Murder Most Royal: The Story of Anne Boleyn and Catherine Howard

by Jean Plaidy

  Catherine was dreaming of the beautiful cousin who had come to the house at Lambeth. She knew what it meant to be a king’s favorite, for Catherine had a mixed knowledge; she knew of the attraction between men and women, and the methods in which such attraction was shown; of books she knew little, as the Duchess, always meaning to have her taught, was somehow ever forgetful of this necessity. The cousin had given her a jewelled tablet, and she had it still; she treasured it.

  “One day,” said the Duchess, “I shall go to Lambeth that I may be near my granddaughter who is almost a queen.”

  “She is not really your granddaughter,” said Catherine. “You were her grandfather’s second wife.”

  The Duchess cuffed the girl’s ears for that. “What! And you would deny my relationship to the queen-to-be! She who is all but Queen has never shown me such disrespect. Now do my legs, child, and no more impertinence!”

  Catherine thought—Nor are you my real grandmother either! And she was glad, for it seemed sacrilege that this somewhat frowsy old woman—Duchess of Norfolk though she might be—should be too closely connected with glorious Anne.

  When Catherine was in the room which she still shared with the ladies-in-waiting, she took out the jeweled tablet and looked at it. It was impossible in the dormitory to have secrets, and several of them wanted to know what she had.

  “It is nothing,” said Catherine.

  “Ah!” said Nan. “I know! It is a gift from your lover.”

  “It is not!” declared Catherine. “And I have no lover.”

  “You should say so with shame! A fine big girl like you!” said a tall, lewd-looking girl, even bolder than the rest.

  “I’ll swear it is from her lover,” said Nan. “Why, look! It has an initial on it—A. Now who is A? Think hard, all of you.”

  Catherine could not bear their guessings, and she blurted out: “I will tell you then. I have had it since I was a very little baby. It was given to me by my cousin, Anne Boleyn.”

  “Anne Boleyn!” screamed Nan. “Why, of course, our Catherine is first cousin to the King’s mistress!” Nan leaped off the bed and made a mock bow to Catherine. The others followed her example, and Catherine thrust away the tablet, wishing she had not shown it.

  Now they were all talking of the King and her cousin Anne, and what they said made Catherine’s cheeks flush scarlet. She could not bear that they should talk of her cousin in this way, as though she were one of them.

  The incorrigible Nan and the lewd-faced girl were shouting at each other.

  “We will stage a little play...for tonight...You may take the part of the King. I shall be Anne Boleyn!”

  They were rocking with laughter. “I shall do this. You shall do that...I’ll warrant we’ll bring Her Grace up with our laughter...”

  “We must be careful...”

  “If she discovered...”

  “Bah! What would she do?”

  “She would send us home in disgrace.”

  “She is too lazy...”

  “What else? What else?”

  “Little Catherine Howard shall be lady of the bed-chamber!”

  “Ha! That is good. She being first cousin to the lady...Well, Catherine Howard, we have brought you up in the right way, have we not? We have trained you to wait on your lady cousin, even in the most delicate circumstances, with understanding and...”

  “Tact!” screamed Nan. “And discretion!”

  “She’ll probably get a place at court!”

  “And Catherine Howard, unless you take us with you, we shall tell all we know about you and...”

  “I have done nothing!” said Catherine hastily. “There is nothing you could say against me.”

  “Ah! Have you forgotten Thomas Culpepper so soon then?”

  “I tell you there was nothing...”

  “Catherine Howard! Have you forgotten the paddock and what he did there...”

  “It was nothing...nothing!”

  Nan said firmly: “Those who excuse themselves, accuse themselves. Did you know that, Catherine?”

  “I swear...” cried Catherine. And then, in an excess of boldness: “If you do not stop saying these things about Thomas, I will go and tell my grandmother what happens in this room at night.”

  Isabel, who had been silent amidst the noise of the others, caught her by her wrist.

  “You would not dare...”

