The king spurs his horse forward to catch up with the men, while I fall back into the company of my ladies. Anne and Lady Carew ride side by side, gossiping amiably. They draw apart so that I can ride between them.
“You must be eager to see your husband, Lady Carew. It must be hard to have him so far from home for so long.”
“Indeed, Your Majesty. I have not seen him since the Spring. He tells me in his letters that he is delighted to be given this new commission.”
“I am sure he is.” I regard Lady Carew from the corner of my eye. We have met before but she is reserved, nervous, neither friendly nor unfriendly. I don’t really know what to make of her. She is not part of my household but I invited her along on the romantic notion that she might be missing her husband. But she has shown little excitement and offers little in the way of conversation.
I decide she is sad. Although it is never mentioned, her father, Henry Norris, was executed along with my predecessor, Anne Boleyn. He was accused of adultery with the queen and some say he was the father of Elizabeth. I don’t believe this, of course. Elizabeth is far too much like the king, both in looks and temperament, to be sprung from any but Tudor loins.
Mary Carew must know I am watching and thinking about her, but she gives no sign of it. She holds her head high, her lips are pinched and her eye is fixed on the road ahead. I give up the attempt to befriend her and turn my attention to Anne, who is soon chattering away, describing her latest additions to her wardrobe.
I am not greatly interested but I listen and wonder idly when the new scarlet kirtle and sleeves I ordered from the dressmaker will be ready. Of all the colours, scarlet is my favourite. It is such a brave, royal colour. I much prefer it to purple. I imagine my new red gown embroidered all over with gold thread, and the thought of wearing it paints a little smile on my lips.
Henry raises a hand and we slow our mounts. Ahead on the road are a troop of soldiers, heading for the wars. The king sends a rider ahead and the troop move aside, lining the road to let us pass. They are a grubby, tired-looking bunch, but raise a ragged cheer as we draw near.
We pass so close I can smell the sweat of their bodies, see their dirt-engrained pores, and when they snatch off their caps, their sweaty hair is plastered to their scalps as if stuck with glue. At the sight of their weariness I cease to mind the ache of my loins from the long ride, the soreness of my buttocks, the chaffing of the reins. My saddle is suddenly a luxury. Perhaps I should purchase the army some new boots. I decide to make a point of doing so when I return to the palace.
The next day we arrive at Southsea and discover that the fortification is barely finished. Our apartments have been made ready but lack the finishing touches to which I have become accustomed.
“Oh, my lord.” Dorothy, who has re-entered my household after Margaret’s death, looks around the chamber. She dumps her bundle on the settle. “Don’t worry, Madam, I will set it right in a jiffy.”
I am longing to call for a bath to be drawn, to soak my aching bones in warm water while my women pour scented oil over my head, but that will have to wait.
I sit close to the hearth and hold out my hands to the sulky flame. Although it is July, the sun cannot penetrate the thick walls of the castle. The air is frigid since the tiny windows let in very little light or warmth. Dorothy lights the torches. Anne helps me remove my shoes and outer clothes and, clad only in my shift, I retire to the bed which at least has been made up in readiness.
“I daresay they weren’t expecting me. It was a last minute decision that I came.”
Dorothy looks up from the hearth where she is vigorously pumping the bellows, encouraging the flames to greater warmth. “Well, I hope the king is properly housed,” she says. “An old man like that can’t be expected to make do…”
She stops suddenly mid-sentence when she realises she is in danger of speaking treason. One must never refer to the king as either old or ailing. It is tantamount to imagining him dead, and for that crime, the punishment is death.
I sigh and reach out for a cup of wine. “I will pretend I didn’t hear that, Dorothy,” I say. “Now, why not run down to the kitchens and discover the arrangements for supper.”
Left alone, I lie back on the pillow, close my eyes and listen to the sound of the sea. It is strange to know the French fleet is just a few leagues distant but, judging from the hubbub of soldiery in town, we are well defended here. I have never seen so many guns, or so many masts bristling in the harbour. Today I have inhaled stenches and seen sights I thought I should never see, and hardships and a way of life I have never imagined. Perhaps it is better to be queen and live a sort of half-life than to be free and at the mercy of want and poverty.
