The Last Wífe of Henry VIII

by Carolly Erickson

  So that you could escape death, I wanted to say. So that you would feel safe. Never mind others. Only you matter to yourself.

  “Cruelty is always wrong,” I said. “Jesus was never cruel.”

  “Jesus was never King of England.”

  I had no answer to that, and so our quarrel was broken off. But for weeks there was an uneasiness between us, and I knew that, in his heart of hearts, Henry recognized that what he did was wrong, and his conscience troubled him.

  Word rapidly spread of what the king had done in Dunham Oaks, and there were murmurs of discontent. The king was evil, people whispered. It was his wickedness that brought on England the wrath of God, and God’s punishment, the drought. Old prophecies about the Mouldwarp were revived, prophecies that had been repeated at the time of the Northern Rebellion. Alarmed, Henry gave orders to local officials that anyone overheard slandering the king should be executed. But these orders, and the fears they provoked, only led to more whispering, more rumors, and more discontent.

  To evade the atmosphere of criticism we went north, hurrying past villages where fresh trenches had been dug to receive the bodies of those who died of plague. There were feral dogs on the roads, savage and masterless, and orphaned children (it pained me to see them) and clusters of ragged-looking laborers in search of work.

  “It can’t be helped,” Henry said. “The sickness disrupts everything. Every summer it is the same. The plague comes, people die, crops are neglected, and when harvest season comes, there is no work.” He sighed and crossed himself. “Lord deliver us from the pestilence.”

  We were to meet Mary, Elizabeth and Edward—each one of the royal children brought from his or her separate residence—at Ashridge for a prolonged visit.

  “They irk me, Cat,” Henry admitted as our carriage entered the courtyard of the great house. “Edward is frail and reminds me of the loss of my dear Jane. Mary is a stubborn papist, like her mother. And as for the Witch’s Brat—” he made a gesture of vexation. “The worst of it is, she’s the only one that has the brains and the stomach to be a true king’s child.”

  We sat down to supper and were joined by Edward, sullen and pale, Elizabeth, subdued and nervous, and Mary, composed and glad to see her father. There were awkward silences during the first courses, but then I called in my fool Ippolyta the Tartarian and soon we were laughing together, and Mary, who could be quite witty and loved to make puns, was challenging Ippolyta with riddles and learning the steps of a Russian dance from her.

  After supper we played hazard until quite late and let Edward win, as he always sulked when he lost.

  The next day I took the girls hawking (Henry would not allow me to ride, lest I damage my womb) and afterwards we fed the hawks with horehound water and rhubarb. Henry took Edward out to shoot deer and then, while Henry napped, the rest of us picnicked.

  Each day we found more to do—gathering the few small strawberries we could find among the dead and dying weeds, watching the farmers bind the grain in preparation for threshing, wading in the shallow streams for relief from the August heat. Gradually Edward seemed to gain color in his cheeks, to lose some of his affected hauteur and become a happy six-year-old. Mary thrived, though she annoyed her father by hearing mass—a privilege he reluctantly granted her—and saying the rosary each night for the soul of her mother.

  “Let’s gather some herbs to fill the pouncet box,” I said to Elizabeth one afternoon when we found ourselves alone. I had bought her a lovely silver box with a domed, perforated lid meant to hold aromatic herbs and flowers; when worn at the waist, it was believed to guard the wearer against the plague.

  Putting on our wide hats to shelter our complexions from the sun, we walked through the fields collecting plants. Elizabeth was very quiet at first, and we exchanged few words. But after a time she spoke.

  “Mary says they are looking for a husband for her. The old men I mean. My father’s advisers and secretaries.”

  “Yes, I imagine they are.”

  “There won’t be any wedding for me, I know.”

  “Not until you are older, dear.”

  “Not even then.” Her small face with its intelligent eyes and pointed chin was grave and thoughtful as she looked up at me. “No one will want me. Because of my wicked mother.”

  “Your very unfortunate mother.”

  “Did you know her?” Her voice was timid.

