Love, Remember Me

by Bertrice Small

  The Duke of Norfolk looked at his companion. The bishop was a tall man with a long face ending in a round chin. His nose was big and his lips fleshy. His dark eyes were unfathomable. He wore his graying hair cropped close just below the top of his ears. He was a very difficult and arrogant man, but like the duke, he was conservative both politically and religiously. And like the duke, he had been kept from court in recent years by Thomas Cromwell. Neither man had any love for the chancellor.

  “Now that the matter is practically settled,” Stephen Gardiner said low, “we must consider the matter of a new marriage for the king.”

  “There isn’t a woman of rank in Europe who would have him,” the duke said harshly, “but that is all to the good, isn’t it, my lord bishop? The king will find his new bride right here in his own garden. He will choose from among English roses, not from among foreign flowers.”

  “Have you a lady in mind, my lord?” the bishop asked slyly. “For all his great size, he prefers dainty women of some beauty who can flatter him into believing that he is still the handsomest prince in all of Christendom. A lady who loves music, and dancing. A lady who is young enough to bear children, and to flatter his always burgeoning ego. Yet what young girl would want to ally herself in marriage to that great, hulking mound of flesh with his stinking abscessed leg? A man who has cast off three of his four wives—and one must ask oneself, would Queen Jane have survived to live a long life had she not died of the complications of childbirth? In retrospect he fashions her the perfect wife, but would she have continued to be so, or would his eye have begun to wander again? What maid of good family would sacrifice herself to such a man, Thomas?”

  Norfolk regarded the bishop evenly. The duke’s long, lean face, set with high cheekbones, was calm, his eyes serious. He was the premier noble in all of England, but even his own wife, Lady Elizabeth Stafford, had warned Thomas Cromwell not to trust Thomas Howard, who could speak as fair to his enemies as he could to his friends. Not that Cromwell had needed the warning.

  The Duke of Norfolk was a schemer, but he was also ambitious and highly intelligent. His first wife had been Anne, the daughter of Edward IV, sister to Henry VII’s wife. She had given him one son, Thomas, who had died young. The lady Anne had not lived a great deal longer. His second wife had given him a son, Henry, who was the Earl of Surrey, and a daughter, Mary, who had been married to Henry Fitzroy, the Duke of Richmond, the king’s beloved illegitimate son. There had been times the Duke of Norfolk dreamed of seeing his daughter on England’s throne, but Henry Fitzroy had died, and Queen Jane had produced the desired legitimate heir.

  Now another plot was forming in his mind, and he answered the Bishop of Winchester quietly. “What maid, you ask, my lord bishop? Why, my niece, Catherine Howard, my deceased brother’s daughter. She is young, and pretty, and most malleable. Already the king eyes her, for she serves the queen as a maid of honor. Why, only the other day he called her a rose without a thorn. She is a perfect choice.”

  “He eyes others as well,” the bishop said. “There is the Bassett girl, to whom he gave a horse and saddle last autumn, and another maid of honor, Nyssa Wyndham, whom he calls a wild English rose. Your niece may have competition for the royal marriage bed, and however you scheme, Duke Thomas, the king will have his way this time. Last time he left the choice to others, and it will cost him dearly to right the matter, both in prestige and worldly goods. Remember that well as you plot.”

  “The Bassett girl is of no import, Bishop. He had her once, so I am told, and neither of them thought a great deal of the experience. He rewarded her good nature with a minor gift, and thinks kindly of her, but he would never marry her now. He wants in marriage a woman he can have no other way. He will have my niece only when he slips a wedding band on her dainty little finger. The game has not yet begun, Bishop, but it is about to, and I will personally instruct my niece in her behavior. We will have no debacles with Catherine as we did with Anne Boleyn, that foolish headstrong creature who lost her head for her alleged adulteries.”

  “But what of the other girl?” the bishop asked.

  “Lady Nyssa Wyndham?” the duke replied. “Her mother was the king’s mistress some fifteen years ago. Perhaps you remember her. Her name was Blaze Wyndham.”

  “Is the girl the king’s get?” the archbishop wondered. “As I recall, her mother left court rather suddenly, did she not? Is that why you are not worried about this girl? She is the king’s daughter perhaps?”

