***
Amidst all the cares of the past months I have neglected to notice that Margaret is now far from well. She excused herself from duty, claiming a feminine indisposition, but when, after a few short weeks, I see her again, it is apparent she is very ill.
“Margaret.” I rise from my chair, the dogs spilling to the floor, and put a hand to her forehead. “You are burning up.”
“It is nothing.” She shrugs from my touch, her voice deteriorating into a fit of coughing. I take her wrist, skin and bone, the veins on the back of her hand standing up, her knuckles prominent.
“How long have you been like this? Why wasn’t I told?”
“It is a light chill; that is all. Dorothy said I should tell you but I thought you had enough to contend with.”
“Margaret! Of course I should have been told. I am your mother; you are more precious to me than anything on earth. And it is clearly a good deal more than a ‘light chill.’ I will see to it that you have the best of care.”
I order her to bed, putting her in the chamber next to mine, and assume the role I should never have relinquished, that of Margaret’s mother. The doctors come, clucking doubtfully around the bed as they listen to her thin chest, examine her urine, and ask impertinent questions about her monthly flux.
Henry, when he hears it, disappears into his stillroom and emerges again half an hour later with a concoction of herbs that he swore cured him of a similar condition.
I have never known or heard of Henry’s weight falling from his bones, or of him laid waste by a dry and racking cough. As far as I know, apart from his leg and occasional severe indigestion, he has always enjoyed the rudest health. But I take the offering gratefully and spoon it between her lips.
“There.” Henry hovers uncertainly by the sickroom door. “You will soon be hale again, my dear.” Having done his duty, he takes his leave as soon as he can. Poor Henry has always feared contagion and it is entirely for my peace of mind that he allows Margaret to stay. I know that I will not see him again until she is cured; he will occupy himself hunting, or bury himself in the steadily increasing pile of books that litter his private chamber.
It is a sorry time. I had expected Lucy and John’s wedding to cheer her, but their marriage has little effect on her spirits. Daily, Margaret grows weaker. The catalogue of purges and potions they feed her have no effect. On a wet afternoon in March, we face the inevitable. She asks for paper and pen and together we set down her will. It is unusual for unmarried women to have anything of note to leave behind,but Margaret has estates left to her by her father, and a little money put aside. I am to be her chief beneficiary, but she also remembers Dorothy and her other servants.
I watch the passage of her thin, blue-veined hand as it travels across the paper setting her bequests in writing. A lump begins to form in my throat; a lump that grows bigger with each painfully written word, each laboured line. Soon my whole upper body is consumed with fear, grief and regret. I don’t know how I can maintain my cheerful conviction that she will yet recover. I strive but fail to conceal my sorrow from her.
At last, she slumps back on her pillow, coughs pathetically. “I will sleep now,” she says and before I have time to leave, she is slumbering. Instead of leaving I sit at her bedside and watch her breathe; the lace-trimmed bodice of her nightgown barely rising and falling.
She bears no resemblance to the pretty, plump child I first knew. In the early days she was an awkward, stubborn girl, and doggedly resistant to my presence. Those early years were difficult, fraught with rancour and resentment. I remember the first precious day, during the siege at Snape, when the last barrier between us fell and she at last allowed me to mother her, as I had so longed to do.
Now, the bones of her skull are visible, a network of blue veins at her temple, her once luxurious hair is thin and lank. I have failed. I promised John Neville to cherish her and yet, here she is, almost dead of neglect.
Guilt grabs me by the throat, choking grief for a life so easily lost. I send up a silent plea for forgiveness. I have been so caught up in my own life and my own trials that I have quite neglected to notice what was happening beneath my nose.
I sit there for a long time. Eventually, Dorothy appears to stoke the fire. She moves quietly across the room and sets a tray at the bedside. We speak in whispers.
“You should rest, Madam. It won’t do to have you sicken too.”
“Oh, Dorothy. I feel so culpable. I am entirely to blame.”
