“Your sister’s speech with me is confidential and not to be discussed between you two, Master Lascelles. I intend to investigate the matter further, based upon what your sister has told me. I may call upon you both again in the near future to testify before me. Do you understand me, sir?”
Lascelles nodded. Taking his sister by the arm, the two left the archbishop’s palace in Southwark. Behind them England’s highest and most powerful cleric was left behind to mull over what he had been told. He could see no wickedness in Mistress Hall. Indeed, if anything, she was sympathetic to the queen, even if she disapproved of her former mistress’s behavior. It was that behavior that troubled the archbishop.
There was no doubt in Thomas Cranmer’s mind that Catherine Howard was a fickle young woman. She obviously fell in and out of love as easily as one changed one’s linen. Henry Tudor’s courtship had undoubtedly overwhelmed her. The king might be a corpulent, middle-aged man, but the power he represented, the wealth at his disposal, all must have been extremely heady and tempting to an unsophisticated young girl barely out of the country. He shook his head. Was she still in love with the king? Or had she already fallen out of love? Publicly she seemed a model wife, and God only knew the king was desperately in love with her.
What was he to do? the archbishop wondered. If the queen’s behavior today was moral and decent, if she had honestly reformed her wicked ways, was there any advantage to bringing up her less than savory past before her marriage? The king would not be pleased to have the reputation of his rose without a thorn besmirched. I must pray on it, Thomas Cranmer thought. God will guide me. He walked slowly into his private chapel, and kneeling down upon his little prie-dieu, closed his eyes, folded his hands together, and prayed.
The king returned to Hampton Court and ordered that on All Saints’ Day a service be offered of special prayers of thanksgiving for their safe return and for his wonderful queen. Henry Tudor stood before his court in the Chapel Royal and publicly declared, “I render thanks to Thee, O Lord, that after so many strange accidents that have befallen my marriages, Thou has been pleased to give me a wife so entirely conformed to my inclinations as her I now have.”
Nyssa de Winter’s eyes met those of her husband’s at the king’s public declaration. Varian took her hand in his and squeezed it encouragingly. From his place on the archbishop’s throne upon the high altar, Thomas Cranmer heard the king’s humble words of thanks and knew what he must now do. John Lascelles was not a man to let go of this matter, having brought it to the attention of the proper authorities. The archbishop knew that if he did nothing else, he must lay the facts of this possible scandal, as he knew them, before the king. He retired after the service to write the king a letter.
At the mass the following day, All Souls’ Day, Thomas Cranmer slipped a parchment containing his knowledge of the queen’s early life into the king’s hand.
“What is this, Thomas?” the king whispered to him.
“For your eyes alone, my liege. When you have read it, I will be at Your Grace’s disposal,” the archbishop relied.
The king nodded solemnly, and tucked the parchment into his vast sleeve. When the services had ended, he kissed his wife and hurried to his privy chamber to peruse what the archbishop had given him. He closed the door behind him, indicating to those who served him that he wanted to be alone. Laying the parchment upon a table, he poured himself a large goblet of rich, sweet red wine. He drank it down, and reaching for the missive, broke the archbishop’s seal. He spread the parchment out and began to read. With each damning word his brow darkened. His chest grew tight as he attempted to draw a deep breath. For a brief moment the words on the parchment swam before his eyes. When his vision had cleared, the king raised his fist and slammed it down upon the table.
“Lies!” he ground out. “Filthy lies! I will not believe this foulness that the archbishop has presented me with, and I will have this man, Lascelles, arrested and clapped in the Tower!” He strode toward the door, and yanking it open, called to his personal page.
“Fetch the archbishop to me this instant!” he roared.
The page, white-faced, nodded and ran off. The king’s gentlemen looked questioningly at each other but said nothing. Henry Tudor retreated into his privy chamber, slamming the door behind him so hard that it shook upon its stout hinges. Pouring himself another great goblet of wine, he drank it down in hopes of calming his nerves. He had never in his life been so angry. Even when the first Katherine had been so difficult, he had not felt such anger. For anyone to foul the good name of his darling young queen was outrageous. This Lascelles would suffer for his slander. When he was finished with this fellow, he would wish he had never been born. Henry’s fist slammed down onto the table again in a white hot fury.
