“But it is treason to imagine the death of the king!” I said, horrified.
But Uncle Thomas only smirked. “Then most men of this court are guilty of treason. Everyone knows he cannot live much longer. His leg swells, he chokes, he cannot breathe—we have all witnessed him when in the grip of his grievous affliction. We have seen it again and again. Death lies in wait for him, and the waiting cannot be long now.”
I wanted to shut my ears to this ugly talk. I sensed cruelty in it, and another sinister quality for which I had no name.
Suddenly the fire felt too hot. I moved away, toward where Uncle Thomas was sprawled in a chair, gripping its arms tightly, his thin fingers splayed.
“Just do not resist him,” he was saying. “Let him make you his amour, his sweetheart. As he did your cousin Anne Boleyn, and her sister before her. It will not be for long, I promise you. Best of all, let him make you pregnant with his child. His son. Prince Edward is weak, he is assailed by illness like his father. He could well die at any time. Your son could become the next king. Just think what glory would come to me—I mean to our family—then. You would be known as Mother of the King’s Son. Your blood—Howard blood—would be mingled with the royal line forever.”
But even as he spoke I knew I wanted no part of the role he was describing for me. I had no ambition whatever to be the mother of the next king. I was not like my cousin Anne Boleyn, who had—so it was said—enticed the king and made him love her even though he was married to a fine loyal wife. Nor was I like my cousin Mary Boleyn, who had been willing to serve the king’s lust for years and who had been provided with a husband in a false and hypocritical way. I sought no advancement, for myself or my family. I had no desire for power or high position—though I confess I did enjoy the fine clothes and fine food, all the comforts I had been enjoying for the past several years. I had known what it was to do without; I much preferred to have the things that those in positions of power enjoyed.
In truth, I told myself, all I really wanted was Tom. I told my uncle so, I wanted Tom more than anything.
“But don’t you see, girl, you can have your Tom. Only wait until the king discards you—or dies.”
Wait. Just as death waited. And in the meantime, let the king make me his amour. As he did my cousin Anne and her sister. Bear him a son, as my mother Jocasta had. Let other women, women who had preserved their virtue and their reputations, look down on me and shun me. Let me be despised, sneered at.
Or worse. What if the king should become angry with me and order me to my death?
I felt repelled by what I had been hearing. It was foreign to me. Suddenly I needed to escape from the stiflingly hot room, into the cool of the outdoors, where a light rain was falling.
“Very well, Uncle Thomas. I will—think on what you have said.”
“You will obey me, Catherine.” How ominous his words were! How frightening!
“Now you may go.”
I fled from the stifling room, overcome by a need to breathe cool air and get away from my fearsome uncle. I did not hurry back to Lady Anna’s suite, knowing what I would find there: a scene of joyous preparation for a wedding that I now knew would never take place. Instead I lost myself in the maze of corridors and staircases, decaying unused rooms and quiet courtyards that made up the venerable bishop’s palace, seeking a respite from my troubled thoughts and finding none.
* * *
Lady Anna set off in her gold carriage for London. She and those of us in her household were to be lodged at Suffolk House in the Strand, from there she would ride in procession for her formal meeting with the king and, on the following day, to her wedding.
But as soon as we reached Suffolk House we were met by a sputtering, angry Lord Cromwell who had been waiting for several hours and could hardly contain his consternation.
He greeted Lady Anna with a deep bow.
“Your Ladyship, I beg your indulgence but I must tell you that the king is infirm and cannot attend the ceremonies to be held at Blackheath. He sends his regrets. Unfortunately, I must hasten back to the palace.” And he bowed again, clearly intending to leave immediately.
“That is all?” was Lady Anna’s startled retort, delivered in a harsher voice than I had ever heard her use.
“What is going on? What is the matter with the king?” Duchess Maria demanded, almost at the same moment.
Lord Cromwell hesitated.
“I shall have to send further word to you from the palace,” he said curtly, then lowered his head and made his exit.
