The Queen's Mistake (23 page)

For the nearly five months’ duration of his disastrous political marriage, Henry had felt frustrated, old and defeated. He was tangled for the fourth time within a matrimonial net. But Norfolk had presented him with a path to freedom, and the duke’s pretty, young niece had given him the impetus to wade through yet another complex divorce.

Thinking of Catherine Howard’s slim body—and not of his four-year-old son upon his knee—Henry sat patiently on a velvet-covered stool for his court painter, Hans Holbein. Henry’s full face was flushed with desire for Catherine and from the noxious odor of paint fumes.

There was a time when he craved nothing more than a son. He had divorced Catherine of Aragon when she could not provide that, and beheaded Anne when she produced only their daughter, Elizabeth. But now that he had a son who had reached the reassuring age of four, when illness took so many infants, Henry felt free to trust, and to desire something more. His heir, this gentle boy as fragile as Jane Seymour, had given him the immortality he craved. Now a young and beautiful wife might give him back his all but dissipated youth as well.

“Tip your head toward His Grace just slightly, Your Majesty,” Holbein directed the boy, Edward. “There. Perfect.”

“When can we go outside, Father? How much longer will he be?” the boy asked, straining not to move lest he be scolded again by Holbein or his father.

“Patience, my boy. You shall be king one day, and learning to wait for what you desire shall be as important as finding a way to achieve it.”

“But I want to play,” Edward pressed, his little lower lip turning
out in a pout, and tears of frustration pooling in his wide blue-green eyes. His eyes were the exact shape of his mother’s, and when Henry looked into them, he could deny the boy nothing.

“Very well, Hans, that’s enough for today.”

As he lifted Edward from his knee, he saw her. Fresh. Lovely. Full of promise.

“Ah, there you are.” The king smiled at Catherine as Edward stood next to his father, tugging on the diamonds and rubies of his doublet.

“You called for me, sire?” she asked.

Catherine was slightly frazzled but looked stunning in a gown of blue embroidered velvet. Agnes and Norfolk were doing a splendid job with her, he thought appreciatively. Trotting her out for sale to the highest bidder.

Good. He could afford to pay any price.

She stood with Lady Rochford, whom he had finally forgiven for her connection to the Anne Boleyn chapter of his life, one that still brought him torment to recall. Henry still could not fathom how he had moved from intense passion to complete hatred for Anne. His transformation during that period still frightened him, and he still could not bear to look upon their child, Elizabeth, who was born of such dark passion.

Sometimes at night, in the solitude of sleep, Anne came to him in a dream, at times as a beguiling, ghostly image at the foot of his bed. He would try to cry out, to call her a witch, to accuse her of robbing him of his heart. But the words never came, and in a frustrating repetition of the dream, her image always snapped away, leaving everything unresolved between them.

He could not believe how much this Howard girl reminded him of the young Anne. The one who had led him into emotional ruin.

He believed Catherine would be different, and just might ease the dark torment of his memories. In truth, he was counting on it.

“My lady Rochford,” he said, acknowledging Jane Boleyn with a nod.

“Your Majesty. I have seen little of you since my return to court,” said Jane.

“Certainly we must remedy that, but I trust you have been made welcome in the meantime.”

“Greatly. The queen is generous and kind.”

“Splendid,” Henry replied, as Edward fidgeted beside him like a little colt longing to break free. He glanced down at the thin, pale boy, who was not unlike Henry’s elder brother, Arthur, at a young age. Apparently, this was a day for memories, Henry thought, willing the image away like all of the others that plagued him.

He glanced at Catherine and noticed how uncomfortable she had become during his exchange with Jane. But he had brought them together intentionally. Each connected him to the darkest part of his past, and facing the two of them together was like facing that phantom image at the foot of his bed. He wanted to deal with it once and for all.

“My lady Rochford, you know the prince.”

“Your Highness.” Jane curtsied to the little boy in his opulent velvet doublet, jewels and hat, but Edward seemed not to notice her.

“Mistress Howard, I should like to introduce you to my son,” Henry said, watching keenly for what would happen next. As Jane had done, Catherine dropped into a deep curtsy, but then moved nearer, as if he were any other little boy.

“That is a fine top, Your Highness,” she said of the small red toy he had drawn from a pocket and was trying, unsuccessfully, to spin on the surface of the polished table beside them. “I had one of those
when I was your age. It was my favorite thing in all the world, and I was always scolded for having it with me. Would you like to know a little trick I devised for spinning it?”

The child looked surprised to be spoken to with such familiarity when everyone else spoke to him formally, as one would expect of England’s only male heir. Henry was equally surprised, but also amused. A moment later, meeting her gaze fully, the child handed her the toy. Catherine took it and, with a sharp, deft twist, spun it onto the table. Henry watched the boy’s eyes light with delight.

“Show me,” Edward said in a tone of command for such a little voice.

“It is in your wrist. You must snap it like this,” Catherine replied, showing him.

In three attempts, Edward was able to spin the little toy. Henry felt as much joy as his son at his success, and he could feel himself smiling.

“Teach me something else?” Edward bade her with wide, hopeful eyes. Henry felt his heart seize. The boy had no mother; he did not even have a strong connection to a particular nurse-maid or servant, so it was a unique moment for the doting father to witness.

Henry placed a hand gently atop the boy’s head. “Mistress Howard can return later if you practice your Latin without complaint.”

Edward’s governess, an older woman with steel gray hair peeking out from her hood, advanced and curtsied. “I will inform you of his performance, Your Majesty.”

