The King’s Mistress

Swirling unbidden through my mind is a memory, far more like a dream to me now. My head is tilted up toward her. She crowns me with a garland of flowers. I close my eyes. I can almost feel the flowers about my head. I take in their sweetness, the warmth of the sun on my face, and the love of my sister Catherine. The queens of Kenninghall, Bess had called us. How ill-fated is our reign.

At once Anne’s voice hisses into my reverie. “Where were you, little Mary? Reporting my behavior to your father, little spy that you are! Do not think I don’t know what you’re about, little innocent!”

I cry harder, great gulping sobs as I throw myself on the bed I share with Madge, burying my face in my pillows.

“Little Mary …?” Anne’s voice bears a gentler note. “Mary, what is it?” The mattress sinks down with her weight as she leans over me and touches my shoulder.

“My sister,” I sob. “My dear sister Catherine … she’s dead of the plague.”

At once Anne is moved to tears, gathering me in her thin arms with a fierceness that almost frightens me. She rocks back and forth with a franticness that is not soothing, but I applaud her efforts just the same.

“Damn bloody plague,” she seethes. “Why is it all so unfair? Why do we have so little control?”

It is a question that I realize has very little to do with the loss of my sister, but it doesn’t matter. I allow Anne and the other girls to soothe my tears and offer their sympathies. I soak up their embraces, wondering why it is only during tragedies that people are driven to physical demonstrations of love.

That night Madge tries to distract me from my grief by telling me stories of King Arthur.

All I can think of is my father as he imparts the news of Catherine’s death.

He did not even look up.

* * *

Because my mother has not condescended to talk to me since my arrival at court, I write her a little note and send it by messenger to her chambers.

My dearest Mother,

I am so aggrieved by my sister’s passing that the joy of court life has been sucked out of me. Filling my mind are memories of us as children, writing poems and singing songs, picking out the names of our future children. Life was simple then. Why does it all change?

All my sympathies are with you, Mother. I cannot imagine what it would be like to lose a child. I pray for you every night and hope you are finding comfort in the Lord.

Your loving daughter,

Mary

Daughter,

The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. We have no control over our fate. We can only press on. We are Howards.

Bless you,

Mother

Dearest little Mary,

My heart breaks for you. I know how close you and Catherine were, growing up. How well do I remember all of your childhood antics! You were such beautiful sisters. She was fair and good and sweet. I pray for her soul and for you as you grieve. Remember, my dear little love, that God is merciful and kind. His ways are mysterious and beyond our understanding. Now Catherine celebrates with the angels and knows no suffering. Her good soul is put to much better use than it could have ever been down here. May she watch over all of us.

I hope you are well and that you are making many friends at court. I hope to see you soon and that all is well between us.

With much love,

Your Bess

In the maidens’ chamber, I clutch Bess’s letter to my breast. I have read it over and over and it is stained with my tears. Bess knew us best. She loves us best. But thinking of Bess only makes me sadder, so I tuck the letter in my little silver keepsake casket along with the one from my mother, a letter I have read only once.

Mary Carey tells me she lost her husband to the sweating sickness. Many other girls come forward and confide of their losses, how one parent or sibling perished to the plague and other terrible things.

I feel less alone but the sadness remains. There is so much unresolved. If I had only been allowed to see her interred, perhaps there would be more closure. It would seem real. As it is, it’s still as though she is off in the country, married to Lord Derby.

Norfolk never mentions her name again. He does not say much of anything during my nightly reports, which consist of nothing since Anne is careful with her words. I tell him she knows why I am there.

“Of course she does—she’s not a complete idiot,” he says. “May you serve as a reminder.” He pauses. “She spends quite a bit of time with her brother George, does she not?”

I nod, smiling at the thought of her handsome brother, who is the picture perfect courtier. “He’s very fine,” I tell him.

“See to it that they aren’t alone too often,” Norfolk instructs.

“They’re not alone,” I say in confusion. “Mary Carey’s with them most of the time.”

