The Rose Without a Thorn

by Jean Plaidy

  “With a new Queen,” she often mused, “though she is not of our choosing, but… who knows? The Duke has kept favor, even after …” Then she would sigh and be sad, thinking of her favorite granddaughter.

  Now she said: “True, we must needs accept that. They say she is very fair. The Duke has seen Master Holbein’s portrait and it depresses his spirit.”

  “She is very beautiful then?”

  My grandmother was silent. After a while she said: “Your uncle is among those who will go to Canterbury to greet her. It will not be long before she is crowned Queen, and it seems only yesterday…”

  She was going to be sad for a while after this. The prospect of a new Queen brought back too many memories of that other.

  There was great excitement in the Long Room. Someone always managed to get the latest news from a friend who had either heard or actually witnessed it. We had to sort out the truth from fantasy, but there was usually a grain or two of the former involved; and it all made fascinating listening.

  Now there were reports of what had happened at the royal meeting.

  When the King had his first glimpse of her, he was filled with horror.

  “They say she is by no means as fair as he had been led to believe by accounts and, of course, Master Holbein’s portrait. She is big and he likes not large women. Master Holbein makes her skin look like velvet, and hers is marked by the pox. She wears the hideous fashions of her country and she is no beauty.”

  “And what says the King?”

  “The King is beside himself with wrath. He stayed for a very short time in her company. Then he made his excuses and left. He was in a fury. Be assured, someone will suffer for this.”

  “It will go ill with Master Holbein for painting such a false picture.”

  “Oh, he will not harm the artist. He likes well Holbein’s work, and the painter would say that was how he saw her. When he looked at her he was seeing her as she might have been before she caught the pox. That is how artists are. It is Thomas Cromwell who will bear the brunt of this. He wanted the match. He commanded Holbein to paint the picture … and mayhap he commissioned it to be done without the pox marks.”

  We were all very excited.

  “I hope this will not spoil the coronation,” said one.

  “It has gone too far to retreat,” added another.

  “Poor King.”

  “Poor lady, I say. He will find some means of being rid of her, as …

  Mary Lassells gave the speaker a push. “Have a care, girl,” she said; and there was a brief silence.

  Someone knew someone who was a page to Lord Admiral Fitzwilliam, Earl of Southampton, who had brought the Lady of Cleves to England. In his presence, the King was reputed to have said: “Persons of humble station have advantages beyond the reach of princes. They may choose their wives, whereas princes must take those who are brought to them.”

  Master Cromwell was of the company, and the King berated him for having brought him to this pass. He said he did not like the lady. She seemed to him like a great Flanders Mare, and she had none of those virtues which he looked for in a wife. He shouted to Admiral Fitzwilliam in a great rage and said that the Admiral should have given him notice of the kind of woman he was bringing for his King to marry. The Admiral was very bold. He retorted that he had not known he had such authority. His orders had been to bring the lady to England and that he had done.

  Cromwell, it appeared, knowing that the King’s fury was directed mainly at himself, pointed out that the Admiral had, in a letter, referred to the lady’s beauty, to which the Admiral replied that he had reported what he had been told, and he presumed that, as the lady was to be Queen, she must naturally be beautiful.

  “The King was so angry,” went on our informant, “that he ordered them to stop their bickering blame of each other. He was surrounded by a pack of fools and they would do well to find a way out of the situation into which they had placed him.”

  Then one of the women said in dismay: “Then there will be no marriage … no coronation!”

  “There may be or may not,” replied the knowledgeable one. “They are saying now that the lady was once betrothed to the Marquis of Lorraine.”

  “Then depend upon it,” said Dorothy, “there will be no marriage. I’ll swear the lady will be sent back to her family.”

  “That could never be. There would be war. No one would accept such an insult. The Schmalkaldic League would be up in arms. These Protestant communities can be as fierce as the Catholics.”

