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

This was a good move, but Henry’s fears flared up afresh when the Emperor, visiting his domains, decided to travel through France to Germany, instead of going by sea or through Italy and Austria as was his custom. This seemed to Henry a gesture of great friendship. What plans would the two old enemies formulate when they met in France? Would England be involved in those plans?

Cromwell, to whose great interest it was to turn England from the Catholics and so make more secure his own position, seized this chance of urging on Henry the selection of a wife from one of the German Protestant houses. Cromwell outlined his plan. For years the old Duke of Cleves had wanted an alliance with England. His son had a claim to the Duchy of Guelders, which Duchy was in relation to the Emperor Charles very much what Scotland was to Henry, ever ready to be a cause of trouble. A marriage between England and the house of Cleves would therefore seriously threaten the Emperor’s hold on his Dutch dominions.

Unfortunately, Anne, sister of the young Duke, had already been promised to the Duke of Lorraine, but it was not difficult to waive this. Holbein was dispatched; he made a pretty picture of Anne, and Henry was pleasurably excited and the plans for the marriage went forward.

Henry was impatient. Anne! Her very name enchanted him. He pictured her, gentle and submissive and very very loving. She would have full awareness of her duty; she was no daughter of a humble knight; she had been bred that she might make a good marriage; she would know what was expected of her. He could scarcely wait for her arrival. At last he would find matrimonial happiness, and at the same time confound Charles and Francis.

“Anne!” he mused, and eagerly counted the days until her arrival.

Jane Acworth was preparing to leave.

“How I shall miss you!” sighed Catherine.

Jane smiled at her slyly. “It is not I whom you will miss but your secretary!”

“Poor Derham!” said Catherine. “I fear he will be most unhappy. For I declare it is indeed a mighty task for me to put pen to paper.”

Jane shrugged her shoulders; her thoughts were all for the new home she was to go to and Mr. Bulmer whom she was to marry.

“You will think of me often, Jane?” asked Catherine.

Jane laughed. “I shall think of your receiving your letters. He writes a pretty letter and I dare swear seems to love you truly.”

“Ah! That he does. Dear Francis! How faithful he had always been to me.”

“You will marry him one day?”

“We are married, Jane. You know it well. How else...”

“How else should you have lived the life you did together! Well, I have heard it whispered that you were very lavish with your favors where a certain Manox was concerned.”

“Oh, speak not of him! That is past and done with. My love for Francis goes on forever. I was foolish over Manox, but I regret nothing I have done with Francis, nor ever shall.”

“How lonely you will be without me!”

“Indeed, you speak truthfully.”

“And how different this life from that other! Why, scarce anything happens now, but sending letters to Derham and receiving his. What excitement we used to have!”

“You had better not speak of that to Mr. Bulmer!” warned Catherine; and they laughed.

It was well to laugh, and she was in truth very saddened by Jane’s departure; the receiving and dispatching of letters had provided a good deal of excitement in a dull existence.

With Jane’s going the days seemed long and monotonous. A letter came from Francis; she read it, tucked it into her bodice and was aware of it all day; but she could not read it very easily and it was not the same without Jane, for she, as well as being happy with a pen, was also a good reader. She must reply to Derham, but as the task lacked appeal, she put it off.

The Duchess talked to her of court matters.

“If the King would but take him a wife! I declare it is two years since Queen Jane died, and still no wife! I tell you, Catherine, that if this much-talked-of marriage with the Duchess of Cleves materializes, I shall look to a place at court for you.”

“How I wish I could go to court!” cried Catherine.

“You will have to mind your manners. Though I will say they have improved since...since...” The Duchess’s brows were dark with memory. “You would not do so badly now at court, I trow. We must see. We must see.”

Catherine pictured herself at court.

“I should need many new clothes.”

“Dost think Lord William would allow you to go to court in rags! Why even His Grace the Duke would not have that! Ha! I hear he is most angry at this proposed marriage. Master Cromwell has indeed put my noble stepson’s nose out of joint. Well, all this is not good for the Howards, and it is a mistake for a house to war within its walls. And so...it may not be so easy to find you a place at court. And I know that the King does not like the strife between my stepson and his wife. It is not meet that a Duke of noble house should feel so strongly for a washer in his wife’s nurseries that he will flaunt the slut in the face of his lady Duchess. The King was ever a moral man, as you must always remember. Ah! Pat my back, child, lest I choke. Where was I? Oh, yes, the Howards are not in favor while Master Cromwell is, and this Cleves marriage is Cromwell-made. Therefore, Catherine, it may not be easy to find you a place at court, for though I dislike my lord Duke with all my heart, he is my stepson, and if he is out of favor at court, depend upon it, we shall be too.”

