by Alison Weir
“What’s wrong, Margaret?” she asked in a low voice, sitting down beside her.
“My lady mother has died,” Margaret said, her fair face taut with pain. “We were never close, and I had not seen her for years. I came into England as a young girl—my childhood was unhappy, for my parents were always at odds, and then my father fell foul of King James. I had been hoping to see my half-brother, King James, in York and ask for news of our mother, but it was not to be. Now it is too late. Forgive me. The news has come as something of a shock.”
“There is nothing to forgive,” Katheryn said warmly, putting her arm around Margaret’s shoulders.
Just then, Katheryn’s brother Charles came in, looking to join the card players, as she thought. He was twenty-five now, broad and good-looking, and drew admiring glances from the ladies wherever he went. He was doing well in the Privy Chamber and was held in high favor by the King, who had recently granted him a dissolved priory and two manors in Hampshire.
But he did not join the group at the table. Instead, he paused, looking Margaret’s way, and she met his gaze, her eyes filled with yearning. There was obviously something between them, and it looked serious. Clearly, Charles had not heeded Katheryn’s warning. And no good could come of this, especially given who Margaret was, and that she had already suffered for that disastrous affair with Lord Thomas Howard. Katheryn couldn’t very well censure them, for what she was doing with Tom was far worse, but she understood how they felt. Yet she must speak!
“I hope you know what you are doing,” she murmured.
“I know, I should know better,” Margaret admitted, never taking her eyes off Charles, who was still standing in the doorway, obviously reluctant to approach while the Queen was with Margaret. “There is all the comfort I need,” she whispered.
“Be careful, I pray you!” Katheryn urged her.
Standing up, she greeted Charles with a kiss. “I’m trusting you not to put her in danger,” she muttered, and left.
* * *
—
After four months away, it was a relief to see the squat tower of Windsor Castle on its distant eminence. They stayed there for four nights before moving on to Hampton Court. It was good to be back in familiar surroundings after their long, long journey. But there was no time to relax, for a mud-spattered messenger was waiting with an urgent message for the King.
“Your Majesty,” he said, falling to his knees. “I have just arrived from Hunsdon. The Prince of Wales is sick of a quartan fever.”
Henry’s normally rosy countenance turned white. “My son is sick? How sick?”
“The fever had not broken when I left, Sire.”
“Summon all my physicians!” Henry barked at his lords and gentlemen. “They must attend him at once.”
Katheryn touched his arm. “Should we go?”
“No, darling. It’s the doctors he needs.”
“But he is only four; he should have someone close to him to liven his spirits.”
“I said no! I will not risk any further infection. Think where we have been traveling of late; who knows what evil humors were in the air. No. Much as I long to go to Edward, I must do what is prudent. His safety comes before all else. He is my only heir!”
His words were not said in reproach, she knew that, but they brought home to her how badly she had failed him. It must be some fault in her, because it was not for the lack of effort on his part.
“I am sorry, Katheryn,” Henry said, squeezing her hand, looking distracted. “You must forgive my rough manner. It was fear for Edward that made me sharp.” His eyes were brimming with tears. “I understand enough of medical matters to know that this is a dangerous malady for a child of his age. God grant he will withstand it!”
Dr. Chamber and Dr. Butts, the King’s chief physicians, went riding off at speed to Hunsdon. All their reassuring words on departure had not masked their fears for the Prince. Henry shut himself in his prayer closet and began beseeching and bargaining with the Almighty to spare his son. He was there for hours. When he emerged, his knees were so stiff that he could barely stand. He spent the night lying in Katheryn’s arms, sobbing on her shoulder.
Two days later, they were toying with their dinner when another messenger arrived and handed the King a letter. He read it hastily and gave a shout of jubilation.
“God has heard my prayers! The Prince is making a good recovery.”
“Praised be God!” Katheryn breathed. “Oh, Sir, you must be so relieved!”
He was pressing coins into the messenger’s hand. “Take this for your pains and for bringing us such joy. And go to the servery and tell them I command them to give you a hearty dinner.”
When the man had gone, he turned to Katheryn. “When Edward is fully restored to health, I shall send him to Ashridge. The air is beneficial there. And I will limit the number of servants in attendance. I daren’t risk him catching anything else at this time. But now we must celebrate. I shall bring some of my gentlemen and join you and your ladies in your privy chamber this afternoon, and we will all be merry!”
They were indeed. Henry brought Will Somers with him and soon everyone was doubled over with laughter at the fool’s droll jests. Isabel, Meg, and Kat had tears streaming down their cheeks.
“What did the gardener say when the flower threatened to drop its petals?” Somers cried, mercilessly firing off one joke after another. “ ‘Thou wilt not!’ What of the miser who left everything to himself in his will?” On and on he cackled, dancing about the room and brandishing his stick of jingling bells.
“Enough!” Henry cried, breathless. “You will kill us all, Fool!”
“Just one more, Harry?” Will cocked his head to one side, looking at his master pleadingly.
“Begone!” The King waved his hand. “Go and get me some wine. Make yourself useful for once.” There was more laughter.
