Read Online Secrets of the Tudor Court by D. L. Bogdan - Free Book Online Page B

a wraith, back turned to me, head bent in prayer. I do not know how long it is like this. Sometimes I think I hear muffled voices. Other times I feel a cool cloth swabbing my forehead.
    Strength ebbs back into me, reluctant and sluggish in my veins. I open my eyes to see the figure by the prie-dieu rising. He turns. Norfolk. I do not know if my shock registers on my face; though my father is one of the most professed Catholics at court, I did not know he really prayed much except at Mass.
    “So,” he says, striding toward the bed and sitting beside me. “You’ve decided to join us.”
    I nod. I wish he didn’t know I am awake. I should like to watch him pray for me more, now that I realize it is him.
    “Good,” he says in clipped tones. “There have been many goings-on since you’ve been on your little holiday. I have plans for you.”
    My face falls.
    He reaches out as though to touch my face, then seems to think better of it and withdraws his hand. Perhaps he is afraid of contracting whatever it is I have.
     
     
    It is not the plague, something that would have sent king and court into such panic that they would have retreated immediately to one of the country palaces. It is a fever; some indistinguishable imbalance of the humors that the physicians assured would resolve itself with rest.
    “This is quite an active life for a child as young as she,” one physician ventures. “Likely it was spurred by exhaustion.”
    My father says nothing and the man is dismissed. We are alone. I am sitting up now, taking in broth and bread with trembling hands.
    “We are returning to Kenninghall,” he says. “You will rest there while I take care of some business.”
    My disappointment is writ on my face, for he adds, “Look sharp, girl. We will return directly.”
    I do not want to tell him of the heaviness in both stomach and heart at the thought of him, my mother, and Bess Holland under the same roof again. Perhaps if I play sick enough they will be too preoccupied with me to cause much grief.
     
     
    I ride in a litter to Kenninghall this time, as my health is still too fragile to sit a horse. As we depart London I draw the curtains around me. To leave the bustling court for the dark, mournful halls of home is disheartening. I wonder why Father is taking me at all. I could have been left behind in his spacious apartments to recover under the watchful care of his staff. He must have his reasons; after all, he did say he had plans for me.
    At the sight of my childhood home I am stirred by a surge of strength and leap out of the litter, running into the great hall. All homesickness for court has dissipated and I can think of nothing but Bess. I want to run into her arms and tell her all I have seen and done these past two years.
    I know I must refrain from such displays, however. I must not offend my lady mother.
    She stands in the hall, small and square shouldered, to greet Norfolk. Her dress is a somber black velvet with a matching gable hood. A few stray curls have escaped the hood to frame her face. Again I can’t help but think of how becoming she would be if she were happy.
    “Back so soon, my lord?” she asks in her low, ironic tone.
    Norfolk sweeps into an exaggerated bow. “My lady,” he says. “Trust I would have postponed the ordeal indefinitely had I my druthers. However, given your last letter, I was compelled to rush to your side.” His voice is riddled with sarcasm.
    Mother scowls. “To what purpose?”
    “Let us call it persuasion.” The corner of his mouth lifts into a suggestion of a smile, a smile without love or joy or kindness. I shudder.
    She closes her eyes, looking inward to draw from some deep strength of will, as though readying herself for a great battle. She expels a heavy sigh. “Let us sup first.”
    No one argues. Far better to go to war on a full belly.
    We are ravenous and Mother laid out a good table. From silver plates we eat an assortment of mutton, capons, venison, hare, all