I read it through again and again and thought of his coming home. Then we would marry.
My grandmother, who, immediately after that scene when she had beaten me so severely, had treated me with coldness and disgust, now relented a little.
She said to me one day: “My child, we will not talk of what happened. ’Tis best forgot.” Then she immediately began to talk of it. “It must be hushed up. Your uncle, the Duke, must never hear of it. No one must know.”
I thought of all those who did know. All those women who slept in the Long Room … and doubtless others.
“It would disturb the family,” she went on. “Your father would be distressed. It could prevent your sisters making good marriages. Your uncle would never forgive you.”
I tried to explain again that Francis and I were as husband and wife, and we only did what married people were entitled to do.
“Be silent,” she snapped. “You do not know what you say. You are a child. You know nothing of these matters. It was but child’s play.”
“Your Grace, Francis was my husband in very truth.”
I saw exasperation and fear in her expression. I was sure that, if I had been near enough, she would have struck me.
“Did I not say that we were not to speak of the matter?”
I nodded, not reminding her that it was she who had brought up the topic. But I knew how very deeply alarmed she was, for I too was understanding that what I had fallen into in a light-hearted way was, after all, a serious matter.
This was continually brought home to me in my conversations with my grandmother. I was once more rubbing her legs, and at such times she would continually stress the importance of the Howard family.
It was the old theme. “Oh, it is a wondrous thing to belong to a family such as ours. We have always been so close to the King, except on one or two occasions in our history, for we are by no means fools … except on those occasions when we seek to gratify our foolish desires and plunge near to disaster.” A significant look at me followed this remark. “But that is when we are young and too stupid to know better. And remember this, Katherine Howard, it behooves us all not to demean ourselves with those of low standing. We must always remember that we owe the utmost respect to the noble family to which we belong.”
I did not speak, but bent low over her leg, rubbing soothingly. I had always thought Francis so courtly, so handsome, comparable with the highest in the land, but all this insistence on the family’s greatness was making me think, well, he is, after all, only a pensioner of the Duke. I remembered him cringing before the Duchess when she slapped his face.
“I could see a good life for you, Katherine Howard,” went on my grandmother. “That is, if you are sensible. There might be a place at Court. Would you like that?”
I thought of the Court. Dancing, music, grand balls, beautiful gowns and money with which to buy them—not having to rely on a friend, or a lover. Mercy me! How much did I owe Francis Derham? How many ells of velvet and fine silks had he brought to me? That beautiful French fennel from the crooked old woman who made flowers for the Court ladies could not have been cheap, for she knew her worth. There had been other ornaments which Francis had delighted in giving me, and I had always said, “I will pay you when I have some money.” And he would laugh and kiss me and tell me how this or that became me. I should not have allowed it. A proud Howard should not have taken money from anyone—especially someone so far below her.
Almost immediately, I chided myself for thinking so of Francis, but the fact remained that he was not considered to be one of us although he claimed to have some remote connection with the family.
My grandmother was saying: “Eh, eh? Do you hear me? How would you like to go to Court?”
“It would be very interesting.”
“Very interesting! Is that all you have to say? Listen to me. I tell you this, Mistress Howard, it would be something for which you would bless your family. Marry, and so it would. There could be a great marriage for you.”
“I am married to …”
“Don’t dare let me hear such nonsense, or I shall beat you till you scream for mercy.” She reached for her stick and shook it at me. “Are you mad? Never let me hear you talk such nonsense. You would bring down the wrath of your uncle the Duke … and that would mean more than a slap or two from me, I can tell you. Much, much more. You may have been taken advantage of by a stupid young man as careless as yourself, but I was at hand to protect you and put an end to your folly before it was too late. Did you hear that? Before it was too late.”
“Yes … yes, Your Grace,” I murmured.
“Well, rub a little harder. Oh … that’s a relief. You have good hands, child. Well, of a surety the King will marry again … soon.” She laughed. “He is a man who cannot do without a wife. There are some like that.”
I thought, he must be getting old now. I had thought he was old when I saw him beside my cousin. She had looked so dazzlingly beautiful. But I did not say this, as any mention of Anne always depressed the Duchess.
“I hear he is making inquiries on the Continent,” went on the Duchess. “And he is deeply desirous of making Marie of Lorraine his wife. She is said to be of unsurpassed beauty, but she is betrothed to the King of Scotland. But His Majesty would thrust that aside. What is the King of Scots compared with the King of England? Yet, I do not think the lady is so eager to take our King. Some are saying that it is unlucky to be the wife of the King of England. One wife put from him after years of marriage, the next …”—her voice broke—“… sent to the block … the third dying in childbirth. It might indeed seem that Heaven is set against a happy marriage for him. That is what they say.”
“And it is indeed the truth,” I put in.
“Do not dare say such things!” reproved the Duchess, seemingly unaware that she was the one who had just said it.
