by Brandy Purdy
Breathing heavily and dripping with sweat, Henry stood for a long moment leaning upon Culpepper, while his beady eyes, lost in a morass of florid pink fat, squinted into the distance at Katherine. And, like a lovesick young swain, he laid a hand over his heart and sighed deep and long.
It was then, from my unobtrusive perch upon a garden bench, that I noticed something—Katherine was not looking at the King. Oh no, Katherine Howard had eyes only for Thomas Culpepper!
The tip of her pink tongue darted out to lick her cherry lips, and her breasts began to heave beneath the tightly laced bodice of her green gown. Verily, I felt as if I could actually hear the blood racing hot and fast within her veins, and feel the heat and wetness blossoming in the secret pink flower between her thighs, so palpable was her lust.
And Thomas Culpepper, hungry like a wolf, was also licking his lips and staring back at her with the bold, appraising eye of a practiced seducer.
Katherine looked ready to flop on her back and spread her legs for Master Culpepper. And I knew I must do something quick, since she had not the wit to save herself; so, clearing my throat loudly, I rose and curtsied deeply, and bid His Majesty welcome to the rose garden of Lambeth.
The spell broken, Katherine started, then followed my lead, sinking hastily into a deep curtsy, modestly averting her eyes to the petal-carpeted ground.
Beaming his delight, Henry lumbered towards her with Culpepper’s help, and raised her to her feet.
“What a beauty you are!” he exclaimed as he tilted her chin up and leaned forward to scrutinize her face at close range.
To her credit, Katherine did not flinch at his charnel breath, not even when he planted a wet, smacking kiss on her forehead. She met his gaze with the wide-eyed innocence of a child naïve and newly emerged from the nursery.
“Come, walk with me, Katherine; show me the garden!” Henry cried, his face wreathed in smiles.
And so, with Henry supported between the two young people, Katherine on his right and Culpepper on his left—leaning backward to dart coy, flirtatious glances at each other around the oblivious King’s great bulk—they proceeded along the garden path.
As I watched them go, I felt foreboding settle in my stomach like a stone. I knew no good could ever come of this. The King would forever stand between these two would-be lovers, always fancying, and being led to believe, that it was he who played the role of lover, when in truth Katherine and Culpepper had already cast him as the cuckold.
When Culpepper and Katherine lowered the winded and weary King onto a bench, their hands met behind his back. Their fingers entwined and clasped briefly before they broke apart. Culpepper then withdrew to stand at a discreet distance, and the courtship began.
Henry plucked a pink rose from the bush behind him and presented it to Katherine.
“Mistress Katherine, do you know why you are fairer than this rose?”
Katherine paused in the act of raising it to her nose and shook her head so that her auburn curls bounced.
Henry sat for a long moment staring at her, his breath coming shaky and deep. He reminded me of a dog that stares longingly at a leg of mutton upon the banquet table, but dares not pounce on it.
“Because you have no thorns.” Henry reached out a trembling hand to caress her cheek.
In spite of herself, Katherine shuddered, shut her eyes, and leaned into his touch.
“You are my Rose Without a Thorn!” Henry declared.
His sweaty hand slid down her throat, following its curve, until his palm lay flat, with one fingertip just touching the rise of her breast.
“A neck as fair as this has no need of jewels, but you shall have some nonetheless,” he promised as he leaned in to press a long, wet, drooling kiss onto her throat. Katherine arched her neck and moaned.
“Culpepper!” Henry abruptly pulled away from her. “Your arm, lad; get me on my feet!” With their help, he lumbered up, the knee of his bad leg buckling, so that Katherine cried out in alarm and clutched tightly at his arm when he almost fell.
“Mistress Katherine,” he said with solemn formality as he raised her hand to his lips, “I trust we shall meet again soon.”
“I hope so, Your Grace,” Katherine answered with a curtsy.
Once the King’s back was turned, Katherine sat down on the bench, leaning back on her palms, with an expectant look upon her face. When Thomas Culpepper looked back, as she seemed to know he would, she spread her thighs beneath her green silk skirts and laid the pink rose the King had given her in her lap, so that its head pointed to her feminine parts.
