Catherine Howard

by Lacey Baldwin Smith

  All three seem to have recognized the risk involved. Culpeper reported that their meetings were skittish and jittery, and that the Queen was ‘as one in fear lest somebody should come in’.66 Catherine confessed that if these conversations ‘came not out she feared not for no thing’, and she warned Lady Rochford to deny them ‘utterly’. There is some confusion over who warned whom, since both ladies claimed that the other spoke the words of caution,67 but the result is the same – they both appreciated the risk involved. Recognition of danger did not, unfortunately, engender caution, and all three seem to have been caught up in a mad circle of events from which there was no escape. Once they were almost detected by the night watch, while a growing circle of servants became aware that something was going on, if only because the Queen never seemed to go to bed and all but Lady Rochford and Katherine Tylney were barred from her privy chambers. In fact, it was the cuckold husband who was the one person totally ignorant of and unprepared for the disclosures of his wife’s extra-marital activities.

  What went on in the minds of those involved is beyond analysis. Lady Rochford went mad under the strain of disclosure and ceaseless interrogation, and perhaps it is charitable to believe that she was insane from the start. Possibly Catherine and her ‘little sweet fool’, as she not inaccurately dubbed Culpeper, were in love. At least it is best to hope so. But behind Thomas Culpeper’s actions loom the system and ethics of politics and success. He may have loved his Catherine, but he may also have found the attention of a queen not only flattering but also profitable. He was undoubtedly a highly favoured and personable young man, who cultivated a reckless daring to the point of absurdity. Rash exploits and foolhardy dangers were the mark of gallantry, and success in the Tudor political world depended upon whom you knew and how well you knew them. As for Catherine, her charms proved her undoing. Abandoned if never daring, mercurial if not venial, incapable of sustained emotions, the Queen was caught up in a situation, which she had neither the strength nor the intelligence to control. The rather sordid backstairs flirtation and heedless cuckolding of an elderly and besotted husband became grand tragedy and high politics because of something that Catherine never seemed capable of comprehending – there was a difference between a Howard daughter in the girl’s dormitory at Lambeth and a queen at Henry’s court.

  CHAPTER 8

  Road to Traitors’ Gate

  After eight months of marriage, Henry’s honeymoon began to wear thin. The happy careless round of dancing and banqueting was over, and during Lent of 1541 the King was seized with a fit of melancholy. He was irked by his young wife, to whom he barred the door of his privy chamber for over a week; and he was cruelly hurt and physically weakened by a second flaring-up of his ulcerated leg that again blackened and distorted his face with pain. He growled at the thankless and pusillanimous nature of his subjects; and he shortly found reason other than perversity to complain about his people, for once again there were alarming reports from the northern counties.

  Spring time in the distant shires was historically a time of stirring, when ancient wrongs and family feuds, nurtured during the long cold nights of the northern winters, burst forth into clan warfare and sedition. The people of Lincoln and York and further north along the Scottish border, had not forgotten the great uprising of five years before, that mass social movement that had called itself the Pilgrimage of Grace and had taken as its badge the five wounds of Christ. Northern families still recalled with loathing the sight of softly swaying figures dangling from makeshift gibbets, and the desecration of the sacred land of venerable abbeys and monastic foundations. They continued to dread the steady encroachment of bustling bureaucrats, who were usurping the ancient privileges and independence of the northern shires. In April 1541 political rancour and frustration again erupted. Desperate men conspired to meet at the great spring fair at Pontefract, raise the standard of rebellion, denounce the King’s tyranny, and strike down all who might oppose them. Fortunately for the Tudor government in London, the little band of traitors, who numbered less than three hundred, had within their midst an informer, and the conspiracy was quickly and efficiently nipped in the bud.1 Futile and senseless as the revolt had been, it had one consequence other than the brutal fate in store for those who had dared treason against the Lord’s lieutenant on earth: Henry remembered his promise made five years previously to exhibit his royal person to his none-too-loyal subjects in the northern parts. Physical, diplomatic and matrimonial difficulties had all contrived to weaken the original promise, and year after year the long-awaited progress had been postponed. Now, however, it was deemed politic to delay no longer.

