The Last Wífe of Henry VIII

by Carolly Erickson

  Kate was the very youthful bride of King Henry’s closest friend Charles Brandon, who like the king was aging rapidly, his once muscular and athletic frame now bulky and cumbersome and his face jowly and wrinkled. Kate sympathized with me, a much younger woman marrying an elderly man; she knew the tediums and deprivations such a marriage entailed, and had lightened my hours of wedding preparation by laughing with me over our mutual burden.

  My bridegroom, massive and dominant as he stood before the altar in his doublet of gleaming cloth of gold, his balding head bare out of respect for his surroundings, leaning for support against the altar rail, smiled broadly at me as he watched me approach. In me, he believed, he had what he wanted. I would complete his life, and give it ease and peace.

  “You will be my last wife, Cat,” he had often told me as the day of our wedding came closer. “You will be the wife I should have had from the beginning. The one who will give me lasting happiness in every way.”

  I saw the contentment on his round face, and tried to mirror it as I let go of Will’s arm and took my place beside Henry. Together we stood before the beetle-browed, hook-nosed Bishop Gardiner, who regarded us without enthusiasm and began to read the service in his rather high-pitched tenor voice.

  He spoke the words in English—the language of the reform worship—not Latin, the tongue of the Roman faith. Yet in most other respects Bishop Gardiner was a traditionalist, skeptical of all innovation in matters of belief and highly vocal in his loud denunciation of gospellers such as myself who tended to question church authority and seek answers in the Scriptures.

  It had been Bishop Gardiner who expressly forbade all women from reading the Bible, lest they presume to form judgments of their own and challenge the views of men—specifically, the views of the clergy. Women were inherently sinful, as everyone knew; as daughters of Eve, who led Adam astray into wicked disobedience and so brought about the fall of mankind, women ought not to profane the Scriptures by their vain studying and conjecturing about the truths of faith.

  Reluctantly, the bishop had conceded that noblewomen like myself could, when alone, peruse the gospels, as long as they did not attempt to read to others or teach them. Yet whenever Bishop Gardiner and I encountered one another (which was rarely, as I avoided him as much as I could), I thought I detected disapproval in his eyes, for he knew that I not only read the Scriptures but held discussions about them with other women, and had I not enjoyed the king’s special favor and protection, I would most likely have felt the force of the bishop’s wrath.

  “Does anyone here present know of any reason why this man and this woman may not lawfully be joined in matrimony? If so, speak now, or forever hereafter hold your peace!”

  The words rang out sharp and clear in the echoing chapel.

  Tom, I thought. Tom knows plenty of reasons. But of course he will say nothing.

  I thought of the anxious hour, five days earlier, when I had been forced to swear, on oath, that I had been pure during my two marriages and that I had never known any man but my two husbands. The oath was necessary, Henry told me. It was the law; any woman who married into the royal family would have to take it.

  I hated to lie—yet of course I dared not admit that Tom was my lover. If I did I would be guilty of treason, for deceiving the king and agreeing to become his wife while deceiving him. I would be no better than Catherine Howard, and like Catherine, I would surely be executed.

  I held my breath anxiously. The moment passed.

  “Henry Tudor, do you take unto wife this woman here present, Catherine Parr Burgh Neville?”

  “Yes!” The king’s response was quick and so loud he almost shouted.

  “Catherine Parr Burgh Neville, do you take unto husband this man here present, Henry Tudor?”

  “Yea.”

  We joined hands, repeated our vows, and then I felt the wedding ring slip onto my finger.

  It was done.

  Even at a court known throughout Christendom for its lavish banquets, our wedding banquet was a feast to rival all feasts.

  “This is my last bridal banquet,” Henry said to me, taking my hand and kissing my wedding ring. “I want it to be my best.”

  He waved in the first course and all the guests gasped at the sight of huge Muscovy salmon, as long as a man’s leg, carried in on large silver trays. Larks in ambergris were followed by three suckling pigs, roasted whole, and jellied galantines, stewed sparrows and haggis (a horrid dish I could never force myself to eat, though John had loved it and we often served it at Snape Hall).

