Читать книгу Secrets of the Tudor Court - D.L. Bogdan - Страница 8

Mary Howard, 1522

They tell me my father is a great man and I must be his pretty little lady. I must behave myself and stay clean. I wonder what it is to be a great man. I know that he is a favored servant of His Majesty King Henry VIII, and he is a very brave knight. I try to picture him. Is he tall? Is he handsome? I cannot remember. He is not home very much. I cling to my brother Henry’s hand and await my lord, who is to see us and comment on our progress. Our progress on what, I do not know. On being people, I suppose.

My sister, Catherine—she is a bigger girl than me and quite haughty—stands beside Henry. My other brother Thomas is at the end, shuffling from foot to foot. We are a pretty row of little soldiers.

When he appears in the nursery with Mother, another foreign figure to our nursery, he reviews us all. He ruffles Thomas’s blond hair and shakes Henry’s outstretched hand. He compliments my sister on her smart dress.

He regards me a long moment. “Mary,” he says, as though it is a new sound to his ears. “How old are you now?”

“I am three,” I tell him proudly.

He is a great man. I can tell. He is so stately and composed, like a living portrait.

“Three,” he says. “And what do you know at this great age of three?”

I think about this. I am not sure how to answer his query. Do I tell him about my letters and numbers, my colors and shapes? What does he want to know? I tell him what I am most proud of.

“I never have any accidents anymore—not in three whole months. Nurse says I will have a pretty new gown.” I look up at him, beaming.

He grimaces at this. I do not think my answer pleases him. His lips twitch a moment as he stoops down, picking me up and carrying me to the window. “I shall tell you what is most important, what you should know at this great age of three,” he says, bouncing me a bit on his hip. “You are a Howard.” He looks into my face. “You are a Howard. You belong to the greatest family in the land.”

I am held by his gaze; his eyes are black, deep as a starless night. They are eyes that command attention. I am captivated and frightened at once.

I wrap my arms about his neck, pressing my cheek to his, hoping to endear myself to those black orbs that remind me so much of my doll’s eyes in their—what is the word? Lifelessness.

“Remember it,” he says. “Always remember it.”

“I shall,” I whisper in earnest.