May 1548 – Hanworth Manor
Looking up at the windows of the manor, I am filled with joy to be back. No more bawdy houses for me, no more wine-sodden evenings, no more fruitless requests to visit the king. Now I will become a paragon of domesticity. I will embrace it all; the boredom, the lack of horizon, the tedious religious conversations. The only thing I must not embrace is Elizabeth. I am determined to treat her like the child she is. I am a man, her superior, her guardian, and must behave as such.
When a groom comes running I toss the reins to him and pulling off my hat, hurry into the hall. “Kate!” I bellow up the stairs and, after a moment, she appears at the top and comes lumbering down to meet me.
I had forgotten how big she is now. Fleetingly I regret the light-footed wanton who won my heart. I kiss her cheek, stroke her belly and take note of her pallor, her shadowy eyes. For the first time Kate looks every one of her thirty-six years. I feel a pang of pity.
Keeping her hand in mine, I lead her into the parlour and make her comfortable with cushions and place a wrap about her shoulders.
“What do the doctors say?” I ask as she settles herself down. “Is it usual for you to be so breathless?”
I try to recall other women in a like condition, but apart from my brother’s wife who casts offspring as liberally as a dog sheds hairs, I can think of none. But then I remember my sister, Jane, who perished so suddenly within days of giving life to the king. My heart turns sick at the thought of losing Kate that way. “Is this normal?” I ask for the thousandth time. “Should you be this tired?”
“They tell me to rest, to take short walks and to put my feet up whenever I sit.” I cast around for a stool and bring it over and wait until she obediently places her feet upon it. We continue to talk for a while, catching up on the missed weeks. I hold her hand as she speaks of pointless, flimsy things; a litter of kittens found in her clothes press; a plague of mice in the kitchen; the sudden illness of one of the cooks. I listen, relishing the ennui of it all and content for it to go on forever.
When the light begins to fail, a servant comes to draw the shutters and stoke up the fire. I realise it will soon be supper time and the girls will be joining us. With a shrim of uncertainty, I gird myself against the first meeting with Elizabeth and wonder if she has changed. I hope she has. I hope she has grown ugly, put on weight, or is covered in a foul rash.
Jane arrives first, blushing puce when she sees me and dropping a deep curtsey. I greet her easily. She rouses none of the unwarranted feelings that Elizabeth does. It isn’t just a weakness I have for girls or an obsession for royals. It is a weakness for just one girl: Elizabeth, the harlot’s daughter.
But, when she comes, despite my mental preparation, I am not ready. There is no preparation I could have made for the impact she has upon me. At first we do not hear her tread, but then Kate raises her head and sees her hesitating at the door. “Elizabeth! There you are.”
At her words my head snaps up, and our eyes meet in a clash of mutual fear. She should have the word ‘Danger’ emblazoned on her brow as a warning to all men. With great difficulty I battle for calm as she slowly crosses the room and curtseys, just as Jane did. Only this time I am swamped with emotion. I look down upon her bowed head, the line of her parting disappearing beneath her cap. Then she straightens up, raises her face, and I drink in her strange brand of beauty. She stands for a moment with her hands at her sides, her heart in her eyes. I notice her lips are moving and struggle to make sense of what she is saying. It is something about London, and the king.
I mumble something in what I hope is an apt reply, grateful when a page moves toward us with a tray of drinks. I grab one and toss the contents down my throat. Beside me Katheryn takes a cup and sips delicately, but Jane and Elizabeth both refuse refreshment.
The women begin to discuss the day, their words buzzing like bees about my head, the meaning of the conversation trickling away before I can grasp it.
My household. Three royal females: a child; a vessel containing my son; and a young woman holding the strings of my heart – or my loins at least. I have all that I wanted, and everything I did not. I did not look for this. I close my eyes, drowning hopelessly in the inevitable.
Supper is long in coming. I clear my throat, look about the room, click my fingers for another cup of wine and knock it back, without tasting. Soon the liquor begins to seep through my body, soothing my mind, flooding me with wellbeing.
I begin to relax.
