The Queen's Mistake (47 page)

“Do not press me too far, Catherine. You may not like what you see.” A dark, ominous look passed over his face as he spoke the warning, but in spite of the shiver she felt, Catherine remained composed. Henry had already yielded more than she had expected. And that was when she realized that she really could use her status as queen for more than her family’s advancement.

She tried to understand things from Henry’s point of view. Perhaps murder was like a Pandora’s box: Once one opened it to solve one’s problem, one could not close the lid. But Catherine refused to let Henry succumb to it. She was his wife now, and under her influence those days would be over. She could lead her husband. She could guide him back to what was right and good. She would no longer be a pawn, but a true queen, she told herself. Her newfound ambition gave her a strange sense of peace. This, she believed, was the era of Catherine Howard.

After Christmas Day, Catherine found Francis in her cozy little study one afternoon, sitting, as usual, at her desk. She paused in the doorway, still angry that she had been forced to adopt him as her private secretary. The entitled manner with which he riffled through her private papers did not help.

“What do you think you are doing in my chair?” she asked with a note of irritation.

Francis did not miss a beat. His smile was suggestive. “Waiting for Your Grace, of course, as always.”

He meant the double entendre, and she knew it. When they were forced to work together, Francis’s words were always laden with innuendo. Though she was disgusted by him, she had to tolerate it. Queen or not, she knew she could not trust Francis, because, like the three women from Horsham, he still held the power to destroy her. She did not know if he was vengeful enough to do such a thing, even though ruining her would certainly spoil his own position at court, if not jeopardize his life.

“Your Grace wishes to send a letter?” he asked. He had been called by her servants early New Year’s Day to meet her.

She advanced and stood over him haughtily until he was forced to surrender her chair. She sat down and gave her instructions as he moved into one opposite her. “You are to craft a letter to Princess Mary asking after her health during this cold spell of weather and telling her she was missed here at Christmas.”

“Were not both of the king’s daughters stripped of that title?” Francis challenged her.

She glared at him. “They are both princesses as far as your queen is concerned, and that is all you need worry yourself about.”

“And if you bear the old king a child? Will you worry about it then?”

“If I am blessed by God to bear His Majesty a son, the child shall
be his second heir, after Prince Edward. My son will have no bearing on the role of the king’s daughters in his life or this country.”

“My, but Your Grace has matured much in a year’s time. You are scarcely the girl I chased around the attic at Horsham.” He smiled wickedly.

“Master Dereham, you know me not at all. You knew a simple, bored country girl, but she is gone forever.”

“The one who made me this?” He drew forth the lace-edged scarf she had stitched with their initials, with which he enjoyed taunting her from time to time. Unfortunately, the girl she had left behind had the same initials as the woman she had become. The FD and CH would be damning evidence with a jealous husband, and she knew it.

Her eyes widened as he pressed the fabric to the tip of his nose dramatically. “Your scent lingers still.”

She scowled at him. “What do you really want, Francis, to keep you quiet?”

“Only what, and who, was promised to me.”

“Is this post not enough?”

“It is a respectable beginning,” he admitted.

“Do you want more money than what you currently earn here? Is that not truly it?”

His smile twisted as he met her eyes. “It is enough to know you remember what was between us when we—”

Before he could finish the words, Catherine saw a lily white hand clamp down on the nape of his neck and draw him from his chair with little effort. The element of surprise had worked in Agnes Howard’s favor.

Her voice was as cold as her hand. “Listen to me very carefully, Master Dereham. You are here at court because I desire a smooth transition for the queen. But do not press me too far, sir. This is a
powerful family, and we know how to devour vermin like you and spit out your bones without a single thought.”

He arched a brow at her. “And what of the things I might reveal before you do?”

“It is possible you could create a problem for us, but any damage you could cause would be on the way to your own demise,” the dowager reminded him.

He shrugged. “That might prove worth the sacrifice.”

“I do not believe you will decide that in the end. You were always too selfish to be a martyr.”

“Are any of you Howards really different?”

Her onyx eyes hardened in contempt as Catherine sat in stunned silence, watching them. The dynamic between them was beyond master and servant.

“You certainly could push any one of us and see. But do remember that we have been at this court game for decades, and we have promoted two of our own blood to Queen of England. The only power you have is some gossip about the king’s beloved wife. Also, while you are contemplating your next move against the lot of us, do consider the recent fall of Lord Great Chamberlain Cromwell. It would be far simpler, albeit less gratifying, to destroy a country boy for threatening my granddaughter.” She smoothed out the front of her dress. “Have I made myself clear?”

