by Jean Plaidy
But who need ever know? Thomas would not tell. Nor would I.
If I had made the King happy, could I be blamed? I had certainly pleased him. I was pleasing him now. I tried even more than I had before because of what had happened. It was not in my nature to concern myself with trouble which had not yet come. I could be even more loving with Henry because I could delude myself into thinking he was Thomas; and Henry was more delighted than ever with his Queen.
We arrived in York, where Henry was to meet the King of the Scots, and, to his fury, a deputation arrived from Scotland with the news that the King would be unable to keep the appointment.
Henry’s rage was great. The journey had been arranged, in the first place, with the express purpose of this meeting, and now his Scottish nephew was acting in a very arrogant manner. It was most humiliating. He had a false notion of his own importance if he thought his petty little kingdom could so flout its mighty neighbor.
People were afraid to approach him. I was the only one for whom he had a gentle word; he needed a great deal of soothing, and I performed that duty admirably.
Perhaps it was inevitable that, having taken the first step, Thomas and I found the temptation to take more irresistible.
There were occasions when the King was away on state business and Thomas contrived that he stay behind, and it was only to be expected that we take advantage of this.
I realized, of course, that Jane Rochford knew what had happened in Lincoln, and there was no sense in trying to hide it—particularly as I needed her help.
Jane was very sympathetic.
“Indeed,” she said. “Thomas Culpepper loves you, and there is no doubt that you love him. He is young and handsome and you were betrothed to him once.”
“No, Jane, I was not really. There was only talk of it.”
“Well, there would have been a betrothal. I can see no harm … as long as no one knows.” Her eyes sparkled. “Now we shall have to go carefully. We do not want any of the women prying. And why should they? If we are careful, we shall outwit them. If you use my room, I shall remain in yours. If by any chance one of them should come to your chamber, I would be there and should be able to hold them off until I could reasonably bring you back to your chamber.”
“Do you think that could be done satisfactorily?”
“Your Majesty, we will make it so. It is a good plan. I will take a message to Master Culpepper. I will tell him how he can come up the backstairs where I shall be waiting for him. I shall bring him to you and there shall be none to see him but ourselves.”
We were excited by the plan. I was sure Thomas was too, and once it had been put to us, we would be ready to incur any risk, so anxious were we to be together.
Jane was such a ready conspirator, as anxious—or almost—to bring about the meetings as we were. It was the sort of adventure she loved to take part in.
I remember one occasion well. We were at Lincoln again, and the King was riding off to a nearby meeting at the house of one of his loyal friends some distance away, so that he would spend two nights there. For the first night the plan worked, but on the second, as I was going up to Jane Rochford’s room, two of the ladies-in-waiting came unexpectedly to my room. They were Katherine Tylney and another, called Margaret Morton.
They looked surprised, and I felt it would be wise to give them some explanation. I told them I was going to Lady Rochford. I should have dismissed them, but I hesitated and they came with me to Jane’s room.
Jane looked amazed to see them, but she could say nothing, and I knew that she was uneasy, for she was about to go and meet Thomas to bring him up to me.
She was flashing a signal to me to get rid of the women, so I told them that I should not need any of them as I was not quite ready to retire and just wished to have a little private conversation with Lady Rochford before doing so.
They immediately retired but probably thought it rather strange.
When they left, Jane laughed.
“I feared Your Majesty would keep them here to meet the gallant gentleman,” she said.
It seemed rather amusing, although it had given me an uneasy moment. I am afraid I was not good at thinking quickly in such a dilemma. But when Thomas arrived, the little mishap was quickly forgotten.
The next night that the King was absent, I made sure the ladies were dismissed early.
Despair
IT WAS OCTOBER before we arrived at Windsor, and at the end of that month we were back at Hampton Court. Henry expressed his great pleasure in being in one of his favorite palaces.
“It was tiresome that His Majesty of Scotland should have seen fit to disappoint us,” he said. “But, I promise, he shall be the one to feel that disappointment and learn that he should have given a little thought to the matter before behaving in such a fashion. The rest was well enough. I’ll swear that there were many who were inclined to play the rebel who will think now very seriously before they attempt it. And here I am, back in Hampton Court with my sweet young wife. At least I am blessed in her.”
It was at such moments that I experienced a twinge of conscience. But all would be well, I assured myself. Thomas and I would be very careful, and in fact I made a special effort to be even more loving toward the King—if that were possible. It was no use being remorseful. I could not have resisted Thomas however much I had tried. I now felt that, from the first moment I had met him when we were children, we were meant for each other.
On the day of our arrival, the King and I received the sacrament together, and there was one moment when I was deeply moved. It was while the King knelt at the altar, and, folding his hands together as though in prayer, he lifted his eyes and said with great feeling: “I render thanks to Heaven and to Thee, O Lord, that, after I have suffered so much tribulation in my marriages, Thou has seen fit to give me a wife so entirely conformed to my inclinations as her I have now.”
