The Confession of Katherine Howard

by Suzannah Dunn

  Jo laid a hand on Katherine’s arm. ‘This is Kate.’ Actually, only to Jo was she Kate.

  He turned to me. ‘She’s a Kate and you’re a Cat.’ He said it as if it were fact, which threw me. Had he misunderstood? Should I correct him? Because I was no Cat. And, anyway, if she were to be Kate, I didn’t need to be Cat, did I? I could stay as I was: Catheryn.

  ‘Cat…’ I dithered.

  ‘Cat,’ and there was the smile again.

  Henry, he asked us to call him. He asked us what we each knew of music: what we’d heard, what we’d liked; which instruments, what kinds of voices, what kinds of songs, which Mass settings. He told us that our understanding and love of music mattered at least as much to him as any technique he could teach us. The first of our daily two-hour lessons–on the lutes–was over all too soon, and we departed the room invigorated.

  How did we repay him? Reaching the courtyard, Jo issued the rallying cry, ‘So, do we reckon he’s married?’ and instantly it was as if nothing else had been on my mind. Katherine raised her eyebrows in mute endorsement of the question. Dottie’s jaw dropped, literally, and Alice’s habitual frown deepened. Little Maggie said, grimly, ‘Well, I just hope she’s nice.’ And so there it was, voiced: the unspoken consensus that of course he was married or at least spoken for, because how could he not be–a young man as lovely as he? The question, then, was, What’s she like? The presumption, that she should answer to us.

  Mary’s was the lone voice in opposition: an indignant, possessive, ‘Leave him alone! Let him be!’

  And I’d have liked to have heeded her, to have been as detached as I usually was, as dismissive, because I knew that speculation about his private life–his love life, no less–was no way to thank him for the attention he’d given us. Yet it was all the more thrilling for it: compelling, in its contrast with how well we’d behaved in his presence.

  There followed three days of us being on tenterhooks whenever we were with him, listening for any mention–half-mention, even–of the lady; then, afterwards, each of us publicly lamenting the lack of any hard information whilst privately thankful, probably, because the speculation could romp onwards unhindered.

  ‘Bet she loves his eyelashes,’ I remember beginning, one afternoon, churning butter in the dairyhouse. ‘Bet those lovely long lashes were what she noticed first.’ Thinking, This isn’t like me, but then wondering if I hadn’t had myself wrong because it’d come so easily. Skid had gone off with Mary, who’d claimed to feel sick, leaving us free to indulge in some speculation, and there I was, starting us off.

  ‘Can’t stop noticing them,’ Katherine offered from across the bench. ‘Can’t stop herself. Always trying to get him at just the right angle, to get herself a good view of them.’

  I shook my head. ‘Having to hide it, though–doesn’t want to make him self-conscious.’ Those girlish lashes.

  Katherine wouldn’t have it: ‘If that’s what she thinks, she has him all wrong, because he’s very proud of them.’

  ‘D’you think she’s pretty?’ Alice wanted to know, giving her hands a thorough wiping on her apron.

  The question, for Katherine, was, ‘How pretty?’ Or, ‘Pretty, how? I mean, blonde-pretty, or mysterious-dark-pretty?’

  ‘Little-pretty?’ I wondered. ‘Or willowy-pretty?’

  Maggie, taking pans to the wash-house for their scalding, paused in the doorway. ‘D’you think she’s smiley or pouty?’

  ‘Well, she’s certainly pouting now,’ I said. ‘She hasn’t got a lot to smile about, has she: now that he’s with us.’

  Jo, tamping butter into pots, finally caught on and came up with, ‘He might’ve been her teacher, back in the past.’

  ‘But her parents forbade their love.’ Maggie grinned.

  ‘And now she won’t eat.’ Katherine, smirking. ‘She’s just lying there in her room, wasting away.’

  ‘Which is silly,’ I said, ‘if you think about it, because she’ll need to be strong enough to climb down from the window when he comes for her.’

  Katherine was quite clear: ‘He won’t come for her, not after all that pouting and the fussiness with her food.’

  ‘And all she has to sustain her is a posy that he gave her when he left,’ I said, having to add, ‘Not to eat, I don’t mean to eat. She pressed it.’

  ‘Presses it now to her heart.’ Jo was pleased with herself.

  ‘Her bosom,’ corrected Katherine, which got a laugh.

