I shut away the memory of Thomas’ touch. I bury my Lutheran leanings and, almost in an instant, become another person. Katheryn Parr, the queen of England.
An intimate ceremony, Henry said. Just friends and family; yet the small room is bursting at the seams. From the corner of my eye I see both friend and foe have gathered to witness this most extraordinary match. The Lady Mary and her sister Elizabeth bend the knee as I pass by. Their smiles are warm and encouraging. I am stepmother to four now; Margaret and Elizabeth are of an age, and perhaps they will be friends. Margaret needs a friend.
While I try not to mind that the eyes of the entire court are upon me, Margaret and Lucy hover nearby. They seem unsure where they should stand, uncertain how to behave now they have been thrust to prominence by their relationship with me. I relax a little when I see Lady Mary beckon to them, and they take their places among her women. Elizabeth smiles warmly at Margaret, who flushes with pleasure.
Beside me, her eyes lowered respectfully, my sister Anne takes my prayer book. Her hand momentarily covers mine, offering comfort when she notices how my own trembles as I raise my face to Archbishop Cranmer.
His welcoming smile is genuine; it warms me. He is my long-time friend and favourite intellectual sparring partner. But there must be no more quiet meetings at Charterhouse with him and Miles Coverdale, and Hugh Latimer. The king wants only peace and so I must forget that part of me, ignore my craving for reform, and look to my own security. The past has shown too clearly what becomes of queens who meddle, or think too much. I must rein in my ambition and be merely a wife.
Gardiner, the most conservative of churchmen, is waiting at the altar. Henry and I stand before him. The king is massively splendid in cloth of gold that matches my gown. Sunlight slants through the latticed window, setting us both a glimmer. God creeps close, but as the Bishop of Winchester begins to speak, my body is bathed in the cold sweat of fear and regret.
Henry’s fingers clamp down on mine; his hand is hot and damp. I long to pull away, but instead I breathe deeply and try to pretend I am somewhere else, somewhere safe and warm. Each time the shade of Thomas rears up in my mind I thrust him away, close my eyes to our dreams.
Our shared misery.
Henry repeats the words of the Bishop. “I, Henry, take thee, Katheryn, to my wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward …”
I swallow sickness. Shove the memory of Thomas’ love away. I bite my lip.
“… for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, till death us do part …”
Death. Only death can free me now.
And then it is my turn. I try to speak but my voice croaks. I cannot make my vow to the king sounding like a frog. I pause, put a hand to my mouth as I clear my throat, and raise my face to Henry, whose blue eyes are swimming with sentimental tears. It is a sentiment I do not share.
I lower my gaze and begin to speak quietly.
“I, Katheryn, take thee, Henry, to my wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to be Bonaire and buxom in bed …”
His grip on my fingers tightens. I glance up at him and shrink internally from what I see there. Clear my throat again.
“…till death us do part, and thereto I plight unto thee my troth.”
There, it is done. Henry engulfs me in his embrace, pulls away and holds our conjoined hands high for all to see. “Gentlemen,” he cries. “Behold, your queen!”
A great cheer breaks out, deafening in its intensity. How many times has he presented the court with a new queen? How many wives has he celebrated? How many women has he grown weary of? How many more will there be before his time as king is done?
The rest of the day passes in a blur. I know I am surrounded by people. I am aware of them bowing, giving me their blessing, their good wishes, but my mind is elsewhere. All I can think of is the coming night and the horror that must come with it.
Henry is beside me, huge and amiable, his laughter louder than anyone else’s. The room becomes a sea of smiling faces, the heat from the fire overwhelming, the food they place before me nauseating. For me, happiness is past, the future yawns like a vast hungry mouth. I will be swallowed up in it and never again allowed to simply be Katheryn. From this moment on, for every minute of every waking day, I will be The Queen. I want to run, as fast as I can. Run from Henry, run from Hampton Court, run from England, across the sea and into Thomas’ arms. I should have listened. I should have ignored convention and wed him when he wished it. I should have listened … Why do I never listen?
