The Scandal of Christendom

by G Lawrence

  I had laughed heartily, making Henry beam with prideful pleasure. It was, as ever, a partial victory since he had to spend Christmas Day with Katherine. But he returned to me, night after night, as the twelve days of Christmas unfolded. And it was not only him. Courtiers flocked to York Place to be beside their King. Greenwich emptied. I could imagine Katherine sitting in her chambers, or walking the halls, her footsteps ringing out like echoes in a vast cavern. I hoped that Henry’s resolve had shaken her. For too long had she been assured that, in time, he would scuttle back to her. It was time for those illusions to fade.

  Together, we entertained the French ambassadors. With Henry giddy from besting Katherine, that night was merry. Claude de la Guysch seemed unimpressed, as ever, but the other dignitaries were courteous and receptive, and Henry’s euphoria was contagious. We danced through the night, and when Henry left me for Greenwich the next morning, his eyes were alive with triumph. He had tested me and not found me wanting.

  “I will return, tonight,” he said as we parted.

  “Do not be too late, my lord,” I said. “The court will miss you… for you know they are all here.”

  “You are the heart of court,” he said, lifting my hand to his lips. “That is why they flock to you.”

  That night, as I paused from the dance, I felt a presence at my side. I saw I had been joined by the Dowager Duchess of Norfolk, my grandmother by marriage, Agnes Howard nee Tilney. One of the richest and most influential women in England, Agnes was fifty-three, and ran a household for noble women at her estates in Lambeth and Horsham where she taught the skills required for women to become ladies in waiting, or wives. My uncle Edmund Howard’s daughter, the little babe I had met in the first days of her existence, was soon to join Agnes’ household. My uncle could not even afford to clothe his offspring properly, so little Catherine Howard, who must have been seven by then, would be better off with our rich grandmother.

  “You are not dancing, Grandmother? Do you not yearn to feel the arms of a young gallant about you?” I asked with a touch of mischief. The Dowager had thrown her support behind our faction, and she loved me. I knew she would not mind a little teasing.

  “Were I still a young woman, girl, I could best you.” She grinned, her dark eyes snapping with fire. Agnes was a woman of great energy. She had been a witness to the marriage of Arthur and Katherine and had given evidence at Blackfriars. Although she had admitted she knew nothing of the alleged consummation, she testified she had left them in bed and found them there again the next morning. “And if my long years have taught me aught, it is that men do not go to bed with their wives to sleep,” she had announced, making the court scream with laughter. Her testimony had won Henry’s approval, and ensured she was welcome at court. I adored her.

  “I do not dare to doubt it,” I said, handing her some wine. “Have you enjoyed Christmas?”

  “Have you?” Her eyes were searching. “You trip and you prance and you sing, girl, and you do it so well that all the men here think you are a joyful songbird, devoid of cares. I suppose you fool many of the women, too, for our sex are often encouraged not to possess minds.”

  “But you I do not fool.”

  “I have been too long a trickster to be tricked,” she said. “But what you do is sensible, girl. Fall fainting and weeping at every hurdle and not only would you drive the King away, but everyone would know you thought yourself beaten. Play the merry maiden, and everyone wonders what it is you know that they do not.”

  “There is movement in the Great Matter,” I said. “And cause to hope. But I cannot go into it in detail.”

  “Nor should you,” she said, shaking her head. “At court, you should always believe every shadow owns an ear. Think that way, and your secrets remain your own. This is no place for witless dalcops.” She stretched her back, making her old bones pop and crack. “But if there is movement, no matter how little, I am pleased.” She scowled and tsked, making a clicking sound with her few remaining teeth. “My stepson does little enough to aid you.”

  “My uncle has become less interested in seeing me made a queen since Wolsey’s fall.”

  “He was always like that. Always looking at the immediate advantage rather than considering what might be achieved if he worked with others. Selfish people are rarely observant souls. One should never speak ill of the dead, but I cannot help but wonder if it was his mother’s fault. He was spoiled and never beaten enough. It is a shame he was born five years before me. Had his father allowed me, I might have placed a few good hard smacks on his cheeks even as a young man… and I would not have been particular which cheeks my hands fell upon.”

  I laughed, almost snorting wine from my nose. Agnes chuckled. “It does me good to see you happy, child,” she said. “You are far too pretty to be so sad. Leave sorrow to ugly women, it lends grace to their misfortune.”

  “When I am Queen, I will be the most happy of all.”

  “You will be Queen, so be merry now,” she said. “And not only in outward appearance. Be of good cheer inside.” She tapped my arm with her sharp finger. “An old woman’s command must be obeyed, if only to lend her some of the pleasure of youth. You do not know now how little time you have to enjoy it. You do not see that one day you will become like me.” She cast a hand over her body. “Old, grey and toothless.”

  “You are none of those things.”

  “And you are a fine liar, trained well by your father.” She patted my arm with one hand, resting the other on her oak and ivory cane. “A talent for falsehoods is a good quality to have in a queen… especially the Queen of our King…” She glanced up as Henry strode into the room, heralds shouting his name. His eyes searched the crowds and, seeing me, they sparkled. “His Queen needs to be a skilled liar, to put up with all his strange fantasies.” Agnes’ voice dropped low as Henry drew near.

