Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Thirteen
At the beginning of January, Thomas was able to spend a couple of weeks at Canterbury with his wife, and though her sudden return had been a shock at first, it turned out to be just the balm he needed. The death of Cromwell had been a bitter blow, and although he had tried to sound cheerful in his letters to her, she had been astute enough to know otherwise. There was no hiding anything from Margaret; as far as she was concerned, he was totally transparent. The death of his old friend, Robert Barnes, had also dampened his spirits, and it sickened him to behold the glee in the faces of Gardiner and his companions every time they successfully condemned a ‘heretic’.
As always, there was work to do at Canterbury, and in the peaceful setting of the Manor of Ford, he began to devise a litany in the English language, which he hoped to present to the king, hoping that His Majesty might agree to it being used in the churches. Thanks to the late Cromwell’s influence, the Lord’s Prayer, the Creed, and the Ten Commandments, were now taught to the laity in the English language, so they were at last able to understand them. However, though he had anticipated that the clergy would translate additional Latin into English, many were still unable to do so, despite his efforts to educate them, hence his decision to write a new English litany.
“I am disturbing you?” Margaret, clutching a basket of clothing, came into the library, intending to sit quietly and keep him company whilst she attended to some mending.
“No, I enjoy it when you are here.” He gave a contented smile.
“Poor Master Morice is still coughing in his room,” she informed him. “I sent the hot posset to him; he will be better soon.” She had great faith in her hot, herbal possets.
“He works too hard, and before you say anything…” He waggled a finger at his wife. “I am well aware that I do too. But the clergy totally exasperate me. The Lord’s Prayer, the Creed, the Ten Commandments… they should be taught to the common people in English! The clergy should teach them, except many of them still cannot translate these texts into English. Even here, in Canterbury, where I harangue them to educate themselves, there is a stubborn number who refuse to learn Latin. The entire litany needs to be printed in English; it will make everything so much simpler.” He rolled his eyes expressively. “As long as the officiating priest can read English. Some can’t even do that!”
“The Latin sounds beautiful,” Margaret reflected. “But you are right. What use is beauty if the meaning is not understood?”
“Exactly. I intend to spend the next week completing a litany in English, to show the king when I return to London. Then, all I can do is pray to God that he will authorise it to be printed and circulated to churches throughout the realm.”
“Will that be dangerous? I mean…” Margaret looked frightened. “Will it get you arrested?”
He hesitated for a long while before replying. “At present, the king favours me. Admittedly, when he hears the litany, he might not. But I must try. I have to make God’s word understandable to everyone.”
“I know.” Margaret looked down at her sewing, adding in a low voice, “I was blessed to be told of God’s word in my own language. Everyone in England should be likewise blessed.”
*****
Latimer and Ridley, the former having recently been released from prison, visited Canterbury upon Thomas’ arrival, and both enthusiastically offered help with the new English litany. He was grateful for their help, but decided that, despite their assistance, he would claim the project as purely his own work, and therefore his own responsibility. He did not wish for Latimer and Ridley to suffer the backlash should the king be unhappy with it.
Upon returning to London, he immediately received a summons to wait upon the king, and found the him alone with the queen, who was seated cosily upon his sound knee. This boded well for the interview. Her girlish laughter, which he had heard as soon as he opened the door to the room where they were seated, always put His Majesty in an excellent mood.
Seeing the archbishop, Catherine jumped from the king’s lap, snapping her fingers at a small greyhound which lay beside the fire. “Come. I shall summon Master Culpepper. He and I shall take you outside for your exercise. You are growing fat.” She gave a joyous giggle, patting the greyhound’s head fondly. “Greyhounds cannot be fat.” Kissing Henry soundly, she gaily departed.
“Good morrow, archbishop.” The king radiated good humour. “We understand you have something you wish for us to read.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” Thomas was suddenly struck by uncertainty. This English litany could certainly be viewed as heretical. Before his courage disintegrated completely, he pulled the papers from his sleeve.
“Before we read this…” The king waved the sheaf of papers aloft. “We must make you aware that, in the coming months, we are to embark upon a Progress with our beloved queen, and we are thinking of perhaps journeying as far as the northern parts. We shall need plenty of packing cases.” His eyes gleamed with mischief.
Thomas managed a faint but embarrassed smile.
“We are not taking our son, Edward, with us. He is too young, but we shall be taking a large retinue. As such, you shall be required to remain here, in the city, with the Duke of Norfolk and Lord Seymour.” Whilst his archbishop digested this, Henry turned his attention to the English litany, read it slowly, then sat with his eyes closed, deep in thought.
