The Unfaithful Queen: A Novel of Henry VIII's Fifth Wife (13 page)

During the silence that fell, Jonah began to whimper. I soothed him and stroked him. It was a surprisingly comfortable silence. The king liked to talk on and on. But when he paused, I felt no awkwardness between us. In time I was bold enough to start to speak again.

“Your Majesty, I wonder if I might ask you, on my father’s behalf—”

“Ah, yes. Your father.”

“Your Majesty, he desires a post in the household of—of—your queen that is to be.”

“Yes, and so do a thousand others,” the king said, slapping his knees and grimacing and getting to his feet. I was reminded, watching him, that despite what I had thought earlier about his youthfulness, his enthusiasm and energy, his body was beginning to fail him.

“May I tell father that you are considering him?”

“Tell him what you like. But nothing will be decided until the lady is chosen. And that must wait.”

Our eyes met. Once again, as on our earlier meeting, I saw a look, not of shock this time, but of recognition. He saw my mother in me.

“I will tell him that he is not entirely out of your thoughts. Along with a thousand others.”

The king reached out and touched Jonah’s back, gently. Jonah let out a small cry.

“Perhaps the monkey would like the post of major-domo. Or he could be Pantler for Nuts and Apples.”

A valet entered just then, bowed, and waited to be acknowledged.

“Yes, what is it?” the king said irritably.

“Your Majesty, Lord Cromwell sends me to inform you that the Lutheran bishops from Cleves await you.”

King Henry swore under his breath.

“Damnable Lutherans! Quarrelsome, mumpish, high-sounding old pedants! A bunch of dour old maids in clerk’s gowns, that’s what they are! Correcting my Greek! Mine! I knew my Greek when they were babes in arms…”

Jonah shrieked, and leapt out of my grasp. He ran toward the wall and began climbing up the tapestry.

Horrified, I tried to grab him but he only climbed higher. I was afraid he would ruin the precious stitchery, and that the king would be furious with me.

“Your Majesty, please forgive Jonah, he goes wild sometimes. Oh! Your beautiful tapestry!”

But King Henry was laughing.

“Never mind, I have dozens more in the storerooms at Baynard’s Castle. Remind me to take you there sometime, Catherine. You would love the chests of gowns, old gowns, from long ago. Some that were—in your family—”

Jonah clambered nimbly down and dropped to the floor, then ran up onto my lap again.

“He knows who his mistress is, doesn’t he?” the king said absentmindedly.

“Bring him to see me again, won’t you. I’m so glad you like my Nonsuch. There is so much more to tell you, I have only just begun. The thing is designed to rival King Francis’s finest palace, you see—”

Once again the valet made his presence known, by discreetly shuffling his feet and quietly coughing.

“Yes, yes, I haven’t forgotten.”

The king turned to me. “Will you come again, Catherine my dear?”

“If Your Majesty wishes it.”

“I do. I do indeed. Now I must go—and debate whether worshippers ought to receive both bread and wine during the mass, or only bread—whether priests ought to marry—whether Christ had a human nature or a divine nature—ah! We must reach agreement on all these things, you see, or I cannot marry Cleves. I mean, the lady from Cleves.”

“Surely our Lord Christ had both a human and a divine nature.” I spoke without thinking.

“Thank you, Catherine. That will be our first point of debate. I will cite you as my source. Let me see, I shall cite Jerome of Alexandria, Gregory of Nazianzen, and Catherine of Lambeth. My three principal authorities.” He grinned, then clapped his hands loudly. Immediately two servants appeared.

“My doublet! The new one with the French sleeves! And bring me a pisspot, before I burst!”

I took my departure, promising to return, confident that I had provided the king with diversion and pleasure. As I left the room half a dozen servants came rushing in, carrying a splendid doublet of red silk and maroon velvet, a thick gold chain studded with rubies as large as hen’s eggs, and a large white bowl.

*   *   *

Henry Manox was a nuisance to me from the moment he appeared in my antechamber, accompanied by a servant carrying writing materials, scrolls, and two large ceramic inkwells bearing the Howard crest. He was peevish and rude, demanding and cross. He made mistakes in the few letters and documents I required of him. He spilled ink on my old carved wooden desk—an heirloom, lent to me by Grandma Agnes, who was rapidly becoming my benefactress in all things.

