Secrets of the Tudor Court Boxed Set

2

Cowling Castle, in Kent, had been built by an ancestor of mine for the defense of the realm. Or at least for the defense of our particular section of the north coast of Kent. Way back in the reign of King Richard the Second, a force of Frenchmen and Spaniards had sailed into the Thames Estuary and pillaged villages as far upriver as Gravesend. Vowing they’d never do so again, the third Lord Cobham constructed a mighty fortress to guard the port of Cliffe and the rest of the Hoo Peninsula from invaders.

Nearly two hundred years later, we had little need for walls six feet thick or two moats. Neither of our drawbridges had been raised more than a handful of times that I could remember and never because we were under attack.

After my return to Cowling Castle, I waited expectantly for news of a royal wedding, but weeks stretched into months and still King Henry did not remarry. In the summer, Father began to cast about for a suitable husband for me, but he was in no great hurry. He said he intended to find me a man of strong moral character who was also possessed of sufficient worldly goods to keep me in comfort. In Mother’s opinion, that combination was as scarce as hens’ teeth, but she had no objection to keeping me at home awhile longer. I was content, too. For the most part.

On a fine mid-October afternoon, freed from their lessons in Latin so that they might practice archery, three of my brothers raced across the drawbridge that connected the inner and outer wards. My sister Kate and I followed more slowly. We brought our sewing with us and planned to sit on a wooden bench near the butts to cheer on the competitors.

“Shall we wager on the outcome?” Kate asked as we made our way to the targets set up near the top of the upward-sloping ground. She was a younger version of our mother with the same light brown hair, sparkling blue eyes, and even temperament.

“Which of the boys do you favor?” I asked as we climbed. The outer ward was twice as big as the inner ward. To make the castle defensible, the curtain walls crowned the high ground around it. The east wall towered over the moat, even though it had been built lower than the other three.

Kate was only fourteen, but she’d already picked up the habit of gambling from our parents. She wagered on the outcome of everything, from card games to wrestling matches. I, on the other hand, saw no sense in committing myself unless I thought I had a good chance of winning.

Five of our brothers were still at home, all younger than we were. Our oldest brother, William, was also junior to me, but he was older than Kate. The year before he had been sent abroad to study in Padua. He’d taken with him two servants, three horses, and Father’s instructions on proper behavior while living in a foreign land. William would have won any archery contest with ease. He was an excellent shot, and a good teacher, too.

Competing at the butts in William’s absence were George and Thomas, both of them nine years old—ten months separated them—and John, who was seven. Henry, at four, and Edmund, who was only two years old, were not yet old enough to manage a longbow, not even one of the smaller models purpose-made for boys just learning archery.

We had an older sister, too, eight years my senior, but she had married and gone away four years earlier. I rarely thought of her anymore. Neither did I think much about the babies Mother had lost, although I knew that there had been five of them, three boys and two girls.

“George will win the day.” Kate sounded confident.

It was true that George was steady and deliberate and usually hit what he aimed at, but Thomas, although he could be unpredictable, excelled at the things he enjoyed. Since he liked to pretend he was Robin Hood, he practiced shooting with a bow and arrow more often than George did.

“An embroidered handkerchief and a cloak pin on Thomas,” I said, naming two items we both had upon our persons. Kate nodded her agreement and we settled ourselves on the bench, our needlework in our laps.

Kate industriously stitched at a shirt, but I left my needle stuck in the smock I was hemming. Both garments would be given to the poor when they were finished. It was a good cause, but on such a splendid day I was not inclined to keep my head bent over my stitches.

An oak tree just beginning to shed its leaves shaded our bench. I caught one of the bright bits of foliage as it drifted down, admiring its perfection, and breathed deeply of the salty air. Cowling Castle had been built at the edge of a marsh.

The raucous cry of a gull was clearly audible, even over the shouts and laughter of my siblings. Instead of watching my brothers, I contemplated the sky and was rewarded not only by the sight of several gulls, but also by a glimpse of a redwing. Redwings migrated to Kent every autumn but only stayed until the holly berries were gone, just like field-fares.

A shout of “Well shot!” from John pulled my attention back to the butts. I’d been bird-watching longer than I’d realized. Thomas had already won the first match.

“Wretched boy,” Kate grumbled as she handed over my winnings. “George is older. He should have won.”

“Does that mean you think I will always surpass you?”

Kate laughed. “I’ll wager it does.” Before I knew what she intended, she had left the bench to advance on the butts and seize George’s bow. “Bess will show you how it should be done,” she said, “and a three-penny piece says she can hit the center of the target with her first arrow.”

