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

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

Of all murders men had committed at the King’s command this was the most horrible, for the Countess was dragged by her hair to the block, and since she would not then submit her head peaceably, the executioner hacked at her with his axe until she, bleeding from many wounds, sank in her death agony to the ground, where she was decapitated.

Such deaths aroused Henry’s wrath. The people loved to gloat over bloody details; they whispered together, ever fond of martyrs.

It had always been Henry’s plan, since the break with Rome, to play the Catholics off against the Lutherans, just as he played Charles against Francis. The last insurrection had put the Catholics out of favor, and his conscience now gave him several twinges about Cromwell. He replied to his conscience by mourning that, acting on false accusations which those about him had made, he had put to death the best servant he had ever had. Thus could he blame the Catholics for Cromwell’s death and exonerate himself. Norfolk was out of favor; Cranmer in the ascendant. Henry left the administration of his affairs in the hands of a few chosen anti-papists headed by Cranmer and Chancellor Audley, and proceeded North on a punitive expedition, accompanied by the Queen.

Henry was wholehearted in most things he undertook. When he set out to stamp the impression of his power on his subjects, he did so with vigor; and as his method was cruelty, Catherine could not help being revolted by that tour to the north.

Loving most romantically the handsome Culpepper, she must compare him with Henry; and while she had been prepared to do her best and please the indulgent man she had so far known, she was discovering that this was not the real man, and she was filled with horror. There was no kindness in him. She was forced to witness the groveling of those who had rebelled because they wished to follow what they believed to be true. As they went through county after county and she saw the cruelty inflicted, and worse still was forced to look on his delight in it, it seemed to her, that when he came to her, his hands dripped blood. She wished the King to be a loving monarch; she wished the people to do homage to him; but she wanted them to respect him without fearing him, as she herself was trying so desperately to do.

There had been many compensations which had come to her when she forsook Culpepper to marry Henry. Mary, Joyce and Isabel, her young sisters, had been lifted from their poverty; indeed, there was not one impecunious member of her family who had not felt her generosity. This did not only apply to her family but to her friends also. She wanted to feel happiness about her; she wanted to make the King happy; she wanted no one worried by poverty, inconvenienced by hardship, smitten with sorrow. She wanted a pleasant world for herself and everyone in it.

When they came to Hull and saw what was left of Constable, a prey to the flies, hanging on the highest gate where Norfolk had gleefully placed him full four years ago, she turned away sickened, for the King had laughingly pointed out this grim sight to her.

“There hangs a traitor...or what is left of him!”

She turned from the King, knowing that however she tried she would never love him.

“Thou art too gentle, sweetheart!” The King leaned towards her and patted her arm, showing that he liked her gentleness, even though it might make her shed a tear for his enemies.

Often she thought of Thomas Culpepper, who was in the retinue accompanying them. Often their eyes would meet, exchanging smiles. Jane Rochford noted this, and that peculiar twist of her character which had ever made her court danger though through doing so she could bring no gain to herself, made her say, “Your cousin Culpepper is a handsome young man. He loves you truly. I see it there in his eyes. And methinks Your Majesty is not indifferent to him, for who could be to such a handsome boy! You never meet him. You are over-cautious. It could be arranged....”

This was reminiscent of the old days of intrigue, and Catherine could not resist it. She felt that only could she endure Henry’s caresses if she saw Thomas now and then. She carried in her mind every detail of Thomas’s face so that when the King was with her, she could, in her imagination, put Thomas in his place, and so not show the repugnance to his caresses which she could not help but feel.

Derham came to her once or twice to write letters for her. He watched her with smoldering, passionate eyes, but she was not afraid of harm coming from Derham. He was devoted as ever, and though his jealousy was great, he would never do anything, if he could help it, to harm the Queen. Derham knew nothing of her love for Culpepper, and Catherine, not wishing to cause him pain, saw to it that he should not know, and now and then would throw him soft glances to show that she remembered all they had been to each other. In view of this Derham could not forbear to whisper to his friend Damport that he loved the Queen, and he was sure that if the King were dead he might marry her.

