The Queen's Mistake

  Jane stood behind her in a deep blue velvet gown and a rope of heavy pearls, offering silent support as Catherine touched her wound, feeling the sharp effect of the bruise.

  “The Duke of Norfolk is here. I held him off as long as I could.”

  “Does he appear angry?” Catherine asked, aware of the ire she might have provoked in those other than the king.

  “Very.”

  At Jane’s confirmation, the tall oak door was thrown back on its hinges and crashed into the wall. The grand, intimidating figure of Thomas Howard swept into the room in a long black surcoat with a silver baldric across his chest.

  “How could you be so foolish!” It was not a question.

  “Do you have any idea what this could cost us, how Cranmer and others work against you, even as we speak? You have given them a golden opportunity,” he bellowed, his face mottled in fury.

  “He killed her in cold blood,” Catherine said defiantly.

  “That was none of your concern,” Norfolk volleyed, waving his hand in the air dismissively.

  “I am his queen!”

  “Catherine, you are meant to satisfy his needs in the bedchamber and bear him sons. Your attempt at anything more jeopardizes us all.”

  He was standing close enough that she could feel his hot breath on her face as he spit the angry words at her.

  “I was told he was furious with you for that scene you caused before running away. You made him look like a fool.”

  “I was furious with him for murdering an old woman!” she countered.

  “Do not make the mistake of overestimating your own importance, Catherine. Remember you are the fifth in a line of replaceable queens. He has proven that much!”

  They were both shouting. Catherine could see from the corner of her eye that her ladies and the royal guards flanking the door were listening intently.

  “Where were you last night?” he asked, changing the subject.

  “Here,” she said, half truthfully.

  “And before that?” He pressed. “Mistress Lassells told me you returned alone to your chamber after midnight. Your dress had to be burned to hide the layer of dirt before any untoward story could be spun about it.”

  “I fell,” she said simply.

  He arched a brow. His lips were pursed so tightly that they appeared bloodless. “Then you rolled around in the dirt afterward for good measure? I may look old to you, but do not assume I am a fool, Catherine. And do not gamble with Henry on that score either. He has given you his heart and made you his queen. For that, he expects full fidelity. Cuckold him and you shall not live long enough to regret it,” he warned.

  “I have been faithful, my lord.”

  He paused, scanning the room, presumably seeking guilty faces. “Good. See that you remain that way in His Majesty’s absence. I will go to London and speak on your behalf. I am told you may finally be with child, so that should help our case. When he sends for you, go to him repentantly, and never again let me hear that you have questioned his supreme authority.”

  “Even against murder?” Catherine asked, refusing to drop the point.

  “Especially that, or the next time it may well mean your head, or even my own.”

  Archbishop Cranmer had remained behind at Hampton Court to keep an eye on the Duke of Norfolk and to find out precisely why the king had gone off to London without his nubile young queen.

  Mary Lassells stood before him. She had spared no detail about the events of the previous night. He had heard the servants gossiping that morning about the scene at the banquet, but Mary was a more practiced storyteller, telling him not only about the fight but also about the meeting with Thomas, which she had seen herself by her habit of lurking.

  The foolish, zealous woman was worth every penny he paid her.

  He handed over the small leather pouch stuffed with coins and watched her greedily secret it in the voluminous folds of her modest skirts. In war, one searched for weaknesses. Cromwell had taught him that. Though he was dead, his anger would live on until the Howard girl was gone and forgotten.

  Cranmer was as committed to that as ever.

  And he was getting closer.

  Chapter Eighteen

  April 28, 1541

  Hampton Court, Richmond

  Freedom is not treasured until it is lost.

  Catherine did not fully realize that until ten days following Henry’s departure for London. With Jane’s help, she and Thomas met each day deep within the twists and turns of the maze. Two right turns, a left, then another right. Thomas brought wine, cups and whatever food he could take from the kitchens without being noticed. Jane always lent them a well-prepared alibi after admonishing them to adhere rigidly to it.

  Catherine worried about being discovered, but there was a familiar, guilty pleasure in it as well, like the old days at Horsham. They met and had long talks about everything. He held her hand and touched her face, but never anything more.

  “I believe I am finally with child,” she confessed on the day after the king had sent for her. He wanted to reunite with her at Whitehall Palace for the May Day celebrations and had called for her to join him on the morrow.

  “I hope it is the king’s child,” Thomas teased.

  “I wish it were yours,” she said sincerely.

  “Fortunately, we know that is not possible.”

  “That would be a blessing to me, not a mistake.”

  “I am guessing His Majesty would feel differently about that.”

  “Bessie Blount’s bastard child did well enough before he died.”

  “Ah, but that was the king’s mistake, not the queen’s,” he corrected.

  She traced a line along his smooth jaw, where just a gentle stubble of a beard remained. It was a rare physical connection between them, both of them mindful of the limits imposed by her marriage.

  “Would you have wanted a child with me?”

  “I would have wanted everything with you,” he said softly.

  “I hope it’s not true. I do not want his child. I do not love him.”

