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Confessions in the Tower; LC
Topic Started: Dec 27 2010, 12:44 PM (187 Views)
Thomas Howard
Unregistered

January 9, 1512


Elizabeth Grey. Katherine Parr. Her sister Anne... Catherine Dudley.

Norfolk went over the short list again. His eyes rested on the name of the Countess of Warwick. A countess because of his help. Without the Duke, she could have been married to some drunk, old fool, or an aspiring knight all over her lands and wealth, not her personally. John Dudley was made for her, he was smitten with her, bound to treat her right. And she dared to forget who made it all happen…

This was not the matter. The case was of heresy, and this was what Norfolk would pursue. He picked up a bundle of black cloth, pressed it to his chest and left his rooms. The trip to the Tower was unfortunately a long one. The fortress was placed in a place you could only get to by the river. Using a barge was necessary, and slow and uncomfortable. The chill of the winter crept under the Duke’s fur and he had nowhere to move to. He hated sitting in one place, like a rabbit surrounded by dogs. But he was the hunter, not the hunted. He was coming with a visit, not to stay. The walls of the dungeon were dark and foreboding, old and hard. Nobody escaped from the Tower. It wasn’t just the prison, but the symbol of ultimate despair for those committed in.

A Yeoman stepped onto the short jetty and stuck his hand out into the air for the Duke to pick up when he was descending. Norfolk did in fact use it, but gave no acknowledgment to the man and his servile words. He rushed to the gate, and only then spoke. ”I am going to see the Countess.” He did not have to say more. Catherine Dudley was the only of this title currently in the Tower. Ladies of position were indeed rare guests in England’s scariest prison. Male peers were more common. Even so, only the Earl of Essex was staying in now, the fruit of Gardiner’s overachieving strivings. The Yeoman knocked on the wood harshly and the gate was opened for the Duke. He almost barged into the bailey, tall but not very graceful, annoyed and willing to find self inside the walls where the small but penetrating breeze couldn’t touch him most quickly. His hand, bound in black leather, was still clutching to the bundle at his chest, his instrument of terror.

”Fetch me ink, quill and paper. I’ll be in the countess cell,” he said briskly, climbing a set of wooden stairs leading into the walls. A cell, he thought, more like an apartment. He knew the lodgings in the Tower. Nobility was given spacious and furnished, though drafty rooms. Norfolk spent many hours inside one of such rooms, not as prisoner, but the visitor of his father’s. The second duke was arraigned for treason and imprisoned against the truth, his head was taken by the axe and the dukedom as well as lands forfeited to the crown. Thomas had retained his title of Earl of Surrey thanks to a begging, sniveling woman, his first wife. It was the most humiliating time in his life and he swore he would never allow this to happen again. He would not be reduced to nothing, a woman would never more have to save him from disgrace. So far, his promise was intact. He regained the dukedom his father had lost, he was the most powerful peer and almost the most powerful courtier, except the Cardinal. Wolsey remained one thorn in his side, a painful one, constant remainder that he had not yet filled a different promise: to see the red dog hanged for his treasons and lies. Wolsey didn’t even deserve an axe, he should not die in such honourable way, the way of Thomas’s father.

Several storeys later, the Duke approached the door of Catherine Dudley’s cell, guided by a guard. The same man retrieved a circle of heavy iron keys, shuffled them, and finally inserted the right one into the lock. The door gave way with a heavy creak of the hinges. ”The Duke of Norfolk!” the guard announced loudly for the occupier’s sake. Well, this is it, Thomas thought and bent his head in need to avoid the low set frame. The Tower was an ancient place, certainly not projected for men of his height. He had nothing to complain about, at least he could walk straight under the ceilings. He’d met men who would require to stoop a lot more often.

