The Queen's Governess

by Karen Harper

  “Kat, listen to me,” he pleaded. He looked so desperate—so besotted—my heart wrenched, but I was coming to fear him. Not that he would leap at me, though I sensed he longed to, but that he would endanger my own dreams and desires.

  “Stop and copy that last line!” I clipped out, with a voice so stern it surprised even me. I hadn’t used such a tone since I’d told Maud I suspected her of my mother’s murder.

  “Kat,” he breathed out, his eyes darting from my face to my bodice and back again, “do not flee. I swear to you, I will not so much as touch you, but I must tell you my prospects. Though I am not the heir, Father is talking to the Crown through a man named Thomas Cromwell, who is close to the seat of power, about buying Dartington Hall for me, near where you used to live. I shall move there, rear my family there, and would you not like to return to that place, to be Lady Champernowne, when I am knighted someday for my service to the king?”

  I stared at him utterly aghast. Dartington Hall? But Cromwell had been hosted by the Barlows there, and they had been not only kind to me but to him. They had saved me by letting me tend poor Sarah, and what would she do without the home she knew and loved? Oh, yes, I knew the Barlows had leased the place from the Crown, that it was not theirs by birthright, inheritance or service, but surely the Thomas Cromwell I knew would not backstab them by seeing that their home went to another. Or—please, no, dear Lord—by his helping Sir Philip take the Hall from the Barlows because that was part of the bargain of my living here these years.

  “I can tell you are overthrown,” Arthur said. “You have no words yet, but unlike my silly sisters, you are a rational woman, brighter than all, save mayhap John. In our lessons, you excel. You have outstripped us even in Latin grammar and rhetoric, I heard Master Martin say. You could teach much of it yourself, he told my mother.”

  Ordinarily, I could have danced a jig at such praise, but my thoughts were snagged on the Barlows losing Dartington Hall.

  “Can you even give me the faintest hope that you will think on my offer?” Arthur whispered, leaning closer to me across the table. “Before Master Martin comes back in to see how we are getting on, can you not vow at the very least you will think on it? My parents would accept it—a love match. We are but third cousins, ’tis done time to time hereabouts. And for you to go back to Dartington in triumph—Kat, you look pale. You will not faint? Say something.”

  Should I finally write Cromwell and beg him not to let the Hall slip from the Barlows? But who would take such a privy message to him? Should I tell Arthur if he cared a fig for me that he should dissuade his father from this double-dealing? Cromwell tumbled off the pedestal of my hopes that day, for I saw now he must be one of those who helped others only if it helped himself. Yes, yes, I had seen that before in what he told me. And now, if I wanted to mount that ladder of life he had spoken of, was I tied to him?

  Not for one moment did I allow Arthur to believe I would consider his pleas or promises. I would not go back home as his wife, even to live in the Hall, for that would devastate people I cared for deeply. I had to go to London. I must at least glimpse the Tudors and their palaces and power.

  “Tell no one you have told me all this, please,” I said to Arthur as I rose from the table on shaky feet. “It must go no further.”

  “I—I can keep a secret, but can I dare to hope? Of course, if you have your heart set on London, we could visit there. When I earn my way, we could even get a house there . . .”

  “Arthur,” I said, turning back toward him at the door to the corridor from which I could still hear Master Martin’s voice. From here, I could tell he was speaking to young Kate. “I can promise nothing. It would not be fair to you or to your parents. Dartington Hall is already the home to a fine family, folk who have been kind to me, even as your family has. I—cannot say more now, but I have other plans.”

  I felt crushed by what he had told me today. That things had gotten stickier with Arthur grieved me, yes. But more than that, I mourned because I saw now my shining savior Cromwell had feet of clay.

  Within a fortnight, Arthur had been sent to the household of Sir Philip’s brother who lived near Exeter. I was not told until he was gone, though Joan handed me a fervent farewell letter from him, hidden in the palm of her hand. The foolish boy had told his parents of his love for me. It was unrequited only, he was sure, because of my loyalty to them. I read his tortured promises and burned the letter. I was guilt-ridden. Since his thwarted, hopeless love for me had been discovered, should I not be the one sent away?

