The Queen's Mistake (51 page)

“But he should not be alone!” Catherine felt surprisingly panicked. Even after their quarrel, she still cared about him.

“His Majesty is not alone. The princess of Cleves is with him,” the physician explained.

His words were a blow to her pride. Cranmer stood behind the physician, gazing at her with contempt. Her uncle was nowhere to be seen, and there were no other Howards nearby to support her. Once again, she was on her own.

“His current queen should be with him when he is ill, not his former one,” Catherine countered stubbornly.

“Perhaps there is more between them than any of us have guessed,” Cranmer commented. The strange tone in his voice brought Catherine a shiver, and she wrapped her arms more tightly around herself.

“His Majesty shall send for you when he is ready to receive you,” the physician promised, his gaze sliding back and forth between the archbishop and the queen.

Catherine had no choice but to relent. She turned away and the king’s two nieces followed her. She did not want their company, but that mattered little. Nothing she wanted had ever mattered.

Catherine did not go to dinner with the rest of the court. She could not bear to see Anne Basset or Anne of Cleves and force herself
to be pleasant to either of them. Nor could she imagine her uncle’s fury at how she had driven the king to publicly humiliate her at the hunt when she was supposed to be securing his heart once again for the sake of the family.

Everything seemed off somehow, as if the balance of power had shifted. Catherine felt like one of those poor penned deer now, her senses heightened, though she knew there was no way out. She was so preoccupied by her thoughts that she did not see Francis Dereham waiting for her in the small alcove beside her bedchamber as she swept through, skirts rustling. His hand clamped onto her arm over her puffed velvet sleeve.

“We must speak privately,” he urged in a cool tone.

She met his expression head-on. “Privately, we have nothing to speak about.”

“I am told the king’s end is drawing very near.”

“You were told wrong, sir. He will recover.”

“And if he does not?”

“I’ll not think of that.”

“Yet
I
think of it every waking moment. I think of us being man and wife, as we should have been all along.” He released his tight grip and ran his fingers up the line of her arm to the curve of her neck, where they stilled.

“The same warm, silken flesh that I remember,” he whispered into her ear.

Suddenly, Francis was jerked from behind and thrown against the wall with such tremendous force that Catherine heard the wood paneling crack. She looked up with a start to see Thomas Culpeper looming, taut and angry, over Francis like a raging bull. His face was bloodred, his nostrils flaring, and his fists were wound tight as he pummeled him. Francis coiled against him in self-defense, but Thomas was too powerful, too full of rage. He drew the stunned
secretary up by the collar and struck him again with such force that Catherine heard a crack as she saw a ribbon of blood spout from his nose.

Mary Lassells and Jane Boleyn dashed forward to help Catherine draw Culpeper off.

“Thomas, stop! Please, I bid you, stop!” Catherine pleaded, horrified by the sight of so much blood.

Even the three of them together could not tear him away from Dereham, who slumped like a rag doll in Thomas’s viselike grip.

“Thomas, stop. For me,” Catherine urged again.

Thomas’s fist was halted by her plea, inches from Dereham’s blood-streaked face. A moment later, his tense body slackened. He released his grip and Francis crumpled to the floor. Thomas’s chest was still heaving as he growled, low and menacingly,

“And if you
ever
touch her again, trust me, next time I will finish the job.”

Mary and Jane helped Francis struggle to his feet as Catherine went to Thomas. She sank against his chest and he wrapped her tightly in his arms, her judgement abandoned in the moment.

“I would have killed him.”

“I know,” she murmured, feeling the crash of his heart against her temple.

“I am not just talking about that silly country fool. I am also talking about the king, who publicly humiliated the woman I love.”

Catherine’s heart skipped a beat. “I am his wife. He can speak to me as he chooses,” she acknowledged sadly, nestling deeper into the fleeting protection of Thomas’s powerful arms.

“That does not matter. I would kill anyone who ever harmed you,” he declared.

As she hovered over a wounded, quivering Dereham, Mary Lassells watched the others clean his face with cool water.
Finally
, she thought. Yes, it was time. Patience truly yielded the sweetest rewards. At last, there were enough witnesses to support the allegations she was about to make. It was time to write to her brother, John, to implement their plan. This was her moment. There would be no turning back from what she was about to do. There would be no stopping her from what the Lord would have her do.

