Fatal Throne: The Wives of Henry VIII Tell All
Page 25
I can’t believe it! Cromwell has always been the King’s favourite advisor. Just weeks ago, His Majesty bestowed on him the earldom, with all its lands and holdings—and now he’s mouldering in the Tower. Cromwell is the one who commissioned the Great Bible, which means he’s against the true Catholic faith, which makes him an enemy of the Howards. The Duke is so pleased about Cromwell’s arrest, it’s as if his face has almost remembered how to smile.
As for the King’s attentions to me—they’re no longer a secret, but not yet public, either. People stare when I pass, and whisper afterwards. It’s rather thrilling to be the subject of so much attention, but at the same time, I don’t like the whispering, I always wonder what’s being said.
A few days after Cromwell’s arrest, we’re listening to a harp player in the Queen’s apartments. She’s obviously not amused, and dismisses him after only a song or two. When she rises from her seat, I curtsey along with the other ladies. She walks a few steps—and stops before me.
“Lady Catherine,” she says.
Instantly my face flushes. I stay in my curtsey, keeping my head down and silently cursing the Dowager. I knew this moment would come—why did she not prepare me with what to say or do?
“Your Highness,” I murmur.
“Look at me.”
Slowly, I straighten my knees. Slower still, I raise my head, terrified of what I will see on her face: anger, hatred, bitterness…
But when I finally force myself to meet her gaze, I see none of those things. Instead, she is studying me keenly, with an expression of—of what, I’m not sure.
The whole room seems to be holding its breath. The moment lasts an eternity.
“So young,” she says at last, and shakes her head.
With a final look, she sweeps past me and out of the room.
I can feel all eyes on me. Every stare feels like a pin, pricking me mercilessly. I turn and walk away. It takes every bit of my strength not to run.
As I reach the safety of the empty corridor, I all but collapse against the wall. I’m panting, sweating, my heart pounding. The entire brief but agonizing episode runs through my mind again—and I realize that the look in the Queen’s eyes was one of pity.
Indignation makes me straighten my spine, and I hold my head high. I’m the one the King loves now. Why in the world should she pity me? It’s jealousy, that’s what it is. If she weren’t the Queen, I’d say she was a jealous old cow.
* * *
—
The Queen leaves to go to Richmond. Her Lord Steward says that there’s plague in London, and she’s being moved to safeguard her health. I can hardly remain in her court now, so I’m summoned back to Lambeth Palace, supposedly to care for the ailing Dowager, who isn’t ailing at all.
I learn soon enough that there’s no plague—it’s just an excuse. After the Queen’s departure, it takes only a few days for the King’s marriage to be annulled by the Church. Then the annulment is confirmed by Parliament, and the former Queen Anna of Cleves is declared the King’s sister.
A sister? How can a wife become a sister? I get a clout on the ear from the Dowager, but I don’t think it’s wrong that I asked. The Dowager says there’s no need for me to understand. When someone says “You wouldn’t understand,” what they really mean is “We don’t want you to know.” Besides, I understand one thing well enough: The King no longer has a Queen.
Blink. Pinch. Blink again.
I run from the Dowager’s apartments back to my room—I have my own room at Lambeth now; I don’t have to sleep in the dormitory anymore, not since I became the King’s favourite—and I throw myself on the bed. I bury my head deep in the pillows, and then let loose a shriek—the loudest and longest I can manage. I’m not crying, but I shriek and scream over and over, flinging away the pillows, pummelling the mattress with my fists, and everyone comes running. The Dowager at least understands—she shoos them all away and leaves me alone, shutting the door firmly.
Finally my voice gives out, and I lie there, limp as an empty silk glove. I’m not sure what I’m feeling, my mind is in such a whirl, but I know why I screamed: What else is a girl supposed to do when she learns she’s going to be Queen of All England?
