The doctor’s words made me as anxious as I was ill and I reached out to other mothers for comfort. My sister Nan had had a healthy son and I had gone to attend his christening. Her boy was three years old now and I had watched him grow and thrive. Several of my ladies-in-waiting had given birth when I was queen, and I had become godmother to their children. Even the Pestilence was brought to bed at regular intervals and all her children had lived.
I was given a charm written out in the old Saxon tongue to put under my pillow and a relic from Saint Gudrun to hang from the bedstead. My former mistress Anne of Cleves sent me a large packet of camomile tea to settle my stomach. Special prayers were said for me and my child in the chapels of Chelsea and Sudeley each day. I searched my Bible for stories of women blessed with healthy sons, and even, as I lay in bed, began to write a new collection of prayers of my own, thinking that I might have it made into a book after my baby was born.
Tom spent as much time with me as he could, but he was often away, looking after the affairs of the fleet and protecting himself at court from his brother’s attempts to take away his authority and the Pestilence’s spiteful encroachments on my prerogatives as queen dowager. When Tom was with me he was very sympathetic and regretted all my discomfort.
One very cold winter night he arrived at Chelsea bringing with him four heaping baskets of food.
“I wish you could have been at the banquet with me, Cat,” he said as servants laid a table in my bedchamber. “My brother gave a feast for the Garter Knights and there was no end to the courses. I’ve brought you some of the tastiest dishes to sample for yourself.”
I smiled weakly and tried not to gag at the sight of the plate of baked stag, cold lamb and capons with prunes and currants that was set in front of me. But the smell of the food made my gorge rise, and I was unable to force myself to eat more than a few bites.
“Cat! You must eat! You’ve become so thin and pale. You must eat for our child’s sake.”
I continued to make an effort but soon gave up and called for some camomile tea. I hoped I wouldn’t be sick while Tom was with me. I shut my eyes and tried to concentrate on preventing my food from coming up.
“You know, Cat, our boy will be a very important person at court, right from his birth. He’ll be the king’s first cousin, and the son of a queen.”
“A dowager queen.”
“And he’ll be rich, and Edward will give him many titles and lands.” Which you will administer for him, I thought, making you much better off.
“Edward counts on me more and more, you know, Cat. He distrusts my brother and turns to me. He wants Parliament to make me his governor.”
“And will they?”
“I expect so.”
“But that will mean we’ll be apart all the time.”
“Not if you and the baby come to live at the palace.”
I sighed, and felt my stomach lurch. To live at court again, to be at the center of that hornet’s nest of intrigue. It was not something I looked forward to.
“You must find your strength again, Cat. Go for long walks, eat good healthy meals.”
“I’ll do my best,” I said, as brightly as I could. But after Tom left my stomach rebelled, as it usually did, and the few bites of fine food I had managed to eat went into the silver basin I kept nearby for such emergencies. I was sick, I was miserable, and above all, I was worried. Would my sour womb reject the baby, as it had the baby Ned and I had made together so many years ago? Or if I did manage to give birth, would my baby be defective in some way, with a crooked back or weak legs? Or would it be a simpleton, like the boy Queen Anne’s sister Mary had with King Henry, a poor wretched creature without wits who could hardly speak and who had to be kept out of sight lest he bring shame on his parents?
I was rescued from these morbid thoughts by Will, whose visits had become more frequent since I told him what a very hard time I was having. Will had always shown strong family feelings, and I knew I could count on him. When I married Tom, Will had taken Anne Daintry’s children, all four of whom had been living with me, to live with him, and was raising them as his own. This eased my burden of responsibility considerably, and I was grateful to my brother. Not many men I knew would have devoted themselves to being a father to their wayward wife’s four bastards—for that is what the children were, in plain terms. I was very fond of them, but Tom had objected to their living with us, and now that they were with Will I could continue to be their fond Aunt Cat while not having to deal with the day-to-day oversight of their care.
