The Queen's Mistake (34 page)

She was clever, he thought, with another burst of pride. Whatever she made of her life, he was certain of one thing: Elizabeth would never suffer fools gladly. At that moment, he wished he might live long enough to see her grow up.

There was so much promise in her.

Henry and Elizabeth turned their attentions to the festivities as acrobats began to perform on the bare, torchlit floor. Rousing cheers drowned out all conversation, but it did not stop Henry from noticing when Catherine finally entered the room. She was wearing the green gown and the magnificent emerald necklace he had given her. Dainty, sensual, with a hint of the devil about her. How glorious it would be when he bedded her at last!

With a wave of his hand over his shoulder, Henry summoned a nearby page.

“Bring her,” he said, nodding toward Catherine.

An instant later, Catherine stood before him on the raised platform. She gave a polite curtsy, emerald silk pooling at her ankles. As she rose, she looked directly and familiarly at Henry. As it always did when she was near, Henry felt his body stir.

“Your Majesty has provided fine entertainment,” Catherine said.

“Come and sit beside me,” Henry said, indicating the empty chair on his other side. “There is someone I would like you to meet.”

Catherine dutifully sat, flounced out her emerald skirts, and took a fresh cup of wine before Henry eased back into his own chair. No matter how much he wanted Mary to be there, he knew it was better that his more judgmental older daughter had not yet arrived. Elizabeth was the one who would give Catherine a real chance anyway.

Without being prompted, Catherine caught the little girl’s eye. Just as she had done with Edward, she leaned forward with her bright, genuine smile and introduced herself.

“Hello, I am Catherine Howard.”

“I am His Majesty’s daughter Elizabeth.”

Henry crossed his arms over his barrel chest and pretended to watch the acrobats, but he eagerly listened to every syllable.

“Your Grace’s dress is incredibly lovely. Is it French?” Catherine addressed Elizabeth as a princess, a daring move, since she had been removed from the line of succession. Henry appreciated her sensitivity, as he knew she would do so only if she realized that he had not made the situation regarding the succession clear to his young daughter.

“It is Italian, and it is too tight,” she replied, turning her little lower lip out in a pout.

“Mine are always too tight as well.” Catherine softly laughed.
“Yet they say we must never show our discomfort. We must either smile or have our stays cinched even tighter.”

Elizabeth giggled in response. Henry bit back a contented smile and signaled for more wine from a liveried servant with a large silver ewer at the ready. He wanted to get very drunk to celebrate the moment. Elizabeth liked Catherine, and the rest of the world would like her as well.

But just as the acrobats were finished performing and as the music was to start, and before Henry could bring his goblet to his lips, he saw his elder daughter, Mary, approaching. As usual, she was dressed in severe black and her spine was stiff. She was not smiling. This would either be interesting or very awkward. Yes, more wine, Henry thought. On evenings like these, there could not be enough wine in the world.

Across the room, Mary Lassells was watching the scene play out. Watching and waiting.

As the brightly costumed Venetian musicians began to sing, Catherine noticed a young woman in black approaching the king. Her stony expression was framed by an older-style gable hood, and she wore a simple gold cross around her neck. There was a striking difference between this young woman and the other ladies of the court, who were ornamented boldly in beads, stones and pearls. Catherine was wary of her.

When the king greeted her, Catherine realized who she was. A chair was brought and placed between Catherine’s and the king’s, forcing Catherine to the side. The severe-looking young woman sank onto the proffered chair with an air of entitlement.

“Ah, here you are at last,” Henry said, his smile wide and welcoming. “I had begun to think you were not coming.”

“I had begun to think I wasn’t coming either,” Mary replied crisply.

She looked to the other side of the king and smiled and nodded to Elizabeth. But she did not acknowledge Catherine before she turned her attention back to the king.

“Ah, dancing! I would fancy a bit of that this evening,” Henry exclaimed. He held out his fat, bejeweled hand to Mary as the Venetian musicians struck up his favorite tune and the guests began to rise from their seats. “Mary, would you do me the honor?”

She nodded and rose stiffly as the king’s ornate chair was drawn back for him. He smiled despite his daughter’s formal demeanor.

Left to her own devices, Catherine seized the opportunity to speak to Elizabeth again. She seemed lonely without another young person to speak with in the room. Catherine knew it would please her uncle and grandmother if she made an effort with the royal little girl. But more than that, Catherine actually wanted to get to know her.

“Do you like dancing?” Catherine asked.

“I only dance with my governess, and she is not a proper partner, so I am not certain if I like it yet. She says I step on her feet a little too often.”

Catherine was surprised by the girl’s self-possession and charmed by her refreshing candor. “They did not allow me to dance at Horsham until I was much older than you are now. I still cannot dance as well as the other ladies here, and I especially cannot keep up with the king.”

Elizabeth studied her, tipping her little head. “Truly?”

“Very truly.” Catherine smiled.

Elizabeth put a finger to her lips as if she were about to share a great secret. “I do not like being raised in the country,” Elizabeth whispered.

Catherine could sympathize. “Nor did I. It was frightfully dull, and the temptation to fill my time with foolish activities was too great. I always knew there was more to be had, and my suspicions were confirmed only when I came to court.”

She smiled and glanced at the king and his elder daughter as they danced—two tall, lumbering royals both draped in too much velvet.

“Are you going to marry my father?”

Catherine was surprised by the question. The young princess was shrewd for a girl of seven. “I have not been asked.”

