“Promise me,” interrupted Catherine, her voice urgent. “If I know you’ll always be with me, then I’ll be able to face anything.”
Wiping away the tears that she could not stop spilling from her eyes, Isabel nodded.
“I promise,” she said in a choked voice. “I promise that whatever happens, I’ll be with you until the end.”
Chapter Eleven
“Do you think the king will serve Cromwell’s head to Catherine on a platter, like King Herod did for Salome in the Bible?” asked Kathryn Knollys as she and Lady Margaret Douglas hurried through the corridors to Catherine’s rooms in Oatlands Palace. Their arms were full of the expensive gauzy fabric that was the veil for Catherine’s spectacular cloth of gold wedding gown.
“I hope not,” shuddered Margaret, “but one can never be sure with Uncle Henry.”
“Is it done then, do you think? Is Cromwell dead?”
“At dawn. Word has been sent that he had a good death,” Margaret replied.
“And, to celebrate, the king marries our cousin,” sighed Lady Knollys.
Neither woman spoke again until they arrived at Catherine’s rooms. Margaret Howard, Lady Arundell, one of Catherine’s sisters was waiting.
“You’re to go straight in,” she smiled, waving away Katherine Tilney and Joan Bulmer who hurried forward to try to relieve them of their burden. “Isabel and Jane are waiting. Now, Mrs Tilney, Mrs Bulmer, you are to accompany me back to the maids’ rooms.”
With a wink at Margaret and Lady Knollys, Margaret Howard ushered the other women away.
“Thank goodness we have her keeping those idiots away from Kitten,” said Margaret Douglas.
“She’s good at blocking Bess Seymour too, although I notice she’s absent today,” said Lady Knollys.
“Hardly surprising since her father-in-law was executed this morning. I imagine she’s comforting that swaggering fool of a husband of hers, Gregory Cromwell. This should bring the whole family down to size again.”
The page opened the door into Catherine’s private inner chamber, where Isabel and Jane were dressing the ashen-faced and silent bride. The atmosphere was more akin to that of a funeral than a wedding. Catherine stood with her eyes closed, barely aware of their presence. When they had finished, Isabel touched Catherine gently on the arm.
“Kitten, would you like to see?”
Catherine opened her eyes and looked into the glass Isabel held before her.
“Thank you all for making me look so beautiful. I would never have imagined plain little Kitty Howard could one day be dressed so finely,” she said. Then she squared her shoulders and a small flush of colour came to her cheeks. “Like a soldier going to war, I will walk down the aisle to my groom. For king and country. Even if it kills me.”
And now, thought Catherine several hours later, the deed is done. I am Henry’s wife, I am his consort, I am queen of England. ’Til death us do part. I wonder how long that will be?
She sat in bed, wearing an exquisitely embroidered chemise, waiting for the king. Isabel, Jane, Lady Knollys and Margaret Douglas had prepared her, anointing her with fragrant oils and loosening her hair so it fell in tumbling red curls across her shoulders. Her blue eyes were wide in her white face but even before Isabel’s instructions, she bit on the inside of her lips to bring a red blush to them and pinched her cheeks to try to give herself a healthy, happy, excited glow. When the women had finished, Isabel placed a loose sheet under Catherine.
“For the blood,” she said. Catherine nodded. She knew the ritual. Every noble woman in England had been trained in the mysteries of the women’s quarters but she had never imagined her own marriage bed would be in such exalted surroundings. Isabel kissed her on the forehead as though Catherine were one of her three young children and she was kissing her good night.
“We will pray for you,” she murmured.
“Thomas will be outside the door, he says to call for sweet wine if you have difficulties,” said Jane in a low voice.
“Thank you, ladies,” Catherine said. “Now, will you please send word to the king that I am ready.”
Isabel nodded and ushered the others out. Then Catherine closed her eyes and prayed.
Mary, sweet mother Mary, preserve me this day and let me get with child. Mary, sweet mother Mary, preserve me this day and let me get with child. Mary, sweet mother Mary, preserve me this day and let me get with child.
