To their credit, they moved without faltering, Katherine sitting first and Mary just a moment after.
“So tell me, wife,” I began, keeping my voice steady. “How did you enjoy your regency?”
Katherine glanced toward the fire — growing with every second — and took a moment to form her answer.
“It was an honor to have Your Majesty’s trust in me. I hope that I did the best of my ability. As you well know, I am not suited to hold power.”
I nodded, feeling the heat finally start to prickle on the back of my neck.
“That much is obvious,” I replied. Behind Katherine I noticed the two sentries by the door stand just a bit straighter. They had been at court long enough to suddenly realize that I was not pleased.
“I pray I have done nothing to displease Your Majesty,” Katherine returned.
It did little good to continue in this circular movement. I was tired, and wished for my dinner and my bed, in quick order. So I took a tactic I rarely took when dealing with any courtier, especially one who was also my wife.
“I wish to know more about your desire to open Parliament.”
Mary blanched at my direct words, but Katherine did not waver.
“It certainly was not a task I relished,” Katherine replied, her voice steady. “However, with dwindling funds and an unsure future in Scotland, I wanted to be prepared. We still do not know what the Earl of Lennox plans. With Your Majesty in France, I felt it was my only choice.”
“No queen has ever opened Parliament before, not with a ruling king by her side.” This was of course excepting the Parliament of Devils that had been created by Margaret of Anjou when her husband was unwell, almost a hundred years ago. But that was hardly a stirring example, and showed just how poorly a woman in power could act. And the country was certainly not at war with itself.
“Uncertain times can call for desperate measures,” Katherine answered swiftly. “And I was acting as regent —”
“A mistake I will make sure not to repeat.”
For a moment only the crackling of the fire could be heard, the flames finally growing into something respectable.
“I am sorry for having displeased Your Majesty,” Katherine all but whispered, her face still impassive. “And how grateful I am that you have returned to correct me.”
“And who would you have had by your side to help you?” I demanded. Had I been younger, I would have risen to my feet. As it was I could only lean closer, aware that my face was contorted in uncontrollable rage, sweat from the fire pouring down my face. “Your brother? Another of your faction perhaps?”
“My brother remains by the side of your loyal friend, the Duke of Norfolk,” Katherine answered. “And I would have only taken your daughters. I would have brought Prince Edward as well, but I know how you wish for him to remain in the country.”
“Yes, better he remain there than try to witness this coup of power!”
Once again my queen had nothing to reply. Beside me, the fire reached almost the top of the gate. I turned toward the boy tending it.
“Will you put those flames out, do you have a desire to burn Windsor to the ground?”
He scrambled forward, a small pot of water quickly dousing the flames. They would be almost impossible to relight today, and I sank back into my chair.
Finally, with both women sitting across from me so passively, I felt some of the heat leave my body.
“I just cannot tell if it was a show of power or just intense stupidity that led you to that decision.”
I watched out of the corner of my eye as Katherine bit her lip and then gave a slight shrug of her shoulders.
“I believe it would be my failing as a woman,” she answered softly.
This at least I could believe, and I nodded.
“Then it was my failing, leaving you as regent. I see now the burden was too great for you.”
Katherine finally glanced toward Mary, whose hands were gripped together so tightly I thought they might bruise. She reached out toward her stepdaughter, and deftly unwound her hands.
“Might I ask, Your Majesty,” Katherine said, still watching Mary, “How your campaign fared in France?”
Much of it she knew, from our constant letters to one another, but feeling now that it was only my wife’s own folly that had guided her toward this foolish idea of opening Parliament, I opened up. Shared the stories of life on the road and of life in my little tent. Eventually both Katherine and Mary were smiling and laughing at some of my descriptions, especially of some of the poor fare that had been served to me while gone.
Which brought food back to my mind.
“Prepare for my meal to be taken here,” I ordered at a page boy, who quickly stood a little straighter, then bowed before backing towards the door. “And I will dine with my wife and daughter,” I added. He nodded and then disappeared.
As we moved toward the table, I was able to reflect a bit more — it was unlikely Katherine meant any harm. Besides, any man that would have used her to gain control had been in the field, either up north fighting the Scots or with me in France. The only one who remained here with any power was Wriothesley, who could barely stomach the sight of the queen. And my spies had made sure no additional correspondence had been passed between her and any member of the court. I had the ability to see everything she had written.
So besides this error with Parliament, I took a moment, sitting before the small table set for three, to reflect on what my wife had done. Truly she had otherwise handled England and her regency rather well; the Scots had made no gains, and despite the Earl of Lennox’s actions, she had taken every step in her power to retain his loyalty. If my niece Margaret gave birth to a son, he may prove loyal to us, to get the boy into his safe keeping. In a few months we would know if that gamble paid off.
