Catherine dropped her eyes. She dared not say a word; it was only a few weeks since she had begged for clemency for her half-brother John Leigh after his association with the Pole family. To her relief, the king had laughed, claiming she could ask for anything and he would grant it, such was his love for her. John Leigh had been released and cleared of all charges the following day.
“More cakes, my sweet,” said Henry, interrupting her thoughts. “And more wine. Come, Catherine, what’s wrong with you this evening? You have been distracted since you arrived.”
“I’m so sorry, my love,” she replied, smiling demurely, before gathering more cakes and handing them to her husband. “It’s…”
She glanced over at the men still hovering in the shadows waiting to be dismissed.
“What?” snapped the king irritably, spraying crumbs down his front. Catherine gagged.
“It’s a delicate matter, sire,” she whispered as she refilled his wine goblet. “Perhaps when we are alone.”
His eyes, already shrunken by his bloated face, narrowed further as he glared at her, then a smile of comprehension spread across his face.
“Men, you are dismissed,” he called. “Leave us for now. I’ll summon you when I wish to retire.”
With much bowing and scraping, Henry’s men melted away.
“So, little Catherine, what is it you couldn’t say before my court?” he asked, his excitement palpable.
“My lord, it’s good news. I believe I’m with child.”
Throwing himself from his chair, he roared in triumph, a bloated, braying colossus. Startled by the unexpected outburst, his greyhounds leapt up, barking wildly, adding to the din. Henry’s roar turned to laughter, his body heaving as emotion overwhelmed him.
“You are with child!” he shouted. “I am as fertile now as when I was a young man! Who would dare to challenge me?”
Catherine said nothing. She was as frightened as the shivering greyhounds that had now crept away into the shadows.
“We are alone, child, let me bed you now. I am Mars, the god of fertility, I am all powerful,” he shouted, his teeth bared.
“My ladies say it is no longer wise for me to share your bed as it may harm our child,” she stammered.
“Your ladies say that, do they?” he hissed. Nodding nervously, Catherine began to edge away from the king. “And why is that? Do they think I am incapable of mounting you? They are witches sent to make mischief!”
“No, my lord, it’s to protect the child,” she stammered.
“The child?” he sneered, picking up a riding whip from a stand by the fire. “How do I even know it’s mine, you little Howard whore?”
“Of course it’s yours,” gasped Catherine, her terrified eyes following the whip as he swished it through the air, testing its strength. “There has only ever been you, Henry.”
“Liar!” he screamed, the sharp slicing of the whip accenting each word. “Liar, liar!”
Catherine raised her arms to protect herself, stumbling as his first blow lashed her across her face, burning like fire. She screamed for help as the whip found her breasts, then her back.
“Whore!” he shouted, his face screwed up with hatred and fury, the whip lashing her again and again until she collapsed, sobbing, begging for mercy on the floor. “WHORE!”
Outside she heard running feet but her last image was of her husband’s foot flying towards her stomach before everything went black.
PART THREE: Marquess House, 2018
Chapter One
Perdita stood in the Tudor hall, listening to the silence. It was early and no one was yet stirring. Breathing in the ancient space, she smiled. This was the first time since her arrival that she had felt completely alone in Marquess House and it was glorious. There was usually someone around and the house had never fully seemed to be hers and Piper’s. However, in this moment, she felt peace and ownership settling on her shoulders like a favourite scarf.
Grinning broadly, she hurried towards the enormous Gothic doors in the east wing that led into the library, her feet swift and determined. The double-height room with its elegant galleries and alcoves of endless books was Perdita’s favourite part of the house. At one end was an elaborate bank of stained glass windows showing a series of women, each a mythical representation depicting a Greek goddess. Underneath was the Tudor graffiti Alistair Mackensie had mentioned on her first visit. It was covered by protective Perspex and was difficult to make out. Once more the frieze of flowers and the strange symbol, made up of three intertwined circles that dominated the rest of the house, tumbled across the walls. Mermaids and other sea creatures were interwoven with the flowers, as well as more traditional faces of Celtic Green Men.
Windows framed different aspects of the beautifully landscaped gardens like paintings: one captured the vastness of the mysterious lake Llyn Cel, another the soft rolling lawns and yet another the Tudor-inspired knot gardens that led to the huge maze formed from yew hedges, way off in the distance. Even though she had been at the house for several weeks, Perdita still felt that she had not yet seen everything of her and Piper’s inheritance. She lingered at the windows, admiring the early morning sunrise, then contemplated the task that had driven her from bed so early.
The previous evening, she had finished reading the draft of her grandmother’s unpublished manuscript The Catherine Howard Anomaly. As usual when reading Mary’s work, she had been swept along with the argument, but, to her frustration, when she had reached the end, she discovered the final chapter containing her grandmother’s conclusions was missing.
While giving an outline of Catherine’s life and exploring the work of the women who had surrounded her during her time as queen consort, women who were often missing from other biographies, there was also a great deal of detail about Catherine’s family. Perdita had not realised Catherine had been the second youngest of ten siblings, most of whom had been with her while she was queen consort, or that she had become an orphan while still a young child.
