The Queen's Mistake Read online

  The Duke of Norfolk stared squarely at mousy Mary Lassells just long enough to ensure that she was sufficiently uncomfortable in his presence. He had not offered her a seat in the vast library of his apartments, which smelled heavily of leather-bound volumes by Cicero and Aristotle. The old warhorse was in no rush. He was accustomed to playing cat and mouse, and he was good at it.

  “So, then, shall we speak plainly, or will you leave the task to me alone?” he finally asked.

  “What would my lord of Norfolk like to know?”

  “Oh, no, my dear, the question is, What would I like you to know.” The duke steepled his wrinkled fingers, bejeweled with a single chunk of ruby set in silver. He regarded her so intensely that she was forced to flinch. While she looked away for only an instant, he caught the hesitation. Splendid, he thought. Even momentary weakness made the job so much easier.

  “You are here because you have successfully blackmailed my niece. Not a very pretty reality for my family, yet there is a certain honor among thieves, so I can respect that about you. However, one must always know one’s limitations.”

  He scratched his lightly stubbled chin, pausing for effect, then bore down on her with another lethal stare, reducing her to what she truly was: a little village urchin masquerading before him as a lady of power.

  “You may have succeeded in frightening the dowager duchess into giving you a position at court. But make no mistake: Dealing with me shall be an entirely different experience. If you make so much as a move against my niece, if you do the slightest bit of harm to her, you shall not return to that thatched little hovel from whence you came, or any other godforsaken place, for that matter. They shall find you in unidentifiable pieces, long after they surrender me to my own holy grave. Now, have I made myself clear to you, my dear?”

  “Crystal, Your Grace.” Mary Lassells was completely self-possessed as she matched the duke’s stare with her equally level one. She was not undone by him, as he had expected, which surprised him. And there were few things in life any longer that could surprise the man who meant to be the power behind the next Queen of England.

  “So long as we understand each other,” he said, settling for the last word.

  Later that day, as she sat alone in a room smaller than a dressing closet, Mary Lassells dipped her pen into a small pot of ink and placed it to the paper. Her scrawled handwriting was nearly illegible, but the words and meaning were there.

  Mary felt triumphant as she wrote to her brother, John. It could not have gone any better, she thought. Unassuming little Mary Lassells from the house on the edge of the Horsham estate had made it all the way to the English court, and she had bested the powerful Duke of Norfolk. For the moment, anyway.

  Her goal now was not to overplay her hand . . . until the time was right. “Wretched Catholics!” she cursed beneath her breath. They got what they deserved, the hypocritical lot of them, when they lost power in this court and the kingdom. The duke and his saucy little whore of a niece, who had stolen not one but two men about whom she had cared, would get their comeuppance once her work here was finished.

  If she played her cards correctly, she could earn enough money so that she and her brother, John, could live comfortably for the rest of their days as well. Now, finally, she could move her plan forward.

  Chapter Ten

  July 1540

  Nonsuch Palace, Surrey

  As July came and a dry wind moved across England, the court moved to the lush, cooler environs of the partially constructed palace of Nonsuch in Surrey. The shift of a few miles for the massive ensemble of courtiers and servants changed everything. Such a production it was—luggage, furniture, servants: a parade of silk- and velvet-clad humanity.

  With his wife out of sight and Cromwell in London, unable to object to Henry’s plan for a new wife, Henry was now free to spend every hour he could with Catherine. For a jaded, aging man like the king, the promise of a girl like Catherine Howard was life’s blood. He felt invigorated by her beauty, girlish humor and laughter, and the prospect of taking her virginity.

  Henry craved her like air.

  He watched her as she rode near him, winding through the forest, which was cool and thick with ferns, lacy trees and the sweet trill of birds among the branches, and he tried his best not to stare. He felt like a boy again, shy and uncertain with her beside him. He had never felt this way, not even in those early days with Anne. Anne Boleyn had bewitched him with her flirtations and by withholding the very thing he craved. But Catherine made him want to be better and do better. She made him want to begin again.

