The Queen's Mistake

  “Dear sweetheart,” Henry said gently, leaning down slightly. “You are ever my rose with no thorns, aren’t you?”

  Without saying more, he raised his gloved hand and signaled, with kingly authority, to the trumpeters, who let loose a fanfare of music. The courtiers were gone then in a blaze of horses, flying banners and ribald male laughter.

  Chapter Twenty

  November 1, 1541

  York, England

  The course of the royal journey took the king’s entou- rage from Doncaster to Pontefract, and to York for All Saints’ Day. Meanwhile, Catherine remained at Hampton Court. By the end of the monthlong separation, the king was anxious to return to his wife. Henry missed her and longed for her, despite the fact that there was no royal child. But he had decided that she was young and strong enough to invest hope in, so long as he returned speedily to her bed.

  The memory of her sweet, warm and willing body played across his mind as he strode toward the great stone cathedral on a hilltop in York in a costume of luxurious gold and silver. He was surrounded by an elegantly clad group of his courtiers, including Charles Brandon and Thomas Culpeper. Trumpeters, drummers, the peal of bells and the cheers from the surging crowd of townspeople marked their arrival with great fanfare.

  Moments later, inside the vaulted chapel that smelled heavily of beeswax and incense, Henry sank into a pew with the others behind him. It was then that he saw the letter addressed to “Your Majesty,” sealed with a stamp of red wax, tucked into the corner of the pew. He would have disregarded it, but then he saw that the seal belonged to Cranmer.

  As the Archbishop of York moved toward the altar, Henry pushed his thumb beneath the wax and cracked the seal. In his mind, Cranmer was indelibly linked with Cromwell, whom he desperately missed. Whatever Cranmer had to say, he would listen. Henry scanned the page as the archbishop began to speak.

  The words, printed in a bold, black script, were a confusing jumble at first: warning . . . the queen . . . promiscuous past . . . proof . . . evidence . . . account given to the privy counsel.

  Henry squeezed his eyes shut, trying to make sense of the slander. He opened them again, struggling to push back the bile and anger rushing up his throat as he finished reading the indictment. Someone had come forward, Cramner wrote, with grave concern for the king. A man named John Lassells had brought proof to the counsel that the queen had not been pure when they married and had actually been betrothed to another. Norfolk and Lady Rochford had a hand in maintaining the ruse since her arrival at court.

  Not Catherine . . . not my rose . . .

  Henry could not catch his breath. There was a lump of fury and pure disbelief in his throat. There must be some mistake. People came to the privy counsel every month to slander someone in his court for personal gain. But why would Cranmer want to implicate his wife . . . his love? Henry’s anger spun far beyond his control, and dark thoughts swirled like a tempest as a rich, sobering chant echoed from the gallery above and through the chapel nave.

  Henry sat motionless, stunned.

  Catherine . . . Jésu! Not another Howard wife to betray me.

  By the time the service was over and he went back into the street, his shock had become full-blown rage. Today his leg was aching. Now so, too, was his heart. He had not trusted Cromwell and Cranmer before, and he regretted it every single day. But he had been given a chance to make amends. He would not make the mistake of doubting them again. For Catherine to have lied to him about her past, after he had so willingly trusted her, was unforgivable. Norfolk had presented her to him as a virgin, and she had perfected the ruse on their wedding night. Lady Rochford had obviously assisted her, since the two of them were always thick as thieves. As he had feared, Catherine had made of him a cuckold and a fool.

  One thing Henry could not abide was being deceived. Especially by a woman he loved.

  He wanted to kill the vile bastard who had defiled his wife. His eyes darted among the faces of his courtiers and friends. He was relieved when he realized that the culprit was not likely among them, since he had married her so soon after she had come to court.

  ... Or was he?

  After the service, once he was safe within the confines of his privy chamber, he faced Charles Brandon, Thomas Wriothesley, Edward Seymour and Thomas Culpeper, some of his greatest intimates. Henry’s heart was shattered, as well as his senses. In his mind, their concerned expressions became condescending sneers, mocking him for taking a fifth wife. And another Howard.

