The Rose Without a Thorn (7 page)

I saw one of the servants and I called to him. I said in a voice which might have belonged to my grandmother: “I would speak with the musician Henry Manox. Pray tell him that Mistress Howard sends for him, and bring him to me here.”

The servant bowed and hurried off, and it was not long before Manox appeared.

He looked startled, and I said immediately: “Henry Manox. I have heard what you have said of me.”

He stammered, and I saw the look of hatred which he gave to Mary, and I knew then without a doubt that she had told the truth. My heart sank, and I felt wretched. The love I had imagined was a fantasy. It was not real love. What a fool I had been to indulge in childish dreams. I might have known that, if he had loved me, he would have had more care for me. He would never have spoken of me as he had to Mary Lassells. I was overcome by many emotions, but the greatest of these was a bitter humiliation.

I repeated to him what Mary had said, and I cried: “Will you tell me that you did not say those words?”

He wanted to deny them, but Mary burst in: “I have told you what he said, because I think you should know how he thinks of you.”

“It was a mistake,” was all Manox could say.

“I have only repeated what you said to me,” persisted Mary. “I warned you that you could be in trouble, and that was your reply.”

“It was a misunderstanding,” said Manox.

“You have said enough,” retorted Mary.

I added: “Yes, such words need no explanation. They are enough.”

And I turned and left him.

I had fallen out of love at that moment while he stood stammering there. I saw him for what he was—low-born and cunning, eager to rise in society through his musical talent. He was handsome in a way, with his dark curling hair and rather soulful eyes which could hide the calculation of his scheming mind. I had been so innocent, wanting to be liked, wanting to be as one of the others in the Long Room at night. I knew that now, for I had grown up a little in the last hours. What I wanted was to be loved. It was not love I was witnessing and sharing in the Long Room. It was a lustful playing at it.

I sent a note to Manox telling him not to come to the Long Room at nightfall.

A few days passed, then I received a note from him. He must see me. There was so much to explain. It had been a terrible misunderstanding.

I hesitated for a while and then I agreed to meet him at the spot where the Duchess’s garden adjoined that of Lord Beaumont.

He was there, looking unlike the man I had known; he was sad and solemn.

“Katherine, Katherine,” he cried, “my heart is broken.”

Oh yes. I had grown up. Previously I would have relented immediately, I should have wept with him and we would have resumed our old relationship. But, as I said, I was not so easily deceived now.

“I love you, Katherine,” he said. “With all my heart, I love you.”

“I believe that those who love do not speak of their loved one as you did of me.”

“I did not …” he began, but I cut him short.

“You could not deny it before Mary Lassells. You may do so now, but I do not believe you.”

“My passion for you transports all reason. I knew not what I said.”

“But, Henry Manox, I no longer believe you.”

“It is that sly creature,” he said angrily.

“She may be sly, and doubtless is, but she has revealed much to me which before I could not see. You cannot deny you said those words. I doubt not you could have done so if you had not been taken by surprise and confronted with her. I saw at once that she spoke the truth. It is over, Henry Manox.”

“Oh come, sweet Katherine. You have taken her words to heart. I tell you, I did not mean them. They were said in a moment when I knew she was trying to take you from me. Remember how you enjoyed our love play?”

“Love play!” I retorted. “It was a pretense of love. That is not for me, Henry Manox. I want no pretense.”

“If you but knew how restrained I have been. How careful of you. You are so young … so innocent.”

“And you feared my family’s wrath if they discovered.”

There was just a brief hesitation, and I knew I was right in that; and I knew without a doubt that I had fallen out of love with him forever. In fact, when I looked at him now, I wondered how I could ever have thought I had been in love at all.

I turned and ran away from him.

That night I lay in my bed, my curtains drawn. I had no wish to be with the others. Love play! Yes, that described it for what it was. Playing at love. It was not true love. It was not for me. I could not deny that I had wanted to be loved. Manox had awakened certain instincts in me. He had directed me into this pretense, this searching for sensation, this playing at love.

