Intractable Heart: A story of Katheryn Parr

by Arnopp, Judith

  “You used to enjoy court. What is so different now?”

  She shrugs and her chin wobbles a little as she answers. “I keep expecting to see Katherine. I am listening for her voice, her step. It is so strange without her, and yet nobody else seems to notice her lack, or care.”

  It is true. Katherine’s absence is unremarked. She was here, the highest woman in the land, now she is gone. Her life ended and no one is in the least affected.

  A group of gentlemen come into the room, their faces a blur. When they halt before us I nudge Lucy, and we curtsey simultaneously as if we have been practising.

  “Margaret.” The voice I have heard so often in my dreams halts my breath. I look up and he is there, as if he has never been away.

  Somehow, my hand is in his. He steps closer, I inhale the familiar scent, and his lips touch mine. Although the greeting means nothing, I never want it to stop.

  “My Lord.” I blink rapidly, trying to focus, engraving his image on my mind so that I can bring it out later and gloat at his beauty. “This is my soon-to-be sister-in-law, Lucy Somerset.”

  A dart of envy stabs at my heart as his lips brush hers, and I notice she does not instantly draw away. My eyes narrow. “Lucy and John will be married very soon,” I add with intent. Francis bows again. I glimpse the back of his neck, the way his dark hair curls above his fine lawn collar. When he rises and begins to speak I devour his jaw, the fine chiselled shape of his lips. Lips I can still taste.

  “I wish you happiness.” He turns back to me. “And you, Margaret, are you not yet wed?”

  I am so hot I can scarcely breathe. The blood is pounding in my ears, sweat breaking out beneath my arms, my heart fluttering like a moth in a jar. Any moment now, he will ask me the question that I never thought I should hear.

  “Not yet, My Lord. I am waiting for the right candidate.”

  A dimple flickers in his cheek, his lips twitch.

  “Good for you, Mistress. Life is a game of chance. It is best not to enter the fray until you have sized up the opposition carefully.”

  He bows and moves away. I want to scream for him to come back. Briefly I consider pretending to faint, placing my trust in his sense of chivalry to fly to my rescue and carry me outside. But the moment passes and instead of stalling him, I watch him leave, and desolation grows in my breast.

  Suddenly the music stops, and a great clarion of trumpets announces the arrival of the king.

  ”Oh my God,” breathes Lucy in my ear. “It is the king. I don’t want to see him. Can we get out?”

  It is too late. We cannot just leave the king’s presence without a by-your-leave. I grab Lucy’s hand and with the rest of the assembly, we sink to the floor in obeisance.

  My corset digs into my ribs, depriving me of air, and Lucy is standing on my skirt. After what seems an age, at some unseen signal we all rise, and for the first time in years I look upon King Henry. The shock of it almost makes me cry out aloud.

  He is still majestic, still splendidly royal. His clothes are the finest I have ever seen, his cod-piece just as prominent, but his dignity ends there. Our monarch has grown monstrously fat, and his tightly bandaged legs are splayed like saplings of oak. His gross velvet belly protrudes before him like the prow of a ship. The rings on his fingers are sunk into his flesh, and his once handsome face is heavily jowled, his eyes reduced to tiny spots of light that glimmer with suspicion.

  No wonder Lucy doesn’t want to see him. His presence, that used to ignite a room into cheer, now has the opposite effect. He signals for the festivities to continue and slowly, guardedly, the conversation starts up again.

  The king passes among us, leaning heavily on a cane, his breath wheezing from his lungs at every step. As he comes closer, Lucy and I make way for him, sinking to our knees as we have been taught. I can feel her tremor as he passes by.

  Mother, who has her back to him, is so engrossed with the charms of Sir Thomas Seymour that she is unaware of the king’s approach. I can see her hands moving in a characteristic dance as she speaks. When the king draws near, Sir Thomas freezes and places a hand on her arm to halt her conversation and alert her to the royal presence. When she turns, her face is alight with suspended happiness.

