chastity. Surrey rode down from London, he came to the church just when we were . . . ” I couldn’t finish the sentence.
Once again, Catherine embraced me. “Surrey finally told me what happened. I’m so sorry, Joanna. But now what will you do? Couldn’t you find Edmund?”
I stiffened. “Why would I want to find him?”
“To marry him. The two of you are meant to be married.”
“But I just told you, it would be illegal for us to marry. And I don’t know where he is, no one does. Not even his sister has had a letter for months. He left England, Catherine. He left his family, his friends, everyone. He left me .”
My throat closed. Tears filled my eyes. I couldn’t believe it—I’d fought off an attack, bluffed my way through Westminster Hall, lied to the king of England, and stood my ground against Thomas Cromwell. Yet this exchange with Catherine Howard reduced me to weeping?
“Joanna, please listen,” she said, her lips quivering. “I was there when Edmund came to Howard House. I saw the way he looked at you. He loves you. And you could be married in Europe. Or even here. It would be of no difficulty for you, Joanna, I asked a priest. Only the vows of a full-fledged nun would forbid it, and you were only a novice.”
I flinched. Catherine could not know how much it hurt, every day, that Dartford Priory was suppressed before I could commit myself to God. I was never able to shear my hair, put on a ring, assume a new name. I never took the veil. Afterward, when I finally accepted that I could not pursue my vocation in England and resolved to marry, that ended in failure as well.
Catherine continued, “It would be more of a matter of dispute for Edmund, but exceptions are made. You must try. I know you—the proudest woman on God’s earth. I fear that you are so wounded, you won’t—”
“Stop,” I cried. “Catherine, you don’t understand.”
A sharp rapping ended this painful conversation. I wiped the tears from my cheeks while Catherine saw to the door.
Culpepper had returned—no surprise to that. But he wasn’t alone. A stout woman stood behind him, her arms heaped with dresses.
“Mistress Joanna Stafford, I come from the king,” he said, with all formality. “He has ordered that these garments be made ready for you. Tomorrow, he shall dine with Queen Anne, and it is the king’s pleasure that you join them.”
8
C atherine Howard always slept with a window open. We were so different in temperament, in interests, but that was a preference we had shared at Howard House, even in the icy cold.
This was a cloudless night, and so the moon’s bath of light swam through the bedchamber. I was too troubled by the day’s events—and too apprehensive about what lay ahead—to find rest. But she slept soundly, one of her arms thrown over her head. She was a different person when she slept. Some cynical, calculating adults look like innocent children when their eyes are closed, but Catherine was more childlike when awake. Now that pleasing vitality she had, which sparkled her eyes and dimpled her cheeks, was absent. In the moonlight, in profile, she was older, serious, even a touch sad. And, most of all, with her long straight nose, she was a Howard.
Our friendship was formed almost two years ago, when we were thrown together in the Howards’ establishment. I was kept in Howard House in Southwark, against my will, by the Duke of Norfolk, who had decided that since his wife was a Stafford, he could decide my life and put an end to my independence. Catherine was sent to Southwark from her stepgrandmother’s house in Horsham to learn how to serve a queen. Two penniless daughters of unimportant younger sons of large families. A silent sympathy quivered between us. Who else could better understand what it was like to be viewed with barely concealed irritation by the heads of our respective families? The sighs of impatience when we outgrew our clothes, required an apothecary, held an empty
Once again, Catherine embraced me. “Surrey finally told me what happened. I’m so sorry, Joanna. But now what will you do? Couldn’t you find Edmund?”
I stiffened. “Why would I want to find him?”
“To marry him. The two of you are meant to be married.”
“But I just told you, it would be illegal for us to marry. And I don’t know where he is, no one does. Not even his sister has had a letter for months. He left England, Catherine. He left his family, his friends, everyone. He left me .”
My throat closed. Tears filled my eyes. I couldn’t believe it—I’d fought off an attack, bluffed my way through Westminster Hall, lied to the king of England, and stood my ground against Thomas Cromwell. Yet this exchange with Catherine Howard reduced me to weeping?
“Joanna, please listen,” she said, her lips quivering. “I was there when Edmund came to Howard House. I saw the way he looked at you. He loves you. And you could be married in Europe. Or even here. It would be of no difficulty for you, Joanna, I asked a priest. Only the vows of a full-fledged nun would forbid it, and you were only a novice.”
I flinched. Catherine could not know how much it hurt, every day, that Dartford Priory was suppressed before I could commit myself to God. I was never able to shear my hair, put on a ring, assume a new name. I never took the veil. Afterward, when I finally accepted that I could not pursue my vocation in England and resolved to marry, that ended in failure as well.
Catherine continued, “It would be more of a matter of dispute for Edmund, but exceptions are made. You must try. I know you—the proudest woman on God’s earth. I fear that you are so wounded, you won’t—”
“Stop,” I cried. “Catherine, you don’t understand.”
A sharp rapping ended this painful conversation. I wiped the tears from my cheeks while Catherine saw to the door.
Culpepper had returned—no surprise to that. But he wasn’t alone. A stout woman stood behind him, her arms heaped with dresses.
“Mistress Joanna Stafford, I come from the king,” he said, with all formality. “He has ordered that these garments be made ready for you. Tomorrow, he shall dine with Queen Anne, and it is the king’s pleasure that you join them.”
8
C atherine Howard always slept with a window open. We were so different in temperament, in interests, but that was a preference we had shared at Howard House, even in the icy cold.
This was a cloudless night, and so the moon’s bath of light swam through the bedchamber. I was too troubled by the day’s events—and too apprehensive about what lay ahead—to find rest. But she slept soundly, one of her arms thrown over her head. She was a different person when she slept. Some cynical, calculating adults look like innocent children when their eyes are closed, but Catherine was more childlike when awake. Now that pleasing vitality she had, which sparkled her eyes and dimpled her cheeks, was absent. In the moonlight, in profile, she was older, serious, even a touch sad. And, most of all, with her long straight nose, she was a Howard.
Our friendship was formed almost two years ago, when we were thrown together in the Howards’ establishment. I was kept in Howard House in Southwark, against my will, by the Duke of Norfolk, who had decided that since his wife was a Stafford, he could decide my life and put an end to my independence. Catherine was sent to Southwark from her stepgrandmother’s house in Horsham to learn how to serve a queen. Two penniless daughters of unimportant younger sons of large families. A silent sympathy quivered between us. Who else could better understand what it was like to be viewed with barely concealed irritation by the heads of our respective families? The sighs of impatience when we outgrew our clothes, required an apothecary, held an empty
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