There were tears in my eyes. I had made him happy. No one could blame me if I had stolen a little happiness for myself.
As we were leaving the chapel, Henry called to the Bishop of Lincoln, who was his confessor.
“You heard my words at the altar, Bishop,” he said.
“I did, Sire,” replied the Bishop. “You are indeed blessed in the Queen, and she in you.”
“That is true, and the whole country should thank God with us. I would have a public service of thanksgiving, which the Queen and I shall attend.”
“I am sure the people will rejoice in Your Majesty’s good fortune. The happiness of the King is that of the entire country.”
“Pray acquaint Archbishop Cranmer of my wishes.”
“I will do so without delay, Your Majesty.”
That service never took place, because on the morning following that when the King made his declaration at the altar the Archbishop handed him a piece of paper with the request that he would take it to his private closet and read it … alone.
I did not see the King once during the next day, which surprised me. I had expected to hear of the thanksgiving service that was to be arranged.
Another day passed. I heard he was not in the palace and I thought it strange that he had left without advising me of his going. I presumed it was some important business which had demanded immediate attention. It was, of course, but I did not know of what nature.
For the next few days the King did not return and I was surprised when Lady Margaret Douglas told me that a Council of the King’s ministers had arrived at the palace and was demanding it should see me.
It was customary for people to request an audience, and I was surprised that they should express themselves in such an authoritative manner.
I was more than surprised, and decidedly startled, to be confronted by such important men as the Archbishop of Canterbury, Bishop Gardiner, the Duke of Sussex and, to my extreme discomfiture, my uncle, the Duke of Norfolk.
They showed none of the respect to which I had grown accustomed, but surveyed me with expressions of great severi
ty.
Then the horror of the visit dawned on me when the Archbishop solemnly informed me that I was accused of having lived an immoral life before I had led the King, by word and gesture, to love me. I was guilty of treason.
I could only stare at them in blank dismay. I was numb with fear. I began to cry out: “No … no … I am innocent!”
They continued to regard me somberly and I saw the contempt in my uncle’s face. I was terribly afraid then. I could think only of my cousin, laying her head on the block, and that a similar fate awaited me.
I went on screaming: “No … no!”
The Archbishop was reading out the sins I had committed.
They knew about Derham. I was finished. It was the end. It had caught up with me. I had refused to see it coming until it was right upon me. They would cut off my head, as they had my cousin’s.
I fell into a frenzy, crying, laughing until I fell down in a faint.
When I opened my eyes they had gone. It was not true, I told myself. It was a hideous dream. Jane Rochford told me afterward that they thought I should lose my reason. She said I kept sobbing and calling out that it was not true. She sat with me all through that night, she said, although I was unaware of her. I kept shouting that the axe was not sharp enough. It would be with me as it had been with Lady Salisbury. I must have a sword from France, as my cousin had had. But I would not die yet, I was too young. I wanted to go away… right away… and never see the Court again. I had never wanted to be here.
“You were indeed near madness,” said Jane.
On the morning of the next day, Archbishop Cranmer came to see me again. He seemed less terrifying than on the previous day. But perhaps that was because he came alone.
He made me be seated, and he said quietly, almost gently, with a show of pity: “You must calm yourself. You do no good with these frenzies. The King will be merciful to you if you confess your sins.”
Of course he would be merciful. He loved me tenderly. The last time I had seen him, he had been going to arrange a thanksgiving to God for having given me to him. He was grateful for all the happiness I had brought him. It was those accusing men who had frightened me. The King would be kind, as he had always been. I would explain to him. I would tell him that I wanted to confess, and then all would be well. I was young and I was ignorant. I had been left to those wanton men and women. He would understand. I felt better.
The Archbishop said: “You must confess what you have done. If you insist on your innocence, it will go ill with you. We have proof of your behavior. I must tell you that we know all. It is true, is it not, that you were not a virgin when you came to the King? You have behaved in a licentious manner with a certain Francis Derham and Henry Manox. Do not attempt to deny it if you would have the King’s mercy.”
I tried to make my voice steady.
“I was very young,” I said. “I knew little of the ways of the world. I believed myself betrothed to Francis Derham and that that meant we could behave as husband and wife.”
“So you admit this?”
“With Francis Derham, yes.”
“And Henry Manox?”
“No.”
“But you have behaved in a wanton manner with him.”
“It was different. I was very young …”
“It is enough,” said the Archbishop.
“What will happen to me?”
“You know the law.”
I began to shiver. I saw myself there. Did they blindfold you that you might not see the block? Did they lead you there and help you lay your head on it? How long before the axe descended?
I began to cry and hardly recognized my own voice, shrill and uncontrollable.
“You must not go into another frenzy,” advised the Archbishop. “You must tell me all. It is the only way to save yourself.”
I thought: what will they do to Derham and Manox? And then, in horror, I thought of Thomas. They had not mentioned him yet. Oh, God, help me, I prayed. They must not know. I remembered those nights we had spent together such a short time ago. Derham was before my marriage. That might possibly be forgivable. But Thomas … oh, there was real danger there, from which we could never escape.
