Shadow of Persephone

by G Lawrence

  “Perhaps he is warming to her,” I said to Mary.

  “Let us hope,” she said. “Oh, Catherine, I know it is selfish, but I do not want to be sent away! To return to Norfolk now, after seeing court…”

  “I feel the same.”

  We tried to reassure each other, but what was worrying was that there seemed to be no plans for the Queen’s coronation. Most puzzled was the Queen herself. It was supposed to be taking place in February, and she called her English officers to her to discuss what it was she was to do during the ceremony and after. “I am not familiar with English custom,” she told them. “I need to know what I am to do, and say.”

  Red-faced and trying to mask abject discomfort, they told her it had been decided the ceremony would be postponed; in February the weather was unpredictable and the King did not want his subjects prevented from attending due to rain or snow. There was to be a civic reception, they told her. She frowned a little, but nodded. “When there is a date for my coronation I would know at once.”

  They promised, and fled. All of us knew their excuses were thin as whey from a sick goat. If the King ordered his people to turn out in a tempest of fire with demons of Hell walking the streets, they would.

  The next day, the first of February, I was surprised to find Thomas outside the maidens’ chamber, and he was not waiting for Bess, but for me. “It has been a while since you sought me out for any reason,” I said coolly. “Why now?”

  “The King wishes to see you,” he said. “He wants a report on the maidens’ chamber.”

  “Then Mistress Bassett should go, Master Culpepper. She is senior to me.”

  “He asked for you, personally.”

  Baffled, I told Anne. “Why did the King ask for you?” she asked.

  “I know not. Perhaps he has forgotten the line of precedence?”

  “That seems unlikely. But no matter, you must go if he asks for you.”

  I followed Thomas down the halls of court, my heart thumping, wishing I could think of something to say to him. When we came to the Presence Chamber, Thomas paused, knocking so the King’s man could let us in with his keys. When I walked in, there was no one there but the King, and Thomas.

  “Mistress Howard,” said the King, warmness rich in his voice. “You look beautiful.”

  “Thank you, sire,” I said, curtseying. “You look wonderful.”

  He did look magnificent in swathes of purple and crimson velvet, cloth of gold shimmering on his shoulders and a black cap on his head. “I wanted a report of the maidens’ chamber,” he said. “You are all well, you girls? Happy in your tasks?”

  I bobbed again. “We are all well and hearty, Your Majesty, happy to serve our gentle, gracious mistress.”

  He came closer and Thomas stepped away, heading to one of the windows, so he was there and yet not there. A chaperone, but a silent one. I felt suddenly uncomfortable, as though herded to this place for another purpose.

  “You find your Queen pleasing, Catherine?” asked the King, taking my hand and leading me to the other end of the room. At a window seat he stopped, indicating I was to sit beside him. I stared at him, my face turning red, for to sit in the presence of the King was not something suited to my station, to anyone’s. But he insisted. “We are as friends, here and now,” he said. “Fear not, for I will tell no one, and neither will you.” He smiled. “Our little secret.”

  Shadows were gathering at my back, and with those words I thought I heard the ghost of my cousin whisper warnings, but I could hardly disobey the King. I sat, trying to keep my eyes on my hands.

  “You like your mistress, then?” he asked again and I nodded.

  “She is lovely, Your Majesty,” I said. “The Queen is good to us, and so interested in England and the children of Your Majesty. She longs to meet Lady Elizabeth, even more so the Prince Edward.”

  “I sense loyalty in you,” he said. “And therefore I would trust you with something. But you must be loyal to me, your King, and reveal not what I will tell you. Can you do that?”

  I nodded, daring to meet his eyes. There I saw soft lust and affection. “You are too young to know, but there is more to marriage than four legs in a bed, Catherine, a great deal more. When I heard of the Queen, I was told stories, yet I found them untrue.”

  He sighed, placing a hand, as though by accident, upon my knee. “She is not what I thought she was,” he continued, fat fingers pressing gently but possessively into my flesh. “I am sorrowed to have been deceived by men I trusted.”

  The empty place was near; its deafening silence, its quiet spaces. It did not fall, but it was there, knowing I needed it.

  “The Queen is a godly woman, Your Majesty,” I said. “With graceful ways and a kind heart.”

  “Yet she is not, and cannot be, the Queen England needs,” he said. “And therefore I cannot lose my heart to her. For this I sorrow.”

  “I am sorry for you, Your Majesty,” I said, words coming out almost as a whisper.

  “I feel your pain for me as my own,” he said. A finger came, hooking under my chin, lifting my eyes to his. “So young,” he whispered. “Too young to know what sorrows and pains life can bring. I envy you, Catherine. You are so innocent, a flower untouched by the blight of age and sorrow.”

  “Your Majesty is the greatest prince of the world,” I said. “You have no cause to envy me. I am nothing.”