Catherine heard their low voices and the stump of Henry’s limp, which was more pronounced than usual today. He had obviously been in some pain as they had said their vows in front of Edward Bonner, the bishop of London, but he had been determined that nothing would stop him gracing her bed.
“You made me a promise, little girl,” he had said, running his finger down her cheek. “You said you would dance for me. I have fulfilled my side of the bargain: Cromwell is dead, he will never scare you again. I would not be so crass as to bring his head to you on a platter — after all, we are not barbarians — but I am a man and my flesh aches for you.”
This is the price I pay for my family’s ambition, she thought, I am their thirty pieces of silver. My uncle of Norfolk may always have taken a special interest in me, I assumed it was because he cared about me, but he was merely breeding me as another potential bride for Henry’s bed. She pushed the thought of Anne Boleyn from her mind as the king entered, resplendent in a heavily embroidered gown which was far too warm for the July weather, but was obviously a statement of his kingship. Under this he wore a white linen shift.
Dearest Mother Mary, let it be over quickly, she prayed, then smiled shyly at her husband, the king. He gazed at her, his eyes filling with tears.
“You are the most perfect woman I have ever seen,” he whispered hoarsely.
Behind him, Thomas Culpepper directed two pages to place Henry’s lute on a small side table, then they arranged a bowl of cakes and a jug of spiced wine before scurrying out, their eyes never rising higher than the floor.
“My lord, I will leave you now,” said Culpepper and, with a swift, sad glance at Catherine, he backed out bowing from the chamber. Catherine’s smile trembled as Henry sat on the bed beside her. He reached out to stroke her cheek and Catherine steeled herself not to flinch.
“You are so beautiful and you are all mine,” sighed the king, burying his face in her hair. “You smell as sweet as a meadow, my darling.”
Catherine hesitated, rigid with fear and revulsion, then she remembered suggestions given to her by Issy and Kathy Knollys about how to behave in the marriage bed. She raised her hand and tentatively stroked the back of the king’s head. He groaned, shuddering with pleasure, then he stood, threw the covers back and helped her from the bed, leading her to the centre of the room. With a few deft movements, Henry unlaced her chemise and it fell in soft, foaming waves at her feet, leaving her naked before the king. Her hands automatically moved to cover herself.
“No,” he barked. “You’re mine now and I want to look upon you.”
He began to circle her, like a horse breeder examining a new young filly. Catherine stood, terrified, trying not to tremble as the king completed a full circuit of her.
“You are more beautiful than I had imagined,” he sighed. “You are a goddess, an angel, you are perfection and you are mine.”
On his final word, he reached out and ran his hands down her face, to her shoulders, then her breasts, cupping them, his thumbs circling her pale pink nipples as he groaned in desire. Catherine stiffened but did not move. This was her duty now, her body was his, she could no longer shout for Thomas Culpepper to rescue her. She shut her eyes. The king lowered his head and was so engrossed, his tongue darting across her flesh like a strange pink fish, he did not see the tears trickling out from under her lashes. His hands slid down her back and clawed at her buttocks. One hand slid between her thighs, his fingers probing and parting her soft flesh. Catherine tried to turn her sob into a groan as the king’s fingers prised into her most private places.
/> “You are as sweet as a peach, little girl,” said the king, before pulling her into a crushing embrace and locking his lips to hers, his tongue pushing into her mouth, almost choking her. After a moment, she forced herself to respond and was horrified when he took her hand and placed it on his hard cock.
“This is a sign from God that we are supposed to make a son,” he whispered. “The Lady of Cleves never made me feel like a man but I only have to look at you, little Catherine, and you raise my blood. I will own you completely. Then you will dance for me until I am ready for you again. Tonight, we will make a prince.”
He pushed her down on the bed. Catherine was wide-eyed with horror as Henry dropped his chemise and stood naked before her. His once firm flesh now hung in rippling, grey folds around his enormous frame. The sore on his leg, although dressed with a fresh linen bandage, still gave off the faint smell of rotting meat. His skin was scarred and pocked from illness and a few sores wept across his stomach.
