B009RYSCAU EBOK Page 8

  “Of course,” said Sir George. “The privy council has most coyly petitioned him to ‘find some noble personage to be joined with him in lawful matrimony, by whom His Majesty might have more store of fruit and succession to the comfort of the realm,’ but there’s no question it will be Catherine Howard.”

  Cat, to be queen of England! Bess was astonished that it had all come about so suddenly.

  “She is noble,” Lady Zouche said, her voice full of doubt.

  “Though barely literate and as empty-headed a chit as one is like to find.” Sir George glanced around and, noticing Bess, frowned, as though to disown the words he had just spoken. “A most graceful and sweet-tempered lady, from all I know,” he pronounced more loudly.

  * * *

  “THE COURT WILL GO TO THE PALACE AT OATLANDS AT THE END OF July when Parliament is dissolved for the summer,” Lady Zouche told her girls a few days later. “Sir George will accompany the king, and we must make ready to travel as well.”

  “Where is Oatlands, madam?” Bess wondered.

  “Surrey. It’s lovely—the king acquired it only a couple of years ago and laid out much money on improvements. Preparing it for Anne of Cleves.” She smiled wryly. “Well, she’ll not get the benefit of it now, but we will. It should be a most pleasant respite.”

  Lady Zouche was in noticeably brighter spirits since the catastrophe of the Anne of Cleves marriage had been resolved, and was actually humming as she went through her wardrobe with the girls to decide what clothes to take with her to Oatlands.

  The court traveled by barges down the Thames, and Bess reveled in the glorious summer weather and the prospect of some time away from London, which had been the scene of so much fear and anxiety over the previous months.

  “There it is! It’s beautiful!” she cried as the red brick walls rose into view amid the golden meadows.

  Oatlands was small, as royal residences went, so the four Zouche children stayed in London, and Sir George and Lady Zouche and their attendants occupied only two rooms: a bedchamber, which also served as withdrawing room, and another room where Bess and the other girls slept. A holiday mood prevailed among the clutch of courtiers surrounding the king, who seemed to have thrown off much of his formality and was even cultivating an air of gaiety.

  On the first night at Oatlands, there was dancing in the great hall after supper, and Bess came face-to-face with Cat Howard for the first time in many weeks. She didn’t quite know how to greet her, so erred on the side of caution and dropped into a curtsy.

  “Mistress Howard,” she murmured.

  “Bess!” Cat cried, taking her hands and pulling her close so that she could kiss Bess’s cheeks. “How lovely to see you here! Is the house not enchanting?”

  “It is,” Bess agreed, put at ease by Cat’s greeting but a little bewildered by her friendliness.

  “Who is your pretty friend, Cat?”

  Bess’s heart skipped at the booming voice. It was the king who spoke. She whirled to find him standing just behind her, leaning on a cane, and she curtsied to the floor.

  “This is Bess Hardwick, Your Majesty,” Cat said. “She serves Lady Zouche.”

  “Ah, yes.” The king’s eyes swept Bess from head to foot. “I recall now. That hair—how could I forget it?”

  He stumped closer to her, and tweaked a curl that peeped from beneath Bess’s cap. She fought the urge to recoil at his touch. She could smell the foul odor coming from the abscess in his leg, and tried not to breathe as she smiled up at him.

  “Just like my daughter Bess,” he said. “Another pert redhead.”

  “And a most learned young lady, I’ve heard,” Bess managed to say. She had heard that, but also that the king did not spend much attention on the little girl, and she worried that she should not have spoken so boldly.

  “Yes. Smart as a fox,” the king mused. “Wasted on a girl, of course,” he added curtly. His eyes moved to Cat. “Come, sweetheart, and sit with me to watch the dancing.”

  Late that night as she lay in bed, Bess heard Sir George come in to the lodgings and speak in low tones to his wife.

  “He’s with Catherine Howard every minute he can be. There are rumors she’s with child already.”

  “Any report of when the marriage is to be?”

  “No. But he’s summoned Bishop Bonner. I’d not be surprised if he weds her quietly.”

  “Hm. Likely.”

  “Ah, Anne, come and let me kiss you.”