  I felt I walked on eggshells, fearful the Champernownes would blame me for enticing him. But soon John, too, was sent away, to the Earl of Warwick’s house, no less. I could only pray that, direct or indirect, it would not be my fault if Cromwell’s influence took Dartington Hall from the Barlows.

  In the first month of 1528, after I had resided at Modbury Manor for over two years and Arthur had been gone for five weeks, Sir Philip suddenly summoned me to his privy chamber. Lady Katherine sat beside him across a small round table strewn with papers, a sanding box, an inkwell and a brace of quills. I rather feared I was to be either chastised or banished, and my heartbeat kicked up even harder.

  “Sit, please, Kat,” Sir Philip said, gesturing to the short bench facing them.

  I sat, wanting to stare at my knees but keeping my head up as I had been taught by the girls’ governess. I warranted I had learned good graces in my time here, but what if I was no longer in the Champernownes’ good graces?

  “A message has come for you from London, from Secretary Cromwell, though it is addressed to me,” he told me, picking up a piece of parchment from his pile of them.

  Despite my disillusionment about Secretary Cromwell, I longed to lunge across the table and snatch the missive from his hand. Finally? He had not forgotten me? Was the time ripe, as he had said once? And was I a vile betrayer of the Barlows to still want to serve the man who would take their home away, if that was still in the offing? How I longed to be in London, where I was sure I could speak my mind, make my own way—with Cromwell’s help and sponsorship, of course.

  “He says,” Sir Philip went on, maddeningly slow, “he is well pleased to hear of your academic and mannerly achievements in this household and may soon have a place for you at court.”

  “At court?” I burst out. “At court?”

  “Thrilling, isn’t it?” Lady Katherine said with that wistful smile. “God willing, some of my daughters will hear those words someday.”

  “Does he say when?” I asked, trying to keep my voice from trembling. I clenched my hands so tightly in my lap, my fingers went numb. Since they knew full well I could read, why not hand it to me—or was there something written of Dartington Hall, their price for keeping me these years?

  “He says soon,” Sir Philip told me, “now that the world is changing.”

  “With the new learning and religion?” I floundered.

  “As you may well have observed, even here in our own household,” Sir Philip said, “the will of a woman can be powerful, and I speak not of my lovely lady wife. We are grateful that you, ah— handled Arthur’s foolish fancies properly. His wishes were entirely unreasonable. Clever woman that you are, you saw that.”

  At least they didn’t not blame me, were even grateful. Or was Cromwell’s power over them my shield and buckler for that too? “Yes, my lord, my lady,” I said only.

  “But as for the when of this—soon, is all it says,” he repeated, lifting the paper closer to his face and running his gaze over it again. “I warrant it will be when the Lady Anne Boleyn goes to court and manages to completely dislodge the queen in the king’s affections. Ah, the troubles in London.”

  My mouth fell open. I knew none of this, though I had avidly learned the lists of England’s kings and families, even of present events such as how King Henry must balance the foreign powers of France and Spain, not to mention the Holy Roman Emperor Charles, who was his Spanish queen’s nephew. I could recite dat
es and outcomes of the battles of the so-called War of the Roses wherein the current king’s father had won his crown—but who was the Lady Anne Boleyn?

  “You mean, I might serve this lady?” I asked.

  “We all might, if she does not agree to be His Grace’s mistress soon and not keep dangling him,” Sir Philip muttered, and Lady Katherine shook her head. “As her family are upstarts and climbers—even if ones well-versed in the new learning—it may cause chaos at court. Well, that is all for now, Kat. We will most certainly keep you apprised of events. By the way, Arthur is to be betrothed to a lady from Kent, and after he earns his spurs, so to speak, they will reside not far from where you grew up, in a fine hall, where I believe you were once a servant.”

