The Catherine Howard Conspiracy

by Alexandra Walsh

  “But my lord…” began Edward Seymour, stopping abruptly when Henry waved a dismissive hand towards him.

  “You’ve had my views,” replied the king, “now I have other more important things to occupy my time. Culpepper, stay with us and send a boy to bring my lute, there is something I would like to play for Mistress Howard.”

  He dismissed the members of his Privy Council with a nod and, tucking Catherine’s hand under his arm, led her away from the lime walk to one of the more secluded bowers in the garden. Isabel and Thomas kept a discreet distance. As Henry swept her around the corner Catherine caught a glimpse of her uncle’s closed, expressionless face and the look of disgusted fury on Edward Seymour’s.

  “My dear,” said Henry once they were out of earshot, “I must apologise for dozing off during our pleasant interlude. You must excuse an old man’s lapse. I believe, moments before the pressures of the day overtook me, we were discussing you dancing for me.”

  He looked down at her, his eyes teasing. She could not understand the change in the king. Last night he had been foaming at the mouth, trying to attack her, now he was behaving as though nothing had happened. Did he really have no memory of events as Thomas Culpepper claimed? Or was he, as king, using his prerogative to insist all was well and challenging anyone to question him about his behaviour? Either way, Catherine knew her only option was to play along.

  “We were indeed, sire,” she agreed.

  “And I believe we were also discussing Thomas Cromwell,” he continued.

  “Why, yes,” she murmured, revulsion swooping through her. Despite the fact Cromwell was a cruel, dangerous and ruthless man, the prospect of a violent end for anyone horrified her and, the previous night, Henry had offered her his head on a platter. Surely the angels will forgive me, she thought.

  “You must no longer worry about him, my dear,” said Henry. “Men wiser than you are investigating Thomas Cromwell, the new earl of Essex, and if the rumours about him are true, then he and I will discuss the best possible outcome. However, I trust Cromwell and am sure he will be exonerated. He does ease the path of my days, even if he does occasionally take liberties. You are neither to worry nor think you are responsible. Men write their own epitaphs.”

  They turned into a semi-circle of box hedge, which created a private exterior room. At the centre were seats and a small fountain decorated with a chubby, naked cupid. Isabel and Thomas hovered a short distance outside the little hollow.

  “We will soon have a boy like this,” said Henry, “a sturdy elf to be my duke of York, to follow in Edward’s footsteps should anything untoward happen. We can never be sure of God’s plan. After all, was not I the second son, thought to be destined for the church until the Lord decreed I would walk a different path.”

  He pulled Catherine more tightly into his side. “You were most delightful last night, my dear Catherine. I can’t wait to see you in such a way again. I yearn for our wedding night when I can have you all to myself.”

  “And when will that be, my lord?”

  “Soon, then we can be together,” he said eagerly.

  Catherine decided now was the time to speak. “Your majesty.” She hesitated. “Henry.” He smiled, so she continued, “Please be kind to the queen.”

  “What do you mean?” he asked, but his voice was gentle.

  “She’s a young woman alone in a foreign land with no champion except you,” Catherine said. “Imagine if it was one of your daughters, alone and scared, you’d want someone to protect them, someone to be kind.”

  He was listening intently and Catherine paused, unsure whether he was angry or sympathetic.

  “Continue, my dear,” he said, his tone soft.

  “She doesn’t want to return to Cleves. She’d like to remain in this country. Is there a way she can be provided for, cared for, perhaps with an establishment of her own?”

  Henry was silent for a time, considering Catherine with wonder, then he nodded.

  “You are a compassionate woman,” he said. “Most would be eager to see their rival sent away, but not you. This is what makes you such an angel. What would you have me do?”

  “Treat her kindly and with dignity. She is a royal princess and should be given such privilege, even when she is no longer your wife.”

  “Should I make her the same rank as my sister?” he asked. “She too is a royal princess. The terms of the annulment could make Anne my legal sister. You would still rank higher than she, but she would have the same privileges that she enjoyed in her home of Cleves.”

  “Oh, Henry, that would be so generous,” exclaimed Catherine.

