The Confession of Katherine Howard

by Suzannah Dunn

  ‘It’s not big enough!’ She was wide-eyed with the hilarity of it. ‘You won’t be able to lie down!’

  ‘Not completely stretched out, but–’ I was irritated, turning defensive–‘I’ll curl up.’ Opening the door, I displayed the space to her.

  ‘But still–’ she peered dubiously into the cubbyhole–‘I doubt you could breathe in there.’

  ‘Well, I’ll keep the day-room door ajar.’

  ‘No,’ she protested. ‘You can’t do it.’ And, in a tone that clearly she intended to be inviting: ‘Just sleep in here.’ Then, as if it were reason enough: ‘Jane does.’

  Jane could do as she liked; I was no Jane. ‘Really,’ I insisted, ‘I’ll be fine.’ And actually I was beginning to look forward to it: a night entirely on my own.

  She turned away. ‘Well, I think you’re mad.’ Then back again, sheepish, to assure me, ‘Really, honestly, I promise you we’ll be quiet.’

  I made sure to be in the airlock before Culpeper arrived. Kate was as good as her word, but despite hearing nothing of them as I lay there, I did have to listen to the bed–that vast bed–slamming into the wall: on three occasions during that long night and its small hours came a rhythmic battering of the panelling. I lay there in dread of those brutal slams reverberating around the palace, and in fear of the tell-tale bruising of the linenfold that I’d be able to find in the morning.

  Sometimes in the months to come Kate would dismay me by claiming in her own defence that queens had always had favourites, and I’d have to bite back my response: Favourites, yes, who compose songs and poems for you and pick up your prayer book for you when you drop it and hand you silk scarves in their colours when they ride to joust; but not a gentleman of the Privy Chamber who strips you down to your rubies and bangs your bedhead against the wall.

  I didn’t have to bite it back, though. I could’ve said it. Why didn’t I? Was it because whenever she had a night with Thomas Culpeper and Jane Rochford was on duty, I had a night with Francis? A whole night alone with Francis. I’d never known the like, before; I’d never have considered it possible.

  I dreaded Jo Bulmer being involved, if she ever arrived; but so far Kate hadn’t mentioned her again and I’d felt it safest to avoid raising the subject. I knew why Jane Rochford was going along with it: because she’d been taken into the queen’s confidence. Jane Rochford: cold-shouldered by everyone else. And cold-shouldered, she was bored, too. What made her amenable in Kate’s eyes, though, made her dangerous in mine. Susceptible to taking it too far, and to flaunting her favouring. Certainly she flaunted it to me: I hated the look she sometimes gave me, feverish-eyed, knowing and insinuating. I hated how she imagined a bond with me because circumstances had us in together on Katherine’s secret. Worst of all, I hated that she knew where Francis and I were on the nights when she was on watch, often sending us on our way with, ‘Off you go, you two, and enjoy yourselves.’

  And what of Culpeper himself? He was the type, surely, to brag of conquests, and his liaison with the queen had the dubious honour of being the ultimate conquest. I did dare raise it, once, with Kate, although I was careful how I put it: Did none of his friends know?

  ‘He’s not stupid,’ was all she said.

  In my view, he was exactly that.

  He was always on guard against losing face, though, and he’d have known that if he claimed even to the closest friend that he was sleeping with the queen–the perfect queen, the beloved queen–he’d quite likely be disbelieved and ridiculed for it. As for being discovered, he was one to watch his back, to save his skin, and there was little risk, I felt, of any ill-judged loyalty to Kate in the event of trouble, of any misguided stepping up to declare true love for her. He could be relied upon, I suspected, to be quick with denials if it ever came to it, although possibly too quick to be of advantage to her, because I doubted he’d pause to check his version first against hers.

  I felt powerless to stop Kate. She was the queen, and I was only at the palace at her invitation. Her liaison with Culpeper was already well underway before I ever arrived: it was established, and had its own considerable momentum with a schedule and a route and even accoutrements such as rubies. As with everything, she had presented it to me as a fait accompli; and, as ever, despite my misgivings, I concurred.

