsies, leaving us alone. I sit in one of the Dowager Duchess's hard wooden chairs and shift in discomfort.
The girl offers a clumsy curtsy. For a moment we stare at each other, making assessments. Then, to my shock, she runs toward me and jumps onto my lap, wrapping her arms about my neck and kissing me on the cheek.
“Oh, Uncle, I'm so glad you came to visit me!” she cries in delight. “No one ever comes to see
me!
”
“So you're Catherine,” I say at last, resisting the urge to push her off me. She could prove very useful so must be handled with care. I wrap my arms about her tiny waist, assessing with as much subtlety as possible her hips. They are rounded and ready for childbearing. It appears she is blessed with the body of a twenty-year-old, the angelic face of a ten-year-old, and the mind of a complete idiot: a perfect combination for my purposes . . .
“Kitty,” she corrects me. “I'm Kitty.”
“Ah, Kitty,” I say, reaching up to stroke her lustrous hair. It is like silk under my fingertips. “Tell me, Kitty, you must be a very grown up lady. Have you your courses yet?”
She flushes bright crimson. “Yes, for about six months now,” she tells me, bowing her head.
“And how old are you?”
“Fourteen,” she says, raising her head. It is obvious she is proud of achieving this great age.
“Fourteen!” I cry. “Tut-tut, old girl! It is a sin for a grand lady of fourteen to be shut away at Norfolk House. How would you like to come to court with Uncle Thomas?”
“Court? Me?” she cries in delight. “Oh, Uncle Thomas, but I would!”
“Will you be a good girl and listen to everything I say and follow my every command?” I ask her in severe tones.
Her large blue eyes grow even wider with fear. “Yes, of course I will!” she insists.
“Good Kitty,” I say, drawing her close so we are cheek to cheek. “I will make certain you have everything you desire. Gowns and pretty hoods and slippers, jewels even. As long as you are always my good girl.”
“I will be, Uncle Thomas!” she cries. “Oh, I will be!” She hugs me tight, kissing me full on the mouth before pulling away. I can barely control the urge to wipe the kiss away. Though there was nothing sexual in it, I am disconcerted and annoyed at being invaded by this little dolt. “Can I go tell my friends now?” she asks.
“Yes,” I tell her, forcing patience into my voice. “Go tell your friends that you are leaving them to become the great Kitty Howard.”
She offers a smile to light up the darkest night and blows me a kiss. “Dear Uncle Thomas, you've no idea what you're rescuing me from. . . . I love you!”
I wave her off and she skips down the hall, laughing and singing.
She is perfect, I think to myself, a little triumph.
With her I can solve two problems: Cromwell and the resurrection of lost dreams.
A Howard Rose
Thomas Howard
T
he 1530s proved turbulent for the Howards but we pulled through, ushering in the next decade with renewed purpose. This promises to be our best years yet. Oh, there have been pitfalls. My children have all proven to be disappointments in their own right. Mary refused an advantageous alliance with young Prince Edward's uncle Tom Seymour at her brother Lord Surrey's urgings while the latter grows more impulsive and hotheaded with each passing day, landing himself in confinement more often than not. As for my youngest son, Thomas, he has become an impassioned reformist and I have very little use for him.
Mary is still valuable, however, and serves at the court of Anne of Cleves alongside her pretty cousin, the newest Howard star, my little niece Kitty.
To my utmost satisfaction, the king seems disposed to rid himself of the poor German in record time. She repulses him for some reason, though I don't find her altogether unappealing. It's just as well for my purposes, however, and I take every opportunity to thrust the delicious Kitty in His Majesty's view. Her gowns I take particular interest in, making sure they are designed to accentuate every generous curve to the best advantage, paying attention to the neckline. It must be low enough for the king to appreciate her lovely white bosoms but not too low so as to appear wanton.
Kitty is a natural and, almost without knowing it, plays right into the king's hands. And her protective, doting uncle takes every opportunity to place her in his path. He must see that this beautiful and sensual creature is supervised and cared for, preserved as a prize he will certainly claim as his own.
Kitty is malleable and agreeable to everything I say, so unlike her unfortunate cousin and predecessor Anne. Her lack of wit and basic intelligence, however, is aggravating at times. It isn't as though she is stupid. She is just so young. . . .
And the king is so old. Eighteen years my junior and one would never guess. I have retained my excellent form through discipline and moderation, while excess and decadence has reduced the man once deemed the handsomest prince in Christendom to a grossly overweight pig with a rotting leg oozing with an ulcer that never heals. It turns my stomach to serve him up with this pretty babe. But the end result will make it all worth it. And Kitty is a flighty, superficial thing; she will love the thought of the shiny crown upon her head and will think nothing of putting up with a few minutes of the huffing and puffing king as long as the presents keep coming.
