by Sarah Rayne
Catherine Howard was having the time of her life.
From the moment of entering the great candle-lit, food-scented banqueting hall at Greenwich, she had been surrounded by young men, anxious to solicit her hand for the dancing after supper. It was lucky she had learnt how to dance gracefully at Grandmother’s house, although it was better not to remember how Grandmother had come upon her in an intimate embrace with the young man who had taught her.
Catherine, blushing at the extravagant compliments being showered upon her, scattered promises amongst her admirers and occasionally stopped to marvel that this was actually her, this was Catherine Howard at the glittering Court of Greenwich; attracting admirers like honey attracted bees. She giggled when the young men said she was the prettiest thing to come to Court for years, and blushed in confusion when they prophesied that His Majesty would soon be casting his sights in Mistress Howard’s direction.
The King had looked down the table at her, but this might only have been because there was such a crackle of life all round her. Naturally a King would like to know what was going on. Naturally he would look to see what was at the centre of the fun. She had found that look rather frightening, because the King was so massive, so loud and red-faced and overwhelming in his padded brocades and his jewels. Catherine, brought up on the legend of the golden-haired Tudor prince who had dazzled England and Catherine of Aragon alike in his precocious youth, was secretly disappointed in Henry and then rather sorry for him. Horrid to become old and bloated and have to be helped out of your chair, wheezing as you got up. Poor fat, old King, thought Catherine, dancing off to take her part in the pavane. Poor Anne of Cleves married to him! Could there be anything nastier than finding yourself in Henry Tudor’s bed?
Martin had found it surprisingly easy to slip unnoticed into the glittering throng at the heart of this vast palace, and stand watching from a curtained alcove. The disguise seemed to be effective: Martin, accustomed to the austerity of Curran Glen, had wondered if it might be too noticeable, but one look at the Tudor Court dispelled his doubts. No one seeing this assembly tonight – any night – would ever worry about being noticeable, because every single person here was clearly engaged in a fierce struggle to be as noticeable as possible. Martin, surveying the cloth of silver and gold, the ruby brocades and the diamond-studded shoes, the ermines and martens, the dagged sleeves, padded doublets and jutting codpieces, was aware of sardonic amusement. Was this all they had? Posturing and dressing richly, intriguing and plotting? Surely they must become bored with such a vapid way of life?
It seemed they did not. They danced to what Martin thought rather jangling, discordant music, and one or two of the ladies sang in little, sweet voices, accompanying themselves on stringed instruments. Most of the songs seemed to be about love and about winning the loyalty of a golden prince. Each time the golden prince was referred to, everyone smiled and nodded in the direction of the great, heavy-jowled, red-faced man who presided at the far end of the hall and who slurped his wine from a jewelled chalice and eyed the ladies with small, rather mean eyes.
The King, thought Martin, caught between fear and fascination. Henry VIII of England, Defender of the Faith, murderer of Catholics. Nasty! Is that the once-golden Renaissance Prince, the Aragon Princess’s ‘Sir Loyal Heart’, the vengeful lover of Anne Boleyn?
And then the King beckoned with a plump, beringed hand, and Martin saw that he was indicating a young pink-cheeked, chestnut-haired girl. There was a murmur of benevolent approval, and as the girl moved to the centre of the room and sat on the embroidered stool set out for the earlier performers Martin understood that this was a newcomer; a young girl at Court for the first time. He thought the girl was pretty but guessed the benevolence was assumed. Kindness had no part in Henry Tudor’s Court.
Rodger Cheke, not quite at the centre of the Court, but padding alertly around its edges, thought that no one would dare to say aloud that the King was making a doting old fool of himself over this sauce-box Howard minx but that everyone was thinking it.
