I don’t think it is love; I am not given to sentiment. It is more a case of finishing what was begun all those years ago. I have never forgotten that hour in her bed. She was a widow when I took her for the first time; she is a widow now, and close to the young king. If I can possess the queen, I will stand a better chance of gaining control of the boy.
When I steal into her apartment, she stands like a statue and allows me to kiss her fingers in a gentlemanly salute. Even when I linger and let my tongue play upon her wrist, she does not move. I glance up at her face. She shows no emotion but a small vein is throbbing in her temple. I can almost hear her heart beating.
My hand slides about her waist and still she does not speak, does not move. I inch closer. Our breath entwines. She tilts back her head and slowly, and softly, I kiss her lips. Katheryn is still as sweet as strawberries.
One kiss is all it takes. Starved of my touch for so long, she clings to me like a limpet. I drag the stupid cap from her head and her hair envelopes us. It swamps us like a bag of red snakes, tangling beneath my arms, caught between our frantic, searching mouths. Impatiently, roughly, I drop her to her feet again, bunch her wild golden mane into a ball and thrust it behind her. Clamping a palm either side of her face I look at her, and she looks back, contemplating sin. She breathes short and fast, as if she has been running. Her eyes are glittering, her teeth glimmering white against kiss-reddened lips.
Irresistible.
Taking her pert little chin between finger and thumb, I push back her head and seek with my tongue the ticklish place between her neck and shoulder. She squirms against me. “Thomas!”
It is not really a protest. I do not stop. Her body is flat against mine; I trace every curve and contour, feel her heart hammering against my palm. Her body is tight and firm, like a virgin’s and I cannot fight such charms. Hell, why should I fight it? She is almost begging.
Without a word I carry her to the bed as I have done once before. She scrambles back toward the pillow, a wanton thing with snarled hair and sparkling eyes. With one hand I wrench open her gown and, still fully clothed, cast myself upon her.
***
It is late when I finally buckle my sword belt and fumble for my cloak. Kate is huddled in the bed, weeping. I can’t cope with female tears so, pretending not to notice them, I do not remark on it. I kiss the top of her head. “I will come again soon, sweetheart.”
She cries harder. With an impatient sigh I quit the room. Anne Herbert is hovering close to the door, preventing the entry of Kate’s companions. I jerk my head and, recognising my silent communication, she scratches on the door and disappears into her sister’s chamber.
I do not leave at once but tarry a while topass the time with Kate’s attendants. They vary in age from twelve to forty and in each one there is something intriguing, something worth pursuing. All women are fascinating; a challenge, whether they know it or not.
But Kate, my Kate, has something they lack and I haven’t visited her today just to bed her. Until I saw her I wasn’t even aware I still wanted her. I came to talk to her about my nephew, Edward; about the regency. I want to discover a way for us both to get our feet beneath the council table. It was business but, as I take my leave of her women and quit her queen’s apartments, I realise I have quite forgotten to raise the matter. I will have to come again.
They have closed ranks against us, ousting Kate from the regency, and tried to appease me with a barony and a seat on the privy-council. I am appointed Lord Admiral as well, but that is paltry next to my brother’s self-aggrandisement. He has dubbed himself Duke of Somerset and, even worse, paid off the council to elect him as Protector to the king. My brother now has total power over our nephew, leaving me the scraps. This is not what our sister Jane gave up her life for. The king is my nephew too and as such should be a benefit to both his uncles.
Over the next few weeks I give the matter much thought, and decide it might be safer to hedge my bets. It is imperative that I remain close to the king; he must think well of me. As well as wooing Kate, of whom young Edward is very fond, I set my cap at his sisters too.
I have known Elizabeth since she was a sprat. Indeed, she is still but a girl and yet to blossom into the beauty that her mother was. She has already shown herself favourable to my certain brand of charm, and I look forward to the challenge. When she is ripe for it, perhaps I shall offer her my protection and my love, and take some joy in it. Her sister Mary however is a different kettle of fish.
