The Unfaithful Queen: A Novel of Henry VIII's Fifth Wife (27 page)

My uncle looked older than when I had seen him last. His kind face was creased and lined, his grey hair sparse. He was still rosy-cheeked and benign, but there were pouches under his eyes and they were a more faded blue than in the past.

“What’s this I hear? There is to be no coronation after all?”

I shook my head. “It would not have been a happy occasion, uncle. Half the peers were in revolt and the other half were fighting over who had the right to hold the train of my gown.”

He smiled. “I thought it was the queen’s ladies who always held the train.”

“They were fighting too.”

“Do you think it may happen in the fall? Your coronation, I mean.”

“I don’t know. The king is so changeable, no one can say what he will do from one minute to the next.”

“It was ever thus with monarchs, so they say.” He smiled again. “When is the baby coming?”

I looked at him, and could not hide the truth. I shook my head, trusting that I would not have to say the words, to confess that I was now certain I was not pregnant. My monthly flux had come as usual.

“But he believes—”

“I know.”

He sighed and sat back against the cushions. “Ah Catherine, you are indeed in trouble. Your uncle Thomas is feeling the weight of the king’s expectations. You have already had one miscarriage, so the court believes. Should this pregnancy not come to fruition—”

“I know. My husband’s wrath would fall on Uncle Thomas, for being the one who brought me to court, put me in the way of his notice. He is so quick to blame! And then to punish.”

All at once Uncle William sat upright, his face alert. “You must seize the moment, Catherine. You must! Heed what I say, for you must be serious about this, if about nothing else.”

He reached over and took my small face in his two large hands.

“You
must
produce a child. If it cannot be the king’s child, then let it be someone else’s. What about your beloved, Tom Culpeper? He has the king’s high coloring, he is tall, though not as strong as our sovereign. Still, Tom’s son could pass as the king’s son. Tell me, Catherine, would Tom be willing to have a child with you, and tell the world it was the king’s son?”

“We have talked about it. We have wondered what would happen if—”

“But you have never had to find out. Now, Lord willing, you need to hope for a desirable outcome. Otherwise…” He did not need to say what he was thinking, what we were both thinking.

“But you and Tom must be aware of the high risk you would be taking. If you were to be found out, if the king discovers that you are lovers, he will show you no mercy. And there would be no mercy for your child either, an unwanted bastard, proof of the queen’s faithlessness—” He shook his head. “But if you go on as you are, your future is equally uncertain. The king believes you to be pregnant now. The child he believes you are carrying must be born. You cannot risk a second miscarriage, or he will believe what Dr. Chambers is saying, that you cannot bear a living child.”

Now it was my turn to sigh. “Oh, Uncle William, if only I could go with you to France!”

“You will, one day, my dear. When you have done your duty and given the king children, children he has no doubt are his own. Think on that, look forward to the best outcome.”

“Dear Uncle William.”

We sat together quietly for a time, each thinking our own thoughts.

“I did not imagine, when you married the king, that you would ever have to risk his disapproval. I thought that his love for your mother would protect you, no matter what.”

I got to my feet and looked out at the gardens, the fruit trees in bloom, the beds of pink and purple and blue flowers, the deep green lawns where gardeners were laboring in the hot sun. All the beauties of the spring were within my reach, indeed at my command, as queen. Yet I was married to an aging man who could no longer bring forth fruit, and whose heart, as Grandma Agnes said, was as withered as the weeds the gardeners were uprooting.

“I doubt whether anyone is safe from him. He grows more moody and irascible by the day, he seems almost to take pleasure in destroying people. Though at times he can show gentleness—toward his horses, for instance. I cannot solve the riddle of his mind.”

“It is the riddle of his soul, Catherine. A dark place, the king’s soul.”

“Only a few days ago,” I confided, “two archers of the royal guard were brought before him, accused of robbing his treasury. They were Uncle Thomas’s men, who had been loyal to him for years. They were innocent of robbery, I’m sure of it. Their accusers were some of the late Lord Cromwell’s men, still trying to take vengeance on the Howards for having opposed their master. I spoke up for them, but I could see by the glare in my husband’s eyes that he had already made up his mind to have their blood. Both men were tortured and killed, cruelly and wrongfully.”