“But why? What is happening? I must know.” Lady Anna looked around the unfamiliar room, a beautifully appointed sitting room, ample and gracious, with tall windows and rich oak wainscoting.
“Olisleger!” she called, and when the chamberlain came forward, she told him to go to the palace at once and discover all he could about the state of the king’s health.
“He suffers from pains in his leg,” I put forward. “He may be very ill. We must pray for his recovery, which ought to be our chief concern.”
All eyes were turned on me, especially the suspicious eyes of Duchess Maria.
“It is not for you to tell me what is my chief concern,” Lady Anna snapped. “I am about to be married! My wedding! That is my chief concern!”
And a very selfish one too, I told myself.
“If Your Ladyship pleases, I can go to the palace and find out what I can from my uncle, and the privy chamber gentlemen.”
“Yes yes, go at once.”
I was only too glad to be relieved of the strain of Lady Anna’s alarm and that of her servants. I was sure that I knew what lay behind Lord Cromwell’s curt announcement, and the cause of his distress. King Henry had decided not to marry Lady Anna. No doubt he would be sending her back to Cleves. I did not envy her.
When I arrived at the palace I sought out Tom. I had been aching to see him. I was told I would find him in attendance on the king, who was in his private library.
He slipped away and met me, taking me in his arms and crushing me to him. How safe and happy I felt, in his warm strong arms! All my worries fell away. Nothing could touch me or hurt me, I felt, as long as Tom was there to protect me.
“My darling wife to be! My sweetheart! It seems a year since we were together!”
Arm in arm we found our way to a servants’ chamber and communed there quietly, just glad to be together.
“I guess you know that your uncle said no,” Tom told me after a time.
“He came to tell me. He was harsh with me. He said I had to try to entice the king into making me his mistress. That I owed it to the family to do whatever the king might ask of me.”
Tom shook his head. “I would never want to share you with another man—even the king.” After a moment he added, “Do you think he loves you?”
“He is fond of me. He enjoys me. But there is no passion between us, none at all. And I see no lust in his eyes, as I used to see in Henry Manox’s eyes. None. Yet it appears he has decided not to marry Lady Anna. Could it possibly be because of his fondness for me?”
“I wish I knew,” was Tom’s reply. “He has been shut in with the archbishop and the law doctors for hours, there in his library,” Tom said. “I could not help but overhear what they were discussing, all about prior contracts and whether or not Lady Anna’s advisers were wrong to tell her she could become King Henry’s wife. They were mumbling their Latin to one another, on and on, until I thought they would drop from weariness. I know I almost did. But then you came—just in time to save me.”
He kissed me on the cheek.
“What are we to do, Tom? How can I bear to be without you? Uncle Thomas tried to convince me that it would only be for a short time. That I could let the king give me the favor of his love until he tires of me, or until—”
“Until he dies. No one believes he can live much longer. If he marries Lady Anna the honeymoon alone may kill him!”
Tom knew how to make me laugh.
“U
ntil the Lord takes him, I was going to say. Then, afterwards, you and I can marry, except that I will be dishonored. No one in your family would ever speak to me. Our children would bear the stigma of my dishonored state, just as I have borne the stigma of my mother’s dishonor. I would not wish that for you, or for our children. I think if I became the king’s mistress and then was cast aside, I would want to shut myself away in a nunnery, or go and live in some wild place, far from people and towns—”
“I wouldn’t let you do that. I would come looking for you. I would never rest until I found you.”
We held each other then, more tightly than ever, as if by clinging to each other we could forestall the worst of what we feared.
* * *
Two days later Master Denny brought me another message. I slipped it into the pocket of my gown and did not read it until I was alone.
Catherine, dearest little friend of my heart,
Though I would rather die, I find that I must,despite all my efforts, marry Lady Anna. I cannot do this dread thing without you there to be my friend and comfort. You must promise me this—send word of your answer—in haste,
Henry R.
