The Queen's Mistake Page 15

  “I did, indeed, many years ago. For your cousin, actually. It has been a long time since I felt like playing it.”

  The silence dragged on. Catherine felt a strange twist in the pit of her stomach. My cousin Anne Boleyn, whom you had executed.

  “So, Tom, tell us,” Henry said, changing the subject, “who shall you say is the victor?”

  Thomas stood between them with an odd expression on his face. “True talent always trumps carefully studied playing,” he decreed, not looking at her. “I say that while Mistress Howard’s playing was lovely, Your Majesty is the victor handily.”

  The group broke out in applause over the foregone conclusion. “Mistress Howard was a worthy competitor, and I should like a rematch very soon, if you would grant me one,” the king said, turning to Catherine.

  “It would be my honor.” Catherine nodded respectfully, trying not to notice the odd glint in the king’s eye and the completely altered expression on Thomas’s face.

  An hour later, Catherine and Thomas walked out into the wet, gray day, down the privy stairs, through the river gate and past the palace wall.

  They strolled silently along the banks of the river Thames, watching painted barges bobbing on the water, their flags and banners fluttering in the breeze. They were just beyond the castle grounds, free from the eyes of the court.

  They had stolen away from their duties, and each knew their time alone was limited, but it was worth the risk. Catherine was irrevocably in love. She had known that for days. Thomas Culpeper was everything she hoped for in a husband, lover, and friend, and she wanted to spend as much time with him as possible.

  As he held her hand tightly, leading her among the boatmen and children running along the shore, Catherine clung to him and thought of her past feelings for Francis Dereham. A year ago, there had been a time, amid all of the dormitory fun and silliness, when she had convinced herself she was in love with him. But those childish feelings paled in comparison to her all-consuming love for Thomas. She would marry Thomas Culpeper tomorrow if he asked her. And he must ask her. Of that much she was absolutely certain.

  As if he could sense her thoughts, Thomas stopped and turned to her and very gently touched her face.

  “Do you know how incredibly beautiful you are in this pale light?” he whispered.

  “I was going to say the very same to you.” Catherine smiled.

  “We are heading toward a predicament, you know.”

  “A predicament?” she asked with a faintly arched brow.

  “Perhaps I should say ‘triangle’ instead of ‘predicament.’ Surely you can see that His Majesty fancies you.” Thomas’s expression betrayed a hint of pain.

  “Then I thank God Almighty that he has a queen.”

  “That has rarely stopped him before.”

  “I’ll not be a royal mistress, Thomas, even for my family’s sake.”

  “Now, now,” he said, chuckling. “I wager you are far more clever than in the beginning the queen was. You should look to Bessie Blount as your example. She died a wealthy woman, and her son became the most powerful duke in England.”

  “Her bastard son,” Catherine said, unconvinced.

  Catherine had met Mistress Blount only once, after she had settled into the queen’s household, where, strangely enough, Bessie had been named a lady in waiting to Anne of Cleves. Though she was forty years old, a shadow of her beauty was still evident, as well as her sweet temper. It was a pity, Catherine thought, when not long after she arrived at court Mistress Blount fell ill and was forced to leave.

  Catherine suddenly processed Thomas’s words. “I had not heard that she died.”

  “Sadly, yes. It was only a few days ago. Word was sent to the king from Surrey, but Bessie herself told me, the day she left court, that she had lived her life well and had no regrets. That is what I choose to remember of her.”

  They walked past the entrance to a bridge.

  “That is how I would like to live my life: absolutely no regrets.”

  “Too late for me, I’m afraid,” Thomas said.

  Catherine glanced at him. “And what do you regret, Master Culpeper?”

  “For one thing, I regret not meeting you sooner, Mistress Howard.” He smiled his dazzling smile.

  Thomas led her onto a small covered barge while a dozen others bobbed in the light spring breeze. Beneath a canopy of green silk fringed in gold, they slipped onto a cushioned bench before a table covered in crisp white linen and set with trays of figs, marzipan and apples, and decanters of wine. In private at last, Thomas kissed her passionately, not waiting for her invitation.

