Will I never be safe? she thought as she scanned the room, searching for a suitable place to hide it. Although, she reasoned, if she found one, it was likely she was not the first person to have used it, so it would not be secure. Instead, she wrapped the book in an old chemise and hid it at the bottom of the trunk. She would consider whether or not to continue her journal; after all, it was not only her safety that could be compromised. There was a clatter of feet and noise outside and her sister was announced.
“Enter,” called Catherine, and moments later was enveloped in a hug from Margaret Douglas, followed by Kathy Knollys. Jane Boleyn, even now she had been accepted into the inner circle of Catherine’s ladies, was still shy and held back. Isabel skirted the little group, her arms full of a silver and white gown which she placed on the bed.
“This is cloth of gold,” she said as she began unlacing Catherine. “Once you’re in it, try not to sit down.”
“Why not?” asked Catherine, who could not take her eyes off the beautiful gown.
“Cloth of gold is exactly what it says,” said Jane. “Real gold is woven into the fabric. The trouble is, gold doesn’t work too well in gowns. It’s metal, so it can bend out of shape if you sit down for too long and it won’t bend back.”
“What happens?” asked Catherine, not sure if the women were teasing her.
“Nothing happens, Kitten,” assured Kathy Knollys. “But it just makes the skirt a peculiar shape, that’s all.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Catherine giggled. “Although, I suppose it’s no more ridiculous than me being queen.”
An hour later, she was poised by the great fireplace in her rooms, as she waited for the first meeting with Henry’s daughters. Lady Mary, the eldest, was now twenty-four, while Lady Elizabeth was a child of seven. It was Lady Mary who daunted Catherine the most. She was great friends with Margaret Douglas, so Catherine hoped this would soften Lady Mary towards her. Not only was Mary some years older than Catherine, she was the daughter of Henry’s first wife, Katherine of Aragon: a Spanish princess and the woman who, in many people’s eyes, had always been the rightful queen. Elizabeth was the daughter of Anne Boleyn, Henry’s second wife and Catherine’s cousin. Although Catherine had never met her, she already felt closer to Elizabeth. They were blood family and, in Catherine’s mind, this counted for a great deal.
“Issy, you and Edward were their guardians for a while, after Jane Seymour died, what are they like?”
“Elizabeth is a sweet girl,” replied Isabel. “She’s extremely intelligent but shy. Once you’ve won her trust, she’s very loyal and loving. She reminds me a great deal of my eldest boy, Henry. Serious but with a huge capacity for fun.”
“And Mary?”
“Kitty, you have to remember Mary has had a difficult life,” said Isabel. “She was wrenched away from her mother and barred from seeing or speaking to her. Her father was less than kind in his treatment of her for a very long time. Sadly, she blames Anne Boleyn for his cruelty. But again, once you get to know her and win her trust, she can be very caring. Lady Cleves was very warm to all of Henry’s children, so they’ll appreciate the fact that you’ve helped her to retain her dignity. There are many women in your position who would have seen her banished.”
“Then they are not nice women,” said Catherine.
“Indeed, they aren’t, Kitty, but they are often ruthless and clever, which is sometimes what you need to survive in Henry’s court.”
“The Lady Cleves was determined to bring the royal children together as a family,” said Catherine thoughtfully. “I shall try to continue what she began. After all, we are all motherless, are we not? You and I too.”
Issy nodded. “If you can achieve that, then you will have done a good thing.”
“The Lady Mary and the Lady Elizabeth,” the herald announced and Catherine felt her stomach churn with nerves. Surreptitiously she wiped her damp palms on the sides of her magnificent gown.
She remembered being a face in the crowd, a mere maid, watching when Anne of Cleves had been presented to Henry at Greenwich in January and envying her the beauty of her cloth of gold gown. No one had ever told her that wearing such a dress would be so uncomfortable. It was cumbersome and heavy on her hips, making her legs ache. She assumed she would eventually get used to it, like all the other trappings of being a queen.