  “Then this is what I will tell the Privy Council and the earl of Essex to ensure,” he said. “Dignity, kindness and consideration at the behest of my beautiful English rose without a thorn.”

  Catherine smiled and as the page arrived and gave Thomas Culpepper the lute, which he delivered to Henry with a bow, she settled back to listen to yet another rendition of Greensleeves. At least she knew her impending marriage to the king had done one good thing, it had saved her friend from humiliation. Now, as the music wafted over her, she prayed for her own safe deliverance from the tyrant sitting opposite her.

  Chapter Nine

  Catherine closed her eyes, allowing the golden moment to envelope her. The soft, sweet-smelling air played with her flowing hair as she trotted across the meadow on her silver mare. Laughter crept around her like a lover’s arms while the warmth of the summer sunshine stroked her face with a gentle caress. Surrounded by the people she loved, this was a rare escape and, for the first time since her betrothal to the king, Catherine allowed herself to bask in the purity of her happiness.

  “Not far now, Kitten,” called her brother, Charles. “You’ll be able to see it from the top of the next hill.”

  She opened her eyes and smiled. “And is it really as beautiful as everyone would have me believe?”

  “More than words can describe,” laughed Thomas Culpepper, riding up, accompanied by a radiant Jane Boleyn.

  “Is that true, Jane?”

  “Oh, Kitten, it’s magnificent!” she said and Catherine smiled, enjoying being with her friends.

  Henry had decided it was time the court moved away from the stench of the city to enjoy the warmer weather in the countryside at his palace in Hampton. When Edward had suggested that Catherine’s party go separately on horseback and visit the former Queen Anne at her new palace in Richmond, Catherine had hardly dared hope Henry would grant such a wish. But, in a magnanimous mood, he had squeezed her tightly and declared, “My sweet rose without a thorn, no other woman would spare a thought for her rival and yet you wish everyone to be as happy as you are yourself. Sweetheart, it is impossible for me to refuse you anything.”

  To her delight, three days later, she and her sizeable entourage had set off. She rode her new silver mare, a gift from Henry, named Moonbeam, and they had spent a happy five days at Richmond Palace with Anne before riding off like a hunting party on the ten-mile journey to Hampton Court. Charles and Lady Margaret Douglas had led the way, followed by the besotted Thomas Culpepper and Jane Boleyn, and the newly married Lady Kathryn Carey and Sir Francis Knollys, while Isabel and Edward had ridden either side of her. A lavish outdoor banquet en route had made the day even more magical.

  I will carry this happiness with me, she thought as she urged her mare up the hill after her brother and Margaret. There is joy in my new life as well as fear; I must make the most of these gifts. She glanced down at her hands and allowed herself a small secret smile when she looked at her ruby ring. This present from Anne was something that was truly hers, and not a jewel bestowed upon her by the king, one he could take back should he choose. The ruby ring and the silver locket from Isabel and Edward were her two most prized possessions and she had chosen to wear them both for her journey to Hampton Court.

  “There!” called Margaret as she and Catherine crested the hill, bringing the horses to a rapid halt.

  Catherin
e gasped in wonder. Glistening like a promise on the curve of the mighty River Thames lay the extravagant palace of Hampton Court. Spiral chimneys swirled endlessly upwards into the blue sky, mythical beasts pranced across the moat to both welcome and deter, and the glint of gold rippled through the air like fairies dancing.

  Isabel came trotting towards them on her glossy chestnut mare. “Kitten, we’ll have to make you look presentable again. We can’t have the future queen of England trotting into Base Court looking like a wild woman.”

  An hour later, neatly attired and with her French hood back in place, Catherine and her party galloped towards the glittering moat with its broad drawbridge. Brilliantly painted statues greeted them: the lion and the unicorn of England, the greyhound of Richmond, the rampant red dragon of Wales, the yale of Beaufort with its portcullis flag, the white hart of York, the bull of Clarence and the falcon of the Plantagenets, each one gilded and magnificent in the summer sun, reminding visitors of the supremacy of the Tudor monarchy. The heraldic symbolism of these creatures all emphasised the Tudor’s ancient links and Henry’s undeniable right to the throne through both his father’s Beaufort and Lancastrian blood and his mother’s York blood.

