“It’s very beautiful,” I said. “You have given me so much.”
“How else was I to woo you? An old man who needs pastilles to settle his stomach and suppositories to clean out his insides can hardly gain a bride by his good looks alone.”
“As your majesty’s loyal subject, I am in duty bound to obey your every request, as long as I am free to do so.”
“Cat!” he cried out, exasperated by my subjection. “Have you no feelings for me, none at all?”
“Oh yes, I have strong feelings!” I stood up, still wearing the great emerald, and spoke my mind. “I still feel fear and revulsion at the memory of you putting your hands on me, kissing me, when I was a young girl. I still feel the fury and anguish I knew when my beloved Ned died, a victim of the heartless demands of your court! I feel sorrow for poor Queen Catherine of Aragon, that noble and gracious lady, and for poor foolish Catherine Howard, and even for the one you call the Witch. They all got entangled in the deadly web of the court, and in the end the great spider at the heart of the web devoured them! As he will no doubt devour me!”
Terrified at my own outburst, overcome by the fateful answer I knew I must give to the king’s request, my heart torn by having to yield myself to the bloated old king while all my love was Tom’s and Tom’s alone, I wept, openly and bitterly.
For a long time the king said nothing, but simply let me sob. I was raw and naked before him, stripped of all pretense of willing compliance. After awhile, feeling drained, holding a lace-trimmed silk handkerchief to my nose, I began to be calmer.
“Don’t you know, Cat, that it is because of your honesty that I cherish you?” His voice was gentle and caressing. “For all past hurts, I most humbly ask your forgiveness.”
I was moved, as he knew I would be, by his words. The humble words of a great king, offering me his love.
I composed myself. “I forgive you,” I said simply, not knowing what else to say. The Bible teaches us to forgive, after all. Yet in my heart my grievances still rankled.
Ignoring the quavering in my voice, the king took my hands in his.
“Then are we agreed, sweetheart. Six weeks from today will be our wedding day. Heneage will arrange everything.”
He kissed my hands, and admired the great emerald on my finger.
“That ring,” he said, “cost me all of last year’s revenues from Cornwall. Including the smuggled goods we took back from the pirates.”
“I have heard many a compliment, sire, but none as grand as ‘You are worth as much as Cornwall.’ It is a very romantic sentiment.”
His loud guffaw brought the servants back into the room.
“Never mind, never mind,” he called out to them. “I was only laughing. She makes me laugh, you know. Just like her brother. Bring us wine, then, and cakes, for we have rejoicing to do!” One of the grooms bowed and went out.
“Speaking of your brother, he will enjoy the first fruits of your elevation. The queen’s brother must have many honors and emoluments. I am appointing Will to my Privy Council and making him a Garter Knight. He will have the wardship of the Cinque Ports and three fine estates in Cumberland. We must think of a suitable marquisate for him as well, what do you think?”
“I think he will be delighted.”
“Oh, and one more thing,” Henry added as the groom brought in a flagon of wine and a plate of honey cakes sprinkled with sweet almonds.
“Your stepdaughter Margaret. I know you have been wanting to make a good match for her.” He stuffed a cake into his mouth and wiped his hands on a linen napkin. “I have just the right man. He’s rich, well connected, ambitious, and handsome.”
“Who is it, your majesty?”
He fixed me with an enigmatic stare. “An acquaintance of yours—and my brother-in-law. Tom Seymour.”
31
TOM! TO BE MARGARET’S HUSBAND!
I felt my face grow warm. My mouth dropped open. Fortunately King Henry had shifted his attention to the honey cakes and was devouring another one.
Tom to become my stepson! And Margaret to be married to a man who was very much in love with her stepmother! It was unthinkable—and yet the king had spoken. It was his wish.
Having felt hot, I now felt a sudden chill. I looked over at my future husband, his expression bland as he munched on the sweet confection, crumbs of cake dropping into his graying beard. Yet again I wondered, how much did he know about Tom and me? Did he know that I longed for Tom, night and day, that I would give anything to be with him? And that Tom had pledged his love to me again and again, ardently and with the most impassioned kisses and lovemaking? Was the king hoping to remove Tom as a rival, by binding him to me with ties of family rather than of romantic love? Or—and this was the most chilling thought of all—was Henry punishing me for loving Tom by placing me in the agonizing position of becoming Tom’s stepmother?
