by Alison Weir
“Madam! A barge carrying the Duke of Suffolk and the earls of Southampton and Sussex has just moored at the jetty. They will be here at any moment.” They looked at each other, both knowing what this might mean, and then Isabel threw her arms around Katheryn and held her close. “My darling girl, have courage!”
Katheryn wanted nothing more than to stay safe in her sister’s embrace forever, but disentangled herself when the door opened.
“Madam,” Suffolk said briskly, with an air of wishing to be anywhere else, “we are come with orders to convey you to the Tower of London.”
Katheryn’s knees almost buckled, but she managed to stay standing and preserve her dignity. She could not speak.
“Fetch her things,” Suffolk ordered Isabel. They stood in silence waiting for her. Katheryn felt like screaming, but reminded herself that, even when all hope was lost, a daughter of the Howards must not lose control.
Isabel came back and, with shaking hands, draped Katheryn’s cloak over her shoulders and gave her her gloves. With the guards walking on either side, the lords led Katheryn through the cloister and the outer court, and out of Syon. It was drizzling as they continued down the path to the jetty, where three barges were waiting; the first was manned by four sailors, while the two to the rear were packed with liveried retainers and more armed guards. At the sight, Katheryn balked, knowing where they would take her and what awaited her there. This was real; it was happening. She was going to die. Henry really did mean to have her executed. Until now, she had only half believed it, had placed more hope than she should on his showing mercy.
All her calm deserted her; Howard or not, she was shaking with fear. “No,” she said, halting. “No, I’m not going!”
“Madam, it is the King’s order,” Suffolk said. “We must all obey.”
“No!” she shrieked. “They’re going to kill me! I won’t go!” And she turned and began running back toward the silent abbey. The guards caught up with her, of course, and she struggled as they gripped her arms. “Let me go! Let me go!” she screamed.
Sussex was shaking his head, looking desperate. “Madam, this will not help you. You must come with us.”
“No!” she wailed, beside herself with fear. She sank to her knees on the grass, but the guards hauled her up.
“Come on, Mistress, no nonsense!” one said gruffly.
“Let me talk to her,” Isabel was pleading.
“Get in the barge!” Suffolk snapped.
“No!” Katheryn shrieked again, and then the lords themselves laid rough hands on her and bundled her, crying and resisting, into the first boat. She tried to get out and the little vessel rocked perilously, but they blocked her way and manhandled her into the cabin, pushing her down on the padded bench. Three women were seated there already, Lady Dudley, Lady Denny, and Lady Wriothesley, women she had not chosen to serve her at Syon and would rather not have had around her at this time. They were staring at her with dismay, and some sympathy, but she was too distressed to speak to them.
“Stay there!” Southampton commanded, leaning forward and closing the curtains. “Lady Baynton, see that she does not get out until we reach the Tower. And keep the curtains closed. We’ll be in the barges behind.”
Leaving guards stationed at the cabin door, the councillors departed. Katheryn was moaning in misery and fear, and her black velvet dress was damp from where she had knelt on the grass. Isabel put her arms around her and held her tightly.
The sailors steered the barge out into the river and then they were on their way to London. Katheryn lay back listlessly on the pillows, peering through the corner of the window at many well-remembered scenes and buildings, her eyes devouring them for what she knew would be the last time. She could not quite comprehend the enormity of her situation. Not that long ago, she had been enjoying pleasure trips with Henry along this very stretch of the Thames. She could not bear to think of it now. When they passed Lambeth and the Duchess’s house, the scene of her carefree youth—and her great folly—she had to avert her eyes.
By the time they reached London, the raging turmoil in her head and the motion of the boat were making her ill. She feared she would be sick. “I must have some air,” she gasped, clawing at the curtain.
“No, Madam!” Lady Dudley cried.
“I must have air or I will throw up!” Katheryn insisted, and, drawing the curtain, she opened the window and leaned out. They were passing under London Bridge and she could see its tower on the south bank. Then she looked again, horrified, riveted, for there, on long spikes, were two heads. They were black and somewhat decayed, but she knew them at once: Tom and Francis.
She burst into a passion of weeping and would not be comforted. The sight had chilled her to the bone and brought home to her how terrible was the fate of those who offended the King. “My head will be up there, too!” she howled.
“No, never,” Isabel soothed. “Queen Anne’s head was not displayed.” But that was small comfort.
1542
It was nearly dark when they arrived at the Tower. They alighted at the stairs that led up to the Court Gate in the Byward Tower, Southampton and Suffolk going first, then Katheryn herself, barely able to drag herself up the steps. At the top, Sir John Gage was waiting for her. He bowed low and received her with as much ceremony as if she was still Queen.
“I will escort you to your lodgings, Madam,” he said, and led her and the lords and ladies through the outer ward of the Tower to an archway below what he told her was the Garden Tower, because it stood next to his garden. At the other end of it, they turned left and Katheryn saw in front of her a fine new half-timbered house.
