Читать книгу Secrets of the Tudor Court - D.L. Bogdan - Страница 13

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 prie-dieu, 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 peerage.”

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.

My cheeks burn but I do not cry. I imagine she must be under so much pressure. It would be hard to be nice all the time.

My father is also quite direct in his instruction.

“Do anything stupid and childish and I will make certain you are sent to Scotland to marry a barbarian,” he tells me.

I stifle a gasp of fear. Somewhere inside I know this could be his form of jesting, but as I recall my mother’s bruises I decide it may be an error in judgment to laugh.

“You will stand straight, like this.” He rises from the chair behind his desk and grabs my shoulders, pushing them back as he straightens my posture, something I admit is one of my less attractive attributes. As I am usually hunched over a book or my writing, slouching has become habitual. Norfolk places his left palm on the small of my back and his right on my abdomen. “When you stand straight you draw your stomach inward toward your spine.” He stands back to regard me. “And head up.” He tilts my chin up with his fingers. “Proud, like a Howard girl should be. You belong to the greatest family in England. Act like it. My God, girl, who taught you to stand?” He scowls. “Now walk.”

“Walk, Father?”

“You aren’t deaf, are you?” he asks, as though this would be the ultimate inconvenience to him. “Yes, walk the length of this room, to the door, then back to me.”

I do so, shaky and self-conscious.

“Where did you learn that?” He doesn’t wait for an answer—to my good fortune, as I had none that would please him, since the only person I ever tried emulating in gait was Bess Holland. “Take slow, measured steps, toes pointed straight ahead of you. You want to glide, you want to float. You aren’t off laboring in the fields. You are a lady. Now. Walk.”

I walk, trying to emulate as he envisaged, but he stops me.

“Apparently you do have some sort of hearing issue,” he tells me. “Do it again, and this time do it right.”

I try again. Again he stops me. “Mary, would you like to be replaced? Is this role too much for you? Perhaps Jane Parker would be happy to—”

“No!” I cry, daring to interrupt him as I envision my sour-faced cousin Jane, wife of cheerful George Boleyn, taking my rightful place in the ceremony. “No, please. It is an honor to carry my lady’s robes. Please don’t take it away from me.”

“If the honor is denied you, it is no fault of mine,” Norfolk says. “Now. Walk. One hundred times back and forth, from me to the door. A thousand if need be. You will walk until you walk like the lady I am raising you to be.”

So I walk. I walk and walk. The sun sets. The night drags on. The sun rises. My legs are heavy and my feet ache.

“Stop,” he says. “That is passable.”

I cease walking and stand, numb.

“Now about your hair,” he says. “It’s one thing to wear it down your back if you take care of it, but if it continues appearing as though you’ve stood the length of a windstorm, I will not allow you to wear it unbound. Who brushes your hair?”

“No one, really,” I say. “Sometimes we brush each other’s hair or a servant will, but everyone is so busy—”

“Come here,” he says, sitting behind his desk once more. I realize for the first time that he has been standing the entire night as well. I wish he would offer me a chair. He doesn’t. He calls for a brush with hard bristles. Once it is produced, he gestures for me to come to him, then removes my hood and turns me around. With hard, relentless strokes he brushes through my thick golden hair, pausing to detangle snarls without care of the fact that I feel my scalp is being torn from my skull.

“This is a mess,” he says, using his fingers to detangle some of the snarls. “You are not the comeliest creature—take pride in your redeeming features.” When he can’t detangle certain stubborn snarls, he pulls at them so hard that they come out in clumps that he drops to the floor beside me. My scalp aches. Each hair seems to have its own individual complaint.

At last—between the pain in my legs, feet, and head—I begin to cry.

“Stop it this instant,” he commands. Immediately it is as though some force has pulled my tears inward, sucking them inside my eyes. My head feels full. My body feels full, full of tears and anguish I dare not expose.

The ordeal takes an hour. When he is finished he puts down the brush and smoothes my hair with his hands. “It glows with a fire from within.” He turns me around to face him. “When you come tonight we shall do it again.”

“Which part?” I ask, dread pooling in my gut.

“All of it,” he says. “You should be flattered that I condescend to such matters, but as no one else seems to be able to fill the capacity, including yourself, I shall have to. I can’t abide you running about court like a peasant.”

