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

There had been many compensations which had come to her when she forsook Culpepper to marry Henry. Mary, Joyce and Isabel, her young sisters, had been lifted from their poverty; indeed, there was not one impecunious member of her family who had not felt her generosity. This did not only apply to her family but to her friends also. She wanted to feel happiness about her; she wanted to make the King happy; she wanted no one worried by poverty, inconvenienced by hardship, smitten with sorrow. She wanted a pleasant world for herself and everyone in it.

When they came to Hull and saw what was left of Constable, a prey to the flies, hanging on the highest gate where Norfolk had gleefully placed him full four years ago, she turned away sickened, for the King had laughingly pointed out this grim sight to her.

“There hangs a traitor...or what is left of him!”

She turned from the King, knowing that however she tried she would never love him.

“Thou art too gentle, sweetheart!” The King leaned towards her and patted her arm, showing that he liked her gentleness, even though it might make her shed a tear for his enemies.

Often she thought of Thomas Culpepper, who was in the retinue accompanying them. Often their eyes would meet, exchanging smiles. Jane Rochford noted this, and that peculiar twist of her character which had ever made her court danger though through doing so she could bring no gain to herself, made her say, “Your cousin Culpepper is a handsome young man. He loves you truly. I see it there in his eyes. And methinks Your Majesty is not indifferent to him, for who could be to such a handsome boy! You never meet him. You are over-cautious. It could be arranged....”

This was reminiscent of the old days of intrigue, and Catherine could not resist it. She felt that only could she endure Henry’s caresses if she saw Thomas now and then. She carried in her mind every detail of Thomas’s face so that when the King was with her, she could, in her imagination, put Thomas in his place, and so not show the repugnance to his caresses which she could not help but feel.

Derham came to her once or twice to write letters for her. He watched her with smoldering, passionate eyes, but she was not afraid of harm coming from Derham. He was devoted as ever, and though his jealousy was great, he would never do anything, if he could help it, to harm the Queen. Derham knew nothing of her love for Culpepper, and Catherine, not wishing to cause him pain, saw to it that he should not know, and now and then would throw him soft glances to show that she remembered all they had been to each other. In view of this Derham could not forbear to whisper to his friend Damport that he loved the Queen, and he was sure that if the King were dead he might marry her.

During that journey there were many meetings with Culpepper. Lady Rochford was in her element; she carried messages between the lovers; she listened at doors. “The King will be in council for two hours more. It is safe for Culpepper to come to the apartment....” Catherine did not know that her relations with Culpepper were becoming a sly joke throughout the court and were discussed behind hands with many a suppressed giggle.

When they were at Lincoln she all but surrendered to Culpepper. He would beg; she would hesitate; and then be firm in her refusals.

“I dare not!” wept Catherine.

“Ah! Why did you not fly with me when I asked it!”

“If only I had done so!”

“Shall we go on spoiling our lives, Catherine?”

“I cannot bear this sorrow, but never, never could I bear that harm should come to you through me.”

Thus it went on, but Catherine was firm. When she felt weak she would seem to feel the presence of Anne Boleyn begging her to take care, warning her to reflect on her poor cousin’s fate.

Because no one showed that the love between them was known, they did not believe it was known, and they grew more and more reckless. There was a time at Lincoln when they were alone until two in the morning, feeling themselves safe because Lady Rochford was keeping guard. They reveled in their secret meetings with ostrich-like folly. As long as they denied themselves the satisfaction their love demanded, they felt safe. No matter that people all around them were aware of their intrigue. No matter that Cranmer was but waiting an opportunity.

On this occasion at Lincoln, Katharine Tylney and Margaret Morton had been loitering on the stairs outside the Queen’s apartment in a fever of excitement lest the King should come unexpectedly, and they be involved.

“Jesus!” whispered Katharine Tylney as Margaret came gliding into the corridor, “is not the Queen abed yet?”

Margaret, who a moment before had seen Culpepper emerge, answered: “Yes, even now.” And the two exchanged glances of relief, shrugging their shoulders smiling over the Queen’s recklessness and frivolity, reminding each other of her behavior at Lambeth.

Many such dangerous meetings took place, with Lady Rochford always at hand, the Queen’s attendant, always ready with suggestions and hints. Catherine had been indiscreet enough to write to Culpepper before this journey began. This was an indication of the great anxiety she felt for him, because Catherine never did feel happy with a pen, and to write even a few lines was a great effort to her. She had written this letter before the beginning of the tour when she and the King were moving about close to London and Culpepper was not with them. It was folly to write; and greater folly on Culpepper’s part to keep the letter; but being in love and inspired by danger rather than deterred by it, they had done many foolish things and this was but one of them.

“I heartily recommend me unto you, praying you to send me word how that you do,” wrote Catherine. “I did fear you were sick and I never longed for anything so much as to see you. It makes my heart to die when I think that I cannot always be in your company. Come to me when Lady Rochford be here for then I shall be best at leisure to be at your commandment....”

And such like sentences all written out laboriously in Catherine’s untrained hand.

She lived through the days, waiting for a glimpse of Culpepper, recklessly, dangerously, while the foolish Lady Rochford sympathized and arranged meetings.

The King noticed nothing. He felt pleased; once more he was showing rebels what happened to those who went against their king. He could turn from the flattery of those who sought his good graces to the sweet, youthful charm of Catherine Howard.

“Never was man so happy in his wife!” he said; and he thought that when he returned he would have the nation sing a Te Deum, for at last the Almighty had seen fit to reward his servant with a perfect jewel of womanhood.

Cranmer was so excited he could scarcely make his plans. At last his chance had come. This was too much even for the King to ignore.

There was a man at court who was of little importance, but towards whom Cranmer had always had a kindly feeling. This man was a Protestant, stern and cold, a man who never laughed because he considered laughter sinful, a man who had the makings of a martyr, one who could find more joy in a hair-shirt than in a flagon of good wine. This man’s name was John Lassells, a protege of Cromwell’s who had remained faithful to him; he preached eternal damnation for all those who did not accept the teachings of Martin Luther.

This John Lassells came to Cranmer with a story which set Cranmer’s hopes soaring, that made him feel he could embrace the man.

“My lord,” said Lassells most humbly, “there is on my conscience that which troubles me sorely.”

Cranmer listened halfheartedly, feeling this was doubtless some religious point the man wished explained.

“I tremble for what this may mean,” said Lassells, “for it concerns Her Grace the Queen.”