Watching the king, he felt such a surge of anxiety that it rendered him queasy. His stomach felt as if it were tying itself in knots. He wished the king would say something.
At last, the king spoke. “We have had it in mind to have an English version,” Henry remarked reflectively. His expression again became mischievous. “If nothing else, it will certainly irritate the Pope.”
Uncertain whether he was supposed to reply, Thomas remained silent.
The king was also silent, once again perusing the sheets of paper. Finally, sitting back in his chair, he proclaimed, “We desire for this to be amended and made public. There are changes we would suggest, especially where the sacrament is concerned, but on the whole, we like it.”
Feeling a thrill of exhilaration and relief, Thomas gave a beaming smile. “Your Majesty…”
The king waved a hand in a silencing gesture. He was too busy enjoying his prolonged honeymoon to concentrate deeply upon an English litany. His mind was fixed upon travelling throughout the realm in the company of his beautiful little wife and showing himself to the people. Not for the first time, he demonstrated the caprice that so exasperated his courtiers. “The Progress needs planning, and we have much to consider during the coming months. The Venetian Ambassador is due to visit, and an envoy from Naples,” he explained to his archbishop. “Make the taking of the sacrament more traditional – but still in English – and bring this litany back to us later in the year.”
The delay was an irritation, but Thomas quickly thrust this aside. The changes were hard to swallow, but at least the king had agreed to an English litany. He could hardly wait to write to Latimer. Ridley was at Court, so he would be the first to hear the good news. In fact, he knew for certain that, as this meeting was taking place, Ridley was sitting quietly in his chamber, praying for a favourable outcome. His prayers had been granted.
“Your Majesty looks so well,” he could not resist remarking. Henry seemed to have lost some weight; his face was less bloated, and his injured leg, which often emitted a foul odour, was currently not offensive at all. Even the rings on his hands seemed to be less sunken in fat.
“Archbishop, our queen is a gift from God. We wish she would provide us with an heir, but she is very young, still a teenager. Her lively chatter and good nature are like a tonic to an old man.” He eyed his companion, waiting for him to comment favourably.
Thomas obliged but would not deliver false compliments. “Your Majesty, your mind is an example to us all; your speed of thought is equal to that of a teenage youth. I find myself slower at recollecting facts; I often have to pause to remember, whilst I hear Your Grace speaking without hesitation. The facts simply jump into your mind. As for a new royal baby, God will bless you with this in good time,” he sincerely assured him.
The next few months sped past, and the king embarked upon his Progress with the queen. They would be absent from Court for two months, probably returning in late October. Thomas, by nature of his position, had to spend the bulk of his time London, but it was possible to insert brief visits to Canterbury into his busy schedule. However, since most of the courtiers were travelling with the king and queen, Margaret was able to discretely spend some time at Lambeth.
A couple of weeks before the king and queen were due to return, Margaret peered anxiously around the door of their Lambeth library.
“You are alone?” she asked.
“For the time being,” he replied. There was an excited expression on her face. Obviously, she was about to report something amusing that Marjorie had done or said. He sat back in his chair, waiting to be entertained.
She perched herself on the edge of his desk, smiling broadly. “I was going to tell you last night, but you were working late. So, I will tell you now. Marjorie will be having a baby brother or sister in early spring.” She was beaming with delight. “I am certain this baby shall be a boy.”
Though he knew he should be overjoyed by the news, he felt anxious. Yet again, memories of Joan’s pale, broken body flitted through his mind.
“You look exactly as you did when I told you I was expecting Marjorie,” Margaret protested, edging closer to him, and clasping his hand.
Kissing her hand, he gave a deep sigh. “I am delighted, my dear. But also fearful. You must have the best of care…”
“I had the best of care last time,” she stubbornly informed him. “I had the prayers of the Archbishop of Canterbury.” Heedless of the fact that Ralph Morice might enter the room at any moment, she boldly slid across the desk and seated herself on his lap.
“You always have the prayers of the Archbishop of Canterbury,” he assured her, laughing at her expression. “You look so pleased with yourself, like a cat with a bowl of cream.”
“I am a cat with a bowl of cream,” she smiled, kissing her husband tenderly on the mouth, before standing up again.
Her timing was most fortunate, for at that moment, Ralph Morice walked into the room, looking ruffled. After giving a polite bow of acknowledgement to Margaret, he announced, “John Lascelles desires to speak with you, my lord Archbishop. He says it is something he can tell only to you, and it cannot wait.” His tone was apologetic. John Lascelles was a minor courtier, devoutly Protestant, but self-important, and with a tendency to elaborate unnecessarily.
