I later discovered what the charges were. Cromwell, it was said, had liberated people for bribes, and also taken payment for licenses to export corn and other food; he had helped to circulate heretical books; and there was one other ridiculous charge against him: he had planned to marry the Princess Mary and take the throne.

The Protestants would have saved him if they could, but they were powerless to do so.

Poor Cromwell. He wrote appeals to the King from prison, begging for mercy and a chance to talk to him; but the King turned his back on the man who had once been so highly favored: Cromwell remained in the Tower. And, on a hot July day, he was taken from there to Tower Hill where he laid his head upon the block.


* * *

I was caught up in the dazzling prospect before me. My uncle, the Duke, had given orders that the garments I should need for my new position were to be supplied. I loved clothes and it was wonderful to be fitted by the seamstresses and feel the softness of the beautiful materials which were being provided. I had always wanted to possess such clothes. I was required to parade before the Duchess in my new gowns while she nodded approvingly. I swear she had never been so fond of me as she was then. There was a faint hint of sadness in her expression though, for seeing me in the splendid clothes naturally reminded her of my cousin.

But this would pass quickly and soon she would be watching me, her eyes sparkling with anticipation of my future. When I left her I basked in the envy of the ladies.

There was a shadow overhanging my happiness that came from my encounters with Francis Derham, which were more frequent than I liked. He was very sad and angry at the prospect of my going to Court.

“You think it is all balls and banquets … dancing and such pleasures,” he said. “My dear Katherine, that is how it seems on the surface. Beneath there is intrigue … scheming … treachery. It is the most dangerous place in England.”

“I am to serve the Queen,” I replied. “There can be no harm in that. They say she is a very gracious lady.”

“I do not wish you to go, Katherine. I forbid you to go.”

I looked at him in horror.

“Hush!” I cried. “What would anyone think to hear you talk thus. People listen. They repeat what they hear. Have a care, Francis, you will destroy yourself. It is you who will be in danger if you talk like that.”

“You must not go to Court, Katherine. Something tells me it would be bad. Let us go away together. We could go to Ireland. They would never find us there. Think! We should be together. Then you would feel toward me as you did before.”

I was angry. He was trying to spoil everything.

I ran from him and tried not to see him again. I could not bear the sight of his sad face. What I was trying to do with all my might was to forget the past. I wanted to think only of the glorious future … and Thomas Culpepper.


* * *

The Court was at Greenwich and thither I was to go in the company of the Countess of Rutland and Lady Edgecombe, who would teach me what was expected of a lady-in-waiting to the Queen.

To a novice like myself they appeared to be very formidable ladies, and they certainly made me feel how lucky I was that this post should have been given to one as ignorant of Court procedure as I was.

“In the first place,” said the Countess, “you are very young.”

“I am eighteen, my lady,” I told her.

“She looks much younger,” said the Countess to Lady Edge-combe, who agreed.

I must remember that my mistress was the Queen. They told me how I must address her, speak only when spoken to, act quietly and always in a seemly fashion. I must never forget that I was in the presence of royalty, and if the King should appear at any time, I must make the deepest curtsy I had ever made in my life, and not stare at him. I must behave as though I were in the presence of a dazzling greatness and keep my eyes averted. I was not quite sure how I was going to convey my awed respect if I were to act as though I were not there; but I supposed I should know when and if the time came.

One of the younger ladies was more approachable.

She said: “You will be all right. Just keep quiet and speak only when spoken to. That is best. We shall soon be in Greenwich. I like it better than this place. Did you know it is called Whitehall because of the white towers the King built here? It was York House before.”

When I learned that it had once belonged to Cardinal Wolsey, I remembered what I had heard of him. It could not have been so very long ago when he had lived here in splendor, as he had at Hampton Court. I had heard it said that his love of grandeur was one of the reasons why he had begun to fall. He had gained a great deal but he stretched out his hands for more and it was said he kept a more splendid court than that of the King. Derham was right. The Court could be a dangerous place. But surely not for humble ladies-in-waiting like little Katherine Howard, who only spoke when spoken to?

Hampton Court had gone to the King, a present from the great Cardinal. So had Whitehall. But even the presentation of such magnificent gifts had availed him nothing. Those were foolish thoughts which would intrude.

“And this,” I was told, “is the chamber in which the King married Queen Anne—not the present Queen, but Queen Anne Boleyn. It was here that they celebrated her coronation.”

Here were memories again. There was so much to bring back what was best forgotten. Stop it, I admonished myself. Think of the good things. Velvet gowns, the jewels my grandmother had given me, dances, banquets, grand occasions and being under the same roof as Thomas Culpepper.

Then we went to Greenwich—beautiful Greenwich, which had been made magnificent by the King who loved it dearly. Was it not the place of his birth? Here his marriage to his first wife, Catherine of Aragon, had been solemnized; jousts were frequently held here. The King liked to celebrate Christmas here. The Princess Mary had been born here, so had the Lady Elizabeth. Then again, I was thinking of my cousin. How had she felt when the longed-for boy turned out to be a girl?

I could not understand myself. It was as though some devilish imp were at my elbow, whose sole purpose was to intrude into my carefree mood and destroy it.

