“So chop off my head and be done,” replied Catherine. “The bright sting of the executioner’s axe would be a lot less painful than taking another beating from the king.”
Isabel, Kathryn Knollys and Margaret Douglas exchanged a worried glance. They were Catherine’s constant companions these days, along with Margaret Howard, Lady Arundell, another of Catherine and Isabel’s many sisters. When Jane had returned home to nurse Tom Culpepper, Lady Arundell had taken Jane’s place in the inner circle. She was also useful as a spy among Catherine’s other ladies, so her visits, although welcomed by the others, were often fleeting. Such a visit had just ended, with Lady Arundell assuring them they were safe to speak freely with no unfriendly ears to hear.
“I have sent word to my half-brother, King James V of Scotland,” murmured Margaret. Catherine had once more buried her face in the pillows, but gave the minutest nod to indicate she was listening. “He has said he will give safe passage to myself and Charles, and a position in his court. He said any members of my entourage would also be welcome.”
The words were loaded with meaning and Catherine felt a small thrill of fear and anticipation. She had an escape route. But how far would she get before the king sent his best soldiers to track them down? While she did not care whether she lived or died, she did not want the blood of those she loved spilled for her sake.
“He said his queen, Mary of Guise, would welcome the presence of noble ladies into her court, especially now,” Margaret continued.
They all knew there were problems at the Scottish court. Only a few months earlier, King James V had been in a wonderful position. He had an heir, James, Earl of Rothesay, a sturdy one year old, and the queen had given birth to another son, Robert Stewart — but to the horror of their royal parents, both boys had died on the same day, 21 April 1541. Little Robert had only been nine days old. In one terrible blow, the king had lost both his heirs and, with his own health not always robust, it was no wonder his uncle, Henry VIII, wished to meet him to discuss future relations between Scotland and England.
Imagine if she had been able to escape while she was still pregnant. Her child would have grown up in the Scottish court. It could have been chosen as James’ heir, she thought. Then reality hit her and her heart twisted with pain. But my child is dead, beaten out of me by its father.
“And if I agree to this dream of escape to the wild north,” she said, “what would happen to the members of my family who have been left behind?”
She sat up and looked at the three beloved but ashen faces.
“You are all wonderful to risk your safety even talking about such plans,” she said, “but I can’t play games with your lives. I will see the king tonight and whatever will be, will be. Just promise me, if he does kill me, you will get away from him before he has a chance to hurt any more of the people I love.”
Chapter Four
“Keep your eyes shut, my sweetheart,” boomed Henry, his hand sliding up her waist to stroke the underside of her breast. She was perched precariously on the front of his saddle as they approached his extravagant new home in the north. What had once been St Mary’s Abbey was now a vast and ornately decorated palace and the king had insisted on blindfolding her so she would see it first from its best angle. “Now, my love, what do you think?”
The soft cloth was removed and Catherine gasped. The building before her was a miniature, and equally exquisite, version of Hampton Court Palace, a building that Catherine still considered to be a magical and enchanted place.
“It’s beautiful, Henry.”
“Good!” he laughed. “And in this palace, we will make my duke of York. Sweet Catherine, if you had given me a son, your coronation would have been held at York Minster this very day. You will try harder and we will have a son, or I will be angry.”
Catherine felt herself tremble with fear. Henry’s words may have been said calmly but she recognised the weight of his threat.
“Sir Edward will show you your quarters,” announced the king as he passed her down to the gathered attendants, lifting her as though she weighed no more than a child. “They have been decorated especially for you — you like mermaids and flowers, don’t you? It’s what your ladies told me — so I hope they are to your taste. Now I must attend to the business of state.”
The king swept away and, for a moment, Catherine was left pondering the contradictory nature of her husband. He would go to the effort of decorating her rooms with mythical creatures because she liked them but in the same sentence was the veiled threat over her failure to provide an heir. Despite the bustle around her, Catherine suddenly realised that, in that moment, she was alone. Her ladies were still half an hour behind her and in the chaos of the court’s arrival, for once there was no one stuck to her side.
