by Diana Rubino
"My search for a suitable alliance and simultaneous acceptable queen has lagged on, as it seemed every eligible maiden on my list found the perfect excuse not to marry me."
Her eyes rounded. "Surely not."
He nodded. "Cromwell's original choice, Mary of Guise, immediately upon hearing of my interest in her, pledged herself to James the Fifth of Scotland. Christina of Milan remarked that she would only marry me if she had two heads!"
Now it all started to make perfect sense. His reputation had become tainted, and that vexed Amethyst, for word of mouth around the kingdom and the continent was unreliable indeed, at the mercy of village folk who embellished their stories and shaped them to the folds of their imaginations until they oozed with untruth.
She'd heard rumors herself to the effect that Henry was everything from syphilitic to crippled, and that he had whacked Anne's head off at a whim, in order to marry the maiden of his fancy, Jane. How far from the truth all of it was.
But then, how could they know; even if integrity had been the norm throughout the kingdom instead of the tendency to tattle. After all, no one knew Henry quite the way she did. Even Cromwell would call for her when it looked as if the King was in a melancholy or difficult mood. So many, many things she had missed terribly, she realized now that she had been in exile for so long. But the one thing she missed most was Hal's friendship.
"So how did the journey to Calais fare, my lord? Did any eligible courtiers jump at the chance of crossing the Channel to the open arms of our queen-less kingdom...and our king?"
He waved a pudgy hand in the air in disgust. "Bah. They were all petty balls of fluff, with their pomanders and their unsullied manners covering their licentious lust like the satin brocades and heavy perfumes they douse themselves with. God Jesu, I can still smell it!"
He wrinkled his nose and took a swig of wine, wiping a stream of dark red liquid off his chin with the back of his hand. "I decided I would have to seek elsewhere, perhaps the Low Countries. The Netherlands, perhaps. A nice, elderly woman of the Netherlands, fair of hair and skin, with a robust laugh, older than even I perhaps, and at least two heads shorter than I."
What a radical change from his former taste in women, she thought. None of his wives or mistresses, save for Bessie Blount way back at the brink of his manhood, had been fair, or elderly, if one did not count Catherine at the very end.
"That is a great departure from your usual proclivities, sire. Your taste is changing as you mature."
"Age, my dear. As I do age, just admit it. Wines mature. Kings...and other mortals...age. But you..." He held out his great hand and she took it in hers—how it engulfed her, consumed her in its warmth. "You have been the same since the day we met. The ravages of age demolished Catherine, right before my eyes, and she was but the same age when I first set eyes on her as you were when we first met."
"I am not quite the age Catherine was, sire. Besides, I believe the stress of the loss of so many children and all her hopes, plus the divorce, aged her quite a bit."
"It aged us both. It did not have to, though. If only she had been more agreeable, she would certainly be alive today. However, let us not dwell on such matters."
"So who is she, sire? Who have you settled upon?"
"Anne of Cleves. A pretty young thing, according to the portraits."
"Has she arrived in England yet, sire?" she asked.
"Nay, she waits at Calais for the weather to improve before she sets sail," he said, tearing into a cold turkey drumstick he'd swiped from a heaped plate.
"Are you nervous, sire?" she asked, for she knew Henry. As outwardly adamant as he was about the unimportance of this new liaison, she knew he was as anxious to feast his eyes upon her as a lad on his first dalliance.
"Nervous, nay. I wish her a safe and speedy arrival, that is all."
"What does she look like, sire?"
She remembered his request that she be presentable—but Henry always had a special weakness for beauty and grace beyond what he would ever consider presentable. She was sure Anne of Cleves would more than meet his requirements.
"Her portrait belies her true beauty, I am told, but I gather from the likeness that she is fair complexioned, with huge round eyes and graceful features. I believe she will do."
"'Tis a wise choice you make to choose a lady of Cleves, sire, 'tis a much-needed alliance and we will all feel much safer indeed."
"Aye, I am doing this for the realm, instead of for my own selfish needs, for once," the King admitted. "Of course, if she turns out to be a stunning beauty, all the better! I look forward to meeting her. You will be present at the wedding, of course, you and Mortimer?"
"Aye, sire, we would be honored." How many of his weddings had she witnessed now? She tried to count. Had it been two? Three? And how tragically they had all ended, she thought.
"We wish Your Majesty and the new Queen Anne a long lasting and happy marriage," Amethyst said.
"Your wishes are no doubt echoed throughout the kingdom," the King replied, watching eagerly as a servitor entered with yet another plate heaped with meats and cheeses. "I am not a young man, Amethyst. As God is my witness, this marriage shall be my last!"
Amethyst and Mortimer stayed on at court, for the King's marriage to Anne of Cleves was to take place on January sixth. She joined the King's Musick once more, and on several evenings, played her lute and virginals in the gallery as she had done throughout her life here at court.
