all, as I am sure it has not. I close my ears to his words. There is nothing that pertains to me anyway.
My hopes for the conversation die. Hopes that he would be moved to repent of his ways and perhaps offer kindness and...softness.
I am diverted by our departure for France. The mood is gay and there is happiness even in our frantic, last-minute preparations. When we board the ship I am delighted to learn my brother and the Duke of Richmond are also joining us.
My brother Surrey clasps me to him when he sees me. "Look at you! Aren't you the little lady?" he cries when he sees me standing at the railing on deck. I am relishing the feeling of the crisp wind, salty with sea spray, whipping against my face, the roll of the waves beneath my feet. In its uncertainty the sea feels wonderful and dangerous and exciting.
"Oh, Henry!" I am so thrilled at his affectionate display I wrap my arms tight about his neck. "It is so wonderful to see you! These glimpses at court I have been afforded are never enough!"
He laughs his easy laugh and holds me at arm's length. "My God, you are a beauty. Has Father spoken to you about your marriage, then?"
I shake my head. I know it is inevitable and a slight thrill causes me to shiver as I entertain the thought. "Not since the plans for Bulbeck were tossed aside," I answer. It is just as well, too. Imagine how much I'd miss if I were some country lord's wife!
"Well, soon enough..." he says. "Lady Anne has plans for you. She and Father and--"
"Mistress Mary!"
I curtsy to the Duke of Richmond, who is running toward me, hands outstretched. I place mine in them and he rights me. At once the ship lurches forward, carried on a wave, and to my extreme embarrassment I topple over onto Fitzroy, knocking him to the ground. My brother helps us up, laughing.
My cheeks are burning. "I'm deeply sorry, my lord."
"It's Harry!" he grumbles in perfect imitation of his father. He offers a sideways grin. "That's a greeting I'll well remember!"
I bow my head, hoping my display doesn't get back to Norfolk or the king, especially the king. I don't want him to think I behaved wantonly in front of his son, illegitimate or not.
"A merry voyage this will be!" he continues. "We are invited to stay among the princes, Surrey and I, so a jolly time we shall spend with the naughty court of France!"
"How wonderful!" I cry, envying the lack of supervision at the famed French court where Lady Anne spent her own youth. "Henry, I have so much to show you! I've written verse. I write all the time. Will you look at it?"
"Of course!" he cries, and I run to retrieve my little casket of poems, eager to show my brother, so adept at poetry himself that I am at once intimidated and thrilled that he'd deign to look at my humble works.
We find an unobtrusive little corner where I allowed my brother full access to my compositions, save the unfinished "O Happy Dames."
My brother looks them over. I am surprised at how fast he can read, for he flips through the pages almost carelessly. I am a little annoyed. I had hoped he would take his time with each phrase and offer helpful criticisms.
"You write a lot about God," he says. "About your desire to be closer to Him and understand Him more through His own Word. Do you think this is wise?"
"Why wouldn't it be?" I ask, defensive. "Who doesn't want to learn more about God?"
Surrey's face is stony. "I just think it echoes a lot of the New Learning. Steer clear of it, Mary."
At once I remember my mother's advice: Believe what they want you to believe . "No worries, brother. I follow my king," I say with a sweet smile.
"That's my girl," he says, chucking me under the chin. He hands my poetry to Harry Fitzroy without my permission.
"What did you think, Henry?" I ask, nodding to the poems now in the young duke's hands. He is reading them slowly. He does not flip through the pages as my brother did. I wonder what this portends. Perhaps he, too, finds some of it verging on heretical?
My
My hopes for the conversation die. Hopes that he would be moved to repent of his ways and perhaps offer kindness and...softness.
I am diverted by our departure for France. The mood is gay and there is happiness even in our frantic, last-minute preparations. When we board the ship I am delighted to learn my brother and the Duke of Richmond are also joining us.
My brother Surrey clasps me to him when he sees me. "Look at you! Aren't you the little lady?" he cries when he sees me standing at the railing on deck. I am relishing the feeling of the crisp wind, salty with sea spray, whipping against my face, the roll of the waves beneath my feet. In its uncertainty the sea feels wonderful and dangerous and exciting.
"Oh, Henry!" I am so thrilled at his affectionate display I wrap my arms tight about his neck. "It is so wonderful to see you! These glimpses at court I have been afforded are never enough!"
He laughs his easy laugh and holds me at arm's length. "My God, you are a beauty. Has Father spoken to you about your marriage, then?"
I shake my head. I know it is inevitable and a slight thrill causes me to shiver as I entertain the thought. "Not since the plans for Bulbeck were tossed aside," I answer. It is just as well, too. Imagine how much I'd miss if I were some country lord's wife!
"Well, soon enough..." he says. "Lady Anne has plans for you. She and Father and--"
"Mistress Mary!"
I curtsy to the Duke of Richmond, who is running toward me, hands outstretched. I place mine in them and he rights me. At once the ship lurches forward, carried on a wave, and to my extreme embarrassment I topple over onto Fitzroy, knocking him to the ground. My brother helps us up, laughing.
My cheeks are burning. "I'm deeply sorry, my lord."
"It's Harry!" he grumbles in perfect imitation of his father. He offers a sideways grin. "That's a greeting I'll well remember!"
I bow my head, hoping my display doesn't get back to Norfolk or the king, especially the king. I don't want him to think I behaved wantonly in front of his son, illegitimate or not.
"A merry voyage this will be!" he continues. "We are invited to stay among the princes, Surrey and I, so a jolly time we shall spend with the naughty court of France!"
"How wonderful!" I cry, envying the lack of supervision at the famed French court where Lady Anne spent her own youth. "Henry, I have so much to show you! I've written verse. I write all the time. Will you look at it?"
"Of course!" he cries, and I run to retrieve my little casket of poems, eager to show my brother, so adept at poetry himself that I am at once intimidated and thrilled that he'd deign to look at my humble works.
We find an unobtrusive little corner where I allowed my brother full access to my compositions, save the unfinished "O Happy Dames."
My brother looks them over. I am surprised at how fast he can read, for he flips through the pages almost carelessly. I am a little annoyed. I had hoped he would take his time with each phrase and offer helpful criticisms.
"You write a lot about God," he says. "About your desire to be closer to Him and understand Him more through His own Word. Do you think this is wise?"
"Why wouldn't it be?" I ask, defensive. "Who doesn't want to learn more about God?"
Surrey's face is stony. "I just think it echoes a lot of the New Learning. Steer clear of it, Mary."
At once I remember my mother's advice: Believe what they want you to believe . "No worries, brother. I follow my king," I say with a sweet smile.
"That's my girl," he says, chucking me under the chin. He hands my poetry to Harry Fitzroy without my permission.
"What did you think, Henry?" I ask, nodding to the poems now in the young duke's hands. He is reading them slowly. He does not flip through the pages as my brother did. I wonder what this portends. Perhaps he, too, finds some of it verging on heretical?
My
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