Henry ceases suddenly, cocks his ear, alerting me to the sound of tramping feet approaching along the gravel path.
When Wriothesley and a company of the guard emerge from an archway cut into the yew hedge I give a little scream. My security has fled. I leap to my feet, darting behind Henry’s back as if he will jump up and lay about him with a sword in my defence.
“What the devil …?” Henry lumbers to his feet, stands wavering, leaning heavily on his stick. “What is the meaning of this?”
I remain behind the king, his velvet bulk protecting me from the worst of the chancellor’s ire.
“I have a warrant for the queen’s arrest,” Wriothesley booms. “And have come to take her for questioning.”
Henry wavers. I increase my grip. He could change his mind. He could hand me over: discover the truth. My hand slides up the back of his doublet and comes to rest on his shoulder. To my great relief, after a few heartbeats Henry covers my hand with his.
“Get from my sight, Wriothesley. What are you about, you knave! You are a beast and a fool!” He makes to cuff the chancellor around the head, but the man ducks away, backs off.
The rumpus has drawn the attention of the courtiers and one my ladies titters behind her hand. At the sound of her amusement the party relaxes, one of the gentlemen guffaws and soon they are all laughing. Henry and I remain unsmiling as a scarlet-faced Wriothesley recovers his hat from the path, bows low before the king, and makes humble apology.
I hold my breath as he flees the scene and when he has gone, release it slowly. My women cluster about us, exclaiming and laughing in relief while my heart resumes its normal process. Gratefully, I squeeze my husband’s hand and he draws me close to his shoulder, kisses the top of my head. But despite the hilarity of our courtiers the day is spoiled, the sun suddenly not so warm. I suppress a shudder.
“Come along, my love,” says the king. “Accompany me back to the palace.”
March - November 1547 – Windsor
Henry’s health is deteriorating. He takes to his bed with a fever while the physicians whisper in corners, knowing that they must lance the build-up of noxious matter in his thigh. His long-suffering physician, Doctor Butts, died last year and his replacements are not so accomplished at dealing with a difficult, pain-wracked monarch.
Such times are always hard for Henry. He has suffered these bouts of extreme pain since an accident at the joust long ago. I have often heard of the fearful day when the court believed him dead. They say he lay unconscious for two hours while all around him despaired. In those days, Anne Boleyn was queen. I wonder how she felt as she waited anxiously to discover if he would live or die.
There was a time, when our marriage was young, that I longed for an end to Henry’s life. This is treason I know, but in those days my mind was with Thomas and I believed our time would come. Now I am older, and more sensible, I realise that without Henry I will be a prime target for my enemies. If Henry dies and Gardiner still has the upper hand, he will pounce on me like a cat. Regent or not, he will wave his flag of religious conservatism high and do all he can to bring me down. I am powerless to stop him.
Henry knows of my fear. He cannot but be aware of Gardiner’s hatred for me. “Don’t worry,” he says. “When the time comes we will have him. William Paget has certain papers that will see an end to our greedy bishop …” He places his finger against the side of his nose, closes one eye and leaves it at that. I itch to discover what hold Henry has over Gardiner, but I know better than to press him. I can do nothing but trust him.
This latest bout of illness leaves the king low. He is vulnerable and he knows it. He takes more and more to his private apartments, becoming ever more unpredictable. He strikes out at those who serve him. Like a spoiled child he sets his ministers running to and fro, chasing one whim or another, and even I am not immune to his spite.
He tries his best to be kind to me but sometimes, when he is at his lowest ebb, his cruel words bite deep. In the privacy of the royal chambers he compares me with his other wives. I listen resentfully as their shadows creep from the darkened corners to listen. I can almost see them gathered about our marriage bed, gloating.
I am not as young and fair as Catherine when she was a bride, nor as witty and bright as Anne. I have failed to produce a son as Jane did. He doesn’t mention Anna of Cleves or Katherine Howard, but I know of old that even I compare favourably to them. In his latter days, dead as they are, it is Anne and Jane that become my chief rivals. I try not to mind. I know that tomorrow, full of remorse, he will shower me with extravagant gifts by way of apology.