“Can she truly?” Edward asked.

“It is a promise.” Henry smiled tenderly at the boy as he followed his governess and Jane from the room.

“Come look at something.” Henry motioned for Catherine to follow him.

Holbein, a squat little man with stick-straight bangs over a sweaty forehead, was cleaning his paintbrushes.

“That shall be all for now, Hans,” Henry dismissed the painter, as he approached the still-wet painting with Catherine.

The painting was a slightly stylized image of the king, although his voluminous size showed through. To the left of Henry was a pencil outline of Edward’s face, with his exquisite doublet and hat already painted in. To the right of Henry was the shadow of a girl, not yet a full outline. This was meant to be Elizabeth. Regretfully, Henry had not seen the child in nearly a year. Six-year-old Elizabeth was kept at Hatfield, out of his sight but never fully out of his conscience.

Which was precisely why he was inviting her to Greenwich in the summer, one of several stops on the royal progress.

Seeing his other daughter, Mary, was more difficult, and Henry did not like to do it unless it was absolutely necessary. The poor girl had been through too much, and her allegiance was to the memory of her dead mother, Catherine of Aragon. In spite of the bitter end of their marriage, Henry knew in his heart that Catherine had truly loved him, which made the guilt of looking upon their only child’s face intolerable.

“What do you think of the painting so far?” he asked the new girl, Catherine Howard, pushing aside his guilty feelings about his daughters.

“I think it is a fine likeness, Your Majesty.”

“And what of me?”

“I meant of you, sire.”

He smiled like a boy, relishing her flattery.

“There is to be another image in the painting,” Henry said, ges turing to the shaded figure. “It will be of your cousin’s daughter, Elizabeth.”

“She is a fortunate girl to be painted beside so grand a king,” Catherine said.

“I struggle to remember that she is still my daughter.”

“Children are the innocent ones.”

“Indeed. I know your own childhood at Horsham was a difficult one. I am sorry about your parents. I did not know your father, but Norfolk spoke favorably of him.”

Catherine was touched by his sympathy. “Many thanks, Your Majesty.”

“I am bringing the child to Greenwich. It has been too long since my son had the benefit of youthful companionship. It will do him good to reunite with his sister. The court leaves on progress tomorrow. The queen is fond of you, so you shall stay on in her household while we are away. She could surely use more lessons with the lute.” He smiled.

Catherine demurred, and he could see her blush.
Charming
, he thought.

“Her Grace really does need a more advanced tutor than I, though.”

“Nonsense. She has improved much since you came to court,” said Henry. “I would not change a thing . . . for now.”

Jane frowned as she looked at Catherine later that afternoon.

She was exquisite in yet another new dress provided by the dowager duchess. This one was of olive green brocade with large, turned-back cuffs and silk-lined sleeves. Her hair was dressed in a gold net, and she wore a ruby at her throat.

“Staring at yourself in the mirror is not going to make you any lovelier than you are now,” said Jane, with a hint of irritation.

“I was just thinking, actually.”

“Oh?”

“I
can
do that, despite what people may think of me, you know.” Catherine turned away from her reflection. “I was thinking about Master Holbein’s painting and wondering why the king did not include Princess Mary. It seems like such a slight.”

Jane sighed. “Mary was very devoted to her mother, and it is difficult for the king to look upon her without being reminded of the scandal of his divorce from Catherine of Aragon.”

Catherine thought about Jane’s words, then asked, “Did Princess Mary look favorably upon my cousin?”

“Not at all. As for our current queen, Mary is not acquainted with her, since she lives mainly at New Hall in Essex and spends her time in constant prayer.”

“Sad for a young woman of only twenty-four,” Catherine said.

“True, but there was little of the girl left in her when I was last at court. They say, though, that she and the king have made peace. Pulling Elizabeth from the line of succession was a balm to her wounds. It is more Elizabeth and what to do with her that haunts His Majesty now.” Jane paused, then added, “But you cannot be bothered with these complications if you mean to survive here. You must worry only about yourself.”

“I mean to,” Catherine said with a smile, taking one last glance at herself in the mirror.

That night, at supper, Catherine watched the king whispering in the queen’s ear as they sat beneath a canopy on a raised dais, flaming torches lighting the walls around them with a flickering glow. They seemed happy enough. Apparently, whatever differences existed between them had been worked out. Catherine was relieved. Now that the king seemed occupied with the queen, perhaps she would be free to pursue a life with Thomas.

But before the dinner was over, the king nodded to Catherine as
she sat between Jane and his niece Margaret. A moment later, a page came to her and whispered in her ear, “The king desires that you join him in a dance, Mistress Howard.”

“But the queen—”

“Her Grace does not fancy dancing, since she cannot keep up with the king,” the page replied simply.

Catherine was afraid to look at poor Anne, knowing that the page’s words were untrue. The queen had only ever been good to her, but she could not reject the sovereign’s invitation.

Catherine rose from her seat as the king left the queen’s side. He took her hand and led her to the dance floor. All eyes were upon them.

“Your Majesty dances very well,” Catherine remarked with an easy smile, knowing well that this was how her uncle and her grandmother expected her to behave with the king, as they moved through a tourdion.

“I used to be magnificent.”

“Oh, but you still are, sire,” she replied quickly, lying poorly. She saw instantly that he knew it.

She was afraid that he would be angry, but the king tipped back his head and let loose a great barrel of a laugh. “Would that it were still true!”

“In my own experience, youth is as overrated as flattery, Your Majesty.”

“Beauty and a sense of wit? I had not expected that,” the king volleyed.