Kitabı oku: «Rivals in the Tudor Court»

Rivals in the Tudor Court
Darcey Bonnette

Copyright

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

AVON

A division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street,

London SE1 9GF

First published by Kensington Publishing, New York, 2011

www.harpercollins.co.uk

RIVALS IN THE TUDOR COURT. Copyright © D.L. Bogdan 2011. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

D.L. Bogdan asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication

Source ISBN: 9781847562586

Ebook Edition © OCTOBER 2011 ISBN: 9781847563026

Version: 2018-07-25

Dedication

For my sailor

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Book One

Thomas

The Tower of London

Armor

Two Bonny Lads

A New Allegiance

Family Man

The Passing of a Crown

Book Two

Elizabeth

Kenninghall

A Little Maid

Of Princes …

… and Pirates

Change Winds

The Fruits of War

A Countess’s Life

The Isle of Erin

Traitors and Lovers

The Duke of Norfolk

Book Three

Bess

Mendham, Suffolk

A Real Live Duke

Two Ladies

The Palace Shaped Like an H

The End of an Era

For the King’s Pleasure

Kenninghall

The Redbourne Years

A Howard Rose

Blossom of Hope

Book Four

The Howard Legacy

Fall from Grace

Gratia Dei, Sum Quod Sum!

Norfolk House

Further Reading

A Reading Group Guide

Discussion Questions

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Other Books by Darcey Bonnette

About the Publisher

BOOK ONE

The Tower of London

Thomas Howard, January 1547

Two bitches, a bewildered dolt, and a hothead have condemned me to this wretched place. The first wench would be my lovely wife, Elizabeth, whose list of virtues is far too extensive to catalogue. The second is my mistress, Bess Holland, who found it expedient to trade her lover for jewels and lands. The dolt is my daughter Mary, whose endless capacity for ineptness exempts her from being entirely to blame. But the hothead! The hothead is my own son Henry, Earl of Surrey, that talented boy I put such store in. My Surrey. Surrey, who claims to loathe upstarts with all his being yet decides to become one himself, quartering his arms with that of Edward the Confessor (a right reserved for kings alone!), bragging about what we Howards would achieve while ruling through Prince Edward when he comes to power, even plotting the kidnapping of His little Highness…. Oh, I cannot think of it! Fools!

It is cold in the Tower. Dampness seeps through the bare stone walls, rats scamper about, eager to feast upon my flesh should my soul decide to vacate it.

“You will have to wait,” I tell them.

I lie on my bed and scowl at the ceiling. This will not do. I have written to Henry VIII. I have grovelled and snivelled and humiliated myself to the fullest extent. But why would he break with tradition to spare me? What am I saying? It is thinking like this that will kill me. I have never entertained such notions before. I have always survived. I have always pressed on.

I am Thomas Howard.

Armor

Ashwelthorpe, 1478

“It was a vulgar display!” cries my grandfather, Baron John Howard, slamming his fist on the dining table, regarding my father, Sir Thomas, with hard black eyes. “Children, Thomas! Five-year-old brats—my God, it’s like handing a dukedom to that one there!” He waves an impatient hand at me. I wish I could crawl under the table to sit with my dog, but the last time I did that the baron pulled me up by the arm so hard that it ached for days. “That daft king would rather see two children wed than honour me with what is due,” he goes on. “I am the rightful Duke of Norfolk! Mowbray was my cousin, after all! It is fitting that I should have been named heir instead of his snivelling, drooling girl-child!”

Sir Thomas purses his lips, annoyed, though whether it is with my grandfather or the situation, I cannot discern. He shifts on the bench, his thick hands toying with a piece of bread. “It was most unfair, my lord,” he says. “We can thank God, however, that the king had the grace to knight me at the wedding ceremony.”

“Oh, yes, thank God for that,” spits the baron, but I have the distinct feeling he is not thankful at all.

I look under the table at my favourite dog, a grey mongrel named Rain, offering him a reassuring smile.

“What are you thinking over there?” barks the baron.

It takes a moment to realise he is addressing me. I right myself. “Nothing, my lord,” I tell him.

“Don’t lie to me, boy,” the baron hisses. His face is crimson; a thick vein pulsates in his neck. “You find this amusing, do you? Something to laugh at?”

I shake my head, my cheeks burning. A lump swells in my throat. I reach down to lay a hand on my dog’s head, reassuring myself with the soft fur. Soon I can get away from this tirade and run outside with Rain, loyal Rain. I shall lay my head upon his warm side and find shapes in the clouds with my brother Neddy.

