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

Henry’s eyes glistened, contemplating the dissolution of those storehouses of treasure, the monasteries . . . treasures which would naturally be thrown into the King’s chests. The state would be free of Rome; it would be strong, beholden to no one. Moreover, free from the Pope, why should Henry care for his verdict on the divorce? Henry, all-powerful, might make his own divorce! The Continent, in the grip of the reformation, had weakened the Church. Everywhere in Europe men were challenging the Pope’s authority; a new religion was springing up. It was simple; it merely meant that the headship was transferred from the Pope to Henry. Henry had hesitated, turning this truly delightful plan over and over in his mind. He had to consider his conscience, which troubled him incessantly. He was afraid of isolation. How would it affect him politically? Wolsey—the wisest man he had ever known—would have opposed Cromwell’s scheme; he did not like Cromwell, he considered him a knave. Was Cromwell right? Could Cromwell be trusted? Cromwell might be a knave, but was he a wise man?

Henry shilly-shallied. He had always considered his accession to be influenced by the Holy See, and through the Holy See, by God; but he was ever ready to support an idea he liked. He was superstitious to a great degree; he had looked upon the Pope as holy; it was not easy for a superstitious man with a conscience to overthrow a lifetime’s tradition. He was afraid of God’s wrath, although he did not fear the vacillating Clement. He had been proud of his title “Defender of the Faith.” Who was it who had written the most brilliant denouncement of Luther? Henry of England. How could he then overthrow that which he had so ardently defended!

Cromwell had talked slyly and persuasively for if he would keep in favor, this matter of the divorce must be settled, and he saw no way of settling it but this. He explained this was nothing to do with Lutherism; the religion of the country remained the same; it was merely the headship of the church that was involved. Was it not more seemly that a nation’s great good King should lead its Church?

Henry tried to justify this procedure morally. Once he had made a case for the breakaway, it would be done. Warham had died at the most convenient moment; that was a sign perhaps. Who better to head a country’s Church than its King! Anne was pregnant. This was a sign. He must have the divorce if he was to legitimize Anne’s child. The time was short. There was no longer occasion for conferences, for shilly-shallying. Sir Thomas More, a few months previously, had retired from the office of Chancellor. More had ever been one to discountenance Henry. He liked the man, he could not help it, but he had been rather shaken when More had said, on taking office, that he would “first look unto God and after God to his Prince,” for that was a most uncomfortable thing for a minister to say; but More was an uncomfortable man; he was beloved by the people, he was honest, religious in that true sense to which so few do, or even try to attain. He had calmly walked out and gone home to his family and friends; he begged to be allowed to do this on the plea of ill health, and Henry had to accept that plea; but he had always liked the man, and he knew his lack of ease was more mental than bodily. More could not reconcile himself to the divorce; that was why he had resigned and gone to the peace of his Chelsea home. The King had outwardly taken his resignation in good part; he had visited Chelsea; but at the same time he was disturbed on More’s account, since More was known as a good man, and the King would have preferred him to be less arbitrary.

Cromwell was whispering in the King’s ear. Cromwell was smart; Cromwell was cunning; any delicate job could be left to Cromwell.

Divorce! Why divorce? When a marriage has not been valid, what need of divorce? He had never been married to Katharine! She was his brother’s wife, and therefore the ceremony was illegal.

Henry dared delay no longer. Anne’s child must be legitimate. So, on a January day, he summoned one of his chaplains to a quiet attic of White Hall, and when the chaplain arrived, he found there—much to his astonishment, for he had been told he was merely to celebrate mass—the King attended by two grooms of the chamber, one of them being that Norris whose sympathy for Wolsey had lightened the Cardinal’s last hours. The chaplain had not been there more than a few minutes when who should arrive but the Marchioness of Pembroke accompanied by Anne Saville!

The King then took the chaplain aside, and told him he would be required to marry him to the Marchioness.

The chaplain began to tremble at this, looking fearfully about him, at which the King stamped impatiently. Greatly did the chaplain fear the King, but more so did he fear Rome. Henry, seeing himself in a quandary, hastily told the man that the Pope had granted the divorce, and he need fear nothing. The ceremony was over before the light of morning, and all the party went secretly away.