“You are mine,” he declared, his tone threatening as one hand slid to her throat, holding her still on the bed, while the other forced her legs apart. Catherine thought she would suffocate as he lowered his enormous bulk on top of her. She was barely half his size and she gasped for air. Henry, his hands now either side of her head, took this to be a sign of passion and laughed. “It’s good, yes?”
Catherine could do little more than whimper, such was her revulsion. She felt Henry forcing her legs further apart, then he was pushing himself inside her. Her fear was making her muscles lock and it was a struggle for him; he puffed, thrusting even harder. Sense, self-preservation and feminine instinct suddenly suffused Catherine, she could not escape this torture so she might as well help get it over with. From what she remembered from her step-grandmother’s house, once the coupling had taken place, the man, after a few thrusts, usually collapsed quite quickly and it was all over.
Once Tilney had crudely described how she had helped her lover, Francis Dereham, enter her using her hand, stroking him to keep him hard. Pulling her knees as far apart as she could, Catherine slid her hand down and took the king in her hand. He gasped and she ran her hand up and down his length, feeling him harden further in her grasp, then she guided him into her, lifting her hips to accommodate him.
Henry kissed her with a frenzy and began to move above her, wheezing and gasping as his bulk pushed her further into the bed. Catherine tried to follow his rhythm. It’s like a trot, she thought. Like being on my pony, think of my horse Moonbeam, riding her makes me feel free, when this is done I will be free. She gasped in pain as he broke her hymen, then after a few energetic thrusts, the king spasmed and groaned, collapsing on top of her.
Catherine did not dare move, even though his weight was crushing her, making it difficult to breathe. His face was turned away and she could not see if he was asleep. However, after a few moments, he roused himself, rolling off her and staring down at her prone figure.
“And now, little Salome,” he said coldly, running his hand over her belly. “You will dance.”
He pulled her to her feet, ignoring the blood trickling down her legs, picked up his lute and settled himself on the bed. She stood shivering and shocked before him but he laughed.
“You are mine now, little Catherine,” he snarled, “and you must obey my every command. So, I say, dance. Dance, you little Howard whore. Dance until I tell you to stop.”
He struck a chord and Catherine, wiping her legs with her chemise, lifted her arms and began to dance, wondering how this night would end.
Chapter Twelve
The hot August sun beat through the windows. Catherine leaned out, trying to feel the breeze from the river but to no avail. Today, after a month of torturous marriage, she had been officially presented to the court as Henry’s queen consort. For hours she had sat at his side as the highest-ranking nobles in the land, along with all the foreign dignitaries, the ambassadors and the clergy, bowed and swore their allegiance. A lengthy banquet had followed but now she was back in her chambers, still dressed in her finery as she awaited a visit from her uncle, the duke of Norfolk.
Once she would have been overawed by these events but so much had happened so quickly, her feelings had become dulled and she could no longer react to anything properly. Even her beautiful dress, which would once have made her crow in delight, was another shackle binding her to the servitude of her marriage. The elaborate cloth of gold gown was so tight, immovable and hot, she felt she might faint.
Behind her, the ladies of her private chamber bustled around, tidying, exclaiming and preparing her rooms so they would be suitable for receiving honoured guests, should the necessity arise. The only bright spot on Catherine’s horizon was the fact that, now her queenship had finally been acknowledged, she could secure good positions and money for her family. Her older brother George Howard was to become a gentleman of the privy chamber and work alongside Thomas Culpepper. This pleased Catherine immensely as she now had two strong men to come to her aid should the king have one of his turns. His rages were becoming more frequent and increasingly violent.
Catherine pushed the thought from her mind, focusing instead on the other good things she had been able to bestow upon the people she loved. Charles had been appointed to the position of the king’s spear and, together with George, they had been granted a license to annually import 1,000 ton of Gascon wine and Toulouse woad, something that gave them both a very healthy income. However, what had delighted her most was that her brother-in-law, Edward Baynton, had been granted the manor of Semleigh in Wiltshire, while Isabel and their children had all been granted 100 marks. A small fortune which, when she had been told, had made Isabel weep. She found it difficult to reconcile her good fortune when it came at the expense of Catherine’s safety.
