by Alison Weir
All would be well. Finally, she slept, worn out by her restless tossings and turnings.
* * *
—
The Duchess was the first person at Lambeth to hear the news. She had retired before the King left, so Katheryn broke it to her the next morning after Mass.
“My lady,” she said, following her grandam into her chamber and closing the door behind them. “The King has proposed! I am to be queen!”
For the first time ever, the Duchess threw her arms around her and kissed her.
“I feel as if I have been visited by the Angel Gabriel!” she exclaimed. “You have triumphed, Katheryn! I knew you would not let us down.”
Immediately, she sent her usher to summon the Duke, Lord and Lady William Howard, and the Countess of Bridgewater, to tell them the news. Norfolk arrived from court within what seemed like ten minutes, with Bishop Gardiner in tow. When he heard the glad tidings, he embraced Katheryn with unusual warmth.
“Well done, niece! It is marvelous to think we will have a Howard queen on the throne again. It will be to the great benefit of this realm.”
The Bishop congratulated her. “My dear, there is no doubt that you will be the handsomest of his Grace’s wives. He is a lucky man indeed.” Behind him, she saw her brothers, looking so tall and debonair and jubilant. They kissed her and told her how clever she was.
“I cannot take it all in!” she told them.
Lord William, arriving in haste, bowed low, his eyes shining, a foretaste of the deference that would soon be shown to her.
* * *
—
When Henry called that evening, the Duchess was quick to voice her appreciation of the honor he had done her house. He beamed at her evident joy and said that it was Katheryn who had honored him in consenting to be his Queen.
“When is the marriage to be announced, Sir?” the Duchess asked.
“Not yet,” the King said. “There is a lot of idle talk about my divorce from the Lady Anna, so I think it best to let that die down.”
When he was alone with Katheryn in the gardens, he bade her sit with him and kissed her. “My little Queen is looking beautiful tonight.”
“Beautiful and very hot!” she replied, giggling.
“It’s still stifling,” he complained, and shrugged off his gown, sitting there in his shirtsleeves. “You know there are rumors about us all over the court, and beyond. I’m told that the French ambassador thinks we are already married! He has informed his master that the divorce of the Queen was hastened because I had to wed you.”
“No!” Katheryn cried, flushing. “I would not have anyone think that.”
“Time will prove him wrong,” Henry said. “You must accustom yourself to this kind of speculation. As Queen, you will live on a public stage and the world will watch everything you do.”
“I know,” Katheryn replied.
“Anyone with any sense, and who knows me, could not credit that I would make you my mistress. They’d know that I would never compromise the legitimacy of any child of mine born in wedlock. Besides, my Queen must be a model of purity, the very mirror of the Virgin Mary.”
Katheryn’s heart sank again. She was so unfitted to be the kind of queen Henry wanted.
“I thought we could be married toward the end of this month, after I’ve dissolved Parliament,” Henry said.
So soon!
“If that is your pleasure,” she answered.
“Is it yours, darling?”
“Of course!” she told him, setting aside her fears and giving him a radiant smile.
“It will be a quiet ceremony, just for us,” he said. “My treasury is empty. I hope you won’t mind. I won’t have our marriage proclaimed until a week or so later, to give us time to enjoy a honeymoon in private.”
“Whatever you wish,” she assured him. “I am content.”
* * *
—
In the third week of July, a letter addressed in a strange hand arrived for Katheryn. Breaking the seal, she saw that it was from Sir George Seaford, a friend of her grandam. He informed her that he was away on business in York and had visited Joan Bulmer, who had sent her the enclosed note.
Katheryn unfolded it and read Joan’s message. Sir George must have told her about the King’s divorce and that it was thought Katheryn was to be Queen. Uncharacteristically gushing, Joan wished her all the wealth and good fortune she could desire. “You will be worthy to have that honor,” she had written, before most heartily desiring Katheryn to remember the love she had always borne her. She went on to relate how a change of fortune had brought her into the utmost misery and she was now leading the most wretched life. She could not express her sorrows in writing, and there was no remedy for them, unless Katheryn, of her goodness, found the means to get her to London, which she would find very difficult to do herself.
But, if you write to my husband and command him to bring me there, I think he will not dare disobey you. If it could be arranged, I would like to be with you before you attain your high honor. In the meantime, I beseech you to save some place for me in your household, whatever you think fit, for the nearer I am to you, the happier I will be. I would write more to you, but I dare not be so bold, considering the great honor you are to have. But, remembering the honesty I have always known to be in you, I have felt encouraged to write this. I beseech you not to be forgetful of my request for, if you do not help me, I am not likely to have any joy in this world. I desire you, if you can, to let me have some answer to satisfy my mind; for I know the Queen of Britain will not forget her secretary, and favor you will show.
