by Deryn Lake
Thomas Culpepper who sprawled beside her, said lazily, ‘You are nervous of them I think, Your Grace.’
‘No, no. It is only that my cousin, Queen Anne Boleyn, is supposed to ride a horse sometimes in Norfolk — and neither she nor it have heads. It is said that a servant once cast eyes on the ghastly apparition and died of fright.’
She had gone pale, even her merry friends could see that, and now they made moves to comfort her. The two ladies patting her hands and calling her, ‘Sweet’ and ‘Dearest’, Dereham from the privileged position he had once enjoyed saying, ‘Come now, Madam, I would have thought you to have had more sense than to believe scullions’ gossip.’
The others looked a little aghast but the Queen ignored his familiarity, simply replying, ‘No, I am not afraid and I shall prove it to you all. Let us go on a ghost hunt now.’
‘But where at this hour?’
‘To the great stairs. We’ll see if Queen Jane Seymour walks tonight.’
There was a general gasp at her audacity, then moving like mice yet giggling wildly, the six set out, Francis in the lead. Behind him came Catherine Tylney, her hand in his; then Margaret Morton with Thomas Paston. Last of all walked the Queen and Thomas Culpepper and as she stumbled in the darkness and felt his hand go out to save her, it seemed the most natural thing to hold it.
The touch of their fingers, one upon the other, sealed the death warrant of that couple. For never before had either of them experienced anything like it. Sensation after sensation ran through their bodies until they were weak from touching and only wanted to fall into each other’s arms and never move again. But neither knew the other’s feelings and poor Tom Culpepper, realising that he had the Queen of England by the hand and was a dead man if he were to do her insult, tried hard to keep himself from brushing against her body in the blackness. While Catherine Howard, a born sensualist, only wished that she were an ordinary girl that she might pull him to her in a kiss and find out, in that way, if he wanted her.
In the end the problem was solved for them as they neared the staircase and Mistress Tylney let out a little scream.
‘Did you see anything?’
‘I’m not sure. I thought there was a woman in white.’
‘Help,’ said Cat, and turning headlong plunged back to her apartments, Tom Culpepper right behind her.
Just for a moment or two as they reached the Queen’s rooms, they were alone.
‘Are you there, Tom?’ she whispered softly.
‘Beside you,’ he answered and took her hand again, raising it to his lips.
It was enough. They were in each other’s arms and all the wanting, all the need, locked their bodies close together. ‘Oh Tom, Tom,’ murmured the Queen.
‘Oh Madam, you are so beautiful,’ answered the poor doomed fellow and kissed Cat as he never had a woman before, parting her lips beneath his and letting his tongue find hers.
She froze in his embrace. ‘The others are coming, be careful.’
‘May I see you again?’
‘Tomorrow if you wish. We are, after all, both beneath the same roof.’
‘But, Madam, it is so dangerous.’
Very softly in the darkness, Catherine Howard laughed. ‘I know.’ Then she pulled his mouth down to hers and kissed him as the others drew near.
Chapter Twenty-Three
It had been hot all day, unnervingly so for September, the sky cloudless, the clear strong blue of foreign seas. Framed against it, the trees had looked almost sinful, brazen as harlots in gaudy shades of crimson and gold. There was not a breath of wind, so that falling leaves went sighing down like dying dancers, quite straight and effortlessly, touching the ground below, then no longer moving.
In the heat people and animals, in coats too heavy for them, grew irritable. Dogs barked and scratched on every corner, while hissing cats found the shade. Men and women, dressed for the day before, not realising that the weather would change, sweated and stank, their clothes sticking to hot, infested bodies. There was quite a lot of drunkenness as the citizens of London sought to slake their sudden thirsts, and this led to more trouble as drunks swore and urinated, constables were called out in several parishes, and two dozen youths in Cripplegate threw eggs at passers-by.
Supremely oblivious of humanity and its frailties the sun soared above, brilliantly gilded, striking the river with a long finger to make it glint blindingly, then casting shadows dark as death. Mulberry hues lit dusky corners, nothing escaped the glaring eye. There was no mercy, even those dying in shade were warmed before the final chill.
