As I watch my brother, I become aware of the signs of suffering on his face. The change in him began many years ago, before our mother died, before the events at Snape, but now, in the king’s service, he has seen other bad things; things that have hardened him further. He looks unsettled, ill at ease, as if he expects to find an assassin behind every door.
“I was telling John he must bring Lucy to see us, so we can get to know her better.”
Both heads turn toward me. “Yes,” Mother smiles. “You must. She is with the king and queen on the Royal Progress, is she not?”
“I believe so.” John shrugs. “And by the time they return I expect I will be back on the border, dealing with King James. But there is nothing to stop you from becoming acquainted in my absence.”
October 1541 - London
Lucy and Aunt Anne arrive to take supper with us a few months later. Father, a little recovered, has accompanied John back to the Scottish border and we find ourselves a household of women again. Lucy is a pretty girl, about sixteen years old, and I know at once that we will be friends. She makes a great fuss of Homer and speaks enthusiastically of her own dog that she was forced to leave at her father’s house when she came to serve the queen.
Lucy is a dainty little thing, her tiny wrists sparrow-like compared with my own. Beside her I feel clumsy and over-sized, but I like her despite that. She is everything I’d like to be.
Mother and Aunt Anne go into the next chamber to examine the new draperies for Katheryn’s bed, leaving Lucy and I to become properly acquainted.
“What is the queen like?” I ask. “I’ve not seen her close up yet.”
Lucy’s eyes dart around the room, she leans closer.
“She is not what you’d expect at all. She is not at all grand, more like you and I, and she is very generous. Her rooms are full of presents from the king and she doesn’t seem to value them at all, but showers them all on her favourites. She has made a great friend of the Lady Anne, you know, the king’s last wife, and gave her two beautiful little spaniels. And she gave me this, look.”
She holds out her hand and I take it, examine a small ring on her finger. A diamond surrounded with tiny pearls.
“Goodness, what a lovely thing. So you like her?”
“Oh yes.” Lucy blushes. “But not just because of the gift. She is funny, full of laughter, and we spend all our days dancing or trying on new clothes. Her apartments are always full of young men.”
I wonder what John would think about the blush that floods her cheeks when she tells me this. Has she set her heart on another? I make a note to probe her when I know her a little better, and turn the conversation back to the queen.
“I would love to see her properly. When I was at court last, the king seemed so much in love with her.”
“Everyone is. Apart from those who worry about Gardiner and Norfolk’s increasing influence; it was they who introduced her to the king in the first place.”
Homer has shed hairs all over my hem and I absentmindedly begin to pick them off, one by one, and drop them on to the floor.
“Is Queen Katherine interested in state affairs? I’d have thought not, judging from all I’ve heard.”
“No, not at all. She is all for pleasure. The only time I have seen her sad is when her monthly flux occurs and she knows she has failed to get with child again. She takes to her bed then, all crumpled with weeping, and doubled up with the cramps.”
“Poor thing. It must be dreadful with all eyes upon her. I hope she falls soon. England needs another prince. You can’t have too many princes.”
“I could do with one myself,” Lucy says with a wry grin.
“Hmm, my brother can be described in many ways, but ‘princely?’ I think not.”
We fall into a fit of giggles that brings Mother and Aunt Anne back into the chamber. They join us by the hearth and, like a ball on a hoop, the conversation returns to the royal court.
“I can’t wait to be introduced to the queen,” I say. “I am so glad they are back from the progress now. I have a gown made from the same deep red shade as Mother’s. I shall wear that.”
“I shall look for you there.” Lucy squeezes my hand and begins to describe a new hood she has had fashioned in a similar style to one of Queen Katherine’s.
When they take their leave, there are kisses all round. They mount their horses amid much laughter. Lucy raises her gloved hand. “I can’t wait to see you again,” she calls as the party moves off, and I retire to the house knowing I have a new friend.