  On and on the massive trays of food were brought in and set before us, while grooms served canary wine and sack, claret and malmsey.

  My viol players from Modena played lively gigues and stately allemandes, sweet serenades and some music of the king’s own composition, which everyone took note of and politely applauded. The boys of the royal chapel performed, as did my fool Ippolyta the Tartarian, her fat, doll-like face painted thickly with white lead and her lips crimsoned with madder, who joked endlessly about the wedding night to come and sang and whirled about in a vigorous Russian dance.

  We were at table for over three hours, and midway in that long siege of gluttony the wedding gifts were brought in at the king’s request and shown off to the guests. There was gold and silver plate in abundance, each piece a gem of fine craftsmanship, and drinking glasses with gold rims and goblets of pewter from the Rhineland—a gift from the former queen Anne of Cleves. From the French court came multicolored tapestries representing the Judgment of Paris. (“An ominous gift,” Henry muttered. “Are you supposed to be Helen of Troy, Cat? And are we going to war with the French?”)

  For me there were many treasures: embroidered petticoats and white gloves trimmed in leather, silk and gold thread, bracelets of rubies and sapphires from Goa, jeweled scent bottles and silk cushions with my initials outlined in mother of pearl.

  From among these beautiful ornaments I chose a pair of jeweled slippers and handed them to Lady Mary, a bodice of silk damask for Lady Elizabeth and a pair of ivory combs and a gold bodkin for Margaret. All three rose from their benches and came to kneel before me to thank me for their gifts.

  Prince Edward, sitting next to his father, had seemed subdued throughout the evening. He stared down at his plate, which was heaped with food, and could not be coaxed into laughter by Will, who usually amused him greatly. However, when the prince caught sight of one of my many gifts—a crossbow ornately decorated in silver—he fixed his attention on it.

  “Stepmother,” he called out to me in his reedy small voice, “since you are sharing your gifts, I should like you to share this one with me.”

  I was caught off guard. The crossbow was a gift to me from the king, something I had been coveting for many months, made by a master armorer, Giles Bateson. The king had ordered Bateson to create the bow especially for me, to fit my size and strength. The thought of parting with it both saddened and vexed me.

  “Stepmother!” The reedy voice came again. A hush fell. The wedding guests were listening. Even the viol players, sensing the tension in the room, let their instruments fall silent. “Did you not hear my request?”

  “Yes, Neddy,” the king said to the prince, hugging him. “You shall have it—and anything else you want. What about a new pony?”

  “Uncle Tom brought me one from Hungary.”

  “A dog then. One of my bitch pointers. You like dogs, I know you do.”

  “I have ten dogs. I want the crossbow. And the case, and the strings. Everything.” He folded his thin arms across his narrow chest and stared at me.

  “Have you ever hunted with a crossbow, Edward?” I asked. “Most boys can’t draw the bow until they are nine or ten—and you are only six. Here, let me show you.” I got up from my chair, took the beautiful crossbow with its inlay of etched silver from the servant who held it and went around to Edward on the other side of the table.

  “Now then, stand up and see whether you can hold the bow, and pull
the trigger.” I held the heavy crossbow out to him but he made no move to take it. Instead he turned on his bench, deliberately turning his back to me, and motioned to the gentleman attendant nearby. “Take the thing to my rooms.”

  I wanted to chastise him for bad manners but I bit my tongue. He was the future king. I handed the crossbow to the attendant and, with as much dignity as I could manage, returned to my seat, aware that everyone was watching me.

  Henry, apparently oblivious to the exchange, was eating stork pie and pears in clotted cream. Sensing the uncomfortable silence, he looked up from his plate.

  “Where are the rest of the gifts? Bring them in.”