Already past thirty, she is sallow-skinned and as pious as her mother was. She will, I am sure, prove a harder nut to crack. I rub my fingers through my beard and give the matter my deepest consideration.
As the elder sister, Mary is Edward’s heir. Should anything happen to the king (God forbid, but children often die), Mary would be my safest bet. Married to the queen, I would be as good as king. I sit back and imagine it, picture the power. A smile stretches across my face at the thought of putting my brother’s long ugly nose out of joint.
But I cannot admire Mary; she does not share her sister’s promise and holds no charm for me. It is her sister I have a fancy for. It is a great shame that Elizabeth was not born first. Bedding the red-haired shoot of Anne Boleyn would be sport indeed. I can woo the plain, prim Mary who is closer to the throne, or her pretty sister who is unlikely to ever wield any real power. My choice is not an easy one and in the end I write to them both, professing to each my devotion and support.
A message arrives from Kate and I drop everything and hurry to her house at Chelsea where she continues to mourn the loss of her husband. I leave my horse on the small track that flanks the garden wall and come to her secretly.
She said she would wait by the fountain in the garden, and as I approach, I find her leaning over the pool. She is tracing circles on the surface of the water with her finger and the ends of her veil are in danger of a wetting. She makes a sad but pretty picture in her widow’s weeds and the dogs snuffling in the grass at her feet.
After a quick glance about the garden to ensure we are alone, I quicken my pace. One of the hounds wags its tail but the other growls, making Katheryn look up. By the time I reach her side she is waiting, standing stiff and upright, her head level with my chin. “Thomas,” she whispers as I make my elegant bow.
I take her fingers, draw off her glove and my lips find her skin. Her face is flushed. She takes back her hand. “I hope you are well,” she says as we begin to stroll.
Realising that the visit is not immediately to be the illicit romp I had hoped for, I take my lead from her and begin to regale her with news from court. But despite my best efforts she remains listless and sad. At the end of the garden where the path forks, we hesitate, deciding whether to turn left toward the rose gardens, or right toward the wood. I choose the latter and she follows meekly.
We pass beneath the skeletal canopy and walk for a while in dappled shade; as it grows darker she shudders a little and gallantly I offer her my cloak. My fingers brush her cheek as I position it around her shoulders but she draws away, follows the path that leads deeper into the covert. My spirits rise a little.
“Thomas, I have heard from the king,” she says. “He writes very affectionately. He says he is well and assures me he is keeping up with his studies. He says he means to be a wise ruler. I am pleased he continues to address me as ‘Mother.’ Look.” She offers me the letter she has drawn from her sleeve.
“Hmmm.” I hand it back non-committal, hoping she will continue to chat so I can just enjoy looking at her. A tree has fallen across the path, I extend my hand to help her over it but, once safely on the other side, she releases my fingers at the first opportunity.
“I am glad Elizabeth is with me now. She is quiet about Henry’s death, but poor Mary is the opposite. She is really suffering and seems to have taken it very badly. I believe she regrets all those years that she defied him, as if she feels she let him down in some way. I’ve tried to bolster her by praising the loyalty she showed her mother but well,
you know Mary. She doesn’t feel things lightly.”
“No. I imagine she would be loud in her grief.” The path begins to run down the hill, a trickle of rain water in the centre, the rising aroma of damp decay. The sound of the stream clattering over small rocks and stones draws us forward. We pause on the bank where a mass of celandine forms a carpet dotted by a few lingering snowdrops and clumps of pale primroses. The scene captures her attention.
“So pretty,” she murmurs. I glance back up the hill, the way we have come. Apart from birdsong the woodland is silent and, unable to help myself, I grab for her hand.
“Not as pretty as you, my Kate.”
She stops, and looks down at our joined fingers.
“We can’t keep doing this, Thomas. What if I should get with child?”
“You never did before.” I am kissing each cold finger in turn; they quiver beneath my lips.
“Fortunately no, I didn’t. But if I had done I at least had a husband to conceal our sin.”
