The Sixth Wife: The Story of Katherine Parr

by Jean Plaidy

  “Secrets, eh? Secrets! Secrets that should be kept from Uncle Tom?”

  “No, indeed, dear Uncle,” said Edward. “There are no secrets we would keep from you.”

  “You deceive me.” The blue eyes flashed and Sir Thomas stroked his beard and scowled wickedly from one to the other. He began to growl through his teeth. “Methinks I must make myself aware of this grim secret.”

  He considered them. Poor Edward, just for a few moments a little boy! His great head was so packed with learning that his puny body seemed to protest against carrying it. Little Lady Jane, lifting her solemn eyes to his face, divorced from her habitual gravity, was at this moment, like Edward, a child just because the magic youthfulness of Sir Thomas Seymour could cast a spell upon her. And Elizabeth…? Ah, Elizabeth! She was no child. She was standing before him, against the hangings, those which had the greenish pattern upon them that would set off her flaming hair so beautifully. Her eyes were downcast, but her mouth was sly. Elizabeth was refusing to play the child; she wished to play the woman. And … she was enjoying the banter more than any of them.

  “By God’s precious soul!” cried Seymour. “I shall discover this plot against me. I shall tear this secret from you. Who shall tell me? You, my lord?”

  He had taken Edward in his arms and lifted him high above his head. Edward laughed aloud, as he rarely did.

  “Will Your Grace tell this dread secret?”

  Edward’s hand which had only just lost the pudginess of babyhood, grasped the beautiful brown locks of Sir Thomas.

  “Put me down, Uncle Thomas. Put me down, I say. I will pull your hair if you do not.”

  “I tremble. I am in fear. So Your Grace refuses to tell me his secret?”

  “There is no secret.”

  Sir Thomas lowered the Prince and gave him two hearty kisses; and Edward put his arms about his uncle’s neck. Oh why, thought Edward, are not all men like my Uncle Thomas?

  Sir Thomas set him on the floor and went to Lady Jane Grey.

  “And you, my lady, will you tell me the secret?”

  “There is no secret, Sir Thomas.”

  “I would force it from you,” he cried, “were you not so beautiful that I could not bear to hurt you.”

  He let his fingers caress the soft golden curls of the beautiful child, contemplatively, sadly; for she was small and so young and it would be long before she was a woman.

  “I must prise the secret from one of you, that is certain…and since it cannot be from you, my Prince, or you, my Lady Jane, it must be from the Lady Elizabeth.”

  She was waiting for him, seeming cool yet inviting, her light lashes lowered over her eyes which might have betrayed too much. He noted the softness of her delicate skin, the provocative powdering of freckles.

  She lacked the beauty of Jane, but, by God, thought Sir Thomas, she is the one for me.

  He laid his hands on her shoulders.

  Haughtily she glanced first at one hand then at the other. “You will take your hands from me, sir.” She was very proud, very much the daughter of the King.

  He took her chin in his hand and jerked her face up to his. Now he could see her eyes; he could see the curve of her lips which betrayed her excitement, her pleasure in this badinage, which he knew and she knew was not the play between a grown person and a child, but an encounter between a man and a woman.

  Nine years old, he reflected. Is it possible?

  His hand touched her throat. She was as yet too inexperienced to hide her feelings. She was delighted to have his attention. She had known that his tricks with Edward and Jane had been the preliminaries that should lead to this encounter between them.

  He brought his face close to hers. “Will the Lady Elizabeth tell me the secret?”

  “How would that be possible, sir, when there is no secret?”

  “Are you sure that you hide nothing from me?”

  “If I wished to hide matters from you, Sir Thomas, I should do so.”

  How exciting she was! A nine-year-old girl, a Princess as ambitious as himself. Was her glance telling him now: “Who are you to dare look at me in that way? Do you forget I am the King’s daughter?” And his eyes answered: “I do not forget. It but adds to your charm. And I beg of you, do not forget that the King calls you his bastard daughter, and that I am the uncle of the King-to-be. Anne Boleyn’s daughter and Jane Seymour’s brother—what a delightful partnership! How the ghosts of Anne and Jane must be laughing—if ghosts can laugh!”