“Remember, they will curtsey to you,” whispered Margaret, who was standing beside her, excited to be seeing her friend and cousin, Lady Mary. “You only have to nod, you’re going to be their mother.”
The doors were flung open and Henry’s daughters entered. Mary swept in first, her confidence and certainty reminding Catherine of Margaret; she sank to the floor in a low and elegant curtsey. Elizabeth followed and copied her older sister; both remained motionless with their heads bowed. Catherine remembered what she and Isabel had rehearsed while she had been getting ready. Taking a deep breath and hoping her voice would not let her down, she spoke: “My dears, what a pleasure to meet you at last, please rise and let us get to know each other properly.”
Elizabeth stood at once and surveyed Catherine with huge, dark eyes that reminded her forcibly of Anne Boleyn. Her hair was a deep Tudor red and her skin pale and delicate. Mary rose more slowly and Catherine was slightly intimidated. Although they were of a similar height, Mary too had flowing auburn hair and was exquisitely pretty. Her features were dainty and her skin was slightly darker than Elizabeth’s, with a faint hint of pink along her cheekbones. Her eyes were paler, somewhere between hazel and green, but it was her icy poise that unnerved Catherine.
“It’s an honour to meet you too,” replied Mary, but her eyes were cold as she appraised her new stepmother-to-be. They flickered away from Catherine and towards Margaret, who curtseyed then beamed at her cousin. Mary’s whole expression changed as she grinned in return.
“Come, let us sit a while,” said Catherine, trying to ignore the obvious dislike emanating from the two girls. She indicated the circle of chairs that had been arranged near the window and took the largest, most impressive chair in the centre. “My ladies and I have decided to create a tapestry for the Lady Anne of Cleves, to welcome her to her new home. Perhaps you would like to join us.”
With great reluctance, Mary took the chair to Catherine’s right. Elizabeth sat on her left. The other ladies arranged themselves on the chairs. Margaret slid in beside Mary, while Kathy Knollys and Jane Boleyn moved towards Elizabeth. Suddenly, the little girl saw Isabel and, for a moment, the seven-year-old princess forgot herself.
“Lady B!” she squealed and hurled herself into Isabel’s arms. “I’ve missed you and Sir Edward. When can we play with Henry and Francis again?”
Isabel hugged the little girl tightly.
“We’ll have to ask Lady Catherine if she can arrange for you to spend some time at court, then you can see my boys again, my lady,” replied Isabel. “Do you think that would be possible, my dear?” she asked, looking at her over Elizabeth’s head.
“I’ll arrange it at once,” replied Catherine. Elizabeth beamed and returned to her seat beside Catherine. She picked up a piece of embroidery and began sewing, humming quietly to herself. Catherine felt a small flutter of relief. She had always known Elizabeth would be easier to win over than Mary but this seemed too simple. Mary, too, had begun working on the tapestry. She also looked up and smiled at Isabel.
“It’s good to see you again, Lady Baynton, I’ve missed our discussions,” she said.
“I too,” replied Isabel. “No one has your depth and understanding of the scriptures, my lady.”
Mary looked delighted and blushed slightly.
“We are creating the story of Susanna,” said Catherine to Mary as they began to work on the virgin linen draped before them.
“The woman who was accused by a host of men of something she didn’t do and nearly paid with her life,” replied Mary.
“It seemed appropriate,” said Catherine. For a moment, there was a glimmer of
a smile at the corner of Mary’s mouth. However, she did not respond; she merely gave Catherine a quizzical look, then returned to her needlework.
Maybe this won’t be so hard after all, thought Catherine, as she, too, suppressed a smile.
Chapter Ten
Catherine was in a foul mood. The heat of the July sun was making her uncomfortable and the midges by the river at Hampton Court were biting rabidly, leaving her usually soft, smooth skin covered in red marks. Worse, her fear was increasing daily as the true and terrible power of Henry’s court unfolded around her. Each morning she waited, her heart pounding with dread at the prospect of her impending marriage to the king. Now things had taken another unexpected turn and she was ready to boil over.
