Gilt (17 page)

B
UT THERE WOULD BE NO GUARANTEES
.

In February, the king’s ulcer closed over, and infection spread a fever throughout his great frame. He couldn’t walk, couldn’t stand, couldn’t govern. He refused to see Cat. Refused her presence in his apartments. So we remained sequestered in her rooms, bound by the murmurs of the Coven.

Gossip was their life’s blood. Especially when it came to the king and his health. Under normal circumstances, every cough, every limp, every bowel movement was scrutinized by the entire court. This illness had them all buzzing like flies around a corpse.

It was treason to mention it. Treason even to think it. But the king’s death would change everything. And the Howards hoped it would mean a Howard regency until the toddler Prince Edward came of age.

The king feared his death with a palpable madness caused by a loathing of limitation. He brought to mind a furious, demonic bear, pent up and confined within his own flesh like the caged animals of the Tower menagerie. We could hear his raging all the way down the long gallery from his apartments.
Could gauge the power of his anger by the force of the explosion of courtiers from his room. Every man moved tentatively about the palace, afraid one false step would bring wrath like a fireball upon him.

The women just stayed away.

With each day, Cat grew more irritable, more jumpy. She couldn’t eat and retired early, sparking rumors that she was pregnant. That she had miscarried. That the king planned to take back Anne of Cleves.

Cat tolerated only my presence, ignoring all others or else snapping at them. The entire populace of the court seemed poised for flight—ready to flee the royal circle out of sheer, desperate self-preservation.

But the outside world remained oblivious to the seismic disruptions at Hampton Court and pursued, unheeding, its own agenda.

And suddenly, my parents found me a husband. Apparently, being the best friend of the Queen of England had perks that some people just could not deny.

Lord Graves lived close by my parents in the far end of nowhere. Through marriage, his land would be ensured to Tylney heirs. I shuddered at the thought of producing them.

My fate was written and sealed with wax. Sold like a parcel of land or a breeding mare.

The physical person of my intended appeared in late February, entertained by the dowager duchess herself in her private rooms. My parents still considered the duchess my
guardian and had appealed to her to secure the match.

She did so with pleasure.

I was bestowed with the dubious honor of waiting upon them both. I wore a “new” gown, pieced together from Cat’s discards, the rust-colored skirts skimming the tops of my slippers with no train and the bodice gaping obscenely if I didn’t keep my shoulders thrown back like a soldier.

“My lord,” I said, curtseying deeply and keeping my head bowed. Not out of respect, but because I didn’t think I could look on his wrinkling, pox-marked face without crying. I couldn’t even repeat his given name for fear it would make the whole thing real.

“Young Katherine,” he said, and I heard an edge of lechery in his voice. He was practically drooling. “Rise and look on me.”

I stood and looked.

And I saw my future unravel before me. The pits the smallpox had left glowed pink and shiny against his pale, papery skin. His jowls sagged as he gazed at me unsmiling. If anything, he looked bored.

“Turn,” he said.

I turned.

This was how it was going to be. His orders. My obedience. The rest of my life, a vast expanse of mirthlessness and drudgery.

He reached for me. My skin tried to creep away, and I forced myself very still in order not to flinch.

“We shall marry in the summer,” he said, gazing expectantly
at my flat chest and thin hips. As if he thought they might ripen in the sun in time for our wedding night.

“I expect the queen will be sad to see you go,” the duchess said. I detected a trace of a smile in her voice.

“I had rather hoped Katherine’s influence would find me a place at court myself.”

“Kitty is a chamberer,” the duchess rebuked him.

He wasn’t fazed. “But beloved of the queen.” He licked his lips.

I couldn’t decide which was worse, leaving Cat to live on the Graves estate or having to see him every day at court. At least my position necessitated that we wouldn’t share a bed.

“That will do.”

Dismissed.

I hurried from the room, fighting down the bitter acid that rose in my mouth. I couldn’t imagine being touched by him. Being kissed by him. I allowed one tear to escape. For myself. For my future. For what I could have had with William, if things had been different.

I ran straight to the queen’s apartments. Looking for protection.

“Cat,” I said, sitting down beside her on the bench beneath the window in her withdrawing room. “I need your help.”

The Coven—sans duchess—erupted in a twittering dither in the corner.

“How many times do I have to tell you?” Cat seethed. “You have to call me Your Majesty!”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” I said quickly, impatient to enlist her aid.

“And where have you been?”

“The dowager duchess called for me.”

“So you, too, are prepared to spread rumors about me?” she hissed. “Groveling to the great ladies who secretly loathe you?”

The attack caught me off-guard and I shrank back.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You left me alone!” she retorted, causing another flutter amongst the Coven. Cat lowered her voice, “Abandoned in my time of need.”

What about my time of need?
I wanted to ask. I met her eye. The words formed at the back of my throat. She looked back at me, unflinching. But somewhere, in the back of her gaze, I saw fear.

“What is the matter, Your Majesty?” I whispered.

I heard the Coven creak and twist to hear what she said next, but her words fit only into my ear.

“I can’t do it,” she said. “I can’t. I can’t be brave in the face of his illness. I can’t stand up to their pushing and gossip. I can’t be the generous queen, giving alms to the poor. The poor make me cringe. I can’t be noble. We weren’t taught how to be queens, Kitty! We were taught how to be . . . property.”

“We were taught how to be wives,” I said.

“Same thing,” she muttered. “Oh, Kitty, if I am so high, why do I feel so low? I am nothing more than the youngest daughter of an insignificant branch of the Howard family tree.”

“That’s what you
were
, Cat,” I said. “But look at you now. You’re Queen of England. You can do anything.”

“Nothing queenly.”

“So do something queenly.”

“But I hate the poor. I don’t care about religion. Politics bore me stiff.”

