seemed lost between them and his forehead, and were more like the flash of bright stones than eyes. This King made Catherine shiver. Cranmer she saw too—quiet and calm in his archbishop’s robes. She saw her uncle and would have hidden herself, but his sharp eyes would pick her out and he would nod curtly.
Catherine was enjoying life, for Derham could not pester her at court as he had done at the Duchess’s house, and when she did not see him she could almost forget the sorrow that had come to her through him. She loved the Queen, and wept for her because she was so unhappy. The King did not love her; he was with her only in public. The ladies whispered together that when they went to the royal bechamber at night the King said good night to the Queen and that nothing passed between them until the morning when he said good morning. They giggled over the extraordinary relationship of the King and Queen; and Catherine was too inexperienced and too much in awe of them not to giggle with them, but she was really sorry for the sad-eyed Queen. But Catherine did refrain from laughing with them over the overcrowded and tasteless wardrobe of the Queen.
“Ah!” whispered the ladies. “You should have seen the other Queen Anne. What clothes she had, and how she knew the way to wear them! But this one! No wonder the King has no fancy for her. Ja, ja, ja! That is all she can say!”
Catherine said: “But she is very kind.”
“She is without spirit to be otherwise!”
But that was not true. Catherine, who had been often beaten by the hard-handed Duchess, was susceptible to kindness; she sat with the Queen and learned the Flemish style of embroidery, and was very happy to serve Anne of Cleves.
There was something else that made Catherine happy. Thomas Culpepper was at court. She had not yet seen him, but each day she hoped for their reunion. He was, she heard, a great favorite with the King himself and it was his duty to sleep in the royal apartment and superintend those who dressed the King’s leg. She wondered if he knew she was here, and if he were waiting for the reunion as eagerly as she was.
Gardiner, the Bishop of Winchester, gave a banquet one evening. Catherine was very excited about this, for she was going to sing, and it would be the first time she had ever sung alone before the King.
“You are a little beauty!” said one of the ladies. “What a charming gown!”
“My grandmother gave it to me,” said Catherine, smoothing the rich cloth with the pleasure of one who has always longed for beautiful clothes and has never before possessed them.
“If you sing as prettily as you look,” she was told, “you will be a successful young woman.”
Catherine danced all the way down to the barge; she sang as they went along the river; she danced into the Bishop’s house. Over her small head smiles were exchanged; she was infectiously gay and very young.
“Mind you do not forget your words.”
“Oh, what if I do! I feel sure I shall!”
“Committed to the Tower!” they teased her, and she laughed with them, her cheeks aglow, her auburn curls flying.
She sat at the great table with the humblest of the ladies. The King, at the head of the table, was in a noisy mood. He was eating and drinking with great heartiness as was his custom, congratulating the Bishop on his cook’s efforts, swilling great quantities of wine, belching happily.
Would His Most Gracious Majesty care for a little music? the Bishop would know.
The King was ever ready to be entertained, and there was nothing he liked better, when he was full of good food and wine, than to hear a little music. He felt pleasantly sleepy; he smiled with benevolent eyes on Gardiner. A good servant, a good servant. He was in a mellow mood; he would have smiled on Cromwell.
He looked along the table. A little girl was singing. She had a pretty voice; her flushed cheeks reminded him of June roses, her hair gleamed gold; she was tiny and plump and very pretty. There was something in her which startled him out of his drowsiness. It was not that she was the least bit like Anne. Anne’s hair had been black as had her eyes; Anne had been tall and slender. How could this little girl be like Anne? He did not know what could have suggested such a thought to him, and yet there it was...but elusive, so that he could not catch it, could not even define it. All he could say was that she reminded him. It was the tilt of her head, the gesture of the hands, that graceful back bent forward, and now the pretty head tossed back. He was excited, as for a long time he had wanted to be excited. He had not been so excited since the early days of marriage with Anne.
“Who is the girl now singing?” he asked Gardiner.
“That, Your Majesty, is Norfolk’s niece, Catherine Howard.”
The King tapped his knee reflectively. Now he had it. Anne had been Norfolk’s niece too. The elusive quality was explained by a family resemblance.
“Norfolk’s niece!” he said, and growled without anger, so that the growl came through his pouched lips like a purr. He watched the girl. He thought, By God, the more I see of her the more I like her!
He was comparing her with his pockmarked Queen. Give him English beauties, sweet-faced and sweet-voiced. He liked sonorous English on the tongue, not harsh German. Like a rose she was, flushed, laughing and happy.
“She seems little more than a child,” he said to Gardiner.
Norfolk was beside the King. Norfolk was cunning as a monkey, artful as a fox. He knew well how to interpret that soft look in the royal eyes; he knew the meaning of the slurring tones. Norfolk had been furious when the King had chosen Anne Boleyn instead of his own daughter, the Lady Mary Howard. Every family wanted boys, but girls, when they were as pleasant to the eye as Anne Boleyn and Catherine Howard, had their uses.
“We liked well your little niece’s playing,” said the King.
Norfolk was beside the King. Norfolk murmured that His Majesty was gracious, and that it gave him the utmost delight that a member of his family should give some small pleasure to her sovereign.
“She gives us much pleasure,” said the King. “We like her manners and we like her singing. Who is her father?”
“My brother Edmund, sir. Your Majesty doubtless remembers him. He did well at Flodden Field.”