Marching furiously into her chambers, she demanded, “Will someone please explain why I have to suffer the attentions of Katherine Tilney, Joan Bulmer and Mary Lascelles?”
Her uncle and her step-grandmother looked up from their conversation.
“Are you unhappy with your ladies-in-waiting?” asked Agnes Tilney.
“Yes!” replied Catherine. “Tilney and Bulmer are ridiculous, empty-headed fools and Lascelles is sneaky.”
“You ungrateful little baggage,” Agnes snarled. “Perhaps, my lady, it would befit you to remember who cared for you and created this opportunity for you to rise so high…”
“Enough, woman!” snapped Thomas Howard to his stepmother. “It was none of your doing — that is most certain.”
Agnes looked as though she was about to retort then thought better of it.
“Unfortunately, Kitten, they are members of our extended family and, as such, it presents a united front to the rest of the world if they are part of your train — even if they are fools,” he added. “Agnes, ensure they have minimum contact with Catherine. The same goes for Bess Seymour.”
This time both women looked horrified.
“Lady Cromwell?” questioned Agnes. “That uppity madam who’s married to Thomas Cromwell’s son, Gregory?”
“Yes,” said Thomas Howard smoothly. “She’s also aunt to the future king of England, unless Prince Edward predeceases his father, so it’s better to keep her close for the present. We never know when our sworn enemies may need to become our bosom friends.”
Catherine turned away from them both in disgust. She had hoped the women who had plagued her life during her time with her step-grandmother were a distant memory but it seemed, once again, she was being forced into their company. She had not liked them then and there was no reason her opinion of them would have changed. It was a cruel twist of her uncle’s manipulations that these women would once again haunt her days, adding to the constant nightmares she was having when she faced the prospect of spending every evening in bed succumbing to the king’s passions.
Feeling sick at the prospect, she wondered how on earth she had arrived at such a position. She had hoped her marriage, when it came, would set her free. She would have a home of her own, possibly a title, definitely an income and freedom from her family. Yet, her marriage to the king seemed to tie her kin to her even more tightly as they took advantage of her elevated status.
Stalking away, craving the refuge of her private solar, she hoped for some peace before being primped, polished and powdered to be paraded before the king at dinner as his perfect, precious poppet, his sweet little plaything. Despite the jewels, the dresses and the luxury in which she now lived that far surpassed anything she had ever imagined, she was sickened by her gilded cage.
“There is one more thing, Catherine,” called her uncle. “A date has been set for your wedding, the twenty-eighth of this month, July, in the year of our lord 1540. Cromwell is to be executed the same day,” he added almost as an afterthought. “You will travel to Oatlands Palace in Surrey, not far from here, for the ceremony, then in August, you will return to Hampton Court where you will formally be introduced as Queen of England. I doubt Henry will arrange your coronation until you provide him with a son, so make sure you are willing once you are in his bed. We need a male Howard heir as quickly as possible.”
Catherine did not turn; she merely nodded, then continued into her solar and quietly shut the door before allowing tears to engulf her. There was no chance of escape now. Nevertheless, she knelt down at her prie-dieu and began praying for a miracle.
Would poison be the answer? she wondered, but suicide was a crime against God. The thought of facing the wrath of heaven and being cast into the eternal fires of hell scared her more than the idea of bedding the king. Looking for comfort, she opened the magnificent leather-bound Bible on her lectern. It was in Latin and she enjoyed the rhythm of the words. The beautiful illuminations also gave her peace and she would often try to imagine herself lost within their vibrant colours, disappearing from the horror of her life.
It was as she carefully opened the great book that she saw it: the edge of a piece of parchment sticking out from between the pages. With careful fingers, she eased it free and, to her delight, saw it was a letter from Anne, carefully written in their secret code. Hurrying to her writing desk, Catherine opened one of the drawers and slid her fingers carefully down the side until she felt the tiny mechanism that released the false bottom and removed her magnificently jewelled notebook from its silk-lined hiding place, then set to translating the note.
