The Rose Without a Thorn (6 page)

Queen Catherine had been discarded and Queen Anne was in her place. There were many who disapproved of this, and we had to be very careful in what we said. We heard rumors concerning those who had spoken rashly and were now languishing in the Tower.

Sometimes we rode past that sinister building. Mysterious and evil happenings had taken place there. People had been sent into that grim fortress and never been heard of again. I often thought of those two little princes who were said to have been murdered there. There had been a great deal of talk about them at one time. People said they had been murdered by wicked King Richard, who had been turned from the throne by our King Henry’s father—another Henry.

But in some respects life went on in the same way as it had in Horsham. The architecture of the house being very like that other, we had a similar Long Room in which the nightly revels still took place.

Henry Manox accompanied us to Lambeth with the Duchess’s musicians; he and I had become the greatest of friends by this time and I looked forward to his company both at the virginals and in the Long Room. He told me that I was the most gifted pupil he had ever had and that he loved me dearly—but not only for that.

I missed Isabel and often wondered whether she regretted leaving the Duchess’s household. But I think she was very eager to be married.

Dorothy Barwike watched over me, and in Lambeth I met Mary Lassells. She came to the house soon after we arrived and she told me she had been nursemaid in the house of my uncle, Lord William Howard; and when Lady Howard died, the Duchess took Mary Lassells into her household as one of her waiting women.

This meant that Mary Lassells was now sleeping with the rest of us in the Long Room.

Shortly after we arrived, I suffered a disappointment, for Henry Manox left the Duchess’s service for that of Lord Beaumont. But this was soon proved to be not so bad as I had first feared, for Lord Beaumont was a close neighbor of the Duchess, and Henry could easily slip across the gardens in order to join me in the Long Room.

There was less supervision than there would be normally, because everyone was completely occupied with the coming coronation. The Duchess’s ambitions had been realized, and she left Lambeth for Court in a state of bliss. She was to hold the new Queen’s train at the ceremony of the coronation.

The weather was beautiful. Everyone said it was the best time of the year, and even before the event there were days of rejoicing, with spectacles and processions in the streets. I went out with Mary Lassells, Dorothy Barwike and some of the others who took part in the nightly revels. I was delighted that Henry Manox joined us.

It was the day before the coronation—a time when the celebrations were at their height. I had already decided that there was nothing the people like more than such occasions, and they would be overcome with love for the King because he gave them such opportunities for merry holidays.

On the river were craft of all descriptions, and from many came the sound of sweet music. As was the custom, the Queen had been staying at the Tower with the King and was now preparing for the great tomorrow.

It was the last day of May and, the weather being so perfect, people were saying that Heaven itself was showing its approval of the marriage.

Rails had been set up in the streets so that the horses, who would play such a big part in the procession, could not harm the spectators. There would be crowds of them, of course, and the streets were elaborately decorated; cloth of gold and velvet hung in the Chepe, and Gracechurch Street was brilliant in crimson velvet. I was pressed against the rail and Manox’s arm was about me while we watched the procession. There were the Archbishops of York and Canterbury with several ambassadors, and I glowed with pride when my uncle, Lord William Howard, appeared among them.

Henry Manox glanced at me and said: “You are indeed one of a noble family, are you not, sweetheart?”

I giggled, and thought of my grandmother, who was to hold the Queen’s train.

“Lord William is not the Marshal,” said Mary Lassells disparagingly, as though she did not like this reference to the Howards.

“No,” retorted Manox, “but he is standing in for his brother, who, as ambassador in France, cannot be here for this great occasion. And is not that brother, the great Duke of Norfolk, yet another uncle of our noble little companion.”

Mary looked sullen, but could not remain so for long, and she was soon exclaiming in delight, for the moment for which we had all been waiting had arrived. Here was the Queen herself.

There was a gasp through the crowd. She was in an open litter so that we could all see her clearly. It was a beautiful litter, covered with cloth of gold, drawn by two white palfreys which were led by gentlemen of the Queen’s household.