His fingers held fast over the edge of the hard surface under black cloth, as if for confidence. He was holding a weapon for the intellectual wrangle he was about to go through with the Countess of Warwick. He saw her in the room, a good one, considering how the Tower was. She was, as always, wearing a splendid gown, yet something about her appearance was wrong. She was certainly unhappy about her current place. Loneliness? Cold? Fear? She had reasons to be bothered indeed. And the Duke of Norfolk had not come to diminish her worries. Quite to the contrary. ”My Lady Countess,” he looked back to the door being shut after them, then returned his gaze to her face. ”You do not have to stand on my behalf.” He made a couple of steps and landed close to the sturdy table with two chairs.
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Catherine Willoughby
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vérité sans peur
How many times the door had opened and closed as she sat there? Not many. Catherine did not know, yet every time it happened, she was on alert. The fine hairs on her arms, the back of her neck, rose; alarm seeped through her body; then when it was simply a servant bringing a meal, or one of her fellow heretics (ha!) come to visit, she would relax. But in those harrowing few moments when she could not see who it was, her mind went quite blank with terror. She spent her days with Katherine, Anne, and Elizabeth, or perhaps one or two of them, the women speaking amongst themselves not of what got them in the Tower but of other things, inconsequential things. Catherine did not exactly worry for her safety, though the anxiety was eating at her heart, praying all would eventually be well not only for herself (and the child she carried), but for those dear to her who were in the same predicament as she. When she was not with them, she would sit and read, or pace the room, maybe spend some time sitting and thinking or kneeling at the prie dieu in the corner like the believing Catholic she still was, praying.

Rising from her knees, the familiar ache not at all soothing though having her eyes closed, face tipped up to the image of Christ had been as her thoughts spoke to God, Catherine had moved to the chair. A little table had been set, with some reading material she was allowed to keep her occupied. It reminded her, slightly, of her childhood. How she would spend her time nearly alone, praying and reading through most of it if she was not outside running about the grounds of Grimsthorpe Castle or chatting with her maids as if they were her best friends. She was completely comfortable with her own company; she just was not used to it, after nearly two years at court where she rarely had a moment to herself. Being in the Tower, she thought, was terrifying--but slightly liberating, in that she could be by herself and think, pray, or daydream as she wished. She sat and picked up a book, flipping through the pages yet not reading the words, the sense of calmness from prayer permeating her being and thoughts. She could only still pray to Him she would be delivered. It was then the door opened and the form of Thomas Howard came into her room.

Oh, so she did not have to rise. Then she would not. She remained where she was, hands folded primly in her lap, the only evidence of her anxiety in the way she wrung her fingers together, in the slight trembling of her neck as she held her head high as if she were impervious to everything. Barely perceptible things, surely visible to a man such as Norfolk, betrayed her cool exterior she worked so hard to maintain: the quick rise and fall of her chest as she breathed, the way she held herself so artificially, the way her hands moved, fingers twisting at rings. She had learned her lessons well of keeping her thoughts private, showing little sign of the fear that coursed through her veins. Catherine, though dark, wary eyes, watched Thomas Howard cross the room, moving towards a desk that had been set up earlier in the day with chairs. She knew well enough what this was about.

When she spoke, she had hoped her voice would be strong, without reserve or remorse. Instead, she found that perhaps someone had taken a sword to her throat, for her words came out in a small voice, showing that inside, she was truly afraid. "Only you, Your Grace? Not the Archdeacon?" Catherine wanted to gather herself, her dignity having fallen somewhere near her feet whilst her voice came out shaking. "What a grand favor to me." She paused. "One of many you have shown me," she had to admit, almost thoughtfully, though there was a hint of spite there in the way she spoke. She was being flattering, anyone who heard it would know, though it was true: he had been almost as a father to her for a time, perhaps a kindly uncle, who watched over her, taught her the things she needed to know that her mother had never shared with her; married her to a man who took care of her, who she learned to love; a number of things she was indebted to him for.