  As her silver mare trotted proudly under the great arch and clattered across the cobbles, Catherine wished she had another pair of eyes to take in all the detail, the hustle and bustle and the sheer spectacle of this place she would now call home. Through Base Court they went with its streams of people hurrying to and from the kitchens, through another magnificent archway to the huge cobbled expanse of Clock Court, where finally, her groom brought her to a halt beneath the magnificent astrological clock.

  “This place,” Catherine stammered to Isabel as her sister’s horse stopped beside her, “it’s magical.”

  Isabel laughed. Grooms hurried over and the others dismounted, merging with the crowd while Catherine remained on her mare, gazing around in awe.

  “It’s one of the most magnificent palaces in Europe,” said Isabel. “Although, the king’s new hunting lodge of Nonsuch is equally as lavish.”

  “How could anywhere be grander than here?” sighed Catherine, gazing around her at the impressive statues, the twinkling stained glass and the endless, brightly dressed courtiers and servants who were a living tapestry of energy and colour.

  “Get used to it, my dear,” said Edward Baynton, throwing his reins to his groom and dismounting in a swift, agile swoop. “This will be your home a great deal of the time once you’re married to the king.”

  At his words, Catherine felt the usual icy gasp of fear. Events had moved quickly in the last few weeks. Anne had been removed to a residence of her own and was no longer styled as queen. True to his word, Henry had granted her the status of his royal sister. Henry and Anne’s marriage was to be annulled by Archbishop Cranmer any day now, and then the date would be set for Catherine’s own wedding. She pushed the thought aside.

  Cromwell, too, had suffered Henry’s wrath. The dukes of Norfolk and Suffolk, for once allied with the earl of Hertford, had conspired to trump up charges against the Privy Seal to remove him from power, knowing that this time, Henry would support their findings, particularly as she herself had added a claim against the former Privy Seal. On the day of Cromwell’s arrest, Henry had bounded into Catherine’s chambers and announced one of his wedding gifts to her would be Cromwell’s head.

  “Just as you asked,” he had whispered. “Then we will dance.”

  He had chuckled, running a finger suggestively down her face, but Catherine had been horrified. She felt that her hands were stained with Cromwell’s blood. While others may have pulled strings, she had a sinking feeling that it was her appeal that had finally brought Cromwell tumbling to his fate.

  “But what about a trial?” she had asked.

  “Do not worry yourself,” Henry had laughed gleefully. “These are men’s travails. You, my rose without a thorn, must practise your dance steps. We have a bargain, you and I.”

  He had kissed her hand, then departed, shouting for Thomas Culpepper as he strode away, for once exhibiting some of the lost vigour of his youth. It had not lasted though, and the following day he had retired to his chamber, where he remained in bed for nearly a week. It was during his illness that he had decided to move the court from the foul-smelling air of London to the sweet countryside of Hampton.

  As Catherine was helped from her horse by one of the Howard grooms, she stared around, wondering at the enormity of the building.

  “Your rooms are this way, Kitty,” called Isabel from the grand entrance. “And later, when you are ready, the princesses will greet you.”

  Gathering her skirts, Catherine’s first instinct was to run after Isabel as quickly as possible, but then Margaret Douglas’s words of the previous day echoed in her ears.

  “You’re going to be queen, Kitten, make them wait for you,” she had laughed when she had found Catherine dashing along a corridor in response to a summons from Edward Baynton. “It isn’t very dignified to see the king’s wife racing around the place like a greyhound.”

  Despite the teasing, Catherine had learned to listen to Margaret’s advice. She was royalty. Her mother, another Margaret, was a Tudor princess and had been queen of Scotland; her half-brother was James V, the king of Scotland. She was the niece of King Henry himself, so the trappings of state and the responsibility of her status came easily. She had been born to it. Therefore, she had never questioned it and her air of entitlement, while alienating some courtiers, gave her a confidence and sophistication Catherine admired and had decided to emulate.

