“Perhaps you are a child. You are certainly acting like one!”
“So make me behave then.” She is defiant, taunting me. Defying me to do the thing we both want and cannot have. In an instant I grab her wrist, sit down on the bed and pull her over my knee.
Her buttocks jerk firmly beneath my open palm as I bring my hand down once, twice, three times. She wriggles like an eel, her breasts, bare beneath her gown, squirm softly against my upper thigh. At each strike she emits a yelp of outraged pain, wriggling like a fish. She kicks out in vain, her long legs fighting for freedom. She is so scantily clad she might as well be naked in my arms.
“Admiral!”
Kat Ashley is standing at the door, a platter of cups in her hand. She marches toward me and slams down the tray as I release her charge. Elizabeth spins away in fury, loses her balance and falls panting onto her arse at the fireside, her nightgown above her knees.
“You’d not have done that were my father alive, or he’d have had your head!”
She glares at me through her wild red hair, her face puce with humiliation, tears wet on her cheeks. The temptress has gone and she is a child once more; an angry, rebellious child. She will not taunt me again.
I stand up stiffly, tug down my shirt to conceal my straining crotch. “Your charge needed a lesson in manners, Madam, and as her guardian, I administered it. It is a blessing you were not present to witness her words for they were unfit for female ears.”
Self-righteously, I take my leave of them and, as I go, I can feel Elizabeth’s eyes burning into the back of my neck.
February 1548 – Hanworth Manor
Thereafter, I spank Elizabeth regularly. The trouble with women, and princesses in particular, is that they are treated too gently. If a girl is spanked often, it helps her know her place. Elizabeth, despite being legitimate one minute and a bastard the next, has been treated with kid gloves since she was birthed. It is high time she learned some manners.
The next time I enter her chamber, she is wary. Her women squeal in horror as she backs off further into the bed and I have to fight my way through the bed hangings to find her. I roll her over onto her belly and warm her arse with my palm. She shrieks like a pig on slaughter day and I grow quite warm from the exercise. By the time I am done with her she is exhausted and quelled, lying back on her pillows with her clothes in disarray, watching me with bright eyes as I straighten my clothes and take my leave of her.
“I will see you at breakfast.” I throw the remark over my shoulder as I make for the door, and feel the soft thump of a pillow in the middle of my back. I make no response but go and seek my wife who is, thankfully, still abed.
Kat Ashley harangues me for impropriety. “She deserves it,” I say, deftly dismissing her protest. “A spank never did anyone any harm.”
When she receives no satisfactory response from me, she takes her complaints to Katheryn. Once more I am beset with her grievances. I must be more circumspect. Elizabeth is a royal princess. She is under our protection, our guidance.
“But Katheryn, I was merely seeking to guide her. When I was a boy, my brother and I were whipped daily. It never did us any harm … well; I turned out all right, anyway. I only used the palm of my hand on her, I didn’t use a strap. She is a wayward, cheeky piece and needed to be told.” Katheryn puts down her needlework and looks at me reproachfully as I continue to bluster. “Most of it was horseplay. Why not come with me and see for yourself?”
“Come with you? To her chamber?”
I shrug as if it is immaterial whether I go alone or not, as if my visits to the girl’s chamber are innocent, and each time I lay hands on Elizabeth I am not wishing I were kissing her instead.
“Why not? I’ve nothing to hide.”
I can see Katheryn is appeased, and my assumed indifference has convinced her that my actions are those of a blameless man. She fumbles for her needle again, squints in the ill light to make the next stitch.
“You should sit closer to the window; you will go blind straining to see in the dark.”
She puts her work down again and smiles up at me, holds out her hand. I take it reluctantly and she draws me toward her so that I am forced to get down on my knees before her.
“Thomas, I – I do have something to tell you.” Her face flushes pink, her eyes flood with tears. Instantly contrite, I think she has found me out. I reach out and capture a tear before it drops onto her gown.
“What? What is the matter, Kate? Are you ill?”