But before we can attend the festivities and I have my chance to be presented to the queen, dreadful news comes from Hampton Court. Queen Katherine is under arrest and her ladies are being questioned. Immediately our thoughts are with Aunt Anne and Lucy. It is only latterly that I consider the feelings of the doomed queen.
There is no question she is doomed. There are very few people who fall foul of King Henry and live to re-emerge from the Tower prison. Mother and I sit rigid, our dinner untouched. The servants creep around the perimeter of the room, as alarmed as we by the gossip and speculation.
“I can’t help but think of Anne Boleyn.” My voice is but a whisper but Katheryn raises her hand, silencing me before I speak further. I ignore her warning, too terrified to heed her.
“What about Aunt Anne and Lucy? What is happening to them? And Queen Katherine, she is so young. Suppose she … you know what happened to Anne Boleyn … in the Tower.”
Mother’s face is tight and pale, her lips bitten white. She jerks her head.
“They have not been taken to the Tower. The queen is at Syon. Lucy is with her. I don’t know where Anne is …” Her voice breaks on a sob and I remember that she and Aunt Anne are sisters, they shared the same nursery. I get up and do what I can to comfort her, but I am not skilled at intimacy. Awkwardly, I hold her close, pat her shoulder, make the proper noises, but all the time my mind is racing ahead, filling with images of another death, another burning, another beheading, another sacrificed queen.
Since my eleventh year there has been nothing but death, torture, mutilation and vengeance. Our religious foundation has crumbled and now no one feels secure. The English people creep in fear, never knowing who to champion, who to denigrate, who to venerate or how to pray. And all the while the king sits like a malicious spider, ready to inject his venom into those who fly too close to his web.
Uncle William comes in haste and Mother and I rush out to greet him when we hear his horse. “It is all right,” he says before he has even dismounted. “She has been questioned and released. Since the queen, err, Mistress Howard, has only been allocated a few serving women, our sister has elected to return home. I have no doubt she will take to her bed and surround herself with her children.”
“Oh, thank goodness, Will. I have been so worried. We both have …”
“What about the queen?” I interrupt. “What is she accused of?”
Uncle William looks uncomfortable. “You’d not credit so sweet a child could be so foul.” He shakes his head, ushers us indoors, keeping his voice low so that the servants cannot hear. “They are saying she is depraved, having had a score of lovers before she wed the king.”
A score? I think before turning my attention back to Uncle Will’s story. She is just seventeen years old, there hasn’t been time!
“And it didn’t stop when she married, either. She has been misbehaving with her own household staff, and Culpepper from the king’s household has been taken into custody too. He won’t live to see another sunrise; you can be assured of that.”
I know Thomas Culpepper. He is the sort of fellow you don’t forget; handsome, witty, the life and soul of any gathering. When I was at court the king made much of Culpepper, keeping him close to his side. His face was so fine that I enquired of Aunt Anne who he was and I learned he was a favourite of the king; the only one who could dress his wounded leg without making him scream. If he is executed, King Henry will miss Thomas as much as he will miss h
is wife; after all, wives are more easily replaced than good servants.
December - April 1542 - London
So, with fear intensifying like a stifling fug over the royal court, Mother and I stay away. Father comes home again, this time on a litter, and I can see on his face that his days on this earth are now short. Once more he takes to his bed, but this time there is no talk of recovery, or of him returning to the war.
Christmas is a sombre affair. John doesn’t come home. We have no clue what is happening to Lucy, and the dispossessed queen spends Yule in captivity.
Early one morning in February, they take her to the Tower and cut off her head. Lucy, who was with her to the end, comes to stay with us. She is a broken figure, a shadow of the bright girl I met before. Mother, whose skills at nursing have never been in such demand, opens her arms to yet another patient.
Although I am bursting with questions, I do not know how to phrase them and, hard as it is, I wait for Lucy to volunteer the information. I sit by her bed with my sewing while she lies quietly, her face almost as white as the pillow. From time to time she gives a massive sigh, guttering the candle that I sew by.