At dinner, Kate sits at one end of the table opposite me, with Jane and Elizabeth equidistant from us both. This allows me to watch Elizabeth without seeming to. I become part of her nourishment, witness everything she places between her lips, watch the movement of her long white throat as she drinks, her long slender fingers ripping apart her bread.
Jane is a nondescript mouse in comparison to her cousin, and Kate, my once lovely wife, is like an overfed tabby cat; comfortable and unexciting. All I can see is Elizabeth. She shines like a jewel, her hair that peeks from beneath her cap matches her gown, and her tawny eyes are kept lowered, guarded; concealing what?
Allowing Katheryn and Jane to dominate the conversation, I indulge myself by trying to guess the thoughts that are running through Elizabeth’s mind. Is she thinking of me? Is she hoping I will venture to her room to smack and pinch and tickle her as I have so often?
She tears off a slice of capon and pops it into her mouth, her tongue emerging to lick the grease from her lips. She glances toward me as she delicately chews but her eyes dart quickly back to her platter, a light flush mantling her cheek. Why did I not wait and wed her? Had I persisted with my suit she would have surrendered. How could she not?
After supper, although she cannot join us, Kate suggests some dancing. “It will amuse me just to watch,” she says, summoning the musicians.
It is a small gathering; some of Kate’s reformer friends and her household women. Usually, unless it is a court occasion, I decline the dance, but this evening I drain my cup and decide to take the floor.
I dance first with Jane, and then Kate’s sister, Anne, but all the time my mind is on Elizabeth. I see her without looking, enjoying the company of the other men. She is gay, her laughter drawing my attention from my own partner. Inexorably, as the steps of the dance draw us closer, my heart begins to pound. She is but one move away; I paint on a smile, and try to deny the jagged blade of lust that darts up my arm when our fingertips touch. It is a sensation I want instinctively to shy away from but, as soon as it has passed, I cannot wait to feel it again. My eyes follow her. Elizabeth has felt it too, I can tell by the way she bites her lip and averts her eye as she winds her way through the dance.
Her cheeks are pink now, but it could be the exertion. I dismiss that idea, preferring to think it is contact with me. It is better to believe that she burns with longing for me, as I do for her.
Somehow, my former vows forgotten, I manage to get through the evening without giving myself away. The next morning I learn Elizabeth has taken to her bed for a few days with a megrim, and I begin to feel better in her absence. I am strong enough to resist her, I tell myself as life begins to run smoothly again.
I ride about the estate, putting things in order and, at the same time, continue to organise the refurbishment of Sudeley, and my plans to remove the household there as soon as they are complete.
One morning I rise early, and so as not to wake anyone, I sneak from the chamber and down the stairs without my boots. The servants are already abroad, a comforting clatter issuing from the kitchens. As I pass along the upper corridor, a grubby housemaid carrying a bucket shrinks against the wainscot. She bobs a curtsey but I do not acknowledge her as I hurry downstairs and pull on my boots at the outer door.
In the stable yard the grooms are busy; they hastily pull their forelocks as the dogs set up a welcome clamour when they see me. They drag their chains forward and leap up in greeting, muddying my clothes. “Get down,” I roar and head for the stab
le where my favourite mare is waiting.
She has been laid up for a few weeks with a strained fetlock, and I’ve instructed the groom to spare no cost in her care. As I draw close she whinnies and nudges me, looking for titbits. I run a hand down her long nose, cup her muzzle that is as warm and as soft as a woman. She blows snot into my palm.
“Ah, many thanks.” I pat her again and, wiping my hand on my sleeve, turn to the groom. “How is she coming along?”
“Good, My Lord,” he says, tugging at his forelock. “Another week or so and she should be fit for light duty.”
“Good. Good. I will …” I pause mid-sentence as a horse clatters in through the gate. My heart leaps when I see it is Elizabeth, looking regal in green velvet. She pretends not to see me, and slides from the back of her white palfrey, looking about the yard. When she decides to notice me she stops tugging at the fingers of her gloves and her face drops a little, uncertainty stirring beneath her carefully-schooled expression. I move toward her, make my bow.
