“Hush, sweetheart. I would do you no hurt, you know that.”
She wrenches away, rolls her head back and forth on the pillow. “Nay, I think so. You have given me many shrewd taunts.”
As guilt sinks sharp teeth into my gut, Lady Tyrwhit casts her disdainful glare in my direction. We both know Kate is thinking of Elizabeth and all the hurt we did her. I have never been sorrier for anything in my life.
To the astonishment of all assembled, I shift onto the bed and lie down beside her, wrap her in my arms. I can feel her body heat radiating through the blankets; her hands that I refuse to release are as hot as a brazier.
“Hush Kate; my Kate. All will be well.” To ease her I whisper little terms of endearment, words of love, but she makes no answer, nor shows signs of easement. “The doctor is coming,” I say at last and she turns her burning red eyes upon me.
“I would have done better to have seen him the day after the birthing but you … you would have none of it, and forbid him. You have finished me, Thomas. You have broken my heart, and now you have finished me …”
Katheryn dies in a raging fever, never once looking upon me with love. At first I cannot credit it. How can God, that God that she set so much store by, do this to me? To her? To us? I rage. I storm and, with no Katheryn there to steady me, I embark upon a perilous path.
The child, Mary, now holds little joy for me. What is she without her mother? What am I? People begin to tread softly around me, afraid of my seething anger, my irrational deeds. I order a vast royal funeral; a protestant ceremony as she would have wished.
“It is to be as grand as any queen’s. That is what she was, do you hear? A queen! My queen.” I try and fail to swallow my tears, retreat to my room again, pour another cup of wine, tip it down my throat and hurl the vessel at the wall before I give way to another storm of weeping.
I cannot seem to function. All my life God has given with one hand and taken away with the other. Letters arrive, carefully worded, gentle letters of condolence, every one of them expressing love for Katheryn and sympathy for me. I cast them to the floor, even those from Elizabeth and Mary. I tread them into the rushes.
I don’t want sympathy.
I want Katheryn.
On the day they place her in a leaded coffin and carry her into the black-draped chapel, I watch from the house with heavy eyes. The future is bleak. I have no will for it. I am lost, all at sea on a foundering ship. The Lord High Admiral – I laugh bitterly at the silent jest.
My pity is all for myself. I have little to spare for poor motherless little Mary. Someone will care for her. She will have nurses, servants, and a huge domestic staff far beyond the needs of a tiny babe. I will break up Katheryn’s household. I have no care to be here, so I ride away, back to court.
***
If my brother and the council ignored me before, now that Katheryn is dead my influence upon them is even less. I am no longer husband to the queen dowager, I am just a widower. My back is uncovered, giving my enemies free access to it.
To try to keep my mind from grief, my spirit from shrivelling, I rekindle my ambition. I need to boost my power, bolster my impact upon state affairs with some influential friends. I am a popular man. There are plenty that enjoy my company, invite me to their homes, and introduce me to their daughters. But they do not offer me the benefits I need.
Soon my thoughts turn back to Jane Grey and my quest to marry her to the prince. The thing that stands in my way is my inability to get close to my nephew, the king. They keep him from me, bury him deep in the palace and, despite all my efforts, I cannot get near.
With a vague plan to form a counter party to my brother’s, I begin to cultivate friends in high places. I take up residence in Holt castle, far from Edward’s prying eyes, and develop tactics and stratagems.
But Kate is never far from my thoughts. I dwell upon the wasted hours, the petty squabbles, the hurt I caused her, and then I drink. Jug after jug of wine to numb the feeling of despair, the utterdesolation of a life gone wrong.
On one such night I write to Elizabeth. A long and maudlin missive that I hope to God nobody ever sees. I ask her to marry me, but no doubt she is still torn with guilt at her past behaviour, sorry for Katheryn’s loss. She will have none of me and the rejection sends me deeper into despair.
One day, I tell myself. One day I will have her and my life will run smoothly again. Wed to one of old Harry’s daughters, how could my fortunes not change?