  For the months of the following summer, though, when we were no longer on home ground but on progress around the country, Kate’s assignations with Thomas Culpeper were much harder to come by. The longest we ever stayed anywhere was for a few days, so we had little or no time to familiarise ourselves with the interconnections of rooms and staircases, and rarely had the relevant keys. In any case, accommodation was so stretched that, usually, three or four of us were sleeping in with Kate. Thomas Culpeper–with the rest of the king’s men–was often lodging somewhere else entirely, across town or on an adjacent estate. Even if he’d been nearby, I doubt Kate would always have had the will, having travelled all day in the heat and then been at various elaborate entertainments until late in the evening.

  Occasionally, though, circumstances did permit, and she’d summon up the wherewithal, and then I’d have to lie there on my mattress on the floor at the foot of her bed with my sheet pulled over my head.

  As for Francis and me, we barely saw each other during those hectic months. Being on progress is particularly gruelling for ushers of the king’s and queen’s households, responsible as they are for ensuring that everyone has somewhere to sleep. Francis could never travel with us, always riding ahead to make arrangements, but even when we were settled somewhere for a few days his time was taken up with complaints. Everyone had something to say about where he or she had been stationed, and it was never good. They were long, long days for him, and often he’d not even make it to the evening’s feast, or not until too late: turning up parched and drinking too much too quickly on an empty stomach, falling asleep at the table. He had to endure it, was his attitude; it’d soon be over.

  But once, towards the end of the summer, somewhere in Lincolnshire, he and I resorted to spending the night together in Kate’s room alongside her and Thomas Culpeper. I was to have been alone on sleep-in duty, that night, and Kate suggested I take the opportunity to bring Francis along with me. She gave no clue as to why she was offering. Although neither Francis nor I welcomed the prospect of being in the same room as the pair of them, for the foreseeable future it was that or nothing. In the event, it wasn’t as awkward as we’d anticipated. We absented ourselves until they were settled inside the bedhangings; then, sleepy, we were subdued on our straw mattress, and too weary in any case to be self-conscious. Mercifully, we heard nothing from behind the hangings.

  A week or so later, in York, we accepted her invitation again only to discover, when it came to it, that Culpeper wouldn’t be joining us. Kate seemed to have known all along; she seemed unconcerned, telling us, ‘You two can have my bed,’ as she took hold of the spare mattress to haul it across the room. Both Francis and I protested, and our protest was genuine: it wouldn’t feel right to be in her bed and we’d get no pleasure from it. But she had no patience for this, and gave us short shrift–‘Oh, for goodness’ sake’–as she dragged that mattress. We were all too tired to argue, we were already there and it would have taken too much effort to effect an escape for Francis, so that was how it ended up: Francis and me in a bed prepared for the Queen of England, and the queen herself an arm’s length away on a straw mattress on the floor.

  November 7th, late afternoon

  I knew where to find Archbishop Cranmer: his lodgings were beneath the king’s gallery. I knew I’d have to go to him. Kate had lied to him about Francis, and for Francis’s sake I would have to put the record straight. The duke had said that it would make no difference for Kate; but for Francis, surely, it would make all the difference. I wasn’t afraid to go to the archbishop: I knew from sitting through his sermons that he was no ogre but a circumspect, reticent man.

  In the event, the only problem proved to be
persuading his secretary that I hadn’t come with a plea for clemency; but eventually I was allowed through to his study.

  ‘Miss Tilney.’ The darkness of the archbishop’s eyes was matched by shadow beneath them, and he hadn’t had the attentions of a barber for a day or two–an oversight which looked outlandish on him. By contrast, his hair was as artlessly cropped as a schoolboy’s, unforgiving around his anxious face.

  ‘Ralph–’ You can leave us now. The man’s reluctance resounded in the silence before the drawing-to of the door. This room was nothing like the duke’s; it lacked the wadding of tapestries, and the trestle table that was serving as a desk was piled with books. There were only two chairs but a lot of leather-covered chests. The candles were collapsed, they’d burned late and this morning someone had neglected to visit the chandlery. The fireplace gaped, cold.

  He seemed wary of startling me, his head inclined and his big brown eyes beseeching. ‘Ralph says you have something to tell me.’

