The Rose Without a Thorn

Dangerous Games

I DID NOT FORGET Francis Derham. There was the red rose to remind me. I often wore it. Dorothy and Joan smiled when I told them Francis Derham had given it to me. They often commented on it and afterward I wished I had not told them whence it came. So then I did not wear it as much as I should have liked to; and it seemed they forgot him. But I did not need the red rose to remind me of him.

Something was happening, and we were aware of it. This was due to living near the Court and not in Horsham. Moreover, my grandmother and the Duke of Norfolk appeared to be concerned in it.

I saw little of my uncle, but my grandmother often left the Court and returned to the house. The Court was constantly traveling round the country and my grandmother did not like the journeys. She said she was feeling her age, and Court life could be exhausting.

Her limbs were stiff, she complained. She had procured some soothing lotions from her physician which had to be rubbed into her swollen legs, and she summoned me, as a member of the family, to perform this intimate task.

This, although somewhat distasteful to me, had its compensations, for, as I massaged, she would slip into a dreamy state and talk almost as though to herself, which meant she often forgot discretion and said more than she intended. Thus I began to understand much of what would otherwise have been a mystery to me.

It quickly became clear to me that all was not well with Queen Anne. The euphoria was fast evaporating, and the King was less devoted than he had been.

“It began with the birth of the child,” mused the Duchess. “If only she had been a boy. That would have bound them together. He had set his heart on a son. All the documents announcing the birth … they had all been prepared for a boy. And then comes the Princess Elizabeth … a beautiful child … no weakness there … but a girl. He had thought my granddaughter perfect. He had thought she could give him all he wanted. But it is the good God who decides the sex of a child, and he chose to give them a girl! And there are those to say that this is a sign of divine disapproval. That Peto. Oh, he is not the only one. They should have been silenced. Well, there it is. If it had been a boy, all would have gone well, all would have been saved.”

“Saved!” I gasped. It was a mistake. I should have kept silent.

“What’s that, eh? What are you doing, child? Get on with the rubbing.”

You must not interrupt her, I admonished myself. She must forget that you are here. No talking then from me. Let her do it all.

I rubbed, gently, soothingly, and she was soon continuing.

“Poor child. So beautiful. There is no one to rival her. What if it is he who cannot get the boys? There is the Lady Mary and now the Princess Elizabeth … and all the boys Catherine had were born sickly and did not live. There is Richmond, of course, the King’s son. Did he not admit to it? Did he not rejoice in the boy? But a bastard. He can get bastards, but no heirs. It is as though God is against him. Can it be? That is what they say. Some of them are so bold … they risk their lives. They are like the saints. They do not care for the axe—and they are lucky if they get that. That’s for the nobility, but it’s hanging, drawing and quartering for some … and still they do not care. They will say what they believe to be the truth. The people don’t like it. They don’t like her. They are all envious of my beautiful granddaughter. Oh, what a lovely creature! When she came back from France, there was no one to touch her. And now … she is Queen indeed … but he begins to wander, they say. The Duke is worried …”

I wanted to ask if the Queen were worried too, but I stopped myself in time. It was an unnecessary question. Of course she must be worried. And my uncle was disturbed. There would be reason for that. The family had been greatly honored since one of its members had become the Queen.

My poor cousin Anne! I remembered the glimpse I had had of her at her coronation. So proud, so beautiful, the most powerful woman in the country; but even she had to remember that her power came through the King, and everything depended on her pleasing him.

The months passed. Often I thought of Francis Derham, and I wondered whether he would ever come back.

I saw Henry Manox now and then. He was still at Lord Beaumont’s. Whenever we met, he looked at me pleadingly, but I was not in the least tempted—perhaps because I carried the image of Francis Derham in my mind. He was so different.

I learned more of what was happening. It was well known now that all was not well between the King and the Queen, and throughout the house there was an air of impending doom.

On the rare occasions when I saw my uncle, the Duke, he was clearly disturbed; as for my grandmother, she was very obviously affected. Not so long ago, she could not have spoken of our kinswoman, the Queen, without glowing with pride; now she did so with apprehension.

Where would it end? He was married to her, but some said it was no true marriage. Had he not been married to Queen Catherine? But he had thrust her aside; and she was related to the great Emperor Charles, which was why the Pope could not accept a bribe from the King to agree to the divorce. And Anne … who was she? Who would defend her? The family of Howard? A great family, yes, but insignificant compared with such as the Emperor Charles, the most powerful ruler in Europe. And who were the Howards to set themselves against the King? A previous king had shown them how easily he could humble them.

I was indeed growing up, and learning something of the world, and I was deeply sorry for my brilliant cousin.

And well I might be! I often thought later what she must have suffered during those months, and then I understood it so well.

Everyone knows that story.

There was a time when I was aware of the lightening of my grandmother’s spirits. There was a definite new optimism. The Queen was pregnant.

The Duchess talked of it while I rubbed her legs.

