The Unfaithful Queen: A Novel of Henry VIII's Fifth Wife (12 page)

I pondered it all, as I put fresh bandages on Francis’s arm and cleaned the cut over his eye. He slept a lot, and I slept too, lying beside him—until called into service to attend Grandma Agnes or meet with a dressmaker for a fitting on one of the many new gowns she ordered for me.

One afternoon I went to Greyfriars, to visit my mother’s tomb. Uncle William had told me where to find it in the mendicant church, tucked in a corner in a private chapel, easily overlooked by visitors or worshippers. The stone that marked the tomb had no name, only a cross, and beneath it three entwined hearts, and the word “Beloved.” I stood beside it, saying a prayer for my mother’s soul and the soul of the brother I never knew.

I lingered there, in the cool of the church, lost in thought, until the two serving girls I had brought with me began to fidget and whisper to one another, and I realized it was time to go.

That evening I stayed awhile with Francis, sitting on the bed beside him. He was drowsy as usual from his medicine. He reached for my hand.

“Where did you go?” he asked me.

“I had an errand in London,” I said. “For the duchess.”

“Oh.” Something in his tone told me he didn’t believe me. But I did not want to tell him where I had gone, that I had been visiting my mother’s grave, that I now knew a great deal about her that I had never known before. The knowledge was still too fresh, too new to me. I would tell Francis eventually, of course. But not just yet.

A distance had grown between us, ever since I learned of the king’s avid interest in me. It was as if the king himself had come between us, cleaving our bound hands, severing our precious bond. The force of his presence in our lives shattered the future I had dreamed of—a future I thought Francis had been dreaming of as well. But I now saw that what mattered most to Francis was the king’s patronage, his favor. I began to fear that Francis would give up almost anything—even me—to attain and keep that royal favor.

It was as if the craving for high court office was a kind of infection. My father had it. All the men of business had it, Lord Cromwell most of all. Even Uncle Thomas had it, for much as he liked to say that the Howards were above the old royal line of the Plantagenets, and that his descent was of an older and higher lineage than the Tudors, in truth he too fought for preeminence in the royal household, and was bitterly jealous of the lowborn Lord Cromwell because Cromwell possessed the one thing that eluded Uncle Thomas: power.

There were more quarrels as the days passed, more melees. We heard of injured men, men who died of wounds. The stables at Lambeth became an arsenal, filled with weapons for the Howard men to use against their enemies. There was much boasting about how many of Cromwell’s men had been hurt. The conflict widened, from duels of honor to disputes over precedence to battles arising out of wagers. No wagering was more keen than that over Anna of Cleves: would she or would she not become King Henry’s next wife? Cromwell’s men bet on Anna, the Howard servitors and partisans bet that another woman, possibly a girl of English birth, would be the one chosen.

And who would that girl be?

*   *   *

“Get that filthy creature out of here!”

The marmoset jumped gleefully from bed to bench to cabinet and back to the bed again, uttering short shrill cries and grunts and now and then shrieking so loudly that I had to cover my ears.

Francis, enraged, reached in vain for Jonah’s gold collar with his uninjured arm, and swore at him.

“Get him away, I say!”

“He’s only playing. He won’t hurt anything.”

“He stinks. He has fleas. He looks like a demon from hell—and sounds like one too.”

I kept hoping that Francis would get used to Jonah, even become fond of him as many in the household were. But he obstinately resisted—in part, I felt sure, because he knew Jonah had been the king’s gift to me, and was jealous.

His arm was healing, slowly. He resumed his duties, though without his usual quick pace and efficiency. There were times when I saw him lying on a bench in one of the dim corridors, taking a quick nap, and I knew that his arm was hurting him and his spirits were low. He was often snappish and fretful, even with me. But it was Jonah who brought out the worst of his temper. He shouted at the little monkey, glowering at him and threatening him.

Once when I went to our cupboard to see how Francis was I found him cursing Jonah. Just as I came in he picked up his tankard of ale and threw it at the scampering little beast. Jonah screamed, Francis bellowed in frustration and I was alarmed. Had the tankard hit the monkey?

