“Nay, sweetheart. I would blame you for nothing. Tell me now that I have naught to fear from this man, and restore my happiness.”
“You have naught to fear from him.”
“He had a jeweled tablet of yours.”
“I remember it. He took it one day; he would not return it, and I, valuing it but little, did not press the matter.”
He sat heavily beside her on the window seat, and put an arm about her.
“You have greatly pleased me, sweetheart. You must excuse my jealousy.”
“I do excuse it,” she said.
“Then all is well.” He kissed her hand hungrily, his eyes asking for much that his lips dared not. He had angered her; he could not risk doing so again, for he sensed the uncertainty in her. Thus he marveled at his infatuation for this girl; as did the court. He had never loved like this; nay, he had never loved before. He was thirty-six, an old thirty-six in some ways, for he lived heartily; this was the last flare-up of youth, and the glow lighted everything about him in fantastic colors. He was the middle-aged man in love with youth; he felt inexpressibly tender towards her; he was obsessed by her; he chafed against the delay of the divorce.
After this affair of the bowls, Anne knew she was committed. Wyatt’s glance was sardonic now; Wyatt was resigned. She had chosen the power and the glory; his rival had tempted her with the bait of marriage.
Her heart must be strong; she must cultivate ambition; she must tread warily, since in that court of glittering men and women she now began to find her enemies, and if their malice was cloaked in soft words, they were nonetheless against her. The Cardinal, watchful and wary; the Duke of Suffolk and his wife—that Mary with whom she had gone to France—who now saw her throwing a shadow over the prospects of their descendants’ claim to the throne; Chapuys, the Spaniard who was more of a spy for his master, the Emperor Charles, than his ambassador; Katharine, the Queen whom she would displace; Mary, the princess who would be branded as illegitimate. All these there were in high places to fight against her. There was a more dangerous enemy still—the people of London. Discontent was rampant in the city; the harvest had been a poor one, and the sober merchants felt that an alliance with France was folly, since it merely changed old friends for new ones who had previously shown they were not to be trusted. There was famine throughout the country, and though the King might lend to the city corn from his own granaries, still the people murmured. The cloth merchants fretted, for the trouble with Spain meant losing the great Flanders market. The County of Kent petitioned the King, in view of their poverty, to repay a loan made to him two years before. The Archbishop of Canterbury did what he could to soothe these people, but they remained restive.
For these troubles did the people of England blame Wolsey. During the prosperous years the King received the homage of his subjects; he had been taken to their hearts during the period of his coronation when he, a magnificent figure of an Englishman, fair and tall and skilled in sport, had ridden among them—such a contrast to his ugly, mean old father. During the dark years, however, they blamed Wolsey; for Wolsey had committed the sin of being of the people and rising above them. The whispers went round: “Which court? Hampton Court or the King’s court?” This was the twilight hour of Wolsey’s brilliant day. And the starving and wretched gazed at a bright and beautiful girl, reclining in her barge or riding out with friends from court; more gaily dressed than the other ladies, she sparkled with rich jewels, presents from the King—a sight to raise the wrath of a starving people. “We’ll have none of Nan Bullen!” they murmured together. “The King’s whore shall not be our Queen. Queen Katharine forever!”
From the choked gutters there arose evil smells; decaying matter lay about for weeks; rats, tame as cats, walked the cobbles; overhanging gables, almost touching across narrow streets, shut out the sun and air, held in the vileness. And in those filthy streets men and women were taken suddenly sick; many died in the streets, the sweat pouring from their bodies; and all men knew that the dreaded sweating sickness had returned to England. Thus did the most sorely afflicted people of London wonder at this evil which had fallen upon them; thus did they murmur against her who by her witch’s fascination had turned the King from his pious ways. The sick and suffering of London whispered her name; the rebellious people of Kent talked of her; in the weaving counties her name was spoken with distaste. Everywhere there was murmuring against the devil’s instrument, Wolsey, and her who had led the King into evil ways and brought down the justice of heaven upon their country. Even at Horsham, where the news of the sweating sickness had not yet reached, they talked of Anne Boleyn. The old Duchess chuckled in great enjoyment of the matter.
“Come here, Catherine Howard. Rub my back. I declare I must be full of lice or suffering from the itch! Rub harder, child. Ah! Fine doings at the court, I hear. The King is bewitched, it seems, by your cousin, Anne Boleyn, and I am not greatly surprised to hear it. I said, when she came visiting me at Lambeth: ‘Ah! There is a girl the King would like!’ though I will say I added that he might feel inclined to spank the haughtiness out of her before carrying her off to bed. Don’t scratch, child! Gently...gently. Now I wonder if...” The Duchess giggled. “You must not look so interested, child, and I should not talk to you of such matters. Why, of course...As if he would not...From what I know of His Majesty...Though there are those that say...It is never wise to give in...and yet what can a poor girl do...and look how Mary kept him dancing attendance all those years! There is something about the Boleyns, and of course it comes from the Howards...though I swear I see little of it in you, child. Why, look at your gown! Is that a rent? You should make Isabel look after you better. And what do you do of nights when you should be sleeping? I declare I heard such a noise from your apartment that I was of good mind to come and lay about the lot of you...”
It was merely the Duchess’s talk; she would never stir from her bed. But Catherine decided she must tell the others.
“And your cousin, I hear, is to do something for your father, Catherine Howard. Oh, what it is to have friends at court! Why, you are dreaming there...Rub harder! Or leave that...you may do my legs now.”
Catherine was dreaming of the beautiful cousin who had come to the house at Lambeth. She knew what it meant to be a king’s favorite, for Catherine had a mixed knowledge; she knew of the attraction between men and women, and the methods in which such attraction was shown; of books she knew little, as the Duchess, always meaning to have her taught, was somehow ever forgetful of this necessity. The cousin had given her a jewelled tablet, and she had it still; she treasured it.
“One day,” said the Duchess, “I shall go to Lambeth that I may be near my granddaughter who is almost a queen.”