  He felt his loins stir and swell against his saddle as he thought of her small, delicate body. Henry smiled to himself as he wondered what she would think if she knew what lay below his velvet, silver-threaded doublet. Ah, but there would be time for that. She was no bawd, and he did not desire her for that. Catherine Howard was different. He had noticed that from the beginning. He must tread softly with so innocent a beauty.

  He glanced at her again, careful not to be caught staring. She was talking with Jane Boleyn. The two of them were thick as thieves, he thought. Having Jane back had brought a certain healing.

  As casually as he could, Henry cantered his horse over beside them beneath a lacy canopy of trees. “So tell me, Mistress Howard, how do you find my forest?”

  “Your forest, sire?” She smiled.

  “Why, of course. These are my trees, my streams, my branches above us.”

  “Should we not say first that they are all possessions of God?”

  “Gifts from God to his king.” Henry chuckled.

  “In that case, I think I like it all very well.”

  Henry decided to steer the conversation in a different direction. “Like your uncle, are you a Catholic, Mistress Howard?”

  He saw Jane shoot her an anxious glance, then look away. Neither of them had expected the question.

  “Yes, I am a Catholic. I follow my God and my king, most certainly.”

  “In that particular order, Mistress Howard?”

  “God above all things, as the Bible commands.”

  “Well, under that circumstance, I could accept being second in your heart. But that is the only one.”

  Henry smiled at Catherine’s sweet naïveté. No one else would dare speak to him that way, but from her, it was enticing. Suddenly he was aware of the look on Jane’s face. She seemed uncomfortable and kept glancing around, as if she were trying to hide the expression on her face. Henry had the feeling that she was trying to hide something more than her expression. It bothered him, but he decided to dismiss it. Catherine had been brought to him from the countryside as an innocent and a virgin, so there could be nothing to hide.

  They stopped near a rushing stream so the horses could drink and rest. Henry led Catherine away from the other courtiers, who sat idly among the trees or strolled as the tables were spread for the dinnertime feast.

  “They are watching us, you know,” he said with boyish delight.

  Catherine smiled and lowered her eyes, which he guessed she did to impress him with her humility. He adored her innocence, but he would teach her all the ways of the world. In time. For now, he would give her just a small lesson.

  “Shall we scandalize them the more?” he asked, intent on igniting things right there among his friends. Before she could answer, Henry reached over, cupped her small chin in his meaty hand and leaned in to kiss her. As he drew back, he saw a look of innocent surprise light up her face, which stirred him even more deeply.

  “Tell me, my little Cat, is there some wish you have, some secret desire that only a king could fulfill? More dresses? Jewelry, perhaps? I would give anything to you.”

  He watched her lower her eyes, but he could see that she was actually considering the possibilities, as an eager child might. He bit back a smile. She was, after all, a Howard.

  “If I am to receive a gift from the king, I would wish it to be of Your Majesty’s choosing,” she finally said with a si
ncerity he had not expected.

  “A surprise?” he asked.

  She nodded as he reached to gently run a finger along the line of her jaw. The feel of her smooth, porcelain skin against his fat, soft finger reminded him of how young she really was. Just then his leg began to throb, as if a spell had been broken by the harsh reality of their age difference. He knew he needed to sit, but he could not let her see his weakness. No, not ever that.

  “Very well, then. I am up to the challenge. Now, will you do me the honor of joining me for a bit of dinner?”

  “A pleasure, sire,” she said with a smile.

  As he led her back toward the others and the wonderfully rich aroma of cooked meats, he was already considering which of the royal jewels he might give her without seeming too ostentatious. Though he struggled to decide on the gift, of one thing he was certain: He was wildly, boyishly in love with Catherine, and nothing was going to change that. Jewels were just the beginning of everything he meant to give her.

  It was late that same afternoon, yet the king’s party had taken a detour on their way to Nonsuch and had not yet arrived.