“No, no, Tom. Not at all. Not ill but, but I think … I may be wrong but … I think I might be with child.”
Her last word is a whisper. As I absorb what she has said my mouth falls open, and I sit back on my heels, as astonished as I have ever been by anything in my life. I had thought her barren. Three husbands and not so much as a whiff of pregnancy, and yet a few months with me and…. A smile spreads across my face and I let out a whoop of delight.
“Pregnant, Kate? Are you sure?” I leap to my feet and begin to strut about the room, unable to keep still, unable to prevent myself from crowing. “All you needed was a man in your bed, my love. I bet it will be a boy. Imagine what the old king would have to say about that, hey? When is it due? How long do we have to wait?”
She laughs at my enthusiasm. “A long time yet, Tom. About six months, I should think.”
“Six months? That seems like a lifetime. Still, it will give us time to plan. We must move to Sudeley, where the air is fresher and there is less chance of contagion. The girls will like it there. I will organise it, but I need to put my affairs in order here before we can go.”
Although she is sickly in the mornings, Kate is as good as her word and accompanies me to Elizabeth’s chamber. Somehow, in her presence, the spankings turn to tickling. Both of us join Elizabeth on her bed, tickling and pinching, making her scream with delight. For the women it is innocent enough, but during the romp I cannot help but notice the changes that are taking place beneath Elizabeth’s nightgown.
She is growing, filling out, and her body scent is altering to that of a woman. Sometimes when we descend on her she is already up and fully dressed, although it is not yet full light. I am wise enough about women to know that the regularity of this denotes her monthly flux is upon her and she is reluctant for me to discover it. I treat her more gently then, for women are weaker and more inclined to weep. But the change in her also tells me she is a woman now, in all respects, and ripe for a husband.
As she matures, she puts on airs. Taking more care over the styling of her cap, the arrangement of her skirts, the cut of her gowns.
As Kate’s belly begins to swell and spring begins to spread its green mantle across the gardens, Elizabeth becomes remote, detached. She is no longer a child. Her laughter is not as loud, nor as long. She watches me sullenly, not bothering to greet me when I come, or fare me well when I leave.
***
The physicians warn Kate to exercise more. She must take a walk every day in the gardens for the wellbeing that the fresh air brings. Since she can no longer hunt, I ride out alone and bring home game for her table. I want to fatten her up but at the same time I am reluctant to see the matronly swell of her once-slender frame.
I have heard it said that if a mother eats too well the child can grow too fat to emerge safely from the womb. She grows rapidly ungainly, her face and hands puffy, her eyes shadowed, and I long for the trim, alert Kate that I fell in love with.
“It is for the good of the child,” I tell myself as she waddles ahead of me along the garden path. “I don’t mind.” I follow in her wake, full of good intentions, determined to be an honest husband. And then Elizabeth turns a corner, her figure like a wand, her face youthful and flawless. I bite my lip, close my eyes, and try very hard to love my wife.
The arbour where Kate and I are resting is not yet smothered with summer roses but it won’t be long, for the air is warm. We make comment on the burgeoning leaves, the thrusting bulbs, and the way the trees are
turning to a soft green. It was on a day such as this that I made love to her amid the celandine.
Life is different now.
I am holding Kate’s hand; it lies like a warm fluttering bird in my palm. Her fingers are slightly swollen, her nails bitten, and it pleases me to discern, already, the rise of her belly beneath her gown. Although her pregnancy is not far advanced I know her ankles are puffy too, and that she is troubled with constant passing water. It is not often she strays so far from the close stool but today, since it was so fine, I persuaded her to come. It is still months until the birth, and I cannot allow her to be cooped up indoors for so long.
As we sit idling, a figure moves in the shadows, and another follows quickly after. We both look up, alert and squinting in the sun until the footsteps cease and we find Jane and Elizabeth have joined us.
