by Alison Weir
“Your Grace, the King has asked me to bring you these gifts.” He handed her the leads and a pouch, from which she pulled a ruby ring. She did not know which to admire first.
“It’s beautiful!” she exclaimed, holding out the ring in her palm, as Anna bent forward to gaze at it. The puppies were sniffing at the rush matting.
“Oh, they’re adorable!” Katheryn cried, sweeping them up onto her lap, where they crouched, quivering, as if they were frightened of her. “You silly things, you mustn’t be afraid of little Kafwyn,” she murmured, nuzzling their smooth heads, their fur silky against her lips. She looked up. “Anna, don’t you just love them?”
Anna reached over to fondle the puppies. “I do. They are so pretty.”
“They are yours!” Katheryn announced impulsively, lifting them onto Anna’s lap.
“Oh, but I couldn’t—” Anna protested.
“I want you to have them,” Katheryn insisted. “And the ring!”
Anna could not hide her pleasure. Perhaps she, too, had been dreading their meeting. “Thank you!” She bent forward and kissed Katheryn. “I’m so grateful.”
Katheryn turned to the usher. “Pray thank his Majesty for his goodness to me, and say I will thank him properly when I see him later.”
All in all, it was a very satisfactory and pleasant afternoon and, at the end of it, she was sorry to see Anna depart.
* * *
—
A week later, Katheryn was disconcerted to hear her maids gossiping about rumors that the King might take Anna back as his Queen. She was about to join them in the privy chamber, the door of which was ajar, but held back when she heard what they were saying.
“I suppose they think that, because he has sent her presents, he is regretting having divorced her.” That was Elizabeth Fitzgerald.
“But, seeing how he caresses the Queen, that could never be!” Damascin Stradling said.
“I think people have drawn conclusions because the Lady Anna seemed so happy in the King’s company—and her Grace is not yet enceinte,” Margaret Garnish chimed in.
“It’s absurd!” retorted Lucy Somerset. “The King will never leave Queen Katheryn; he loves her too much.”
Katheryn was pleased to hear that, but it offended her that people were willing to believe that Henry might discard her. Was it not obvious to them what he thought of her? They must be blind!
* * *
—
A week later, she was practicing dance steps in her privy chamber when Norfolk was announced. He was still basking in the glory of being uncle to the Queen and still brimful with approval.
“I hope you can help me, Katheryn,” he said, when she bade him be seated. “A year ago, the Captain of Guisnes died, and I sought to obtain the post for Lord William, but that knave Cromwell blocked it. The post is still unfilled, and I should be grateful if you would put in a good word for Lord William with the King.”
“Of course,” Katheryn said, always happy to do good to her kinsfolk.
That night, in bed, she relayed Uncle Norfolk’s request. “I am fond of Lord William and he is eager to serve you,” she added.
“Anything for you, darling,” Henry said, replete with lovemaking. “I will give the order.”
It had been that easy. It was a heady thought. Not that she was hungry for power, but she did want to use her influence for good. Never, she vowed, would she abuse it. And when Lord William came to thank her for her intercession, she was thrilled that, by a simple action, she had been able to make him happy and obtain for him a lucrative post. That was the best part of exercising patronage.
She had another opportunity of doing so three days later. Her sister Margaret came to her, full of apologies. “Your Grace, I am with child again and crave leave to resign my post and go home. I feel constantly exhausted and sick and little Charles needs me—he is ailing again.” Margaret’s second son had never thrived, although her eldest, Matthew, was a lively little boy.
“Of course you must go,” Katheryn said, embracing her. “It would be selfish of me to ask you to stay. Does this mean you are leaving my household for good?”
“It does,” Margaret said sadly. “I am very sorry. I will miss you, my dear sister.”
When she had gone, Katheryn gave thought to who might replace her. She broached the matter with the King at supper that evening.
“Why not appoint Lady Rochford?” he asked. “She is very experienced, having served the last three queens.”
“Of course,” Katheryn said quickly, preempting his asking why she had not appointed Jane Rochford in the first place. “I will ask her myself, with your leave.”
“By all means.” Henry smiled, and tucked into his venison pasty.
* * *
—
Jane stood before Katheryn, a little stiff in her manner. She had arrived that morning from her father’s mansion in Essex and Katheryn wondered what she had been doing these past six months. She realized it must have been hard being cast into the shadows after serving for so long at court. No wonder Jane seemed so unbending.
“A vacancy has occurred in my household. I should like to offer you the post of lady of the privy chamber,” Katheryn told her. “His Majesty recommended you.”
Jane smiled her catlike smile. “I shall be grateful to accept, Madam,” she said.
“I am sorry that our former friendship lapsed,” Katheryn said, wanting things to be right between them before Jane took up her duties. “I am sure you understand that events overtook me; my life had changed before I knew it. But I hope that we can be friends again.”
“That is my hope, too,” Jane said, still smiling. “I have ever had a deep affection for your Grace. Might I ask after our mutual friend? Is he well?”
