The Most Happy

by Helen R Davis

  “You must quit this foolishness, Elizabeth!” I insist, but her temper matches her father’s, and as determined as I am to make her Queen of France, she is determined to remain a spinster.

  “Elizabeth, you cannot want to be like your poor, dead half-sister, can you?” I say. With the passing of years, Lady Mary’s obstinacy is but a memory, and I now feel pity for the poor girl, although seven years ago I despised her.

  “What of her? That was her matter, and this is mine. I will remain a virgin!” Elizabeth insists.

  “Do you wish to go into a nunnery?” I ask her.

  “No, Mother. I simply do not wish to marry.” Elizabeth said. I shake my head.

  “I’ve promised that you won’t marry a Spaniard, my dear daughter, but you will be wed..” I insist.

  “No, Mother. Marriage is death.” Elizabeth states. “The princess dowager, late calling herself Queen of England, married twice and she died. Father married you and…”

  “He left me Regent of the country.” I say.

  “Isabella of Spain married and her husband was unfaithful. I will have none of it.” Elizabeth said as she cut a paper valentine, for it was the feast of Saint Valentine. “These and no further, Mother. Valentines are pretty.”

  I tried to change subject to soothe her.

  “Who is that for, my daughter?” I asked.

  “Robin Dudley.” She said with a coquettish grin that reminded me of myself when I spoke of Henry Percy. I gasped. So, she did not mean what she said! She just did not want to do her duty! I smile at that.

  “Elizabeth, I see what you fear. You fear losing your childhood sweetheart. Well, my dear, let me tell you the story of mine.” I say. Elizabeth listened, wide-eyed, as I told her of the affair between myself and Henry Percy and how God had used my heartbreak to make me Queen of England. Then she listened.

  “I see. I am just like you, Mother.” She said.

  “You have a good deal of your father as well.” I said. “Now, don’t you want to be Queen of France?”

  “I’ll think about it.” Elizabeth said. I coax her some more.

  “King François has spoken well of you to his son, Henri. Henri has even seen your portrait, and he says you please him.” I said. “He even sent you this portrait.:

  I showed Elizabeth a miniature of Henry II, the young Dauphin. She smiled

  “He pleases me too.” She said.

  “Good. And you speak the language well, Elizabeth.” I said. “We ought not to run away from the duties God gives us. That is sinful to run away from what God calls us to do.”

  “I have a question though, Mother. If I had asked to see his portrait to see if he pleased me, would anything have been done?” she asked. I laughed.

  “Unlikely. That is not the way of this world. But I agree with you that it should be.” I say to her with a wink. “You will be a good Queen of France, Bessie. Don’t worry so.”

  Eleanor of Austria remains cold and aloof to me, on the occasions when I have either visited the court of France or they have visited England. But unlike me, she has no political power. Her predecessor, Queen Claude, was kind to me, but Eleanor behaves as though I do not exist. Nonetheless, she was forced to speak to me about a year ago, by her husband. We were visiting the French Court, and it was indeed quite full. Eleanor had spoken to me at last.

  “There are many people at Court here today.” She had said to me, at a nudging by François. I had smiled and replied, “Indeed, there are.”-

  I have tried to befriend her in spite of her aloofness. I sent her a gift last year of a golden necklace. I did not hear any response from her, but neither did she sent it back. I’ve heard rumors she wears it in private and discards it in public. I hope, for Elizabeth’s sake, that she will warm to me, but I do not wait in vain. François has agreed to the match between Elizabeth and Henry, at least for now. I hope and pray this will occur, for I know that betrothals do not necessarily mean anything. In any case, Elizabeth leaves England next year with her dowry. A proxy marriage has occurred, but she will not be the Dauphine of France for at least a year yet.

  Edward is shaping out to be a fine king. I am quite proud of how he administers justice with a fair hand for mercy as well. He is compared often to the good king Edward III of the past. Henry, however, says his brother is too merciful. For instance, there was a hungry boy who stole wheat from the royal granary. Of course, he deserved to have his hand cut off, but Edward said ‘You have been bad, but I know you are hungry. You may go home with some grain, but you must swear to your king you will never steal again.”

  “I would have had him beheaded.” Henry said.

