The Queen's Mistake (53 page)

“Did you all know about this?” He waved Cranmer’s letter at them. The sound of his deep voice rolled like thunder through the cavernous hall. “Which of you knew the queen had made a fool of me before we married? Who? You, Brandon? My oldest and closest friend, my brother? Did you know she’d had a lover?”

“No, sire. I did not know,” he lied.

“Wriothesley?” He polled them one at a time, his bejeweled hands on his wide hips in tight, bloodless fists, his porcine face crimson with fury.

“I did not,” Wriothesley replied, wisely avoiding the truth as well.

“Seymour?”

Edward Seymour hesitated before answering. “In truth, there was the odd rumor, Your Majesty, but no one knew for certain.”

“And no one thought to tell
me
of a damning rumor?” His voice boomed again. “Culpeper, you have always been forthright with me. Did you not think to tell me about this?”

“Spreading a rumor about your queen would have been trea sonous at best, Your Majesty.”

“Yet it is more than a rumor. Proof was brought before you and the rest of the privy counsel! So then, who is the vile dog who dared deflower a maiden intended for the King of England?” he demanded as he limped the length of the room. Everyone else remained absolutely motionless. Only when the king’s back was turned did they dare to exchange quick glances.

“Whoever he was, I swear by all that is holy, I shall tear off his head and stick it on a pike myself on Tower Bridge!”

Henry grunted as he limped back and forth, hands still on his hips. “Give me his name, Brandon! I need a name. I will know everything, by God!”

“The informer, Master Lassells, is the brother of one of the queen’s companions from Horsham. I believe the gentleman was a page in the employ of the dowager duchess,” Brandon replied.

“His name, Brandon! Give me a name!”

“Francis Dereham, sire.”

“The queen’s private secretary?”

“The same, sire.”

Henry slapped his forehead and turned away. He felt his lip quiver as he pressed back tears of shock. The betrayal was like a dagger.

“We were recently told that their acts of intercourse were witnessed by several others besides Mistress Lassells at Horsham, Your Majesty,” Brandon added.

“Send word to Hampton Court that Dereham is to be taken to the Tower at once.”

“Your Majesty, if I may . . .” said Thomas Culpeper. “As I understand it, no one claims the queen betrayed you once you were married.”

“She was betrothed to Dereham before the marriage, Thomas,” Wriothesley pointed out, “which is actually worse.”

Henry turned around very slowly. He was unable to see through his furious tears, though he did not care. “There was a-a-an,” he sputtered in disbelief, “an actual contract between them?”

“That is what Master Lassells has stated to the counsel, sire,” Brandon cautiously confirmed.

“All the saints in heaven!” Henry sobbed as openly as a child, surrendering his face to his hands. “How is it possible that I could have such great misfortune with every one of my wives?”

“Perhaps, sire—” Seymour cautiously dared, hoping to calm him.

“Silence! All of you! You all encouraged the marriage, except for Cranmer and my poor friend Cromwell! There is blood on all of your hands! Bring me a sword, Thomas, and I will ride to Hampton Court right now. Bring me a sword, I say!”

Each of the men exchanged worried glances, then averted their eyes, knowing only too well to what this mood could swiftly lead.

“Your Majesty,” Brandon tried, stepping forward. “Surely you understand that you cannot kill her yourself.”

“Why not, when she has already killed me?” the king bellowed in anger.

“Perhaps you should hear her out once you have regained your composure.”

“To what end?” He was incredulous. “So she can convince me of more lies? No. If I go to Hampton Court, it will be to cut out her
heart with that dagger at your hip, just the way mine has been taken from me!”

Henry reached for the jeweled dagger in the hilt at Brandon’s waist, but Brandon was quicker, covering it with his hand. “Sire, no, I urge you to wait. The truth will come out eventually, and she will be punished without your raising your own hand. Please, Henry,” he added in a lower, more intimate tone. “Mary would say the same. You know that is true.”

The reference to his most beloved sister was Henry’s undoing, and a new wellspring of tears flooded his swollen cheeks as he collapsed onto an upholstered chair. He surrendered his face to his hands once again and began to shake his head.

“Why? I gave her everything. I gave her my heart, my life . . . I gave her England!”

None of the men dared to answer him; though Henry did not expect them to, because there was no answer he would ever accept.

This was Catherine’s fault. His rose was a choking weed. She did not deserve Hal’s love or forgiveness. The devil could decide what to do with her, because Henry VIII no longer cared.

Catherine
.

Thomas was filled with fear for her. She had been so noble and so strong. But he had been a part of this complex court long enough to know what would come next if he did not find some way to stop it. Catherine was in grave danger, and she would have no way of knowing until it was too late. For now, Henry still did not know about them, and Thomas would be able to use that to their advantage.

