As he forced himself upon her, Catherine made herself go numb, mentally removing herself from the grunting, heaving bulk that was her husband. It was only with his final brutal thrust that she screamed in pain and once more she prayed she was with child. If she were, then, she vowed, she would take it as far away from its father as possible.
Chapter Ten
By the window lay a crumpled cloak. The duke of Norfolk saw it as soon as he entered the king’s privy chamber and was about to call one of the servants to demand why such a costly item had been left abandoned on the strewing herbs — then he saw it move. Not the skitter of a rat or one of the many toy dogs that scurried around the palace, but as though something underneath it were breathing. He edged closer, wary now of what he might discover. Glancing down, he felt his heart quicken as he saw a series of bloody footprints, then a long red smear on the wall, as though someone had slid down it, leaving a trail of gore in their wake.
For a moment, he recoiled as he was taken back to another time, another palace, and a young man, now deceased, scrubbing blood from the floor, removing all evidence of the king’s violence. The warmth drained from the duke’s body as he understood who was under the cloak. Catherine had been summoned to the king’s chambers in the early hours of the morning. The king had wanted her there while he watched the execution of Katherine Tilney and Joan Bulmer. Had the king once more lost control and gone too far? Edging forward, he cautiously lifted one corner and peered underneath.
“Mary, Mother of God,” he gasped, hastily dropping the cloak back in place and crossing himself. He hurried to the door and summoned one of his Howard guards: “Send for Lady Isabel Baynton immediately. Tell her to bring her husband, Lord Baynton, my nephew, Charles Howard and Lady Margaret Douglas. Speak to no one else and run all the way. Nobody but members of my family are to enter this room,” he barked, then slamming the door, he hurried back to the crumpled cloak.
Skilled politician and courtly player though he was, in this situation he had no idea how to cope. He did the only thing he could think to do: he sat on the floor beside her, gathering the cloak carefully around her body. He did not dare pull her into his arms, scared he would inflict more terrible injury upon her. Instead, with tears pouring down his face, he gently stroked her hair, whispering repeatedly: “I’m so sorry, my sweet girl, I’m so sorry. I will make this right. You’ll never have to endure this again.”
This was his fault, he knew it and it sickened him. All those months ago, he had deliberately placed Catherine in front of the king, knowing she was everything the monarch would find attractive. He had ruthlessly used her, even though she was his favourite; now, she lay close to death because he had married her to a maniac. A sharp scratching in his throat caused him to gulp as hot tears spilled down his dry, lined cheeks. Echoes from the past rang in his ears as he sobbed — Anne’s voice, pleading for his help; George hammering on his wooden prison door, begging him to intercede — but he had denounced them both, sending his niece and nephew, Anne and George Boleyn, to their deaths. He may as well have done the same to Catherine.
“Oh, my sweet Kitten,” he murmured, kissing her matted auburn hair, “I would never have turned on you. Forget what I said, I didn’t mean it. No matter whether you have a child or not, I will do all in my power to protect you.”
Catherine remained inert, unconscious, barely breathing, unaware of his presence.
Hurried footsteps and the hushing of the herald alerted the duke to the arrival of the others but he did not move. A timid knock on the door followed and when he called out, Isabel entered. She stood for a moment taking in the scene, all colour draining from her face, then with an expression of total determination, she took control. Ushering Margaret, Edward and Charles inside, she began issuing commands.
“It appears the queen has been taken ill,” she said calmly, though her hands shook, and the others choked back their disgust and horror at the carnage confronting them. They listened carefully to Isabel’s instructions and following her lead, remained calm and quiet, determined to get Catherine to safety as quickly and efficiently as possible.
“Edward, Charles, please send for a litter to convey Kitten back to her own chambers where she’ll be more comfortable? Call my physician to meet us there and ask Lady Knollys and Lady Arundell to prepare her bedchamber. Dismiss the other women, tell them the queen has a fever and must have complete rest.” She turned to the duke. “Perhaps you should go with them, your grace?”
