The Rose Without a Thorn

The Journey to the Tower

IT WAS A FEW DAYS LATER that I heard I was to leave Hampton Court for Syon House.

Jane Rochford said that this might be a good omen. It meant that there were people who would be uneasy about my seeing the King. They had prevented me on one occasion, but what if I should succeed? What if he were to decide to take me back, as many people thought he might be inclined to do? How would all those who had worked against me fare then?

It was the sort of theory one welcomed when one was feeling desperate. I forgot that Jane was one who liked to build up a dramatic situation, to have a plan and attempt to discover devious ways of putting it into practice.

Common sense told me that, if the King really wanted me back, he would soon find some means of getting me. But in my present desperate state, it was comforting to grasp at any hope.

Jane was with me at Syon, a house on the north bank of the Thames near Richmond. It had been a nunnery suppressed by Henry in 1532, when the house had passed to the Crown.

How different it was from Hampton Court! Here indeed I felt a prisoner.

Perhaps I was thinking of poor Lady Margaret Douglas, who had recently been held here under restraint and had been sent away to Kenninghall to make way for me.

Margaret, too, seemed a person destined to fall in love with the wrong people. Perhaps she and I shared a weakness in that way. She had been in the Tower before on account of her attachment to my uncle, Lord Thomas Howard. She had been released from there to be sent to Syon House; then her lover had died and she was freed. Now she was in disgrace again, because of a liaison with another member of my family. This time it was my brother Charles, and she found herself a prisoner in Syon House until my coming, when she was moved to another place of confinement.

Poor Lady Margaret! She must often wish she had not been born royal. It seemed unfair that she should be imprisoned for falling in love and wanting to marry the brother of the woman the King had chosen for his Queen. If Lady Margaret could not expect reasonable consideration, could I?

It was at Syon House that I heard the most alarming news of all. Jane brought it to me. It was the first time since the disaster that I had seen Jane so anxious.

She gasped: “Thomas Culpepper has been arrested.”

I thought I was going to faint. This was indeed disaster. I had hoped by some means to get word to him, to beg him to slip out of the country—but I had been unable to do so.

“What does it mean?” I asked Jane.

“That someone has betrayed him.”

“Who? Who?”

“It must be one of the women … those who were with us during the journey, the ladies of the bedchamber.”

“So they knew!”

“They cannot be sure, but they will know that he came to your bedchamber by night, maybe.”

I covered my face with my hands. I wanted to shut out everything … the memory of my cousin … the terrible fate which could befall us. We had been in acute danger before, but now there was no hope. If the King knew that I had been unfaithful to him, that would be the end … the end of Thomas and of me. He might forgive what had happened before our marriage, but never what had happened after.

A terrible understanding came to me. What if, during those nights, I had conceived a child? Yes, indeed, I was guilty of treason.

What had these women known? What had they seen? With all this talk about the lewd life I had led before my marriage, they would be ready to believe the worst.

Would they question Thomas? Without a doubt they would. Would they do to him what they had done to Derham … and Damport? No, I could not endure that. His beautiful body, to be broken on the rack … as Derham’s had been.

I did not know what to do, which way to turn. This was the worst thing that had happened. I could not bear to think of Thomas in the hands of those cruel men. Oh, why had he not left the country? Why had he not seen what was coming? He should have been aware of what was coming … more so than I. Oh, why had he stayed to meet this cruel fate?

There was no comfort anywhere. Even Jane had changed. I had never seen her like this before. Gone was the plotter, the schemer, the one who reveled in drama. Whichever way she turned, she saw herself at the center of the tragedy.

Who was it who had arranged the meeting with Thomas Culpepper, who had cleared the way, kept the women out of sight, as far as possible? Who had connived and contrived? Jane, of course.

She was caught up in this, guilty of making the way easy for the Queen, which was an act of treachery toward the King—one which might involve the future heir to the throne.

Jane was with me in this trouble.

I saw the terror in her eyes. She could not comfort me, because she could not comfort herself.

We sat side by side, staring ahead of us. If this were proved against us, it would be the end of me … and possibly Jane, too.

We waited for news.

They would put him on the rack, as they had poor Derham. Would he tell of those nights when the King had been absent and we had given ourselves up to our passion? Would they force the truth from him?

It would be the end.

Jane was by turns sunk in melancholy or almost demented. She feared death greatly. Did not we all?

