Abruptly, I fall to my knees before the king. The stench of his festering leg fills my head. I look at his shoes, his bulging feet pushing the velvet out of shape, his vast calves encased in tight white hose. His hand is gentle on my shoulder. “Get up, get up,” he says. “Walk with me. Let us take a turn about the garden.”
What can I say? What can I do? I rise, smile as widely as I can manage, and lay my hand on his proffered arm.
I blink in the sudden sunlight as we make halting progress. He leans heavily on my shoulder, overpowering me with his presence. “Good afternoon, Thomas.” Henry pauses, waves his stick in the air in greeting as we draw close to my love. Somehow, Thomas manages to execute a perfect bow as, with my heart full of disappointed tears, the king and I walk by.
I can feel Thomas’ eyes follow me all the way around the garden. He is still watching when we pause at the fountain where water cascades, the drops dancing with the evening light on the surface. Deep among the weed and slime, fishes are undulating in the murky depths. The king takes my hand, raises it to his mouth and kisses my fingers, and while he is distracted, I send Thomas a pulsing glance of regret.
“I am glad I bumped into you,” the king is saying. “I would like to challenge you to another game of chess. You play so well. Quite remarkable in a woman…” As I watch Thomas quietly slip between the yew hedges that flank the path, the king’s voice fades away. I give myself a little shake.
“Yes, Your Majesty. Of course, that will be my pleasure.”
When the king begins to visit Mary’s apartments two or three times a day, people start to speculate and notice his interest in me. My brother is delighted and doesn’t hesitate to list the favours my influence can bestow. But, when he hears of it, Thomas scowls, muttering tight-lipped curses, and even Dorothy, the most discreet of servants, begins to ask probing questions. Only Margaret is disinterested. She remains in her chamber, hardly speaking. I have summoned the physicians to look at her but they all concur she is healthy, just lacking in spirit.
I am at my wits end with her, and her brother John is no less bothersome. He was a mischievous boy and a troublesome youth, who now seems bent on experimenting with all the temptations of adulthood. He drinks too much, loses money at the cockfights, and, I have heard, is a regular visitor to the stews. Has he no concern for the disease that is widespread there? Poor Lucy, no wonder she dallies with Francis Bryan when her betrothed neglects her so. I resolve to see what I can do for them. As their stepmother, I am responsible for their happiness. Perhaps, while it lasts, I can use my influence with the king to brighten their futures; it is high time Margaret was married.
May 1543
When evening falls and dinner is over, I find myself sitting with the king before the great hearth, a chess set on the table before us. I pick up my bishop; the king purses his lips, draws in his breath with a doubtful sucking sound. I know he is bent on undermining my confidence, and quite undeterred I make my move and pinion his knight. Henry lies back in his chair and surveys me good-humouredly.
“You are going to beat me again, Madam. I find myself at your mercy. There is nowhere for the poor king to turn.”
I reach out to place his captured piece in a pile with the others, but he seizes my hand, turns it palm up. “Such beautiful hands, perfect fingers,” he says quietly, caressing my skin with his stubby thumb. I raise my eyes to his and to my horror find they are filled with desire. Surely not!
I cannot withdraw my hand. I am forced to bear it. He pulls me closer, leans forward to whisper in my ear. “Come to my apartments later, Madam. I will send a page to guide you.”
My belly rolls in rebellion, but already he is turning away, calling for our cups to be filled. It does not occur to him to wonder if I return his desire. I turn my head to where Thomas watches darkly from the corner and I cry out silently and helplessly for him to do something to stop this from happening.
***
Dorothy laces my gown, tucks a few stray hairs beneath my hood. “There, Madam. You are fit for a king now.”
Her tone is eloquent with disapproval. I want to scream at her that I am defenceless. One simply does not refuse the king when invited to join him for a late supper. Scores of others have done the same. They are still regarded as decent women. Everyone knows Henry does not acknowledge refusal. I inhale deeply and smooth down my skirts, glance into the looking glass. The reflected face is pale and small, the eyes glimmering darkly.