Not only did she decree that I was to have a secretary, she told the household steward that I was to be given my own separate suite of rooms, with a bedchamber and an antechamber for the secretary’s use. I was also to be driven to the palace whenever the king summoned me, and in case he summoned me to Hampton Court or Greenwich, I was to be taken there by barge immediately. My least wish was to be gratified. If I was in conflict with anyone I was to be given the advantage.

When I walked by, heads turned. Whispers began. Officials who had never before even glanced at me now approached me, asking if there was anything they could do for me. Gifts began arriving, and letters begging for my help. Letters reached me, pleading for me to have unjust legal decisions overturned, or to supply the needs of poor widows. I was asked again and again for alms.

I had become someone of significance in the Lambeth establishment. I was talked about. Attention was drawn to me. My cousins were envious: envious of the fine new wardrobe Grandma Agnes provided, the clothes much richer and more becoming than Charyn’s, envious of the attention I was receiving, above all envious of the interest the king was showing in me—which was, of course, the reason for all the special treatment and attention.

But Francis cautioned me that any sudden prominence I might attain could just as suddenly and swiftly come to an end.

“That is the way of it at court,” he said blandly. “People achieve notoriety, or the illusion of importance, only to be toppled rapidly from their height. Slippery places, courts.”

“I thought you were pleased that the king is showing me favor.”

“I am—only from all I am hearing from the chamber gentlemen, his attention to you is likely to be shortlived. They are saying that the king will have to agree to marry the lady from Cleves, even though he doesn’t want to.”

“What of the disputes over matters of faith?”

“They will be put aside.”

“Do you know this for certain, Francis?”

“No—but the wagering makes it appear likely. The odds in the privy chamber favor the Lady Anna.”

I bristled.

“So my fortune is to be determined by a cast of the dice.”

He laughed drily. “Hardly that. Your fortune—and England’s fortune—rests with the strength of armies and alliances. If our king marries the lady from Cleves, the fighting men of Cleves—and of other Protestant forces—will protect us from the French and the imperialists. Or so Lord Cromwell hopes. The wagering is of minor importance, except to those who win or lose.”

I grew weary of hearing these speculations. I could not understand them, not really; I could follow the logic of what was said, up to a point, when I heard Francis and others talking of England’s future, and the likelihood of war. But it all seemed like a giant house of cards, fragile and flimsy. What if the Emperor Charles should die? Or what if King Henry should die, as had nearly happened only recently? What if the immense and fearsome armies of the Mohammedans should invade our lands, and sweep all before them? Surely it would not matter then who the king married. The soldiers of Cleves could not prevail against the forces of Suleiman the Magnificent.

All was risk and hazard, or so it seemed to me, all was fortune and luck. No matter how clever or how cautious we tried to be, we could be swiftly toppled from whatever height we attained.

My tutor had told me of the goddess Fortuna, worshipped by the Romans—or was it the Greeks? At any rate, the goddess was all-powerful, and no human effort could sway her. The ancients believed that she decided whether we lived or died, whether we attained our goals or failed miserably.

It is a sin to worship pagan idols, I know, but if asked to name the mightiest force in the world, I would be inclined to say it was Fortune, for even the Lord God cannot seem to preserve us all from harm, and our fates are not written in the Bible, but weighed out in Fortune’s scales.

*   *   *

When Henry Manox came to Lambeth as my secretary, Francis changed. He disliked having Henry near me, and treated him with icy disdain. Francis was a gentleman’s son, while Henry’s father was a mere landed knight, with no title or wealth. What was more, Francis had mastered the art of courtesy, while Henry could be boorish and unmannerly.

“I dislike having that churl near you,” Francis said loudly, in Henry’s hearing. “Can you not persuade the duchess to remove him?”

“Girlish little popinjay!” Henry snarled back. “I could knock you over with one of these inkwells.”

The rivalry between them made me uneasy, especially since I had told Henry that Francis and I were handfasted, and had bragged that we were lovers. It was not long before the two men came to blows, and Henry threatened to tell the duchess of our secret bond. Francis, ever practical, bribed Henry to keep what he knew to himself. But the hostile rivalry continued, and Francis was never the same again.

