“Not yet, my lady. Perhaps you might compose something.”

She suggested a verse and Mary contributed another and we were soon laughing together as we tried different variations on a theme. I felt at ease with them both, almost as if they were my sisters, although they were much more considerate of me than Bridget ever was. When we were engaged in the composition of poetry or the setting of verses to music, it was just as Edith had told Father. There were no boundaries. They treated me as their equal.

When we were satisfied with our song, Mary produced a small box full of sugared almonds. “A reward,” she said, and passed it around.

Seated on a blanket on the grass, silent save for the sounds of our contented munching, we had no need to talk. I was so comfortable I was almost dozing. It came as a shock to hear a familiar laugh boom forth.

I sat up straight, eyes wide. “The king,” I mouthed at Mary Shelton.

She held her finger to her lips, warning me not to speak aloud. Heavy footsteps were coming closer, but they were on the other side of a hedge. We were hidden from view and, so long as we made no sound, His Grace would pass by without ever knowing we were there.

King Henry went past the spot where I sat, holding my breath, but he stopped only a few steps beyond. He spoke, a low rumble of sound in which the words were indistinct.

A high-pitched giggle and a murmur answered him.

Lady Richmond and Mary exchanged a speaking glance. Lady Richmond’s eyes narrowed. Mary’s lips thinned into a hard, flat line. They knew the identity of the female in His Grace’s company, but I did not. I was sorely tempted to peek through the shrubbery and see who she was, but I did not dare move a muscle. All I could do was stretch my ears and hope for a clue.

Silk whispered. Gravel crunched underfoot. Someone sighed. The leaves in the hedge shook as if someone had leaned against the other side. The woman laughed again, and this time when she spoke, what she said was clearly audible. “No, no, Harry. No more until we are wed.”

I frowned. Perhaps it was not the king after all, for King Henry was already married. And what woman would dare to call him anything but Your Grace or Your Majesty?

After a moment, the lovers continued on. I looked at the duchess, and expected her to say something about the strange incident, but she held her tongue. In a little while, we returned to the house and soon after that I bade them farewell and collected Edith for the journey back to London. It was at the horse ferry, where we went to hail a wherry for the return trip, that I overheard two watermen talking.

“The king’s come to dine with the old duchess, again,” one said.

“I warrant ’tis not the duchess he’s spending his time with,” the other replied with a laugh that made my skin crawl.

“The king was with a woman in the garden,” I whispered to Edith when we were out on the river. “Do you suppose he has a mistress here?”

She sniffed. For a moment I thought she would refuse to answer me, even though it was clear she knew who the giggling female was. Servants always know more than their masters. I waited, hoping she’d relent. After a few minutes, my patience was rewarded.

“Queen Anne has been packed off to Richmond Palace without the king. She does not know it yet, but she is about to be divorced. The king has found another lady he wishes to marry in her stead.”

“Who?”

“One of her own maids of honor, Mistress Catherine Howard.”

I blinked at Edith in surprise, recalling the vivacious blonde she had pointed out to me at Durham House. “But . . . but . . . she is—that is, His Grace is—”

Words failed me, which was perhaps just as well, when I could be overheard by the boatman. Catherine Howard was the same age as my sister Elizabeth. Although King Henry was a magnificent figure of a man, he was old enough to be her father. He was very nearly old enough to be her grandfather. Of its own volition, my lip curled in distaste.

“Perhaps this rumor will prove untrue,” I said. “Many do.”

And surely the king would never allow himself to look ridiculous by trying to rid himself of yet another wife.

I was wrong about that. Queen Anne was persuaded to accept an annulment. A bit more than a month after that day at Norfolk House, King Henry married Catherine Howard.

I was never presented to Queen Catherine, even though I was at court with Father during her tenure as queen. I doubt she even knew of my existence. I saw the king only occasionally and when I did he seemed distracted. Once, when he was with the queen, he walked right past me without a flicker of recognition in his eyes.

It was Anthony Denny, by then elevated to the post of chief gentleman of the privy chamber, who unfailingly stopped by Father’s workroom when I came with him to court. He chatted with me in a friendly, avuncular way, inquiring after the progress of my studies. When I expressed an interest in learning to draw, tutors were sent to Watling Street to give me instruction in sketching and calligraphy. Master Denny never said so in so many words, but he led me to believe that he reported on our conversations to the king.

Lessons, friends, family, Pocket, poetry, and music filled my days. When I noticed the first sign of a developing bosom, I felt truly blessed. My first flowers came soon after—that was not so pleasant—but I knew that the arrival of my courses meant that I had entered womanhood and was, if barely, old enough to wed. This encouraged me to flirt outrageously with Master Harington. Sometimes he responded in kind, but he did not take me seriously.

He took a far greater interest in Bridget’s more obvious charms. My breasts were saucepans. Hers were stew pots. She encouraged him, too, doubtless to spite me, for she had already set her sights on someone far wealthier than Jack Harington.

Self-absorbed as I was in private pleasures and frustrations, I was only dimly aware of a heightened tension affecting both the city and the court. It was an exceeding hot summer with no rain. There was drought. Men feared the return of the plague. Although that devastating sickness did not come upon us, at least not that year, there were outbreaks of another sort. Short tempers led to fights. Some became near riots. After the court went on progress during August, September, and October, thankfully without a full contingent from the Chapel Royal, rumors drifted back to London that the king was in failing health.

