“Now what?”
He sighed. “I may as well tell you straight out. The king has told me that he intends to marry you once you become a widow.”
The words struck me like a blow. Even though I had been nervously aware that I was becoming more and more the focus of royal attention, I allowed myself to go on believing that King Henry valued me as a trusted friend and as someone to confide in, not as a future wife. Besides, I had heard him swear dozens of times that he would never marry again.
A sudden thought made my stomach clench in fear.
“Does the king know about us?”
“No, I don’t think so. Unless he is much more devious than I take him to be.”
“He is very clever you know. Much cleverer than those around him. And he has grown very suspicious.”
“Surely if he had any suspicions about you, he would never dream of marrying you. He has to think you are blameless, faithful to your husband.”
“But why tell you that he wants to marry me? Why you?”
Tom shrugged. “Because I was there. Because I remind him of poor Jane—and marriage. Because he likes to boast about his amours. Also because he is always after me to get married. The uncle of a future king must have a wife, he said. A young and fertile wife.”
“And what did you say?”
“I laughed and told him about King Ferdinand’s eleven ugly daughters, in Hungary. Let me see, there was Greta, Elizaveta, Amelia, Sofia, Carlotta, I can’t remember them all. Plain as a pig’s backside, every one of them. The king kept insisting that I choose one and marry her.”
I sat down on a cushion in the window seat. All at once the full import of what Tom had told me about King Henry settled like a leaden weight on my heart.
“So he means to marry me, after all. That explains all the gifts he’s been sending me. Beautiful things, quite extravagant. I thought he was just thanking me for all I do for him. I haven’t even opened the most recent gift yet.” I indicated the carved rosewood box that sat on a table in the corner. “Now I understand. He has been wooing me.”
My lip trembling, I got up and ran to Tom, who held me tightly while I cried.
“There there, dear. My sweetest Cat, don’t cry. It’s all for the best. Everything will come out all right. Even better than we planned.”
“No, it’s terrible! I don’t want to be the queen, I want to be your wife!”
“And you will be, beloved, very soon. The king can’t possibly live much longer.”
“Why not? John has survived far longer than any of us thought he would. Dr. von Lederer keeps shaking his head in disbelief, and joking that he will live to be a hundred. Maybe King Henry will be just as tough.”
“King Henry will not live to be a hundred. I doubt he will last more than a year or two.”
I shuddered at the thought of joining the ghastly parade of the king’s unlucky wives. “He may well live longer than I do—if he shortens my life.”
Tom’s face grew closed, his eyes narrowed.
“That won’t happen.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because I’ll be there to protect you. I won’t let him harm you.”
“He’ll send you back to Hungary or somewhere, to a place so far away you could never come back in time to save me, if I were in danger.”
“Then I will refuse to go. Cat, can’t you see this is a benefit for us? Think about it! You will be queen! The highest ranking woman in the land. The one who holds the king’s regard and love. Think of the power that will give you!”
“I have never sought power.”
“It will greatly benefit us nonetheless. You will be the stepmother of Prince Edward. In time, when King Henry dies, you will become the closest relative of the new king Edward VI. The Queen Dowager. Wealthy, titled, privileged—”
“And your wife?”
“Yes, of course. After a suitable mourning period, you will marry me. Together we will reign for Edward, as joint regents.”
His bright blue eyes shone with anticipation. All that he hoped for seemed, in that visionary moment, to lie within his grasp. I was far less sanguine.
“Open the king’s gift, Cat,” Tom said after a time. “I’d like to see it.”
With reluctance I went to the table where the carved rosewood box rested and lifted the lid.
Inside, resting on a fold of black velvet, was Catherine Howard’s necklace of table diamonds.
I drew in my breath with a sharp sound. My knees felt weak. What did it mean? Was it the king’s way of telling me that he meant to put me in Catherine’s place? That I was worthy to be queen? Or was it a darker message, a reminder that while precious, priceless gems endure forever, the necks they encircle can always be replaced?
