“We will collect Her Majesty’s signature, and then this will be announced to the court. After that she will be Lady Katherine Parr,” Gardiner said. I waved him away; this was not the first time I have signed an annulment paper for a wife languishing in the Tower. I should well know how a woman’s betrayal played out.
Heneage placed the annulment paper in Wriothesley’s hand and he took it with a smile.
“Very well, Your Majesty,” he said, and both stand as I waved my hand to allow them to do so.
“You say they will decide her fate tomorrow?” I asked, the only words I had for these two men.
“Yes,” Bishop Gardiner said, dipping down before me. “And then it will be up to Your Majesty.”
With the haze of the fever, I had trouble understanding his words, and squinted at him, shaking my head.
“What will?” I managed to ask.
“The fate of Lady Katherine Parr,” Gardiner said earnestly, even taking a step forward.
“She will be either beheaded or burned at His Majesty’s pleasure.”
Chapter Sixteen
November, 1544
Wriothesley held his promise, and the next day I heard the shouts from outside my open window. The queen has been found guilty. Spreading lies and the words of Martin Luther among the court. A great witch. She was to be burned. Just like before.
An hour passed before Heneage appeared in my doorway, his face bright and color high. I felt too weak to do more than gesture to the window.
“You desire it closed?” he asked, an eyebrow quirked in my direction. I nodded, and he made his way to the lonely window. He paused for a moment before pulling the shutters tight, shutting out the light and the words from below.
I breathed a little easier now that I could not hear the words. The name Anne Boleyn had not been spoken at my court in a decade, the name Catherine of Aragon in even longer. Even Kathryn Howard’s trial and subsequent beheading — so like her cousins — had not brought back as many memories as this past week had.
My bones ached, and every breath I tried to take rattled in my chest. Heneage came around, mopping my brow and frowning at me, but he did not suggest we call Doctor Butts again. I was close to asking for the old man myself; I could feel, more than see, that my leg has closed back up and that the pus was poisoning me from inside. Delirious for a moment, I thought of asking for Jane, but of course she has been dead for years and could not help me now.
The sudden clarity of Jane, my ability to see her as if she were standing there before me, took my breath away. It took many moments of me gasping like a fish before I could get it back.
A knock at the door, and I raised my eyes to Heneage. He met them, and thankfully did not quickly move to answer the door. Though I knew I would have to let the men on the other side in, I was loathe to do so. Wriothesley and Gardiner would only be returning to remind me of another queen’s betrayal, of how lonely my life has been. How deprived it has been of a woman who could stand by my side and be the queen that I and England needed.
And they would be asking that damnable question. Burned or beheaded? I had been asked this question so many times. I have repeatedly had to make the decision how to end someone’s life.
For Anne Boleyn and Katherine Howard I had chosen the axe. For Anne, I had even sent to France for a French swordsman, so that she could die in a manner so closely related to her life. Anne had emulated the French; it seemed only fitting that she should die by the hand of a Frenchman as well. A compliment and a jest. Riding down the river to meet my newest sweetheart Jane as Anne met her end, it had seemed amusing. Now, memories of Anne and her death made me feel nothing but empty.
She had been no true wife to me. Nor had her predecessor, Catherine of Aragorn. It was not until my 45th year that I was able to marry Jane, a woman well suited to me and to my kingdom. Kind, understanding — and able to give me a son.
But thinking of my boy Edward brought me no peace. He was too young to take the crown, still a mere boy. Lord Hertford, his uncle and Jane’s brother, would be called back from Scotland to form a protectorship. England would be ruled by a council. The lords I had worked so hard to keep at bay would be at each other’s throats, and England could be divided once again.
Archbishop Cranmer had told me to trust Providence, that God knew what he was doing. That fretting about leaving the kingdom to a young boy would do no good. God would find a way, the best way. The ruler that England needed would emerge.
I tried to remember those comforting words as Heneage slowly opened the door, bowing back as Chancellor Wriothesley and Bishop Gardiner entered.
