Both the lawyer and the priest were clearly eager to speak, but Uncle Thomas held up his hand to silence them.
“So it appears that the king may not be able to marry the lady Lord Cromwell has chosen for him after all.”
Both Uncle Thomas and Grandma Agnes were smiling at me, expecting me to be pleased at all I had been hearing. Yet something held me back, some nagging sense that all was not as it seemed. Something unspoken hung in the air. I was uneasy. I looked at Uncle William, who had remained silent through everything that had been said, hoping for—what? Reassurance perhaps—or even a welcome touch of humor. But his kind face was grave.
“It is a lot for you to take in, all at once,” he said. “But you must see the advantage to our family. Think of it! We Howards, who were disgraced by the scandals of Queen Anne, the daughter of a Howard mother, may now be cleansed of that taint by having another Howard gain the royal favor. Of course you would hardly be the first,” he went on, half musing to himself. “There was your mother, your beautiful, beautiful mother, Jocasta—”
“William!” My grandmother’s voice was sharp.
Uncle William was flustered.
“Yes, of course. I forgot. I should not have mentioned her. I’m sorry.”
There it was again. My mother’s name mentioned, her existence acknowledged, then a silence imposed. I looked from Grandma Agnes to Uncle William to Uncle Thomas, whose dark face was turned away.
“Father will not tell me what happened to my mother. No one is ever allowed to mention her name or recall her memory. I loved her. What can she have done that was so terrible? And how did she die? I must know.”
After a time Grandma Agnes spoke.
“If Catherine is going to see the king, it might be well to tell her what she wants to know.”
Uncle Thomas shook his head and looked sour. Uncle William sighed, then, after a moment, got to his feet.
“Come with me, Catherine. Let us go out into the garden where we can breathe the fresh air and smell the first of the lilacs. Let me tell you a story.”
* * *
A chill breeze was blowing, I had to ask one of the grooms to bring me a shawl. I sat on a stone bench under a cherry tree that was just coming into bud. Uncle William stood nearby. From our patch of lawn and garden we could see the wherries coming up and down the river, with now and then a barge or a towed flatboat heaped with barrels and chests.
I watched Uncle William, waiting for him to begin.
“Imagine, Catherine,” he said at length, “that your lovely mother was just about the age you are now. She had only been married to your father for a year or so. All the men of the court envied your father, because Jocasta was so beautiful, so lively and charming. I suppose I was a little in love with her myself. She had the grace of a butterfly, a face like a flower, she could make people laugh and she also had a generous heart. She didn’t belong in a royal court, courts are sordid places, full of decadence and selfish pleasures. I know, I have served King Henry and his father before him since I was a boy.
“Jocasta saw through the pretense and sugared rivalries. She was too gentle a spirit to survive amid the clawing for power, the destructiveness of life lived in the shadow of a king. She deserved better.
“It was no wonder King Henry fell in love with her. But she was married to your father, and she was fond of him, partly because he was such an inept courtier. He fumbled and bumbled and could not seem to grasp how to rise in the hierarchy of power. Not for him the sordidness and decadence of the others. People laughed at him. His own stepmother was ashamed of him—she still is. He was not worldly, or greedy, he took no pleasure in others’ pain.
“Yet though Jocasta was fond of Edmund, she truly loved the king. In his younger years he was every woman’s perfect gentle knight, or so my wife—your aunt—always told me. Handsome, dashing, charming, a champion in the lists, a musician who wrote songs to his beloved and sang them in his strong, true voice.
“And though the king was married, his union with Queen Catherine was a tragedy. She was a noble character, to be sure, a valiant woman with the strength and valor of her mother, the great Isabella of Castile. We all saw it in her, and admired her for it. But Henry did not love her. He loved Jocasta, and the queen knew it. She also knew, by that time, that she could never give the king a son to succeed him. All her babies but one had died, and that one, as you know, was a girl, Princess Mary.
