The Queen's Mistake

by Diane Haeger

  But could Catherine be clever enough to take advantage when the moment came?

  The marriage between Henry and the princess of Cleves had been a disaster of epic proportions from the first moment the king had set eyes upon her. Seeing them together had been the single thing that had sent Norfolk to Horsham after the debacle of his other niece. Ah, no matter now. But Anne was four years ago, and his own standing at court had been renewed, if not quite yet his place in the king’s trust. Those foolish snakes the Seymour brothers had seen to that, slithering in and taking prominence of place with their weak little sister Jane before Anne’s blood had even dried on the block.

  “Pardon me, but it is time, Your Grace.”

  Norfolk turned with a start. He dropped his ink-dipped pen, spraying the parchment black. He had been so deep in thought he had not even heard the door open to admit a portly and balding servant.

  “Already?” he asked the servant, disregarding the onyx pool before him.

  “The music has begun, Your Grace, and His Majesty has danced a tourdion. I thought you should not wish to miss another.”

  His dark marble eyes narrowed as he tossed sand on the wet ink before him. “Why did you not come for me sooner?”

  “Your Grace did not answer the door, and when I called out to you some moments ago, you were most firm that I should go away.”

  “Yet you are here now?”

  The servant inclined his head. “This time His Majesty the king sent me for you, so I let myself in.”

  Norfolk jumped to his feet and hurried, nearly at a run, down a staircase and across a covered bridge lined with oriel windows, then down the paneled corridor, shoe heels clicking across the intricate tile floor in the vast echoing silence. The lime-washed walls he passed were lined with massive tapestries and torchlight that flickered in the dim light of early evening as he neared the great hall and the sound of the music.

  The banquet in honor of the new queen and her German emis saries had already begun when he arrived in a sweep of fur-lined black velvet. But there was an empty seat beside the king usually reserved for Cromwell. Since it was Cromwell who had orchestrated, then pushed for this already disastrous union, it came as no surprise that he was nowhere in sight.

  Norfolk had been given a chance with Anne. Now he had a second chance.

  Catherine must not disappoint him.

  Her future and his own depended upon all she had learned at Horsham.

  Catherine stood in the courtyard of Horsham, putting on her riding gloves and gazing into the dry-lipped, scowling expression of her grandmother, who had come out grudgingly to bid her farewell. A cool breeze blew across the gently rolling terrain as Catherine curtsied properly to the woman who had been more keeper than relation.

  “Remember,” the dour old woman finally said, “you’re going to court with nothing beyond your passable looks and your Howard name. If you are very, very fortunate, you may become a maid of honor, but your personal state of poverty keeps you no better than the girls with whom you shared that dormitory, unless you do something bold about it. Never forget that.”

  Catherine had an overwhelming urge to make a face just then, or to say something spiteful in response. She had been aching to do that for years, and yet she had always been forced into compliance.

  “I understand, my lady grandmother.”

  Agnes arched a silver brow. “Do you? Are you certain?”

  It would be impossible not to understand your contempt of me, she thought. “I do,” she said instead.

  “Do you also understand, somewhere in that empty head of yours, how that lark to seduce not one but two of my servants could put you in jeopardy of never making any sort of important match at court?”

  “How would anyone discover such a thing, and why would anyone care about the indiscretions of a country girl from Sussex?”

  The retort came tumbling out like marbles rolling across her tongue before she even knew what was happening. She stood stone still, but refused to drop her gaze from the dowager duchess’s cold stare. But this time Agnes would not dare to hit her, not when her soft skin and smooth face were the only chance in the world to regain the Howard standing. Catherine knew it and belligerently took full advantage. The silence stretched on. Catherine still did not break her gaze.

  “So you do have something of your cousin Anne in you, after all.”

  “Thank you, Grandmother.”

  “Pray only hope it is not the part that landed her on Tower Green, separated from her head.”

  Catherine felt a shiver deep in her chest, but she would not show it. “Everyone wishes me well, as I do them. They will speak against me to no one.”

