The Catherine Howard Conspiracy

by Alexandra Walsh

  “Cromwell,” she whispered, as though terrified of the very name.

  “Thomas Cromwell?” confirmed the king, and she nodded. He stopped clapping. “What has he said to you?”

  “He threatened me and he laughed at you,” she said, her voice reluctant.

  The king’s tiny eyes narrowed. “Laughed?” he roared. She nodded. “Would you like Cromwell’s head on a platter?”

  Bewildered, Catherine nodded again, managing a nervous smile. The king laughed. He hauled himself to his feet. Catching Catherine in a surprisingly strong grip, he clamped his lips on hers, his tongue forcing its way into her mouth.

  “You are perfection itself,” he gasped, his hands roving over her body. “You can have Cromwell’s head as a wedding present, my little temptress, and then you will dance naked for me and I will sow my seed inside you, again and again and again…”

  He broke away from her, grinning like a schoolboy.

  “I had news today that my marriage to the Flanders’ Mare will soon be over, then we can bounce together in our marriage bed.”

  “Anne was manipulated as you were, she is a vulnerable girl, ripped from her home and forced across the ocean to marry you, a perfect prince, but she was unhappy and homesick.”

  “But who would force a lady to do this?” asked Henry, completely ignoring the fact it had been on his orders she had travelled to England.

  “Why, Thomas Cromwell, of course,” said Catherine. “The Privy Seal. He wanted a Protestant alliance, not for your sake, but for his.”

  “You are not the first to suggest this to me,” murmured Henry, returning to his seat by the fire and reaching to pull Catherine onto his lap. She allowed herself to be drawn forward and, gritting her teeth, settled herself. Henry groaned, her bosom was level with his face. “He took advantage of the queen, he manipulated her for his own ends, as he manipulates you. I have heard him boast that he is the true king of England, that you are his lap dog.”

  “He said what?”

  “He scoffs that you are his pet, you do as he says and he is the power behind your throne,” she whispered. “I don’t believe him, you are a king of kings, a giant among men, yet he belittles you and, in doing so, he uses me too.”

  “How does he use you?”

  “He threatened me,” she whispered. “And worse, he has destroyed the ancient graves of my family.”

  She shifted, trying to make herself more comfortable and as she did, her gown fell forward. Henry groaned as he caught a glimpse of her pale, pink nipples. Self-consciously, she covered herself again but he stayed her hand.

  “Let me see you, little Catherine. I have been so unhappy, let me see you.”

  He slid his hands across her shoulders, loosening her dress so it fell to her waist. He sighed heavily and, to her surprise, Catherine felt movement in his lap. So he wasn’t impotent as the cruel gossips in the court suggested, she thought. She was surprised at the gentleness of his hands as he cupped her breasts, taking their unexpected heaviness in his palms.

  “You are ripe, Mistress Howard, ready to be plucked.”

  Catherine braced herself as he lowered his head and took one pink nipple in his mouth, running his tongue over it until, to her disgust, she felt it hardening. He moved to the other as she sat rigid, revolted by the slurping noises coming from the king. Henry pulled her forward and buried his head in her breasts.

  “I want to take you now,” he whispered. Then, like a child wanting a treat, his voice took on a strange timbre. “Give me a son.”

  “But my lord, he would be illegitimate, and you know this would make it impossible for him to be king.”

  “Alas, you speak wisely,” he sighed. “Even if these are not the words of desire I had hoped you would whisper.”

  With swift, neat movements, he pulled her dress over her shoulders and tied it demurely.

  “Let us speak of other things,” he said, smiling, taking her hand and kissing her fingers, one after the other. “Your words about Cromwell have not gone unheeded. He is my most trusted advisor, but he is becoming troublesome. You are not the only one he has threatened but there must be solid proof against him. My Privy Council is chasing down this necessary evidence and, if it proves true, Cromwell will learn it is not he, but I, who rules this realm.”