“Sin? Is that how you see it? I thought you loved me.”
She snatches away her hand. “That is beside the point, Thomas. What we have done is wrong outside of wedlock. The king is not yet cold in his grave, and … and since you’ve not been forthcoming with a proposal, we must stop; before it is too late.”
She is angry, the blood hot in her cheeks, her eyes glinting dangerously. I grope for her hand, try to placate her but she slaps it away. “I am serious, Tom. I didn’t ask you to come here for that.”
I laugh cruelly, as my anger rises to match hers. “So what do you want? You asked me to come, lured me into the wood and then once I try to take what is clearly on offer, you push me away. You are a tease, Madam.”
She turns coldly away, refusing to rise to my bait. I have the sudden urge to argue with her, to get her to slap me again, wrestle her to the ground and muddy her carefully applied majesty. Having sampled the tart sweetness of her body, I am loath to sever our connection.
“Come,” I back down, smother my annoyance and try to placate her by reaching for her hand again. She jerks it away, spins around to face me and for the first time I notice the misery on her pinched features.
She is cold and sad, and I am adding to her desolation. “Kate.” Searching for a way to bring her round, I stand up, grasp her shoulders and force her to look up at me. “Of course we shall be wed. I didn’t think I had to ask. We’ve been betrothed for years, haven’t we?”
It is as if I have been bewitched. Whatever possessed me to say that? But I cannot retract it. Her pink and white face opens into a smile that would melt any heart.
She falls into my arms.
“Oh Thomas,” she squeals, smothering my beard in tiny kisses. “I am so happy, so happy.” I tolerate the tickling caresses for a few moments and then, gripping her head in my hands, I hold her still so I can kiss her properly.
Her mouth opens beneath mine, her tongue tentatively probing, and my heated response knocks her hood askew. Lust stabs through my body, making me groan aloud, and she whimpers in reply. Feverishly, I begin to wrench up her skirts, cursing the amount of winter petticoats she is wearing. Her thick woollen stockings cling maddeningly to my rough fingertips but I explore further until mercifully, I discover flesh; hot, silk-smooth flesh.
Kate hangs limply in my arms; her eyes close as I begin to love her, and she grows moist at my touch. Sinking to my knees I lay her down among the celandine, trailing her russet hair in the shining yellow flowers.
She lays at my feet, her long lean legs part and I throw off my sword, fumble with the lacing of my codpiece. Kate reaches for me and I sink into her embrace; plunge into the wonder of her warm arms.
***
It is as well that Elizabeth rejects my proposal for I am now well and truly betrothed to Kate. It is our secret as yet, for the council will want to postpone any marriage until they ascertain she is not carrying the late king’s child.
She has told me of her life with Henry, the indignities of his bed, and I am confident that, if anyone’s seed has taken root in her, it is mine. Since the day in the woods I cannot keep away, and have visited her nightly. I ride with great stealth to Chelsea at dusk and leave her before dawn. Sleep is a thing of the past and I am as weary from loving her as I have ever been. We both grow heavy-eyed from lack of rest. Her ladies begin to count their fingers, working out how long it is since she last bled.
For all her prim looks, Kate has the instincts of a slut. She found it hard to be tied for so long to an impotent man, and now she gives her desires full rein. It is a joy for me to discover that she revels in bed-sport as much as I. Often, she takes the lead and her vigorous libido delights me. I am reconciled to the idea of marriage now. If I have to marry, then it is as well to wed a woman who is buxom in bed.
But for now we must exercise caution, and Kate insists we keep our correspondence to a minimum. “I will send to you once every fourteen days she says. “And no more.” But no sooner has she made this rule than she breaks it by sending word to me. My eyes quickly scan the contents of her letter. Anne and William Herbert are in residence at Chelsea and she urges me to come to her after midnight, and be gone again by dawn.