She now sat there again, welcomed warmly by her fellow musicians, and looked down over the sparkling aura of the great hall as if nothing had transpired since the last time she'd sat here. But oh, so much had happened; many lives had passed in and out of the world since her last musical session, and her life had taken an entire and most unexpected turn.
She forced a smile upon her face and let her fingers bring the instrument to life. Now things seemed to be improving, for all of them. She had her beautiful son, and the King was once more her friend. If she did not have Matthew's love, well, it was a sad loss, but if it was the price she had to pay for duty and the well-being of the kingdom, she would take it.
Amethyst was in her chamber choosing a gown for the New Year's Day festivities. She'd just come from Mass and was sitting before the fire, regarding her travelling trunk, making a mental picture of its contents.
A page announced the King's arrival in the presence chamber. She rose to greet him.
He looked comfortable, all in soft muted tones of gold, velvet doublet and breeches, embroidered with the sharp gleam of citrines and topaz. Gold, his favorite color, enhanced the glitter in his eyes and the lustre of his thinning, but still shining, hair and beard. This was the best she had seen him looking in years, if one could but overlook his huge girth.
"Sire! How good to see you this morning! May the new year bring you and your new queen much happiness!"
"Bah!" the King scowled, heaving a deep breath and rolling his eyes toward heaven. "That Cromwell! That Crum! I shall personally..." He made a twisting gesture with his fists held together, a gurgling sound rising from his throat. "...wring his scrawny neck for involving me in this...travesty of a marriage!"
Her eyes rounded in shock. "What happened, my lord? Have you met Lady Anne? What did she do, what did she say?"
"Nothing, Amethyst. She did nothing, she said nothing. She simply scratched her hoof in the dirt and whinnied."
"Whinnied? Whatever do you speak of, my lord?"
"Have you never heard a horse, My Lady? Have you never heard the sound it emits from its mouth, from between its yellowed and protruding buck teeth?"
"Oh, sire! Anne of Cleves looks like a horse?"
"Whoever said she has no relatives in England was liar! She indeed has relatives! Identical! They live in stables and pull carts all over the kingdom!"
She tried not to laugh, given that he looked as black as a thundercloud. "But...the likeness. They spoke of her fair beauty—"
"Fair! That Holbein is next! For I sha
ll make sure he never gets another commission as long as he lives! He is an incompetent! A devious incompetent! To look at her likeness and then to look at...her, one would refuse to believe it is one and the same...person, and I use the term loosely. Flanders mare, more like."
"Oh, sire, how bad can she be?"
"I'll tell you how bad she can be. There's a saying the Italians have: 'Brutta come la fame,' she's as ugly as hunger. I never fancied those Germanic women, those low country lasses, for the reason that I found them too husky, too manly and harsh. But this one... Hers must have been the mold from which every woman in that part of the world had been cast! Her skin, Amethyst, her skin..."
He dragged his fingers over his cheeks to illustrate. "It is pitted and marred, like the craters of the moon. 'Tis not pink, not the olive-tone of the Latin women, not even that sickly pale blue of so many northern women...'Tis the hue of muck after a wild tempest, of a swollen peach that has been left on the tree to rot..."
He strode over to where a bowl of walnuts sat on her table before the fire. "This is the exact replica of her face!" He held a walnut up, pointy side down, and turned it to face her. "Draw eyes, nose, and mouth on this shell and there you have it! Cap it with a hideous headdress, like a box placed atop her head, and there you have her! Anne of Cleves! My future wife!"
Amethyst couldn't believe what she was hearing. Surely Cromwell wouldn't have deceived the King deliberately. "Perhaps they sent the wrong one—"
"Oh, if it were only so! An ugly sister, perhaps. Nay, it is she, Amethyst, and now I must figure a way to get out of it."
She put her hand up to her throat in horror. "You cannot send her back at this late date. She has crossed the channel. All the plans have been made; all has been finalized in the eyes of the world—"
"I cannot face her in a marriage bed, Amethyst!" he insisted, pounding one fist on a nearby table. "I shall admit, I am not the dashing young prince I once was...I carry a bit of extra weight and a few strands of gray sprout from my scalp, but never can I perform any marital duties in a bed filled with such repugnance and revulsion!"
"Then perhaps you can compromise. How does she feel about you, my lord, having feasted her eyes upon Your Majesty for the very first time?"
"I know not. I did not speak to her. She knows not a word of English. Her ladies were all around her, all dressed in that same boxy headdress, those cumbersome gowns, folds and folds of cloth reaching up to their very chins, as if they had gold in there to guard! We are virtually unable to communicate, except by facial expression, and that, I daresay, will suffice more effectively than words of any common language ever could!"
"So you plan to spend your wedding night glowering at each other?"
He sighed heavily. "Nay, if I cannot find a way out of this mess, I shall simply have to shut my eyes and think of England."
Henry's advisors were not able to find any impediment to the match save that the King found her person unattractive. So he was forced to go ahead with it, and the marriage took place on the sixth, as planned.
