Shadow of Persephone

by G Lawrence

  “I know nothing of such matters, Your Majesty,” I said, my face a blank mask of innocence, “but I do hear people speaking ill of him at times, and I wonder at it, for he is a good man, dedicated to Your Majesty.”

  “Henry,” he insisted.

  “Dedicated to you, Henry,” I repeated, rewarded by a beaming smile.

  And by the end of April it was not just riches from my family which were in my hands. “I am granting you the goods and chattels of a Sussex yeoman,” the King told me at one of our secret meetings.

  “Your Majesty!” I exclaimed, honestly surprised. “I had not thought… I deserve no such goods.”

  In truth my mind was whirling. Think me shallow and avaricious if you wish, but never had I had anything that was mine in truth. My gowns, like my body, belonged to my uncle or grandmother. My possessions had all been granted by them, and could be taken back at any turn. To have something my own was… remarkable.

  “You deserve all I could give you,” he said with passion in his voice. “More… If could give you the world, my Catherine, I would.”

  Lands and goods. I had property in my own right, something I had not thought I would attain. Of course, in time it would become that of my husband, but even so, even for this brief moment, it was mine.

  It made me feel safe, as though there was something I could lean on, something holding me still as under my feet the world trembled.

  Chapter Sixty

  Whitehall Palace

  Late Spring 1540

  I stood in the stands at Whitehall, waiting for a flask of wine to be filled for the Queen. Out in the tiltyard, pennants of knights were streaming in the air, slapping and snapping as hot wind blew past.

  It had not rained for more than a week, a strange occurrence in England, where no day was complete without a touch of rain, mizzle, or fog. But the day was dry, as was the earth, rising up in clouds of dust as knights thundered across it, the hooves of horses beating earth into sky, joining them as one.

  We had watched jousting for five days, and mock tourneys of sword when the knights were resting or it was too hot for them to clash. My cousin the Earl of Surrey was leading the defenders with Uncle William as his second. Sir Richard Cromwell was leading the answerers with Sir Thomas Seymour. Even when we watched entertainments, politics and faith were there, battling one another.

  The flask filled, I smiled to the man managing the barrel and went to the Queen. It was May Day, the celebration of the start of summer, the end of spring. The stands were packed with nobles and courtiers cheering and wagering on the challengers and answerers. To one side, removed from the nobility, were thousands of commoners, packed tight into their stands. No less excited than the nobles, common people wailed as favourites fell and screamed when they won. Shattered bits of wood flew into the air when a lance hit a chest, whipping into the heated wind, floating in the shimmering air.

  I went to the Queen and filled her cup. Rewarded with a curt nod rather than the gentle smile I once received, I fell back, holding the jug in my sweating palms. The Queen knew. She supposed I was her husband’s mistress, and although she remained polite, she was not warm as once she was. It was to be expected. What Queen welcomes a rival, especially when married to a king so inconstant in his affections? If she knew the pity in my heart for her she might have felt more affection. If she knew how little I wanted the fate I was being thrust into, she might well have pitied me.

  My regret was on the field, riding like Saint George himself. Thomas was magnificent. His armour shone, glinting in the sunlight and when he won, he took off his helmet, grinning at the crowds, his blue eyes glimmering like sapphires.

  But his final match he lost, and I sorrowed for his red face and slumped shoulders. And how I hated Sir Richard Cromwell who had beaten him! Enough to kill.

  The joust came to a close, and the Queen walked away with her ladies. Once, she might have asked me to walk close by her, and sing when we reached her chambers. But those days were done.

  “Are you well?” I asked Jane, seeing her standing as everyone else left, a haunted expression on her face.

  As though in a dream, she answered, “It was May Day when…”

  Her hand trembled as it went to touch her lips. She did not need to say more. May Day had been the last day my cousin and her brother had been seen in public before they were taken to the Tower.

  I knew why Jane had thought of them that day. Anne Boleyn was there, floating beside another Anne, black eyes sparkling bright in shadows falling from the stands. Would this be the last May Day for another Queen? It was widely whispered this was so.

  We went to the feast at Durham House that night, and I watched as the King handed out rewards to the knights. One hundred marks and houses in which to live were their prizes. Thomas, felled at the last, was not rewarded.

  He tried to hide it but I saw how disappointed he was. He danced with Bess and other ladies. I stood apart, not wanting the King to become enraged to see me with another man. No other came to claim me. They could see the brand of their sovereign upon me.

  *

  A day later, and it was all about court that the Queen was soon to be crowned. I was agitated, unsure what this meant. Would the King make me his mistress? If so, why ask me to marry him? Jane found me in the Queen’s chambers and told me it was nonsense. “Cromwell is spreading the rumours,” she said. “He asked me to aid him, thinking he might force the King to keep his Queen if enough people say it will happen.”