  “What shall I do?” he asked. “Prize the secret from you?”

  “Do not disturb yourself,” she answered. “I think that to which you refer is no secret. My father is to marry again, we have heard. Is that the matter which you call a secret?”

  Did she know of his ambitions? He could swear that she mocked him when she continued: “It is on my Lady Latimer that the King’s choice has fallen.”

  He dropped his hands then; he could not meet her eye. She must have heard rumors regarding himself and Lady Latimer. The saucy young coquette was reproaching him with that, as though he were indeed her lover.

  “We are all well pleased,” said Edward. “For we know her and like her well.”

  “She is a good lady,” said Sir Thomas; and he felt depressed suddenly, but only momentarily; he had complete faith in his destiny. But he had been so fond of Kate. He had visualized such a pleasant life with her.

  The Prince then demanded that his favorite uncle should sit beside him and tell him a stirring story of the sea, and this Sir Thomas was pleased to do. Very soon all three children were listening to him, under the spell of his charm, and at that moment it seemed that they were all children, even Elizabeth, excited by his stories of adventures at sea. They watched his face as he talked; he was their hero. There was not one of them who could be in his presence and remain untouched by his charm.

  Before he left he drew Edward aside and whispered to him: “And what is the state of Your Grace’s purse?”

  “Very low, I fear, Uncle.”

  “It is a shame to keep you so poor. You know that the purse of your favorite uncle is at your disposal.”

  “Uncle Thomas, you are the best man in the world.”

  “It is good enough for me that I am your favorite uncle. And would you care to dip your royal hands into my willing purse?”

  Edward hesitated. “Well, there are one or two items…”

  “I knew! I knew it.”

  “I will tell you,” whispered the boy. “I wish to buy green ribands.”

  “Green ribands? Why have you need of green ribands, my Prince?”

  “For Elizabeth’s hair. She longs for green ribands to adorn it. They become it so. And she, like me, is kept very poor.”

  “Poor little Princess! Between us, nephew, we will give her green ribands to adorn her hair.”

  It was not the first time that Sir Thomas had given his nephew money. It was money well spent, decided Sir Thomas. Edward was grateful by nature; and when he was King of England he would be very kind to his favorite uncle.

  When he took leave of them all, he whispered to Elizabeth: “I would like to see green emeralds adorning that head. But in place of green emeralds, green ribands might serve.”

  Now she would know, when she received the ribands, from her brother, who had supplied the money with which to buy them. The sly creature knew of most things that went on at court and would know, of course, that his uncle supplied the Prince with money now and then.

  He was thoughtful as he went back to his apartments. He saw himself as the favored of the gods. He had been endowed with all the graces and it was so easy for him to win the love of his nephew. He was indeed fond of children. Ambitious as he was, ready to be unscrupulous, he could yet find great pleasure in the society of the young. He loved them all, Jane, Edward and Elizabeth…Elizabeth most of all. He was in love with Elizabeth. He was in love with Katharine. He was fond of the Prince and Jane. When he spoke honeyed words to Kate he meant them; when hi
s eyes shone with silent admiration of Elizabeth he sincerely felt that admiration. When he curried favor with the boy who would one day be King, he was sharing amusement, delighting himself as well as the boy.

  It seemed to him that he was the darling of the gods and that they intended him for greatness. He was certain of ultimate success with the Princess Elizabeth; he felt sure she would one day be Queen of England and he saw no reason why the man who married her should not be the King.

  Stranger things had happened. Look how Fate had pointed a finger at his shy sister Jane and made a Queen of her!

  Fortune was undoubtedly smiling on the Seymours. If it had denied him the warm and cozy comfort he might have found with Kate, perhaps that was merely because it was saving for him a more exciting life to be shared with the Princess.

  While Seymour pondered thus, Elizabeth’s thoughts were of Seymour.

  THE KING FELT sleepily content. He had dined well on good roast beef, venison, and pies of various sorts; he had drunk deeply; he had listened to music and felt temporarily at peace.

