Darcey Bonnette - Rivals in the Tudor Court

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

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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

HarperCollins Publishers 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

For my sailor

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

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.

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.