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

was Lord Cromwell’s idea, and he hated Lord Cromwell.
    I found all the talk and wrangling wearisome—and besides, there was only one thing, or rather one man, on my mind just then: Francis Dereham.
    One afternoon he surprised me with a visit. He was not wearing his livery. For an instant I was worried: had he lost his position as gentleman pensioner? Had he done something to anger Grandma Agnes?
    But he quickly reassured me. He was not wearing his livery because he was not needed that afternoon. Grandma Agnes had gone to Greenwich and taken only a few members of her household with her. He was not among them.
    He kissed me lightly on the cheek.
    “I thought we might go into the orchard and have a picnic,” he said, his smile charming as always. “I don’t need to return until after vespers.”
    I brightened at once. We set off with a basket of food and a blanket. I took my cloak in case of rain.
    The orchard that adjoined Lambeth Great House was large and thickly wooded. Rabbits and deer foraged in the grass beneath the tall trees, the cherries just beginning to put forth their unripe fruit, the apple trees still in flower.
    I was happy, walking along with Francis, enjoying the feeling that, for once, there was no urgency about our time together, no need to rush. The sun was warm, the grass smelled sweet beneath our feet as we went along. We were quiet, at peace together. I felt my desire for him rise. Impulsively I took the blanket from under his arm and spread it on the fragrant grass. I lay down and reached for him.
    He came into my arms and kissed me, a long unhurried kiss, then another. I expected him to begin to undress me, as Henry Manox had, eager to reveal all of me to his excited gaze. But he did not. And after a time he stopped kissing me as well.
    “What is it?” I asked, full of fear. “Do you find me wanting?”
    “No indeed,” came the answer. “But I cannot dishonor you, Catherine, as some would surely try to do were they fortunate enough to be here with you. Lovemaking must take place within a bond of trust.”
    “I trust you, Francis.” There was a catch in my voice as I said the words.
    “I refer to the trust between a husband and wife.”
    A silence fell between us. I did not know what to say. I sat up on the blanket. Francis leaned comfortably on one elbow.
    “There must be a future in view,” he said presently.
    Once again I did not know what to say, for I could not tell what he meant. Was he hinting that he wanted us to marry? Even if that was not what he meant, surely he was honoring me by protecting my virginity. Why then did I feel so bereft, cheated of the pleasure I wanted so badly, kept waiting in uncertainty and suffering while I waited? Why did I feel unwanted?
    He got to his feet and, when I stood as well, feeling crestfallen, he began to fold the blanket into a neat square.
    “We have not eaten our picnic,” he said blandly. “Are you hungry?”
    I shook my head.
    “Then let us go back. I may be needed. I like to be ready, on call, in case my services are required.”
    *   *   *
    “I am being considered,” my father told me somewhat lugubriously, “for second under-cellarer to the new queen.”
    “That’s wonderful, father! But only considered? Not actually appointed?”
    “Not as yet.”
    He sighed. “Others have already received appointments. I have been overlooked, it would seem.”
    So he had been disappointed once again.
    “Have you spoken to Grandma Agnes about it?”
    He rolled his eyes, as if to say, she cares nothing for my welfare, and thinks poorly of me. It would do no good whatever to talk to her. Knowing that he was probably right, I let the question hang in the air, unanswered.
    “I hope that a place may be found for you, however, Catherine, and for your cousin Charyn, among the new queen’s women. And perhaps, once you are well established there, and the king’s new bride becomes fond of you, you can tell her that your father would be well