She closes her eyes, looking inward to draw from some deep strength of will, as though readying herself for a great battle. She expels a heavy sigh. “Let us sup first.”
No one argues. Far better to go to war on a full belly.
We are ravenous and Mother laid out a good table. From silver plates we eat an assortment of mutton, capons, venison, hare, all in rich, delicious sauces. There are sugared fruits for dessert, cheese and bread, and delicious mulled wine.
“You’re looking thin, Mary,” Mother tells me.
We have not laid eyes upon each other for a year. I suppose I was hoping for some kind of change during that time, that perhaps her longing for me would inspire her to embrace me. It must be much easier asking a girl of my age to change, rather than a middle-aged woman. I decide to accept the observation as a show of her concern.
“I’ve been ill, my lady,” I inform her.
She sips her wine. “No contagion, I hope.”
I shake my head. “No, my lady. Just a fever. I was overtired.” I offer a bright smile. “I’m much better now and eating such a lovely supper restores me mightily.”
My father is growing impatient with the nonsensical chatter. I can tell by the way he grinds his teeth on the left side. He stares at his plate, disinterested.
“You are attending Anne’s elevation to the peerage,” he says in a quiet voice.
My eyes grow wide. Anne is being elevated to the peerage? Anne, a subject humbly born, with no royal blood surging through her delicate blue veins?
“If you think that I am going to lower myself to serve that whore, you are sorely mistaken.” My mother’s voice is also quiet but bears a bitter edge. She wipes her mouth. “I will not go anywhere near the slut. Unlike some, I stand firm in my loyalties. I do not compromise my principles for sake of pride.”
Norfolk draws in a breath. “You are going. You will carry her train like a good aunt. She is to be Marquess of Pembroke. Marquess, Elizabeth! Do you realize what that means? Ladies are made marchionesses at best. A marquess is a man’s title. There is only one reason she is being ennobled: to elevate her to royalty so that she may be made presentable to Europe as the king’s chosen bride.”
“The king already chose a bride,” Mother reminds him. “He has a bride and an heir.”
“I should not have to condescend to explain to you that it would mean civil war putting Mary on the throne. She is a woman. No woman is fit to rule England alone, and the Tudors’ hold on the throne is too weak for her to keep it by herself.” Norfolk shakes his head, exasperated.
I am trying not to look. I bow my head but observe through my lashes, hoping no one sees me, like at court.
“Codswollop,” says Mother. “He has Fitzroy if he wants an heir. He even has Henry Carey if he wanted to get a little desperate. Nothing is preventing him from naming either of them. And for merit he could acknowledge Catherine Carey and God knows whatever other bastards are out there.”
She has him.
“Even now an act is being considered to name Fitzroy heir, should Henry not bear any more in the future,” Norfolk tells her.
“Good. Then there’s no need of Anne,” says Mother as though it is all decided. She breaks off a piece of bread and begins to nibble on it.
“There is need of her as long as he says there is,” Norfolk says, his voice firm. I stiffen at the tone. “You still do not seem to grasp how this affects us, how this will elevate us.”
“I am a duchess!” Mother cries. “I don’t aspire for more!” Her eyes shine bright blue with loathing as she regards Norfolk. “When I became Catherine’s lady-in-waiting all those years ago, I pledged her my loyalty. She has it still.”
“And a lot of good it’s done you,” Norfolk interposes. “Your ‘loyalty’ earned you banishment and nothing more. You are not remembered with favor by anyone and you certainly are not missed. Yet you will not take the opportunity to redeem yourself with the new regime.”
“Pah! ‘New regime’! Really, I haven’t been so amused in weeks.” At once her countenance turns stony. “I tell you, Thomas Howard, I will not go. See how the court finds you when they see you dragging me, screaming obscenities and biting your wrists, at Anne’s ceremony. See how dignified you’ll look then.” She sits straight in her chair, her gaze unwavering. “I will not go.”
Norfolk turns to me. “Leave this room,” he orders.
I do not hesitate. I run from the parlor, tears filling my eyes. I admit I am as much disappointed in missing my delicious supper as I am in my parents’ relations. This time I do not stay to eavesdrop. I run, the sound of clattering plates and trays following me all the way to the nursery. I am hoping that what is occurring in my imagination is worse than what transpires between them now.
Bess is awaiting me there. She is as beautiful as when I left her, perhaps a little fuller of figure, but it compliments her. Her long flaxen curls fall about her shoulders uncovered, as if she were a young maiden.
“I set myself to work as soon as I heard you were coming,” she says as I run in. Her smile is broad as she opens her arms.
I fall into them, unable to control my sobs. I cry for my parents, for myself, for Queen Catherine, for things I do not understand.
“No tears, lamb,” she coos. “Let’s celebrate your homecoming!”
“But my mother and father…” I whimper against her skirts. “They—”
She waves a dismissive hand. “You mustn’t worry your pretty head about them. They take care of themselves.”
“But why must they always be at odds?” I cry, pulling away.
Bess averts her head and I regret the question, knowing I have inadvertently put her to shame. I embrace her once more.
“Are you still hungry, my lady?” she asks then. My stomach growls loudly in response and I giggle. “We’ll send for some food from the kitchens and then you will tell me everything,” she says in a cheery voice as she takes my hands, drawing me to the settee. “Tell me of Lady Anne and the king and how all the ladies dress. Tell me of the food and the jousts and masques.”
I am all smiles, thrilled to be the center of attention and purveyor of knowledge. The food arrives—plates of cold meat, cheese, bread, and a decanter of wine. I invite Bess to share with me but she declines.
“It wouldn’t be proper, dining with my lady,” she informs me.
“Nonsense,” I say. “You’re too humble, as though you forget you’re gentry yourself. Dine with me, my Bess. You have been working so hard to make my home nice for me. You deserve fine food.”
Bess smiles and takes some mutton. She chews with enthusiasm, licking her fingers soundly.
As I enjoy my supper I tell her about all the new colors that Anne has set herself to naming, the gowns she designs, the voluminous sleeves and glamorous French hoods. I brag about the food, tell her that to dine at the court of King Henry is tantamount to eating in Heaven itself. I describe the grandeur of the jousts and elegance of the masques. She is riveted, stopping me now and again to ask a question or make a comment.
“Do you have friends, Lady Mary?” she asks me. “Do you get along well with the girls? They are kind to you?”
I am so touched by her concern my throat swells with tears. “Yes, for the most part they are kind. My cousin Anne can be…difficult at times.” I laugh as I think of her. “But as strange as she is, I can see why the king is so taken with her. She is full of fire and life. She’s very smart, much smarter than I could ever be. She talks like a scholar and argues about religion and politics like a man. She appreciates art and beauty and music. I think we shall have a