Once, she leaps to her feet, pacing back and forth, beating her chest, waving her arms in the air. Her voice is raised and although I try to block my ears, I cannot help but hear the agony of her shame as the confession is torn from her throat. Cranmer closes his eyes, shakes his head sadly and asks her to sit down again. She lowers herself stiffly into a chair and begins to tremble violently when he offers her the pen.
Poor Katherine can barely form her letters and I wonder what the King will make of such a confession. What will the punishment be? As I watch her slowly scratch her name at the bottom of the parchment, for the first time my child leaps inside me and I place my hand upon my womb, wondering what his future holds. What my own future holds. There are many better than I who have been brought low by their association with a doomed Queen.
I start in surprise when the legs of Cranmer’s stool scrape across the floor. He places a hand on her shoulder, more fatherly than statesmanlike, and clears his throat. “The King desires that you and three of your ladies retire to Syon until the trial, Madam.”
After that, Katherine does not speak for many hours.
We are no longer to address her as ‘Queen’ or ‘Majesty.’ Instead, we must remember to call her ‘Lady Katherine.’ She watches like a punished infant as stern-faced guards enter her apartments and bear away casket after casket of her jewels, precious gifts from a besotted King. Her gowns are heaped in resplendent piles ready to be carried away in their arms. She is allowed to keep only six of her plainest dresses and six of her most unbecoming hoods. It is a far cry from the luxury she has lately enjoyed but she doesn’t seem to care. She remains unnervingly silent.
There is not long to wait now, for we are to leave for Syon shortly after noon. I am folding her plainest petticoats and placing them in a pile when the bells ring out loud for morning mass. Katherine is suddenly on her feet.
I jerk up my head at the abrupt movement but before I can stop her, she runs swiftly across the chamber and wrenches the door wide. Taking the guards outside by surprise, she darts like a small silver fish between them and is half way along the corridor before they have even begun pursuit.
“Henry!” she shrieks, lifting her skirts and running. I dash after her, glimpse her cascading hair as she turns a corner. She is heading for the chapel where she knows the King will be at prayer. “Henreeeeee!”
Her voice cracks. The guards are closing in on her, their broad backs shutting her momentarily from my view. When I next see her, she is at the chapel door, hammering on the thick oaken panel with her little-girl fists, her body writhing in the pain of defeat. “Henry!”
As I draw near, the bones of my bodice digging deep into my ribs, I see them lay hands upon her. She struggles, writhing and kicking hopelessly in the face of their strength. “Henreee, please hear me, my lord! Henreeeeeeee!”
Her voice grows shriller and more frantic as they haul her backwards, her feet dragging across the stone floor. She twists and turns in their grip as, with bland faces, they lug her back toward me. There is no sound from the chapel but the King must surely hear her. Such cries will echo down these corridors for centuries.
I hurry along behind as they march her relentlessly back to her chamber, throw her to the floor before the hearth. She falls to her knees, weeping helplessly, her pretty face contorted into red, misshapen ugliness, her fragile arms encircling her own shoulders.
Never in my life have I seen anyone so alone. All the grief I have felt at the loss of Eve merges with the pity I now feel for Katherine. When I fall to my knees beside her it is as if I am gathering them both into my arms.
Joan Toogood
It will be a meagre Christmas this year and that’s for sure. It’s hard for me to work now, what with Sybil afraid of her own shadow and M’lady tied to the foot of my bed. I turn a few tricks about town but earn barely enough to fill our bellies. And to top it all, my little sister Betsy is set on wedding a farmer’s boy from way up river, some far flung place I’ve never been to. Good luck to her, I say, but since Betsy is our best earner, it means we are deeper in the mire than anyone’d wish to be. It don’t seem to worry her none, she flounces about as gaily as you please, as if I haven’t had the care of her since she learned to walk.
