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  “I was appointed to be one of Her Majesty’s maids of honor in December, yet I arrive only to be told there is no place for me,” Anne Basset whispered urgently to Lady Zouche. “I shall write to my mother and see what she can do.”

  Bess wondered if it would occur to the new queen that her household would contain the king’s paramours.

  “It’s because so many of the queen’s German attendants are yet with her,” Lady Zouche sympathized. “She should send them home and make way for her English ladies.”

  By late February, Anne Basset had taken her place in the queen’s household, and Bess saw her draw Lady Zouche in as she huddled with others of the queen’s ladies, Lady Rutland, Lady Rochford, and Lady Edgecombe. They looked like a clutch of chickens in the yard at Hardwick, she thought, the shine of their gowns reminding her of hens’ sleek feathers.

  “No!” At Lady Zouche’s gasp and shocked expression, Bess edged closer. Perhaps there was news.

  “The king has not lain with her,” Lady Rutland was saying. “She is so innocent, she didn’t even know there must be more than his lying next to her in the bed.”

  “How could she not know?” Lady Zouche exclaimed.

  “I would not credit it if I hadn’t heard it myself,” Anne Basset whispered. “She told us, ‘When he comes to bed he kisses me and bids me “Good night, sweetheart,” and in the morning kisses me and bids me “Farewell, darling.” ’ We asked her did the king do no more and she asked, ‘Is this not enough?’”

  Bess was astonished. How was it possible for a grown woman not to know what passed between a husband and wife? She thought of the animals at Hardwick, rams bellowing as they fought, and then mounting the ewes, and the dogs eagerly climbing atop the bitches. Had the queen never seen such things?

  “It’s that Mother Lowe,” Lady Edgecombe hissed. “The mistress of the maids she brought with her. She keeps the queen ignorant like a child. I told her, ‘Madam, there must be more than this, or it will be long ere we have a Duke of York, which all this realm most desires’.”

  “Alas,” Lady Zouche murmured, glancing over her shoulder to see who might be listening. “This comports with what George tells me—that the king mutters that he cannot perform the act with the queen—though he thinks himself capable with others.”

  The women groaned and tutted and shook their heads.

  “Then there seems little hope,” Lady Rochford said.

  “What said she when you told her this?” Lady Zouche asked, turning to Lady Edgecombe.

  “She said she had received quite as much of His Majesty’s attention as she wished. But she seemed troubled. I think she understands now that things are much amiss.”

  In March, Bess overhead Sir George telling Lady Zouche that the king had seized on the idea that Anne of Cleves had had a precontract of marriage with the Duke of Lorraine’s son, which would nullify his union with her, and had commanded his council to look into the matter further.

  “And some say he’s already casting his eye around for another queen. Anne Basset’s name has been mentioned.”

  Bess was startled to think that the king might pluck a new queen from among the ladies of the court rather than seeking out some foreign princess. But of course by choosing a bride he knew he would not be buying a pig in a poke, as he had by contracting with Anne of Cleves, sight unseen.

  And yet at Whitehall things continued as if nothing was wrong, at least on the surface. The court celebrated Shrove Tuesday with jousts and feasting. Watching the dancing one evening, Bess’s eye was caught by a young man in a doublet of flaming gold. As he danced, his manner was self-conscious, and his eyes flickered frequently from his partner to others nearby. He seemed to believe all eyes were on him, Bess thought. And a moment later, perhaps that was true, for in launching himself into a leap for the volta he lost his balance and fell, stumbling against another couple.

  “Serves him right,” Lizzie sniffed to Bess.

  The king took the floor with the queen for a more stately dance. The slower measures were all that he could manage with the pain of the ulcer in his leg. Bess studied Queen Anne’s face and thought her smile seemed stiff and uneasy. No improvement, then, in the state of the royal marriage.

  A little later she noted the cocky young courtier approach three ladies of the queen’s household, apparently seeking a partner for the next dance. She couldn’t hear their words, but it appeared that he was turned down by each of the ladies in turn. Anne Basset lifted her pomander to her nose with a curl of her nostrils, as though she smelled a foul odor, and the young man bowed and turned away, his face burning red.

