The Unfaithful Queen: A Novel of Henry VIII's Fifth Wife (3 page)

Poor Alice admitted that she had not had her monthly flux for many weeks and that she had often been sick, that whatever she ate would not stay in her stomach.

“Did no one ever tell you that if you let a man have his pleasure with you there would be a child? Did no one ever show you what to do to make sure no child would be born?”

Alice shook her head.

“Then I will tell you.” With a sigh Joan went to the wardrobe and brought out a lemon, which she cut in half.

“Here,” she said, handing one of the halves to Alice. “Take this and put it inside you.”

Alice, groggy from the drinks she had been given, stared at Joan, incomprehending.

“Stupid girl!” Joan spat out. Then, taking the other half of the lemon, she lifted her skirts, spread her legs, and packed the dripping fruit up into her honeypot.

So quickly did she do this that I hardly had time to be surprised. Alice, after fumbling a bit, managed to imitate her.

“Do this whenever you are with a lover. If you have no lemons, use a bit of sponge. Dip it in vinegar first. Or if you have no vinegar, dip it in sour milk.”

“How do you know this? How can you be sure it will work?” I wanted to know. “You are no midwife or wise woman.”

“I know,” Joan responded, “because I have lain with boys and men since I was younger than you, and I am eighteen now, and I have never yet been with child. I learned what I know from other girls, of course. Older girls. How else?”

She looked over at Alice, who was holding her stomach with both hands.

“She’s going to need the chamber pot,” Joan told me. “Don’t be alarmed. The drink I gave her—the second one—was very strong. The juice of tansy and pennyroyal. It will cause her to expel her child. The pain will be great, but it will not last long.”

Alice was doubled over, grimacing and moaning. She squatted over the chamber pot to relieve herself but could only grunt and emit little shrieks. Her forehead shone with perspiration. She reached for my hand, and when I offered it, she squeezed it so hard it hurt.

“Help me,” she whispered, then let out a piteous moan.

What happened over the next hour is best left unrecorded, except to write that when Alice’s pain was finally past, she was no longer carrying her lover’s child. And I, having witnessed her suffering, and done my best to help her through it with soothing words and encouragement, was left exhausted and in need of rest.

But the lessons of that long night stayed with me. If, as Joan Bulmer said, we were living in a lustpit, then I was determined to avoid its pitfalls. I had no lover, but I vowed that, should a lover come to me, I would keep plenty of lemons nearby, and would be wary and prudent in making use of them. I did not yet know how perilous the ways of love could be, and how even the most prudent of girls could fall prey to its perplexing tangles.

TWO

I
did not grow much taller, alas! When I turned sixteen I was no taller than I had been at fifteen, and the clothes I brought with me when I first came to Horsham still fit me many months later. They still fit me—but I had worn them so often that they were full of holes and rips and I had been forced to patch them again and again. I had no money to pay a dressmaker to make me new gowns and petticoats, or to buy stockings and trims from the peddlers who came to my grandmother’s estate every few weeks.

How I envied my pretty cousin Charyn, who not only grew taller and more attractive but became more and more sure of her loveliness the older she became. I saw her looking with satisfaction at her own reflection, smiling at herself in the long pier glass in the Paradise Chamber, or gazing into a pond in the garden in search of her own face. She noticed the admiring glances of the household servants and the gentlemen ushers who served my grandmother the duchess. The envious glances of other girls she pretended to ignore, but I could tell that secretly they pleased her.

Knowing that others were admiring her, she carried herself proudly, her head held high on her slender neck, her back straight, a tight smile on her face. Frowns were unbecoming, so she seldom frowned. One of her teeth was crooked—her only visible flaw—but she was careful not to let that tooth show when she smiled. And her manner toward others was reserved, her gestures restrained. She never raised her voice, never appeared to quarrel.

Grandmother Agnes, who was all but impossible to please, gave a slight nod of satisfaction when Charyn passed by, or when she came to our dancing class—something she rarely did—and observed Charyn hopping daintily to the music, never out of step, never disheveled at the end of a long intricate dance.

