The Sixth Wife: The Story of Katherine Parr (28 page)

The King opened his eyes suddenly and stared about him in a startled fashion. The candles were burning low and flickering in their sockets.

“Review your past life and seek God’s mercy through Christ,” he murmured. “That is what they tell me. That is what they tell me now. A great reign…a great and glorious reign. Oh God, always
did the eighth Henry work for Thy glory and for the good of England. No thought gave he to his own desires….”

His voice died away; his breathing was heavy; then suddenly it stopped, and those watching in the shadows thought the end had come.

But before they could move toward him, he had begun to speak again.

“Is that you, Cardinal, sitting there? Why do you smile, Cardinal? I like your smile not at all. The Cardinal died of a flux. Many die of a flux…be they Cardinal or beggar. You keep good wine, Thomas… good food and wine. A subject should not keep such state. Look at me not with those great black eyes, Anne. You witch! Sorceress! Poisoner! The roses are beautiful at Hever. Red roses… red… the color of blood. Shadows… shadows move about me. Shadows in my room. There.
There!
Monks…
monks
. …Black cowls that drip red blood. Oh, dear God, they creep toward me. Closer… closer they come. Monks… monks from all corners….” He tried to lift his hands, but he could not move them; he tried to shout for help, but his voice was a whisper. “The candles are going out and the darkness is coming, and with it… monks…. To Tyburn with them! To Tyburn! I…am not at Tyburn. I lie in bed… adying…adying.”

The sound of his stertorous breathing filled the chamber.

“A drink!” he gasped. “A drink…a cup of wine, for the love of God.”

“He is scorched with the death thirst,” said Wriothesley.

As the Chancellor approached the bed and poured wine into the cup, the King said: “Kate… Kate, is that you… good wife?”

“It is your Chancellor, my lord,” said Wriothesley. “Here is the wine you crave.”

“Good Kate,” said the King; and his eyes were closed now. “Good wife.”

“There, ’tis refreshing, is it not, my lord?”

“It doth but cool the fires ere they burst to wilder fury. Kate… Kate… I’ll not see the sun rise again.”

“Speak not thus, my lord,” said Wriothesley.

“Kate… I loved thee. I loved thee well. I had not thought of putting you from me that I might take another wife. I would not
have married… Jane…yes, Jane…an my subjects had not urged me to it.”

Even the grim heart of the Chancellor was moved to pity, and listening to these last words of the King he wished to soothe the monstrous conscience.

“Your subjects urged Your Grace to the marriage,” he said softly.

“’ Twas so. Katharine… canst thou see a dark shadow there… over there by the arras at the door?”

“There is nothing there, Your Grace.”

“Look again,” commanded the King.

“Nay, Sire. Your eyes deceive you.”

“Come closer, Kate. I would whisper. It doth look to me like a fellow in a black robe. Can you not see a monk standing there?”

“It is but the hangings, my lord.”

“You lie!” cried the King. “I’ll have your head off your shoulders an you deceive me. Suffolk’s wife, ah! She doth please me. Her eyes are dove’s eyes and she would be a loving wench, I vow. And not too docile. I never greatly cared for too much docility. Jane, dost remember what happened to thy predecessor? A Flander’s mare… and Howard’s niece the prettiest thing that ever graced a court. Is that you, Chancellor? Monks…. Chancellor. They come at me. They come at me. Hold them off. Hold them off from your King, I say!” The King was breathing with difficulty. “What day is this?” he asked.

“The morning has come, for it is two of the clock,” said Wriothesley.

“What day? What day?”

“The twenty-eighth day of January, my lord.”

“The twenty-eighth day of January. Remember it. It is the day your sovereign lord the King was murdered. There in the hangings. See! Take my sword. Ah, you would have a sword from Calais to sever that proud head. The huntsman’s call…do you hear it? There… look. In the hangings. I swear I saw the curtains move. Monks… monks… Hanged, drawn and quartered. So perish all who oppose the King!”

Those who had been standing back from the bedside now drew near.

“He dies, I fear,” said Wriothesley. “His hour is come.”

The King seemed calmed by the sight of his ministers.

“My lords,” he said, “my time approaches fast. What of my son—my boy Edward? His sister Mary must be a mother to him; for look, he is little yet.”

“Be comforted, Your Majesty. Edward will be well cared for.”