“Done!” George sneered a little. “I say she’ll go wide of the mark.”

Never one to run from a challenge and confident of my ability to hit what I aimed at, I set aside my sewing and joined them. Archery is a skill that, once learned, is never forgotten. I took the bow, nocked the arrow, aimed with care, and took my best shot. I hit the target dead center. William would have been pleased. He’d taught me well.

“Oh, excellent!” Kate cried, clapping her hands.

In the spirit of the moment, I bent at the waist, sweeping the hand with the bow out to one side like a courtier’s bonnet.

“Girls curtsy,” John piped up. “Only boys bow.”

“That is because boys are too clumsy to manage a curtsy,” Kate shot back. “Girls are graceful.”

George, embarrassed to have been shown up by a female, jerked the bow out of my hand. “Girls are—”

He never finished what he was about to say. That was just as well, considering that I was prepared to throttle him myself if he heaped any more insults on womankind. Instead he paused, head cocked. He’d always had excellent hearing.

“Horseman,” he announced. “Coming fast.”

Our differences immediately forgotten, united by curiosity about the approaching arrival, we hurried back down the slope toward the other drawbridge, the one in the southwest corner of the outer ward. We did not have long to wait before a man rode in. He passed us without a single glance, intent upon reaching the inner ward.

“A messenger,” George said, and raced after him.

The arrival of a letter was not an unusual event, but this fellow’s lathered horse combined with his grim countenance suggested that his message was something out of the ordinary. Kate and I gathered up our skirts, running as fast as our feet could carry us to keep pace with the boys. The messenger had already dismounted by the time we reached him.

“Take me to Lady Wyatt,” he barked at one of my father’s gentlemen.

“My aunt will be in her solar at this time of day,” I said, panting a little from the unaccustomed exertion. “I will show you the way.”

“I am much obliged, mistress.”

The messenger’s eyes were bloodshot and his deeply lined face looked haggard, as if he’d been riding for days. Indeed, the marks of a long journey were plain upon his clothing. Mud streaked his boots and hose and his cloak stank of sweat and horse.

Kate started to accompany us, but as the eldest daughter still at home I was entitled to take ruthless advantage of my status. “Fetch Father,” I ordered. “Plainly, something is amiss.”

“Clever lass,” the messenger muttered.

The boys, although still curious, hung back. They had learned to be wary of their aunt Elizabeth. I, on the other hand, was at ease with my father’s sister. That she was my godmother probably helped. She’d always been fond of me.

When I was eleven, Aunt Elizabeth had come to live with us. She now resided at Cowling Castle most of every year, spending the remainder at Cobham Hall with her stepmother. Aunt Elizabeth’s lodgings were located in the southeast tower of the inner ward, above the vaulted corner chamber we used as a bathing room. As I’d predicted, she was in her solar.

My mother was there, too, together with their gentlewomen. They were playing cent, a popular card game. From the size of the pile of pennies, halfpennies, and shillings in front of her, my aunt was winning. Everyone turned to look at me when I appeared without warning in the doorway. They gaped when they caught sight of the man behind me.

Mother was the first to find her voice. “Whatever is the matter, Bess?”

Before I could answer, the messenger pushed past me into the room to stand glowering down at Aunt Elizabeth.

“What do you want, Rudstone?” She stood, putting her eye to eye with him. She was a tall woman, lean and angular. The fulminating glare she gave the messenger would have turned most men to stone.

“Your son sent me.” Master Rudstone’s tone suggested that he’d been coerced into making the journey to Cowling Castle.

Aunt Elizabeth’s son was my cousin, Thomas Wyatt the Younger. Tom lived at Allington Castle, near Maidstone, a journey of less than a day on horseback. Since I was certain this travel-stained courier had ridden a much greater distance, I waited with keen anticipation to hear his news.

Aunt Elizabeth was even more impatient than I. “Well? Speak up, man, and then begone.”

Rudstone’s lip curled in dislike but he obeyed. “I bring word of your husband, madam. My good master, Sir Thomas Wyatt the Elder, died last week at the house of Sir John Horsey, in Dorset.”

Aunt Elizabeth blinked once, slowly, as she absorbed this information. Then she smiled. “I am a widow,” she whispered. “At last!”

Father barged into the chamber at that moment. He was at his autocratic best, outraged that a stranger had dared confront his womenfolk without his presence or permission. “What is going on here?” he demanded.

“Wyatt’s dead.” Eyes dancing, voice jubilant, Aunt Elizabeth looked as if she were about to dance a jig. “That great hypocrite, Thomas Wyatt the Elder, will never torment me again.”