  His leg pained him less on this day and he was ready to believe that the new remedies would prove efficacious, although common sense reminded him that he had been trying new remedies for years without avail. There were times when the pain in his leg was so acute that his face became purple, then gray, and he could not suppress his cries of agony.

  But now the bandages seemed less irksome and consequently he was less exhausted. He had hobbled into the musicroom to hear some verses of Surrey’s, and he was determined not to like them even before that arrogant young man had opened his mouth to recite them. He did not care for anything Surrey wrote, for Surrey himself was a source of anxiety to him.

  By God, he mused, as he watched him now, a little more of the fellow’s arrogance and I’ll have him clapped into the Tower. What airs! What manners! And some would doubtless say: What beauty! Have I not suffered enough from these Howards? Anne was connected with them; that witch, that sorceress who deceived me into believing she could give me a son—and deceived me with others too! Then…young Catharine…

  But he could not bear to think of Catharine. That affair was too recent and he had not had time to grow out of love with her. But nevertheless she also was a Howard. She had belonged to that accursed line.

  He must not get overheated. His doctors had told him that. If he did, it would be necessary to apply the leeches again. No! He must think of pleasanter things than the Howards. There was Lady Latimer, looking fair enough, but sitting too far away from him.

  He roared: “Bring Lady Latimer’s chair closer to mine. I would talk with her.”

  She came slowly behind the men who had carried her chair. She drew it slightly back before she said: “Have I Your Majesty’s permission to sit?”

  “You have it,” he answered, reaching for the chair and bringing it closer. “You must not be overawed, Lady Latimer, because we like to talk to you.”

  “No, Your Grace.”

  “We understand your feelings. We applaud them. We like modesty in our ladies.”

  His face was close to hers and he noted the fine texture of her skin, the delicate bloom of health; he decided that none would guess she was thirty.

  I like this woman! he told himself. I like her serenity. I like the respect she shows for her King. She’s no giddy girl. She’s no Anne Boleyn; no Catharine Howard. She may lack their beauty, but she’s a good woman; she’s a modest woman. She’s the sort of woman I like to see about my court.

  “Believe us, Lady Latimer,” he said. “We feel the utmost kindness toward you.”

  “Your Majesty is gracious.”

  “We are indeed to those who please us. Now, Surrey, let us hear these verses of which you prate.”

  Surrey stepped boldly forward, displaying both grace and nonchalance. He was very elaborately dressed, almost as elaborately as the King himself. His blue velvet cap was ornamented with gold, his doublet striped with blue and white satin, his hose of the same becoming shade of blue, and his person aglitter with diamonds and sapphires. The young poet bore himself like a king; there were some who said that it was Surrey’s boast that his house had more claim to the throne of England than had the Tudors. If his folly could be proved, ruminated the King, that handsome head would not long sprout so gracefully from those arrogant shoulders.

  “It is a small poem,” the young nobleman was announcing, “on the means to attain a happy life, an it please Your Grace.”

  “Let us hear these words of wisdom. We would fain hear of the means to attain a happy life.” Henry caught Katharine’s eye, and his intimate smile made her shiver. “Methinks you are over-young, my lord Earl, to have gleaned already so much knowledge.”

  Gardiner, who was seated near the King, said: “It is the young, Your Majesty, who consider themselves to be wise men. When they grow older wisdom seems less sure.”

  Henry grunted and winced with pain as he moved his leg. “Come, come,” he said impatiently. “Let us hear the verses and have done with it.”

  Surrey stood elegantly, the scroll in one hand while the other was laid negligently on the jeweled doublet. Arrogant young fool! thought the King; and he hated him for no more reason at that moment than that he was one of the most handsome young men at court. Henry had reason to hate all handsome men on this occasion, for now, with so many about him, he felt his age and infirmity keenly. These were so hard to accept when one had been the handsomest Prince in Christendom and had excelled at all manly pastimes and had been a King—not, he reminded himself scowling at Surrey, a would-be-King.

