I want to go home.
London - June 1537
Cromwell, unable to find evidence that will allow him to send Father to the scaffold, reluctantly allows him to go free. He swears his fealty to the king, putting himself completely in his service. This means that although Father is at liberty, his every movement is watched and questioned by Cromwell. The king’s secretary makes his enmity no secret and slowly, as if he is letting blood, he empties my father’s fortune into his own coffers.
Poor Father is sent back north where the troubles continue with the Scots. John accompanies him, his sulky face leaving us in no doubt that he would rather stay at home. Father is rarely able to spend time with us, and Mother has to take control of his affairs in London. Just yesterday we learned that we have not paid enough recompense to satiate Cromwell and now, on top of everything else, he desires our favourite London home near Charterhouse. Within the week we must all move into lodgings to make way for him.
Mother has instructed the servants to pack up our things, and they scurry about, stuffing our possessions into crates and boxes while Mother and I sit for one last time in her parlour. I take up my sampler, consider the detested rows of crooked flowers. Why did I not make the border narrow and with less foliage and spare myself the torture?
“We must look about for a suitable husband for you, Margaret.”
The needle I am using jabs into my skin and I pop the injured finger into my mouth, looking at Mother in alarm.
“Husband?” I stall. “I am in no hurry to be wed. I would rather see Father safely through his troubles first.”
She smiles. “That is very thoughtful, my love, but do you not see that once you are safely wed it will be one more worry taken from his shoulders?”
“Burden, you mean.” To avoid her shocked expression, I droop my head over my needlework.
“You could never be a burden, Margaret. We love you and want to see your future settled; that is all. I wasn’t implying that you should be wed next week, just suggesting that perhaps you should cast your eye about for someone who meets your approval.”
“Well, it isn’t as if I can choose.” I bite my lip, stab wildly with my needle, forming a row of untidy stitches far bigger than the rest. Tears begin to build behind my eyes. I sniff in an attempt to contain them.
“Is there no one at court who has taken your eye? You seem to attract plenty of partners in the dance.”
As well as tears pricking at my eyelids, I now feel my cheeks burning with embarrassment. Surely she hasn’t noticed my attraction for Francis Bryan? Since our first meeting he singles me out, pays me attentions that I have no idea how to deal with. He is a man in his prime with the reputation of a libertine. Even if Bryan were not already married, Father would never allow such a match. If he knew of my growing attachment he would be outraged. Francis’ face might drift through my mind before I go to sleep each night, and I might recall every word he has ever spoken in my presence, but I realise that there can never be anything between us. Sir Bryan is toying with me. He sees me as a plaything in his courtly games. I am nothing but a ‘Fair Geraldine’ like the one from Surrey’s love sonnet which is doing the rounds at court.
Before Father fell foul of the king I could have married well, a lord or an earl, but now I fear I will have to settle for some feeble, untried boy. Some second son with a paltry income and a tumble-down house. I am scowling over my artless stitching when the sound of horses’ hooves on the gravel outside provides me with an excuse to put down my work. I hurry to the window.
“It is Uncle William,” I announce with relief. Mother lays her sewing aside, smoothes out her skirts and signals for Dorothy to go and organise refreshment. Moments later the door is thrust open, Homer begins to yelp with excitement, and Uncle William enters. With him is Aunt Anne’s husband, William Herbert, both of my Uncle Williams in one visit.
I beam a delighted welcome as they fill the chamber with the fragrance of the June day, a tang of horse and harness, cut grass and sunshine. I wonder why we have spent the afternoon indoors and suspect that Mother wanted to keep me closeted so that she might approach the subject of my marriage.
“Katheryn.” He bends over and kisses Mother’s cheek, before turning to me. Then Uncle William does the same. “Katheryn. Margaret. You are both looking well. I am surprised to find you indoors.”
“I am waiting for the heat of the day to pass before we venture outside. The heat does not suit me.”
