by Jean Plaidy
The King must have been in a somewhat tolerant mood, for Peto was not immediately sent to the Tower, though he was there some months later, where he stayed for two or three years; and at the end of that time, not being so enamoured of his Queen, the King might have felt that the Friar was perhaps not so wrong as he had appeared to be at the time of the coronation.
The Duchess remained at Court and the household was more relaxed than it had been, even in Horsham. Meals were regular and household matters attended to, but there was little supervision of the servants.
I could not understand Mary Lassells. There had been times when it occurred to me that there was something behind Isabel’s words, but this seemed doubly so in the case of Mary. Her attitude toward Manox was a little mysterious. Sometimes she seemed to hate him, at others quite the contrary. I often saw her watching him, and she seemed very pleased when he paid attention to her. She was not easy to understand. Sometimes she almost sneered at my family; at others seemed to show great respect for it.
“You come of a very grand family,” she said to me once. “The Queen’s coronation brought that home to us, did it not? The Queen herself… your cousin! And Lord William Howard, your uncle. And the Duchess, your grandmother, holding the Queen’s train and now in the Queen’s household!”
“I believe my cousin to be a very kind and generous lady,” I said.
“Oh, it is well for families when some of its members creep into high places.”
“Creep into high places?”
“Oh, I mean when they are favored by royalty.”
She smirked a little. Then she went on: “I wonder that you are on such terms with a musician of low birth.”
I flushed. Henry Manox and I had become even closer than we had been before. But there was a certain restraint in him. There was so much of which I was ignorant. Our lovemaking excited me. It was like making new discoveries, but I did have the notion that there was more to learn and that Henry Manox wanted to teach me, and had the power to, but, for some reason, was not altogether sure whether he should proceed.
Henry had once said: “My little Katherine, you were born to love, but you are so young as yet. That will change though. One day, it will be even better between us two.”
I had snuggled up to him and he had said: “You are a temptress.”
I heard Dorothy Barwike say to Mary Lassells: “Henry Manox says he loves Katherine Howard to madness.”
I was enthralled, and thought: “Dear Henry, I know he truly loves me.”
Dorothy went on: “He believes he is troth-plighted to her and so contracted.”
What was Dorothy saying? That Manox thought to marry me! I was eleven years old. Some princesses married at that age. This was rather disconcerting. I had not thought of marriage.
Then something alarming happened. Mary Lassells came to me one morning, looking as though she wanted to talk to me and did not know how to begin. I asked her if anything was wrong, to which she replied hesitatingly: “I know not what I must do. But do something I know I must.”
“What has happened?” I persisted. “Pray tell me, Mary.”
“Mayhap I have failed to understand. Mayhap I should not speak of it, but you do not always remember that you belong to a noble house. I know that your father is not rich … but the Duchess would be most disturbed if she knew …”
“Knew what?”
“Your … er … being of such a noble house …” She could not prevent the little smirk appearing—the one which was always there when my family was mentioned. “… and I being here to serve the Duchess …”
“What are you trying to tell me, Mary?”
“I have been bold. I said to Manox, ‘You play the fool in a most dangerous fashion.’ ‘How so?’ he asked. And I said, and this is true enough, ‘And if my Lady Duchess knew of this … love … between you and Katherine Howard, she would seek to undo you … this talk of troth-plight … What think you Her Grace would do an she heard you have planned to marry this noble-born young lady?’”
“You said that to him? How could you?”
“’Twas my duty as I saw it. Consider, I pray you. If the Duchess were to hear of this … what would happen to Manox, or to you? Give a thought to it. I did, and I thought it was right to speak to Manox rather than to Her Grace.”
“But in the Long Room …”
“Yes, in the Long Room. You and Manox sporting with the rest. But let me tell you his reply. It is not pleasing to hear. He said: ‘Fear not. My intentions are not of the nature you believe. They are what is called of a dishonorable nature, and from the freedom I have so far enjoyed with the lady, I doubt not that I shall be able to attain my purpose without taking the steps you suggest.’”
I felt dizzy, and a sudden rage possessed me—not against Mary Lassells but against Henry Manox. How could he speak thus of me? Was it true that Mary Lassells was jealous of his devotion to me? I could not believe that he had said such words. But something told me that they could be true.
“Fie on him!” I cried, stamping my foot, and Mary put an arm round me.
“I understand,” she said soothingly. “You are so young, you have not yet experienced the perfidy of men. This is how they speak of their mistresses when out of hearing, yet when they are with them it is all honeyed words and vows of eternal faithfulness.”
“I cannot believe he spoke thus of me.”
“Ask him.”
“I shall … and now. I cannot wait.”
“He will lie. All men lie.”
“Henry Manox has always told me how much he loved me and would die for me. I shall go to him now and you shall come with me.”
She looked aghast, and then she smiled secretly.
“You could see him tonight and there tell him.”
“No,” I said firmly. “I shall not wait, and shall speak to him now.”
“But how?”
