Виктория Холт - The Rose Without a Thorn

But all he could do was look at me with those sad, bewildered, yearning eyes, which assured me that he had always been my true and faithful lover.

“Francis,” I said. “I am sorry, but it is over. I love you no longer. I was only a child—I did not understand. I was fond of you, and it was all so exciting. Can you understand? Please, Francis. Will you fall in love with someone else?”

“I shall never do that… having known you,” he assured me.

How I should have loved to hear those words at one time. Now they filled me with alarm.

* * *

Francis Derham was really very daring. He was, of course, one of the Duke of Norfolk’s pensioners and he must have presumed that the Duke knew nothing of the reason for his sudden departure. He was evidently right, for the Duke made no objection to his return.

It was only the Duchess who knew, and she evidently decided that no good could arise from reviving the scandal.

I was sure that she could not be very happy about Derham’s return.

But there he was—back in the household, which made me very uneasy, for I could come face to face with him at any moment.

My fear was great when, shortly after Derham had returned, my grandmother sent for me and, in a state of great apprehension, I presented myself.

She was seated in her chair and, to my intense relief, beaming with pleasure.

She said: “Sit down. I have some good news for you. You are to have a place at Court.”

“At Court!” I cried. My first thoughts were: I shall not have to wonder whether Francis Derham is going to spring out on me at any minute. To Court! It was my nature to be able to forget unpleasantness and be quickly transported to blithe euphoria.

“You may well be joyful. ’Tis good news indeed. A chance for you, my child. You must make the most of it.”

“Yes, Your Grace. Oh, I will.”

She looked at me, nodding approval. “Stand up,” she said. “And come closer.”

I did so while she peered at me, assessing me.

“You are very small,” she said. “Some would say too small. But I am not so sure. You are slender withal and you have a certain grace. You look girlish … young for your years … and that has an appeal. You are fair enough. Light brown hair … curly and plenty of it. Good eyes … hazel … and those long dark lashes. Your nose is good … face round … childish … you are a worthy Howard.”

I was giggling with pleasure. To go to Court! To be away from Derham, and near Thomas Culpepper. I assured myself that I was deeply in love with Thomas Culpepper and soon there would be a betrothal—one which would have the approval of all.

“You are indeed fortunate,” she went on. “You owe this, of course, to your uncle. He has noticed you of late. He says your manners leave much to be desired, and he chides me for allowing your education to be neglected. But I fancy he thinks that one of the reasons why your cousin …” Her voice faltered as it always did at any mention of Anne Boleyn. But she went on quickly, for this was a happy occasion which must not be spoilt by unhappy memories.

“The Duke thinks that too much education can make a woman over-saucy, so he does not regret over-much the fact that you have none of that of which your cousin had too much. You are not without charm, and your looks favor you. So he decided to put your name forward and, as the King has not protested, there is a place for you. It is great good fortune. Unfortunately for the Queen, she does not regard it as such, to lose her own countrywomen and perforce take ours in exchange, but she is no fool and must know that when Queens come to new countries they must lose those attendants they brought with them and take others from their new country. So this is what is happening. The Queen’s ladies—those she brought with her—are being sent back and you are to be one of those who will replace them.”

I clasped my hands together in ecstasy. To serve the Queen, that poor neglected lady, to be at Court where everything happened, to be near Thomas Culpepper, who slept in the King’s chamber and was favored by him! I could hardly contain my happiness.

“I see you are overcome with joy, my child. That is right. So should you be. This is a happy day for you and for the family. It will be for you to show your uncle that he was right to put his faith in you.”

“I shall!” I cried.

“There. I am happy for you. You will do your best, I am sure.”

She was smiling at me. “And do not let this make you over-vain, child, for that would detract from your charm. But you are indeed a pretty child.”

I found the courage to ask: “And there will now be my betrothal?”

She looked a little puzzled.

“Your Grace mentioned to me that Thomas Culpepper …”

“Oh yes, yes. There was talk of a match between you two. Well, now this has come to pass, who shall say? It is not a matter to be decided rashly … in particular now. Your uncle will have other matters on his mind.”

I was a little disappointed, but nothing could spoil the prospect of this wonderful future which was opening out before me.

I wanted to run round telling everyone: “I am going to Court!”

* * *

Francis Derham came upon me in the garden. I suspected he had been watching for me. He caught my arm and angrily I wrenched it away from him.

“I have told you,” I cried. “Francis, please understand, it is all over. It is no more as it was.”

“I have heard that you are betrothed to a certain Thomas Culpepper.”

“When did you hear such a thing?”

“It was from one of the Duchess’s women. She had overheard it, she said. Is it true?”

“If she says I am betrothed, then she knows more than I do. As far as I know I am not betrothed to anyone.”

He looked relieved. “I could not bear that you should go to any other,” he said.

“Francis, do please understand. I am very sorry, but I no longer feel love for you.”

“You did love me. You said many times that you were my wife. You said that you would wait for my return.”

“It was all child’s play, Francis.”

“It was not to me.”

“Please leave me, Francis. I am going away… to Court. Please, please, let us forget what happened.”

“How could I forget that you are my wife?”

