“We must begin by doing our best to please one another then, to reason together.”
“What is this, ‘reason together’?” She looked over at Herr Olisleger, who shrugged, then at the steward Hoghesten. But he only raised his eyes to the ceiling.
“Come, I will show you,” King Henry said, offering his arm to the duchess and leading her toward a window embrasure, apart from the rest of us, where cushioned benches offered a comfortable retreat.
“Crum! Denny!” he called out as they walked, “bring us a table, and some of that soothing poppy broth!”
* * *
I admired King Henry’s efforts to cope with the blustering Dowager Duchess Maria, but in the end he was unsuccessful. She got her way. He conceded, and agreed that his bride would travel from Dusseldorf to Calais by land, and then make the short crossing to Deal.
And I, and the other maids of honor, would travel with her. In order to do that, we would make the journey to Cleves.
I had never before made a journey of any distance—no farther than the distance from my father’s estate to Horsham, and then to Lambeth and London. Now I was to cross the sea and sail many miles north to the cold lands, that strange, low flooded place where, it was said, there was so much water that boats sailed through the fields and towers had sails that turned lazily in the wind. A poor and benighted place, but above all, cold.
We had woolen petticoats, and gowns with thick padded bodices, fur-trimmed cloaks and fur-lined gloves. We wrapped woolen scarves around our heads and over our ears. Yet despite all this, as our ship, the Eagle Royal, ploughed through the rough seas on our way northward, we longed for warm hearths and sunshine.
Rain and storms followed the Eagle Royal for many days, tossing her up and down ceaselessly and flooding her deck with icy, sloshing water that dripped down into our cramped cabin and made us miserable. We were ill, we could eat nothing. In our misery we became quarrelsome, and cursed Lady Anna and each other.
I found myself in agreement with the Dowager Duchess Maria: a quick crossing to Calais, followed by a land journey northward to Dusseldorf would have been far preferable to our watery purgatory. Only we did not have time for that; we had to reach Cleves as quickly as possible, in order to escort Lady Anna to England before the end of the year.
When our cabin became too foul to bear I found the courage to attempt to go up on deck. Clambering up the slippery ladderlike steps was hard enough, dressed as I was in many layers of wool and fur. But when I managed to step out onto the windswept deck, and saw the high billowing waves coming toward the ship, crested with white foam, and felt the freezing water seeping through my boots and chilling my ankles, I did not wait to go back down the steps and rejoin the other girls.
How could anyone live in so savage a climate, I wondered. Perhaps the dowager duchess had been right. Perhaps the danger of the sea journey would claim us all, as she feared it would claim Anna; either we would drown, or freeze, or become deathly ill. Or, if nothing worse befell us, we would still arrive at our destination with dry, cracked complexions, as dark as a black duck.
It was a great relief to arrive, thinner and weaker but safe, on dry land at last. Only it was far from dry, for the rain persisted and the castle where we were taken, Schwanenberg, was barely heated and we shivered through every ceremony of greeting, every night of troubled sleep and every meal.
As we might have expected, we were most curious to see Lady Anna, that mysterious being we had been hearing about for so many months.
Like her mother, she was tall and strapping, with a rather small bosom and broad shoulders. Her hair was a dark blond, her eyes more hazel than blue and her nose rather large and not well shaped. She pursed her thin lips when she saw us, and narrowed her eyes. Did she like what she saw? I could hardly tell, but I did not sense any warmth or welcome in her manner. It occurred to me that she might be shy, or perhaps half-frozen and that once she became acquainted with us or became unthawed she might prove to be friendly. I tried to think the best of her.
We each went up to our future queen and curtseyed, and as I drew nearer to make my show of reverence I was dismayed to see that Lady Anna’s face was pitted with the marks of the pox. Lightly pitted, to be sure; many at our court were far more severely scarred. But pitted nonetheless. Had King Henry been told of this, I wondered. Or would he have to discover it for himself?
And over the first few days that we were at Schwanenberg I discovered something else: that when she was crossed, or displeased, Anna’s usual rather bland expression could change very quickly, her face becoming hard and clenched.
