by Jean Plaidy
When Katharine heard of the death of these old friends she shut herself into her chamber and remained there alone.
She still could not believe that the gay young husband who had married her in the days of her humiliation was in truth the brutal murderer of good men. She still clung to the belief that it was those about him who urged him to these deeds. Now she feigned to believe it was Anne Boleyn, as once she had believed it was Wolsey.
Yet in her heart she knew that he was all-powerful; more so than ever now that he had cut himself off from the Pope.
John Fisher! she sighed. Thomas More! My dear friends . . . and the King’s! How could he murder two such men?
But she knew. And she wondered: Who will be next?
She was very fearful for her daughter . . . and herself.
The winter had come again, and Katharine knew with certainty that she could not live through it. She was now so feeble that she must keep to her bed for days at a time; and some premonition told her that her end was near.
Once more she appealed to Henry.
‘I do not think I have long to live. I pray you permit our daughter to come to me. You surely cannot prevent her from receiving my last blessing in person.’
She was hopeful when she had despatched that appeal because she persisted in believing that Henry was not so cruel as he seemed.
But this plea, like others, was unanswered, and she now understood that she would never see her beloved daughter again in this life.
Chapuys, hearing of the Queen’s condition, was alarmed and went at once to the King. He was shocked to see the hopeful expression in the King’s face. The man is a monster, he thought angrily.
‘I ask Your Majesty’s permission to visit the Queen at Kimbolton,’ he said.
Henry ignored the request, and began to speak of affairs in Europe. François would not rest until Milan was his; and could he win Milan without the help of England?
Chapuys did not answer. Instead he said: ‘I have heard from the Queen’s physician that she is near death. She implores you to allow her to see her daughter.’
‘It is a matter which I could not decide without consulting my council.’ Henry took Chapuys by the shoulders and studied him intently. ‘The Emperor ignores his interests when he meddles in matters which are outside his concern. If he refuses my friendship, why should I not make an alliance with an ally who is eager to be my friend?’
‘Your Majesty cannot believe the Emperor would ever abandon Queen Katharine while she is alive.’
A smile of complacency crossed the King’s face. ‘Then perhaps it is not important. She will not live long.’
‘It is for this reason that I ask your permission to visit her.’
Henry shrugged his shoulders. She was dying; she could not long be an encumbrance to him.
‘Go to her if you wish,’ he said. ‘But there shall be no meeting between her and the Lady Mary.’
Ghapuys did not wait, for fear that the King might change his mind. He left Henry’s presence and with all speed set out for Kimbolton.
Chapuys knelt by her bed and his heart was touched by the sight of her. The skin was tightly drawn across her bones; her hair, once so beautiful, hung limp and lustreless. Talking exhausted her. But she brightened at the sight of him; and when she saw his distress she told him not to weep, for, as he would see, death held no terrors for her, and since she was parted from her daughter life had little to offer.
Then she pushed aside her grievances and wished to hear news of her daughter and to give instructions as to what was to happen after her death.
‘I have so little to leave,’ she said. ‘A few furs, a few jewels . . . but they are hers; and she will love them, more because they were mine than because of their value. When you see her, tell her that I loved her dearly and that had it not been for my delight in her I doubt I could have borne my sorrows. Oh, my dear friend, I fear I have brought great suffering to this country. Worthy men have died and others have endangered their souls. Yet I am Henry’s wife, and how could I deny that?’
Chapuys tried to soothe her, and it was gratifying to him to know that he brought her some comfort. He looked round the room, at the few candles, at the rushes on the floor. A humble room to provide the death chamber of Isabella’s daughter.
But his visit so comforted her that she seemed to recover.
It was six o’clock on New Year’s Day when a small party of weary travellers arrived at the gate of the Castle. At their head was a woman who declared that they were half dead with fatigue and implored to be given shelter.
The gate-keeper told her that none could be admitted to the Castle unless carrying a written permission from the King to do so; but the woman wept and begged him not to leave her without shelter in this bitter January night.
The gate-keeper was touched by the piteous spectacle the travellers presented, and consented to allow their leader to see Sir Edmund Bedingfeld whom the King had appointed steward to Katharine, but who was in fact her jailor.
When the woman was in his presence, her hooded cloak wrapped tightly about her shivering body, she entreated him to allow her to warm herself at a fire, and she was taken into the hall of the Castle.
‘Tell me,’ she said as she stretched her white hands to the blaze, ‘is the Princess Dowager still alive?’
‘She is,’ was the answer.
