I had coins in my pockets to spend but our coach did not stop at any of the shops or stalls where trims and buttons and stockings, foodstuffs, kerchiefs and trinkets were being offered for sale.
“’Tis worth your life to stop in the streets of London, miss,” one of the ostlers called up to me when I asked if we might pause long enough for me to buy a muffin and a pair of doeskin gloves. “The wild rogues that wander about would break your pate in a minute just to steal your purse. And the constables are never nearby to protect you.”
His warning seemed more than justified when we felt our coach jolt sharply and lean to one side. Before I could realize what had happened a dirty face peered in, and dirty hands reached towards me. A laborer or a beggar, by the look of him, with filthy hair spilling out from under a ragged cap. I drew back in alarm, but almost at once I heard the crack of a whip and saw that one of the guardsmen had cut the man down. He lay writhing amid the mud of the street. With a lurch the coach moved forward again.
“What happened? Who was that horrible-looking man?” It was Mary Sidford, who until then had said little to the rest of us.
“Some thief,” Malyn answered with a shudder. “I want to go back to Lambeth.”
But before we went back we were to see many more ragged folk, beggars and peddlers, low servants hurrying on errands for their masters, apprentices with tools hanging from their belts and scowls on their faces, flower-sellers, young and not-so-young women dressed in slatternly finery, strolling past workmen and soldiers as if to say, here I am, look at me, I am for sale.
We paused to let a religious procession pass, black-robed priests carrying large silver crosses and boys singing and chanting, their silvery voices carrying above the hubbub of commerce and the loud grinding of wheels over the cobblestones. Then we came to London Bridge, with its strong towers and ancient drawbridge, and paused to watch the river rushing under the old stone pillars, the grey water clogged with refuse and rotting timbers, dead dogs and cats and masses of floating rubble.
This, then, was the hub of the realm, the center of the universe. Astounding in its size and noise and stench, yes: I had to agree. But almost equally astounding in its urgent vivid life and color. A dangerous, exciting place pulsing with vitality. A place where, I felt, anything could happen.
FOUR
“FRANCIS Dereham,” he said with a bow.
He was more fair than dark, with thick, light brown wavy hair that brushed his neck and clear, light blue eyes with thick long lashes. His skin was pink and healthy and without the pits or pockmarks that disfigured so many of the men of the household. I wondered whether his skin was smooth and unscarred all over. My hands itched to touch him, to feel the softness of his skin, he was so beautiful.
“I’ve brought you some partridges, and some custard tarts,” he said with a smile. “You do like custard tarts, do you not?”
With a sweep of one liveried arm he indicated a basket from which came the rich aromas of roasted fowl, butter and onion, and sugary desserts. I saw that the basket had been carefully packed with linens and embroidered napery, wax candles and a candelabra to hold them.
“Anything you bring me, Master Dereham, will be most welcome. I see that you have gone to a great deal of trouble.”
He had been in my thoughts ever since the night of Uncle Thomas’s banquet in honor of the Clevan ambassador, when I had watched him dance with the clumsy foreign woman in the ugly, ill-fitting gown. I had found out his name, and knew that he was one of Grandma Agnes’s gentlemen pensioners, and that he was about twenty-four years old (so Joan believed)—much older than I for I had yet to turn eighteen. He was a gentleman’s son, Joan said, a Howard relation by marriage. And he was much admired by the women of the Lambeth household, some of whom were thought to be his conquests.
Yet here he was, in the duchess’s apartments where I was sitting and talking with Mary Sidford and my cousin Catherine Tylney. And he was approaching me, addressing me. Not the others.
“May I serve you ladies now? Or shall we have a game of primero first?”
“You presume on our leisure—and our desire for your company,” was cousin Catherine’s rather ungracious reply, almost a reprimand. Cousin Catherine was ill-humored, having never received an offer of marriage (despite possessing a sizeable dowry) and having just learned earlier that morning that Charyn had become betrothed to Lord Morley’s son Randall, which was a very good match indeed. Every time Cousin Catherine found out about another girl’s betrothal she became glum and out of sorts. Having reached the age of nearly thirty (she would not admit to any of us exactly how old she was, only her sister Malyn knew the truth, and she refused to divulge it), it was unlikely any man would ever offer for her hand.
“You are too hasty, cousin,” I hastened to say. “Master Dereham is a delightful companion—and if he is not, his custard tarts certainly will be.” Francis Dereham and I exchanged a laugh.
“With your permission, then,” he said as he waved two grooms forward into the room, bringing with them a small trestle table. In no time at all Master Dereham had whisked the tablecloth and napkins from the basket and put them deftly in place, set the candles in the candelabra, prepared our places and brought out the delicious-smelling food.
“Ah,” Mary sighed as she savored the roast fowl. “This is lovely. A treat.”
We fell to eating. The food was indeed delicious. Yet Master Dereham was not eating. He was looking at me. We sought each other’s eyes, and did not look away. His was a look that conveyed friendly invitation. Mine, I’m sure, conveyed frank admiration of his beauty and the grace of his movements. His soft skin. His lithe body. Everything about him.
