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Authors: Katherine Longshore
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listen.
“You’re nothing but a pawn, Mary Howard. A simple, expendable female piece in a man’s game. You were married to a king’s son to placate your father for a short while. But you will be replaced when something better comes along.”
“That’s not true.” I can’t believe I have the strength to dispute her.
“No?” She whips the word like a lash. “If the rumors are valid and Henry FitzRoy is made king of Ireland, he will be able to do much better than
you
. Perhaps a French princess. Or the daughter of my cousin the Holy Roman emperor. He could do much better than a
Howard
.”
She says my family name as one would the word
whore
. In her mouth, they almost sound the same.
“My mother never consummated her marriage to the king’s brother, Arthur,” she continues. “It wasn’t a real marriage. Therefore it never really happened.” She pauses and lifts her chin. “They are still married. My parents. No matter what Anne Boleyn says.”
I regret taking up Queen Anne’s cause. I regret seeking Lady Mary out. I regret getting involved with this family at all.
“The king can change your life in an instant,” she says coolly. “Just as he changed mine. Taking away my birthright and giving it to a mewling infant
bastard
.” The word tastes like saltpeter. I wonder what she thinks of Fitz.
I wonder if she’s right. If my status can be changed in an instant. If suddenly it will be declared that I’m not married at all. If I will go back to being nothing but Mary Howard. I feel the anger and humiliation simmering in my veins and I grip my hands into fists, hiding them behind my back.
But she hasn’t finished yet.
“How would you feel,
Duchess
, to be shunned by your father? Ripped from your beloved mother, never allowed to see her again?”
“I would be overjoyed,” I retort.
“Then you are a worse child than I thought. How ungrateful.” She practically spits the words.
She reminds me overmuch of my mother, her words echoing those I try to keep from my mind. My limbs are desperate to attack. Or to retreat. To escape her vituperation. But I have a promise to fulfill.
“We all have two parents,” I say, trying to keep my voice even. “And often it is difficult to keep both of them happy.”
She stops. Frozen.
“I obeyed my father’s wishes,” I continue. “As the rules of court and the rules of God dictate.”
“The rules of God say to honor thy father
and
thy mother,” Lady Mary corrects. But she is hesitant.
I nod. Pretend to agree. Pretend that a person can actually honor both parents when they are as at odds as mine are. As hers are. Like me, she must choose one or the other.
The word
honor
is like an unripe berry dipped in cream. Rich with the expectation of sweetness, but tart with spite.
“This is why I sought you out,” I say. “To offer the possibility of restoring you to the king’s good graces.”
I see hope blooming on her face, bringing a little color to her cheeks. Her eyes are bright blue. Not at all like Fitz’s—or their father’s.
That hope is painfully familiar. If I had the opportunity to make amends with my mother, I would do anything—anything—to achieve it.
“The queen has offered to intercede. If you go to her now—honor her—she will speak with the king. Soften his heart to you.”
All signs of hope vanish from her expression, replaced by a stony resolve. And the blue eyes darken.
“I honor no queen but Katherine, daughter of Aragon,” she says, her voice cold, the Thames breaking free of the ice.
I can’t let this person see she has riled me. Every time I get angry, her energy rises. It’s as if she feeds on it. So I release my fists. Struggle to find a diplomatic reply.
But Lady Mary is not finished.
“However, if the king’s
mistress
would like to speak on my behalf”—she pauses—“I would be grateful.”
The temper of her voice is anything but appreciative.
Lady Mary turns away from me and kneels again before
“You’re nothing but a pawn, Mary Howard. A simple, expendable female piece in a man’s game. You were married to a king’s son to placate your father for a short while. But you will be replaced when something better comes along.”
“That’s not true.” I can’t believe I have the strength to dispute her.
“No?” She whips the word like a lash. “If the rumors are valid and Henry FitzRoy is made king of Ireland, he will be able to do much better than
you
. Perhaps a French princess. Or the daughter of my cousin the Holy Roman emperor. He could do much better than a
Howard
.”
She says my family name as one would the word
whore
. In her mouth, they almost sound the same.
“My mother never consummated her marriage to the king’s brother, Arthur,” she continues. “It wasn’t a real marriage. Therefore it never really happened.” She pauses and lifts her chin. “They are still married. My parents. No matter what Anne Boleyn says.”
I regret taking up Queen Anne’s cause. I regret seeking Lady Mary out. I regret getting involved with this family at all.
“The king can change your life in an instant,” she says coolly. “Just as he changed mine. Taking away my birthright and giving it to a mewling infant
bastard
.” The word tastes like saltpeter. I wonder what she thinks of Fitz.
I wonder if she’s right. If my status can be changed in an instant. If suddenly it will be declared that I’m not married at all. If I will go back to being nothing but Mary Howard. I feel the anger and humiliation simmering in my veins and I grip my hands into fists, hiding them behind my back.
But she hasn’t finished yet.
“How would you feel,
Duchess
, to be shunned by your father? Ripped from your beloved mother, never allowed to see her again?”
“I would be overjoyed,” I retort.
“Then you are a worse child than I thought. How ungrateful.” She practically spits the words.
She reminds me overmuch of my mother, her words echoing those I try to keep from my mind. My limbs are desperate to attack. Or to retreat. To escape her vituperation. But I have a promise to fulfill.
“We all have two parents,” I say, trying to keep my voice even. “And often it is difficult to keep both of them happy.”
She stops. Frozen.
“I obeyed my father’s wishes,” I continue. “As the rules of court and the rules of God dictate.”
“The rules of God say to honor thy father
and
thy mother,” Lady Mary corrects. But she is hesitant.
I nod. Pretend to agree. Pretend that a person can actually honor both parents when they are as at odds as mine are. As hers are. Like me, she must choose one or the other.
The word
honor
is like an unripe berry dipped in cream. Rich with the expectation of sweetness, but tart with spite.
“This is why I sought you out,” I say. “To offer the possibility of restoring you to the king’s good graces.”
I see hope blooming on her face, bringing a little color to her cheeks. Her eyes are bright blue. Not at all like Fitz’s—or their father’s.
That hope is painfully familiar. If I had the opportunity to make amends with my mother, I would do anything—anything—to achieve it.
“The queen has offered to intercede. If you go to her now—honor her—she will speak with the king. Soften his heart to you.”
All signs of hope vanish from her expression, replaced by a stony resolve. And the blue eyes darken.
“I honor no queen but Katherine, daughter of Aragon,” she says, her voice cold, the Thames breaking free of the ice.
I can’t let this person see she has riled me. Every time I get angry, her energy rises. It’s as if she feeds on it. So I release my fists. Struggle to find a diplomatic reply.
But Lady Mary is not finished.
“However, if the king’s
mistress
would like to speak on my behalf”—she pauses—“I would be grateful.”
The temper of her voice is anything but appreciative.
Lady Mary turns away from me and kneels again before
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