  The king pauses for a moment, his eyes narrow, and a smile is born on his sagging cheek, lifting him momentarily from gloom. He holds out his hand to be kissed.

  “Lady Latimer, isn’t it?” he says as Mother falls to her knees before him.

  ***

  My father is dead. The knowledge rests like a rock against my heart. I had known his days were short, but what should be seen as a release for him still comes as a shock. John returns home, more brusque than ever, and seems to spare little time for Lucy. While he drinks too much, and I weep too much, Mother remains calm, organising Father’s affairs and arranging for his burial at St Paul’s.

  Widowed for the second time, Katheryn seems small and sad as, swathed head to toe in black, she prays for Father’s soul. And I, although I am almost a woman grown, am now an orphan.

  To my great relief, Father has left my care in Katheryn’s hands. I am confident that when the time comes, she will ensure I am wed to as honest a man as we can find. If only Sir Bryan were in that category. If only he did not carry the reputation of a rakehell.

  Three months later, when the worst of the sorrow is passing, Mother looks up from a letter she is reading.

  “It is from the Lady Mary. She invites me into her household, and offers you the appointment of maid of honour.”

  I put down my knife, push the plate away.

  “Will you accept?”

  We exchange anxious glances.

  “Would you like me to?”

  Rapidly, my mind assesses all the possibilities. Lucy was forcibly returned to court a few months ago, under stern orders from her father to pull herself together.

  “We would be with Lucy again,” I say, but I am also calculating that by spending each day at the palace, my chances of an encounter with Francis will increase ten-fold.

  “Of course, we will need new clothes.”

  “And we all know how you dislike clothes, Mother.”

  She throws her head back, her laughter a welcome return after so many weeks of forced solemnity. I know she mourns Father as is her duty but, after witnessing her ecstatic joy when in the company of Sir Thomas Seymour, it is obvious to me that she never loved him. I find myself, in idle moments, wondering how long she has known Seymour and if there is anything between them.

  A few weeks later, we leave mourning behind us and set off for the Lady Mary’s apartments at Hampton Court. There we find the courtiers in fine spirits. The king orders entertainments and banquets. Although he can no longer dance, he likes to watch others. He sits at the top table after the feast has been removed, his hands on his knees, his eyes switching from one eligible woman to the next.

  Speculation is rife among the court ladies as to who will be his next choice of wife. Some say it will be Anne Basset, and if her mother’s ambitions have anything to do with it, they may be right. Others say it will be Elizabeth Brooke, who has been seen in the king’s company a lot lately.

  Once these women would have been regarded with great envy but, these days, nobody desires the notice of the king. Therefore I am filled with great horror when he stops before me and, hampered as he is by his injured leg and walking cane, makes as elegant a greeting as he can manage.

  Lucy and I drop to our knees. I am sick with dread. Surely not, surely not! I am plain, big boned and clumsy. The king prefers petite women, dainty dancers with great wit and a pretty smile. “Get up, get up,” he laughs congenially and, exchanging terrified glances, Lucy and I rise from our knees.

  “I find myself enchanted by your dancing, Mistress.”

  I open my mouth to reply but as I do so, I realise he has retained his hold on Lucy’s hand. The king is addressing her, not me.

  As he leans in to kiss her on the mouth, her face is like marble. She t
ucks her jaw into her shoulder and shudders a little but mercifully, the king laughs, mistaking her reluctance for modesty. He places a knuckle beneath her chin and forces her to look at him.

  “Come, come, Mistress Lucy. There is no need to be shy with me. Come and join me in a game of chess; see if you can beat your king.”

  I watch in horrified relief as he leads her away. Thank God, I think. Thank God, but then my relief is quickly followed by compassion for Lucy. Poor, poor Lucy; her greatest terror is upon her.

  She sits stiffly beside the king, dwarfed by his size, his majesty, his magnificence. A crowd builds up around the gaming table, and as always the king becomes the hub of much hilarity.

  Lucy has little skill for strategy and no idea how to play chess. Each time it is her turn to make a move, one of the gentlemen leans in to assist her. With a great twist of jealousy I see Sir Bryan is among them. As he leans near he places a hand on Lucy’s shoulder, his fingers are on her naked neck. He is too close, whispering which piece she should select, guiding her in her battle against the king.