But he was gone. The last I saw of him were his two hind legs, flying out behind him as he ran off and disappeared. I went looking for him but my search was fruitless.

That night I wept, thinking I would never see Jonah again. I couldn’t sleep. I got out of bed and went to the window. Then I heard it—a soft whimpering sound. It had to be Jonah, outside in the courtyard.

Quickly I wrapped a cloak around my shoulders and made my way along the corridors and down the staircases to the kitchens, then out the wide doors that led to the courtyard, in the direction of the brewhouse and stables. I was intent on finding Jonah, I was incautious. There had been midnight brawls between Cromwell’s men and Grandma Agnes’s servants; I knew this, but I disregarded the risk. Finding Jonah was what mattered.

Listening for the whimpering I had heard earlier, I heard instead the shuffling of feet. Then I saw a light swinging in an arc: a lantern. The night watchman. Or was it? The next thing I knew I heard grunts, then cries—and I felt a hand grabbing at my arm.

Screaming, I turned and started to run, but there were men blocking my way. Tall, broad-shouldered men, looming up around me in the dark. I saw the glint of a knife, held in a meaty hand, as the lantern-light swung to and fro. I struggled, crying out. I tried to wrench myself out of the rough arms that encircled me.

Then I heard a familiar voice, as an even stronger arm was thrown around my shoulders.

“Catherine!”

He freed me from those who pulled and grabbed at me, and swept me past them to safety. Henry Manox had come back into my life.

SIX

HENRY
Manox! I stared at him, while panting for breath, relieved at my rescue but completely baffled by my rescuer.

He reached for me, there in the cellar where we had taken refuge, and tried to kiss me. I pushed him away.

“By the short hairs of the Virgin, Catherine!” His strong, musical voice boomed out.

I stepped back. The light in the room was very dim, but I could clearly see his familiar face, the dark hair, dark moustache and beard—all with more grey than the last time I had seen him—the bright, darting brown eyes and full lips. Lips I had once found such pleasure in kissing.

“You might at least let me kiss you, as thanks for saving you from Cromwell’s miscreants!”

“Thank you, Henry. Now what are you doing here at Lambeth?”

“The duchess summoned me to her service here.”

“To teach music?”

“To be your secretary.”

“What? I have never had a secretary, nor do I need one.”

Henry grinned. “We must not question the wishes of our elders and superiors.” He swept a mock bow. “She believes you have need of me. Though as I recall, the last time she saw us together I was not writing letters for you.” He moved toward me again but I kept my distance.

“She can be forgetful.” I was only too aware of what had happened with Henry in the duchess’s chapel, of the way he had been able to excite me, of his urgent kisses.… Yet I was also well aware that even then our passion had grown stale, and that Henry had become demanding and difficult. I had been only too glad to leave Horsham and Henry behind. I had thought I would never see him again.

But I realized that life in my grandmother’s household was unpredictable. She was indeed forgetful. She had lapses. Quite possibly she had no memory of what had gone on between Henry Manox and me, or of her wrath at our secret meetings, our embraces. Quite possibly Henry’s father, her neighbor, had approached her and asked her to employ Henry in her household—and in her forgetful state, she had agreed. But what made her think I needed a secretary?

“She may be forgetful,” Henry was saying, “but I am not.” His voice took on a harsh edge. “I remember well that you denied me—your maidenhead.”

I began to feel alarmed once again. We were in a small room, the only way out was down an unlit corridor, or back into the courtyard where the miscreants lurked. I had no candle or lantern. What if Henry decided that having rescued me, he had the right to make love to me? I used the only defense I could think of.

“I kept my maidenhead—for someone more worthy.”

I could tell that my retort stung.

“And who is that, pray? I asked the duchess whether you were betrothed, and she said no.”

“We are handfasted,” I said—and then wished I hadn’t. It was, after all, our secret.

“And you bed him?”

“Gladly. Willingly.”

He glared at me, silent, angry.

At length he said, “You were prettier when you were younger. Next time you are in danger, call for your lover to save you.” With that he strode off down the dark corridor, leaving me to find my way back, through the darkened kitchens, to the upstairs salons.

