…Although the distance of time and account of days neither is long nor many of your majesty’s absence, yet the want of your presence, so much desired and beloved by me, maketh me that I cannot quietly pleasure in anything until I hear from your majesty …
Henry has become my lord and protector; the warrior that stands between me and my enemies. It is imperative that he returns safely. The act of writing soothes and enables me to enter the fray of my regency with new courage.
Despite his promises, Henry does not write every day. In fact, the letters that do come are impersonal and directed to the council; orders for more troops, and more equipment. I crave an intimate word from him, some proof of his regard, some evidence of his faith in me. I have little conviction in my own ability.
From the outset, there is friction between myself and the men Henry has set beneath me. When, clad in a gown of masculine cut I arrive for the first meeting, Wriothesley is slouched in my chair. I recognise it as a challenge.
I wish my armour were thicker, the lance of my wit sharper. Straightening my shoulders, I position myself before him and, with a disdainful expression, wait for him to rise. After a long moment, during which my heart bangs sickeningly, he drags himself from my seat and takes one next to Gardiner. They begin to converse in whispers until Cranmer, his eyes crinkling encouragingly at the edges, calls the meeting to order and all attention is upon me.
Lord Hertford has a look of his brother, Thomas. I try not to notice the similarities of his dark-lashed eyes, the way he holds his head, the timbre of his voice. I am here to do a job, not to mourn the loss of a lover like some lovesick maid. I am queen now, in fact as well as name.
I deepen the tone of my voice, shorten my sentences and adopt a squarer pose to emphasise my substance. I am queen and regent of England. It is imperative that they know this and understand that they are now my servants.
We go over reports from the Earl of Shrewsbury in the north, and I issue orders for further weapons and provisions. Slowly, as we work our way through the agenda, my lethargic team of councillors begin to sit up and take note.
“I must be kept informed of events in France. We will write to the king asking for news. Verbal messages and scribbled notes are not enough. If the king is too busy to attend to it himself, then we must have more frequent updates from the king’s council.”
They nod, the murmur of several voices fighting to be heard. Eventually Cranmer hushes them.
“The queen is right. All must be set down on record, even the scrawled messages. There is no excuse for poor record keeping; even the king will know this.”
A ship has foundered off the Scottish coast and letters discovered; letters containing secrets pertaining to the political stance of France and Scotland. I order them to be sent to Henry without delay, and this time there is no argument. I do not mince my words in these missives. Henry said I must make them fear me and gentle words will win me no battles. I scrawl my signature on several documents, a time is set for our next meeting, and it is over.
Afterwards, the men of the council trail from the room, yawning and stretching, and complaining audibly about missing supper. I remain at the desk and take up my pen to write once more to Henry. During meetings, I immerse myself fully in the position of Regent and it is only when I send word to Henry that I allow softness and vulnerability to creep into my words. I cannot think only of ruling. I have to think of my marriage, and a man like Henry likes to know that he is needed, and missed. At the end of the letter, as I take my leave of him, I inform him of the health of his children and beg him to write to me soon as I am in dire need of comfort.
It is true that I miss the king more than I had ever dreamed possible. With him gone, I am aware of those who resent me; they gather in groups, whispering. It is uncomfortable to be so hated, if only by a few.
Rumours that I am barren begin to circulate; I am a heretic, a traitor and I should be burned. A salacious play is performed in my presence, the leading character clearly intended to be me. I watch it, pretending I do not recognise the slur. I laugh and clap my hands, but every moment is a horror.
Each day I wade through duties that are becoming wearisome, fending off the resentment of the religious conservatives, while at the same time nurturing the love and respect of my new reformist friends. When I enter my apartments it is late,and I have not yet taken time for dinner. I am growing pale and tired, and Anne is increasingly concerned for my health.
“You are peaky-looking and not eating properly. You are not with child are you?”
I shake my head sharply, casting an eye about the chamber for fear that we are overheard.
