Rivals in the Tudor Court
As Queen Catherine’s maid, and daughter of the Duke of Buckingham, the future seems bright for Elizabeth Stafford. But when her father gives her hand to Thomas Howard, third Duke of Norfolk, the spirited young woman must sacrifice all for duty. Yet Elizabeth is surprised by her passion for her powerful new husband. And when he takes on a mistress, she is determined to fight for her love and her honour…Naïve and vulnerable, Bess Holland is easily charmed by the Duke of Norfolk, doing his bidding in exchange for gifts and adoration. For years, she and Elizabeth compete for his affections. But they are mere spectators to an obsession neither can rival: Norfolk’s quest to weave the Howard name into the royal bloodline.The women’s loyalties are tested as his schemes unfold – among them the litigious marriage of his niece Anne Boleyn to King Henry VIII. But in an age of ruthless beheadings, no self-serving motive goes unpunished – and Elizabeth and Bess will have to fight a force more sinister than the executioner’s axe…This riveting drama sweeps eight decades and six monarchs. It’s the story of lost innocence, of passion that knows no bounds, and of a man battling an enemy even more formidable than the bloodthirsty Henry VIII: himself.
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Rivals in the Tudor Court
Darcey Bonnette
Copyright
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
AVON
A division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street, London SE1 9GF
First published by Kensington Publishing, New York, 2011
RIVALS IN THE TUDOR COURT. Copyright © D.L. Bogdan 2011. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
D.L. Bogdan asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication
Source ISBN: 9781847562586
Ebook Edition © OCTOBER 2011 ISBN: 9781847563026
Version: 2018-07-25
Dedication
For my sailor
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Book One
Thomas
The Tower of London
Armor
Two Bonny Lads
A New Allegiance
Family Man
The Passing of a Crown
Book Two
Elizabeth
Kenninghall
A Little Maid
Of Princes …
… and Pirates
Change Winds
The Fruits of War
A Countess’s Life
The Isle of Erin
Traitors and Lovers
The Duke of Norfolk
Book Three
Bess
Mendham, Suffolk
A Real Live Duke
Two Ladies
The Palace Shaped Like an H
The End of an Era
For the King’s Pleasure
Kenninghall
The Redbourne Years
A Howard Rose
Blossom of Hope
Book Four
The Howard Legacy
Fall from Grace
Gratia Dei, Sum Quod Sum!
Norfolk House
Further Reading
A Reading Group Guide
Discussion Questions
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Other Books by Darcey Bonnette
The Tower of London
Thomas Howard, January 1547
Two bitches, a bewildered dolt, and a hothead have condemned me to this wretched place. The first wench would be my lovely wife, Elizabeth, whose list of virtues is far too extensive to catalogue. The second is my mistress, Bess Holland, who found it expedient to trade her lover for jewels and lands. The dolt is my daughter Mary, whose endless capacity for ineptness exempts her from being entirely to blame. But the hothead! The hothead is my own son Henry, Earl of Surrey, that talented boy I put such store in. My Surrey. Surrey, who claims to loathe upstarts with all his being yet decides to become one himself, quartering his arms with that of Edward the Confessor (a right reserved for kings alone!), bragging about what we Howards would achieve while ruling through Prince Edward when he comes to power, even plotting the kidnapping of His little Highness…. Oh, I cannot think of it! Fools!
It is cold in the Tower. Dampness seeps through the bare stone walls, rats scamper about, eager to feast upon my flesh should my soul decide to vacate it.
“You will have to wait,” I tell them.
I lie on my bed and scowl at the ceiling. This will not do. I have written to Henry VIII. I have grovelled and snivelled and humiliated myself to the fullest extent. But why would he break with tradition to spare me? What am I saying? It is thinking like this that will kill me. I have never entertained such notions before. I have always survived. I have always pressed on.
I am Thomas Howard.
Armor
Ashwelthorpe, 1478
“It was a vulgar display!” cries my grandfather, Baron John Howard, slamming his fist on the dining table, regarding my father, Sir Thomas, with hard black eyes. “Children, Thomas! Five-year-old brats—my God, it’s like handing a dukedom to that one there!” He waves an impatient hand at me. I wish I could crawl under the table to sit with my dog, but the last time I did that the baron pulled me up by the arm so hard that it ached for days. “That daft king would rather see two children wed than honour me with what is due,” he goes on. “I am the rightful Duke of Norfolk! Mowbray was my cousin, after all! It is fitting that I should have been named heir instead of his snivelling, drooling girl-child!”
Sir Thomas purses his lips, annoyed, though whether it is with my grandfather or the situation, I cannot discern. He shifts on the bench, his thick hands toying with a piece of bread. “It was most unfair, my lord,” he says. “We can thank God, however, that the king had the grace to knight me at the wedding ceremony.”
“Oh, yes, thank God for that,” spits the baron, but I have the distinct feeling he is not thankful at all.
I look under the table at my favourite dog, a grey mongrel named Rain, offering him a reassuring smile.
