The Catherine Howard Conspiracy

by Alexandra Walsh

  “Kitten, hush, what if someone hears,” whispered Kathy Knollys frantically.

  Catherine shrugged as though there was nothing to be done about it: this was life and they had to survive it or be crushed by the might of the Tudors.

  There was a tentative knock on the door and both women jumped. Kathy stood in front of the small writing table as Catherine called, “Enter.” Margaret Douglas swept in, followed by Charles Howard and Catherine and Charles’s other sister, Margaret Arundell. Both Margarets dropped into a curtsey and Charles a bow.

  “You summoned us?” asked Lady Douglas.

  “Please get up, ladies,” said Catherine, “and you, Charles. You don’t need to bow and scrape in here.”

  “We were unsure who was with you,” whispered Margaret Arundell, standing elegantly, aware the door was still ajar. “Lady Latimer is outside and she hinted you had company.”

  “Did she indeed?” muttered Kathy Knollys, bustling forward and throwing a furious glance at Lady Latimer before slamming the door shut.

  “Kathy, would you please give Margaret the tokens from her brother, King James, and see if there is a note,” ordered Catherine.

  “Nothing,” said Margaret a few moments later, “a small jewel but no note. He did say we would be welcome, though. Are you considering going, Kitty?”

  “Events can make people nervous and cause them to change their minds,” said Catherine. “It isn’t for me I ask. It’s in case you or Kathy or Issy, or any of you have to escape, I want to know you have a means to get safely away.”

  Throughout these exchanges, she had been diligently translating Anne’s note. Now she read through the few short lines. “Oh my!” she gasped. “Charles, you’ll need to find men we can trust.”

  “I’ll speak to Uncle Norfolk…”

  “No!” Catherine cut across him. “Do not under any circumstances speak to him.”

  “Kitten, what’s happened? What does the note say?” this time it was Kathryn Knollys, her voice high-pitched with fear.

  “Anne has heard rumours which confirm my suspicions,” said Catherine. “She says there is a whisper that our uncle of Norfolk is preparing to create a new queen.”

  Everyone around her gasped.

  “But, Kitten, why?”

  “Because I’m not carrying the next Tudor heir!” she said. “Because Henry beat my child out of me but, as he is mad, we can’t tell him he murdered his own progeny.” There was a horrified silence, so Catherine continued. “Anne also said she has heard the duke fears the king’s affair with Tilney could tarnish us all…”

  “But he was the one who put Tilney in the king’s bed,” exploded Charles.

  “Which has ended in her arrest,” retorted Catherine, “and you know our uncle, the duke — he will always save himself first, so we must prepare for the worst.”

  “I’ll fetch Isabel and Edward, they’ll know what to do,” said Lady Knollys.

  “No, Kathy, leave them for now,” said the queen. “They’re spending a few days with their children. There will be time enough to tell them our plans. We are all family too: you, me, Charles, my Margarets. Then there are my other siblings who must also be protected: Joyce, John, Ralph, Henry, George, little Mary. We are all joined; blood and death, mixed at birth, bonds tightened by marriages. Sometimes we stand together, at others we serve up betrayal, such is life and love and family. We, our inner court, must stand fast together, we must protect each other during this storm, offer each other shelter — then, if God’s willing, we will all survive.”

  The others listened in awe. Catherine was no longer the impressionable child who had arrived at court with the hope of frivolous fun and a good match. She was queen consort of England, the wife of one of the most powerful monarchs in Europe and, despite her youth, she had learned quickly the frightening game of court politics.

  “Uncle Norfolk is not yet our enemy and may not become so,” she said quietly. “These whispers are still rumours. However, as current events have shown, it is wise to remember how quickly rumours can be turned into brutal, verifiable fact, even if there is no shred of truth in their wicked lies. When cousin Anne was deemed to have become too troublesome, Uncle was quick to condemn her. He may yet do the same to us.”

