by Fatal Throne- The Wives of Henry VIII Tell All (retail) (epub)
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.
Fortunately, Lady Lucy is as eager as a puppy, and answers quickly. “We were wondering, Your Highness, which other Queens have worn those pearls.”
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.
At court I learn that the Lady Margaret Pole is imprisoned in the Tower. I don’t quite understand the twisted history behind her imprisonment, but what I do know is this: She’s a very old woman, near to seventy years, and the Tower in winter is a bitter misery.
I speak to my King.
“Your Majesty, I seek your permission for an act of charity.”
“Why should you, my Queen? Surely it is a matter for your almoner.”
“No, for I fear it might not please you if you should hear of it from others, so I would tell you myself. I have two woollen cloaks, one with fur, and some gloves and some other warm things, and I would have them given to the Lady Margaret Pole, for she suffers dreadfully with cold in the Tower.”
“What! You would succour my enemy?”
“Your Majesty, how can she be a threat to you—she’s shrivelled and withered and as dried up as—as an old raisin!”
He laughs at that, and I take heart and plunge on. “Besides, such a kindness would show that you are merciful even to your enemies, a power wielded by only the wisest of rulers.”
That last was said to me by my lady Nan when I asked for her advice.
I see the King’s face grow thoughtful now. “I do not care for you to trouble yourself over politics,” he says. “But true enough that it would not serve well to have the people feel pity or sympathy for any of the Poles.”
I look at him pleadingly, and lean towards him and let my breast brush his arm as if by accident. He laughs again, not a bit fooled, then kisses the top of my head. “Do as you will, my sweet rose,” he says.
I thank him with kisses, delighting in my success. And as the weeks go by, I make more requests, on behalf of three prisoners. All of them are freed, including the well-known and well-loved poet Sir Thomas Wyatt, a longtime friend of the Howard family. The court is so pleased with his release that both His Majesty and I receive much praise, me for interceding, the King for his mercy.
Yet I have to admit that there are times when being Queen is a bit of a bother. Before I married the King, I received a letter from Joan Bulmer, who grew up with me as one of the Dowager’s charges. She was in great dismay, unhappy in her marriage, and she begged me to fin
d her a place at court.
I tell the Dowager about her plight, and we arrange for Joan to become one of my chamberers. I’m happy to be able to help an old friend. Her appointment is followed by pleas from more of the girls I once knew, Margaret and Kate and Alice. All are given places in my household.
After that, the Dowager comes to me with a request. “An acquaintance of ours desires a position at court,” she says.
“Yet another?” I say, with a sigh, wondering who this time.
“You will of course remember him—Mr. Francis Dereham, of late returned from Ireland.”
My mouth and eyes widen in astonishment. “Mr.—Mr. Dereham! Oh, but surely—” I gasp and stammer.
His Majesty has never asked me about my past, about other lovers. My lovemaking shows plainly that I’m not a virgin, but it seems to be his preference to pretend that I never existed for any man but himself. If Mr. Dereham boasts of bedding me, that might well enrage the King, and I don’t know how many times the Duke has told me that I must never, ever anger him.
“How do you say?” the Dowager asks.
I gulp in a breath. “I—I’m surprised, for I recall the circumstances under which Mr. Dereham departed from your employ. He was not…in your favour then.”
She narrows her eyes and shakes her head. “Must everything be explained to you as to a child?” she whispers fiercely. “That is precisely why he must be given a position—in exchange for his silence.”
Snipes! I see the reason for her thinking, but I still wish I could banish Dereham to a post half a world away.
He is to be assigned a position as my secretary.
When Mr. Dereham takes up his appointment, I ask for a private audience. He greets me with a correct bow. It’s been more than two years since we last met. I’m startled to find that I’m moved to see him again. I welcome him to my court and wish him well. Then I gather my courage and look at him solemnly.
“Mr. Dereham, I would have you take heed what words you speak here at court,” I say.
“Your Grace, I am honoured by my appointment,” he replies. “I expect that your household will be a most happy place for me, and so long as it is, you need never fear.”
His voice is smooth, but there’s a sharp look in his eyes. I understand him perfectly. He bows again and leaves.
I feel as if I’ve brought an adder into my nest.
* * *
—
It’s been months, and I’m still not pregnant.
I can’t understand it. But my worry is nothing compared to the Duke’s. He’s so upset about it that he forces me to tell him everything about my nights with the King.
“He completes the act, you are certain?” the Duke asks, for the hundredth time.
I can’t hold my tongue any longer. “Sir! If you doubt my word, I would invite you to witness for yourself—but I must first ask of my husband his permission!”
The Duke splutters in anger but makes no other response. From then on, he doesn’t badger me quite so relentlessly.
Besides this unhappiness, the King’s leg has gotten much worse. The pain puts him in a dreadful mood. Nothing I do or say can relieve him. At first he’s peevish, then cross, and then angry. I know he’s not really angry at me; still, it hurts my feelings when he growls and snaps.
But mostly I’m just worried about him. One evening I go to visit him in his privy chamber. Lord Brandon, the Duke of Suffolk and a member of the King’s Privy Council, stops me in the hall.
“Your Highness,” he says as he bows his head and dips his knee. “I am sorry, but His Majesty is unable to see you.”