She sniffs, shakes her head. “No, it isn’t you, Madam. I think Margaret is one of those women who loves once only, and then wholeheartedly. There isn’t any cure for that.”
My head jerks up in surprise. Dorothy has always been perceptive. I search my mind for a possible candidate for Margaret’s love.
“Who, Dorothy?” I ask at last. “Who do you think she loves?”
“Why Madam, who else but that one-eyed reprobate that is always sniffing around the young ladies; Francis Bryan.”
She all but spits his name into the hearth. Tearing my eyes from Dorothy, I turn back to my daughter. She is frail, little more than a child. Francis Bryan is a man grown –he is middle-aged.
“No; surely not. She barely knows him. His attentions have all been for Lucy … oh …”
Realisation hits me low in the belly and rests there like a sickness. “Is this really true, Dorothy? Has she confided in you?”
Dorothy wipes her nose on the back of her hand. “Nay, Madam, she didn’t need to. I have no proof, but I’ve seen her watching him as he flits from one girl to the next when he used to have eyes for no one but her. I’ve seen her come back after a feast and cry herself to sleep. I am not easily fooled, Madam.”
Why didn’t you tell me? I do not speak the words. Recriminations are no use now. While we dissect her private life Margaret lies like a corpse, the flickering shadow of the candle-light playing on her death-white skin.
“Can you die from want of love, do you think?” I whisper, thinking of myself and Thomas. He is my first and only love, but I would never let devotion kill me. Life is too precious; a gift to be enjoyed to the utmost no matter what fate might send your way.
“Oh, I reckon so, some of us anyway. Margaret’s illness stems from the time we first came to court, the time she first met Bryan. There was a glow about her then. She was happy and joy flickered in her like a flame for a short while, and then was extinguished suddenly, like a light. She hasn’t been the same since, Madam.”
I know she is right. Margaret has willed herself to die, for want of a good-for-nothing. Dorothy circles the bed and pulls up a stool beside me.
“There’s nothing more to be done, is there, Madam?”
There is no need for me to answer. I grope for her hand and hang on to it tightly.
Dorothy and I sit until night falls completely. When the candles fail we do not relight them. Darkness is a cloak. It disguises the moisture on our cheeks, the crumpling of our chins, and the furrowed pain upon our brows.
And when the morning comes, we emerge together from the darkest place and return to life. The pain of grief is hidden from view, but both of us will carry it forever, for it is carved deeply upon our souls.
Late spring 1545 – Greenwich
When I see him waiting in the shadows I pause, sure he can hear the thumping of my heart. He stands, hands clasped behind him, looking up at the half-completed portrait. I can scarcely believe he is there, in the flesh, before me.
Blinking back tears I move silently toward him, and without speaking, take my place at his side. His head turns slowly, his welcoming smile opening like a flower. In that moment I forgive him everything.
“It is a good likeness,” he says at last.
I swallow, force myself to remain calm, remind myself I am a queen now and cannot fall into his arms. I turn my attention to the portrait.
“The king commissioned Master John to make my likeness as a sop to soothe the insult of the grand piece Master Holbein
began.”
“Master Holbein is dead, is he not?”
“Yes, but his apprentice is to complete it. I am mean-spirited enough to hope his brush is not too kind to Jane.”
“She was his wife once too, and mother to Edward.”
“I am queen now and have had more shaping of the prince than his mother ever had.”
For a moment I forget we are speaking of Thomas’ sister. I quash my resentment, lower my eyes. “Forgive me, Thomas. I misremembered she was your kin but I find the situation difficult, that is all. I have carried this country through the trials of war; I have reconciled the king with his children, raising them as if they are my own, yet I am not good enough to be painted as queen, alongside the king? Everyone is included: Henry, Edward, Jane, Elizabeth, Mary. Even the royal fools, Janet, and Will Somers have wormed their way into it …”
“Shush, shush, I understand, but I must confess I find myself quite jealous of your jealousy.”
