The Queen's Mistake (50 page)

Henry was waiting for her alone on the water landing in an elegant,
dove gray doublet trimmed with silver lace and a smart hat. A group of servants stood far behind as he helped her to the shore. Without hesitation, Catherine curtsied to her husband. She knew her duty to him, and to her marriage, no matter what her true feelings were about the night she had witnessed his dark side.

Henry took her hands and drew her to him with a smile. “Welcome home, sweetheart,” he said, and she knew for certain that their quarrel really was over, if not in her heart, then at least in his.

They watched a bearbaiting match on the grounds of the palace, holding hands tentatively as they sat next to each other in the gallery. Catherine was surprised how quickly the tension faded between them, in spite of all she still secretly felt.

After supper, she prepared herself, as always, and waited for Henry to visit her bedchamber. They had been apart for eleven days. But he did not come. The next morning, when she arrived in the chapel for prayer, Henry was already kneeling beside an unexpected guest. Anne of Cleves lowered her head beside him on a prie-dieu at the altar. Catherine had not even been told that the former queen was invited to London, and now here she was in the royal chapel, as if she still bore her title.

Catherine advanced beside a Yeoman of the Guard and was seated just as Henry and Anne stood and turned toward her in the pew. Anne was clearly pleased to see her. Henry was more reserved.

He had never loved Anne; in fact, he had called her the Flanders mare when they were married. Everyone at court knew that. But Catherine was still uneasy, even after their successful public outing yesterday. Perhaps the quarrel was not over. Perhaps they could never reclaim their former happiness together. Would Norfolk believe that she had come to London ready to comply with the king’s wishes, if Henry were to replace her with a more predictable queen?

So many thoughts flowed through her mind that she heard not a single word the cleric said from his pulpit. She watched Anne and Henry exchange knowing little smiles throughout the sermon. Was it something more than friendship now? Was that even possible? Why had no one informed her that the former queen had come for a visit?

“It is so good to see you again,” Anne proclaimed in her Teutonic accent, linking her arm with Catherine’s as they finally left the chapel. The king, Norfolk and Norfolk’s ambitious son Henry strolled a pace ahead along a walkway facing the river.

“I wish I had known you were coming. Yet still it is a lovely surprise,” Catherine said, trying to conjure a smile.

Anne tipped her head slightly, as though she had not understood. “Are you certain?”

“Of course.” Catherine’s smile was genuine now.

“Henry speaks only good words of you.”

“I wish I could be certain of that. Has he told you that I angered him, and he left me alone at Hampton Court?”

“I did hear, but not from Henry,” Anne admitted.

Catherine shook her head. “Everything is so confusing just now.”

“He loves you. That much is very clear.”

If only I loved him in return
, she thought as they walked out into the inner courtyard. How much easier everything would be then. Life here, she thought, was like balancing on the head of a pin. Catherine knew she could not keep up this dangerous game forever. One wrong move and she would fall, losing everything.

As they left the chapel, Archbishop Cranmer, Thomas Seymour and Thomas Wriothesley walked together a few paces behind the current
and former queens. It was quite a sight to behold. The women’s arms were linked, their heads lowered in some private conversation only the two of them could share.

The king walked with a pronounced limp, well ahead of the women, beside Norfolk and his son Henry. The Howard men were trying to do damage control, since the king and queen were still obviously estranged. The current state of things pleased Cranmer enormously. He had been prepared to do battle with the Catholics for the sake of the Reformation, but this young, foolish girl was taking care of it for him. To top it all off, the Lassells wench was an extraordinary find, as motivated by envy as she was by her faith.

Cranmer bit his lower lip to hide a smile and steepled his hands piously as Thomas Seymour droned on about the hunt that would take place later that afternoon.
Poor, proud Henry
, Cranmer thought, as the king waddled like a velvet-clad Christmas goose. The “hunt” that Seymour spoke of was a bastardized version of the sport that Henry had loved in his youth and barely required any physical activity. But it was fitting, he thought, since Henry did not work hard for anything anymore. He waited for everything to be brought to him. Food. Wives. The heads of his enemies.

And, less welcome, perhaps, some damning information about the queen, which Cranmer intended to personally deliver.

He pushed away a nagging sensation of guilt. Later, he would pray for forgiveness from Almighty God, but right now, he was convinced that, in some things, the ends did well justify the means.

The king had not called for Anne Basset for a long time, yet she could not resist going to the royal bedchamber after prayer when he did. She knew that the potential benefit outweighed any insult to the queen if the infidelity were discovered. Her ambitious mother reminded her
daily that she was first a subject of His Majesty and then a maid of honor to the queen, an appointment that she had sought from Anne of Cleves but at last received when Catherine became queen. Besides, did not all kings have lovers? The pressures upon a sovereign were vast and many. How could the queen be expected to soothe all of them by herself?

