When the assault closes in on the ladies, guards and gentlemen sweep in to push them off.
“Lord Howard! Help!” a shrill voice cries, and my attention is called to little Elizabeth Stafford. I turn to see a couple tearing off the sleeves of her Tudor green and white gown. The child’s blue eyes are wide with terror.
I force myself through the throng, taking her by the shoulders and pulling her away from a crude old woman and her toothless husband, whose hands were so busy in their task, they did not see me coming. It is all I can do to refrain from breaking the king’s peace and running them both through. Had she been my own daughter, I know I would not have hesitated and would sit out a spell in detainment somewhere as a result.
“What madness is this?” I seethe. “Get you out of here, hag!”
Startled, the couple begins to back away. “No offence, milord,” says the man. “We was just joining in the fun.”
“’Tis not your fun to be had!” I shout, moving toward them as if to strike. “Now be gone!”
“And take the bloody sleeves!” Elizabeth adds, finishing the job herself, throwing the sleeves at her assailants. “May they feed you for a month!”
She stands, a tiny pillar of indignation, shivering in the February air, hugging her little arms across her stomacher. I kneel before her and take to vigorously rubbing her upper arms. “Are you hurt?” I ask her.
She shakes her head. Her eyes are bright, fuelled with the same fire I imagine to be in mine when engaging in battle.
“Everyone is removing within doors,” I tell her. “We shall have a splendid banquet where you will be left quite intact for the rest of the evening.”
“Oh, how very disappointing,” she says, her mouth curving into that odd little smile, which is both sarcastic and disarming at once. Noting my expression of mock disapproval, she adds, “Thank you for rescuing me, Thomas Howard.”
“You are most welcome, Lady Elizabeth,” I say in turn as I lead her to the rest of the ladies.
When I encounter my princess again, I take her hand. “You were not hurt?”
She shakes her head. Her cheeks are rosy with a mixture of mirth and fever. “The little girl is all right?”
“Quite,” I say. I remove my hat, running my hand through my sweaty hair. “Perhaps it is best we do not have a daughter at court. I could not bear to watch her assaulted so.”
My princess’s face is stricken and I know I have said the wrong thing. I did not mean it, not that way, but the words are out and as she disengages her hand from mine, I note a new depth to the sadness already lighting her eyes.
There is no use apologising. What is said cannot be unsaid.
Nine days after the closing festivities, in which I had the honour of carrying the king’s helmet, the bells begin to toll. The little prince is dead.
My princess and I exchange a look of horror as we receive the queen’s messenger at our home in Lambeth. I do not understand why the queen has sent a messenger, unless it is to seek out my wife so that she may comfort Her Grace in her grief. The princess knows well the meaning of loss, and her gentle presence would console even the most hardened heart.
But it is not my princess who is sought. It is I. I am called by Her Grace with no other explanation and so, dressed in the black livery of mourning, arrive at the palace to learn what is required of me.
I am received in the presence chamber where Her Grace sits under her canopy of state, her face grave and aged. One would not recognise the gay young woman who sat in her box watching the knights joust in honour of her newborn son just a few weeks ago.
I bow, removing my hat. “Your Grace.”
She offers a brief nod. “We are pleased to ask you to ride in the Prince of Wales’s funeral procession as one of the six mourners.”
I am shaken. “Thank you for bestowing such an honour upon me,” I say at last. It is awkward to be honoured by such a sad undertaking, but it is a practical task and the queen and I are of like mind in practicality, it seems.
She averts her eyes a moment. “I have had two miscarriages,” she goes on, dropping the royal “we,” and I raise my head, startled as much by the familiarity as by the confession. Queen Catherine is never one to break with proprieties. “I thought that was suffering. But nothing compares to this. I have lost my first child, the first child to be successfully carried to term. He was so special, a gift I felt was hard earned and much anticipated not only for me but for the whole kingdom. A prince at last.” Her face adopts a dreamy expression. “There is something about one’s first child…. He will never be replaced. Even when we have another, this little Henry will always be considered my first.” Her voice catches on the last word. She turns grief-stricken eyes to me, her face arranged in an appeal. “How do you bear it, my good sir?”
“Dear lady,” I say, at a loss. “I—words cannot express …” Searching her honest, open face, I am struck by the thought that she is hoping I have some divine answer that will explain her tragedy away. I draw in a wavering breath. “I can say much about grief, but in the end, to someone whose pain is still fresh, all of my words would sound commonplace, empty, and as pointless to you as all the well-intended sympathisers did to me when I lost my children. So the only thing I will tell you about managing grief is this: Press on.” I swallow hard. “Find comfort in what you may, Your Grace.” I bow my head, then add in soft tones, “I appreciate your grief more than is in your estimation. You could not have chosen a more appropriate person to fulfil the obligation of mourner than I.”
The queen leans forward, resting a bejewelled hand on my shoulder. For a moment we are locked in each other’s gaze. Her eyes are wide with a mingling of fear and confusion. She bows her head, slowly removing her hand.
“We thank you for your service, Sir Thomas,” she says, still avoiding my eyes. “You are dismissed.”
I quit the chambers, unsettled and awkward and pitying another mother’s loss.
… and Pirates
I ride in the procession, sitting numb on my mount, keeping vigil over yet another dead child. The spectacle of a kingdom in mourning is too much to take in. I begin to tune it out: the sound of the church bells, the tears of the crowd, the queen’s anguished face.
The little prince is interred, grief is set aside for state business, and we forge ahead. The king recovers in time to go a-Maying, ordering the festivities to commence as usual. There is feasting and masquing and tourneys, in which my brother and I take part. We oust our opponents in typical Howard style and the king claps my brother Neddy on the back, thrilled by the display. He is far more familiar with him than with me. I tell myself it is my age that prevents me from having a closer relationship with His Majesty, but in truth, Neddy isn’t much younger than me. Rather, Neddy possesses charm and flamboyancy, attracting everyone to him without effort. He enjoys people where, as a whole, I am bothered by them. He is open and cheerful and converses for enjoyment, whereas if something isn’t being gained by the conversation, I have little use for the art. What’s more, he is ever ready to partake in any festive situation, bringing his own merry element, which itself proves endearing, else why would the king retain the useless Charles Brandon? I am not of the same nature as Neddy and Brandon so have not commanded the king’s personal attentions as much.
But what I cannot be as a courtier, I can make up for as a soldier. All the prowess demonstrated in the jousts and tourneys has proven worthwhile. We have impressed the king