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      Copyright

      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

       A division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street, London SE1 9GF

      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

      HarperCollinsPublishers 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

      Dedication

      For my sailor

      Contents

       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

      The Tower of London

      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.

      Armor

      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.

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