  After three days, though, Jo brought our speculation to a brutal end with, ‘Henry, are you married?’ It came in response to one of his ever-hopeful Any questions? thus proclaiming itself loud and clear as an abuse of his good-natured openness. During the excruciating hiatus, he mustered up a smile to cover his bewilderment and, perhaps, to spare her, make light of her misjudgement. Perhaps he decided it’d be better to answer the question in order to make nothing of it, to get rid of it and move on. Perhaps, upon the briefest reflection, he decided it was inevitable, even understandable. In any case, ‘No,’ he told us. ‘Not married.’

  But, ‘You have a sweetheart?’ Her arms were folded: levelling with him, was clearly how she was thinking of it. As if this were an equal exchange. This second question was, surely, even more intrusive.

  Crucial, though: she wasn’t wrong about that.

  He signalled his helplessness with an exasperated sigh of a laugh. If he answered this one, where would it end?

  Mary yelped, ‘Leave him alone!’ which only made matters worse.

  He held his silence, though.

  Which, of course, we all took as confirmation, because that was what we wanted.

  On our way into dinner, later that morning, we continued.

  ‘D’you think she hates us, for having him?’

  ‘D’you think she makes him talk about us? Or does she forbid it?’

  ‘She’d have to seem interested in us.’

  ‘But she’ll hate that!’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘But maybe she is interested in us. I mean, I would be, if it was me. “Know thine enemy” and all that.’

  ‘She must hate us. He’ll be humming the songs we’ve been singing with him: he won’t be able to help it.’

  ‘Oh, she’ll hate that.’

  ‘Yes, but if she thinks she can stop him, she’s wrong. You can’t go around telling a man to stop humming. That’d be a mistake. He really wouldn’t like it.’

  ‘And anyway, he likes our singing. He likes us. He wants to hum our songs.’

  ‘D’you think she’s writing to him?’

  ‘How often? Every day?’

  ‘Yes, but is he writing to her?’

  Whenever Henry Manox presented us with a song or piece which could possibly be construed to feature love as its subject, the room would be threaded with meaningful glances. It didn’t have to be about romance; we were quite happy to misappropriate religious devotion. It might simply feature springtime, and perhaps only in the title. Clear evidence nonetheless, in our view, of our teacher’s lovesickness.

  Did he know what we were up to? He gave no indication that he did, treating us with respect such as we’d never known, granting us his full attention and being scrupulously fair with it.

  Then one day a chance remark had us realise that there was something of his life about which we could legitimately badger him: his time in London, before he’d come to us. It had become clear, from the odd comment, that he was missing the city. But what he missed–what he spoke of–surprised me. To me, who’d never been there, London was a place of festivities. Everyone spoke of the dragon-bearing processions of St George’s Day, the flaring torches and thousands of glass lanterns of the Watch on Midsummer Day: the press of the crowd, the streets impassable, curfew flouted, and thieves and drunkenness and dancing. Henry Manox, though, spoke of buying a cheese roll from a strolling vendor, and sitting to eat it on some steps in a garden square in the sun. Of skating on the Thames, the fog like snow in the air. Walking in drizzle along the b
ank at Southwark on Sundays with a friend and his dog. Visiting the tailor and teasing his apprentice, indulging his cat. Haggling over gut at the market and heading home to re-string but being waylaid by friends and spending the afternoon instead at a tavern, swapping scrawled sheets of music. A simple life–but, then, mine was so very much more so. In the year since I’d arrived, my sole outing beyond the village church had been down lanes that were strewn with bracken drying for spreading on the fields, before a strictly supervised hour or two at the local Michaelmas Fair. I could only wonder how it would be to choose the tailor on whom to bestow my custom and have him grateful and eager to please me.

  During those weeks, that autumn, there were times when I’d lose myself in imagined riverside strolls under sky-broad smudges of cloud, the dog trotting ahead, carried away, and the distant river-traffic passing imperceptibly. In my imaginings, I’d end up walking too far and fear myself too tired to walk back, but of course I’d do it anyway and do it easily although, when I’d finally stopped and settled in a tavern, the blood inside my legs would be nudging onwards. The friend accompanying me on these walks was Henry Manox and in my daydreams this was something we did most Sundays; it was something we liked to do.

