The Unfaithful Queen: A Novel of Henry VIII's Fifth Wife (16 page)

For an immense invasion fleet was said to be nearly ready to sail, a fleet of Spanish and French and even Venetian ships assembling in the harbors of the northern lowlands, intended to carry thousands of soldiers and mercenaries to our Channel coast. Storms arose to prevent the fleet from sailing—providential storms, divine aid sent to defend us. Yet as each storm abated, the watchers along the coastline peered into the mist and fog, certain that they would see the first flags and turrets of the enemy fleet any day.

The fear and activity reached a pitch in midsummer, and then, when no fleet appeared off our shores and no invaders had come down from the north, the war preparations slackened. But by then I was preoccupied by another concern, one much deeper and closer to home.

For my father, weary of his struggles and disappointments over money and increasingly harassed by moneylenders and tradesmen, had fled to Uncle William’s house at Oxenheath, and was very ill.

As soon as I learned of his illness I went to be with him, only to discover, somewhat to my surprise, that no other family members were at his bedside. He had been abandoned by everyone, even his unpleasant wife, my stepmother Margaret.

“Poor man,” Uncle William said as we sat at father’s bedside, where he lay asleep, his breathing ragged and his forehead creased as if in worry. “He came to me a few days ago, asking me to hide him. He said his creditors were after him, and that he didn’t feel at all well. Then he collapsed, and I put him to bed and called my physician to see to him.”

“Is it his kidney stones?”

Uncle William nodded. “That, and fatigue. The physician says his body is just tired out, worn out. He has been sleeping most of the time since he arrived. He must be dreaming, because he talks in his sleep. I can’t make out the words.”

“Why is there no one else here?”

Uncle William made a wry face. “Have you not noticed, Catherine, that only the rich attract relatives to their deathbeds?”

I felt a catch in my throat. I hardly dared ask, yet needed to know.

“Is he dying then?”

Uncle William nodded. “The priest has been here. He has been shriven.”

I reached for father’s hand. It felt light, and very dry. As though it was drying up, or fading away. Such a dear, familiar hand, the fingers thin and curling under, the nails not entirely clean, or well trimmed. I began to cry. How would I go on without him?

“I will stay here with him, Uncle William, if you want to get some sleep.”

He nodded and left.

I squeezed father’s hand, but he didn’t respond. His breaths became rasping, harsh. He began to cough. I was afraid he would choke. I tried to help him sit up, but he wrenched himself away and flopped back down, away from me, on his side.

“Father, it’s Catherine.”

At the sound of my name he struggled to lie flat again. In a moment he opened his eyes, squinting.

“Catherine,” he said, and reached for me. The look in his eyes was so forlorn, so pitiable, that my tears flowed freely.

“Dearest father,” was all I could say. “Dearest dearest father.”

He made an indistinct sound.

“What, father? Do you want anything?” I looked around. Was he cold? Hungry? What could I give him? What could I do for him?

“Beaten—down—by—life,” he managed to say. “No—good—trying—any—more.”

The effort to speak tired him, and he took deep breaths, his eyes closed.

“Please don’t give up, father. Please. For my sake.”

He shook his head.

“No—good—any—more.”

He smiled, a weak smile, but full of love. Then he slept. After a time I lay down beside him, and slept too. Later I was awakened by Uncle William.

“He’s gone to be with the Lord, Catherine.” He put his arms around me.

“Don’t leave me, father. Don’t leave me!” I cried, desolate.

My father’s funeral was brief and without dignity or grandeur. Few Howards were in attendance. I was embarrassed for him, my emotions in upheaval. I grieved, for both my parents, the mother I had barely known and the father I had so dearly loved. I was all that was left of them both. And now I was an orphan.

*   *   *

Great draughts of calming poppy broth helped me through the following weeks, while my grief gradually began to lessen. I had suffered two blows: first the betrayal and disappearance of Francis, and then the loss of my father. I was idle, adrift. I felt lumpish and glum, moping through my days, resentful of my relations who had not paid tribute to my father in death—for although he was entombed in the Howard family vault, his body was enclosed with many others and his name was carved in small letters, easy to overlook. The great Howards were magnificently memorialized; an insignificant Howard like my father was accorded barely any honor or distinction at all.