“Do enlighten us with your anecdotes, child,” says the baron, leaning back, gripping the edge of the table with slim-fingered hands.

I don’t even know what an anecdote is. I begin to tremble. “I was—I was—”

“‘You were’? ‘You were’?” The baron’s voice has risen an octave in mockery.

My lip quivers.

The old man’s hand springs across the table to grip my collar, pulling me halfway across platters of food. My breeches are ruined. Rain is barking somewhere in the background. My knee is digging into something, the corner of a tray perhaps, but I am too terrified to look down. I can only stare into the dark face of the baron in horror.

His breath reeks of spirits. I cough.

“Do not mock me, boy,” he seethes.

“I wasn’t mocking you!” I cry, my mind scrambling to recall my exact offence.

“Thomas, best rein in your brat,” cries my grandfather as he brings me across his knee before the hall of family and servants and liveried guards. His hand, when he brings it across my bared bottom, hurts indeed, but the eyes of the hall bearing witness to my shame is a pain far greater. “You will be taught to respect your betters, lad!”

At this moment my dog launches himself at the baron, tearing into his ankle with a strangled growl.

Grandfather unleashes a howl, pushing me from his knee to the floor. I reach out in terror, trying to pull Rain off the old man, but the baron has reached him first. In one swift move he grabs the creature by the scruff of the neck, pulling him up onto his hind legs while retrieving his dagger.

“No!” I scream, hot tears streaming down my cheeks.

The baron does not look at me once. He slashes Rain’s throat, discarding the animal on the floor and returning to his seat. He takes in a deep breath, wipes his hands on his linen, and commences to eat his mutton.

I crawl toward my slain dog. Steaming blood oozes from his silvery throat. I do not know what to do. I start trying to push it back inside him. I press my hand to his throat.

I regard the baron, whose back is to me, hoping to project as much hatred into my eyes as is possible, but it does not matter. He does not see me. He is eating his supper, complaining of King Edward IV, who has wronged him so.

I am glad, I think to myself, that he was denied his grand title. Indeed, I hope every misery possible is heaped upon the man until he draws his dying breath.

“Tom!”

My grandmother’s voice is stern.

I turn toward her, blinking back tears. Rain’s blood is slick against my hand.

“Take that thing out of here and bury it,” she orders.

As I gather my pet in my arms, I hear her tell the baron, “Really, my lord, you should have commenced with that unpleasantness elsewhere. It has positively ruined my appetite.”

I take Rain outside, laying him in the snow; I have no idea where to bury him. I will not think of it now. I cannot. Icy tears slide down my cheeks as I remove my shirt and wind it about his throat, then, shivering, rest my head on his side, raising my eyes to the heavens, seeking out the clouds.

One of them looks like a dagger.

Three years later my grandfather announces the death of little Anne Mowbray, King Edward IV’s eight-year-old daughter-in-law and heiress to the dukedom of Norfolk.

“I have lost all to a child-prince. Richard has won the day,” he laments.

We are in the “war room,” a large chamber devoted to maps and a store for the family’s finest suits of armour. The baron is standing over the large mahogany table, tracing the unattainable Mowbray lands with his index finger.

My father shrugs. He is not as afraid of the baron as the rest of the family is. They are a bit alike, though my father, Sir Thomas, is more subtle in his approach, favouring locking someone away in a chamber without food for a few days as opposed to wasting his energy on the administration of beatings.

I am certain to keep my face void of expression during their exchange. After the countless lashings I have endured, I know anything—a blink, a dreamy smile, a twitch—can set Grandfather off. I stay still. Calm. I have practised in the glass, this look of impassivity. Many an hour has been devoted to learning the art of self-control. I will not speak against him; I will not cry out.

Perhaps this frustrates him the most. The others cry when he beats them and indeed they should not, as they are not beaten half as much as I. I do not cry. It is what he waits for, I think; he longs for my tears, for me to beg him to stop.

But I will never beg him for a thing, not ever.

And so in this vein we shall continue, until one of us outlives the other.

Sir Thomas turns to me with a slight smile. “But we shall remain the king’s loyal servants, shall we not?” he asks in light tones. “Edward is a mortal man, God bless him. His reign cannot last forever.” How easily he speaks treason! “Meanwhile, we shall serve him and elevate ourselves the old-fashioned way.”

I wonder what the old-fashioned way is but do not dare ask. I am wondering why Sir Thomas has summoned me to this little conference to begin with.

“Here, my boy,” says Sir Thomas, extending his arm to me. “A gift for you.” With a dramatic gesture, he pulls a large bolt of velvet aside to reveal in the corner a suit of armour. “Happy Christmas, lad.”

