The Last Wífe of Henry VIII

by Carolly Erickson

  “Uncle Tom, you promised to take me to see where the cannons are made. Did you forget?” Crestfallen, the king looked up pleadingly into his uncle’s face.

  “No, your majesty, I didn’t forget. Other people delayed me.” He glared at the Protector, who was looking down at the king, his former ferocity replaced by a mask of feigned welcome.

  King Edward looked from one to the other. “You’ve been fighting again, haven’t you? I can tell. I don’t like it when you fight.”

  “The important thing is, your majesty, we both want what is best for you.” The Protector’s tone was unctuous, his smile ingratiating. Edward ignored him and turned back to Tom.

  “Will you take me now?”

  Instead of answering Tom reached out for the slim small boy-king and swung him up on his shoulders. “I’m ready at your command, sire,” Tom said.

  “I command you then, take me to see the cannons.”

  Trusting that his brother would not dare to countermand a royal order, Tom made his way toward the doors, with a beaming Edward riding on his shoulders. Catching sight of me as he passed, Tom called out casually, “Come along, Cat. I’ll take you to see the guns.”

  “Yes, stepmother. Come with us.”

  And without a backward glance I followed where Tom led, alarmed by the scene I had just witnessed, nervous about what had happened between Tom and Elizabeth, determined to find out just what my volatile, forceful, exasperating lover was really up to.

  46

  I SENT THE PORTERESS OUT TO WAIT FOR TOM AT THE SMALL LODGE GATE of my gardens at Chelsea, the gate that no one used, and that was half hidden under an overgrown clump of lilac. It was barely dawn, the first faint pink light was reflected in the steel-gray river and I had been up for an hour, fretting over what we would say to one another when he arrived.

  We had agreed to meet in secret, at my manor house, and we had made a pact that he would stay no longer than an hour or two. This would be the first time in a week that we would be entirely alone, and able to talk candidly. When Tom took Edward and me to the foundry, a huge hot room where muscular men, their faces blackened from ash and soot, tended blazing fires and steaming ovens, there had been no chance for conversation. The pounding of heavy mallets and the scraping of metal against metal had made talk impossible, and in any case we could not speak openly of personal things in front of the boy.

  Now, however, we were sure to be alone and undisturbed.

  I stood at the open window, watching the fields beyond the garden grow visible in the pinkish light. A fine mist hung over everything, veiling the garden, but as the sky lightened the mist dissolved, leaving the air fresh and sweet with the scent of new-mown grass and the fragrance of the herb garden I had planted along the south-facing wall.

  I heard the faint click of the latch and knew that the porteress was letting Tom in.

  I watched him coming along the path, between the dark yews and the paler hedges newly in leaf, his long loping stride full of vigor. He held a bunch of blue cornflowers, no doubt gathered in the course of his progress through the fields. He handed the flowers to me once he was in the house.

  I took them and he hugged me, nearly crushing the flowers, and kissed me on the cheek. Releasing me he tore off his coat and flung it carelessly down as he always did. His linen shirt, open at the neck, was sweat-stained and his boots were muddy from his tramp through the fields. He lounged against a table, a half-grin on his handsome face.

  “Tom,” I began, but he interrupted me.

  “Have you any ale, Cat? I’ve had a thirsty walk.”

  I went to the door and called one of the servants, telling her to bring ale and a manchet loaf.

  “Tom,” I began again, “tell me what happened the night you and Elizabeth went out on the barge.”

  “Elizabeth and I and that clucking hen Mistress Ashley and about fifty other people, you mean.”

  “What other people?”

  Tom looked at me, a little sullenly as I thought. “Do you know how many people it takes to row a barge? But of course you do, you have one of your own.”

  “Were you alone with her?”

  Tom shrugged. “Hardly at all. You know how Ashley hovers. Besides, Edward was supposed to be there. It was all his idea. A secret escape on the river. An adventure. Only at the last minute he got sick and couldn’t come.”