“I wonder what he wants?” Thomas frowned.
“As I said, he will not tell me the reason for his visit,” Morice replied, aware that his master was likely reluctant to see the man. Lascelles was usually difficult to get rid of. “But he desires to be seen immediately. I declare, he is so excited he looks ready to dance!”
Thomas sighed. “Send him in.”
“I will leave you to deal with him,” Margaret murmured, still looking like a cat with a bowl of cream as she discretely left the room.
Lascelles entered the library, his face flushed and wearing what could only be described as an expression of triumph. Gazing pointedly in Morice’s direction, he promptly declared he wished to be alone with the archbishop. Already irritated by his visitor, Thomas protested that Morice was very discrete, and that he required him to be present to take notes. Lascelles reluctantly agreed, accepting a seat without preamble. Grandly, he announced, “My lord Archbishop, I have the means of bringing down the Catholic queen.”
This was the last thing he expected to hear. “Bring down the queen?” he repeated incredulously.
Morice’s mouth hung open with surprise.
“Don’t tell me you of all people are happy to accept a Catholic consort for our king?” Lascelles could hardly contain his glee. A fervent reformist, he was often to be found listening to a certain Dr Crome, who regularly preached at St. Paul’s Cross. Crome was said to rival Hugh Latimer with his fiery, bombastic preaching and outspoken opinions.
Thomas’ voice was quiet. “What is it you wish to tell me?”
“The queen,” Lascelles paused for effect. “The queen is not chaste. She never has been,” he announced airily. “Before her union with the king, she was betrothed to a man named Francis Dereham, and prior to this, she had a carnal relationship with a musician named Henry Manox, when she was living in the household of the Dowager Duchess of Norfolk.”
“Where have you received this information from?” Thomas frowned. Such accusations could not possibly be true; the queen was but a teenager. Surely, she could not have been unchaste prior to her marriage to the king? She was simply not old enough to have been anything but pure. Furthermore, she was the niece of the Duke of Norfolk; she would have been strictly chaperoned every hour of her existence. Of a surety, the information was false, and, as such, the rumours must be crushed immediately.
“The Dowager Duchess, the Duke’s mother, ran a very lax household,” Lascelles explained. “My sister, Mary, was one of her ladies.”
Glancing at Morice’s aghast expression, Thomas realised it mirrored his own socked visage. “So, Master Lascelles, where is your sister now? If she knows the queen, surely she would have been given a position as one of her ladies at Court?”
“When I asked her why she had not applied for a position in the queen’s household, she told me she felt sorry for the queen, being trapped in a royal marriage, but that she would not apply for a position because she did not wish to be involved in any immoral trysts the queen might partake in. Then, she proceeded to tell me about the queen’s former lovers.”
“You are referring to these men, Dereham and Manox,” Thomas clarified.
“Yes.” Lascelles had now graduated from looking gleeful to being intensely serious. “I asked Mary how she could speak so of the queen, and that was when she informed me that the queen had lain in bed, with Francis Dereham, many times at night in the maids’ dormitory, when others were present. Dereham used to speak of her as his wife, and he is now attached to the queen’s household. As for Manox, the musician, he knows of certain private marks upon the queen’s body, so he too must certainly have lain with her. Upon hearing this, I knew that even had I been a staunch Catholic, I should report this matter.” A good-looking man, with a lean physique and a broad smile, Lascelles regarded the archbishop with an air of satisfaction. “You must realise what this means. The king can put aside his Catholic wife and you can recommend a Protestant lady.”
Thomas closed his eyes, propped his chin on his hands, and thought deeply. Lascelles made it sound so simple, when in truth, it was an extremely complex matter. The Privy Council needed to be informed, whilst the accusations required thorough investigation, so that the queen’s name could be cleared. Queen Catherine was still very young; these tales could not be true. But something about Lascelles story was undermining his certainty. “I need to speak with your sister. Please bring her to me,” he instructed the visitor, who eagerly agreed.
“She will tell you exactly the same as she has told me.” His manner had become almost exuberant, his ready smile had broadened to a grin. He simply could not subdue his glee at the prospect of the fall of a Catholic queen.
“If these claims are proven to be true, it will be a great tragedy. It is not something to delight in,” Thomas warned the courtier. “They must be honestly investigated, according to law. Proof will be needed. Have your sister sent to me this very evening,” he ordered gravely.
Thomas then proceeded directly to the Privy Council. Though most of its members were with the king and queen on their Progress, there were some who had, out of necessity, remained. These included Thomas Wriothesley, Edward Seymour and the Duke of Norfolk. The latter was looking visibly shaken by the accusations.
