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

“Thou wouldst have me leave thee?”

“I shall die of sorrow, but I would not have them hurt thee. I would not have thee remember this love between us with aught but the utmost delight.”

“I could never think on it but with delight.”

She sat up, listening. “Methought I heard...”

“Catherine! Catherine Howard!” It was the voice of Mistress Baskerville calling her.

“You must go at once!” cried Catherine in panic. “You must leave Lambeth. You must leave London.”

“And leave you! You know not what you ask!”

“Do I not! An you lose me, do I not lose you? But I would rather not keep you with me if it means that they will take you. Francis, terrible things happen to men in the Tower of London, and I fear for you.”

“Catherine!” called Mistress Baskerville. “Come here, Catherine!”

Her eyes entreated him to go, but he would not release her.

“I cannot leave you!” he insisted.

“I will come with you.”

“We should then be discovered at once.”

“An you took me,” she said sagely, “they would indeed find us. They would search for us and bring me back, and oh, Francis, what would they do to you?”

Mistress Baskerville was all but upon them.

“I will go to her,” said Catherine.

“And I will wait here until you come back to me.”

“Nay, nay! Go now, Francis. Do not wait. Something tells me each moment is precious.”

They embraced; they kissed long and brokenheartedly.

“I shall wait here awhile and hope that you will come back to me, Catherine,” he said. “I cannot go until we are certain this thing has come to pass.”

Catherine left him and ran to Mistress Baskerville.

“What is it?” asked Catherine.

“Her Grace wants you to go to her at once...you and Derham. She is wellnigh mad with rage. She has had a whip brought to her. Some of us have been questioned. I heard Jane Acworth crying in her room. I believe she has been whipped...and it is all about you and Derham.”

Catherine said: “What do you think they will do to Derham?”

“I know not. It is a matter of which one can only guess. They are saying he deserves to die.”

Catherine’s teeth began to chatter. “Please help me,” she pleaded. “Wait here one moment. Will you give me one last moment with him?”

The girl looked over her shoulder. “What if we are watched?”

“Please!” cried Catherine. “’One moment....Stay here....Call my name. Pretend that you are still looking for me. I swear I will be with you after one short minute.”

She ran through the trees to Derham. “It is all true!” she cried. “They will kill thee, Francis. Please go....Go now!”

He was thoroughly alarmed now, knowing that she did not speak idly. He kissed her again, played with the idea of taking her with him, knew the folly of that, guessing what hardships she would have to face. He must leave her; that was common sense; for if he disappeared they might not try very hard to find him, preferring to let the matter drop, since with him gone, it would be easier to hush up the affair. Besides, he might be able to keep in touch with Catherine yet.

“I will go,” said Francis, “but first promise me this shall not be the end.”

“Dost think I could bear it an it were?” she demanded tearfully.

“I shall write letters, and thou wilt answer them?”

She nodded. She could not wield a pen very happily, but that there would be those to help her in this matter she doubted not.

“Then I leave thee,” he said.

“Do not return to the house for aught, Francis. It would not be safe. Where shall you go?”

“That I cannot say. Mayhap I shall go to Ireland and turn pirate and win a fortune so that I may then come back and claim Catherine Howard as my wife. Never forget, Catherine, that thou art that.”

The tears were streaming down Catherine’s cheeks. She said with great emotion, “Thou wilt never live to say to me ‘Thou hast swerved!’”

One last kiss; one last embrace.

“Not farewell, Catherine. Never that. Au revoir, sweet Catherine. Forget not the promise thou hast made to me.”

She watched him disappear through the trees before she ran back to Mistress Baskerville. Fearfully they went into the house and to the Duchess’s rooms.

When the old woman saw Catherine, her eyes blazed with rage. She seized her by the hair and flung her against the wall, shouting at her, after first shutting the door, “You little harlot! At your age to allow such liberties! What dost think you have done! Do not look at me so boldly, wench!”

The whip came down on Catherine’s shoulders while she cowered against the wall, covering her face with her hands. Across her back, across her thighs, across her legs, the whip descended. There was not much strength behind the Duchess’s blows, but the whip cut into Catherine’s flesh, and she was crying, not from the infliction of those strokes, but for Derham, since she could know no pain that would equal the loss of him.

The Duchess flung away the whip and pushed Catherine onto a couch. She jerked the girl’s head up, and looked into her grief-swollen face.

“It was true then!” cried the Duchess in a fury. “Every word of it was true! He was in your bed most nights! And when you were disturbed he hid in the gallery!” She slapped Catherine’s face, first one side, then the other. “What sort of marriage do you expect after this? Tell me that! Who will want Catherine Howard who is known for a slut and a harlot!” She slapped Catherine’s face. “We shall marry you to a potman or a pantler!”

Catherine was hysterical with the pain of the blows and the mental anxiety she suffered concerning Derham’s fate.

“You would not care!” stormed the Duchess. “One man as good as another to you, eh? You low creature!”

The slapping began again. Catherine had wept so much that she had no more tears.

“And what do you think we shall do with your fine lover, eh? We will teach him to philander. We shall show him what happens to those who creep stealthily into the beds of their betters...or those who should be their betters....”

Down came the heavy ringed hands again. Catherine’s bodice was in tatters, her flesh red and bruised; and the whip had drawn blood from her shoulders.

The Duchess began to whisper of the terrible things that would be done to Francis Derham, were he caught. Did she think she had been severely punished? Well, that would be naught compared with what would be done to Francis Derham. When they had done with him, he would find himself unable to creep into young ladies’ beds of night, for lascivious wenches like Catherine Howard would find little use for him, when they had done with him...when they had done with him. . . !

Saliva dripped from Her Grace’s lips; her venom eased her fear. What if the Duke heard of this? Oh, yes, his own morals did not bear too close scrutiny and there were scandals enough in the Norfolk family and to spare. What of the washerwoman Bess Holland who was making a Duchess of Norfolk most peevish and very jealous! And the late Queen herself had had Howard blood in her veins and stood accused of incest. But oddly enough it was those who had little cause to judge others who most frequently and most loudly did. The King himself who was over-fond of wine and women was the first to condemn such excesses in others; and did not courtiers ever take their cue from a king! If the Duke heard of this he would laugh his sardonic laugh and doubtless say evil things of his old enemy his stepmother. She was afraid, for this would be traced to her neglect. The girl had been in her charge and she had allowed irreparable harm to be done. What of Catherine’s sisters? Such a scandal would impair their chances in the matrimonial field. Then, there must be no scandal, not only for Catherine’s sake, but for that of her sisters—and also for the sake of the Dowager Duchess of Norfolk. She quietened her voice and her blows slackened.