Secrets of the Tudor Court (25 page)

“To what end?” I demand, pulling away from him, disgusted. “He has made a good match with the German. May they have an eternity of happiness together and many bonny princes.”

“Are you insane?” Norfolk spits. “He hates the German. She repulses him. He can’t even bed her, for God’s sake.”

I know that much. Poor Queen Anne is so naïve that she believes sleeping in the same bed together is enough to conceive a child. She is far too innocent for the likes of our lusty king.

Norfolk’s expression is the quintessence of slyness. His black eyes are narrowed, his lips are twisted into that sardonic smile; he is a fox about to pounce. “I wonder, does his inability to bed his queen mean he is cursed in some way?” His tone oozes with sarcasm. “Really, Mary, it’s almost too easy.”

Norfolk is not a superstitious man, but he knows our king, and our king is as paranoid as they come. Norfolk knows exactly how to play this new game.

“Don’t do this,” I caution.
“Please
don’t do this. Queen Anne is innocent, as innocent as a body can be. Let her get used to our ways. Once she learns our customs and masters the language better, they will be a happy pair. You will see…”

“Oh, get out of here. You vex me to no end,” Norfolk says. “Just remember to do what I said. Keep that delicious little Kitty in the foreground.”

I dip into an exaggerated curtsy and flee his rooms, swallowing the rising bile in my throat.

Poor Queen Anne’s German attendants are sent home and she is left with us. I know I should be glad to be rid of the gossiping gaggle, but my heart churns in sympathy, for the poor queen is so far from anything familiar to her and is so obviously disliked by the king. His comments about her appearance and even their intimate bedroom habits have been spun into well-known tales.

He hates her figure and accuses her of being older than she is. Her stomach is not flat, her breasts are sagging, and her face…! His words are completely lacking in human decency. But this is the man who had one of his wives beheaded, so I cannot expect more.

We try to amuse Her Majesty by teaching her English, though she has a tutor come and instruct her every day. She seems to have a marvelous affinity for it and is determined to acclimate herself to our land.

“I will be good queen, no?” she asks us with a timid smile.

I swallow my misgivings. Dashed are all hopes of illuminating conversations of religion and art. We can barely get past salutations.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” I say sweetly. “Of course you will.”

Jane Boleyn draws me aside. “What’s this friendliness toward the German? Your father said—”

“So you’re his agent, too?” I seethe. “I do not want to know. Stay away from me, Lady Rochford. I do not want to retch in the queen’s apartments.”

Jane Boleyn scowls and returns to her sewing.

When not fretting over poor Queen Anne’s situation, I revel in a new friendship with Catherine Parr, Lady Latymer. An understated beauty, with rich auburn hair swept under her hood in a fashionable chignon and a trim figure, she is set apart from the other maids by her quiet dignity and soothing presence. Her impeccable manners and posture have even won Norfolk’s admiration. Often he has pointed her out, nudging me in the ribs, saying, “Now, if you carried yourself like
her…
” But of all Lady Latymer’s charming attributes, it is her eyes that strike me as most endearing. The soft brown orbs are filled with compassion and sincerity, inspiring a trust too rare in an environment where betrayal is as commonplace as daily prayer.

At one time Lady Latymer was considered for a position in my household as one of my ladies-in-waiting, but that never came to fruition. She is only seven years older than I and very intelligent. We are of the same mind in regard to religion and enjoy discussing it for hours on end. She is a good substitute for my Lily, whom I have been missing dreadfully.

To differentiate between all the Catherines at court, she prefers to be called Cat. It seems most appropriate, as she is far more mature than my Kitty Howard, whose nickname could not suit her better.

Cat is on her second marriage, and though she is fond of her husband, it is not the love match she had dreamed of as a girl.

“It seems the timing’s always wrong,” she confesses one day.

“Who would you marry if you could?” I ask her. My cheeks begin to flush as I realize the boldness of my question. “I’m sorry. I—”

“It’s all right, Mary,” she says, her expression dreamy. “My heart is bound to one man but belongs to another. Lord knows I am a faithful wife to my lord Latymer. But if God wills it, I should hope that one day I can marry Tom Seymour for love.”

