“You are in fine fettle this e’en, Father,” said Mary, lifting her goblet in salute.
Henry beamed. “Indeed, I am. I have never felt better.” Well, that was an exaggeration, but what of it? He had completely recovered from the disgraceful episode of Katherine Howard. He hardly ever thought about her anymore. His spirits had been lifted immeasurably by his recent military conquests, thanks to his two loyal dukes. Norfolk had acquitted himself well, and had wrought a much-needed and welcome victory for England over the Scots. Good Norfolk! And Brandon had also been instrumental in the success of the battle. And his leg was troubling him less than it ever had. Yes, the black clouds and the dark shadows had dispersed at last.
“I am glad to hear it,” said Mary politely. Norfolk had been placed to her right, much to her regret. She loathed the man, but when the king was not engaging her, she had no choice but to pass the time in polite conversation with the duke. She was not blind to the fact that her father was a widower in need of a hostess. A man of his age with his ailments could not possibly be contemplating matrimony again; and Mary was nothing loath to preside over the court as its first lady. What else had she to do, after all, having neither husband nor children of her own?
Henry had insisted that Mary bring her entire household and all her ladies with her for the visit to Hampton Court for the Christmas revels. Flushed with his success over Scotland, he was looking forward with alacrity to the upcoming invasion of France. What he needed now, what he desired, was a new wife, a new queen, someone of unimpeachable character to grace his court. Someone circumspect, someone beyond reproach, and like Caesar’s wife, above suspicion. What he needed was a widow. No more so-called virgins for him! He wanted no more wrangling over the issue of purity.
His eyes searched the room. Many of Mary’s ladies were married, too old, or for some other reason unappealing. And then his eyes rested on the newest of her ladies, Lady Herbert and Lady Latimer. They were sisters, but Lady Latimer was the more attractive of the two. In fact, she was beautiful. He remembered her from the time of the Pilgrimage of Grace, when Lord Latimer had foolishly embroiled himself with the rebels. If it had not been for the pleadings of his lady wife, the good Lord Latimer would surely have lost his head. Henry never could resist a beautiful woman. But this one was no dullard, nor was she of common stock, like Katherine Howard! Lady Latimer was of royal descent, although somewhat distant; she was in fact his fourth cousin. She was educated, accomplished…and wealthy. Her first husband had been old when he married her; she had been little more than a child. Lord Burgh had died, leaving Catherine a child-widow with a substantial jointure. Then her tireless mother, Lady Maud Parr, had found another aging husband for her daughter in Lord Latimer.
From what he had heard, Lord Latimer was very ill and not expected to live much longer. When he died, Lady Latimer would come into an even more substantial jointure.
“Mary,” said the king. “Is that not Lady Latimer and her sister?” He indicated the two beautiful redheads at the table just below.
Mary smiled. “Yes, indeed,” Mary replied. “I insisted that Lady Catherine accompany me for the revels; she needed a respite. I fear me that Lord Latimer is very ill, and she has been much engaged in nursing him.”
“Has she?” said Henry. An added bonus! She could dress his leg for him when it flared up. And perhaps he could fondle one of those creamy breasts as she did so…if she were his wife…
“I fear me that Lord Latimer will not live much longer,” she said shaking her head. “So sad! Poor Lady Catherine looks to be twice widowed soon.”
“Perhaps I should send Dr. Butts to attend him,” said Henry.
Mary turned and looked at her father with surprise. “Would you? How very kind. I am certain that Lady Latimer would be very appreciative of such a gesture.”
Yes, and well she should be, he thought. Sending a royal physician to attend her traitor of a husband! But it was a good thing that he had not executed Lord Latimer in 1537, or some other young gallant might have snatched up the rich, beautiful widow that was the Lady Catherine Parr. He would get a hasty prognosis from Dr. Butts as to how much longer Lord Latimer could be expected to live. As soon as the gentleman breathed his last, the king would inform Lady Catherine of her extraordinary good fortune; that she had caught the eye of the king who meant to make her his queen. How delighted she would be! And how grateful. He eyed Catherine Parr, Lady Latimer, more closely. Her hair was the color of a ripe apple, her eyes were emerald green, her skin as white as marble.