Then, suddenly, it ended. The sky filled with flower shades; fuchsia, rose and pansy; the river turned to wine. Red pennants fluttered in the west and clouds gave signs of battle as a ball of blood hung over the horizon, shimmered, and was gone. It was evening.
Edward Seymour, my Lord of Hertford, had not wanted to wash that day, there being a certain nuisance attached to having his servants heat and bring water, but even without his brilliant wife, ever ready to tell him he was noisesome, he realised with reluctance that he must. For once, Edward had been at leisure, relaxing in his quarters in the Palace of Westminster, untypically drinking at midday, and going down to the riverbank where he had fallen asleep in the sunshine. The result was now all too obvious as Edward delicately sniffed round himself. He must strip and bathe before the evening’s Council meeting.
With Henry Tudor’s progress north now in its third month, the meetings of the only three Councillors left in London — Edward, Audley the Lord Chancellor, and Archbishop Cranmer — had settled into a smooth routine. As the King had commanded, almost the entire Court were with him, so it was the task of the trio to continue day-to-day administration, referring all important matters to the full Council, who travelled with their sovereign.
For this was no ordinary progress, no casual hunting trip. The King, with his Queen, his daughter Mary, his Council, his Gentlemen, his henchmen, heralds, bowmen and several foreign diplomats, was really putting on a show of strength.
While Jane Seymour had been alive, the northerners had dared to mount the Pilgrimage of Grace, their voluble and armed protest against the sacking of the northern monasteries, which had been ruthlessly put down by the Duke of Norfolk, acting on the King’s command. For speaking on the rebels’ behalf Henry had screamed at Jane, telling her to remember her place, reminding her of the fate of her predecessor. But now he travelled to that rugged part of England to show his quelled subjects his new Queen, his pretty Catherine, the nubile eighteen-year-old who had made him the envy of all men.
Edward had heard from the messengers who constantly passed between Westminster and the progress that the ordinary working people couldn’t take their eyes off her, staring at her beautiful clothes and jewels as well as her vivacious face. Apparently the whole colourful train was causing a sensation wherever it went. Nobody alive could remember such a glorious yet dignified spectacle as, amidst a brilliant shout of trumpets, Henry and his entourage entered city after city, richly robed, leaving behind an encampment of some two hundred pavilions, in the style of a Roman emperor.
Pageantry, thought Edward as, leaving his clothes in a heap on the floor, he stepped naked into a wooden tub and began to lather the dark hairs on his chest. Pageantry and show, that’s all they’re cheering. By the time the King leaves some of the simple ones will think he’s God come down to earth.
He splashed in the water, closing his eyes, wondering why Archbishop Cranmer had called a Council meeting for this evening, specifying in a cryptic note which had arrived that morning that it would be better if they gathered after dark.
The man loves drama, thought Edward, and smiled. Nonetheless it was intriguing that the Archbishop had thought something serious enough to convene a semi-secret meeting. Very vaguely, Edward began to wonder what it was.
By the time he was dressed, pulling one of his favourite soft hats on to his head and studying for kemptness the reflection of his strong dark features, he was curious. So much so that
he sent a messenger to Audley’s apartments in the Palace to ask if the Lord Chancellor might see him early.
But this did not prove as useful an exercise as Edward had hoped, for the Chancellor greeted him with, ‘Have you any idea why we are meeting tonight?’ To which Edward could only reply, ‘I was going to ask the same thing of you.’
‘Well, we won’t have to wait long,’ Audley answered, frowning. ‘His Grace the Archbishop has asked if we might be private here at seven.’
Edward took a seat where the Chancellor indicated. ‘Why the mystery do you think?’
‘I don’t know. Yet I have the feeling it must be weighty.’
They sat in silence, lost for words and suddenly tense, and it was a relief when a hum of voices told them that the Archbishop had arrived. A second later he stood in the doorway, very solemn, his dark eyes resting on his fellow Councillors mournfully and his usual swarthy chin tonight very shadowed.
