Shadow of Persephone

by G Lawrence

  He heard me gasp quietly and saw the flush on my cheeks. I knew he was pleased. He liked people to be overawed by him. Who does not? It is a sign of power, and all people like power. That is why men die for it.

  “Mistress Catherine Howard,” said a page near me. There was a pause as the King looked me up and down.

  “How are you at court, Mistress Howard?” the King asked. “You look far too young.”

  I bobbed into a short curtsey. “I am fifteen, Your Majesty.”

  There was a sharp intake of breath. “I would have thought you no more than twelve,” he said. “You are so small and sweet.”

  “I thank you, Your Majesty,” I said, bobbing to a light curtsey.

  Daring a smile, I tried to look into his eyes, as one should when addressed by an elder and better. When I was able to see past the glamour of the King’s clothes and jewels, I saw an aged man wrapped in layers of splendour. The King was forty-eight when first I met him; not a remarkable age, but most people beyond forty were thought old, and to me he was ancient.

  The hair on his head was thin, and since his cap was set back a little I could see his scalp; pale and laced with scabby skin. The King’s head seemed stuck to his shoulders; I could see no evidence of a neck. His body was enormously fat. Three large men could have climbed inside his doublet and been comfortable. His wide, flabby cheeks were flushed with broken veins creeping under the flesh. The same was true of his nose, which looked tough of skin, like leather. He was built like an ox, with those broad shoulders and a wide waist, but I could tell he had once been more powerful than corpulent. And he was certainly tall. Although sitting down, he towered over me, making me feel diminutive.

  There was an ill scent on the chamber air, not quite hidden by the generous amounts of perfume he wore. It reminded me of when I had found a rook which had found its way into one of my grandmother’s little-used chambers and died. When I found it, the body was wriggling with maggots, the flesh almost liquid as they writhed through it. It was his leg. I could see nothing of the injury, but it would not be forgotten, the rank, putrid smell creeping out, festering in my nose.

  His mouth was small, almost girlish, like a little rosebud and the same shade as red roses in my grandmother’s gardens. His auburn beard was flecked with white, snow falling on an autumnal path of blazing leaves. His hooded eyes were an arresting shade of blue, but were almost lost in his face, flabby rolls of skin swallowing them from underneath and to the sides. When he shifted in his seat, I could hear the creaking of the corset that he wore to keep his belly in check.

  His fingers looked like generous sausages that someone had decided to decorate with a mass of jewelled rings. From his collar of gold there hung a diamond the size of a large walnut. His skin wafted scents of musk and ambergris, myrrh and rose water, and his sagging jowls wobbled as he talked.

  I was reminded of a picture I had seen in a book within my grandmother’s library, of a large, fat seal called a walrus. Had someone taken one of those beasts, dressed him up in furs, gold and silk and sat him upon a throne, some would easily mistake him for our King.

  I fought that image down, for it made me want to laugh.

  The King was staring at me, apparently quite lost in thought and for a moment no one said anything. Worriedly, I glanced at Norfolk, but when I saw a thin smile on his lips I knew all was well. “Mistress Howard is my niece, sire,” he said, interrupting the silence. “Daughter of my younger brother, Edmund.”

  “Ah, Edward was a fine man,” said the King, not realising he had misheard. “A good soldier. Such a brave, bold man. I felt his loss keenly when he fell in France.” A slight look of confusion crossed his face. He was clearly thinking I was too young to have been sired by that Howard son before he died.

  “Forgive me, Your Majesty,” said Norfolk, his tone squeaking with obsequiousness. “I spoke with poor articulation. Catherine is the daughter of my brother Edmund, not Edward.”

  “No matter the mistake, Norfolk, as long as it is admitted all is well,” said the King, although Norfolk had spoken clear enough. “So, Edmund’s daughter…” he trailed off, searching for something good to say. “Your father was a fine jouster,” he said eventually. A dark shadow raced across his eyes. Clearly he had not forgotten the man who had bested him.

  “So I am told, Your Majesty,” I said. “I never was able to see him ride, but I thank you for telling me this. I shall treasure your compliment of him.”

  “He is dead, is he not?” A kind tone came from his mouth and I inclined my head.

  “To my sorrow, Your Majesty.”

  “I sorrow with you for the loss,” he said. “But your uncle watches over you, and your grandmother, Agnes, I am told, so you are not alone in the world.”

  “My family are a source of never-ending comfort to me, as I hope they will always be to you, Your Majesty.”

  “You think of my comfort, Mistress Howard?” He sounded eager, a trifle desperate.

  “It is the most important concern of all subjects, Your Majesty. Our King is the heart of our country. The heart must be comfortable and well, or the body is lost.”

  Where did that come from? I thought, wondering at how articulate I sounded. Clearly court was rubbing off on me. I was a talented flatterer.

  He beamed and my uncle nodded. Inside, my heart did a little flip. I was doing well, not disgracing myself or my family. The King liked me.

