by Alison Weir
“Yes, my lord.”
“Good. You are now under oath. I want to ask you about your relationship with Francis Dereham. Did you bed with him before you married the King?”
She felt herself grow hot. “Yes,” she said in a small voice. “But it was long before I met his Grace.”
Cranmer made no comment. “It seems that there was a precontract between you and Dereham that might invalidate your marriage to the King.”
So Francis had talked! He had ruined her! And yet it seemed that Cranmer was more concerned about that wretched precontract than about her bedding with Francis. Maybe this was all about ending her marriage.
More composed now, she chose her words carefully. “I admit that Mr. Dereham moved me many times to consent to marry him, but, as far as I remember, I never granted him more than I have already confessed. He did speak about a promise to wed, but I thought it to have been no contract.”
“Nor would it be if carnal copulation had not followed,” Cranmer told her, looking severe. “But it did follow the making of such a promise, did it not? You had sworn, by your faith and troth, that you would have no other husband but Dereham!”
“No, I am sure I never promised that,” she insisted, fearful that confessing the truth would do her no good.
Cranmer looked vexed. “Did you ever say to Dereham, ‘I promise you I do love you with all my heart’?”
“I do not remember that I ever said those words,” she answered, aware that she probably had.
“What tokens and gifts did you give to Dereham, and he to you?”
“I gave him a band and sleeves for a shirt. They were made by a lady in Lambeth. I never gave him any other present save those he took from me and kept against my wishes.” She was certainly not going to mention the money he had extorted from her.
Cranmer felt in his leather scrip and drew out a ring. “This was found among Dereham’s possessions.”
It was her mother’s ring, the ruby ring she had given Francis, thinking that theirs would be a love to last forever. “It is none of mine,” she lied, feeling as if she was betraying her mother. Oh, God, if they had the ring, they had Francis!
“What presents did Dereham give you, Madam?” Cranmer asked.
“Mainly lovers’ tokens. He knew of a little woman in London with a crooked back, who was skilled in making all sorts of flowers of silk. She made a French fennel for me, and he gave me heartsease of silk for a New Year’s gift, although my lady of Norfolk gave it back to him. He bought me sarcenet to make a quilted cap, and I delivered it to a little fellow in my lady’s house to embroider—as I remember, his name was Rose—to make whatever pattern he thought best.”
“Did you ask for it to be embroidered with friar’s knots?”
“I did not ask Mr. Rose to make it with friar’s knots, as he can testify, if he be a true man, but he did embroider the cap with them.” It was important to show that she had not cared about Francis that much.
“But when Dereham saw the cap, he exclaimed, ‘What, wife, here be friar’s knots for Francis!’ did he not?” Cranmer probed. “It seems to me that his familiar use of the word ‘wife’ was strongly indicative of a precontract between you.”
“No, my lord, it was just Mr. Dereham being presumptuous,” Katheryn insisted.
“Did you exchange any other gifts?”
“No, not to my remembrance, saving that, this summer, around the beginning of the progress, he gave me ten pounds in gold. I took it for a bribe, for he wanted a post in my household.”
“Is it true that he lodged a hundred pounds with you when he left the household at Lambeth?”
“Yes. It was most of his savings. He said that, if he did not return, I was to consider the money as my own.”
Cranmer leaned back and smiled. “That, Madam, argues an established relationship. It is the part of a wife to look after her husband’s money.”
“I but did it as a favor, not as his wife, I do assure you,” she declared.
The Archbishop turned to Sir John. “Pray bring the Queen’s confession here. Madam, will you read over what you have stated so far and agree that everything is correct?” He handed her the document.
“Yes, that is correct,” she said, after a time.
Outside, the clock chimed seven.
“It grows late and you need to rest, Madam,” Cranmer said. “I will return tomorrow and we shall continue. Remember, if you will acknowledge your transgressions, even though your life has been forfeited by the law, the King has determined to extend to you his most gracious mercy.”