As a large plate of beef pastries was sat before me, the smell made my mouth water, but I made myself wait until Katherine had placed three of them upon my plate before biting into one. The savory concoction was easily one of the greatest things I had ever eaten, and I immediately finished the piece off before helping myself to a large portion of brewet, making sure to let the cinnamon sauce drizzle over the remaining two pastries as well. I had certainly not eaten this well while gone, and now I felt as if I would never get enough of the food.
Looking across the table at Katherine, meekly biting into her own pastry, I felt a small rush of affection for this foolish woman. She had tried her best, but now I was here to clean up the mess she had made. And no lasting harm had been done — Lennox could be killed if he proved disloyal. Smiling at my wife, I waiting until she returned the gesture before taking a bite of my second pastry.
I would make sure to send her a strand of pearls for her actions.
Chapter Eight
November, 1544
Winter brought my kingdom nothing but rain and dreariness. This would have been bad enough, coupled with the disappointing news from France about Emperor Charles’ failure to push any farther toward Paris, but my old jousting wound began to act up only days after All Saint’s Day. Years ago, when I was younger and had fewer fears, I had been thrown from my horse during a joust. The wound I had received on my leg had never healed, and would occasionally swell; filling with pus that Doctor Butts could do little for. If the wound grew large enough, he would have to cut into it, draining the pus while holding the wound open with a large piece of gold. This ordeal was always excruciating, to say the least.
So now I lay in bed, for the second week in a row, laid low with a fever and the never-ending sharp pain in my leg, praying that my wound would heal on its own. Until finally, one morning, I was awoken by the crash of thunder that shook the entire castle. I was momentarily disoriented, until my leg twitched and such a pain shot through it that I almost doubled over — no small feat.
Three page boys burst into the room, the one sleeping at the foot of my bed leaping to his feet.
“My leg—” was all I managed, still writ
hing on the bed. The boys barely shared a look before the oldest one stepped forward and twitched back the sheets.
At once I could see that my prayers had been futile. God had not heard my prayers, or had turned His eyes from me, and now it looked as if my calf was being consumed by a giant, festering slug.
“Doctor—” I began, but the page boys needed to hear no more, and suddenly all three of the ones remaining by the door turn and bolted. Hopefully one of them would have the presence of mind to call the doctor.
Only the oldest remained by my bed, his hands still on the sheets, his eyes staring down at the wound.
I waved my hand and tried to tell him to go, but he only shook his head and then nodded toward my flushed face.
“Can I fetch anything for Your Majesty. Water or ale?”
The water would be almost undrinkable, but I was worried I would only vomit up the sweetly ale they had been serving me. Instead I shook my head, waving my arm again. This time the young fool understood, and backed off into a corner.
I lay there in agony for what felt like an age, but could only have been a few minutes. Suddenly the stillness of the room broke as first arrived Sir Thomas Heneage, my Groom of the Stool, a cap barely covering his head, followed shortly by Doctor Butts and three of his attendants.
“Stoke up that fire,” he ordered immediately, gesturing toward the page, who moved quickly, obviously glad to have something to do. The three attendants dropped about a dozen different bowls and terrifying looking instruments on my desk, the giant clatter far louder than the thunder outside.
“Gently!” Doctor Butts said, his voice raising only a fraction. He should not have raised his voice at all in my presence, but before I could comment, my leg gave another great pain, and I cried out. Immediately Heneage was by my side, holding out his hand for me to grip. He had certainly seen me in greater pain than this though, and was not afraid as the page boys had been. I nodded, and he quickly scooted onto the bed, sliding as close as he dared while the doctor moved the sheet off my leg again.
There was prodding, and more pain. It took a few moments for two of the attendants to remove the leeches from my legs, and I could hear Doctor Butts muttering about adding more.
When he called for the knife and the golden chip instead, I looked at Heneage, who nodded and turned swiftly toward the page boy, who was still working on the fire despite it being in perfect condition.
“You, leave this room, and make sure the presence chamber is cleared out as well. Send word to the queen that his majesty is unwell and will not be joining her today. Order her —”
Heneage trailed off, then glanced back at me. I managed a nod.
“Order her to keep the court merry.”
The page boy nodded, his face pale, and bolted from the room.
I knew the entire court would know of my procedure by the end of the day.
****
It was not the first cut of the knife that caused me the greatest pain. It never was; at that point the pain in my leg was always so great, that the cut felt almost like a relief. Not until Doctor Butts had jammed in the large gold chip did the pain double, as one man held in the wedge and both doctor and assistant pushed on either side of my leg, forcing the pus from the home it so deeply loved.
My screams echoed around the room, but Heneage never flinched. One assistant — one I had never seen before — had to leave the room to be sick. However, Doctor Butts and the two others had witnessed — caused — this procedure many times before. This was nothing new to them.
It was not until they removed the chip, though the good doctor kept his hands on both sides of the wound to still work out what little was left, that I fell into unconsciousness, the only relief left to me.