  The king never rode for this long anymore, Thomas thought as he paced the length of the gallery outside the presence chamber, wringing his powerful hands. Now that Catherine was with the sick old goat, Henry thought he was young again. It would serve him right if he ended up in bed with a raging fever for a month, with that vile infected leg of his. So long as Catherine was not in bed with him.

  Thomas glanced up at the carved French wall clock at the closed entrance. Could time actually pass this painfully slowly? Last night had been such a grand mistake. In an attempt to forget Catherine, he had drunk too much ale and slept with a pimple-spotted village girl, who turned out to be a vulgar replacement for Catherine. For the first time in his selfish, ambition-driven life, Thomas had actually felt real guilt. Catherine Howard was a rare jewel who deserved absolute loyalty from the man who truly loved her.

  “You would be wise not to let the king see you pacing outside his door like a jealous rival,” Edward Seymour said from behind, startling him.

  Thomas stopped pacing and watched as a broad shaft of crimson late-afternoon sunlight filtered through the window and fell between them. Of all the men who served the king, Thomas liked Edward Seymour the least. Like himself, he had a lethal combination of ambition and dazzling looks, and he was not only Earl of Hertford, by the king’s command, but a member of the trusted privy counsel.

  “You have no idea what you are talking about, and even if you did, you would be better served by keeping your opinions to yourself,” Thomas sharply replied.

  “Well, you’ll not win her now that the king desires her. Everyone knows she is next,” Edward replied smoothly, brushing aside the irritated look on Thomas’s face.

  “Next?” Thomas asked, thrown off by the remark.

  “To be queen, of course. There were two Queen Annes. In the world of irony, does it not follow that there would be two Queen Catherines to follow suit? Then, perhaps, a Queen Jane after poor Catherine is inevitably cast aside?”

  Without thinking, only feeling the old violence of his youth rising up, Thomas seized Seymour by the collar, choking him until he could not breathe.

  “I really ought to kill you!” Thomas growled bitterly just before he let go. “But then you would be at peace and I would be in the Tower.”

  “Might be worth it to see the fair son pay.” He shrugged.

  Suddenly there was a commotion in the gallery behind them, loud enough to stop their own argument. The king and his great coterie were returning from their ride. Both Seymour and Thomas straightened their doublets, smoothed their hair, adjusted their hats and cleared their throats, and with no quick means of escape, each prepared his most courtly bow. All evidence of their skirmish was gone in an instant.

  A heartbeat later, a large assemblage of gentlemen and ladies and the king himself approached, laughing and chattering. Thomas had missed the main party, since he had not returned to his post early enough that morning, but it was just as well, he thought as he saw the king’s arm linked very tightly with Catherine’s.

  Thomas felt his stomach seize, along with his heart.

  When Henry caught sight of him, he stopped, as did the rest of the large ensemble gathered around him.

  “Tom! Edward! Here you both are!” he said in a jovial tone, extending his free arm to them, the long sleeve belling out beneath it. “You both missed a marvelous ride today. I really should do that more often. Tom, whatever youthful indiscretion kept you from our little group, I hope she was well worth it.”

  Everyone but Catherine laughed at the king’s sense of humor. Thomas knew he could hardly deny it, as there was no other acceptable excuse for not attending the sovereign.

  Thomas bowed again deeply. “My apologies, Your Majesty.”

  “I shall want all of the most glorious details about her later,” Henry quipped, winking.

  Thomas felt ill. There was a vulgar quality to the whole exchange, and his guilt was made worse by Catherine’s presence.

  Thomas swept into a third bow, wanting the conversation to end, when, suddenly, it did. The king seemed to tire of the moment, so he turned to Catherine, pressed a light kiss onto her cheek, and began walking with her down the gallery, holding tightly to the one woman Thomas Culpeper would never get out of his heart.

  It had been physically painful.

