Copyright © JudithArnopp2014
First Edition
The author has asserted their moral right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
All Rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, copied, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written consent of the copyright holder, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
Cover photo by Darren Wilkins of The Tudor Roses
Edited by Cas Peace
Intractable Heart:
A story of Katheryn Parr
Judith Arnopp
England, 1536
As the year to end all years rolls to a close the Holy Roman Church reels beneath the onslaught of the reformation. And, as quickly as the vast abbeys crumble, so do the royal coffers begin to fill.
The people of the north, torn between their loyalty to God and their allegiance to their anointed king, embark upon a pilgrimage to guide their errant monarch back to grace.
But Henry is unyielding and sends an army north to quell the uprising. In Yorkshire, when unrest breaks out again, Katheryn, Lady Latimer and her stepchildren, Margaret and John, are held under siege by the rebels at Snape Castle.
Part One
Margaret Neville
January 1537 - Snape Castle
“There she goes, grab ’er!”
As they lunge for me, I dive into the bushes and scramble up the incline toward the house. The ground is damp. Wet, slippery leaves hinder my progress but I struggle onward, desperate to reach home. Katheryn, my stepmother, told me not to come. I should have listened but, resentful of her taking my own mother’s place, I ignored her and came outside to spite her.
I hate it in the castle; the heat of the fire, the chattering of the women, the never ending unpicking and re-stitching of the tapestry I am working. Usually I like it in the woods; I feel free. I can breathe and run, and love the sensation of the wind on my face, but now I am sorry I disobeyed. The stifling women’s quarters are suddenly a haven. I wish I’d never left it. I should have remained at the fireside and attended to my detested needlework as I’d been told.
“Oh dear God,” I gasp. “I promise, if you just help me get safely home, I will never be bad again.”
At last, the angry voices behind me begin to dwindle, and the pain in my side forces me to stop, just for a moment. I am not far from the hall now. Through the branches I can just glimpse the red brick walls of Snape Castle. Hiccupping in fear, I crawl on until I am close to the drive where, gathering all my courage, I throw myself from the safety of the covert and dash beneath the gateway into the barton.
There are men massing before the house. Not soldiers, not gentlemen, but peasantry. Ordinary men who, on a normal day, would pull their caps and treat us with respect. But yesterday I saw their leaders bear my father away, leaving us defenceless and the castle to be ruled by rough-clad farmers, millers, dispossessed monks and the like.
They are angry, shouting, waving their arms at the blank castle windows. Keeping my head down, I sneak along the wall, sidle up the steps to the hall where the bailiff, Layton, is bravely trying to contain their anger. I duck behind him and almost fall over the threshold. The warmth of the hall engulfs me.
“Miss Margaret, where have you been? You were told not to leave the house.”
“I’m sorry,” I wail. Relieved beyond words to have escaped, the terror turns to tears on my cheek. I cling to Dorothy. “I really am so very sorry. I will never disobey again.”
I am trembling, overwhelmed to be safe, and yet perhaps not as safe as I would have it.
“Look at your gown, look at your shoes.” Dorothy slaps at the filth on my skirts as she scolds me, and for once I do not resent it. I am glad of her rough nurturing, glad that there is someone bigger and wiser than myself. Dorothy’s reproaches are cut short by a footstep behind us, and I hear my stepmother’s voice.
“Oh, Margaret, thank God you are safe.” She swoops toward me, sinks to her knees and holds out her arms. For the first time I fall into them, lose myself in the comfort of her bosom. Katheryn smells of rose water and camomile.
Scents of summer.
“I am sorry, Mother. I will never disobey you again.” My nose is running all over her fine brocade gown but she doesn’t appear to notice. She cradles my head beneath her chin, her hand on my hair, and makes the soft motherly noises that I have missed so much. My brother John is scowling at us from the stairway; he will punish me later for this show of affection.
“Did they hurt you?” Her voice seems to come from far away. I shake my head.
“No, but I am sure they would have had they caught me. I had to escape through the shrubbery. I am sorry, Mother, but I lost my hood.”
She holds me a little away, plucks a few twigs from my hair and looks at me, her heart-shaped face warm with affection. “What does a lost hood matter when it might have been you, Sweet-one? Come, let me take you to your chamber. Dorothy, see that warm water is brought up, Margaret will want a bath and an early night.”
An hour later, although it is just a few hours past noon, I am tucked up in bed while Mother spoons broth into my mouth and Dorothy tut-tuts over my ruined clothes. The servants come one by one to take away the dirty bath water. They tread softly, their eyes averted, while Mother holds the spoon beneath my nose, tempting me to eat.
Although I am not hungry, I open my mouth obediently. I have so many questions, so many doubts. I swallow the broth, lick my lips.
“Who are those bad men, Mother? What do they want?”
“They are not ‘bad men’ my sweet-one. They are frightened, angry men who urge the king to change his mind.”
“Change his mind about what? And why are they here bothering us? What have we to do with the king?”
She replaces the spoon in the half empty bowl and hands it to Dorothy, tucks the sheet higher about my chest.
