The Rose Without a Thorn

The Fourth Queen

LIFE WAS VERY DULL after that. I missed Francis sadly, but I knew I must be grateful that he had escaped with his life. When I considered that, I realized the importance of what I had done.

There was strict surveillance throughout the household. One of the Duchess’s attendants—nearly as old as herself, on whom she could entirely rely—had the duty of locking and unlocking the door of the Long Room. The nights of revelry were at an end. We were given tasks to do and long hours were spent at needlework of some kind. A musical instrument might be played while we worked, or one of us would read aloud. While this was in progress, one of the Duchess’s older ladies would inspect us at any moment to make sure orders were being carried out.

The Duchess had had a shock which had aroused her to action, and she was determined to put an end to the careless manner in which her household had previously been conducted.

The new way of life had its effect on me. I listened to the music and surprised myself by becoming interested in the readings. My longing for Francis faded a little. I was thinking of other things than what I called to myself “romping.” That was a pleasant comfortable word, suggesting innocence.

One letter was smuggled into me from Francis. Dorothy Barwike brought it to me with a sly smile, so I knew she was aware whence it came.

“How did you get it?” I asked.

Dorothy could only say that it had been given to her by someone to whom it had in turn been given. It was not possible to say how it had arrived in Lambeth.

It was full of protestations of undying love. He was in Ireland and would soon be sailing off on a great adventure which he knew would be profitable: and when he returned, he would come to claim his wife. None should gainsay him then. He lived for that day.

I read it through again and again and thought of his coming home. Then we would marry.

My grandmother, who, immediately after that scene when she had beaten me so severely, had treated me with coldness and disgust, now relented a little.

She said to me one day: “My child, we will not talk of what happened. ’Tis best forgot.” Then she immediately began to talk of it. “It must be hushed up. Your uncle, the Duke, must never hear of it. No one must know.”

I thought of all those who did know. All those women who slept in the Long Room … and doubtless others.

“It would disturb the family,” she went on. “Your father would be distressed. It could prevent your sisters making good marriages. Your uncle would never forgive you.”

I tried to explain again that Francis and I were as husband and wife, and we only did what married people were entitled to do.

“Be silent,” she snapped. “You do not know what you say. You are a child. You know nothing of these matters. It was but child’s play.”

“Your Grace, Francis was my husband in very truth.”

I saw exasperation and fear in her expression. I was sure that, if I had been near enough, she would have struck me.

“Did I not say that we were not to speak of the matter?”

I nodded, not reminding her that it was she who had brought up the topic. But I knew how very deeply alarmed she was, for I too was understanding that what I had fallen into in a light-hearted way was, after all, a serious matter.

This was continually brought home to me in my conversations with my grandmother. I was once more rubbing her legs, and at such times she would continually stress the importance of the Howard family.

It was the old theme. “Oh, it is a wondrous thing to belong to a family such as ours. We have always been so close to the King, except on one or two occasions in our history, for we are by no means fools … except on those occasions when we seek to gratify our foolish desires and plunge near to disaster.” A significant look at me followed this remark. “But that is when we are young and too stupid to know better. And remember this, Katherine Howard, it behooves us all not to demean ourselves with those of low standing. We must always remember that we owe the utmost respect to the noble family to which we belong.”

I did not speak, but bent low over her leg, rubbing soothingly. I had always thought Francis so courtly, so handsome, comparable with the highest in the land, but all this insistence on the family’s greatness was making me think, well, he is, after all, only a pensioner of the Duke. I remembered him cringing before the Duchess when she slapped his face.

“I could see a good life for you, Katherine Howard,” went on my grandmother. “That is, if you are sensible. There might be a place at Court. Would you like that?”

I thought of the Court. Dancing, music, grand balls, beautiful gowns and money with which to buy them—not having to rely on a friend, or a lover. Mercy me! How much did I owe Francis Derham? How many ells of velvet and fine silks had he brought to me? That beautiful French fennel from the crooked old woman who made flowers for the Court ladies could not have been cheap, for she knew her worth. There had been other ornaments which Francis had delighted in giving me, and I had always said, “I will pay you when I have some money.” And he would laugh and kiss me and tell me how this or that became me. I should not have allowed it. A proud Howard should not have taken money from anyone—especially someone so far below her.

Almost immediately, I chided myself for thinking so of Francis, but the fact remained that he was not considered to be one of us although he claimed to have some remote connection with the family.

My grandmother was saying: “Eh, eh? Do you hear me? How would you like to go to Court?”

“It would be very interesting.”