19th July 1545
It is a bright morning; the sun is warm and welcoming. It is the sort of day that can only promise victory. We climb the twisting stair to the battlement and look out across the bay.
The sound of jingling horse harness rises from the street, pennants snap in the sharp Solent breeze, and from far off comes a shouted command from the royal fleet. We watch as the ships prepare to do battle against the much larger invading French. They are close now.
Slowly, led by the flagship, The Great Harry, and the Mary Rose, our ships manoeuvre into battle position and the guns begin to sound. I cannot help but jump involuntarily when the first shots are fired. Anne and Mary Carew and my other women cower beside me, smiling and laughing in feigned girlish fear. A sharp acrid smell of gunpowder floats inland.
When the noise subsides, Mary leans over the battlement hoping to catch a glimpse of George. Last night at supper she was reunited with her husband. I saw a pink flush rise from her throat to transform her stiff, unhappy face into something else, something extraordinary. I know what she was feeling, for I have felt it too. I have been in the arms of the man I love, and experienced all-consuming desire. I will never forget it.
To my shame, I find myself wondering what passed between them when they retired to their quarters. I wonder if he loved her as thoroughly as Thomas once made love to me. I shake myself, dispelling the inappropriate thoughts, and turn my eyes back to the action.
The ensuing engagement is not something I would choose to watch. I don’t like to think of the men that could die today while I take pleasure from the safety of the shore. But Henry desires me to be at his side, and at his side I must be.
The Mary Rose fires first from the starboard side, making me flinch again. Mary covers her ears, her eyes brimming, her face creased in a grimace. “That was very loud!” I exclaim and she manages a shaky laugh. She is warming to me, slowly the barriers are breaking down and we are becoming friends.
Forgetting I am now her queen, Anne is hanging onto my arm. I can feel her excited laughter vibrating along my side. I clutch her hand and turn to see Henry, who stands a little behind us with the men of his privy household.
The king points a finger, indicating where the ships should go next. Beside him, ignoring the squeals of the women, Charles Brandon nods. It is as if the men are witnessing a life-sized game of chess, as if real lives, real husbands aren’t at risk. I remember Henry explaining that there are more than four hundred and fifty men aboard each ship. I try to imagine the squash, the stench and the squalor. It must be like hell on earth.
The king stands proud, hands on hips, his demeanour belying his failing breath, his crippled leg, his lack of virility. He looks out across the sea, his papery cheeks growing pink in the sea air, the white feather in his cap fluttering like a stricken gull. Slowly, the pride of the English navy turns to offer a broadside attack.
It is one of those briny coastal days when the wind is sporadic with intermittent breezes that extinguish the warmth of the sun. A sudden gust, seemingly from nowhere, lifts the king’s cloak, making him shudder.
“Someone walking over my grave,” he laughs as he wraps it closer to his bulk. He glances at me and I smile dutifully, convincing him of my adoration. And, engaged as we are in this moment of m
arital insincerity, we both miss the precise moment when the Mary Rose falters.
When we turn back to the panoramic scene, the action is stilled; the flags on the great ship snap and flutter. Like a painting the scene is frozen momentarily, the great ship balanced on the cusp of fate. As if in premonition the king holds his breath, grabs my arm as my heart falters and I send up a prayer.
But, in a heartbeat, the ship is heeling over, cries of terror as her open gun ports fill with water. We stand appalled as the first sailors fall from the rigging to splash into the sea. On the snapping breeze the screams of the stricken men are borne toward us, and my husband’s prowess instantly shrinks. His breath whistles from his lungs, his grip is tight and painful on my wrist.
We watch transfixed as the massive cannon break free, bursting through the sides of the ship, surging into the waves. All around us people are screaming, shouting orders; a crowd surges toward the dockside, the air clamouring with terrified voices.
On board The Mary Rose, the tilting deck is a chaos of fleeing men. They are screaming, leaping from assured death to certain drowning. As they run, they cast off their clothing, kick off their shoes in the futile hope that, although they cannot swim, they will float when the swiftly swelling sea engulfs them.
