Secrets of the Tudor Court

by D.L. Bogdan

Genres: Historical Fiction

Synopsis

When young Mary Howard receives the news that she will be leaving her home for the grand court of King Henry VIII, to attend his mistress Anne Boleyn, she is ecstatic. Everything Anne touches seems to turn to gold, and Mary is certain Anne will one day become Queen. But Mary has also seen the King's fickle nature and how easily he discards those who were once close to him. . . Discovering that she is a pawn in a carefully orchestrated plot devised by her father, the duke of Norfolk, Mary dare not disobey him. Yet despite all of her efforts to please him, she too falls prey to his cold wrath. Not until she becomes betrothed to Harry Fitzroy, the Duke of Richmond and son to King Henry VIII, does Mary finds the love and approval she's been seeking. But just when Mary believes she is finally free of her father, the tides turn. Now Mary must learn to play her part well in a dangerous chess game that could change her life--and the course of history. "A beautifully written story with wonderful attention to detail. I loved the book." --Diane Haeger, author of The Queen's Mistake "Throbs with intensity as it lays bare the secret delights of Tudor court life and the sudden, lethal terrors. A tale of innocence and ruthless ambition locked in a love-hate embrace." --Barbara Kyle, author of The King's Daughter D.L Bogan is a history major, aiming for a master's so that she might lecture one day. She is also a musician with classical voice training who has been playing keyboards and singing in bands since she was 18. She also enjoys reading, traveling, summer activities, spending time with family and friends, and researching her next novel! She makes her home in central Wisconsin.

Release date: April 15, 2010

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 353

Sample

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.

1530

My father grips my shoulders and I gaze up at his narrow face, now creased in a rare smile. His exacting eyes crinkle at the corners. My lips lift in shy response. He is kneeling before me, his knee caught on the frothy pink lace of my gown.

“A little small for your age, but you’ll do,” he intones in a voice like sustained thunder. He places a silver circlet inlaid with seed pearls on my head. I reach up to finger the delicate headpiece, in awe. This is my first gift from the Duke of Norfolk. In fact, this is the first time he has sought me out for conversation since I was a wee girl.

He rises and the abrupt movement of his knee parting company with my gown rocks me off balance. I look up. He is a thin man, which gives him the appearance of being tall. His eyes are cold again, his smile converted to a grim line slashed across his face. For a long moment he gazes upon me with eyes that are hard and inscrutable. His hands are locked behind his back. He circles me.

“You examine her like a horse at the fair,” my mother comments.

“And so she is,” he snaps. Mother shrinks back. She bows her head and places a curled hand against her cheek, though he did not strike her. She does this every time he speaks to her, as though soothing the sting of a future blow in advance.

I am too fascinated by my gift to pay attention to their exchange. By now I have removed the little circlet and am ogling the pearls, hoping to capture my parents’ attention once more. Their visits to Kenninghall are too rare. “Is it real?” I ask. At eleven I am already learning to appreciate the measure of good jewels.

“Silly question—of course it’s real!” he cries, patting my shoulder.

I clutch it to my chest and scrunch up my shoulders, smiling.

“Ah, a true Howard girl.” He laughs. “Can’t resist a shiny bauble. Go now, off with you!”

I run down the rush-strewn hallway, anticipating my maid’s expression when she beholds the finery my father bestowed upon me. What will Bess make of the gift? I am stopped short, however, by the sound of raised voices. I slow my feet and turn, straining my ears.

“It’s no place for her,” Mother is saying. “I wish you would rethink it.”

“She is needed at court,” he says. Court? My heart leaps. Dare I hope? “Mary must be in the foreground, not wasting away out here,” he adds.

“She’s much younger than the other girls,” Mother tells him. “I didn’t become a lady-in-waiting to Queen Catherine till I was about thirteen.”

“Are you so daft that you think I would expect her to be a lady-in-waiting—to this queen?” His tone is mocking. It grates on my ears. I creep closer toward their voices. “She will be a member of her cousin’s increasing household.” His voice takes on a softer note. “And she will accompany us whenever we visit young Fitzroy so she can see her brother Henry. She’ll love it.”

Henry! Oh, but I would love it! Mother would be a fool to disallow it! But how can she disallow anything? No one opposes the duke, not even those who want to. He is Norfolk, the premier duke of all England. He is Good King Harry’s foremost military commander, the best soldier and most courageous sailor. He holds a string of impressive titles: lord high admiral, lieutenant of Ireland from 1520 to 1522, and lord high treasurer. How many battles has he, a man I cannot even refer to in my own head as anything but Norfolk, won for our sovereign?

