Fatal Throne

by Fatal Throne- The Wives of Henry VIII Tell All (retail) (epub)

  Which means yes, that I may have hoods as well as dresses, because “no” would have been a loud and nasty harangue.

  I clasp my hands and turn to her. “I can never thank the good Dowager enough,” I say, then shower her with praise and more thanks. It was the Duke who secured the place at court, but it was the Dowager who chose me for the position, from among the many girl cousins and relatives.

  “And, madam, if I may, I look well in green. Might one of the dresses be of green silk?”

  * * *

  —

  Two new dresses and two new hoods! I grew up in castoffs, for my father never sent the Dowager anything more than my keep, and often, as she liked to remind me, not even that. A new ribbon, once or twice, but a new dress? Never.

  For one dress, kirtle and skirt in palest green satin the colour of new leaves, with sleeves a deeper green. For the other, a skirt of burnished-copper damask over a kirtle of cream, the copper a match to the auburn of my hair. When I first donned the green one and looked in the glass, I could hardly believe it was me!

  My hoods are trimmed with ribbon and French lace. The Duke won’t let me have pearls on them, the old barnacle. He said maybe I can have them later, once I’ve pleased the Queen and earned her trust.

  Joan says I’ll be the only girl at court without pearls. She sleeps two beds over in the dormitory and is mostly my friend. Now she’s jealous and says snippety things, so I’m not sorry that she’s leaving soon to be married. But I am sorry we’ll be parting on bad terms because I’ve known her ever since I first came to the Dowager’s household. I hope one day we’ll make up. The hard part about that is, both people have to be of the mind to make up at the same time, and it doesn’t always happen that way.

  I’m too busy to worry about it much. And best of all, I’m too busy to miss Francis. Being fitted for my dresses; learning the dances most favoured at court; horseback riding and archery added to my lessons—the King likes the ladies to ride out and sport on occasion. Such fun and excitement!

  But of course there are boring and tedious duties as well. I spend hours in the Dowager’s presence chamber so she can tutor me on the ways of the court. Curtseys and modesty to my betters. Firmness without cruelty to the servants. Above all, I’m supposed to observe the Queen every moment and learn to predict her needs so that she’ll like me, and depend on me above all the other maids.

  “Catherine, you know why the Duke has gone to such pains to garner you a place at court?”

  “So that I might have the honour of serving my Queen?”

  I think it’s a good answer, so I’m startled when she cuffs my ear. I let out a mewl like a sick kitten.

  “Witless girl!” the Dowager scolds. “You are at court on behalf of the entire Howard family. You must never forget for a single moment that you serve the Queen as a means of serving the Duke! He requires two simple things. You are to keep your eyes and ears open for any news that might be of interest to him. And you are to make a good marriage with a courtier, one who has His Majesty’s favour, so as to strengthen our family’s ties to the King.”

  Make a good marriage? I feel a twinge in my heart over Francis. But I’ve had no word from him since he left, and who knows how long he’ll be away? I once thought I couldn’t live without him. And he’ll always be the first man I ever loved.

  But I’ve learned that I can live without him, and I can even be happy. Now my mind fills with visions of handsome young men, kind and courtly, sporting and brave…a fine dancer…someone who makes me laugh…

  If the Duke wants me to make a suitable marriage, it seems that I can have some good fun along the way!

  JANUARY 1540

  The great hall is lit by what must be a thousand candles to celebrate His Majesty’s wedding to Anna of Cleves. Everywhere I look, I see silks and jewels, furs and pearls, silver and gold. Goblets of wine, trays of sweets, tapestries and draperies, banners and tassels: It’s impossible to see everything at once, but that doesn’t stop me trying.

  On a dais at one end of the hall, His Majesty and the new Queen are sitting on chairs of velvet and gold. Snipes and snails, isn’t he big! I’ve heard talk that he’s grown stout; now I see for myself that he’s very broad indeed. But he’s a tall man, and his clothes fit him beautifully, and he is King, after all—it wouldn’t seem right if he were thin and feeble.

  The new Queen is tall, too, and strong-boned. If I stood beside her, I’m sure I would barely reach her chin. She’s wearing a gown draped with chains, in the German style. In truth, she isn’t very pretty—all the ladies have said so—but there’s something about her, a kind of grace. Maybe it’s the way she holds her head. I try to do the same, my neck straight but my chin down so I won’t seem haughty….

  In my lovely green dress, I am every bit the maid of honour: Who would ever guess that I was once barely more than a foundling?

  I thought on this before my arrival here at the hall. I thought that if I keep my head lowered and skulk around like a beaten dog, people are more likely to notice, not less. The trick is to get them to notice something else—and I know how.

  Dancing! I love it so! I think it must be because of the music, which seems to enter my ears and go straight to my blood, and makes it impossible for me to stay still. The worst part about learning to become a proper lady is having to sit and wait for what seems like days at a time, embroidering or folding linen the best part of the day—fah!

  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 a
re 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 Ma
jesty 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.