by Jean Plaidy
Mistress in the Prince’s household. She was greatly loved by the children, I had heard, as was Lady Penn, who was now their chief nurse.
These ladies greeted me with the utmost respect, although they must have thought I was very young, quite inexperienced and quite unfit to hold the important office which the King had thrust upon me.
I had told them that I had come to see the Prince and that I believed the Lady Elizabeth was often in his company.
“ ’Tis so, Your Majesty,” said Lady Bryan. “It is a source of great pleasure to me that they are so happy together. The Lady Elizabeth is a very clever child, and the Prince dotes on her.”
“It would seem you have a very happy household.”
“I trust so, Your Majesty. Children should live in happy surroundings.”
“We are in agreement on that. Would you please conduct me to the Prince’s apartment?”
The Prince was sitting at a table, with Elizabeth beside him. She sprang to her feet at my approach and curtsied. The Prince scrambled down.
I did not wish for any formality, and I said: “Let us all sit down, shall we? I saw you, Lady Elizabeth, at the King’s banquet, and, my Lord Prince, I am very happy to make your acquaintance.”
Elizabeth said: “You must bow, Edward. This is the Queen.”
Edward studied me intently and said: “She does not look like a Queen.”
“You must not say that,” Elizabeth chided.
I laughed. “Please do not think you must show me ceremony. I am not merely the Queen, am I? We are closer than that.”
Edward looked at Elizabeth and waited for her to reply.
“Your Majesty is gracious,” she said with dignity.
I could see that she clung to ceremony, but when I asked her about her lessons she changed. She was really devoted to her books, and I realized that she was teaching Edward to be the same.
I felt I must not pursue the subject of learning too far, for I feared it was possible that, at seven years of age, Elizabeth would discover my lack of it.
I asked them about their outdoor activities. Elizabeth apparently rode well, as she did everything else; but Edward did not care so much for it.
“They are constantly telling him he must do this and that because one day he will be King,” she said. Then she glanced over her shoulder. “We should not speak of that time,” she added, “because my father would have to die before Edward became so.” Then she looked annoyed at herself for having made such a statement. “Edward likes me to be with him,” she went on. “Then I can look after him.”
“You must be a great help to him,” I said.
“Yes,” she agreed coolly. “He relies on me, do you not, Edward?”
He nodded, smiling, and slipped his hand into hers.
She was very self-assured for one so young, I thought. And she was more like her father than the boy was. How perverse life was! If she had been a boy, how different everything might have been. How she would have delighted her father then; she looked so like him at times. I could see nothing of her mother in her. But perhaps there was a certain pride and that indomitable spirit.
And what was she thinking now? That I was her mother’s cousin. What did that make me? Her second cousin perhaps? I wondered if she was thinking, as I was, of that beautiful head on the block and the sword descending. Would she be thinking that I was one of the women who had taken her mother’s place?
I had heard that she had become friendly with Anne of Cleves. I could not believe that she had felt the same toward Jane Seymour. I wished I could stop thinking of my cousin’s coming upon Jane Seymour seated on the King’s knee while he smiled at her as he did so often at me. It was really such a short time ago, and since then Jane had become Queen and so had Anne of Cleves; and now it was my turn.
Feelings of doom descended on me. Oh no, he loved me. Indeed, all I had to do was smile and say what he wanted to hear. And I was fond of him. Who would not be fond of a husband who indulged one so? It was so easy to satisfy his demands. At last I had accepted that there must be no contact with Thomas Culpepper, and he had gone from my life forever. It was the only way—not only for me, but for him.
I was quite happy in my new life. I had never had perfection and perhaps I did not hope for it. Now I looked forward to having a share in that family which I had inherited. It amused me to realize I had stepchildren—that frail little boy and the intriguing Elizabeth.
I did not expect friendship from Mary. She would naturally turn from her father’s wives. But in time, who knew?
Yes, on the whole, I was pleased with life.
Warning Signals
THEN CAME A RUMBLING OF DISASTER. I had been married not quite a month when it happened.
It was mid-morning when the King came bursting into the apartment. His face was flushed; his eyes had almost disappeared into his fleshy face so that they looked like glittering beacons seen through slits; his mouth was a thin straight line.
“What think you of this? By God’s blood, that priest shall suffer for this.”
I went to him, put my arms round him and attempted to soothe him.
“What mean you, my lord husband? You seem very angry today.”
He turned to me, his face softening at once. “I would never believe this of you. He shall suffer for this. Good Lord, spare me from priests!”
“What has he done to disturb you so? I cannot bear to see you thus. Is there aught I can do?”
He put his arms round me and looked into my face. “This dastardly priest has dared to utter words … words …” He spluttered. “Words against you.”
I felt myself begin to tremble.
“Against me!” I cried. “What could he say against me? I know him not. What has he said?”
“What has he said? By God, he has spoken against your virtue … that is what this scoundrel has done. He shall hang for it.”
Uneasiness was gripping me now. “What… what… has he said?” I murmured.
“What has he said indeed … this priest of Windsor?”