  The concentration of population in the southern shires, the disloyal sentiments of the northern counties, which still sheltered feudal and Yorkist sympathizers, and the general condition of the roads, had kept the Tudors close to the heart of their popularity and the centre of population around London. Henry VIII during a reign of thirty-two years had never before ventured further north than Boston. In an age that was happily ignorant of radio and television, and struggled along without the benefits of the press, the average citizen was dependent on gossip, rumour and personal experience for knowledge of the great affairs of State, and the men who ruled the realm. Consequently, it was essential that the monarch should perambulate about the kingdom, and expose himself to the sight of common folk, who tended to judge the weight of regal authority in terms of the personal stature of the sovereign. All the Tudors had a flair for exhibitionism. Both Henry and his daughter Elizabeth had been born with physical magnificence, and they were at pains to enhance by artistry and ceaseless effort what the deity had bestowed, for each perceived that personal popularity was the well-spring of Tudor absolutism.

  The full weight of the Tudor personality, organization and treasury went into the royal progress north in the summer of 1541. Actually it was more a theatrical invasion than a normal progress, for Henry was anxious not only to advertise his royal person, but also to intimidate the wicked and seditious, with a show of impressive military strength. No cost was spared and the full Tudor flair for exorbitant display was given free rein. Five thousand horses were commandeered to carry the army of men and supplies. Two hundred tents were required to house the court, which was ordered out in full strength and regalia; artillery pieces were sent ahead by sea to York; and a thousand armed soldiers accompanied the monarch. From London were transported the King’s richest tapestries, his finest plate and his most sumptuous apparel. Every effort was made to achieve an extravaganza of pomp and circumstance, designed to stir the hearts of loyal subjects and strike fear into those who harboured seditious sentiments.2

  Never before had the court migrated with such splendour or in such numbers. For Catherine, those summer months of 1541 must have embodied the fulfilment of every conceivable dream, for, next to Henry himself, she was the most lavishly dressed, the most flattered, and the most flooded with attention. Her dress was regularly of crimson velvet, and on ceremonial occasions she changed to gowns of silver. Everything was accomplished with showy opulence, and when, for instance, Henry and his Queen entered the city of Lincoln, they were preceded by eighty archers with drawn bows, and the greatest dignitaries of the realm rode in close attendance. Behind the royal pair was led the King’s ‘horse of state’, while children of honour, all dressed in cloth of gold and crimson velvet, and ladies and gentlemen of the court in carefully ordered protocol, brought up the rear. At the gates to the city the procession was met by the citizenry, who had spent weeks decorating their town with pennants, badges and escutcheons, commemorating Tudor triumphs. Finally, as the church bells heralded the coming of the sovereign, the mayor presented Henry with the sword and mace of the city, as symbols of submission to the King.3

  The pomp and formality were often so intricate and complex that specialists had to be sent ahead to instruct provincials unversed in the ways of court and royal etiquette, and an ‘experienced man’ was dispatched to help the sheriff of Northamptonshire, t
he alderman of Stamford, and the bailiff of Peterborough to decide whether a white rod or a mace should be carried in front of the sovereign upon his ceremonial entry into Stamford. Even the hunt was transformed into an extravagant and magnificent display. At Hatfield two hundred stags and does were slaughtered, while Henry himself officiated at the destruction of ‘a great quantity of young swans, two boats’ full of river birds, and as much of great pikes and other fish’.4 In part, such carnage was necessary to the commissariat of the royal host, but in large measure it was done to satisfy the King’s passion for hunting, which was so insatiable that the Duke of Suffolk’s full-time task during the progress was ‘to provide for the King’s amusement’.5

  Even the business aspects of the migration were conducted with careful ritual and protocol, and at York, those who had remained loyal to their sovereign were received into the royal presence in a separate body, graciously welcomed and loaded with favours. The other group, those who had been less than loyal during the Pilgrimage of Grace, were received on their knees and, prostrate, they confessed that, ‘we wretches, for lack of grace and of sincere and pure knowledge of the verity of God’s words, have most grievously, heinously, and wantonly offended your Majesty in the unnatural and most odious and detestable offences of outrageous disobedience and traitorous rebellion.’ Henry was sufficiently charitable to accept their humble petition and acknowledgment of their faults, but the royal benevolence seems to have been contingent upon a sizeable monetary gift, which the ex-rebels added to their plea for clemency.6

