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

It had begun with a few words spoken by a priest at Windsor. He had talked slightingly of the Queen, saying that he had been told once, when she was quite a child, she had led a most immoral life. This priest was immediately taken prisoner and put into the keep of Windsor Castle, while Wriothesley, at the bidding of the Council, was sent to lay these matters before the King.

Catherine was in a little antechamber when this man arrived; she heard the King greet him loudly.

“What news?” cried Henry. “By God! You look glum enough!”

“Bad news, Your Majesty, and news it grieves me greatly to bring to Your Grace.”

“Speak up! Speak up!” said the King testily.

“I would ask Your Majesty to be patient with me, for this concerns Her Majesty the Queen.”

“The Queen!” Henry’s voice was a roar of fear. The sly manner and the feigned sorrow in the eyes of the visitor were familiar to him. He could not bear that anything should happen to disturb this love idyll he shared with Catherine.

“The dribblings of a dotard doubtless,” said Wriothesley. “But the Council felt it their duty to warn Your Majesty. A certain priest at Windsor has said that which was unbefitting concerning the Queen.”

Catherine clutched the hangings, and felt as though she were about to faint. She thought, I ought to have told him. Then he would not have married me. Then I might have married Thomas. What will become of me? What will become of me now?

“What’s this? What’s this?” growled the King.

“The foolish priest—doubtless a maniac—referred to the laxity of Her Majesty’s behavior when she was in the Dowager Duchess’s care at Lambeth.”

The King looked at Wriothesley in such a manner as to make that ambitious young man shudder. The King was thinking that if Catherine had been a saucy wench before he had set eyes on her, he was ready to forget it. He wanted no disturbance of this paradise. She was charming and good-tempered, a constant delight, a lovely companion, a most agreeable bedfellow; she was his fifth wife, and his fourth had robbed him of any desire to make a hasty change. He wanted Catherine as he had made her appear to himself. Woe betide any who tried to destroy that illusion!

“Look ye here!” he said sternly. “I should have thought you would have known better than to trouble me with any foolish tale of a drunken priest. You say this priest but repeated what he had heard. You did right to imprison him. Release him now, and warn him. Tell him what becomes of men who speak against the King...and by God, those who speak against the Queen speak against the King! Tongues have been ripped out for less. Tell him that, Wriothesley, tell him that. As for him who spoke these evil lies to the priest, let him be confined until I order his release.”

Wriothesley was glad to escape.

Catherine, trembling violently, thought: I must speak to my grandmother. I must explain to the King.

She half expected the King to order her immediate arrest, and that she would be taken to the Tower and have to lay her head on the block as her cousin had done. She was hysterical when she ran out to the King; she was flushed with fear; impulsively she threw her arms about his neck and kissed him.

He pressed her close to him. He might still be doubtful, but he was not going to lose this. By God, he thought, if anyone says a word against my Queen, he shall pay for it!

“Why, sweetheart?” he said, and turned her face to his, determined to read there what he wished to read. Such innocence! By God, those who talked against her deserved to have their heads on London Bridge—and should too! She was pure and innocent, just as Lord William and her grandmother had assured him. He was lucky—even though he were a King—to have such a jewel of womanhood.

The happy honeymoon continued.

The Dowager Duchess was closeted with the Queen.

“I declare,” said Catherine, “I was greatly affrighted. I heard every word, and I trembled so that I scarce dared go out to the King when the man had gone!”

“And the King, said he naught to you?”

“He said naught.”

“He has decided to ignore this, depend upon it.”

“I feel so miserable. I would prefer to tell him. You understand, with Derham, it was as though we were married...”

“Hush! Do not say such things. I am an old woman and an experienced one; you are young and unwise. Take my advice.”

“I will,” said Catherine. “Of course I will. It was yours I took when I did not tell the King before my marriage.”

“Pish!” said the Duchess, and then dropping her voice to a whisper: “I have heard from Derham.”

“From Derham!”

“I said from Derham. He is back in my house. He is such a charming boy and I could not find it in my heart to keep up my anger against him. He still speaks of you with indiscreet devotion, and he has asked for something which I cannot adivse you to refuse him. He says that he must see you now and then, that you have nothing to fear from him. He loves you too well to harm you.”

“What does he ask?”

“A place at court!”

“Oh, no!”

“Indeed yes; and I feel that you would be very unwise to refuse it. Do not look so frightened. Remember you are the Queen.”

Catherine said slowly: “I have Jane Bulmer here and Katharine Tylney as well as Margaret Morton. I would that I had refused them.”

“Refuse them! You speak without thought. Have you forgotten that these people were at Lambeth and actually witnessed what took place between you and Derham!”

“I had rather they were not here. They are inclined to insolence as though they know I dare not dismiss them.”

She did not tell the Duchess that Manox approached her too, that he had demanded a place at court. There was no need to disturb the Duchess further, and tell her that Manox, now one of the court musicians, had once been Catherine’s lover.

“Now,” said the Duchess, “you must listen to me. Derham must come to court. You cannot refuse him.”

“I see that you are right,” said Catherine wearily.

So came Derham.

The King’s delight in his Queen did not diminish with the passing of the months. They left Ampthill for More Park where they could enjoy an even more secluded life; Henry was impatient with any minister who dared disturb him, and gave special instructions that no one was to approach him; any matter which was urgent was to be set out in writing. He was happy, desperately warming himself by the fire of Catherine’s youth; he doted on her; he caressed her even in public, declaring that at last he had found conjugal happiness. He felt this to be a reward for a life of piety. There was one further blessing he asked, and that was children. So far, there was little success, but what matter? Catherine in herself was as much as any man could reasonably ask.

She was such a soft-hearted little thing and could bear to hurt no one. She hated to hear of the executions which were taking place every day; she would put her plump little fingers into her ears, and he would pet her and murmur, “There, there, sweetheart, wouldst have me fete these traitors?”

“I know traitors must be severely dealt with,” she said. “They must die, but let them die by the axe or the rope, not these lingering, cruel deaths.”

And he, forgetting how he had spurned Jane Seymour and threatened her when she would meddle, could deny his new Queen little.

Those Catholics who still hoped for reunion with Rome thought the moment ripe to strike at the men who had supported Cromwell, and Wyatt, among others, was sent to the Tower. He, bold as ever, had dared defend himself, and Catherine angered her uncle Norfolk by pleading for leniency towards Wyatt. She took warm clothes and food to the old Countess of Salisbury, who was still in the Tower.