  The gifts were brought, the talk resumed. Gradually the former mood of pleasure was restored, and the eating, talking and drinking went on with interludes for dancing and masquing, until it was time for Henry and me to retire to our bed. We did so amid a chorus of bawdy comments and rude noises, jokes that made me blush and showers of rice that rained down on my lovely dress, caught in my hair and disappeared into the fresh green rushes under my cork-heeled shoes.

  33

  WHEN I ENTERED OUR WEDDING CHAMBER, WEARING MY NEW nightgown of thin black satin with wide sleeves of Burgundian velvet and very aware that the king would be eagerly awaiting me, I found him burrowing beneath the pillows on the bed.

  “It’s a thigh bone of Saint Cuthbert,” he said, holding up a dark brown length of what looked like rotten wood and then placing it underneath one of the cushions. “It’s sure to make you fertile. There’s a finger of Saint Agatha under the mattress and I know of your devotion to Saint Agatha. I meant to put my relic of wood from the holy manger under your pillow but I can’t find it.”

  His words were slurred. He had drunk a good deal of wine and spirits at the wedding banquet, and he seemed unsteady as he walked to the immense stone hearth. An applewood fire had been kindled there, and the air in the room was sweet with its fragrance, though pungent smells from the kitchens on the floor below also drifted in from time to time.

  Henry was hanging a charm from the capstone of the hearth.

  “A sailor who rounded the horn sent me this. The heathens there believe it drives off evil spirits.”

  “What is it?”

  “A monkey’s claw, I think.”

  I made a face, and Henry held up a warning finger.

  “No use tempting fate on our wedding night.”

  My mother’s great bed with purple hangings had been prepared for us, the bed she left me in her will, piled with fur rugs and a costly coverlet trimmed with ermine. Soft candlelight and the red glow of the fire turned everything in the room a warm pinkish-orange.

  Henry, his wide bulk encased in a linen nightshirt, lay down on the bed, making it creak loudly, and looked at me. His gaze moved slowly down the length of the satin nightgown, then upward to my face, framed by the long cascade of my reddish-brown hair, which my chamberwomen had brushed until it glowed. His eyes grew heavy with desire.

  “Take off that gown, Cat. Slowly.”

  I reached up and unfastened the sleeves, one at a time, and drew the soft velvet down over each bare arm, letting it fall to the floor. As I undid each button of the satin bodice I heard the king sigh with satisfaction, until the bodice too lay on the flagstones at my feet.

  “Why, you’re still fresh as a girl, Cat. Such fine, dewy skin. Such a trim waist. Oh, your pretty little bosoms! Such pink little nipples, like a schoolgirl! Like a young wench from the dairy! Quick! Take off the rest!”

  I did so, until I stood naked before him, and heard his deep sigh of satisfaction.

  I stood still, letting him savor the look of me, seeing the dull glow of lust in his small eyes, the parting of his thin red lips. He was my sovereign, I knew I had to obey him. That was all I could think or feel. I was his to command.

  He beckoned to me, and I moved closer. He ran his hand slowly down from my waist along the curve of my hip, then across my smooth belly with its slight swell.

  “As soft as an angel’s skin,” he murmured. “Heavenly soft.”

  With the tips of his fingers he brushed the reddish hair that circled my woman’s cleft. I trembled.

  And I gagged. For in the next moment he pulled up his nightshirt to expose his enormous, wrinkled red-veined legs, with their hideous stinking sores, and the gush of putrid air that reached my nostrils was so foul that I nearly fainted. I saw that he had fastened scented pomanders around his ankles in hopes of counteracting the terrible stench, but I could not smell their rich, spicy scents at all. They were useless.

  “Sit astride me, Cat,” he said, his voice thick. “Ride me like you ride your speckled roan, when you bunch your skirts up and ride like a man.”

  I held my breath and climbed onto the bed and up atop him, avoiding looking at his diseased flesh, white and wasted, at his wrinkled neck and few remaining yellow teeth, at the sparse white-gray beard he had oiled to make it shine, at the rakish pearl he wore in one ear, a last vestige of his once youthful, virile manhood. I closed my eyes and reached for his small, soft penis, trying in vain to put it within me.

