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

• Название: Murder Most Royal: The Story of Anne Boleyn and Catherine Howard
• Автор: Jean Plaidy
• Жанр: Прочая старинная литература

---

He was almost glad that the low state of the treasury would not allow for ceremony just at this time, for this enabled him to enjoy peace with his young bride.

They made a happy little journey from Windsor to Grafton where they stayed until September, and it was while they were at Grafton that an alarming incident took place.

Cranmer noted and decided to make the utmost use of it, although, knowing the amorous nature of the King, he could hope for little from it yet. Cranmer was uneasy, and had been since the arrest of Cromwell, for they had walked too long side by side for the liquidation of one not to frighten the other seriously. Norfolk was in the ascendant, and he and Cranmer were bitterly engaged in the silent subtle warring of two opposing religious sects. Such as Catherine Howard were but counters to be moved this way and that by either side; and the fight was fierce and deadly. Cranmer, though a man of considerable intellectual power, was at heart a coward. His great aim was to keep his head from the block and his feet from the stake. He could not forget that he had lost his ally Cromwell and had to play this wily Norfolk singlehanded. Cranmer was as determined to get Catherine Howard off the throne as the Catholics had been to destroy Anne Boleyn. At this time, he bowed before the new Queen; he flattered her; he talked of her in delight to the King, murmuring that he trusted His Majesty had now the wife his great goodness deserved. And now, with this incident coming to light and the marriage not a month old, Cranmer prayed that he might be able to make the utmost use of it and bring Catherine Howard to ruin and so serve God in the way He most assuredly preferred to be served.

It had begun with a few words spoken by a priest at Windsor. He had talked slightingly of the Queen, saying that he had been told once, when she was quite a child, she had led a most immoral life. This priest was immediately taken prisoner and put into the keep of Windsor Castle, while Wriothesley, at the bidding of the Council, was sent to lay these matters before the King.

Catherine was in a little antechamber when this man arrived; she heard the King greet him loudly.

“What news?” cried Henry. “By God! You look glum enough!”

“Bad news, Your Majesty, and news it grieves me greatly to bring to Your Grace.”

“Speak up! Speak up!” said the King testily.

“I would ask Your Majesty to be patient with me, for this concerns Her Majesty the Queen.”

“The Queen!” Henry’s voice was a roar of fear. The sly manner and the feigned sorrow in the eyes of the visitor were familiar to him. He could not bear that anything should happen to disturb this love idyll he shared with Catherine.

“The dribblings of a dotard doubtless,” said Wriothesley. “But the Council felt it their duty to warn Your Majesty. A certain priest at Windsor has said that which was unbefitting concerning the Queen.”

Catherine clutched the hangings, and felt as though she were about to faint. She thought, I ought to have told him. Then he would not have married me. Then I might have married Thomas. What will become of me? What will become of me now?

“What’s this? What’s this?” growled the King.

“The foolish priest—doubtless a maniac—referred to the laxity of Her Majesty’s behavior when she was in the Dowager Duchess’s care at Lambeth.”

The King looked at Wriothesley in such a manner as to make that ambitious young man shudder. The King was thinking that if Catherine had been a saucy wench before he had set eyes on her, he was ready to forget it. He wanted no disturbance of this paradise. She was charming and good-tempered, a constant delight, a lovely companion, a most agreeable bedfellow; she was his fifth wife, and his fourth had robbed him of any desire to make a hasty change. He wanted Catherine as he had made her appear to himself. Woe betide any who tried to destroy that illusion!

“Look ye here!” he said sternly. “I should have thought you would have known better than to trouble me with any foolish tale of a drunken priest. You say this priest but repeated what he had heard. You did right to imprison him. Release him now, and warn him. Tell him what becomes of men who speak against the King...and by God, those who speak against the Queen speak against the King! Tongues have been ripped out for less. Tell him that, Wriothesley, tell him that. As for him who spoke these evil lies to the priest, let him be confined until I order his release.”

Wriothesley was glad to escape.

Catherine, trembling violently, thought: I must speak to my grandmother. I must explain to the King.

She half expected the King to order her immediate arrest, and that she would be taken to the Tower and have to lay her head on the block as her cousin had done. She was hysterical when she ran out to the King; she was flushed with fear; impulsively she threw her arms about his neck and kissed him.