“This could save everything. It is God’s answer to our prayers. True, it will not be the same … he is not a man to stay constant. His fancies stray and many are standing ready.” She laughed mirthlessly. “I think of those Seymour brothers … a fine pair they are. Mischief-makers, both of them. Edward is a rogue, and so is Thomas. They have always been enemies of the Howards. They are seeking advancement through this …”

It was all rather vague, and I dared not ask for clarification since this would be the quickest way to silence her. But there was a good deal of gossip going on, and I was able to glean something of the situation, so I soon learned that the King was enamoured of one of the Queen’s ladies-in-waiting. Mistress Jane Seymour was not of significantly high birth, but she had those two ambitious brothers. Anne Boleyn, lady-in-waiting to Queen Catherine, had ensnared the King. Now it seemed it was the turn of Jane Seymour, lady-in-waiting to Anne, to do the same.

My grandmother had gone back to Court to be near her granddaughter when she gave birth.

Oh, for a son, we prayed. Only God could give Anne that.

Alas, he did not listen to our prayers, or only partly. It was very dramatic, I understood. The Queen had burst in on her maid, Jane Seymour, and the King. They were in each other’s arms and certain familiarities were taking place. How Anne must have hated that woman and longed to be rid of her, but naturally, she could do nothing about the matter, for the King would not allow her to be dismissed: and Queen Anne, who once could have demanded anything from him, must now stand by and suffer the humiliation of seeing another preparing to take the place which had been hers—just as Queen Catherine had had to do before her.

Queen Anne was so angry that she gave vent to her rage and the King shouted at her that she must perforce endure what others had before her. Poor Anne, she must have seen the end in sight, and the only way she could avert the fate which had fallen to Queen Catherine was to have a son. And that was not in her power, except by prayer, which was not always reliable.

It was certainly not in her case. There was not even a daughter like the Princess Elizabeth. The shock of that encounter between herself, the King and Jane Seymour brought on a miscarriage. It was the end.

The Duchess returned to us, sad-hearted and defeated. She could no longer delude herself into thinking that all would come right. There was no son. The King was tired of her whom he had once desired sufficiently to defy the Pope and break with Rome; and now she was no more to him than poor, sick, tired Catherine of Aragon.

The Duchess had been with Anne when she lay in her bed, sick and frantic with worry, and during one of those sessions when I was rubbing her legs, she talked of the occasion.

“She was in need of comfort. She had lost her child … a sadness for a mother at any time, but when so much depends on it … Oh, he was cruel. The anger in his little eyes … his tight, straight mouth. And it was worse, because the child had been a boy. Oh, if only she had not come upon them … if only she had not lost what she so needed. But how could she help it, poor soul? She knew how he had behaved with Queen Catherine—and, alas, she had helped him in that, one could say. But he was cruel. He may be the King, but I will say it. He said, ‘You shall have no more boys by me.’ And there she lay, sick, deserted, my poor, poor child.”

Through the spring the gloom persisted. It was exactly three years since those glorious days when we were preparing for Anne’s coronation. I remembered my grandmother’s pride and joy because of our connection with the new Queen. The atmosphere had changed a great deal. It would have been better now if we were not related to the Queen. The Duke was very gloomy. He came to the house more frequently. I gathered that he was not as popular at Court as he had been, for the King no longer had the same welcome for members of the Howard family.

My grandmother was frantic with anxiety. She shut herself in her room. Lord William was often at the house, and there were earnest conversations between him and the Duke. I saw them walking in the gardens, and I believed that they did not want what they said to be overheard.

Greatly daring, I went to the Duchess and asked if she needed me, for during one of these sessions of ours I thought I might hear something important from her ramblings; but she sharply told me to be off and not bother her.

Then came that terrible day when our hopes that the storm would blow over were foundered for ever.

It was the topic of conversation everywhere. There were several versions of it, but most were hearsay. The King and Queen had been together at the May Day joust, seated side by side in the royal box. The King did not speak to the Queen, and it was clear to everyone that all was not well between them. The King was glum, while the Queen put on an air of false gaiety in an effort to maintain the pretense of harmony.

Lord Rochford, the Queen’s brother, had challenged Henry Norris; and, with their followers, they began the mock battle.

Perhaps the Queen acted unwisely, but I supposed that, if the occasion had not arisen then, it would very soon afterward, for there were many bent on her destruction—first and foremost among them being the Seymour brothers.

What happened was that, in the heat of the contest between Rochford and Norris, Norris came near to the royal balcony and at that moment the Queen dropped her handkerchief. Norris picked it up and wiped his brow with it. It was certainly an act of familiarity. Perhaps when the Queen was in favor, she might have acted so with Norris, but now such conduct gave the King an excuse for a fresh grievance.

The King rose and left his seat. The Queen was naturally nonplussed and shortly afterward followed him. As for Norris, he was arrested a little later when he was leaving the joust. Francis Weston was also arrested.

The storm which had been brewing for months had now broken in its full fury. The King was an impatient man. He would wait no longer. His passion for our poor cousin was at an end, and he was as determined to marry Jane Seymour as he had been to marry Anne Boleyn.

The tragedy of Anne, three years a Queen, was now nearing to its end. She was sent to the Tower on a charge of adultery which, of course, was treason. I was horrified to learn that my Uncle Norfolk was a member of the Council which condemned her. I never liked him after that. In truth, perhaps I had never liked him, but I had always thought of him as a great man, for he was the head of our family, and my grandmother always spoke of him with awe. How could he, I asked myself, he, who had always been so eager to stress his connection with her, desert her so cruelly when she needed his help? Perhaps it is so with those who put family pride above all else, for what was their professed affection worth?