  “You mustn’t say that. It is your duty. The country depends on an heir in case Prince Edward does not survive.”

  The truth of his words wounded her. He sounded like the Duke of Norfolk. She shot to her feet in response, tipping over her cup of wine. “Duty be damned.”

  “Henry controls it all.”

  “Not my heart,” she declared.

  They were close and he was perfection as he stood before her. Close. Unattainable. Forbidden. Nothing had changed between them, nor could it. When she kissed him, with the high walls of ivy protecting them, she fully realized that. Their mouths met, the kiss chaste at first; then, sweetened by the past, it deepened as she wrapped her arms tightly around his neck. After a moment, he pulled away, yet his gaze was locked on her.

  “We cannot do more,” he murmured.

  “I know. I bid you not to hate me for wanting to, though.”

  Thomas grabbed her by the waist. “How could I when I crave you like a drug, even in my sleep, when my mind and soul are filled with the taste of you, the memories of every curve and angle of your sweet, smooth body.”

  The words had been spoken softly, but so intensely and full of truth that her eyes filled with tears. Thomas reached up to brush them away with his thumbs, then gently held her trembling jaw.

  When he kissed her this time, he did not hold back. She could feel his longing for her. But as the kiss deepened, something moved near the corner of the hedge, and Catherine jumped back with a start, her senses piqued.

  “Did you hear that?”

  “I did.” Thomas’s body instantly tensed in alarm as he scanned the corners of the tall hedges.

  “Who would follow us?”

  “A dozen people that I can think of, and then some. Fortunately, everyone of influence has gone to London.”

  “True.” She tried to breathe.

  But influence came in many forms and wore many disguises, her uncle had s
aid. Unfortunately, Catherine was too preoccupied with thoughts of Thomas, whom she would not see alone again after that day, to care about anything else.

  She was not sorry, no matter who might have seen.

  Catherine hated London, with its dirty, clotted waterways, filthy cobbled streets and the constant threat of disease. Yet she was relieved that the king had finally sent for her. Their quarrel was over. He would be angry when he found out that no child was growing inside of her, since her flux had begun just as she left that morning, but she was secretly relieved. She did not want Henry’s child when her heart was so full of Thomas. Perhaps that would change with her return to Whitehall, and she would be able to make peace with her duty once again.

  Henry was waiting for her alone on the water landing in an elegant, dove gray doublet trimmed with silver lace and a smart hat. A group of servants stood far behind as he helped her to the shore. Without hesitation, Catherine curtsied to her husband. She knew her duty to him, and to her marriage, no matter what her true feelings were about the night she had witnessed his dark side.

  Henry took her hands and drew her to him with a smile. “Welcome home, sweetheart,” he said, and she knew for certain that their quarrel really was over, if not in her heart, then at least in his.

  They watched a bearbaiting match on the grounds of the palace, holding hands tentatively as they sat next to each other in the gallery. Catherine was surprised how quickly the tension faded between them, in spite of all she still secretly felt.

  After supper, she prepared herself, as always, and waited for Henry to visit her bedchamber. They had been apart for eleven days. But he did not come. The next morning, when she arrived in the chapel for prayer, Henry was already kneeling beside an unexpected guest. Anne of Cleves lowered her head beside him on a prie-dieu at the altar. Catherine had not even been told that the former queen was invited to London, and now here she was in the royal chapel, as if she still bore her title.

  Catherine advanced beside a Yeoman of the Guard and was seated just as Henry and Anne stood and turned toward her in the pew. Anne was clearly pleased to see her. Henry was more reserved.

  He had never loved Anne; in fact, he had called her the Flanders mare when they were married. Everyone at court knew that. But Catherine was still uneasy, even after their successful public outing yesterday. Perhaps the quarrel was not over. Perhaps they could never reclaim their former happiness together. Would Norfolk believe that she had come to London ready to comply with the king’s wishes, if Henry were to replace her with a more predictable queen?

  So many thoughts flowed through her mind that she heard not a single word the cleric said from his pulpit. She watched Anne and Henry exchange knowing little smiles throughout the sermon. Was it something more than friendship now? Was that even possible? Why had no one informed her that the former queen had come for a visit?

  “It is so good to see you again,” Anne proclaimed in her Teutonic accent, linking her arm with Catherine’s as they finally left the chapel. The king, Norfolk and Norfolk’s ambitious son Henry strolled a pace ahead along a walkway facing the river.

  “I wish I had known you were coming. Yet still it is a lovely surprise,” Catherine said, trying to conjure a smile.

  Anne tipped her head slightly, as though she had not understood. “Are you certain?”

  “Of course.” Catherine’s smile was genuine now.

  “Henry speaks only good words of you.”

  “I wish I could be certain of that. Has he told you that I angered him, and he left me alone at Hampton Court?”

  “I did hear, but not from Henry,” Anne admitted.

  Catherine shook her head. “Everything is so confusing just now.”

  “He loves you. That much is very clear.”