I saw it when we had just finished dining, all of us—Lady Anna and her women attendants, the household steward, those of us from England and a few guests who spoke English—sitting at a long table, the food still abundant before us and our bellies very full. A liveried servant approached Lady Anna. A very old man and woman walked slowly into the room behind him, arm in arm, their eyes downcast.
“With pardon, Your Ladyship—or should I now say, Your Highness—I beg your indulgence for these poor folk,” the servant said in the Clevan dialect. I understood some of what he said, and the rest was translated for me by the man seated on my right, a nobleman from Frisia whose mother was English.
Anna frowned, but did not refuse.
“Your Highness, I beg you to have pity on this poor man and his wife. He has nothing to buy food or provide shelter. He and his wife are of great age, as you can see, and he has been the victim of one of Your Highness’s guardsmen, who tricked him and took all his savings. He has sold all of his possessions, even his bed, to buy food. Now he has nothing left. Can you not provide for him, since it was your guardsman who wronged him?”
I watched Lady Anna’s face as the request was made, and saw there the transformation from irritation to annoyance to hostility. Her jaw was tight, her eyes narrowed.
“Why must you always do this to me, Buren, just when we have dined, when you know I will feel least likely to refuse! It is not right!”
She did not look at the two old people, but glared at the servant, who was far from young himself. She sniffed and sighed in exasperation, then swore—an oath the nobleman from Frisia did not translate.
“Very well, Buren, give them a few coins if you must. But take them away!”
“May I give them the food that remains on the table?”
“You may not! What would I have to feed my dogs?”
The poor man and his wife murmured their thanks and followed the servant back out of the room, leaving us openmouthed. By us I mean we English. The Clevans appeared to take Lady Anna’s dismissiveness and lack of generosity for granted. Still, I hoped she would show some redeeming qualities to make up for her uncharitableness; after all, each of us has both faults and virtues.
She brightened when we taught her to play cards, especially the English game called “cent” or hundred. She liked to gamble, she liked risk. Her face grew animated when she won and she seemed to relish the feel of coins in her hand. I taught her to say the English words “I won” and she repeated them with childlike pleasure.
We English maids of honor were given the task of helping to plan Lady Anna’s traveling wardrobe. Her chamberers laid out the garments she possessed for us to choose from. There were several dozen gowns, mostly black. It was explained to me that Lady Anna was still in mourning for her late father, who had died the previous year.
“But the English court is not in mourning,” I managed to convey, in my halting French, to a helpful French pastry cook who served as interpreter. “Bright colors are preferred there, crimson and tawny and peach and lilac. And shiny, light silks and bawdkins.”
There was, just then, a craze for all things new at the English court. Fashions changed quickly. New styles—French sleeves, bell-shaped skirts, embroidered petticoats, the list was endless—set off an instant demand for copies. Seamstresses and dressmakers were kept busy far into the night preparing fresh garments for both women and men.
Looking at Lady Anna’s dour black worsted gowns and black velvet partlets, with only a touch of russet or purple trim to relieve their somberness, made me realize that what was needed was a whole new wardrobe.
I cannot say, looking back on those cold weeks in Schwanenberg, that I actually liked Lady Anna, for in truth I did not. But I felt sorry for her. She had no idea how to prepare herself to meet the very critical English courtiers, or how sadly lacking in youth and liveliness she would appear to them. She would look twice her age, I thought, in her own dark, shapeless gowns.
I set about to change that, insofar as I could. A silkwoman was sent for, and half a dozen seamstresses. I wished for Master Spiershon, or for a clever Frenchwoman who knew what was being worn at the court of King Francis. But time was limited. The silkwoman was able to provide lengths of brocade and gleaming bawdkins, cloth of silver and brilliant velvets, ribbons and trims. Each of us—myself and Charyn and Malyn—sacrificed our own most attractive gowns (trusting that they would be replaced) to donate more yards of cloth and trims and even a few jeweled buttons.