I realise I am being ridiculous and a little of my ire drains away, but the sting of Henry’s insult remains. I know Henry intends me no slight in commissioning a portrait of himself and his wife, Jane, with their children meekly beside them. It is the epitome of family unity and it hurts to be left out. More than I’d thought possible. They are my children. I’ve welcomed them, without hesitation, into my heart, into my household. His dead wife should stay in her grave where she belongs.
To ease me a little, the king has commissioned a full length painting of me, Katheryn the Queen, but still I feel excluded, segregated. I have been quietly sulking for a few weeks now but, as always, within minutes of his company, Tom has me laughing. He raises one quizzical eyebrow and instantly I see how petty and spiteful my behaviour is. For the first time since Margaret’s death, my heart lifts just a little and I almost laugh.
It is strange being here with him like this, speaking of everyday things, as if nothing has happened. The image of our entwined bodies passes through my mind, the delight we shared. I wonder if he remembers it.
I continue to speak of triviality while my adulterous mind recalls a thousand instances of shared pleasure. The conversation falters, our eyes lock before he breaks away and his gaze trickles treasonously down my body. Eventually he realises the significance of my sombre-hued gown, and his eyes refocus and meet mine.
“I am sorry for your loss, Kate. Truly.”
My name, spoken by his lips, is like a balm. I close my eyes for a moment as his voice continues. “Are you happy, apart from losing Margaret, I mean?”
As I ponder the question I look at the floor, the toe of my jewelled slipper peeping from beneath my kirtle.
“Not happy, Tom, but content. I have all I need.”
I do not miss the flash of hurt in his eye and to cover the unintended slight, I continue quickly. “Did you hear my book is soon to be published?”
He steps back a little as if to regard me from a different perspective, and gives an ironic salute. “I did. You are to be congratulated. All over Europe people are talking about England’s valiant and erudite queen. I am honoured to have known her.”
I grow very hot under his praise, disliking the past tense of his sentiment. I open my mouth to utter a tart retort but, at the sound of approaching footsteps, my head jerks up. We both look toward the empty doorway, listen in dismay as the sound of laughter grows closer.
“I must go.” He bends over my hand, his lips on my fingers, his beard tickling. And then he is gone, the hanging at the garden door undulating, his fragrance dissipating in the cool night air. My ladies spill into the room.
“There you are, Katheryn. We have been seeking you everywhere.” Anne pauses, offers me my ostrich feather fan. “Are you quite well? You are terribly pale.”
The spot on my hand where he placed his lips tingles. I turn back to the half-painted portrait of myself as queen. My image stares back, smug and serene amid the splendour that surrounds her. I do not recognise her; it does not seem remotely like myself.
“Evidently I am pale by nature,” I say, gesturing to the likeness. “Master John apparently thinks so.”
Master John, a newcomer to court, is working on a portrait of the Lady Mary also. Our images stand side by side, our faces complete, our nailess hands delicately hued, the sumptuousness of our gowns has only just begun to emerge from Master John’s brush.
It is strange standing before one’s own image. It is quite a different thing to looking in a glass. I observe the flaws, the characteristics that others see. For the first time I realise I am not plain after all, or at least, Master John sees me as pretty. Not beautiful, not handsome but, although I have passed my thirtieth year, my body is as slim as a girl’s and my face is neat and unlined. I am not yet ageing. I am content with that.
***
To free my mind from the misery of losing Margaret, I immerse myself in study. When Mary shows an interest in my work, I persuade her to join me. She sets about translating Erasmus’ paraphrases of the New Testament. I see it as a way of subliminally teaching the new religion and drawing her away from the old beliefs. Now I am freed from the restrictions of Rome, I am moving from Anglicanism and immersing myself in the teachings of Luther. I see now that I was blind before.
The new thinking helps me to overcome the great grief of Margaret’s passing, and I am fuelled with the desire to open the eyes of others around me; including Henry, who remains determinedly orthodox in his religious thinking.
