The Queen's Mistake Page 21

  “He has not done a thing,” she hurriedly replied, then paused for an instant and whispered, “Yet.”

  Catherine could see the king weighing her words. “But you fear him? You fear Master Cromwell?”

  “Catholics fear all Reformists, Your Majesty. The chamberlain is committed to his beliefs, as am I. He has made no secret of that.” She found it easy to dredge up true tears just then; all she had to do was imagine her life without Thomas. “Yet Master Cromwell is such a powerful man, and I . . . I am only—” She stopped, letting her tears speak for her.

  She could see the strong effect they were having on Henry. He touched his hand to her cheek in a reassuring gesture.

  “You will be adored and protected. At any cost.”

  Catherine could actually see the swell of romantic fervor in him as he stuck out his massive barrel chest and swelling gut with youthful bravado. Her heart lurched with guilt at his chivalric display. But she had no choice. Jane had made that clear. She must play the game she had learned at Horsham. Failure was not an option. Catherine turned away for a moment, feeling the cool air dry up her crocodile tears.

  “I have said too much.”

  With a fat, bejeweled finger, Henry turned her face back toward him. “That is impossible.”

  “The last thing I want, truly, is to make trouble for anyone.”

  “You must leave that to me, my dear. Anything that frightens you shall not be tolerated as long as I draw breath,” the king assured her with a gentle smile. It was impossible not to be drawn to his sweet side.

  Her emotions were mixed, but she had to move forward with her plan.

  “I still feel badly for saying anything about it,” she demurred once more, prompting him to dry the last tears on her face with his ruby-bejeweled index finger.

  “Nonsense. Cromwell has had too much power for far too long. But it is power that the trusting side of me granted him, to my own great detriment, since he advised me to take the wrong wife. Thus, it is power that I must take away. But you leave that to me, my beautiful Cat. Now,” he said, smiling, “shall we go and see who will be the first to figure out who is behind my mask?”

  “That may take a while,” she said flatteringly, surprised when he puffed out his chest again, as if he seemed to believe that no one in the room knew his identity.

  But that did not matter. She had done what she needed to do seamlessly, she thought as he led her among the dancers. As they made their way, they saw Anne Basset smiling at the king and Lady Lisle pushing her toward him.

  “Excuse me for just one dance, would you?” he asked. “I promised her mother, and she will never let me hear the end of it if the girl is not first. But you shall be my last.”

  Across the room, Thomas watched the king take a partner by the hand and begin a lively tourdion, dancing as if he still had the vigor of youth. They twirled and turned together in perfect rhythm. Spectators in the gallery above cheered the king as he executed a modest version of one of the famous kicks of his youth. As the dance carried them closer to Thomas, he was surprised to see the king’s partner was delicate and pretty Anne Basset. Thomas knew her by her coppery hair, though most of it was tucked beneath a fashionable hood like her mother’s. This is a very good sign, he thought. The Basset girl was just Henry’s type—petite, sweet, seemingly innocent—and he knew how long Lord and Lady Lisle had been trying to offer her up. He saw the king’s hand on her waist slip down a little lower than it should have.

  Thomas’s plan to win Catherine just might be easier than he thought.

  After the song ended, Norfolk moved to the king’s side and said something casually into his ear. The king bowed to Anne, holding her hand a little longer than decorum called for. Then he and Norfolk strolled away from the other dancers in Thomas’s direction. Thomas lowered his head slightly and looked away so they would not notice him as he listened to their conversation.

  “How does it go?” the king asked.

  “It moves slowly, sire. Cromwell has finally put the nullity suit before Parliament, yet it languishes there. He wrestles daily with the knowledge that, in pushing it through, he is accepting his own error of consigning you to a faulty marriage. But I am told that you shall be a single man in a month’s time.”

  “Finally.” The king sighed. “How long until I may remarry? She will not wait forever, Norfolk, whether she is your niece or not.”

  “She will wait, sire. You have my word. However, now that the antidote to your cancerous marriage has been found, we must rid ourselves of the vile contagion that caused it in the first place, before his beliefs contaminate the entire country.”