  A giggle rang out that made Bess think of the stream at Hardwick eddying over the pebbled river bottom. The laugh belonged to a small, slight girl with russet hair and brown eyes, clapping her hands in delight. Bess thought she had never seen anyone look so alive with merriment. She was sure she hadn’t seen the girl before, but that wasn’t very surprising—many new faces had appeared at court with the advent of the new queen.

  The girl noticed Bess looking at her and beckoned with the conspiratorial raise of an eyebrow. Bess glanced around. Was this elfin creature really summoning her? There was no one else beside her, so it must be the case. She went to the girl’s side. Up close, she noted a gold fleck in one of her eyes, which seemed to complement the dimples in her cheeks.

  “That Francis is such a fool, don’t you think?” the girl whispered, giggling and cutting her eyes at the young man Bess had been watching.

  Bess decided immediately that she liked her new acquaintance, who she reckoned to be about her own age, or maybe a year or two older.

  “I do,” she agreed. “Always strutting and preening.”

  The young man seemed to sense that he was being watched. He glanced their way and bowed, his lips pursed in a prim smile.

  Bess’s new friend curtsied, murmuring, “Self-satisfied prat.” She and Bess collapsed in giggles and the young man drew himself up and hustled away.

  “Who are you?” the girl asked, snapping her eyes to Bess.

  “Bess Hardwick. I serve Lady Zouche.”

  “Oh. I don’t know her yet. I’ve only just arrived at court, you see. I’m Catherine Howard. Call me Cat.”

  “Where have you come from?” Bess asked.

  “I’ve been living with my grandmother. Well, my step-grandmother, really. The Dowager Duchess of Norfolk. At Horsham in Sussex and in Lambeth by turns.” Cat wrinkled her nose in distaste. “My uncle Norfolk arranged for me to come to court.”

  The niece of the Duke of Norfolk? Bess was startled that Cat was of such a high family, even by marriage. There was something very free about the wench. Curls tumbled from her cap, and Bess could picture her cavorting with shepherds in a field of lambs.

  Handsome Thomas Seymour passed them, and Cat gazed after him. He seemed to sense her eyes on him and turned, raking her with an appraising glance. Cat shot him an arch smile before turning back to Bess. “Being here at court is so much better!”

  “Do you not have parents?” Bess wondered aloud, and then worried that perhaps the question would seem impertinent.

  “My mother died when I was a baby,” Cat said. “My father married not long after, and I reckon my stepmother didn’t want to be bothered with me, for they sent me away.”

  Bess thought of her own fear that being sent to the Zouche household was a kind of abandonment by her mother.

  “Perhaps they just wanted what was best for you,” she ventured.

  Cat jutted her chin. “I don’t think so. They soon had children of their own. And when my stepmother died, my father married again. But he’s just died, too, so now I have no one to look to but my uncle.”

  “It was kind of him to bring you to court,” Bess said.

  “Yes,” Cat said, a speculative look in her eyes as she watched a knot of ladies across the room. Bess wondered what she was thinking and then recalled that Anne Boleyn had also been Norfolk’s niece. Did Cat wonder to what heights
she might rise?

  “Whom do you serve?” she asked.

  Cat turned laughing eyes on her. “Why, the queen! I am a maid of honor to Queen Anne.”

  Bess was astonished. Certainly none of the other ladies of the queen’s household had ever been so chatty with her. What possessed Cat to be so friendly? Whatever it was, she was glad of it. She liked the girl and would be glad of a friend at court.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  IN SPRING 1540 CAME THE FINAL STEPS IN THE DISSOLUTION OF the monasteries with the surrender of the abbeys of Canterbury, Christchurch, Waltham, and Rochester, where the king had had his first glimpse of Anne of Cleves. Bess was shocked to hear that the king had had the corpse of the saint Thomas Becket, who had stood against his king, Henry II, dug up and tossed onto a dunghill, and that he now wore the great ruby that had adorned Becket’s shrine at Canterbury.

  “Fat pickings, these church lands,” Sir George commented to Lady Zouche over supper one evening when they had no guests. “The king is handing them off to his favorites. Cheap for him, and buys a lot of loyalty. Or he hopes it does, anyway.”

