Fatal Throne

by Fatal Throne- The Wives of Henry VIII Tell All (retail) (epub)

  I have been busy these past few days. I have added lines to my will.

  As I walk, words I spoke to Holbein come back to me.

  How I looked was all that mattered. Not who I was.

  Who Alice is will matter. I have made sure of it.

  Her fee has been paid. Edmonds will take her on. She does not know yet. He will tell her after I am gone. I have left her a good sum of money as well.

  This girl will not spend her life digging turnips. She can make her own plans, command her own future. She will belong to herself. Henry freed me and I have freed her. That was the debt to be settled. Maybe one day, Alice will help set a girl free, too. Maybe one day, the world will change so radically that girls will not need freeing.

  Maybe.

  I have seen my priest as well as my lawyer.

  “Confess your sins,” the priest told me. “Forgive those who have sinned against you so that you may find forgiveness.”

  On such a summer morning, it is easy to forgive. With the sun on my face, I forgive England its autumn fogs, its bitter winters, its dreary, sodden springs. I forgive my brother for bartering me like a sack of flour. My mother for packing all the wrong clothes.

  And Henry. I even forgive Henry.

  As I reach the edge of a barley field, the hem of my skirts heavy with dew, I see not vultures now, but a flock of crows holding a noisy parliament amongst the furrows. I walk on. Past fields of wheat and rye. Past my apple trees. To my destination—the grassy banks of my trout pond.

  Alice spreads the blanket out and eases me down onto it. She puts the pillows behind me. I close my eyes and lift my face to the sun. She pesters me for more of my story.

  “There is no more. You have it all. I lived happily ever after,” I say.

  “There is no such thing, my lady.”

  “No?” I say, smiling. “We shall see, child. We shall see.”

  I gather the last bits of my strength and open my eyes. I look at Alice. Her head is bent over her needlework. I gaze at the pond and see Henry’s dead Queens walking along its edge. They beckon.

  “Soon, soon. Wait for me,” I whisper.

  And then I turn to Alice.

  “I have one last story,” I say. “Another fairy tale. We Germans love our fairy tales.”

  “I would like to hear it,” she says, “monsters or no.”

  “Good. I shall tell it. And then I shall sleep.”

  * * *

  —

  Once upon a time, there were six Queens who married the same King, one after the other.

  The first was a beauty, with red hair, blue eyes, and ivory skin. She gave the King a child, but it was a girl. So he banished the Queen and took her child from her.

  The second, whose beauty was as dark as her soul, also gave the King a daughter. And for this, he cut off her head.

  The third, as mild as milk, gave the King a precious son, and oh, how he loved her for it. But the womb that gave life to the boy stole life from the mother. She died of childbed fever.

  The fourth Queen…ah, the fourth Queen. The King called her ugly and put her aside.

  The fifth Queen was young and the fairest of them all. Her eyes sparkled. Her laughter was music. The King adored her, but she loved another. So he cut off her head, too.

  The sixth Queen was learned and the King did not like it. He would’ve cut off her head, but she begged his forgiveness for being clever and he let her live. Years later, childbed fever took her, too.

  They are dead now, those beautiful Queens, all dead. And the King is dead. All his men, too. And the precious son for whom he remade the world.

  But the ugly Queen?

  Ah, she lived, child.

  She lived.

  How Cromwell thought to match his King with that German sow is beyond me.

  I have often been called the handsomest prince in Christendom, admired for the turn of my leg and the beauty of my face. Perhaps a few years have passed, but they have only added authority to my stance and dignity. How dare Cromwell deceive me and send into my bedchamber a dismal, stale girl, a cheese-jowled Teutonic frump who couldn’t even join in the pleasant jest of masquerading?

  When she first landed on English shores I believed (from Holbein’s false portrait) she was a beauty—but still, I was not eager to meet her. Sweet Jane’s death haunted me. I was sunk in a seemly gloom. I was always afraid for the infant Edward’s health, and ordered all the walls and linens in his chambers washed twice a day until they reeked of vinegar. The sight of him reminded me always of his mother.