He pressed her close to him. He might still be doubtful, but he was not going to lose this. By God, he thought, if anyone says a word against my Queen, he shall pay for it!

“Why, sweetheart?” he said, and turned her face to his, determined to read there what he wished to read. Such innocence! By God, those who talked against her deserved to have their heads on London Bridge—and should too! She was pure and innocent, just as Lord William and her grandmother had assured him. He was lucky—even though he were a King—to have such a jewel of womanhood.

The happy honeymoon continued.

The Dowager Duchess was closeted with the Queen.

“I declare,” said Catherine, “I was greatly affrighted. I heard every word, and I trembled so that I scarce dared go out to the King when the man had gone!”

“And the King, said he naught to you?”

“He said naught.”

“He has decided to ignore this, depend upon it.”

“I feel so miserable. I would prefer to tell him. You understand, with Derham, it was as though we were married...”

“Hush! Do not say such things. I am an old woman and an experienced one; you are young and unwise. Take my advice.”

“I will,” said Catherine. “Of course I will. It was yours I took when I did not tell the King before my marriage.”

“Pish!” said the Duchess, and then dropping her voice to a whisper: “I have heard from Derham.”

“From Derham!”

“I said from Derham. He is back in my house. He is such a charming boy and I could not find it in my heart to keep up my anger against him. He still speaks of you with indiscreet devotion, and he has asked for something which I cannot adivse you to refuse him. He says that he must see you now and then, that you have nothing to fear from him. He loves you too well to harm you.”

“What does he ask?”

“A place at court!”

“Oh, no!”

“Indeed yes; and I feel that you would be very unwise to refuse it. Do not look so frightened. Remember you are the Queen.”

Catherine said slowly: “I have Jane Bulmer here and Katharine Tylney as well as Margaret Morton. I would that I had refused them.”

“Refuse them! You speak without thought. Have you forgotten that these people were at Lambeth and actually witnessed what took place between you and Derham!”

“I had rather they were not here. They are inclined to insolence as though they know I dare not dismiss them.”

She did not tell the Duchess that Manox approached her too, that he had demanded a place at court. There was no need to disturb the Duchess further, and tell her that Manox, now one of the court musicians, had once been Catherine’s lover.

“Now,” said the Duchess, “you must listen to me. Derham must come to court. You cannot refuse him.”

“I see that you are right,” said Catherine wearily.

So came Derham.

The King’s delight in his Queen did not diminish with the passing of the months. They left Ampthill for More Park where they could enjoy an even more secluded life; Henry was impatient with any minister who dared disturb him, and gave special instructions that no one was to approach him; any matter which was urgent was to be set out in writing. He was happy, desperately warming himself by the fire of Catherine’s youth; he doted on her; he caressed her even in public, declaring that at last he had found conjugal happiness. He felt this to be a reward for a life of piety. There was one further blessing he asked, and that was children. So far, there was little success, but what matter? Catherine in herself was as much as any man could reasonably ask.

She was such a soft-hearted little thing and could bear to hurt no one. She hated to hear of the executions which were taking place every day; she would put her plump little fingers into her ears, and he would pet her and murmur, “There, there, sweetheart, wouldst have me fete these traitors?”

“I know traitors must be severely dealt with,” she said. “They must die, but let them die by the axe or the rope, not these lingering, cruel deaths.”

And he, forgetting how he had spurned Jane Seymour and threatened her when she would meddle, could deny his new Queen little.

Those Catholics who still hoped for reunion with Rome thought the moment ripe to strike at the men who had supported Cromwell, and Wyatt, among others, was sent to the Tower. He, bold as ever, had dared defend himself, and Catherine angered her uncle Norfolk by pleading for leniency towards Wyatt. She took warm clothes and food to the old Countess of Salisbury, who was still in the Tower.

The King remonstrated with her.

“It will not do, sweetheart, it will not do.”

“Would you have me leave such a poor old lady to starve?”

He took her onto his knee, and touched her cheek in a manner meant to reprove her, but she, with a characteristic gesture, seized his finger and bit it softly, which amused him, so that he found himself laughing instead of scolding.

He could not help it. She was irresistible. If she would take clothes and food to the old Countess, then she must. He would try pleading with her again concerning the greater indiscretion of asking pardon for Wyatt.

“Now listen to me,” he said. “Wyatt is a traitor.”

“He is no traitor. He is a brave man. He does not cringe nor show fear, and is not afraid to state his opinions.”