  “Yes—a little.”

  “Tell me what she was really like. No one will talk to me about her. They won’t even say her name.”

  “Anne. There. I said it. Queen Anne. Your father called her Brownie, did you know that?”

  Elizabeth shook her head, a small smile dispelling her seriousness.

  “Men were always drawn to her. She was compelling. The portrait-painters could never quite capture her charm.”

  “My father ordered all her portraits burned. But my aunt Mary saved one and had it sent to me.”

  She reached into a purse that hung from her belt and brought out a silver locket. She opened it and showed me the two pictures inside. One was a miniature of Anne, the other of a young boy.

  “Who is that?” I asked, indicating the boy.

  “My sweet Robin. Robin Dudley. We were born on the same day. We are pledged to each other. Don’t tell anyone.”

  Now it was my turn to smile. I remembered a boy I had known many years ago, a distant Fitzhugh cousin. How intensely I had loved him when I was not much older than Elizabeth. How I had dreamed that we would be together always.

  “I won’t. I promise.”

  We had nearly filled our baskets with rose petals, forget-me-nots, wild thyme and hartshorn when we heard shouting. I looked up and saw, over the hedge, my husband making his way with surprising speed in our direction. He walked with the aid of a tall golden staff, and he was clearly agitated.

  “Cat! Cat! Come quickly! Edward’s been taken ill! He needs a plaster for his chest. Hurry!”

  I dropped my basket and ran back at once toward the house, leaving Henry and Elizabeth to follow along behind.

  I had seen Edward’s sudden crises before, and they were truly alarming. A high fever made his normally pale face brick-red. His breathing became shallow and he started to choke and cough. Eventually he collapsed into a helpless, gasping heap on the floor and flailed his arms and legs so violently that no one could go near him. Once he reached that stage there was nothing anyone could do but pray, and wait for him to faint so that he could be put to bed.

  As I ran toward the house I thought, what can I do? There’s no time to prepare a plaster. What will calm him? What will restore his breathing?

  Lavender. Lavender will relax him. And for his chest—what? I remembered Will telling me that when our mother’s health was failing, and she was having trouble breathing, it helped her to go into the old Roman baths near his estate where hot water gushed from an underground spring and vapor rose in dense clouds.

  The kitchens, I thought. We’ll get him down into the kitchens where cauldrons are kept boiling and steam rises in clouds.

  I hurried to where Edward lay, coughing and choking. The three physicians who constantly accompanied him stood in a half-circle around him, staring at him and looking extremely frightened.

  “Quick!” I shouted to a strong-looking footman. “Take him to the kitchens!”

  My orders were followed and the footman ran with the prince in his arms into the large, smoky room where whole calves and piglets were turning slowly on spits. A vat of broth was bubbling in the center of the room.

  “Take him there,” I said, pointing to the huge black cauldron from which steam rose in a thick mist. “Hold him in the steam.”

  Struggling, protesting, Edward fought for breath while the footman did as I bade him. The heat of the steam frightened him at first, but as he breathed it in, and began to feel relief in his painful chest, he let the vapor do its healing work. His coughing eased, he began to draw deeper and deeper breaths.

  My own
relief was immense. What if Edward had choked to death? Henry’s wrath and frustration—somehow I did not imagine that he would feel much grief, he had been accustomed for so long to the likelihood of the boy’s death—would surely have been monumental. I did not want to face that storm of emotion.

  But Edward was not only alive, and drawing breath more easily. He was speaking to me, in a low rasping voice, almost a whisper.

  “Stepmother, I’m sorry,” he was saying.

  “Don’t talk, dear. Rest your voice. You’re going to be all right now.”

  “I broke the crossbow. You were right. It was too big for me. I threw it down and it broke.”

  “We’ll get you another one.”

  “I broke it. God is punishing me.”

  He closed his eyes, exhausted from the fearful exertion he had been through, and I sang him a lullaby as he dropped off to sleep.