“I am not. I am not. We were children playing at love.”

“You cannot deny that we were lovers in truth.”

“Please, Francis, please … I am going away.”

“To Culpepper?”

“No … no, only to Court.”

“You must not do this.”

“It has all been arranged for me. I am commanded to go. I am going to be a lady-in-waiting to the Queen.”

“That must not be!” he insisted. “You must tell them how it is between us. If you go away, I shall not stay in this house.”

“As to that, Francis, you must do as you list.”

“Katherine, at Court, you will be exposed to all kinds of profligacy which you do not understand. You are so sweet and innocent. No, Katherine, I will not have it.”

“It is not for you to say, Francis, whether or not I go to Court.”

“I am your husband.”

“Say that no more, Francis. If you love me …”

“You know I love you. How many times have I told you? How many times have you said you love me?”

“That is in the past. It is all over now.”

“It will never be over for me.”

“I am going to Court, I tell you.”

“To be betrothed to Culpepper?”

“I am not betrothed to anyone anymore.”

“But to go to Court. You … in that den of vice.”

“Can it compare with the Long Room in this house?”

He was silent. It was as though he were thinking of that innocent girl who had already been thrust into something like that den of vice to which he referred, and I saw a great tenderness in his eyes.

“Francis,” I said. “I did love you, but it is over. Please understand. We could still be good friends. If you love me, you will understand.”

He said slowly: “I do love you, Katherine. I have always loved you. I would never do anything to harm you.”

I believed him, for I was convinced that he was speaking the truth.

IT APPEARED THAT the King’s marriages—and this to Anne of Cleves was his fourth—must always be overshadowed by death.

When he had married his first Queen, many years ago, that had only been possible because of the death of his elder brother, Arthur; and King Henry had inherited a wife as well as a throne through that death. Then, when the first wife was put aside that the King might marry my cousin, the great Cardinal Wolsey, although he escaped the axe, died, it was said, of a broken heart and despair. Many deaths had followed that marriage: the noble Thomas More, the saintly Bishop Fisher, many monks—most barbarously—and all traced to that second marriage. My tragic cousin had gone to the block; and Jane Seymour’s brief reign had ended in her death. Now there was the new Queen, and Thomas Cromwell—one-time favorite—appeared to be in danger.

There was a charge of treason, and his enemies—chief among them my Uncle Norfolk—had been quick to seek the opportunity to destroy him. The King’s anger against him had been fueled by the fact that it had been Cromwell’s activities which had saddled His Majesty with a wife who did not please him.

I learned something of Cromwell then and marveled at the hazards people risked when ambition drove them on. I wondered how Cromwell, who had once been so powerful, was facing the fact that he was in growing and acute danger.

Many people were pleased to see him in this plight. I was amazed at the constant references to his humble birth. His father was sneered at for being a blacksmith and a shearer of cloth who kept a brew-house in Putney which was also a hostelry. And this Cromwell, a blacksmith’s son, had had the temerity to climb to the position of Lord Great Chamberlain of England.

I said, in my naive way, that the blacksmith must have been very industrious to have done so many things. As for his son, he must have been very clever indeed to have climbed so high from such humble beginnings.

Patronizing glances were turned on me. What did frivolous Katherine Howard know of such matters? They were determined to hold Thomas Cromwell’s origins against him, but it did not seem logical to me.

“Too much climbing up high from low places can bring his sort to the headsman,” I was told. I wanted to say that a great number of our noble families went that way too—in fact more often than humbler men. But I did not. I was not clever at arguments, and most of my expressed opinions were generally reduced to ridicule.

I gathered that when Cromwell became a member of Gray’s Inn he was singled out by Cardinal Wolsey as a man who could be useful. When I did go so far as to say that Wolsey thought highly of him, I was reminded that Wolsey was a butcher’s son. “Like to like,” they said. “And look what became of Wolsey in the end.”

“There had been a time when the King was very fond of him, as he was with Thomas Cromwell,” I pointed out.

It was obviously dangerous to be favored by the King. My cousin Anne had surely been more favored than any. I dreamed sometimes that I saw her, with her head on the block, and the axe descending. Unpleasant dreams, to be dismissed as soon as it was daylight.

And now it was Cromwell’s turn. Poor Cromwell, who had risen so high, from working in his father’s hostelry—as he might well have done—to supping with princes. And where had that led him? To the Tower.

I heard that my uncle and the Earl of Southampton were to visit the Tower to talk to him, to learn for what reason he had beguiled his master into making this unsatisfactory marriage. What was Cromwell’s arrangement with her family? Was he serving the interests of others rather than those of his master?

My uncle, I knew, was his greatest enemy. I was not sure of Southampton; but it was clear that there would be no mercy from them: and Cromwell would know that, too.

I wondered, when my uncle visited him, whether he had been aware of the Duke’s triumph, which I knew must have existed. He had been very annoyed when Cromwell had been made Chamberlain and the title of Earl of Essex had been bestowed on him. The Duchess had let that slip during one of the massage sessions.

She said: “The Duke has discovered faults in this man. It was his duty to expose them and, fearlessly, before the others at the Council table, he stood up and accused Cromwell of treason.”