Your humble servant, with heart unfeigned,
JOAN BULMER
Katheryn’s heart was racing. This was intimidation, nothing less. The pointed reminders of her past, couched in the most flattering terms, that taunting mention of her honesty—a sly reference to her chastity—and the reminder that Joan had occasionally acted as her secretary, not only writing the occasional letter for her, but knowing her secrets. Her words were loaded with meaning. “I would write more to you, but I dare not be so bold”—what could this be but a threat, a reminder that Joan knew about Katheryn’s misconduct with Francis and Harry? The peremptory, dictatorial tone of her demands and the last, menacing line were so unlike the manner in which a petitioner was supposed to approach one of higher rank. And it was all couched in the most friendly, flattering terms, so cleverly composed that no one else reading the letter could guess at its hidden subtext.
Katheryn stared at it for a long time. Would granting Joan’s request be the price of her silence? Or would Joan want more, holding her implied threats over her mistress’s head like a sword of Damocles? Katheryn dared not contemplate having the woman in her household, certainly not after this. Joan would be a constant reminder of a past she was trying to forget. But did she have a choice?
Yes, she did! She would not be bullied like this.
She fetched pen and ink and retired to her chamber, where she wrote a short note to Joan, thanking her for her kind letter and saying that the King had already appointed her household (which was not true), but that, if a vacancy should arise in the future, she would send for her. That should content her, or at least buy her silence! Resolving that she never would send for Joan Bulmer, she sealed the letter.
* * *
—
She had much to do. The new gowns Uncle Norfolk had provided would serve for a queen, but the Duchess insisted she should be fitted for more. My lady’s jeweler was a frequent visitor to Lambeth, bringing tray after tray of his wares. When Katheryn balked at the cost, her grandam smiled at her.
“Remember to think of it as an investment, my dear,” she said, “in earnest of the bounty that is to come.” Katheryn hoped that the King would be as generous to her family as they expected.
She spent hours sitting in the shade in
the garden, embroidering smocks and coifs. The young gentlewomen clustered around, offering to help, all eager to be her best friends now. Naturally, they were hoping for places at court. Isabel and Margaret came to visit her and helped with the endless sewing. And, all the while, July was drawing inexorably toward its close.
On the 27th, Sir John Russell arrived from the King to say that his Majesty was moving to the palace of Oatlands for the hunting, with just a small riding household in attendance, and requested that Mistress Katheryn join him there with all haste. She would find that everything was in readiness for her. He himself would escort her.
She knew what the summons betokened.
“I am going to Oatlands to be married,” she told the Duchess, who clasped her to her flat bosom and kissed her warmly.
“God be thanked!” she said. “You are an honor to our house!”
Katheryn’s belongings were all packed. As they were being loaded onto the sumpter mules that had been sent by the King, she changed into a riding habit of tawny damask with a matching bonnet sporting a jaunty feather. Sir John looked at her admiringly as she descended the stairs.
The Duchess was waiting for her. “Farewell, my child. May God go with you. Remember us all in your prayers, and never forget that you are a Howard!”
The weather was oppressively warm, but the cabin of the barge that took them upriver to Walton-on-Thames offered shade and there was a good breeze from the river. Late in the afternoon, they alighted to find horses awaiting them, and rode the three miles to Oatlands. The palace, with its turreted gatehouse and gabled roofs, was secluded in an extensive deer park, and Katheryn could see why Henry had chosen it for their nuptials. She was surprised to see how big it was, and how new.
They crossed the arched bridge over the moat and found Sir Anthony Wingfield, Vice Chamberlain of the King’s household, waiting to greet them at the gatehouse. As he led them into a large courtyard, he told Katheryn that the King had acquired the old house three years previously and had been extending it ever since.
“This is only the first of three courts, Madam.”
In the second one, irregularly shaped with an octagonal tower, which Sir Anthony told her was called the Prospect Tower, they came to the royal lodgings. Inside, Katheryn was surprised to find that there was no great hall.
“His Majesty had it demolished,” Sir John said. “He prefers smaller, private lodgings these days.”
As they ascended the stairs, Katheryn caught a glimpse of orchards beyond the windows. Truly, this was a delightful house.
Henry was waiting for her in his presence chamber. When she curtseyed low, he raised her joyfully and embraced her. “I have been longing for this day!” he declared, waving away Sir Anthony and Sir John.
He called for wine to be served as Katheryn gazed at her surroundings, the fine French tapestries, the Turkey carpets, and the furniture upholstered in velvet and cloth of gold.
“You approve?” he asked, seeing her wonderment.
“It’s beautiful,” Katheryn said.
“A fitting place for a honeymoon,” he observed. “Wait till you see the Queen’s lodgings! I have summoned your half-sisters, Lady Baynton and Lady Arundell, to attend on you until your household is formed. We must see to that while we are here.” Katheryn was delighted that she was to have two people she loved to serve her.
There was a sudden sound of hammering in the distance. “Pay no heed,” Henry said. “Works are still going on here, but I made them finish the royal apartments first. The hunting hereabouts is excellent. And I’ve had a road built linking Oatlands to Hampton Court so that I can travel here with ease.”
The wine was poured and, as soon as the page had retired, Henry raised his goblet to Katheryn’s. “To us, darling, and our future! May our marriage be blessed with much happiness and many children.”
“To us!” Katheryn echoed, realizing with a start that she might very soon be a mother—the mother of a prince! Suddenly, her fears seemed unimportant. All would be well, she knew it.