  “Never say such a thing.” For a moment I thought he would kiss me. “You are everything.”

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Greenwich Palace and Norfolk House

  February 1540

  It was more than an hour before I was granted leave to escape. Thomas took me back to the maidens’ chamber, and my head was in such a whirl I said nothing. The King had spent the entire time talking of his pain, reminding me of Francis. He had called me his gentle friend, and sworn me to secrecy.

  And he had told me much. He was worried about the legality of his marriage, a phrase that sent shivers down my spine, and confided he had been ill-used by men like Cromwell, who had lied to him about the Queen.

  But it was the notes of desire strumming from his ample flesh that I had felt the most; the soft lust in his eyes, and the touch of his hand, hot upon my knee, then my thigh.

  I knew not the way these things were done, but I was fairly sure the King wanted to make me his mistress.

  I said nothing to the other maids. When Anne questioned me, I said the King had been concerned about our happiness, and had asked about the Queen too, checking she had all she required.

  “Let us hope that means he is finding affection for her,” Anne said.

  “Perhaps that is the case.”

  “You were a long time, though.”

  “The King was thorough.”

  “Did he say why he called for you rather than me?”

  “He said because you were the senior maiden, you would have to organise maids in the Queen’s chamber, so sent for me.”

  Anne seemed somewhat satisfied, but she clearly still found it puzzling.

  I went about my duties in a daze. I felt cold. The shadow loomed as though it meant to open dark arms, swallowing me whole.

  *

  The day before we left for Westminster, as the Privy Council sent word to commoners of London to put on their best the next day and come to cheer their new Queen, I went to my grandmother. Westminster was opposite Norfolk House, but we were likely to be busy there, so I thought I should see her before we went.

  It had been a difficult time for my family. Cromwell had struck at Norfolk. Thetford Priory, the traditional burial site of my family, was to close on Cromwell’s orders. Thetford was where Agnes’ husband, my grandfather, and her son Thomas lay.

  Norfolk had tried to save it, and failed. It was one of the last monasteries left in England, and had survived largely because of my family, but no more. Norfolk wanted to refound it as a college of priests, to sing Masses for the souls of our family, but Cromwell would not allow it. The mon
astery was to be completely destroyed, and the bones of my ancestors moved elsewhere, to Framlingham in Suffolk. When I arrived at Norfolk House, I could see the strain this had taken upon my grandmother. This was not only the destruction of one of the last monasteries in England, but a calculated assault on our family, and Norfolk’s pride. But Agnes, as always, was concentrating on what she could do, rather than that which she could not control.

  “Barges have been ordered out onto the water,” said my grandmother, speaking of the Queen’s ceremonial entrance to London, “mine with them. The King wants the waters full, and the banks, to make a spectacle to please the Duke of Cleves.” She narrowed her eyes. “But they say the King is not content with his wife?”

  “He is not. Poor lady, for she does nothing to warrant such cruel treatment.”

  “You like her?”

  I nodded. “She is kind and gentle, regal and queenly, my lady. I know not what issue he has with her face or body, for they do not seem ill to me.”

  “She was not the fantasy,” said my wise grandmother. “He was expecting Jane Seymour in the body of Anne Boleyn with the manners of Katherine of Aragon.” She chuckled. “He dreamed, and upon waking found someone else in his bed.”

  “Like a changeling,” I murmured.

  “But your position is good, and you are happy?”

  I inclined my head.

  “Yet you look sad,” she said. “There is a strain upon your smile.”

  Not wanting to say a thing about the King, I told her of Thomas.

  As I finished, my grandmother breathed in. “If there is one thing I wish I could teach young women and always find myself unable to, it is to not allow happiness to rest on a man, any man, even their husband. I know you will not listen, for your ears are full of him, like your eyes. You cannot see past him, but you should, for when you come to live as long as me you will see it so clear and wish you had not wasted your time, wondering on a man and if he loves you.”

  “What will I see, my lady?” I asked.

  “You will see happiness is not reliant on others, but only on the self,” she said. “Granted, it is harder when we are young. We seem so sure of ourselves but inside we are a tumbling turmoil of insecurity and doubt. But when you learn, Catherine, to rely only on yourself to provide happiness, it all gets so much easier. Then, we are not alone, even when no one is around. We are in company with ourselves, and content. We do not need someone to praise us, for we can see honestly all our flaws and virtues. We can work on them, but we do not censure ourselves anymore. That is when a woman becomes master of her own self, even if she is a slave; when she can be in company with herself, content in her own soul.”

  My grandmother smiled at my doubtful face. “You see?” she said. “You know not of what I speak for the thought is so alien to you it might as well be in the language of the infidels. But one day, when you are old, tell your granddaughter what I told you. Then, you will understand.” She touched my arm. “Do not sorrow for a man, who, when he found no luck with you, ran off with another the next moment. Such men are not worth much. They are flighty, and will not be constant. But if you sorrow about this girl Bess, do not. He will not stay with her long.”

