The Last Wífe of Henry VIII

by Carolly Erickson

  I was met at the door of the manor house by the head usher who led me to a small but well furnished sitting room and bedchamber. I settled in.

  Officially I was to be a lady-in-waiting to Henry Fitzroy’s wife-to-be, but since he was still unmarried I was given the very light duty of watching over the stillroom, that aromatic place where crushed flowers and spices were made into toilet water and perfume and cakes of incense. I had observed the operation of the queen’s stillroom at Windsor and was familiar with how the sweet-scented liquids were blended. The stillroom servants, experts at their craft, would do the mixing and boiling and cooking in the perfuming-pan, I would merely oversee their labors and approve the finished products.

  I began my duties conscientiously, but the king’s presence at the manor disturbed and distracted me. I felt nothing but hatred toward King Henry. I blamed him for Ned’s death and for the loss of my child. All our troubles had come upon us because of him. Because of him, and his vast and greedy household. The hundreds of royal servants in his entourage were not staying at Sheriff Hutton of course, they were housed in a nearby monastery with wide lands and many outbuildings. Henry and Mistress Boleyn and various members of their household made the journey to Henry Fitzroy’s miniature establishment each morning and returned each evening after supper.

  I had been told that the king intended to keep Christmas in the North with his son and then return to Greenwich for New Year’s Day. I did my best to stay out of King Henry’s presence, thinking I could avoid him until his visit was at an end. But when Lord Perpoynte, appointed Lord of Misrule for the holiday merrymaking, came to see me in the stillroom I knew that my intentions were about to be thwarted.

  “Milady Burgh,” he said, inclining his head to me out of politeness though his rank was considerably higher than mine, “our lord the king desires you to take part in the pageant of the Castle of True Hearts on Christmas Eve. You will play the part of one of the maidens dwelling in the castle.”

  “But I am not a maiden, as the king well knows. I am a widow. And I am still in mourning.”

  “The pageant is only make believe. If I can play the part of a swan (which I am being asked to do) then you can be a maiden—for one evening.”

  I could not go against the king’s wishes and so I found myself in the grand salon taking instruction from a lithe, energetic French dancing-master along with the five other maidens in the pageant. I felt a slight tremor of distaste when I realized that one of the maidens was Mistress Anne Boleyn.

  I had never spoken to her or had any direct contact with her, yet my hatred of the king, and my long-held loyalty to Queen Catherine (whose namesake I always remembered myself to be) made me dislike her.

  Anne had been made a part of the royal circle, yet she did not belong there. She was usurping the place of the queen. She was part of all that was awry with the court. I could not help feeling disdainful toward her, while at the same time sensing the undeniable allure of her dark looks and natural grace. Mistress Boleyn was at that time a mature woman of thirty or thirty-one, while I was barely nineteen. Yet I had been a wife—and very nearly a mother. Anne was still waiting to achieve those goals nearly every woman shared.

  She was staring at my feet in their dark green velvet slippers as the six of us repeated the dance steps we were being taught.

  “This girl must keep up,” Anne said to the dancing-master. “She is lame.”

  She was right. I was doing my best to execute the steps in time to the music of the drummer and piper but my injury from the falling stone on the night of Ned’s accident hindered me. My foot dragged and I limped when I took a step onto my left leg. It was only a slight limp, but to a precise and light-footed dancer like Anne it must have seemed a major handicap.

  The Frenchman stared at my foot.

  “Turn,” he said to me.

  I turned.

  “Walk.”

  I took a few steps.

  He shrugged.

  “It is nothing. No one will notice. Besides, she looks well. No one will look at her feet.”

  Anne’s expression hardened. “I want her out.”

  “I fear the king will disapprove. He asked especially for her.”

  This surprised me. And worried me. Why should King Henry care whether I danced in his Christmas Eve pageant or not?

  Anne did not challenge my presence further, but she criticized me unmercifully. One of the other dancers, a heavy, clumsy girl with a sweet face named Avice Odell, was much slower than I was to learn the steps of the dance and was close to tears by the end of our two-hour practice. Yet Anne ignored Avice and took out all her exasperation on me.

