Secrets of the Tudor Court

by Bogdan, D. L.

  At one time Lady Latymer was considered for a position in my household as one of my ladies-in-waiting, but that never came to fruition. She is only seven years older than I and very intelligent. We are of the same mind in regard to religion and enjoy discussing it for hours on end. She is a good substitute for my Lily, whom I have been missing dreadfully.

  To differentiate between all the Catherines at court, she prefers to be called Cat. It seems most appropriate, as she is far more mature than my Kitty Howard, whose nickname could not suit her better.

  Cat is on her second marriage, and though she is fond of her husband, it is not the love match she had dreamed of as a girl.

  “It seems the timing’s always wrong,” she confesses one day.

  “Who would you marry if you could?” I ask her. My cheeks begin to flush as I realize the boldness of my question. “I’m sorry. I—”

  “It’s all right, Mary,” she says, her expression dreamy. “My heart is bound to one man but belongs to another. Lord knows I am a faithful wife to my lord Latymer. But if God wills it, I should hope that one day I can marry Tom Seymour for love.”

  My heart leaps into my throat. Doesn’t she know about the rumors? I say nothing but reach out to squeeze her hand. “I wish you nothing but happiness, Cat.”

  Her brown eyes grow wide. “You won’t say anything? Sometimes I fear I am too trusting…”

  I shake my head. “I promise I will say nothing, but,” I add, “it is probably not so good a thing to be too trusting at this court.”

  She offers a grave nod. “You are very wise.”

  It is a wisdom too painfully gained, I fear.

  A Rose Named Kitty

  True to his implications, my father moves fast. It is not long before the Catholic faction at court seizes the opportunity to accuse the Lutheran-leaning Cromwell of pressuring His Majesty into this unfavorable alliance to suit his own interests. Now that there is no real political reason to be married to Anne of Cleves, the king is looking for a way out.

  He finds it in Francis, the Duke of Lorraine, whom Anne had been engaged to in the 1530s. Close examination reveals there is no dispensation ending the betrothal. If Anne is still betrothed to Francis, she cannot legally be wed to King Henry. Low and behold, another invalid marriage!

  Then there are the rumors that she unmanned him, that every day she rises from her bed virgo intacta. These are rumors my cousin Lady Jane Boleyn is too happy to perpetrate, giving evidence certain to damn the poor foreign girl for the crime of being untouched. Few people are willing to believe a girl so innocent that she does not know how to coax forth a king’s desire. It is not a simple matter of attraction; like everything else at this court, it is made sordid and dark. Before long there is an evil whisper on the wind: she is a witch, a witch like the cursed predecessor who bore her name.

  Norfolk is thrilled and I shudder in disgusted despair.

  For a while the progress in the case against Queen Anne is sluggish. This gives the king ample occasion to court the young woman who has captured his fancy, a girl-child he pulls aside at every opportunity to pet and spoil and entice. She is our own Kitty Howard.

  “It isn’t as though I really like the king,” Kitty confesses to me one afternoon. “But he likes me, and you can’t very well reject him. Oh, I know he isn’t the best looking.” She wrinkles her button nose. “He’s so old and large! But he buys me such pretty gifts—sweet pets and gowns and jewels! You should see the collar of table diamonds he gave me!” Her blue eyes sparkle in bewildered delight. “I’ve never had pretty things of my own before.” She sighs. “When I think back on life before I came here—how dull it was, and how nobody ever cared for me at all except…well, all the wrong people—I think I must be very blessed indeed. Uncle Thomas swept down on Lambeth like—like Merlin, and plucked me from my dreary existence, dropping me down on this Camelot. He’s made me a princess! And he says as long as I’m a good girl and do just what he says, the king will keep showering his favor upon me.”

  My heart lurches. “Kitty, you must be careful. My father—”

  “Is so wonderful! He really loves me,” Kitty interposes. At once her eyes mist over. “No one’s ever really loved me before…” She swallows, brightening. “And I never knew my father really, so I am so happy to acquaint myself with my good uncle. For once someone cares about what happens to me! He really wants what’s best for me. He says I’m a pretty little kitten and will do the Howards proud.”