  “Henry, that is not the punishment for theft.” I said. “It is removal of a hand, as your brother said, but your brother showed mercy, as a Christian king should do.”

  “God made him king and a king can do as he wishes.” Henry said.

  “A king must also shepherd his people.” I explain to Henry, shaking my head. Oh God, please protect Edward!

  Interlude: The Jilting of Prince Philip.

  Charles V, Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire and King of all Spain considering his mother’s unfortunate demise, could not believe the news Chapuys was giving him. The Concubine’s bastard daughter was to become Queen of France? Not wife to his son? He could not believe it! Worse, François had agreed to have his son, Henri, marry Elizabeth instead of the Medici woman? Yes, Medici was a merchant’s daughter, but she was at least a Catholic! Charles stewed in anger, dissatisfied. He had kept an emerald with him, rumored once to be the emerald Henry VIII had kept when he had been betrothed to the late Princess Mary. It was said that when Charles married Isabella of Portugal, the emerald had changed from dark to light, for a light emerald was an untrue lover. Now, the emerald changed again from dark to light, for Elizabeth was to marry Henri!

  “Damn the Whore, Philip! Anne has broken her pledge to us and wedded her bastard daughter to the Dauphin of France!” Charles raged, bursting into the chambers of his son. Philip was fourteen now, handsome, but also dark and broody. He did not share his father’s anger at this. Elizabeth would belong to him one day, but not now. To save face, he told his father a lie—a little white lie.

  “I do not care, Father.” Philip said. “I would not wish to marry her anyway. She was a conquest to me, the English beauty.”

  “You fancied her?” Charles demanded of his son.

  “I fancy the maids of England. Of Spain, France and Italy too. Any woman. The baker’s daughter in her russet gown, better than Princess Elizabeth without her crown.” Philip said. It was an English ditty sung on the streets.

  “My son, do you still wish to be King of England?” Charles asked..

  “The Witch has no other daughters.” Philip said.

  “Not by marriage, you fool. By invasion, Philip. France and England, longtime enemies, are uniting against our holy empire, my son. Only an act of witchcraft could unite those kingdoms.”

  “France is a wicked land and England a cursed one. Their union will fail.” Philip said.

  “Indeed they will. Philip, listen. I sacrifice the forests of Spain to build a great naval armada to invade that rainy, miserable island. You will lead troops into France and kidnap Elizabeth and make her submit to Spain’s might. The men of France will not protect her, and the men of England are cowards.” Charles said.

  “And thus, we destroy both France and England!” Philip said.

  “I will make you king of England. And France and Italy.” Charles promised. As he left his son’s room, he heard the voice of a serving maid.

  “If you attack France and England, my king, a great kingdom will be destroyed.” She said.

  Charles ignored her. Of course, a great kingdom would be destroyed in his attack —two of the, most wicked kingdoms on Earth!

  Chapter 12

  1543

  It has come at last for Elizabeth —the marriage proposal! Today, written in the hand of the Dauphin of France, he has written, asking for
Elizabeth to be his wife. I came into her room to tell her today, overjoyed.

  “Elizabeth, it has come today! You are to be married, you are to be Queen of France!” I say. My cheeks are wet with tears, but hers are not. She remains cold and aloof.

  “He has proposed marriage then?” Elizabeth asks. I nod and hold her.

  “But is that wise, Mother?” Edward asks. “Betrothed at ten years old is one thing, married is another!”

  Indeed, the earliest age for marriage is twelve.

  “Well, of course, she will not go to France for two years.” I explain. “But this is legally binding and you will be queen. It is necessary, Elizabeth.”

  “Better a Frenchman than a Spaniard, I suppose. If I must be wed.” she said. She no longer plays with her dolls as much. She has given them to Jane Grey, Edward’s intended bride. Jane is six to Elizabeth’s ten, but Jane Grey seems almost older. I know that the Duchess is very severe with her daughters. Jane Grey once told me that ‘everything I do, I must do as perfectly as God made the world.’ She is often at court more than she is home with her parents, and she is happier here, I can tell. She often debates and loves learning, although she has become too much interested in becoming a complete Protestant. I remain a Catholic but I have sponsored and helped many reformers. The Spanish call me a witch. The people of England call me Good Queen Anne. The French remember and still adore me. I do not know, in truth, if the Spanish despise me for supplanting Katharine of Aragon or for being, in Chapuys’ words, ‘more French than a Frenchwoman born.’