  Bess heard murmurs and sighs. Her master and mistress seemed deeply in love with each other, she thought. She wondered what it would be like to have a husband, to look forward to a man’s return and a kiss at the end of the day. The feel of Edmund’s mouth on hers during that heady Christmas evening came back to her vividly, stirring a longing within her.

  Her mother had sent her to the Zouche household so that she might find a husband, but with so much happening, she had scarcely given a thought to when she might meet a possible match. Well, she was in no hurry. If God wanted her to marry, no doubt He would put the right man in her path.

  The festive mood at Oatlands was shattered when news swept through the court that Thomas Cromwell had been executed at Tower Hill a day earlier, on the twenty-eighth of July.

  “And the headsman botched the job,” Sir George told his wife. “He needed a second stroke to finish Cromwell.”

  “Heaven and earth,” Lady Zouche murmured.

  The flickering light of the candle on the table cast an eerie shadow on her face.

  “But he had it easy compared to some.” Sir George lowered his voice and Bess, sitting some feet away near the fireplace, strained to hear, though she was afraid of what he might say.

  “The Lady Mary’s former tutor, the first Queen Catherine’s chaplain, and another were dragged on hurdles to Smithfield to meet their deaths. And Robert Barnes, that Lutheran who helped arrange the Cleves marriage, was burned as a heretic.”

  Bess felt her throat and chest tighten with fear. She didn’t know exactly what it meant to be a heretic. But it was clear that ending up on the wrong side of the king’s favor was terribly dangerous. Keep your head down, she thought. Keep a weather eye out, and keep your head down.

  * * *

  IN EARLY AUGUST, KING HENRY REMOVED TO HAMPTON COURT, and the Zouches with him. On the eighth of the month, the king dined publicly and in great state with Cat Howard at his side. Queen Catherine. For now the news was announced that he had wed her on the same day he had had Cromwell put to death.

  Bess watched Cat as she sat next to the king, and thought the young queen looked like a sparrow next to an old buzzard. But if Cat had any distaste for her husband, she didn’t let it show. He basked in her sunny smile, and took up her little hand and kissed it. Bess tried to imagine herself kissing the corpulent old man and submitting to his embraces, and shuddered in revulsion.

  The king’s daughter the Lady Elizabeth, almost seven years old now, sat near to Cat, watching her with rapt attention. Cat noticed Elizabeth’s gaze and reached over to take her hand. She smiled and spoke to her, and Elizabeth at first looked startled to be taken notice of and then smiled shyly at Cat with apparent adoration.

  The poor child, Bess thought. She had lost her mother before she was old enough to remember her, and then gained a stepmother only to lose her. She had probably not even had time to get to know Anne of Cleves before the king had cast her off. Perhaps Cat would provide the little girl with motherly attention.

  The next fortnight was given over to celebrations of the royal marriage, with daily hunting parties and nightly banquets, masques, and dancing to honor the king’s bride. Cat was not exactly beautiful, Bess decided, watching her dancing with one of the many handsome young men of the court who buzzed around her, but she certainly drew all eyes toward her. And was likeable as well, somehow seeming to convey to each person to whom she spoke that she had a real interest in them. Watching Cat glitter in some of the shower of jewels that King Henry had lavished upon her,
surrounded by the covey of high-born noblewomen who were her ladies-in-waiting, it was jarring to Bess to realize that it had been less than seven months earlier that she had stood among the cheering throngs at Blackheath to welcome Anne of Cleves. It was almost as though that marriage had never taken place, she thought, except she knew that the king had ridden to visit Anne at Richmond, and had heard that he had even given permission for his daughter Elizabeth to spend time with her as well, at Anne’s request.

  Prince Edward and the king’s daughter Mary arrived to meet their new stepmother. Little Edward was a golden-haired, pink-cheeked mite of just three years old, and solemnly bowed to his father and Cat Howard before retreating to the arms of his nurse. The Lady Mary, her skin pallid against the black of her gown, bowed to the new queen with rigid correctness that Bess thought did little to hide her disapproval.