Since early November the rain has fallen without easement, the wind blowing it in beneath the shingle, the damp chill filling the air and settling in my bones. Now that December is here, the cold increases, casting a layer of hoar frost upon the heads of the Queen’s lovers that the King has pinned to the bridge by way of warning. We’ve heard no word of the faithless little Queen herself, but I imagine her fate will not be one to envy. I’d sooner be me, hungry as I am.
But I’ve no time to worry for her overmuch for I’ve mouths to feed and a gently born lady to keep warm. I’ve pinned my Ma’s thick shawl across her narrow shoulders, it’s a plain home spun thing against the tattered silk of her gown but it warms her a little. I still don’t know what to do with her and she shows no sign of improving or remembering who she is or ought that happened.
Sometimes now, she shouts. Loud sometimes, crude words that I’d never have thought to hear from the likes of her. Other times she hollers words that we can’t understand and when these times are upon her she fidgets and strains at her bonds and nothing will soothe her but a cuddle from me. But most of the time she is quiet, as if placidly waiting for something to change.
But nothing does.
Every day I wash her face and hands, make sure her petticoats are clean before I set out to make a penny or two along the Bankside. I do not tarry if I can help it for my absence makes her fractious.
The smell of roasting meat from the cook-houses sets my mouth alive; I can all but feel how the juice would run down my chin if I could only bite into it. At home, all that awaits me is a week-old pot of pease-pudding, but at least I’ve earned enough this morning to buy some bread to sop it up with.
When my customer has had enough I drop my skirts, and he lets a couple of pennies fall into my hand. “I’m grateful, Ned,” I say and leave him to go his own ways. I see a baker’s boy with a tray of wares and relieve him of a couple of loaves, reluctantly hand over the pennies before scurrying off homeward.
The steps to my chamber are slick with ice so I climb them with care before throwing open the door and unravelling my shawl. “I’m back,” I call, although in the one room we share they won’t have missed the blast of colder air that heralds my arrival.
M’lady is straining at her leash, wanting to give me welcome, so I dump the loaves on the table and go and take her hand. The strange, animal sounds she makes when she’s happy scare Sybil silly, but I just smooth back her hair and stroke her cheek and she calms down, retreating into silence.
Before I fill my belly I clean myself, using the bowl of rainwater that has filtered through the shingles. It is cold enough to shrivel my nethers and a curious shade of yellow, but it cleans me well enough. Meanwhile Sybil doles out pease-pudding into three bowls and rips the bread into chunks, saving one loaf for supper. Then, tucking a cloth beneath her chin, I begin to spoon the food into M’lady’s mouth. When it has near all gone, I soak the bread in the remaining gravy and put it into her hand.
“Stoke up the fire a bit, Sybil,” I say, putting my feet up and folding my hands across my belly. Outside the wind still howls and night is falling early, making me wish for thick curtains to draw against the cold. Such is the delight of December, short days and long nights. I think of the frigid days still to come, the relentless cruelty of January and February. I long for the springtime, when the very air makes it good to be alive.
“Tell us a story, Joanie,” says Sybil, settling herself close to the hearth and poking at the glowing embers. M’lady, hearing her words, sits up on the bed, crosses her legs and appears to listen too. As I launch into a tale of brave King Arthur and his lusty knights, her eyes do not leave my face but seem to drink the story up. It is just as I am reaching the part where the boy hauls the great sword
of England from its stone that we hear heavy footsteps on the stair and the door is thrown wide. We all turn in surprise.
“Peter! By all that’s holy. Where have you been, boy?”
He blushes, pleased that I’ve missed him, and holds a jug of ale aloft. “I had to go to Kennington. My uncle was ailing and I helped out for a while. I am back now and hope to stay.”
The glance he casts in my direction leaves me in no doubt as to which way his mind is wandering. But I can hardly throw Sybil out in the cold and M’lady is taking up the only bed. He passes the jug to me and I tip it to my lips to let the rich, cool liquid flow down my throat. Then I pass it to Sybil and after she has had her fill, she hands it back to Peter. When my turn comes round again, I see M’lady watching and I go to her and hold the jug to her lips. A trickle of ale runs down her chin and along her throat, disappearing beneath her bodice, making her laugh.