“I will walk in the gardens,” she called to her brother George who was helping the other members of the privy chamber to organise the muddle of people, trunks, goods and animals.
“Alone? Are you mad, Kitty?” he shouted over the hubbub.
“Send Isabel when she arrives, I won’t go far,” she replied. Then, gathering up her skirts, she walked purposefully through the rose-covered archway towards what were clearly the newly designed gardens.
As the noise of the court receded, she slowed to a dawdle, enjoying the quiet of the garden. Breathing in the early autumn air, she allowed her shoulders to sag. If the king had not beaten her, if she had not lost her child, she would now be preparing for a coronation. She wondered, would that have made her safe? It had not saved Anne Boleyn, she thought. Oh, to be free of this nightmare.
Trailing her fingers along the hedgerows of yew and rosemary, adding their fragrance to the air as she bruised their delicate leaves, she ambled deeper into the lushly scented garden until she reached a small square with a fountain bubbling at its heart. Sinking onto a stone seat, she shut her eyes, reached for the silver locket around her neck and slowly slid it backwards and forwards along its chain. She found the movement soothing and, as she relaxed, she allowed her mind to wander. Tonight, she would be summoned again. The reprieve that had been Henry’s affair with Katherine Tilney was over. It was now business as usual.
Once more, she considered the offer Margaret Douglas had made — to whisk them all away to her brother’s court in Scotland. It was a dream, she realised. Henry would hunt and kill her if she attempted such an escape. She sighed, turning her thoughts to the arrival of King James V, Margaret’s half-brother. I wonder what he will be like, she mused. Will he be as attractive as his sister? She laughed at herself: the girl who had once watched the boys shyly from the edges of the clamouring crowd at her step-grandmother’s might have thought such a thing, but as queen, such dreams were lost to her forever.
Her mind went to the planned events of the next few weeks. This meeting of kings would be the grand ending to Henry’s triumphant progress through his kingdom. A moment when he would negotiate a peace treaty with Scotland and his nephew, James. A thought suddenly struck Catherine: I wager he won’t come. From where this came, she had no idea, but she knew it to be true. James would renege on the meeting and Henry would be furious.
A high-pitched giggle nearby disturbed her reverie. Tilney, she thought, shuddering. She felt nothing but sympathy for the poor girl who seemed to think she was soon to take Catherine’s place next to Henry as queen consort. Tilney’s constant companions, Joan Bulmer and Francis Dereham, seemed to believe this too; only Mary Lascelles had sensed the danger and recently asked to be dismissed from court claiming ill health. Granting Mary leave to go, the last Catherine had heard was that she was staying with her pious Protestant brother, John.
Out of the corner of her eye, Catherine saw Tilney, Joan Bulmer and Francis Dereham scurry into view. Adopting an imperious expression, she wondered idly how they would react when they discovered her on the stone bench. Tilney led the way, her thin face alight with excitement. She turned to say something to Joan, then saw Catherine and stopped abruptly. There was a suggestion of hesitation b
efore all three sank to their knees. Catherine counted slowly to ten before she allowed them to rise. Even when they were girls at her step-grandmother’s house in Lambeth, she had never liked Katherine Tilney. A manipulative bully, she had forced Joan Bulmer into many tricky situations and had once tried to ensnare Catherine into her circle of intriguers, but she had slid away from them and their often cruel antics.
“Your Majesty,” said Katherine, her voice ringing with contempt, “we thought you would be inspecting your apartments.”
“You were wrong,” replied Catherine. “Did you want something, Katherine?”
“No, we were, we were…”
“Then, please, leave me in peace. Your help is probably required in arranging my rooms,” she said, dismissing them and putting them in their place with one effortless glance. Greatly affronted, the trio departed.
“She might order me about now,” hissed Katherine Tilney, unaware she was still within earshot, “but I will soon be queen. I shall tell the king I am carrying his child.”