  “Don’t forget,” cried Nan, “we should have something to say of you!”

  “There is nothing you could say. I have done nothing but look on...”

  “And enjoyed looking on! Now, Catherine Howard, I saw a young gentleman kiss you last evening.”

  “It was not my wish, and that I told him.”

  “Oh, well,” said Nan, “it was not my wish that such and such happened to me, and I told him; but it happened all the same.”

  Catherine moved to the door. Isabel was beside her.

  “Catherine, take no heed of these foolish girls.”

  There were tears in Catherine’s eyes.

  “I will not hear them say such things of my cousin.”

  “Heed them not, the foolish ones! They mean it not.”

  “I will not endure it.”

  “And you think to stop it by telling your grandmother?”

  “Yes,” said Catherine, “for if she knew what happened here, she would dismiss them all.”

  “I should not tell, Catherine. You have been here many nights yourself; she might not hold you guiltless. Catherine, listen to me. They shall say nothing of your cousin again; I will stop them. But first you must promise me that you will not let a word of what happens here get to your grandmother’s ears through you.”

  “It is wrong of them to taunt me.”

  “Indeed it is wrong,” said Isabel, “and it must not be. Trust me to deal with them. They are foolish girls. Now promise you will not tell your grandmother.”

  “I will not tell unless they taunt me to it.”

  “Then rest assured they shall not.”

  Catherine ran from the room, and Isabel turned to the girls who had listened open-eyed to this dialogue.

  “You fools!” said Isabel. “You ask for trouble. It is well enough to be reckless when there is amusement to be had, but just to taunt a baby...What do you achieve but the fear of discovery?”

  “She would not dare to tell,” said Nan.

  “Would she not! She has been turning over in her baby mind whether she ought not to tell ever since she came here. Doubtless the saintly Thomas warned her it was wrong to tell tales.”

  “She dared not tell,” insisted another girl.

  “Why not, you fool? She is innocent. What has she done but be a looker-on? We should be ruined, all of us, were this known to Her Grace.”

  “Her Grace cares nothing but for eating, sleeping, drinking, scratching and gossip!”

  “There are others who would care. And while she is innocent, there is danger of her telling. Now if she were involved...”

  “We shall have to find a lover for her,” said Nan.

  “A fine big girl such as she is!” said the lewd-faced girl who had promised to take the part of Henry.

  The girls screamed together lightheartedly. Only Isabel, aloof from their foolish chatter, considered this.

  The King sat alone and disconsolate in his private apartments. He was filled with apprehension. Through the southeastern corner of England raged that dread disease, the sweating sickness. In the streets of London men took it whilst walking; many died within a few hours. People looked suspiciously one at the other. Why does this come upon us to add to our miseries! Poverty we have; famine; and now the sweat! Eyes were turned to the palaces, threatening eyes; voices murmured: “Our King has turned his lawful wife from his bed, that he might put there a witch. Our King has quarreled with the holy Pope....”

  Wolsey had warned him, as had others of his council: “It would be well to send Mistress Anne Boleyn back to her father’s castle until the sickness passes
, for the people are murmuring against her. It might be well if Your Majesty appeared in public with the Queen.”

  Angry as the King had been, he realized there was wisdom in their words.

  “Sweetheart,” he said, “the people are murmuring against us. This matter of divorce, which they cannot understand, is at the heart of it. You must go to Hever for awhile.”

  She, with the recklessness of youth, would have snapped her fingers at the people. “Ridiculous,” she said, “to associate this sickness with the divorce! I do not want to leave the court. It is humiliating to be sent away in this discourteous manner.”

  Was ever a man so plagued, and he a king! To his face she had laughed at his fears, despising his weakness in bowing to his ministers and his conscience. She would have defied the devil, he knew. He had forced himself to be firm, begging her to see that it was because he longed for her so desperately that he wished this matter of the divorce concluded with the minimum of trouble. Ever since she had gone he had been writing letters to her, passionate letters in which he bared his soul, in which he clearly told her more than it was wise to tell her. “Oh,” he wrote, “Oh, that you were in my arms!” He was not subtle with the pen; he wrote from the heart. He loved her; he wanted her with him. He told her these things, and so did he, the King of England, place himself at the mercy of a girl of nineteen.

