by Jean Plaidy
“It is as you would imagine, full of drama, full of comedy. All are seeking favor, so hoping to climb a little higher up the ladder to fortune.”
“And you?”
“I am happy as I am … and particularly at this moment, when I am near my dear little cousin whose company I have been denied so long.”
“Have you seen the Queen?”
“I have.”
“And what is she like? Is she really so unattractive?”
“By no means. She is a very gracious lady.”
“They are always saying the King is not pleased with his marriage.”
“In that they speak truth. He does not accept her as his wife. There are times when the lady is very uneasy. No doubt she remembers Anne Boleyn. Such a memory is enough to make any lady in her position somewhat uneasy.”
“She must be very unhappy.”
“She is fearful.”
“To be so … unwanted!”
“Mayhap that is not such a hardship, for ’tis my belief that she wants him no more than he wants her.”
“She does not like the King?”
“My dear little cousin, dare I whisper it? The King shows his age. His leg … But no more. They could send me to the Tower for such talk.”
“Send you to the Tower!”
He laughed. “Ah, when one lives near the King, one must take account of one’s words.”
“It is so exciting! How I wish I were there! Did you come here to see the Duchess?”
“She sent word that she wished to see me. She asked me a number of questions, stressing the connection between our families, my aunt being your mother, Jocasta. I told her that you and I met years ago. Then she asked me about my service to the King, and I mentioned that His Grace had a liking for me on account of my gentle fingers.”
I laughed. “Does that mean that she will invite you to come here and we shall meet again?”
He paused. “I pray that that may be,” he said. “But in the service of the King, one is moving all the time. There are those peregrinations around the country. The King must show himself to the people. We leave Greenwich tomorrow and when we shall return I cannot say. But when we do, depend upon it, I shall find some reason for calling on my little cousin.”
I clasped my hands together in delight and he said: “And now, I must away. Au revoir, cousin.” He placed his hands on my shoulders. He held me against him for a moment and kissed my forehead.
Then he stepped back, bowed, and ran down to the waiting barge.
My grandmother sent for me. Her legs were giving her great pain and she would have me rub in a new unguent which had been recommended to her by the apothecary.
“I declare,” she said, “they bother me more than they ever did.”
I set to work and she talked. “Your cousin, Master Culpepper, called on me lately.”
I paused. A fear had come to me. Had someone seen him give me that “cousinly kiss”?
“Go on, child,” she said impatiently. “A goodly young man, Master Thomas. I heard he had a post at Court. It seems he has become a favorite of the King.”
I did not say that I had met him and that he had told me what that post was.
“Yes. His Majesty favors the young man. I believe he often sleeps in the King’s chamber, and, with the King’s favor, doubtless will advance himself.”
“I am pleased at this.”
“You are not a child now, Katherine Howard. Eighteen, is it? It is time a match was made for you. I have spoken to your uncle and he agrees with me that the time has come. You have some qualities, but little education.”
She looked at me reproachfully, and I was tempted to remind her that I had none because it had never been given to me; but I restrained myself.
She went on: “Your uncle is considering whether a match might be arranged for you and your cousin, Thomas Culpepper.”
A great joy swept over me. My hands trembled. I could not believe this. My cousin—whom I had now convinced myself I had loved from the moment I saw him—and I to be husband and wife! Now that I had seen him again, he seemed to me all that a man should be; and I believed he was as ready to love me as I loved him. It was a dream come true.
“The idea does not seem to displease you,” said the Duchess.
“Your Grace, I am sure it will be a very suitable match.”
“Master Culpepper has the King’s favor, and that means a great deal.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“Well … if he will have you, and if the Duke—and I tell you, he is considering this—if the Duke comes to the conclusion that it is right for the family, then there will be a match for you and Culpepper.”
I spent the rest of the day in a haze of contentment, recalling every word he had said to me at our last meeting and going back to that childhood encounter. I think I imagined that we had plighted our troth then as children.
What mattered it? The prospect of marriage with Thomas Culpepper made me very happy indeed.
I was hoping for a speedy conclusion—marriage and happiness ever after. However, the Court was traveling round the country and not only Thomas Culpepper but the Duke of Norfolk was with it. Nothing more was said of the proposed marriage and I must try to restrain my impatience.
It was difficult to do this, for I wanted to tell everyone.
They noticed the change in me.
“Mistress Katherine Howard looks as though she has come into a fortune,” commented Mary Lassells.
“Or is it love?” asked Dorothy. “Do tell us.”
“Oh, it is not yet settled,” I said guardedly.
“So … there are plans afoot.”
“As yet there is nothing to say,” I answered, regretting I had mentioned the matter.
“I saw you talking to a very handsome young man in the gardens. Indeed, I saw him kiss you.”
“Oh, it was only a cousinly kiss.”
“Your cousin?”
“Yes. Master Culpepper. He had been sent for by the Duchess. As he is my cousin, it is meet for him to give me a cousinly kiss.”
