a purpose now, because all of that had brought her here and was moving her toward an adventurous life with the new queen. Perhaps there was even some noble courtier who could give her the life to which her name if not her experience entitled her. As she rode closer to London throughout the day, the excitement of it was a palpable thing.
“Cast off the old for the new without regret,” she remembered her mother saying. She thought not of Horsham but of Francis Dereham. He would heal and find a proper wife. She glanced over at Dorothy, who was nodding off, chin to chest, eyes closed as her horse created a dozing rhythm beneath her. This really was all for the best. Catherine looked straight ahead and lifted her chin proudly. For the first time in her life she actually felt like a Howard.
Chapter Four
May 2, 1540 Whitehall Palace, London
T he banquet hall at the king’s palace in London was vast, with a soaring buttressed ceiling and paneled walls warmed by a series of grand tapestries depicting scenes from Ovid’s Metamorphoses . The hall was lit by dozens of shimmering white tapers flaring in silver wall braziers and chandeliers above, and the floor was strewn with sweet green rushes. In spite of the massive space, the room was filled with the scent of food and unwashed flesh. The music, a volte, was upbeat, played by musicians placed above them in the gallery. But the sound did not suit the king’s mood.
Norfolk sat beside him, Henry in his massive carved throne beneath the canopy of state, the collection of silver plates before them catching the lamplight. The duke watched from the corner of his eye as the king swallowed goblet upon goblet full of wine, never once turning to his other side to acknowledge his queen. Henry was in a particularly foul mood, and he had been since the morning, when he had relented to his wife’s request to attend Mass with the German ambassador and her brother, the Duke of Cleves.
Norfolk watched Henry chew with the intensity of a goat. How forty-nine years, and the death of three wives, had aged him, the
duke thought callously, taking a swallow of Rhenish wine. He barely touched his own food, but glanced out at the colorful collection of court ladies and gentlemen dancing in a swirl of fabric before him.
Where he had once been slim and athletic, then strong and burly, Henry now was rotund and slow, a great bulk of a man whose still-slim legs recalled a hint of what he once was. Yet even that was deceiving. One of his legs was infected with an abscess the physicians could never quite heal for him. Not even his purple velvet coat embroidered with pearls, gold cap studded with diamonds or the chains of silver that glittered near his throat could hide the loss of his vigor. His receding copper gray hairline, bloated face and ambling gait confirmed his age almost as much as the appearance of his body did. Where, as husband to Anne Boleyn, he had had hunting, hawking and jousts to keep him trim, now they were rare at best, and his most vigorous exercise was eating—and that he did in great volume.
Fearing reprisal for seeing the truth that His Majesty wished to hide, courtiers wisely averted their eyes and chatted amongst themselves as the king ate, but everyone was all too aware of the array of platters piled with venison, ginger goose and huge meat pies set before him. In a single day, the massive English court consumed together more than a dozen sheep, nearly twenty pigs, one hundred chickens, and well over a thousand loaves of bread.
Finally, as Norfolk had known he would, Henry wiped the grease from his mouth with a white silk cloth, handed it to the steward behind him, then leaned toward the duke.
“Have you yet thought of a way to terminate this marriage without my risking England’s alliances?” he bluntly asked.
Norfolk had waited four years to be needed again. That seemingly simple request, which the king had made for the first time a fortnight ago, had begun the
“Cast off the old for the new without regret,” she remembered her mother saying. She thought not of Horsham but of Francis Dereham. He would heal and find a proper wife. She glanced over at Dorothy, who was nodding off, chin to chest, eyes closed as her horse created a dozing rhythm beneath her. This really was all for the best. Catherine looked straight ahead and lifted her chin proudly. For the first time in her life she actually felt like a Howard.
Chapter Four
May 2, 1540 Whitehall Palace, London
T he banquet hall at the king’s palace in London was vast, with a soaring buttressed ceiling and paneled walls warmed by a series of grand tapestries depicting scenes from Ovid’s Metamorphoses . The hall was lit by dozens of shimmering white tapers flaring in silver wall braziers and chandeliers above, and the floor was strewn with sweet green rushes. In spite of the massive space, the room was filled with the scent of food and unwashed flesh. The music, a volte, was upbeat, played by musicians placed above them in the gallery. But the sound did not suit the king’s mood.
Norfolk sat beside him, Henry in his massive carved throne beneath the canopy of state, the collection of silver plates before them catching the lamplight. The duke watched from the corner of his eye as the king swallowed goblet upon goblet full of wine, never once turning to his other side to acknowledge his queen. Henry was in a particularly foul mood, and he had been since the morning, when he had relented to his wife’s request to attend Mass with the German ambassador and her brother, the Duke of Cleves.
Norfolk watched Henry chew with the intensity of a goat. How forty-nine years, and the death of three wives, had aged him, the
duke thought callously, taking a swallow of Rhenish wine. He barely touched his own food, but glanced out at the colorful collection of court ladies and gentlemen dancing in a swirl of fabric before him.
Where he had once been slim and athletic, then strong and burly, Henry now was rotund and slow, a great bulk of a man whose still-slim legs recalled a hint of what he once was. Yet even that was deceiving. One of his legs was infected with an abscess the physicians could never quite heal for him. Not even his purple velvet coat embroidered with pearls, gold cap studded with diamonds or the chains of silver that glittered near his throat could hide the loss of his vigor. His receding copper gray hairline, bloated face and ambling gait confirmed his age almost as much as the appearance of his body did. Where, as husband to Anne Boleyn, he had had hunting, hawking and jousts to keep him trim, now they were rare at best, and his most vigorous exercise was eating—and that he did in great volume.
Fearing reprisal for seeing the truth that His Majesty wished to hide, courtiers wisely averted their eyes and chatted amongst themselves as the king ate, but everyone was all too aware of the array of platters piled with venison, ginger goose and huge meat pies set before him. In a single day, the massive English court consumed together more than a dozen sheep, nearly twenty pigs, one hundred chickens, and well over a thousand loaves of bread.
Finally, as Norfolk had known he would, Henry wiped the grease from his mouth with a white silk cloth, handed it to the steward behind him, then leaned toward the duke.
“Have you yet thought of a way to terminate this marriage without my risking England’s alliances?” he bluntly asked.
Norfolk had waited four years to be needed again. That seemingly simple request, which the king had made for the first time a fortnight ago, had begun the
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