The Unfaithful Queen: A Novel of Henry VIII's Fifth Wife (7 page)

“No,” she said. “Not this one.”

With a look of sudden anger he turned his face away. He was an ugly man, my uncle Thomas, with small piglike eyes and a nose that curved downward and thin, tightly pursed lips. Yet in that moment he looked uglier than ever. With another wave of his hand he dismissed us and we went back to our places at the long table.

I had never before seen so many good-looking, charming, clever young men as at the banquet that night. Many wore the livery of Uncle Thomas’s household or Grandma Agnes’s, others the livery of the royal court. Lord Cromwell, Lord Privy Seal, had at least two dozen retainers to escort him, along with a large number of tall, muscular guardsmen. Archbishop Cranmer, Bishop Tunstal and Bishop Gardiner were well attended, as were the many lords and high officials who swept into the great hall with their richly garbed retainers at their heels.

It was as if each great man (and one great lady, my grandmother) was in competition with every other, each vying with the others for the prize of most important, most honored, most wealthy, most powerful. Who would win? The king, I supposed. Surely the king was above every subject. And yet—I had heard Uncle Thomas mutter that the Howards were an older and more distinguished family than the Tudors, and that the Tudors were an upstart dynasty that did not deserve first rank.

He was a haughty man, my uncle Thomas! Disdainful of others. Scornful of their claims to rank and privilege. In his own eyes he was above everyone—even God, the servants joked. And his eye had rested on me. Fortunately Grandma Agnes had said no to him. Though exactly what she had meant, what he might have intended doing or saying had she not interrupted him, I had no idea.

As we dined I watched the table of honor where the dignitaries of highest rank were served. There sat the Clevan ambassador, between Lord Cromwell and Uncle Thomas. He did not look like a man of rank, but more like a stolid villager driving his oxen behind a plough. The expression on his broad, flat face was blank, he paid no attention to those around him or to the beauties of the great hall. He sat impassive, eating plateful after plateful of the delicacies set before him and emptying his goblet again and again. His manners were coarse, he wiped his mouth on his sleeve, on the back of his hand, even, I noticed, on the fine linen tablecloth. He did not make conversation but stared straight ahead, though those around him spoke to him and were clearly attempting to draw him out.

I watched, fascinated. And as I watched, I could not help but notice that behind the ambassador, seated at a table of their own, were a group of women dressed in unattractive foreign garb. Their headdresses did not frame their faces like the headdresses we wore, but spread out to the side like spaniels’ ears. The bodices of their gowns were overly full and ill-fitting, the gowns themselves more like capes or mantles, with heavy low-hanging sleeves and drooping skirts. Were there no clever dressmakers in Cleves? For surely, I surmised, these were Clevan ladies. They had the same stolid look about them as the ambassador, the same blank expressions on their broad white faces, the same lack of animation.

Joan would know. I leaned across the table and asked her who the women were, whether they came from Cleves.

She nodded, and made a face.

“The godmother, the sister, the aunts of Anna of Cleves.”

Anna, I knew, was the woman who was being considered as a bride for King Henry.

“Of course Anna herself remains at home. It would hardly be seemly for her to show herself here, like a prize mount being put up for auction.”

The other girls who were within earshot at our table, overhearing Joan’s words, began to laugh.

“I would not bid on any of those mounts, if I were the king,” I said, making the girls laugh once again. “They have stuffed themselves with too many oats!”

“Such pockmarked skin,” I heard another of the girls say. “Do all the women of Cleves have the pox?”

“Perhaps Anna is the beauty of the family,” Charyn put in. “Perhaps she puts these others to shame.”

We left it at that, for as Charyn was finishing her thought a young man came up to the table where the Clevan women were sitting, and as soon as they saw him they began to smile and gesture and speak animatedly, giggling like young girls and holding their hands before their mouths coquettishly.

He was a very handsome young man indeed, slender, graceful, light on his feet, and with a most charming smile on his pleasing features. The musicians had begun to play and he led one of the older Clevan ladies in a dance. She was clumsy, her long heavy skirts weighed her down. But the young man adroitly kept her balanced, and I could tell that she was enjoying herself. Soon other partners came forward for the rest of the Clevan ladies, and then for Joan and Alice and the others of my cousins, and for me.