“Have a care of Margaret,” I say, as I pick up my pomander and fan. “She is so wan-looking. I had hoped to spend the night with her, to try to cheer her up, but the king …”
“Don’t worry, Madam,” Dorothy smiles. “I will sleep with her in your stead. Just call if you need me when you return.”
She doesn’t add the words “If you return,” but we both hear them as clearly as if they’d been spoken. I place a hand on her shoulder, gratitude tightening my throat, but my thanks are severed by a discreet knock at the outer door.
I feel like a whore as my escort leads me through the palace, but somehow I force my feet to follow. The corridors are silent; only the servants are awake now, clearing the debris, preparing the rooms for the following day. I wonder where I shall sleep tonight.
If I shall sleep tonight.
The king is alone. His supper table piled high with delicacies I know I will not be able to stomach. “Ah,” he says, groping for his stick and rising to greet me. “Lady Latimer. I thought you would never come.”
My instinct is to flee, every nerve in my body screams to run from his presence, but propriety propels me across the room. His mouth, wet and sloppy, is on mine, his hot hand on my neck, but he does not prolong the greeting. He pulls away, gestures to a chair, and I take my place at his table.
“Eat, eat.” He picks up a napkin and begins to tear apart a roasted fowl, his fingers slick with grease. I am still full from dinner but I cannot politely refuse. Delicately I strip off a piece of meat and slip it between stiff lips, chewing only briefly before forcing it down my throat.
As we dine, the king talks expansively about his youth, his parents, his friends, many of whom have died at his command. It is as if he has forgotten their passing and speaks as if they are in the next room. Every so often he dabs his lips with a cloth, reaches out to touch my hand, my neck, my knee. Each time he does so I feel myself go rigid, and the food lodges in my throat.
Henry seems to forget he is no longer the youthful prince my mother knew. I am not certain how old he is but he must be thirty years my senior. His once golden hair is grey now; his once blue eyes are faded. The king laughs a lot, a great bellow that brings his servants creeping from wherever they have discreetly hidden themselves. Irritated at their presence he waves them away, pushes his plate aside and reaches again and again for the wine. I find I cannot empty my cup fast enough and he begins to chide me playfully, bidding me drink up and be merry.
“I am merry, Your Majesty,” I assure him, although I have never been less joyful in my life. Very soon now I must give myself to a man who is not my husband, a man I do not and cannot love. My body longs only for Thomas. I do not know what to do, or how to behave in circumstances such as this. I begin to worry that perhaps royal mistresses are supposed to know skills that are kept secret from decent women.
He is slumped in his chair, his red face glowing in the heat of the fire, his legs sprawled before him. Silence falls between us and the king grows thoughtful, his eyes fixed on the goblet he twirls in his fingers. The only sounds are the crackling flames and the gentle snores of his hounds that sleep beneath the table.
“You have been wife to two men, Lady Latimer.” He speaks suddenly, making me jump. I dab spilled wine from my skirt and put down my cup.
“Yes, Your Majesty. Sir Edward Borough and Lord John Latimer, fine gentlemen both. I have been very fortunate.”
He narrows his eyes. “Marriage suited you?”
“Oh yes.” I look at my hands, my fingers laced in my lap,
the skin on my knuckles white with tension.
“Yet, you provided them with no children, no sons to follow them…”
“To my great sorrow, Your Majesty.”
Silence falls again, a flurry of rain patters against the window, the logs in the hearth slump, sending up a shower of bright sparks. Henry sighs, his chin sinks to his chest.
“A woman brings more benefits to a man than just sons.”
My head jerks up in astonishment for I had never thought to hear words such as these from a man who desires sons more than anything on earth. The silence stretches on while desperately I fumble for something to say, but he forestalls me. “I am thinking of marrying again.”
“That is good to hear, Your Majesty. You need a young woman to cheer you and fill your nursery with princes.”
“NO.” The word is short, harsh and cutting. “Not a young woman. I made that mistake last time … with her, with Katherine.” I look at my lap, my throat closing in panic at the intimate turn of the conversation. “Lady Latimer, I have it in mind to marry you.”
