The King’s Mistress

I read it again and again and again.

As Norfolk predicted, I do see my brother at a court function; a joust. How to describe tournaments! The shining knights, the beautiful ladies, some with tokens for their bonnie lads about to take the field. Anne gives the king her handkerchief.

Queen Catherine clutches hers in her lap, twisting it with nervous fingers.

“Will you give your scarf to anyone, little Mary?” Anne asks with a wink of her obsidian eye.

“Perish the thought!” says her brother George, always cheerful. “She’s far too young and sweet to be sullied by love!”

“Why, does love sully us?” Anne asks with the coquettish grin that I practice so hard to achieve. “I think I have fared quite well!”

Ripples of laughter surround me and I allow myself a giggle. It is the first time I have felt any semblance of mirth since hearing of my Catherine’s death.

“Well, love has sullied me,” says George with an affectionate glance at his sister. “Your father picked me quite a bride, young Mary,” he tells me. Then to the rest of the assemblage he adds, “Wouldn’t everyone agree that my Jane is in possession of many charms?”

The ladies burst into laughter. Indeed, we could barely escape the sour-faced maid with her wicked tongue and, from what I’ve heard, vicious mind. In a way I feel sorry for her. It is as though she is always on the outside, circling Anne’s exclusive set, her eyes filled with a strange contemptuous longing.

George’s comment causes more laughter and he tips back his dark head to join in before riding off to enter the lists.

I scan the jousters, excitement bubbling in my chest. I see a familiar head bobbing among the crowd, its owner’s expression faraway. Dreamy. It is a sweet face. I leap up from my seat and run toward the yard.

“Henry Howard!” I cry out, waving my arms. “Henry, Lord Surrey!”

He turns his head, jarred from his reverie, and begins to run toward me. “Look at this!” He takes my hands and covers them with kisses. “Mary, dearest little girl.”

Tears spring to my eyes. “Oh, Henry …” There is so much I want to say. About this weird place, about Catherine, about Norfolk. I cannot articulate it, though, so stand before him, smiling.

“What’s this?” Henry asks, wiping a stray tear from my cheek.

“No tears, Mary. We Howards are at the top of the world right now!”

“Are you competing today, Henry?” I ask.

“No, not me,” he tells me, his long face drawn up into a smile. He is a younger version of Norfolk, his nose straight and Roman, his hooded eyes drooping slightly at the sides. Only he laughs. “Harry and I are just here to observe today, though he is itching to compete.”

It is only at this moment that I realize my brother isn’t alone. Beside him stands a boy about my age, with bright strawberry blond hair and energetic blue eyes. His complexion is rosy, his gentle smile is ready; he is also the picture of his father, King Henry VIII.

I curtsy. “Hello, my lord duke.”

“Such formality for your old playmate?” he asks with a giggle that betrays his youth.

It is true I have hazy memories of playing at Windsor Palace with my brother and young Harry; since my father was the boy’s governor we were often in his company. But to me this seems like ages ago and the memories, like most from the dreamy days of childhood, are but distant echoes of a faerie song; one is not quite sure if it was ever real.

I blush. “Only showing the proper deference for the Duke of Richmond and Somerset, Earl of Nottingham, and Knight of the Garter,” I say, but my voice bears the slightest edge of teasing.

He reaches out a hand to tap my upper arm. “Plain Harry to you,” he says. “We should show her the puppies.”

“Puppies?” I squeal.

“You like puppies?” Harry asks. “They’re in the stables—oh, they’re mongrels, not proper hunting dogs at all, but they’re— they’re, well, they’re rather cute.” He seems embarrassed to say the word cute, as though it is not masculine to perceive things thus.

“Oh, yes, do bring me to them!” I cry, and the three of us take to the stables. I do not think of the other girls I have left behind in the stands. I am with my brother at last. I am with people who do not seem so complicated.

We reach the stables where are housed some of the finest horses in England, each brushed till its coat gleams. In the corner of an empty stall is a bitch with her five pups. She is adorable. Her pups are little balls of gray, blue merle, caramel, and white fur; their ears cannot decide if they will be floppy or pointed, so compromise at somewhere in between.

I kneel in the hay, not caring about the state of my dress. Both Henrys kneel beside me.

“Do you think she’ll let us pet them?”

“I should say,” says Harry with the authoritative tone of an expert. “Do you think so, Surrey?”

My brother nods and I reach out a tentative hand, first to the mother, whose elongated snout I stroke while cooing soft endearments about her ability to breed. Once I am certain she is comfortable with me I reach out to pet one of her pups; the fur is silky soft under my hand and I purr with pleasure. I gather the little creature against my breast.

“It’s so dear,” I say, kissing its downy head. “Oh, if holding a pup is this wonderful imagine how grand it will be to hold my own babies!” I breathe before I can help myself.

Neither boy says anything; I imagine they don’t fantasize about holding babies very often.

“Do you want to keep it, Mary?” Harry asks.

I glow at the prospect. “Do you think it’s ready? I couldn’t bear the thought of separating it from its mother too early.”

“It’s fine,” reassures my brother, whom I decide to refer to as Surrey as well, just to differentiate him from all the other Henrys running about court.

I meet the gaze of the mother, as though seeking a glint of permission in the great brown orbs. I wonder what it is like to have a child taken away. Nobles give their children up for fostering most of the time and do not see their children but for a handful of times a year. Some don’t see their children for years at a time.

If I take this pup, its mother will never see it again.

Something about the thought brings a lump to my throat. I blink back tears.

“Mary …” My brother rubs my shoulder. “Don’t you want the nice pup Harry’s offered?”

I nod. “Oh, yes, to be sure. But to separate it from the mother …”

“Mary’s so sensitive!” Surrey laughs. “You have a poet’s heart— like me.” He wraps his arm about my shoulders and kisses my cheek.

“Do you want it or not?” Harry asks, but his tone is good-natured. “I have a mind to withdraw the offer—you know it will fare much better with you than out here.”

This is true enough. I pat the mother’s head in a gesture of gratitude, then rise with the pup in my arms. “Thank you, Harry.”

He offers a courtly bow and I return a curtsy. We erupt into laughter at our sport as we return to the tiltyard to watch the jousting.

As I reach the stands to show the girls my new pup I see Anne watching me, a grin of amusement lifting the corner of her pretty mouth.

It is a perfect day; the sun shines off the armor of the knights and I am blinded at times as they ride past. We are treated to a superb show of sportsmanship and my throat is raw from screaming for the various champions.

King Henry takes the day, of course. Madge Shelton whispers to me that everyone lets him win else the consequences are dire. I giggle before I can help myself. He is a spoiled child! Yet I suppose he did not choose to be. He is a king and kings were first princes, spoiled and petted just for the sake of being born to the right folk.

He wouldn’t even have become king had his sickly brother Arthur not passed on. In fact, he would not have married Catherine of Aragon, Arthur’s own widow, at enormous inconvenience to a great many people, including the Church he rails against now, had it not been for that fact.