  * * *

  “MY FATHER HAS WRITTEN THAT HE IS COMING TO COURT,” LIZZIE told Bess one evening as they prepared for bed. “He said he had a surprise for me. I wonder what it can be? I can hardly wait until he gets here!”

  Lizzie’s father, George Brooke, Baron Cobham, arrived the next day. He was a tall, stern-faced man with high cheekbones, and Bess saw that it must be from him that Lizzie got her piercing dark eyes.

  “What do you think?” Lizzie cried when she returned to Lady Zouche’s chamber from a visit with her father. “I am to become a maid of honor to the queen!”

  Bess felt envious of Lizzie’s sudden elevation. Whatever her own position, Lizzie always seemed to float a little above her, unmatchable in every way.

  “I’m so pleased for you,” she told Lizzie. “A well-deserved honor, and I wish you joy of it. And I’ll miss you.”

  Lady Zouche’s baby was to be born in November, and soon she would return to Codnor along with the rest of the household, although Sir George must remain to attend on the king. Bess was not sorry that she would be out of the king’s presence for some months. Although the only time he had spoken to her he had seemed good-natured on the surface, she was afraid of him. She had a sudden image of the king as a brightly burning fire, drawing people to his heat and light like fluttering moths. But those who forgot the danger and drew too close singed their wings, fell into the flames, and were consumed.

  Twenty-seventh of May, 1541—London

  Spring had draped a haze of greenery over London of a sudden, and Bess’s spirits rose as she gazed out a window of the Zouches’ London home. She had enjoyed the months at Codnor, especially since she had been able to visit her mother and family at Hardwick. But it was exciting to be back in London, where something was always happening. Below, the river sparkled in the afternoon sun, and even from this distance, she could hear two boatmen calling to each other and laughing.

  “I wish we could cast off all our duties today and go where our fancy takes us,” she said, turning back to look at Doll and Audrey, who were mending and brushing clothes.

  “Perhaps tomorrow—” Audrey began, but she was interrupted by a terrible shriek from Lady Zouche’s chamber. They dashed into the room to find their mistress facedown on the bed, weeping and groaning, with Sir George kneeling by her side.

  “Oh, Jesus, it cannot be!” she cried.

  Bess had never seen anyone so distraught and was terrified. Had one of the children been killed? But Rachel arrived at a run with baby Edmund in her arms, and she looked as perplexed as Bess was.

  “What has happened, sir?” Bess asked.

  Sir George raised his eyes and stared at the girls.

  “Lady Salisbury,” he said, and then clamped his hand over his mouth as though to stifle a sob.

  Bess’s mind struggled to make sense of what Sir George was saying. She recalled that when they had first come to London, Lady Zouche had told her with outrage that the previous year, the king had imprisoned Margaret Pole, the old Countess of Salisbury, and the last of the Plantagenet dynasty, because her son had plotted against him.

  “She has been attainted and sentenced to death at the king’s pleasure,” Lady Zouche had told her. “He’ll never have her executed. She’s an old lady of near seventy years and has no designs on the throne. But still it’s a cruel thing to lock her in the Tower.”

  Now a terrible suspicion arose in Bess’s mind. She glanced at the other girls. They looked as horrified as she felt.

  “Has something befallen the lady?” she asked.

  “May God damn him!” Lady Zouche wailed.

  “Anne, hush.” Sir George stooped to his wife. “You’ll do yourself harm crying so.” He raised haunted eyes to Bess. “Lady Salisbury was executed this morning.”

  “Butchered!” Lady Zouche cried. “Like an animal. Dragged to the block and hacked to death, begging for mercy. A dozen strokes of the axe it took.”

  Bess clapped a hand to her mouth, willing herself not to vomit.

  “But why?” Doll asked, her blue eyes pools of horror.

  “Because of an uprising,” Sir George said. “The king feared . . .” He stopped as if he could not go on.

  “The rising had nothing to do with her!” Rachel snapped. “How could it? An aged lady like she was, locked away and powerless. She was lady-in-waiting to the first Queen Catherine and governess to the Princess Mary. How could he have served her so?”

  Lady Zouche was sobbing so hard that Bess feared she would choke.