* * *
—
It’s not fair: They expect me to act like a woman with the King, but they treat me like a child. I see this clearly when I’m instructed to choose a retinue. First, there’s the wonder: I am to have attendants! Then the excitement—whom should I choose? I know it’s not very Christian of me, but I feel a little mean gladness that some of the great ladies who never thought me good enough are now fluttering and twittering around me.
I want to pick the girls and women I like best, those who are good-natured and love to laugh; or are kind and gentle; or dependable and discreet. But it turns out that I don’t actually get to choose at all. My uncle and the Dowager do the choosing for me. My attendants are to be ladies from families who practise the true religion, or have otherwise allied themselves with the Duke.
The Dowager will herself be one of my Great Ladies. Lady Rochford has served in the privy chambers of Queen Jane and Queen Anna, and she will remain in mine. Lady Nan Herbert, at court through the reigns of all four of His Majesty’s Queens, is some years older than me, and I don’t know her well, but she’s said to be sharp-eyed and wise. A few other ladies are quickly chosen, and the Dowager says I’ll be able to add more attendants later. But for now, there’s no time to bring up anyone not already at court.
Along with the Duke and the Dowager, I travel with my retinue to Oatlands. It’s a lovely palace west of London, on a rise overlooking the countryside. My ladies and I are given an entire wing of fine rooms. Then the King and a few of his trusted courtiers arrive, including His Majesty’s chaplain, the Bishop Bonner.
And in small, quiet haste, I am married to the King of England.
In the midst of all the bustle, a thought I’ve been avoiding disturbs my joy. I can’t forget…that I am His Majesty’s fifth Queen.
None of the other four met with good fortune. My ponderings go back and forth like a ball being played at tennis.
No good comes of becoming his wife.
—But there can’t be bad fortune for five wives in a row!
Why should I be any different?
—I am different! I’ll be so good to him, I’ll do everything I can to be a perfect wife and Queen!
Surely all the others said the exact same thing.
—But the way he looks at me—with such light in his eyes! That can’t be feigned. He loves me, truly he does!
And I make sure that this thought is my last on the subject, always.
* * *
—
I sit up in the bed. It’s the grandest bed I’ve ever seen, fancy carvings and drapes of real silk. Lady Rochford told me that Oatlands Palace was acquired by the King for Anna of Cleves. They never joined as man and wife, so it pleases me to think that I’ll be the first Queen to make love to the King in this bed.
Three of my ladies flutter around me. One brushes my hair, long and loose; another adjusts my shift; a third folds back the linen sheet just so. A knock at the door: They arrange themselves in a neat line and curtsey deeply as the King enters with his gentlemen.
The ladies depart, Nan giving me a last reassuring glance.
His Majesty stands with his back to the bed as his courtiers undress him. I look down at the coverlet, at my hands, at the ends of my hair….If we were alone, I might have looked at him, but with his attendants in the room, I feel abashed. None of them look at me, but I can feel them all wanting to.
There’s a pretty silk ribbon at the neck of my shift. Nervously, I untie it, then start to tie it again.
Suddenly the whole bed jerks and lurches, and I’m bounced nearly onto the floor!
The King is so large that he can’t get into the bed unaided. While I was busy with the ribbon, his courtiers lifted and heaved him, and when he landed, my weight was simply no match
for his.
His gentlemen turn and settle him; I’m jolted and bounced still more, and I can’t help laughing as I clutch at the drapes to keep from falling out of the bed.
An abrupt silence.
I swallow my next laugh. Have I erred by laughing? Will His Majesty think I’m mocking him?
Then he speaks. “If it makes her laugh, you shall do it again.”
So his courtiers raise him up and set him down and bounce me again, and our first night as husband and wife begins in laughter.
* * *
—
His gentlemen dismissed, the King takes a moment to speak with me. We sit in bed, pillows at our backs, the sheet pulled up chastely.
“My darling Catherine, it grieves me that our wedding had to be so small an affair. I would that it were the grandest ever.”