“No,” he said, his voice hoarse. “I’ll stay with her.”
After her husband and Charles had hurried out, Isabel shut the door, turning the key in the lock.
“Please your grace, move aside,” she said gently. Margaret stared down in transfixed horror and when Isabel drew back the cloak to reveal Catherine’s pulped and bloody face, Margaret turned away, stifling a sob. “There will be time for crying later, Margaret,” she said sharply. “For now, we have to help Kitten. Send the page for hot water and linen cloths, we need to clean away the blood as best we can before we move her. I don’t want any more gossip than is necessary.”
While they waited, Isabel took a pillow from the bed and placed it under Catherine’s head, then covered her with a blanket. A discreet knock on the door brought the water and within minutes, Isabel and Margaret began tending Catherine’s wounds. The duke of Norfolk watched as Isabel bathed the worst of Catherine’s cuts. She asked him to turn away when she uncovered Catherine further, sending him to the corner of the room to find the embroidered nightgown and fur-lined wrap Catherine had been wearing when she had left her own bedchamber the previous night. The delicate lawn nightgown was in shreds but the heavy outer wrap was intact. With Margaret’s help, Isabel used the nightdress to staunch the lessening flow of blood from between Catherine’s legs before lifting her limp form into the outer gown.
When the litter arrived, Isabel would allow no one in but Edward and Charles. Together, with the duke’s help, they carefully lifted Catherine onto the soft cushions before Isabel and Margaret tucked warm blankets around her.
“Draw the curtains, we don’t want anyone to see her,” commanded Isabel, then turned to the duke of Norfolk. “Your grace, would you please send a message to the king and the Privy Seal that the queen is unwell and has a serious fever. She will remain in her rooms until further notice.”
“Of course,” he stuttered, his face still ashen. Isabel called the pages to carry Catherine to her rooms. As she turned to leave, the duke touched her arm. “Before, when he beat her, was she this bad?”
“Yes,” replied Isabel simply. “You didn’t see her for several weeks and by then the swelling and bruises had gone down.”
“No, I mean, the blood…” he broke off.
“Last time, the blood came later, when she lost the child. I think this time there is no child to lose — he was violent, forcing himself upon her,” she looked sickened.
“Is there a chance she could be with child?”
Isabel turned on him in fury.
“It’ll be a miracle if she makes it through the day!” she hissed. “And you dare to ask about a child. Is your political ambition so great that even now, while Catherine’s life hangs in the balance, you are craven enough to want a Howard heir…”
“No, Isabel, you misunderstand me,” said the duke cutting across her. “If she is with child, we must know so we can hide her from him. We must keep her safe. Not because of any heirs or claims to the throne,” he added hastily when she opened her mouth to berate him again, “but so that I can formulate a plan to get her away from the king.”
Isabel stared at him in confusion. “What?” she uttered. “You want to remove her from the king’s side? How would we manage that? She’s the queen. When he’s in his right mind, he adores her. How can we possibly keep her safe?”
“I have done many dark things in my time, Isabel. Lying to a king is but a minnow to a whale in comparison with what I have had to justify to myself over the years. No more
members of my family will die at that man’s hand,” he said, his dark brown eyes turning black with determined fury. “If it is my head on the block, then so be it, but I will keep her away from him, whether there is a child or not. Leave the king to me and later, we will talk, you, me, Edward, Charles and George. There is a house. It was part of Anne’s dowry when Henry created her Marquess of Pembrokeshire. It is far, far from here and came to me upon Anne’s death. The king will never find her there.”
PART FIVE: Marquess House, 2018
Chapter One
Rocketing around the country lanes with her music blaring, Perdita felt her heart lighten. Much as she enjoyed Kit’s company, this was the first time she had been out on her own for ages, and it was something of a relief. Naturally shy, she had found the past few months at Marquess House surrounded by new people, overwhelming. Living in a property that required such a huge number of personnel merely to make it function was not something she had come to terms with yet.
