The Queen's Mistake Read online

  Norfolk ran his hand through the silver sweep of hair over his forehead in frustration. “But will she comply, Agnes? Or will she fight us? We must not forget that the girl has a strong will of her own.”

  The dowager laughed. “Queen of England? Think on that. Is there any girl in the world who could resist the lure of such power for love alone?”

  The next day, in the late-morning sun, Thomas sat alone on a stone bench by a wide and murky pond with green lily pads floating on its surface. Beneath a broad azure sky, he watched the swans cut across the still surface as he tried to think of the next line of the song he was writing for Catherine. But the words would not come. Strumming the small lute, he played what he had so far.

  My love shall always conquer my fear, as your beauty conquers my soul. . . .

  He liked that line, but it was all he had so far and he was stymied. Thomas usually maintained an emotional distance between himself and the women he pursued. But Catherine Howard affected him. She unnerved him, and now he was vulnerable and in love. God’s blood, he was undeniably in love. That had not been part of the plan when he met her, but Catherine was a rare and brilliant jewel.

  He knew that men in love were a careless lot and made too many concessions. He was afraid that his love for Catherine would interfere with his ambition to secure a title and estate from the sovereign. But it seemed that she loved him in return. She had said so. Certainly she cared enough to make him jealous, which she accomplished brilliantly. Perhaps her love was worth the risk.

  He could not think of anything else. He was overcome with desire to the point of obsession, but their stolen moments, secret smiles and occasional touches were harder to pull off these days. Though they feared getting caught, Catherine had agreed to meet him that night.

  Thomas sang the words again, strumming softly on an old battered lute that had once belonged to his father. His drunkard father, God rest his soul, had sold it for a cup of ale. His distant relationship to the Howard family, through Catherine’s mother, Jocasta Culpeper Howard, had earned him little but a place at court. He had used his looks and wit from there. With the first money he earned, Thomas had sent a lad into London to buy the instrument back. It was the only tie he retained to his life before court.

  He was startled by a single round of applause behind him. Thomas turned around, bolted to his feet, and swept into a deep bow.

  “Lovely, Culpeper,” the king announced. “I had no idea you were composing a new song.”

  Henry, dressed in a costume of hunter green silk sewn with gold beads and diamonds, stood between Charles Brandon and Thomas Seymour, both of whom studied Thomas with discerning, slightly jealous eyes as he bowed to the sovereign.

  “It is nothing, Your Majesty. Just a bit of foolishness with chords and words.”

  “Nonsense. I know a lovely piece of music when I hear it. I may have to honor you by borrowing the tune to sing to a certain lady tonight.”

  “There could be no greater honor, sire,” he lied as he bowed, feeling sick at the thought that a song meant for Catherine would be sung to someone else, probably pretty Anne Basset, whom the king increasingly fancied.

  “I shall need to say I wrote it myself, of course.”

  “An even higher honor, Your Majesty,” Thomas replied, feeling even sicker.

  The king smiled slyly, looking like the wild young prince he had once been. “I knew I was right to keep you near me, Culpeper. Now, come teach me how to sing your tune, and we shall add a few more lines to it when you are done.”

  Henry had unwittingly taken his rival’s love song as his own.

  The queen’s apartments were humming with quiet activity. The queen was absorbed in a conversation with the Earl of Waldeck, which no one understood, while Jane and Catherine sat together sewing, as they did with mind-numbing frequency. The leaded windows were open and the warm spring air wafted in, filled with the scent of lavender and gillyflowers. A small boy played a tune on his pipe to which no one listened.

  Jane spoke to Catherine in a hushed whisper. “His Majesty has invited you to join him for dinner at the home of Bishop Gardiner in the city.”

  “Only me?” Catherine asked. She felt an odd welling of panic as she considered the invitation.

  “There will be others present, of course, but it is a tremendous honor. It means that His Majesty has taken great notice of you,” Jane replied, aware of her understatement.

