by Alison Weir
The King had not mentioned Cromwell to her and there was no longer any need for her to speak of the fallen minister. She could sense the anger in Henry, suppressed for her sake, and thought it had probably been simmering for all those months since he had married the Queen.
It was hot, even in the shade of the arbor, and Katheryn had worn her light gown of green silk, yet still it clung to her. She would have sat there in her shift if she had been let! The King was in his shirtsleeves, his collar of black-work embroidery unlaced, exposing the red hairs on his vast chest. He was sweating a lot—and, she soon guessed, not just from the heat.
“Katheryn,” he said, interrupting a conversation about masques, “I have to talk to you. Before I married the Queen, I was assured that there were proofs of the breaking of her previous betrothal to the Duke of Lorraine. But the envoys of Cleves did not bring those proofs when they escorted her to England, which made me reluctant to proceed with the marriage. The Duke of Cleves promised to send them to me, but he has not done so and it is clear that they do not exist. So I am resolved to have the marriage annulled.”
Katheryn tensed. He was going to ask for her hand.
“The Queen does not yet know about this,” Henry continued, “and I want to make it as painless as possible for her—and for you. There is talk of us, and I would not want it thought that this divorce is on your account. I was set on it before ever I became your servant. So I am sending you back to my lady of Norfolk at Lambeth.”
Katheryn nearly burst into tears. She did not want to go back to Lambeth. She loved being at court and—she realized—she had come to have feelings for Henry. Not the kind of feelings she had had for any of her other suitors, but affection all the same, and there was something very special about being courted by so powerful a king. But he had not said anything about marriage, so she would be going away without any assurances for her future—and might never come back.
“Do not look so downcast,” Henry enjoined her. “I will come and visit you privately.”
“I would like that,” she said, brightening.
He kissed her gently. “As will I.” He sat up. “You will leave in two days. Say to the Queen that your grandam needs you at home. You might hint that a marriage is in the offing.”
Yes, but what marriage? And would the Queen guess that this was just a bluff?
They strolled down to the river, where Henry beckoned a group of young lords and gentlemen to join them. As they stood there chatting and jesting, Katheryn basked in the open admiration of the handsome gallants—until she looked up and saw a figure at an upstairs window. It was the Queen, staring at her, her face a mask of sadness. She prayed that her mistress would think she was with one of the young men. Even if that got her into trouble, it was better than Anna thinking that she had betrayed her.
She had already noticed a new wariness toward her on Anna’s part and suspected that the Queen had heard the gossip. Yet she had not been treating Katheryn any differently and remained pleasant and courteous. Katheryn felt sorry for her, for Anna did not know what was in store. She felt guilty, too. Yet she knew that the King would have ended the marriage anyway, and not on her account. She detected fear in the Queen’s demeanor. Anna must have guessed that something was afoot. How could she not, when the King rarely came near her? Of course, she would be worrying that he might get rid of her as he had Queen Katherine, or even—Heaven forbid!—Queen Anne. She might easily conclude that he was setting her aside so that he could marry Katheryn.
Katheryn was aware that some of the ladies and maids had become hostile toward her. Anna was a kind mistress who inspired loyalty and protectiveness. Mother Lowe’s manner toward Katheryn was now positively icy. Even Jane Rochford was no longer as friendly, but that was probably because of the way Katheryn had treated Tom Culpeper. And, of course, there was a certain jealousy among those who would have given much to be courted by the King. It was probably as well that she was leaving court.
Yet she did so with a heavy heart, and when she asked the Queen for leave to go, it was hard not to cry. Anna noticed her distress and asked if anyone had been unkind to her.
“No, Madam,” Katheryn sobbed.
“But I thought you were happy here?”
“Madam, I was.”
“Is it a young man?”
Katheryn dabbed at her eyes. “No, Madam. My lady of Norfolk needs me.”
Anna seemed surprised. Of course, she would be wondering why the Howards would permit one of their blood to leave court just to help her grandam. But she made no protest, and Katheryn had not expected her to. The Queen was probably relieved to see her go.
When she got back to her chamber, Malyn was waiting for her, ready to offer a sympathetic shoulder to cry on. Katheryn needed it. She could not bear to think of herself being rusticated at Lambeth when Malyn, Meg, and Kat were staying on at court.
* * *
—
Lambeth seemed relatively quiet after the court. There was the usual household bustle, but on a much smaller scale. Familiar faces were missing. Of those who had been there in Katheryn’s time, only Dorothy Berwick, Margaret Bennet, Dotty Baskerville, and Dolly Dawby remained in the gentlewomen’s dorter, and she had never been particularly friendly with any of them. Disinterestedly, they told her that Mary Lascelles had married a Mr. Hall and gone to live in Sussex, Joan Bulmer had returned to her husband and was now in York, and Alice Wilkes had married Mr. Anthony Restwold and moved to Buckinghamshire. Katheryn was sorry that Alice had left; she missed the young woman’s cheerful presence.
It was a good thing that the Duchess had kept her old chamber free for her. Mournfully, she stowed away her gorgeous court gowns in the chest at the foot of the bed, wondering when she would ever wear them again.