I didn’t know what to think, or to say. I reached for a honey cake and ate.
Fortunately, the king did not bring up the subject of Tom and Margaret’s marriage again that day. He seemed to regard it as settled. That night I spent long wakeful hours anxiously turning over in my mind all the worrying aspects of the king’s plan, and wishing that I could share my worries with my beloved. On the following day I remarked to the king, in as casual a tone as I could manage, that Margaret was still in mourning for her father (as I was myself) and that any announcement of a betrothal ought to be put off for at least a few months. Henry grunted in agreement and we went on to talk of other things. Inwardly I felt a great wave of relief and joy. At least there would be no wedding any time soon—except my own, of course.
With only six weeks until the day King Henry had chosen for our nuptials there was a great deal to do, and I distracted myself with the wedding preparations, and the forming of my new household as queen.
Queen! I repeated this word to myself, again and again, but could not get used to it. I was still plain Cat Parr, no matter what titles and privileges might be showered on me, and I vowed never to forget it.
Anne Daintry was of the greatest help to me in choosing the hundreds of people who would serve me in my new role. I told her that I wanted my uncle William, now elderly, to serve as my chamberlain (he had come to me and respectfully requested the post), Daniel Frith, my former steward from Gainesborough Hall, to be steward of my household, Mrs. Molsey to be my cook and Avice Odell, my friend from the days when I was in Henry Fitzroy’s household, to be my mother of the maids. My sister Nan would be my principal lady-in-waiting. There were dozens of others, a sprinkling of villagers from Grundleford, some of John’s former gardeners and grooms who I wanted to have near me as queen. It made the new life I faced seem less formidable, to have familiar people around me.
My stepson John Neville (no longer Johnny) was to be the captain of my guard while Philip von Lederer would be appointed as my physician and Gwillim Morgan my apothecary. I had been entertained many times at Lady Audley’s house by her fool Ippolyta the Tartarian. I now sent Anne Daintry to request that Ippolyta come to court, to make me and my friends laugh with her wild dancing and japes and mimicry.
I relied on Anne to supervise the sewing of the new liveries in my colors of tawny and popinjay blue, and to make certain the ten seamstresses who were stitching the thousands of seed pearls onto my wedding gown did not fall behind in completing their laborious task.
My sister resented the authority I gave Anne.
“A laundress! A lowly, despised laundress is running your household! It’s a disgrace. An insult to us all.”
“May I remind you Nan that that laundress was born an earl’s daughter? And that she is still, in law, Will’s wife?”
Nan snorted. “She forfeited her birthright when she turned her back on her husband and family and took up a life of degradation. She dishonored her father and the rest of us. With those bastard brats of hers, she’s no better than a whore! Will’s wife indeed! Will’s shame, more like it.”
“Nan! She’s my frie
nd. And she’s Will’s friend too, you know. He met with her when she first came back to court with me. They talked everything out, and he’s made her a generous allowance. They are on quite good terms.”
“Will has no more sense about these things than you have.”
“What things?”
“Who ought to keep company with whom. Who ought to know their place and not try to rise above it.”
“As I have?”
Nan gave me a long look. “You have been raised up by the king. By royal command. You have done nothing to attempt to advance yourself.”
“I’m glad you approve.” The sarcasm in my tone was lost on Nan, who merely nodded and went on to talk of another matter.
“I believe the Lady Mary is to live at court, with an apartment near yours.”
“Yes. I will be glad of her company.”
“Everyone says she will wind up an old maid. She’s nearly twenty-seven. And what with her bad health, and her Spanish blood, and that stubborn will of hers, what man would want her? And she refuses to marry a husband who is of the reform faith. She still clings to the Romish belief.”
“I admire her strong character.”
“You confer your admiration much too freely, in my opinion.”