But time was of the essence.

Thomas thought quickly of whom he might trust to get a word
of warning to her so she would not be forced to make a confession. He had seen Henry’s face, and he knew he would not forgive her if she confessed to sleeping with Francis Dereham . . . or anyone else, for that matter.

Hampton Court was at least a full day’s ride away, and anyone of low stature who left for the queen’s court would be suspected, since there was no innocent reason they would ever journey alone. Thomas paced his room. Much of this was his fault. Perhaps he should admit that to Henry in order to deflect some of the punishment from Catherine. But admitting his guilt now could only make things worse for her, because Henry had trusted Thomas as well.

He knew there was only one way to get word to the queen. He would be risking her life and his own. Everything hinged on his decision, but there was no turning back now for either of them.

WINTER

The Final Season

“Short is the joy that guilty pleasure brings.”

—EURIPIDES

Chapter Twenty-one

 

 

T
homas Wriothesley was shown into the queen’s privy chamber as Catherine sat among her ladies, embroidering the image of a thornless rose onto a new cambric nightshirt for Henry. In the corner, near the fire, a young boy played a tune on the flute as the women talked softly amongst themselves.

Seeing stern-faced Wriothesley, Jane glanced over at Catherine with an expression of concern. There was no solicitous smile of greeting on his face. He was an intimidating figure, big and barrel chested, dressed in black velvet with a rich ermine collar. The hat he wore accentuated his long, thin nose and high, glistening forehead. It was not Wriothesley’s custom to pay a sudden call upon the queen, most certainly not unannounced like this, surrounded by a contingent of stone-faced yeomen of the king’s guard.

“Your Grace,” he said with perfunctory courtesy as he swept into a polite but controlled bow.

Catherine laid down her embroidery. “Sir?”

“Alas, there is no more time for music,” he dryly announced.

One of the guards seized the boy, whose flute clattered to the
floor as he was led by the arm out of the room. The whispers from her ladies rose around them.

“What is the meaning of this?” Catherine asked, feeling a mix of panic and indignation.

“I am afraid Your Grace is being placed under house arrest,” Wriothesley confirmed.

“Arrest?” Jane croaked as she sprang to her feet. “By whose command?”

“The king’s command, as are you, my lady Rochford.”

“But why? What has Her Grace done but be a good wife to His Majesty?” Jane asked with as much indignation as Catherine felt.

Catherine slowly came to her feet, although her legs were trembling. Her mouth had gone very dry. Anne Boleyn. Cromwell. The clerics . . . The old Countess of Salisbury.

“You have disgraced His Majesty with your behavior, and you conspired to keep him ignorant of it in order that he might marry you,” he announced, before adding with a sneer, “Your Grace should have known better from your cousin’s example.”

“But how am I involved?” Jane asked.

Catherine saw the panic on Jane’s face, but she was not angry that Jane was trying to save herself. She knew how deeply her friend had been caught up in the last scandal with a queen, and she could not now begrudge Jane her life.

“You have been the queen’s greatest confidante at court, have you not?” Wriothesley said. The tone of his question was glacial and his eyes held no emotion.

Jane lifted her chin defiantly in response. “I have.”

Catherine quickly came to her aid. “My lady Rochford knew nothing. You cannot blame her for my indiscretion.”

“It has been testified to that those words are inaccurate. Perhaps
she cannot be blamed for your indiscretion, but she shall pay a harsh penalty for facilitating it.”

Catherine began to sob now, the tight rein she had held on her life and her heart, everything her family had planned for—all of the expectation and pressure—unraveled in that moment like a skein of yarn.

“Leave her out of this, I beg you! My mistakes and decisions were totally my own!”

“Did you know of her youthful affair with Master Dereham, who was brought by her own grandmother to serve in the king’s household, right under his nose?”

Jane bravely responded, “I was unaware, in the beginning, of the extent of their relationship, sir, until I overheard Mistress Lassells speaking with Mistress Tilney about Master Dereham’s successful plan to blackmail the queen in order to have her affection returned to him.”

“There is one more complication,” Wriothesley said, thrusting a letter toward Jane. “Apparently, Master Culpeper gambled that I would be a trustworthy messenger, since we served the king side by side for so long. We shared a wench or two in our time, and he knew I was coming this way. The words, while rather obtuse, urge Her Grace to maintain her silence. You must have drawn Culpeper into your web of deception as well. How deeply remains to be seen. But the truth does have a way, like cream, of rising to the top.”

Dear God, no
, she thought wildly, racked with sobs. Catherine could not bear to think of Thomas implicated in this scandal. She remembered how those around Anne Boleyn had fallen with her. She felt the darkness of the past rising, uniting her destiny with Queen Anne’s. Her dreams really had been premonitions.