It chilled Katheryn to hear her speak of Tom Culpeper so. “I assume so,” she said. “I have little to do with him these days, of course, although the King thinks more highly of him than ever and, I hope, will always do so.” She hoped Jane would take her meaning—and the warning. She was trying her hardest to forget Tom. It wasn’t easy when she saw him in attendance on the King every other day or so, and she didn’t want Jane getting the wrong impression.
“I am pleased to hear that,” Jane said. “I did like him, as you know. And I would never hurt him.”
She had got the message. Katheryn smiled and felt reassured.
* * *
—
Early in February, Henry went to London to attend to state business, leaving Katheryn and his household at Hampton Court. It was the first time they had been apart since their marriage and Katheryn found herself missing him, which made her realize how fond of him she had grown. She was genuinely pleased to see him return after three nights away.
About ten days later, he complained of feeling shivery and unwell. Katheryn waited anxiously in her apartments until his doctors came to report to her.
“It is a slight tertian fever, Madam,” Dr. Butts pronounced. “Wine is the sovereign remedy and we have recommended that his Grace drink as much of it as he can.”
“Will he get better soon?” she asked.
“Of course, Madam. He has had it before and recovered. There is no need to worry.”
Slight the fever might have been, yet Henry was not well enough to attend the masques that were staged on two successive nights at Hampton Court, and Katheryn had to preside over them alone, seated on her smaller chair next to the great empty chair of estate.
After that, fortunately, Henry rallied, and the fever subsided.
“I think I might visit my castles on the coast toward France, to have the ramparts repaired, for I’m told that some have fallen,” he announced one evening, looking up from his book. Katheryn, seated opposite, sewing, was pleased to hear it.
“I particularly want to look at those at Dover,” he went on. “You m
ust come with me, darling. We’ll make a holiday of it.”
They never went. The very next morning, Henry complained of pain in his leg. Pulling away the bandage, he revealed a swollen, black, angry-looking wound. Katheryn drew in her breath, horrified.
“It’s closed up again,” he explained, wincing. “My physicians have tried to keep it open, to maintain my health, but it has suddenly closed.” He drew in his breath. “By God, Katheryn, it is agony, and dangerous. Five or six years ago, the same thing happened, and I thought I would die. I will go back to my apartments now and summon my physicians.”
He tried to rise, but sank down, defeated, sweat pouring from his brow.
“Stay here, Henry!” she cried, alarmed. “I will call the doctors.”
“No, I will go back,” he insisted, struggling to his feet. How he managed it, she did not know. Calling for the guards outside the door, he had them help him into his night robe and bonnet and assist him to his bedchamber, while Katheryn, wrapped in her own robe, looked on helplessly.
“If there is anything I can do for your Grace—” she began, but he silenced her.
“You must not worry about me, Katheryn. I will be all right.”
Then he was gone. Hearing his footsteps receding painfully, she found herself crying.
* * *
—
The doctors came to her later that morning. She felt faint when she saw the grave expressions on their faces.
“Your Grace, it is not good news,” Dr. Butts told her. “We fear for his Majesty’s life. The ulcer is clogged and he is feverish and black in the face. The danger lies not so much in the fever, but in the leg. It is diseased because he is very stout and drinks and eats excessively. We have opened the wound and drained off the fluid to relieve the swelling, but it was a very painful process. Let us pray that it proves effective.”
She was near to tears and frightened. The prospect of losing Henry, the husband who adored her, was unbearable. What would happen to her? What did they do with redundant, widowed queens? The same as Henry had done with Anna of Cleves? She pictured herself pensioned off, laden with wealth and great houses. But beside that was another image, of her leaving court, mournful in her widow’s weeds, no longer a queen and bereft of Henry’s love and protection. And then she saw herself as a bride again, kissing Tom in a church porch. No! It was wrong to think such things. She loved Henry, she did! She wanted him to recover.
“Oh, I will pray for him!” she cried. “And you, kind sirs, please do everything in your power to make his Grace well.”
“We will, Madam,” they assured her. “And you should rest. This is trying for you as well.”
God answered her prayers. When Henry summoned her two days later, on Shrove Tuesday, his leg was on the mend and he was sitting up in his chair by the fire, with the offending limb resting on a footstool; but he was not himself. He did not hold out his arms to her, as he usually did, but merely gave her a mournful smile.
“Alas, Katheryn, whom shall men trust?” He sighed. “I have an unhappy people to govern, who I will shortly make so poor that they will not have the boldness nor the power to oppose me.”
She had no idea what he was talking about. “What has happened?” she asked in alarm and jumped as Will Somers, the fool, crawled out from behind Henry’s chair.
“Harry’s councillors have been enjoying ruling England without him,” he said, pulling a face.
“Get out!” Henry snapped. “Go on, you varlet!” With a woeful look on his face, Will capered away. He knew how far he could go with his master.
“Is it true?” Katheryn asked when he had gone.
