But these are thoughts kept to myself, and when I am not writing about the Divine I write about Anne: her temper, her wit, her beauty. When I feel frivolous I pick out one handsome gentleman or another to spark my muse, careful not to assign them with a name in case my poems are ever discovered.
To keep everyone amused during these tense times while the King’s Great Matter persists (his Great Matter being Anne), the other courtiers make a show of their poetry, and it is not long before Anne catches on to the fact that I am concealing my own.
Unfortunately it is in front of the king himself that she chooses to point this out. Everyone is engaged in gambling in her apartments; there’s a sort of laziness about it. People are drinking and conversing idly; in a corner a young musician is playing his lute and singing in a soft, sweet voice.
As I am, for the most part, invisible at court, I do not think anyone will call attention to me, curled up in a corner near the fire writing my verse, least of all Anne herself.
“What is little Mary Howard doing over there? Has she taken in too much wine?” she asks, her tone light and musical. “Come here, little Mary, and bring whatever it is you’re writing with you.”
I clutch my verse to my chest, my cheeks blazing as I approach the table. I sink into a deep curtsy before the king. “Your Majesty,” I whisper, ever awed by the man.
He laughs. “She’s a dear lass,” he says. “Do tell us what you were doing all by yourself.”
“Oh, she’s always by herself,” Anne informs him. “Except for Madge and her little pup, our Mary is as silent as a mouse.”
I stand before them, my legs shaking so hard that my knees are knocking together. I am grateful they are concealed by my voluminous blue skirt.
“Won’t you read us what you were writing?” she asks. “Or is it a love letter?”
I cannot discern if Anne is being kind or if she is trying to humiliate me. Now and then when in a temper, she derives a strange pleasure from the humiliation of others. I am spared this fate most of the time because of my “mouselike” virtues, but now and then her black eyes fall upon me with a wicked glint and she sees fit to wrangle me into an oral beating that brings me to my knees. Most of the time it is over my clumsiness; if I drop something or trip over my gown (or worse, hers), it unleashes a tangent so full of venom and curses the likes of which would make sailors blush, that I do nothing but murmur a terrified apology. I am at a loss in verbal warfare, much to hers and Norfolk’s advantage. And yet with Anne, whose tempers are as changeable as the weather, her vinegar can be transformed to honey in the space of seconds. I can only hope for her honeyed words now.
“Yes, little one, do read to us,” says the king, and since this is as good as a command, there is nothing I can do. I must obey.
I try not to stutter or stammer, remembering who my father is and how he would be most displeased to hear if I dishonored myself before the king.
I concentrate on the parchment before me, never once meeting the eyes of my cousin or sovereign.
“Love she hath not served me so well,
God’s pleasure doth see me alone.
Though all my efforts have I strained,
He is here yet ever gone.”
I look up. It is a stupid poem and I am embarrassed. It is written for poor Queen Catherine, though I dare not admit that. I suppose it is for every lady who fancies herself alone; my mother, Princess Mary (I should say Lady Mary), even my own Bess Holland.
Perhaps even me.
Yet when at last I meet Anne’s eyes they are lit with tears.
“So young to have a head filled with such tragedy,” observes the king, but his voice is tender as he beckons me near with a hand. “You have a gift for verse, little Mary Howard.”
“You are most kind, Your Majesty,” I say in genuine gratitude, offering another curtsy.
Anne’s manner changes abruptly. Again her eyes shine with that dangerous light. “She is a charming girl,” she says with a dismissive wave of her slender hand. “It is getting rather late, isn’t it, Mary? You should go bid your father good night.”
Again, I dip into a curtsy. My legs hurt and I am grateful to be dismissed. Gambling bores me, to be truthful, and I am quite cautious with what money I am allowed, so do not wish to squander it foolishly.
As I quit the room the young musician who had been strumming his lute approaches me. He is a short man, but well made; lean of muscle, with fine musician’s hands. He bows, and upon righting himself I am struck by his eyes. They are the most unusual strain of gray-violet, like an unquiet sea beneath the ensuing purple dawn. Never have I seen such eyes. His dark hair curls about his strong shoulders and his smile reveals straight white teeth.
“I hope I’m not being too forward, Mistress Howard, but I must tell you that I was moved by your poem,” he says in a low voice boasting a Cornish accent.
My cheeks burn. I am certain he sees them reddening. I bow my head. He must be at least fifteen. I cannot believe he deigns to talk to such as me!
“Thank you, sir,” I say, shuffling a little awkwardly from foot to foot.
“You are as humble as you appeared!” he cries then, slapping his thigh with his fine hand as though he had just won a bet. “I thought to meet you just to find that out. Most ladies of the court, you know…well, humility doesn’t run high in noble blood.”
“True enough,” I admit with a little laugh before realizing I should be defending my set—a group, it is clear, to which he does not belong.
“Do you write songs as well?” he asks.
“Oh, yes!” I cry with enthusiasm, forgetting I vowed to keep it to myself. “But I couldn’t play them for anyone. They’re so silly and childish—”
“Oh, then I wouldn’t want to hear them,” he says, cocking his brow.
I screw up my face in disappointment, my heart sinking at once.
“Did you expect me to beg your favor, that my ears might be treated to something you, the composer, find unsuitable?” he asks with a warm chuckle. “Always be proud of your work, Mistress Howard. Everything in this life is an illusion; everything can be taken away. Except our talent, our intrinsic gifts from God.” He shrugs. “Given, there are times we compose things that are less than worthy. What do we do with those? Scrap them. And start over. That’s the best part. You can always start over.”
I am touched, not only by his advice, but by the fact that he has spoken to me for more than five minutes. It is a rarity I enjoy all too infrequently.
I have no words to express this. It seems I am better at verse than real-life conversation. Instead I attempt Anne’s famous court smile. “I did not have the pleasure of an introduction,” I say, “though it seems you know my name.”
“I am Cedric Dane,” he tells me with a little flourish of a bow. “A grand nobody. But it is just as well. I think it is far less dangerous to be a nobody at this court!”
It is that, but I do not say anything lest it be overheard that I am making crude comments about our grand court. “Are you from Cornwall?” I ask, not wanting to end the conversation. My heart is racing with giddiness.
“My accent still gives me away.” He laughs. “Yes, Tintagel. My father served Henry VII as one of his musicians, so our current Good King Harry was thus inclined to favor