  35

  AH, SO PALE,” SAID THE SLEEK, MOUSTACHIOED DUKE OF NAJERA AS HE took my hand to kiss. “I trust your majesty is not in poor health.”

  “I confess that I am in indifferent health, milord duke,” was my response. I took note of the Spanish nobleman’s keen brown eyes that swept down the length of my gown, lingering at the region of my belly. I had become accustomed to being scrutinized. Everyone was watching for the least sign that I might be pregnant.

  “May we hope that this indisposition betokens the arrival of an heir?” His tone was polite and his words formal, but the question was overly bold, even rude. He presumed too much. Just because he was the emissary of the Emperor Charles V, and charged with a very important mission to our court, he imagined that he could ask me bold questions and ignore the ordinary rules of courtesy.

  “Milord, you forget yourself,” said my friend and lady-in-waiting Kate Brandon, coming to my rescue. “The queen’s health is a matter of state and cannot be talked of lightly.”

  In truth I was not feeling at all well, though I did not dare absent myself from the grand reception we were holding to welcome the Duke of Najera. My stomach was so upset that I tasted bile in my throat, and when I walked I felt dizzy, as if I had drunk too much wine.

  I was nervous, because I knew that my husband intended to declare to all the guests, and most especially to the duke, that he intended to turn over to me the task of governing the kingdom.

  Henry was going to war. He was about to invade France, and would be away leading the army for many months. In his absence I would be his deputy, as regent in his stead. And if he died—as well he might, given the rigors of campaigning and the condition of his seriously infected legs—then I would be regent during Prince Edward’s minority, a weighty responsibility indeed, and one that others would envy greatly.

  I was also nervous out of sheer excitement, for while Henry was away I would be able to see much more of Tom, and if we were careful, we would be able to enjoy many blissful hours together.

  I saw that the king, who was in high spirits, had thrown one arm around the slight little duke’s shoulders and was leading him back in my direction.

  “Do you know what they say about the emperor?” Henry was saying, his face merry. “That he speaks four languages. He speaks Spanish to God, Italian to women, French to men and German to his horse!” He laughed, a hearty, throaty, young man’s laugh, ebullient and uninhibited. And the duke, who had no doubt heard the old joke about the emperor and his four languages hundreds of times, managed a pained smile.

  “Did you know that my wife,” Henry went on as the two men neared me, “speaks four languages too? English to me, French to the diplomats and the dancing-master, Greek to the scholars and Latin to the clerks. I don’t know what language she speaks to her horse.” He guffawed. “In all seriousness, she is a very wise and learned lady, is she not? As wise as she is beautiful.”

  He looked at me with satisfaction, and the duke followed his gaze. I was indeed the star of the court in those early months of our marriage—and the object of much envy. Only a few weeks earlier the king had made me the richest woman in the realm by granting me all the many valuable lands Queen Anne Boleyn and the second Queen Catherine had once owned, plus a number of estates and castles that had been confiscated from traitors to the crown. (Was there blood on my hands as I accepted these gifts? I shuddered to think so, yet I could not refuse them.)

  My relatives had all been elevated in status. Will became Earl of Essex, taking the title Anne Daintry’s late father had held. My uncle William became Lord Parr of Horton. And my proud sister Nan received ten manors and an increase in wealth from her husband’s appointment as one of the commanders of the coming campaign.

  We Parrs were all indeed to be envied, and I most of all. How I wished that my dear mother had lived to see our prosperity and power! Yet I was uneasy in spirit, and my stomach churned as my husband and our guest of honor came nearer.

  The duke was smiling. An ingratiating smile, I thought. A false smile. I did not trust him. But then, are diplomats ever to be trusted? He had come to our court for one purpose: to make the final plans, with the English commanders, for the invasion of France. The emperor’s soldiers and the English soldiers had to coordinate their strategies, and to ensure that they would have enough provisions and arms ready when the campaign began. And, of course, to ensure that the bond between our court and the imperial court remained strong, with no petty enmities or misunderstandings arising to threaten it.