“Very interesting! Is that all you have to say? Listen to me. I tell you this, Mistress Howard, it would be something for which you would bless your family. Marry, and so it would. There could be a great marriage for you.”

“I am married to …”

“Don’t dare let me hear such nonsense, or I shall beat you till you scream for mercy.” She reached for her stick and shook it at me. “Are you mad? Never let me hear you talk such nonsense. You would bring down the wrath of your uncle the Duke … and that would mean more than a slap or two from me, I can tell you. Much, much more. You may have been taken advantage of by a stupid young man as careless as yourself, but I was at hand to protect you and put an end to your folly before it was too late. Did you hear that? Before it was too late.”

“Yes … yes, Your Grace,” I murmured.

“Well, rub a little harder. Oh … that’s a relief. You have good hands, child. Well, of a surety the King will marry again … soon.” She laughed. “He is a man who cannot do without a wife. There are some like that.”

I thought, he must be getting old now. I had thought he was old when I saw him beside my cousin. She had looked so dazzlingly beautiful. But I did not say this, as any mention of Anne always depressed the Duchess.

“I hear he is making inquiries on the Continent,” went on the Duchess. “And he is deeply desirous of making Marie of Lorraine his wife. She is said to be of unsurpassed beauty, but she is betrothed to the King of Scotland. But His Majesty would thrust that aside. What is the King of Scots compared with the King of England? Yet, I do not think the lady is so eager to take our King. Some are saying that it is unlucky to be the wife of the King of England. One wife put from him after years of marriage, the next …”—her voice broke—“… sent to the block … the third dying in childbirth. It might indeed seem that Heaven is set against a happy marriage for him. That is what they say.”

“And it is indeed the truth,” I put in.

“Do not dare say such things!” reproved the Duchess, seemingly unaware that she was the one who had just said it.

“The French King mocks him,” she went on. “Those French. Would you trust them? They have their graces and prancing manners, I grant you … and beneath all that, they are wily. No friends of ours, they cover their wicked actions with graceful words. Do you know, the French King sent word to His Majesty condoling with him on his unfortunate explorations into matrimony and to wish him success with his fourth choice. And when His Majesty said that he would be delighted to take a lady from the French Court, King Francis replied that any lady of any degree should be at his disposal. French manners, of course, are not to be taken seriously, and when the King sent a message to King Francis to the effect that he would come without delay to inspect the ladies, the French King pretended to be shocked that his gracious politeness had been misunderstood and he replied that the King of England would understand that noble ladies could not be taken to market like horses at a fair.”

I began to laugh.

“It is not for laughing, child,” she reproved me. “Whom His Majesty marries is important to us … to the family. Remember the Seymours. What airs they give themselves. They think they are above us all because they are uncles to the young Edward. It is not a laughing matter. We must trust that the King’s new wife will favor the Howard family. That is why your uncle would like to have a hand in the choice.”

“Doubtless the King will choose his own Queen.”

The Duchess nodded gloomily. “Of a surety he will.” She was thoughtful for a while, then she said: “Enough of this, child. Put away the unguents.” She brightened a little. “There will be a new Queen … and soon, I trow. You are growing up and you have the Howard good looks. Who knows, with the coming of a new Queen, there may be an opening for you at Court.”

I was becoming more interested in what was going on around me than I had ever been before. Perhaps it was because I was getting older, but more likely because the Duchess’s household was no longer a forcing ground for latent sensuality. Restrictions set by the Duchess had to be adhered to, and there was stern punishment for any who diverged from the new laws now laid down. There was a subdued atmosphere throughout the house and certainly not the same familiarity between the sexes there had been previously. Everyone was careful not to attract suspicion.

I suppose some of the bolder spirits continued their associations, but, as Francis was gone, I was not tempted. I read a little and even wrote the occasional letter when necessary. I found that there were other interests than kissing and thinking of a lover all the time.

So I learned something of what was going on. I now knew a little about the powerful people at Court—men like Thomas Cromwell, who had taken Wolsey’s place. Poor Wolsey! It was said that he had died of a broken heart which saved him from the axe. He had done all he could to prevent the King’s marriage to my cousin Anne but, brilliant as he was, he was no match for the King in the heat of his desire, and he had died because he had lost the King’s favor.

There was Thomas More, who had refused to sign the Act of Supremacy. The King was, at that time, seeking to rid himself of my cousin and blamed her for that good man’s death.

How lightly all heads seemed to rest on shoulders! I began to realize more fully how alarmed my grandmother had been when she discovered what had happened between Francis Derham and me. Not that I was of any importance, except in a very minor way as a Howard.