So I was content to lie there, the curtains tightly drawn, no longer taking part in the merriment of the Long Room.

It was in the September of that year that the Queen’s child was born. There had been a great deal of anticipation throughout the whole of London, for the celebrations which would accompany that great event would be as splendid as those for the coronation with dancing, pageants, and wine flowing in the streets.

Preparations were already being made to welcome the heir to the throne. It was universally accepted that the child would be of the desired sex—a boy, of course.

That was why the joy in a healthy child was slightly tempered with disappointment when she turned out to be a girl. However, the bright side was that there was nothing wrong with this child—except her sex. She was healthy; she had all the right parts which any child should bring into the world: she was an indication that Queen Catherine’s many failures were due to no fault in the King: and although the Queen this time had produced a girl, there was hope that the next child would be a boy. We could look confidently to the future. Although, of course, there were some to remind us that Queen Catherine had produced a girl child who had survived. Poor sad Lady Mary, now broken-hearted because of the cruel treatment meted out to her mother, and embittered
because she had lost her inheritance and was branded as nothing more than the King’s bastard.

How sad that the glory of our Queen Anne had had to be bought at such a high cost to her predecessor. Little did I know then that, at a not far distant day, Anne herself would have to pay a greater price for the elevation of her successor.

It was only to be expected that the birth of the child should set the Howard family even higher in the social hierarchy.

The Duchess spoke of the occasion in her usual somewhat disjointed way when I saw her soon afterward. She was still at Court, but she had visited the house briefly for some reason, and she could not resist telling me of the glorious turn her life had taken.

“Well, my child, I shall not stay here long. I shall, of course, be returning to Court. The Queen has need of me. She does not forget her grandmother. I was with the Court at Greenwich at the birth of the Princess Elizabeth. Marry, and we were so sure it would be a boy… right up to the last moment. The King was deeply disappointed. He had set his heart on a boy.” She sighed. “Do not they all? How he would have doted on a son. But the Princess is a bonny child. We must be thankful that nothing went wrong, as it did so often with poor Queen Catherine. Poor lady.” She made the sign of the cross. She was uneasy, I supposed, about the trouble with the Pope, who had uttered some rather unpleasant words about the King and Queen. But facts were facts, and we were not in Rome, but here, where our King was supreme—more now than ever, now that he had snapped his fingers at the Pope and made himself Head of the Church.

“Oh, if only the baby had been a boy!” went on the Duchess. “But alas, one cannot always have what one wants in this life. There is plenty of time. There will be others. The Queen is young and strong, and there is great love between her and the King. Oh, how he adores her! There is to be a Te Deum sung in honor of the child. She will be called Elizabeth after the King’s mother. And, here is the greatest news of all. I shall carry the little Princess. Yes, well, am I not her great-grandmother? And who else should have that honor?
George Boleyn, Lord Rochford now, with your uncles Thomas and William and Lord Hussey are going to carry the canopy which they will hold over me and the baby. Oh, it will be a grand occasion! I trust you are all behaving well during my absence?”

I thought of those nights in the Long Room, but then, they had been the same when she was there. I sometimes wondered if she had been half aware of it. She certainly would not have time to think of that now.

My uncle, the Duke of Norfolk, kept in his household what were called his pensioners. In the past, it had been the custom of great houses to do this. It was a custom which was dying out now, but my uncle still had a number in his service.

I suppose it was worthwhile for, in the event of trouble, these people—young, for the most part, for they were biding their time until they should marry or inherit titles and land—were pledged to serve their benefactor in any way he needed while they were pensioners under his roof. Most were of good birth, and several of them had some connection with the families with whom they lived.

At this time, there were a number of these young people in our household which, although I had always thought of it as my grandmother’s house, did, in fact, belong to the Duke. These young people were fed, housed and even granted some pay; they had little to do unless called upon, and then they must spring to immediate action. They spent their time riding, jousting and generally indulging in manly sports and pastimes.

