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Authors: D. L. Bogdan
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shake my head. I would never risk bringing another child into the world after such heartbreak; loving something that seemed destined to be taken away was rather an invitation for more pain.
We watch the jousting tourney, where Lord Howard takes the day. His victory is met with the briefest of smiles and a curt nod of gratitude but he is not as demonstratively ecstatic as his rivals are jealous. I find myself pleased that he has won some sort of recognitionânot that it will make anything right for him by any standard, but it is nice to be favored once in a while.
That evening at the entertainments, I am paired off with Lord Howard for a dance. It is strange. He isnât a big man at all but there is something so powerful in him, an energy that flows through his elegant hand into my own. We talk of nonsensical things, the joust and Charles Brandon. I tease him a bit to bring a smile to his face. It is not easy, but I find at this moment it is what I wish for most.
When I am rewarded with a slow, almost nervous smile, I offer my most charming in return. He is an older man, old enough to be my own father, but I have no designs on him. He is married to a fine lady, after all.
I just want to see him smile.
The next day a miniature deer park and castle are set up in the tiltyard and there is a spectacular show in honor of Diana, goddess of the hunt. It is quite the display, with the lads slaying the stags and hanging their bloody carcasses from poles for the delight of the ladies.
I cannot say that I am particularly delighted. I have never been keen on the idea of blood and gore, and from what I can tell, neither is Her Grace. She offers a tight-lipped smile as though trying to swallow a gag and waves at the gentlemen who are trying so hard to win her favor.
Charles Brandon is there along with all the Howards. They are quite handsome, even Brandon, who I love to tease about because nearly everyone has taken a fancy to him. I havenât. Despite his pretty face, it is easy to see he will soon take to fat.
Lord Thomas Howard takes part in the festivities with his grim face set in determination. He draws back his bowstring with skilled perfection, hitting every intended mark. There are moments when his expression softens as he gazes at his bow, but they do not last long. Whatever emotions he allows to creep into his heart this day, he manages to keep at bay.
âPray for him,â the queen urges when she finds my eyes have rested upon him. I flush in embarrassment. âThere are only two ways a man can go in the wake of such tragedy.â
I offer a grave nod, then bow my head and murmur a quick prayer for the poor wretched Howards.
I am relieved when the hunt is over and we are allowed to take some rest. I never thought there could be such a thing as too much celebrating, but when I lay head to feathers that night, I drift into the blissful sleep of the overtired, dreaming of all the happy things I have been pleased to bear witness to.
Long forgotten is the Howardsâ tragic lot. All I can think of are the conduits of London running red with wine in celebration of our glorious king and queen.
On 29 June, the kingâs grandmother Margaret Beaufort passes on. The bells toll for six days in her memory and I admit I am more saddened that our celebrations have been cut short than over the passing of that old curmudgeon.
Still, she was the kingâs grandmother, which means she was the queenâs relation by marriage, too, so I give the proper deference and pray for her obstinate old soul.
When the period of mourning passes, the king takes to ruling his realm and everything is made merry again. Into the kingdom drift minds of more intelligence than I could ever possess and they bring to us their Greek and Latin plays and books, their ideas about religion and art and music, their passion, their energy, and novelty.
King Henry relishes his merrymaking. Everything is cause for celebration: feast days,
We watch the jousting tourney, where Lord Howard takes the day. His victory is met with the briefest of smiles and a curt nod of gratitude but he is not as demonstratively ecstatic as his rivals are jealous. I find myself pleased that he has won some sort of recognitionânot that it will make anything right for him by any standard, but it is nice to be favored once in a while.
That evening at the entertainments, I am paired off with Lord Howard for a dance. It is strange. He isnât a big man at all but there is something so powerful in him, an energy that flows through his elegant hand into my own. We talk of nonsensical things, the joust and Charles Brandon. I tease him a bit to bring a smile to his face. It is not easy, but I find at this moment it is what I wish for most.
When I am rewarded with a slow, almost nervous smile, I offer my most charming in return. He is an older man, old enough to be my own father, but I have no designs on him. He is married to a fine lady, after all.
I just want to see him smile.
The next day a miniature deer park and castle are set up in the tiltyard and there is a spectacular show in honor of Diana, goddess of the hunt. It is quite the display, with the lads slaying the stags and hanging their bloody carcasses from poles for the delight of the ladies.
I cannot say that I am particularly delighted. I have never been keen on the idea of blood and gore, and from what I can tell, neither is Her Grace. She offers a tight-lipped smile as though trying to swallow a gag and waves at the gentlemen who are trying so hard to win her favor.
Charles Brandon is there along with all the Howards. They are quite handsome, even Brandon, who I love to tease about because nearly everyone has taken a fancy to him. I havenât. Despite his pretty face, it is easy to see he will soon take to fat.
Lord Thomas Howard takes part in the festivities with his grim face set in determination. He draws back his bowstring with skilled perfection, hitting every intended mark. There are moments when his expression softens as he gazes at his bow, but they do not last long. Whatever emotions he allows to creep into his heart this day, he manages to keep at bay.
âPray for him,â the queen urges when she finds my eyes have rested upon him. I flush in embarrassment. âThere are only two ways a man can go in the wake of such tragedy.â
I offer a grave nod, then bow my head and murmur a quick prayer for the poor wretched Howards.
I am relieved when the hunt is over and we are allowed to take some rest. I never thought there could be such a thing as too much celebrating, but when I lay head to feathers that night, I drift into the blissful sleep of the overtired, dreaming of all the happy things I have been pleased to bear witness to.
Long forgotten is the Howardsâ tragic lot. All I can think of are the conduits of London running red with wine in celebration of our glorious king and queen.
On 29 June, the kingâs grandmother Margaret Beaufort passes on. The bells toll for six days in her memory and I admit I am more saddened that our celebrations have been cut short than over the passing of that old curmudgeon.
Still, she was the kingâs grandmother, which means she was the queenâs relation by marriage, too, so I give the proper deference and pray for her obstinate old soul.
When the period of mourning passes, the king takes to ruling his realm and everything is made merry again. Into the kingdom drift minds of more intelligence than I could ever possess and they bring to us their Greek and Latin plays and books, their ideas about religion and art and music, their passion, their energy, and novelty.
King Henry relishes his merrymaking. Everything is cause for celebration: feast days,
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