“And who is this Master Culpepper?” asked Dorothy.
“He has a place at Court. The King favors him.”
They exchanged glances; and I left them, chiding myself for having mentioned him. But I was often careless and therefore frequently telling myself that I should not have said this or that.
It was a week or so later. The Duchess had not referred again to the match, and when I tried to bring it into the conversation, she brushed it aside, so that I knew that the negotiations had gone no further.
Then I had a shock. I was in the gardens near the privy stairs, gazing along the river to Greenwich, when a barge drew up. Immediately I thought of Thomas Culpepper, but to my horror I saw that the occupant was Francis Derham.
He sprang out and, seeing me, gave a cry of pleasure, and came hurrying toward me. I quickly moved away, lest the bargeman should see our meeting. But Francis followed me.
“Katherine,” he called. “What ails you? Are you not pleased to see me?”
I turned and faced him. “Why have you come?” I demanded.
He looked amazed. “I have come to see you.”
“You should not have done so.”
“I do not understand.”
“It is over, Francis.”
“What say you?”
“That which was between us is no more.”
“Katherine! We are troth-plighted.”
“That was long ago.”
“Not so long. And what has that to do with it? I am husband to you and you are wife to me. You cannot have forgotten how it was between us.”
“It should not have been.”
“Katherine! My love! It was.”
I cried: “No, no. You must go away. It is over. We were too young. It was play.”
“Play!” he said. “It was not play for me.”
“It is over. You went away. That ended it.”
He was looking at me wi
th utter desolation, and I was deeply sorry for him. He had really loved me. He was not like Manox. Oh, I could not bear to think of Manox. But to see my poor Francis looking so lost and sad made me want to weep. I must not relent though. Francis must go away. We must not return to that intimacy which we had once shared. What I wanted more than anything was that he should find another lover. It was all over between us two as far as he was concerned.
But all he could do was look at me with those sad, bewildered, yearning eyes, which assured me that he had always been my true and faithful lover.
“Francis,” I said. “I am sorry, but it is over. I love you no longer. I was only a child—I did not understand. I was fond of you, and it was all so exciting. Can you understand? Please, Francis. Will you fall in love with someone else?”
“I shall never do that… having known you,” he assured me.
How I should have loved to hear those words at one time. Now they filled me with alarm.
Francis Derham was really very daring. He was, of course, one of the Duke of Norfolk’s pensioners and he must have presumed that the Duke knew nothing of the reason for his sudden departure. He was evidently right, for the Duke made no objection to his return.
It was only the Duchess who knew, and she evidently decided that no good could arise from reviving the scandal.
I was sure that she could not be very happy about Derham’s return.
But there he was—back in the household, which made me very uneasy, for I could come face to face with him at any moment.
My fear was great when, shortly after Derham had returned, my grandmother sent for me and, in a state of great apprehension, I presented myself.
She was seated in her chair and, to my intense relief, beaming with pleasure.
She said: “Sit down. I have some good news for you. You are to have a place at Court.”
“At Court!” I cried. My first thoughts were: I shall not have to wonder whether Francis Derham is going to spring out on me at any minute. To Court! It was my nature to be able to forget unpleasantness and be quickly transported to blithe euphoria.
“You may well be joyful. ’Tis good news indeed. A chance for you, my child. You must make the most of it.”
“Yes, Your Grace. Oh, I will.”
She looked at me, nodding approval. “Stand up,” she said. “And come closer.”
I did so while she peered at me, assessing me.
“You are very small,” she said. “Some would say too small. But I am not so sure. You are slender withal and you have a certain grace. You look girlish … young for your years … and that has an appeal. You are fair enough. Light brown hair … curly and plenty of it. Good eyes … hazel … and those long dark lashes. Your nose is good … face round … childish … you are a worthy Howard.”
I was giggling with pleasure. To go to Court! To be away from Derham, and near Thomas Culpepper. I assured myself that I was deeply in love with Thomas Culpepper and soon there would be a betrothal—one which would have the approval of all.
“You are indeed fortunate,” she went on. “You owe this, of course, to your uncle. He has noticed you of late. He says your manners leave much to be desired, and he chides me for allowing your education to be neglected. But I fancy he thinks that one of the reasons why your cousin …” Her voice faltered as it always did at any mention of Anne Boleyn. But she went on quickly, for this was a happy occasion which must not be spoilt by unhappy memories.
“The Duke thinks that too much education can make a woman over-saucy, so he does not regret over-much the fact that you have none of that of which your cousin had too much. You are not without charm, and your looks favor you. So he decided to put your name forward and, as the King has not protested, there is a place for you. It is great good fortune. Unfortunately for the Queen, she does not regard it as such, to lose her own countrywomen and perforce take ours in exchange, but she is no fool and must know that when Queens come to new countries they must lose those attendants they brought with them and take others from their new country. So this is what is happening. The Queen’s ladies—those she brought with her—are being sent back and you are to be one of those who will replace them.”
