There was a shadow overhanging my happiness that came from my encounters with Francis Derham, which were more frequent than I liked. He was very sad and angry at the prospect of my going to Court.
“You think it is all balls and banquets … dancing and such pleasures,” he said. “My dear Katherine, that is how it seems on the surface. Beneath there is intrigue … scheming … treachery. It is the most dangerous place in England.”
“I am to serve the Queen,” I replied. “There can be no harm in that. They say she is a very gracious lady.”
“I do not wish you to go, Katherine. I forbid you to go.”
I looked at him in horror.
“Hush!” I cried. “What would anyone think to hear you talk thus. People listen. They repeat what they hear. Have a care, Francis, you will destroy yourself. It is you who will be in danger if you talk like that.”
“You must not go to Court, Katherine. Something tells me it would be bad. Let us go away together. We could go to Ireland. They would never find us there. Think! We should be together. Then you would feel toward me as you did before.”
I was angry. He was trying to spoil everything.
I ran from him and tried not to see him again. I could not bear the sight of his sad face. What I was trying to do with all my might was to forget the past. I wanted to think only of the glorious future … and Thomas Culpepper.
The Court was at Greenwich and thither I was to go in the company of the Countess of Rutland and Lady Edgecombe, who would teach me what was expected of a lady-in-waiting to the Queen.
To a novice like myself they appeared to be very formidable ladies, and they certainly made me feel how lucky I was that this post should have been given to one as ignorant of Court procedure as I was.
“In the first place,” said the Countess, “you are very young.”
“I am eighteen, my lady,” I told her.
“She looks much younger,” said the Countess to Lady Edge-combe, who agreed.
I must remember that my mistress was the Queen. They told me how I must address her, speak only when spoken to, act quietly and always in a seemly fashion. I must never forget that I was in the presence of royalty, and if the King should appear at any time, I must make the deepest curtsy I had ever made in my life, and not stare at him. I must behave as though I were in the presence of a dazzling greatness and keep my eyes averted. I was not quite sure how I was going to convey my awed respect if I were to act as though I were not there; but I supposed I should know when and if the time came.
One of the younger ladies was more approachable.
She said: “You will be all right. Just keep quiet and speak only when spoken to. That is best. We shall soon be in Greenwich. I like it better than this place. Did you know it is called Whitehall because of the white towers the King built here? It was York House before.”
When I learned that it had once belonged to Cardinal Wolsey, I remembered what I had heard of him. It could not have been so very long ago when he had lived here in splendor, as he had at Hampton Court. I had heard it said that his love of grandeur was one of the reasons why he had begun to fall. He had gained a great deal but he stretched out his hands for more and it was said he kept a more splendid court than that of the King. Derham was right. The Court could be a dangerous place. But surely not for humble ladies-in-waiting like little Katherine Howard, who only spoke when spoken to?
Hampton Court had gone to the King, a present from the great Cardinal. So had Whitehall. But even the presentation of such magnificent gifts had availed him nothing. Those were foolish thoughts which would intrude.
“And this,” I was told, “is the chamber in which the King married Queen Anne—not the present Queen, but Queen Anne Boleyn. It was here that they celebrated her coronation.”
Here were memories again. There was so much to bring back what was best forgotten. Stop it, I admonished myself. Think of the good things. Velvet gowns, the jewels my grandmother had given me, dances, banquets, grand occasions and being under the same roof as Thomas Culpepper.
Then we went to Greenwich—beautiful Greenwich, which had been made magnificent by the King who loved it dearly. Was it not the place of his birth? Here his marriage to his first wife, Catherine of Aragon, had been solemnized; jousts were frequently held here. The King liked to celebrate Christmas here. The Princess Mary had been born here, so had the Lady Elizabeth. Then again, I was thinking of my cousin. How had she felt when the longed-for boy turned out to be a girl?
I could not understand myself. It was as though some devilish imp were at my elbow, whose sole purpose was to intrude into my carefree mood and destroy it.
I would be merry. I would rejoice in what was happening to me. This was Greenwich. The Court was here, and I was to be presented to the Queen. Life was going to be amusing and exciting.
From the moment the Countess of Rutland presented me to the Queen, I knew I could be happy serving her. There was a kindliness about her. She seemed to be aware of my nervousness, and wanted to make me understand that there was no need for it.
“Katherine Howard,” she repeated my name in a guttural accent which was not very attractive, but her smile was warm.
“The Countess will tell you …”
I could not understand the rest of the sentence, but then the Countess said: “The Queen tells you that I shall inform you of your duties and she is sure that you will do them well.”
I realized that the Queen’s knowledge of English was somewhat limited and that, when she arrived, she had been unable to speak a word of it.
I made my curtsy and retired. I felt very happy that I was to serve such a gracious lady.
I could not understand why the King had been so displeased with her. She was no beauty, of course. I was thinking again of my cousin and pretty Jane Seymour. I had never seen Catherine of Aragon, and in any case had I had the opportunity to do so she would have been quite old, so I could not have judged her: but I could see that this Queen was different from her immediate two predecessors. She was not very tall, but she gave an impression of largeness. It must have been because of her big bones. Her forehead was unusually high; her eyes were large and dark and with long dark lashes that were quite beautiful. I thought that she would have been good-looking, in a rather heavy sort of way, but for her pitted skin. The poor lady had suffered from smallpox at some time and it was the ravages of that disease which had spoilt her appearance and horrified the King. I had heard of the miniature which Hans Holbein had painted of her and which had so pleased the King when he had seen it that he had gone ahead with plans to marry her.
She did nothing to improve herself, in my opinion. Her gown was unbecoming, and with its tight sleeves and close-fitting, high collar, reminded me of a man’s. The gown opened in the front to show a kind of chemise drawn up with a ribbon, at the neck of which she wore a large brooch. Her hat, turned up at the front, would have been difficult for the most beautiful woman to have worn to advantage. On her, it made her rather large features look quite masculine.
Queen Anne of Cleves had no idea how to make the most of what personal attractions she had. I started to think of what I would have chosen for her if I had had the chance to do so. I saw her in a beautiful scarlet gown, velvet, of course, rather severely cut, for there is nothing more detrimental than to try to appear feminine when one is not fashioned that way. The Queen had a good, kind face; but I could see now that her pockmarked skin, together with her lack of femininity, had made her unacceptable to the King.