  “That girl is still slow,” she snapped after the dancing-master dismissed us to visit the dressmaker to be measured for our costumes. “If you can’t replace her, at least give her extra practice.”

  My foot was hurting badly after all the dancing and the last thing I wanted was extra practice.

  “Not today, thank you,” I said to the dancing-master, loudly enough for Anne to hear.

  “You’ll do as I order you.”

  I faced Anne squarely. “You are not queen yet,” was all I said—and all I had to say. Furious, Anne reached out as if to slap me but with surprising quickness for such a clumsy dancer Avice stepped between us and grasped Anne’s beringed hand. Avice was not only heavy but muscular and strong. With an oath Anne managed to wrench her hand away and leave the room quickly.

  Avice was not present at our next practice, and when on Christmas Eve the pageant of the Castle of True Hearts was held, there were only five maidens in the castle and not six. I learned from Daniel Frith, who kept himself well informed about what went on, that Anne had removed Avice from the pageant and had tried to remove me as well but the king forbade it.

  “You’re a favorite with him,” Daniel said.

  “Nonsense. It’s only that I’ve taken part in these disguisings before. I know something of how they are performed.” Daniel merely grinned and said nothing.

  I was nervous as I dressed for the pageant on Christmas Eve in my gown of crimson cloth of silver embroidered with small jangling bells and pearls. I would see the king. And he would see me dance, something he very much wanted. The French dancing-master had cautioned us that King Henry, who loved to surprise people, might suddenly decide to take part in the pageant along with us, perhaps playing one of the knights who defended the Castle of True Hearts against its attackers.

  “If he decides to put on a costume at the last minute, and if you recognize him, say nothing,” we were cautioned. “Do not betray him. Just let him do as he likes.”

  The pageant was to be performed after supper, in the great hall of the manor house. The king and his son sat at an elevated table, the hundreds of guests ranged along the length of trestle tables below him. With the supper at an end, all watched eagerly for the entertainment to begin. At a signal from the Lord of Misrule the immense, thirty-foot-high castle in which we maidens were concealed rolled slowly into the hall on wheels. In the candlelight the walls and turrets of painted wood looked like stone, the moat of blue silk shimmered like real water. Imagination took hold, and the make-believe castle became, in the minds of the spectators, a miniature world.

  “Behold the Castle of True Hearts, wherein the maidens Purity, Constancy, Chastity, Virginity and Fidelity are kept safe from danger.” The Lord of Misrule spoke solemnly as the mechanical drawbridge was lowered and we descended onto the dance floor. The musicians began to play, and we went through the first of our stately dances, a slow pavane. We must have looked well, for I heard several people catch their breath as we twirled and bowed and when we finished there was loud applause.

  I looked out toward the raised table where the king and Henry Fitzroy had been sitting, but saw only the boy. The king had vanished.

  “The Castle of True Hearts,” the Lord of Misrule was saying, “often comes under assault. Wild Men of the forest pursue the maidens, who must be defended by the Knights Loyal.
”

  Right on cue the Wild Men appeared, fearsome figures, their bodies and faces painted green, their hair matted and tangled, wearing nothing but loincloths. Capering and shouting in their own fantastic language, they came toward us menacingly, and even though I knew full well that the pageant was only make-believe I could not help feeling frightened.

  Barbaric, near-naked, alien with their long green limbs and tossing snarled hair, their eyes bright in their green faces, the Wild Men were creatures out of a nightmare. The tallest and most muscular of them ran up to me and, with a yell, lifted me up in his arms and carried me away from the castle and into a dim corridor where torches burning in wall sconces gave the only light.

  So swiftly did it happen that I barely had time to cry out. I was dizzy, I felt my stomach drop and lurch as the Wild Man seized me. I was aware of the scent of his warm green flesh—the scent of verdigris with which his body was painted. His arms were strong, his muscles hard and round.

  “So ho, Lady Cat,” the Wild Man murmured, his mouth close to my ear.

