Three Sisters Three Queens Read online

  “They can’t get out of hand,” Harry announces. He tips his head to me. “Ask the Queen of Scots: she knows,” he says. “She knows that you have to keep the people in their place with all the skill you have. But once they disobey, you have to smash them down. Don’t you? Smash them down.”

  I can’t deny it, though both Mary and Katherine look to me to soothe Harry. “When they rise up they have to be put down,” I say simply. “Look at me—d’you think I would not be on my throne now, but for the people turning against me in their folly?”

  “But that was because—” starts Mary and I see, though no one else does, that her husband pinches her hand, to tell her to be silent. Charles Brandon is Harry’s favorite friend, his companion for jousting and drinking, dancing and card-playing. And he has kept his place at the king’s side, month after month, year after year, by never disagreeing with his royal friend and master. Whatever Harry says, Charles agrees. He’s like one of those hinged dolls that Archibald gave to James that just nods its head: nod, nod, nod. Brandon can be nothing but agreeable to his royal master. The hinge of his neck only works one way: nod, nod, nod—“yes, yes, yes.”

  “I shall ride out,” Harry insists. He turns to the captain of the guard behind him. “Send for the Duke of Norfolk and his son the earl.”

  “My lord—” Katherine begins. Harry has listened to her since the first days of their marriage. But he was bedding her then, besotted with her, and certain that together they would make a son and heir. Now, after all the losses, he doubts that she knows so very much. He doubts that she speaks God’s truth. He doubts that he could learn anything from her. He gives a little swagger and glances round to see that Bessie Blount has noticed his courage. He interrupts Katherine: “We ride tonight.”

  Brandon knows they’re in no hurry, and doesn’t even bother to arm. They don’t leave that night, not until late the next morning. Brandon orders his horse in its finest trappings, and rides beside Harry, but they go at a leisurely pace and while they are on their way, the Howards, father and son, take the heavily armed guard through the streets and sweep them clear of the lads. The apprentice boys, some of them grown men, some of them little more than children, are sobering up and tiring, wishing that they were not so far from home, and starting to find the way back to their own districts, when they hear the ring of many hooves on cobbles and see, coming round the corner, the Duke of Norfolk at the head of his men, his visor down, a small army behind him with grim, unforgiving faces, riding them down as if they were Scots at Flodden.

  The boys go under the hooves of the warhorses, like children falling beneath a plow. Norfolk takes it upon himself to be judge and jury. Dozens are killed in the first charge, forty lads are hanged, drawn and quartered for the crime of not taking to their heels fast enough, and hundreds—nobody knows how many—two hundred? three hundred? four?—are herded into every prison in the city, awaiting a mass trial and a mass execution, by the time that Harry and Brandon and half a dozen lords ride in.

  The ladies of the court follow the noblemen, and a date is set within the week for the trial of all of the young men, regardless of age, or intent, or act. Mostly, they are boys in their first year of training, drawn from homes in the country, new to the City. They were excited by the sermon and fired up against the French; they were drunk on the May Day ales and free from work in a long four-year apprenticeship. Their masters laughed and told them to burn down the houses of rivals. Nobody told them to stay home. Nobody warned them what would happen—how should they know? Who would bring an army against children in their own capital city? These are boys working to learn the trades of maltsters, saddlers, butchers, smiths. Some of them have inky fingers from the presses, some of them are scalded from making candle wax. Some of them are regularly beaten by their masters, most of them are hungry. It does not matter, no individual matters at all. Henry is too great a king to worry about a little lad, to trouble himself about an orphan boy. They will be judged all together in one great trial, and Thomas Wolsey, whose father was once an apprentice boy like these, opens their trial at Westminster with a long speech that reproves them for causing a breach of the peace and warns them that the penalty is death.

  I think sourly that they probably know that already, as each one of them is standing with a rope around his neck, holding the spare end in his shaking hand. They are to go out of here and queue up at the public gallows that have been put up at street corners all around the city, each wearing his own halter, carrying his own rope, and wait in line to be hanged.

  “We’re going to have to do something,” Katherine says quietly to me. “We cannot allow hundreds of apprentices to be killed. We will speak out.”

  Mary is white. “Can we ask for mercy?” Her belly is large before her; she has never looked more beautiful. She is like a swollen bud with a white petal face. The three of us huddle closely together, like angels conspiring to turn tyranny into mercy.

  “Has Harry asked us to plead for pardon?” I question Katherine.

  Her quick gesture of denial tells me everything. “No, no, it should look like our idea. It is the queen’s prerogative. He should stand for justice, we should beg him for kindness.”

  “What do we do?” Mary asks.

  “I am asking you to plead with me,” Katherine says.

  “Of course we will,” I say, cutting off Mary’s enthusiastic assent. “It’s just another dance in a new masque. We should do it beautifully. Do you know your cue?”

  Mary is puzzled. “Don’t you want to save them, Maggie?” she asks me. “See, the youngest ones are barely more than children. Think of your little boy. Don’t you want them to have a royal pardon at your request?”

  “Go on then,” I say. “Let’s see you beg your wonderful brother.” I turn to Katherine. “Let us see the Queen of England begging the king for the good of the people. This is better than a play, better than a masque. Let’s have a joust of pitiful tears. Which of us can be the more poignant? Which of us will do it most beautifully?”

  Mary is confused by my bitter tone. “I am sorry for the boys.”

  “So am I,” I say. “I am sorry for everyone who comes up against the Howards. They’re not famous for chivalry.”

  Katherine’s sideways glance at me shows that the barb has hurt her. But she takes Mary’s hand. “Let’s all sue for mercy,” she says.

  The younger boys are dumb with terror; they don’t understand what is being said. The fat Lord Chancellor in his blazing red robes is an incomprehensible figure to them, the great hall of Westminster Palace, draped with gold banners and the standards of the lords, is overwhelmingly bright, too rich for them to dare to look around. Many of them are openly crying; a couple are craning their necks to see beyond the great men and women to where the common people are standing in silence. One calls out “Mama!” and someone slaps him.

  “Don’t you want to see them freed?” Mary whispers.

  “I don’t like masques,” I say shortly.

  “This is real!” Katherine snaps at me.

  “No, it’s not.”

  Thomas Wolsey gets down from his judgment seat and goes to where Harry is sitting on his throne, a golden cloth of estate over his head, his crown on his auburn hair, his handsome face stern. The fat fool Wolsey kneels slowly onto a huge hassock that just happens to be conveniently placed before the king. I see, behind Wolsey, equally positioned, three smaller hassocks, embroidered with gold thread. I imagine these are for us. I wait. Katherine will know what is to be done. She will have designed this with her husband. They may even have consulted a dancing master.

  A sigh goes through the four hundred boys as they see Wolsey put his hands together in the sign of fealty. They realize now that the great man is pleading for their lives from the great king who still sits in silence. Some of the common people whisper “Please!” Some of the mothers are weeping. “À Tudor!” someone calls, as if to remind Harry of old loyalties.

  Henry’s face is as grave as a beautiful statue