by Jean Plaidy
They were foolish thoughts, which George might say were worthy of her, but nevertheless she found in them an outlet for her violent feelings, and they brought her an odd comfort.
A barge passed along the river. People on the banks turned to stare after it. In it sat the most beautiful lady of the King’s court. People saw how the fading sunlight caught her bejeweled person. Her hair was caught up in a gold coif that sat elegantly on her shapely head.
“Nan Bullen!” The words were like a rumble of thunder among the crowd.
“They say the poor Queen, the true Queen, is dying of a broken heart . . .”
“As is her daughter Mary.”
“They say Nan Bullen has bribed the Queen’s cook to administer poison unto Her Most Gracious Majesty . . .”
“They say she has threatened to poison the Princess Mary.”
“What of the King?”
“The King is the King. It is no fault of his. He is bewitched by this whore.”
“She is very lovely!”
“Bah! That is her witchery.”
“’Tis right. A witch may come in any guise . . .”
Women in tattered rags drew their garments about them and thought angrily of the satins and velvets and cloth of gold worn by the Lady Anne Rochford . . . who was really plain Nan Bullen.
“Her grandfather was but a merchant in London town. Why should we have a merchant’s daughter for our Queen?”
“There cannot be a second Queen while the first Queen lives.”
“I lost two sons of the sweat . . .”
They trampled through the muck of the gutter, rats scuttled from under their feet, made bold by their numbers and the lack of surprise and animosity their presence caused. In the fever-ridden stench of the cobbled streets, the people blamed Anne Boleyn.
Over London Bridge the heads of traitors stared out with glassy eyes; offal floated up the river; beggars with sore-encrusted limbs asked for alms; one-legged beggars, one-eyed beggars and beggars all but eaten away with some pox.
“’Tis a poor country we live in, since the King would send the rightful Queen from his bed!”
“I mind the poor lady at her coronation; beautiful she was then, with her lovely long hair flowing, and her in a litter of cloth of gold. Nothing too good for her then, poor lady.”
“Should a man, even if he be a king, cast off his wife because she is no longer young?”
It was the cry of fearful women, for all knew that it was the King who set examples. It was the cry of aging women against the younger members of their sex who would bewitch their husbands and steal them from them.
The murmurs grew to a roar. “We’ll have no Nan Bullen!”
There was one woman with deep cadaverous eyes and her front teeth missing. She raised her hands and jeered at the women who gathered about her.
“Ye’ll have no Nan Bullen, eh? And what’ll ye do about it, eh? You’ll be the first to shout ‘God save Your Majesty’ when the King makes his whore our Queen!”
“Not I!” cried one bold spirit, and the others took it up.
The fire of leadership was in the woman. She brandished a stick.
“We’ll take Nan Bullen! We’ll go to her and we’ll take her, and when we’ve done with her we’ll see if she is such a beauty, eh? Who’ll come? Who’ll come?”
Excitement was in the air. There were many who were ever ready to follow a procession, ever ready to espouse a cause; and what more worthy than this, for weary housewives who had little to eat and but rags to cover them, little to hope for and much to fear?
They had seen the Lady Anne Rochford in her barge, proud and imperious, so beautiful that she was more like a picture to them than a woman; her clothes looked too fine to be real . . . And she was not far off . . . her barge had stopped along the river.
Dusk was in the sky; it touched them with adventure, dangerous adventure. They were needy; they were hungry; and she was rich, and doubtless on her way to some noble friends’ house to supper. This was a noble cause; it was Queen Katharine’s cause; it was the cause of Princess Mary.
“Down with Nan Bullen!” they shouted.
She would have jewels about her, they remembered. Cupidity and righteousness filled their minds. “Shall we let the whore sit on the throne of England? They say she carries a fortune in jewels about her body!”
Once, it was said, in the days of the King’s youth when he feasted with his friends, the mob watched him; and so dazzled were they by his person, that they were unable to keep away from him; they seized their mighty King; they seized Bluff King Hal, and stripped him of his jewels. What did he do? He was a noble King, a lover of sport. What did he do? He did naught but smile and treat the matter as a joke. He was a bluff King! A great King! But momentarily he was in the hands of a witch. There were men who had picked up a fortune that night. Why should not a fortune be picked up from Nan Bullen? And she was no bluff, good king, but a scheming woman, a witch, a poisoner, a usurper of the throne of England! It was a righteous cause; it was a noble cause; it might also prove a profitable cause!
