The Catherine Howard Conspiracy

by Alexandra Walsh

  “Poor Jane,” said Isabel. “She’s always as sweet as can be to me.”

  Margaret merely raised her eyebrows, then with an expert hand, secured her own French hood and with a curtsey to the assembled ladies, swept from the room.

  “That girl,” sighed Isabel dropping into the seat Margaret had vacated. “Will she never learn? You’d think after her spate in the Tower she’d be more careful.”

  “Don’t worry about Margaret,” said Lady Carey. “She only pretends to be silly. She has one of the sharpest survival instincts of anyone at court.”

  Catherine stood in the middle of the room, agog. Only this morning she had been across the river in Lambeth, bored, lonely and eager to start life. It was hard to believe she was a party to this conversation, that she was now part of the great and glorious court of King Henry VIII.

  “She’s been in the Tower of London?” she gasped. “And survived?”

  Isabel nodded.

  “She chose unwisely in love and it upset the king, her uncle,” she said. “Although, I don’t imagine he’ll be interested in her current infatuation with our brother Charles, he’s far too lowly and unimportant.”

  “Spoken as a true elder sister,” said Lady Carey, then she turned her critical eye to Catherine. “As for you, Kitty, we must make you presentable for the feast this evening. The new queen may not have arrived yet but it is still the role of us, her maids, to entertain with our wit, charm and beauty. We’re her representatives and it’s important we create a convivial atmosphere.”

  “Will the queen be here in time for Christmas?” asked Catherine.

  “She’s travelling but the weather is treacherous, as is the journey from Cleves, so we must pray to God to deliver her safely and quickly. In the meantime, we’ll prepare for the Yuletide festivities in the usual way, which means tomorrow, Kitty, we must measure you for costumes for the Christmas Day masque, and teach you the dances.”

  Catherine grinned, excitement bubbling up inside her. Life had begun at last.

  Chapter Two

  “She’s not in the least bit ugly,” whispered Catherine to Isabel as they watched the Lady Anne of Cleves disembark from her coach. She looked a little tired, but after weeks on the road, and the terrible delays caused by harsh weather, this was unsurprising. Unconsciously, Catherine’s fingers went to the beautiful silver locket hanging around her neck. Isabel and Edward had given it to her for Christmas. A delicate pattern was engraved on the front and it was set with a perfect diamond at its centre. It was the first piece of jewellery Catherine had ever owned and she was delighted with it.

  “Of course, she isn’t,” replied Isabel. “The king can often be unkind.”

  “Careful, Issy,” hissed a low voice. “Bess Seymour’s over there. She hears everything.”

  Catherine and Isabel glanced around. Sure enough, Lady Elizabeth Seymour, younger sister of the former queen, Jane Seymour, and aunt to the heir to the throne, had moved within earshot of the Howard women. She nodded her greeting and turned her attention back to the events playing out before her.

  “Lady Cromwell looks as though there’s a bad smell under her nose,” whispered Lady Rochford, the person who had first hissed the warning to Catherine and Isabel.

  “Wouldn’t you look like that if you were married to the grandson of a brewer?” replied Isabel tartly. The two women laughed derisively.

  “I thought you said she was Lady Seymour,” whispered Catherine, confused. It was one of the things she had noticed at court; people with titles seemed to have so many different variations on their names that she lost track of who was who, let alone who was married to whom or who was secretly meeting in the dark of the grounds at night.

  “She married Gregory Cromwell not long ago,” whispered Isabel.

  “And who’s he?” asked Catherine, wanting to join in the joke but finding it hard to believe the aunt to Prince Edward, the future king, had married such a lowly man.

  Jane Boleyn, Lady Rochford, took Catherine’s hand and nodded towards the group of men greeting the queen.

  “See the tall one, quite young, good looking?” Catherine nodded; it was the man who had winked at her in the corridor on her first day at court. “That’s Gregory Cromwell, son of Sir Thomas Cromwell.”

  “The Lord Privy Seal?” gasped Catherine.

  Jane Boleyn nodded.

