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

by Erickson, Carolly

  “I thought I saw the watchman tonight,” Tom mused as I lay in his arms after our lovemaking. “Just as the gatekeeper was letting me in. I hope he didn’t recognize me.”

  I felt a slight stir of concern.

  “Did he challenge you?” I asked.

  “No. But he did shine his lantern toward me, before passing on. And I thought I saw him hesitate, just for a moment.”

  He kissed my forehead. “I don’t want to worry you, dearest. But I thought I ought to mention it.”

  * * *

  “My own Tom, dearer to me than life,” I wrote a few nights later, my hand shaking and the candle before me guttering in the wind, “I cannot bear to be without you. I miss you, my own, my sweet little fool. I am unwell, have you the sickness also? Shall we take a physick together, and lie abed until we are in health again? Oh how I wish you were here with me this night! If only, sweet little fool, you were beside me as I write this, guiding my pen. My heart is apt to die, I miss you so much. Send me word how you do, and tell me when I shall see you again. Do not fail to do this or I faint.

  Yours as long as life endures, Catherine the Queen”

  I folded the letter and sealed it, and called in Englebert to take it to Master Culpeper, who had gone with the king to Hull to visit the new fortifications he was building there. I knew that Tom would only be away for a few days, a week at most. But even that brief separation seemed an age to me.

  Now that I had told the king that I was no longer carrying his child, I was beset by fears. I had begun to dread the future. When I married King Henry I had believed that our marriage would be brief, that my husband would soon die and I would marry Tom. But my husband was proving to be remarkably strong—stronger than the disease in his leg which had so often brought him to the brink of death but had not been able to kill him. I now wondered whether he might live for many years, long enough to marry again and again, until he found a wife who was fertile and could give him the sturdy sons he longed for.

  If that happened, there would be no place for me. Unless I was treated as Anna had been treated, with leniency and generosity. For I had to admit that my husband had been generous with Anna. Perhaps, if he found another woman, and became hopeful again, he would treat me well.

  While I pondered these deeply worrisome thoughts, Englebert stood quietly before me, waiting to do my bidding. Finally I handed him the folded letter.

  “Take this to Master Culpeper,” I said, “who is with the king at Hull.”

  Without looking at me Englebert gave a brief nod and took the letter from me, putting it in a leather pouch. Then he left me.

  I went to the window. The night sky was black, there was no moon. Grey-black clouds blotted out the stars. I thought of Tom, wondering whether, at this moment, he was also looking out into the night and thinking of me. Wondering when I would see him again, and feel myself safe in his enfolding arms. As I stood there, I heard the clopping of hooves in the courtyard below. Then the horse broke into a gallop. It was Englebert, I felt sure, taking my message to my love.

  FOURTEEN

  IT was while the king was away at Hull, and Tom with him, that one of the grooms brought me a visitor. I was still at Pontefract Castle, my nerves on edge and my worries expanding. I was not eating much or sleeping well. I was counting the hours until Tom returned.

  Then I saw the carefully groomed, slim man who was following the servant into my chamber. A man with light brown wavy hair, smooth skin, clear, light blue eyes with long lashes …

  “Francis!”

  Stunned at first by the sight of him, I was speechless. But instinctively I reached for the nearest piece of furniture, a heavy oak table, and grasped it firmly for support, as the servant went out of the room, leaving us alone.

  Francis bowed deeply. “Your Majesty,” he said, his voice grave.

  In that moment I realized, to my horror, that he still had the power to unnerve me, to draw me to him. His blandly handsome face, his fine soft skin, the thick lashes that swept across his clear blue eyes … I had to force myself to remember that this was the man who had so craftily deceived me. The married man with two children who had become my handfasted husband. Who had taken my naïve girlish trust, and used me abominably ill …

  But I was no longer that naïve girl. I straightened my spine and lifted my head, letting go of the oaken table, and faced him squarely.

  I thought I saw him flinch, ever so slightly, under my gaze.

  “What do you want?”

  He reached into his doublet and pulled out a leather pouch. From it he extracted a folded letter.

  As I watched him I held my breath. It was the pouch I had given to Englebert, and the letter—was my letter to Tom. I was certain of it as Francis unfolded it and held it before me. There was my writing. There were my words, expressing my desperate, urgent love and need. And my signature, Catherine the Queen.

  “I have not yet shown this to King Henry,” Francis said, “but I’m certain he would be interested to see it.”

  I felt faint. I could not catch my breath.

  “You would not do that. You could not.”

  “Do what you can, take what you need, act as you must. That has always been my motto.”

  For a moment it was all I could do to breathe. I swayed on my feet, but did not fall. Once again I reached for the table to steady me.

  I dared not call for help. No one must see the letter in Francis’s hand. Even if I managed to snatch it and destroy it, still there was Francis himself. No doubt he had copied the letter, or memorized it. It was Francis himself who was the danger to me—the danger of exposure, of the king’s terrible wrath. How could I get rid of Francis? If I were a man, if I had a sword—

  “You see, Your Highness, it is this way. You have taken me into your confidence—unwillingly, to be sure. You are going to have to trust me to keep secret what I know: that you have a lover, that his name is Thomas Culpeper, and, of course, that you had another lover before him, namely me, Francis Dereham. And no doubt there have been others.”