Thomas Cranmer had known that the summons would quickly come. He followed the king’s page through the corridors of Hampton Court Palace, his robes swaying just slightly, his hands folded neatly into his sleeves. The boy sent to fetch him was pasty with his obvious fear. The archbishop had calmed the lad with gentle words, and then allowed the boy to lead him back to the king. The king whirled about as the archbishop entered his privy chamber, his face a mask of outraged anger.
“This,” the king snarled, shaking the parchment at his chief cleric, “this is filth! How could you pass it on to me? I want this Lascelles and his sister, Mistress Hall, arrested. It is treason to accuse the queen falsely, Cranmer. Treason!”
“There may be no treason, Your Grace,” the archbishop said calmly. “Lescelles is a Protestant fanatic, ’tis true, but his sister, Mistress Hall, harbored a deep affection for the queen. She helped to raise her. Her brother nagged at her to seek a place with the queen, and she refused, for the queen’s early behavior had disturbed her. She is a decent woman, my lord. She only told her brother of the queen’s youthful indiscretions so that he would leave her in peace. She did not want the queen to feel she was pressuring her to take her into her household. ’Tis a pity others were not as scrupulous in their motives. At least four of the queen’s women were with her at Lambeth. ’Tis curious, is it not?”
“This Dereham fellow arrived at Pontefract in August when we were there,” the king told the archbishop. “Catherine made him her secretary. She said the old dowager sent him, and asked that we treat him with kindness. I let her have her way, although I did not like him.”
“Hummmmm,” the archbishop said with understatement.
“If it happened before we met, there is no treason, nor is there any adultery,” Henry Tudor said slowly, “but get to the bottom of this pot, Thomas. I want no scandals later on. If the queen gives us a Duke of York, the boy’s paternity should not be in doubt over such a thing as this. Find the truth, and then we will decide what to do.”
“I will be most discreet, Your Grace,” the archbishop said.
“Thomas,” the king asked him, “why does God keep trying me like this? All those years to get a healthy son, and if the truth be known, the boy is not that strong. I came back to learn that he was ill. The doctors say he is too fat, and overprotected. I have ordered a regiment of exercise and simple meals for him. No sweets. He is better already. God’s foot, Thomas! There wasn’t even a window open in his apartment so the boy could get some fresh air. They were treating him like a little idol! Do I ask for a great deal, Thomas? I want sons. I want a good woman to wife. I am so happy with my Catherine. Is she to be taken from me?”
The king was beginning to feel sorry for himself, the archbishop saw, but then every man was entitled to wallow occasionally in self-pity. Not only had the king returned to news of his heir’s illness, and now this disturbing and possible scandal over the queen, but he had just received word that his sister Margaret, the Dowager Queen of Scotland, had died. It was not that he and Margaret had been close. He had been far closer to his late sister Mary. Still, it was one more link with the past broken; a grim but firm reminder of his mortality.
“This business may be nothing more than
a fuss over naught,” the archbishop soothed his master. “Many minds are not quite what they seem to be when they marry. It is not the way I would have it, but it happens. If the lady Agnes was as lax in her guardianship, as it would certainly appear, it seems to me the fault lies with her, not with poor Queen Catherine, who was, after all, an unsophisticated girl. I will delve carefully into this business, learn the whole truth, and then as quickly inform Your Grace of my findings.”
The king nodded. “Whatever you need, Thomas.”
“I have Your Grace’s permission to question certain individuals?”
“Aye. Do what you have to do. Ahh, God, I miss Crum!”
“God assoil his soul,” the archbishop murmured piously.
“Thomas.”
“Yes, Your Grace?”
“See that the queen is confined to her apartments until her good name is cleared. She may have only Lady Rochford to attend her. I shall not see her until this matter is settled in her favor.”