“It is too soon to tell. I had hoped to greet the king with good news on his return, but there are no signs yet.”
“But you’ve not bled. There is still hope?”
I nod as she presses a cup of warm wine into my hand. “There is still hope,” I repeat, although I lost faith in ever becoming a mother many years ago.
“Drink that,” she says like some bossy nursery maid. “It will fortify you.”
I have recently upgraded my household, so now I am surrounded mostly by friends. My privy chamber has become a place of sanctuary, away from the critical eyes of my detractors, although I know there will always be spies.
I ease off my shoes. “The Lady Elizabeth joins us tomorrow.”
“That will be nice. Margaret will be with her, I suppose. For once all your stepchildren will be under one roof … barring John, of course. Is he still in the north?”
“Yes. His betrothed is here, though.”
I have taken Lucy into my service. She fluctuates between radiant good health and the deepest gloom, and I have begun to suspect that this has something to do with Francis Bryan. I have observed them together, flirting and laughing beyond the bounds of courtly love. He is a notorious rake with the reputation of having an eye for young girls. I cannot have Lucy’s character compromised. Once, I believe, Bryan set his sights on Margaret, and I was relieved when that attachment passed, but he cannot have Lucy either.
It is a relief that Bryan is now occupied with the war, perhaps in his absence we can bring Lucy to her senses. It will soon be time for her and John to wed. I must put more effort into seeking a husband for Margaret too; the promise of a family may be just what she needs to restore her verve.
Knowing Henry’s horror of contagion, when the threat of plague raises its head again I issue a proclamation forbidding anyone to endanger the life of the Royal children. Anyone who has been in contact with the pestilence must stay away from court. It is a testing time for me, keeping the family safe, overseeing affairs at home and on the Scottish border, as well as keeping abreast of the situation in France.
I am in the process of recruiting four thousand foot soldiers to send to Henry when at last, a letter written in his own hand is delivered.
When the courier arrives, I barely take the time to listen to his verbal message. I snatch it from his hand as if it is a love letter and carry it to my bed, squinting in the dim light to decipher his scrawl. He thanks me for my letters, the venison I sent him, and excuses himself from not having written sooner.
…would have written unto you again a letter with our own hand, but that we be so occupied, and have so much to do in foreseeing and caring for everything ourself, as we have almost no manner rest or leisure to do any other thing.
I laugh through my tears. It is as if he were in the room, excusing himself for some small offence against me. In a rush of affection I stuff the parchment inside my bodice, promising myself to reply that very evening. I will urge him to come home, ask him how much longer this war will take. If nothing else it will soothe his ego to know I miss him. He swore he’d crush the French within a matter of weeks, but it is already September and still the town of Boulogne has not fallen.
Over supper I convey the contents of the letter to the children.
“Has there been hand to hand fighting yet?” Edward asks, keen to learn the
details of the action. “Will Father fight himself or watch from afar?”
Elizabeth pauses with her spoon halfway to her mouth.
“Edward. Father will do as he sees fit. Why not listen to his letter instead of bombarding Mother with questions?”
He scowls at Elizabeth but subsides and allows me to continue with my news.
After supper we retire to my private chamber. Elizabeth is embroidering Henry some new gloves, each tiny stitch a mark of her love. Margaret, who hates needlework, grimaces at the mere thought of such a task. Her lack of needle skills is a long held joke between us. I remember her toiling over a grubby piece of linen when she was a little girl, her cockled, crooked stitches the cause of much heartbreak. Mary is playing with Rig, teasing him with a cushion, while Edward looks on with a mix of mirth and disdain. Margaret joins me quietly at the hearth.
I am pleased to note she is looking a little better. A faint trace of colour is in her cheek and I notice she enters the conversation more often, even if her comments are sometimes far too cynical for one so young.