“What about prisoners? You could save people’s lives.”

Like mine.

A spark flashed in her eyes, like a candle lighting right behind them.

“Thomas Wyatt is in the Tower again,” she said. “You’re right. What better thing to be known for than rescuing Anne Boleyn’s former lover?”

I could think of many, but again held my tongue.

“What did he do?” I asked.

“What does it matter?” Cat said. “It will be a coup. He was one of Cromwell’s men. That faction will love me. I’ll get a reputation for a soft heart. For being a romantic. It’s perfect.

“Oh, Kitty,” she hugged me. “You are the best friend a queen could ever have.”

The Coven shifted again in the corner. Gathering like pikemen prepared for conflict. Their attention flustered me, but I knew it was the right moment. To ask for help while Cat was in a generous mood.

But before I could open my mouth, she leapt to her feet.

“I must prepare my defense of Wyatt so I can present it to the king at exactly the right moment. I must look absolutely perfect.”

She leaned in to whisper to me.

“I’ll make the Coven happy, too.” She turned to the room. “Lady Howard, Lady Baynton, Countess, I need to choose a very special gown. Attend me.”

“You can help me practice later.” Cat winked and left me, dumbstruck, by the window. Just as she was about to pass through the door in a cloud of women and silk, she paused and turned back.

“Kitty.” My name itself an afterthought. “There was something you wanted to tell me.”

The Coven waited, poised. Listening. Lady Howard narrowed her eyes.

“I’m to be married,” I said weakly.

Cat smiled, her mouth pulled up on both sides like a marionette, her eyes untouched.

“Congratulations.”

T
HE KING RECOVERED TO A COLLECTIVE SIGH—RELIEF FOR SOME, REGRET
for others—from the court. The question of my marriage got lost in the scramble to return the court to normal. And the renewed requests from the king for Cat’s company.

“Mistress Tylney, you will accompany me to the king’s chambers,” Cat said one evening in early March. She had been bathed and dressed, her hair bejeweled and her cleavage perfumed, and there was nothing else to be done. “I shall have supper there.”

“Of course, Your Majesty,” I said. At her suggestion, I wore a deep blue hand-me-down of Cat’s, lengthened with a piece of silk the color of the winter moon.

“You look lovely,” she whispered to me with a quirk of a smile.

A group of us moved through the palace in step with each other, walking when Cat walked, stopping when Cat stopped. Like a flock of birds, taking cues from a single source, whirling and diving in perfect harmony.

We made our way through the queen’s apartments and out to the gallery. Courtiers and ladies, servants and messengers
bowed to her as she passed, her smile widening with every step. She paused to speak with a viscount here, an earl there, just briefly, never engaging in a real conversation. But the number of people flocking the gallery made the short journey excruciatingly long.

We stopped at the door of the king’s apartments and one of the ladies knocked. An usher opened the door, sweeping aside with a low bow.

“Your Majesty,” he said.

“Master Culpepper,” Cat answered, emotionless.

He stood and grinned at Cat as if she was a delicious sweetmeat, and she arched an eyebrow at him. The blood from my feet swirled in my ears. I wobbled. I reached out blindly and grasped an arm, a sleeve, to steady myself. The arm of the queen.

“Mistress Tylney, you do forget yourself,” Cat snapped. She shook my hand off and glared at me. “You are excused.”

Murmurs vibrated through the cluster of ladies behind us and one of the Coven sniggered.

“I beg your pardon, Your Majesty,” I said, growing hot under their stares and whispers.

Cat leaned close to me, “Edmund Standebanke is off duty tonight. He waits for you in the clock court. You didn’t think I’d forget, did you?”

She winked at me from beneath her lowered brow and gave me a push.

“Happy birthday.”

Even I had taken no notice of the day. Trust Cat to remember. And to find a suitably Cat-like gift, dubious as it was.

I turned away from the ladies and the light of the king’s apartments. Away from the gaze of the court. I couldn’t flee. Cat would expect a full report. My feet took me back along the dim galleries, down the stairs and through Anne Boleyn’s gateway. And there, under the timepiece, a man stood waiting. For me.

The other girls had all noticed Standebanke and commented on his golden good looks. Like a classical hero, he excelled at sports and games and physical tasks. He wore the king’s livery well, tight in all the right places, sleeves flowing, chest and shoulders broad. The red hose, cut with the black lining, emphasized what were surely muscled thighs. Joan called him “swoony.”

But all I could see was the monster from the forest.

I quickly scanned the courtyard. Dozens of courtiers, clustered in groups. He couldn’t hurt me. He wouldn’t dare. I was a favorite of the queen.

“Good evening,” he said, and nodded a tiny bow. He was taller than I—though the extra inch or two could have been his hair.

“Good evening,” I echoed, and dipped slightly.

“Mistress Tylney?” he asked.

I nodded, too afraid to speak.

“Would you care to walk in the garden?” he asked, holding out an arm.

“It’s getting dark,” I said, refusing the walk. Refusing the arm.

“And you are afraid of the dark?” he asked. He sounded sympathetic, understanding. I would have laughed had I not been so petrified.

“Yes,” I said, surprised I told the truth.

“No need to be afraid with me,” he said and patted the sword that hung at his side. “I am one of the king’s own guard. I can handle the rats and owls that inhabit the gardens at night.” Again he held out his arm.

“It is not the rats and owls I am afraid of,” I said, and took up the courage to look him in the eyes. My arms remained firmly at my sides, and I struggled to release the fists I clenched.

He lowered his arm and leaned closer to me. I held tightly to my bones, which felt ready to fly apart.

“I knew it was you,” he said quietly, his deep voice a rumbling purr. “I wanted to meet you. I wanted to tell you . . . the truth.”