Chapter Eighteen
Through heavy questioning and consistent annoyance on almost every level of Hampton Court hierarchy, I have learned that this palace is in desperate need of an HR department.
They need a caffeine-addicted, no-nonsense corporate warrior named Cindy.
Cindy, who will flag the shit out of every nonexistent department and make them bleed with the biting rhetoric of her interoffice memos.
As it stands now, I’m in a standoff with the Master of the Household, Lord Fowley, a tired man in his mid-fifties in a very expensive doublet and cape. I continue to air my grievances to him as he rubs his well-trimmed beard.
“I don’t understand what it is that you’re asking of me, Your Majesty.”
I sit back in my chair. “All I’m asking is for humane, safe living conditions for our servants. These people dedicate their days and lives to helping this palace function. They see to our every need, and yet we’re not even remotely seeing to theirs.”
“Servants of Hampton Court are given food and board, as well as a salary. Those are extremely generous terms.”
“In theory, yes, but not in practice. To my knowledge, the only options servants are given are unjust, unhealthy, and unacceptable.”
Lord Fowley continues to glance at my sitting room door, no doubt in eagerness to leave. I nod to Lady Rochford, who then makes a show of locking it. The man sighs at his blocked escape and turns his gaze back to mine. “What is it exactly that you want, Your Majesty?”
I cross my arms and wait a beat. “I want to make improvements,” I tell him.
One of his oiled eyebrows shoots up. “What kind of improvements?”
“What are these rooms used for?” I ask Lord Fowley.
We’re in one of the buildings surrounding the Great Gatehouse courtyard.
Senior nobles are seldom here unless they’re passing in or out.
The courtyard is public and is more of a transitional space into the palace than a place for the higher-ups to linger.
“Base court is primarily reserved for an overflow of guests.”
The Master of the Household looks at the primarily empty room we’re standing in. It’s modest, with just a few beds and hardly anything else, but there’s sunlight and the air is breathable. Curtains could be hung for more privacy.
“So, what you’re saying is, most of the people who stay here could pay for a room somewhere local? Which would benefit innkeepers and other small business owners, while giving hundreds of servants a decent place to sleep?”
“Possibly,” he answers sheepishly.
I look over at Bessie, and she makes a note in the hard book she’s carrying around with us.
We’re standing in a back room outside the kitchens. Several servants are wiping themselves down with wet cloths and small buckets, no more than a couple of feet apart. I’m standing beside a particular man who just washed his armpits with a cloth and then used that same cloth to wash his face.
“Tell me, how are servants meant to stay healthy when they don’t have regular, adequate opportunities to bathe, nor the time or facilities to do so?”
“I’m not entirely sure, Your Majesty.” A woman walks past Lord Fowley, ferociously scratching her hair along the way.
“And there’s another prime example. Do you enjoy headlice, Lord Fowley?”
He looks at the woman and quickly moves several feet away.
“Our workers need better sanitation and washing facilities. Improved health prevents the spread of disease and exhaustion and increases morale.” I then walk past him, giving a purposeful look to his scalp.
“I think I see some nits ready to hatch.”
He itches his head so violently that he might draw blood.
We’re now in the midst of the bustling noise and heat of the kitchens. Cecily is holding a bowl out to Lord Fowley, showing him the food servants were offered for lunch today. It looks like a mixture of wet dog food and dirty broth.
“Everyone working in the palace needs nutritious, regular meals,” I tell him. “There must be proteins, vegetables, and clean water or ale. No half-chewed scraps. No gruel.”
Lord Fowley glances down at Cecily bowl again, his face twisting in disgust. “Would you care to take a bite?” I ask him.
He shakes his head, and Cecily holds up a spoonful. “Take a bite,” she demands.
As we walk through the hall back toward the royal apartments, Lord Fowley is now taking his own notes as Bessie and Cecily follow along behind us.
“What are your thoughts on childcare?” I ask him.
His defeated eyes look up from the paper he’s working on. “I don’t know what that means.”
I stop walking a moment, giving him the chance to catch his breath.
“It’s not sustainable for our workers to continually become sick due to poor post-birth care or by forcing them away from their children.
Women need allotted times to breastfeed and family-friendly accommodations to live in so their husbands can assist them. ”
Bottled-up anger flashes in Lord Fowley’s eyes as he lowers his notebook. “It is simply not how things are done, Your Majesty. The palace has been running successfully exactly as it has for years. You can’t just change our every way of life based upon a whim.”