Hertford and Audley rose to pay their respects but Cranmer cut them short. ‘Gentlemen, information of great importance has come most unexpectedly into my hands. I beg you be seated that we may discuss it without delay.’
The Earl and the Chancellor shot each other a brief, puzzled glance but sat at once. The Archbishop cleared his throat, then said, ‘I dread this moment.’
‘My Lord,’ answered Audley sharply, ‘your fellow Councillors are in suspense. Of what matter is this?’
Cranmer shook his head as if delaying a second longer, then said quietly, ‘This information is of the most serious sort and concerns Her Grace the Queen.’
‘The Queen!’ exclaimed Edward, though Audley remained silent, thinking of another night meeting long ago when Anne Boleyn had been the subject under discussion.
‘Two days ago a man named John Lassels came to me and said he had information for my ears alone. It appears that his sister Mary, now married, was a confidante of the Queen when she was a girl, having been a chamberer to the Dowager Duchess of Norfolk. Sirs …’
The Archbishop broke off, his voice quite husky and Edward realised that he was leaning forward, his hands gripping his knees.
‘Go on, my Lord.’
‘Gentlemen, at the age of twelve the Queen lost her virginity to her music teacher, Henry Mannox, even boasting how they made love hidden behind the altar in the Duchess’s chapel.’
Cranmer sounded as if he was going to vomit and both the other men made noises of disgust.
‘Not only that. She later abandoned Mannox for her cousin Francis Dereham who spent night after night with her in the maidens’ dormitory. There are eye witnesses to her guilt!’
‘Holy Jesus, son of God,’ said Audley and plunged his head into his hands. ‘I cannot bear it. His Grace will lose his reason. He dotes on the girl.’ He narrowed his eyes, looking directly at the Archbishop. ‘My Lord, you are certain this is true?’
‘Certain,’ answered Cranmer heavily. ‘Both Lassels and his sister are prepared to swear it on oath.’
There was a terrible silence as the three men sat gloomily staring round the room, avoiding each other’s eyes.
Eventually Edward said, ‘How can we possibly tell him?’
‘I don’t know,’ sighed Cranmer, ‘I simply don’t know.’
‘I suppose we must?’
As soon as he had said it Edward knew that he had been foolish and both men rounded on him.
‘Yes, Sir, we must,’ answered Cranmer. ‘To hide a truth would be morally wrong.’ The righteous angel came down to earth as the Archbishop added, ‘Besides, if His Grace found out from another source, our concealment of the story would be considered a crime.’
‘Then who?’ said Audley. ‘Who dares brave His Grace?’
‘I think the one to do so,’ Edward answered thoughtfully, ‘should be he whose veracity could never be doubted. I think you should speak to him, my Lord Archbishop.’
‘But surely,’ said Cranmer, ‘not before he returns from progress?’
The three men looked at one another questioningly. ‘No,’ Audley said, after a while, ‘that would be too much for the King to bear. Let it wait until he returns.’
Cranmer dabbed his brow. ‘At least that gives me time to prepare myself by thought and prayer.’ He seemed to have accepted without argument the fact that he should be the bearer of such ill tidings and Edward’s heart went out to him.
‘It is a great responsibility, my Lord, but I truly believe that you are the right choice.’
‘Yes, yes,’ Cranmer’s thin hand once more wiped away beads of sweat. ‘But how? What words can I use? That is the grim question I must resolve. What does one say when one breaks a sovereign’s heart?’
Edward suddenly wanted to cry, ‘Nemesis!’, but controlled himself admirably, thinking only in the sudden stillness that nobody, from the highest to the most humble, could ever escape the inexorable mills of God.
*
The moon had a touch of frost about it even though the day had been warm. It was small, a dainty silvered crescent, hanging in the midnight sky above the ancient and moated manor of Holme at Spalding Moor, fifteen miles from the city of York.
The scene was so perfect, the pretty little castle sitting in the midst of its moat, the waters made mercurial by the silvery night, that it could almost have been painted. And the fuzzy outlines of moonlit sheep in the fields beyond the keep did nothing to help the air of illusion.
