The Catherine Howard Conspiracy

by Alexandra Walsh

  “Dearest Mary,” Perdita read aloud, “the cancer is rife so this will probably be the last photograph of the girls I will be able to send. I have done everything we agreed upon on that terrible day and it has kept them safe. The rest is up to you. Godspeed, my old friend. Your loving son-in-law, James.”

  “There it is again,” she snarled, glaring at Kit, knowing it was not his fault but taking her fear out on him nevertheless.

  “What?” asked Kit, bemused.

  “The word ‘safe’. Your father keeps using it and now it’s here in my father’s handwriting. Safe from what? Or whom? What’s going on?”

  Kit stood up. At five foot seven, Perdita was tall, but at six foot four, Kit loomed over her. He took a deep breath as though it would calm her down, then placed his hands on her shoulders and gently turned her to face him, his deep blue eyes staring into hers, trying to rationalise her terror.

  “I’ve no idea why my father keeps using the word safe or why your father wrote that note,” he said, his tone gentle. “My understanding was the same as yours, that your dad and your grandmother rowed after your mother’s death. I’ve never seen these photographs before and, as far as I’m aware, your father never visited. The only thing I knew was that the house you lived in belonged to Mary.”

  Perdita’s worried grey-green eyes stared into his soothing blue. She believed him but it still made no sense.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, disentangling herself from his grip. “None of this is your fault, but something obviously happened.”

  Her mind was whirling as her naturally analytical brain tried to sort this new and unexpected information into a logical order. Yet, no matter how many times she rearranged the differing hypothesis, she could not resolve the information into a coherent whole. Too many pieces of the puzzle were missing. The obvious answer was to speak to Alistair but her gut instinct told her he would be reluctant to discuss the situation and, if he did, would give the accepted version of the truth as agreed by Mary and her father, rather than the real events. Still thinking hard, Perdita walked back to the boxes of research.

  On first entering the office, she had not realised they had been arranged in chronological order. Now she walked the length of Mary’s work, pausing first at the boxes labelled The Anne Boleyn Question (Published 1985), then The Missing Heir of Henry VIII (Published 1993), she noticed something and it momentarily distracted her.

  “There are too many,” she said, standing back and counting.

  “What do you mean?” asked Kit who was still watching her closely.

  “Over the course of her career, my grandmother published ten books, as well as articles, features, papers and inserts in other works, but there are twelve sets of research here — look at the way they’re laid out, there are gaps between each set of boxes.”

  She and Kit moved as one to the boxes situated between The Missing Heir of Henry VIII, which was released shortly before Louisa’s death and Mary’s next publication six years later, where there were two sets of boxes, one as large as the others, the second slightly smaller, as though the research had been stopped too soon.

  “The Catherine Howard Anomaly (Unpublished),” read Perdita from the first pile of boxes.

  “Possible working titles: The Ladies of Melusine or The Lady Pamela Letters: A Study of the Epistolary Styles of Women in the Tudor and Stuart Courts (Early stages of research),” read Kit from the lid of the next pile.

  “She wrote two other books but abandoned them,” said Perdita. “I wonder why?”

  “On a practical level, perhaps she felt they weren’t good enough for publication,” suggested Kit.

  “Maybe.”

  “Do you have another explanation?”

  “You read what Granny Mary wrote in her copy of The Missing Heirs of Henry VIII: ‘It is over. They have won. Mary Fitzroy, 30 May 1993’. Does that sound like someone who isn’t confident of her own work? I think she deliberately pulled these books from publication.”

  “Why? She was a respected academic, why would she abandon perfectly acceptable books, unless it was because she deemed they weren’t good enough? You’re upset by what you’ve discovered today, you’re looking for coincidences that aren’t there.”

  His words, so similar to Piper’s, made Perdita more, rather than less, determined.

