“Well, Kitten?” he persisted. “You are to be queen, your words hold power. Will you allow Cromwell to torment us in this manner? Or will you act and put a stop to his machinations?”
Turning away from him, her response ringing with reluctance, Catherine spoke the words expected of her.
“No, Uncle,” she whispered. “I am not prepared to accept Cromwell’s insult.”
Charles dropped his eyes, staring at his boots, and Edward stifled a grown of despair. Her uncle, however, nodded his approval. A shiver ran down her spine and she reached into the neck of her gown, touching the locket Isabel had given her as though it were a protective talisman.
“Cromwell may think he has power, he may be able to decree that we move our dead,” the duke of Norfolk snarled, pacing the room. “He may stalk the corridors as though he is the power in this kingdom. He may have had your cousin Anne’s head, but, in revenge, I will have his.”
“Your grace, have a care!” gasped Edward. “How would you even begin to plan such an act?”
Norfolk shot Catherine a triumphant look. He had not needed her words to set this plan in motion, but she was fully aware that, should this scheme backfire on her uncle, now she had given her approval, he would not hesitate to ensure she was his scapegoat.
The fire crackled, keeping off the afternoon chill. Then, from the shadows beside the hearth, the duke of Suffolk spoke in his smooth, rich voice.
“Perhaps Catherine could ask for Cromwell’s head as a wedding present.”
Edward and Charles baulked at this unexpected pronouncement and Catherine, horrified, stumbled back into the chair behind her. Is he bewitched? she thought. She stared at Suffolk, conscious of his incredible good looks and easy charm, yet she shuddered. His smile may be that of a god but his heart beat with an evil as potent as that running through the veins of Cromwell and the king. He is as tainted by power as the rest of the court, she thought. Glancing over at her uncle, she noted that his expression had not altered. This suggestion was no surprise to Norfolk and she wondered how long the two dukes had been hatching this terrible plot.
“When are you next seeing the king, Kitty?” continued Brandon, who seemed not to have noticed the thickening silence that had followed his words.
“Tonight, after banquet,” she replied. “He has asked me to join him for cakes and wine before he retires this evening.”
“Then while you are with him, Kitty dear, you must sweetly explain to the king what Cromwell plans. Tell him he forced you out of the Lady Anne’s presence in order to threaten you, and cry about the fact you’re worried about the spirits of your ancestors,” he said. “You must pretend to be reluctant to confide in him and you must play down the fact you want anything to happen to Cromwell. Tell the king he scares you. At this stage, it will be enough.” Brandon paused as though thinking things through. “Then dance for him.”
“Your grace, are you sure this is the best solution?” asked Edward Baynton, shuddering.
“Yes,” replied Brandon. “If Kitty says dancing makes her happy, the king will encourage her, and as she twirls, he will become aroused and excited. When this happens, he’ll want to do something to make Kitty smile again. He knows he can’t bed her yet, this will frustrate him and he will take this frustration out on Cromwell who hasn’t yet had his marriage to Queen Anne annulled. After that, Norfolk, you and I must lead the king into thinking it was his decision to rid himself of Cromwell.”
Another long silence stretched between them, as deep and as black as a curse. Finally, Catherine spoke, “You wish me to dance a man to death, sir?”
Her words dropped like pebbles into a millpond, each one flowing outwards, before vanishing into the minds of the gathered men.
“Yes,” came the short, dark reply.
“I will not,” she gasped, but her words were lost to the firelight as her uncle took her hand and raised her from her seated position. He twirled her around like a doll and a cruel smile spread across his long, thin face. Catherine felt her stomach churn.
“Kitty is an excellent dancer. Show the duke how well you move, my dear.”
He stood back, smiling, as though encouraging a child to perform a party piece to impress the visiting adults. Catherine felt hot tears of humiliation rising. All her life she had been the poor but pretty relation, passed around when her dancing and dimples were required, but otherwise shoved to one side as unimportant, a burden on the rest of the family.
