The Unfaithful Queen: A Novel of Henry VIII's Fifth Wife (8 page)

“Perhaps I have overstayed my welcome,” he said, and prepared to leave.

“No, wait,” Mary pleaded. “I have not yet finished my sweet. Please stay.”

“Yes, please stay,” I said and reached out to touch his sleeve.

He looked down at my hand, then back at me.

Cousin Catherine sniffed loudly, stood, and left us without another word. I drew Master Dereham back to the table. And in that moment I thought, he and I, he and I—

He recovered his former geniality, and sat contentedly while Mary and I finished our meal, a smile of satisfaction on his face, as if he had accomplished what he had come for. Presently Joan came in, and Alice with her, and Master Dereham bowed and took his leave. When he was gone, Joan looked over at me. A knowing look.

“Well,” she said after a long silence, “so that’s how it is then. Mistress Catherine and the handsome Master Dereham.”

She knew, even then, she knew far better than I, that I was already lost to love.

*   *   *

He did not need to woo me, I was already his. Every time I saw Francis Dereham standing with the other gentlemen pensioners in attendance on the duchess, lithe and slim and graceful in his red and black livery, every time I observed him escorting visitors newly arrived at Lambeth, whenever I watched him doing some small service for Uncle Thomas or answering the command of some other dignitary, every time I saw him standing behind the chair of a nobleman who was dining at my grandmother’s table, I felt again the desire to touch his smooth unblemished skin and look into his light blue eyes with their fringe of long lashes.

He was kept very busy from early morning until late at night. When he came looking for me, as he did from time to time, he would greet me with the greatest politeness, often bringing gifts or food or pretty trinkets or tokens of affection. But he could never stay with me long.

“Sweetheart, I must away to the duchess’s antechamber in a quarter of an hour,” he would say, or “Dearest Catherine, I must leave you soon, but I will stay with you as long as I can.”

My longing for him grew, and I struggled not to lose patience. My eagerness for his company increased. During our times together he would take my hand, stroke my cheek, draw me into a secluded alcove and kiss me—but never for long enough to do more than tantalize me, and leave me counting the hours—or more often, the days and sleepless nights—until our next meeting.

I grew anxious, pale, edgy with worry. What was I to make of his infrequent appearances in my life (for they seemed infrequent to me)? Was it just that he was being given more and more responsibilities by my grandmother and Uncle Thomas—who seemed to spend a great deal of time at Lambeth—or was he keeping company with another girl or woman? Or several others?

There seemed to be no way to find out, though I tried and tried. Meanwhile the household was distracted by more talk of the king’s forthcoming marriage. Lord Cromwell was said to be very satisfied with the bargaining over Anna of Cleves’s dowry. The lady herself was not nearly as important as the benefits the marriage would bring to England. I heard much talk of how English trade would flourish anew, how sturdy, warlike Clevan soldiers would join our English trained bands. Of how all the North German lands and the flat lowland countries would join with our King Henry against the Spanish Emperor Charles, weakening his overweening might and making us safer.

Now and then, to be sure, I heard someone scoff.

“Cleves! Where is this little Cleves? A land of windmills and floods!”

And there was muffled laughter about the woman no one at court had seen, Anna. The woman Lord Cromwell wanted to make our queen.

“She’s an old maid! She’s nearly twenty-five!”

“She was betrothed once, but for some reason they didn’t marry. Why?”

No one seemed to know why.

“Could it be that she didn’t like the man? Or that he was old and poor, and she wanted someone young and rich?”

We knew that a portrait of the Lady Anna had been sent to the palace, for the king to see and approve.

“German women are all big, striding, yellow-haired fishwives,” I heard Uncle Thomas say. Uncle Thomas did not spare his words! But I doubted whether he had seen the portrait of the Lady Anna, and my father told me that Uncle Thomas was opposed to the marriage because it was Lord Cromwell’s idea, and he hated Lord Cromwell.

I found all the talk and wrangling wearisome—and besides, there was only one thing, or rather one man, on my mind just then: Francis Dereham.

One afternoon he surprised me with a visit. He was not wearing his livery. For an instant I was worried: had he lost his position as gentleman pensioner? Had he done something to anger Grandma Agnes?