I read and reread the message. “Dearest little friend of my heart,” he had written. A tender salutation indeed, but not, surely, the greeting of a man in love. He needed me, that much was clear. What harm would it do to give him what he was asking?
I gave Master Denny a message to take back to the king, to say that, assuming Lady Anna gave me permission, I would attend her at the wedding. I would give King Henry as much comfort as I could offer.
On the wedding morning we were up before dawn, all of us helping to prepare Lady Anna for the day she had been waiting for. Her dismay at the king’s change of plans, and the cancellation of the grand ceremony on Blackheath, seemed fleeting. All that mattered was that the wedding would go forward, even though it had been delayed.
Her wedding gown of cloth of gold, embroidered with clusters of pearls, was provided by the king, and was a match to his own garments of cloth of gold garnished with silver. She seemed quite overawed by the splendor of it all, especially the jeweled coronet she wore over her long thick blond hair, which we had brushed until it shone. She stood before her pier glass admiring herself, turning from side to side so that the diamonds sparkled in the early morning light. Then we went into the small room where Archbishop Cranmer was waiting, along with Lady Anna’s mother and two of her favorite Clevan ladies in waiting. I was allowed to attend; I had asked permission and Lady Anna, animated and full of happy anticipation, did not refuse me.
When the king came in to join us, the first thing he did was to look around for me. When he saw me he smiled, and I smiled back, nodding encouragingly. Then he joined his bride and stood before the archbishop. He pointedly avoided looking at Lady Anna, though she watched his face eagerly.
The ceremonial words were spoken, the hands of the bride and groom clasped, rings exchanged and promises made. I heard the king pledge himself to Lady Anna, his voice wavering as he spoke, knowing full well how he really felt. “May all the devils of hell draw her soul to hell,” he had written. I prayed that the king and his wife, his queen, would prove to be a blessing to one another, despite all that augured against it.
TEN
“LOATHSOME!”
The shout echoed throughout the king’s suite, startling the servants and causing those of us in the queen’s apartments nearby to perk up our ears.
“I tell you she is absolutely loathsome!”
It was unmistakably King Henry’s loud, rich voice—and he was unmistakably referring to his wife.
Malyn and Charyn and I stopped winding Queen Anna’s lengths of gold and silver trim and looked at one another. I could hear Jonah, in his cage, whimpering. The quiet in the queen’s suite remained unbroken for several minutes. We listened for more shouting, but heard none.
The meaning of the king’s explosive outburst became clear soon enough. Servants in the privy chamber told servants in the kitchens what they had overheard, and the kitchen servants passed the word on to Queen Anna’s chamberers, who whispered the news to some of us.
King Henry, having spent his wedding night with his bride, had confided the worst to his closest advisers and friends. She was repellent. He was horrified.
Not only could he not bear to make love to her, he said, but he suspected that she was not a virgin. Her sagging breasts were too full, her belly too rounded to be the breasts and belly of an untouched maid. He could hardly bear to touch her. He was prepared to swear on oath that whoever had taken her virginity, he was not the one.
He was going to talk to his physician Dr. Chambers about the awful situation and then he was going to do his penance, crawling the length of the royal chapel on his knees, all the way to the cross on the altar, while confessing his sins and asking for forgiveness.
In his role as privy chamber gentleman Tom could not help overhearing the king’s conversations with his advisers, and he confirmed the below-stairs gossip that had reached us. He told us more than we cared to know about the king’s revulsion at his queen’s deformed flesh, her hanging breasts and flabby arms and legs. About her womanly parts King Henry claimed to know nothing, for he had not gone near them.
All the talk would have been titillating, at least to some in the household, if it were not so grave. For the marriage had been made, not only to forge a political alliance, but to strengthen the succession, and no one ever forgot that.
We all watched the new queen’s belly. Would it swell with a prince? Would the king be able to overcome his revulsion for long enough to make her pregnant?