In the distance, Catherine heard the herald announce the arrival of yet more visitors to her chambers. People came and went all day. At first she had felt obliged to make herself available and pleasant to each one but, as so many had been people trying to win favours from the king via her intervention, her capable senior ladies now weeded out the interlopers, allowing in only the genuine members of her court.
Katherine Willoughby, the duchess of Suffolk, and Eleanor Paston, the countess of Rutland, were a formidable force and provided what Catherine thought of as her first line of defence. Isabel, Margaret, Jane and Kathryn were, in her mind, her version of Henry’s Tudor guard. They stood like a protective wall around her, keeping her from as much harm as possible.
“His grace, the duke of Norfolk and the Lady Elizabeth Tudor,” came the announcement. Turning from the window, Catherine caught Isabel’s enquiring glance.
“Let them in here,” she replied, moving back into the room and pulling her attention to the events of the day. “We can be more informal. I can’t face all the bowing and scraping if we go into the main chamber, there has been more than enough of that today.”
She sank onto a chair by the empty fireplace, shifting from side to side trying to find a comfortable position in her stiff, unforgiving dress. Isabel nodded to the page who opened the door to admit the duke and Henry’s younger daughter. Thomas Howard gave a perfunctory bow while Elizabeth sank into a deep curtsey; her head lowered awaiting her new stepmother’s blessing. Catherine smiled and gently touched her brilliant red Tudor hair.
“You can get up, Elizabeth,” she said. The girl stood and smiled, then hurried over to her cousin and half-sister Kathryn Knollys, who was busy tidying away Catherine’s writing paraphernalia.
“Uncle,” said Catherine, “how fare you?”
“Very well, thank you, my dear,” he said, taking the seat opposite Catherine. “You did well today, Kitten. It’s gratifying to see that you are making friends throughout the court. All I hear from those who matter is that you are discreet, noble and approachable.”
“My marriage to the king is barely one month old. It would take a particularly spiteful and careless nature to have made enemies so quickly.”
&
nbsp; “People don’t become your enemy because you’re spiteful,” said the duke, genuinely amused. “It’s for far more subtle reasons.”
“Such as?”
“Your name, your religion, whether or not you support them in a petition to the king…”
“Whether or not you were instrumental in having their father executed on your wedding day?” she interrupted before she could stop herself. To her disgust, the duke merely shrugged as though Thomas Cromwell’s execution had been a matter of no importance.
“Yes, Gregory Cromwell and his wife Bess Seymour are without doubt our enemies, but they were against the Howard family long before you ever became queen,” he said dismissively.
“It was my fault though,” whispered Catherine. “The king killed him because I asked him too; you wanted me too.”
Since her marriage, she had been plagued by nightmares. Most featured Henry but, periodically, Thomas Cromwell would haunt her dreams, sometimes as he had been in life: tall, imposing, terrifying. Often, though, the dreams took the form of the spectre of Cromwell, holding his severed head towards her while tears streamed from its rotting, fly-infested eyes. Even in her waking hours, the image would sometimes flash across her mind and leave her shaking with fear.
“Kitten, what are you talking about?” asked her uncle. “Cromwell signed his own death warrant with all his double-dealing. It was only a matter of time before the king tired of his machinations. Your involvement was minimal and you bear none of the guilt. Put it from your mind, sweetling, and concentrate instead on being the bonny bride you promised in your wedding vows so you can give the king a bouncing Howard duke of York.”
He threw her a quizzical glance and she raised her eyebrows.
“I’m afraid not, Uncle,” she replied to his unanswered question.
“Have you made yourself available, not baulked at the king’s desire? Made him happy?” the duke’s usually casual, urbane manner held the mildest hint of urgency, as did his sudden grip on her forearm. Nausea rose in Catherine as she remembered all the king had forced her to do the previous evening and managed only to nod. “Good girl, no doubt you will soon be in whelp.”
The Catherine Howard Conspiracy Page 16
