The Queen's Governess

by Karen Harper

  “So you are working for the cardinal or the king?”

  “I believe you asked me that once before, Mistress Champernowne,” he said with a hint of a smile. “Both, of course. Both, until the wind somehow shifts.”

  “I will do my best,” I promised him. “And I will do my best to not think of myself as spying for my bread and butter.”

  His ink-stained fingers tapped the arm of his chair. “You are not to think or say such. You are merely informing and, thereby, helping to keep the great wheel that is the court and the country rotating in perfect harmony. Now for the most important part.”

  I frowned at him, confused. Had he not told me all?

  “You see,” he went on, turning even more toward me in his chair, then glancing behind us to be certain that, I take it, neither Stephen nor his clerks had come back in, “the Lady Anne does not get on with my master, the cardinal. Both she and His Majesty bear him some ill will that His Eminence has not obtained the king’s divorce yet. Well, of course, as fond lovers, they are impatient.”

  “I hear she is of the new learning and, obviously, the cardinal is not.”

  “Astute but not the key thing here. Now harken to this: the Lady Anne especially dislikes the cardinal because he once rescinded her covert and willful betrothal to Henry Percy, heir to the earldom of Northumberland. Then later the cardinal said in her hearing that she was a foolish girl of no account to hope to wed so high.”

  Of no account—those words poked at me. How I had feared the same. Yes, I dared to think that the king’s beloved Anne Boleyn and I had something, at least, in common. I had not been good enough even for Arthur, the second son of Sir Philip, and how I had feared I would be of no account if I were to be left marooned in Dartington. Anne, too, came from the countryside; Anne, too, had ambitions; Anne, too, resented those who would hold her back. I dared to think I almost understood her.

  “Are you listening, mistress?”

  “Yes. Yes, I am. Say on.”

  “That Percy flap is all water over the mill dam now, since he’s wed to an earl’s daughter and the Boleyn will wed His Majesty. But my point is that there is bad blood between Anne Boleyn and the cardinal, so she doesn’t trust him.” He took a little breath. “But she does trust me.”

  My eyes widened. I leaned toward him to know what he would say more.

  “You see,” he said, looking a bit smug, “I have done favors for her father, Viscount Rochford, for her brother, George, Lord Rochford, too, so I naturally came to her attention.”

  “Naturally.”

  He bit back a smile. “But the thing is—the thing that concerns you—is that neither the cardinal nor the king know that I am finding ways to champion her cause beyond what the cardinal yet deems to do. The lady and I correspond privily from time to time, and that has been difficult. But with you living there with her and in her favor—”

  “In her favor? But—”

  “Because she knows that not only Sir Philip of Modbury is your sponsor—which everyone will know—but that I am your privy sponsor, too, and that you are sworn to help her cause, through me. Is that not so?”

  I sat up straighter. “It is, Master Cromwell. I believe it means you have a bit of a balancing act, holding up the interests of both Lady Anne and the cardinal—and ever, of course, the king—but I shall put my trust in you.”

  I felt a bit like a traitor to the Barlows, throwing my lot so completely in with Cromwell. But I, too, had come so far so fast, and there was no way in Christendom I could or would turn back. I owed this man a great deal. True, I’d seen hints that he was devious, but he also seemed devoted to his masters and the Lady Anne and, of course, to himself—but weren’t we all? I jolted alert, for he was lecturing me again.

  “On the shirttail—or, should I say, petticoat hem—of the Boleyns and their kin the Howards, many are coming to court who will wield influence. Like it or not,” I recall he muttered later that night before a link boy lit me to my chamber, “Anne Boleyn is the king’s and this kingdom’s future, and we must hitch our wagon to her star.”

  I knew not then what a shining star—and then a falling one—she would be in the vast firmament I had just found.

  LONDON TO HAMPTON COURT

  The next morning, without seeing Cromwell again, I was off to Hampton Court on a royal barge, one stripped of its hangings, crests and seat cushions, though loaded with wooden boxes tied down with straps. I intended to see the countryside sights all the way, but a companion—a young, handsome man who leaped on at the last moment in the most brave style—took much of my attention.

