by Alison Weir
“We must not be alone in here for any longer,” Katheryn said. “Are you and the others allowed out?”
“Yes, but we have to state to the guards our business.”
“Then please find some pretext to look for Tom. Find out if he still walks free.” That would prove that she was not in danger—yet.
“I’m not going near him!” Jane was adamant.
“No, of course. That would be wise.”
It was strange, but she had no desire to see Tom—only to know that he was still at liberty. When Jane came back later and assured her that he was, the sense of relief lasted for a few hours, and then she had to ask her to go out and check again—and again. Jane bore this patiently at first, but her nerves were frayed, too.
“That’s the fourth time you’ve asked me!” she snapped, late that evening. “The others will be wondering why I keep having to attend you to the privy—and I’m running out of excuses to give the guards for why I am going out.”
“But it’s in your interests, too, to find out if Tom still goes free,” Katheryn pointed out.
“I’m not sure I can stand the suspense of trying to find out for much longer,” Jane said, her face crumpling. “I keep telling myself that it’s only a matter of time…” She broke down, sobbing. “I can’t stop thinking about my husband. It took three blows of the axe…” Her voice tailed off. “It could be me suffering that dreadful death. It might be God’s punishment for laying evidence against him.”
Katheryn stared as the normally self-assured Jane Rochford disintegrated in front of her eyes, clawing her neck and mouthing wordless cries. She felt like screaming herself, for Jane’s words had struck fright into her anew. “Peace be!” she hissed. “You don’t want anyone to hear you or see you like this. They will suspect something.”
Jane just stared at her, her eyes round with fear.
On legs that felt as if they would not carry her, Katheryn walked out of the privy and into her bedchamber. She had put off going to bed, fearing to be alone with her thoughts and the terrors that night brought, but her maids were yawning, and it was now past one. She wished Jane hadn’t said that dreadful thing about Lord Rochford; she could not get it off her mind. It was the last thing she wanted to take to bed with her.
She suffered them to undress her and put her between the sheets, but forbade them to blow out all the candles. She did not want to be in the dark. For all she knew, she might soon be in eternal darkness. Stop it! she admonished herself. All is not yet lost. Think positive thoughts. They can’t punish you for what went before. She had been saying that to herself all day. She wished she could believe it.
She lay there in torment, sleep eluding her. What was happening beyond the guarded door to her lodgings? That was the worst, not knowing how much the Council knew, or who had talked. Was Tom still at liberty? Had he heard of her arrest? And Henry—he was under this very roof. For all she knew, he too might be lying in bed weeping like her, coming to terms with the fact that she was not the person he had thought she was. But she had been told to keep quiet about her past! Uncle Norfolk had enjoined it, and the Duchess. Oh, how she wished she could see Henry and explain everything. She was sure he would understand.
As she lay wakeful, her resolve strengthened. She would see him! She would contrive it somehow. And, with that comforting thought, she finally managed to fall asleep.
* * *
—
The next morning, she woke early, seized with a sense of dread. The events of the previous day came rushing back to her and all she wanted to do was bury herself under the bedclothes and not come out. But she must; she had to concoct a plan.
She had eaten nothing the evening before; she had been too distressed and the thought of food had made her feel sick. But, seeing that she looked so wan in the mirror, she forced herself to eat some breakfast, then pinched her cheeks to put some color into them. If she was to see Henry, she must look her best.
He would be going to the Chapel Royal for Vespers this evening, if he kept to his usual habit. Of course, he might be too grief-stricken or angry to show himself in public, but she must take that chance.
Her ladies were surprised when she told them to dress her in her tawny damask gown with the deep jeweled biliment. It was one Henry loved, and Master Holbein had painted her in it. She could have wept to think of those days now, but she must not dwell on that. Elizabeth Seymour brushed her hair until it shone. Soon, she was ready. All she had to do was wait.
* * *
—
The hours seemed endless. She sat there with her ladies, none of them saying very much. Isabel held her hand, looking as if she was about to burst into tears. Katheryn could not have borne to play or listen to music lest it call to mind happier days. She picked at her embroidery and made a mess of it. For much of the time, she sat staring into space, going over and over events and trying to think of any way the Council might hear of her affair with Tom.
The sky grew dark. Dusk came early in these November days and soon the candles were all lit.
It was time.
“I want some air,” she said. “I feel faint.”
“Someone open a window,” Lady Rutland ordered.
“No,” Katheryn moaned, “I must go into the garden.” She lurched toward the main door of her apartments and banged hard on it. A key turned in the lock and the door opened. A guard peered at her.
“Help!” she gasped. “I must have some air! I’m going to faint.” And she half collapsed against him.
“Get help!” he told the other guard, putting an arm around her to steady her. As his fellow hurried off, Katheryn twisted her body out of the man’s grasp and flew down the gallery in the direction of the Chapel Royal. She could hear the guard’s feet pounding on the floorboards behind her and his cries of “Come back! Stop!” Fortunately, the gallery was deserted. Everyone was at Vespers. The doors to the chapel closets were open—it was as if God was with her!
