Читать книгу Secrets of the Tudor Court - D.L. Bogdan - Страница 11

How is it I, little Mary Howard, can be so fortunate as to enter this fairest of cities? My heart is swollen with joy as I behold all the sights and smells of this magical place. It is so very big! Tears sting my eyes as I behold beggars on the street, but my eyes are filled with as much excitement as compassion when they are drawn to the fine ladies and gentlemen that stroll the market, many of whom I have been assured are mere servants from the palace. If the servants are garbed in such finery, then how must it be for the true set!

Most of the streets are dirt but some are cobbled, and I love the sound of our horses’ hooves as they strike against them. I ride my own pony now, sitting straight and proud. Some of the fishwives and other ladies of the market shout blessings out to me and I imagine that this is how the Princess Mary must feel when she travels about in the open.

I firmly believe that God chose England as the spot to place His most beautiful river, the Thames. In its shimmering waters float barges and little rowboats. I squirm in delight, longing to be a part of it. Ahead I can see London Bridge and the approaching Tower, where all the fair kings and queens stay upon their coronations.

“It’s not all a tale from faeries’ lips,” one of Norfolk’s pages tells me. He is young; not much older than my brother Henry. I estimate him to be about fourteen. “See that river? Every day they pull hundreds of bodies out of it. And the pretty Tower? Below it are some of the most gruesome dungeons ever constructed. They torture people on the rack and—”

“Enough!” I cry, urging my pony forward. I refuse to think of anything unpleasant as I make my debut into London.

But somehow the day is a little less sunny, the river a little less sparkly.

And the Tower is a lot darker.

Westminster is a bustling palace! There are people everywhere. Up and down the halls rush servants and heads of state, foreign dignitaries, and courtiers more beautiful in person than I could ever have imagined. As we walk down the halls, I note that my father is greeted with a mixture of aloofness and what I would call sugared kindness. He greets them all the same; with no expression and a grunt of acknowledgment.

I have to refrain from skipping. Norfolk walks with a brusque, determined step and I am all but running to keep up as it is. My face aches from smiling as I take in all the beauty around me.

“Don’t be a fool, Mary,” Norfolk says sotto voce when he catches my expression of bewildered joy. “You haven’t just stepped out of a stable. Behave as though you’re accustomed to some level of refinement.”

I sober immediately, swallowing tears. He is right, I remind myself. I must do the family proud. It would not do my father much credit to appear ignorant before the court.

As we walk we encounter an older woman accompanied by a small entourage of ladies. She wears a somber blue gown and a long mantilla over her graying auburn hair. Her blue eyes are soft and distant. She clutches a rosary in her thin hand and every step she takes seems laden with weariness.

My father sweeps into a low, graceful bow. “Your Grace,” he says in a gentle voice.

I sink into a deep curtsy before Queen Catherine of Aragon.

“Returned from your business?” the queen asks. Her voice is low and sweet—motherly. I imagine it would be very nice to sit at her feet while she reads.

“Yes,” Norfolk answers. His face is wrought with tenderness. His hand twitches at his side. He wants to reach out to her, I deduce.

“Who is this little creature?” she asks, and a wistful smile plays upon her thin lips.

She lifts my chin with two velvet fingertips. I manage to lower my eyes in respect.

“May I present my daughter, Mary,” Norfolk answers.

“Ah, so you have brought another Howard girl to court,” she tells my father. She removes her hand from my chin. “To ensure we do not run out?”

Norfolk does not answer.

The queen emits a small, mirthless laugh. “I must attend Mass now. Do you and your little girl wish to accompany me, my lord duke?” She does not wait for him to respond. “No, I suppose not. Attending Mass with the queen has grown quite out of fashion of late, I think.”

She moves on and my mother joins her small assemblage of ladies. Norfolk bows, holding the position until she has long since passed.

When he rights himself his eyes are shimmering with unshed tears.

I avert my head, realizing with a pang that while my father is avowed to Mother and enthralled with Bess, it is Queen Catherine of Aragon he respects.

It is an esteem I, too, hope to earn.