The chamber is almost dark. Despite the fine furnishings and fabrics, it smells of stale wine and piss, as if the windows have not been opened in years. I shiver in the gloom, uncertain until the embers slump in the grate, making me jump. Henry laughs gently and stretches a hand toward me.
He is resting like a shipwreck on a sheer cliff of pillows. His nightgown shines white in the moonlight, his bandaged leg protruding like a stricken mast. His feet are bare, his fat toes misshapen, the nails black. His small eyes gleam as wickedly as a pirate's.
He is disgusting.
Thomas, my mind cries, although I know it is no use. No one can help me now.
“Come, come …” The king waggles his hand and I am forced to take it. He supports me as I clamber into the vast bed and settle stiffly at his side. His hand begins to pull at my nightclothes, his fingers hot on my thigh, his breath quickening, wheezing in his chest. When he first touches my naked flesh I jump involuntarily, making him laugh gently at my discomfiture. He begins to explore further. I close my eyes and force myself to turn dutifully into his body. One of his hands strays to my bottom, the other fumbles for my breast. I throw back my head and wish that I was dead.
“You will have to help me.” His breath comes quickly, his words almost a gasp. “I am not as agile as I once was.”
He shifts his bulk, throws aside the pillows until he is flat on his back. At first I do not understand his direction but as his desire becomes clear, with burning cheeks I climb up and sit astride as if I am mounted on a plough horse.
His belly undulates like a giant bowl of custard, his fat flaccid member squashed like a slug between us. At his insistence I wriggle and gyrate while he kneads my breasts, pinching my nipples until I squeal.
He takes this as a sign of pleasure, and gives throaty encouragement. I squeal again and try to smile while he flails and squirms like a great white fish beneath me.
I will never get a child by this man. He is not capable.
I think of Katherine Howard and her string of male friends, and wonder if perhaps her crimes were not due to lechery after all but desperation to get the king an heir. As the extent of the king’s impotence becomes clear, so does the realisation that my own position is much worse than I had thought. If I displease him and do not fall pregnant, my life could be in jeopardy.
Eventually when he can thrust and writhe no more, Henry’s body grows very still. I wait unmoving until his breathing regulates and I am sure he is asleep. Then I slide gingerly from his body, desperate not to wake him.
My nether regions are slick with sweat but I am certain he has spent no seed. He lies on his back, his mouth open, his great naked belly pointing skyward, the limp royal manhood curled like a worm in a nest of grey hair. I fumble on the floor for my nightgown and struggle into it, ripping the seam in my haste. Then I kneel on the floor hunting for my slippers, but I can find only one, so in the end I creep barefoot from his chamber and back to my own.
My new maid, Madge, is slumbering at the hearth. She leaps from her chair when my sobbing and shivering wake her and is instantly at my side, murmuring comfort.
“There, there, Madam,” she whispers. “I have warm water waiting. Let me wash you and comb out your hair before I help you to bed. You poor, poor thing. There, there, Madam …”
Her words are like honey for my soul. I curl into her caress like a
child to its mother, and sob out my misery on her shoulder.
The morning after our wedding I expect Henry to be embarrassed by his failure of the night before, but he acts like a youth, boasting of his prowess by promising his closest friends I will be pregnant before the year is out. My heart sinks, my stomach turns. I look at the floor, my face hot.
Henry laughs, grasps my hand, and squeezes it. When I raise my eyes to his face, he is brimming with delight. Somehow, despite the horrid humiliation of our marriage bed, I have managed to please him.
As expected I appoint new ladies, honour my friends and family with advantageous positions. Having my nearest and dearest around me should make my household more comfortable, but they make constant demands on me. William pressures me to plead his case for a divorce. His wife, whom I have not appointed, is shaming us all by living openly with her lover. I soon learn that being queen is more about duty than pleasure and pretty things.