I thought once more of my poor cousin. They had said she had lovers, and that was treason toward the King. Yet he had broken his marriage vows to her. There was Jane Seymour to bear witness to that. But that did not seem important. And Anne had died for her transgression.

It was all very difficult to understand, but that in itself made it more dangerous. I began to wish there had not been that passion between Francis and myself almost as much as I had wished I had never known Henry Manox.

I felt I wanted to go on living this restricted life, becoming interested in what was going on around me, being the young, innocent girl I could have been if I had never known those nights in the Long Room.

How different it was now. We all slept behind locked doors and talked together sometimes of what was going on in the country. Would the King marry? And whom? It all seemed of the greatest interest.

Some of the leading spirits of the Long Room had disappeared. Joan was one of them. She was going to be married, I believe. I was rather relieved when she went, because she often reminded me of that occasion when the Duchess surprised us in the Maids’ Chamber and had seen Derham and me rolling on the floor.

Throughout the country, for some time, there had been a conflict between Catholics and Protestants. The Howards were firm Catholics and Stephen Gardiner, the Bishop of Winchester, stood with my uncle; the Seymours, with Thomas Cromwell, were in the opposite camp. I had never before realized how important such men were, and how they worked in a devious manner to attain their ends and influence the King’s actions without appearing to do so.

It was for this reason, of course, that my uncle and his brothers had been so delighted when the King was attracted by my cousin. They must have temporarily forgotten how fickle royal favor could be.

Perhaps I am running ahead. I cannot believe that the frivolous girl I was at that time suddenly began to take an intelligent interest in her surroundings and to understand something of their meaning; but certainly I began to change then.

We were all excited when it seemed that the King was making his choice of a wife. One of the likely candidates was a lady known as Anne of Cleves, the Lutheran daughter of John, Duke of Cleves. My uncle was naturally against the match, Thomas Cromwell for it.

We heard her name mentioned often, and I learned a little about her. She was said to be beautiful, but were not all royal ladies beautiful? Especially those who were seeking—or being sought in—marriage with a highly desirable consort.

She had an elder sister who had been married for ten years to the Duke of Saxony, the leader of the Protestants in Germany. Her name was Sybilla and not only was she reputed to be of outstanding beauty, but she was known for her wisdom and the happiness she had brought to her successful marriage. In fact, she was reckoned to be one of the most distinguished and admirable of ladies.

The sister of such a lady must surely herself possess some excellent qualities? She was twenty-one years old.

“Why,” I said, “she is very old.” It was a remark which provoked some laughter.

“Mistress Katherine Howard,” said Dorothy Barwike mockingly, “having seen all of fifteen years, finds twenty-one … old.”

I blushed. I stammered: “No … I suppose it is not in truth … old. But for a Queen …”

“The King is not exactly a young man.”

That was true enough. When I had seen him with my cousin I had thought he was old—and now he was even older, so it did not matter that Anne of Cleves was twenty-one.

I daresay the King would have liked to see her for himself but, after the snub he had received from the King of France, he might have felt wary of suggesting this.

The next best thing was to have a portrait of her, but portraits, of course, did not always tell the truth.

The Duchess told me that the Duke did not like the proposed marriage. He thought it was most unsuitable. Then “that knave, Cromwell,” as my uncle called him, had the idea that he would send our finest painter, Hans Holbein, to make a picture of the prospective bride, and he was sure that when the King saw it he would be in favor of the match.

This is what Hans Holbein did, and he painted a beautiful picture. It came in an ivory box, shaped like a rose, I heard, and when it was opened, the portrait was disclosed, lying at the bottom of the box. The King was enchanted. He was not interested in the lady’s religion. What he cared about were her personal attractions and, according to the exquisite miniature, they were completely desirable. So the King would marry Anne of Cleves.

There was gloom throughout the house. Anne of Cleves, with her Protestant upbringing, was certainly not what the Howards were looking for.

By the end of the year it seemed certain that she would be the new Queen. I gathered, through the gossip, that my uncle blamed Thomas Cromwell for this.

It really was a very short time since Jane Seymour had died, but the King was clearly not greatly grieved by that sad event. Jane had served her purpose. She had given him what her two predecessors had failed to, but he could be only moderately pleased with his heir, for the child was not very robust and was therefore a constant source of anxiety. It seemed hardly likely that such a weakling as Jane would have produced healthy children had she lived, and, as the King was no longer young, it was well to get himself a new wife as quickly as possible.

