by Jean Plaidy
He said gently: “I understand . . . of course I understand. But would you take a word of advice?”
She turned her eyes upon him, smiling, thinking him the handsomest and most charming person she had met since entering the house.
“I am ever ready to take good advice,” she said.
“It would be most unwise to carry tales of this matter to Her Grace.”
“Why so?”
“You have told me that you were a nurse before you came here. I am but a musician. I instruct ladies at whichever musical instrument it is decreed they shall learn to play.” His voice became caressing. “You and I are but humble folk; do you think we should be believed? Nay! It is you who would be turned from the house, were you to tell Her Grace what you have seen!”
This was fuel to the bitterness in her; she had lived in noble houses, and had longed to be one of the nobility; she saw every situation from this angle. I am as good as they are. . . . Why should I have to serve them, just because I was born in a humble house, and they in castles!
“Well I can believe that the blame would be put on me, rather than on those delinquents.”
He leaned closer to her. “Depend upon it, it most assuredly would! That is the way of life. Be silent about what you see, fair lady.”
“I cannot tell you what it means to me to have met you,” she said. “Your sympathy warms me, gives me courage.”
“Then I am indeed glad that I walked this way.”
Mary Lassells was trembling with excitement. No young man had ever taken notice of her before. The eyes of this one were warm and friendly, one might say bold. Mary began to feel very happy, very glad that she had joined the Duchess’s retinue after all.
“Do you often walk this way?” she asked.
He kissed her hand. “We shall meet again ere long.”
She was anxious to make it definite. “I shall doubtless walk here tomorrow.”
“That is well to know,” he said.
They walked through the orchards down to the river’s edge. It was a lovely spring day, and she thought there had never been any scene more beautiful than that of the river gliding by the blossoming trees. The sun, she was sure, was warmer today, and the birds seemed to sing more joyously. Manox sang too; he sang pleasantly; music was his passion, the only one to which he could remain faithful through his life. Mary thought: He means he is happy too, to sing thus.
They went into the house. That encounter had changed Mary; everything to her looked different, and people looked at her and thought her less plain than they had imagined. She hummed the song which Manox had sung; she was pleasant and smiling, forgetting the social barriers between her and most of the others. She smiled in a kindly way on the Duchess’s little granddaughter. It is well, thought Mary, that I am not of noble birth; a musician would be a tolerable match for me.
In less than a week she was rudely awakened. She had seen Manox on several occasions, and on each he had continued to charm her. On this day she went to the dormitory in the middle of the morning, having been down to the orchards, having sat for a full hour on the overturned tree-trunk, waiting in vain. She opened the door of the dormitory; the curtains were drawn back from most of the beds, and on one in a corner—young Catherine Howard’s—sat the little girl, and with her Henry Manox. They sat side by side, their arms about each other; he was caressing the child, and Catherine was flushed and laughing. It was a great shock to Mary; she stood still, staring at them. Then Manox rose and said: “Ah! Here is Mistress Lassells!”
Mary stood, struggling with her emotions, thinking: How foolish of me! He likes children; he doubtless came here on some errand, saw the child, and made much of her. But what business could Henry Manox have in the ladies’ dormitory? And had he not known that this was the hour when she would be waiting to see him in the orchards!
Manox was plausible. In his numerous love affairs he had found himself in many a delicate situation; with grace he had ever managed to set matters right, if only temporarily.
He went swiftly to Mary and said to her: “I had a message to bring here; I am really but a servant; and when I came here, the little girl needed comforting.”
She accepted his explanation; because she felt Catherine to be but a child, it did not occur to her that they could possibly be lovers. She smiled again, quite happy. Manox thought, My God! She would be a vindictive woman! And he cursed himself for having light-heartedly indulged in this mild flirtation with her. She had been so prim, so seemingly virtuous, that he could not resist the temptation; he had wanted to show her that what she lacked was, not the desire to sin, but the opportunity.
He escaped, and the situation was saved; but this could not always be so, and he would not give up Catherine for Mary Lassells.
There came a night when Manox, unable to stay away longer, recklessly went to Catherine though he knew Mary would discover this. Mary pulled the curtains about her bed, and wept tears of bitter humiliation. If she had hated the world before she had met Manox, now she hated it a thousand times more; and her hatred was directed, not against Manox, but against Catherine Howard. The wanton! The slut! she thought. And she a great lady to be! A Howard! So much for the nobility—a cousin to the Queen! And who is the Queen? Another such as Catherine Howard. Why, in this wicked world does sin go unpunished and virtue unrewarded?
Her eyes were narrow with weeping. She would go to the Duchess at once, were it not that Manox would suffer. Catherine Howard would be beaten, possibly sent away, but they would hush the matter up so that scandal should not be brought to the house of Howard. It would be Manox who would suffer most, for he was low-born like herself, of no importance; it was such as they who suffered for the sins of the nobility.
Who knew that Manox might not come to his senses, that he might not learn to cherish virtue, that he might discard that vile slut, Catherine Howard, who was not yet in her teens and yet had sunk to the very depths of wickedness! Sexual immorality was surely the most violent form of sin; for such did one burn in hell. To steal and to murder were to commit evil crimes, it was true; but what crime could compare with the wickedness of Catherine Howard!
