The Winchester Goose: At the Court of Henry VIII Page 13

  She has been in a like situation before.

  The sergeant steps forward, not meeting the Queen’s eye. “You are under arrest by order of the King and are to remain here within your apartments.”

  Katherine makes a sound that is half-laugh, half-sob and, for the first time, I realise that she is not so much a wanton as a little girl. A silly, heedless child playing a deadly game, and she doesn’t understand the rules. “There is some mistake,” she says, fear stark in her voice, “I will speak with my husband, the King.”

  As she makes a move toward the door their ugly weapons are immediately raised against her again. She shrinks back in alarm, her mouth downturned, shoulders hunched in supplication. Beneath my bodice my heart begins to bang, loud and sickeningly slow, as I taste the doom that is to come. Katherine Howard in her tarnished jewels stands alone in a sea of faces, a babe among wolves.

  “You are to remain within this chamber.” The sergeant’s voice is loud, harsh. It is no way to speak to his queen. Her chin wobbles as she looks this way and that about her chamber, seeking someone to tell her what she should do. But her ladies turn their eyes away. Only Jane Rochford remains with her in the circle of firelight. Still on her knees, she prays too loudly, her voice discordant, her face wet with tears, fingers fumbling at her beads.

  When nobody else moves or speaks I force myself forward and, with shaking knees, move quietly to Katherine’s side. I take her frozen fingers in mine and raise my chin. Together, we look upon the guards. “Very well,” I hear myself say, “we will stay within the chambers until the morning when, God willing, the King will be recovered enough to receive Her Majesty.”

  The guards’ tramping feet diminish, giving way to the sound of weeping. Katherine stands silent, staring at the closed door, her fingernails digging into the back of my hand. I can feel the fear travelling through her into me, and I know she is remembering her cousin, Anne Boleyn, the ruined Queen of whom we are forbidden to speak.

  But I remember another Queen. Queen Anna, who chose compliance to escape the King’s displeasure, and I realise that Katherine must give Henry whatever it is he wants.

  “Your Majesty,” I say, wishing I had Eve’s winning way with people. “Come away to the fire, you are shivering.” I tug gently at her hand and to my relief she follows meekly and allows me to ease her into a chair. I signal to a maid to bring wine.

  “Your Majesty … Katherine,” I speak in urgent whispers as I thrust a cup into her hand. “Do not despair. There are ways to overcome the King’s discontent. Remember the last Queen, the Lady Anna?” I glance about the chamber, making sure there are none close enough to hear my silent pledge of allegiance. “Anna of Cleves escaped by agreeing to everything the King requested. That is what you must do.”

  She suddenly becomes aware that she is holding the cup and lifts it to her lips, slurping the wine like a woman dying of thirst.

  “Norfolk,” she croaks, ignoring my counsel and drawing the back of her hand across her wet lips. “I must see my uncle of Norfolk. He will instruct me.”

  She is right. Her powerful connections should provide protection such as the Lady Anna never had. Of course, Norfolk was the Boleyn’s uncle too, but I do not remind her of it; it is best she doesn’t think on that now.

  I squeeze her hand and, clutching at the arm of her chair, rise from my knees. After bobbing a curtsey that she is too distraught to notice, I whirl around and call a page to summon the Duke of Norfolk.

  As I had feared he does not come, and with each passing hour the tension in the chamber becomes more stifling. Katherine paces to and fro before the window, watching the water gate, longing for someone to come to her aid. She wears a trail across the floor, from the hearth to the window seat and back again, and all I can do is watch helplessly.

  Elizabeth Fitzgerald’s lute is abandoned on the cushions and my eyes are fastened to the instrument, the source of so much forgotten merriment. Just a few hours ago we had been making merry. It is no more the time to dance, I think to myself as I watch the Queen’s exhaustion increase. This Queen may never dance again.

