angry in the slightest. It was impossible to be angry with Catherine.
These rooms, Catherine’s rooms, were well appointed. There was even a small tapestry on the wall opposite the window. I thought the dozen or so maids of honor crammed together, in quarters adjoining the queen’s. But it had been thirteen years since I served Queen Catherine of Aragon at the palace of Greenwich.
The younger girl in the room said, “Mistress Howard, I must attend to your hood.” She moved forward with pins in her hands.
Now, this was odd. Catherine had her own maid? But she was supposed to be the maid. I didn’t want to ask intimate questions of her in front of the other girl, though, who was busy tidying Catherine’s hair.
I told her why I’d come to Whitehall, a simpler and more benign version of the day’s harrowing events. She reacted with equanimity, as was her nature, and proceeded to share tidbits of family news. My cousin Elizabeth, the Duchess of Norfolk, was once again completely estranged from her husband and quarreling with all of her children as well. The young wife of the Earl of Surrey had given birth to a second child. And, Catherine said, her own father, Edmund Howard, the duke’s younger brother, had died not long ago.
“I’m so very sorry,” I said. “I shall pray for his soul.”
“Thank you, Joanna,” she said calmly, tilting her head so that her maid could finish the work on her hair. I couldn’t blame her for exhibiting little grief. Everyone at Howard House knew that her father was a debtor and a wastrel, and that after her mother died he did nothing to raise his many children, but foisted them on his relations. Such a man could suffer a long passage through Purgatory. Prayers were urgently needed, and not just mine. The Feast of the Ascensionwas less than a month away; I would try to persuade Father William Mote to say a mass of requiem for the deceased Edmund Howard on that day.
Catherine, her hair finally finished, said, “The Duke of Norfolk says I am to think of him as not an uncle but a father. That is why he had me moved to these apartments—I know you must be wondering why I don’t lodge with the other maids of honor. He arranged it all and secured me a maid and a manservant. He wants the best for me.”
I had had a great many shocks at Whitehall that day, and now this incredible statement took pride of place among them. The Duke of Norfolk had never shown much interest in Catherine and certainly nothing approaching paternal affection. She was the only Howard niece of the right age and appearance for royal service, and so he’d petitioned the king to place Catherine with his new queen. But Norfolk had often called her “fool” and “simpleton.” And now he considered her a daughter, had even moved her to private quarters at Whitehall? The Duke of Norfolk I’d seen in Westminster was as harsh a man as ever; I couldn’t believe she was talking about the same person.
“Sarah, will you fetch some wine and cakes for me and my friend?” Catherine said, smiling, to her little maid.
The minute the girl had left, I said, “Tell me, Catherine, about the queen.”
“The queen?” My friend looked puzzled.
“Is she kind to you?”
Catherine shrugged. “I suppose. I can’t understand much of what she says, she still uses an interpreter when speaking to anyone besides her German attendants. They surround her.”
“But do you enjoy serving Queen Anne?” I persisted. “I have been told she and the king see little of each other. How does she spend her days?”
My friend grabbed me by both arms and said, “Let’s speak no more of the queen. I must know what happened with Edmund.”
I never spoke of Edmund Sommerville. My friends in Dartfordknew of my wish and rarely brought up his name. Perhaps that is why Catherine’s bluntness left me stunned.
“It didn’t happen,” I stammered. “The wedding never took place—because of the Act of Six Articles, and our vows of
These rooms, Catherine’s rooms, were well appointed. There was even a small tapestry on the wall opposite the window. I thought the dozen or so maids of honor crammed together, in quarters adjoining the queen’s. But it had been thirteen years since I served Queen Catherine of Aragon at the palace of Greenwich.
The younger girl in the room said, “Mistress Howard, I must attend to your hood.” She moved forward with pins in her hands.
Now, this was odd. Catherine had her own maid? But she was supposed to be the maid. I didn’t want to ask intimate questions of her in front of the other girl, though, who was busy tidying Catherine’s hair.
I told her why I’d come to Whitehall, a simpler and more benign version of the day’s harrowing events. She reacted with equanimity, as was her nature, and proceeded to share tidbits of family news. My cousin Elizabeth, the Duchess of Norfolk, was once again completely estranged from her husband and quarreling with all of her children as well. The young wife of the Earl of Surrey had given birth to a second child. And, Catherine said, her own father, Edmund Howard, the duke’s younger brother, had died not long ago.
“I’m so very sorry,” I said. “I shall pray for his soul.”
“Thank you, Joanna,” she said calmly, tilting her head so that her maid could finish the work on her hair. I couldn’t blame her for exhibiting little grief. Everyone at Howard House knew that her father was a debtor and a wastrel, and that after her mother died he did nothing to raise his many children, but foisted them on his relations. Such a man could suffer a long passage through Purgatory. Prayers were urgently needed, and not just mine. The Feast of the Ascensionwas less than a month away; I would try to persuade Father William Mote to say a mass of requiem for the deceased Edmund Howard on that day.
Catherine, her hair finally finished, said, “The Duke of Norfolk says I am to think of him as not an uncle but a father. That is why he had me moved to these apartments—I know you must be wondering why I don’t lodge with the other maids of honor. He arranged it all and secured me a maid and a manservant. He wants the best for me.”
I had had a great many shocks at Whitehall that day, and now this incredible statement took pride of place among them. The Duke of Norfolk had never shown much interest in Catherine and certainly nothing approaching paternal affection. She was the only Howard niece of the right age and appearance for royal service, and so he’d petitioned the king to place Catherine with his new queen. But Norfolk had often called her “fool” and “simpleton.” And now he considered her a daughter, had even moved her to private quarters at Whitehall? The Duke of Norfolk I’d seen in Westminster was as harsh a man as ever; I couldn’t believe she was talking about the same person.
“Sarah, will you fetch some wine and cakes for me and my friend?” Catherine said, smiling, to her little maid.
The minute the girl had left, I said, “Tell me, Catherine, about the queen.”
“The queen?” My friend looked puzzled.
“Is she kind to you?”
Catherine shrugged. “I suppose. I can’t understand much of what she says, she still uses an interpreter when speaking to anyone besides her German attendants. They surround her.”
“But do you enjoy serving Queen Anne?” I persisted. “I have been told she and the king see little of each other. How does she spend her days?”
My friend grabbed me by both arms and said, “Let’s speak no more of the queen. I must know what happened with Edmund.”
I never spoke of Edmund Sommerville. My friends in Dartfordknew of my wish and rarely brought up his name. Perhaps that is why Catherine’s bluntness left me stunned.
“It didn’t happen,” I stammered. “The wedding never took place—because of the Act of Six Articles, and our vows of
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