Rivals in the Tudor Court. Darcey Bonnette

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      My father is named one of the infant’s godparents, another mark of the king’s favour, and the earl’s eyes shine with triumph at the honour.

      The king makes a pilgrimage of gratitude to the Priory of Our Lady of Walsingham in Norfolk, making the mile progress barefoot from Slipper Chapel to the shrine to light a candle and offer an expensive necklace. Bernard Flower, the Royal Glazier, is commissioned to create stained-glass windows for the chapel as another sign of his appreciation.

      I think it’s a lot of showy superstition but hold my peace, for when the king returns, I am required to attend festivities the like of which I have never witnessed. The queen is churched and ready to commemorate the birth of her son with her husband and once the baby is installed at Richmond, they meet the rest of the court at Westminster, where the first of the jousts and banquets begin.

      On 1 February, I tilt against the king, Charles Brandon, Edward Neville, and my brother Neddy with the lords Essex, Dorset, and Devon. Even mock battle sends that satisfying surge of heat through my limbs. Everything is so certain—you either win or lose. I savour the rawness of it all, the lusty battle cries, the clank of lance against armour, the pounding of the horse’s hooves against the field, the sweat, the breathlessness.

      I look to the stands, to the queen sitting in her box, so merry and exultant, to my princess, so wistful and pained. I expect her thoughts have travelled down that wicked path, the path I catch myself wandering. All the what-ifs, all the wondering. Would our children have participated in the festivities today? No doubt Thomas and our Henry would have been betrothed by now and probably serving the king as pages. Wills and Maggie would have been too young to partake; they would have remained at home. We would have been choosing a tutor for them…. I have to stop this.

      I concentrate on the sport, on the simple feat of ousting my opponents, which I am incomparably successful at, though I would never show up His Majesty. No one is foolish enough to do that.

      The rigours of play work at our appetites and we are treated to banquets laden with more food than I have ever seen. Venison, hare, mutton, beef, stuffed capons, eels, fish, cheese, breads, sauces rich and savoury on the tongue, puddings, tarts, comfits, wines that warm the blood and bring a tingle to the cheeks. My appetite has changed and I cannot consume as much as in years past, nor have I ever been a drinking man, but in a place where everything is a contest, I am compelled to take in as much of both as possible. I am so sick the next day that it is all I can do to keep my eyes open against the blinding sun.

      It is no bother. I am so caught up in it all that I live in splendid excess throughout the whole of the festivities.

      By mid February, the celebrating takes such a turn that I am just as happy not to participate in the grandest tourney of all, in which the lads are dressed in such foppery that my princess must remind me to keep my mocking laughter to myself. The king, styled as Sir Loyal Heart, challenges his costumed knights in a spectacle that thrills the ladies and gives the gentlemen spectators something to drink to.

      That night, after Henry has taken Brandon twice on the field, there is a pageant entitled The Garden of Pleasure in which the king, as Sir Loyal Heart, is dressed in such a stunning costume of purple satin with gold Cs and Hs dangling from it that even I am rendered breathless. Few believe the array of jewels hanging from his person are real, including the Spanish ambassador, and as we dance, His Majesty, in his endless display of jocularity, orders him to have a yank at one of them to see for himself.

      This innocent gesture causes the crowd of onlookers to break into pandemonium. Apparently, they are under the impression that the court jewels are theirs for the taking. No one is safe. The king, who does not seem to be the least bit uncomfortable being manhandled, is stripped to his hose and doublet.

      Contact with this rabble does not please me in the slightest and I do not hesitate to swat the offenders away with a closed fist. The most amusing aspect of the evening thus far is that my brother-in-law Thomas Knyvet is stripped to his skin and has to climb a pillar to avoid having anything else yanked at. Even the princess laughs when she sees Knyvet’s skinny white arse on display in the torch-light for the whole of the court.

      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 СКАЧАТЬ