It was not so with the Duchess, my grandmother. She was deeply grieved for her granddaughter, and it was not entirely because the once-cherished Queen had placed our family in jeopardy. She would murmur to herself: “My poor child,” and her eyes were red from weeping. Then her face would grow dark with anger, and she would murmur against that cruel monster—the King, of course. But that was only rarely and when I was alone with her.

What happened is known to all. Anne was brought to the block.

For a long time I could not pass the Tower. Nothing would induce me to, and when eventually I did, I was filled with a sudden anger against Fate which had sent my clever cousin to Tower Green and cut off her beautiful head. By Fate, I meant the King—but it was wise not even to think such thoughts. It would be treason.

Others died with her. Norris, Weston, Brereton swore to the innocence of the Queen, even under torture. Poor delicate Mark Smeaton, the musician, gave way and admitted to his and the Queen’s guilt. He was not entirely believed, even by the Queen’s enemies. Poor Mark Smeaton, who had sworn his innocence before entering that grim fortress, where he had been prevailed upon to change his mind.

Thomas Wyatt was lucky. He escaped death and went abroad. I was glad of that, but deeply shocked when my cousin George Boleyn, Lord Rochford, was accused of being his sister’s lover. That was monstrous, and I think even my Uncle Norfolk would have questioned its plausibility if he had not feared to offend the King by doing so. He should have shown more courage, but who can be courageous when one word could betray one and result in suffering to equal that of the victim?

What was particularly shocking in the case of Anne and her brother was that it was due to Lady Rochford’s evidence that the case against her husband and sister-in-law was brought.

My grandmother gave way to her grief. “The vixen,” she cried. “How could she? It is lies … lies … all lies. But that creature was very jealous of those two. They were so brilliant. George loved his sister and she loved him. But it was a pure love. I would swear that on my life … the love between a clever brother and sister. Oh, the wicked creature! She will live to regret it.”

My grandmother might be lazy, comfort-loving, greedy, obsessed by grandeur, overweeningly proud of her noble family, intent on preserving its greatness and seeking more, but beneath all that there was kindness in her. She had loved my cousin and I believed she had some regard for me. There was a softness in her that was unlike the flinty nature of my uncle, the Duke.

Everyone knows now how bravely Anne went to her death on Tower Green and how, the moment she was dead, the King set off to Wolf Hall to become betrothed to Jane Seymour.

I was growing up. I was now fifteen years old.

Sometimes I looked at the silk rose which Francis Derham had given me. I did not wear it. If I had, my grandmother would have wanted to know whence it came, and I was wise enough to know that she would not be pleased to hear it had come from a young man.

She had changed a little since the death of my cousin. It had been a great shock to her, from which I felt she would never quite recover. She had set such hopes on her and she had been so proud. Now it seemed that the Howards wanted to forget they had ever known such a person as Anne Boleyn.

The King had married almost immediately, and the Seymour brothers were now in high favor, while the Howards, though not exactly in decline, were naturally not enjoying the honors they once did. The Seymours saw to that.

It appeared that Jane Seymour was all that the King desired in a wife, for very soon after the marriage we heard that she was with child.

The King was delighted. This was divine approval. Any lingering doubts people might have had that Anne had been cruelly treated would be dismissed. Obviously the King had been right in his action. She had been an adulteress and Heaven had frowned on the union, for there was only Elizabeth, a mere girl—and out of favor now on account of her mother. One girl and a still-born boy. Proof enough! And here was Jane, his wife of a short duration, docile and sweet—who would not be, with the memory of what had happened to her predecessor hanging over her?—pregnant in the shortest possible time.

I suppose I did not give a great deal of thought to these matters then. Remember, I was only fifteen, and a giddy fifteen at that, with my head full of things like silk flowers for my gown and admiring looks from the young men of the household. I was untutored for, with all the excitement of life at this time, who could spare a thought for my education? I could read a little, write with some difficulty, and picked up knowledge where I could. I was not of a serious enough nature to seek to educate myself. I liked to sing and dance and be merry, so was not concerned with my academic shortcomings.

I think my grandmother might have noticed the deficiencies if she had been more aware of me. But how could she have been expected to, with one other granddaughter taking up so much of her thoughts?

We eagerly awaited the birth of Jane Seymour’s child. The question everyone was asking was, will it be a boy? Would there be another disappointment? People talked of little else. Some whispered, and if not, how long will it be before Queen Jane follows Queen Anne? That scene on Tower Hill was too recent to be forgotten easily.

It seemed all was well. Oh joy! Oh jubilation! The child was a boy and the King’s dearest wish had been granted. At last, he had a son—a legitimate heir to the throne!

There must be rejoicing throughout the land. Alas, the Queen was in a sorry state. The doctors shook their heads in dismay, but even so the King could not hide his delight, for it was believed that the boy would live, if not his mother.

The child must be baptized at once, even though the doctors assured the King that he would survive. No chances must be taken. Poor Jane, how ill she must have been, exhausted, craving rest, too tired to enjoy her triumph in succeeding where her predecessors had failed.