Windsor. I felt a little better. I knew no one at Windsor.
“What has he said? Please tell me. I must know. I beg you to tell me.”
“It is just tittle-tattle. ‘The Queen is guilty of conduct unbecoming to her rank. There have been whispers about her.’”
“Windsor?” I said. “But I was not at Windsor. How … ?”
“Sweetheart, you must not let this disturb you. I will not have it. The priest has been placed in Wriothesley’s care. He swore he did nothing but repeat what had been told him. The other … the one who, he declares, said this slanderous thing to him, is under arrest in Windsor keep. We will let them wait there while we decide what shall be done with these scoundrels.”
I was feeling a little easier. I knew no priest of Windsor. That was the fact I was clinging to.
“You do not believe them?” I asked.
“By God’s Grace, I know you for what you are. No one is going to say a word against my Queen in my hearing … nor that of any other … or it will be the worse for them. Nay, sweetheart, there are those who cannot abide the good fortunes of others. These priests, they would tutor us all. We must do this … they say … we must do that… if we would please them: and if we do not always follow them, they will stand up and slander us. Priests … monks … there are times when I have had my fill of them. They would have us all go the way they want. I do not like these self-righteous men. Depend upon it, they see how you have been honored, and they are filled with envy of you. I have raised you up, and, by God, it has pleased me to do so. And priests … and such … should keep their mouths shut. They should look to themselves.”
“This has caused you much sorrow, I fear,” I said in a low and trembling voice.
His eyes took on a misty look.
“Nay,” he cried. “You must not fret. It is slander, ill-founded lies.” He was fierce again. “And I will not have slander spoken against my Queen.”
I
had been easily frightened. I waited for what would happen next. I started to think again of what had taken place at Lambeth. Why had these rumors come to the priest of Windsor? Who had spoken them in the first place? Derham? Not Derham. He was a man of breeding, an honorable man. He had really believed he was going to marry me: after all, he was one of the Howards. Nor would Thomas have betrayed me. He would die rather. Then I thought of Henry Manox. Could it have been Manox? He lacked the scruples of the others.
But Manox was not mentioned. And who would have gone to Windsor to whisper to the priest?
So my mind worked and during that week nothing further happened.
The King noticed my uneasiness and was eager to put an end to it.
“This foolish matter has disturbed you, sweetheart,” he said. “That must not be. I will teach these men a lesson. We shall let it be known that none speaks against the Queen.”
I thought about this a great deal and wondered what would happen to these men. Perhaps they would be put to the torture. That was something the King was not eager should be tried on them. He would not want them to produce lurid “confessions,” as people sometimes did to escape further torment. Yes, I was frightened. I supposed that, had I been the innocent girl Henry believed me to be, I should have felt differently. I tried to make myself act as such a girl would.
The King said that the sooner the men were brought to trial the better.
Trial! I could not bear that. I must do something. There was no one whose advice I could ask. I had to obey my own instincts.
It was true that I had always hated to hear of torture and executions. My whole nature shrank from it. Priests, not being of the nobility, were submitted to the horrific death of hanging, drawing and quartering. I could not bear to think of this.
It suddenly occurred to me that, if they were freed, they would no longer seek to harm me; and when they considered what terrible fate might have befallen them, they would be very careful of what they said in future.
I went to the King and, going on my knees to him—a gesture for which he chided me but with which, I sensed, he was rather pleased—I begged him to save the lives of the priest and his companion, to warn them to be careful of their words in future and go on their way.
He lifted me up so that my face was on a level with his.
“My sweet Katherine,” he said. “Your heart is indeed tender. These men had maligned you, and you would forgive them. You ask me to grant you this, and because you ask a boon of me … it is granted. It shall be as you wish. What a happy day it was when God gave you to me.”
I was indeed happy. I cast aside my anxieties as though they were a heavy and burdensome cloak; and I would not let myself brood any longer on those uneasy days. The men were freed with a warning of the dire consequences which would befall them if they ever uttered another word against the Queen’s Grace, and they must always remember it was due to her mercy that they were free men.
I had been right, I told myself.
Then the King and I set off for a voyage round the country. I was to be presented by the King to his people as the Queen who had, at last, brought him contentment.
The King seemed to have forgotten that unpleasant incident, and I had forced myself to do so too. He did not refer to it again. Now the matter was over.
The country might not have been able to afford to give me a coronation, but I had all the clothes I needed, which, after so much deprivation in the past, was very much appreciated. I was becoming accustomed to my condition and enjoying it more and more every day.
The King was certainly a good husband to me. He constantly marveled at my youth and energy. I never saw his leg without its dressing. When he came to me at night, it was always freshly bandaged. He was taking more exercise. People remarked on his healthy looks. I think his relationship with Anne of Cleves had had its effect on him, and there was no doubt that he was happy now.
He was almost always in a good temper and when his eyes alighted on me that soft and tender look would come into his face. I was becoming really fond of him and I often thought of the wonderful life he had given me.
