I laughed. “Work?” I said, and the others joined in my laughter. I liked him and did not want him to move away.

I went on: “My work, as you call it, is trying to make a silk flower.”

“And are you succeeding?” he asked.

I held up the piece of silk.

“If this bears some resemblance to a red rose … yes,” I said.

“It is red,” he said, and we all laughed again.

“I trust you did not object to my speaking to you.”

“We certainly did not,” replied Joan.

We were sitting on a bench, of which there were several dotted round the garden. He looked at it and went on: “If I might be seated … ?”

Joan waved her hand, and he sat down next to me.

“I have seen you young ladies before,” he said. “I know you have duties with Her Grace. I’ll swear her absence leaves you with time on your hands.”

Joan and Dorothy admitted that this was so.

“I am Francis Derham,” he told us, “in the train of the Duke of Norfolk.”

“We guessed that was so,” said Dorothy. “There are many of you here.”

“And you, Mistress?” he asked me.

“Katherine Howard, granddaughter of the Duchess. The Duke is my uncle.”

“Well met,” he said. “I am of the family… of some remote branch, naturally. But still, I am of Howard blood, which is why I am here. I dare swear you and I are of the same kin.” He was studying me intently and smiling.

“Then well met,” I said.

We talked awhile, and then he told me that he had recently come from Ireland and should shortly be returning to that country.

“But I shall be back,” he added, “when I trust I shall once more be allowed to enjoy the Duke’s hospitality.” He smiled on us all, but I was sure the smile lingered on me. “And, mayhap I shall be privileged to meet you all again.”

“That,” I assured him, “will be a great pleasure.” I turned to the others. “Will it not?”

Both Dorothy and Joan agreed that it would.

When he had gone, we discussed him. We all agreed that he had great charm, and we said it was a pity he was going away as soon as we had met him.

I did see him before he went. I was in the garden, alone this time, when he came.

“Mistress Howard,” he said. “I had been hoping to see you. I know you come this way. I confess, I have watched you on one or two occasions. I wanted to say good-bye to you before I went away.”

“Mayhap we shall not meet again.”

“We shall,” he said. “I shall hope for that. There is something I wish to show you. Will you wait for me here until I bring it to you?”

“How long should I wait?” I asked.

“Five minutes. A little more perhaps, but not much. Rest assured I shall be with you as soon as it is possible.”

I stood under the shelter of the oak tree, waiting for him with anticipation. I liked him. How different he was from Henry Manox! I wondered how I could ever have thought I loved that musician.

When my new friend returned, he was carrying a small box tied up with red ribands.

“It is for you,” he said. “Open it when you are alone, and when you look at it, always say, ‘Francis Derham will return.’ Will you do that?”

I promised readily. And he was gone.

Excited, and very curious, I looked down at the box in my hands. I could not wait to open it. I untied the ribands and, nestling in the box, was a red silk rose.

Dangerous Games

I DID NOT FORGET Francis Derham. There was the red rose to remind me. I often wore it. Dorothy and Joan smiled when I told them Francis Derham had given it to me. They often commented on it and afterward I wished I had not told them whence it came. So then I did not wear it as much as I should have liked to; and it seemed they forgot him. But I did not need the red rose to remind me of him.

Something was happening, and we were aware of it. This was due to living near the Court and not in Horsham. Moreover, my grandmother and the Duke of Norfolk appeared to be concerned in it.

I saw little of my uncle, but my grandmother often left the Court and returned to the house. The Court was constantly traveling round the country and my grandmother did not like the journeys. She said she was feeling her age, and Court life could be exhausting.

Her limbs were stiff, she complained. She had procured some soothing lotions from her physician which had to be rubbed into her swollen legs, and she summoned me, as a member of the family, to perform this intimate task.

This, although somewhat distasteful to me, had its compensations, for, as I massaged, she would slip into a dreamy state and talk almost as though to herself, which meant she often forgot discretion and said more than she intended. Thus I began to understand much of what would otherwise have been a mystery to me.

It quickly became clear to me that all was not well with Queen Anne. The euphoria was fast evaporating, and the King was less devoted than he had been.

“It began with the birth of the child,” mused the Duchess. “If only she had been a boy. That would have bound them together. He had set his heart on a son. All the documents announcing the birth … they had all been prepared for a boy. And then comes the Princess Elizabeth … a beautiful child … no weakness there … but a girl. He had thought my granddaughter perfect. He had thought she could give him all he wanted. But it is the good God who decides the sex of a child, and he chose to give them a girl! And there are those to say that this is a sign of divine disapproval. That Peto. Oh, he is not the only one. They should have been silenced. Well, there it is. If it had been a boy, all would have gone well, all would have been saved.”

“Saved!” I gasped. It was a mistake. I should have kept silent.

“What’s that, eh? What are you doing, child? Get on with the rubbing.”

You must not interrupt her, I admonished myself. She must forget that you are here. No talking then from me. Let her do it all.

I rubbed, gently, soothingly, and she was soon continuing.