Thomas Culpepper nodded. He got the message.
A slow, sensual smile spread across her lips and Katherine nodded, licking her lips like a cat that has just enjoyed a forbidden dish of cream, satisfied that it was only a matter of time.
36
Henry VIII and Katherine Howard were married discreetly at Oatlands Palace on the 28th of July 1540, the same day that Henry’s creature Cromwell laid his head upon the block.
It was his fate to also, like his many victims, learn how fickle is the favor of kings. When Anna of Cleves’s person failed to deliver the promise conveyed by Holbein’s portrait, Cromwell’s days were numbered. And Henry’s lust for Katherine Howard proved to be the last nail in his coffin.
Henry must have her whatever the cost, and ordered Cromwell to rid him of “The Flanders Mare.” When Cromwell dithered about the German Protestant alliance and how time and better acquaintance might render the Lady from Cleves more pleasing, he found himself being dragged from the Council Chamber, while Norfolk and the rest drummed their fists upon the table and chanted, “Traitor, Traitor, Traitor!”
“Most Gracious Prince, I cry for mercy, mercy, mercy!” he wrote from his cell in the Tower. But Henry’s silence was his answer. And Cromwell went the way of all the others who had disappointed Henry Tudor.
Cloaked and masked, I went to watch him die. I still thought he was wrong; revenge was not sweet. How could he ever think that it would be so? The cost of vengeance, I had found, was far too dear, and there was no turning back the hands of time.
The headsman was a novice, a boy of sixteen, and this his first execution. He bungled it badly and it took repeated blows of the heavy axe to take off Cromwell’s head.
I shut my eyes and winced at every blow, the thud of the axe descending, Cromwell’s dying screams as the axe cut through flesh, bone, and gristle to the scarred and much-used wooden block; and remembered his hands and lips upon me, like snakes crawling over my naked skin, and his loathsome prick burrowing inside me to do what my husband never could and sow a seed that would take root and flourish. Yes, Cromwell gave me what no man ever could and I hated him for it. Not only did he give me false hope, he gave me a child; but it was a child that I could not love or even suffer the sight of. His willing ear drank in all my grievances and years of pent-up jealousy, spite, and sorrow, but he lied—I had not become a heroine to everyone who hated Anne Boleyn—instead the tide had turned, and Anne had become the heroine and I the villainess wielding the blood-stained sword of vengeance. I had lost what I was trying desperately to save—my husband. Thanks to Thomas Cromwell, I would always be remembered as “The Red Widow,” with my husband’s blood forever on my hands; and whenever people heard my name they would instantly think of lies, the jealousy of embittered wives, and treachery.
Yes, I had a lot to thank Thomas Cromwell for—that is what I thought of as I stood beside the scaffold and watched him die.
“The King has never had a wife who made him spend so much on dresses and jewels as she does, and every day it is some new fancy or caprice,” was the Spanish Ambassador’s apt assessment of Henry’s fifth queen.
Kat was a glutton for ornaments and finery, and she saw them as her just reward.
Not since Anne Boleyn had Henry been so smitten; he could not keep his hands from her, and his eyes followed her everywhere. When they sat at table, he would reach out a greasy paw to fondle her, roving over
her bosom and leaving behind shimmering smears of grease and gravy stains. But Katherine stoically endured and said not a word, while her mind kept a tally, later to be converted to jewels and gowns, of every disgusting touch, each slurping, slobbery kiss from those fat lips, and each time she must take between her hands the flaccid worm of his manhood that hid behind the gargantuan mockery of his gigantic jewel-encrusted codpiece and try to coax it to the necessary firmness and guide it between her thighs.