All he had done for her was why she was not so angry with Thomas Howard, though God knew she wished to be furious. She had not the strength for bringing out her temper towards this man, though his asking her weeks earlier if she would spy on the Queen, and her rejection, surely soured their previously cordial--if not warm--relationship. Had her heresy destroyed it? Catherine could not help but wonder and worry. Funny, worrying about ruining connections when she ought to be worrying for her life: but there was something in that Norfolk was the one here, and not Gardiner. A favor. A glint of hope.
[align=center]"I must shape my own coat according to my cloth, but it will not be after the fashion of this world but fit for me."

Catherine is in 2 threads.
[/align]
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Thomas Howard
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”May I?” Norfolk ask courteously and slid the empty chair back before receiving an answer. The legs of the chair scratched the floor on purpose, it was an unpleasant sound, but in the Duke of Norfolk there was no malice, no scorn. He sat down with the usual poise and laid his bundle down on the table, a gloved hand still pawing its top. He was businesslike but not abrupt in manner. Catherine’s reactions, the misery of her voice, the flutter of her chest and restlessness of hands, all that was to his enjoyment, the evidence of her fear. She should be afraid, only a fool would not be in her situation.

A favour? He wasn’t sure if she was mocking him or not. Norfolk was not convinced about anything concerning Catherine Dudley. She had him fooled once, a perfect Catholic, perfect lady. Ever since her violent refusal to spy on the Queen for him, Thomas knew exactly what she was. A selfish, sarcastic user. She had played the lady for him when she needed his help with the barony and to find a husband. But now that he provided all the services she so desperately needed, she turned his back on him, unwilling to repay his kindness. She thought of him as a tool that’s gone blunt. But Norfolk was anything but blunt, she would learn that the hard way. Not through the stake, it wasn’t the Duke’s wish to have the Countess dead, but through the countless hours of fear and discomfort in the dark, dank and cold confinements of the Tower. She was almost treated like a guest in here, thanks to his orders, but nevertheless an imprisoned guest. Her doors had been locked and guarded night and day. And she knew that she was guilty enough to feel the lick of fire.

”The Archdeacon and I have agreed that we should not make joint appearances except in special circumstances,” he explained calmly. He did not want Gardiner interfering with his work. Most of all, the shouting and threats were repugnant, he thought. The Archdeacon, as much as he was of use to Thomas Howard, did not meet the Duke’s requirement when it came to these interrogations. Norfolk needed a time for himself, an occasion to emanate his own special treatment on all the arrested. In case of Catherine, it was politeness met with decisiveness. He would not demand of her to sign anything, although he asked for paper and ink, merely to hold the appearances. He wanted her scared, and for that the Duke did not have to yell. He rarely did anyway. Instead he had his black bundle with him, something that should do the trick most handsomely.

”I am going to show you another grace, my lady” slowly he unfolded the material. Inside was a leather bound book, a small one, but very important nonetheless. Its contents were vile, putrid, heretical to the most. It was a work by one Simon Fish, a man who strayed from path of God and Church, and yet he dared to address the text to his most exalted majesty the king. This was boisterous and out of place, yet so it was and Catherine happened to possess a copy. The very copy he now raised in his lap and opened. Insidewas a folded letter, a dedication from George Boleyn, his very nephew. It filled him with a malicious kind of joy, for he would rejoice in the sight of George dragged away into the Tower. In fact, it had been all arranged before his arrival. He pitied not being present for George’s moment of disgrace as he was taken by the Yeomen of the Guard, but seeing Catherine’s face as he told her of it ought to pay kindly too. ”I am intent to provide you with another friend to keep you company, I think.”

