The Queen's Mistake (29 page)

Her goal now was not to overplay her hand . . . until the time was right. “Wretched Catholics!” she cursed beneath her breath. They got what they deserved, the hypocritical lot of them, when they lost power in this court and the kingdom. The duke and his saucy little whore of a niece, who had stolen not one but two men about
whom she had cared, would get their comeuppance once her work here was finished.

If she played her cards correctly, she could earn enough money so that she and her brother, John, could live comfortably for the rest of their days as well. Now, finally, she could move her plan forward.

Chapter Ten

 

 

A
s July came and a dry wind moved across England, the court moved to the lush, cooler environs of the partially constructed palace of Nonsuch in Surrey. The shift of a few miles for the massive ensemble of courtiers and servants changed everything. Such a production it was—luggage, furniture, servants: a parade of silk- and velvet-clad humanity.

With his wife out of sight and Cromwell in London, unable to object to Henry’s plan for a new wife, Henry was now free to spend every hour he could with Catherine. For a jaded, aging man like the king, the promise of a girl like Catherine Howard was life’s blood. He felt invigorated by her beauty, girlish humor and laughter, and the prospect of taking her virginity.

Henry craved her like air.

He watched her as she rode near him, winding through the forest, which was cool and thick with ferns, lacy trees and the sweet trill of birds among the branches, and he tried his best not to stare. He felt like a boy again, shy and uncertain with her beside him. He had never felt this way, not even in those early days with Anne. Anne Boleyn had bewitched him with her flirtations and by withholding
the very thing he craved. But Catherine made him want to be better and do better. She made him want to begin again.

He felt his loins stir and swell against his saddle as he thought of her small, delicate body. Henry smiled to himself as he wondered what she would think if she knew what lay below his velvet, silver-threaded doublet. Ah, but there would be time for that. She was no bawd, and he did not desire her for that. Catherine Howard was different. He had noticed that from the beginning. He must tread softly with so innocent a beauty.

He glanced at her again, careful not to be caught staring. She was talking with Jane Boleyn. The two of them were thick as thieves, he thought. Having Jane back had brought a certain healing.

As casually as he could, Henry cantered his horse over beside them beneath a lacy canopy of trees. “So tell me, Mistress Howard, how do you find my forest?”

“
Your
forest, sire?” She smiled.

“Why, of course. These are my trees, my streams, my branches above us.”

“Should we not say first that they are all possessions of God?”

“Gifts from God to his king.” Henry chuckled.

“In that case, I think I like it all very well.”

Henry decided to steer the conversation in a different direction. “Like your uncle, are you a Catholic, Mistress Howard?”

He saw Jane shoot her an anxious glance, then look away. Neither of them had expected the question.

“Yes, I am a Catholic. I follow my God and my king, most certainly.”

“In that particular order, Mistress Howard?”

“God above all things, as the Bible commands.”

“Well, under that circumstance, I could accept being second in your heart. But that is the only one.”

Henry smiled at Catherine’s sweet naïveté. No one else would dare speak to him that way, but from her, it was enticing. Suddenly he was aware of the look on Jane’s face. She seemed uncomfortable and kept glancing around, as if she were trying to hide the expression on her face. Henry had the feeling that she was trying to hide something more than her expression. It bothered him, but he decided to dismiss it. Catherine had been brought to him from the countryside as an innocent and a virgin, so there could be nothing to hide.

They stopped near a rushing stream so the horses could drink and rest. Henry led Catherine away from the other courtiers, who sat idly among the trees or strolled as the tables were spread for the dinnertime feast.

“They are watching us, you know,” he said with boyish delight.

Catherine smiled and lowered her eyes, which he guessed she did to impress him with her humility. He adored her innocence, but he would teach her all the ways of the world. In time. For now, he would give her just a small lesson.

“Shall we scandalize them the more?” he asked, intent on igniting things right there among his friends. Before she could answer, Henry reached over, cupped her small chin in his meaty hand and leaned in to kiss her. As he drew back, he saw a look of innocent surprise light up her face, which stirred him even more deeply.

“Tell me, my little Cat, is there some wish you have, some secret desire that only a king could fulfill? More dresses? Jewelry, perhaps? I would give anything to you.”

He watched her lower her eyes, but he could see that she was actually considering the possibilities, as an eager child might. He bit back a smile. She was, after all, a Howard.

“If I am to receive a gift from the king, I would wish it to be of Your Majesty’s choosing,” she finally said with a sincerity he had not expected.

“A surprise?” he asked.

She nodded as he reached to gently run a finger along the line of her jaw. The feel of her smooth, porcelain skin against his fat, soft finger reminded him of how young she really was. Just then his leg began to throb, as if a spell had been broken by the harsh reality of their age difference. He knew he needed to sit, but he could not let her see his weakness. No, not ever that.

