Rivals in the Tudor Court Page 9

  “So, Mistress Elizabeth,” he begins, leaning forward to look down his long nose at me. “What is your favorite thing to do?”

  “I enjoy passing time with young people,” I tell him in sharp tones. “Young, merry people.”

  Mother shoots me a warning glance.

  Lord Howard’s lips curve into a half smile. “Yes. We all delight in that. And what do you do while passing time with these young merrymakers?”

  “We are not all about frivolity, Lord Howard,” I tell him. “But as we are of an age, we have much in common to discuss that people of . . . well, a different age would not be able to understand.”

  He laughs. “Of course. Because people of a different age have never been where you are, is that it? Or have we in our dotage forgotten, perhaps, since it was so very long ago?”

  I pause. I do not seem to be the victor in this battle of wits. “Perhaps,” I say at last.

  Lord Howard rises, extending his elegant hand toward me. “Dance with me, Mistress Elizabeth.”

  “My sister is the pretty dancer,” I tell him. “I do not like to dance.”

  “Dance with Lord Howard,” Mother snaps, then offers a quick smile at the haughty knight.

  “You mean to say you, the young merrymaker, do not like to dance?” His tone is mockingly incredulous. “Come now.” He takes me in his arms and turns me about the floor.

  It is then I recall the first time I danced with Lord Howard, when at twelve years old I felt that strange energy flowing between our joined hands. It is there again. At once my body is not obeying me. It begins to tremble and tingle. A frightening heat surges through my veins.

  Lord Howard’s face is soft, sort of wistful. I meet his eyes and wonder what it is like to be a man having to start completely over at his age when he should be enjoying his children and maybe even a grandchild or two by now.

  I must not pity him. I must not give him any indication of warmth.

  Thomas Howard

  She’s shorter than I, this Elizabeth. The other one looks like she has a few inches in her yet and I definitely do not need a woman who is both tall and fat. This one’s drawback is in her slight frame, but from holding her, I have been able to assess her hips with a reasonable amount of discretion and they seem round enough to facilitate childbearing.

  And that face! The challenging eyes, the sarcastic little smile . . .

  Of course there is absolutely nothing to love in this girl. She will look lovely on my arm, but she does not inspire the madness I once felt for—enough of that. No, if I lost her, I would not be sorry. I could replace her.

  But there is something about her face. . . .

  After I allow Elizabeth to be seated I dance with the other one. She is a pretty dancer, far exceeding her sister’s abilities, and all of Stafford’s guests stop to gaze and compliment the fleet little steps.

  This one is a bit dull, however. Her face is as docile as a cow’s and her eyes lack any real intelligence. I imagine she will be quite fertile, however, and, as I feel her hips, know without doubt that if I choose her, I would beget a veritable empire.

  She makes pleasant conversation if one likes to talk about weather and shoes and food, but after a while the shrill little voice begins to grate on me. Perhaps I am being a bit unfair.

  I suppose I knew from the moment I saw her again that I would choose Elizabeth.

  Elizabeth Stafford

  “No!” I cry when Mother tells me the next afternoon that it is I, not Catherine, whom Lord Howard has chosen to wed. “I won’t do it. I . . . I am to marry Lord Neville.”

  “Did he give you a ring?” asks Mother in soft tones as she strokes my hair. “Did you plight your troth to one another?”

  “We—we—” I sob, falling against my bed, burying my head in my pillows, knowing it is all useless. Mother leans over to gather me in her arms.

  “Darling, I understand how disappointed you are,” she tells me. “We have all been in your position.” Tears light her gray eyes and I find myself wondering who she gave up for my father. Strange to think one’s parents loved and dreamed and hoped with the same passion as oneself. “But this is God’s will,” she continues in practical tones. “If you were meant to be with young Ralph, the way would have been provided for you. However, it is not to be. You will marry Lord Howard at Easter.”

  Easter! Why does it all have to happen right now? Why does it have to happen at all? My heart is racing. I want to scream in protest but know it is futile. My father is the premier duke in the realm. What he says is law.

  Still, I cannot help but ask, “Why didn’t he want Catherine? She’s so sweet and agreeable; she’s what every man should want.”

