by G Lawrence
The other maids chattered with excitement as cannons fired from the city. Through the din, Anne and I looked at each other, fixing false smiles on our faces.
Chapter Fifty
Greenwich Palace
January 1540
That night there was a sumptuous feast in the great hall. The Queen arrived in a gown of taffeta with long, flowing sleeves, which was slightly more attractive than the gown she had worn when we had met her. On her head was a cap of lawn, adorned with pearls and jewels, which many said must have cost a fortune, and she was wearing the jewelled sables the King had brought to Rochester and forgotten to give her. Someone must have realised at some point, since they were in her possession.
We feasted on venison accompanied by frumenty and peacock, roasted whole and redressed in its own plumage. There was pottage of leeks, chicken and greens, as well as creamy crab and fish stew, mortis of capon and almonds, thin slices of beef rolled and stuffed to resemble larks or aloes, as it was in French, and smothered rabbits, legs of mutton with currants and pepper, along with buttered cabbage, rice of Genoa, garnished custard and fritters of leek and onion.
There were custards of all descriptions to finish, along with tarts of apple, pear and damson. Roasted oranges and cream were brought out to great cheers, along with prunes in syrup, conserves of cherries, marchpane knots and white gingerbread.
The conversation was merry, but we all knew the King was not.
There was dancing after the feast, and although many men asked for my hand, the one I wanted did not. Thomas stood with Bess all night, ignoring me. Hurt and affronted, I laughed and talked with other men. I surrendered to the dance, throwing myself into it with all the passion my pain could stand.
As I curtseyed to my partner at the end of the last dance, I felt eyes upon me. When I turned, it was not Thomas staring at me. It was the King.
*
The wedding was due to take place the next day, but when we rose, Jane came to tell us it was to be delayed.
“For what reason, my lady?” asked Anne.
“What do you think?” Jane asked, her eyebrows almost leaping upon her French hood. “The King does not want her. He has brought up something about a pre-contract with the son of the Duc of Lorraine.”
“What are we to do, my lady?” I asked. “Is she to be our Queen or not? And how is the King to not marry her now? She is here, in England. Will there not be war if he refuses to take her?”
“That is what Cromwell is trying to tell the King now,” Jane said. “And he is afraid, Cromwell… this marriage was his idea. If the King is as unhappy as it seems, he will be blamed for it.”
Suddenly I understood why Jane was so keen to support the Queen. Cromwell was Jane’s patron. If he fell, she was in danger too. I had thought her concerned about poor Anne of Cleves, but it seemed she had another motive. All the same, I thought, she wants to help the Queen. So did I, and I had other motives too. I had admired the Queen for her courage and grace, but the Queen was also the reason I was at court. With her gone, there was no place here for me, or my friends.
“What do we tell the others, Lady Rochford?” Anne asked.
“Tell them of the pre-contract, but say the King is investigating only because he cares for the Queen, so wants to ensure his marriage is legal,” said Jane. “And if the Queen asks, that is what will be said to her too. It is as well she cannot understand much English, but we must make sure her translator does not hear any of the gossip flying about. The sun is not even up, and court is afire with rumour.”
“We will protect her, my lady,” I said with determination.
Jane nodded, but left with a worried crease between her eyes.
We washed and dressed quickly, heading for the Queen’s chambers where for once there were things to do. Chamberers lit fires and we ordered plates taken back to the kitchens. We made sure the cushions were plump and ready, the chambers warm, and then went to the gallery to receive the Queen’s clothes. Anne and I took them in, and the Queen was confused as to why her bridal gown had not been brought.
“We have tried to explain the delay,” Jane whispered. “But she understands us not. We need her translator, but he cannot enter until she is dressed.”
It was therefore with some difficulty that the Queen was dressed that day. Mary Howard and Margaret Douglas tried, and failed, to get her to wear a becoming French gown, but the Queen would only wear the dresses she had brought to court. When I stood near her, I could smell her body. She had refused again to wash.
“I threw as much perfume on her as I could,” Jane murmured. “Give her this ball, will you? Attach it to her gown.” She thrust a pomander, rich with ambergris and musk, into my hands.
I did as bidden, and fortunately the Queen found it so pretty she was charmed as I tied the fastening to her hideous waistband. She was less charmed when her ambassadors entered.
They went to one end of the warm chamber, and I heard her quizzing them. Although we understood little, the name “Lorraine” was heard clearly. Later, Jane told us the King had asked for documents proving the betrothal was null and void to be presented before the wedding. The ambassadors did not have them, Jane said.
“They were astonished, I think,” she whispered. “The King brushed over the matter with such ease months ago. Her men have offered to stay as his hostages until the matter is resolved, but swore to a man it is no more an issue. They say it was an engagement, not a pre-contract, and was properly broken off.”
That afternoon, as we sang for the baffled Queen and tried to amuse her, a messenger came to the door. He told the Queen she must make a solemn declaration before the Privy Council that she was free to marry. When this was translated to the Queen, she looked frankly amazed, but promptly agreed.
