by Alison Weir
“They are inseparable,” Mary said. “It is touching so see how much they love each other.”
“They are delightful children,” Katheryn enthused, “and so like you, Sir. They have your coloring.” She wished she could be the mother of one such.
Henry looked as proud as could be. “They are good children, too,” he said. “Now, you will be hungry after your journey. Let us go in to dinner.”
The three of them dined in his privy chamber, with Tom and another gentleman in attendance. Katheryn was careful not to let her eyes stray in Tom’s direction. “Your Grace is looking very well,” Mary said to Katheryn.
“Thank you. I trust that you yourself are in health?”
“I am not so bad. The autumn is my worst time. I get all sorts of ailments then, for some strange reason.”
“I told you to keep taking that cordial I made up for you,” Henry said. He loved concocting medicines and seemed to be quite expert at it. He had a remedy for everything.
He turned to Katheryn. “Darling, I have decided to give Mary permission to reside at court whenever she wishes.”
“Of course,” Katheryn replied, with good grace. “We shall be companions for each other.” Mary looked gratified.
“I am having new apartments built for her at Hampton Court,” the King went on. “I hope, daughter, that we shall have the pleasure of your company soon, and that you will join us for this summer’s progress. It will be the greatest ever, for we are going to Lincoln and York. I mind to bring my subjects in those places to submission following the late rebellion.”
Katheryn had heard of the Pilgrimage of Grace because her Uncle Norfolk had helped to crush it. The so-called pilgrims had marched four years earlier in a desperate bid to halt the King’s religious reforms and the dissolution of the monasteries, and been ruthlessly suppressed. She remembered hearing tales of the mass hangings that had followed it. She hoped they would not be riding into hostile territory.
“And I want to meet my nephew the King of Scots,” Henry went on. “He has agreed to ride south to York.”
“I should love to accompany your Graces,” Mary said.
“That’s settled, then. I plan to leave at the end of June. Let’s hope the weather will be kind to us. It’s going to be a long journey.”
1541
Henry and Katheryn returned to Greenwich to prepare for the progress. They would be away for several weeks and Katheryn was very busy planning her wardrobe. She would need dozens of new gowns and kirtles and hoods—the list seemed endless.
Isabel helped her, but she seemed preoccupied.
“Is something wrong?” Katheryn asked.
Isabel smiled at her. “I’ve noticed that you’ve been spending a lot of time with Lady Rochford recently. I think you should be wary of her. She has a poor reputation.”
Katheryn froze and had to take a moment to collect her thoughts. “You mean it’s true that she laid evidence against her husband?”
“That, yes—and her unbridled dealings with men. She was notorious when she was younger.”
“I know nothing of that,” Katheryn said firmly, “so she can’t have been that notorious. She certainly isn’t free with her favors now.”
“Well, just be prudent. There’s something unsavory about her.”
Isabel was jealous, Katheryn concluded, sorting through her jewels. She’d have preferred it if I’d confided in her. If she had, she knew what would have happened: Isabel would have told her to cease all contact with Tom. And that was why she hadn’t made her sister privy to her love for him. Isabel would have tried to make her put her duty before her pleasure.
* * *
—
She felt a tremor of excitement, anticipating that the long trip would afford her opportunities to be alone with Tom. Henry had reeled off a list of the places where they would be staying; surely there would be somewhere it would be possible to be together. Jane could help spy out the land. Katheryn sighed with longing. It was all the more desperate because it was unsatisfied and probably never could be. And since Henry had recovered and been visiting her bed every night, intent on getting her with child again, she had barely seen Tom at all.
Now Henry had gone to Whitehall to deal with pressing matters of state and taken Tom with him. She was sleeping alone and—she sighed again—pleasuring herself.
She was on her knees in her closet, rummaging through chests for an embroidery pattern she wanted for a night-rail, when she heard her maids talking in the bedchamber next door.
“Is it true what I heard someone say at the tennis play today, that his Grace is going to set aside the Queen and take back the Lady of Cleves?” Elizabeth Fitzgerald asked.
“If it’s true that she is barren, then he has cause,” Damascin Stradling put in. “But what will become of us?”
“Hush!” warned Lucy Somerset. “I think the Queen is in there.” This was in a whisper, but it carried.
“Oh, dear,” Elizabeth said and whispered something Katheryn could not hear. Their footsteps receded, leaving her kneeling there, trembling, the tambour forgotten in her hand. Not these rumors again! She had thought them all put to bed weeks ago.
Could it be true? Henry had given no hint that he was tiring of her, but then you never knew with Henry. They said he had shown a smiling face to Cromwell right up to the morning of his arrest. He might well be dissembling with her, too. After all, she had lost their child.
Yet who had been spreading these rumors? Someone with inside knowledge? No, they must be pure idle gossip, spread by people who had nothing better to do. Henry would be cross with her for heeding them. She tried to put what she had heard out of her mind, but failed.
When Henry returned from Whitehall that evening and arrived to have supper with her, she was aware of not being her usual happy, flirtatious self. Instead, she was watching for any sign that he no longer loved her.
