The Unfaithful Queen: A Novel of Henry VIII's Fifth Wife

by Erickson, Carolly

  Presently the groom came to me again.

  “His Majesty awaits you outside his tent,” I was told. The groom helped me remount and guided me to a large tent with a peaked roof, gold tassels hanging from its edges. The king, mounted and looking fit, awaited me there.

  “Now then, Catherine, are you ready for your tour of Nonsuch?”

  “But there is nothing here besides rubble!” I could not help saying.

  “That rubble, as you call it, is the palace in embryo. Every stone will have its place—in good time. Some of the stones, the smaller, humbler ones, come from the cottages of the village that was here until quite recently, the village of Cuddington. All the structures were torn down, but the best of the stones were preserved, as you see. They will be put to a much nobler use before long.”

  We rode on through the high grass. Now and then my horse stumbled over a stone. There were workmen digging, measuring, loading rocks into barrows. Sharp-voiced overseers called out orders. An air of brisk progress hung over the scene.

  We rode to the highest point in the building site, from which we could look down and survey it all.

  “When I went to France in my youth,” the king mused, “the French King Francis was building a grand chateau, such as had never before been seen in his realm. It was called Chambord. It took him many years to build—it may not be finished yet, for all I know—but he told me that when it was complete, it would have four hundred and forty rooms. Imagine! Four hundred and forty. And not small rooms either, but large, grand ones, full of light.

  “I swore then that one day I too would have an immense palace, with at least as many rooms, a palace more grand and opulent than Chambord. I imagined that I would live there, with my loving wife beside me, our children surrounding us, until we grew old and yielded our bones to the earth. After we were gone, the palace would be our memorial in ages to come.”

  I had the feeling that he was speaking more to himself than to me. He pointed out where the two large main courtyards of the palace would be, and told me of his plan to decorate the inner courtyard in a way never attempted before.

  “There will be sculptures there, enormous sculptures, that appear to be leaping out of the walls. Yes! Leaping through the very walls, can you envision it? All around these immense figures will be gold, gold that shines like fire when struck by the sun. Ah! I tell you, Catherine, it will be a most remarkable and unique place, my Nonsuch.”

  His excitement shone on his face, he was so caught up in his dream. As before, when full of plans and projects, the years fell away and he seemed a much younger man. An attractive man.

  We rode here and there amid the rubble-strewn grounds, the king showing me where the royal apartments would be, the hunting parks and banqueting house, the large gardens full of statuary and fountains that spewed forth water in long arcs.

  “And here, in the center of it all, will be my tower. My safe place. My tower of protection, where no danger can reach me. Five stories high, the tower will be, shining with gold, a gleaming turret visible for miles around.”

  We dined in the royal tent, lit by dozens of wax candles, the inner walls hung with tapestries, the royal musicians playing for our enjoyment. Roast venison and baked swan were cooked as skillfully as if we had been dining at Lambeth; cream of almond and sugared fruits tempted me to overeat—and I did not resist the temptation. The king consumed trencher after trencher of meats and jellies, breads and pastries, tarts and cakes. The meal went on and on, the wine flowed freely and when at last King Henry had had his fill, his talk flowed freely as well.

  “Did you know, Catherine,” he began as we settled ourselves on a soft Turkey carpet before two burning braziers, “that when I was a boy I had to run for my life?”

  “No, sire.”

  He nodded. “I did indeed. I was only a little thing, five or six years old. London was in a state of turmoil. People were running through the streets, shouting that the Cornishmen were coming, trying to flee the city as quickly as they could. My father and brother were doing their best to keep order, I suppose, and prevent all the soldiers from running away. At any rate they were not with mother and me.

  “I remember mother taking my hand and saying, ‘Now then, Henry, you are going to be a brave boy and protect me.’ I promised her I would. I had a small sword, though I had never used it. I thought I could use it if I had to, if it meant keeping mother safe.