  Then one day, while Henry was demonstrating a finger-position on the lute, he did a double take. That was all–a double take–and it was only by chance that I witnessed it. I’d been peering at his fingertips on the lute’s strings and had just happened to glance up in the instant when his words and attention parted company. He was thinking, I saw, but not, now, about what he was saying. Shooting my gaze along the line of his, I came to Katherine. Somehow–I hadn’t seen how–Katherine had got him to look at her to the exclusion of the rest of us.

  A day later, I saw how she’d done it. I saw her give him a look which I knew–just knew–was the one she would’ve given him. I’d never before seen such a look from her. With the rest of us–whenever she looked at any of us–there was the suggestion of squinting, of deflecting glare, despite it being her own eyes that glinted. There was something sideways about her look, regardless of the angle it was coming from. Whereas this–the look I caught her giving our teacher–was wide-eyed. Not helpless–no helplessness in it–but, on the contrary, expectant: a frank expression of interest, but not, I sensed, in what he was saying. I drew my own glance away and around the room. My companions seemed oblivious. Dottie, chewing a nail, was staring at the wall. Mary was scrutinising the persistent sore patch on one of her fingers. Alice blinked emphatically and suppressed a yawn. Maggie was frowning at Henry in her effort to follow what he was saying and Jo looked about to take issue with him.

  What was Katherine doing? No, I knew what she was doing–she was getting him to look at her–but why? Surreptitiously, I checked again, and then again and again, whenever I could, but glimpsed nothing else untoward. After the lesson, though, on our way to dinner, Jo complained, ‘He was useless today, wasn’t he,’ and no one disagreed. He had indeed been useless. He’d seemed distracted. ‘What on earth was up with him? No letter from her, lately: could be that.’

  ‘No letter from her ever again, I hope,’ growled Maggie, which elicited a wicked smile from Dottie and something similar even from Alice. I glanced at Katherine. No reaction. Either she hadn’t heard, or she was declining to join in.

  That night, when Katherine took off her hood, she said, ‘Do you think he’s seen her bare-headed?’ He, her… I’d only just begun to follow when she added, ‘When does a man first see his lady bare-headed?’ She spoke gravely. ‘When does that happen?’

  Jo launched in with, ‘I dread it. I’m happier with all this garb on, I can tell you.’

  Sensible Alice, sounding bored, said, ‘There’s nothing wrong with your hair, Jo; I don’t know why you go on about it.’

  Folding her lappets, Katherine wondered, ‘What about being naked?’

  An intake of breath from Dottie. ‘Oh, Kate, don’t.’

  Katherine turned to her. ‘But he has to see you naked sometime, your husband.’

  ‘Mine won’t,’ Dottie whispered.

  Alice objected, ‘He doesn’t have to. That’s what nightshirts are for.’

  Katherine rose, to hang up the hood. ‘They want to see you naked,’ she said, matter-of-fact. ‘And it’s what you want, when you’re married.’

  Jo puffed, ‘Katie Howard! I really don’t know where you get your ideas from.’

  Maggie was cheerful: ‘I’m never marrying. I’m for the Sisters.’

  Jo took Maggie’s hood from her, took it with her own to the pegs. ‘You’re too valuable for that, Missie Morton. Your father isn’t going to waste you on the nuns.’

  Katherine said, ‘Does she have a good figure?’

  She.

  She gazed down over herself, palms pressed to her hips as if to lay herself out to better view, and turning from side to side as if looking for something. No one responded; everyone as clueless as I was, no doubt, as to what a good figure might be.

  A couple of days later, on our way into the day room, a pomander detached from Alice’s girdle and fell to the floor; the resulting hold-up had us all crowded in the doorway. Henry hadn’t seen what had happened, he was turned away from us, delving into his bag. Katherine didn’t pause behind Alice and Dottie but squeezed through behind our tutor’s back, resting a hand on his shoulder. That little hand of hers, the lightest of touches. He turned instinctively to a questioning tilt of her head–What? I can’t touch you in passing?–which he hurried to placate with a smile of his own. Within a heartbeat it was all over; and I might never have seen it, had I not been immediately behind Kate and on the lookout.

  Later that same morning, when we were taking our places at the table for dinner, she whispered, ‘I bet Henry’s a good kisser.’ I alone was close enough to hear but Grace was about to be said, so I couldn’t have responded even if I’d known how.