The mercers of London would bring their finest silks, satins, velvets, brocades, and damasks, and, laughing and carefree as a child, Kat would dance, skip, and prance round the room in her bare feet, wearing nothing but her shift, holding a long length of silk above her head and letting it billow out behind her as she ran from one end of the room to the other. Then she would twirl round and round and wrap herself in its shimmering folds until she fell down laughing, dizzy, and breathless, ignoring the disapproving frowns of the merchants and her attendants. It was all very undignified behavior for a Queen, as I constantly had to remind her.
Norfolk ordered me to keep close and become her confidante. Together we were captain and first mate of the good ship Katherine and we must try to steer her in the right direction, else she run aground upon the sharp, perilous rocks and founder. As long as she stayed afloat so would our fortunes. And I tried—just as if she were my own daughter—to guide her, and teach her what was dignified and proper. I had, after all, been a lady-in-waiting to the four previous queens, but everything I said to her seemed to go in one ear and right out the other.
Every night as I helped her prepare for bed, I would brush her hair and dispense the wisdom I had learned from each of the previous queens, but Katherine merely hummed and played with the ribbons and accoutrements on her dressing table or prattled on about fashions or asked me to repeat any titillating gossip I had heard that day.
I realize now that she never really did love me. Katherine Howard was not a gift from God; she was not my redemption, after all, but my damnation. Sometimes I even think that Satan himself sent her as a gift for me. Her innocence was false. She was not a lamb of God, and, we are all too apt to forget, none quotes scripture quite so well as does the Devil.
37
On New Year’s Day 1541, Anna of Cleves came bearing gifts as Henry’s honorably adopted sister.
We were all dumbstruck at the sight of her. The dowdy, malodorous German dullard was completely transformed into an elegant and gracious lady!
All for Anna of Cleves was now golden, and her face, rosy-cheeked and round, was glowing with happiness instead of slick with oil emanating from her pores. An elegant green velvet cap, as flat and round as a pancake, ornamented with gold and pearls and white ostrich plumes, sat jauntily upon her head, crowning a mass of shining yellow curls that were like spun gold; and, at the nape of her neck, held in place with diamond-tipped pins, her long hair had been tightly braided and coiled into a bun. She wore a sumptuous emerald green velvet gown, its long trailing sleeves gathered with golden bands above her elbows and slashed so that puffs of her cloth-of-gold under-sleeves showed through, and its long, full, round skirt was slashed in front to reveal a gleaming kirtle of pleated cloth of gold. Large emeralds sparkled at her ears and around her neck and on her fingers. A fan of ostrich plumes and a little gold and green enameled comfit box dangling from a jeweled chain at her waist completed the ensemble.
She was clean and immaculate; her breath, body, and hair smelt of perfume and spices instead of ale and onions, sweat, and unwashed armpits.
Graciously, she sank into a curtsy at the foot of the dais where Henry and Katherine sat enthroned and thanked them for receiving her. She now spoke English tolerably well, with an accent, of course, but most charmingly.
Henry sat forward, his jaw agape. When he embraced her as his “dear sister,” his pudgy hands lingered a trifle too long upon her waist, as did the lips he pressed against her discreetly rouged cheek.
When he released her, Katherine also embraced her, kissing her heartily upon each cheek, impulsively declaring, “Now you are my sister too!”
This time I noted it was the lips and hands of Anna of Cleves that lingered to prolong the embrace. When they drew apart I saw her arch one finely plucked, kohl-lined brow and the nearly imperceptible nod Katherine gave in answer.
Then the Lady of Cleves called her servants to bring in her New Year’s gifts for the royal couple—a matched pair of snow-white horses caparisoned in mauve and purple velvet with silver trimmings, and two lapdogs, droopy-eared spaniels with cream and chestnut coats and big, soulful brown eyes. Katherine took them onto her lap, cuddling and cooing to them, until the King called a lackey to take them to the royal kennel.
The King and Queen were so delighted with their gifts that they invited the Lady of Cleves to dine with them, and so the two women—the current queen and the former one—sat at the banquet table in the Great Hall with King Henry between them.
Afterwards, when the musicians played, but Henry’s bad leg prevented him from dancing, Anna stayed, dutiful and seemingly content, by his side while Katherine hurried off to find a partner, for it was one of Henry’s chief delights to watch her dance.
