Darcey Bonnette - Rivals in the Tudor Court

Thomas Howard, 1511

I have reaped many a reward serving our new king, this boisterous Henry VIII. Not only have I been elected into the elite ranks of the Order of the Garter but I have been given more lands than I know what to do with.

My princess is not as enthused about our triumphs.

“What will we do with it all?” she asks in her soft voice as we prepare to take to London to await the birth of the king’s first heir. “Who will we pass it down to?”

I shake my head. “We can’t pass it down to anyone if we … if we don’t …” I can’t say it. We have not coupled in three years; neither of us can bring ourselves to risk the agony that our unions seem to breed. Instead we watch with heavy hearts as everyone around us celebrates the births of their children. My brothers and sisters have given me a slew of nieces and nephews. Indeed, my own father has proven as fruitful with his second wife as his first, and I have so many new half brothers and sisters I cannot even remember some of their names. I do recall, with a measure of annoyed amusement, that he named another one of the brats Thomas, which strikes me as wholly unoriginal, but I suppose that is his matter.

It is hardest on the princess. When confronted with these rounded bellies and lusty little baby cries, I see her hand stray to her own flat stomach wherein lies a vacant womb too scathed by sorrow to bear fruit.

The queen’s pregnancy is the most difficult to bear, something that sends me into a rage of guilt. Queen Catherine delivered a stillborn daughter the year previous and I can well empathise with the anxiety she must be suffering while anticipating the birth of this child. Despite that I wish her nothing but the best, my heart still contracts in pain whenever my eyes travel to Her Grace’s belly.

The joy of the realm is a constant assault to our grief. The princess begs to be left at home for the duration of the celebrations that will follow the birth, but I stand firm.

“How would that look to our sovereign?” I ask her. “You have to go. We can’t be seen hiding like petulant children. The queen is a gentle woman and can identify with you, at least somewhat. I imagine she will take into consideration your loss and not try to draw attention to … things when you are in her presence.”

“How can that be avoided?” the princess demands, tears streaming down her cheeks. She begins to cough as she does whenever she becomes excited. Breathless, she collapses onto her chaise.

I sit beside her, checking the handkerchief that she so tries to hide. I don’t know why she bothers. I am well aware of the blood that stains it.

“You must stop upsetting yourself like this,” I tell her in gentler tones. I stroke her clammy cheek. “Their triumph is our triumph. We must celebrate with them just as they would with us should we ever …” There is no use saying that. We both know there will be no such celebrations for us.

But the princess seems just as content to pretend as I do and she nuzzles against my upper arm. “Yes, of course. Do pardon my foolishness.” She wipes her eyes with a slender hand. “I want everyone to be happy—you know that, don’t you? Oh, of course you do.” She offers a defeated sigh. “We must remove to London directly to share the joy.”

I stroke her hair and kiss the top of her head, wondering if we shall ever savour joy again.

The Prince of Wales is born at Richmond Palace on New Year’s Day, another bonny little Henry. How can I begrudge anyone this kind of joy when I see the queen’s face, so tender as she beholds her newborn son? Was not my own princess the owner of that same dreamy expression, was not her sweet face once filled with a love so overwhelming, none but a parent can appreciate it? No, now is not a time for resentment or envy. The princess and I give ourselves over to the contagious atmosphere of celebration that cloaks the kingdom.

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.