  She hesitates, looks up at him, their eyes wavering before she turns back to the board. My eyes are fixed on the hand on her shoulder and, as she reaches out to grasp the knight, I see him give her a little squeeze. I am the only one who notices when his littlest finger strays from the others to stroke where her skin is softest.

  Something shifts in my heart; something that slashes, splintering my hopes. I bite down hard upon my own tongue. All I can taste is blood and bitterness. I cannot go on …

  Part Two

  Katheryn: The Sixth Queen

  March 1543 - Hampton court

  Being widowed for the second time is very different to before. Last time I was just twenty years old. I had just lost my mother and the world was a vast and frightening place. I had little liking for my in-laws and so, with little money of my own, I turned to my friends and buried myself away in the north. But this time, I am comfortably left. I have influence. I have powerful friends and the ear of the king’s daughter.

  I also have the admiration and, I hope, the love of Thomas Seymour. He has been paying me illicit attentions for months now, and I had half expected he was dallying with me and would disappear when my husband John died. But instead, he continues to call regularly, treating me like an ornament that will shatter should he speak too loudly. But although I may appear fragile in my grief, inside I am dancing a jig. For the first time in my life I am independent and can follow my own directives.

  When Margaret agrees we should join the Lady Mary’s household, I am delighted. My life so far has been spent in relative obscurity, far from the delights of court, the gossip and the intrigue. The only time I knew myself to be fully alive was during the siege at Snape, when the danger and conflict made the blood course like a raging river through my veins. But the excitement was short lived and as soon as it was over, life returned to its habitual tepid trickle of muddy ennui.

  I love clothes; I love jewellery; I love to dance, and I have not yet fully enjoyed any of those things. I have kept my inner self repressed, my thoughts and beliefs hidden. Now, in Lady Mary’s household, I can give my personality full rein – although perhaps, since Mary is so vigorously conservative, it will be as well to keep my views on church reform quiet.

  But now, just a few weeks into our engagement at court, Margaret has fallen ill. I tuck her into bed, feel her brow which is cool and dry, and ask delicate questions about her female condition. She has no sign of fever. There is no rash, no pain, but she is pale and listless, constantly dissolving into tears for no reason at all. I mix a concoction of chervil and woodruff and wait while she drinks it. She pulls a face and hands me the empty cup.

  “There.” I tuck the blankets around her. “Try to rest. I will send for some books to divert your mind, but do not read for too long.”

  Homer is curled into a tight ball on the bed beside her, her fingertips move gently in his coat. Her tragic white face reminds me of when she was a child at Snape. As I close the door I pretend not to see her composure crumple as she subsides into tears again. I don’t know what to do to help, perhaps weeping will relieve her.

  Lady Mary will be waiting for me. I skim along the corridor, past the chapel where the choir is practicing, their soaring voices lifting spirits, infusing an ethereal peace throughout the palace. As I hurry through the outer chambers I spy Thomas, send him a fleeting smile as I pass. My heart beats a little faster but I cannot stop. I must wait until later when we have arranged to meet in the gardens.

  “Ah, Lady Latimer.” Mary puts her book on her lap as I join her at the fireside. “I was just finding the place where you left off.” Her finger trails down the page, stops and taps three times on a red-lettered word. “Here we are. This is it.”

  She passes me the book and, still a little breathless from my haste, I begin to read. She lays her head on the back of her chair and closes her eyes. From time to time I look up to ensure she has not fallen asleep.

  Although she is younger than I by a few years, she appears older. There is a perpetual crease between her eyes, making her seem cross and unapproachable but, in the company of friends, she is amiable and sweet-tempered. Poor Mary, she has been through so much, there is little wonder she is so cautious, so serious. Born a princess, for the first few years of her life she enjoyed adulation from everyone but, when the king began to seek a divorce from Catherine, Mary’s life changed forever. Not only was she dispossessed as a princess, she was forced to bear the stigma of illegitimacy. The hand that was once sought by European princes is now spurned. No one is sure where she stands in the line of succession. It is doubtful if even the king himself remembers.

