by Alison Weir
She took comfort in the fact that the councillors knew how best to approach Henry and that this abject plea was the most likely means of stirring his heart to pity.
Soon after the lords had left to take her confession to the King, the guards admitted Sir Thomas Seymour. Katheryn had never liked him much. He was Queen Jane’s brother, uncle to the Prince and younger brother to the ardently reformist Earl of Hertford; he was also conceited, bombastic, and unpredictable. Many ladies found him attractive, but Katheryn was wary of him.
There was no trace of his air of devil-may-care today. He bowed and addressed her soberly. “Your Grace, I am here to take an inventory of your jewels. Where might I find them?”
“Fetch them, please,” Katheryn instructed Lady Rutland, who brought the casket from the bedchamber. Katheryn’s eyes filled when Sir Thomas opened it and all the gorgeous contents spilled out on the table; she was remembering how Henry had showered her with them on the morning of her uprising, gifts of love for an adored wife. How she had enjoyed wearing them, the beautiful, precious, sparkling things. And now she was adored no more and, of a certainty, they were to be taken from her.
His list drawn up, Sir Thomas returned the jewels to the box and asked Lady Rutland to put it away.
“Good day, your Grace,” he said, bowing again, and left Katheryn wondering why he had not taken them with him. Was Henry considering letting her keep at least some of them?
1541
That afternoon, Jane came back from one of her forays into the court looking distraught. “I could not find Mr. Culpeper anywhere,” she whispered, as she bent down by Katheryn’s chair to pick up her embroidery tambour. “And no one would tell me where he was.”
Katheryn went cold; her skin was erupting in goose bumps. This was the news she had dreaded. She felt sick. They knew. They knew! And from Jane’s face she could see that her friend had drawn the same conclusion.
“Say nothing, remember!” she hissed in Jane’s ear.
She could not sew. She kept dropping stitches. She was taut with anxiety, awaiting a knock on the door, sure that they would come for her any minute. Misconduct before marriage was one thing; infidelity afterward quite another. It was treason. It was why Queen Anne had died.
She caught her breath on a sob. Her ladies looked up, but, with a huge effort, she composed herself and bent her head to her task.
Lust had brought her to this. Lust, and the unbridled frailty of tender youth, had made her swerve from the path of virtue and reason and led her to indulge in those illicit affairs. But she had been so young, and few had exhorted her to guard her chastity and reputation. She had been ill prepared to resist her own wanton appetites. She had thought only of carnal delight, never of the consequences. How blind she had been! Why, oh, why, had she not kept to the straight and narrow path of honest wifehood? Oh, Tom; we were both too feeble to deny our lusts!
On and on went her tortuous thoughts, giving her no peace. If only, if only…But it was too late for regrets now. All she could do was wait and pray.
Jane looked as drawn and fearful as Katheryn felt. Katheryn knew, without being told, that Jane’s thoughts were all for Tom. Without any means of knowing if he was still at liberty, they must both endure the suspense of wondering if he had been arrested. And that, Katheryn realized, was the main reason she kept thinking about him. Had she loved him so little? It all seemed like a dream now.
* * *
—
When Margaret Douglas burst into her bedchamber the next morning, Katheryn was alarmed to see that her face was streaked with tears.
“What is it?” she cried, leaping out of bed, fearing the worst.
Margaret broke down afresh. “Charles has been banished from court. Our love has been discovered. And I am to remain here with you and may not leave these rooms.”
The other women had crowded in behind her and were looking on in sympathy. Katheryn put her arms around Margaret, then they were both crying, sobbing on each other’s shoulders. Was there no end to the misery?
“What will become of him?” Margaret wept.
“He is resourceful; he will survive,” Katheryn comforted her. “He may not be banished for long.”
“It was made very plain to me that I was never to see him again,” Margaret said. “I do not know how I will live without him. Oh, I am so unlucky in love! I will die an old maid.”
Katheryn relinquished her. “I will pray for you.” Empty words! She could not even pray for herself. She could not be still for long enough, so racked was she with anxiety.
But poor Charles. He had done so well at court, risen so high. Uncle Norfolk must be most vexed with him—as if he had not enough to anger him with her own disgrace! She was under no illusions. He would lift no finger to help either of them.
* * *
—
The days dragged on. Nothing happened, and there was no news. Had the King rejected her petition? She kept telling herself that no news was good news.
Somehow, she filled the hours. She had never stitched so much embroidery. Where once she had done nothing but dance, she could not now bear to have music, for she felt so fragile that it must surely break her. Music evoked joy or sadness; it brought back memories or lifted the soul. She could not take any of that now. She was merely existing, trying not to think too much. When her musicians knocked at her door, she told her women to tell them that it was not the time for dancing.
Isolated in her rooms, she thought she would go mad. She had no idea what was happening in the world outside, or whether her offense was still being investigated. Her attendants, even Isabel, could not, or would not, tell her anything. But surely she must have news soon of what her future was to be? Henry would not allow this situation to continue indefinitely. She thought she would go crazy with the waiting and the not knowing.