“The French King mocks him,” she went on. “Those French. Would you trust them? They have their graces and prancing manners, I grant you … and beneath all that, they are wily. No friends of ours, they cover their wicked actions with graceful words. Do you know, the French King sent word to His Majesty condoling with him on his unfortunate explorations into matrimony and to wish him success with his fourth choice. And when His Majesty said that he would be delighted to take a lady from the French Court, King Francis replied that any lady of any degree should be at his disposal. French manners, of course, are not to be taken seriously, and when the King sent a message to King Francis to the effect that he would come without delay to inspect the ladies, the French King pretended to be shocked that his gracious politeness had been misunderstood and he replied that the King of England would understand that noble ladies could not be taken to market like horses at a fair.”
I began to laugh.
“It is not for laughing, child,” she reproved me. “Whom His Majesty marries is important to us … to the family. Remember the Seymours. What airs they give themselves. They think they are above us all because they are uncles to the young Edward. It is not a laughing matter. We must trust that the King’s new wife will favor the Howard family. That is why your uncle would like to have a hand in the choice.”
“Doubtless the King will choose his own Queen.”
The Duchess nodded gloomily. “Of a surety he will.” She was thoughtful for a while, then she said: “Enough of this, child. Put away the unguents.” She brightened a little. “There will be a new Queen … and soon, I trow. You are growing up and you have the Howard good looks. Who knows, with the coming of a new Queen, there may be an opening for you at Court.”
* * *
I was becoming more interested in what was going on around me than I had ever been before. Perhaps it was because I was getting older, but more likely because the Duchess’s household was no longer a forcing ground for latent sensuality. Restrictions set by the Duchess had to be adhered to, and there was stern punishment for any who diverged from the new laws now laid down. There was a subdued atmosphere
throughout the house and certainly not the same familiarity between the sexes there had been previously. Everyone was careful not to attract suspicion.
I suppose some of the bolder spirits continued their associations, but, as Francis was gone, I was not tempted. I read a little and even wrote the occasional letter when necessary. I found that there were other interests than kissing and thinking of a lover all the time.
So I learned something of what was going on. I now knew a little about the powerful people at Court—men like Thomas Cromwell, who had taken Wolsey’s place. Poor Wolsey! It was said that he had died of a broken heart which saved him from the axe. He had done all he could to prevent the King’s marriage to my cousin Anne but, brilliant as he was, he was no match for the King in the heat of his desire, and he had died because he had lost the King’s favor.
There was Thomas More, who had refused to sign the Act of Supremacy. The King was, at that time, seeking to rid himself of my cousin and blamed her for that good man’s death.
How lightly all heads seemed to rest on shoulders! I began to realize more fully how alarmed my grandmother had been when she discovered what had happened between Francis Derham and me. Not that I was of any importance, except in a very minor way as a Howard.
I thought once more of my poor cousin. They had said she had lovers, and that was treason toward the King. Yet he had broken his marriage vows to her. There was Jane Seymour to bear witness to that. But that did not seem important. And Anne had died for her transgression.
It was all very difficult to understand, but that in itself made it more dangerous. I began to wish there had not been that passion between Francis and myself almost as much as I had wished I had never known Henry Manox.
I felt I wanted to go on living this restricted life, becoming interested in what was going on around me, being the young, innocent girl I could have been if I had never known those nights in the Long Room.
How different it was now. We all slept behind locked doors and talked together sometimes of what was going on in the country. Would the King marry? And whom? It all seemed of the greatest interest.
Some of the leading spirits of the Long Room had disappeared. Joan was one of them. She was going to be married, I believe. I was rather relieved when she went, because she often reminded me of that occasion when the Duchess surprised us in the Maids’ Chamber and had seen Derham and me rolling on the floor.
Throughout the country, for some time, there had been a conflict between Catholics and Protestants. The Howards were firm Catholics and Stephen Gardiner, the Bishop of Winchester, stood with my uncle; the Seymours, with Thomas Cromwell, were in the opposite camp. I had never before realized how important such men were, and how they worked in a devious manner to attain their ends and influence the King’s actions without appearing to do so.
It was for this reason, of course, that my uncle and his brothers had been so delighted when the King was attracted by my cousin. They must have temporarily forgotten how fickle royal favor could be.
Perhaps I am running ahead. I cannot believe that the frivolous girl I was at that time suddenly began to take an intelligent interest in her surroundings and to understand something of their meaning; but certainly I began to change then.
We were all excited when it seemed that the King was making his choice of a wife. One of the likely candidates was a lady known as Anne of Cleves, the Lutheran daughter of John, Duke of Cleves. My uncle was naturally against the match, Thomas Cromwell for it.
We heard her name mentioned often, and I learned a little about her. She was said to be beautiful, but were not all royal ladies beautiful? Especially those who were seeking—or being sought in—marriage with a highly desirable consort.
She had an elder sister who had been married for ten years to the Duke of Saxony, the leader of the Protestants in Germany. Her name was Sybilla and not only was she reputed to be of outstanding beauty, but she was known for her wisdom and the happiness she had brought to her successful marriage. In fact, she was reckoned to be one of the most distinguished and admirable of ladies.
