The Boleyn Wife

by Brandy Purdy

  Yawning and stretching, Katherine’s weary ladies approached, but Kat airily dismissed them.

  “You may retire; Lady Rochford shall see me to bed,” she said, then spun back around to speak with Anna—but she had already slipped away.

  Though the room was now deep in shadows and only the musicians remained, packing up their instruments, Katherine tarried, idly traversing the floor from one end to the other. Even when the musicians’ footsteps had faded away and the embers were dying upon the hearth, still Katherine lingered.

  “Go!” She spun round to where I stood, yawning in the shadows, impatiently waiting for her. “Await me in my chamber!” She stamped her foot imperiously and made a shooing motion with her hand.

  I confess her curtness and imperious manner hurt me. I knew she was Queen and entitled to put on regal airs, but in my heart of hearts I still saw her as that little angel on the lawn at Lambeth, and I found it hard at times to reconcile the little girl with the woman she had become.

  “Very well, Your Grace.” I curtsied and, making no attempt to conceal my irritation, strode briskly out the door.

  I passed Culpepper in the corridor. He was returning to the Great Hall. I waited until he went inside, then I crept back to the doorway and stealthily slipped inside, letting the shadows and my black gown hide me.

  There they stood, in the flickering light of the guttering candles, locked in a passionate embrace. Katherine’s arms wrapped tight around his neck, and their lips pressed close, while one of Culpepper’s hands cupped her breast. No shyness or awkwardness impeded their embrace; they knew what they were doing and, in that moment, I knew by the way their lips and bodies fitted together that this was no spontaneous first embrace—they had done this before.

  My stomach lurched, and I knew that ahead of us all disaster loomed. Then came such a sad, sinking feeling that I was almost overwhelmed by it, the intensity of my disillusionment and sorrow. Katherine Howard was no longer that little angel whose memory I had kept alive in my heart all these years. Every time she misbehaved I made excuses for her, putting it all down to boisterousness, youth, girlish high spirits, and a wayward childhood spent without a mother’s love and guidance. But I was only deceiving myself. Katherine didn’t want a mother’s love or guidance; she didn’t want me except to have me wait on her and do her bidding. All Kat wanted was to have her own way. No matter how much I wanted to pretend that she was my own daughter, Katherine never had and never would think of me as a substitute mother; all she saw in me was just another lady-in-waiting. And, once again, it was my fate to mean less than nothing to someone I loved.

  Breathlessly they broke apart.

  “Why did you not do this when you were still a maid?” Culpepper demanded, his voice husky with desire.

  Katherine took a step forward until the tips of her breasts, restrained by the tight, taut satin of her bodice, grazed his chest.

  “You can be certain of one thing, Tom Culpepper—if I tarried still in the Maids’ Chamber I would try you!”

  She let her hand trail slowly down his chest to cup his bulging codpiece. “And perhaps I will not let my fortuitous change in circumstances stop me; some things are just too good to pass up!” And with these words she turned away and headed for the door.

  After she had gone, I withdrew quickly and, taking the longer route, ran as if my heels had sprouted wings, to reach Katherine’s quarters before her.

  Winded as a horse that had just won a race, I burst into Katherine’s bedchamber and nearly fell into the lap of Anna of Cleves.

  Almost upon my heels, Katherine came in, humming and prancing prettily. Oh, that giddy girl, she was so unmindful of the dignity that a queen should possess! Always at such times I wanted to take her by the shoulders and shake her. But Henry loved her so; to him she was like a breath of fresh air, his perfect “Rose Without a Thorn,” and any flaws others assigned to her he dismissed as jealousy and malice.

  With a rustling of skirts, Anna rose. In her hand was a glass jar filled with golden honey that glimmered like liquid amber in the firelight.

  “From mein own hives,” she explained as she removed the lid. Her eyes fixed unwaveringly upon Katherine’s face, she dipped a finger into its sticky depths.

  “Taste!”

  I watched in amazement as Katherine sucked long and hard, almost greedily, upon Anna’s finger.

  “Ah, Liebchen!” Anna sighed ecstatically.

  Then they were in a fever to undress. Katherine turned so that Anna could unlace her. Beneath her breath, Anna cursed in her native German as her hasty and impatient fingers fumbled with the laces; then she turned to offer her own back. Kat swore volubly, colorfully as a drunken sailor, as she struggled with the laces.

