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

by Jean Plaidy

  “Do not look so sad, sweet Catherine! Tell me, you are not sad, are you?”

  “Not now,” she said.

  He kissed her cheek.

  He said: “I would like to kiss your lips.”

  He did this, and she was astonished by the kiss, which was different from those Thomas had given her. Catherine was stirred; she kissed him.

  “I have never been so happy!” he said.

  They were both too absorbed in each other to listen for the Duchess’s snores and heavy breathing; she awoke suddenly, and hearing no music, looked towards them.

  “Chatter, chatter, chatter!” she said. “I declare! Is this a music lesson!”

  Catherine began to play, stumbling badly.

  The Duchess yawned; her foot began to tap; in five minutes she was asleep again.

  “Do you think she saw us kiss?” whispered Catherine.

  “Indeed I do not!” said Manox, and he meant that, for he well knew that if she had he would have been immediately turned out, possibly dismissed from the house; and Mistress Catherine would have received a sound beating.

  Catherine shivered ecstatically.

  “I am terrified that she might, and will stop the lessons.”

  “You would care greatly about that?”

  Catherine turned candid eyes upon him. “I should care very much!” she said. She was vulnerable because her mind was that of a child, though her body was becoming that of a woman; and the one being so advanced, the other somewhat backward, it was her body which was in command of Catherine. She liked the proximity of this man; she liked his kisses. She told him so in many ways; and he, being without scruples, found the situation too novel and too exciting not to be exploited.

  He was rash in his excitement, taking her in his arms before the sleeping Duchess and kissing her lips. Catherine lifted her face eagerly, as a flower will turn towards the sun.

  The Duchess was sleeping, when there was a faint tap on the door and Isabel entered. The lesson had extended beyond its appointed time, and she, eager to see the teacher and pupil together, had an excuse ready for intruding. Isabel stood on the threshold, taking in the scene—the sleeping Duchess, the young man, his face very pale, his eyes very bright; Catherine, hair in some disorder, her eyes wide, her lips parted, and with a red mark on her chin. Where he has kissed her, the knave! thought Isabel.

  The Duchess awoke with a start.

  “Come in! Come in!” she called, seeing Isabel at the door.

  Isabel approached and spoke to the Duchess. Catherine rose, and so did Manox.

  “You may go, Catherine,” said the Duchess. “Manox! Stay awhile. I would speak to you.”

  Catherine went, eager to be alone, to remember everything he had said, how he had looked; to wonder how she was going to live through the hours until the next lesson on the morrow.

  When Isabel was dismissed, she waited for Manox to come out.

  He bowed low, smiling when he saw her, thinking that he had made an impression on her, for his surface charm and his reputation had made him irresistible to quite a number of ladies. He smiled at Isabel’s pale face and compared it with Catherine’s round childish one. He was more excited by Catherine than he had been since his first affair; for this adventuring with the little girl was a new experience, and though it was bound to be slow, and needed tact and patience, he found it more intriguing than any normal affair could be.

  Isabel said: “I have never seen you at our entertainments.”

  He smiled and said that he had heard of the young ladies’ revels, and it was a matter of great regret that he had never attended one.

  She said: “You must come . . . I will tell you when. You know it is a secret!”

  “Never fear that I should drop a hint to Her Grace.”

  “It is innocent entertainment,” said Isabel anxiously.

  “I could not doubt it!”

  “We frolic a little; we feast; there is nothing wrong. It is just amusing.”

  “That I have heard.”

  “I will let you know then.”

  “You are the kindest of ladies.”

  He bowed courteously, and went on his way, thinking of Catherine.

  Through the gardens at Hampton Court Anne walked with Henry. He was excited, his head teeming with plans, for the Cardinal’s palace was now his. He had demanded of a humiliated Wolsey wherefore a subject should have such a palace; and with a return of that wit which had been the very planks on which he had built his mighty career, the Cardinal, knowing himself lost and hoping by gifts to reinstate himself a little in the heart of the King, replied that a subject might build such a palace only to show what a noble gift a subject might make to his King.