  For my father to utilize the phrase pretty little kitten in any sentence causes me to shudder in disgust.

  It has all happened before. My chest is tightening in dread. Now it is happening again. This king, this mad king—does Kitty have any idea of the depth of his madness?

  “Kitty—” I begin.

  “Oh!” she cries. “I must be off. His Majesty is expecting me. I can only imagine for what.” She emits a naughty little giggle as though she knows exactly for what, rises and kisses my cheek, and in a flurry of skirts, dashes from the maidens’ chamber.

  I bow my head in despair.

  That evening when I am shown into Norfolk’s privy chamber it is no surprise to find Kitty already there. Norfolk is leaning against his desk, staring down his hawklike nose at her, in an expression of annoyance that poor Kitty does not seem to pick up on.

  “I do not want to go to Norfolk House,” she is saying, jutting her lower lip out into an attractive pout I am certain has been rehearsed for its endearing effectiveness. “I want to stay here at court. If I go back there I’ll miss everything.”

  Norfolk opens his mouth, then snaps it shut. His lips twist into a forced smile. “Kitty,” he says, his tone solicitous. “You must go to Norfolk House now. It is better for you while this unpleasantness with His Majesty’s annulment is being sorted out. Soon enough you shall make your grand return and will head them all up. Look at the grand scheme of things, little one. His Majesty wants you. He is planning to marry you and make you queen of England.” He allows the words to sink in a moment before continuing. “Now, you are going to Norfolk House and that is that. We shall not have unpleasant words, shall we? You must remember who has gotten you this far to begin with.” He pauses. “Kitty, do you remember your cousin Anne—Queen Anne?”

  Kitty’s nod is grave. “She came to see me once when I was little. She brought me a present.”

  “Yes, you would recall that,” says Norfolk, but the sarcasm is lost on her. He continues. “Anne was a bad girl.” I cringe at the blunt description, as a vision of my Anne conjures itself before my mind’s eye—radiant, her black eyes sparkling with wit and merriment. Anne…“That is why she is never mentioned at court; she was so wicked the king forbids it.” Little Kitty’s face is white. “She died by the sword, Kitty, because she did not listen to me, who had her best interests at heart just as I do yours. So you see that it is vital you listen to your uncle, d’you see?”

  Kitty, so unlike her late cousin Anne when it comes to battles of wits, melts at this. Her smile is guileless. “Oh, yes, of course. I shall always listen to you, Uncle Thomas. Were it not for you putting me in His Majesty’s path so often, he may not have noticed me at all.”

  Norfolk laughs, stepping forward and taking her pretty little hands in his. “You are a hard one to miss, my little kitten.” He taps her nose with his finger. “Now. You must be off to sleep. You will leave in the morning. His Majesty plans to visit you every day, or at least as often as he can, and I’m certain he will bring many gifts for his little rose.”

  “His ‘rose without a thorn,’” Kitty says in awe. “Can you believe he calls me that? It is quite sweet. That is what I must think of. All the sweet things. I won’t think about him being so old and large. I’ll think of all the grand things.”

  “That’s right, Kitty,” says Norfolk.

  “And hope he will consummate the marriage in the dark!” Kitty finishes with a laugh of her own that catches Norfolk off guard.

  “Er…yes,” he says, shi
fting uncomfortably. “Best not suggest that to him, however, Kitty.”

  “Oh, of course not,” she says. “Worst comes to worst, I can always close my eyes.”

  Norfolk is shaking his head and I am stifling laughter.

  “Will you visit me at Norfolk House, too, Uncle Thomas?” she asks, laying her hand upon his doublet. She casts her eyes upon me. “And bring Mary?”

  “Certainly,” he says.

  She wraps her arms about his neck and kisses his cheek. He returns the embrace stiffly, patting her back while trying to extract himself from her. She does not see this, however. She is the type who immerses herself in a hug, pressing herself in full to the person she embraces, as though her greatest desire is to merge with them, body, heart, and soul. Yet there is nothing sexual about it at all. She is a girl made to love and be loved.

  She tilts an adoring face up to Norfolk. “I love you, Uncle Thomas,” she tells him, her voice shaking with sincerity.

