by Brandy Purdy
“One night when we lay naked upon my bed, he produced a pessary of beeswax and bade me—oh, so lovingly—to bend and spread wide my knees, and he inserted it inside me so gently that I cried out to the others to come gather round and ‘see what good care my husband takes of me!’ They watched us make love—all except that prude Mary Lascelles—and I was glad; I wanted them to see! Not a one of them except Mary Lascelles had not seen, fondled, and caressed me. They were like my family; they loved me, and I know every last one of them was glad to see me so happy, even though they could not help but envy me.
“After a time, my pride gave way and I begged Grandmother and Uncle Norfolk to bring Francis back to me; he was my husband, and I belonged body and soul to him. But Uncle Norfolk slapped my face and said that never again was I to speak of this ‘game of marriage,’ that it had all been ‘pretend,’ but even so I was never to allude to it or else he would crush me like a beetle beneath his boot. None of it had ever happened, he insisted; it was all a dream, a foolish, girlish fancy, and I was a maiden still, and a Howard girl; my good name was everything, and he had other plans for me. And then he spoke of the court. When Cousin Anne died, I wept because I thought my dream of being a lady at court had died with her. Then Uncle Norfolk resurrected my hopes and promised that a far better match than Francis Derham awaited me. He said I must be a good girl and patiently bide my time, and Fortune would soon smile on me. And he was right.
“Now here I am at court.” She waved a hand to indicate her luxurious surroundings. “Queen of England, yes, but also an old man’s fancy. But at least I have Tom.” She wallowed on the bed and sighed gratefully and hugged herself at the thought of Tom Culpepper. “And he is mine, and I am his….”
“No! No! No!” I protested, pounding my fists upon the bed and shaking my head. “You are the King’s, Kat. You belong to him, not to Thomas Culpepper! Please, have a care what you do. This is serious business, Kat!”
“I shall not go the way of my cousin Anne Boleyn, if that is what you are afraid of,” she said with a confident toss of her curls. “Anne died because Henry’s love died, but that will not happen to me! Henry loves me more than he has ever loved anyone. I am his “Rose Without a Thorn’ that is what he calls me!”
“A rose without thorns is easier to pluck,” I snapped, “and you have been plucked aplenty, my girl!”
I shut my eyes and suppressed the urge to scream. I had to sit on my hands to keep from slapping her and shaking her. She was so young, so confident that everything would always go her way; she could not even contemplate a future when the King’s eye might wander to someone new. If she disappointed him in childbed, with a daughter, stillbirths, or miscarriages, or failed to conceive at all, her days, like Anne Boleyn’s, would be numbered.
“Men say many things, Kat.” I tried again to make her see. “You must know yourself….”
“Are you presuming to call the King a liar, Jane?” There was ice in her eyes and voice. “Are you disputing the truth that everyone can see? Henry loves me! He loves me!”
“Kat, you are a fool if you truly think the King’s love will save you if you and Culpepper are found out!”
“But we shall not be found out if you help us. Oh, say you will, Jane. Please!” she grasped my hands and pleaded. “Think for a moment what I must endure, what being loved by the King truly means!”
Then she began to describe her nights in the King’s bed, and her words painted such a grotesque picture in my head that pity soundly defeated my better judgment.
She told me all about the tiny pellet filled with fish blood she surreptitiously inserted inside her cunny as she squatted over the piss pot before she climbed into the great royal bed on their wedding night to become Henry’s “virgin bride.” How proud Henry had been of that red rose-petal stain marring the white sheets the next morning!
