Fatal Throne: The Wives of Henry VIII Tell All

by M. T. Anderson

  But dancing is much in fashion at court, and I’ve loved it since I was a child. I love learning even the most complicated patterns—I practise them on my own if no one else will practise with me. One-two, step and turn, one-two, dip or bow…Counting steps, turning crisply, keeping time with the music, dancing is a delight for both my mind and my body. What fun during a pavane or galliard to glance up at a gentleman’s face and then away, and know that he’s admiring me, all without missing a step or losing the beat. The Dowager told me that the Duke himself once remarked on the charm of my dancing. Imagine!

  “Ladies, will you dance?”

  Three courtiers stand before us. I glance quickly at Lady Dorothy and Lady Margaret, then nod demurely.

  We curtsey and are led onto the floor. The music begins: a lively galliard, my favourite dance, and I simply can’t help laughing in delight.

  One-two-three-four, hop! One-two-three-four, hop!

  The sweeps and slide-steps take me past the dais. I’m breathless and laughing when, in the middle of a turn, I see His Majesty looking at me.

  No, surely not at me. I glance over my shoulder, but I don’t see anyone in particular, and then I look back again and this time there’s no doubt—it is me he’s looking at, his eyes bright, and a smile on his fat royal face!

  Should I smile back at him, is that too bold? But if I don’t smile, will he think I’m rude? I don’t know what to do—and he’s still looking at me—one-two-don’t forget the hop—and it’s so awkward to pretend I don’t notice, I can’t ignore him, I have to do something.

  I open my eyes wide and nod at His Majesty, a tiny nod, with my mouth in a not-quite smile.

  The dance finishes. I curtsey to my partner. I don’t look at His Majesty again, yet I’m sure to remember this all my life—the night my dancing pleased the King!

  * * *

  —

  The very next day, I’m surprised when the Dowager comes to visit. She wants to walk with me, so we take a turn around the maids’ chambers.

  “Catherine,” she says, her voice low in my ear, “the Duke has news. The King has ordered that the Privy Council find a way to annul the union.”

  “What union?” I ask.

  “Ssst,” the Dowager hisses. “The Cleves woman, of course.”

  “But what can you mean; they’ve only just married!”

  She pinches my arm as we walk. “Would that you were not as witless as you are young,” she scolds. “Listen, and hark: The King is markedly displeased with the new Queen, he likes her not a farthing. He has ordered Cromwell and the rest of the Council to find a way out of the marriage. The Duke says that the King intends to take him another wife, and that he asked about you.”

  I stop and stare at her. “Asked—asked…,” I stammer, “who—surely not—”

  “Yes, yes. He spied you dancing last night, and thought you charming.”

  “But—but how can you know this?”

  “At court, everyone knows someone,” she says. “It was all overheard by one of my own men in attendance to the Duke for the celebrations. Now the Duke thinks to put you in the way of the King.”

  I feel faint; my knees wobble. The Dowager leads me to a bench, where I gulp air like a dying fish.

  “Madam,” I say weakly, “I have only just arrived here. I—I don’t mean—might it be that the good Duke is mistaken? The Queen’s attendants are mostly new to court; perhaps His Majesty is asking after all of us.”

  The Dowager looks at me thoughtfully. “There is sense in that,” she says, “and it would not do to act the fool and throw yourself at him. Continue as you have, then, until we know if the marriage will sunder or not. But you must be ready to receive the King’s favour should it fall to you.”

  The King’s favour…

  Everything is happening too fast. It’s madness enough that I’ve gotten my first real dresses—and am now at court—and got to attend His Majesty’s wedding—but this—oh, this!

  FEBRUARY 1540

  I sit at a dressing table with a mirror in front of me. Lady Rochford, of the Queen’s privy chamber, brushes my hair. As she arranges my cap and hood, she speaks quietly.

  “The Bishop has invited you to Winchester Palace tonight, at the King’s request. Likely, His Majesty will bid you to his side for a time.”

