She went first to Catherine’s bed. She drew off the clothes and looked at the naked body of her granddaughter. Catherine feigned sleep too long for innocence.
The Duchess thought she heard the faintest creak of boards in the gallery which ran along one side of the room. She had an alarmed feeling that if she had that gallery searched, the search would not be fruitless. It would set tongues wagging though, and she dared not let that happen.
Her panic made her angry; she wished to blame someone for the negligence of which she knew herself to be guilty. Catherine was lying on her back; the Duchess rolled her over roughly and brought her hand across the girl’s buttocks. Catherine yelled; the girls sat up in bed, the curtains were drawn back.
“What has happened? What is this?”
Did their exclamations ring true? wondered the old lady.
Catherine was holding her bruised flesh, for the Duchess’s rings had cut into her.
“I would know,” said the Duchess sharply, “who it was who stole my keys and opened this door.”
“Stole Your Grace’s keys. . . .”
“Opened the door . . .”
Oh, yes! The sly wenches . . . they knew well enough who it was. Thank God, she thought, I came in time!
Mary Lassells was trying to catch her eye, but she would not look at the sly creature. Didn’t the fool realize that what she just did not want to hear was the truth . . . providing of course that the truth was disturbing!
“Tomorrow,” said the Duchess, “I shall look into this matter. If any of you had aught to do with this matter of my keys, you shall be soundly whipped and sent home in disgrace. I shall make no secret of your sins, I warn you! I thought I heard noises here. Let me warn you that if I hear more noises it will be the worse for you.”
She went out and left them.
“There!” she said, as she settled down to sleep. “I have done my duty. I have warned them. After such a threat, none of them would dare to misbehave herself, and if any of them have already done so, they will take good care to keep quiet about it.”
In the morning she found her keys; they were not in their rightful place, which led her to hope and believe that they must have been there all the time, and that there had been an oversight, the doors having been left unlocked all that night.
Still, she was resolved to keep an eye on the young women, and particularly on Catherine.
There came a day when, entering what was known as the maids’ room, she saw Catherine and Derham together. The maids’ room was a long, pleasant, extremely light room in which the ladies sat to embroider, or to work tapestry, or to spin. Such a room was certainly forbidden to gentlemen.
The Duchess had come to the room, taking her usual labored steps, and had Derham and Catherine not been noisily engaged in a romp, they would assuredly have heard her approach.
Derham had come in to talk to Catherine, and she feigning greater interest in her piece of needlework than in him, had goaded him to snatch it from her; after which, Catherine immediately sought to retrieve it. They were not interested in the piece of needlework, except as an excuse for titillating their senses by apparent haphazard physical contacts. Derham ran round the room, flourishing the piece of needlework, and Catherine gave chase. Cornering him behind the spinning wheel, she snatched it from him, but he caught her round the waist and she slid to the floor, at which he did likewise. They rolled on the floor together, he with his arms about her, Catherine shrieking her delighted protests. And thus the Duchess found them.
She stood in the doorway, shouting at them for some seconds before they heard her angry voice.
Then she stalked over to them. They saw her and were immediately quiet, standing abashed before her.
She was trembling with rage and fury. Her granddaughter to be guilty of such impropriety! The girl’s gown was torn at the neck, noted Her Grace, and that doubtless on purpose! She narrowed her eyes.
“Leave us at once, Derham!” she said ominously. “You shall hear further of this.”
He threw Catherine a glance and went out.
The Duchess seized her frightened granddaughter by her sleeve and ripped her clothes off her shoulders.
“You slut!” she cried. “What means this behavior . . . after all my care!”
She lifted her ebony stick, and would have brought it down on Catherine’s head had she not dodged out of the way. The Duchess was growing a little calmer now, realizing it would not do to make too violent a scene.
She cornered Catherine, pushed her onto the couch and, bending over her, said: “How far has this gone?”
“It was nothing,” said Catherine, fearful for Derham as well as for herself. “It was just that he . . . stole my piece of needlework, and I . . . sought to retrieve it . . . and then . . . you came in.”
“His hands were on your neck!”
“It was to retrieve the needlework which I had snatched from him.”