“I will give the order, Your Grace,” Thomas Cranmer said softly. He put a comforting hand on the king’s shoulder. “Courage, Henry,” he said. “God’s will be done.”
“Amen,” the king answered, but he did not turn his face to the archbishop, else his friend see the anguish there, and not be able to do his duty. Thomas Cranmer could be trusted, and few others around him could be. They all looked to their own advantage.
The archbishop departed the king’s privy chamber. In the anteroom outside, the king’s gentlemen looked to him for some sort of explanation as he passed, but he gave them none. He simply raised his hand in blessing as he moved by them.
Nyssa was with the queen when the household guard arrived. She and the other ladies had been practicing a new dance just brought to court from France. The women were at first frightened by the armed men.
The captain of the guard stepped forward and bowed politely to the queen. “Madame, on the king’s orders, you are to be confined to your apartments. Your women are all dismissed, and only Lady Rochford may remain with you.”
“Captain,” the queen said, her tone imperious, “what mean you coming to my chambers in such a fashion? Can you not see we are learning a new dance for the Christmas festivities?”
“Madame,” the captain replied, “there is no more time to dance.” Then without another word he began shooing her servants from the apartments. The queen’s ladies needed no further encouragement. Picking up their skirts, they fled their mistress, each eager to be the first to spread the news that something terrible was about to happen.
“Nyssa!” Catherine Howard’s tone was suddenly frightened. “Do not leave me! I am afraid.”
“I am afraid for all of us, Cat,” Nyssa replied. Then she lowered her voice and whispered to the queen, “Say nothing, Cat, until you learn what they know, and precisely what this is all about.” She then curtsied to her and departed after the other women.
“Captain,” the queen said. “Why am I being confined like this? Can I not see the king?”
“Madame, I regret that I do not know,” the man replied honestly.
“I will go and speak with His Grace, dear madame,” Lady Rochford told the frightened young woman. “I will ask him why you are imprisoned.” She moved to the doors of the apartment, but the captain blocked her way.
“I am sorry, Lady Rochford, but you are to be incarcerated with the queen, and not allowed to come and go at will. Food will be brought to you. You will want for nothing.”
“Send me my confessor!” the queen demanded. “If I am to be denied my freedom, and access to my husband, then I must be allowed a priest, sir. Surely the king will not deny me a priest!” Her voice was high and beginning to border on the hysterical.
“I will ask, madame,” was the captain’s noncommittal reply. He bowed again, and backed from the queen’s chambers.
Both she and Lady Rochford heard the key turn in the lock behind him. Wordlessly the two women ran to the other exits to the apartment, but they were all locked. Even the hidden door to the secret passageway that led to the king’s apartments was bolted from the other side. Lady Rochford peered from the windows of the apartment, and it was as if an icy hand had gripped her heart. Below, at ten-foot intervals, were yeomen of the guard standing armed.
“He knows!” the queen whispered frantically. “What else can it be, Rochford? He knows!”
“Say nothing until you are accused,” Lady Rochford whispered back. “You cannot be certain what the king has been told.”
Lady Jane Rochford could feel herself slipping back in time, back to a similar situation in which her sister-in-law, Anne Boleyn, found herself accused. Anne had been guilty of nothing, but to save her husband, George Boleyn, Lady Jane had agreed to testify against her. Her sole evidence had consisted of the fact that Anne and her brother had spent an afternoon in a closed room together. Jane had told the court in a pretrial hearing that she believed Anne desired to conspire against the king, but that her husband, George, had sought to dissuade her. Just tell of how they were closeted for that afternoon, she was instructed. The rest will come out through others.
Jane Rochford had done as she was told. But Cromwell and the others had betrayed her. She had testified, and then listened in horror as her words were interpreted to imply that Anne, the queen, had committed incest with George, Lord Rochford.