Would he let the words of my little mother thwart his plans when the whole of England trembles in awe at his very name? I should think not! My heart swells with pride that I should be sired by such a man.

I smile, anticipating his next words with glee.

“I’ll be damned if you bring her now, at this time, so she can be influenced by yet another great whore!” Mother cries. I am shocked by this. Not so much by the profanity; my mother is not known for a sweet tongue. It is that she says so to him, this man whom I have been taught to hold in reverent wonder.

I am drawn from my reflections by the sound of a thump and a series of hard pummels against the surface of what I assume to be his chest. There is a bit more scuffling, followed by an abrupt silence. I creep toward the door, hiding in the shadows. I lean against the stone wall, sweating, my heart pounding. The wall is cool, refreshing against my skin, and I press my cheek to it. With care, I peer around the doorway to see that my father has Mother’s wrists pinned above her head and is holding her against the wall.

“Now hear this,” he seethes. “I do not need your permission for anything. She will accompany us where I see fit, and it is most prudent that she be present at court now.”

“‘Most prudent,’” Mother mocks, craning her neck forward and attempting to bite Norfolk’s long Romanesque nose. He manages to evade the small catlike teeth. “I know what you’re about, Thomas Howard. You’re scheming again. Isn’t it enough to have your precious niece Miss Anne Boleyn dangling under the king’s nose like so much fresh meat—now you’re to bring little Mary? To what purpose? Who is she to be dangled before? There’s none higher than the king.”

Norfolk tightens his grip on her dainty white wrists, using them as leverage to pull her forward then slam her against the wall. I can but imagine the pain my mother feels as her back meets with the stone behind the tapestry. I bite my lip and begin to tremble. This is why her little hand curls against her face when he speaks. If I encounter such a man in my husband, I shall never speak against him, I vow.

Mother goes limp but is held up despite it. Her smile oozes with contempt. “Perhaps it is better if you do take her, dangle her before whom you must, rather than operate like my father and take her away from the man she truly loves, in favor of someone like you.”

“Ah, yes, the Ralph Neville saga again,” Norfolk says in a tone that suggests the tedium of the topic. He lowers her wrists and pins them behind her back, pulling her close to him. He speaks as though reciting lines from a play. “Ralph Neville, your dearest love. And yet what are the Nevilles to the Howards? The blood of kings runs through my veins, treasured wife.” This he says with the utmost sarcasm. “Have you so soon forgotten your predecessor?”

“Have you forgotten that I am the daughter of the Duke of Buckingham, not one of your common whores? I bear as much if not more royal blood than your scurvy lot!” Mother cries, but her face still bears that wicked smile. Both are smiling, in fact, and I find this to be a most disturbing discourse. I am unsure as to whether they are enjoying their little banter. “And I haven’t forgotten my ‘predecessor,’” she goes on, her tone biting. “I haven’t forgotten that your marriage to Lady Anne Plantagenet was steeped in poverty and that you lived off the pity of relatives. I haven’t forgotten that all that royal blood combined couldn’t sustain any of your offspring past age eleven, and it certainly couldn’t sustain your ‘princess’!”

Norfolk shakes her till her teeth chatter. I hear them click together like dice cast against the floor. “Venomous little bitch!”

Mother does not stop. Her voice is uneven as he jars her. “Royal blood is as red as everyone else’s and spills even easier.”

In one quick movement, Norfolk whirls her around so her back is to him as she kicks and writhes against him. He pulls her to the sedan. I stand stunned. I want to cry but cannot. I just watch, fascinated. As wiry as he is, he has the strength to hold her arms behind her with one hand and maneuver her over his knee. He hikes up her skirts and strikes her across the bottom like a naughty child. My face burns in shame as I listen to the resounding crack of skin striking skin.

What inspires the most fear in me is that Norfolk’s face bears so little expression given the severity of his actions. No anger, no malice. No remorse.

When he finishes he pushes her onto the floor in a crumpled heap. She struggles into a sitting position. Norfolk has turned his back on her and folded his arms across his chest, drawing in a deep breath. Well done, his bearing suggests. I shudder. Mother crawls forward. To my complete amazement she wraps her arms about his leg and rests her head against his thigh. They remain like this a long moment before my father reaches down and pushes back her hood to ruffle her wavy brown hair. Like a dog, I think, my stomach churning in revulsion.

She raises her head to him, smirking. “When shall we tell Lady Mary?”