“And you took a risk in defending them. It was a risk you ought not to have taken. You must learn prudence. Remember the old saying, ‘Around the throne, thunder rolls.’”

I looked at my dear uncle. He was in earnest. I trusted him to give sound advice. But I felt myself trembling.

“You must do as I say, Catherine. This is a risk you must take. With Tom, if he will, or with another. Any man with fair hair and blue eyes, tall and strong. And do not delay! There must be a child in the pearl cradle by the first snowfall. If there is not, I cannot answer for your safety—or the succession!”

What he was urging me to do clearly involved grave risk. Yet what would happen if winter came, and the pearl cradle was still empty? Would I end my days like my husband’s discarded fourth wife Anna, reduced to being, like her, a beloved sister, sent away to a palace of my own, with my marriage declared null? Would I ever see Tom again?

My trembling increased as another, far graver thought struck me. What if I proved to be barren, just as Dr. Chambers said. Would the king’s thunder roll, mighty and terrible, and would no place ever be safe for me again?

THIRTEEN

IT
was the largest traveling court anyone among the servants could ever remember, the vast assemblage of thousands that prepared to go northward with the king in that June of 1541.

At least five thousand horses were seized from the stables in and around the capital. Hundreds of carts were brought together in the palace courtyards and outbuildings to hold folding tents, provisions, chests of clothing and hangings and carpets, plate and linens, candles and lanterns—everything to create not only comfort but elegance while on our journey. For no town could hold us all, not while there were so many of us. The large moving court would take shelter in temporary structures, set up each evening and dismantled each morning in a flurry of activity. We were a moving town of tents.

Because the men of the northern shires had been in a state of disorder and resistance for months, with open revolt in some places and lawlessness nearly everywhere, we had to take armed knights and archers, halberdiers and pikemen and guardsmen, a thousand soldiers in all, along with their mounts and draft horses and chests of arms. The cannon went northward by ship, but the huge warhorses, twice the size of my mare and larger even than the horses in the tiltyard, required many carts just to carry their fodder and trappings, and the entire armed force had its drummers and trumpeters and heralds, its banner-carriers and grooms, cooks and farriers and laundresses and camp-followers whose nightly activities no one could ignore.

But what made this royal progress unlike any other was that my husband had determined to send not one but two traveling groups north: our horde many thousands strong, and a second set of laborers and servants and carts, horses and guards bound directly for York. These York-bound journeyers were to prepare what the king called a great lodging, a temporary royal residence where he would meet his young nephew James V of Scotland.

The king talked on and on about this meeting, how it would be the first of its kind ever, the kings of England and Scotland meeting in concord instead of in battle. How he looked forward to conversing with his nephew, and to embracing and conversing with his sister Margaret, James’s mother, whom he had not seen in twenty-five years.

“Much can be accomplished,” he told me. “We can come to an understanding. We can strengthen our family bonds.” I knew that my husband was taking a chest of gold coins to present to his sister, who claimed she never had enough money and had even tried to flee the country in order to have an easier and more comfortable life, free of responsibility.

“She is nearly fifty-two years old,” Henry said. “She needs her warm fire and her cushions. Perhaps James will let me bring her back south with me, to live in London. I think she would like that.

“Once before I arranged a meeting with a fellow-monarch,” the king mused aloud. “Many years ago, when I was young and strong. A champion in the tiltyard.”

“And the most handsome king in Christendom,” I put in, smiling.

“More handsome than my brother-monarch King Francis, that was certain. Everyone said so. Though he had a devilish look about him, and the women liked him. We met in terrible weather, near the French coast. People called it the Field of Cloth of Gold for all the glitter and splendor of it. I had a tent all lined with gold. Quite magnificent. And I won all the prizes of arms.

“King Francis is an old man now, but we still compete. Oh, yes. Now we compete for the loyalty of other rulers, like my nephew. Ah! What a grand thing it would be if the three of us, myself and nephew James and old King Francis, could all meet at York! I could still beat the old man in the tiltyard. I’m sure I could!”

