Fatal Throne

by Fatal Throne- The Wives of Henry VIII Tell All (retail) (epub)

  Power. We were, each in her own way, powerless to change our fates. That is what I think of most now. Not the lovemaking of the other Queens—but their ends.

  I imagine proud Katharine of Aragon, withering to death in a cold, forgotten house. I envision Anne Boleyn, herded onto a barge to the Tower to meet her death from that silver blade, her final sharp-edged gift from Henry. I see Jane Seymour, taken at her moment of triumph—the birth of the Prince. Oh, how she must have gasped and fought as the acrid stench of hot blood and sweat rose up to swallow her like fog on the River Thames. And then there is young Catherine Howard, whose spirit still lingers in these halls. It’s not so long ago that she made her own way over that same river, its waters dark as the old blood clinging to her lovers’ heads impaled above on London Bridge.

  For a long time, I thought I was brighter, cleverer, more beloved than these other wives. But I was wrong. In the end, I made the same errors. I forgot that in this kingdom no woman—not even a Queen—can be ambitious; she can never let down her guard.

  She can never show her own power, be her true self.

  And yet, and yet…

  The air stirs around me. Perhaps I can draw courage from Henry’s past wives still. I might have one more chance—if I am clever and sharp enough. I take a breath to ready myself for the battle ahead. Then the door opens and I step inside.

  AT COURT

  Winter 1542–1543

  Now unto my lady

  Promise to her I make:

  From all other only

  To her I me betake.

  —from “Green Groweth the Holly”

  Song by King Henry VIII

  It began with a song.

  All eyes turned towards the singer. He drank in the attention, savouring it like a fine wine. Even in that cluster of glittering courtiers, resplendent in rich shades of velvets and silks, he lit the centre like a brilliant candle. You couldn’t take your gaze from him. At least I couldn’t.

  His lively dark eyes sought mine. I sensed that this promise was for me. I felt something unexpected stir inside, violent as a startling burst of rain. I was no stranger to the marriage bed. But this, well, I’d never felt like this.

  The melody ended; he was at my side, speaking my name: “Lady Latimer.” His lips brushed my cheek; I took in his scent of spices and woodsmoke. “I hope you’re well. It’s a pleasure to see you here again. Your brother suggested I should look for you.” Those musical tones, almost a whisper now, for my ears only.

  I curtseyed, willing the flush on my cheeks to subside. I knew when I looked up I’d see a reddish beard, a handsome face with high cheekbones, dancing eyes that held an invitation. When we’d met before on my occasional visits to court, he’d always put me in mind of a sleek, saucy fox.

  “You do justice to the song, Sir Thomas. I believe His Majesty wrote it?”

  “Yes, though I can’t claim to sing as well as Henry.” Thomas Seymour flashed a sly grin, wondering if I’d caught the joke.

  I had, of course. The King’s voice was comically high-pitched, as if God had given a great hound the peeping squeak of a little dog, like the one Anne Boleyn had loved so well. Poor Purkoy! My sister, Nan, who’d served all the Queens, said it was rumoured that one of Anne Boleyn’s enemies had tossed the tiny creature out of a window. “How awful!” I’d exclaimed. “I’m glad no will ever hate me so much.”

  Oh, I was so innocent then.

  “I’m sorry to hear of Lord Latimer’s illness,” Sir Thomas was saying.

  “My husband complains I hover; he suggested I come to court to bring back gossip to distract him,” I replied. “And since my mother, Maud Parr, served the first Queen, Princess Mary has kindly invited me to visit.

  “Lady Mary, I mean to say.” I corrected myself quickly. I glanced around, hoping no one had caught my mistake. Princess or Lady? In the line of succession or not? It was hard to know where things stood with regard to Henry’s daughters, Mary and Elizabeth.

  The same, I suppose, could be said for Henry’s church. Nan had tried (more than once) to explain it to me. “Sometimes the King leans towards Protestant reforms, such as allowing people to read the Bible in English. But he doesn’t want too much change; he is still attached to his strict Roman ways.”

