The Confession of Katherine Howard. Suzannah Dunn
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face explaining everything. Kate didn’t mention Francis again. She decided to hold a tennis tournament on the covered courts. While the king was away, she’d keep his gentlemen busy. Summoning Oliver Kelly, keeper of the courts, she made him cancel all prior bookings. Francis was on his list: ‘Your Mr Dereham,’ as Mr Kelly referred to him, scanning the page.
So, I spent most of that long afternoon sitting on a hard bench between equally bored Maggie and Alice with rain puffing through the wire-netted window at my back while, in front of me, various gentlemen exerted themselves on opposing sides of a taut, fringed rope. Despite the pretence of playfulness, they took themselves seriously: red-faced and clamp-jawed as they wielded their leather racquets and disputed points. Thomas Culpeper was down to his cambric shirt in no time. Kate cheered him on whenever he played; and whenever he scored a point, she blew him a kiss. She was enjoying scandalising the more staid of her ladies but I was in no mood for such games.
As soon as I could, I went directly to Francis’s room - but there was no sign of him. Then, just as I’d done two days before, I went in search of Rob, his room-mate, when I was fairly sure where he’d be: dining in the Great Hall. He told me that the last he’d seen of Francis was when they’d left their room together in the morning, and he’d assumed Francis was on his way to the queen’s rooms. (‘Didn’t he —? Is something up?’) I returned to their room and used some of their firewood ration, hoping they wouldn’t mind, and sat there, then lay there on the bed that he and Rob had to share.
Francis turned up sometime after the strike of six. I’d expected him to be pleased or at least relieved to see me, but he didn’t even look at me - bar one stinging glance - and turned his back to tend the fire, which needed no tending. I held my breath and steadied myself; there was nothing else I could do. This was new to me, this contempt from him, and I was going to have to feel my way. He was obviously exhausted: whey-faced, and his eyes red-tinged. I supposed he was dreading any further questioning. I had to question him, though, if I were to be able to help; I had to know what had happened.
He, though, was the first to speak: ‘It was Mary.’ He was hunkered down on the little hearth, poking his fire-iron into the incandescence. I’d got to my feet and was standing awkwardly behind him, above him, longing to put my fingers into his hair, to soothe him, to crouch down and cover him with myself.
‘Mary?’
‘Wriothesley’s information comes from Mary.’ Still he didn’t look around; still jabbing into the fire.
Which Mary? I knew countless Marys.
‘From the duchess’s,’ he said.
Mary Lassells. My old room-mate Mary. But she’d been gone for years. Gone back home and probably into some marriage, pity her poor husband. And anyway, no one ever listened to Mary: that was who Mary was, the girl to whom no one ever listened. True, she’d be quite likely to want to cause trouble for Kate, and certainly she’d know enough to be able to do so, but how on earth would she - silly Mary Lassells — ever get her information to Wriothesley?
‘Her brother,’ Francis said, answering my unasked question. He turned around but made no other move towards me; on the contrary, he sat back on the hearth and hugged his knees. My hovering over him felt even more conspicuous and, reluctantly, I returned to the edge of the bed. ‘Mary Lassells?’ I said, pointlessly. ‘Her brother?’
He said nothing; I’d got it right. I didn’t remember any brother of Mary’s, but why would I? I’d lived alongside Mary for years, but only alongside: she’d been nothing, really, to me; I hadn’t ever known her and if she’d mentioned a brother, I wouldn’t have been listening.
‘He’s come to Wriothesley with these stories of what Kate was up to.’
‘But why?’ The risk he’d taken was unthinkable: allegations about the adored queen.
He shrugged.
Mary’s revenge, at last, and she’d found someone who’d listen to her, if only via someone else. Whatever his reasons, this brother of hers had gambled on finding an ear for his allegations. And, worryingly, he had.
‘Wriothesley told you, though.’ He hadn’t had to tell Francis of the source. Was it a good sign, then, that he had? Wouldn’t he have been in a stronger position if he hadn’t - if he’d stuck with that mysterious, We have information. But, then, perhaps he had no need for any added strength.
‘Oh, we’re pretty frank with each other,’ Francis said. ‘We’ve no secrets from each other.’ This was in a bitter tone - the like of which I’d never heard from him and of which I’d never have guessed he was capable. He stared at me as if with a challenge.
I guarded against rising to it. ‘What did he want to know about, today?’
‘When it stopped.’
I didn’t like that, either: the bluntness of it. But, anyway, the fact was that it - their romance, or however else Francis liked to think of it - had stopped when she’d lost interest and moved on.
‘And why she gave me the job here.’
‘But she gave us all jobs here.’ Her family - sister and stepmother, aunt and cousin - and her old friends: me, Maggie and Alice.
He splayed his hands - exactly - but there was defeat in the gesture.
‘What?’ - it dawned on me - ‘he thinks it was…’ but I didn’t know how to put it, ‘… more than that?’
Francis said nothing.
‘But that’s ridiculous,’ I protested. ‘And in fact she gave you your job because of me, so I could have you here with me —’
He frowned and I saw that he’d never thought of it that way.
‘— and I’m going to go and tell him.’
He snapped, ‘Don’t go anywhere near him.’
‘But if I -’
‘Remember what he said: no one else should know, or it’ll get nasty. It’s not just me who’s in trouble, here, it’s Kate, too, and I won’t do anything to endanger her, do you understand that?’
Oh, perfectly. He’d made himself quite clear. I doubted his loyalty would be reciprocated if the situation were reversed, but he’d never been able to see that. Anyway, would I go to Wriothesley? He should be coming to me. But he wouldn’t even know of my existence. I was no one.
Francis asked, ‘Who’s Manox?’
The name shot through me. ‘Henry Manox?’
He shrugged. ‘Manox’ was evidently all he knew.
Wriothesley knows about Henry Manox. But of course he did, because Mary knew about Henry Manox.
Francis said, ‘He’s brought him in for questioning, that’s what he said. Manox. Who is he?’
Why would Wriothesley be interested in Manox? Did he think Kate might’ve been pre-contracted to him, as well? ‘He was our music teacher. At the duchess’s. Before you came.’ To my shame, I couldn’t quite resist making it clearer: ‘He was before you.’ Did you really think you were the first?
Poor Manox - it hadn’t ended all that well for him at the time, and now this, years later. But what was Wriothesley looking for? Why on earth would it matter, a long-ago dalliance with Henry Manox? I dreaded to think that Wriothesley’s enquiries might not be solely about precontract but Kate’s conduct in general.
Then Francis was asking me to stay, his rancour gone all of a sudden as if it had never been, replaced by a heartbreaking hopefulness. Rob wouldn’t mind, he said: he’d go over to one of his friends when he found us here together. My instinct, though, was to rush to warn Kate. Questions were being asked of more than one man, now, and there had to be a way - if only I could think of it - to warn her while protecting Francis from any more trouble. I needed time to think, though. What else