  The Queen heard the rumours and added to them. She called her personal advisor, Carl Harst, to her and told him to go to Cromwell to talk about the arrangements. Harst did, but without success. Cromwell wanted the court speaking about the triumph of the Queen, but to actually go ahead with plans when he knew his master was against the idea was tantamount to signing his own death warrant.

  That night, in secret, I was sent another gift. Twenty-three quilts of sarcenet, all from the royal wardrobe. “It is too fine for me,” I said, running a hand over the rich cloth. My eyes sparkled. It was stunning. I understood I was being bought, but there was such a passion in my young, silly heart for such gifts. I felt special.

  “You will have more,” said the King, coming to my side. “All the riches in the world, and yet none of them as fine as you.” He took my hands. “You may hear things. As though I mean not to marry you, but you must not fear. It will be necessary to do some things, as others are done quietly.”

  “There are rumours the Queen will be crowned,” I said.

  “And they are untrue,” he said, touching my hair. He liked it loose, and always asked that I take my hood from my head when we were almost alone. “I was forced into this marriage by politics, Catherine, but I will be freed by love.”

  The King explained Cleves had become a liability to England. “I do not expect you to understand fully,” he said, his gentle smile warm as he thought of my ignorance. “But some of it you must, for it affects you, and me.”

  He drew me to a cushion near the fire and we sat down. “France is our friend now,” he said. “A stronger ally than Cleves. The Queen of Navarre has always been my good friend. A charming lady, you would like her, and the Dauphin and his wife are with us too. The only one opposed to England in France is the Queen, but Eleanor is a Hapsburg, so her loyalties lie with her homeland. As we make friends with France, Cleves is becoming unstable. There is word the Duke wishes to make war on the Emperor Charles, and will try to drag England into it. I have no intention of making war on the Emperor for the sake of Cleves, and the Duke is, in fact, the vassal of the Emperor, for he swore fealty to him years ago. If I aid him, I support a rebel against his sworn lord, and that I will not do. It is no longer politically safe for England to be united to Cleves.”

  “I understand.” I had already heard this, and also knew the Queen’s brother was not threatening war on the Emperor. It was the other way around. The Emperor had suppressed a rebellion in Ghent and there was word he might turn on Cleves next.
The Emperor had demanded that Cleves surrender Gelderland, one of their territories, and the Duke was showing signs of aggression in response. But he was not rebelling. Many feared war in Cleves, for the treaty between the Queen’s homeland and England was mutually defensive. But the King had no intention of upholding it.

  He smiled. “Of course you understand, and there is good reason. God sends messengers in many forms. I knew my marriage was not blessed from the first day, for God was telling me it was wrong. And now He has sent you to show me the way. I am an Englishman. I will take an English Queen.”

  The King saw God’s hand in our marriage. All I could see were the fingers of men, prodding me this way and that.

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Whitehall Palace

  Late Spring 1540

  “Catherine,” Anne whispered, her voice fraught. “I must speak to you.”

  She pulled me into a chamber and yanked a letter, crinkled and ruptured by anxious hands, from her pocket. “It is my stepfather,” she said. “He has been arrested and is being brought to London, to the Tower! My mother has almost lost her wits with fear. She thinks he will be killed.”

  “What happened?”

  “It is Cromwell,” Anne breathed, her eyes hard. “He has accused my father of being a papist, of communicating with foreign powers, but he has not! He is innocent, I swear it! Cromwell has been filling Calais with radicals who like not the King’s stance on religion and want more reform. That is why he has attacked my father, because my father knows what Cromwell has been up to. Please, I need your help.”

  “My help? What can I do?”

  “The King loves you,” she said. “Anyone can see it. Please, Catherine, speak for my father. He is a good man and…” She started to weep.

  I took her to the maidens’ chamber where we found only Mary Norris inside. When she heard Cromwell was after Anne’s father, her face became flint. “That man will not stop until he has taken everything from everyone,” she said.

  “He will not get away with it,” I said. “I know not what I can do, but I will do something.”

  That night, called as usual to the King, with my uncle of Norfolk as chaperone, I entered with a sad face. When the King saw me downcast, he asked what the matter was. “It is …” I said, gazing up with mournful eyes. “It is too large a subject for me to understand, Your Majesty, but my heart is troubled. My good friend, your niece Anne Bassett, is distraught for her father has been arrested. Yet she says there is no reason, for your uncle is loyal to you and has always worked for you. She says her mother cannot stop weeping, and she is so low that it pains me.”

  I gazed at him with sadness that was unfeigned. “I know there must be a reason,” I said. “But I am so sorrowed to see the pain of my friend.”

  The King looked at Norfolk, who nodded, and took himself away. “Sweetheart,” the King said, taking me into his arms. “You are right when you say you understand not such matters, but know that I am already investigating this.”

  “You are?” I looked up, eyes bright.

