Nevertheless, the king remained vigilant. He wanted no one to discover the extent of his deterioration. Thus, day in and day out, Katherine aided the doctors in seeing to the person of the king. It was a tiresome chore, filled with sleepless nights and unpleasant sights. Yet, despite her duties as his companion and nursemaid, Katherine did find some joy in being Henry’s queen.
She had found joy in the matter of religion.
In the absence of passion and Thomas Seymour, she directed all of her energy to the nourishing of her mind. With diligence, she used her place at court to advance the reformed faith.
In many ways the king remained a catholic at heart and though good work was being done in this land, Katherine knew that much more could be achieved.
As the head of the Church of England the king was committed to reform, but he stubbornly clung to many elements of the old faith. His doctrine was a mélange of the old and new. He kept what he liked and discarded what displeased him, and his ministers dutifully complied. In Katherine’s estimation, without Thomas Cromwell who had been committed to reforming England to the full, the good work was growing lax. But the king’s new privy council and his ministers were not troubled by such cares. They were more concerned with maintaining and advancing their positions, not with the state of the country’s health and the salvation of its people. The lords, the Earl of Hertford, the Chancellor St. John and even her Thomas, the High Admiral of England, cared nothing for matters of faith.
But Katherine was a staunch protestant. She had embraced the new faith whole-heartedly and she had hoped that the king would one day be persuaded to do the same.
She looked upon the king, her eyes fixing on his puffy face. He had since proven her wrong.
He was not to be directed. He was king here and he had made her understand it, wielding his kingly powers to quash her dreams without compunction, and I have learned my lesson well.
Her joy in wielding her queenly powers for the advancement of the protestant faith had been brief.
She had been silenced and she would remain so for as long as she was Queen of England.
She had been bold in her actions and she had since learnt how dangerous it could be. Henry VIII would not abide by any challenges to his Church of England, be the offender Protestant or Catholic. Nevertheless, Katherine had never imagined herself to be in any danger. She was queen and she had thought her place secure. But not long after the arrest of the Protestant preacher, Anne Askew, Katherine’s rooms were searched and the banned books in her possession found.
It was no great secret. Anne Askew and her brother were of Cranmer’s party, committed to reform and guilty of distributing the tomes in Katherine’s possession.
This was the third time Anne Askew was charged with heresy, and this time those who had her in their clutches were determined to see her burned. Headed by Cranmer’s enemies, Edmund Bonner, Thomas Wriothesley and Thomas Howard, the tribunal set about their task of interrogating Anne Askew.
The king was not yet dead and already, the factions were hard at work to do away with each other, thought Katherine. It was no great secret that Catholics and Protestants had no love for each other and now with an ageing king at their head, the struggle for power that always simmered just below the surface was ready to erupt.
And they would wield the women in their midst as spark to tinder. In an attempt to make Anne Askew implicate Katherine Parr, the men sent the woman to the rack.
The first revolution of the rack made Askew faint with pain. Lowered and thence revived they repeated the task, turning the wheels over and over, making her scream until she was hoarse. Yet no matter what force they applied, she gave them no names. Angered, they set about their tasks in earnest. They racked her until she fell apart, until her limbs were useless, pulled from their sockets and forced from their joints. Her cries had rended the air over and over and with such force that they reached the ears of those outside the Tower….
When her plight was made known to the queen, Katherine knew danger was afoot. The banned tomes they found were going to see her charged. She had read and studied those texts and now her enemies would use them to bring her down.
A servant who had seen the warrant for her arrest with his own two eyes had hurried to Katherine, divulging all. It is coming! He whispered hoarsely to the queen, the warrant has been drawn! I have seen it!
Surrounded by her ladies, Katherine stood, immobile, her heart seizing with fear as she digested the fact.
Katherine Parr. Henry’s sixth wife, burned for Heresy. For an instant, the words flashed before her eyes. Her epithet. The king had sent many to the flames, Catholic as well as Protestant men and women had died, their flesh feeding the fires, and Katherine for a brief instant was certain that she would die too.
The king is tired of me, he wants to be rid of me and he would do so by sending me to the stake! Perhaps, she thought, this is his newest device for ridding himself of an unwanted wife!
But Katherine did not wish to die. She wanted to live and she reacted swiftly.
Ho there! Advise the king that I have taken ill! She was quick to direct. Send for Doctor Butts! Have him attend me! Then to her ladies she barked her orders, assist me! Undress me! I will take to bed.
She had spent the night before nursing Henry, talking to him, soothing him. They had laughed and eventually he had slept under her ministrations. He had betrayed nothing. He had known that a warrant was being drawn for her arrest, known and done nothing.
She felt her teeth chattering. She was chilled by his deception but more than anything else she feared for her life.
When Doctor Butts came to her, she begged him to assist her in her hour of need and the good doctor agreed. When the king came to see her, the doctor greeted him at the entrance to her apartments.
The queen is ill, your majesty, Butts bowed low.
Ill? He asked.
