It stands sentinel on the river bank, the walls stark white against a fair, blue sky. But first we must navigate London Bridge, where the water rushes apace between the starlings. I settle myself more firmly in the seat beside the Queen and while fear writhes in my belly, I hold on tight to her elbow and prepare for the wild ride.
As we draw closer the water takes us, lifting the vessel, pulling us on whether we want to continue or not. There is no turning back now. It is all the boatman can do to guide his vessel, keeping us away from the edge and trying to prevent the rough current from tipping us all into a watery grave. Behind us the other women cling together, as we are doing, whimpering as the white water churns beneath us. Katherine, shaken from her reverie, grips my sleeve, her white face close to mine. I hear her breath jerking sharply from her lungs. I glance at her to see her mouth is slightly open, revealing pretty white teeth that a lifetime of sweetmeats has not yet had time to mar. I am still looking at her when I see her fear turn to terror and her eyes darken. Her faces stretches as she opens her mouth and begins to scream.
“Katherine,” I screech above the crashing water. “It will be all right. You must stay calm. Please.” But she does not listen, her mouth is quivering in terror, her breath rasping from her throat so violently I am sure she will faint. Her eye is fixed on something high above the boat and, following her line of vision, I realise too late that it is not for herself that she screams.
Her own end means nothing to her now for grimacing from the gatehouse at the Southwark end of the bridge are the severed heads of her erstwhile lovers, Dereham and Culpepper. Their wet hair is plastered to tattered scalps, their expressions frozen in the terror of death, and looking upon them is like a physical blow.
I cannot tear my eyes away, and neither can Katherine. The crows have been busy, stripping the skin from their cheeks, yet they are recognisable still. There is nothing I can say or do now but restrain her writhing panic until we are safely under the bridge.
The people of London, passing to and fro beneath such grisly spectacles every day, have grown used to such sights. It is different for Katherine, it is different for me. I have seen these men in happier days, when they were animated and alive. I have passed the time of day with them.
I remember Culpepper, the first time I saw him in Katherine’s presence. I recall how he bowed over her hand, his misguided, lusty eyes sending out a deadly message … although he did not know it then. And now they have come to this; death and dishonour, and the ruin of us all. If the short duration of my acquaintance with them accentuates the horror of their passing, then how must it feel for Katherine, who once lay naked in their arms.
I try to calm her but she fights me and the boat is lurching, the women screaming, the guards shouting. All is chaos and I am sure the vessel will founder, but thankfully, the boatmen know their business and at length we are brought safe to shore. She ceases to fight me and slumps suddenly into my arms, still weeping helplessly. I look up and watch the black hole of the Water Gate loom above our heads. The shadows increase, the chill intensifies as it swallows us and sucks us into the confines of the Tower; a place from which few return.
The time seems so long in coming that I am almost glad to leave the confines of our chamber. The royal apartments offer more comfort than a cell but it remains a prison; any place from which you are forbidden to leave can be a prison and confinement is driving me mad. But the time is almost upon us. From the high-up window I can see the King’s council arriving in twos and threes, stepping from the barge onto the slick, black stone steps. They are come to do their duty and witness the execution of Henry’s faithless Queen.
I see Walsingham and Denny pause just above the Watergate to pass the time of day, as if they attend a pageant. Denny shakes his head, scratches his beard as the Duke of Suffolk arrives, and they all move off together. There is no sign of Norfolk and I imagine that, like Anthony, he is still keeping his head low, trying to keep it on his shoulders.
What will the future say of Katherine? I turn to watch her women tucking her hair beneath a white linen hood. What will it say of any of us?
“Is it time?”
It is so many hours since she has spoken that the sound of her voice makes me jump and I have to clear my throat before I can answer. “I think so, almost.”
This is ridiculous. It is as if we are waiting to go down to dinner. “Katherine!” My voice is anguished as I push past her women to cling to her hand but she quickly covers it with hers, patting to offer me comfort.
“Please, Belle, be strong for me. I – I must be brave and I don’t think I can be if you don’t help me.”