  Mother bows her head. “I’m sorry, Elizabeth. He wants you. It’s all settled. Even now they are arranging the dowry.”

  “Yes, God forbid they wait a moment on that,” I say, my tone laced with bitterness. “So that’s it, then. I will go to him with however many marks Father sends and you will be rid of me. And what of. . . of Lord Neville?”

  “Other plans will be made for him,” Mother says, averting her eyes.

  “What other plans?”

  Mother returns her gaze to me. The gray eyes are hard, impenetrable. “Other plans.”

  I bury my face in the pillows once more and give way to the release sobbing provides.

  Despite the urge to suggest running away to Ralph, I resist. I will not shame my family with such nonsense. There is naught to do but say good-bye.

  We stroll in the gardens hand in hand. The air is crisp but the sun is shining, warming my tearstained cheeks.

  “Do you believe in the will of God?” I ask him.

  He shrugs. “It is what we have been taught.”

  “It is the easiest explanation,” I say. “Easy to say God is responsible for this and that and not us.” I swallow the tears in my throat. “Oh, Ralph . . .” I lean my head on his shoulder.

  He offers a heavy sigh. “I want you to be happy, Elizabeth,” he says at last. “I hope you have many children.”

  “Please don’t speak of it,” I tell him. “I can’t bear to think of all that just now. Let us be silent and take comfort in each other’s company while we can.”

  Ralph nods. We sit on one of the garden benches. He wraps his arm about my shoulders and draws me near, holding me thus for a long while.

  There is no kiss good-bye.

  It would not be proper.

  It is not the grand ceremony I hoped for. My dress is beautiful enough, yards of soft pink damask inlaid with seed pearls, fitted sleeves, and a five-foot train. But everything else is wrong. It is so rushed. No one, not even my own parents, seems to be in a celebratory mood. Lord Howard kneels beside me at the altar, his face drawn with solemnity. I steal glances at him throughout the ceremony, but his expression does not change. There is no reassuring smile, no squeeze of the hand. Nothing to indicate he is happy with our match.

  He slips a tiny gold band about my finger and I hear the words of the bishop pronouncing us man and wife. I hear myself being introduced as Lady Elizabeth Howard.

  I turn to my lord. It is over. I have given myself over to the wills of my parents and God and whatever other cruel forces have a role in these decisions, and I am his. He leans over, offering me the briefest of kisses on my cheek.

  I begin to tremble with fear. I have just wed a forty-year-old man with experience and I am a fifteen-year-old maiden. I try to still my quivering lip and blink away the tears but find as we quit the chapel, my arm looped through his, that they stream down my cheeks unchecked.

  If Lord Howard notices, he says nothing.

  Thomas Howard

  Well, I did what my father wanted so will hear no complaints from him. I am married. Strange to say it, knowing the wife to which I refer is not the princess I shared seventeen years of my life with.

  The girl is a reluctant bride, that much is clear. Her father informed me, with a face flushed in embarrassment, that she had a little infat
uation for their ward, Ralph Neville, which explains the boy’s stony countenance and brusque manner whenever I tried to converse with him. I am assured, however, that the girl comes to me intact. Whatever childish feelings she holds for the lad will soon subside when distracted with the duties of marriage.

  We retire to our bridal chamber. I am pleased to be unaccompanied by the court this time, so I can conduct this business in private. The girl wears a white nightdress of satin trimmed with pink ribbons.

  For a while we lie side by side in the darkness. I have not been with many women, but I cannot say I was faithful to the princess. Things happen when a man is at war. She never questioned me; as much as she did not belong in the world, she knew well the ways of it. Our couplings were filled with tenderness, however, and when I was with her, there was no other woman on my mind.

  Now, faced with a new bride, I must force the princess from my thoughts.

  The girl trembles beside me. She clutches the covers over her shoulders. I do not know how to approach her. I do not know what to say.

  At once I decide the best tactic is to just get it over with. With abruptness I draw the covers back and roll on top of her, attempting to raise her nightdress over her hips. She cries out. I cannot rouse my desire looking into those terrified blue eyes, knowing they are not the eyes of my princess, knowing there is no love to be had in them. What am I thinking? I knew well there would be no love in this match when I chose her. I must put aside these infantile fantasies.