Henry was disturbed and not a little alarmed; he had done a bold thing, and not even Cranmer knew he had intended to do it in this way. For, by marrying Anne as he had, he had irrevocably broken with Rome and placed himself at the head of the English Church. The Council could do nothing but accept this state of affairs; Henry was their King. But what of the people, that growling mass of the populace who had come through pestilence and poverty, and were less inclined to bend the knee than his courtiers? In the streets they murmured against Anne. Some murmured against the King.

If the King trembled, Anne was triumphant. She was Queen after four years of waiting; Queen of England. Already she carried the King’s child within her. She was mentally exhausted by the long struggle, and only now did she realize what a struggle it had been, what nervous energy she had put into maintaining it, how she had feared she would never reach this pinnacle of power. She could now relax and remember that she was to be a mother. Love was not to be denied her then. She carried a child, and the child would inherit the throne of England. She slept peacefully, dreaming the child—a son—was already born, that her attendants laid it in her arms; and her heart was full of love for this unborn child. “September!” she said on waking. “But September is such a long way off!”

George Boleyn was preparing for a journey; he would leave the palace before dawn. Jane came gliding to him as he buttoned his coat.

“George . . . where are you going?”

“A secret mission,” he said.

“So early?”

“So early.”

“Could I not accompany you?”

He did not answer such folly.

“George, is it very secret? Tell me where you go.”

He contemplated her; he always felt more kindly towards her when he was going to leave her.

“It is a secret, so if I tell you, you must keep it entirely to yourself.”

She clasped her hands, feeling suddenly happy because he smiled in such a friendly way.

“I will, George! I swear I will! I can see it is good news.”

“The best!”

“Tell me quickly, George.”

“The King and Anne were married this morning. I go to carry the news to the King of France.”

“The King . . . married to Anne! But the Pope has not given the divorce, so how can that be possible?”

“With God—and the King—all things are possible.”

She was silent, not wishing to spoil this slight friendliness he was showing towards her.

“So you are the Queen’s brother now, George, and I am her sister-in-law.”

“That is so. I must away. I must leave the palace before the day begins.”

She watched him go, smiling pleasantly; then all her bitter jealousy burst forth. It was so unfair. So she was Queen of England, and she would be more arrogant than ever now. Why should a man displace his wife because he tired of her!

A marriage had been arranged for Isabel; she was leaving the Duchess’s retinue. Catherine was not really sorry, never having liked Isabel; and then she was too absorbed in Henry Manox to care much what happened to anyone else.

Manox had been to the dormitory on several occasions; he was recognized now as Catherine’s lover. There was much petting and caressing and whispering, and Catherine found this a delightful state of affairs. She was grown up at last, reveling in intrigue, receiving little gifts from Manox; she never wrote to him, since she had never been taught how to write properly; but oral messages were exchanged between her and Manox by way of their friends.

During the lessons they were very conventional in their behavior—which seemed to Catherine a great joke. The old Duchess might fall into a deep sleep, and all Manox and Catherine would do was exchange mischievous glances.

“I declare, Manox,” said the Duchess on one occasion, “you are too stern with the child. You do nothing but scold!”

They would laugh at that when she lay in his arms in her bed with the curtains drawn. Catherine, though a child in years, was highly sexed, precocious, a budding woman; over-excitable, generous, reckless, this affair with Manox seemed the high spot of her life. He said he had loved her ever since he had first set eyes on her; Catherine was sure she had loved him ever since her very first lesson. Love was the excuse for everything they did. He brought her sweetmeats and ribands for her hair; they laughed and joked and giggled with the rest.

It was the Duchess who told Catherine that she was engaging another woman in place of Isabel.

“She is from the village, and her name is Dorothy Barwicke. She will take Isabel’s place among the ladies. She is a serious young lady, as Isabel was, and I feel I can trust her to keep you young people in some sort of order. I’ll whisper something else to you, Catherine . . . We really are going to Lambeth ere the month is out! I declare I grow weary of the country, and now that my granddaughter is in truth the Queen . . .”

She never tired of talking of Anne, but Catherine who had loved to hear such talk was hardly interested now.

“Imagine poor old Katharine’s face when he took Anne to France! If ever a king proclaimed his queen, he did then! And I hear she was a great success. How I should have loved to see her dancing with the French King! Marchioness of Pembroke, if you please! I’ll warrant Thomas—I beg his pardon, the Earl of Wiltshire—is counting what this means in gold. Oh, Thomas, Earl of Wiltshire, who would not have beautiful daughters!”

