Rivals in the Tudor Court. Darcey Bonnette

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      All thoughts of battle and bloodshed are abated, replaced with fantasies of a grand wedding.

      I shall be Elizabeth Neville!

      The king departs with great fanfare. My father accompanies him with an entourage of six hundred archers, three hundred household servants, musicians—even the choir of the Chapel Royal! No one is left out of this campaign. Wolsey leaves, Bishop Foxe leaves—everyone. They are all dressed in the Tudor livery of green and white. It is a splendid farewell.

      The queen rules as regent from Greenwich Palace and it is very quiet without His Majesty. In the company of Her Grace I help sew banners and badges and standards for our soldiers. As my fingers work the needle, I feel I am a part of something great, that somewhere in France someone will be carrying a standard or wearing a badge that I, Elizabeth Stafford, have sewn with all of my love and good wishes.

      We follow the war from our safe vantage, learning that on 16 August the king and Emperor Maximilian I routed the French at what became known as the Battle of the Spurs, taking the town of Therouanne.

      But the triumphs are accompanied by tragedies. We learn of the casualties. Thomas Knyvet, the shy courtier who amused us all by climbing naked up a pillar when the rabble stole his clothes at the festivities celebrating the late prince’s birth, died at sea off Brest when fighting the French. There are so many others, all young merry men eager for such useless enterprise.

      With heavy hearts we mourn our soldiers. Soon there are no more banners to sew, no more standards to bear. The queen’s household grows smaller and smaller.

      I am sent home to Thornbury that autumn, but to my delight, Ralph Neville, as my father’s ward, is there as well. As much as I am devoted to Her Grace, I am relieved to be away for a while. The household was so tense waiting for news of the king’s success that my gut was constantly churning and lurching in anxiety.

      Now I have but to await the return of the king and his army in a more peaceful place with my betrothed at my side.

      Change Winds

      Thomas Howard, Winter 1512

      It is a thoroughly disgusting affair. No one has come through for me, not the kings of England or Spain. I am short of supplies, horses, everything needed for any successful endeavour of war. I write to Wolsey, that ridiculous upstart, appealing for some sort of objective in all this. After our success at Bayonne, I am left with little or no direction. Should we try for Aquitaine? No one knows and they’re certainly not inclined to inform me.

      Meantime I am beset with sick men, bad weather, and worse morale. Wolsey is blamed for it all, to my good fortune, and it is not long before I decide it prudent to wash my hands of the whole affair.

      I hire ships to take us home. The king is in a Tudor temper, but there is nothing else to be done. I am not going to remain so that we might be obliterated by dejection, inactivity, and Spanish food.

      And so I leave Spain behind. I have not failed. I cannot help if no one cooperated with me and I was given no aid or support. This affair could not have been handled more ineffectively. It is Wolsey’s fault, not mine. Yes, that is it. Someday the king will see that, hopefully sooner rather than later.

      I will not think on it anymore. There will be other wars and other victories. For now I am content to go home to my princess and rest.

      She is at Lambeth with my stepmother, Agnes, and her increasing brood. When I arrive, Agnes greets me with a sad shake of her head.

      “She cannot rise from her bed,” she tells me in her gruff voice. “She’s in a bad way, my lord. I am sorry.”

      I rush to her chambers, panic gripping my heart. It is thudding wildly in my chest; I hear it pounding in my ears. I slow my steps upon entering her sanctuary. Everything about her suggests the need for quiet and tranquility.

      She lies abed. Her rose-gold hair is plaited and worn over her shoulder. Her skin is so pale it is almost translucent, pearly and ethereal as a seraph. She is so much thinner than when last I saw her. Once so tall and fine of figure, she is now all bones. Upon seeing me, she offers a weak smile. Her lips are blue.

      “My lord …”

      I have not cried in a long while, not since the death of my Thomas. I had thought to be through with tears forever, but now they come easily enough, flowing icily down my cheeks unchecked as I approach the bed. I am as tentative as the child I was when I approached my mother’s bed after she bore my Alyss, another life fated to be stolen from me.

      I sit beside my wife, reaching out to stroke her fevered brow. I remove her nightcap. “This is making you hotter,” I say uselessly. Then in a strangled voice I add, “I do not understand. You were not this bad when I left….”

      “Don’t be frightened, my love,” she tells me, reaching up to cup my cheek. With a slender thumb she wipes away a tear. Her eyes are soft, unafraid, and filled with something I had not seen in what seemed like an eternity: hope. “Soon it will be over. I am going to the faery country. I will be with the children.”

      My heart lurches at this. She has not spoken of her faery folk in years. I do not know what to say. I continue stroking her brow, but my hand jerks and trembles and I imagine it does little to soothe her.

      “I waited for you,” she whispers, coughing. “And now that you are here, I beseech you for your blessing, dearest Thomas.”

      “You have it,” I tell her in urgent tones. “You’ve always had it.”

      She closes her eyes. The smile remains.

      “Princess!” I cry, cupping her face.

      Her eyes flutter open. They are filled with pity. “Let me go, Thomas,” she whispers. “Let me go. Please. I am not meant for this world. I never was. You know that.”

      Despite my urge to dispute this, I find myself nodding. It is true. From the first she seemed to belong to some other place, some intangible realm of existence forbidden to lesser beings.

      “What will become of me?” I ask in a small voice, feeling as desperate and despondent as an abandoned child.

      She offers a slight laugh. “I don’t worry about you,” she tells me. “You are a Howard. Howards survive.”

      She avails herself of a fit of coughing. Blood spews forth, coating the front of her nightdress.

      Now, I have seen much in battle. I have been drenched in the blood and gore of my enemies as well as my own, but nothing compares to this. This is my princess. This is not supposed to happen to my princess….

      My heart skips in wild fear. “Somebody help her! Somebody help her!” I cry.

      Servants flood the room, attending her with gentle hands. But she has no need of it. Her eyes have focused on her faery country; she is gone. I gesture for the servants to cease their ministrations. They depart, heads bowed, some making the sign of the cross.

      I gather my princess in my arms. She is limp, heavy. I cradle her head in the crook of my shoulder, watching my tears glisten off her rose-gold hair.

      I begin to sway, humming some tuneless song in nervousness.

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