  “Pretend you are a virgin, Cat. You know how virgins excite me. Pretend you are a frightened young virgin who never had a man before, who is afraid—afraid—”

  His voice began to falter. I saw that his tired eyes were closing. The wine and the exertion were dragging him down into sleep. I could see that he was fighting to stay awake, willing himself to go on with his futile effort at lovemaking, trying to make himself talk for as long as he could, until at last the words would no longer come.

  He twitched, grunted, and then became still. In a moment he was snoring.

  Greatly relieved, I climbed off his reeking body and lay down at the far side of the bed, as far from him as I could get, and covered myself with a fur blanket. Laying my head on the pillow I felt something hard and unyielding that poked up under my cheek.

  Saint Cuthbert, I thought. Please forgive me, Saint Cuthbert, if I move your thigh.

  34

  THAT SUMMER, MY FIRST SUMMER AS QUEEN OF ENGLAND, WAS THE hottest anyone could remember. I sat with my ladies in the palace rose garden, sipping cool cider and fanning myself with the ivory fan Kate Brandon gave me for my wedding—a fan that was precious to me because it had belonged to Kate’s mother, and before that to the first Queen Catherine, Catherine of Aragon.

  I was idle. Everything was done for me, now that I was queen. My slightest wish, once expressed, was obeyed. People knelt to me (which, I confess, made me uncomfortable; I am only Cat, after all), no one except my family and closest intimates dared speak to me without permission. If I wanted a new gown or a new billiment, I had only to summon the dressmakers and jewelers and describe the thing I wanted; it was soon supplied.

  On long hot afternoons my ladies, Margaret, Anne Daintry and I went out on the river in my own royal barge, gilded and painted in bright red and blue and with a carving of a black panther, poised to strike, at the prow.

  The viol players serenaded us, servants brought us comfits and spiced wine and we sat, talking and drowsing, under the shade of an awning while the green shore drifted by.

  Henry grew restless in the heat and announced that we would go on an extended progress through the countryside. With a traveling party of fifty servants and a hundred carts heaped with bedding and furnishings, clothing and hunting gear, we set out on a hot July afternoon for the country.

  Our way led along dusty roads and through fields of parched crops. The haymaking was past but many cattle had died of thirst and the poppies and yellow hawkweed that ought to have been blooming in the meadows were nowhere to be seen; they had all perished under the searing sun. The hedgerows were withered and the trees drooped, dying slowly for want of rain.

  We settled in at a hunting lodge near the village of Dunham Oak and Henry rode out each morning with his huntsmen. He rode a big bay gelding that could carry his weight—with difficulty—if he didn’t try to ride him uphill. The effort exhaust
ed both man and horse. Yet Henry went out every day, in the brilliant sunshine, and did not return until he had killed a wagonload of game, most of which he had distributed to the villagers of Dunham Oak.

  He stopped sending the game, however, when he learned that there was plague in the village. I wanted to send herbal remedies at once (for plague can sometimes be cured, if the sufferer is strong and the herbs are taken as soon as the first symptoms appear) but my husband stopped me.

  “No!” he said. “Let the dead bury their dead, as it says in the Scriptures. We will stay as far from Dunham Oak as we can.”

  I was horrified to learn that he actually sent a troop of guardsmen into the village to collect every single person afflicted with plague, even the babies, and to lay them out in the dry fields to await death. No one was allowed to come near them, and their pitiful cries, as I learned later, were truly heartrending, especially the wails of the infants.

  “How could you?” were the only words I could choke out when I learned what Henry had done. (He had given orders that the truth be kept from me until after the plague victims were dead and buried.) “How could you, a Christian, withhold charity from those poor people?”

  “Compose yourself, woman!”

  They were the first harsh words he had spoken to me since our marriage, and they startled me into silence.

  “What would you have had me do?” he barked. “Would you rather we had nursed the poor wretches while they died, and caught the plague ourselves, and died along with them? What good would that have done? Think sensibly. It was necessary for a few to die so that many could escape death.”