by Alison Weir
On her birthday, though, she sent for her.
“I have a gift for you,” she said, sitting straight-backed in her high chair and handing Katheryn a little velvet pouch. Inside was a small gold crucifix on a chain.
“When you wear it, think on the suffering of our Lord,” her grandam admonished. “I am told that you are willful, and frivolous, and pleasure-loving, and that you are wanting in piety.”
Katheryn blenched. What harm was there in having high spirits, enjoying a laugh with the other girls, and loving fine clothes? So what if she balked at doing tasks she didn’t like, such as mending hems, making tarts, and helping in the still room, the kind of things Mother Emmet deemed suitable occupations for a young lady? And did God really mind so much that she was not always in chapel when she should be?
“These tendencies must be checked,” the Duchess continued. “We cannot do just what we want in this life. You must look to your improvement.”
“Yes, my lady,” Katheryn murmured, her cheeks hot with embarrassment.
“But you have a kind heart,” the old lady said, and smiled. “That is more important than most things.”
Katheryn cheered up immensely when Dorothy Berwick bounced into her room later that morning.
“Mistress Katheryn, we’ve been talking about you and we think that, now you are of marriageable age, you are quite grown up enough to join us in the gentlewomen’s chamber, if you wish,” she said. “In fact, we think you are becoming very pretty and will attract many suitors.”
Katheryn blushed at such unexpected praise. She knew, without conceit, that she was pleasing to look at: her mirror told her that every day. She had the Howard nose, but her face was round and pretty, her eyes heavy-lidded and blue, her lips full and rosy red, and her hair hung down her back like a rippling auburn cape. And it was true, she was growing up. Beneath the laced velvet bodice there were budding breasts and, two months ago, she had begun to have what Mother Emmet called her flowers, the show of blood she would experience each month until she ceased to be of childbearing age. She had worked hard at her dancing and deportment, and was as poised as a grown lady. If only she were taller!
She was thrilled that she was to be admitted to the sisterhood of the gentlewomen’s dorter, for she had long yearned to be one of that merry crowd and to join in the laughter she had so often heard behind the closed door. And she was pleased when Mother Emmet told her that she could still keep her own chamber and have privacy when she wanted it, as was only fitting for a daughter of the Howards.
But she would sleep in the dorter tonight and join in the fun! Gathering up her night-rail and robe, she followed Dorothy along the gallery, excited at the prospect.
She walked into a long, high-ceilinged chamber with wooden beams, whitewashed walls, and latticed windows. It contained about ten large tester beds, all with their curtains looped back, and a long trestle table in the middle of the room. Some beds were untidily strewn with discarded clothing and some were still unmade. There was one other young woman there, who was wearing only a thin shift and rummaging through a chest.
“Hurry up, Margery, you’ll be late for dinner,” Dorothy chivvied her.
Katheryn wrinkled her nose. The dorter smelled stuffy, redolent of sweat, feet, and unemptied chamber pots.
“I know, it stinks.” Dorothy sighed. “The maids are late as usual. They’re supposed to keep the room clean and aired. Don’t worry, they’ll be in later, and they’ll put fresh sheets on a bed for you. I’ll open a window. You might have to share,” she went on, indicating a bed in the corner. “It depends on who is sleeping where. We often share with each other. There are more of us than there are beds.” Margery looked up at her and laughed.
* * *
—
That evening, after Mother Emmet had locked them into the dorter, Katheryn was made to feel very welcome by the young gentlewomen. There were about fourteen of them, all relations and dependents of the Duchess, some hoping to attract husbands, some just glad of a noble roof over their heads. The Dowager’s married ladies, like Malyn Tilney, shared chambers with their husbands, but Margaret Bennet preferred to sleep in the dorter as it was more comfortable than the cupboard in which she claimed hers slept. Already, Katheryn was friends with several of the gentlewomen, and she sensed that they were a little in awe of her because she was so closely related to the Duchess; always, she was “Mistress Katheryn” to them, although, to each other, they just used Christian names.