Yea. The queen suffers greatly. Exhaustion and a weak constitution have brought her low. She tosses and turns, the doctor replied.
Striding in, the king with the aid of his squires approached the bed, how now sweetheart, what is this?
With effort, Katherine sat up with the support of her ladies. Your majesty, she managed through chattering teeth.
Never fear, sweetheart, your husband is near, his said, his eyes knowing. He knew why she was ill. He patted her hand.
She grasped his hand and pressed her trembling lips to it. After a moment or two of observing her supplication, he spoke, his voice deceptively soft-
‘Tis dangerous for a woman to question the will of her husband, he said. Cease in this folly and you shall find favor with us. No one must question me on the matter of my church, is that understood?
She got to her knees, kneeling in entreaty. I have never thought to contest your majesty’s will. I have only ever thought to raise my questions so that I might hear the true will of God from your majesty’s lips!
He grunted, flattered by her words. Well said, he uttered, but his eyes were hard, there is to be no will but mine here in this land and you above all, as my wife, must obey!
She nodded her head in eager agreement.
There now, we like not a woman’s tears, he signaled for one of the queen’s ladies to tend to her, to wipe away her tears.
Then, he tried to stand and after much effort, he did. Learn your lesson well sweetheart, he said, and all will be well.
True to his word, the warrant never came. Henry the king dismissed the charge and advised the Catholics amongst them that their Protestant queen would stay. Not long after, the Duke of Norfolk and his son, the Earl of Surrey, were sent to the Tower.
Katherine closed her tired eyes for an instant, giving herself a brief reprieve before she opened her eyes once more, fixing her gaze back upon the king. Steadily, she returned to the task of wiping his brow.
The Church of England was Henry’s and Henry’s alone. He denounced Protestantism just as he denounced Catholicism. For those who dared to contradict the
king, they were charged with heresy and brought to trial under Bishop Gardiner.
Not long after Katherine’s arrest was averted, Anne Askew was condemned and sent to the stake. With all her limbs broken and her joints twisted out of place, Anne had to be carried to her execution. In fact, they had to construct a seat to tie her to. When she was settled to their satisfaction, they doused her with gunpowder. Then, they stacked the faggots around her feet and all was lit…
Ardently, Katherine prayed for the soul of Anne Askew.
Many were executed. Many had died and many would continue to do so until this king’s days were out.
But perhaps it would not be too long, calculated Katherine, it would not be too long. She recognized all the signs. The king was not getting better, he was getting worse. He eyes were sunken, his skin yellow skin and his flesh feverish.
There was no doubt that the children: Mary, Elizabeth and Edward would soon be without their father.
The king was not ignorant of the truth, in the last year, Henry, knowing the state of his ailing health had been making efforts to gather his children to him. Now at the end of all things, he was trying to make amends with his children and above all with Mary. Or so it would seem. Perhaps the king feared that with Edward so young, Mary would be inclined, if roused, to depose her brother and be Queen in his stead.
The depths of Henry’s fears were bottomless. He had pondered every eventuality and in an effort to forestall the worst, he had been systematic, setting about the task of securing his son’s place in the world.
Edward would be king.
The War of the Roses was over. A Tudor had ended it and it would forever remain so. To ensure the continuation of his line, the king passed a new Act of Succession, reinstating both Lady Mary and Lady Elizabeth in the line of succession. To further ensure that his wishes would be followed and that none should sit upon his throne but his children, the king also passed an Act of Treason, making anyone who sought to disagree or bypass his dictates an enemy to the crown.
The king was moving and he was moving fast. His was weak, fat and riddled with pain, but he was also determined. He was securing his realm for his children. He was dictating his legacy and readying his progeny for the future.
His children, Katherine turned her mind upon them, the prince was only eight years of age. It was little wonder that the king was worried. Edward, the heir was still very much a child. As for the others, Elizabeth was now fourteen, a young woman, quiet and studious. The eldest, Mary, the daughter of Katherine of Aragon was now thirty, still unwed, still stubborn and still very much the catholic.
The Lady Mary was a mystery to Katherine. The king’s other children seemed to like her well but Katherine could never decipher what it was that Mary Tudor was thinking. She was quiet, observant, active, sullen and smiling by turns. She was, Katherine thought, very much like her father.
She turned her eyes back toward Henry. King or no, the man was suffering greatly. But this king would fight his illness to the end. He won’t be giving in without a fight.
She sighed.
She was always nursing her husbands. She had buried two of them already. And though the king had declared it treason to predict or speak of his death, she knew no man could go on in such pain and with such suffering for long. When the body was this ravaged and when the torment was this great there wouldn’t be a recovery.
So far, Katherine Parr had outlived all of her husbands. If God was willing she hoped to do so again. In the dark, her mind wandered and for the briefest of moments, here in the night, with no witnesses to her thoughts her mind turned to Thomas Seymour.
Hot lips, hot hands and hot tongued, the man was fire and Katherine wanted to be singed, embraced and thrown into the void. She still wanted him, and in the depths of her heart the torrid passion she had for him burned. Like smoldering embers waiting to be rekindled, they lay in wait.
