The Confession of Katherine Howard

by Suzannah Dunn

  As those evenings became routine, we grew more comfortable in one another’s company and the boys began to stay later, the courtyard clock striking ten or eleven before they said their goodbyes. Mary would’ve returned, by then: sleeping fully clothed–pointedly–on her mattress. Maggie might’ve fallen asleep, too, but she’d have done it differently, more easily, settling deeper into her blankets like a puppy.

  Into our room came the tang of the Thames, the sweetness of horse-sweat and saddle-wax, and the hint of different ales brewed in other grand households and palaces. The boys got around and it was from them that we learned something of the enormous changes that had been going on in our country. We heard that the king had refused to defer to the pope as God’s representative on earth, claiming that the pope was merely another bishop–the Bishop of Rome–and declaring himself head of the church in England just as he was the head of everything else. The boys said he was taking for himself all the riches in England that had belonged to the church and thereby ultimately to the pope; his men sending monks and nuns from pope-faithful abbeys and priories so that the buildings and land could be sold for cash to nobles and, even, lesser men. They explained the king’s reasoning: where in the Bible is there mention of any pope? The same question, though, could be asked of so much else: where in the Bible is there mention of purgatory? Where are saints, and the sacraments? And people were indeed asking those questions, the boys told us, Francis rolling his eyes in exasperation, Does it matter? The Archbishop of Canterbury had more questions than most, they said, a pressing one of which concerned the forbidding of priests from being married despite there being no mention in the Bible of celibate clergy. ‘Nothing to do with him having a secret wife and child of his own, of course,’ Ed said.

  We squealed, delighted, scandalised: ‘He doesn’t!’

  ‘Oh, he does,’ Ed assured us. ‘Everyone knows, but nobody knows if the king knows, so no one dares breathe a word of it.’

  Archbishop Cranmer was also keen for us to be able to worship in English, apparently: the Bible should be available in our own language, he was saying, for us to read. ‘No thanks,’ was Kate’s considered opinion, and I felt she had a point. Bad enough to have to go to prayers several times a day, let alone tackle the Bible. The duke’s view, the boys told us, was that the changes were uncalled for, with the exception of cold-shouldering the pope, who was a foreigner when–in the duke’s view–God was an Englishman. There was no need, declared the duke, for any further reforms, and many agreed with him. Not, though, unfortunately, the archbishop–whom the duke considered pitifully bookish–nor the king’s other main man: his fixer, his lawyer, Thomas Cromwell. Bully-boy, blacksmith’s boy: Master Cromwell was a man of no breeding, according to the duke. Everything awful that had happened during the last few years–the deposing of queens, the sacking of abbeys and desecration of churches–was just business to Master Cromwell. The man was jumped-up, the duke said, and needed cutting down.

  The boys were an invaluable source of gossip on the Howard family itself. From them we learned that Lord William was so frequently at the duchess’s because he was hassling her for advances on his inheritance, and it was they who told us the full story of the fate of the duchess’s other son: his love affair with the king’s niece, his incarceration in the Tower and his death there from a fever.

  On the subject of the duke, the boys excelled themselves. Tommy-boy, they called him, or Tommo, Tom-Tom, Tombo: anything that came to mind and, despite their obvious affection, the irreverence cut him down to size. They told us that he lived in fear of the duchess, that his mistress had grown sick of him (‘Oh God, you should see how she looks at him!’), his estranged wife made no bones about wishing him dead and his widowed daughter, Lady Mary, complained to anyone who’d listen that he’d distribute food to hundreds of paupers at his gates to demonstrate his benevolence while keeping her penniless.

  We loved it, the idea of the duke–the strutting duke–beleaguered by his women. And that was just the women. His too-clever son gave him far greater cause for concern. And if life at home was bad enough for the duke, it was barely any better at court. He might well have been England’s most senior nobleman, but–the boys informed us, cheerfully–no one liked him. The only other nobleman of comparable rank, the Duke of Suffolk, could be said to be just as old-fashioned, but he was strapping and urbane, and, anyway, he’d been the king’s boyhood friend. The king had enjoyed years of pranks and high spirits with Suffolk, years of joshing and hunting, none of which could ever have happened with the weaselly, watchful old Duke of Norfolk. Neither duke, though, it had to be said, had anything in common with the men on the rise: Thomas Cromwell, Archbishop Cranmer and the senior Seymour brother were grafters, they were serious men of learning.

