by Jean Plaidy
“But, dear Nan, this is not quite the same. The pattern changes a little. He was deeply enamored of Catharine Howard. There was no lady of Suffolk waiting for him then.”
“Oh my lady, I think I hear someone at the door.”
“Go…go quickly and see. It may be that we have been overheard.”
Even as she spoke there was a loud rapping on the door.
“Let no one in!” whispered Lady Herbert. “Say that the Queen is sick to death and can see no one.”
With terrified eyes, Anne Herbert stared at the door. Nan had opened it and closed it behind her. From the Queen’s bedchamber came the sound of her sobbing.
Nan came back, shut the door and stood against it. Her eyes were wide with terror.
“Who is it, Nan?”
“Sir Thomas Seymour.”
“What does he want?”
“A word with her Grace the Queen.”
“Then he has gone mad.”
“He says it is most important. He is in great haste. He says, for pity’s sake let him in quickly, an you love the Queen.”
“Bring him here, Nan. Quickly.”
Lady Herbert rose and met Thomas at the door.
“My lord,” she cried, “you are mad…to come thus to the Queen’s chamber.”
“None saw me come,” said Seymour, shutting the door quickly. “How fares the Queen?”
“Sick…sick unto death.”
“There is yet a hope. I came to warn her. The King has heard her cries.”
“And what of that?”
“He comes this way. He comes to see the Queen.”
“Then why do you come here? Go at once, my lord, and for the love of God, be quick. Were you found here…”
“He will be some minutes yet. He is himself indisposed. He cannot set foot to ground. He will be wheeled here, and that will take time. Tell the Queen that he comes. Prepare her. Impress upon her that if she will fight with all her might there may be a chance. That chance, which was denied to others may be hers.”
“Go. Go at once. I will prepare her.”
By force of habit he bowed over her hand.
“Please…please,” she begged. “No ceremony. I will go to her. I will go at once.”
He smiled his reckless smile, but there was a touch of anguish in it. Did he then care for Katharine after all? wondered Anne. He must in some measure, for he had come to her apartments at some peril.
She shut the door and ran to the Queen’s chamber.
“Kate…Kate…rouse yourself, my dearest. Gather your thoughts together, sweet sister. All is not lost.”
The Queen sat up, pushing the hair from her hot face. She had changed in the last few days; she was unlike the calm, pleasant-faced woman whom the court knew as Queen Katharine Parr.
“What means this?” she asked listlessly.
“The King comes this way. He has heard of your distress and is coming to see you.”
Katharine laughed wildly.
“No, no,” cried her sister. “Be calm. Be calm. Everything depends on the next few minutes. Let me braid your hair. Let me wipe the tears from your face. The King comes, I tell you. He is being carried here in his chair, for he cannot walk…yet he comes to see you.”
Katharine had roused herself, but the deep depression had not left her face. If it had changed at all, it had changed to resignation. It seemed to Anne that the listlessness indicated that if she had done with tears it was because she no longer cared whether she lived or died.
“Did you see his signature, sister? His signature on the mandate? Bold and clear…signing me to death?”
“The King’s moods are variable as April weather. One day a cloudburst, and within the hour…bright sunshine. Rain, hail, storm and sudden heat. You should know, Kate.”
While she spoke she was combing the Queen’s hair, and in her voice there were trills of laughter. This sudden hope after hopelessness was more than she could bear. She felt that if the King did not soon come she herself would burst into hysterical laughter.
“He was ever a strong man, sister,” Katharine was saying, “a man of purpose. And now that purpose is to rid himself of me.”
“He is a sick man also.”
“She is beautiful, his new love; and he desires her as once he desired Anne Boleyn, Jane Seymour and Catharine Howard.”
“This is an ageing man. Deft healing fingers mean more to him in some moods than a pretty face.”
“I only wish that I might die now, before I am required to walk out to the Green and see in the crowd the faces of mine enemies come thither to watch my blood flow.”
“Kate, Kate, while there is life in the body there is hope in the heart. There must be. Tidy yourself. Look your most beautiful. You are fair enough.”
“I care not. I care not, Anne; for what would happen if I escaped this time? How long before the King would be signing another mandate for my arrest?”
“You must save yourself…for Thomas’s sake. He will be anxiously awaiting the result of the King’s visit.”
“Thomas?”
“Hush! Thomas Seymour. I trust he is in safety by now.”
“What means this?” cried Katharine. “You think…he is to be accused with me?”
“If he were seen leaving your apartment he well might be.”
“But…that could not be?”
“Could it not! He has been here. He has just left. It was he who warned me of the King’s approach. At great risk to himself he came here. ‘Tell her,’ he said, ‘tell her to save herself….’”
“And did he then?” said Katharine softly. And Anne felt a new hope within her, for Katharine was beautiful, even in the wildness of her grief, when she spoke of Seymour.
“He came,” elaborated Anne, “risking his life that you might be warned to save yourself. He begged that you should do all in your power to win the favor of the King. You must save yourself, sister, so that one day, if the fates are kind…”
Katharine’s face had lighted up, and she seemed like a different person from the poor, fear-dazed creature she had been a short while before.