  These words pained Catherine, even though she now understood that the favouritism he had shown her was because he was already planning to dangle her in front of the monarch. He had seen a spark, a small hint of potential and he had decided to groom her. Perhaps he had done the same with Tilney as she was family too, although more distantly related and without the allure of Catherine’s noble Howard blood. It was possible Tilney had believed she was Norfolk’s favourite girl, which could be why she was so foolishly deluded that the duke would intercede with the king and help her out of this plight.

  Catherine shuddered. She still remembered huddling on the stairs with the other girls at her step-grandmother’s house, listening in horror as Anne Boleyn’s fate became public knowledge. They had heard the duke of Norfolk disowning her; he who had pushed so hard for both Anne and her sister Mary before her to grace Henry’s bed. Now, Anne had become troublesome and Norfolk, the consummate politician, had not only distanced himself from his former protégée but had been the voice who condemned her. It seemed he might be planning to do the same with her.

  Silence had greeted Catherine’s words.

  “We continue as normal but we put our plans into place so, if we are in danger, we can leave,” she continued. “I trust everyone in this room and I will do whatever I can to keep you all safe if the worst happens.”

  She looked around at the gathered members of her inner circle: Kathryn Knollys, Margaret Douglas, Margaret Arundell and Charles Howard.

  “Now, if this were a normal day, you would be getting me ready to preside over the midday meal. Let’s continue as though this conversation has not taken place, but Margaret, if you feel you are able, please will you write to your brother again and confirm we are welcome at his court.”

  “I’ll go now if you can spare me,” she said and bobbed a curtsey.

  “Of course,” replied Catherine. Charles gave her a small bow, then took Margaret’s arm and they left, their heads bowed together conspiratorially.

  Catherine turned back to her cousin and her sister, holding out her arms for them to lace, pin and ravel her into the elaborate court gown her status demanded. She had never imagined she would ever be clothed in such finery. Although, none of it was hers. The king may have bestowed jewels, estates and elaborate gifts upon her, but he could take them back just as quickly.

  Her sister Margaret, Lady Arundell, was fitting Catherine’s elaborately jewelled headdress when there was a knock on the door and Eleanor Paston, the countess of Rutland, announced the arrival of Henry Howard, the earl of Surrey, whom the king had sent to accompany her into the banquet. Regally, she rose from her seat and allowed the earl to lead her into the clamouring noise of the banqueting hall, ready once more to play the part of the joyous queen, her serene smile belying her pounding heart and churning fear.

  Chapter Nine

  “Catherine, wake up,” Isabel’s urgent voice whispered through the darkness. “It’s the king, he’s demanding to see you.”

  “It’s the middle of the night and the king is ill, why does he want me?”

  As wakefulness crept over her, so did fear. Henry had never summoned her like this before — either he was seriously ill or in one of his rages. Neither prospect gave her any joy.

  “Quickly, Catherine, get out of bed,” her sister insisted and Catherine caught the tension in her voice.

  Awake now, she struggled from beneath the heavy bedclothes, allowing Isabel to slip a fur-lined wrap around her. Margaret Arundell swept a brush through Catherine’s hair and Isabel handed her sweet herbs to chew to freshen her breath. Lady Knollys appeared with the box of precious oils and sprinkled a few drops of sweet lemon over Catherine’s hair.

  “Lemons?”

  “Yes,
it’ll help,” whispered Lady Knollys. “He’s delirious, talking about Spain.”

  “Spain? The old Queen Katherine?”

  “Yes,” said Isabel, her hands and voice both shaking with fear. “He runs mad, Kitten. He probably won’t know you, but he is demanding the presence of the queen. Even your uncle of Norfolk is horrified. There will be a guard outside the door, shout any of our names and we will save you.”

  “Shout your names?” Catherine was aghast. “Isabel, he could kill me before you get into the room.”

  Her sister did not reply, instead she forced a pair of embroidered slippers on to Catherine’s feet, trying to disguise her tears, then led her into the shadowy corridor. A troop of the king’s guard was waiting, their green and white livery glimmering in the torchlight. Charles Brandon, the duke of Suffolk, was at their head, his handsome face pinched with worry.