  “What do you suggest?” Henry asked.

  “My lord Cromwell is following the teachings of Martin Luther quite boldly now. Bishop Gardiner heard him say as much. He also heard Cromwell say—forgive me for being blunt—that if Your Majesty were to reject Lutheran doctrine, he would take up his sword and fight you himself.”

  Thomas felt the frozen silence between them. “Are you certain?” the king finally asked.

  “Very.”

  “Vile messenger of Satan! No one goes up against the king and wins. No one.”

  “What are we to do about the threat, Your Majesty?”

  “Take him to the Tower,” Henry grumbled with the voice of a bitter old man. “He was a friend, and now he is an enemy. Do what you will. If all you say is true, Norfolk, you can cut off his head, for all I care. Now, leave me to dance. This is supposed to be a pleasant evening.” Henry looked about the room, ending all talk of Cromwell. “Where the devil is my little Cat? Find her for me, will you?” he asked, more of a command than a request.

  Thomas sank against a stone column, his blood running cold. He was shaking. In all his years at court, he had never seen such a ruthless side of the king, who was often moody, but mainly nostalgic and kind. Cromwell’s death sentence was a clear warning that for Thomas a life with Catherine Howard was impossible. Not only did the king want her as his next queen, but her uncle, the same calculating and powerful man who was behind Cromwell’s ultimate destruction, would stop at nothing to make sure it happened.

  As his thoughts crystallized, Thomas could feel the black bile of disappointment rushing up from the pit of his stomach. This was a war he could not win. All around him, the laughter, music and strong scents of food and spilled wine became an ugly blur, and the need to vomit was beyond his control. He pushed through the crowd and made it as far as the gallery, where he vomited into a stone urn, then collapsed onto the cold floor into the anonymous dark.

  Two days later, while a summer rainstorm pelted the stained-glass windows, Thomas Cromwell sat stiff-backed at the counsel table in London for what he believed would be a general meeting of the privy counsel. He was surrounded by Edward and Thomas Seymour, Charles Brandon, Thomas Wriothesley, Stephen Gardiner and the Duke of Norfolk, the latter two of whom had returned to London from Nonsuch specifically for the pleasure of watching the coming spectacle unfold before them. As Cromwell fingered a gold cup on the table, six of the king’s stone-faced guards entered the chamber, led by the captain of the King’s Guard. Two of them pulled Cromwell roughly to his feet.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Cromwell growled, dredging forth a tone of hollow indignation.

  Murmurs and remarks of surprise rose up from the others at the long, polished council table. Norfolk remained silent but stood slowly. While biting back a smile and mustering a stern expression, he placed a hand on Cromwell’s shoulder, pinching it just slightly, and said, “It seems you are under arrest.”

  Bemused by what seemed an outlandish declaration, Cromwell scoffed, then gave a little half laugh. In the heavy silence that ensued, his smile fell, and he turned to each of the members of the counsel.

  Norfolk relished his vengeance. His great rival’s expression collapsed in fear as each of the men looked away.

  “Arrested? What the devil for?”

  “For treasonable heresy,” Norfolk declared i
n a matter-of-fact, cold tone as he pulled the ceremonial garter, marking his vaunted title, from around Cromwell’s neck.

  “Oh, and for the abuse of power as well,” he added with a cruel smile.

  “If this is some sort of practical joke, I find no amusement in it, Norfolk. I intend to speak at once with the king about this—”

  Norfolk cut Cromwell off. “His Majesty, Henry the Eighth, sanctioned the arrest himself.”

  Cromwell’s dark eyes bulged in shock, then filled with fear as the guards began to lead him by force from the chamber. “Where am I to be taken? Is there even to be a trial so that I might defend myself against this travesty?”

  “Oh, you shall be allowed to speak, my lord. Saying something in defense of the king’s divorce might prove useful.”

  “Will it save me?” Cromwell asked in desperation.

  “Only heaven and His Majesty know for certain.”

  “Then allow me to address him! I shall say anything he wishes!” he pleaded.