  He believed, with his people, that the sweat was a visitation from Heaven. It had come on other occasions; there had been one epidemic just before his accession to the throne. Ominous this! Was God saying he was not pleased that the Tudors should be the heirs of England? Again it had come in 1517, at about the time when Martin Luther was denouncing Rome. Was it God’s intention to support the German, and did He thus show disapproval of those who followed Rome? He had heard his father’s speaking of its breaking out after Bosworth...and now, here it was again when Henry was thinking of divorce. Assuredly it was alarming to contemplate these things!

  So he prayed a good deal; he heard mass many times a day. He prayed aloud and in his thoughts. “Thou knowest it was not for my carnal desires that I would make Anne my wife. There is none I would have for wife but Katharine, were I sure that she was my wife, that I was not sinning in continuing to let her share my bed. Thou knowest that!” he pleaded. “Thou hast taken William Carey, O Lord. Ah! He was a complaisant husband to Mary, and mayhap this is his punishment. For myself, I have sinned in this matter and in others, as Thou knowest, but always I have confessed. I have repented...And if I took William’s wife, I gave him a place at court beyond his deserts, for, as Thou knowest, he was a man of small ability.”

  All his prayers and all his thoughts were tinged with his desire for Anne. “There is a woman who will give sons to me and to England! That is why I would elevate her to the throne.” It was reassuring to be able to say “England needs my sons!” rather than “I want Anne.”

  Henry was working on his treatise, in which he was pointing out the illegality of his marriage, and which he would dispatch to the Pope. He was proud of it; for its profound and wise arguments; its clarity; its plausibility; its literary worth. He had shown what he had done to Sir Thomas More; had eagerly awaited the man’s compliments; but More had merely said that he could not judge it since he knew so little of such matters. Ah! thought Henry. Professional jealousy, eh! And he had scowled at More, feeling suddenly a ridiculous envy of the man, for there was in More an agreeable humor, deep learning, wit, charm and a serenity of mind which showed in his countenance. Henry had been entertained at More’s riverside house; had walked in the pleasant garden and watched More’s children feed his peacocks; had seen this man in the heart of his family, deeply loved and reverenced by them; he had watched his friendship with men like the learned Erasmus, the impecunious Hans Holbein who, poor as he might be, knew well how to wield a brush. And being there, he the King—though he could not complain that they gave him not his rightful homage—had been outside that magic family circle, though Erasmus and Holbein had obviously been welcomed into it.

  A wild jealousy had filled his heart for this man More who was known for his boldness in stating his opinions, for his readiness to crack a joke, for his love of literature and art, and for his practical virtue. Henry could have hated this man, had the man allowed him to, but ever susceptible to charm in men as well as women, he had fallen a victim to the charm of Sir Thomas More; and so he found, struggling in his breast, a love for this man, and even when More refused to praise his treatise, and even though he knew More was amongst those who did not approve of the divorce, he must continue to respect the man and seek his friendship. How many of his people, like More, did not approve of the divorce! Henry grew hot with righteous indigation and the desire to make them see this matter in the true light.

  He had written a moralizing letter to his sister Margaret of Scotland, accusing her of immorality in divorcing her husband on the plea that her marriage had not been legal, thus making her daughter illegitimate. He burned with indignation at his niece’s plight while he—at that very time—was planning to place his daughter Mary in a similar position. He did this in all seriousness, for his thoughts were governed by his muddled moral principles. He saw himself as noble, the perfect king; when the people murmured against Anne, it was because they did not understand! He was ready to sacrifice himself to his country. He did not see himself as he was, but as he wished himself to be; and, surrounded by those who continually sought his favor, he could not know that others did not see him as he wished to be seen.

