The Boleyn Wife

by Brandy Purdy

  Despite their youth, Henry’s two youngest children had more wisdom in their heads than Katherine did. As much as I loved her, I must admit, she was stupid beyond measure. How else can I explain her folly? Is youth really sufficient excuse for such rash conduct? Even with her cousin Anne Boleyn’s fate illuminating the treacheries of the royal court like a lighthouse does a dark harbor, Kat refused to heed the warnings or be guided by those who knew better.

  39

  One day while the King was still secluded in his sickroom, Kat stood primping before the big silver mirror that had once belonged to Anne Boleyn.

  Except for the jewels Henry had given her she was completely naked. Jeweled clasps shimmered in the auburn curls cascading down her back. Necklaces of pearls and precious gems encircled her neck. From elbow to wrist, her arms were covered with bracelets. She wound ropes of pearls around her ankles, and rings sparkled on every finger. Those that had belonged to Jane Seymour were too large and had not yet been cut down to size, so Katherine put them on her toes.

  Laughing, she took up a diaphanous sea green scarf and wrapped it around her waist, ordering me to tie it in a bow in back and “make it pretty!” And onto this she pinned every brooch she owned, including the one Henry had given her as a New Year’s gift—a great crowded cluster of diamonds, rubies, and pearls.

  I shook my head disapprovingly at her play, but I said nothing; I knew she would not listen.

  “Here is the dress you wanted,” I said, standing before her with it draped over my outstretched arms, hoping she would take the hint and decide it was time to get dressed. It was Kat’s favorite—the tawny velvet gown with the sable-trimmed sleeves and sea green and gold brocade kirtle and under-sleeves that she had worn when Holbein painted her portrait.

  “Take it away!” Kat commanded, never taking her eyes away from her reflection. “I have decided not to wear it! I shall receive him as God made me, wearing only the jewels the King gave me.”

  “But you cannot!” I gasped.

  Slowly, Kat turned to regard me, her eyes hard and bright as emeralds.

  “You forget yourself, Jane,” she said coldly. “I am Queen and can do as I like. Besides”—she shrugged, turning back to her mirror—“like this I am more beautiful than in any gown. Many have told me so, and so many people could not be mistaken! Look, Jane.” Her hands rose to cup her breasts and, holding them like an offering, she turned to face me. “Are they not as round and rosy as apples ready to be plucked?” Her thumbs rubbed her nipples and before my eyes they puckered and hardened, changing from a pallid pink to a warm rosy coral.

  Embarrassed, I looked away, but Kat saw my blush and burst out laughing.

  “Don’t be such a prude, Jane!” she said sulkily, pouting her lips as she flounced over to the bed and sat down.

  “I don’t know what your grandmother was about, allowing you to grow up so brazen and wayward!” I exclaimed.

  “My grandmother didn’t care a fig for me!” Kat cried hotly, tossing her hair and drawing up her knees, hugging them tightly to her chest. Her chin quivered and suddenly she was just like a little child in need of comfort. My anger melted and I went to sit beside her and put my arm around her.

  “Dear heart,” I said gently, “I am sure you are mistaken; the Dowager Duchess is a gruff old thing but…”

  “I am not mistaken!” Kat pulled away from me. Then she began to speak, launching into a sad and salacious chronicle. At last I began to understand what had happened to my angel.

  She told me about the Maids’ Chamber, the long room at the top of the house where, in two rows of curtained beds, six to each side of the room, the Dowager Duchess’s ladies slept, two to a bed. Every night at the stroke of midnight their lovers would sneak in, bearing gifts and the makings of a feast—fruits, meats, wine, sweets, bread, and cakes—and they would make merry until three or four in the morning.

  Kat was five years old when she was first brought to live with her grandmother and put to sleep in the Maids’ Chamber. The women seemed at first disgruntled, Kat recalled, complaining that now that there was a child in their midst everything would be ruined. Then Alice Restwold, who was to be Kat’s bedmate, took matters into her own capable hands.

  “She was so kind!” Kat sighed. “She called me ‘poppet’ and ‘dear heart.’ She gave me a cup of warm milk that made me very sleepy, then she stripped off my clothes, put them in the trunk at the foot of the bed, and tucked me under the covers, all nice and warm. I was shy and asked for my shift, but she said, ‘Now, now, poppet, you are going to sleep, so what need have you for clothes?’ And she sat beside me, stroking my hair and crooning a lullaby until I fell asleep.”

