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

“I would prefer to tell him all,” said Catherine uneasily.

“I never heard such folly!” Her Grace’s black eyes glinted. “Do you know where Derham is?” she asked. And Catherine assured her that she did not know.

“That is well,” said the Duchess. “I and Lord William have spoken to the King of your virtues and how you will make a most gracious and gentle queen.”

“But shall I?” asked Catherine.

“Indeed you shall. Now, no folly. Come let me try this ruby ring on your finger. I would have you know that the King, while liking well our talk, would have been most displeased with us had we done aught but sing your praises. Oh, what it is to be loved by a king! Catherine Howard, I declare you give yourself graces already!”

Catherine had thought that she would be terrified of the King, but this was not so. There was nothing for her to fear in this great soft man. His voice changed when he addressed her, and his hard mouth could express nothing but kindness for her. He would hold her hand and stroke her cheek and twine her hair about his fingers; and sometimes press his lips against the flesh on her plump shoulders. He told her that she would mean a good deal to him, that he wished above all things to make her his Queen, that he had been a most unhappy man until he had set eyes on her. Catherine looked in wonder at the little tear-filled eyes. Was this the man who had sent her beautiful cousin to her death? How could simple Catherine believe ill of him when she stood before him and saw real tears in his eyes?

He talked of Anne, for he saw that Anne was in Catherine’s thoughts; she was, after all, her own cousin, and the two had known and been fond of one another.

“Come and sit upon my knee, Catherine,” he said, and she sat there while he pressed her body against his and talked of Anne Boleyn. “Wert deceived as I was by all that charm and beauty, eh? Ah! but thou wert but a child and I am man. Didst know that she sought to take my life and poison my daughter Mary? Dost know that my son died through a spell she cast upon him?”

“It is hard to believe that. She was so kind to me. I have a jeweled tablet she gave me when I was but a baby.”

“Sweet Catherine, I too had gifts from her. I too could not believe...”

It was easier for Catherine to believe the King who was close to her, when Anne was but a memory.

It was at this time that she met Thomas Culpepper. He was one of the gentlemen of the privy chamber, and had great charm of manner and personal beauty which had pleased the King ever since he had set eyes upon him. Thomas’s intimate duties of superintending the carrying out of the doctor’s orders regarding the King’s leg kept him close to Henry, who had favored him considerably, and had given him several posts which, while they brought little work, brought good remuneration; he had even given him an abbey. He liked Culpepper; he was amused by Culpepper. In his native Kent, the boy had involved himself in a certain amount of scandal, for it seemed he was wild and not over-scrupulous, but the King was as ready to forgive the faults of those he wished to keep around him, as he was to find fault with those he wished removed.

The knowledge that his cousin was at court soon reached Thomas Culpepper, for since her elevation, everyone was discussing Catherine Howard. Seeing her in the pond garden one afternoon, he went out to her. She was standing by a rose tree, the sun shining on her auburn hair. Thomas immediately understood the King’s infatuation.

“You would not remember me,” he said. “I am your cousin, Thomas Culpepper.”

Her eyes opened very wide and she gave a little trill of pleasure; she held out both her hands.

“Thomas! I had hoped to see you.”

They stood holding hands; studying each other’s faces.

How handsome he is! thought Catherine. Even more handsome than he was as a boy!

How charming she is! thought Thomas. How lovable—and in view of what has happened to her during the last weeks, how dangerously lovable! But to Thomas nothing was ever very interesting unless it held an element of danger.

He said, greatly daring: “How beautiful you have grown, Catherine!”

She laughed delightedly. “That is what everyone says to me now! Do you remember the stick you gave me with which to tap on the wall?”

They were laughing over their memories.

“And the adventures you used to have...and how we used to ride in the paddock...and how you...”

“Said I would marry you!”

“You did, you know, Thomas, and then you never did anything about it!”

“I never forgot!” he lied. “But now...” He looked across the garden and over the hedge to the windows of the palace. Even now, he thought, little hot jealous eyes might have caught sight of him. Living close to the King he knew something of his rages. Dangerously sweet was this contact with Catherine.

“It is too late now,” she said soberly, and she looked very sad. She saw Thomas as the lover to whom she had been betrothed for many years; she forgot Manox and Derham and believed that she had loved Thomas always.

“Suppose that we had married when it was suggested a year or so ago,” said Thomas.

“How different our lives would have been then!”

“And now,” he said, “I risk my life to speak to you.”

Her eyes widened with terror. “Then we must not stay here.” She laughed suddenly. They did not know the King, these people who were afraid of him. His Majesty was all kindness, all eagerness to make people happy really. As if he would hurt her cousin if she asked him not to!

“Catherine,” said Thomas, “I shall risk my life again and again. It will be worth it.”

He took her hand and kissed it, and left her in the pond garden.

They could not resist meeting secretly. They met in dark corridors; they feared that if it reached the ears of the King that they were meeting thus, there would be no more such meetings. Sometimes he touched her fingers with his, but nothing more; and after the first few meetings they were in love with each other.