“Aye!” said the King slyly. “And he is the handsomest man in court, you are about to add!”

“He is assuredly, and I am certain he is a true friend to Your Majesty.”

“So you find him handsomer than your King, eh?”

“The handsomest man, you said. We did not speak of kings!” She took his great face in her hands and surveyed him saucily. “Nay,” she said, “I will say that Thomas Wyatt is the handsomest man in the court, but I would not include the King in that!” Which made him laugh and feel so gratified that he must kiss her and say to himself, A plague on Norfolk! Does he think to rule this realm! Wyatt is indeed a bold spirit and I was ever one to look for boldness in a man. If he is too anti-Catholic, he is at least honest. How does a King know when men will plot against him? Wyatt is too pleasant a man to die; his head is too handsome to be struck off his shoulders. Doubtless we can pardon Wyatt on some condition.

Norfolk was furious over the affair of Wyatt. He quarreled with his stepmother.

“What means the Queen? Wyatt is our enemy. Has she not sense enough to know that!”

“Speak not thus of the Queen in my presence!” said the Dowager Duchess. “Or ’twill go ill with thee, Thomas Howard.”

“You are an old fool. Who put the wench on the throne, I would ask you?”

“You may ask all you care to. I am willing to answer. The King put Catherine Howard on the throne because he loves her sweet face.”

“Bah! You will go to the block one day, old woman, and that wench with you.”

“This is treason!” cried Her Grace.

“Tut, tut,” said the Duke and left her.

The Duchess was so furious that she went straight to the Queen.

“He was but feigning friendship for us,” said Catherine. “I believe I ever knew it...”

“I fear him,” said the Duchess. “There is that in him to terrify a woman, particularly when...”

They looked at each other; then glanced over their shoulders. The past was something they must keep shut away.

“Tread warily with the Duke!” warned the Duchess.

But it was not in Catherine’s nature to tread warily. She showed her displeasure in her coolness to the Duke. The King noticed it and was amused. He liked to see proud Norfolk slighted by this vivacious Queen of his whose power flowed from himself.

Norfolk was filled with cold fury. This Catherine was every bit as unruly as his niece Anne Boleyn. If there was anything in that rumor which had risen up within a few weeks of her marriage, by God, he would not be the one to hold out a helping hand to Catherine Howard.

Sly Cranmer watched the trouble between Norfolk and his niece, and was pleased by it, for Norfolk was a worthy ally, and that they, enemies to one another, should be joined in common cause against Catherine Howard, was not an unsatisfactory state of affairs. But even if he had a case against Catherine, he would have to wait awhile, since it would be folly to present it to the King in his present amorous state. How much longer was the fat monarch going on cooing like a mating pigeon?

There was no sign of a change in the King’s attitude towards Catherine. All through spring and summer as they journeyed from place to place, he was her devoted husband. He preferred comparative retirement in the country to state balls and functions.

Henry was, however, jolted out of his complacency by news of a papist revolt in the north. This was headed by Sir John Neville and there was no doubt that it had been strongly influenced from the Continent by Cardinal Pole. Up rose Henry, roaring like a lion who has slumbered too long. He would restrain his wrath no longer. He had, in his newly found happiness, allowed himself to be over-lenient. How could he go on enjoying bliss with Catherine if his throne was imperiled and snatched from him by traitors!

The old Countess of Salisbury could no longer be allowed to live. Her execution had been delayed too long. Catherine had pleaded for her, had conjured up pitiful pictures of her freezing and starving in the Tower. Let her freeze! Let her starve! So perish all traitors! She was the mother of a traitor—one of the greatest and most feared Henry had ever known. Cardinal Pole might be safe on the Continent, but his mother should suffer in his stead.

“To the block with her!” shouted Henry, and all Catherine’s pleas could not deter him this time. He was gentle with her, soothing her. “Now now, sweetheart, let such matters rest. She is not the poor old lady you might think her to be. She is a traitor and she has bred traitors. Come, come, wouldst thou have thy King and husband tottering from his throne? Thrones have to be defended now and then with blood, sweetheart.”

So the old Countess was done to death in cruel fashion, for she, the last of the Plantagenets, kept her courage to the violent end. She refused to lay her head on the block, saying the sentence was unjust and she no traitor.

“So should traitors do,” she said, “but I am none, and if you will have my head, you must win it if you can.”