“I knew you would see it my way, Elizabeth.” Norfolk’s tone is quite pleasant.

I turn around and lean against the wall a moment for support. Tears flood my eyes. The circlet is clammy in my cold hands. It is all right, then, what just happened? Is it some game between them? I take in a few shuddering breaths. I should not be so upset. I have much to look forward to now, it seems. Whatever occurs between my parents is best left to them. This may be how all couples relate. Should this be the case, I shall pray fervently that I am admitted into a convent. But one does not have babies in a convent! I begin to wring my hands in panic.

“My lady?” a gentle voice queries. Hands white as lilies rest upon my shoulders, and I see through a veil of tears the sweet face of my favorite maid. Her wide-set brown eyes are filled with familiar tenderness. “What is it, lamb?”

I attempt to still my trembling lip. “I…I do believe I’m going to court,” I say, not wishing to confide the disturbing scene between my parents to Bess.

Her full, rosy lips curve into a radiant smile. “But that’s wonderful!” she cries, guiding me down the hall into the nursery, where we sit on the settee. She produces a lacy handkerchief and dabs my eyes. Her other hand seizes mine and strokes my thumb in an absent fashion.

“It is wonderful,” I agree, but the words are empty. I am nervous. I need to do something. I take the handkerchief. I am far too grown-up to allow her to continue blotting my tears away, and it will occupy my fidgety hands. As I bring it to my face I find the monogram, embroidered in the lovely shade of Tudor green. “T H,” I say. The corner of my mouth curves into a teasing smile. “Now, what lad would have given you this, Bessie Holland?” I reach out and tug one of her white-blond ringlets.

She flushes bright crimson and lowers her eyes. Such a demure creature, I think to myself. She is everything I want to be.

“’Tis nothing,” she says, snatching it from me.

“But, Bess, it’s so romantic! You must tell me!” I cry, taking her hands. “Is he very handsome? And kind?” I add. After what I just witnessed it is now vital that he be kind to my gentle Bess.

Bess offers a slow nod. “Yes,” she says at length. “He is kind to me.” She rises and begins to stroll about the nursery, picking up knickknacks and setting them down in a distracted manner. I admire how her voluptuous figure swaggers a bit as she walks. “I shall miss you, my lady.” Her voice is wistful. “Now it will just be little Thomas, and he’ll be sent away soon enough for his education. What fine ladies and gentlemen I have attended these past years! And think—soon you shall be among the finest.”

“I can hardly wait to see what the ladies of the court are wearing,” I muse, perked up by the thought of glittering jewels and cloth of gold.

Bess’s tone grows quiet. “Take care around Anne. I used to attend her before coming here. She is the loveliest of women, but her mind is…unquiet.”

“I don’t remember her. I have not seen her since I was a child.”

Bess laughs and I gather it is because she still considers me a child. I puff out my chest in indignation, imagining the breasts that will soon erupt from the flat landscape of my girlhood. I break into giggles.

“She is much favored by the king.” Bess sits down again. Her eyes are alight with intrigue. “You know that she usurped her sister’s place in that—”

The door bursts open, interrupting her tale, and I am disappointed. I want so much to learn of this world I am about to enter and know I cannot ask anything of my father.

“Mary.” It is Norfolk himself. He offers a smile as he enters. “We will be leaving for court directly. Why don’t you see to the packing of your things? Just a few things, mind you. I shall have new gowns ordered upon our arrival.”

“Can Bess come?” I ask, clinging to her hand.

He bows his head, clearing his throat. “No, not just now.”

I pout a moment before seizing Bess’s hands and kissing her cheeks. I exit but do not run this time. Something keeps me rooted in place outside the door and I wonder if this is my fate, camping outside of doors, listening to things I do not want to hear, for surely what I am hearing now is out of a dream.

Sweet murmurs assault my ears. Yes, assault, because they are not exchanged between those who should utter them. I turn. My father has Bess’s head cupped between his hands. She is smiling up at him with the unadulterated adoration of a love-starved child. He gathers her in his arms, kissing her with the same fierce passion he used in striking my mother. When they part they are breathless. They lean back on the settee and I watch his hand snake down her stomacher.

T. H. Thomas Howard. So the handkerchief she offered me was his. On what occasion had he lent it to her? Had she been crying over her undesirable role as mistress? Had she been demanding that he rid himself of my mother to set her, wicked Bessie Holland, in her place? I picture the whole scene, my cheeks hot with rage. My father wrapping his arms around Bess and consoling her, promising her the world if she’d only be patient a little while longer. He gives her his handkerchief and she clutches it to her ample bosom just to lure his eyes to that ripe spot wherein beats her sinful little heart. Oh, the seducer!