“One day,” she murmured, “if the fates are kind to me…and to him…”
“Listen!” commanded Anne. “I hear a commotion. The King and his attendants are coming this way.”
The two women were silent, listening; through the apartment from which, such a short time ago, had come the sound of the Queen’s terrible sobbing, now echoed the cry of the heralds:
“Make way for His Most Gracious Majesty!”
THE KING WAS FEELING HIS YEARS.
His leg had pained him so much that it had been necessary for him to take to his bed; and since the Queen was in disgrace, it had been the duty of one of the gentlemen of the bedchamber to dress his leg.
His temper had been short; he had roared with pain; he had leaped up to cuff the gentleman, only to sink back, groaning in pain.
At such times he could find little pleasure in the contemplation of the charms of my lady of Suffolk. In fact, he wished that his Queen were not indulging in a little sickness herself, so that she could be at hand to attend to him. There had been times when he cursed her for her clumsiness, but he realized now how deft were those nimble fingers.
He thought tenderly of them, and the more tender his feelings grew toward her, the more angry he grew with those who had turned him against her.
He had sent for her physician.
“What ails the Queen?” he demanded. “What is that noise I hear? It sounds like a creature in distress.”
Dr. Wendy answered: “Your Grace, the Queen is, I fear, in a low state of health. She seems on the point of death through melancholy.”
“She is in pain, then?”
“Great mental stress, Sire.”
“She disturbs our rest with her cries.”
“They cannot be silenced, Your Grace. Her distress is such that there is nothing that can be done.”
The King dismissed the man.
He knew what ailed his wife. He had heard screams like that before. Sometimes he heard them in his dreams. Sometimes he fancied he heard them mingling with the singing in the chapel.
Kate must have discovered what was afoot.
She was no wanton. He could be sure of her fidelity. But she gave herself airs. She would teach her husband. She had become a clerk with her cleverness. A woman should have more sense.
Yet, to tell the truth, it distressed him to hear her distress.
Misguided Kate! he mused.
He had merely given his permission to have her examined, that was all. The next day they would come to take her to the Tower. He had no intention of harming Kate if she could satisfy them that she had not been dabbling in heresy. It was naught to do with him. He was a King, not an examiner of his subjects’ opinions. Others did that, and brought the results to him.
If Kate were innocent, she would have nothing to fear.
His little mouth was set in prim lines. There was justice in this land; and he had instituted it. If any of that long procession of headless corpses, which sometimes haunted his dreams, had proved their innocence, they would have retained their heads. That was how his conscience said it was, and that was how it must be.
But heretic or not, Kate was the best nurse he had ever had, and he needed Kate.
He roared to his gentlemen.
“I will go to see the Queen. I will see if I can calm her distress. Here! Get my chair and take me there. I declare I cannot put foot to the ground, yet I will make the journey to her apartment, since she is so sick. I will not trouble her to come here.”
Even while he cursed them for their clumsiness, he was smiling at his own benevolence. You see, he said to his conscience, what a clement ruler we are! We never condemn unjustly. Now I shall go to Kate and see what I can do for her. I shall try to soothe her malady, poor Kate!
They wheeled his chair through the great rooms, lifting it up the stairs when necessary. When they neared the Queen’s apartments, Seymour joined the party, but the King, so intent on his own thoughts, paid no heed to the sudden reappearance of that gentleman.
When the King entered the Queen’s bedchamber, Lady Herbert sank to her knees. The Queen raised herself at Henry’s approach.
“Don’t rise…don’t rise,” said Henry. “We know of your sickness.”
“Your Majesty is gracious,” said Katharine.
For a moment her eyes rested on the most handsome gentleman of the King’s bedchamber, but Seymour had looked quickly away.
Lady Herbert said: “Your Majesty, I fear the Queen is very ill.”
The King looked at her in mild distaste. “We asked not your opinion, my Lady Herbert. It is for the Queen’s physicians to give us news of the Queen’s health, and that when we ask it.” He looked round at the assembled company. “I would be alone with the Queen,” he said. “Push me nearer to the bed that I may see the Queen as I speak with her.”
They did this and, bowing low, left Henry and Katharine together.
The King began, not without a note of tenderness in his voice: “How now, Kate? What means this?”
“It is good of Your Grace to visit me thus,” said Katharine.
“You sound as pleased to see us as you would to see a ghost.”
“If I seem ungracious it is on account of the deep melancholy which besets me, my lord.”
The King gazed at her—so small and fragile in the huge and most splendid bed, her hair hanging about her shoulders.
“By my faith,” he said in those tones which she knew so well, “you’re a pretty wench with your hair thus disordered.”
She answered as though repeating a lesson she had at great pains taught herself. “I am glad my looks find favor in Your Majesty’s sight.”
“Looks?” cried the King. “Ah!” He winced as he moved forward in his chair that he might see her better. “Methinks I am too old to sigh because a woman’s hair is black or gold.”
“But Your Majesty is as young in spirit as he ever was. That is constantly proved.”
“H’m,” said the King. “But this poor body, Kate…Ah! There’s the pity of it. When I was twenty…when I was thirty…I was indeed a man.”