On the day following the wedding, Amethyst and Mortimer loaded up their carriage to return home. She requested to see the King to bid him farewell.
"And how are the new bride and groom?" she asked, entering his chamber, where servants scurried about, cleaning up the remains of his breakfast. The new queen was nowhere in sight.
"Must you know?" asked Henry.
"I was just asking out of courtesy, my lord. I wish not to hear all the intimate details."
He sneered. "There are no intimate details. There is nothing to speak of. I shall have the marriage annulled. That will be easy, for it will never be consummated."
"You didn't, er..."
The King picked a morsel out from between his teeth and flicked it onto the floor in disgust. "Nay, Amethyst, I wouldn't have been able to raise anything had my member been that of an eighteen-year-old sowing his first wild oats! I would like to think I still have some juice within me, but fruit spurts forth no juice unless it is adequately squeezed."
"I suppose not, sire."
"Nay, there is nothing the Flanders Mare possesses that sparks the slightest bit of desire within me. I have done my duty to my kingdom. No one can deny that."
"Do not fret, sire. You must get to know each other. She is quiet and shy, and must be frightened. You must make her feel at ease. Teach her how to dance, how to play your favorite card games, how to play the lute. She is from another world, and must be made to feel welcome."
"Aye, I know all these things, dear lady...just think, if you and I had married, what would have happened?"
She shuddered at the thought, for it had plagued her many times, racked her with guilt; the thought that Anne and Jane would still be alive today had she stayed on at court and been a bit more patient instead of running home, driving him into Anne's arms, had haunted her ever since she had been married off to Mortimer. The thought haunted her like her reveries about Matthew-what if, what if...
"It was not meant to be, my lord. We know that now."
"Aye, and you are a married lady. But I married you off to Pilkington out of rage, and I am truly sorry."
"I feel you were justified in doing so. But more than the lack of passion between us, it distresses me so that I am keeping father and son apart. You have no idea of the pain that plagues me knowing how I have deprived Matthew."
"Let it worry you not, my lady. This had to be done for all our sakes. He is a married man and however hard it has been, at least you have saved face and your son can hold his head high."
"And for that I am grateful."
He looked as though he would reach for her, but held himself back in time. "Now you must go to your husband and I must go to my wife. I bid you Godspeed, until we meet again."
They embraced and the King's arms enveloped her tightly. She felt within his embrace as if she were enclosed in a womb, only to emerge all too reluctantly. She truly did still love him as her friend. She only hoped that they could both find some degree of contentment given all they had been through thus far.
"Farewell, for now, my liege."
"Fare thee well, my dear. I shall see you soon, I am sure."
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Hampton Court Palace, June, 1540
A message for the King arrived from Topaz Plantagenet. It spoke of her lament that his marriage to Anne of Cleves was going to be dissolved, and she wished to atone to him for all the trouble she'd caused. Therefore, within the next fortnight, she would be sending him who she hoped would be his next wife-Catherine Howard, niece of the Duke of Norfolk, Emerald's husband.
The young girl was eager to please the King and willing to learn court protocol to become a respected and popular queen. She went on to describe Catherine—spirited, young, fair. Her miniature did depict her as quite attractive, but the King was past trusting miniatures—and she would bring back a youthfulness and joy the court hadn't seen in many years.
He thought of Anne, the parties, the dancing, the endless nights of merrymaking. He'd been caught up in it all, too, for he had been in his prime. But at his advanced age, he no longer desired nor was able to romp with the younger generation, to dance all night, to frolic with the courtiers. He was an old man. He was tired of it all. He desired no more wives. His sexual desire had diminished with the increase in his appetite. He wanted to eat when he was hungry, drink when he was thirsty, sleep when he was tired, and rule his kingdom the rest of the time.
The idea was quite thoughtful on Topaz's part, he decided, but the timing was entirely wrong. She was perhaps fifteen years too late to present him with a potential bride of such spirited youth.
He made a mental note to jot off a line to Topaz thanking her for her offer, but to please leave Mistress Howard in Warwickshire or wherever she belonged.
Topaz of course had her own reasons in mind for pairing plucky Catherine with the King. Norfolk, Emerald's husband, as well as Topaz, were enemies of Cromwell, who had instigated the disastrous
Cleves marriage. This alliance was their perfect opportunity to snatch Cromwell out of the warmth and security of the King's favor, and seize the chance they would.
As they groomed and drilled Catherine in the manners of court, Norfolk giving her a rapidly accelerated French-speaking course and Topaz drumming the morés of protocol into her mercurial little head, they foresaw Cromwell's doom.
"Flirt with the King all you like," Topaz had warned the pretty young thing, "Arouse his passions, drive him mad with desire for you, but do not give in until you are beside him in the marriage bed."
Catherine, an incorrigible flirt, having had several dalliances already, did not need much coaching in the area of feminine wiles, and was more than eager for the challenge of becoming queen.