“What’s the matter, darling?” he asked at length, covering her hand with his. “You’ve been sad and thoughtful ever since I arrived.”
She hesitated to tell him what was on her mind in case it was true, or he thought her a fool for believing it, yet she had to say it, otherwise she would go on torturing herself. “You’ll think me silly, but I heard my maids repeating a rumor that you are about to take back the Lady Anna.”
“Oh, Katheryn! When will you learn not to give credence to gossip? You are wrong to attach faith to reports of that kind. If I ever did have to marry again—which Heaven forbid—I would never take my lady of Cleves.”
His words reassured her. He pulled her onto his knee and began kissing and caressing her. “Let this put your mind at rest,” he murmured. Then he led her to her bedchamber and himself acted as her tirewoman, untying her sleeves, unlacing her gown, and pulling off her stockings. When she stood naked before him, he ran his hands over her body. Closing her eyes, she imagined that it was Tom doing it, and became very excited and wanton, surprising Henry with her boldness. Soon they were on the bed, making love quite passionately, and she was enjoying it, welcoming Henry into her and sending him into raptures.
Afterward, as she lay in the crook of his arm, she felt guilty because the thought of Tom had inflamed her. But Henry was happy and oblivious, and that was really all that mattered.
* * *
—
That May, there were several days when she hardly saw Henry and, when she did, he was distracted and irritable.
“There’s been an uprising in Yorkshire,” he told her, when he made time to sup with her. “It’s the Papists, of course. They wanted to depose my Lord President of the North and restore the old forms of religion. Well, they’re not so bullish now. We’ve got them on the run, and as soon as they’re caught, they will be executed.” He hesitated. “It is my belief that they meant to take Lady Salisbury from the Tower and set her on the throne.”
“No!” Katheryn said, laying down her knife. “I cannot believe it.”
“You know nothing of her,” Henry said, with unusual severity. “I know her of old. She is a very dangerous woman. Even if she wasn’t involved, she is a lure for dissidents and, while she lives, I can never be truly safe on my throne.”
“Henry, she’s an old lady! What can she do against you?”
“She can sit on my throne and wear my crown! I’m sorry if it upsets you, Katheryn, but I intend to have the sentence on her carried out without delay.”
“You’re having her executed?”
“Yes.” He was adamant. “This disaffection among my northern subjects could lead to more plots for a restoration of the old royal line. Lady Salisbury is a threat to the security of the realm—and my throne. She must die.”
“Please, Henry, don’t do this, I beg you!” Katheryn slid to her knees by the table and grasped his hand with both of hers. He regarded her with a mixture of pain and exasperation.
“This is one request I cannot grant you. I loved Lady Salisbury. She is my cousin and she was governess to Mary, and I thought her the saintliest woman in England. But that was long ago, before she nurtured a nest of vipers and turned against me. Now I must do what is necessary—the matter touches me too near.”
Katheryn knew herself defeated. She dared not press him further. It was awesome, the power he wielded. One word from him, and someone would die. She could not bear to imagine what it would be like for poor Lady Salisbury, being told that her time had come, after two years in the Tower, during which she must have imagined that imprisonment was the worst she would suffer. How would she feel, learning that she was to die imminently, to walk to the scaffold knowing that the seconds were petering out and that she would have to lay her head on the block and wait for the axe to descend? How would she find the courage to face that horror? Katheryn had often tried to imagine what it had been like for her cousin Anne—and she had had a cleaner death by the sword.
She got up, very distressed, then sat down again.
“When will you give the order?” she asked.
“Tonight,” Henry said. “She will die in the morning.” As Katheryn felt tears welling, she noticed that he had stopped eating and wondered if beneath the tough statesman lay a heart that shrank at such necessary measures. She was beginning to understand why Henry’s name struck dread into many. And this was the man she had married, and whose trust she was betraying.
* * *
—
While her ladies were packing for the court’s removal to Whitehall, which was planned for the afternoon, Katheryn spent much of the next morning in her closet, on her knees in prayer before the altar hung with cloth of gold.
“Let her not suffer!” she beseeched the statue of the Virgin Mother. “Vouchsafe her a quick passage into Heaven!”
She emerged at dinnertime and seated herself at table in her privy chamber, but waved the food away, for the last thing she felt like was eating. Then Henry arrived and sat down heavily opposite her. His face was gray.
“Ladies, you may leave us,” he said, and her women curtseyed and were gone.
He took Katheryn’s hand. “Darling, Lady Salisbury died this morning. I want you to hear what happened from me before you hear it from anyone else, because you should know that it was not of my doing.”
She tensed. “What happened, Henry?”
“The Constable of the Tower escorted her to Tower Green. Because of her high rank, I had ordered that the execution take place in private. There was no time to build a scaffold, so the block was on the grass. She took her fate calmly and commended her soul to God, desiring the Lord Mayor and others present to pray for me and you, and for Prince Edward and the Lady Mary.” He paused, seemingly reluctant to go on. “The public executioner is away in the north, dealing with the rebels, so the Constable had found some wretched, blundering youth to perform his office. Alas, he did not do the job cleanly. I fear death was not instantaneous. By God, they shall know my displeasure in this!”