“The court is talking,” he tells me, but I have that feeling I often get when he’s speaking; that the words are never directed at me. “Jane Parker’s jealousy is … twisted.” He refers to George Boleyn’s wife, an anxious sort of woman who seems just the sort to be “twisted,” always lurking about in doorways, or hovering just beyond a circle of friends in the hopes of attaining some juicy piece of gossip. Mary Carey warned me of her before, saying that her mind was poisoned with all manner of perverted ideas. Despite my curiosity I never pressed her for particulars. There was more than enough perversion at court without becoming preoccupied with hers.

“How?” I ask, overcome with curiosity.

“None of your concern,” Norfolk snaps. “Just see to it the three Boleyns are accompanied as often as possible.”

“But what if they don’t want me along?”

“You go with them anyway,” he says with an impatient wave of his hand. “Children are annoying creatures, immune to subtlety.” He leans forward and meets my eyes. “In other words, Mary: be yourself.”

I am struck as dumb as he thinks I am. At once every condescending word and derisive jibe he ever directed toward me is brought to mind, constricting my heart as though it were clutched in his perfect fist. Tears burn my eyes, but it would humiliate me further to let them fall in front of him. I must hide them from him, as I always do. I draw in a breath. This talk of siblings brings Catherine to mind, and an image of my brother Henry soon follows.

“Are we to see Henry soon, Father?”

“Henry who?”

I can’t fault him for this. Everyone is named Henry.

“Howard—Surrey, of course!” I say with a giggle, wondering if there is anything under God’s sun I can do to make this man smile.

“Oh, him.” He rifles through more documents. “Your brother’s at Windsor Palace keeping company with Henry Fitzroy, King Henry’s boy.” His eyes grow distant. “Fitzroy … His mother was a clever one. To think of all little Bessie Blount became … mistress of a monarch, the mother of the king’s son, a son showered with grand titles.” He offers a slight laugh. “But not quite grand enough. No, Bessie Blount went as far as she could go with what she had. But our Anne shall go even farther. No bastard children for her …”

I am only half listening. In truth I could not care less about King Henry’s boy or fair Bessie Blount at this point. My heart surges with hope as I anticipate a visit with my beloved brother.

“Can we go to him?” I ask. “Please?”

He pauses. My heart races. Surely this means he is considering. “I’m sure he’ll be at the next court function. Off with you now. Remember what I told you.”

“Yes, my lord,” I say in disgruntled tones as I quit the room. My heart aches for something familiar. I long for my brother’s laugh— he could make light of anything with his jokes and easy nature. I long for my sister, forever lost to me. She, with her perfect grasp on a world I do not seem to belong to, would know how to advise me. In her I could confide of my awkwardness, my fear, and my desire to be the lady she was with such effortlessness.

I long for the mother I never had, a woman so lost in her own pain that it has ruined her for any of her children.

I long for Bess, for her reassurance, her ample bosom to snuggle in, her simple, uncomplicated company.

When I return to the maidens’ chamber I remove her letter from the little casket.

I read it again and again and again.

As Norfolk predicted, I do see my brother at a court function; a joust. How to describe tournaments! The shining knights, the beautiful ladies, some with tokens for their bonnie lads about to take the field. Anne gives the king her handkerchief.

Queen Catherine clutches hers in her lap, twisting it with nervous fingers.

“Will you give your scarf to anyone, little Mary?” Anne asks with a wink of her obsidian eye.

“Perish the thought!” says her brother George, always cheerful. “She’s far too young and sweet to be sullied by love!”

“Why, does love sully us?” Anne asks with the coquettish grin that I practice so hard to achieve. “I think I have fared quite well!”

Ripples of laughter surround me and I allow myself a giggle. It is the first time I have felt any semblance of mirth since hearing of my Catherine’s death.

“Well, love has sullied me,” says George with an affectionate glance at his sister. “Your father picked me quite a bride, young Mary,” he tells me. Then to the rest of the assemblage he adds, “Wouldn’t everyone agree that my Jane is in possession of many charms?”

The ladies burst into laughter. Indeed, we could barely escape the sour-faced maid with her wicked tongue and, from what I’ve heard, vicious mind. In a way I feel sorry for her. It is as though she is always on the outside, circling Anne’s exclusive set, her eyes filled with a strange contemptuous longing.