I said nothing to this. It did no good to argue with Nan. Arguing was tiresome, and Nan never changed her views no matter what anyone said to her. I accepted her as she was; after all, she was my sister, and family ties are very important. I wished that I could confide in Nan the way I confided in Anne Daintry, but it was no good wishing. Things were as they were.
About this time, not long before my wedding, Henry’s daughter Elizabeth was brought to court by her lady mistress, Catherine Champernowne, and because she had been disobedient, Henry insisted that the child abase herself and seek his pardon.
We received her in the watching chamber, a large long room with an immense hearth. Royal guardsmen stood at attention, halberds at the ready, and along the walls, surrounding the hearth, were hung gleaming swords and muskets and pikes, embossed shields and long knives whose hilts were ornately decorated with filigree designs in silver and gold. Henry and I were seated in high-backed thronelike chairs at one end of the room, and at the other end, the double doors were opened to admit a small figure in a light blue gown, a lace cap around her pale face, a starched white collar around her slim neck.
She took a few slow, tentative steps into the room, then got down on all fours and began crawling toward us, her progress slowed by the full skirt of her gown which became entangled between her legs.
I watched, disturbed at the sight, as she inched along, head down, concentrating on dragging herself across the many yards that separated us.
Children were often punished in this way—in my childhood I myself had been made to crawl to my father when I disobeyed him—but I wondered how grievous Elizabeth’s disobedience could have been to condemn her to crawling the entire length of this chamber.
“What did she do to offend you, sire?” I asked Henry, who was watching his daughter with a sour look on his face.
“She’s sly and willful, just like the Witch.”
“But she can’t be more than nine or ten years old. Surely with the guidance and encouragement of loving parents, she will learn truthfulness and submission.”
Henry looked over at me and grinned. “That’s what I love about you, Cat. Your optimism. Even about the Witch’s Brat here.”
Little Elizabeth had covered only half the distance from the doorway to where we sat, yet already she was scraping her knees and palms raw on the rough tiled floor. As she came closer I could see that there were bloodstains on her kirtle and sleeves. Yet she made no outcry or complaint; to endure the pain in silence was part of the punishment.
On she came, doggedly as I thought. When she lifted her face I saw that she was gritting her teeth and that her small white brow was furrowed in effort. So this is Anne Boleyn’s child, I said to myself. I had never seen her up close before, as Henry had kept her away from court at Hatfield and various other royal manors from the age of two on. I had glimpsed her once or twice from a distance, on one of the rare occasions when she was brought to Whitehall or Greenwich, but that was all. Now I saw that she had her father’s coloring and features—except for a resemblance to Anne around the eyes. I thought, she will be a beauty when she is older, with her fine white skin and delicate face, her long neck and tapered limbs.
Just then she reached us, and, still kneeling, lifted her eyes to meet the king’s stern gaze.
“Father,” she said, “I beseech your blessing, for charity.” Her childish voice was even, her words distinct. But the look she gave her father was anything but deferential. There was a furious stubbornness in her eyes, an unmistakable pride in the tilt of her chin and a disdainful set to her mouth. When, ever so briefly, she turned her glance on me I saw there a flash of venom.
“I have been told that you are disobedient. That you challenge your chaplain on points of theology and correct your Latin tutor’s grammar.”
I saw Elizabeth press her lips together. The muscles in her neck grew taut. She wants to answer him back, I thought. But she knows she doesn’t dare. How clever she is, and what self-restraint she has developed! Though she was far from being a lovable child at that moment, still my heart went out to her.
“Disobedient children are unnatural beings,” the king was saying, “cruel murderers of their parents. Theirs is a special hell.”
“I am heartily sorry for all my misdeeds,” came the childish voice again, the timber slightly stronger.
Impatient and uncomfortable, Henry was fidgeting in his seat.
“Very well then. Come here.” He held out his hands and Elizabeth came closer, placing her head beneath his palms.
“Bless you, my child,” he said curtly, and removed his hands quickly, as if they had inadvertently touched a snake or a hot coal.
