Page 30 of Love, Remember Me

The Duke of Norfolk watched as the bishop moved away from him. How sickeningly pious he is, the duke considered. He cared not what happened to the Wyndham girl as long as his own power was preserved. Oh, he did not want to be involved in what he considered an un-Christian and immoral act; but he would not protest the benefits of such an act. Then Thomas Howard searched among the courtiers for one particular person. Finding him, he called to his personal page, "Go to the Earl of March, boy, and tell him I would see him in my privy chamber."

The duke turned away from the archery field and walked slowly back to the palace. Inside, he made his way to his own private apartments. A servant came forward with a cup of wine for him as he entered. Taking it, he told the man, "The Earl of March is expected. Show him to my privy chamber when he arrives, and make certain that we are not disturbed while he is with me." The duke then entered the private room he maintained for special meetings, and settled himself into a chair by the fire. There was a good blaze going, for though it was April, the day had a chill to it. Thomas Howard was always cold, and though he was parsimonious in many ways, there were always fires burning wherever he was in residence. He sighed deeply and sipped at his wine. He was sixty-seven years old this year, and he was beginning to grow tired of always having to watch out for his family, but his son could certainly not be expected to handle matters as well as he. Henry was a poet, not a tactician. Well, at least he had a son to carry on the Howard name.

I have sired four children, the duke thought, and two are dead. The meanderings of an old man, he decided, shaking himself. He drank deeply of his cup. He had become a father for the first time when he was fifteen, and what an uproar his illegitimate daughter, Mary Elizabeth, had caused. Her mother had been his distant, orphaned cousin, Bess, and she had died giving birth to their child. Bess had been only fourteen, but she had been one of his best friends. Her death had somehow changed him. He never again gave away his heart. Their daughter was raised by the family, for he would have it no other way. He arranged a good match for her. Mary Elizabeth had been married at twenty, the same year in which his first legitimate son, Thomas, had been born to Anne of York, and had died.

It had not been easy finding a suitable husband for Mary Elizabeth Howard. But as his family was rich and powerful, and because his daughter was formally recognized, a bridegroom had finally been obtained. Henry de Winter, Earl of March, was an ambitious man. Marriage to a Howard, even one on the distaff side who had been born on the wrong side of the blanket, offered advantages he otherwise would have been unable to obtain.

His family had never been an important one. Although they were comfortable, they were not rich by any means. Henry de Winter had not expected to fall in love with his wife, but he had done so. Hence his grief at Mary Elizabeth's death in childbirth, two years after their marriage, had been great. He had not remarried, and been somewhat confused as to how to raise the infant son he had been left. Fortunately, his father-in-law had involved himself in the matter.

Thomas Howard's first wife, Anne of York, had died in 1513. He had married Lady Elizabeth Stafford three years later. Their son, Henry, had been born the following year. A daughter had been born in 1520. His wife had insisted upon naming her Mary, and he dared not protest. Mary Elizabeth had been dead these ten years past, and what difference did it really make? But he never forgot his wife's insensitivity, for she had known of that first daughter, as she knew his grandson, who lived in his house.

There was a knock upon the door, and Varian de Winter, Earl of March, entered the duke's privy chamber. "Good day, Grandfather," he said. "What mischief are you up to now?"

"Help yourself to the wine," the older man said gruffly, "and then come sit opposite me. Varian, I need your help in a small matter."

Varian de Winter lifted an eyebrow questioningly as he poured himself a generous goblet of wine. His grandfather kept a good cellar, and had taught him to appreciate a fine vintage. He was obviously not so far off the mark. The old man was up to something. He sniffed at his wine, smiled, satisfied, and took a swallow even as he settled himself across from Thomas Howard. "Very well, my lord, I am listening."

He's got my long face and eyes, the duke thought, but the rest of him looks de Winter. How deceiving, for he is pure Howard in his thinking. "The land that was part of your mother's dowry," he began.

"The land you somehow never remembered to turn over to my father?" the earl said, his tone amused. "Aye, I know it."

"Would you like it if I signed it over to you, Varian?"

"At what price, my lord?" the earl said softly.