“It is devilish hot,” he says, mopping his forehead with his kerchief. “I’ve heard reports of plague. The king has cleared out of the palace and set up court at Windsor, refusing to let anyone from London join them.”
“What of the queen? Is she with him?”
I know she is worrying about Aunt Anne, who is still with the queen. Seeing her concern, I begin to wonder if we are wise to stay so close to the contagion or if we too should run for safety. My thoughts are extinguished by my uncle’s next words.
“Oh yes, you can be sure he will keep her on a short leash while she is in pup. Pray God she gets him a son, or we might have another Anne Boleyn on our hands.”
“Hush, William. Watch what you say.” Mother lowers her voice and looks sharply around the room, although every one of her servants is devoted to her.
Undisturbed by her displeasure William sits down, rests his feet on a low table and crosses his ankles, watches as Dorothy pours four cups of wine.
“How are things with you, William?” Mother asks her brother. In the pause that follows all eyes stray to my other uncle. William Herbert is teasing Homer by balancing a wafer on his nose and defying him to eat it. As Katheryn’s brother’s complaining tones continue, I watch in anticipation. Poor Homer shivers and drools but is too well behaved to snatch the treat before he is given permission. I smother a laugh and turn to my other uncle as if I am interested in his complaints.
“Things for me are as bad as you might imagine. I can’t get the king to sanction my request for a divorce, for it seems divorce is for kings, not for commoners.”
“King Henry’s marriage to Catherine of Aragon was annulled, that is not the same as a divorce.”
“Ha! If he wanted a divorce, he’d get one like that.” He snaps his fingers, and Homer, mistaking it for a summons, abandons his game and rushes up to him, rolls onto his back, covering my uncle’s hose with short white hairs. I stifle a laugh as Uncle William kicks the dog away, and Homer takes refuge in Mother’s skirts.
Mother doesn’t mind a few white hairs on her gown. She sits serenely and I know she is resisting the impulse to reprimand her brother for kicking her dog. She runs a soft white hand across Homer’s back.
“Is there no way you can be reconciled?”
“NO!” Uncle William explodes. “She is a liar and a jade. I wish to God our mother had never arranged the match. It is a fiasco, a waste of my time and hers. I’ve been tied to the bitch since I was thirteen years old, and then denied her father’s title after all. Since I cannot bring myself to share her bed, there will be no heir to follow after me – not of my getting anyway. You’ve heard she has taken a lover?”
Mother flushes as she gently replies, “But William, so do you. I am told you have more than one.”
I am shocked at Mother for speaking out of turn. She has always taught me that women must turn a blind eye to male indiscretions. I turn a curious eye on my uncle, and the disturbing picture of him playing the part of an ardent lover sets my dinner curdling in my belly. His face grows dark with displeasure.
“That is different! It is not the same for men. I am not likely to foist some bastard off as hers, am I? I tell you I will not rest until our union is severed.”
Mother picks up her embroidery again and continues to infill the border. I watch her deft fingers for a while, wishing my own needle was so obedient.
“Then I fear, Brother, you will wait a long time. The king is quite adamantly against it, I am told.”
William slurps his wine,
bangs the cup bad-temperedly on the table.
“Who told you that?”
She flushes even pinker.
“I believe it was Sir Thomas Seymour.”
“Seymour? You’ve been discussing my affairs with Seymour? What possessed you to do such a thing?”
A look of annoyance passes over her face, impatience clearly perceptible in her tone.
“I believe we spoke of the question of divorce in general, and the king’s piety and determination to rule by example.”
“Example! If we all lived like Henry, the court would be littered with bastards.”
“William.” Mother’s tone is sharp. “I will not tolerate such talk in my home. You know it is dangerous. Let us speak of other things. Why do we not take a turn about the garden since the heat of the sun is diminishing?”
Once outside, as we stroll among the flowers, I venture to quiz him. “Do you not love the king, Uncle?”
He looks at me askance.
