The King’s Mistress

“I do not know much else,” I confess. “They are close. The king is very … affectionate,” I say after a moment, searching for a word appropriate for describing his lecherous attempts at pawing and kissing parts of Anne that should not be kissed in public. “I suppose Mary Carey or George Boleyn can tell you more. She does not confide in me.”

“Of course she doesn’t,” he says. His voice sounds so far away I am straining to hear him. “If you waited to extract a confidence from her you’d die of old age, with your curiosity quite unsatisfied. It’s all about listening. Mary Carey is not to be trusted; when she is not resentful of Anne she is influenced by her. She does not set her sights very far.” He pauses. “Though I suppose George is a little more intelligent. He has a spark of ambition in him. He wants his sister on that throne, I believe.”

“Yes,” I say in feeble tones. This is beyond my grasp, and I am so tired. Weakness surges through me and my limbs quiver. My heart feels as though it is beating too slowly and my head is tingling, pounding. My face flushes. My thoughts come to me sluggish and disorganized. I want to panic but cannot.

“I … read to the king and Anne,” I say against the nausea in my throat. “A poem of mine … They liked it.” Why this sudden weakness? I bring a hand to my forehead. I want to tear off my hood, but do not have the strength. A vision of Cedric swirls before me. I can’t wait to get back to the maidens’ chamber to tell Madge about him; then rethink it, as most likely she would gossip about it to Anne, who would mock me in turn.

Thoughts of my cousins and the musician are chased from my mind as I struggle to keep my balance. I want to cry out but cannot. I try to focus on my father, who is coming toward me. His mouth is moving, but I cannot hear …

Then there is nothing.

Chapter 6

The King’s Great Matter

I awaken, forcing heavy lids open to find that I am not in the maidens’ chamber. I am in a great four-poster bed with a soft feather mattress that smells of lavender. There is naught but a single candle to illuminate the room. My body aches. I cannot will myself to move.

Someone in nightclothes and bare feet is kneeling by a priedieu, shoulders shaking.

I drift back into dreamless sleep. At intervals my eyes flutter open to find the figure still there, like a wraith, back turned to me, head bent in prayer. I do not know how long it is like this. Sometimes I think I hear muffled voices. Other times I feel a cool cloth swabbing my forehead.

Strength ebbs back into me, reluctant and sluggish in my veins. I open my eyes to see the figure by the prie-dieu rising. He turns. Norfolk. I do not know if my shock registers on my face; though my father is one of the most professed Catholics at court, I did not know he really prayed much except at Mass.

“So,” he says, striding toward the bed and sitting beside me. “You’ve decided to join us.”

I nod. I wish he didn’t know I am awake. I should like to watch him pray for me more, now that I realize it is him.

“Good,” he says in clipped tones. “There have been many goings-on since you’ve been on your little holiday. I have plans for you.”

My face falls.

He reaches out as though to touch my face, then seems to think better of it and withdraws his hand. Perhaps he is afraid of contracting whatever it is I have.

It is not the plague, something that would have sent king and court into such panic that they would have retreated immediately to one of the country palaces. It is a fever; some indistinguishable imbalance of the humors that the physicians assured would resolve itself with rest.

“This is quite an active life for a child as young as she,” one physician ventures. “Likely it was spurred by exhaustion.”

My father says nothing and the man is dismissed. We are alone. I am sitting up now, taking in broth and bread with trembling hands.

“We are returning to Kenninghall,” he says. “You will rest there while I take care of some business.”

My disappointment is writ on my face, for he adds, “Look sharp, girl. We will return directly.”

I do not want to tell him of the heaviness in both stomach and heart at the thought of him, my mother, and Bess Holland under the same roof again. Perhaps if I play sick enough they will be too preoccupied with me to cause much grief.

I ride in a litter to Kenninghall this time, as my health is still too fragile to sit a horse. As we depart London I draw the curtains around me. To leave the bustling court for the dark, mournful halls of home is disheartening. I wonder why Father is taking me at all. I could have been left behind in his spacious apartments to recover under the watchful care of his staff. He must have his reasons; after all, he did say he had plans for me.

At the sight of my childhood home I am stirred by a surge of strength and leap out of the litter, running into the great hall. All homesickness for court has dissipated and I can think of nothing but Bess. I want to run into her arms and tell her all I have seen and done these past two years.