“My Lady Elizabeth, you are abroad early.”
Her face is pale, her sandy eyebrows like gold in the sunshine, her tawny eyes troubled.
“I like to rise early, Sir, so as to avoid unwanted visitors.”
She might as well have slapped me. I lift my chin, narrow my eyes.
“You get up at an ungodly hour to avoid me? How long have you been doing so?”
“Only this morning. Since you are back from court I thought to dissuade you from resuming your former insolent habits.”
“You no longer welcome me in your chamber?”
“I am not sure I ever did welcome you, Admiral. You just never took no for an answer.”
She looks at me with loathing and my heart flips. I have made her hate me, but whether that hatred is born of my former attention or my latter lack, I cannot know. With a sniff she makes to walk away but I grab her arm, her bicep small but well-formed beneath my grasp.
“You welcomed my attention. You welcomed it too much.”
She struggles to free herself but I keep hold of her. “Come, Elizabeth,” I say loudly for the benefit of the grooms. “Walk with me in the garden.”
I move so rapidly she is forced to trot beside me, her ridiculous riding hat bobbing on her head like a dead chicken. When we are out of sight of the house and stable yard I pause in an arbour and thrust her unceremoniously onto the seat.
“What are you doing, Elizabeth? I know you don’t hate me. I know you crave me just as I do you. But what can I do? I am a married man. You are a royal princess. If we listen to our hearts, we could both die for it.”
Tears are balanced on her lashes, her chin begins to wobble. It is not like her to weep. She is usually disdainful, controlled. I have rarely seen her off her guard. Her weakness is my undoing. I can never bear to see a woman cry.
“Don’t. Please, Elizabeth, don’t weep.” I reach for her, touch her shoulder and she rolls into my arms, huddles to my breast, her body trembling.
“Why, Tom? Why is life so unfair? You should have waited, persevered and wed me. I would have accepted you in the end. I just wanted you to be sure. I thought you would come back and try to persuade me. I didn’t expect you to marry my mother.”
Oh God. I could have had her. I could have wed her instead of Katheryn and let everyone else go to hell.
“I’m sorry.” She is tiny, like a delicate little bird. I place my lips on her hair, close my eyes and inhale the scent of camomile and thyme. We rock to and fro for a moment and then she lifts her face. It is wet and full of grief, her trembling lips are parted.
And as I look upon her I no longer care if they hang me, they can burn me if they want to. They can tear my body limb from limb and dispatch it about the four corners of the kingdom. Elizabeth is in my arms and I will have her ... somehow.
***
It is not easy to behave as if I haven’t just discovered a trove of treasure beneath my bed, but I do my best. I do not resume my visits to her chamber and treat her circumspectly whenever we are in company. The moment we find ourselves alone however, she rushes straight into my arms. Instinctively she tempts me, but I have no idea if she knows the full power of her charms. Her butterfly kisses taunt me until I crush her against the wall and all but swallow her. I long to consummate our arrangement, but it must be right; we must wait until we are sure we will not be discovered. Exposure has become our greatest fear, an all-consuming terror, but still it does not stop us.
On a wet afternoon at the end of May I come across Elizabeth alone in a music room. She puts down her lute and, after checking I am unaccompanied, she presses against me, slides her arms up around my neck.
Her lips are warm and hungry, her bosom tight against me. I kiss her back, hard, before I break away. My tongue leaves a wet trail as I slide my mouth down her neck to where her breasts pout like small doves over the top of her bodice. We fall back against the window seat, she is breathing rapidly as I kiss the taut flesh, wrenching her necklace aside, spilling pearls across the floor. With a shaking fist I struggle with her lacings, balance small white breasts in my palm before placing my lips around the point of her nipple.
She gasps. At first I think it is with pleasure but then I realise she has stiffened in my arms and is pushing me away. Slowly I raise my head, my face wet with spittle and, with foreboding banging in my brain, I turn to find my wife standing like a statue at the open door.
She looks old, shattered, and I am flooded with guilt. “Kate,” I croak, struggling to rise, caught up in the treachery of Elizabeth’s skirts. Katheryn looks right through me, speaks with tight white lips.