  “Yes, the son of the man who was instrumental in having my beloved husband George beheaded, and our dear cousin accused of so many barbarous things before she, too, had her head chopped off by her insane husband.” Jane’s voice was low and bitter.

  “Careful, Jane,” warned Isabel. “The Seymours and the Cromwells are a formidable power.”

  Catherine stared at Lady Cromwell in wide-eyed wonder. The politics of court seemed so complex and here was a living embodiment of one of the worst times in the king’s reign. It had been the moment the people around him had realised Henry was no longer the romantic, chivalric prince who had inherited the throne from his father, but that he was slowly becoming a terrifying tyrant.

  “What do you think of her dress?” asked Margaret Douglas, changing the subject.

  “It’s — er — unusual,” said Jane, trying to be polite.

  “The fabric is gorgeous,” sighed Catherine, “I’m sure we can help her with English styles, she’s obviously not aware of our fashions.”

  “You’re a sweet thing, Kitten,” said Margaret, smiling at Catherine, who blushed. She turned back to look at the queen, wondering what it would be like to wear a dress made from sumptuous cloth of gold. Would it be heavy? After all, the cloth was made from real metal strands woven with silk. She tried to imagine how it would feel, then mentally shook herself. She was delighted to be wearing velvet and satin. What right did she have to yearn after cloth of gold? Her new wardrobe, supplied by her uncle, Thomas Howard, duke of Norfolk, and her sister and her husband, still thrilled her. Never before had she had so much choice and never had her clothes been so exquisitely made.

  “Yes, Kitty, you’re right,” agreed Carey. “The fabric is beautiful but the style is extremely unflattering. We must try to persuade her into something more elegant.”

  “I suppose it must be what they wear in Cleves,” said Jane.

  “Yes, but she’s in England now,” said Margaret. “And looking like that, she’s never going to win the king round, especially after their disastrous first meeting.”

  “What happened?” asked Jane. “No one seems to know, or if they do, no one’s talking.”

  “The duchess of Suffolk told me,” said Margaret. She dropped her voice to a whisper and the Howard girls stepped closer to listen while still half-watching the gleaming parade and displays of welcome for the Lady Anne.

  “You know how obsessed the king is with the idea of chivalry and King Arthur?” she began, the others nodded. “Well, he was so in love with the Lady Anne’s portrait, he decided he’d surprise her disguised as a servant, convinced true love would intercede and she would recognise him, so their first meeting would be one of love, honour and mystery.”

  “What happened?” gasped Catherine.

  “He stormed in dressed as a servant, carrying a gift for the queen,” continued Margaret. “Then, before she’d really grasped what was going on, he grabbed her and kissed her. She was horrified. She pushed him away and began shouting at him in German, ordering he be removed. He was furious. He stalked out of the room and returned in full royal purple, festooned with jewels. She was devastated and threw herself on her knees, but the damage was done. That’s why he’s being so rude about her — no one had told her we’re all supposed to pretend he’s still the handsome young prince who inherited the throne nearly thirty-one years ago.”

  “Margaret, be careful, that’s treason,” whispered Isabel, conscious of the fact Elizabeth Seymour had edged even closer.

  Margaret glanced over and smiled winningly at Lady Cromwell.

  “Nosy old hag,” she murmured under her breath to
the others. Catherine stifled a giggle.

  “But what about the queen?” asked Catherine, who felt desperately sorry for the poor young woman.

  “She doesn’t speak English, so she didn’t really understand what was going on,” whispered Margaret. “Although, today I heard one of the rumours about their meeting confirmed.”

  “What?” asked Carey.

  “Apparently, the king’s doing everything he can to wriggle out of the marriage.”

  “No!” Catherine exclaimed, appalled. She had hoped this suggestion had merely been spiteful court gossip.

  “He summoned Thomas Cromwell this morning, told him he had to make this good; find a way out for the king. Lady Cromwell might well be looking smug at the moment, but if her father-in-law can’t find a loophole in the paperwork, Uncle Henry is going to be very, very cross indeed.”

