The Queen's Mistake (13 page)

The next morning, not in the mood to be seen by anyone but his closest advisers, Henry sat slumped at a long table in his privy chamber back at Whitehall. Sitting with him arrayed around the table were the men who advised him in running the kingdom. Norfolk was there, along with both his rival Thomas Cromwell, and his ally Stephen Gardiner, Bishop of Winchester. Nearby sat Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk, who had been Henry’s boon companion since childhood as well as his dear departed sister Mary’s second husband. They were also joined by Dorset, who was married to Henry’s niece; Thomas Wriothesley, one of the king’s principal secretaries; and Jane Seymour’s brothers, Edward and Thomas. It was not the public presence chamber beyond the double doors where he usually met with his privy counsel, yet this chamber was far from intimate. It was massive in size, and the walls were covered with tapestries, wood panels and tooled plasterwork. In the center was a grand alabaster fountain.

“So how do you advise me now, Cromwell? Do you
still
recommend the queen, even after four months’ time? The King of France does not seem any more likely to side with us and against his new friend the emperor on this political issue. He’s going to stand with
those who stand by the queen. Are you willing to stake your life on her?”

As his question hung ominously in the air, Henry leaned back in his chair, steepled his stubby, freckled fingers, and watched the furtive, worried glances of his counselors. Each was happy, he was sure, not to be the one to whom the sovereign had directed his anger. Like a great wave on a turbulent sea, all eyes in the room shifted to the big man with the small, deep green eyes and the mouth that was turned down somberly at the corners.

The silence was deafening.

Henry waited. Norfolk watched.

A heartbeat later, Cromwell cleared his throat and leaned forward. “A way has opened up that could change the course of things, if Your Majesty desires to pursue the path.”

The king arched a brow. His face was mottled red with frustration.

“I desired it the moment I laid my eyes upon my wife! And I ask you, my Lord Chancellor Cromwell, by pointing out this path, do you admit that the course you initially set for me and for England was not a wise one?”

“I act for my country and my king first before all things,” Cromwell carefully replied.

“A pity you do not reverse the order,” commented Charles Brandon, who sat beside the chancellor.

“They are one and the same, I assure you, Your Majesty.”

“Then find me a plausible way out of this sham!” Henry bellowed.

“Can it be done legally?” Stephen Gardiner wondered aloud, hoping to divert any new threat Cromwell was conjuring up to thwart his and Norfolk’s plan to depose of the queen.

“Legally, yes, the marriage can be annulled. There is little doubt
the queen was betrothed to the Duke of Lorraine before she came here,” Norfolk replied, as if he and Stephen were the only ones in the room, but loudly enough for the king to hear. “Can it be done safely is another matter, now that France and the emperor are so closely aligned.”

Henry slammed his fist hard onto the table, snorting like a bull as his great jowls flapped beneath his copper beard. “What in God’s heaven ever allowed me to trust your vision of beauty, Cromwell? The woman is horrendous; she smells sourly of ale, snores in her sleep, and grunts like a wild boar when she makes those fainthearted attempts to communicate in anything close to the language of English!” Henry bolted from his chair. “Ready my horse! And summon Culpeper. I cannot stand the sight of any of you!”

No one dared make a sound until the king had left the privy chamber in a hobbling gait, the great double doors closing behind him with an ominous thud. The ulcer on Henry’s leg had begun again to trouble him, and everyone who had been around His Majesty for any length of time knew that made him as cantankerous as an old goat.

As soon as the door closed behind Henry, the counsel turned from grave silence to fast and furious chatter.

“Well, this indeed is a fine mess,” said Edward Seymour, sitting cross-legged in a pumpkin-colored suede jerkin with a heavy gold chain across his slim chest. His impeccably clean fingers played with a slip of parchment that lay on the table before him. He wore a twisted smile as he shot a glance at his younger brother, Thomas.

“The king wants out of this disaster, and there will be spoils for the man with the courage to provide the means,” Brandon observed.

“Another divorce would be dangerous,” Thomas Seymour dutifully added. “And if the queen contests a divorce, the minister who proposes a battle should expect blood on his hands.”

“A wife to follow Anne Boleyn to the block will leave a legacy of blood with the people,” Wriothesley said.

The king’s privy counsel looked accusingly at Cromwell.

Someone cleared his throat.

Cromwell’s guilt over Anne of Cleves was like a poison mist in the room, settling heavily around them.

“If only you had rightly championed Lord and Lady Lisle’s comely daughter Anne as queen rather than as a useless mistress,” Stephen Gardiner cruelly pointed out, “all of this might have been avoided, and there would likely be an heir inside the queen already.”

“He will be rid of the Cleves mare, whatever it takes; that is certain. And doubtless there will be someone to replace her before we see autumn leaves on the trees at Greenwich,” observed Brandon. “The only question now is, Who will be unfortunate enough to be next?”

Cromwell was raging with anger by the time his son arrived.

The king’s giant, thickly set chancellor lunged forward. He swatted the boy’s ears as the great velvet bell sleeve of his coat knocked Gregory in the mouth.

“What the devil were you thinking, Gregory? Do you know what this may well have cost me? You were with her, were you not?”

“With who?”