There was a similarity in their natures; both were passionate, reckless people; they were first cousins and they knew now that they wished to enjoy a closer relationship; and because, when they had been children, they had plighted their troth in the paddock of Hollingbourne, they felt life had been cruel to them to keep them apart and bring them together only when it was too late for them to be lovers.

Catherine had little fear for herself, but she feared for him. He, a reckless adventurer who had been involved in more than one dangerous escape, was afraid not for himself but for her.

They would touch hands and cry out to each other: “Oh, why, oh, why did it have to happen thus!”

She would say to him, “I shall be passing along the corridor that leads to the music room at three of the clock this afternoon.”

He would answer: “I will be there as if by accident.”

All their meetings were like that. They would long for them all day, and then when they reached the appointed spot, it might be that someone was there, and it was impossible for them to exchange more than a glance. But to them both this danger was very stimulating.

There was one occasion when he, grown more reckless by the passing of several days which did not bring even a glimpse of her, drew her from the corridor into an antechamber and shut the door on them.

“Catherine,” he said, “I can endure this no longer. Dost not realize that thou and I were meant one for the other from the first night I climbed into thy chamber? We were but children then, and the years have been cruel to us, but I have a plan. Thou and I will leave the palace together. We will hide ourselves and we will marry.”

She was pale with longing, ever ready to abandon herself to the passion of the moment, but it seemed to her that she heard her cousin’s voice warning her. Catherine would never know the true story of Anne Boleyn, but she had loved her and she knew her end had been terrible. Anne had been loved by the same huge man; those eyes had burned hotly for Anne; those warm, moist hands had caressed her. Anne had had no sad story of a cousin to warn her.

Culpepper was kissing her hands and her lips, Catherine’s healthy young body was suggesting surrender. Perhaps with Manox or Derham she would have surrendered; but not with Culpepper. She was no longer a lighthearted girl. Dark shadows came pursuing her out of the past. Doll Tappit’s high voice. “The cries of the torture chambers are terrible....”

Catherine knew how the monks of the Charterhouse had died; she could not bear to think of others suffering pain, but to contemplate one she loved being vilely hurt was sufficient to stem her desire. She remembered how Derham had run for his life; but then she had been plain Catherine Howard. What of him who dared to love her whom the King had chosen for his Queen!

“Nay, nay!” she cried, tears falling from her eyes. “It cannot be! Oh, that it could! I would give all my life for one year of happiness with you. But I dare not. I fear the King. I must stay here because I love you.”

She tore herself away; there must be no more such meetings.

“Tomorrow...” she agreed weakly. “Tomorrow.”

She ran to her apartment, where, since Anne had left for Richmond, she enjoyed the state of a queen. She was greeted by one of her attendants, Jane Rochford, widow of her late cousin George Boleyn. Lady Rochford looked excited. There was a letter for Catherine, she said.

“A letter?” cried Catherine. “From whom?”

Catherine did not receive many letters; she took this one and opened it; she frowned for she had never been able to read very easily.

Jane Rochford was at her side.

“Mayhap I could assist?”

Jane had been very eager to ingratiate herself with Catherine; she had not liked the last Queen; Jane had decided to adhere to the Catholic cause and support Catherine Howard against Anne of Cleves.

Catherine handed her the letter.

“It is from a Jane Bulmer,” said Jane, “and it comes from York.”

“I remember. It is from Jane Acworth who went to York to marry Mr. Bulmer. Tell me what she says.”

Jane Bulmer’s letter was carefully worded. She wished Catherine all honor, wealth and good fortune. Her motive in writing was to ask a favor of Catherine, and this was that she should be found a place at court. Jane was unhappy in the country; she was desolate. A command from the future Queen to Jane’s husband to bring his wife to court would make Jane Bulmer very happy, and she begged for Catherine’s help.

The threat was in the last sentence.

“I know the Queen of Britain will not forget her secretary....”

Her secretary! Jane Bulmer it was who had written those revealing, those intimate and passionate letters to Derham; Jane Bulmer knew everything that had happened.

Catherine sat very still as Jane Rochford read to her; her face was rosy with shame.

Jane Rochford was not one to let such signs pass unnoticed. She, as well as Catherine, read into those words a hint of blackmail.

On a hot July day Cromwell made the journey from the Tower to Tyburn. Tyburn it was because it was not forgotten that he was a man of lowly origins; he could smile at this, though a short while ago it would have angered him; but what does a man care when his head is to be cut off, whether it be done at Tower Hill or Tyburn?

He had obeyed his master to the last; he had been more than the King’s servant; he had been the King’s slave. But to his cry for mercy, had his most gracious Prince been deaf. He had done with Cromwell. He had not allowed Cromwell to speak in his own defense. Cromwell’s fall would help to bring back Henry’s popularity, for the people of England hated Cromwell.