Today, though, she had decided to take a day off to explore the countryside. With Alistair Mackensie only recently returned from a trip to Andorra, where he and Susan had been helping their daughter Megan finalise the details of her approaching December wedding. Kit was spending the day with him to bring him up-to-date on, not only Jerusalem’s newest acquisitions, but also the day-to-day running of Marquess House.
Slowing down, Perdita drove into the tiny village of Dale. Now the school holidays were over, everywhere was quiet once again. The sweeping natural harbour that had bulged with boats and crafts of all shapes and sizes during the summer months was nearly empty. The field where the dig had taken place was still fenced off, but the bulk of the area had been returned to its previous use. The only clue that there had been any underwater activity were the buoys positioned roughly where Perdita guessed the remains of the wreck lay on the sandy seabed. Olaf had emailed her a few days earlier, thanking her for the generous grant for restoring the golden cup and asking whether they could discuss the raising of the wreck. She was still staggered with the fact that she was in a position to help him fulfil his dream.
Perdita parked her car and wandered to the café that overlooked the bay. She ordered a coffee and continued to mull over the possibility of funding such a huge and important project. Choosing a seat in the sunshine, she stared out to sea, her mind wandering away from work and on to her conversation with Piper the previous night over their new secure devices.
“Why though?” Piper had asked and Perdita had shrugged.
“No idea,” she replied, “but everyone here is very jumpy about security. Maybe they’ve had problems with things being stolen or plagiarised. Anyway, let’s not complain, it’s a much better connection! How are things with Jeremy?”
“Apparently, I’m hysterical and you’re not to be trusted now you’ve taken up with the ‘weirdos’ at Marquess House,” she had said, trying but failing to make light of the situation.
Perdita had been stunned. She had always classed Jeremy as one of her closest friends. To hear him making such scathing comments about them both was as unexpected as it was hurtful.
“And Kirstin?” Perdita had asked, refusing to rise to Jeremy’s provocation.
“Oh yes, she’s part of nearly every conversation we have these days. I might ask her to move in,” Piper had replied, trying but failing to keep her voice flippant. Her eyes were wide with despair.
“Come home,” Perdita had said as her anger flared. “At least here, with the weirdos at Marquess House, there are people who love and care about you. Please, Pipes, let me look after you and we’ll get through this together.”
“I’ll think about,” she had agreed. “Any word from Warren?”
Perdita had shaken her head and also lifted her left hand to show her sister she was no longer wearing her engagement ring.
“It’s over,” she had said. “Even if he wanted to come back, how could I ever trust him again?”
Warren, she thought, pulling herself back to the present, I was so sure of him, of our love. It had been here he had broken the news of her grandmother’s death, wrapping his arms around her, telling her things would be fine. Shaking her head, as though this would dislodge the thought of Warren, something struck her for the first time. In fact, she could not understand why she had not thought about it sooner but, she supposed, in the upheaval that had followed his announcement — their inheritance, the funeral, the discovery of her grandmother’s unpublished manuscript — his unexpected arrival had seemed unimportant. Now, though, it bothered her in a way she could not explain.
How had Warren managed to get to her so quickly? As far as she had been aware, he had been in Peterborough giving a lecture on the morning her grandmother’s body had been discovered — a journey of at least 280 miles. The only way he could have reached her was if he had flown but there were no commercial flights he could have taken and, as far as she was aware, he did not have any friends with aeroplanes or helicopters who could have whizzed him to her side. Not only that, he had his car with him, so he must have driven…
“Hi, it’s Miss Rivers, isn’t it?”
Startled, Perdita looked up. A tall man was standing in front of her, smiling. He had thick dark hair and was in his fifties. He looked vaguely familiar but she could not quite place him.
“No, Dr Rivers,” she corrected him.
“Sorry,” he said, gazing at her curiously before continuing. “I’m Stephen Haberfield, I attended your grandmother’s funeral.”