  “Shall I leave you?” I asked hopefully, averting my eyes and blushing hotly; this was something I had no desire to witness. It shook me to my depths; I could not believe it was happening.

  Was there no end to Katherine’s folly? Tonight she was acting like a bawd and flaunting it proudly. Everyone was already whispering about the way she singled out Master Culpepper every time there was dancing, and there was talk about certain looks that passed between them. And tonight I had seen for myself; this was beyond mere court gallantry and flirtation. This was not like Anne Boleyn and her “evergreen gallants.” This was serious; this was treason.

  “Go sit by the fire, Jane,” Katherine answered, ignoring my unease. “We shall need you afterwards.” Then she dismissed me from her thoughts and forgot all about me. Nothing mattered to Katherine but the fulfillment of her own whims.

  In a rush, their garments fell—headdresses, over-and under-sleeves, bodices, overskirts, kirtles, stays, petticoats, and shifts.

  Balancing first upon one foot and then upon the other, just like a stork, Anna kicked off her shoes, untied her garters, and took off her stockings, then knelt at Kat’s feet to remove hers. She sucked each of Kat’s little pink toes while Kat quivered and moaned and reached out to brace herself against the bedpost lest she fall over.

  I staggered over to the fireside chair, still warm from the Lady of Cleves’s plump, dimpled posterior, my knees shaking, and my eyes fit to pop. My face was flaming hot and so red that I feared I would at any moment be struck down by apoplexy.

  Giggling and naked as newborns, the “Rose Without a Thorn” and “The Flanders Mare” clambered into Katherine’s big green and gold brocade and satin bed and drew the bed curtains shut. A moment later Kat leaned out and grabbed the jar of honey from the table beside the bed.

  I took up Katherine’s abandoned embroidery and tried to ignore the noises emanating from behind the bed curtains—the cries, sighs, muffled laughter, and the sound of the great cupid-carved headboard knocking gently against the wall.

  The warm glow of a candle flame peeped from between the swaying curtains and I whispered a quick prayer. “Please, God, do not let them set the bedding alight!”

  A little time later Katherine’s bare arm emerged, fumbling to set the jar of honey back on the table. It fell and went rolling across the floor and Kat, laughing still, pulled back the bed curtains and hopped out to retrieve it. I gasped at the sight of her, and this time I truly feared my eyeballs would burst like grapes trod underfoot. A glaze of golden honey oozed down her chest, stomach, and legs, and matted the auburn curls between her thighs; and a single drop, like an amber tear, dripped from one stiff rosy nipple.

  “Oh, Jane, if you could see your face!” Kat cried, clapping her hands and doubling over in laughter, before she turned and leapt back into the bed.

  “Lick me clean!” she commanded, and flopped flat onto her back with her legs spread wide. Then, mercifully, Anna of Cleves took pity on me and whisked the curtains shut.

  At dawn’s first light they staggered out of bed, yawning, sticky from head to toe, hair a tangled, matted mess, reeking of honey, sex, and sweat.

  Katherine imperiously demanded a bath.

  “I have done what Henry could never do!” she c
rowed triumphantly. “I have ridden The Flanders Mare!”

  “Ja, Liebchen.” Anna embraced her and nuzzled her neck. “Und it vas de greatest ride of mein life!”

  The two royal ladies withdrew back behind the bed curtains while the tub was carried in and three weary, bleary-eyed scullery maids staggered upstairs toting pails of steaming water.

  At Katherine’s command, I knelt beside the tub and soaped and rinsed their hair. They closed their eyes and lounged, limp and lazy, in the hot water strewn with dried lavender, chamomile, and rose petals, sighing as a curtain of steam billowed up around them and flushed pink their skin.

  “Are you happy, Anna?” Katherine asked.

  “Ja, Liebchen!” came the reply, as an eager hand reached out to playfully pluck at Katherine’s nipples.

  “No, I don’t mean like that,” Katherine said as she extended a foot beneath the soapy water to tease with her toes between Anna’s thighs. “I mean, are you happy now that you are no longer Queen? I was afraid you would hate me for taking your place.”