  Sir George shook his head as if to clear it. “I don’t know. I don’t understand why she should have been put to death.” He looked around at the girls and Rachel. “But it is not a matter to be discussed.”

  Bess felt as though she had been forced into a box and a lid closed over her. How could there be such horrors? And being forbidden to speak of it somehow made it worse.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Thirtieth of October, 1541—Hampton Court Palace

  I SEE THEM!” DOLL CRIED, TUGGING BESS’S SLEEVE. THEY HAD BEEN peering out a second-story window at Hampton Court Palace since the advance rider had thundered up with the news that the king and queen would arrive shortly, returning from the progress that had taken them through Berkshire, Oxfordshire, Northamptonshire, Bedfordshire, and Hertfordshire.

  “He doesn’t look best pleased, does he?” Bess murmured, as the royal party rode through the palace gates. The king was stouter than ever, and seemed to dwarf the gray gelding beneath him. Cat Howard rode beside him, sidesaddle on a dappled mare, shrouded for travel in a gray cloak and veil. “Of course, they’ve been traveling for three months. That would be bound to wear on anyone’s patience, I would think.”

  “Lady Zouche had a letter from Sir George,” Doll said, “that His Majesty was put into a most foul temper when the King of Scotland failed to meet him as arranged.”

  “His sister Margaret died but a few weeks ago,” Bess recalled, “and of course little Prince Edward has been ill, which must worry him.”

  “I wonder if it worries Cat,” Doll whispered.

  Bess looked at her in shock. “Why, what do you mean?”

  “Well, if the prince dies, any son she bears would be king instead.”

  Bess shivered, both at the thought of anyone wishing so calculatedly for the death of a child, and because it seemed ill luck to suppose Cat would have a son. Catherine of Aragon and Anne Boleyn between them had not managed to produce a living boy, though they had each been with child and brought to childbed many times, Lady Zouche had told her, proudly fussing over her own new baby boy.

  “Too soon to be counting those chickens,” she murmured.

  “True,” Doll agreed. “But Cat must be keeping him happy. He’s ordered a service of thanksgiving for the marriage, to be said in every church in England day after tomorrow.”

  “Better her than me,” Bess whispered.

  The king and queen kept to their apartments that evening, no doubt exhausted from their travels, but the next day they dined in state, in the seemingly endless ritual that Bess had first witnessed at Codnor Castle. Cat, beside the king, was wearing a gown Bess
hadn’t seen before, of deep green silk, with outer sleeves turned back to reveal inner sleeves heavily embroidered and studded with pearls, and with starched frills of lace at her wrists. She seemed to sense Bess’s gaze and turned her head to scan the lower tables. She smiled when her eyes met Bess’s, and Bess bowed her head in acknowledgment.

  Bess and Doll managed to catch a few minutes’ visit with Lizzie, who they had not seen since the king and queen set out on their travels at the end of July.

  “How did you find it going on progress with the queen?” Doll importuned her.

  Lizzie hesitated before answering, glancing over her shoulder as if to see who was nearby, and Bess thought she looked nervous.

  “Exciting, of course,” she said. “But wearying. I’m glad we’re back.”

  “Such beautiful earrings,” Doll said. “Did the queen give them to you?”

  She reached a finger toward the pearls that hung from Lizzie’s ears but Lizzie stepped backward and all but swatted her hand away.

  “I must go,” she said, and abruptly turned and left.

  “Well,” Doll faltered, staring after her. “What’s got into her? Too grand to speak to us now, do you think?”

  “Perhaps she’s just tired,” Bess said. But she thought there must be something more behind Lizzie’s manner.

  The next day the court gathered in the palace chapel for the service of thanksgiving. Bess, seated with Lady Zouche, Audrey, and Doll, glanced up to the royal gallery where the king sat, with Cat at his side in a sober black gown. The chaplain stopped speaking, and the king stood and raised his arms to salute the crucified figure of Christ before him.

  “I render thanks to Thee, O Lord, that after so many strange accidents that have befallen my marriages, Thou hast been pleased to give me a wife so entirely conformed to my inclinations as her I now have.”