“They are but rubbish!” the duke shouted, his ruddy cheeks nearly purple with indignation.
“But they must be proved to be so,” Wriothesley echoed Thomas’ words to Lascelles. “It must be investigated thoroughly, so the queen’s name can be cleared.”
Edward Seymour was nodding agreement. “You are the person to do this, my lord Archbishop.”
His heart sank. The reality was, no one wanted to be in charge of the investigation, because if the queen was found guilty, then that person would have to inform the king. No one would willingly undertake that task. Thinking rapidly, he glanced towards Sir Thomas Wriothesley. He was a man who knew no serious religious bias; currently, he was leaning towards the Duke of Norfolk and the Catholic faction, next week, he might claim to be Protestant, depending upon what favours or promotions he desired. “Sir Thomas, will you work with me on this? You are linked to my lord of Norfolk. If we work collaboratively, we can sincerely state that the investigation is balanced and without prejudice.”
Wriothesley was only too pleased to assist, as long as he would not be required to deliver any bad news to the king.
“Tomorrow, we are to examine Manox and Dereham at Lambeth, and we shall be interviewing Lascelles’ sister this evening,” Thomas solemnly informed him.
Wriothesley nodded grimly. “We shall have this sorted before the king and queen return from their Progress, my lord Archbishop.”
That evening, they examined Mary Lascelles, who verified everything her brother had said, and suggested they speak to another maid called Joan Bulmer. Joan, now a member of the queen’s household, had once been in the employ of the Dowager Duchess of Norfolk. Thomas and Wriothesley made a note to act upon this information. This maid, Joan Bulmer, would not only be privy to what had happened in the Dowager Duchess’ service, but would also most likely know of any rumours being whispered in the queen’s circle.
The following morning, Thomas and Wriothesley were seated in the library at Lambeth, opposite the musician, Henry Manox, a most unsavoury looking character. Manox admitted to being over familiar with the queen’s person when she had been Lady Catherine Howard, but denied any further intimacy. His task had been to teach music to her, but he claimed she was very eager for him to educate her in a more pleasurable pastime. The Dowager Duchess of Norfolk had once caught the two of them embracing, and had promptly blamed Catherine, slapping her soundly for being a forward minx. He, Manox, had not even been rebuked.
“The queen was very agreeable to my intimacy,” Manox informed his interrogators.
There was something about this man that made Thomas’ flesh creep. The queen had been no more than twelve or thirteen when Manox had been behaving in this way with her. How could anyone be so vile?
“I would place my hands beneath her skirts and stroke her private parts,” Manox confessed readily enough. “And I would unlace her bodice and kiss her breasts. But nothing else, even though she seemed willing enough to proceed further,” he added, with an air of virtue.
Sickened, Thomas glanced towards Ralph Morice, who was quickly taking notes, his lips pursed in an expression of disapproval.
“Torture would get more out of him. We need to send him to the Tower,” Wriothesley suggested, once Manox had been dismissed.
“No torture.” Thomas was firm. “The information must be freely given.”
Wriothesley gave a snort of disgust. Under torture, people were quick to admit their faults and follies.
Dereham was next to enter the library. Not as unsavoury as Manox, he was a good-looking man, well dressed, and with an air of confidence about him. However, he looked to be a man who harboured a grievance.
“You are recently attached to the queen’s household?” Wriothesley clarified.
“Yes.” Dereham gave a brief inclination of his head.
“A rumour is circulating that you have previous carnal knowledge of the queen, from when she resided with her aunt, the Duchess of Norfolk,” Wriothesley continued.
Dereham’s gaze flickered from the elaborately clad Wriothesley, to the solemn, sombre looking Archbishop of Canterbury. “Is that so?” His voice was almost a whisper.
‘Well, is there any truth in this?’ Wriothesley prompted.
Dereham turned his gaze towards the gentle looking archbishop. “It is true,” he candidly admitted.
“What?” Thomas could not believe what he was freely hearing.
“Yes,” Dereham repeated. “I used to creep into the ladies dormitory at the Dowager Duchess’ home. I would lie with her night after night. I considered her to be my wife – we were betrothed, you know. The Dowager Duchess found out, and Catherine was sent to London. I was despatched to Ireland for a while, until someone informed me that she was Queen of England.”
“You cannot have been betrothed to the Lady Catherine Howard, as she then was. You are beneath her, a mere servant! Who are you to propose marriage to such as she?” Wriothesley was sitting bolt upright, his tone one of outrage.