It is a difficult time. I constantly bolster myself with the knowledge that I am named regent in his will. If I can navigate myself free of Gardiner and Wriothesley, after Henry has gone I can continue to guide and mentor Edward. I am determined to ensure he rules justly, and produce both a king and a man to be proud of. The boy favours reform and perhaps, if I am cunning, between us Edward and I can bring down Gardiner and free England once and for all from the Roman church. I set my heart on turning the whole of England to the new faith, and embracing all that is new and better in the world.
But that is the future. I must think of the present too. In the meantime I must tread a careful path through Henry’s mood swings, bear the stench of his rotting flesh, and try not to compare too badly against the other wives. Sometimes I ponder on how I will be regarded in years to come. Catherine of Aragon will no doubt be remembered as pious and stubborn. Anne Boleyn will probably be remembered, quite unjustly, as the whore. Jane will become the blessed mother of the heir, and Anna of Cleves the lucky one, the one who got away. And Katherine Howard, although barely more than a child, will forever be the harlot. But what will I be? Katheryn the last? The boring one?
I laugh suddenly at the absurd path my thoughts have taken, and Anne looks up from her needlework.
“What amuses you?” she smiles, resting her work on her lap.
“Oh, nothing really. I was just thinking of the future and what people might say of us when we are long dead.”
Her eyebrows hurry toward her cap. “And that makes you smile? Can you not dwell on happier things?”
I turn a placid face toward her. “Like what, Anne?”
“Oh, the coming summer when there will be pageants; jousts; a summer progress. A turn about the hall with a handsome young partner … there are lots of things to look forward to.”
I look down at my linked hands. The tips of my fingers are white because they are clenched so hard. All those things she mentions have no part of my present state. I am the wife of a dying king. I have enemies all around, and as such I walk a slippery path.
But for now, I am Henry’s darling. As he begins to recover, he showers me with so many jewels and furs that my coffers cannot hold them and I have to order more. I bestow gifts upon my ladies, and upon Elizabeth and Mary too.
It is while I am sorting through my belongings that I stumble upon a piece of crumpled linen. My breath falters a little as I reach out to take it from its wrapping. It smells of lavender, and long-passed days of contentment. I smooth away creases to reveal Margaret’s sampler; a piece of work she toiled long and hard over. Her lack of skill was the despair of her sewing mistress. As I trace my fingertip along the line of crooked stitches, those days float back to me. I can almost hear her voice.
“Must I really begin it again, Mother? Does it really matter if I cannot sew? I am sure I must have other talents?”
I am sorry now I made her persevere. She was right. Needlecraft was a skill not hers to master. I should have let her play more while she was a child. She was always escaping her duties and running off into the woods. Had I known her life would be cut so short, I would have let her run and run. We are infants for such a short time and, looking back, it seems as if Margaret’s childhood was severed. Between leaving Snape and coming to court she became a sad and burdened soul, although I never discovered why until it was too late.
“Shall I
throw that away, Your Majesty?” I look up and discover Madge waiting for reply. She is carrying a pile of garments to give to the needy. She holds out her hand but I clasp the linen to my breast.
“No, no. I shall keep it in memory of someone, someone very special.”
She sniffs and turns away, puts down her bundle and begins to sort another pile. Someone lets the dogs in and, seeing me kneeling on the floor, they launch themselves upon me. I am engulfed in fur and muddy paws, licking tongues warm and smelly on my cheek.
Laughing, I try to fend them off. “Down Homer; down Rig. Help!”
I am still laughing when I realise I have company and see my brother William is watching from the doorway, an eyebrow raised in surprise at my lack of poise.
