The Rose Without a Thorn (27 page)

He stepped back a few paces and muttered: “I have done my best. I ask Your Majesty’s leave to retire.”

I gave it readily, fury raging within me.

It was some time after before I asked myself what I had done.

When I received the letter from Joan Bulmer, I read it with great concern: it was only after a closer perusal that I began to feel a qualm of uneasiness. It brought back memories I would rather suppress.

I had believed I had loved Francis Derham until I had met Thomas, then I had realized I had been overwhelmed until I came to know true love. I had indeed loved Thomas, and if events had turned out as we had hoped they would, I should have been very happy with him. But the King had seen me, and I had had no alternative but to go to him.

I was happy now. The King’s devotion was wonderful. I enjoyed seeing his face soften when he looked at me. It was easy to keep him happy. Love-making was so much a part of my life. I think it had been meant to be since the day when Manox had begun to initiate me. I can only believe that there are some people like that.

And now Joan Bulmer. She had married and acquired the name Bulmer since our acquaintance. I really did not want those people whom I had known in the past to be near me now. I had been a little uneasy when I had heard that Katherine Tylney was in the household. It was not important, I told myself. It was just that I would rather they were not there.

I looked back over parts of her letter. It was quite a long one.

There was nothing wrong with that. It appeared that her marriage was not a happy one, and she went on to ask for a place in
my household, for she desperately needed to get away from her present circumstances.

No, I did not like it. The reference to my honesty, my humble servant. I tried to thrust my misgivings aside.

I did not reply to the letter for a few days, and then I found myself watching for another letter from Joan Bulmer.

This was foolish. Joan and I had been on fairly friendly terms. She was now in dire straits, poor girl. Had I not always been ready to listen to the trials of others and help if I could? Not that I had had much chance of doing so in those days, but they had always known I was sympathetic and would help if I were able.

No, this was just the letter of a woman in distress. She was unhappy. She wanted to be away from her husband, and at Court. I could understand that.

I was not quite sure of my feelings. Perhaps I was too uneasy to look clearly at how I felt. I kept wondering what the King’s attitude would be if he knew that the Duchess had come into that room and had seen me rolling on the floor with Francis Derham. I pictured those little eyes sinking into his fleshy face with fury. I was wise enough to realize that by no stretch of the imagination could he picture himself in a similar position. His obesity … his
bad leg … and I knew that thought would irritate him beyond control.

There was another matter which disturbed me, but only faintly.

I knew he longed for me to announce my pregnancy. There seemed no reason why I should not. But it was the familiar story. So far, there was no sign.

He was so enamoured of my youth and loving nature that he had not yet complained. But would he in time? My poor cousin had gone to the scaffold, many said, because she had only produced one child and that of the wrong sex; and when she might have given birth to a son, she had miscarried and he had lost his patience by that time.

I shut out all thoughts of such a thing happening to me. He adored me. But then he had adored Anne. He was an extraordinary mixture of ruthlessness and sentimentality. He always had a reason for his actions which made them right in his opinion. One could be in high office one day and in disgrace and disfavor the next.

Being light-hearted by nature, I did not dwell on these matters. The King loved me dearly. I was the wife for whom he had been searching all his life. I was safe.

Then I wrote to Joan Bulmer, offering her a place in my household.

When Joan arrived, I sent for her. She had changed a little. Her attitude toward me was different. But then, so was that of everyone—the outstanding example being that of my uncle, the Duke. I had seen little of him since my outburst, about which I was pleased. He must understand that he could not control my life.

Joan knelt and expressed her undying gratitude. I made her rise and told her that I hoped she would be happy at Court.

“I knew Your Majesty would help me,” she said. “You were always so kind … to everyone.”

There was a slight smile about her face as she said those words. I knew she was looking back, remembering.

“And now you are the Queen herself… and as kind as you ever were. Your Majesty, I shall always remember. I shall never forget.”

Why did it occur to me that it was not only my kindness she was remembering, but incidents from the past?

“I look forward to serving Your Majesty … in whatever capacity you wish … as I always tried to do.”

There it was again … that covert smile. It would have worried me then if I had allowed it to.

I said: “I believe you were not very happy in your new life.”

“I was not, Your Majesty. Oh, it will be a great pleasure to serve you … just as I did in the old days at Lambeth.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“Mistress Tylney has promised to show me what will be expected of me.”

“You will find this different from the Duchess’s household.”

“Oh yes, Your Majesty.”

When she had gone, I sat thinking of her. She brought back memories which I would rather forget.

She settled in and was soon a close friend of Katherine Tylney and, in that light-hearted way, which was typical of me, I ceased to think about her.

Lady Rochford was the first to bring the news. I should soon have heard it, she said, for indeed the whole of London was talking about it.

“The Lady Anne of Cleves has been brought to bed of a fair boy,” she announced.

“The Lady Anne!” I cried. “A boy! No, it cannot be. It is false. I do not believe it.”

“’Tis bruited through the streets and they are saying it at Court.”

“How could there be? She is no longer the King’s wife.”

“People do have children in the most difficult circumstances,” said Jane with a laugh.

“Can it really be true?” I murmured.

“That we shall soon know.”

