The day has exhausted me and I can feel the beginnings of my monthly cramps tightening in my belly. I rub a pimple on my chin, and feel my mouth begin to tremble. I draw my breath in sharply and sniff away the silly tears, duck my head to my book again. If I have to cry I will do it later, when I am alone, tucked beneath the covers. Until then I will not give my enemies the satisfaction.
I focus my eyes on the pages of my stepmother’s book, The Lamentations of a Sinner. There is so much of Katheryn between the pages; her aspirations, her piety, but very little of her big, warm heart. I like to read her words; they make her seem very close and it is easier to believe she is not lying cold beneath a slab of stone.
Katheryn’s book begins by modestly berating her own sinfulness. My eyes mist over as I absorb her humility and match it to my own situation.
“When I consider, in the bethinking of mine evil and wretched former life, mine obstinate, stony, and intractable heart to have so much exceeded in evilness, that it hath not only neglected, yea contemned and despised God’s holy precepts and commandments …”
If Katheryn were here now, what would she think of me? Would she see me as her own failure? She tried to teach me, tried to make me good, but I am so bad … Dark to the depths of my soul and too sinful to be taught.
Katheryn was writing, of course, of her life before she embraced the new faith, but my mind is set on more earthly matters just now. I think of her too-short life, unspotted by sin, and compare it with my own. There can be no comparison.
I am not yet sixteen years old and yet I have sinned more gravely than she ever did. I had always intended to live a spotless life, prove myself a virtuous and pious woman. But that was before I knew Tom. Now, I am so cast down by misery and guilt that I wonder if my reputation is worth fighting for. Perhaps I should be whipped through the streets for the sinner I am. Perhaps it is what I deserve.
I have no appetite. I push the food around my plate and barely eat half of it. After a restless evening when I accuse the musician of discordance, and make my woman, Meg, weep when she almost beats me at cards, I send them all away early. I am glad to retire to bed, grateful for the drawn shutters and the dark that will not show my tears.
Where are you, Kat Ashley? I wonder if they have housed her well, or thrown her into a dungeon. I hope they use her kindly for she is a weak and silly soul. She will not be hard to break. Thomas Parry is an unknown quantity but, being a man, I credit him with a courage I do not expect from Kat. I have little doubt that cruelty will swiftly crumble her resolve and loosen her tongue.
I stare into the dark until my eyeballs ache. I toss and turn, kicking off the covers and hauling them back again when the night air chills my restless limbs. By morning I am exhausted, and when Elizabeth Tyrwhit comes to wake me, I bury my head beneath the pillow and tell her to go away.
“I cannot go away, Madam. My husband will be here to speak with you within the hour.”
“Tell him to go to the devil…”
“I beg pardon?”
Thankfully the pillow has muffled my words and I remember just in time that I must not make an enemy of her. I emit a huge sigh and open my eyes, see nothing until I draw the pillow away. I must think of Kat imprisoned in a dark, dank cell. Only my co-operation will free her. I must keep my head. Confess nothing and pray that my story and that of my servants is the same.
I stand shivering in the gloomy morning while they dress me. They sponge my body, comb my hair, and tie my petticoat, lace up my kirtle. I am dressed plainly as is my preference, and my reflection shows a girl, slim and taut, with a stone-white face and large blank eyes. I do not look like the object of any man’s lust. My guilty conscience is tucked securely away behind a pious screen, and I present a picture of maidenly purity.
“You must eat something,” Lady Tyrwhit holds out a plate but I push it away and reach for a cup instead. Wine will sustain me until the trial is over.
I have heard it whispered that my mother’s trial was a farce, the charges trumped up by her enemies. I wonder how she felt on the day she had to face them accused of such heinous things. Had she had time to make up a credible story but … the difference between my mother and I is that she was innocent of the charges. I am not.
There will be no panel of judges today, but I will be judged nonetheless. I close my eyes and silently pray for wisdom and calm. Then I pick up my prayer book and sweep from the room, moving so quickly along the corridors and down the stairs that Elizabeth Tyrwhit is forced to break into a trot to keep up with me.