Spying the newcomer, the dogs abandon me to leap and grovel at his feet. Ignoring their enthusiastic greeting, William comes forward, makes his bow and holds out his hand to help me rise. I brush my hair from my eyes and look up at him, hoping for some sign of amusement but I am disappointed. Sometime during his humiliating quest for a divorce he mislaid his sense of humour. Anne Bourchier, his wife, shocked the world when she openly took a lover, and shocked us all over again by producing a litter of bastards.
I doubt my brother will ever retrieve his smiles after the humiliation that followed. The last few years have left him stiff and humourless. But, rumour has it that since the annulment he has begun to court Elizabeth Brooke. I hope with all my heart this marriage will be a success. But his newfound respectability spurs him on in his attempt to seek political advancement, and he looks to me to provide it. These days my heart sinks a little each time he visits.
It would never do to let him know how tiresome he has become, so I usher him toward the hearth, and he takes a chair opposite mine. As we sit and converse politely, I notice how he has aged. Harsh parallel lines balance on the bridge of his nose and deep grooves of disappointment flank either side of his mouth. He is a discontented man who has no expectation of the world ever being kind.
“I hear the king is ailing again.”
I incline my head. “Yes, he is a little out of sorts but should be recovered before the week is out.”
He leans closer, drops his voice. “One day he will not recover, you know. Are you certain you are to be regent over Edward?”
I look away. “One should not speak of the king’s demise, Brother. We should pray for his recovery.”
“I do, of course, I do. We all do.” He straightens up, his discomfort increasing. “All the same, it is as well to know where we stand should events go against our most earnest wishes.”
I look down at my linked fingers. “When last the king and I spoke of it, then yes, he indicated I was to guide Edward in the early years of his reign.”
“Good. Good.” He clears his throat, licks his lips. “Boys, even princes, need a firm hand. I will be close by to assist you in this, in any way I can.”
“I am sure you will.”
After that I turn the conversation to other, less dangerous things. I summon Anne and she joins us, her uninhibited chatter breaching the gap between William and I. Since I married the king, he has always been far too conscious of my status for us to be easy friends. It is different with Anne. She often forgets to treat me in the manner expected and acts as she always has; she hugs me, teases me and, should I offend her, she does not hesitate to let me know of it. I find her company restful. I don’t know where I would have been without her during these trying years.
Henry, enjoying a burst of sudden energy, spends the summer hunting. He cannot ride for as long or as hard as he used to, so a special ramp is constructed from which he can shoot at the passing game. I am quite certain the kills he makes are more down to the skill of his beaters than any hunting prowess on his part, but I praise him just the same. After each such foray he returns to the palace exhausted, and retires to bed shortly after dining. I think he should desist; it will not do to undermine his already failing strength but, of course, I do not tell him so. It would never do to let the king realise he is growing old.
As I had feared, a summer chill puts paid to this burst of good health and he takes to his bed again. His physicians scratch their heads and try to come up with a suitable cure but nothing seems to fully restore him. In November when he succumbs to fever once more, he takes himself to London for restorative baths that have cured him in the past.
I find myself left behind, my time very much my own and, since Gardiner is now in disgrace and not as intrusive at court as he used to be, I dare to get out my books again. In the seclusion of my privy chamber, I resume my studies.
To my delight, I discover that the men who are filling the shoes of Gardiner and his cronies are my friends and fellow reformists. It is a great relief to find the tide is turning again, and those for the new learning are taking precedence over the old.
The Duke of Norfolk and his son, Surrey, have also found Henry’s disfavour and are taken prisoner. They now languish in the Tower. They are no friends of mine, but Norfolk has served Henry long and well. If Henry were feeling better, I might speak to him and beg him to show leniency, but the matter will have to wait. While he is so ill I can do nothing. In the meantime my own life takes on a strange sort of stasis where nothing happens, nothing alters, and each day is just the same.
December 1546 – Oatlands Palace
Henry, being much recovered, decides to go hunting. “Come with me, Kate,” he says, much as he did when we were first wed. He clasps my hands, gives me a small encouraging shake.
