The Queen's Mistake (22 page)

“So what brings you here, sire?” Anne asked awkwardly, clearly uncertain of what she should be doing.

The king’s companions chuckled unkindly in response.

“No! Great God, not for
that
!” Henry’s sudden smile was mischievous. Apparently, he had guessed his companions’ thoughts from their expressions. Sensitive though he could be, Henry still could never quite let a clever quip escape him in the moment, no matter whom it might hurt. “We’ve just come from a game of shuttlecock out in the yard, and Tom here made a bet, knowing the ladies would be at their sewing. Seymour had called needlework too trivial and easy for men, so Tom wagered that Seymour could not sew a straight line in under a minute’s time without pricking a finger and drawing his own blood.”

Catherine bit back a smile. She wanted to laugh, but wisely she
did not. The king, though physically unappealing, could be surprisingly amusing, she thought, looking at the glitter in his small, dark eyes. They were eyes that held the weight of the world, the reflection of unspeakable horrors and monumental, historical events. Yet here he was, indulging in an afternoon’s amusement, smelling of camphor and musk.

“What is his punishment if he fails?” the king’s niece Frances asked with amusement.

“Humiliation before you fine ladies seems like punishment enough,” Thomas responded with an easygoing smile.

The musicians began to play something soft and lovely as Edward Seymour sat down and Catherine offered the needlework in her lap. Seymour picked up the piece of fabric and needle as if to begin sewing. Everyone laughed as he made a face of mock fright. Catherine felt herself free to laugh, too.

“Very well, then. Off you go,” commanded the king.

Everyone began to count and laugh above the music. Even the queen, with her normally dismayed and slightly confused expression, was enjoying the game.

“Bollocks!” Edward Seymour groaned suddenly, sending the fabric and needle clattering to the tile floor as a stream of blood dripped from his finger.

Henry threw back his head, laughing in delight at the outcome. “I knew it could not be done. Now you must apologize to these fine ladies for assuming that their needlework was not a worthy and dangerous business.”

Catherine stood and drew a small handkerchief from her pocket as the king’s companions good-naturedly heckled Seymour. She pressed it onto his finger, provoking whistles, laughter and moans of envy from the other men.

“There,” said Catherine. “That should stop the blood flow in a
moment. Apparently your friends told you nothing of the need for a thimble.”

“Now, what fun would that have been for him, Mistress Howard?” the king asked.

Catherine glanced up and met the king’s admiring gaze. “I find that a level playing field offers the more rewarding outcome, Your Majesty.”

I should not have said that
, she thought. It sounded as if she had challenged the king, which she had not intended. But the unexpected ensuing laughter from the group assuaged her fears. Henry’s smile was even more unexpected. “And yet a wise competitor seizes his advantages if his ultimate goal is victory,” he cleverly replied.

Catherine nodded, feeling another quip rising on her tongue, yet she wisely chose to hold it back. Henry signaled to a musician with a nod, and a lute was brought to him.

“I have heard you play, and you are a worthy enough competitor to make it a level playing field,” he said.

“Ah, yes, but who could judge fairly when the sovereign is my challenger?” she asked.

Catherine could feel the glances and smiles exchanged around her. She was in the middle of the lion’s den, but for the moment, she was amused to be there. Henry handed Catherine his lute with an affable smile as he said, “Then Master Culpeper shall decide. He is my trusted aide, honest with his sovereign in all things. He shall not choose my playing out of loyalty alone.” Henry signaled to Thomas. “Come forward and be our judge.”

Thomas came forward with a confident stride, his smile as charming as always above that square jaw and adorable cleft chin. Dutifully, Thomas nodded to the king, then turned to Catherine to greet her, though she noticed that he avoided her eyes.

“You may play us something first, Mistress Howard,” the king deigned.

She held the lute on her lap, intent on meeting the challenge. For a moment she closed her eyes, thinking of the many songs Henry Manox had taught her and what confidence he had given her to play them. Catherine opened her eyes then and began to strum the notes to the most complicated piece she knew.

Even before the last chord, the king began applauding so enthusiastically that the others followed, all cheering her skill.

“A lovely tune, Mistress Howard,” Charles Brandon remarked.

“A pity the king can so easily best you,” Seymour said with a laugh.

“I am not so certain now,” Henry countered, smiling.

He took the lute onto his thick thigh in challenge. With his other leg extended, Catherine could see a wide bandage below his nether hose. It was common knowledge that he had been battling an infection for several years, and she could only imagine how frustrating it would be to a robust man who had once been a legendary competitor in all activities. As he began to play Catherine carefully watched how his fingers gently plucked the strings, drawing out the most tender sounds. She saw how his expression changed, the melody taking him to another place.

“That was lovely,” she said when he had finished. “Your Majesty must definitely take the prize.”

“Like any man, in some things I can only hope,” he replied vaguely, with a sly smile that widened his pink, moist little bud of a mouth.

“What tune was that? It was so . . . haunting,” she marveled.

A silence fell upon the room. Catherine glanced at the faces around her, each one more piqued by surprise than the next. Someone cleared his throat, although she could not tell who it was.

“I call it ‘Greensleeves.’”

“You wrote it yourself?”

“I did, indeed, many years ago. For your cousin, actually. It has been a long time since I felt like playing it.”

The silence dragged on. Catherine felt a strange twist in the pit of her stomach.
My cousin Anne Boleyn, whom you had executed.