“This is my own lodging, Madam,” Sir John informed her. “You will stay here. I regret that I cannot accommodate you in the Queen’s apartments in the palace over there, as they are occupied by those prisoners who have been sentenced to perpetual imprisonment.” And all because of me, Katheryn thought dismally. Then another, chilling thought struck her: she was not going to be in the Tower for long enough to justify moving those prisoners out. Again, she began trembling, nervously looking across the green to her right for any sign of a scaffold, but there was none. When will it be? she wondered. When?
Two guards standing by the entrance opened the door to the Constable’s house, and Sir John himself led the way up the stairs, showing Katheryn into a small chamber with few furnishings—a bed, a chest, and a chair—but made bright with hangings and rugs. There were chambers along the corridor for her ladies and a pallet bed in her room. One of the ladies was to be with her at all times, Sir John said. The ever-present guards had already taken up their places outside her door.
“I will have supper brought up to you,” he told her.
“I couldn’t eat,” Katheryn replied. She still felt nauseous.
“Try to, Madam,” he advised. “I will send it anyway.”
As Isabel busied herself folding away Katheryn’s few garments, Katheryn sat on the bed, feeling as if she was made of glass and might break at any moment. A servant arrived with a tray of food—roast beef, a dish of peas, a slice of pigeon pie, and a mug of ale—but she only toyed with it. What good was food to her now?
Soon after supper, the King’s confessor, Dr. Longland, the Bishop of Lincoln, arrived.
“My child,” he said kindly, with that air of calm assurance that had made him such a favorite with Henry, “I am come to hear your confession and offer you spiritual comfort.”
It was a faint hope, but, maybe, if she told the strict truth now and made an abject confession of her transgressions, Henry might relent and grant her a reprieve. “It will be a comfort to me to unburden myself,” she said. “I have found it hard to pray these last two days. Fear prevents me…I have lost sight of our dear Lord.”
“That is understandable,” said Dr. Longland, putting on his stole. “But He is ever present and He has not lost
sight of you; He is with you now. He will not fail you, but will lift you up when you are cast down.”
She wept at his words, but his quiet conviction spoke to something within her. The faith of her childhood was strong in her, and now she saw that it might well sustain her when she most needed it.
Drying her eyes, she knelt. “I confess that I misconducted myself in my former life before the King married me,” she declared, “but I stand absolutely to my denial that I committed adultery. My reverend lord, in the name of God and His Holy angels, and on the salvation of my soul, I swear that I am innocent of the act for which I stand condemned. I never defiled my sovereign’s bed!” It was true: she had never let Tom take her as a man takes his wife. “As for the faults and follies of my youth, I do not seek to excuse them. God will be my judge and, in His mercy, He will pardon me, for which I pray you pray with me to His Son, my Savior Christ.”
The Bishop placed his hand on her head and granted her absolution. Then they knelt together and prayed, and she wept again when she remembered what lay in store for her.
“Hold fast to your courage, my child,” the Bishop said. “You are in a state of grace now, armored against all spiritual peril. Remember, you are not alone.” He spoke so firmly, and with such conviction, that she did feel a little comforted.
As he made to leave, she tugged at his sleeve. “You have my permission to divulge what I said in confession to his Majesty,” she said. “I want him to know that I did not betray him as he thinks.”
The Bishop nodded, made the sign of the Cross over her, and departed.
I am not alone. I am not alone. She kept repeating the words to reassure herself.
* * *
—
It was hard to sleep, what with her ever-present fear, the strange surroundings, and being unable to forget that she was in the Tower under sentence of death. Tomorrow, at any moment, they might come for her…
In the morning, when Sir John Gage arrived to bid her good day and ask how she had slept, she jumped up in fear. This waiting, this not knowing, was dreadful.
She could contain herself no longer. “Sir John, when will it be?” she blurted out.
“Madam, I have not received any instructions as yet. Be assured that you will be given time to prepare yourself.”
Time—it was the most precious thing, and it was running out for her. Would she ever be prepared? Never! She wanted to live. She wanted to feel the sun of another summer, the breezes of April, even the winds of March. Another month, another week, even another day would be a glorious boon. But she might have only hours left.
She lay down and sobbed, crying out in fear and grief, bringing Isabel and the other ladies hastening to her bedside.
“I don’t want to die!” she screamed. “I didn’t do what they said I did!”
“Katheryn, stop tormenting yourself!” Isabel cried. “Try to be brave.”
But Katheryn was feeling anything but brave. The small comfort of the night before had evaporated, leaving only terror. If she screamed loudly enough, someone would surely do something to help her! So she went on shrieking like a madwoman.
She barely heard the running footsteps.
“What’s this?” It was Sir John’s voice. He sounded alarmed.
“She is very distressed,” Isabel said.
“Who wouldn’t be?” he muttered.
“Can’t you inform the Council how she is?”
“I can.” He sounded reluctant. “The King will not want her making a spectacle of herself when…” His voice tailed off. Katheryn howled even louder.
“She needs time to compose herself,” Isabel urged.