When I woke, it was to twilight outside the window and stillness in the room. This told me little; I could have been out for hours or days. It took my eyes a few moments to adjust to the darkness. The flames were low in the fireplace, and did nothing to illuminate the face of the man dozing in the chair beside it.
It was unusual for my room to be so empty. Though I called out, no page boy leapt from the foot of my bed or came from around the door. The man in the chair continued to snore, and I managed to lift myself onto my arms, shifting onto a pillow next to me.
A few moments passed before the man gave a giant snort and suddenly sat up.
“Your Majesty,” he said, running his hand over his face, before standing. In a moment, Charles Brandon had moved toward my bed.
“Charles,” I said, though it came out more as a croak. In response he nodded, still shaking the sleep from him.
“What do you need?” he asked.
“Heneage,” I managed to get out and saw a slight scowl on Brandon’s face, before he grimaced.
“Chamber pot?”
I nodded, and let myself sink into the pillows, glad to know relief would be here soon.
Charles disappeared into the darkness of the doorway, but was soon replaced with not only Heneage but three page boys and one of Doctor Butt’s assistants. Together they worked to get me out of bed — no weight was allowed on my leg and the wound that still seemed to drip. Heneage waited upon me while I spent a considerable amount of time on the pot. As usual, the procedure did nothing to help my efforts and I was soon returned to my bed.
“Would Your Majesty like to eat?” Heneage asked, keeping his force soft.
I waved him away and motioned toward the door instead.
“Send Brandon back in,” I said, my first sentence since waking.
The assistant and Heneage nodded and left the room. Turning to the page boys, I sighed. Constantly ordering them was tiring in my current condition.
“Leave. You will sleep outside the door tonight,” I ordered.
A momentary look of confusion overcame their faces — this was only ordered on nights I visited the queen or, in my younger years, had another visitor to my bed. It jolted me to realize that the last time that had happened; none of these boys would have been born. It had been years since there had been a royal mistress. But now when I thought of the effort it would take to maintain one, I could do nothing more than sink deeper into the pillows and wish for sleep.
Brandon almost ran over the three boys, all whom tried to bow to him, but he paid them little mind and instead came straight to the bedside.
“Your Majesty?”
I glared at him and he waited until the three boys had closed the door before turning back with a smile.
“You rarely even want me to call you Harry anymore,” he observed mildly, pulling up my secretary’s chair when I motioned for him to sit.
“If I sit on the bed, my knees won’t allow me to rise out of it,” he explained with a shrug as he dragged the heavy chair over.
“You should have had one of the boys do that before they departed,” I responded and he grimaced at me.
“I need no more reminders of my age.”
I nodded; this was true for me as well, and it took a moment to recover my strength before speaking again.
“How long was I asleep?”
“Three days,” he responded quickly. “Long enough for word to reach me in Suffolk and for me to ride here.”
I sighed.
“And the court?”
“Running as usual. The queen is doing what she can, but the strain is obvious. Once again, the queen and the chancellor are unable to speak to one another, and little is being done.”
“Little needs to be done,” I responded. “As long as I am able to rise before the Christmas holidays, it won’t matter.”
“The queen can at least speak with the Master of the Reveals, and begin the plans,” he said with a nod.
“Yes,” I said, giving Katherine power with only one word. “Though make sure Bishop Gardiner is given time to preach and told to write a new prayer to be sent throughout England.”
Brandon laughed, but agreed.
“Always a balance of power, isn’t it, Harry?”
It w
as the most indiscreet thing he had said to me in years, and I laughed despite myself.
“You know that is the only way I can control any of you,” I said.
“Well, you have certainly done well,” Brandon said, leaning back in the chair as much as he could. “You have held the throne against the never-ending Scots and changed religion in England.”
“For the better, I hope,” I responded. It was a thought I had never before shared with another — not with Anne Boleyn when she had first showed me her banned books, not with the leaders of the Pilgrimage of Grace when they had marched against the changes I had made to the church. Certainly never to Archbishop Cranmer and his fever for reform or Bishop Gardiner [O1] who would have us rejoin Rome.
Brandon only smiled at me, and lifted one shoulder.
“I certainly think so. However I doubt many of the clergy would consider me a safe source on theology.”
This brought a bigger laugh from me, despite the pain in my belly it caused and the sharp complaint from my leg.
“Only when they wish to know what the devil might think,” I said when I had caught my breath and got another laugh in return.
It was freeing, this talk that so rarely happened at my court, even behind closed doors. And certainly not between me and any of my courtiers. Never before had I laughed so much while so much pain raked my body. Such a welcome change to the usual bitter sleep I experienced after one of my surgeries.
“But no,” Brandon said, catching his breath. “You have done better than anyone else could have.”
“I am not so sure my father would have said that,” I all but whispered, then shook my head and raised my voice slightly. “Or my grandmother.”
“Well, I will give you that about Margaret Beaufort, however I will not agree about your father.”
Katherine the Martyr Page 6