The Rose Without a Thorn Page 4

  “You are very happy with your music teacher, I believe,” went on Isabel.

  “Oh yes. He is a good teacher.”

  “So I understand. But what does he teach you beside the virginals and the lute?”

  “What should he? Perhaps to sing a little?”

  She laughed and shrugged her shoulders. “Oh, take no heed of what I say. I think he is very handsome.”

  “Oh yes, is he not? He looks very graceful when he plays the lute. He is like a statue I have seen somewhere.”

  “He admires you very much.”

  “He says I am a good pupil.”

  “Oh, it is more than that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He thinks you are beautiful. I wonder … but perhaps, you would not want to … it would be an opportunity …”

  “What are you talking about, Isabel?”

  “About you and Henry Manox. Would you not like to talk to each other … not always at the music lesson?”

  “Well, yes, I would. I always enjoy talking to Henry Manox.”

  “Then why do you not? I have an idea.”

  “What is it?”

  “Well, for you and Henry to see more of each other, to improve your acquaintance apart from music lessons, I mean. Why don’t you ask him to one of the evenings … ?”

  “You mean … ?”

  “Why should you not? You are growing up. You have a good friend. You could ask him to come one evening … when the others do. Why not?”

  She was looking at me eagerly, and I knew she was urging me to agree to this.

  “How … ?” I began.

  “It is simple. You write to Henry Manox, asking him to come to the Long Room when the household has retired.”

  It was surprising that the first difficulty that presented itself to me was the writing of this invitation.

  I said: “I am not good with the pen.”

  “I will help you,” said Isabel. “We shall do it together.” So we did, and the note was sent to Henry Manox.

  They had drawn back the bed curtains. They were all very pleased to see this and they clustered round my bed laughing and all talking at once.

  “Well, I feel no surprise.”

  “She is so pretty.”

  “Too pretty to spend her nights looking out through her bed curtains.”

  “And Henry Manox is coming.”

  “He is very handsome.”

  “And skilled in music.”

  “And in more besides, I’ll warrant.”

  When he arrived, every one of them welcomed him, but he was not interested in any of them—only in me.

  I sat in my bed, dressed in flimsy night attire which Isabel had found for me, and Henry Manox sat with me.

  “They said I must ask you here,” I told him. “Before, I watched through the bed curtains.”

  “How happy I am to be here,” he said. “I never thought to attain such happiness.”

  His hands were on my shoulders. He kissed my cheek, then my forehead, and my lips. Pleasurable sensations crept over me. I fancied some of the others were watching us with amusement, although they pretended not to be.

  I was excited. At last I was one of them.

  Henry Manox had an arm round me and was holding me closely. We talked, first of music. He told me how he dreamed of being something more than just a teacher of the virginals and lute, as well as the harpsichord, to people who would never understand the magic of music. They were unlike myself, of course, who was a natural musician. He wanted to have a house of his own and to live his life with a companion who, like him, was devoted to the art.

  I told him of my father’s house, of my brothers and sisters and how poor we were. He listened intently. Then he said: “But now you have come to the Duchess, and fate has brought us together.”

  I thought that sounded wonderful, and I laughed gleefully, at which he bent his head and kissed my bare shoulder.

  Isabel called from her bed, where she was snuggling against her farmer: “Not so fast, Manox. Do you want to get us all sent to the Tower?”

  There was a great deal of laughter, and Manox said: “You can trust me to play this right.”

  “It is not the virginals now, Manox,” said someone else.

  And everyone was laughing. I laughed with them. It was so exciting and amusing.

  I shall never forget that first night, when I became one of them and not merely an onlooker, sitting up in bed with my own good friend who, I thought, was more handsome than any of the others, as well as being such a fine musician.

  There was a certain tension throughout the house. People were whispering and looking wise.

  I heard scraps of conversation.

  “They say the King is tired of waiting.”

  “He is not a patient man, our noble King.”

  “They say that he is determined to marry her and that he cares for none … not even the Church or the Pope himself.”

  “What then?”

  “Some say he is already married to her.”

  “How can that be?”

  “They say with kings all things are possible, and with our King Henry, what he desires will most certainly be.”

  “And the Lady Anne?”

  “She lives as the Queen already.”

  “Some say she is with child.”

  “Then we can be sure she will be his Queen.”

  “What of the Queen herself?”

  “Poor lady. I fear she suffers.”

  “Hush, be careful what you say!”

  “Foolish one, what matters it here?”

  “It matters wherever such words are spoken if they are overheard by some bent on mischief. The King likes not those who even hint that he is in the wrong.”

