The Unfaithful Queen: A Novel of Henry VIII's Fifth Wife (19 page)

I told Tom of what had happened between Francis and me at Lambeth, of my painful disillusionment when he abandoned me and I discovered the truth about him.

“At least you are not bound to him, as you thought. You are free.”

“As long as the king makes no claim on me, yes.” I told him of King Henry’s hints to me when we were together, of his sharing his vision of the palace of Nonsuch with me, and saying he would not tell Lady Anna about it.

“Clearly he favors me—but he has not kissed me, or spoken words of love to me.”

Tom looked thoughtful. “That is unlike him.”

Time passed quickly and very happily when we were together. I felt as if I had known him for a long time, not just a few days. He did not overpower me, as Henry Manox had, nor beguile and deceive me, as Francis had. Tom’s open, trusting friendliness and affection were gentle and genuine, and it was easy for me to give him my openness and trust in return. Gradually, easily, our mutual liking and sharing turned to love.

How and when it happened I couldn’t have said. But after a week of knowing Tom I felt I knew everything about him, and never wanted to be apart from him again.

What a hard thing it is to write of love! Easy enough to describe the burning brand of lust, or the yearning of infatuation, that yearning that can never be assuaged. But love! There is only the word, and the knowing of it.

Tom was soon recovered enough to carry out his duties, which were light, the king not being present in Calais, but only a few of his officials. I did my best to amuse Lady Anna, teaching her new card games and helping her to improve her English. The gentlefolk and well-to-do burghers and merchants of the town were invited to meet Lady Anna, and we arranged these gatherings, and sometimes brought in musicians to play while we danced—though Anna had been brought up to believe that dancing was sinful, and did not join in. Her diversions were few indeed. She did not like to read, her embroidery work was poor. Religious devotions took very little of her time.

She needs children to look after, I thought to myself. They will fill her hours soon enough.

Children were much in my thoughts during those precious weeks in Calais, children and my future with Tom. He had been betrothed as a child—to a little girl who died of plague before they could marry. Twice more he had come close to becoming pledged to a woman, but both times the two families had been unable to agree on the woman’s dowry, and in any case Tom had had misgivings.

“Just like King Henry, feeling such worry about Lady Anna,” he confided.

“Now that you have seen her, what do you think?” I asked him. “Will she make King Henry a suitable wife?”

He looked chagrined. “She is certainly no beauty. Ungainly, pockmarked, bad-tempered. Disapproving. What was Lord Cromwell thinking?”

“He did not meet her, don’t forget.”

“He should have.”

“All that matters, really, is the alliance between England and Cleves, and the soldiers. The armies.”

But Tom only shook his head.

Finally the sun came out and Tom and I climbed the highest tower of the fortifications and walked along the battlements. The marshes spread out before us on all sides, green and lush and filled with wildlife.

“There’s good hunting, good shooting, out there,” Tom said, taking my hand. “Quail and bittern, snipe and dotterels.”

“And fish, don’t forget. And crabs, and wild duck.” We whiled away an hour, there on the battlements, talking mostly of inconsequential things. Then Tom turned and looked at me, and kissed me, and I thought, I have never, ever known such happiness.

“These weeks with you have been the best weeks of my life,” Tom told me as we embraced. “Tell me, Catherine, shall I go to your uncle Thomas, and ask for your hand in marriage?”

I did not have to ponder the question. Only one answer was possible.

“Yes, dear Tom. Sweet little fool,” I said.

We stayed where we were for another long, happy hour, wrapped in each other’s arms, watching the shadows lengthen across the marshes, and the birds dipping and rising in their flight.

*   *   *

We made the crossing a few days before the end of the year, with an escort of fifty ships and much celebration. When we set sail the skies were clear. By the time we landed at the English coastal town of Deal, however, in the dark of a wintry evening, hail was spitting down and a harsh wind was blowing in our faces. Before we could get to shelter we were all soaked and dripping. The Dowager Duchess of Cleves had come to Deal to meet her daughter, and Lady Anna rushed to embrace her as soon as she saw her, falling into her arms and weeping as if she had been a lost child at last reunited with her beloved mama. We rested at Dover Castle, then went on to Canterbury, Lady Anna traveling in her cloth of gold coach.