  And yet it reminded me of my duty, too. I must ensure that there is a line of heirs. Each of my royal sons has been struck down, save Edward. Each has been sapped of strength by the wombs that carried them, vessels either weak or wicked.

  My people expect a sturdy line to spring from me.

  And so Cromwell arranged this new alliance, and I prepared to meet Anna of Cleves. I thought from her portrait she would be beautiful—a young, cooing, merry little thing.

  And the thought was awful. I was exhausted and sorrowful. I had no desire to entertain a mere girl.

  I am, however, always thinking first of the ladies, and I wished her to feel welcome in her new homeland. I resolved to put a happy face on it. The night before I was to meet her, New Year’s Eve, I sat in a feasting-hall before a fire with my Gentlemen of the Privy Chamber and drank hot Yuletide hippocras until the world seemed to blush again. I drank to steel myself. At first I drank in rage. Then, as the liquor rings on the table ran together and blotted out the memory of Jane, in faith, I drank in a state of fierce joy.

  We all were loud and rowdy.

  “Come, now, Your Majesty,” said one of the men. “Bed this Hessian and make a Duke of York for us.”

  “I shall build the finest Duke of York,” I promised.

  They all cheered.

  I looked carefully at them, and wondered whether they spurred me on because they feared I grew too old, too infirm, too sleepy. Of course, my age matters not a bean. I am young in the mind, young in the loins, and I could not have them doubt me.

  So I exclaimed: “Boys! How about this: To her tonight! Yes? We’ll visit her now, boys! Why should I wait?”

  Cromwell said, “She is not expecting you, Your Majesty, until tomorrow.”

  “I am King of England. Isn’t that right? King of England?”

  “Your Majesty, we are to meet her at Greenwich.”

  “But we shall go now. Heh? See? Come, my lads. Let’s gallop down to Rochester and spring a surprise. Let’s show this German beauty we are still frisky, despite the grey hairs!”

  It was quickly arranged: We ordered our masqueing gear from a recent disguising, put on visors and wigs, and set out in a drunken rout, after a few of the younger pips, who couldn’t hold their hippocras, vomited over the battlements.

  We laughed as we rode through the chilly night, and it was a game like the ones I had played in my youth. We passed the frozen villages, the dark towns where my subjects huddled in sleep. I leaned close to my steed and spurred it on. I saw before me the girl’s face Holbein had painted, but as she would look when we began our antics: laughing, thrilled to see the King of England play a prank upon her—a wonderful man, she will think, a monarch who is still merry. Is this, she will think with awed delight, my new husband?

  She is a young thing. She will like jests.

  And so we reached her lodgings, where the crowd enjoyed a bull-baiting. In the crush of the contest (the bull bellowing as the dogs assaulted it), my boys pressed people backwards to make room for me to dismount. I could barely contain my anticipation as they levered me off my horse.

  Up the stairs we ran in our disguising, and charged through the door, chanting, “Mugga mugga mugga mugga,” like barbarian monsters come for kisses. The English ladies knew who
we were at a glance, and were delighted by our play.

  Her face: so sombre. My bride and I stared, each upon the other. I was the older one, not she—I was the one who was bereaved—I was the one who should be sombre. When I kissed her, she did not understand the jest, did not squeal. Her cheek smeared beneath my lips.

  I cannot abide people who can’t laugh.

  She was one of those dreary people who find no thrill in life. Who could wed such a person?

  There in that moment, with the bull screaming outside, too weak to hold off the dogs, I knew the marriage would not work. I should have to be rid of her soon.

  How Cromwell could have thought to pair us is a mystery to me.

  I should not speak ill of her, for now she is my sister. Strange to say, now that she is not my consort, I find her pleasant to be with. I want nothing from her. She wants nothing more from me. It is restful to know a woman who is of no use to one whatsoever.