And all the subsequent encounters where Kat must scale and straddle that great mountain of decaying old flesh. Henry could not mount her; his bulk would crush her to a pulp. Stark naked, with her thighs straining like a wishbone about to snap, Kat would sit astride him, smiling and playful as a kitten, leaning forward to rub her pink-tipped breasts against his chest or maneuver her hot little cunny back and forth over his manhood, trying to persuade it to rise and come inside. Sometimes his member roused, only to droop at the crucial moment, or else he would spew just before he entered her. On nights when his member remained stubbornly flaccid, he would draw Kat forward to sit astride his face while he licked and slurped the pink petals of his “Rose Without a Thorn.” Kat would brace her hands against the headboard and in silence weep with shame and something more disturbing…the slow, deep sensual stirrings sparked by that old man’s fat pink slug of a tongue slithering around her privy parts.
“I know what you are thinking, Jane. He is old and I am young, not yet sixteen, but it is not so uncommon for people to live to a great age nowadays; many live into their sixth or seventh decade. By the time Henry dies I might be old myself. Or I might die first, like Jane Seymour, in childbed. I know Henry loves me, Jane, but…We all want some kind of love, but sometimes what we are given is not enough. I’m young, Jane, and I want to live and have fun while I’m alive, and make every moment count! And I need love like a flower needs sunlight and water to thrive!”
Tears filled my eyes, I was so moved by her plight—this pretty, vivacious young thing bound to serve and obey in Henry’s bed, because, as Kat’s own motto so rightly said, she had “no other will but his.” And I knew, despite all the dangers, I would help her, for I knew all too well what it was like to live without love.
“But you must be careful,” I insisted. “If Culpepper gets you with child…”
“Then I shall earn Henry’s eternal gratitude by giving him a strong, lusty boy brimming with health and vigor, not like that pallid, pasty-faced little thing he got off Jane Seymour. And everyone will be happy—I shall have Tom, Tom shall have me, and Henry shall have a son!”
Before I could say more there was a knock upon the door.
“Open it!” Kat nudged me, shooing me towards the door as she sprang up and rushed back to her mirror, to pinch her cheeks to give them color and wipe the lingering traces of tears from her eyes.
Tom Culpepper, resplendent in russet velvet and white silk, hovered uncertainly on the threshold, eyes wide and mouth agape at the sight of Kat wearing only the King’s jewels. He made to take a step forward, then hesitated and took a step back instead.
“Come in, Master Culpepper, come in!” Kat cried, impatiently tossing her curls. “Don’t dawdle on my doorstep! Come in and tell me how my husband fares!”
When he still hung back, no doubt debating the risks of dallying with the Queen, Kat ran to him and pulled him inside, positioning him so that he stood with his knees backed against the bed.
“Now, Master Culpepper,” she said, nuzzling her naked body against his chest, “how fares my husband today?”
Culpepper opened his mouth to answer, but before he could, Kat asked another question. “And how fares you?” And with these words she shoved him hard so that he toppled backwards onto the bed.
Laughing delightedly, Kat clambered up on top of him and began tearing at his clothes, tugging impatiently at the fastenings, like a greedy child unwrapping a present, while Culpepper implored her to have a care; he could not be seen to arrive immaculate and then depart in disarray with his clothes in shreds.
“Mark me,” I said clearly as I pulled the door shut behind me, “this will all be found out one day!”
But they ignored me. No warning, no matter how grave, could stem the tide of their passion.
40
That summer the King decided to go on progress to the northern provinces to quell the spirit of rebellion that was flourishing there, and to show the people their beautiful new queen. It was a massive undertaking, traveling thousands strong, with guards, servants, doctors, apothecaries, priests, the Privy Council, and most of the court and their familie
s and servants; with horses, carriages and litters, luggage carts, and tents to house the overflow from the manors and castles where the royal party would stay, since no town had inns or lodgings enough to accommodate them all.
At each stop along the route—Lincoln, Pontefract, York, and Hull—Kat had me ferret out all the back stairs and doors that were so vital to her clandestine romance.
Several times we were almost caught.
Once a watchman came upon a door left unlocked and promptly fastened it. This door led to a staircase and, at the top, another door through which Culpepper could gain entry to Kat’s bedchamber. Finding it locked, Culpepper had to crouch down in the shadows and pick it while his manservant nervously stood guard.