The end is quick. Henry and I watch in horrified silence while around us on the battlement, women are weeping, wailing, praying. Charles Brandon and Anthony Browne are shouting, waving their arms. Below us in the precinct men are fighting to mount terrified horses, although it is too late for fruitful action; there is nothing to be done.
It is far too late to prevent disaster. Henry knows it in his heart. I know it in my own. Now, so quickly, the only visible sign of Henry’s favourite ship is the top of the mast jutting from the water. Like a great white jellyfish the mainsail is foundering in the waves and only a few survivors are left, clinging to the fighting tops. The balmy sea is littered with the wreckage, and the remnants of his fighting crew are flotsam.
I am suddenly aware of someone sobbing, and slowly I turn in a daze to find Mary Carew fallen to her knees. It is only then that I remember her husband is on board. Before I can move to comfort her Henry stumps forward and, throwing down his stick, he lifts her up and draws her into his arms.
He wraps his arms about her, and over the top of her head his eyes meet mine. There are great shining tears on his lashes, dropping onto his white and sagging cheeks.
“There, there,” he croaks, caressing her shoulder awkwardly with his jewelled hand. “There, there.”
What else can he say?
Henry rages. Henry storms. Weeping one moment for the loss of life, and the next he is cursing, demanding to know who is to blame. He cuffs any servant unwise enough to creep too close. Even though Lord Lisle bravely defends our shores and prevents an invasion, Henry takes no comfort. He wants vengeance.
“I will crush the French. I will see every one of their ships on the bottom of the ocean.” He clenches his fists, red-faced with fury. And then, like a turning tide, his rage recedes as he descends into self-pity again.
“My ship,” he mourns, “my lovely ship. For thirty-four years she has defended our shores, steered us from danger. I always preferred her to The Great Harry … such wonderful lines …”
He subsides into sentimental reminiscence. I bend my head over my needlework and allow him to vent his emotion. There is little I can do to ease it.
He recovers, of course, but his confidence has taken a heavy blow. As the months pass he becomes ever more suspicious, ever more vindictive towards those who cross him. Everyone at the palace, be they high or low, treads with caution.
January 1546 –Westminster Palace
January blows in hard. Wrapped in furs in the warmth of my apartments, I am well enough. Henry spends much of his time in his own chambers, for the first time leaving much of the day to day running of the state to Sir Anthony Denny. With just his fool for company, Henry positions his spectacles firmly on the bridge of his nose and hunches over his books. Sometimes I hear him strumming a sad tune and I know he is very low.
To ease his sorrow, I have taken to visiting his chamber several times a day to help him pass the time. I like to read to him and would prefer to read from the Bible but, since the act was passed prohibiting women from doing so, he is uncomfortable with that. Instead I select theological texts and try to divert his mind from his aches and pains. With a roaring fire and a table of delicacies, Henry and I are quite cosy, but I am all too aware that those outside the palace know little of such comfort.
As winter melts into spring, they tell me the poor are struggling. Incessant rain, insufficient bread, and a rise in sickness is taking its toll. In some quarters there are beggars on every corner, and the bad women are abandoning the stews and come spilling across the river, straying into the nicer parts of the town. Henry is determined to stamp out vice, but I have little hope of him succeeding. When he walks among us the devil takes on many forms, and sometimes I fear he infiltrates the palace too.
The devil in my happiness is Stephen Gardiner. He and his pack of dogs are in full cry, and his quarry tremble. I am watched constantly and there is nothing I can do about it. He waits to take me down, as he has dethroned other queens before me.
I order new locks for my coffers, smuggle papers to the safety of my uncle’s house, and conduct myself with even more prudence than is my usual habit. When Thomas Howard, the son of Norfolk, is arrested, I know that all those with Lutheran leanings must look to their safety. None of us are untouchable.
One outspoken supporter of reform, Anne Askew, has been taken up again. She was arrested and reluctantly freed several months ago, but now they have her once more. Anne and I are not acquainted but I know of her, several of my closest companions are friends of hers. If Gardiner can forge a link between us, I know he will not hesitate.