  I offer a frustrated sigh and roll onto my back.

  “I’m sorry,” she mutters. “I just didn’t expect—”

  I grunt and rise. Perhaps it is best if I spend my wedding night in my own chambers. I have the rest of my life to consummate this marriage.

  Elizabeth Howard

  I lie alone in the big bed, feeling the vacant spot beside me with my leg. I was monstrous. I should not have demonstrated my fear. I rise, fetching my wrap. I am not about to fail in my duties. I cannot dwell on Ralph Neville now. I have married Thomas Howard and I will be his wife.

  At last I arrive at my lord’s bedchamber. I enter on soft feet. He is lying on his side, back to me, giving no indication that he has heard me. I pad toward the bed, drawing in a breath before turning down the covers and climbing in beside him. For a moment we are still. From the rhythm of his breathing I discern that he is awake.

  Trembling, I move closer to him. I wrap my arm about his middle and snuggle in between his shoulder blades, folding my legs against his so we resemble a pair of spoons.

  “I did not marry to sleep alone,” I tell him in low tones.

  He rolls toward me, cupping my cheek with his hand, stroking idly. It moves to the back of my neck, drawing me forward so that he might offer soft little kisses on my cheek, then my jawline, till at last he reaches my mouth. His lips are soft and warm but filled with urgency rather than gentleness. I return the kiss with equal ardor. His other hand explores my body, bringing about sensations I have never experienced before. I tremble when he encounters my bare leg with his fingertips. I dare run my hands over his chest. Through his nightclothes I feel the warmth and strength ebbing through him. I run my hand down his side to his hip, reaching under his gown to feel the strong leg everyone admires. It is now mine. He trembles beneath my touch.

  At once he pulls away. He sits up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. I am so startled I can think of nothing to do but sit up with him. I stare at our feet. His are as well sculpted as his hands. Mine are tiny and delicate. I move one toward him; our ankles entwine.

  “Do I displease you?” I whisper.

  He shakes his head. The moonlight filtering through the window reveals the tears glistening off his cheeks. My heart stirs.

  “It will not be the same,” I tell him in soft tones. “But I will try and be a good wife to you.”

  Lord Howard turns to me, offering a sad little smile.

  He wraps his arm about my shoulders.

  We sit out our wedding night in companionable silence, watching the sapphire sky through our window give itself over to indigo, then pink as the sun rises and brings with it a new day.

  Whatever overtook my lord’s ability to carry out his wedding chore is more than compensated for that morning, and half of the day is occupied with the activity. It isn’t the worst of ordeals and I imagine I could grow to like it were not my husband’s eyes so distracted and my thoughts on Ralph Neville.

  It is fruitless torturing myself with these fantasies. They do not serve any purpose. One of us has to be cognizant of the fact that we are married to each other and not to the ones occupying our hearts. And I cannot bear dreaming about Ralph, pretending it is he and not Thomas Howard caressing me. Perhaps if what Lord Howard did could be called caressing, it wouldn’t be so difficult, but he is such a rough, urgent lover that I am forced into awareness. It is he and not Ralph who is destined to be my reality for the rest of my life.

  So I will be the kind of lover I imagine he wants. I will meet urgency for urgency, passion for passion. I will try to ignore the fact that there seems to be no joy in our couplings but rather a strange frustrated melancholy that leaves one stifling bittersweet tears.

  It has to get better. I must remember he was just widowed and Anne Plantagenet would be hard to forget; she was the consummate lady, the epitome of grace and nobility. Not only did he suffer her loss but that of all four—all four!—of his children. One cannot remain unscarred from such tragedy.

  I will be patient. In the meantime I will be the best wife I can be. I will not be Lady Anne. I will see that he values me for who I am, and when our first child arrives, it will serve to abate his pain as well. I am not fool enough to believe I can replace his first wife, that our children can replace his first children.

  But I can bring him joy, if he will accept it.

  Lord Howard occupies himself with the running of his estates, keeping to himself much of the time. He takes day trips, not arriving at Lambeth until long after I am abed. I am always awake when he comes in, eager to fulfill my marital duties, which have become quite pleasant if nothing else has.