My very first suit of armour!

“I am big enough now?” I ask, smiling in spite of myself.

Sir Thomas nods.

“I wouldn’t say that,” pipes in the baron, “but we cannot wait forever. You are already a year behind the other boys; most receive their armour at seven. He’s a little mite, Thomas.”

“Size is irrelevant,” says Sir Thomas in firm tones. It is the first time I have ever heard him address the baron such. To me he says, “It is about intelligence, Little Tom.” He taps my temple with his fingertip. “Battles are won up here before they are ever won on the field. Learn the art of strategy and you will make an incomparable knight. Now. Have a look.”

I inch forward, ignoring the baron’s insult regarding my diminutive stature as I reach out to touch my new armour.

How grand it is! I run a hand along the shining breastplate, imagining myself a strong, tall man of twenty or so, lance poised at my hip as I forge ahead on my charger—a black charger—ready to oust my opponent. It will be easy. I will be the greatest warrior in the land; everyone will admire me. Even girls; they will throw their tokens at me and I will flash them my winning smile. I will not mind their attentions because supposedly men that age actually like the gentle sex.

“What do you think of it, lad?” asks my father. He is smiling down at me. I raise my eyes to him, another great warrior, and smile.

“It is the most wonderful thing I’ve ever seen,” I breathe in awe.

“Be worthy of it,” says the baron, his gravelly voice hard.

I turn to face him, meeting his gaze, hoping my hatred reflects in my uncompromising black eyes. “Let there be no doubt that I shall.”

I have usurped the hayloft as my own personal hideaway. It is far more peaceful than the manor, and up here I have created my own little world. No one knows about it, not even Neddy or Edmund. It is my place. I carve and paint toy soldiers and set up elaborate battlefields where the general—I, of course—always wins the day. Sometimes I draw pictures, maps mostly, planning out my battles. My toy soldiers take to slaying dragons, conquering kingdoms, and even rescuing silly girls.

It is a wonderful place, a place no one can take away from me.

Or so I thought until the day the baron took the dairy maid in a bed of straw and manure. I peek over the ledge when I hear the familiar voice. I want to look away but cannot. He is telling her to hush, covering her mouth as he proceeds to do something I didn’t know was possible. Yet I had seen animals do it, so I suppose people must, too. I just didn’t know it happened like this.

The girl is in a frenzy, wriggling against the baron, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Please, my good lord, stop!” she cries. “Please, let me go!”

In response the baron slaps her.

It is then that the girl’s wide blue eyes find me.

I cannot move. I cannot shrink back. I would make noise and he would know and do … I cannot think of what he would do.

The girl holds my gaze as the baron commences with his strange act. Her eyes are alight with horror and sadness and defeated submission. I long to reach out to her. I find myself wishing in vain that my toy soldiers would come to life and rescue her, slaying the baron in the process.

But such wishes are for children and I cannot think myself a child after today.

When the baron finishes, he pushes her aside. “Go now. Off with you.”

The girl gathers her torn skirts about her and struggles to her feet, rushing out without a backward glance.

The baron collects himself. He stares straight ahead of him.

“We Howards take what we want,” he says without looking toward my hiding spot. “To get anywhere in life, you have to take what you want.”

He quits the stables.

I lie in the straw and vomit.

He knew … he knew I was there, watching.

And he did it anyway.

I never go to the hayloft again. The soldiers I give to my little brothers, encouraging them to play with them as I cannot. I cannot play again. Instead I will learn how to become a real knight, a chivalrous knight. No lady will have need to fear me.

When not forced into study, something that while it comes easily to me is not my passion, I devote myself to learning the sword, riding, archery, anything physical. Anything that will enable me to become the greatest soldier in the land. Anything that will inspire the bards to sing my praises. I shall be the unforgettable Thomas Howard. The hero Thomas Howard.

I, and not the baron, shall make the Howard name great.

I still do not grow very much, to my eternal dismay, as my brothers have already surpassed me and they are much younger. But I will not be daunted. We shall see who will prove their mettle when on the battlefield.

Sir Thomas and the baron are too busy to notice my development; they are occupied with missions of their own and are not much seen at Ashwelthorpe. It is just as well. With them gone I can sing and laugh and play with my brothers with no one to tell me otherwise.

We pass a happy spring and in May, Mother is delivered of a baby girl. When I am permitted to see her I bound into her chambers, eager to meet my new sister.