Time seems to stop. Shock is ringing in my ears. My heart falters, sweat breaks out all over my body, trickling, cold and gruesome, between my breasts. I cannot speak. It is as if I am trapped at the end of a blind alley while a pack of hunting dogs relentlessly approaches to rend my body apart.
“Oh, you are overcome. My dear, how can you be so astounded at such happy news?”
He clambers from his chair, lumbers toward me and, in a trance I give him my hand, rise to meet him.
“Well, say something…” He doesn’t notice my horror. He is laughing, amused by my astonishment, believing me to be speechless with joy.
“Your Majesty, I had thought you desired me as your mistress. I have given no thought to marriage…”
He pats my hand.
“It does you credit not to be too hasty, but I am growing old, Katheryn. I need a wife now.”
“I would happily become your mistress now, Your Majesty. I am not … I hadn’t thought … I am not long widowed, Your Majesty.”
“It would not be seemly, my love. If you should conceive my child, I want him to be legitimate beyond doubt. I have had enough of my offspring being tainted with the hint of bastardy. I thought we could be wed in July.”
Oh God. I had not foreseen this. The thought of being his mistress was bad enough, but then at least he would have tired of me, cast me off and left me free to marry Thomas. As queen I will lose Thomas forever and once more my life will not be my own. In fact, married to the king, I may find my life cut very short.
The king is still gripping my hand expectantly. I look up at him. His huge moon-like face is inches from mine, his foul breath tickling my cheek. I open my mouth and close it again, swallow mucus from my throat.
“It is an honour I have never dreamed of…”
“Is that a yes?” His grip tightens; his other arm slides about my waist. A despairing laugh escapes me as I realise I am lost.
“I suppose it is, Your Majesty. Yes.”
“Oh! Wonderful! And I am Henry, call me Henry.”
Before I have come to terms with what becoming his wife will mean, he drags me into his arms, engulfs my mouth with his so I cannot breathe, and I swoon in the arms of the king.
June 1543 - London
I am alone at Charterhouse, putting my affairs in order, when I hear a disturbance downstairs. Dorothy’s voice, raised in outrage, is drowned by the gruffer tones of my steward. Footsteps on the stair, a thud as the door is thrown open.
“Thomas!”
I stand up at my desk as my visitor forces his way to the centre of the room. Dorothy barges in behind him bristling like cat.
“I am sorry, Madam; he just pushed his way in.” She scowls her disapproval. The steward’s bulk fills the doorway, ready to throw my caller out should I order it. For a few moments I stare at Tom, absorbing his dishevelled beauty, his red eyes, the ruined linen, his untrimmed beard.
“It is all right. You can leave us. We all know Sir Thomas is a gentleman.”
I look without seeing at the paperwork strewn across my desk, tap a fingernail on the uppermost parchment.
“What do you want, Tom?” I ask quietly as Dorothy closes the door. He waits for her footsteps to fade before crossing the room in three strides. He grips my upper arms hard.
“Is it true, Kat?”
His eyes are blue, overflowing with desperation, wanting, and yet not wanting, to hear my answer. My eyes sting, his image blurs. My throat is closed, trapping my words. I nod my head.
“You’re going to marry him? That … that monster?”
“Tom!” I put my hand over his mouth. “Don’t ever say such things.”
“I can’t let you do it. You know what he is like, you saw what he did … to the others; to Anne and little Katherine.”
My head is suddenly too heavy to hold aloft, it lolls on my chest as if my neck has snapped.
“How could I refuse him, Tom? How do I refuse the king?”
I don’t tell him about the pressure from my brother William, who seeks to use my influence with the king for his own ends. I don’t mention Anne’s excitement that she will now be raised to the position of lady in waiting to the queen. I am in a trap, a vice, squeezed from all sides by the silken pressure of those I love.
Family obligation.
“You should have married me when I first asked you, but no, you had to wait. You wanted your time at court. You should have listened to me, Kate!” His voice breaks. He thumps the table, the cups jumping, wine overspilling, trickling and pooling like blood on the tray.