The ladies and gentlemen of the court exchanged knowing glances when Katherine went straight to Thomas Culpepper and imperiously held out her hand.
They were a beautiful couple: Culpepper in a honey and gold brocade doublet, and Katherine in pure white satin with a kirtle of white brocade adorned with daisies, their petals made of looped white silk ribbon, with golden discs for their sunny yellow centers, and a veil of white French lace trimmed with pearls cascading over her auburn curls down to her hips. When they danced, lust hung hot and heavy in the air, like a canopy after a rainstorm, heavy with the weight of water, that threatened to burst and drench everyone beneath. The air seemed to sizzle between them, and any who dared step too near risked being scorched by their lust. I know, for did they not burn and blind me?
When the candles burned low and the sleepy crowd began to creep away to their beds, until only the weary musicians and the royal couple’s attendants remained, slumping exhaustedly against the walls, Katherine and Culpepper were still dancing; the only couple now, gliding gracefully across the floor, palms pressed together or fingers intimately entwined, staring deep into each other’s eyes, breaking their entranced glance only when the dance required them to turn or step apart.
In his chair the corpulent King nodded and dozed after too many cups of wine and too much rich fare, his plumed cap slipping down over his eyes. In slumber his body lost all dignity and restraint and he snored, belched, drooled, and broke wind often, so that beside him the Lady of Cleves frowned, wrinkled her nose, and rapidly fluttered her fan.
At last Culpepper fell laughing to his knees. “No more, no more! Your Majesty, have mercy upon me, I implore!”
“No!” Katherine pouted, grasping his hand and trying to pull him back up. “You cannot be weary! Rise, Tom; I want to dance!”
“We’ve been dancing all night!” With a groan Culpepper flopped down flat upon the floor and let his weary limbs sprawl. “One pavane more and I shall perish!”
“Sister.” With a rustling of skirts, Anna of Cleves left the table. “I vill dance mit you.”
Katherine clapped her hands and whooped delightedly. She spun round and round, giggling giddily, and would have crashed into Anna of Cleves and knocked them both down if the German lady had not caught and steadied her in a warm embrace.
For a long moment the two women clung, until Kat pulled away and ordered the musicians to “Play!”
“Away!” Katherine kicked playfully at Culpepper’s rump as, making a great show of his fatigue, he crawled away on his hands and knees to sit leaning against the wall. “I shall dance now with my sister! I trust she will not disappoint me!”
Through several stately measures, and just as many lively ones, the two women glided and cavorted, and something more…they danced like a man and woman.
There was something between them; they behaved like…lovers. And no, I was not mistaken or the victim of lewd fantasies. I had been at court for many years, serving all of Henry’s queens, and I knew very well that women often danced together, to learn and practice their dance steps and to amuse themselves when no male partners were present, but this…this was something entirely different. I was not the only one to notice it.
Thomas Culpepper caught my eye and, jerking his head towards Kat and Anna, arched an eyebrow inquiringly.
I shrugged and shook my head and spread my hands. There was no explanation I could offer him; I did not understand it myself.
With a great snort and a bout of gruff coughing, the King started awake. Seeing the two women dancing a boisterous jig, spinning about, hitching up their skirts, showing their garters, and kicking up their heels, he began to applaud. He threw back his head and roared with laughter, until his face turned scarlet as a strawberry and he began to cough so that Culpepper had to rush to pound his back.
Spinning round wildly hand in hand at arm’s length, heads thrown back, they finished and fell laughing onto the floor. They giggled and kicked their feet in the air, their skirts falling back immodestly around their hips, showing the King—and everyone else facing them—quite a bit more than was proper, until Henry urged them to desist, saying he was too old and drunk to be tempted by such a pleasing show.
With Culpepper’s help, Henry levered himself painfully to his feet and called for more wine to drink a toast to Kat and Anna. Then, with a great belch, he ordered his gentlemen to help him to bed.
