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

by Jean Plaidy

  In the orchard, sheltered by the trees whose fruit was beginning to ripen, Catherine Howard and Francis Derham lay in each other’s arms with scarcely a thought for the momentous events which would shape the course of history.

  Francis said: “Why should they not consent to our marriage? It is true I am poor, but my birth is good.”

  “They will assuredly consent,” murmured Catherine. “They must consent!”

  “And why should it not be soon? When the Duchess is recovered from this excitement, she will surely listen to me, Catherine. Do you think that I might approach her?”

  “Yes,” said Catherine happily.

  “Then we are betrothed!”

  “Yes.”

  “Then call me husband.”

  “Husband,” said Catherine, and he kissed her.

  “I would we were away from here, wife, that at we were in our own house. I get so little opportunity for seeing you.”

  “So little,” she sighed.

  “And I hear that the Duchess’s ladies are unprincipled in some ways, that they are over-bold with men. I like it not that you should be among them.”

  “I am safe,” she said, “loving thee.”

  They kissed again, Catherine drew him closer, feeling that excessive excitement which physical contact with one who attracted her must always give her.

  Derham kissed her fervently, enchanted by her as Manox had been; but he was genuinely in love with her, and his feelings were governed by affection as well as the need to gratify his senses. She was very young, but she was ready for passion. He was a reckless young man, courageous and virile; and Catherine’s obvious longing to complete their intimacy was so alluring that he—while tenderly thinking of her age—must seek to arrange it.

  He insisted they would marry. He could think of nothing more delightful. They were really married, he told her, because according to the law of the Church it was only necessary for two free people to agree to a contract and it was made. It soothed his fears that she was too young, when he called her wife; when she called him husband, he was transported with joy.

  He meant to be tactful and kind. He knew nothing of her experience with Manox. Catherine did not tell him, not because she wished to hide it, but because Manox no longer interested her. She had asked her grandmother if she might have a new music teacher, and the old lady, too full of court matters to care what her granddaughter did, had nodded, and when Catherine had named an ascetic, middle-aged man, her grandmother had nodded again. In any case the Duchess no longer sat as chaperon during the music lessons. Manox had almost passed from Catherine’s thoughts, except on those unpleasant occasions when he would try to see her—for he was furious that she had ended the affair so abruptly, blaming Mary Lassells for this and making no secret of his hatred and contempt for the girl. Catherine wished of course that she had never known Manox, but she was too blissful to think of much else but the completion of her love with Francis Derham.

  “I have a plan,” said Derham.

  “Tell me of it.”

  “What if I were to ask Her Grace to take me into her house?”

  “Dost think she would?” Catherine was trembling at the thought.

  “I think she might.” He smiled complacently, remembering how on one occasion Her Grace had singled him out—as a most personable young man—for her special attention. “I can but try. Then we shall be under the same roof; then I may speak for you. Oh, Catherine, Catherine, how I long for that day!”

  Catherine longed for it with equal intensity.

  He almost whispered to her that they need not wait; why should they, when they were husband and wife? Catherine was waiting for him to say that; but he did not . . . yet. They lay on the grass, looking up at the ripening fruit.

  “I shall never forget the day you first called me husband,” he said. “I shall remember it when I die!”

  Catherine laughed, for death seemed far away and a most absurd topic for two young people in love.

  “I shall never forget it either,” she told him, and turned her face to his. They kissed; they trembled; they yearned for each other.

  “Soon,” he said, “I shall be in the Duchess’s house. Then I shall see you often . . . often.”

  Catherine nodded.

  On the gorgeous bed, which had been part of a French Prince’s ransom. Anne lay racked with the agony of childbirth. The King paced up and down in an adjoining room. He could hear her groans. How he loved her! For her groaning set his heart beating with fear that she would die. He was that same lover to whom news of her illness had been brought during the pestilence. “I would willingly endure half of what you suffer to cure you.” Memories of her came and went in his mind; her laughter, her gaiety; Anne, the center of attraction at the jousts and masques; sitting beside him watching the jousts in the tiltyard, so beautiful, so apart from all others that he found it difficult to turn his attention from her to the jousting; he thought of her in his arms, his love and his Queen.