  “Did you arrange this?” she asked, as her arms slid around his neck in silent compliance.

  “Of course.” He smiled.

  “How brilliant of you.”

  “I am pleased that you think so.”

  They spoke of many things in the small jewel of time that Thomas had carved for them on the barge. Catherine had never felt freer or happier. For nearly an hour they ate, drank wine and held each other as lovers until Catherine pressed her fingers into his thick, gorgeous hair.

  “My sweet fool, I do so love you,” she said, smiling.

  In response, Thomas pulled her against him, clamping his arms tightly around her and drawing her into a powerful kiss. She sank deeply into it, enveloped by his body, knowing there would never be anyone else in the world who could make her feel like this. She slipped a hand between his thighs and reveled in his deep groans. She wanted him to love her as much as she loved him.

  But he never spoke the words. Afterward, as he led her back to the palace, a strained silence fell between them. She understood that Thomas was a man of few words, which helped him maintain his position at Henry’s court. But she had given him her heart and soul, and he had given her only a few moments of passion in return. She wanted to build a future with him and gain the duke’s approval, but she was afraid that she was running out of time. She knew the duke was formulating his own plans for her—ones that did not include Thomas—and it would be a challenge to convince him that her plan was better.

  Thomas walked back with Catherine to the courtyard. They were alone in the shadow of a pillar when he took her hands and pressed a single, gentle kiss onto her cheek.

  “You are the most amazing woman I have ever met,” he whispered softly before turning away and walking back to the king’s apartments.

  It was as close to a declaration of love as she would get for now, yet she still longed for the day when he would let down his guard completely with her. As she watched him go, Catherine decided that convincing the duke to let her be with Thomas Culpeper was worth the risk, especially if Thomas should say that he loved her, too.

  For the nearly five months’ duration of his disastrous political marriage, Henry had felt frustrated, old and defeated. He was tangled for the fourth time within a matrimonial net. But Norfolk had presented him with a path to freedom, and the duke’s pretty, young niece had given him the impetus to wade through yet another complex divorce.

  Thinking of Catherine Howard’s slim body—and not of his four-year-old son upon his knee—Henry sat patiently on a velvet-covered stool for his court painter, Hans Holbein. Henry’s full face was flushed with desire for Catherine and from the noxious odor of paint fumes.

  There was a time when he craved nothing more than a son. He had divorced Catherine of Aragon when she could not provide that, and beheaded Anne when she produced only their daughter, Elizabeth. But now that he had a son who had reached the reassuring age of four, when illness took so many infants, Henry felt free to trust, and to desire something more. His heir, this gentle boy as fragile as Jane Seymour, had given him the immortality he craved. Now a young and beautiful wife might give him back his all but dissipated youth as well.

  “Tip your head toward His Grace just slightly, Your Majesty,” Holbein directed the boy, Edward. “There. Perfect.”

  “When can we go outside, Father? How much longer will he be?”
the boy asked, straining not to move lest he be scolded again by Holbein or his father.

  “Patience, my boy. You shall be king one day, and learning to wait for what you desire shall be as important as finding a way to achieve it.”

  “But I want to play,” Edward pressed, his little lower lip turning out in a pout, and tears of frustration pooling in his wide blue-green eyes. His eyes were the exact shape of his mother’s, and when Henry looked into them, he could deny the boy nothing.

  “Very well, Hans, that’s enough for today.”

  As he lifted Edward from his knee, he saw her. Fresh. Lovely. Full of promise.

  “Ah, there you are.” The king smiled at Catherine as Edward stood next to his father, tugging on the diamonds and rubies of his doublet.

  “You called for me, sire?” she asked.

  Catherine was slightly frazzled but looked stunning in a gown of blue embroidered velvet. Agnes and Norfolk were doing a splendid job with her, he thought appreciatively. Trotting her out for sale to the highest bidder.

  Good. He could afford to pay any price.