Mother lies abed, her brown hair cascading about her shoulders, and as the sunlight filters through the window, it catches threads of auburn and gold. I have a strange urge to reach out and touch it but refrain as I approach the cradle. The baby is a tiny black-haired cherub. She sleeps with her little fists curled by her face.

“Oh, my lady,” I breathe. “She’s beautiful.”

Mother stares at me a moment, her expression vacant, before averting her head.

“What do you call her?” I ask.

“It has yet to be decided.”

I think this is quite odd. “But she is three days old. What are you waiting for?” I ask.

“Oh, Tom.” She rolls onto her side, her back to me. “You know so little about this life….” She draws in a shuddering breath. “This cursed life.”

I am moved to pity for this thin, defeated woman whose beautiful baby lies so near her. She seems so unhappy in her role. I furrow my brow in confusion as my eyes shift from mother to daughter. I thought this was what all women yearned for, that it was something as natural for them as longing for a sword is for men.

I approach the bed, daring to touch her shoulder. “Mother,” I say in soft tones, “shouldn’t you name her? She shall be christened soon and it wouldn’t do for her not to have a name.”

Mother throws an arm over her eyes. “Yes, yes, I shall name her. Do not worry. It’s just …” She sits up, hugging her knees. Tears light her brown eyes. “It’s just, Little Tom, to name a child is to give it meaning. To attach yourself to it. And He waits for you to become attached.”

“Who?”

“God.” Mother casts wild eyes about the room, as though God might leap out of the wardrobe any moment and smite her. I am caught up in her panic and find myself doing the same thing. Years later I would have laughed at my young self and assured him that of all the things holy and unholy to lie in wait for him, God would never be one of them.

Mother returns her gaze to me. “You see, He takes them then, Tom. The moment you open your heart, He takes them. Three of them are gone now; you are too young to remember. But I remember. They are in the cemetery. Their headstones have names.”

I am unsettled by her. She does not appear altogether well and I wonder if it would be prudent to fetch the midwife. I turn to the cradle once more. “This one seems strong and splendid to me, my lady,” I tell her. “I expect she shall be with us a good long while.”

At this the baby awakes and begins to fuss. I scoop her up in my arms, holding her to my chest. She is so warm and soft I do not want to let her go. I smile down at her crimson face as she howls her displeasure.

“Listen to that set of lungs!” I cry. “She shall be a force to be reckoned with, my lady, you shall see.”

Mother has covered her ears. “Fetch the wet nurse, Tom. See that she is fed.”

I take the baby to the buxom maid, who I must say seems quite perfect for her profession, and she is happy to relieve me of my little burden.

“Has the missus decided on a name yet, milord?” she asks me in her grating country accent.

I shake my head, heart sinking.

The nurse sits in one of the chairs, baring her breast without a thought. “I suppose it’s in God’s hands.”

God. I shiver. Wasn’t I just looking for Him a moment ago?

The baby is eventually named by Sir Thomas, who settles on Alyss. I admit to feeling a special tenderness for her. As she grows, cooing and laughing and forming short sentences, I teach her to say my name. “Say Tom,” I tell her over and over.

“Tom,” she repeats, her round blue eyes filled with the unbridled adoration only a baby or a dog is capable of projecting. “My Tom,” she says again.

“Yes,” I say, picking her up and twirling her about. “I shall always be your Tom. I shall be your brave knight and protect you from all harm.”

But I cannot protect her from God. He takes her from me in 1483 when she is but two. A fever, a terrible scorching fire of the humours, consumes the body of my little Alyss and she perishes.

Everyone moves on. Mother is with child once more. The baron curses my tears—babies are lost all the time, he tells me, and are replaced easily enough. Sir Thomas does not address the issue at all. So I have found a dual purpose for my helmet. Not only does it serve to protect me from blows to the head in practise, but I can also put it on and cry to my heart’s content. When wearing my helmet, no one sees my tears. No one knows I cry.

The night my little lady is interred, I keep vigil by her headstone, her headstone that bears her name.

I wear my armour. I wear my helmet.

Two Bonny Lads

My Alyss is not to journey to the Lord alone. She is accompanied by our king, Edward IV. The baron carries his banner during the funeral procession and keeps vigil over his body that night, shedding tears and mourning with such conviction, one would have thought he had never spoken ill of him and that they were bosom friends.

This leaves the crown to twelve-year-old Edward V. His uncle Richard Plantagenet, Duke of Gloucester, is to serve as regent until the lad reaches his majority.