  Such an excursion into the northern parts was a matter of endless preparation, and although the decision to progress northward was made in April, the royal retinue did not get under way until the last day of June. Norfolk was sent ahead to prepare the road, organize the reception committees, and arrange for housing. The Tower of London was swept clean of prisoners; and just before the King set forth, London was favoured with a fine display of Tudor justice, when the Countess of Salisbury was finally executed for treason, Lord Dacre of the South for murder, and two of the King’s archers for robbery. Finally, after appointing Archbishop Cranmer, Chancellor Audley and the Earl of Hertford as deputies to rule in his absence, Henry was ready to move. Unfortunately the weather remained obdurate; the roads north became impassable and the progress was stalled for almost three weeks. Eventually the cavalcade was able to advance, reaching Lincoln by 9 August, Pontefract Castle on the 23rd, and York on September 16th.

  Everywhere the sovereign was greeted with evidence of goodwill and handsome hospitality. He sent out before him the announcement that whosoever among his subjects, ‘found himself grieved for lack of justice’ should have free access to declare his complaints and, ‘have right at the hand of his Majesty’.7 Henry aimed at making his presence known and his authority felt. At Hull he inspected fortifications, and outside York he constructed a vast lodging, rebuilding an ancient abbey, adding tents and pavilions and furnishing them with all the grandeur at his disposal. Men wondered and speculated at the cause for such display, and some suggested that Catherine might finally have earned her coronation by showing signs of pregnancy. The rumour was unwarranted; instead, Henry was preparing to entice James of Scotland to a brotherly meeting at York.

  Catherine’s passion for courtly romance was in no way dampened by the difficulties of a migratory court. At each new town, Lady Rochford and the Queen took pains to investigate the architecture and location of the backstairs and privy entrances to the Queen’s chamber. All along the route, private and hurried meetings with Culpeper were arranged – at Greenwich, Lincoln, Hatfield, Pontefract and York. The danger of disclosure was a constant menace, and the liaison was conducted under extraordinarily difficult conditions. On one occasion, Culpeper had to pick the lock of the Queen’s suite, and at another time he lurked on the backstairs ready to slip away at the slightest noise.8 The affair was carried on with unbelievable neglect of even the most elementary precautions. At Hatfield, Catherine was so transparent in her infatuation that her servants began to suspect the worst simply by the way she looked and spoke to Culpeper. Throughout the progress, gossip was rampant as to what was occurring in the Queen’s chamber late at night, when Catherine barred the doors to her ladies and allowed none to enter save her old friend Katherine Tylney, and the remarkable Lady Rochford.

  No one bothered to inform the King, and Henry returned home to London in excellent spirits, reckoning that he had much for which to be thankful. His health was good, his subjects had expressed a touching and gratifying humility, devotion and repentance, and his Queen, though not yet pregnant, was young, vivacious and exciting. With a full heart and a sense of contentment Henry expressed his gratitude to his Maker, ‘for the good life he led and trusted to lead’ with Catherine, and he required that the Bishop of Lincoln publicly ‘make like prayer and give like thanks with him’.9 This was 1 November, All Hallows Day; twenty-four hours later the King was handed a letter by Archbishop Cranmer, which revealed the story of the Queen’s past and accused her of having ‘lived most corruptly and sensually’.

  The timing is one of ironic coincidence, for shortly after the court began its slow return from York in early October, the council in London stumbled upon the dangerous news of Catherine’s early relations with Francis Dereham. The three ministers left in charge of the King’s government in the south were all envious of Howard influence about the King, and the news of the scandal was highly welcome to them. Here, in the information reported by John Lassells, the anti-Howard forces had the instrument by which the conservative faction might be overthrown. On the other hand, they recognized the extreme danger of the situation. Exactly when John Lassells presented the Archbishop with the information is not clear, but Cranmer immediately perceived that the, ‘weight and importance of the matter’ was so great that he felt obliged to consult his two colleagues, who, ‘having weighed the matter and deeply pondered the gravity thereof’, resolved to inform the King.10 The day following Henry’s return to Hampton Court they determined to act. One highly embarrassing problem arose when it became apparent that none of the three councillors cared to be the bearer of such tidings, for the King’s ‘affection was so marvellously set upon’ his young wife that, ‘no man dared take in hand to open to him’ the terrible truth.11 In the end, Audley and Hertford persuaded the pliable Archbishop to accept the unpleasant task, but not even Cranmer had the courage, ‘to express the same to the King’s Majesty by word of mouth’.12 Instead, he wrote a letter narrating the entire story of how Lassells’s married sister, Mary Hall, who had once been a chamberer in the Dowager Duchess’s household, had revealed to her brother the details of what presumably had transpired in the girls’ dormitory at Lambeth. Armed with this explosive epistle, Cranmer hurried to Hampton Court, where he discovered the King at his devotions. ‘With over much importunity’ he handed him the note, bidding Henry read it in private.13