Thomas Seymour. Thomas Seymour. Thomas Seymour, her heart wanted to scream. Brusquely, she quashed the urge, banished the name and pushed the thought of the man aside.
Patience had always been her virtue. She was the Lucky Widow Parr and now more than ever, she hoped to cling to the vestiges of that fortune which had proven her friend these many years past. She prayed for it to hold true, beseeching it to stay and not abandon her in her greatest hour of need. Should it oblige her, mayhap one day there would be a chance for her to fulfill her heart’s desire.
But now she was here, she was Katherine the Queen and she would remain by her husband’s side. Here, she would see to her duty and nurse the king, and mayhap, just mayhap, if she were very much in luck, she would outlast him too.
1547
MARY AGED THIRTY-ONE
Her father was dead. She could not staunch the flow of her tears. With her hands pressed to her sides, she tried to cry in silence. She heaved, her throat sealing up with the well of sorrow pouring from her, choking her.
They told her he was healing, slowly recuperating, undergoing the proper treatment and emerging from the worst under the careful care of his queen.
Lies! Lies! Lies!
Balling her fists, she tried to silence her cries against her tightly clenched fingers. Liars! They were liars all. All along, while her father tossed and turned in the throes of his torment, they lied. They had been silently gathering, watching and planning. They kept her, his daughter, away from him so that they could devise their grand plan of seamless transition.
Edward VI would succeed Henry VIII. The ministers had been busily at work while her father descended into delirium. They had gathered around his deathbed, watching and waiting, ready for the moment. They were eager for him to leave the world behind. Once he was gone, everything would fall into the care of their grasping hands.
They did not send her word of her father’s death until long after he had gasped his last. Days. They had waited days. Mary wondered if her father had called for her, had he asked to see her, had he wanted the comfort of his daughter in his darkest hour?
They said he was well attended by his wife the queen, his ministers and Thomas Cranmer who had been present to administer to his everlasting soul. But none of them, none of those who had gathered around the dying king had been of his blood. She was. She was his daughter, bastard or no. She would have liked to hold his hand, offer him comfort and tell him that she loved him. Despite everything that had come to pass, she loved him still as much as a daughter could ever love her father and she would have liked to tell him so.
We have never been able offer each other words of consolation, moaned Mary, or words of reconciliation. Our pride and temperaments prevented us…
Her tears, hot and scalding, trailed down her cheeks. Her body seized, the pain in her heart making her stumble. Great sobs wracked her body.
Father! She wanted to scream the word. Father!
But he was beyond all reach now. He was dead. He was lost to her just like her mother was.
Mary gasped, bending over. Laying one hand against the table, she tried to steady herself. In the silence, she heard her thundering heart, she could feel it, leaping and jumping, twisting and writhing n torment and grief. She wanted to give in to the turmoil and allow everything inside her chest to erupt.
She was a woman on the verge.
Father! She cried in a harsh whisper.
Hot tears fell from her eyes.
Her father had denied her the chance to see her mother on her deathbed, and now the chance to see her father at the end of all things had been denied her by his ministers.
Turn and turn about.
She remembered the feel of his large hand over hers. She remembered her father as he was and as he had been in all his guises, loving, heartless, demanding, cruel and tyrannical.
She sobbed, inconsolable.
She was an orphan now. She was truly alone. Her father was no more. The king was dead.
She closed her eyes, her breaths unsteady and her head heavy. Dots swam in her vision. She grasped at the desk i
n front of her with quivering hands.
At the end of all things father, I forgive you. I forgive you and I love you. She whispered through trembling lips.
Mary was finding it harder and harder to draw breath. It was as if her heart was bursting. Laying a hand over the thudding organ, she fell forward, overcome. She knelt, her head hung low, undone, her grief honest and real, her gasps wrenching.
Her father was dead.
The king was dead.
Long Live the King.
1548
ELIZABETH AGED FIFTEEN
Her father was dead and her brother was king.
Her father had been generous to her in his will. He was generous to her sister Mary and his widow too. I am a wealthy heiress now with name, connections and royal blood to boot, Elizabeth mused.
They had all been there for the reading of her father’s will.
His final wishes were few. Besides his political dictates, Henry the King, at the end of all things, wished for masses to be said for his immortal soul for as long as the world endured. He designated a generous portion of his private riches to be distributed as alms to the poor. He asked the good people of England to pray for him and he chose to be buried beside his Jane Seymour, to sleep eternally by her side.
His political directives however, in contrast, were many.
Firstly, he set out the succession as per his dictates.
Edward, his son would inherit and after him and the heirs of his body, his eldest daughter Mary, thence Elizabeth, and after them the daughters of his sister Mary, the Lady Frances and her issue Jane Grey etc, etc.
Elizabeth placed one slim finger in the book she was perusing to keep her place. She frowned at the thought of Jane Grey. She liked the girl not. The girl was amazingly insipid. That the creature should be in the line of succession irked Elizabeth.
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