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

say for lack of anything else. I cannot imagine Henry married. This means I am not far behind. A thrill of excitement surges through me. "I wish it were me," I blurt.
    "Getting married? Whatever for?" Norfolk's tone leaves its monotony to become incredulous. "Marriage is a tedious thing."
    "Maybe not for everyone," I tell him, stroking my pup's silky ear. "I heard that the king's own sister has married for love before."
    "And has been repaid by nothing but misery for it," Norfolk says. "One doesn't marry for love, Mary. One marries for advantage. There are only two kinds of people in this world: the advantaged and the disadvantaged. Everything you do, every choice you make, is to ensure that you remain in the former group. Getting caught up in love and lust and such nonsense are distractions the advantaged cannot afford if they want to retain their position."
    "But King Henry loves Anne," I say in a small voice.
    Norfolk is silent a long moment. "Go to bed, Mary." I turn and trudge out, carrying my soiled wrap balled up under one arm and my puppy wriggling under the other. "And don't bring that creature in here again," he adds.
    I keep my head down as I walk through the halls, hoping not to run into anyone I know. All I want to do is snuggle under the covers with my new puppy, who is worthy of being called more than a creature . I want to think about love and marriage and my brother Surrey.
    I want to believe that love can exist, even for the advantaged.

    Time does not pass at court as it would in what I now refer to as "the outside world." Out there, time ebbs and flows like the tides--it surges, it slows. Here it is always surging, forging ahead, constant. If you slow your pace you are drowned. I am caught up, carried along by the current of the other ladies, of Anne, of my father.
    We go on progress to visit the many great castles and palaces in the realm. We go on hunts. We have masques, and King Henry leaps out at us in disguise. Norfolk instructs Anne that she is under no circumstances to ever admit that she knows it is Henry--he loves believing he is fooling everyone. I laugh, but I think it is a little ridiculous. How could a grown man, and one as distinctive in manner and height as he, ever believe he can be shrouded in anonymity? I decide that he needs to believe it the way I need to believe in the faerie folk and love matches: anything to take you away.
    Poor old Cardinal Wolsey, whose obesity and pomposity had been the source of much amusement, dies that November. He keeled over on the road on his progress to London for his execution for treason, so I felt a little better. I am certain he would rather have died on the road than by the axe. I can only imagine how many times it would have taken to strike through that thick neck. I cringe at the thought.
    Anne cheers when she hears the news. "Rid of the old fool at last!" she cries.
    At my obvious puzzlement regarding her joy over what I consider tragic and pathetic, Madge Shelton, ever the informer, pulls me aside.
    "He was one of the parties responsible for breaking her betrothal to Lord Henry Percy," she explains.
    "She was betrothed?" I ask, incredulous. Betrothal was as good as marriage; many took to the pleasures of the bed as soon as their troth was pledged.
    Madge nods, eager to be the deliverer of this gossip. "How could you not know? Your father helped dispel the match with the zeal he'd exert in putting down a Scottish rebellion!" She shrugs then. "But I forget how young you are. You were at Kenninghall when all that happened." She casts a sidelong look at our tempestuous cousin. "But our Anne never forgot Wolsey's part in it all, and some think it was her more than anyone who pushed the king to have Wolsey executed. I think King Henry was just as content to have him left where he was."
    My heart sinks to hear such news of my pretty cousin. I am too young to understand what heartbreak does to a person, how it embitters and twists them. I can only think