“He is your King. Supreme head of the Church. Defender of the Faith. A little boy…but ten years old.”

“Your Majesty may safely leave these matters to your ministers, those whom you yourself have appointed to guide the affairs of your realm.”

The King chuckled incongruously. “A motley lot. You’ll have a noisy time, fighting together. But I’ll not be there to see it… I’ll not be there. Kate…. Where is Kate? I see her not. I command you all to honor her, for she has been a good wife to me. We…we never thought to… put her from us. ’T was but for sons… for England. Wine, wine… I am a burning furnace.”

He had not the strength to drink the wine which was offered.

His eyes rolled piteously.

“All is lost. All is lost,” he moaned.

Cranmer came hastening to the chamber. Henry looked at this well-loved minister, but he could no longer speak to him.

The Archbishop knelt by the bed and took his master’s hand.

“My lord, my beloved lord, give me a sign. Show me that you hope to receive the saving mercy of Christ.”

But Henry’s eyes were glazed.

Cranmer had come too late.

IN THE PRIVY CHAMBER, the King’s body lay encased in a massive chest; and in this chamber, for five days, the candles burned, masses were said, and obsequies held with continual services and prayers for the salvation of his soul.

On the sixth day the great chest was laid on the hearse which was adorned with eight tapers, escutcheons, and banners bearing pictures of the saints worked in gold on a background of damask.

Dirges were sung as the funeral cortège began its stately journey to Windsor, where the chapel was being made ready to receive the royal corpse.

And the mourners?

There was his wife, now strangely light of heart. How did one feel when the ax which had been poised above one’s head for nearly
four years, was suddenly removed? She was a young woman in her mid-thirties, and she had never known that happy marriage which she had thought would be hers before the King had decided to make her his wife. Those four years had seemed liked forty; but she had come through them unscathed. The death of the King had saved her; and as she rode with the procession or took her place in the state barge, she could think of little but Thomas, who was waiting.

In his cell in the Tower of London, the Duke of Norfolk felt a similar lifting of the spirits—for he too had escaped death, and in his case, it was by a few hours. The King had intended that he should die, and instead the King had died; and now, without that master of men, there was no one left who would dare destroy the great Catholic leader. The Catholics were too strong, and there must be much diplomacy if the country was to avoid a bloody civil war. None wanted that. The hideous Wars of the Roses were too close to be forgotten. So, like Katharine, Norfolk, who had narrowly escaped with his life, could not be expected to mourn sincerely the passing of the King.

Lord and Lady Hertford could scarcely wait to take over control. They had the young King in their keeping and they were the rulers now.

There was the little King himself, frightened by the homage which was now done to him. Men now knelt in his presence and called him Majesty, but he was wise enough to know that he was their captive as he had never been before.

And Mary? One life was now between her and the throne. The King was sickly; and so was she; but she prayed that God would take her brother before her so that she might have the glory of leading the English back to Rome.

There were two other important actors in England’s drama at this time—two of the most ambitious people in the kingdom—a Princess of thirteen and a man in his thirties.

Why not? the Lord High Admiral asked himself. I verily believe the King would have given me his daughter, had he lived. But he is dead and Kate is free, and the Council will put obstacles between myself and the Princess.

The Admiral had need of caution, and he was the most reckless man in the kingdom.

And the Princess Elizabeth? She was impatient of her youth, impatient of her inexperience. She longed for the Admiral. She had her mother’s love of gaiety and admiration and she yearned for the man who titillated her senses and roused within her that which was delightful and wholly dangerous. And yet… she must remember. There were two lives between herself and the throne. She was sure that her brother would never have an heir. And Mary with her ills and complaints—how long would she last? And then…! The glory of it was dazzling. She wanted it so eagerly, so urgently. But she also wanted Seymour. She wanted the man
and
the throne. Yet something told her she could not have them both.

Here was a problem for a girl not yet fourteen years of age to solve. What could she do? She could wait; she could watch; she could remember always to act with caution, the greatest caution she could muster. Those who were very near the throne were in great danger until they reached it. And even then… But not a Tudor. No, once a Tudor was on the throne, he—or she—would know how to stay there.

Such were the dreams of those who had lived near the King, as the funeral procession went its solemn way.

The body was brought to rest for a while in the chapel at Sion House; and while it was there the chest burst open and the King’s blood was spilt on the chapel floor.

