The Queen's Mistake Page 26

  Henry had been told that he would need a papal dispensation to marry Catherine, since she was Catholic and a first cousin to his deceased wife Anne Boleyn. Henry knew that would delay the wedding by months, but he had no intention of waiting that long to marry and bed his sweet, innocent beauty. So, as the ecclesiastical authority of the Church of England, he informed the stunned privy counsel that he would grant a dispensation to himself.

  “And I want all three of my children there. When will Edward arrive?”

  “He remains at Windsor, Your Majesty,” Archbishop Cranmer explained as they surveyed the chapel site. “They say His Grace is fatigued by the heat, but he is regaining his strength with the aid of cool baths.”

  “Very well. Send word back that he should rest. I have waited this long.” Henry shrugged. “We shall wait one day more for my son.”

  Though Henry had convinced himself that he could be flexible in his arrangements, an ominous feeling had been gnawing at him since the day he proposed to Catherine. He felt oddly pressed to marry her, not just because he was eager to consecrate their union, but because he sensed that she needed protection from something. He wanted their marriage to be a safe harbor for Catherine.

  There was a time when he would have asked for Cromwell’s advice. Though he had been ambitious and underhanded at times, Cromwell had always been a trustworthy friend to the king. Until the very end, Henry had always been assured of his honesty. Cromwell had been the only check against the raging ambition of the Howards and Seymours, but by tomorrow, he would be gone and the two warring families would have free rein. Thank God for Cranmer. He might not be the most eloquent or socially adept man—in fact, the archbishop was a frightful bore—but he would help Henry maintain order.

  Henry’s thoughts returned to his children. “Well, at least Mary and Elizabeth are here.”

  “They are, Your Majesty.” Cranmer nodded as he piously steepled his hands.

  “And the medal has been struck?” Henry asked, inquiring about Catherine’s secret wedding gift.

  “I am told that the first one shall arrive tomorrow,” Cranmer confirmed. “I am certain the queen will be honored by your gift.”

  Henry paused at the altar and turned to the prelate. “So, Cranmer, since you are here to advise me on the matrimonial road ahead—”

  “I should hope to serve Your Majesty in any and all ways you find pleasing.”

  Henry flicked a wrist at him dismissively as colored light from the stained-glass window fell upon them both. “Yes, yes, then serve me in this way: Tell me if there are any reasons why I should not marry Catherine Howard. This is, after all, my fifth attempt, and I would very much like it to be my last.”

  He watched Cranmer’s face carefully as he made his request. He had learned at an early age that the truth always lay in the eyes, even with the best liars. Wolsey had been a prime example of that, God rest his soul.

  “I know of nothing against the lady, sire,” Cranmer said firmly. But he had hesitated for a moment too long. Henry caught it and held his breath, waiting for the archbishop’s next words.

  Cranmer carefully continued. “Surely there is talk of the lady’s great beauty . . . and there are, doubtless, men of your court who envy you greatly for having won her.”

  “Anyone in particular?”

  “None that I know of, sire.”

  “I could not survive being made a cuckold again. It was unbearable the first time,” Henry said, referring to Anne Boleyn.

  “The lady seems a different sort, sire.”

  “She does at that.” Henry scratched his beard thoughtfully. “So then you have no gossip against her at all?”

  “I do not. But if that were to change, then of course my loyalty would be to Your Majesty.” Cranmer bowed respectfully.

  Henry smiled. “Good. See that it is.”

  A small reprieve. It was all Catherine thought of as the page stood before her, having made the king’s announcement. For one day more she would not be queen. For one day more she would not belong to Henry. While she had resigned herself to the life that now lay ahead of her, and was even excited by aspects of it, for one day more she might hope for the dream of Thomas. She did not even know if he was here with them or if he had stayed behind with the bulk of the court who had not been invited to be present at her wedding.

  Catherine had not seen Francis Dereham for days. He remained in London, which she gratefully saw as her grandmother’s wedding gift to her.