  “You are a beautiful creature, Mistress Howard,” said the King, his eyes narrowing as he peered at me. He must be short of sight, I thought as I saw my uncle’s eyes dart to him, contemplating his words.

  I had seen that look before, the one in the eyes of the King. Admiration, lust… like being looked upon by a boy eager for a plate of jam tarts in a kitchen full of dry, stale bread. It was there in the King’s eyes as it had been in those of Francis and Manox.

  “My niece sings a fine song, too, Majesty,” Norfolk said. “Often, when I have visited my mother, she sings for us. I seldom have enjoyed a pleasure so greatly.”

  I wonder if ever he heard a note, I thought.

  “Is that so?” asked the King. “I am dedicated to music, Mistress Howard. You must sing for me soon.”

  “I would be honoured, Your Majesty.”

  “As your niece, Norfolk,” the King went on. “Mistress Howard should be first on the list of maidens after Mistress Bassett. That will show her status amongst the maidens.”

  I had to stop my mouth dropping open, but managed to curtsey again. Although I was Norfolk’s kinswoman, I had not expected such a high honour. Anne was experienced in the ways of court, and her stepfather was uncle to the King. To be placed just below her in the ranks of the maidens was a true honour.

  It was also odd. I was not the only Howard in the maidens’ chamber and certainly not the only kinswoman of Norfolk. But those lustful lights I understood. Nothing of my skills had the King seen, unless flattery counted. The King thought me attractive. That was why I was being promoted. I had always been prey to the lusts of men. But I was no more a child. I knew how that look might be used now. I understood what men wanted. It was all they had ever wanted of me. That day I learnt how a woman might gain from a man’s desire.

  In truth it was a lesson both harsh and reassuring. I was not alone. All women were treated like whores. Whether in marriage or as mistresses we would be commanded who to bed. The choice was not ours. Some of us were just better rewarded, more expensive to purchase. Men at least, if unhappy in marriage, could pick their mistress. They had a choice, even if duty commanded them to take a certain wife.

  “You are eager to meet your new mistress?” the King asked me.

  “I am, Your Majesty.”

  He extended a fleshy arm to one wall of the chamber. “I doubt you have seen her face,” he said. “Walk to the portrait and look upon her, Mistress Howard.”

  I did as told, and saw a young woman with flawless skin gazing out demurely from the frame. Her eyes were dark, her face impassive, b
ut her features were pleasing, her bearing gentle, contemplative and regal.

  The only disconcerting thing was her clothes. Rich in fabric and dripping with gold and gems though they were, they were utterly hideous. Her hood, if that was what it was, did not rise elegantly from her head like the one I wore, elongating the face to make it slim and pretty, but looped from her head to hang like the ears of a spaniel down the sides of her face. Two folds of fabric swept under these ornamented hound’s ears, creating an almost comical effect. Her gown was rich in crimson velvet but seemed almost to attack her, engulfing her bosom, conquering her neck. Bands of gold covered her breasts like prison bars, and wrapped about her throat as if they meant to strangle her. It was a distinctly unflattering gown, offering the impression the idea was to imprison the lady within its folds. Anne herself was pretty, but her clothing was dreadful.

  The floor shook and for a moment a shadow loomed over me, dark as night. Realising the King was standing behind me, I turned and curtseyed.

  “You are lost in thought,” he said, staring at the picture. “I am rendered the same, before her.” It was as though he spoke of a saint.

  “She is beautiful, Your Majesty,” I said. “And she looks kind, noble and intelligent.”

  In truth, it was hard to gauge anything from that impassive face. Perhaps that was the point. She was a blank canvass.

  “She is the perfect woman, and will be a good mistress to you,” he said. “Other women was I offered by eager kings, but she is the only one.”

  I could almost hear Norfolk’s mocking, internal laugh. The King had chased many princesses, women who had become nuns or accepted other men rather than take his hand. It was true the Emperor had recently offered Christina of Milan again, but only because he was nervous about the match with Cleves, not because the lady had changed her mind.

  The King went back to this throne, great legs thumping like tree trunks on the floor. I came back before him and curtseyed again. My legs were aching.

  After a few more words, I was dismissed, but I was sure I had done well. My uncle, although not one to surrender to enthusiasm, appeared pleased.

  As I left, with my name now at the head of the list of maids of honour, under Anne, I felt the King’s eyes on me, burning through my clothes.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Norfolk House and Greenwich Palace

  December 1539

  “So, the King was pleased with you,” said my grandmother. “He must have been, for you to be placed at the head of the maids of honour.”

  “After Mistress Bassett, my lady. But my uncle told me I had done well.”

  “High praise, from Norfolk,” she chuckled. “And the King went on to Windsor?”

  I inclined my head. “He fell ill there, so we did not see him for some time.”

  We had heard details though, more than we wanted to. The King had been captured by a fever, which his physicians treated with an enema and a laxative. After a “large siege” the next morning, the King had felt well, but was restored even more to hear the embassy from Cleves had arrived. There to bring the signed marriage treaty to England to be ratified, and deal with any last questions, the ambassadors had been welcomed in high style, granted gracious rooms, and flattered at every turn, and now, in a few weeks perhaps, our Queen would step upon English soil.