When we reach the hall I am calm and collected. As they throw open the door, I cannot resist from smirking at her discomfort. She is quite out of breath, and a glimmer of sweat is beading her brow. I flash her a half-smile of contempt before I enter the room and Robert Tyrwhit and his creatures rise to greet me.
A wintry sun filters through the windows of the hall. It should be a day for hunting, or a walk in the grounds, perhaps a shooting contest in the meadow. Instead I am here, confronting my detractors.
Tyrwhit wastes no time, and as soon as he has greeted me, immediately begins to bark questions. As if I am playing a game of tennis I fend them off, send them spinning back, unanswered, dodged, dismissed, scorned.
His patience grows short. He tightens his lips, leans one hand on the table, the knuckles white against the board. I can sense he is fighting to keep his temper and for the first time I begin to believe I can best him. He raises his head, fixes me with a liverish eye.
“Have you ever contemplated or discussed marriage with the Lord Admiral?”
“No, Sir, I haven’t.”
“Are you sure?”
“I am very sure. I would never consider any proposal of marriage unless it was expressly desired by the king’s council.”
He looks at me. There is no friendship, no compassion, and no empathy in his face. Were my father still alive, this man would never dare to look at me so.
I am not lying. I have never openly discussed marriage with The Admiral but the question has always been there, unspoken between us. At first, when Katheryn was alive, it was a regret, a missed opportunity. But since her death our marriage has once more become a possibility. One day it might happen, and I know that my marriage to him is Kat Ashely’s scarcely concealed dream. She is almost as much in love with Tom as I am. I remember her flushed face when she spoke of him, pressing his suit, as if I needed encouraging.
“He is a fine gentleman. So handsome, so rich, so dashing …”
Oh yes, Tom is all those things. I sigh deeply and look toward the window. I cannot see out but I know what is there. I suppose I had lately held a dream that we would be allowed to marry, that I would achieve my desires. Now, with recent events, I realise that it will never be.
To escape the stifling confines of the hall, I picture myself strolling instead through the meadows, beneath the branches of the great oaks. The air is ripe with the smell of the slumbering earth, rotting vegetation, lately fallen rain, dank puddles. When they sense my approach, the deer in the shadow of the wood stop feeding; they raise their heads, their noses twitching, alert to my presence, deciding whether to flee or to tarry. As Tyrwhit’s detested voice breaks my reverie, their tawny behinds dart for cover. I drag my face from the window.
“My Lord? I am sorry. I misheard you.”
He draws breath, battling to keep his temper.
“We have been informed of The Admiral’s plot to take control of the king’s person. We believe that marriage to you or your sister formed part of that plan. We have it on good authority that your servants, Parry and Ashley, were intriguing to marry you to Seymour. What we need to determine, Madam, is your own involvement in that plot.”
My sister Mary? I do not doubt the truth of it, although it is news to me. I can feel my face reddening as I fight to control my jealous rage. So Tom was covering all his bets and courting both of us. I take little comfort in knowing he would have preferred it to be me. Next in line to the throne or not,
Mary is plain and growing old. She can hold little charm for him.
I, on the other hand, have sampled his lust, witnessed first-hand his uncontrollable desire. Had Mary been subjected to such passion, she’d spend the rest of her days praying for redemption.
Tyrwhit taps his fingers impatiently on the table. I wish I were my father that I might strike terror into this man’s heart. I want to cuff him and roar out in anger as I have seen my father do, but I am not a king. I am a girl and friendless in this dangerous world.
Refusing to be cowed by him, I raise my chin, look down my nose.
“My servants; Mistress Ashley in particular, I trust you have housed her well. She is not used to the discomfort. She will not like the cold.”
He casts his eyes to heaven, leans toward me, and speaks through tight white lips. “We have housed her in the deepest, coldest, darkest cell in the Tower. Now, Madam, unless you wish to join her, you’d do well to answer my questions.”