“Oh, the pity of it,” Will muttered, making for the court cupboard on which stood the wine ewer. But he was grinning. There was much affection between him and Henry.
The gathering broke up shortly before Vespers.
“I must go and give thanks to God for restoring the Prince to health,” Henry said, as he took his farewell of Katheryn. “Then I think I will have an early night. I will see you in the morning, sweetheart.” He cupped her face in his hands. “Thank you for your sweet kindness to me at this time. You are a jewel of womanhood—the jewel of my age—and I thank God for sending me such a wife.” He paused, gazing into her eyes. “You do not know this, Katheryn, but while we were away on progress, I gave orders that, tomorrow, on All Hallows’ Day, special thanksgiving services are to be held up and down the land, so that my people may render thanks for my happiness with you. For your virtue and your good behavior, the whole realm shall do you all honor.”
She was overwhelmed—and filled with shame. She did not deserve this great distinction he had laid upon her; she was not worthy.
“I wish only to love you and do you service,” she said, aware that her cheeks had grown warm. She hoped Henry had not noticed that she had taken his magnificent gesture amiss.
God would not be mocked. There would be a reckoning, she was sure of it.
1541
Katheryn sat in her rich chair next to Henry’s in the royal pew in the Chapel Royal at Hampton Court. It was All Saints’ Day and they had just received Holy Communion. She had been moved to hear her husband, still kneeling before the altar, offer his Maker most humble and hearty thanks for the good life he led, and trusted to lead, with her. He had desired his confessor, the Bishop of Lincoln, to give thanks with him. Now the Bishop was praying aloud: “Almighty God, we thank you for having provided the King our sovereign lord with so loving, dutiful, and virtuous a queen.”
“Amen,” the congregation murmured.
Her eyes shut in prayer, Katheryn heard Henry’s voi
ce ring out. “I render thanks to Thee, O Lord, that, after so many strange accidents that have befallen my marriages, Thou hast been pleased to give me a wife so entirely conformable to my inclinations as her I now have.”
There was spontaneous applause from the courtiers gathered in the nave below.
Katheryn wished the floor would open up and swallow her. She was going to Hell, that was for certain.
Could she give Tom up? But she loved him too much; she needed him constantly; his love was life itself to her. She loved Henry, too, but not in the same way, and she had been maneuvered into her marriage through no choice of her own. God, who knew the secrets of people’s hearts, would know that. Yet how could He approve of her breaking the solemn vows she had made at her wedding?
In pricking her conscience, God was showing her the way. She knew what she should do, but she knew, too, that she could not do it. When the service was over and she went in procession with Henry to the presence chamber, where a feast awaited them, the moment passed; and when she saw Tom, bending forward with a golden ewer in his hands to pour wine for the King, she knew she was irredeemably lost.
* * *
—
On the morrow of All Saints, Katheryn again attended Mass with Henry. As they seated themselves in the royal pew, she noticed a sealed letter lying on the arm of the King’s chair. Henry slid it inside his doublet and the service proceeded. Afterward, he bade her a loving farewell in the holy day closet behind the pew and went off to receive some ambassadors. Katheryn returned to her apartments to have dinner.
It was at three o’clock that the door to her privy chamber was flung open to admit Lord Chancellor Audley and a deputation of privy councillors, attended by four of the King’s guards.
“Katheryn, Queen of England, you are under arrest!” the Lord Chancellor informed her. He held out a warrant bearing the King’s signature.
The room began spinning; there was a rushing of blood from her head and she felt faint. Terror gripped her. And yet she was not surprised.
She saw Isabel staring at her in horror, Jane Rochford’s ashen face, and knowing looks on those of Meg and Kat. They had guessed! Had they betrayed her?
“Ladies, you may leave us,” Audley said. Her attendants filed out in silence, casting furtive glances at her as she stood there, wringing her hands in distress, barely able to breathe.
“Secure the apartment!” Audley ordered the guards, and they took up their places, halberds crossed in front of the door to prevent her from leaving.
“You are under house arrest and will remain here until further notice,” he told her, not meeting her eyes, but speaking to her with as much distaste as if she were a clod of dirt stuck to his shoe.
It came to her that he was acting on the King’s orders. Oh, great God, what had she done? Why had she been so stupid? Lust weighed little now in the scales against fear and shame, exposing her love for Tom as the tawdry, sinful thing it was. She could not imagine how Henry must be feeling, especially if he had discovered what had been going on—and so soon after he had publicly thanked God for blessing him with so virtuous a wife! What a fool she had made of him!
But how much—and what—did he know?
She faced the councillors. Her voice shook as she spoke. “My lords, what is the reason for my confinement?”
“Madam, you are accused of misconduct before your marriage to the King,” Audley said gravely.
Francis! Francis must have talked. She had nourished a snake in her household. She had known it had been a grievous mistake to employ him, yet what choice had she had, enmeshed as she was in the chains of her past, and at the mercy of others? Oh, what a fool she had been to underestimate his malice!
But, she told herself, all was not lost. The Lord Chancellor had mentioned only misconduct before her marriage. This was not about Tom. She might have brought eternal shame and ignominy on herself, but she had committed no crime with Harry or Francis.