Horror ran through the land when this became known. The terrible tortures, which had been inflicted on many during this King’s lifetime, were remembered; and the names of thousands who had died at his orders were recalled.

What has this King to answer for? it was whispered.

And the people shuddered.

A certain William Greville declared that a dog had appeared and licked the King’s blood; and although great efforts had been made to drive the dog away, none had been able to do so.

It was a ghost, said the superstitious—the ghost of one whom he had murdered.

It was then recalled that his fifth wife, Catharine Howard, had rested at Sion House on her way to the Tower, and this was the anniversary of that day when she had laid her head on the block and departed this life.

Had not Friar Peyto, greatly daring, preached against the King when he had put Queen Katharine of Aragon away from him and married Anne Boleyn? Had not the bold man compared Henry with Ahab, and prophesied that the dogs would, in like manner, lick his blood?

In the church of Windsor, Gardiner stood at the head of the vault, surrounded by the chief officers of the King’s household while the corpse was lowered by means of a vice and sixteen of the strongest Yeomen of the Guard. Out of favor with the late King and looking fearfully toward a new reign by a King indoctrinated with the new learning, he turned his eyes to the Princess Mary and prayed God that it might not be long ere she took her place on the throne.

The Lord Chamberlain, the Lord Treasurer and all the company which stood about the grave held their rods and staves in their hands, and when the mold was cast down, each in turn broke his staff upon his head and cast it on to the coffin.
De Profundis
was then said and when the planks were laid over the pit, Garter, standing among the choir, proclaimed the little King’s titles.

“Edward the Sixth, by Grace of God King of England, France, and Ireland, Defender of the Faith and Sovereign of the most noble order of the Garter,” repeated Garter’s officers; and three times they said this while the trumpets rang out.

A new reign had begun. A mighty ruler was laid to rest, and in his place stood a pale-faced boy.

It seemed to many who watched that ceremony that among them were the ghosts of murdered men and women.

THE PRINCESS ELIZABETH WAS DEEPLY PERPLEXED.

There had come to her that day a proposal of marriage. It was her first proposal of this nature, because it was an appeal to her direct. There had, in the course of her thirteen years, been other suggested marriages, but she had never been called to give her opinion on these. When she had been a few months old and high in her father’s favor, he had negotiated a marriage for her with the Duke of Angoulême, the third son of King François. That could not be expected to materialize after the King had called her a bastard, and it had long been forgotten. Later she had been promised to the heir of the Scottish Earl of Arran—a poor match for a royal Princess of England—and that, as perhaps had been intended from the first, had also come to nothing. Later there had been a more ambitious plan to unite her with Philip of Spain, son of the Emperor Charles, but that was also doomed to failure.

But this proposal she had now received was different from all others. This was a declaration of love; and it had been made by the man whom Elizabeth could now admit that she herself loved. The Lord High Admiral of England, Sir Thomas Seymour, craved the hand of the Princess Elizabeth in marriage.

She sat at a window of her apartments in White Hall, those apartments which her stepmother had begged the King to give her, and which she used when she was with the court and the court was at this palace.

For a short hour she was giving herself up to romantic dreams; she was allowing herself to think that she could marry whom she pleased.

He was handsome, that man. Handsome? That was inadequate to describe him. There were many handsome men at court, but there was none like Thomas Seymour. He was so gay, so jaunty, and there was about him that air of wickedness which delighted her as it must delight so many more. She loved his boldness, the strength in those arms that seized her, the speculation in the laughing eyes as though he were wondering how far he dared go. There was so much in him that called to the like in her; and while he made discreet love to her with the most indiscreet look in his eyes and the most suggestive tones in his voice, she was always aware of that ambition in him which she understood and applauded because that very same ambition was a part of her own nature.

He would be bold and passionate, and so would she. Her need of him, his need of her, were like a pair of mettlesome horses held in restraint by the reins of ambition. And because they were so checked their progress was the more exciting.

I want him, she decided; but I want so much besides.

She was her father’s daughter; she was her mother’s child. In her was that streak of levity which had characterized her mother; there was that desire to be admired and, because that desire for admiration was stronger than the sensuality which she had inherited from her father, she wished always to keep the admiration at fever heat; therefore the pursuit interested her more than any possible fulfillment. Even now she did not wish the Admiral to be her husband; she wished him to remain her suitor.