***
The summer grows tired; the trees begin to give up their vegetation. Small yellow birch leaves litter the jewelled mead where we walk in the late afternoon sun. Elizabeth is relating a joke to Margaret; a risqué one for a girl. Every so often she glances in my direction to see if I am listening. I pause by the fountain and pretend to be distracted by the golden fish undulating just beneath the surface. My finger trails and the fish rise up to investigate with soft, gaping mouths.
“That’s awful, Elizabeth!” Margaret’s voice floats across the garden, half laughing, half disgusted at the punch line. “Where did you hear that?”
“I overheard Will Somers entertaining the guard. He is at a loose end without the king. It seems he keeps his crudest foolery for the lower orders.”
I raise my eyebrows in Elizabeth’s direction and she subsides, blushing. There is no need for a verbal reprimand, she knows she has displeased me and comes to sit at my side, takes my fingers in her palm. As she opens her mouth to speak, a shadow falls across the garden and we all look up, blinking into the dazzle of the setting sun.
“Will!” Anne leaps from the edge of the fountain to embrace him, but he holds his wife at bay and sinks to his knees before me.
“Your Majesty.” My brother-in-law, Will Herbert, is still mired from the road. From his place in the dust he kisses the back of my hand. I stand up, suddenly full of fear.
“What is it?” I demand, forgetting the presence of the children. “The king? Is it Henry? Is he safe?”
“Nay, Katheryn, do not worry. I come with good news from His Majesty, who has lately taken hold of Boulogne. He sends you his good wishes, and this message which tells of his triumphs. I have been five days on the road.”
A gusty sigh of relief escapes me and, as Anne ushers William back toward the palace, the children gather round, clamouring for me to read the letter aloud.
Boulogne has fallen. I issue orders for praises to be read in the churches, for bonfires to be lit and for jubilation to ring out loud across the city. Delight fills me to the depths of my soul, not only that we are victorious but that the king will soon return. That night when sleep evades me, I call for paper and ink and pen a heartfelt prayer.
Our cause being now just, and being enforced to enter into war and battle, we most humbly beseech thee, O Lord God of hosts, so to turn the hearts of our enemies to the desire of peace, that no Christian blood be spilt; or else grant, O Lord, that with small effusion of blood and to the little hurt and damage of innocents, we may to thy glory obtain victory. And that the wars being soon ended, we may all with one heart and mind, knit together in concord and unity, laud and praise thee.
Although I am proud and delighted with the victory, I also long for the war to end so that Henry can return home to relieve me of the burden of rule. We are triumphant; Henry has gained his second Agincourt, won back Boulogne and Montreuil for England. Let that be enough for him. I can hardly wait to celebrate our great victory together. There were those who saw this war with France as folly, but Henry has proved himself a warrior king, like the kings of old.
But our delight is short-lived and word follows that Charles of Spain has betrayed us and formed a treaty with France. Now King Francis can send all his forces against ours on the northern front. We are isolated, our armies set against far greater numbers than before. For days I am left in limbo, unaware of what is happening or how Henry will act. My mind fills with images of those who have perished on the field of battle. I am not ready to be widowed again. I begin to muster reinforcements, determined to be ready should a summons arrive from France. But then I receive word that the king is coming home, and my heart floods with relief that my trial will soon be over.
At dawn I ride off at the head of a cavalcade to be reunited with my husband at Otford, where Henry will rest en route to Leeds Castle. I slide from the saddle and hurry inside to find Henry, looking larger and healthier than I have ever seen him.
“Kate!” he cries when he sees me. He slams his cup on the table and clambers to his feet, crosses the room to greet me. Although he still limps, he appears far more stable on his feet than when he left.
“Henry.” I press my lips to his cheek, feel the tickle of his beard, and inhale the underlying reek of his bandage. “I had thought the war would tire you out, My Lord, but look at you, twice the man that rode away.”
He is delighted by my flattering tongue and keeps hold of my hand as he ushers me toward the fire. “Bring refreshments, hurry. The queen is tired from her journey,” he calls, his voice full of laughter as he winks at me. Someone takes my cloak and I begin to pull off my riding gloves, hand them to a nearby page.