These proved unfounded, God be praised, but His Grace chose to remain at some distance from London until mid-December. Most of the courtiers who were not attached to the so-called riding household took themselves off to their country estates. The Duchess of Richmond left for Kenninghall in Norfolk, taking Mary Shelton with her. There was no mention of adding me to her household.












13

Norfolk House, January 1541

I waited until after Epiphany to pay a visit to Norfolk House, although the duchess had spent Yuletide there. I brought Pocket with me, since he was easy to carry and got along well with my Lady of Richmond’s spaniels. All the dogs avoided Mary Shelton’s cat.

The Earl of Surrey and some of his followers were in his sister’s rooms when I arrived. Surrey looked at Pocket askance, not having seen him before.

“That is a glove beagle,” he remarked, “not the usual sort of lapdog.”

“He was a gift, my lord.” The slight sneer on Surrey’s face prompted me to add, “From the king.”

One auburn eyebrow lifted and he darted a questioning glance at the duchess. She ignored him. I tucked Pocket away, out of sight, uncomfortably aware of the earl’s scrutiny and that of a member of his entourage, a fellow I had not noticed before.

He was the oldest person present, by at least a decade, and, by his dress, of lower birth and status than the earl. His mouth turned down while his nose stayed up in the air, as if to avoid smelling something unpleasant. He was clean-shaven, a poor choice since it revealed a weak chin.

“Have you heard about Anne of Cleves’s visit to court over Yuletide?” Mary Shelton asked, glancing up from her needlework. With a gesture, she invited me to sit beside her and join in the task of hemming what appeared to be an altar cloth.

I was glad of the excuse to move farther away from the stranger, who was now whispering in a servant’s ear. The lad scurried away as if he feared a beating if he did not make haste. I thought perhaps he had reason.

“I heard that the former queen was installed at Richmond Palace,” I said to Mary. King Henry had given it to her in return for her agreement to annul their marriage.

“She’s hardly a prisoner there! In any case, she arrived at the gates of Hampton Court on the third of January, two days after the traditional exchange of gifts on New Year’s Day.”

“You make it seem as if she was not expected.” Surrey sounded disgusted by the subterfuge. “The entire production was carefully staged.” He helped himself to a goblet of wine and drank deeply.

“No doubt it was.” His sister kept her eyes on the intricate stitches she was using to attach a piece of black-work lace to a kirtle. “But it was a splendid spectacle all the same. You’d have enjoyed it, Audrey. Lady Anne of Cleves, who now must call herself the king’s sister where once she was his wife, threw herself to her knees before Queen Catherine like the most common suitor. Then the king arrived on the scene—just in time to witness this touching tableau. He raised Lady Anne up and kissed her and embraced her and then they all sat down to sup like three old friends.”

“Has Anne of Cleves finally learned enough English to converse properly?” I asked. Her difficulties with the language had been widely reported.

Lady Richmond laughed. “So it would seem. But the highlight of the evening came after the king retired to his own apartments. Catherine called for music and then the two ladies danced together, whiling away the rest of the evening in that manner.”

“A display of perfect amity.” Scorn laced Surrey’s words.

“Why are you so wroth with Cousin Catherine?” the duchess asked. “It is to our benefit to have a kinswoman in the king’s bed.”

Seated beside Mary on her bench, I felt as well as saw her wince. “Is aught wrong?” I whispered.

Mary, blunt as ever, gave me a frank answer. “A momentary pang, I assure you. Having a kinswoman in the king’s bed is not always comfortable for the rest of the family. You see, during Anne Boleyn’s tenure as queen, she ordered her kinswoman, my sister Margaret, to allow the king to seduce her. The queen hoped to distract His Grace from lavishing his favors on another young gentlewoman at court.”

She kept her voice low, but the same gentleman who had earlier been so rudely staring at me cocked his head in our direction, blatantly eavesdropping on our exchange. Tom Clere, who was also close enough to overhear, leaned past me to give Mary a quick peck on the cheek. As he did so, I caught a whiff of bay leaves.

“Here you have the only woman in England who would not think it an honor to be the king’s mistress,” he said with a chuckle.

Mary swatted at him, missing when he ducked and nearly striking me. “Terrible man!” She sent me an apologetic look and sighed. “The truth is that people often confuse me with my sister. It is most annoying.”

“Better that than to be mistaken for your namesake the nun,” Clere teased her.

“Former nun,” Mary muttered through gritted teeth. There were neither nuns nor monks in England anymore, not since King Henry dissolved all the religious houses.

Clere, unrepentant, wandered off. I realized, with a sense of surprise, that the duchess and her brother were still talking about Lady Anne’s visit to court. The exchange between Mary and Tom Clere had passed unnoticed by anyone but myself and the stranger.

“After dinner the next day,” Lady Richmond said, “well pleased with his new bride, the king presented her with a ring and two lapdogs. The queen, to show favor to her guest, promptly offered all three to Lady Anne, who accepted them most graciously.”

“Did the queen not fear to offend His Grace by giving his gifts away?” The question burst out of me before I could stop it. I stammered an attempt at an explanation: “I . . . I would never give Pocket to someone else.”

Surrey laughed. “No, indeed. The king would not be pleased to hear of it if one of his glove beagles were to go to another. I am surprised he parted with that one. But these dogs were just ordinary spaniels, like that lazy beast.” He sent a contemptuous look in the direction of one of his sister’s lapdogs. Curled up close to the hearth, it was snoring gustily.