“Maybe not, my lord, but I tell you, I was her betrothed husband, and I lay with her many times. There are witnesses to this. But suddenly, my betrothed wife was removed from the Duchess’ household and sent to Court.” Dereham’s expression was one of infinite sadness. “As I have said, I was sent to Ireland; I returned just over two months ago.”
“And does the queen… does she still have feelings for you?” Thomas queried.
“No.” Miserably, Dereham shook his head. “Her Majesty’s women will inform you better than I, but I would say her relationship with Thomas Culpepper lacks innocence. You need to speak with them, particularly Lady Jane Rochford.”
Thomas gasped. How many times had he seen the queen with King Henry’s favourite page, walking the king’s dogs; dancing; singing; laughing… all with the besotted king indulgently looking on.
Wriothesley, the first to recover his wits, demanded, “then you believe the queen has been indiscrete?”
Dereham gave a bitter half smile. “I have not personally witnessed anything. But I do hear rumours.”
Looking at Dereham, Thomas was reminded of the Admiral Thomas Seymour, who was handsome in a swashbuckling way, energetic and charming. He could imagine how the queen, as a young maid, might have found this man attractive. But it was objectionable the way Dereham had taken advantage of that. Dereham was dismissed, to be confined in prison along with Manox, until the inquiry was concluded.
Joan Bulmer, when summoned to Lambeth, proved to be a born gossip. She had expected to accompany the queen on Progress, but had not been selected, and did not know why she had been missed. She was clearly offended at being passed over and was only too eager to talk. Yes, the queen had been considered betrothed, if not actually married, to Dereham. Yes, before Dereham came on the scene, Manox had been sweet on her; she had often walked into a chamber to find him placing his hands where a gentleman should never place his hands on a young woman. But Manox had never visited Catherine in the dormitory. Dereham had though. In fact, all the maids had heard the unmistakeable sounds of lovemaking coming from the Lady Catherine’s bed. Bulmer was also frank about rumours regarding Tom Culpepper.
“What have you observed between the queen and Culpepper?” Thomas asked.
“They are close. They talk together and laugh a lot,” Bulmer stated. “They exchange letters. I have several times seen Lady Jane Rochford take letters to the queen and whisper to her that they are from Master Culpepper.”
“What about letters from the queen to Master Culpepper?” Wriothesley demanded.
“I have never witnessed Lady Jane taking any letters from the queen,” Bulmer replied. “Although I assume, since he writes to her, she must provide a reply.”
“Is the queen always chaperoned when she is with Master Culpepper?” Surely even flighty little Queen Catherine must realise that her position required a constant chaperone?
“The queen and Master Culpepper spend a lot of time together; they often closet themselves somewhere without a chaperone,” Bulmer admitted. “The best person to speak to is Lady Rochford.” She uttered the name with distaste, clearly implying that the lady was not popular amongst the maids. “She has the queen’s confidence, and she always arranges the times when Master Culpepper comes calling.”
“Culpepper and the queen meet unchaperoned? Marry, I never expected any of this,” Wriothesley uttered once Joan Bulmer had departed.
“Me neither,” Thomas concurred. The young queen, poor child, had been woefully neglected during her early years. Clearly, she had been so lonely that she had readily fallen into the clutches of Manox and Dereham.
Thomas and Wriothesley were neither friends nor enemies. Neither cared much for the other – they were too dissimilar – but somehow, during this investigation, they managed to work together amiably enough, and gathered as much information as they possibly could. The king and queen were due to return to London at any time, and, unsurprisingly, not a single member of the Privy Council was about to volunteer to deliver the results of their investigation to the king. At an emergency meeting of the council, Thomas found all eyes fixed upon himself. Having already assumed that whoever headed the investigation would also inherit the task of delivering the report to the king, he consented to act as messenger. He supposed it was his duty. After all, he was Archbishop of Canterbury.
That evening, Nicholas Ridley arrived at Lambeth Palace. He was not a member of the Privy Council, but it was rumoured that something momentous was afoot, and he had noticed the pensive, anxious expression on his friend’s face as he had departed from Hampton Court that day. “I have not come to pry. I am merely here to offer support in whatever troubles you. I can pray with you, if you so wish?” he clarified, in his sweet, kindly manner.