Though Charyn and I were friends, and had been friends since we were very young, her father’s estate being near ours, we could hardly have been less alike, and the older we grew, the more dissimilar we became. I liked to giggle and tell jokes—anything to make the other girls laugh. If I could make them laugh, they might not notice that my nose was too big and my eyes were set too far apart for beauty—flaws Charyn was forever pointing out to me. I liked to romp and play games and go for long walks, even in the rain sometimes. Walking lifted my spirits, though I was often bedraggled by the time I got back to the Paradise Chamber, my torn skirts ever more torn, my petticoats muddy. I was not careful to walk in a certain way or keep a certain expression on my face. And I hardly ever looked in the pier glass. Seeing my appearance made me glum, and reminded me that my nose was too big and long. If I thought about it, I realized that my lack of beauty might keep me from ever marrying.

Charyn was desirable as a wife, because she was a Howard and her father could provide a generous dowry, and because of her youth and beauty. She boasted that discussions were already under way between Grandma Agnes and several highborn, well-to-do men seeking brides. These discussions made my cousin more prideful than ever, and more quick than ever in reminding me that no match might ever be made for me.

“There is a reason why I am soon to be betrothed and you are still a maid, with no suitors for your hand.”

“You are two years older than I am,” I countered. “I am too young to be betrothed.”

“Many girls are married at twelve,” Charyn snapped, her usual reserve cast aside, her usually low voice raised.

“Your age is not the reason. The fact is, we are very unalike. I have the fine breeding of a nobleman’s daughter, and you do not.

“When a litter of pups is born, one is always the most desirable. The handsomest, with the best and thickest coat, the keenest sense of smell, the most skillful at the hunt. But one or two of the pups are always runts—small, like you. They are inferior whelps, to be discarded. They cannot be allowed to breed. Their inferior sire and dam condemn them.

“You, Catherine, are an inferior whelp and it is time you realized it, as everyone else does. You cannot be allowed to breed. You will never marry.”

Charyn’s cutting words brought out all my defiance.

“At least I am not going to be sent to a convent, like Margery Pounder.” Margery, a sullen girl cursed with a clubfoot and with an unsightly birthmark on her forehead, was ridiculed by the other girls and even more cruelly by the grooms and valets. She had not been at Horsham long before we heard that she was going to be sent to live with the Sisters of Charity. It was understood that she would not marry.

“Not yet,” Charyn was saying. “But that may be your fate before long, if you do not grow any taller.”

“Perhaps my feet will sprout stumps,” I joked. “Or perhaps my head will expand—as yours has.”

Charyn gave me one of her rare frowns, then stalked off, her back very straight.

I had deflected her barbs, yet her words worried me. Was I indeed to be sent away if I failed to grow? Would I never know love? Would I be denied the pleasure of a happy marriage, children of my own, all of us living in a fine house with spacious grounds, and perhaps other manors and estates besides?

Could it not happen? I was the niece of the mighty Duke of Norfolk, the granddaughter of the dowager duchess. Why shouldn’t I have a wealthy husband, just because I was not very tall?

Inferior whelp indeed!

*   *   *

I was musical and liked to pick out tunes on the virginals. I could play almost any tune I heard, at least I could find the melody easily enough on the wooden keys. There were two virginals kept in one of the upper rooms at Horsham, one quite old with a beautiful case painted with cupids and blue gillyflowers and the other one newer with a plain case but keys that responded more easily to the touch. I sometimes sat playing tunes for an hour or more, making up melodies of my own and amusing myself by singing them.

One afternoon I was startled when my grandmother Agnes came into the room. With her was my uncle William Cotton, benign and pleasant as always. His belly seemed rounder than ever, and his hair thinner and more sparse. He looked as though he had a priest’s tonsure. But his face was jolly and smiling, and his eyes were bright with pleasure at the sight of me.

“So that was you banging away on the keys,” my grandmother said. “I would hear more.”

I thought for a moment, then played “Into the Greenwood Go,” a song I had often heard the musicians play at my father’s house.

“Good girl,” my uncle said. “Clever girl. She has always played well, you know. Ever since she was very small. Catherine dear, can you give us a sacred melody?”

I played a hymn the choir sang at Easter and sang along with my playing, and when I finished I heard my grandmother saying, “Well now, at least she can do
something
!”

“Have you had instruction, Catherine?” my uncle asked. “Did your father provide you with a music teacher?”

“No, Uncle William. His—his means did not permit it.”