  A few hours later, Kat awoke and, peeping through the old faded green damask bed curtains, beheld a scene like nothing she had ever seen before.

  On every bed couples lounged in various states of undress; some were even completely unclad. Some were enjoying picnics—the sight and smell of the food made Kat’s little belly rumble—while others embraced and lay back with their bodies and limbs entwined. And there was much puffing, grunting, groaning, and sighing as naked male buttocks pumped between splayed feminine thighs.

  Alice Restwold, who could not lie abed with her lover now that she must share with Kat, sat on the trunk at the foot of the bed directly opposite upon which Joan Bulmer was groaning beneath the weight of her lover. Completely naked, Alice spread her thighs and grabbed the head of the man kneeling before her and thrust his face between her legs, clutching tight at his hair as she threw back her head, whimpering and moaning. And on another bed, Eleanor and Margery lay giggling as they played with each other’s cunnies while their lovers looked on, frantically tugging and rubbing at their exposed organs before they suddenly leapt onto the bed and took possession of their respective sweethearts. Side by side, shoulder to shoulder, they coupled, and then changed partners.

  Suddenly Alice’s eyes, half-closed in ecstasy, snapped wide and she clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle a scream. Up she bolted and, wrenching apart the bed curtains, dragged Kat out, naked before them all, to denounce her as a spy.

  Head hung in shame, with tears rolling down her plump baby cheeks, Kat stood forlorn and trembling, futilely trying to hide her nakedness as they all clustered around, every mouth unsmiling, eyes glaring angrily, accusingly.

  But once again, the always reliable Alice had a plan. Sitting down on the trunk that held Kat’s clothes, she took the little girl onto her lap and explained the need for secrecy, and what a “harsh-hearted old dragon” the Dowager was. She wanted everyone else to be as dried up, crusty, and miserable as she was, and would rather her maids lived as nuns instead of the lusty young things they were. She was jealous of their youth and beauty and the men who were drawn to them. And now that Kat was one of them, she must help them; she must keep their secret, and never breathe a word about what she had seen to anyone, or else they would all be punished, including the “Little Kat who tattled.”

  “Alice made me swear an oath,” Kat remembered. “They all took turns telling all the horrible things that would happen to me if I betrayed them—my head would be shaven bald and blistered with hot mustard plasters, and my cunny would be sewn shut tight, the goats would lick the soles of my feet until I went mad, and my tongue split in two so that it would be forked like a devious lying serpent’s, and all sorts of terrible things.” She shuddered at the memory.

  “But it all sounded so thrilling!” Kat sighed, shifting her position and letting one leg dangle off the bed while she continued to hug the other knee. And there was such a wistful, faraway look in her eyes, it was as if she actually longed to be back in that den of debauchery.

  “And I wanted desperately to fit in,” she continued, “to be liked; and they were trusting me, depending on me—a little girl of five—to keep this great big secret and keep them safe! I felt so important for the first time in my life, and it made my little heart puff and swell with pride. I gave my word; I swore on anything
and everything they liked that their secret was safe with me. After that they were all smiles and welcomed me with glad hearts and open arms. And from that night on, I was no longer a spy peeping through the bed curtains, I was one of them. And it was all kisses and caresses. They taught me about my body and its secret places, and I learned to show and touch myself without shame and to invite others to pet and play with me. And I learned what amusing toys men carry about concealed inside their codpieces! Oh, I was a bold, mischievous little thing! I became their pet, their Little Kat, and everyone loved me! I went from lap to lap, and they gave me sips of wine, and fed me strawberries and cherries, and morsels of meat, and gave me kisses, and stroked me until I purred like a kitten. All my shyness fled, and I would walk about unclad and watch the lovers’ play. I would crawl into bed with them and worm my way between their bodies to claim my share of the kisses and caresses. And I fell asleep in a different bed every night. But no one ever dared tamper with my maidenhead. I was a Howard girl and the Dowager’s granddaughter, and that presumption might lead to the scaffold. But we feasted and made merry and played all sorts of naughty little games! Oh, what jolly times we had, Jane!” she exclaimed with undisguised longing.