It was clear that those ambitious Howards were doing everything in their power to thrust their latest candidate for the Royal bedchamber into prominence. Any other family would have learned its lesson with Anne Boleyn, but not a bit of it: the Howards were flocking to Greenwich in triumphant droves and the sinister word ‘divorce’ was already hissing round the Palace. And anyone who could remember what had happened last time the word ‘divorce’ was mentioned – and the time before that as well – had cause to feel uneasy. It was all very well for the righteous to say that if people would intrigue and plot they must accept the consequences: this was Greenwich for heaven’s sake, where you intrigued or died. Sometimes you intrigued and died, of course, you could never tell. And everyone knew that to utter the word ‘divorce’ was like dropping a stone into a pool; the ripples spread outwards and quite often they bore words like ‘imprisonment’. And ‘imprisonment’ could ooze slimily into ‘execution’ and execution these days could mean anything: straightforward beheading, which was nasty, but mercifully swift; hanging, drawing and quartering, which was messy and neither merciful nor swift: while being burned alive at the stake was the grisliest, most agonising death of all.
Sir Rodger hoped he was not what men called a ‘turncoat’, but he thought it was impossible to help noticing that with the toppling or divorcing or death in childbed of each of Henry’s queens, several leading statesmen had toppled at the same time. Was Thomas Cromwell, Cheke’s own mentor, about to topple at the same time as Anne of Cleves?
The hissed word ‘divorce’ was already being subtly altered to ‘non-consummation’ which, said the Court, only went to show how determined Henry was to replace Anne from Cleves with Catherine from Norfolk, because no man – and certainly not a King – wanted that label hung on his codpiece. A few daring souls were already talking with epigrammatical wit about how the King could neither find, NorFuck the Queen, but the amusement surrounding this pleasantly bawdy jest had to be subdued. Henry VIII had not yet disembowelled any would-be jesters but there was no saying when he mightn’t begin.
In such a climate you had to look out for yourself. Rodger Cheke, preparing to abandon Master Cromwell with rat-like speed, looked about him and decided that the present Bishop of Winchester, Stephen Gardiner, might do very nicely as a replacement. The King liked Gardiner. The story was that he liked him so much that he had already visited his house on the South Bank several times – quite informally. The story running alongside this was that that naughty chit Catherine Howard had visited the Bishop as well, just as informally. Nobody knew how often the visits of these two coincided but most people were prepared to lay and take wagers about it.
Rodger Cheke, keeping his eyes peeled for information and his ears pricked for useful gossip, decided to present himself at His Lordship’s house. He would take along the silver coffin he had brought out of the Abbey at Curran Glen as well – yes, that was a master-stroke – because what had been intended as an offering for one master would serve equally well for another, and the Bishop was reportedly something of a collector of curiosities. Things were turning out very well indeed.
Catherine did not begin to feel afraid for what afterwards seemed to be a very long time.
It had been flattering to find herself singled out by the King, and it had been immense fun to discover that she was the centre of attention because of it. To begin with, the singling out was quite sedate and private, or as private as anything ever was at Court. There were little suppers at the house of the Bishop of Winchester, at which the Bishop never seemed to be present but at which the helpful young man newly attached to the household – Sir Rodger Cheke – was always present, waiting to escort her to the small panelled dining parlour, reminding her that a bedroom had been prepared for her should she like to accept His Lordship’s hospitality for the night. Nasty and chilly to make the return journey after dark, even in May, said Sir Rodger, before discreetly withdrawing.
Catherine wa
s expected to preside over the suppers, and afterwards she was nearly always required to play her lute and sing. She fell into the habit of using the minstrel’s lute on these occasions: she thought she never played so well as when she used it and it was important to play her very best for the King. There was nothing to worry about in the King’s interest: Henry was at least thirty years older than Catherine and therefore well beyond any kind of dalliance.
There was nothing to worry about but there was everything to worry about.
To begin with, the little evenings had not been alarming. It had even been rather fun to accept the Bishop’s offer of a room for the night. Catherine had accepted it several times now, enjoying the unusual privacy of having a room to herself, liking the lavish breakfasts the next morning and the subtle deference accorded to her by Rodger Cheke and the rest of the Bishop’s household.