  She could finally relax and enjoy herself now, and she looked forward to the evening’s festivities. She knew the guest list for supper included Elizabeth, whom she was excited to see, and Mary, with whom she was less thrilled. But as queen, Catherine knew she must learn to take the bad with the good and handle it all with grace. And she must remember that all three children were motherless. She certainly could sympathize with them, and thus make the most of her relationships with them.

  Followed by a growing group of court ladies, Catherine walked slowly along the flagstone path to the place beyond the little terrace where she had been directed to wait for the king. She pressed thoughts of Thomas from her mind. Wherever he was, it was better he was not here. Looking into his eyes tomorrow, seeing him hurt when she married someone else, would have been unbearable.

  The great, girthy king hobbled toward her, struggling not to grimace. Catherine thought it absurd that he attempted to mask his illnesses and obesity with sparkling jewels and a swath of priceless Spanish velvet. But Henry was her life now, and she must hide her true thoughts behind a smile.

  “You look beautiful,” Henry said, a shaft of sunlight picking up the copper tones in his shaggy beard. The white plume of his hat fluttered in the warm summer breeze as he gave her a courtly little nod.

  “I am sorry about the postponement, but I want to assure you that the Archbishop of Canterbury is here to officiate the wedding and everything is prepared for tomorrow.”

  “Your son’s presence is important.”

  “It is everything. I want you to know him, Cat, as you know my daughters. I want you to be a second mother to each of them. I want you to be a part of everything in my life,” Henry said earnestly.

  “By God’s grace, I will,” she dutifully replied. Catherine knew she must respect any request regarding the king’s only son, for he would be her king one day.

  He drew her hand up and gently kissed her knuckles. His pudgy, ring-covered fingers were clammy, as always, and his face was perspiring from his walk down the path. But she did not withdraw in disgust. His courtiers, dressed in elegant silk and velvet, and gold chains, left the king’s side and began to speak quietly amongst themselves.

  After they were alone, Henry turned to her and said, “I have something for you.” Without waiting for a reply, he brought forth from his doublet a single, real pink rose on a long, bare stem. The fragrance of it hit her immediately. “It is a perfect rose. You will see that there are no thorns. This variety grows only at Oatlands, which is why I decided we should be married here.” He smiled shyly. “For luck.”

  Catherine took the flower and brought it to her nose. “It is exquisite,” she said, sincerely moved by the gift.

  “It is as you are to me: beautiful, flawless, without the power to wound anyone. You are my rose with no thorns, and you shall be unrivaled as the true queen—the one who should have reigned beside me all along. But now I have the rest of our lives to make that up to you, and I mean for the world to know it.” Henry ran a hand along the line of her jaw and stopped just above her chin. The motion was surprisingly gentle, she thought, for such a big man. “You will help me be tender. You will make me young again. I want that hope returned to me, that optimism, that trust. I want you for all of these reasons and more.”

  “And so you have me, Hal,” she reassured him. Though he had endeared himself to her over time, she knew that she could never actually fall in love with him. At least, not the way he wished. Whether she ever saw him again or not, her love would
forever belong to Thomas Culpeper.

  Late the following morning, as a bold burst of summer sunlight streamed through the stained-glass windows of the Oatlands chapel and the sound of bells pealed loudly above them, Catherine walked down the aisle toward a broken, bloated and smiling Henry. She tried hard not to tremble. Her head was high with feigned confidence, but seeing his smile gave her real strength.

  The only attendees were her uncle, Bishop Gardiner and Lady Rochford, who was there to help her if she fell or vomited, both of which at this moment she felt like doing.

  This will be simple and quick, she told herself with determination as she put one foot before the other, heading toward the altar in the small, hollow, ancient-smelling chapel. You will say your vow and it will be over. It was odd, she thought, how these last days had changed her. She was more willing to embrace her responsibilities, which was helped by Henry’s sweet, gentle devotion and complete adoration. He was smiling at her as he tipped back on his heels, draped in a massive coat of ermine-trimmed velvet. His face was bright and his deep green eyes were twinkling.