  “A spurned heart is a dangerous thing.”

  She was not certain whether her grandmother meant Henry Manox or Francis Dereham.

  “They shall marry one day and forget the past, just as I plan to do.”

  “And for your sake, and for the family’s, I shall pray for that, since the alternative could be ghastly.”

  Suddenly, before she could say anything more, the old woman drew something from a pocket in her blue slashed bell sleeve. A ruby suspended from a silver chain glittered in the sunlight through the clouds as she held it out to Catherine.

  “My husband, the duke, gave this to your mother on her wedding day. He thought it might bring her luck. It quite obviously brought her no benefit. So, since I have no use for it . . .”

  Her words fell away as she awkwardly offered the chain to Catherine. She reached out her hand and took the precious piece of the past her grandmother offered. She had so few things by which to remember her mother. There was no painted likeness, no letter. Only one linen-and-lace chemise had been left to her, one Catherine greedily guarded. Now there was this personal offering from a woman with whom she had felt no personal connection at all before now. As they stood near the entrance to the manor, a breeze whistled softly through the bough of evergreen trees above them.

  “Did she wear it?” Catherine’s voice was shallow, and she could barely force herself to speak.

  “Out of duty to him, whenever she visited my husband, yes, Jocasta wore it prominently.”

  So at least it had touched her skin. It had been a part of her, Catherine thought. Now it offered a connection to the only time in her life when she had been the recipient of real affection.

  Catherine placed the necklace at her own throat and clasped it behind her neck without breaking her grandmother’s gaze. She vowed she would always wear it to remind herself of what she had lost upon her mother’s death, when she was forced to this sheltered, verdant countryside. There had been no love or affection for her here, but she would try to find that again at court . . . if some courtier, suitable to her uncle’s purposes, might actually come to love her. She had been training herself for a long time to find just that.

  Dorothy Barwick had been personally chosen by the dowager duchess as companion and chaperone on the journey to court. But Catherine entirely disregarded the stout older woman and rode silently a pace ahead of her and the rest of their retinue of escorts and luggage, still feeling the sting of betrayal at how judgmental the servant had been. How like Mary Lassells Dorothy had become, she thought. At court, things would likely be no safer for Catherine, so she was determined to be even more careful about whom she trusted now.

  As they rode across broad lands, meadows and marshy fields, then through rich woodlands, Catherine fingered the silver chain and the small ruby suspended from it. Her anger at Dorothy and memories of her grandmother helped her keep from longing for the comfort of the only world she knew. She must accept once and for all that she was only a poor relation in a slightly shabby hand-me-down riding costume, with nothing but a pretty face and an infamous pedigree to smooth a path. She would have to call upon her own wits and resources to make her way at court.

  By the time they reached a monotonous forest filled with birds trilling and harnesses jangling, Catherine’s mind flashed with fleeting images of th
e king she remembered, and the two of his four queens she had known, her cousin Anne and Jane Seymour. It made perfect sense to Catherine that her cousin Anne had fought for King Henry, even at the moment of her death. For a king as tall, athletic and handsome as Henry had been in his youth, attracting the attention of any and all females had obviously been a matter of course.

  From a distance, to Catherine, King Henry had seemed frightening, enigmatic and incredibly grand. What would he be like now?

  Catherine glanced up at the lacy bough of trees above her as she rode and felt herself smile. Despite her modest beginnings, now that she was away from Horsham, the possibilities of her future truly seemed boundless. For the first time in her life she was free . . . free of the constraints of a strict grandmother and the general bonds of youth. She had resented life at Horsham, but she saw a purpose now, because all of that had brought her here and was moving her toward an adventurous life with the new queen. Perhaps there was even some noble courtier who could give her the life to which her name if not her experience entitled her. As she rode closer to London throughout the day, the excitement of it was a palpable thing.

  “Cast off the old for the new without regret,” she remembered her mother saying. She thought not of Horsham but of Francis Dereham. He would heal and find a proper wife. She glanced over at Dorothy, who was nodding off, chin to chest, eyes closed as her horse created a dozing rhythm beneath her. This really was all for the best. Catherine looked straight ahead and lifted her chin proudly. For the first time in her life she actually felt like a Howard.