She said: “I think perhaps this is what I expected would happen to me one day. Ever since those two went to the block, I have been haunted by them. I mean your cousins—Anne and George. I helped them there. She was destined for the block, but George … oh, not George. It was cruel. It was wicked. I did not believe they were guilty … either of them. A charge of that could never have been brought against them. There will be those who say that Elizabeth is a bastard. How could that be? You only have to look at her to see who her father is. Anne had to go because she was in the way. She had no son and the King was tired of her. He wanted Jane Seymour. I am not to blame for her death. It only hurt her reputation. But George … my husband. I loved him, Katherine. He was the most charming man I ever knew. And they chose him for my husband. How could he have cared for me? In a way he was in love with his brilliant sister. Not in love perhaps, but he loved her as he loved no one else. How could he be expected to feel anything but contempt for his far-from-exciting wife?”

“Jane, he loved you as a wife.”

“He loved me not at all. I might not have been there, for all he knew. I was just an encumbrance. I would be there … they would all be together … they and their clever friends. People like Thomas Wyatt. He was in love with her, like all the rest. Lucky Wyatt. He managed to escape the axe. Norris … Weston … they were not so fortunate. They were all round her. Poetry … music … all with which I could not compete. And then I had my revenge, did I not? I was the only one who laughed in the end. I envied her so much, and it was all because of George.”

“It is all over, Jane. You distress yourself unnecessarily. There is nothing you can do about it now.”

“But it is there! It has been there ever since that May Day of 1536. Five years … more than that. It has haunted me. And now, here it is, as I feared it would come. It was my evidence that set the case against George in motion. The King was jealous of that feeling between Anne and her brother. He was only too ready to believe anything against them.” She laughed mirthlessly. “How reckless I am becoming, to say these things which I have kept hidden all these years! But what does it matter now? It was my evidence … false evidence … which cost George his life. My revenge on him for not loving me. I wanted revenge and by God’s Holy Mother, when you think of their once-haughty heads rolling in the dust, you must agree, it was mine.”

I tried to stop her, but she would not be silenced.

“Envy,” she went on. “I envied her. There are seven deadly sins, and one of them is envy. It is the greatest of them all. I envied Anne—not her crown, but because my husband loved her far more than he ever loved me. I hated her. I wanted to see her brought low. I wanted her to be hurt in the way she had hurt me. I killed my husband. I deserve to die. And now … I am going to.”

“No, no. Jane, they will do nothing to you.”

She shook her head. “They have taken Culpepper. That means they know. They are questioning Katherine Tylney and Margaret Morton. They will know he came on those nights during the journey. They are bent on betraying us all.”

“But not you, Jane!”

“I was there, was I not? I arranged it. Oh, what fools we have been! Why do we not think of these things before we do them?”

“Jane, Jane, be calm!”

“I am afraid of death. I have too many sins on my conscience. George comes to me in my dreams, and I see him laying his head on the block. He lifts his head then and he looks at me. He says: ‘Jane, why did you do this to me? You knew it was false. I loved my sister, yes. She was the most interesting and exciting person I ever met, but there was no incest and you knew it. Why did you do this to me?’ Then I say to myself: ‘Why did I? I did it to revenge myself because you could not love me as you loved your sister. You could not love me as I loved you.’”

Then she was sobbing wildly.

And the next day she was taken from Syon House for questioning.

I do not remember how I lived through those next days. I raged against the Almighty, and then I pleaded with him. How could this terrible fate have befallen me? They were going to cut off my head. It had happened to many before, and now it was my turn.

There were times when I cried out to Heaven to give me another chance. I would go into a nunnery. I would devote myself to God’s work. I would do anything … suffer any hardship, if only I could keep my life. I longed for the hours when I could sleep, but then I was tormented by dreams. I longed for unconsciousness, that blissful unawareness into which, from sheer exhaustion, I would now and then sink. And all the time I was tortured by thoughts of what was happening to Thomas.

I missed Jane. I wondered what was happening to her. They would be questioning her. Cruel men would be watching her.

There were several women to attend me now. I was so weary; unaware of them, except to notice with relief that none of those who had betrayed me were there. They had the grace to keep Joan Bulmer, Katherine Tylney and Margaret Morton away. I was avid for news of Thomas and to hear how Jane was standing up to the questioning.

I begged them to tell me what they knew. They heard scraps of gossip, of course. I think they were sorry for me. I could see the glances they exchanged, which I guessed meant that they were wondering whether a little knowledge would help me or whether it would be better to leave me in ignorance.