  For the first time since I had known him, Sir Philip had a cutting edge to his voice, especially on that last word, servant. Was it my imagination that her ladyship looked down her nose at me and narrowed her eyes? Did I feel their disdain now because they deemed I was not worthy of the care they had taken for me, even if it had gotten them Dartington Hall for Arthur and his future bride? Or because their son had dared to want someone beneath his station? Or could it even be because of the interest shown in me by Cromwell, the man who had a ruffian beginning, as they had said once? If anyone was an upstart and a climber, it was he, though I did not feel contempt but kinship for that.

  I rose, curtsied and left the chamber, but I also left the door ajar and paused in the hall, leaning my back against the oaken wainscoting. It surely wasn’t my fault if the Barlows were to be displaced, I tried to buck myself up. But to go to court! Not just to London, but to court and perhaps to the household of a woman the king favored—but at the cost of his lawful queen and his marriage? This Anne Boleyn must be a powerful woman, one worth knowing and studying. Was that what I must do now to pay back and please Thomas Cromwell—study her at close range and then tell him all about it?

  I was relieved no servant or child was in the hall, for the words within floated clearly to me. “This Boleyn matter is outrageous! Insane!” Sir Philip cried. “His Grace has bedded the others without breaking down the order of things. Her Grace has managed to look askance since she bears him only dead sons and one living daughter. But the gall of this Boleyn whore does boggle the mind!”

  “She isn’t a whore if she doesn’t lie with him,” Lady Katherine protested meekly.

  “Not yet, but he’ll have her. Who would dare to gainsay the king?”

  I realized then I had much more to learn. I had longed—yes, lusted, even as poor Arthur had for me—for lovely London, but now, I was not so sure.

  CHAPTER THE FOURTH

  MODBURY TO LONDON

  Finally, London loomed on my horizon, but not as soon as I had hoped and expected. It was a gloriously sunny day in late September 1528, and I had gone nigh mad waiting yet seven months more before the actual summons came for me to bid my Modbury hosts—for they were never quite my family—fare-thee-well and turn my face toward the desire of my dreams.

  With a good-bye letter to my father, sent through the Barlows, I had planned to leave Devon as soon as the roads cleared of snow and winter mud. But warm weather had brought much rain and worse. The sweating sickness, that oft fatal summer slayer of hundreds—which was, at least, far different from the fever Master Cromwell had suffered from—nearly carried off Mistress Boleyn, in whose household I was to live at court. No doubt, I was as relieved as her royal suitor that she had survived.

  I traveled toward London well protected by a band of twelve new-fledged Devon-born soldiers, sent by Sir Philip to serve the king. Four of the men had their wives with them, so I slept in inns or houses on the way with one of those women sharing my bed and the others on floor pallets. Much of those seven nights, as exhausted and saddle sore as I was, I lay awake, listening to whispers, sighs or snores. I was beside myself with excitement, too wild in hopes and heart to sleep.

  As we approached the great city of London through Southwark, thatched, timbered houses, three or four stories high, jutted out over us, shouldering the sky. I shuddered with excitement as we rode through the shadow of a great cathedral. How I wished I had someone with me who could name each street, each church, to tell me what the crudely painted pictures on the hanging signs indicated lay within. A tongue thrust out with a pill on the tip of it, I knew, for there was an apothecary shop in Modbury, but what were these other wonders? I had so much to learn of my new world.

  But familiar sights and smells assailed me too. Sheep and cattle being driven to market shoved folks aside. The stench from nearby slaughterhouses, tanneries and the garbage in the streets’ center gutters filled our nostrils, so that we breathed through our mouths. Hawkers elbowed each other for space while carters cursed. Would the jostling for positions at court be even more daunting and dangerous? Despite my rural companions and those bustling past, I felt so alone.

  The hubbub grew thicker as we approached the curving, silver serpent that was the River Thames. It made the Dart shrink to naught in my regard. On the Thames, scores of boats wended their ways, wherries and barges, some of the latter with ornate carvings, gildings and livery-clad oarsmen. One long bridge with houses and shops crammed cheek by jowl upon it spanned the river. Across that busy thoroughfare lay the hulking royal fortress called the Tower, a palace and a prison, I had learned in our history lessons. Above all soared seagulls, reminding me of home, but I longed only to be here.