They must not know. Whatever happened, I must save Thomas.
I told Cranmer about Derham … all that I could remember. I had to stop them thinking of Thomas.
Cranmer seemed content to keep to Derham. I could see what it meant. It was that matter of divorce. My spirits rose. The King would divorce me so that he might marry again. It would be as it had been with my immediate predecessor. She was happy enough now. Why should I not get through to the same contentment … with Thomas?
“There was no contract with Derham,” the Archbishop was saying.
“No,” I replied. “There was no contract.”
“But carnal knowledge,” said the Archbishop.
I cannot recall exactly how everything happened. I had just been overwhelmed by a nightmare, from which there was no awakening. Events which followed now seem jumbled together. I had said this. I had done that. The brief calm which had come to me when the Archbishop had hinted that there was a possibility that I could receive mercy did not stay with me long, and it is only now, when I have moments of acceptance of my fate, that I can see how events fitted themselves together and brought me to where I am now.
If I had been a clever person, I should have seen it approaching long before it reached me. But I had never been shrewd and was particularly gullible. Simple myself, I judged others to be the same. I had not realized how I was watched and despised because I was unfit to fill the role which had been thrust upon me. People do not like to see those whom they consider below them raised above them; and they seek to bring the offender down. They were angry because of the King’s besotted devotion to this foolish girl, just because she had a pretty face, a seductive body and a sensual nature. Power-hungry men felt she might have some influence, which her ambitious relations might use to their advantage. And carefree, ignorant and unworldly as I was, I did not know that they were watching me, waiting for an opportunity to destroy me.
The Protestant faction, comprised of men like Cranmer and the King’s brother-in-law, Edward Seymour, Earl of Hertford, were suspicious of the Catholic Howards. As for my uncle, he might have warned me, helped me, at least prepared me in some way, but he had abandoned me as being too foolish to be of any use, and so he had ignored me. And thus I was left to those who would destroy me.
In my very household were Joan Bulmer and Katherine Tylney, and both were fully aware of my relationship with Francis Derham. How foolish I had been to allow them in. When I had been confronted by those men, I had realized at once what would happen to me, and the shock was so great that, as Jane said, it had almost robbed me of my reason; and it is only at this stage, by piecing together what I have heard and experienced, that I can see how it was all brought to a head, to that terrifying moment when they had all come to tell me of my fate.
It had started through John Lassells, who was the brother of Mary Lassells, one of the women who was with me in my grandmother’s house at Lambeth. She, like so many others, knew what had happened between Francis Derham and me.
John Lassells had some minor post at Court. He was a stern Protestant, a puritan, one of those men who are bent on preserving a place for themselves in Heaven and are certain that they are one of the few who know the way to achieve it. They are determined not to enjoy life and, even more so, that no one else shall.
His sister, Mary, needed to work, and he asked her why did she not try for a place at Court. Had she not once been acquainted with me when I was in a far less exalted position—just a young girl in the care of my grandmother?
Mary, in a state of great virtue, explained that nothing would induce her to take a place in my service. In fact, she was very sorry for me. Naturally her brother wished to know why.
“Because she is light in her behavior,” was Mary’s reply.
Such an accusation needed
explanation, and John demanded one. I felt sure that Mary gave it with relish. She told her brother that Francis Derham had declared we were as good as married and behaved accordingly. Moreover, she added, Henry Manox had boasted that he knew of a private mark on my body.
The righteous John Lassells would have immediately persuaded himself that this knowledge must not remain solely in the Lassells’ household, and he went to his priest and told him what he had heard. The priest immediately communicated the information to Audley and Hertford. This must have seemed a heaven-sent opportunity to these men, who decided to lay the information before Archbishop Cranmer, with the suggestion that he should be the one to pass it on to the King.
As a result, John Lassells was brought to the Archbishop and a paper was produced and presented to the King for his private reading.
I tried to imagine what Henry would have said when he received this incriminating document. I believed it was true that he had been deeply shocked and refused to believe it, and that he had berated the Archbishop for daring to write such slander against his Queen. I believed he would, in his love for me, have accused the Archbishop of listening to the evil slander of rogues.
But, of course, doubts would beset him. It was only natural that they should. He might recall that I was no shrinking bride. I had thought then that my ready responses had surprised him, even though he was delighted with them. He must have convinced himself that they were due to my admiration for the glorious personage who had become my husband. After all, I had been raised up from a very lowly position.
So, when he read that account of my past, brought to him through the courtesy of the Archbishop and John and Mary Lassells, he might not believe it, but he would have to make sure.
I could see clearly how it had happened. He had ordered that John and Mary Lassells be held in London, and Sir Thomas Wriothesley be sent to question me.
Almost immediately, Derham was arrested, not in connection with me, but on a charge of piracy committed in Ireland. I suppose there were grounds for this, and I wondered whether the fortune of which he had talked so much was to be acquired in this way.
