He summoned Cranmer. “Go to the Queen,” he said. “Tell her that if she will acknowledge her transgression … even though her life might be forfeit to the law, I would extend to her my most gracious mercy.”

I understood his feelings. He had to know … though he did not want to.

Poor Catharine! I heard that when his message came to her she was almost out of her mind with fear. She was so terrified that the fate which her cousin had suffered would be hers. She was too distraught to speak; words would not come. Cranmer believed that if he questioned her she would go into a frenzy, so he said he would leave her with the King's gracious promise and when she had composed herself he would come back and hear her confession.

It was some time before she was ready to do that. Every time she was approached she was ready to fall into what they called a frenzy. They feared she was losing her senses. But in the end she was ready to talk.

She did admit that she had believed at one time that she was going to marry Francis Dereham. They had kissed many times.

She broke down and it was impossible to get any more information from her; when they attempted to, she became frenzied and was overcome with such terrible weeping that they feared she would do herself an injury.

Culpepper was the son of her uncle, and they had known each other since they were children; they had always been very friendly.

There were those who were ready to give evidence against her. They wanted to prove that she had been guilty of adultery. She had been reckless, indiscreet, there was no doubt of that.

A certain Katharine Tilney of her household told how she and another maid had wondered why the Queen sent strange, enigmatic messages to Lady Rochford and why sometimes they were dismissed before the Queen had retired. They reported secret whisperings with Lady Rochford and the fact that sometimes the Queen would not retire until two of the morning. Thomas Culpepper was seen in her apartments and Lady Rochford kept watch.

It was all very incriminating.

There was a hush over Sion House. Elizabeth, who was now nearly nine years old, was very concerned about what was happening. Could she be remembering how similar was the fate of this Queen to that of her mother? She had only been three years old when Anne Boleyn had been beheaded, but she had always been ahead of her years.

Edward was aware, too. He was always susceptible to Elizabeth's moods. There was a puzzled look on his face.

Elizabeth sought me out when I was alone and asked me what was happening to the Queen.

I said, “She is in the Tower.”

“What are they going to do to her?”

“I don't know.”

“Will they kill her as they did…?” I looked at her steadily. She blinked and went on, “As they did my mother?”

It was rarely that I heard her speak of her mother. What happened to Anne Boleyn was something she kept to herself and brooded on. Not even Margaret Bryan knew how she felt about her mother. Whether she remembered her and mourned her, I do not know. It was always difficult to tell with Elizabeth. Anne Boleyn was not a person who could be easily forgotten, and she was Elizabeth's mother.

“I like her,” she said.

“She is a sort of cousin to me.”

“Yes, I know.”

“She is very pretty.”

I nodded.

“My father loved her dearly.” She frowned.

“Why does he no longer do so? And what will happen to her now?”

I could only fall back on those often-repeated words: “We shall have to wait and see.”

Edward came in. “What are you talking about?” he asked.

“The Queen,” Elizabeth replied.

“Why don't we see her now? She is in disgrace, is she not?”

“She is in prison,” Elizabeth told him.

“In the Tower.”

“In the Tower. That is for wicked people.”

“The King puts his wives there when he doesn't like them any more,” said Elizabeth, and she turned away abruptly and ran from the room. I think she was going to cry and did not want us to see her do so.

I thought: She does remember her mother. Perhaps also she was crying for Catharine. Elizabeth was resolute and strong and she had already come to terms with an uncertain existence such as we all must who relied on the favor of the King.

THEY WERE BRINGING CATHARINE to Sion House, and we had orders to move. We were going to Havering-atte-Bower. I was sad. I should have liked to be near the Queen. So would Elizabeth. We might have comforted her a little.

How sordid this was! How dreary! Why did they pursue it? It was clear that Catharine had behaved freely with certain men. They were tortured, but Dereham would admit only that he had loved Catharine as his wife because he had once regarded her as such. Was that a sin, for there was no question then of her marrying the King? He was a brave man, this Dereham; they tortured him cruelly and tried to make him admit that there had been impropriety between him and the Queen since her marriage, but he would not do so.

Catharine had denied any sexual involvement at first but after a while she broke down and confessed to it.

I know my father was suffering in his way. There was no proof that she had committed adultery in the case of Culpepper. I daresay she had flirted a little with him. It was in her nature to flirt with men—particularly those who admired her—and most did.

I went on wondering whether the King's obsession with her would override his pride. I think it might have done—and if it did, men like Sir Thomas Wriothesley and perhaps Cranmer would find themselves out of favor.

They had seen what happened to Thomas Cromwell over Anne of Cleves. He had died, it would seem, more because he had provided the King with a bride he did not like than for the foreign policy he had pursued with the German princes and the charges which had been brought against him.

So there were powerful men who would find a reconciliation an embarrassment to themselves, and they made sure that the story of Catharine's misdemeanors was circulated abroad. François, King of France, forever mischievous, wrote his condolences to his brother of England. That was the deciding factor. My father could not take back a wife who had humiliated him, however much he wanted her.

I wished that I could have gone to her. Elizabeth did, too. The child was deeply upset. She had been fond of Jane Seymour; she was even closer to Anne of Cleves; and now Catharine Howard was to die.

She became very thoughtful. I guessed she was thinking of the precarious lives we all led.

How brave they were, those two men. Neither Dereham nor Culpepper would implicate Catharine; and surely what had happened before her marriage could not be construed as treason. But the verdict had already been decided. Norfolk turned against his kinswoman just as he had against Anne Boleyn. He had wanted to make the most of the advantages which came from their being in favor, but as soon as they lost that favor he became their most bitter enemy. I despised such men—just as I had Thomas Boleyn for meekly presiding at the baptism of Edward. Self-seekers, all. They had no feeling, no heart. They made me despair of human nature.

That December Dereham and Culpepper were condemned to death. The court judged them traitors. The sentence was to be carried out with that barbarous method of execution which had been seen too frequently in these last years.

How did they feel when they—surely for no crime which could have been proved against them—were condemned to die? How did the Queen feel…if she knew? Poor girl. They said she was in such a state that she was hardly aware of what was happening about her.

Culpepper was of noble birth, and therefore the horrendous sentence would be commuted to beheading. So he, poor man, was merely to lose his head for a crime he had not committed. It was different with Dereham, whose birth did not entitle him to such a privilege. He must suffer the dreadful fate of hanging, drawing and quartering.