  I pursed my lips and said not a word. It made my heart ache to think of that innocent child thrust into a world she was far too young to understand. Those wanton maids had turned my angel into a slut to save themselves; they had made her a partner in their debauchery, so she could never claim innocence if they were found out. And yet, when she spoke, though the words were bawdy as a whore’s, her face was as innocent and beatific as the most devout novice on the verge of taking her vows, or a virginal saint tragically destined to die young, sweet, and pure.

  “And Grandmother never knew, at least not for years and years,” Kat continued. “The girls in the Maids’ Chamber were all of good families, sent to be trained for places at court or to make good marriages; and as long as we attended faithfully to our music and dancing lessons, never missed Mass, embroidered beautifully, and acted as ladies-in-waiting to my grandmother and helped her bathe and dress, we were left to our own devices, and that suited us all quite well.”

  “Then along came Henry Manox,” Kat sighed. “Grandmother chose him to be my music master when I was thirteen. His hair was black as a raven’s wing and his eyes were blue like the sky. He towered over me, and my knees went weak as water the moment I saw him. I wanted to tear off my clothes and lie down at his feet and shout ‘I am yours!’ But he wanted only one thing—my maidenhead. That pious, sour-faced prude Mary Lascelles—she was new to the Maids’ Chamber and always trying to spoil our fun, preaching at us to repent our sinful ways—told me he had been boasting that he meant to have me even if I was a Howard girl. But I was in love and refused to listen. And one summer’s day when we were hiding in the cool darkness of the chapel so that he might suck my little nipples and play with my cunny, I rashly promised it to him, even though it would be painful to me, as long as he promised faithfully that he would be good to me thereafter. And he did; with hand on heart, he gave his word. Then Grandmother came in and caught us together, and me with my skirt up and my bodice down. She dismissed Manox and dragged me back to the house and all the way upstairs to her bedchamber. She tore the dress off my back and walloped me with her cane until my body was all over bruises. And she threatened to beat me longer and harder still if she found me to be with child. I lay huddled at her feet, sobbing that it was not so, as I was a virgin still. ‘Hmmp, I shall see for myself!’ she said, and sat down in her chair and pulled me backwards across her lap, so that I was lying with my feet flat on the floor and my head hanging down so all my blood rushed to it. She spit on her finger and thrust it inside of me. And oh, how it hurt! I screamed, but she was satisfied that I was intact and ordered me to stay that way until my wedding night. Then she shoved me off her lap and ordered me from her sight.

  “After Manox, I died a little inside. Though my hymen had not been breached, something inside me was broken, and I decided I would never let anyone touch my heart again; the pain was far too great.”

  I could hear the remembered hurt in Kat’s words, and when she paused for a moment to swallow deep, I saw tears glimmering in her eyes.

  “Then along came Francis Derham. His hair was brown and his eyes were too. And he was the most alive and exciting person I had ever known, but he was also the most patient, kind, and gentle. I felt so safe with him! And I could talk to him; I could tell him anything without fear that it would change his love for me. And when he laughed at me, he was not laughing at me, he was laughing with me, because he loved me, and I made him happy. He said that I was his heart’s delight. When he held me, he said that everything he had ever wanted was right here in his arms! He was a gentleman by birth, but from an impoverished branch of the family, and he often undertook commissions for my grandmother and Uncle Norfolk. The first time he looked at me I felt like a hive of bees was buzzing in my belly, and my heart came alive again. It was like a slate from which Henry Manox had been wiped clean. He was everything I had ever dreamed of, except rich. And he loved me; he really, really loved me! He brought me presents: a cap of pale pink satin embroidered with gold and sea green lovers’ knots, and green silk to make a gown to match my eyes, and a heart’s ease—a pansy—made of silk by an old blind woman with very skillful hands, who made silk flowers for all the grand ladies at court. Her services were much in demand, but Francis persuaded her, busy as she was, to make a flower for him to give me as a New Year’s gift. I have it still. He begged me to be his bride, and though I knew that as a Howard girl I was too lofty a match for the likes of him, my heart could not resist. And in secret we did handfast, though afterwards, because I knew I had been rash, I would always pretend that our calling each other ‘husband’ and ‘wife’ was only a jest. And in his arms I left maidenhood behind, and for many nights afterwards—more than a hundred!—we lay together as husband and wife. And no other couple was as happy as we.”