  Bishop Gardiner arched a brow and rose from the table. His hands were steepled piously as he said, “Render unto Caesar what is Caesar’s and unto God what is God’s, my lord Cromwell. And who are we to go against gospel? We commit you to God. The king cannot save you now.”

  “Take him to the Tower, by order of His Majesty, the king,” the Duke of Norfolk coldly commanded.

  Chapter Eleven

  July 1540

  Hampton Court, Richmond

  The day after the masque, in the customary train of thousands, the court journeyed on royal progress to Hampton Court. The palace, on the north bank of the Thames, was vast, the lush, green grounds accessible by a grand stone bridge. Nobles, servants and cartloads of furnishings, clothing, huge tents, artwork, silver and dishware trailed behind Henry for miles. But he was oblivious to everything and everyone, save for the petite, sweet-faced girl who rode a gray palfrey at his side.

  Now that there was no real impediment to his desire, as Anne was safely tucked away at Richmond Palace, Henry saw that his little Cat was clothed like a queen. She knew it delighted him to give her exquisite dresses of the finest velvet or Spanish silk, the most fashionable little French hoods and caps, and jewels to ornament her ears, smooth neck and fingers.

  Catherine glanced down at the tiny white ball of fur in her arms, sound asleep and nestled in a green velvet satchel that perfectly matched the emerald bracelet around its neck. Catherine smiled. A kitten had been the most charming gift of all.

  Henry was beside her, his girth concealed by a dashing cape of purple silk and matching cap, both edged with costly silver thread. His saddle was tooled in silver, as were the stirrups and reins. The buttons on his doublet were diamonds and pearls. She knew the costume was meant to impress her, and it did.

  “How is our little friend?” he asked, glancing over as they entered a forest lane and wound their way beneath a grove of lichen-covered trees.

  Catherine glanced down again at the sleeping kitten. “Precious enough to melt any heart, Your Majesty.”

  “I hope that includes your own, Mistress Howard.”

  “Your Majesty has hopes regarding my heart?” she flirtatiously asked.

  “Since the moment I first saw you. But then, I believe you have known that for a while now.”

  She was expected to banter with him like this. Her uncle was not beside them, but his lackey, Bishop Gardiner, was, and she knew perfectly well that all of it was a test she dared not fail.

  If only the very core of her soul did not belong to Thomas.

  Catherine tried her best not to glance back too often, lest it be obvious that she was looking for the king’s aide, who was, once again, mysteriously absent from His Majesty’s side. Jane had told her that Thomas had spent most of last night dancing with pretty Anne Basset. While she knew it meant nothing, Catherine was certain that he had embraced the inevitable, along with the rest of the court, and had begun to console himself by looking elsewhere. It would explain why Thomas did not call for her after the masque, she decided.

  As she had predicted, they could not outrun the king’s desires.

  Judging from his behavior, Thomas knew that as well.

  “I am eager to show you my Hampton Court,” Henry said. “It is an incredibly beautiful place, given to me many years ago by Cardinal Wolsey. Someday, perhaps, I shall be able to give it to you.”

  “Me, sire?” Catherine asked, genuinely surprised.

  His small, wet mouth quirked into a smile, which made his fat, copper-bearded cheeks bulge. “Well, at least share it with you. Grand as it is, it could use a woman’s touch.”

  Catherine knew perfectly well that he had married her cousin in the chapel at Hampton Court, since she had been told by her mother of the many changes and designs Anne had brought to the place, and she wondered if he had said that intentionally.

  “I am eager to see it,” she said sincerely.

  “And there are two very special people I would like you to meet tonight.”

  “I shall be honored.”

  “It is convenient that we both desire the same things, Mistress Howard,” he said with a smile and a tip of his head.

  Mary Lassells, who was riding beside Jane Boleyn and behind Catherine, listened with bitterness to the exchange between the king and the empty-headed Catholic.

  “I pray he takes your head one day, as he did Mistress Anne’s,” she muttered cruelly beneath her breath. “May God have mercy on your foul soul.”