  And it did seem that they were too strong for the King. It was proved that any proposed alliance between Anne and the Marquis of Lorraine had merely been a discussion between the parents of the young people and it had been abandoned several years ago.

  The King realized that he was caught. We heard he had asked: “Is there no remedy? Then must I needs put my head in this yoke?”

  I was more sorry for the poor Lady of Cleves. What a terrible thing for one’s bridegroom to say. I thought of Francis Derham and his great tenderness for me, and that it would be pleasant to see him again.

  There was speculation everywhere. Would there be a wedding? No one was sure. The King certainly would have welcomed a release. And I was sure the lady would have too. What a sad and humiliating position for her! To leave her home and come to a strange country, only to receive such a cold welcome!

  The Duchess was half-jubilant, half-fearful. Nothing would please the Duke more than if the Lady Anne were sent home. But, how could that be? Yet, we had had experience of our King’s methods. He could act drastically when his desire for some object was strong enough. And now he certainly desired to be free of the Lady of Cleves as ardently as he had of Catherine of Aragon.

  “The King is furious,” said the Duchess, as I rubbed her legs. “Only God knows where this will end. I would not be in Cromwell’s shoes for a kingdom. The King rants against him and all those who had a part in this. He cannot bear the sight of her. He was thinking he would get a beauty, and he has this ‘Flanders Mare,’ as he calls her.”

  “I wonder how she likes him.” There was a brief disapproving silence, and I stammered. “He is not young.”

  “Will you never learn?” demanded the Duchess. “Any lady should be glad to marry the King.”

  I wondered about that. In my heart, I suspected that the Lady of Cleves was probably as eager to go back to her home as he was to send her there. What a pity this could not be done.

  The Duchess said: “It is the Duke’s opinion that there will be a marriage. There must be. It has gone too far to return her now. It would never be tolerated. Her brother, who is now Duke, would be driven into the hands of the Emperor Charles and the King of France. They are hand in glove, those two. Lord have mercy on us, how things change! They are laughing together, praying that the King will send back this girl, and Cleves will be their puppet then. It would be disaster for the King to turn back now.”

  I did glimpse the King and Queen on their wedding day. I, with my party, had sailed down to Greenwich in our barge. How splendid the King looked in his crimson satin coat with its clasp of diamonds. He was smiling, but I guessed he was far from happy. I heard later that he had told Cromwell just before the ceremony that, if it were not to satisfy the world and his realm, he would not have done what he was about to do for any earthly thing. I can imagine Cromwell’s misgivings at those words; he must have already felt the axe at his neck.

  For the first time I saw the Queen. She was in cloth of gold embroidered with pearls and a gown made in the Dutch fashion, which was not becoming. Her hair she wore loose about her shoulders, and on her head a coronal of gold and precious stones. She looked demure, her eyes downcast; and none could have guessed what she was feeling; but she must have been very unhappy.

  My quick glance at her showed me she was not the ugly creature whom I had been led to expect. It was unfair to liken her to a Flanders Mare. True, she was not graceful, and the Dutch fashion was far from becoming. She
would have looked much better in the English styles which, to a large measure, we had copied from the French, chiefly at the time when my cousin led the Court. Anne of Cleves was certainly not dazzlingly attractive like Anne Boleyn, or pretty like Jane Seymour. But she was not ill-favored. She had a very high forehead, dark hair and eyes and, if she were not exactly beautiful, she looked clever and interesting.

  But whatever the cost to herself and those who had promoted the marriage, and the intense displeasure of the King, the people were determined to enjoy the occasion.

  Betrothal

  “WHEN THE TIME COMES,” said my grandmother, “we shall find a match for you. You should do fairly well. Your uncle will see to that.”