Belatedly I realise that arrogance will not win with this man. I bow my head meekly, and allow a tear to trickle down my cheek before I look up again. When he sees my apparent weakness, his face relaxes and a slow smile of satisfaction spreads across his face. I make my answer, ensuring a wobble enters my voice as if I am sorely offended.
“I have never had any dealings with The Admiral other than as stepfather and stepdaughter. He is the king’s uncle and has ever treated me as he treats my brother, like a dearly loved relative.”
So great is his frustration that Tyrwhit all but thumps the table. He glares at me and I decide it is time to weep in earnest. Perhaps, like The Admiral, he will not be able to abide my tears and bring this interview to a swifter end.
My chin wobbles, my eyes flood with tears and I give two or three very substantial sobs, before flopping onto a nearby stool. I bury my face in my hands and my shoulders heave silently in a convincing show of despair.
There is not a sound in the room other than my weeping. A clerk, who has taken down every word spoken in the last two hours, clears his throat and shuffles his papers.
Tyrwhit sighs.
I recognise the first sign of his defeat. As I raise my head to let him see my tear-streaked face, he throws up his hands.
“All right; all right. Have done with your weeping. We will leave it for today. I will be back tomorrow, but I need answers; answers that match the confessions given by your servants.”
I look up at him and dab my red eyes with the corner of my kerchief. I nod.
“Thank you, My Lord. I am sorely tired but, no matter how often you return, I will not be able to add to that which I have already told you. I know nothing of any plot or any marriage arrangements. I am barely out of mourning for my dear late father, sir.”
I turn my tragic face to him and he clears his throat, looks away. I mentioned the late king to remind him just who he is dealing with. I might be a friendless pawn in this game he is playing, but I am a royal princess. He should be wary for, according to all my teachings, I am of royal blood and God and the truth should be on my side.
I pass a sleepless night in which I am beset with stomach cramps, a nauseating headache, and a bleakness of spirit. Usually I would summon Kat and she’d comfort me as only she knows how. I refuse to call for the Tyrwhit woman and, as soon as I am abed, I send all my other ladies away.
There is just one maid in attendance. She falls asleep straight away, snoring gently on her truckle bed. When I can stand no more I nudge her awake with my foot and she staggers, barely awake, from the warmth of her slumber.
While I wait for her to return from the stillroom with an infusion of ginger, I look about the shadowy chamber. Night paints the corners a deep impenetrable black. They are the sort of shadows that might conceal a monster, a spy or an assassin; the sort of malevolent corners that gave me night terrors when I was a child.
Determinedly, I turn to face the window, where the first streaks of dawn are lightening the sky. It is warm in my bed but I slide from beneath the sheets and creep, barefoot, to the window and throw back the shutter. I lean closer, my breath misting the thick green glass.
The gardens are silvered with frost, the shrubs and bushes humped menacingly. Beyond the garden wall the meadows and hills merge with a tumultuous purple-streaked sky. The world might be sleeping but the earth isn’t. The wind stirs the trees, rain rattles on the casement and, in the shadows, the night creatures prowl.
On nights such as this, bad folk carry out despicable deeds. It is lonely here at Hatfield. It would be an easy task if anyone should seek to come and kill me in my sleep. Retainers are easily bribed, and the tiny village, huddled at the foot of the hill beyond the church would be no defence. Were Somerset to send an assassin against me, no one would hear my screams.
I kneel on the sill with my head drooped in my hands and feel the tears begin to well up again. When the door softly opens, my mind is still full of assassins and death and, with a cry of terror, I leap to my feet, stand defenceless in the half light.
“It’s all right. It is me, Madam.” The girl comes silently across the room and beams an encouraging smile. Without mentioning my terror, she helps me back into bed, draws the covers up to warm my frozen feet and offers me the cup. My pink-tipped fingers close around it, welcoming the comfort of the warm brew. I take a sip, feel the liquid slide down to my belly, thawing my blood, and soon my knotted stomach releases enough for me to breathe. I begin to relax.
“My enemies are gathering against me. Did you know that?”