These details, while interesting, were not what had fascinated Perdita most about her grandmother’s new take on the youngest wife of the Tudor monarch. What had captured her imagination was the possibility that there was a different version of events leading up to Catherine’s death. One that suggested she had not been the spoilt, promiscuous child so many biographies hypothesised but, rather like her cousin Anne Boleyn, was the innocent victim of her scheming and powerful male relatives.
The most startling change was the possibility that the affair Catherine supposedly had with one of Henry’s courtiers, Thomas Culpepper, may not have happened. This was a controversial suggestion as it had been a love letter written to Culpepper from Catherine that had formed the crucial evidence against her, ultimately sending her to her death. If there had been no affair, why had she been executed on 13 February 1542 at the Tower of London?
Perdita had already requested the entire bibliography of the work from Jenny in order to check her grandmother’s references. While these would be useful, her real interest was Mary’s primary sources, particularly the two handwritten titles on the typed list with a note beside them reading: “In two minds whether to include these…”
The first was an old, privately published book called The Llyn Cel Mermaid and Other Local Legends by Penelope Fitzalan which, according to Mary’s notes, had been written between 1640 and 1644 and was housed in the library at Marquess House. The second title intrigued Perdita even more: it was listed as The Catherine Howard Codex, but was given no date or location. The lack of information was particularly striking as the other notes were so detailed they were almost distracting. Yet, this major source of information, which seemed to have formed the basis of Mary’s work, was hardly mentioned.
Settling herself at a desk in the library, Perdita flipped open her laptop and while she waited for the Wi-Fi to connect, she hunted for a dictionary to double check the meaning of the word ‘codex’. She consulted three different publications and all agreed th
at a codex was “an ancient manuscript text in book form”. The word originated in the late sixteenth century from the Latin caudex, literally meaning a ‘block of wood’, later denoting a block split into leaves or tablets for writing on, hence a book. Going online, one source claimed that a codex was generally made of loose leaves of vellum or parchment joined in one corner and given a cover and back of wood, making it one of the earliest forms of books.
Satisfied that her assessment of a codex had been correct, Perdita crossed this task off her list of notes and turned her attention to the two original documents. Having never heard of either source, she began by running a simple online search. Perdita tapped in the full title as listed in the primary sources: The Catherine Howard Codex, but received nothing useful. Scrolling swiftly down the page she saw sites about Catherine Howard and references to documents in various collections but there was no reference to the document her grandmother had cited.
She followed this foray with The Llyn Cel Mermaid and Other Local Legends by Penelope Fitzalan, but again, not one useful hit. There were sites about mermaids and, intriguingly, an obscure historical figure named Lady Elizabeth Fitzalan, duchess of Norfolk, who had lived from 1366 to 8 July 1425. As Perdita read the short piece, she raised her eyebrows in surprise. It transpired that through her eldest daughter, Lady Margaret Mowbray, Elizabeth Fitzalan was an ancestress of both Anne Boleyn and Catherine Howard, who had been cousins. While Perdita could not see it was particularly relevant, it was an interesting detail and she had made a note of the link.
Trying one last option, Perdita searched for the name Penelope Fitzalan but there was nothing: no historical records, no hits in the present day, nothing. No one of that name seemed to ever have existed in the seventeenth century or at any time since.
“Weird,” she murmured, “that no one at any point should have had the name Penelope Fitzalan. Perhaps it’s a pseudonym but that still wouldn’t explain why it has never been used by anyone.”
Leaving her laptop humming to itself, Perdita walked over to an alcove where a computer was positioned on an elegant occasional table. This sleek terminal stored the library’s database, giving the details of every book in the collection, its age, when it was acquired or bought and whereabouts in either the library or the research centre it was situated. Perdita entered the library search code Jenny had given her and keyed in the first title, the codex, followed by the book of local legends. There was a ping: three hits. The books did exist; two were registered as: “Marquess House, classified. J Procter authorisation code required”. The third, a copy of The Llyn Cel Mermaid and Other Local Legends by Penelope Fitzalan, was listed as “L&J copy; MH, 1990, Tudor Library” and the code indicating its whereabouts.
Perdita pulled a face, wrinkling her nose in minor frustration. Jenny was unavailable until later in the afternoon, so she would not be able to access the two original documents until then. The delay was irritating because if what Mary had claimed in her manuscript was true, then her discovery was explosive. As an academic, Perdita knew her grandmother’s theories all hung on these original documents and without authentication or corroboration it would be difficult to add gravitas to her thesis or prove its truth, which would make it little more than an interesting conspiracy theory.
Maybe that’s why Mary didn’t publish the book back in the early 1990s, thought Perdita. There was no way to corroborate her evidence. Times have changed though, new information is constantly being discovered, perhaps there is something available now that I’ll be able to use to prove her theories.
It was a thought that excited her but also filled her with a strange sadness. This theory had been Mary’s, as had this house and everything she and Piper now owned. How cruel of fate not to allow them to have worked together on this manuscript, their grandmother sharing her great knowledge while she used her computer research skills to help prove her hypothesis. Between us, we could have changed history, thought Perdita.