Hampton Court was eerily quiet without the bustle of the court. The only people Katheryn could see when she looked out of her windows were guards stationed below. She did not even know if Archbishop Cranmer and the other councillors were still here. Her ladies, who sometimes ventured out into the deserted palace, said they saw no sign of them.
Why all this delay? she asked herself. Were they still trying to uncover evidence against her? Or had others talked? If only, if only she could speak to Henry. She was sure he would forgive her; they might even be reconciled. Yet she did not even know where Henry was, and she knew from experience that love could die quite suddenly.
She received a jolt when, on a Friday afternoon, nine days into her confinement, the door to her chamber was flung open by the guards and Sir Thomas Wriothesley walked in. She did not know him well, but discerned a certain ruthlessness in his manner. He was not gentle with her as Cranmer had been.
“Your Grace, I am here to speak to you about a matter that has come to light concerning Thomas Culpeper,” he began. Immediately, she began to tremble. This was the one thing she had dreaded. She dared not look at Jane, who had retreated with the rest of her women to the far end of the room.
“What do you mean, Sir Thomas?” she asked.
“I mean, Madam, that it appears that you have not mentioned in your confession any communications between yourself and Mr. Culpeper.”
Katheryn willed her heart to stop pounding and clenched her hands to still them.
“I have no idea what you refer to,” she said. “There have been no communications between me and Mr. Culpeper.”
Wriothesley gave her a long, hard stare. “Really?”
“Really! I have confessed all my offenses. I do not know what else I can tell you.”
“I see,” he replied. “I will report your answer to the Council.” And, to her surprise, he left, making the sketchiest of bows.
Katheryn rose, went through to her bedchamber, and waited. As she had anticipated, Jane joined her there, looking panic-stricken.<
br />
“I heard him mention Mr. Culpeper!” she whispered.
“He did.” Katheryn related the conversation. “But I denied everything. I said I did not know what he was talking about. If they ask you, you must say the same, for both our sakes.”
Jane began crying. “Oh, God, they know! It is only a matter of time now.”
Katheryn drew in her breath, appalled. She feared it was true. Once again, she found herself fighting down hysteria.
* * *
—
Late that evening, Archbishop Cranmer arrived. Katheryn was feeling very fragile by then and was terrified lest he begin questioning her about Tom, but it turned out that he had come about an entirely different matter.
“Madam, the King’s pleasure is that your Grace removes to the house of Syon, where you will remain until further notice. You will be kept close under house arrest and be allowed to maintain the state of a queen, but moderately, without any cloth of estate, as your conduct has deserved. You will depart on Monday.”
Katheryn did not know whether to laugh or cry. At least she was not being taken to the Tower, which was a huge relief and indicated that she was not considered to be guilty of serious crimes. She remembered passing the silent, abandoned pile of Syon Abbey that time she had been on the river with Henry, and how creepy it had looked. But she could cope with that. Anything was better than going to the Tower. She knew that, in its heyday, Syon had been famous as a place of piety and learning and much patronized by royalty. It seemed an odd choice for a place of confinement; it was as if Henry had chosen the next best thing to immuring her in a nunnery.
“You will be allowed to take a moderate number of servants,” Cranmer was saying. “Your chamberlain, Sir Edward Baynton, will have the government of your household, and you shall have four gentlewomen and two chamberers of your choice, so long as my Lady Baynton is one of them. Your almoner shall also go with you.”
“I am deeply grateful for his Majesty’s consideration,” Katheryn said humbly. “I shall be pleased to have my sister, Lady Baynton, with me. May I also take Lady Rochford? And Mrs. Leigh and Mrs. Mewtas?” She could do with the kindly common sense of Elizabeth Leigh, and Jane Mewtas was a quiet, restful soul. Katheryn did not want any of those ladies or gentlewomen who were married to men of the reformist persuasion and might gloat at her downfall; already, she had noticed a change in their attitude toward her.
“That will be acceptable.” Cranmer wrote the names in a little book. “And for chamberers?”
She did not want Kat Tilney or Meg Morton, or Mrs. Luffkyn.
“Mrs. Restwold and Mrs. Frideswide,” she suggested.
“Not Mrs. Restwold,” said Cranmer.
“Why?”
“I may not tell you.”
So Alice had talked! There was a surprise.
“Very well, Mrs. Luffkyn, then.” Katheryn did not like her, yet she would have to do. “But what of the rest of my servants?”
“They are to be dismissed and shall also depart on Monday. Some will be transferred to the service of my lord Prince and the Lady Mary. Lady Margaret Douglas is going to my lord of Norfolk’s house at Kenninghall, with my lady of Richmond. The maids-of-honor will return to their families.”
Katheryn’s heart had plummeted. The trappings of queenship were to be diminished; most of her household were to be dismissed. It would be divorce, she knew it—divorce and disgrace, possibly a long confinement at Syon.
