Rivals in the Tudor Court. Darcey Bonnette

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 are a silly little creature,” says Lord Thomas. “And one of poor judgment.”

      I turn toward him to glare.

      “I may not be delightful,” admits Lord Thomas as he rises, “but I am exceedingly handsome.” He chucks my cheek.

      “I suppose so,” I say with a slight smile as he retreats. “For an old man!”

      “Heed my warning!” he returns.

      When I can no longer hear the footfalls and soft laughter of the arrogant knight, I stoop down to gather up the petals of my first love token, cursing Lord Thomas for spoiling my fun and alerting me to the darker side of life at court.

      Of Princes …

      Thomas Howard, 1511

      I have reaped many a reward serving our new king, this boisterous Henry VIII. Not only have I been elected into the elite ranks of the Order of the Garter but I have been given more lands than I know what to do with.

      My princess is not as enthused about our triumphs.

      “What will we do with it all?” she asks in her soft voice as we prepare to take to London to await the birth of the king’s first heir. “Who will we pass it down to?”

      I shake my head. “We can’t pass it down to anyone if we … if we don’t …” I can’t say it. We have not coupled in three years; neither of us can bring ourselves to risk the agony that our unions seem to breed. Instead we watch with heavy hearts as everyone around us celebrates the births of their children. My brothers and sisters have given me a slew of nieces and nephews. Indeed, my own father has proven as fruitful with his second wife as his first, and I have so many new half brothers and sisters I cannot even remember some of their names. I do recall, with a measure of annoyed amusement, that he named another one of the brats Thomas, which strikes me as wholly unoriginal, but I suppose that is his matter.

      It is hardest on the princess. When confronted with these rounded bellies and lusty little baby cries, I see her hand stray to her own flat stomach wherein lies a vacant womb too scathed by sorrow to bear fruit.

      The queen’s pregnancy is the most difficult to bear, something that sends me into a rage of guilt. Queen Catherine delivered a stillborn daughter the year previous and I can well empathise with the anxiety she must be suffering while anticipating the birth of this child. Despite that I wish her nothing but the best, my heart still contracts in pain whenever my eyes travel to Her Grace’s belly.

      The joy of the realm is a constant assault to our grief. The princess begs to be left at home for the duration of the celebrations that will follow the birth, but I stand firm.

      “How would that look to our sovereign?” I ask her. “You have to go. We can’t be seen hiding like petulant children. The queen is a gentle woman and can identify with you, at least somewhat. I imagine she will take into consideration your loss and not try to draw attention to … things when you are in her presence.”

      “How can that be avoided?” the princess demands, tears streaming down her cheeks. She begins to cough as she does whenever she becomes excited. Breathless, she collapses onto her chaise.

      I sit beside her, checking the handkerchief that she so tries to hide. I don’t know why she bothers. I am well aware of the blood that stains it.

      “You must stop upsetting yourself like this,” I tell her in gentler tones. I stroke her clammy cheek. “Their triumph is our triumph. We must celebrate with them just as they would with us should we ever …” There is no use saying that. We both know there will be no such celebrations for us.

      But the princess seems just as content to pretend as I do and she nuzzles against my upper arm. “Yes, of course. Do pardon my foolishness.” She wipes her eyes with a slender hand. “I want everyone to be happy—you know that, don’t you? Oh, of course you do.” She offers a defeated sigh. “We must remove to London directly to share the joy.”

      I stroke her hair and kiss the top of her head, wondering if we shall ever savour joy again.

      The Prince of Wales is born at Richmond Palace on New Year’s Day, another bonny little Henry. How can I begrudge anyone this kind of joy when I see the queen’s face, so tender as she beholds her newborn son? Was not my own princess the owner of that same dreamy expression, was not her sweet face once filled with a love so overwhelming, none but a parent can appreciate СКАЧАТЬ