She was perfect.
# # #
The night was cold and the ground underfoot chilled her to the bone; her indoor slippers were eminently unsuitable for outdoor wear. But there was no help for it. Her step was light and her blood hot enough to warm her against the chill. Every window in the palace was ablaze with candlelight; she needed none of her own to find her way. Thank heaven that she knew Hampton Court’s intricate maze like the back of her hand! She would meet Thomas at its entrance; no other creature would be abroad on such a cold night! …and lead him into its mysterious depths.
As she made her way along the garden paths she spared a thought for her husband. She was sorry for him, but she had never loved him. Her mother had done a widow’s duty and married her daughters well, and in Catherine’s case, not once, but twice. And she had done a daughter’s duty and been a good wife to both of them. Wasn’t she entitled to a little happiness now? No, that wasn’t fair; she had been, if not exactly happy, contented with both Hugh and John; but what she really wanted was love. And romance! Despite her high birth and good marriages, her life up to this point had been sadly lacking in both. It was true she was no longer young, but neither was she old; there was no reason why she could not marry a third time, and this time, praise God, it would be for love!
She sped along through the black night like a ghost, her gown and cloak flying behind her. Just as she neared the imposing yews that marked the entrance to the formidable maze, the moon rose and suddenly all was bathed in a dead, white light. And what a moon! It was a moon for lovers. It rendered everything stark, laid bare. She shuddered.
All of a sudden a dark shadow separated itself from the others and moved towards her. On any other occasion, alone in the dark with only the ghostly light of the staring moon and the finely-clipped reaching yews, she would have murmured a charm such as “God between me and all evil!” But there was no need. She knew who it was who glided towards her on feet as swift and seeking as her own on this night that was as cold and hard as a diamond. It was Thomas.
They collided like two fiery stars and fell into each other’s arms. She looked up into his face, which was in shadow, for he was very tall. Hers, turned up to his, was bathed in moonlight. His mouth came crashing down on hers like the waves hitting the shore, but unlike the cold waters surrounding their island, his mouth was warm, his embrace, even the tips of his fingers, hot. She knew all about sick old men who burned with fever; Thomas Seymour was none of those. His heat was the heat of an animal on the prowl, seeking a mate. And his mate she intended to be.
He finally took his hungry lips from hers and held her at arm’s length for a moment, just looking at her. It was cold and dark, despite the starkness of the moonlight, but one never knew; they must get deeper into the maze, where no man would be on this winter’s night. Wordlessly she took his hand, her grip was surprisingly strong for a woman, and began to run. He followed, never questioning her. This was a woman who knew exactly where she was going and what she wanted.
They arrived at the center of the maze. It was lined with stone benches for the weary few who managed to navigate it and arrive at this most propitious of places. It was deemed lucky to find the center of the maze. Thomas wore a thick velvet cape lined with fur; Catherine’s cloak was also substantial, and had a furred hood. Without a word he laid her cloak across the bench. Catherine eagerly lay upon it (she hoped not too eagerly…!) and Thomas pulled the hood up around her head to keep her wa
rm. He lay down with his own cloak covering the both of them. The next few moments was a scrambling of lifting skirts and untying of codpiece. They would have to stop in time; there was no other way to safely indulge.
Catherine looked past the hulking shadow that was Thomas to the blanket of stars in the midnight sky. With every thrust she felt deliciously wicked. She had no regrets; she loved Thomas with a passion she had hardly known she possessed. Thirty this year, and still no child! Thomas was her last and only hope. And he loved her. He had told her so, and she believed him. They had not plighted their troth; to do so would have been unseemly with her husband on what must surely be his deathbed. And there must be a period of mourning, however brief. But Thomas had her assured that he would wait.