  Henry had been delighted by that reply; he had all but embraced his old friend, and his eyes had glistened to think of Hampton Court. Henry had inherited his father’s acquisitive nature, and the thought of riches must ever make him lick his lips with pleasure.

  “Darling,” he said to Anne, “we must to Hampton Court, for there are many alterations I would make. I will make a palace of Hampton Court, and you shall help in this.”

  The royal barge had carried them up the river; there was no ceremony on this occasion. Perhaps the King was not eager for it; perhaps he felt a little shame in accepting this magnificent gift from his old friend. All the way up the river he laughed with Anne at the incongruity of a subject’s daring to possess such a place.

  “He was another king . . . or would be!” said Anne. “You were most lenient with him.”

  “’Twas ever a fault of mine, sweetheart, to be over-lenient with those I love.”

  She raised her beautifully arched eyebrows, and surveyed him mockingly.

  “I fancy it is so with myself.”

  He slapped his thigh—a habit of his—and laughed at her; she delighted him now as ever. He grew sentimental, contemplating her. He had loved her long, nor did his passion for her abate. To be in love was a pleasant thing; he glowed with self-sacrifice, thinking: She shall have the grandest apartments that can be built! I myself will plan them.

  He told her of his ideas for the alterations.

  “Work shall be started for my Queen’s apartments before aught else. The hangings shall be of tissue of gold, sweetheart. I myself will design the walls.” He thought of great lovers’ knots with the initials H and A entwined. He told her of this; sentimental and soft, his voice was slurred with affection. “Entwined, darling! As our lives shall be and have been ever since we met. For I would have the world know that naught shall come between us two.”

  Unceremoniously they left the barge. The gardens were beautiful—but a cardinal’s gardens, said Henry, not a king’s!

  “Dost know I have a special fondness for gardens?” he asked. “And dost know why?”

  She thought it strange and oddly perturbing that he could remind her of his faithfulness to her here in this domain which he had taken—for the gift was enforced—from one to whom he owed greater loyalty. But how like Henry! Here in the shadow of Wolsey’s cherished Hampton Court, he must tell himself that he was a loyal friend, because he had been disloyal to its owner.

  “Red and white roses,” said the King, and be touched her cheek. “We will have this like your father’s garden at Hever, eh? We will have a pond, and you shall sit on its edge and talk to me, and watch your own reflection. I’ll warrant you will be somewhat kinder to me than you were at Hever, eh?”

  “It would not surprise me,” she laughed.

  He talked with enthusiasm of his plans. He visualized beds of roses—red and white to symbolize the union of the houses of York and Lancaster, to remind all who beheld them that the Tudors represented peace; he would enclose those beds with wooden railings painted in his livery colors of white and green; he would set up posts and pillars which should be decorated with heraldic designs. There would be about the place a constant reminder to all, including himself, that he was a faithful man; that when he loved, he loved deeply and long. H and
A! Those initials should be displayed in every possible spot.

  “Come along in, sweetheart,” he said. “I would choose your apartments. They shall be the most lavish that were ever seen.”

  They went up the staircase, across a large room. It was Anne who turned to the right and descended a few steps into the paneled rooms which had been Wolsey’s own. Henry had not wished to go into those rooms, but when he saw their splendid furnishings, their rich hangings, the magnificent plate, the window seats padded with red window carpets, the twisted gold work on the ceilings, he was loath to leave them. He had seen this splendor many times before; but then it had been Wolsey’s, now it was his.

  Anne pointed to the damask carpets which lay about the floors, and reminded the King of how, it was whispered, Wolsey had come by these.

  Henry was less ready to defend his old favorite than usual. He recounted the story of the Venetian bribe, and his mouth was a thin line, though previously he had laughed at it, condoned it.

  They went through the lavishly furnished bedrooms, admired the counterpanes of satin and damask, the cushions of velvet and satin and cloth of gold.