The tears gather painfully in my throat again but I nod, my voice cracking. “I’ll try, Your Majesty.”
“I need to pray again.”
She hurries back to her prie dieu and falls onto her knees, knees that must be red raw from prayer. I can do nothing more than pray with her and while she begs for strength, I silently scream at God to intervene, to send some heavenly angel to save us.
But he doesn’t hear me.
When she rises from her knees she seems a little calmer, her white face bleak with sorrow, her eyes red with weeping. I thank God the screaming has stopped. I try to offer up a brave smile but fail miserably. “Are you ready now?” I ask, as if we are setting off to chapel. She nods and attempts a smile in return; a smile that wobbles and falters.
“Be brave, Your Majesty,” I mouth, for my voice betrays me and I can make no proper sound. She accepts the illicit title gratefully but doesn’t refer to it.
“Oh, Belle, promise me, I beg you, that when this is all over, you will follow your heart. If only I had been brave enough to stand up to them and married where I pleased …”
There is an unbearable pain in my throat and I know it is also in hers, for when her voice breaks, her throat works to stifle the tears. It is the closest she has ever come to confessing to me that she loved Culpepper, and the painful honesty in her voice makes me think of Eve and Francis, who likewise loved … and perhaps died.
A loud rattle of keys tells us that they have come for us. I try to smile, urging her to have courage and she raises her chin, takes a deep breath and turns away to greet her gaoler.
The walk from the Royal apartment to Tower Green is very short, although it doesn’t seem so. I follow in Katherine’s wake, keeping my head low and fixing my eye upon her heels as they flick from beneath her skirt. Along the way we are joined by Jane Rochford who, although her face is ravaged with fear and looks twenty years older than the last time I saw it, appears to be as sane as I. In solemn procession we cross the Tower Green, the ravens rising noisily from the naked treetops to spiral in the winter sky.
A traitorous sun dazzles our eyes as Katherine places a foot on the lowest step to the scaffold. The wood creaks beneath our feet, the aroma of sawn wood and warm, wet straw rising strongly. There is little time left and I am suddenly reminded of all that has not been said between us. I am blind with tears when Katherine turns and offers me her beads and prayer book. “Be strong, Belle,” she says kindly, as if I am the one about to die.
I nod wordlessly and watch her address each of her women in turn before facing the crowd with her little-girl chin held firmly in the air. She has nothing of which to be ashamed. Desperately I try to catch her words, aware that it is the last time I will hear her voice, but no matter how I strain my ears, the noises inside my head block out the sound. My panic increases as blackness encroaches. I fight for stability and faintly, as if it is coming from a great distance, I hear her speak of the King’s majesty and goodness. For a moment I am furious and inwardly scream for her to tell them all the truth; he can hurt her no more than he has already. Why doesn’t she tell them all of her uncle’s duplicity in pushing her toward the King; of Henry’s unspeakable cruelties, the offences he committed upon her girlish body, the thousand indignities he heaped upon her and thought to recompense with trinkets and jewels? Why doesn’t she use her last fe
w breaths to curse them all?
But then I realise she is playing a game.
It is all a game, known only to Kings and princes. Whereas I, a commoner, would spout recrimination and, in protesting my innocence, defame the King, she will do no such thing. Katherine is a Howard and a Queen, and she is determined to die like one. With sudden understanding, I fall to my knees and join her in praising God and blessing our King. It is all that is left for me to do and I have never felt so proud of anyone in my life.
With a demeanour like nothing I have known her adopt before, she blesses the executioner, offering her forgiveness and a few coins. “Katherine…” I whisper her name like a prayer.
I can barely watch. As if in a nightmare she kneels and, with great care and precision, positions her head upon the block as she practiced last night in the privacy of her prison.
With her beads and prayer book clutched to my chest and tears burning my eyes, I utter my last ever prayer. Let it be quick. God, please have mercy and let it be quick.