George’s comment causes more laughter and he tips back his dark head to join in before riding off to enter the lists.

I scan the jousters, excitement bubbling in my chest. I see a familiar head bobbing among the crowd, its owner’s expression faraway. Dreamy. It is a sweet face. I leap up from my seat and run toward the yard.

“Henry Howard!” I cry out, waving my arms. “Henry, Lord Surrey!”

He turns his head, jarred from his reverie, and begins to run toward me. “Look at this!” He takes my hands and covers them with kisses. “Mary, dearest little girl.”

Tears spring to my eyes. “Oh, Henry …” There is so much I want to say. About this weird place, about Catherine, about Norfolk. I cannot articulate it, though, so stand before him, smiling.

“What’s this?” Henry asks, wiping a stray tear from my cheek.

“No tears, Mary. We Howards are at the top of the world right now!”

“Are you competing today, Henry?” I ask.

“No, not me,” he tells me, his long face drawn up into a smile. He is a younger version of Norfolk, his nose straight and Roman, his hooded eyes drooping slightly at the sides. Only he laughs. “Harry and I are just here to observe today, though he is itching to compete.”

It is only at this moment that I realize my brother isn’t alone. Beside him stands a boy about my age, with bright strawberry blond hair and energetic blue eyes. His complexion is rosy, his gentle smile is ready; he is also the picture of his father, King Henry VIII.

I curtsy. “Hello, my lord duke.”

“Such formality for your old playmate?” he asks with a giggle that betrays his youth.

It is true I have hazy memories of playing at Windsor Palace with my brother and young Harry; since my father was the boy’s governor we were often in his company. But to me this seems like ages ago and the memories, like most from the dreamy days of childhood, are but distant echoes of a faerie song; one is not quite sure if it was ever real.

I blush. “Only showing the proper deference for the Duke of Richmond and Somerset, Earl of Nottingham, and Knight of the Garter,” I say, but my voice bears the slightest edge of teasing.

He reaches out a hand to tap my upper arm. “Plain Harry to you,” he says. “We should show her the puppies.”

“Puppies?” I squeal.

“You like puppies?” Harry asks. “They’re in the stables—oh, they’re mongrels, not proper hunting dogs at all, but they’re— they’re, well, they’re rather cute.” He seems embarrassed to say the word cute, as though it is not masculine to perceive things thus.

“Oh, yes, do bring me to them!” I cry, and the three of us take to the stables. I do not think of the other girls I have left behind in the stands. I am with my brother at last. I am with people who do not seem so complicated.

We reach the stables where are housed some of the finest horses in England, each brushed till its coat gleams. In the corner of an empty stall is a bitch with her five pups. She is adorable. Her pups are little balls of gray, blue merle, caramel, and white fur; their ears cannot decide if they will be floppy or pointed, so compromise at somewhere in between.

I kneel in the hay, not caring about the state of my dress. Both Henrys kneel beside me.

“Do you think she’ll let us pet them?”

“I should say,” says Harry with the authoritative tone of an expert. “Do you think so, Surrey?”

My brother nods and I reach out a tentative hand, first to the mother, whose elongated snout I stroke while cooing soft endearments about her ability to breed. Once I am certain she is comfortable with me I reach out to pet one of her pups; the fur is silky soft under my hand and I purr with pleasure. I gather the little creature against my breast.

“It’s so dear,” I say, kissing its downy head. “Oh, if holding a pup is this wonderful imagine how grand it will be to hold my own babies!” I breathe before I can help myself.

Neither boy says anything; I imagine they don’t fantasize about holding babies very often.

“Do you want to keep it, Mary?” Harry asks.

I glow at the prospect. “Do you think it’s ready? I couldn’t bear the thought of separating it from its mother too early.”

“It’s fine,” reassures my brother, whom I decide to refer to as Surrey as well, just to differentiate him from all the other Henrys running about court.

I meet the gaze of the mother, as though seeking a glint of permission in the great brown orbs. I wonder what it is like to have a child taken away. Nobles give their children up for fostering most of the time and do not see their children but for a handful of times a year. Some don’t see their children for years at a time.