  He smiled. “Of course,” he said. “Your good uncle came to me not long after we heard Lord Lisle had been arrested. There is fear this has been done for ill purposes. Norfolk tells me my uncle Lisle may be the innocent victim of another trying to cover their crimes, and if this is so justice will be served, I promise you. There will be an investigation into crimes of heresy in the Pale of Calais, for I have been told it may be that Lord Lisle has been arrested to conceal the fact that someone is shipping radicals there, men who would work ill against me. Tell your friend no details, but tell her to be quiet in heart. I will find the truth.”

  “Oh, Henry!” I cried, delighted Anne’s father was safe. “You are the best of men!” I threw my arms about his shoulders with an impulsive burst of affection and found myself pressed to his lips. I did not attempt to stop the kiss. He had saved my friend. There should be some reward.

  When we broke apart, his eyes were glowing with passion. “Catherine,” he said. “You love me.”

  “I do,” I said. I did, a little, in that moment.

  I went back to Anne that night and told her everything. I knew she would say nothing, and she was so pleased she hugged me and tried to give me her best hood. It seemed we all thought we owed something for kindness.

  “I have no need of it,” I said, pressing it back into her hands. “And you owe me nothing. You took me into your care when first I came to court. If anyone owes anyone, I am in your debt.”

  Despite this assurance Lisle was safe, he remained in the Tower. He was not in a cell, and Anne was permitted to go to him, taking baskets of food and books. She said he seemed well, and had told her not to fear, for my uncle had been there too, telling tales of Cromwell and his conspiracy to unseat all Catholics. But the King was still paranoid enough to want to investigate both sides. He trusted no one. Soon Cromwell was fighting back, saying Gardiner was in league with Lisle, and they were attempting to bring papism back. Gardiner responded, telling the King that Cromwell was part of a league that wanted to bring about radical reform, denied the Real Presence of the Host, and was a heretic.

  “My father is caught in the middle,” said Anne sadly. “I fear for him.”

  On the 22nd of May, we had news from Scotland. A prince had been born to Marie de Guise and King James. Celebrations went on, but as the King sat before his people at court everyone could see his eyes were on me. He had an heir, but needed a spare. He would not get one with his wife. I was no more just his desire, but the instrument of his future.

  It was said Cranmer was urging Cromwell to find a way for the King to leave his wife, but Cromwell kept stubbornly backing the Queen. I have no doubt this was not as foolish as some claimed. If he rid the King of his wife, Cromwell knew I would take her place. He needed no more enemies in high places.

  At the end of May one of Gardiner’s allies became Bishop of Westminster, and Cromwell counterattacked, arresting many of his enemies on charges of papist loyalties.

  As the King called me to him to talk of love, war raged in the halls of court. Reformists were being arrested, then conservatives in retaliation. No one was safe. It was said something must happen soon, or Hell would break loose upon England.

  The corridors of court were silent, but murmurs were behind each door. People looked pale and afraid, rabbits in a warren despoiled by foxes. As Thomas marched me each night to the King, I could feel fear drumming, a heartbeat of God, pounding in the corridors of the palace.

  And when the end came for one of the generals in this war of faith and favour, it came swift. The flash of a sharp blade across a white throat.

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Whitehall Palace

  Summer 1540

  It was the 10th of June. Heat shimmered in the air like shattered glass. In the maidens’ chamber we woke feeling groggy, stifling air pushing down upon us. A breeze which brought no relief blew in the grounds, fluttering through flowers drying and crisping under the enraged sun, despite the best efforts of groundsmen who watered them by night.

  Birds could not bring themselves to sing. Deer lolled under trees in the park. Ducks and geese dozed in the scorching shade, and lap dogs of court ladies filled the palace with hot, smelly breath, as they panted, pink tongues flapping in arid air.

  That day, Cromwell made for Council, as usual.

  Before he was seated, Norfolk stepped forwards, shouting, “I arrest you in the name of the King!” The symbols of the Order of the Garter were torn from Cromwell’s clothing. Cromwell threw his hat on the floor, challenging the men there to name him a traitor.

  They obliged.

  Cromwell had served the King for ten years, making his every wish come true. From separating the King from Katherine of Aragon to breaking with Rome, making my cousin Queen to taking her head, Cromwell had succeeded. But in this last, fatal affair of the King’s marriage, Cromwell had failed. The King was disappointed. That disappointment allowed Cromwell’s enemies to persuad
e the King his best man was guilty of much more.

  Cromwell should have seen their plot. He had once used the King’s disappointment to kill my cousin.

  Arrested for links to heretical preachers, suspicion over the amount of retainers he kept, a dereliction of duty in the King’s marriage, and for not supporting alliance with France and Spain, Cromwell was taken to the Tower, cries of “Traitor!” marking his every step to the boat. His London house was surrounded by archers, his plate and goods confiscated by the King.

  Later that day, I found Mary Norris sitting alone in the maidens’ chamber, staring into a mirror. I went to her and put my hand on her shoulder.

  “I try not to look in mirrors, most days,” she said quietly. “It is him I see. My father’s eyes, staring back at me. Every day, he is there, watching. Every day I have seen his sorrow, but not today.”