  “She is not the king’s daughter,” the duke said. “Her father was Edmund Wyndham, the third Earl of Langford. She was already two years old when her mother, then widowed, came to court.”

  “Then why,” demanded Stephen Gardiner, “do you not fear this young woman, my lord? You know what a romantic fool the king can be. It would be just like him to choose this girl over all others in a desperate attempt to recapture his youth. As I recall, her mother allied herself to no one. Her loyalty was solely for the king. This girl could be dangerous to us, my lord.”

  To us. The duke masked his triumph. Gardiner was with him. “If I feel the Wyndham girl is becoming a threat to our plans, my lord bishop, I will see that she is discredited in the king’s eyes. You know how he dislikes being disappointed by someone in whom he has placed his trust. With your help, our little Catherine will be England’s next queen.”

  “It is to be hoped she will not go the way of your other niece, Anne Boleyn. You managed to survive her, but if this girl is not all you make her out to be, you might not survive the disaster that will follow in the wake of the king’s anger and disillusionment.”

  “Catherine Howard is nothing like Anne Boleyn. Anne was very sophisticated by virtue of her years at the French court. She was older, and willful. Catherine is but sixteen, sweet, silly, and pliable. She has had a hard life, being orphaned early and placed in my mother’s care. Why, had I not obtained her place for her at court, I cannot imagine what would have happened to her. She will be grateful to be queen, and to have everything she has ever wanted. Putting up with the king and his little foibles is a small price to pay for such a glittering prize as a throne. She can take comfort in the knowledge she will surely outlive her husband. She will do as I tell her.”

  “You are certain that she is everything that the king would want in a bride, my lord? There are no little secrets? No ugly flaws?” the bishop pressed.

  “None,” the duke told him in positive tones. “She has lived like a nun down at Leadinghall in my mother’s care. She is a skilled musician, and she loves to dance. She is nothing more than a frivolous piece of pretty fluff. She is just what the king needs.”

  “Then so be it,” the bishop said. “We will encourage our sovereign liege lord in his pursuit of Catherine Howard. We will not be queenless long, once he has freed himself of Anne of Cleves. But Cromwell? What of Cromwell? Will he not try to stop us, my lord?”

  “Cromwell is finished,” the duke said, his triumph evident. “He has failed the king in the worst way possible. All of Henry Tudor’s embarrassment and difficulties in this matter have been laid at old Crum’s doorstep. The king will never forgive him. We need not worry about his foiling our plans, my dear bishop. Thomas Cromwell will be too busy trying to save his miserable life. It is astounding that one of such low birth could have climbed so high, but then these are very modern times, are they not? I do not like modern times. I am a man who prefers life the way it has always been, and when finally we are rid of Cromwell, it will be that way once again.” He smiled a wintry smile, and then without another word he turned and left the bishop standing in the middle of the green maze.

  Chapter 5

  In the early spring of 1540 the abbeys of Canterbury, Christchurch, Rochester, and Waltham were finally surrendered to the king’s majesty. Thomas Cromwell had completed his dissolution of the monasteries. His great usefulness to Henry Tudor was almost at an end. Much of the wealth that had belonged to these abbeys was funneled directly into the king’s treasury, but
some of it was distributed to those nobles loyal to the crown. It was a ploy to draw these men even closer to their sovereign. They would certainly not oppose the religious reforms being put in place while profiting from them.

  The French ambassador, Charles de Marillac, wrote to his king that Thomas Cromwell was tottering. Yet Henry Tudor suddenly created his chancellor Earl of Essex. The king was possessed of a mean streak that was even now exhibiting itself.

  When the Duke of Norfolk discreetly sounded the king out as to the honor bestowed on Cromwell, the king smiled wolfishly and said, “I but soothe poor Crum’s fears, Thomas. A frightened man does not think clearly, and right now we need old Crum’s cleverness if I am to be completely and unequivocally free of this unfortunate misalliance in which he has entangled me. I think it only fair that having arranged this royal marriage, he dissolve it.”

  “Then there is no hope?” the duke said.