We were getting excited. There would be a coronation and that meant revelry in the streets: and if, at the appropriate interval, little Edward should have a strong and healthy half-brother, that would ease the tension which had always existed about the fragile heir.

There were delays. In the first place, the future Queen’s father died. Then we heard rumors that Sybilla’s husband, John Frederick of Saxony, had expressed doubts as to the wisdom of the marriage. He was uneasy that the bridegroom had already experienced three unsatisfactory marriages—the first to a wife who was said to have been no wife and whom he had put from him; the second to one whose life ended on the scaffold; and the third to a wife who had died in childbirth almost immediately.

Everyone was asking the question, would there be no marriage with Anne of Cleves? Would the King have to look elsewhere? And despondency settled on us all.

Then there was good news. John Frederick’s fears were stifled by the League of Protestants, who declared that the marriage would be good for the Cause. Had not the King already broken with Rome? That was one step in the right direction. It might be that his wife could persuade him to take more.

At last Anne left Düsseldorf for England. Nothing could delay the King’s marriage much longer. We thought she would arrive for Christmas, which would be a most appropriate time; but, alas, it was not to be. The weather was bad; the winds were especially fierce, which perhaps was to be expected at this time of the year.

We heard that the Lady of Cleves would perforce spend Christmas in Calais. Then the winds suddenly subsided and we were delighted when we heard that she was to sail, and she arrived in Deal two days after Christmas.

My grandmother said, as I rubbed her legs: “The Duke is most displeased.”

“There is little he can do about that,” I replied, having become much bolder during those days. I should soon be sixteen years old and a child no longer. I had changed a great deal, and I tried not to think too much of the foolish, thoughtless girl I had once been, believing everything that was told me. I was now dreaming of going to Court. My grandmother had such ambitions for me.

“With a new Queen,” she often mused, “though she is not of our choosing, but… who knows? The Duke has kept favor, even after …” Then she would sigh and be sad, thinking of her favorite granddaughter.

Now she said: “True, we must needs accept that. They say she is very fair. The Duke has seen Master Holbein’s portrait and it depresses his spirit.”

“She is very beautiful then?”

My grandmother was silent. After a while she said: “Your uncle is among those who will go to Canterbury to greet her. It will not be long before she is crowned Queen, and it seems only yesterday…”

She was going to be sad for a while after this. The prospect of a new Queen brought back too many memories of that other.

There was great excitement in the Long Room. Someone always managed to get the latest news from a friend who had either heard or actually witnessed it. We had to sort out the truth from fantasy, but there was usually a grain or two of the former involved; and it all made fascinating listening.

Now there were reports of what had happened at the royal meeting.

When the King had his first glimpse of her, he was filled with horror.

“They say she is by no means as fair as he had been led to believe by accounts and, of course, Master Holbein’s portrait. She is big and he likes not large women. Master Holbein makes her skin look like velvet, and hers is marked by the pox. She wears the hideous fashions of her country and she is no beauty.”

“And what says the King?”

“The King is beside himself with wrath. He stayed for a very short time in her company. Then he made his excuses and left. He was in a fury. Be assured, someone will suffer for this.”

“It will go ill with Master Holbein for painting such a false picture.”

“Oh, he will not harm the artist. He likes well Holbein’s work, and the painter would say that was how he saw her. When he looked at her he was seeing her as she might have been before she caught the pox. That is how artists are. It is Thomas Cromwell who will bear the brunt of this. He wanted the match. He commanded Holbein to paint the picture … and mayhap he commissioned it to be done without the pox marks.”

We were all very excited.

“I hope this will not spoil the coronation,” said one.

“It has gone too far to retreat,” added another.

“Poor King.”

“Poor lady, I say. He will find some means of being rid of her, as …

Mary Lassells gave the speaker a push. “Have a care, girl,” she said; and there was a brief silence.

Someone knew someone who was a page to Lord Admiral Fitzwilliam, Earl of Southampton, who had brought the Lady of Cleves to England. In his presence, the King was reputed to have said: “Persons of humble station have advantages beyond the reach of princes. They may choose their wives, whereas princes must take those who are brought to them.”

Master Cromwell was of the company, and the King berated him for having brought him to this pass. He said he did not like the lady. She seemed to him like a great Flanders Mare, and she had none of those virtues which he looked for in a wife. He shouted to Admiral Fitzwilliam in a great rage and said that the Admiral should have given him notice of the kind of woman he was bringing for his King to marry. The Admiral was very bold. He retorted that he had not known he had such authority. His orders had been to bring the lady to England and that he had done.

