A Fortress of Feathers

DUODECIM[12]

The next few weeks were spent pent up in the castle, foreboding grey clouds keeping us under a blanket of heavy air and modest awkwardness. I remember being terrified and flustered during Catherine’s secret bedding with Prince Arthur. Her nights with Henry were much worse.

On the night he decided to sleep with her, a few days after their wedding, he was escorted by a bawdy group of noblemen. Henry’s friends and advisers all chuckled knowingly as Margaret and I opened the door to Catherine’s chambers, the beautiful apartments that queen’s always stayed in before their official coronation. The all burst through the entryway as if entering a common brothel, not their future queen’s bedchambers.

We had already dressed Catherine in beautifully embroidered white bed robes, loose but conservative. Uncomfortably I noted how the whole robe would fall from her body with only untying of a simple knot.

Catherine was suppressing her embarrassment as a priest came to bless the couple as they lie beside each other in bed. Still, her pale cheeks turned deep red as, in droning Latin, the priest blessed her loins and prayed for conception.

A few words later, our party left the room. One of Henry’s advisers closed the door. I recognized him to be Thomas Wolsey, Susanna’s connection at court. He was a somewhat large man, with a wide stomach and a shining bald head, though his persona was entirely different. He was fairly pathetic in all honesty: eager to please, almost like a dog. Henry, however, appreciated this kind of behavior; looking back I see that it made him feel more regal. Wolsey was soon to be appointed Almoner, giving him a seat on the king’s Privy Council.

Wolsey was not easily likeable to anyone he was not serving. That was where Susanna came into play.  Wolsey had long kept a mistress, a woman by the name of Joan Larke, Susanna’s sister, Susanna being the fairer of the two. Ever-eager Wolsey had brought Susanna to court hoping that she could be his ears and eyes where he was not welcome.

This was not exactly common knowledge, but I had grown quite good at acquiring secrets. These particular ones were not so difficult to extract; when Elinor returned home from France, I noticed she and Alice slowly distancing themselves from Susanna. A few quick words to Elinor, and soon secrets and stories were pouring out.

I delivered every trivial bit of information to Catherine. Whenever questioned, she said she got her information from her shadows. That was me. Among these were tales of the young man Charles Brandon, a close friend of Henry’s. He had only recently come to court, but already his reputation was widespread.

He was handsome, youthful, popular among the ladies. He and the king bonded instantly. I had not seen him in person until Catherine’s first night in bed with Henry.

He was tall, with a strong chin and golden brown eyes. His hair was thick, mouth held in a permanently cloying grin. He was married to his second wife already, though he was no more than twenty-five, and he already had one young legitimate daughter, who lived away from court with his wife, in addition to quite a few bastard children.

He gave Margaret a sideways smile as he walked away from Catherine’s room that night, and I saw her white face paint turn splotchy as she blushed, just as Catherine had.

I tugged Margaret’s hand and we made our way to the servant’s quarters, where Molly Cranford was noticeably absent. She did not spend many nights in her own bed.

Bessie, as we had taken to calling Elizabeth Blount, was waiting for us. She was already beautiful, her young, plump face pale as ivory, with near-black hair a few shades darker than my own. She inquired on the to-be queen’s well being.

“All is well,” Margaret said shortly. She was not as forgiving of Bessie’s constant prying as I was. Bessie looked slightly crestfallen, so I interjected. “You should sleep, sweet girl, it is late and there is much to do when the sun rises.”