“Oh. You are going somewhere.” She sounds disheartened. I take her arm.
“We are only going to take Homer and Rig for a run in the gardens. It is such a lovely day. Why don’t you join us?”
After a pause, during which her face suffuses with pleasure, she agrees, and we glide arm in arm from the chamber. She is less talkative than usual and I sense straightaway that something is on her mind. I am not yet comfortable enough with the shift in our status to enquire but, hopefully, the relative privacy of the garden will draw her out.
“The lavender is almost in flower.” I pluck a stem and run it between my fingers, inhale the fragrance. “Soon the roses will be blooming too and the gardens full of scent.”
Mary picks a spray of her own and holds it to her nose.
“Lovely. Lavender is so soothing.”
The spaniels run ahead, barking, their curly ears flapping in their wake. Behind us, our women follow at a discreet distance, ready to attend us should we need them.
“Is there something troubling you?” I ask at last as we turn a corner and pass beneath a leafy arch. Mary looks at the sky, screwing up her eyes against the brilliance of the sun. I can see her mind working as she wrestles to form her words. Suddenly she reaches out and grips my hand.
“I – I have been a lonely girl. I expect you know that. Everybody knows the story. How I was kept apart from my mother because we refused to acknowledge my father’s whore.”
I flinch at the bad word. Try to smile. “I know something of it. I was far away in the north at the time, of course. So I wasn’t here then. I wasn’t at court.”
“No. We were kept apart for years, Mother and I. It was hard, lonely, exiled as I was, and forced to attend upon Elizabeth as if I was of no account. But I wouldn’t give in. I never said a kind word to the Bullen woman, and I never will.”
Her voice breaks. She swallows. “It wasn’t until she was gone and Father married Jane that I was allowed back to court. Jane was pleasant, quiet … timid, but she wasn’t a mother. Anne of Cleves is pleasant enough. I still keep in contact with her but well, she is foreign, different. She doesn’t fully understand, and as for Katherine, well. She was an embarrassment. I could barely look at her.”
I don’t know what to say, where to look, so I stand and wait for her to continue.
“What I want to say is this: I am glad you have married my father. You have long been my friend but I wasn’t sure if it was a good thing when I heard you were to marry the king. But I have decided you are all I could wish for in a stepmother. I think you will do us all good. So thank you, and … and I’d like to welcome you.”
Her cheeks are scarlet. Tears are balanced on her lashes, great round diamonds of emotion. Mary is not given to sentiment. It is the first time I have heard her make so long or so unguardeda speech. Her head is lowered, her lip trembling. I take her shaking hand again.
“Oh Mary, I am so glad you think so. I have not been blessed with children of my own, and have little cause to expect that to be so. But I am fortunate that I have Margaret and John, and now you and Elizabeth and little Edward to add to my family. I love you all like my own already.”
We embrace clumsily, laughter breaking through the tears. When she pulls away, I offer her my kerchief and she dabs her cheeks, sniffs as she looks about the garden. She touches my arm.
”Look. Is that not Chapuys? I was hoping to speak to him before he leaves us.”
Chapuys is being carried aloft in a chair rather like the king’s own. I guess he is on his way to take his leave of Henry. Grabbing Mary’s wrist I hurry unceremoniously along the path, my women panting in our wake. When the ambassador notices our approach, he signals his men to lower his chair and struggles to rise.
“No, no. Please, do not get up. I merely wanted to bid you farewell. The Lady Mary and I will miss you at court.”
He sinks gratefully back onto his cushions.
“I am sorry to be leaving, Your Majesty. I have been here so long, England is almost like home.” His eye switches to Mary. “And Lady Mary, I have known since she was this high.” He pats the air at knee height and Mary steps forward.
“You served my mother and I well, Sir. I will never forget that …”
I withdraw a few paces to allow them the privacy that their long relationship deserves. Mary is leaning forward slightly, speaking earnestly to the old man who stood for so long between her and the wrath of the king.