  Catherine watched Anne as Henry, dressed in matching finery, led her from the elaborate throne where she had presided over the ceremonies. Her long, dark hair was covered in a blonde wig but underneath it was a sweet, oval face with dark eyes and delicate, pink-tinged skin. She wasn’t ugly, thought Catherine. She was pretty in a similar way to Jane Seymour, but her colouring was different. Although she was smiling, Catherine thought the new queen looked wary and guarded. She may not speak the language, but she was an educated woman and Catherine was sure she must have picked up on the undercurrents. Perhaps she, like the king, was merely playing along and hoping that someone would rescue her before it was too late.

  Isabel exchanged a glance with Katherine Willoughby, the duchess of Suffolk, who was standing to one side, ready to lead the procession, then prodded Jane and Catherine in front of her.

  “Come along, girls. It’s time for us to join the queen and be officially introduced,” she said and began organising them. Margaret Douglas, the king’s niece, led the way with Katherine Willoughby, the duchess of Suffolk. Catherine Howard moved back to stand with Lady Carey, while Jane and Isabel followed Margaret.

  “We are but lowly maids,” sighed Carey as they waited for the great ladies of the new queen’s household to go ahead of them.

  Catherine nodded, but in the midst of all the political crosscurrents, she was happy to be a lowly maid, invisible, insignificant and unimportant.

  Chapter Three

  “There, her.” The queen pointed as her maids danced. She and the king had been married for two weeks and her English was improving each day. “The fox in the pretty gown. Who is she, Sir Edward?”

  “That’s Mistress Catherine Howard. We call her Kitty,” he replied as Catherine’s red hair gleamed in the morning light. “She’s my wife’s sister.”

  There was a small amount of pride in his voice. Catherine was an excellent dancer.

  “She has hair like a fox.” The queen laughed at her own joke and Edward smiled. He had never really noticed the redness of Catherine’s hair; a hood usually covered it. But here in the queen’s chambers, it was loose while she danced and it was a deep, luxuriant auburn. “You call her Kitty, like a cat?”

  “It’s a familiar name for Catherine,” he explained. “With so many Catherines, it makes it easier to distinguish her.”

  The queen smiled. “You ask your Kitty to teach me to dance,” she said. “Maybe the king, he like it.”

  A shadow drifted across her face, which was quickly replaced by her ever-ready serene and enigmatic smile. Edward beckoned to Isabel and after a brief, whispered conversation, she bobbed a curtsey and retreated.

  “My wife will arrange for you and Kitty to dance together every afternoon so she can teach you the steps,” Edward said.

  “Good, she has pretty ways, like a fox,” sighed the queen.

  When Isabel told her about the dance classes, Catherine was appalled.

  “I can’t spend my afternoons alone with the queen!” she exclaimed.

  “Why? Do you have something better to do?” asked Margaret Douglas, looking up from the intricate embroidery she held in her hands. She smiled lewdly. “Or is it someone? Do you have a secret lover, Kitty-Kat?”

  Catherine blushed. “Of course not!” she retorted. “But I’ve never been alone with someone royal before. What if I offend her?”

  “You won’t,” said Isabel. “And anyway, you won’t be alone. Edward will be there and probably the duchess of Suffolk or the marchioness of Dorset, perhaps the duchess of Richmond.”

  Catherine went even paler. “Why not invite the Privy Seal and be done with it,” she said faintly.

  “I’ll do it if it gets me out of this wretched sewing,” interrupted Lady Carey as she bit through a piece of cotton with her neat, white teeth.

  “You go then,” said Catherine, only half joking. “I’ll do your sewing for you!”

  The others laughed, but Catherine remained apprehensive until the following afternoon when Isabel led her into the queen’s inner chamber. To her surprise and horror, the queen was alone, except for her interpreter. She had removed the long, blonde wig she often used for ceremonial and court appearances, and her dark hair hung loose around her shoulders. It curled slightly, framing her face and accentuating her deep, green eyes. She smiled shyly as Catherine curtseyed.

  “Your grace, may I present my younger sister, Mistress Catherine Howard,” said Isabel, also curtseying.

  The queen indicated for them both to rise.

  “You’re lucky to be together,” she said via her interpreter. “I miss my sisters, Sybille and Amalia. Yet, Lady Isabel, you were Lady Leigh, were you not?”