On another occasion the Duchess sent for Catherine. Her old eyes, bright as a bird’s, peered out through her wrinkles.

“Get my cloak, child. I would walk in the gardens and have you accompany me.”

Catherine obeyed, and they stepped out of the house and strolled slowly through the orchards where Catherine had lain so many times with Derham. She had ever felt sad when she was in the orchards being unable to forget Derham, but now she scarcely thought of him, for she knew by the Duchess’s demeanor that she had news for her, and she was hoping it was news of a place at court.

“You are an attractive child,” wheezed the Duchess. “I declare you have a look of your poor tragic cousin. Oh...it is not obvious. Her hair was black and so were her eyes, and her face was pointed and unforgettable. You are auburn-haired and hazel-eyed and plump-faced. Oh, no, it is not in your face. In your sudden laughter? In your quick movements? She had an air of loving life, and so have you. There was a little bit of Howard in Anne that looked out from her eyes; there is a good deal of Howard in you; and there is the resemblance.”

Catherine wished her grandmother would not talk so frequently of her cousin, for such talk always made her sad.

“You had news for me?” she reminded her.

“Ah, news!” The Duchess purred. “Well, mayhap it is not yet news. It is a thought. And I will whisper this in your ear, child. I doubt not that the stony-hearted Duke would give his approval, for it is a good match.”

“A match!” cried Catherine.

“You do not remember your dear mother, Catherine?”

“Vaguely I do!” Catherine’s large eyes glistened with tears so that they looked like pieces of topaz.

“Your dear mother had a brother, and it is to his son, your cousin, whom we feel you might be betrothed. He is a dear boy, already at court. He is a most handsome creature. Thomas Culpepper, son of Sir John, your mother’s brother...”

“Thomas Culpepper!” whispered Catherine, her thoughts whirling back to a room at Hollingbourne, to a rustle of creeper, to a stalwart protector, to a kiss in the paddock. She repeated: “Thomas Culpepper!” She realized that something very unusual was about to happen. A childhood dream was about to come true. “And he...?” she asked eagerly.

“My dear Catherine, curb your excitement. This is a suggestion merely. The Duke will have to be consulted. The King’s consent will be necessary. It is an idea. I was not to tell you yet...but seeing you so attractive and marriageable, I could not resist it.”

“My cousin...” murmured Catherine. “Grandmother...when I was at Hollingbourne...we played together. We loved each other then.”

The Duchess put her finger to her lips.

“Hush, child! Be discreet. This matter must not be made open knowledge yet. Be calm.”

Catherine found that very difficult. She wanted to be alone to think this out. She tried to picture what Thomas would be like now. She had only a hazy picture of a little boy, telling her in a somewhat shamefaced way that he would marry her.

Derham’s letter scraped her skin. The thought of Thomas excited her so much that she had lost her burning desire to see Francis. She was wishing that all her life had been spent as she had passed the last months.

The Duchess was holding her wrists and the Duchess’s hands were hot.

“Catherine, I would speak to you very seriously. You will have need of great caution. The distressing things which have happened to you...”

Catherine wanted to weep. Oh, how right her grandmother was! If only she had listened even to Mary Lassells! If only she had not allowed herself to drift into that sensuous stream which at the time had been so sweet and cooling to her warm nature and which now was so repulsive to look back on. How she had regretted her affair with Manox when she had found Francis! Now she was beginning to regret her love for Francis as her grandmother talked of Thomas.

“You have been very wicked,” said her grandmother. “You deserve to die for what you have done. But I will do my best for you. Your wickedness must never get to the Duke’s ears.”

Catherine cried out in misery rather than in anger: “The Duke! What of him and Bess Holland!”

The Duchess was on her dignity. She might say what she would of her erring kinsman, not so Catherine.

“What if his wife’s washerwoman be his mistress! He is a man; you are a woman. There is all the difference in the world.”

Catherine was subdued; she began to cry.