Her brother Charles opened his mouth to speak in her defence but the duke of Suffolk cut across him.
“Do not embarrass her, Thomas,” he said his tone clipped. “There is no need for her to dance for us like a tuppenny whore.”
Thomas Howard scowled but before he could respond, Suffolk turned from him and focused on Catherine.
“It’s a dangerous game, Kitty, but you are more than capable of persuading His Majesty that this would be beneficial to us all,” he said. “Cromwell has committed many heinous acts, not only against your family, but against many noble houses. He manipulates the king, plays with him as though he were a toy. It was Cromwell who disposed of Anne Boleyn because her influence over the king was becoming too powerful. As far as Cromwell was concerned, she had forgotten her place, so he punished her in the cruellest possible way. If he continues as Privy Seal, he could do the same to you or someone you love. Do you not see, sweet Catherine, if you are brave enough to rise against this monstrous insult, you will rid England of the worst kind of parasite. We will be free from this upstart and the country will be happier because of it. Not only that, you will have avenged your cousins Anne and George Boleyn.”
She stared at the duke, horrified at the way she was being manipulated. Her heart had been broken upon the demise of her cousin Anne. Catherine had always looked up to her and her sister Mary, thinking them sophisticated and charming, envying them their protective parents and their effortless swathe through the courts of England and France. Anne’s downfall had been a devastating blow to the young Catherine, yet she had never sought to avenge her cousin’s dreadful death.
Swallowing hard, trying to control her mounting terror, she balled her hands into fists and stared into the fire, her eyes following its hypnotic, pulsing heart. She was not worldly-wise like Anne or vivacious like Mary, she was the child who had been left to her own devices, who had scurried through life, learning the etiquette of court as best she could from observing others. She was not equipped to seduce a man as experienced as the king, and persuade him to execute his most trusted advisor.
She turned to her uncle, the one person whom she had always thought would protect her. But his fierce expression told her she would receive no compassion or support from him. Charles was as white-faced and horrified as she imagined she must look, and Edward, his face ringed with resignation and sorrow, could only give a small, sad smile. She realised this was the most comfort she would be offered, it also confirmed that she had no choice but to succumb to the wishes of her family, whether she agreed with their plans or not. Taking a deep breath, she gave Charles Brandon a small, sharp nod.
“Good, then that is settled,” he said. “Tonight, after banquet, dance for Henry and ask for Cromwell’s head.” He bowed to Catherine, who bobbed a curtsey. “You are doing the country a great service,” he said, then swept from the room, leaving Catherine to gulp back her sobs.
Chapter Seven
The sky was black. They were in the dark of the moon. The witches’ moon, thought Catherine. Will I be met by witch-light this evening after I dance a man to his death? She shuddered, desperate to write her feelings down, to try and resolve them by committing them to paper as she had done all her life, but she feared their discovery.
“Oh, Kitten, you look beautiful,” said Isabel. Catherine forced a smile to her lips, bringing her attention back to her sister.
Isabel, Kathryn Carey and Jane Rochford had stepped away from their final titivations of Catherine’s hair and dress and were now admiring their handiwork
. Isabel hugged her tightly.
“You look beautiful, Kitten,” she sighed. “If only our mother could see you now, see that her daughter is going to be queen.”
Catherine smiled and allowed Isabel to propel her forward to the expensive Venetian looking glass Henry had given her as a gift.
“Oh, my word,” she exclaimed when she saw her reflection. “You are witches to have transformed me so.”
The women all instinctively placed their thumbs through their fingers to make the symbol of the cross, the sign to protect them against evil wishing and witchcraft.
“Take that back, Kitty,” snapped Kathryn Carey. “You should never say such things, even as a joke.”
“I’m sorry. I take it back,” she murmured, still stunned by her appearance.
“Spit on the fire,” insisted Jane Rochford. “It stops the curse.”
Catherine did as she was asked.