I indulged him, I always laughed at his lighthearted joking, whether it amused me or not. I was determined not to lose his favor again, never again to find myself shut out of his privy chamber. I did not want to risk his anger or even his mildest irritation. I needed to keep up the illusion that we were closer than ever, bound together by our hope for a son. And there were times when he was very affectionate toward me, kissing my cheek, patting me on the arm and hand, even patting my belly and humming to the baby he was sure I was carrying. He joked with the guardsmen and privy chamber gentlemen about how lusty I was, and how he enjoyed having me beside him in the pearl bed.

On the eve of our progress, it seemed to all at court that whatever had divided us had been put behind us, and that we would look forward to the birth of our child united in married happiness.

*   *   *

At last the immense train of horses and carts got under way, cannon booming a farewell salute and the lowering skies dripping rain. The carts and wagons trundled along the rutted road, our carriage, surrounded by archers and guardsmen, bounced through the thickening mud as showers became downpours and, toward evening, a storm broke and by the time the tents were struck everyone in the traveling party was drenched.

My husband, who earlier in the day had been filled with enthusiasm, now turned glum. He complained about his sore leg. He shouted at the valets who were hurriedly bringing in the furnishings of our dripping tent. He grumbled about his age, the rain, the long journey ahead.

The grooms could not manage to start fires in our braziers. We shivered under heaped blankets, after eating a cold supper, the king drinking a great deal of ale. Finally, hours later, we did our best to sleep.

But the following morning the rain continued. When our servants brought us food from the kitchen tents, their boots and clothing were muddy. Water trickled along the poorly covered floor of our tent and down the walls. Dry firewood was found, but not until late in the day. And by then the king’s mood was foul indeed.

There was no going on while the storms and rains continued. We were stuck in sparsely populated countryside not far from London. And knowing full well that the fen country lay ahead of us, as the next stage in our journey, the decision was made to stay where we were, in order to avoid traveling through the flooded marsh.

We played cards, we read, we made music, but everything we did was half-hearted and unsatisfying. We could not go out of our tents lest we become mired in the sucking, stinking mud—thick, clinging dark brown mud that made an ugly slurping sound as the servants slogged through it.

Bored and confined, we became bad tempered. The king remained in the large tent we had been sharing, and ordered a second one put up and furnished for me. I could hear him carousing and laughing with his privy chamber gentlemen, the noise becoming more raucous as the day went on. I saw him only at mass—he sometimes heard three masses a day in those tedious initial days of our journey. He did not come to my bed at night. I could not help but wonder whether, in secret, he was arranging to have other women brought to him in the dark hours. Tom assured me that he wasn’t, but I worried anyway. Tom might not know everything that was going on, especially since, on some nights, he was spending a few hours with me.

I said that I was feeling ill, and as women with child were often ill, I was believed. Only a few of my women were allowed in my tent—Joan, and Catherine Tylney, and Lady Rochford, who quickly proved to be both discreet and skilled in the art of concealing midnight meetings. She told me that she had often done this for my cousin Anne, when she was one of Anne’s ladies. Now she seemed more than willing to do the same for me, to be my go-between with Tom, who was in full agreement that I needed to become pregnant as quickly as possible.

My new footman Englebert was also allowed to come into my tent, to be the one to supply the braziers with dry firewood (not an easy thing to find in those wet days), to bring in food and drink from the tent kitchens. I have to say he was an excellent servant, quiet—indeed almost noiseless, save for the sucking sound of the mud as he approached the tent—respectful, his eyes downcast, his murmured words few. Anna had been right about him. I was glad she had sent him to me.

Heavy clouds moved across the windswept skies above us, dark clouds that brought more rain each day, until the ploughed fields were reduced to sucking mudpits and we began to wonder whether we would ever be able to resume our traveling. All my clothes were damp, there was no way to dry them. My food was damp as well, and often cold. Worst of all, my monthly flux arrived and I knew that I had not yet conceived a child. I continued to wear the relic of the holy tear of the Virgin around my waist, praying that it would work a miracle for me, but a second week passed and there was no sign that I was pregnant.