  Our conversations: dogs, their habits, their tricks. Cuisine, its cooking. The palaces I build, where, as I show her plans, she even smiles sometimes at their whimsy.

  Sometimes I wonder about her smile, which did not appear in Holbein’s complacent portrait.

  It is the smile of a victor.

  FEBRUARY 1542

  A solid wooden block, about knee-high. The two guards who have brought it up the stairs to my rooms are grunting and puffing—it must be very heavy. They heave it onto the floor and leave.

  I walk around it once, looking at it from all sides. Then I touch the top—gingerly, at first. I don’t know why; it’s not as if it can hurt me.

  The top has been sanded very smooth. There will be no splinters when I kneel down, turn my head, and place my cheek upon it.

  Splinters. Such a small thing. But I have to think about the small things, all the time.

  Because if I don’t, I’ll start screaming and never stop.

  SUMMER AND FALL 1539

  Sixteen. I’m sixteen now, as grown as I’m going to get.

  I’m not tall and willowy like Margaret, or dark and fulsome like Bess. I used to wish I were, but then I found out that some men are drawn to girls who are petite and have auburn hair, and enjoy dancing and a good laugh. Men like Henry Manox, the music teacher at Chesworth House.

  Along with the other girls who are wards of the Dowager Duchess of Norfolk, I have lessons in reading and writing, sewing, dancing, religion, and music. There are usually around a dozen of us, the number changing as younger girls arrive and older ones leave to marry. The Dowager keeps two households, Chesworth in Sussex and Lambeth Palace in London; we travel between them as it suits her.

  Manox taught me how to play the clavichord.

  He also taught me how to kiss.

  But I wasn’t long with Manox, because then I met Francis Dereham, a courtier at Lambeth. Stars afar, what Francis hasn’t taught me isn’t worth knowing. When I’m with him, I can’t get enough of him; when I’m not with him, I can’t stop thinking about him. Sweet torture!

  He and a few of his friends bribed young Mary, the chambermaid, for the key to our dormitory. They visit two or three times a week, late at night. The evenings start out with laughter and wine, or with games, or riddles and stories. But no matter how they begin, they always end the same way: with Francis in my bed, the two of us kissing as no one in the world has ever kissed before.

  The first time, he lay with me in his doublet and hose, but it didn’t take long before we were completely naked. In such a frenzy for each other, we were incautious, and then I panicked waiting for my monthly blood. I cried to him that I mustn’t get with child, for if I do, the Dowager might turn me out. Francis soothed me and stroked my hair, and then showed me the ways of love without that worry.

  What he has taught me above all else is to feel utterly free in bed.

  “My little Cat,” he often says, “the bed is an island, a world of its own.”

  “Meow,” I always reply. A silly joke, but one that makes us laugh.

  Francis says that as long as we’re both willing, we can try anything without pause or shame. Such freedom from the restraints of being a woman outside the sheets! He has taken to calling me “wife,” and has asked me to call him “husband.” And I do, of course—I’ll do anything to please him.

  One fine autumn day, I can’t bear to wait for night, so I arrange to meet him in the forenoon. Lambeth Palace is so large that there are lots of private corners. I stand with my back to the wall under the east wing stairs as Francis kisses my neck and my breasts. I can feel the heat of my blood, my pulse surging in every hidden part of me; it’s more than marvellous. My skirts are raised so he can stroke me deeply, while I bring him satisfaction with my hand.

  Then I straighten my skirts and hair, and take a few breaths so my colour might calm a bit. Francis glances around to make sure that the corridors are empty, and gives me a last long kiss before he leaves.

  “You mustn’t look back at me,” he says.

  “But why not?”

  “There is an old story, that looking back brought bad fortune to two lovers. Resist the temptation, my darling Cat. It will make our love all the stronger.”

  “Tell me the story, meow.”

