The Queen's Mistake (43 page)

Thomas felt a chill move down the length of his spine and meet the revulsion that moved through him at the same speed.

“Gregory Cromwell and the queen?” Thomas gasped. “Is . . . Was there something between them?”

“It is unclear. I, and many others, heard rumors of their possible misdeeds before the marriage, but I suspect the king does not know of such stories, or else Gregory’s punishment would have been far graver. No, I believe he merely sensed something . . .
inappropriate
in Gregory’s manner toward the queen, and that was enough for him. He can be a vicious man when he feels threatened, Tom.”

Thomas thought of Cromwell and the group of recently executed clerics who had fallen victim to the very viciousness Brandon described.

“But were she and Gregory . . . were they . . . ?” He could not force himself to say the word, but he had to know if the rumors were true.

Brandon, like an old uncle, wrapped his arm around Culpeper’s shoulder. “Well, no one knows for certain. But there was a plentiful bit of corridor gossip about the queen when she first arrived, stories that she was less of a maiden and more of a strumpet, stories that obviously never made it to the king’s ears. Foolish as they seem now, there were even stories involving you.”

Thomas closed his eyes tightly to push away the image of Catherine with Gregory Cromwell.

“She is a beautiful girl, though,” Brandon amended as he studied Thomas. “Almost makes me wish I had been a younger man when she first arrived. It seems as if I, too, might have had a chance with her, along with everyone else.”

Thomas was tense enough to snap the neck of the venerable duke right then and there. It was not that he had believed her an innocent when they met. He had known she was not, and in the beginning, that had made it all the more interesting.

Yes, in the beginning. Before he had loved her.

Thomas forced himself to calm down and walk with Brandon down a long, window-lined corridor, where they were joined by Edward Seymour and Thomas Wriothesley, on their way to the banquet.

It would be a sumptuous feast, Edward Seymour said, and it would have to suffice, since the king had spent such an exorbitant amount of money on his last queen’s coronation. There was not enough left now to have one for Catherine.

As they walked, Thomas found himself uncertain of how he would survive the evening, let alone the coming days. Seeing Catherine, watching her with him . . . knowing what newly married couples did privately . . . He squeezed his eyes shut and stubbornly chased away the images of them together. Catherine belonged to the king now. Thomas accepted that. Understood it. But he did not have to torment himself by watching every single second between them if he could help it. That would only lead to madness.

The banquet hall was suitably grand, as he had expected it to be, the walls covered in gold arras. There were so many torches and candles burning against the bright fabric that it looked ablaze. Fortunately it was crowded already, Thomas thought, so he could slip effortlessly into the throng unseen. Brandon, Seymour and Wriothesley were already speaking with others, and all three had goblets of wine in hand. Thomas would need to catch up, he thought irritably, taking two goblets at once from a servant’s silver tray.

On the other hand, there was not enough wine in the world to face a night like the one ahead.

He had a reprieve of only a few moments before he saw her. But it was enough time for the palliative qualities of the wine to take full effect. He eyed her critically as she stood beside the king in an elegant blue velvet gown. There were more powerful people assembled in the room than he had ever seen, and each noble,
ambassador and dignitary greeted the new queen, bowing deeply and reverently to her, his former lover.
Stop!
he told himself, consuming the next goblet of wine in a single swallow.
Never
, argued a dark voice inside of his head,
because you will never be able to stop loving her.

He looked away, disgusted with her. With Henry. The king was pawing Catherine openly and kissing her cheek before everyone, not caring a whit about the display. Most of all, Thomas was disgusted with himself for having fallen so painfully in love with a Howard. How had he ever let that happen? Like everyone else, he had known why she had been brought to court. She was not allowed feelings and desires of her own. She was a pawn.

The crowd of well-wishers swelled, and Thomas was thrust ever closer to the king and his new queen. Henry kissed Catherine’s cheek yet again and gazed at her in adoration.

It was a moment more before she even noticed Thomas.

He saw her smile fall. Their eyes met for only an instant, and her face paled. It was as if he heard her pain, and she his. There was a silent language between them beneath the music and laughter. Henry was still touching her. He seemed unable to pull himself away. Thomas’s head was spinning from the wine. His heart had shattered already.

“Ah, there you are, Tom! Come greet your new queen.”

Henry’s voice was light and full of cheer. Thomas struggled to conjure a believable smile.

“Your Grace.” He bowed deeply before Catherine, yet he did not bother to hide the little spark of contempt behind his gaze. He knew none of this was her fault, but she had that much coming. She had changed so much already, from the tip of her impossibly fashionable new hood, bejeweled in diamonds and rubies, to the sweep of her gown, more daringly ornate than the gowns of any of
the last three queens. Her appearance was beyond ostentatious . . . and nothing at all like the Catherine Howard he knew.

“Master Culpeper.” She acknowledged him with a polite nod but she did not smile. It was as if they had met in only a cursory way, and even then a long time ago. It chilled him to see her like this, so different from the wanton, smiling girl who had come to his bedchamber and made him love her. He struggled for something clever to say.

“You make a very convincing queen.”

That most certainly was not it. He had to will himself not to bite out his own tongue. Fortunately, the king seemed not to have heard him as Charles Brandon approached from the other side and muttered something in the king’s ear behind a raised hand.

Catherine flushed and lowered her eyes.