Meanwhile the long-drawn-out drama of King Henry’s choice of a wife was ending. After insisting that a dozen other princesses be considered, he at last gave in to Lord Cromwell’s insistent urgings and agreed to pledge himself to the Lady Anna of Cleves.

To avert war, to assure England’s triumph over enemies whose enormous fleet might yet appear, it was necessary that he submit to a marriage that made him deeply uneasy. And so, Uncle Thomas told me, the king signed the marriage contract.

His brief flirtation with me was over. Anna of Cleves would become his wife. Fortune had decreed it.

“But King Henry may yet choose you as his mistress,” Uncle Thomas told me. “He wants you near him, at the royal court. He insists that if he must marry the Lady Anna, you must be among her maids of honor. Unless this is assured, he will not agree to the marriage. Are you willing to serve the new queen as her maid of honor? I would not advise you to refuse.”

It seemed inevitable to me, in that moment, that I should do as the king wished. As my uncle clearly wished. I agreed.

*   *   *

We began right away to prepare for the new queen’s arrival. There was a great deal to do, and I realized, as I set about my duties, that it was good for me to be occupied. I had little time to dwell on my losses, my grievances. I was kept busy, kept moving from one part of the royal palace to another, occupied with many different tasks.

My promotion from Grandma Agnes’s household to the royal court meant that I had a great deal to learn. Whitehall was vast, Hampton Court and Greenwich smaller but challenging, with their baffling interconnected corridors and confusing staircases, their warrens of chambers and antechambers. I felt that it would take time for me to find my way with certainty through the royal residences. And I knew that there would soon be another residence: Nonsuch. I was privileged to have seen it, as it were, through the king’s eyes, before it was even built.

A special envoy, Herr Olisleger, was sent from the Clevan court to organize the Lady Anna’s household. He was a short, stout, self-important man of forty, dressed in the outlandish, outmoded garments the Clevans seemed to prefer. He spoke little English and had to communicate with King Henry’s officials and household officers in Latin—and they were overheard to complain, Herr Olisleger’s Latin was hard for them to understand, as it was heavily accented and pronounced in the German manner.

Nonetheless plans were made and many officials and servants appointed—one hundred and twenty-six in all. I could not help but feel a pang as these officials were chosen, wishing that my father, healthy and feeling gratified, had been among them. I was to be one of a dozen maids of honor, Charyn another, my cousin Malyn another. We were to be under the care and direction of a Clevan matron called Mère Lowe, which, we were told, meant “Mama Lion” in the Clevan dialect. Many Clevan ladies were said to be coming to England along with the Lady Anna, and her two sisters, Sybilla and Amelia, and her mother who, it was rumored, had been opposed to Anna’s marrying King Henry.

The late Queen Jane’s suite of apartments was renovated for the new queen’s use, and we were told that as maids of honor we would have two large rooms as our own, plus a smaller one for our wardrobe chests and baskets, and to serve as a sitting room during the day.

Furnishings began arriving, familiar beds and hangings, paintings and silver and napery sent from Cleves to make the Lady Anna’s apartments more welcoming to her. We thought them hideous, but did not say so openly. We speculated among ourselves about whether the new queen’s manners and behavior would be as odd and unwelcome as her furnishings.

And what of the Clevan maids of honor and ladies in waiting? What would they be like? Would they be gracious and accommodating, or unmannerly and domineering?

These were minor matters, we knew, compared to the importance of the alliance between our two realms, and the chain of further alliances that would result from the bond sealed by the coming marriage. All that truly mattered was what Lord Cromwell told Uncle Thomas, a tale that was quickly passed throughout the royal court. It was said that when the Emperor Charles learned that our king had at last chosen the Lady Anna as his bride, he howled in fury, and shouted at his councilors that a breach had been made in the walls of the mighty Hapsburg fortress, and that before long the fortress itself might tumble into ruin.

EIGHT

AFTER
months of preparation we were nearly ready to receive Lady Anna into her new home. The late Queen Jane’s apartments were now spoken of as Queen Anne’s suite, and the glaziers had removed all the medallions bearing the initials H and J, for Henry and Jane, and replaced them with new ones honoring H and A, Henry and Anna.