If I take this pup, its mother will never see it again.

Something about the thought brings a lump to my throat. I blink back tears.

“Mary …” My brother rubs my shoulder. “Don’t you want the nice pup Harry’s offered?”

I nod. “Oh, yes, to be sure. But to separate it from the mother …”

“Mary’s so sensitive!” Surrey laughs. “You have a poet’s heart— like me.” He wraps his arm about my shoulders and kisses my cheek.

“Do you want it or not?” Harry asks, but his tone is good-natured. “I have a mind to withdraw the offer—you know it will fare much better with you than out here.”

This is true enough. I pat the mother’s head in a gesture of gratitude, then rise with the pup in my arms. “Thank you, Harry.”

He offers a courtly bow and I return a curtsy. We erupt into laughter at our sport as we return to the tiltyard to watch the jousting.

As I reach the stands to show the girls my new pup I see Anne watching me, a grin of amusement lifting the corner of her pretty mouth.

It is a perfect day; the sun shines off the armor of the knights and I am blinded at times as they ride past. We are treated to a superb show of sportsmanship and my throat is raw from screaming for the various champions.

King Henry takes the day, of course. Madge Shelton whispers to me that everyone lets him win else the consequences are dire. I giggle before I can help myself. He is a spoiled child! Yet I suppose he did not choose to be. He is a king and kings were first princes, spoiled and petted just for the sake of being born to the right folk.

He wouldn’t even have become king had his sickly brother Arthur not passed on. In fact, he would not have married Catherine of Aragon, Arthur’s own widow, at enormous inconvenience to a great many people, including the Church he rails against now, had it not been for that fact.

Yes, King Henry is very accustomed to getting what he wants. So accustomed that he does not even know there is another way to live. That is why he raises friends up only to cast them down at a whim, because no one has curbed him thus far. He will keep pushing and testing his limits and still he will not be curbed.

I wonder if his son, so close to being a prince himself, will take after him. I squeeze the puppy to my chest. I hope not.

That night as I report to Norfolk I am ecstatic. It has been a wonderful day, a day etched in memory and emblazoned in my heart. It is a day of innocence and perfection that will sustain me through the days that follow.

I am playing a prank on Norfolk tonight. The day and company of my brother have put me in a mischievous mood. I dress in my nightgown and wrap, concealing the puppy within as I bounce into his chambers.

“Wasn’t it a wonderful day, Father?” I ask, beaming as I clutch my wrap tight about the warm, wriggling pup.

He says nothing. He looks down at the eternal display of papers scattered across his desk.

I tell him the things I imagine he wants to hear, verbatim conversations that have no consequence or relevance that I can see, but are the best I can come up with.

“I think Anne is smart, Father,” I venture.

At this he looks up. “As smart as a woman can be, I suppose,” he says. “But she is greedy and headstrong. That same temper that so charms His Majesty now could someday prove her ruin.”

I shudder at the words. I do not like to hear anything bad said against my mistress, for I consider Anne more my mistress than Queen Catherine for all my interactions with the latter. I decide now is the perfect time to unleash my little joke. Norfolk seems in as good a humor as possible for him, so it may as well be now.

I clutch my wrap around me and double over. “Oh, Father, I have the worst stomach pains. Perhaps something disagreed with me today!”

“Go to bed,” he says in his taciturn manner.

At once I open my wrap and out springs my new puppy. He runs around the room to investigate everything.

“Isn’t he wonderful?” My cheeks hurt from smiling. “Harry Fitzroy gave him to me so I call him Fitz, after him.”

“Sounds like a seizure,” says Norfolk as he watches the dog relieve himself on the leg of his desk. After a slight pause he asks, “Are you a complete idiot?”

I gather the pup in my arms, chastising it in gentle tones. I do not respond to Norfolk’s query, as I am not quite sure. I may be a complete idiot. I did think it would be funny to see a dog jump out of my robes, but Anne has told me countless times that my sense of humor is rather quaint. God knows Will Somers, the king’s fool, could make me laugh till I begged him to cease in his antics for the pangs in my sides, and his sense of humor is none too sophisticated.

“I’m sorry, Father,” I say as I right myself. I bow my head.