  “Why did she cut us from her life then leave us everything?” she snapped. “Why did Dad send her photographs of us every year? Why was he in touch with her when he wouldn’t even let us mention her name? Something happened around the time of my mother’s death and I’m going to find out what it was. Do you know what else I’ve discovered today? Piper and I have distant cousins; we’re not alone in the world like we thought. If I can discover that by reading the scribbles in my grandmother’s copies of her published work, what might I discover if I go through the research for books we didn’t even know she’d written?”

  “Perdita, please…” Kit began, but she cut across him, her voice becoming frantic, tears of anger and frustration in her eyes. “I might find answers,” she said. “I might find the truth.”

  Chapter Five

  Kit departed the following morning. He was attending the wedding of a university friend in Scotland but was travelling to London to stay with his girlfriend, Lydia Brooks, before flying to Edinburgh.

  “You didn’t mention you had a girlfriend,” Perdita had said, surprised to find herself so irritated by this unexpected development.

  “You didn’t ask,” he had replied with a grin. “Does that mean you won’t be driving me to the station, then?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” she had huffed in response, then laughed at herself. What did it matter if Kit had a girlfriend? She was engaged to Warren but, now Kit was gone, the house felt strangely empty.

  Although, she told herself as she walked from the house to the research centre, enjoying the glorious summer sunshine, it’s probably a good thing he’s away as he doesn’t think I’ll find anything other than a book that was below publication levels and a stack of research that was not strong enough to turn into a workable draft. She was still convinced otherwise.

  As always, she had confided in Piper. Initially, her sister had taken a similar sceptical line to Kit, although her motivation was because she did not want to see Perdita hurt by any possible revelations or the very real fact that there would not be any answers and Perdita’s hope would be dashed. It was only after Perdita had explained all she had discovered, including all the notes in their grandmother’s editions, that Piper had been persuaded.

  “Keep me posted,” she had said the previous evening when Perdita had explained her plan of beginning with the book entitled The Catherine Howard Anomaly. “I’m not doing much at the moment — except worrying obviously — email me the manuscript and I’ll have a look too. We’ll probably spot different things. Anyway, it’ll be a good distraction.”

  “How are things with you and Jeremy?” Perdita had asked, concerned by her twin’s white face and shadowed eyes.

  “Not great,” she admitted. “The shock of my walking out has receded. He was almost his normal self for a few days but now things are deteriorating again. I even confronted him about Kirstin. He told me I was being ridiculous, then two minutes later, I overheard him on the phone, saying, ‘She suspects’. He’s still denying he’s having an affair, though. I never realised he thought I was such a fool, Perds.”

  The conversation had bothered Perdita all night and she had resolved that her first job this morning would be to send the manuscript to her troubled sister. She hoped it would give Piper something else to think about rather than brooding on Jeremy’s behaviour.

  “Morning, Jenny,” said Perdita as she breezed into the research centre.

  “Morning,” Jenny responded. “Coffee at eleven?”

  “Yes, please,” Perdita replied, disappearing into the office she now considered hers.

  To her delight, a pile of books, all either biographies of or relating to Cather
ine Howard, had been left on her desk with a note from Jenny: These are from the main library and our archive, I’m researching and ordering other works concerning Catherine Howard. Hopefully, these will arrive tomorrow.

  Good, thought Perdita. I’m going to need guidance while I work my way through Granny’s research because this is a period of history where my knowledge is limited.

  She sat behind the desk and flipped open the wallet of USB sticks. Flicking on her laptop, she selected the one marked The Catherine Howard Anomaly and slotted it in. Moments later, the files appeared. Selecting the one named Final Draft, she opened it and read the dedication.

  Oh no, she sighed to herself. I will not cry. It was difficult, though; the book had been dedicated to her and Piper — “my beloved granddaughters”. Taking a deep breath, Perdita scrolled through the manuscript. It looked complete but, until she found the original, she would not know. “It’ll keep Piper going for now, though,” she murmured and sent it whizzing through the ether.