I know I must refrain from such displays, however. I must not offend my lady mother.

She stands in the hall, small and square shouldered, to greet Norfolk. Her dress is a somber black velvet with a matching gable hood. A few stray curls have escaped the hood to frame her face. Again I can’t help but think of how becoming she would be if she were happy.

“Back so soon, my lord?” she asks in her low, ironic tone.

Norfolk sweeps into an exaggerated bow. “My lady,” he says.

“Trust I would have postponed the ordeal indefinitely had I my druthers. However, given your last letter, I was compelled to rush to your side.” His voice is riddled with sarcasm.

Mother scowls. “To what purpose?”

“Let us call it persuasion.” The corner of his mouth lifts into a suggestion of a smile, a smile without love or joy or kindness. I shudder.

She closes her eyes, looking inward to draw from some deep strength of will, as though readying herself for a great battle. She expels a heavy sigh. “Let us sup first.”

No one argues. Far better to go to war on a full belly.

We are ravenous and Mother laid out a good table. From silver plates we eat an assortment of mutton, capons, venison, hare, all in rich, delicious sauces. There are sugared fruits for dessert, cheese and bread, and delicious mulled wine.

“You’re looking thin, Mary,” Mother tells me.

We have not laid eyes upon each other for a year. I suppose I was hoping for some kind of change during that time, that perhaps her longing for me would inspire her to embrace me. It must be much easier asking a girl of my age to change, rather than a middle-aged woman. I decide to accept the observation as a show of her concern.

“I’ve been ill, my lady,” I inform her.

She sips her wine. “No contagion, I hope.”

I shake my head. “No, my lady. Just a fever. I was overtired.” I offer a bright smile. “I’m much better now and eating such a lovely supper restores me mightily.”

My father is growing impatient with the nonsensical chatter. I can tell by the way he grinds his teeth on the left side. He stares at his plate, disinterested.

“You are attending Anne’s elevation to the peerage,” he says in a quiet voice.

My eyes grow wide. Anne is being elevated to the peerage? Anne, a subject humbly born, with no royal blood surging through her delicate blue veins?

“If you think that I am going to lower myself to serve that whore, you are sorely mistaken.” My mother’s voice is also quiet but bears a bitter edge. She wipes her mouth. “I will not go anywhere near the slut. Unlike some, I stand firm in my loyalties. I do not compromise my principles for sake of pride.”

Norfolk draws in a breath. “You are going. You will carry her train like a good aunt. She is to be Marquess of Pembroke. Marquess, Elizabeth! Do you realize what that means? Ladies are made marchionesses at best. A marquess is a man’s title. There is only one reason she is being ennobled: to elevate her to royalty so that she may be made presentable to Europe as the king’s chosen bride.”

“The king already chose a bride,” Mother reminds him. “He has a bride and an heir.”

“I should not have to condescend to explain to you that it would mean civil war putting Mary on the throne. She is a woman. No woman is fit to rule England alone, and the Tudors’ hold on the throne is too weak for her to keep it by herself.” Norfolk shakes his head, exasperated.

I am trying not to look. I bow my head but observe through my lashes, hoping no one sees me, like at court.

“Codswollop,” says Mother. “He has Fitzroy if he wants an heir. He even has Henry Carey if he wanted to get a little desperate. Nothing is preventing him from naming either of them. And for merit he could acknowledge Catherine Carey and God knows whatever other bastards are out there.”

She has him.

“Even now an act is being considered to name Fitzroy heir, should Henry not bear any more in the future,” Norfolk tells her.

“Good. Then there’s no need of Anne,” says Mother as though it is all decided. She breaks off a piece of bread and begins to nibble on it.

“There is need of her as long as he says there is,” Norfolk says, his voice firm. I stiffen at the tone. “You still do not seem to grasp how this affects us, how this will elevate us.”

“I am a duchess!” Mother cries. “I don’t aspire for more!” Her eyes shine bright blue with loathing as she regards Norfolk. “When I became Catherine’s lady-in-waiting all those years ago, I pledged her my loyalty. She has it still.”

“And a lot of good it’s done you,” Norfolk interposes. “Your ‘loyalty’ earned you banishment and nothing more. You are not remembered with favor by anyone and you certainly are not missed. Yet you will not take the opportunity to redeem yourself with the new regime.”