I humbled myself and I implored them to tell me.

They had heard that there had been an inquiry into what had happened at certain of the places we had visited during our tour of the country. Margaret Morton and Katherine Tylney had told what they had seen, heard and conjectured.

I tried to remember those nights, and all I could think of was Thomas’s arms about me, his words of love and how happy we had been.

They knew that Thomas had come to my apartment and had been there late at night. Lady Rochford had brought him in and had tried to keep his presence secret. She had obviously not been completely successful. They knew that Thomas Culpepper had stayed well into the night. I had on occasions told them I should not need their services, and that they were not to come to my bedchamber until I sent for them.

It was all as damning as it could be. Those women had watched, whispered and drawn their own conclusions.

I was nearly mad with grief when I heard that Thomas had been put on the rack. They had treated him viciously when they had tried to make him admit that I had committed adultery with him. But he denied it, even under the extremity of torture. Dear Thomas, he knew well that to have confessed would have meant death for me.

Thomas would know that right up to the time of his arrest there had been a glimmer of hope for me. It had been different with my cousin. She was utterly doomed, for the King wished to be rid of her. But he did not want to lose me. He was not tired of me. Had he not been preparing a thanksgiving service because of his satisfaction with our marriage? And when the blow had come, he had been deeply unhappy. I heard that he had called for his horse and had ridden for miles alone, so distressed was he. He had lost his desire for food: he had wept because I was not what he had believed me to be. Yes, there was a hope. But if he knew that while I was married to him I had taken a lover, his fury would be great. It was possible that he would want revenge.

In spite of Thomas’s refusal to admit that he had been my lover after my marriage, he had been condemned to death, and Derham was to die with him.

It was cold December. Christmas would be with us soon. I thought sadly of other Christmasses and the excitement of planning festivities. There would be no more such Christmasses. Even if I were to experience more, they would be haunted by memories of those two young men.

It was a long day and there was no sleep for me during the night which followed. I could think of nothing but those two young men, lying in their cells—guilty of no crime but of loving me.

They were taken to Tyburn, there to be hanged, cut down alive, disembowelled and their inner organs burned before their heads were cut off… the most agonizing departure from this life which could have been devised.

I was frantic with grief. Let them have my head if they must. I had been careless. I had been wanton. I found loving too easy. I was clever at nothing but that. Oh, if only I had known … if only I had been able to see into the future … if only I had not been the one to bring those two to this!

I was greatly relieved to hear that the sentence on Thomas had been modified. Because he had noble connections, he had been given a more dignified manner of execution and had been beheaded. Not so poor Derham. He had undergone the entire cruel sentence.

So they had died—those two men whom I had loved.

Thomas did not betray me even in the face of death. God would forgive him the lie, I knew. It was done for love and surely that cannot be a great sin in the eyes of a God who is said to be Love.

They told me that before he laid his head upon the block Thomas made a speech to the waiting crowd.

“Gentlemen,” he said. “Do not seek to know more than that the King deprived me of the thing I love best in the world and, though you may kill me for it, she loves me as well as I love her, though up to this hour no wrong has passed between us. Before the King married her, I thought to make her my wife, and when she was lost to me I was like unto death. The Queen saw my sorrow and spoke kindly to me. I was tempted to beg to see her. I did. That is all, my lords, on my honor as a gentleman.”

To the end his one thought had been to protect me. So, nobly he died.

Poor Derham suffered the greater torture. I rejoice that he, too, is now at rest.

Christmas had come and gone. The heads of Thomas Culpepper and Francis Derham were rotting on London Bridge. I saw them in my nightmares. I was a little quieter at this time. Hope came and went, but life no longer seemed desirable.

I wondered why they did not kill me. I supposed it was because the King had not chosen a new bride. He would in time, I was sure. Poor lady! The fate of Henry’s queens was not a happy one. I was sorry for her, whoever she should be, and there were times when I almost longed for the day when I should go to the block.

I wondered about the experience. What did it feel like, to walk out to the Green? First there would be the summons to the Tower, and then the waiting. But perhaps not for long. Sometimes the thought came to me that the King would not let me go. I had meant too much to him. I had been the wife whom he had been waiting for. I shall never forget him as he stood at the altar, thanking God for giving me to him.

Perhaps he was waiting for a time when he could forgive me. I believed he would have done so if Katherine Tylney and Margaret Morton had not told him of Thomas’s visits.