Someone had lighted a torch; another sprang up, and another. In the flickering glow from the flares the faces of the women looked like those of animals. Cupidity was in each face . . . cruelty, jealousy, envy. . . .
“Ah! What will we do to Nan Bullen when we find her? I will tear her limbs apart . . . I will tear the jewels off her. Nan Bullen shall not be our Queen. Queen Katharine forever!”
They fell into some order, and marched. There were more flares; they made a bright glow in the sky.
They muttered, and each dreamed of the bright jewel she would snatch from the fair body. A fortune . . . a fortune to be made in a night, and in the righteous cause of Katharine the Queen.
“What means this?” asked newcomers.
“Nan Bullen!” chanted the crowd. “We’ll have no Nan Bullen! Queen Katharine forever!”
The crowd was swollen now; it bulged and sprawled, but it went forward, a grimly earnest, glowing procession.
Anne, at the riverside house where she had gone to take supper, saw the glow in the sky, heard the low chanting of voices.
“What is it they say?” she asked of those about her. “What is it? I think they come this way.”
Anne and her friends went out into the riverside garden, and listened. The voices seemed thousands strong.
“Nan Bullen . . . Nan Bullen. . . . We’ll not have the King’s whore . . .”
She felt sick with fear. She had heard that cry before, never at such close quarters, never so ominous.
“They have seen you come here,” whispered her hostess, and trembled, wondering what an ugly mob would do to the friends of Anne Boleyn.
“What do they want?”
“They say your name. Listen. . . .”
They stood, straining their ears.
“We’ll have none of Nan Bullen. Queen Katharine forever!”
The guests were pale; they looked at each other, shuddering. Outwardly calm, inwardly full of misery, Anne said: “Methinks I had better leave you, good people. Mayhap when they find me not here they will go away.”
And with the dignity of a queen, unhurried, and taking Anne Saville with her, she walked down the riverside steps to her barge. Scarcely daring to breathe until it slipped away from the bank, she looked back and saw the torches clearly, saw the dark mass of people, and thought for a moment of what would have happened to her if she had fallen into their hands.
Silently moved the barge; down the river it went towards Greenwich. Anne Saville was white and trembling, sobbing, but Lady Anne Rochford appeared calm.
She could not forget the howls of rage, and she felt heavy with sadness. She had dreamed of herself a queen, riding through the streets of London, acclaimed on all sides. “Queen Anne. Good Queen Anne!” She wanted to be respected and admired.
“Nan Bullen, the whore! We’ll not have a whore on the throne. . . . Queen Katharine forever!”
“I will win th
eir respect,” she told herself. “I must . . . I must! One day . . . one day they shall love me.”
Swiftly went the barge. She was exhausted when she reached the palace; her face was white and set, more haughty, more imperious, more queenly than when she had left to join the riverside party.
There was a special feast in the dormitory at Horsham. The girls had been giggling together all day.
“I hear,” said one to Catherine Howard, “that this is a special occasion for you. There is a treat in store for you!”
Catherine, wide-eyed, listened. What? she wondered. Isabel was smiling secretly; they were all in the secret but Catherine.
She had her lesson that day, and found Manox less adventurous than usual. The Duchess dozed, tapped her foot, admonished Catherine—for it was true she stumbled over her playing. Manox sat upright beside her—the teacher rather than the admiring and passionate friend. Catherine knew then how much she looked forward to the lessons.
She whispered to him: “I have offended you?”
“Offended me! Indeed not; you could never do aught but please me.”
“Methought you seemed aloof.”
“I am but your instructor in the virginals,” he whispered. “It has come to me that were the Duchess to discover we are friends, she would be offended; she might even stop the lessons. Would that make you very unhappy, Catherine?”
“Indeed it would!” she said guilelessly. “More than most things I love music.”