  The duke could bow and scrape all he liked–and he did, the boys said, he did–but somehow he never got it quite right: not in the king’s eyes nor anyone else’s. Not that the king didn’t find uses for him: he entrusted the duke with the jobs that no one else would or could do. He knew that the duke would do them, and do them properly. Oh, he’d go away grumbling, but he’d give it his best shot and face the consequences. Dealing with difficult queens, difficult bishops: he’d do it for his king because the king’s word, the king’s honour, the king’s authority was all that mattered to a Howard. And so, fiercely Catholic though the duke was, he hadn’t baulked at betraying his fellow Catholics–those mercy-pleading Pilgrims of Grace–nor shirked from hanging stubborn bishops from the gates of their abbeys at Kirkwall, Whalley, Jervaulx and Fountains.

  But he’s not a bad bloke, the boys would insist, coming over sentimental: he treats us fine, he’s fair. And what was clearly, for them, the ultimate accolade: You know where you are, with him.

  Even back then, I didn’t take it as the recommendation that it was intended to be.

  Over the weeks, we girls–with the exception of Mary–grew relaxed enough in the boys’ presence to discard not only our hoods but our gowns, which left us sitting around in our soft kirtles–no less covered, of course, but more comfortable. Ed, I noticed, didn’t ever quite meet Kate’s eyes; everyone else’s, but never hers. He’d stop just short of looking directly at her, even as he kept talking, fast and funny. Which left Francis free to do so, and this–I saw–he did. Ed was all mouth; Francis, all eyes: his particular gift, those big riverwater-coloured eyes, and they were solely for her.

  At some point, she must’ve reciprocated, she must’ve given him the look although I didn’t actually see her do it. I’d known that she’d do it sometime, because he was hers: I knew it, and I’m sure everyone else did. And, anyway, why would we mind? We had Ed, with his stories. Our evenings were Ed’s show. Francis’s comments, although sharp enough, were infrequent and brief; he was a mere debunker, detractor.

  One evening, I saw that Kate was resting against Francis’s shoulder. Until then, I hadn’t even noticed that they’d been sitting side by side. I marvelled at how they’d got themselves to that point: what understanding had passed between them, how they’d reached it, how it had been broached. As far as I knew, they’d done it wordlessly. I was certain that was something I’d never learn to do: this language of no words was one that I’d never learn to speak. Not that I minded. It wasn’t for me, I felt.

  Over the following few evenings, her resting against him became a laying of her head on his shoulder, and then, some evenings later, a leaning back on him. And then there she was, lounging back on him, between his knees, her eyes either half-closed or closed, as were his. They’d withdrawn from us, and we’d let them go. What choice, though, had we had? Sometimes he’d tease her hair with his fingertips, sometimes lay his lips down on to the top of her head, all of it as natural-looking as a flutter of breeze.

  Then, one evening, when Ed rose to leave, Francis–eyes closed–didn’t move. Nothing unusual in that, but normally Ed would chivvy him: Come on, Sunshine, then a prod of his toes or a small, slack kick. This time, though, instead, he made a
face–an expression of affection–to convey that he couldn’t quite bear to disturb his enviably peaceful friend. Then he was off, backing away through the doorway with a fingertip to his lips to keep us hushed. It was so unexpected that we were too slow to object. Mary was already asleep, anyway; Maggie, too. When the door had closed, Alice frowned and I shrugged back at her. Kate and Francis did look to be asleep: comfortably so, enviably so. Untouchably so. Waking them would take some doing, by the look of it, and it was late, I was tired. Easier to leave them be. The fire was low: the room would soon turn chilly and then–uncovered as they were–they’d wake and he’d leave. It was merely a matter of time, so why force it? Besides, Ed hadn’t forced it, and he knew the ways of the world.