  “There are no others!” I shouted. “And you are guilty of threatening the queen! You! A base liar, an exploiter of innocent women! An adulterer and thief!”

  He held up his hand. “What I am is of no concern. All you and I have to talk about, Catherine, is whether or not we can strike a bargain, given all that I have found out.”

  I loathed him then, I loathed him far more intensely than I had ever loved him. I wanted to kill him, cool, crafty, underhanded repulsive creature that he was. And I knew that Tom would want to do the same. If only Tom were here! I thought. But then I thought again. No, not Tom. I would not want Tom hurt or blamed. I would do anything to spare Tom.

  “What sort of bargain?” I asked, trying to keep the tremor out of my voice.

  “All I want, Catherine, is to be your secretary, as Henry Manox once was.”

  “What!”

  “Yes. I want to be your secretary. Your rather well-paid secretary. My aim is not to reveal your many sins to your husband—or the sins of your paramour Master Culpeper. After all, my own past, and your part in it, must also be kept secret from the king—for my own sake. We both have a great deal to hide. We are partners, whether we wish to be or not.”

  “I am no partner of yours.”

  “You were once. You were only too pleased to be called my wife.”

  My stomach churned. I feared I might throw up. “Never say those words again,” I managed to say. “If you do, I swear, I will not let you live.”

  Francis only chuckled. “But Catherine, you once boasted that we were husband and wife. You showed off the ring I gave you to your friends. Even your grandmother once saw us together, quite intimately. And your women, your chamberers, know that Master Culpeper visits you at night. I myself have seen him coming and going, late on a midnight.”

  “It was you! You are the watchman Tom saw! The watchman with the lantern!”

  His grin told me that I was right. But then the gr
in disappeared. He became menacing.

  “Our bargain, Catherine. What is it to be?”

  My initial shock and fear was beginning to recede. I was starting to grasp the situation I was in, and to realize that Francis, repugnant wretch that he was, was in considerable danger himself.

  “And what if I should go to my husband, right now, under the protection of the guard—who are just outside the door, in the corridor—and tell him that you tried to force yourself on me? That any lie you may tell, or any forged letter you may show him, is worthless! He loves me. He will believe me.”

  “Ah, no, Catherine. He would want to believe you. But deep down he knows that a man of his age, yoked to a wife young enough to be his granddaughter—such a man must expect to be cuckolded sooner or later. Especially by a wife whose mother was a whore.”

  I flew at him then, but he was stronger than I was. He pinned my arms to my sides until, squirming and swearing, I could resist no longer. Still holding on to me, he sat me down on a bench beside a table.

  “Now! I am your secretary, is that understood?”

  “First I demand that you tell me how you got the letter.”

  “Your foolish footman was careless. I was keeping watch outside the castle when I saw him come out and go to the stables. I knew he must be on an important errand, to leave at such a late hour of night. I followed him, of course. He was alone. He stopped at a tavern. While he was getting drunk I went through his possessions, looking for money. I found the letter instead.”

  “He does not know that you have it, then?”

  “I imagine he believes he dropped it, or lost it. He was quite drunk when I saw him last.” Francis chuckled to himself. “He did not see me following him. He could hardly blame me for its loss.”

  I sighed. Suddenly I felt extremely tired. I could not fight Francis any longer. I could barely summon any anger toward him, only aversion. He was like some creeping thing, a spider or a snake, to be crushed. But I did not have the energy to crush it just then.

  “I am your secretary,” he said again. “From now on. In return you will order your steward to give me the income from, shall we say, six of your manors? I know you have many estates.” But it was clear to me that he had no idea just how much land I possessed, or how rich I had become, thanks to the king’s bounty. I pretended to be shocked.

  “Six!” I exclaimed. “But that is far too much.”

  “Very well then, tell your steward to give me the income from three of your manors.”

  “If I must,” I said wearily.

  “I shall draw up an agreement between us. It will be my first official document as your secretary. You will sign it—I know I can recognize your signature—and I will keep it in a safe place, in case I need it in the future.”

  “I want my letter back.”

  But Francis only chuckled again, and I felt such renewed loathing at the sound that I had to cover my ears.

  * * *

  I could hardly bear to have Francis anywhere near me, yet he clung to me like a limpet from the time he became my secretary on. Joan and Catherine Tylney, who knew all about my old relations with Francis and had heard me proudly say that we were husband and wife, and then had stood by me when Francis left Lambeth and I learned that he had deceived me, could hardly believe that I had taken him back into my household. They may have guessed the truth—that he had forced me to take him back by threatening to reveal all that he knew of my past. But if they did indeed guess, they said nothing, and I did not take them into my confidence.

  Our royal progress had in any case reached its final stage, the visit to York and the all-important meeting of King Henry and his nephew King James.