Shrugging off these gloomy musings, she made herself focus on the one positive hit the library computer had produced: a 1990s version of The Llyn Cel Mermaid and Other Local Legends. Making a note of the location code, Perdita walked up the library towards the stained glass windows before heading down one of the towering aisles of books. As she walked among the stacks, she ran her finger along the spines, shivering in anticipation at the titles, wondering what secrets were about to unfold as she explored this new text. Books had always been her comfort, her safe place and she was still stunned to be the owner of such a vast collection.
After five minutes of searching, she located the correct shelf. To her delight, it was on one of the higher locations, meaning she would have to use the old-fashioned library ladder that was attached to the shelves, enabling librarians to move from one end of a bookcase to another. After a few moments of whizzing backwards and forwards, she finally brought herself to a halt in front of the book she needed.
“Oh my goodness,” sighed Perdita extracting the large hardback book. “It’s beautiful.”
Hurrying back down the ladder, she made for her favourite window seat and gazed down at the ornately decorated book. The illustration on the cover was of a mermaid, reminiscent of the one who swam around the walls of the house. Perdita also thought it looked vaguely familiar, not the picture itself, which she knew she had never seen before, but the artist’s style. With a creeping sense of trepidation, she opened the front cover.
Such was her shock, Perdita almost dropped the book. Inside was a painting of her mother, her father and to her stunned amazement, herself and Piper as toddlers. Underneath were the words: “For Mum, Happy Birthday. Hope and mermaids always, Louisa, James, Perdita and Piper xxx”.
On the next page, things became slightly worse because there was another family portrait, this time of the Mackensies, all five of them, with a dedication written by Alistair: “To my best friend, Mary, on her birthday. Your favourite stories, retold by your favourite people. Ecce signum!”
Forcing herself to turn the pages, Perdita fought the conflicting emotions that rose within her: delight at seeing her father’s beautiful images, sadness at the loss of her parents and her grandmother and mounting fury that once again she and Piper had been deprived the love of their family for reasons that had still not been explained. Part of her wanted to throw the book across the room, screaming as she did, but deep down, she knew she would never be able to abuse such a beautiful book in such a terrible manner. Instead, she tried to rationalise her way through her emotions but when this proved too difficult, she reached for her usual solace at times of emotional upheaval: words.
Find the legend of the Llyn Cel mermaid, she thought. It was the reason behind my search and reading it could offer some clues.
Running her finger down the index, again adorned with her father’s magical images, she discovered the Llyn Cel mermaid legend was exactly halfway through the book. When she found the page, she understood why. The illustration of the mermaid swimming inches below the surface of the lake, while Marquess House and the island were reflected above her, took up the centre spread of the book. It was an intricately detailed picture and Perdita studied it for some time before turning back two pages and reading the ancient legend.
From the first line, there was a familiarity to the sad tale of love, loss and despair. The delicate, aristocratic heroine who escaped from her brutal husband and gave birth to his twin children. Yet when she found a new love, he was wrenched from her and drowned in the choppy waters of Llyn Cel. Such was her despair, she threw herself into the lake and transformed into a mermaid as she searched for her lost lover. Yet, her troubled soul could not rest and on each full moon, the mermaid would regain her legs in order to walk through the village, singing her lament, searching on land for her lover too. The haunting lyricism of her song was said to bewitch any man who heard it, entrancing them into following her back into the dark waters of the lake, where they would be lost forever. At each full moon, the women of the village would leave o
fferings for the mermaid, hoping these kind gestures would encourage her to leave their menfolk alone.
Unexpectedly, Kit’s voice floated into her mind from his tour on the day she had moved into Marquess House: “There was a priory on the island but being so far away from London, it survived Henry VIII’s initial dissolution of the monasteries. It was closed in 1543 after some sort of scandal. Either the prioress was pregnant or she hid a noblewoman here and helped her deliver an illegitimate baby…”
And all legends have their basis in fact, she thought. Were these two tales somehow combined?
Her phone rang and she grinned, her spirits restored.
“Hey, gorgeous,” she almost sang. “I’m so excited. In less than a week, we’ll be in the south of France…”
“I’m sorry, Perdita,” came Warren’s strained voice, “but we can’t go. I have to cancel the holiday. You must stay at Marquess House.”
“What?” she replied, brought up short by his clipped tone.
“Something’s come up…”
“Something’s come up? What’s more important than being together? Is it work?”
“No,” said Warren, then added in a quiet voice, as though the softness of his tone would make it less inflammatory, “it’s Jacqui.”
“Your ex-wife?” Perdita’s tone was calm but she was seething, her hands shaking as she tried to control her growing fury. Warren and his wife had been separated long before he had met Perdita. When Warren had explained he was divorced, Perdita did not see this as a problem, after all, everyone had baggage. However, as Warren and Jacqui had no children, Perdita had never been able to understand why they were still in touch or why Warren allowed himself to be emotionally manipulated by his ex-wife.
“It’s her mother, Lillian, she’s ill and Jacqui has asked me if I’ll take her to hospital next week for an operation,” he said, then paused waiting for Perdita to, quite rightly, explode.
The Catherine Howard Conspiracy Page 18