But he quickly reassured me. He was not wearing his livery because he was not needed that afternoon. Grandma Agnes had gone to Greenwich and taken only a few members of her household with her. He was not among them.

He kissed me lightly on the cheek.

“I thought we might go into the orchard and have a picnic,” he said, his smile charming as always. “I don’t need to return until after vespers.”

I brightened at once. We set off with a basket of food and a blanket. I took my cloak in case of rain.

The orchard that adjoined Lambeth Great House was large and thickly wooded. Rabbits and deer foraged in the grass beneath the tall trees, the cherries just beginning to put forth their unripe fruit, the apple trees still in flower.

I was happy, walking along with Francis, enjoying the feeling that, for once, there was no urgency about our time together, no need to rush. The sun was warm, the grass smelled sweet beneath our feet as we went along. We were quiet, at peace together. I felt my desire for him rise. Impulsively I took the blanket from under his arm and spread it on the fragrant grass. I lay down and reached for him.

He came into my arms and kissed me, a long unhurried kiss, then another. I expected him to begin to undress me, as Henry Manox had, eager to reveal all of me to his excited gaze. But he did not. And after a time he stopped kissing me as well.

“What is it?” I asked, full of fear. “Do you find me wanting?”

“No indeed,” came the answer. “But I cannot dishonor you, Catherine, as some would surely try to do were they fortunate enough to be here with you. Lovemaking must take place within a bond of trust.”

“I trust you, Francis.” There was a catch in my voice as I said the words.

“I refer to the trust between a husband and wife.”

A silence fell between us. I did not know what to say. I sat up on the blanket. Francis leaned comfortably on one elbow.

“There must be a future in view,” he said presently.

Once again I did not know what to say, for I could not tell what he meant. Was he hinting that he wanted us to marry? Even if that was not what he meant, surely he was honoring me by protecting my virginity. Why then did I feel so bereft, cheated of the pleasure I wanted so badly, kept waiting in uncertainty and suffering while I waited? Why did I feel unwanted?

He got to his feet and, when I stood as well, feeling crestfallen, he began to fold the blanket into a neat square.

“We have not eaten our picnic,” he said blandly. “Are you hungry?”

I shook my head.

“Then let us go back. I may be needed. I like to be ready, on call, in case my services are required.”

*   *   *

“I am being considered,” my father told me somewhat lugubriously, “for second under-cellarer to the new queen.”

“That’s wonderful, father! But only considered? Not actually appointed?”

“Not as yet.”

He sighed. “Others have already received appointments. I have been overlooked, it would seem.”

So he had been disappointed once again.

“Have you spoken to Grandma Agnes about it?”

He rolled his eyes, as if to say, she cares nothing for my welfare, and thinks poorly of me. It would do no good whatever to talk to her. Knowing that he was probably right, I let the question hang in the air, unanswered.

“I hope that a place may be found for you, however, Catherine, and for your cousin Charyn, among the new queen’s women. And perhaps, once you are well established there, and the king’s new bride becomes fond of you, you can tell her that your father would be well qualified and eager to serve her.”

“I would of course do as you ask, father.”

“Good girl. Good loyal girl.” He nodded his head, and reaching for my hand, he patted it. I could see that there were tears in his eyes.

“Ah, there is one thing more,” he added. “Francis Dereham, the gentleman pensioner, came to see me.”

My heart leapt.

“About me?”

“Indeed. He asked me if anyone had yet asked for your hand.”

I held my breath.

“I told him no one, not as yet.” He frowned. “Perhaps I should have lied, to make him think you have been much in demand.”

I could not believe what I was hearing. So this was what Francis meant when he said there must be a future in view before we loved one another in the flesh. What was it he had said? Lovemaking must take place within a bond of trust. The trust between a husband and a wife.

“He wants to marry me then, does he father?” I could not keep the excitement from my voice.

“Assuredly, Catherine, he wants to marry you, or someone like you. He would value a Howard bride. He has already asked for several of your cousins, and even for the widow of your great-uncle Richard. But no one has accepted him.”