I jumped and twirled and hopped with abandon, enjoying the music and the movement. But I could not wait until the dancing was over, so that I could find out who the handsome young man was, and how I might manage to see him again.

*   *   *

We were taken to London for the first time on the Feast of St. Sylvanus the Martyr and I could not sleep at all the night before, I was so excited.

We rode in covered coaches, Charyn and I and Malyn and another girl I hardly knew, a very pretty girl named Mary Sidford, all together in one coach and the rest of my numerous cousinage in others. Twenty heralds rode before us, all wearing the brilliantly colored Howard livery, and announced our coming with a loud blare of trumpets and an even louder beating of drums. Dogs barked, horses whinnied in terror, and the people in the crowded streets scattered before us as we passed—or rather, as we attempted to pass, for time and again the narrow roadways were blocked by flocks of sheep and cattle being driven to the markets at Smithfield.

From across the river I had seen the soaring tall spire of St. Paul’s, but once we entered the tangled warren of streets and alleyways all I could see were the old wooden buildings on either side of us, many leaning at angles over the street, whose blackened timbers made it plain that fire was an everpresent danger to Londoners.

A great and nauseous stench arose to assault me, growing stronger the deeper into the city we went. We all took out our scented pomanders and held them under our noses, yet the stink was far stronger than their spicy scent. Wide streams of filth ran down the centers of the streets we passed through, I saw people empty waste buckets out of second-story windows onto the heads of passers-by beneath. Mounds of rotting food, dead animals, refuse of all kinds were heaped at street corners, covered with flies and running with sickly-looking liquids. I shuddered at the sight of rats scurrying down the alleys—fat, well-fed rats—in large numbers.

I had coins in my pockets to spend but our coach did not stop at any of the shops or stalls where trims and buttons and stockings, foodstuffs, kerchiefs and trinkets were being offered for sale.

“’Tis worth your life to stop in the streets of London, miss,” one of the ostlers called up to me when I asked if we might pause long enough for me to buy a muffin and a pair of doeskin gloves. “The wild rogues that wander about would break your pate in a minute just to steal your purse. And the constables are never nearby to protect you.”

His warning seemed more than justified when we felt our coach jolt sharply and lean to one side. Before I could realize what had happened a dirty face peered in, and dirty hands reached towards me. A laborer or a beggar, by the look of him, with filthy hair spilling out from under a ragged cap. I drew back in alarm, but almost at once I heard the crack of a whip and saw that one of the guardsmen had cut the man down. He lay writhing amid the mud of the street. With a lurch the coach moved forward again.

“What happened? Who was that horrible-looking man?” It was Mary Sidford, who until then had said little to the rest of us.

“Some thief,” Malyn answered with a shudder. “I want to go back to Lambeth.”

But before we went back we were to see many more ragged folk, beggars and peddlers, low servants hurrying on errands for their masters, apprentices with tools hanging from their belts and scowls on their faces, flower-sellers, young and not-so-young women dressed in slatternly finery, strolling past workmen and soldiers as if to say, here I am, look at me, I am for sale.

We paused to let a religious procession pass, black-robed priests carrying large silver crosses and boys singing and chanting, their silvery voices carrying above the hubbub of commerce and the loud grinding of wheels over the cobblestones. Then we came to London Bridge, with its strong towers and ancient drawbridge, and paused to watch the river rushing under the old stone pillars, the grey water clogged with refuse and rotting timbers, dead dogs and cats and masses of floating rubble.

This, then, was the hub of the realm, the center of the universe. Astounding in its size and noise and stench, yes: I had to agree. But almost equally astounding in its urgent vivid life and color. A dangerous, exciting place pulsing with vitality. A place where, I felt, anything could happen.

FOUR

“
FRANCIS
Dereham,” he said with a bow.

He was more fair than dark, with thick, light brown wavy hair that brushed his neck and clear, light blue eyes with thick long lashes. His skin was pink and healthy and without the pits or pockmarks that disfigured so many of the men of the household. I wondered whether his skin was smooth and unscarred all over. My hands itched to touch him, to feel the softness of his skin, he was so beautiful.