Bile rises in my throat as I quit the mental imagery. A firm hand grips my shoulder. How is it he can move so swiftly and silently, I think as I squeeze my eyes shut against whatever is to come. But when I open them it is into my mother’s face I look.

“So. Now you see,” she says in her low voice. There are no tears in her eyes. She is a strong little woman, her angular jaw set in a line of determination, her challenging gaze stormy blue. She is not like Bess—soft, round Bess—who is made of honey and cream. Mother cannot afford to be honey and cream. She is fighting, always fighting. Now I know what she is fighting for.

“Yes,” I say with profound sadness. “Now I see.”

“You will be careful at this court of Henry, the Eighth of That Name.” I nod at the gravity of this formal order. “You must know that when you are there you will not see His Grace your father very much at all, and I will be busy attending Her Majesty. Be quiet. Watch and learn. Never tattle on anyone else, no matter how tempted you are by the promises of others. Be still. Keep your own counsel. Self-preservation, Mary, is of the utmost importance at this court.”

“Yes, Mother.” My throat contracts with tears. I want her to enfold me in her arms the way Bess does when I am sad or frightened. But I am angry at Bess and remind myself to admire my mother’s cool sense of control rather than long for the embrace of that vile betrayer.

Mother nods to me. I nod back. We part company.

This is how true ladies conduct their business.

 

I am leaving. Bess catches me before I descend to the great hall.

Sensing my coldness, her soft eyes make their appeal. She clings to my hands as if she does not know of her transgression. I snatch them from hers and scowl. Her face registers her sorrow as she seizes my wrists.

“My lady.” Her voice is almost a whimper, stirring my heart. “Your father is a powerful man. We can only all of us do his bidding. My family…they depend on His Grace.” Tears stream down her cheeks with abandon. “I…I have no choice, my lady.”

I blink several times to keep fresh tears at bay. “Such topics are not suitable for my ears,” I say, thinking myself to be quite dignified, but feeling a fraud. I disengage myself and turn around to go meet my parents.

“Mary!” Bess cries.

The unchecked agony of her voice causes me to stop.

“I love you like my own,” she says, her milky voice edged with desperation.

I burst into tears and run to her, flinging myself into her arms. “Oh, Bess, dearest Bess,” I sob. I forget the coolness of my mother and the wantonness of Bess’s actions. All I know is I am in the arms of the one person I have trusted to love me without reserve—my Bess. I cannot fault her for anything now, nor can I blame my father for loving her. My sense of right and wrong has been thwarted. I do not know what game I have been thrust into. I have yet to ascertain the character of the players.

I only know that I am one of them. My mother’s words ring in my ears. Self-preservation, Mary…

With effort I extract myself from Bess’s embrace and know that as I leave her I am leaving all vestiges of childhood behind me.

I ride away with my father’s armed retinue, watching my childhood home become a small black speck on the horizon. Mother rides in a covered litter with the curtains drawn. I asked to sit beside her but was refused, as she prefers her privacy.

“Soon you will not see it at all,” Norfolk says in reference to Kenninghall as he sidles up beside me. He looks formidable on his black charger, though in lieu of armor he wears the fine furs and velvets of a much-favored courtier. The heavy cloak envelops his slight personage and he appears more solid. He holds the reigns with one slim-fingered hand while the other rests on the hilt of his sword.

“Stop looking back,” he tells me. “Howards do not ever look back; we press onward. No matter the circumstances. Onward.” He gestures for me to look ahead and I do, taking in the fields that surround us; they are barren and gray. Winter is pondering its arrival. It teases us with a scattering of snowflakes now and then. I shiver. I wish we were traveling in the spring when the landscape has more to offer.

So far what is ahead looks bleak. I am at once clutched in anxiety’s sadistic fist. What if I do not fit in at court? What if no one likes me? Kenninghall may not have been an exciting place, but along with Tendring and Hunsdon—my other childhood homes—it was familiar. I had my lessons. I played with my brother and Bess. Now I am plunging into a life alien to me. My father is foreign to me. I have only seen him a handful of times. I want to impress him; I want him to be proud of me. Yet he frightens me. His brutality toward Mother, his tenderness toward Bess…I cover my mouth to stifle a sob.

“Are you ill, Mary?” Norfolk asks.

“No, my lord,” I say quickly. I avert my head. I do not want him to see my tears.