However, it is not a smooth transition and on the way to the coronation, Gloucester descends upon the party and arrests Anthony Woodeville, Earl Rivers, along with several others for their supposed conspiracy to assassinate the young king. For their protection, King Edward V and his brother Prince Richard are taken to the Tower of London to be supervised by my grandfather, Constable of the Tower.

On 25 June, Gloucester names himself King of England—he is to be styled as Richard III now and installs himself at Westminster. My grandfather stood at his right as acting Earl Marshal. The baron’s heirs will be named earls marshal by heredity, which means someday I will hold the title. Then came the honour my grandfather had yearned for for as long as memory served. He is named Duke of Norfolk at last. My father is created Earl of Surrey. We are given many of the Mowbray lands along with properties that once belonged to Earl Rivers, who has met with the executioner’s axe.

I wonder at this and decide to question the newly created duke about it on one of his brief visits home (I admit with delight that since the accession of Richard III, my grandfather’s calls are few and far between).

“How can you be styled the Duke of Norfolk when Prince Richard already holds the title?” I ask, referring to one of the princes in the Tower.

Grandfather seizes my shoulders, shaking me till my teeth chatter. “Never mention that name to me again, do you hear me? Never!”

True to my nature, I cannot let it go. “But if they are in the Tower for their protection, they will be let out soon, won’t they?” I ask in subdued tones. “When the danger passes? Why has he been stripped of his title?”

Grandfather averts his head a moment. He works his jaw several times before returning his deep black eyes to me. He draws in a breath. His voice is surprisingly calm. “You must not think of them anymore, Tom. They are … they are to be forgotten.”

“Why?”

He pauses. “There is a new regime now.”

I feel a rising sense of panic. Something terrible has occurred, something dark and evil that I should not pry into. But I want to know. I have to know.

“What happened to them, Grandfather?” I whisper in horror. “What happened to the princes in the Tower?”

Grandfather releases my shoulders. He regards his hands a moment, turning them palm up. They are trembling. “In life, Tom, there is a time when it is expedient to do things …” He shudders. His voice is a gruff whisper. “Terrible things … in order to survive. Survival, Tom; that is what it is all about. The Howards are to be allied to the Crown, no matter whose head it rests upon. We are climbing out of the ashes and will be great. But we cannot hesitate. We carry out our orders without question. We demonstrate our loyalty. We crawl on our bellies and sing their praises; we cavort with demons—whatever it takes. We will rise up to be the greatest family in the land. Play it right and not only will we be able to claim a royal past, but we may see one of our own sit on the throne in the future. Do you see?”

I don’t see at all. He evaded my question by launching into some abstract philosophical discussion of our rise to power through justifiable treachery and shameless flattery.

He leaves it thus and my curiosity is unsatisfied.

Perhaps it is better I do not know the part Grandfather may have played in this particular instance.

For the princes are never seen again.

A New Allegiance

In October my father and grandfather quell Henry Stafford the Duke of Buckingham’s rebellion, which had arisen to support the Earl of Richmond, Henry Tudor, and resulted in the duke’s beheading. As a reward we are given more lands, and Grandfather and Sir Thomas are steeped in favour and royal responsibilities.

On 22 August 1485, our brief interlude of peace is interrupted when Henry Tudor lands in Wales to launch another attack, resulting in the death of Richard III during the Battle of Bosworth. We learn Grandfather is also slain (I grudgingly seek the Lord’s forgiveness for not mourning him) and a wounded Sir Thomas has been taken prisoner in the dreaded Tower of London. We fall at the speed with which we had risen. Our lands, all except Mother’s Ashwelthorpe, are seized. Sir Thomas is referred to as the attainted Earl of Surrey. The dukedom of Norfolk is no longer in Howard hands.

And yet the new King Henry VII is merciful. Neddy and I are styled lords and called to court to wait upon him as pages. Not only this, I am to be betrothed to the king’s future sister-in-law Lady Anne Plantagenet, daughter of the late King Edward IV. The white rose of York and red rose of Lancaster will be united through the king’s marriage to Elizabeth, and I will be his own brother-in-law. I, Thomas Howard, brother-in-law to a king! It makes the thought of dealing with a female much easier. What is most important is that this new connection may one day free my father and restore the Howards to glory.

“Be warned, Thomas,” Mother whispers before we depart. “The king holds you as favoured prisoners; if your father does not continually demonstrate loyalty even from the Tower, you shall be snuffed out without a second thought.”

I shudder at the thought, recalling the poor little princes in the Tower, other innocents snuffed out in the name of ambition. Neddy and I are of no great consequence to anyone and yet still find ourselves pawns. How much greater is the risk to our lives should Sir Thomas offend His Grace further?