Another time some ladies dawdling in the courtyard saw Kat leaning from a window favoring Culpepper with such fond and loving glances, which he returned with equal ardor, that only a fool would have doubted that there was something between them.
Next they were nearly caught coupling in the Queen’s privy closet.
Sometimes Kat came to my bedchamber to rendezvous with Culpepper. After the King had gone to bed—early, as was now his wont—she would tell her ladies that she was going to visit me. In my bed she would linger for long ecstatic hours, coupling blissfully with Culpepper, while I sat sentinel by the fire, trying to block my ears to the sounds of their lovemaking. And her ladies would be left to wait until two, three, or four in the morning, dozing in their chairs and wondering what the Queen was about, paying such lengthy visits to Lady Rochford and at such late hours.
Another night, when Kat was entertaining Culpepper in her own bed, the King came unexpectedly to the door, having impulsively decided to spend the night with his wife. To his great astonishment, he found her door locked and bolted. How frantically we scurried about! Culpepper grabbed his clothes and dashed naked out the back door, and Kat splashed water and perfume all about, scrubbed vigorously between her thighs, and pulled on a prim white nightgown and cap of the modest style made popular by Jane Seymour, while I stammered excuses, and fumbled, intentionally clumsy, with the lock and bolt.
At Pontefract, Kat’s past came back, like a ghost, to haunt her when Francis Derham swaggered back into her life.
By this time, I should mention, many old “friends” had already come to join Kat’s household; Alice and Anthony Restwold, Joan Bulmer, Kate Tilney, Margery Bennet, and Roger Damporte, to name but a few. Since Kat had been proclaimed Queen, all had come calling with a litany of woes—an unhappy marriage, sickness, dire need, sorrow sharp as nails—and something more…veiled hints and insinuating remarks about the past—all those “jolly times” in the Maids’ Chamber. It was doubtful that the King would be amused if he heard the tales Kat’s old friends could tell.
Now came Francis Derham, fresh from the road in dusty brown leather and creamy linen.
With a grandiose flourish, he swept off his white-plumed cap and bowed low before he sent it sailing across the room and kicked the door shut behind him. In three strides, he crossed the room and took Katherine in his arms.
“Let go of me!” she cried, struggling weakly, and most unconvincingly.
“How now, Madame, what’s this?” he cried jovially, smiling broadly to display a mouth full of fine white teeth. “Is a man not entitled to kiss his wife when he returns from a long journey?”
“Don’t call me that! Not even in jest! I am not your wife, and never was,” Kat cried, her eyes darting about frantically, fearfully, as if the walls might suddenly have grown ears—as indeed they might, for any royal court, even one on progress, is full of spies.
“But you are, Kat.” Derham smiled, reaching for her again.
Katherine ran across the room and ducked behind a heavy chair, using its back as a shield and bracing herself against the wall.
“Touch me not! Say what you want and then be gone, and trouble me no more!”
Derham’s lips spread in a devilish smile as he strode across the room to kneel upon the chair’s seat so they were face to face.
“You know what I want, Kat,” he said softly, as he reached up to toy with a tendril of hair that had escaped from her French hood. “To have my Little Kat sit on my lap again. Would you not like that, Kitten? Would you not like me to reach beneath your skirts while you sit curled contentedly on my lap, and stroke your Little Kitten until you purr?”
“No!” Kat cried, clamping her hands over her ears. “No! Do not say such things! I will not hear you!”
“But you have, Kitten; you have and you do. And more than that”—he nodded knowingly—“you want it, and you want me, as much, perhaps more, than you ever did before.”
“I do not! I cannot! Oh, why do you not go away and leave me be?” She stamped her feet and sobbed.