The Duchess preferred to believe it was but a childish romp. She wanted no scandal. What if it came to the hardfaced Duke’s ears, of what went on in her house, what tricks and pranks those under her care got up to! He would not hesitate to whisper it abroad, the wicked man, and then would she be considered the rightful state governess for the Princess Elizabeth!
It must go no further than this room; but at the same time she must make Catherine understand that she must have no dangerous friendships with young men under her roof.
She said: “An I thought there was aught wrong in this romping between thee and Derham, I would have thee sent to the Tower; him too! As it is, I will content myself with giving you the biggest beating you have ever had in your life, Catherine Howard!”
She paused, horror-stricken; sitting in a comer, quietly trembling with fear, was one of her attendants, and she must have witnessed the whole scene.
The Duchess turned from Catherine and went over to her.
“Jane Acworth! You think to sit there and allow such behavior! What do you think your task is? To watch young men make free with Catherine Howard?” The girl, trembling, said: “Your Grace, it was naught . . .”
But a stinging blow at the side of her head silenced the girl. The Duchess continued to slap her for some seconds.
“Let me hear no more of this, girl, or you shall feel a whip across your shoulders. Catherine, go to my private chamber; you shall receive your punishment there!”
She went puffing from the room, very ill at ease. But having beaten Catherine, while Catherine writhed and shrieked, she felt she had done her duty.
She summoned one Margaret Morton, when she had done with Catherine.
“I would have speech with Francis Derham. Send him to me without delay!”
He came. She did not know how to punish him. She should banish him of course. But she had always liked him; he was quite the most charming young man of her household. If anything, he was over-bold, but there is something very attractive about over-boldness. He was a distant kinsman too . . . so perhaps it would be enough to warn him.
“I would have you know that you are without prospects. You could not marry my granddaughter. I would have you remember your position in this house, Francis Derham!”
“Your Grace, I must humbly apologize. It was but animal spirits. . . .”
The animal spirits of youth, she thought. There was something delightful about them. Memories came back, softening her. Suppose she allowed him to stay this time! She had warned him; he would not dare to presume again. He was such a handsome, courtly, charming boy!
With the coming of the autumn, Anne’s spirits soared, for she discovered that at last she was pregnant. The King was overjoyed. He was sure that if he would but show the people a male heir, everything that had gone to the producing of it might be forgotten.
Anne, eager to be brought to bed of a healthy child, gave up her life of gaiety and spent a good deal of time reading and thinking of the past. She could not look back with much pride on the two years which had seen her Queen. It seemed to her that much of her time had been spent in worthless machinations and sordid subterfuge. The affair of Madge Shelton stood out from those years, filling her with shame. She herself was now with child again; should she be delivered of a son, her dearest wish would be granted; she would then ask nothing more of life.
She was thoughtfully sitting over her tapestry with her ladies, asking questions about the poor of London. She said: “Would it not be better if, instead of stitching this fine tapestry, we made shirts and suchlike garments for the poor?”
It was strange to see her who had been known to occupy herself at great length with the planning of her own gowns, to see her who had given orders how should be cut and made yards of black satin and gold arras, now stitching contentedly at garments for the poor. She had changed, and the change had a good deal to do with the terrible fear which had beset her and which had been removed, first by the King’s returning affection for her, and then by her pregnancy.
Hugh Latimer had been largely instrumental in her change of heart. She had been interested in the great reformer ever since she had heard of him, and when Stokesley, Bishop of London, had had him committed to the Tower, she used all her influence to get him released. The King, reluctant and yet unable in a fresh return of his passion to refuse what she asked, agreed on the release, and thus postponed Latimer’s martyrdom for twenty-five years. On his release, Anne had desired to hear him preach and forthwith did so, when, much to her astonishment, instead of receiving the gratitude she might have expected from the man, he delivered for her benefit a stormy lecture advising those who placed too much reliance on treasures upon Earth to turn from their folly and repent. Anne saw the man afterwards and characteristically asked him where he thought she had erred. He answered unflinchingly that she should by her morality and piety set an example to those under her command. Greatly impressed by his honesty—a virtue by which she set great store—she appointed him one of her chaplains and began to veer towards a more spiritual way of life. Always generous in the extreme, she delighted in looking into deserving cases about her, and helping those whom she considered would benefit by such help. She had always done this when cases were brought to her notice, but now she looked for them systematically.
