The Unfaithful Queen: A Novel of Henry VIII's Fifth Wife (14 page)

“I should have known better than to think Jocasta’s daughter could be anything but another harlot,” she was murmuring, half to herself. “I let Tom persuade me. Tom loves whores, little ones, big ones … he cares not. He sends his used-up whores to the king!”

She threw up her hands in a gesture of futility. Then she walked to the door and flung it open.

“Come in here, woman,” she said to Mary Lascelles. “Give me that letter!”

Mary reached into a pocket of her gown and drew out a folded square. She handed it to Grandma Agnes who thrust it at me.

“Here. Read for yourself what I have had to read. What has made me sick with anger. I found it this morning in my chapel pew. Your discarded lover Henry Manox left it there for me to find.”

I wiped my eyes and running nose as best I could, then took the letter and read it. In a few bitter words it condemned me in ugly, blunt language for being Francis Dereham’s harlot and for boasting that Francis and I were married. There was more. Henry claimed that while at Horsham and Lambeth I had had many lovers, that I was the worst of all the girls for whoring and lying, thieving and stealing honest women’s husbands.

I did not read every word. I crumpled the letter and threw it down. Grandma Agnes watched me, stony-faced. Then with a heavy sigh she rose and left the room. As she went out she said to Mary Lascelles, “Lock her in. Let her starve. If she screams, gag her.” Turning to me, she added, “And be thankful I don’t have you whipped and sent to a dungeon for your part in all this chambering and wantonness!”

“Grandma! Grandma!” I shouted frantically, again and again, as the door swung shut and the voices from the corridor outside began to fade away.

“Grandma, don’t leave me!” Cruel as she had been, and unmerciful, it was far worse to be abandoned, left to starve. It was worse than any nightmare. I screamed, again and again. But no one came to my aid. Not Francis, not my father, who was far away, not my cousins or Uncle William.

I was alone. I was getting hungry. And in the windowless cupboard, the candles were guttering and soon I would be left in the dark.

*   *   *

I wept. I screamed. I shouted for help until my throat was hoarse. Had there been a window in the small room I might have jumped from it, ending my suffering.

After a day and a night without food my stomach hurt terribly, cramping pains grew worse with every slowly passing hour. I gripped my belly and writhed in misery, dizzy and feeling now cold, now hot and suffering the wretchedness of looseness in my bowels.

There was a tankard of ale beside the bed, and a half-full pitcher that Francis and I had not drunk. I drank thirstily, only to find that the liquor made my stomach pains worse than ever, and gave me pains in the head as well. I could find no relief. I writhed on the bed, on the floor, listening for the slightest comforting sound on the other side of the door—whispering, breathing—but hearing only the rats scuffling in the wainscoting and the moan of the wind as it blew around the ancient walls.

I shut my eyes, hoping for the release of sleep, but sleep brought only nightmares and I awakened to greater pain than before.

I found that I could discern day from night, and that there was just enough light during the day to reveal the objects in the room, which were in any case quite familiar to me.

It occurred to me that my one hope might lie in a written plea of forgiveness. Clutching my stomach and groaning with pain, I managed to take paper and pen and compose a heartfelt note to Grandma Agnes. I wrote simply that despite what the accusing letter had said, I was not guilty of having many lovers, that I did not lie or steal (which, I’m sorry to say, was not strictly true), nor did I tempt married men into adultery. Francis and I were handfasted, I admitted, but we were loyal to one another and I had not broken my vow to him.

“I beg you, Grandma Agnes, for the sake of Christian charity, forgive me!”

I scribbled “Catherine Howard” at the bottom of the note and pushed it under the door. Then I prayed that someone would find it and take it to the duchess.

Hours passed. Nothing happened. I had a terrible thirst. I began imagining things. That I was standing underneath a waterfall, open-mouthed, drinking my fill. That the ceiling opened and rain soaked me, delicious rain that fell on my parched lips and tongue. I imagined that through some miracle my grandmother had had a change of heart and that she came to me and said that she forgave me. She even said that she had been at fault in not taking better care of me, watching out for me and preventing me from going astray. In my dream we sat down together to a bounteous meal with plenty of wine and I knew I would never thirst again. And best of all, in my dream I imagined that I heard a key turning in the lock. Freedom!