My heart leaps into my throat. Doesn’t she know about the rumors? I say nothing but reach out to squeeze her hand. “I wish you nothing but happiness, Cat.”

Her brown eyes grow wide. “You won’t say anything? Sometimes I fear I am too trusting…”

I shake my head. “I promise I will say nothing, but,” I add, “it is probably not so good a thing to be too trusting at this court.”

She offers a grave nod. “You are very wise.”

It is a wisdom too painfully gained, I fear.

A Rose Named Kitty

T
rue to his implications, my father moves fast. It is not long before the Catholic faction at court seizes the opportunity to accuse the Lutheran-leaning Cromwell of pressuring His Majesty into this unfavorable alliance to suit his own interests. Now that there is no real political reason to be married to Anne of Cleves, the king is looking for a way out.

He finds it in Francis, the Duke of Lorraine, whom Anne had been engaged to in the 1530s. Close examination reveals there is no dispensation ending the betrothal. If Anne is still betrothed to Francis, she cannot legally be wed to King Henry. Low and behold, another invalid marriage!

Then there are the rumors that she unmanned him, that every day she rises from her bed
virgo intacta.
These are rumors my cousin Lady Jane Boleyn is too happy to perpetrate, giving evidence certain to damn the poor foreign girl for the crime of being untouched. Few people are willing to believe a girl so innocent that she does not know how to coax forth a king’s desire. It is not a simple matter of attraction; like everything else at this court, it is made sordid and dark. Before long there is an evil whisper on the wind: she is a witch, a witch like the cursed predecessor who bore her name.

Norfolk is thrilled and I shudder in disgusted despair.

For a while the progress in the case against Queen Anne is sluggish. This gives the king ample occasion to court the young woman who has captured his fancy, a girl-child he pulls aside at every opportunity to pet and spoil and entice. She is our own Kitty Howard.

“It isn’t as though I really
like
the king,” Kitty confesses to me one afternoon. “But he likes me, and you can’t very well reject
him.
Oh, I know he isn’t the best looking.” She wrinkles her button nose. “He’s so old and
large!
But he buys me such pretty gifts—sweet pets and gowns and jewels! You should see the collar of table diamonds he gave me!” Her blue eyes sparkle in bewildered delight. “I’ve never had pretty things of my own before.” She sighs. “When I think back on life before I came here—how dull it was, and how nobody ever cared for me at all except…well, all the wrong people—I think I must be very blessed indeed. Uncle Thomas swept down on Lambeth like—like Merlin, and plucked me from my dreary existence, dropping me down on this Camelot. He’s made me a princess! And he says as long as I’m a good girl and do just what he says, the king will keep showering his favor upon me.”

My heart lurches. “Kitty, you must be careful. My father—”

“Is so wonderful! He
really
loves me,” Kitty interposes. At once her eyes mist over. “No one’s ever really loved me before…” She swallows, brightening. “And I never knew my father really, so I am so happy to acquaint myself with my good uncle. For once someone cares about what happens to me! He really wants what’s best for me. He says I’m a pretty little kitten and will do the Howards proud.”

For my father to utilize the phrase
pretty little kitten
in any sentence causes me to shudder in disgust.

It has all happened before. My chest is tightening in dread. Now it is happening again. This king, this mad king—does Kitty have any idea of the depth of his madness?

“Kitty—” I begin.

“Oh!” she cries. “I must be off. His Majesty is expecting me. I can only imagine for what.” She emits a naughty little giggle as though she knows exactly for what, rises and kisses my cheek, and in a flurry of skirts, dashes from the maidens’ chamber.

I bow my head in despair.

That evening when I am shown into Norfolk’s privy chamber it is no surprise to find Kitty already there. Norfolk is leaning against his desk, staring down his hawklike nose at her, in an expression of annoyance that poor Kitty does not seem to pick up on.

“I do not want to go to Norfolk House,” she is saying, jutting her lower lip out into an attractive pout I am certain has been rehearsed for its endearing effectiveness. “I want to stay here at court. If I go back there I’ll miss everything.”