  When the king and Catherine of Aragon parted, Mary was separated from her mother, never saw her again. While Anne Boleyn was queen, she was forced to act as an underling to the Princess Elizabeth. Mary being Mary of course, she came to adore her little half-sister and even now the girls keep up a correspondence.

  It is only since the demise of the last queen, Katherine Howard, that Mary has regained some of her former standing. Until such time as her father remarries, she assumes the role of hostess at court, and she does it well. Elizabeth, now also stripped of her title of princess, remains at Hatfield, banished and out of favour with her father. No one at court knows Elizabeth very well, although we are all curious about the offspring of the queen we must not speak of.

  Of all his children, in the king’s eyes only Prince Edward can do no wrong. He is six years old now and a sweeter, more precocious child I never laid eyes upon. The king treats him like a child omnipotent, and I am informed that he leads Margaret Bryan, who has charge of him, a merry dance in the nursery. I know Lady Mary holds her brother in the greatest esteem, which says a lot about her, since many would resent him, a latecomer who stands so high in his father’s reckoning.

  While I read to Mary in her closet, the sounds of music and laughter drift in from the other chamber. She opens her eyes, lifts her head. With a deep sigh she rubs her forehead and straightens her headdress. A tight smile appears on her lips.

  “I suppose you’d like to join them?”

  “No, no, I am perfectly content to continue, My Lady.” I keep my finger between the leaves of the book, my eye cocked to the door, waiting for her permission to escape.

  “I suppose we should join them,” she says as she stands and, with an internal frisson of excitement, I help her arrange her gown and straighten her hood before we join the company.

  A hush settles on the room as we enter. I immediately spot Thomas lounging in the window seat watching his friend, Sir Francis Bryan, trying out the steps to a new dance with Lucy Somerset. Lucy blushes and dips her knee when she becomes aware of Mary’s presence. After a moment, Lady Mary waves her hand and the company resume their former jollity. I summon a page to bring my mistress a drink and prepare to settle beside her, but she leans forward, grasps my wrist warmly.

  “I wish to speak to Lady Basset. You go
and make merry with the others, Katheryn. You may be a widow but you’re not dead yet.”

  Our eyes meet. Like a child caught with her hand in a bowl of sweetmeats, I feel my face grow hot beneath her eloquent smile. She knows my secret. She has guessed I have a sweetheart, I am sure of it. But she says nothing. When she turns away I begin to circumnavigate the room, slowly inching my way closer to Thomas’ side.

  He turns, as if he hasn’t noticed my presence, his face breaking into smiles. “Lady Latimer.” He kisses my mouth, grasps my hand and begins to talk of everyday things. Somehow, I respond as if the world is not dipping and swaying about me. Before moving on to greet another, he discreetly reconfirms our assignation in the garden and I promise to be there.

  We part, for now, and the rest of the afternoon passes in an endless round of other people’s enjoyment, other people’s merriment. And all the time with one eye I am watching and tracking the sun as it journeys west outside the window. With the other I am aware of Thomas, his every move, his every smile.

  It seems long in coming but at last my duties are done. I pause in the corridor, wondering whether I should run upstairs to check on Margaret or leave her for a short while longer. In the end Thomas has the greater pull, and I hurry toward the garden, down twisting stairs, along torch-lit corridors, my heart leaping like a rabbit in my chest.

  The outer door is lit up with sunshine, casting the hall into almost pitch darkness. As I grow closer I can see outside to the garden, flooded with light. Thomas is lurking near the entrance to the knot garden. He has removed his cloak and draped it over his shoulder. I pick up my skirts and increase my pace. He sees me coming, lifts his hand in greeting, the effect of his smile is like warm honey pouring over my shoulders. I laugh aloud, and I’m about to dash forward when a figure looms from the darkness, obliterating the sun.

  “Lady Latimer. Well, this is well met.”