“Very well, then. I am up to the challenge. Now, will you do me the honor of joining me for a bit of dinner?”

“A pleasure, sire,” she said with a smile.

As he led her back toward the others and the wonderfully rich aroma of cooked meats, he was already considering which of the royal jewels he might give her without seeming too ostentatious. Though he struggled to decide on the gift, of one thing he was certain: He was wildly, boyishly in love with Catherine, and nothing was going to change that. Jewels were just the beginning of everything he meant to give her.

It was late that same afternoon, yet the king’s party had taken a detour on their way to Nonsuch and had not yet arrived.

The king never rode for this long anymore, Thomas thought as he paced the length of the gallery outside the presence chamber, wringing his powerful hands. Now that Catherine was with the sick old goat, Henry thought he was young again. It would serve him right if he ended up in bed with a raging fever for a month, with that vile infected leg of his. So long as Catherine was not in bed with him.

Thomas glanced up at the carved French wall clock at the closed entrance. Could time actually pass this painfully slowly? Last night had been such a grand mistake. In an attempt to forget Catherine,
he had drunk too much ale and slept with a pimple-spotted village girl, who turned out to be a vulgar replacement for Catherine. For the first time in his selfish, ambition-driven life, Thomas had actually felt real guilt. Catherine Howard was a rare jewel who deserved absolute loyalty from the man who truly loved her.

“You would be wise not to let the king see you pacing outside his door like a jealous rival,” Edward Seymour said from behind, startling him.

Thomas stopped pacing and watched as a broad shaft of crimson late-afternoon sunlight filtered through the window and fell between them. Of all the men who served the king, Thomas liked Edward Seymour the least. Like himself, he had a lethal combination of ambition and dazzling looks, and he was not only Earl of Hertford, by the king’s command, but a member of the trusted privy counsel.

“You have no idea what you are talking about, and even if you did, you would be better served by keeping your opinions to yourself,” Thomas sharply replied.

“Well, you’ll not win her now that the king desires her. Everyone knows she is next,” Edward replied smoothly, brushing aside the irritated look on Thomas’s face.

“Next?” Thomas asked, thrown off by the remark.

“To be queen, of course. There were two Queen Annes. In the world of irony, does it not follow that there would be two Queen Catherines to follow suit? Then, perhaps, a Queen Jane after poor Catherine is inevitably cast aside?”

Without thinking, only feeling the old violence of his youth rising up, Thomas seized Seymour by the collar, choking him until he could not breathe.

“I really ought to kill you!” Thomas growled bitterly just before he let go. “But then you would be at peace and I would be in the Tower.”

“Might be worth it to see the fair son pay.” He shrugged.

Suddenly there was a commotion in the gallery behind them, loud enough to stop their own argument. The king and his great coterie were returning from their ride. Both Seymour and Thomas straightened their doublets, smoothed their hair, adjusted their hats and cleared their throats, and with no quick means of escape, each prepared his most courtly bow. All evidence of their skirmish was gone in an instant.

A heartbeat later, a large assemblage of gentlemen and ladies and the king himself approached, laughing and chattering. Thomas had missed the main party, since he had not returned to his post early enough that morning, but it was just as well, he thought as he saw the king’s arm linked very tightly with Catherine’s.

Thomas felt his stomach seize, along with his heart.

When Henry caught sight of him, he stopped, as did the rest of the large ensemble gathered around him.

“Tom! Edward! Here you both are!” he said in a jovial tone, extending his free arm to them, the long sleeve belling out beneath it. “You both missed a marvelous ride today. I really should do that more often. Tom, whatever youthful indiscretion kept you from our little group, I hope she was well worth it.”

Everyone but Catherine laughed at the king’s sense of humor. Thomas knew he could hardly deny it, as there was no other acceptable excuse for not attending the sovereign.

Thomas bowed again deeply. “My apologies, Your Majesty.”

“I shall want all of the most glorious details about her later,” Henry quipped, winking.

Thomas felt ill. There was a vulgar quality to the whole exchange, and his guilt was made worse by Catherine’s presence.

Thomas swept into a third bow, wanting the conversation to end, when, suddenly, it did. The king seemed to tire of the moment,
so he turned to Catherine, pressed a light kiss onto her cheek, and began walking with her down the gallery, holding tightly to the one woman Thomas Culpeper would never get out of his heart.

It had been physically painful.

As she sat next to the king at supper that evening, Catherine tried not to think about the expression on Thomas’s blanched face, or the sick feeling in her stomach when the old king led her away with his thick, sweat-dampened arm.