“Not love the king? Who cannot love so virtuous a prince?” His expression denies the truth in his words and I smile as he ushers me past the fountain. I am aware that he has avoided my question, and perceive that my probing was inappropriate. For the first time I begin to understand that it is all very well to privately have no love for the king but imperative that none should know it, not even close kin.
Uncle William stops and plucks a rose bud. I look down and watch him fasten it with thick, strong fingers to my bodice.
“There,” he says. “A rose for a rose.”
Mother, who witnesses his action, laughs and waits for us to catch up with her. We link arms and move on together. Customs are so different in London. How is any girl able to recognise a genuine suitor when courtly games are played even between uncle and niece?
October 1537 – Hampton Court
The hot summer weather having deteriorated into rain and gales, people begin to flock back to London. The king is once more resident at Hampton Court, where Queen Jane has taken to her chamber. Since the middle of September she has been closeted away from the world to await the birth of her son.
On the morning, we wake to the news of midwives being summoned in the dead of night, and we are not the only ones to suddenly find excuses to be present at the palace the next day. Mother and I put on our best clothes and take the boat up river to confer with Aunt Anne when she is spared the time.
“Yes, she is in labour,” she whispers when she slips out to see us. “The poor thing suffers so much. It is often the way with women who have a tiny frame.”
Her eyes stray up and down my skirts, assessing the size of my hips, which are depressingly wide. Beside me, Mother emits a noise, indicating sympathy.
“And how is the king? Beside himself with worry, I should imagine.”
“William says he is jubilant already, before the poor little thing is even born. God help us all if it’s a girl.”
She drops her voice as she nears the end of the sentence, clutches Mother’s arm and turns her eyes up to heaven. We all know it is not a laughing matter, but we smile anyway.
“I must get back inside.” Aunt Anne kisses Mother, cups my cheek in her hand and leaves us.
“We might as well return home.” Mother looks out at the lowering sky. “It will soon be dark and we can’t stay here all night. We will hear the news soon enough when it comes.”
We begin to weave our way through the loitering crowd, her hand on my elbow guiding me ahead of her toward the courtyard. As we reach the door a voice calls out Mother’s name, and we both turn, expecting to find Uncle William offering to see us safe home. Instead it is Thomas Seymour, the queen’s brother. He squeezes through the crush and makes an elegant leg to Mother, sweeping off his hat with a flourish.
“Lady Latimer. I thought it was you.” He is slightly breathless, colour in his cheeks as if he has just taken a gallop on a fiery horse.
“Have you just arrived?” Mother allows him to take her hand. He draws her close, kisses her lips, as is the way at court. When he withdraws I notice Mother is almost as flushed as he.
“No. I’ve been lurking in the palace for days waiting for Jane to let go her pup.”
His casual reference to our hallowed soon-to-be-born prince startles me, but Mother gives a quiet laugh.
“Thomas, you dreadful man.”
Something in her easy manner alerts me. I watch with increasing interest as he takes her arm and slowly leads her down the steps. I follow in their wake.
At first I had thought he was simply dressed, but outside, the dying daylight reveals that his white padded doublet is studded with tiny pearls that shine as we pass beneath the torches. His sleeves are slashed, peach-coloured satin spilling forth, his thickly lined cloak reaching his knees, his hose as white as the purest snow. As the brother of the queen, and soon-to-be uncle of England’s heir, he has donned his most sumptuous clothes. I wonder if he is as good as he looks, or if it is all show.
“I will call on you both again soon,” he says as he assists us into the waiting barge. “I enjoyed it so much last time.”
“That will be lovely.” Mother settles herself in the barge and, as I take my own seat, I strive but fail to be as elegant as she. I land with a plop in the cushions beside her. As the oarsmen prepare to move away, I struggle with my skirts that have somehow become tangled beneath me. Thomas Seymour lingers close to the stern, his eyes fast upon Mother’s face.
“Perhaps I can bring you news, when the prince is born.” He raises his hat, the fine fat feathers fluttering in the rising breeze.
“I shall look forward to it.”