“I’ve brought you some partridges, and some custard tarts,” he said with a smile. “You do like custard tarts, do you not?”

With a sweep of one liveried arm he indicated a basket from which came the rich aromas of roasted fowl, butter and onion, and sugary desserts. I saw that the basket had been carefully packed with linens and embroidered napery, wax candles and a candelabra to hold them.

“Anything you bring me, Master Dereham, will be most welcome. I see that you have gone to a great deal of trouble.”

He had been in my thoughts ever since the night of Uncle Thomas’s banquet in honor of the Clevan ambassador, when I had watched him dance with the clumsy foreign woman in the ugly, ill-fitting gown. I had found out his name, and knew that he was one of Grandma Agnes’s gentlemen pensioners, and that he was about twenty-four years old (so Joan believed)—much older than I for I had yet to turn eighteen. He was a gentleman’s son, Joan said, a Howard relation by marriage. And he was much admired by the women of the Lambeth household, some of whom were thought to be his conquests.

Yet here he was, in the duchess’s apartments where I was sitting and talking with Mary Sidford and my cousin Catherine Tylney. And he was approaching me, addressing me. Not the others.

“May I serve you ladies now? Or shall we have a game of primero first?”

“You presume on our leisure—and our desire for your company,” was cousin Catherine’s rather ungracious reply, almost a reprimand. Cousin Catherine was ill-humored, having never received an offer of marriage (despite possessing a sizeable dowry) and having just learned earlier that morning that Charyn had become betrothed to Lord Morley’s son Randall, which was a very good match indeed. Every time Cousin Catherine found out about another girl’s betrothal she became glum and out of sorts. Having reached the age of nearly thirty (she would not admit to any of us exactly how old she was, only her sister Malyn knew the truth, and she refused to divulge it), it was unlikely any man would ever offer for her hand.

“You are too hasty, cousin,” I hastened to say. “Master Dereham is a delightful companion—and if he is not, his custard tarts certainly will be.” Francis Dereham and I exchanged a laugh.

“With your permission, then,” he said as he waved two grooms forward into the room, bringing with them a small trestle table. In no time at all Master Dereham had whisked the tablecloth and napkins from the basket and put them deftly in place, set the candles in the candelabra, prepared our places and brought out the delicious-smelling food.

“Ah,” Mary sighed as she savored the roast fowl. “This is lovely. A treat.”

We fell to eating. The food was indeed delicious. Yet Master Dereham was not eating. He was looking at me. We sought each other’s eyes, and did not look away. His was a look that conveyed friendly invitation. Mine, I’m sure, conveyed frank admiration of his beauty and the grace of his movements. His soft skin. His lithe body. Everything about him.

“We were talking earlier of our cousin Charyn’s betrothal, just announced today,” I said at length, wanting to fill the silence.

“Yes,” he said. “Randall Morley. He is heir to his father’s lands and title. And until he inherits, he enjoys a substantial fortune. Most likely he will be appointed under-chamberer to the new queen, whoever she may be,” he added.

“My father hopes for an appointment to the new queen’s household,” I remarked with a sigh. “Though he seldom manages to get what he hopes for.” I bit into a custard tart.

“What a disloyal thing to say!” Cousin Catherine put in.

“Not disloyal, I hope,” I responded wistfully, “only truthful. I love my father and wish he could have everything he wants.”

Master Dereham smiled.

“Very kind I’m sure. Not all children are as forgiving toward their parents, I’ve noticed.”

“We rarely see our father,” Malyn said. “He is always off to the wars.”

“Off somewhere, at any rate,” Catherine added. “Mother hardly ever knows where he is.”

“And what of your mother and father, Master Dereham?” I wanted to know. “Clearly they have done well by you, to obtain a place for you in the duchess’s household.”

I saw the faintest hint of a grimace cross his bow-shaped pink lips.

“I was left without parents at a very young age, Mistress Catherine, and obtained my place by—”

“By knowing several wealthy married ladies better than their husbands know them,” was Cousin Catherine’s unkind rejoinder.

Master Dereham bristled, stood, and drew himself up to his full height.