Father gave his sister a stern look but his tone was sardonic. “Contain your grief, Eliza. Think of the repercussions. You will have to wear mourning for at least a year and you’ve never looked your best in black.”

“I will do no such thing. Wyatt threw me out of his house years ago. I owe him nothing.” A petulant look on her narrow face, Aunt Elizabeth resumed her seat at the table and picked up her cards. She wished to continue the game, but the other players did not cooperate.

Mother, ever the good hostess, had already gone to the sideboard to pour a cup of barley water for the messenger. He looked disgusted, but not surprised, by my aunt’s attitude.

“What was Sir Thomas doing in Dorset, Master Rudstone?” Mother asked when she’d handed him the goblet.

“He was on his way to Falmouth to welcome a group of foreign diplomats to England on King Henry’s behalf.” Rudstone drank thirstily before he continued. “He caught a chill on the way. It turned into pneumonia, and three days later he was dead. We buried him in the Horsey family vault in the church in Sherborne.”

The waiting gentlewomen murmured and clucked over this, for it seemed peculiar that the body had not been brought back to Allington for burial.

Belatedly, Father realized that Kate had followed him into the solar and that she and I were hanging on every word. “Leave us, girls,” he ordered.

Reluctantly, we obeyed.

“Whatever Master Rudstone has to say next,” Kate observed, “must be something Father does not want us to know.”

“It is pointless to send us away,” I complained. “Someone will tell us sooner or later.” The servants were always a reliable source of information.

“Why did Aunt Elizabeth hate her husband so?” Kate asked as we crossed the inner court toward the dwelling rooms in the northeast corner.

I was surprised she didn’t already know, but willing enough to tell her the tale. “It happened before I was born,” I said as soon as we reached the bedchamber we shared and had closed the door against intruders. “Shortly after Cousin Tom was born, Sir Thomas accused Aunt Elizabeth of adultery and refused to let her live with him anymore.” I calculated quickly and was surprised by the result. “That must have been more than twenty years ago.”

“That is a very long time to be angry with each other, but Aunt Elizabeth should not have taken a lover.” Kate plucked an apple from the bowl on the table and settled herself in the middle of the bed we shared.

“She claims she was never unfaithful to her husband. She says he invented the story because they never got along and he didn’t want her at Allington Castle with him and their son.” I clambered up onto the bed beside her, my own apple in hand, and took a huge bite of the crisp, tart fruit.

“Why didn’t he divorce her, the way King Henry does when he tires of one of his wives?”

“They separated so long ago that the king hadn’t yet broken with Rome. Back then the pope was the only one who could dissolve a marriage or grant permission for a divorced man or woman to marry again, if they had a mind to. Sir Thomas must not have had any proof that Aunt Elizabeth had a lover.”

Satisfied with my explanation, I went back to munching my apple.

“But King Henry has been head of the Church of England for years,” Kate objected. “Why didn’t Sir Thomas ask His Grace to annul their marriage?”

I pondered her question, the fruit in my hand forgotten. “I don’t think the king does that sort of thing. When I was at court, I overheard two gentlewomen talking about a lord—they didn’t say which one—who’d just managed to push through an Act of Parliament to dissolve his unhappy marriage. They felt sorry for him because, even though he’s been granted a legal separation from his wife on the grounds of her adultery, he is forbidden to remarry as long as she still lives. Marriage is for life.”

“Unless you are the king,” Kate quipped. “I wonder if Aunt Elizabeth will take a second husband. She’s still young enough to have more children and she has a pleasing appearance.”

I suspected that my aunt’s prickly temperament would keep suitors at bay, but I did not voice that thought. “I wonder if she will have the use of her jointure, now that Sir Thomas is dead. He was stingy about providing for her while he was alive. He supported her at first. She told me once that he paid her an annuity for a number of years after they separated. But then, all of a sudden, he cut her off without a penny. That’s when she came to live with us. She had nowhere else to go but back to her family.”

“He had a mistress,” Kate said, proving once again that children hear more in a busy household than their elders realize. “Last year, when Sir Thomas was arrested and imprisoned in the Tower of London, the king made him promise to give her up and take Aunt Elizabeth back. Sir Thomas wasn’t set free until he agreed.”

“But he didn’t reconcile with Aunt Elizabeth. She stayed right here with us.” As I slowly munched the remainder of my apple, I could not help but feel a grudging respect for my late uncle’s courage. A courtier would either have to be very brave . . . or very foolish . . . to deliberately ignore a royal decree.