I must serve the king, impress him with my loyalty and devotion. I must prove myself indispensable. For love of me, the king may spare my father. Grandfather, despite his own questionable character, did say that we are to ally ourselves to whoever is in power in order to survive. I believe I can see the logic in this with a little more clarity now. With me near, His Grace will see that we Howards are loyal, the most loyal servants he can come by. My heart swells with hope. Yes, that is what I will do. I will prove to this new king, this King Henry VII, that he can trust the Howards as he can his own God.

The court is maddening—wonderful, dizzying. I am caught up and loving every moment. I sleep in the dormitory with the other pages and spend my days on errands for His Grace. I am Lord Thomas Howard, fancy that! It rolls quite nicely off the tongue.

There is always something going on, always work to keep me occupied. Henry VII is not the most personable of men, but I am not here to be petted. I am here to learn, and learn I shall. Henry VII is not a frivolous king. His wish is to keep a firm hold on his throne and oust any pretenders. He is a master of government, installing a King’s Council, increasing taxes among rich and poor, and shipbuilding to strengthen the Royal Navy. He keeps a select number of Privy Councillors for his Court of Star Chamber in which he can deal with delicate matters of justice in a swift and efficient manner. His isn’t a court of endless parties and needless expenditures. He is too set on rebuilding the royal exchequer. He is determined to make himself great and in this I am in sympathy with him.

The hardest lessons are learned in the dormitory. Pages are a rough group of lads and as I have remained quite small, an endless source of consternation, I find myself in many a quandary that only a combination of quick thinking, agility, and fisticuffs can rescue me from.

My energy is devoted to the dagger I have taken to carrying with me at all times. From every position conceivable I practise retrieving it, ensuring that I will be able to rely on the sleek blade no matter the circumstances. I weave it about, practising that steady, certain upward motion that is the dagger’s deadliest move.

I’ll not let anyone get the best of me.

Of course they do try. I’d be a fool to think they would not. I am small and an easy target, but I meet them as a snarling badger would an unsuspecting rabbit and soon my reputation as a fierce and uncompromising opponent precedes me. There is no longer a doubt in my mind that I can be a competent and able soldier, that in hand-to-hand combat I can run a man through without faltering. It is a matter of us or them, after all.

“Aren’t you afraid of anything?” asks Neddy one day.

I laugh. “And what is there to fear? God’s body, Neddy, I’ve no time for that nonsense.” I shrug. “Fear stops you from everything. I’ve never heard of a coward rising to power. They remain a nobody.”

“But we’re nobodies,” says my little brother.

I seize his arm. “No, we’re not. We are the Howards. Our family’s known success before and we will know it again!”

“You sound like Grandfather.” Neddy laughs.

I release his arm, stepping back, the fear I so condemn surging through me.

I do not want to sound like Grandfather.

I first see Anne Plantagenet at the king’s wedding to her sister Elizabeth on 18 January 1486. We are to formally plight our troth this day and I have a little ring for her that was given to me by my father, who still passes his miserable existence in the Tower.

The ring bears no coat of arms, but I was able to scrape enough together to have an H and P interwoven in it to remind her that this is a union of the houses of Howard and Plantagenet.

I steal glimpses of her throughout the grand ceremony that is held at Westminster. She is looking at her sister and new brother-in-law, however, and does not glance at me once.

“She’s beautiful, Tom,” says Neddy in dreamy tones.

I flush and look away, casting my eyes to the ring I am wearing on my middle finger. I hope it fits her. I hope she doesn’t laugh at me and think it a cheap token. Were I in a better financial situation, I would have a beautiful signet ring designed, but such is not my present fate. She will have to settle for this.

At the wedding feast, we are presented to one another for the first time. My heart sinks when I note that she is taller than I, though the long tapering limbs that make up her arms and undoubtedly her legs suddenly take on a new appeal I hadn’t thought to appreciate when first learning of our betrothal.

She is beautiful with her rose-gold hair and soft green eyes that bespeak nothing but gentleness. Her cheekbones are high and well sculpted, her nose long but not unattractive. Her mouth, though not full, gives itself over to a wide, eager smile, revealing a row of straight white teeth.

The king and his new queen consort oversee the formalities themselves, the queen ever doting towards her sister, rubbing her back as she introduces us.

I cannot look the girl directly in the face as I pull at the ring that has decided to make its home on my middle finger. My slim fingers seem as though they have expanded to three times their size in the last two minutes, and my hand trembles as it works at the stubborn piece of jewellery. At last it gives and I offer a grunt of surprise.

