“Oh, how dreadful,” I breathe. This is not the variety of court gossip I enjoy. “Do you expect they’ll have more children?”
“Would you?”
I shake my head. I would never risk bringing another child into the world after such heartbreak; loving something that seemed destined to be taken away was rather an invitation for more pain.
We watch the jousting tourney, where Lord Howard takes the day. His victory is met with the briefest of smiles and a curt nod of gratitude but he is not as demonstratively ecstatic as his rivals are jealous. I find myself pleased that he has won some sort of recognition—not that it will make anything right for him by any standard, but it is nice to be favoured once in a while.
That evening at the entertainments, I am paired off with Lord Howard for a dance. It is strange. He isn’t a big man at all but there is something so powerful in him, an energy that flows through his elegant hand into my own. We talk of nonsensical things, the joust and Charles Brandon. I tease him a bit to bring a smile to his face. It is not easy, but I find at this moment it is what I wish for most.
When I am rewarded with a slow, almost nervous smile, I offer my most charming in return. He is an older man, old enough to be my own father, but I have no designs on him. He is married to a fine lady, after all.
I just want to see him smile.
The next day a miniature deer park and castle are set up in the tiltyard and there is a spectacular show in honour of Diana, goddess of the hunt. It is quite the display, with the lads slaying the stags and hanging their bloody carcases from poles for the delight of the ladies.
I cannot say that I am particularly delighted. I have never been keen on the idea of blood and gore, and from what I can tell, neither is Her Grace. She offers a tight-lipped smile as though trying to swallow a gag and waves at the gentlemen who are trying so hard to win her favour.
Charles Brandon is there along with all the Howards. They are quite handsome, even Brandon, who I love to tease because nearly everyone has taken a fancy to him. I haven’t. Despite his pretty face, it is easy to see he will soon take to fat.
Lord Thomas Howard takes part in the festivities with his grim face set in determination. He draws back his bowstring with skilled perfection, hitting every intended mark. There are moments when his expression softens as he gazes at his bow, but they do not last long. Whatever emotions he allows to creep into his heart this day, he manages to keep at bay.
“Pray for him,” the queen urges when she finds my eyes have rested upon him. I flush in embarrassment. “There are only two ways a man can go in the wake of such tragedy.”
I offer a grave nod, then bow my head and murmur a quick prayer for the poor wretched Howards.
I am relieved when the hunt is over and we are allowed to take some rest. I never thought there could be such a thing as too much celebrating, but when I lay head to feathers that night, I drift into the blissful sleep of the overtired, dreaming of all the happy things I have been pleased to bear witness to.
Long forgotten is the Howards’ tragic lot. All I can think of are the conduits of London running red with wine in celebration of our glorious king and queen.
On 29 June, the king’s grandmother Margaret Beaufort passes on. The bells toll for six days in her memory and I admit I am more saddened that our celebrations have been cut short than over the passing of that old curmudgeon.
Still, she was the king’s grandmother, which means she was the queen’s relation by marriage, too, so I give the proper deference and pray for her obstinate old soul.
When the period of mourning passes, the king takes to ruling his realm and everything is made merry again. Into the kingdom drift minds of more intelligence than I could ever possess and they bring to us their Greek and Latin plays and books, their ideas about religion and art and music, their passion, their energy, and novelty.
King Henry relishes his merrymaking. Everything is cause for celebration: feast days, holidays, anniversaries of this event and that. There is always jousting and masquing. The king loves leaping out at us in disguise and scaring the queen, who offers her sweet giggle and adoring eyes to the strong and bonny prince. Watching them, I am beset with fantasies about marriage and new love.
Love is all around at court. Not a day goes by when some letter or poem or token isn’t delivered to this lady or that from one handsome courtier or another. Even though the queen runs a devout and chaste household, it is far too easy to get swept up in dreams of romance.
“I think that you are awaiting the day when you, too, receive these love-gifts,” says Fra Diego Fernandez, the queen’s confessor, one afternoon when he finds me sighing in the gardens.
I offer the handsome Spaniard a bright smile. “Oh, no, sir, I do not think about such things.”
He laughs. “Of course you do! You would not be human otherwise!” He leans toward me, nudging my shoulder with his upper arm. “And besides, I won’t tell a soul—remember, I am a confessor.”
His nature is so jovial and inviting I cannot help but warm to him. Fra Diego covers my hand with his. “And you being such a fair child will no doubt have the suitors circling.”
Something about his physical familiarity alarms me. I withdraw my hand. “I am a chaste and virtuous maid,” I tell him in case he may be testing me for my fitness in the royal household.
He only tilts back his dark head to laugh. “Such a treasure!” he exclaims. He snaps off a rose from one of the nearby bushes, twirling it a moment between thumb and forefinger before giving it to me. “Here: your first token,” he says in a whisper before rising from the bench and making long confident strides toward another group of ladies, who are making sheep’s eyes at him.
I study the rose a long moment, confused and delighted.
So absorbed am I in reliving my moment with the handsome Spaniard that I do not notice the pair of feet rooted in place before me. My eyes travel up the well-turned legs to the trunk, which is swathed in fine livery, at last resting on the stern countenance of Lord Thomas Howard.
He snatches the rose from me and crumbles the petals in one fine hand before casting it to the ground. “Don’t be seen dallying with that,” he says in dark tones. “He is a knave and a scoundrel. Who is attending you? You should not wander by yourself.”
“And you should mind your own affairs, sir!” I tell him in haughty tones.
He laughs at this, but his is a peculiar laugh, lacking in real mirth. “My affairs?” He runs a hand through his curling black hair and sits beside me. I try to ignore the flutter in my belly at his nearness. “I recommend that you mind your own. Take care around the Spaniard. The ‘pious and devout’ friar who has you so caught up in his charms will bed anything that moves, my little lady. Everyone knows it.”
“My lord!” I cry, scandalised at his language. “Retract that statement at once! The queen would never trust her soul to a degenerate!”
Lord Thomas’s smile is filled with mockery. “‘Retract my statement’?” He laughs, that odd half laugh. “Am I in the presence of a little lawyer?” The smile fades to a grim line. “I cannot retract a truth. Her Grace is a trusting woman and stubborn at that. Anyone who can last six years in a dreary castle awaiting her fate is not faint of heart. People have warned her against her friar—even old Henry VII—but all to no avail. She will retain him despite his reputation because she does not believe it. She sees what she wants to see in those she loves—a most dangerous trait.” He regards me with penetrating black eyes.
Annoyed, I avert my face. “Well, I suppose he can’t help being a knave, he being so handsome and delightful, unlike some,” I add pointedly. “Besides, he was probably forced to become a friar by his family. He may not even want to be one.”
“You