  The strong aromas of incense and candle wax made her dizzy as she walked toward the candlelit altar, and the jewels on her shoes bit into her heels. She could even feel blood begin to squish between her toes. No one could see the shoes beneath her gown, but Henry insisted that she wear them. They were elegant. Rare. Expensive. It was what a proper queen wore to her wedding. Only the finest of everything. Catherine only hoped that the blood was not an omen of things to come, since it reminded her of her dream.

  The actual ceremony seemed brief after the long walk down the aisle. When she was required to speak, she did. She nodded, exchanged a brief smiling glance with the king, and then it was over. Quick and painless. The hard part was what awaited her that night.

  After the banquet, the overflowing platters of food, the decanters of wine, the smiles and the mind-numbing round of congratulations, Catherine would have to give herself to Henry. She would do it mechanically, as she had given herself to men at Horsham, and she would pretend that it was pleasurable, though she had only ever truly made love with one man. But she could not think of that any longer. Thomas and their precious days together were far behind her.

  In a back corner of the royal chapel, concealed by shadows and a grand column, Thomas had watched every syllable, word and gesture of the ceremony. He had needed to see it for himself, as he had the proposal. Irrevocably, she was Henry’s now. Catherine was Queen of England. And he was a man with a broken heart.

  “Culpeper, what are you doing here?”

  The censorious voice belonged to Stephen Gardiner, Norfolk’s ally. Thomas turned slowly toward him.

  “You’re not to be here. The king was most specific. Only those he personally invited were allowed to attend. Besides, as a gentleman of the chamber, you are needed upstairs to prepare for the king’s wedding night.”

  Thomas nodded to the bishop and walked away, too heartbro ken to make excuses for his presence at the ceremony. He could not fight against any of this.

  He was sure that Catherine did not even know he was at Oatlands, since he had decided to keep a low profile. No need to upset her. It was enough for him to be near her, to see her from a distance or to catch the slightest scent of her perfume as she passed along a corridor and he lingered in an alcove. It was the only thing that enabled him to rise from the cold comfort of his small bed every single morning to don the costumes of a gentleman.

  Right before he left the chapel, he saw the new royal couple make their way back down the aisle as the invited few gave their congratulations. He waited, watching her until the last possible moment, when, fearing she would see him, he turned and slipped silently out a side door. Today was a day to get very drunk indeed. He would need some liquid courage to prepare the king’s private bedchamber for the wedding night. He could not allow himself to think of his one true love lying naked on the bed for the pleasure of another man.

  Three hours later, the banquet hall was swollen with a crowd of celebrating courtiers, and the air was stiflingly hot. Amid the musky sweat and the aroma of cooked food, Catherine sat beside Henry, whose porcine face was flushed crimson with wine. He was holding her hand in his sweaty palm beneath the table linen, running his thumb with a sickening, seductive rhythm along her forefinger.

  Suddenly, he stood and raised his gold goblet high, and the courtiers, musicians and servants fell to a hush. Catherine glanced up at her new husband, who tried to focus his drunken gaze on the crowd.

  “My guests, my friends, today we celebrate my new queen and yours—Catherine, the epitome of beauty, grace and innocence.”

  Someone near her muffled an unmistakable snicker. Catherine glanced up at Henry, who appeared not to have heard it. He was still smiling with a silly, besotted expression on his face.

  “To that end, a new ceremonial medal has been struck to mark this very important day, bearing a new motto for the best, the brightest and final chapter of my reign. I present it here, before all of you.”

  He held it up and everyone gasped with appropriate drama, although no one knew what it said yet. Henry continued, “It reads ‘Rosa Sine Spina.’ A rose without thorns. That is my wife, and your queen.”

  Everyone applauded, but the glacial smiles around her only echoed what she already felt. Would she be able to live up to the king’s flawless vision of her?

  He had set her on an impossibly high pedestal, and from that it would certainly be a long way to fall.