My friends warn me that my brother and his council have noticed my plotting. They do not like it. I am not the only one who desires to be rid of the protector, but I alone bear the courage to do anything about it. They are all cowards, reprobates. I will not be stopped. I will speak to the king whether Brother Edward desires it or not. I don’t need his sanction.
I drain another bottle and set off after dark to the palace. Leaving my horse in a quiet alley, I climb a wall and make my way through the privy garden. I try not to remember walking here with Kate, flirting under the nose of the king, little knowing that he was plotting to steal her from me and make her his own wife.
The palace is slumbering, the moon is shadowed. I creep like a thief along the edge of the wall and into the royal apartments by an unfastened door. My brother should be hung for such laxity; any jade could break in and do harm to the king.
I know this place like the back of my hand. With great stealth I move through a room littered with the bodies of sleeping attendants, and up three steps to the inner chamber. I place my hand on the knob and turn it.
The door opens silently. I am in and the king is unattended.
The fire is low, the torches extinguished, only the night candle burns, gently illuminating the dark. From the huge canopied bed issue the high-pitched snores of the boy king. As I move forward, one of his dogs raises its head, growls low in its throat. I hold out a hand, “Shhh,” I whisper. “Good dog, good dog.”
He recognises me and lies back down, his muzzle on his front paws, his long ears fanning out on the floor. I am thankful the king favours only spaniels; I’d have no fancy to encounter a pack of wolfhounds. The other spaniel, of liverish hue, who does not know me, glares at me with a bloodshot eye. He doesn’t see a friend, a visiting uncle, but a nocturnal stranger stalking the royal chamber.
He springs up, lowers his head and growls, far more menacingly than the first. “Good dog,” I try again but it has no effect. Before I can think of escape, he is upon me with a great snarl, his teeth sinking into my thigh. I shout out in fear, fumble for my gun, as in a great snarling the other beast leaps to his feet to join him.
Doors open, footsteps come running. The king is awake, stumbling from bed in his nightgown, somehow seeming much smaller than his twelve and a half years.
Teeth, so many teeth, lacerating, relentless, sharp! I kick one beast away, it flies off, comes to a halt near the grate, but in no time is back to join the other in making tatters of my doublet.
“Edward,” I cry out to quiet his fears. “It is me, your Uncle Thomas. Call off your dog.” But the king stands amazed, half dreaming still. Desperate now for self-preservation, I fumble for my pistol; raise my firearm and, careless now of who should hear me, blast the beast away. The dog slumps to the floor, the other runs for shelter while I sit in a puddle of canine blood and wipe my brow. While I try to catch my breath, the chamber begins to fill with astounded servants.
The king falls to his knees, lifts the lifeless head of his favourite spaniel. I creep toward him, arms outstretched but he ignores me as he gathers the corpse closer to his heart.
“You’ve killed my dog,” he wails, hugging the beast tighter, bloodying his nightgown. “You’ve killed my dog, my poor, poor dog.” He buries his face in the bloodied fur and tears spill down his cheeks. As I attempt to move closer to offer comfort him, Edward draws away, glares at me and, wearing the face of his father, speaks through clenched teeth. “I will have your head for this, Uncle Thomas, God curse you.”
&n
bsp; Part Four
Elizabeth Tudor: Princess
January 1549 - Hatfield
I’ve been walking in the garden, but a sudden rain shower drives me indoors. I skip up the steps and pull off my cap, shake it so that freezing raindrops scatter like beads onto the rushes. I hand it to my attendant and begin to peel off my wet cloak.
It is good to be back in Hatfield. Although the Dennys did all in their power to ensure my stay at Cheshunt was comfortable, I missed the familiar walls of home. But even though I am back and my every need is catered for by Katherine Ashley, I still crave for the wisdom and gentleness of my stepmother. I thought I would die from grief and guilt when they brought me the news of her death. Poor Katheryn. She never had the chance to know happiness, not really.