I clasped my hands together in ecstasy. To serve the Queen, that poor neglected lady, to be at Court where everything happened, to be near Thomas Culpepper, who slept in the King’s chamber and was favored by him! I could hardly contain my happiness.
“I see you are overcome with joy, my child. That is right. So should you be. This is a happy day for you and for the family. It will be for you to show your uncle that he was right to put his faith in you.”
“I shall!” I cried.
“There. I am happy for you. You will do your best, I am sure.”
She was smiling at me. “And do not let this make you over-vain, child, for that would detract from your charm. But you are indeed a pretty child.”
I found the courage to ask: “And there will now be my betrothal?”
She looked a little puzzled.
“Your Grace mentioned to me that Thomas Culpepper …”
“Oh yes, yes. There was talk of a match between you two. Well, now this has come to pass, who shall say? It is not a matter to be decided rashly … in particular now. Your uncle will have other matters on his mind.”
I was a little disappointed, but nothing could spoil the prospect of this wonderful future which was opening out before me.
I wanted to run round telling everyone: “I am going to Court!”
Francis Derham came upon me in the garden. I suspected he had been watching for me. He caught my arm and angrily I wrenched it away from him.
“I have told you,” I cried. “Francis, please understand, it is all over. It is no more as it was.”
“I have heard that you are betrothed to a certain Thomas Culpepper.”
“When did you hear such a thing?”
“It was from one of the Duchess’s women. She had overheard it, she said. Is it true?”
“If she says I am betrothed, then she knows more than I do. As far as I know I am not betrothed to anyone.”
He looked relieved. “I could not bear that you should go to any other,” he said.
“Francis, do please understand. I am very sorry, but I no longer feel love for you.”
“You did love me. You said many times that you were my wife. You said that you would wait for my return.”
“It was all child’s play, Francis.”
“It was not to me.”
“Please leave me, Francis. I am going away… to Court. Please, please, let us forget what happened.”
“How could I forget that you are my wife?”
“I am not. I am not. We were children playing at love.”
“You cannot deny that we were lovers in truth.”
“Please, Francis, please … I am going away.”
“To Culpepper?”
“No … no, only to Court.”
“You must not do this.”
“It has all been arranged for me. I am commanded to go. I am going to be a lady-in-waiting to the Queen.”
“That must not be!” he insisted. “You must tell them how it is between us. If you go away, I shall not stay in this house.”
“As to that, Francis, you must do as you list.”
“Katherine, at Court, you will be exposed to all kinds of profligacy which you do not understand. You are so sweet and innocent. No, Katherine, I will not have it.”
“It is not for you to say, Francis, whether or not I go to Court.”
“I am your husband.”
“Say that no more, Francis. If you love me …”
“You know I love you. How many times have I told you? How many times have you said you love me?”
“That is in the past. It is all over now.”
“It will never be over for me.”
“I am going to Court, I tell you.”
“To be betrothed to Culpepper?”
“I am not betro
thed to anyone anymore.”
“But to go to Court. You … in that den of vice.”
“Can it compare with the Long Room in this house?”
He was silent. It was as though he were thinking of that innocent girl who had already been thrust into something like that den of vice to which he referred, and I saw a great tenderness in his eyes.
“Francis,” I said. “I did love you, but it is over. Please understand. We could still be good friends. If you love me, you will understand.”
He said slowly: “I do love you, Katherine. I have always loved you. I would never do anything to harm you.”
I believed him, for I was convinced that he was speaking the truth.
A Meeting with the King
IT APPEARED THAT the King’s marriages—and this to Anne of Cleves was his fourth—must always be overshadowed by death.
When he had married his first Queen, many years ago, that had only been possible because of the death of his elder brother, Arthur; and King Henry had inherited a wife as well as a throne through that death. Then, when the first wife was put aside that the King might marry my cousin, the great Cardinal Wolsey, although he escaped the axe, died, it was said, of a broken heart and despair. Many deaths had followed that marriage: the noble Thomas More, the saintly Bishop Fisher, many monks—most barbarously—and all traced to that second marriage. My tragic cousin had gone to the block; and Jane Seymour’s brief reign had ended in her death. Now there was the new Queen, and Thomas Cromwell—one-time favorite—appeared to be in danger.
There was a charge of treason, and his enemies—chief among them my Uncle Norfolk—had been quick to seek the opportunity to destroy him. The King’s anger against him had been fueled by the fact that it had been Cromwell’s activities which had saddled His Majesty with a wife who did not please him.
I learned something of Cromwell then and marveled at the hazards people risked when ambition drove them on. I wondered how Cromwell, who had once been so powerful, was facing the fact that he was in growing and acute danger.
Many people were pleased to see him in this plight. I was amazed at the constant references to his humble birth. His father was sneered at for being a blacksmith and a shearer of cloth who kept a brew-house in Putney which was also a hostelry. And this Cromwell, a blacksmith’s son, had had the temerity to climb to the position of Lord Great Chamberlain of England.