  “I believe he noticed me some time ago,” Catherine said as she glanced at the queen, trying to quell her growing sense of guilt from playing such a dangerous game, even for Thomas’s sake.

  “Your uncle will be pleased, no doubt,” Jane pointed out.

  “And I will be misunderstood by everyone else.” Thomas was not likely to forgive her if she did not come to him that night, as she had promised. But all that she did, she did for them.

  “You must do me a favor, Jane.” She leaned nearer. “Can I trust you?”

  Both of them glanced guiltily at the queen before Jane replied, “Of course.”

  “Do you promise?”

  “I promise.”

  “Then you must tell Thomas Culpeper for me that plans have changed, and I shall not be able to meet him tonight after all.”

  “Culpeper?” Jane asked, confused.

  They leaned closer toward each other. “You promised, and I have to trust someone,” Catherine said desperately. “There really is no one else I can tell.”

  “Have you been . . . meeting with Culpeper for some time now?” Jane ventured to ask.

  “Yes, we have been meeting in secret.”

  “Do you actually . . . love him?”

  “With all my heart.” Catherine was happy to finally confess her feelings to a friend.

  Mother Lowe appeared next to them. “Her Grace wishes to know if you two have heard the rumors that grow daily.”

  Jane and Catherine exchanged glances, but they knew what Mother Lowe meant. Everyone did.

  “I’m sorry, which rumors?” Jane asked, feigning ignorance.

  The gruff older woman stiffened at the question as the queen walked up behind her to hear the answer for herself. “It is said that His Majesty is, as we speak, attempting to divorce her.”

  “I have not been at court long enough to know,” Catherine responded, avoiding Anne’s kind eyes. “But I have already seen enough to know that rumors fly about these rooms like flies. You could just wave it away and ignore it.”

  There was a small, uncomfortable silence. Catherine could not imagine what it would feel like to be publicly humiliated by one’s husband. Mother Lowe whispered in German into the queen’s ear, drawing the attention of all the ladies in the room. The queen replied.

  The Earl of Waldeck said something else, then turned to Catherine. “Her Grace wishes you to join her at prayer. Your company would be a comfort to her, she says.”

  Understanding the translation, the queen nodded in agreement beneath her heavy gabled hood and offered a weak smile.

  Catherine’s glance slid to Jane. She wondered how long she would have to dress after prayers before she was whisked to dinner with the husband of the poor woman who stood before her. Catherine felt another stab of guilt for Anne and an ache of longing for Thomas. She had never felt an ounce of remorse when she had seduced Henry Manox and Francis Dereham away from Mary Lassells at Horsham. But everything was different here. She cared for the queen, and Catherine did not wish to steal her husband, especially since she had found a potential husband of her own.

  Later that evening, Catherine entered the grand house of the Bishop of Winchester, her head held up bravely and her heart racing. She wore a new dress of cranberry-colored silk piped in white lace, another gift from the dowager duchess. She had never felt more beautiful. She heard laughter ahead of her where the torchlights flickered. She breathed a small sigh of relief. Jane was right—she would not be alone that evening.

  She walked across the floor, which was covered in rich Turkish carpets. The
whole house smelled of cooked meats and savory pies. As she entered the banquet hall, she saw that the king had arrived already. He sat at the table with Bishop Gardiner, Norfolk and Charles Brandon in an understated costume of plum-colored velvet and gold braid. He looked up as she entered the room.

  “Ah, the guest of honor,” Henry said with a sweeping hand as he stood, making a grand show of her entrance.

  Catherine dipped into a deep curtsy as her dress, underskirts and chemise made a crinkling sound. “Forgive me for being late. My driver took roads that were poor at best.”

  “Death to him then,” the king announced.

  Catherine looked stricken. He broke into laughter and sank back into his chair with a little grunt of effort. “It was only a jest. A little royal humor, my dear, nothing more. Come, sit beside me.”