  “Nein, Liebchen, I could never hate you!” Anna exclaimed as she lifted Kat’s foot and pressed it to her lips. “Your cousin Anne Boleyn, she vonce took as her motto ‘de most happy,’ but, nein, it vas not her, but I who am de most happy. Vhen mein brudder say I must make dis marriage mit Heinrich, dat it is gut for Cleves und for me, I make a study of de vives who came before me because I make up my mind not to go deir vay. Catrin of Aragon, she so stubborn, she vas left to vaste avay in a drafty old castle, de prisoner of her own pride because she try to hold onto vhat she haf no hope of keeping und haf alreddy lost. Anne Boleyn, she know vat Heinrich cannot haf he go mad to get, but vat he alreddy haf he despises, und she also know dat a mistress is like a rag a man uses to vipe his arse mit. But eidder vay—vife or mistress—he own her; she his to do mit as he please, und vhen his fancy turned to anodder, dis time he discover it easier to kill her radder dan go through vhat he did mit Catrin to divorce her. Und poor Jane Seymour, everyvon so busy celebrate de son dey forget about de mudder, und she take de childbed fever. So me, I set out to displease Heinrich; I vant him to be unhappy mit me; I study how best to displease him, und I do it. I play de fool und mein Deutche maid, she help me to make mein body und mein breath to stink und mein hair unvashed und greasy. I von de game, even dough Heinrich never know ve play von, und he still not know. I agree to everyding he ask; I not fight or dig in mein heels; I smile und nod und say ‘Ja, Heinrich!’ und now I am his sister und he haf made me rich. I haf dree manor houses und he gif me £4,000 a year, so I keep gut table und haf many guests to gossip mit und play de cards mit und dance; und I vear new dresses every day, und I haf diamonds, a pet parrot, many fine horses, und mein own musicians to play for me vhenever I vish. I haf all dat I desire. Heinrich haf given me de greatest gift of all—he haf made me a voman of independent means; no more can mein brudder tell me vhat to do, say to me go here, marry dere; nein, vhen he divorce me Heinrich gif me mein freedom, und dat is de greatest gift of all! So you see, Liebchen, I am de most fortunate vife of all, und de most happy!”

  Katherine nodded mutely, and I think in that moment she did see. Anna of Cleves had held up a mirror and shown her the truth, and how aptly the motto she had chosen fit. Katherine had “no other will but his.” She was Henry’s to use and command—his chattel, his servant, his concubine, prisoner, and slave all rolled into one under the name of “wife.” And, like poor dead Jane Seymour, she was “bound to serve and obey” until the day death parted them.

  Sorrow clouded her eyes and Katherine sank lower into the tub until soapsuds clung to her chin in a foamy white beard.

  Vain, empty-headed little fool that she was, even Katherine knew which of the two of them had gotten the better bargain.

  38

  In February the ulcer upon the King’s leg became clogged, and the resulting infection caused his face to turn black. Both his fever and his temper soared. Melancholy overwhelmed him, and for a fortnight he withdrew into the seclusion of his bedchamber, seeing no one but his doctors, apothecaries, chaplain, body servants, and those who were essential to the running of the realm. The doors were barred to everyone else, including the Queen.

  Though she went every day with a basket of treats to tempt his appetite, Katherine was always turned away. Henry could not bear for his “Rose Without a Thorn” to see him this way—ugly, rotting, and decrepit in his sickbed, so different from the proud, golden, majestic monarch of his portraits.

  No doubt many times as he lay upon his great bed, wallowing in pain and self-pity, after the physicians had left with their leeches and lancets, he would stare in sullen, envious silence at the handsome and lusty young Master Culpepper as he bent over the stinking, swollen leg supported by a mound of pillows, to gently apply the costly ointment made from pulverized pearls and wrap it in fresh bandages, the pristine snow-white strips slowly turning an ugly yellow as the pus seeped out.

  As he bent to his task, Culpepper’s touch was so tender and careful, but what did such kindness matter when it was given by one whose body was still firm, muscular, and trim, all hard manly slenderness, from the tips of his perfectly formed toes to the top of that full head of tawny hair? No balding pate hid under that jaunty plumed cap dear Katherine had given him as a reward for the great care and devotion he bestowed night and day upon her royal husband. No ulcer, stubbornly refusing to mend, festered upon Culpepper’s firm thigh, and no noxious yellow pus seeped out to stain his silk hose. And at table Culpepper could eat and drink his fill, confident and secure in the knowledge that he could ride, fence, wrestle, dance, and make love, to keep the fat at bay.