  He took her hand and indicated for her to stand, then twirled her around before standing himself. As he did, his chemise parted to reveal he was wearing nothing underneath. Catherine averted her eyes. She had never seen a grown man naked before, but it was the suppurating wound on his leg that caught her eye. She gulped and the king glanced down to see himself revealed to her.

  “Do you like what you see, little Catherine?” he asked, pulling his chemise wider apart.

  “My lord, you are a handsome man,” she said, unsure whether to call for Charles.

  The king stared at her for a few moments, then his expression changed, his face contorted as though in pain and he no longer seemed to recognise her.

  “Would you like to touch me?” he snarled. “Run your hands over my naked body?” He grasped her wrist so she could not back away. “Under all your innocence, you’re no better than a whore,” he hissed, his face a twisted, grotesque mask of rage. “You Howard girls are all sluts in the bedroom, bouncing on me, endlessly sucking me dry, expecting me to fill you with my seed, but none of you ever gave me a son. Well, maybe one of you did, but daughters, daughters, women everywhere, grasping at me, taking from me. You expect me to believe you’re different, that you want only to make me happy, that you want nothing for yourself. You’re a liar, like they were liars.”

  The king gripped her other hand and pulled her towards him, his tongue lolling from the side of his mouth as he made jutting movements to try to kiss her. His eyes bulged and he roared in fury, throwing her violently to the floor, standing over her, his lips drawn back from his rotting teeth in a silent sneer. The door to the antechamber was flung open and Thomas Culpepper ran in, Jane Boleyn, pale-faced and frightened behind him.

  “Catherine, go with Jane and wait outside,” Thomas commanded. “Do not leave until we have spoken.”

  Jane grabbed Catherine by the hand and, helping her to her feet, dragged her from the room.

  “But the king?” protested Catherine. “We must help.”

  “There’s nothing you can do while he has one of these fits,” said Jane, pulling Catherine into the antechamber and slamming the door. Catherine listened to the king bellowing.

  “What’s wrong with him, Jane?” gasped Catherine.

  “He has these moments. When he is recovered, he remembers very little,” Jane said in a quiet voice, efficiently re-lacing Catherine’s bodice and tidying her hair. “Thomas says it is an illness. It comes and goes. I suggested it was from the poison in his leg, but Thomas says he thinks not as these attacks have happened for longer than the king has had the wound.”

  The shouting from the king’s chamber had lessened and after a while, Thomas appeared.

  “He’s asleep,” he said. “Did he hurt you, Catherine?”

  “No, but he changed from being melancholic to furious. I thought he was going to force himself upon me,” she said, the shock of Henry’s sudden rage making her tremble.

  “He would have tried, but when he is like that, thankfully, he is usually impotent or…” Thomas did not finish the sentence but merely shuddered.

  “But what ails him?” asked Catherine.

  “Life, illness, age, the madness of the Tudors,” sighed Thomas. “The important thing is not to let anyone know.”

  “Why?”

  “Use your head, Kitty,” snapped Jane. “Imagine what would happen if people knew the king was mad? The wars would begin all over again. The Seymours would try to put their brat on the throne, the Spanish would invade, who knows which pretenders would emerge claiming they had a right to the throne of England. We would be plunged into civil war again. Do you want the Seymours to claim power?”

  “No, but I do
n’t want to marry a madman either,” retorted Catherine.

  “These bouts are infrequent,” said Thomas. “You will be safe, but there is a risk he may not be able to perform his husbandly duty.”

  “And what will happen if there is no heir?”

  “If he continues like this, there may not be a king,” he replied. “Then his son, Edward, will be on the throne and we will have to protect ourselves from the Seymours. What has happened here this evening is known only to a trusted few and, for now, this is the way it should remain.”

  “Will the king remember what happened?”

  “He might have snatches of it, but no,” said Thomas. “Mostly, he has no recollection. When he asks me what happened this evening, I will say you were charming and you drank spiced wine, then you demurely left and he gave you this.”

  Thomas handed her a jewelled brooch in the shape of an arrow.

  “Cupid’s arrow,” said Catherine.