“Your Majesty,” the both said, once again sinking to their knees without truly looking at me. I was helpless to do much, glancing at Heneage to step forward.
“His Majesty bids you to rise,” Heneage said softly. Both lowered heads snapped toward him, anger at his presumption evident. But then they look to me, take in the sweat-soaked bed, and the stench of my leg. I have not seen a mirror in many weeks, but I imagined my face was pale. It felt as if the left side was slack, and I wondered if this is evident to the two men. But their answering stares of horror make it clear that I must look as bad as I feel, if not worse.
A few moments pass before the two men do rise.
“Your Majesty,” Gardiner repeated, stepping forward. “We have brought the Act of Attainder for you to sign against the Lady Katherine Parr.”
It is a long, complicated-looking thing, even more so than the annulment I signed the day before.
My mouth was dry and I nodded for Heneage to step forward with ale. After a sip I managed to speak.
“Who is with her?”
Gardiner nodded, though I could tell my rough voice startled him.
“Archbishop Cranmer is attending her. And two ladies, chosen by the constable. She asked for no other.”
Wriothesley made a small movement and opened his mouth.
“Your daughter, the Lady Mary, has also visited her.”
This idea startled me. Mary has no love for Lutheranism or reformation of the church. Indeed, I’ve often thought she might speak against me about the Church of England; she had been so stubborn in denouncing the Catholic Church.
But then I recalled how close Mary had become with her new stepmother. How she had remained with her during her regency, how she had even accompanied her to meet me, knowing how displeased I had been with Katherine. Closing my eyes, I could do nothing but nod. The fact that Mary would visit Katherine while she was in the Tower after being convicted of treason was foolhardy. But the effort it would take to reprimand my oldest child seemed impossible, and I resolved to let this go.
Letting a sin or treasonous act slide is an odd feeling; it was something I rarely did. But by taking a few deep breaths, I was able to look back at Gardiner and Wriothesley.
“All we need to know is if your Majesty desires for the Lady Parr to be burned or beheaded.”
It was on the tip of my tongue to say beheaded, as Anne and Kathryn were, but something in me held back. Perhaps it was the anger that was always so near the surface now. Maybe it is the memory of Katherine arguing with me over religion. But as I laid there, with this question still burning on my mind, all I could recall are the thousands of ways Katherine had slighted me. Of being humiliated by Anne Boleyn and her wit, of Catherine of Aragon’s demure suggestions of how I could better run the country. Even the face of Anne of Cleves came before me, her fresh face and open disgust of me when she first met me. Kathryn Howard’s betrayal with men from my own chamber. And even Jane’s disappointment in dying after giving birth to my son. Every woman had let me down, had sneered at me, thinking she had known best.
As these memories flooded me, I became dizzy, and suddenly I was coughing, gasping, trying to take in more air. It was Heneage who appeared, holding the rag up to me, doing his best to hide the blood from Wriothesley and me.
But I saw it and I knew how much these women have cost me. With that anger in mind,
I felt my body sag into the mattress as I gave into the hatred.
“Burned,” is all I said, before reaching out to scrawl my name at the bottom of the paper.
****
It was a restless night. I slept fitfully, memories of my past dragging me from my dreams that are filled with the women of my life. Women I had not thought of in years, who I had firmly placed into the past. When the light crept into my window, it was with relief I looked toward the sunrise, hoping to find solace. But all I saw was the outline of Anne Boleyn, seemingly standing in the window frame. I cried out, but after a rough blink she disappeared, and I understood that I was delusional once more.
Heneage moved to close the window, but I stopped him.
It is today.
They will waste no time in the execution of Katherine. Before, I had always run when an execution of someone I had loved was scheduled. But now I could not run, bedridden and unable to even shift my bulk without assistance. It seemed almost fatalistic, the idea that I could hear the cannons that would mark the death of this latest woman to betray me.
With a wave, I motion for Heneage to leave. He moves to ask if I want to break my fast, but I wave again. He hesitates and then asks.
“Shall I send for a priest?”