A thought struck her. If it had been Francis who had betrayed her, then he might well be under arrest, too! But what, if anything, did Francis know about Tom? What had he meant that day he’d told her she seemed to have forgotten she was married to the King? What gossip had he heard?
Of course, he might have been making it up; you never knew with him. But if people had been gossiping, had it been about her and Tom? The thought chilled her to the marrow. And she had heard that people often talked under questioning. It was an open secret that horrible things went on in the Tower.
“What misconduct?” she asked.
“That you did have congress before your marriage with a Mr. Manox and with one Dereham, who is now employed in your household.” There was an edge to Audley’s voice which implied that that in itself was suspicious. Did they believe that she and Francis had intended to resurrect their relationship? She would have no problem clearing herself of that charge!
All would be well, if she could establish her innocence so easily—and if they believed her. And if no one implicated Tom.
There was an old saying: least said, soonest mended. All her instincts were urging her to deny everything. “I have always been a faithful wife to the King,” she declared. As far as giving her body entirely to another went, it was true. “What happened before my marriage can have no bearing on that.”
The lords stood there, silent. Audley cleared his throat. “Madam, the outer doors to your lodgings will be locked, but you may keep your keys to each room.” With that, he nodded at the others and they all left, the guards closing the door behind them, leaving her entirely alone.
She sank to the floor, all her optimism gone, and began wailing in terror and remorse. What had she done? She had been an utter fool to let her heart and her baser needs take her where they would. It was the not knowing what they had against her that frightened her so much.
But there was one thing that frightened her more. What could they do to her? More to the point, what would Henry do to her? Awful memories of the bloody fate of Lady Salisbury came to mind…that bungling executioner…the unimaginable agony. And Anne Boleyn, kneeling in the straw, waiting for the executioner’s sword to descend…But they had committed treason. Misconduct before marriage was not treason.
She could not bear to think about Henry. He had held her in his arms only the night before last; he had thanked God publicly for her, calling her his jewel of womanhood. She could not get that out of her mind. Would it count in the scales against her, or in her favor? If all they ever found out was that she had had premarital affairs, would he find it in his heart to forgive her? But her conscience was pricking her sorely; she knew herself guilty of more than that.
Still she could not get the images of Lady Salisbury and Queen Anne out of her mind. The thought of their terrible fates made her feel faint with fear and she leaned forward, keening in anguish, hugging herself. But there was no one to hear, no one to comfort her.
At length, the storm of weeping dried up and Katheryn climbed shakily to her feet. She must be positive; she must be brave. They could not put her to death for what she had done before marriage, and it was clear that they knew nothing of what had happened afterward, or they would have charged her with it.
Jane had been there when she was arrested, yet they had not come for her. She must take heart from that. Jane did not know about her past, but she must be quaking in her shoes, for she was guilty of aiding and abetting crimes the Council did not know about; and, of all people, she had good reason to comprehend the peril in which she and her mistress stood.
The return of Katheryn’s ladies cheered her a little. Nothing had been taken from her apart from her freedom, and her canopy of estate was still in place. Henry could not mean her too much ill if he let her keep state as Queen. But, when she tried to talk to her women about what had happened, she met with a wall of silence.
“We have been instructed not to discuss tha
t with you, Madam,” Lady Rutland said stiffly.
They were wary of her. Some could not hide their disapproval. Of course, none of them wanted to be associated with a fallen queen. But she had not fallen yet!
The only person prepared to defy the Council’s order was Jane, who insisted on attending Katheryn to the privy. Once the door was closed, she whispered, “We were told that you have been arrested for misconduct before marriage. Is that all?”
Katheryn looked into her eyes. They were haunted, and no wonder. “Yes, thank God. Have you heard anything of Tom?”
“Nothing, except that he went hawking yesterday,” Jane said. “I would have gone to find him, but we were made to wait together in the hall and there were guards there. Everyone was staring at us. I dare not seek him out now, lest I am being watched.”
Katheryn was crestfallen. “No, you could not risk it. Let us pray that no one suspects he means anything to me.” She was trembling in agitation. It was imperative that she impress on Jane the need to hold her tongue. “If the matter doesn’t come out, there is nothing to fear. I will never confess it and, if you love me, you will deny it utterly and in no way disclose it. I warn you, they may speak in a fair manner to you and use all kinds of ways to make you talk, but remember, if you confess, you will undo both yourself and others.”
“I will never confess it, even if I am torn apart with wild horses,” Jane promised.
“We must thank God that you have not yet been questioned,” Katheryn said. “We should take heart from that, for it shows that they know nothing about what has passed between us and Tom. Just hold your own if they question you. And be very afraid of the consequences if you do talk!”
“You think I don’t know what they would do to us if we were discovered—and to Mr. Culpeper?” Jane retorted shrilly. “You silly girl, don’t you think I go in fear already? Would I really sign my own death warrant?” Katheryn recoiled; she had never seen her friend so agitated. Jane’s eyes were wild, her hands shaking. Given the circumstances, you could forgive her discourtesy.