When it appears they are almost finished I rejoin them, take Chapuys by the hand and assure him of England’s gratitude and our obligations to his master. When I take my leave he again struggles to rise, but I forbid it.
“The Lady Mary and I will continue our walk now, sir, and you must continue on your way to the king, who must not be kept waiting.”
Still seated, he offers an awkward bow and grabs at the arms of his chair as it is lifted once more into the air.
“Farewell, Your Majesty. Farewell, Your Royal Highness.”
Mary gasps at the illicit use of her old title and, pretending I don’t see her grateful tears, I grip her arm tightly and turn her attention to Homer and Rig who are splashing with the king’s spaniels in the shallow water of the fountain.
June 1544
Apart from John, whose bad behaviour continues, I am fortunate indeed in my stepchildren. But John is now a man grown and a soldier, gone to help the Duke of Hertford vent the king’s fury on the Scottish border.
After the Scots had so rudely rejected Henry’s plan to marry Prince Edward to the infant Scottish queen, war has broken out afresh. Henry knows that if we do not form an alliance with our nearest neighbour, they will range themselves against us with France. Scotland is far too close for comfort for that alliance to be borne.
But it is a relief both to myself and to Lucy, his long-suffering betrothed, that John’s visits to court are now necessarily seldom and the letters he sends to his sister are brief and devoid of news.
Margaret is still sickly; ailing but not ill. Although I have brought forth the best physicians, they find nothing specific to be the matter with her. They suggest a holiday, a change of scenery, and since she and Elizabeth have quickly become such good friends, Margaret leaves court to join Elizabeth in rural exile at Ashridge. As she is bundled into the carriage I am still issuing instructions to care for her health, to eat heartily and to take as much fresh air as she can manage.
“Yes Mother, I promise. I am sure the visit will do me good.” But, as the coachman whips up the horses I watch her sink back onto her pillows, and know in my heart that her words are just platitudes. She will continue to neglect herself regardless of what I say or do.
She writes to me regularly of her walks in the park. Her letters describe Elizabeth’s home, Elizabeth’s dogs, Elizabeth’s insistence that she study hard. She writes:
“Elizabeth believes a woman to be just as capable of learning as a man and has a boundless capacity for study. Her dedication quite makes my head ache and I cannot hope to keep up with her.”
I frown, hoping that Margaret doesn’t tire herself out in competing with her stepsister. Learning shouldn’t be a competition, but a pleasure. I pick up my pen and write back, warning her not to overdo things.
Elizabeth sends regular missives too, thanking me for my care of her and hoping that she will be allowed back at court soon. She does not set it down in writing but I do not miss her silent request that I use my influence with the king on her behalf. Perhaps, by Christmas, all the royal children will be welcome at court and we can enjoy the celebrations as a family.
Since I have taken my place as queen, Mary no longer presides over court, but she visits when she can and our relationship grows. I have hopes that in time she will see the benefits of accepting the new learning, but I do not pressure her. She is a little like her father in that she likes an idea to be her own. She will not be cajoled. I leave it to God; he will decide what is best for Mary.
By far the most startling of my stepchild
ren is little Edward. At just seven years old, he is self-assured and almost overwhelmingly regal. On our first meeting I expect dimples and mischief, but the child who receives me is quite different; his formal manner sitting strangely on an infant.
I watch in astonishment as he bows and lisps a pre-rehearsed greeting. Where I had hoped to scoop him onto my lap and smother him in kisses, I find myself sinking to my knees and kissing the royal hand. It is instantly apparent that this child does not require a ‘mother’ and I quickly realise I will need a different approach with Edward.
He is very aware of his exulted status and rarely descends from his pedestal. Instead of engaging him in play or laughter, I praise his scholarly achievements. He is currently under the tutoring of Richard Coxe, a progressive teacher who ensures his pupils enjoy their studies. I am pleased to note that Coxe is also a closet reformer, and hope that his influence will find fertile soil in the mind of our little prince.
