However, a few days later, at the full moon, there was another storm. Late that night, when the priest left his church, he thought he saw a woman waiting in the porch, but as he approached her, she vanished. The next morning, villagers discussed the shadowy figure of a woman who had walked the streets singing a haunting lament. Soon, the legend grew that, on stormy nights, the mermaid rose from the waves and walked the village singing her song of love and loss. It was said that, should any man hear her, he would be bewitched and would follow her to a watery grave. So, the women would leave trinkets for the mermaid, hoping she would take these and leave their husbands safely at home.
Bethan and I were determined to find out more by exploring the ruins of the Llyn Cel priory, where the tale claimed the woman had lived before she became a mermaid. We also, secretly, hoped we might catch a glimpse of her shimmering tail and flowing red hair.
The night before our adventure, I headed to my favourite part of the house — the library — in search of a book of local legends and, to my astonishment, I found one. It was entitled The Llyn Cel Mermaid and Other Local Legends by Penelope Fitzalan, and contained a detailed account of the mermaid. From reading this version, I learned her name was Catherine and her lover was Owain. Another layer of romance had been added too, with the mermaid leaving trinkets to her children so they would be able to prove their identities when they were adults. It was also a way for the mermaid to recognise her beloved, lost offspring.
Even better, there was a map showing a passageway leading from the Marquess House chapel to the tower on the island, which was all that remained of the ancient priory. As our chapel had been locked up for the duration of the war, our only hope of discovering whether or not this tunnel existed was to visit the island. It added an entirely new layer of excitement to our adventure, particularly as there were sketches of the tunnel and one room in particular, that was described as being ‘Catherine’s room’.
We found the tunnel behind a brick marked with a crude depiction of a mermaid and the Latin motto — Spe et nereidum. When this was pushed, a door opened to reveal the entrance. In later years, I discovered its twin in my chapel, pushing the stone above it opened the door from this end. As children, Bethan and I used the tunnel as our hideout. We swore a blood oath to keep its location a secret. I took this very much to heart and refused to even tell my younger sister, Cecily, where the entrance to the tunnel lay hidden. We did find a room that we decided was ‘Catherine’s room’ as the fireplace seemed to match the sketch in the book but, despite extensive searching for the trinkets left by the Llyn Cel mermaid or, even better, the treasures she had supposedly bequeathed to her children, we were unsuccessful. I forgot about our childhood searches until I read the codex.
It is a well-known academic trope that myths and legends have their basis in fact and I propose this: the legend of the Llyn Cel mermaid was based on the true story of what happened to Catherine Howard, the fifth bride of Henry VIII. I have found sufficient evidence to suggest she was removed from Henry VIII’s court and was never mentioned in official records after 13 February 1542. Yet, these letters, dated after this, suggest the woman signing herself by that name had knowledge of the court and the king. Could it be another woman bearing the same name? An anomaly that was not unusual in Tudor time. Or, had the former queen consort, Catherine Howard, been spirited away for another reason?
If the legend is to be believed, Catherine was pregnant, something possibly corroborated by a short snippet in the codex, ‘my clothes are so tight, I feel I shall burst…’ In which case, surely, she should have been at court revelling in her triumph as she carried a legitimate Tudor heir? My only other theory is that Catherine was pregnant by another man and, perhaps it was from here the legend of her promiscuity grew. However, if she was, would her family have risked all to hide her from the king? I suspect not.
The codex also suggests Catherine had suffered intense violence at the hands of her husband. Perhaps this was the reason she was removed from his side; her family keeping her and the child safe until its birth. The fact that history tells us Henry VIII married Katheryn Parr in 12 July 1543 suggests Catherine and her offspring may not have survived…
But, to Perdita’s frustration, the chapter finished mid-sentence.
“Oh, Granny, don’t leave me hanging like this,” she exclaimed. “Surely there must be more…”
And she turned the page over. Her eye widened in surprise. On the back of the typed sheets, dated the day before she died, her grandmother had written: ‘The Penelope Fitzalan letters! The fireplace sketch in the last letter is the same as the sketch in the book. But who was PF? And who was she in relation to CH? Could the ‘token’ mentioned in the PF letter be the ring mentioned in the Llyn Cel story? Passageway? Will ask Kit to explore the tunnel with me in the morning. Fireplace!!!’
Perdita put her hand over her mouth in shock. Had her grandmother finally discovered the key to the secret?
PART SIX: Marquess House, 1542
Chapter One
Catherine stared out of the window at the bright spring sunshine. Wildflowers were pushing through the grass and spreading across the lawn, weaving themselves into a living tapestry. It reminded Catherine of the beautifully patterned tiles in the entrance hall. Cascades of primroses, varying in colour from buttercup yellow to the pale and delicate Pembroke pink, festooned the shallow grassy bank that surrounded the gardens to the side of the house. The simple beauty made her smile.
A proper smile, she marvelled. When was the last time I smiled for no reason? Her expression faltered and she moved closer to the fire, hugging her arms around herself, as though shielding her body from attack. She was allowed to be happy. Her sisters Isabel and Margaret both said she was free and could do as she pleased now, but she still could not fully believe them. Even her uncle, who wrote regularly, implored her to forgive him his part in her misery. He asked her to remember the happy girl she had been when she was in the care of her step-grandmother at the house in Lambeth.