“Pah! ‘New regime’! Really, I haven’t been so amused in weeks.” At once her countenance turns stony. “I tell you, Thomas Howard, I will not go. See how the court finds you when they see you dragging me, screaming obscenities and biting your wrists, at Anne’s ceremony. See how dignified you’ll look then.” She sits straight in her chair, her gaze unwavering. “I will not go.”

Norfolk turns to me. “Leave this room,” he orders.

I do not hesitate. I run from the parlor, tears filling my eyes. I admit I am as much disappointed in missing my delicious supper as I am in my parents’ relations. This time I do not stay to eavesdrop. I run, the sound of clattering plates and trays following me all the way to the nursery. I am hoping that what is occurring in my imagination is worse than what transpires between them now.

Bess is awaiting me there. She is as beautiful as when I left her, perhaps a little fuller of figure, but it compliments her. Her long flaxen curls fall about her shoulders uncovered, as if she were a young maiden.

“I set myself to work as soon as I heard you were coming,” she says as I run in. Her smile is broad as she opens her arms.

I fall into them, unable to control my sobs. I cry for my parents, for myself, for Queen Catherine, for things I do not understand.

“No tears, lamb,” she coos. “Let’s celebrate your homecoming!”

“But my mother and father …” I whimper against her skirts. “They—”

She waves a dismissive hand. “You mustn’t worry your pretty head about them. They take care of themselves.”

“But why must they always be at odds?” I cry, pulling away.

Bess averts her head and I regret the question, knowing I have inadvertently put her to shame. I embrace her once more.

“Are you still hungry, my lady?” she asks then. My stomach growls loudly in response and I giggle. “We’ll send for some food from the kitchens and then you will tell me everything,” she says in a cheery voice as she takes my hands, drawing me to the settee. “Tell me of Lady Anne and the king and how all the ladies dress. Tell me of the food and the jousts and masques.”

I am all smiles, thrilled to be the center of attention and purveyor of knowledge. The food arrives—plates of cold meat, cheese, bread, and a decanter of wine. I invite Bess to share with me but she declines.

“It wouldn’t be proper, dining with my lady,” she informs me.

“Nonsense,” I say. “You’re too humble, as though you forget you’re gentry yourself. Dine with me, my Bess. You have been working so hard to make my home nice for me. You deserve fine food.”

Bess smiles and takes some mutton. She chews with enthusiasm, licking her fingers soundly.

As I enjoy my supper I tell her about all the new colors that Anne has set herself to naming, the gowns she designs, the voluminous sleeves and glamorous French hoods. I brag about the food, tell her that to dine at the court of King Henry is tantamount to eating in Heaven itself. I describe the grandeur of the jousts and elegance of the masques. She is riveted, stopping me now and again to ask a question or make a comment.

“Do you have friends, Lady Mary?” she asks me. “Do you get along well with the girls? They are kind to you?”

I am so touched by her concern my throat swells with tears. “Yes, for the most part they are kind. My cousin Anne can be … difficult at times.” I laugh as I think of her. “But as strange as she is, I can see why the king is so taken with her. She is full of fire and life. She’s very smart, much smarter than I could ever be. She talks like a scholar and argues about religion and politics like a man. She appreciates art and beauty and music. I think we shall have a most learned and cultivated court under her rule.”

“You think it will happen, then?” Bess asks.

I nod. “It is almost a certainty. She is being elevated to the peer-age.”

Bess’s eyes widen and she covers her mouth with her hand as though stifling a gasp.

“She is to be Marquess of Pembroke,” I go on to say. “It is unprecedented.”

“Then I suppose everyone will be happy—at least the king and Lady Anne and His Grace your father,” Bess comments.

“They will be indeed,” I say, but my voice is void of the triumph I should feel for my family. “Still, I worry about the people’s response to her. They have been so cruel.” I relay the incident on the barge and the jeering cry, “ ‘We want no Nan Bullen.’ ”

Bess says nothing and I realize I have again made her uncomfortable in her position.