Cromwell, it appeared, knowing that the King’s fury was directed mainly at himself, pointed out that the Admiral had, in a letter, referred to the lady’s beauty, to which the Admiral replied that he had reported what he had been told, and he presumed that, as the lady was to be Queen, she must naturally be beautiful.

“The King was so angry,” went on our informant, “that he ordered them to stop their bickering blame of each other. He was surrounded by a pack of fools and they would do well to find a way out of the situation into which they had placed him.”

Then one of the women said in dismay: “Then there will be no marriage … no coronation!”

“There may be or may not,” replied the knowledgeable one. “They are saying now that the lady was once betrothed to the Marquis of Lorraine.”

“Then depend upon it,” said Dorothy, “there will be no marriage. I’ll swear the lady will be sent back to her family.”

“That could never be. There would be war. No one would accept such an insult. The Schmalkaldic League would be up in arms. These Protestant communities can be as fierce as the Catholics.”

And it did seem that they were too strong for the King. It was proved that any proposed alliance between Anne and the Marquis of Lorraine had merely been a discussion between the parents of the young people and it had been abandoned several years ago.

The King realized that he was caught. We heard he had asked: “Is there no remedy? Then must I needs put my head in this yoke?”

I was more sorry for the poor Lady of Cleves. What a terrible thing for one’s bridegroom to say. I thought of Francis Derham and his great tenderness for me, and that it would be pleasant to see him again.

There was speculation everywhere. Would there be a wedding? No one was sure. The King certainly would have welcomed a release. And I was sure the lady would have too. What a sad and humiliating position for her! To leave her home and come to a strange country, only to receive such a cold welcome!

The Duchess was half-jubilant, half-fearful. Nothing would please the Duke more than if the Lady Anne were sent home. But, how could that be? Yet, we had had experience of our King’s methods. He could act drastically when his desire for some object was strong enough. And now he certainly desired to be free of the Lady of Cleves as ardently as he had of Catherine of Aragon.

“The King is furious,” said the Duchess, as I rubbed her legs. “Only God knows where this will end. I would not be in Cromwell’s shoes for a kingdom. The King rants against him and all those who had a part in this. He cannot bear the sight of her. He was thinking he would get a beauty, and he has this ‘Flanders Mare,’ as he calls her.”

“I wonder how she likes him.” There was a brief disapproving silence, and I stammered. “He is not young.”

“Will you never learn?” demanded the Duchess. “Any lady should be glad to marry the King.”

I wondered about that. In my heart, I suspected that the Lady of Cleves was probably as eager to go back to her home as he was to send her there. What a pity this could not be done.

The Duchess said: “It is the Duke’s opinion that there will be a marriage. There must be. It has gone too far to return her now. It would never be tolerated. Her brother, who is now Duke, would be driven into the hands of the Emperor Charles and the King of France. They are hand in glove, those two. Lord have mercy on us, how things change! They are laughing together, praying that the King will send back this girl, and Cleves will be their puppet then. It would be disaster for the King to turn back now.”

I did glimpse the King and Queen on their wedding day. I, with my party, had sailed down to Greenwich in our barge. How splendid the King looked in his crimson satin coat with its clasp of diamonds. He was smiling, but I guessed he was far from happy. I heard later that he had told Cromwell just before the ceremony that, if it were not to satisfy the world and his realm, he would not have done what he was about to do for any earthly thing. I can imagine Cromwell’s misgivings at those words; he must have already felt the axe at his neck.

For the first time I saw the Queen. She was in cloth of gold embroidered with pearls and a gown made in the Dutch fashion, which was not becoming. Her hair she wore loose about her shoulders, and on her head a coronal of gold and precious stones. She looked demure, her eyes downcast; and none could have guessed what she was feeling; but she must have been very unhappy.

My quick glance at her showed me she was not the ugly creature whom I had been led to expect. It was unfair to liken her to a Flanders Mare. True, she was not graceful, and the Dutch fashion was far from becoming. She would have looked much better in the English styles which, to a large measure, we had copied from the French, chiefly at the time when my cousin led the Court. Anne of Cleves was certainly not dazzlingly attractive like Anne Boleyn, or pretty like Jane Seymour. But she was not ill-favored. She had a very high forehead, dark hair and eyes and, if she were not exactly beautiful, she looked clever and interesting.

But whatever the cost to herself and those who had promoted the marriage, and the intense displeasure of the King, the people were determined to enjoy the occasion.