Intractable Heart: A story of Katheryn Parr

by Arnopp, Judith

  I whirl around, storm across the room and kick his dog as it slinks in through the open door. As I hurry through the ranks of scowling yeomen and along the corridor, I can hear the mutt continuing to yelp as pathetically as its master.

  I ride back to Chelsea where Kate is awaiting news. Her disappointment when I confess to having failed is great and I swear to her that, if it is the last thing I ever do, I will get those jewels back for her. God curse me if I don’t.

  September 1547 - Chelsea

  I sit at the head and look along the table at my collection of royal women; a queen, a princess, and a cousin of a king. I should be content, but my brother and his monstrous wife continue to sprinkle flies into my ointment. From time to time Katheryn looks up from her plate to smile at me. I wink at her and as I do so I notice Elizabeth watching me from the corner of her eye. I flick a grape across the board and it lands with a plop in Elizabeth’s soup.

  “My Lord Admiral,” she exclaims as she fishes it out. “I believe you have lost something.” She flicks it back with perfect aim into my own bowl, splashing my doublet. I leap back, dabbing at the cloth with my napkin.

  “You minx,” I accuse her hotly, but she merely blinks and smiles a slow, maddening smile. Jane looks on, her eye darting from me to Katheryn, unsure if she should approve of our antics or be affronted. Seeing Kate’s merry look she relaxes a little, and her mouth softens. Jane has not known high spirits at home; from what I gather her upbringing has been all prayer and piety. It is different here. Beside her Elizabeth is mischief, although where she learned to play such games I do not know. She leans back in her chair and looks at me sideways through her sandy lashes.

  “I think, My Lord Admiral, you should not engage in a war you cannot win.” Elizabeth pulls her bread apart and my eyes are transfixed by her long white fingers. She has just turned fourteen and although only a girl, her wit is as sharp as a knife. Sometimes I am at a loss as how to answer. It is not just her words but the manner in which they are spoken.

  Our eyes lock for a few seconds until hers crinkle at the edges, softening the arch remark, and I am reminded of her mother and the way she could play a man on her hook.

  Like a fish, I wriggle a little and turn back to my wife, who is stoically spooning broth into her mouth. Something hidden behind Elizabeth’s girlish face has just silently announced that she is no longer a child. Disconcerted at what I’ve seen, I seek to demean her and shove her roughly back to the ranks of infancy.

  “You need to spank her, Kate. Don’t let the minx get above herself,” I say as if in jest. My wife puts down her spoon, her gaze level and cool.

  “Perhaps you would prefer to do that yourself, My Lord.”

  It is a sharp retort that tells me to behave. I had not realised until now that she has noticed the growing tension between the girl and I, and is injured by it. Jane dips her head low over her bowl, while Elizabeth continues to pull apart her floury bap and cast it into her soup. Conversation lags until Kate throws a pebble into the pond of our despondency and disperses our unease.

  “You really must ride to see Somerset again, Thomas. He is still refusing to release my property. Despite my refusal to sell Fausterne Manor to him he has now promised the tenancy to a fellow of his; a man called Long. It is not right, Thomas. The manor is mine, I should be able to do with it as I like.”

  My head is weary of all this. Night and day all I hear is how wronged she is by my brother. It is as if she holds me to blame in some way. Of course, she is right; it is her property. I do not deny that, but a fellow should have some relief from business at the supper table.

  These days Kate goes less and less to court. She is content to sit at home with Elizabeth and Jane, sharing her learning with them. The parlour table is littered with Latin translations, books pile up on chairs so that I am lucky if I can find a seat, and the conversation is replete with topics I cannot comprehend. I try to distract them from their seriousness with rough games and teasing, but when that palls she gathers her women about her to read and sew, and I find myself excluded again.

  Sometimes the domesticity is stifling, and I long to feel the heave of a ship’s deck beneath my feet, or the clash of my sword against the enemy. I am hungry for danger, for adventure, but instead we pass an insipid summer leavened only by bed-sport with my wife, and my continuing taunting of Elizabeth. In desperation I turn my mind to courtly intrigue.