  Lady Rochford has been at court through the reigns of three Queens. She earned the King’s gratitude by testifying at the trial of my cousin, Queen Anne, so the Dowager told me that I must take care to remain in her good graces. It seems odd to me: I should be cordial to her even though she testified against my cousin? But the Dowager pinched my arm when I asked about it, and scolded that my place was not to question, but to obey.

  Now I look at Lady Rochford’s reflection, my eyes wide. I’m supposed to sit beside the King, and speak to him? I half rise from my seat in alarm.

  “Whatever will I say?”

  She pushes me gently back down. “It is said that he is charmed by the gaiety of your youth. Do not try to be other than you are. He does not seek cleverness or worldliness. Rather it is your sprightly nature that would cheer him.”

  The evening ahead is suddenly terrifying. I can’t—I simply must not displease the King. It might mean ruin for my whole family.

  The worst of the Howards, that’s what they call me and mine. And yet…

  I look at the reflection in the mirror, a face so solemn and scaredy. How far you’ve come, I say to her silently. You arrived at the Dowager’s alone and bereft, but then Manox wanted you, and Francis loved you, and the Duke and Dowager chose you for court. Here is another challenge. Courage!

  I lift my chin. The girl in the mirror nods.

  * * *

  —

  “Come. Sit.”

  The King beckons me from a dais at the head of the hall. A large chair holds him. No, not a chair, a bench—one that two men and a woman of normal size could fit in, and His Majesty fills the whole thing himself.

  Winchester Palace is of course not nearly as grand as His Majesty’s Whitehall. But the great hall does have the loveliest rose window. I wish I could see it during the daylight hours, with the sunshine streaming through. If I were to stand on the brightest spot of colour on the floor, I think it would make quite a pretty picture.

  To His Majesty’s right sits our host, the Bishop Gardiner. A chair is brought for me, placed at an angle so the King can see me easily. Dinner is finished; now courtiers bring trays holding goblets of wine and plates of sweetmeats. I see sugared almonds, my favourite, but I don’t dare take one. I might look unseemly, chewing and swallowing in front of His Majesty.

  “How do you find court, Lady Catherine?” the King asks.

  “Very well, Your Majesty.”

  “What most pleases you about it?”

  A frightening moment—is there a wrong answer?

  Then I recall Lady Rochford’s advice to be myself. Fine, then. So what does myself like most about court?

  To my surprise, the answer comes easily.

  “So many lovely things, to choose among them is an effortful task,” I say. “But if I am forced to choose, I would say the music.”

  “Yes?”

  The King seems pleased by my response. But he’s waiting: I’m supposed to say something more.

  “Your Majesty, never have I heard music such as at court. It—it seems to fill not just my ears but the whole of my being to my very toes, so that they begin to tap without my bidding.”

  The King laughs heartily and turns to the Bishop. “She has a true feeling for music!” he exclaims. “Let us have some, then!”

  The Bishop speaks to a courtier, and with a clap of hands, musicians are summoned. Lute and recorder, not a grand ensemble as at Whitehall, but still very nice, the lute sweet underneath, the recorder melody a little sad. The King asks for songs written by one of his favourite composers, Mr. Cornysh.

  While the music plays, I ponder what to say when we start talking again. His Majesty is grand and
glorious and not like other men, for he is King of All England. But he’s blood and bone, too, and in that way, he is like other men, so I think of what I know about them.

  Henry Manox and Francis Dereham enjoyed instructing me—Manox at the clavichord and kissing, Francis at lovemaking. They liked holding forth on subjects they thought they were good at. I’m guessing that His Majesty might be the same? He’s an accomplished musician: Everyone at court knows that he composes songs himself and can play several instruments. So off I go!

  “Your Majesty, may I be so bold as to ask a question of you?”

  “You may ask whatever you wish, Lady Catherine.”

  “I know a little of the clavichord, but that is all. Is there an instrument you prefer above others?”

  The King looks very pleased. He starts talking about different instruments—lute, harp, recorder, clavichord….It seems that he loves music as much as I love dancing, and this is a delight to me.

  At last he asks what sort of music I like best, and I reply at once.

  “Oh! Music for dancing, Your Majesty.”