  “For my marriage?” the king demanded. “It has been but a marriage in name only. Not that the lady Anne isn’t a good woman. She is. But she is no wife to me. And never has been. Nor will she ever be.”

  “What of the Duke of Cleves, my lord?” Thomas Howard said. “Will he not be offended that you cast his sister off and sent her packing home to Cleves? She is, after all, a princess.”

  “The lady Anne will be treated generously, Norfolk. You need not concern yourself. As for Cleves, can it stand against the might of England? I think not. It has served its purpose for us. France and the Holy Roman Empire are both seeking our friendship once again.” The king grinned at the Duke of Norfolk. “I’ll have me another bonnie English rose like my sweet Jane, eh Thomas?”

  “Would not a princess be a better choice, Your Grace?” the duke murmured softly. “A simple English woman lacks prestige, think you not?”

  “Lacks prestige? You’re a snob, Thomas, and you always have been. There isn’t an English lass who would not outshine the most perfect of foreign princesses. No more royalty! I want a flesh and blood woman to love. A good bedmate. A mother for my children. And as God is my witness,” the king said, his voice rising, “I shall have her!”

  “And has any particular lady taken Your Majesty’s fancy?” the duke inquired.

  The king bellowed with laughter, and poked the duke in his ribs with a fat finger. “You’d like to be the first to know, you old slyboots, wouldn’t you?” he chortled, tears of mirth running down his face. “Well, I’ve not quite made up my mind yet. So, you’ll not know before I know, my lord, and that’s an end to it!”

  But the Duke of Norfolk, like everyone else at court, had seen the king’s eyes upon his niece, Catherine, and upon the Wyndham girl, Nyssa. Thomas Howard had spoken to young Catherine the same day he had had his conversation in the maze with Bishop Gardiner. As he had a spy in the queen’s household, he knew his niece had free time that afternoon, and he had sent for the girl. She came, looking particularly lovely in a velvet gown of light yellow-green. It suited her coloring, and he complimented her.

  “It is a gift from my friend, Nyssa Wyndham. She says it does not become her, and she has too many dresses. I think she is just being kind to me because I am poor, Uncle. Still, it is good to have such a friend, is it not?”

  “How would you like to never have to worry about having enough gowns again, my child?” he asked her. “How would you like to have all the pretty gowns and beautiful jewelry that your little heart desires?”

  Her blue eyes grew wide. “I do not understand, Uncle,” she said.

  “I have a marriage in mind for you, Catherine. But first you must promise me that you will not discuss with anyone, even your friend, Nyssa, what I am about to reveal to you. Do you promise me?” His cold eyes bored into her.

  She nodded solemnly, her rising excitement evident. Thomas Howard was almost as powerful as the king himself.

  “I mean it, Catherine,” he warned her. “This is a deep secret between us. Should you reveal it, it might mean your very life. You do understand me, do you not?” He looked hard at her.

  Her pretty mouth made a little O, and then she said, “I will do whatever you want me to do, Uncle, and no one shall know of our conversation. What is the marriage you propose for me?”

  “How would you like to be the Queen of England, Catherine?” he questioned her. “Think on it, my child. Queen!”

  “Then I should have to marry the king,” Catherine Howard said slowly, “and he already has a wife. How could such a thing be, Uncle?”

  “The lady Anne will soon no longer be the queen,” Thomas Howard told his niece. When her pretty face registered deep distress, he reassured her. “No harm will come to the lady Anne, my child, I swear it, but the king is seeking an annulment. You know, as does everyone at court, that he has not had the stomach to consummate his marriage to this lady. England needs more legitimate heirs. The king must have a young wife who can give him those children. He looks upon you with great favor, Catherine. I think you can be the one to make him a happy bridegroom, and a devoted husband. What think you of this?”

  She pondered for a long, long moment, thoughts racing through her head. Henry Tudor was old enough to be her father. He was fat, and the thought of him touching her turned her stomach, for she was a fastidious girl and loved beautiful things. His abscessed leg, when it flared up, stank and ran pus, but he was the King of England. What were her chances for another good marriage? She was one of six children, the eldest of three daughters. Both of her parents were deceased. She depended upon the charity of this powerful uncle of hers for her very bread. He was a tightfisted man, and would not dower her to any suitor save a rich one. Rich men did not marry poor girls no matter their powerful connections. A convent was no longer an option. She could become a rich man’s mistress, or … What choice did she really have?