It came back to her in a flash; he had been with the elderly man in the wheelchair, the man who had been involved in the car crash that had killed her mother. Perdita stared at him in disbelief. She did not want to speak to him, she wanted nothing to do with either him or the other man. As she struggled to recall the name of his companion, unexpectedly, it rose to the surface of her mind like poison.
“Morton Keller,” she said. “You were with him. Neither of you had any right to attend my grandmother’s funeral. It was a private service for family and close friends only.”
Haberfield gave her a searching look, as though he was appraising the strength of her reaction.
“My apologies, we meant no harm, we merely wanted to pay our respects,” he said smoothly, but there was something about him that made Perdita uncomfortable. She drained her cup and, slipping her handbag onto her shoulder, she rose.
“Good day, Mr Haberfield,” she said formally, then walked away as quickly as she could without breaking into a run.
Once back inside the safety of her Land Rover, she locked the doors, fired the engine and cursed. There was a one-way system in the village, one way in and one way out, which meant she would have to drive past the café where Haberfield might still be sitting. Edging out of the car park, she glanced to the right, scouring the café’s tables. To her relief, there was no sign of him. Weaving her way carefully through Dale’s narrow lanes, she circled the village and headed towards the coast road in the direction of the ancient and tiny city of St David’s that was out to the west.
As she drove, she tried to make sense of Haberfield’s sudden and unexpected appearance. Alistair had not told her the man was local, nor his connection to Morton Keller. He did not strike Perdita as someone who would work as a carer to such a frail old man. The most obvious answer was that Haberfield lived in Dale, which would explain why he had approached her while she was in the village. Telling herself she was overreacting, she decided she would ask Kit when she returned to Marquess House and pushed the encounter from her mind.
She swung the car down the narrow road leading to the cathedral. Squeezing into a parking space, she slung her leather rucksack over her shoulder and set out. She had read about this ancient monument but had never visited it before. Now as she walked through the stone archway at the end of the lane, the cathedral came into view for the first time and she gasped at its beauty.
It sat in a dip, its tower reaching into the brilliant September sky, every inch of it exuding sere
nity. Walking down the steps and the long slope that led to the entrance, Perdita’s natural love of all things historical overwhelmed her and for the next few hours she was absorbed in a happy world of archaeology and ancient beliefs.
Returning to the autumn sunshine, she was looking for somewhere to have lunch when she heard a voice calling her name: “Perdita! Over here!”
Squinting into the sun, Perdita waved in surprise. “Briony!” she called, walking towards the smiling blonde girl. “How are the horses?”
Briony laughed. “They’re as happy as happy can be!” she replied. “When are you coming down for a riding lesson? Your mum was a natural, so was your gran. It’ll be in the genes.”
“Perhaps,” she said. Ever since Perdita had first visited the farm, once her childhood home, that housed all the animals in the Louisa Woodville Animal Sanctuary, Briony had been playfully trying to persuade her onto a horse. Having never ridden and naturally wary, Perdita had yet to succumb.
“How are the puppies?” Perdita asked instead.
“Gorgeous,” replied Briony. “Would you like me to reserve you one?”
“Our dog died not long before Dad,” said Perdita, “and I haven’t had the heart to get a new one. Let me think about it.”
The two women walked slowly up the hill together, pausing at the top where two coaches were negotiating the tight curve in the road. As the second vehicle moved, Perdita glanced up the road and her heart stood still. Only a short distance away was the man from earlier, Stephen Haberfield. He was staring at her, his expression cold and calculating.
“What’s he doing here?” she said, surprised.
“Who?” asked Briony.
“That man, Stephen Haberfield. He came up to me earlier in Dale. How weird, do you think he followed me?”
She turned to look at Briony, who was white-faced. “He shouldn’t be here,” she said, her voice furious. “He knows the rules and he’s in breach of them all.”
The Catherine Howard Conspiracy Page 29