  Much later, when the sun sends livid streaks of orange through the dark evening sky, Elizabeth Fitzgerald and I try to persuade the Queen to rest. It is not my place to do so but she will allow no other near her, and so I find myself untying her lacings, removing her sleeves, helping her to slip off her bodice. She sits like a figure of stone as I brush her hair. The feel of it running like silk through my fingers puts me in mind of Eve, and I realise that for the first time in months I have forgotten to worry and wonder about my sister.

  Katherine’s plight is more immediate and, if God is on my side, maybe I can prevent her situation from growing any worse. I pull the covers up to the Queen’s chin and raise an arm to draw the heavy curtain about the bed. “No.” Her voice stays my hand and I hesitate, one arm raised, my fingers entwined in the stiff brocade. “Don’t leave me, Belle, sleep here with me tonight.”

  Anthony will have heard that the Queen is confined to her chambers and will be waiting for me to return, but I have no wish to join him. My place is here now for, to my surprise, I find myself filled with compassion for a girl that, a few hours before, I never even liked.

  Since the day she joined Queen Anna’s court I have despised Katherine for her giddiness and lack of decorum, but now I see her differently. She is a babe at the mercy of a ruthless man, and now that she is in danger and her supporters are withering away like ice before a raging flame, she hasn’t a true friend in the world.

  I sit on the edge of the mattress and she takes my hand. “What will become of me, Belle? What is going to happen?”

  Our eyes meet. Hers are large and tragic and I suspect mine are dull and full of fatigue. “I cannot say, Your Majesty.” There is a pause while I pluck up the courage to continue. “In what way have you displeased the King?”

  “I don’t know!” Her face crumples again and tears well in her eyes. “I have done everything my uncle bade me. I smiled upon the King, I let him kiss me, although his breath stinks of the grave. I wed the King although my heart lay with another, and I bedded the King, even though it took all my willpower to do so. Norfolk said that all I had to do was make an old man happy, and that is what I tried to do. How have I failed, Belle? Have you ever seen the King happier?”

  I have to confess I have not. Indeed, for the last few months the King has seemed the happiest man alive. Everyone agrees he is delighted with his bride, his rose without a thorn. He has even had a new coin struck bearing the words, ‘Rosa sine spina,’ rose without thorns, to show the world he has found his perfect match. In just a few short weeks something has changed. What could have happened to urge him to place the joy of his life under close house arrest?

  Katherine weeps on, mopping up her tears with the sleeve of her nightgown. “Where is my uncle? Why does he not come? He must realise I am in sore need of his council.”

  Wishing I had some physic to help her sleep, I stand up and move to the night table to pour her another cup of wine. “You say your uncle instructed you? Does that mean he planned to make you Queen, or just the King’s mistress?”

  “Oh, Queen. That was always their plan if we could manage it. When it became clear that Henry did not care for the Lady Anna at all, they were desperate for him to divorce her so that Cromwell would be disparaged. They made me attend a banquet at Winchester Palace where the King was sure to notice me. They dressed me in a fine new gown and bade me dance for him. ‘The King cannot resist a pretty face,’ they said and didn’t give my thoughts on the matter any consideration at all.”

  That is usually the way of it for women of status, but I forget to tell her that as another question leaps onto my tongue.

  “They? Who do you mean by ‘they’?”

  “Norfolk and his cronies. My Uncle William, and Suffolk, and Gardiner.”

  She means Stephen Gardiner, the Bishop of Winchester. Suddenly I remember meeting him in the corridor, his snake-like eyes
and prying questions probing for information I didn’t possess. And on that day, in the same place, I encountered the Queen with some unknown companion and immediately suspected mischief. Had the Bishop’s suspicions been raised too? But even so, he would not betray her, not when his own neck was likely to be wrung for it. No, there is something else, something I cannot guess.

  “Have you quarrelled with the King? Displeased him in any way?”

  She shakes her head, sniffs again and throws back the blanket, bidding me join her.

  “Not that I can remember. He is difficult sometimes, especially when his leg is smelly and bad, but I have … I have my little tricks to keep him quiet.” She has the grace to flush a little as she continues. “The only time he has ever been displeased with me is when I gave some of his gifts away to Lady Anna, but I overcame that, ages ago. Since then, I swear, the King and I have been perfect friends.”

