The Queen's Mistake (44 page)

She walked into the room as Francis sorted through letters of congratulations and separated them by importance into two piles.

“I suppose I should say I am surprised to see you here, but I actually am not,” Mary said accusatorily.

“I could easily say the same,” Francis Dereham replied, non plussed by her critical tone. He set a collection of letters down and leaned back in the queen’s elegant, embroidered chair. “So, what do you desire exactly?”

“I do not want us to get in each other’s way. That’s all,” Mary replied casually.

“Simple enough, though I doubt our goals are the same.”

She arched a brow. “You believe
I
have an ulterior motive for being here?”

Francis chuckled. “Do you not? I knew well enough of your brother’s Reformist convictions when we were at Horsham. I think you are waiting for her to slip up.”

“What about you? You do not actually believe you are going to win her back, do you?”

“She is my wife,” Francis replied simply.

“A silly country trothplight is not a marriage,” she said with a hint of scorn in her voice.

“Still, a commitment is a commitment.”

“If that meant anything, she would be with Thomas Culpeper.”

“That arrogant bastard?” Francis asked in genuine surprise.

“The very same.” She smiled victoriously, happy that she had told him something he did not already know. “Gossip about them was all over court when I arrived, but apparently the king did not hear the whispers of his servants,” she said bitterly. “But do you
actually believe you can challenge the king and get her back in your bed?”

“I would assume that is just what your man Culpeper is doing. Why not me? I knew her first, after all. If I do not win her, I am certain there will be just compensation.”

“More than you have already received in your appointment here?”

“Will you be settling for your position?” He smirked.

“You know me well, Francis. Let us call ourselves unlikely partners, shall we? We each want something different from the queen, so neither of us will be a threat to the other.”

“Well, if you send the golden goose to the Tower, that would prevent me from marrying her.”

“She is a papist!” Mary retorted in frustration.

“We cannot choose whom we love, though, can we? I seem to recall your interest in a certain music teacher. Besides, if you are not too overzealous in your plan, we can both achieve our desire. You will be rewarded for ridding our king of another woman who has betrayed him, and I shall gain a bride with a stipend as large as the last queen’s, on which we can both live smartly,” Francis fantasized.

“Even you are not crazy enough to entertain such a fantasy. Only someone who was quite deluded would think such things possible,” Mary growled. “You have lost your sense over a pretty face and a willing smile.”

Dereham quirked a smile of his own. “Oh, and I thought your entire motivation was religious. Now you sound jealous that no one admires you so much as to fantasize on your behalf.”

“I always despised you,” Mary lied, refusing to recall the moments when she had cared for him after Manox.

“I did not find you a particular temptation either.”

Mary decided to change the subject. “Katherine Tilney and Joan Acworth are here as well, you know. They could ruin everything.”

Francis rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Then we will need to be careful. As I said before, let us be partners of a sort.”

She scowled as if she had tasted something foul. “That really is a vile thought.”

“Not any more spectacular for me,” he agreed.

“If we both gain what we came here for, it will be worth it, though.”

“Remind yourself of that,” Francis said dryly. “And try not to get either of us killed in the bargain, would you?”

They lay together in the massive carved bed, the heavy curtains drawn around them. Henry seemed content just to lie still, propped on an elbow, watching her.

“Are you not bored yet by the view?” she asked, as the candle burned low in a silver sconce on the table beside them.

“Would that such a thing were possible.”

“I think you are biased.” Catherine smiled.

“No, just in love.” He ran his hand along the side of her face, a hand that, for once, was not moist and sweaty. There was a long silence before he said, “I will be even more in love when you can say it in return.”

Henry looked at her squarely with an unblinking gaze. She knew what he wanted, but she had given him so much already: her body, her fidelity and her compassion. She simply could not surrender her heart to him as well.

And yet, what was one small lie?

More of a distortion, really
, she thought. She cared for him, and
if uttering three simple words would make him content, why would she deny her husband that illusion?

As she looked at him, her sense of guilt began to grow.

“I’ve finally chosen my motto,” Catherine said, changing the subject when she could not summon the words.

“Oh?” Henry said, a look of interest in his eyes.

“Do you want to hear it?”

“Of course I do, if you chose it yourself.”

“You told me I must, and I always honor my king,” she parried in a light tone.

“I would rather have you honor your husband.”

“I shall always do that, of course.”

“A charming reply.” He smiled, pressing his mouth fully onto hers.

“My motto is ‘No other will but His,’” she announced in a soft voice, pulling back to see his face as she told him.

Henry was silent, and for a moment she was afraid he did not approve. She had chosen it herself, but she had asked Charles Brandon’s and her uncle’s opinions. Though she and Henry were closer than ever, she still could not afford to make a misstep with him.

Suddenly, tears brightened Henry’s aging green eyes, and he pulled her on top of his muslin-covered chest, comfortable and relaxed beneath the bedcovers.