The boy was to be named Edward. I heard accounts of his baptism: how he was taken from his nursery in Hampton Court to his mother’s chamber, accompanied by the sound of trumpets, while poor Jane lay there, pale, wan, desperately trying to take part in the ceremonial ritual. It lasted for three hours and at the end of it Jane was in no condition to understand what was happening.

The King, however, insisted on her presence. They said he could not take his eyes from the baby Prince, who behaved with impeccable good manners throughout the proceedings and gave only the occasional whimper.

Poor Jane! She never recovered from the ceremony. So died the perfect wife. Not only had she produced the longed-for son, but she had had the good grace to die before the King had tired of her.

He could now ask himself where he could find a new wife.

Queen Jane was taken from Hampton Court to Windsor for her burial.

It was a day of mourning. The people were in the streets, and we must be among them. There were masses to be said and hymns to be sung in St. Paul’s Cathedral, where, a day or so before, there had been rejoicing over the birth of an heir.

There would be no revelry, of course, which was a pity, and even the rejoicing on the baby’s birth had to be subdued because of his mother’s death; but nevertheless it was an occasion for an outing.

So, with Joan, Dorothy and Mary Lassells, and some of the others from the band of Norfolk pensioners, I boarded the barge at the privy stairs and we sailed down the river to the City.

There were crowds in the streets and, after leaving the barge at Westminster stairs, we walked through the press of people to St. Paul’s.

The cathedral was overflowing and we remained among the crowds outside, and it was there that I saw him.

He was standing before me, staring in undisguised delight. Then he took off his hat and bowed low. I was tingling with excitement.

“Mistress Katherine Howard!” he cried. “Oh fie! Do you not know me?”

I was never subtle. I cried out: “Of a surety I know you. You are Francis Derham. You gave me the silk rose.”

“Well met.”

I could think of nothing to say but: “So … you are back.”

“Yesterday noon. I have been seeking you ever since.”

“You remembered. It is long.”

“Did I not say I would never forget?”

“You said you would come back.”

“That is what I meant. What do you here? Come to sing hymns of sadness for the Queen?”

I nodded.

“I am on the same mission. But chiefly to look for you.”

Joan and Dorothy were listening with some curiosity.

“You remember them?” I asked.

“Well met, Mistresses,” he said, bowing first to Joan and then to Dorothy. But I knew he had not remembered them, and I was rather pleased about that.

“You came with a party?” asked Dorothy.

“Yes. But I am begging to be allowed to join yours.”

Joan and Dorothy laughed. I could see they liked him. He was so handsome and charming that it would have been difficult not to like him.

He walked along with us and slipped an arm through mine. He told me how often he had thought of me during those long absences when he was far away.

“Where?” I asked.

“Too far from you,” was the answer, which made me laugh happily.

“And now that you are back, shall you stay?”

He looked at me soulfully and, pressing my arm, said: “I could stay with you forever.”

We were seeing each other often, and it was very soon after that meeting at St. Paul’s that he told me he loved me and had done so from the moment he had seen me making the silk rose in the gardens.

“You were such a little girl then,” he said. “You are still a little girl, but methinks you have grown up somewhat since then.”

“I am much older,” I assured him.

“You will always be young to me. My little girl.”

We progressed quickly from there. He told me he would love me until the day he died. It was a time of enchantment, and he sought to please me in every way.

Naturally I wanted to look my best, and it was no easy task for I had very little money. It was only now and then that my grandmother would remember my existence; then she gave me little more than a coin or two to buy something I fancied.

She had changed since the death of Anne. She was more serious. Sometimes she would look at me sharply, as though considering me; but that was rare; more often, she lapsed into the old style of ignoring me.

The Court ladies, whom I glimpsed now and then, were now wearing silk flowers again. The favorite was the French fennel—a sort of love-in-the-mist—most beautiful, and worked in various colors. It was the very ornament to enhance the beauty of a gown and bring out the color of a lady’s eyes and soften her face.

I longed for a French fennel and was saving up my money to buy one.

When Francis discovered this, he said: “Once it was a red rose, now it is a fennel. I know a woman … a little hunchback in London. She is said to make the most exquisite flowers in the world. What if I asked her to make one for you?”

“Is she very expensive?”

“She knows her worth, and the ladies of the Court acclaim her.”

“Alas, I could not afford it.”

“Then I shall buy it for you.”

“And when I have some money, I shall insist on paying you back.”

“Insist if you must, but in the meantime, you shall have your French fennel.”

I was delighted when he brought it to me. It was blue and the feathery leaves were very attractive. I put it on, and was even more enchanted. Then I thought of what my grandmother’s reaction would be, for she could not fail to notice it. She would ask questions. She would know I could not afford to buy a flower like that, and she would discover how it was between Francis and me, and I knew there would be disapproval. She might even tell my father, or perhaps the Duke. They would remember that I was a member of the Howard family and, after what had happened to Anne, they would be especially careful.

I looked at my beautiful French fennel and wept. It must not be known that I was in love with Francis Derham.

Lady Brereton came to visit us; she was worldly and friendly, but rather sad at this time, for a relative of hers had been accused of being one of my cousin’s lovers and had been executed with her. She noticed the friendship between Francis and me and told me what an attractive young man she thought him. She was sure he would do well at Court. She was the kind of person with whom one could share confidences, and I was soon telling her about the French fennel.