  Struggling from my gown, I sit on the bed and begin to roll down my stockings. “And on the Royal Progress, everything was fine between you?”

  “Yes, yes. I hardly saw him. The long days wore him out and he was indisposed for much of the time.”

  A memory besets me of whispers after dark, creaking boards and rustlings from the privy as Katherine made her own entertainment. Had the King come to hear of it? If so, every one of us is in peril, and if we discuss it until dawn, it will not help us.

  “Go to sleep, Your Majesty. You will be glad of it tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow, oh God, may tomorrow be better than today …” She slides down the bed with the cover to her chin, watching me say a quick prayer before I climb in beside her. She continues to talk for a time, until her lids begin to flutter and, when her words dwindle into silence, I rest back upon the pillow beside her and watch her fall into a troubled sleep.

  Something disturbs me and I spring awake, pull myself up and blink into the semi-darkness. Beside me I see the shadow of the Queen sitting up, her head in her hands, her shoulders heaving with silent sobs. I reach out and trail my hand across her back. Her body is burning hot beneath her nightgown although the night is chilly.

  “Oh, Belle, I am so afraid. What shall I do? I cannot help but think that Henry must know.”

  “Know what?” My voice is harsher than I mean it to be but it is fear that makes it so.

  “About the bad things I did when I was a girl.”

  She can be no more than seventeen now. I cannot imagine what ‘bad things’ a child can have done to get herself into such a scrape as this. I forget that I am addressing my Queen and grasp her by the elbow, give it a gentle shake.

  “What things? Tell me.”

  “I was just a little girl but they were all doing it. Well, most of them were anyway. I thought it was just what girls did. It was sort of expected of me. I didn’t know it was wrong. Not then.”

  “What was, Your Majesty? What things?”

  She sniffs and wipes her nose on the back of her hand, looks at the royal snot gleaming in the half-light. “It was Henry Manox to begin with. He taught me music. He said my voice was like a bird’s and that my dance steps were as light as a fairy’s.” Briefly, her eyes gleam at the remembered compliments and then she blinks as she searches for the lost chain of her narrative. “One day he kissed me. I was very young, eleven maybe, or twelve, and flattered that such a grown-up person should want to woo me. After that I sat upon his knee often and gave him lots more kisses and sometimes … other things.”

  “Other things?” Cold grips my stomach as I anticipate her answer. My own innocent girlhood flashes through my mind, games of catch-as-catch-can in the garden with Eve and our little brother, Tom.

  “He said that he loved me and that if I’d let him feel the secrets of my person then he should know I loved him too.”

  “Y-you didn’t though, did you?”

  After a moment, she bites her lips with pretty white teeth and nods. “I did. It was nice. Nice that someone noticed me and thought me pretty, liked me enough to bring me presents and want to kiss me.”

  “And did none of the women notice what was happening? Did nobody stop him?”

  “Oh, yes. A girl called Mary told my grandmother and she was right cross with me and gave me a spanking and forbade me to be alone with him ever again.”

  “Is that all? She should have had him horsewhipped!”

  Katherine grips my hands tight. “No Belle, I wouldn’t have wanted that. Manox was nice to me and I liked him, although it didn’t last. It wasn’t true love, not after Dereham joined the household.”

  Bells begin to ring inside my head, warning of danger, and I feel a little giddy. I should listen to no more of this; it isn’t safe to do so but my lips form the questions nonetheless. “Not your private secretary, Dereham? For God’s sake, Katherine, tell me that isn’t so.”

  “That’s why I took him on when he sought me out at court, so he wouldn’t tell anyone about us. My uncle would be so cross if he knew.”

  Not so cross as your husband, should he discover an ex-lover installed in your privy chamber. I don’t want to know the answer but I can’t seem to stop myself from asking.

  “So, Master Dereham. He just kissed you and gave you presents, did he?”

  She flushes to the roots of her hair, lowers her chin, as pretty and as delicate as a bird. Then she shakes her head. “He used to come creeping into the dormitory to share my bed at night time. We lay together often, but it wasn’t wrong for we were trothplight. He called me ‘wife’ and I called him ‘husband’. We were going to marry as soon as he had made his fortune.”