  In Elizabeth’s train to go to France will be many ladies. Among them I have chosen the widowed Lady Latimer, late calling herself Catherine Parr. She is someone I keep a close eye upon, as I know many years ago she was a close friend of Lady Mary and I know well she supported the princess dowager over myself. She wears her widow’s weeds and carries herself with a certain air of matronliness. She calls me ‘Your Majesty, but I see in her eyes when she speaks to me that she resents my rise. Still I know much of the actions Henry had done before her death had reduced her to poverty, along with her stepchildren. She wrote after her husband’s death recently begging to be restored to grace. I did so, but I still am not certain of her loyalty.

  I do know, however, she is a Protestant. I wonder at sending her to France, and I am considering removing her from the list of ladies and appointing her to Jane Grey’s care when she marries Edward instead. But I am not certain. I see lady Latimer acting rather gaily for a widow. I summon her to appear before me to ask of this.

  “Your Majesty.” Says Catherine Howard, my chief lady-in waiting. Perhaps I should call her Lady Culpepper now. She and Thomas Culpepper have been happily married for four years now, and she has borne him three children.

  “The Lady Latimer has arrived.” Catherine says. I order Lady Latimer to come in, and Lady Culpepper to leave. Lady Latimer is, in spite of her age, rather pretty. I have aged well myself. I believe not having as many pregnancies as the princess dowager spared me, yet I know I am growing older. I have spotted some grey hairs in my mirror. Lady Latimer is back. The black widow’s weeds against her blonde hair is especially stunning. I wonder, had Henry lived, along with the Seymour wench, would his eye have fallen upon this one too? She kneels before me, and I give her permission to speak.

  “My queen, am I to be sent to France with the Princess Elizabeth?” she asks.

  “I have been thinking upon that, Lady Latimer. I do not believe you would fare well in France.” I say. This is as much for her safety as a Protestant as it is for my own well-being to be able to watch and be certain of her motives.

  “I…” she says.

  “I believe you are of the Reformed Faith, Lady Latimer, are you not?” I ask. Slowly, she nods her head.

  “Yes, my queen.” She says. She trembles in fear, and I hold my hand out to soothe her.

  “Have no fear. I am not King Henry. My husband…” I begin. She interrupts me.

  “Was he truly your husband? The princess dowager, as you call her, was his wife until her death.” Lady Latimer says. I purse my lips. Lady Latimer is shaking.

  “I know you and others believe that.” I say.

  “Because it is true!” Lady Latimer says. “I grew up with the Princess Mary and Kate Willoughby, Maria de Salinas’s daughter. She was to have been Queen of England, as was her mother. Why did you do such a wicked thing and take the king’s wife from him?”

  She is bolder than I suspected. I pause and take a breath, composing myself. I then change the subject.

  “Lady Latimer, you are quite gay for a widow. Tell me.” I say.

  “I…” she says. “I love Thomas Seymour.

  This again! I am reminded of Jane asking me to marry William Dormer. Married to Thomas Seymour, and the Seymours, who slid away like snakes and hid like weasels after Henry died.

  “Do you want to marry him?” I ask.

  “I must do my duty to England.” Lady Latimer says.

  “What duty, Lady Latimer? You wish to be Lady Seymour, do you not?” I say.

  “What I wish…” Lady Latimer says.

  “Lady Latimer, you may speak freely. You already have. I know what you think of me, but I also have the power to grant you this marriage if you ask. All you need to do is ask, Lady Latimer, and I will be certain after the mourning period is over, you are Lady Seymour. Well?”

  “I… would be delighted. I’ve been married twice to men I did not know or even care for or love.”

  “Catherine Parr, that was your name?” I ask. She nods.

  “I was too.”

  “You… never loved the king?” she asks with a gasp.

  “No. I wanted to marry Henry Percy. Henry of England, though, had other ideas. You cannot completely consider me immoral, for I fended him off for many years. I would not be his mistress. Lady Latimer, tell me this —was it wicked of me to wait until he decided to make me his wife, or is it more wicked to be a man’s mistress?” I ask her. I am thinking of my sister, Mary, who is ill, dying, but not yet dead. Her lifestyle of being the mistress of kings got her nothing in the end but dying in obscurity.