And they do. The king and I keep her well supplied. Kitty loves her gowns and hoods, her slippers and jewels. But of all the things she loves, it surprises me to find that it is her pets that give her the most pleasure. When one day I approach her in the gardens with a little gray kitten, she holds it to her face in delight, rubbing her cheek against its soft fur.
“A kitty for my precious Kitty,” I tell her, reaching out to stroke her own lustrous auburn locks. God, she is beautiful.
Tears light her round blue eyes. “Oh, thank you, dearest Uncle. She's so sweet,” she coos. “Remember when I was a little girl and you let me play with your dog at Norfolk House?”
I struggle to summon the memory. “Storm?” I ask, recalling the greyhound Queen Catherine sent me upon my recovery from the sweat.
“Yes, do you still have him?” she queries, still rubbing her cheek against the kitten.
I nod. “He's getting old. He's a good dog,” I tell her. “I'm certain the sight of you would rejuvenate him.”
She giggles in appreciation. She is easily won, a trusting girl. A strange lump swells in my throat at the thought. I swallow hard.
At once we note a procession of the king's guard, followed by His lumbering Majesty as he attempts to take some exercise.
“Norfolk!” he cries, but his beady eyes are on my niece. “How now, dear friend?”
“Quite well, Majesty,” I answer, bowing. I elbow Kitty to curtsy. She does so, never taking her eyes away from her treasured kitten.
“And my little kitten,” he nearly growls, “how goes it with my precious gem?”
She flushes and smiles. “I'm so happy, Majesty!” she cries, holding out the kitten. “Look what Uncle Thomas gave me.”
The king reaches out a fat bejeweled hand to stroke the animal's tummy. Something about the gesture repulses me and I find myself taking Kitty's hand and squeezing.
“You like pets, little Catherine?” he asks her in sweet tones. She nods. “Then I shall make certain you have the entire menagerie at the Tower of London at your disposal!”
“Oh!” She claps her hands. “Will you take me to see them?” she asks.
“Of course I will,” he says. “Now run along and play, sweetheart. It pleases me to see you frolic. Later I will set a nice private supper for us with all the entertainments you like.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” she answers, dipping into another curtsy, then rising and wrapping her arms about me, kissing my cheek. “Thank you for my kitten. I love you,” she tells me as she does every time we greet and part. Never in my life have I been subject to such a harangue of affection. I tolerate it as I must, thinking of the end result and knowing that, unlike my children, there must be something missing in this girl to make her crave male attention so. So I do not push her away. Having her love makes my task much easier. Unlike Anne, there are no quarrels or matches of wits. She is much like my Bess in this manner, full of “Yes, Uncle, no, Uncle.” Had she been born years sooner, perhaps we could have avoided the whole Anne debacle altogether, for the court is in agreement: Never before has anyone seen the king so in love with a woman as with this girl, this little Kitty Howard.
When she is out of earshot, the king wraps his heavy arm about my shoulders and we begin to promenade, he leaning on me as though any moment he might fall down. It takes all of my strength to hold him up. Fortunately, carrying eighty pounds of armor on my slim frame for so many years prepares me for this and I walk as though unburdened.
“Ah, Thomas,” he tells me. “You have known me since I was born,” he comments, his eyes misting over with nostalgia.
“A blessed day, Majesty,” I remark.
He smiles at this. “Your first four children were my first cousins and your wife my aunt. You've been my uncle twice over now. What would you say to a third time?”
I smile. “Your Majesty,” I say, patting his hand. “Does this mean that you have thought about taking my little niece to wife?”
“Could it mean anything else?” he returns. “Oh, Thomas, but she is so lovely. What is it with you Howards? There is some magic in your blood for you to produce these women. . . .” For a moment his eyes grow stormy and I stiffen, knowing he is thinking of Anne. But the dark look passes, to my relief. I relax as best I can under his weight. “Really, Thomas, with a treasure like Kitty, I can't imagine why you didn't keep her for yourself.”
I laugh. “Your Majesty, I have enough women to trouble me,” I assure him with a hearty laugh. “One more would likely kill me.”
He joins me, adding his robust laughter to my own. “I should say I am the authority on woman trouble!” he declares. “But then,” he adds in a soft voice, “this girl is different. Oh, Thomas, she is so innocent and sweet. A rose without a thorn. So far she has warmed to me, to all my gifts and attentions. But I can't imagine her actually loving
me
. Do you think she could love me?”
Bile is rising in my throat. Why does anyone think love has a place in politics? But he is not like other kings. Every marriage, save with the German, has been for one perverse form of love or another.