Sometimes when we are alone, or his leg is paining him, I distract him with articles I have read or discussions I have had. He is indulgent. He listens but he does not take the bait.
My new conviction makes me want to reach out and help others understand that the time we spend on earth is but a penance. I want to show them that a greater experience waits for us on the other side of sorrow.
When Wriothesley’s wife, Jane Cheney, loses her infant son I am moved to write to her, to try to explain why she should not grieve. I urge her to understand that it, ‘hath pleased God of late to disinherit your son of this world, or intend he should become partner and chosen heir of the everlasting inheritance, which calling and happy vocation ye may rejoice. For what is excessive sorrow but a plain evidence against you that your inward mind doth repine against God’s sayings, and a declaration that you are not contented that God hath put your son by nature, but his by adoption, in possession of the heavenly kingdom.”
To my dismay I learn afterwards that, far from providing comfort, Jane is most distressed by my letter. She throws it down and subsides in a fit of weeping, taking to her bed for a week. She may think me hard but I know I am right. We can allow ourselves to become prostrate with grief, or we can accept it as a blessing. Only by picturing Margaret at God’s right hand can I continue on earth, knowing that if I live my life righteously, my time will also come. I am living a penance; we all are, until God is ready to receive us into Heaven.
While I delve deeper into the minds of the great, Henry is occupied by more prosaic matters. The continuing threat from France and Scotland takes up most of his day. With our enemies united against us, England stands isolated. He tries to conceal it but I know Henry is angry at the turn of events. The war in France did little to advance us, and the coffers are empty. In the end, things become so bad that Henry is forced to debase the coinage. The merchants begin to speak out in retaliation against us, and the apprentices riot in the streets.
Mid- July 1545 – The Road to Portsmouth
Henry decides to travel to the south coast to oversee the preparations for war. Almost at the last moment he suggests I accompany him, and the servants bustle around making ready for the journey. It is a long but not an arduous ride, and we are all in high spirits as the cavalcade winds its way through the town and into the countryside. A recent rain shower has set the summer leaves aglimmer, and the scent of warm wet meadows rises in a mist. We pass fields of saturated sheep, their pungent oily aroma thick in the humid air.
Henry is mounted on a
massive horse, his sore leg stuck out like a thick white lance before him. Despite his discomfort he is full of enthusiasm for the week ahead, and rides at my side as full of bounce as a small boy on a Sunday outing.
“You just wait until you see the ships, Kate. There is nothing like the royal fleet on the brink of sailing. The French will turn and run when they see us bearing down on them.”
The French navy is reported to be nearing our shores. At first we believed their target to be Boulogne, but for some reason they have changed course and are headed for England. Our ships are manned and battle ready. I smile at Henry’s brave talk and dig my heels into my mount’s sides so that she keeps up with the longer stride of the king’s horse.
“I am told that the French fleet is far bigger than ours, Henry. My brother says they have three hundred ships while we have scarce half that number.”
He waves his arm in the air, dismissing my womanly concern. “That will make no difference. Remember Agincourt? Were we not outnumbered there too? Rest assured, my dear, one good Englishman is a match for five Frenchies.”
We pass a cluster of hovels and a pair of flea-bitten dogs come rushing out to bark at our heels. One of them is limping; he gives up the chase and falls back behind his fellows to watch us go. A band of ragged children appear to add their cheers to the dogs’ fury. Henry waves his plump hand in their direction and they stand barefoot and open mouthed, awed by his notice.
A little farther on we pass a homestead, a more prosperous looking place. A woman is spreading laundry to dry on the hedgerow. She straightens up with a hand to her back, tucks her straggling hair beneath her linen cap, and attempts a clumsy curtsey. As we ride on by she turns on her heel and, ducking her head, hurries into the house. I imagine her telling whoever is inside that she just saw the king and queen ride by. I imagine their disbelief, their derision of her story.
Intractable Heart: A story of Katheryn Parr Page 11