I would be merry. I would rejoice in what was happening to me. This was Greenwich. The Court was here, and I was to be presented to the Queen. Life was going to be amusing and exciting.

From the moment the Countess of Rutland presented me to the Queen, I knew I could be happy serving her. There was a kindliness about her. She seemed to be aware of my nervousness, and wanted to make me understand that there was no need for it.

“Katherine Howard,” she repeated my name in a guttural accent which was not very attractive, but her smile was warm.

“The Countess will tell you …”

I could not understand the rest of the sentence, but then the Countess said: “The Queen tells you that I shall inform you of your duties and she is sure that you will do them well.”

I realized that the Queen’s knowledge of English was somewhat limited and that, when she arrived, she had been unable to speak a word of it.

I made my curtsy and retired. I felt very happy that I was to serve such a gracious lady.

I could not understand why the King had been so displeased with her. She was no beauty, of course. I was thinking again of my cousin and pretty Jane Seymour. I had never seen Catherine of Aragon, and in any case had I had the opportunity to do so she would have been quite old, so I could not have judged her: but I could see that this Queen was different from her immediate two predecessors. She was not very tall, but she gave an impression of largeness. It must have been because of her big bones. Her forehead was unusually high; her eyes were large and dark and with long dark lashes that were quite beautiful. I thought that she would have been good-looking, in a rather heavy sort of way, but for her pitted skin. The poor lady had suffered from smallpox at some time and it was the ravages of that disease which had spoilt her appearance and horrified the King. I had heard of the miniature which Hans Holbein had painted of her and which had so pleased the King when he had seen it that he had gone ahead with plans to marry her.

She did nothing to improve herself, in my opinion. Her gown was unbecoming, and with its tight sleeves and close-fitting, high collar, reminded me of a man’s. The gown opened in the front to show a kind of chemise drawn up with a ribbon, at the neck of which she wore a large brooch. Her hat, turned up at the front, would have been difficult for the most beautiful woman to have worn to advantage. On her, it made her rather large features look quite masculine.

Queen Anne of Cleves had no idea how to make the most of what personal attractions she had. I started to think of what I would have chosen for her if I had had the chance to do so. I saw her in a beautiful scarlet gown, velvet, of course, rather severely cut, for there is nothing more detrimental than to try to appear feminine when one is not fashioned that way. The Queen had a good, kind face; but I could see now that her pockmarked skin, together with her lack of femininity, had made her unacceptable to the King.

In the days that followed, I settled into my role. I lived now far more luxuriously than I ever had before. My duties were light, and it was very rarely that I was in the presence of the Queen.

The Duchesses of Richmond and Suffolk and the Countesses of Rutland and Hertford, with Lady Margaret Douglas, were those close to her. I should have loved to be nearer the Queen and to know what she was really thinking. I realized that the King neglected her and made little effort to hide his disappointment in his marriage; I was sure she was not of a nature to show her feelings and, if she were embittered and humiliated, she hid this very successfully.

It was at Greenwich that I met Lady Rochford. She was a distant connection, through her marriage to my cousin, George Boleyn, who was, of course, brother to Anne; he had died at the same time as his sister, charged with incest with her. Lady Rochford had given evidence at the time against her husband.

I remembered my grandmother’s saying of her that she was a vindictive woman and had been jealous of her husband’s devotion to his sister. Anne and George were two of a kind—brilliant, witty, clever and handsome. Poor Jane Rochford was different. It was natural that George and Anne were fond of each other’s company and the love between them was that of a gifted brother and a clever sister.

Jane Rochford was the neglected wife. Well, how could George be expected to spend his time in her company? So Jane had her revenge. All those wicked lies … it was just what poor George did not need at that time.

I remembered this now, but I did feel a little lonely, and Jane was friendly.

“My little cousin!” she cried. “So, you have come to Court. His Grace of Norfolk has arranged this, I’ll warrant. I believe your uncle has great influence in high places.”

“Yes,” I agreed. “I believe it was my uncle who persuaded them to accept me.”

“Nothing pleases him more than to see Howards filling high places at Court.”

She was very talkative and so determined to be friendly that I found her company welcome. The ladies of the royal household were inclined to look down on me—a newcomer, very young, an unimportant member of the company.

I discovered that Lady Rochford was not only a great talker, but a reckless one and, as our acquaintance grew, she became more and more outspoken in a manner which might have caused trouble if it had been reported in certain quarters.

For instance, she was very frank about the relationship between the King and the Queen. She told me how the Queen had arrived in England and how disappointed the King had been on that first occasion when he saw her. He had been waiting for that moment for so long, ever since the death of Queen Jane, for the King was a man who must have a wife. There were some men like that. Many would be content to take a mistress, for it seemed unlikely that any marriage the King made would bring him a son. But he was a man with a conscience. Had I ever heard mention of the King’s conscience? I would sooner or later. All his marriages had brought forth his conscience. Conscience made him rid himself of his first wife. Was she in truth a virgin when he married her? Had her marriage with his brother been consummated? Didn’t it say something in the Bible—Leviticus, was it not?—that a man might not marry his brother’s wife? Then, of course, he was infatuated by our ill-fated cousin, Anne, and the old conscience was up in arms again. He’d find some work for it to do over the present Queen, she’d warrant.