I was sitting in the gardens with Dorothy Barwike and one of Dorothy’s friends called Joan, and was trying to make myself one of the silk flowers, of the kind which were very fashionable at this time. Living near the Court, we could see the elegantly dressed members of it now and then, either on the river or walking, and some even visiting the house when my grandmother was there. It was different to Horsham. That was how I knew of this fashion for silk flowers.

I was not good with my needle, and was showing my work to Joan and Dorothy as a young man strolled by. I had seen him before and I guessed that he was one of the Duke’s pensioners.

He had one of the most pleasant faces I had ever seen, though he was not striking like Manox with his dark curls and flashing eyes. This young man was, I guessed, in his mid-teens … eighteen perhaps, with soft brown hair about a gentle face which was by no means lacking in manliness. He was tall and slender, and had an unmistakable air of good breeding.

He paused, bowed to us, and said: “What a pleasant afternoon. You young ladies are very intent on your work.”

I laughed. “Work?” I said, and the others joined in my laughter. I liked him and did not want him to move away.

I went on: “My work, as you call it, is trying to make a silk flower.”

“And are you succeeding?” he asked.

I held up the piece of silk.

“If this bears some resemblance to a red rose … yes,” I said.

“It is red,” he said, and we all laughed again.

“I trust you did not object to my speaking to you.”

“We certainly did not,” replied Joan.

We were sitting on a bench, of which there were several dotted round the garden. He looked at it and went on: “If I might be seated … ?”

Joan waved her hand, and he sat down next to me.

“I have seen you young ladies before,” he said. “I know you have duties with Her Grace. I’ll swear her absence leaves you with time on your hands.”

Joan and Dorothy admitted that this was so.

“I am Francis Derham,” he told us, “in the train of the Duke of Norfolk.”

“We guessed that was so,” said Dorothy. “There are many of you here.”

“And you, Mistress?” he asked me.

“Katherine Howard, granddaughter of the Duchess. The Duke is my uncle.”

“Well met,” he said. “I am of the family… of some remote branch, naturally. But still, I am of Howard blood, which is why I
am here. I dare swear you and I are of the same kin.” He was studying me intently and smiling.

“Then well met,” I said.

We talked awhile, and then he told me that he had recently come from Ireland and should shortly be returning to that country.

“But I shall be back,” he added, “when I trust I shall once more be allowed to enjoy the Duke’s hospitality.” He smiled on us all, but I was sure the smile lingered on me. “And, mayhap I shall be privileged to meet you all again.”

“That,” I assured him, “will be a great pleasure.” I turned to the others. “Will it not?”

Both Dorothy and Joan agreed that it would.

When he had gone, we discussed him. We all agreed that he had great charm, and we said it was a pity he was going away as soon as we had met him.

I did see him before he went. I was in the garden, alone this time, when he came.

“Mistress Howard,” he said. “I had been hoping to see you. I know you come this way. I confess, I have watched you on one or two occasions. I wanted to say good-bye to you before I went away.”

“Mayhap we shall not meet again.”

“We shall,” he said. “I shall hope for that. There is something I wish to show you. Will you wait for me here until I bring it to you?”

“How long should I wait?” I asked.

“Five minutes. A little more perhaps, but not much. Rest assured I shall be with you as soon as it is possible.”

I stood under the shelter of the oak tree, waiting for him with anticipation. I liked him. How different he was from Henry Manox! I wondered how I could ever have thought I loved that musician.

When my new friend returned, he was carrying a small box tied up with red ribands.

“It is for you,” he said. “Open it when you are alone, and when you look at it, always say, ‘Francis Derham will return.’ Will you do that?”

I promised readily. And he was gone.

Excited, and very curious, I looked down at the box in my hands. I could not wait to open it. I untied the ribands and, nestling in the box, was a red silk rose.

Dangerous Games