Norfolk paused there. Did Catherine recognize the book in his hand? He hoped that she did, and that she was already petrified at the premonition of what he was going to say next. ”This has been found in your room, Lady Dudley. A Supplication For The Beggars,” he read. ”Do you remember its contents?” He put he book down, removed the letter and unfolded the thin parchment. He purposefully took his time, even when the sheet was open he skimmed the letters as if he’d seen it for the first time. Finally, when he thought Catherine’s nerve was so strung she seemed ready to snap, he started to read excerpts. ”I know you are always in search of a good book… Be cautious of it's contents, for few may find it as stimulating as I do. Share it with those who lean towards our way of thinking… Sincerely, Sir George Boleyn.” He put the letter down quickly and stared the Countess in the eye. ”Your way of thinking? Would you care to elaborate on that, my lady? Why did my nephew send you this? Even more curious, why would he think you’d approve of such… gift?”
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Catherine Willoughby
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vérité sans peur
If His Grace wanted Catherine, a Countess thanks to his interference in her life, scared, oh, he had done it and done it quite well, but surely he knew this. Despite all her posturing and attempts at hiding it, she knew she would be a fool not to be afraid of the proceedings ahead of her: questioning, perhaps until her head turned round and round not knowing which way was up, but at least it was cold, collected Norfolk and not choleric, wrathful Gardiner with his eye on anyone he suspected. Had it been Gardiner, this conversation would have already taken a distinct turn, words exchanged, voices raised. But because it was Norfolk Catherine remained composed, or attempted to be, despite the terror of her situation. Composure would only help her. Breaking down like a weak girl--how she wanted to!--would be mortifying.

The cloth wrapping of the book was removed. Her heart sank; she tried valiantly to keep her countenance firm, but something in her blue eyes changed. Not more fear, exactly, but worry. She had only looked at it, skimming its contents, not truly reading it, but it didn't matter. Catherine possessed something heretical, given to her by a friend who was surely now on his way to join her, Lady Grey and Lady Anne in the Tower, also on trial for heresy. From all she understood from her glancing at the text, Mr Fish had warranted opinions: on the corruption of the clergy, on relying on Holy Scripture (that she also read illegally) and not church doctrine or superstition for one's Christian faith.

Poor George, to join them in the Tower. Was he alright? Catherine did not know much of his theological leanings, only that in discussions she had learned he was of her own mind, more radical than she to tell the truth; for Catherine simply wanted to read the Word of God herself. In most other manners, she considered herself a Catholic, not a reformer. George Boleyn easily slunk into reforming territory. It was why he gave her that book that illuminated some of the many issues people had with the church as it was. Thinking furiously, she found herself at a loss. How would she defend herself now that they had found that book amongst her possessions as if she were a heretic? Why was she considered so when she only wished to think and read for herself? Why, really, was it so bad? Power. It must have been all about power, not true knowledge of Christ. For if one held the power over one's flock, then they could just follow in step, thinking as they were told, never using the brain God gave them to actually read His Word and see what it was Christ said, only hearing it from the pulpit.

"I have not read it in full, Your Grace..." Catherine's voice, when it finally came to speak, was weak and small, trailing off into nothing. It was true but there was no strength behind it; it might as well have been a lie. "I only glanced at it. Truly." She needed to appear the one so wrongly accused, though she knew as well as Norfolk did that she was not, for it was heresy simply to do the one thing she did do: read the Bible. "I had spoken to Sir George about some things, Your Grace, as you know I have a long friendship with him," she continued, gaining some intensity, fighting off the instinct to deny everything and say no more, but perhaps foolishly she thought the Duke of Norfolk deserved--no, wanted--a more thorough explanation. "I had told him of what we did do, Your Grace, and that was reading the Word of God, with a priest sent by the Archbishop of Canterbury himself to speak to us of it. Nothing more." She snatched a breath, staring at the man across the table from her, jaw set tightly so she would not shake for fear. "I am no heretic, no Lutheran, I am a Catholic. I am not a heretic for wishing to learn more of Our Lord. One would think it to be an endeavor preferred rather than what most ladies spend their time wasting their lives away with. If it is called heresy, then, it is foolish; and I will not apologize for it."

Francesca had warned her to deny everything. Catherine would not. They knew what she and the other ladies had been doing; denying it would only be to dig a hole deeper than the one they found themselves trying to scramble out of. Her denial went deeper. She did not want to lie. Not about this, not about God, not about something she felt so strongly that had been right. They were all wrong, twisted in their intentions. She thought herself very righteous, that He would be very proud, that she was being both honest and unapologetic for what had gotten her stuck in here in the first place. Face to face with a man like Norfolk, whom she once so trusted, made her believe that this would be it. Interrogations, intent on frightening the ladies, then they would be released, an example to all.
[align=center]"I must shape my own coat according to my cloth, but it will not be after the fashion of this world but fit for me."