29
LATE ONE NIGHT I WAS SLEEPING ON A COT BY JOHN’S BEDSIDE WHEN I felt a gentle touch on my arm.
“Milady, milady, wake up.” It was Philip von Lederer’s voice, rousing me. “He’s going, milady.”
Quickly I threw my wrap over my silk nightgown and went to stand by my husband’s bedside. His breathing was ragged, his breath catching in his throat and a horrible gurgling sound rising with every breath. His eyes were closed.
Margaret, looking thin and fragile in her nightclothes, stood on the other side of the bed, her tearstained face a pitiable sight. Philip stood beside her, a protective arm around her shoulders.
I held John’s limp hand and kissed it. I had told him so often that I loved him that there was no need for us to communicate, and in any case I didn’t know whether or not he could hear anything that was said to him. In the midst of the overwhelming solemnity of the moment I had an odd thought. Here I was, on the verge of widowhood, already mourning my husband of many years—and at the same time I was longing for the comfort of my lover’s arms and also dreading the king’s marriage proposal, which could not be long in coming.
John began to cough, then to choke.
Alarmed, I looked over at Philip. “Can’t you help him?”
Philip shook his head, slowly and sadly. “There is nothing more to be done. He is drowning.”
I put my face close to John’s and his breathing seemed to ease slightly. The spasm of coughing passed.
“Merciful Lord,” I prayed, “take the soul of my dear husband John without pain. Spare him, for Jesus’ sake.”
As I prayed, the room grew still. All I could hear were Margaret’s quiet sobs. Then there came one last, long rasping sigh from the depths of John’s ravaged chest. It was over.
With John’s passing my life changed, as if overnight. Hardly had we held John’s funeral and arranged for his burial when I began receiving royal commands to attend the king at banquets and ceremonies, christenings and weddings, small suppers to which only those closest to him were invited.
My sister Nan was nearly always invited along with me, to serve as companion and chaperone, and Nan was only too delighted to be so favored. For years she had looked on me as an oddity, a renegade with eccentric, independent views; now, at last, I had gained her respect by rising high in the king’s estimation. She was only too glad to accompany me on royal picnics, to ride with me in the royal barge, to sit through concerts at court and to bask in the king’s largesse.
“You see how they kneel to you, Cat,” she remarked when the king’s servants came to bring me messages or deliver gifts. “It is as if you were already queen. They know the future.”
“He has not yet asked me to marry him, Nan.”
“But he will. Everyone says so. Even the Lady Anne of Cleves, who I hear was hoping he would take her back. And when he asks you, you can’t very well say no.”
“Others have.”
“Princesses from foreign courts, yes. But not Englishwomen.” She sighed. “If only our mother had lived to see you marry the king! How proud she would have been! And just think what you can do for our entire family, once you are the highest lady in the land. Why, the Parrs will rank with the Seymours and the Howards! W
e will be the richest family in the kingdom!”
“I think that distinction will continue to rest with the Tudors.”
“Oh, of course. The Tudors. But Cat, when you have children by the king, they will be Tudors! Think of that.”
Day by day it was becoming more evident that Nan’s optimism was well founded. Messengers from Whitehall arrived with costly gifts. One day it was a gentle mare for me, a fine riding horse, light in the mouth and responsive to the slightest touch of my heels. Another day it was a sleek, shy greyhound, swift on her delicate legs and eager to push her soft wet muzzle into my hand. There were chests of new gowns, in the stylish colors of lady blush and gosling and peas porridge tawny and a dozen other hues.
Officially, of course, I was in mourning for John and as a new widow I was obliged to wear black as a sign of mourning. But the king ordered me to ignore that obligation, in the service of a higher one: my obligation to please him, my sovereign.
