“What the devil …?” Henry jumps awake, blinks at me stupidly before turning in his chair. I put down the book, fearing to find an assassin or the palace guard with a warrant for my arrest. “Find out what it is,” Henry orders, and, with halberds raised, his guards throw open the doors to discover the commotion.
A few moments later they reappear with Sir Anthony Knevet, the lieutenant of the Tower, held firmly between them. “Knevet!” Henry exclaims. “What is going on? Let him go!”
“Your Majesty.” The guards release him. Knevet throws them a furious look and tries to snatch off his hat, but discovers he has already lost it in the scuffle. His thin hair is standing up wildly, sweat trickling down his temple. “I am sorry to disturb your majesties but I must have urgent speech with you, Sire. They tried to keep me from you…” He glares at the guard again before turning his eyes back to the king. A small crowd of courtiers have clustered about the privy chamber door. Henry waves a hand.
“Get out the rest of you. I will speak with Knevet alone.”
The men shuffle from his presence, the chamber doors are sealed, and Knevet falls to his knees before us.
“I have come straight from the Tower, Your Majesty, where Gardiner, Wriothesly, and Rich are questioning the heretic, Anne Askew. They have her on the rack, Sire.”
I leap to my feet, a gasp escaping before I can prevent it. Henry narrows his eyes and leans forward, his penetrating gaze making Knevet squirm.
“A woman? On the rack?”
The man stands taller. “They bade me order her strapped to it. At first, I obeyed them. I thought they merely meant to scare her a little but when they told me to stretch her, I refused. I mean, a pinch wouldn’t hurt but I was not prepared to make a full turn and torture a woman. It is illegal under your law, Sire.”
“I know my own law,” Henry growls. He thinks for a while, his breath wheezing. “For how long did they turn the screw? Does she still breathe?”
“She was breathing when I left, Sire. I cannot vouch for it now. When I refused to give the order, Wriothesley and Rich took control of the ropes themselves.”
I cannot stop tears from spilling over. Knevet glances at me before turning his eyes back to the king. “I left some time ago, came by way of the river from the Tower to here, before fighting my way through the palace to reach you. We may be too late to stop it.”
Knevet and I flinch when Henry’s fist thumps down hard on the arm of his chair. He lets out a roar and, almost immediately, the door opens and Denny pokes his head into the chamber. “Your Majesty?”
Henry beckons him forward and Denny inches a little nearer.
“Call a scribe to bring parchment and pen and bring me that dog, Gardiner, and his bloodsuckers. This time he has gone too far.”
July 1546
In some perverse way, although poor Anne Askew is not released from the Tower, Henry thinks he has done her a service. I suppose she might see it like that. At least her present torment is eased. They throw her back into her cell, continue to question her, to try to trick her, until her guilt is confirmed and she is condemned to die.
My spies bring me news of it. I hear how Gardiner and Wriothesley crept late last night into the king’s closet and were with him for hours. They emerge in the early morning, looking pleased and rubbing their hands. A short time later I hear they are forgiven, allowed the grace to continue their hunt for other heretics.
Catherine Willoughby comes to see me, her white face and anxious, fidgeting hands reveal at once that her news is not good. She breaks down as she speaks of what she has witnessed at Smithfield.
“They had clearly been tortured,” she weeps. “John Lascelles could hardly stand, he and his friends were dragged to the pyre, and as for poor, dear Anne, she was so crippled from the rack that they had to carry her there on a chair.”
I don’t know what I can say. There is nothing I can do but I feel deep, deep shame that my husband has allowed this to happen … “They bound her so tight to keep her upright that she cried out in pain, and when you think of the agony she must already have suffered …”
Catherine sobs into her kerchief while I helplessly pat her shoulder. My chest feels as if a tight band is constricting it, but I do not cry. For weeks following the incident I am put off my food, I cannot swallow, cannot smile. Although I am not in any way culpable, I feel it and wish I had been bolder and stood more strongly against it.
Although these terrible things have always happened, it is never easy for me to ignore the punishments my husband inflicts upon his people. Usually I tell myself they are traitors, men who would do us harm, but this time it comes too close. Unable to do anything to prevent it, my futility as queen is suddenly, blindingly clear. I can do nothing to help my fellow believers, nothing at all.
They tell me Anne’s end is quick, thanks to a friend throwing a bag of gunpowder onto the smouldering flame. I suspect that friend has links with my own circle, but I do not want to know. I shut myself away in my chamber and refuse access to anyone save my sister. If the king requests my company, my ladies are to plead I have a headache.
I cannot face him.
I cannot believe he has let this happen.
Years ago, when I was no one of any import and wed to Lord Borough, I think I may have met Anne Askew. I don’t recall ever speaking to her for she was a child and beneath my notice. But my husband knew her family, and I was probably in her company once or twice. I search my memories and conjure up a small, dark child with fervent eyes and fidgety hands. Even this slight acquaintance makes her death, and the manner of her dying, somehow worse.
I know her martyrdom won’t be the last.
Sleep evades me for days and I grow hollow-eyed and sallow. Henry, when I finally face him, cannot fathom the reason for it and suspects I am with child. I have to disappoint him again but he cannot be surprised; we have not managed a full relationship for a few months now.