  He was filled with remorse for that lapse, for the quarrel which had upset her, and—this made him break out into a clammy sweat—might have had some effect on the birth of his son.

  He paced up and down, suffering with her. How long? How long? The veins stood out on his forehead. “By God! If anything happens to her, blood will flow—that I swear!”

  The girl with whom he had dallied recently looked in at the door, smiling; she had been sent to soothe him. He looked at her without recognizing her.

  Up and down he went, straining his ears and then putting his hands over them to shut out the sound of Anne’s pain, His fear was suddenly swept away, for distinctly he heard the cry of a child, and in a second he was at the bedside, trembling with eagerness. In the chamber there was a hushed silence. The attendants were afraid to look at him. Anne lay white and exhausted, aware neither of him, nor her room, nor perhaps herself.

  “What is it?” he shouted.

  They hesitated, one looking at another, hoping that some other would take on the delicate task of breaking unpleasant news.

  His face was purple; his eyes blazing. He roared in his anguish.

  “A daughter!” His voice was almost a sob; he was defeated; he was humiliated.

  He stood, his hands clenched, words pouring from his mouth, abuse and rage; and his eyes were on Anne, lying still on the bed. This to happen to him! What had he done to deserve it? What had he ever done to deserve it? Had he not always sought to do right? Had he not spent hours of labor, studying theology; had he not written A Glasse of the Truth? Had he not delved deep into this matter before he had taken action? Had he not waited for the promptings of his conscience? And for whom had he worked and suffered? Not for himself, but for his people, to save them from the rigors of civil war which during the last century had distressed and ravaged the land. For this he had worked, sparing himself not at all, defying the wrath of his simple people who could not be expected to understand his high motives. And this was his reward . . . a daughter!

  He saw tears roll from Anne’s closed eyes; her face was white as marble; she looked as though all life had gone from her; those tears alone showed him that she had heard. And then suddenly his disappointment was pushed aside. She too had suffered deeply; she was disappointed as he was. He knelt down and put his arms about her.

  He said earnestly: “I would rather beg from door to door than forsake you!”

  When he had gone, she lay very still, exhausted by the effort of giving birth to her daughter, her mind unable to give her body the rest it needed. She had failed. She had borne a daughter, not a son! This then was how Katharine of Aragon had felt when Mary was born. The hope was over; the prophecies of the physicians and the soothsayers had proved to be meaningless. “It will be a boy,” they had assured her; and then . . . it was a girl!

  Her heartbeats, which had been sluggish, quickened. What had he said? “I would rather beg from door to door than forsake you!” Forsake you! Why should he have said that? He would surely only have
said it if the thought of forsaking her had been in his mind! He had forsaken Katharine.

  Her cheeks were wet; then she must have shed tears. I could never live in a nunnery, she thought, and she remembered how she had once believed that Katharine ought to have gone to such a place. How different the suggestion seemed when applied to oneself! She had never understood Katharine’s case until now.

  Someone bent over her and whispered: “Your Majesty must try to sleep.”

  She slept awhile and dreamed she was plain Anne Boleyn at Blickling; she was experiencing great happiness, and when she awoke she thought, Happiness then is a matter of comparison; I never knew such complete happiness, for my body was in agony and now I scarce know I have a body, and that in itself is enough.

  Fully conscious, she remembered that she was no longer a girl at Blickling, but a queen who had failed in her duty of bearing a male heir. She remembered that throughout the palace—throughout the kingdom—they would now be talking of her future, speculating as to what effect it would have upon her relationship with the King. Her enemies would be rejoicing, her friends mourning. Chapuys would be writing gleefully to his master. Suffolk would be smiling, well content. Katharine would pray for her; Mary would gloat: She has failed! She has failed! What will the King do now?