Henry knew that I had a weakness for beautiful gowns and kirtles made in the latest styles, so he instructed his envoys in Spain to send me Spanish farthingales, their full, wide skirts stiffened by hoops made from whalebone. As soon as Nan and I appeared at court in these uncomfortable but strikingly handsome gowns (for Nan kept pace with me in all my new gowns) all the other ladies had to have them too. Nan and I became leaders of fashion—a new role for me and one that I confess I enjoyed.
There were gowns from Milan and Venice also, curiously made with pleats and wide sleeves, and charming Dutch kirtles and French hoods with fine jewels sewn around the edges to frame my face.
One afternoon Sir Thomas Heneage, King Henry’s chief body servant, came to meet me. He escorted me by barge to Baynard’s Castle, the old fortress on the river now used to store the costumes and props for the court masques and pageants, along with arms and weaponry. Heneage was pleasant, courteous and respectful as always, but I sensed that there was more to his mission than he was telling me. I knew there was no use in asking what lay behind our expedition; I knew him well enough to realize that he invariably kept his own counsel.
When we entered a large, musty-smelling room filled with wooden trunks I began to feel uncomfortable, though I couldn’t have said why. Heneage walked over to one of the trunks, produced a large key and opened it, throwing back the lid to reveal a multicolored froth of silk and lace and damask.
“The garments in these trunks,” Heneage said, lifting out a purple petticoat trimmed in gold, “belonged to her late majesty Queen Catherine Howard.”
Involuntarily I drew in my breath and took a step backward. Hearing the name of the late queen frightened me. I wanted nothing to do with her—or her clothes. I had already been frightened by the gift of her diamond necklace, which I could not bring myself to wear.
“The king has made you a gift of these garments. Many of them, he says, have never been worn.” He began lifting the shimmering gowns and kirtles, petticoats and sleeves out of the trunk, one by one, and laying them on a table under the room’s rose window. His voice was as expressionless as his face.
I shuddered. “Stop!” I cried out, nearly shouting. “Take me back to Richmond at once!”
Heneage paused in removing the garments from the trunk.
“And what shall I do with these?”
“Burn them!” I turned to go, then hesitated. “No, I’m wrong. It would be wasteful to burn such valuable things. See that they are sold, and that the money is given to the poor.”
“Very well, milady. But if the king finds out—”
“I trust you to ensure that he does not.”
Heneage bowed, a slight smile on his face. We understood one another. “Naturally I will see that your discretion is rewarded.” I knew that to have Heneage on my side would be vital once I became queen.
Once I became queen! I still found it hard to believe that it would ever happen, even though each passing day’s events continued to point in that direction. Nan alluded to my future royal status constantly, the palace servants continued to show me a degree of deference I hardly felt I deserved and even Tom, somewhat to my dismay, was much in favor of my becoming the third Queen Catherine to marry our sovereign. As the weather warmed and the court began to prepare for the feastings and revelings of summer, I tried to prepare myself for what everyone believed was inevitable: a proposal from the king.
30
THE KING HAD CELEBRATED TOO LUSTILY THE NIGHT BEFORE, STUFFING himself with his favorite mugget and sturgeon’s liver and drinking far too much sugared wine. I knew it better than anyone, for I had been sitting across the banquet table from him while he ate, observing how his small bright eyes grew more and more dull as he drank, hearing him belch, turning aside when he vomited into a silver ewer held by the ever faithful Thomas Heneage.
I was not surprised when he sent for me on the following morning. I knew he would be ill. I had my basket of remedies ready.
I found him sitting up in bed, intent on reading a gilt-embossed book. He had on his new reading glasses with gold frames, and they gave him a scholarly look. His swollen leg was elevated, and draped in a light cloth of silver tissue.
As soon as I was admitted to the room he waved the servants and other attendants away.
“Come in, Cat, and give me some of those licorice pastilles you always carry.”
“Good morning, your majesty,” I said, curtseying and handing him the bag of pastilles. “I have your olive oil suppositories here as well in case you need to take a purge.”