  Standing up, she walked to the row of boxes. There was a pile of three storage boxes labelled simply as The Catherine Howard Anomaly, followed by a one, two and three. No dates, no indexes. Perdita picked up the first box, carried it to the desk and, taking off the lid, she stared at the contents. Everything was neatly arranged in coloured folders and, to her delight, there was a bound copy of what was obviously Mary’s final draft sitting on the top. Grinning, delighted at her grandmother’s organisational abilities, she lifted the manuscript out and, settling down on one of the sofas, began to read.

  PART TWO: London, 1539-40

  Chapter One

  Catherine shivered as she waited. The corridor in Whitehall Palace was a thoroughfare bustling with people, but it was draughty and the icy wind cut across it like a shining blade. She hugged her new shawl more tightly around her, glad of its warmth. As she did, she admired the soft leather gloves her uncle had given her as a gift before she left home.

  “Soft gloves to protect your soft hands,” he had murmured. He had always singled her out for attention, been kinder to her than any of the other Howard girls, and he had arranged for her to be a maid to the new queen, the Lady Anne of Cleves. It was an honour but now she was here, her excitement was turning to nervousness.

  She had grown up in her step-grandmother’s house a few miles away in Lambeth. A ramshackle home full of orphans like her and other members of the hugely extended Howard clan. She had innocently thought that the court of King Henry VIII would be like that, only with more jewels. Now as she watched the parade of courtiers, she realised she could not have been more wrong. People hurried busily to and fro. Yeoman guards marched past in their daunting green and white Tudor uniforms, pikes aloft, metal-heeled boots ringing with a chilling authority. The women in their elaborate dresses, the men equally as ornate: it was an endless visual feast.

  Court was more intense, more splendid and more glamorous than anything she had ever imagined and she was only on the edges; a mere nobody waiting with her trunk for her elder half-sister, Lady Isabel Baynton, to collect her. As she glanced up the corridor searching for a familiar face, a tall, good-looking man dressed in a sumptuous velvet cloak caught her eye and winked. Glancing over her shoulder to see if the true recipient of his intended favour was behind her, she heard the man laugh and blushed furiously as he walked by, still chuckling.

  “Kitty!”

  To her relief, she saw Isabel hurrying through the courtiers. Torches guttered casting shadowy light on her as she approached. It was early afternoon but the weather was cold and stormy and the sky had barely lightened all day. Taller than Catherine, with dark hair and dark eyes, Isabel was married to Sir Edward Baynton, who was to be vice-chamberlain to the new queen.

  He was an important man, having worked for each of the king’s wives — including Catherine’s cousin, Anne Boleyn, Henry VIII’s second bride. Now Edward was once again to hold this important role in the new queen’s household and his stature was reflected in Isabel’s dress, demeanour and, to Catherine’s surprise, her spectacular jewels.

  “Isabel!” exclaimed Catherine, curtseying to her half-sister as etiquette required, before being swept into a warm embrace. “Your diamonds! Did Edward give them to you?”

  Isabel laughed and turned her head so the magnificent diamond drops in her ears shimmered with cold fire in the winter light.

  “An early Christmas gift,” she smiled. “We have a present for you to welcome you to court but we’ll give it to you when you’re settled. Is that yours?” She pointed to the trunk.

  Catherine nodded. “Although, there isn’t much in it,” she admitted.

  “Never mind,” said Isabel. “We’ll organise a new wardrobe for you. We must maintain the Howard family name. Cox, take my sister’s trunk to the maids’ rooms,” she said to the servant standing respectfully behind her. Then, tucking her hand under Catherine’s arm, she led her along the busy corridor. “What do you think of court?”

  “I’ve been here barely half an hour but it seems, well…”

  “Daunting?”

  “Yes,” agreed Catherine.

  “Don’t worry, my dear, we’re all here to help you; myself and Edward, your Uncle Norfolk and, of course, our brother Charles. Although, he seems rather preoccupied at the moment.”

  “Is he in love again?” asked Catherine, grinning.