  Chapter Four

  May 2, 1540 Whitehall Palace, London

  The banquet hall at the king’s palace in London was vast, with a soaring buttressed ceiling and paneled walls warmed by a series of grand tapestries depicting scenes from Ovid’s Metamorphoses . The hall was lit by dozens of shimmering white tapers flaring in silver wall braziers and chandeliers above, and the floor was strewn with sweet green rushes. In spite of the massive space, the room was filled with the scent of food and unwashed flesh. The music, a volte, was upbeat, played by musicians placed above them in the gallery. But the sound did not suit the king’s mood.

  Norfolk sat beside him, Henry in his massive carved throne beneath the canopy of state, the collection of silver plates before them catching the lamplight. The duke watched from the corner of his eye as the king swallowed goblet upon goblet full of wine, never once turning to his other side to acknowledge his queen. Henry was in a particularly foul mood, and he had been since the morning, when he had relented to his wife’s request to attend Mass with the German ambassador and her brother, the Duke of Cleves.

  Norfolk watched Henry chew with the intensity of a goat. How forty-nine years, and the death of three wives, had aged him, the duke thought callously, taking a swallow of Rhenish wine. He barely touched his own food, but glanced out at the colorful collection of court ladies and gentlemen dancing in a swirl of fabric before him.

  Where he had once been slim and athletic, then strong and burly, Henry now was rotund and slow, a great bulk of a man whose still-slim legs recalled a hint of what he once was. Yet even that was deceiving. One of his legs was infected with an abscess the physicians could never quite heal for him. Not even his purple velvet coat embroidered with pearls, gold cap studded with diamonds or the chains of silver that glittered near his throat could hide the loss of his vigor. His receding copper gray hairline, bloated face and ambling gait confirmed his age almost as much as the appearance of his body did. Where, as husband to Anne Boleyn, he had had hunting, hawking and jousts to keep him trim, now they were rare at best, and his most vigorous exercise was eating—and that he did in great volume.

  Fearing reprisal for seeing the truth that His Majesty wished to hide, courtiers wisely averted their eyes and chatted amongst themselves as the king ate, but everyone was all too aware of the array of platters piled with venison, ginger goose and huge meat pies set before him. In a single day, the massive English court consumed together more than a dozen sheep, nearly twenty pigs, one hundred chickens, and well over a thousand loaves of bread.

  Finally, as Norfolk had known he would, Henry wiped the grease from his mouth with a white silk cloth, handed it to the steward behind him, then leaned toward the duke.

  “Have you yet thought of a way to terminate this marriage without my risking England’s alliances?” he bluntly asked.

  Norfolk had waited four years to be needed again. That seemingly simple request, which the king had made for the first time a fortnight ago, had begun the wheels turning on many things.

  Henry had married Anne of Cleves to maintain the delicate alliances between England, France and Germany, and as king, he knew he could not disturb that balance now. Norfolk knew he must be mindful of everything he did, as his actions affected far more than the royal marriage bed. There was no room for error in his advice to the king. Cromwell was about to discover that well enough himself. Norfolk had battled the cleric and the Seymour brothers quite long enough.

  “I do believe there is a way, yes, Your Majesty.”

  “Well, tell me, man! No time like the present.”

  But just as he was about to speak, the queen interrupted them.

  “English is not simple, but I keep trying to speak it.” The queen chuckled, her guttural Teutonic tone sounding almost like grunting.

  Norfolk glanced past the king to the place on his left where the new queen sat happily chattering away in her achingly clotted and awkward English with her adviser, Earl of Waldeck. The music changed to a slower branle. It would have been easy to be overheard now. Her laughter in the relative quiet was a grating sound. Henry rolled his eyes and drained his goblet yet again.

  “That is still the lady’s constant refrain to one who attempts to address her in English.” Henry groaned.

