Denoriel found it much easier to obtain an interview with the duke of Norfolk than he had expected. His formal note—on the thick, creamy parchment—received a prompt and courteous reply. It was in a secretary's hand, to be sure, but setting a date only a week later, on Tuesday, 25 May as an appointment for a meeting. The reply was no doubt composed by the secretary also, because Denoriel could detect no hint of why the response was so prompt and agreeable.
On the day, Denoriel examined himself carefully in the cheval glass to be sure that the pupils in his eyes were round, that their green was not so brilliant as to arouse unease, that his ears were rounded and low on his skull. His clothing was not sumptuous, the brocade of his doublet, soft violet on gray, subdued under a dark-gray velvet gown, his codpiece very modest, his slops and hose also gray, but lighter, so that the embroidery and clocking in silver barely glittered when he moved. It was also very rich, the cloth all silk, and heavy Oriental silk, not French.
Denoriel considered whether he should add jewelry, but in the end, aside from two rings, both on his left hand (where they would not interfere with his grip on the hilt of his silver-alloy sword), added only a single brooch, brilliant with diamonds. He wished Norfolk to know him prosperous, not to believe he was so rich as to be dangerous or ripe for plucking.
He then presented himself to his man of business. Joseph Clayborne examined him carefully and then nodded. "Just enough, I think," he said, "although the brooch might be on the ostentatious side."
Denoriel shrugged. "I can change it, but sometimes His Grace is so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he is a bit slow to notice things."
Joseph pursed his lips and then nodded. "And you're a foreigner, of course, so some bad taste is almost mandatory." He smiled as Denoriel laughed aloud and pointed to a fair-sized package at the end of the table. "There's the tapestry."
Having picked it up, Denoriel frowned. "I think I should not be carrying this myself. You'd better soon hire a footman, Joseph. It is too inconvenient not to have any servant who speaks English."
Clayborne looked at him for a moment then looked away and asked, "Too clever or too stupid?"
"Hmmm." Denoriel was in no doubt that Joseph was asking whether he wanted a man so clever that he would never ask about the peculiarities of his master's and the other servants' behavior or too stupid to notice. "Thank you for making the point. I must give the matter some thought. We had better discuss it when I get back. I wouldn't want to be late."
He was not. Miralys whisked him through the streets and left him just out of sight of Norfolk's house. It was too chancy for Denoriel to leave the elvensteed with Norfolk's ostlers; they would be sure to detect that the bit was missing and the halter loose enough to be thrown off with a toss of Miralys's head. And he could not, as he used to do at Windsor, insist on stabling his horse himself.
Most people walked in London, where the streets were so narrow and clogged that riding was slow and other modes of transport mostly forbidden. So the steward who came to the door to greet Denoriel was not at all surprised to see him afoot. He was a little surprised to see the duke's guest carrying a package, but merely summoned a footman to take it when Denoriel requested that service. And he led Denoriel directly to a well-appointed reception chamber, where considerably to Denoriel's surprise, the duke was already waiting.
He was seated in a handsome carved chair, perhaps just a trifle reminiscent of a throne; however, on the opposite side of the hearth, where a low fire warmed away the lingering coolness of morning, was a second chair. Denoriel did not allow the internal smile he felt to show. The duke wished to awe, but he kept in mind that many of his guests would not take lightly his sitting on a throne while they were offered stools.
Denoriel bowed. The duke gestured him toward the chair. I have come up in the world, Denoriel thought, when I was coming to Harry I doubt he would have offered me so much as a stool. I wonder what he wants. Denoriel bowed again, murmured something about being honored, and sat down. The footman holding the package waited beside and slightly behind the chair.
Norfolk came directly to the point. "I must admit that I was surprised to receive your application for an audience, Lord Denno. I thought that with your opportunity to influence the throne gone, you would not return."
"Opportunity to influence the throne?" Denoriel repeated trying to look astonished. "But I do not believe I ever spoke a word to King Henry . . . Oh, no, I did that one time when Ormond asked me to play the Lord of Misrule at a Christmas feast."
Norfolk's impatient gesture cut him off. "I meant through Richmond, if he had come to rule."
Denoriel took a sharp breath as if something had hurt him and looked away as if to hide the fact that tears had come to his eyes. Then he shook his head.