I visit him as often as I am allowed, but sometimes his chamberer tells me the king is unwell, or resting, or busy with state affairs. On these occasions I take a walk in the palace garden, or occupy myself with my ladies, sewing or dancing. I try to avoid religious debate, although the matter is close to my heart and forever whirling about my mind. When I am allowed access to the king, I divert him with snippets of gossip, letters from his children, and praise of Prince Edward. Sometimes I read to him; sometimes we discuss theology and history. His leg has been bad of late. I hate to see him suffer and wonder if it is due to his diet and suggest he eat a little less.
“Don’t be stupid, Kate,” he says. “How can what I put in my mouth affect my health? I eat as well as I ever have.”
I am offended at being labelled ‘stupid’, but I say nothing. I change the subject, turning to religion and how blessed I feel to have access to material refused to other more lowly women. Henry remains silent but he continues to stroke my fingers and, thus encouraged, I wonder, as if in passing, if it would be so harmful to allow other women to read it too. “Would it not improve their minds, Henry, drive out their ignorance, and instruct them in piety and devotion?”
He growls something under his breath and, realising he is becoming tetchy, I change the subject yet again. “Mary is sick once more, the poor thing. She is troubled monthly by her womanly state. I suppose it is a cross all women must bear ...”
In this manner I chatter on until an usher informs us that Gardiner requests an audience. I have no wish to be in his company and, as he enters, I rise to my feet, kiss the top of Henry’s head and tell him I will be back later. I eye the man coldly as I sweep past without acknowledging his ironic bow.
There is still plenty of time before dusk, so I gather a few ladies and we take a stroll around the privy garden. The evening is warm; the bees are busy in the buds and the birds foraging in the undergrowth. A minstrel begins to play on the greensward, and the sound of my ladies’ laughter wafts pleasantly on the breeze.
It is a short time of respite from the p
ressure of the court, the needs of the king, and the suspicion of my enemies. Anne and I link arms as if we are children, and she tells me the latest news of brother William’s marital exploits. By the time we return to my apartments I am relaxed and happier than I’ve been for some time. Perhaps the bad times are passing now; maybe the worst of my fears have been of my own making.
It is late and I am just getting ready for bed when Anne hurries into my chamber. She jerks her head and, after I affirm her silent command, my attendants curtsey and leave us alone.
“What is it Anne?” I ask. She hurries to my side and kneels at my feet. The flames of the fire throw shadows about her face, making her gaunt and pretty in turns. For the first time I notice she has a sheet of paper crumpled in her fist.
“You are in danger,” she whispers, smoothing the letter out on my red velvet kirtle. Her hands are shaking as I take it from her and scan the words of the hastily scrawled message. There are a few words only; words that immediately impress themselves like a brand against my soul. I can almost smell burning.
Your Majesty is in peril. A warrant has been issued for your arrest. Gardiner has been instructed to discover the extent of your heresy.
Alarm rings somewhere in the far reaches of my mind. I turn the paper over and back again. It is unsigned but it appears to be written by the hand of a friend.
“Where did you get this, Anne?” My voice does not shake. It does not betray the utter terror that is shrieking in my breast.
“A servant dropped it as he was passing my door, as if by chance. I think it was George Blagge’s man but I cannot be certain. It was dark.”
Lately a law was passed forbidding the possession of heretical books. Henry knows I have some in my possession. There is little time to do anything about that now.
I look at the note again as if the content may have altered in the short time I have looked away. The pen strokes stand out starkly against the white page.
The extent of your heresy.
My inner calm begins to slip. My hand shakes. I drop the letter, and begin to whimper. Homer and Rig look up from their basket. Anne grips my wrist.
“Don’t Kate. You must be strong.” Her eyes glitter intently in the firelight. “If you are to survive this you must keep a clear head. You can reason your way out of it; you are the cleverest woman I know, far cleverer than the king and all his minions.”
But I cannot stop it. It is as if someone has removed a bung from a barrel. Panic surges forth in an unstoppable flow. Strength abandons me and I drop suddenly to my knees.
“I must burn this.” Anne shoves the note into the fire and vigorously stirs the embers. Slowly I turn my head, watch the edges blacken and curl. The paper grows dark, the letters shrivelling like a heretic as the flames take it.
I am sobbing now.
My ladies come running. “What is it? What is it?” I hear them murmur. “What is it that ails the queen?”
They bear me to my bed chamber, strip away my gown, and pull off my cap. My hair cascades, covering my upper torso like silk against my naked skin. I shiver in the half light as they pull off my chemise and help me into my nightgown, and all the time I am wailing and sobbing like a woman run mad.
I roll into bed, bury myself in cold white sheets. Grip the pillow, twisting it in my hands. Involuntarily my knees rise to my chest as my heart fills with despair. “Oh God,” I wail. “Help me, dear God.”
I cannot stop myself. My prayers go on and on, my tears soaking into the bed linen. My women hover uncertainly in my chamber. As if in some half-waking dream, I am aware of the exchange of wary looks. From a distance I see myself writhing like a crazed woman. I see the door open, see my attendants fall to the ground as my husband is borne into the room. They place his chair on the floor near my bed and silently everyone creeps from the chamber, leaving us alone.