  “And what of the men of court?” my grandmother asked after a while. “Are there grand sons of noble houses chasing you?”

  I smiled, but shook my head. “No one in particular, my lady,” I said. “Or, at least, no one of note, as yet.” In a way my denial was true and not in another. Men had sought me out, but I thought little of them. There was but one man in my mind.

  Culpepper.

  As other young men floated about, complimenting me and asking for my hand in the dance, he had held back, but I could always see him watching me. I could feel his eyes on me as I danced, and caught him gazing at me across the tables at dinner. I was sure he liked me, or at least liked the look of me, yet he stood aloof. It was most disconcerting, for it made me hunger more for him. And I was sure he knew that.

  So, I had done the same. I had talked, laughed and flirted with the young men courting me, resting my hand on sleeves and going with the other maids to watch them play tennis in the palace courts. I did nothing the other girls did not do, and we were always together to keep each other safe. I ignored the existence of Culpepper, and I could feel his interest growing as I did. I understood. Men like to chase. They are hunters all. They might like to make a girl easy to win by playing their games, but it is the swift doe in the woods they want. A challenge.

  I thought us similar souls. He knew how to get women to flock to him, and I had enough experience to understand men. Wildness screams its challenge to wildness. Within us two beasts had woken, circling one another, waiting for the struggle of power.

  And that, I had decided, was what all relationships were. They were all a battle of power, even marriages. Women could hold power if they were sneaky, men if they simply exercised their rights. Love, desire, lust… all of these were games, struggles.

  Cynical thoughts for a girl about to turn sixteen, but I thought them true. Men had sought power over me all my life, and all my life I had surrendered, but no more. If I was going to misbehave, as many did as long as they were careful, it would be with someone of my choice, and on my terms. And if I was to marry, it would be to someone I at least liked the look of.

  “It is as well to be selective,” said my grandmother, clearly thinking the same as me. “Most are foolish fops. Ensure that if you grant attention to any they are not only pretty but rich. Your uncle will want to marry you off in a few years. He will choose a lad from a noble house, so concentrate on them. If you can get a lad to fall for you it can sometimes be easier to sway the family into forgetting your lack of dowry, and if you make your choice well, you will have your uncle’s influence to back you.”

  “You mean, fall in love with a pretty, rich simpleton, my lady?” I asked cheekily.

  “I mean that exactly,” she said. “Not too stupid, though. You want no utter dullard to cart through life, but if they are just fool enough you will live a happier life, for you will know some power.”

  My grandmother wanted to know all the news, and I told her nobles were already ordering clothes for the wedding, which the King hoped would take place just after Christmas, and some were complaining about the lady’s religion, saying she was a heretic. “They say it quietly, of course,” I said, “for the King will hear nothing against her.”

  “Norfolk tells me the King was most impressed with you,” she said. “He said the King’s eyes were afire with lust.”

  “The King has eyes only for his new wife, my lady,” I said, my cheeks igniting.

  “It is well to cultivate such things, granddaughter,” she said. “If the King desires you, it could be useful for our family.”

  Inwardly I grimaced. Affairs with men of my choosing she would look down on and forbid, but to become the King’s whore was another matter. The same was true of Norfolk. Their grand, high principles were a sham. If they could gain favour by whoring the daughters of their house, they would.

  All whores. All of us. Sold off for advancement, influence or royal favour, within marriage or out. As long as a man was the choice of our betters, it was good. If our choice, it was a sin. In all honesty, I thought that was the true reason. Choice. We were not supposed to make them on our own. If we did, it was rebellion.

  “The King looks more at Mistress Bassett than me,” I said.

  “Then put yourself forward more,” she replied.

  “News came that the Queen had left her brother’s castle last month, my lady,” I said, moving on. “And the King expected her in late November, but her train was large, more than two hundred attendants, and their progress on the winter roads was slow. She was supposed to be in Calais by now, but did not arrive when expected. The King sent one of his men to Lord Lisle, Anne’s father, and he
sent word back that the Queen was expected on the eighth of December.”

  That day was the first day of December, and a roaring fire thundered in my grandmother’s hearth. Outside, biting wind howled about Norfolk House and paths were slippery with ice. The skies were grey, promising snow.

  “The King has sent Suffolk, as well as the Lord Admiral and the Earl of Southampton to Calais as well as Uncle William,” I went on. “And my uncle Norfolk went to Canterbury, with Cromwell, so they might greet her there. The King hopes to have his wedding on Christmas Day. Such entertainments are planned. There will be a good two weeks of celebration, starting with the wedding on Christmas Day.”

  “It will be a rough crossing for the Queen in this harsh weather,” said my grandmother. “It would be safer for her if she stayed a while in Calais.”

  “He will not hear of any more delays, my lady,” I said. “And the maidens’ chamber is on fire with talk about her. If she tarries too long, maids will start bursting into flame. If the King wishes to keep his palace in one piece, the Queen must get to us!”