  They stared at it, then Jane spoke. “Come, Catherine, let us call Charles and get you to your rooms.”

  Catherine allowed herself to be led away, shocked by what she had discovered in the king’s chamber, wondering how any of them would survive.

  Chapter Eight

  The king is mad. I am marrying a madman.

  Catherine stared at the river, watching it flow ever onwards towards the sea, to magical, mystical places, lands that were not ruled by Henry and his insanity.

  Perhaps this is why he killed cousin Anne, she thought. A fit of madness overcame him and he destroyed the woman he had once adored above all others, even risking his soul by breaking with the Catholic Church to marry her. He probably would have done the same to Jane Seymour if she hadn’t conveniently died in childbirth. He could kill me. He could kill the queen, although her Germanic royal blood will probably keep her safe as old Queen Katherine’s Spanish royal blood saved her from the horror and humiliation of the axe…

  She pushed her frantic thoughts aside as she watched a merchant ship sailing by, its colours high, proclaiming loyalty to king and country as it headed out on an adventure. Should she flee? Board a ship and disappear abroad? Surely her family had connections elsewhere, somewhere they could hide her, keep her safe. They could tell the king she had died…

  Catherine heard footsteps and saw the queen, accompanied by her translator and the duchess of Suffolk, Katherine Willoughby, approaching her.

  “Good morning, my dear Kitty,” said Anne, her face full of concern.

  Catherine knew her red eyes gave away her misery. She was still horrified by the events of the previous night and she wondered if Anne had witnessed similar scenes. To her horror, as Anne gazed at her sympathetically, Catherine found the tears she had been struggling to keep at bay, welling up. The queen took her hand, then spoke softly in German to her translator before turning to the duchess of Suffolk.

  “Your grace, would you accompany Brunhilde to my rooms to fetch my shawl, there is a chilly breeze. Catherine and I will wait in the shelter of the arbour,” she said. A look of irritation flashed across Katherine Willoughby’s face, but she did not question the queen. Anne took Catherine’s arm and they walked to a secluded seat near the water’s edge.

  “We will not be disturbed here,” she said, sitting on the stone bench and beckoning Catherine to join her.

  “You were summoned to see the king last night,” said Anne, her voice low, urgent. It was not a question, it was a statement. Catherine nodded. “You witnessed it then? The king losing his mind?”

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  “Did he hurt you?”

  “No, but only because Thomas Culpepper rescued me.”

  “He is a good man, he came to my aid the first time the king had one of his fits too.”

  “Oh, my lady, did he hurt you?”

  “No, he usually collapsed before he could do me any damage,” she replied. “Oh, Kitten, these men who control our lives have no idea of the horrors they put us through with their scheming and plotting.”

  The two women contemplated each other’s misery. Both had been thrust into the path of the king by their ambitious male relatives. Both knew they were dispensable in the face of family aggrandisement.

  “Has there been any word on the annulment?” asked Catherine.

  “Thomas Cranmer, the Archbishop of Canterbury, has spoken to me of it,” Anne sighed. “He claims I had a prior betrothal which was never legally dissolved, so the king and I are not really married.”

  She turned her face away so Catherine would not see her blinking back her tears. Although she knew it was against every form of court etiquette, Catherine squeezed the queen’s hand. Anne clung to her as though her life depended upon it. Then, regaining her composure, she gave a watery smile.

  “Will you return to Cleves?” asked Catherine.

  “I’d prefer to stay here and try to retain some level of status, rather than facing the humiliation and disgrace of once more placing myself in my brother’s court and under his care,” she said. Then, looking at Catherine, tears brimming, she continued. “I know what the king has said about me — that I am ugly, a horse, my body is not that of a maid — would you wish to go home and have to explain why you are no longer a queen? That a man as ugly and evil as Satan has rejected you because you are not pretty enough? I would rather stay here where my humiliation is my own. At least here I have made some friends. Well, I think — I hope — I have.”

  “You have!” exclaimed Catherine, burning with rage and shame for the queen. “I’m your friend, so is Isabel. My influence is small, but I’ll do all I can to ensure you’re treated with dignity.”

