The Confession of Katherine Howard. Suzannah Dunn

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      ‘Francis is in for questioning about tax,’ she said, cheerfully. ‘Did you know?’

      My heart contracted. Something else, something more? Was someone, for some reason, out to get him?

      ‘They sent a man to tell me,’ and it was this, apparently, that had amused her, the formality of it. She quoted the officious man: ‘“He will be unavailable for duties, today.’” I understood it differently, though, this despatching of a messenger. This was nothing to do with tax. Wriothesley had Francis for a second day and had gone to the trouble, this time, of putting Kate off the scent. A second day of it? How many ways were there to ask the same question?

      ‘What’s he been up to, then?’ she was asking, affectionate. As if she cared. ‘I hope they don’t drag me into it, because he did give me that money, once, to look after.’

      What money?

      ‘When he went off to Ireland, that time.’ She smirked. ‘I’m queen, see: good strongboxes.’

      Yes: as queen, she’d have been the safest option. I’d said it before I could stop myself: ‘You should be careful, Kate.’

      She tipped her head to one side, teasing. ‘About what?’

      I glanced around, first. ‘About -’ I didn’t even like saying his name - ‘Thomas.’ ‘Thomas Culpeper’ would’ve sounded ridiculously formal, but I’d hated having to say the familiar ‘Thomas’. He wasn’t ‘Thomas’ to me.

      ‘Thomas?’ A whispered, incredulous laugh. ‘But I am. You know I am.’ In the same tone, ‘What’s brought this on?’

      A pinch of panic, because, of course, I’d promised not to say. ‘I don’t know, just -’

      Francis was mine, Thomas Culpeper was hers: that’s how, I hoped, she’d account for it.

      And presumably she did, because she didn’t pursue it. ‘Of course I’m careful.’ She dipped her head, quizzical, to bring my gaze back up to hers. ‘There’s only you who know.’

      I was about to correct her but she said it for me, dismissively, as a kind of chant: ‘Oh, and Francis, and Jane Rochford,’ I know, I know. ‘And -’ laughing again in that whispered way as she swept back across the gallery to the door - ‘it’s not as if any of you are going to tell, are you.’

      All morning I waited with mounting disbelief for Francis to appear, sometimes thinking he might’ve been released but gone elsewhere: to chapel, or to his room. Several times I came close to confiding in Maggie - sweet Maggie, who’d have been so concerned for me, I knew, and would’ve tried her very best to reassure me - but I couldn’t 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.

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