  “I have been waiting until your arrival, milord duke, to make an important announcement,” Henry now said. “It is my decision that during my time away from this realm, my trusted spouse Queen Catherine will reign in my stead.”

  A murmur of surprise ran through the room. The duke raised his eyebrows, but said nothing.

  “But sire”—it was Bishop Gardiner’s high voice, raised in protest—“it would be unseemly to confer so significant a responsibility on a mere woman.”

  “Queen Catherine of Aragon was regent for me when I fought in France years ago.”

  “If I may say so, sire, Queen Catherine was much more experienced in governmental matters, having been brought up at the court of her illustrious mother Queen Isabella of Castile. And as I recall, there were some on the royal council who objected to Queen Catherine’s regency.”

  “All objectors were silenced—as they will be now.” My husband looked at the bishop, who met his gaze unflinchingly.

  “We of your majesty’s council are charged with the responsibility of advising your majesty on all important questions.”

  “And you will be consulted as needed.”

  Now Bishop Gardiner glared at me, and I ignored him. I saw, out of the corner of my eye, that he was fidgeting and growing red in the face. Attempting to compose himself, but still agitated, the bishop spoke up once again.

  “This warmaking! It will cost the earth! I’m sure our distinguished guest from Spain will agree with me,” he went on, hoping to gain some sign of allegiance from the duke, who studiously avoided giving any such sign. “All those barrels of flour and bales of hay, all those carts and wagons, and the horses! Where will you find enough horses? They have to be shod, you know. You will have to carry thousands of horseshoes and the nails to fasten them on with. No one ever thinks of these details. Of how many different sizes of horseshoes are needed, and how many different kinds of nails.”

  “Apparently you do, milord bishop,” I said, suddenly interested in Bishop Gardiner’s catalog of complaints. Could he be useful to the army? “Have you any experience of supplying armies?”

  “My father and uncle were provisioners to King Henry VII, I grew up with the trade, before I took holy orders.”

  “Well then, let us enroll you as a purveyor of armor and armaments. The king was just telling me yesterday that we lack cuirasses and Flemish halberds. Can you find us suppliers for these among the London armorers? Your clerical duties could be handed over to others for the duration of the campaign, couldn’t they? You would of course remain a member of the royal council.”
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br />   “You see!” Henry cried. “Isn’t she splendid! She thinks of everything.” He patted my arm lovingly, brimming over with praise.

  Bishop Gardiner, more uncomfortable than ever, was at a loss for words.

  “We will count on your help,” I said to the bishop at length, and in response he gave me such an icy, furious look that it made my blood run cold.

  “And I on yours,” was his cool reply. “There is something of importance I have been meaning to bring to your attention.” He spoke loudly enough so that all those around us could hear—except my husband, who had left my side and was talking with Charles Brandon. The Duke of Najera had also wandered away, and was talking to two of my maids of honor.

  “I believe there is in your household a woman of ill repute,” the bishop said. “She must be removed.”

  “You are mistaken.”

  “I refer to the laundress who has taken the name Anne Daintry.”

  Now I was the one at a loss for words. Questions whirled in my mind. How had the bishop discovered Anne? And why was he using her to exert his power over me? Was it because of my appointment as the king’s wartime deputy? What else did the bishop know? Did he know that Tom and I loved each other, and that the oath of marital purity I swore before I married the king was false?

  I was trembling. I could not keep my voice from shaking as I answered.

  “The lady you mean is my friend. She is married and has four children, all of whom are in my household and under my protection.”

  “She has dishonored her marriage vows and her presence in your household is scandalous and reflects poorly on your own moral character.”

  “Jesus befriended Mary Magdalene. I may befriend Anne Daintry.”

  “Are you comparing yourself to Our Lord and Saviour?”

  “I am attempting to follow his example, as should you, lord bishop, in showing forgiveness and compassion.”

  “I have the cure of souls. It is my mandate from the Lord to reprove sin.”

  “Judge not, that ye be not judged. Matthew 7:1.”