The sister of such a lady must surely herself possess some excellent qualities? She was twenty-one years old.
“Why,” I said, “she is very old.” It was a remark which provoked some laughter.
“Mistress Katherine Howard,” said Dorothy Barwike mockingly, “having seen all of fifteen years, finds twenty-one … old.”
I blushed. I stammered: “No … I suppose it is not in truth … old. But for a Queen …”
“The King is not exactly a young man.”
That was true enough. When I had seen him with my cousin I had thought he was old—and now he was even older, so it did not matter that Anne of Cleves was twenty-one.
I daresay the King would have liked to see her for himself but, after the snub he had received from the King of France, he might have felt wary of suggesting this.
The next best thing was to have a portrait of her, but portraits, of course, did not always tell the truth.
The Duchess told me that the Duke did not like the proposed marriage. He thought it was most unsuitable. Then “that knave, Cromwell,” as my uncle called him, had the idea that he would send our finest painter, Hans Holbein, to make a picture of the prospective bride, and he was sure that when the King saw it he would be in favor of the match.
This is what Hans Holbein did, and he painted a beautiful picture. It came in an ivory box, shaped like a rose, I heard, and when it was opened, the portrait was disclosed, lying at the bottom of the box. The King was enchanted. He was not interested in the lady’s religion. What he cared about were her personal attractions and, according to the exquisite miniature, they were completely desirable. So the King would marry Anne of Cleves.
There was gloom throughout the house. Anne of Cleves, with her Protestant upbringing, was certainly not what the Howards were looking for.
By the end of the year it seemed certain that she would be the new Queen. I gathered, through the gossip, that my uncle blamed Thomas Cromwell for this.
It really was a very short time since Jane Seymour had died, but the King was clearly not greatly grieved by that sad event. Jane had served her purpose. She had given him what her two predecessors had failed to, but he could be only moderately pleased with his heir, for the child was not very robust and was therefore a constant source of anxiety. It seemed hardly likely that such a weakling as Jane would have produced healthy children had she lived, and, as the King was no longer young, it was well to get himself a new wife as quickly as possible.
We were getting excited. There would be a coronation and that meant revelry in the streets: and if, at the appropriate interval, little Edward should have a strong and healthy half-brother, that would ease the tension which had always existed about the fragile heir.
There were delays. In the first place, the future Queen’s father died. Then we heard rumors that Sybilla’s husband, John Frederick of Saxony, had expressed doubts as to the wisdom of the marriage. He was uneasy that the bridegroom had already experienced three unsatisfactory marriages—the first to a wife who was said to have been no wife and whom he had put from him; the second to one whose life ended on the scaffold; and the third to a wife who had died in childbirth almost immediately.
Everyone was asking the question, would there be no marriage with Anne of Cleves? Would the King have to look elsewhere? And despondency settled on us all.
Then there was good news. John Frederick’s fears were stifled by the League of Protestants, who declared that the marriage would be good for the Cause. Had not the King already broken with Rome? That was one step in the right direction. It might be that his wife could persuade him to take more.
At last Anne left Düsseldorf for England. Nothing could delay the King’s marriage much longer. We thought she would arrive for Christmas, which would be a most appropriate time; but, alas, it was not to be. The weather was bad; the winds were especially fierce, which perhaps was to be expected at thi
s time of the year.
We heard that the Lady of Cleves would perforce spend Christmas in Calais. Then the winds suddenly subsided and we were delighted when we heard that she was to sail, and she arrived in Deal two days after Christmas.
My grandmother said, as I rubbed her legs: “The Duke is most displeased.”
“There is little he can do about that,” I replied, having become much bolder during those days. I should soon be sixteen years old and a child no longer. I had changed a great deal, and I tried not to think too much of the foolish, thoughtless girl I had once been, believing everything that was told me. I was now dreaming of going to Court. My grandmother had such ambitions for me.
“With a new Queen,” she often mused, “though she is not of our choosing, but… who knows? The Duke has kept favor, even after …” Then she would sigh and be sad, thinking of her favorite granddaughter.
Now she said: “True, we must needs accept that. They say she is very fair. The Duke has seen Master Holbein’s portrait and it depresses his spirit.”
“She is very beautiful then?”
My grandmother was silent. After a while she said: “Your uncle is among those who will go to Canterbury to greet her. It will not be long before she is crowned Queen, and it seems only yesterday…”
She was going to be sad for a while after this. The prospect of a new Queen brought back too many memories of that other.
There was great excitement in the Long Room. Someone always managed to get the latest news from a friend who had either heard or actually witnessed it. We had to sort out the truth from fantasy, but there was usually a grain or two of the former involved; and it all made fascinating listening.
Now there were reports of what had happened at the royal meeting.
When the King had his first glimpse of her, he was filled with horror.
“They say she is by no means as fair as he had been led to believe by accounts and, of course, Master Holbein’s portrait. She is big and he likes not large women. Master Holbein makes her skin look like velvet, and hers is marked by the pox. She wears the hideous fashions of her country and she is no beauty.”
The Rose Without a Thorn Page 9