“How have you transformed me?” she said, smiling, trying to lighten the mood her ill-advised comment had soured.
She could hardly take her eyes off her image. The new Tudor-green dress — another gift from the king — suited her pale colouring and, now it had been loosened slightly to reveal glimpses of the deep cream linen underneath. Her skin glowed a rosy pink. She had added the decorative embroidery herself using thread that shone when it caught the light, so the underdress seemed to have been woven from moonbeams.
Her hair had been let down, a sign of her virginity, and brushed until it shone. Isabel had then rubbed it with red silk to bring out the highlights. Her eyes had been dabbed with kohl to make them appear bigger and her lips stained with a tint made by Isabel from flower petals. Delicate perfumed oils had been applied to her skin, so she smelled mysterious and irresistible.
“Thank you,” she whispered to her friends and her sister. “You’ve made me beautiful.”
“Sweet, Kitten, you’ve always been beautiful,” said Isabel, hugging her in a maternal way.
A knock at the door interrupted them. It was Charles Howard.
“The king’s waiting,” he said. “I’m to accompany you and so is Jane.”
“Jane?” said Kathryn Carey. “Why?”
Charles shrugged. “Uncle Norfolk’s orders. He said you had things to explain to Kitty and me before we arrived at the King’s chambers.”
Isabel took Catherine’s hand and spoke. “Kitty, remember Charles will be outside the door if you need him. Just call his name and no matter what the king says, do not bed him tonight.”
“You have my word,” said Catherine, shuddering at the very thought. Then, taking a deep breath, she smiled at Isabel and Lady Carey, before following Jane and Charles from the room.
As the door shut on her sister and cousin, she heard Isabel whisper, “May God help her this night,” and Kathryn Carey stifled a sob.
Catherine, however, was no longer scared; like a soldier going into battle she had prayed to her saints and asked for help to do what was righteous and good. This had offered her solace and resolve: her dress was now her armour, her hair was her shield and her face was her weapon. Tonight, she would fight to protect those she loved from a terrifying enemy, whether this was Cromwell, the king or her uncle, she was unsure.
Charles took her arm and she allowed herself to be led along the corridor towards the king’s private chambers. The three of them walked in silence, until Jane beckoned them into a small alcove.
“Charles will not be the only person waiting outside the door this evening,” she whispered. “My betrothed, Thomas Culpepper, an honoured member of Henry’s privy chamber, will also be waiting in case the king has need of help.”
Catherine was startled by news of Jane’s betrothal. Thomas Culpepper was a distant cousin on her mother’s side, and held an important position in Henry’s household. At one point, it had been mooted that he might be a suitable match for Catherine herself but the suggestion had been put aside. Now Catherine understood why: he had become involved with Jane instead. Despite the fear in her heart, she was momentarily distracted by Jane’s news and sent a quick prayer that, this time, Jane would finally find the happiness she so deserved.
“What help might the king need?” Charles asked warily.
Jane hesitated then, clearly agitated, said in a low voice: “He sometimes has fits of melancholy. If he seems to change suddenly, as though he no longer recognises you, then you must excuse yourself. Call for Charles immediately. If this isn’t possible, if you need to find a more subtle way of absenting yourself, call Thomas, requesting small ale. This will be the signal that something is amiss and he will come to your aid.”
Catherine and Charles exchanged an apprehensive look.
“Very well, Jane,” said Catherine, her newfound confidence dented, “but let us hope it doesn’t come to that.”
“Dear God, Kitty, let us hope it doesn’t,” agreed Jane fervently.
They stepped once more into the corridor and sooner than Catherine expected, they arrived outside the impressive oak doors that led to Henry’s inner sanctum. The herald, rather than announcing them, slipped discreetly inside, before beckoning for the three of them to follow. Jane hovered in the antechamber, nodding to Thomas Culpepper. Charles took Catherine by the hand and led her through to Henry’s private rooms.