Then light poured into the room and I realized I had not been imagining after all. The key had turned in the lock. There was a young priest standing by the bed, a grimace of distaste on his smooth face, averting his eyes from the sight of me.

“Father!” I cried out. “Father, please help me!” I saw that he had brought bread and soup and a pitcher of watered wine, which I grabbed out of his hands and drained. Only after I had drunk the soup as well and stuffed my mouth with bread did I begin to recover my modesty. Realizing that I was wearing only my undergarments and one petticoat—all my other clothing was stained and ruined—and that I had not been able to wash or dress my hair for several days, I did my best to put myself in some kind of order. But the father had gone out of the room, no doubt to escape the stench.

I called to him, and he said that he had been sent to hear my confession. Hoping that this was a sign the duchess’s anger had lessened, I made my confession and received the sacrament. Afterwards, for the first time in days, I was allowed to wash and put on clean clothes and fresh rushes were strewn over the floor. My stomach still hurt, and I felt twinges of nausea from eating too much and too fast, but I was immensely heartened at my reprieve, and as soon as I lay down on the bed I was asleep.

*   *   *

It was Joan who came the following morning to tell me that I was wanted in the duchess’s apartments. She knew of the suffering that I had undergone. She brought me a gown with a high-necked bodice.

“You want to hide your scars,” she cautioned me. “You don’t want to remind her that you deserved her whip.”

“But I didn’t deserve it!” I insisted. Joan merely rolled her eyes.

“She thinks girls are treated too leniently now,” Joan said as she helped me dress. “She’s always saying that when she was a girl, her father had her whipped until she bled. And that was for mild offenses!

“They say her sister, the old duke’s first wife, was shut away in a dungeon for years and then poisoned!”

The duchess kept me waiting most of the morning before I was summoned into her bedchamber. She scrutinized my appearance. She showed no sign that her anger toward me had softened. My hopeful imaginings were no more than that—mere imaginings, born of thirst and hunger and illness.

“I want you to know, Catherine”—she said my name with scorn—“that the only reason you are here, I repeat, the
only reason,
is that the king commands you to accompany him on a trip to view his new palace of Nonsuch. Or rather, to view the place where his new palace will one day be. Were it not for his orders, you would still be shut away. You have betrayed my trust, not once but twice. I can never trust you—or abide you—again.”

Inwardly I thanked all the saints and angels, forgetting, in my great relief, that saints were frowned on by our English church and angels regarded somewhat dubiously, as belonging to what Father Dawes called Romish superstition. Nevertheless I was very thankful. The king had saved me!

“The king knows nothing of your trespass with Master Dereham,” Grandma Agnes was saying. “He must never know of it, else we shall all perish!”

“Where is Francis?” I dared to ask. “Have you been starving him too?”

“Hush! Don’t say such things! No one has been starved. Master Dereham has gone. Back to Ireland, I have no doubt. Where, I have learned, he has a wife and two children!”

“No! It can’t be!”

“Francis Dereham bore false witness when he swore to be your husband. You were never truly handfasted. It was all a lie.”

I wrenched the silver ring Francis had given me off my finger and threw it in the fire. I felt anger, sorrow, bitterness welling up within me. My eyes were full of tears.

“It can’t be,” I said again and again, softly, while shaking my head.

“And he had no rich relative. That was a lie too. Everything he possessed, he stole.”

It had never occurred to me that Francis was a liar, pretending to be something he was not. I took him at his word. I thought the love he pretended to feel for me, the tenderness he showed me, was real.

“Is it not possible that what you have learned is nothing but slander, spread by his enemies out of spite and envy?”

“No, Catherine. It is the truth. But it would seem that fate favors you nonetheless. Or at least the king favors you. Tomorrow you go with him to see Nonsuch. Now, go and make yourself ready.”

I went to my apartments and found Jonah there, chattering and shrieking. I had been worried about him but saw right away that in my absence he had not wanted for food or care. I let him run up and down my arms and tear off my headdress and make as much noise as he liked, I was so overjoyed to see him.

But Francis! I felt certain I would never see Francis again.