Yet it was not endurable to continue in a state of uncertainty.

When she had heard the conditions of her father’s will she had been filled with elation. Failing other heirs, she was placed third in the line of succession. She was to be treated with a respect and consideration almost equal to that which was to be bestowed on her sister Mary. Three thousand pounds a year was to be hers, and that seemed riches after the penury she had endured; a marriage portion of ten thousand pounds was to be given at the appropriate time. But there was a condition: This would only be hers if she married with the consent of her brother Edward and his Council. If she married without such approval, she would forfeit her dowry and, in all probability, her income.

She had turned this matter over and over in her mind.

She longed for Seymour; yet she longed also to stay where she was in the succession to the throne.

Queen…Queen of England… and Queen in her own right—not lifted up, as her mother had been, to be cast down again at the whim of a husband. No! Queen—true Queen of England for the rest of her life!

The chances of success were good. Edward was sickly and it was hardly likely that he would produce an heir. Mary was thirty-one— old to marry and have children; and Mary’s health was not of the best. Elizabeth was but thirteen years old. Oh yes, the chances of Elizabeth’s becoming Queen of England were good indeed.

And if she married? What then?

The Council, she knew, would never approve of her marriage with Thomas. The King could be persuaded. She laughed to think of the little boy’s being persuaded by herself and Thomas. That would be an easy task.

But she immediately called to mind those grim men, the real rulers. Thomas’s brother would never agree. And Gardiner, Wriothesley, Cranmer? No! They would refuse consent. And then? Doubtless she and Thomas would find themselves in the Tower if they disobeyed, and all knew what could happen to prisoners in that doom-filled place.

There was so much to think of, so much to consider.

Her governess, Kat Ashley, came into the room and, finding her charge brooding in the window seat, asked if aught ailed her.

“Nothing ails me,” said Elizabeth.

“Your Grace looks to have a fever. Your cheeks look hot and your eyes are so bright. I am not sure that you should not retire to your bed.”

“Pray do not bother me, Kat. I am well enough.”

“Your Grace is bothered concerning the letter you have received?”

“And how did you know there was a letter?”

“In my love for Your Grace I keep my eyes open and my ears alert. Tell me, darling, it is from the Admiral, is it not?”

Elizabeth looked at the woman and burst into sudden laughter. There were moments when she was very like her mother, thought Kat Ashley.

“And what if it should be?” asked Elizabeth.

“He’s a darling man, Sir Thomas, and I could love him myself, but he has no right to send you a letter.”

“Lord Sudley now, if you please. You know that the first thing my brother did was to raise his dear uncle. Not Sir Thomas Seymour merely, but my Lord Sudley. My brother, like you, my saucy Kat, loves the darling man dearly!”

“Well, all the Council have been raised, have they not? There is Lord Hertford become the Duke of Somerset, and Sir Thomas Wriothesley, my lord Southampton.”

“Yes, but Master Wriothesley is deprived of his Seal, while my brother gives love to Thomas Seymour as well as land and title.”

“And does the King’s sister love the man as much as her brother does?”

Kat Ashley was a born gossip, a lover of tittle-tattle; she was vitally interested in the affairs of those about her and inquisitive in the extreme, though goodhearted; she was always eager for exciting events about which to marvel or commiserate, and if they did not happen quickly enough she was ready to apply a little gentle prodding. But the welfare of her little Princess meant more to her than anything on Earth. Elizabeth knew this; and because one of the great desires of her life was to receive the loving admiration of those about her, she was always as affectionate and considerate as she could be to Kat Ashley.

“How could she?” answered Elizabeth. “Would it be wise to love such a man and yet be unable to enter into a marriage with him?”

“It would not!” cried Kat. “If you as much as gave him a hint that you were eager for him—why then, there would be no holding him back.”

They laughed together.

“The Council would never agree to such a marriage, would they, Kat?” said Elizabeth wistfully.

“Nay.”

“They have their eyes on me now, Kat. I must walk warily. Do you not think so?”

“With the utmost wariness, my darling lady.”

“Kat Ashley, do you think I shall ever be Queen?”

Kat was solemn for a moment; she laid her hands on the girl’s shoulders and studied the pale face, the eyes which could at some
times be earnest and at others frivolous, the mouth that provoked and promised, yet denied.