“I have sent for my chaplain, the Bishop of London, to come and marry us,” Henry told her. “We will be wed tomorrow.”
It really was happening. Until now, Katheryn had only half believed it.
* * *
—
Her apartments were as sumptuous as Henry had promised. Isabel and Margaret were waiting in her presence chamber and would have curtseyed, had she not flung her arms around them and whirled them about.
“It’s so wonderful to have you here!” she cried.
“I hope you won’t treat all your ladies so familiarly!” Isabel laughed.
They walked with her through the suite of rooms that comprised her privy chamber, admiring the tapestries with scenes from antiquity, the Turkey rugs, and the gilded paneling. They drank some wine, then dressed Katheryn in cloth of gold and brushed her hair until it shone like burnished copper. She walked through to the dining chamber, where a table had been laid with a snowy-white cloth, silver-gilt cutlery, and Venetian goblets. Only when the King arrived did Isabel and Margaret discreetly withdraw.
After a delicious supper of salmon and chicken, Henry and Katheryn walked in the terraced gardens, cupped their hands and drank water from the fountains, then found a seat in a delightful walled pleasance. The King gathered her in his arms and kissed her reverently.
“I am counting the hours until tomorrow,” he murmured. “I love you so much, my Katheryn.” And he kissed her again as if he could not get enough of her.
1540
The following afternoon, Katheryn was escorted by Sir Anthony and Sir John to the chapel closet, with Isabel and Margaret walking behind, carrying her train. She was wearing her cloth-of-gold gown and the King’s pendant depicting Venus and Cupid. Henry was waiting for her, resplendent in silver and white, and raised her hand to his lips before turning to face his chaplain. Katheryn took one look at the portly, fleshy-faced Edmund Bonner, Bishop of London, and disliked him on sight. There was a coarseness about him, and his manner was somewhat fierce and overbearing. Yet he observed all the courtesies, even if he did conduct the marriage rite as if he were casting out demons. But the King seemed impervious and showed only the greatest joy when he and Katheryn were pronounced man and wife.
Afterward, when Henry had released her from his embrace, everyone made reverences to Katheryn and congratulated her.
“I am so happy for you!” Isabel said, her eyes damp. “That I should live to see this day!”
Katheryn felt dizzy with elation. She was Queen now. She really was Queen!
* * *
—
The casements in the large bay window had been left open and the bedchamber was pleasantly temperate. Outside, the rooftops of the palace were silhouetted against a moonlit sky.
Katheryn turned away and walked toward the ornate pearl bed that Henry had specially commissioned from a French craftsman and brought here for their wedding night. The sheets were embroidered with the initial K, a nice touch.
Deftly, saying little, Isabel and Margaret undressed her, then lifted over her head the almost diaphanous lawn night-rail embellished on the low neckline and cuffs with tiny flowers she had embroidered herself in gold thread. Then they combed her long auburn hair until it shone.
There was to be no bedding ceremony. The King had insisted on complete privacy, which was a relief as Katheryn would have hated the fiery Bishop Bonner blessing the bed as she lay in it.
When they were done, Isabel and Margaret kissed Katheryn good night, curtseyed, and left her alone. Quickly, she drew a needle from her sewing basket and stuck it in the mattress beneath her pillow. Then she stood by the window, wondering if she should get into bed. She had not been there long when the door opened softly and she turned to see the King, dressed in a long night robe of crimson damask. He was gazing at her in wonder, his eyes raking her figure i
n the thin night-rail.
“Katheryn! Oh, my darling…”
He lurched toward her and crushed her to his broad breast, pressing his mouth on hers and running his hands down her body. She closed her eyes, pretending it was Tom, and was surprised to find herself responding.
“Let me look at you.” Henry’s voice was hoarse with desire. He undid the ribbons of her night-rail and it gaped open, partly exposing her breasts. “Oh, you are beautiful…”
He slipped the garment off her shoulders and it fell to the floor, leaving her naked before him. His eyes narrowed with lust.
She had not expected a man of Henry’s age and weight to be virile; she had wondered if, when it came to it, he would be capable of the marriage act. So she was surprised when he almost fell upon her, cupping her breasts and kissing her as if he would devour her. Then he drew her toward the bed. She lay down and he heaved himself on top of her, his need for her urgent against her thigh. She could barely breathe with his weight crushing her into the mattress, but then he moved slightly to one side as he reached his hand down to enter her. She remembered to gasp, as if it was painful, held her breath as if she was bearing the discomfort, and then allowed herself to smile. And, really, it was not as repellent as she had feared. There was only the faintest odor of corruption from Henry’s diseased legs, and when he had spent himself and rolled away, his thoughts were of her pleasure and his fingers moved between her legs. He knew exactly how to arouse her, and she climaxed very quickly.
They lay together panting gently, his hand flat on her thigh.
“I had not thought to enjoy such bliss,” she whispered.
“My physicians say that a woman has to experience pleasure to conceive,” Henry murmured. “But I want you to enjoy lovemaking for its own sake, too. I trust I did not hurt you, sweetheart?”
“Only a little,” she said, “and then I started to like it.”