I glowed with pride when I saw my fascinating cousin, for I thought I had never seen anyone so beautiful. Her surcoat was of silver tissue lined with ermine; she wore her long dark hair loose about her shoulders, and round her head was a circlet of rubies. Four tall knights held a canopy of cloth of gold over the litter.

I felt deeply moved and wished her happiness with all my heart. Her litter had passed on and then came her attendants in their litters, and in the first of these sat my grandmother with the Duchess of Dorset.

Henry Manox threw a sly glance at Mary Lassells and squeezed me closer to him. “Marry,” he said, “our noble companion’s family is very well represented here today. ’Tis so, is it not, Mistress Lassells?”

What a happy day that was! We reveled in the pageants, liking best the fountain of Helicon from which Rhenish wine spurted in jets and fell into cups, one of which Henry Manox brought to me, and we drank together, as he said, from our loving cup.

We were all too weary at the end of the day to indulge in our usual revelries and slept soundly.

The next day was the glorious first of June; and the Queen, her train held by my grandmother, went from Westminster Hall to the Abbey, attended by a great company, including my Uncle William Howard as deputy for that other, even more illustrious uncle, the Duke of Norfolk; and there she was crowned Queen of England.

Days of rejoicing followed. There were banquets and ceremonies and joisting in the tilt-yard where the King and his new Queen sat side by side watching the display.

There would be further rejoicing to come in September when the Queen gave birth to the child she carried. It would be a boy—everyone was determined on that; and then the King’s happiness would be complete. And so would that of us all.

But it was not quite so peaceful as it had seemed. Everyone was not rejoicing, and there would always be some to make their views known, however dangerous that was.

Friar Peto was exceptionally bold. He was a man of strong religious beliefs, a man completely without fear. The sermon he preached at Greenwich was not couched in parables as some were; it was not merely hinting at the dire punishment which might befall a man who put away his wife for the sole reason that he was tired of her and lusted after another woman. Friar Peto spoke
fiercely against both the King and the Queen. Rome had refused the divorce, and the King had snapped his fingers at the Holy Pope and acted without his approval. He preferred the advice of his obliging Archbishop. The King and the woman he called his Queen were sinners. Friar Peto even went so far as to liken King Henry to Ahab, whose sins were not forgiven and at whose death had his blood drunk by dogs. He said Anne was a sorceress, and, still in biblical mood, likened her to Jezebel.

The King must have been in a somewhat tolerant mood, for Peto was not immediately sent to the Tower, though he was there some months later, where he stayed for two or three years; and at the end of that time, not being so enamoured of his Queen, the King might have felt that the Friar was perhaps not so wrong as he had appeared to be at the time of the coronation.

The Duchess remained at Court and the household was more relaxed than it had been, even in Horsham. Meals were regular and household matters attended to, but there was little supervision of the servants.

I could not understand Mary Lassells. There had been times when it occurred to me that there was something behind Isabel’s words, but this seemed doubly so in the case of Mary. Her attitude toward Manox was a little mysterious. Sometimes she seemed to hate him, at others quite the contrary. I often saw her watching him, and she seemed very pleased when he paid attention to her. She was not easy to understand. Sometimes she almost sneered at my family; at others seemed to show great respect for it.

“You come of a
very
grand family,” she said to me once. “The Queen’s coronation brought that home to us, did it not? The Queen herself… your cousin! And Lord William Howard, your uncle. And the Duchess, your grandmother, holding the Queen’s train and now in the Queen’s household!”

“I believe my cousin to be a very kind and generous lady,” I said.

“Oh, it is well for families when some of its members creep into high places.”

“Creep into high places?”

“Oh, I mean when they are favored by royalty.”

She smirked a little. Then she went on: “I wonder that you are on such terms with a musician of low birth.”

I flushed. Henry Manox and I had become even closer than we had been before. But there was a certain restraint in him. There was so much of which I was ignorant. Our lovemaking excited me. It was like making new discoveries, but I did have the notion that there was more to learn and that Henry Manox wanted to teach me, and had the power to, but, for some reason, was not altogether sure whether he should proceed.