  He draws away, clearing his throat. “Well. Yes.” He shoos her away. “To bed now, Kitten. You want to be fresh and pretty for tomorrow.”

  She smiles, bounds over to me to kiss my cheek, then quits the room. I hear her offer a cheery exchange with the guards. There is laughter. I smile. There is laughter wherever Kitty goes.

  When I am certain she is out of earshot I turn to my father. “My lord, I must entreat you.”

  “What now, Mary?” His voice is weary, as though the exertion of being kind to Kitty has exhausted him.

  “You must promise…” The laughter in my throat has turned to tears. I wring my hands. “You must promise me that Kitty will never come to any harm. She is as innocent as a girl can be.”

  “Innocent? Kitty?” Norfolk’s tone is incredulous. “Don’t mistake sheer stupidity for sheer innocence, Mary.”

  I sigh. “She isn’t stupid; she’s young. Fourteen. This is such a heady world for her. She isn’t like Anne—the king may tire of her inability to match wits—”

  “At this point the king does not want a girl for her intelligence,” Norfolk tells me. “Take one good look at that imp. Would any man in his right mind want her for her wits?” He laughs. “He no longer needs late-night debates and mental stimulation. He wants a pretty little thing to pet and spoil. And as long as she can give him the heirs he needs, her life is assured—and I do not foresee any problems there. As you said, she’s young and healthy.”

  “But the king…” I begin. I do not want to say too much for it is treason to predict the death of a king. “He is not a well man. You’ve seen him dragging that leg around.”

  Norfolk grimaces. “Indeed. Putrid rotting thing that it is. Kitty has all my sympathies there.”

  I sigh in frustration. “Do you suppose a man in his state can even beget heirs? Do you suppose he’ll take the responsibility if he cannot?” I shake my head. “You know as well as I who will be to blame.”

  “Of course I do, Mary,” Norfolk says. “Thank God you have developed some sense of astuteness. You may be my daughter yet.” He pauses, clasping his hands behind his back. “There are ways around all that, anyway,” he says to himself.

  “What ways?” I ask, my voice rising in panic.

  At once his face arranges itself into an impatient scowl. “Leave it to me. Now go join your cousin.”

  “But, my lord, you haven’t promised,” I say in firm tones. “I want you to promise—”

  “Good night, Mary.” His tone is a warning I do not heed.

  “Promise me!”

  He seizes my shoulders. “I said good night, Mary!”

  I pull away. “Please…”

  Norfolk sighs. “There is no reason to believe our Kitty should remain anything but the king’s rose. His ‘rose without a thorn’—or some such nonsense.” His smile oozes with sarcasm. “There. Does that reassure you? Go now. Go on!”

  I curtsy and quit the room, my heart thumping in a fear that no amount of reassurance can assuage.

  The marriage is annulled in early July. Anne of Cleves ruled as queen for a total of four months and no one at court saw her since the festivities on May Day. She is said to have taken the news quite well; so well that the king was annoyed at her eagerness to cooperate. She signed a letter of submission, naming herself “daughter of Cleves” and not “queen of England” and was given Richmond Palace to reside in as the king’s “dear sister.” I cannot even begin to imagine but…

  At least she kept her head. For that the German bride is to be congratulated. She kept not only her head but the king’s favor, even making the occasional appearance at court, where she appears happier than ever.

  Our Kitty contented herself at Norfolk House during the worst of the split, receiving lands, bolts of the finest fabrics, jewelry, and nightly visits from His Majesty. Whenever I visit her she delights in showing me her newest gown or bauble.

  “It’s not so bad, really,” she tells me one day, her tone strained in an effort to convince herself. “Really. All I have to do is have a baby. That’s not too much to ask.”

  I do not draw to her attention the pallor of her cheeks or trembling limbs. I nod and compliment her beautiful gowns and exclaim over her newest piece of jewelry.

  “These were Jane Seymour’s,” she tells me. “Her very own jewels. Fancy that they’re in a Howard’s hands now!”

  I emit a soft laugh. “Yes. Fancy that.”