The moment is here and as the long silence begins, I close my eyes, feeling the cold wind rushing in my ears, ravens calling high up in the sky. The birds and the wind are all I hear until, close by, I sense a rush of air and hear a sickening thump, followed by the communal sigh of the crowd.
I keep my eyes screwed tight. I dare not look up and I do not discover until much later that it is not spring rain that splatters on my face … but Katherine’s blood.
Joanie Toogood.
When the King struck off the head of Anne Boleyn, nobody really blamed him once we heard what she’d been up to. Of course it came as a shock, I mean, Queens just don’t get executed, do they? Or they didn’t then.
His first wife, another Catherine, had been loved by everyone since the day she first set her Spanish foot on English soil to marry our King’s brother, Arthur. Caterina, they called her, and she was a fine woman; loved and well-received wherever she went. It was Anne Boleyn and her self-seeking ways who pushed Queen Caterina from her rightful seat and as a consequence, Anne was never liked. The King was so besotted that there were those who spoke of witchcraft and enchantments, and many spat abuse at her when she dared appear in public. Although we were all aghast at the Royal goings-on, few of us mourned her passing.
Henry’s next Queen, Jane, kept herself quietly at court and we saw very little of her. She set her mind on other important things, such as birthing a boy for the King’s peace of mind. Henry has always been big on the succession, as was his father before him. I even went as far as to feel glad for him when he finally got his little lusty prince, and sorrier still when he paid the price by losing himself yet another Queen.
Then, of course, we had the fiasco with the German princess, another Anne this time, or Anna, as they call her. Eeh, Henry has had so many Queens and all with similar names, it’s a wonder he can keep track of 'em. This one, Anna, didn’t suit our fastidious King though, and he rid himself of her quick enough. Before I had time to turn myself around there was another one stepping into the shoes of the German.
This last one though, the baby-faced Katherine, has not been such a stranger to us. We’d all seen her, before she wed the King, when she was little more than a babe in arms. Night after night they ferried her back and forth across the Thames to dine at Winchester Palace, close by my yard. And I recall one summer’s day when I saw her at a bearbaiting, as bright as sunshine she was, laughing at the antics of the bear. She was such a dainty young piece next to the bulk of our King, it didn’t really seem right.
Come to think on it, she might already have been Queen then, or as much Queen as made no difference. Anyway, as I was saying, the common people knew Katherine and we are sorry and angry at her passing. As for King Henry, well, his true colours are nailed to the mast now and no mistake. I doubt any right-minded lass will ever wed him now. I warrant he will die a widower and it’ll serve him right too. The gossips say that his heart is broke over Katherine but, to my mind, he had no right loving a little dolly like her in the first place.
We are sick of it all; the burnings; the hangings; the quarterings. All of it. If you had told my old mum that bluff King Harry would ever come to this, she’d have called you a liar to your face. London is no more a merry place, that’s for sure, and nobility and commoners walk in fear alike, each and every one of us keepin’ our heads down, none of us knowin’ what changes will be forced upon us next. And as for me, well, I have problems of my own, and more than I can rightly cope with.
Food, that had become so plentiful when Francis was around, is now my main concern. The winter has been cruel and all three of us are thin and ailing. Only M’lady who, as well as her own, gets what share of my own ration I can spare, has any flesh on her bones. My paps hang like empty sacks, my belly loose an’ groaning for want of a decent meal. Now, when a gentleman buys himself a whore, he craves a comfortable one, not a bag of bones, and it’s getting harder every day to make a living.
More than once I have had to protect M’lady from going the way of me and my sisters. She looks like one of us now, you see, and her fine clothes didn’t last a year, and so she is dressed in an old fustian gown of Betsy’s. Her hair that used to curl so well is no longer so shiny looking, and her once rounded and pink face is becoming sharp. Of course, she is still a pretty piece and as different from me as a star is from a chunk of coal.
“You should make 'er work.” Sybil is envious and bitter, knowing her own looks are marred forever, and her own chances of getting out of here worse than my own.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I say, placing an arm about M’lady’s shoulders. “That’s a terrible thing to say.”