The princess laughs.

I keep my head bowed, holding out the ring. “Here,” I say, unceremoniously. “I plight my troth.”

“Lord Thomas,” remonstrates the queen in good-natured tones, “aren’t you going to place the ring on her finger yourself?”

I look at the princess through my lashes. My heart is racing. Truly I believe facing an army of Scots would be easier than making physical contact with this one maid.

Lady Anne offers me a delicate hand. I cannot help but admire the daintiness of the long slim fingers as I slide the ring on.

“You have perfect fingers for the virginals,” I find myself saying.

I look up at her then. My nervousness recedes like the tide; calm surges through me as warm as wine. Everything about me fades, obscured by the light of her face, that sweet, beautiful face. I do not think that I am fourteen, with fickle fourteen-year-old passions. I think of her.

And love her. Just like that.

And just like that, with our hands joined here at Westminster among a bustling court before a jubilant king and his bride, I know she loves me, too.

My father is pardoned and released in 1489, returning home a different man from the one who entered the Tower three years ago. He is harder, darker, proving with his short temper and ruthless management of his household that he is indeed his father’s son.

He is styled the Earl of Surrey and allowed to keep the lands in his wife’s inheritance but none from his father’s or the Mowbrays’.

He is certain to unleash his bitterness at being withheld the title he covets with as much longing as his predecessor, that of the Duke of Norfolk. I, for one, think he should be grateful to be alive, but I suppose he isn’t dwelling on that now. I imagine that he concludes since he is alive he should receive what he considers his due.

The king tests his loyalty by sending him to Yorkshire to quell a rising there. Lord Surrey wins the day. As a reward, His Grace grants him the Howard lands he had still retained.

All of this I take in with interest, being that my father’s elevation is equivalent to my own. However, there is more to interest the lads at court than advancement and soldiering. The fairer sex has entered our awareness. We watch them, these gentle daughters of Venus with their curves and long, lustrous hair, their soft voices, their perfume, their graceful, fluid movements as they dance … and are seized by fever. Suddenly, there are not enough whores to be visited, not enough maidens to deflower. I join in, always one to participate in sport of any kind. Besides, I am to be married soon. I must know what to do. And so I learn.

No sooner do I become a student in the art of love than I become enslaved by it. The gangly girl I met when plighting my troth has returned to the court of her sister a beautiful woman, and my love for her is rejuvenated the moment our eyes lock. When not engaged in my duties I court her with all vigour. Together we stroll in the gardens. She plays for me upon the lute and the virginals, lifting her sweet voice in song, and I close my eyes, trying to emblazon in my mind and heart every note, every sound, every nuance that is this girl, this girl I have come to adore and love with every fibre of my soul. The strength of this emotion terrifies and excites me; like wine I drink it in but remain insatiable. All about me is the growing need for Lady Anne, my princess, my forever love.

To impress her I try my hand at poetry and fail miserably. She laughs that soft laugh that resembles the gurgling of a stream—how the sound intoxicates me!—and strokes my cheek, assuring me I need not impress her with flowery words.

“All I need,” she tells me, grasping my hands, “all I could ever want, is you, Lord Howard.”

On 4 February 1495, I stand in Westminster Abbey; she has me. Hands entwined with my bride, my princess, we stand before the Archbishop of Canterbury and are wed.

She is still taller than I, almost too tall for what is comely, but it is a trait I will excuse. I make up for my own lack of height in muscle and after we are led to our wedding chambers that night by giggling courtiers who see us to our bed with all manner of crude jokes befitting the occasion, the princess seems duly impressed.

Our settlement is the most pathetic thing a bride and groom of our illustrious station have ever seen and I cannot contain a sigh of dismay when I learn that the princess and I will be living on nothing but the charity of our relatives. We are penniless and it is seen to that we will remain so until my grandmother, the Dowager Duchess of Norfolk, passes on. With my luck the cantankerous old bird will live forever.

The queen provides for her sister in the manner she sees fit, and my princess is given a household of two ladies, a maid, her own gentlemen and yeomen, along with three grooms. She is also given twenty shillings a week for food and a promise that the proper gowns will be provided.

My father allows us use of his residences at Lambeth and Stoke in Suffolk and when I ask my princess where the best place to start our family would be, she blinks back tears.

“Stoke, my lord,” she tells me in her soft, husky voice. “The country. Far away from court.”

“Then we shall remove to Stoke,” I tell her, taking her dainty hands in mine. “And there I will be your goodly and devoted knight and will love you till I die.”