“Good afternoon, girls.” Kate holds out her hands and invites them to join us. Jane hurries obediently forward, head bowed, and gives her habitual curtsey. Elizabeth follows more slowly. She is not smiling, her mouth has a downward turn to it, and I find I miss the amused twitch that was there before.
Katherine shifts in her seat and we shuffle along so that Jane can sit down. As Elizabeth moves to join us I notice her dress for the first time. “Good God, girl. What are you wearing?”
She stops, looks down, and fans out her skirts. “What is wrong with it?”
“The colour is what is wrong. No wonder you look as sour as three-day-old milk. Tell her, Kate, that dour dismal black does her no favours. Does it, Jane?”
A scarlet-cheeked Jane makes no answer. She ducks her head and pretends to be intrigued by the book she has brought along with her. Kate frowns at me, gives a slight shake of her head.
“Don’t be so rude, Tom.”
“But it is a disgusting colour. Tell her to go and change. It offends me.”
Elizabeth’s face is reddening and her expression is akin to one I have seen her father wear many a time. Something, not just the colour of her gown, irks me. Her whole get-up is unflattering and I am dismayed to see my Elizabeth looking almost nondescript. She is vibrant; magnificent, and should be dressed to reflect that.
“Sit down, Thomas.”
I ignore my wife and remain standing while Elizabeth and I glare at each other.
“Go and change it.” I speak through gritted teeth. She sticks out her chin, and her lips lose their rose tint as she clenches them tight. I expect her to stamp her foot but instead she crosses her arms and looks away, over the heads of Kate and Jane to the garden beyond. I take a step forward, avoiding Kate’s outstretched hand.
“Go and take it off, or I will cut it from you.”
Her head jerks round, her face white, and her eyes glittering dangerously.
“You wouldn’t dare.”
There is a hint of uncertainty in her voice. I take another step forward and she doesn’t move, just lifts her head higher and tries to stare me down.
“You have one more chance, Madam.”
“I will never do as you say. You are not my father.”
I grab her wrist, twist it roughly so she falls to her knees with a sharp cry. Ignoring Kate’s shout of protest I fumble for my knife with my other hand and begin to hack at Elizabeth’s skirts. At first she is so astounded, she does not fight back. We are both surprised as the fabric rips in two. And then, as if I am possessed, I find I cannot stop. Using the weight of my body I hold her down, but she won’t keep still. Her arms and legs are flailing.
Terrified of wounding her, yet determined not to let her rule me, I trap her as tightly as I can and proceed to slice her petticoats to ribbons.
We are tangled together on the ground, surrounded by torn cloth, spilled beads, scattered jewels. Her headdress has come adrift and her hair tumbles down, enveloping both of us. She is shrieking, spittle on her lips, tears spouting from her eyes. She is wild and alive and vibrant and her vitality fuels my passion.
Suddenly she goes limp, lies in my arms unmoving, only the rise and fall of her breast evidence that she is not dead. I do not release her. I look upon the damage I have done, her ruined clothes, her white limbs showing through what remains of the offending garment. I dare not hold her any longer yet I dare not release her either.
In the end she turns her head, and our eyes meet. Her face is dead white, her eyes dark and deep. She moistens her lips with the tip of her tongue and swallows. She is going to speak. I move my head closer so as not to mishear. Her breath tickles my inner ear and her whispered words, when they come, croak painfully in her throat, making my balls contract.
“I love you.”
I let her go, drop her in the dirt and scramble to my feet, backing away as if she has a contagion. With a pounding heart I watch her rise stiffly from the ground, and with great dignity brush the earth from her tattered skirts. Then she walks away from me, across the garden, toward the house, like a duchess, like a queen.
March 1548
I escape to court. All that I have so carefully built up, my household of royal women, my quest for power, is now in jeopardy. Perhaps I should have bided my time, should have married Elizabeth instead of Kate. Had I done so, as husband to one so close to the throne they could not deny me my share of respect
But I love Kate, I do. I do.
