Free Rivals in the Tudor Court by D. L. Bogdan

unlike some,” I add pointedly. “Besides, he was probably forced to become a friar by his family. He may not even want to be one.”
    â€œYou are a silly little creature,” says Lord Thomas. “And one of poor judgment.”
    I turn toward him to glare.
    â€œI may not be delightful,” admits Lord Thomas as he rises, “but I am exceedingly handsome.” He chucks my cheek.
    â€œI suppose so,” I say with a slight smile as he retreats. “For an old man!”
    â€œTake heed my warning!” he returns.
    When I can no longer hear the footfalls and soft laughter of the arrogant knight, I stoop down to gather up the petals of my first love token, cursing Lord Thomas for spoiling my fun and alerting me to the darker side of life at court.

Of Princes . . .
    Thomas Howard, 1511
    I have reaped many a reward serving our new king, this boisterous Henry VIII. Not only have I been elected into the elite ranks of the Order of the Garter but I have been given more lands than I know what to do with.
    My princess is not as enthused about our triumphs.
    â€œWhat will we do with it all?” she asks in her soft voice as we prepare to take to London to await the birth of the king’s first heir. “Who will we pass it down to?”
    I shake my head. “We can’t pass it down to anyone if we . . . if we don’t . . .” I can’t say it. We have not coupled in three years; neither of us can bring ourselves to risk the agony that our unions seem to breed. Instead we watch with heavy hearts as everyone around us celebrates the births of their children. My brothers and sisters have given me a slew of nieces and nephews. Indeed, my own father has proven as fruitful with his second wife as his first, and I have so many new half brothers and sisters I cannot even remember some of their names. I do recall, with a measure of annoyed amusement, that he named another one of the brats Thomas, which strikes me as wholly unoriginal, but I suppose that is his matter.
    It is hardest on the princess. When confronted with these rounded bellies and lusty little baby cries, I see her hand stray to her own flat stomach wherein lies a vacant womb too scathed by sorrow to bear fruit.
    The queen’s pregnancy is the most difficult to bear, something that sends me into a rage of guilt. Queen Catherine delivered a stillborn daughter the year previous and I can well empathize with the anxiety she must be suffering while anticipating the birth of this child. Despite that I wish her nothing but the best, my heart still contracts in pain whenever my eyes travel to Her Grace’s belly.
    The joy of the realm is a constant assault to our grief. The princess begs to be left at home for the duration of the celebrations that will follow the birth, but I stand firm.
    â€œHow would that look to our sovereign?” I ask her. “You have to go. We can’t be seen hiding like petulant children. The queen is a gentle woman and can identify with you, at least somewhat. I imagine she will take into consideration your loss and not try to draw attention to . . . things when you are in her presence.”
    â€œHow can that be avoided?” the princess demands, tears streaming down her cheeks. She begins to cough as she does whenever she becomes excited. Breathless, she collapses onto her chaise.
    I sit beside her, checking the handkerchief that she so tries to hide. I don’t know why she bothers. I am well aware of the blood that stains it.
    â€œYou must stop upsetting yourself like this,” I tell her in gentler tones. I stroke her clammy cheek. “Their triumph is our triumph. We must celebrate with them just as they would with us should we ever . . .” There is no use saying that. We both know there will be no such celebrations for us.
    But the princess seems just as content to pretend as I do and she nuzzles against my upper arm. “Yes, of course. Do pardon my