about you would surprise me, Mistress Stafford.”
Don’t be so sure of that , I thought.
Aloud, I said, “I am friends with one of the queen’s maids of honor, and if she is not too occupied serving Her Majesty, I think she would be willing to take me in for a short time.”
“Excellent,” cried Thomas Culpepper. “I should be able to come up with some plausible reason for prying her loose to keep you company. Which maid is it?”
“Mistress Catherine Howard.”
I had seen Culpepper exhibit many moods—amused and angry, sincere and skeptical—but I had never yet witnessed the dismay that was his reaction to hearing the name of my young friend.
“What is the matter?” I asked.
Instead of answering my question, he had one of his own: “When did you last see Mistress Howard?” he asked.
“At the end of December, but very briefly,” I said, taken aback. “We were together at Howard House for a number of months earlier, in 1538. But why do you ask?” A frightening thought occurred. “Is Catherine not well?”
“She is well.”
Culpepper had definitely turned melancholic. He turned from me, as if he needed to wrestle with a great dilemma unobserved. Two young men brushed by, greeting Culpepper, but he waved them off. I simply could not imagine what caused him such consternation.
“I shall take you to Mistress Catherine Howard,” he said finally. “Perhaps it will do some good.”
What good? I asked Culpepper not once but twice as we hurried through the palace. He refused to explain. Instead he peppered me with questions about the page. How tall? What color hair and eyes? What shape of beard? What manner of speech?
I answered his inquiries as best I could, forcing myself to remember every physical detail. The trouble was, the page wasn’t distinctive-looking. He would blend into any crowd.
Culpepper led me to a quiet corridor situated on the main floor, facing the Thames. It didn’t seem likely, but Queen Anne’s rooms must be nearby. I remembered the design of Queen Catherine of Aragon’s rooms at Greenwich: a large receiving chamber led to a smaller, more private room, and then, even more inaccessible, was the bedchamber. Did Henry VIII’s fourth queen keep a household humbler than his first?
I bumped into Thomas Culpepper, for he had come to a halt outside a wooden door. A lanky young man of about sixteen sat on a stool next to the door, his ankles crossed. He looked up at us quizzically.
“These are the queen’s apartments?” I wondered.
“No,” said Culpepper. “This is Catherine Howard’s chamber.”
“But why is she not lodged with the other maids and ladies of the queen?”
Thomas Culpepper pointed at the young man, who was listening to us closely. I realized he wore a doublet with Howard insignia. “His name is Richard. He will announce you. I cannot stay.”
Before I could respond, Culpepper had hurried back the way we’d come.
Richard rose to his feet, asked my name, and then rapped on the door. It opened a crack, a young face of a girl peeped out—not Catherine—and I was announced.
“Joanna!”
The door flew all the way open and there she was. Catherine Howard embraced me, all perfumed hair and fine white teeth and velvet-clad arms as she cried my name over and over with delight.
“You look wonderful, Catherine,” I said. “More lovely than ever.”
And she did. Catherine had grown plumper since I last saw her, but it suited her. The girl’s pink-and-white skin glowed. Her green-flecked eyes were set off by her plush green gown. Our embrace had been so close, it knocked off her French hood, and her auburn curlsspilled down her shoulders, which sloped like a child’s, even though she was near eighteen years old.
She held me at arm’s length and said, “I’ve missed you, but oh, Joanna, your kirtle. So filthy . What a fright. Will you never learn to care about your clothes?”
“You always cared enough for the both of us,” I retorted, but not
Don’t be so sure of that , I thought.
Aloud, I said, “I am friends with one of the queen’s maids of honor, and if she is not too occupied serving Her Majesty, I think she would be willing to take me in for a short time.”
“Excellent,” cried Thomas Culpepper. “I should be able to come up with some plausible reason for prying her loose to keep you company. Which maid is it?”
“Mistress Catherine Howard.”
I had seen Culpepper exhibit many moods—amused and angry, sincere and skeptical—but I had never yet witnessed the dismay that was his reaction to hearing the name of my young friend.
“What is the matter?” I asked.
Instead of answering my question, he had one of his own: “When did you last see Mistress Howard?” he asked.
“At the end of December, but very briefly,” I said, taken aback. “We were together at Howard House for a number of months earlier, in 1538. But why do you ask?” A frightening thought occurred. “Is Catherine not well?”
“She is well.”
Culpepper had definitely turned melancholic. He turned from me, as if he needed to wrestle with a great dilemma unobserved. Two young men brushed by, greeting Culpepper, but he waved them off. I simply could not imagine what caused him such consternation.
“I shall take you to Mistress Catherine Howard,” he said finally. “Perhaps it will do some good.”
What good? I asked Culpepper not once but twice as we hurried through the palace. He refused to explain. Instead he peppered me with questions about the page. How tall? What color hair and eyes? What shape of beard? What manner of speech?
I answered his inquiries as best I could, forcing myself to remember every physical detail. The trouble was, the page wasn’t distinctive-looking. He would blend into any crowd.
Culpepper led me to a quiet corridor situated on the main floor, facing the Thames. It didn’t seem likely, but Queen Anne’s rooms must be nearby. I remembered the design of Queen Catherine of Aragon’s rooms at Greenwich: a large receiving chamber led to a smaller, more private room, and then, even more inaccessible, was the bedchamber. Did Henry VIII’s fourth queen keep a household humbler than his first?
I bumped into Thomas Culpepper, for he had come to a halt outside a wooden door. A lanky young man of about sixteen sat on a stool next to the door, his ankles crossed. He looked up at us quizzically.
“These are the queen’s apartments?” I wondered.
“No,” said Culpepper. “This is Catherine Howard’s chamber.”
“But why is she not lodged with the other maids and ladies of the queen?”
Thomas Culpepper pointed at the young man, who was listening to us closely. I realized he wore a doublet with Howard insignia. “His name is Richard. He will announce you. I cannot stay.”
Before I could respond, Culpepper had hurried back the way we’d come.
Richard rose to his feet, asked my name, and then rapped on the door. It opened a crack, a young face of a girl peeped out—not Catherine—and I was announced.
“Joanna!”
The door flew all the way open and there she was. Catherine Howard embraced me, all perfumed hair and fine white teeth and velvet-clad arms as she cried my name over and over with delight.
“You look wonderful, Catherine,” I said. “More lovely than ever.”
And she did. Catherine had grown plumper since I last saw her, but it suited her. The girl’s pink-and-white skin glowed. Her green-flecked eyes were set off by her plush green gown. Our embrace had been so close, it knocked off her French hood, and her auburn curlsspilled down her shoulders, which sloped like a child’s, even though she was near eighteen years old.
She held me at arm’s length and said, “I’ve missed you, but oh, Joanna, your kirtle. So filthy . What a fright. Will you never learn to care about your clothes?”
“You always cared enough for the both of us,” I retorted, but not
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