  “Good sweetheart,” said Henry, “I think your apartment shall be here, for I declare it to be the finest part of Hampton Court. The rooms shall be enlarged; I will have new ceilings; everything here shall be of the best. It shall be accomplished as soon as possible.”

  “It will take many years,” said Anne, and added: “So therefore it is just possible that the divorce may be done with by then, if it ever is!”

  He put an arm about her shoulders.

  “How now, darling! We have waited long, and are impatient, but methinks we shall not wait much longer. Cranmer is a man of ideas . . . and that knave, Cromwell, too! My plans for your apartments may take a year or two completely to carry out, but never fear, long ere their accomplishment you shall be Queen of England!”

  They sat awhile on the window seat, for the day was warm. He talked enthusiastically of the changes he would make. She listened but listlessly; Hampton Court held memories of a certain moonlit night, when she and Percy had looked from one of those windows and talked of the happiness they would make for each other.

  She wondered if she would ever occupy these rooms which he planned for her. Wolsey had once made plans in this house.

  “Our initials entwined, sweetheart,” said the King. “Come! You shiver. Let us on.”

  In his house at Westminster, Wolsey awaited the arrival of Norfolk and Suffolk. His day was over, and Wolsey knew it; this was the end of his brightness; he would live the rest of his life in the darkness of obscurity, if he were lucky; but was it not a proven fact that when great men fell from favor their heads were not long in coming to the block? Those who lived gloriously must often die violently. Wolsey was sick, of mind and body; there was a pain in his solar plexus, a pain in his throat; and this was what men called heartbreak. And the most heartbreaking moment of his career was when he had arrived at Grafton with Campeggio, to find that there was no place for him at the court. For his fellow cardinal there were lodgings prepared in accordance with his state, but for Thomas Wolsey, once beloved of the King, there was no bed on which to rest his weary body. Then did he know to what depths of disfavor he had sunk. But for young Henry Norris, he knew not what he would have done; already had he suffered enough humiliation to break the heart of a proud man.

  Norris, groom of the stole, a young handsome person with compassion in his pleasant eyes, had offered his own apartment to the travel-stained old man; such moments were pleasant in a wretched day. And yet, next day when he and Campeggio had had audience with the King, had not His Majesty softened to him, his little eyes troubled, his little mouth pursed with remembrance? Henry would never hate his old friend when he stood face to face with him; there were too many memories they shared; between them they had given birth to too many successful schemes for all to be forgotten. It is the careless, watching, speculating eyes which hurt a fallen man. He knew those callous courtiers laid wagers on the King’s conduct towards his old favorite. Wolsey had seen the disappointment in their faces when Henry let his old affection triumph; and Lady Anne’s dark eyes had glittered angrily, for she believed that the resuscitation of Wolsey’s dying influence meant the strangulation of her own. Her beautiful face had hardened, though she had smiled graciously enough on the Cardinal; and Wolsey, returning her smile, had felt fear grip his heart once more, for what hope had he with such an enemy!

  It had come to his ears, by way of those who had waited on her and the King when they dined, that she had been deeply offended by Henry’s show of affection for the Cardinal; and she, bold and confident in her power over the King, did not hesitate to reprove him. “Is it not a marvelous thing,” so he had heard she said, “to consider what debt and danger the Cardinal hath brought you in with your subjects?” The King was puzzled. “How so, sweetheart?” Then she referred to that loan which the Cardinal had raised from his subjects for the King’s use. And she laughed and added: “If my lord Norfolk, my lord Suffolk, my lord my father, or any other noble person within your realm had done much less than he, they should have lost their heads ere this.” To which the King answered: “I perceive ye are not the Cardinal’s friend.” “I have no cause!” she retorted. “Nor more any other that love Your Grace, if ye consider well his doings!”

