Читать книгу Rivals in the Tudor Court - Darcey Bonnette - Страница 12

After a long battle with illness and severe pain, King Henry VII passes into the next world, joining his wife, who died in childbirth in 1503.

“Another family reunited,” says my princess, and I swear her tone rings with envy. “I suppose they have charge over our children now,” she adds as she helps dress me into the black velvet livery I have been issued as I am to be a lord attendant at the funeral.

I say nothing. This talk, as with anything abstract and impractical, frustrates me no end and I extricate myself with haste.

I attend my king’s funeral but am far from being lost in grief. My thoughts are dominated by the new King Henry, styled His Majesty rather than His Grace, so magnanimous is his presence, and the favour I hope he bestows upon me. The Howards are in the ascendant. I cannot help but feel a thrill of excitement as my eyes are drawn to the strong young king, who even at the tender age of eighteen bears an aura of pure energy and power.

I have a feeling serving this Henry VIII will be the adventure of a lifetime.

The king marries Catherine of Aragon, freeing her from her years of sparse living and enforced patience while the old king was hemming and hawing about whether or not he saw political advantage in a union with Spain. This is the first thing this feisty young king does, with special dispensation from the Pope granting permission to wed his brother’s widow on the grounds that their marriage was not consummated.

The June coronation is a grand affair. It seems this young king has a taste for extravagance. There is feasting, dancing, and masquing. I have entered the lists along with my brothers Neddy and Edmund for the jousts that are held in the king’s honour, and I take the prize for most skilled combatant on the first day, along with Sir John Carre. What a thrill to have proven my worth even on this small scale! I shall stand out among these pretty boys and show the king who will serve him best when battle really comes calling.

I doubt he is thinking of any of that now, however. Now is a time for celebration, for frivolity and fun, something this lusty Tudor indulges in without hesitation. This is going to be a far different court from that of his stoic, cautious father, but then, this Henry does not understand what it is like to have to struggle for his crown. His was given to him as God intends, with the passing of a monarch, not with bloodshed and battle. Sheltered and protected his entire life from the harshness of reality, this robust and rosy Henry thinks nothing of the sacrifices that brought him to his glorious apex. He thinks of his parties, of the culture he is set on bringing to England, of his bride.

It would be hard not to think of her. Queen Catherine of Aragon is at the peak of her beauty, though six years her husband’s senior. I admit it is difficult to tear my eyes from her as she sits in her box, where entwined are Cs and Hs on the royal canopy along with her symbol, the pomegranate, and Henry’s red and white Tudor rose.

She is an unusual Spaniard with her deep auburn hair and gentle blue eyes. Her skin is fair and I would never have guessed her to be the daughter of Isabella and Ferdinand.

I have the privilege of dancing with her at one of the masques. She is elegant and formal, keeping the proper distance between us, much like my own princess.

“We are compelled to offer our sympathies, Lord Howard, for the losses of your children,” she tells me in her softly accented voice.

I flinch at the mention of them and the queen squeezes my hand. Her eyes are lit with tears.

“I thank you, Your Grace,” I say. Knowing her to be a pious woman, I add for good measure, “But I suppose it is the will of God.”

“Yes,” she says with a nod.

We both know I do not believe it, but she is too gracious to call attention to it.

My princess does not dance much that evening, though she does accept a twirl about the floor with her irresistible nephew the king, while I am paired off with one of the queen’s young maids, the young daughter of the third Duke of Buckingham.

All I remember about that family was that the grandfather, the second Duke of Buckingham, was executed during the reign of Richard III for supporting Henry VII. It is that of which I am thinking when dancing with this child, who is young enough to be my own.

She examines me with fierce blue eyes. Indeed, they draw me from my reverie and make me call attention to her face, a determined little face with a set jawline. Everything about her is a paradox: delicacy and strength, angularity and softness. Her chestnut hair falls in thick curls to her waist and I find myself wondering rather stupidly if she sets it in rags or if the attractive asset is natural.

“You are Lord Howard,” she tells me.

I nod.

“I saw you in the jousts today,” she says. She cocks her head, her arresting eyes squinting as though they are searching for my soul. It is so disconcerting I have to avert my face a moment.

“And who were you hoping would take the day?” I ask her.

She shrugs. “I suppose you want me to say you,” she says and I cannot help but laugh at her candour.

“No, you may say what you like,” I assure her.

She smiles. “I should have liked Charles Brandon to win,” she says of the king’s boon companion, the handsome courtier who follows him like a lovesick pup. Noting my expression at the thought of the doe-eyed boy, she laughs. “No, in truth I am not so fond of Brandon. I just wanted to see what you’d do.”

“You are an instigator, Lady—”

“Elizabeth,” she says. “Elizabeth Stafford.” Her lips curve into a sarcastic little smile as her eyes take me in from boots to hat. “And you are the very devil.”

“How old are you, Lady Elizabeth?” I ask her, amused.

“I am twelve, sir,” she says proudly.

Twelve. The age my Thomas would be. I close my eyes a moment. Would I have chosen her for his bride? It would have been a good arrangement, the daughter of a duke for my handsome boy. But those are thoughts for the past and the past is gone.

The young girl standing before me will make someone else’s son a fine wife.

“Lord Howard?” Her low voice cuts through my reflection and I start. She offers a perfect little curtsy. “Thank you for the dance, Lord Howard.” She leans up to whisper conspiratorially, “And everyone wanted you to win, even the queen.”

I laugh as I watch her bound through the crowd. It catches in my throat as I find myself wondering when life will find it prudent to dole out its first cruel blow to her.

I shudder, longing for one day of not being assaulted by dark, bitter thoughts.

I return to the side of my princess and ask her to favour me with a dance.

She shakes her head, tears lighting her eyes.

“I do not think I can bring myself to it, my lord,” she says. “I am so tired.”

She coughs into a small handkerchief and upon pulling it away attempts to hide it in the pocket of her dress. It is too late. I have seen the flecks of blood on the cloth, bright as a cardinal’s feather in the snow.

We stare at each other in mutual horror.