Catherine is in 2 threads.
[/align]
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Thomas Howard
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Norfolk listened. For most of the time he sat across Catherine, his eyes never averting her face, and listened. Word after word he took, disseminated to its basest meaning and brought back together into the context of the sentence. That she did not mean else but to educate herself in the word of God, he believed. That she did wrong, he knew also, for the Church was unforgiving of those that strayed from her teachings. To him, it meant little. He was not of the cloth. Theological disputes be left to the clergy, he wanted to know what drove this collected Countess of Warwick to such folly. With each word, he knew, she dug a grave for himself. If he’d been the Archdeacon, versed in the doctrine, he’d know the points she’d broken. But as a secular man, devoted to articles of his faith, but not to their study, he thought plainly in the ways that he was used to. It was about power, the power of the Church over the foolish, meek, illiterate, submissive… He was not one of those, as wasn’t Lady Dudley. Except, perhaps she was stupid, for crossing the line he would never dare because of the consequences she was being forced to face.

Was he glad that a truly heretical book was found among Catherine’s belonging? No. It was unexpected and reckless of the Countess. Was he glad it contained a letter from George Boleyn? Oh yes. His conceited nephew needed constant reminders that he was nothing, especially when he chose to fight against his powerful uncle. Norfolk’s dislike didn’t venture as far as wanting George’s death, but a time spent in the Tower might serve the recently knighted and married Boleyn some good, put him in the right perspective. The Duke decided not to pay him a visit, but to send him a letter instead, something outlining George’s wrongs and urging him to change his ways. He doubted anything he said could change George Boleyn, but at least he would have the satisfaction of putting a scowl on that pretty face.

Catherine spoke at some length, Norfolk listened, unmoving. She admitted to having glanced through the book. That was in itself an admittance that she knew it, yet if she said she never took a peek, would anyone believe her? Unlikely so. Those discussions with George Boleyn about some things – oh, what a ripe topic for Gardiner this would be. Certainly she meant heretical things. He rose one brow slightly when he heard that she told George. And so his nephew was now implicated in knowing of it, and not informing the authority. He condoned of an act performed against the will of the Church. The true bombshell, however, landed when Catherine admitted that the Archbishop of Canterbury indeed knew of it, and likely supported it, sending to the ladies a priest to accompany them. She was, unwittingly for sure, putting the senior official of the Church in jeopardy, and the name of the priest who was sent by him became of a priority too. He would be a witness, and perhaps he would join the ranks of the accused.

She was, as he learned earlier, willful and feisty. Her unapologetic stance was a mistake. She would perhaps come to regret it in the near future. Wishing to learn more about the word of God was not the issue here. It was about the method taken. Reading the Word of God in English, not in Latin. The Church strongly condemned it, and for once Norfolk saw a viable reason. Unskillful translation, especially a translation made by secular man, would twist and bend the meanings of the gospel and guide the curious into faulty understanding of the Word. ”In what language did you read the Word, Lady Warwick? I remind, you’ve been seen with a Tyndale new book of testament, and one of those was also uncovered in your rooms.” He spoke calmly, evenly, his voice never rising. For him it was all a secondary matter. He only wanted the ladies scared, not burned at stake. Especially he wanted Catherine scared, and he knew she was without him lashing out in fury; a fury that Gardiner was likely to display. ”Furthermore, I need you to tell me the name of the priest sent by the Archbishop. He must be found and questioned, and corroborate your account of the proceedings.” She had been willing to say much already, she might speak out the name of her own choice too. If she had not, it would lead Norfolk to suspect that she was afraid of inconsistencies, that the priest would admit of her doing something worse than she confessed.
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