“So many questions.”
She smiles and bids me sleep but, forgetting my recent declaration of obedience, I sit up again.
“How can I sleep if no one will tell me what is happening? I am afraid.”
She leans forward, kisses my hair. “Very well. In that case I shall do my best to answer.” She clasps her hands and I wait while she considers how best to begin. “They want the king to change his mind about many things. They did not like his treatment of the late queen and the Lady Mary, or his marriage to Anne Boleyn…”
“But she is dead now, isn’t she? I heard the maids gossiping about it. Didn’t the king cut off her head?”
“Yes, Margaret, but you really shouldn’t listen to gossip. The king has a new wife now and Queen Jane will lose no time in bearing him a son … God willing. It is the changes to the church that these men are protesting about. They don’t like the religious reforms or the closure of the monasteries. They cling to the old ways.”
“Why has Father gone with them? Does he cling to the old ways too?”
She straightens up, her gaze straying to the window as she considers my question.
“Your father will do as the king wishes, to ensure your safety and mine, regardless of what he really thinks.”
“But what about the monks? Who will speak out for them? And what about God, what will He think about church reform? Do you think the king has consulted Him about it all?”
“I am sure the king has searched his soul, which
is much the same as consulting God. Now, be a good girl and lie down, get some sleep.”
I slide down my pillows, keeping hold of her slim white fingers.
“Everything is changing. Why can’t things always stay the same?” My mind drifts back to my mother and how it was before she died. Her memory drifts across me in a wave of scent – a sense of happiness, security and love. Even after all these years my heart is sore for need of her. Katheryn, my stepmother, although only just past twenty, has been married before. When she came here, John and I made up our minds not to like her. We hoped she’d go away, back to her old family, but she stayed, and disliking her has not been easy.
“Nobody likes change,” she whispers as she gives my hand a squeeze. I increase my grip so she cannot pull away.
“No. But sometimes change isn’t as bad as we imagine it will be.”
She looks up quickly, understanding flickering in her eyes. Her face softens. “I am lucky to have such a wise daughter. Now, go to sleep. You are exhausted after your adventure. I can see it in your face. Tomorrow you can help me begin work on a new set of chair covers for the hall.”
“When will Father be back?”
“Soon, my darling. He will come back to us soon.”
I snuggle into my pillow, listen to the hush of her skirt as she crosses the room and softly closes the door. The shutters are closed, the fire glowing red in the hearth, all but three of the candles snuffed. Cocooned in my bed, I am safe at last, the terror of the day receding. Today, amid the upheaval of rebellion a new alliance has been forged. The king and the northern rebels may well be enemies, but my stepmother and I are now friends.
***
A noise disturbs me. My eyes snap open, my heart begins to thump. I pull myself up on my pillows and peer into the darkness, listening. Footsteps hurrying along the corridor, a door slamming, and an angry voice cut off mid-sentence. I throw back the cover and slide from the bed.
The floor is cold underfoot as I creep to the door, open it just a crack. I sneak across the upper landing. The carved oak bannister is cool beneath my hands as I look over the balustrade to the hall below.
A huddle of servants, and Mother in her nightgown, her hair coiled into a serpentine braid, her face white and tight. My brother John hovers behind her, as if uncertain, as acting baron, he should intervene.
Raised voices, crude words and a glare of torchlight accompany the gang of rebels as they intrude into the hall. The household, with Mother at its head, retreats backward. One of the rebels is clutching a flagon, his lips loose and wet, his eyes unfocussed.
“It’s bitter cold in the stables, we’re coming in ’ere, whether you like it or not.”
“Your leaders have forbidden that. I was promised you would stay outside the house. I have the servants to think of … my children …”
Only a slight quiver in her voice betrays her lack of certainty, her fear, but it is enough to strike terror into my very soul. I sink to my knees and press close to the newel post as the rebel spokesman steps forward, his face thrust menacingly toward mother. John moves backward, treads on our dog Homer’s paw, who yelps loudly.
“Well, our leaders ain’t ’ere, are they?”
As the rebel shoves her aside, Mother falls back against the wall. My brother darts out of the way. The servants fall like wheat as the mob passes through them, their snivelling protests robbing me of the last of my courage. The dogs will stop them, I tell myself; they will come no farther. I dig my fingers into my face, praying I am right.
Behind the doors to the great hall the castle hounds are slavering and growling loud enough to deter even the most foolhardy. But when the doors are forced open, the dogs betray us, and the great fickle beasts leap up to lick the rebels’ faces in greeting.
From my hiding place I hear the scrape of wooden chairs on the stone flagged floor as the rebels make themselves comfortable, calling for victuals, for more wine.
From my place on the upper floor it is as if the scene below is frozen. The servants are all looking to Mother for direction but she remains where she is, hovering undecidedly. Then, suddenly making a decision, she turns on her heel, her braided hair whipping in her wake.