“Wear your flower,” she said. “And if Her Grace asks, tell her I gave it to you.”

“Oh, thank you, Lady Brereton,” I cried. “That is kind of you.”

And so I was able to wear my French fennel.

The flower was a beginning. There were other things I coveted—silks … velvets, which could be made into gowns. Francis liked me to look well. He told me he had earned money when he was away from the country and could buy these things for me.

I said: “Only on the understanding that, when I have some money, I shall pay you back.”

I studiously made an account of all he spent on me and called it my debt to him.

Oh, they were happy days! I wondered how I had existed without Francis.

One day he said: “We shall plight our troth, for in time we shall be married. What say you?”

I replied: “There is nothing I want more!”

“Then ’tis done. You are my wife, I your husband. So, wife, you must call me husband.”

“But we are not that yet.”

“We are now troth-plighted, and that means that I am yours and you are mine.”

“If my grandmother knew … if she told my father … the Duke … perhaps they might seek to harm you.”

“Am I not a Howard? Am I not of that illustrious family? The only thing I lack is fortune. I shall make my fortune and then, sweet Katherine, all will be well. But in the meantime, you and I are man and wife.”

He kissed me with a yearning passion. I returned his kisses. I told myself that this was the most wonderful thing that had ever happened to me.

Dorothy appeared suddenly, as some of the women had a habit of doing. I wondered how much she had overheard.

“You are very familiar with Mistress Howard, Master Derham,” she said with a touch of severity which astonished me, for they all knew what went on in the Long Room and were indeed part of it.

Francis replied: “Who should hinder a man from kissing his wife?”

“Is that so then?” asked Dorothy.

“We have plighted our troth.”

“So, you are determined to have Mistress Howard?”

“By the saints!” retorted Francis. “You could guess twice and guess worse.”

Dorothy smirked. ‘Well, ’tis no great surprise, I grant you.”

Then she left us and went off—I am sure to tell her friends what she had seen and heard.

So they knew now. Francis used to come at night. He would bring strawberries and apples and wine—anything which he thought I might fancy. We would spread it out on my bed and we would feast. After that we would lie in the bed together.

This was different from the time with Manox. I wished I could remove all memory of that man from my mind. What I had experienced with him was distasteful now, and I deeply wished it had never happened. But what was the use in trying to change something which is already there? The only resort is to force oneself to forget.

So now I thought of Francis only. I need have no qualms. I was free to indulge in any exciting experience. Were we not troth-plighted?

Francis said: “Forget not, you are my wife.”

So I remembered.

Very occasionally, I saw Manox. He would look at me, half-pleading, half-angry Sometimes I thought he hated me because I would not look at him. The fact was that I saw him as I never had before. He was conceited; he believed himself irresistible; that was why he could not forgive me for rejecting him.

I know now that he was the one who betrayed us to the Duchess, for surely none of the girls or the young men who came to the Long Room on those nights would have done so.

However, my grandmother received a note suggesting that, if she knew what took place in the Long Room on many nights, she would not approve of it.

As a result, one of the older women received a summons to attend the Duchess. Her name was Baskerville, I think.

She came back with a wry face.

“Someone has betrayed us,” she said. “The doors to the Long Room are to be locked at night, and the keys taken to Her Grace’s apartments where they will remain during the night, and at daybreak one of her attendants will come and unlock the doors.”

We were all alarmed to realize that the Duchess must have an inkling of what was happening.

For about a week we were disconcerted. Also, we missed our merry evenings. There was silence throughout the Long Room, broken only by complaints about how dull it had become.

And then one night, after we were all in bed, the door was opened suddenly and one of the Duchess’s waiting women was there. She stood very still, holding up the keys and shaking them. Then she tiptoed into the room in a mocking manner.

She said: “I liked not to think of you naughty girls missing your fun. Listen. Tell your gallants that they may return, but they must be very careful. I have unlocked the door and shall take the key back to Her Grace’s apartments. In the morning, I shall come again with the key, but there will be no unlocking of the door because the door will have remained unlocked throughout the night. You must make sure that before I come your friends have left for where they should rightly be.”

Then she sat on one of the beds and we all clustered round her and there was much merriment.

After that it was as it had been before—except that now we knew that the Duchess had been aware of what was happening, and it might have occurred to her that we could find a way of deceiving her—which, of course, we had.

Francis loved to give me presents. He was very anxious to make a fortune. He wanted to take me away with him. He often talked of sailing the seas, and I guessed that that was what he did during his absences. He had returned with money—far more than he could have earned as a pensioner in the Duke’s household, but still not the fortune he must have.

He was impatient. He wanted to marry me in truth. He knew that the Duke would never accept him as a suitor for his niece as he was; but if he were a rich man, his remote connection with the Howard family might carry him through.

So he would go away. It should only be for a short trip. He would earn money and come back. I did not want him to go—nor did he want to, but he was convinced that he must.

The Duchess was becoming wary. Neither of us could imagine what would happen if she knew how it was between us. We were troth-plighted and that was sacred to us, for no one could say we were not man and wife.