Thomas gave Ridley a grateful smile. “You are most welcome, my friend. Come, sit with me, and I will tell you what has occurred.” After revealing the entire, tragic tale, he explained, “here are the complexities of the situation. The queen appears to be guilty of being pre-contracted to Francis Dereham. If that is all, she has made a fool of the king, but I am optimistic that she shall not be charged with treason, after all, if she is married to Dereham, she cannot be married to His Majesty. She may be imprisoned for a while, but that will be the end of it. However, it seems she has also possibly cuckolded the king with Culpepper, though we have yet to examine him, as he is travelling with the royal retinue. If she has had a relationship with him, but is not the king’s lawful wife, she has not committed treason. But…” He waved a finger expressively. “If she states that she was never married to Master Dereham, but has enjoyed a relationship with Master Culpepper, then she has committed treason, for she is lawfully wedded to the king. If this is the case, she will no doubt be executed.”
“I am sure it will not come to that. It sounds very much like she has been promised to Francis Dereham. Poor child, it is not her fault. She has not been properly protected, why, she must have been only twelve when that Manox was over familiar with her, and only fourteen when Dereham took advantage.” Ridley’s expression was one of infinite sadness.
Thomas nodded agreement. “Poor little maid. She was left to follow the poor example of immoral women; no one taught her otherwise. She will not take it well to be imprisoned; she loves laughter and dancing too much. As for the king, I dread telling him. It may well be that I shall be the one who ends up in prison.”
Ridley was reflective. “She would do well to immediately admit to being pre-contracted to this man, Dereham. It will cause a scandal, certainly, but all scandals disappear eventually.”
“I agree. In the meantime, I must inform the king, though the very thought of doing so terrifies me.”
“I shall be praying for you,” Ridley solemnly promised.
*****
The following Sunday, early in the morning, Thomas was transported to Hampton Court, where the newly returned king and queen were due to hear Mass in the chapel. There was a cold, chill wind, but, as ever, the river was busy. The quantity of traffic on the water, regardless of the time always fascinated him. Prior to living in London, it had never occurred to him that people might use the Thames in the same way that people elsewhere used roads.
Arriving at Hampton Court, he was relieved to hear that the Mass had not started yet. The previous evening, a letter had been delivered to Lambeth Palace from King Henry, requesting that he conduct a service of blessing and thanksgiving on All Souls Day, in celebration of the queen: Henry’s ‘Rose Without a Thorn’. Reading the letter had caused a cold sensation of horror to trickle down his spine. Such a service would make the king a laughingstock once the accusations against the queen circulated, so he had promptly written a note, describing Queen Catherine’s liaisons with Manox and Dereham, which he intended to give to the king as soon as possible. It would not be appropriate to hand the note to His Majesty prior to Mass, so he anxiously waited until the service was finished.
As the king left the chapel, he spotted his archbishop and flung an arm about his shoulders, exclaiming heartily, “Lord Archbishop! We intend to go hunting later this day; you must join us.”
“Your Majesty.” His knees nearly buckled under the weight of the king’s meaty arm. Somehow, he managed to extricate himself from the embrace and produce his carefully written letter. “I am honoured, but respectfully request that you read this first, somewhere private. I shall wait here, in the chapel.” He could see Ridley eyeing him sympathetically, whilst other members of the Privy Council observed his exchange with the king eagerly, guessing at what had just transpired.
Less than a half hour later, a pageboy – not Culpepper – came to summon Thomas into the king’s presence and directed him into an anteroom. Not knowing what to expect, he walked into the room to find King Henry standing in front of a blazing fire, alone, his expression one of infinite sorrow.
“You have written this, by your own hand, none other?” the king demanded.
Bowing, Thomas affirmed that this was so. “I have tried to keep this as discrete as possible.”
“And these people… they spoke freely? No torture?”
“They spoke freely, sire.” His voice was a hoarse whisper.
“And this man, Lascelles. He came to you freely?” Henry demanded, his voice also husky.
“Indeed, he did,” Thomas confirmed.
“Was he asking for money?”
“No, Your Majesty, he did not wish for money. He had heard something from his sister which he felt to be amiss, therefore he came to me, at Lambeth.” Obviously, he avoided mentioning Lascelles’ delight at having news which might cause the downfall of a Catholic queen. “The Privy Council and I gathered as much information as we could, to try and clear the queen’s good name. We have yet to speak with Master Culpepper, since he was on the Progress at the time of our investigation. We also need to speak with the queen and her household, with Your Majesty’s permission, of course.”
Tears were now pouring down the king’s face. “Why do we always marry such ill conditioned wives?” he groaned. Then, drawing himself to his full height so that he towered over his archbishop, he managed to announce regally, “let the examination continue. Examine the queen’s ladies first; leave the queen for the time being. See to it personally, archbishop. That way we shall know it has been dealt with fairly.”
Feeling choked with emotion, Thomas nodded briefly. The king’s grief was one thousand times worse than his rage.