  She stood with Lady Rochford, whom he had finally forgiven for her connection to the Anne Boleyn chapter of his life, one that still brought him torment to recall. Henry still could not fathom how he had moved from intense passion to complete hatred for Anne. His transformation during that period still frightened him, and he still could not bear to look upon their child, Elizabeth, who was born of such dark passion.

  Sometimes at night, in the solitude of sleep, Anne came to him in a dream, at times as a beguiling, ghostly image at the foot of his bed. He would try to cry out, to call her a witch, to accuse her of robbing him of his heart. But the words never came, and in a frustrating repetition of the dream, her image always snapped away, leaving everything unresolved between them.

  He could not believe how much this Howard girl reminded him of the young Anne. The one who had led him into emotional ruin.

  He believed Catherine would be different, and just might ease the dark torment of his memories. In truth, he was counting on it.

  “My lady Rochford,” he said, acknowledging Jane Boleyn with a nod.

  “Your Majesty. I have seen little of you since my return to court,” said Jane.

  “Certainly we must remedy that, but I trust you have been made welcome in the meantime.”

  “Greatly. The queen is generous and kind.”

  “Splendid,” Henry replied, as Edward fidgeted beside him like a little colt longing to break free. He glanced down at the thin, pale boy, who was not unlike Henry’s elder brother, Arthur, at a young age. Apparently, this was a day for memories, Henry thought, willing the image away like all of the others that plagued him.

  He glanced at Catherine and noticed how uncomfortable she had become during his exchange with Jane. But he had brought them together intentionally. Each connected him to the darkest part of his past, and facing the two of them together was like facing that phantom image at the foot of his bed. He wanted to deal with it once and for all.

  “My lady Rochford, you know the prince.”

  “Your Highness.” Jane curtsied to the little boy in his opulent velvet doublet, jewels and hat, but Edward seemed not to notice her.

  “Mistress Howard, I should like to introduce you to my son,” Henry said, watching keenly for what would happen next. As Jane had done, Catherine dropped into a deep curtsy, but then moved nearer, as if he were any other little boy.

  “That is a fine top, Your Highness,” she said of the small red toy he had drawn from a pocket and was trying, unsuccessfully, to spin on the surface of the polished table beside them. “I had one of those when I was your age. It was my favorite thing in all the world, and I was always scolded for having it with me. Would you like to know a little trick I devised for spinning it?”

  The child looked surprised to be spoken to with such familiarity when everyone else spoke to him formally, as one would expect of England’s only male heir. Henry was equally surprised, but also amused. A moment later, meeting her gaze fully, the child handed her the toy. Catherine took it and, with a sharp, deft twist, spun it onto the table. Henry watched the boy’s eyes light with delight.

  “Show me,” Edward said in a tone of command for such a little voice.

  “It is in your wrist. You must snap it like this,” Catherine replied, showing him.

  In three attempts, Edward was able to spin the little toy. Henry felt as much joy as his son at his success, and he could feel himself smiling.

  “Teach me something else?” Edward bade her with wide, hopeful eyes. Henry felt his heart seize. The boy had no mother; he did not even have a strong connection to a particular nurse-maid or servant, so it was a unique moment for the doting father to witness.

  Henry placed a hand gently atop the boy’s head. “Mistress Howard can return later if you practice your Latin without complaint.”

  Edward’s governess, an older woman with steel gray hair peeking out from her hood, advanced and curtsied. “I will inform you of his performance, Your Majesty.”

  “Can she truly?” Edward asked.

  “It is a promise.” Henry smiled tenderly at the boy as he followed his governess and Jane from the room.

  “Come look at something.” Henry motioned for Catherine to follow him.

  Holbein, a squat little man with stick-straight bangs over a sweaty forehead, was cleaning his paintbrushes.

  “That shall be all for now, Hans,” Henry dismissed the painter, as he approached the still-wet painting with Catherine.