I squeeze her hands and continue. “Imagine how it must be for them,” I say. “Anne and the king can’t control their love for one another. I know a lot of people have been hurt.” I think of the Princess Mary and Queen Catherine. I think of poor, dead Cardinal Wolsey. I think of Thomas More, who I have heard, was at last allowed to resign his post as lord chancellor, to be replaced by Thomas Audley. How my father lamented over that appointment! He claimed chest pains, but all knew he was wrestling with his religious convictions and the rightness of King Henry’s increasing denial of papal authority. “But I wonder, had they a real choice in the matter, would they have stayed this course? The king is a victim of his passions—he has very little self-control. And Anne— well, she must love him, too. I can’t imagine all the trouble they have gone to being for nothing. It must be due to their great love.”

Bess looks at me, her liquid brown eyes filled with an emotion akin to pity. She reaches out, cupping my cheek in her hand.

“You are a good girl, Mary,” she tells me. “Stay that way.”

I nod with a small smile. At once our heads turn toward the door as we hear footfalls approaching.

“It is His Grace,” says Bess. Her tone registers something between panic and anticipation; her eyes reflect both fear and expectation. She rises. “I must go, my lady.”

“I’ll look forward to seeing you more on the morrow, Bess,” I tell her.

She throws me a kiss and exits. I hear her and my father exchange a few words outside my door.

“Damn stubborn woman is what she is,” Norfolk is saying. “We will see if tonight’s exertions have brought about a change of heart.”

Bess says nothing. I realize I am not breathing. I wonder what he meant by “tonight’s exertions.” Part of me wants to run to my mother to check on her welfare, but I daren’t.

“Come, now, Mistress Holland,” Norfolk says in a tone I never hear used; it is almost solicitous. Almost loving. “Let us to bed.”

My heart sinks. I do not want to hear that.

I return to my lavish supper set on my little table. My room is so spacious, the furniture and tapestries so vibrant with beauty.

But I am alone and do not appreciate the food anymore, nor the surroundings. I take to my bed, escaping my loneliness the only way I know how, through sleep.

In the morning I am summoned to Mother’s chambers. I make certain to appear neat and proper, my hair brushed, my hood straight, my face and hands clean. I enter her rooms hoping we might break our fast together, but am surprised to find her propped up in bed. I have never seen my mother in her nightdress before—when I was little I believed she was born clothed. Yet now she is clad in a simple ivory nightgown with ruffles at the neck and wrists, appearing childlike in her large four-poster.

I curtsy. “Good morning, my lady.”

She nods in greeting, regarding me with a stern countenance. With a thin hand she beckons me toward her. As I approach I note that her eyes are surrounded by puffy purple shadows. Looking closer, I realize they are not shadows but bruises. My heart begins to pound as I realize what last night’s “exertions” must have been for her.

“You are growing up at this court of Henry VIII,” she says.

“Yes, my lady,” I answer.

“You are attractive enough.” She reaches up to tuck a curl that strayed from her ruffled night cap behind her ear. As her sleeve slips down her arm I see her thin wrist is also encircled with dark bruises, imprints of my father’s fingers.

“Thank you, my lady,” I say, trying to fight off tears as I regard her condition. What else did he do to her?

“Things are happening,” she says. “Great changes, as well you know. Many will be asked to compromise their beliefs, abandon their principles. Whatever you hold sacred, Mary, whatever you believe in your heart, keep it there. Keep your own counsel. Tell them what they want to hear, believe what they want you to believe, and keep your opinions to yourself. Do you understand?”

I nod, frightened.

To my surprise tears fill her eyes. “It is too late for me.” She shrugs, bringing one thin finger to tap her chin in a nervous gesture. “I cannot stray from my convictions. If you had known Her Majesty …” She shakes her head. “She inspires devotion. But devotion is becoming rather passé in this day and age.” She sighs. “Yet I remain so at great expense. It does not matter. I must cling to something.”

I reach out and take her hand. “You have me, my lady. Always.”

At this a tear spills onto her fair cheek. Frustrated, she shakes her head and wipes it away. “No. I never had any of my children. Perhaps that is where peasants are most fortunate. They keep their children; ours are sent away as chattel to be bartered for political gain. But such is our lot, I suppose. No, I do not have you, Mary. Not now, not ever.”

I blink away tears at the reality of the thought. I recall my father’s words about the advantaged, how sentiment cannot be considered if one wishes to keep one’s position. I begin to wonder if any position, no matter how exalted, is worth such emotional sacrifice.