“You are an unparalleled blessing to me, Cat. I see now that I was only a foolish boy playing at love before. I am almost ashamed at how I let them wound me and rule my heart, but I had no idea that you were out there, waiting.”

He closed his eyes, and Catherine wondered if he was referring to a specific person, but she did not press him. Henry’s heart was a complex thing.

“I did not know you were there either,” she said sincerely.

He chuckled, breaking the emotional tension. “Truly? I thought all Howard and Seymour girls were raised to prepare for the possibility.”

“Prepare for the attention of the king, perhaps, but never of Henry, the man.”

She could see that her words struck him. He was gazing at her as if he were trying to see straight into her heart.

“So, I am a surprise?” he asked with a slight smile.

“An enigma, as well.”

“Ah, but that is where you are wrong, my love. I have only ever been one man with you.”

She considered his words. “It is how you are with the rest of the world that creates the mystery.”

“So long as I am always the same in your arms, why should you concern yourself with anything else?”

“Your point is well-taken,” she replied, unable to suppress the soft giggle that passed across her lips, or the words that flew suddenly from her mouth.

“I love you, Hal,” Catherine said.

Thomas walked heavy-footed into the king’s privy dressing chamber the next morning. Mercifully, all signs of Catherine were gone. The grand bed in the room beyond was covered neatly with a tapestry quilt. He could not deal with Catherine and Henry this morning with his head throbbing from too much wine and far too little sleep.

As he suspected, the wine had not helped, and neither had the girl.

Noble or not, wealthy or not, she simply was not Catherine.

“Oh, Tom, there you are,” Henry called out. He caught Thomas’s
reflection in the long mirror as dressers clothed him for matins. “My, you look a bit worse for wear this fine morning.”

“My apologies.” Thomas bowed.

“Hazard of our strong will toward passion, I suppose.” Henry laughed. “It is a blessing that I no longer need to hunt like a wolf in the forest for the sweet lamb, for she is already mine. You should take a hint from me and find a lamb of your own.”

It was not only the words, but the cavalier laughter with which they were delivered that caused Thomas’s jaw to close like a vise. He suppressed the retort rising at the back of his throat:
I found a lamb . . . and you took her.

Instead, Thomas chose to bow again. He had been at court long enough to know how to play the game.

Even against the master, who held all of the cards.

Henry walked in an irritating strut away from the mirror in a gray velvet doublet and matching hat, which was jauntily tipped to an angle in the French style. A white plume bobbed on top. The ensemble was ornate enough to nearly hide the massive bulk of his body. He draped an arm over Thomas’s shoulder in the brotherly way he had done a dozen times before.

“So tell me about her, whoever she was,” Henry bade. “Was she grand?”

“She was of no consequence,” he answered evasively.

Henry caught his gaze. “I will not tell her mother you said that. She is a vindictive woman, but then, you are as familiar with Lady Lisle as I am,” he said with a wink.

“Yes,” Thomas answered carefully.

“In truth, I did not want the other daughter here at court. They are a strangely seductive family of women, and I have not been immune to their charms. Keeping Anne around out of guilt is bad enough. You, on the other hand, are free to experiment with all
three of them, as it pleases you,” Henry said, as if granting Thomas permission.

But it did not please him. Random sexual exploits had ceased to please him the day he had fallen in love with Catherine. He would play the part only because it was expected of him.

They walked together a few paces toward the privacy of a window seat. “So, old friend . . .” Henry began.

This was not going to be good. Thomas could tell that the king wanted to have one of their manly chats about women, and he simply was not in the mood.

“With the young ones, is it your stamina that pleases them? Or can one hope to conquer with style over longevity?” Henry asked earnestly.

The small amount of porridge that Thomas had eaten earlier threatened to reappear at the continual thought of the king with Catherine
.
“Respectfully, sire, I believe it is I who should be asking you.”

“You know perfectly well I have tired of the chase, Tom. The young ones fancy you. The old ones as well, for that matter. But though I am settled, I have a startlingly young wife, and I am not quite as young or energetic as I once was. Do not misunderstand me. It is not that I do not desire her. She is an exciting, exhausting temptress, denying me nothing. I can scarcely get my mind or my prick, for that matter, to consider much else.”

Thomas was overcome with anger and wild jealousy.
My urge to crush your skull right now is stronger than any sense of loyalty I have left for you! I would die happily for my crime, knowing that you would not be able to lie with her again!

“Not having had a wife, perhaps I am not the best judge.” Thomas struggled to sidestep his rage.

“Nonsense. What I am speaking of has nothing to do with marriage,
Tom.” He chuckled, and the sound was low and base, as if they were speaking of a Bankside whore.

“I will advise Your Majesty any way that I can,” he forced himself to say.

“Very well. Do you find that intimate stroking and tenderness can be enough for the young ones?”

Of course not. Especially not one so fiery as Catherine
, Thomas thought. “Yes, of course,” he said instead. “Especially when the tenderness is schooled and elegant.”

Henry smiled in relief. It seemed that the king believed him. Perhaps that would mark the end to this horrifying conversation.