The King was fatherly: he wanted to hear all about her, and he sat close at her side patting her hand – his huge meaty fist swallowed up her own small hand – and told her how pretty she was. Catherine had not minded this and she had rather enjoyed hearing the stories he had to tell: the splendid pageantry that had taken place before she was born; the famous meeting with Francois of France on the Field of Cloth of Gold; the marvellous joustings and hunts of Henry’s youth, and of course the battles against France when he had taken part in the sieges on Therouanne and Tournai. She did not mind either when he brought her presents: ruby and pearl clusters; a square of table diamonds which could be worn as a hair ornament; the dearest little sable-lined muff to keep her hands warm. These were things that could be worn openly and defiantly.
The King was always so splendidly dressed, his hair and beard rubbed with scented oils and his jewels so dazzling, that Catherine was able to overlook the fatness and the fact that he puffed and wheezed when he got up from the table. She was even able to ignore how the fatness caused him to waddle when he walked across a room.
But none of it could be ignored on the night late in May, because when Catherine entered the panelled supper room there was Henry, clad in a fur-trimmed robe, partly open at the top to expose flesh and a sprinkling of coarse grey chest-hair, and so negligently tied at the waist it was obvious that he wore nothing beneath. His face was red and shiny and when he leaned over her, his breath was sour from the spiced wine he had been drinking.
The instant Catherine saw the furred robe and glimpsed the naked, not very wholesome flesh beneath, she felt cold and a bit fearful. When Henry invited her to sit on his lap she felt frightened, because it was hardly an invitation, it was more like a Royal command.
But she took a deep breath and did as she was bidden, but as she sat cautiously on Henry’s mammoth thighs and felt his hand slide slyly into the bosom of her gown, she could not help remembering that this was the hand that had struck off her cousin Anne’s head – not literally of course but as good as – and when she felt the fleshy thighs shift under her, she remembered the suppurating ulcers from which Henry suffered.
There was a stale, sickish smell from between his thighs as well – his male organs? – oh God and he’s pulling my hand down to touch him! Her hand brushed the bandage over one thigh and she wondered in panic if a pus-filled leg was preferable to a sketchily washed prick. Royal prick. Royal or not, he’s barely half-mast, thought Catherine, daring to glance down to where her hands were being guided into the most intimate of caressings.
The large red face swam nearer, and Catherine forced herself to smile, and prayed she would not sick up the mulled wine she had drunk ten minutes earlier. Was she seeming sufficiently inviting? Was she seeming dazzled and flattered?
It seemed she was. Henry reached eagerly beneath her skirts, and Catherine, feeling his thick fingers between her thighs, thought dizzily: I’ve misread the entire situation; he’s intending to make me his mistress, after all. Is he? Yes, I believe he is. Can I do it? Can I let this bloated, red-faced, old man do that to me? Heaving and grunting, naked in a bed . . .? And which bed? Whose bed? Would she be expected to lead him to the room allotted her in this house? Was that why it had been set aside in the first place? Or would they do it here, on the floor or the settle? Not even Catherine’s wildest imaginings had ever included being ravished on the floor by the King of England.
But all the time a little voice was beating insistently against her brain, and it was a little voice that said: I’m being a success! and a tiny core of ambition she had not known she possessed curled itself about her mind. She was successful! She was snaring the King! She was succeeding where all those curved-nail women who had looked down their noses at her had failed!
And under all that, buried very deeply beneath the insistent voice, a dark undercurrent of fear was swirling and eddying, because to excite the admiration of this particular King was courting danger with both hands.
It would be undignified to lie on the floor and open her legs for Henry, but it might be safer to do that than to marry him. Vague plans began to coil and uncoil in her mind, and half with the idea of teasing the King, but also to gain a breathing space, Catherine slid off the massive Royal lap, and reached for her lute. Should they not have a little music before matters progressed any further? she said, her eyes innocent, but her lips curving in a mischievous smile. Without waiting for the King’s response, she picked up the minstrel’s lute, running her hands over the smooth polished surface.
In the firelit supper parlour of the Bishop of Winchester, Catherine Howard played for Henry Tudor the ancient music taught to a renegade High Priest almost a millennium and a half earlier. The thin cool notes drifted out through the window in the scented May night, and in the upper room that the Bishop had utilised for the storing of the very interesting ancient coffin presented by the helpful Sir Rodger Cheke, Ahasuerus opened his eyes.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The awakening was smoother and easier this time.
