Secrets of the Tudor Court (26 page)

“But the king…” I begin. I do not want to say too much for it is treason to predict the death of a king. “He is not a well man. You’ve seen him dragging that leg around.”

Norfolk grimaces. “Indeed. Putrid rotting thing that it is. Kitty has all my sympathies there.”

I sigh in frustration. “Do you suppose a man in his state can even beget heirs? Do you suppose he’ll take the responsibility if he cannot?” I shake my head. “You know as well as I who will be to blame.”

“Of course I do, Mary,” Norfolk says. “Thank God you have developed some sense of astuteness. You may be my daughter yet.” He pauses, clasping his hands behind his back. “There are ways around all that, anyway,” he says to himself.

“What ways?” I ask, my voice rising in panic.

At once his face arranges itself into an impatient scowl. “Leave it to me. Now go join your cousin.”

“But, my lord, you haven’t promised,” I say in firm tones. “I want you to promise—”

“Good night, Mary.” His tone is a warning I do not heed.

“Promise me!”

He seizes my shoulders. “I said good
night,
Mary!”

I pull away. “Please…”

Norfolk sighs. “There is no reason to believe our Kitty should remain anything but the king’s rose. His ‘rose without a thorn’—or some such nonsense.” His smile oozes with sarcasm. “There. Does that reassure you? Go now. Go on!”

I curtsy and quit the room, my heart thumping in a fear that no amount of reassurance can assuage.

The marriage is annulled in early July. Anne of Cleves ruled as queen for a total of four months and no one at court saw her since the festivities on May Day. She is said to have taken the news quite well; so well that the king was annoyed at her eagerness to cooperate. She signed a letter of submission, naming herself “daughter of Cleves” and not “queen of England” and was given Richmond Palace to reside in as the king’s “dear sister.” I cannot even begin to imagine but…

At least she kept her head. For that the German bride is to be congratulated. She kept not only her head but the king’s favor, even making the occasional appearance at court, where she appears happier than ever.

Our Kitty contented herself at Norfolk House during the worst of the split, receiving lands, bolts of the finest fabrics, jewelry, and nightly visits from His Majesty. Whenever I visit her she delights in showing me her newest gown or bauble.

“It’s not so bad, really,” she tells me one day, her tone strained in an effort to convince herself. “Really. All I have to do is have a baby. That’s not too much to ask.”

I do not draw to her attention the pallor of her cheeks or trembling limbs. I nod and compliment her beautiful gowns and exclaim over her newest piece of jewelry.

“These were Jane Seymour’s,” she tells me. “Her very own jewels. Fancy that they’re in a Howard’s hands now!”

I emit a soft laugh. “Yes. Fancy that.”

Of course the king needs someone to blame for the Anne of Cleves debacle. In this my father seizes the opportunity to shift all responsibility onto the shoulders of the too-Lutheran, newly titled Earl of Essex, Thomas Cromwell. His archenemy. Anti-Lutheran sentiments are running high, but for Norfolk religion has nothing to do with it. Cromwell is a rival to be removed and it is as simple as that. For this crime he deserves to die. Forgotten are Cromwell’s interventions on behalf of my brother, and his appeals for my inheritance. Norfolk wants to be rid of him and rid of him he will be.

So, without ever suspecting a thing, Cromwell is stripped of his titles and honors and thrown into the Tower, arrested for high treason. An act of attainder is passed against him, which in essence means that he will die without trial.

He is beheaded on July 28, Kitty’s wedding day.

“It’s so very strange,” says Kitty as we are dressing her. “I never thought Cromwell to be so bad a man.” She pauses, cocking her head as she ponders her tiny pearl-encrusted slipper. “He was the king’s dearest friend for so long.” She shudders.

“Best not to think about it, my lady,” advises Jane Boleyn.

“Yes,” I say. “Listen to Lady Rochford. She knows all about how to put beheadings behind her.”

Jane shoots me a scathing look and I smile.

The wedding is not filled with the same pageantry some of His Majesty’s former brides have been afforded, but there is a grand breakfast. Kitty, now Queen Catherine, is by far the most beautiful bride I have ever beheld. In a display that churns the stomach, the king’s hands are all over her. She does not shoo him away, of course. She knows better than that.