New liveries had been sewn for the grooms and footmen and maids—even the three laundresses sent from Cleves to prepare linens and bedding had new gowns and aprons. The steward of the household, Herr Hoghesten, was installed in his own chambers and the chief cook, Master Schulenberg, was satisfied, or nearly satisfied, with the kitchens and larders and the assigning of places at the newly arranged queen’s table.

We maids of honor, along with the ladies in waiting and the privy chamber women, were given places of respect at the long table, below the steward and the chamberlain Herr Olisleger and Lady Anna’s physician Dr. Cornelius but above the lesser servants, the chamberer and cupbearer and the three chaplains who were expected to arrive from Cleves any day. Mère Lowe, or as we called her, Mama Lion, a tall, strong-looking woman who wound her long grey hair around her head in a bizarre fashion, was in charge of us; we had grown accustomed to hearing her loud, low-pitched voice ordering us to do this or that or correcting us when we made mistakes. Charyn and I were quick and efficient, and rarely displeased her. Malyn, however, grew nervous and confused when in her presence and was often reprimanded.

“But I can’t understand her!” Malyn complained to us, exasperated and worried. “Why can’t she learn to speak English properly! It will be much worse when the German women get here,” was her frequent complaint. “They will all babble away in that peculiar language of theirs, Dutch or German or whatever it is, and we won’t be able to follow a word they’re saying.”

I had already learned a little of the Clevans’ language—I could hardly help learning it, I heard it all day every day—and could not sympathize with Malyn’s distress.

“You just have thick ears,” Charyn told Malyn unkindly. “You need to clean out your thick ears and listen harder.”

By September the last of the obstacles in the marriage negotiations had been worked through, Lady Anna’s small dowry had been put in the hands of the royal bankers for safekeeping, and the marriage treaty itself was drawn up.

King Henry signed it, after being repeatedly assured that his Clevan bride was lovely to look at, sweet natured and of good character.

“Her mother has raised her strictly,” Mama Lion told us—with Herr Olisleger serving as interpreter. “She would never dare to do wrong or disobey. She is modest and quiet—not like you English girls with your loud voices and your wandering here and there. Not like you with your joking and teasing.”

We did joke about the Clevans, behind their backs, and especially about Mama Lion with her heavy, foot-stomping walk and her severe braided hair and commanding low voice, almost the voice of a man rather than a woman. Herr Olisleger too was mocked and ridiculed (the English grooms mimicked him very amusingly), as were the head cook and the few Clevan guardsmen and the footmen, who gave themselves airs and thought themselves superior to their English counterparts.

At least there were no quarrels, or fights between the men of Cleves and our English household members. I hoped that when Lady Anna arrived with her many servants, there would be harmony among us all. With the formal marriage treaty signed, she was due to arrive very soon, leaving the castle of Duren where she had been living and going aboard ship for the crossing at Harderwijk on the Zuider Zee.

She was expected very soon—but in October the harsh weather set in and the sea was too rough to risk the journey. One storm after another delayed her, and while she delayed, King Henry became impatient and worried, bad-tempered, and then ill.

As always when he worried, his stomach pained him and he took cold. Rain spoiled his sport, the harsh medicines his physicians gave him sent him to the place of easement continually and he was unhappy and bored.

He sent for me.

“I am always ready to serve you, Your Majesty,” I said as I was ushered into the presence of the king by Anthony Denny, his lean, suave body servant and privy chamber gentleman.

“He is not at his best, Mistress Catherine,” Master Denny murmured as we entered the room. “I trust you have a fresh pomander with you.”

“Perhaps I shall need more than one,” was my rejoinder as we exchanged a fleeting smile. Anthony Denny, I had noticed, was the most benevolent and accommodating of King Henry’s servants, and was becoming the one he relied on most often to attend to his personal needs. Master Denny was calm and well disposed. I had never seen him act otherwise.

As soon as the king saw me, with Jonah draped around my shoulders, his face brightened. But my own face fell. The king was seated on his close stool, and the stink was intolerable. I reached for my pomander and held it under my nose.