But I must not tell the Duchess this. I must not betray anything.
I must be wary.
I hung my head and played the young girl, innocent of the world, too stupid to know the danger she was in. That was what my grandmother wanted. What she had seen was a romp, entered into on the impulse of the moment.
I should not plead for Francis Derham or myself. I should stand there, my eyes downcast, while she sat in her chair and rambled on about the dangers that could beset young girls, and the need to keep themselves untouched; and how this applied especially to those who belonged to noble families.
“It will not be long now,” she was saying, “before it will be time for you to look to the future. There might be a place at Court. Of course, it would have been different …” Her lips trembled. If only her once-brilliant granddaughter had kept her place instead of losing her head, what glory might have been in store for little Katherine Howard.
I did not tell her that I did not want such glories. All I wanted was to marry Francis Derham, to whom I was troth-plighted.
Her wrath had subsided a little. The Duchess was a lady who would make herself believe what she wanted to—particularly if the alternative was too unpleasant to contemplate—so she sat in her chair, talking of the pitfalls which could befall a young girl—particularly one of a great family. She was deluding herself into believing that I was an innocent child who knew nothing of the urgent desires of young men and the readiness of young women to yield to them.
I was dismissed and, bruised and very frightened, left the Duchess and tried to forget my stinging cheek by telling myself I had had a lucky escape. But I could not stop worrying about Francis.
She might think that I was an innocent, but could she apply the same judgment to him? If what we had done was due to my ignorance, youth and general stupidity, what had such a romp indicated about him?
A few days passed. I saw Francis surreptitiously in the garden. We clung together, dreading we might be seen.
“Has anything been said to you?” I asked.
“Nothing,” he replied.
“Have you seen the Duchess?”
“ En passant. She did not look my way.”
“Do you think they will send you away?”
He was silent, and I knew he did. We clung more closely together in desperation.
He was not sent away. Until this happened, he had, I believe, been a favorite of the Duchess. She did have a liking for handsome young men. I think she decided to forgive us, for a week or so passed and nothing happened. We were beginning to think that the escapade had been dismissed as a matter of little importance.
As time passed, we were lulled more and more into a sense of security; we slipped back into the old ways, and at night Francis would come up to the Long Room; but everyone knew that we had been caught rolling on the floor together in a compromising situation, and there was a certain uneasiness.
“What if Her Grace should discover that the room is left unlocked through the night?” asked Dorothy. “We shall have to be very careful. If she found Derham in Katherine Howard’s bed …” Dorothy suppressed a giggle. “Well, that would not be so easy to explain as a romp on the floor.”
“We should hear her coming,” I said. “She would be using her stick to mount the stairs. Then Francis could slip into the little gallery. She would not know he was here then.”
I could not bear that we should be deprived of those meetings. It was not long since he had returned from that long absence.
Fewer people were coming to the Long Room. Many of them had decided that it was too dangerous.
The Duchess, however, did not come to the Long Room, nor did she discover for herself about the matter of the key. It happened in a different way.
One of the maids, terrified, I suppose, that we were in danger of being discovered, went to her and confessed what was happening. I was sure that that was the last thing the Duchess wanted, and she was more angry than ever.
It might have been Dorothy, Joan or Mary Lassells—she was a sly one whom I had never understood—or someone quite different. I never knew. All I was aware of was that one of the maids went to the Duchess and told her how the men came to the room, how the door had remained unlocked throughout the night; and chiefly how Francis Derham called Katherine Howard his wife, kissed and caressed her and spent the night with her under the sheets in her bed.
My grandmother was horrified, and this was too important a matter to be set aside.
She sent for me and, as soon as I arrived in her room, she seized me, slapped my face, tore off my gown, pushed me on to her bed and with her stick beat my bare buttocks until I screamed with pain. I think she might not have stopped until she killed me if she had not exhausted herself. Her hair was falling about her face, her eyes were wild; she looked like a witch intent on evil, and that evil was directed at me.
Then the stick slipped from her hand; she fell into her chair and she sat looking at me lying across her bed. I rose and tried to pull my clothes about me.
“Do not attempt to show modesty to me, slut,” she cried. “Do not simper and play the child, you little harlot. I know of your lechery with Francis Derham.”
I cried out: “It is not fair to talk thus. I am his wife … may not a wife caress her husband?”
“You are what! Oh, what pain you cause me! What have I done, I ask God and all his saints, what have I done to deserve this?”
“There is nothing wrong, Your Grace,” I began.
“Be silent, you little whore! How long has this been going on? Under the sheets …” she moaned. “After midnight … with Derham. Are you with child?”
“Your Grace, you do not understand.”
“I understand. I understand too well. Do not deny this … harlotry. Derham has been your lover, has he not? He will die for this. When the Duke hears …”
“Oh, I pray, do not tell the Duke.” I thought of that cold-eyed man who had condemned Anne Boleyn. We should have been better without such a kinsman. And now his anger would be turned on Francis and on me. What would become of us? And there had been nothing wrong. We were husband and wife. How often had we said that?
“Stop muttering to yourself, girl. You cannot tell me they have lied. If that were so …” She was almost pleading to me. She wanted me to say that what they had told her was a lie. She wanted to continue to delude herself into believing that. But she knew it was true. Had she not seen us in the Maids’ Chamber, and that was a clear indication of how it was between us.
I said nothing. I knew it would be no good.
“How could you?” she cried. “Have you no regard for your virtue … for your family?”
I persisted: “Your Grace does not understand. Francis Derham and I love each other.”
“Love!” she sneered. “Rolling about under the sheets. You could not even wait for nightfall to hide your shame. You must try it on the floor.”
“It was not so.”
“I saw it with my own eyes.”
“It was just … fun … as you say … a little romp.”
“Romp! Fun! Is that what you call it when the name of a noble house is desecrated! Holy Mother of God, this is too much to be borne.”
“I will explain. Francis and I are troth-plighted. That is enough. We are married. We did nothing wrong.”
“You are even more stupid than I thought you. I had hopes for you. A place at Court. It might well be. The King will marry again. There is no doubt of that. The new Queen will need ladies-in-waiting. There was a chance there might be a place for you. What do you think will become of you, you stupid child? What hopes have you if it is known what you have been about? These girls know … the men too. By all the saints, it will go ill with them if they whisper it abroad. And you, addle-pate, talk of troth-plight. Derham will suffer for this. As for you … you deserve to be turned out of this household.”