Free The Unfaithful Queen: A Novel of Henry VIII's Fifth Wife by Carolly Erickson

he and I—
    He recovered his former geniality, and sat contentedly while Mary and I finished our meal, a smile of satisfaction on his face, as if he had accomplished what he had come for. Presently Joan came in, and Alice with her, and Master Dereham bowed and took his leave. When he was gone, Joan looked over at me. A knowing look.
    “Well,” she said after a long silence, “so that’s how it is then. Mistress Catherine and the handsome Master Dereham.”
    She knew, even then, she knew far better than I, that I was already lost to love.
    *   *   *
    He did not need to woo me, I was already his. Every time I saw Francis Dereham standing with the other gentlemen pensioners in attendance on the duchess, lithe and slim and graceful in his red and black livery, every time I observed him escorting visitors newly arrived at Lambeth, whenever I watched him doing some small service for Uncle Thomas or answering the command of some other dignitary, every time I saw him standing behind the chair of a nobleman who was dining at my grandmother’s table, I felt again the desire to touch his smooth unblemished skin and look into his light blue eyes with their fringe of long lashes.
    He was kept very busy from early morning until late at night. When he came looking for me, as he did from time to time, he would greet me with the greatest politeness, often bringing gifts or food or pretty trinkets or tokens of affection. But he could never stay with me long.
    “Sweetheart, I must away to the duchess’s antechamber in a quarter of an hour,” he would say, or “Dearest Catherine, I must leave you soon, but I will stay with you as long as I can.”
    My longing for him grew, and I struggled not to lose patience. My eagerness for his company increased. During our times together he would take my hand, stroke my cheek, draw me into a secluded alcove and kiss me—but never for long enough to do more than tantalize me, and leave me counting the hours—or more often, the days and sleepless nights—until our next meeting.
    I grew anxious, pale, edgy with worry. What was I to make of his infrequent appearances in my life (for they seemed infrequent to me)? Was it just that he was being given more and more responsibilities by my grandmother and Uncle Thomas—who seemed to spend a great deal of time at Lambeth—or was he keeping company with another girl or woman? Or several others?
    There seemed to be no way to find out, though I tried and tried. Meanwhile the household was distracted by more talk of the king’s forthcoming marriage. Lord Cromwell was said to be very satisfied with the bargaining over Anna of Cleves’s dowry. The lady herself was not nearly as important as the benefits the marriage would bring to England. I heard much talk of how English trade would flourish anew, how sturdy, warlike Clevan soldiers would join our English trained bands. Of how all the North German lands and the flat lowland countries would join with our King Henry against the Spanish Emperor Charles, weakening his overweening might and making us safer.
    Now and then, to be sure, I heard someone scoff.
    “Cleves! Where is this little Cleves? A land of windmills and floods!”
    And there was muffled laughter about the woman no one at court had seen, Anna. The woman Lord Cromwell wanted to make our queen.
    “She’s an old maid! She’s nearly twenty-five!”
    “She was betrothed once, but for some reason they didn’t marry. Why?”
    No one seemed to know why.
    “Could it be that she didn’t like the man? Or that he was old and poor, and she wanted someone young and rich?”
    We knew that a portrait of the Lady Anna had been sent to the palace, for the king to see and approve.
    “German women are all big, striding, yellow-haired fishwives,” I heard Uncle Thomas say. Uncle Thomas did not spare his words! But I doubted whether he had seen the portrait of the Lady Anna, and my father told me that Uncle Thomas was opposed to the marriage because it