“She wants to eat, don’t she? So, she should work, or go back where she come from.”
It’s true that I could earn a pretty penny if I became her bawd and set M’lady to work, but the thought of her sweet body defiled by lechers is too much for me, as hungry as I am. My belly growls suddenly and the girl giggles, puts out a hand to my cheek.
“If I didn’t know different, I’d think you were sweet on 'er yerself.”
“Shut up, Sybil, before I thump you.”
She subsides onto her stool, scowling at me and curling her lip at M’lady. It is true, I am fond of her but not in the wrong way. She is more like the child I never bore; my only link with Francis, and besides, she depends on me and is miserable when I am away.
I can never send her back to her own.
But we are only just hanging on. Once the few pieces of kindlin’ in the bucket are gone and supper eaten up, there will be nothing left.
Nothing at all.
No wood for the fire or bread for our bellies. Things have never been so bad.
As February gives way to March, and the frost is replaced by a bitter wind that no matter how much I stuff the cracks and crevices with straw and sacking creeps in beneath the door. I know I have to do something. We can’t go on like this or we’ll all be dead come spring. As soon as I’ve plucked up sufficient courage, I pin on the remnants of M’lady’s French cap, pinch some wanton roses into my cheeks, hoist up my paps and make my way toward London Bridge in search of a fat purse or two.
Of late there have been gangs of youths, young sons of the nobility, making trouble for us girls. One night a bevy of them sailed down the river, shooting arrows at us as we worked on the bank. Since then I keep myself as far from them as possible and ply my trade with men I know and trust … as far as I trust any man.
Even in daylight hours they make a nuisance of themselves, drinking and rampaging through the streets, accosting innocent women as well as those on sale. It isn’t easy for any girl to keep herself safe, but now times are so hard I must risk picking one of them up and mayhap get him so drunk he’ll not notice when I steal his purse.
I hear them before I see them and I force myself to walk with a jaunty step until, sure enough, I come across a band of them sparring about outside The White Horse. They are making such a din that at first they don’t
notice me, and I fear a quarrel is about to break out.
Sparse-bearded boys like these are ever ready for a fight and it will not take much for one of them to draw his sword. It’s the sort of trouble I can well do without but, with my mind set on the depth of their purses, I push out my bosom and don my best smile.
“Good day, gentlemen,” I call as I stroll toward them, letting my thin cloak fall back to reveal the mark of my trade. They turn as one and watch me draw near, their eyes burning through my clothes. Abandoning the argument, one of them pushes back his cap and gives me the benefit of his handsome smile.
“Good morrow, Madam,” he says, mocking me with the title for 'tis plain to all of them what I am. “Can I serve you?”
I try not to let them see my nervousness when I laugh up at him and stare brazenly into his eye. “I’m sure you all can, Sir, given your purses are long enough.”
They fall about laughing, slapping each other on the back as if I am some great wit. “Come join us, Sweeting,” the boldest one cries, holding out his arm in welcome. Although they are young enough for me to have birthed them, I go forward and join their roistering.
An arm falls heavy across my shoulders and I am handed a flagon. Grateful to have a means of dulling what sensibilities I have left, I take a hefty swig. Nobody, not even a whore, really enjoys the company of drunks and villains, and these men are rogues indeed. I am well aware that there is every chance they will make use of my body and then cast me into the river like an empty wine vessel.
It’s a risk I have to take.
We move off to a quieter yard, away from the eyes of the passing townsfolk, and I am glad of the flagon that is seldom out of my hand. My companions are far gone, stumbling and giggling, their words so slurred I can scarce understand. I cling to the hope that just one of them takes me off to some inn where I can service him well before lulling him off to sleep. Then, once he is snoring, I can make off with his money. Well, 'tis a plan of sorts, albeit a frightening one. It is only the thought of a full belly and the easement of Sybil’s whining that gives me courage.
The Winchester Goose: At the Court of Henry VIII Page 15
