standing. Come to think of it, he really should be thanking Thomas Cromwell for his gaffe. Ah, well, he sighed to himself.
All truly was fair in love and war . . . and ambition.
To Catherine, London was a dirty, dizzying tangle of horses, carts, stray animals and shabby beggars. They came at her and passed her, nearly knocking her from her own horse on narrow muddy lanes and twisted, cobbled causeways amid refuse-scented air. As she and Dorothy rode among a contingent of her uncle’s guard into this new, foreign world, women hung from windows in timbered old buildings that sagged like tired old men unable to stand. Pigs and sheep moved randomly about, taunted by mangy barking dogs, all of whom left their pungent feces in the road. It was not long before Catherine could barely think or breathe through the noxious mix of dung and refuse. She was not certain what she had expected of the city, but it was certainly not this.
Even the briny scent of the Thames as they neared it was a welcome relief from the other odors. Catherine felt revived as she glanced at the wide waterway filled with barges and smaller bobbing vessels, banners and brightly colored pennons fluttering in the cool spring breeze. Then suddenly she saw, on the other side of the river, a vast maze of buildings, towers and gardens, all fronting the snaking, glittering Thames like a jewel in a crown. Whitehall Palace.
Once they crossed the river and reached the palace, she stopped her horse behind her grandmother’s two groomsmen and waited while they addressed the Tudor guard standing at the massive redbrick gatehouse. A moment later the great iron gate, emblazoned with a huge gold letter H, was drawn back and their retinue proceeded through a stone archway that held a gallery. As they passed beneath it, Catherine could hear music and laughter coming from the rooms above, and she wondered if the king himself was there.
That single memory that she had of him flashed across her mind again; he was handsome, full of humor and so sophisticated. She could not quite imagine what she would do the next time she was shown into his presence. This time, they would not meet in the modest surroundings of Horsham, but at his own magnificent royal court. She only prayed she would not prattle on like a silly child, as she had done the last time when she was a child and he had visited their home with Queen Jane.
Finally, the party dismounted in the gravel-covered courtyard near a large door in a three-story stone building dominated by large mullioned windows. She glanced up and yet tried not to stare. She must try at least to look as if she belonged in a place like this. A moment later, two young women came through the door together and approached her. They were older than she was, yet sumptuously and fashionably dressed—one in a scarlet-colored silk dress with a square neckline, the other in green damask with great bell sleeves. Both of them wore chains of gold and pearls at their slim waists.
Catherine twisted her riding gloves nervously at the sight of them approaching.
“I am Lady Douglas,” said the woman in scarlet.
“And I am the Marchioness of Dorset, but you may call me Frances.”
Catherine curtsied to them, knowing exactly who they were. Both were the king’s nieces, Frances being the daughter of the king’s beloved sister, Mary, who had died seven years earlier, and Charles Brandon. Their love story from a quarter century earlier had become legend already.
Margaret, Lady Douglas, was the daughter of Henry’s other sister, who had gone away to become Queen of Scotland. Henry VIII was well known for keeping those most dear to him nearby . . . unless they betrayed him.
“You’re to follow us. We shall get you settled while the queen is at dinner with His Majesty,” said Lady Douglas with a kind though slight smile.
Catherine turned back to Dorothy Barwick. For the first time in days, she felt a twinge of regret that Dorothy’s journey was to end
All truly was fair in love and war . . . and ambition.
To Catherine, London was a dirty, dizzying tangle of horses, carts, stray animals and shabby beggars. They came at her and passed her, nearly knocking her from her own horse on narrow muddy lanes and twisted, cobbled causeways amid refuse-scented air. As she and Dorothy rode among a contingent of her uncle’s guard into this new, foreign world, women hung from windows in timbered old buildings that sagged like tired old men unable to stand. Pigs and sheep moved randomly about, taunted by mangy barking dogs, all of whom left their pungent feces in the road. It was not long before Catherine could barely think or breathe through the noxious mix of dung and refuse. She was not certain what she had expected of the city, but it was certainly not this.
Even the briny scent of the Thames as they neared it was a welcome relief from the other odors. Catherine felt revived as she glanced at the wide waterway filled with barges and smaller bobbing vessels, banners and brightly colored pennons fluttering in the cool spring breeze. Then suddenly she saw, on the other side of the river, a vast maze of buildings, towers and gardens, all fronting the snaking, glittering Thames like a jewel in a crown. Whitehall Palace.
Once they crossed the river and reached the palace, she stopped her horse behind her grandmother’s two groomsmen and waited while they addressed the Tudor guard standing at the massive redbrick gatehouse. A moment later the great iron gate, emblazoned with a huge gold letter H, was drawn back and their retinue proceeded through a stone archway that held a gallery. As they passed beneath it, Catherine could hear music and laughter coming from the rooms above, and she wondered if the king himself was there.
That single memory that she had of him flashed across her mind again; he was handsome, full of humor and so sophisticated. She could not quite imagine what she would do the next time she was shown into his presence. This time, they would not meet in the modest surroundings of Horsham, but at his own magnificent royal court. She only prayed she would not prattle on like a silly child, as she had done the last time when she was a child and he had visited their home with Queen Jane.
Finally, the party dismounted in the gravel-covered courtyard near a large door in a three-story stone building dominated by large mullioned windows. She glanced up and yet tried not to stare. She must try at least to look as if she belonged in a place like this. A moment later, two young women came through the door together and approached her. They were older than she was, yet sumptuously and fashionably dressed—one in a scarlet-colored silk dress with a square neckline, the other in green damask with great bell sleeves. Both of them wore chains of gold and pearls at their slim waists.
Catherine twisted her riding gloves nervously at the sight of them approaching.
“I am Lady Douglas,” said the woman in scarlet.
“And I am the Marchioness of Dorset, but you may call me Frances.”
Catherine curtsied to them, knowing exactly who they were. Both were the king’s nieces, Frances being the daughter of the king’s beloved sister, Mary, who had died seven years earlier, and Charles Brandon. Their love story from a quarter century earlier had become legend already.
Margaret, Lady Douglas, was the daughter of Henry’s other sister, who had gone away to become Queen of Scotland. Henry VIII was well known for keeping those most dear to him nearby . . . unless they betrayed him.
“You’re to follow us. We shall get you settled while the queen is at dinner with His Majesty,” said Lady Douglas with a kind though slight smile.
Catherine turned back to Dorothy Barwick. For the first time in days, she felt a twinge of regret that Dorothy’s journey was to end
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