  He suddenly glanced around, as if realizing he had spoken without taking account of who might hear. Bess kept her eyes on her plate, but listened intently.

  “Cromwell is tottering,” Sir George said, lowering his voice. “The king has his eye on another lady already, I hear. It’s only a matter of time until he rids himself of ‘the Flanders mare,’ as he calls her, and Cromwell will fall with her.”

  “What will happen to the queen?” Lady Zouche asked, her voice tight with worry.

  “If she keeps her head,” Sir George pronounced grimly, “she might keep her head.”

  Bess shuddered and said a silent prayer for Anne of Cleves. And wondered who it was that had caught the king’s attention.

  In mid-April, the court buzzed with the news that Thomas Cromwell had been made Earl of Essex.

  “An empty honor,” Sir George muttered. “I don’t trust it. And the king has bestowed church lands on—on a certain lady. Something is about to give.”

  His words raised a swirl of anxiety in Bess’s stomach. Lady Zouche had told her how Anne Boleyn’s fall had brought down not only the men who were accused of being her lovers but many others around her. Were Sir George and Lady Zouche in peril? And what would happen to her if something befell them?

  Lady Zouche’s face was white. “Can we go home to Codnor? I don’t want to be here when—when whatever is coming happens.”

  Her obvious fear made Bess even more afraid. Yes, she pleaded silently. Let’s go back to Codnor, far from here.

  “Not now.” Sir George shook his head. “You know I can’t leave without the king’s permission, and anyway it would look like we were scuttling from the coming storm if we left now. It won’t do to look distressed. We must smile and act as if all is well, whatever we feel.”

  May Day brought five days of festivities, with jousting at Westminster and banquets at Durham House. Watching the jousts, Bess was both excited and terrified at the sight and sound of the huge horses thundering toward each other bearing the armored knights with their lances. The king’s ulcerous leg did not allow him to ride, so he sat in the stands next to the queen, cheering on his favorites and smiling grimly as they bowed before her. Bess thought the lady looked terrified, and her own gut now continually heaved with anxiety about the disaster she was sure was imminent.

  Late in the final day of jousting, she heard the king’s laugh ring out, and turned to see what accounted for his change of mood. The king had left the viewing stands and halted on his way to the litter that would carry him back to Whitehall. A knot of courtiers hung back silently as he smiled down at a slight figure in scarlet. Catherine Howard. She smiled boldly up at the king, tossed her head, and placed a hand lightly on his sleeve for a moment. Anne of Cleves, next to the king, flinched as though she had been slapped.

  So Cat was the lady who had caught the king’s fancy, Bess realized with a shock. Why, Cat couldn’t be more than fifteen, and was an orphan, to boot. With no one to guide her but her uncle Norfolk. A wave of sick uneasiness struck Bess. Norfolk had come through the abasement of his niece Anne Boleyn with his head on his shoulders. Did he think to make up for her disgrace by providing the king with a mistress?

  Oh, have a care, Cat, Bess pleaded silently. It’s a dangerous game you play.

  * * *

  LADY ZOUCHE WENT TO COURT LESS FREQUENTLY AFTER THE MAY Day festivities, excusing her absence with the fact that she was with child and frequently feeling ill. She seemed perpetually nervous and unhappy. These uncertain times must remind her of the years she had served as lady to Anne Boleyn, Bess thought, and had seen the downfall first of Queen Catherine, and then of Anne. No wonder she was anxious. Bess and Lady Zouche’s other ladies took it in turns to sleep on a truckle bed near their mistress, and one night she woke to the sound of stealthy footsteps and was startled to see her mistress standing at the window of the bedroom staring out into the night. The light of the moon fell on Lady Zouche’s face, making silver rivulets of the tears that rolled down her cheeks. Bess was overwhelmed by tenderness for her mistress, and wanted to go to her, to put her arms about her, but felt reluctant to intrude on her mistress’s private sorrow.