  “Did you all know about this?” He waved Cranmer’s letter at them. The sound of his deep voice rolled like thunder through the cavernous hall. “Which of you knew the queen had made a fool of me before we married? Who? You, Brandon? My oldest and closest friend, my brother? Did you know she’d had a lover?”

  “No, sire. I did not know,” he lied.

  “Wriothesley?” He polled them one at a time, his bejeweled hands on his wide hips in tight, bloodless fists, his porcine face crimson with fury.

  “I did not,” Wriothesley replied, wisely avoiding the truth as well.

  “Seymour?”

  Edward Seymour hesitated before answering. “In truth, there was the odd rumor, Your Majesty, but no one knew for certain.”

  “And no one thought to tell me of a damning rumor?” His voice boomed again. “Culpeper, you have always been forthright with me. Did you not think to tell me about this?”

  “Spreading a rumor about your queen would have been trea sonous at best, Your Majesty.”

  “Yet it is more than a rumor. Proof was brought before you and the rest of the privy counsel! So then, who is the vile dog who dared deflower a maiden intended for the King of England?” he demanded as he limped the length of the room. Everyone else remained absolutely motionless. Only when the king’s back was turned did they dare to exchange quick glances.

  “Whoever he was, I swear by all that is holy, I shall tear off his head and stick it on a pike myself on Tower Bridge!”

  Henry grunted as he limped back and forth, hands still on his hips. “Give me his name, Brandon! I need a name. I will know everything, by God!”

  “The informer, Master Lassells, is the brother of one of the queen’s companions from Horsham. I believe the gentleman was a page in the employ of the dowager duchess,” Brandon replied.

  “His name, Brandon! Give me a name!”

  “Francis Dereham, sire.”

  “The queen’s private secretary?”

  “The same, sire.”

  Henry slapped his forehead and turned away. He felt his lip quiver as he pressed back tears of shock. The betrayal was like a dagger.

  “We were recently told that their acts of intercourse were witnessed by several others besides Mistress Lassells at Horsham, Your Majesty,” Brandon added.

  “Send word to Hampton Court that Dereham is to be taken to the Tower at once.”

  “Your Majesty, if I may . . .” said Thomas Culpeper. “As I understand it, no one claims the queen betrayed you once you were married.”

  “She was betrothed to Dereham before the marriage, Thomas,” Wriothesley pointed out, “which is actually worse.”

  Henry turned around very slowly. He was unable to see through his furious tears, though he did not care. “There was a-a-an,” he sputtered in disbelief, “an actual contract between them?”

  “That is what Master Lassells has stated to the counsel, sire,” Brandon cautiously confirmed.

  “All the saints in heaven!” Henry sobbed as openly as a child, surrendering his face to his hands. “How is it possible that I could have such great misfortune with every one of my wives?”

  “Perhaps, sire—” Seymour cautiously dared, hoping to calm him.

  “Silence! All of you! You all encouraged the marriage, except for Cranmer and my poor friend Cromwell! There is blood on all of your hands! Bring me a sword, Thomas, and I will ride to Hampton Court right now. Bring me a sword, I say!”

  Each of the men exchanged worried glances, then
averted their eyes, knowing only too well to what this mood could swiftly lead.

  “Your Majesty,” Brandon tried, stepping forward. “Surely you understand that you cannot kill her yourself.”

  “Why not, when she has already killed me?” the king bellowed in anger.

  “Perhaps you should hear her out once you have regained your composure.”

  “To what end?” He was incredulous. “So she can convince me of more lies? No. If I go to Hampton Court, it will be to cut out her heart with that dagger at your hip, just the way mine has been taken from me!”