  The sleep had strengthened her; her weakness of spirit was passing. She had fought to gain her place, she would fight to keep it.

  “My baby . . .” she said, and they brought the child and laid it in her arms.

  The red, crumpled face looked beautiful to her, because the child was hers; she held it close, examining it, touching its face lightly with her fingers, murmuring, “Little baby . . . my little baby!”

  It mattered little to her now that the child was a girl, for, having seen her, she was convinced that there never had been such a beautiful child—so how could she wish to change it! She held her close, loving her and yet feeling fearful for her, for was not the child a possible Queen of England? No, there would be sons to follow. The first child had been a girl; therefore she would never sit on the throne of England, because Anne would have sons, many sons. Still, the mother must tremble for her child, must wish now that she were not the daughter of a king and queen. Suppose this baby had been born in some other home than royal Greenwich, where her sex would not have been a matter of such great importance. How happy she would have been then! There would have been nothing to think of but tending the child.

  They would have taken the baby from her, but she would not let her go. She wanted her with her, to hold her close, to protect her.

  She thought of Mary Tudor’s fanatical eyes. How the birth of this child would add fuel to the fierce fires of Mary’s resentment! Another girl to take her place, when she had lost it merely by being a girl! Before, there had been many a skirmish with Mary Tudor; now there must be deciding warfare between her and Queen Anne. For what if there were no more children! What if the fate of Queen Anne was that of Queen Katharine? Then . . . when the King was no more, there would be a throne for this child, a throne which would be coveted most ardently by Mary Tudor; and might not the people of England think Mary had the greater claim? Some considered that Katharine was still Queen, and that this newly born child was the bastard, not Mary Tudor.

  “Oh, baby,” murmured Anne, “what a troublesome world it is that you have been born into!” Fiercely she kissed the child. “But it shall be as happy for you as I can make it. I would kill Mary Tudor rather than that she should keep from you that which is your right!”

  One of the women bent over the bed.

  “Your Majesty needs to rest . . .”

  Hands took the baby; reluctantly Anne let her go.

  She said: “She shall be called Elizabeth, after my mother and the King’s.”

  The court was tense with excitement. In lowered tones the birth of Elizabeth was discussed, in state apartments, in the kitchens; women weeding in the gardens whispered together. In the streets, the people said: “What now? This is God’s answer!” Chapuys was watchful, waiting; he sounded Cromwell. Cromwell was noncommittal, cool. He felt that the King was as yet too fond of the lady to desire any change in their relationship. He was unlike Wolsey; Wolsey shaped the King’s policy while he allowed the King to believe it was his own; Cromwell left the shaping to the King, placing himself completely at the royal disposal. Whatever the King needed, Thomas Cromwell would provide. If he wished to disinherit Mary, Cromwell would find the most expeditious way of doing it; if the King wished to discard Anne, Cromwell would work out a way in which this could be done. Cromwell’s motto was, “The King is always right.”

  The King still desired Anne ardently, but though he could be the passionate lover, he wished her to realize that it was not hers to command but to obey. A mistress may command, a wife must be submissive. Yet he missed his mistress; he even felt a need to replace her. He could not look upon Anne—young, beautiful and desirable—as he had looked on Katharine. And yet it seemed to him that wives are always wives; one is shackled to them by the laws of holy church, and to be shackled is a most unpleasant condition. There was an element of spice in sin, which virtue lacked; and even though a man had a perfectly good answer to offer his conscience, the spice was there. Anne could no longer threaten to return home; this was her home, the home of which she was indubitably master. She had given him a daughter—a further proof that she was not all he had believed her to be when he had pursued her so fanatically.

  And so, in spite of his still passionate desire for her, when this was satisfied he would quickly change from lover into that mighty figure, King and master.

