Murder Most Royal: The Story of Anne Boleyn and Catherine Howard - Jean Plaidy

He said: “Anne, I know well that you would speak the truth. But tell me now with good speed, sweetheart, that there is naught between you and Wyatt.”

“You would blame me,” she said haughtily, “since he writes his verse to me?”

“Nay, sweetheart. I would blame you for nothing. Tell me now that I have naught to fear from this man, and restore my happiness.”

“You have naught to fear from him.”

“He had a jeweled tablet of yours.”

“I remember it. He took it one day; he would not return it, and I, valuing it but little, did not press the matter.”

He sat heavily beside her on the window seat, and put an arm about her.

“You have greatly pleased me, sweetheart. You must excuse my jealousy.”

“I do excuse it,” she said.

“Then all is well.” He kissed her hand hungrily, his eyes asking for much that his lips dared not. He had angered her; he could not risk doing so again, for he sensed the uncertainty in her. Thus he marveled at his infatuation for this girl; as did the court. He had never loved like this; nay, he had never loved before. He was thirty-six, an old thirty-six in some ways, for he lived heartily; this was the last flare-up of youth, and the glow lighted everything about him in fantastic colors. He was the middle-aged man in love with youth; he felt inexpressibly tender towards her; he was obsessed by her; he chafed against the delay of the divorce.

After this affair of the bowls, Anne knew she was committed. Wyatt’s glance was sardonic now; Wyatt was resigned. She had chosen the power and the glory; his rival had tempted her with the bait of marriage.

“And wilt thou leave me thus

That hath loved thee so long

In wealth and woe among:

And is thy heart so strong

As for to leave me thus?”

Her heart must be strong; she must cultivate ambition; she must tread warily, since in that court of glittering men and women she now began to find her enemies, and if their malice was cloaked in soft words, they were nonetheless against her. The Cardinal, watchful and wary; the Duke of Suffolk and his wife—that Mary with whom she had gone to France—who now saw her throwing a shadow over the prospects of their descendants’ claim to the throne; Chapuys, the Spaniard who was more of a spy for his master, the Emperor Charles, than his ambassador; Katharine, the Queen whom she would displace; Mary, the princess who would be branded as illegitimate. All these there were in high places to fight against her. There was a more dangerous enemy still—the people of London. Discontent was rampant in the city; the harvest had been a poor one, and the sober merchants felt that an alliance with France was folly, since it merely changed old friends for new ones who had previously shown they were not to be trusted. There was famine throughout the country, and though the King might lend to the city corn from his own granaries, still the people murmured. The cloth merchants fretted, for the trouble with Spain meant losing the great Flanders market. The County of Kent petitioned the King, in view of their poverty, to repay a loan made to him two years before. The Archbishop of Canterbury did what he could to soothe these people, but they remained restive.

For these troubles did the people of England blame Wolsey. During the prosperous years the King received the homage of his subjects; he had been taken to their hearts during the period of his coronation when he, a magnificent figure of an Englishman, fair and tall and skilled in sport, had ridden among them—such a contrast to his ugly, mean old father. During the dark years, however, they blamed Wolsey; for Wolsey had committed the sin of being of the people and rising above them. The whispers went round: “Which court? Hampton Court or the King’s court?” This was the twilight hour of Wolsey’s brilliant day. And the starving and wretched gazed at a bright and beautiful girl, reclining in her barge or riding out with friends from court; more gaily dressed than the other ladies, she sparkled with rich jewels, presents from the King—a sight to raise the wrath of a starving people. “We’ll have none of Nan Bullen!” they murmured together. “The King’s whore shall not be our Queen. Queen Katharine forever!”

From the choked gutters there arose evil smells; decaying matter lay about for weeks; rats, tame as cats, walked the cobbles; overhanging gables, almost touching across narrow streets, shut out the sun and air, held in the vileness. And in those filthy streets men and women were taken suddenly sick; many died in the streets, the sweat pouring from their bodies; and all men knew that the dreaded sweating sickness had returned to England. Thus did the most sorely afflicted people of London wonder at this evil which had fallen upon them; thus did they murmur against her who by her witch’s fascination had turned the King from his pious ways. The sick and suffering of London whispered her name; the rebellious people of Kent talked of her; in the weaving counties her name was spoken with distaste. Everywhere there was murmuring against the devil’s instrument, Wolsey, and her who had led the King into evil ways and brought down the justice of heaven upon their country. Even at Horsham, where the news of the sweating sickness had not yet reached, they talked of Anne Boleyn. The old Duchess chuckled in great enjoyment of the matter.