It seemed a lifetime ago: those crowded rooms, the constant noise of the busy, bustling house by the river. It was all so innocent back then, the mild flirtations, the silly intrigues, the ridiculous dramas they created, fooling themselves into thinking they were dying from love. She shuddered. She had nearly died, although not from love, but from a vicious beating from her husband, the king, immediately after what should have been a sacred act of love between husband and wife. The brutality of their last coupling still made Catherine shake with fear.
Her memory of events was hazy. Henry had summoned her in the early hours of the morning, excited by the prospect of the double execution of Katherine Tilney and Joan Bulmer, the two women he was convinced were witches. Such was his terrible fear of what they might say or do, he had forbidden anyone but a few witnesses to be at the execution. He, however, wanted to watch as these two women had their lives swiftly extinguished.
“The Devil may fight for them,” he had whispered hoarsely in her ear. “They are His handmaidens and He sent them to seduce me. They did terrible things, they forced me to enjoy their base entertainments, their unholy couplings. They used their forked tongues on my most sacred places. These creatures must die because they are not women, they are she-demons.”
All Catherine had seen as Henry commanded her to look out of the window at the scaffold, were two scared, young girls trying not to cry. Two innocents who had been used by the men around them. Fed on lies and false promises, they had believed their manipulators and played their parts to the hilt, hoping for riches, glory and power, but instead, they had been served betrayal, degradation and death.
She had been startled when Henry’s fumbling hands had flung aside her wrap and ripped her beautiful lawn nightgown from her shoulders, and even more revolted as he stood behind her, fondling her breasts while the girls were prepared for their executions. His excitement had mounted as, first, Tilney had spoken, praising Henry as a sweet and gentle prince before kneeling and placing
her head on the block. Catherine had felt his hardness against her as the axe fell and blood flooded from the stump that had been her lady-in-waiting’s neck only a few seconds earlier.
“Now,” he had hissed into her ear and had pushed her forward against the wall, entering her from behind, crushing her against the folded wood panelling, his thrusts becoming even more frantic as he saw Bulmer slip in Tilney’s blood and begin to cry. “Cry you little whore,” he snarled and Catherine was unsure to whom he was speaking, herself or poor Joan. “Cry and beg for mercy,” he roared, pounding into Catherine. She remembered a blow to the back of her head, the feeling of something warm between her thighs, whether her own blood or the king’s seed, she had no idea; intense physical pain and fear as the king roared again and again until she felt he would rip her in two. Then, his hands were around her throat and he was screaming incoherently before blackness descended.
Isabel had told her the rest, how their uncle of Norfolk had discovered her, barely alive, under a cloak on the floor in Henry’s private chamber. Henry must have beaten her after she had lost consciousness as her face had been so swollen and battered, her uncle confessed he had not recognised her at first. It was possible Henry had raped her again while she was unconscious; she had no recollection. The next thing she remembered was the swaying movement of the litter as she travelled through the darkness, swaddled in furs and blankets, cradled in her sister’s arms. Then nothing more until she had woken one morning with the early spring sunshine on her face and a view from a window she did not recognise.
Her body had ached and her face had still been sore and marked. She was horrified to find one of her back teeth was missing. Had he hit her so hard he had dislodged it? Red marks, fading bruises and cuts covered her skin. When she moved, her ribs protested, and around her neck there were still lesions from Henry’s fingers. But she was alive and, from the silence around her, she had realised she was no longer at court.
“We’re at a house in Pembrokeshire in Wales,” Isabel had told her.
“Wales? Where’s that?” she had asked.
“A long way from the court,” Lady Kathryn Knollys had answered.
“But won’t the king want to know where I am?” she had said, her heart quaking with fear even mentioning his name.
“Uncle Norfolk has told the king you are seriously ill and for his majesty’s safety, you have been removed to a house where you can be nursed and he will not catch your illness,” said Isabel.
“What if he discovers we’re lying?”
“He won’t,” Margaret Douglas had said darkly as she offered Catherine a sip of watered wine. “He will never find you again.”
It had been some weeks since then and Catherine was finally beginning to believe she was safely away from the violence of the king. She had also realised something else. At first, terror had engulfed her as she feared her uncle would insist she return to London, but now she wondered if she truly would be safe to confide her secret and that she would be able to stay hundreds and hundreds of leagues away from her insane husband.
“You’re looking very thoughtful, Kitten,” said Isabel as she swept in with a trug full of wild flowers.
“Issy, can I tell you a secret?” she asked tentatively.
“Of course, my darling girl, you can tell me anything.”
“Even if it could put us both in danger?”
“If that’s the case, you must definitely tell me,” Isabel replied, her face paling. “What it is, Kitten?”
“I think I’m with child. The king’s child.”
“What makes you think this?”
“The morning of Tilney’s execution, he forced himself upon me. I think more than once,” she said, her voice tinged with disgust.
“You think?”