His words so shocked her—how could her life be forfeit?—that she barely heard him say that she had but to petition Henry in writing, admitting her offenses and begging for forgiveness.
Her life was forfeit…Her life was forfeit. She could not get the words out of her head. When Cranmer and Dudley left, she fell to weeping again. She felt so alone, so helpless—and she knew so very little about the law.
The ladies all stood up and looked at her searchingly as she stumbled into the bedchamber an hour later. But she dared not confide in them. They had been told not to discuss anything with her, and it had occurred to her that they might have been set to spy on her. Anyway, what would any of them know about legal matters?
Isabel might, though. Isabel was married to Sir Edward Baynton, who knew everything, and she was very well informed herself.
“I’m going to have an early night,” Katheryn said. “I feel wrung out.”
No one spoke; they just went about their tasks silently.
As her women finished undressing her, she bade Isabel brush her hair and murmured in her ear, “Come back as soon as you can, as you love me!”
Isabel behaved as if she had not heard, but later, when all was quiet, she lifted the latch quietly and tiptoed into the bedchamber. At once, Katheryn was sitting up, peering around the bed curtains. “You came! Thank God!”
“Yes, Katheryn. What is it?”
“I have to talk to someone.” Katheryn was near to tears again. “Archbishop Cranmer said today that my life is forfeit.”
“Oh, my God!” Isabel gasped. “Are they going to proceed against you?”
Katheryn shook her head. “I don’t know. I pray not. My lord of Canterbury said that if I confess my faults, the King will show me mercy. In truth, I do not know what I have done wrong, save not tell the King I loved others before I even knew him. So how can my life be forfeit? I could not think of anyone else to ask.”
“In truth, I do not know,” Isabel confessed, looking distressed. “What did the Archbishop ask you?”
“He kept asking what went on before my marriage. Was it a crime not to tell the King about my past life?”
Isabel looked dubious. “Not that I’ve heard of.”
“He kept asking if I was precontracted to another before I wed the King. How can my life be forfeit for that?”
Isabel hesitated. “If you had been precontracted to someone else, your marriage to the King would be invalid. What if you had borne him a child? Its paternity, and its legitimacy, would be in question. That might be said to be impugning the succession, which is treason. It’s the only explanation I can think of.”
“The problem is, I don’t know if I was precontracted.”
“Did you ever make a mutual promise to marry Dereham?” Isabel asked.
Katheryn remembered Francis making her promise to wed him and calling her his wife, and herself calling him “husband.” “Yes, but I didn’t know it was binding.”
Isabel flushed. “And—forgive me, but I must ask—did you bed with him after?”
“Yes,” Katheryn admitted.
Isabel shook her head, as if despairing. “Then I fear it sounds as if you were precontracted. A promise to wed followed by a bedding is as good and binding as a marriage.”
> “So, by marrying the King, I could have impugned the succession and committed treason?”
“Possibly, though I am no lawyer.”
“But it makes sense,” Katheryn said. “Therefore, I will keep denying it. It’s only my word against Francis’s.”
“I dare not advise you,” Isabel said. “There is too much at stake, and I should not be discussing this with you anyway. But it might be best to tell the truth and throw yourself on the King’s mercy. Say you were young and naive and did not know the import of what you were doing, and that you married his Grace in good faith.”
“I did! I did! It’s the truth.”
“Then tell it. I am sure it’s the right thing to do.”
“But, Isabel…” Katheryn’s voice tailed off. Yes, she had been young and naive, but she had just this instant thought of a better way to save herself and win sympathy. It would mean lying, but Francis hadn’t cared about the consequences for her when he betrayed her.
“What is it, Kitty?” Isabel asked gently.
“There’s something I haven’t told anyone,” Katheryn said. “About what Francis did…He forced me to bed with him; he did not do it with my consent and will. He was violent to me.”
Isabel stared at her. “He raped you?”
