Horrified, she turned away. I am a prize sow, she thought. My feelings, my desires, matter for nothing. To her relief, Elizabeth appeared at her elbow holding an elaborately jewelled book.
“My lady mother,” she said and curtseyed, “would you like me to tutor you in Greek this evening?”
“Unfortunately, we won’t have time today, Elizabeth. Soon, we all have to go into the Great Chamber for a masque and revels.”
“Very well,” said the child, failing to conceal her disappointment, “perhaps tomorrow, if my lady mother has the time.”
“Certainly tomorrow,” promised Catherine. Her own education had been patchy and when Elizabeth had offered to teach her basic Greek, as well as brushing up her Latin, Catherine had seen it not only as an opportunity to boost her limited knowledge, but also as a way to spend time with her new stepdaughter, the daughter of her cousin, Anne Boleyn. The two had begun to form a strong bond. Catherine had promised Anne of Cleves she would continue her work in trying to bring Henry’s children together as a family and with Elizabeth, she felt she had made a start.
“Is that your book, Elizabeth?” interrupted the duke, holding out his hand.
“No, sir,” she replied with another bob of deference before placing it in his outstretched palm. “This belongs to my lady mother.”
Throwing Catherine a curious glance, he opened the ornate cover and perused the pages inside. “Where did you get this? A book of blank parchment?”
“Henry gave it to me when I told him Elizabeth was teaching me Greek and Latin. He was highly amused but he commissioned the book as a present. It’s for me to practise my letters and improve my handwriting.”
The duke perused the pages. “Not only your studies. Did you draw these?” he pointed to two sketches, one of Isabel, the other of Margaret Douglas. Catherine nodded. “They’re remarkably good, Kitten, and these images of birds and the patterns? Are these mermaids?”
“They’re designs for embroidery,” replied Catherine, wondering why she was being made to explain herself. “I draw them here first, then sketch the designs onto the cloth.”
“Mermaids?” the duke snorted derisively as he continued to turn the pages.
Catherine blushed.
“And why have some pages been cut out?” He spoke across her as though her words were unimportant, his gimlet eyes suddenly furious as they bored into hers. “Have you been sending messages?”
Forcing a scornful laugh, Catherine shook her head. “I have merely removed pages where I haven’t been happy with the content, mistakes in my Greek and Latin, or if they are designs. I have passed them to my ladies so they may interpret my thoughts. Look on the table, there is a new design being worked and the pattern comes from a page in this book. You may compare the two if you don’t believe me, Uncle.”
Rising, the duke strode over to the long table at the back of the room where Isabel was sorting the piles of linen the women used to make shirts, all of which were exquisitely embroidered. Catherine watched as Isabel produced a piece of parchment and gave it to the duke, who opened the book and studied the two documents. Elizabeth moved closer to Catherine and slid her small white hand into her stepmother’s.
“I’m sorry, Lady Mother,” she whispered, her bright brown eyes fraught with anxiety. “Have I made the duke angry?”
“No, child, you’ve done nothing wrong,” she reassured her.
Moments later, the duke returned and handed the jewelled book to Elizabeth.
“I’m glad to see you’re being enterprising, my dear,” he said. “Now, I must return to the king. I will see you later at the masque.”
He nodded then turned on his heel and left. Elizabeth trotted back to Kathryn Knollys. Moments later, Isabel slid into the seat the duke had so recently vacated.
“Well done, Kitten, you’ve learned to lie with the best of us,” she said. “He’d be furious if he knew you were writing to the Lady Cleves.”
Catherine smiled wanly. “He’d be even more furious if he knew I was writing a diary and hiding the pages in the lining of my hoods,” she murmured.
Chapter Thirteen
Hurrying into her inner chamber, Catherine made straight for the roaring fire. Her cheeks were rosy, flecks of snow speckled her hood and cloak but, most unusually, she was laughing. She and her ladies had spent the morning riding through the glittering countryside on their journey back to the capital. For a few hours, she had felt free and she wanted to cherish the cheerfulness of the day.