The chatter and laughter went on until very late, far later than her usual bedtime. No one told her to go to bed, so she stayed seated at the table with the others. She was surprised when, toward midnight, some of the gentlewomen got up and began replacing the burnt-out candles, and a petite, moon-faced girl called Alice Wilkes opened a cupboard and took out a covered platter, removing the cloth to reveal a joint of ham.
“Purloined from the kitchens!” she announced, and everyone giggled. Someone else spread a cloth on the table, while others took more items from the cupboard: plates, knives, beakers, a raised pie, and a bowl of fruit. Then Dorothy produced a ewer of wine and the feast was complete.
“Tuck in, ladies!” Alice cried. “You, too, Mistress Katheryn.” They all helped themselves. It was delicious, all the more so for being illicit.
That was not the only surprise in store for Katheryn.
“Has someone got the keys?” Meg Morton asked.
“Here!” Alice said triumphantly, holding them up. She turned to Katheryn. “Old Agnes has the keys brought into her own chamber at night, but she has spare ones on a hook in her stool room, and it’s easy for those of us who attend her to bed to borrow them. We always return them before morning, and she never notices they’ve gone. Snores like an ox!”
Katheryn could not help laughing. “But why do you want to leave the dorter?”
“We don’t want to leave.” Kat Tilney chuckled. “We have visitors!”
“They’re here now,” Dorothy spluttered, as a soft knock was heard on the door.
Katheryn stared as a group of young men entered. She knew them all—the ever-humorous Mr. Waldegrave, the diminutive and merry Mr. Damport, Mr. Ashby, Mr. Faver, and Margaret’s husband, Mr. Bennet; they were all gentlemen or grooms of the Duchess’s chamber. Bringing up the rear was Mr. Maunsay, a brawny, handsome usher.
“They have come to share the feast,” Mary Lascelles explained. Of all the women in the dorter, Katheryn liked her the least, for she was opinionated and put on airs. She had been nursemaid to the Duchess’s granddaughter, one of Lord William’s children, but the child was now older, so Mary had been found a place in the Duchess’s household.
“Mistress Katheryn!” smiled Damport. “It is good to see you here. You are quite the young lady now. Will you have an apple?” He handed her one with a flourish.
“Thank you, Sir!” she said, and bobbed a curtsey, entering into the spirit of the occasion. Soon, everyone was sitting on the beds, eating, drinking, and laughing, their banter punctuated by loud whispers of “Shh! Someone will hear.”
Winking at Katheryn, Mr. Waldegrave produced another flagon of wine. The drink went straight to her head. When she stood up to cut another slice of ham, she felt the world tilt, and Dorothy, in fits of laughter, helped her to her bed, where she lay down, fully dressed, and closed her eyes.
“We’ll let her sleep alone tonight,” she heard her say.
“It won’t be for long,” someone else giggled. Vaguely, Katheryn was aware of a lot of scuffing and sniggering, and later, when she came to and opened her eyes, she could dimly make out, in the moonlight that streamed through a window, the shapes of people huddled together on some of the beds—people who had not troubled to draw the curtains. Some were sighing or moaning, as if in pain; others were snickering. By now, she knew, in theory, what the beast with two backs was, but she did not immediately connect it with
what was going on in the dorter. Then a man got up and walked quite casually past her toward the stool chamber, naked as the day he was born, and the truth dawned on her.
She turned toward the wall and lay there, her face flaming, her heart juddering. How could they be so shameful?
Mother Emmet and the Duchess could not know what was going on, for surely they would have put a stop to it? It was impossible to believe that Malyn Tilney knew, either. But—her eyes roved around the moonlit room—Dorothy, Kat, Alice, Meg, Joan, and Dotty…They were all doing it, seemingly oblivious to each other or to Katheryn herself. And Margaret, too, judging by the sounds coming from behind her bed curtains. Only Mary was lying alone, her curtains open. But what of the others, who had gone to bed alone and drawn their curtains? Had they not ears to hear what was going on? Surely they must know.