  “It doesn’t sound as though he knows what his church should be,” I’d observed.

  “There’s truth in that. I think it may just depend on whom Henry has spoken to last—or who can manipulate him best.

  “If you ask me,” Nan concluded, “these struggles over religion are less about God and more about politics: influence, wealth, and most of all, power.”

  Another courtier began to sing. To listen better (and keep myself from stealing glances at Sir Thomas’s handsome face), I closed my eyes. But I couldn’t concentrate on the lilting notes of the lute. Instead, I thought of the other advice Nan had given me.

  “You must always be on your guard at court,” she’d said. “The fine ladies and gentlemen you meet may preen like glossy peacocks, as colourful as the glimmering gilt-thread tapestries on the walls, but they are raptors in disguise. Always ask yourself: ‘With whom am I speaking? Who is listening? Who is spying for whom?’ ”

  I brushed her words aside. “Nan, I am no more than a minor lady at court, nor is our family influential. I doubt anyone will ever have reason to spy on me.”

  “Just mind what I say, Kate. Your husband is near death; you’ll soon be an eligible widow again. But you married John quickly after your brief first marriage. You’ve never been a single woman alone at court before.”

  “Well, as a twice-married woman, I don’t think I have to worry too much about attracting a man’s attention.”

  Nan had raised her eyebrows, a habit she’d picked up from our uncle William, who’d been like a father to us when our own had died.

  “You’re good at reading books, Kate. But at court you must learn to read people.”

  * * *

  —

  As the last, sweet notes of the lute faded away, I opened my eyes. To my surprise, King Henry was bearing down on me with all the force of a runaway cart on a London road. Sir Thomas was nowhere in sight.

  All men must stand aside for the King, I thought.

  “Lady Latimer, we are delighted to welcome you!” King Henry boomed, beaming down from his great height and over his even greater girth. His face might be as broad and pale as a potato, but those blue eyes were still keen. Now they sparkled with pleasure, as if someone had just placed a delectable dessert before him.

  “Thank you, Your Majesty,” I managed, curtseying deeply and kissing the ring on the hand he extended to me.

  I accepted the King’s sympathies for my husband’s illness, and breathed out in relief when he moved on. It was true what I’d heard: His leg did stink.

  Poor old man, I thought.

  In the six years since Jane Seymour’s death, King Henry had become a lumbering, grumbling bear. People said it had to do with that old, festering wound. But I wondered: Was the King eating so much simply to make up for a hole in his heart that no other woman could ever hope to fill?

  But then, with a little shrug, I forgot about Henry VIII and began to look around for Sir Thomas.

  BLACK TAFFETA, RED STRAWBERRIES

  Spring 1543

  My Lady Latimer, Item. For making a kirtle, black taffeta.

  —Tailor’s bill, gift for Lady Latimer from King Henry VIII,

  February 16, 1543

  When the bitter, dreary cold began to lessen its grip, my husband at last found peace. I was only thirty years old, but for the second time in my life I was a widow.

  Yet though I wore black, my spirits grew lighter each day. Spring was on its way. Winter jasmine would soon give way to forget-me-nots, tulips, and roses. We would dip red, luscious strawberries into
fresh cream.

  “Have you been flirting with courtiers while I’ve been away?” Nan teased one day. She’d been gone for several weeks, tending her little boy through an illness.

  We were strolling in the gardens of Hampton Court, where the first spring blooms had already braved the cold. But it was the spectacular field of daffodils we had come to see, rippling before us in golden waves.

  It was almost, I thought, as if King Henry could command Nature to put on a grand display, just as he could order the finest artists and craftsmen to transform each room of the palaces he owned into a spectacle of rich, vibrant colours from floor to ceiling.

  “Well, a little,” I admitted with a giggle, “especially with Thomas Seymour, who seems as eager to flirt as I am. But it’s too soon to think of anything more than banter. Perhaps when I am out of mourning and stop wearing this black kirtle.”

  “By the way, that is a lovely gown, Kate.”