“It’s wonderful to be back at Whitehall,” she sighed as she warmed her hands.
Isabel, who had followed her in, took Catherine’s fur-lined cloak and shook it out, spreading it over a nearby chair to dry.
“A relief, indeed,” smiled Isabel. “I’m thankful we’ll be remaining here for Christmas and New Year after all the travelling of the past few months.”
“Windsor, Reading, Ewelm, Rycott, Notley, Buckingham, Grafton, Ampthill and The Moor in Hertfordshire; did I forget anywhere, Issy?”
“No, Kitten, that was all of them. Now, no more progresses until next summer.”
Catherine flopped into the chair nearest the fire, pulled her skirts over her soft leather boots and held her feet up to warm by the flames. She had enjoyed the tour they had taken around the country, staying in elegant houses, meeting new people. However, in her heart, the real reason she had enjoyed the progress was because it had tired the king so much that he had rarely called for her to join him at night and when he had, he had mostly wanted her to be there so he could sleep. He had barely touched her and she could feel nothing but relief. Although, over the past few days, a rumour had reached her and she wondered if her life was about to take another turn.
“Do you think the gossip is true?” she mused, her eyes slightly unfocused as she watched the roaring fire.
“Certainly not. The king can hardly keep his eyes off you. Do you honestly think he’s likely to return to Lady Cleves?”
“No,” she murmured. “I suppose it’s the Seymour faction again, trying to cause discontent. Anyway, I wouldn’t wish that terrible fate on poor sweet Anne. She escaped from him once, what sort of a friend would I be if I threw him back to her?”
Isabel was suddenly crouched by Catherine’s side, looking up at her aghast.
“Never, ever say things like that out loud,” she whispered. “Even when it’s only us in the room, you don’t know who might be listening.”
Catherine looked down at her sister, shocked to see her ashen face. “No one is listening. We’re the only people in my rooms, everyone else is busy organising the baggage and furniture.”
“Be careful, sweet girl, Edward is afraid the Seymours have spies in your chambers.”
“We know there are spies,” she laughed. “There are people everywhere, listening and reporting to either Henry or one of our many enemies. Why do you think my husband is so suspicious of his court? This is the reason he insists on his giant golden lock being taken wherever he stays, and attached to his door so no one can creep into his chamber at night and murder him in his bed. Issy, I’ve learned to ignore it. My aim is always to remain above the gossip and by refusing to acknowledge it, perhaps I can prevent it from tarnishing my marriage and hurting the people I love.” She squeezed Isabel’s shoulder. “Please don’t worry. Now, where is Edward? There is business I must attend to immediately.”
A few moments later, Isabel’s husband Edward bustled into the room, followed by Thomas Culpepper and Jane Boleyn who had recently and secretly wed. Although they held hands, there was concern on Thomas’s face.
“Catherine, we must speak to you of the people you will intercede on behalf of this evening when you attend the king,” said Edward.
“Are there many?” she replied. The months since her marriage had seen Catherine develop a desire to do her best as a consort. With Edward Baynton’s help, she had learned to act as a patron and was slowly beginning to understand more about finances and estate management. Her interce
ssions on behalf of pages and courtiers were regarded as part of her courtly duty and, as Henry was so besotted, when she asked a favour for someone, she was usually successful.
“No, but one of them is extremely important,” said Culpepper. It was the seriousness of his tone that unnerved Catherine.
“What’s happened?” she asked, immediately fearful for the safety of the people she loved.
“It relates to something that happened before you were queen,” said Thomas. He glanced at the door and Jane hurried to close it, cutting out the hustle and bustle of the outer chambers. “Do you remember when you used to give Queen Anne dancing lessons in the Long Gallery?”
“Of course, we both used to enjoy them immensely.”
“Well, so did the king,” said Thomas looking faintly repulsed. “There’s a secret room above the gallery where the king would sit and watch. It was how he first became aware of you and when he fell in love.”
