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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.
Contact with this rabble does not please me in the slightest and I do not hesitate to swat the offenders away with a closed fist. The most amusing aspect of the evening thus far is that my brother-in-law Thomas Knyvet is stripped to his skin and has to climb a pillar to avoid having anything else yanked at. Even the princess laughs when she sees Knyvet’s skinny white arse on display in the torch-light for the whole of the court.
When the assault closes in on the ladies, guards and gentlemen sweep in to push them off.
“Lord Howard! Help!” a shrill voice cries, and my attention is called to little Elizabeth Stafford. I turn to see a couple tearing off the sleeves of her Tudor green and white gown. The child’s blue eyes are wide with terror.
I force myself through the throng, taking her by the shoulders and pulling her away from a crude old woman and her toothless husband, whose hands were so busy in their task, they did not see me coming. It is all I can do to refrain from breaking the king’s peace and running them both through. Had she been my own daughter, I know I would not have hesitated and would sit out a spell in detainment somewhere as a result.
“What madness is this?” I seethe. “Get you out of here, hag!”
Startled, the couple begins to back away. “No offence, milord,” says the man. “We was just joining in the fun.”
“’Tis not your fun to be had!” I shout, moving toward them as if to strike. “Now be gone!”
“And take the bloody sleeves!” Elizabeth adds, finishing the job herself, throwing the sleeves at her assailants. “May they feed you for a month!”
She stands, a tiny pillar of indignation, shivering in the February air, hugging her little arms across her stomacher. I kneel before her and take to vigorously rubbing her upper arms. “Are you hurt?” I ask her.
She shakes her head. Her eyes are bright, fuelled with the same fire I imagine to be in mine when engaging in battle.
“Everyone is removing within doors,” I tell her. “We shall have a splendid banquet where you will be left quite intact for the rest of the evening.”
“Oh, how very disappointing,” she says, her mouth curving into that odd little smile, which is both sarcastic and disarming at once. Noting my expression of mock disapproval, she adds, “Thank you for rescuing me, Thomas Howard.”
“You are most welcome, Lady Elizabeth,” I say in turn as I lead her to the rest of the ladies.
When I encounter my princess again, I take her hand. “You were not hurt?”
She shakes her head. Her cheeks are rosy with a mixture of mirth and fever. “The little girl is all right?”
“Quite,” I say. I remove my hat, running my hand through my sweaty hair. “Perhaps it is best we do not have a daughter at court. I could not bear to watch her assaulted so.”
My princess’s face is stricken and I know I have said the wrong thing. I did not mean it, not that way, but the words are out and as she disengages her hand from mine, I note a new depth to the sadness already lighting her eyes.
There is no use apologising. What is said cannot be unsaid.
Nine days after the closing festivities, in which I had the honour of carrying the king’s helmet, the bells begin to toll. The little prince is dead.
My princess and I exchange a look of horror as we receive the queen’s messenger at our home in Lambeth. I do not understand why the queen has sent a messenger, unless it is to seek out my wife so that she may comfort Her Grace in her grief. The princess knows well the meaning of loss, and her gentle presence would console even the most hardened heart.
But it is not my princess who is sought. It is I. I am called by Her Grace with no other explanation and so, dressed in the black livery of mourning, arrive at the palace to learn what is required of me.
I am received in the presence chamber where Her Grace sits under her canopy of state, her face grave and aged. One would not recognise the gay young woman who sat in her box watching the knights joust in honour of her newborn son just a few weeks ago.
I bow, removing my hat. “Your Grace.”
She offers a brief nod. “We are pleased to ask you to ride in the Prince of Wales’s funeral procession as one of the six mourners.”
I am shaken. “Thank you for bestowing such an honour upon me,” I say at last. It is awkward to be honoured by such a sad undertaking, but it is a practical task and the queen and I are of like mind in practicality, it seems.
She averts her eyes a moment. “I have had two miscarriages,” she goes on, dropping the royal “we,” and I raise my head, startled as much by the familiarity as by the confession. Queen Catherine is never one to break with proprieties. “I thought that was suffering. But nothing compares to this. I have lost my first child, the first child to be successfully carried to term. He was so special, a gift I felt was hard earned and much anticipated not only for me but for the whole kingdom. A prince at last.” Her face adopts a dreamy expression. “There is something about one’s first child…. He will never be replaced. Even when we have another, this little Henry will always be considered my first.” Her voice catches on the last word. She turns grief-stricken eyes to me, her face arranged in an appeal. “How do you bear it, my good sir?”
