by G Lawrence
Shadow of Persephone
Book One of
The Story of Catherine Howard
By G. Lawrence
Copyright © Gemma Lawrence 2019
All Rights Reserved.
No part of this manuscript may be reproduced without Gemma Lawrence's express consent
“Yet I must think less wildly; I have thought
Too long and darkly, till my brain became,
A whirling gulf of fantasy and flame:
And thus, untaught in youth my heart to tame,
My springs of life were poisoned. ‘Tis too late!
Yet I am changed; though still enough the same
In strength to bear what time cannot abate,
And feed on bitter fruits without accusing Fate.”
Lord Byron, Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage
O gather me the rose, the rose,
While yet in flower we find it,
For summer smiles, but summer goes,
And winter waits behind it.
For with the dream foregone, foregone,
The deed foreborn forever,
The worm Regret will canker on,
And time will turn him never.
So were it well to love, my love,
And cheat of any laughter
The fate beneath us, and above,
The dark before and after.
The myrtle and the rose, the rose,
The sunshine and the swallow,
The dream that comes, the wish that goes,
The memories that follow.
William Ernest Henley, O Gather me the Rose
This book is dedicated to
N, K, Y, K, L, B, P, S, M and M
All the survivors I know.
And all I do not.
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Chapter Sixty-Three
Chapter Sixty-Four
Epilogue
Author’s Notes
Deviations from Historical Fact
Thank You
About The Author
Select Bibliography
Prologue
The Tower of London
February 12th 1542
I asked them to bring it.
I asked, but now it is here I know not what to do. A chill seeps from it. Death stretches out cold fingers, caressing my soft cheek.
I asked them to set it before me, and they did. It was not the command of a queen, but the request of a prisoner. No more may I command. I must beg, cajole, as I did when a child. But they took pity. Solid it stands on the green rush mats, its brown surface gleaming in guttering candlelight as though already wet with my blood.
I wanted to see this instrument of death, the final pillow for my head before the last, long sleep. I wanted to practise how to die well and clean, with dignity and grace. But now it is here, waiting, watching, looking for fault as so many others did, I do not know how to approach it.
I swallow. It is hard. My throat is dry, itchy. I feel the axe, as though it has always been there; cold metal pressed to warm flesh, death upon life. At my side I feel something else. The shadow has followed me, but that is not what I feel. There was another, always another. She is here. She always has been, trying to guide me, to warn me… She tried to show me how to live, and I heeded her not. But I will listen as she instructs me in the art of death.
I stare at the block, this dreaded object, eyes as dry as my mouth. I have been told there were two possibilities. Taller than the other, this one allows me to kneel, placing my head, holding myself steady so the headsman can get a good swing. The other is lower, ending in a messy, painful death. It is harder for the executioner to maintain control with so long a swing. This block is the King’s last strand of mercy for the woman he claimed to love.
Claimed, and did not. He knew nothing of me. I was a fantasy, a flower plucked and held in his hand. He did not see I was dying, clasped between his cold, old fingertips. Hades had claimed me. Spring could not bloom in winter’s hand.
I have been granted the better block. A concession, so I might not suffer too greatly… but not a concession as merciful as the one she, Anne, was granted. Not for me the sword. No elegant death to mark the close of an elegant life. Common tools suffice for me. I will face the axe, but the King will not force me to make my end upon a burning stake or butcher’s block. I will die clean, or as clean as the executioner can manage with his clumsy tool.
I have not much faith, but others always said I was light of that virtue. I remember Cromwell, Margaret of Salisbury…. They died by axe. They did not die clean.
I think this is done on purpose, this method. The King pretends mercy he does not feel. He grants me a good block, will not burn me to death, but he wants death to hurt. He was tired of Anne, wanted her gone, but in his own, strange way he loved her to the day of her death, and beyond. He does not love me. I stole away his dreams, brought him sorrow in the midst of joy. He suffered, so I will. And not only pain, but shame. The axe is his reminder that I am not as good as her.
This tells me the husband I shared with my cousin knew she was innocent.
Does it matter that I am too?
I am to die for a thought, but what man has not thought once of the death of his King, of something that might be treason if spoken aloud? Our minds are no more safe. The King will have mastery over all; brain, body and soul.