“Indeed. It will be easier for everyone. I am still awaiting orders, but I will send a message to the Council now, urging that there be a deferment for three or four days, to give her time to come to terms with the sentence and make peace with her conscience.”
He left then, and Katheryn rallied a little. Perhaps, when Henry learned how much anguish she was suffering, he might take pity on her.
Clinging to that hope, she ceased wailing and lay there quietly, with Isabel sitting beside her, holding her hand. She could not still her teeming thoughts. How had she come to this? How had the carefree girl become a weeping woman clad in black, facing an untimely death? Fortune was so cruel, so wayward, and so unstable! How quickly her wheel could turn. It was Fortune who had made her a queen, when she had been flourishing in her youth and beauty. She remembered how Henry had once said that nature had made her fit to shine equal with the stars. Oh, he had been good to her! He had loved her so. Why could she not have contented herself with that? She had reigned in joy and pleasure, wanting for nothing that his love could not procure for her, so highly beloved, far beyond the rest. She had been blessed and not known it.
What good was beauty without grace? It was a brittle gift, fueling only lust; and lust had done for her. What good was even a blazing beauty when it could lead to such mischief?
But she had been in her tender youth, too frail to resist her wanton appetites, too greedy for carnal delights. How blind the young can be! She had not known what danger lay in Cupid’s fire. And she would pay a heavy price for her shameless pleasures. She would get no pompous funeral, no trains of mourners clad in black. She could only hope that some good souls might perchance think kindly on her, and pray that her soul would merit better than her body had deserved.
* * *
—
She spent much of the rest of Saturday and most of Sunday in prayer. I am not alone. I will not be alone. She kept repeating these assurances over and over again.
There seemed to be a lot of coming and going in the house. She was aware that Sir John was very busy. When he came to see her, as he did three times each day, he looked harassed.
Her room overlooked Tower Green, whence, all day long, came the sound of hammering. She knew what they were building and could not bring herself to look out of the latticed window. She would see the scaffold all too soon.
It was getting on for evening when Sir John Gage entered her chamber. She knew before he spoke what he had come to tell her.
“Madam, you must dispose your soul and prepare for death, for you are to be beheaded at nine o’clock in the morning.”
She had no words to answer him. She merely bowed her head. A strange calm was settling on her. Now that she knew the worst, she could face it.
“Dr. Mallet, your confessor, will be here later this evening so that you can unburden your conscience to him and receive the last rites.” Sir John cleared his throat, looking pained. “I am instructed to tell you that you will die by the axe.”
Not a sword for her then, unlike her cousin Anne. She thought of the Howard motto, Sola virtus invictus: “Bravery alone is invincible.” The courage she thought had deserted her now came to her aid. She would make a good death, for the honor of her house. She would give her kin no further cause to be ashamed of her. She would get through these last, short hours without becoming hysterical again, so that men would say that she had died bravely. It would be quick, and over in an instant.
Sir John was watching her nervously, no doubt expecting her to start screaming again. But she drew herself up like the queen she had been. “I submit myself to the King’s justice,” she said, realizing that there would be no reprieve and that she must have hurt Henry very deeply for him not to have extended his mercy to her. “I have one request. I desire that the block be brought to me, that I might learn how I should place my head on it.”
Sir John looked surprised, but he nodded. “It shall be done,” he said.
The block was brought, a low, heavy wooden object with a semicircle carved out of it to accommodate the chin. The wood was smooth, with no grooves or cuts in it. Had it been new-made for her? She knelt, as Isabel watched, appalled, and bent over it. It was very low. But she would not be uncomfo
rtable for long. She practiced kneeling gracefully and leaning forward until she was satisfied that she would make a good show of herself.
“That’s enough, please,” Isabel said, plainly distressed.
“I have discovered that it is better to confront your fears,” Katheryn told her.
The block was taken away and they sat there together, holding hands, until Dr. Mallet arrived.
* * *
—
To her surprise, she did sleep. Isabel had lain down with her and held her in her arms all through the night. When Katheryn awoke, it was dark. The clock had just chimed six and dawn would soon be breaking. She would see daylight one last time before the end. Three hours to go.
It was cold. Isabel, stumbling out of bed to throw on a robe and make up the fire, said there was frost on the ground. With shaking fingers, she helped Katheryn dress in her black velvet gown with a warm gray kirtle beneath it. She plaited her long hair and bound it up high under a coif, on top of which she placed a French hood. Katheryn stood there unheeding, focusing on her prayers. I am not alone.
Meat, bread, and ale were brought, but neither of them could eat anything. Isabel kept glancing out of the window, but Katheryn would not look. They waited…and waited. Surely, Katheryn thought, she should be making the most of these last, precious minutes. But there was nothing she wanted to do. It was as if she had moved on from worldly things. In an hour, probably less, she would be in Heaven, and earthly concerns would not matter any more.
“I want to thank you for all your kindness,” she said.
Isabel was clearly fighting off tears. “It was the least I could do.”
“Will you give our sisters my love? And Charles and Henry and George?”
“I will, I promise.”
“Tell them I am sorry, from my heart, for letting the family down.”