“Come,” she orders. “We must barricade ourselves into my apartments. Layton, be quick, see that food is brought up from the kitchens, enough to last a few days.” She ushers the snivelling women up the stairs. I feel the waft of their skirts as they pass me by, snatches of their terrified conversation instilling me with further dread.
I see Mother reach out and grasp the knob of my chamber door. I want to call out to her but she hurries in before I can speak, cries out in fear when she sees my bed is empty. The flurry of her skirts raises dust from the corners as she rushes out again, belatedly spying me cowering in the shadows.
“Margaret!” She grabs my wrist in relief and drags me in her wake to her apartments that stretch the length of the house. I drop my nightcap in our haste and my hair falls on to my shoulders. Once inside, she clasps me briefly to her chest. I close my eyes, hear her heart hammering, the energy pulsing in her throat. Then she wraps me in a fur, sits me beside the hearth, and her voice when she speaks is high and wavering. “We will be safe here once the door is locked and barred. Don’t worry.”
I turn my face toward the huddle of female servants who have taken refuge by the shuttered window, blubbering and weeping and seeking comfort in numbers. Mother does her best to soothe them, promising that my father will soon be returning.
“We must pray,” she says. “And take comfort that God is watching over us, for we know he must have some influence over these ungodly pilgrims.”
Obediently they fall to their knees.
Bread, cheese and wine is brought up from the kitchens, my mother’s ante-chamber is stacked high with casks and pots. At least we will not starve, not for a while.
Layton and the male servants tug their forelocks and shuffle away to resume their duties, leaving John the only male in a roomful of women. I can see from his face that he resents it.
“Will our men be safe?” I blurt out. “Won’t the rebels hurt them too?”
Dorothy perches on the arm of my chair. “No child. They may be rough-handled a little but it is always womenfolk who are most in danger when men run wild.”
She picks up her comb and begins to tease the tangles from my hair, throwing small knots on to the fire where they shrivel and burn – like the heretics I have heard them gossip of in the kitchens.
I know what she means. I know the dangers women face. When I was eight years old I was betrothed to the son of my father’s friend, Sir Francis Bigod. I met Ralph Bigod only once; a skinny little boy who would not look me in the eye.
Thankfully, our marriage will not take place until I am older and, as far as I am concerned, they can postpone it for as long as they please. I learned a few weeks ago that Ralph’s father is leading the band of rebels. I heard father whispering of it to Katheryn, but they have said nothing to me. I am too young to be involved in their discussions. Instead, I pick up servants’ tittle tattle, and it seems that Sir Francis is an angry, foolhardy man. Instead of letting the unrest die down, he is stirring up hatred and will surely bring down the wrath of the king upon us all. Father has ridden away but I don’t know whether it is to intervene with the king or to ride against him. My mind doesn’t linger on it for long.
I wonder what it is like to be married and what sort of husband Ralph will make. I know that some men make harsh partners, demanding much and providing little, and I do not relish the thought of lying with any man skin to skin.
I am not as ignorant as they suppose about the things that go on between men and women. I have seen the servants sporting in the stables, misbehaving in the wine cellar. It is my virtue and reputation that Mother is keen to protect for, once taken, a woman’s chastity can never be redeemed.
***
My belly growls loudly and Mother looks up from her needlework. “It’s not long until dinner now,
” she smiles. I try to look enthusiastic but the meagre fare we have been living on for the last few weeks is anything but appetising. Cold cuts of meat and cheese, hard bread with no broth to soften it, is far from the delights we are used to but Mother won’t surrender. A few weeks ago I left the crumbled remains of a deep meat pie on the edge of my plate, too full to finish it. I dream of that pie now, mourn the unappreciated thick glazed crust, the rich dark gravy.
Dinner is a meagre affair. The bread I am chewing is dry, it refuses to soften, resists when I attempt to swallow it. I turn my watery eyes to Mother and try to smile. “I wish we could go outside,” I complain for the hundredth time. “I miss the fresh air.”
Mother refuses to allow any of us to leave the chamber, and is determined not to weaken in the face of our gaolers. She doesn’t even allow us to open the windows wide for fear that they might scale the walls.
Each night the rebels carouse in the hall, the sounds of destruction, splintering wood, and drunken song used to keep me awake. I would stay alert, ready for the sounds of immediate attack, but now they scarcely disturb me.
At first I asked every day, every hour, why Father isn't doing anything to help us, but now I have come to realise that either there is nothing he can do, or he doesn’t want to help us. All we can do is wait and see, and the tension is killing me.
It doesn’t help that John is in my company far more often. Usually he is off with his hawk, or riding the estate with Father and the bailiff, learning his trade. Now, cooped up with us all day, he is bored and the darker side to his nature is getting the better of him. I have become his target. He vents his spleen on me, imbibing me with his own fears, his own uncertainty.
“Maybe they’ve killed him,” he whispers when the adults are not close by. “Maybe he has sickened on the road and can’t come back to us. Maybe the king has taken him up for a traitor and locked him in the Tower. Maybe they will chop off his head.”
Intractable Heart: A story of Katheryn Parr Page 1
