by Alison Weir
“Are you ill, Culpeper?” he asked one suppertime as Tom, looking wan, placed a platter of meats before him. “You have not been yourself lately.”
“Your Grace is kind to ask,” Tom said. “In truth, I am grieving. I did not like to intrude on your Grace’s happiness by telling you, but my father died last month.”
“By God, man, you should have spoken up.”
“I am so sorry,” Katheryn said, wondering if Sir Alexander Culpeper had been reconciled to his son before he died, or if Tom was still disinherited.
“Culpeper, you are excused from your duties at court,” the King said. “You will go to your house at Penshurst to recover, and you shall have two thousand crowns for your expenses.”
Katheryn loved to see this side of Henry, loved the kindness and generosity in his heart.
“Your Grace, I cannot fully express my thanks,” Tom said, almost swaying on his feet. “With your leave, I will depart in the morning.”
Katheryn felt sorry for him. She knew his grief was not all for his father. It was for her.
* * *
—
After five blissful days of peace, Henry and Katheryn left Oatlands and moved to Hampton Court. The palace was breathtaking. Katheryn gasped at the sight of the vast great hall with its magnificent carved ceiling and at the sumptuous apartments prepared for her. She stared at walls decorated with gold and silver carvings, cherubs frolicking along friezes, and the gorgeous tapestries that hung in the spacious chambers. Everything that could be gilded had been, and her arms, impaled with the King’s, were everywhere: on hangings, embroideries, and furniture, and even in the glass of the windows. The floors were laid with priceless carpets, and the ceilings set with mirrors.
After she had hugged and kissed him and told him how wonderful he was to her, Henry disappeared into his new secret lodgings, which extended beyond his privy chamber, and to which access was permitted only to the highly privileged. Katheryn dined there with him on that first evening and was surprised to find the presence chamber almost deserted and the privy chamber beyond it crowded with those who no longer had a place in the King’s intimate circle.
“I value my privacy,” Henry told her over the roast beef. “I have long wanted to live in a secluded lodging with only my gentlemen and grooms of the chamber to serve me.”
Katheryn suspected that this need had arisen on account of his episodes of ill health and immobility; that he did not want to be seen as weak in any way or have people think he was losing his grip on affairs.
He helped himself to more sauce. “I have decreed that, in future, petitioners must not molest me with their suits, but must send all claims in writing to my Privy Council.”
It sounded like a retreat from public life. She hoped it would not mean an end to all court festivities, for she was longing to play her part as Queen to the full.
Her own lodgings were sumptuous, extending along the north side of Cloister Green Court, opposite the King’s; a range of shared reception rooms connected them. She marveled at the grand beds, the walnut furniture, the Flanders tapestries, and Turkey carpets. With just herself, Isabel, and Margaret to occupy them, the rooms seemed vast. Soon, though, they would be filled with people—her new household and the courtiers who would come flocking.
Her belongings had just been unpacked and put away when Henry came to escort her to the old Queen’s apartments and bade her look out of a window overlooking the Inner Court of the palace.
“See yonder,” he said. “My new astronomical clock! It has just been installed. It shows the hours, the month, the date, the number of days since the beginning of the year, the phases of the moon, the movement of the constellations in the zodiac, and the time of high water at London Bridge, which is most useful for planning journeys by river. And look, Katheryn, there is the sun revolving around the earth.”
She was astounded. The clock was a marvel, and it was beautiful, too. How anyone had devised it was beyond her. But Henry loved astronomy and astrology, and had many clocks; they fascinated him.
“I have something else to show you,” he said. She followed him through the chambers and galleries that led to his lodgings and then down the stair to his privy garden. There, in the center, stood a new sundial.
“I designed it myself,” he told her, eager as a schoolboy. “It shows the hour of the day, the day of the month, the sign of the moon, the ebbing and flowing of the sea, and many other things.”
She was amazed that he knew how such things worked. He was extraordinary. Every day, she was finding out new and marvelous things about him.
* * *
—
She had not yet been proclaimed Queen; Henry wanted a few more days to enjoy their privacy before letting the world in. They kept to her chambers or his, and tried to avoid being seen by too many people, but one day, Uncle Norfolk was announced by the usher who guarded her outer door.
“Welcome back, niece, or should I say ‘your Grace’?” His greeting was jubilant. She had never seen him so elated.
“You should, my lord!” she replied, extending her hand for him to kiss, which he did fervently. “You are clearly aware of what has come to pass in my absence.”
“His Majesty himself wrote to inform me. I was delighted to hear the news, as you may imagine. We have a Howard queen—and the false churl is dead. It is a victory for the Catholic faith! Watch now as the reformers scuttle underground like rats. Only yesterday, that Lutheran Robert Barnes was burned as a heretic. Now you shall see the King clamp down on reform and heresy.”
Katheryn shrank from the prospect of anyone suffering such a dreadful death, and from the thought of Henry giving the order for it, although she knew that a taste of hellfire on earth might prompt a heretic to recant at the last minute and spare them eternal damnation.