  “Mistress,” he greeted me in a rich voice, and doffed his flat leather cap in a half bow as the barge was rowed away from the landing and turned westward against the stiff current. “As I see you have no protector with you but the oarsmen, I will have to do. Tom Seymour of Wolf Hall in Wiltshire at your service.” As we set out into the choppy river, he bent over my hand and kissed it, which made my skin tingle clear up to my shoulder.

  I felt my insides cartwheel, and my face heated—and not from the warm September sun. Tom of Wolf Hall was tall—later I learned few but the king were taller—and dark-haired, with brown eyes that seemed to look right through me, or at least through my clothing. He sported a quick white smile that flashed from his face. I gave him the story of my life that Cromwell and I had discussed about being reared with Sir Philip Champernowne’s family in Devon and coming to court in service to the Lady Anne. I told him I had been an only child but Sir Philip’s brood were like my own siblings.

  “An only child—you and the Princess Mary both,” he said, frowning at some privy thought and putting his packet of papers down at his booted feet. I feared they’d get wet from the spray, but it seemed not to worry him. Meanwhile, the oarsmen labored against wind and waves, though the man closest to us, right in my line of vision, was obviously amused by Tom’s bravado. Though bent over his oar, he looked up with a grin and a roll of his eyes before he winked at me. I ignored him as well as the pretty villages and fields we passed and concentrated on my charming fellow traveler.

  “Sometimes, I get so vexed with my older brother Edward,” he said, frowning and shaking his head. “Hell’s gates, let’s just say I wouldn’t mind being the only son. Now, my sisters are a different story. Jane’s the one I really miss since I’ve come to court in Sir Francis Bryan’s household. She’s sweet, quiet, pretty—quite blond, with blue eyes—while the rest of us are darker. But as for the king’s Princess Mary, His Grace has sent her to live at Richmond Palace in her own household—not unusual, of course, but I think he’s done it to put the screws even more to her doting mother. Mary’s as good as exiled from court, and, I warrant, the queen shall be next.”

  I soon learned Tom Seymour could dart from topic to topic at will. Yet he knew how to look one in the eye and listen intently with a penetrating gaze, though I later learned his thoughts might well be elsewhere. He had a habit that was both disconcerting and delicious of looking me over. The man, young as he was then at age twenty, was the first who ever made me aware of my body in a new way. Before, the heated looks of men had made me want to turn away, but that devil made me want to flaunt myself, toss my head, pull in my stomach and thrust out my breasts. He was a great teaser and masterful flirt too. He cast a sort of devil-may-care spell that made one—made me—want to give him and tell him all.

  It was only when the barge approached a cluster of eddies and small rapids that my surroundings seemed real again.

  “High tide and rough waters ahead,” Tom told me, as if I could not see or hear the white water. The oarsmen not only rowed now, but they braced the barge to keep it from spinning. “Fear not, fair maiden,” Tom yelled to me over the men’s shouted orders and gurgling of the waters, “the royal oarsmen are skilled. They know we can’t keep the king—or now the Lady Anne—waiting!”

  We began to spin, but they shot us through. Too much rain lately, I thought. Yet all this was exciting and seemed to heart
ily please my companion. We slanted up, down. I squealed and, despite trying to hold on to my nailed-down bench, was thrown toward Tom. He seized me and held me close as we bumped and turned, just missed a large rock, then burst free of the foam.

  It was only later, when the waters and my heartbeat calmed, I realized he’d held me much too tight, one hand hard on my bottom right through my spray-damp skirts and the other cupping my left heaving breast.

  For years after, anytime I was near Tom, it was just like that thrilling, bumpy ride.

  I thought Hampton Court was the most glorious, grand place I had ever beheld. Tom gave me a running commentary on it. “Cardinal Wolsey presented it to His Majesty three years ago when it became obvious to the king that His Eminence was living better than the sovereign. Quite a bribe to stay in favor, eh? I swear, York Place in London will be his next gift to the king if he doesn’t ram this damned divorce through soon.”

  For once I was speechless, but Tom made up for that. “One thousand rooms here—about the same number as courtiers—and two-hundred eighty beds, they say, so I am sure we will find one that suits us.”