“Dry your eyes, you foolish girl, and forget not for one instant that all your wickedness is done with, and it must be as though it never was.”

“Yes, grandmother,” said Catherine, and Derham’s letter pricked her skin.

Derham continued to write though he received no answers. Catherine had inherited some of her grandmother’s capacity for shifting her eyes from the unpleasant. She thought continually of her cousin Thomas and wondered if he remembered her, if he had heard of the proposed match and if so what he thought of it.

One day, wandering in the orchard, she heard the rustle of leaves behind her, and turning came face to face with Derham. He was smiling; he would have put his arms about her but she held him off.

“Catherine, I have longed to see thee.”

She was silent and frightened. He came closer and took her by the shoulders. “I had no answer to my letters,” he said.

She said hastily: “Jane has married and gone to York. You know I was never able to manage a pen.”

“Ah!” His face cleared. “That was all then? Thank God! I feared...” He kissed her on the mouth; Catherine trembled; she was unresponsive.

His face darkened. “Catherine! What ails thee?”

“Nothing ails me, Francis. It is...” But her heart melted to see him standing so forlorn before her, and she could not tell him that she no longer loved him. Let the break come gradually. “Your return is very sudden. Francis...”

“You have changed, Catherine. You are so solemn, so sedate.”

“I was a hoyden before. My grandmother said so.”

“Catherine, what did they do to thee?”

“They beat me with a whip. There never was such a beating. I was sick with the pain of it, and for weeks I could feel it. I was locked up, and ever since I have scarce been able to go out alone. They will be looking for me ere long, I doubt not.”

“Poor Catherine! And this you suffered for my sake! But never forget, Catherine, you are my wife.”

“Francis!” she said, and swallowed. “That cannot be. They will never consent, and what dost think they would do an you married me in actual fact?”

“We should go away to Ireland.”

“They would never let me go. We should die horrible deaths.”

“They would never catch us, Catherine.”

He was young and eager, fresh from a life of piracy off the coast of Ireland. He had money; he wished to take her away. She could not bear to tell him that they were talking of betrothing her to her cousin, Thomas Culpepper.

She said: “What dost think would happen to you if you showed yourself?”

“I know not. To hold you in my arms would suffice for anything they could do to me afterwards.”

Such talk frightened her. She escaped, promising to see him again.

She was disturbed. Now that she had seen Derham after his long absence, she knew for truth that which she had begun to suspect. She no longer loved him. She cried herself to sleep, feeling dishonored and guilty, feeling miserable because she would have to go to her cousin defiled and unclean. Why had she not stayed at Hollingbourne! Why had her mother died! What cruel fate had sent her to the Duchess where there were so many women eager to lead her into temptation! She was not yet eighteen and she had been wicked...and all so stupidly and so pointlessly.

She determined to break with Francis; there should be no more clandestine meetings. She would marry Thomas and be such a good wife to him, that when set against years and years of the perfect happiness she would bring him, the sinful years would seem like a tiny mistake on a beautifully written page.

Francis was hurt and angry. He had come back full of hope; he loved her and she was his wife, he reminded her. He had money from his spell of piracy; he was in any case related to the Howards.

She told him she had heard she was to go to court.

“I like that not!” he said.

“But I like it,” she told him.

“Dost know the wickedness of court life?” he demanded.

She shrugged her shoulders. She hated hurting people and being forced to hurt Francis who loved her so truly was a terrible sorrow to her; she found herself disliking him because she had to hurt him.

“You...to talk of wickedness...when you and I...”

He would have no misunderstanding about that.

“What we did, Catherine, is naught. Thou art my wife. Never forget it. Many people are married at an early age. We have done no wrong.”

“You know we are not husband and wife!” she retorted. “It was a fiction to say we are; it was but to make it easy. We have sinned, and I cannot bear it, I wish we had never met.”

Poor Derham was heartbroken. He had thought of no one else all the time he had been away. He begged her to remember how she had felt towards him before he went away. Then he heard the rumor of her proposed betrothal to Culpepper.

“This then,” he said angrily, “is the reason for your change of heart. You are going to marry this Culpepper?”

She demanded what right he had to ask such a question, adding: “For you know I will not have you, and if you have heard such report, you heard more than I do know!”

They quarreled then. She had deceived him, he said. How could she, in view of their contract, think of marrying another man? She must fly with him at once.