“The king took Jocasta to live in the Maidens’ Bower, where he kept his mistresses. Edmund did not object, he knew it would do no good, and besides, King Henry gave him an estate and made him royal lieutenant for Sark, which more than satisfied him, even though it meant that he would be far from home for long stretches of time.
“As King Henry’s mistress, Jocasta brought shame on our family. It could not have been otherwise. Yet secretly all the women envied her, for her beauty and for being loved by the king. Before long she knew she was carrying the king’s child, and he was overjoyed. He felt sure she would have a son, and he meant to make that son his heir. He confided to his closest friends that he hoped Queen Catherine would either fall ill and die or decide to take the veil, leaving him free to marry. He was sure a way could be found to free Jocasta from Edmund.
“When her time was near Henry sent his beloved into the country, to the convent of St. Frideswide. He sent Mary Lascelles with her, to attend her. He hired a skilled midwife, Anys Cockerell, to deliver her child. Nothing was wanting in the birth chamber, Mary Lascelles saw to that.”
Uncle William paused, unable to go on. I saw that he was overcome with sorrow and I thought, yes, it was as he said, he must have loved her. After a time he continued his tale, his voice hoarse with emotion.
“When word reached King Henry that she had died he gave forth such a howl as I had never heard from any creature, animal or human. He shut himself away for three days, eating nothing, speaking to no one. The physicians were worried about him, they had no idea why he was acting as he did.
“Then, at last, he emerged from his seclusion. He was haggard and white-faced. I had never seen him so ravaged. He staggered like a wounded deer. No one dared to speak to him, he raged in his sorrow. Finally he told those few of us who were closest to him what had happened. Jocasta and the baby had both died. He ordered the midwife to be hunted and executed, but she was never found. Mary Lascelles pleaded for her life and he forgave her, because he knew Jocasta had been fond of her.”
He reached into an inner pocket of his doublet and brought out a velvet pouch. He handed it to me.
“I have kept this ever since she died. It was with the few possessions of hers that Mary Lascelles returned to the family. She was wearing it all through her labor, Mary said. I want you to have it.”
Moved by his words, and the emotion in his voice, I opened the pouch and took out a golden pendant. The design was simple: three hearts entwined.
“The king wears a brooch of this same design,” Uncle William said. “I know he still grieves for his lost love. He visits her grave. She is buried in a private chapel at Greyfriars here in London. The duke would not permit her body or the body of her son to be buried in the Howard family tomb in Norfolk.”
He shook his head. “She was the best of us all, your mother. And yet she was shunned, even in death.”
For a time we were silent, watching the boats come and go. The sun had sunk lower as Uncle William told his tale, and the wind off the river had grown colder.
“I look like her, don’t I,” I said finally.
Uncle William nodded. “Very much like her. And the light in your eyes, your laughter, your grace—it is as if she had been reborn.”
“When the king first saw me, that day when the eight of us went to the palace, he was startled, dismayed by the sight of me. I knew then there was some reason.”
“He sees her in you. Part of him imagines that she has come to life again in you.”
“But he must have known, all these years, that she had a daught
er.”
“Of course. Yet he had no wish to see you, or even know whether or not you survived your childhood. It was all much too painful, the thought that Jocasta’s child by Edmund might be living, while his boy died.”
Uncle William sat down beside me and put his arm around me.
“You are shivering. We must go back inside.”
“No, please, uncle. Let’s just sit quietly here awhile.”
“Of course, if you need to, dear child.” He stroked my hair. “I wish you could have been spared all this. But you had to know. Otherwise the king’s interest in you would make no sense.”
How long we sat there I don’t remember, but I heard the bells ringing in the church tower as we got up to leave, and my feet felt heavy as we walked together out of the fragrant garden, the sound of the chiming bells still echoing in my ears.