“Dear lady,” I say, at a loss. “I—words cannot express …” Searching her honest, open face, I am struck by the thought that she is hoping I have some divine answer that will explain her tragedy away. I draw in a wavering breath. “I can say much about grief, but in the end, to someone whose pain is still fresh, all of my words would sound commonplace, empty, and as pointless to you as all the well-intended sympathisers did to me when I lost my children. So the only thing I will tell you about managing grief is this: Press on.” I swallow hard. “Find comfort in what you may, Your Grace.” I bow my head, then add in soft tones, “I appreciate your grief more than is in your estimation. You could not have chosen a more appropriate person to fulfil the obligation of mourner than I.”
The queen leans forward, resting a bejewelled hand on my shoulder. For a moment we are locked in each other’s gaze. Her eyes are wide with a mingling of fear and confusion. She bows her head, slowly removing her hand.
“We thank you for your service, Sir Thomas,” she says, still avoiding my eyes. “You are dismissed.”
I quit the chambers, unsettled and awkward and pitying another mother’s loss.
… and Pirates
I ride in the procession, sitting numb on my mount, keeping vigil over yet another dead child. The spectacle of a kingdom in mourning is too much to take in. I begin to tune it out: the sound of the church bells, the tears of the crowd, the queen’s anguished face.
The little prince is interred, grief is set aside for state business, and we forge ahead. The king recovers in time to go a-Maying, ordering the festivities to commence as usual. There is feasting and masquing and tourneys, in which my brother and I take part. We oust our opponents in typical Howard style and the king claps my brother Neddy on the back, thrilled by the display. He is far more familiar with him than with me. I tell myself it is my age that prevents me from having a closer relationship with His Majesty, but in truth, Neddy isn’t much younger than me. Rather, Neddy possesses charm and flamboyancy, attracting everyone to him without effort. He enjoys people where, as a whole, I am bothered by them. He is open and cheerful and converses for enjoyment, whereas if something isn’t being gained by the conversation, I have little use for the art. What’s more, he is ever ready to partake in any festive situation, bringing his own merry element, which itself proves endearing, else why would the king retain the useless Charles Brandon? I am not of the same nature as Neddy and Brandon so have not commanded the king’s personal attentions as much.
But what I cannot be as a courtier, I can make up for as a soldier. All the prowess demonstrated in the jousts and tourneys has proven worthwhile. We have impressed the king sufficiently so that he sees fit for Ned and me to take on Sir Andrew Barton, the pirate who has been terrorising our trade routes by capturing English ships under the pretext that they are in possession of Portuguese goods. Barton’s case is peculiar. His motives are based on an old family grudge: His father, John Barton, was captured by a Portuguese ship, and the King of Portugal never made amends. Thus the King of Scots permitted him to take any Portuguese ship that crossed his path, along with their goods. In truth I do not think he was permitted to take Portuguese goods off ships that weren’t from Portugal and this is certainly something that could have been smoothed over had Henry VIII only asked James IV. But my father is so eager to dissuade the king from supporting favoured councillor Thomas Wolsey’s encouragement of a French campaign that he urges His Majesty to engage Barton in the hopes of rousing a war with Scotland. Hence the Scottish king is not consulted.
I am not about to make suggestions. If the king is prompted by my father, so be it. My father’s interests are my own; his gain is my gain. If the king asks me to take Barton, I take Barton.
And so in August, I trade land for sea and, from the very first, know that I was born to it—the rolling waves, the salty spray, the eternal motion of the ship, all this coupled with the anticipation of impending battle.
We encounter Barton’s ships, the Lion and the Jenny Pirwin, on the Downs, that narrow roadstead off the eastern coast of Kent where warships patrol the gateway to the North Sea.
“Raise the willow wand!” I cry, indicating the symbol of merchant ships, so that we might lure him in. The Lion, which is being guided by a captain whose ship they looted the day before, comes about.
I stand on deck, gripping the ledge. I am tingling; power surges through my arms straight to my fingertips. My knuckles are white. The wind whips against my cheeks. I lick my salty lips. We lurch into a wave; the spray splashes me and I laugh out loud. There is nothing like this, not the love of a woman nor the cry of a newborn guaranteed to be stolen away—no, this kind of satisfaction is not given by another human being; it is achieved from within and I savour every moment.
The Lion is gaining. She is ready to take us. I stand firm, making certain that Barton sees the man who is fated to kill him.
“Cut the flags!” I order.
The flags are cut and we reveal ourselves to be the Enemy.
“Fire a volley—hit her broadside!” I shout. I am trembling as I watch the other ship closing in. We hit her with the cannons; the damage is not extensive but enough to rock her off balance and send the crew scrambling.