  At the base of London Bridge, water rushed through the supports, especially at high tide, we heard, but it looked quite calm now. Amidst the watermen with boats for hire shouting “Oars east!” or “Oars west!” two soldiers, their wives and I boarded a barge and were rowed downstream toward Westminster Palace. It greatly cheered me to see fields along the way and grander homes than I had beheld in Southwark. I thought we must surely be to the king’s Westminster Palace when, after the curve in the river, we approached a magnificent edifice, and I blurted out, “There it is!”

  “That be Cardinal Wolsey’s York Place,” the boatman told me. “Wi’ his power and wealth, he been abuilding it for years, finer than the king’s Westminster by far.”

  As we passed gleaming glass windows, expanses of slate rooftops with ornate brick chimneys and weather vanes, water stairs and iron gates with glimpses into gardens, we Devoners were agog. So I had my first lesson in the true might of the man who employed Thomas Cromwell and, therefore, me.

  When we arrived at the smaller and older Westminster Palace, I was to meet with disappointment, and not just for its less handsome facade. Rather than my being greeted by Cromwell or sent to the Lady Anne’s apartments, I was met by Master Stephen, the man who had been at Cromwell’s side in Devon.

  “King and court’s off to Hampton Court, the newest royal palace, a gift from Cardinal Wolsey,” he told me as one of Sir Philip’s soldiers hefted my single trunk and fell in behind us. Cromwell’s man led us from the worn water stairs toward the palace. “You are to be sent there on the morrow via river. His Majesty goes much from place to place, especially,” he added, lowering his voice and bending slightly toward me, “to escape the presence of his wife so that he can disport more with his future wife, the Lady Anne.”

  “He really will marry her?” I asked.

  His mouth tipped in a stiff grin. “Ah, you have much to learn,” he told me with a look that took me in from head to toe. “You must be weary, but Secretary Cromwell will see you now afore he leaves on his master’s business to York Place, then on to Hampton Court.”

  “His master, the cardinal?”

  “Actually, his master, Henry Rex. We hear you excel in Latin and have some Greek and a bit of French,” he said as if to change the subject. “We have all come a long way, have we not? And, as my master, Cromwell, says, much more to go.”

  Leaving the man with my trunk outside a door on the first floor of the vast, old palace near the great cathedral of the same name, Master Stephen led me into a large room, well lit from sconces, candles, and
late afternoon light slanting through mullioned windows set ajar. I knew that Lady Barlow and Lady Katherine would have deplored the fact I was not well chaperoned, but I soon saw the chamber was filled with secretaries or clerks bent over their work. Yet, when Cromwell looked up, with a single clap and wave of his hands, he quickly cleared the area of all but Stephen and me.

  He came around his big desk, covered with stacks of neatly aligned papers. Putting his hands on my shoulders, he stood me back a bit, looking me over. “Now a polished gem,” he declared, and kissed me lightly on each check, as was, I had learned, the French fashion. Lady Katherine had told me—warned me, as she put it—that the English courtiers’ greeting was a kiss directly on the mouth.

  I had rehearsed words to ask him to be certain the Barlows had a suitable place to live when they gave up Dartington Hall, but that and much else flew right out of my head. Even with king and court away, this place and this man reeked of purpose and power.

  “Come sit, and I’ll send for malmsey wine, a hearty venison pie and some sugar bread with currants—one of my favorite sweets.” He looked behind me at Stephen, who evidently took that hint and went out to order the food, leaving us alone. “Sit, sit,” he said again, choosing the chair next to mine, “and I will explain how things are here—or wherever His Grace, the king, goes these days. Then we shall see you get some rest before joining the Lady Anne’s household. I’ll put you on a supply barge to Hampton Court—it’s a ways out in the country—and see you there myself in a few days. Now, to business . . .”

  And business it was. I was to be a circumspect, clever observer of what Cromwell called the lay of the land. That is, how the Lady Anne Boleyn and the king were getting on, anything I overheard or observed that was not common court knowledge. I was especially to be aware of anything that lady might say to her father or to her brother, George, who were much about the court and rode high in the king’s favor.