  Henry reached for the jeweled dagger in the hilt at Brandon’s waist, but Brandon was quicker, covering it with his hand. “Sire, no, I urge you to wait. The truth will come out eventually, and she will be punished without your raising your own hand. Please, Henry,” he added in a lower, more intimate tone. “Mary would say the same. You know that is true.”

  The reference to his most beloved sister was Henry’s undoing, and a new wellspring of tears flooded his swollen cheeks as he collapsed onto an upholstered chair. He surrendered his face to his hands once again and began to shake his head.

  “Why? I gave her everything. I gave her my heart, my life . . . I gave her England!”

  None of the men dared to answer him; though Henry did not expect them to, because there was no answer he would ever accept.

  This was Catherine’s fault. His rose was a choking weed. She did not deserve Hal’s love or forgiveness. The devil could decide what to do with her, because Henry VIII no longer cared.

  Catherine.

  Thomas was filled with fear for her. She had been so noble and so strong. But he had been a part of this complex court long enough to know what would come next if he did not find some way to stop it. Catherine was in grave danger, and she would have no way of knowing until it was too late. For now, Henry still did not know about them, and Thomas would be able to use that to their advantage.

  But time was of the essence.

  Thomas thought quickly of whom he might trust to get a word of warning to her so she would not be forced to make a confession. He had seen Henry’s face, and he knew he would not forgive her if she confessed to sleeping with Francis Dereham . . . or anyone else, for that matter.

  Hampton Court was at least a full day’s ride away, and anyone of low stature who left for the queen’s court would be suspected, since there was no innocent reason they would ever journey alone. Thomas paced his room. Much of this was his fault. Perhaps he should admit that to Henry in order to deflect some of the punishment from Catherine. But admitting his guilt now could only make things worse for her, because Henry had trusted Thomas as well.

  He knew there was only one way to get word to the queen. He would be risking her life and his own. Everything hinged on his decision, but there was no turning back now for either of them.

  WINTER

  The Final Season

  “Short is the joy that guilty pleasure brings.”

  —EURIPIDES

  Chapter Twenty-one

  December 5, 1541

  Hampton Court, Richmond

  Thomas Wriothesley was shown into the queen’s privy chamber as Catherine sat among her ladies, embroidering the image of a thornless rose onto a new cambric nightshirt for Henry. In the corner, near the fire, a young boy played a tune on the flute as the women talked softly amongst themselves.

  Seeing stern-faced Wriothesley, Jane glanced over at Catherine with an expression of concern. There was no solicitous smile of greeting on his face. He was an intimidating figure, big and barrel chested, dressed in black velvet with a rich ermine collar. The hat he wore accentuated his long, thin nose and high, glistening forehead. It was not Wriothesley’s custom to pay a sudden call upon the queen, most certainly not unannounced like this, surrounded by a contingent of stone-faced yeomen of the king’s guard.

  “Your Grace,” he said with perfunctory courtesy as he swept into a polite but controlled bow.

  Catherine laid down her embroidery. “Sir?”

  “Alas, there is no more time for music,” he dryly announced.

  One of the guards seized the boy, whose flute clattered to the floor as he was led by the arm out of the room. The whispers from her ladies rose around them.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Catherine asked, feeling a mix of panic and indignation.

  “I am afraid Your Grace is being placed under house arrest,” Wriothesley confirmed.

  “Arrest?” Jane croaked as she sprang to her feet. “By whose command?”

  “The king’s command, as are you, my lady Rochford.”

  “But why? What has Her Grace done but be a good wife to His Majesty?” Jane asked with as much indignation as Catherine felt.

  Catherine slowly came to her feet, although her legs were trembling. Her mouth had gone very dry. Anne Boleyn. Cromwell. The clerics . . . The old Countess of Salisbury.

  “You have disgraced His Majesty with your behavior, and you conspired to keep him ignorant of it in order that he might marry you,” he announced, before adding with a sneer, “Your Grace should have known better from your cousin’s example.”

  “But how am I involved?” Jane asked.