Under the advisement of Norfolk, Kitty chooses her ladies-in-waiting. Jane Boleyn is appointed chief lady of the bedchamber. I am in shock. Jane’s smile is triumphant as she fusses over Kitty, who is so easily won that she has no idea of Jane’s duplicitous nature.

Kitty is generous to her past acquaintances from Lambeth, girls she shared chambers with, and grants them all one position or another. I know as I watch them, these greedy mongrels, that no one comes here out of loyalty to the little queen. They come as vultures, circling, ugly things beneath all their finery, waiting to take Kitty for all she is worth.

But these girls are around Kitty’s age and they play together and dance about Hampton Court, making merry, giggling and teasing, and no one seems a happier queen than Catherine Howard.

“‘No other will but his,’” she tells me one night, her smile bright. She is in her big bed of state, the bed that once belonged to Anne of Cleves, her sumptuous covers drawn up to her shoulders. “That means I am the king’s obedient little miss. How do you like that? It’s my motto. It’s a good motto, don’t you think? Except it does echo Jane Seymour’s ‘Bound to serve and obey,’ but I suppose everyone’s forgotten her by now, except for that she is little Prince Edward’s mother.” She scoots up against her pillows. “Strange to think I am stepmother to people almost as old as I am. Lady Mary is older! Fancy that!” She shrugs. “Queen Anne—Anne of Cleves, I mean—adores the children. She sees them whenever she can—except Mary, since she’s out of favor again, her being such a papist and all.” She sighs. “I suppose it will be very hard trying to be stepmother to her. I hope not to see her very much. Once I give the king babies of our own I imagine he’ll forget all about them.” She considers. “Except Lady Elizabeth. We cannot forget her. She is our cousin, after all, and it would be good to see her restored to favor.”

I nod, my eyes misting over at the thought of the abandoned little princess. “Indeed it would.”

Kitty sits up, drawing her knees to her chest and hugging them, her adorable face scrunched up in delight. “Do you want to know a secret?”

I’m not sure. “Yes,” I answer, as I’m certain there is no getting around it.

“I may be with child even as we speak,” she says. “It is early, however, and I have never really been—well, on course, but there is a good chance.”

I take her slim hands in mine. “Oh, Your dearest Majesty, I pray it is so.” As I look into her sweet face I recall a similar confidence exchanged between Anne Boleyn and me so many years ago…I blink away the memory.

“You never had a child, did you, Mary?” Kitty asks me.

I shake my head, my throat constricting with painful tears.

“But you were my age when you married the duke, were you not?” she asks.

I nod. “I was not allowed to be with him,” I tell her. “My father…he would not permit it.”

She reaches out and strokes my cheek. “How dreadful for you.” Once again she favors me with her bright smile. “I shall help find you a husband if you wish it.”

I shake my head. “My fondest wish is to remain here and serve you, Your Majesty,” I tell her.
And keep you safe,
I add to myself.

“Then serve me you shall,” she says. “And be richly rewarded! Can you believe I’m saying that? ‘Richly rewarded’? I have the power to reward people! Isn’t that something?”

I nod. “Yes, Your sweet Majesty. It is really something.”

At once the king enters, the stench of his ulcerated leg causing my stomach to turn. I dip into a low curtsy.

“Lady Richmond!” he exclaims as though there’s never been a quarrel between us. “How now?”

“I am quite well, Sire,” I answer, keeping my head bowed so he cannot see me swallowing the urge to gag. I cannot imagine how Kitty stands night after night of his intimate company.

He chucks my chin. “Well, good night to you, then.”

“Good night, Sire.”

I hurry from the room before I retch in revulsion.

To my delight I meet Hans Holbein, the court painter, again, in Norfolk’s apartments, when he is commissioned to render his likeness.

He bows, offering a bright smile. “My lady Richmond,” he says. “You know I have an unfinished sketch of you somewhere. We shall dig it out and finish it one of these days.”

“I would be most honored,” I tell him, flattered the artist should remember drawing someone as insignificant as I am, when some of the greatest nobles and heads of state in the world have sat before him.