  The duchess’s was such a staid and thrifty household that her hosting of the wake for the local church’s dedication day, the first Sunday in October, came as a surprise. Even more surprising was how lively the evening was: the hired musicians were particularly good and the duchess probably could’ve done much, had she wished, to reign them in. Towards the end of the evening, with the duchess’s permission, Henry Manox approached each of us in turn for a dance. He started small, beginning with Maggie, who rose gamely to the occasion, flushed with exertion as Henry shepherded her through the steps. Next, Mary, who was resolute in her refusal so that he could only retreat, but barely concealing his relief. Dottie, offered his hand, needed no persuading, her front teeth clamped over her lower lip and winking their shine as she bobbed and skipped. Alice avoided any enthusiasm in favour of competence and, at the end of it, looked moderately pleased with herself. Then it was my turn, but self-consciousness had me making a poor show of it, my gaze fixed on my feet. Last but one came Jo, who trod on his toe, and then, laughing, he hobbled exaggeratedly over to Katherine. She was very graceful: the high-held head, and the lightness of the touch of her hand to his. She danced not for the audience–as each of us had done, in our individual ways–but, I saw, for her own pleasure. She took it seriously, her pleasure, and so did Henry Manox, honouring it, stopping his jesting to mirror it.

  The following morning, as we were leaving our lesson, Katherine stopped beside our teacher and packed for him: sheets of music into his bag, and his lute into its case. She did it briskly, absently, her finishing flourish a grim little smile, There. As if it’d been a chore for her, but it wouldn’t have been done unless she’d stepped in. As if it were customary for her to do it. As if there were an understanding between them–already an understanding–although his startled expression gave lie to that. Alice noticed, I saw, but she was expressionless, so I didn’t know what–if anything–she made of it. Mary had already thumped out of the room. Dottie was busy with Maggie and Jo was interrupting her: And, Little Miss, you’d better…

  The day after that, Katherine walked from the less
on at Henry Manox’s side. We’d always gone clattering from the day room, freed, streaming ahead of him, but this time she hung back and took the place at his side. She did so with the same nonchalance as she’d packed his bag. Almost a show of reluctance. He slowed to her pace–had to, or he’d have left her behind. And so she claimed him.

  Thereafter, whenever he entered the room, he’d smile at her–her alone, before relaxing into a broader, easier smile for the rest us. The smile for her was quick and guarded, like a signal. Whenever she left, she’d reach for his arm in passing: a touch pitched between a pat and a squeeze, a furthering of her claim on him.

  In class, the two of them were subdued, dignified, as if their special relationship was a responsibility nobly borne. Around them, our singing lost its carefree ebullience.

  Back in our room, our talk–of him and his lady–stopped so abruptly, completely and itself unremarked upon that it might never have happened. Indeed, days passed before I even noticed its absence. We’d given him up. Katherine’s taking of him had occurred in front of our eyes and we’d fallen in step with it. As if we’d been toying with him until a time had come for handing him over to someone, and Katherine had stepped up. She’d been the one of us who’d known what to do with him.

  I was happy to let him go, because he wasn’t whom I’d thought he was. He was just a man who’d had his head turned by Katherine Howard. I still daydreamed of strolls along the Thames, but the friend at my side wasn’t Henry Manox: he was, instead, no one I knew; a man I had yet to meet.

  We began leaving them to it, going on ahead from our lesson; Jo striding away to look as if she were leading us, as if it were her idea. When we gathered in Hall a quarter of an hour later, Katherine would be there, slipped back among us as if she’d never been gone.

  Then, though, came an occasion when we found ourselves covering for her. One morning, the duchess intercepted us–‘Ah!’–in the courtyard. ‘Good morning, girls.’ She was frowning, clearly failing to see whom she’d come to find. The only one of us who was missing was Katherine. We barely dared move enough to curtsey; barely breathed. ‘Where is Katherine?’ No one–not even Jo–was able to think fast enough. There was no reason we should have been worried: Katherine could’ve been anywhere, she could’ve simply gone to the jakes. But my heartbeat was so loud to me that I feared it detectable. We stood there dumbly, each expecting another to speak, until the duchess interrogated this suspicious silence of ours with her own. ‘When she chooses to reappear,’ she said, finally, ‘please tell her that her Uncle William is here and her presence is required in the office.’