* * *
Quarrels erupted at Lambeth that spring, violent quarrels that left many injured. Two of Grandma Agnes’s household sergeants challenged a French dueling master to a contest of arms; one was killed, the other badly wounded. Two servants fought over a kitchen maid; both bled in the courtyard until a surgeon was found to bind up their wounds. (The kitchen maid jumped into the river and was never seen again.) Every time Uncle Thomas went to the royal court, it seemed, his guardsmen had words with the king’s gentlemen, and swords were drawn.
But the quarrel that concerned me most nearly began when twenty of Lord Cromwell’s serving men were set upon just at nightfall by men sent from our Lambeth household. The melee that resulted went on for an hour or more, and when it was over twelve men were dead and a score of others—among them my Francis—lay bleeding.
It was his arm, his sword arm, that had to be bound up with linen bandages. He had a cut over one eye, and a tooth came loose, but it was his head that hurt him most. He lay on the bed in our cupboard, full of the physick Joan gave him to dull his pain, halfway between sleep and waking. Edward Waldegrave, who had fought alongside Francis, had a deep wound in his side and tossed and moaned with fever for many days.
Joan and I were kept busy watching over them both. I was still coming to terms with all that I had learned in recent days, and it left me in a state of puzzlement.
Nothing was as I had thought it to be: I had thought I was married to Francis, now I discovered that I was a favorite of the king, and my marriage did not matter. I had thought my mother died of disease or in an accident; now I discovered that she had been the king’s great love and had died bearing his son. I had believed I was my mother’s only child; now I discovered that I had had a brother—briefly—who if he had lived, could have become King of England.
I pondered it all, as I put fresh bandages on Francis’s arm and cleaned the cut over his eye. He slept a lot, and I slept too, lying beside him—until called into service to attend Grandma Agnes or meet with a dressmaker for a fitting on one of the many new gowns she ordered for me.
One afternoon I went to Greyfriars, to visit my mother’s tomb. Uncle William had told me where to find it in the mendicant church, tucked in a corner in a private chapel, easily overlooked by visitors or worshippers. The stone that marked the tomb had no name, only a cross, and beneath it three entwined hearts, and the word “Beloved.” I stood beside it, saying a prayer for my mother’s soul and the soul of the brother I never knew.
I lingered there, in the cool of the church, lost in thought, until the two serving girls I had brought with me began to fidget and whisper to one another, and I realized it was time to go.
That evening I stayed awhile with Francis, sitting on the bed beside him. He was drowsy as usual from his medicine. He reached for my hand.
“Where did you go?” he asked me.
“I had an errand in London,” I said. “For the duchess.”
“Oh.” Something in his tone told me he didn’t believe me. But I did not want to tell him where I had gone, that I had been visiting my mother’s grave, that I now knew a great deal about her that I had never known before. The knowledge was still too fresh, too new to me. I would tell Francis eventually, of course. But not just yet.
A distance had grown between us, ever since I learned of the king’s avid interest in me. It was as if the king himself had come between us, cleaving our bound hands, severing our precious bond. The force of his presence in our lives shattered the future I had dreamed of—a future I thought Francis had been dreaming of as well. But I now saw that what mattered most to Francis was the king’s patronage, his favor. I began to fear that Francis would give up almost anything—even me—to attain and keep that royal favor.
It was as if the craving for high court office was a kind of infection. My father had it. All the men of business had it, Lord Cromwell most of all. Even Uncle Thomas had it, for much as he liked to say that the Howards were above the old royal line of the Plantagenets, and that his descent was of an older and higher lineage than the Tudors, in truth he too fought for preeminence in the royal household, and was bitterly jealous of the lowborn Lord Cromwell because Cromwell possessed the one thing that eluded Uncle Thomas: power.