  “Yes, but this is a little different from his usual infatuations.”

  “You mean the object of his affection isn’t married?”

  “She isn’t but, well, there are other complications. However, it’s never wise to discuss such things in the open court, even in jest, remember that, Kitten,” said Isabel. “The court has ears everywhere and like the smiling serpent who was the undoing of Eve, there are endless charlatans lurking in unexpected places in this merry Eden.”

  Catherine nodded, but she was disappointed. She always enjoyed hearing about her brother’s latest romantic escapades. The true chivalric and charmingly penniless knight, Charles Howard was always infatuated with someone, and Catherine suspected he was more in love with the idea of romance than the most recent recipient of his amour.

  As they walked, she tried to memorise the winding route, wondering if this sprawling building would ever feel familiar. Eventually, they arrived in a quieter, but even more beautifully decorated section of the palace.

  “These are the queen’s new rooms,” explained Isabel. “And along here are the maids’ rooms. I’ve arranged for you to share with our cousin, Kathryn Carey. She’s an old hand and will look out for you if neither Edward nor I are available to help.”

  “And Uncle Norfolk?” Catherine asked.

  “He’s a very busy man but I’m sure once he knows you’re here, he’ll invite you to his rooms to keep you up-to-date with family business.”

  Catherine laughed but she was secretly delighted.

  “Hardly, Issy,” she said. “I’m far too lowly for such important conversations.”

  “Don’t underestimate your new status, Mistress Howard,” said Isabel. “The position of maid of honour is not one given lightly and there were many noblemen fighting for places for their daughters. Enjoy your rise in status and use it wisely. You’ll need a husband soon and being at court will improve your prospects of a lucrative match.”

  Catherine was relieved they were climbing a narrow flight of stairs and she did not have to respond. She knew she would be expected to make a good marriage. Her Howard blood was a catch, even if she had no dowry or inheritance. Men wanting to better themselves by winning a Howard bride had already pursued her. Her music teacher, Henry Manox, had tried to force himself upon her and another member of her step-grandmother’s household had once suggested they should be married. She was relieved when that particular rogue, Francis Dereham, had attached himself to Katherine Tilney, another distant cousin of the Howards. Thankfully, she thought, that is all far behind me now. This is a new adventure.

  Isabel threw open the door to Catheri
ne’s room. Two women were sitting on the deep window seat and they broke off their conversation abruptly. Kathryn Carey, the daughter of Mary Boleyn and, it was rumoured, King Henry, saw it was Isabel and relief flooded her face. The other woman also relaxed. She was breathtakingly beautiful. Her dark, auburn hair was uncovered and glinted a lustrous red in the firelight. She had pearly white skin and a heart-shaped face, highlighted by wide, brown eyes. When she stood to greet Isabel and Catherine, she was surprisingly tall and very slender. Beside her, Catherine felt like a small, rough-bred pony next to a gleaming hunter.

  “Margaret,” said Isabel warmly, “what a surprise. Catherine, this is Her Royal Highness, Lady Margaret Douglas, King Henry’s niece.”

  Slightly flustered as to how she should respond, Catherine dropped a deep curtsey. She had heard about Margaret Douglas, the daughter of Henry’s elder sister, Margaret Tudor. Lady Carey and Margaret Douglas laughed.

  “Your royal highness…” she began.

  “It’s all right, Kitty, you don’t have to curtsey in here,” said Margaret, in a soft, melodic voice that contained the barest hint of a Scottish accent.

  “You’re kin, Kitty,” said Lady Carey, raising Catherine up. “Possibly about to be closer kin if Charles has his way.”

  “That’s not a wise thing to say,” snapped Isabel, her voice suddenly tense.

  “No one can hear us, Issy,” laughed Margaret.

  “People can always hear you!”

  “Perhaps you’re right,” sighed Margaret. “Anyway, I must away. I promised Lady Rochford I’d help her arrange her new hood before banquet this evening, and we all know how exacting she can be!”