Her plan was working out as she had prayed it would. At that very moment, Henry walked out of the chapel attended by some of his gentlemen. The first thing she noticed was how haggard and old he looked.
“Your Grace!” she cried. “Sir!”
The men stopped in their tracks. Henry turned his head in her direction, then looked away, his expression set like stone. And then the guard caught up with her and grabbed her from behind. She screamed. “Henry! Listen to me! I beg of you!”
As she struggled in the man’s arms, she saw Henry hesitate. Then he turned his back on her and walked off in the other direction, his gentlemen following.
“Henry!” she screamed. “Henry, help me!”
The other guard had now arrived on the scene and he and his fellow dragged her back to her apartments. She was like a mad thing, screaming and howling, wild with fear, knowing that Henry had abandoned her and that all was lost. When, finally, they bundled her back into her privy chamber, she was still struggling, still shrieking. Her women ran to her and bore her off to her bedchamber, where they made her lie down. She gave in, keening and whimpering like an animal in pain.
“He has forsaken me!” she cried, when at last she could speak. “I don’t want to die!”
“Who said anything about dying?” asked Lady Rutland, briskly. “Calm yourself, Madam! This is doing you no good, no good at all.”
“But he walked away! I was crying out to him, and he walked away.” She kept reliving the moment, over and over again, in her head. “He will do to me what he did to Queen Anne!”
“That’s nonsense,” Jane said sharply. Katheryn could hear the fear in her voice. “You haven’t done anything worse than pretend to be virtuous when you weren’t.”
“We are not supposed to be discussing it,” Lady Rutland reproved her.
“We can hardly ignore her Grace when she is in such a state!” Jane retorted. “And I speak
truth.”
“Who knows what the truth is?” Lady Rutland muttered, which made Katheryn start wailing again.
“Hush, now,” Lady Rutland said, more kindly now. “Stop this! You must try to rest, Madam.”
Isabel tried, too. “Come on, Katheryn. Pull yourself together. You aren’t helping yourself.”
Katheryn was beyond good advice. She lay there moaning and sobbing, her body convulsed with fear. She had lost Henry’s love, the one thing she had counted on, and, without his protection, she herself was lost. There was no help for her.
* * *
—
She spent the next two days mired in grief and terror, veering from one to the other. The ladies were in despair. They did all they could to rouse her from her misery and calm her when she became hysterical, but to little avail. She would not eat, she could not sleep, and she would not change her clothes. She lay wakeful, feeling as if she was trapped in a nightmare.
At one point, she heard a lot of voices and bustle in the courtyard below her rooms. Then everything went quiet. Lost in her fears, she thought no more of it, but later she heard one of the ladies saying that the palace seemed so quiet now that the King had left for London. So he had gone—and left her to her fate. That provoked a fresh spate of weeping.
1541
On the third day, there was a knock at the door, quite early in the morning, and Isabel entered. It was the first time they had been alone together since her arrest.
“Katheryn, rouse yourself,” she said. “We have just been informed that Archbishop Cranmer is coming to see you.”
“Archbishop Cranmer?” Hope dawned anew. Could it be that Henry was thinking in terms of ending their marriage rather than proceeding against her? Divorce rather than death? Maybe this was not the end after all. Why else would Cranmer be coming?
She got out of bed. “Ugh, I stink.”
“Let’s get those clothes off,” Isabel said, unlacing her. “That under-smock can go in to soak.”
Soon, Katheryn was washed and dressed, her damp hair drying loose. Isabel had insisted that she wear a modest black gown with a stand-up collar, with very few jewels. “You do not wish to look the part of a scarlet woman,” she said.
Katheryn peered in her mirror. She looked quite demure—and very pale.
At ten o’clock, she was sitting in her privy chamber, trying to concentrate on her embroidery, when the door opened to reveal not just Archbishop Cranmer, but Lord Chancellor Audley, her uncle of Sussex, Bishop Gardiner, whose eyes remained averted from her, and her uncle of Norfolk, who glared at her as if she was beneath contempt. How unfair! she thought bitterly. He had known about her past—and made her keep it secret.
Her heart sank. Had they come to bully her into agreeing to be divorced? Well, they could spare themselves the trouble. She would agree to anything if it saved her life.
She eyed the lords warily. Cranmer was no friend to her. He was hot for church reform, and—it was bruited—a secret Protestant. He had never approved of her marriage, for it had brought the Catholics into power at court, and he would no doubt welcome this opportunity of getting rid of her and ousting his reformist opponents. And Gardiner and Norfolk were clearly angry with her for offending the King; they would be worrying about their own political futures.
The Archbishop looked vexed. “Well, Madam, this is a sorry state of affairs. You know, of course, that you are charged with grievous misconduct before your marriage to the King.”
She nodded.
“What does your Grace say to the charge?”
“I deny it,” she declared.
Norfolk gave her a calculating stare in which she detected a trace of admiration. Maybe he thought that all was not lost. Maybe she was doing the right thing by refuting everything.
“You deny it?” Audley echoed, frowning.