  We never talk. There is little opportunity and when we do manage a sparse conversation here and there, it is about the most mundane things.

  It will take a long time to know his soul, I think.

  We are not married a month when my lord learns of his brother’s death. Lord Admiral Edward Howard, everyone’s favorite little Neddy, was trying to avenge his brother-in-law Thomas Knyvet’s death in Brest where the English fleet had been holding off the French navy.

  “Not Edward!” Lord Howard cries after shooing the breathless messenger away with a distracted wave of his hand. I send the lad to the kitchens for refreshment, then take to my husband’s side.

  He shakes his head. “Not Neddy,” he says in soft tones, sinking onto the bench in the dining hall. I sit beside him. “He . . . he always defended me.” His voice is almost a whisper. He turns his head. After a moment he draws in a breath, lifting his head and squaring his shoulders. “I am lord high admiral now,” he tells me.

  I think this is a strange way to follow up the lament for his slain brother but say nothing.

  “I will have the power to avenge his death,” he goes on, his voice so calm it is eerie. His black eyes are burning with the same fire present when making love.

  “I’m so sorry about Ned,” I tell him, daring to rest a hand on his arm. “He was much loved.”

  Lord Howard withdraws his arm, rising with such speed he rocks the bench off balance, and only my catching the table behind me with my elbows saves me from falling on the floor.

  “Yes, everyone loved Ned,” he says, his voice taut. “The king especially. What will he do without his favorite Howard? Rely more on Wolsey and Charles Brandon, I suppose.” He draws in a sigh. “But no matter. There are other ways we can retain his favor.”

  “How can you think of such things and your brother not even buried?” I breathe in awe. “N
o wonder you worry about retaining the king’s favor with deeds—you will not win him with personality!”

  Before I can say another word, Lord Howard leaps toward me, pulling me off the bench by the shoulders. “I did not ask for your opinion, madam,” he seethes.

  “Release me!” I cry, wrenching free, appalled by such barbarous tactics.

  His chest is heaving. He is pointing—actually pointing!—at me, his finger inches from my face as though I am a disobedient child. “You cannot understand,” he says. “You will not speak of things you do not understand.”

  Rather than inspiring my silence, this treatment causes a surge of anger to course through me. “I will say as I please!” I cry. “I am your wife—”

  “That is right!” he returns, drawing back his hand, and before I can dodge or deflect the blow I find I am being struck on the cheek. The slap resounds in my ear with a high-pitched ring; my face tingles with such intensity it seems to hum.

  “And what is expected of a Christian wife?” he asks in calm tones that are so incongruous with the violence he just exhibited. “To obey thy husband.”

  I am far too enraged to think. I respond to the slap with one of my own, enjoying the sound of my palm striking his skin. Lord Howard stands rubbing his cheek in a moment of befuddlement from which he quickly recovers, adopting an expression of impenetrable hardness.

  It is an expression I have no trouble matching. I fold my arms across my chest and scowl. “I will obey you, God knows,” I say in low tones. “No wife in the realm will be as obedient. I promised to be faithful, to take care of you, and to endure by your side. Endure I shall. But nowhere in the Bible does it say that I cannot speak my heart. Part of being faithful is telling the truth at all costs and, Thomas Howard, I will always tell the truth.” I close my eyes a moment. My cheek is hot from the slap. I shake my head. “And now the truth we are facing is that your brother, the favored brother, is dead, and you are as angry about his place in the king’s heart as you are about his death.” I open my eyes to find that my husband’s face has traded its ferocity for attentiveness. I dare continue. “If you do not take time to mourn him and sort out your resentment before seeking your revenge, you will be poisoned with it; your judgment will be clouded and you will fail. When going into battle, go in with a cool head. Plan your objective. You want the king’s favor? Then you must learn to be what the king loves best: merry, humorous, useful, and intelligent. Above all, indispensable. We already know you are useful in battle, which requires an intelligence of sorts. But there is another kind, a sort of emotional element that you clearly need to improve upon. You have to learn to be in sympathy with the king in the ways he appreciates.”