When Anne had first suggested the code, Catherine had thought she would never master it, but now she was becoming adept at deciphering the seemingly meaningless strings of letters. Finally, she sat back and read the note:
Sweet Kitten, by now you will know the date of your nuptials. Innocent child, may God protect and preserve you, know my home will always be your refuge. My kind friend, I have made a discovery and urge you to beware the Tilney and Bulmer women. They are traitors in your midst in the pay of the Seymours. I will implore God to deliver you from their evil ways. Good luck, my dear. Your friend, Anne.
Would these plots never end? wondered Catherine. Although a small part of her felt justified for her instinctive distrust of her former housemates. There was another question, though; when Anne referred to the Tilney women, did she include her step-grandmother, Agnes Tilney, the Dowager Duchess of Norfolk? It wouldn’t surprise me, she thought, I’m to be queen of England, nothing surprises me, least of all family betrayal.
Catherine took the note to the fireplace. It might be summer but there was always a small fire burning in order to keep the chill off the rooms. She tore the parchment into tiny fragments, throwing them one by one into the flames, watching as each scrap turned to ashes and vanished, its words lost forever before she threw on the next. As the flickering flames consumed the last piece there was a tentative knock on the door.
“Kitten, may I come in? It’s Issy.”
“Of course, Issy!”
Isabel was white-faced, her brown eyes dark with worry.
“You’ve heard, then? I am to marry the king next week and Cromwell is to die on the same day,” Catherine said.
“It’s a great honour for you and our family, you’ll be queen of England,” Isabel managed to gulp between sobs.
The sisters stared at each other as the stark reality finally engulfed them. The shadow of Catherine’s cousin, Anne Boleyn, seemed to hover at their shoulders. Despite the honours and position her marriage would bring, neither woman could find cause to rejoice.
“We must plan, Issy,” said Catherine. “Good places must be found for our siblings before Uncle and Grandmamma push their Howard and Tilney relatives forward. Charles and Margaret may now be able to reveal their feelings but I suspect the king will stop short at allowing them to marry.”
Isabel nodded.
“Our other Howard brothers, Henry and George, must be found good places in the king’s household and, our sister, Margaret, Lady Arundell, is thankfully about to join us. We must ensure Mary does too. She is young, she can be a maid of honour.” Catherine walked to her writing desk and withdrew parchment and quill, then began making notes as she spoke. “T
hen there are our Leigh sisters, they must join us too, both Joyce and Margaret Leigh. I will ensure I am surrounded by people I can trust, as I have already had word from a source I trust that we have spies in our midst.”
“It doesn’t surprise me, Kitty,” sighed Isabel, drawing up a chair next to her. “Would you tell me the names of the people we are to watch?”
“Bulmer, probably Lascelles and the Tilney women, they are in the pay of the Seymours,” she said in a voice barely above a whisper. Isabel’s lips tightened in disapproval but she did not look surprised.
“And what of our Leigh brothers?” she asked.
“Well, John is abroad, but we must get word to him quickly. The last I heard he was in contact with Cardinal Pole. It isn’t safe to fraternise with Catholics so openly, he must learn to be more subtle,” Catherine said. “We should encourage him to return to court where he will be under your influence again, Issy. You were always the only one who could control him. Then there’s Ralph, he too must be found a good position at court. I will try to ensure my family is protected and secure even if we cannot guarantee what will happen to me after I marry the king.”
“Oh, Kitten, don’t speak that way.”
“We both know it’s true,” said Catherine, but she was calm as a sense of fatality gripped her. “With luck, the king will be able to get a child on me. If God smiles, it will be a son and we will be safe. However, if he isn’t able, as I suspect is the truth, then my reign may be as short as that of Lady Cleves.”
Isabel’s eyes welled with tears.
“Promise me, Issy, if anything happens, if the king decides to do to me what he did to Cousin Anne, you’ll stay with me until the end?”
“Oh, my darling girl, please don’t speak that way…”
The Catherine Howard Conspiracy Page 15