It is the first time that he — or anyone — has acknowledged that I might be dying. That sending for a doctor would be too late. That my will would have to stand as it was. That only a priest could help me now.
But I remember Gardiner’s words. Archbishop Cranmer is with Katherine. Would even now be walking the steps with her toward the pyre that would carry her ashes into the window. Was murmuring Katherine’s final rites.
I shake my head, and Heneage takes this as a good sign, then bows before leaving me alone with my thoughts.
The courtyard outside my window is quiet now. The entire court will be present to watch Katherine’s end. As they were for Anne, as they were for Kathryn. They had all attended the trial of Catherine of Aragon. They had walked in the funeral procession for Jane. Many of them, I knew, still send word to Anne of Cleves, little presents to let her know they were thinking of her, in case she were suddenly to find power in her grasp once more.
These women who I had so often pushed away, locked away in my mind with memories of my mother and grandmother, two more women who had died and left me alone, seemed to be ever present. My leg pulsed, and I wished for Jane and her poultice. The priest walking with Katherine was brought to my attention by Anne Boleyn. This bed had held Kathryn Howard just before her own arrest. The prayers I now found on my lips were Latin, and reminded me of the services and masses I had taken with Catherine of Aragon.
As I lay there, the smell of smoke seemed to enter my room. Startled, I glanced toward the window. Surely I was far enough away to not smell the smoke. But the window was clear, still framing the sun that was now hanging in the sky. The fire would have been lit by now. Katherine would have been led to the flames, but still the cannons had not fired. She would be in the midst of suffering for her sins.
Looking around the room I found the source of the smoke — the fire that had burned low for so long had grown, and the smoke was not taking quarter, was instead pouring into the room. But I could do nothing about this, not even call for help. Instead I took in the smoke, much as Katherine was now doing.
My vision grew hazy, both because of the smoke and from the dizziness that now overtook me. I closed my eyes, trying to regain my balance, but could only hear the echoes of the past in my head.
Was this to be my legacy? Not the Church of England, which I had created and led with the desire to break away from the popery of Rome. Not the renaissance I had brought to England, the works of Hans Holbein, my sponsorships of Thomas More. My father had been afraid of change, of the artists and writers whose ideas and images meant a new world. They had grown, flourished, in Italy and France. It had been because of me they had traveled to England.
But was I to instead be remembered as nothing more than the man with six wives? A man who murdered his wives, had them beheaded or banished, or now worse, burned? It did not seem to me that history would take kindly to this, that history would remember the facts. People would not remember Kathryn’s infidelity, Catherine’s inability to provide the son that I so desperately needed. Anne Boleyn’s ambition or Anne of Cleve’s disgust. They would only look at me, King Henry, and see a man who cut down women to get what he wanted.
This view distresses me so badly that I feel myself gasping, taking in the smoke, as Katherine must now be taking in the smoke, and breathing becomes harder.
Despite his current time with Katherine, perhaps I should have sent for Archbishop Cranmer.
Hours have passed now. The sun has almost risen out of sight. But still there have been no cannons and I cannot breathe, I cannot breathe, the smoke is everywhere and I cannot breathe.
I am no fool. If I was not bedridden, if I was not so sick, the smoke would be nothing. I could leave the room. Indeed, a stronger man may not even notice the smoke. When they find me, they will not think I choked on the smoke as Katherine had done. They will not see this, any more than they would believe an axe, or even a French swordsman had taken off my head.
Glancing out the window one last time I can barely make out the sun just now disappearing out of sight. What I feel now isn’t regret, or sorrow. Even my anger has abated.
All I can feel now is fear. Fear of the future, the fear that has been with me ever since I had been told of my brother Arthur’s death and my status as heir to the throne of England. It had been up to me to secure a future, and all I had secured was a legacy of dead wives. No one would remember me for anything more.
Gasping, I close my eyes, desperate that the fear will disappear. As I take a final smoke-filled breath, a sound rattles in the distance, shaking the very life from my body.
It is the cannon’s boom.
* * *
[O1]Is this right?
Katherine the Martyr Page 12