  For the past two months and more, work had continued on the new northern palace, a renovated abbey near the town of York, restored and much enlarged so as to house our own vast traveling party and the household, soldiery and servants of the Scots king. Broken walls were mended, dilapidated interior chambers renovated, painted and decorated in palatial style. Cartloads of tapestries, gold plate, candelabra and table ornaments, linens and napery, bedding and even fine paintings were put in place, new stables were erected and new kitchens added to the old. When complete, the new structure was strongly fortified, and the cannon brought from the south by ship were hauled into place.

  As I observed, the king never forgot that York had been the center of the rebellion five years earlier. When rebellion flared again, I heard him say over and over, he meant to be prepared. He did not want his nephew and all those who would accompany him to find themselves in danger.

  We settled in to the new royal lodging, only to find that the apartments intended for our use were not yet completed. Once again we stayed in tents, erected in the gardens. At least, my husband said, the lodgings prepared for his nephew were ready, even if ours were a disappointment.

  “Never mind,” he remarked as he kissed me and retired to bed—alone—“next year when we return to the north country everything will be in readiness to welcome us. Perhaps I shall arrange to have you crowned at York, if all goes as I hope.”

  “As Your Majesty wishes,” I answered, though with a sinking heart. I would not be able to endure another year, I thought. Not another year of the king’s caprices, his sudden enthusiasms and equally sudden fits of moodiness and gloom. I could not wait that long to escape from my role as queen, a role that was becoming a rat’s nest of worries, worries growing greater by the day.

  The rebuilt stables were stocked with swift post horses ready to carry messages between York and King James’s palace at Berwick. My husband sent a message as soon as we arrived, to say that we were settling in and to inquire when the Scots party would be coming. Then we did our best to make ourselves at home.

  Much to the king’s relief the citizens of York proved to be as submissive and peaceable as those of Lincoln had been. Thousands of former rebels came to kneel before him and ask for his forgiveness. They swore to him that if only he would be a good lord to them, and bear them no malice for their former misdeeds, they would pray for him—and for me and Prince Edward as well. The king received these humble acts of submission in good spirits, and though he told his guardsmen to be on the watch for troublemakers and malcontents, and to take careful note of any lawlessness, there was no sign of any trouble.

  Instead we found that the citizens of York had gone to great expense to make their town worthy to receive us, with elaborate banqueting and pageants in the decorated streets, banners and flags waving, and speeches of welcome from the mayor and aldermen. I heard no grumbling or mockery as we passed the noisy crowds, only the twang of northern accents and cries of “When will you give us another prince?”

  It was mid-September when we arrived in York, and the chill nights and cool days of fall kept me in my fur-trimmed nightdresses and fur-lined cloaks. When a storm broke at the start of our second week in the town, and no message had arrived from King James, my husband began to worry that bad weather might hinder his nephew’s plans to come south. As so often when worried, he went tramping in the hills and hunting, leaving me to occupy myself in my tent.

  But my tent had become the last place I wanted to be. Spending the long hours of my idle day with Francis, who simply would not leave my side, was tedious in the extreme, and the tedium was only made worse by Tom’s displeasure at having Francis near me so much of the time.

  “Why don’t you just have him stay in an antechamber until needed?” Tom wanted to know. “Or if you must, give him a small tent of his own?”

  I could hardly explain why not, I did not want Tom to know of Francis’s hold over me. As it was, the two men were at odds, every time Tom came near me I worried that they might come to blows. I told Tom only that the king, who knew nothing of my former relations with Francis, had given him the post as my secretary and that I had not had any choice but to accept him.

  Days passed, the skies stayed cloudy and the Scots did not come. Nor was there any message from Berwick. It began to look as
though all my husband’s expense and effort had been for naught. He was offended—and disappointed. His anger flared when reports were brought to him of Scots war parties coming across the border in murderous raids and burning the fields and barns of the English.

  “So this is how my hospitality is rewarded! With killing and destruction! Assaults on my subjects! My nephew offends me by ignoring my invitation. Even my sister stays away!” the king shouted. “Well then, I’ll send my soldiers to burn their fields and murder their folk in revenge! Three hurts for one!”

  * * *

  “There is talk,” I heard Uncle Thomas say gruffly. “While you have been away these three months, there has been much talk. Some of it must have reached the ears of the Scots.”

  Uncle Thomas had left our progress a month earlier and ridden south to London. Now he had returned, looking and sounding somber. We sat at supper, the king and I and Uncle Thomas and the few royal advisers who had come north with us. I noticed that my uncle did not look at me, or address me. He had been morose and oddly silent during the meal. I assumed he was tired from his journey, but as the platters were cleared away and he began to speak I sensed a darker mood descending. He had somber matters to convey.

  “Once again the Reformers among us are speaking out.”

  “Not those dreadful theologians from Cleves,” my husband said. “I have had quite enough of them.”

  “No. It is the moralists, the ones who say your court is a cesspit of wickedness.”