History tells us that on hearing of his death, Elizabeth expressed regret for a man ‘of much wit but very little judgement.’ Whether she really uttered those words or not, they seem to sum up the general consensus of opinion; Thomas was not wise.
He was brother of the protector and uncle to the king but, even so, there are boundaries. Perhaps he was fonder of Katheryn than we know; perhaps in his grief, with her no longer there to prevent him, he overstepped the limits and took liberties that the council were no longer prepared to accept.
He was accused of thirty-three counts of treason – some of them trifling. The details of his alleged crimes are as follows:
Thomas Seymour began a campaign to undermine his brother, the protector’s, authority over the king, their joint nephew, Edward VI.
Seymour supplied the king with pocket money and took him treats. He also attempted to damage his brother’s reputation by spreading rumours about the manner in which Somerset was running the country.
Seymour abused his position by encouraging piracy, something he was meant to control in his capacity of Admiral.
He was also accused of bribing the Vice-treasurer of the Bristol Mint, whom Seymour learned was guilty of inaccurate book keeping. To make this matter worse he used the money he gleaned from blackmail to finance a coup against the protectorship.
To cap it all, at the end of 1548, when called to appear before the Privy Council, Seymour hatched a plot to kidnap Edward VI.
On the 16th January 1549, he broke into Hampton Court Palace, entering by way of the privy garden. As he entered the royal apartments, the king’s spaniel woke up and began to bark and Seymour shot the king’s beloved pet.
Seymour was arrested and taken to the Tower, accused of trying to kidnap the king, of plotting to marry the king’s half-sister, Elizabeth, with the intention of putting her on the throne.
The charges were perhaps trumped up to rid the protector and John Dudley of a courtier who had become too great an irritant to ignore. Other men died for much less. What remains clear is that without Katheryn’s steadying influence, Thomas was a wild and ungovernable man, and a sorry end was inevitable.
Quite possibly the greatest legacy Katheryn Parr left us was Elizabeth. Although not of her blood, when she later became queen, Elizabeth illustrated many qualities learned during her time with Katheryn.
It was Katheryn who persuaded Henry to welcome his daughters back to court, and it is quite possible she had something to do with their reinstatement in the succession.
Elizabeth was at her stepmother’s side while she was Regent during the war with France, and saw then the possibilities of a woman holding her own in a male dominated world.
After Henry VIII’s death, Katheryn took Elizabeth into her household to continue her education, and oversee her upbringing. If Katheryn failed Elizabeth in any way, she also endowed her with a strength of mind and force of will that can only be admired.
Other works by Judith Arnopp include:
The Kiss of the Concubine: A Story of Anne Boleyn
The Winchester Goose: at the court of Henry VIII
The Song of Heledd
The Forest Dwellers
Peaceweaver
All available in paperback and on Kindle.
Please visit Judith’s webpage www.juditharnopp.com to keep abreast of news and forthcoming novels.
The Tudor Roses
The Tudor Roses are a group representing the Tudor nobility in a wonderful display of authentic Tudor fashion. The group is made up of one lord and several ladies and two royal princes. During the summer months they are in residence at a number of Tudor castles and halls in England and Wales. (Details on their webpage).
Their aim is to bring alive the empty chambers and gardens of historical palaces by modelling their Tudor gowns, accessories and jewels. They will be delighted to be photographed with you to provide a long lasting memento of your visit.
The Lord of the Roses, Darren Wilkins, is also a keen photographer and I was delighted when he allowed one of his photographs to grace the cover of this novel, Intractable Heart: A story of Katheryn Parr.
You can find more information about The Tudor Roses on their website:
http://www.thetudorroses.co.uk
And also find them on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/TheTudorRoses
Read on for an excerpt from The Kiss of the Concubine: a story of Anne Boleyn
The Kiss
of
The Concubine
28th January 1547 – Whitehall Palace
It is almost midnight and January has Whitehall Palace clenched in its wintery fist. The gardens are rimed with frost, the casements glazed with ice. Like a shadow, I wait alone by the window in the silver-blue moonlight, my eye fixed on the bed.
The room is crowded, yet nobody speaks.