  As she sat next to the king at supper that evening, Catherine tried not to think about the expression on Thomas’s blanched face, or the sick feeling in her stomach when the old king led her away with his thick, sweat-dampened arm.

  She sat idly now while the king joked with Wil Somers about something she did not hear—or care to hear, for that matter. Instead, Catherine silently scanned the room for Thomas, knowing he must be present if he hoped to remain within the king’s good graces. Wil Somers said something else, and Henry laughed so hard that he began to cough uncontrollably into a cloth held to his mouth, causing two groomsmen to come to his aid. When he had recovered, she felt his hand slip onto her knee beneath the table cover. She was repulsed, fully aware of what a sick old man he really was beneath the glittering trappings of royalty. At that moment, Jane slipped into the room, sat down on Catherine’s other side, and lifted a goblet of wine. She leaned very casually toward Catherine, as if she were about to ask her to pass the saltcellar spoon.

  “Master Culpeper desires a secret meeting. He bade me tell you that his heart depends upon it,” Jane whispered.

  She took a swallow of wine, then glanced around, smiling and nodding. Catherine sank back against her chair, her own gaze sliding to the king. He was still conversing with Wil Somers, and his soft, fat fingers were casually resting on her knee. Catherine was angry with Thomas. The implication of what he had done last night was clear. Yet both of them were victims of their circumstances, and she knew in her mind that she could not be too angry with him for that. Her heart was another matter.

  “When does he wish it?” Catherine asked.

  “Now. He has pleaded with me to converse with the king while you retire with a headache. He is waiting for you in his chamber.”

  Suddenly, Henry leaned toward her from the other side. “Are you enjoying yourself, my dear?” he asked, smiling. His fat face was glistening with perspiration, and there was a drop of spittle on his lower lip, hanging above his beard. “You look so serious. You should let good Wil here put a smile back on that pretty little face of yours. Wil, do tell her something amusing!”

  Catherine pushed her chair back slightly, preparing to stand as she looked into the king’s blue eyes. “I’m afraid, sire, that I have a rather dreadful headache, and I fear I shall need to lie down until it passes.”

  His hand slid away from her thigh and she could see him stiffen with concern. “I shall call my physician at once. You should be seen in case it is something serious. I could not bear it if you were ill.”

  Catherine smiled sweet
ly but wanly, calling up all of her old skills. “It is nothing, really, sire. I get them from time to time after a long day in the fresh air. It is a nuisance, I know, but I always need to lie down to let it pass. I shall be fine in the morning.”

  Henry’s worried gaze hardened as he looked from Catherine to Jane, then back again. “Very well, but I shall expect to see you bright and early at matins, and then we shall have a good game of shuttlecock.”

  “It will be my honor, Your Majesty.” She nodded and stood.

  “Will you take Lady Rochford with you?”

  “That is not necessary. She can remain here and catch up with you. I know my way,” Catherine said sweetly.

  “I shall not hear of it. A beautiful young girl like you should not go unescorted in my court. There is no telling what trouble might find you. Guard, see Mistress Howard to her chamber.” Henry motioned to an attendant nearby.

  Even as Henry spoke the command, Catherine was considering what route to take so that she might pass unseen to Thomas’s chamber from her own.

  Across the vast table, Norfolk had watched the scene with great intensity. So then, Lady Rochford had fit herself seamlessly back into things here at court—powerful confidante, friend to a prospective queen, and likely go-between for her and her lover. If he could persuade Jane to report everything to him, she would be useful, and he would not object to her growing connection with his niece. This dalliance with the Culpeper lad had been one thing when Catherine first arrived—a way of preoccupying her free spirit until she was called to duty. But now that the divorce from Anne of Cleves was nearly complete, and the king seemed intent on making Catherine queen, she must forget the boy and focus on the final steps of the plan. Nothing and no one must threaten that.

  Especially not a handsome, romantic sort like Thomas Culpeper.

  Norfolk snapped his fingers over his shoulder in a commanding gesture without turning around, and was immediately answered by a young, freckle-faced page.