“Kitty is a vessel of love,” I say, thinking of the sweet little girl on my knee, the beautiful child who at every opportunity demonstrates nothing but affection for me and anyone else who bothers to pay even scant attention to her. Oh, what am I doing? God save this little innocent. . . . “I have every reason to believe she loves you a great deal,” I finish, clearing away the lump in my throat.
“As a man or as a king?”
What does he want of me? “As a king, of course,” I begin, “but more so as a man, a desirable man. Why, she can't say often enough how handsome she thinks you are,” I lie. “She is in awe of you.”
He enfolds me in a powerful embrace. “Oh, Thomas, my dear Thomas! You have made me a happy man! I will have her! Nothing will stop me. I will have her and crown her my queen and she will carry on the Tudor line. Nothing shall be denied her, not ever.” His smile is so bright, it brings tears to my eyes. I don't understand it. This is a man who had my other niece beheaded, let my brother die in the Tower for loving his niece Margaret Douglas, and killed several of my friends. But I pity him. I pity him because he was once great and now he is pathetic, an injured lion that reflects only a semblance of his former glory.
Like my signet ring bearing the lion with its arrow-pierced tongue.
I am unnerved by the thought.
Animals in pain are known to lash out.
Elizabeth Howard
I have lost my one potential ally. Thomas Cromwell, once Earl of Essex and Privy Seal, was stripped of his titles, thrown into the Tower of London, then beheaded for treason because of his orchestration of the unfavorable marriage to Anne of Cleves, which ended in another annulment. He was called a traitor and a heretic, denying the presence of Christ in the Host during communion, or so they say. They will say anything.
I am told Thomas stripped him of his chains of office. I imagine it was difficult for him to refrain from breaking out into a jig at his victory over his hated rival.
Now another Howard sits the throne of England, little Kitty, a mere babe. I cannot summon the same hatred for her that I did for Anne Boleyn. Perhaps it is that I have grown up, perhaps it is because it takes too much effort now. Perhaps it is because I know who is behind it all, who controls the pretty marionette. Oh, God, it sickens me.
There is no hope of escape now. I have even written a letter to my Ralph, a letter my sister could read without feeling threatened, just wishing them well and hoping I can see them and their sixteen children soon. There is no bitterness in the letter nor in my heart. I find myself more often than not thanking God that some have been fortunate enough to find happiness in this world.
My son Henry, Lord Surrey, has four beautiful children I have never seen. I think of them often. I wish I could send them gifts and notes, but Thomas has convinced Surrey to see me as the enemy. I doubt anything I send would get to them.
So I live out my days at Redbourne. I have been ill; suffering as I did at the servants' hands at Kenninghall did me little good. My breastbone sustained serious injury and I often feel a stabbing pain in my chest.
Yet I am some sort of happy. It is a simple life but I keep busy. I tarry in my garden and take pride in its yield. I am proud to say I maintain the finest of figures by brisk walking. I busy myself in the stillroom concocting with the apothecaries all manner of lotions, oils, and possets to keep my skin youthful. I ride and hunt and hawk. I pray for my children and continue to follow my true queen's example of adhering to the Catholic religion, devoting time to charitable works, and focusing on the suffering of others rather than my own.
If my life is a testament of anything, it is one of endurance, which is a triumph in its own right.
Bess Holland, 1541
Queen Catherine has remained childless throughout her marriage to the king, and my duke laments it whenever he visits Kenninghall. He confides in me that he does not believe the man long for this world, hence the necessity of certain “measures” being taken to ensure the begetting of heirs.
“But nothing can be traced back to me,” he assures me when noting my frightened expression. “Stupid Jane Boleynâyou'll remember her as the idiot who accused her own husband of incest with his sister Queen Anne.” His eyes grow distant a moment, then he shakes his head, his face stony and impenetrable. “She thrives off intrigue like a maggot off dying flesh.” He laughs. “She serves as a go-between for the queen and her beautiful golden boy, Thomas Culpepper.”
“Oh, Your Grace!” I cry, scandalized and terrified. “But this is so dangerous for the poor child! Hadn't you better warn her?”
“But I don't know a thing, my Bess,” he tells me. “Not a thing. And if it is played right, no one will be the wiser, and England will be all the richer. The king is so besotted with his innocent rose that he is rendered blind. They carry on nearly right under his nose!”
“How dreadful for her,” I say in genuine sympathy. “Oh, to be so young and married to someone so old and . . . well, he isn't in the finest form these days. It's only natural for one her age to want the companionship of a young, virile gentleman.” His Grace's expression does not change at all when I say this, as though he could not even entertain the notion of my statement being a subtle comparison of the queen's situation to my own, though I am far too afraid to be unfaithful to the duke. “She must be very naïve to believe she is not in any danger.”