  So here it was, my moment. I cleared my throat and made myself do it: voiced my suspicion that the queen had suggested that Francis had ‘forced her’. Forced her to do what, I didn’t specify, hoping hard that he wouldn’t request an elaboration.

  Polite concern from him: ‘And you believe this not to have been the case?’

  I confirmed, ‘It wasn’t the case.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, earnestly. ‘That’s useful.’ But clearly the opposite was true because the thank you was too quick, too smooth and, although I didn’t understand why, I knew at once that Francis would be staying in the Tower. My pulse turned hectic because why? Why had telling the truth made no difference? What on earth could I do or say that would make a difference?

  ‘Did she?’ I heard myself pressing him.

  ‘Did she?’ he echoed, just as surprised, searching my eyes with his own.

  ‘Say it.’ That he’d forced her.

  ‘Oh.’ He spread his long hands in a gesture of helplessness: You know I can’t say, you know I can’t discuss the particulars of the case.

  No matter, I told myself; I’d said what I’d come to say. I’d told the truth. I’d done it; I’d done what was right even if it seemed to have made no difference. Leave it, and go. But I couldn’t hold it back: a wail of despair: ‘Why is he in the Tower?’

  The archbishop leaned forward in a bestowing of yet more concern. ‘To enable us to continue our enquiries.’

  But, ‘Into what?’ Unfortunately, this came as a whine. ‘Because he’s told you.’ And I told him again: ‘They had a romance, he didn’t force her, they weren’t pre-contracted, and then it was over.’

  Something shone fleetingly into his eyes–scepticism?–and a realisation passed through me like a shiver, escaped me like a laugh: ‘You think it’s still going on?’ That, I’d not anticipated, but of course, it made sense: something, at last, that made sense, because if they were suspecting him of an affair with Kate, then no wonder he was still in the Tower.

  ‘As I say, we’re continuing our enquiries.’ His eyelids low over those cow-eyes.

  ‘But of course it’s over!’ Too loud, and I, myself, flinched. ‘He and I are getting married!’

  He mustered a smile, which was more of a wince.

  ‘You’re married,’ I accused, not knowing quite why I’d said it, quite what I meant by it. Priest-man: you’re married.

  He sucked on his top lip.

  Listen, ‘Can’t you just let him go?’ A turn of a key: that was all it would take.

  Still, though, the sorrowful look.

  ‘But he’s done nothing wrong,’ I insisted. ‘He’s…’ and the word that came was ‘good.’ Good: isn’t that something that you–Archbishop–can understand? ‘He…fell for a girl–’ which was exactly what it was, a falling–‘when she was…free.’ When she was no one and it didn’t matter. ‘And then, later, it was over.’ Can’t you see? ‘He’s loyal, is Francis,’ I pleaded, ‘and he’s honest. He’s not the problem.’

  ‘And the problem is…?’

  What did the archbishop mean by that? How should I know what the problem was? What was at issue here was precisely that I didn’t know. I’d told the truth and nothing had changed. His question was genuine, though, to judge from the widened eyes and lightness of tone; he was laying himself open to my response. And it occurred to me that I did know, or at least I did have an idea. I recalled what the duke had implied: ‘You think Kate’s not the right queen for England, because she’s a Howard.’

  He dismissed it with a small, exasperated, self-deprecating noise, a shrug of a breath: As if it’s up to me. Which didn’t entirely convince. Then he made to rise with the aim, presumably, of showing me the door.

  ‘Francis isn’t the problem,’ I repeated. Francis–what he did, back in the old days at the duchess’s–was irrelevant.

  Slowly, he reversed his rise, sitting back down. ‘So, who is?’ he asked me, gently.

  I was thrown: how had we got to that? I couldn’t think back to what it was that I’d just said. Whatever it was, though, he’d misunderstood me.

  ‘Miss Tilney?’ That apologetic inclination of the head, again.