I am never alone now. There are always at least twenty people in attendance on me. Pages constantly come and go, lighting fires, replenishing the wine jugs, opening and closing the shutters. Dressmakers, statesmen, ambassadors bring good wishes from their masters overseas. There is no respite.
Even as I am made ready for bed I am not allowed privacy. A crowd stands watching, speculating on my relationship with the king, the possibility of another prince. Sometimes I want to scream.
I long for the solitude to sit and dream of Thomas. Thomas, who has gone from me, sailed across the sea, to another land, new adventures, other women.
I wonder if he thinks of me.
July and August are the hottest months and plague has broken out in London, throwing Henry into panic. One of my first actions as queen is to order the fine perfumes, juniper and civet, to freshen my bedchamber. The stench from the river creeps in through the open window, and cooking smells from the privy kitchens, which lay directly below my apartments, rise to such a degree that I grow queasy and irritable. I no longer want to eat. All I can smell is grease. All I can hear is the clash of pans. How have Henry’s previous queens borne it?
When the king notices I am ailing, he is at once hopeful. He takes me to one side, places a hand upon my belly.
“Katheryn, is it … are you? Could you be …?” Swiftly I spare him the agony of hope. I cover his wrinkled hand with mine.
“Nay, Henry. I am sorry. It is the heat and the stench of the kitchens. The noise and the smell is interrupting my sleep …”
“Noise? I had not realised you slept so ill. We must do something about that. We cannot have you inconvenienced. How are you to conceive a child if your sleep is disturbed?” He calls the steward, consults Denny, and plans are soon underway for new chambers to be made ready for me.
My rooms are on the east side of the inner court, adjacent to the king’s. Anne Boleyn had disliked the modest lodgings she inherited and gave orders for redecoration she did not live to see. Jane Seymour, coming directly after, lived and died amid splendour conceived by Anne, as had Anne of Cleves and Katherine Howard. But I change all that. Within months I have moved to the southeast corner of the palace, into rooms that look across the pond gardens. There are pools and fountains that teem with golden fishes, and the paths are lined with gay heraldic poles topped with brightly painted beasts. The outlook and, more importantly, the aroma of these new rooms is far more suitable for the sort of queen I intend to be.
My mother always stressed that when one sets oneself a task, one should attend to it with the best of one’s ability. Since I am queen I have decided to be the best, and hopefully the last, of Henry’s wives. My chosen motto is ‘To be useful in what I do,’ and I am determined to be more than wife. More than queen. I will be his consort. I have influence and intend to use it. I begin to draw my friends closer and form new and forward thinking intimates.
Of course, I do not fall straight into my new role. At first I am uncertain, dressing as conservatively as I have always done. It is my new stepdaughter, the Lady Mary, who quietly informs me that such apparel is no longer appropriate.
“You are a Tudor now and must bear yourself like one. You must be seen in only the best, and that means the best gowns as well as the best jewels. My father has spent all his reign building up an image and now, as his wife, you must follow his example.”
I need no second telling. My jewel coffers are already stuffed with gems, but within days I have summoned drapers from Italy, hat makers and embroiderers from France. Soon my closet is filled with the latest fashions from the continent. I have always taken great pleasure in clothes and fine fabrics, and I am so thrilled with the excuse to buy only the best that I go one better. I purchase gowns and hoods for Margaret and Lady Mary too.
As the treasures are unveiled Margaret and I squeal with delight, and even Mary is pleased enough to laugh properly for the first time in my presence. I embrace my new role to the full and soon find I enjoy it. I engage a company of players, minstrels and singers to fill my rooms with music and gaiety. The less pleasant demands of being Henry’s queen, the duties that take place in private, are compensated by long hot baths in milk, steeped with rose water. Afterwards, when my skin is still wrinkled and pink, my women anoint it with almond oil and the scent of cloves.
But there is a serious side too. For the first time I am able to aid those less fortunate than myself. I give alms to the poor and assist the needy, endow seats of learning, schools and colleges. When word of my generosity gets out, my apartments are soon bursting with people begging for my favour. My influence with the king is talked about and I help where I can, but only if I think the cause is just.