She told herself that they were just having fun, that what they were doing hurt no one. She would stay quiet and say nothing. She had had the time of her life this evening; she had felt included and accepted. Why upset the cart? Mother Emmet had told her more than once that well-born young ladies did not compromise their virtue if they hoped to make a good marriage. Let others ignore that good lady’s precepts; she, Katheryn, would not join in the bedtime romps—but she could partake of the good cheer and companionship. Who was she to betray her friends? Having found Paradise, she was not about to leave it.
* * *
—
“You saw us,” Dorothy said in the morning, dimpling. “I hope we can rely on your discretion.”
“Of course,” Katheryn assured her. “I had a wonderful time. Do you have feasts very often?”
“As often as we can.” Alice smiled. “At least once or twice a week, if we can smuggle in enough food and drink. They’re very lax in the kitchens. They don’t miss it. We get word to each other when we’re ready. The young gentlemen are willing to come whenever they can. But this must remain a secret.”
“I won’t tell anybody,” Katheryn said.
“Good girl.” Alice beamed. “One day, you will have admirers of your own.”
After that, Katheryn slept in the dorter most nights and joined in the feasting and frolics with zest, ensuring that she always went to bed before the others fell to less innocent pastimes. Sometimes, she could not resist watching them, for the noise they made kept her awake, and she was curious. Before long, lovemaking held few secrets for her. She had seen it all.
* * *
—
On a bright April day when all the trees were in blossom, the Duchess’s chamberlain summoned everyone into the hall and announced that the Lady Anne Boleyn had been proclaimed queen. There was much applause and very few glum faces, because the Duchess’s close kinship to the Lady Anne was well known.
As soon as they had been dismissed, the gentlewomen burst into excited chatter. Pert Meg Morton turned envious eyes on Katheryn. “I’ll wager you’ll be a maid-of-honor before long!”
“Really?” That had not occurred to Katheryn, although she had known that good things would befall the Howards if Anne became queen. Not that they were befalling Father. In his infrequent letters, which Katheryn had to ask others to read aloud for her, he complained that he was still in debt and want. He had asked Master Cromwell to beg the King for help, but the King had declined. “I am unable to repay Master Cromwell’s kindness,” he had written. “Though I have many kinsfolk, I am as poorly befriended as a man may be, and I have been so beaten in the world that I know what a treasure a faithful friend is.” His troubles were well known at Lambeth, much to Katheryn’s embarrassment. She did not want people pitying her because she had such a wastrel of a father.
* * *
—
When Katheryn learned that the Duchess was to bear Queen Anne’s train at her coronation, she began to hope that she, too, might be invited, until Mr. Waldegrave explained to her that only the Queen’s attendants and the wives of peers were permitted to attend. At their last meeting, the Duchess had also voiced the hope that Katheryn might join Queen Anne’s household. Katheryn was praying that her grandam would ask for a place for her, but time went by and the word was that the Queen’s attendants would have been chosen by now.
She was consoled by the news of a great river pageant when Anne came upriver from Greenwich Palace to the Tower of London prior to making her state entry into the capital before being crowned. Katheryn was going to watch with a crowd of the young ladies and gentlewomen.
That day, the late May sunshine was blazing. Mounted on the most docile palfrey in the stables, Katheryn rode between Malyn and Dorothy through Southwark and past London Bridge to Bermondsey. Escorted by their gentlemen friends, they joined the throng on the crowded riverbank facing the Tower. They managed to weave their way to the very edge of the water and let Katheryn stand at the front, where she could see; it was muddy and her good leather shoes were soon mucky, but she was too excited to care.