"You must believe what you will, Your Grace, but the truth is that I never thought of it." He allowed the corners of his mouth to droop a little, and widened his eyes in melancholy. "Perhaps if my business were failing or I in need, I might have become desperate enough to resort to such a use; one cannot always say 'Oh, but I would never do that' until one comes to the extreme, can one?" He shrugged. "But I was successful, rich, and growing richer by the day. My lord, what brought me here was Harry . . . I loved Harry. He was God's consolation for the brother the Turks had murdered."
"Yet you did not return to England when he was dying." Norfolk narrowed his eyes speculatively.
"I did not know!" All he had to do to make the words into a howl of pain was to remember his anguish when he knew Harry had been hit with elf-shot. "I received two letters from His Grace and both were . . . ordinary, giving me news of the kingdom and hoping I was well and that my business was prospering. He never said he was sick. And no one ever told me! Perhaps they thought I knew already; perhaps they simply did not think to tell me."
"Ah."
Denoriel heard a touch of satisfaction in the duke's wordless comment and again had to restrain a smile. So the duke had been angry at him because he had believed Denoriel truly loved Harry and he had been distressed by his lack of concern or judgment when Denoriel did not rush back to Harry's side when the boy began to fail. Actually, that made him feel a bit better about Norfolk.
"I do not know whether I would have reached England in time to be with him," Denoriel continued in a more moderate tone, "but I was sailing farther east and my messages were lagging behind me. The letter that told me he was dead did not reach me until I was on my way home. And after that, you are quite correct, Your Grace, I did not want to return to an England that seemed empty to me so I lingered in Spain and Italy and southern France."
Norfolk raised an eyebrow. "But you did return."
"I mourn him still," Denoriel said, gesturing at his subdued clothing, "but I discovered that I missed England itself. In the other lands, somehow I could not put down roots. I kept thinking of my house here in London and my memories of Harry. And when I returned, my roots were here. I was at home, in a way I had not been since my own land was lost to me."
"And there was another child in whom you were interested. Not so?" the duke asked shrewdly. "I have heard that you are a frequent visitor to Lady Elizabeth."
Denoriel allowed his face to light and produced a broad smile. "Indeed it is so!" he exclaimed. "If you remember, Harry was besotted with her, and half the time he dragged me with him so that I came to love her too. I cannot say she reminds me of my little brother nor of any of my sisters either, but she is so clever and pretty that I find myself besotted." He nodded at Norfolk. "And by the grace of God, the Lady Elizabeth is so far from the throne that no one could believe I seek that kind of influence through her."
"True enough, and the king is still young enough to breed more sons." Norfolk cleared his throat as if he had said more than he intended, and added hastily. "You do not need my influence or permission to continue your attentions to Lady Elizabeth, so perhaps it is time to come to the business that made you ask for an audience. What do you seek, Lord Denno?"
"A profit, Your Grace." Denoriel smiled again. "What else does a merchant seek? I have no great estates, nor concessions from any crown, and noble blood still requires sustenance and shelter, so I continue to do as I must. Do you remember years ago when Harry was, oh, seven years of age perhaps, that I had a shipment of Turkey carpets? I gifted you with two, I think, and in thanks you laid those carpets where they would be seen and told any who asked who had provided them."
Norfolk actually smiled. "Yes, of course I remember. I still have the carpets and they have worn so well that they scarcely seem used."
Denoriel bowed slightly from the waist. "I sold several tens of those carpets, Your Grace, because of your recommendation. Different patterns and colors, but of the same make. I made a very good profit. So now I would like to gift you with a fine Flemish tapestry."
Denoriel gestured the footman forward and bade him unwrap the package and hold up the tapestry. It was not overly large, a long rectangle, showing a scantily clad female figure advancing down a beflowered path toward what seemed to be a glint of water. The colors were rich, the maiden luscious. Denoriel caught the glint of acquisitiveness in the duke's eyes before Norfolk burst out laughing.
"So, you want me to hang that work on my walls and tell anyone who asks that you gave it to me?"
"Please, Your Grace," he protested, putting a twinkle of humor in his eyes. "Do not say that I gave it to you."
Norfolk laughed. "Ah. And what am I to say that it cost me?"
Denoriel grinned at him. "Whatever you think they might be willing to pay. There are three other panels that are companions to this. They would fit excellently well around the windows here—one on each end and two between. Shall I send them, Your Grace?"