  “Isn’t it? The midnight taffeta cloth was a gift from the King.”

  Nan turned wide eyes on me. “Truly?”

  “Yes, the package arrived just before John died. I thought it a kind gesture, a sign that Henry had completely forgiven him for becoming entangled in that failed northern revolt a few years ago.”

  I shuddered, thinking of the night when an unruly mob had stormed our castle and taken me hostage, forcing my husband to take their side in that ill-fated rebellion called the Pilgrimage of Grace. We’d both been lucky to survive.

  But Nan was frowning, a sceptical look on her pretty face. “Kate, while I was away, did you speak often with King Henry?”

  “We’ve chatted several times when he has visited Lady Mary’s rooms,” I said. “Last week he was telling me all about his library at the Palace of Whitehall. Imagine! It has more than nine hundred books. I suppose reading is more important than ever to him. It must be hard for a man who had been so active to adjust to walking with a stick.”

  To my surprise, Nan grabbed my elbow and began whispering urgently. “Stop chattering, Kate.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  She steered me onto a side path. “Listen to me. King Henry doesn’t just give presents to married women, even if their husbands are not long for this world. Nor did he used to visit Lady Mary often.

  “I believe the King is singling you out. And there can be only one reason for his attention: He wants to marry you.”

  I felt suddenly light-headed and queasy. I took a long breath and willed myself to be calm. “You’re wrong, Nan. You must be.”

  “Let’s examine the evidence.” Nan had a logical mind. If she’d been born a boy, she might have been a lawyer, like Thomas Cromwell. “Besides books, what else have you and Henry talked about?”

  “Well, last week the King said he’d heard I was an excellent herbalist,” I replied. “He asked if I could suggest a tea to help him sleep at night because…because he was so lonely sleeping alone.”

  Sleeping alone.

  Nan was silent. And in that silence the true implication of King Henry’s words became clear, the way a candle reveals hidden forms in a dark room.

  “But, Nan, this can’t be. Why would King Henry choose me?”

  “Kate, you are lovely, virtuous, and, it would seem, very sympathetic to him.”

  “It’s true I’ve tried to cheer him,” I said. “But that is all. Besides, everyone knows Henry wants another son. I…I’ve been married twice, and have never been able to conceive.” My voice broke. “It…it must be God’s will that I am barren.”

  Nan patted my hand. “Perhaps Henry believes he can succeed where your other husbands failed.”

  Now it was my turn to raise an eyebrow at her. “But look at the size of him. It hardly seems likely that—”

  She cut me off. “Henry is still a king, and will always see it as his royal duty to beget male heirs. He certainly tried with Catherine Howard.” She paused, looking deep in my eyes. “What would you do if the King asked you to marry him, Kate?”

  I glanced away. My gaze fell on the sumptuous gold of the daffodils around us. “Oh, Nan, what could I do?”

  That is what we said. The next day, more gifts from the King arrived.

  O MY HEART!

  Summer 1543

  O my heart! and O my heart,

  It is so sore!

  Since I must needs from my Love depart;

  And know no cause wherefore!

  —“O My Heart”

  Song by King Henry VIII

  My bridegroom gave forth a hearty “Yea!” when Bishop Stephen Gardiner asked if he would take me for his wife. My own voice was steady, despite my pounding heart. And so on July 12, 1543, at Hampton Court Palace, I became the sixth wife of Henry VIII.

  Afterwards, I retreated to a corner, trying to breathe in the stifling air of the Queen’s Holy Day Closet, a small section within the Chapel Royal. I found myself staring up at the magnificent blue-and-gold ceiling, entranced by the detail and the brilliant colours. It made me wish I could look down at the scene from above, rather like one of the cherubs. Instead, I found myself the centre of attention and perhaps the object of ill will and envy.

  Certainly, Henry’s fourth wife, Anna of Cleves, had greeted me coolly. As she eyed me over her long, pointed nose, I could almost hear her thinking: Henry would have been better off coming back to me.

  “I don’t think Anna of Cleves likes me,” I confided to my lively new lady-in-waiting, Cat Willoughby.