  They feasted on boar paté, fresh sturgeon and pheasant. Catherine had not realized that she was hungry, but the summer air, laughter and ease of the group made her surprisingly ravenous. She had never eaten or spoken so boldly in the company of strangers, but after two hours’ time, they were all laughing, joking and singing childhood songs. Catherine glanced at her uncle now and then. She still thought of him as a pompous old man, but she could tell he seemed pleased by her progress with the sovereign.

  “I wager Your Majesty cannot sing the words to that last one from memory.” She giggled.

  “And what are the terms if I do?” he asked, ready to accept her challenge.

  “Your Majesty is the only one who can name that,” Catherine said boldly.

  “Very well. If I am the victor, I receive a kiss from the challenger,” he proclaimed with a ribald chuckle. Laughter erupted as everyone awaited Catherine’s response.

  “I accept, but you must get the words and the tune correct.”

  Henry smiled at their repartee, reveling in the youthful challenge as he placed a lute on his knee and began to play. Catherine perked up a little. Despite his weight and age, she saw how attractive he must have been in his youth. She could also see in him a spark of danger mixed with overwhelming power, which drew her. She found herself looking at him for the first time not as a king, but as a man. He made her smile. He was fun. He was powerful.

  As Henry hit the final note, Catherine felt a strange spark of anticipation.

  “Very well then, Mistress Howard. You accepted the wager, and I won it fairly.”

  “Indeed, you did.”

  Again, laughter rose up as Catherine smiled and approached the king. In response, Henry turned his head to offer his cheek for initial payment. She dutifully bent down and pressed a small kiss where his smooth skin met his neat, amber-colored beard. His skin was surprisingly soft, she thought, and perfumed heavily with musk. Henry turned the other cheek as the bishop’s guests began to taunt them playfully, laughing and tapping their cups on the table.

  Catherine considered the other cheek with a charmingly confident smile and placed her hands on her hips. “Well, I would not dream of going back on a bet.”

  “That is splendid to hear, Mistress Howard.” Henry laughed.

  She leaned over again dramatically for comic effect and kissed his other cheek, which brought a thunder of applause from the guests.

  Across the room, Stephen Gardiner, robed in black velvet and crisp white surplice, stood with a goblet of wine in hand, chatting in low tones with Lady Lisle.

  “I do believe we are looking at number five,” she quipped.

  “By God’s grace, I hope you are right. This sweet little scene before us could bring England back to its former glory.”

  “Who would have thought such a silly girl could be responsible for that,” Lady Lisle said with a hint of jealousy in her voice.

  “A beautiful silly girl could,” the bishop replied. “Especially if Norfolk gets his way.”

  “He is a crafty old buzzard masquerading as a phoenix emerging from the ashes. I can only marvel at his ability to rescue his family from complete disgrace.”

  “The duke is my dearest friend, and I shall not have you speak of him like that, especially when my livelihood depends on the success of his plans,” the bishop reminded her. “Besides, there is enough largesse to go around. Your own daughters shall not be forgotten by the duke. I know you shall see to that.”

  Thomas had asked for and been granted the evening off from service. He had expected to see Catherine when he heard the knock at the door, but was disappointed to see Jane. His eyes narrowed and his jaw tightened at the sight of her apologetic expression. He knew why she was there.

  “Where is she, my Lady Rochford?” When she did not respond, he pressed on. “I know she is not with the queen, because I just saw Her Grace in the courtyard below taking the night air.”

  He could feel his face growing hot with anger as Jane averted her gaze. He had written Catherine a song and mustered the conviction to put away his own ambition and tell her that she was the first woman he truly loved. But it was all for naught.

  Thomas clamped his hands onto Jane’s arms and squeezed them desperately. “I have a right to know!”

  “It was not her choice, Master Culpeper. You cannot be too hard on her.”

  His brows furrowed as he frowned. “She is with the king?”

  “We all serve the same master. P-please try to understand.”