Pleased with my popularity, Henry chuckles and squeezes my fingers a little too tight as he relates the praise of the Spanish ambassador, Chapuys, and the Duke of Najera whom we entertain in February with a display of our dancing.
“The Emperor will be envious,” he crows. “I have myself a good wife at last.” He kisses my fingers passionately. “Come to me later, I will dispense with my household early tonight. We must put ourselves to the task of making a son.”
I curtsey low while he maintains his hold on my hand. When I rise, he kisses my knuckles in farewell before summoning his chair bearers. Lately Henry’s leg has been bothering him and he has taken to moving around the castle in a portable seat. His spaniels run alongside, a crowd of servants in his wake. The court fall to their knees as their king passes.
As they disappear through the open door, Henry’s fool, Will Somer, turns to me and makes a lewd gesture. The fool is permitted to cross boundaries others would not dare. I am supposed to laugh, so I smile and turn away, hiding my real feelings as I must hide so much else.
Spring 1544 - Hampton Court
This time, after I have tolerated Henry’s husbandly attention, he does not fall asleep straight away. I lie beside him, trying to quell the nausea that close proximity to his wounded leg always induces. His left hand is hot upon my knee, his fingers exploring the contours of the joint. It strikes me as a singularly domestic situation. If only circumstances were otherwise, I might be lying in bed beside Thomas while he casually caressed my knee and spoke of trivial, homely things.
After a while Henry’s conversation turns to politics. I am surprised when he asks my opinion on several state matters and I flounder a little, unsure if I should present my own opinion or give an answer that will please him. Before I speak I consider the question very carefully. He pats my knee again and I sigh with the relief of knowing I have answered well.
“Chapuys returns to Spain tomorrow,” Henry announces, startling me from a drowsy stupor.
“Chapuys? The ambassador? Will he be gone for long?”
“For good.” Henry shifts, the mattress dipping and the canopy swaying beneath his weight. “He is elderly now and ailing. He has been with us since I was little more than a boy. I will miss him, for all the annoyance he has caused me over the years.”
“He must be growing old. Mary will miss him too.”
“Mary?”
“Your daughter, the Lady Mary.”
“Oh … yes. Probably. He championed her mother’s cause and always hated Anne … But he is a good man, a fine ambassador.”
I cannot help noting that this is the first time he has mentioned his second wife in my presence. Usually she is an unmentionable shadow, colouring every room, every moment of my life with the king. She is probably lingering in the darkness of our chamber this minute. After a while Henry becomes thoughtful, his fingers still lightly stroking my knee. I turn my head toward the window.
The light in the chamber has altered as dawn creeps into the east. In a wifely fashion I place my hand on Henry’s chest and kiss his sagging cheek.
“We should sleep, Henry, or day will be upon us.”
He yawns, revealing his coated tongue, his large yellow teeth.
“Yes,” he says wearily. “Stay with me, wife. It is too cold for you to be running around the corridors at this time of night.”
Obediently I sink further down the mattress, trying not to regret the comfort of my own fragrant sheets. Madge will have dosed off in her chair. She will be stiff and out of sorts in the morning.
“Good night, Henry.”
“Good night, Ja … erm, Kate.”
***
The gardens are lovely in May. Once the dew has dried, I go to my window where the call of the birds and the droning of the bees make me suddenly long to be outside. Courtiers are strolling among the flowers, and minstrels on the mead are tuning their instruments. Indoors, my ladies are about their tasks; Madge is folding linen, Anne is practising a new air on her lute, and Lucy and Margaret are sorting through a pile of sleeves. “Who would like to join me in the garden?” I ask.
Anne puts down her instrument and the other women run to fetch their wraps. Then there is a bustle as we change our shoes and call for a page to bring the dogs. At last we are ready but just as we are quitting the room, the doors are thrown open and Lady Mary is announced. She pauses on the threshold, her face dropping with disappointment.
Intractable Heart: A story of Katheryn Parr Page 8