Sitting up in bed and watching the moon play fairies with the water, the Queen of England seemed transformed. Gone the silly giggling little girl who had married a King for what she could gain, for here was a woman. Hair, silvered by the night, hung about glorious shoulders, slimmed down and beautiful, as was her face. Now the fine bones of Cat could be seen, high cheeks and the lovely curve between them and her chin, like a valley of softness. Her breasts were bare. Two small hills of silver with dark nipples, wonderfully placed, full and firm.
But her serene expression outshone everything else. For this was a woman not only in love, tremendously and generously so, but fulfilled — one of the privileged few who had found her other self, a man so much part of her that together they had become an individual. In this way, Catherine Howard had been changed from a pretty, plump adolescent to a woman of immense loveliness, and everyone who saw her must remark it.
Now, as on the rest of that long progress, she awaited her love. Poor Tom had kept away from her after that first stolen kiss at Hampton Court, as of course he must do, mortally afraid of the terrible wrath that could fall upon him. But the pull between them had been too great. Even before they had left the Palace to go north, Thomas Culpepper had come to the Queen to possess her body and by so doing, claim her heart.
Cat had been reluctantly forced to confide in Lady Roe, for someone had to help two people who loved each other so desperately that they could hardly bear to be apart. And with her guidance they had managed. Wherever they had gone on progress she and Cat between them had discovered where lay the back stairs, the secret entrances to the Queen’s apartments and what locks, when Tom was desperate, could be picked.
Catherine and her lover had lain together at Greenwich, Hatfield and Lincoln and by then, of course, her Ladies had guessed everything. But they were her faithful four from the past and held their peace, though at Pontefract their hearts had been in their mouths when Catherine Tylney thought she had observed different guards and believed that the King had set them to watch the Queen’s nocturnal visitor. But it had been a false alarm and the next day there had been much relieved exchanging of looks between Cat and her four old friends.
In York, where the architecture had been somewhat difficult, Tom had been forced to hide on the back stairs and, at another time, make a forced entry into Cat’s apartments. But in a way that had been part of the thrill; knowing the risks they took and how much sweeter their love was for it.
And now, here in the old castle of Holme, she awaited him again; climbing the spiral in one of the turrets, coming to her through the night,
drawn as a moth to a candle, in love in the face of the most monumental risk of all.
Cat hugged her knees, a gesture left over from the time when she had been childish, gauche. But now the chin that rested on top of them was shapely and sweet. As she heard his scratch upon the door, it was a woman’s voice that whispered, ‘It’s safe.’
That night, that cherished night in the little castle, Cat felt that she had never known such lovemaking. As they lay awake till dawn, she and Tom merely dozing now and then, Cat was completely at one with him as the hard part of his body entered her, again and again. What joy it was to lie with the man she loved above all others, what bliss to share kiss after kiss. In what paradise had been discovered the touch of his hands as they caressed every part of her? Together that night, with every fulfilment, Catherine Howard and Thomas Culpepper were transported beyond themselves and through some mystical gate into regions very rarely reached by ordinary men and women.
But then, as they slept in that one cold hour before dawn, neither of them lay truly easy and at Lady Rochford’s soft call Tom was instantly awake and hastily pulling on his hose. Cat woke too and wept a little.
‘Must you go?’
‘I must, darling. Lady Roe has called.’
‘Then hurry. It’s nearly light.’
They kissed, feeling the thrill of danger as the distant footsteps of changing guards could be heard.
‘Until tonight?’
‘As soon as it’s safe.’
Tom gave her one last long kiss, then was gone. With a deep sigh the Queen snuggled down to sleep for an hour or two before the day began and it would be time, once more, for her to smile prettily upon her royal husband.
*
The Council of three, almost in daily touch with the progress, all knew a moment of raw terror as the King’s return to London became imminent. According to messengers, His Grace had dallied at the pretty manor of Holme for a few days, before setting out for Hull where he remained for nearly a week, showing off his lovely wife to the astonished citizens.