“So, Tom, tell us,” Henry said, changing the subject, “who shall you say is the victor?”

Thomas stood between them with an odd expression on his face. “True talent always trumps carefully studied playing,” he decreed, not looking at her. “I say that while Mistress Howard’s playing was lovely, Your Majesty is the victor handily.”

The group broke out in applause over the foregone conclusion. “Mistress Howard was a worthy competitor, and I should like a rematch very soon, if you would grant me one,” the king said, turning to Catherine.

“It would be my honor.” Catherine nodded respectfully, trying not to notice the odd glint in the king’s eye and the completely altered expression on Thomas’s face.

An hour later, Catherine and Thomas walked out into the wet, gray day, down the privy stairs, through the river gate and past the palace wall.

They strolled silently along the banks of the river Thames, watching painted barges bobbing on the water, their flags and banners fluttering in the breeze. They were just beyond the castle grounds, free from the eyes of the court.

They had stolen away from their duties, and each knew their time alone was limited, but it was worth the risk. Catherine was irrevocably in love. She had known that for days. Thomas Culpeper
was everything she hoped for in a husband, lover, and friend, and she wanted to spend as much time with him as possible.

As he held her hand tightly, leading her among the boatmen and children running along the shore, Catherine clung to him and thought of her past feelings for Francis Dereham. A year ago, there had been a time, amid all of the dormitory fun and silliness, when she had convinced herself she was in love with him. But those childish feelings paled in comparison to her all-consuming love for Thomas. She would marry Thomas Culpeper tomorrow if he asked her. And he must ask her. Of that much she was absolutely certain.

As if he could sense her thoughts, Thomas stopped and turned to her and very gently touched her face.

“Do you know how incredibly beautiful you are in this pale light?” he whispered.

“I was going to say the very same to you.” Catherine smiled.

“We are heading toward a predicament, you know.”

“A predicament?” she asked with a faintly arched brow.

“Perhaps I should say ‘triangle’ instead of ‘predicament.’ Surely you can see that His Majesty fancies you.” Thomas’s expression betrayed a hint of pain.

“Then I thank God Almighty that he has a queen.”

“That has rarely stopped him before.”

“I’ll not be a royal mistress, Thomas, even for my family’s sake.”

“Now, now,” he said, chuckling. “I wager you are far more clever than in the beginning the queen was. You should look to Bessie Blount as your example. She died a wealthy woman, and her son became the most powerful duke in England.”

“Her bastard son,” Catherine said, unconvinced.

Catherine had met Mistress Blount only once, after she had settled into the queen’s household, where, strangely enough, Bessie
had been named a lady in waiting to Anne of Cleves. Though she was forty years old, a shadow of her beauty was still evident, as well as her sweet temper. It was a pity, Catherine thought, when not long after she arrived at court Mistress Blount fell ill and was forced to leave.

Catherine suddenly processed Thomas’s words. “I had not heard that she died.”

“Sadly, yes. It was only a few days ago. Word was sent to the king from Surrey, but Bessie herself told me, the day she left court, that she had lived her life well and had no regrets. That is what I choose to remember of her.”

They walked past the entrance to a bridge.

“That is how I would like to live my life: absolutely no regrets.”

“Too late for me, I’m afraid,” Thomas said.

Catherine glanced at him. “And what do you regret, Master Culpeper?”

“For one thing, I regret not meeting you sooner, Mistress Howard.” He smiled his dazzling smile.

Thomas led her onto a small covered barge while a dozen others bobbed in the light spring breeze. Beneath a canopy of green silk fringed in gold, they slipped onto a cushioned bench before a table covered in crisp white linen and set with trays of figs, marzipan and apples, and decanters of wine. In private at last, Thomas kissed her passionately, not waiting for her invitation.

“Did you arrange this?” she asked, as her arms slid around his neck in silent compliance.

“Of course.” He smiled.

“How brilliant of you.”

“I am pleased that you think so.”

They spoke of many things in the small jewel of time that Thomas had carved for them on the barge. Catherine had never felt freer
or happier. For nearly an hour they ate, drank wine and held each other as lovers until Catherine pressed her fingers into his thick, gorgeous hair.

“My sweet fool, I do so love you,” she said, smiling.

In response, Thomas pulled her against him, clamping his arms tightly around her and drawing her into a powerful kiss. She sank deeply into it, enveloped by his body, knowing there would never be anyone else in the world who could make her feel like this. She slipped a hand between his thighs and reveled in his deep groans. She wanted him to love her as much as she loved him.

But he never spoke the words. Afterward, as he led her back to the palace, a strained silence fell between them. She understood that Thomas was a man of few words, which helped him maintain his position at Henry’s court. But she had given him her heart and soul, and he had given her only a few moments of passion in return. She wanted to build a future with him and gain the duke’s approval, but she was afraid that she was running out of time. She knew the duke was formulating his own plans for her—ones that did not include Thomas—and it would be a challenge to convince him that her plan was better.

Thomas walked back with Catherine to the courtyard. They were alone in the shadow of a pillar when he took her hands and pressed a single, gentle kiss onto her cheek.

“You are the most amazing woman I have ever met,” he whispered softly before turning away and walking back to the king’s apartments.

It was as close to a declaration of love as she would get for now, yet she still longed for the day when he would let down his guard completely with her. As she watched him go, Catherine decided that convincing the duke to let her be with Thomas Culpeper was worth the risk, especially if Thomas should say that he loved her, too.