“You have not been made accustomed to long rides,” he comments. “You must be tired. Come.” In one effortless movement he leans down and scoops me right off my saddle, setting me in front of him. I stiffen, unsure of how to conduct myself. He is my father, but he is also the intimidating soldier-duke. He is the man who beat my mother and made love to my maid in the same afternoon. But he is also the man we are taught to worship and long for.

I lean back, giving in to the need to rest against something. His chest is warm; I feel his beating heart against my back. I look down at his hand, a hand of such perfection it could have been the model for a statue, with its strong tapering fingers and subtle blue veins snaking like rivers beneath his tanned skin. It is the hand of a scholar and soldier. The thought sobers me. This hand is capable of much cruelty.

Now it rests about my waist, quite nonthreatening. In a moment forged out of the desperate need for reassurance, I reach out and take it in my own.

“I am so glad to be with you, Father,” I tell him, and in that moment I am filled with the utmost sincerity.

He pauses. “I have been shown your embroidery. Quite fine,” he says. “And I am told you have a nice ear for the virginals and dance prettily. At court you shall learn all the new dances. It is vital that you study all the womanly arts, Mary. It is also important to keep up with your education. It pleases me to learn that you are a good reader and know your letters.”

“In English and Latin, sir,” I brag, trying to mask my hurt that he has not yet told me he is glad to be in my company. Perhaps, because he is first a soldier, he does not know how to return a compliment.

“The most important thing to remember, Mary, is to keep your cousin Anne happy. Serve her, please her, whatever she wants. She is favored by the king and our family’s hopes lie with her,” he goes on to advise. “But as high as Anne is raised, never forget who the head of this family is. Never forget who your first allegiance is with; that it is your goodly and Christian duty to obey your father always. Swear to me, Mary. Swear to me your obedience and fidelity in all things.”

“I swear,” I say, unnerved by the intensity of his tone.

“Good,” he says. “Very good.”

He squeezes my hand.

I shall be everything he wants, I think to myself. I shall work very hard so that someday he will look at me and say Mary, I am so glad to be with you.

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.

She is surrounded by adoring courtiers. The ladies flutter about in their bright dresses like so many butterflies, squawking like chicks in a pen. Her apartments are grand and alive with music and poetry. So much is going on that I do not know where to look.

And then my eyes behold her.

She is not beautiful, not to those who define such as light and golden. She is breathtaking. Dark, with skin like a gypsy, her obsidian eyes are luminous and lively, her lush black hair long and glossy, worn parted down the middle and flowing down her back beneath her stunning French hood. She wears a dress of fine green velvet with the most resplendent sleeves I’ve ever seen. Resting at the base of her swanlike throat is a pendant of an intricate B for Boleyn.

She is tilting back her stunning head now, laughing at something one of her many male courtiers said when we walked in. She turns white at the sight of my father, her laughter catching in her throat.

“I decided to bring your cousin Mary back with me,” he says. “She will serve you.” He glances about the room and shakes his head. “I will have speech with you later.”

With that he quits the room and I am alone, with no instruction. I have no idea when I will see him again, where I am to sleep, who is to look after me. I draw in a deep breath. I must press onward. I am a Howard.

I urge myself toward my cousin and curtsy. “It will be my pleasure to serve you, Mistress Anne,” I say.

Anne laughs. She reaches out a hand and seizes my chin. Her touch is not as gentle as the queen’s.

“You have a big nose like your father,” she says in a slightly French-accented voice.

At once tears fill my eyes. This is the last thing I expect to hear. On instinct my hand flies up to cover the offensive appendage, though all my life I have been unaware of its effect. It is all I can do to keep from sobbing out loud. I blink. I must think. I must win her favor.

I lower my hand and smile. “Were it only like yours, my lady,” I say. “Perhaps you can show me how to make the best of this unfortunate circumstance?”

Anne ponders me a moment, then bursts into laughter. There is something about it, an edge that makes it less joy-filled than nervous. Immoderate.

“You shall sleep with the other maidens,” she says, putting to rest one of my anxieties. “You’ll find yourself in good company. Our cousin Madge Shelton is with us, and here is my sister, Mary Carey.”

She gestures to a curvaceous blonde who reminds me of my Bess. I smile at her. I remember that Bess told me she had once been the king’s mistress. Through servants’ gossip I heard that her two children are his bastards. She is very beautiful; soft and round to her sister’s willowy delicacy. It is easy, however, to see how one could be attracted to both of them.

Mary Carey approac. . .