I tread softly among them. The flickering torchlight illuminates a sheen of anticipation on their faces, the rank odour of their uncertainty rising in a suffocating fug. Few can remember the time that went before, and both friend and foe balance upon the cusp of change, and tremble at the terror of the unknown.
I move through the heavily perfumed air, brush aside jewelled velvet sleeves. At the high-canopied bed I sink to my knees and observe his face for a long moment. He is changed. This is not the man I used to know.
They have propped him on pillows, the vast belly mountainous beneath the counterpane, and the yellow skin of mortality’s mask is drawn tightly across his cheeks. There is not much time and before death can wipe his memory clean, I speak suddenly into his ear, a whisper meant only for him. “Henry!”
The king’s eyes fly open and his eyeballs swivel from side to side, his disintegrating ego peering as if through the slits in a mummer’s mask.
He knows me, and understands why I have come.
He whimpers like a frightened child and Anthony Denny steps forward and leans over the bed. “Your Majesty, Archbishop Cranmer has been summoned; he cannot be long now.”
Henry’s fat fingers tremble as he grips the coverlet, his pale lips coated with thick spittle as he tries to speak. I move closer, my face almost touching his, and the last rancid dregs of his breath engulf me. “They think you fear death, Henry. But you fear me more, don’t you, My Lord?”
“Anne?”
The sound is unintelligible, both a denial and a greeting, but it tells me what I need to know. He recognises and fears my presence. Those assembled begin to mutter that the king is raving, talking with shadows.
I sink into the mattress beside him and curl my body around his bulk. “How many times did we share this bed, Henry?” His breathing is laboured now and sweat drips from his brow, the stench of his fear exceeded only by that of his festering thigh. I tighten my grip upon him. “Did you ever love me, Henry? Oh, I know that you lusted but that isn’t the same. Do you remember how you burned for me, right to the end?”
I reach out to run my fingertip along his cheek and he leaps in fright, like a great fish floundering on a line, caught in a net of his own devising. One brave attendant steps forward to mop the king’s brow as I continue to tease.
“Poor Henry. Are you afraid even now of your own sins? To win me you broke from Rome, although in your heart you never wanted to. Even the destruction of a thousand years of worship was a small price to pay to have me in your bed, wasn’t it?”
Henry sucks in air and forgets to breathe again. A physician hurries forward, pushes the attendant aside and with great daring, lifts the king’s right eyelid. Henry jerks his head away and the doctor snatches back his hand as if it has been scalded.
Even now they are fearful of him. Although the king can no longer so much as raise his head from his pillow, they still cower. How long will it take for them to forget their fear?
Mumbling apologies, the physician bows and backs away to take his place with the others. As they watch and wait a little longer, the sound of mumbled prayer increases. “Not long now, Henry,” I whisper like a lover. �
�It is almost over.”
A door opens. Cold air rushes into the stifling chamber and Archbishop Cranmer enters, stamping his feet to dislodge the snow from his boots. He hands his outer clothes to a servant before pushing through the crowd to approach the bed, his Bible tucked beneath his arm.
I playfully poke the end of Henry’s nose. “Time to confess your sins, my husband.” Cranmer takes the king’s hand, his long slim fingers contrasting with the short swollen digits of his monarch. As he begins to mutter the last rites, I put my mouth close to Henry’s ear to taunt him. “Tell the truth, Hal. Own up to all the lies you told; how you murdered and how you cheated. Go on ….”
But King Henry has lost the power of speech, and cannot make a full confession. Gasping for one more breath he clings tightly to Cranmer’s hand, and I know there is not long to wait before he is mine again. A single tear trickles from the corner of his eye to be lost upon his pillow.
“It’s time, Henry,” I whisper. “And I am here, waiting. For a few short years I showed you Paradise and now, perhaps, I can do so again. Unless, of course, I choose to show you Hell.”
The Kiss of the Concubine is also available on Kindle.
Table of Contents
Copyright
England, 1536.
Part One Margaret Neville
Part two Katheryn: The Sixth Queen
Part three The Lord High Admiral
Part Four Elizabeth Tudor: Princess
Author’s note
Other works by Judith Arnopp include:
Intractable Heart: A story of Katheryn Parr Page 25