  When I glared at him and turned away, much embarrassed, he went on as if naught were amiss, pointing in various directions, “Acres of tiltyards with observation towers, vast parklands, two massive courtyards, ponds and knot gardens. And, oh yes, a hornbeam maze perfect for lovers’ rendezvous. The king’s given the lady apartments next to his, despite the fact the queen still lives here too, but rumors are His Grace will send her away soon.”

  I wanted to remain cold to him for his crude innuendo I might bed with him, yet curiosity and excitement got the best of me. “But how does the queen abide the Lady Anne when they are both here?” I asked, tearing my gaze away from the rosy-hued brick buildings that seemed to go on forever. We walked the quay toward the water gate, though I did not let him take my arm. I had been promised my trunk would be delivered. We had both dried out from our brief, rough passage, buffeted by the gentle autumn breeze the rest of the way. I tried to push my wayward tresses back under my gabled hood. Again, I was enthralled by all I saw. As in London, people darted here and there, streaming in or out of the palace, some ahorse. Cromwell had said I would be met here. Were none of these people looking for me?

  “Ah, about the queen,” Tom said. I had nearly forgotten what I had asked him. “As you may have heard, she is stubborn and stoic about it all—that her king declares himself to be a bachelor since they were never legally wed, but to be certain, His Majesty plans to have their marriage annulled. Their Majesties will face off in court over that soon, at Blackfriars in London with Cardinal Campeggio sent from the Vatican to hear evidence and give his ruling.”

  “One can indeed pity her.”

  “But His Majesty cites much evidence for the annulment or divorce, including the fact that but one of their several children have lived, and that a girl—a clear sign that God does not approve of the union, he claims. For now, Queen Catherine mostly stays to her apartments and pretends to ignore the situation of the Lady Anne as best she can, hoping her husband returns to her royal bed.”

  “Which, I warrant, he will never do if he has annoyed and defied the Pope and her nephew the Holy Roman Emperor to have the Lady Anne.”

  “I knew there was a good mind inside those pretty wrappings,” he declared, making me blush again as we crossed the moat. As thrilled as I was to be here and despite the brash comment he had made to me earlier, I must admit I was loath to part with him. To my surprise he kissed me on the mouth, quick but hard.

  “Fear not, fair maiden,” he said, sweeping his cap off with a grin and a mock salute of his hand pressed to his heart, “for I shall find you again in this great pile.”

  With a laugh and a wave, he was off at a good clip across the huge base court we had entered. I looked around me, suddenly feeling dizzy, as if I still rode the barge in the rapids. Three stories with glittering windows glared down at me. Clots of clouds, racing overhead, made it seem the buildings would topple and crush me to the paving stones. For one moment, I couldn’t breathe. What was I doing here, Kat Champernowne from the small stone house near the moors where the wind blew cold and harsh?

  People continued to scurry past. I wished Cromwell’s Master Stephen would materialize from one of the doorways or the next court I could see through an inner gateway beyond.

  “Mistress Katherine Champernowne?” a voice called from behind me. I turned to see a smiling, petite, pert-faced woman. “Word had been sent you would arrive late midday, so I was watching for you.” She seemed to draw herself stiffly to her full height as she said, “I am Viscountess Rochford, wife of Lady Anne’s brother George, attendant on the Lady Anne, but you may address me as Lady Jane. I’m sure your things will be sent up to the chamber you’ll be sharing with two others. I hope your river trip was pleasant. Come this way.”

  I believe, as kindly couched as she put that, it was the first of thousands of commands and orders I was to follow in my new life at one of many Tudor courts.

  Anne Boleyn. Mistress Boleyn. The Lady Anne. Or often, most simply, the lady. Her name was on everyone’s lips. When I first went to court, everything revolved around the king’s beloved, and for the first time in my life, I glimpsed the true power a woman could wield.

  After I had rested and washed, settling into a small but pleasant chamber with two others of her ladies, the maidservant assigned to us unpacked my trunk while I was summoned by Lady Jane to meet my new mistress. Names and titles and connections already bombarded me: Lady Jane, Viscountess Rochford; the other two ladies in my chamber, Dorothy Cobham, Lord Sheffield’s daughter from Derbyshire, and Mary Talbot, the Earl of Shrewsbury’s youngest daughter—and the wife of Anne’s Boleyn’s former love, Henry Percy, no less! Thanks to the lady and Cromwell, I was instantly living in heady company.