Fortunately, she thought. Her heart ached at the possibility that she would marry someone other than Thomas Culpeper. She had not seen Thomas for days, and it had become clear that he was avoiding her. She understood why, but still, the reality wounded her. Even though she knew in her heart the outcome she wanted was impossible, Catherine still wanted Thomas to fight for her. She wanted a fairy-tale romance and a man to whisk her away.

But do you really want that, Catherine, or do you want the power and glory of being queen?

The question sprang into her mind, sudden and jarring.

In the darkest parts of herself, she was lured by the idea of marrying the king. She had waited all of her life for excitement, riches, love, passion and power—things she had only heard or dreamed about while growing up at Horsham.

And then it occurred to her that perhaps there was a way to have it all. It was a dangerous gamble, certainly, but would juggling Henry and Thomas be all that different from juggling Francis Dereham and Henry Manox? It was not exactly the fairy-tale romance she had hoped for, but it would have to do if she meant to keep Thomas in her life.

She was smiling as the dance drew to a close. Mary sat back
down beside her, and Elizabeth joined her father for the next dance. Mary, with her tightly pursed lips, stiffened spine and clasped hands, cast a pall over Catherine’s happy mood. She shifted in her seat and gave the princess a cautious sidelong glance.

“You do not fool me,” Mary remarked without looking at her.

“Your Grace?”

“I have seen your type in and out of my father’s life before.”

Catherine’s jaw dropped. She waited for a moment, searching her mind for the right thing to say. Mary’s words were difficult to respond to or refute, because Catherine was keenly aware that she had lived a frivolous life, where her beauty had helped most of her indiscretions to be forgiven or, at the very least, overlooked.

“I am in His Majesty’s life only by his command, Your Grace.”

“My father’s commands, or more properly his whims, are powered by lust, Mistress Howard. To know this, we need only look at his decision to convert the nation from the true faith for the sake of Anne Boleyn.” Mary did not deign to glance at Catherine. “I do not like you,” she said, her voice tinged with spite.

“I gather that, Your Grace.”

“At least you understand that much. A pity your own cousin did not show such prudence.”

Catherine was tired of these endless comparisons between her and her ill-fated cousin, but before she could respond, Mary turned her head sharply and bored into Catherine with her dark and glistening Spanish eyes. It was a gripping sensation, akin to demonic possession. Catherine suppressed a little shiver and sat up straight.

“I do not want to defy your wishes by marrying the king,” she replied to Mary, thinking of Thomas. “I would be happy to retire to the country.”

Mary arched a black brow. “Would you now?”

“I would,” Catherine said firmly.

“You are as transparent as Anne Boleyn. She never could hide her true colors from me or my mother, which was why we were both sent as far away from court as possible, no doubt. If I speak my mind about you, it could happen again, but believe me, I have no wish for exile. So I shall sit here and smile at my father and pretend that I actually like his fifth wife-to-be, who is seven years younger than I, his elder daughter.”

“But we understand each other,” Catherine said.

“Indeed we do,” Mary acknowledged.

The king and Elizabeth returned to the platform then in a swirl of velvet and a swish of satin, their faces flushed and happy. They both nodded to the courtly applause and the baser shouts from the gallery above. Every dinner was a spectacle, and the crowds expected to be entertained. Catherine watched Mary’s terse expression melt into a smile as she watched her father, and she saw pride on the king’s fat, drink-reddened face as he reveled in the reunion with his daughters. The royal family occupied themselves with lively chatter then, giving Catherine an opportunity to slip away from the table. She found Jane talking with starched and proper Wriothesley across the room. Catherine asked Wriothesley to excuse them as she pulled Jane to the side.

“Have you seen Master Culpeper?” she whispered into Jane’s ear.

Jane gestured with her eyes to a pillar across the room. Thomas was leaning against it, cloaked in shadows, watching the festivities from a distance.

“Take care, Catherine,” Jane whispered. “This has become more than a game to you.”

“It has never been a game with Thomas.”

“You have known him for only two months’ time,” Jane argued.

Catherine turned away. “I feel as if I have known him for a
lifetime.” She left Jane to Wriothesley then and walked toward Thomas.

When he saw her approaching, Thomas tried to turn and leave, but she caught up with him, clamping a hand on his arm. The connection was instantly a strong one.

“I haven’t much time. We must speak privately,” Catherine urged.

“The risk is too great,” he said, not daring to look at her. “Everyone knows you are about to become the king’s wife.”

“You know my heart will never be his. Please come away and speak with me, Thomas; I beg you. We have only a moment as it is,” she pleaded.

Thomas relented. Down the corridor from the great hall, they found a small, dark alcove that smelled of beeswax and urine. The moment they were inside, he swept her up and she wrapped her arms around his neck, pressing herself against him desperately. She began to kiss his cheeks, neck and chin.

“I have missed you! Why have you been avoiding me?”

“You know why, Catherine. I love you, but I value both of our lives. The king regards you as his property, and he does not suffer thieves.”

He pushed her away, but she pressed into him even more tightly.

“There must be something we can do to fight this,” she whispered urgently as her fingers snaked down to his codpiece, searching for reassurance of his passion for her.

Thomas tipped his head back as she touched him, his eyes closing, but he tried to regain his senses. “This will solve nothing, Catherine,” he warned in an agonized whisper as she pushed her hand past the waistband of his trunk hose, latching onto him with a tender, experienced hand.

Catherine kissed his neck, then his mouth as she touched him. “I am only taking what is mine, what I want more than anything in this life to be mine.”

It was dangerous, with courtiers and guards passing by just beyond the shadows, but that only heightened Catherine’s pleasure. As they kissed more urgently, mouths open, tongues entwined, Thomas covered her hand with his and began to guide it in a rhythm that quickly brought him to the brink.