  “We’re the only two women alive who know what it’s like to be married to the king and the dangers this brings. If you ever need me, I’ll do all I can to help you. I still have influence outside the country and, should we need them, powerful allies at my brother’s court. He and I may not be close, and I don’t want to go home, but I know he would defend me.”

  She glanced around to check they were still alone, then drew a small, blue velvet pouch from a pocket hidden in the lining of her sleeve. After fumbling with the knot that secured the top, she pulled something out and handed it to Catherine. It was a ruby ring. The stone was oval shaped and had a subtle dark red hue. This was set in a delicately wrought filigree gold cage and attached to a golden band encrusted with tiny diamonds.

  “Look,” said Anne, opening her own hand, “I have one too! The only difference is that mine has an emerald on the hidden clip and yours has a sapphire.”

  “A hidden clip?”

  “Watch,” she instructed, flipping the ring over to reveal the gold base of the filigree cage. “There is a small clip here, slide it backwards and…”

  Catherine’s eyes were wide with wonder. If Anne had not pointed it out, she would never have noticed it. The tiny mechanism had been designed to blend into the camouflage of the delicate filigree cage, but now Anne had slid it forward, releasing it. The entire cage opened to reveal a cavity within.

  “Because the rings are identical, no one will notice if we swap them over,” whispered Anne excitedly. “We can pass notes to each other, to help each other, to impart news and warn each other of danger. It is clever, yes?”

  “Very clever!” exclaimed Catherine, overwhelmed that Anne had gone to such trouble to forge a link between them. “Did you think of this, your grace?”

  “Yes, my sisters and I had similar rings when we were growing up,” she said. “Keep yours safe, Kitty, and use it if ever you need to get a message to me. If it comes with the ring, I’ll know it’s from you and you will always know if any message sent in my name is really from me.”

  “Oh, Anne, thank you,” said Catherine slipping the ring on the middle finger of her right hand. Then, forgetting herself entirely, she hugged the queen. Anne was delighted and returned the embrace.

  There was a discreet cough and the two women looked up to see Brunhilde holding Anne’s shawl, accompanied by Isabel
and Margaret Douglas.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt, your grace,” said Isabel curtseying, “but the king approaches.”

  Anne said something in German, then rose, straightening her skirts.

  “If you will excuse us, ladies,” she said in her soft, accented voice and, with Brunhilde behind her, she swept away.

  “Unfortunately, Kitty, you have to face him,” said Isabel. Catherine nodded and stood patiently while Margaret fussed around her, straightening her French hood, smoothing out her dress.

  “Kitty, how did you get brambles in the hem of your skirt!” she exclaimed. “You’re supposed to be practising to be a queen, not hiding in the undergrowth!”

  Despite herself, Catherine laughed.

  “Oh, Margaret, you who comes back with straw in your hair…”

  “Once,” retorted Margaret, “that happened once!”

  Her eyes twinkled, then she stepped back.

  “Very pretty, Mistress Howard.”

  “Now, Kitten, let’s walk along the path and accidentally bump into the king,” said Isabel. Catherine allowed her sister to lead her forward. Margaret, she noticed, quickly melted away into the shadows. She and Isabel had only taken a few steps when coming down the lime walk towards them, was Henry.

  The king was accompanied by her uncle, the duke of Norfolk, Isabel’s husband, Edward Baynton, Charles Brandon, the duke of Suffolk, and Edward Seymour, the earl of Hertford, the king’s former brother-in-law and uncle of the heir apparent, the young Prince Edward. A short distance behind them walked Thomas Culpepper. Before Catherine could think or even allow her fear to take hold again, the king had seen her. He shook off the other men and, grinning like a love-struck schoolboy, hurried towards her. Both she and Isabel dropped to the floor in deep curtseys.

  “My dearest Catherine,” he said, beaming, raising her to standing. “What a pleasure it is to see you on this bright morning. You, too, my Lady Baynton. Rise, rise, my dears and come walk with me awhile.”