  Oh God have mercy, it was worse and worse. If they were trothplight it meant she was not a true wife to the King. No wonder Henry was furious.

  “Did he take your maidenhead?”

  “He did. I lay with him in my bed for more nights than I can remember. He took me in many ways and taught me little tricks; tricks that have served the King well. Then he told me he had to go overseas, but he said he would be back. But he was gone so long and by the time he returned, my uncle had married me to the King.”

  “But you confessed all this before you wed him, did you not?”

  She shakes her head, her eyes fearful. “Should I have, Belle?”

  Lord God on high. I cannot believe my ears. My head is teeming with images I would far rather not see. Katherine the child, pawed by her music master and used shamelessly by an adventuring braggart, a man whom everyone at court whispered was little more than a pirate. It would be bad enough were she just a gently born girl, but she is a Howard and married to the King. Things could not be very much worse. I can barely bring myself to utter my next words.

  “You’ve not lain with Dereham since you married the King, have you?”

  She shakes her head violently and my anxiety lifts a little. If all took place before Henry married her she might yet escape. Fornication is a sin but it is not a crime. If Henry can bear the humiliation she may yet survive. He can put her aside and marry again. But, try as I might, I cannot imagine he will lightly bear the cuckold’s crown.

  Eve always said that for all his lusty nature, the King is the biggest prude in the world. He has a great abhorrence for immorality and, more than once, has tried to shut down the brothels over the river. And give him his due, for all the illegitimate children he’s bred, he is not indiscriminate like some men. When Henry fancies a woman, long before he takes her he seeks to preserve her reputation and ensures she is safely wed to one of his favourites. Of course, we all know it to be a screen for his nefarious doings but there are plenty of men who care not at all for the fate of a woman once they are done with her.

  It is hard for a girl to refuse a King, as Katherine’s own story proves, but this King treats his concubines fairly, showering them with property and wealth and looking after their offspring. This should make me feel better but of course, so far, Henry’s courtesy does not extend to his queens. Katherine might have been far wiser to have just bedded rather than wedded him.

&n
bsp; “Do you think Henry might have discovered my secret, Belle?”

  Her face is a ghost in the darkness, her hair a streak of gold against the shadows of the bed hanging. I have to be truthful, there is no point in lying.

  “I fear he may have, Your Majesty,” I whisper, and her head droops as she begins to weep again. “Hush,” I croon as I rock her back and forth, “hush. If you confess all, Henry will be angry but it is not a crime, Katherine. He can set you aside, you can then wed another and so can he. It will be better so.”

  “Do you truly believe that?” she asks with a little hope shining from her eyes.

  “I do. As long as you tell the truth, all should be well.” Purple thumbprints mar her eyes that now seem larger than ever in her wan little face. She smiles uncertainly and pushes her straggled hair from her face.

  “Belle, should I tell them about Culpepper as well, or is it better if I don’t?”

  I turn to look at her, all hope withering in my chest.

  We have just broken our fast when the waiting ends. Cranmer, the King’s most trusted statesman, sends the women curtly away but Katherine grabs my wrist and asks that I may stay. He reluctantly allows me to wait, as unobtrusively as possible, by the wall, out of earshot.

  A frigid draught blows from beneath the rich tapestry, freezing my feet, but I do not move. I try to pretend I am not really there and think of the garden at Bourne Manor, with the roses nodding in a summer breeze and Eve’s laughter mingling with the scent of honeysuckle. I long so much to be back in my girlhood where I was safe and happy, but I cannot dream for long. Soon reality pulls me back to the Queen’s chamber where she sits before the hearth, knee to knee with Cranmer.

  As if he is teasing a whelk from its shell, he leans forward and begins to gently prise the sorry tale from her. She is tragic and I know it is no act. Sometimes she weeps with her head in her hands, rocking back and forth while Cranmer waits, his eye on the leaden skies outside the window, his fingers slowly drumming on the table top.