  It has cost me dear to secure the nine-year-old Jane Grey as my ward, but she is a worthy pawn in the game of chance I am playing. Married to the queen, and uncle to the king, I am in a prime position to usurp my brother’s place in the boy’s affections. As the year begins its downward journey I conceive a plan that will bring us closer.

  If Edward were to marry Jane, I would be at the centre of a wheel of royalty. I would become the pivot upon which England turns, and Edward, Jane and Kate could revolve in my sphere like constellations. I begin a slow and insidious plan to bring the cousins closer and engineer a romantic royal intrigue.

  At this time the trouble in Scotland breaks out again, and my brother rides north with an army. I am ordered to lead out the fleet but I feel my presence is of more worth here, close to court, so I send Vice-Admiral Clinton off in my place.

  In Somerset’s absence, the royal palace becomes a more amenable place. If I desire it, I have daily access to the king, and I begin to drip hints about his need for a wife, although I make sure not to mention the name of Jane Grey just yet.

  I soon discover that the king has inherited more than a little of the Tudor taste for wealth and ornament. I wonder if we are to see a return to the miserly ways of his grandfather, the seventh Henry. Like him, Edward keeps a careful eye on the accounts, and when I broach the subject of marriage, he declares he will wed none but a foreign princess and she must be “well-stuffed with jewels.”

  “But, Your Grace, there is more to a wife than the coffers she brings with her. The greatest feminine jewel is tucked safely beneath her petticoats.”

  The king flushes, his ears turning as red as his cheeks. He bends his head and pretends to search the coat of his favourite dog for fleas. The beast rolls onto its back, legs akimbo, tongue lolling blissfully while the king continues his task. “You’d prefer an English wife, Your Majesty. A foreign woman can be awkward; they have strange habits and customs. It might be best to select from the ladies at court. Remember, your father only found true happiness with your mother, Jane, and she was as English as I am.”

  The boy releases the dog, who leaps up to anoint the royal face. With a yelp Edward pushes him down, draws his sleeve across his wet nose. “Well,” he says, as his former blushes subside. “There is time yet for me to make my decision but I have a fancy for a wealthy wife, and there are few ladies of England that are rich enough to appease me.”

  This is a blow. I had not considered the boy’s greed. Perhaps if he and Jane spent more time together an unbreakable bond would form; a love match. All I need is to discover how to get the overly pious girl to take her nose out of a book long enough to catch the royal eye.

  Life at home descends peacefully into routine. While I spend much time at court, Kate prefers to stay home where she is still treated like a queen, and has a vast household to see to her every need. At the royal palace Anne Stanhope, God curse her, preens herself like a prizegoose over Edward’s court. Kate is not the only one who is offended by her overbearing pride and stays away. I do my best to avoid her, and pray the war in Scotland keeps my brother occupied long enough for me to plant the idea of marriage to Jane in the king’s mind.

  Away from court there is turmoil in the church. As my brother and Cranmer manoeuvre England away from the Catholic faith, injunctions are set against the idolatry of images, the use of rosaries, and we are forbidden to pray to saints. To Kate’s delight, which she does not try to conceal, Bishop Gardiner is imprisoned for his protest at the changes.

  Of course, little of this affects me. As long as I ensure the rules are fol
lowed in my own churches and chapels, my life continues much as it has ever done.

  After being forced to conceal her beliefs for so long, Kate is overjoyed by this turn of events and ensures that, in our home at least, the new decrees are followed to the letter. It is the one area of government that she and my brother agree upon.

  Elizabeth and Jane, who are staunchly Protestant, embrace the new ideas, but Mary, who used to write to Kate regularly until our marriage, now scarcely communicates with us at all. Her silence speaks loudly of her disapproval.

  We abandon mass and now we sing our psalms in English, and moves are in place for services to be held in English too. As usual, when it is time for church, I make myself scarce; I am not a praying man. I couldn’t care less about church reform, but I wonder what the peasants make of it all. Their lives have turned according to ancient laws of the church, and the innovations must be bewildering to those of low intellect. But, judging from the deprivations of their lifestyle, one would imagine they’ve more to worry about than how the sermons are read.