Whenever Will came to see me he always brought me something amusing, slippers shaped like ripe figs, green on the outside and red within, or a handful of beans that rocked back and forth and jumped like live things, or—my favorite—a mechanical box from which popped a toy figure that resembled the Pestilence.
“It is very like her, don’t you think?” Will asked, picking up the box and studying the frowning, dark-haired doll that emerged from it. “You should have seen her, overdressed and heaped with jewels, the day the king of Denmark’s brother came to court to pay his respects.”
I felt a prickle of unease.
“The king of Denmark’s brother? But I thought he drowned.”
“He seemed quite fit. Not even wet.”
“Is it possible the king has more than one brother?”
“As it happens, no. This brother is the king’s only living sibling, and since the king has no children, his brother may inherit the throne—if he lives long enough.”
So Tom lied about the shipwreck, I thought, and most likely about the reason he was making inquiries about Elizabeth’s lands. Why? In the past he had said that he hid the truth from me in order to spare me anxiety. Was he doing the same thing now? What did I have to be anxious about, exactly?
Will sensed my unease, but he misinterpreted its cause.
“Something is bothering you, Cat. I can tell. Something beyond your upset stomach and your worries about the baby. Have you been hearing about what Tom is doing?” Will’s ordinarily smiling face was so grave as he spoke that I was alarmed.
“He tells me some things, of course. Mostly about his brother.”
Will took my hand. “I think you should know, Cat, that Tom is overstepping his bounds. He’s putting himself in more danger than he knows. I am no intriguer or insider, and I keep to the margins of things at court as much as I can. But even I can see that what Tom is trying to do could lead to his downfall. He could be attainted. If he carries out the threats he is making, he could be convicted of treason.”
I put the box Will had brought me aside and tried to sit up. “Tell me more,” I said.
“A few days ago, when the council was debating the question of whom the Princess Elizabeth should marry, Tom took Edward away overnight, on his barge.”
Just as he did with Elizabeth, I thought, and bit my lip nervously.
“No one knew where Edward was. The Protector was beside himself with fear, and lashed out at everyone in the prince’s household. The palace was searched from attic to dungeons but there was no sign of the king. The Protector even sent men down into the moat—that evil-smelling sewer—to look for his body, in case he had fallen in.
“When Edward returned the next morning Tom was with him—and in a foul mood. It turned out that Tom had been trying to convince Edward to sign a document asking Parliament to appoint him Governor of the King’s Person. Edward would not sign it.
“You can imagine the scene between Tom and his brother. Furious anger, harsh words. I tried to intervene, to restrain Tom and make him leave the palace. I did it for your sake, Cat. I was afraid of what Tom might say in his anger, and of what he might try to do.
“I managed to take his arm and lead him away, but not before he had threatened Parliament. He said that unless he was appointed Edward’s governor he would kidnap him and this time no one would be able to find out where he was.
“It was all I could do to make Tom come with me, out of the council room and into my
coach. He fought me and swore at me. All I could think of, Cat, was you. Because of you and the baby I had to prevent Tom from bringing disaster upon himself.”
It was the longest speech I had ever heard Will make, and by far the most serious.
“He is rash,” I said with a sigh. “And very unwise. Yet he says there are many at court who admire his boldness.”
Will shrugged. “They will cease to admire it if he finds himself in prison. And Cat,” he added, “be sure you do not involve yourself in anything he is doing. Don’t give him any more money Don’t help him or encourage him. It can only lead to your harm as well as his.”
After Will left me I felt so disheartened that I began to rock back and forth on my bed like a child, seeking some shred of comfort from the soothing repetitive movement. Presently I sent for my fool, hoping to divert myself watching her silliness and antics.
She came bounding into my bedchamber, laughing and full of energy as she always was, twirling her wide red and blue skirts in a wild dance. I stopped rocking and watched her, laughing when she pretended to injure herself bumping into benches and walls, enjoying her parody of the formal dances we did at court.