  It was the king. I knew his voice, that soft and caressing tone he could adopt when he chose to. I had failed to recognize him, despite his height and well-muscled flesh. I was at once on edge, on guard. This was the man I hated—yet my body sought to yield to the strong arms that held me, the handsome, savage face that bent toward me.

  I stiffened.

  “Put me down. We are not in the pageant now.”

  “Are we not? Come now, you know there is a drama playing itself out between us.”

  He tightened his grip on me, still holding me in his arms. Though my body felt pleasure in the embrace I gathered my strength and, using my arms, pushed with all my might against his broad chest.

  “Let me go!”

  He set me down then, but almost before I could find my footing he kissed me.

  I had never known such a kiss, hard and insistent. He kissed me as if he owned me, which in a sense he did. He was my sovereign, I his subject. I was his to command. I could not help but respond. I had loved kissing Ned, Ned who was all melting sweetness. But this Henry, this Wild Man, was all savage fire!

  When at last the kiss ended the king looked down at me. “I told you once, virgins excite me.”

  I was no virgin, to be sure. Yet I had the feeling, in that moment, that the king had touched a part of me that no man had ever reached before. The Wild Man had taken the castle, and all its defenses were down.

  It was such a disturbing feeling that I didn’t let myself feel it for long. When a group of masked dancers hurried past us along the corridor, about to begin the next pageant, I took advantage of the commotion to leave the king and run back to the anteroom where we maidens had dressed in our finery. I felt ashamed because my gown was soiled, smeared with verdigris from the king’s body. When I entered the anteroom I saw that Mistress Boleyn was there. A servant was unlacing the tight bodice of her gown. She glanced at me, saw the smears of green on my gown and sleeves and turned away.

  Had she spied King Henry among the Wild Men and did she realize that he had carried me away from the others? What would she say if she knew the king had kissed me?

  I confess I stole a glance at Mistress Boleyn while I changed my gown. I wanted to see whether what was said about her was true: that she had an enormous mole on her neck and that she had six fingers. I caught sight of a dark round spot on her neck that could have been a mole, but it was small. Her hands moved too rapidly for me to catch sight of the rumored sixth finger.

  When I had changed my gown and returned the soiled one to the Mistress of the Robes (who gave me a very sour look) I went back into the great hall where another pageant was just concluding. The performers were acknowledging their applause when the Lord of Misrule came up to me.

  “I should like you to join a few of the king’s party for cards. We will be in the duke’s apartments.”

  Ill at ease, I made my way to the suite of rooms occupied by Henry Fitzroy and took my place at the gaming table. The king, no longer a Wild Man but his usual self, a blithe, handsome monarch in a doublet of light blue taffeta with silver trim, sat with his son and Mistress Boleyn and a dozen others at the long table.

  “Now, boy,” King Henry was saying to his son, “you’ve lost to me at the butts, and at bowls, and in the tiltyard. You can’t seem to shoot a stag and you have no ear for the lute. Can you at least beat me at hazard?”

  We often played hazard, I had learned the game as a young girl, watching my mother and Queen Catherine’s other ladies-in-waiting play. I imagined that I was a good player.

  “Give me the dice, father, and you’ll soon see,” said Henry Fitzroy.

  The king took from his pocket a gleaming pair of silver dice, indented with black onyx to indicate the numbers on each face.

  “These dice go to the winner,” he said, “as a prize. Let the play begin!”

  Despite the formality of the occasion, with no less an opponent than the king at the head of the table, we were soon drawn into the game and forgot ourselves in the heat of play.

  “Double aces!”

  “Six and five!”

  “Ten shillings on a deuce!”

  One after another we cast the dice and laid our wagers. King Henry played with more zest than skill, I noticed. Mistress Boleyn played with a grim focus, determined to win at all costs and wagering heavily—from a purse of coins the king handed her. When she lost, she swore, making the king laugh.