The Duke would doubtless have Francis removed. Who could say how? Taken to the Tower on some pretext, there to disappear, as so many had who had offended the great? And if we were caught by the Duchess and betrayed to the Duke, it would be the end of our hopes. And what would happen to me? Sent into a nunnery? Married to someone I should hate? It could be one of many things. However, once Francis was a man of great fortune, they would be ready to welcome him as a member of the great Howard family … which he undoubtedly was.

So, much as I disliked the idea of his going, he had made me see the necessity of it.

I was desolate, but he said I must not be, for he would be back ere long with the fortune which would make the way clear for us.

He already had one hundred pounds, and he would leave the money with me. I should keep it safe, for it was the foundation of our fortune. And if he did not return, that money should be mine.

Then he went away.

The days seemed long and the nights wearisome without him. I put the hundred pounds in a bag which I determined should always be with me. I kept it under my pillow at night and attached it to my waistband in the day, but it was too bulky for that, and I had to find another place for it. I had little privacy; but I did have a drawer in which I could put some of my clothes. I sewed the money up in the pocket of a petticoat and every day I took it out to make sure it was there.

At times I was tempted to spend a little on some ornament to which I took a fancy, some piece of silk or velvet which one of the women could make into a gown for me. I tried to persuade myself that Francis would have given it to me if he had been there. But I never did. It was a sacred trust. It was to be the foundation of our life together. Perhaps I guessed that, if I took a little at first, I should go on doing it again … and again. But I knew that one day Francis would come back. When he did, the hundred pounds must be his, just as he had left it with me.

One day, when I was sitting in the garden, I looked up and there was Francis. I leaped to my feet and we ran to meet each other. We could only laugh and cling together for some minutes, too moved for speech.

“Am I dreaming?” I cried at last. “Holy Mother, let me not be dreaming.”

“My own Katherine,” he murmured. “My sweet Katherine.” And I knew in truth that he was there.

It transpired that he had come back without the fortune he had hoped for, but what did that matter? All I cared for was that he was back. And how happy he was to be with me.

He asked earnestly, had there been someone else of whom I had grown fond?

No, no, no, I assured him. No one. I had spent my lonely days and nights thinking of him, longing for his return.

He was reassured. He confessed he had been afraid.

And himself? Had he been faithful?

“As I shall be all my life. Once I had seen sweet Katherine, there could be no one else for me.”

We talked as lovers do, and then he told me that he was going to ask the Duchess for a place in her household.

“So that I may see more of you,” he said. “All through the day I shall be so much nearer than I am as the Duke’s retainer.”

“What post would you have?” I asked.

“Oh … gentleman usher … or page. I would do anything if I might be near you.”

The Duchess liked to have handsome young men about her, and she agreed to make him one of her gentlemen ushers. That was what we wanted, for it did mean we could see each other far more frequently than before.

I gave him the hundred pounds and told him how carefully I had preserved it, and how glad I was that I had not been tempted to spend any of it!

Francis was delighted. The fortune would come, and in the meantime we would give ourselves up to the pleasure of being together. We had much time to make up.

It was true that the Duchess had changed. She was watchful, and especially of me. I had grown up. I was fifteen years old. I was a little alarmed, for I guessed she was thinking of the future, and, now that the once dazzling Anne was someone she did not wish to think of, her thoughts seemed to turn more and more to her humble little granddaughter.

The Maids’ Chamber was a room put to the use of the women. There we did tapestry… embroidery and listened to the music one of us would play while the others worked.

It was a duty to go there and perforce I must do my stint, but I was never any good at tapestry, and embroidery bored me. Sometimes I would play the virginals, at which I was more skilled than at needlework; but I was not so happy as I might have been doing that, because occasionally it reminded me of Henry Manox, whom I would rather have forgotten.

I was seated there with Joan one day. There were only the two of us in the large chamber, and I was reluctantly working on a piece of embroidery when Francis came in. He stood by the door, smiling at me.

“Two industrious ladies, I see,” he said mockingly. “What great work is this?”

He came close to me and laid his hand on my shoulder.

“Oh, I see. Very fine. Very beautiful.” Now he had his hands about my waist and was nibbling my ear.

“I am working,” I cried. “And, Master Derham, what are you doing in the Maids’ Chamber, pray?”

“Oh, I just came in to make sure you were working.”

“And should you be here, sir?”

“Mistress Howard, why so stern?”

He looked at me in mock menace, and I leaped up and drew away from him. He came as though to seize me, and I ran round the table with him in pursuit. Joan was watching us, smiling that secret smile which I knew so well.

I dashed round the room; he was close behind me. I tripped, he caught me and we fell together; we lay on the floor, rolling over and over; he was on top of me when the door opened and my grandmother came in. She stood still, staring at us; her face was white, then scarlet. She was nearest to Joan and she turned to her and slapped her across the face.

Joan looked startled and my grandmother repeated the action.

“And you sit there and watch with that grin on your face! What do you think you are about, girl?”

Joan started to stammer something, but my grandmother had turned to Francis and me. We stood up. Francis looked sheepish; as for myself, I was too bewildered to do anything but wait for the storm to burst.

My grandmother stepped toward Francis and slapped him across the face in the same way as she had slapped Joan. Then she did the same to me and said: “Get out, Derham.”

He bowed and muttered some apology; she looked as though she were going to strike him again and he hurriedly left us.