I blink in surprise and glance behind me at my ladies. “But what can you mean?” I ask.
“He requested that I convey his regrets.” His voice is kind, but he hasn’t answered the question.
A chill stiffens my neck. Did Henry really say that? How can I be sure? What if he needs me, and Lord Brandon is trying to stop me seeing him? But why would he do that?
This is what being at court does to you: I’m starting to hear things that haven’t been said, and see things that might not be there.
Lady Rochford steps forwards to whisper in my ear. “Tell him you will return tomorrow. Be gracious.”
“Be gracious”—when I want to flounce past him and accidentally tread on his foot…But Lady Rochford has told me that Lord Brandon is in great favour with the King just now, which is why I must take care. I don’t know how she knows all these things, but she does.
I incline my head a little. “Thank you, Lord Brandon. I will return this time tomorrow. Will you please tell His Majesty that my thoughts are with him always, and that I wish him a good night?”
“I will, Your Highness.”
He bows. I turn and go back to my rooms.
* * *
—
Day after day, His Majesty refuses to let me into his chambers. I get so worried that I can’t sleep. How can I please the King and get with child if he won’t even see me?
My ladies scurry about like clever mice, collecting bits of news.
“It’s his leg,” Lady Nan reports. “The ulcers have putrefied. It is not just the pain, but the terrible smell, Your Highness. He does not wish you to see him in this way.”
“But I’m his wife,” I say in distress. “If I can’t help at a time like this, it makes me feel worse than useless!”
In desperation, I summon the King’s favourite courtier, Mr. Thomas Culpeper. Upon his arrival, I notice my maids and ladies fluffing and primping; his considerable good looks have not escaped their notice.
Nor mine.
“Your Grace,” he says, and bows most prettily.
“Mr. Culpeper. Will you tell me please how His Majesty does today?”
He looks around quickly, and I sense that he doesn’t want to spread news of the King’s ill health. I nod at my ladies and wave my hand for them to leave us.
Once we’re alone, I speak firmly. “Mr. Culpeper, I am the Queen Consort. I should know of His Majesty’s state, and I give you my word that what you say is between us only.”
He still seems uneasy, but finally says, “I would speak of things that are—not very pleasant, Your Grace.”
“You may speak plainly. I must know how he does.”
“The wound on His Majesty’s leg was blocked. It went black, and was grave indeed. The doctors were forced to lance it.”
I feel myself grow faint, and have to grip the arms of my chair.
“Your Grace?” He leaps forwards in alarm and steadies me with a hand on my shoulder. I draw a breath, which brings me back to myself. Then I sit up straighter and shrug my shoulder a little, to signal that he should remove his hand.
He does, and steps back. “His Majesty has been in terrible pain, but the wound is draining now,” he says. “He will be feeling better soon.”
I thank him and ask him to return in the morning.
My poor darling Henry—once so fine and fit, the most beauteous ruler in all Europe.
* * *
—
Snipes and snails, I’m in such a muddle. Worried about His Majesty’s health, terrified that maybe he doesn’t care for me anymore, wondering when I’ll get to see him again. And something else.
Something that has to do with Mr. Dereham. At court I’ve met a lot of gentlemen, born and raised to nobility, and now I see Mr. Dereham quite differently than when I was a girl. He’s holding our past as a kind of ransom. Really, he’s no gentleman.
But he has also stirred up memories of our time together, and made me realize that I’m not completely happy in my marriage.
In bed with the King, it’s always about his satisfaction. My own doesn’t seem to matter a fart or a farthing. I never feel what I felt when Mr. Dereham was my Francis—the breathlessness, the urgency, the wild des
ire.
I realize now that I miss those things, and not just a little. I miss them desperately.
* * *
—
On the tenth day of my not seeing the King, Thomas Culpeper visits me again at my request.
“His Majesty is feeling much better now,” Mr. Culpeper says. “He requests your company this evening.”
Are his eyes twinkling? Of course he knows what it means for the King to request my presence: He’s one of the men who hoists His Majesty into the bed. If his eyes are twinkling, it’s quite the cheek. I stare at him for a moment.
A pause. A breath. A stroke of silence that lasts a little too long.
Or is it only my imagination? Mr. Culpeper leaves me wondering.
That night, I work hard to please His Majesty. It’s no simple trick to be gentle and tender because of his leg, while at the same time arousing him and using every wile and skill to bring him to finish. Then he falls asleep immediately, without a word or a caress or even tenderness. I remind myself that he’s been ill, but it doesn’t help.
I lie awake long into the night, him wheezing and snorting through his fatty jowls, me crying silently.
Back to my rooms in the morning. I’m almost finished dressing when Lady Rochford dismisses the maids and takes up the hairbrush herself.
“He is here,” she says in a near-whisper.
“His Majesty?” I say with a start.
“No, not His Majesty.” Her voice drops even lower. “Mr. Culpeper.”
Her face is a complete blank, but I’m not fooled. She’s on the hunt for secrets, which she hoards like jewels. Now I remember that she was in the room yesterday when Mr. Culpeper and I were talking.
Her gaze rests on my reflection in the glass. “Please tell him I no longer have need of his visits,” I say.
“Your Grace?”
I look down at my lap. I should cut her off now, right this instant, before the conversation goes any further.
But I know what she’s thinking.