During that journey there were many meetings with Culpepper. Lady Rochford was in her element; she carried messages between the lovers; she listened at doors. “The King will be in council for two hours more. It is safe for Culpepper to come to the apartment....” Catherine did not know that her relations with Culpepper were becoming a sly joke throughout the court and were discussed behind hands with many a suppressed giggle.

When they were at Lincoln she all but surrendered to Culpepper. He would beg; she would hesitate; and then be firm in her refusals.

“I dare not!” wept Catherine.

“Ah! Why did you not fly with me when I asked it!”

“If only I had done so!”

“Shall we go on spoiling our lives, Catherine?”

“I cannot bear this sorrow, but never, never could I bear that harm should come to you through me.”

Thus it went on, but Catherine was firm. When she felt weak she would seem to feel the presence of Anne Boleyn begging her to take care, warning her to reflect on her poor cousin’s fate.

Because no one showed that the love between them was known, they did not believe it was known, and they grew more and more reckless. There was a time at Lincoln when they were alone until two in the morning, feeling themselves safe because Lady Rochford was keeping guard. They reveled in their secret meetings with ostrich-like folly. As long as they denied themselves the satisfaction their love demanded, they felt safe. No matter that people all around them were aware of their intrigue. No matter that Cranmer was but waiting an opportunity.

On this occasion at Lincoln, Katharine Tylney and Margaret Morton had been loitering on the stairs outside the Queen’s apartment in a fever of excitement lest the King should come unexpectedly, and they be involved.

“Jesus!” whispered Katharine Tylney as Margaret came gliding into the corridor, “is not the Queen abed yet?”

Margaret, who a moment before had seen Culpepper emerge, answered: “Yes, even now.” And the two exchanged glances of relief, shrugging their shoulders smiling over the Queen’s recklessness and frivolity, reminding each other of her behavior at Lambeth.

Many such dangerous meetings took place, with Lady Rochford always at hand, the Queen’s attendant, always ready with suggestions and hints. Catherine had been indiscreet enough to write to Culpepper before this journey began. This was an indication of the great anxiety she felt for him, because Catherine never did feel happy with a pen, and to write even a few lines was a great effort to her. She had written this letter before the beginning of the tour when she and the King were moving about close to London and Culpepper was not with them. It was folly to write; and greater folly on Culpepper’s part to keep the letter; but being in love and inspired by danger rather than deterred by it, they had done many foolish things and this was but one of them.

“I heartily recommend me unto you, praying you to send me word how that you do,” wrote Catherine. “I did fear you were sick and I never longed for anything so much as to see you. It makes my heart to die when I think that I cannot always be in your company. Come to me when Lady Rochford be here for then I shall be best at leisure to be at your commandment....”

And such like sentences all written out laboriously in Catherine’s untrained hand.

She lived through the days, waiting for a glimpse of Culpepper, recklessly, dangerously, while the foolish Lady Rochford sympathized and arranged meetings.

The King noticed nothing. He felt pleased; once more he was showing rebels what happened to those who went against their king. He could turn from the flattery of those who sought his good graces to the sweet, youthful charm of Catherine Howard.

“Never was man so happy in his wife!” he said; and he thought that when he returned he would have the nation sing a Te Deum, for at last the Almighty had seen fit to reward his servant with a perfect jewel of womanhood.

Cranmer was so excited he could scarcely make his plans. At last his chance had come. This was too much even for the King to ignore.

There was a man at court who was of little importance, but towards whom Cranmer had always had a kindly feeling. This man was a Protestant, stern and cold, a man who never laughed because he considered laughter sinful, a man who had the makings of a martyr, one who could find more joy in a hair-shirt than in a flagon of good wine. This man’s name was John Lassells, a protege of Cromwell’s who had remained faithful to him; he preached eternal damnation for all those who did not accept the teachings of Martin Luther.

This John Lassells came to Cranmer with a story which set Cranmer’s hopes soaring, that made him feel he could embrace the man.

“My lord,” said Lassells most humbly, “there is on my conscience that which troubles me sorely.”

Cranmer listened halfheartedly, feeling this was doubtless some religious point the man wished explained.

“I tremble for what this may mean,” said Lassells, “for it concerns Her Grace the Queen.”

Gone was Cranmer’s lethargy; there was a flicker of fire in his eyes.