“There is much effort behind my appearance,” she softly countered, gambling on the fact that Henry was not listening.

He struggled against the sensation of pity. Henry kissed her on the cheek again, and in response, Thomas forced himself to turn away. The evening had only begun, but he knew he was not nearly drunk enough to face what would likely happen next: more public displays and an eventual abandonment of the evening for the bedchamber.

As he turned around, he was shocked to see the face of a girl he had not seen for months.

Katherine Basset had changed a great deal. She had almost matured into the beauty her elder sister, Anne, was. He marveled at how Lady Lisle had managed to raise two such beautiful daughters, but he stopped when he realized that she was just like the Dowager Duchess of Norfolk or the Seymour matrons, who raised the women in their family as pawns.

“Mistress Basset,” he said, acknowledging her with his most
charming smile. “This is, indeed, a surprise. I had heard you had not been admitted to a place here.”

“Things change swiftly at court, do they not, Master Culpeper?” She laughed a soft, tinkling laugh. “For now, I am only a guest. After that, we shall see.”

The beginning of the evening was a whirlwind of food, wine and congratulations. After Henry and Catherine had settled into their seats on the raised dais, they were entertained by mummers, acrobats, madrigals from Venice, which Henry fancied, and songs written to celebrate Catherine as the new queen.

The king and queen sat in front of a rich gold cloth with the letters H and C boldly entwined in gold thread. At her throat, Catherine wore yet another new gift from Henry, this one given on the eve of her formal presentation as queen.

The ruby pendant was unbelievably elegant, as were the king’s previous gifts. Yet none of it meant anything as she watched Thomas speak with one of the prettiest girls Catherine had ever seen. She looked just like her older sister, only her hair was paler, her cheeks slightly rounder and rosier. The turn of her nose was undeniably a Basset family trait. Clearly, the Howards and Seymours were not the only two dynasties intent on using their beautiful daughters to their advantage. The fact that Lady Lisle’s second husband was currently in the Tower for political failures in Calais had not so far blocked her daughters’ paths to success.

Catherine gave in to the swell of jealousy as she watched Thomas dance with Katherine Basset. She had no right to be angry, but that mattered little to her heart.

They were laughing, and she could see Thomas lean in to whisper to her during the turns. She should be happy for him. But love
was too irrational for that. Did he not know that this was not the life she would have chosen if there had been any other way?

Would you really have chosen another way if you could?

It was that same obstinate voice that haunted her mind and dreams. She angrily pushed it aside as she watched Thomas pair a second time with Katherine Basset in a slower, sultrier court dance. She felt her anger rise along with her heart rate. Katherine was touching him, gazing into his eyes. . . .

Eyes that had shown her his soul.

“Are you all right, sweetheart? Do you need a breath of air again?” It was Henry’s rheumy voice, Henry’s clammy hand grasping hers beneath the table cover, Henry’s foot against hers. “I know these evenings can be overwhelming.”

“No, I am fine. It’s all very lovely.” Catherine smiled.

“I had hoped you would think so. Norfolk assured me you were up to it, but sometimes the old buzzard is far more interested in how things make him appear than how they make others feel.”

Catherine bit back a smile. “You describe my uncle perfectly.”

“Time brings a certain understanding.”

“And does my uncle of Norfolk understand you?”

“Parts of me quite well, I should think.”

“And the other parts?”

“Safely locked away for only a certain few to see. My precious sister Mary was one of them. She could always see right to the core of me, no matter what I tried to hide.”

He glanced at Charles Brandon, her widower, older, more stout and graying now, yet still an incorrigible rake, and Catherine followed his gaze. “Not unlike Tom. Those two are cut from the same cloth. Just look at Culpeper over there with Lady Lisle’s daughter. He has had the elder and the mother before her. They are like bees to honey with him. Personally, I fail to see the attraction, unless
you favor devastating good looks, great wit and sensuality,” he quipped.

Catherine bit her lower lip until she nearly broke the skin.

“A pity that even with all of his admirable qualities, he still cannot compete with my husband,” she said smoothly. She then gave him a seductive look so loaded with suggestion that Henry shifted his wide body in his chair and squeezed her hand even more tightly.

“If not for the fact that this evening is entirely for you, I would scoop you into my arms this very moment and haul you off to bed.”

Catherine fought a sudden wave of nausea as he whispered the words into her ear and pressed his wet lips to her neck in full view of the court.

She had caught sight of Thomas watching her, which had momentarily shaken her belief that she could ignore Henry’s physical traits and focus on his skills as a lover. To her horror, Thomas nodded to her alone, smiled ever so slightly and wrapped his arm over Katherine Basset’s smooth, beautiful shoulders as he led her out of the banquet hall. It was clear to Catherine what they were going to do.

Yet the pain of betrayal must be endured. Just like one’s duty, she silently told herself.

Mary Lassells stood in the doorway of Catherine’s little paneled writing closet, watching Francis Dereham. On the carved French writing table were an ivory pen, a crystal pot of ink, a dish of sand and a miniature of the king poised on an easel. It was likely painted well before the queen’s birth, Mary thought ruefully as she gazed at the image of a tall, slim and smiling Henry. If he knew the real woman he had married, would he smile so broadly now? Or
would she end up like Anne Boleyn? Now, there was a delicious thought! Mary would need to say a prayer later to redress her impure desire.