  Kate, now she is more confident, resumes work on her book. She calls it The Lamentation of a Sinner and for a while she can talk of nothing else. At first she is nervous about publishing it but, urged on by her companions and bolstered by the glowing preface penned by her friend, William Cecil, she goes ahead.

  The house fills with her admirers; the reformer, John Parkhurst becomes her chaplain, and she gives Miles Coverdale a place as her almoner. Even the radical and argumentative Robert Cooch appears often at supper. I take no part in his arguments. Like a lecher in a house of nuns, I sit back in my chair and let my mind wander to other concerns.

  Elizabeth sits opposite, putting on airs and trying to appear sophisticated in a gown I’ve not seen her wear before. It is crimson, clashing with the wisps of hair that peek from the edges of her cap. I guess it is a gift from Kate, who cannot resist such shades of red. Jane is likewise richly clad, but she is in yellow and it is Elizabeth who draws the eye. She makes no move to attract my attention but still, I cannot keep myself from looking.

  She is arresting but not pretty. Her pointed face is prim until she turns those dark, dancing eyes upon a man. I wonder if it is only I who can see it, or if she works her spell on all men. I trace an imaginary finger along the parting in her fiery hair, down her high white brow to her fine aquiline nose, her pale plump lips. There I linger, my make-believe fingertip tracing the outline of her mouth that opens to lure me in. I imagine her hot mouth drawing my finger and become so engrossed in the scenario that I gasp aloud. Everyone turns to look at me and I laugh.

  “I almost dropped off,” I apologise. “Do carry on.”

  Cooch’s voice drones on but Elizabeth is watching me now. To hide my discomfort I try to turn the tables and disconcert her instead. I pull surreptitious faces to try to make her laugh but she averts her gaze, turns coldly away, listening intently to the conversation for all the world as if she’d not rather sport with me.

  ***

  Winter blows in hard. I ride home from court through a bitter wind, tiny flecks of snow stinging my face. I urge my mount onward, keeping my head low, and look forward to the welcome lights of home. When I finally slide from my horse the house is in darkness. My limbs are stiff, my clothes sodden. I stamp into the hall and throw my cloak at a retainer.

  “Where is my wife?”

  “She took poorly, My Lord, and retired to her chamber.”

  Dogs leap up from the fireside in hairy welcome, but I push them down and take the stairs two at a time.

  “Kate?” I whisper as I push open the door and, without waiting for her summons, enter the room. The only light is coming from the fireplace; the only sound is the regular tic of her breathing. Before I am halfway to the bed, a figure detaches itself from the shadows and stands before me in the firelight.

  “She is sleeping, My Lord. Try not to wake her.”

  Elizabeth, clad only in her nightgown, clutches a shawl around her shoulders. I pause, drinking in the vision of her limbs, outlined by the firelight, her red hair tumbling on her shoulders. I take a step nearer, keep my voice low, so as not to disturb my wife.

  “Why aren’t you in bed?”

  My voice is no more than a whisper. She shrugs, her white face shadowed by the leaping flames.

  “Katheryn was feeling poorly. I am her friend. She sent the others away.”

  Without her cap, she looks both more vulnerable and more desirable. There is a slight kink to her hair I’ve not noticed before. It seems like a living thing, as red and as vibrant as the fire behind her. I lift a tress, test the softness between finger and thumb. Her shawl slips to the floor as she drops her hands and when she swallows, my eyes move to her throat; her long, white, kissable throat.

  My lips are dry, my blood pulsing beneath my skin, my loins tight as I acknowledge her budding breasts thrusting beneath the thin stuff of her nightgown.

  “My Lord,” she croaks. She knows I am looking, knows what I am thinking, and her words are both an acknowledgement and a denial. I drop the fiery strand of hair as if it has burned me, and as she flees from the room I gaze helplessly after the high tight buttocks ill-concealed beneath her shift.

  January 1548

  There is dancing after supper. A crush of people is squeezed into the hall, laughing at the shrill discordance of the musicians as they tune their instruments. Then, when the music begins, chaos turns to order as we begin to follow the steps of the first dance. We move in a wheel, Katheryn’s hand is in mine as we promenade and turn. When I bow, she points her toe, her head balanced as pretty as a daisy upon her green-clad shoulders. We come together, her lips stretching, her eyes gleaming. She is beautiful. My mouth grazes her cheek before we part again, our fingertips touching.