“Our hour has come!” the Duke was saying. “When it comes to appointing your household, think of your family and your house.”
“I had already intended to do that,” she told him. “Do not think me unmindful of what you have done for me.” As she spoke, she realized she would never have spoken so confidently to her uncle a few short months ago. The King’s love, and becoming Queen, had done wonders for her.
* * *
—
“I am going to Richmond today, darling,” Henry told her as he rose from her bed on a warm morning in early August. “I must see the Lady Anna and obtain her signature on the deed ending our pretended marriage.”
Katheryn had no qualms about his going. She knew he had never loved Anna, and that she was no rival. She spent the day practicing dance steps and ordering more gowns.
1540
On the eighth day of August, the highest peeresses of the realm dressed Katheryn in royal robes of purple and ermine. She could barely stand still for she was both excited and nervous. Today, her marriage was to be announced to the world. From henceforth, she would enjoy all the privileges of a queen. She was praying that the courtiers—and the country at large—would welcome her.
As the procession formed in her apartments, the Dowager Duchess of Norfolk placed a gold coronet on her step-granddaughter’s head. Then, with the heralds going before, Katheryn walked through the great doors of her lodgings, her long train trailing behind her, and processed through Hampton Court Palace to the Chapel Royal. The galleries and the chapel were packed with courtiers, craning their necks to see her. Many were smiling or clapping; only a few were staring at her doubtfully.
She took her place in the Queen’s chair beside the King’s empty throne in the royal pew, gazing up at the ornate blue-and-gold ceiling. Mass was celebrated and she was prayed for as Queen. Afterward, still very much on her mettle, she dined in her great chamber, sitting alone beneath the cloth of estate bearing the royal arms quartered with her own, and a herald proclaimed her Queen of England. There was applause from the crowds of people watch
ing, and she smiled at them with as much graciousness as she could muster, feeling quite dizzy with elation at being the first lady in the land.
The rest of August was given over to celebrations. To her delight, there were feasts, sports, and banquets, all in her honor. She hunted most days with Henry, exhilarated by the thrill of the chase and the triumph of the kill.
“All I want, sweetheart,” Henry told her, as they rode back to the palace early one evening, “is to reign in peace with you by my side. I swear you will want for nothing if my love might procure it. You are so highly beloved, far, far beyond the rest.” He leaned across from his saddle and kissed her hand.
* * *
—
When her household was appointed that month, many of those who had served Queen Anna, and Queen Jane before her, were recalled. Henry’s cousin, the Earl of Rutland, was chamberlain, and, as he had promised, Isabel’s husband, Sir Edward Baynton, was vice chamberlain. The King’s niece, Lady Margaret Douglas, was made chief lady-of-honor.
At Katheryn’s wish, the Howards received a goodly share of places. Norfolk’s daughter, the Duchess of Richmond, whom she liked well, was restored as one of the great ladies of the household. She also asked for Lady William Howard, the former Margred Gamage, who was lively company, and the Countess of Bridgewater, who had been kind to her at Lambeth. She feared that the Duke’s sister-in-law, Mary Arundell, Countess of Sussex, a very intense girl with almond eyes, might be hard work, and Katherine Willoughby, Duchess of Suffolk, might think her mistress an ignoramus, the Duchess being famed for her learning. But both young ladies proved to be good company.
The middle-aged Lady Rutland, the wife of the Queen’s chamberlain, was a grand dame of the old school, kindly, level-headed, and generous. She was to head the nine ladies of the privy chamber, chief of whom were Isabel and Margaret. Katheryn did not forget her stepmother, Lady Edmund Howard, who came to Hampton Court almost weeping with gratitude. Among the other ladies and maids were Elizabeth Seymour, Anne Bassett, Lucy Somerset, and two newcomers: the fair Bess Harvey and the very beautiful Elizabeth Fitzgerald, who had been recommended by Katheryn’s cousin, the Earl of Surrey. Because Bishop Gardiner had been so zealous in making her queen, Katheryn appointed his niece, the demure Lady Wriothesley, to her privy chamber.
Altogether, she felt comfortable with her ladies, which was why she did not reappoint Jane Rochford. She feared that Jane might be angry at her abandoning Tom Culpeper, although surely she’d understood why she had had to do it. Katheryn had let their friendship go and felt awkward about it.
Serving as chamberers were some of the young women who had been her companions at Lambeth: Meg Morton, Alice Restwold, Mrs. Luffkyn, and Mrs. Frideswide. Katheryn offered Kat Tilney a place, too, for she and Meg were normally inseparable, but Kat’s mother was ill and she felt she should go to her.
Katheryn blushed as her old friends thanked her for her graciousness to them. She had felt honor-bound to offer them places, hoping to buy their silence, for they had all been privy to the secrets of her past. Her heart plummeted when she thought of all the people who knew about her affairs with Harry and Francis. What if they gossiped? For the first time, it occurred to her to wonder what Francis might do now that she had married the King. Surely he would not dare claim her for himself?