In a fever-induced kaleidoscope of sounds, images and excruciating pain, Henry lay motionless in his grand bed, dreaming. Faces were dancing across his mind as in a puppet show. Arthur . . . Nan . . . sweet Jane ... Wolsey ... Catherine ... even Cromwell. Somany, many losses.
Poor, dear Cromwell. What a fool I was
, he thought, as the ghostly images hauntingly smiled. A hand reached out through time and beyond his dream. He knew it was Cromwell’s hand.
How did I ever allow it? Why did I ever believe Norfolk and Gardiner . . . How did I allow Catherine’s uncle to convince me with accusations that could only ever have been false?
The same Catherine who argued against his decisions and tried to change his mind, filling his head with twisted facts, just as Norfolk had done. Cromwell had only ever been a faithful servant and a trusted friend, a man who would be here now if only . . .

Opening his eyes was a struggle, like trying to rise up through miles of mossy water.

“Your Majesty . . . sire . . . can you hear me?”

The sound of his physician’s voice, deep and filled with concern, called to Henry through the water, and he tried again to move toward the surface. With great effort, he opened his eyes. Physicians and his gentlemen-of-the-bedchamber formed a ring at the base of his grand bed in the deep, amber candlelight.

“Your Majesty has been very ill, but there is improvement.”

“How long have I been asleep?” he rasped.

“Two days, sire. The queen waits for you in your outer chamber. She has been there nearly this entire time. May I call her in?”

Cromwell’s sad face floated in his mind.

“No, I do not wish to see her.”

“What shall I tell her?”

“I care not what you tell her. Now leave me to my dreams and my memories,” Henry growled.

The malaise, like the infection, lasted a fortnight.

Henry wallowed in his nostalgia, guilt and regret, refusing to let go of any of it, or to see Catherine. He could not bear to let her see him like this, or allow her to try to cheer him. He did not want to be rescued.

There were no banquets, masques, music or dancing in the days that followed. There was only the quiet desperation of the king’s heart. He knew that once he returned from the past, he would have to deal with the silent movement of religious factions, whores, a queen and a former queen, so many of whom were preparing for someone else’s downfall. The only question was, Whose downfall would come next?

Chapter Nineteen

 

 

W
ith the crispness of autumn came a great renewal. Henry’s health crisis had been averted. He had returned to Catherine’s bed and accepted her affection, effectively ending their estrangement. When her flux did not come, she announced to Henry, with relief, that she might be pregnant at last. Norfolk was pleased with her, Francis avoided her, and Jane sympathized with Catherine enough to pass notes between her and Thomas and arrange fleeting meetings for them. Jane had been assured that their friendship was chaste and that his occasional company had cheered and strengthened her through Henry’s rather frightening alteration.

Jane watched them from a distance. She saw them embrace and murmur a few words of greeting in the safe harbor of the orchard before they slipped away to be alone together. She lingered a moment beside the splashing fountain and a sentry line of emerald to piary trees. She was right to help them, whatever it would mean. She wanted to make amends for her bitter implication of her own husband in Anne Boleyn’s infidelities and help the new queen by being a loyal friend.

Poor Catherine was so naive, Jane thought. Everywhere she
turned there was a threat to the queen. Cranmer, who was still associated with her family’s enemy, Cromwell; Wriothesley, who was allied with Cranmer; even Anne Basset, who would take her place in a heartbeat. Catherine trusted too easily and forgave too quickly. But, oddly enough, Jane trusted Thomas Culpeper because Catherine trusted him. She saw his pain and longing for her, which might have driven other men to jealous acts of betrayal. But not Thomas. She was not certain whether she was courting disaster by allowing Catherine to meet with him, but if she could make amends this way for her own sins, it would be worth it.

As she turned to leave the fountain, full of renewed conviction, Jane ran headlong into stony-faced Archbishop Cranmer.

“Why, my lady Rochford, what a pleasant surprise to see you. Whatever brought you to such a distant spot, alone, today?” he coldly asked, intent, she could see, upon waiting for a reply.

They walked together deep within the orchard amid the sweet fragrance of apple blossoms and the safety of lush trees. Thomas took Catherine’s hand, so warm and reassuring against his own fingers. She felt her breathing slow, and warmth spread through her at his touch. The connection between them was everything.