“And you do not dislike your teacher?”
“You know well that I do not.”
“Let us play. The Duchess is restive; she will hear our talking at any moment now.”
She played. The Duchess’s foot tapped in a spritely way; then it slowed down and stopped.
“I think of you continually,” said Manox. “But with fear.”
“Fear?”
“Fear that something might happen to stop these lessons.”
“Oh, nothing must happen!”
“And yet how easily it could! Her Grace has but to decide that she would prefer you to have another teacher.”
“I would beg her to let you stay.”
His eyes showed his alarm.
“You should not do that, Catherine!”
“But I should! I could not bear to have another teacher.”
“I have been turning over in my mind what I would say to you today. We must go cautiously, Catherine. Why, if Her Grace knew of our . . . our friendship . . .”
“Oh, we will be careful,” said Catherine.
“It is sad,” he said, “for only here do we meet, under the Duchess’s eyes.”
He would talk no more. When she would have spoken, he said: “Hush! Her Grace will awaken. In future, Catherine, I shall appear to be distant to you, but mistake me not, though I may seem merely your cold, hard master, my regard for you will be as deep as ever.”
Catherine felt unhappy; she thrived on caresses and demonstrations of affection, and so few came her way. When the Duchess dismissed her, she returned to the young ladies’ apartments feeling deflated and sad at heart. She lay on her bed and drew the curtains round it; she thought of Manox’s dark eyes and how on several occasions he had leaned close to her and kissed her swiftly.
In the dormitory she could hear the girls laughing together, preparing for tonight. She heard her own name mentioned amidst laughter.
“A surprise . . .”
“Why not . . .”
“Safer too . . .”
She did not care for their surprises; she cared only that Manox would kiss her no more. Then it occurred to her that he had merely liked her as a young and attractive man might like a little girl. It was not the same emotion as the older people felt for each other; that emotion of which Catherine thought a good deal, and longed to experience. She must live through the weary years of childhood before that could happen; the thought made her melancholy.
Through her curtains she listened to running footsteps. She heard a young man’s voice; he had brought sweetmeats and dainties for the party tonight, he said. There were exclamations of surprise and delight.
“But how lovely!”
“I declare I can scarce keep my hands off them.”
“Tonight is a special occasion, didst know? Catherine’s coming of age . . .”
What did they mean? They could laugh all they liked; she was not interested in their surprises.
Evening came. Isabel insisted on drawing back the curtains of Catherine’s bed.
“I am weary tonight,” said Catherine. “I wish to sleep.”
“Bah!” laughed Isabel. “I thought you would wish to join in the fun! Great pains have I taken to see that you should enjoy this night.”
“You are very kind, but really I would rather retire.”
“You know not what you say. Come, take a little wine.”
The guests began to arrive; they crept in, suppressing their laughter. The great room was filled with the erotic excitement which was always part of these entertainments. There were slapping and kisses and tickling and laughter; bed curtains pulled back and forth, entreaties for caution, entreaties for less noise.
“You’ll be the death of me, I declare!”
“Hush! Her Grace . . .”
“Her Grace is snoring most elegantly. I heard her.”
“People are often awakened by their snores!”
“The Duchess is. I’ve seen it happen.”
“So has Catherine, has she not, when she is having her lesson on the virginals with Henry Manox!”
That remark seemed to be the signal for great laughter, as though it were the most amusing thing possible.
Catherine said seriously: “That is so. Her snores do awaken her.”
The door opened. There was a moment’s silence. Catherine’s heart began to hammer with an odd mixture of fear and delight. Henry Manox came into the room.
“Welcome!” said Isabel. Then: “Catherine, here is your surprise!”
Catherine raised herself, and turned first red, then white. Manox went swiftly to her and sat on her bed.
“I had no notion . . .” began Catherine breathlessly.
“We decided it should be a secret. . . . You are not displeased to see me?”
“I . . . of course not!”
“Dare I hope that you are pleased?”
“Yes, I am pleased.”
His black eyes flashed. He said: “’Twas dangerous, little Catherine, to kiss you there before the Duchess. I did it because of my need to kiss you.”