Katheryn nodded, as tears welled in her eyes. It was as if it had really happened.
“Archbishop Cranmer must be told of this,” Isabel declared. “I will go and find Edward.”
* * *
—
When Cranmer returned the next morning, Katheryn had had second thoughts about accusing Francis of rape, but dared not go back on what she had said because she hated to think what Isabel would say—and she really was convinced that it would be her salvation. She felt so dreadful about lying about such a serious matter that she was crying almost as hysterically as she had the day before.
“What’s this?” the Archbishop chided her. “Have I not told you that the King will be merciful if you confess your faults?”
“Yes,” she sobbed, wondering what they might do to Francis if they believed her. What was the penalty for rape?
“Now, Madam,” Cranmer said, taking a chair and signaling to Sir John Dudley to write everything down.
He stared at her as she gulped the words out in fits and starts.
“You are telling us that Dereham forced you and used violence?”
“Yes,” she said, sniffing.
“Did you ever call him ‘husband’?”
“Yes.” The tears had stopped now.
“And he called you ‘wife’?”
“Yes. There was talk in my lady of Norfolk’s house that we two should marry, and some of his enemies were envious.”
“Mr. Manox, perhaps?”
“Yes. He and I had loved each other before I knew Mr. Dereham.”
“This was a carnal relationship?”
“No. I was a maid and very young. He was my music master. He used flattery and fair persuasions to make me suffer him to touch the secret parts of my body, which I should not have permitted, nor he required.”
“So he was envious of Dereham?”
“Yes, which was why Dereham desired me to give him leave to call me ‘wife,’ and many times I called him ‘husband.’ And he used many times to kiss me, but he did that all the time to other girls in the house. One time, when he kissed me often, some who were watching us said they thought he would never have enough of kissing me. And he answered, ‘Who shall stop me from kissing my own wife?’ Then they said it would come to pass that Dereham would have me.”
Cranmer nodded. His face gave nothing away. “Are you certain that you and Dereham did not promise each other to wed?”
“No, we did not.”
“Think carefully. Bigamy renders the second marriage invalid; it is not a felony, but a spiritual offense and would be dealt with by the church courts; they alone have the authority to pronounce on the validity of a marriage. Concealing the existence of a precontract might in this case be construed as misprision of treason, because it endangers the royal succession; for that, the penalty is imprisonment. Now, think again!”
“We were not promised,” she declared.
Cranmer looked skeptical, but he let it pass. “Now, I regret that I must touch on delicate matters. The matter of carnal knowledge. What can you tell me about your relations with Dereham?”
Katheryn felt herself reddening. She had not thought to be asked about that again, and she was uncomfortably aware of the objectionable Sir John listening to her every word. She took a deep breath. “I confess that many times he lay with me, sometimes in his doublet and hose, and two or three times naked, but not so naked that he had nothing on, for he had always, at the least, his doublet and, as I remember, his hose also; but I mean naked, when his hose were put down.”
“I am told that there were disports in the gentlewomen’s chamber at night.”
“Yes. Many times, Dereham and others would bring wine, strawberries, apples, and other things to make good cheer, after my lady was gone to bed.”
“Did he ever stay after the dormitory was locked at night?”
“That is utterly untrue.” Another lie.
“Did you ever steal the keys from the Duchess?”
“No, I never did, nor desired anyone to steal them to let in Dereham; but, for many reasons, the doors were opened, sometimes overnight, and sometimes early in the morning, at my request and at the request of others. And sometimes Dereham came in early in the morning and behaved very lewdly, but never at my request or with my consent.”
Cranmer frowned. “Yet we have a deposition that my lady of Norfolk had the keys of the gentlewomen’s chamber brought to her own chamber at night, and that you would come in and steal them.”
Who had told him that?
“It is not true,” she insisted.
“What happened when your relationship with Dereham ended?”