They waited for ages, not knowing exactly when the Queen was due at the Tower. Street sellers were making their way through the press of people, and Mr. Waldegrave and Mr. Damport bought hot pasties and ale for them all, as they would likely miss supper. At last, toward five o’clock, the great procession appeared at the bend in the river. What a sight it was! There were so many gaily decorated barges, many of them carrying minstrels playing the most beautiful music, and amazing water pageants with terrible monsters and wild men casting fire, which made Katheryn and some of the other young ladies scream. Now the Queen’s barge was in view, making its stately way along the Thames, hung with cloth of gold and heraldic banners. They caught a glimpse of Queen Anne herself, dark-haired and gorgeous in a shimmering gown. As her barge approached the Tower, there was a fanfare of trumpets and a deafening peal of guns. Katheryn could just make out the Queen disembarking and being greeted by some important gentlemen before disappearing into the fortress.
The crowds dispersed after that. Katheryn and her friends were hoarse from cheering, but it had not escaped her notice that a lot of people had remained silent and disapproving. It was the only blot on an otherwise wonderful afternoon, and the day was crowned when they got back to Lambeth and found a banquet waiting for them in honor of the occasion. Katheryn wolfed down lots of sweetmeats and sugary confections, and Mr. Damport brought her a goblet of wine to sip. She went to bed in her own chamber with her head spinning.
Three days later, she was among the throng assembled in the hall to watch the Duchess depart for the coronation. Her grandam made a magnificent entrance wearing her golden coronet and rich robes of crimson velvet furred with ermine. She swept past, followed by a horde of attendants and the many lords and ladies who had been accommodated at Lambeth, and Katheryn, slipping behind people’s backs, was able to see her climb into her gilded carriage and ride away.
When the Duchess returned late that evening, after the coronation banquet, she sat in her great chair in the hall and told her avid household how the Queen had processed to Westminster Abbey in her royal robes with her hair loose beneath a rich coronet and a caul of pearls and stones. Her train had been so long that the Duchess had been unable to bear the weight herself, so Sir Edward Baynton, Isabel’s husband, who was the Queen’s new chamberlain, had had to support it in the middle. Katheryn was thrilled to hear about Sir Edward’s promotion, for Isabel’s sake. Her half-sister must be a very great lady now!
The Duchess related how Queen Anne had been attended by a great train of lords and ladies in robes of scarlet. She had sat in a rich chair set up on a scaffold before the high altar, and Archbishop Cranmer had placed the crown of St. Edward upon her head, a scepter of gold in her right hand, and a rod of ivory with a dove in her left.
“Some of you may understand the significance of this,” my lady said. “For the benefit of those who do not, the use of St. Edward’s crown signified that the Lady Anne was crowned as a reigning queen, not just as a consort. It is
a high honor for one of Howard blood, and an expression of how much the King loves and honors his Queen.”
“God grant she bears him a son,” a man behind Katheryn muttered.
“It’s quite obvious why he had to marry her,” a woman murmured in reply. “Fancy going to your coronation with a high belly and your hair loose like a virgin!”
Katheryn turned around and frowned at Dolly Dawby, a sour-faced chamberer, and Mr. Dunn, the yeoman of the cellar. “Pray God the child is a prince,” she said reprovingly.
It was exciting to think of a king with Howard blood sitting on the throne. Wagers were now being laid on the sex of the coming royal baby, and the young ladies were hiding away a store of wine to celebrate its birth. It would be a prince, it must!
* * *
—
It was a girl. Everyone seemed to slump with disappointment when the news arrived in September. Katheryn could imagine the King’s frustration. Every man wanted a son, and he had none.
“It’s imperative that he gets an heir,” Mr. Waldegrave said at the next midnight gathering. “There are so many rival claimants to the throne that, if his Majesty died, there might be civil war.”
“Hush!” hissed Dorothy. “You should not speak of the King’s death!”
“No one’s going to tell on me,” he retorted, grinning around the room.
“Can’t the Princess succeed?” Katheryn asked.
“No, she’s a girl. It’s unnatural for a woman to rule men,” Damport said, then ducked as Alice Wilkes boxed his ears.
“Women are just as capable as men!” she hissed.
“I’d like to see you lead an army,” he baited her.