“We shall go to Lord Beaumont’s house … through the gardens, and I shall ask someone to bring him to me. And you will be with me, Mary. We shall confront him … face to face.”
Mary was uneasy, but I did notice a certain relish in her eyes, as though she would enjoy confronting this traitor and, of course, prove that she was telling the truth because she could see that this was the only way she could make me believe it.
I had never known I could be so angry. I felt degraded. I kept thinking of Uncle William Howard, Marshal at the coronation, and my grandmother, holding the Queen’s train and riding in the carriage near her. I was indeed of a noble family, and this low-born servant had dared speak of me as though I were a common slut!
I think Mary Lassells was surprised by this determined girl, who had hitherto seemed so young and helpless. I strode over the lawns to the Beaumont gardens, Mary walking meekly beside me.
I saw one of the servants and I called to him. I said in a voice which might have belonged to my grandmother: “I would speak with the musician Henry Manox. Pray tell him that Mistress Howard sends for him, and bring him to me here.”
The servant bowed and hurried off, and it was not long before Manox appeared.
He looked startled, and I said immediately: “Henry Manox. I have heard what you have said of me.”
He stammered, and I saw the look of hatred which he gave to Mary, and I knew then without a doubt that she had told the truth. My heart sank, and I felt wretched. The love I had imagined was a fantasy. It was not real love. What a fool I had been to indulge in childish dreams. I might have known that, if he had loved me, he would have had more care for me. He would never have spoken of me as he had to Mary Lassells. I was overcome by many emotions, but the greatest of these was a bitter humiliation.
I repeated to him what Mary had said, and I cried: “Will you tell me that you did not say those words?”
He wanted to deny them, but Mary burst in: “I have told you what he said, because I think you should know how he thinks of you.”
“It was a mistake,” was all Manox could say.
“I have only repeated what you said to me,” persisted Mary. “I warned you that you could be in trouble, and that was your reply.”
“It was a misunderstanding,” said Manox.
“You have said enough,” retorted Mary.
I added: “Yes, such words need no explanation. They are enough.”
And I turned and left him.
I had fallen out of love at that moment while he stood stammering there. I saw him for what he was—low-born and cunning, eager to rise in society through his musical talent. He was handsome in a way, with his dark curling hair and rather soulful eyes which could hide the calculation of his scheming mind. I had been so innocent, wanting to be liked, wanting to be as one of the others in the Long Room at night. I knew that now, for I had grown up a little in the last hours. What I wanted was to be loved. It was not love I was witnessing and sharing in the Long Room. It was a lustful playing at it.
I sent a note to Manox telling him not to come to the Long Room at nightfall.
A few days passed, then I received a note from him. He must see me. There was so much to explain. It had been a terrible misunderstanding.
I hesitated for a while and then I agreed to meet him at the spot where the Duchess’s garden adjoined that of Lord Beaumont.
He was there, looking unlike the man I had known; he was sad and solemn.
“Katherine, Katherine,” he cried, “my heart is broken.”
Oh yes. I had grown up. Previously I would have relented immediately, I should have wept with him and we would have resumed our old relationship. But, as I said, I was not so easily deceived now.
“I love you, Katherine,” he said. “With all my heart, I love you.”
“I believe that those who love do not speak of their loved one as you did of me.”
“I did not …” he began, but I cut him short.
“You could not deny it before Mary Lassells. You may do so now, but I do not believe you.”
“My passion for you transports all reason. I knew not what I said.”
“But, Henry Manox, I no longer believe you.”
“It is that sly creature,” he said angrily.
“She may be sly, and doubtless is, but she has revealed much to me which before I could not see. You cannot deny you said those words. I doubt not you could have done so if you had not been taken by surprise and confronted with her. I saw at once that she spoke the truth. It is over, Henry Manox.”
“Oh come, sweet Katherine. You have taken her words to heart. I tell you, I did not mean them. They were said in a moment when I knew she was trying to take you from me. Remember how you enjoyed our love play?”
“Love play!” I retorted. “It was a pretense of love. That is not for me, Henry Manox. I want no pretense.”
“If you but knew how restrained I have been. How careful of you. You are so young … so innocent.”
“And you feared my family’s wrath if they discovered.”
There was just a brief hesitation, and I knew I was right in that; and I knew without a doubt that I had fallen out of love with him forever. In fact, when I looked at him now, I wondered how I could ever have thought I had been in love at all.
I turned and ran away from him.
That night I lay in my bed, my curtains drawn. I had no wish to be with the others. Love play! Yes, that described it for what it was. Playing at love. It was not true love. It was not for me. I could not deny that I had wanted to be loved. Manox had awakened certain instincts in me. He had directed me into this pretense, this searching for sensation, this playing at love.
So I was content to lie there, the curtains tightly drawn, no longer taking part in the merriment of the Long Room.
It was in the September of that year that the Queen’s child was born. There had been a great deal of anticipation throughout the whole of London, for the celebrations which would accompany that great event would be as splendid as those for the coronation with dancing, pageants, and wine flowing in the streets.