With a groan Thomas withdrew just in time; he was practiced at the art. He had no wish to besmirch Catherine’s spotless reputation. His intentions were honorable; he meant to marry her. He knew that she was head over ears for him, and he suspected that her tender conscience bothered her a-plenty because of it. He knew women, and he knew that in this case, he must not tease or joke. He was all circumspection when they were in public; neither of them gave even the slightest hint of their relationship or feelings for one another. He knew what Catherine’s feelings were. She was widow, about to be widowed again, past her first youth. She wanted to be swept off her feet, she wanted romance, she wanted love; she wanted a child before it was too late. He was willing to accommodate, and graciously.
But what Thomas wanted was quite different. He had had more women than he could remember or count, and he had loved none of them. They were playthings, there to suit him, his needs, his desires. And then fortune had dealt him a handful of aces. His mousy sister Jane had caught the eye of the king and made her queen. Then she had produced the son for whom the king had spilled an ocean of blood and caused a river of tears to be shed. That she had died was all for the better; the king would not make old bones either and then he and his brother Edward would rule England as regents for their royal nephew. Thomas Seymour had gone from a well-born nobody to uncle to the heir to the throne. Now what he needed was a rich wife. But not just any hag would do; he had seen some men sacrifice themselves, sell themselves to veritable gorgons for the sake of a castle and a few pounds. Not he! He meant to have Catherine, rich, beautiful, still young enough to have some life left in her…and by God, she was willing! It made him wonder if either of her husbands had been capable. Two husbands and no child of her own…and by the precautions she insisted upon, not barren herself, at least that she knew of.
She was perfect.
Chapter 22
“It is said that she is endowed with very great goodness and discretion.”
– The Duke of Najera, a Spanish diplomat at the court of Henry the Eighth
Hampton Court Palace, February 1543
It had snowed the night before; not much, but enough to transform the world into a fairy tale landscape of sparkling white. For days the gloom had hung about, threatening, and then the snow had fallen overnight. The storm had blown off and now the day was brilliant with sunshine, the sky a hard, cold blue. Mary’s apartments in the palace looked out over the gardens, which in the spring and summer were a riot of color, but now they resembled nothing so much as an artist’s white canvas, waiting for someone to come and paint all the colors back in. Only the great yews and boxwoods showed just a hint of green where the sun touched them, and was starting to melt their covering of snow.
Mary was warming her hands at the great fireplace in the gallery when Frances and her ladies burst in, shattering the brief calm of solitude.
“Candles, everyone!” cried Lady Frances, in an authoritative tone. A young page in her wake carried a wicker basket filled with thick, white tapers. It was Candlemas, the day Holy Church celebrated Jesus Christ as the Light of the World. There was to be a special mass at the hour of Terce in the Chapel Royal, and everyone must proceed into the chapel holding their lighted candle.
Mary and her ladies obediently approached the page, who bestowed a candle on each one. When all were assembled, at ten minutes until nine of the clock, Mary lit her candle, then lit Frances’s from her own; and then each lady in her turn lit her taper from the person before them. When all the candles were lit, and at a nod from Mary, the group proceeded two by two through various chambers until they halted in the corridor just outside the chapel. There, from the opposite direction, came the king and his men.
The day might be sunny, but the interior rooms in this part of the palace boasted no windows. The corridor was illuminated only with cresset lights; it might have been the dark of night. Henry’s eyes searched the little crowd of women for the one who always made his heart skip a beat; Catherine Parr, Lady Latimer.
Dr. Butts had made his mercy visit to Lord Latimer’s sickbed, for which Lady Catherine had been suitably grateful, and had reported back to the king with the happy news that Catherine’s husband was likely to expire at any moment. The one consequence of this tactic that Henry had not foreseen was that based on this dire assessment, Lady Catherine had pleaded with Mary to be allowed to leave the court to go to her dying husband’s bedside. Mary had, of course, given Lady Latimer leave to quit the court, and thus she would be departing on the morrow for Charterhouse Yard, the Parr’s London home.