*   *   *

The next time I went to see the king I took Jonah with me, as Grandma Agnes had advised. Having been missing for two days he had found his way back to me, though I noticed that he kept his distance from Francis.

King Henry received me in a beautiful large room with intricately patterned wooden wainscoting and rich Turkey carpets in tones of red and gold. He sat in a Flanders chair, dressed less magnificently than he had been when I went to see him with my seven companions. He wore a fair linen shirt wrought with red silk and a velvet jerkin, velvet breeches edged with satin, white hose and soft red slippers. His hose were held in place around his knees by handsome garters studded with amethysts. On each hand were several garnet and amethyst rings.

I could not help but admire the elegance of the room, the king’s finery, the carved ceiling. Everywhere I looked there was beauty. And in front of the king, on a low table, was yet another beautiful object: a miniature palace, intricately carved in wood, its turrets and crenellated battlements in perfect proportion, flags flying from its towers and miniature statues in its gardens.

“Your Majesty,” I said as I was shown into the room. I began to kneel in reverence but the king dismissed the gesture with a wave of his hand.

“Come, Catherine. Look at this. Is it not exquisite? This, I am delighted to say, is my new palace. I am going to call it Nonsuch, for there is, I believe, no structure like it in all of Christendom.”

Another Flanders chair was brought for me and I sat down, Jonah clinging to my neck and whimpering softly.

“How fascinating,” was all I could manage to say. “Even in miniature it is a work of art.”

“I designed it myself. It took me nearly a year. Of course there were builders to advise me, but the overall design is my own. Work has already begun. A whole village was torn down to make room for the palace.”

“What became of the villagers?” I asked in alarm.

The king waved his hand once again. “They went elsewhere, I suppose. What is that to you?”

I opened my mouth to answer, then shut it again. I did not want to appear argumentative. But I could not help thinking, had the king really destroyed the homes and gardens and livestock of an entire village community? And done so quite heartlessly?

“Do you know what day the work on the new palace was begun?” He looked at me expectantly, his face alight with pleasure. “Of course you don’t. How could you? It was the day my son reached the age of six months. And almost thirty years to the day since I came to the throne. I tell you, Catherine, this palace will outshine every other royal residence in Christendom!”

“I look forward to seeing it—when it is complete. How soon do you imagine that will be?”

He shrugged. “It depends.”

“On what?”

“On whether or not we have to go to war against the imperialists, and the French, and most of the Italians!” was his impatient answer. “If I listened to Crum, I’d be terrified that the whole of Europe is about to descend on our island, cannon and catapults and all! He doesn’t want me to build Nonsuch—but if I listened to him, I’d never do anything bold, anything worth doing! No one would fear me, or this realm either. I tell you, Catherine, a king dares not live timidly!” He slapped his thigh.

I could not help smiling. He was so wrapped up in his plans, so full of passion and energy—like a much younger man. Like Francis at his most energetic, only Francis was always more careful, more measured, in what he undertook.

“What do you think, madam?” the king asked me suddenly.

“I? Why, sire, I cannot form an opinion about such grand matters. I am far too ignorant.”

“You are too modest. I want to know what you think.”

I sighed. How to answer such a question, from the king himself, in such a setting? But I saw that I had to try.

“Sire, I will do my best. It seems to me that since you have been king for thirty years, you have great experience to draw from. And if you will pardon me for saying so, you have the strength and force of a much younger man. It must be that experience, and that strength, that lead you to make great plans, devise great palaces. How could you let anyone advise you to go against your nature?”

“Aha!” he cried loudly. “Spoken like a Howard! A true Howard, not your ugly uncle Tom! A true Howard, your grandfather, the old duke. Now, there was a bold commander. He would have swept Crum aside with one swing of his lance. I hope your tutors have taught you about your grandfather, Catherine.”

I remembered a portrait at Lambeth, somewhat indistinct and darkened with age, of a resolute man who resembled father. I had been told that this was “the old duke,” my grandfather.

“A little. I have seen his portrait.”

The king nodded, and looked thoughtful. “He fought for my father at Bosworth Field. And for me, when I was young, and won a great victory over the Scots at Flodden. He was a worthy and valorous knight.”