Mother lifts her hand, keeps it raised, her eyes fixed upon him, as the boat draws away from the river bank. The current takes us and the boat gathers speed before she realises I am watching. She gives herself a little shake and clasps her hands in her lap.
“Well,” she says. “If he brings us the news it will save us the bother of going out in search of it.”
Of course, we know the prince is born before Thomas Seymour returns. The bells ring out across London, and the peace is shattered by the two thousand gun salute that greets the Tudor heir. They say the king is beside himself, weeping with joy and kissing all within reach. Soon the world erupts in celebration; bonfires are lit in the streets, wine flows freely, and for days on end there are civic processions and banquets until the populace can take no more.
When he is three days old the Prince is christened Edward, after the king’s Plantagenet grandfather. We do not attend the ceremony but Thomas, when he comes, describes it so well that we might as well have been present.
I glean from his words that Seymour is a little put out that he is not a godparent. That honour went to the Dukes of Norfolk, Suffolk, and Archbishop Cranmer, and to rub salt into the wound, his brother Edward is made the Earl of Hertford. Thomas is a little appeased when he is given a knighthood and promoted to the privy chamber, but it is easy to see how his brother’s higher status rankles.
“That is good news, Sir Thomas,” Mother soothes, using his new title. “Did you hear that my brother William is also honoured? I believe he will use the title Lord Parr.”
Thomas rubs a fingertip along the line of his eyebrow. “Perhaps it will help him bear with his wife a little better.”
Mother hides a smile, forces her face into feigned severity, but she cannot maintain it and they both collapse into laughter. Dorothy, entering with a heavy tray, raises her eyebrows in surprise. Her face is white and strained and I notice she is bursting with unspoken news. I stand up.
“What is it, Dorothy? What is the matter?”
She bends over and whispers in my ear. “It is the queen, My Lady. They are saying in the kitchen that she has been taken sick and is like to die.”
Wildly, I look from Mother to Sir Thomas. Why me? I ask myself. Why is it left to me to tell him?
“It is the queen …” Before the words have left my mouth Sir Thomas leaps from his place at the fireside, knocking over
his cup. His wine spills and spreads like blood across Mother’s skirt.
“I must go,” he says, snatching up his hat and hurrying from the room. Mother watches open-mouthed, unable to speak or offer comfort.
The door bangs so hard behind him that the candles waver. The flames struggle for life, flickering desperately in a futile dance before they are extinguished forever.
October 1537 - London
London is plunged into mourning for the queen. Women weep in the streets for the pitiable motherless prince and his poor bereaved father. Forgetting the harsh rule of the last few years, the populace overlook the burnings, the disembowelling, the murdered monks, and their hearts fill with grief for their unlucky monarch. As Queen Jane’s body is carried to Windsor, the crowd stand silent in the rain. The nobles follow in a bedraggled procession of damp velvet and dripping feathers. There is not a soul who doesn’t weep for the queen who has given our king his greatest joy and his greatest sorrow.
Afterwards, the king locks himself away and no one sees him outside his privy chambers for weeks. Aunt Anne weeps, uncertain what she will do once the queen’s household is disbanded. She tells us of how she found the king’s fool, Will Somers, weeping outside his master’s door, forbidden entry, refused the privilege of cheering his king’s spirits.
For three long months the English courtiers creep around, the bleak cloak of death muffling all pleasure. Even Christmas is a sorry, sombre affair this year. Everything we do is tinged with the knowledge that our mighty king has been felled by personal loss. Now his presence is withdrawn, we miss the shrim of terror when he enters a room, the peculiar mix of joy and fear when he turns his small round eyes upon us.
And then, on a chilly day in February, like the sun appearing from behind a dark cloud, the king emerges. He is swathed head to toe in cloth of gold, and is as merry as a monarch can be.
Glad to put off our sombre clothes, Mother and I summon the seamstress and conjure new ones. I am given some fine new sleeves, two new hoods, and Mother allows me to wear her pearls on our next visit to court.
Intractable Heart: A story of Katheryn Parr Page 3