I have known plenty of stepmothers, but never mourned one as I do her. And I am wracked with guilt for the horrid way I mistreated her. Katheryn offered me everything I had ever missed. She filled the gap in my soul that was carved by the loss of my real mother. I cannot forgive myself. I know I am an ungrateful, undeserving wretch.
I have to try very hard to recall my earliest days, the time before my mother stopped coming to visit. But if I close my eyes and allow my mind to drift back, I can almost reach her. I cannot see her face or remember any particular thing we did together, but I recallher presence. It is a sort of fragrance, a waft of merry laughter, a shadowy perception of warmth and love. It lightens my heart even now.
As an infant I thought about her a lot but gradually, when I realised she wasn’t coming back, I stopped looking for her, and after a while I stopped thinking about her too. But after she was gone and especially now, I am always alone. Although I am surrounded by people and almost every move I make is monitored, I am solitary, separate, and I have been ever since the day they cut off my mother’s head.
Katheryn soothed all that. She mothered me, mentored me, and taught me to be strong and wise. I should have held on to that wisdom when I first began to yield to the charms of her husband. I make no excuses but women are soft when it comes to love.
Kat Ashley ushers me to my chamber and I pick up my book and sit close to the hearth. “Are your skirts damp? Do you think you should change?”
I look at her over the edge of the pages. “No, Kat. I am fine.”
I return to my book, hook my finger over the edge of the page, ready to turn, already anticipating that which is on the other side. A girl arrives to restock the fire and for a while the flames are dampened by additional fuel. I miss the heat on my steaming skirts and supress a shiver.
Kat scurries back in, places a cup and jug at my side, and waits with her hands clenched, reluctant to disturb my reading since she knows it annoys me. I look up with barely disguised impatience.
“What now?”
“There are some gentlemen to see you, Madam. Gentlemen from court.”
I put down my book and straighten my shoulders. “What gentlemen?”
Before she can answer, the door is thrown open and Robert Tyrwhit is ushered in. He makes the customary greeting and I respond to him coolly. Something is not right. I don’t yet know what it is but I am alert, my skin crawling as if there is an assassin in the room. Although I am not constrained to do so, I stand up to greet him.
“Sir Robert,” I say as Kat slips reluctantly away. She will listen outside the door; I have no doubt about that. Kat has been with me since I was an infant and takes liberties I would tolerate from no other.
Tyrwhit takes a step forward, looks around my chamber. “You are alone?”
Keeping hold of my book, my finger marking the page, I spread my arms wide.
“As you can see, Sir Robert.”
He looks pointedly at the girl who is sweeping ashes into a pail. I had forgotten her presence.
“Get out,” I snap, and she grovels her way to the door and disappears, leaving us in peace.
His cap is in his hands; as he clears his throat he smoothes the feather and flicks away a speck of dust. “I have some news that may concern you. Your stepfather, the Lord Admiral, Thom—”
“I know who my stepfather is, Sir Robert. What has he done now?”
At the mention of Tom my heart begins to beat faster, but I pretend indifference. It is imperative that I keep my real feelings hidden. Thomas is always in some scrape or other. I wonder if he has taken to a life of piracy, or persuaded the king to realise his desire to be the royal guardian. Sir Robert hesitates, his eye intent on my face, increasing my lack of ease. I lift my chin, look down my nose.
“He is under arrest, Your Royal Highness, held in custody at the Tower.”
I am suddenly very cold. I do not move but I clutch my book tighter, fighting for control, determined not to let him see how deeply this news affects me.
“In the Tower?” I reply as casually as I can. “For what reason?”
“For attempting to abduct the king.”
I had not expected such an answer. Tom would not harm the king.
“Abduct the king? That is ridiculous. He dotes on Edward, he is his nephew.”
Tyrwhit bows his head, closes his eyes.
“Nevertheless, he stole into the king’s bedchamber at the dead of night and murdered his dog.”
“Murdered his dog?”
I am repeating everything he says like some brainless popinjay. My mind is darting back and forth, trying to make sense of Tyrwhit’s words. Tom likes dogs, he loves the king. He would never do these things. I suspect a plot. Imperceptibly I draw in a deep breath, trying with difficulty to pull myself together. I pretend to be dismissive, as if the event is of no great matter to me. I shrug my shoulders and turn away.