“What made you decide to return so soon, Henry? I thought perhaps you were ailing. I have been worried every minute you’ve been gone.”
“Do you think me some fragile maid? No, the air in France has done me good. I have spent too many months cooped up in the castle. In future I shall hunt more often, as I did in my youth. There was a time when I was in the saddle from dawn to dusk.”
“I was sorry to hear of Charles’ deceit. Were you very angry?”
“Furious! I knew I should never trust the Spanish. As soon as he was able, Francis turned his attention to us. The damned dauphin took Montreuil from Norfolk as if he was taking it from a baby, and sent him running for the hills. Boulogne is safe though. I thought it secure enough for me to come home.”
I wonder how he will receive Norfolk when he returns. He has fought on Henry’s side for years, sacrificing two nieces to the royal bed; surely Henry won’t be too hard on him.
“And that Seymour fellow, The Admiral…”
My heart leaps at Thomas’ name but I manage not to let it show. The table is piled with delicacies. I reach for a peach and begin to turn it in my fingers, looking for flaws as I wait for him to continue.
“The fleet was scuppered in a storm. His ships sustained considerable damage … it can only be due to incompetency, the fellow should be whipped.”
He pretends to look toward the hearth but I know he is watching me. Careful not to let any emotion show, I begin to peel away the perfect skin of the peach. Slicing off a section I put it in my mouth, the sweet smooth flesh like heaven on my tongue.
Poor Thomas, exiled from court for so long, away from family, away from me, only to be summoned back to face a reprimand. When he comes I wonder if he will look the same, if he will see me altered.
Henry leans forward and plucks a handful of grapes from the bowl and begins to pop them into his mouth. Every so often, to supplement my peach, he holds one out between two fingers and obediently I part my lips and let him place it on my tongue. He watches me, making me blush as I chew delicately.
“I have missed you, wife.” He speaks quietly, his words for me alone, and I realise that I have merely swapped one unpleasant chore for another. Yesterday I was regent, but now I am merely wife again, a brood mare tha
t fails to breed. I could wish his words had not filled my head with memories of Thomas, for tonight I know I will not be sleeping alone.
Spring 1545 - Greenwich
With Henry once more at the helm, things swiftly return to normal. The few months he was away seemed long, but now it is as if he never left. While the king hunts with more vigour than he has for many years, the court continues to growl with discord. The gulf between Norfolk and Gardiner widens daily and the differences between them draws us all into the fray. We are divided into factions, those for reform against those opposed to it.
In the presence of the king we must pretend otherwise, but he is not fooled. He plays one subtly against the other. Like a small child with two beetles in a jar, he watches them circle and seethe, plucking them apart just in time, before any real damage is done. One day, I fear, they will find him off his guard and he will act too late to thwart the strike of a fatal blow.
The threat from France is not over. In fact the danger of war is greater than before. Not only are the forces of France and Scotland united, but Spain is now ranged against us too. I begin to wonder if we should ally ourselves with the Protestant Princes, but Henry remains staunchly Catholic in outlook, and no one since Cromwell has dared to suggest such a thing. We all know what happened to him.
Although Henry continues in relatively good health, he frets over the security of the channel ports. Three armies are on perpetual alert, with beacons ever at the ready should the alarm be raised.
Meanwhile, at court, Henry persists in his hope for a son. As often as he can manage it, he comes to my bed to do his duty by me. Afterwards, he lingers to hear my thoughts on the progress of his children, the state of his kingdom, my opinion of his latest composition. It is there, in the warmth of our marital bed, that I first begin to plant the seeds of an idea. By February, my most trusted servants are sent to Saxony and Antwerp to propose an alliance between Henry and the Kings of Denmark, the Duke of Holstein, and other German princes.
Intractable Heart: A story of Katheryn Parr Page 10
