So my mind worked and during that week nothing further happened.
The King noticed my uneasiness and was eager to put an end to it.
“This foolish matter has disturbed you, sweetheart,” he said. “That must not be. I will teach these men a lesson. We shall let it be known that none speaks against the Queen.”
I thought about this a great deal and wondered what would happen to these men. Perhaps they would be put to the torture. That was something the King was not eager should be tried on them. He would not want them to produce lurid “confessions,” as people sometimes did to escape further torment. Yes, I was frightened. I supposed that, had I been the innocent girl Henry believed me to be, I should have felt differently. I tried to make myself act as such a girl would.
The King said that the sooner the men were brought to trial the better.
Trial! I could not bear that. I must do something. There was no one whose advice I could ask. I had to obey my own instincts.
It was true that I had always hated to hear of torture and executions. My whole nature shrank from it. Priests, not being of the nobility, were submitted to the horrific death of hanging, drawing and quartering. I could not bear to think of this.
It suddenly occurred to me that, if they were freed, they would no longer seek to harm me; and when they considered what terrible fate might have befallen them, they would be very careful of what they said in future.
I went to the King and, going on my knees to him—a gesture for which he chided me but with which, I sensed, he was rather pleased—I begged him to save the lives of the priest and his companion, to warn them to be careful of their words in future and go on their way.
He lifted me up so that my face was on a level with his.
“My sweet Katherine,” he said. “Your heart is indeed tender. These men had maligned you, and you would forgive them. You ask me to grant you this, and because you ask a boon of me … it is granted. It shall be as you wish. What a happy day it was when God gave you to me.”
I was indeed happy. I cast aside my anxieties as though they were a heavy and burdensome cloak; and I would not let myself brood any longer on those uneasy days. The men were freed with a warning of the dire consequences which would befall them if they ever uttered another word against the Queen’s Grace, and they must always remember it was due to her mercy that they were free men.
I had been right, I told myself.
Then the King and I set off for a voyage round the country. I was to be presented by the King to his people as the Queen who had, at last, brought him contentment.
The King seemed to have forgotten that unpleasant incident, and I had forced myself to do so too. He did not refer to it again. Now the matter was over.
The country might not have been able to afford to give me a coronation, but I had all the clothes I needed, which, after so much deprivation in the past, was very much appreciated. I was becoming accustomed to my condition and enjoying it more and more every day.
The King was certainly a good husband to me. He constantly marveled at my youth and energy. I never saw his leg without its dressing. When he came to me at night, it was always freshly bandaged. He was taking more exercise. People remarked on his healthy looks. I think his relationship with Anne of Cleves had had its effect on him, and there was no doubt that he was happy now.
He was almost always in a good temper and when his eyes alighted on me that soft and tender look would come into his face. I was becoming really fond of him and I often thought of the wonderful life he had given me.
Lady Margaret Douglas had ceased to be Anne’s chief lady-in-waiting, and had become mine. I was pleased at that. I think most of the ladies had found it difficult at first to take a subservient position to me. I could understand that. It took time to accept the fact that little Katherine Howard was now the Queen. I did not mind that. I was not one who wanted a great deal of ceremony.
In my entourage were also the Duchesses of Richmond and Suffolk with the Countess of Rutland and, of course, my old confidante Lady Rochford. She was the same as she had always been, reminding me that she was my very good friend. Mrs. Tyrwitt and Mrs. Leye were among the gentlewomen and Mrs. Tylney was one of the chamberers who, I remembered, had once been employed in the Duchess’s household. There were so many of them that I forget the number.
It was about this time that I heard what was happening to the Countess of Salisbury. She must have been seventy-three years old and she was a prisoner in the Tower. The very word “tower” sent a shiver through me, but that an old lady, used to the comforts she must have enjoyed until now, should suffer so, horrified me.
“Poor, poor lady,” I said. “How terrible for her!”
The Countess of Rutland glanced at me quickly. “She is the King’s enemy, Your Majesty.”
“What has she done?” I wanted to know.
I noticed that the Countess looked a little nonplussed.
“She … er … she has conspired against the King. She was in league with her son. Your Majesty will remember Cardinal Pole. He is the King’s enemy… although the King once gave him his affection.”
“But what were they quarrelling about, and do they need to keep that poor old lady in the Tower? She must be nearly frozen at night. It is very cold there, and does she get enough to eat?”
I saw that look on her face which she tried to disguise. She thought I was a little idiot who did not know when it was safer to leave things alone.
I could see I was not going to get very much information from those around me except from Jane Rochford, and, as I could not stop thinking of the poor lady’s discomfort, I went to Jane for information.
“That would be Margaret Pole, Countess of Salisbury,” said Jane. “It must be over a year since she was sent to the Tower.”
“So she has been there all through the winter! Oh poor, poor lady!”
“Indeed yes, but then she is the daughter of the Duke of Clarence, and you know who he was.”
I waited expectantly.
She raised her eyebrows, as though to express her amazement at my ignorance, and to remind me that, although I was the King’s wife now, the same intimacy remained between us as always had. I would not have had it otherwise. I did not want her to shield me from the truth, as the others tried to.
“The Duke of Clarence, Majesty”—she used the title with a certain levity—“was the brother of Edward IV and Richard III, so you see his daughter might be a little watchful of the throne. What do you think of that?”
“Go on,” I said.
“The real trouble is, of course, her son, the Cardinal Pole. There was a time when the King was quite fond of him. He paid for his education and looked after him generally. The Cardinal is a very clever man. It was the matter of the divorce from Queen Catherine of Aragon that came between them. Like Wolsey before him, Cardinal Pole did not see the matter as the King wished him to. So the rift began, and when the Pope made Reginald Pole a cardinal, there was real trouble. It would have been the Cardinal’s head that went … if he had been here. Tempers ran hot. The King was determined to wed Anne Boleyn.”
“And the Countess?”
“They say she was conspiring with her son, who was on the Continent.”
“Was she?”
“That is not for me to say. But the Poles are very close to the throne … too close for comfort.”
“I feel so much for her that I cannot forget her. Not so long ago, she was in her comfortable home, and suddenly there she is … in that place, with only jailers to attend her. She will suffer greatly from the cold … and does she get enough to eat, think you?”
“I doubt it. It is the lot of prisoners.”