Henry watches me.
I sit up, sniffing inelegantly, wiping my nose on my sleeve. I know my appearance must be offensive to every one of Henry’s fancies. I risk a glance at him. He is in his night clothes, leaning forward in his seat, his brow creased with concern. I sniff again, and smothering terror, cough to clear my throat. I swallow phlegm.
“I am sorry you should find me like this, Sire,” I croak. Henry shifts in his chair, fumbling for his sticks. Shakily he gains his feet and shuffles toward me. “I am sorry I have inconvenienced you,” I add as he grows closer to the bed.
The mattress dips beneath his bulk. He fumbles with the torn and knotted sheet, his hand warm upon my naked knee.
“What ails you, Kate?” he asks, full of concern. “Are you sick? Have you miscarried?”
I shake my head; pull myself farther up the pillow. “No, My Lord. I – I have heard a rumour that I have displeased you.” I blink through tears, trying to focus on his face. The realisation that I am on to his schemes races across his countenance. He frowns, seems confused, and runs his tongue across his front teeth.
“I am not displeased with you, Madam. Not enough to warrant this … display.”
A hiccup escapes me. I try to smile, wipe away a tear. “Then I am glad, My Lord.”
Henry straightens up. “If you are feeling better I will return to my night time preparations. Come to me later if you’ve the mind. You can read to me.”
He clambers back into his chair and calls for his servants to bear him back to bed. When he has left me, my ladies fuss and fumble around, clucking like hens around a damaged chick. I slide from the mattress.
“Come,” I say wearily. “Make me ready for the king. He desires my company.” I take a deep breath, stand before the fire while they anoint my skin with fragrant oil, bathe my sore eyes and brush out my copper-coloured hair.
The trial is not yet over but I see a glimmer of hope. When I am ready, Lady Lane holds aloft a candle and accompanies Anne and I to the royal bedchamber. As the door is thrown open and I prepare to enter, Anne sends me a look meant to bolster my resolve. I feel like a Christian entering the lion’s den.
After Henry has tried and failed to love me, I lay my head on his shoulder. I can hear his heart beating, slow and loud. He fiddles with the end of my hair, his voice rumbling in my ear. To my horror he is talking, not of love as I had expected, but of religious things. As he waits for my reply, I shift a little in the bed.
“I do not know, Henry. It is not for women such as I to know these things.” My heart is beating so hard I am afraid he may hear it and guess at my duplicity.
“You knew such things the other day, when last we spoke of it. You had become quite the theologian.”
I take a deep breath, turn onto my stomach and begin to twiddle his chest hair round my forefinger. I smile a slow beguiling smile in the hope that wantonness will divert him.
“Oh Henry, I was pretending knowledge so as to distract you from your pain. I would never presume to instruct you, but I confess that, in such discussions, I profit greatly from Your Majesty’s learned discourse.”
I can feel him relax beneath the combined comfort of my words and my busy finger. He stretches and smiles, his grip on my shoulder becoming firmer.
“I am glad to hear it, Kate. Then we are perfect friends again.” His hand slides across my skin, discovers and begins to squeeze my breast. I close my eyes and hope his attention will be brief.
I wake in his bed to find a bright and cheerful sun hovering just a little above the windowsill. Beside me Henry is snoring. His mouth is open, his cheeks slack. Each breath he takes blasts foully in my face. I turn on the pillow and watch the morning for a while before easing myself from the mattress. I grope for my nightgown, slide it over my head but, as I reach the foot of the bed, he stirs and opens his eyes.
“Are you leaving me, Sweetheart? Is it time to rise?” He blinks at the bright light streaming in through the casement. “It is a lovely morning. Meet me after breakfast for a turn around the garden.”
I hasten back to the bedside, plant my lips on his forehead, and take my leave of him.
Henry chuckles and squeezes my knee and I try to savour the moment. At least I can feel a little secure again, and sure of his affection.
The sun is deceptive and a lively wind ripples the surface of the fountain, bringing with it the scent of roses and honeysuckle. Anne and Lady Tyrwhit are laughing at some joke, their heads close together and their brightly coloured kirtles merging. Courtiers stroll together; some are lovers, some are friends, some are probably conspiring against their foe.
My hand is clasped in Henry’s and after a while it grows hot and clammy. I long to remove it, wipe my palm on my gown, but I tolerate it. I remind myself that I am lucky to be here, back in his favour.
After his efforts last night he once more holds hopes of a son, but I am less convinced of success. I try to turn my mind from the indelicate procedure required to stir the king to perform the required act. I try to just be grateful for my freedom. I may have drawn further away from the heretical fires but recent close proximity to them has made sleeping with Henry seem not so great a penance after all.
Henry is telling me a story about a day in his youth when he jousted incognito and astounded everyone with his prowess. I smile at the picture his words evoke. Had I known him when he was in his prime I might have loved him in earnest, but the days he is talking of were before I was even born.
Intractable Heart: A story of Katheryn Parr Page 13