  Catherine saw the panic on Jane’s face, but she was not angry that Jane was trying to save herself. She knew how deeply her friend had been caught up in the last scandal with a queen, and she could not now begrudge Jane her life.

  “You have been the queen’s greatest confidante at court, have you not?” Wriothesley said. The tone of his question was glacial and his eyes held no emotion.

  Jane lifted her chin defiantly in response. “I have.”

  Catherine quickly came to her aid. “My lady Rochford knew nothing. You cannot blame her for my indiscretion.”

  “It has been testified to that those words are inaccurate. Perhaps she cannot be blamed for your indiscretion, but she shall pay a harsh penalty for facilitating it.”

  Catherine began to sob now, the tight rein she had held on her life and her heart, everything her family had planned for—all of the expectation and pressure—unraveled in that moment like a skein of yarn.

  “Leave her out of this, I beg you! My mistakes and decisions were totally my own!”

  “Did you know of her youthful affair with Master Dereham, who was brought by her own grandmother to serve in the king’s household, right under his nose?”

  Jane bravely responded, “I was unaware, in the beginning, of the extent of their relationship, sir, until I overheard Mistress Lassells speaking with Mistress Tilney about Master Dereham’s successful plan to blackmail the queen in order to have her affection returned to him.”

  “There is one more complication,” Wriothesley said, thrusting a letter toward Jane. “Apparently, Master Culpeper gambled that I would be a trustworthy messenger, since we served the king side by side for so long. We shared a wench or two in our time, and he knew I was coming this way. The words, while rather obtuse, urge Her Grace to maintain her silence. You must have drawn Culpeper into your web of deception as well. How deeply remains to be seen. But the truth does have a way, like cream, of rising to the top.”

  Dear God, no, she thought wildly, racked with sobs. Catherine could not bear to think of Thomas implicated in this scandal. She remembered how those around Anne Boleyn had fallen with her. She felt the darkness of the past rising, uniting her destiny with Queen Anne’s. Her dreams really had been premonitions.

  If only she could see Henry, make him look into her eyes so he could see that, while she had made a foolish, adolescent mistake with Francis, and perhaps kissed Thomas after their marriage, she had never done anything more. She had never been unfaithful to him. She was so overwrought and fearful, she failed to attend to the warning in Thomas’s desperately sent message, the one that would now cost him so much.

  “It was a youthful folly, a horrid mistake!” Catherine confessed, weeping as she gazed up at Wriothesley with doleful, pleading eyes. “There must be something I c
an do! Please tell me, my lord, what am I to do?”

  “Dereham has been arrested, so I know not what you may do now. The wheels are in motion already. Perhaps be thankful that, for the time being, you are only under house arrest.” He turned to leave, then paused and turned back. The silver baldric across his shoulders glittered in the sunshine through the paned windows. The glacial stare had not left his face. “Ah, there is one thing.”

  “Anything,” Catherine said desperately.

  “Pray that His Majesty has developed a more forgiving heart over the last years when it comes to the fidelity of his queen,” he said.

  Thomas found a broken hulk of a man hunched over a polished oak table as he walked into the king’s drafty bedchamber the next morning. At first, Henry had not acknowledged any of his gentlemen, and the light meal before him had gone untouched. The ewer of wine beside it was still full. But suddenly, as if sensing a friendly soul, Henry glanced up. His eyes were glazed, bloodshot and unfocused, and his face was blotched red.

  “Ah, Tom, my old friend. Please.”

  Thomas advanced cautiously as Henry turned to gaze out the window at the cold winter landscape. “You, of all the men at my court, know about women. Once, I might have asked Brandon what to do, but he is too old now to be of help to me in a matter like this.”

  Thomas felt guilty for his role in the king’s pain. But he kept his demeanor calm.

  “I shall do what I can, sire.”

  “Can you make lies into truths for me, Tom? Or make the past insignificant to a man’s heart?”

  “Would that I could,” he answered honestly. “It does seem to me, though, that no one is ever completely what they seem. Not even the two of us.”