"Why not?" Norfolk tried to sound indifferent, but when Denoriel began to rise from his chair, he added quickly, "Will you have some wine?"
He eased back into his seat. "With great pleasure, Your Grace."
The footman had refolded the tapestry and set it on a small table. At Norfolk's signal, he went to fetch the wine.
The moment he was out of the room, Norfolk said, "Did you know that Lady Elizabeth wrote a letter to Queen Anne?"
"No, I did not," Denoriel replied, "but I am not surprised. Lady Elizabeth loves to write letters, and she is very pleased to have a stepmother. She hopes, I think, to be invited to court. Should she not have written?"
"Not to Anne of Cleves."
"But you said the king was young enough still to breed another son . . ." Denoriel covered his lips with his hand. "Ah. I see. I had heard the merest uneasy whisper." He pondered what to say that was politic. "How sad that the greatest king on earth has so little fortune in matters of the heart." There. Proper support for Henry without placing an iota of blame upon the man for what was, after all, largely his own fault for his roving eye.
Denoriel had heard that the king could not abide Anne of Cleves from the first time he laid eyes on her. Now he understood why Norfolk had tried so quickly to change the subject to business after his slip of the tongue about the king being young enough to breed another son. Clearly King Henry had found a new lady more to his taste. So Anne of Cleves would have to be removed.
There was not much Denoriel could do for the poor lady, except for one thing. He raised his brows until they almost touched the fringe of silver hair that crossed his brow. "I hope, Your Grace," he continued, "that no harm will come to Queen Anne. You know there are bonds between the German principalities from where Queen Anne comes and the Low Countries. Should Anne be ill-treated, there might be serious repercussions in trade."
"Is that so, Lord Denno?" Not sarcasm; Norfolk's expression was serious and intent.
"Yes, and the Hanse traders would also not be pleased." He nodded. "Recall where England's wool goes."
Norfolk licked his lips, thoughtfully. "I did not know you were connected with the Hanse. I thought your trade was with the East and southern Europe."
Denoriel laughed gently. "And you think I would have no use for furs or amber? And that the Hanse would have no use for silks and fine wool? I am not partnered with any Hanse merchant, but we trade . . . and we talk."
Norfolk stared at him hard for a long moment, then nodded. "No harm is meant to Queen Anne, I assure you. If she will be agreeable . . . ah . . . every arrangement will be made for her comfort and honor."
Denoriel pursed his lips. "Yet I think I once heard that the king swore he would not again have two living wives?"
"The situation is completely different." A flush rose in Norfolk's usually sallow cheeks and for a moment he would not meet Denoriel's eyes. Then he did meet them, challengingly. "The king now has a son whose legitimacy cannot be questioned. If . . . if another son should be conceived and born . . . if Queen Anne should accept a divorce, no one would dare raise any question."
It was no wonder that Norfolk was a trifle uneasy. He himself had sat as a judge on his niece Anne Boleyn's trial and condemned her to death for a series of adulterous affairs no one believed in—except possibly the king himself because he wanted to believe. Of course there had been no possibility of a clean annulment for Anne Boleyn; clearly the marriage had been consummated. A daughter the image of her father had been born. Besides that, Anne Boleyn would never have meekly accepted that her daughter be named a bastard. And by the time she had been willing to accept a divorce, it had been far, far too late. At that point, Henry would never have offered one.
There had been worse complications with regard to Anne Boleyn. For the king to be able to claim his marriage to Anne Boleyn was illegitimate would imply that his marriage to Catherine was legitimate. And the whole structure by which Henry had made himself head of the Church of England would collapse. He could not claim consanguinity, he could not claim infertility, he could only claim adultery, and the adultery of a queen was punishable only by death, not divorce.
The king's pride had been at stake, the king's power had been at stake, and the king's will was being thwarted. No, against those forces, Anne Boleyn had not had a hope; she had to die. Denoriel thrust the memory aside. He could only hope that Anne of Cleves was more amenable to reason. All she had to claim was that the marriage had not been consummated, and it would be annulled. The king would have his divorce.
"No, I am sure no one would have any doubts of the legitimacy of a second son if the king should marry again," Denoriel said softly. "And I will be sure to warn Mistress Champernowne to discourage Lady Elizabeth from any further attempt to correspond with the—present queen."