  “And you think you are toothless?” I whispered. Henry was almost upon us. “You have more bite than anyone at court, Grandmother, and more daring than a vixen in a hen house.”

  “Here at last, my darling.” Henry breezed into our midst, unaware we had been speaking of him. I curtseyed and he kissed my hand. “And I find you in good company. How are you, Your Grace?”

  My grandmother curtseyed, but Henry would not allow her to dip too low. He lifted her up and she smiled at him. “I do well, sire. Seeing my granddaughter here, beautiful and as graceful as a wild doe, makes me feel young again.” Her eyes twinkled. “Or at least, makes me wish I were young again.”

  “Perhaps my lord could take the Dowager’s hand in the next dance, and infuse her with his spirit and energy?” I suggested.

  “A fine notion, Anne,” he said. “But after I dance with your grandmother, I claim you.”

  “I wish for no other partner, my lord.”

  Henry led Agnes to the centre of the chamber, and a slow dance, selected by the musicians, who had noted Henry’s aged partner, began. I watched Agnes. The musicians had misjudged her. She could have danced a branles de Bourgogne, or a brisk galliard, a new dance from Italy, without tiring. Her step was as light as the wind. She moved with fluid grace, mingled with rigid formality, which should not have melded together, and yet did. Hers were steps learned long before I was born. Agnes remembered times of war and strife, when England had been torn apart by factions warring for the throne. She was the last graceful echo of the old world.

  As I watched them dance, I saw my aunt, Elizabeth Stafford, sporting a displeased expression. It should have been an honour for her mother-in-law to be selected for the King’s first dance, but Elizabeth was all too aware of Agnes’ sympathies. As Elizabeth looked over I smiled sweetly and she cast her eyes away.

  “Let them grumble,” I murmured under my breath to Nan, who chuckled. “That is how it’s going to be.”

  Chapter Seven

  Greenwich Palace

  New Year’s Day 1531

  “Chapuys is whingeing again,” said George as we sat beside my fire. The New Year had come
in with a blistering tempest of ice and wind. Greenwich shook under the onslaught as hissing rain, laced with hail, assaulted London. The wailing wind was unnerving, and I had called musicians to drown it out. They were only partially successful. Under the notes of their lutes the wind howled as though spirits denied Heaven rode them, screaming for the torment of purgatory.

  “Does he do anything else?” I asked flippantly. “The hare screeches as wild as the wind. Does he complain on Katherine’s behalf?”

  The two of them were always together. Chapuys visited Henry almost every day to intercede for Katherine, then straight to Katherine’s quarters he skipped. My father had been right, Chapuys was her sun. When Katherine was low, the ambassador cheered her, and when he lost hope, she granted him more. Irritatingly, they made a good team.

  “This time he is complaining that the French ambassadors are continually closeted with the King,” George said. “He also has issues with the number of French dignitaries at court. He says it is unfairly weighted.”

  “Well, he is not wrong there.” I lifted a cup of steaming ale, flavoured with honey and spices to my dusky lips. “Why should it come as a surprise? France is our friend, or soon will be.”

  “That is precisely what he fears.”

  “Then he should set Katherine aside and make peace between Spain and England,” I said. “His quest as her charging, victorious knight is not going to endear him to the King.”

  “He listens to Katherine. She tells him that, with time, the King will tire of you. Katherine believes in Henry’s love as she believes in God.”

  “He loved her once, or thought he did, but those days are done.” I brushed down the front of my glorious gown of black velvet. Its crimson sleeves were long and hung almost to the ground, tickling my slim fingers covered in rings bearing golden roses, rubies, diamonds and sapphires. Upon my head a French hood of black velvet sat, lined with a red ribbon and crested by pearls. Furs tickled my neck and my undergarments were thick, ductile wool, covered by a kirtle of crimson. Ropes of pearls hung about my neck, and at my girdle was a little Book of Hours covered in black velvet. Everything I wore was the finest Henry could afford. I dressed like a queen. I looked the part, and that, to my mind, was half the battle.

  Kings are players. When they enter a room everyone knows immediately who they are. The same is true for queens. If I was going to convince everyone I was throne-worthy, I had to assume the costume. Fortunately, I had a generous fiancé who understood the worth of clothes. Happily, Henry was content to leave the set, make and construction of my gowns to me. Were it up to Henry I would be smothered in silk and fortified with furs. He would have me dripping with jewels, slathered with bright colours and rich fabrics. My tastes were more refined. One could look like a queen without resorting to gross overstatement. If I had learnt anything from my time in Mechelen, it was that the most simple of colours, if used well, could be more striking than a medley of garish fabrics clashing to assault the eyes. Sometimes, when I looked on Henry, I knew he had not realised this.

