One night shortly after our arrival at Hampton, Lady Rochford makes what are by now the usual preparations for a visit from Thomas. The other ladies are dismissed, and she herself will stand guard. If the evening grows too long for her, she’ll wake either Joan or Kate to take her place.
I twist my hair and pin it in place, for I plan to unpin it and let it tumble free at the right moment, as part of our lovemaking. Lady Rochford is preparing the bed. I turn from the mirror to speak to her.
“Why do you do it?” I ask. I’ve been wondering about her for some time now.
“What?” She pretends not to know what I mean.
“Why do you help me and Mr. Culpeper?”
She risks almost as much as we do, if anyone ever finds out. I think I know the answer. She collects gossip the way a magpie collects shiny things. Having more news or knowledge than anyone else makes her feel special. Or powerful, maybe. Or both.
I wonder if she’ll admit this.
A pillow in her hands, she stops what she’s doing and looks at me. I’m stunned to see her face—sunken in lines of pain and shadows of sadness.
“You must know, Your Grace, that everyone believes me a traitor since—since the death of Queen Anne,” she says. “I would like to have married again, but no one would have me. No one will ever have me. My only life is here at court.”
She places the pillow on the bed and pulls its slip free of wrinkles. “What would become of me if I were to be turned out? It cannot happen. I must do all I can to ensure my place here. You, Your Grace, being so very young—you are my best chance. If I should serve you well, you will one day become Dowager Queen, and keep me in your household for the rest of my days.”
A moment’s pause. I nod. “And so I shall,” I say.
We might be fools, both of us. But I’m absolutely certain that we’re telling each other the truth at that moment—the truth as we believe it.
Thomas knocks then, and she leaves us.
* * *
—
The first snow falls at Hampton—only a few flakes, not enough to whiten the ground. But the air is crisp and clear, and those tiny bits of icy lace seem to promise a festive holiday season.
My ladies and maids are merry. We’re in my presence chamber learning a dance. The Spanish ambassador has a new courtier who brought with him the latest dances popular at the court in Aragon and Castile. This one is called a canary.
It’s my favourite kind of dance, with lots of lively, intricate steps. Lady Lucy was first to learn it and is trying to teach the rest of us. One-and-two, hop clap! One-and-two, skip clap!—we’re all laughing at our bumblings and mistimed claps.
Then Lady Nan rushes into the room. “Your Grace!”
One look at her face, and I stop giggling. She looks truly alarmed! I take a step towards her.
“Nan, what is it?”
She glances over her shoulder, and before she can speak, two of the King’s guards burst in without knocking. Their faces are like stone. One comes forwards while the other stays at the door.
The air in the room changes, tightens.
What is this?
“Good morning, sirs,” I say. “We did not expect you—we have been dancing.”
“It is no time for dancing,” says the nearer guard. “We have come at the behest of His Majesty. You are to remain here in your rooms at his pleasure, until such time as he deems.”
“Remain here—what can you mean?” I ask. “I am shortly to dine with His Majesty. I will speak to him of this.”
I hurry to my dressing chamber to arrange my hair and my hood, slightly askew. Then I make for the door.
The guard will not let me pass. My confusion flickers into the beginnings of fear.
“I would see the King,” I say. I’m trembling, but I give him my best Queen stare.
“My orders are to detain you here.”
“I am sure you have misunderstood your orders!” My fear makes me shrill.
Thomas. Could the King have found out about Thomas? It must be—what else could it be?
Panic rises in my gorge. I whirl around and catch sight of Lady Rochford, who gives me a look so quick I might have imagined it.
She cries out and staggers towards the guard at the door, then goes into a swoon so he has to catch her before she falls. A ruse! It gives me the chance to throw open the door and rush from the room.
I run.
I know where His Majesty will be. It’s time for him to hear Mass, as he always does, in the small chapel next to his apartments.
“Henry!” I shriek.
—enry enry enry echoes in the cold stone corridor.
My skirts swirl around my feet; I grab the fabric with one hand so I can run faster. I have to see him! I have to tell him that I love him!
“Henry! Henry, my lord and King!”
Behind me I hear the pounding of boots on the stone floor. I’m gasping, I can’t breathe, I can hardly see.
“HENRY!”
I trip on the trailing edge of my skirt and nearly fall. The guards reach me and grab my arms, one on either side. They lift me off my feet. I writhe and twist, kick and scream.
“No, no! I must see him! I must see the King!”
They begin dragging me back towards my chambers.
“You cannot! I am the Queen! You must— HENRY! HENRY!”
* * *
—
My ladies are already at work.
Lady Rochford tends to me in bed. Lady Nan goes and returns. When I am recovered enough to sit up, she tells me what she’s learned.
“A letter,” she says, “left for the King in his pew at chapel.”
“What of this letter?” I whisper.
“Its sender is unknown. It tells of a woman named Mary Hall, who knew you as a ward of the Dowager.”
When I was a ward…Another life, another world.
“But I don’t know this Mary Hall!”
“It tells, too, of her brother, a man called John Lascelles,” Nan says, her brow knit in thought. “Hall would be her married name, then. You may have known her as Mary Lascelles.”