There were more quarrels as the days passed, more melees. We heard of injured men, men who died of wounds. The stables at Lambeth became an arsenal, filled with weapons for the Howard men to use against their enemies. There was much boasting about how many of Cromwell’s men had been hurt. The conflict widened, from duels of honor to disputes over precedence to battles arising out of wagers. No wagering was more keen than that over Anna of Cleves: would she or would she not become King Henry’s next wife? Cromwell’s men bet on Anna, the Howard servitors and partisans bet that another woman, possibly a girl of English birth, would be the one chosen.
And who would that girl be?
* * *
“Get that filthy creature out of here!”
The marmoset jumped gleefully from bed to bench to cabinet and back to the bed again, uttering short shrill cries and grunts and now and then shrieking so loudly that I had to cover my ears.
Francis, enraged, reached in vain for Jonah’s gold collar with his uninjured arm, and swore at him.
“Get him away, I say!”
“He’s only playing. He won’t hurt anything.”
“He stinks. He has fleas. He looks like a demon from hell—and sounds like one too.”
I kept hoping that Francis would get used to Jonah, even become fond of him as many in the household were. But he obstinately resisted—in part, I felt sure, because he knew Jonah had been the king’s gift to me, and was jealous.
His arm was healing, slowly. He resumed his duties, though without his usual quick pace and efficiency. There were times when I saw him lying on a bench in one of the dim corridors, taking a quick nap, and I knew that his arm was hurting him and his spirits were low. He was often snappish and fretful, even with me. But it was Jonah who brought out the worst of his temper. He shouted at the little monkey, glowering at him and threatening him.
Once when I went to our cupboard to see how Francis was I found him cursing Jonah. Just as I came in he picked up his tankard of ale and threw it at the scampering little beast. Jonah screamed, Francis bellowed in frustration and I was alarmed. Had the tankard hit the monkey?
But he was gone. The last I saw of him were his two hind legs, flying out behind him as he ran off and disappeared. I went looking for him but my search was fruitless.
That night I wept, thinking I would never see Jonah again. I couldn’t sleep. I got out of bed and went to the window. Then I heard it—a soft whimpering sound. It had to be Jonah, outside in the courtyard.
Quickly I wrapped a cloak around my shoulders and made my way along the corridors and down the staircases to the kitchens, then out the wide doors that led to the courtyard, in the direction of the brewhouse and stables. I was intent on finding Jonah, I was incautious. There had been midnight brawls between Cromwell’s men and Grandma Agnes’s servants; I knew this, but I disregarded the risk. Finding Jonah was what mattered.
L
istening for the whimpering I had heard earlier, I heard instead the shuffling of feet. Then I saw a light swinging in an arc: a lantern. The night watchman. Or was it? The next thing I knew I heard grunts, then cries—and I felt a hand grabbing at my arm.
Screaming, I turned and started to run, but there were men blocking my way. Tall, broad-shouldered men, looming up around me in the dark. I saw the glint of a knife, held in a meaty hand, as the lantern-light swung to and fro. I struggled, crying out. I tried to wrench myself out of the rough arms that encircled me.
Then I heard a familiar voice, as an even stronger arm was thrown around my shoulders.
“Catherine!”
He freed me from those who pulled and grabbed at me, and swept me past them to safety. Henry Manox had come back into my life.
SIX
HENRY Manox! I stared at him, while panting for breath, relieved at my rescue but completely baffled by my rescuer.
He reached for me, there in the cellar where we had taken refuge, and tried to kiss me. I pushed him away.
“By the short hairs of the Virgin, Catherine!” His strong, musical voice boomed out.
I stepped back. The light in the room was very dim, but I could clearly see his familiar face, the dark hair, dark moustache and beard—all with more grey than the last time I had seen him—the bright, darting brown eyes and full lips. Lips I had once found such pleasure in kissing.
“You might at least let me kiss you, as thanks for saving you from Cromwell’s miscreants!”
“Thank you, Henry. Now what are you doing here at Lambeth?”
“The duchess summoned me to her service here.”
“To teach music?”
“To be your secretary.”
“What? I have never had a secretary, nor do I need one.”
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