“The Admiral was ever a fool. I am sure there is some mistake. The king will no doubt change his story in a day or two and all will be well again.”
Running a finger along the windowsill I pick up a small pile of dust before turning my attention back to Tyrwhit.
He shakes his head, stony-faced. “Nay, that he won’t. The arrest was made several days ago and in the duration several other matters have come to light. That is why I have come to tell you that I am taking your woman, Katherine Ashley and your man, Thomas Parry, into custody for questioning.”
My vision blurs, the world dips. I clutch the back of my chair and will away the tiny bright lights that are whirling in the blackness of my mind. I scrabble for words.
“That is ridiculous. They were not involved in any attempted abduction of the king. They were here, with me.”
“That may be so but we need to talk to them about another matter concerning The Admiral … and yourself.”
How can he know? Who can have spoken of this? When she sent me away, Queen Katheryn swore she would speak of it to no one, and even Tom is not such a fool as to …
Tyrwhit breaks into my thoughts. “In the meantime I will leave you in the care of my good wife.”
At his summons Elizabeth Tyrwhit is shown in. She sinks into a low, insincere curtsey. She has never liked me and I do not want to be placed in her care, but something tells me it is pointless to protest. Princess or not, I am in no position to make demands. I never have been. Lady Tyrwhit is not a bad woman, Katheryn loved and trusted her, perhaps I can too.
I give myself a little shake and, remembering my manners, I greet her cordially and am stunned to the core when I notice the scarcely veiled hostility in her eyes. My disquiet increases; maybe, just maybe, she was the sort of friend that Katheryn confided in. Is it possible that this woman could betray my guilt to the entire world?
I imagine the shame, the ignominy. I can hear the recrimination of the people now. She is just like her mother. It is in her blood. She is nothing but a whore, born of a whore.
Full of shame at my imagined disgrace, I want to weep. I want to run and find Kat, hide her away somewhere so they cannot take her from me. But I remain where I am, rooted to the spot like a tree in a thunderstorm. I shrug my shoulders and turn back to Sir Robert, forcing myself to speak casually.
>
“Well, Sir Robert, I trust you will not detain them for long. I rely on Katherine Ashley for everything. Besides, she is not just a servant, she is my friend.”
“It will take as long as it takes, Madam. But I will be back in a day or two to speak to you about the matter in more detail.”
He bows over my hand and I repress a shudder of repulsion. He is dissembling. I can always tell and I can never stomach deceit. I prefer a man to speak rudely but honestly; there is no value in words that are spoken just to please.
As my attendants are escorted from the palace, I can hear Kat weeping loudly, protesting that she has done nothing to warrant the attention of the council. I watch from the window as they are bundled into a carriage to begin the journey to London. Looking through the thick green glass is like looking through tears. Kat stares wildly up at the window and, although it is doubtful she can see me, I raise my hand in farewell. As the carriage draws away, I pray to God she does not weaken and betray me. It is not just my life that is in danger, but that of The Admiral too. We are both dependent upon the testimony of those two weak and foolish people.
Inwardly I am trembling but, assuming a confidence I do not feel, I sit down and take up my book again as if nothing is amiss. Uninvited, Lady Tyrwhit takes the opposite chair, and I scowl at her. Kat would know I prefer to read alone. The woman begins to witter, trying to win my confidence.
“It is a lovely house you have here. I’ve not visited Hatfield before but I’ve heard about it, of course.”
If she knew me she would know better than to try to engage with me in idle chatter. I scarcely ever waste words. I lower the book a little.
“I am trying to read.”
With an outraged glare she gets to her feet, makes a sketchy curtsey and moves to the window, leaving me in peace.
Usually about now Kat would bring me a warm drink, quietly sort out my night linen and begin to ready my chamber for the night. Although the house is full of women, it is Kat I want. Hatfield seems empty without her.
Intractable Heart: A story of Katheryn Parr Page 22