Preparations were already being made to welcome the heir to the throne. It was universally accepted that the child would be of the desired sex—a boy, of course.
That was why the joy in a healthy child was slightly tempered with disappointment when she turned out to be a girl. However, the bright side was that there was nothing wrong with this child—except her sex. She was healthy; she had all the right parts which any child should bring into the world: she was an indication that Queen Catherine’s many failures were due to no fault in the King: and although the Queen this time had produced a girl, there was hope that the next child would be a boy. We could look confidently to the future. Although, of course, there were some to remind us that Queen Catherine had produced a girl child who had survived. Poor sad Lady Mary, now broken-hearted because of the cruel treatment meted out to her mother, and embittered because she had lost her inheritance and was branded as nothing more than the King’s bastard.
How sad that the glory of our Queen Anne had had to be bought at such a high cost to her predecessor. Little did I know then that, at a not far distant day, Anne herself would have to pay a greater price for the elevation of her successor.
It was only to be expected that the birth of the child should set the Howard family even higher in the social hierarchy.
The Duchess spoke of the occasion in her usual somewhat disjointed way when I saw her soon afterward. She was still at Court, but she had visited the house briefly for some reason, and she could not resist telling me of the glorious turn her life had taken.
“Well, my child, I shall not stay here long. I shall, of course, be returning to Court. The Queen has need of me. She does not forget her grandmother. I was with the Court at Greenwich at the birth of the Princess Elizabeth. Marry, and we were so sure it would be a boy… right up to the last moment. The King was deeply disappointed. He had set his heart on a boy.” She sighed. “Do not they all? How he would have doted on a son. But the Princess is a bonny child. We must be thankful that nothing went wrong, as it did so often with poor Queen Catherine. Poor lady.” She made the sign of the cross. She was uneasy, I supposed, about the trouble with the Pope, who had uttered some rather unpleasant words about the King and Queen. But facts were facts, and we were not in Rome, but here, where our King was supreme—more now than ever, now that he had snapped his fingers at the Pope and made himself Head of the Church.
“Oh, if only the baby had been a boy!” went on the Duchess. “But alas, one cannot always have what one wants in this life. There is plenty of time. There will be others. The Queen is young and strong, and there is great love between her and the King. Oh, how he adores her! There is to be a Te Deum sung in honor of the child. She will be called Elizabeth after the King’s mother. And, here is the greatest news of all. I shall carry the little Princess. Yes, well, am I not her great-grandmother? And who else should have that honor? George Boleyn, Lord Rochford now, with your uncles Thomas and William and Lord Hussey are going to carry the canopy which they will hold over me and the baby. Oh, it will be a grand occasion! I trust you are all behaving well during my absence?”
I thought of those nights in the Long Room, but then, they had been the same when she was there. I sometimes wondered if she had been half aware of it. She certainly would not have time to think of that now.
My uncle, the Duke of Norfolk, kept in his household what were called his pensioners. In the past, it had been the custom of great houses to do this. It was a custom which was dying out now, but my uncle still had a number in his service.
I suppose it was worthwhile for, in the event of trouble, these people—young, for the most part, for they were biding their time until they should marry or inherit titles and land—were pledged to serve their benefactor in any way he needed while they were pensioners under his roof. Most were of good birth, and several of them had some connection with the families with whom they lived.
At this time, there were a number of these young people in our household which, altho
ugh I had always thought of it as my grandmother’s house, did, in fact, belong to the Duke. These young people were fed, housed and even granted some pay; they had little to do unless called upon, and then they must spring to immediate action. They spent their time riding, jousting and generally indulging in manly sports and pastimes.
I was sitting in the gardens with Dorothy Barwike and one of Dorothy’s friends called Joan, and was trying to make myself one of the silk flowers, of the kind which were very fashionable at this time. Living near the Court, we could see the elegantly dressed members of it now and then, either on the river or walking, and some even visiting the house when my grandmother was there. It was different to Horsham. That was how I knew of this fashion for silk flowers.
I was not good with my needle, and was showing my work to Joan and Dorothy as a young man strolled by. I had seen him before and I guessed that he was one of the Duke’s pensioners.
He had one of the most pleasant faces I had ever seen, though he was not striking like Manox with his dark curls and flashing eyes. This young man was, I guessed, in his mid-teens … eighteen perhaps, with soft brown hair about a gentle face which was by no means lacking in manliness. He was tall and slender, and had an unmistakable air of good breeding.
He paused, bowed to us, and said: “What a pleasant afternoon. You young ladies are very intent on your work.”
I laughed. “Work?” I said, and the others joined in my laughter. I liked him and did not want him to move away.
I went on: “My work, as you call it, is trying to make a silk flower.”
“And are you succeeding?” he asked.
I held up the piece of silk.
“If this bears some resemblance to a red rose … yes,” I said.
“It is red,” he said, and we all laughed again.