“We were talking earlier of our cousin Charyn’s betrothal, just announced today,” I said at length, wanting to fill the silence.
“Yes,” he said. “Randall Morley. He is heir to his father’s lands and title. And until he inherits, he enjoys a substantial fortune. Most likely he will be appointed under-chamberer to the new queen, whoever she may be,” he added.
“My father hopes for an appointment to the new queen’s household,” I remarked with a sigh. “Though he seldom manages to get what he hopes for.” I bit into a custard tart.
“What a disloyal thing to say!” Cousin Catherine put in.
“Not disloyal, I hope,” I responded wistfully, “only truthful. I love my father and wish he could have everything he wants.”
Master Dereham smiled.
“Very kind I’m sure. Not all children are as forgiving toward their parents, I’ve noticed.”
“We rarely see our father,” Malyn said. “He is always off to the wars.”
“Off somewhere, at any rate,” Catherine added. “Mother hardly ever knows where he is.”
“And what of your mother and father, Master Dereham?” I wanted to know. “Clearly they have done well by you, to obtain a place for you in the duchess’s household.”
I saw the faintest hint of a grimace cross his bow-shaped pink lips.
“I was left without parents at a very young age, Mistress Catherine, and obtained my place by—”
“By knowing several wealthy married ladies better than their husbands know them,” was Cousin Catherine’s unkind rejoinder.
Master Dereham bristled, stood, and drew himself up to his full height.
“Perhaps I have overstayed my welcome,” he said, and prepared to leave.
“No, wait,” Mary pleaded. “I have not yet finished my sweet. Please stay.”
“Yes, please stay,” I said and reached out to touch his sleeve.
He looked down at my hand, then back at me.
Cousin Catherine sniffed loudly, stood, and left us without another word. I drew Master Dereham back to the table. And in that moment I thought, he and I, he and I—
He recovered his former geniality, and sat contentedly while Mary and I finished our meal, a smile of satisfaction on his face, as if he had accomplished what he had come for. Presently Joan came in, and
Alice with her, and Master Dereham bowed and took his leave. When he was gone, Joan looked over at me. A knowing look.
“Well,” she said after a long silence, “so that’s how it is then. Mistress Catherine and the handsome Master Dereham.”
She knew, even then, she knew far better than I, that I was already lost to love.
* * *
He did not need to woo me, I was already his. Every time I saw Francis Dereham standing with the other gentlemen pensioners in attendance on the duchess, lithe and slim and graceful in his red and black livery, every time I observed him escorting visitors newly arrived at Lambeth, whenever I watched him doing some small service for Uncle Thomas or answering the command of some other dignitary, every time I saw him standing behind the chair of a nobleman who was dining at my grandmother’s table, I felt again the desire to touch his smooth unblemished skin and look into his light blue eyes with their fringe of long lashes.
He was kept very busy from early morning until late at night. When he came looking for me, as he did from time to time, he would greet me with the greatest politeness, often bringing gifts or food or pretty trinkets or tokens of affection. But he could never stay with me long.
“Sweetheart, I must away to the duchess’s antechamber in a quarter of an hour,” he would say, or “Dearest Catherine, I must leave you soon, but I will stay with you as long as I can.”
My longing for him grew, and I struggled not to lose patience. My eagerness for his company increased. During our times together he would take my hand, stroke my cheek, draw me into a secluded alcove and kiss me—but never for long enough to do more than tantalize me, and leave me counting the hours—or more often, the days and sleepless nights—until our next meeting.
I grew anxious, pale, edgy with worry. What was I to make of his infrequent appearances in my life (for they seemed infrequent to me)? Was it just that he was being given more and more responsibilities by my grandmother and Uncle Thomas—who seemed to spend a great deal of time at Lambeth—or was he keeping company with another girl or woman? Or several others?
There seemed to be no way to find out, though I tried and tried. Meanwhile the household was distracted by more talk of the king’s forthcoming marriage. Lord Cromwell was said to be very satisfied with the bargaining over Anna of Cleves’s dowry. The lady herself was not nearly as important as the benefits the marriage would bring to England. I heard much talk of how English trade would flourish anew, how sturdy, warlike Clevan soldiers would join our English trained bands. Of how all the North German lands and the flat lowland countries would join with our King Henry against the Spanish Emperor Charles, weakening his overweening might and making us safer.
Now and then, to be sure, I heard someone scoff.
“Cleves! Where is this little Cleves? A land of windmills and floods!”
And there was muffled laughter about the woman no one at court had seen, Anna. The woman Lord Cromwell wanted to make our queen.
“She’s an old maid! She’s nearly twenty-five!”
“She was betrothed once, but for some reason they didn’t marry. Why?”
No one seemed to know why.
“Could it be that she didn’t like the man? Or that he was old and poor, and she wanted someone young and rich?”
We knew that a portrait of the Lady Anna had been sent to the palace, for the king to see and approve.
“German women are all big, striding, yellow-haired fishwives,” I heard Uncle Thomas say. Uncle Thomas did not spare his words! But I doubted whether he had seen the portrait of the Lady Anna, and my father told me that Uncle Thomas was opposed to the marriage because it was Lord Cromwell’s idea, and he hated Lord Cromwell.