“Quite,” Francis said sulkily.

“Splendid. Now get out of my sight. I cannot tarry with gutter-snipes on an empty stomach.”

Once he was gone, Agnes raised Catherine from her chair and, for the first time in Catherine’s life, drew her tenderly against her bony chest. Unaccustomed to such familial shows of affection, Catherine’s body tensed, but her grandmother did not release her. She
patted her back gently and whispered a “Hush.” It was only then that Catherine realized she herself was weeping.

“I don’t know why I am . . .” Catherine sobbed, unable to explain her tears.

“Shhh. It is to be expected, my dear. You have lasted longer as queen than our Anne did before she had her moment of weakness and cried to me like this.”

“But I thought Anne was in control of everything until the end.”

“She was a complicated girl, quite good at presenting the image people expected. But that takes effort and skill. And as you now know, that can be exhausting.”

Catherine looked up with tearstained cheeks, still unable to fathom being embraced by her grandmother, wrapped in the same arms that had held a cane against her too many times to remember. “What if he speaks to the king?”

“That is a possibility if we anger him too much, so we must walk a fine line. But as the great Julius Caesar once said, one must keep one’s friends close and one’s enemies closer. That is what your uncle and I are doing for you.”

“Forgive me, Grandmother, but you have never spoken to me with such kindness before,” Catherine said, her eyes filling anew with tears.

“You have never been my queen before,” the dowager duchess explained.

As spring came, Catherine thought she might be with child.

All of the signs were certainly there, and Henry had barely let her alone a single night since they had married nine months ago. She was young, strong and healthy, the royal physician had told her yesterday. Perfect for bearing children.

Henry had laughed and said it was about time.

They decided to keep her pregnancy a secret until they were certain, but Henry could not keep the joy and contentment from his face as they rode down the river amid a parade of barges, each ornamented festively with bunting and flags fluttering in the cool April wind off the water. The azure sky was cloudless. A young boy in a rust-colored costume played a gentle tune on his flute to entertain them. Catherine squeezed Henry’s hand, taken by the sun on her face and the sweet music surrounding them.

“So, have you considered my request?” she sweetly asked.

“Is it not enough to content yourself with redecorating my privy chamber at Hampton Court, which is so in need of a woman’s touch?”

“Not when a poor old woman languishes in the Tower, Hal,” she firmly replied.

She felt him tense and loosen his grip on her hand, as he always did when she brought the subject up, but she would not back down. There had been too much bloodshed since she became queen, and the idea of adding to the number of deaths was unthinkable as long as she could prevent it.

“Sweetheart,” he said, smiling suddenly, then turning to kiss her cheek. “I will not let you be troubled by political matters, no matter how well-meaning your intentions. It would not be good for our unborn son.”

Her heart swelled, and a part of Catherine hoped she was carrying his child. She knew what it would mean to her entire family if she were to bear a son. The Seymour family still benefited from Jane’s legacy, her sickly boy.

“I do not want to be troubled either, Hal; I just want to help you see what is right.”

“What the devil would you know about any of it?” he snapped
so harshly that she felt almost as if she had been struck. The music continued, concealing their argument.

“Forgive me,” he finally said, smiling again, calmed by her silence. “I did not mean to be so harsh with you.”

“I only wish to help,” Catherine said, still stung by his words.

Henry pulled her closer, pressing a kiss onto her lips, as he did so frequently that she was made dizzy by it. “You will help me most by choosing a new fabric for the bed, along with some window coverings, as soon as we arrive. Wolsey chose the current ones himself, so you have some idea of how old they are. Now they are riddled with moth holes.”

She did not know she was frowning until he rubbed his forefinger teasingly between her brows and smiled more broadly.

“I know it is not easy for one so young to be queen,” he said. “But it is even more difficult to be king at every age. There are decisions to be made each waking hour of every day, difficult decisions, and I need you to support me, not battle against me.”

“Will you at least consider a pardon for the old countess, Hal . . . for me? Over two years in that drafty, stone tower seems more than enough for any woman to suffer as penance.”

“There is no one who can get to me quite as you do,” Henry said begrudgingly.

“May I take that as a yes?”

“Decorate our bedchamber very prettily, and we shall see.”

Catherine had never felt so proud and empowered in her life. She was not just a silly, mindless girl, no matter what her uncle said. No matter what the entire court believed. She could do this; she could make a difference in England.

“I love you,” she said, meaning it at last.

Jane Boleyn stood, hands on her hips, in the queen’s oak-paneled private dressing closet, surveying the scene before her.