Norfolk is thrilled to be sitting for him, or standing as the case is. He dresses in his finest ermines, piling clothes onto his slim frame so that he appears sturdy and broad of chest. He carries his staffs of office as lord treasurer and earl marshal, wearing his heavy garter chain about his shoulders and consummate black cap that hides his nice hair—but I suppose that’s his affair. As it is, I am stifling laughter beholding him standing before the artist like an overstuffed doll about to topple over for the weight of his clothing. The only indication of his true bone structure is his hands, his handsome hands that clutch his staffs with such pride.

He stands for what seems like hours, not moving a muscle, and I can’t help but marvel at his discipline. When Holbein finishes with the rudimentary sketching, Norfolk leaps down from his platform to admire the drawing.

“What do you think, Mary?” he asks me, his voice as excited as a child’s. “Do you like it? Do I look good?”

It is the strangest question I’ve ever heard coming from someone who could never include vanity in his long list of negative personality traits.

“It’s a very handsome rendering, Father,” I tell him, rubbing his arm. “You make quite a royal personage.”

He wraps his arm about my waist, drawing me as close as his ermine cloak allows. “I think so, too,” he says. Then to Holbein, “Well done, Master Holbein. I like what I see so far.”

Master Holbein bows again and my father toddles out of the room; so heavy are his robes of state that he doesn’t realize the comical effect his walk has on us. Upon his exit we burst into controlled giggles, hoping he does not overhear us.

“Well, my lady, what do you really think?” Holbein asks as we stand before the portrait in its most nascent state.

“It is his likeness,” I tell him. I can’t say it is handsome; if Norfolk was ever a good-looking man it was too long ago for me to recall. “His clothes are beautiful. And one cannot tell how big they are on him in the drawing.”

“Yes, I modified it a little,” Holbein says, swallowing a chuckle. He squints an eye as he examines his work. “There’s something about him…something I tried to capture…I do not know. Would I offend you if I asked your opinion about something, Lady Richmond?”

“Of course not,” I tell him, interested to know what he is thinking.

He pauses. “Have I captured…well, have I captured your father’s expression? I mean, when you look at him do you see that—that sort of…how do I put this without sounding offensive—”

“Please, you must not worry about offending me,” I assure him. “What is it, Master Holbein?”

“His lifelessness,” he says. “Have I captured his lifelessness?”

I behold the portrait once more, staring past the beautiful robes of state, the ermine, and the gold. I look into my father’s face. A memory stirs. He is holding me. I am very little, looking into his eyes, those hard black eyes…I shudder.

“Yes, Master Holbein,” I tell him with certainty. “You have captured his lifelessness.”

Never have I heard a more apt description of my father.

The court is merry again. Kitty sees to it. Though it is not a philosophical court, it is filled with young people whose only desire is to have fun. I am caught up in it, just as I was when my Anne was in power.

The only intellectual stimulus comes from Cat Parr, and together we have many a long discussion on church reform and the Bible. I enjoy her calm presence immensely. She is neither the prettiest nor liveliest of women, but when I am around her I feel a measure of comfort foreign to me. She is a friend I can confide all to; unlike most of the set she is not a gossip, waiting for the next morsel of wicked news to be thrown to her like a ravenous dog. She is very unhurried, thinks everything through, and, despite the love she confesses for Tom Seymour, is very devoted to her aged and ailing husband, John Neville.

There are many cliques at court. It is no surprise that because I am all of twenty-one I am excluded from the younger girls who surround Kitty like drones to their queen. I am content to keep company with Cat—and Margaret Douglas, who fancies Kitty’s brother Charles.

There is not a soul at court besides perhaps Kitty herself whom I pity more than Margaret. It seems she is fated to fall in love with all the wrong men. For her daring to give her heart to Charles Howard she is sent to Syon Abbey to repent. Charles removes to France, where he dies unmarried and brokenhearted.

The scandal delights the court, who prey on such things, and I am short a dear friend, a friend I have considered kin since my marriage to Harry Fitzroy. Kitty is glad to have Margaret gone and I can see why. Margaret is a blood royal, and made no secret of her annoyance with my frivolous cousin.

With Margaret’s disgrace to keep the court’s tongues wagging, no one sees Kitty’s eyes sparkle as they behold a young gentleman of the king’s privy chamber, her cousin Thomas Culpepper.

Though Kitty has not become pregnant yet, she has managed to survive almost one year of marriage to the king.