Grandma Agnes snorted loudly. “His means indeed! What means? He’s been living off the rest of us all his life!”

“Doesn’t your neighbor George Manox have a son who is a music teacher?” my uncle asked my grandmother.

She nodded.

“Well, could he not come to Horsham and teach Catherine? And perhaps some of the other girls as well?”

She shrugged.

“He could, if he wasn’t in disgrace.”

“What do you mean?”

She sighed in exasperation. “William, why must you meddle in the affairs of my household? Why must you come and pester me!”

My uncle chuckled. “Because you like my company, that’s why!”

And at that the old lady laughed—but only briefly.

“He brought shame on himself,” she said at length. “He did something to anger the king, and he brought shame on himself. He was sent away. That’s all I know.”

“So he taught music at the royal court,” I said. “He must have been a fine player and teacher indeed.”

Grandma glowered at me.

“Hold your tongue, girl! You know nothing about it!”

For several weeks nothing more was said to me about my uncle’s suggestion that a music teacher be found for me. But then, one day, when Alice Restvold and I were listening to Father Dawes lecture us on the purity of womanhood and the virtue of chastity, one of the gentleman ushers came into the room, bringing another man with him.

I had seen the gentleman usher before. He was Joan Bulmer’s preferred companion, Edward Waldegrave, a smooth-faced, blond young man who looked well in his livery but lacked dash and manliness. But the man with him, a much older man, with a dark moustache and beard, deep brown eyes and a quick, darting glance—that man I had never seen before. I was sure I would have remembered him. I tried not to stare, but I confess he fascinated me. Who could he be? He was not a member of my grandmother’s household, for he was not dressed as a servant or official. He was not a soldier, for he wore no sword at his waist and lacked the swagger I had often seen in soldiers’ walk. Could he be a merchant? A townsman visiting from the capital? Or perhaps a foreigner, come from far away on an errand for his masters, and sent by a court official to see Grandmother Agnes? I would know when he spoke.

“I come at the duchess’s command,” Edward Waldegrave said. “I am to say that Master Manox will be instructing you, Catherine, and you, Alice, in the virginals and lute and that your instruction is to begin this afternoon.”

Father Dawes had stopped talking. He closed the book he had before him.

“I was just concluding my own instruction,” he said gravely, and bowed slightly to the dark-eyed music master.

“Well then, ladies, let us go up to the music room,” Master Manox said to us with a smile and a bow. Alice looked flustered, I was charmed. I was more than charmed, I was excited. Something about this man ignited me, as a burning brand ignites kindling, so that a flame leaps up.

I thought I saw the merest hint in his brown eyes that he too felt some of the same excitement.

I did not stop to think: but he’s old. He’s so very old.

We made our way to the upper chamber where the two virginals were, escorted by the gentleman usher. Then he left us and Alice and I spent an hour or so with Master Manox.

He played for us, he listened to us play. I played boldly, enjoying the tunes and caring little if I struck a wrong key, as long as the tune was recognizable. Alice confessed that she could hardly play at all, and Master Manox patiently helped her to place her fingers correctly on the keys and strike them in a pleasing order. He spent far more time with Alice than he did with me, but often, as he was teaching her and gently correcting her, he looked over at me.

The hour passed in a blur of happy confusion.

“When shall we have our next lesson?” he asked us when it was over. Alice was silent. She glanced at me, wanting me to make the decision for both of us.

“In a day or two?” I ventured, giving Master Manox a look that frankly said, let it be soon, please.

“Of course,” was his swift response.

“I cannot,” Alice put in. “I am leaving tomorrow to visit my friend in Exeter.”

I knew very well that her “friend in Exeter” was in fact her beloved John, the man who had fathered her child and then abandoned her and was now married to someone else.

Alice could not seem to accept the fact that he had betrayed and mistreated her. She could not let him go. In her mind he was still the man who loved her—and went on loving her, even though he had married someone else. Joan and I both tried to make her see that she was deluded and would only suffer more pain before long. But she would not see reason, and clung to the dream of living with John—even becoming his wife—one day. And he, caring little for the wife his family had arranged for him to marry, was only too content to nourish Alice’s hopes. She confided to me that they met in secret from time to time. She had no fear of becoming pregnant again, trusting in Joan’s preventive measures and keeping lemons (ripe, unripe, or withered) always at hand.