  “We must hurry,” he said, taking her arm. “The king calls for you.”

  “For me?”

  “He calls for Queen Katherine of Aragon,” he admitted, “but as he thinks I am his elder brother Arthur, things have definitely gone awry with his mind this evening.”

  “But if you’re Arthur and I’m the late queen, does he not think we are married?” whispered Catherine.

  “Thankfully, no, that piece of information has fallen through the gaps in his memory,” sighed Brandon.

  As Catherine hurried to keep up with his long, determined stride, casting sideways glances at him, she could not help but notice that he seemed to have aged overnight.

  “What has caused this?” she asked. “Is it a curse? The full moon? Witchcraft?”

  “Any of those are possible,” agreed the duke in a low voice. “However, it is more likely that he is in the grip of the poison of his condition.”

  They had arrived outside the king’s chambers and Brandon turned to Catherine, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. “My dear, I know he has treated you roughly, but he is my friend, almost my brother. To see him this way is more than I can bear…” His voice petered out. Catherine stared at him in confusion, then Brandon continued, “The king has not seen you for several weeks due to the pain in his leg but we can only hope he will recognise you and his love for you might bring him out of his madness.”

  “His love…?” she spat.

  “You may not believe or understand it, but in his way, he loves you,” said Brandon. “We’ll be outside the door.” Then he knocked, turned the handle and led Catherine inside. “My lord, I bring Queen Catherine,” he announced, then with a bow, he left the room, abandoning her to the shadowy darkness.

  “Who is there?” came a voice from the floor. “Is that you? My wife, will you ever forgive me for the things I did?”

  Catherine stood frozen, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the gloom, her heart racing, her palms sweating with fear. She could see the outline of the king curled in a ball by the flickering firelight. He was hugging something, but in the gloom she could not see what it was. Did he think she was the old queen? Or was he speaking to her?

  Taking a deep breath, she whispered, “Yes, my love, I’m here,” inflecting her voice to have a lilt, which could have been a hint of a Spanish accent.

  “You are here,” he gasped. “My wife, my true wife. Will you ever forgive me for the things I did to you, to our daughter?”

  “I forgive you, my dear,” she whispered. She had no idea what to do — she thought she had experienced every twist and turn of the king’s mind, but this was new. She had never known him to mistake her for his previous wife.

  “The full moon brings you back to me,” he said. “Will Anne forgive me?”

  “Anne?” said Catherine in a choked voice.

  “The Lady Boleyn, my lady of the darkness. Her eyes, her hair, she drew me into her midnight web and I loved her, I loved her so much she drove me mad.” He shifted slightly and in the glow of the firelight Catherine saw he held a pillow from his bed, cradling it in his arms as though it were a child. “I had to kill you, Annie,” he continued speaking to the cushion, “I had to, you looked at me with such disappointment, such fury when our son died. Killing you was the only way I could sleep peacefully.”

  “Our son?” whispered Catherine, wondering what new madness was about to be revealed. With the exception of Princess Elizabeth, all Anne’s other pregnancies had ended in stillbirths.

  “Our son, William, I didn’t mean to do it, he was so delicate and he died. Why did he die? We were happy. Katherine was dead. I had just forced Chapuys to bow to you. We were triumphant and I held him. Then you made me angry and he began to cry. I held him — tight, tighter, tighter — to make him feel safe. It was the only way he would stop crying. Then he stopped moving and no matter how hard I shook him, he wouldn’t wake up. You were so angry, so sad. You had to die too or you would have told everyone the truth. I had no choice, which was why I agreed to the French swordsman, why I designed your scaffold myself, it was an act of love. I’m sorry, Annie, but I’m king. You threatened me and no one, not even you, can threaten a king. I’m so sorry, my darling. Cromwell made it happen, then he had to die too, once he had killed everyone who might have betrayed me.”

  Standing alone in the shadows Catherine thought she might vomit. Was this true? Or were these the ramblings of a madman?