The queen herself seemed surprisingly untroubled. When asked if she expected to become a mother soon, she simply shook her head.
“No, I am not with child,” she said complacently, smoothing the skirt of her satin gown.
“But how can that be,” Malyn pressed her, “when the king shares your bed each night?”
Anna smiled. “It is as God wills.”
“But did not the Lord command Adam and Eve to be fruitful and multiply?” another of the maids asked.
“I am fruitful. I am a healthy woman,” Anna said stubbornly. And when pressed further, all she would say was that the king kissed her each night and said goodnight, then kissed her again in the morning and bade her farewell.
“Nothing more?”
She shook her head.
“Then you must intrigue him, tease him. Make him lust after you.”
“Do not say such language to me! I am a pure Christian woman, not a harlot!”
So it went, the wintry days lengthening into weeks, the queen’s belly remaining slack and loose instead of growing rounder and more prominent. We waited for some sort of resolution of the odd situation: a marriage that was not a marriage in the fullest sense, the succession resting on the uncertain health of the weak little Prince Edward who was not likely to have a brother.
And still Uncle Thomas was hoping that King Henry would make me his mistress. He did not. Instead, he confided in me.
“They plague me, oh how they all plague me, Catherine!” King Henry said when he summoned me to his private closet where he mixed his herbal remedies. I brought Jonah along, knowing how he enjoyed the little creature.
“They are like the fleas on that monkey, swarming, biting, tugging at my very flesh, all the place-seekers and petitioners, the rising young men and the panting, desperate old men, the fathers of ripe daughters who imagine I can be swayed by the offer of firm young flesh! Even my councilors, yes even old Tunstal, the wisest of them, only wants what is best for Tunstal, and not what is best for our common good, our common realm.”
“And Lord Cromwell?” I asked, rather daringly. “Is he too a flea?”
“He is the king of fleas. He has sucked much of my blood over the years.” His tone was bitter. “And he has forced me into a cankered union with—your mistress Anna.”
I was silent, waiting for him to go on. Jona
h left my lap and jumped into his.
Presently the king looked over at me, while stroking Jonah’s head and running his fingers down his back. “She has begun to become piggish and stubborn. She does not do my bidding, as she promised to. Her mother goads her into willfulness. Ah!” He threw up his hands. “How I hate that old witch, the dowager duchess! I have ordered her to go back to Cleves, but she refuses. She says the seas are too rough—”
“Perhaps she fears the ruin of her lovely complexion, as she once feared the ruin of Anna’s,” I said, and the king laughed heartily.
“Why not send her as your envoy to the lands beyond the sea? To the place where Jonah came from?” I asked whimsically. Jonah had jumped off the king’s lap and was climbing on the shelves that held jars and pots, books, a heavy inkwell, folded papers and a rusty knife, its hilt gleaming with gems.
“Or to the gates of hell,” the king muttered, reaching for his herb pots and his mortar and pestle.
“Just thinking of the duchess makes my head ache,” he added, dipping a small silver spoon into several of the pots and sprinkling spoonfuls of what looked like withered grass into the mortar bowl. “This is my best headache remedy. First marjoram and rue,” he said, pulverizing the herbs, “then a few rose petals, then some sage, and finally lavender, to soothe and calm me and make me sleep.” As he mixed the concoction he seemed to grow more relaxed. I found that the strong scent in the air was making me sleepy.
A thought occurred to me.
“Your Majesty, may I ask whether you mix this potion for yourself at night, before you go to bed?”
“Yes, often. Why do you ask?”
“At the risk of offending you—”
“Speak, girl!”
“Could this potion cause such a stupor that—it prevents you from—from—carrying out your husbandly tasks?” I could not bring myself to use a crudity, as the servants so often did.
“Do you mean, am I so sleepy that I do not make love to my wife?”
“Yes. You see, we—that is, many in the household—are hoping that Queen Anna will have children—a son, or more than one.”
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