The Queen's Mistake (18 page)

“Good morning, Your Majesty,” Thomas said, conjuring an easy smile. “Have you slept well then?”

At that moment, the room was filled with uneasy silence as the courtiers exchanged worried glances, but the tension was broken when Henry began to laugh.

“Better than you, by all appearances. Is that not the costume you wore last evening?”

“Forgive me. It is, Your Majesty.”

“Did you actually sleep at all?” Henry volleyed admiringly.

Thomas bit back a smile and advanced, bowing again. He knew the king enjoyed the thrill of hearing about his exploits, and the things he no longer could do.

“I did manage to nod off for a bit just before dawn.”

Henry chuckled again and slapped Thomas approvingly on the back. Meanwhile, Charles Brandon slung a crimson velvet dressing gown piped in silver thread across the king’s shoulders, and Edward Seymour artfully pushed Henry’s thick arms through the sleeves.

“Who was she this time, Tom? Or do I even want to know?” The king chuckled.

“Did Your Majesty himself not advise me against ‘kissing and telling’?”

“I am better off in a blissful state of ignorance? Is that what you mean to say?”

Beneath a gilded ceiling carved with Tudor roses, ushers, stewards, cupbearers, grooms, messengers and pages moved in a flurry of activity, while a groom moistened Henry’s face and hands with a cloth perfumed with lavender-scented oil. Afterward, Thomas followed Henry into the grand presence chamber, where his dining table was laid with white silk, covered by a French tapestry, and placed before a painted panel depicting Christ’s Passion.

Henry slumped into his chair without acknowledging the large
group of nobles and servants attending to and clamoring for His Majesty’s favor. Thomas stood behind the table so that he might converse with His Majesty, if he felt so inclined. He watched as Henry ate from gleaming gold dishes heaped with boar paté, stewed quail, figs with clotted cream, and his favorite—quince marmalade.

For Henry, eating was among the few joys left to him, and no one, not even his dear Tom, dared interrupt the ritual. A royal steward leaned in and poured him a gilt goblet of wine.

“You are riding with us in the spring jousting tournament today, are you not?” the king asked.

Thomas inclined his head respectfully. “As Your Majesty wishes.”

Henry bit into a fig and the juice dribbled into his red-gold beard at the folds of his chin. “I shall need to ride for the queen to show my favor, although, hopefully, this shall be the last time.”

The king had often engaged him in conversation about his sham marriage over the past four months. Thomas leaned forward and, in a low voice, said, “Has there been progress on that front?”

“There is a race to see who can unseat her most gracefully. But until there is a secure plan in place, I cannot afford to anger her brother, the Duke of Cleves, or give France and Spain the least reason to think Cleves, the law and I are not a great triumvirate.”

“The players in this race are the same?” Thomas asked, curious to know whether the king was fully aware of the many plots being devised at that very moment.

“The Seymours, Norfolk and Gardiner, and Wriothesley, of course.”

“And Archbishop Cromwell?”

“The unholy prig who fashioned this debacle in the first place? I doubt I would listen to a single detail of any plan he proposed! Bastard. Saddling me with a wife like her, one who is quite impossible to hate. It is as if God means to punish me forever for daring to marry
my brother’s wife all those years ago.” Thomas knew that Henry was referring to his first queen, Catherine of Aragon.

“Or God has something more glorious in store. Perhaps he wanted you to take this path because it will lead to her.”

“
Her
, Culpeper?” Henry asked, tossing a napkin onto his plate as he stepped down from the dais to be dressed for prayer. “Do you suspect that there is yet another woman in my future?”

“I believe the king’s future holds whatever he wishes,” Thomas replied carefully.

Henry bit back a pleased smile. “So you are a diplomat now, Tom?”

“I would be blessed to have Your Majesty consider me so,” Thomas said, though he had little desire to be one.

“Now that, my boy, is where you are wrong. What I value about you, what has always amused me about you, is your rough simplicity. If I wished for well-schooled replies, I would look to Seymour or Wriothesley. Was that not what I told you after I saw you pardoned for your . . .
folly
last year?” Henry said euphemistically, referring to the park keeper’s wife.

Thomas nodded soberly “You did, sire.”

“Then pay heed to what I tell you.”

“I shall, always.”

They walked together, Henry’s arm still around Thomas’s shoulder as they moved through the anteroom and into the dressing closet.

“Now, about that woman you see ahead for me,” began the king. “Do tell me what you see in store for me.”

Catherine had been called early that morning to wait upon the queen. After three hours of sleep, she had managed to get herself out of bed, but her body felt like lead as she shuffled toward the maid
who was waiting to dress her for prayer in the royal chapel. Some of the events of last night seemed like a blur to her by morning’s light, including the mysterious ink saboteur and her lute performance for the king.

But she remembered, with absolute clarity, her evening with Thomas. And her grandmother’s sudden appearance.

She hated mixing her past life at Horsham with her new life at court. It was difficult enough to have the Duke of Norfolk here, assessing her every action. The notion that the dowager would be just around the corner, scrutinizing Catherine’s every move again, was like being forced back into the cocoon after one had become a butterfly and tasted freedom.

A smartly dressed young woman she did not know helped to dress Catherine’s hair as she tried to steel herself for another day. She was a pretty girl with a smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose and smooth, delicate hands that easily drew back Catherine’s hair as a maid pinned it, before placing a new pearl-adorned hood on her head. Although Catherine usually regarded other women as enemies, especially the noble ones here at court, she found herself sympathizing with this strikingly attractive girl.

“What is your name?” Catherine asked.

“Anne, Mistress Howard,” the girl replied in a soft, cultured tone.

“And your family name?”

“Basset. I am the daughter of Lady Lisle. My father was Sir John Basset.”