I found all the talk and wrangling wearisome—and besides, there was only one thing, or rather one man, on my mind just then: Francis Dereham.
One afternoon he surprised me with a visit. He was not wearing his livery. For an instant I was worried: had he lost his position as gentleman pensioner? Had he done something to anger Grandma Agnes?
But he quickly reassured me. He was not wearing his livery because he was not needed that afternoon. Grandma Agnes had gone to Greenwich and taken only a few members of her household with her. He was not among them.
He kissed me lightly on the cheek.
“I thought we might go into the orchard and have a picnic,” he said, his smile charming as always. “I don’t need to return until after vespers.”
I brightened at once. We set off with a basket of food and a blanket. I took my cloak in case of rain.
The orchard that adjoined Lambeth Great House was large and thickly wooded. Rabbits and deer foraged in the grass beneath the tall trees, the cherries just beginning to put forth their unripe fruit, the apple trees still in flower.
I was happy, walking along with Francis, enjoying the feeling that, for once, there was no urgency about our time together, no need to rush. The sun was warm, the grass smelled sweet beneath our feet as we went along. We were quiet, at peace together. I felt my desire for him rise. Impulsively I took the blanket from under his arm and spread it on the fragrant grass. I lay down and reached for him.
He came into my arms and kissed me, a long unhurried kiss, then another. I expected him to begin to undress me, as Henry Manox had, eager to reveal all of me to his excited gaze. But he did not. And after a time he stopped kissing me as well.
“What is it?” I asked, full of fear. “Do you find me wanting?”
“No indeed,” came the answer. “But I cannot dishonor you, Catherine, as some would surely try to do were they fortunate enough to be here with you. Lovemaking must take place within a bond of trust.”
“I trust you, Francis.” There was a catch in my voice as I said the words.
“I refer to the trust between a husband and wife.”
A silence fell between us. I did not know what to say. I sat up on the blanket. Francis leaned comfortably on one elbow.
“There must be a future in view,” he said presently.
Once again I did not know what to say, for I could not tell what he meant. Was he hinting that he wanted us to marry? Even if that was not what he meant, surely he was honoring me by protecting my virginity. Why then did I feel so bereft, cheated of the pleasure I wanted so badly, kept waiting in uncertainty and suffering while I waited? Why did I feel unwanted?
He got to his feet and, when I stood as well, feeling crestfallen, he began to fold the blanket into a neat square.
“We have not eaten our picnic,” he said blandly. “Are you hungry?”
I shook my head.
“Then let us go back. I may be needed. I like to be ready, on call, in case my services are required.”
* * *
“I am being considered,” my father told me somewhat lugubriously, “for second under-cellarer to the new queen.”
“That’s wonderful, father! But only considered? Not actually appointed?”
“Not as yet.”
He sighed. “Others have already received appointments. I have been overlooked, it would seem.”
So he had been disappointed once again.
“Have you spoken to Grandma Agnes about it?”
He rolled his eyes, as if to say, she cares nothing for my welfare, and thinks poorly of me. It would do no good whatever to talk to her. Knowing that he was probably right, I let the question hang in the air, unanswered.
“I hope that a place may be found for you, however, Catherine, and for your cousin Charyn, among the new queen’s women. And perhaps, once you are well established there, and the king’s new bride becomes fond of you, you can tell her that your father would be well qualified and eager to serve her.”
“I would of course do as you ask, father.”
“Good girl. Good loyal girl.” He nodded his head, and reaching for my hand, he patted it. I could see that there were tears in his eyes.
“Ah, there is one thing more,” he added. “Francis Dereham, the gentleman pensioner, came to see me.”
My heart leapt.
“About me?”
“Indeed. He asked me if anyone had yet asked for your hand.”
I held my breath.
“I told him no one, not as yet.” He frowned. “Perhaps I should have lied, to make him think you have been much in demand.”
I could not believe what I was hearing. So this was what Francis meant when he said there must be a future in view before we loved one another in the flesh. What was it he had said? Lovemaking must take place within a bond of trust. The trust between a husband and a wife.
“He wants to marry me then, does he father?” I could not keep the excitement from my voice.
“Assuredly, Catherine, he wants to marry you, or someone like you. He would value a Howard bride. He has already asked for several of your cousins, and even for the widow of your great-uncle Richard. But no one has accepted him.”
“But he is so very handsome, father,” I burst out, ignoring what I had just heard. “And so much a gentleman. He speaks so well, and with such perfect courtesy, and dances so gracefully.”
“He does indeed. But he has no money, or title, and though he is distantly related to our family, he is an orphan, with no parents to speak for him or aid him in his suit.”
My hopes fell, I could hear the disapproval in my father’s voice.
“Yes. He told me.”
“And there is another thing. He is Irish, on his father’s side.”
“Oh.”
My Francis had Irish blood! That came as a blow. If I married him, our children too would possess the taint of Irishness. No one wanted that. But a thought came to me.
“Is it not true, father, that our king has Welsh blood? Yet no one looks on him as unfit to reign.”
The Unfaithful Queen: A Novel of Henry VIII's Fifth Wife Page 6