In trooped the Council, and with the aid of her translator, the declaration was made. The King now had no escape.
*
The next afternoon, I was carrying a pile of handkerchiefs to the Queen’s chamber, but was stopped short when I heard angry, whispering voices around the corner up ahead. I slowed my steps.
“Is there no remedy but to place my neck in this unwelcome yoke?”
My mouth fell open. It was the King.
“Majesty, if you refuse to marry, I know not what will happen,” said Cromwell. “The Duke may declare war, or unite with the Emperor, and with Spain and France already united against us…”
“I am not well handled,” said the King. I shivered at the menace in his voice.
The ground shook as someone marched down the corridor towards me. I looked around, but it was too late. If I tried to leap into a room, I would be seen scampering away and would look guilty. Instead, I straightened my shoulders and walked forwards, as though I had just wandered up this corridor.
As I came to the corner, I almost bumped straight into the person coming the other way, and as I did, I dropped the cloths. Looking up, apologising, I saw it was not Cromwell I had run into, as I had thought. It was the King.
Thomas was at his side, his cheeks pink with all he had heard, but his expression amused as cloths spilled from my hands, fluttering to the floor. Stammering apologies, I curtseyed and ducked to pick them up, my face bright red, until I felt a hand on my shoulder.
“Rise, lass,” said the King, and I did, stuttering I was sorry to have disturbed him.
“It makes no matter,” he said and waved a hand at Thomas. “Be a gentleman, Culpepper.”
I saw a disgruntled expression waft across Thomas’ face as he carried out the King’s command. “Now,” said the King. “All is well. Do not worry yourself on my account. Bumping into you, Mistress Howard, is in truth the brightest part of a day of long, dark sorrows.”
I flushed brighter red.
“You are surprised I remember you?” he asked, reading my confusion as meekness. I nodded and he beamed, pleased I was so humble. “How could I forget such a woman of beauty? There are many flowers at court, Mistress Howard, but you are the most capti
vating. Any man with eyes would think as I do, and any man who does not is a fool beyond compare.”
I saw Thomas glower. Yes, I thought, you are a fool, Thomas Culpepper, but I would have you be my fool.
“Thank you, Your Majesty,” I said, smiling and lowering my eyes. “You honour me.”
“I would honour you more,” he said, his voice almost a growl. That made my blood wary, but seeing Thomas was annoyed by his royal master giving me attention, I smiled and looked at the King through my long, black lashes.
“Any lady is honoured merely by your presence, Majesty,” I said softly. “You are the greatest, and noblest of all men.”
I knew how to look at men so they thought I adored them. I had been forced to practise enough with Francis. As I stared into the blue eyes of the King, hoping to make Thomas wild with jealousy, I saw his pupils widen and his face flush with blood. And on the face of my sweet little fool there was dark annoyance. Thomas was not immune to me as he had pretended. He cared for me still. My heart leapt happily, thrilled.
“Is it so, indeed?” the King asked softly. “I see honesty in your eyes.”
“I know not how to speak unless with honesty, Your Majesty,” I said. “The ways of court are new to me. I know not the subtle shades in which men often speak. I was raised a girl in the country, Your Majesty, taught that when I speak, it should be honest.”
“You are a sweet child,” he said. For a moment I thought he would say more, but he took my hand and kissed it, much to my amazement. “Your uncle said you were a songbird,” he said, a touch of longing in his tone. “I hope you will sing for me soon.”
“Whenever Your Majesty commands,” I said. “It is my duty but would also be my pleasure.”
I curtseyed as he left, and Thomas handed me the stack of linen with a bow. As the King walked away, Thomas looked back, and I smiled, for I saw the spark of regret in his eyes.
He scowled, knowing I had seen it and walked on. But I felt like laughing. Our game was not yet done.
I walked off thinking happily of Thomas. I did not give the King a second thought.
Chapter Fifty-One
Greenwich Palace
January 1540
The reluctant royal groom was finally brought to his wedding on the 6th of January, having run out of delays, impediments, pretexts, pleas and excuses.
“The pre-contract with the heir of Lorraine was spoken of when both parties were minors, was not secured and was unconsummated,” said Jane. ”And more importantly, the Emperor is, at this very moment, with François of France, securing alliance and friendship, putting England at risk.”
Unable to find a way to escape, the King sent out orders for the wedding to go ahead, but everyone knew he wanted not his wife.
The royal wedding was not a grand occasion, but most were not. They were private affairs. The only exception had been the wedding of Prince Arthur and Katherine of Aragon, and my grandmother had said the only reason that was a grand event was to impress her parents, who needed reassurances since they were marrying one of their princess daughters to the son of a relative unknown whose only claim to the throne was a vague link to the house of Lancaster and a battle. This one was even less so. Since it was taking place on Twelfth Night, the Epiphany, gross celebrations would be seen as ungodly, even if it were not for the painfully obvious reservations of the groom.