  She lowered her skirts again, smoothing them carefully, then did her best imitation of Margaret’s long-legged, gliding walk. Nearly, thought Catherine, as she arrived at her sister’s side. Although, it’s easier for Margaret, she’s taller than me.

  “Come on then, Issy,” said Catherine. “If you are now one of the Great Ladies of my court, lead the way to my rooms.”

  They walked along twisting corridors to the Queen’s chambers. Her guard were already positioned by the door and her herald leapt forward to usher her in. The rooms were filled with dancing summer light and the sweet herbs mixed with the strewing rushes on the floor gave a delicate fragrance. Women bustled to and fro, unpacking her trunks, shaking out her gowns and arranging the lighter pieces of furniture that had been brought to the palace a few days earlier. But as she entered, they all dropped to the floor in deep curtseys, heads bowed, eyes averted. It was so unexpected, Catherine nearly laughed, particularly as one of the older women was her step-grandmother, the Dowager Duchess of Norfolk, Agnes Tilney.

  “Rise, please ladies,” she said, again doing her best to imitate Margaret Douglas. “Grandmamma, what a surprise,” she continued, taking Agnes Tilney’s hand and raising her up.

  “My dear,” said Agnes, smiling. “The moment your father delivered you into my care as a child, I knew we could expect great things from you.”

  What nonsense, thought Catherine. You barely noticed I was alive most of the time I lived under your roof. Yet, she smiled. This was politics. While Agnes Tilney might be family, Catherine trusted her about as much as an adder.

  “Why thank you, Grandmamma,” she replied, smiling so her dimples showed. “It’s thanks to your education and careful nurturing that I have risen so high.”

  Catherine nodded a dismissal and turned to Isabel, who was watching with an amused expression on her face. Once the dowager duchess was out of earshot, Isabel murmured, “Nicely done, Kitty, you’re learning the ways of court extremely quickly.”

  Catherine linked her arm through her sister’s and walked towards the inner chambers of her court.

  “It’s safer that way,” she replied. “Will you help me choose something suitable to wear for my audience with the king’s daughters? It would be good to see Jane, Margaret and Kathy Knollys too, if the former Lady Carey can be dragged away from her new husband. I could do with the company of friends I trust before facing the cour
t.”

  “Of course,” said Isabel. “You rest in here, while I gather the troops.”

  She ushered Catherine into her bedchamber then, firmly closing the door behind her, Catherine was pleased to hear Isabel command that: “My Lady Catherine must not be disturbed” before her footsteps retreated.

  Catherine waited a few moments to be sure Isabel’s words had been heeded, then slid a square of parchment from her pocket. It was a letter from Anne, placed into her hand as they had left this morning.

  The note was short: My dear friend, your words last night have given me cause for concern. Keeping a journal is a dangerous pastime. It may preserve our deeds clearly and reveal our version of the truth, but it can also be used by one’s enemies to discredit our behaviour. Trust no one but your sister with your true feelings and burn anything you write that you would not have used against you. These are dangerous days, my dear sweet Kitten. Remember your cousin and be wise.

  Catherine noticed that Anne was heeding her own advice and had not signed the letter. She read it over and over, fear rising once more. Like Margaret Douglas, Anne had been raised in a royal household, she knew the dangers as well as the pleasures of holding positions of power. Her instinct told her to take the former queen’s advice seriously. Catherine had always kept a diary and at the end of each year, when the New Year festivities were ringing through the halls, she would take herself away and quietly burn each page, saying a small prayer of thanks or an appeal for mercy as each whisper of ash had disappeared up the chimney. Back then, she had been lowly, unimportant, and the notes she made about her everyday life had made her feel more real, more alive, as though her thoughts mattered. It had never occurred to her that now her social position had changed, her scribbled thoughts could prove to be dangerous.

  The small travelling box that held her personal effects had been placed at the foot of her bed. Heeding Anne’s words, she opened it and rummaged around for her journal. As of yet, there was very little of interest in the magnificent jewelled book but Catherine’s plan to write her own daily version of events, keeping a log of who waited upon her and what she did, a record to prove her innocence should it ever be necessary, now no longer seemed so simple.