  He laughs again, and this time I join in. What I said wasn’t really very funny, so I’m not sure why he’s laughing, but I’m laughing because I’m nearly giddy with relief. The Bishop is looking on us kindly, and Lady Rochford is nodding at me, and then the King kisses my hand and holds it in his for a moment, actually for quite a few moments, so it seems I’ve done what I was supposed to do, even if I’m still not quite sure what it was.

  MARCH–MAY 1540

  Through the winter and spring, I go to Winchester Palace two or three evenings every week. Lady Rochford and I are always the only ones invited from the Queen’s household. It’s an odd bit of codfish, being the Queen’s dutiful maid of honour during the day, and then keeping His Majesty company in the evening. I’m always reminding myself never to speak of the Queen when I’m with the King, and the other way round—I get quite dizzy thinking about it.

  The parties are small affairs, attended by a few dozen courtiers and ladies considered trustworthy by His Majesty and the Bishop. They’re not nearly as gay as the gatherings of the full court, but I don’t mind: The King almost always calls for dancing. He does this because he knows I love it, which is so very dear of him.

  His Majesty doesn’t dance himself because his leg hurts too much; Lady Rochford says it’s from ulcers that won’t heal. But the ladies who’ve been at court for years say he was a truly fine dancer when he was younger. Now he loves to watch me dance.

  “So small and quick, you’re like a wren or a robin,” he says, “and during the more lively turns, you seem to fairly fly.”

  He often bids that I should be partnered with Mr. Thomas Culpeper, Gentleman of the Privy Chamber. A distant cousin to me on my mother’s side, Mr. Culpeper has been favoured by the King since he was a small boy. He’s so much taller than I am that when we dance the volta, he lifts me high in the air.

  We laugh, and the King claps his hands and laughs with us.

  Oh, His Majesty’s eyes do sparkle when he sees me! He laughs a lot at the things I say. Really and truly, our conversations are quite the nicest I’ve ever had. But I won’t say that to the Dowager or anyone else at court because it might sound disrespectful of His Majesty, which isn’t what I mean at all. It’s hard to explain, but I think His Majesty likes the me who is the Catherine me, not the niece of the Duke of Norfolk of the Howard clan me. Fah, what a mouthful.

  I keep wondering what will happen when the Queen finds out. I ask the Dowager, who says that the Queen is too afraid of the King to ever confront me. Perhaps—but what if she does? It seems I’m not to worry about that puddle until I step in it.

  Anyway, the Dowager is pleased with me. But my uncle the Duke is a pickle of a puzzle. Sometimes he’s almost jolly, kissing me on the mouth and vowing that I’m the most prized flower of the family. Other times he questions me fiercely, asking me to recall the King’s exact words and how many times he smiled at me.

  The Duke talks endlessly about how the Howard family has to lead the battle to guard the true faith. He mutters about the Great Bible, and says that anyone who even looks into it might burn in Hell. I don’t understand that, because if God is Almighty and knows everything, then surely he knows English as well as Latin, so why should a Bible in English be such a dreadful thing? But I mustn’t say such nonsense—I mustn’t even think it. I don’t want to burn in Hell.

  I listen as well as I can until it’s just too tedious, then I pretend to listen, keeping my eyes on his face while my thoughts stray into the wherever.

  The worst of those meetings with the Duke and the Dowager are when they discuss whether I should become the King’s mistress. The Duke says that I should remain in the King’s favour without bedding him. The Dowager says that I mustn’t seduce His Majesty, but that if he asks to bed me, I should comply.

  It’s mortifying to hear them talk about me like this.

  “You would, at least, be the only one so serving him at the moment,” the Dowager declares, “and that is no small thing.”

  Everyone at court knows that the King claims his marriage to Queen Anna isn’t a true marriage because they’ve never made love. I puzzle over that—how can a man and a woman newly married share a bed, yet not have any fun in it?

  For once I’m in agreement with the Duke. I don’t want to become the King’s mistress. I’ve seen how easily a mistress is cast off, and many of them never marry. But of course what I want doesn’t matter.

