of the show.
I reach out, resting a hand on my sister’s shoulder. “Thank you for coming,” I murmur.
Elizabeth turns a tearstained face to me. “I don’t know what we would do if our situations were reversed,” she whispers, reaching up to touch my cheek with a long-fingered hand. “My God, brother, I’m sorry.”
I swallow the ever-present lump in my throat. “There’s nothing that can be done,” I say in husky tones. “They are gone. All gone.”
“There may be more,” says Elizabeth, her voice taut with desperate hope. When I respond with a cold laugh, she adds, “Oh, Tom … I don’t know if this is the proper time, but we would like to ask Lady Anne to stand as godmother to our new baby. We—we named her for her.”
“That is most kind. She will be honoured, I am certain.” I turn to the princess. “Won’t you be honoured to be godmother to your little namesake?”
The princess nods, her expression vacant.
I disengage from the group, allowing the Boleyns to discuss their children, sweet baby Anne and the promising little George, along with the rest of the family.
I want to be alone. I want to stand by my son’s tomb and recall when I first held him in my arms, how I stroked his hair, how I would coo at him and laugh with him. How he held his bow with such promise. How he laughed and sang and told his childish jokes that caused my sides to ache in genuine mirth because he was so convinced of their humour. I think of his eyes, so like his mother’s, alive with intelligence and mischief. I think of his sensitivity and gentleness. I think of his little clothes and shoes and the new armour I planned to have made for him this year. I think of the great knight that will never be, the grandchildren I will never see, the future we all have been denied.
I think of another child God has claimed for no good reason.
A silky hand slips into my own and I turn toward my princess.
“They know no more suffering,” she tells me. “At least now they are all together.”
“Yes,” I say, my tone oozing with bitterness. “Let us thank God for that.”
We cannot seem to speak to each other, the princess and I, and we take to our grief separately. I throw myself into the running of Stoke. I hunt. I read without grasping the words. I attend Mass, managing to separate the comforting monotony of sacred ritual from the God who I now find too callous to worship in private.
The princess keeps to the gardens. She leaves no more offerings to her faery folk.
We do not go to each other as husband and wife anymore. I want to. I want to reach to her, but something stops me, something in her, something in me. She has drifted further into her world and I am held back as well. I am not so ready to chase her; everything requires too much effort, and what comfort can we offer each other really? Empty words, useless embraces?
Nothing will bring them back.
We attend the christening of my niece and I do not allow myself the luxury of sentimental tears as I hold the child in my arms. She is not my baby. She is someone else’s pet.
My princess can neither hold nor look at the baby. Indeed, I almost find it cruel that she has been named godmother at all in the wake of her tragedy.
I look down into the black eyes of this child; she could easily pass for mine. I stroke her downy soft hair and offer a bitter sigh. “May fate be kinder to you, little Anne Boleyn,” I say to the trusting baby’s face.
I pass her to my stepmother, grateful to be rid of her.
I do not want to hold her.
I do not want to hold any baby but the ones that are gone, the ones I can never get back.
The Passing of a Crown
After a long battle with illness and severe pain, King Henry VII passes into the next world, joining his wife, who died in childbirth in 1503.
“Another family reunited,” says my princess, and I swear her tone rings with envy. “I suppose they have charge over our children now,” she adds as she helps dress me into the black velvet livery I have been issued as I am to be a lord attendant at the funeral.
I say nothing. This talk, as with anything abstract and impractical, frustrates me no end and I extricate myself with haste.
I attend my king’s funeral but am far from being lost in grief. My thoughts are dominated by the new King Henry, styled His Majesty rather than His Grace, so magnanimous is his presence, and the favour I hope he bestows upon me. The Howards are in the ascendant. I cannot help but feel a thrill of excitement as my eyes are drawn to the strong young king, who even at the tender age of eighteen bears an aura of pure energy and power.
I have a feeling serving this Henry VIII will be the adventure of a lifetime.
The king marries Catherine of Aragon, freeing her from her years of sparse living and enforced patience while the old king was hemming and hawing about whether or not he saw political advantage in a union with Spain. This is the first thing this feisty young king does, with special dispensation from the Pope granting permission to wed his brother’s widow on the grounds that their marriage was not consummated.
The June coronation is a grand affair. It seems this young king has a taste for extravagance. There is feasting, dancing, and masquing. I have entered the lists along with my brothers Neddy and Edmund for the jousts that are held in the king’s honour, and I take the prize for most skilled combatant on the first day, along with Sir John Carre. What a thrill to have proven my worth even on this small scale! I shall stand out among these pretty boys and show the king who will serve him best when battle really comes calling.
I doubt he is thinking of any of that now, however. Now is a time for celebration, for frivolity and fun, something this lusty Tudor indulges in without hesitation. This is going to be a far different court from that of his stoic, cautious father, but then, this Henry does not understand what it is like to have to struggle for his crown. His was given to him as God intends, with the passing of a monarch, not with bloodshed and battle. Sheltered and protected his entire life from the harshness of reality, this robust and rosy Henry thinks nothing of the sacrifices that brought him to his glorious apex. He thinks of his parties, of the culture he is set on bringing to England, of his bride.
It would be hard not to think of her. Queen Catherine of Aragon is at the peak of her beauty, though six years her husband’s senior. I admit it is difficult to tear my eyes from her as she sits in her box, where entwined are Cs and Hs on the royal canopy along with her symbol, the pomegranate, and Henry’s red and white Tudor rose.
She is an unusual Spaniard with her deep auburn hair and gentle blue eyes. Her skin is fair and I would never have guessed her to be the daughter of Isabella and Ferdinand.
I have the privilege of dancing with her at one of the masques. She is elegant and formal, keeping the proper distance between us, much like my own princess.
“We are compelled to offer our sympathies, Lord Howard, for the losses of your children,” she tells me in her softly accented voice.
I flinch at the mention of them and the queen squeezes my hand. Her eyes are lit with tears.
“I thank you, Your Grace,” I say. Knowing her to be a pious woman, I add for good measure, “But I suppose it is the will of God.”
“Yes,” she says with a nod.
We both know I do not believe it, but she is too gracious to call attention to it.
My princess does not dance much that evening, though she does accept a twirl about the floor with her irresistible nephew the king, while I am paired off with one of the queen’s young maids, the young daughter of the third Duke of Buckingham.
All I remember about that family was that the grandfather, the second Duke of Buckingham, was executed during the reign of Richard III for supporting Henry VII.