Henry had once said: “My little Katherine, you were born to love, but you are so young as yet. That will change though. One day, it will be even better between us two.”

I had snuggled up to him and he had said: “You are a temptress.”

I heard Dorothy Barwike say to Mary Lassells: “Henry Manox says he loves Katherine Howard to madness.”

I was enthralled, and thought: “Dear Henry, I know he truly loves me.”

Dorothy went on: “He believes he is troth-plighted to her and so contracted.”

What was Dorothy saying? That Manox thought to marry me! I was eleven years old. Some princesses married at that age. This was rather disconcerting. I had not thought of marriage.

Then something alarming happened. Mary Lassells came to me one morning, looking as though she wanted to talk to me and did not know how to begin. I asked her if anything was wrong, to which she replied hesitatingly: “I know not what I must do. But do something I know I must.”

“What has happened?” I persisted. “Pray tell me, Mary.”

“Mayhap I have failed to understand. Mayhap I should not speak of it, but you do not always remember that you belong to a noble house. I know that your father is not rich … but the Duchess would be most disturbed if she knew …”

“Knew what?”

“Your … er … being of such a noble house …” She could not prevent the little smirk appearing—the one which was always there when my family was mentioned. “… and I being here to serve the Duchess …”

“What are you trying to tell me, Mary?”

“I have been bold. I said to Manox, ‘You play the fool in a most dangerous fashion.’ ‘How so?’ he asked. And I said, and this is true enough, ‘And if my Lady Duchess knew of this … love … between you and Katherine Howard, she would seek to undo you … this talk of troth-plight … What think you Her Grace would do an she heard you have planned to marry this noble-born young lady?’”

“You said that to him? How could you?”

“’Twas my duty as I saw it. Consider, I pray you. If the Duchess were to hear of this … what would happen to Manox, or to you? Give a thought to it. I did, and I thought it was right to speak to Manox rather than to Her Grace.”

“But in the Long Room …”

“Yes, in the Long Room. You and Manox sporting with the rest. But let me tell you his reply. It is not pleasing to hear. He said: ‘Fear not. My intentions are not of the nature you believe. They are what is called of a dishonorable nature, and from the freedom I have so far enjoyed with the lady, I doubt not that I shall be able to attain my purpose without taking the steps you suggest.’”

I felt dizzy, and a sudden rage possessed me—not against Mary Lassells but against Henry Manox. How could he speak thus of me? Was it true that Mary Lassells was jealous of his devotion to me? I could not believe that he had said such words. But something told me that they could be true.

“Fie on him!” I cried, stamping my foot, and Mary put an arm round me.

“I understand,” she said soothingly. “You are so young, you have not yet experienced the perfidy of men. This is how they
speak of their mistresses when out of hearing, yet when they are with them it is all honeyed words and vows of eternal faithfulness.”

“I cannot believe he spoke thus of me.”

“Ask him.”

“I shall … and now. I cannot wait.”

“He will lie. All men lie.”

“Henry Manox has always told me how much he loved me and would die for me. I shall go to him now and you shall come with me.”

She looked aghast, and then she smiled secretly.

“You could see him tonight and there tell him.”

“No,” I said firmly. “I shall not wait, and shall speak to him now.”

“But how?”

“We shall go to Lord Beaumont’s house … through the gardens, and I shall ask someone to bring him to me. And you will be with me, Mary. We shall confront him … face to face.”

Mary was uneasy, but I did notice a certain relish in her eyes, as though she would enjoy confronting this traitor and, of course, prove that she was telling the truth because she could see that this was the only way she could make me believe it.

I had never known I could be so angry. I felt degraded. I kept thinking of Uncle William Howard, Marshal at the coronation, and my grandmother, holding the Queen’s train and riding in the carriage near her. I was indeed of a noble family, and this low-born servant had dared speak of me as though I were a common slut!

I think Mary Lassells was surprised by this determined girl, who had hitherto seemed so young and helpless. I strode over the lawns to the Beaumont gardens, Mary walking meekly beside me.