I sat in my bed, dressed in flimsy night attire which Isabel had found for me, and Henry Manox sat with me.
“They said I must ask you here,” I told him. “Before, I watched through the bed curtains.”
“How happy I am to be here,” he said. “I never thought to attain such happiness.”
His hands were on my shoulders. He kissed my cheek, then my forehead, and my lips. Pleasurable sensations crept over me. I fancied some of the others were watching us with amusement, although they pretended not to be.
I was excited. At last I was one of them.
Henry Manox had an arm round me and was holding me closely. We talked, first of music. He told me how he dreamed of being something more than just a teacher of the virginals and lute, as well as the harpsichord, to people who would never understand the magic of music. They were unlike myself, of course, who was a natural musician. He wanted to have a house of his own and to live his life with a companion who, like him, was devoted to the art.
I told him of my father’s house, of my brothers and sisters and how poor we were. He listened intently. Then he said: “But now you have come to the Duchess, and fate has brought us together.”
I thought that sounded wonderful, and I laughed gleefully, at which he bent his head and kissed my bare shoulder.
Isabel called from her bed, where she was snuggling against her farmer: “Not so fast, Manox. Do you want to get us all sent to the Tower?”
There was a great deal of laughter, and Manox said: “You can trust me to play this right.”
“It is not the virginals now, Manox,” said someone else.
And everyone was laughing. I laughed with them. It was so exciting and amusing.
I shall never forget that first night, when I became one of them and not merely an onlooker, sitting up in bed with my own good friend who, I thought, was more handsome than any of the others, as well as being such a fine musician.
There was a certain tension throughout the house. People were whispering and looking wise.
I heard scraps of conversation.
“They say the King is tired of waiting.”
“He is not a patient man, our noble King.”
“They say that he is determined to marry her and that he cares for none … not even the Church or the Pope himself.”
“What then?”
“Some say he is already married to her.”
“How can that be?”
“They say with kings all things are possible, and with our King Henry, what he desires will most certainly be.”
“And the Lady Anne?”
“She lives as the Queen already.”
“Some say she is with child.”
“Then we can be sure she will be his Queen.”
“What of the Queen herself?”
“Poor lady. I fear she suffers.”
“Hush, be careful what you say!”
“Foolish one, what matters it here?”
“It matters wherever such words are spoken if they are overheard by some bent on mischief. The King likes not those who even hint that he is in the wrong.”
“I did not. I just said ‘poor lady.’ And what am I? Waiting woman to the Duchess!”
“It matters not who, so have a care what you say.”
It was all very exciting, and a little sinister, and it was particularly interesting to me, for one of the main people at the heart of the drama was my own cousin.
During the nights, when we were gathered in the Long Room after the household had retired, they still talked of the King’s divorce and how the Pope would not agree, and that Thomas Cranmer, the Archbishop of Canterbury, had brought forth the theory that there was no need for a divorce after all, because the King had never really been married to Queen Catherine. Had she not been married to his brother Arthur previously, and if that marriage had been consummated then the ceremony of marriage to Arthur’s younger brother, Henry, was no true marriage at all.
It was one of those laws which were set out in the Bible. And there was a great deal of speculation over this. It was an ideal solution. Had the marriage been consummated or not? That was the theme of conversation in the Long Room. Prince Arthur had been only a boy at the time of the marriage, and he had died very soon after. Of course, it was very possible that they had never truly been husband and wife, but hardly conclusive.
It was all very amusing to the young people, and meanwhile I sat with Henry Manox’s arms about me and each night we progressed a little further with our lovemaking.
The Duchess sent for me one day. This time she was not seated in her chair and I was told to enter her bedroom where she was reclining on the four-poster bed. There were two maids with her. They were bringing clothes from her wardrobe and she was nodding and saying: “Not that, you addle-pate. Take that to Lambeth! Only the finest, I said, did I not?”
In another room, seamstresses were working on new garments and there was bustle everywhere.
“Ah, Katherine Howard,” she said when she saw me. She looked at me, nodding. She seemed rather pleased with me.
“Growing up fast,” she said. “You will have to look to your manners, girl. We are going to Lambeth. Oh, don’t look alarmed. Not to your father’s house. We shall be closer to the Court.” She smirked with satisfaction. “I shall be there, I doubt not. My granddaughter will not let me be passed by. And, as for you … you must prepare yourself. I am having a few gowns made for you. She is your cousin, after all … and we must be prepared. Who knows, there may be a place for you at Court!”
I was alarmed. It sounded frightening, and I was enjoying life at Horsham, especially the nights shared with Henry Manox and the rest of them.
“Don’t gape, girl. Oh, if you but had the grace of your cousin! How I long to see her Queen of England, which she will be ere long. So now you know that we are going to my residence at Lambeth.”
“To see my cousin, Your Grace?”
“To see her crowned Queen of England. Yes, we are going to see the coronation of Queen Anne. Now … I have little time to see to these matters. I want you to be able to curtsy gracefully. Manox tells me you play both lute and virginals well and are a good pupil. I want to make sure that, if the Queen does decide to honor you, you are ready for it. You must have some knowledge of the art of dancing and learn not to flush and stammer when you are spoken to, and to answer brightly and wittily, as your cousin has always done.”
I was uncertain as to what was expected of me, but as no one was sent to instruct me, I need not have worried. I had realized by now that my grandmother would have sudden reminders of what she should be doing and then quickly forget all about them. I had seen that happen more than once in my case. In the first place, she had brought me here because it had occurred to her that my father’s house was an unfit place in which to bring up a child, and that child a member of the Howard family; and she had chosen me because of the resemblance she had thought she had detected to my cousin, Anne Boleyn. Then she had forgotten me. Later, something would bring me to her mind and she bestirred herself. If the memories persisted, she took some action—as in the case of my music lessons.
Meanwhile, preparations went on apace and there was talk of little else in the Long Room, for everyone was excited about going to London, and at Lambeth we would be very close to the Court.
Isabel’s happiness in her coming marriage was a little dulled by the fact that she would not be coming to London. I was seeing more of Dorothy Barwike who would take Isabel’s place with me.
It was spring of the year 1533 when we set out for Lambeth. We should be in time for the coronation of Queen Anne, for, in spite of all the opposition and the long fight to attain his desires, the King had decided to accept the case as set out by Archbishop Cranmer, to defy the Pope and declare that he had never been married to Queen Catherine of Aragon and therefore could no longer live in sin with her. So he had married Anne Boleyn at the beginning of the year.