  “I beg your pardon, Your Majesty.” Lady Latimer says. “And I thank you graciously. Please, I beg of you, do not make me go to France.”

  “I will not. But, I will keep you here at court for the next year.” I say. “Lady Latimer, does not Christ tell us he, and he alone, is the judge of our soul?”

  “He does.” She says. She smiles a bit, and I can tell her heart is opening to me and, in spite of myself, mine to her.

  “We are sisters in Christ. I have had many years as Regent to think about my part in the King’s Great Matter, Catherine Parr. If I had to do it over, I would be kinder to Katharine and Mary.”

  “I must ask one thing —did you have a hand in the deaths of either of them?” she asked.

  “No. Mary died of the Sweat and Katharine likely of a broken heart. I am no murderess, no concubine, and no witch.” I say.

  “ A witch would not speak of our Lord like you do.” Catherine Parr says.

  “Indeed. Now, I ask you to leave. I must meet with the ambassador from Spain. Never a pleasant thing for me.” I say.

  Catherine opens her mouth to speak, then closes it, but asks if she might stay. I first wonder at her boldness, but then a chill comes through me and I feel she should stay.

  “Yes. But only this one time.”

  It turns out perhaps it was God guiding Catherine Parr to ask to stay with me. The Spanish ambassador came and tried to present me with some new food they had from the Americas. It was a potato, he claimed, and he wanted me to eat it. But I noticed his own reluctance to touch it, as did Catherine Parr. I was about to take a bite, but Catherine Parr noticed some powder on the pewter plate, and she asked the Spaniard, ‘Messier Chapuys, if this is such a blessed fruit from the New World, why do you not share it with the queen? In fact, to show her desire for your friendship, she will let you have the first bite.”

&nb
sp; I marvel at Parr’s boldness, but then I notice the Spanish ambassador’s hesitation to touch it.

  “You are no friend of England, I think. Take your wretched potato, as you call it, elsewhere.” I order, and send him from my sight.

  “Are you well?” Catherine Parr asks when he leaves. To be certain, I feed the potato to my dog, Purkoy, a pup I have had for many years. He eats it and dies and I cradle his body.

  “Better the pup than myself.” I say, but I weep for Purkoy in my chambers that night. So, Catherine Parr nearly saved me from death despite the fact she initially did not wish to have me? I pray about keeping her, not in Jane or Elizabeth’s retinue, but in my own. She is a clever woman and had she not noticed that powder, perhaps I may not be alive to write this. Still, I wonder about this ‘potato’ that was brought to me. It seems a food that the poor could eat, and with the challenge of famines, I begin to think of ways to have Edward implement a policy to help the starving so they do not steal.

  In the meantime, Edward, being ten, is now taking care of some of the matters of Parliament himself. But I am still queen regent. The months pass, and I continue to hear of my sister’s health from Catherine Knollys. It has indeed moved from ‘sickness’ to ‘last sickness.’ I wonder if I should go to her and travel in the countryside. After spending time in prayer, I decide to do so. So, I take myself, Henry, Edward, and Elizabeth into the countryside on a royal train. We will visit my dying sister. I will also use this to show Elizabeth and Henry what happens to those of high rank who choose poorly.

  When the train stops outside of the cottage, I am shocked by the conditions of the area. Outside was a squalid area. Little boys relieved themselves into the grass with no regard for any propriety. I inhaled deeply and Elizabeth followed me. I knocked on the door of this thatched cottage.

  “Open in the name of Edward VI, King of England, and his mother, the regent Anne Boleyn!” I ordered. The wooden door opened, creaking as it did so. At my feet stood a small girl, not much younger than Elizabeth.

  “Hullo.” She said. Inside was the heavy scent of death and illness. It was a hot summer day, and the cottage was wretchedly hot. Elizabeth asked if she could go back into the carriage to fan herself, but I told her and Jane Grey they must observe this lesson. I gasped to see Mary lying on a straw mat. She seemed abandoned by all, and was moaning in pain.