  Then I can’t help wondering…What would it be like, to lie beneath such an enormous man?

  * * *

  —

  I take the box from the page, then give him a smile and a small copper coin. I lift the lid and see that there’s no note, so I call out to ask him who sent the box, but he’s already gone.

  The other maids and ladies circle me as I hold up the gift. “Oh!” I say.

  “Oh! Oh!” We sound like a flock of starlings, and I’m the loudest because the gift is such a wonder! It’s a velvet hood, the most beautiful one I’ve ever seen. The band is edged with pearls, too many to count, and the hood itself with gold and stones. The very latest style, with two fine combs to hold the band in my hair—I won’t have to use pins, the troublesome things, which never stay in place and are forever pricking me.

  “Whoever could have sent you such a gift?” Lady Dorothy asks.

  I draw in my breath, my thoughts suddenly tangled: The Queen is sitting not five paces away. Her English is still not very good, but how much does she understand? I can’t—I mustn’t—

  “I’m sure I don’t know,” I mumble.

  “But surely you can guess?”

  “Yes, guess, Catherine!”

  “You must have some notion!”

  I blush and put my hand to my forehead to give me time to think. “It might be—I wonder if—”

  I’m starting to panic. Is the Queen looking at me suspiciously? Can she see the sweat on my forehead, my neck?

  Then Lady Rochford is at my side. “How can she know, with neither note nor word?” she says in a scolding voice. “Lady Catherine, it seems that you have an admirer of both means and discernment. When you learn who he is, you must promise to enlighten us.”

  “Oh, yes!” I practically screech in relief. “Of course I will!”

  And at last the attention returns to the hood itself, and it passes from hand to hand for everyone to admire. I don’t look at Lady Rochford, but I think she can sense my thanks.

  I wear the hood on my next visit to Winchester Palace.

  “My lady Catherine, how well you are looking,” His Majesty greets me smilingly, seated on the dais in the great hall as usual.

  I flush at his compliment. As I rise from my curtsey, I turn my head slowly so he can see his gift from all sides.

  A chair is brought for me, but before I sit, he beckons me towards him, then speaks so only I can hear.

  “With the hood comes a request,” he says.


  I draw in my breath. He’s going to ask me to be his mistress. And I will say yes because I have to, for the sake of my family, and I mustn’t think for even a single second what will happen to me when he casts me aside.

  “Whatever you will, Your Majesty,” I murmur.

  “Sweet girl,” he says. He leans closer still. “I request…your patience.”

  “My patience?” I’m so surprised that my voice squeaks.

  “I have made my plans, and they will be realized. It is taking more time than I would like, but I promise you that the prize will be worth the wait. Can you do that for me, dear Catherine? Can you wait, and trust in your King?”

  “Oh, Your Majesty!” I exclaim. “There is no one I trust more. If you bid me wait, I will, and will be glad of it.”

  “A rose,” he whispers, and touches my cheek. “Like a single perfect rose you are.”

  And now I know that His Majesty is himself waiting.

  Thunder and wonder! The King of England is waiting—for me!

  JUNE—JULY 1540

  More gifts: Embroidered brocade for a new dress. A gilded box, carved with birds and flowers and hearts, and lined in velvet. A pomander ball: a whole Spanish orange, studded with hundreds of rarest cloves from the Moluccas. It scents the corner of the chamber where I sleep, my bedding, my linen shifts, my hose.

  And then, a length of quilted sarcenet! That most precious silk, light as a butterfly’s wing, layered and padded, enough for two full sleeves. Lady Rochford says I mustn’t have it made up, not yet, it would make people suspicious, because no one has ever heard of a mere maid having sarcenet sleeves. I feel as if I can’t blink, or even take a full breath. Because if I do, I’ll wake from the STRANGEST DREAM EVER DREAMT.

  The court has been all buzz and hum with gossip and scandal. It’s impossible to tell what’s true and what’s not, and sometimes I think no one even cares so long as it’s exciting. Most shocking of all: the arrest of the Earl of Essex, Thomas Cromwell.