Once I realise Edward’s scholarly potential, I set about persuading Henry of the merits of Dr John Cheke, and he soon makes a welcome addition to Edward’s schoolroom. As a result, it is only a matter of weeks before my youngest stepson is addressing me rather stiffly as ‘Mother.’
I have come to love his open mind, his willingness to embrace new ideas. It is not something he has inherited from his father. Edward’s letters are full of the new things he has learned, as well as admonishments as to how I should behave in my new state as queen. From any other child these instructions might seem precocious or repellent but, knowing Edward as I now do, I merely smile. Sometimes I even find myself considering his advice as if it comes from a man grown.
I feel I have brought new unity to Henry’s family. In January the act of succession is drawn up afresh, naming Edward as heir and, should he die without issue, Mary. After her, should there be no living child to inherit, Elizabeth and her heirs. It is a job well done and, contrary to all my expectations I am happy in my new role and satisfied with my achievements.
Amid all this I have also managed to compile a small book of psalms and prayers that is to be published under my own name. I am quietly proud of this and the small triumph adds to my general sense of contentment.
And, to my surprise, I am very content. Henry’s visits to my chamber are less frequent now, perhaps once or twice a month, no more. I have learned to accept it and, on one or two occasions, he has even managed to perform the full act. I begin to cherish some hopes of presenting him with a child after all.
Surrounded as I am at court by the greatest thinkers of the age, I begin to turn my thoughts to setting my own ideas on paper. I turn my spare hours, the long nights when sleep evades me, to writing my own philosophies about the importance of God and prayer. I do not tell Henry about it. My thoughts and feelings are so wrapped up in reformist ideas that I know he will disapprove. He may have broken with Rome and allowed some adjustments to the way we worship in England, but at heart he is conservative, and I doubt that will ever change.
Just as I am settling happily into my life as mother to Henry’s children, and queen to the people of England, everything changes. Henry, satisfied that Hertford has a firm hand over the disputes in the north, shatters domestic peace all over England and once more declares war on France.
***
As incapacitated and elderly as he is, Henry pictures himself as a prince of old, vanquishing the French with ease. He spreads a map across the table in my apartment and beckons me to examine it with him. “With Spain keeping Francis occupied on the opposite border, we will regain all our lost territories. Remember Agincourt, Kate?”
I nod enthusiastically. “Well, I wasn’t born, Your Grace.”
Henry laughs with delight.
“France remembers it too. How could they ever forget such defeat? I tell you we will have Montreuil and Boulogne under our control within the blink of an eye. See here?”
He pokes the map and I lean over his shoulder to follow his stubby finger along the ragged south coast of England. “The south coast is well fortified now; the new defences I’ve put up in the last few years will stand us in good stead. I’m not prepared to wait for France to come to us. We will invade just here, while Spain keeps them occupied over here. See? We will split the French forces in two. Norfolk will take Montreuil, and Suffolk and I will besiege Boulogne. The plans are all under way.”
“Is Norfolk not a little old to lead an army now?”
“What? Norfolk? No, he is still in his prime.”
The Duke of Norfolk must be close to seventy but I do not argue. My job is to amuse, to distract the king, not to cause extra concerns.
“What about the Scots? What will they do? Won’t they join with France against us?”
“Hertford will keep them busy, don’t you worry about that. And while I am gone I am trusting all else to you. You will be regent in my absence …”
“Regent? Me?”
I sit down heavily as blood rushes to my head and my heart begins to thump loudly in my ears. “In charge of all England? To sit at council and make decisions?”
“Who else?” He pulls me from my seat and draws me onto his knee, barely wincing at my weight on his injured thigh. “In my youth I left the country in the hands of another Katherine, and I trust in you to do as well. Do you think you can, Kate?”
I don’t know how to answer. I am only just feeling secure in my new position. To take the place of the king, however temporarily, and to undertake the governance of the realm is a terrifying honour indeed. The king is watching me. His flushed face is tense; his pale blue eyes intent on mine.