“It didn’t work for Mary Boleyn,” said Joan spitefully. “Her daughter was illegitimate, so was Bessie Blount’s, and she had a son…”
“Shut up, Bulmer,” snapped Katherine. “I’ll tell him Catherine Howard had an affair with you, Francis. That should have her thrown in the Tower, then I can comfort Henry.”
“And what about me?” snarled Dereham.
“I’ll have you pardoned and blame stuck-up Catherine…” Their voices tailed off as they wandered away.
Stupid, stupid girl, thought Catherine. Waiting until the three intriguers had disappeared, Catherine rose from her seat and smoothed out her gown. With heavy feet, she retraced her steps. But before she reached the house, Isabel, Kathy and Margaret rushed towards her.
“Where have you been?” gasped Isabel. “Edward and Charles are convinced the Spanish have kidnapped you!”
Catherine laughed. “Alas no, I was walking in the garden where I met Tilney and her rabble.”
As her women escorted her back to the house and her spectacular new rooms, she told them what she had overheard.
“I’ll tell Edward at once,” said Isabel. “They are empty threats, but he should know what the silly girl is saying. Has she no idea how dangerous it is to speak in such a manner?”
Catherine swept through her apartment, nodding to her ladies, and into her inner sanctum.
“Your correspondence,” said Edward Baynton, who was bustling around Catherine’s rooms. “This appears to have followed us from Richmond in Surrey,” he said pushing a small, square envelope into her palm. She nodded and slid it into one of the hidden pockets in her capacious sleeves. It was from Anne of Cleves and Catherine could not wait to read it.
“Do you think we will be in York long?” asked Catherine. Edward shrugged.
“Who can say, Kitten?”
Catherine glanced at the other letters Edward had left on the small writing table. “This is from Great Hallingbury in Essex,” she exclaimed. “It must be from Jane, perhaps there is good news of Tom.”
But as her eyes raced across the small note, her face paled.
“Tom’s dead,” she whispered, sinking into a chair.
“No!” exclaimed Edward, taking the letter from Catherine’s shaking hand.
“And Jane has lost her mind,” continued Catherine. “This letter is from her father, Henry Parker, Baron Morley. She is being cared for at the family home but he wishes her illness to be kept private.”
The women huddled together, tears welling in their eyes.
“Poor Jane,” murmured Margaret Douglas. “To have survived so much and remained strong for so long, this was one thing too many.”
Catherine walked to the vast mullioned window and stared out across the elaborate grounds, her heart pounding with fear and grief. All she could think was that Tom Culpepper’s death and Jane’s madness were bad omens, shadows of terror looming over their frightening and precarious lives, pushing them further into the darkness. We are cursed, she thought. We exist in this world of jewels and jousting, banquets and masques, the sparkle and finery of endless enjoyment. Yet underneath this glossy veneer, we fight for breath each day as though we are drowning. Which of us will be next? Who will have their life snatched away by the whim of Fate?
In the garden below her, she saw Katherine Tilney laughing and shuddered.
Chapter Five
They had been in York for three weeks when the storm of Henry’s temper broke over their heads. So attuned was Catherine to her husband’s violent outbursts, she could tell his mood from the thud of his uneven, limping footfalls as he approached her rooms. Even she, though, was unprepared for the sight of him as he came crashing into her rooms.
“Where is my niece?” screamed the king, his face puce, his eyes almost swallowed by the fleshiness of his face. “Did she know about this? The deceitful little whore…”
Horrified, Catherine leapt from her chair, resting her small white hand on Henry’s arm, she whispered, “My good lord and husband, what ails you? Here sit, let me help you?”
She was shaking, terrified his arm would sweep out and knock her to the floor, but she was determined to protect her ladies, particularly the king’s two daughters who had never seen their father in such a fury and were seated near her by the fire.
“Where is she?” he seethed. “Lady Douglas, daughter of my accursed slut of a sister. Where is she, wife? Don’t hide her, it will be worse for you…”
Catherine turned helplessly to Isabel. “She is resting…” she began.