  “In all honesty, Anne, I do not think Katherine will ever recognise she has lost Henry’s love. She still sees him as the boy he was when first they married, and thinks she can bend him to her will. Katherine believes he has no mind of his own, and is led by others. She thinks if she holds fast, and retains her courage, she can change his mind.” My brother sipped from his goblet. “I do not think she will ever cease to see him as that boy,” he said. “She has always imagined herself as the adult in their relationship.”

  “Her boy has grown up,” I said. “For me he has become a man.” I paused. “But what was this about Chapuys?”

  “Chapuys complained to the King about the French envoy Jehan Jocquin being offered one of Wolsey’s old bishoprics.”

  “Because the hapless hare knows Jocquin is bound for Rome after England?”

  “Indeed.”

  Jocquin was due to leave for Rome soon to resurrect negotiations about a marriage alliance between Clement’s niece and one of François’ sons. There had also been talk of offering Princess Mary to Duke Alessandro de’ Medici. I was no great supporter of the notion of using the Princess to secure ties with Rome. I did not want Henry focussed on his existing child, for I wanted him to think of the ones we would have, but the notion of having Mary shipped out of England was appealing. She would be less of a threat, and the Medici, no matter how rich they were, hailed from merchant stock. There was something deeply satisfying in the idea of selling Mary to a bloodline born from obscure beginnings. Proud Katherine would be shamed, and there was enough spite in my heart to find that pleasing.

  But Henry’s interest in Jocquin sprang in truth from the notion that the ambassador might be able to distract Rome’s General Council from discussing the Great Matter. If we were to see any movement in England, there could be none from Rome. We needed time to get Henry’s demands through Parliament, and prevent Rome from taking any hasty action which might see Henry excommunicated.

  I was entirely unsurprised Chapuys might have caught scent of our plans. The hare had a talented nose.

  “Chapuys thinks that by complaining to Henry, he will prevent Jehan from disrupting Rome,” I said. “But his interference will only encourage Henry to work against him.”

  “One of Katherine’s ladies told me Katherine has informed Chapuys that the King might go ahead with a second marriage, even without Rome or Parliament’s consent,” George went on. “Chapuys believes the King would never dare, but Katherine told him he was not fully aware of the depth of the King’s fantasies.”

  “Nothing will go ahead until we have Parliament on our side,” I said. “I will not have my title questioned, either as Henry’s wife, or as Queen. Henry does not want to marry in secret, either. He sees all of this as his natural right and wants his people to recognise that also. Marrying in secret would make it look as though we had something of which to be ashamed.”

  “There is one more matter.”

  “What?”

  “Norfolk was charged by the King to remove Katherine’s doctor, Ortiz, from court. Henry thought Ortiz might try to disrupt Parliament.”

  “Is there a problem, then?”

  George frowned. “Norfolk did it too soon,” he said, tracing a line through condensation on the table made by his steaming goblet. “He should have waited until January at least, but he rushed into it. Due to his clumsiness, Chapuys and Katherine are aware that something is coming in Parliament.” George made a spiral through the mist on the table with his finger, staring ponderously at his work.

  “And if they know, Fisher does too.” I tapped a finger against my lips. “Norfolk is such a crashing old boar. He always makes a mess. This will give Fisher time to prepare.”

  “Even if he has time to prepare, sister, he will never expect what is coming.”

  “Do you think Norfolk intended to warn them?” I asked. “Norfolk likes Chapuys, and they are often in company with one another.”

  “He tells everyone who will listen that the papacy has usurped the King’s authority and power.”

  “What he says in public is one thing,” I said. “What he says to Chapuys, quite another. We must keep an eye on our uncle, George. He keeps up the refrain Henry wants to hear, but his heart is not in this tune.”

  *

  I had been thinking about Henry’s defiance of Katherine on Christmas Day. I wondered if he had been inspired into action by my motto and the song I had sung. I believed I had offered Henry hope and determination, and by standing up to Katherine, he had given me the same. I was Henry’s courage as he was mine. As New Year’s Day wore to dusk, I strolled the halls of Greenwich, feeling sure that our beginning was near.

  As I walked I heard Jane Seymour, my cousin and one of Katherine’s women, praise the Queen’s humility and grace. I stopped my women as we neared her and scowled at my pallid cousin.

  “For my part,” I said loudly. “I wish the Queen and all Spaniards were at the bottom of the sea!”


  Jane stared at me, her thin lips opening and closing like a fish out of water. It made me want to laugh. Her expression was so scandalised. But I was tired of bowing to this foreign Queen, without right or claim to the title she wore. England was my country, not Katherine’s.

  “My lady,” my cousin stuttered. “You insult the Queen! You should not for the Queen’s honour, or your own, express such sentiments.”

  I waved my hands. “I care nothing for the Queen, or any of her family. I would rather see Katherine hanged than confess that she is my Queen and mistress!”

  There was a shocked silence. Everyone had heard me. Soon all of court would know what I had said.

  As my ladies and I swept from the chamber, the sound of voices exploded. Everyone was talking about me and what I had said. Everyone knew what it meant.

  Blatant disregard of the Queen was unheard of. At all other times I had avoided speaking of Katherine in public. That time was done. She insulted me often enough, why should I not retaliate?