“Can I take any personal possessions with me?” she asked nervously.
Cranmer consulted his notebook. “His Grace has ordered that you must take with you clothes of sober design, unadorned with precious stones or pearls.” Nothing a queen might wear, then. “You are allowed six French hoods with edges of goldsmith’s work, but there must be no gemstones or pearls in them; likewise, you may have six pairs of sleeves, six gowns, and six kirtles of satin damask and velvet, but none with stones and pearls. You may take personal items, such as sewing materials and the jewels you had before your marriage, but not the books the King gave you. They will remain in the royal library. Provision will be made for food, wine, beer, and other necessities at Syon. I trust that is all clear, Madam?”
“Yes, my lord. I should be grateful if you could inform Sir Edward Baynton of these requirements.”
“Of course. Now I must leave your Grace. I bid you good night.”
This, she hoped, would be an end of it. As long as she was still living and breathing, she could endure a long sojourn at Syon. There were worse places.
* * *
—
It was not an end to it. The next day, the Archbishop returned, this time with the Lord Chancellor, her uncles of Norfolk and Sussex, and Bishop Gardiner.
“We have come to examine your Grace touching Culpeper,” Cranmer said, striking fear into Katheryn. “We understand that there was talk that you and he would marry before you wed the King. Did you plan to marry?”
What happened before with Tom could not hurt her, surely? After all, they had done nothing to be ashamed of. “He did wish to marry me, and I was thinking about it,” she told them, believing it the safest thing to say.
“How did you come to renew the affair?” Gardiner asked.
“Renew the affair? I don’t understand,” she lied.
“Don’t play games with us!” Uncle Norfolk snapped. “We know you were meeting him in secret on the progress.”
She must not faint, for everything depended on what she said now. Desperately, she searched in her mind for the right words. It dawned on her that to save herself, she must incriminate Jane and shift the blame on to her. “It was not an affair, more a favor to Lady Rochford,” she said, hating herself. “Many times, she urged me to speak with Mr. Culpeper. She kept saying he bore me goodwill and favor, and that he desired nothing else but to speak with me; but I felt she was constraining me to love him, although I had the impression that it was she who loved him, and I wasn’t really sure what she wanted from me. I told her to bother me no further with such light matters, but she would not desist. Only when she assured me that he desired nothing else from me, and said she would swear upon a holy book that he meant nothing but honesty, did I grant that he should speak with me.” She realized, with a shiver of horror, that she had probably got Jane into serious trouble, for she had effectively implied that Jane had tried to lure her into committing treason. She prayed that no harm would come to her friend through her loose tongue. She was already struggling under a burden of guilt. Oh, why had she not kept her mouth shut, or come up with some other explanation?
She was hoping that the lords would react, so that she could judge how likely it was that Jane would be punished, but Norfolk gave nothing away. “And did you speak with him?”
“We talked in a little gallery at the stairhead at Lincoln when it was late at night, about ten or eleven o’clock.”
“How long did you talk?” Cranmer asked.
“For an hour or more. Another time, we met in my bedchamber at Pontefract, with Lady Rochford present, and another time in her chamber at York. That was all.”
The lords were watching her closely, grim-faced and giving no indication as to whether they believed her or not.
“Were you ever alone with Culpeper?” Sussex asked.
“Never. Lady Rochford was always there.”
“Did you give Culpeper a velvet cap and a ring?”
“Yes. Lady Rochford suggested it would be a mark of favor to give him gifts.”
“Did you ever call him your ‘little sweet fool’?” Gardiner made it sound like foul language.
“Yes, once, in jest.”
“And did you send him bracelets?”
“Yes, at Lady Rochford’s bidding; she had chosen them.”
“We must ask you,” Cranmer said, “if you and Culpeper had carnal knowledge of each other.�
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That was easily answered. “Never, upon my oath,” she declared firmly.
“Did he ever touch you in any way?”
“Nothing but my hand.” How easily the lie slipped from her tongue. But it would be death to tell them the truth.
At a nod from Cranmer, the councillors rose with a great scraping of chairs and left her alone.
* * *
—
Like a ghost, she drifted into her bedchamber and lay down. Had they believed her? Or would they come back, pressing for more information?
It was not over, by no means. She had thought that, after her confession, they would not inquire further; but now, who knew what they might discover? Something told her that Henry would not brook infidelity in a queen a second time, and that his love would soon turn to hatred if he discovered that she had betrayed him. At the thought, she became hysterical again, and her ladies struggled in vain to calm her. She wailed and wept, crying like a madwoman, thrashing about on her bed.
“I will kill myself and spare the executioner the trouble!” she screamed, barely aware of their shocked faces. When they brought food, she refused to eat or drink.
“I will starve myself to death, and then I shall be free of this misery,” she sobbed. “They will kill me anyway if the suspicion of adultery is proved, so why should I give them the pleasure?”