  This was apparent very soon after Elizabeth’s birth. Anne wanted to keep the child with her, to feed her herself, to have her constantly in her care. Apart from her maternal feelings which were strong, she feared ill might befall her daughter through those enemies whom the child would inherit from the mother.

  Seeing his daughter’s cradle in the chamber which he shared with Anne, the King was startled.

  “How now!” he growled. “What means this?”

  “I would have her with me,” said Anne, used to command, continuing to do so.

  “You would have her with you!” he repeated ominously.

  “Yes. And I shall feed her myself, for I declare I shall trust no one else with this task.”

  The King’s face was purple with rage.

  He stamped to the door and called to a startled maid of honor. She came in, trembling.

  “Take the child away!” he roared.

  The girl looked from the King to the Queen; the Queen’s face was very pale, but she did not speak. She was trembling, remembering what he had said before the child’s birth; at that time he had not waited until they were alone. “You ought to know that it is in my power in a single instant to lower you further than I raised you up!” And later, “I would rather beg from door to door than forsake you.” He cared not what he said before whom; he was so careless of her feelings that it mattered not to him if, in the court, people speculated as to whether her influence was waning. Therefore she watched the girl remove the baby, and said nothing.

  “She would disturb our rest!” said the King.

  When they were alone, Anne turned on him fiercely.

  “I wished to keep her with me. I wished to feed her myself. What could it matter . . .”

  He looked at her squarely. “Remember,” he said slowly, “that I lifted you up to be Queen of England. I ask that you do not behave as a commoner.”

  His voice matched his eyes for coldness; she had never noticed how very cold they could be, how relentless and cruel was the small mouth.

  Still trembling, she turned away from him, holding her head high, realizing that she, who a short while ago would have blazed at him demanding that her wishes be gratified, now dared do nothing but obey.

  The King watched; her hair loose about her shoulders, she reminded him suddenly of the girl in the Hever rose garden. He went to her and laid a heavy hand
on her shoulder.

  “Come, Anne!” he said, and turning her face to his kissed her. Hope soared in her heart then; she still had power to move him; she had accepted defeat too easily. She smiled.

  “You were very determined about that!” she said, trying to infuse a careless note into her voice, for she was afraid to insist on keeping Elizabeth with her, and realized the folly of showing fear to one who was, naturally a bully.

  “Come, sweetheart!” His voice was thick with the beginnings of passion; she knew him so well; she recognized his moods. “A queen does not suckle her babes. Enough of this!” He laughed. “We have a daughter; we must get ourselves a boy!”

  She laughed with him. As he caressed her, her thoughts moved fast. She had believed that, with the birth of her child, her great fight would be over; she would sink back, refreshed by new homage, into a security which could not be shaken. But Fate had been unkind; she had given the King, not that son who would have placed her so securely on the throne, but a daughter. The fight was not over; it was just beginning; for what had gone before must be a skirmish compared with what must follow. She would need all her skill now, since the very weapons which had won for her her first victories were grown blunt; and it was now not only for herself that she must fight.

  How she pitied Katharine of Aragon, who had gone through it all before her! Who was still going through it; a veteran whose weapons were endurance and tenacity. Anne would have need of equal endurance, equal tenacity, for she fought in the opposite camp. She was a mother now; she was a tigress who sees her cub in mortal danger. Katharine of Aragon she had thought of as a pitiable woman, Mary as a willful, outspoken girl; now they were her bitterest enemies, and they stood on their guard, waiting to dishonor her daughter.

  She returned Henry’s kisses.

  He said: “Anne, Anne, there’s no one like you Anne!”

  And hot anger rose within her, for she sensed that he was comparing her with the woman whom he had dallied with before her delivery. Once she would have repulsed him, stormed at him, told him what she thought; now she must consider; she must lure him afresh, she must enchant him. It would be more difficult now, but she would do it, because it was imperative that she should.