I give him an obliging smile and move a step closer. “Watch me.”
Lord Fowley balks at my words, staying absolutely still as I walk off. I only make it a few feet before Thomas Culpepper suddenly falls into step beside me.
“Well,” he says, glancing down at me, “you seem quite pleased with yourself this afternoon.”
I struggle to hold in my little smirk. “I am pleased,” I answer.
“Indeed. Saving Hampton Court Palace one swill bucket at a time is undoubtably very rewarding.”
He offers me his arm, and I take it despite his snobbish comment. He veers us to the left, leading me into the Long Gallery. Stately portraits and tapestries line one wall and tall, narrow windows line the other.
“Tell me about when you first came to court,” I decide to ask him. We move past other noblemen and -women walking the gallery, all of whom bow or curtsy as I pass. Thomas stands up a little taller, clearly enjoying the deference being shown.
“When I first came to court,” he says, “I loved everything about it.”
“Now why doesn’t that surprise me?”
He casts me a sly grin. “Of course, it helped that the king took a keen interest in me soon after I arrived. I had helped obtain a hawk for him, and before long, I was a Gentleman of the privy council. Suddenly all at court knew who I was and wanted to befriend me. They practically begged me to exert my influence over the king.”
I look up at him, knowing the validation must have been delicious to him. Probably addictive. “Do you think of Henry as your friend?” I ask curiously.
Thomas doesn’t answer right away, but the self-satisfied lift of his brow does. “I wouldn’t dare to presume so.”
“But you said people would ask you to exert your influence over him. Did that make you feel powerful?”
“It would make anyone feel that way,” he says. “But I also know how precarious it all is. He who sits in the clouds one day may be wallowing in the dirt in the next. Or under it.”
“That’s very prophetic.” We stop near a particular portrait of woman in an extravagant gown with her hair free-flowing. She’s standing straight, and her hand rests on the back of a tall golden chair. Her expression is unreadable. Written in the bottom corner in curling script is Sub rosa, veritas.
Thomas studies the portrait as well before speaking again. “The king said I remind him of himself when he was a young man. That when he looks at me, he sees himself.”
I look over at him myself, trying to imagine Henry and him standing side by side.
From what I’ve heard of Henry in his youthful prime, perhaps they did have some similarities.
Well-liked, athletic, charming—but whereas Henry must have always had some level of dormant cruelty hidden beneath his pleasing facade, I’m not fully convinced that Thomas does.
But I’ve been wrong before. Hopefully I’m not now.
We’re moving on to the next portrait when Lady Rochford approaches us from the far end of the gallery. She’s unsmiling, and her eyes are all business.
“Your Majesty, I need a word with you at once.”
“Duty calls,” I tell Thomas. “Thank you for the stroll.” I give him a little curtsy and he bows. I start to walk toward Lady Rochford when I opt to turn back around. “You know, you could head down to Base Court and help with hanging the new dormitory curtains or something.”
“Oh, yes. I’m on my way.” He walks off, and I call after him as he goes.
“You’re going in the wrong direction!”
“Am I?” he asks over his shoulder without stopping. I press my lips together and exhale through my nose as Lady Rochford settles beside me.
“We have a little problem,” she says. “And by we, I mean you.”
I wheel around to face her, still cocky my staff improvements. “There are no problems, only solutions.”
“Your grandmother, the Dowager Duchess of Norfolk, is here. And she brought Francis Dereham with her.”
I drop my head back. God fucking dammit.
“I’m assuming she caught Dereham trying to retrieve your letters.”
“You’re probably right,” I groan. Then, “Wait, how do you even know about the letters? And how do you know about Francis?”
Lady Rochford gives me a deadpan look. “I know everything, Catherine.”
She’s calling me Catherine, so in truth, she doesn’t know everything everything. Though with her, you can never be too sure.
“I feel like we should embroider together sometime.”
Her eyes narrow into slits. “I would sooner rot.”
Lady Rochford leads me down a flight of stairs and through a hall I’ve never seen before. At the very end, we arrive at a sitting room. Walking inside, I’m met with a sheepish-looking Francis, and a woman who I can only assume is the Dowager Duchess.