“Come here, Catherine Howard. Rub my back. I declare I must be full of lice or suffering from the itch! Rub harder, child. Ah! Fine doings at the court, I hear. The King is bewitched, it seems, by your cousin, Anne Boleyn, and I am not greatly surprised to hear it. I said, when she came visiting me at Lambeth: ‘Ah! There is a girl the King would like!’ though I will say I added that he might feel inclined to spank the haughtiness out of her before carrying her off to bed. Don’t scratch, child! Gently...gently. Now I wonder if...” The Duchess giggled. “You must not look so interested, child, and I should not talk to you of such matters. Why, of course...As if he would not...From what I know of His Majesty...Though there are those that say...It is never wise to give in...and yet what can a poor girl do...and look how Mary kept him dancing attendance all those years! There is something about the Boleyns, and of course it comes from the Howards...though I swear I see little of it in you, child. Why, look at your gown! Is that a rent? You should make Isabel look after you better. And what do you do of nights when you should be sleeping? I declare I heard such a noise from your apartment that I was of good mind to come and lay about the lot of you...”

It was merely the Duchess’s talk; she would never stir from her bed. But Catherine decided she must tell the others.

“And your cousin, I hear, is to do something for your father, Catherine Howard. Oh, what it is to have friends at court! Why, you are dreaming there...Rub harder! Or leave that...you may do my legs now.”

Catherine was dreaming of the beautiful cousin who had come to the house at Lambeth. She knew what it meant to be a king’s favorite, for Catherine had a mixed knowledge; she knew of the attraction between men and women, and the methods in which such attraction was shown; of books she knew little, as the Duchess, always meaning to have her taught, was somehow ever forgetful of this necessity. The cousin had given her a jewelled tablet, and she had it still; she treasured it.

“One day,” said the Duchess, “I shall go to Lambeth that I may be near my granddaughter who is almost a queen.”

“She is not really your granddaughter,” said Catherine. “You were her grandfather’s second wife.”

The Duchess cuffed the girl’s ears for that. “What! And you would deny my relationship to the queen-to-be! She who is all but Queen has never shown me such disrespect. Now do my legs, child, and no more impertinence!”

Catherine thought—Nor are you my real grandmother either! And she was glad, for it seemed sacrilege that this somewhat frowsy old woman—Duchess of Norfolk though she might be—should be too closely connected with glorious Anne.

When Catherine was in the room which she still shared with the ladies-in-waiting, she took out the jeweled tablet and looked at it. It was impossible in the dormitory to have secrets, and several of them wanted to know what she had.

“It is nothing,” said Catherine.

“Ah!” said Nan. “I know! It is a gift from your lover.”

“It is not!” declared Catherine. “And I have no lover.”

“You should say so with shame! A fine big girl like you!” said a tall, lewd-looking girl, even bolder than the rest.

“I’ll swear it is from her lover,” said Nan. “Why, look! It has an initial on it—A. Now who is A? Think hard, all of you.”

Catherine could not bear their guessings, and she blurted out: “I will tell you then. I have had it since I was a very little baby. It was given to me by my cousin, Anne Boleyn.”

“Anne Boleyn!” screamed Nan. “Why, of course, our Catherine is first cousin to the King’s mistress!” Nan leaped off the bed and made a mock bow to Catherine. The others followed her example, and Catherine thrust away the tablet, wishing she had not shown it.

Now they were all talking of the King and her cousin Anne, and what they said made Catherine’s cheeks flush scarlet. She could not bear that they should talk of her cousin in this way, as though she were one of them.

The incorrigible Nan and the lewd-faced girl were shouting at each other.

“We will stage a little play...for tonight...You may take the part of the King. I shall be Anne Boleyn!”

They were rocking with laughter. “I shall do this. You shall do that...I’ll warrant we’ll bring Her Grace up with our laughter...”

“We must be careful...”

“If she discovered...”

“Bah! What would she do?”

“She would send us home in disgrace.”

“She is too lazy...”

“What else? What else?”

“Little Catherine Howard shall be lady of the bed-chamber!”

“Ha! That is good. She being first cousin to the lady...Well, Catherine Howard, we have brought you up in the right way, have we not? We have trained you to wait on your lady cousin, even in the most delicate circumstances, with understanding and...”

