LITMIR.BIZ

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examines me with fierce blue eyes. Indeed, they draw me from my reverie and make me call attention to her face, a determined little face with a set jawline. Everything about her is a paradox: delicacy and strength, angularity and softness. Her chestnut hair falls in thick curls to her waist and I find myself wondering rather stupidly if she sets it in rags or if the attractive asset is natural.

      “You are Lord Howard,” she tells me.

      I nod.

      “I saw you in the jousts today,” she says. She cocks her head, her arresting eyes squinting as though they are searching for my soul. It is so disconcerting I have to avert my face a moment.

      “And who were you hoping would take the day?” I ask her.

      She shrugs. “I suppose you want me to say you,” she says and I cannot help but laugh at her candour.

      “No, you may say what you like,” I assure her.

      She smiles. “I should have liked Charles Brandon to win,” she says of the king’s boon companion, the handsome courtier who follows him like a lovesick pup. Noting my expression at the thought of the doe-eyed boy, she laughs. “No, in truth I am not so fond of Brandon. I just wanted to see what you’d do.”

      “You are an instigator, Lady—”

      “Elizabeth,” she says. “Elizabeth Stafford.” Her lips curve into a sarcastic little smile as her eyes take me in from boots to hat. “And you are the very devil.”

      “How old are you, Lady Elizabeth?” I ask her, amused.

      “I am twelve, sir,” she says proudly.

      Twelve. The age my Thomas would be. I close my eyes a moment. Would I have chosen her for his bride? It would have been a good arrangement, the daughter of a duke for my handsome boy. But those are thoughts for the past and the past is gone.

      The young girl standing before me will make someone else’s son a fine wife.

      “Lord Howard?” Her low voice cuts through my reflection and I start. She offers a perfect little curtsy. “Thank you for the dance, Lord Howard.” She leans up to whisper conspiratorially, “And everyone wanted you to win, even the queen.”

      I laugh as I watch her bound through the crowd. It catches in my throat as I find myself wondering when life will find it prudent to dole out its first cruel blow to her.

      I shudder, longing for one day of not being assaulted by dark, bitter thoughts.

      I return to the side of my princess and ask her to favour me with a dance.

      She shakes her head, tears lighting her eyes.

      “I do not think I can bring myself to it, my lord,” she says. “I am so tired.”

      She coughs into a small handkerchief and upon pulling it away attempts to hide it in the pocket of her dress. It is too late. I have seen the flecks of blood on the cloth, bright as a cardinal’s feather in the snow.

      We stare at each other in mutual horror.

BOOK TWO

      Kenninghall

      Elizabeth Howard (née Stafford), January 1547

      Every time I think of my husband, I want to dance the fleet, light steps of a maiden. Of course this urge to avail myself to such joyous abandon is only due to the fact that he is now keeping company with his like, the rats of the Tower of London.

      In truth my mood is far from celebratory. One can be triumphant and unhappy at the same time; my husband is a prime example of that.

      God gives and God takes. He gives me the peace I crave, but my son is made sacrifice for it, my son Henry, who also sits in the Tower awaiting his fate. No doubt he is blaming everyone but himself for the arrogant and impulsive actions that led him to that dark and evil place—he learned that from his father.

      I imagine I will not attend the execution. Thomas made certain to turn my little boy against me years ago. I mourned his loss long before an Act of Attainder was passed against him.

      I sift through a casket of sentiments. No one would believe me to be in possession of such a thing; indeed, I rarely look at it save for when they die. Now, faced with more death, I open it again to find the poems written by Henry when he was a child and could barely make his letters. Pictures Mary, guileless girl that she is, drew of our “happy family” when she was too young to know otherwise. My daughter Catherine’s wedding ring. A dried flower my son Thomas gave me when he was five.

      A miniature of the third Duke of Norfolk.

      He had given it to me years ago; indeed, I think he passed them out to half the kingdom in case anyone should be overcome with the urge to admire him.

      I stare at it now. How grave and proud he looks, holding his staffs of office in those elegant hands! His face is an impervious mask; it is a perfect rendering.

      I must stop crying. Where have tears ever got me?

      I clutch the miniature to my heart a long moment before casting it across the room. Good God, would Thomas be seen crying over a portrait of me?

      He may never have cried for me, but there was a time … oh, yes, there was a time….

      A Little Maid

      I am installed as one of Catherine of Aragon’s ladies-in-waiting in the spring of 1509 at the great age of twelve, when the golden and glorious King Henry VIII ascends the throne of England. She is so beautiful, this unique Spanish woman with her charming accent and her silky auburn hair. She is pious and kind; her gracious sweetness warms me like the sun and I adore her.

      She was first married to Prince Arthur. How we pitied her when he died, leaving her to live in a wretched castle with a meagre household and dwindling funds for six years while surly King Henry VII tried to figure out what to do with her. Once he even pondered marrying her himself after the death of his wife, the gentle Queen Elizabeth, but then decided against it in favour of a union with his son. He could never bring himself to carry it out, however. I think he enjoyed holding the King of Spain’s daughter hostage just as much as King Ferdinand liked dickering over the dowry agreement. It was a frustrating situation.

      But Henry VIII set it right. He swept in, like a great glorious knight of old, and married the radiant princess. England could not be blessed with a nobler nor gentler queen.

      They have a joint coronation ceremony and I am able to attend everything: the jousts, the parties, the fine banquets, everything. I stay up late and gossip with the other girls in the maidens’ chambers and we are beside ourselves with excitement. It is far better than home, where there was nothing to do and no one visited save old boring people who discussed the tedious things that old people relish, like their failing health and war and death. Oh, what a dreadful place!

      But here! Oh, it is grand! At the joust celebrating the coronation, we pick our favourite champions; some of the girls give tokens, but the queen says I am too young so must settle on waving instead.

      Many girls give their tokens to Charles Brandon, the king’s dearest friend, and the handsome Howard brothers, Edward and Edmund. As fetching as they are, my eyes are drawn to the oldest Howard, Thomas, uncle of the king through his wife, Anne of York. He is a compact man but rippling with lean muscle, and something about him makes me shudder with a mingling of fear and peculiar delight. His dark face is set with determination and he does not offer the easy smiles his brothers do. Curling hair black as pitch reaches his jawline and his long-lashed obsidian eyes seem distracted, as though not really as caught up in the spirit of the events as the rest of us are.

      I watch fair Lady Anne tuck her token in Lord Howard’s armour. He kisses her cheek and she flushes furiously.

      “Those poor souls,” whispers the queen’s maid of honour, Maria de Salinas, a woman so devoted to the queen that she opted to stay and suffer with her through her years of deprivation rather than return to the land of sunshine

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