Downstairs, people come and go. Uncle William and Aunt Anne with her husband and children in tow. One by one, they make the pilgrimage upstairs to greet our stricken guest and try to make her smile.
While they are here, the house lights up a little. Homer wakes from his slumber and runs barking at the heels of the children until the din grows to such proportions that Uncle William sends them all into the garden. The dash of cheer in our lives at last tempts Lucy from her bed. She asks to be dressed for the first time in months and, a few weeks later, is mercifully much recovered when John arrives unexpectedly home.
I watch them together. He is stiff, almost unfriendly with her, yet she is as gentle and submissive as a lamb. It is as if he has no idea how to behave, how to be tender. In the end I take him to task.
“She has suffered so much,” I scold him. “I thought your return would cheer her, yet you are as unfriendly as a snake.”
He scowls, looks a little put out. “I am not comfortable with women. I have been at war too long, in the company of men. What am I supposed to say to her?”
I raise my eyes to heaven. “Take her round the garden. Discuss the weather, the flowers, or the birds on the lawn. Good heavens, she is going to be your wife, you must think of something!”
Later on I see them walking stiffly amid the flowers. Her hand is on his arm and he seems to be speaking to her. She looks startled, like a sparrow suddenly surprised by a tom-cat, but John doesn’t seem to notice. He marches her on, waving his free arm in the air to punctuate his sentences.
When they return to the house, Lucy is chilled. I fetch a blanket and we sit close to the fire.
“What was John saying to you out there?” I ask, unable to contain my curiosity any longer. Her expression is bemused. She shrugs her shoulders, pulls a face.
“He was telling me how his horse was killed in battle and had to be replaced. He said the stallion he purchased was so unreliable he had to be gelded. He, err, your brother then went on to describe the procedure. It involved a knife and rather a lot of blood…”
I let out a little shriek of fury and, spinning on my heel, go in search of him. “John!” I march down the stairs and into Father’s study where John is cleaning his weapons; a task he likes to undertake himself.
“Ah, it’s you,” he says when I burst in. “Well, I seem to be making headway with Lucy.”
“What on earth were you thinking? Have you no sense at all? Women don’t want to know about castration. Lucy needs gentleness. Don’t you know what that is?”
He puts down his knife, leans back in his chair.
“No, I’m afraid I don’t. That side of my education has been sadly lacking.”
I watch him stare into the fire. He is right. We have known little softness, little security. And it must be worse for John, taken off to war when he was little more than a boy. He has learned survival, but that lesson has been at the expense of pleasure. I am sure he has known women, bad women and plenty of them, but he knows nothing of love, or life’s joys.
None of us walk a safe path, but when I look back at our shared childhoodI see a road littered with betrayal and fear. Our only constant has been Katheryn, who has been, and still is, there for us, like a soft cushion on a hard bench.
Summer 1542 - London
The king wastes little time mourning for his faithless queen. Instead he embarks upon a period of what only can be described as levity. Determined to shake off the ill-effects of encroaching age, he dons his most splendid apparel and is seldom seen without a lady on his arm. He eats too much, laughs too much, but everyone knows his good humour is a mask for discontent. His single state gives rise to much gossip as the court falls to surmising who he will select to be his next queen.
Such is his reputation as a husband that I suspect there will be few to volunteer for the role. In the absence of a consort he invites his daughter, the Lady Mary, to preside over court. Mother has been friends with Lady Mary since they were children. In fact, she told me once that she was named in honour of Mary’s mother, Queen Katherine of Aragon, or the Princess Dowager as we are now supposed to call her. In a great upheaval of excitement, we begin to order new gowns and trappings suitable for a short stay at the palace.
Lucy, reluctant to place herself in the way of the king again, tries to wriggle out of the visit but is ordered to accompany us by her furious father. She remains a shadow of her former self, a fearful look in her eye, but obediently she selects her plainest gowns and prepares to journey with us.