  “How do you know, my lady?” I asked, my rebellious heart surging with hope.

  “Because men such as he are fools,” she said. “They do not know what they want. They beg a woman to lie with them, then disgrace her and treat her with no respect if she does. They tell women who will not bed them they are cruel, then worship them as goddesses. It speaks of their inner hatred, not for us, but for themselves. They can respect no woman who lies with them, and cannot tear themselves from one who denies them. Men who respect their own souls do not treat women so. Only one who knows not who he is or what he wants acts that way. Your young man is one of them. He will discard this Bess, in time. She will become a scrap of linen he has wiped his nose on. That is how he will think of her; soiled, dirty, unclean... because of him, because she allowed him inside her.”

  I thought on this. In many ways it was how Francis had been to me. Before I had lain with him it was all bows and smiles, treats and loving words. After, not immediately but soon, it had been, “little whore” and, “you are nothing without me”.

  “Then,” Agnes went on, “he will seek out one who treats him cruel. Be that woman if you want, and he will be yours, but you must pretend to be ice when you are fire, stone when you are earth.” She looked distant. “We are always pretending to be something other than what we are when about men,” she said. “Stupid when we are clever, meek when bold, sweet when sour.”

  “Thank you, my lady,” I said.

  “Age has its uses,” she said, touching my cheek. She smiled, then pursed her lips. “I have news of Dereham. If you want it.”

  “As long as he is staying far away, my lady, that is all I care about.”

  Agnes chuckled. “He has become a pirate in Ireland. His name is quite notorious already.”

  “I care not what he does, Your Grace. He is nothing to me.”

  That was not entirely true. Francis was part of the shadow, but sometimes what we say becomes true if oft repeated.

  “There are no other men but this Culpepper boy to tempt you?” asked my grandmother.

  “Master Paston, of the King’s chambers, asks often for my hand, my lady.”

  “Paston… of Norfolk?”

  I nodded. “He is of the Privy Chamber.”

  “And of a good family. I know his kin.” She straightened up in her chair. “Perhaps a new suitor would be good, if what he promises is honest.”

  My grandmother wanted me to catch a husband; anyone would do as long as they were rich and well-placed. But no one could compare to Thomas. Until I ceased to be in love with him, no other man stood a chance.

  Not in my heart, at least.

  If the King asked me to be his mistress, I would get no choice about my body.

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Greenwich Palace, Westminster

  and Whitehall Palace

  February 1540

  The next day, after Mass, we made for the waterfront. Barges were to carry the entire court from Greenwich to Westminster in a parade. When we reached the heart of London the Queen would be presented to her people.

  The river was busy; every barge of every noble, of the King and many smaller crafts of merchants had been called upon to turn out with their best regalia fluttering from masts and sails. Beside them bobbled flocks of swans, elegant and white upon the choppy water. It was freezing, the February air chilled as regret as we stood on the water steps, little waves slapping stone.

  We headed into the water, grey, bearing tiny white-crested waves, and sailed for Westminster. Boats containing all the nobility of England were there, music drifting from their decks along with thick clouds of incense burned to mask the stench of the river. The slippery banks, thick with reeds in places and bare in others, were crammed with people, cheering and waving, trying to catch a glimpse of their Queen. Children sat on the shoulders of their fathers, craning little necks like stretched, pale throats of chickens pulled for the pot.

  As we passed the Tower there was a crack of gunfire in the air as cannons shot to welcome the Queen to London. Guildsmen cheered from their barges as we floated on, and men shouted blessings from shops along the riverfront and on London Bridge.

  “Were this a normal marriage, we would be stopping here,” Jane Boleyn murmured, appearing at my side at the prow. “The Tower is where queens stay before their coronation.”

  “It will come in time, my lady,” I said. “When the Queen is with child, perhaps.”

  “If that happens,” she said. “But you have a point. It used to be that a queen was crowned when she married the King. It was that way for Katherine of Aragon, and most queens before her. But the King’s father started something when he delayed crowning Elizabeth of York. He did not want the people to think his claim rested on her rather than his own rights, so waited until she
had borne a son. And our King…” her eyes flickered to the King’s boat, “… he follows his father, and crowns wives when they are with child, when worth is proved, and sometimes not even then.”

  “What do you mean, my lady?”

  “Queen Jane never had a coronation,” she pointed out, her voice soft. “Now, the King protests he loved her more than any woman in the world, but it was not so whilst she breathed. That woman was terrified from the moment he set eyes on her. She knew he did not love her as he had Anne, or even Katherine. Jane was not a simpleton, as many suspected. She had little choice about marrying the King and tried to do her best as Queen, but she knew what would happen if she failed him. Even when she was with child, he would not crown her. He wanted to know it was a boy. That way, if a girl came, she would be easier to get rid of.”