“Mary Lascelles?”
Mary, the chambermaid! Who slept in the dormitory with us—who gave the key to Francis and the other young men—but it makes no sense. I’ve had nothing to do with her for years. She can’t possibly know anything.
I start to cry again, my distress and confusion blotting out all thought.
* * *
—
For two days I’m so worried that my whole body aches. I don’t sleep for a single second—I lie in bed with my eyes wide, my jaw sore from gritting and grinding my teeth. I send message after message to the King, with no reply.
Finally, on the third day, I get word that Bishop Cranmer will be coming to see me. He’s a Reformist, in favour of the Great Bible, so he’s already against my family. And me.
Oh, why can’t it be Bishop Gardiner instead?
My ladies dress me carefully, in a gown of grey silk. It’s modestly cut but has black sarcenet sleeves. It says that I’m sober, not frivolous—and that I’m still Queen. I decide to enter my presence chamber after the Bishop is admitted. It’s a small thing—I won’t make him wait, I don’t want to anger him—but it will be another reminder of who I am.
He arrives in the forenoon. He doesn’t bow, just tilts his head, more a twitch than a bow, as if his neck pains him. Then he nods without smiling.
Now I know for certain that this isn’t a friendly visit.
“If you wish, Queen Catherine, you may choose one of your ladies to remain in the room. However, she may not speak.”
I look immediately to Lady Nan. The others leave the chamber. The Bishop’s man brings him a chair. We sit, and I lace my fingers in my lap.
He begins. “Do you know Mary Hall, née Lascelles?”
“Yes. She served the Dowager during my years as a ward.”
“Do you know Master Henry Manox?”
“Yes.” I tighten my f
ingers against each other. “He—he was the music teacher at Chesworth. And Lambeth.”
“Mary Hall sends word through her brother, John Lascelles, that Manox was your lover.”
“No!”
“You deny it?”
“He was never my lover! We kissed a few times, that is all.”
“You are certain? Mary Hall alleges more than kissing.”
I look away from him.
“Well? Was it more than kissing?”
I clear my throat. “There may have been—a time or two when I—when he touched—when he put his hand beneath my shift.” I find strength in the truth. “But no more than that. He was not my lover. I was barely more than a child.”
He blinks at that, and I feel I’ve won a small victory. But his next question makes my spine stiffen with worry.
“Do you know Francis Dereham?”
“Y-yes.”
“In what way?”
“He—he was a courtier. For the Dowager.”
“And he was your lover.”
My thoughts are suddenly like snakes, hissing, slithering, poisonous. Yes, he was my lover, but is that a crime? It was long before I even met the King. Is Francis Dereham the reason I’m locked in my rooms?
“He—” I look at the Bishop in confusion.
“And you brought him here to court, to continue your liaison?”
“No!” I shout. Now I’m not confused at all, and I want him to know it. “Mr. Dereham came to court at the behest of the Dowager—I’ve hardly spoken to him since his arrival!”
He presses his lips together for a moment before he speaks again. “You should know, Queen Catherine, that we have spoken to Dereham at—at some considerable length. He has made a full and frank confession. From you we are merely seeking confirmation of what is already known.”
At some considerable length. His meaning is clear: Francis Dereham confessed after being tortured.
“We were—yes.” My voice drops to a whisper. “We were once lovers. A very long time ago.”
“Were you also husband and wife?”
I jerk my head up. “No!”
“Dereham says otherwise.”
“We were never married!”
The Bishop stares at me sternly. “Queen Catherine, are you aware that if a man and a woman promise themselves in marriage and commit acts of fornication, they are considered married under the law, even if no priest be present?”
My heart beats in a wild panic. If it can be proved that I was married before, with a husband still alive and well, it would mean that I had no right to marry the King. Hiding a marriage from His Majesty—this must be the crime I’m accused of!
“Dereham says that you were promised to wed, and that he bedded you many times. He also says that before he went abroad, he left with you the whole of his life’s savings. With whom would a man do that, save his wife?”
I remember Francis asking me to call him husband, and him calling me wife. I thought it was nothing but a lover’s game.
“No, I swear to you, we were not married!”
“You were! You were espoused under the law, and you continued your liaison when he came to court!”
“No!” I’m on my feet now, my fists clenched in frustration. “If he says it, he lies! I will allow that I lay with him, but there was no marriage!”
“He gave you money, he married you—”
“No! He was not my husband. I was not his wife!”
I don’t know how many hours we spend at this. Again and again, the Bishop accuses me of a prior marriage contract. Again and again, I deny it. The sun is nearly gone from the sky, and he hasn’t stopped asking the same question.
I’m weeping now, in a state of exhausted despair. “No, no, no! I must speak to my King! Please tell him—tell him I beg him to see me. I have married no man but him, he is my only husband!”
I fall to my knees before the Bishop. I kiss the hem of his robe, sobbing so hard that I almost make myself sick. Lady Nan can bear it no longer. She rushes to my side as the Bishop and his man finally leave.