  “There there, Brownie, you sound like a ferryman on the Thames or one of my gunners, not like a lady!” He called her Brownie, which my mother had told me was a version of her nickname at the French court. The French king Francis had called her Brunet, and the name stuck.

  “By all that’s holy I’ll make you take back that insult! Four and four!” she called out, and cast the dice boldly.

  She won. No one cheered, as they did when the king or his son won their toss. The silence was uncomfortable. Mistress Boleyn collected her winnings and tossed the dice to me with such careless roughness that they nearly fell off the table.

  What possessed me then was something I’ll never understand. I challenged her. I looked straight at her, wagered every coin I had, and called out, “Four and four again!”

  It was an impossibly bold and risky bet, and of course when I cast the dice they came up two and six, and I lost. My face felt hot. I murmured, “With your majesty’s permission, I will withdraw,” and got up to leave the table.

  “Wait! Stay a little, Milady Burgh. I’ll stake you to another play or two.”

  He tossed me a purse of coins. It fell heavily on the table in front of me. I thought, there is enough in that purse for me to live on for a year.

  “Take it,” the king said. “I admire a courageous player. I’m something of a wild man myself.”

  He winked at me, and I blushed, though my face was already red.

  “My mother,” Henry Fitzroy remarked to his father, “is a skillful player. But she knows better than to overplay her hand. Or risk too much on a single throw.”

  He meant to nettle both me and Mistress Boleyn with this remark, and everyone at the table knew it. His mother Bessie Blount had never aspired to becoming queen, as Mistress Boleyn clearly did.

  “Your mother was a whore.”

  “There there, Brownie, don’t go too far.”

  I passed the dice to Henry Fitzroy, who with remarkable self-possession in one so young, kept silence as he took the dice and shook them.

  “Double aces!” he called out, his eyes on Mistress Boleyn. He lost. He had wagered heavily, and now had nothing left. To everyone’s embarrassment, he began to cry.

  The king put his hand on his son’s shaking shoulder.

  “There there, boy. Hold on.”

  He reached for the dice and shook them, still holding onto Fitzroy’s shoulder.

  “I wager for the honor of Bessie Blount, fifty gold pieces.”

  Murmurs of approval greeted this announcement, and al
l around the table bets were laid. I put down a gold crown from the king’s purse of coins as my bet. Mistress Boleyn was the only one who staked no wager. Her face was stony.

  “Double aces!” the king called out. He cast the dice, watched them roll, and then let out a bellow of joy. There was loud applause, and everyone took up their winnings. Henry Fitzroy smiled through his tears.

  The king rose, to indicate that the play was at an end. We all stood with him.

  “Now, who has won the prize of these silver dice?”

  “You, your highness!” came the response from half a dozen of those at the table.

  “The Duke of Richmond!” shouted a few voices loyal to the young Henry Fitzroy.

  “I think tonight the prize goes to the lady with the courage to risk all. Milady Burgh.”

  He handed me the gleaming dice and I curtseyed deeply.

  “Your highness honors me.”

  I looked up into his eyes as I rose. He was smiling. The party began to disperse.

  “Watch out for those dice,” he said in an undertone before he moved away from me toward the waiting Mistress Boleyn. “They’re rigged.”

  9

  THE FIRST TIME I MET JOHN NEVILLE, LORD LATIMER HE CAME TO SHERIFF Hutton with my distant kinsman Cuthbert Tunstall, Bishop of Durham, to tell me that my dear mother had died.

  Though I had been expecting this news for some time, as Will wrote me that mother had grown progressively weaker and weaker, still I was very sad to learn that she was finally gone and in my earliest memories of John I see him through a veil of tears.

  My relative the bishop was not solicitous of my grief. I had barely begun to take in the lamentable news when Lord Tunstall unrolled a document and proceeded to read me a list of mother’s possessions which I had inherited.

  “She has left you her pearls, her pendant miniature of King Henry and Queen Catherine, her rosary beads adorned with gold that were a gift from the queen and her bed of purple satin paneled in cloth of gold, to be presented to you on your wedding day.”

  “But my wedding day is long past,” I managed to say.