  “We are half-sisters, your grace,” Isabel explained. “We have the same mother, Jocasta Culpepper, but my father was Sir Ralph Leigh, while Catherine’s was Lord Edmund Howard.”

  The queen nodded as though she understood, but Catherine noticed her interpreter discreetly translating.

  “Ah, so this is why,” said the queen after a few moments. “I was a little confused. Did your mother teach you to dance? You are both very good.”

  Catherine looked at Isabel, who nodded for her to respond to the queen.

  “Our mother has been dead for some years now,” said Catherine. “As are both our fathers. We are orphans.”

  The queen looked startled when the interpreter explained this.

  “Then you must both be under my care, as I am mother to this realm. I will be mother to you both,” she said. It did not matter that she was younger than Isabel and only a few years older than Catherine. It was a gesture of friendship and Catherine smiled.

  “Thank you, your grace,” she said, dropping her eyes demurely.

  “And now, we dance,” said the queen. She clapped her hands and the musicians who were waiting on the gallery above, struck a chord. “What shall we learn first?”

  Anne was on her feet, eager to begin.

  “We could start with the pavane,” suggested Catherine, thinking this ceremonial dance that was rather like a procession, would give the queen the basic grounding she needed, particularly as most of the other dances used the pavane between breaks. “Then once you’ve mastered that, we can move onto the faster dances like the gavotte, the almain, the volte, the galliard, maybe the saltarello.”

  “And you know all these dances?” the queen asked, astonished.

  Catherine thought back to the nights of dancing at her step-grandmother’s house.

  “Oh yes,” she said. “I know all these and more.”

  “Then let us begin,” said Anne, indicating for Catherine to take to the floor with her. Catherine shot a nervous glance at Isabel, then joined the queen.

  Now, several weeks later, Catherine looked forward to her afternoons spent with Queen Anne. Although Anne was not a natural dancer, she was eager to learn and Catherine was a patient teacher. It amused her when, during other court duties or under the table during banquet in the Great Hall, she often noticed the queen practising her dance steps surreptitiously when she was seated, thinking no one would see her feet moving under her capacious skirts. However, despite Anne’s efforts
to win the king around, the rumours of the growing discontent of Henry with his new bride were becoming more and more pronounced.

  “Do you think they’ve consummated the marriage yet?” mused Margaret Douglas one grey morning as the queen’s ladies trooped into Mass.

  “Douglas, are you mad?” whispered Kathryn Carey.

  “No, but the rumours say she’s as much a maid now as she was the day she arrived,” Margaret replied. “If there’s no consummation, then Cromwell will have an easier time of annulling it.”

  “Cromwell doesn’t want to annul it,” Catherine murmured.

  “What?”

  “Yesterday, when I was leaving the queen’s chambers I overheard him speaking to Thomas Cranmer, the Archbishop of Canterbury,” she said. “Cromwell thinks it’s important the king has an alliance with Cleves and remains part of the Schmalkaldic League of Protestants to protect the country. Apparently, the king no longer believes this is necessary because the treaty between France and Spain has collapsed, so he can once more woo them as his allies. Not only that, Cromwell said the king had told him he wants rid of the queen no matter what the political cost.”

  Margaret and Lady Carey stared at Catherine in surprise.

  “What’s the Schmalkaldic League?” asked Lady Carey.

  “It’s a defensive alliance of Lutheran princes,” replied Catherine. “Their aim is to challenge the dominance of the Holy Roman Empire.”

  Carey and Margaret Douglas exchanged a glance of surprise.

  “You’ve become quite the politician!” said Margaret. Then her voice dropped and she said with none of her usual wryness: “Be careful though, Kitty. Getting involved in politics is a dangerous game, even discussing it can be hazardous. Why do you think I always play so dumb? Be pretty and empty-headed with all men and those women you don’t trust, but be wise with your friends and yourself.”

  Catherine looked at her in surprise but nodded, understanding the wisdom of Margaret’s words. She wished she had not boasted but it was pleasant for once to know something the others did not. It made her feel as though she really belonged at court.