Although July approaches, it is too chilly to go outside and I hug the hearth. My sister Anne slides through the door and hurries to my side. She whispers in my ear. I put down my sewing and the blood begins to pulse in my head. I get up and, taking Anne with me, retire to my closet. We stand close, our voices scarcely audible even to each other.
“Sir George Blagge? Are you sure? Does the king know?”
She shrugs, her wide eyes blank with shock.
“I must tell him. I am sure he will want it stopped.”
George Blagge is Henry’s friend; a rotund, merry-faced fellow of extraordinary wit. He has earned himself the nickname Piggy, and Henry, no lightweight himself, loves to tease him about his girth. Sir George takes it in much better humour than his king would were the same appellation ever applied. Despite his comedic appearance, Blagge is keen for reform, but he keeps a low profile, his primary concern being loyalty to the king.
Later that day, when I am sure Henry is not too distracted, I whisper the news into his ear. At once he is on the alert.
“Piggy? In the Tower?” He searches for the truth in my eyes before fumbling for his stick and struggling to rise. “Denny,” he hollers. “Fetch Gardiner: send for Wriothesley.”
As his attendants come running, I melt into the shadows, unwilling to be identified as the bearer of the tidings. I sleep badly that night, afraid for Sir George, afraid that Gardiner will talk the king round and he will be led to destroy another friend.
The next day I sit bleary-eyed from lack of sleep beside Henry, and together we look across the throng of subjects. I have a headache that is impairing my vision and the rich array of velvet and feathers merges into one. I press a finger to the centre of my forehead and, closing my eyes, massage my brow. I wish myself a thousand miles away. When the babble of conversation is suddenly severed, I look up from my reverie to find Henry leaning forward in his chair. He slaps his own knee in delight.
“Ah, my pig!” he cries. “I see you are safe again?”
George Blagge steps from the crowd, his red face glowing in the overheated hall. He extends a chubby leg and bows extravagantly lo
w. “Yes, Sire. And if Your Majesty had not been better to me than your bishops, your pig would have been roasted ’ere this.”
Henry throws back his head and roars with laughter, glad he has saved his friend, and glad to have thwarted Gardiner. He throws the Bishop a smirk of triumph but Gardiner keeps his eye averted, pretending indifference.
Several times of late I have heard Henry complain that Gardiner is getting above himself. I hope the king’s intervention will serve as a deterrent, a warning as to the limits his victimisation can reach. It would make us all a little safer.
But I am wrong; it is as if nothing will stop this most determined bishop, not even the displeasure of the king. My friends are afraid to meet, afraid to discuss the subject closest to our hearts. When we are together we are so fearful that we speak loudly of harmless things; the flowers that are burgeoning in the garden, the litter of pups born to Catherine Willoughby’s dog.
Cheekily, when times were safer, she named one of her spaniels Gardiner, and took great pleasure in exclaiming, “Gardiner, stop it at once or I shall spank you.” There was a time when we’d roll with laughter whenever she did this in the bishop’s presence. But, these days, she is less outspoken and merely clicks her fingers to summon her dog whenever she desires him to come to her side.
The whisper is that Anne Askew is in great danger in the Tower and likely to be executed. She has friends among my household, some of whom send her money and clothing. For her sake I am glad of this but, even though I have no part in it, I greatly fear their actions will bring trouble down upon my own head. I am certain Gardiner and Wriothesley seek to incriminate me.
I am with Henry in the solar. His leg is paining him and he has it propped upon a stool. Much to the fool’s chagrin he has sent Will Somer away, and I am reading psalms from Henry’s book of hours. Henry lays his head on the back of his chair and closes his eyes. I know he will soon drift off to sleep but I continue to read, for should the sound of my voice cease, his snores will stop and he will declare he was listening. But on this occasion, it is not my tiring voice that wakes him but a great kerfuffle that breaks out in the corridor.
Intractable Heart: A story of Katheryn Parr Page 12