The jug is soon empty and when Peter gets up to fetch another from the Cock’s Inn on the corner, I follow him outside and wait on the balcony for his return. When he reaches the top stair, he puts down the jug and I slide my arms about his neck, wanting to feel the touch of a friend. I turn my face from his kisses but welcome his fondling hands, and before we go back in we couple quickly and efficiently, my bottom slapping against the roughness of the wall. The moon looks down unabashed while Peter smiles sheepishly, as red as a cock’s comb to the roots of his hair as he refastens his piece. I pull down my skirts and open the door to stumble inside.
It is not long before we are all as drunk as lords. While Sybil sings a bawdy song about a priest and a gander, Peter begins to dance an unsteady jig and I scramble up to join him. I lift my skirts to my knees and circle the room, my boots making a din on the wooden floorboards, my dugs doing a separate jig all of their own.
When Peter and I fall laughing and panting to the floor, M’lady kneels up on the bed, clapping her hands, her mouth gaping in delight.
“She wants to dance too,” cries Sybil, with the spirit of Christmas upon her. I go merrily toward M’lady to untie the ribbon that holds her fast. She is still giggling when she grabs my hands and begins to dance, forcing my feet to move in steps I do not know.
After a while, I pull away and she dances alone, her movements more graceful than anything any of us have ever seen before. We watch her in silence, the coarseness of the celebration suddenly seeming out of place.
Her arms are arched like a pair of swans’ necks and she tilts her head, a dainty foot appearin’ and disappearin’ beneath her skirts in time to music only she can hear. She is a ragged Queen in the company of whores. A winsome smile plays upon her face and there are tears upon her cheeks, as if she is remembering another dance in some other place.
Isabella Greywater – February 1542
I am at my wit’s end, for as we wait here at Syon for her fate to be decided Katherine will not speak, even to me. Her entire household has been questioned; some members who were summoned for questioning have not returned. We fear they are languishing in the confines of the Tower, and I dread to think what they have been constrained to confess. We all know the methods used to satisfy the King’s quest for ‘truth.’
Jane Rochford was the first of our household not to return and word filters through to us that she has lost her mind and raves like a lunatic in her cell. The only comfort I can take from this is that such madness will ensure she can endanger the Queen no further. Even the King’s men take no heed of the insane.
While I worry for the future and try to guess which of the remaining household members we can trust, Katherine sits silently at the hearth, agitatedly plucking threads from her skirt. Poor Katherine, she never dreamed she would ever fall so low. Her status has diminished so far that she is allowed just four gentlewomen to attend her.
She has been allotted only three paltry chambers and this room is chilly, the walls covered with shabby hangings, the floors strewn with rushes that are in need of changing. Even the cushions are worn and full of moth. There is no majesty here and few comforts although, I must confess, she doesn’t appear to notice.
For hours now she has sat with her chin on her chest and she refuses both food and drink. I hope her mind takes her to happier times, the days of dancing, flirting and courtly games. Does she still believe she is Henry’s little darling and that he will forgive her in the end? Or does she despair? Does the shadow of her cousin flicker upon the walls of her imagination, as she does in mine? I cannot know what she is thinking and sometimes I think her mind has closed down and that nothing can touch her now – unless it’s the edge of Henry’s blade.
The knowledge of what befell Anne Boleyn haunts me night and day. The King loved her, too. For seven long years he pursued her, he fell foul of the Pope and took on the power of the mighty Roman church, sent his wife and daughter into exile just to make her his. He killed his oldest, dearest friends to secure her hand but, when she failed to give him a son, the quick-silver agility of her mind soon ceased to enchant him.
They say that on the day of her execution, the King rode off to dally with his new love, the soon-to-be-Queen Jane. If the quick-witted Boleyn could fall so swiftly from grace, what chance did a giddy child like Katherine stand?