  “We were only a short distance from the Tower. We ran, together, through the crowded street and reached Coldharbour Gate safely. An old guardsman let us in.

  “Once inside we managed to climb the stairs to the top of the White Tower, and entered the ancient keep. There was food there, and a barrel of rainwater, I remember. We knew we would have enough to sustain ourselves for many days. And I felt safe, there in the keep. No one could harm us as long as we remained in the safe heart of the strong old fortress.

  “We heard guns going off and I thought the Cornishmen had breached the walls. I was afraid they might find us and kill us. But I took comfort from the thick old walls, the battlements that had withstood sieges and rebellions for centuries, ever since the time of William the Norman more than four hundred years before.

  “I did not cry. I stood guard over mother, to keep her safe.

  “The Cornish rebels were in fact outside the city, at an encampment on Blackheath. It took many days, but finally my father led his army against them. And they were not only defeated, they were struck down by a plague and nearly all of them died. Mother and I were safe.

  “Ever since then,” he went on after a pause, “I have looked to the Tower as my bastion of protection. But the new tower at Nonsuch, once it is completed, will be stronger and more enduring than the old Norman keep. It will be my place of refuge, and my son’s, and my wife’s. It will endure down the generations as the strongest tower in the land. That is my hope—and my dream.”

  He looked into my eyes. There was no mistaking the meaning of his steady gaze. I was a part of his dream. I was certain of it. His broad, paunchy face was close to mine, his blue eyes small and squinting in the candlelight, the stench of his breath overpowering.

  “Catherine,” he said, reaching for my hand.

  I drew myself up, so that I was just out of reach.

  “I trust your tower will stand forever, and never fail to protect you, Your Majesty. You honor me in sharing with me your plans for this place, and your childhood memories. I only wish I had more to offer in return.”

  “You offer your company. I enjoy it greatly.”

  “May I ask your permission to retire now? I am very tired.”

  He looked crestfallen, and for a moment I felt sorry for him. But the moment passed and he called for a groom to take me to my tent. Before I could get to my feet he reached again for my hand and pulled it to his lips.

  “My dear Catherine,” he said, squeezing my hand and then releasing it, “sleep well.”

  * * *

  We spent four days at the building site, watching the laborers at their tasks, Henry conferring with the builders in charge, discussing where and how large the chapel ought to be and whether the palace would require stabling for four hundred or five hundred horses. The king asked my opinion again and again, and seemed to listen to all that I had to say.

  “How big should the nursery be, do you think, Catherine? Do you think six chambers will be adequate?”

  “Does Your Majesty hope for six children by the lady who will be your wife?”

  He smiled indulgently. “If the Lord wills it. It would seem He is providing me with a fruitful young wife. Why not assume that she will give me six fine sons?”

  Again and again he was hinting—indeed more than hinting—by his words, his looks, his affectionate smiles—that I was much in his thoughts as either wife or mistress. I disliked the teasing, I have always preferred straightforward speech—unless of course there are reasons for discretion. I did my best to be agreeable, while not encouraging his hints and oblique
references.

  On the third day of our stay I brought up the important subject (important to me) of my father, and his hopes for a court appointment.

  The king’s response was impatient.

  “Nothing has changed since the last time you asked me to favor your father with a court post,” he said. “I told you I would keep your father in mind.”

  “Along with a thousand others, I believe you said.”

  “And now it is two thousand,” he snapped. “The decision about who will be the next queen must be made before long. The closer that decision comes, the more I am pestered about the new queen’s household—how large will it be, who will hold the principal offices, and so on. Even here, far from Whitehall, my secretary receives constant requests for posts.”

  I saw that if I was insistent I would only make the king more irritable. I drew back, and did not argue further.

  “Then I will just have to tell my father that he must continue to be patient. And may I add your good wishes?”

  “If you must. But I caution you, these eager candidates for offices have a way of misinterpreting good wishes as promises of future posts.”

  I was quiet. Presently the king announced that he felt the need to try out one of his new falcons, and left me, rather abruptly. I felt a chill arise between us, and did not understand why.