“I know.”
He walks away, stops, turns again, and ruffles his hair.
“He is sending me overseas. Clearing the board of opposition as if it is some … some game and you the prize.”
“Oh, Tom.” I cannot stop the tears. They well up from nowhere, flood my eyes, and spill down my cheeks, dripping from my chin, wetting my hands. He watches me helplessly. My chest heaves, my chin trembles. We both know there is nothing to be done. I am lost to him. We are lost to each other. The short breach between us may as well be miles wide. For a long moment we stand and stare, silent yet saying much. My heart is fit to burst.
I do not sense him move but somehow he is close to me again. I am in his arms, my cheek pressed against his heart, my head cradled in his hand. “Poor Kate,” he murmurs. “Poor, poor Kate.”
I raise my head and, as if I have silently requested it, his mouth descends to mine. My face is in his hands, his body tight against me as delight rushes in to replace despair.
I am no maid. I have known two husbands; I’ve been kissed by the king, kissed before by Thomas, but never have I known anything like this. He holds nothing back. My head swims, the world seems to tip. As my legs turn to string his doublet becomes my lifeline, but I kiss him back, returning his desire with every inch of my being. Colours and miracles swim about my mind and, when I can take no more, I wrench my mouth from his and look into his burning eyes.
There is no joy, no triumph, just a kind of inevitability; there is no help for it. Without a word he lifts me from my feet and carries me from the room to my inner chamber. He dumps me on the bed and turns to bolt the door.
I am almost thirty years old, yet never in my life have I known such pleasure. Although we both know we risk death to be so, I am naked in his arms, matching his passion with my own. I give myself to Thomas and he takes from me that which I have promised shall be the king’s.
He rears above me, his face damp with sweat, and his beard moist with my kisses. As he watches my pleasure, I am not embarrassed. I twist and thrust and writhe beneath him before he gives in to his own delight.
When he is spent, he slumps across me, his torso heavy and hot, and the passage of his heart’s blood pulsing in my ear. His love is crushing me but I have no wish to move, and when he rolls away I clutch at his hair, ask him to tarry.
Our heads are side by side on the pillow.
He reaches out to tease a strand of hair from my eyes. I trace the movements of his mouth when he whispers to me. I crave words of endearment, promises of felicity, constancy but, instead, I hear something very different. As I digest the meaning behind his whispered words, my finger ceases its passage on his lips.
“Think of this, Katheryn, when you lay with the king. This is how it should be between a man and a woman. Think of this when you are in your dotard’s bed.”
And while the wounds of his words are still raw and bleeding, he rolls from my bed and quietly begins to put on his clothes.
12th July 1543 - Hampton Court
Although the wedding is still two days away, I am treated with deference. The king shows me my new apartments, close to his. The decoration is to be refreshed, Katherine Howard’s initials, still entwined with Henry’s, will be altered to mine. Katheryn Parr, the queen.
The other queens linger, engrained in the fabric of the building. I am given their jewels, and some of the gowns of Katherine Howard are altered to fit me. Their memory hangs in the air like a scent, their laughter echoing in the corridors, along with their tears … their screams.
But I will be queen now. My personal wishes put aside, my heart locked securely in a wooden casket, entombed, never to be exhumed.
I stand like a statue while my women lace me into my bridal gown. My new shoes are too tight, the jewels hang heavy about my throat and my bodice compresses my lungs, hampering my breathing. Dorothy who, usurped by my sister, will soon be leaving me for Margaret’s household, shows me a looking glass. A pale, thin woman looks back, the eyes large and darkly luminous.
Is that me? Can plain old Katheryn Parr really be about to wed the king? Mother would be pleased. If only she had lived to see it. She put such energy into marrying us all well, all but bankrupting herself to secure my brother the hand of the wife he now detests. Position is all that mattered to her; she had no time for love. Despite my black and aching heart, she would say I have done well.
Intractable Heart: A story of Katheryn Parr Page 7
