The Queen's Mistake (15 page)

“His Majesty has not yet seen the dress, so Her Grace will wear it, as you suggest. And she bids you, Mistress Howard, wear the yellow, in order to properly accompany her this evening to the king’s banquet. Her seamstress will take your measurements and alter it to your size.”

Catherine felt the blood drain from her face. A sensation of guilt crept through her like a December chill. But she curtsied deeply. “Your Grace, I could not,” she wisely demurred for the benefit of the court ladies around her, whose stares could quite easily have melted her.

The queen glanced at Mother Lowe, and again there was a flurry of guttural German. “Her Grace is most nervous to attempt a song in the king’s presence for the first time, Mistress Howard. She says your company would be a comfort.”

“But the dress . . .”

“She says yellow is your color as green is hers. Please accept it as her gift.”

The only genuine smile in the room at that moment came from Anne herself. She radiated a kind of goodness that Catherine found mesmerizing in a world of so much backbiting. In response, Catherine made a deep curtsy once again. She was able to breathe only once the chatter of the group had recommenced and Mother Lowe had gone to supervise the fetching of the green dress from the queen’s wardrobe chamber.

Catherine glanced around for a task to occupy her. She wanted to melt into the oak wall paneling at that moment, but finding some way to employ her hands so they would not shake would have to suffice. She went to the dressing table and began to line up the bottles and jars, just as she had seen the Marchioness of Dorset do.

“You had better go and prepare yourself,” Jane said in a surprisingly sympathetic tone. “Go to the seamstress to get your measurements taken. I shall send the finished dress and servants along later to help you.”

She liked Jane, but Catherine could not afford to trust her any more than any of the other women. She knew they all felt themselves more deserving of favor than she, a girl so new at court. She must never forget that. She was always at risk, no matter who tried to be her friend in the coming days.

Loath as Jane was to admit it, Catherine Howard did look like an actual princess in the queen’s elegant and newly altered gown, which now fit her perfectly. It was early evening, and the last of the sunlight streaming through the windows, all crimson and fiery russet, played on the pearls and tiny diamonds of the jeweled bodice on her gown. After two servants in beige dresses and plain white hoods had helped her dress, Catherine stood before a mirror, and Jane saw by her expression that she was daring to admire the reflection gazing
back at her. The young woman with full amber hair and stunning pale gray eyes was extraordinary. She reminded Jane of a colt pressing at the gate of its stall, aching to break free, to gallop and show the world all that she could do: no restrictions, no rules, yet stumbling with naive enthusiasm. Jane knew only too well how dangerous that sort of attraction to freedom was. Catherine spun around, laughing. It was so easy to envy Catherine Howard. Yet still, it was nearly impossible not to like her.

She needed protection here, and even a bit of compassion. As one who was seventeen years her senior, with a lifetime more of experience, Jane had assigned herself that task. She had made so many grave and costly mistakes with Anne Boleyn. At first they had been friends, then sisters-in-law after she married Anne’s brother, George. They had been thick as thieves when they had plotted to oust Henry’s mistress, Bessie Blount, from court. Yet from there, things had turned sour. Jane had been angry with her husband when she had discovered the possibility of his incestuous infidelities with Anne, but she had never planned to be the cause of his beheading. Or Anne’s, for that matter. Jealousy and envy were a poison, and four years ago Jane had drunk too deeply from that cup. She felt she had been swept away by the events, and now George and Anne were both dead, her own testimony having expedited, if not caused, their violent ends. Having been given a second chance and a formal written offer to return to court by Henry, Jane felt that befriending Catherine was, in a small way, making amends for her part in that whole grisly affair.

“You are a vision, child,” Jane said kindly as Catherine spun around like a little girl, and the yellow silk danced.

“I am, aren’t I?” Catherine said, more innocently awestruck than boastful.

“Well, if you are quite finished admiring yourself, you had better
dash to the queen’s chamber. Her Grace will not want to be late to her reunion with the king, as she is doing everything she can to put her best foot forward. She knows how important this evening is. It may very well be her last occasion to impress him before the forces against her prevail.”

Catherine’s face suddenly paled. “The stakes are that high tonight?”

“They could not be higher,” Jane replied meaningfully.

Catherine held up the skirts of her dress and dashed through the tangle of rooms in the queen’s apartments. She could think of only one thing: By Catherine’s teaching alone, the queen would need to play well enough to find the favor of the great King of England and remain his wife. By extension, Catherine could remain at court. She did not want to think of all that was riding on this single event, but it was difficult not to. Quite simply, her very life was at stake. She could not return to Horsham now that she had tasted the freedoms and luxuries of the court. Yet there were no marital prospects so far, and she feared the duke would lose faith in her abilities to attract a husband and send her away. Perhaps this afternoon, looking as elegant as she did in the queen’s dress, she would catch the eye of someone suitable.

She opened the door to a small, paneled reading closet beside the presence chamber that led to the queen’s privy chamber. Only a small sliver of light filtered through the stained-glass window, making it difficult for her to see in the otherwise dark room. As she stepped through the door, she at first did not see the small figure of a boy approaching her, obscuring his eyes with his left hand. When she did finally see him, it was too late. His movements were swift and deliberate as he flung a small silver pot of ink in her direction. The ink flew, spraying out like a black fountain and spattering the bodice of her dress. It was a ghastly onyx stain. Catherine shrieked
and looked down in horror. When she looked up again, the boy and the ink pot were both gone.

