Honor in the Dust (24 page)

“You are a scoundrel, Charles!”

“Well, of course I am. Always have been. But the king understands that.”

“So where do you keep your family?”

“Oh, we have a country house not far from London. I go there on occasion to give her a little cheer and comfort. She gives me a pocketful of money. Otherwise how would I possibly afford to stay here?”

“I thought the king supplied you with money.”

“Well, he does. He's very generous, but it's not nearly enough. Not when one dresses as I do. You'd be wise to spend some of your winnings on a new wardrobe, Stuart. Some day soon we'll be meeting the king's new bride.”

“New bride? Please tell me he is not serious—that he will not really divorce Catherine.”

Vining gave him a wry look. “Ah, prepare for more disillusionment, my young friend. The king wants a son more than anything else. And haven't you discovered yet that whatever Henry wants, Henry is going to get? He can do that, you know.”

“But he couldn't make a harlot the queen!”

“Oh yes he could. Some of the mistresses have been rather nice, actually. Anne Stafford was a pretty girl, soft and pleasant. I think I might have made headway with her myself, but of course that wouldn't have been a politic choice, would it now?”

“How many have there been?”

“Oh, I've lost count. There was one called Jane Popyngcort. A horrible name, isn't it? Well, anyway, she was his mistress. She was maid of honor to Queen Catherine.” He suddenly laughed again. “Honor. A maid of honor. Isn't that a laugh? Henry got tired of her and sent her off with a reward of a hundred pounds.”

“And the others?”

“Oh, the others, the others. Elizabeth Blount, or Bessie, as she was called, was a court beauty. She sang and danced beautifully and was rather loose in her morals. Back in the year eighteen she became the king's mistress. A rather ironic thing it was, Stuart. Henry was guarding Catherine's health, hoping that the child she was carrying would be a boy, while Bessie birthed a child that was a boy—and lived.”

“What happened to him?”

“His name is Henry Fitzroy, and he's been assigned a princely household like that of the king's legitimate daughter.”

“He's still alive?”

“Oh, yes. He may be king some day. Who knows? Henry could do that. Then after Bessie there was Mary Boleyn—well, actually, Mary Boleyn Carey. Henry kept her for quite a while. And so it goes. It's all become rather boring, actually.”

It was not boring in the least to Stuart. His own fall into immorality had brought shame to him, but he was still capable of being shocked. Now knowing this history in full, he felt that the world was a lesser place. He had admired King Henry and seen in him a strong man full of courage and knightly virtues. To find that he was no more than a mere serial adulterer sickened him. He'd known enough of the story, of course. It was impossible to dodge the gossips, impossible not to see it with his own eyes over the years. But the idea that it was all common knowledge was truly outrageous.

He thought of Queen Catherine and her daughter, Mary. Catherine had few friends who were not seeking some favor from the king or from her, but Stuart sought nothing but to be a companion to both mother and child. Stuart wiped his mouth on a cloth and rose.

“Where are you off to?” Vining asked.

“To see the queen, I believe.”

“You won't mention—”

“Of course not. Give me a little credit, Vining. I've learned a
bit about how the court moves over the years. I know what is a safe topic for our lady—and what is not.”

“Mind that you don't let anything slip,” Vining said doubtfully. “She can be fearsome in her wrath. And Henry's current, mad ideas about religion frustrate her and make her fearful. One doesn't want to be caught between them.”

He would play any game that Mary wanted for hours at a time, and today was no different. So hard did they play, running about the corridors and gardens in a game of hide and seek, that he finally persuaded her to sit beside him to read a book, only to have her fall asleep, her face against his shoulder. Stuart looked up to see Catherine leaning against the doorframe, watching them.

“She's such a beautiful girl, Your Majesty.”

“More than some,” Catherine said with a smile. “She dotes on you. She talks about you all the time. You're her favorite playmate.”

“She must give you a great deal of pleasure.”

A slight cloud crossed Catherine's face. “She does. If only she had been a boy. That disappointed the king.”

“Does he love her?” Stuart asked cautiously.

“He doesn't think about her.” There was sadness in Catherine's tone, and she said quietly, “It was my task to bring a son to Henry, and I haven't done it.”

“You may yet.”

“If God wills.” She turned suddenly and said, “Are you a Catholic? You never talk about your faith.”

“I'm a very poor example when it comes to faith. I was baptized, of course, when I was a baby. But my religion has become … unimportant. Other things occupy my mind.”

“You should do something about that.”

“I'm sure I will in time. For a while I spent a great deal of every day reading a Bible.”

“It's difficult to be a good Catholic.”

“Why do you say so?”

“Because in England it's different from Spain, my country. In Spain there was no question. Everybody was religious. They had to be.”

“Was that good, in your opinion? A forced religion?”

“It's the right thing, the right way,” Catherine said firmly.

He looked into her dark eyes, saw her furrowed brow. “But something is troubling you, Majesty, about the church?”

Catherine's eyes almost glittered with her passion. “God made the church, the Catholic Church, beginning with Saint Peter. There are not two churches. Only one. Men want to change that.” She hesitated, then said, “My husband may be one of them.”