I try not to think. Thinking is never good; too many thoughts, too many memories, too many reasons to feel sad and shamed. I feel Anne nudge me gently, and the empty place falls, a shell upon me, armour shielding me from terror. I can do what must be done.
Blankly, I walk to the block and kneel, setting my neck against polished wood worn smooth by those who lingere
d like me on the cusp of life and death. My delicate cheek brushes the surface. My hands touch its sides, trembling as they run up and down, becoming familiar with its curves and edges. On the morrow, when I meet Death, I will be prepared. I will not stumble. I will die as she did, dignified and proud. I will die better than I lived.
Behind me, I hear women crying.
But I do not weep. I stand, brush down my dress and go to the wall. I turn and walk to the block again. I kneel, I place my head. Over and over I do this, my face set, lips pursed as I concentrate. In life, I was a dancer. Dancing is about repetition, performing steps again and again until they become habit, nature… as easy as breathing. This is what I do. I practise. I perfect. Tomorrow, I will set myself into the steps of my final dance. I will find peace, as I always did when dancing.
On the final turn, I place my head on the block and something shatters. The empty place, holding back terror and sorrow, splinters; a twisting fracture snaking up ice. Tears come.
I weep quietly. Not because I am to die. In many ways, I welcome that last, great blackness. I cry for another reason.
All my life, I sought but one thing; to be loved.
I never found what I sought.
Chapter One
Chesworth House
Horsham, Sussex
May 1531
I raced to keep up. My steps, small and slight, falling on rush matting. The sound of my breath, short with walking fast and with anxiety, puffed in my ears. The corridors were long, dim and winding. We had taken more turns than I could count. This house was much bigger than my father’s, more like a gracious, glorious warren.
“Make haste,” the woman ahead of me said, twisting her head about as she marched, not breaking step. A curl bent her lip as she glanced again at my clothes; the eighth gaze of disapproval. I had been counting. “The Dowager will not tolerate tardiness.”
I flushed with shame for keeping this god-like creature waiting, and hurried, but I was much smaller than the woman I scampered after. Henry, my elder brother, kept pace almost with her, but I was seven years old. Four of my steps fitted into one stride of theirs. My shoes, once fine but now wasted like all my clothes, scurried at her impatient heels. Each step bit my toes.
As we reached the dark, oaken door, I smoothed my gown, trying to make it transform by magic into something beautiful. Tight across the shoulders, pinching under my arms and just a wisp too short on the legs, it was a dulled crimson, faded almost to pink, like cottages where lime mixed with blood was washed upon the walls. It was not really my gown. Two backs had worn it before, my half-sisters Isabella and Joyce. Ribbons in my fair hair had once been theirs too. Frayed ends cut, then cut again, washed so many times they had lost their sheen, my ribbons were carefully tied so the best sides showed. I was ashamed of my clothes, but I had nothing else to wear. Nothing new, nothing fine, nothing suitable for meeting my step-grandmother, the Dowager Duchess of Norfolk. All my clothes should have been handed down to maids years ago, but we kept everything. We had to. Father could not afford anything new.
Not for girls, anyway. Henry was in a good doublet and hose. He was still not dressed as a noble gallant should be, the doublet being a shade too large for his shoulders, but he could pass for a nobleman’s son. I looked like a maid reaching above her station.
At home, our kind servants pretended not to notice, but I knew there was no hiding from the eyes of my grandmother’s household. They could see toes budging from the down-soft velvet of my shoes, ribbons carefully arranged, arms held just so, so fabric would not strain. They knew these tricks for they were those of servants. If cast-offs from noble wardrobes did not fit, they were made to. Servants did not throw away beautiful fabric. Nothing was wasted. If they could see past my careful tricks, my grandmother would too.
Mistress Bulmer knocked on the oaken door. There was a pause, then an imperious command to enter. As I took a deep breath, and glanced at my brother, we walked in.
Music filled the air as we set a careful pace, eyes cast down with respect for the rich, noble woman we were to see. The music made me feel better, braver. Even for my age, I was a fine dancer. In lonely days in the halls of our father’s house I would dance for pleasure and to forget. To forget we had nothing, that we were nobility yet poor. To forget my father had once sent his second wife begging to the great Cardinal Wolsey so he might avoid being arrested for debt. To forget my mother had died, then to forget my stepmother had too.