“I will try, Henry,” I say at last. “I trust you will leave me sound advisors.”
“Of course. I will form a council of five men, including your friend Cranmer, who should keep Gardiner and Wriothesley under control. But they must all adhere to your decisions. I will write, Kate, every day, and be assured my letters will be full of advice and instruction. We can beat France, Kate. You and I, we can do it together.”
I smile gently, grateful for his faith in me. As I slide from his lap, Will Somer, who is never far from the king’s side, creeps from a corner and begins to play the fool. His song is about a simpleton in charge of a sinking ship. As he sings he hunches over, performing a dance in the manner of a crab. Henry roars with laughter, but I see nothing funny. I dislike Somer’s crude, irreverent brand of humour that seems to entertain the king so much. Excusing myself from his presence, I take my leave of Henry and return to my apartments to break the news to my sister.
“Regent? Good grief, Katheryn. That is an honour indeed. William will be astounded …”
“I daresay the king has already discussed it with council. It is the men he has chosen to leave behind that bother me. Gardiner detests me and so does his crony Wriothesley, and as for Hertford …well, let us pray he spends most of his time away from court. I just hope Henry will be back within the month, and we must pray that the strain of war doesn’t prove too much for him. Despite his conviction otherwise, the king is growing old.”
July 1544 - Greenwich
I join the king on the first part of his journey, stopping at Greenwich en route. My husband is in high spirits, almost boyish in his excitement to get to the heart of the action. That night, while the household is still settling, he comes to my chamber. I send my women away, trying not to notice Anne’s look of compassion as she closes the door upon us, leaving us in privacy.
Henry is massive in his nightgown. He lumbers toward the bed and heaves himself onto the mattress. His breath sounds like the winter wind whistling down a chimney.
To give him time to recover from the exertion of climbing unaided into bed, I do not follow straight away. I linger at the hearth, finishing a cup of wine. He watches me, his legs splayed, his hands clasped on his belly, his scalp glinting through his close cropped hair. Reluctantly I put down my empty cup and, sending up a swift and silent prayer, approach the bed.
Henry’s weight makes it impossible for us
not to lie close together. I roll towards him, our bodies touching. He is hot, his gown already damp beneath the arms. As always, his lovemaking begins with an exploration of my knee and upper thigh. Then, unusually, he speaks into the gloom.
“If … if anything should happen to me, you will be well cared for. I have willed that you shall be guardian to Edward after my passing. I trust you to ensure he learns all he needs to become a good king. He must never forget he is a Tudor.”
I place my hand on his chest. “Henry … don’t even think such things …”
“I must.” He pats my fingers. “I must. Everything is left in readiness. It is up to you to govern fairly, and to do so with strength. You can’t be gentle with them. They must learn to fear you as they do me. From now on you are my voice, until such time as I return or Edward is old enough to govern.”
I nod. Fresh fears bubble up from my stomach.
“I will try, My Lord, and every spare moment, I shall pray for your safe and prompt return.”
“Do that. Do that.” His explorations take him higher, bunching up my clothes, his fingers find my core. Our faces are level on the pillow; he pierces me with his eye. “And pray I get you with child this night, Madam, and set the seal on all our good fortune.”
I close my eyes as the trial begins. I try not to mind the progress of his stubby fingers, the trail of spittle he leaves on my skin. When the time is right, he hauls me up so I am seated across his loins. I feel him enter and my penance begins.
In the morning, hoisted like a sack of coal into the saddle, he rides away. He guides his horse through crowd-lined streets, raising a hand to greet his cheering subjects. I feel strangely bereft, like a ship that has cast its anchor, a crab without its shell. I am vulnerable and afraid. Although he cannot be more than four miles away, I sit down directly and compose a letter. I cannot confess to the feelings of cowardice that are overwhelming me so instead, seeking to comfort him as well as myself, I express a love that I do not feel.
Intractable Heart: A story of Katheryn Parr Page 9