The following day, he and Wriothesley interviewed the queen’s ladies. It was discovered from these interviews that Culpepper had been heard to say he would marry the queen if the king were dead, which in itself was treason, regardless of his relationship with the queen.
The last of the ladies to be examined was Lady Jane Rochford. By merit of age, she ought to have been wise, but she soon revealed herself to be quite the opposite, admitting to Thomas and Wriothesley that she had encouraged the relationship between the queen and Culpepper. She even confessed to having stood guard at the door, lest the king came whilst Culpepper was in a chamber with the queen.
“Would you say that the queen and Master Culpepper were sexually intimate?” Wriothesley demanded crisply.
“Considering all the things I have heard and seen between them, I would say they were,” Rochford replied, her thin, austere face, was cold and expressionless.
When they questioned Thomas Culpepper, he denied having any carnal knowledge of the queen, insisting that they had done nothing more than exchange love letters. Even when Wriothesley, to Thomas’ indignation, threatened him with the rack, Culpepper’s statement was ambiguous. Given that he continued to dodge their questioning, Thomas decided that continuing the interview was futile, and he promptly sent Culpepper to the Tower, hoping that some time in prison might loosen his tongue.
That evening, after an exhausting day of interviews, he sat with his secretary, Ralph Morice, and tried to make sense of what he had learned. “I hear the queen is distraught,” he informed his secretary. “She has been confined to her rooms and is served by only four women. She had been told that she cannot dance any more, not until this matter is resolved. I doubt the poor child ever stopped to consider what she was doing. She has lacked guidance throughout her young life.”
“Will you examine her?” Morice enquired.
“When the king gives permission I shall.” Frowning, he picked meditatively at his sleeve. “I would prefer to speak with her alone, without Wriothesley. He will intimidate her.”
“He intimidates me,” Morice remarked, without irony.
The following Sunday morning, Thomas and the king were attending a service at Hampton Court chapel, when they were suddenly interrupted by the sound of fists battering on the closed wooden doors, and the shrill voice of the queen screaming ‘Henry! Henry!’, over and over again; somehow, she had managed to escape from her confinement. It seemed to go on for a long time, though, in reality, it was only a few minutes before some guards captured her and forcibly pulled her away. Throughout the incident, the king’s face remained stoically expressionless.
Later, they discovered that Catherine had been begging for an opportunity to see the king, after one of her ladies had informed her that her life might be spared if she were able to convince the king of her innocence. In the hope of being forgiven, and knowing that the king would be in the chapel at this hour, she had managed to elude her guards. Thomas pitied her optimism; he knew that even if she had been granted an audience with His Majesty, he would not forgive her for humiliating him.
A few days after the chapel incident, having not yet been examined, the queen was despatched to Syon House, for the king wished her to be removed from Court. In her absence, King Henry took to spending much of his time hunting, sometimes accompanied by his Archbishop of Canterbury.
By early December, Culpepper was charged with treason, and was promptly beheaded at Tyburn for committing adultery with the queen. Francis Dereham was condemned to die on the same day, also at Tyburn, his charge being principally of piracy. Being of lower birth than Culpepper, he received the traitor’s death, enduring the agony of being hung until unconscious, then, once revived, being castrated, disembowelled, then finally beheaded.
The Dowager Duchess of Norfolk was imprisoned in the Tower, charged with withholding information regarding the queen’s impurity prior to her marriage. A rich woman, she had cunningly hidden her gold coins and jewels before entering the Tower, so that the king could not confiscate them, which he was entitled to do. Manox remained in the Tower, but was expected to be released, as there was no evidence of him being anything other than over familiar with Lady Catherine Howard.
It was the middle of January before the king, finally, gave his Archbishop of Canterbury permission to examine the queen. Two men had been executed, yet the queen had not even been examined, Thomas reflected, as he was transported to the Tower where Catherine recently been transferred. Thankfully, he had been able to persuade the king to allow him to speak to the queen alone, without Wriothesley.
It was a shock to him that, despite there being no concrete evidence that any treason had been committed, Culpepper had been beheaded and Dereham had endured a traitor’s death. Given their fate, he had little hope for the queen, though lawfully it was possible that the queen was in fact the wife of the late Francis Dereham, and in which case, she had done no wrong. Her life entirely depended upon whether or not she would admit to being pre-contracted… and the whim of King Henry.
Upon his arrival at the Tower, he was met by the departing Chapuys, the Emperor Charles’ Ambassador, who had just been visiting Catherine.
“How is the queen?” Thomas enquired.