“I’m so sorry about Catherine,” I tell her. “Both Catherines. My sister and Her Majesty.”

Mother averts her eyes.

“I met Her Majesty. She was most kind to me,” I say. “Oh, my lady, if only things were different.”

“Don’t waste time wishing for things you can never have.” Her voice is firm. “Life is short enough as it is. Not one moment should be spent in regret.” She covers her face with her hands an instant before going on. When she pulls them away she clenches them in impatience. “You will carry your cousin the whore’s train at her ceremony. I will not be attending.”

“But, my lady, what of Father?” I begin to tremble. “What will he ...?”

“What can he do to me?” she finishes. “Nothing. There is nothing he can say or do to break me, Mary. See this?” With effort she rises from the bed, pulling up her nightdress. I am ashamed at her nakedness; I almost turn but cannot. I am riveted by the bruises that mark her slim frame. She drops the gown, covering herself once more. “It is just a body, a shell. It means nothing to me. He can do as he pleases to it—but all is transient, temporary. I will suffer as God wills it and look forward to the freedom Heaven will surely afford me.”

“My lady!” I cry in despair. I want to embrace her, but am afraid of hurting her. There are so many bruises. Never have I seen such blatant cruelty. I begin to cry.

“Don’t cry for me, Mary,” Mother says, settling under the covers once more. “Cry for yourself, for the lot we must suffer as women, as God’s cursed creatures.”

“Surely we aren’t cursed,” I say. “God does love us, doesn’t He?”

Mother purses her lips. Her eyes are dry. “He tolerates us because we serve a purpose—rather like your father,” she adds with a sound that could be called a laugh.

This makes me want to wail in despair, but I refrain, drying my eyes in the attempt to achieve a semblance of dignity. If God tolerates us, that means He doesn’t have to like us. It means we are just short of a mistake in His eyes. Oh, that can’t be … that can’t be. Mother’s bitterness over her own pitiful lot has caused this view toward God. Doesn’t Her Majesty, the most devout woman in Christendom, see God as a loving benefactor of mercy? If she can harbor such regard for the Lord then so must I, for she is as justified in her sufferings as my mother.

We return to court and I am filled with relief. As soon as I am able, I escape Norfolk and return to the maidens’ chamber. Everyone is in a frenzy of gossip. Trunks are being packed, servants are running everywhere.

No one notices I have returned; indeed, they may not have realized I was ever gone. For a moment I stand a silent observer until Madge Shelton approaches me, taking my hand.

“I thought you had abandoned us,” she says in her light voice. “Are you well?” Her eyes are lit with genuine concern.

I nod. “Much better, thank you.”

She beams. “Are you excited about France?”

“France?”

She regards me as though I had emerged from the tomb. “Of course, France! We are going to accompany the king and Anne after her elevation to the peerage, to meet the king of France and his dazzlingly naughty court!”

“Madge!” I cry in delighted anticipation. “No one told me! When do we go?”

“October,” she said. “So you best pick your gowns out now. We are. Oh, I can’t wait! Mistress Anne is in a huff. She is determined to be accepted by King François—I think she feels that if he openly embraces her she’ll be—”

“Validated?”

We turn at the cool voice. It is Anne herself, regarding us with furrowed black brows and narrowed eyes. “Gossiping about me, Mary Howard, and you have not yet condescended to greet me?”

I curtsy. “My profound apologies, Mistress Anne. I am so happy to see you.”

“Ha!” Anne waves me off with a hand and sits on my bed. “I suppose it’s true enough.” Whether she refers to needing validation or my happiness in her presence, I am unsure. Her face softens. “I have to be accepted in Europe—they must realize I am meant to be queen of England. Once they see me with His Majesty, once they come to know my mind, there will no longer be any doubt which woman is most fit to be by King Henry’s side.”

I say nothing. Something about Anne frightens me. Her eyes glow with a light akin to madness. She is fidgety, unsure of what to do with her hands. Her laugh is painful; forced and edgy. Joyless. I realize as I regard her that I am looking at a nervous wreck.

“So, little Mary is carrying my robes of state,” she says, her eyes fixing on mine. “Such a little thing you are. You had better not trip and make a fool of yourself.” With this she rises and ruffles my hair. “Glad to have you back,” she says as she exits to a flock of curtsying ladies.