  By unspoken agreement Alice and I undressed as far as we decently could–kirtles off and down to our shifts–before extinguishing the wicks. Under my blankets, I listened for Francis to stir and leave. What had promised to be easy only moments ago proved a strain as I listened on and on into the darkness and silence, there being no distractions. After what felt like ages, I did hear a stirring on her mattress, but then it turned into a protracted business, their waking: a stirring, a settling back down again, a further stirring, then nothing again. Eventually I gave up on them–must’ve done–to be carried away by sleep. When I surfaced in the morning, he was gone. No harm done.

  A couple of evenings later, it happened again; and a couple of evenings on from that, again. And then, before the week had ended, it had become something they sometimes did; by the end of the following week, something they did more often than not. We tolerated it. Those boys shouldn’t have been in our room anyway, but they were; and now Francis stayed a little later than Ed. That was all it was.

  Earlier in those evenings, Francis had begun to go further with his kisses: no longer on to the top of her head but lower, on to her ears or neck, and not absently as before, but lingering. Sometimes the pair of them would be joining in with the rest of us when suddenly Kate would turn to Francis and for a while they’d be kissing and we’d avert our eyes. That’s what they were doing, too, later, in the darkness: that was the sound that I could now distinguish, a clicking of the moisture in their opened, joined mouths, not dissimilar in its stealth from the creaking of a floor-board.

  During those evenings, Ed continued to entertain Alice, Maggie and me, keeping us informed of the varying fortunes of the Howards. The duke was winning some, losing some. He and his supporters had triumphed with their Act of Six Articles, enshrining the old beliefs, although they’d had to concede an English Bible in every church. Ed reported the duke’s disgust: So now every Missus Mop can have a quick flick through before debating the finer points of theology with her priest. In retaliation, Cromwell was spring-cleaning at court, sweeping out the old and bringing in new men, his own men, as well as masterminding a new law–or ‘abomination’, to use the duke’s term for it–whereby merit was to be favoured in the new Privy Council over rank. ‘Well, he would,’ said Ed, ‘wouldn’t he.’

  Meanwhile, he told us, the king continued his search for a new queen. He’d been considering French princesses because Cromwell said he should: a link with France–against Spain–would be prudent. He’d been drawn to the idea of Mary of Guise, before her retort: For a big woman, I have a slender neck. He’d been taken with a portrait of Christina of Denmark, until her quip: Had I been born with two heads, I’d’ve been happy to consider it. Now the quest was turning to the Low Countries, which, we all agreed, sounded desperate.

  If, at times, Kate and Francis chose not to partake in the gossip-mongering, it was their loss. It looked boring, by comparison, their nosing into each other’s faces.

  Later, in bed, they’d pause sometimes in their kissing and I detected that, despite the darkness, they were looking into each other’s eyes. I could actually hear the silence: it had a distinct, audible quality. Other times, I heard them moving around under her blanket: the sounds longer, the length of a body. They were putting a lot of effort into keeping quiet: their caution rang in the silence. By hearing them, I knew, I was failing them.

  One day, when Kate and I were taking the dogs for their riverside run-around, she told me, ‘Ed likes you.’

  Odd, surely, for her to feel that she had to say so. ‘Well, I should hope he does.’ Certainly I hadn’t detected anything to the contrary. And me, too: I was very fond of him.

  ‘No–’ she was amused–‘I mean, he likes you. “Likes” you.’

  Oh. But that kind of ‘liking’ was for someone who’d be comfortable resting back on someone else. Not for me. Flustered, I threw it back: ‘Don’t be stupid.’

  Even though I didn’t look at her, I detected her smirk. ‘Francis told me.’

  Ed and Francis had discussed me?

  ‘So,’ she was asking, ‘what are you going to do?’

  She and Francis had discussed me? When? What else had he said?

  ‘Are you going to sit beside him?’

  I didn’t want to do that. Not that I didn’t like Ed, but I didn’t want anything to change. What Kate was telling me, though, was that it already had. All those enjoyable evenings I’d spent in his company, I’d assumed that we’d been looking out together at the world, but now here was Kate claiming that in fact he’d been looking at me.

  Well, he’d misunderstood me: I had no interest in romance. Back when I’d given up on Stephen the kitchen-clerk, I’d given up on romance in general. And then when marriage had become a real prospect for all of us girls, it occurred to me, we’d stopped all the marriage-talk. For me, at that time in my life, God was my private preoccupation: not matters of doctrine, not forms of worship, but my personal relationship with God: what He knew of me, whether He listened to me, whether He cared.