She would not tell though, for Manox’s sake; she would hope that one day he would see his folly, that he would repent . . . that before the blossom gave way to leaves on the trees in the orchard, he would come to her and tell her he had been a fool.
He did not, and there was mockery in his eyes. One day she met him by the river, and telling herself that she must save him from his folly, she went to him, and with burning eyes and lips that trembled demanded: “Man, what meanest thou to play the fool of this fashion! Knowest thou not that an my lady of Norfolk knew of the love between thee and Mistress Howard she will undo thee? She is of a noble house; and if thou should’st marry her, some of her blood will kill thee.”
Manox threw back his head and laughed, knowing full well what had caused her to utter such warning, mocking her, laughing at her. He said that she need have no fear for him, since his intentions were strictly of a dishonorable nature.
Angry and humiliated, Mary went into the house. If Manox would not accept her warning against the folly of pursuing this affair, perhaps Catherine would. She found Catherine stitching at a piece of tapestry in the sewing-room.
“I would have speech with you, Mistress Howard.”
Catherine looked up; she knew little of Mary Lassells, and had not greatly liked what she did know, agreeing with most of the others that the woman was prudish and dull.
“Yes?” said Catherine.
“I have come to warn you. You are very young, and I do not think you realize what you do. What you do with Manox is . . . criminal!”
“I understand you not,” said Catherine haughtily, and would have moved away, but Mary caught her arm.
“You must listen. Manox is amusing himself with you. He jokes about your willingness.”
“You lie!” said Catherine.
“I have just come from him,” said Mary with a
virtuous air, “having wished—for indeed I feel it would be but Her Grace’s pleasure—to beg him to cease his attentions to yourself. I pointed out to him what reckless folly this was, and how, if he married you, one of your house would surely work his ruin. He boasted that his intentions were only dishonorable.”
Catherine flushed hotly, hating the pale prim face of Mary Lassells, suddenly afraid, suddenly seeing this beautiful love of hers in a different light. It was sordid now, not beautiful at all. She had been wrong to indulge in it. Manox despised her; many people would despise her; Heaven help her if what she had done should ever get to her grandmother’s ears! But chiefly she suffered from Manox’s words. His intentions were dishonorable! What a wicked thing for him to have said! Could it be that he was not the adoring, the faithful and gallant, the courteous lover she had believed him to be?
Catherine was hot with rage.
“Fie upon him!” she cried. “Where is he now? I will go to him, and you shall come with me. I will demand of him whether you have spoken the truth.”
There was nothing Mary could do but conduct Catherine to him there in the orchards, where the thick trees helped to shield those who wished to meet clandestinely. Mary had one thought—and that to break up this foolish affair of Manox’s with Catherine Howard. She visualized Manox’s repentance, her own great understanding; a marriage between them would be so suitable.
Manox looked startled to see them both; Catherine flushed and angry, Mary smiling secretly.
“I would have you know,” said Catherine in such a fine temper that she could not control it, “that I despise you, that I hate you, that I never wish to see you again!
“Catherine!” gasped Manox. “What does this mean?”
“I know what you have said to this . . . woman, of me.”
He was shaken. There was something tremendously attractive about Catherine Howard; her complete enjoyment of physical contact made for his enjoyment; never had he known one so innocently abandoned and responsive; she was a lovely child; her youth was enchanting, and must add piquancy to the affair; he had never had such an experience. And he was not going to lose her if he could help it. He threw a venomous glance at Mary Lassells, which she saw, and which wounded her deeply.
“Catherine,” he said, and would have embraced her there in front of Mary Lassells, but she held off haughtily.
“Do not touch me! I would have you know that I shall never again allow you to do so.”
“I must make you understand,” said Manox, covering his face with his hands and forcing tears into his eyes. “I love you entirely, Catherine, I have said nothing that could offend. How could I, when my only thought is for your happiness!”
She repeated what Mary had told her. Mary burst out spitefully: “Thou canst not deny it, Manox, to my face!”
“I know not what I say,” said Manox, his voice shaking with anguish. “All I know is that my passion for you so transports me beyond the bounds of reason that I wist not what I say!”
Catherine could never bear to see anyone in distress; her heart softened at once.
“I am very displeased,” she said, and it was obvious that she was weakening.
Ignoring Mary Lassells, Manox slipped an arm about Catherine; Mary, in bitter defeat, turned and ran into the house.
Catherine walked in friendly fashion through the orchards, listening to his protestations of love, but although she said she forgave him, it not being in her nature to harbor ill-feeling for long, as she was always ready to believe the best of people and could not happily see anyone suffer, she was shaken, and badly shaken.
Mary Lassells had made her see this love affair in a different light. She never felt the same towards Manox again; and, being Catherine, in need of love, she must look about her for a more worthy object on which to lavish her affection.