* * *
—
Lady Nan talks to everyone she knows, coming back to my rooms with shreds and scraps of whispers. The first day after the Bishop’s visit, she learns that the Privy Council has issued a new law making it a treasonous crime for a consort not to tell the King about prior relationships.
“But there was no such law when I married the King! How can they do so?”
I rage against the unfairness, but in truth I’m not angry—I’m afraid. Someone wants to make very sure that I’m found guilty of a crime. It has to be the Duke’s enemies: the Reformists, who want England to have its own church, not one led by the Pope. If they can topple me, the Duke and the rest of the family and the religious conservatives will come crashing down with me.
I realize then that in a way, it’s not really about me. It’s about men wanting to be as close to the King as they can, men wanting power. To them, I’m like a piece on a game board, to be moved as it suits them.
It makes me feel helpless—and furious at the unfairness. All this has come about because I danced at the King’s wedding to Anna of Cleves….
Nan learns more the next day. “John Lascelles is a Reformist,” she says.
Small comfort that I guessed correctly.
Lady Nan goes on. “If the Bishop comes to question you again, you must claim mistakenness. That you were indeed contracted to marry Dereham.”
“But it’s not true!”
“Listen, Your Grace. Believe it if you can, the Bishop was trying to help you find your way out. If a marriage contract existed, then your marriage to the King was not legal. If it was not legal, then you were never married to him. If you were never married to him, then there was no crime committed to the marriage.”
I’m so confused I can hardly think. I thought that a prior marriage would count against me, but Lady Nan is saying the opposite! Now I’m worried that I may have lost my chance.
“Lady Nan, we must get the Bishop to come back! I’ll do as you say, I’ll confess to a prior marriage, if only he’ll let me speak to the King.”
I know this about my Henry: He can be swayed if spoken to in just the right way. I’ll beg his forgiveness and swear my love—he loves me, I know he does, and if I can see him and talk to him and…and make him laugh, this will all be just a dreadful mistake.
“…with a prior marriage, you would no more be Queen, but nor would you be a—a criminal.”
Lost in my thoughts, I haven’t heard all of what Nan is saying.
“Not Queen?” I shake my head violently. “But that would be a terrible disgrace! Not just for me, but for my family. The scandal—”
She grips my hands. Her expression is more than serious—she looks terrified.
“Your Grace,” she says urgently, “you must understand the nature of the charges against you. It is not a question of scandal—it’s a matter of saving yourself.”
Saving myself?
I stare, my mouth open in shock. Surely she doesn’t mean—it’s not possible—
During the endless, sleepless hours of the past few nights, I imagined being cast out of Henry’s life. I imagined having to return to Chesworth House, stripped of my lands and holdings, first humiliated and then shunned by everyone at court. I imagined the same for all the Howards, and how they would hate me forever, for failing them.
But never once did I imagine what Lady Nan is implying now: that my fate is to be the same as that of my cousin Anne Boleyn.
I start shaking from head to toe, my teeth chattering so wildly that I nearly bite through my tongue. My knees give way, and Nan catches me as I fall.
* * *
—
My head aches constantly. I eat little and sleep less. The news worsens each day: The King has left Hampton Court without a word, without even a message of farewell.
On hearing this, I tear at my clothes, howling, and my ladies must force me to take a sleeping powd
er.
Almost every member of the Howard clan has been imprisoned, including the Duke himself. Only the Dowager was spared: When the guards went to take her, they found her abed, ill from agitation, and left her there out of sympathy for her advanced age.
Then I learn that Thomas Culpeper has been arrested. Francis Dereham named him, while being tortured a second time.
If Francis knew, then others did. Probably many others: Far easier to ask who didn’t know than who did. How could I ever have been so clodpated, to imagine the affair a secret?
I send Lady Nan to Whitehall. She spends two days there finding out what she can.
“What news?” I demand on her return. She has come to my privy chamber; most mornings now, I don’t seem to have the strength to even get dressed. “Did you see my King?”
“Only in passing, Your Grace.”
“Tell me.”
Nan hesitates. “He—he does not look well, Queen Catherine.”
“Ill, do you mean? Is it his leg?”
“No. I do not mean sickness. His face, his bearing…he looks most downcast, Your Grace. Even heartbroken.” A pause. “It is said that he raged first, when told of the—the latest charges.”
The latest charges: my affair with Thomas.
“He swore he would kill you both himself, and demanded a sword. But then he broke down and wept, and the Council were all chagrined.”
I want to tear out my heart. I’ve cuckolded the King. Not only that, but with his favourite courtier—a stab to his back and then a cruel and terrible twist of the knife.
But it was a crime of recklessness, not treason; I’ve betrayed the man, not the throne. I will be sentenced to die as a traitor, when in truth I’m only a fool.
If I could see the King, and tell him this, and beg his mercy!
* * *
—
The Bishop comes again. Lady Nan heard that he was moved by my emotion during our first meeting, but when I begin crying this time, it is no deliberate act. I can hardly speak for gasping as I try to tell him that I was mistaken—that I was indeed married to Francis Dereham.
Fatal Throne: The Wives of Henry VIII Tell All Page 27