  “You were out all night.”

  He chuckled. “We were stranded for a long time on a sandbar. We had to wait for the tide to come in to free us. The pilot was very chagrined.”

  “When she came home Elizabeth was half drunk.”

  “Ashley gave her a strong posset. She got cold. The posset warmed her, so Ashley gave her another one.”

  “Tom, why was it all so secret? I would never have found out if one of her bedchamber women hadn’t confessed where the princess had gone.”

  Tom stood up and went to the window. After a moment he spoke.

  “I didn’t want you to know. I didn’t want to worry you. So I didn’t tell you.”

  “You have worried me far more by saying nothing.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  A jug of ale was brought, and mugs and a loaf with a knife to cut it. Tom ate and drank with a good appetite. I didn’t feel hungry. I watched him eat, holding back from saying any more until he had finished. All that he said made perfect sense, I told myself. I had no reason to distrust him. And yet . . .

  “Tom, I think Elizabeth is infatuated with you.”

  He wiped his mouth on a linen napkin before answering. “Of course she is. How old is she? Thirteen? Fourteen? Girls are always in love at that age—unless they are excessively pious.”

  “It worries me.”

  “Why?” The look he gave me was one of genuine innocence.

  “You can easily imagine why.”

  “No Cat, I can’t. I belong to you, and you alone. No silly girl and her passing whim is likely to sway me, or tempt me.”

  “Not even when she is a royal heiress? With much wealth in lands and estates adjoining yours?”

  He had not been expecting that. For a brief moment he blanched, then recovered. He poured himself another mug of ale from the jug and drank deeply, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

  “You’ve been talking to Parry.” There was silence for the space of a heartbeat or two. Then, “And thinking the worst of me.” He looked at me reproachfully. He reached for my hand and led me to the window-seat. We sat down there side by side, my hand still in his.

  “Cat, I want you to listen to me. This is important. Edward wants Elizabeth to marry. I was his first choice to be her husband, but I told him very firmly that my heart belonged to someone else. Then he wanted her to marry the King of Denmark’s brother, who agreed to come and live in England once they were wed. Before the marriage could be discussed, the king demanded to know what lands Elizabeth held and how much wealth she had in coin and jewels and income from her tenants and her patents. I was given the task of writing up an inventory of all her possessions and income to be sent to the Danish court.

  “Naturally I went to Parry, who told me what I needed to know. But I couldn’t tell him the real reason for my queries. It had to be kept secret until the betrothal was announced.”

  He patted my hand reassuringly, and I admit that, listening to him, I felt much better.

  “When will the betrothal be announced?”

  “Ah! Alas, it is not to be.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because the King of Denmark’s brother died.”

  “Truly?”

  Tom nodded solemnly.

  “His ship went down in a storm in the Kattegat, and all his serving men and sailors were drowned with him.”

  There was nothing to be said to this. I crossed myself and silently prayed for the souls of the dead.

  Tom moved closer to me and looked down at the floor. “The worst of it is, Cat, that Edward will probably order me to marry Elizabeth now. Or my brother will force
me into a marriage I don’t want, just to get rid of me. Let’s put an end to all these threats to our happiness, once and for all. Will you marry me, Cat? Now, quickly, before anyone can stop us?”

  I kissed him then, and he kissed me back, strongly and sweetly, and all my doubts fled like the shadows at daybreak.

  “I will,” I said.

  We smiled at one another, a delightfully conspiratorial smile.

  “Let’s have the wedding here, in this garden. Just the two of us, and the priest, and a notary.”

  “And Margaret can be my matron of honor.”

  “Soon.”

  “As soon as it can be arranged.”

  Tom stood up, pulled me to my feet, and hugged me. When he released me his face shone.

  “Oh, Cat, won’t my brother be furious! But that only makes the thought all the sweeter!”