  “Serve, perhaps, but need she be his whore?”

  Jane glanced down at her arms, and Thomas only then realized that he was hurting her. He instantly loosened his grip and his hands fell to his sides.

  “I do not believe he would use her so, especially if he has a greater goal in mind for her in the future,” Jane said.

  He rubbed a hand across his face, trying to collect his emotions. “I have feared this moment. If he wants her, he will have her. His marital history proves that.”

  Jane could not disagree.

  Thomas glanced at the bed behind him, strewn with rose petals he had plucked earlier that day. He felt like a fool for a woman, and he did not like this new sensation at all. He shoved past Jane and stormed down the musty paneled corridor full of evening shadows and the scent of beeswax from a fresh polishing. But he did not notice that. He was on a mission.

  He knew exactly where to find his friends, other carefree courtiers like him who knew how to help him forget. He strode purposefully to the royal stables, selected a sleek, saddled Spanish jennet and set out through the woods behind the palace. Angry and hurt, he tried to expel the words to the song he had written for Catherine from his mind. King or not, Catherine had made a choice tonight, and it did not include him.

  Thoughts of Arabella, the park keeper’s wife, suddenly returned to him, though he tried to suppress them. He could see her face in his mind as if she were before him. He had not told Catherine the entire truth about her. While Thomas knew that rumors still circulated about the incident, they were mostly false. But things had not played out entirely the way he had explained them to Catherine either. He was no hero. He had been violently angry that night. He had not raped Arabella, but he had loved her passionately enough to consider taking what he had believed was his. And Arabella had meant to allow him. Thomas cringed now, remembering from that night how far a man could be driven in rivalry over a woman.

  In reality, he and Henry VIII were not so different.

  Catherine sat across from the king as they returned to Greenwich in his private rolling litter alone together. It was a stifling enclosure papered in damask, the window openings hung and hooked closed with heavy silk. She had not known how to refuse the king’s invitation to escort her home; nor was she certain she had wanted to. Her uncle had been watching her, and Henry had asked so sweetly and flatteringly. She could not refuse. And the night had actually been fun.

  Henry had made her so comfortable that she almost thought of him as an ordinary man. But she was aware, all along, that he was not. The contrast between Henry the person and Henry the king, and the danger of being caught off guard by it, captivated her.

 
Yet as the carriage bobbed and swayed, the only person she could really think of was Thomas.

  “I never loved the queen, you know. Not this one, anyway,” Henry suddenly said, shocking her back into the moment. “I did not even know her before we married.”

  She struggled for the right thing to say to encourage his confession. She knew her uncle would want her to ingratiate herself into the king’s confidence. “I understand how it is to be forced into things.”

  “I suppose you do, with Norfolk and all.”

  “My lord uncle means the best for me,” she said, not entirely convinced by her own words.

  “Anyone who knows you would wish that,” Henry said gently. He searched her face for a reaction, but she humbly lowered her head.

  “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

  “You must not call me that, not when we are alone like this.”

  She struggled not to fidget or move away from him. “What should I call you then?”

  “My mother called me Hal.”

  “Your mother was a queen.” She laughed, trying to sound lighthearted, though she was tired and her thoughts were with Thomas.

  “Perhaps one day you will be one as well.”

  Catherine tried to look at him, but the expression in his eyes was of a hunter after the hunted. He struggled to reach for his lute on the seat next to Catherine with a deep, unflattering grunt. Henry took it just as the driver hit a rut in the road and the little conveyance shook.

  “I have written a new tune,” he announced.

  The litter rocked and swayed even more, and Catherine felt a wave of nausea come over her from the unending swaying. “Do you mean to play it now?”

  “Yes, and for no one but you.”

  “Your Majesty . . . Hal . . . I am flattered.”

  “You are meant to be,” he said with a sly smile.

  Catherine saw that same boyish spark she had noticed earlier that evening, and she thought again of the king in his youth. She wished she had known him then.