I wondered, not for the first time, what went on in her mind. Ippolyta had been a fixture of my household for years, in and out of my bedchamber and antechambers many times a day, familiar with all that went on around me. Yet she seemed never to react to anything that was happening, and the fact that she was a Tartar from the Russian steppes—a place that, to me, was impossibly remote—barred her from mingling with the other servants. When not entertaining me she kept to her small, snug room at Chelsea, with its modest bed and wardrobe and her icon of a Russian saint hanging on the wall with a burning candle beneath it.
Now, watching Ippolyta’s twirling skirts, my own disturbing thoughts whirling uneasily, I was surprised when she moved closer to my bed and whispered, in her heavy accent, a few chilling words.
“Beware, my good lady, beware!”
Startled, I put my hand to my throat, as if to stifle my involuntary reply.
“Oh Ippolyta,” I cried out, “what will happen to us?”
But before the words were out of my mouth she was off in a blur of red and blue, stamping her feet and humming to herself as she crossed the room, leaving me alone to weep into my pillow.
49
A LONG WITH ALL THAT WAS WORRYING ME THAT SPRING I WAS constantly plagued by the defiance and animosity of Elizabeth. Ever since I reprimanded her for going on the river with Tom she had been a thorn in my side. All the earlier trust and friendship I had tried so hard to build between us was gone, and Elizabeth seemed to seize on any excuse to rebel against my authority and cause acrimony.
In her high-necked black gowns and plain black billiments she hovered like a harpy on the fringes of my life, always ready to challenge me or show me disrespect. Her very gowns—mourning gowns, worn to honor her late father—were a rebuke to me, as I had worn mourning for only a few months after my late royal husband’s death and was criticized for my failure to show him proper respect by wearing black for a full two years. Her gowns were severe, but her youthful looks were ripe and alluring. With her long curling flame-red hair and fresh white skin, her tapered limbs and developing figure, she was as bewitching as a water sprite, and the slyness in her eyes would have provoked any man, I thought, even my Tom.
“I have hired a new tutor, a Cambridge man. Roger Ascham,” she announced to me one morning when I went to observe her schoolroom. “My old one has been dead for months. It was time to find another.”
“All the appointments in my household are made by me, Elizabeth,” I said.
“Not this one. Ascham is a scholar, learned in Greek as well as Latin. I need help translating Isocrates and the Greek Testament. I am a better judge of Greek learning than you are, wouldn’t you agree? Since your own knowledge of Greek is limited. So I appointed Ascham.”
“He will have to earn my approval.”
“I’ll be sure to tell him so.” Her smile told me that neither she nor Master Ascham considered me to be a good judge of scholarship. And on that point she was correct, of course; my Latin was adequate, so far as it went, but I knew very little Greek and in fact I had heard Roger Ascham’s name mentioned in respectful tones by men whose judgment I trusted. He would be a good choice as her tutor—provided his character was sound.
Still, the girl’s willfulness and constant provocations galled me, especially after I learned from Margaret that Elizabeth had begun to entertain my servants by mimicking me.
“She is very insolent, Mother Catherine,” Margaret confided to me, clearly uncomfortable with what she was telling me. “She decks herself out in elaborate red gowns—the kind you like to wear, with all the pleats and lace and frills—and carries a big black Bible and a pen and inkwell, and talks about duty and sinfulness and how every woman ought to write books and have at least four husbands before she’s too old to enjoy them.”
“Is she as funny as Will?”
“Sometimes. But sometimes she is just spiteful. I don’t know why she dislikes you so. Especially since you’ve always been kind to her.”
“Thank you for your loyalty, Margaret.”
“I’m sorry to have to tell you this, Mother Catherine. But I thought you ought to know.”
“You were right to tell me.”
I was angry. Henry had always called Elizabeth “the Witch’s Brat.” Now I saw why. But there was worse to come.