Catherine felt sick. Henry had spied on them. In those precious hours when they were as carefree as girls, he had watched and leered as they giggled and danced. The happy memories were suddenly tainted by his subterfuge.
“What has this to do with anything now?” she asked, disgusted but bemused.
“One night, after he had seen you dance, he asked me to…” Thomas paused.
“Please continue, we won’t be shocked,” said Catherine already prepared for the worst.
“He sent me to find a girl who looked like you,” said Thomas, not meeting Catherine’s eyes. “He wanted a prostitute but it was an impossible task. Then I met a girl called Maud. She was only fourteen but she was excited to meet the king.” Thomas stopped as though he could not continue. Jane squeezed his hand and, with great effort, he began to speak again, his voice barely audible over the crackling fire. “Henry raped her, then beat her to death. Her murder has been on my conscience ever since.”
Isabel gasped and reached out for Edward, who caught her as she staggered. Jane dropped her head, although she was less shocked — it was clear that she and Thomas had discussed the matter. Catherine felt bile welling up in her throat. Horror coursed through her.
“Kitten, we’re so sorry to tell you this but it’s important,” Jane continued, relieving her husband of the burden of his terrible confession. “Her mother, Helen Page, is on trial for felony. After Maud was killed, Helen became unwell and stopped working as a seamstress. Her husband, Maud’s father, tried to keep her in the house but she escaped one day and stole some linen. When she was arrested, she demanded to see the king, she demanded justice for her daughter. Please, Kitten, if you can help her, Thomas has arranged for Helen and her husband to be sent to one of his family’s estates where they’ll be cared for and kept safe. They’ve already lost their daughter.”
Catherine rose and stood by the fire, staring into its dark shadowy heart. Each morning when she awoke, she promised herself she would try to do a good deed, as a small way to compensate for the fear and brutality her husband spread. In the few months she had been queen, she hoped she had made some difference. This, however, was the most shocking thing she had yet heard. A girl had been murdered because of her; another death on her conscience. Worse, she had known nothing about it until now.
“Of course,” she said, her voice hoarse. “Of course I will. Edward, when Helen is freed, arrange for her family to be well compensated for their loss. It won’t bring their daughter back but it will help to keep them safe. Thomas, have them taken to one of your properties for now but in time, she and her husband will go to one of my estates. I will take care of Maud’s parents.”
With her back still turned, Catherine dismissed them, explaining that she craved some peace. As the door clicked shut, she sank to the floor and tears streamed down her face. She grieved for the unknown girl, Maud, for the discarded and humiliated Anne of Cleves and out of fear for herself and what her future might hold.
Each day it gets worse, she thought. When will this torment end?
“Her grace, Queen Catherine,” announced the herald.
Holding her head high, Catherine swept into the Great Chamber at Whitehall and approached the king. Reaching the dais where he sat on his ornate, golden throne beneath his glittering cloth of state, she sank to the floor, her head bowed. Gazing down at her, Henry licked his lips as though she were a particularly enticing piece of marchpane that he could not wait to devour.
“Your Majesty, I come to beg your favour for innocents,” she said, her voice clear and bell-like in the silent court.
“Whom do you wish me to pardon?” he asked, leering down at her prone figure. The lives of those he forgave meant nothing to the king; his enjoyment came from being seen as merciful and Christ-like and, for the chance to indulge in some of the ancient pageantry that he believed reinforced his historic and legitimate right to the throne of England.
“Sir John Wallop, who has been charged with treason but begs forgiveness for his foolishness and pledges his heart and soul to Your Majesty,” she said.
“He has been reckless, but for you, sweetheart, he is pardoned.”
Catherine smiled. “And for Helen Page of Lyndesey who has been charged with felony but was unwell and did not know what she was doing when she caused offence. Her daughter had been murdered and it briefly disrupted the balance of her mind.”
“Of course, she must be pardoned. Has the murderer been brought to justice?”
Catherine hesitated, then to her relief, saw Thomas Culpepper lean forward and whisper in the king’s ear. Henry’s face became impassive, then he gave a curt nod.