“This is Lady Catherine, your stepmother-to-be. Ask her blessing, out of respect.”
“Yet another?” I heard Elizabeth whisper to herself as she came over to me and submitted her head to my outstretched hands.
“Stepmother, I beseech your blessing, for charity.”
“Bless you, my dear child.”
“Champernowne!” Henry called out, his loud voice echoing in the long room. “Take her away!”
From out of the shadows stepped Elizabeth’s lady mistress, Catherine Champernowne, a serious-looking woman in an unadorned dark gown. She came forward briskly, took Elizabeth by the arm, and both made respectful exits. As Elizabeth left I was again disturbed at the sight of the bloodstains on her kirtle and sleeves.
“Don’t you think, sire, that it is a mistake not to restore the Lady Elizabeth to the succession? She and the Lady Mary both. If, God forbid, the prince should die—”
“Yes, yes, I know.” He reached for the goblet at his elbow and drank deeply. “We must make another prince, you and I. And soon.”
When, a few days later, my stepdaughter Margaret came to see me, bringing with her Philip von Lederer, I could not help contrasting Margaret’s open, joyous face with that of the haunted, guarded Elizabeth. Even before she spoke I could tell that Margaret had a delicious secret—and I was glad, because ever since John’s death she had been somber. I kissed her and invited both young people to sit down.
“Mother Catherine,” Margaret said, “Philip has something he wants to say to you.”
“Yes, Philip, what is it?”
“Lady Latimer, I must speak plainly to you. If your late husband were still alive I would approach him, but sadly he is not. So I come to you.”
“Say what you have to say, Philip.”
He cleared his throat. “I love Margaret and we are pledged to one another. I know that I am unworthy of her, both by birth and merit.” Here he glanced at Margaret with a look of fond devotion that I found very touching. With a pang I remembered how Ned appealed to my mother to let us marry, all those years ago. My dear
Ned, how I loved him! “But she says that she loves me,” Philip went on, “and that is what matters most.”
“Yes, that is what matters most. But I may as well tell you both, the king has other plans for Margaret.”
“I thought he might,” Margaret said, beaming. “That is why Philip and I went to Woodsetton last week, where Philip’s friend James Himley has a small parish, and were married.”
32
WILL LED ME DOWN THE AISLE OF THE CHAPEL AT HAMPTON COURT on my wedding day, joking with me and winking at Prince Edward who stood with his sisters at the front of the church. I was glad of Will’s comforting presence, my arm resting on his, as I walked past the rows of courtiers and officials whom the king had invited to the small ceremony. I knew that many of them disapproved of his marrying me, others pitied me and whispered the old curse that anyone who became King Henry’s wife would die, soon and miserably.
I wobbled a little on my stiff cork-heeled shoes trimmed in gold, and hoped their gold ruching would not get caught in the folds of my three satin petticoats, with their delicate loops of silver-gilt thread and heavy hems stitched with green glass beads. My gown was of pale ivory silk with bone-colored lace at the neck and oversleeves of sheer cypress cloth, so thin it was like gauze. A caul of fretted gold covered my coiled and plaited hair. On my hand was my beautiful wedding ring, and another gem Henry had given me that morning, an acorn-sized diamond called the Mirror of Portugal that flashed its myriad facets around the room as I walked. At Henry’s insistence I also wore Catherine Howard’s great necklace of table diamonds, hoping it would not prove to be an ill omen, and a small gold cross on a chain that he told me had belonged to his mother.
Tears came to my eyes when I walked past Tom, standing with his brothers Edward and Henry and looking extremely handsome, and I grasped Will’s arm more tightly to make certain I did not break down. I forced myself to glance at the other wedding guests, all resplendently dressed and solemn, as I passed: Prince Edward and his sisters, Margaret and Philip von Lederer—beaming happily at me and at one another—my sister Nan and her husband, my uncle William, and my ladies-in-waiting. Among these the dark-haired, strikingly beautiful Kate Brandon stood out, her vivacity apparent even in repose as she turned her laughing eyes toward me and made a wry face, making me smile.
The Last Wífe of Henry VIII Page 21