  So he tells me about Orpheus and Eurydice, and how Orpheus walked out of Hades with his true love behind him, and he’d been told not to look back, but then he worried because he couldn’t hear her, so he took one little peek, and that ruined everything. She got snatched back into Hades. Such a sad story, and now it gives me a thrill not to look back at him when he leaves, thinking of those poor doomed lovers.

  A fortnight later, we’re pressed together under the same stairwell when I’m stunned by a blow to my head.

  “Lady Catherine!” thunders the Dowager. “How do you dare!” She strikes me again with her fan, as I shriek and try to dodge her blows.

  Next she turns her fury on Francis. “Base, impertinent scoundrel! You would menace a Howard girl? Fie, fie!”

  She beats him on his head and shoulders until he finally escapes. “Gather your things,” she shouts after him, “and make it your heart’s desire that I not lay eyes on you again.”

  I can hardly see, I’m crying so hard. The Dowager relents a little and softens her voice. “He is the son of a yeoman, Catherine. Not a drop of noble blood. You are not a child any longer—you must know that he isn’t a suitable match.”

  “I don’t care,” I say, heaving with great, ugly sobs. “I love him.”

  She ignores me. “I shall say nothing of this to the Duke. Be certain you give me no cause to regret this kindness.”

  Francis and I see each other once more before he leaves. He tells me that he’s planning to go to Ireland.

  “Ireland! But when will I see you again?”

  We lie in bed, my head on his shoulder. “Dear wife, you know it is not uncommon for a man to depart from his beloved for months, or even years,” he says, “and return with the love between them all the stronger.”

  “How will I bear it?”

  “I should think this will cheer you.” He reaches for his doublet on the floor, then holds out a leather purse bulging with coins. “One hundred pounds, near all my worldly goods save what I must have for Ireland. Keep it for me, and if I should not return, it is yours forever.”

  “If you should not return!” I cry. “How can I, now that you pair it with such a thought?”

  In the end he persuades me, and I take the little purse, wetting it with my tears. After such distress, our lovemaking is hot and keen, and I want it never to end.

  A girl in the throes of first love. How is it that such honest passion could years later be transformed into treason and evil and death?

  DECEMBER 1539

  I wish he wouldn’t look at me like that.

  My uncle, the Duke of Norfolk, is looking m
e over as if I’m a—a cow, or a firkin of butter. Or a codfish. With only the one thought in his mind: What use can I get of her?

  I wonder if he looked at Queen Anne the same way. Poor Anne. She was my first cousin, God rest her soul; he was her uncle, too.

  This time, though, there’s a good reason for his shrewd sneer. “She may have two new dresses,” he says to the Dowager.

  New dresses, because I am to be at court.

  At court!

  The King’s new bride has arrived from the Continent. He wants her to learn English, so he dismissed most of her German-speaking attendants. Hundreds of girls and women vied for places to serve her, and my uncle the Duke has secured a position—for me.

  It’s the best of all dreams! I was very young the last time I moved to a new household, but I remember it too well. I can see that poor wee eight-year-old girl standing in the entry hall of Chesworth House. Small for her age and looking even smaller in that vast hall, so frightened and sad, her mother dead, her father feckless, she and her siblings farmed out all over England to whomever would take them in.

  Even so, I was by nature cheerful and lively. I soon made my place among the girls by devising bits of mischief—like the time I stole the chambermaid’s cap and tied it onto one of the Dowager’s dogs. I still laugh to think of it! The household has been a happy enough place for me, except when I’m forced to listen to the Duke and the Dowager complain about my father being the worst of the Howards. Measles and cankers, if I have to hear about it one more time…

  No matter, no matter now. What matters is I will be moving to court.

  “New dresses look ill with old hoods,” the Dowager says.

  My uncle frowns. What a sour face he has, like a dried apple full of bad gas.

  “Would you have it said that your niece is not well suited to attend the Queen?” she says. I’m glad she doesn’t look at me; if she did, I might burst out laughing at how she’s goading him.

  He waves impatiently and leaves.