Norfolk opens his mouth, then snaps it shut. His lips twist into a forced smile. “Kitty,” he says, his tone solicitous. “You must go to Norfolk House now. It is better for you while this unpleasantness with His Majesty’s annulment is being sorted out. Soon enough you shall make your grand return and will head them all up. Look at the grand scheme of things, little one. His Majesty wants
you.
He is planning to marry you and make
you
queen of England.” He allows the words to sink in a moment before continuing. “Now, you are going to Norfolk House and that is that. We shall not have unpleasant words, shall we? You must remember who has gotten you this far to begin with.” He pauses. “Kitty, do you remember your cousin Anne—Queen Anne?”

Kitty’s nod is grave. “She came to see me once when I was little. She brought me a present.”

“Yes, you would recall that,” says Norfolk, but the sarcasm is lost on her. He continues. “Anne was a bad girl.” I cringe at the blunt description, as a vision of my Anne conjures itself before my mind’s eye—radiant, her black eyes sparkling with wit and merriment. Anne…“That is why she is never mentioned at court; she was so wicked the king forbids it.” Little Kitty’s face is white. “She died by the sword, Kitty, because she did not listen to me, who had her best interests at heart just as I do yours. So you see that it is vital you listen to your uncle, d’you see?”

Kitty, so unlike her late cousin Anne when it comes to battles of wits, melts at this. Her smile is guileless. “Oh, yes, of course. I shall always listen to you, Uncle Thomas. Were it not for you putting me in His Majesty’s path so often, he may not have noticed me at all.”

Norfolk laughs, stepping forward and taking her pretty little hands in his. “You are a hard one to miss, my little kitten.” He taps her nose with his finger. “Now. You must be off to sleep. You will leave in the morning. His Majesty plans to visit you every day, or at least as often as he can, and I’m certain he will bring many gifts for his little rose.”

“His ‘rose without a thorn,’” Kitty says in awe. “Can you believe he calls me that? It is quite sweet. That is what I must think of. All the sweet things. I won’t think about him being so old and large. I’ll think of all the grand things.”

“That’s right, Kitty,” says Norfolk.

“And hope he will consummate the marriage in the dark!” Kitty finishes with a laugh of her own that catches Norfolk off guard.

“Er…yes,” he says, shifting uncomfortably. “Best not suggest that to him, however, Kitty.”

“Oh, of course not,” she says. “Worst comes to worst, I can always close my eyes.”

Norfolk is shaking his head and I am stifling laughter.

“Will you visit me at Norfolk House, too, Uncle Thomas?” she asks, laying her hand upon his doublet. She casts her eyes upon me. “And bring Mary?”

“Certainly,” he says.

She wraps her arms about his neck and kisses his cheek. He returns the embrace stiffly, patting her back while trying to extract himself from her. She does not see this, however. She is the type who immerses herself in a hug, pressing herself in full to the person she embraces, as though her greatest desire is to merge with them, body, heart, and soul. Yet there is nothing sexual about it at all. She is a girl made to love and be loved.

She tilts an adoring face up to Norfolk. “I love you, Uncle Thomas,” she tells him, her voice shaking with sincerity.

He draws away, clearing his throat. “Well. Yes.” He shoos her away. “To bed now, Kitten. You want to be fresh and pretty for tomorrow.”

She smiles, bounds over to me to kiss my cheek, then quits the room. I hear her offer a cheery exchange with the guards. There is laughter. I smile. There is laughter wherever Kitty goes.

When I am certain she is out of earshot I turn to my father. “My lord, I must entreat you.”

“What now, Mary?” His voice is weary, as though the exertion of being kind to Kitty has exhausted him.

“You must promise…” The laughter in my throat has turned to tears. I wring my hands. “You must promise me that Kitty will never come to any harm. She is as innocent as a girl can be.”

“Innocent? Kitty?” Norfolk’s tone is incredulous. “Don’t mistake sheer stupidity for sheer innocence, Mary.”

I sigh. “She isn’t stupid; she’s young. Fourteen. This is such a heady world for her. She isn’t like Anne—the king may tire of her inability to match wits—”

“At this point the king does not want a girl for her intelligence,” Norfolk tells me. “Take one good look at that imp. Would any man in his right mind want her for her wits?” He laughs. “He no longer needs late-night debates and mental stimulation. He wants a pretty little thing to pet and spoil. And as long as she can give him the heirs he needs, her life is assured—and I do not foresee any problems there. As you said, she’s young and healthy.”