In music there was comfort, release; a chance to become lost. When I danced, I concentrated not on what I did not have or the dangers my family were wandering into from lack of coin, but on steps, putting one foot before another. Thinking brought nothing but sorrow. Music was an escape. When dancing, I did not think of my wasted clothes or Father’s stark, lonely eyes. I thought of nothing but the dance. I obeyed its call, surrendering to its will, becoming its instrument. In music, I was free. In its arms I could be anyone. No more was I little Catherine Howard, unimportant and ignored. I could be someone else. Someone valuable, wonderful, noticed.
But although music filled the air, I could not pretend now. There was no escaping the shrewd eyes of the woman in the rich chair of red velvet. Her eyes saw all; wasted strands, tight fabric upon my shoulders, the bagginess of it upon Henry’s, the pinched look in my cheeks from nights spent worrying as no person my age should.
Henry was almost an adult, but I was a child. It was usual for almost-adults to be sent to the household of a family member, or a friend of their parents so they might learn how to wait and serve, how to behave, in preparation for a life at court; the destiny of all noble children. It was said that if children were left with their parents they would be spoiled, badness not beaten from them. With other families we would learn humility so it might be set beside the pride already within our hearts.
I knew pride was inside me, for it hurt at times. My pride was delicate, easily wounded. I wanted to be proud I was a Howard, part of the upper nobility of England. But I knew, even then, I came from a lesser, lower branch. It grated, made me short-tempered if I thought people were contesting my family honour. Pride was a shield I wielded, trying to keep the pain of our father’s humiliation from touching me, becoming real.
I was not ashamed to be sent to my grandmother. I had always known it would happen, but I was a little younger than was usual.
The journey to Horsham had not scared me. I had travelled before, spending summers in my uncle’s house at Oxenham in Kent, at my grandfather’s in Lambeth, at my aunt’s house in Teston and at home in Surrey. It was common for noble families to move about so the house they had left could be cleaned, but for us there was another reason. We stayed with kin to spare our father expense. We had been sent away, for good this time, because Father could not afford to keep us.
We had left our house in Surrey, heading for Sussex and our grandmother by mule. Father did not come with us. Servants were our companions and guards. Through late spring storms we had ridden, swallows winging above, black arcs in the grey skies. Our heads were covered with waxed cloaks, thin enough that wind could creep through, tickling and teasing flesh with icy fingers. Our few belongings in packs on a wagon trundling behind us and our bodies strapped into pillions, we had trotted along miry lanes. Leaves were just starting to emerge, but they seemed shy and hesitant. Spring had come late that year. Winter did not want to let go. The sun shone pale and wan, as though she, like our clothes, like our father, was exhausted.
Poor people had watched us from the wide, green fields, or the shadowed doorways of cottages. Even they, these common people who had so little, knew we were to be pitied. I saw it in their eyes. When we stopped at inns and the houses of Father’s friends, eyes had lingered on our spare clothing and pale faces. I hated it. Hated their pity. Hated kind words and sympathetic hands placed on my shoulder. My head high, little chin stuck out and jaw clenched, I had ignored my clothes and the rickety old gable hood on my head, and tried to talk as I had been taught; like th
e child of a noble house. Henry had done the same.
We would not be pitied.
For ancient blood ran in our bodies, and with old blood comes pride, no matter how fallen the family, no matter that our father was the worst of all people; a nobleman without money, a lord who could not afford his high station. I carried royal blood, for, as I knew from countless lectures offered by our tutors, we Howards came of the line of Adeliza of Louvain, a queen and countess. From my mother and father, I was descended from kings. My mother had been of the line of Joan of Acre, daughter of Edward I, and my father of Joan of Cornwall, a descendant of King John. For the blood in my veins I would stand tall. I would not be ashamed.
But as our grandmother gazed upon us, I was humiliated.
She knew everything; the desperation of our circumstances, the fact that my father had to hide in his house to avoid being arrested for bills he could not pay. To all others along the way, we might pretend we were taken from our family home to become ornaments of court, creatures with a glittering future, but there was no hiding from our grandmother. Agnes, Dowager Duchess of Norfolk knew all, and was used to poor relatives coming begging.
That was what her eyes said; beggars. And perhaps that was what we were. Our father drowning in debt, with no way to work or support us, had no time for children. We had been left alone a great deal in our house on Lambeth Bridge Road, our father too busy wallowing in self-pity and wine to pay heed.