  If only I loved him in return, she thought as they walked out into the inner courtyard. How much easier everything would be then. Life here, she thought, was like balancing on the head of a pin. Catherine knew she could not keep up this dangerous game forever. One wrong move and she would fall, losing everything.

  As they left the chapel, Archbishop Cranmer, Thomas Seymour and Thomas Wriothesley walked together a few paces behind the current and former queens. It was quite a sight to behold. The women’s arms were linked, their heads lowered in some private conversation only the two of them could share.

  The king walked with a pronounced limp, well ahead of the women, beside Norfolk and his son Henry. The Howard men were trying to do damage control, since the king and queen were still obviously estranged. The current state of things pleased Cranmer enormously. He had been prepared to do battle with the Catholics for the sake of the Reformation, but this young, foolish girl was taking care of it for him. To top it all off, the Lassells wench was an extraordinary find, as motivated by envy as she was by her faith.

  Cranmer bit his lower lip to hide a smile and steepled his hands piously as Thomas Seymour droned on about the hunt that would take place later that afternoon. Poor, proud Henry, Cranmer thought, as the king waddled like a velvet-clad Christmas goose. The “hunt” that Seymour spoke of was a bastardized version of the sport that Henry had loved in his youth and barely required any physical activity. But it was fitting, he thought, since Henry did not work hard for anything anymore. He waited for everything to be brought to him. Food. Wives. The heads of his enemies.

  And, less welcome, perhaps, some damning information about the queen, which Cranmer intended to personally deliver.

  He pushed away a nagging sensation of guilt. Later, he would pray for forgiveness from Almighty God, but right now, he was convinced that, in some things, the ends did well justify the means.

  The king had not called for Anne Basset for a long time, yet she could not resist going to the royal bedchamber after prayer when he did. She knew that the potential benefit outweighed any insult to the queen if the infidelity were discovered. Her ambitious mother reminded her daily that she was first a subject of His Majesty and then a maid of honor to the queen, an appointment that she had sought from Anne of Cleves but at last received when Catherine became queen. Besides, did not all kings have lovers? The pressures upon a sovereign were vast and many. How could the queen be expected to soothe all of them by herself?

  Had Catherine not, in essence, done the very same thing to poor Anne of Cleves?

  Anne lingered at the foot of the king’s carved poster bed as he lay watching her like a massive creature beneath the bedcovers, his bare leg propped on a velvet tasseled pillow. Everyone at court knew that the ulcer on his calf must be kept open and draining to prevent further swelling and infection, so no one remarked at the sight or the horrendous stench, which not even liberal doses of musk and ambergris could mask.

  A small fire blazed in the hearth beside her as Anne dropped her white muslin dressing gown seductively to the floor, then advanced toward the king, as she had done before.

  Later that afternoon, everyone sat tightly packed in the little timber-framed gallery above the brick building with the open gallery for observing the hunt, constructed in the vast, lush park. The yard below, enclosed by nets, was strewn with hay, and the air was full of the sour, stifling stench of perspiration and noxious perfume.

  Catherine wanted to be anywhere but here. Yet Henry finally looked happy, and the angry glares from her uncle had ceased after the king had taken Catherine’s hand and dotted her cheek with kisses.

  She must tolerate everything to win back his favor.

  The king’s requested companion for today was Thomas Culpeper, and he stood beside him at the ready. Both had gilded cross-bows in hand, stamped with the royal arms. Thomas was relieved to have been asked to hunt with Henry, even in this sham of the sport. There was danger in the king’s waning interest in anyone, especially the queen and himself.

  As the unsuspecting deer were driven into the pen below, Catherine turned away. She was sickened by the sport, which amounted to little more than a slaughter with refreshments. Henry shot an arrow, then another. The
first deer fell, then another and another. The crowd of courtiers applauded. Henry turned to acknowledge them with a proud smile and a regal little wave.

  Catherine saw his gaze linger just an instant too long on Anne Basset.

  So that was why she had not had a conjugal visit from her husband. Of course. She glanced again at Thomas, whose weapon was trained on one of the larger animals below. Catherine was surprised when she saw him adjust his bow before he released his arrow. It was a slight movement, but it was enough so that the arrow missed its target. While she knew how much he enjoyed the challenge of hunting, Thomas was never one to take advantage of unfair circumstances.

  It was a fact that made her love him all the more.

  Suddenly Henry faltered. His bow clattered to the ground and he staggered back. Thomas cast his own bow to the ground and caught the king in a powerful hold. Murmurs and whispers rose as Thomas helped the king back to his seat, and Catherine knelt before him, concern in her eyes. When she touched his face, it was blazing hot. He was clearly burning with fever.

  “Hal, what is it? Are you all right?”

  “I am perfectly fine. Stop fussing over me, you witless girl, just because you know no other way to make amends!” he growled, his temper flaring as he swatted her hand until she drew it away and sank back.

  “Forgive me; I was only trying to—”

  “We must call for your physician, sire,” Thomas interjected as he pressed a gentle hand onto the king’s shoulder.