The king was sitting by the fire, his finery from the evening removed. He was now dressed in a loose white chemise with an ornately decorated red and golden robe over it. On his head was a silk hat with an extravagant tassel, but his magnificent jewels were gone. He looked old, tired and bloated. His greyhounds, stretched out beside him on their soft cushions, were dozing. One raised a head as Catherine and Charles entered, the other thumped its tail, but neither roused themselves.
Charles hugged Catherine, then backed silently from the room.
As the door clicked shut behind him, Henry, without looking up from his contemplation of the fire, stretched out a hand to Catherine. Swallowing her revulsion at the overwhelming stench of rotten meat emanating from the king’s ulcerated leg, she took his hand and allowed him to lead her around until she was standing in front of him, their knees touching. She was so small she was barely taller than the seated king. His raddled face was level with her chest and, to her horror, Henry leant forward, resting his head on her spilling cleavage.
“I had hoped,” he sighed, “you’d have removed your finery and be dressed in a less formal manner, as I am myself.”
Catherine hesitated, unsure what to do. Henry seemed to be trying to burrow further into her breasts. His touch made her feel sick. “There will be time enough, my lord, for you to see me without my formal attire when we are married,” she whispered in a strangled voice.
“Is that all you want from me? A marriage vow?” His voice was low, almost a growl as he looked up and his rheumy brown eyes locked with the clear crystal blue of her own.
“No, my lord, I want nothing except to make you happy.”
“You wish only to make me happy?” he snorted derisively. “No one ever wishes to make me happy, they always want something from me.”
Catherine forced a smile to her lips and, steeling herself, she ran a soft finger down his cheek, as though he were the most desirable man in the world.
“Yes, my lord, you need someone to cherish you, to care for you, to soothe away the troubles of kingship and keep you happy.”
“And you will do this?”
“If you will allow me.”
“And you will give me sons?”
“Yes, my lord, I will give you healthy sons.”
The king smiled: “You will make the Tudor line secure, we will make my father proud.”
Catherine nodded.
“This is good, this is good, my sweetheart,” he whispered, closing his eyes for a moment. Then his tone changed and he sounded excited, “Will you dance for me? As you danced for me at your uncle’s banquet the night we first met?”
“We have no musicians,” she replied.
“Do you nee
d music? Can you not dance to the rhythm of your heart?”
For a moment, Catherine’s confidence fled. The king was a grown man; she was little more than a child and she was out of her depth. As she hesitated, the king began to clap, slowly and rhythmically, stamping his foot to add to the sensuous, pulsating beat he was creating.
“Dance, little Catherine,” he said. “Dance for me, then I will make your dreams come true.”
Catherine swallowed hard, fighting back the tears. Think what my cousin Anne Boleyn would have done, she ordered herself. She would have danced, then she would have destroyed the enemy of her family. Trying hard to emulate her sophisticated cousin, Catherine took a few steps away from the king and raised her arms.
“My dreams?” she whispered. “What do you know of my dreams, sire?”
She concentrated on the compulsive beat the king was creating, then allowed herself to move. It was primitive, yet irresistible. She swayed her hips; the king altered the speed of his clapping, faster, faster. Catherine whirled, her hair flying. She moved closer to the king, her lips parted, her skin flushed, her mass of red curls tumbling over her shoulders.
“What do you know of my dreams, sire?” she whispered as she spun. “Do you know what I dream?”
The king, still clapping like an automaton, was mesmerised.
“What do you dream?” he gasped, trying to grab her as she whirled past him. “Do you dream of me?”
“Oh yes, your majesty, I dream of you. I dream of us, together…” She allowed her hair to whip within touching distant. “And I dream of our sons, strong sons…”
“What else? What else crowds your heart?”
“Fear!”
“Fear?” he replied, confused, once more altering the beat, slowing it down so she moved more slowly, swaying in front of him, her eyes bright, her cheeks flushed. “What do you fear, my sweetheart?”
The Catherine Howard Conspiracy Page 12