I look at him in surprise, touched by his words. It’s true that I sometimes imagined a splendid wedding—and then would chastise myself sternly. The mere fact of marrying the King ought to suffice for any girl.
“Your Majesty has not known me long enough to know me so well,” I say.
He smiles. “All girls dream of their weddings, surely,” he says. “But hear me out: There will be talk of you, not only at court but in London, in all of England, even, I dare say, on the Continent. I wished to spare you that, for at least a while. We will tarry here at Oatlands, and I will show you Hampton, and I will take time to be quietly with my lovely bride before I must share her with the world.” A pause. “Do you find me selfish in that?”
“Your Majesty—”
“Henry. When we are abed, I bid you call me by my name.”
Henry. I say it first silently, to see how it feels on my tongue, and—odd notion—I think of my first taste of a fig not long ago: strange, but not unpleasant.
“Henry,” I say aloud but cautiously. Then, “Henry,” more boldly.
He laughs. I love making him laugh.
“Henry, I will answer your question by telling you what I have chosen as my motto.”
My motto was the source of much discussion with the Duke. Everyone at court knows that Queen Jane was the King’s best-beloved wife, so the Duke suggested that I model my motto after hers, which was “Bound to obey and serve.” He favoured “Sworn to honour and serve,” but I thought this was much too similar. I did want to emulate her modesty, but couldn’t I do it in my own way?
Then I thought of how men like to hear themselves spoken of as much as they like to hear themselves speak. And so I got the notion to put the King himself into my motto. None of the other Queens’ mottoes mention him; I’m the first Queen to do it.
“Your motto!” he exclaims.
“Yes.” Now I sit up a little straighter, as I imagine a Queen should, and I lift my chin and clear my throat.
“No other will than his,” I say.
“No other will…” he echoes.
I look at his face, and I see an expression of great tenderness.
“I could not have better chosen,” he says, “Catherine, my rose, my rose.”
Earlier in the day, Lady Rochford whispered to me, “He will need a deal of assistance.”
I looked at her in puzzlement.
“To achieve”—she glanced around to make sure no one else was listening—“the act of love.”
I was very glad she told me—now I knew what to expect. I felt as perhaps the gentlemen do before a joust: Hearken to the challenge!
I know the ways of love. That’s not bragging, it’s honesty. For the first time since the King began wooing me, all doubt and pause vanish from my thoughts. I can do this, and do it well.
The King has near fifty years in age. His leg pains him terribly, and it’s clearly a trouble for him to move around in bed. So I decide to move for both of us.
I start by untying my shift and slipping it off, not wanting to get it twisted or tangled. My dear King’s eyes widen with lust at my nakedness. I lean over and kiss his forehead, his right eye and then his left, his left cheek, then his right. Already his hands have found my naked breasts, and he pants with pleasure.
I rub my chin on his beard and laugh at its rough tickle. He chuckles, but only briefly.
“Catherine, sweet,” he pleads.
I pull off the sheet. He’s wearing a fine linen bedshirt, fastened across his enormous belly with three sets of laces. I undo the first set and kiss the flesh of his chest.
The second set, untied at his belly. A longer, slower kiss, and a moan from my King.
The third set untied, I begin kissing and licking and sucking, and he moans louder. I keep on for what feels like forever—this is what Lady Rochford meant—and at last I decide that it’s the right time. I quickly straddle him—as best I can, what a stretch, he’s so very wide!
He grips my waist. I raise and lower myself, riding him with my thighs and buttocks, twice, thrice, and bring him to a triumphal finish: His groan at the end is as big as he is.
I’m quite winded, so I tumble to the side; it’s like falling off a—a bear, or something. I look at His Majesty—no, at Henry. He’s clearly in that luscious haze of afterness, but he manages a weary smile before his eyes close.
He’s snoring before I get my shift back on.