“You have broken your pearls, Elizabeth,” she says woodenly before she turns and leaves us, closing the door firmly.
“Don’t leave me, Tom. Don’t leave me.” Elizabeth clings to my arms, clutches at my doublet as I struggle to lace my codpiece. I push her away.
“I have to. Can’t you see what we’ve done to her? Oh my God, what were we thinking? We should have waited until … oh, we should never have done this!”
“Tom!” she wails, as I throw open the door. I turn for one last look. She is sitting on the floor, her skirts pooling around her, her gaping bodice revealing the breasts I have so lately kissed. They have no power over me now. Elizabeth is shrunken, diminished against the greater pull of the woman who bears my child. I am racked with guilt and remorse. I turn away and run for the stairs.
June 1548 – Sudeley Castle
The house is quiet without Elizabeth. On the morning that she departs I shut myself away and watch from the window as she takes her leave of Katheryn. There has been no acrimony, no blame apportioned to her. She rides meekly away without looking back in search of me, but I know we share the same pain. I know how she feels and how deeply her heart is aching with the desperate need to be forgiven and be allowed to stay. When the cavalcade is no longer in sight I turn from the window and look about the bleak room, consider the interminable emptiness that lies ahead.
Kate will not discuss it. Several times I try to excuse myself, try to explain, but on each occasion she holds up a hand, closes her eyes and refuses to listen. We bumble along together until it is time to leave for the country.
I had imagined the day we set off for Sudeley would be a joyful one, but instead it is drear. A steady rain is falling, and Kate is barely speaking to me. With every mile that takes me farther from Elizabeth the strings that link us grow thinner, and tighter.
My hawk tightens its grip on my wrist as in a spurt of angry frustration I kick my horse into a canter, splashing through summer puddles, ducking beneath wet boughs. The sodden landscape races past, the wind stings my eyes and when I come to rest near a stream, I find there are tears on my cheeks. I dash them away and wait until I hear the murmur of voices and Kate’s litter comes rumbling into sight.
She allows me to help her alight and together we hurry to the shelter of the overhanging oaks. Tired and pale from the journey and the constant jolting of the horses,
she places two hands to her lower back and stretches with a groan.
“Ooh, I am not used to travelling in a litter. I think I would have been more comfortable on horseback.”
While there has been no spoken recrimination, she is distant, there is no passion in her voice. A great wall has been erected between us and I wonder if it is too thick to breach. I pass her a flagon of wine and she drinks daintily before handing it back. While she dabs her lips with her kerchief I throw back my head and let the liquid pour down my throat. Drawing the back of my hand across my mouth, I risk a smile.
“You might do better riding with me. I can keep you safe, and the view will be better.”
She hesitates and a slow flush creeps into her cheeks. “In the rain?”
I squint up at the clouds. “It is clearing now. I warrant it will be dry before it is time to ride on.”
“And what about your hawk, My Lord, are you prepared to let me replace her?”
I search her words for innuendos but she looks innocent enough. I turn back to the horse and begin to tighten the girth. “Of course. You are my wedded wife and will always come before the pursuit of leisure, no matter how pleasurable.”
I mount up, manoeuver my horse to a fallen log. Kate climbs gingerly upon it and I hold out my hand to haul her up before me. She clings to me for a moment before settling herself, with some difficulty. I notice how much heavier she is than before. It is yet two months until the birth. I wonder how much larger she can get.
“I will go easy,” I reassure her as I signal to the horse to move on, and we leave the rest of the party to follow after.
At first she is uneasy, holding herself stiffly, trying to maintain some distance between us but, as she grows tired, she slumps against me. Her head is below my chin; my arms are wrapped around her, my hands on the reins. It is a while since we have been this close. The familiar fragrance of lavender and juniper stirs the memory of my former fondness. The proximity makes me feel kinder toward her. We ride on in silence, my mind wandering, revisiting past mistakes, wrong corners.
Intractable Heart: A story of Katheryn Parr Page 20