  The King reacted in a most unexpected fashion. Instead of turning wroth and violent, he was ‘much perplexed’, and such was his love and ‘constant opinion’ of his young wife’s character, that he dismissed the letter as a slanderous forgery. All the evidence points to the fact that Henry placed absolutely no faith in the report, for he continued in high spirits for the rest of the week, and simply ordered an investigation of the story so as to search out the source of the rumour, and protect the Queen from idle tongues and malicious gossip. Quietly he ordered William Fitzwilliam, Earl of Southampton and Lord Privy Seal, back to London to re-examine Lassells, who stuck to his story. Still unconvinced, the King sent Southampton down to Sussex to interview Mary Hall, while Sir Thomas Wriothesley rounded up Dereham and Manox. Not a breath of what was occurring was allowed to leak abroad. Southampton gave out that he was headed to Sussex for a hunting expedition; Wriothesley detained Francis Dereham on the pretext of his having committed piracy while in Ireland the previous year; and no one noticed the arrest of someone so insignificant as Catherine’s former music teacher. Suddenly the figment
of Henry’s fantasy was shattered when Manox confessed that he, ‘had commonly used to feel the secrets and other parts of the Queen’s body’, and Dereham blurted out the truth about his relations with Catherine, admitting he ‘had known her carnally many times, both in his doublet and hose between the sheets and in naked bed’.14

  On Saturday noon Fitzwilliam returned from his interview with Mary Hall, who confirmed all that her brother had said. The rump of the privy council was in session when the Lord Privy Seal arrived, and it continued to meet far into the afternoon, listening to the Earl’s report and arranging for absent members of the council to return post-haste to London. In the face of the mounting evidence, Henry remained incredulous, the thick hide of his egotism acting as protection against the knowledge that his wife was not an innocent ‘jewel of womanhood’ who had loved him with ‘perfect love’. As yet the only action that he was willing to take was to order the Queen to keep to her chambers and wait upon the King’s pleasure.15

  At this point legend takes over; if Mistress Catherine Howard lacks most of the essential and fitting characteristics of a romantic heroine, she at least has a ghost. At Hampton Court there is what is described as the ‘haunted gallery’, which adjoins the Queen’s chambers and Henry’s chapel. It was there that the Queen is said to have eluded her guards and sought out her husband, who was hearing Mass. Just as she reached the door, she was seized and forced back to her chambers, while her screams resounded up and down the gallery. This presumably is the explanation of the female form, dressed in traditional white, which drifts down the gallery to the door of the chapel, and then hurries back, ‘a ghastly look of despair’ upon its face and uttering ‘the most unearthly shrieks’, until the phantom disappears through the chamber door at the end of the gallery. Unfortunately, Catherine’s ghost has found the atmosphere of the twentieth century uncongenial and has manifested a marked reluctance to present itself in modern times.16 If the Queen ever did endeavour to reach her royal spouse it must have been the morning of Sunday 6 November, 1541, for that evening Henry slipped away to London, never to return until Catherine had been taken prisoner from Hampton Court. The King was still at great pains to conceal the scandal. On the pretext of a chase he ordered dinner in the open field outside the palace, and there secretly met the Lord Chancellor and the Duke of Norfolk, who had been ordered to return the previous evening. Then, without returning to the palace, Henry stepped aboard a small barge and was rowed downstream to London, where he met the Privy council in an all-night emergency session at the Bishop of Winchester’s residence in Southwark. There the monarch was confronted with indisputable proof, wrung by Wriothesley from Manox and Dereham.