  For a while I am hers again, freed from the charms of the royal baggage. The evening passes in a haze of resurrected lust and that night I go to her bed. I make love to her like I did before we were wed, before my life became bowed down with domesticity and sobriety.

  At first it is like tickling a kitten. I move upon her slowly, waking her dormant passion, stirring her need. She has missed this, it is plain to see; she begins to writhe beneath me, matching my pace, issuing small mews of pleasure. I open my eyes and look down at her blood-suffused cheeks, her streaming ruddy hair. But the face I see is not hers. My mind tricks me, the dimly-lit chamber and the flickering candles turn the legitimate loving of my wife into a romp with a dangerous girl. As Elizabeth’s smile is superimposed upon Kate’s I throw back my head and explode with adulterous pleasure as I flood Katheryn’s womb with my seed.

  While my wife relaxes into a satisfied sleep, I lie awake wondering what the hell is wrong with me. Am I bewitched? I remember the stories that emerged about Anne Boleyn after her execution, stories of witchcraft and evil intent. Before this I rejected such wild claims, but now, with her daughter Elizabeth haunting my marriage bed, stalking at the periphery of my mind for every waking moment, I begin to wonder.

  As night dissolves into a wet, chill dawn, I rise heavy-eyed and pull on my hose and slip into my shirt. One of Katheryn’s dogs stretches in its bed and watches me quit the chamber, but it does not follow. Carrying my shoes I creep along the corridor, intending to plague the kitchen staff for an early breakfast, for a night of loving has made me famished.

  As I near Elizabeth’s apartments, her woman, Kat Ashley, emerges, still in her nightgown, her hair in two thick black braids. She cries out when she sees me and claps a hand to her bosom. “My Lord Admiral! You made me jump. Why are you up and about so early?”

  “I might ask you the same, Madam. Is everything well?”

  “My Lady has a headache.” She jerks her head toward the open chamber door. “I am fetching an infusion of sage and lavender. That will set her right. I am not sure if we should summon the physician, My Lord, she has been out of sorts for a few days. Go and have a peek at her, see what you think.”

  I cannot refuse. As if I am being
drawn forward by an invisible string, I glide toward the door, push it wide and find myself standing beside her bed. She looks up at me without surprise, her huge dark eyes more shadowed than usual. A smirk flickers on her lips. “Admiral. Are you turned doctor? Have you come to administer to my needs?”

  I ignore the innuendo and she holds out a long slender arm, the sleeve of her nightgown falling back to reveal white skin, faint blue veins pulsing at the inner elbow. I push down the desire to kiss it.

  “Your woman said you are sickly. You look all right to me.”

  “On the contrary, My Lord. I am ailing and like to die. Feel how hot I am. Do you think I have a fever?”

  She takes my hand, clamps it upon her forehead, the contact bringing me closer. Too close. Her skull is hot, but not overly. Her hair is like coppery silk beneath my fingers. I can hear her breath, short and sharp. The youthful odour of her bed rises, challenging every male instinct. I try to pull away but she retains my hand. “Am I very sick, Tom?”

  She speaks my name oddly. Usually she addresses me ironically as ‘Admiral’, or ‘My Lord’ but this morning she turns the single syllable ‘Tom’ into an invitation.

  I snatch away my hand.

  “What are you doing, Elizabeth? Are you mad?”

  “It must be the fever. I am burning up.” Restlessly she pushes back the covers with her feet, revealing long slim limbs, dainty ankles, tiny bare toes, and nails like enamelled jewels. I groan inwardly and struggle with the blankets, trying to cover her.

  “Stop it. Stop it. You will have me hung.”

  Our faces are close, our breath conjoined, our noses almost touching.

  “Hung for what?”

  “You are not a child.”

  “No, My Lord. I am not.”

  We both become very still. The dream of loving her rises like a drowning tide and I struggle desperately to keep my desire from overspilling. She has my balls in a vice. I cannot move away, and I definitely cannot go forward. Anger surges.