Tom was not with the others in the escort, he and I had agreed that he would return to London at once to speak to Uncle Thomas. Bursting with happiness, I confided to Charyn and Malyn that Tom was going to ask Uncle Thomas for my hand in marriage. Malyn embraced me but Charyn was skeptical.

“The duke is not about to betrothe you in such haste,” she said. “Not when he knows you have become the king’s favorite.” She was scathing. I knew that she was envious. I hoped she was wrong.

On our way to the capital we stopped in Canterbury, reaching the town just at dusk. Cheering crowds of townspeople lit the future queen’s way with blazing torches, while great guns were fired and Archbishop Cranmer made an eloquent speech. Lady Anna was in demand, everyone was curious to see her. Though the hour was late, we maids of honor were told to prepare Lady Anna’s temporary quarters to receive guests. Fifty burghers’ wives, dressed in their best, filed through and more would have come had we not announced that the future queen was tired and needed her sleep.

We pushed on, through more foul weather, to Sittingbourne and then to Rochester, in each town encountering large crowds that cheered and clapped, the townspeople doing their best to catch a glimpse of the honored newcomer from Cleves. Beggars, out of work laborers, wounded soldiers without captains or pay: these joined the eager crowds, in large numbers.

“Why so many poor folk?” Anna wanted to know. I explained that because King Henry had dissolved the monasteries and sold off their lands, the poor had nowhere to go for alms.

“Even the monks—the monks that were—now have to beg, though some have made their way in the world.”

Lady Anna looked sour. “Too many beggars,” I heard her say. “England is a country of beggars!”

But her sharp reaction seemed to pass, and she was becoming eager to meet her bridegroom. It was arranged that they would meet for the first time, very publicly, at Blackheath amid crowds and a thunder of guns, trumpets and pageantry. Until then we would remain at Rochester, where entertainments would be offered each day.

On New Year’s Day the entertainment was bull baiting, which I have always thought to be a cruel sport. We were in a spacious chamber of the bishop’s palace. Most of Lady Anna’s women were there, some at the windows, looking out at the bull baiting below, others of us sitting at a table playing cards. Lady Anna’s mother, the Dowager Duchess Maria, sat by herself observing all that went on in the room. A dozen ladies from the town of Rochester had come to see Lady Anna, and Charyn and I had just escorted them out.

Anna herself was at a window, watching an enraged bull gore the fierce dogs that were savaging him and toss them in the dirt. I could not bear to watch.

All at once there was a commotion in the corridor outside, and then—greatly to our surprise—six men came into the room. I felt a chill of fear, for they were in disguise, their faces hooded, their bodies cloaked in yards of multicolored wool. They were laughing and shouting as men do when far gone in drink, and their merriment had a rough edge.

My first instinct was to move closer to Lady Anna, to protect her. After all the beggars and shabby poor we had encountered on our recent progress, my first thought was that these men might be bandits, come to rob Lady Anna of her jewelry or to kidnap her and demand a ransom from the king.

Before I could say or do anything further, one of the six men—the tallest and stoutest—came boldly up to Lady Anna, and throwing back his hood, bent down and kissed her cheek.

Shocked, she drew back.

“Milady,” he said and held out a velvet pouch. She took it, murmuring thanks, and looked at him, her expression more puzzled than fearful.

He gazed back—and then, watching him, I saw the most remarkable series of expressions on his face as shock turned to amazement and then to disgust, as if he had bitten into a piece of rotten meat and had an immediate urge to spit it out.

He mumbled something to Lady Anna—I could not make out his words—and then, for the first time, noticed me, standing nearby. Now his face was all confusion.

“Catherine!” he muttered, then swiftly turned and left the room, the other men rapidly following him.

Only a moment had elapsed since the men first entered the chamber. I did not know what to make of what I had just seen. But Lady Anna, though somewhat bewildered, soon went back to watching the bull baiting, the velvet pouch still clutched in her hand. Cheering came from beyond the window and I realized that the contest between the bull and the dogs was reaching its gory climax. Meanwhile the maids of honor and chamberers were giggling and chattering about the disguised men.