  I’d deflected Kate with my blustering but, despite myself, I was intrigued. Ed was a bright, bold presence–square-jawed, broken-nosed, and wind-tanned; his new-looking hosiery, I’d glimpsed, already worn thin on the heels and balls of his feet. By contrast, I felt shamefully insubstantial. No match for him. He handled horses, I poked about with a needle and thread and plucked at lute strings. The most strenuous activity I undertook at the duchess’s was the punching of a pestle into a mortar.

  That evening, I kept my distance, guarded it: mine.

  I wondered, though: was he looking at me? I didn’t catch him at it. What did he think he could see in me? Nothing that I’d intended to show him, that was for sure. I suspected that Kate was inventing his interest in me because she wanted company. She was with Francis and she wanted one of us to be with Ed. Simple as that. Strength in numbers. And it would have to be me because it wasn’t going to be Mary, or earnest Alice or little Maggie.

  A couple of days later, at dinner in Hall, Ed smiled at me: directly at me, and me alone. There it was, and a propos of nothing: a smile that was dazzling, unequivocal, and mine. What should I do with it? Instinct had me responding in kind although my own, on the hop, was embarrassingly lame. After that, I lowered my gaze and kept it lowered, all the while wondering what I should do. I saw now that Kate was right and I did hold something of his–his attention, his interest. It’d been bestowed upon me. So, what should I do with it?

  Over the next few days, I pondered: he saw something in me, or thought that he did, but what was it? I recalled what my mother had told me: You’re no one’s fool. I wasn’t sure if I believed her, but no one else had ever made any claims about me so it was all I had to go on. And she’d said it grudgingly, so I didn’t think she’d have made it up. She’d said it as if it were a rare quality, but one of which she was wary. It hadn’t sounded like something that would make me loveable. Was that what he had seen, though? Was that what he liked? For all my wondering, sometimes I let myself imagine leaning back on him and feeling his ready laughter rumble up my backbone. That’d be something, I realised: to be up close to all that life.

  One morning, when we were helping to lay the tables in Hall, Kate teased me: ‘You’ve not sat next to Ed, yet.�
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  I hadn’t, no. Admittedly, the prospect was intriguing. I could sit next to him. I could do it, and only I could do it. Kate might go on about it all she liked and he might be hoping I’d do so, but it was my choice, I realised. Only I could make it happen.

  She took it upon herself to assure me, ‘He’d be a gentleman, he wouldn’t do anything you didn’t want him to do.’

  Well, it hadn’t occurred to me that he would. He never dozed off in our room as Francis did. That would never happen: he was too correct, too reliable. There would only be my leaning back on him: that was as far as it would go. There’d just be that rumbling up my spine. If I didn’t turn to face him, he couldn’t kiss me. What would it be like, to kiss like that–as Kate and Francis did? How on earth did they manage to breathe?

  A couple more evenings passed before I did end up sitting next to him, in our room. It was nothing, though, I told myself: someone had to be sitting next to him and, on this occasion, that someone just happened to be me. And actually I was nowhere near him; it was just that there was no one between us on the mattress. My heart, though, was overly pink: that was how it felt–skinned and palpating. As I’d settled down, he’d smiled at me: a smile separately and definitely for me. Not, though–to my relief–a knowing smile. On the contrary, grateful and trusting. I didn’t respond, and avoided Kate’s eyes despite her trying to catch mine. I sat it out, that evening: that was how it felt.

  The following afternoon, as we all converged on Hall for the baptismal feast of the latest Scully baby, Ed walked alongside me. His eyes–his smile–sought mine, swooped below my gaze to scoop it up. Or tried to, but I refused to play, stared ahead through the doorway into Hall. We were walking side by side but were otherwise just like everyone else. The space between us, though, made itself felt.

  From then on, it became something he’d always do when we came across one another–girls, boys–although there was never anything much to it: just this gentle, unassuming walking alongside me. Our jumbled-up steps seemed to take on a merriness all of their own, though; they seemed to be playing with each other. And did I imagine it, or did the others withdraw a little to leave us to it? We were surrounded by their absence, and buoyed up by it.