He did not see me or speak to me for days at a time. He was irritable and easily upset. His smooth, even-tempered manner was gone, replaced by ill humor and an air of silent reproach.

Things were not easy for me. I belonged to Francis, yet I could no longer take comfort in his company. And though Henry’s presence made me tense, it was also undeniably exciting. Of course I did not tell him that, or admit that I enjoyed the disturbing thrill and tingle that ran along my spine when he came near me. I did not tell him, but I’m sure he knew all the same. We both felt the disquiet of emotion.

Henry had a raucous temper, he thrived on discord. He had little to do as my secretary. He was bored and restless. He sought out the brawlers sent at night by Lord Cromwell to challenge the Lambeth men. He fought—and having fought, he drank.

And being drunk, he sometimes sought me out. I hid from him as best I could, sometimes taking refuge among the servants in the scullery when nowhere else seemed to offer safety. One night, however, Henry found me there, quivering with fear, and before I could escape him he lunged at me. One of the scullery boys threw me a knife before running off and I yelled at Henry that if he didn’t leave me alone I would stab him.

He laughed. He was twice my size and no doubt many times my strength. Yet somehow I found the courage to point the knife at his crotch and stand my ground. I saw that he was reeling, he could not stand straight. A shout from the corridor distracted him, and in that moment I darted out into another room where pots of liquid were boiling over open fires.

With a roar Henry followed me, but by the time he confronted me again I had wrapped a cloth around my hand and snatched up one of the pots. As he came at me I hurled the boiling liquid at him, then hurled the pot itself and ran. I could hear his shrieks of pain and rage as I made my way to the upper floor and Grandma Agnes’s apartments.

I took refuge among her guards, who shielded me when Henry, scalded and dripping and furious, came lumbering in. Grandma Agnes had gone to bed but was roused by the commotion. Before long she appeared in her furred black dressing down and demanded to know what was going on. I went up to her and knelt at her feet.

“He’s drunken,” I gasped. “He came after me. Please, I beg you, grandmother, send him away!”

It did not take Grandma Agnes long to see that I needed her protection from the sputtering, menacing Henry Manox. She had her guardsmen remove him and assured me that he would not be allowed to bother me again. I prayed that she would not, in some future forgetful state, bring him back to Lambeth or reappoint him my secretary.

He was gone—but his vengeance remained. Only two days after Henry’s drunken assault on me, Francis and I were enjoying one of our infrequent evenings in the cupboard. I had told him everything that had happened, and he was holding me very tightly as we lay together, stroking my face and hair, kissing me gently. I was beginning to relax, letting my eyes close as he moved his hand down to cup my breast and then began to loosen my bodice.

All at once the quiet was shattered. He heard the key turn in the rusty lock—the door of the cupboard flew open—and there stood Grandma Agnes, whip in hand, with Mary Lascelles just behind her.

“So! This is how you repay my attentions, my trust! By being more of a whore than your mother ever was!”

She began laying about her with the whip, as I shrieked and Francis leapt up out of bed and did his best to shield his face from her vigorous assaults.

“Speak, whore! Are you pregnant by this Irish cur?”

“No, grandmother, no,” I pleaded, tears running down my face.

“You let this man spoil you—the king will never want you now!”

I managed to roll off the bed, but not before the cruel whip had cut me on the neck and arm and shoulder.

Francis swore and ducked, and in a moment when the duchess was raining all her blows on me, he fled out the open door, knocking down Mary Lascelles and several others who had gathered in the corridor as he ran.

I collapsed onto the floor, the ripe smell of the rushes strong in my nostrils.

“Get up, whore!”

Shaking, I got to my feet, my clothes awry, blood dripping from my neck and arm.

Grandma Agnes flung her whip away and strode toward me. She slapped my face. Turning back toward where Mary Lascelles was rising from the floor, she told her to shut the door and guard it.

“Now then, Catherine, what am I to do with you, eh? Look at me when I speak to you!”

I raised my head, suddenly very aware of the sharp sting of pain where the whip had lashed me. I could see little, tears blurred my vision. I was dimly aware of the terrifying presence of my angry grandmother.