“I am…most humbled and grateful, sir,” I tell him, longing to douse my head in hot water to assuage the pain.

“You are dismissed.”

I curtsy and quit the room, knowing that with the demands of the day I will have no opportunity for rest, and praying he will not keep me up the entire night again.

There must be some way to find peace.

As I trudge toward Anne’s apartments I hear someone whisper my name. At first I think my overtiredness is causing delusions, but when it persists I turn my head to find the musician Cedric Dane peering out from a doorway.

“Good morrow, Mistress Howard,” he says with a smile. “How are you?”

My heart is racing. I pray my cheeks are not flushed. “Master Dane, a pleasure to see you. I am well, thank you.”

“Can you spare a moment?” he asks.

I know I should attend Anne, but my feet remain rooted in place. I wrestle with my conscience but a moment, before following Cedric into a chamber where there are many various instruments: virginals, a lute, a harp.

“We practice here,” Cedric tells me. “At least it resembles practice.” He sits behind the virginals and begins playing effortlessly, a haunting melody that calls to mind lost love and distant dreams.

“It’s lovely,” I tell him. “Is it your own?”

“Yes.” I admire how he does not have to look at the keys. That is something I am working on as yet. He regards me with a carefree smile. His eyes, those strange, violet-tinged eyes, sparkle. I feel a bubble of laughter catch in my chest.

“It needs a bit of work, though,” he says. “I haven’t any words to it yet. Tell me what you envision when you hear it.”

I close my eyes, allowing the melody to envelop me. “The sea. Rolling waves, a calm blue sky…a ship…it is a lovely scene but sort of melancholy. It is good-bye. A man has left his maid…” I bow my head and know from the heat of my face I am flushing furiously.

“Why did you stop?” Cedric asks.

I avert my head, unable to meet his eyes. “Mayhap it is a little…I’m not sure…”

“Mistress Howard, please. Continue,” he urges.

I raise my eyes to him to find his head is bowed toward the keys. His eyes are closed and he weaves subtly in time with the tune. He is a musician in complete harmony with his song.

“I—I see the maiden. She stands alone on shore, bidding her lover good-bye.” I swallow. I am caught up in my scene. “Somehow she knows his voyage is perilous. She will not see him again.”

“Tragic,” says Cedric. “But beautiful, as tragic love tends to be. Leaves you blissfully unsatisfied, yet somehow there is a perverse pleasure in the agony of it all.”

I never thought of it like that. Perhaps I have witnessed too much agony to find it pleasurable. Or I have not witnessed the right kind.

“Will you sing for me, Mistress Howard?” he asks. “Put verse to your story. Breathe life into my song.”

“I can’t—”

“Come now.” He chuckles. “You’re not afraid.”

“Yes,” I admit. “My voice might grate on you.”

“It might,” he says. “But I promise I will tell you.”

I giggle. “I am not good at verse on the spot.”

“Not many people are, save your brother, I hear.”

“Henry?” I arch an eyebrow.

“I had the privilege of keeping company with him and the Duke of Richmond of late. Your Lord Surrey is a wonderful poet—a hot-tempered boy, but a gifted writer with a great deal of heart,” he tells me.

“Boy!” I cry. “He’s no older than you!”

“He’s a boy,” he says.

“And you’re not?” I tease.

“That’s for you to learn.”

“Master Dane!” I cry, scandalized.

“Forgive me, Mistress Howard,” he says. “I grow too comfortable in your charming company.” He clears his throat and continues playing. “Now. Do enlighten me with a few verses.”

I pause a long while, allowing images and words to whirl in my mind and take form. It is a creation in itself, writing verse, and I envisage the Psalmists feeling a similar exuberance when composing God’s Word. I am tingling with inspiration. Slowly but in a clear, low voice, I begin.

“O happy dames…that may embrace the fruit of your delight.” Tears fill my eyes. “Help to bewail the woeful case and eke the heavy plight…” I take in a breath. “Of me, that wonted to rejoice the fortune of my pleasant choice: good ladies! Help to fill my mourning voice…”

I trail off, unable to continue. Cedric stops playing. He is staring at me.

“Where did that come from?”

Embarrassed, I avoid his eyes. “I—I don’t know.”