“Resting!” he screamed. “Fetch her now or you will pay the price…”
“I am here, Uncle,” came a cold voice from the doorway behind the king that led to one of Catherine’s inner rooms. He spun around to face Margaret, who stood tall and regal, her brown eyes fixed unwaveringly on her uncle’s face. Catherine moved to stand between them but Isabel grabbed her arm, holding her still while the king advanced on his niece.
“Margaret, no,” gasped Catherine struggling to free herself from Isabel’s grip, fully aware of what Henry could do when he was in such a state.
“Did you know?” he asked, his voice low and menacing. “Was this a plan you concocted to embarrass and ridicule me? You and your vile Scottish half-brother?”
Catherine’s heart was pounding so fast she could barely breathe. Even though they had waited patiently, it was clear the king of Scotland was not going to uphold his side of the bargain. It appeared he had never intended to treat with his uncle in York and, furious at being publicly humiliated, Henry wanted someone to blame. For a moment, Margaret contemplated her uncle, then she sank into a deep curtsey, her head bowed.
“Uncle, I would never conspire to hurt you,” she said. “My brother sent word nine days ago that our mother, your sister Margaret, is ill. It shocks me that he has not written. Perhaps someone has deliberately kept his word from you in order to create discord within our family.”
Catherine held her breath, waiting to see how Henry would respond. She glanced around and felt sick as she realised that Elizabeth was the nearest to her father. If he lashed out, she would be the one to receive the full force of his blow. Oh, please God, Catherine prayed, let him be calm, let him be calm, protect the innocent Lady Elizabeth.
The king was still staring down at Margaret, his teeth bared, but the colour in his face was receding and his stance was softening, his muscles relaxing.
“My sister is ill?” he muttered. “Why did no one inform me? Rise, Maggie, rise. Come, let us write to your mother and see if we can help with what ails her. I will write to your brother today to offer my help. His letter must indeed have gone astray. Catherine, we will be leaving shortly, it is time I returned to London. My son will be wondering where I am.”
Henry leaned forward and raised Margaret to her feet, leading her from the room, his face now full of concern. His guard followed him and Catherine’s heralds shut the doors with a defiant ringing slam. The silence in th
e room was tangible. No one dared to move. Catherine knew all eyes were upon her. Still trembling all over, now from the relief that they had all survived the king’s rage unscathed, Catherine forced a tremulous smile to her face. The women were all staring at her in confusion; none of them had ever before witnessed the swiftness of mood change that could overtake the king. She knew it was her place to reassure them, convince them all was well with their monarch.
“My ladies,” she said, trying to control the tremor in her voice, to make it sound warm and consoling, “the king was out of sorts. Let us all pray that his wisdom and kindness have now been restored. Lady Mary,” she said turning to the king’s eldest daughter, “perhaps you could lead the ladies in a prayer for the health and majesty of the king, your father.”
Startled, Mary nodded. “Of course, Lady Stepmother.”
“Lady Baynton, Lady Knollys, perhaps you would accompany me to my bedchamber so we can pray in private for my husband and good sovereign lord.” She gave a small smile and, on shaking legs, led the way to her bedchamber.
Kathryn Knollys had barely shut the door when Catherine collapsed on to the bed. Tears sprang to her eyes.
“I thought he was going to hit Elizabeth,” she gasped. “She was so near him. If he’d lashed out he would have killed her…”
Panic was rising, threatening to overwhelm her.
“Kitten, it’s over,” said Isabel gathering her younger sister into a hug. “He’s calm again. Margaret will resolve this and now we can return to London.”
Wiping her eyes, Catherine nodded. She knew Isabel did not truly understand the fear she felt whenever she was near the king. To beat her was Henry’s prerogative as her husband: her status of queen did nothing to protect her from the law that stated she was his property and he could treat her as he saw fit. Yet, she feared him more each day. His constant mood swings left her increasingly terrified as she awaited each fresh attack on her person. Her ladies tried to protect her but, while they could heal her bruises, they could not heal the scars Henry left on her mind. Taking a shuddering breath, she tried to calm her frantically beating heart and focus on the news they would soon be returning to London.
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