Barton is on deck, a formidable figure in his fine armour. About his neck is a golden whistle. He is shouting orders, indicating the strange apparatus his ship is outfitted with: weights suspended on large beams. They are peculiar and I imagine in the right circumstances quite effective. When someone climbs up the masts to release the lines on which the weights are connected, they can drop onto other ships. This is a machination I cannot help but admire, but only for a moment, as I realise Barton is hoping to utilise them against us.
I look to my archer, a Yorkshire man called Hustler. “Kill any who try to go aloft,” I tell him.
He offers a nervous nod, readying his bow. He aims. My body tenses, but there is even a thrill in the anxiety as I watch the arrow cut through the air to hit its mark, a young crewman attempting to scuttle up the mast, in the shoulder. He falls to the deck to be immediately replaced by another brave sailor attempting the same thing.
“Get him!” I cry.
Hustler draws back his next arrow and releases, again hitting his target.
After this is reduced to a monotony of death, Barton himself begins to climb the mast.
“Kill him,” I tell Hustler.
Hustler’s glance is unsure as he returns his eyes to the pirate.
“Kill him or die,” I say with urgency.
Hustler flinches. “I’ve but two arrows….”
“Use them well,” I urge.
Hustler draws. The first assault bounces off Barton’s armour like a twig against a stone wall. Trembling, Hustler reaches for his last arrow.
“Do it, man!” I command.
Hustler pulls back. Barton reaches up to assure himself better grip on the mast.
“Now!” I shout.
Hustler releases. The arrow slices through the air. I can hear it even over the shouts of the men. It pierces through Barton’s armpit, that soft bit of flesh left vulnerable to attack.
He falls; it seems too slow to be real. I watch him hit deck. Crewmen rush to his side.
“Fight on!” he orders in his brogue, loud enough for me to hear. “I am a little wounded but not slain. I will but rest a while and then rise and fight once more. Meantime, stand fast by St. Andrew’s Cross!” He raises his eyes to the Scots’ flag.
I shake my head in admiration. As my eyes travel to the sailors on board the Lion, I note how stricken they are. He is not only a good commander, he is also loved; it is not an easy combination to attain.
When Barton can no longer shout orders, he resorts to blowing his golden whistle.
And then the whistle is heard no more.
Barton is dead.
We bring in the Lion, where it is added to the royal fleet, and we are toasted as heroes.
I have won!
Elizabeth Stafford, Spring 1512
King Henry has joined the Holy League in an allegiance against France’s King Louis, who was hoping to conquer Italy. Everyone is drunk with war; even the masques and pageants all feature weapons and armour, and the themes are not at all as pleasant as they used to be. I must say, I blame the Howards. They are so hungry for conquest, any kind of conquest, that they started the whole thing with the slaying of the pirate Barton, giving the king his first taste of victory. If Lord Thomas Howard is any indication, once a man tastes victory, there is created in him an insatiable thirst for more. When the king sent him off with the Marquess of Dorset to engage the French army near Bayonne in early June, I thought the stern-faced man would break into a jig of excitement.
Now it is the king who is parched. He does not want to send others to fight his battles; he needs to be a part of them. He wants to be a warrior-king like his father before him and drink in a long draught of Tudor triumph.
Ralph Neville, a young courtier newly arrived, is quick to correct me as we walk in the gardens of Greenwich in late June. “The Howards are all about the Scots,” he tells me. “It is Wolsey who prompts action against the French, to reclaim our lost holdings there for the glory of King Henry!”
Whenever Ralph speaks to me, I am far too beside myself to think of war or anything disagreeable. Ralph will be the fourth Earl of Westmorland and was made a ward of my father in 1510. He was the lankiest, gawkiest, and most thoroughly awkward lad I had ever seen back then. But now! Now he is the handsomest man at court, tall and lean and self-assured, with honey-blonde hair and clear blue eyes that are so light they are almost silver. His smile is easy and he is quick to laugh. He has sought me out a number of times now for walks in the gardens and I relish every encounter.
“I don’t care who prompts what,” I tell him. “Whether it’s the Earl of Surrey or Wolsey or whoever; I just don’t want a war.”
“You’re not even the least bit excited to see the knights leave? It’s going to be quite a spectacle. I think the king will even make war an entertainment,” he adds with a laugh.
“It’s all a pretty spectacle till they return fewer in numbers,” I say in haughty tones. I lower my eyes, swallowing a painful lump in my throat. “My father is accompanying the king, you know.”
Humbled, Ralph reaches for my hand. It is our first touch. We are fifteen years old, two trembling youths wondering what lies beyond this brief contact of skin against skin. His eyes seek mine. They are soft and calm as the afternoon sky.