She was grateful that Francis was absent—thank goodness he had gone to serve Lord William Howard—but pleased to see Edward Waldegrave, Robert Damport, and William Ashby, who all expressed pleasure at her return. And the Duchess welcomed her warmly when she answered the summons to her chamber.
“It is I who will, God willing, be curtseying to you soon!” she declared.
“I am not so sure, Madam,” Katheryn said. “His Majesty has said nothing about marriage—and he has sent me away.” Her voice broke.
“He is protecting you from scandal, child,” the Duchess said briskly. “The Duke has told me about this coming divorce and it is most proper that you are here, away from the court. You must not go reading the worst into it. He sent your cousin Anne home when his divorce from Queen Katherine was thought to be imminent.”
Katheryn felt better hearing that. Yet still she found herself moping around the house, bored and in need of distractions. The hot summer days seemed very long.
There came an evening when, enjoying the cooler air in the gardens, she saw a small boat making its way across the Thames toward Lambeth. There were people standing on the riverbank watching it. She let out a gasp when she saw the King sitting in the boat, and her spirits soared. There he was, climbing out onto the landing stage, with just two gentlemen in attendance, and striding toward her with his arms held out.
“Katheryn!”
“Your Grace!” she cried, and ran to him, almost forgetting to curtsey in her joy at seeing him—at not being forgotten. And he would probably not have noticed, so pleased to see her did he look.
“I have missed you, sweetheart,” he told her, curling a beefy arm around her slender shoulders. “But all is going well, and I look to have a good end to my matter soon.”
Was he telling her that soon he would be free to marry her? It sounded like it, but she dared not let herself believe that, in a few short weeks, God willing, she might be queen. It was not just the prospect of a crown that thrilled her, though. She was genuinely pleased to see Henry. No other man had ever been as kind to her, or as humble in his courtship. She knew he would give her
the moon if she asked for it.
The King’s arrival had been noticed and the Duchess’s chamberlain had come racing out of the house to welcome him. My lady herself was waiting in the hall and swept a deep curtsey as her sovereign entered. She smiled when she saw Katheryn on his arm.
“My lady of Norfolk! Greetings!”
“Welcome, your Grace, to my poor house,” she said, indicating the fine furniture, the costly tapestries, and the buffet groaning with gold plate behind her. “Will you take a goblet of wine while I arrange for food to be prepared?”
“Wine would be most welcome,” Henry said, “but do not go to any more trouble, for I have eaten supper already. I came to see Mistress Katheryn and, by your leave, will take the air with her in the gardens.”
“By all means, Sir,” the Duchess said, beaming at them both.
Henry stayed for two hours, most of which they spent sitting on the stone bench fronting the river.
“I have sent the Queen to Richmond,” he told her, “for her health.” He placed the slightest emphasis on the last phrase, which Katheryn took to mean that Anna, too, had been got out of the way while divorce proceedings went ahead. He said no more of the matter, but went on to speak of his love of ships and the sea, of the rivalry between himself and the King of France, of his sadness at the death of his champion horse, Governatore, and of a myriad other things. Katheryn told him about her childhood at Moreton and Lambeth and Oxon Hoath, and of her brothers, who were doing so well in Norfolk’s service, and of Mary, the little sister she had rarely seen, who was now twelve and being cared for at Oxon Hoath.
“I had four sisters,” the King said. “All gone now, except one, and she the most troublesome. I must find your Mary a place at court.”
When it grew late, he bade Katheryn a fervent farewell, holding her tightly in his arms and kissing her as if he would drink her in.
He came frequently after that, often in the daytime, and sometimes in the evening. She also saw him at Winchester House, where Bishop Gardiner provided feasts and entertainments for them. On these occasions, she was aware of the stares of the Londoners watching her barge pass along the river, not all of them friendly. It made her realize with a jolt that her fame—or, rather, notoriety—had spread beyond the court. She feared that people were drawing the wrong conclusions about her. Those fears deepened one evening when, returning from Winchester House, she stole past the porter’s lodge and heard him say to someone she could not see, “The King’s Grace has been banqueting these two nights with Mistress Katheryn there, and I suspect they were enjoying more than comfits.” Her cheeks burned.
By the end of June, Henry was coming nightly to see her. Because it was still so hot in the early evening, they talked in the little parlor by the hall. One night, he told her that, despite every effort having been made to maintain discretion, word had got out that he was planning to divorce the Queen. “Worse still, two of my own lawyers were speculating that Cromwell is in the Tower because he will not consent to it. My lord of Canterbury came to hear of this and had them severely reprimanded by my Council. Sweetheart, it would be a kindness if you would write to thank the Archbishop.”
Nervously, Katheryn fetched writing materials. She did not want the King to see how difficult writing was for her; it might give him cause to think twice about making her queen. But she made a creditable effort, she felt, assuring Cranmer that his prompt action had left him in greater favor than he had ever been. Hard-line reformist though he was, she was desirous of obtaining his friendship. He would not relish a Catholic queen on the throne, but he might come to like her for herself.
* * *
—
At Lambeth, little was spoken of but the likely fate of Cromwell.