  I was nearly eighteen years old. I rarely allowed myself to think of Henry Manox now. It was too distasteful. I had been an innocent child and he had done his best to seduce me. I must admit that I had not been exactly reluctant. Fortunately, he had been aware of the dangers of the situation, which had restrained him to some extent. And then there had been Francis Derham. That had been different, but it should never have been allowed to happen. I had kept the red silk rose and the French fennel, but I did not wear either of them now.

  I did not blame Derham. There was that in my nature which was easily aroused to love—I mean physical love. I had been as eager as Derham. I thought of this suitable match which would be arranged for me with some trepidation.

  I longed to be safely married—the past behind me, forgotten.

  When my uncle visited Lambeth, I used to wonder if I should hear of a proposed match. I wondered what he would do if he knew about Derham. Doubtless have us both sent to the Tower. I laughed at the foolishness of that. It would be a shock, though. My grandmother had called me a harlot in the first flush of her rage when she realized what had happened. Perhaps she blamed herself when she was giving me that vigorous beating. People often vented their rage on those who were the victims of their neglect because they were in truth blaming themselves. But, in spite of the fact that I so often received a sharp slap from her, she was fond of me in her easy-going way—when she remembered me. But not only did I dislike my uncle, I feared him.

  I had discovered certain things about him of which hitherto I had been ignorant. My grandmother had let one or two matters slip out during our sessions; and then I listened to the gossip whenever I had the opportunity.

  Of course, he was very important. He and Suffolk—the King’s brother-in-law—were probably the two most powerful men in the kingdom under the King.

  Norfolk had been married twice, I discovered. During the Wars of the Roses, the Duke—or as he had then been the Earl of Surrey—had been a staunch supporter of the House of York, and, so close had he been to the royal family, that he had been betrothed to the Lady Anne, a daughter of Edward IV. Naturally he supported King Richard at Bosworth, where the present King’s father overcame Richard; and Norfolk, surviving the battle, was of course, then out of favor.

  The King’s father, Henry VII, being a wise man, recognized that he could make better use of Norfolk’s skill if he were working for him instead of languishing in prison. So Norfolk was restored to favor and Henry even allowed him to marry the Lady Anne, to whom he had been betrothed before Richard fell. Henry himself was married to Edward IV’s daughter, Elizabeth, so my uncle’s first wife and the Queen were sisters. The Earl of Surrey was by this time Duke of Norfolk and gradually became one of the most powerful men in the country.

  He had been instrumental in bringing about Wolsey’s fall, and he was not a man of whom the wise would want to make an enemy. Not that he would consider me worth a moment’s thought, but I did tremble to think of what his reactions would be if he discovered I had abandoned myself to Manox, in all innocence, and later, less innocently, to Francis Derham.

  Then I learned something of the Duke’s own private life which I found comforting as well as revealing. I realized, though, that he would apply different rules to his own conduct than to mine. In fact, I had noticed that often those who might have something disgraceful to hide, could be quite censorious of fellow sinners.

  The Duke, it appeared, was not a man of such rigorous virtue.

  His first wife, Anne—the daughter of Edward IV—had died of consumption at an early age, and very shortly afterward my uncle had married Elizabeth, the daughter of the Duke of Buckingham. She was very strong-minded and considered to be one of the most accomplished ladies of her time. She entertained poets and the like.

  It was not a happy marriage. I think my uncle was a very arrogant man and she was not of a temper to tolerate that. She complained that when their daughter Mary was born, he neglected her; and soon after that he became attached to a woman of his household.

  If this lady had been of good family it might have been an ordinary enough situation, but she was a washerwoman in his wife’s nursery.

  The Duke and his Duchess separated and he refused to give her anything but the scantiest of allowances. There was quite a scandal about this. I had heard nothing of it when it happened, but perhaps I was not as alert for gossip then as I was at this time. There were attempts to bring about a reconciliation; the Duchess refused to divorce him and the Duke went on living with his washerwoman.

  And this was the man who, I was sure, would be very censorious toward his poor little niece who had been too young to understand what she was doing.