  “I am afraid, Uncle,” she told him honestly.

  “Why?” he demanded fiercely. “You are a Howard, Catherine!”

  “My cousin Anne Boleyn was a Howard. She lost her head on Tower Green. The king is easily displeased, and only the lady Jane ever really satisfied him. I wonder had she lived if she would have continued to satisfy him, or if he would have grown bored with her too? His Grace has wed four women. One has died, one he divorced, one he executed, and now he wishes to annul this latest marriage. You ask me would I like having beautiful clothing, and jewelry. I tell you, aye, I would! But how long will I keep them before the king finds an excuse to rid himself of me, Uncle? This is why I am afraid.”

  Thomas Howard then did something he rarely did. He softened his attitude toward his niece, and actually put an arm around her. “If you will do exactly as I tell you, Catherine, you will never bore the king so much that he wishes to be rid of you. More is involved here, my girl, than just finding the king a good wife. The king, though Catholic in his own worship, allows the Lutheran element more and more freedom within the Church. Archbishop Cranmer, of course, is behind it. We must stop it. The key to stopping it is selecting a wife for the king who follows the old traditions, and who will be guided by those wiser than she. It has been decided, Catherine, that you are that girl; and our cause is helped by the king himself, who shows you obvious favor.” He dropped his arm from about her slender shoulders and demanded, “I ask you once again, Niece, would you like to be queen?”

  “Aye, Uncle,” she said low, telling him what she knew he wanted to hear. What other options did she really have? These were powerful men dealing in matters far too complicated for her to understand. She was just a helpless girl. At least the king was clever, and he loved music as she did, and when his leg was not paining him, he was an excellent dancer. She must concentrate upon the positive elements of this matter. Perhaps if she could learn to soothe and dress his leg when it pained him, she would endear herself to Henry Tudor. She could not be squeamish about it, no matter her own delicate sensibilities.

  “I am pleased with you, Catherine,” the Duke of Norfolk told her. “I am going to teach you how to ingratiate yourself
with the king. You must be a bit more helpless with him, yet always gay and amusing. Defer to his judgment both publicly and privately, for it will please him. Most important of all, my child, is that you keep his lust at bay until he has put his wedding ring upon your finger. If he can have what he wants of you without that ring, you are as ruined as any maid who lets the stable boy fumble her in a dark barn. Do you understand me? A chaste kiss, a tiny cuddle, but nothing more, Catherine, even if he begs it of you, or grows angry with your refusal. Fall back upon tears then. You are a virtuous maid. Remind the king of that when he importunes you for more than you are willing to give him. Your virginity is the only real dowry you have to bring him.”

  “Yes, Uncle,” she obediently answered him. “I will do all you say. You have but to guide me, and I will obey, I swear it!”

  “Now, I will tell you another secret,” the duke said to her. “Lady Rochford is my spy in the queen’s household. You may trust her, but never completely, Catherine. She is an unhappy woman. Her guilt over her husband George Boleyn’s death weighs heavy on her. She gives me her loyalty because I have secretly seen to her support since his death. The Boleyns, of course, disowned her, as did her own family. As for Nyssa Wyndham, my girl, you must immediately sever your friendship with her.”

  “Nay, Uncle, I will not! She is the first true friend I have ever really had. Besides, if I cut her, will not people wonder why, when we have become so close in the queen’s service? I would certainly think it strange of another.”

  “Perhaps you are correct, Catherine,” he said, surprised at her astute insight. He had not thought her capable of such reasoning, but then she was a Howard. “Aye, very well, my girl, you may keep your friendship with Lady Wyndham. Yes, it is better that you do, I think upon reflection. That way no one will really be certain which of you the king will choose until we want them to know. But remember, girl, you cannot tell your friend what we have planned. Do you understand? No giggling girlish confidences in the Maidens’ Chamber at night.”