“Justice has been done and as a gracious monarch, I will offer this lady compensation,” he announced, glancing around the assembled courtiers in anticipation of their rapturous cheering for his abundant goodness. He was not disappointed. When the applause and catcalls subsided, with the help of his men, he hauled himself to his feet and walked stiffly down the three steps to where Catherine was still prostrate on the floor. “Come, my sweet,” he said raising her up. “Let us eat.”
Catherine allowed Henry to lead her into the banqueting hall. At last she felt that she had done some good.
Chapter Fourteen
The king lowered himself into his enormous chair by the fire. His greyhounds, stretched out on cushions in front of the hearth, wagged their tails to show their appreciation as he threw them a handful of meaty bones. Catherine indicated to Thomas Culpepper to clear away the meal they had shared with Charles Brandon, the duke of Suffolk, then joined her husband by the fireside. After a week of storms and torrential rain, the air was cold and damp, so she was glad of the roaring flames in the king’s chambers.
“So, my dear, we are once again facing a difficult decision,” he sighed.
“And what is that, my lord?”
“Lady Pole, my mother’s cousin,” he replied. Catherine held her breath, she knew about the sixty-eight-year-old countess, Margaret Pole, formerly Margaret Plantagenet, the niece of King Richard III and a royal princess in her own right. In his continuing quest to remove anyone who might challenge his throne, Henry had executed Margaret’s sons, fearing their Plantagenet blood might be enough incitement for rebels to raise an army and challenge his kingship.
“She’s an old lady,” murmured Catherine, indicating for the pages to bring wine and cakes and place them beside the king.
“A dangerous old woman with sons whom covet my throne,” he snarled. “Her youngest son, Cardinal Pole, is still abroad spreading sedition, plotting to steal my crown. This is why I had her incarcerated without a trial, she must not be given the chance to spread more of her treasonous lies.”
Catherine knew better than to try to reason with her husband. Instead, she poured him a goblet of hot spiced wine. Henry took a long deep gulp, a small droplet of the red liquid oozed from the side of his mouth and dribbled down into his beard. Hiding her revulsion, Catherine busied herself selecting his favourite sweet treats.
“Here, my love,” she said. He hastily pu
t three in his mouth in quick succession, not bothering to wipe away the flaking pastry or scattered nuts that dropped onto his beard or onto his lap.
Returning to her own chair, Catherine watched her elderly husband in disgust, sipping daintily from her own goblet. There was silence except for Henry’s snuffling and gulping as he gorged himself on the huge platter of cakes. To distract herself, Catherine made a mental note to send more blankets, furs and good food to Margaret Pole, countess of Salisbury. Catherine had tried to plead for Lady Pole but to no avail.
“When will Cromwell be back?” grumbled Henry, clicking his fingers for the page to bring more cakes.
“My lord…?” asked Catherine, the unexpectedness of the question throwing her into confusion.
“Cromwell is abroad, sire,” came the commanding tones of the duke of Suffolk. Like many other noblemen, he was lurking on the edges of the room, unable to leave until dismissed by the king but not welcome now that Henry was settled by the fire. It was a power game and Henry enjoyed playing it.
“So you say, Charles,” growled the king, “but when will he be back?”
Catherine stared at the duke of Suffolk in horror. Cromwell was dead. Henry himself had signed the execution warrant and now he seemed to have forgotten. She looked down at her hands and saw they were shaking. Desperate to try and gain control, she took another deep gulp of her wine, then looked at Suffolk desperately.
“We’re unsure, Your Majesty,” the duke replied, his eyes fixed on Catherine, shaking his head, indicating for her to remain silent. “He was taken ill on a tour of Italy. It seems to be serious.”
“Damn him,” murmured the king. “He would know what to do. Should I behead her? That would stop her son trying to challenge me, or should I show leniency? She was my mother’s favourite cousin.”
The Catherine Howard Conspiracy Page 17