“Poor child. So beautiful. There is no one to rival her. What if it is he who cannot get the boys? There is the Lady Mary and now the Princess Elizabeth … and all the boys Catherine had were born sickly and did not live. There is Richmond, of course, the King’s son. Did he not admit to it? Did he not rejoice in the boy? But a bastard. He can get bastards, but no heirs. It is as though God is against him. Can it be? That is what they say. Some of them are so bold … they risk their lives. They are like the saints. They do not care for the axe—and they are lucky if they get that. That’s for the nobility, but it’s hanging, drawing and quartering for some … and still they do not care. They will say what they believe to be the truth. The people don’t like it. They don’t like her. They are all envious of my beautiful granddaughter. Oh, what a lovely creature! When she came back from France, there was no one to touch her. And now … she is Queen indeed … but he begins to wander, they say. The Duke is worried …”

I wanted to ask if the Queen were worried too, but I stopped myself in time. It was an unnecessary question. Of course she must be worried. And my uncle was disturbed. There would be reason for that. The family had been greatly honored since one of its members had become the Queen.

My poor cousin Anne! I remembered the glimpse I had had of her at her coronation. So proud, so beautiful, the most powerful woman in the country; but even she had to remember that her power came through the King, and everything depended on her pleasing him.

The months passed. Often I thought of Francis Derham, and I wondered whether he would ever come back.

I saw Henry Manox now and then. He was still at Lord Beaumont’s. Whenever we met, he looked at me pleadingly, but I was not in the least tempted—perhaps because I carried the image of Francis Derham in my mind. He was so different.

I learned more of what was happening. It was well known now that all was not well between the King and the Queen, and throughout the house there was an air of impending doom.

On the rare occasions when I saw my uncle, the Duke, he was clearly disturbed; as for my grandmother, she was very obviously affected. Not so long ago, she could not have spoken of our kinswoman, the Queen, without glowing with pride; now she did so with apprehension.

Where would it end? He was married to her, but some said it was no true marriage. Had he not been married to Queen Catherine? But he had thrust her aside; and she was related to the great Emperor Charles, which was why the Pope could not accept a bribe from the King to agree to the divorce. And Anne … who was she? Who would defend her? The family of Howard? A great family, yes, but insignificant compared with such as the Emperor Charles, the most powerful ruler in Europe. And who were the Howards to set themselves against the King? A previous king had shown them how easily he could humble them.

I was indeed growing up, and learning something of the world, and I was deeply sorry for my brilliant cousin.

And well I might be! I often thought later what she must have suffered during those months, and then I understood it so well.

Everyone knows that story.

There was a time when I was aware of the lightening of my grandmother’s spirits. There was a definite new optimism. The Queen was pregnant.

The Duchess talked of it while I rubbed her legs.

“This could save everything. It is God’s answer to our prayers. True, it will not be the same … he is not a man to stay constant. His fancies stray and many are standing ready.” She laughed mirthlessly. “I think of those Seymour brothers … a fine pair they are. Mischief-makers, both of them. Edward is a rogue, and so is Thomas. They have always been enemies of the Howards. They are seeking advancement through this …”

It was all rather vague, and I dared not ask for clarification since this would be the quickest way to silence her. But there was a good deal of gossip going on, and I was able to glean something of the situation, so I soon learned that the King was enamoured of one of the Queen’s ladies-in-waiting. Mistress Jane Seymour was not of significantly high birth, but she had those two ambitious brothers. Anne Boleyn, lady-in-waiting to Queen Catherine, had ensnared the King. Now it seemed it was the turn of Jane Seymour, lady-in-waiting to Anne, to do the same.

My grandmother had gone back to Court to be near her granddaughter when she gave birth.

Oh, for a son, we prayed. Only God could give Anne that.

Alas, he did not listen to our prayers, or only partly. It was very dramatic, I understood. The Queen had burst in on her maid, Jane Seymour, and the King. They were in each other’s arms and certain familiarities were taking place. How Anne must have hated that woman and longed to be rid of her, but naturally, she could do nothing about the matter, for the King would not allow her to be dismissed: and Queen Anne, who once could have demanded anything from him, must now stand by and suffer the humiliation of seeing another preparing to take the place which had been hers—just as Queen Catherine had had to do before her.

Queen Anne was so angry that she gave vent to her rage and the King shouted at her that she must perforce endure what others had before her. Poor Anne, she must have seen the end in sight, and the only way she could avert the fate which had fallen to Queen Catherine was to have a son. And that was not in her power, except by prayer, which was not always reliable.

It was certainly not in her case. There was not even a daughter like the Princess Elizabeth. The shock of that encounter between herself, the King and Jane Seymour brought on a miscarriage. It was the end.

The Duchess returned to us, sad-hearted and defeated. She could no longer delude herself into thinking that all would come right. There was no son. The King was tired of her whom he had once desired sufficiently to defy the Pope and break with Rome; and now she was no more to him than poor, sick, tired Catherine of Aragon.

The Duchess had been with Anne when she lay in her bed, sick and frantic with worry, and during one of those sessions when I was rubbing her legs, she talked of the occasion.

“She was in need of comfort. She had lost her child … a sadness for a mother at any time, but when so much depends on it … Oh, he was cruel. The anger in his little eyes … his tight, straight mouth. And it was worse, because the child had been a boy. Oh, if only she had not come upon them … if only she had not lost what she so needed. But how could she help it, poor soul? She knew how he had behaved with Queen Catherine—and, alas, she had helped him in that, one could say. But he was cruel. He may be the King, but I will say it. He said, ‘You shall have no more boys by me.’ And there she lay, sick, deserted, my poor, poor child.”