To my surprise, the atmosphere in Lady Mary’s chambers is relaxed. The musicians play a lively tune while the assembled ladies and gentlemen exchange pleasantries. At first I do not notice the dazzlingly attired figure in the centre of the room but, when she turns and her eyes open in delight, I realise it is Lady Mary herself.
I have seen her once before, but on that occasion her face was dark, her skin sallow-looking, and her expression the very image of her royal father’s. Today, she is happy and it shows.
“Katheryn, Lady Latimer! How happy I am to see you again.” She grasps Mother’s wrists and kisses her on the mouth while Mother blushes with pleasure. She tries to curtsey but Lady Mary prevents it. “No, you must not,” I hear her warn. “I am just the Lady Mary now, remember that.”
A look of pain flashes across Mother’s face. “I will reluctantly bear that in mind, My Lady.” She kisses the royal knuckles again and Lady Mary leads her away. I follow with my eyes lowered, playing the demure young woman as I have been instructed.
There are people missing from the royal court. Lady Rochford, who has been prominent for so many years, perished with Queen Katherine, and others who enjoyed the little queen’s favour have drifted away or been banished from court. In the wake of the late queen’s disgrace people tread with care, and think carefully before they speak. I miss the loud banter that went before, the laughter and the teasing.
But, truthfully, it is Francis Bryan whom I long to see. I learned quite recently that he returned from Paris in the spring upon the death of his wife. The news fills my foolish heart with hope.
“Mistress Neville. By God, you have blossomed.”
I turn toward the familiar voice, my heart leaping, but it plummets instantly when I realise it isn’t Francis. Thomas Seymour is grinning down at me. He is still enjoying high favour despite the demise of his sister, Queen Jane.
“Sir Thomas.” I execute a dainty curtsey and allow him to kiss the side of my mouth.
“Your mother is here?” He stretches his neck, craning over the crowd in search of her.
“She is with the Lady Mary.” I indicate the two women seated in a small alcove, their heads nodding, their hands embroidering their earnest conversation.
“Ah,” he says. “I had better not interrupt.” I watch him from the corner of my eye while he searches for som
ething to say. He is a splendid-looking fellow. His embroidered black doublet is of the finest nap, the slashed sleeves revealing a splash of orange silk beneath. His beard, that waggles when he speaks, is neatly trimmed and scented with sandalwood, the kerchief that he clutches is of the best Holland.
Some say that, after the king, Seymour is the handsomest man at court. Were I not so loyal to my own true love, I would have to agree.
“Have you met my brother’s betrothed, Lucy Somerset?” I draw Lucy into the circle of conversation.
“Of course. How do you, Mistress?”
When he leans in for a kiss, she turns her head a little so that his lips merely graze her cheek. I had hoped Lucy would help to break the awkward silence. She must know Seymour well, having been part of the queen’s household for so long. But to my chagrin she flushes scarlet, bobs a curtsey and says nothing, leaving me to wrack my brains for something intelligent. Just as I am about to open my mouth to speak, Seymour asks a question.
“How is your father?”
I look at the floor, the exquisitely clad feet of the milling crowd, their sweeping gowns, and wrinkled hose. A mislaid kerchief floats like a feather to the ground.
“Not very well, actually,” I hear myself saying. “Mother thinks he will not see out the year.”
“I am sorry to hear that.”
He doesn’t sound it, and I notice that as he speaks his eyes constantly stray toward Mother and the Lady Mary. They have now clasped hands and Mary is leaning forward, speaking earnestly. Clearly they are discussing a matter of some urgency.
“The dancing will begin soon,” Seymour says. “I will seek you both out then, if I may?” He executes a perfect bow and drifts away, leaving Lucy and I alone in the crush. She stands so close beside me I can feel her breath on my cheek.
“I hate it here, I want to go home,” she whispers. “I feel everyone is staring. Come with me to an ante-chamber where it will be quieter.”
Intractable Heart: A story of Katheryn Parr Page 5