  47

  ALL THE BIRDS IN THE GARDEN WERE SINGING ON THE MORNING TOM and I were married, and I felt that my heart would burst from happiness.

  I had waited so long for this day, hoped and prayed for so long that one day we would say our vows and from then on be husband and wife forever. The joy I felt was so great I could never find words to contain it, but anyone who has longed and yearned for years for some precious thing, and finally finds that precious thing within their grasp, will read these words and understand.

  When I felt Tom put the gold wedding band on my finger, I knew it was real at last. He was mine and I was his. Only death could separate us.

  At first only a few people knew that we were married, for I kept on living in my Chelsea house and Tom kept his household at Sudeley and in his London mansion. But after a few weeks Tom told the world—by which I mean, of course, the court—that I was his wife and then our troubles began.

  Tom and I were blissfully happy when alone, but when we appeared together heads turned and there were whispers of condemnation and disapproval. I was the king’s widow, it was said. I ought to wear mourning for at least a year, and ought not to even think of remarrying for at least two years, if not longer. There were those who said that a dowager queen should never remarry at all, especially a dowager queen who had had three husbands already! Behind my back and sometimes, quite brazenly, to my face I was called a wanton woman, a schemer, even an adulteress, dishonoring my royal husband’s memory.

  In the beginning Tom and I laughed over these carping complaints, and I dealt with the hissing rudeness and insults by picking up my skirts and moving away from the offenders. But when Tom’s brother the Protector and the Protector’s poisonous wife became my chief critics, the assaults on my dignity grew harder to bear.

  One afternoon I discovered a group of men in my bedchamber, going through my chests and wardrobes, while my bedchamber women wept and wrung their hands and my ladies-in-waiting protested loudly and demanded that the pillaging stop.

  “What is going on here? Stop what you are doing at once and answer me,” I said when I entered the room.

  “We are here on orders from the Protector. We are to take back the jewels you received from our late sovereign King Henry,” said one of the men, who continued to rummage through one of my large chests as he spoke.

  “Kneel when you speak to me, and address me as your highness.”

  “We have orders not to address you in that way any longer. You are to be known as Baroness Seymour.”

  “Your insolence will be punished. As for my rank and style, I am the queen dowager and will be during my lifetime. And my jewels, which you will not find in this house, are my own possession.”

  “The Protector says they belong to the crown.”

  “He is wrong. Leave my house or I will call my husband’s guard.”

  At the mention of Tom’s guardsmen the men who were going through my things paused. Tom’s retainers were strong, tough soldiers, and none of the Protector’s men were eager to confront them.

  “Do you give us your word that none of the jewels you were given by our late master King Henry are in this house?”

  “I give you my word as queen dowager.”

  The men left, but my lovely bedchamber, with my mother’s great bed with purple hangings, was in complete disarray. The Protector continued to demand the return of all my jewels, and I continued to resist his demands. I also continued to insist that when I dined, either in my own home or at court, the servants knelt when presenting me with the platters of food and all others (except the king, of course) be served later.

  All this was galling to the Protector’s haughty wife Anne, who seemed to think of herself as a queen and not just as a stout, sharp-featured noblewoman with a tart tongue whom nobody liked.

  When Tom and I attended a ceremony at which King Edward was creating several new peers, the Protector’s wife and I approached the doorway to the Presence Chamber at the same moment. We collided, our wide skirts with their stiff metallic threads contesting for the available space.

  “Make way for the queen dowager,” Tom called out, and I pressed on through the doorway, despite the undignified shoving of my would-be rival.

  “She’s not the queen any more,” shouted the red-faced Anne, puffing from her exertion. “She’s only Baroness Seymour. I’m the highest ranking lady of this court!”

  “You are certainly the most ill-mannered,” I called out to her over my shoulder as I passed through the doorway. “And not of royal blood.”

  She had no answer to that. As everyone at court knew, I was descended through my grandmother Fitzhugh from John of Gaunt, and the blood of the Plantagenets flowed through my veins.