  I napped, I went for a ride on my lovely brown mare. When evening came, and the king had not returned, I brought out a piece of embroidery work and contented myself for an hour or two with sewing, while the royal musicians played for me. At last I went to bed, mildly concerned that I had done something to cause the king displeasure. Had I done the wrong thing in raising the subject of my father? And if so, had I made it less likely that he would eventually be appointed to the new queen’s household?

  The following morning, however, the king seemed to have returned to his accustomed brisk, cheerful self. I could not detect any signs of his former irritation. Puzzled, I took his lead and did my best to act as though there had been no interruption in our smooth, pleasant relations.

  Saying that his sore leg was much improved, the king suggested that we go walking, and I was happy to agree. Taking his thick walking stick, and leading the way, we started out, with one of the royal physicians and several grooms and the king’s secretary Brian Tuke following at a discreet distance. King Henry limped very noticeably, and I saw that he grasped the gold knob of his stick so firmly that it shook under his weight, but he did manage to walk for half an hour or so, pausing now and then to rest.

  I kept pace with him, patient with his slow progress and frequent stops. We talked a little as we went along, but it was not until we reached a wide pond fringed with drooping willows that we sat in the shade and talked at our ease.

  The king sighed and set down his walking stick.

  “I received word yesterday that the doctors of theology from Cleves have ceased to create difficulties for us. Crum informs me that the Lady Anna will be able to worship according to our rites—which means that there are no further impediments to our future marriage.”

  I heard the dull thud of resignation in his voice.

  “Then you will marry her?”

  Another royal sigh. “Not if I can find a reason not to.” He looked at me fondly.

  “You are my best reason, Catherine. I have grown quite foolishly attached to you.”

  “As you were to my mother,” I said boldly.

  “Yes. You are very like her, you know.” He stroked my cheek. “The same beautiful auburn hair, the same smiling face and amusing manner. And, I hope, the same loving heart.”

  I said nothing. After a long silence, during which my head was spinning, the king spoke again.

  “I want to find a reason not to marry the Lady Anna, but it must be a reason that will satisfy Lord Cromwell. And just now Lord Cromwell is sounding the alarm for war—and a marriage alliance with Cleves. You see my dilemma.”

  * * *

  That summer, the summer of the year 1539, the drumbeat of war grew louder and louder. The trained bands and militiamen gathered and armed themselves, preparing to defend England from attack. Uncle Thomas summoned hundreds of soldiers to Lambeth and housed them in tents and outbuildings on the manor grounds, where they mustered and practiced their drills to the booming of drums and the blare of trumpets. We heard that fortresses all across southern England were being strengthened and castles fortified. And whenever we traveled along a high road, we encountered guardsmen, armed knights, strings of horses bought or simply taken from men of substance for the king’s use in war, plus endless trains of carts carrying barrels of gunpowder and tents and supplies for the soldiers.

  All the talk within my grandmother’s household was of the defense works being hastily erected around the capital, and all along the southern coast and on the border with Scotland. We were told that thousands of men were needed to form new trained bands, and many of Grandma Agnes’s strongest, most fit young servants left her employ to join the growing militias.

  I saw little of the king during this crucial time, as he was visiting his bastions and supervising the repair of fortresses and the construction of bulwarks and blockhouses. He ordered plaques to be mounted on the walls of his castles, warning invaders of the perils of challenging England’s might. “Henry the Eighth,” the plaques read, “Invincible King of England, France and Ireland, Builded Me Here in Defense of the Republic to the Terror of His Enemies.” A stout warning indeed, though what were needed, it was whispered, were more cannon, not more warning signs.

  For an immense invasion fleet was said to be nearly ready to sail, a fleet of Spanish and French and even Venetian ships assembling in the harbors of the northern lowlands, intended to carry thousands of soldiers and mercenaries to our Channel coast. Storms arose to prevent the fleet from sailing—providential storms, divine aid sent to defend us. Yet as each storm abated, the watchers along the coastline peered into the mist and fog, certain that they would see the first flags and turrets of the enemy fleet any day.