I cursed him, I raged against his falseness, his vile cunning, taking advantage of my trust the way he had. I felt aggrieved, deeply wronged. But then my tears began to flow, and I could not stop them. My dream had been destroyed, the man I had adored was gone, and I would never love anyone as I loved him.

I reached for Jonah and tried to hug him to me, but he scrambled away, crying out derisively, as if mocking me. I had never been more miserable, not even when my stomach pains were at their worst. Those were only pains of the body; what I felt at that moment were the deeper pains of the heart. I had been betrayed, beaten, nearly starved—and now I had lost the one who meant more to me than anyone.

I sank down onto my bed, my face pressed into the soft pillows, and gave way to despair.

SEVEN

“
WHAT
ho!” King Henry called out to me in his light tenor, rubbing his hands together. There was a joyful lilt in his voice, and his stride, as he approached my carriage, was buoyant.

“We are off to Nonsuch then,” he said as he handed me down out of the carriage. “But first I must ask you, Catherine, are you fond of quince marmalade?”

“I am, Your Majesty.”

“As am I,” he confided comically, then called out, “Master Thurlsby! An extra pot of quince marmalade for the lady, if you please!” To me he added, “Mr. Thurlsby is my grocer.”

The palace courtyard was aswarm with servants, preparing for our outing. Packs were being fastened onto horses, carts loaded with furnishings, rugs and hangings, baskets and chests. The king led me to a large cart that held barrels, jars and a variety of other containers. A muscular man in a corduroy weskit, the sleeves of his shirt rolled to the elbows, presided over the loading of the vehicle.

“Thurlsby! What’s that you’ve got there? Cheese and ale, I know. And extra quince marmalade—”

“Here, Your Majesty,” the grocer said, pointing to a wide-mouthed jar. “Quails from Calais, and dotterels killed this morning. New loaves and cold pasties and custard tarts.”

“And plenty of ale!”

“Of course, Your Majesty. Plenty of ale.”

“I shall have to ride in a carriage, I’m afraid,” the king said to me. “My poor leg will not let me mount a horse at present. But for you I have provided a fine mare. She keeps a goodly pace but has a gentle disposition.

“Archyn! Where is the mare for Mistress Catherine?”

The king’s chief groom came toward us leading a high-stepping brown mare, sleek and beautifully combed, her lower legs bound and her tail braided. On her back was a handsome saddle fringed with red silk and gold tassels. The stirrups gleamed with parcel-gilt and the saddle head was copper, curved and shaped in a fanciful design.

“What a fine mount! And so elegantly appointed!”

I loved to ride, and could hardly wait to get into the saddle.

“She belonged to my late queen,” Henry told me. “Jane was a splendid rider.”

I patted the mare’s soft nose. She snuffled and tossed her head gently, eyeing me.

“I’ve also brought a leash of falcons, if we should want to hunt. And there are bows for the deer.”

One by one the carts were drawn into a line, archers and halberdiers formed an escort, and before long we were under way, trundling along the high road toward Cuddington.

I was relieved to be offered my own mount instead of having to ride with the king in his carriage. The little mare stepped lightly and sure-footedly along, responding to my tugs on the reins and my soft-voiced commands. She had been trained well, and was a pleasure to ride.

I was relieved, chiefly, because my emotions were still very raw from hearing the grievous truth about Francis. I was in a state of sad disenchantment, I could not keep the tears from my eyes every time I thought of him, and of the lies he had told me. I knew that I ought to feel glad to be rid of him, for no one would willingly want a deceiver in her life. Yet my sorrow weighed on me, and I could not cast it aside, any more than I could forget the sound of Francis’s voice or the grace of his lithe, supple body or the beauty of his smooth-skinned face and long-lashed eyes.

He had captivated me, and part of me, I knew, would always long to be his captive again, no matter what lies he had told or what wrongs he had done me.

The high road was crowded at first but as we went along the travelers thinned out and before long the royal train of carts and carriages was passing through lush green farmland, with streams and ponds and tall hedges just coming into bloom. Fat cattle cropped the grass, goatherds tended their flocks and a variety of birds flew above and around us, chirping and calling and squabbling with one another in a noisy flutter of wings.