"That would be wise." Norfolk smiled thinly and added, "Specially as Lady Elizabeth's chances for an invitation to court may be much better soon. There is no need to speak of that just yet, but I hope you will not make yourself a stranger to my house, Lord Denno. You carry interesting news, and perhaps I can give you a hint about this or that which would be of use to Lady Elizabeth's governess."
He rose, and Denoriel rose too, and bowed. "You may be sure I will say nothing until you give me leave, Your Grace. I will see that you have the other three tapestry panels later today or tomorrow. And I thank you most sincerely for your permission to call on you again, and even more gratefully for any advice or information you can offer concerning Lady Elizabeth."
At almost the same moment, Pasgen in the swarthy disguise of Fagildo Otstargi, was also bowing, but in greeting. It had taken him somewhat longer to receive an appointment to meet Sir Thomas Wriothesley than Norfolk had taken to reply to Denoriel. In fact, it had taken the dispatch of an imp with a golden sovereign carrying a renewal of the compulsion spell. The sovereign, left where Wriothesley would be sure to find it, did gain Pasgen an invitation, but only to Sir Thomas's office, not his home. Sir Thomas Wriothesley had gained advancement without his former tame magician's advice, and had grown far more self-confident.
Thus, despite the spell, Sir Thomas did not look particularly welcoming and was, indeed, wondering why he had agreed to see the charlatan. Pasgen realized his subject was further annoyed, when he simply pulled a chair close to the table where Wriothesley sat and sank into it. Sir Thomas opened his mouth, likely, to tell Master Otstargi that he had changed his mind and had no time to give him after all, but Pasgen reinforced his compulsion.
What came out of Wriothesley's mouth then was, "You do not look at all well, Master Otstargi."
"I do not feel at all well, Sir Thomas," Pasgen snapped. "I have been traveling since the eighteenth of last month."
"You have been gone a long time. I suppose you must have come a long way." Curiosity barely tinged the otherwise cold and toneless remark.
"Very long—longer than you could know or understand." Pasgen hardened his voice as well. "But that is irrelevant. I have had things revealed to me which you should be aware of. On the eighteenth of April Thomas Cromwell was made Earl of Essex and on the nineteenth he became lord chamberlain. On each day there was a red flare, followed by a black pall in my glass."
Wriothesley stirred uncomfortably in his seat, but then said, "Whatever you think that means, Master Otstargi, it has nothing to do with me."
Pasgen gave a thin smile. "Yet it was only a few weeks after you and Sir Ralph Sadlier were appointed joint secretaries to the king."
Wriothesley snorted. "You can't have been so very far away if you got news of all of that in time to be here now. And really Master Otstargi, I have no time—"
"I told you I saw these things in my glass, not by any—mundane means." Pasgen's voice had become low and threatening. "Now I see that I am a fool for maintaining this connection with you. But when I saw disaster looming . . ." He shook his head sadly, as if Wriothesley was a fool hardly worth humoring. "Never mind. At least satisfy my curiosity. Not all Seeings are true and I want to know whether this one was correct, and if it is, whether it is also true that you and Sadlier executed several writs of confiscation and reassignment for the lord chamberlain with no other authority than his order."
Now Wriothesley looked startled. Those transactions were a private matter about which none other than those involved should have had information. Pasgen congratulated himself on setting Rhoslyn, in her persona as Rosamund Scot, a friend of Lady Mary, to investigating via the Imperial ambassador's spy network anything about Cromwell's financial transactions.
Rhoslyn had also told Pasgen of the increasing pressure on King Henry to rid himself of Cromwell, who was greatly hated for his harshness in dissolving the monasteries. Cromwell had profited from the dissolutions, yes, but so had many others and the king most of all. Yet it was Cromwell who was associated with the expulsion of the monks and nuns, and Henry, alert to the fact that the confiscation of monastic property was nearly complete, was seeking a way to leave that blame where it was. Most particularly the king wished to be sure the opprobrium did not flood over and stain him.
Cromwell was also connected with the most radical changes in religious practice. Henry had welcomed the impetus Cromwell's reforms had given to his claim to be supreme head of the Church of England. He had made no move to protect Bishop Samson of Chichester when he was imprisoned as a papist nor seemed to object when Cromwell threatened other bishops, but Rhoslyn said that the king must by now be aware of the rising anger against his minister. And Henry was not truly in favor of the Reformed religion; he wanted all the parties in a balance to which he held the key.