“He’ll be executed as he deserves,” Robert Damport predicted.
By the end of the first week of July, such talk had been superseded by excited speculation about another royal divorce. It was no secret that the King was coming a-courting every day, and people tended to look at Katheryn when the subject was mentioned. It both embarrassed and excited her, but she said nothing. After all, there was nothing to say, was there?
“I hope to goodness this divorce doesn’t take as long as the last one,” Mother Emmet said one day at dinner in the hall. “Seven years it was, by my reckoning.”
Katheryn hoped so, too. It was hard enough to bear the waiting as it was. How had her cousin Anne coped?
* * *
—
Toward the middle of July, there came an evening when the King arrived and told Katheryn he desired to speak with the Duchess in private. When he had disappeared into her grandam’s chamber, she walked restlessly up and down the gallery, desperate to know what was being discussed. It seemed like ages before Henry emerged and asked her if she would walk with him in the gardens.
“We can speak freely there,” he said.
The sky above the silhouetted rooftops of Westminster was streaked with pink and gold as they strolled along the graveled paths, the King leaning heavily on his stick. His leg was giving him trouble this week, but he was in a buoyant mood, squeezing her hand and complimenting her on her gown. It was the green one, his favorite.
When they had come some way from the house, he bade her sit beside him on a wooden seat. “I have good news, darling,” he said. “Today, Parliament confirmed the annulment of my marriage.”
Katheryn’s heart began to race. “I am pleased for your Grace,” she said.
“Henry!” he reminded her.
“It is a comfort to have your doubts resolved—Henry,” she ventured, and laughed.
“Already, my Council have petitioned me to marry again,” he told her. Surely, she thought, the idea had been in his mind already. “They wish me to frame my heart to the love and favor of some noble lady with whom I can be joined in lawful matrimony, so that I can secure the succession to the comfort of my realm.” He took her hand. “Tonight, I asked my lady of Norfolk if you, my sweet Katheryn, are worthy to become my queen.” His blue eyes were warm in his tanned face.
Katheryn’s head was spinning. She could not speak for excitement.
“She told me she knew no wrong of you,” the King continued, “and commended your purity and your honesty. My darling, now that I am assured you are chaste and free from any entanglement, I wish to honor you with marriage.” He bent forward and kissed her reverently on the lips. “I would go down on one knee, as is proper, but I doubt I would get up again. Katheryn, say you will have me!”
Still she was speechless. It was what she had been longing to hear, what Norfolk and Gardiner had schemed for; it would mean a crown for herself and the pinnacle of success for the Howards, and she was elated. But, in those heady seconds of Henry’s proposal, all she had thought of was that the Duchess had lied. She was not pure or honest. She would be marrying the King under false pretenses.
For a mad moment, she thought of confessing all. But that would be the end of everyone’s hopes and the ruin of her future. Besides, the King was eagerly awaiting a reply.
“It is such an honor,” she said, her voice little more than a whisper. “Truly, Henry, I am overwhelmed.”
“Then you will consent, my darling?”
“With all my heart,” she replied.
Tears streamed down his cheeks as he enfolded her in his arms and kissed her with new ardor.
“Thanks be to God!” he breathed. “It is a marvel to me that, in my old days, after so many troubles of mind caused by my marriages, I have obtained such a perfect jewel of womanhood, a sweet lady who shows such perfect love toward me, to my peace of mind, and that I can again look forward to the desired fruits of matrimony.” He drew away and gazed into her face. “I have never seen such honor, purity, and maidenly behavior in a young lady.”
A great lump of guilt rose in Katheryn’s throat. They had, all of them, colluded to deceive
him—and there was nothing to be done about it. Too many hopes rested upon her. Well, from now on, she would be all those things he admired. What had happened in the past must be consigned to the past.
Henry kissed her tenderly. “I know I can be content with you, Katheryn. And you will easily win the hearts of my subjects, for your beauty surpasses that of all the ladies in England. You have such a gentle face, and you are so gracious of speech. They will love your modest bearing and courteous conversation.”
“I do hope I will live up to your expectations of me,” Katheryn said, caressing his cheek.
“Oh, Katheryn, Katheryn, how could you doubt it?” he cried, and kissed her passionately.
* * *
—
That night, she lay wakeful, fretting about deceiving the King. What was it Francis had said about bigamy? That it was frowned upon. But they had not been wed; they had merely promised themselves to each other, and the Duchess had dismissed it as being of no significance, so Katheryn was sure that Francis had got it wrong. She wished she knew more about such things, but she dared not ask anyone now.
She smothered the proddings of her conscience by indulging in a reverie about being queen. The prospect of riches, influence, and fame was a heady one, and she had found that it did not come at such a high price after all. The King was a sweetheart, loving, kind, and protective, and she had grown very fond of him. The prospect of sharing a bed with him was not one she relished, but he had shown himself an ardent lover so far and might yet surprise her. As long as he did not suspect that she was no virgin, all would be well. She remembered the blood spots on the sheet after she had surrendered her maidenhead to Francis and resolved to prick her finger before she went to sleep on her wedding night, so that there would be similar evidence on her uprising the next morning.