  No more had been heard at the table, but Wolsey knew full well how gratifying it would be for the King to imagine her hatred for the Cardinal had grown out of her love for the King. She was an adversary to beware of. He had no chance of seeing the King again, for the Lady Anne had gone off riding with him next morning, and had so contrived it that His Majesty did not return until the cardinals had left. What poison did this woman pour into his master’s ears by day and night? But being Wolsey he must know it was himself whom he must blame; he it was who had taken that false step. He was too astute not to realize that had he been in Lady Anne’s place he would have acted as she did now. Imagination had helped to lift him, therefore it was easy to see himself in her position. He could even pity her, for her road was a more dangerous one than his, and those who depend for prosperity upon a prince’s favor—and such a prince—must consider each step before they take it, if they wish to survive. He had failed with the divorce, and looking back, that seemed inevitable, for as Cardinal he owed allegiance to Rome, and the King was straining to break those chains which bound him to the Holy See. He, who was shrewd, diplomatic, had failed. She was haughty, imperious, impulsive; what fate awaited her? Where she was concerned he had been foolish; he had lacked imagination. A man does not blame himself when enemies are made by his greatness; it is only when they are made by his folly that he does this. Perhaps humiliation was easier to bear, knowing he had brought it on himself.

  His usher, Cavendish, came in to tell him that the Dukes of Norfolk and Suffolk had arrived. The Cardinal received them ceremoniously—the cold-eyed Norfolk, the cruel-eyed Suffolk, both rejoicing in his downfall.

  “It is the King’s pleasure,” said Suffolk, “that you should hand over the Great Seal into our hands, and that you depart simply unto Esher.”

  Esher! To a house near splendid Hampton Court which was his through the Bishopric of Winchester. He summoned all his dignity.

  “And what commission have you, my lords, to give me such commandment?”

  They said they came from the King, that they had received the commission from his royal mouth.

  “Then that is not sufficient,” said Wolsey, “for the Great Seal of England was delivered me by the King’s own person, to enjoy during my life. I have the King’s letters to show it.”

  The Dukes were angered by this reply, but seeing the King’s letters, all they could do was return to Henry.

  Wolsey knew he but put off the evil day. The Great Seal, the symbol of his greatness, remained in his hands for but one more day; on the morrow the Dukes returned from Windsor with letters from the King, and there was nothing more that Wolsey could
do but deliver up the seal.

  The ex-chancellor was filled with deep foreboding and set his servants to make inventories of all the rich possessions in his house; these goods he would give to the King, for if his master could not be touched by affection it might well be that he could by rich gifts; many times had Wolsey noted that the little eyes glinted with envy when they rested on these things. When a man is in danger of drowning, thought Wolsey, he throws off all his fine apparel that he may swim more easily. What are possessions, compared with life itself!

  He took his barge at his privy stairs, having ordered horses to be awaiting him at Putney; and the river, he saw, was crowded with craft, for news had traveled quickly and there were those who find the spectacle of a fallen man pleasurable indeed. He saw their grins; he heard their jeers; he sensed the speculation, the disappointment that he was not going straightway to the Tower.

  Riding through Putney town, he saw Norris coming towards him, and his heart was lightened, since he had come to look upon Norris as a friend. And so it proved, for the King’s peace of mind had been profoundly disturbed by the story which Norfolk and Suffolk had told him of the giving up of the seal. The King could not forget that he had once loved Wolsey; he was haunted by a pale, sick face under a cardinal’s hat; and he remembered how this man had been his friend and counsellor; and though he knew that he had done with Wolsey, he wanted to reassure his conscience that it was not he who had destroyed his old friend, but others. Therefore, to appease that conscience, he sent Norris to Putney with a gold ring which Wolsey would recognize by the rich stone it contained, as they had previously used this ring for a token. He was to be of good cheer, Norris told him, for he stood as high as ever in the King’s favor.

  Wolsey’s spirits soared; his body gained strength; the old fighting spirit came back to him. He was not defeated. He embraced Norris, feeling great affection for this young man, and took a little chain of gold from his neck to give to him; on this chain there hung a tiny cross. “I desire you to take this small reward from my hand,” he said, and Norris was deeply moved.