Rhoslyn was the source of far more useful information than Pasgen would ever had thought possible. For all that the Lady Mary had been relegated to a position of no overt power or importance, she was the center of an invisible web of those who had power now, and saw her as the way to much, much more of it.
Mary had told Rhoslyn that in spite of the favors recently shown the chamberlain, he was on the brink of disaster. She knew that Chapuys, the Imperial ambassador, was telling the king that Emperor Charles had a strong distaste for Cromwell, and Henry was looking to make alliance with the Empire against France.
In addition, Bishop Gardiner, a conservative Catholic, had told Mary that he believed the king's marriage to Anne of Cleves, distasteful to Henry from the beginning, was about to be dissolved. Henry had a new amour, the niece of the duke of Norfolk. All these things Mary discussed in whispers with her maids of honor, and all these things came straight to Pasgen.
Now Pasgen placed his hand on the edge of the table as if he were about to rise and said, "For the sake of our late connection, I will offer a piece of advice. You should go to the king at once, and declare the confiscations and reassignments to him, so that he knows what Cromwell is doing. It is very possible that the king will approve of Cromwell's action; if he does not, he will at least know that you acted only to oblige his minister."
Sir Thomas stood when Pasgen did, a deep frown marking his brow. "But to bring the matter to the king's notice when he might otherwise not have been aware might make trouble for Cromwell. And then would he not blame me in the future?"
"Cromwell has no future," Pasgen said harshly, half turning toward the door. In fact, he had used his FarSeeing talent to look at the English Court in the near future—alone, he could not look much further than that—and Cromwell had not appeared. Still, he decided to cover all possibilities. "Believe or disbelieve as you choose, I told you what my glass showed," he added. "Except . . . there is one chance he might save himself. If he immediately arranges a divorce from Anne of Cleves, the king might be so wrapped up in his new marriage, that Cromwell might slip away unharmed."
He left then, with no more than a brusque farewell, aware of Wriothesley's anger but pretending indifference. In a little over two weeks, however, he had won his gamble. On 10 June Pasgen received a note from Sir Thomas in a slightly shaky hand, requesting an appointment, and on 12 June, the man was escorted into Pasgen's parlor by one of his new bespelled English servants.
"You were right," Sir Thomas said grimly, attempting to conceal the fact that his hands were trembling. "I should have paid heed to your warnings. Cromwell has no future! He was arrested on the tenth at the very council table by the captain of the guard. Norfolk took the George from his neck and ordered me to take his garter. I—"
"Please, Sir Thomas, seat yourself," Pasgen said smoothly, gesturing toward a chair opposite his own. Well, the shoe was on the other foot, now! "Will you take some wine?"
"Yes, thank you, Master Otstargi. A glass would perhaps calm me." Wriothesley took the offered seat, looking very much in need of calming. "I have been uneasy since we spoke, most uneasy."
Wriothesley, Pasgen thought, hiding a smile by turning away to gesture to the servant, was much more polite than he had been at their first meeting. The servant went off, closing the door behind him, and now Wriothesley frowned as if he realized he had said more than he should with the servant listening.
Pasgen allowed his smile to show. "You need not be concerned about what my servants hear," he said. "I assure you that they cannot repeat anything. I am glad that you came to me, for you are in strong need of my advice. But you must not allow yourself to be shaken by untoward events, Sir Thomas. You will need to remain calm and steady, even in the face of accusations. There will be a time of upheaval—"
The pupils of Wriothesley's eyes contracted with alarm. "But not doom, I hope? No red flares or black curtains over my future?"
Time to twist the knife a little, to punish the man for his arrogance. He pursed his lips. "I have not specifically consulted your future, Sir Thomas. You did not seem eager for me to do so—"
"A mistake!" the fellow bleated, now truly in a panic. As well he should be. When the master fell into disgrace, he often took his underlings with him, and they had no one to protect them. "Forgive me!"
Pasgen nodded judiciously, sighed, then said, "A seeking out of one man's future takes time and effort, but I have been watching the general progress of affairs in England. You are not my only client, Sir Thomas, but most of the others are merchants, bankers, and suchlike. They only need to know the state of the kingdom to guide their businesses. They are of too little importance to impose their images on events. However, perhaps if you tell me exactly what has been happening in the court, I will be able to apply what I know in general to you."