That night, as I ride the shadowy path to my sweetheart’s arms, I encounter a fellow on the road. At first I do not know him. He raises his cap, whistling as he passes by without a word but, as I grow closer to Chelsea, I realise he is the manservant of William Parr, Kate’s brother. If he recognised me he will not bite his tongue. I know we cannot keep our secret long, and if we are discovered they will separate us and do all they can to prevent our union. I decide the marriage must take place without delay, although I keep my reasons from her.
“We must not tarry any longer, Kate. I cannot wait. Let us wed in secret. They will be powerless against us then. I want you in my bed, and I want the world to know you as my wife.”
She hums and haws for so long that I have to increase my persuasion. “We can retire to my castle at Sudeley and you can help me with the improvements I have planned. You will love it there; it is by far the prettiest of all my properties. Elizabeth can come with us, and my ward little Jane Grey also.”
“We would face so much trouble. We’ll likely be banished from court.”
“Only for a while. They’ll soon forgive us. I am Edward’s uncle; you are his mother. I am his friend; his ally. I furnish him with pocket money and ensure he is not shamed by poverty when my brother keeps him short of coin. He owes me a little leniency.”
I lie back on her pillow, put my arms behind my head and admire the way the dawning day is tinting her breasts with a rosy hue. Her nipples are proud in the chill of the morning. I reach for her again.
She pulls a worried face and I soothe it with kisses, suck her lower lip as I hitch my knee across her thighs and slide my right hand up her ribs toward her breast. We are both sore from loving but I can’t help but take her once more before I have to ride away.
June 1547
Barely two weeks after our closeted marriage Katheryn begins to worry. “You must visit the king,” she says, “get him on our side. If he condones our union, then so will everyone else.” She frets about the furtive way our vows were exchanged, and fears that we have affronted God, that we have risked our standing at court.
“Don’t worry,” I assure her as I watch her gather up her rich red hair and tuck it back beneath her cap. She turns to me, grips my fingers, no more the feverish lover, she is now a strait-laced, rebuking wife.
“I will worry, Thomas. If I am already carrying your child the world must know that it is your child, begat in wedlock, and not Henry’s. Speak to the king. He loves us both, and perhaps he will be forgiving. The sooner done the better.”
She drops my hand, stands up and smoothes her skirts. As she walks away, I smother a sigh. There is nothing I hate more than being instructed by a woman.
In truth I am uneasy. The news that I have wed the queen so soon into her widowhood will not sit well with e
ither the king or his council. My brother will be livid. I scratch my beard as I consider how to approach them. In the end I write to Mary. If I can get her on our side, she could intervene on our behalf; her approval may ease the precarious path that lies ahead.
I am not a man given to writing letters with ease but as evening stretches across the gardens, I take up my pen. The first two attempts end up in the fire. I can think of no easy way to confess to a marriage that, to some, is next to treason. I am forced to employ a little cunning and pretend to be seeking her support for a proposed marriage rather than a union that is already signed and sealed.
Katheryn, when she hears of my deception is displeased, and her distress increases when we receive Mary’s prompt reply.
…My Lord, in this case I trust your wisdom doth consider that if it were for my nearest kinsman and dearest friend …, of all other creatures in the world, it standeth least with my poor honour to be a meddler in this matter, considering whose wife her grace was of late and besides that if she be minded to grant you suit, my letters shall do you but small pleasure. On the other side, if the remembrance of the King’s Majesty my father (whose soul God pardon) will not suffer her to grant your suit, I am nothing able to persuade her to forget the loss of him …wherefore I shall most earnestly require you (the premises considered) to think none unkindness in me, though I refuse to be a meddler in anyways in this matter, assuring that (wooing matters set apart, wherein I being a maid am nothing cunning) if otherwise it shall lie in my little power to do you pleasure, I shall be as glad to do it as you require it, both for his blood’s sake that you be of, and also for the gentleness which I have always found in you
Your assured friend to my power,
Marye
Katheryn pales when she reads it, the letter flutters to the floor. “I was so sure of her support in this …” Her voice trails away, her head droops. “Yet she shames me for unseemly haste.”
Intractable Heart: A story of Katheryn Parr Page 16