Lady Margaret Douglas had ceased to be Anne’s chief lady-in-waiting, and had become mine. I was pleased at that. I think most of the ladies had found it difficult at first to take a subservient position to me. I could understand that. It took time to accept the fact that little Katherine Howard was now the Queen. I did not mind that. I was not one who wanted a great deal of ceremony.
In my entourage were also the Duchesses of Richmond and Suffolk with the Countess of Rutland and, of course, my old confidante Lady Rochford. She was the same as she had always been, reminding me that she was my very good friend. Mrs. Tyrwitt and Mrs. Leye were among the gentlewomen and Mrs. Tylney was one of the chamberers who, I remembered, had once been employed in the Duchess’s household. There were so many of them that I forget the number.
It was about this time that I heard what was happening to the Countess of Salisbury. She must have been seventy-three years old and she was a prisoner in the Tower. The very word “tower” sent a shiver through me, but that an old lady, used to the comforts she must have enjoyed until now, should suffer so, horrified me.
“Poor, poor lady,” I said. “How terrible for her!”
The Countess of Rutland glanced at me quickly. “She is the King’s enemy, Your Majesty.”
“What has she done?” I wanted to know.
I noticed that the Countess looked a little nonplussed.
“She … er … she has conspired against the King. She was in league with her son. Your Majesty will remember Cardinal Pole. He is the King’s enemy… although the King once gave him his affection.”
“But what were they quarrelling about, and do they need to keep that poor old lady in the Tower? She must be nearly frozen at night. It is very cold there, and does she get enough to eat?”
I saw that look on her face which she tried to disguise. She thought I was a little idiot who did not know when it was safer to leave things alone.
I could see I was not going to get very much information from those around me except from Jane Rochford, and, as I could not stop thinking of the poor lady’s discomfort, I went to Jane for information.
“That would be Margaret Pole, Countess of Salisbury,” said Jane. “It must be over a year since she was sent to the Tower.”
“So she has been there all through the winter! Oh poor, poor lady!”
“Indeed yes, but then she is the daughter of the Duke of Clarence, and you know who he was.”
I waited expectantly.
She raised her eyebrows, as though to express her amazement at my ignorance, and to remind me that, although I was the King’s wife now, the same intimacy remained between us as always had. I would not have had it otherwise. I did not want her to shield me from the truth, as the others tried to.
“The Duke of Clarence, Majesty”—she used the title with a certain levity—“was the brother of Edward IV and Richard III, so you see his daughter might be a little watchful of the throne. What do you think of that?”
“Go on,” I said.
“The real trouble is, of course, her son, the Cardinal Pole. There was a time when the King was quite fond of him. He paid for his education and looked after him generally. The Cardinal is a very clever man. It was the matter of the divorce from Queen Catherine of Aragon that came between them. Like Wolsey before him, Cardinal Pole did not see the matter as the King wished him to. So the rift began, and when the Pope made Reginald Pole a cardinal, there was real trouble. It would have been the Cardinal’s head that went … if he had been here. Tempers ran hot. The King was determined to wed Anne Boleyn.”
“And the Countess?”
“They say she was conspiring with her son, who was on the Continent.”
“Was she?”
“That is not for me to say. But the Poles are very close to the throne … too close for comfort.”
“I feel so much for her that I cannot forget
her. Not so long ago, she was in her comfortable home, and suddenly there she is … in that place, with only jailers to attend her. She will suffer greatly from the cold … and does she get enough to eat, think you?”
“I doubt it. It is the lot of prisoners.”
“Jane, I know what I shall do. I shall have them make something for her … by the seamstresses. A nightgown furred against the cold … some shoes she will need. Stockings. They will help to keep her warm.”
“The King’s enemy …” began Jane.
“Need the King know?”
“What, deceive His Majesty so soon after the marriage!”
“Oh, Jane, do not be silly! It is not really deceiving. It is just not telling.”
“Well, all you have to do is smile sweetly, tell him how wonderful he is and that you adore him, and he will be at your feet.”
I smiled complacently.
“Send for the seamstresses,” I said. “We will begin at once. That poor lady shall no longer freeze in that dreadful Tower.”
Jane obeyed, and in a very short time I was able to send the Countess two nightdresses—one furred—together with hose and boots.
Jane entered into the scheme and was a great help. She was most excited and I wondered whether it was because she really cared about the comforts of the Countess, or because she felt it to be a rather dangerous undertaking, assisting a prisoner who was in the Tower by order of the King.
I was not afraid. If he heard of it, he would only smile, I was sure. Perhaps he would ask me jovially why I was sending comforts to his enemy, to which I would answer that I was so happy in the love of the King I could not bear to think that an old lady was in such discomfort.
Nevertheless, although it was probable that many knew what I had done—for the Queen’s actions, however small, were certain not to go unnoticed—nothing was said.
There were other matters to claim the King’s attention. A certain John Neville had started a rebellion in the North of England. I was with the King when the news of this was brought to him. I had never seen him in such an angry mood, since news of the slander the priest of Windsor was uttering against me had come.