Tom had begun spending more time with me and less time at court. Ever since his violent quarrel with his brother the Protector he had avoided going to Whitehall unless absolutely necessary. It was a welcome change in our routine. I found it comforting to have him near me, especially at night, sleeping beside me and cradling me in his strong arms. I loved waking up and seeing his dear beautiful face on the pillow next to mine. Sometimes I woke up early and raised myself up on my elbow the better to gaze down at him, sleeping there, his hands folded behind his head, his face in repose relaxed, free of the creases around his mouth and across his forehead that marred his features when he was awake.
This was my Tom, mine at last. Every beloved bit of him, from his delicious curling lips to the curves of his tan cheeks with their stubble of beard to his broad chest and muscular arms. All of him, his smell, his feel, the warmth of his skin, his very breath: all of him mine, and mine forever.
I reveled in those early waking moments, and looked forward to them.
But then something changed. I can’t remember exactly when it was, only that the scents in the garden were at their most spicy and pungent and I was beginning to feel a little better. All at once I began waking early and finding that Tom was already up and gone.
The first few times it happened I thought nothing of it. Summer was coming on, the weather had been fine and Tom was an active man who liked to roam the fields and riverbank for exercise. But then, when it seemed he was up before me every morning, I asked him where he went so early. He answered nonchalantly that he was in the garden, or out walking, or that he liked to get up early and go out alone because it gave him a chance to think.
He was so evasive that I began to be curious. I decided to follow him, to see where he went.
I deliberately stayed awake all night and, before dawn, I felt him stir. He crept out of bed, and I could see by the light of the bedside candle that he slipped on a skimpy nightshirt (it was his habit to sleep naked) and put his big felt slippers over his feet. Running his fingers through his tousled hair he quietly left the room, and just as quietly I got up and, wrapping myself in my silk dressing gown, went out into the corridor after him.
It was not yet light, the birds had not yet begun to chirp and twitter and the servants were drowsing at their posts. I could hear a distant clatter from the kitchens and scullery but no other sound—except the soft scraping of Tom’s slippers across the stone floor.
The corridor was dim, but I could see the shine of his white nightshirt ahead
of me. I held my breath, hoping he would not become aware of my presence. I followed him up one corridor and down another, along seldom used passageways in the old house, until he came to the rooms used by Elizabeth and her servants.
He came to the door that led through an anteroom to her bedchamber. He hesitated—but only for a moment. Then, quietly, he let himself in.
My heart was beating so rapidly I thought my chest would burst. What was he doing there, at that hour? Was this his first visit, or had he been coming there every morning, deserting me for her?
I took a deep breath and crept nearer to the door, then pushed it open, entering the dark antechamber. A groom was there, seated on a bench, leaning against the wall, snoring. I hurried past him and saw that Tom had entered Elizabeth’s bedchamber, which was dominated by a high carved bed whose thick velvet curtains were drawn. The door was ajar. I reached it just as Tom opened the curtains and looked down at the sleeping Elizabeth. Slowly he pulled down the light blanket that covered her, and I could see that she was wearing the tight bodice of pale yellow silk that had been my gift to her and that she had worn the night she went out on the barge with Tom.
Sick at the sight, and wanting with all my might to scream at Tom and slap and scratch Elizabeth, I forced myself to watch as he bent down, took the girl in his arms and kissed her.
I gasped, then quickly fled, past the snoring groom and back out into the corridor. As I fled I could hear a commotion behind me. The groom, awakened by my passing, was alarmed and shouted out for help. I could hear women’s voices—Elizabeth’s waiting women, no doubt, rushing into the bedchamber to help her. I thought I could even hear Tom’s loud voice booming out. But by then I was running along the cold stones, aware chiefly of the sounds of doors opening and closing and the murmuring of many voices, intent only on reaching my own bedchamber and taking refuge there.
50
WE MOVED TO HANWORTH THEN, AND ALL WAS CONFUSION FOR A week. I kept to my bed, sick to my stomach and all but in despair, wanting to confide in Will (who I felt I could trust with my awful secret) yet holding back, reluctant to admit what I had seen to anyone, even my brother.
The Last Wífe of Henry VIII Page 30