Wriothesley had gone a little pale. "Ah, yes, that would give me a direction at least," he stammered. "Well, the king did not seem very angry about the confiscations, which was just as you implied—"
He stopped speaking abruptly as the door opened and the servant reentered carrying a tray upon which were two precious glass goblets held in twisted silver frames. At Pasgen's nod, the servant poured a rich, ruby-red wine into each glass. He offered a glass to Pasgen, who gestured toward Wriothesley. Sir Thomas then took his choice of the two glasses and Pasgen quietly accepted the other. A last gesture sent the servant from the room, shutting the door behind him, but Sir Thomas said nothing, seeming to be fascinated by the exquisite goblets.
"Go on, Sir Thomas," Pasgen urged.
"Yes. Oh, yes. The king was not angry, but he did remark that Cromwell took more for granted than he should and mentioned his persuasions toward a German alliance, which had brought no advantage at all at the cost of an unendurable wife. I remembered then what you said about the chance that Cromwell had to save himself and I went to him on the first of June, and again on the fifth and urged him to speak to Queen Anne, to get her agreement to a divorce and take that information to the king."
Pasgen cocked his head. "And did he take your advice?"
Wriothesley shook his head slightly. "No. All he said was that he could not think what to offer her or how to go about it."
"So I supposed it would be." Pasgen sighed theatrically. "The glass showed no escape, but my common sense told me there was a way out."
"And for me, Master Otstargi? What does common sense suggest for me?" Common sense, occult vision, Wriothesley would take any straw of hope, it seemed.
Pasgen smiled. His purpose had been accomplished. Sir Thomas Wriothesley was his creature again and would grow more dependent when accusations were leveled against him—as Pasgen would see that they were. Yes, Wriothesley would do as he was bid, and through his hands would flow Elizabeth's doom. It would be easy to arrange. Sooner or later the secretary of the king was likely to visit the king's daughter. It would be normal for Sir Thomas to bring a gift to Lady Elizabeth—a book, perhaps, in an elaborate binding with inset semiprecious stones. Something no young woman could resist touching, handling.
"Common sense suggests that you take the advice you gave to Cromwell. While others bend their efforts to exposing and destroying Cromwell, do you visit and carefully sound out Queen Anne." This, of course, was so logical that it was doubtful anyone would think of it. "Learn what will satisfy her, remembering that the king will not be willing for her to return to her brother where she might be free to say too much or make another marriage."
Wriothesley nodded eagerly. "I am very willing to take your advice, but I am not sure that Queen Anne will speak openly to me."
"If you need a woman's touch, let me recommend to you a friend of the Lady Mary, a Mistress Rosamund Scot." If Rhoslyn could not persuade the woman with sense, she could do so by magic, and it would scarcely violate the High King's admonitions. "I am sure, being partial to the Catholic way, that Mistress Scot will present your arguments convincingly."
Although Wriothesley did have a meeting with Mistress Scot and she, through a note from Lady Mary, gained an audience and spoke to Queen Anne, she hardly needed to have bothered. Raised in the strict and penurious court of her brother of Cleves, Anne had blossomed—at least in matters of dress and enjoyment of luxury—at the lavish court of Henry VIII. Rhoslyn found that Aleneil, as Lady Alana, a consummate authority on dress, was before her and already had Anne's close confidence. And what the Lady Alana had advised was precisely what Pasgen wanted.
Lady Alana had laid a good groundwork, confiding to Anne the king's interest in Catherine Howard. Restraining her shudders, Anne said, in her broken English, what amounted to "better she than I." But Lady Alana had passed a warning on along with the information—a warning that Anne had not needed, as it turned out, for the moment she heard about the king's new paramour, her hands had flown to her neck in an unconscious gesture of fear. The fear, of course, that it would be her neck that would next feel the edge of a blade.
Thus, when the duke of Norfolk presented King Henry's case to her, Anne hardly resisted at all; indeed, she did little more than to chaffer for the best possible bargain she could extract from the king. She was no fool, and understood when Cromwell fell that whatever political use she had had was over. As soon as Anne was certain that it was a divorce Henry wanted, not her head—and the king assured her of that himself—she became very cooperative.
She made no defense against Cromwell's assertion—in a paper written from his prison—that she had a previous contract to marry. On those grounds, the lords and commons of parliament addressed the king on the subject of his marriage on 6 July. Henry agreed to issue a commission to convocation to try the matter. On 9 July the convocation pronounced the marriage invalid, on the grounds of a possible precontract and on a lack of inward consent for the bridegroom.