He rises, approaching me. “You are more gifted than I could ever have imagined. You compose from your innermost being, from your soul, your heart…You are an artist.” He reaches out and takes my hand. “Tell me you will write that down and finish it for me.”

I nod.

He sits on the bench once more. “Please,” he says, gesturing to the vacant space so near to him. I sit. I have never been so close to a man outside of my family before. His presence, his warmth cause me to shiver all over. Gooseflesh dots my arms and I’m grateful my sleeves cover it.

“Your voice is beautiful, fraught with emotion.” At my dubious expression, he goes on. “It is not mere flattery, Mistress Howard. I don’t waste my time with empty obsequiousness. I leave that to the courtiers,” he adds with a wink.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

“Thank you.” He nods toward the keyboard. “Will you play for me as well?”

I place my hands on the smooth keys. They are at home here. I close my eyes. I find I cannot do anything but his bidding. I want to elongate this moment forever. I begin to play one of my own compositions. Unlike his bittersweet melody, mine is violent and dark, with a heavy bass hand and strong minor chords. As I play, tears gather at the corners of my eyes. When I finish I stare at my stilled hands. Blue veins are raised against the fair skin like a surging network of rivers from my efforts. My breathing comes quick and shallow.

Cedric is silent. “You have a talent.” He pauses as though considering. “Where does all that darkness and passion come from? I should think a girl your age would be composing light, frilly little songs.”

I bow my head. I cannot say where it comes from, only that it emerges from some depth of my soul and cannot be ignored. When my fingers touch the keyboard they are commanded by something else, something illogical and not of this world.

I say nothing. I cannot speak past my emotion.

He seems to perceive this so clears his throat, changing the subject. “Are you—are you excited about Mistress Anne’s elevation ceremony?”

I nod, relieved. “I am carrying her robes,” I say with pride.

“Quite an honor,” he says. “Your family is steeped in honors, I think.”

“Yes,” I agree, then realize I should take offense. “What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing,” he says. “Such is the way with the king’s favorites. The blessings spill over. I’m certain Mistress Anne isn’t the only one benefiting from her match.”

I rise from the bench. “You mean my father?” I cry. “Every honor that is bestowed upon him is earned. He is a man to be feared by all—”

“Odd that should be the attribute you mention first,” Cedric observes in soft tones. He arches a well-defined black brow. “Do you fear him, Mistress Howard?”

My words catch in my throat. I see my bruised mother. I feel the pain in my scalp. I recall the humiliation of being made to wipe my puppy’s mess with my red velvet wrap. I blink back tears. “I fear him as I fear God,” I say at last. “It is a fear born of respect for his greatness.”

“Greatness.” Cedric regards me with eyes that belong to a man much older than himself. “Can greatness be born of bloodshed and suffering, from manipulation and cruelty?”

“You go too far, Master Dane,” I tell him, my heart sinking at knowing our moment of beauty has fled.

“Forgive me. I get caught up in debate for the spirit of it,” he tells me. “I mean no offense against the great Lord Norfolk. I am certain he is a most loving and attentive father who will think of nothing but your happiness all of his days.”

“Of course,” I insist. “He always thinks of my happiness. He wants me to be a great lady. He is showing me how to walk….” I cannot stop the tears from coming now. “If he didn’t love me, why would he lower himself to such things?”

“Indeed,” says Cedric. “God bless the man who instructs his thirteen-year-old daughter on how to walk.”

“Why are you being cruel?” I demand.

“Oh, little Mistress Howard,” he says, taking my hands. “I want you to know something, and please take it to heart. I am the least cruel person you will find at this court. The only words that leave my lips are honest ones. Mistress Howard,” he says in a voice so gentle it wrenches my heart. “Mary. Take care of yourself. Look after your own interests first for, believe me, no one else will.”

I withdraw my hands. “You forget yourself and my rank. You will neither address me informally nor lay hands on my person again,” I say haughtily as I turn about in a whirl of skirts and quit the room.

But his words haunt me as I make my way to Anne’s apartments. He is wrong, surely he is wrong. He is just an arrogant musician who is not nearly as mature as he thinks he is. He knows nothing of me or my father or my life.

He is wrong. I am well looked after. Norfolk does think of my best interests.

Norfolk does love me.