“But wisdom walketh hand in hand with our gray hairs, Your Grace. Which would you…youth and its follies, or age with its experience?”
And as she spoke she asked herself: How is it that I can talk thus, as though I cared for his opinion, as though I did not know his thoughts, his plans for me? But I flatter him because I want to live. Thomas came to my apartments at great risk to warn me…to let me know that I must live because he is waiting for me.
“There speaks my wise Queen,” said the King. “Methinks, Kate, that youth should be the right of kingship. Never to grow old! A king should be young for ever.”
“Had your royal father been eternally young, we should never have had his great and clement Majesty King Henry the Eighth upon the throne.”
The King shot her a swift glance, and she knew that she had made a mistake. Her nails hurt the palms of her hands. There must be no mistakes.
“Methinks you jest,” said Henry coldly. “You were ever fond of a jest…overfond.”
“My lord,” said Katharine earnestly, “I never was less in the mood for jokes.”
Henry sighed. “It is doubtless folly to talk of such matters, for when a man would talk of what he has done, he is indeed an old man. It is when he speaks of what he will do that he is in his prime. Doth that not show how we—the most humble among us and the most high—love life?”
“You speak truth, my lord, for love of life is the only love to which men are constant.”
“Why speak ye of constancy in such a sad voice, Kate?”
“Was my voice sad?”
“Indeed it was. Come, come, Kate. I like not this sadness in you.”
Katharine watched him cautiously. “I did not command it to come, my lord. I would I could command it to go.”
“Then we command it!” cried the King. “A wife must obey her husband, Kate.”
Katharine laughed mirthlessly; she felt the hysteria close.
She reminded herself of Thomas, and remembering him, wished above all things to placate her husband. Between the promise of a happy life with Thomas and the threat of death which Henry personified, she must walk carefully.
The King leaned forward; he was able to reach her hand, and he took it and pressed it.
“You and I,” he said musingly, “we suit each other. I am not so young that I must be a gay butterfly, flitting from this flower to that. There is a quiet of evening, Kate, whose coming should bring peace. The peace of God that passeth all understanding; that is what I seek. Oh, I have been a most unhappy man, for those I loved deceived me. I am a simple man, Kate—a man who asks but little from his wife save fidelity…love…obedience. ’Tis not much for a man…for a King…to ask.”
Katharine smiled ironically. “Nay, my lord. ’Tis not much. ’Tis what a husband might well ask of his wife.”
Henry patted the hand over which he had placed his own. “Then we see through the same eyes, wife.” He shook his head slowly. “But oft-times have I sought these qualities in a wife, and when I have put out my hands to grasp them, they have been lost to me.”
He sat back, looking at her; and, passing a weary hand across his brow, he went on: “We are wearied with matters of state. Our French possessions are in constant danger. The Emperor Charles strides across Europe. He is after the German Princes now. But what will follow? Will he turn to England? Oh, I have prayed…I have worked for England. England is dear to me, Kate, and England is uneasy. These wars bring the trade of our people to a standstill. State matters, I tell you, weigh heavily upon my mind. And when we are worried, we fret. Burdens fray our temper.”
He looked at her appealingly, and this seemed incongruous in one so large, so dazzling and all-powerful. She could have laughed, had she not been afraid of him, contemplating this man who, so recently, ha
d plotted against her life, and was now begging for her approval.
She said quietly, but with an aloofness in her tone: “Your Majesty has much to occupy your mind, I doubt not.”
He looked at her slyly. “There you speak truth. Aye, there you speak truth. And when a man is tired—and a King is also a man, Kate—he is apt to seek diversion, where mayhap it is not good for him to seek it. Might it not be that she, who should offer this diversion, hath become a little overbearing, that she hath become her husband’s instructor rather than his loving wife?”
Katharine did not meet his eyes; she looked beyond him, at the window, through which she could see the trees in the gardens.
She answered slowly: “Might it not be that she, who should be a loving wife, seemed an instructress because her husband saw her, not through his usually shrewd eyes, but through those of her enemies?”
“By God, Kate,” said the King with a wry smile, “there may be some truth in those words of thine.”
“I would hear news of Your Grace’s health,” she said.
“By St. Mary, I suffer such agony, Kate, that there are times when I think I know the pains of hell.”
“Your Majesty needs those who love you, and whose joy it is to attend you, to be at your side by day and night.”
She closed her eyes as she spoke, and she thought: I believe I am saving my life. I believe the ax is not turned toward me now. It will be there, near me…as long as this man lives, but the blade is now turning slowly from me. And I do this for Thomas…for the hope that is in the future.
She wondered ruefully what the King would do if he could read her thoughts; but there was no need to conjecture; she knew. She would be judged guilty—so guilty that neither clever words nor deft fingers would be able to save her.
The King was saying pathetically: “There’s none that can dress my wounds as thou canst, Kate.”
“Your Grace honors me by remembering that.”
“I’ faith I did.”
Katharine smiled and lifted her hand which he had released. She smiled at it gratefully. “These are good and capable hands, are they not? They are deft with a bandage. Perhaps there are more beautiful hands. I have often noticed how beautiful are those of my lady of Suffolk.”