Her breathing was sharp. Splayed out like a web, her hands flew over the wet bodice, smearing the stain and blackening the tips of her fingers. She sank against the wall, feeling her knees give way beneath her.

She had been boldly sabotaged.

Tears flooded her eyes and ran in ribbons down her cheeks. She could indict no one, because there was no one to accuse. Anyone at court could have compelled the page to do it. The queen would think her clumsy at best and arrogant at worst for having taken so little care of a costly gift, especially when there was so much at stake in her own survival at court.

Worse, there was no time to change dresses now, no time even to fashion a makeshift cover. Catherine Howard would need to lift her chin and banish her pride, as well as her desire to know what cruel person had done this.

She reached up for her mother’s necklace, which hung around her neck like an amulet.

“Give me courage,” she silently whispered.

She would walk behind the queen and Lady Douglas, trying to blend in like the others, and hope with all of her heart that she would not be called upon. It really was all she could do—that, and pray to a God who might well be angry with her for the commandments she had so boldly broken.

Thomas Culpeper was bored already, and the banquet had not yet begun. Days of endless standing, waiting and smiling took their toll. He stood alone beneath an archway near the door and watched each of the young ladies who filed in. It was the only diversion during the
endless months of monotony. There were few he had not had for himself already. Sisters. Daughters. The challenge and fun died for him when the access was so easy.

Everyone knew handsome Thomas was a favorite of the king. He rode with Henry, dressed him, played cards with him, even slept in his bedchamber, as the gentlemen of the king’s privy chamber were called upon to do. The honor had secured his place at court and cleared the darker aspects of his reputation.

As he stood with his ankles and arms crossed, leaning against the pillar, Thomas glanced down at his elegant doublet of Italian fawn brown velvet. The cape slung gracefully across his shoulders and was secured by a gold clasp that was a gift from the king. It had been a part of Henry’s personal wardrobe but had been worn only once, His Majesty had explained, “When I was a bit younger and a trifle slimmer.”

Thomas had greeted the honor with proper enthusiasm and just the right amount of humility, characteristics that pleased a steadily aging and widening sovereign. He nodded to Lady Lisle, smiled, then turned away. Jésu, how she bored him with her voice like a horse’s whinny, and that expression of expectation mixed with desperation.

Guests were filing in around him, and the stately pavane began to play from the gallery above, which included the pipe, tabor, harp and trumpet. The king would be near. Thomas heaved a sigh, loathing the predictability of another evening with too much food and never enough wine. He would have to watch as the king pretended to be young and handsome enough again to deserve the favor of the young ladies he conquered. Yet who could blame the poor, sodden old bastard who, after four months’ time, had yet to bed his own queen?

Henry did not stride but limped and hobbled into the hall a moment
later, surrounded by Cromwell, Thomas Seymour and Charles Brandon, and suitably concealed by a tent’s worth of dove gray silk heavily bejeweled with a baldric of rubies and small pearls. Everyone, including Culpeper, whom His Majesty passed near the door, dropped into deep and reverent bows as Henry nodded and smiled. The pavane ceased and a fanfare was blared out on trumpets.

A moment later, entering the room beside the queen, he saw the new Howard girl, her small, slim body poured into a sweep of crisp, sparkling yellow silk.

Perhaps it would be an interesting evening after all.

It was odd how she held herself, though, both arms up at her chest as she walked, hands linked at the fingertips as if trying to . . . Ah, so that was it. He saw the small but prominent ink stain directly over her breast. The odds of her having spilled it on herself were slim, and he knew enough of the queen’s ladies to figure out instantly what had happened. They were an envious, petty lot, especially Lady Lisle and the Marchioness of Dorset. Someone had been determined to ruin this first banquet for her by any means necessary. The Howard girl was far too pretty and too much of a threat.

Thomas moved toward the queen’s chair beside the king. He watched her curtsy deeply to him and try to smile. The poor, ugly Flanders woman could not help but be likable to everyone but her own husband. Lady Rochford and Mistress Howard stood near the queen, then sat once she was seated.

The king was obviously distracted by Anne Basset, Lady Lisle’s pretty daughter. He did not even notice Mistress Howard, and he certainly had not seen the ink stain. Nor had the queen. Yet.

Thomas took the seat beside Mistress Howard. The first thing he noticed was her hair. He could smell its fragrance, freshly washed, not perfumed like all the others’. He bit back a charmed smile. You could take the girl out of the country, yet . . .

The stricken expression that darkened the queen’s rosy, pockmarked face interrupted his thought. The Earl of Waldeck was behind her, leaning over, whispering something in her ear. Anne of Cleves leaned toward Mother Lowe and began to speak back and forth with her in quick, staccato fashion. Then she said something to Mistress Howard.

It was all very swift, the words whispered and impossible to make out beneath the din of music and chatter. Yet Thomas was fascinated when he saw one of the court musicians bring the queen a lute. He had heard Mistress Howard had been giving the queen lessons, but he had no idea she was ready to play for the king. Just recently Charles Brandon had joked that the queen played as well as she bedded—miserably, if at all.