Secrets of the Tudor Court Read Online Free PDF Page B

Bess only makes me sadder, so I tuck the letter in my little silver keepsake casket along with the one from my mother, a letter I have read only once.
    Mary Carey tells me she lost her husband to the sweating sickness. Many other girls come forward and confide of their losses, how one parent or sibling perished to the plague and other terrible things.
    I feel less alone but the sadness remains. There is so much unresolved. If I had only been allowed to see her interred, perhaps there would be more closure. It would seem real. As it is, it’s still as though she is off in the country, married to Lord Derby.
    Norfolk never mentions her name again. He does not say much of anything during my nightly reports, which consist of nothing since Anne is careful with her words. I tell him she knows why I am there.
    “Of course she does—she’s not a complete idiot,” he says. “May you serve as a reminder.” He pauses. “She spends quite a bit of time with her brother George, does she not?”
    I nod, smiling at the thought of her handsome brother, who is the picture perfect courtier. “He’s very fine,” I tell him.
    “See to it that they aren’t alone too often,” Norfolk instructs.
    “They’re not alone,” I say in confusion. “Mary Carey’s with them most of the time.”
    “The court is talking,” he tells me, but I have that feeling I often get when he’s speaking; that the words are never directed at me. “Jane Parker’s jealousy is…twisted.” He refers to George Boleyn’s wife, an anxious sort of woman who seems just the sort to be “twisted,” always lurking about in doorways, or hovering just beyond a circle of friends in the hopes of attaining some juicy piece of gossip. Mary Carey warned me of her before, saying that her mind was poisoned with all manner of perverted ideas. Despite my curiosity I never pressed her for particulars. There was more than enough perversion at court without becoming preoccupied with hers.
    “How?” I ask, overcome with curiosity.
    “None of your concern,” Norfolk snaps. “Just see to it the three Boleyns are accompanied as often as possible.”
    “But what if they don’t want me along?”
    “You go with them anyway,” he says with an impatient wave of his hand. “Children are annoying creatures, immune to subtlety.” He leans forward and meets my eyes. “In other words, Mary: be yourself.”
    I am struck as dumb as he thinks I am. At once every condescending word and derisive jibe he ever directed toward me is brought to mind, constricting my heart as though it were clutched in his perfect fist. Tears burn my eyes, but it would humiliate me further to let them fall in front of him. I must hide them from him, as I always do. I draw in a breath. This talk of siblings brings Catherine to mind, and an image of my brother Henry soon follows.
    “Are we to see Henry soon, Father?”
    “Henry who?”
    I can’t fault him for this. Everyone is named Henry.
    “Howard—Surrey, of course!” I say with a giggle, wondering if there is anything under God’s sun I can do to make this man smile.
    “Oh, him.” He rifles through more documents. “Your brother’s at Windsor Palace keeping company with Henry Fitzroy, King Henry’s boy.” His eyes grow distant. “Fitzroy…His mother was a clever one. To think of all little Bessie Blount became…mistress of a monarch, the mother of the king’s son, a son showered with grand titles.” He offers a slight laugh. “But not quite grand enough. No, Bessie Blount went as far as she could go with what she had. But our Anne shall go even farther. No bastard children for her…”
    I am only half listening. In truth I could not care less about King Henry’s boy or fair Bessie Blount at this point. My heart surges with hope as I anticipate a visit with my beloved brother.
    “Can we go to him?” I ask. “Please?”
    He pauses. My heart races. Surely this means he is considering. “I’m sure he’ll be at the next court