Lady Anna put on her new garments and walked in them in front of her pier glass. Her legs were long, she walked with great strides, like a man. When I tried to persuade her to try on a saucy French hood, to replace the style she was accustomed to that was quite unflattering, she balked. But I could tell that she liked all the attention she was receiving, and I saw how she picked up the skirts of her new gowns and swished them back and forth in front of the pier glass, enjoying the play of light on the shiny fabrics and the beauty of their colors.
I saw that I had pleased her.
“Kom,” she said to me when we were departing from Schwanenberg, our large traveling party with its escort of soldiers, its carts of provisions, spare horses, chests and trunks. “Kom wit me.” She smiled and pointed to herself, then to the coach in which she was to ride. “We speak, ja?” She wanted me to ride with her, and I agreed.
I had been teaching her a little English—she knew no language beside her own—and she wanted to learn more. I climbed into the coach, a large wooden vehicle with thick wheels and a sturdy undercarriage, covered entirely in cloth of gold.
It was a clumsy thing, and rattled terribly as we went along the rutted roads. I imagined how King Henry would laugh when he saw it. But it shone in the fitful wintry sunshine, and announced the high birth of its occupant, leaving the peasants who lined the roadway quite awestruck.
Here was the golden coach of Lady Anna of Cleves, it seemed to say. The lady who will soon be Queen of England.
* * *
All the way to Calais, far to the south, we spoke, Lady Anna and I, and by the time we arrived at the gates of the walled town Lady Anna had learned quite a bit of English and I quite a bit of the Clevan dialect. She was able to address the English in Calais in their own tongue, relying on a written message we had created together. She pronounced most of the words correctly enough to be understood, and when she finished the brief speech, she was loudly acclaimed.
A grand banquet was given in her honor on the day after our arrival, with three courses of thirty-three dishes each. So great was the feasting and entertainment offered to Anna that servants had to be sent across the water from Whitehall to help out. The banqueting hall was crowded, with steaming platters carried in from the kitchens in an endless stream. Wine was poured, flagons of ale drained, fantastic shapes formed from marchpane brought to the long tables.
Curtains screened the serving tables from the immense hall. I had been sent to request more sugar-bread for Lady Anna from one of the servers maintaining the tables, and had just parted the curtain when I heard a ripping sound.
I looked—and there was a sandy-haired, blue-eyed, freckled man with an embarrassed smile on his face, standing behind one of the tables. He had torn his maroon velvet doublet on a protruding sharp-edged board, and was examining the gaping hole the board had made.
“By the teats of the Virgin!”
Seeing me, he regretted his outburst. “Pardon, mistress,” he hastened to add. “I—”
“Yes, I see. You need help.”
I was adept with a needle and thread, in my years at Horsham I had patched my own garments over and over again, and sometimes helped the other girls with their embroidery. I sent a valet to find my sewing box and in the meantime, talked with the charming sandy-haired man, who had the most delightful smile.
“Tom Culpeper,” he said, his friendly face open, unguarded.
“My mother’s name was Culpeper, before she became a Howard,” I told him, pleased at the thought that we might be related—though hoping the family links were not too close. “My grandfather was Sir Richard Culpeper of Hollingbourne. I am Catherine Howard. My father was once Controller of Calais.”
“We are cousins then. And you are the kindest of cousins to offer me your help.”
“I have just come with Lady Anna and her party from Dusseldorf.”
“You are of her household then.”
I nodded, then added, “Ja, I am her maid of honor” in my best Clevan speech.
He laughed, a most pleasant laugh. Then, lowering his voice, he asked, “And now that you have taken her measure, what think you? Is she meet to be the king’s wife? Is she comely? I have not yet seen her.”
“I must be loyal,” I whispered.
“No, you must be truthful,” he whispered back.
Just then the valet arrived with my sewing things and I set about to repair the gaping hole in the rich soft velvet.
All around us servants were coming and going, weaving in and out of the crowd around the serving tables. There was a clatter of silver and the jabber and murmur of talk. Yet as I bent to take my first stitches all the disturbance seemed to melt away, all the sound retreated. It was as if we were alone.