To Cromwell’s surprise, his son appeared genuinely perplexed. His blue eyes were wide and his face was flushed as Cromwell grabbed the side of his smooth, youthful face. Gregory Cromwell was mildly attractive, yet it was his charm and his clever tongue that had always given him an alarming ease with women.

Before and after he had taken a wife.

“Did you honestly have no idea who she was?”

His eyes widened with realization. “Oh, the girl at Lambeth, you mean? How did you know about that?”

“I know everything, you useless lout!” He charged, swatting his son’s ear again. The large gold ring on his forefinger clipped the boy’s cheek, leaving a mark. “I am Lord Great Chancellor of England! Few know more than me!”

“Except, perhaps, her uncle.” Gregory Cromwell bit back a nasty smile. “Look, old man, I did you a favor by taking that position with Norfolk. I thought perhaps I could help you, so I went to his supper last night. I thought it would please you.”

“You think with your prick, which has always been your problem—and my own,” he growled, and pivoted away, the great velvet cloak swirling between them.

This boy, this upstart, had always been dear to him. He had coddled him, spoiled him and excused him, and the fruits of his indulgence were now his to bear.

“I thought it might help soften the Duke of Norfolk toward you if I showed her some kindness,” Gregory said in a tone that bore just a hint of pleading. “Gossip at court is that Norfolk and the Bishop of Winchester are doing all they can to poison your standing with the king. Maybe he would soften toward you if he thought I was helping him out. Clearly the Howard girl has been brought to court to make a decent marriage. But she must be desperate. What is she but a fourth or maybe fifth daughter of a youngest son with a scandalous cousin to darken the path before her?”

Cromwell was speechless at his son’s twisted logic. But he recovered soon enough. “And so you thought taking her maidenhead was the way to win her uncle’s favor?”

“There was no maidenhead to take, Father.” He chuckled dryly.

“Mistress Howard was not a virgin?”

“Would that every courtier like me could couple with a virgin so experienced as that. Now, do you want me to continue seeing her, Father, or would you prefer I leave that pleasure to someone else? Because Catherine Howard most definitely will find the interest of someone more powerful before long.”

Chapter Six

 

 

C
atherine stood against the wall, hands behind her back, and silently watched as the king’s nieces, Lady Margaret and Lady Frances, prepared the queen’s dressing table. Bottles, vials, and jars were lined up in the order of her preference. Tortoiseshell-handled brushes and combs had been meticulously cleaned and lined up neatly beside silver-topped jars of rose-berry water, lavender oil and rare cinnabar. The array was ceremonial, each item’s placement full of purpose. Dressed in a rich cambric dressing gown, the queen was accompanied from her bed to the dressing table by Jane Boleyn and Lady Lisle, whose well-placed court connections and relentless ambition had brought her here. Her goal now was to secure a post for her two daughters with the new queen, since her whoring of Anne, the eldest, to the king had not worked. In the corner near a window, a harpist played the queen’s favorite morning music to soothe her waking.

Catherine watched the fulfillment of each duty carefully in the event that she should be called upon to perform it herself. She knew her uncle was far too ambitious, and would be unforgiving of the least error she might make. She was here at court because of His
Grace, a butterfly freed from its cocoon that could be captured easily and put away again for any misstep.

To remain, she must find more favor in the queen’s household, anger no one who had the power to speak against her, and, on the whole, search for a husband not only wealthy enough to keep her but well placed enough to please her family.

It was startling to see how unattractive the queen truly was without adornments, although she wore her habitual kind smile and aura of serenity. It was strange to Catherine that a woman who more resembled a kitchen maid than royalty was queen. She spoke almost no English among her ladies and her own ambassador, the Earl of Waldeck. She must feel safe to be herself here, Catherine thought, free from the restraints of another culture, another language and the expectations of a husband whom everyone knew disliked her.

A moment later, Jane glanced up at Catherine and held out a wide tortoiseshell-handled hairbrush. Furtive glances were exchanged between the other women, who stood compliantly behind Jane. Clearly, Jane was extending an opportunity, and perhaps a small, public olive branch for the behavior of the others. At least, Catherine would choose to think of it that way for now.

The queen sat on her small embroidered stool and gazed into the gold-framed table mirror before her as Lady Margaret took one of Anne’s hands and began to rub it with a lightly scented cream. Jane nodded to Catherine to begin brushing out the queen’s long, stick-straight hair. It was coarse, Catherine noticed right away, like a horse’s tail, but it was the color of corn.

“How have you found court thus far, Mistress Howard?” the Teutonic queen asked in clotted, sticky words that, even in their proper construction, barely passed for English.

“Frankly, I have found it a challenge, Your Grace,” Catherine replied smoothly and honestly as she brushed the queen’s hair in
long, even strokes. “But my mother always said to be prepared for any challenge.”

The queen glanced up at Catherine in the mirror’s reflection. “Your mother is . . . ?”

“With God, Your Grace.”

Even after all of these years, speaking the words made Catherine sad.

“Mine as well,” the queen said, then added something in German.

The stout, silver-haired maid called Gertrude replied. They spoke back and forth twice before the woman translated. “Her Grace says you have much in common. She is pleased to know that.”