“But the pope has bestowed on him the title Defender of the Faith.”

“He wrote a paper defending the church. That was why he was given that title, but he feels little allegiance to her.”

“I'm sorry to hear it.”

“As am I. It grieves my heart.”

“How do you think people want to change the church?”

“They're never satisfied,” she said with disgust, pacing now. “It's mostly this man Martin Luther stirring up trouble among the people. Some even wish to take the Bible out of Latin and translate it into English.”

Stuart asked as mildly as he could, “Please, I don't understand your fear. What harm might be found in an English Bible?”

“It could be very bad.”

“How so?”

She stilled and faced him, incredulous. “Because only priests are trained to understand the Scripture. It's kept in Latin so that the common people will not take the Scripture and twist it. They do that, you know. They've already tried through the ages.”

And so can the pope,
Stuart almost said, but luckily caught
himself. “I know a man whose whole purpose in life is to do exactly that, translate the Bible into English.”

“Who is he?” Catherine demanded, leaning forward, and then at once she closed her eyes and leaned back. “No, don't tell me. I would have his life in my hands, and I don't want that.”

“You don't mean that he could be harmed for translating the Bible!”

“Under certain conditions he could be burned at the stake.”

At once Stuart saw the work of William Tyndale in an entirely different light. He knew that there was a movement to stop the translation. The king, so far, had taken no active part, so he asked tentatively, “Is the king opposed to an English translation?”

“Not at present, but I think he will be.”

“I didn't know that.”

“Perhaps you'd like to meet with my chaplain. I'm sure he could help you answer some of your questions—the questions that obviously keep you from investing in your faith.”

“That would be most kind, but your husband keeps me very busy.”

“I can see to that. Perhaps the three of us could pursue this matter together.”

Stuart paused. Vining's parting words—“
One doesn't want to be caught between them
”—echoed in his mind. But what was he to do? Queen Catherine awaited his answer. And he had never refused her. “I would be most honored, Your Majesty.”

Three days later, when Stuart was walking along one of the broad pathways in the garden next to the castle, deep in thoughts of Queen Catherine, he heard his name called and turned to see Charles Vining with an attractive young lady.

“Come, Winslow,” Vining called out. “Come and walk with us a while.”

At once Stuart joined them. “Mistress Anne,” he said with a nod.

“Master Winslow.”

“Welcome back to court.”

“I confess I missed it,” she said, with a smile that was impossible not to return. “The country is terribly boring. This is where I belong.” She looped one hand through Stuart's arm and the other through Charles's, and they resumed their walk around the gardens. Stuart's face burned, and he scanned the windows, hoping the queen did not spy them together.

Anne Boleyn was not what one would call a beautiful woman, but she was an intensely attractive one. She had a heavy cascade of glossy black hair that freely fell down her back. Her best features were her large dark eyes. They were lively and curious and gave an impression of intimacy even upon this first, casual meeting. “So, do tell, Master Winslow,” she said, with a graceful inclination of her head, “How fare your birds?”

“Do you speak of the king's hunting birds,” Charles put in, “or Nell Fenton?”

Anne had a deep, pleasant laugh. “Nell mentions you often, sir.”

“I'm surprised,” Vining said. “Winslow here claims she hasn't thought about him in months.”

“Oh, a lady's attention can always be recaptured. Just as a man's can.” She cocked an eyebrow at Stuart.

“I wish it could,” Stuart said regretfully. “But I fear I've tried everything with Nell over the years. It appears hopeless.”

“Leave us now, Sir Charles. I'm going to instruct Master Winslow on how to secure the affections of the young lady he so desires.”

“If anyone could teach such a thing, it would be you, my dear.” Charles grinned and moved away, laughing softly.

“Shall we continue our walk, Master Winslow?”

“My pleasure, Mistress Boleyn.”

She spoke freely of her life in France, but hardly mentioned her family. She was the most vivacious woman Stuart had ever seen, and in spite of his devotion to the queen, he was completely taken by her.

“Well, now, tell me about your prospects.”

“Well, to be truthful, I don't have many, madam. I have no title and no property and little money. I am merely keeper of the mews.”

“Come, now. I happen to know the king is very proud of his birds. But about Nell?”

“I fear it's hopeless.”

“Oh, you must never say that! There never was a woman born who couldn't be taken by spirit and determination. Now, let me tell you how to catch her interest. …”

“She'll be the next queen,” Charles said quietly in Stuart's ear as they watched Anne with the king. “Mark what I tell you.”

“I don't believe it. The king has a wife.”

“Nearly nine years at court, and still you remain naive! Just watch how the king hangs over Anne, and watch her when she speaks to this fellow Wyatt. There! Are you watching? He's head over heels in love with Anne.”

Stuart watched as Anne moved through the crowd, stopping to speak to a lady, then greeting a lord. All the while both Wyatt and the king had a difficult time looking anywhere but in her direction.

“Heavens, Vining, you just may be right.” He looked to the queen, who was managing to watch the court festivities as if nothing at all was wrong. “He's a poet, you say? The man who seeks Anne's attentions?”