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

Henry and filed out, carrying our gifts. The marmoset had begun to screech. The king put his hands over his ears, and smiled at me, letting his gaze linger. Then he turned and went back toward the cabinet of polished wood, leaning against it comfortably, and reaching for the papers being handed to him.
    Our interview had come to an end.
    *   *   *
    “Never! Never!” Charyn said forcefully once we were back in our coach, on our return to Lambeth.
    “I would never even think of becoming the wife of that man!”
    “Nor would I,” put in cousin Margaret, “though he is terribly rich. And I suppose he could command any of us to do anything. He is the king.”
    “He is terrifying,” Alice said, her voice thin. She began to cough.
    “I don’t suppose we will have to make that decision, whether to marry him or not,” said Malyn, with a sly glance at me, “though he did seem to favor you, Catherine.”
    I chuckled. “He will think of me as the monkey lady, if he remembers me at all.” The gilded cage was at my feet. The marmoset had curled itself into a ball and was asleep, though how it could sleep with the jolting and jouncing of the coach I couldn’t imagine.
    “No! Never!” Charyn was repeating. “I would rather cut my own throat than share the bed of that fat dying old man.” She shuddered.
    “You won’t have to, will you?” was Margaret’s dry comment. “You have your lordling, Lord Morley’s boy.”
    “Yes,” said Charyn loftily, smoothing her satin skirt. “And I shall do my best to see that we are wed as soon as possible.”
    Though I made light of what Malyn said about King Henry’s showing me particular favor, I was well aware that he had indeed singled me out for his special notice. His whispered words, his squeezing of my hand, his praise (“Well said”), his lingering glance were all eloquent. And there was something more, though I had no idea what to make of it. On first glimpsing me he had seemed startled, taken aback. Why?
    There were other moments when I noticed him looking at me—looks I found disturbing: a slight wrinkling of his brow, a vague air of unease that seemed to descend over his features and then disappear as quickly as it came. Something about me troubled him, breaking in on his jocular, disarming manner. Yet he seemed pleased that I had chosen the marmoset as my gift, and he hadn’t whispered in any other ear but mine, or taken any other hand.
    I decided to call the little monkey Jonah, after the prophet in the Bible who was saved from drowning at sea. He became a great favorite among the women of Grandma Agnes’s household—after I assured them that he did not bite and that his annoying habit of tearing off their headdresses and loosening their hair could be controlled. His cage had to be kept clean and his daily platters of apples and nuts supplied (if I did not attend to this he screeched horribly) but as long as he was cared for he made a very affectionate companion. I became very fond of him, and sometimes took him with me, carrying him under my arm or draped over my shoulders, when I went about through the house.
    I thought of taking him with me when Uncle Thomas sent for me not long after my visit to the palace, but then decided not to risk uncle’s disapproval. I found Uncle Thomas in Grandma Agnes’s private closet, his mood for once hospitable and his manner almost welcoming. With him were Grandma Agnes, looking equally agreeable, and my uncle William Cotton, who came forward to embrace me as I entered, and two others, one a priest and the other a soberly dressed man, a landowner by his appearance, with several books under his arm and a sheaf of papers in his hands.
    “Now then, niece Catherine,” Uncle Thomas began, “we have something to tell you. The king has been asking after you. Ever since you and the others went to the palace he has been wanting to know everything about you.”
    “Tell her what he said to you,” Grandma Agnes