The King must have been in a somewhat tolerant mood, for Peto was not immediately sent to the Tower, though he was there some months later, where he stayed for two or three years; and at the end of that time, not being so enamoured of his Queen, the King might have felt that the Friar was perhaps not so wrong as he had appeared to be at the time of the coronation.
The Duchess remained at Court and the household was more relaxed than it had been, even in Horsham. Meals were regular and household matters attended to, but there was little supervision of the servants.
I could not understand Mary Lassells. There had been times when it occurred to me that there was something behind Isabel’s words, but this seemed doubly so in the case of Mary. Her attitude toward Manox was a little mysterious. Sometimes she seemed to hate him, at others quite the contrary. I often saw her watching him, and she seemed very pleased when he paid attention to her. She was not easy to understand. Sometimes she almost sneered at my family; at others seemed to show great respect for it.
“You come of a very grand family,” she said to me once. “The Queen’s coronation brought that home to us, did it not? The Queen herself… your cousin! And Lord William Howard, your uncle. And the Duchess, your grandmother, holding the Queen’s train and now in the Queen’s household!”
“I believe my cousin to be a very kind and generous lady,” I said.
“Oh, it is well for families when some of its members creep into high places.”
“Creep into high places?”
“Oh, I mean when they are favored by royalty.”
She smirked a little. Then she went on: “I wonder that you are on such terms with a musician of low birth.”
I flushed. Henry Manox and I had become even closer than we had been before. But there was a certain restraint in him. There was so much of which I was ignorant. Our lovemaking excited me. It was like making new discoveries, but I did have the notion that there was more to learn and that Henry Manox wanted to teach me, and had the power to, but, for some reason, was not altogether sure whether he should proceed.
Henry had once said: “My little Katherine, you were born to love, but you are so young as yet. That will change though. One day, it will be even better between us two.”
I had snuggled up to him and he had said: “You are a temptress.”
I heard Dorothy Barwike say to Mary Lassells: “Henry Manox says he loves Katherine Howard to madness.”
I was enthralled, and thought: “Dear Henry, I know he truly loves me.”
Dorothy went on: “He believes he is troth-plighted to her and so contracted.”
What was Dorothy saying? That Manox thought to marry me! I was eleven years old. Some princesses married at that age. This was rather disconcerting. I had not thought of marriage.
Then something alarming happened. Mary Lassells came to me one morning, looking as though she wanted to talk to me and did not know how to begin. I asked her if anything was wrong, to which she replied hesitatingly: “I know not what I must do. But do something I know I must.”
“What has happened?” I persisted. “Pray tell me, Mary.”
“Mayhap I have failed to understand. Mayhap I should not speak of it, but you do not always remember that you belong to a noble house. I know that your father is not rich … but the Duchess would be most disturbed if she knew …”
“Knew what?”
“Your … er … being of such a noble house …” She could not prevent the little smirk appearing—the one which was always there when my family was mentioned. “… and I being here to serve the Duchess …”
“What are you trying to tell me, Mary?”
“I have been bold. I said to Manox, ‘You play the fool in a most dangerous fashion.’ ‘How so?’ he asked. And I said, and this is true enough, ‘And if my Lady Duchess knew of this … love … between you and Katherine Howard, she would seek to undo you … this talk of troth-plight … What think you Her Grace would do an she heard you have planned to marry this noble-born young lady?’”
“You said that to him? How could you?”
“’Twas my duty as I saw it. Consider, I pray you. If the Duchess were to hear of this … what would happen to Manox, or to you? Give a thought to it. I did, and I thought it was right to speak to Manox rather than to Her Grace.”
“But in the Long Room …”
“Yes, in the Long Room. You and Manox sporting with the rest. But let me tell you his reply. It is not pleasing to hear. He said: ‘Fear not. My intentions are not of the nature you believe. They are what is called of a dishonorable nature, and from the freedom I have so far enjoyed with the lady, I doubt not that I shall be able to attain my purpose without taking the steps you suggest.’”
I felt dizzy, and a sudden rage possessed me—not against Mary Lassells but against Henry Manox. How could he speak thus of me? Was it true that Mary Lassells was jealous of his devotion to me? I could not believe that he had said such words. But something told me that they could be true.
“Fie on him!” I cried, stamping my foot, and Mary put an arm round me.
“I understand,” she said soothingly. “You are so young, you have not yet experienced the perfidy of men. This is how they speak of their mistresses when out of hearing, yet when they are with them it is all honeyed words and vows of eternal faithfulness.”
“I cannot believe he spoke thus of me.”
“Ask him.”
“I shall … and now. I cannot wait.”
“He will lie. All men lie.”
“Henry Manox has always told me how much he loved me and would die for me. I shall go to him now and you shall come with me.”
She looked aghast, and then she smiled secretly.
“You could see him tonight and there tell him.”
“No,” I said firmly. “I shall not wait, and shall speak to him now.”
“But how?”
“We shall go to Lord Beaumont’s house … through the gardens, and I shall ask someone to bring him to me. And you will be with me, Mary. We shall confront him … face to face.”
Mary was uneasy, but I did notice a certain relish in her eyes, as though she would enjoy confronting this traitor and, of course, prove that she was telling the truth because she could see that this was the only way she could make me believe it.
I had never known I could be so angry. I felt degraded. I kept thinking of Uncle William Howard, Marshal at the coronation, and my grandmother, holding the Queen’s train and riding in the carriage near her. I was indeed of a noble family, and this low-born servant had dared speak of me as though I were a common slut!
I think Mary Lassells was surprised by this determined girl, who had hitherto seemed so young and helpless. I strode over the lawns to the Beaumont gardens, Mary walking meekly beside me.
I saw one of the servants and I called to him. I said in a voice which might have belonged to my grandmother: “I would speak with the musician Henry Manox. Pray tell him that Mistress Howard sends for him, and bring him to me here.”
The servant bowed and hurried off, and it was not long before Manox appeared.
He looked startled, and I said immediately: “Henry Manox. I have heard what you have said of me.”
He stammered, and I saw the look of hatred which he gave to Mary, and I knew then without a doubt that she had told the truth. My heart sank, and I felt wretched. The love I had imagined was a fantasy. It was not real love. What a fool I had been to indulge in childish dreams. I might have known that, if he had loved me, he would have had more care for me. He would never have spoken of me as he had to Mary Lassells. I was overcome by many emotions, but the greatest of these was a bitter humiliation.