  At the precise moment that the new Queen of England lifted a third cup of Malmsey to her lips in celebration of her marriage, Thomas Cromwell, formerly the second-most-powerful man in England, was led shackled and trembling to Tower Green.

  A proud man, he tried, at first, not to weep. Such a display would not befit the Lord Great Chamberlain, even as he strode toward his death. A crowd had worked its way past the walls, anxious for a good show. It was scandalous and “right fun,” they gossiped, that the king should wed his fifth wife on the very day that his once most trusted aide and friend was to be beheaded.

  When Cromwell saw the block before him and the sickening smiles of the blood-hungry citizens, terror took the place of dignity and he lost his resolve. “Oh, God, I cry for mercy! I have been a true servant!” he wailed. “Most gracious king, I am calling! Have mercy on my soul, which has never betrayed you or the true religion!”

  The stone-faced guardsman, who would have bowed to him at one time, stiffened and spoke as he turned away. “His Majesty cannot hear ye. And if he could, your pleas’d mean nothin’ to ’im. I’m to tell ye our king tossed your letters into the fire and laughed as he did. Now lay down your head there, just so, on the block. ’Twill be faster for you that way. Right’s right. Ye don’t go betrayin’ a king, my man. Not this king, anyway,” he added with a hollow laugh as the hooded executioner advanced.

  As Cromwell laid his head on the block, Catherine stood still as a stone. Anne Basset and Margaret washed her thoroughly with scented cloths. She must be pleasant for His Majesty.

  The king despises uncleanliness in his women, one of the ladies in the room whispered with a dark chuckle. If she shows up unclean, it could even prove fatal, she added.

  But Catherine’s heart was beating so loudly that she could not identify the voice. That mattered little anyway. She knew she had no real friends here other than Jane. She glanced over at Mary Lassells, lurking, as always, in the corner of the room as if to underscore that fact.

  Catherine allowed Anne Basset to lift her arms, one at a time, and run a warm, wet cloth along each of them, from her shoulder, past the elbow and slowly to her fingertips. Silently, Catherine’s elder sister Margaret followed the same path along her body with the king’s favorite scented oil. Catherine tried to slow her heart, but each moment was more difficult than the last. She was sorry that she knew what lay ahead. Catherine closed her eyes, refusing to think of Thomas and trying not to imagine Henry hulking and sweating over her.

/>   Jane came to her then with a delicate linen-and-lace shift and slipped it over her head. The bell sleeves whispered down as she lowered her arms. Catherine felt the cool, new, too-tight band on her finger, her blood pulsing around the ring as if it were cutting off her circulation. Lady Lisle advanced and began to brush her long hair over her shoulders and arrange the curls around her face.

  “It is time, Your Grace,” Jane announced.

  Catherine silently followed her ladies to the king’s rooms, where she found silver moonlight filtering in through the windows, casting shadows across the floor. There were long, lit tapers, their flames shimmering above gold sconces along the walls, but there was no fire. It was too warm for that.

  Catherine moved toward the bed as the door clicked to a close behind her. He had not arrived yet, so she had some time to collect herself. Though the room was full of incense, romantic candlelight and soft shadows, it felt like a prison cell, this evening the beginning of her sentence. From now on, everything would be determined for her.

  Just as Thomas Cromwell had met his end this day, Catherine would as well, though in some ways her fate was worse than death.

  But before she could dwell on her thoughts, the door opened again, admitting a long shaft of light into the bedchamber. She could not breathe. She could feel nothing but the slamming of her heart against her rib cage. Catherine heard a flurry of activity in the corridor beyond. Voices. Muffled laughter. The door closed, and Henry stood in the doorway, lingering for a moment, looking strangely unsure of himself as he gazed at her. The candles flickered. There was more male laughter beyond the closed door. The sound made her feel tawdry, for she knew how public a king’s wedding night was. She knew she was lucky the act between them would not be witnessed, as it was in some courts in Europe. She tried very hard not to think about her first time with Thomas.