“If it is the King’s …”

“Ah,” cried Jane, speculation in her eyes. How she loved the excitement of prying into people’s lives. She was the sort of woman who would weave her own fantasy about people’s actions to make a more dramatic story. I thought fleetingly of her evidence of the relationship between Anne Boleyn and her brother which had been given in such a manner as to make it seem like truth, and had resulted in sending her husband George to his death, accused of incest. And when it was considered, it seemed that all that had happened was that once, when Anne was in bed, Jane had come into the bedchamber and seen her husband sitting beside the bed while his hand rested on the coverlet. I wondered if she ever felt remorse for what she had done. If she did, it had certainly not cured her of the habit.

“One of the King’s greatest desires is to have a healthy son,” she was saying. “He will be most eager to see this child whom the Lady Anne has produced.”

“Did no one know there was to be a child? It is strange that he is suddenly here.”

“The King is deeply enamoured of you. He would never leave you, even if the Lady Anne does have a child.” Her eyes were speculative again.

The courtiers were asking themselves which choice the King would make. It would be interesting to see which was more important to him: his healthy boy or his beautiful bride.

I think I never took the matter seriously. If I did, there was the fleeting thought that, if he divorced me, I could marry Thomas Culpepper after all.

I knew Thomas would want that. I had seen him only briefly since my marriage, although he was a Gentleman of the King’s Bedchamber. He had avoided me; he was very much afraid that our friendship might be remembered. But I had caught a glimpse of something in his eyes which told me that his feelings had not changed. No mention was made of our suggested betrothal.

I knew people often thought of what had happened to Henry’s wives, and it was not surprising that they might soon be wondering what my fate would be. Thomas must have realized how careful we had to be. More so than I did. And he still loved me.

And now it seemed that my future might be in jeopardy.

Then I had a visit from Anne of Cleves herself. She came without ceremony from Richmond, which was not very far from Hampton Court.

I received her at once, and she immediately told me that she had been extremely distressed by a certain rumor and wanted to tell me that there was no truth in it.

Her knowledge of our language had made great strides since her arrival. She was a clever woman and the first task she had set herself was to learn English. She was moderately fluent now and only occasionally did the pronunciation of a word betray her origins.

She said: “I have been confined to my bed for about ten days. Mother Lowe was mostly in attendance. She knows my needs better than anyone, for she has been with me, you know, since I was a child. Then these rumors started. It is quite ridiculous.”

“I was of that opinion at the time,” I told her.

“I was sure you would be. It is amazing how these rumors start. One says, I think this, or I think that, and then someone else says it is … and it goes on from there.”

I agreed. I was thinking of Jane Rochford who, I knew, always had to embroider a tale.

“It was good of you to come and see me,” I told her.

“I wished you to hear this from my own lips. I do not need to ask if Your Majesty is in good health. I see you are.”

“And you also, my lady.”

“I am when there are no foolish rumors to upset me.”

“You have been indisposed, you say.”

“It is over. What do you call it? A little matter of the chest, which kept me to my bed—so starting this gossip, mayhap.”

“A rheum perhaps?” I suggested.

“But I am recovered completely.” She smiled at me. I believe she thought I was concerned because I had taken her place, for she went on: “I am happier than I ever have been in my life before.”

“I am so pleased to hear that.”

“I have my little Court at Richmond. The King has graciously given me other houses too. And I am rich. Life has become very good to me.”

“I am happy for you.”

She looked at me searchingly. Did I fancy I saw a shade of pity in her eyes? It might have been, for she had suffered great humiliation at the hands of the King when she had been Queen. And now I had stepped into her shoes.

I was so pleased that there was no child. I very much hoped that I should be the one to bring that joy to the King. I found I liked Anne of Cleves very much. There was something free and honest about her.

She asked me how the Court had seemed to me when I had first become her lady-in-waiting.

“I saw so little of you then,” she said.

“I was kept in the background. They thought I was such a novice … and it was true. I had to learn everything. It was all so different from my grandmother’s house in Lambeth. There was not the same order there.”

She told me a little about her childhood too. How different it was from mine! Her father was John II, Duke of Cleves, who, when he had married, had become Count of Ravensburgh through his wife’s inheritance. Anne had a sister, Sybilla. She wanted to know if I had any brothers and sisters.

“Several,” I told her. “But I was taken away when I was so young that I hardly knew them. Because we were poor, I was sent to my grandmother, the Dowager Duchess of Norfolk.”

Sybilla had married almost ten years before Anne came to England. It was a brilliant marriage to John Frederick, the great Duke of Saxony.

“It is good to remember the old days,” said Anne. “When I think of my childhood, I remember the two white swans.
This was because of an old legend of the Rhine. The Rhine was our river, you know. We always sang of it, and the story was that one of our ancestors came to us from nowhere and then left us in the same mysterious manner. She just arrived and then later, after bearing children, disappeared. She was supposed to be some messenger from the gods come to bless our family. She came down the river in a boat drawn by two white swans, and the swans have been our emblem ever since. Why do I tell you this?”

“Because I can see that we are going to be friends. How glad I am of that rumor, because it brought you to see me.”

“I shall return, if permitted to do so.”

“You have not only my permission, but my command.”

Then she talked about the King’s daughters and little son. She had made their acquaintance and was looking forward to improving it.

“The Lady Mary is very sad,” she said. “I should like to see more of her and cheer her if possible.”

“I have not yet spoken to her.”

“She is not easy to talk to. She has—how do you say? She retires into herself.”

I nodded, guessing that to be true. Poor Mary, she had suffered much.

We were silent for a moment, then she said: “The Lady Elizabeth is an interesting girl. She seems to be very clever. Wise beyond her years. And the boy, too, is clever.”