Then she turned to me. She seized me by the ear and pulled me close to her. I saw the fury in her eyes. She started to shake me, then she pushed me away from her.

“Go to my bedchamber,” she said. “I will deal with you there.”

I heard her say to Joan: “As for you, girl. You deserve a beating. That you do. You sit there and watch that. What next, I wonder?”

I went to her room, trembling and fearful. What would happen to us now? Francis and I were troth-plighted. We might play as we did. We were doing no harm.

It was not long before my grandmother came. She was seething with anger.

“You foolish girl!” she cried. “What do you think you were doing with Derham?”

“It was naught but play,” I began.

“Rolling on the floor … his arms about you … pressing down on you. Do you know nothing, girl?”

I was very afraid of what could happen to Francis if she told the Duke how she had found us together. They would not listen to explanations. Besides, Francis would be sent away. He had not made his fortune yet and, until then, we must not talk of marriage.

She gave me a look of contempt and I was afraid she was going to strike me; but she looked tired, exhausted by her emotion.

“You are young, I know,” she murmured, “and you were never very clever, Katherine Howard.” A sadness came into her eyes. She was thinking of that brilliant one, who had been brought to her sorry end—one might say through that very brilliance. Even she had not been clever enough. And there was I, now fifteen years old, playing childish games with a young man of the household. No … dangerous games … when I was too young, or stupid, to know they could lead to disaster.

I may not have been brilliant in book-learning like my cousin, sophisticated, with the gracious manners learned in the French Court, but there were certain things I knew about and one was the way of the sexes. It may be that there are some of us born with the knowledge. I had in any case been a ready pupil … responsive, eager. She decided however to talk to me.

“Katherine Howard,” she said. “You should know something of the ways of men. Some of them … in particular the young … think of little but what they can get from unsuspecting women. It is the nature of them. Derham is a handsome young fellow. He will swagger round boasting of his conquests, like as not.”

Oh no, I thought. Not Francis Derham. He was faithful to me, as I was to him. It might not have been so with Manox. Oh, do not think of Manox … that is unhealthy and uneasy thinking. Francis is a good man; he loves me and he is faithful. He swore it, and I believe him; and we are troth-plighted.

But I must not tell the Duchess this. I must not betray anything.

I must be wary.

I hung my head and played the young girl, innocent of the world, too stupid to know the danger she was in. That was what my grandmother wanted. What she had seen was a romp, entered into on the impulse of the moment.

I should not plead for Francis Derham or myself. I should stand there, my eyes downcast, while she sat in her chair and rambled on about the dangers that could beset young girls, and the need to keep themselves untouched; and how this applied especially to those who belonged to noble families.

“It will not be long now,” she was saying, “before it will be time for you to look to the future. There might be a place at Court. Of course, it would have been different …” Her lips trembled. If only her once-brilliant granddaughter had kept her place instead of losing her head, what glory might have been in store for little Katherine Howard.

I did not tell her that I did not want such glories. All I wanted was to marry Francis Derham, to whom I was troth-plighted.

Her wrath had subsided a little. The Duchess was a lady who would make herself believe what she wanted to—particularly if the alternative was too unpleasant to contemplate—so she sat in her chair, talking of the pitfalls which could befall a young girl—particularly one of a great family. She was deluding herself into believing that I was an innocent child who knew nothing of the urgent desires of young men and the readiness of young women to yield to them.

I was dismissed and, bruised and very frightened, left the Duchess and tried to forget my stinging cheek by telling myself I had had a lucky escape. But I could not stop worrying about Francis.

She might think that I was an innocent, but could she apply the same judgment to him? If what we had done was due to my ignorance, youth and general stupidity, what had such a romp indicated about him?

A few days passed. I saw Francis surreptitiously in the garden. We clung together, dreading we might be seen.

“Has anything been said to you?” I asked.

“Nothing,” he replied.

“Have you seen the Duchess?”

“ En passant. She did not look my way.”

“Do you think they will send you away?”

He was silent, and I knew he did. We clung more closely together in desperation.

He was not sent away. Until this happened, he had, I believe, been a favorite of the Duchess. She did have a liking for handsome young men. I think she decided to forgive us, for a week or so passed and nothing happened. We were beginning to think that the escapade had been dismissed as a matter of little importance.

As time passed, we were lulled more and more into a sense of security; we slipped back into the old ways, and at night Francis would come up to the Long Room; but everyone knew that we had been caught rolling on the floor together in a compromising situation, and there was a certain uneasiness.

“What if Her Grace should discover that the room is left unlocked through the night?” asked Dorothy. “We shall have to be very careful. If she found Derham in Katherine Howard’s bed …” Dorothy suppressed a giggle. “Well, that would not be so easy to explain as a romp on the floor.”

“We should hear her coming,” I said. “She would be using her stick to mount the stairs. Then Francis could slip into the little gallery. She would not know he was here then.”

I could not bear that we should be deprived of those meetings. It was not long since he had returned from that long absence.

Fewer people were coming to the Long Room. Many of them had decided that it was too dangerous.

The Duchess, however, did not come to the Long Room, nor did she discover for herself about the matter of the key. It happened in a different way.

One of the maids, terrified, I suppose, that we were in danger of being discovered, went to her and confessed what was happening. I was sure that that was the last thing the Duchess wanted, and she was more angry than ever.