She opens her eyes wide and for the first time I notice how extraordinarily freckled my companion is. Everything about her is normal and homely; I expect she has a family nearby; a litter of siblings all similarly freckled. I cannot help but smile at her over the rim of my cup and she smiles back.
“I have heard things, Madam. Things I don’t rightly understand, and I’ve heard other talk too.” She looks away, bites her lip as if regretting having spoken.
“What things?”
Her eyes grow large. “It might be better if I do not say.”
“You have to say now. You cannot leave me in suspense. Come, tell me. I swear I will hold nothing against you.”
“There is talk, a wicked slander, Madam, that you were seduced by the Lord High Admiral and that even now, you are waiting to bear his child.”
Our eyes travel as one to my stomach that is as flat and as barren as a board. We look at each other and although there is nothing remotely funny, laughter erupts from deep within me. I sputter the decoction of ginger over the sheets and in moments, we are both rolling on the bed, gasping for breath as tears run from our eyes.
“Oh dear, oh dear.” I wipe my cheeks dry. “It isn’t really a laughing matter but men are so ridiculous, aren’t they? Surely it is plain to see that I am not carrying anyone’s child, let alone The Admiral’s.”
“When they realise that perhaps they will leave you alone.”
I sober suddenly as fear chases mirth away again and I speak quietly into the gloom. “They won’t leave me alone until I have betrayed him. He is a better man than any at court but his enemies will not stop until they have him.”
She has no answer and we sit quietly until, indicating the cooling cup, she says. ”Drink your medic up, Madam, it will soothe you.”
“That’s better,” I say, handing her the empty vessel. She places it on the night stand and draws the covers up to my chin. I relax into the pillow and try not to think of tomorrow, but I do not sleep.
Every time I close my eyes, I see Tom in his prison cell; imagine my poor Kat Ashley shivering in a dungeon, her pretty fingers bloodied by the screw. My eyes snap open, staring into the dark, trying to chase away the images. What can I do? What can I say to get them out of there? If I cannot find the right words they will perish, with me alongside them. I thump my pillow, toss and turn for hours, torn between anger and despair. With fear in my heart I watch the shadows on the wall begin to lift, hear muffled sounds from the kitchens as
morning creeps relentlessly closer, like a thief.
Tyrwhit, his temper well and truly lost, waves a parchment in my face. “It is all written here, Madam. Your servants have told us all.”
He smacks the paper with the back of his hand to emphasise his point.
“I cannot agree or disagree with their comments unless I know what they have said.”
My heart is thumping sickeningly and I try to breathe slowly and deeply so as not to let him see my fear. What have they said? He could be fooling me; leading me into a trap. They may have kept silent. I will say nothing. I will force him to read their confession aloud before I commit myself.
The silence cannot last long. I close my lips tight and listen to the scratch of the scribe’s pen as he catches up with my last words. Everything I say, everything I do is being taken down to be held against me.
My heart sinks when he begins to read the transcription of Ashley and Parry’s confessions. I want to scream that it is a forgery, a slanderous list of lies, but Thomas Parry and Kat’s voices are apparent in every line, and when he shows me the paper with the scrawled signatures I recognise the hand, too. They have betrayed me. I bow my head, and begin to weep, real tears this time.
He makes everything they said sound sordid, shameful. How can such sweet times be made to seem so tawdry?
I remember that day in the garden, the sparring that began so innocently and ended so sharply poignant. The blade that slashed off my gown tore away my childhood too. As he held me down and ripped up my clothes I didn’t want him to stop, not until I was naked in his arms. When I told him I loved him, I couldn’t help myself, and it wasn’t until I saw the answering lust in his own eyes that I realised the danger. I should never have spoken. It was only my innocence, my apparent girlhood that was holding him back.
It had always been a game. He came to my room, tickled and slapped me, teased me about having enormous buttocks. It was just a prank, a naughty, rough game that made us feel alive. He didn’t mean to make me love him. He didn’t mean to fall in love with me. We both loved Katheryn.
Intractable Heart: A story of Katheryn Parr Page 23