Had Catherine not, in essence, done the very same thing to poor Anne of Cleves?

Anne lingered at the foot of the king’s carved poster bed as he lay watching her like a massive creature beneath the bedcovers, his bare leg propped on a velvet tasseled pillow. Everyone at court knew that the ulcer on his calf must be kept open and draining to prevent further swelling and infection, so no one remarked at the sight or the horrendous stench, which not even liberal doses of musk and ambergris could mask.

A small fire blazed in the hearth beside her as Anne dropped her white muslin dressing gown seductively to the floor, then advanced toward the king, as she had done before.

Later that afternoon, everyone sat tightly packed in the little timber-framed gallery above the brick building with the open gallery for observing the hunt, constructed in the vast, lush park. The yard below, enclosed by nets, was strewn with hay, and the air was full of the sour, stifling stench of perspiration and noxious perfume.

Catherine wanted to be anywhere but here. Yet Henry finally looked happy, and the angry glares from her uncle had ceased after the king had taken Catherine’s hand and dotted her cheek with kisses.

She must tolerate everything to win back his favor.

The king’s requested companion for today was Thomas Culpeper, and he stood beside him at the ready. Both had gilded cross-bows
in hand, stamped with the royal arms. Thomas was relieved to have been asked to hunt with Henry, even in this sham of the sport. There was danger in the king’s waning interest in anyone, especially the queen and himself.

As the unsuspecting deer were driven into the pen below, Catherine turned away. She was sickened by the sport, which amounted to little more than a slaughter with refreshments. Henry shot an arrow, then another. The first deer fell, then another and another. The crowd of courtiers applauded. Henry turned to acknowledge them with a proud smile and a regal little wave.

Catherine saw his gaze linger just an instant too long on Anne Basset.

So that was why she had not had a conjugal visit from her husband. Of course. She glanced again at Thomas, whose weapon was trained on one of the larger animals below. Catherine was surprised when she saw him adjust his bow before he released his arrow. It was a slight movement, but it was enough so that the arrow missed its target. While she knew how much he enjoyed the challenge of hunting, Thomas was never one to take advantage of unfair circumstances.

It was a fact that made her love him all the more.

Suddenly Henry faltered. His bow clattered to the ground and he staggered back. Thomas cast his own bow to the ground and caught the king in a powerful hold. Murmurs and whispers rose as Thomas helped the king back to his seat, and Catherine knelt before him, concern in her eyes. When she touched his face, it was blazing hot. He was clearly burning with fever.

“Hal, what is it? Are you all right?”

“I am perfectly fine. Stop fussing over me, you witless girl, just because you know no other way to make amends!” he growled, his temper flaring as he swatted her hand until she drew it away and sank back.

“Forgive me; I was only trying to—”

“We must call for your physician, sire,” Thomas interjected as he pressed a gentle hand onto the king’s shoulder.

Henry’s angry gaze descended full force on Thomas, his eyes glazed with sudden rage. “And what the devil are
you
droning on about, Culpeper? Is there truly no one with more than half a brain whom I can rely upon around here? Unhand me, boy! I am perfectly fine.”

The concerned whispers around them fell away, and no one dared utter another sound.

“Perhaps you should lie down, at least. It is so warm out,” Catherine tried to suggest in a soft, wifely tone of concern.

“And why is that? So everyone can say that King Henry is too old and fat even to hunt penned prey? Laugh at me, will you? I think not!”

His voice boomed and his fists were curled tightly with pent-up anger. Then, before Catherine could speak another word, Henry slumped back in his grand carved chair and his eyes rolled to a close.

When everyone lunged toward the king, it was unclear whether or not Henry VIII was dead.

Not long afterward, Catherine listened to the king’s physician, her arms wrapped tightly around herself, in the privy chamber. She tried desperately to make sense of all the information as a contingent of the king’s guard blocked her entry to the bedchamber. His Majesty was gravely ill, owing to the ulcer on his leg, the physician calmly explained. In spite of their medical interventions, the wound was clogged. They were attempting, once again, to drain the buildup of fluid in order to spare his life, but the king’s condition was very weak. He had developed a fever that would likely kill him if it did not break soon.

Thomas stood beside Catherine, careful not to touch her, but having him there with her as a silent support was a great comfort. A group of courtiers stood around them.

“I must go to him,” Catherine insisted.

“His Majesty does not wish for Your Grace’s company just now,” the physician gently informed her.

“But I am his wife—his queen!”

“He is well aware of who you are. However, the king wishes you not to see him in his condition.”