I have tried to keep her in ignorance of events that are happening in the outside world. She does not yet know that the King has denied her the right of an open court and has tried her in her absence. Even the lowest in the land are offered a fair trial, but it is not to be for Katherine. In this world, where a woman’s rights are few, she is not even to be allowed the chance to defend her actions.
Such is the power of Queens.
Without recourse to her own testimony, her alleged lovers were tortured and her friends interrogated. Culpepper and Dereham were indicted for treason, as she has been. In November they found her guilty of living the vicious life of a harlot, and since that day we have been here awaiting her fate. None of us are dead yet but the existence we suffer can certainly not be described as ‘living.’
She is quieter than ever today and I am not sure if she realises that we are now waiting to be taken by river barge to be housed in the Tower. That place must have such sharp memories for her. Even I, who was a child at the time, will never forget the horror of her cousin, Anne Boleyn. It was unthinkable then and it is unthinkable now that a Queen should suffer execution. My mind cannot encompass it, but it is to the Tower we must go. It is there we must wait a while longer, balanced upon the edge of sanity until such time ... I can barely voice it. It is there we must wait at the King’s pleasure, until the time of execution.
None of us is brave enough to tell the Queen – or Lady Katherine as she is now. The few of us that are left have come to love her too well to be able to face the further crumbling of her wits. And so, she remains in ignorance that Culpepper is dead, and Dereham too, and that the Tower dungeons are replete with members of her friends and family, even her feckless grandmother, the Dowager Duchess.
Norfolk has fled court and, after denouncing his niece, has taken himself off, pleading sickness until such time as the crisis has passed. May the plague take him.
Although I had no love for them when they were living, my prayers are for poor Culpepper and Dereham. For all their sins, they were too young to die and so is Katherine, silly laughing little Katherine whose only real crime was to be born into the wrong family. If only there were something I could do!
I can barely stand to think on it. Sometimes I fear I will run as mad as Jane Rochford. Perhaps when the time comes, they will have to drag me away from Katherine’s mutilated body, a foaming, muttering wreck. There is only so much I can stand.
I gasp as a hefty kick beneath my ribs reminds me that the luxury of madness cannot be mine. I have responsibilities. As my child’s heel travels across the globe of my womb, I let my hand drop to my stomach. God knows where life will take my little one, if I can bring him healthy into this world.
There has been no word from Anthony. He knows my wher
eabouts but has taken no action to bring me home. No doubt he is humiliated by my proximity to the Queen, and wishes not to draw attention to himself. He will not wish to displease his King and, in the present circumstances, who can blame him? So much has happened since I saw him last that I can scarcely recall my husband’s face or remember his voice. Indeed, if it were not for my swollen belly I would not believe I’d ever been married at all.
My head snaps up in surprise when the door suddenly opens. Katherine, dragged back from wherever her mind was wandering, leaps to her feet. Sir John Gage fills the doorway, his gaze not quite meeting ours. He begins to bow and then remembers himself, straightens his shoulders and clears his throat. “The barge is waiting, Lady Katherine,” he says. “You must come with us now.”
“Where are we going?” Katherine asks, her voice sounding small and bewildered but, lacking the heart to explain, I take her elbow and, while her other women gather up the few possessions left to her, lead her traitorously from the room.
We pause at the exterior door, blinking at the brightness. It is one of those bright, crisp winter days when the sky stretches in an endless arc above our heads. It is reflected in the smooth surface of the water and as the boat glides downstream, tranquil sounds float toward us from the riverbank. Birds call, a coot scurries into the rushes and a pair of ducks emerge and accompany the barge for a while, their small brown bodies effortlessly matching our speed.
When the barge passes beneath a line of trees, the temperature drops and the curtains flap a little in a sudden breeze. I draw a blanket about Katherine’s shoulders, as if it still matters whether she catches a chill or not. I scoff at my instinctive nurturing of a girl whose corpse will soon lie disgraced beneath the English soil.
Slowly, as we near the capital, other vessels begin to fill the waterway, and soon we navigate a bend in the river to see the Tower of London looming before us.
The Winchester Goose: At the Court of Henry VIII Page 14