  Haughty Anne fought for pride of place at every ceremony, attempting to grasp for herself the seat of honor at every banquet, generally striving against me at every opportunity. I ignored her insults and placed myself where I rightfully belonged, but her constant contentiousness wore me down and irritated me and Tom and I joked that one day I would lose my temper and bite her. When we were alone we referred to her as “the Pestilence.”

  “Here comes the Protector and the Pestilence,” Tom would whisper to me, making me laugh, or “The Pestilence is about to strike again.”

  Nothing, it seemed, could dampen our spirits or quench our soaring happiness that first summer of our marriage, not the nuisance of my new sister-in-law or the nagging demands of the Protector (who never did find my jewels, or force me to return them) or the intrigues that swirled around the little king. Tom was more content than I had seen him in a long time. He was still very much at odds with his brother, but he had succeeded in acting against the Protector’s wishes in the very important matter of his marriage, and foresaw more independence to come. His loyal army was large and growing larger, and his cannon foundry, though extremely expensive, was producing heavy guns which were being stored at Sudeley. Tom was his adoring royal nephew’s favorite, as ever. The young king forgave Tom and me for marrying, as he was fond of us both, and he even sent us a wedding present of a pair of fine Scottish gerfalcons.

  I saw all through the lens of my own happiness, of course; I did not realize in what real peril Tom stood from the Protector’s growing power, or how vulnerable my own position was, as Tom’s wife. I did not know, for Tom did not tell me, that he was using my credit to take new and much larger loans than he ever had before. I dismissed the sly looks and playful slaps Tom gave Elizabeth as harmless teasing. And I did not allow myself to calculate, in any serious way, what would happen to Tom and me on the day the frail king died.

  Instead I reveled in my joy as Tom’s loving wife. In our happy hours loving and joking in the great bed with purple hangings. In the warm sunlight of summer and the rich pleasures of autumn and the dream of many more joyful seasons to come.

  And when winter arrived, I attained my greatest joy. I was sure that I was carrying Tom’s child.

  48

  I WAS SO VERY, VERY SICK. EVERY MORNING AND EVERY NIGHT I WAS violently ill and threw up all the food I had tried to eat that day. In the afternoons I was sleepy and lethargic, hardly
able to force myself to meet with my household officers or servants and make decisions on practical matters.

  I missed Anne very much in these difficult days. She would have been such a help to me, had she lived. I needed someone with Anne’s capable, practical shrewdness, but there was no one I could turn to. My servants were loyal, and I paid them well, which ensured their loyalty even more. But there was no one among them able to take my place on days when I was at my worst. As a result my usually well run establishment at Chelsea became somewhat slipshod, the kitchens not as well stocked as they should have been, the horses not exercised, the garden neglected and the rooms not aired or kept polished as scrupulously as I would have liked.

  I was ill, and I was fretful. The holidays came and I lay on my bed, wishing I could join in the celebrating and merrymaking. Instead I met with Dr. Van Huick, a very skilled physician who had attended King Henry when he was alive and who Philip von Lederer urged me to consult.

  Dr. Van Huick was a Dutchman, brisk and efficient in his manner, a square, strong man in his prime with a stiff brush of reddish-gray hair standing up from his forehead. I confided to him that I had had a miscarriage many years before, and that since then I had never conceived a child—until now.

  “You have a sour womb,” he said curtly. “You are lucky to have made a child at all. You are old now to be a mother, and with this sour womb you may not be able to grow the child until it is fully ready to be born. You must prepare yourself for that. I’m sorry.

  “Lord willing, the child will come in August. July will be critical. Until then you must be very, very careful. You are getting thin.”

  “I can’t eat. My stomach rejects everything.”

  “That should stop soon. When it does, you must eat eat eat. Stuff yourself like a goose. Make the baby fat and strong inside of you.

  “I think you can give birth,” he added, “if you are very careful. I will look after you.”