  But Jane did not hear her. Jane was also trying to eavesdrop on their conversation, maneuvering her horse closer to the girl who everyone knew would be the next Queen of England.

  Catherine had been given the most luxurious apartments within Hampton Court, save the king’s. They included a suite of rooms facing the grand gardens, orchard and tiltyard beyond, and were the queen’s rooms.

  She twirled around, then collapsed on the grand mahogany bed with its tester of elegant blue silk. She was happy to be free of her horse so she could enjoy these continual indulgences to which she was so quickly growing accustomed, along with her lavish new lifestyle.

  Mary Lassells appeared suddenly at her bedside, looming over her with a new green satin gown over one arm and a blue one over the other. “Which do you desire to wear to supper, Mistress Howard? I understand there will be a surprise this evening, so you should look your best.”

  Catherine caught something in Mary’s tone, though she could take no umbrage at her words. She sat up, casually pulled her long hair free of her pearl-studded hood and draped it neatly across her shoulders. She saw that Mary was looking at her with a peculiar expression. Was it envy or something more? Whatever it was, she knew she had to be wary of Mary’s every word, movement and expression. Catherine had not forgotten why she was here.

  But then a new voice distracted her.

  “I prefer the green. It will go best with your eyes.”

  The words from behind her were unmistakably Henry’s. He stood in the doorway, hands on hips, legs wide apart, cradling in his meaty arms the tiny white kitten he had given to her.

  “And we really do need to give this little thing a name.” He chuckled.

  “Would Putette do well enough?” she proposed, referring to the French word peut-être, meaning “perhaps” or “perchance.” It was cleverly representative of their relationship, since Catherine had not yet committed to him or his romantic overtures. Henry tipped his head back with laughter.

  “I believe it will do splendidly. Now that we have solved that, would you like to take a walk with me?” he asked tentatively.

  Catherine, charmed by his seeming shyness, accepted the invitation.

  They walked slowly, to accommodate Henry’s painful leg, down a long, vaulted corridor with a high hammer-beam ceiling, down a twisted staircase with pillars supporting small statues of Welsh dragons, and out into the last of the afternoon light. A bloodred sunset played across Henry’s face, and the strong scent of ambergris nearly masked the foul
odor coming from the open ulcer on his leg. He was, in this moment, magnificent and normal. They strolled together without servants or aides, as if they were not the King of England and his soon-to-be queen. They stopped beside a long, neat hedge, and he took her hand.

  “So tell me, my Cat, does Putette’s collar please you?” he asked.

  “It is extraordinary, sire.”

  “Dearest Catherine, when we are alone, please remember to call me Hal; otherwise I feel positively ancient and distant from you,” he gently scolded her.

  “But there is a great distance between us. You are the king, my lord,” she said, smiling gently, “and I am merely a girl at your court.”

  “But I am also a man who has not felt loved for a very long time,” he said huskily, growing emotional.

  She tipped her head as a shadow crossed his face, which was fat and lined yet full of history and loss.

  “Do you feel loved now, Hal?”

  “I am not certain yet.” He squeezed her hand, then changed the subject. “I see now that emeralds are the perfect complement to your flawless skin.”

  With his other hand, he withdrew a necklace of diamonds and emeralds from a pocket in his doublet. “It is the companion piece to Putette’s collar. It once belonged to Queen Cleopatra, who enslaved men with her beauty, just as you have enslaved me.”

  As he awkwardly held the necklace in his hand, Catherine felt a surge of warmth toward him. He was a powerful king, yet he stood before her like an adolescent boy, spouting hackneyed lines, desperate to please a young girl from the country who had owned only two proper dresses before she came to court.

  Henry gently turned her around and clasped the piece of jewelry around her neck. “There. Perfect. Just as I knew it would be.”

  She fingered the unspeakably luxurious stones, cold against her throat, as she turned to face him. “Hal, they are too much.”

  “I want to give you the world, Catherine, and all I ask in return is that you go on making me feel as young and hopeful as you do when I look at your sweet face. If they make you happy, a few trifles are nothing compared to the joy you bring me.”