And still there was no decision. No sentence had been passed on me, though the fact that Thomas Culpepper had been executed must have meant that the charge of adultery had been accepted. There were times when I felt indifferent. Whatever happened, I could never be happy again. Always with me would be the memory of Thomas on the rack … taken to Tyburn, the axe descending on his once-proud head.

On the tenth of February, the deputation came to take me to the Tower, and I knew then that the end was near. My heart was sick and my fears had returned during the intervening weeks since the executions of Thomas and Francis Derham, and I had sunk into such deep melancholy that I could feel nothing but intense grief. I was at least relieved that Norfolk was not amongst those who had come to take me to the Tower.

A cold wind was blowing along the river. I thought, is this the last time I shall see it? How familiar it had been during those days at Lambeth. I kept thinking back to them, of Francis giving me the French fennel and my delight with it. I thought I had loved him then. I remembered my grandmother’s wrath when she had discovered what had happened. My poor grandmother! Still a prisoner, fearful of death, as I was.

London Bridge. I glanced up and wished I had not done so. It was all over in a matter of seconds, but I had seen those grisly relics … those decaying heads of the men I had once loved.

We had reached the grim fortress. It loomed up before us. What despair had beset those who had entered it, as I was doing, but there could be no more deep and bitter anguish than that which assailed me now.

The next day I was visited by Sir John Gages, the Constable of the Tower. He told me that the King had given his consent to the Bill of Attainder. The death sentence had been pronounced on me and my paramours Francis Derham and Thomas Culpepper. That sentence had already been carried out on the two men. Mine had yet to be.

So here I was—a prisoner in the Tower. This is how it had happened to my cousin. I thought of her so often, and now here I was, living out the story for myself.

It was uncanny. There were times when I could not believe it; but now the end was near, I felt calmer than I ever had since I had first become aware of the terrible fate which was looming before me.

I was told that Thomas Cranmer, Archbishop of Canterbury, was at the Tower and would like to speak to me.

When he was brought to me, I thought he looked very sad.

“Your Majesty,” he said. “I am very concerned. You know there is a Bill of Attainder against you, and you know what this means?”

“Yes, I know,” I replied. “And I have been expecting it for a long time.”

He nodded. “I have come to tell you that there may be an escape from your tragic situation.”

An escape? Could I be hearing correctly? What escape could there be? Was he suggesting I could step out of the Tower to where a barge would be waiting to take me away—to France perhaps? It was to France most people usually escaped. I must be dreaming. The Archbishop could not be suggesting such a wild plan.

“If you would agree that there had been a precontract between you and Francis Derham, then it could be said that you were never married to the King.”

I stared at him, trying to assess the meaning of this. So, if it were agreed that there were a precontract, it would be as in the case of Catherine of Aragon. I would never have been married to him. Henry could go ahead and marry someone else when he wished. I could see it might be a way of saving my life.

There was a kindness in this Archbishop. He was trying to show me a way of escaping the axe, for, if I would not agree, there was only one way for Henry to marry again. This was my death—as in the case of my cousin.

Betrothed to Derham! It was what we had said, but there had been no betrothal. Was I going to buy a possible reprieve in such a way?

I said slowly: “My Lord Archbishop, I was never betrothed to Francis Derham. It was talked of, but there was no true betrothal.”

He shook his head sadly. “’Tis a pity. If it were so, there might be a way.”

He was looking at me almost appealingly. He wanted me to tell him I had been betrothed.

All kinds of thoughts were rushing through my head. Did the King want it? It must be so, or it would not have been suggested. Was it because he could not bear to think of the head he had so often caressed falling to the executioner’s axe?

There was another thought. Two Queens beheaded in a few short years! Two divorces … or as good as! And the other dead in childbirth! There had once been a rumor that, at the time of Jane’s death, there had been a chance to save either her life or that of the newly born Prince, and when the King had been asked to decide, he had replied that, while it was hard for him to get a son, wives were easily come by. That may not have been true, but the fact that there had been a rumor meant that the thought must have been in someone’s mind. People were already whispering about the unfortunate lives of Henry’s queens. Was that the reason why he was not eager to behead another of them? Would some people call it murder?

But there had been no betrothal, and I had done with lies. I did not want to live … without Thomas. So I said: “It is not true. I was never betrothed to Francis Derham.”

“My lady, Your Majesty, I am sure that if you agreed, there might be a way out of your trials.”

“There may or may not. I do not know. But I cannot say there was a betrothal between myself and Francis Derham.”

He looked at me mournfully and went away.