  The fear and activity reached a pitch in midsummer, and then, when no fleet appeared off our shores and no invaders had come down from the north, the war preparations slackened. But by then I was preoccupied by another concern, one much deeper and closer to home.

  For my father, weary of his struggles and disappointments over money and increasingly harassed by moneylenders and tradesmen, had fled to Uncle William’s house at Oxenheath, and was very ill.

  As soon as I learned of his illness I went to be with him, only to discover, somewhat to my surprise, that no other family members were at his bedside. He had been abandoned by everyone, even his unpleasant wife, my stepmother Margaret.

  “Poor man,” Uncle William said as we sat at father’s bedside, where he lay asleep, his breathing ragged and his forehead creased as if in worry. “He came to me a few days ago, asking me to hide him. He said his creditors were after him, and that he didn’t feel at all well. Then he collapsed, and I put him to bed and called my physician to see to him.”

  “Is it his kidney stones?”

  Uncle William nodded. “That, and fatigue. The physician says his body is just tired out, worn out. He has been sleeping most of the time since he arrived. He must be dreaming, because he talks in his sleep. I can’t make out the words.”

  “Why is there no one else here?”

  Uncle William made a wry face. “Have you not noticed, Catherine, that only the rich attract relatives to their deathbeds?”

  I felt a catch in my throat. I hardly dared ask, yet needed to know.

  “Is he dying then?”

  Uncle William nodded. “The priest has been here. He has been shriven.”

  I reached for father’s hand. It felt light, and very dry. As though it was drying up, or fading away. Such a dear, familiar hand, the fingers thin and curling under, the nails not entirely clean, or well trimmed. I began to cry. How would I go on without him?

  “I will stay here with him, Uncle Will
iam, if you want to get some sleep.”

  He nodded and left.

  I squeezed father’s hand, but he didn’t respond. His breaths became rasping, harsh. He began to cough. I was afraid he would choke. I tried to help him sit up, but he wrenched himself away and flopped back down, away from me, on his side.

  “Father, it’s Catherine.”

  At the sound of my name he struggled to lie flat again. In a moment he opened his eyes, squinting.

  “Catherine,” he said, and reached for me. The look in his eyes was so forlorn, so pitiable, that my tears flowed freely.

  “Dearest father,” was all I could say. “Dearest dearest father.”

  He made an indistinct sound.

  “What, father? Do you want anything?” I looked around. Was he cold? Hungry? What could I give him? What could I do for him?

  “Beaten—down—by—life,” he managed to say. “No—good—trying—any—more.”

  The effort to speak tired him, and he took deep breaths, his eyes closed.

  “Please don’t give up, father. Please. For my sake.”

  He shook his head.

  “No—good—any—more.”

  He smiled, a weak smile, but full of love. Then he slept. After a time I lay down beside him, and slept too. Later I was awakened by Uncle William.

  “He’s gone to be with the Lord, Catherine.” He put his arms around me.

  “Don’t leave me, father. Don’t leave me!” I cried, desolate.

  My father’s funeral was brief and without dignity or grandeur. Few Howards were in attendance. I was embarrassed for him, my emotions in upheaval. I grieved, for both my parents, the mother I had barely known and the father I had so dearly loved. I was all that was left of them both. And now I was an orphan.

  * * *

  Great draughts of calming poppy broth helped me through the following weeks, while my grief gradually began to lessen. I had suffered two blows: first the betrayal and disappearance of Francis, and then the loss of my father. I was idle, adrift. I felt lumpish and glum, moping through my days, resentful of my relations who had not paid tribute to my father in death—for although he was entombed in the Howard family vault, his body was enclosed with many others and his name was carved in small letters, easy to overlook. The great Howards were magnificently memorialized; an insignificant Howard like my father was accorded barely any honor or distinction at all.