  I must forget my exploratory adventures with Henry Manox. My relationship with Francis Derham had been charming while it had existed, but it was in the past. If the Duke could sport with his washerwoman, how could he condemn me for what I had done?

  I liked to walk in the gardens. It was very pleasant down by the river. I enjoyed watching the barges sail past and I would look in the direction of Greenwich and wonder if the Court were there, and what it would be like to be among those interesting and exciting people.

  One day, as I stood there, a young man came out of the house and started toward the privy stairs where a small craft had drawn up. I thought this might be waiting for him. There were often callers at the house, especially when the Duke was there. He was not there at this time, but the young man could have been visiting my grandmother.

  He looked familiar to me

  He hesitated and then smiled and came swiftly toward me.

  “We have met before,” he said.

  “I thought it might be so,” I replied.

  “Tell me. You are … ?”

  “Katherine Howard, granddaughter of the Duchess of Norfolk.”

  He gave a delighted laugh. “That is it. Well met, cousin. Do you not recognize me?”

  I knew then. It was his voice … his smile. “Thomas,” I said. “Thomas Culpepper.”

  He bowed.

  “Do you remember…?” We were both asking the same question.

  “It was a long time ago,” he said. “I was so sad when I left you.”

  “I was sad when you went.”

  “We were the greatest of friends, as well as cousins. How wonderful it is to see you again!”

  I felt light-hearted, experiencing a deep pleasure.

  “You are more beautiful even than you were then, when I thought you the prettiest girl I had ever seen.”

  I flushed with happiness. I had always hoped to see my cousin, Thomas Culpepper, again.

  “We have grown up since,” I said.

  “In which I rejoice.” He took a step nearer. “Mistress Howard, may I give you a cousinly kiss, for this is a very special occasion?”

  When he had given me the “cousinly kiss” on the forehead, he held me by the shoulders, and looked searchingly into my face.

  “Oft times I have thought of you, little cousin,” he said. “And now we have met again. You are under the protection of the Dowager Duchess, I believe.”

  “’Tis so. And you?”

  “I,” he said, with an air of mock importance, “am a gentleman of the Court.”

  “You are at Court!” I cried in excitement.
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br />   “Yes, indeed, I have a very important post in the service of His Majesty.”

  I clasped my hands together. “That is wonderful. How I long to go to Court!”

  “It may be that you will. Your uncle, the Duke, doubtless will arrange it.”

  “I hope he will. Tell me. To what part of the Court are you attached?”

  “The Royal Bedchamber.”

  “You are Gentleman of the Bedchamber!”

  “I am concerned with the royal leg.”

  “What mean you?”

  “The leg in question is subject to an unfortunate affliction which causes His Majesty great torture at times. My duties are to dress the King’s ulcer. It is one of the worst I ever saw. It greatly provokes His Majesty’s temper. Sometimes I fear I take my life in my hands when I kneel before him to remove the bandages.”

  I wrinkled my brows in disbelief.

  “I tell you truth,” he went on. “I have a certain knowledge of unguents and that serves me well with His Majesty. There is none who can dress his leg as I can.”

  “So you are a kind of doctor?”

  “Say a nurse rather. I sleep in his room, or close to his door, so that he can send for me at any time. You are disappointed. You thought I was going to tell you I was his chief adviser.”

  “I did not.”

  “Mine is perhaps the safer post. The bouts of anger which are directed against me are brief, and, as I say, he does always remember that I am more deft with a bandage than any other. He loves me more than he hates me; and although I am sorry I cannot tell you I have a high post in the King’s entourage, I believe my head is a little firmer on my shoulders than those of some in higher places.”

  “I am glad of that,” I told him.

  “I know you speak from the heart, cousin.”

  “We do little of interest in our household. I am always hoping to come to Court.”

  “You will one day, I am sure.”

  “It would be good if we could both be there together.”

  “I can think of nothing better.”

  “Tell me of the Court.”