“She is in good spirits,” Chapuys replied. “At least, she seemed so to me. She dislikes the Tower, she said she preferred Syon House, which is not surprising. Perhaps she is merely showing a brave face. I am told that viper of a woman, Lady Rochford, weeps and wails. She knows that if the queen dies, she too will die, and no one will try to save her.”
He nodded slowly. Lady Rochford was one of the most disliked people at Court. He had always privately wished the queen had not placed permitted this woman within her inner circle. It was an ill-judged act, but probably the result of Catherine’s sweet, compassionate nature: she was undoubtedly foolish and flighty, but her heart was kind.
Bidding farewell to Chapuys, Thomas followed the Lord Lieutenant of the Tower to the queen’s quarters. There, he found Catherine, prettily attired, and genuinely pleased to see him.
“You have brought a message from the king?” she demanded eagerly, extending a hand to receive whatever it was he had brought.
“I have brought nothing, madam, except my prayer book and a document for you to sign.” He felt his heart melt with sympathy. The poor girl seemed to anticipate that he had brought a sign of forgiveness from the king. “His Majesty has also asked me to speak with you, in order to spare your life, if possible,” he explained gently, signalling to the four ladies who attended her to withdraw for a while.
Catherine looked ready to weep with despair, unable to understand why the king, who had once so dearly loved her, refused to send her a token of clemency.
“I strongly advise you, madam, to read this and sign it,” he urged, laying the document on the table in front of her.
“I do not read very well,” she admitted.
“But you wrote love letters to Culpepper,” he reasoned.
“Poorly written letters. Lady Rochford helped me,” she explained.
Again, he wondered at the queen’s folly. To ensure that she understood the contents of the document, he carefully read it aloud to her. It stated that she had agreed to be married to Francis Dereham, therefore she had unlawfully consented to marry the king whilst being pre-contracted to Dereham. Casting a glance at her, he realised she was vigorously shaking her head.
“No, I was never pre-contracted to Francis Dereham. I was foolish, yes, but I am a Howard. I would not have agreed to marry a common man like Francis Dereham.” Her entire posture had become one of regal hauteur.
“It could save your life, madam. Think again. I do not wish to see you die, and neither does the king.”
“I do not wish to die… but the king loves me, surely he will not let that happen?” Her regal hauteur swiftly evaporated as she pouted childishly.
“He is king, and cannot be cuckolded,” Thomas spoke sternly.
“I was not pre-contracted.” She paused, then asked innocently, “is Tom Culpepper in the Tower too? No one will tell me anything.”
“No, madam, he died some weeks ago. Before Christmas. He was beheaded.” There was no gentle way he could inform her of this.
Catherine’s face was white with shock and grief.
“Madam, I cannot save you.” His voice was almost a whisper. “If you were not pre-contracted, then you have committed adultery with Master Culpepper—”
“I was not pre-contracted.”
“Then you are guilty of committing adultery with Master Culpepper.” His heart felt heavy. He had travelled to the Tower in a spirit of optimism, anticipating Catherine’s life could be spared. Surely the girl could see there was a chance that she could be allowed to live?
“I loved him.” She dashed tears from her eyes, summoning one of her ladies to bring her a kerchief with which to dry them.
He regarded her forlornly. Love meant nothing in the world of politics. She was insisting she was married to King Henry, which meant she was guilty of treason. The king would not spare her, even though he loved her.
At trial, Catherine was found guilty of committing adultery with Thomas Culpepper, and Lady Rochford was found guilty of assisting her. AS was expected, the judges condemned them both to death.
“It is pitiful that the queen was not guided and guarded during her young life,” Thomas muttered to Morice, once the trial was over. “She will die, whilst those who were responsible for her wellbeing continue to live.”
On the day of Catherine’s execution, Thomas was informed that she had asked for a block to be brought to her room in the Tower, so she might practice kneeling before it.
“Poor child,” he remarked to Morice. “She is so tragically young. I wish the king had arranged for the swordsman from France to strike off her head. She should not have to suffer the fall of an axe.” And possibly a clumsy axeman, he added inwardly.
It had initially puzzled him that the king had granted Anne Boleyn the swift sword, yet Catherine was to endure the axe. Then, the night before Catherine’s execution, whilst he had been sitting peacefully in his library, the answer had come to him. Anne had been innocent; the king had known that, so to assuage his conscience, he had dealt with her as painlessly as possible. Catherine, on the other hand, was guilty, so King Henry felt it was necessary for her to suffer the indignity of the axe.
“God have mercy on her,” Morice replied solemnly.
“And God take her to Himself and grant her peace,” Thomas added.
At that moment, they heard the sound of the guns firing. Another queen had perished on Tower Green.