A ripple of excitement went through the court.
“Didst see the King with Mistress Catherine Howard last night?”
“I declare I never saw His Majesty so taken with a girl since Anne Boleyn.”
“Much good will it do her. His mistress? What else since he has a Queen?”
“The King has a way with queens, has he not?”
“Hush! Dost want to go to the Tower on a charge of treason?”
“Poor Queen Anne, she is so dull, so German! And Catherine Howard is the prettiest thing we have had at court for many years!”
“Poor Catherine Howard!”
“
“Would you change places with her? Remember...”
“Hush! They were unfortunate!”
Cromwell very quickly grasped the new complications brought about by the King’s infatuation for Catherine Howard, and it seemed to him that his end was in sight. Norfolk could be trusted to exploit this situation to the full. Catherine was a Catholic, a member of the most devout Catholic family in England. Continental events loomed up darkly for Cromwell. When the Emperor had passed through France there were signs that his friendship with Francis was not quite as cordial as it had been. Charles was no longer thinking of attacking England, and it was only when such plans interested him that he would be eager to take Francis as an ally. Trouble was springing up over Charles’s domains and he would have his hands tied very satisfactorily from Henry’s point of view if not from Cromwell’s. When the Duke of Cleves asked for help in securing the Duchy of Guelders, Henry showed that he was in no mood to give it.
Cromwell saw the position clearly. He had made no mistakes. He had merely gambled and lost. When the marriage with Anne of Cleves had been made it was necessary to the safety of England; now England had passed out of that particular danger and the marriage was no longer necessary, and the King would assuredly seize an excuse to rid himself of his most hated minister. Cromwell had known this all the time. He could not play a good game if he had not the cards. With Charles and Francis friendly, he had stood a chance of winning; when relations between these two were strained, Cromwell was unlucky. On Cromwell’s advice Henry had put a very irritating yoke about his neck. Now events had shown that it was no longer necessary that the yoke should remain. And there was Norfolk, making the most of Cromwell’s ill luck, cultivating his niece, arranging meetings between her and the King, offering up the young girl as a sacrifice from the House of Howard on that already bloodstained altar of the King’s lusts.
Henry’s mind was working rapidly. He must have Catherine Howard. He was happy; he was in love. Catherine was the sweetest creature in the world, and there was none but Catherine who could keep him happy. She was delightful; she was sweetly modest; and the more he knew her, the more she delighted him. Just to see her skipping about the Hampton Court gardens which he had planned with her cousin Anne, made him feel younger. She would be the perfect wife; he did not want her to be his mistress—she was too sweet and pure for that—he wanted her beside him on the throne, that he might live out his life with none other but her.
She was less shy with him now; she was full of laughter, but ready to weep for other people’s sorrows. Sweet Catherine! The sweetest of women! The rose without a thorn! Anne had perhaps been the most gorgeous rose that ever bloomed, but oh, the thorns! In his old age this sweet creature should be beside him. And he was not so old! He could laugh throatily, holding her hand in his, pressing the cool, plump fingers against his thigh. He was not so old. He had years of pleasant living in front of him. He did not want riotous living, he told himself. All he had ever wanted was married happiness with one woman, and he had not found her until now. He must marry Catherine; he must make her his Queen.
His conscience began to worry him. He realized that Anne’s contract with the Duke of Lorraine had ever been on his mind, and it was for this reason that he had never consummated the marriage. So cursed had he been in his matrimonial undertakings, that he went cautiously. He had never been Anne’s true husband because of his dread of presenting another bastard to the nation. Moreover the lady was distasteful to him and he suspected her virtue. Oh, he had said naught about it at the time, being over-merciful perhaps, being anxious not to accuse before he was sure. He had not been free when he entered into the marriage; only because he had felt England to be defenseless against the union of Charles and Francis had he allowed it to take place. England owed him a divorce, for had he not entered into this most unwelcome engagement for England’s sake? And he owed England children. He had one boy and two girls—both of these last illegitimate; and the boy did not enjoy the best of health. He had failed to make the throne secure for Tudors; he must have an opportunity of doing so. Something must be done.
The Dowager Duchess of Norfolk could scarcely believe her ears when she heard the news. The King and her granddaughter! What a wonderful day this was to bring her such news!
She would bring out her most costly jewels. “If Catherine could attract him in those simple things,” she babbled, “how much more so will she when I have dressed her!”
For once she and the Duke were in agreement. He visited her, and the visit was the most amiable they had ever shared. The Dowager Duchess had never thought she and the Duke would one day put their heads together over the hatching of a plot. But when the Duke had gone, the Duchess was overcome with fears, for it seemed to her that another granddaughter looked at her from out of the dark shadows of her room and would remind her of her own tragic fate. How beautiful and proud that Queen Anne had been on the day of her coronation! Never would the Duchess be able to forget the sight of her entering the Tower to be received by her royal lover. And then, only three years later....
The Duchess called for lights. “I declare the gloom of this house displeases me. Light up! Light up! What are you wenches thinking of to leave me in the dark!”
She felt easier when the room was lighted. It was stupid to imagine for a moment that the dead could return. “She cannot die for what was done before,” she muttered to herself; and she set about sorting out her most valuable jewels—some for Catherine in which to enchant the King; and some for herself when she should go to another coronation of yet another granddaughter.
The Earl of Essex, who had been such a short time before plain Thomas Cromwell, was awaiting death. He knew it was inevitable. He had been calculating and unscrupulous; he had been devilishly cruel; he had tortured men’s bodies and sacrificed their flesh to the flames; he had dissolved the monasteries, inflicting great hardship on their inmates, and he had invented crimes for these people to have committed, to justify his actions; with Sampson, Bishop of Chichester, he had worked out a case against Anne Boleyn, and had brought about her death through the