"Must there necessarily be a price between us, Varian?" the duke asked his grandson, his tone just faintly pained.

"Do you remember the first lesson you ever taught me, Grandfather?" the earl said. "You taught me, that which you can have for nothing, is worth nothing. That everything desirable has some price attached to it."

Thomas Howard laughed. "You learned well, Varian; certainly better than your uncle Henry. Very well, there is a price, but first I would know if you have pledged yourself to any woman."

"Nay," the earl said, growing more and more curious. "Why?"

"I have a match in mind for you, but it will involve a slight bit of danger. That is why I am willing to give you your mother's dowry lands in payment for this small deed. The girl I have in mind is an heiress with lands close to yours, in fact just across the river from you."

"What is it you want me to do, Grandfather?"

"I want your cousin, Catherine, to be England's next queen," the duke said quietly. His grandson's eyes widened just barely, but he remained silent, and Thomas Howard continued. "The king has recently begun to show her great favor. His marriage to the Flanders mare will soon be annulled. When it is, Catherine Howard must be the king's choice for a bride. One small thing stands in her way, however."

"Lady Nyssa Wyndham," the earl said. "I am privy to all the same gossip, Grandfather. The king dances between these two maids like a lad of sixteen. Nyssa Wyndham could as easily be England's next queen as my cousin Catherine, could she not? What is it he calls her? His wild rose? Well, let me tell you, Grandfather, that rose has thorns. She is as proper a young woman as I have ever met, and devoted to the queen."

"Your cousin, Cat, the king calls his rose without a thorn," the duke said. "We must see that Henry Tudor chooses the gentler of these two English roses, who is, of course, our Catherine. Nyssa Wyndham must lose the king's favor. I have a plan."

"I had not a doubt about that," the earl said with some humor.

"If the king were to discover Nyssa Wyndham in a gentleman's bed, his disappointment would certainly be great. Such a discovery would make it impossible for him to marry her, and leave the field wide open to our own little Catherine. It is a foolproof scheme, Varian."

"Except for one thing, Grandfather. The king would be quite apt in his anger and disillusionment to lop off his rival's head. Surely you are not suggesting that I be that rival?" the earl said.

"It is precisely what I am suggesting, but you need not worry about losing your head, my lad. In the eyes of the world, the king is a married man. He may take a mistress, of course, but that mistress cannot be a young girl of good family. Such a thing, as you know, would be unacceptable. Therefore, though we know he is half courting these two maidens despite his married state, we look the other way, and say nothing. If you were to even hint that he was courting these maidens beneath his lawful wife's nose,then, my dear Varian, you would be in danger of losing your head. The king is a prude. He believes himself a righteous and virtuous man. Though he will try to seduce a married woman, he would never seduce a maid. For Henry Tudor, Catherine Howard and Nyssa Wyndham are his romantic ideal of innocence. Either one is the perfect bride for him. He has but to choose. I wish to make his decision a simple one.

"If he finds that the Wyndham girl is not what he believed, his choice will naturally fall upon our Catherine. As for Nyssa Wyndham, her family sent her to court to see if she might find a husband. Naturally the king will insist that because you have dishonored her, you must marry her. I will concur with his decision, and apologize profusely for your behavior. The king will have Catherine for his next wife, and you will have a pretty heiress for your wife. Her family cannot object, as you will make things right, and their daughter will be the Countess of March."

"And if I refuse you, Grandfather?" the earl demanded. "This is not as simple as you try to make it sound. The king is unpredictable in his temper, as you know. He could send both the girl and me to the Tower."

"If you refuse me, I shall have to find another man to do this deed for me. Are you refusing me, Varian? You have never refused me before. I have always been able to rely upon you," the duke said.

"Aye, you always have, Grandfather, haven't you? I have always done your bidding, even when I felt you asked too much of me. Like the time my uncle Henry seduced the daughter of one of your farmers, and she hung herself when she discovered she was with child, and my uncle would not accept his responsibility. The girl had never named her lover, but to say he was of the duke's get. You asked me to accept the blame for that crime, and I did so. I understood, even if Henry did not, that Norfolk's heir must be a man with a spotless reputation for honorable behavior.

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