“I do. I know there are malicious persons who seek to do me harm and think to profit by it. Whatever you have been told, it is all lies.”
“But we have the sworn depositions of witnesses.”
“Then they are foresworn!”
“Think carefully on what you say, Madam,” Cranmer warned. “We will give you a little time to reflect. I will return later.”
* * *
—
Another endless, agonizing day. She spent it in anguished speculation as to whom had laid evidence against her. She was still convinced that Francis had had a hand in this, and that maybe some of her women had talked. They were all here in attendance on her, and she scrutinized their faces, one by one, looking for some sign, some furtiveness, some inability to meet her eye, anything that might give the culprit away. It was useless. Most were on their guard with her. Only Isabel was showing her kindness. Jane was keeping her distance.
At dusk, Cranmer returned, accompanied only by Sir John Dudley, her Master of Horse, whom she had never liked, for he had a cold, abrupt manner. But he was here apparently only to take notes, for he sat at the table and set out writing materials, saying nothing.
At the sight of Cranmer, Katheryn burst into tears, letting out all her pent-up fears and emotions. She could not stop and sank to her knees on the floor, wailing. The Archbishop looked most distressed.
“Madam, calm yourself, please!” he begged, but she was beyond responding. He looked around helplessly. “I pray you, my ladies, come and help!” he said. “The Queen is in much lamentation and heaviness. I never saw creature so distraught, and it would arouse pity in any man’s heart to look upon her.”
Isabel hurried over. “Come now, Katheryn, the Archbishop is here to talk to you. At last, you have an opportunity to defend yourself.”
But Katheryn was still howling, unable to control herself.
“It is impossible to speak rationally with her in this state,” Cranmer said. “I tell you, I do fear for her sanity. I will leave her to calm down and return later.”
When he had gone, Isabel knelt beside Katheryn. “Child, you must calm yourself, do you hear me? My lord of Canterbury is coming back later, and you must compose yourself to talk to him. This is very important. Katheryn, do you hear me?”
But Katheryn barely heeded her. All rational thought had left her; she was convinced that Cranmer’s visit boded ill and she remained in a frenzy, rushing around the room in terror, trying to get out. None of the efforts of Isabel and her other women had any effect. At length, she subsided onto the floor, hugging her knees to her chest, sobbing and retching. And that was how the Archbishop found her on his return after supper.
“My daughter,” he said gently, dropping to his knees beside her, “I am come to find out the truth and to offer you comfort, for his Grace is a most benign and merciful prince. He has promised you mercy if you will confess your faults.”
Mercy! Henry had promised her mercy. He had not abandoned her entirely.
The frenzy left her. She raised her tearstained face and held up her hands. “Oh, my lord, I give most humble thanks to his Majesty, for he has showed me more grace and mercy than I thought myself fit to sue for, or could have hoped for.” She was crying quietly now, overcome by Henry’s kindness, which was indeed far, far more than she would have expected in the circumstances. Then, with the fresh realization that she had forfeited his love and ruined her own life, she began howling again, shuddering in distress.
Cranmer grew brisk. “Now, Madam, no more of this nonsense! There is no need for it. What is upsetting you so? The King has promised you mercy. Is that not good news?”
“Yes,” she sobbed.
“Listen, child, all I want you to do is open your heart to me. Tell me why you are crying.”
As she sat huddled there, trying to control herself, he held out his hand and helped her to rise and sit in her chair by the fire, himself taking the one opposite. “Now,” he said, “why are you in such a miserable state?”
�
��Alas, my lord, that I am alive!” she cried. “Fear of death grieved me never so much as the remembrance of the King’s goodness does now, for when I recall how gracious and loving a prince I had, I cannot but sorrow. And this sudden mercy, more than I could have looked for, being so unworthy, makes my offenses appear to me more heinous than they did before. And the more I consider the greatness of his Grace’s mercy, the more I sorrow in my heart that I should have so misconducted myself against his Majesty.” And she began weeping again.
Cranmer tried in vain to comfort her, but she paid him no heed. It was some time before she calmed down.
“That’s better.” The Archbishop smiled. “Now, all we are going to do is talk.”
At that moment, the clock struck six and Katheryn wept afresh, remembering that it was at that time each evening that Master Heneage would bring her news of Henry if he was unable to join her, and often a loving message. When she told Cranmer this, he just smiled sadly.
She rested her head on the back of the chair. She had no more tears left and felt quite ill. Her nose was blocked and her handkerchief sodden.
“Now, are you ready to tell me the truth behind the accusations made against you?” the Archbishop asked.
“Yes, but who made those accusations?” she replied.
“I am not at liberty to tell you, but it would be wise to make a statement. Sir John here will write down what you say. First, there must be a preamble. Sir John, write the following: ‘Being examined by my lord of Canterbury, I, Katheryn, Queen of England, shall here answer faithfully and truly, as I shall make answer at the last Day of Judgment, and by the promise that I made in baptism and the sacrament I received upon All Hallows’ Day last past.’ I trust you understand that, Madam?”