This passionate display sends her into a deep flush and she bows her head. My God, she is a beauty! I cannot believe she is mine.

I find I am relieved to depart from court as well. I am not a born courtier. I am as yet unskilled in the art of empty flattery. I know my calling and that is to arms; should the king need my service, he is assured that I am ready to prove my worth as his loyal and able defender.

We set up our meagre household and I find it isn’t altogether bad to be poor (though I will seize every opportunity to reverse my fortune—I’m not an idiot, after all). My princess is quite competent and demonstrates a keen ability for frugality. She is formal; I imagine being raised at court has instilled this in her and as a result she is not given to initiating demonstrations of affection.

She does not talk much; she is a dreamer. One could never accuse her of being silly or frivolous. Often I find her staring out of the window or seated in the gardens, her expression soft with melancholy whimsy.

“What are you thinking about?” I ask her one day when I find her seated beside the duck pond. She holds an old loaf of bread but is not breaking any off to feed the ducks that are gathered about in anticipation.

To my surprise, tears light her eyes. She averts her head.

“Princess?” I call her nothing else; to utter her sacred name would be sacrilege. So she is Princess, my forever princess, and her tears twist my gut with pain. There is nothing I long for more than to bring her comfort. I kneel beside her, taking her chin between my fingers, turning her head toward me. “What is it, my love?”

She blinks rapidly. “I cannot help it, my lord,” she tells me in tones that ring with desperation. “I cannot stop thinking of them. I try to will away the thoughts … I pray to the Lord for guidance, that He will help me banish them from my mind—”

“Who, my lady?”

She buries her face in her pretty hands. “My brothers … the princes … the princes in the Tower.”

“Oh, Princess!” I cry, gathering her in my arms, rocking back and forth. What can I say to this? Never once had I thought of how the event affected her. Truly she must have had to disguise her grief well at the courts of her uncle Richard III and now her brother-in-law Henry VII.

“I suppose we’ll never know what happened, will we?” she asks, her eyes lit with an innocence I long to preserve.

I shake my head. If Grandfather alluded to anything the day we discussed the ill-fated princes, I will never share it with this poor girl. What purpose would it serve except to further her grief and drive a wedge between us?

“We must press on,” I tell her, stroking her cheek. “Pray for their souls, my love, and press on. We have so much to look forward to.”

She offers a little half smile. “Yes,” she acquiesces. “Do you suppose they are in the faery country?”

This was the last thing I would suppose, but what can I say? I shrug, offering a smile of my own. “You are truly English, I think—one moment speaking of God and the next of the fey. Only a true Englishman can seamlessly marry the two.”

The princess covers her mouth with a hand. “Do you think it blasphemy?”

I wave a hand in dismissal; I want to say I don’t believe in blasphemy any more than I do the faery folk. “Of course not.”

I take her in my arms again, daring to kiss the lips I crave, daring to distract her the best way I know how.

She is a peculiar girl, this princess of mine, but her peculiarities are so endearing that I am beside myself with love for her. She leaves gifts for the faery folk, strange little gifts. A sweetmeat, a piece of string, a thimble, rose petals. In the oddest places—windowsills, the hearth of the fireplaces, my chair in my study, pressed between the pages in one of my ledgers. She writes them little notes, then burns them. The messages will be sent to the faeries in the ashes, she tells me.

When I ask her what she communicates to her faery folk, she answers in all seriousness, “To bid them safeguard my brothers.”

Often she is seen in the garden, twirling about in her gauzy gown, her little voice lifted in song. I watch her when she thinks she is alone.

It is a beautiful sight.

A year into our marriage the princess approaches me in my study. She wears a dreamy smile as she climbs onto my lap and snuggles against my shoulder. As such a show is so opposite to her character, I wrap my arms about her, revelling in her closeness and warmth. I cover the soft cheek and neck in gentle kisses.

“My love, my love,” I murmur against her rose-gold hair. “How now, dearest?”

She pulls away, roses blooming on her cheeks. She reaches for my hand and places it on her belly.

It takes a moment to realise what this gesture portends. When at last understanding dawns on me, I begin to tremble.

“Truly?” I ask her.

She nods. “Truly.”

“Dearest little mother!” I cry, taking her in my arms once more.

“We shall know such happiness! Never will our children question or wonder whether or not we love them. Never will they be afraid of us.”

The princess pulls away, cocking her head. She places a velvet hand on my cheek. “As you were?”

I blink, averting my head.

She does not pry. Instead she leans against my shoulder once more.

I hold my princess for a very long time.