  Thomas Culpeper should be in that dungeon in Francis’s place, but if I breathed a word of it, he’d die. And Kate, perhaps, too. And perhaps Francis and me, for having known and allowed it–helped it, even–to happen. Although perhaps not Francis, because they wouldn’t have to know that he’d known. If they questioned him about it, he’d deny it. Not for his own sake, but for hers. Obviously he’d given no word of it so far. They could do whatever they liked to him and he’d probably still deny that she was sleeping with Thomas Culpeper. For her sake.

  I didn’t answer the archbishop’s question, but asked him one. ‘Did she say it?’ About Francis.

  But she couldn’t have done, could she? We were supposed to be going off into the future, the three of us, to be happy. That was the idea, the plan, that was what we’d always said, what we’d joked about, what we’d agreed: Francis and me to marry, and our children to be brought up in Kate’s household.

  The archbishop didn’t respond, initially. Not a single blink of those big, sad eyes; nor, even, it seemed to me, a breath. He was reluctant to let me turn his own question around. And–I could see–he was thinking. Eventually, though, he bent down in his chair–one easy sweep–to lift the lid of a leather chest and take from it a piece of paper which he placed gently on the table in front of me. Having surrendered it to me, he sighed wearily and sat back, closed his eyes, frowning as if troubled by a headache.

  But then I found I couldn’t look at it, whatever it was. It held an answer to my question. Those pitying eyes would open again in no time and he’d watch me reading it, and suddenly I couldn’t bear that. Then, though, as if he understood, he snapped up from his chair and stepped to the window, standing there with his back to me. That long, black back. Released from his scrutiny, I glanced down at a letter. It was unmistakably Kate’s handwriting: her scrawl, which had always looked so jolly and, as far as I knew, had never before been put to any serious use. I scanned the letter, spotted what I was looking for: Francis Dereham by many persuasions procured me to his… Reading the words, I was conscious of whispering them as if I were a child, tracking them, anxious that the meaning might give me the slip. Calm, was how I felt as I read, but my cheeks were ablaze.

  I addressed his back: ‘Did you make her write it?’ I was merely making my own enquiries, not lobbing an accusation. I was confident that he’d tell me the truth or at least that I’d be able to detect if he didn’t. He replied with that sound again–a shrug of a breath–but the pitch was lower, derisory, despairing: an admission, No, of course not, because–you said it yourself–I think she’s the wrong queen, so why would I want to help her make excuses for herself?

  ‘It’s a lie,’ I confirmed.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘You let her say it, though. Write it. To the king.’

  He turned, with a little upwards throw
of his hands: She can do as she likes. ‘And the king–’ he stopped, it didn’t need saying: the king’s no fool, there was no danger that he’d be taken in by it.

  She’d said it, and she’d written it down for the monarch to read. She’d signed Francis’s death warrant, in effect, for a chance at a future of her own. Well, her future–if she ended up having one–would meet no obstacle from me: I’d leave her to it, I’d never see her again, I’d leave this room and turn into Fountain Court rather than Inner Court, fetch some belongings, go down to the river, go to London, and work something out from there. I could do it, I could; surely it could be done.

  I checked: ‘It won’t help her?’

  ‘No,’ he sounded regretful. ‘It won’t help her.’

  For nothing, then, her betrayal of him.

  ‘And you did tell her that?’

  He nodded.

  ‘But she was still willing to try.’

  He allowed, ‘She’s very frightened.’

  ‘We all are.’

  ‘What is the truth, Miss Tilney?’ That tentative incline, again, of the head.

  ‘You don’t care about the truth.’

  ‘Actually, it’s all I care about.’ Rueful again, as if admitting a weakness.

  So I reiterated: ‘The truth is there was no pre-contract, just a romance, and he didn’t force her, and it’s over now and he and I are going to get married. That’s the truth.’

  ‘That’s the truth about Francis Dereham.’ He linked his hands. ‘But what’s the truth about the queen?’

  What ‘queen’? It was all over for her, as queen. Which would mean–it occurred to me–that Thomas Culpeper probably wouldn’t want her, either; he’d wouldn’t want anything to do with a disgraced queen. No man would. It was all over, for her. ‘There is no truth about the queen,’ I said, which sounded wrong, didn’t make sense. I shook it away. I didn’t want to think about her. ‘Let Francis go,’ I pleaded. ‘He’s innocent: you know that much.’