“Clean it up,” he orders.

“Do you have some rags …?”

“Use your wrap, foolish girl,” he says. “You want a dog, you deal with its unpleasantness with the accoutrements at your present dispensation.”

I am horrified at this. Not only because I have to sacrifice my favorite red velvet wrap from Mary Carey, but because I will have to walk through the halls of the palace in nothing but my night-clothes, and though I am still considered a child, I feel too old to prance about thus.

After a moment of staring at my father without effect, I remove my wrap and wipe up the offensive reminder of my puppy’s less attractive habits. I call for a ewer filled with rose water to make certain the scent does not remain behind. The servant who brings it casts a strange look at my father and I am both angered and embarrassed. I do not want anyone looking down at him for my foolishness, nor do I want anyone seeing me stooped to this level of humility.

“You’ll have to varnish the leg if any is stripped off,” Norfolk says.

I nod, praying this isn’t the case. I right myself, shivering. His rooms are cold.

“So you were with your brother today,” Norfolk says in a lighter voice, as though nothing had happened. “Did he tell you he is betrothed?”

“Betrothed?” I am aghast. Henry married? “To who?”

“Anne had hoped to the Princess Mary, but that is not to be,” he continues with a slight scowl. “Which is for the best. We do not want to be accused of placing ourselves too close to the throne. As it is …” He cuts himself short. There is no doubt he is thinking of Anne. “It is Lady Frances de Vere, the Earl of Oxford’s daughter. They will not marry for quite some time, but the suit is a good one.”

“Yes,” I say for lack of anything else. I cannot imagine Henry married. This means I am not far behind. A thrill of excitement surges through me. “I wish it were me,” I blurt.

“Getting married? Whatever for?” Norfolk’s tone leaves its monotony to become incredulous. “Marriage is a tedious thing.”

“Maybe not for everyone,” I tell him, stroking my pup’s silky ear. “I heard that the king’s own sister has married for love before.”

“And has been repaid by nothing but misery for it,” Norfolk says. “One doesn’t marry for love, Mary. One marries for advantage. There are only two kinds of people in this world: the advantaged and the disadvantaged. Everything you do, every choice you make, is to ensure that you remain in the former group. Getting caught up in love and lust and such nonsense are distractions the advantaged cannot afford if they want to retain their position.”

“But King Henry loves Anne,” I say in a small voice.

Norfolk is silent a long moment. “Go to bed, Mary.” I turn and trudge out, carrying my soiled wrap balled up under one arm and my puppy wriggling under the other. “And don’t bring that creature in here again,” he adds.

I keep my head down as I walk through the halls, hoping not to run into anyone I know. All I want to do is snuggle under the covers with my new puppy, who is worthy of being called more than a creature. I want to think about love and marriage and my brother Surrey.

I want to believe that love can exist, even for the advantaged.

Time does not pass at court as it would in what I now refer to as “the outside world.” Out there, time ebbs and flows like the tides—it surges, it slows. Here it is always surging, forging ahead, constant. If you slow your pace you are drowned. I am caught up, carried along by the current of the other ladies, of Anne, of my father.

We go on progress to visit the many great castles and palaces in the realm. We go on hunts. We have masques, and King Henry leaps out at us in disguise. Norfolk instructs Anne that she is under no circumstances to ever admit that she knows it is Henry—he loves believing he is fooling everyone. I laugh, but I think it is a little ridiculous. How could a grown man, and one as distinctive in manner and height as he, ever believe he can be shrouded in anonymity? I decide that he needs to believe it the way I need to believe in the faerie folk and love matches: anything to take you away.

Poor old Cardinal Wolsey, whose obesity and pomposity had been the source of much amusement, dies that November. He keeled over on the road on his progress to London for his execution for treason, so I felt a little better. I am certain he would rather have died on the road than by the axe. I can only imagine how many times it would have taken to strike through that thick neck. I cringe at the thought.

Anne cheers when she hears the news. “Rid of the old fool at last!” she cries.

At my obvious puzzlement regarding her joy over what I consider tragic and pathetic, Madge Shelton, ever the informer, pulls me aside.