  “Has the English tutor not met with the queen’s satisfaction?” Norfolk dared.

  Henry slammed the jewel-encrusted cup onto the table, and for a moment all eyes were upon him until he waved his fat, freckled hand, and the silk of his cuff spilled back beneath his sleeve. “Everyone meets with her satisfaction, because she is dumb as a post!”

  “Forgive me.” Norfolk wisely inclined his head.

  “Yes, yes, well. But can I be rid of her then without seeming a tyrant to the world?”

  “I am advised by the Bishop of Winchester that the marriage remains unlawful so long as it continues unconsummated. If we take that tack, then indeed Your Majesty is still actually unwed.”

  Norfolk watched as the king considered this possibility. He dared not speak further. Not yet. They both surveyed the dancing for a time, lovely court ladies in fashionable French dresses, slashed sleeves, long, tight stomachers, chains and smart new hoods of velvet and silk adorned with ribbon or pearls. Norfolk watched the king stir.

  Henry was most vulnerable when he was in love or in want of love.

  Either would do.

  “My Lord Bishop of Winchester has met with Your Majesty’s ministers and has posited that, as a first step, Your Majesty provide a personal deposition of the facts.”

  “And the political risk if I am seen to be insulting my wife, Norfolk? What of that?”

  “It is a fine and delicate road to walk, to be certain, Your Majesty. Forgive my saying so, but what Cromwell has gotten you so hastily into may take great patience and skill to extract you from.”

  “Damn Cromwell to hell for his meddling, and for his eyesight!” He growled. “I believed the old bear. He assured me the queen was a beauty and I trusted him.”

  “As Your Majesty should be able to do,” Norfolk replied calmly, driving the first nail into Cromwell’s newly constructed coffin.

  The queen turned to Henry then, as if she sensed she was being spoken about. Yet still her smile was wide, her nature enduringly sweet. Norfolk saw the effort she took to find a few words that would be intelligible to the king. Despite her attempts to be pleasing to Henry, when he thought about how many times th
e king had tried to bed her, even Norfolk grimaced. Her face was square and masculine, her skin was pockmarked, and her body was overly plump. Even when she was garbed in fine embroidered silk, the reality of how unattractive she was could not be masked any more than it could with Henry.

  What made it worse was that Norfolk genuinely liked her. Anne was jovial, kind and compliant. If only she did not look so much like a horse. But it was precisely this that gave him the chance to elevate his own standing. Come to think of it, he really should be thanking Thomas Cromwell for his gaffe. Ah, well, he sighed to himself.

  All truly was fair in love and war . . . and ambition.

  To Catherine, London was a dirty, dizzying tangle of horses, carts, stray animals and shabby beggars. They came at her and passed her, nearly knocking her from her own horse on narrow muddy lanes and twisted, cobbled causeways amid refuse-scented air. As she and Dorothy rode among a contingent of her uncle’s guard into this new, foreign world, women hung from windows in timbered old buildings that sagged like tired old men unable to stand. Pigs and sheep moved randomly about, taunted by mangy barking dogs, all of whom left their pungent feces in the road. It was not long before Catherine could barely think or breathe through the noxious mix of dung and refuse. She was not certain what she had expected of the city, but it was certainly not this.

  Even the briny scent of the Thames as they neared it was a welcome relief from the other odors. Catherine felt revived as she glanced at the wide waterway filled with barges and smaller bobbing vessels, banners and brightly colored pennons fluttering in the cool spring breeze. Then suddenly she saw, on the other side of the river, a vast maze of buildings, towers and gardens, all fronting the snaking, glittering Thames like a jewel in a crown. Whitehall Palace.

  Once they crossed the river and reached the palace, she stopped her horse behind her grandmother’s two groomsmen and waited while they addressed the Tudor guard standing at the massive redbrick gatehouse. A moment later the great iron gate, emblazoned with a huge gold letter H, was drawn back and their retinue proceeded through a stone archway that held a gallery. As they passed beneath it, Catherine could hear music and laughter coming from the rooms above, and she wondered if the king himself was there.