“My lord Archbishop, I have a sister, Mary, and Mary being nurse to Lord William Howard’s first wife, was after her death taken into the service of the Dowager Duchess of Norfolk.”

“Where the Queen was brought up,” said Cranmer eagerly.

“I asked my sister Mary why she did not sue for service with the Queen, for I saw that many who had been in the Dowager Duchess’s household now held places at court. My sister’s answer was most disturbing. ‘I will not,’ she said: ‘But I am very sorry for the Queen.’ I asked why, and she answered, ‘Marry, for she is both light in living and behavior.’ I asked how so, and she did tell me a most alarming story.”

“Yes, yes?”

“There was one Francis Derham who had slept in bed with her for many nights, and another, Manox, had known her.”

“Derham!” cried Cranmer. “Manox! They are both in the Queen’s household.”

He questioned Lassells further, and when he had learned all the man had to tell, he dismissed him after telling him he had indeed done the King a great service.

Cranmer was busy, glad of the absence of the King to give him a free hand. He sent Southampton to question Mary Lassells. Manox was arrested and brought before him and Wriothesley. Derham went to the Tower. Cranmer was going to garner each grain he gleaned, and when they were laid side by side he doubted not he would have good harvest. He waited impatiently for the return of the royal pair.

Henry was filled with satisfaction when he returned to Hampton Court. He was full of plans which he would lay before his confessor. A public thanksgiving should be prepared that the whole country might know, and thank God, that he had been blessed with a loving, dutiful and virtuous wife.

But Henry’s satisfaction was shortlived. He was in the chapel at Hampton Court when Cranmer came to him; Cranmer’s eyes were averted and in his hand he carried a paper.

“Most Gracious King,” said Cranmer, “I fear to place this grave matter set out herein in your hands, and yet the matter being so grave I dare do naught else. I pray that Your Grace will read it when you are alone.”

Henry read the report on Catherine; his anger was terrible, but it was not directed against Catherine but those who had given evidence against her. He sent for Cranmer.

“This is forged!” he cried. “This is not truthful! I have conceived such a constant opinion of her honesty that I know this!”

He paced up and down so that Cranmer’s chicken heart was filled with fear. It was too soon. The King would not give up the Queen; rather he would destroy those who sought to destroy her.

“I do not believe this!” cried the King, but Cranmer had heard the quiver of doubt in his master’s voice and rejoiced. “But,” went on the King, “I shall not be satisfied until the certainty is known to me.” He glowered at Cranmer. “There must be an examination. And...no breath of scandal against the Queen.”

The King left Hampton Court, and Catherine was told to stay in her rooms. Her musicians were sent away and told that this was no time for music.

Over Hampton Court there fell a hush of horror like a dark curtain that shut away gaiety and laughter; thus it had been at Greenwich less than six years ago when Anne Boleyn had looked in vain for Brereton, Weston, Norris and Smeaton.

Catherine was chilled with horror; and when Cranmer with Norfolk, Audley, Sussex and Gardiner came to her, she knew that the awful doom she had feared ever since she had become the King’s wife was about to fall upon her.

Wriothesley questioned Francis Derham in his cell.

“You may as well tell the truth,” said Wriothesley, “for others have already confessed it for you. You have spent a hundred nights naked in the bed of the Queen.”

“Before she was Queen,” said Derham.

“Ah! Before she was Queen. We will come to that later. You admit that there were immoral relations between you and the Queen?”

“No,” said Derham.

“Come, come, we have ways of extracting the truth. There were immoral relations between you and the Queen.”

“They were not immoral. Catherine Howard and I regarded each other as husband and wife.”

Wriothesley nodded slowly.

“You called her ‘wife’ before others?”

“Yes.”

“And you exchanged love tokens?”

“We did.”

“And some of the household regarded you as husband and wife?”

“That is so.”

“The Dowager Duchess and Lord William Howard regarded you as husband and wife?”

“No; they were ignorant of it.”

“And yet it was no secret.”

“No, but...”

“The entire household knew, with the exception of the Dowager Duchess and Lord William?”

“It was known among those with whom it was our custom to mix.”

“You went to Ireland recently, did you not?”

“I did.”

“And there were engaged in piracy?”

“Yes.”

“For which you deserve to hang, but no matter now. Did you not leave rather abruptly for Ireland?”