  One night during this most unsatisfactory state of affairs occasioned by Anne’s absence, an express messenger brought disquieting news.

  “From Hever!” roared the King. “What from Hever?”

  And he hoped for a letter, for she had not answered his in spite of his entreaties, a letter in which she was more humble, in which she expressed a more submissive mood of sweet reasonableness. It was not however a letter, but the alarming news that Anne and her father had taken the sickness, though mildly. The King was filled with panic. The most precious body in his kingdom was in danger. Carey had died. Not Anne! he prayed. Not Anne!

  He grew practical; grieving that his first physician was not at hand, he immediately dispatched his second, Doctor Butts, to Hever. Desperately anxious, he awaited news.

  He paced his room, forgetting his superstitious fears, forgetting to remind God that it was just because she was healthy and could give England sons that he proposed marrying her; he thought only of the empty life without her.

  He sat down, and poured out his heart to her in his direct and simple manner.

  “The most displeasing news that could occur came to me suddenly at night. On three accounts I must lament it. One, to hear of the illness of my mistress whom I esteem more than all the world, and whose health I desire as I do mine own; I would willingly bear half of what you suffer to cure you. The second, from the fear that I shall have to endure thy wearisome absence much longer, which has hitherto given me all the vexation that was possible. The third, because my physician (in whom I have most confidence) is absent at the very time when he could have given me the greatest pleasure. But I hope, by him and his means, to obtain one of my chief joys on earth; that is the cure of my mistress. Yet from the want of him I send you my second (Doctor Butts) and hope he will soon make you well. I shall then love him more than ever. I beseech you to be guided by his advice in your illness. By your doing this, I hope soon to see you again. Which will be to me a greater comfort than all the precious jewels in the world.

  “Written by the hand of that secretary who is, and forever will be, your loyal and most assured servant. H.R.”

  And having written and dispatched this, he must pace his apartment in such anxiety as he had never known, and marvel that there could be such a thing as love, all joy and sorrow, to assail even the hearts of princes.

  The Queen was jubilant. Was this God’s way of answering her prayers? She rejoiced with her daughter, because Anne Boleyn lay ill of
the sweating sickness at Hever.

  “Oh,” cried the Queen to her young daughter, “this is the vengeance of the Lord. This is a judgment on the girl’s wickedness.”

  Twelve-year-old Mary listened wide-eyed, thinking her mother a saint.

  “My father...” said the girl, “loves he this woman?”

  Her mother stroked her hair. Loving her dearly, she had until now superintended her education, kept her with her, imbued her with her own ideas of life.

  “He thinks to do so, daughter. He is a lusty man, and thus it is with men. It is no true fault of his; she is to blame.”

  “I have seen her about the court,” said Mary, her eyes narrowed, picturing Anne as she had seen her. That was how witches looked, thought Mary; they had flowing hair and huge dark eyes, and willowy bodies which they loved to swath in scarlet; witches looked like Anne Boleyn!

  “She should be burned at the stake, Mother!” said Mary.

  “Hush!” said her mother. “It is not meet to talk thus. Pray for her, Mary. Pity her, for mayhap at this moment she burns in hell.”

  Mary’s eyes were glistening; she hoped so. She had a vivid picture of flames the color of the witch’s gown licking her white limbs; in her imagination she could hear the most melodious voice at court, imploring in vain to be freed from hideous torment.

  Mary understood much. This woman would marry her father; through her it would be said that Mary’s mother was no wife, and that she, Mary, was a bastard. Mary knew the meaning of that; she would no longer be the Princess Mary; she would no longer receive the homage of her father’s subjects; she would never be Queen of England.

  Mary prayed each night that her father would tire of Anne, that he would banish her from the court, that he would grow to hate her, commit her to the Tower where she would be put in a dark dungeon to be starved and eaten by rats, that she might be put in chains, that her body might be grievously racked for every tear she had caused to fall from the eyes of Mary’s saintly mother.