“I am sorry, Henry. I would love to, truly I would, but I have the headache and need to rest quietly in my chamber until your return.”
“Very well,” he growls, after examining me for signs of fever. “It is well not to overdo things. I will be back in time for supper. I expect you will be better by then.”
They haul him onto a horse and he rides away. I watch him go, raise a hand in case he should turn in search of me, but he does not look back. I stand and wait until his figure is no more than a bright regal spot against the otherwise dismal countryside.
“Come, Anne. I will take a bath. Summon the women. An hour or two soaking in a tub will restore my spirits and chase the megrim away.”
Judging from his high spirits I expect that, after his return, I will be summoned to the royal bed. I call for milk to be added to my bath to soften and sweeten my skin. Behind a screen, a musician strums a lute. I lie back, letting the warmth seep into my bones, relax my tired muscles, and the headache begins to recede.
When all the heat has dissipated from the water I step onto warm towels, and my women begin to pat me dry. They brush the knots from my hair, smooth it to a shine before oils and perfumes are applied to my skin. My women’s hands are gentle and soothing. By late afternoon I am ready. I smell delicious, my cheeks are rosy and my hair burnished to crackling gold. I send the women away and sit at the hearth to await my husband’s return.
The shadows grow long, and the sun sinks into the west and I am still waiting. It is almost dark when the servant comes to draw the shutters closed.
“Shall I bring supper, Your Majesty?”
I look up from my reverie. “No, no thank you. I shall dine with the king tonight, I think.”
I am swamped with a strange detachment and, closing my eyes, I drift off to sleep. It is not until well into the evening that anyone thinks to inform me that the king has been taken ill.
I stand up too quickly, making myself dizzy in my haste. I am suddenly afraid.
“What ails him? He did not fall?”
“No, no, Your Majesty. He just came over tired while he was out. He says he feels sickly. The king returned some while ago and has taken to his bed.”
Still clad in my nightgown, I hurry to his bedside, and when his servants try to keep me from him, I dismiss their protests. I push open the door and enter the dark room. The shutters are closed, the fire low in the grate and the torches have been extinguished. The high bed seems as big a
s a battleship in a sea of blackness. I move across the floor.
Henry is sleeping, his belly jutting toward the ceiling, his nightgown white against crimson covers. For a moment I examine his sagging parchment cheeks, the droop of his mouth. Then, tentatively, I take his hand and he stirs, turns his head toward me. “Kate?”
“Are you all right, Henry? I have been so worried.”
“I asked for you earlier but they said you were resting. I am glad you have come.”
I wonder who told him I was resting. Why did they not deliver his message? Are they purposely trying to keep us apart? Why would they? I am paranoid. Or am I?
“How do you feel, My Lord? What is the trouble?”
He tries to laugh but it ends in a cough. “You sound like a doctor, Sweetheart.”
“Well,” I say primly. “Let us hope I know the cure.”
His grip on my hand tightens. “Kate. You, you know I must leave you soon, don’t you? I cannot stay forever. Even kings must …” He cannot say the word and I don’t want him to. Suddenly he is the most precious person in my life; the axis upon which it all turns. All the years he has kept me unwillingly at his side disappear. He has been a good husband to me and I cannot help but feel sorrow.
“Henry.” I lean over the bed to stroke his brow, finding it clammy and cold. “You will not die just yet. You are strong. You just need rest. By tomorrow, or the next day, you will be up and about again and we will laugh at your fears.”
He makes a noise, something between a grunt and a sigh, such as a small boy would make. I continue to stroke his hair, my other hand clasped in his.
“There will be ructions when I do go,” he murmurs as sleep takes him again.
In the days that follow, Henry is seldom fully awake. He drops in and out of sleep like a baby. He is forced to postpone an audience with the French envoy. Denny continues to issue day-to-day matters, the stamp he uses bearing Henry’s authorisation is kept busy.
Intractable Heart: A story of Katheryn Parr Page 14