“Not yet, not yet. Listen, I’ve just been reading Melanchthon on grace. A fine passage. Sit down, here on the bed. Let me read it to you.”
I sat patiently while he read me the long Latin passage, loudly emphasizing the parts he agreed with and shaking his head here and there over points he found objectionable. He quite often discoursed to me about theology, a subject that fascinated him. As he read, I wondered at his evident clear-headedness. He had drunk so much the night before that it seemed he would require at least half a day to recover his wits. Yet here he was, early the following morning, deep into a difficult set of arguments.
“Tell me, what do you think of this?” he asked when he finished the passage.
“Sire, you know my views well. We have often discussed them.”
“Remind me.”
I gathered my thoughts. “Philip Melanchthon is an able theologian and an eloquent writer. I agree with him that we are saved through grace alone, and not through our own efforts or our own merits.”
“And by the sacraments, of course. The sacraments are the means of grace.”
“The sacraments have always been a part of church tradition, though as you know they are not mentioned as such in the Bible.”
“But they are implied.”
“If you say so, sire.”
“Ah, Cat, I will not let you squirm so easily out of an argument.” He looked at me over the tops of his glasses. “I know the opinions of you bold gospellers.” He laughed.
“And I, as a good daughter of the church and a loyal subject of your majesty, know that I must conform to the Six Articles, which is the law of the realm. Thus I subscribe to the doctrine that the sacraments convey grace.”
The Six Articles, drawn up by the beetle-browed Bishop Gardiner and others who thought as he did, had been the governing points of belief—and the law of the land—for several years.
“You are clever, Cat.” He sighed. “You remind me of my first queen, your namesake. The Spanish Catherine. Now, there was a well educated woman! She taught me a great deal—she was older than I was, did you know that? Though I never admitted it. I looked up to her, in a way. She had spirit, and heart, and a well trained mind.”
And you sent her away to die, I wanted to say, but held my tongue, as I so often had to do when the king conversed with me.
“Well then, Cat, don’t let’s argue. Take the Melanchthon book and read it and we will talk further.” He handed me the book and I dutifully put it into a pocket of my k
irtle, omitting to mention that I had read it already.
He reached for my hands and took them in both of his, and smiled, not a lecherous smile or a smile of gloating triumph (both of which smiles I had often seen on his round face) but a genuinely loving and tender smile.
“Now, let us talk of more important things.”
I began to shiver. Had the moment I had been dreading come?
“Tell me truly, dear, could you find it in your heart to share the rest of my life, as my loving spouse?”
I lowered my head. I felt as if I were putting my neck into a noose.
“If your majesty wishes it.” My voice was so low it was almost a whisper.
“I do. I have always wanted you. You know that. You arouse my lust, you intrigue me with your intelligence and you have honored me with your loyal friendship. I cannot imagine a better or truer life companion.”
His sincerity, at that moment, was genuine. I would have bet my life on it. Yet I knew him; I knew how easily his enmity could be aroused. The pain in his legs, the machinations of his councillors, the disloyalty of his servants—anything could make him snarling and hostile or even send him into a frenzy of anger.
“I fear, sire, that you think too highly of me.”
“Here is how highly I think of you.” He reached into a drawer beside the bed and extracted a small pearl-encrusted golden box made like a scallop shell. He handed it to me.
Inside was a ring with an emerald the size of a pigeon’s egg.
“It belonged to my grandmother, the Venerable Margaret. She would have liked you. She liked me, very much, when I was a boy. If she saw me now, she’d scold me. Even when I was young she got after me for eating too much and chasing the little girls—when I slipped away from the jailers my father hired to keep watch over me, that is.” He laughed.
I had put the ring on my finger as he was talking. Its weight made lifting my hand an effort. In its clear green depths I saw shafts of light and flashes of fire. It was magnificent.
The Last Wífe of Henry VIII Page 20