Ahasuerus lay for a while listening, waiting, absorbing the ambience of whatever world he was in. Cooler than Cremona. Farther north? Yes, possibly. Did Simon and the monks bring me here? Where is ‘here’? There was the impression of vaguely stifling luxury, and beyond that an unease; the sense of corruption and inter-mingling intrigues. A frightened people. Yes, but a greedy people as well. Eager for power. And the music is here. Susannah’s music. Isabella’s music. A smile curved his lips. The warmth was flooding his body as it had done in the catacombs outside Cremona, and he could feel the familiar cramping pains in his calves and forearms. But beneath the pain was an undercurrent of excitement. I am going to do it again! I am going to answer the music, and walk in the world on the other side of the grave once more!
He had no means of knowing yet what kind of world it would be, or how many years had passed, but he knew the music was close. And this time he would be warier, more watchful. He would remember the lesson learned in Cremona and there would be no arrogant setting aside of plagues: no careless imperious sprinkling of the music at the feet of fools. No bargains involving red-haired seductresses.
He looked cautiously about him. At least he was in a room in a house, and not in stifling, decay-drenched catacombs. It was unfamiliarly furnished and there were a number of objects whose purpose Ahasuerus did not recognise, but there was a discernible resemblance to Cosimo Amati’s little house. A bed stood at the room’s centre, with wooden posts at each corner and a flat canopy over it. Someone had thrown down a silk-fringed shawl: Ahasuerus recognised it as an item of feminine apparel – Isabella Amati had worn something very similar around her shoulders that first night.
He padded across the room to a deep cupboard set into the chimney wall, and surveyed its contents thoughtfully, and then looked at his reflection in the long oval looking glass.
His hands bore the mutilations of Cosimo Amati’s revenge. Burned maimed claws. So he was to bear those wounds just as his back bore the wounds of the scourging at the pillar in Jerusalem, was he? Bitterness welled up again, but he beat it down. Concentrate on blending with t
he people of this unknown world; think about how to talk to them if their language was unknown, as the Cremona language had been. Could he pass as a traveller of some kind? Surely travellers were normal in any world?
The cupboard yielded a number of unfamiliar items of dress, but there were several sets of what Ahasuerus saw to be gloves. Could they conceal the burned claw-hands? He tried them and thought they could.
The other clothes struck him as faintly ridiculous: odd thin woollen coverings for the legs and short breech-like garments of thick rather luxurious stuff for the body, but it was fairly easy to know what to wear on which part. And once on, the things were surprisingly comfortable: soft and subtly caressing. He discarded the dark cloak – no one would question an ordinary cloak hanging in what was clearly a place for garments – and looked back at his mirror-self. All right? A smile curved his lips. All right. I can do it! I can go out into this unknown world and blend with it! The rich, dark red, velvet cloak and the glowing emerald and silver brocades of the other garments had at first seemed over-elaborate and faintly absurd but now he saw that they gave him an exotic look.
He slipped out of the door and went as warily as a cat through the Bishop of Winchester’s house, towards the music.
He saw the girl through the half-open door; a servant of some kind had carried in a flagon of wine, and failed to close it properly. Ahasuerus could see straight in. He could see how the candlelight cast a soft aureole of radiance about her head and he could see the curve of her cheek. His heart lurched and he thought: Susannah! And then: or is it? Am I wanting to see her so much that I allow my eyes to trick me? But she is playing the music.
Keeping to the shadows, he skirted the galleried landing, and managed to conceal himself in the recess of a deep curtained window.
This child was not quite Susannah, not in the way that Isabella Amati had been. This one had not Susannah’s red hair, despite the chestnut lights glinting beneath the headdress. But Ahasuerus saw now that there were more similarities than he had initially thought. She was young and ingenuous-looking, and although at first glance she was as innocent as a babe, she had Susannah’s eyes and Susannah’s ancient-wisdom smile. She had Susannah’s deceptive guilelessness as well: the same virtuous eyes, belied by the mischief trickling from her sensual lips. Ahasuerus felt Time spiral backwards, so that for a moment he was in the Temple again, hearing the ancient beckoning for the first time.