  At this most dangerous of revelations the breath left my body and my head began to spin. Stars and spots danced before my eyes even when I shut them. I did not want to hear this; I did not want to know this. I did not want her to be like this. I wanted her to be an angel again, sweet and pure, not a girl as savvy in the ways of the flesh as a tart who walked the London streets. Foolish, foolish girl! Did she not understand? If this Derham fellow was still alive, then Kat’s marriage to the King was bigamous and invalid. She was precontracted to Francis Derham, that was clear. They had hand-fasted, and by English law that constituted a marriage. God save us all if the truth ever came out! By being Kat’s confidante, I now realized, I was playing a most dangerous game. And if the truth ever came out, in the eyes of the law I would be as guilty as she for keeping her secrets. Henry would never have married this girl if he had known what she really was; he thought she was innocent and pure, his “Rose Without a Thorn”! He had no idea how many men—and women too, apparently—had dallied in this garden before him! And I hoped—for all our sakes—that he never found out.

  “But Fortune’s smiles are fleeting,” Kat sighed, still lost in her memories and oblivious to my distress, “and Henry Manox would have his vengeance. It was torture to him to know that another had succeeded where he had failed. He left an unsigned letter on Grandmother’s pew in the chapel, suggesting that she visit the Maids’ Chamber after midnight. Grandmother caught me with my arms and legs wrapped tight around Francis. We were naked and his manhood was inside me, where it had been so many times before. Grandmother raised her cane and brought it down hard on Francis’s backside, and he snatched up his clothes and fled while she vented her rage on me. She beat me bruised and bloody. She had Uncle Norfolk dismiss Francis from his service, and she herself would see no more of him—I think she secretly fancied him; she has always been immoderately fond of handsome young men—and with no means or prospects he decided to go adventuring in Ireland. He is a pirate upon the high seas now. We parted bitterly; it hu
rt me much to know that he would forsake me, though he did assure me he was ‘like to die of grief.’ But my pride was hurt, and I held my head up high, determined that he would not see me cry, and told him, ‘You may do as you like, Francis Derham; you go your way and I shall go mine!’ And for many a night afterwards I cried myself to sleep. I tore up every letter he sent me, then I begged Alice and Joan to put the pieces back together and read them to me, as I did not know my letters well enough to do it myself. But I never answered them; I was too proud, and my heart felt as if it had been pierced through with a sword, it hurt so much. And I did not want to hear his excuses or invite more pain into my life.”

  My heart went out to her. I reached out and drew her close and kissed her brow. “You really loved him, didn’t you, poppet?”

  Kat answered with a limp, halfhearted shrug and the voice of a jaded, melancholy whore who has seen too much. I marveled yet again, as I had done so often of late, that she was only fifteen.

  “There’s no such thing as love, Jane; it’s just a dream we all aspire to, and the stuff of songs and stories that fuel our hopes and longings. Aye, there is passion, but passion is not love, Jane, though we like to delude ourselves into thinking it is. But it dies quick; it is a flame that flares high, blazes bright, and soon dies, and all we are left with are the cold ashes of memory.”

  Sometime she seemed so wise, and yet she was such a fool.

  “Well, at least you did not conceive a child from all that passion,” I said. “That at least is something to be thankful for.”

  “Of course I did not!” Kat exclaimed, as if I had just said the most ludicrous thing she had ever heard. “I know how to meddle with a man without making a child! In the Maids’ Chamber we had many such tricks—sponges soaked with vinegar or the juice of lemons, pessaries of beeswax, and special teas brewed with rue and pennyroyal. And do you know about the Gloves of Venus, Jane? They are sold discreetly beneath the counters of the glove-makers’ shops in London, and one must ask for them in a whisper and by name. They are sheaths made of animal gut, which a man fits like a glove over his member to keep his seed from going where it should not. But I preferred to have Francis’s sword sheathed inside me. Ah!” She heaved a great sigh and flung herself back onto the bed, lying with her arms stretched overhead and her legs spread wide, while her eyes shut in what must have been a most blissful memory indeed.