  Of course the king needs someone to blame for the Anne of Cleves debacle. In this my father seizes the opportunity to shift all responsibility onto the shoulders of the too-Lutheran, newly titled Earl of Essex, Thomas Cromwell. His archenemy. Anti-Lutheran sentiments are running high, but for Norfolk religion has nothing to do with it. Cromwell is a rival to be removed and it is as simple as that. For this crime he deserves to die. Forgotten are Cromwell’s interventions on behalf of my brother, and his appeals for my inheritance. Norfolk wants to be rid of him and rid of him he will be.

  So, without ever suspecting a thing, Cromwell is stripped of his titles and honors and thrown into the Tower, arrested for high treason. An act of attainder is passed against him, which in essence means that he will die without trial.

  He is beheaded on July 28, Kitty’s wedding day.

  “It’s so very strange,” says Kitty as we are dressing her. “I never thought Cromwell to be so bad a man.” She pauses, cocking her head as she ponders her tiny pearl-encrusted slipper. “He was the king’s dearest friend for so long.” She shudders.

  “Best not to think about it, my lady,” advises Jane Boleyn.

  “Yes,” I say. “Listen to Lady Rochford. She knows all about how to put beheadings behind her.”

  Jane shoots me a scathing look and I smile.

  The wedding is not filled with the same pageantry some of His Majesty’s former brides have been afforded, but there is a grand breakfast. Kitty, now Queen Catherine, is by far the most beautiful bride I have ever beheld. In a display that churns the stomach, the king’s hands are all over her. She does not shoo him away, of course. She knows better than that.

  Under the advisement of Norfolk, Kitty chooses her ladies-in-waiting. Jane Boleyn is appointed chief lady of the bedchamber. I am in shock. Jane’s smile is triumphant as she fusses over Kitty, who is so easily won that she has no idea of Jane’s duplicitous nature.

  Kitty is generous to her past acquaintances from Lambeth, girls she shared chambers with, and grants them all one position or another. I know as I watch them, these greedy mongrels, that no one comes here out of loyalty to the little queen. They come as vultures, circling, ugly things beneath all their finery, waiting to take Kitty for all she is worth.

  But these girls are around Kitty’s age and they play together and dance about Hampton Court, making merry, giggling and teasing, and no one seems a happier queen than Catherine Howard.

  “‘No other will but his,’” she tells me one night, her smile bright. She is in her big bed of state, the bed that once belonged to Anne of Cleves, her sumptuous covers drawn
up to her shoulders. “That means I am the king’s obedient little miss. How do you like that? It’s my motto. It’s a good motto, don’t you think? Except it does echo Jane Seymour’s ‘Bound to serve and obey,’ but I suppose everyone’s forgotten her by now, except for that she is little Prince Edward’s mother.” She scoots up against her pillows. “Strange to think I am stepmother to people almost as old as I am. Lady Mary is older! Fancy that!” She shrugs. “Queen Anne—Anne of Cleves, I mean—adores the children. She sees them whenever she can—except Mary, since she’s out of favor again, her being such a papist and all.” She sighs. “I suppose it will be very hard trying to be stepmother to her. I hope not to see her very much. Once I give the king babies of our own I imagine he’ll forget all about them.” She considers. “Except Lady Elizabeth. We cannot forget her. She is our cousin, after all, and it would be good to see her restored to favor.”

  I nod, my eyes misting over at the thought of the abandoned little princess. “Indeed it would.”

  Kitty sits up, drawing her knees to her chest and hugging them, her adorable face scrunched up in delight. “Do you want to know a secret?”

  I’m not sure. “Yes,” I answer, as I’m certain there is no getting around it.

  “I may be with child even as we speak,” she says. “It is early, however, and I have never really been—well, on course, but there is a good chance.”

  I take her slim hands in mine. “Oh, Your dearest Majesty, I pray it is so.” As I look into her sweet face I recall a similar confidence exchanged between Anne Boleyn and me so many years ago…I blink away the memory.

  “You never had a child, did you, Mary?” Kitty asks me.

  I shake my head, my throat constricting with painful tears.

  “But you were my age when you married the duke, were you not?” she asks.

  I nod. “I was not allowed to be with him,” I tell her. “My father…he would not permit it.”