“Tact!” screamed Nan. “And discretion!”

“She’ll probably get a place at court!”

“And Catherine Howard, unless you take us with you, we shall tell all we know about you and...”

“I have done nothing!” said Catherine hastily. “There is nothing you could say against me.”

“Ah! Have you forgotten Thomas Culpepper so soon then?”

“I tell you there was nothing...”

“Catherine Howard! Have you forgotten the paddock and what he did there...”

“It was nothing...nothing!”

Nan said firmly: “Those who excuse themselves, accuse themselves. Did you know that, Catherine?”

“I swear...” cried Catherine. And then, in an excess of boldness: “If you do not stop saying these things about Thomas, I will go and tell my grandmother what happens in this room at night.”

Isabel, who had been silent amidst the noise of the others, caught her by her wrist.

“You would not dare...”

“Don’t forget,” cried Nan, “we should have something to say of you!”

“There is nothing you could say. I have done nothing but look on...”

“And enjoyed looking on! Now, Catherine Howard, I saw a young gentleman kiss you last evening.”

“It was not my wish, and that I told him.”

“Oh, well,” said Nan, “it was not my wish that such and such happened to me, and I told him; but it happened all the same.”

Catherine moved to the door. Isabel was beside her.

“Catherine, take no heed of these foolish girls.”

There were tears in Catherine’s eyes.

“I will not hear them say such things of my cousin.”

“Heed them not, the foolish ones! They mean it not.”

“I will not endure it.”

“And you think to stop it by telling your grandmother?”

“Yes,” said Catherine, “for if she knew what happened here, she would dismiss them all.”

“I should not tell, Catherine. You have been here many nights yourself; she might not hold you guiltless. Catherine, listen to me. They shall say nothing of your cousin again; I will stop them. But first you must promise me that you will not let a word of what happens here get to your grandmother’s ears through you.”

“It is wrong of them to taunt me.”

“Indeed it is wrong,” said Isabel, “and it must not be. Trust me to deal with them. They are foolish girls. Now promise you will not tell your grandmother.”

“I will not tell unless they taunt me to it.”

“Then rest assured they shall not.”

Catherine ran from the room, and Isabel turned to the girls who had listened open-eyed to this dialogue.

“You fools!” said Isabel. “You ask for trouble. It is well enough to be reckless when there is amusement to be had, but just to taunt a baby...What do you achieve but the fear of discovery?”

“She would not dare to tell,” said Nan.

“Would she not! She has been turning over in her baby mind whether she ought not to tell ever since she came here. Doubtless the saintly Thomas warned her it was wrong to tell tales.”

“She dared not tell,” insisted another girl.

“Why not, you fool? She is innocent. What has she done but be a looker-on? We should be ruined, all of us, were this known to Her Grace.”

“Her Grace cares nothing but for eating, sleeping, drinking, scratching and gossip!”

“There are others who would care. And while she is innocent, there is danger of her telling. Now if she were involved...”

“We shall have to find a lover for her,” said Nan.

“A fine big girl such as she is!” said the lewd-faced girl who had promised to take the part of Henry.

The girls screamed together lightheartedly. Only Isabel, aloof from their foolish chatter, considered this.

The King sat alone and disconsolate in his private apartments. He was filled with apprehension. Through the southeastern corner of England raged that dread disease, the sweating sickness. In the streets of London men took it whilst walking; many died within a few hours. People looked suspiciously one at the other. Why does this come upon us to add to our miseries! Poverty we have; famine; and now the sweat! Eyes were turned to the palaces, threatening eyes; voices murmured: “Our King has turned his lawful wife from his bed, that he might put there a witch. Our King has quarreled with the holy Pope....”

Wolsey had warned him, as had others of his council: “It would be well to send Mistress Anne Boleyn back to her father’s castle until the sickness passes, for the people are murmuring against her. It might be well if Your Majesty appeared in public with the Queen.”

Angry as the King had been, he realized there was wisdom in their words.

“Sweetheart,” he said, “the people are murmuring against us. This matter of divorce, which they cannot understand, is at the heart of it. You must go to Hever for awhile.”

She, with the recklessness of youth, would have snapped her fingers at the people. “Ridiculous,” she said, “to associate this sickness with the divorce! I do not want to leave the court. It is humiliating to be sent away in this discourteous manner.”