  “I did not. I just said ‘poor lady.’ And what am I? Waiting woman to the Duchess!”

  “It matters not who, so have a care what you say.”

  It was all very exciting, and a little sinister, and it was particularly interesting to me, for one of the main people at the heart of the drama was my own cousin.

  During the nights, when we were gathered in the Long Room after the household had retired, they still talked of the King’s divorce and how the Pope would not agree, and that Thomas Cranmer, the Archbishop of Canterbury, had brought forth the theory that there was no need for a divorce after all, because the King had never really been married to Queen Catherine. Had she not been married to his brother Arthur previously, and if that marriage had been consummated then the ceremony of marriage to Arthur’s younger brother, Henry, was no true marriage at all.

  It was one of those laws which were set out in the Bible. And there was a great deal of speculation over this. It was an ideal solution. Had the marriage been consummated or not? That was the theme of conversation in the Long Room. Prince Arthur had been only a boy at the time of the marriage, and he had died very soon after. Of course, it was very possible that they had never truly been husband and wife, but hardly conclusive.

  It was all very amusing to the young people, and meanwhile I sat with Henry Manox’s arms about me and each night we progressed a little further with our lovemaking.

  The Duchess sent for me one day. This time she was not seated in her chair and I was told to enter her bedroom where she was reclining on the four-poster bed. There were two maids with her. They were bringing clothes from her wardrobe and she was nodding and saying: “Not that, you addle-pate. Take that to Lambeth! Only the finest, I said, did I not?”

  In another room, seamstresses were working on new garments and there was bustle everywhere.

  “Ah, Katherine Howard,” she said when she saw me. She looked at me, nodding. She seemed rather pleased with me.

  “Growing up fast,” she said. “You will have to look to your manners, girl. We are going to Lambeth. Oh, don’t look alarmed. Not to your father’s house. We shall be closer to the Court.” She smirked with satisfaction. “I shall be there, I doubt not. My granddaughter will not let me be passed
by. And, as for you … you must prepare yourself. I am having a few gowns made for you. She is your cousin, after all … and we must be prepared. Who knows, there may be a place for you at Court!”

  I was alarmed. It sounded frightening, and I was enjoying life at Horsham, especially the nights shared with Henry Manox and the rest of them.

  “Don’t gape, girl. Oh, if you but had the grace of your cousin! How I long to see her Queen of England, which she will be ere long. So now you know that we are going to my residence at Lambeth.”

  “To see my cousin, Your Grace?”

  “To see her crowned Queen of England. Yes, we are going to see the coronation of Queen Anne. Now … I have little time to see to these matters. I want you to be able to curtsy gracefully. Manox tells me you play both lute and virginals well and are a good pupil. I want to make sure that, if the Queen does decide to honor you, you are ready for it. You must have some knowledge of the art of dancing and learn not to flush and stammer when you are spoken to, and to answer brightly and wittily, as your cousin has always done.”

  I was uncertain as to what was expected of me, but as no one was sent to instruct me, I need not have worried. I had realized by now that my grandmother would have sudden reminders of what she should be doing and then quickly forget all about them. I had seen that happen more than once in my case. In the first place, she had brought me here because it had occurred to her that my father’s house was an unfit place in which to bring up a child, and that child a member of the Howard family; and she had chosen me because of the resemblance she had thought she had detected to my cousin, Anne Boleyn. Then she had forgotten me. Later, something would bring me to her mind and she bestirred herself. If the memories persisted, she took some action—as in the case of my music lessons.

  Meanwhile, preparations went on apace and there was talk of little else in the Long Room, for everyone was excited about going to London, and at Lambeth we would be very close to the Court.

  Isabel’s happiness in her coming marriage was a little dulled by the fact that she would not be coming to London. I was seeing more of Dorothy Barwike who would take Isabel’s place with me.

  It was spring of the year 1533 when we set out for Lambeth. We should be in time for the coronation of Queen Anne, for, in spite of all the opposition and the long fight to attain his desires, the King had decided to accept the case as set out by Archbishop Cranmer, to defy the Pope and declare that he had never been married to Queen Catherine of Aragon and therefore could no longer live in sin with her. So he had married Anne Boleyn at the beginning of the year.

  She was already pregnant and on the coming Whitsunday was to be crowned Queen of England.

  A Silk Flower

  LAMBETH WAS BEAUTIFUL in the late spring when we arrived at the Duchess’s mansion. It was built very much on the same lines as my father’s house at Lambeth but was well preserved and comfortable. There were numerous retainers and quantities of food. The gardens ran right down to the river and it was thrilling to be so close to the Court, especially at such a time.

  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 circ
let 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.