She answered: “It is dangerous here.”
“Bah!” he said. “I would not fear the danger here . . . among so many. And I would have you know, Catherine, that no amount of danger would deter me.”
Isabel came over.
“Well, my children? You see how I think of your happiness!”
“This was your surprise, Isabel?” said Catherine.
“Indeed so. Are you not grateful, and is it not a pleasant one?”
“It is,” said Catherine.
One of the young gentlemen came over with a dish of sweetmeats, another with wine.
Catherine and Manox sat on the edge of Catherine’s bed, holding hands, and Catherine thought she had never been so excited nor so happy, for she knew that she had stepped right out of an irksome childhood into womanhood, where life was perpetually exciting and amusing.
Manox said: “We can be prim now before Her Grace, and what care I! I shall be cold and aloof, and all the time you will know that I long to kiss you.” Thereupon he kissed her and she kissed him. The wine was potent; the sweetmeats pleasant. Manox put an arm about Catherine’s waist.
Darkness came to the room, as on these occasions lights were never used for fear they should be detected in their revels.
Manox said: “Catherine, I would be alone with you completely. . . . Let us draw these curtains.” And so saying he drew the curtains, and they were shut in, away from the others.
October mists hung
over Calais. Anne was reminded of long ago feasting at Ardres and Guisnes, for then, as now, Francis and Henry had met and expressed their friendship; then Queen Katharine had been his Queen; now the chief lady from England was the Marchioness of Pembroke, Anne herself. Anne felt more at ease than she had for four years. Never had she felt this same certainty that her ambition would be realized. The King was ardent as ever, impatient with the long delay; Thomas Cromwell had wily schemes to present to His Majesty; there was something ruthless about the man; he was the sort one would employ to do any deed, however dangerous, however murky—and, provided the reward was great enough, one felt the deed would be done.
So, at the highest peak of glory she had so far reached, she could enjoy the pomp and ceremony of this visit to France, which was being conducted as a visit of a king and his queen. The King was ready to commit to the Tower any who did not pay her full honor. When, a month ago, she had been created Marchioness of Pembroke she had acquired with this high honor the establishment of a queen. She must have her train-bearer, her ladies of the bedchamber, her maids of honor, her gentlemen-in-waiting, her officers, and at least thirty domestics for her own use. What Henry wished the world to know was that the only thing that kept the Marchioness from being Queen in name was the marriage ceremony. “By God!” said Henry to Anne. “That shall take place before you are much older, sweetheart!”
They had stayed four days at Boulogne, and there Anne had met with some slight rebuff, being unable to attend the festivities which the French arranged for Henry, as the French ladies had not come with Francis. It was understandable that Francis’s wife should not come, for on the death of Claude he had married Charles’s sister Eleanor, and Henry was known to have said, when the visit was being discussed, that he would rather see a devil than a lady in Spanish dress. The Queen of France therefore could not come. There remained Francis’s sister, the Queen of Navarre, but she had pleaded illness. Consequently there were no ladies of the French court to greet Henry and his Marchioness. Doubtless it was a slight, but such slights would be quickly remedied once Anne wore a crown.
Now they were back at Calais and very soon, with her ladies, Anne would go down to the great hall for the masked ball; she must however wait until supper was concluded, since the banquet was attended only by men. Contentedly she browsed, thinking of the past months, thinking of that state ceremony at Windsor, when the King had made her Marchioness of Pembroke—the first woman ever to be created a peer of the realm. What a triumph that had been! And how she, with her love of admiration and pomp, of which she was the center, had enjoyed every minute of it! Ladies of noble birth, who previously had thought themselves so far above her, had been forced to attend her in all humility; Lady Mary Howard to carry her state robes; the Countesses of Rutland and Sussex to conduct her to the King; my lords of Norfolk and Suffolk with the French ambassador to attend the King in the state apartments. And all this ceremony that they might do honor to Anne Boleyn. She pictured herself afresh, in her surcoat of crimson velvet that was lined with ermine, her lovely hair flowing; herself kneeling before the King while he very lovingly and tenderly placed the coronet on the brow of his much loved Marchioness.