“Grandmother, will you really go to Lambeth?”

“Don’t look so startled, child. Assuredly I shall go. Someone must assist at the dear Queen’s coronation. I feel sure I shall be invited, in view of my rank and my relationship to Her Majesty the Queen.”

“And . . . will you take the whole household?” asked Catherine, her voice trembling. But the Duchess was too absorbed by her thoughts and plans for the coronation to notice that.

“What foolish questions you ask, child! What matter . . .”

“You would take your musicians, would you not, Grandmother? You would take me?”

“Ah! So that is what you are thinking, is it? You fear to be left out of the excitement. Never fear, Catherine Howard, I doubt not the Queen your cousin will find a place at court for you when you are ready.”

There was no satisfaction to be gained from the Duchess; in any case she changed her plans every day.

“Isabel! Isabel!” said Catherine. “Do you think the whole household will remove to Lambeth?”

“Ah!” cried Isabel, who in view of her coming marriage was not interested in the Duchess’s household. “You are thinking of your lover!” She turned to Dorothy Barwicke, a dark woman with quick, curious eyes and a thin mouth. “You would think Catherine Howard but a child, would you not? But that is not so; she has a lover; he visits her in our bedroom of nights. He is a very bold young man, and they enjoy life; do you not, Catherine?”

Catherine flushed and, looking straight at Dorothy Barwicke, said: “I love Henry and he loves me.”

“Of course you do!” said Isabel. “And a very loving little girl she is, are you not, Catherine? She is very virtuous, and would not allow Manox in her bed an she did not love him!”

“And, loving him,” said Dorothy Barwicke, “I’ll warrant she finds it difficult to refuse his admittance.”

The two young women exchanged glances, and laughed.

“You will look after Catherine when I leave, will you not?” said Isabel.

“I do not need looking after.”

“Indeed you do not!” said Dorothy. “Any young lady not yet in her teens, who entertains gentlemen in her bed at night, is quite able to look after herself, I’d swear!”

“Not gentlemen,” said Isabel ambiguously. “It is only Manox.”

Catherine felt they were mocking her, but she always felt too unsure of all the ladies to accuse them of so doing.

“I shall expect you to look after Catherine when I have gone,” said Isabel.

“You may safely leave that to me.”

Catherine lived in agony of fear while the Duchess set the household bustling with preparations for her journey to Lambeth. She talked perpetually of “my granddaughter, the Queen,” and having already heard that she was to attend the coronation—fixed for May—was anxious to get to Lambeth in good time, for there would be her state robes to be put in order, and many other things to be seen to; and she hoped to have a few informal meetings with the Queen before the great event.

Catherine was wont to lie in bed on those nights when there were no visitors to the dormitory and ask herself what she would do were the Duchess to decide not to take Manox. Catherine loved Manox because she needed to love someone; there were two passions in Catherine’s life; one was music, and the other was loving. She had loved her mother and lost her; she had loved Thomas Culpepper, and lost him; now she loved Manox. And on all these people had she lavished unstintingly her capacity for loving, and that was great. Catherine must love; life for her was completely devoid of interest without love. She enjoyed the sensational excitement of physical love in spite of her youth; but her love for Manox was not entirely a physical emotion. She loved to give pleasure as well as to take it, and there was nothing she would not do for those she loved. All that she asked of life was to let her love; and she was afraid of life, for it seemed to her that her love was ill-fated; first her mother, then Thomas Culpepper, now Manox. She was terrified that she would have to go to Lambeth without Manox.

There came a day when she could no longer bear the suspense. She asked her grandmother outright.

“Grandmother, what of my lessons at Lambeth?”

“What of them, child?”

“Shall Henry Manox accompany us, that he may continue to instruct me?”

The Duchess’s reply sent a shiver down her spine.

“Dost think I would not find thee a teacher at Lambeth?”

“I doubt not that you would, but when one feels that one can do well with one teacher. . . .”

“Bah! I know best who will make a good teacher. And why do you bother me with lessons and teachers? Dost not realize that this is to be the coronation of your own cousin Anne!”

Catherine could have wept with mortification, and her agony of mind continued.