  I soon learned the Percy marriage was an unhappy one and they were much estranged, though Percy, heir to the earldom of Northumberland, was about the court in the king’s service, having previously served Cardinal Wolsey. [As many years and as many Tudor sovereigns as I knew, relationships both formal and informal, marital and political, did boggle the mind. Especially when my dear Elizabeth finally mounted the throne and advanced men of ability as well as nobility, it was a veritable spiderweb.]

  I had to remind myself to breathe as I was led through a series of beautifully decorated chambers, each one with fewer curious and staring people in them, until we reached a small, empty but ornately appointed sitting room. Lady Jane knocked on a carved door, listened for a reply with her ear to the wood, then stuck her head in.

  “Milady, the new gentlewoman from Devon, Mistress Katherine Champernowne, is here as you asked.”

  The voice that answered was mellifluous but authoritative. “Send her in and close the door when you leave.” I could tell Lady Jane was not pleased, for she flounced out and closed the door a bit too loudly.

  I saw the chamber I entered was a fairyland of woven tapestries, Turkey carpets on the table and a massive bed draped with red-gold silken curtains. It was said that Anne Boleyn had told the king she would not be his mistress but only his wife, yet here was a bed fit for royalty. Yet it was not the furbishings but the lady herself who commanded my interest.

  This woman of twenty-seven years, who was the cause of “the king’s great matter,” also called by some “the troubles,” looked delicate and graceful. Her hair was raven black; she had dark doe eyes with a tilt to them that made her seem she would smile or flirt. I had expected her to be a ravishing beauty, but she was not. Yet there was something so inherently elegant and vivacious—something superior too—about her manner, the tilt of her head, the way she carried herself as she came away from looking out the window and turned toward me.

  She wore a half-moon-shaped French headdress studded with pearls, which made my old-fashioned gabled hood feel heavy on my head. Like my stepmother, Maud, she seemed to float as she moved, which made me once again feel earthbound.
About her slender neck, she had a strand of pearls from which hung an ornate, golden B with three oblong pearls dangling. She wore blue that day, shimmering peacock blue velvet with long sculpted brocade ivory satin inner sleeves, which hid most of her hands. I was soon to learn that the long-sleeved fashion was partly to cover a tiny sixth finger on her left hand, something used against her later, as was a mark on her neck, to accuse her of witchcraft.

  I was grateful I knew to curtsy long and low. As I rose, she kindly held out her right hand to raise me, then indicated I might sit on a needlepoint stool while she took the chair. I saw she had been reading a book, a New Testament, and in English rather than the approved Latin. How much she dared, I thought, even then, for the king had been declared Defender of the Catholic Faith before all this came to a boil.

  “I am pleased to have about me those who will be loyal, those from many shires of the kingdom,” Anne told me. “Devon is quite wild, is it not?”

  “It is remote, my lady. It stretches from the lonely moors in the north to the cliffs overlooking the sea in the south, but there are many civilized places in between, I assure you.”

  She asked me about my education and my faith. I told her the truth about Sir Philip’s household’s belief in the new learning and mostly the truth about everything else she asked. Since we were alone, would she not mention that I was to be her go-between to Cromwell when needed? But I learned then that she already knew what he had told me years ago, that the very walls might have ears. For, toying with her sweet-scented filigreed pomander, she rose in a rustle of skirts and summoned me with a graceful gesture over to a window she had flung wide. We stood in it, looking out over a pond and lovely, late-blooming garden.

  Her bell-clear voice now dropped to a whisper. “I must tell you that here at Hampton Court, which once belonged to the pompous ‘pope’ of England, Cardinal Wolsey, and at York Palace in London are several secret staircases and passageways connecting the king’s chambers with others and to the courtyard or gardens outside—exits for times of need or desire. I tell you that not so that you will use them—for they are for the monarch only—but so that you know why, even in such a chamber as this, someone might overhear.”