“Oh, my dearest mistress, my dearest mistress, I beg of you take care.”

“It is you who should take care, Kat. You gossip whenever you have a chance. You must restrain yourself now. My poor brother… my poor sister! Kat, just think of them. They seem so sick at times, and then… then there will be just myself.”

Kat sank to her knees and took the hand of her charge. She kissed it, and lifting her eyes to Elizabeth’s face said: “God save the Queen!”

Then they laughed together, looking over their shoulders with furtive enjoyment.

How like her mother she is! thought Kat again; and she held her fiercely and protectively. “God preserve her,” she prayed. “Take care of her. She is young…so very young.”

Nevertheless, she was wise; she was crafty; it was possible to see the craftiness in her face at times; later she would be crafty enough to hide it. But she was young yet.

“Keep her safe until she is old enough to keep herself safe,” Kat continued her prayer; and she thought: I am a fine one. I am as reckless as she is.

Elizabeth drew herself away from her governess and was solemn, thinking, as she must when she considered her nearness to the throne, of Thomas whom she could not have as well.

I need not fear for her, reflected Kat Ashley. She’ll pass through all the dangers. I never knew one so clever.

Her brother was learned, but the Princess was the cleverer of the two. Lady Jane Grey, who had been tutored with them, was also learned; they were a clever trio. But Jane and Edward loved learning for itself, while Elizabeth loved it for what she hoped it would bring her. It seemed as though she had trained herself from her earliest years for a great destiny. She excelled in all subjects; she was a Latin scholar; she spoke French, Spanish, Flemish and Italian fluently, taking great pains with those languages which she thought might be useful to her. Like young Jane and Edward, and indeed like most cultured children, she wrote verses; but while those children loved their verses and spent much time over them, Elizabeth wrote hers merely to show that she could do anything they could. Her greatest delight was to study the history, not only of her own country, but that of
others. She wished to know how kings and governments had acted in the past, and the result of such actions. So the greater part of her time was devoted to the study of history, and she had learned foreign languages with such zest, that she might be able to read history written in those tongues. Always she was preparing herself for greatness. Therefore it seemed strange that a girl who, at such an early age, had so serious a purpose in mind which amounted almost to a dedication, could at the same time be so frivolous.

But she was her father’s daughter and he, while occupying his mind with great state policies, had found the inclination toward his pleasures irresistible.

Kat Ashley, while she admired her mistress’s uncommon astuteness, trembled for her.

“Kat dear,” said Elizabeth suddenly, “leave me. I have a letter to write.”

“To … the Admiral?”

“It is no concern of yours.”

“It is. It is. Have a care, sweetheart.”

“I intend to.”

“Do not forget….”

“I forget nothing. Go now. Go quickly, I say.”

Kat Ashley moved toward the door and, when she reached it, paused to look appealingly at the Princess.

“Oh, Kat,” said Elizabeth, “do not forget. Tomorrow we go to Chelsea, to be with my stepmother. We must prepare.”

“I had not forgotten. I, too, forget nothing, my lady.”

“Get you gone, and leave me to my work,” said Elizabeth, with a return of the imperious manner which she employed at times and which was always an indication that she had done with play.

She had made up her mind. Kat’s byplay had decided her. When she had knelt, and half in earnest had said, “God save the Queen!” she had brought Elizabeth to the point of decision.

The Princess dared not risk the loss of that for which, above everything, she longed.

I will not think of him, she told herself. I
must
not think of him. I will remember the tales I have heard of him. He is a philanderer; he has had many mistresses. If I were a commoner it would be different.

Then she laughed aloud, for if she were a commoner would
Thomas have looked her way? Yes, he would; it was not solely because she was third from the throne that he wanted her. If she had been a low serving girl he would have sought her out, even if only to make love to her.

She took up her pen.

“From the Princess Elizabeth to the Lord High Admiral.”

Firmly she wrote, thanking him for his letter.

“… but,” she went on, “I have neither the years nor the inclination for marriage, and I would not have thought that such a matter should have been mentioned to me at a time when I ought to be taken up in weeping for the death of my father, the King….”

And as she wrote those words her mouth was remarkably like her father’s.

She stared before her, and she was thinking, not of the dead King, but of the charm of Seymour.

Her mouth softened. A Queen, she reminded herself, would choose her own husband. A Queen would not allow a council of ministers to decide such a matter.