  “Then there was my other son, Henry Fitzroy, the bastard duke of Richmond and Somerset. Little Bessie Blount had been so warm and generous in bed. She gave me a healthy son, so I changed the law allowing me to choose my heir, but he turned against me too. He was plotting, like you all do. He wanted my throne, wasn’t prepared to wait, so I had him poisoned, Annie. Told his father-in-law, your uncle, the duke of Norfolk, to take him away, the worthless bastard son who nearly tricked me into making him my heir. As if a bastard could ever wear my crown! Only my angel will ever take my place: my Edward, named for my grandfather and sent to me by God himself, who appeared once I had purged the others in that glorious year of 1536…”

  Catherine wanted to put the words down to madness, but they held an eerie ring of truth. Perhaps Cromwell had done as Henry had ordered and covered up the terrible truth, until one day, the king’s paranoia had also led him to destroy his most loyal henchman. Unable to help herself, she stifled a sob of fear. The tiny noise seemed to bring the king from his delirium.

  “Little Kitten, is that you?” Henry’s voice was suddenly stronger, more balanced.

  “Yes, my lord,” she whispered. “I came to check you were well.”

  “Come to the fire, my sweet child,” he said. “You must be cold. These February days bring the snows and ice, they could chill you to death in a moment and I have endured too much loss.”

  She hurried to him, her heart pounding in terror at this abrupt mood swing. He seemed to be the kind king again, the rambling monster of a few moments before had vanished as quickly as mist on the water. Now, he gathered her shaking body into his embrace, tucking a heavy blanket around them both, putting the pillow behind her back.

  “I have had many strange dreams this night,” he said. “My wives, Katherine and Anne, were both here. They forgave me.”

  “Oh, Henry, surely there was nothing to forgive?” she said nervously.

  “You are too sweet, my child, too kind,” he mused. “You don’t understand the deviousness many will stoop to in order to try to gain my favour or push me from my throne. There are still those who would see me replaced by a Plantagenet usurper. I must be ever on my guard.”

  He sighed, running his hands possessively over her body, his face buried in her hair, as though breathing her in. She could feel his excitement and tried not to tense; any sign of resistance only made him angry and his mood was so wild, she could not predict what would happen next.

  “Tomorrow,” he whispered, lifting her long auburn hair and running his tongue down her neck. She shuddered in disgust but the king took it to be passion, “I must order the execution of your faithless little whore-maid, Tilney, and her devil-worshipp
ing slut. Do you know what she used to do?” His voice was excited and disgusted at the same time. “She would take my manhood in her mouth and she would suck it. She would moan with greed as she swallowed my seed, consuming me with witchcraft. Then she would beat her maid, both of them naked, while I watched, before forcing me to bed the maid from behind, rutting like a dog, while she beat me with a whip. I am ashamed, Catherine, I am so ashamed but I was enchanted. Do you forgive me?”

  “Yes,” she whispered faintly, too horrified to say anything more.

  “You will be with me when the axe falls?” he said, unlacing her gown and pushing it from her shoulders, before moaning with greed at her naked body.

  “If you wish,” replied Catherine, staring at the fire, too scared to disagree.

  “As her life is snuffed out and witchcraft is eradicated from my realm, we will be together as a husband and wife and make new life,” he whispered in her ear as though it was a prayer. His hands were moving more quickly over her body. She allowed herself to go limp, leaning back against him, pretending she was enjoying the roughness of his touch as he pawed at her breasts, pinching her nipples and making her wince in pain. “We will make new life and when the witch dies we will assert my superiority, maybe we will make twins.”

  She did not resist as he laid her out on the rug by the fire. His hands were eager on her thighs, forcing her legs open, his eyes avid as strings of drool escaped from his gaping, wet mouth.

  “You’re mine,” he hissed, his fingers scrabbling with his stained nightshirt, tugging it to one side, his breath coming in short, excited pants. “As all my wives are mine to do with as I choose and if you are not with child by Easter, I will remove you as I did your cousin, to make way for another woman who will give me an heir.”