  The painting was a slightly stylized image of the king, although his voluminous size showed through. To the left of Henry was a pencil outline of Edward’s face, with his exquisite doublet and hat already painted in. To the right of Henry was the shadow of a girl, not yet a full outline. This was meant to be Elizabeth. Regretfully, Henry had not seen the child in nearly a year. Six-year-old Elizabeth was kept at Hatfield, out of his sight but never fully out of his conscience.

  Which was precisely why he was inviting her to Greenwich in the summer, one of several stops on the royal progress.

  Seeing his other daughter, Mary, was more difficult, and Henry did not like to do it unless it was absolutely necessary. The poor girl had been through too much, and her allegiance was to the memory of her dead mother, Catherine of Aragon. In spite of the bitter end of their marriage, Henry knew in his heart that Catherine had truly loved him, which made the guilt of looking upon their only child’s face intolerable.

  “What do you think of the painting so far?” he asked the new girl, Catherine Howard, pushing aside his guilty feelings about his daughters.

  “I think it is a fine likeness, Your Majesty.”

  “And what of me?”

  “I meant of you, sire.”

  He smiled like a boy, relishing her flattery.

  “There is to be another image in the painting,” Henry said, ges turing to the shaded figure. “It will be of your cousin’s daughter, Elizabeth.”

  “She is a fortunate girl to be painted beside so grand a king,” Catherine said.

  “I struggle to remember that she is still my daughter.”

  “Children are the innocent ones.”

  “Indeed. I know your own childhood at Horsham was a difficult one. I am sorry about your parents. I did not know your father, but Norfolk spoke favorably of him.”

  Catherine was touched by his sympathy. “Many thanks, Your Majesty.”

  “I am bringing the child to Greenwich. It has been too long since my son had the benefit of youthful companionship. It will do him good to reunite with his sister. The court leaves on progress tomorrow. The queen is fond of you, so you shall stay on in her household while we are away. She could surely use more lessons with the lute.” He smiled.

  Catherine demurred, and he could see her blush. Charming, he thought.

  “Her Grace really does need a more advanced tutor than I, though.”

  “Nonsense. She has improved m
uch since you came to court,” said Henry. “I would not change a thing . . . for now.”

  Jane frowned as she looked at Catherine later that afternoon.

  She was exquisite in yet another new dress provided by the dowager duchess. This one was of olive green brocade with large, turned-back cuffs and silk-lined sleeves. Her hair was dressed in a gold net, and she wore a ruby at her throat.

  “Staring at yourself in the mirror is not going to make you any lovelier than you are now,” said Jane, with a hint of irritation.

  “I was just thinking, actually.”

  “Oh?”

  “I can do that, despite what people may think of me, you know.” Catherine turned away from her reflection. “I was thinking about Master Holbein’s painting and wondering why the king did not include Princess Mary. It seems like such a slight.”

  Jane sighed. “Mary was very devoted to her mother, and it is difficult for the king to look upon her without being reminded of the scandal of his divorce from Catherine of Aragon.”

  Catherine thought about Jane’s words, then asked, “Did Princess Mary look favorably upon my cousin?”

  “Not at all. As for our current queen, Mary is not acquainted with her, since she lives mainly at New Hall in Essex and spends her time in constant prayer.”

  “Sad for a young woman of only twenty-four,” Catherine said.

  “True, but there was little of the girl left in her when I was last at court. They say, though, that she and the king have made peace. Pulling Elizabeth from the line of succession was a balm to her wounds. It is more Elizabeth and what to do with her that haunts His Majesty now.” Jane paused, then added, “But you cannot be bothered with these complications if you mean to survive here. You must worry only about yourself.”

  “I mean to,” Catherine said with a smile, taking one last glance at herself in the mirror.

  That night, at supper, Catherine watched the king whispering in the queen’s ear as they sat beneath a canopy on a raised dais, flaming torches lighting the walls around them with a flickering glow. They seemed happy enough. Apparently, whatever differences existed between them had been worked out. Catherine was relieved. Now that the king seemed occupied with the queen, perhaps she would be free to pursue a life with Thomas.