The Queen's Mistake (8 page)

Dorothy Barwick had been personally chosen by the dowager duchess as companion and chaperone on the journey to court. But Catherine entirely disregarded the stout older woman and rode silently a pace ahead of her and the rest of their retinue of escorts and luggage, still feeling the sting of betrayal at how judgmental the servant had been. How like Mary Lassells Dorothy had become, she thought. At court, things would likely be no safer for Catherine, so she was determined to be even more careful about whom she trusted now.

As they rode across broad lands, meadows and marshy fields, then through rich woodlands, Catherine fingered the silver chain and the small ruby suspended from it. Her anger at Dorothy and memories of her grandmother helped her keep from longing for the comfort of the only world she knew. She must accept once and for all that she was only a poor relation in a slightly shabby hand-me-down riding costume, with nothing but a pretty face and an infamous pedigree to smooth a path. She would have to call upon her own wits and resources to make her way at court.

By the time they reached a monotonous forest filled with birds trilling and harnesses jangling, Catherine’s mind flashed with fleeting images of the king she remembered, and the two of his four queens she had known, her cousin Anne and Jane Seymour. It made perfect sense to Catherine that her cousin Anne had fought for King
Henry, even at the moment of her death. For a king as tall, athletic and handsome as Henry had been in his youth, attracting the attention of any and all females had obviously been a matter of course.

From a distance, to Catherine, King Henry had seemed frightening, enigmatic and incredibly grand. What would he be like now?

Catherine glanced up at the lacy bough of trees above her as she rode and felt herself smile. Despite her modest beginnings, now that she was away from Horsham, the possibilities of her future truly seemed boundless. For the first time in her life she was free . . . free of the constraints of a strict grandmother and the general bonds of youth. She had resented life at Horsham, but she saw a purpose now, because all of that had brought her here and was moving her toward an adventurous life with the new queen. Perhaps there was even some noble courtier who could give her the life to which her name if not her experience entitled her. As she rode closer to London throughout the day, the excitement of it was a palpable thing.

“Cast off the old for the new without regret,” she remembered her mother saying. She thought not of Horsham but of Francis Dereham. He would heal and find a proper wife. She glanced over at Dorothy, who was nodding off, chin to chest, eyes closed as her horse created a dozing rhythm beneath her. This really was all for the best. Catherine looked straight ahead and lifted her chin proudly. For the first time in her life she actually felt like a Howard.

Chapter Four

May 2, 1540 Whitehall Palace, London

 

 

T
he banquet hall at the king’s palace in London was vast, with a soaring buttressed ceiling and paneled walls warmed by a series of grand tapestries depicting scenes from Ovid’s
Metamorphoses
. The hall was lit by dozens of shimmering white tapers flaring in silver wall braziers and chandeliers above, and the floor was strewn with sweet green rushes. In spite of the massive space, the room was filled with the scent of food and unwashed flesh. The music, a volte, was upbeat, played by musicians placed above them in the gallery. But the sound did not suit the king’s mood.

Norfolk sat beside him, Henry in his massive carved throne beneath the canopy of state, the collection of silver plates before them catching the lamplight. The duke watched from the corner of his eye as the king swallowed goblet upon goblet full of wine, never once turning to his other side to acknowledge his queen. Henry was in a particularly foul mood, and he had been since the morning, when he had relented to his wife’s request to attend Mass with the German ambassador and her brother, the Duke of Cleves.

Norfolk watched Henry chew with the intensity of a goat. How forty-nine years, and the death of three wives, had aged him, the
duke thought callously, taking a swallow of Rhenish wine. He barely touched his own food, but glanced out at the colorful collection of court ladies and gentlemen dancing in a swirl of fabric before him.

Where he had once been slim and athletic, then strong and burly, Henry now was rotund and slow, a great bulk of a man whose still-slim legs recalled a hint of what he once was. Yet even that was deceiving. One of his legs was infected with an abscess the physicians could never quite heal for him. Not even his purple velvet coat embroidered with pearls, gold cap studded with diamonds or the chains of silver that glittered near his throat could hide the loss of his vigor. His receding copper gray hairline, bloated face and ambling gait confirmed his age almost as much as the appearance of his body did. Where, as husband to Anne Boleyn, he had had hunting, hawking and jousts to keep him trim, now they were rare at best, and his most vigorous exercise was eating—and that he did in great volume.

Fearing reprisal for seeing the truth that His Majesty wished to hide, courtiers wisely averted their eyes and chatted amongst themselves as the king ate, but everyone was all too aware of the array of platters piled with venison, ginger goose and huge meat pies set before him. In a single day, the massive English court consumed together more than a dozen sheep, nearly twenty pigs, one hundred chickens, and well over a thousand loaves of bread.

Finally, as Norfolk had known he would, Henry wiped the grease from his mouth with a white silk cloth, handed it to the steward behind him, then leaned toward the duke.