Pasgen was hardly surprised. What the king wanted these days, the king got. And the Lady Anne was not doing badly out of the situation, either. She was shrewd, that German, from a long line of shrewd bargainers, and Pasgen had the odd feeling that of the two of them, it was Anne who would be the happiest with what she got.
Rhoslyn reported to Pasgen that though Anne went meekly off to Richmond, feigning distress over her husband's repudiation, among her own household she was radiant with smiles. A dutiful sister, she had obeyed her brother and would have endured the attentions of the gross and ageing monarch to whom she had been married. However, she was delighted with the bargain she had been offered. She would have a house and lands, four thousand pounds a year to spend as she pleased, and precedence at court over every lady except the wife and daughters of the king. And she did not have to return to her brother's Spartan and cheese-paring court. She had enough and more than enough to be supported in all of the luxury and pleasure that she had become accustomed to.
Henry was equally delighted with his former wife's cheerful complaisance, Rhoslyn told Pasgen, who was not terribly interested, but listened because he felt he had to be aware of what was going on in Henry's court. Anne's quick acceptance of the divorce, her quiet removal to a comfortable retirement, permitted Henry to marry Catherine Howard—eighteen to his forty-nine—on 28 July 1540, the same day that Cromwell was executed.
Pasgen made a disgusted noise and Rhoslyn nodded. It was not the first time Henry had celebrated someone's death with a new wedding. Then she giggled and commented that although Henry seemed to be in seventh heaven with his "rose without a thorn" the thorns would be pricking him soon enough. The girl was as light-minded as an air spirit, Rhoslyn said, and as promiscuous as a nymph. Rhoslyn had apparently taken no thought to what that might mean later.
At that comment, Pasgen sat up straighter, for the first thing that sprang into his mind was the fate of Anne Boleyn. If Catherine Howard was that promiscuous—if charges of adultery were real this time . . .
"Keep Mary away from her," he said. "We don't want Lady Mary smeared with Catherine's dirt when Henry is made aware of it, which I will make sure will not take long. Those favorable to the Reform religion will want to be rid of a wife who favors the Catholic rite."
"Simple enough." Rhoslyn shrugged. "Mary is already unhappy. She is hardly pleased at having a stepmother six years younger than she. Rosamund Scot will only need to mention this and that impertinence on Catherine's part—and there will be plenty of them because the girl is as heedless as a baby bird. Mary has great dignity and will withdraw herself from the court before long."
Pasgen nodded his approval. "And is there any way that you can encourage Catherine to favor Elizabeth?"
Rhoslyn pursed her lips and looked past her brother's shoulder at a handsome tapestry on the wall. "I am not as certain of that, as I am of keeping Mary clear, but I think . . . hmmm. Yes, perhaps. I can warn Mary that her father will be displeased if she is on bad terms with Catherine and suggest that she show herself willing to be friends. Then I can approach Elizabeth's governess, who is a good-natured fool, and ask whether Elizabeth would be willing to try to reconcile Queen Catherine and Lady Mary.
"Didn't you tell me that Elizabeth can see past your illusions?" he asked, sharply, remembering his own dangerous encounter with the child. "Didn't she ask why you had eyes like a cat and long pointed ears?"
"That was years ago. Mostly children grow out of that kind of awareness." Rhoslyn frowned a little. "But to be absolutely sure, I won't speak to Elizabeth herself. I'll bring Lady Mary's gift and note to Mistress Champernowne."
Pasgen nodded approval. "That should work very well. I've heard that Elizabeth has a real craving to go to court. Champernowne will jump on Mary's note and gift as an excuse to present Elizabeth, and Elizabeth is Catherine's cousin of some kind, isn't she?"
"Yes." Unlike Pasgen, Rhoslyn was interested in mortals and their relationships, and could chatter about them until he was ready to fall asleep with boredom. "Anne Boleyn's mother was a Howard, and so was Catherine's father. One was sister, the other brother to the duke of Norfolk; thus they are both Norfolk's nieces." She giggled again. "I doubt he will be able to squirm out of it this time when Catherine is exposed."
"Not until Elizabeth is established as Catherine's favorite," Pasgen warned. "We have come too far this time. There may be no better opportunity."