Of course. Anne Basset’s mother, Honor, was married to Viscount Lisle, the king’s uncle. Honor was notorious for her ambition, and was frequently seen in the royal apartments, trying to expose herself and her two daughters to the king’s notice, according to Jane. She even had Anne bed the sovereign last year in hopes of elevating her status. Anne Basset certainly was pretty enough for the task, but
the entire incident had come to naught, and the gossip had been that Lady Lisle had been furious.

Catherine’s mind suddenly flew to the ink incident. Was it possible that Lady Lisle had arranged the entire thing as recompense for Catherine’s threatening favor with the queen? Anne was in service at court, but she was not a maid of honor, and her younger sister, Katherine, had been refused a position entirely in the queen’s household. This was far from what the ambitious Lady Lisle had in mind for her daughters, and Catherine would not be surprised if she were still angling for a way into royal favor.

Court truly was like a battlefield.

Suddenly, her grandmother’s presence seemed something of a comfort.

“What do you know of Master Culpeper?” Catherine asked Anne Basset, surprising herself with the question.

“I know that he is handsome and, according to my mother, quite dangerous,” Anne replied carefully.

“Someone told me once to take in half of what you hear and then believe less than half of that.”

“That seems about right,” Anne said as she hooked a gold chain around Catherine’s small waist. It was easy for Catherine to see what the king had found attractive about Anne. But perhaps her lack of confidence and the way she constantly averted her eyes was what had prevented it from becoming more than a dalliance. After all, the sovereign only truly fell in love with bold, challenging women.

“Then I shall never trust anyone and think myself quite wise for my caution,” Catherine replied.

Catherine laughed with her and felt free for the first time that day. She should not trust Anne Basset, but she saw a kindred spirit in her. They were two similar girls separated in status by the reed-thin line of a name, one being a bit more important than the other.
But she must not forget in the coming days the power of being a Howard, and the responsibility that was likely to come with it.

Soon after, Catherine was in the chapel for the morning service with the rest of the court. The king and queen knelt together at the altar at the front of the small chapel, while Catherine, Jane, Lady Frances and Lady Margaret were nearer the back. Beside them were Brandon, Wriothesley, Gregory Cromwell and Thomas Culpeper, who spent their time during the somber Mass whispering and casting sideways glances at the queen’s ladies. Catherine knew they were not listening to the cleric’s murmured words. She saw that Brandon had whispered something to Thomas and now was chuckling. Court was such a different world. She would have faced a flogging if she even thought about laughing during prayer. Afterward, as they walked out into the daylight, Thomas accompanied the king, who limped on his painful leg. Catherine still could not get over how much His Majesty had changed. He was stout and sweaty, which was the complete opposite of Thomas Culpeper’s tall, lean form and effortless grace. There was a time when the thought of becoming Henry’s queen was all any girl could dream of, but as Catherine walked behind him now, his girthy backside swathed in a tent of silk, that old dream seemed more of a nightmare.

She wondered what he had been like in the prime of his youth, in the tempestuous days of Anne Boleyn. What had it felt like to conquer the king at his youthful best?

Catherine’s thoughts were interrupted by a smooth voice at her ear. “We really must stop meeting like this.”

The man at her side brought her sharply back to reality. She saw, with a quick sideways glance, that his handsome face was lit with amusement at her faraway expression.

“As if we have a choice, Master Culpeper, since we serve husband and wife,” she replied evenly, looking straight ahead to avoid his stunning eyes.

“There is always a choice, Mistress Howard.”

“Yes, but one rarely has the power to exercise it,” Catherine said wistfully.

“Well said. Particularly here at court, where many find it entertaining to watch others fall from power.”

Catherine laughed suddenly as they passed beneath a stone archway flanked by carved pillars. Though she was small, the sound was big enough to stop the king and his party. Henry turned around to gaze at Catherine, as did Jane and the Marchioness of Dorset. Their spines were stiff, their faces full of judgment.

“Tell us, Culpeper, have you a joke to compete with Wil Somers?” the king asked, referring to his court jester and friend. “Will loathes competition, which would amuse me all the more.”

Catherine felt her heart seize, then beat very fast. The powerful King of England was looking in her direction, with his bloated face, ruddy skin and little turned-up nose that reminded her of a pig’s snout. In the awkwardness of the moment, everyone turned to look at Thomas.

“I remarked only that many find it entertaining to watch others fall, Your Majesty,” Thomas said matter-of-factly.

There was a sharp, collective intake of breath as everyone waited a beat for the king’s response. Surely he would be angry with Thomas for his blunt observation, which would have been better left unsaid. But, suddenly, the king began to laugh a deep, slightly rheumy laugh ending in a throaty cough. Everyone exhaled in relief and wisely laughed with the king. As she witnessed the effect he had on the king, Catherine could not help but admire Thomas. He seemed so carefree, likable, so valuable to royalty, and handsome. He could not possibly be guilty of the atrocity with the park keeper’s wife. No, she knew firsthand what envious people were capable of. After the ink incident, slander seemed not only possible, but plausible. Thomas
had told her that she needed to make up her own mind about the rumor, so she did: She would not believe something so horrendous of Thomas Culpeper.

Instead, Catherine decided to like him even more.

That afternoon, with flags and banners fluttering in the breeze, Catherine sat between Jane and the flirtatious, middle-aged Lady Lisle in the stands on the north lawn to watch the spring jousting tournament. Anne Basset’s mother, an attractive woman swathed in cherry-colored satin, was an older version of her pretty daughter. She carried herself like a perfectly dignified court lady, until Thomas Culpeper rode onto the field and she waved her scarf at him—a request for him to wear her colors. Thomas cantered toward them on a sleek, grand courser and lifted his visor with a gloved hand, granting her request. Catherine saw Lady Lisle smile stupidly and flush like a girl.