AUGUST–DECEMBER 1540
The gifts I receive from His Majesty in honour of our marriage! My Lord Chamberlain can hardly tally them fast enough. Wonder and thunder, His Majesty gives me four estates. One belonged to his former Lord Privy Seal, Thomas Cromwell. My uncle gloats that Cromwell was executed on my wedding day, and that his head is the finest gift of all. I don’t say anything, but after the Duke leaves, I rush to my stool chamber, my stomach heaving. I didn’t know about this before, and am sickened to think that my happiest day should be so tainted.
But I do my best to put it out of my mind. It’s not hard: All I have to do is think of that girl, the tiny sad waif who grew up with no true home of her own—and now owns lands and castles and holdings and more.
The King sends a flood of other gifts to my chambers. Jewels, dresses, furs. Clocks and music boxes. A splendid book bound in gold and studded with precious gems, on a chain to circle my waist. It’s very beautiful, but—I’m sorry to say—heavy and awkward to wear. It bangs against my leg and leaves a bruise.
The Dowager and Lady Rochford tell me again and again that I have to show great appreciation for His Majesty’s generosity. If a dress arrives, I’m always supposed to wear it the next time I see him. This means that I wear a new dress almost every day, sometimes even twice in a day!
It’s a dreadful bore spending so many hours being clothed and unclothed and reclothed. Some of the dresses and hoods are darling, and I can’t wear them again because of all the others that keep arriving. Worse yet, there are whispers at court of my greed and fickleness: that I demand a new dress every day, that I refuse to wear a dress more than once. Lies and liars—I’m helpless against such cruel gossip. My sole comfort is to remind myself that the only person at court who really matters is the King.
With him, I am succeeding beyond the Duke’s largest hopes.
It is, for His Majesty, an autumn of bliss. He’s so delighted by our nights that he seems to feel a renewed joy for the passions of his youth, feasting and music and the hunt. We travel from palace to palace, Windsor, Hampton, Greenwich, wherever His Majesty thinks we’ll be best amused. When I’m at his side, he embraces and kisses and caresses me no matter who else is there. Bishops, ambassadors, advisors—I can’t help blushing, even though they’re all dried-up old tortoises.
At the holidays, the King presents me with more jewels, including a rope of two hundred pearls, each as big as the end of my thumb. As I admire it, I see looks passing among some of my ladies.
“What? What is it?” I ask.
“Nothing, Your Highness,” says Lady Eleanor, her face a mask.
I give her and the others what I think of as my Queen stare. It’s a patient-but-stern look, but I’m not very good at it yet.
My happiness is abruptly snuffed. I look at the pearls with dismay.
But Lady Nan speaks. “I have seen His Majesty with every Queen,” she says, “and never has he shown such fondness as he does for our Queen Catherine.” She takes the pearls from me and drapes them around my neck. “That makes these pearls different, though they be the same.”
I’m so grateful to her. Now I can wear the pearls, and love wearing them. Later I give her silk for a new dress, in blue, for she likes blue best and it suits her well.
JANUARY–MAY 1541
I don’t know what it means to be Queen.
Actually, I haven’t been crowned yet. There hasn’t been a coronation—the Duke curses regularly over that—but the King says it’s a bad time for an extravagant ceremony, he doesn’t want to spend so much money. And he doesn’t want to interrupt the enjoyment of our days together. I’m Queen Consort, and when I give birth to a son, that’s when I’ll become the crowned Queen.
The Duke keeps reminding me that my main task is to please the King in bed and get with child. But there must be more to being Queen. The King rules the people. The Queen cares for them. That’s how Lady Nan put it to me, and I like thinking of it this way.
The Queen usually hears petitions and pleas from the people, but the Duke and Dowager say I’m too young for this. My Lord Chamberlain and his courtiers take over the task. I told the Duke that I want to hear at least some of the petitions—how am I going to learn, otherwise? But the crusty old barnacle said no. So I have to look for other ways to be useful. I want to be thought of as a good Queen, beloved by the people.