  Surrey had begun to read:

  “Martial, the things that do attain

  The happy life be these, I Find:

  The richesse left, not got with pain;

  The fruitful ground, the quiet mind;

  “The equal friend; no grudge, no strife;

  No charge of rule, nor governance;

  Without disease, the healthful life;

  The household of continuance;

  “The mean diet, no delicate fare;

  True wisdom joined with simpleness;

  The night dischargèd of all care,

  Where wine the wit may not oppress.

  “The faithful wife, without debate;

  Such sleeps as may beguile the night:

  Contented with thine own estate

  Ne wish for death, ne fear his might.”

  While the poet was reading, the King fidgeted in his chair, and all those present marveled at the rashness of Surrey, for it should have been perfectly clear to the poet that those sentiments must arouse unpleasant memories for the King. That talk of health and sleep and, above all, faithful wives! Surrey was a fool. It was almost as though he teased a dangerous bull, deliberately inviting attack.

  There was a short silence. No one spoke before the King expressed an opinion, for it was unwise to differ from His Majesty in the appraisal of verses.

  “Bravo!” growled the King eventually. “Your meter’s good, Surrey.”

  Surrey bowed low. “My greatest delight in my simple verses must be the pleasure they afford my most Gracious Sovereign.”

  “Not so simple!” cried Henry. “Not so simple, eh?” He glared about him. “What did you think, eh, Gardiner? A Bishop should appreciate good verses, And you, Master Wriothesley. You’ve heard enough verses to judge, I’ll swear.”

  Gardiner could always be relied upon to say what was expected of him. “We have heard your Grace’s own verses, Sire.”

  And Wriothesley, always eager for promotion and knowing the surest way to the King’s heart, added: “When your Gracious Majesty sets such a high standard …”

  The Catholic faction must not be allowed to supply all the required compliments. Sir Thomas Seymour interrupted Wriothesley. “The verses seemed to me good enough, but I am a rough sailor, and know little of these matters. I have a fondness for Your Majesty’s own rhymes, it is true…”

  Henry interrupted: “We deemed the v
erses good.” He was impatient with them all, except the woman beside him. He had been too long without a wife. He was wasting time. “Lady Latimer,” he said in a gentler voice, “what thought you of the verses?”

  Katharine answered nervously: “I thought them good, Your Majesty. Very good.”

  “You did, did you? And are you a judge of verses, Lady Latimer?”

  “I fear not, Sire. I am only…”

  “Ah!” cried Henry. “You are a lady of much modesty, and ’tis my belief you know more of the value of verses than these men who talk so readily of them. Methinks you should have an opportunity of judging your Sovereign’s.”

  “Sire, my judgment would be of little worth.”

  Surrey said ironically: “You would doubtless discover, Lady Latimer, that His Grace the King, as well as being the ruler of this land, is also its greatest poet.”

  Henry shot a suspicious glance at the insolent youth, but he was too intent on Katharine to be drawn at this moment. He leaned forward and patted Katharine’s arm. “Such praise,” he said, “is to be prized since it comes from Surrey—as good a poet as any to be found in the realm, so some men say.”

  “I trust Your Grace has never heard my verses compared with your own,” said Surrey; and if Henry did not recognize the subtle note of mockery in his voice, others fancied they did.

  “Nay!” said the King. “Much sweet praise has been poured in our ears, and though we have heard your verses commended, yet never have we heard them set side by side with our own.”

  Surrey gave what might have been a sigh of relief. “Your Grace has doubtless heard them compared with Wyatt’s?”

  “Aye, that we have! And to Wyatt’s disadvantage.”

  “A great poet… poor Thomas Wyatt!” said Surrey.

  Henry was suddenly aware that Lady Latimer’s gaze was fixed on Seymour. The blood seemed to rush through his veins as though it would burst them.

  “Seymour,” he cried, “you are silent, man.”

  “I am out of my depth, Sire.”

  Henry snorted. “He should learn the gentle art of rhyming, should he not, my friends? He would find it of use in his gallant adventures.” Everyone tittered, and Seymour smiled charmingly. The King turned away with a gesture of impatience. “Ah yes,” he went on. “Wyatt was a good poet and a handsome fellow.”