“Promise me you won’t poke a hole in my chest,” I heard Tom say. “I must be fit for the jousting.”
“In this cold?”
“In the cold, rain or shine, we joust tomorrow, in honor of Lady Anna.”
I looked up at him briefly, and our eyes met. I found it hard to lower my eyes to my sewing.
“I hope you will do well, and unhorse many rivals.” I could hear the emotion in my voice.
“I will—if you will give me some token of yours—to wear on my sleeve.”
Impulsively I untied my silk stomacher and, ripping away a piece of the silk, folded it and handed it to Tom. He kissed it and tucked it away.
I went on with my sewing, my head close to his chest, my stitches far less small and neat than usual. I felt unsettled, all my composure shattered. I tried to concentrate on mending the rip in Tom’s doublet. I tried my best.
“There,” I said at last. “That ought to do, for now.”
He looked down at my handiwork.
“Neatly done. But I am still waiting to hear about Lady Anna.”
“Very well then. Help me find a platter of sugar-bread.”
He looked puzzled but did as I asked. When we had found the sugar-bread I said “Follow me” and led Tom out through the curtains into the grand hall. We made our way to where Lady Anna sat, surrounded by her ladies. She smiled at my approach.
Tom placed the platter of sweet bread before her with a murmur of “Your Ladyship.”
“Who is this handsome one?” she asked me in Clevan.
“One of King Henry’s gentlemen,” I said in reply. “He will compete in the lists tomorrow.”
Bowing, Tom withdrew—but not before he had smiled at me and murmured, “Until tomorrow, Mistress Catherine.”
I took my seat at the table, and reached for a slice of the sweet bread. But I could only eat a bite or two. I had no appetite. My head swam. All I could think of was, I will see him tomorrow, I will see him tomorrow. I could not wait for the day to end.
* * *
When Tom rode out onto the muddy jousting field on the following day, rain clouds darkened the sky and soon it began to pour.
“Sur
ely they can’t mean to hold the joust in this weather,” I said to Malyn, who was sitting next to me. We were shivering, our cloaks folded about us. We sat under a tentlike awning, along with hundreds of others waiting for the jousting to begin, all of whom, I felt sure, were cold and uncomfortable.
“They must,” Malyn told me. “Lady Anna wants to watch English jousting. They have nothing like it in Cleves.”
“But why not put it off until tomorrow?” I was concerned about Tom. What if his horse slipped and fell in the mud, and landed on top of him? It had happened to King Henry once, I knew; while jousting in the rain, his warhorse had stumbled and fallen on him. He had lost all sense for many hours.
“She may have to make the crossing to Deal tomorrow,” Malyn said. “She could go any day—just as soon as the tides are favorable. So the jousting must go on.”
I looked up at the sky. It seemed to be growing darker by the minute. But the heralds were riding onto the tiltyard, and announcing the first challengers. We cheered for the combatants as they rode onto the muddy ground, their horses’ hooves throwing up mud clots to stain their brilliantly colored caparisons. There were twenty jousters. I could not tell which one was Tom.
With the first passes it was evident that the contest would be a dirty, confused jumble of men and horses. The thunder of hoofbeats was muffled by the sloshing of puddles, instead of the splintering of thick oaken lances we watched lance after lance slide off the wet mail and fall harmlessly into the ooze below. Horses faltered, falling to their knees in the mire. Collisions left jousters shaking their befuddled heads in confusion.
“Why don’t they stop it?” I cried. “Why doesn’t someone stop it!”
But Lady Anna, sitting not far from us, was clapping her hands in pleasure. How could the sorry entertainment be stopped, when it was clearly offering her such delight?
Then came the moment I had been dreading. Two weary jousters, lances weaving unsteadily as they rode through the muck toward one another, collided in an explosion of wood and metal, their longsuffering mounts whinnying in pain and fear. Both horses fell—and only one rider managed to get to his feet, covered in mud, and stagger away.
The Unfaithful Queen: A Novel of Henry VIII's Fifth Wife Page 14