  The legs of mutton, strong wine, and marchpane and sugar confections brought comfort to one who was no longer young and could no longer move as sleek and surefooted as a cat, but they also added fat like a lady’s layered petticoats to Henry’s already substantial torso. He had always been a big man; now he was a dangerously obese one, a mountain of flesh, with a temper like a volcano.

  Meanwhile, a giddy girl, drunk with power, held sway over the court. While everyone else went about hush-lipped and on tiptoes trying not to disturb the King, slumbering like a sick lion in his den, Katherine skipped, pranced, and ran about, always smiling, with laughter or a song on her lips. She shocked the servants when, flush-faced, with her French hood askew and her hems torn and muddy, she skipped into the kitchen and asked for bread and honey after a game of hide-and-seek in the hedge maze.

  She danced with the court gallants every night, indulged her love of finery every day, and often played with the royal children.

  She had wheedled Henry to have Anne’s daughter brought from Hatfield, and lavished gifts and kindness upon the solemn-faced little girl, who, with her fiery locks and temper, was so much like her father it was a shame she was not a boy. Yet there was no mistaking she was also Anne Boleyn’s daughter. Just like her mother, Elizabeth would not be cowed or cower before Henry, even though she was just a slip of a girl. Not quite seven years old, she matched him stare for stare and gave him answer for answer, often mirroring Henry’s favorite pose as she did so, standing with her hands on her hips and her feet planted firmly apart. Even if he had the power to strike off her head, as he pointedly reminded her he did, she was not afraid of him, and she told him so to his face. Once I even saw the little tyrant throw a leg of mutton at the big tyrant, and staring out of her angry face I saw Anne Boleyn’s eyes.

  After his temper cooled, Henry would always laugh and exclaim, “By the Holy Cross, Bess, you should have been a boy! Oh, what a King you would have made! Aye, it is a pity, but no wench could ever rule England.” Then he would sigh and shake his head resignedly.

  But Elizabeth would always stamp her foot and retort, “This wench can and will!”

  But Henry just laughed until tears ran down his face.

  As for Henry’s much-vaunted boy, the prince he prized above all else, Edward was a pale, cold, emotionally sterile boy. From birth he had been i
nsulated in a pristine, flawlessly clean nursery, where anything that touched him was washed three times a day with strong soap and vinegar. Thrice daily his rooms were swept, the costly carpets beaten, and the floors and walls scrubbed until the serving maids’ arms and backs ached as if they had been racked, and they staggered away, stoop-backed. The laundresses broke their backs, and their hands cracked and turned red as boiled crayfish zealously tending his clothing, linens, and bedding. Doctors visited him daily and scrutinized each movement of bladder and bowels, and his brow was felt hourly for any hint of fever. A food taster tested each meal before Edward was allowed even one bite. And even when he misbehaved, as all boys will, Barnaby, his whipping boy, endured Edward’s punishment by proxy. The day Prince Edward was set down in the garden to play and ingested a grasshopper, such a panic ensued, with all his attendants rushing about like chickens in a barnyard frightened by a fox. The negligent nursemaid was given a strong tongue-lashing and dismissed, and Prince Edward was dosed with purgatives by the royal physician until his insides were as clean as his rooms.

  Katherine’s tender heart was greatly moved by the plight of these two motherless children, and she did her best to befriend them. She bought a set of gaily painted carved wooden animals from a peddler in London, much like the old battered set she had shared with her brothers and sisters when she was a child, and got down on her hands and knees and made the animals move and mimicked their sounds, baaing like a goat or sheep, clucking like a hen, whinnying like a horse, and mooing like a cow. But Edward and Elizabeth just sat and stared. They did not know what to think of this new stepmother. Their lives had been spent amidst large retinues of governesses, tutors, nursemaids, and assorted servants, none of whom ever dared to play with them like normal children, and instead filled their heads with Latin verbs, Greek translations, history, and royal protocol.