Although less superstitious than the King, she was not entirely free from this weakness. As she stitched at garments for the poor, she asked herself if she were not doing this in return for a healthy boy. Was she placating the Powers above, as Henry did? Was she, she wondered, getting a little like him? She had her moments of fear. Was Henry capable of begetting a healthy boy? His body was diseased. What if this were the reason Katharine had failed, and she too, so far! Perhaps she was, in a way, placating Providence, making conditions.
She was worried about the Princess Mary. She was still afraid of the Princess and of Katharine. It had seemed to her that if these two were together they might plot something against her, and through her against Elizabeth. Chapuys she feared. She knew well there were many powerful nobles who deeply resented the break with Rome. They were all only waiting to rise up and destroy her. She must not allow her new favor with the King to blind her to this.
And as she stitched, she prayed for a son.
The King prayed too. He was pleased with the change in Anne. It was well to see her calmer, quieter; it was well to feel this peace stealing over him because at last their union was flavored with hope. He needed such hope; the people were being difficult once more. They were saying that it had not rained since More had died; they would always find a reason for a bad harvest, and the crops had failed once more. The Flanders trade was not good. In fact it looked as if the country was getting together a collection of grievances and irritations in order to make trouble.
The King needed distraction. It suddenly dawned on him that one of his wife’s attendants was—well, not so much an attractive girl as a different kind of girl. Perhaps he meant that she was quite different from Anne; she was so quiet, she moved about like a little mouse; she was very fair; she had a prim little mouth and quick, glancing eyes. She would never be leader of the revels, she would never shine, she would never outwit a man with her sharp tongue! She was as different from Anne as any woman could be. That was why he first noticed her.
If she caught his eyes upon her, she would drop hers quickly; a soft rose-pink blush would steal into her cheeks. She was very demure.
On one occasion he was sitting alone, thinking that it was a long time before his son could be born, and wondering if there was some holy relic the soothsayers could give him as protection against another girl child. He had some holy water, a tear which Christ had shed over Lazarus, and a vial of the sweat of St. Michael; all of which he had purchased at great cost during the sweating sickness. But in spite of these, Anne’s first child had been a girl, and he wondered whether he should buy something especially which might ensure the birth of a boy. As he considered this, the demure maid of honor came into the room and, seeing him, curtseyed in a frightened way and would have hurried off had he not detained her with a “Hi, there! What want you?”
“Her Grace, the Queen . . .” said the girl, so low that he could scarcely hear her.
“What of Her grace, the Queen?” He studied her from head to toe. Small where Anne was tall; slow of movement where Anne was quick; meek where Anne sparkled; slow of speech instead of bright; modest instead of coquettish; willing to listen humbly rather than disconcert a man with her wit.
“I had thought to find her . . .”
“Come hither!” said the King. “And are you very disturbed to come upon the King when you looked for the Queen?”
“Yes, Your Majesty . . . I mean no, Your Majesty. . . .”
“Well,” said Henry pleasantly, “make up your mind.”
She would not come too close. He did not force her, liking suddenly her demureness, since there were so many of them who were too ready.
She could think of nothing to say, which pleased him and made him remember that Anne was over-ready with her retorts.
“Sit there awhile and I will play. You may listen. Bring my lute to me.”
She brought it, cautiously. He tried to touch her fingers over the lute, but she was quick; she had leaped back as though he had tried to sting her. He was not angry. His thoughts were chiefly of his son, and therefore with Anne. But he liked the girl; he was, he told himself, always touched by modesty; he liked and respected it in the young people about his court.
He commanded her to sit; she did so, modestly letting her hands fall into her lap; her mild eyes watched him, and then seemed full of admiration.
When he had finished he saw that her eyes were filled with tears, so moved was she by his music, and he realized that he had not felt so gratified for a long time.
He asked her name. She told him it was Jane Seymour.
He dismissed her then. “You may go. We shall meet again. I like you, Jane!”
It was not a quarrel with Anne, just a slight irritation. A petty argument, and she, in her overpowering way, had proved herself right. Jane Seymour would never be one to prove herself right. She’s all woman, thought Henry. And that’s how a woman should be. Women are women, and men are men. When the one will dabble with that which is solely within the province of the other, it is a sad thing.