We rose early, for the wedding was due to start at eight of the morning. Our days had become routine, our tasks now known and well-rehearsed. We waited for the Queen’s gown, a creation of cloth of gold covered with embroidered flowers crafted from pearls. Like the others, it had no train, leaving Margaret Douglas, the trainbearer, with nothing to hold.
The Queen’s hair, fair and long, was loose and topped with a small coronet, glimmering with diamonds and pearls, to show her purity. About her throat was a collar necklace shimmering with jewels. Count von Overstein, a nobleman of her train, came to the door to give the bride away. He looked anxious, as though expecting the King might send word of another delay.
In a reversal of behaviour, the last delay was in fact not because of the King. Eager to have her clothes and hair just right, the Queen kept her husband waiting at the altar. When finally we appeared, the King looked displeased. Dressed in cloth of gold decorated with silver flowers, with bands of black fur about the hems, cuffs and collar, and a cloak of crimson hanging from his enormous shoulders by diamond clasps, the King did not smile as his bride processed towards him. Anyone would have thought this a funeral procession, to look upon his face.
He was forty-eight, she twenty-four. The thought he was easily old enough to be her father crossed my mind as we brought her to stand on the left side of her husband, placed there to remind us all that women had been made of the left rib of the first man.
The smell of rosemary woven into the Queen’s dress, symbolising fidelity in marriage and love, rose into the air as the first notes of the Mass fell upon the warm air. Asked if there was any impediment, the King sullenly replied there was none.
We stood in the gallery leading to the chapel, listening to the nuptial Mass as it was sung, and as I watched my mistress I could see no hint she thought anything wrong. She was good at concealing her emotions, that much I had learned.
As the service came to a close, the King put a golden ring onto the finger of the Queen. It was engraved with the motto “God send me well to keep”.
“God may well keep her,” Jane muttered when we were drinking spiced wine in the gallery, “for the King will not.”
I giggled at her daring as others about me hushed her.
“Lady Rochford, for shame!” said Mary Howard. “What if someone were to hear you?”
Jane merely raised her eyebrows. “Mark my words, Your Grace,” she said. “Our mistress will not be Queen long.”
It seemed Jane had a point, for within hours there were rumours, a ripple of murmuring as wind through wheat stems, that all was not well.
We attended the procession of the couple through court, and then the wedding feast. All eyes were on the King. Dressed in a doublet of tissue of gold and crimson velvet, he barely said a word to his new wife, and there were no signs of affection. It was usual for the groom to fill his bride’s cup, or feed her dainties from his plate. Nothing of that kind happened, but Queen Anne continued on, smiling and expressing joy at each new dish set before her as though blind to the dissatisfaction of the King. Perhaps she did not know the marriage customs of England, so was not concerned. More likely she knows, and is pretending she does not, I thought.
A spare few days with the Queen and I could see she was highly intelligent under all that calmness.
It had been slightly unnerving, actually, because it was never something I knew, but something I felt. It was in the way she watched everything without seeming to, like a fox on a hillside apparently unaware of the hare at the bottom until he gets close enough for the chase to begin. I would feel eyes on me, but when I turned she was smiling at another. She noted everything, I was sure. And she picked things up so fast. Card games she had learned only a few weeks ago in Calais she was now a master at. I had no need to pretend to lose money.
That evening we helped her to change into an astoundingly unflattering gown of crimson trimmed with ermine, with sleeves bunched above the elbows, which made her look like a beefy knight, and took her to Evensong. Her placid face, devoid of emotion, bowed over her hands as she prayed, no doubt asking God to help her husband to find affection for her. I understood her face. It was a court mask, a way to hide her fears.
We feasted that night, watching mummers perform and tumblers twist and bend, and we danced. As I danced that night, I felt something click. The Catherine trapped inside me and the one I presented to the world became one. The confident, exterior girl held the other up. The scared child showed the other how to be vulnerable. Together we were as one. She was my partner and I hers.
When I finished dancing, women and men praised me. I saw Thomas wat
ching me. He took his eyes away quickly, but I had seen that look.
Later, we took the Queen to the nuptial chamber. She was utterly composed as ladies from Cleves flapped about, obviously offering hints on what she was to do to please her husband. I pitied her. Although many of my encounters with Francis I did not care to recall, I did remember the occasional feeling of true pleasure. I doubted my Queen would find that with the King.
With her perfumed as best we were able, despite the fact she kept flapping us away, we left her in the bed. The King had not asked for witnesses. He had not on any of his other wedding nights, so perhaps he was embarrassed by this ceremony. At other courts it was routine for girls to be surrounded by witnesses as they were deflowered. I could not imagine it was a happy experience for either party. If the groom was young and inexperienced, he would feel shamed, and there was a great deal of pressure, which I had heard men did not respond to well. I could only think of one type of man who might enjoy such an experience, and that type was not a husband any woman would welcome.