Having failed to spot Lady Catherine in the dim light of the cressets and candles, Henry fell into place beside Mary, the royal pages opened the chapel doors, and together father and daughter led the congregation into the chapel.
The Chapel Royal was in itself a work of art, of which the king was justly proud. It was small but it was meant to be intimate; it was in marked contrast to the great cathedrals of the day. The ceiling was painted a radiant blue, the paint for it having been made from the crushed stones of lapis lazuli. Some believed that lapis had magical powers; it was mentioned in the Holy Writ. And on the blue of the ceiling, which was decorated with a network of golden fan vaulting, were painted hundreds of tiny golden stars. Along the walls, statues of golden cherubs perpetually played golden horns.
The chapel had a western aspect, and so only a hint of sunlight played through the high windows. The entire chapel was alight with candles, and along with the tapers that each celebrant held, the chapel soon shone with a unearthly glow.
Henry proceeded to the royal pew, followed by both Mary and Elizabeth, while the rest of the worshippers seated themselves in the highly polished wooden pews. Soft music played from an unseen source, and the potent scent of frankincense wafted softly through the air.
Candlemas was a beautiful ceremony; one that Mary looked forward to all year long. To be spending it at Hampton Court in its beautiful chapel with her father and sister was gratifying, but she had another reason to be happy on this most peaceful and wonderful of days.
She had returned to her bedroom one evening to find under her pillow a letter. She had no idea how it had gotten there, but a wary instinct, developed perhaps in the days at Hatfield House when her own mother’s letters had had to be smuggled in to her, had warned her to ask no questions and to say nothing to anyone. As soon as she was alone, she broke the seal and looked immediately for the signature.
People are wont to say things such as, ‘My heart skipped a beat’, or ‘my breath stopped’, without understanding what such expressions truly mean. Both happened to Mary at the moment when she beheld Philip’s distinctive handwriting. Her mouth went dry and her hands shook as if with an ague. She closed her eyes and clutched the letter to her bosom, savoring the sheer joy of the moment. Suddenly she heard a noise in the outer chamber; the utter lack of privacy was one of the banes of royal existence. She must read the letter quickly. Her eyes ran over the page; the letter was short, to the point, and written in code. There was no signature. It was a letter that anyone could have read and been none the wiser, and yet it was fraught with meaning for Mary.
Three years ago Philip had vowed that he would not let them be parted; he had predicted that the al
ready crumbling alliance between her cousin, the Emperor Charles and the king of France, would fail, as indeed it had done; he had promised that when that happened he would return and try once again to gain her hand. In return, he had asked for her promise to wait for him. And now it was all to come true. The letter could have been written from anyone, to anyone; but the words used reflected almost exactly the promises they had made to one another.
The door to her chamber opened to reveal Frideswide Knight, her chamberwoman, holding a pile of delicate things to be put away in Mary’s cabinet. Mary quickly pushed the missive into her bodice. She had meant, she had fully intended, to burn the letter at the first opportunity, but each time, over the next few days, when she approached the flames of the hearth, she had stayed her hand. Philip had touched this very paper, made the words with his own hand. She could not burn his letter.
So now she sat in the royal pew in the chapel at Hampton Court, absorbing the peaceful atmosphere with all her senses; the sounds of the hidden choir and the mellow strains of the pipe organ; the comforting and mysterious scent of the frankincense; the sheer beauty of the surroundings; the taste of the Body of Christ as Bishop Gardiner laid the wafer on her tongue; and all the while the feel, the touch against her breast, of Philip’s letter. She could not remember being so happy, unless it was the day she had first met him in the garden at Westminster, the jingling of his spurs announcing his approach.
The Baker's Daughter Volume 1 Page 70