It might have been Dorothy, Joan or Mary Lassells—she was a sly one whom I had never understood—or someone quite different. I never knew. All I was aware of was that one of the maids went to the Duchess and told her how the men came to the room, how the door had remained unlocked throughout the night; and chiefly how Francis Derham called Katherine Howard his wife, kissed and caressed her and spent the night with her under the sheets in her bed.

My grandmother was horrified, and this was too important a matter to be set aside.

She sent for me and, as soon as I arrived in her room, she seized me, slapped my face, tore off my gown, pushed me on to her bed and with her stick beat my bare buttocks until I screamed with pain. I think she might not have stopped until she killed me if she had not exhausted herself. Her hair was falling about her face, her eyes were wild; she looked like a witch intent on evil, and that evil was directed at me.

Then the stick slipped from her hand; she fell into her chair and she sat looking at me lying across her bed. I rose and tried to pull my clothes about me.

“Do not attempt to show modesty to me, slut,” she cried. “Do not simper and play the child, you little harlot. I know of your lechery with Francis Derham.”

I cried out: “It is not fair to talk thus. I am his wife … may not a wife caress her husband?”

“You are what! Oh, what pain you cause me! What have I done, I ask God and all his saints, what have I done to deserve this?”

“There is nothing wrong, Your Grace,” I began.

“Be silent, you little whore! How long has this been going on? Under the sheets …” she moaned. “After midnight … with Derham. Are you with child?”

“Your Grace, you do not understand.”

“I understand. I understand too well. Do not deny this … harlotry. Derham has been your lover, has he not? He will die for this. When the Duke hears …”

“Oh, I pray, do not tell the Duke.” I thought of that cold-eyed man who had condemned Anne Boleyn. We should have been better without such a kinsman. And now his anger would be turned on Francis and on me. What would become of us? And there had been nothing wrong. We were husband and wife. How often had we said that?

“Stop muttering to yourself, girl. You cannot tell me they have lied. If that were so …” She was almost pleading to me. She wanted me to say that what they had told her was a lie. She wanted to continue to delude herself into believing that. But she knew it was true. Had she not seen us in the Maids’ Chamber, and that was a clear indication of how it was between us.

I said nothing. I knew it would be no good.

“How could you?” she cried. “Have you no regard for your virtue … for your family?”

I persisted: “Your Grace does not understand. Francis Derham and I love each other.”

“Love!” she sneered. “Rolling about under the sheets. You could not even wait for nightfall to hide your shame. You must try it on the floor.”

“It was not so.”

“I saw it with my own eyes.”

“It was just … fun … as you say … a little romp.”

“Romp! Fun! Is that what you call it when the name of a noble house is desecrated! Holy Mother of God, this is too much to be borne.”

“I will explain. Francis and I are troth-plighted. That is enough. We are married. We did nothing wrong.”

“You are even more stupid than I thought you. I had hopes for you. A place at Court. It might well be. The King will marry again. There is no doubt of that. The new Queen will need ladies-in-waiting. There was a chance there might be a place for you. What do you think will become of you, you stupid child? What hopes have you if it is known what you have been about? These girls know … the men too. By all the saints, it will go ill with them if they whisper it abroad. And you, addle-pate, talk of troth-plight. Derham will suffer for this. As for you … you deserve to be turned out of this household.”

I said nothing. I could only think of what might happen to Francis.

She tired of railing against me at last, and when I begged leave to go, she granted it.

My body was sore and bruised, but my heart more so. This was what we had always feared. What would they do to Francis? That was the fear which dominated my mind. If only he had made that fortune! If only we could have been married.

It would not be so now. That was clear. My grandmother might well tell the Duke, and then what would they do to poor Francis?

The women were all subdued. They had been discovered. One of them had betrayed, not only me, but all of them. There would be no more deception about the unlocked door, no more nightly revels. And who knew what other secrets would be revealed?

One of the pages, whom I knew to be a friend of Francis, sought me out. He looked frightened and afraid to speak. I fervently hoped he had brought me news of Francis.

He said: “Mistress, I have a message for you. Will you go to a spot you know well in the gardens?”

I understood that what was meant was that spot secluded by bushes and trees not far from the water’s edge which Francis and I had called our own little garden. So I knew, of course, that this was a message from Francis. I hurried to the spot and within a few seconds he appeared. He was dressed as for a journey.

He held me tightly in his arms and we both wept.

Then he said: “I must go, Katherine. They will kill me if I stay. They will say that I have brought disgrace on the Howard name. Oh, my love, how can I leave you?”

“I have been beaten and reviled,” I said. “I do not think more will be done to me. They will not want it known.”

“I thank God for that,” he said. “But I must go … or they will find some way of killing me.”

“Then you must go quickly …”

“Some day I shall come back,” he said.

“Where shall you go?”

“I shall go to Ireland. There I shall make that fortune and return.”

“You will come back to me … ?”

“I swear it. And you, Katherine … ?”

I said fervently: “You shall never live to say to me, you have swerved.”

We clung together. I wanted to beg him not to go, but I knew he must. He wanted to beg me to go with him, but we knew that would be the final ruin of us both. This bitter parting had to be. But in my heart I knew that one day he would return.