“Have you yet thought of a way to terminate this marriage without my risking England’s alliances?” he bluntly asked.

Norfolk had waited four years to be needed again. That seemingly simple request, which the king had made for the first time a fortnight ago, had begun the wheels turning on many things.

Henry had married Anne of Cleves to maintain the delicate alliances between England, France and Germany, and as king, he knew he could not disturb that balance now. Norfolk knew he must be mindful of everything he did, as his actions affected far more than the royal marriage bed. There was no room for error in his advice to the king. Cromwell was about to discover that well enough himself. Norfolk had battled the cleric and the Seymour brothers quite long enough.

“I do believe there is a way, yes, Your Majesty.”

“Well, tell me, man! No time like the present.”

But just as he was about to speak, the queen interrupted them.

“English is not simple, but I keep trying to speak it.” The queen chuckled, her guttural Teutonic tone sounding almost like grunting.

Norfolk glanced past the king to the place on his left where the new queen sat happily chattering away in her achingly clotted and awkward English with her adviser, Earl of Waldeck. The music changed to a slower branle. It would have been easy to be overheard now. Her laughter in the relative quiet was a grating sound. Henry rolled his eyes and drained his goblet yet again.

“That is still the lady’s constant refrain to one who attempts to address her in English.” Henry groaned.

“Has the English tutor not met with the queen’s satisfaction?” Norfolk dared.

Henry slammed the jewel-encrusted cup onto the table, and for a moment all eyes were upon him until he waved his fat, freckled hand, and the silk of his cuff spilled back beneath his sleeve. “Everyone meets with her satisfaction, because she is dumb as a post!”

“Forgive me.” Norfolk wisely inclined his head.

“Yes, yes, well. But can I be rid of her then without seeming a tyrant to the world?”

“I am advised by the Bishop of Winchester that the marriage remains unlawful so long as it continues unconsummated. If we take that tack, then indeed Your Majesty is still actually unwed.”

Norfolk watched as the king considered this possibility. He dared not speak further. Not yet. They both surveyed the dancing for a time, lovely court ladies in fashionable French dresses, slashed sleeves, long, tight stomachers, chains and smart new hoods of velvet and silk adorned with ribbon or pearls. Norfolk watched the king stir.

Henry was most vulnerable when he was in love or in want of love.

Either would do.

“My Lord Bishop of Winchester has met with Your Majesty’s ministers and has posited that, as a first step, Your Majesty provide a personal deposition of the facts.”

“And the political risk if I am seen to be insulting my wife, Norfolk? What of that?”

“It is a fine and delicate road to walk, to be certain, Your Majesty. Forgive my saying so, but what Cromwell has gotten you so hastily into may take great patience and skill to extract you from.”

“Damn Cromwell to hell for his meddling, and for his eyesight!” He growled. “I believed the old bear. He assured me the queen was a beauty and I trusted him.”

“As Your Majesty should be able to do,” Norfolk replied calmly, driving the first nail into Cromwell’s newly constructed coffin.

The queen turned to Henry then, as if she sensed she was being spoken about. Yet still her smile was wide, her nature enduringly sweet. Norfolk saw the effort she took to find a few words that would be intelligible to the king. Despite her attempts to be pleasing to Henry, when he thought about how many times the king had tried to bed her, even Norfolk grimaced. Her face was square and masculine,
her skin was pockmarked, and her body was overly plump. Even when she was garbed in fine embroidered silk, the reality of how unattractive she was could not be masked any more than it could with Henry.

What made it worse was that Norfolk genuinely liked her. Anne was jovial, kind and compliant. If only she did not look so much like a horse. But it was precisely this that gave him the chance to elevate his own standing. Come to think of it, he really should be thanking Thomas Cromwell for his gaffe.
Ah, well,
he sighed to himself.

All truly was fair in love and war . . . and ambition.

To Catherine, London was a dirty, dizzying tangle of horses, carts, stray animals and shabby beggars. They came at her and passed her, nearly knocking her from her own horse on narrow muddy lanes and twisted, cobbled causeways amid refuse-scented air. As she and Dorothy rode among a contingent of her uncle’s guard into this new, foreign world, women hung from windows in timbered old buildings that sagged like tired old men unable to stand. Pigs and sheep moved randomly about, taunted by mangy barking dogs, all of whom left their pungent feces in the road. It was not long before Catherine could barely think or breathe through the noxious mix of dung and refuse. She was not certain what she had expected of the city, but it was certainly not this.

Even the briny scent of the Thames as they neared it was a welcome relief from the other odors. Catherine felt revived as she glanced at the wide waterway filled with barges and smaller bobbing vessels, banners and brightly colored pennons fluttering in the cool spring breeze. Then suddenly she saw, on the other side of the river, a vast maze of buildings, towers and gardens, all fronting the snaking, glittering Thames like a jewel in a crown. Whitehall Palace.