Things are just difficult now. She is ailing and unwieldy, leaving me lacking in the fulfilment a married man has the right to expect. There are whores, of course, and hearth wenches, but there is also Elizabeth – and beside her everything else is diminished. Like Eve, like a Siren, she is offering me the forbidden; the one forbidden thing that I long for so much. She consumes me, her face, her body, her voice….
I could take her and hang for it, but is she prepared to hang too? Does she know what she is doing? Does she know where it could lead?
My brother is lately returned from Scotland and now seems determined to get his claws even deeper into the king’s flesh. He is beset by troubles as the religious wrangle continues. It is a war of contradictions, the abolishment of idols one moment, and calls for a return to traditional ways the next. I keep out of it. I am all for war if it is over something solid, something tangible like land, or power. But the manner in which a fellow chooses to pray is not something I’d bother to strap on my sword for.
There is unrest in the countryside too as landowners enclose their land, setting sheep to run where once there’d been grain. And as the coinage continues to slip, and England slides further into debt, the growing population becomes hungry. In the north, grumblings of another uprising are quelled while the London inns I frequent are seething with discontent.
I bury myself in the fug of the people’s dissatisfaction, quaffing cheap ale, pretending interest in the cheapest whores. The woman on my arm will not see forty again. She cackles at my jokes, her fingers creeping up the back of my doublet as she leans in closer to whisper in my ear. A wild-eyed fellow, deep in his cups, shouts treason from his place at the hearth. I throw off the harlot’s embrace and move toward him.
“What we need is another plague,” I quip, thumping my tankard onto the ale-stained table. My companions are all poor fellows and, not seeing my joke, they glare at me and the atmosphere becomes thick with resentment. “There’d be less to feed, more food to go further …” I try to explain, but it seems my joke is a poor one. I drain my cup and creep away, relocate my whore and, grabbing her by the wrist, drag her off to spend the night in a rancid-smelling stew.
Somewhat sated, in the morning I haul myself back to the palace to be met with a hostile reception from my brother, who is closeted with Dudley. My request to see the king is rejected. Dudley looks down his long nose at me, making me squirm.
“Look at you, man. You are in no state to be presented to His Majesty.” I look down at my stained linen and my once pristine doublet and know they are right. “Come back when you have sorted yourself out.”
Wearily, I turn away and head for my apartments. Dudley is right. I stink like a midden. A ba
th and a good meal will wash away the lingering stench of debauchery. I have not fallen so low as to lose sight of the upright fellow I once was. I need to put my troubles behind me and start afresh – reconsider my options and forget about Elizabeth. She is not for me.
As I soak in the tub I reflect that women were the start of all my troubles. I should be done with them, all of them, and concentrate on my wife, my political career, and my soon to be born heir.
Within an hour I am washed and my beard is trimmed and, clad in clean linen, I set about repairing the damage and making an attempt to regain my hold on my slippery fortunes. I order lavish new furnishings for Sudeley and write to Kate, telling her of my purchases and my plan to move the household there in June.
I have been from home for weeks, and it is almost May when a letter arrives from Kate. I move to the light of the window, break open the seal, and her words pour forth with such eloquence I can almost hear her chatter. I gallop through the lines of news, dull domestic stuff about new-born kittens and dismissed servants. I have no care for such things. I am searching for a single word, ‘Elizabeth’, but my eye falters upon something else.
“…I gave your little knave your blessing, who like an honest man stirred apace after and before. For Mary Odell being abed with me had laid her hand upon my belly to feel it stir. It hath stirred these three days every morning and evening so that I trust when ye come it will make you some pastime.”
The child has moved in her belly. My child. My son. I let the letter fall and gaze out across the garden. My son will be the future. Women are nothing compared to sons. Once I am a father, it will be easier to resist – easier to ignore Elizabeth’s trap. Suddenly I am seized with the longing for home. I too want to lay my hand upon Kate’s belly and feel the strength of my boy’s kick. Swivelling on my heel, I holler for my man and bid him pack a bag and order my horse to be made ready.
Intractable Heart: A story of Katheryn Parr Page 19