“Oh, no!” Katheryn’s hands flew to her face. “That is terrible!” She could barely imagine just how terrible. She broke down in floods of tears.
“Don’t!” Henry said, getting up and gathering her to him.
“It was bad enough that she had to die,” she sobbed.
“It was a necessity,” he said gruffly, “but I did not wish this on her.”
He held her for a few moments, then gave her his kerchief to mop away the tears.
“Come, eat something. We’ll be leaving for Whitehall soon and I don’t want you feeling sick if you sail on an empty stomach.”
She made herself eat some meat and drank some wine to try to steady herself, but she could not get the ghastly image she had conjured of Lady Salisbury’s last moments out of her head. It was with her as she boarded the royal barge and seated herself next to Henry in the cushioned cabin, and as they sailed westward up the Thames. When the Tower came into view, she could not stop shuddering.
Henry put his arm around her. “I have some good news for you. I’m giving your brothers licenses to import wine from Gascony and timber from Toulouse. That will bring them a very good income.”
She knew he was doing his best to distract her from all thought of what had taken place behind those grim walls only that morning. Was Lady Salisbury’s poor body buried yet? she wondered.
“That is most generous, Henry,” she said, although she knew she was not reacting as he had hoped. Normally, she would be flinging her arms around him and kissing him. “They will be so grateful.”
He slid his arm away. “Come, Katheryn—the woman was a traitor. You should have saved your tears for gratitude that I was not overthrown by these rebels.”
“But the manner of her dying—”
“That was not my fault!” Rarely had he spoken so sharply to her. She turned away and stared out of the window, fighting back tears. They were passing London now. Soon, they would be at Whitehall and she could get away from him and weep.
He said no more apart from commenting on how fine the City looked with all its church spires pointing up to the sky. She nodded, but said nothing, and he lapsed into silence again. She could sense that he was angry with her.
“I am on your side, Henry, really I am,” she blurted out. “I know that traitors have to be punished. But if you hadn’t ordered Lady Salisbury’s execution, she would not have suffered as she did.”
“So it is my fault!” he flared. “I did not wield the axe.” His face had flamed a dangerous red. “A fine thing it is when my own wife takes the part of a traitor who would have had my throne!” He was tense with anger.
“But you don’t know that—”
“By God, Katheryn, she was attainted by Parliament. You’ve said enough. Be silent!”
Never had he been so harsh with her. She sat there, tears streaming down her cheeks, not caring if anyone noticed.
The oarsmen were pulling in at Whitehall stairs.
“Compose yourself,” Henry muttered. Katheryn dabbed at her eyes and followed him along the gangway. He handed her out of the barge and they walked together through the gallery to the royal lodgings, putting on smiles for the courtiers waiting to greet them. Katheryn caught Tom’s eye and saw him look again at her for a second or so. He must have seen that she had been crying. Heavens—he might be thinking that they were discovered!
At the door of her lodgings, Henry kissed her hand and bowed. “I will see you anon, Madam.” As she curtseyed, he walked away.
* * *
—
He did not come that night—had she really expected him to after their first real quarrel? She realized she had been foolish to argue with him, and over such a sensitive subject. Their conversation kept repeating itself in her head, vying for room with the horrific image of Lady Salisbury being choppe
d to death. She did not think she could feel more wretched.
When midnight had passed with still no sign of Henry, she sent for Jane Rochford.
“Can you get word to Mr. Culpeper, asking him to come here?” she asked.
Jane smiled. “Of course, if he is not sleeping in the King’s bedchamber. We have a prearranged code. If he gets a message from me saying that I would beg a favor, which is nothing unusual, for he gets many such, he will know that you wish to see him.”
“And is it all right if we use your chamber?” Katheryn asked.
“Madam, for you and Mr. Culpeper, it is a pleasure.”
Katheryn could not stop herself. “Why are you doing this for us?” she asked.
Jane returned her gaze. “Because I love you both. You are a sweet girl, Madam, and deserve to be happy.”
“And Mr. Culpeper?”
“I have long liked him, ever since he first came to court as a beautiful youth at the time of the King’s Great Matter.”
“Is that all? You are taking dangerous risks for us.”
Jane hesitated and lowered her voice. “Madam, it is treason to speak of the King’s death, or even to imagine it, as Queen Anne found to her cost. But anyone can see that he is not a well man, and the Prince is very young. If there were to be a regency, you, as the Queen, might find yourself a rich widow in a position of influence and needing good friends—and, maybe, a new husband after a suitable interval. That is all we wish to be to you: good friends.”
Katheryn stared at her. Was Tom using her as a stepping stone to power and riches? Had he and Jane planned this together? Had they played her like a puppet? She was so appalled she felt a little faint.
“So he does not love me after all?” she countered in a voice that was shaking. “He just wants what I can give him—and you want your share, too!”