Every citizen who could find a boat to hold him was on the Thames that May morning; along the banks of the river the crowd thronged. Beggars had come into the city to view the procession, and pickpockets hoped to ensure a profitable day’s work among the press of people. The taverns were full and over-flowing; at all points of vantage people stood, sat or knelt, mounted posts or one another’s shoulders to get a good view of the celebrations in honor of Queen Anne’s coronation.
From the river bank, Catherine watched with some of the ladies, among them Dorothy Barwicke and Mary Lassells. There was festivity and recklessness in the air today. All the ladies giggled and looked for someone with whom to flirt; they had decked themselves out in their gayest clothes in order to do honor to the new Queen. Most of the young people were ready to admire her; it was chiefly the old ones who continued to murmur against her, and even they were lethargic in their disapproval on this day. When she had been the King’s mistress it was one thing; now she was Queen it was another. The King had married her; the Pope had not sanctioned the divorce; Rome considered the marriage illegal; but what matter! England was no longer under the Pope; it owed allegiance to none but its own great King. Weighty matters these, which the people did not fully understand; they worshiped in the same way as before, and the same religious rites were observed, so what matter! And even those who pitied sad Katharine and reviled flaunting, wicked Anne, enjoyed a day’s pleasure. And this honor which the King would do to his newly made Queen was to be such a spectacle, so lavish in its display, as to outdo even Tudor splendor.
The Queen was to come from Greenwich to the Tower, and the coronation would take place at Westminster; there would be days of rejoicing, days of processions, and the citizens of London ever loved such occasions.
Mary Lassells would have liked to voice her opinions of the new Queen, but thought it wise to keep quiet. Here was another example of sin’s being lauded and feted; but she knew well enough the folly of talking too freely. The King was determined to have no opposition; already she had heard that the dungeons at the Tower of London were full of those who spoke rashly; well she knew that the instruments of torture were being over-worked. It was not for a humble person to run into danger.
Silly Catherine Howard was filled with childish glee, talking incessantly of her dear, beautiful cousin whom she loved devotedly. “I declare I shall die of pride . . .” babbled Catherine Howard. “I declare I can scarce wait for her royal barge . . .”
Mary Lassells talked with Dorothy Barwicke about the wickedness of Manox and Catherine. Dorothy listened and feigned disgust, not mentioning that she had carried many a message from Manox to Catherine, had helped to make their meetings easy, that she had taken over Isabel’s task of advancing Catherine’s love affair so that she, Catherine, might be involved in the practices which occurred in the ladies’ apartments and thereby be prevented from carrying stories to her grandmother. Not, thought Dorothy, that Isabel need have feared. Catherine was no tale-bearer, but the last person in the world to wish to make trouble for others. With Mary Lassells it was quite another matter; Dorothy knew she must go cautiously with Mary.
Catherine’s bright eyes had seen a little group of gentlemen along the riverbank. The gentlemen looked interested in the party of young ladies, recognizing them as of the Duchess’s retinue.
“I can tell you who they are,” whispered one laughing-eyed girl to Catherine. “They are your uncle the Duke’s young gentlemen.”
This was so, for the Duke of Norfolk kept in his household certain gentlemen of good birth and low fortune, most of whom could claim some connection—however distant—with himself. He called them his household troop; they were really pensioners; their only duty was to guard his interests wherever they might be, in time of war to follow him in the field, to back him in his quarrels, to be ever ready to defend him should the need arise. For this he paid them well, fed and clothed them, and gave them little to do—except when he should need them—but amuse themselves. The Earl of Northumberland had a similar retinue in his house; they had always had such, and found it difficult to discard this relic of the feudal system. The gentlemen, having nothing to do but amu
se themselves, did this with gusto; they were a high-spirited group, reckless and daring, seeking adventure in any form.
It was a little band of these gentlemen who now found an opportunity of speaking to the ladies of the Duchess’s household whom they had seen often, for the Duke’s residence was close by his stepmother’s, and its gardens and orchards also ran down to the river.
“Look!” cried Dorothy Barwicke, and Catherine’s attention was taken from the young men to the river. Numerous barges, containing the chief citizens of London with their Lord Mayor, were passing by on their way to greet the Queen. The merchants presented a brilliant sight in their scarlet clothes and the great heavy chains about their necks. A band of musicians was playing in the city state barge.
Catherine began to sing, keeping time with the band; one of the young men on the river bank joined in. Catherine noticed that he was quite the handsomest of the group, and as she sang, she could not take her eyes from him. He pointed to a barge, calling her attention to what appeared to be a dragon which capered about the deck, shaking its great tail and spitting fire into the river, to the intense delight of all who beheld it. Catherine laughed gleefully, and the young man laughed; she believed he was urging his companions to get nearer to her and her friends. Catherine shrieked with excitement, watching the monsters who were helping the dragon to entertain the citizens. Catherine’s eyes filled with ready tears as a barge came into view containing a choir of young girls, singing softly. Catherine could hear the words they sang, which were of the beauty and virtue of Queen Anne.
There was a long wait before the return of the procession bringing with it the Queen. There was however plenty with which to beguile themselves, on such a day.
Sweetmeats were handed round; there was wine to drink and little cakes to nibble. It was all very pleasant, especially when Catherine found the handsome young man standing beside her, offering sweets.