“Ahh, God, no!” she had cried out, and been forcibly removed from the courtroom. They had not let her see her husband again. She had not been able to tell him that she had said no such thing; that she had been tricked; that she did really love him. She had never told George that she loved him. Instead she had been sent away from court with thanks for her loyalty and the promise of reward one day. Her appointment to Anne of Cleves’s household was that reward, and later she had been appointed to Catherine Howard’s service, which was far better. The king had had no love for the German princess, but he loved and adored Cat Howard.
Jane Rochford had waited for what seemed like many years to revenge herself upon Henry Tudor. In her exile from court, she had thought often of how she would hurt him as she had been hurt. She wanted him to feel the pain that she had felt when they had entrapped her into betraying her husband; when her husband was executed so cruelly. That she risked her own life meant nothing to her at all. She had no husband. No children. The king had to pay for killing George. He would lose the one he loved most in all the world, even as she had lost the one that she loved most in all the world.
That was why she had encouraged Thomas Culpeper and Catherine Howard into adultery. It had not been hard. The queen was a flighty, silly girl with ridiculous romantic notions. She had not the wit of a flea. She had honestly believed as long as she kept the king content, she could play her wanton little games and get away with them. As for Culpeper, he was a proud young man with a great opinion of himself, and he had fallen in love with Catherine Howard. She did not know which of them was the greater fool. How could they not see their foolish love was doomed?
Who had told on them? Lady Rochford wondered. She had intended to expose them herself, but not until the queen was well along with a bastard child. The king, she knew from the queen, had not been able to perform satisfactorily of late. He would know any child got on the queen was not of his making. He would either have to expose her or accept the bastard as his own. Either way, he would suffer the tortures of the damned. But now, Lady Rochford realized, something had happened. Some new unknown element had been introduced. Someone else had informed on the queen. Who was it? And why? What exactly did they know? She was a little afraid. If they knew about the queen, did they know about her?
Taking the queen’s cold little hand in hers, she patted it, saying, “Remember, Catherine Howard, admit to nothing. You do not know what anyone has said, and for now it is just their word against yours. The king loves you best of all his wives, even your cousin Anne. He will believe you, but you must not panic.”
Cat shuddered. “Do not mention her name to me. I c
annot help but remember how she ended up. I do not want to die, Rochford!”
“Then say nothing, and when accused, deny everything,” Lady Rochford said silkily. “Naught can happen to you if you are clever. There is no proof of anything untoward in your behavior.” At least no proof that they can find, she thought, but if they can find nothing, they will manufacture it. That is how the king ridded himself of Anne Boleyn, but then he was out of love with her by then, and enamored of the Seymour chit. He is still in love with this girl. Ohh, I wish I could find out what it was they knew. Perhaps we can bribe one of the servitors who brings our food. I must know what is going on!
Nyssa had been frantically seeking her husband, and finally found him with the Duke of Norfolk. “The queen is confined to her apartments under guard, with only Rochford to attend her. The others have all been dismissed!” she told them breathlessly. “The archbishop, I learned from one of the guards, is in charge of the investigation.
“Jesus Christus!” Norfolk swore volubly. “Could you learn anything else, madame? Why is Catherine confined? There is no other woman, I know, and the king absolutely adores her. What has gone wrong?”
“Do you really care?” Nyssa demanded of him. “Is your distress for Catherine Howard, or for yourself, my lord duke?”
“Your wife’s tongue could easily lose her her head,” the duke said sourly to his grandson.
“My lord,” Nyssa said angrily, “I have addressed you, and yet you ignore me. You do it all the time, and I resent it. Varian and I are here at court at the request of your niece, the queen. We would far prefer to be home with our children. If this queen you set up is tumbled down, are we not all in danger?”
Thomas Howard looked directly at Nyssa and said a single word, “Aye.” His long face was grave, his eyes, usually fathomless, worried.
For a brief moment Nyssa felt sorry for him. Her voice dropped and she beckoned him closer to her. “The queen may be caught in adultery, my lord,” Nyssa told him softly. “I cannot be certain, but why else would the archbishop be involved in this matter?”
Love, Remember Me Page 37