  “Don’t worry about her,” Cat whispered. “But do watch out for those two over there, bending the King’s ear as usual: Thomas Wriothesley and Bishop Gardiner. They are suspicious of anyone who comes between Henry and them—especially a clever wife they fear they can’t control. They want him under their influence alone.”

  She leaned closer, a mischievous expression on her face. “I’ve named my new spaniel Gardiner, just so I can have the pleasure of calling him to heel.”

  “Oh, Cat, I hope Bishop Gardiner doesn’t find out!” I laughed.

  Later, of course, I would come to realize that Gardiner had his ways of knowing everything that happened at court. At sumptuous dinners in the great hall, I’d sense his prying eyes on me. But when I turned to look, all I saw were the faces in one of Henry’s tapestries, their golden threads shimmering in the candlelight. Don’t be foolish, Kate, I’d tell myself. Those embroidered men aren’t watching you. Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling that Bishop Gardiner was always hovering just over my shoulder.

  The smallest guest at my wedding turned out to be my favourite. Henry’s youngest daughter was almost ten, with a surprising shock of red curls atop her thin face. But as Elizabeth made me a sweet, formal speech, I noticed her sharp brown eyes following her father longingly.

  On an impulse, I bent down and took both her hands in mine. “Elizabeth, I hope I can be a true stepmother to you.”

  The girl looked at me blankly.

  Poor thing, she hardly understands what a mother is, I thought. She just wants to be loved.

  I’d known not to expect young Prince Edward, since Henry preferred to keep his five-year-old son away from court for fear of plague. But as I accepted Lady Mary’s congratulations, I vowed to give all three of Henry’s children as much of a family life as I could.

  “If only Mother had lived to see this day,” Nan said. “Look at Uncle William, strutting like a rooster back on his country estate. I heard him boast, ‘My niece has been chosen because of her grace and virtue—not because of family scheming like some of the other Queens.’ ”

  The other Queens. I’d felt the presence of Henry’s dead wives all day. Lady Mary was a reminder of her mother, Katharine of Aragon; Princess Elizabeth of Anne Boleyn. And when I looked at Sir Thomas’s brother, Edward Seymour, I thought of his sister Jane’s brief marriage and early death.

  Bu
t then, of course, part of Jane was even closer: Everyone knew Henry had ordered her heart buried beneath the stone altar of the Chapel Royal.

  Despite the heat, I gave a little shiver. I couldn’t help but wonder what else might lurk beneath the sumptuous, spectacular beauty of this place. It didn’t take much imagination to sense the spirit of Catherine Howard. Less than two years ago, she’d run through the tapestry-lined halls, desperate to reach Henry to plead for her life. The guards had dragged her back; she never saw her husband again.

  “Henry doesn’t like good-byes of any kind. And once he turns against someone, he puts that person out of his mind completely,” Nan once told me. “It’s as if he’s out riding. When he rounds a bend in the road, he never turns in the saddle to look behind him.”

  That won’t happen to me, I resolved, eyeing the colossal figure of my new husband across the room. Anyone would have picked him out for a king. It wasn’t just the erect posture, the greying beard, the ermine trim on his embroidered doublet. Henry projected power as mesmerizing as the shining gold on the ornate ceiling overhead.

  Catherine Howard had been foolish to cross him. She’d flitted through life like a butterfly, heedless of the great wind that would tear her wings to pieces. I’d never behave so recklessly.

  Or would I? I wondered. Would I be just as tempted to let my heart rule my head if Thomas Seymour were here today? Thomas wasn’t even in London. Henry had sent him off to a post in the Netherlands.

  Thomas and I had not dared to say good-bye; letters would have been too dangerous. There had been one long look across a room; he’d lifted his shoulders ever so slightly. I’d turned away.

  All men must step aside for the King. And all women must bow to his will.

  Just as I had done.

  “Sire, you do the Parr family and me a great honour,” I’d murmured when the King called me to his rooms and proposed. “May I have a few days to discuss this with my uncle William?”