As she whisked a hand across her face to wipe the tears away, her fingers brushed against one of the heavy gold and ruby eardrops that pulled so cruelly at her little ears. They were magnificent, weighty things; they strained her earlobes until the tender flesh was swollen and bright pink, but the rubies sparkling darkly against her pale skin like drops of warm blood were so becoming that Kat would gladly suffer the pain to wear them. Now, with trembling fingers, she began to remove them, struggling with the cumbersome clasps.
“Here!” She flung them in Francis Derham’s face.
“Nay, poppet.” He shook his head and put them back in her hand, curling her dainty little fingers tight around them. “I don’t want your pretties, or money either; I want only to be near you. To watch you, my darling wife, and know that you are watching me, even though you pretend not to, and to know that you want me, deny it though you will, as much as I want you; and that between your thighs your Little Kitten is hot and dripping wet with lust for me.”
Kat closed her eyes and sagged weakly against the wall.
That was when Derham seized his chance. He reached round the chair, grabbed her wrist, and pulled her around to sit upon his lap. He kissed her hard, bruising the trembling lips that were as red as ripe cherries, just like her crushed velvet gown.
Kat burst into tears and buried her face against his shoulder and let Derham hold her.
When her tears at last subsided, Kat pulled away from him and got shakily to her feet.
“If I appoint you my private secretary, will you be content with that?” she asked.
“Aye, as long as His Majesty lives I shall be, but upon his demise, I shall reclaim what is rightfully mine,” he said, then went to retrieve his plumed cap. “Well then, wife,” he said, coming back to stand before her, smiling devilishly with hands upon hips, and booted feet planted wide apart, “kiss your husband and I shall take my leave of you!”
“No!” Kat said stubbornly, and turned away.
“Kiss me!” Derham insisted, grabbing her wrist and pulling her back into his arms. There was a rustle of velvet and satin as he gathered up Kat’s full skirts and reached between her thighs.
Kat pulled away so suddenly that she stumbled and fell sprawling on the floor in a pose that a man could easily interpret as an invitation.
Laughing, Derham displayed his fingers, glistening wet with the juices of feminine lust. Slowly, he licked them, one by one, his eyes never leaving Kat’s tearstained face. Then he bowed deeply, set his cap jauntily upon his head, and headed for the door.
“Francis!” Kat, leaning on her elbows with her legs asprawl, called after him. “If you ever try to use the past against me, I swear you shall suffer for it!”
Her voice sounded so childish, petulant, and tremulous as she made this threat, it carried no more weight than a feather.
“I’m sure I will, Kitten.” Derham chuckled as he pulled open the door. “I’m sure I will, just as you are suffering now!”
As soon as he was gone, Kat leapt up and flung her arms around my neck. As she soaked my shoulder with her tears I could feel her little heart banging against the cage of her breast, and even though I wanted to scream, “You stupid, stupid girl!” and slap and shake
her for taking that dangerous man with his damning secrets back into her life, I could not do it. I could not raise my voice or my hand against her. I could only hug her close and try to console this little girl who, imperfect though she was, was still, no matter what she had done, the daughter of my heart. Why was it always my destiny to love those who did not love me?
That night, as the summer rain tapped gently upon the red tile roof, Kat and Tom Culpepper sat naked and cross-legged upon her bed, ravenously devouring savory meat pies and licking their greasy fingers.
I sat by the fire trying to ignore what was happening on the bed. Kat would not let me leave the room when they were together like this. I sometimes wondered if she derived some sort of cruel pleasure from making me stay, making me watch as she flaunted her beautiful young body and reveled in her lover’s touch, all the while knowing that no man had ever loved or lusted after me the way they did her. For me, Katherine was a constant reminder that the worst punishment of all is to long for love but never receive it.
When Kat took another bite and the warm juices trickled down her chin into the cleft between her breasts, Culpepper leaned forward to lick them up.
Suddenly the door opened and we were all too stunned to move or speak; instead we froze exactly as we were.
Fortunately, it was not the King; it was Francis Derham instead, come to visit the woman he considered his wife, bearing a bottle of wine and a basket of strawberries for old time’s sake.