“I remember that, after I knew I was going to court, he said to me that he would not stay long at Lambeth when I was gone. And I said he might do as he pleased. I don’t remember what else we said.”
“Did you say it grieved you as much as it did him to be parted?”
“No, I never said that.”
“Did you weep on parting and tell him he would never live to say you had swerved?”
“None of that is true. Everyone who knew me knew how glad I was to be going to court.”
Cranmer interrupted his questioning to send for some ale for them both. They sat there, saying nothing, until it was brought. Then, as Katheryn gratefully sipped hers, he resumed.
“I understand that Dereham went to Ireland. Did you keep in contact with him after his return?”
“No. As far as I can remember, he sought me out and asked me if I was to be married, for he had heard a rumor of it and was jealous. I asked him why he should trouble me about that, for it was none of his business and he knew I would not have him; and, if he had heard such a rumor, he’d heard more than I had.” She’d deliberately avoided mentioning Tom and was praying that she would not be quizzed further on this, but Cranmer did not pursue that line of questioning. She was almost certain now that he knew nothing about her affair with Tom.
“You say that Dereham raped you, yet you gave him gifts and called him ‘husband’ and you were close to him for some time. Madam, that does not sound like the actions of a woman who has been violently forced to have carnal relations.”
Katheryn felt bad again about the lie. “I was scared of him, of what he might do. I knew he had a violent temper. I played along to keep him sweet.”
“And when you ended your association, he made no protest or showed no violence?”
“No. But things had been cooling between us for a while. After the Duchess found us together, we lacked opportunities for mee
ting in private.”
Cranmer nodded. “I think that is all for now,” he said. “Sir John, bring me the statement.”
He looked it over, then gave it to Katheryn to read.
“Will you sign it?” he requested. She did so and gave it back.
“I will now confer with my fellows on the Council,” he told her.
When he and Dudley had left, she sighed with relief. This really was all about her and Francis. It had nothing to do with Tom. She was beginning to believe that she was safe. She reminded herself that the King had shown mercy to Margaret Douglas and Thomas Howard, and he had not executed Lord Lisle. He might divorce her, he might no longer love her, but he might well spare her worse punishment. Anything would be better than this nightmare. After these last terrible days, she would quite welcome becoming a private person again. She would be happy to leave court and live out her days in obscurity.
* * *
—
The following morning, the Archbishop returned with some of the lords of the Council.
“Your Grace, we are here to help you draft a plea for forgiveness to send to the King,” he told her. That was heartening news, for, if they were ready to assist her in this, they could not mean her any harm.
At their dictation, she wrote, slowly and laboriously, Cranmer correcting her spelling.
I, your Grace’s most sorrowful subject and the most vile wretch in the world, unworthy to recommend myself to your most excellent Majesty, do make my most humble submission and confession of my faults. And while I know your Majesty has no cause to grant me mercy, yet, out of your accustomed mercy, which has been extended to other undeserving men, I most humbly, on my hands and knees, desire one particle to be extended to me, even though I am most unworthy to be called your wife or subject. No words can express my sorrow; nevertheless, I trust your most benign nature will consider my youth, my ignorance, my frailness, and my humble confession of my faults; and so I refer myself wholly to your Grace’s pity and mercy.
Now, the whole truth being declared to your Majesty, I most humbly beseech you to consider the subtle persuasions of young men and the ignorance and frailness of young women. I was so desirous to be taken into your Grace’s favor, and so blinded with the desire of worldly glory, that I did not consider how great a fault it was to conceal my former faults from your Majesty, considering that I intended always to be faithful and true to your Majesty. Nevertheless, the sorrow of my offenses was ever before my eyes, when I considered the infinite goodness of your Majesty toward me. Now I refer the judgment of all my offenses, with my life and death, wholly to your most benign and merciful Grace, to be considered only by your infinite goodness, pity, compassion, and mercy, without which I acknowledge myself worthy of extreme punishment.