  * * *

  ON THE TENTH OF JUNE, SIR GEORGE STRODE INTO LADY ZOUCHE’S chamber as she was preparing for bed. His grim expression halted the chatter of her ladies. He glanced around at them, as if deciding whether to send them from the room.

  “Thomas Cromwell was arrested in the council chamber today,” he said. “He has been sent to the Tower. And the council is preparing a bill of attainder against him for treason and heresy.”

  Lady Zouche clapped her hand to her mouth, and Bess exchanged a horrified glance with Lizzie.

  “Say nothing to anyone,” Sir George commanded, his eyes sweeping hawklike from face to face. “And do not leave the house unless upon most urgent need.”

  It was not an order Bess would have disobeyed. She wanted to bar the door and stay far from court, for fear of what might occur next.

  “What will happen?” she cried in fright.

  “I don’t know,” Sir George said.

  His uncertainty and Lady Zouche’s palpable anxiety increased Bess’s fear. They had lived through perilous times, and seemed to believe that another such dark season lay before them.

  Events moved swiftly. Little more than a week later Sir George announced that the House of Lords had approved the bill of attainder against Cromwell. On the twenty-fourth of June, the king sent Anne of Cleves to Richmond, announcing that it was to keep her safe from the plague, which had been reported in London. A few days later the Commons passed the bill of attainder.

  “The king is rowed to Lambeth daily to visit Catherine Howard,” Lady Zouche told her girls, her face gray. “My lord says that Cromwell has written to His Majesty, begging for mercy, and that his life be spared.” She shivered and tears came to her eyes. “But I fear he will not get it.”

  “What will happen to the queen, madam?” Bess whispered.

  “I don’t know. The House of Lords is investigating whether the marriage was valid.”

  Bess was confused. “But how could it not be valid, my lady?”

  “If indeed she had a precontract to wed another, as the king believes,” Lady Zouche said, “that is just as if that marriage had taken place, and she could not legally marry the king.”

  “And if there was no precontract?” Doll wondered, her eyes wide with fear.

  “The privy council will solve that difficulty another way. They will say that the king did not consent to the marriage—it was forced upon him by Cromwell. And then there is the matter of the lack of consummation.”

  The girls gaped at her.

  “I have seen it all before,” Lady Zouche said, as if to herself. “It’s a blessing I was not given a place in the queen’s household.” She turned her eyes back to the girls and held out her arms, and Bess and th
e others huddled close to her. “Keep quiet and keep still, and this storm will not touch us.”

  There was a palpable sense of relief in the Zouche household at the news that Anne of Cleves had received the privy council in Richmond and agreed to divorce proceedings. On the ninth of July, Lady Zouche called her ladies together in her bedchamber. Bess’s stomach fluttered with nervousness at what new tidings there might be.

  “The convocation of clergy who examined the royal marriage have found that it is null and void,” Lady Zouche said, her face blank. “Just as I expected, they have found that the queen had a precontract, and that His Majesty did not consent to the marriage. And if that was not enough, it seems that everyone in England knows that he has not lain with the lady. Very tidily done.”

  She spoke sharply, but as she turned away, Bess thought Lady Zouche must be glad the matter had been concluded so quickly and without bloodshed.

  “She’ll be known as the king’s sister,” Lady Zouche said, picking up her embroidery and stabbing a needle into the linen. “She’ll stay here in England, and will receive an allowance of four thousand pounds a year, as well as the palace at Richmond, the manor of Bletchingly, and Hever Castle.”

  “Hever!” Lizzie exclaimed. “That was the home of Anne Boleyn’s family.”

  “It was,” said Lady Zouche. “And the crown took possession of it when she fell.”

  “Thank God the queen has had the wisdom to make no fuss,” Bess heard Sir George tell his wife a few days later as she brought a newly mended pair of stockings into her mistress’s bedchamber. “She has set the king free to marry again, which was all that he wanted.”

  “And will he?” Lady Zouche whispered.

  Who would the king marry? Bess wondered. Cat? Anne Basset? She wanted to hear the rest of the conversation, and dallied by folding the chemise carefully. She sneaked a glance at Lady Zouche and Sir George, but they were not paying any attention to her, so she lingered, making herself busy by straightening the other linens in the chest.