Free Royal Inheritance by Kate Emerson Page B

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 thejourney 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 grand father. 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 acceptan 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