“More or less,” Henry growled. “Most of my Privy Council, under pretense of serving me, only temporize for their own profit. I know their tricks. They are all striving for supremacy, each one over the other, thinking to rule me thereby. But I know the good servants from the flatterers and, if God lends me health, I will take care that their projects do not succeed.” He was working himself into a temper. It was not good for him.
“You will be up and well again soon,” she said soothingly, “and then I am sure you will deal with those who have offended you.”
“Hmm.” He sat there brooding.
“Shall I call the musicians?” she asked.
“No.”
That startled her. Music was one of his passions. “Shall I play for you then?” she offered.
“Katheryn, you mean well, but I am not in the mood. This leg is so painful. When I think how I used to be, riding and jousting and playing sports at will. And now I can hardly walk around my chamber. God’s teeth, I am sick of it, sick of being ill, sick of my councillors—sick of it all! When I think of everything I have done for my people and how I am repaid, it makes my blood boil. I’ll have their heads if they so much as squeak about taking things off my shoulders!”
He rambled on, making so little sense to Katheryn that she wondered if his fever had returned. Just then, the door opened and Tom Culpeper entered, carrying a tray.
“Forgive the intrusion, your Graces,” he said, placing it on the table and bowing, his face impassive. “I have come to lay the board for dinner.”
“You wouldn’t betray me, would you, Tom?” Henry said plaintively.
Tom, smoothing the cloth, looked startled. “Of course not, Sir.”
“Others do!” Henry growled, looking around angrily as if seeking someone to fight with. “By God,” he exploded, “they shall know my wrath!”
Both Katheryn and Tom jumped. Their eyes met briefly. He shook his head, almost imperceptibly, as if warning her that there was no point in trying to calm the King.
“Was ever prince so unhappy in his councillors?” Henry’s voice was more measured now, but bitter. “Upon a light pretext, by false accusations, they made me put to death the most faithful servant I ever had.” He was referring to Cromwell, Katheryn realized, and the men he was blaming could only include her uncle. She felt a sharp stab of fear. She, too, had colluded in the plot.
“Cromwell was above factions!” Henry said, fierce. “He would have kept them in check.” He slumped in his chair, his face in his hand. “Oh, God. Don’t listen to me, darling. I am being an old bear. It is the pain, not my ministers, that arouses my anger.”
“Can I help in any way, Sir?” Tom asked.
“No. I would be alone. Go away, the both of you. Tom, find some way to divert my poor Queen. This will be a quiet Shrovetide for her. I cannot face any entertainments or merrymaking. Just send my confessor to me, so that I may be shriven.”
As Tom bowed, Katheryn curtseyed, then bent forward impulsively and kissed Henry’s cheek. “Get well soon, Sir,” she said. “You will be in my prayers.”
* * *
—
In the antechamber, after the door had closed behind them, Katheryn let out a sigh. “I have never seen him like this.”
“He gets peevish when his leg troubles him,” Tom said, his eyes never leaving her face. He lowered his voice. “Tell me, Katheryn, how do you bear it?”
“Bear what? I’ve only seen him behave in this manner today.”
“No, I mean being his wife.” It was the concerned way he said it that did it. Something of what she had once felt for him flickered and flared up.
“I love him, Tom. He has been more than good to me.”
“You love him?” There was anguish in his gaze.
“Yes, I do.” It was true. But being with Tom made her realize that she was not in love with Henry, which was a rather different thing.
His tone became brisk. “Well, what can I do to divert your Grace?” There was a pause.
“A walk in the gardens, maybe?” she suggested, with some reluctance.
“If your Grace wishes. I’m playing tennis at two o’clock, if the King will give me leave.”
“The
n I will come and watch.” She would bring some of her ladies with her. There would be safety in numbers. “I think I will leave the gardens for now.”
1541
She hastened back to her lodgings in turmoil. She had no business to be thinking of Tom in that way, yet she could not help it. He was so debonair, so handsome. He drew her in, as he always had. But for a turn of Fortune’s wheel, he would have been her husband and she would have been in bliss. Yet she had given him up for a crown and it had cost her dearly. But she had really had no choice.
She had thought herself happy, married to Henry, and in many ways she was. But he was old and she was young, with the clamorous blood of youth coursing through her veins—and she had known passion. Seeing Tom, talking to Tom, had awakened something in her, something she thought had died.
Stop it! she admonished herself. You can’t have him. Forget him, as you did before.
She did not want to go to watch him play tennis, but she had said she would, and it was small enough compensation for what she could not give him. So she went, then spent the whole time drinking in the sight of his lithe, athletic body dancing this way and that.
“He’s a handsome gentleman,” Lucy Somerset murmured in her ear. “I’d like to catch his fancy!”
“No you wouldn’t,” Lady Wriothesley said. “I’m told he has eyes for none but Bess Harvey.”
“Bess Harvey?” Katheryn echoed, shocked. And she had imagined him pining away in grief for her…So there was no reason to feel sorry for him after all! The pretty, vacuous face of her maid came to mind, and she would have liked to slap it. But she must be careful. No one must guess that she was jealous.
* * *