“But he is so very handsome, father,” I burst out, ignoring what I had just heard. “And so much a gentleman. He speaks so well, and with such perfect courtesy, and dances so gracefully.”

“He does indeed. But he has no money, or title, and though he is distantly related to our family, he is an orphan, with no parents to speak for him or aid him in his suit.”

My hopes fell, I could hear the disapproval in my father’s voice.

“Yes. He told me.”

“And there is another thing. He is Irish, on his father’s side.”

“Oh.”

My Francis had Irish blood! That came as a blow. If I married him, our children too would possess the taint of Irishness. No one wanted that. But a thought came to me.

“Is it not true, father, that our king has Welsh blood? Yet no one looks on him as unfit to reign.”

Father looked at me balefully, then grew exasperated.

“Must you always argue, Catherine? Can you not be womanly and silent? Especially about things that do not concern you? Francis Dereham is not a meet husband for a Howard! And there’s an end to it!”

I hung my head.

“But I love him, father,” I murmured.

He got to his feet and began pacing, one hand held to his lower back.

“When will you understand! Love doesn’t enter in, Catherine. Love is just a silly girl’s fancy. And it passes as quickly as a dream.”

He winced, then sat down again, his hand still pressed to his back, his forehead creased. I knew he was in pain, the familiar pain of a kidney stone.

“I loved your mother once. But the king took her from me. She disappeared, into that brothel of his. The Maidens’ Bower. Maidens, hah! The Whores’ Chamber, more likely!”

I had never before heard my father speak of my mother, and why she had vanished from our lives. I knew that my Howard relatives had nothing but contempt for her, and that she had died, but how and why remained a mystery.

On an impulse I got down on my knees.

“Please, father, I beg you. Tell me how mother died. No one will ever speak of it.”

“Hush, child! Hush!” He looked around, quickly and furtively, to see whether my words had been overheard. But no one was nearby.

He swore then, and got to his feet, and left me. I knew it would do no good to follow him, for when the pain of the stone attacked him his mood grew sour and there was no approaching him. I watched him go, feeling let down, discouraged. I had been on the brink of discovering what had happened to my mother, but then, as always, I had failed to find out the answer.

I was happy to know that Francis had chosen me as the girl he wanted to marry, yet at the same time upset that father thought so little of him as a potential husband for me.

I wanted him. Oh, how I wanted him! What was I to do?

*   *   *

Francis was persistent—and clever. My father would not agree to a betrothal, but he did not shout at Francis and send him away either. For once Francis discovered my father’s weakness—his constant shortage of money, and his worries about never having any more of it in the future—it was easy enough for him to use that knowledge to his advantage.

He began bringing father gifts, shirts of fine linen, costly boots, a handsome gold belt buckle. He offered to bring an Italian moneylender to Lambeth who, he said, would put an end to father’s seemingly endless cycle of worsening debt. He boasted of having a rich relation in Ireland who, he was assured, was growing richer all the time, and was sending him larger and larger sums. (“Perhaps the wild Irish are not so bad as we think,” father remarked to me after one of Francis’s visits.)

At the same time, Francis was wooing me with greater fervor, ending my longing to see more of him and promising me that his heart was mine and only mine. He presented me with lengths of fine satin and velvet to be made into gowns, a quilted cap of silver sarcenet, coils of gold and silver braid, French gloves of the softest doeskin. He brought minstrels to sing to me, he gave me a small whimpering lapdog whose collar was a golden love knot bearing our initials. Each day brought new proofs of his devotion, until finally, one evening, he showed me two silver rings and said that they were meant for us.

“One day, dear Catherine, when you are willing, we will don these rings and promise ourselves to one another. Then I will call you wife and you will call me husband. No one will ever be able to separate us, for we will be handfasted, pledged and promised in the eyes of God.”

I knew about handfasting, the ancient way of marriage that had been known since before churches existed. I was touched that Francis had bought the rings and imagined us vowing our love in the old way.

There was no Mistress Phippson at Lambeth, and no Paradise Chamber. But Grandma Agnes did have a special chamberer, Mary Lascelles, who oversaw the unmarried girls of the household, and who, in return for a generous money gift, would unlock special rooms she called her cupboards.