“Once while Tilney and Bulmer were executed but then perhaps afterwards too, when I was unconscious. He had boasted of doing that to other women and the girl he’d killed first…” her voice trailed away. Isabel looked appalled. “But, since we’ve been here, my monthly courses have stopped and today I noticed this.” She took Isabel’s hands and placed it on her small rounded belly. “You’re a mother, Isabel. Does this feel like a child?”
“Oh, Kitten,” there were tears in Isabel’s eyes. She could foresee only more trouble if Catherine was indeed carrying Henry’s longed-for heir but she could also see the hope shining in her younger sister’s eyes. “It might be, we’ll have to wait a little longer to be certain. But, Kitten, we should keep this to ourselves until we’re sure.”
Catherine nodded.
“If I am, would I have to go back?”
“No, sweet girl,” said Isabel. “You’re never going back.”
Isabel was unsure what the duke of Norfolk was planning but he had assured her that Catherine would never return to court or be at the mercy of the king. However, if Catherine was carrying a Tudor heir, this might weaken his resolve, particularly if the queen delivered a healthy boy. Despite the fact the duke seemed to have aged years since he had discovered Catherine’s bloody and bruised body, would the chance to put a male Howard heir in line to the throne be too much for him to resist?
Catherine’s voice cut through Isabel’s fearful thoughts.
“Truly?” asked Catherine, her face radiant. “I never have to go back to court?”
“Your uncle has told the king you’re too ill,” she replied. “Kitten, don’t mention the possibility of a child to anyone yet; we need to be sure.”
Humming to herself, Catherine settled near the fire and began to work on a new piece of tapestry, a delicate and beautiful mermaid. Isabel watched her for a few moments, then with a frown, began arranging the flowers from her trug into a tall vase. They worked in silence until hurrying footsteps caused them to exchange a curious glance. The door was flung open and Margaret Douglas burst in, her face flushed with excitement.
“You’ll never guess what?” she gasped.
“Tell us then,” said Catherine, a spark of her former laughter and joie de vivre in her face.
“A letter from my brother, the Scottish king,” she said. “His wife, the queen, the lady Mary of Guise, is pregnant. They will have a new heir to replace the poor boys who died last April. This is such good news for us.”
“Why?” asked Isabel.
“It’s the perfect reason for me to travel to Scotland,” she said. “And all of you will be hidden in my entourage. It gets us safely away from Uncle Henry with no hint of suspicion.”
“But…” Catherine began, then stopped.
“But what?” asked Margaret.
“Nothing, I was only thinking it’s such a long way. When would we have to leave? I’m not sure I’m strong enough yet.”
“We won’t have to go for a while, Kitten, you’ll be fit to travel by then,” Margaret assured her, whirling back out of the door. “I must find Charles.”
Isabel and Catherine exchanged a glance.
“Let’s wait and see, Kitten,” sighed Isabel. But as she turned back to her flowers, once more, fear rose in her heart.
Chapter Two
“But what will we do?” Edward Baynton’s voice was tense. It was the question they had all been struggling with ever since Catherine’s condition had become apparent.
“We’ll have to tell the duke,” said Charles.
The small and loyal core who had fled the court with Catherine during the February snows stood in the sunny solar of Marquess House, the manor they had made their home ever since. Sir Francis and Lady Knollys, Isabel and Edward Baynton, Charles Howard, Margaret Douglas and Margaret Arundell, exchanged uncertain glances.
“Why should we tell the duke?” asked Margaret Douglas.
“He’s the head of our family,” replied Charles.
“He is many leagues away. He need never know that Kitten is having the king’s child,” she continued. “Catherine could be delivered of the baby and arrangements made for its adoption without him ever knowing.”
“The baby is of r
oyal blood,” said Sir Francis, taking his wife’s hand. “You of all people understand what danger and responsibility that brings, Margaret.”
“If it’s a boy, it would be second in line to the throne of England behind Prince Edward,” insisted Charles.
“But, if you tell the duke, he might demand Catherine returns to court,” Isabel’s voice was waspish with concern. “If she does, it’s unlikely the king will believe the child is his and he could well try to beat her to death again as he did the last time she told him there was an issue. Have you forgotten?”
“Of course not,” snapped Charles. “She’s my sister too, but we’re talking about a Howard heir, a claimant to the throne of England. A strong, healthy boy…”
“And you’d sacrifice Catherine for the sake of being uncle to the second in line to the throne?” asked Lady Arundell.
“You’re twisting my words!” retorted Charles. “It sickened me to see what the king did to her, but if the child is a boy and healthy…”
“Exactly, if?” interrupted Isabel.
“You’re forgetting the laws of nature, Charles,” said Lady Arundell. “Kitten is young and strong but we’ve all witnessed many birthings and there is no way of knowing whether the child or mother will survive. Although, as you all seem to be forgetting, this child might be a girl, in which case, she would be further down the line of succession and there would be fewer problems.”
“Which brings us back to the point in hand,” said Edward before the Howard siblings could begin bickering again. “We need to make a decision as to what we are going to do.”
The Catherine Howard Conspiracy Page 35