‘I had heard that she was dead,’ said the woman sombrely.
‘I fear she soon may be.’
‘I pray you let me see her.’
‘Who are you?’
‘I have letters to prove my identity.’
‘Then show them to me.’
‘This I will do in the morning. They are now in the possession of my women.’
‘I should need to see them,’ said Bedingfeld, ‘before I could allow you to visit the Princess Dowager.’
The woman went to her two servants who were standing some distance away, but instead of speaking to them she suddenly ran to the staircase and began to mount it.
Bedingfeld was so astonished that he could only stare after her, and in those few seconds she took the opportunity to get well ahead.
‘Who is your mistress?’ he demanded of the women; but they shook their heads and would not answer; and by that time the woman was at the top of the first flight of stairs and had come upon one of the Queen’s maids.
‘Take me to the Queen. I am a friend whom she will wish to see.’
Bedingfeld cried: ‘Halt, I say.’
The maid did not listen to him and turning began to run, while the visitor followed her.
The door of Katharine’s bedchamber was thrown open and the maid cried: ‘Your Majesty, Lady Willoughby has come to see you.’
Then the Queen tried to raise herself, and Maria de Salinas ran to the bedside, threw herself on her knees and embraced her.
When Bedingfeld entered the room he saw the two women in each other’s arms. He saw the tears on the Queen’s wasted cheeks; he heard her say: ‘So Maria, you came to me; so I am not to die alone. I am not abandoned like some forgotten beast.’
The Queen’s eyes met his over the head of her faithful Maria, and she said: ‘Leave us. My dear friend has braved much to come to me. I command you to leave us together.’
And Bedingfeld turned quietly and shut the door.
There were not many days left; and Maria de Salinas did not leave the Queen’s bedside. She told Katharine of how she had made the perilous journey unknown to anyone, because she had determined to be with her mistress.
‘Oh. Maria, how happy you have made me,’ sighed the Queen. ‘The pity of it, there is little time left for us to be together.’
‘Nay,’ cried Maria, ‘you will get well now that I am here to nurse you.’
‘I am beyond nursing,’ replied the Queen; ‘yet not so far gone that I cannot rejoice in your dear presence.’
Maria refused to leave the Queen’s bedchamber, and during the days that followed she it was who nursed he
r and sat by her bed talking to her.
There were times when Katharine forgot that she was in her bed in dreary Kimbolton, and believed that she was in the Alhambra at Granada, that she wandered through the Court of Myrtles, that she looked down from her window on to the Courtyard of Lions; and that beside her there was one, benign and loving, her mother Isabella. Maria sitting at her bedside could speak of those days and, with Maria’s hand in hers, they spoke the language of their native Castile; and it seemed to Katharine that the pains of her body and the sorrows of her life in England slipped away from her. Here was sunshine and pleasure amid the rosy towers; she saw the sign of the pomegranate engraved on the walls – the symbol of fertility which she had taken as her own, she forgot with what irony, because the years had slipped away and she was young again.
Maria watched her with startled eyes, for she knew that Katharine’s life was ebbing away.
She sent for the priests and Extreme Unction was given. And at two o’clock in the afternoon of the 7th of January 1536 Katharine died.
When the news was brought to Henry he was jubilant.
‘Praise be to God,’ he cried. ‘We are delivered from the fear of war. Now I shall be able to treat with the French, for they will be fearful that I shall make an alliance with the Emperor.’
There was another reason for his pleasure. She had been a perpetual embarrassment to him while there were men to believe she was still his wife.
He dressed himself in yellow from head to foot and wore a waving white plume in his cap, declaring that the revelries were to continue because there should be no period of mourning for a woman who had never been his wife.
Queen Anne followed his example and dressed in yellow. Like the King she was relieved by the death of Katharine; but there was a shadow across her relief. She was aware – as were many at Court – how the King’s eyes would light with speculation as they rested on a certain prim but sly maid of honour whose name was Jane Seymour.
Now there was a feverish gaiety about the King and his Queen. Death was waiting round the corner for so many. But through the Court strode the King, the little Elizabeth in his arms, demanding admiration for his daughter. Some wondered what the fate of that other daughter would be, remembering a time when he had walked among them with Mary in his arms.
‘On with the dance!’ cried the King; and the musicians played while the company danced with abandon.
Queen Katharine was dead; More was dead; Fisher was dead. They formed part of the procession of martyrs.
Dance today! was the order of the Court, for who could know what tomorrow would hold? Whose turn would come next?
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