Too many people, too many secrets. The smile never left her face, but she was realizing, with dread, that she would never likely know peace of mind again while there was a chance that someone might talk and the King get to hear of it. This was brought home to her when Alice Restwold rose from her curtsey and declared, with a sly smile, “I’m sure your Grace has never forgotten the good times we shared at Lambeth.”
That night, Katheryn summoned Alice ahead of the others who were to make her ready for bed. “I want you to have these,” she said, handing her biliments of goldsmith’s work for a French hood, and a tablet of gold, rich gifts that, ordinarily, chamberers did not look to receive. “For the good times we shared.”
Alice’s eyes widened at the treasures that lay in her hands. “I understand, Madam. Thank you. You can rely on my discretion.”
Lying in bed, waiting for the King, Katheryn reflected that it was better to have these old acquaintances under her eye. She would make sure that they had no cause to betray her.
* * *
—
Her days were one long round of amusements: she did nothing but dance and rejoice and bask in the adulation that came her way and the approval of Uncle Norfolk and her family. She was not interested in trying to involve herself in state affairs; she had not the head for politics, or for court intrigue. When her ladies began gossiping about the Lady Anna of Cleves, as her former mistress was now called, wondering what that lady was doing now, or what it was about her that the King had disliked, she silenced them, for she would not hear a bad word said about Anna.
Each evening at six, Sir Thomas Heneage, the King’s Groom of the Stool, brought her news of her husband, for which she always thanked him prettily. But, more often than not, she had already seen Henry in the day, for he spent as much time as he could with her.
He doted on her. He was constantly touching or embracing her, and he came to her bed every night. She was used now to his body and his need for her, and tried not to wish that he was younger, slimmer, and more virile. Sometimes he had difficulty in penetrating her, and would withdraw, frustrated and humiliated. Then she would use her wiles, and her fingers, to arouse him again, usually with success.
“Alas, Katheryn, I wish I could be a better husband to you,” he would murmur. “You should have known me when I was young. No man could touch me, in the field, at the jousts, or in bed.”
She always smiled at him. “I love you just as you are.”
“Was ever man so blessed?” he would sigh, kissing her.
Her every whim he gratified. Each day, she wore new gowns. She had completely captured his heart.
It moved her to hear the new bidding prayer that was being read not only in the Chapel Royal, but also in all the churches in England, with her name superseding Queen Anna’s. It brought home to her the gravity of her queenly rank and made her realize she was ill-prepared for it. But she would learn. She had the King’s love, unlimited riches at her disposal, power at her fingertips, and an army of servants at her beck and call. She tried not to let it all go to her head. Pride, she knew, went before a fall. Yet she was aware that she was changing, growing in confidence and becoming more demanding and particular, and she could hear the imperious tone in her voice when she was giving orders.
One day, when her dressmaker, Mrs. Josselyn, brought her a finished gown for inspection, she saw that the woman looked troubled.
“Is everything all right?” she asked.
“Oh, yes, Madam. I was just worrying that my work would not please your Grace.”
Katheryn wondered if the dressmaker had heard of the sharp reprimand she had given her tailor the previous day for making a kirtle that was too short. She really must learn to watch her tongue; it was all too easy to lose her temper when things were not exactly as she wanted them.
“It’s a gorgeous dress,” she said, smiling. “Thank you for your hard work.”
* * *
—
Henry could see no fault in her. “You are the perfect wife in every respect,” he told her. “Soon, God willing, you will be with child.” They were in his barge, enjoying an evening cruise along the Thames, with musicians playing for them in the stern. The hot weather still showed no sign of abating, and they were enjoying the breeze from the river.
It was not the first time Henry had expressed the hope that she would give him sons. Tonight, she knew she must disappoint him. Her flowers had arrived that morning.
She had always loved children and liked the idea of becoming a mother. It would give her immense status. She felt so blessed and lucky, she
was sure that God and His Holy Mother would protect her through the perils of pregnancy and birth. Her children would be next in line to the throne after Prince Edward. It was a thrilling thought. Not that she wished any ill to that precious little boy, of course. She looked forward to meeting him, and the King’s daughters.
“You’re quiet, darling,” Henry observed, as they passed the torchlit streets of Kingston.
“I think we have not been blessed this month,” she said.
He patted her hand. “No matter. We have not been married four weeks. God moves in His own time. Maybe He will bless us soon.”
“I pray for it,” she said.
A servant brought them wine and gilded marchpane, and Katheryn settled into the crook of Henry’s arm to enjoy them and the journey. People were lazing on the riverbank, their day’s work done, enjoying the balmy evening, and she waved to them. The King smiled indulgently.
“This is meant to be a private trip!”
“They don’t know who we are.” There was no coat of arms on the barge.
“They will probably guess. Look, they are standing up!” He raised his own hand in salute, and some of the people on the banks knelt to him. “See, they do know who we are.”
When they had rounded a bend in the river, Katheryn saw a large complex of buildings ahead on their left. The grounds were overgrown and the place looked abandoned and creepy in the twilight.
“That was the monastery of Syon,” the King said. “It was dissolved last year.”