Then without warning the men returned, only this time five of them were in disguise and the sixth—the king—was dressed in royal magnificence.

Immediately we all fell to our knees. The king approached the gaping Anna, suddenly stupefied and pale, and reaching out to her where she knelt, raised her to her feet and led her into an antechamber. Very soon he came out again, alone, and once again he looked at me—appalled, his face ashen—before turning and leaving the room.

All was silence in the chamber save for the tortured, low-pitched screams of the bull, in his death throes.

*   *   *

“May all the devils of hell draw her soul to hell!” read the brief message I received later that afternoon, brought by Sir Anthony Denny. “She is nothing like what I was promised, and I would rather die than marry her!” I read it quickly, then stuffed it in the pocket of my gown.

With the message was a basket.

“What is it?” Malyn asked. “Open it! Who sent it?”

“Not now,” I said, handing the basket back to Master Denny and asking him to keep it until after supper.

“Alas, I cannot, Mistress Catherine. The king commands me back to court as soon as I have delivered his gift to you.”

Murmurs in the room—and Malyn’s repeated demand that I open the basket.

I carried the basket into the antechamber, Malyn following me, only to find Lady Anna there, with her mother. Lady Anna seemed much distressed.

“Pardon me, Your Ladyship,” I said and prepared to leave.

“Wait! What is that?”

“I do not know. It just arrived.”

“For you?”

Before I could lie and say I had no idea who it was for, Malyn spoke up.

“It is for Catherine, from the king’s chamber gentleman, Sir Anthony Denny.”

“Open it!” was Lady Anna’s command.

I lifted the lid and took out the soft linen that protected the contents of the basket—which, to my amazement, was a gift. A gift of such splendor it could only have been meant for Lady Anna. Soft, lustrous sables, sewn with rubies.

Quickly I put the lid back on the basket.

“Let us see!” Lady Anna cried.

“Yes, let us see what the king has sent you, Mistress Catherine,” the Duchess Maria echoed, her tone caustic.

“I believe Master Denny has made a mistake. Surely those beautiful sables were meant for you, Lady Anna.” And I handed her the basket, with a glare at Malyn to give her warning not to say a word.

Lady Anna took out the soft furs and handled them, holding them up to her cheeks, her eyes bright with pleasure.

“So!” she exclaimed, getting to her feet and wrapping the furs around her neck. “He loves me, though he did not stay with me. He ran away from me.” She laughed. “A strange man, your King Henry! A strange man, my husband!”

I showed no one the note the king had sent me, but read it again and again, pondering what it could mean, for England and for me.

*   *   *

King Henry had told me he would rather die than marry Lady Anna—yet the wedding was to take place in three days, and the bride was trying on her wedding gown again and again, tugging at it to adjust the fit, admiring herself in front of the pier glass, trying out ways to wear her hair. When not wearing her wedding gown she wore her sables (which were really mine) and hummed to herself contentedly.

She talked of the coming wedding frequently, referring with pride to the king as “my husband,” as if she were married to him already.

Her mother hovered nearby, watchful and distrustful. Whenever I came near she glared at me, her eyes seemed to bore through me. I pretended not to notice.

A tense day passed, and on the following day Uncle Thomas came to see me.

We were alone. He made certain no one could overhear us, then spoke bluntly and rapidly.

“You are aware that Thomas Culpeper has come to me to ask for your hand, are you not?”

“Yes, uncle.”

“Do you wish to marry him?”

“More than anything.”

“I thought as much. But I expect you to put the family’s interests first, before your own.”

I tried to fight off the heavy weight of disappointment. Was he going to refuse his permission?

“In what way?”

“You must allow the king to make you his mistress. You must arouse his fancy, entice his lust. He will enrich you—he will enrich all of us. Cromwell’s dominion will falter. Indeed it has already begun to falter, for the king is balking at marrying the plain-faced woman from Cleves.” Only he did not say “woman,” he used a fouler term.

“He has been telling every servingman in his household how ugly she is, how he cannot abide the thought of bedding her. How she looks like her mother, that old witch, whom he detests. I tell you, Catherine, he is quite stupefied at the thought of taking this creature as his bride.