by G Lawrence
She waited until dawn, confessed, heard Mass, and took the Sacrament. Athequa forgot, in this moment of sorrow, to extract from Katherine the last confession that she had never truly been Arthur’s wife. It seemed strange to me that Katherine would forget this, at this crucial time.
Perhaps she did not. Perhaps, in this last moment of truth, with her immortal soul in question, she could not bring herself to lie.
Katherine dictated her requests for her possessions. She did not make a will, since, as a married woman, as she considered herself, her property was Henry’s. Katherine asked that she be laid to rest in a house of the Observant Friars, with five hundred Masses to be sung for her soul. She wanted Henry to make gold and silver that he owed her available, and asked some of her servants to embark on a pilgrimage to Walsingham to pray for her soul and give alms along the way. A golden collar that she had brought from Spain was marked for her daughter to inherit, and her ladies were granted money, and expenses.
She dictated a letter to Henry. It arrived some time later at court.
“My dearest Lord, King and Husband,
The hour of my death now approaching, I cannot chose but, out of the love I bear you, to advise you of your soul’s health, which you ought to prefer before all considerations of the world or flesh whatsoever. For which yet you have cast me into many calamities and you yourself into many troubles. But I forgive you all and pray God to do likewise. For the rest, I commend unto you Mary, our daughter, beseeching you to be a good father to her. I must entreat you also to take care of my maids, and give them in marriage, which is not much, they being but three, and to all my other servants, a year’s pay beside their due, lest otherwise they should be unprovided for until they find new employment.
Lastly, I want only one true thing; to make this vow: that, in this life, mine eyes desire you alone.
May God protect you,
Katherine, the Queen.”
Katherine fell to prayer, begging God to save Henry. The extreme unction was administered. As the winter skies flowed white over Kimbolton, at two of the clock on the 7th of January, Katherine, Princess of Spain, Princess of England, and once Queen, died.
We heard of her death when her letter arrived at court. Henry read it, and in an excess of joy leapt from his chair, crying, “God be praised! We are freed from threat of war!”
He bounded over and kissed me. It was as though someone had told him his son was born, rather than the woman he had once claimed to love had died.
At first, I celebrated with him. I rewarded the messenger with a handsome purse of gold and laughed with Henry. But, as the enormity of what had occurred washed over me, I fell heavily upon a stool and burst into tears.
“My Queen weeps for joy!” Henry announced to my ladies who were flocking about me, trying to ascertain what was wrong. “For she knows England is safe!”
As Henry raced off to celebrate, I looked up at Nan Gainsford.
“Do you weep for joy, my lady?” she asked.
“Nay,” I murmured. “For sorrow. What was done to Katherine might one day be done to me.”
My ladies all assured me, cutting over each other in their haste, that nothing like that could ever happen. Henry loved me, they said. England adored my daughter, they said. Peace would come from Katherine’s death and all would be well. Their words flowed over me like water. How many times had Henry said he regretted marrying me? How many times had he threatened me?
I walked to the table and took up the letter. Katherine had, to the last, been not only an opponent of courage, but of grace. Her last letter to Henry was beautiful. Finally I understood. She had loved him.
“So,” I whispered. “You are gone.”
There was no answer in my mind, but I felt a presence at my side.
I am your death, as you are mine.
The words that came were not spoken. They were born from my memory, from the dream in which Katherine came to me, standing amongst the desert, the dust, in the shadow of the great tower of blood. I shivered and set the letter down.
My mind was silent but I could feel her. Feel her close. Katherine lingered. Her soul could not yet rest.
Katherine had departed my mind, only to follow me as a ghost.
Chapter Forty-Six
Greenwich Palace
January 1536
There were immediate rumours of murder.
About court, people swapped tales of unnatural death and delighted each other with horror, scaring their audiences with stories of Italian powders that could be slipped into drinks, leaving no trace… and with every tale told, the name of Boleyn was whispered.
Had Katherine been murdered? I could not believe it of Henry, but what of Cromwell? Had he sought a way back to favour by ridding me of the woman who had always outshone me, even from her gloomy houses?
My father and brother helped matters not at all, for I heard they had said Mary should follow her mother’s example.
“Why did you say such a thing?” I demanded of my brother.
“We didn’t,” he said, sinking into a chair. “We were passing comment on something the King had said. Chapuys reported we said this, but those words did not pass our lips, I swear it, sister.”
I sighed. There was nothing to be done. No matter what, in some minds we Boleyns would always be guilty of whatever evil came.
If I was inclined to do away with Katherine, I would have done so years ago. When I was her lady-in-waiting, I had ample chance, should my obviously so-wicked heart have pushed me to poison her. I had served at her table, brought her wine and beer in bed. If I was the witch they all supposed me to be, and had known what the future held, surely I would have grasped the opportunity long ago and delivered us all from a great deal of trouble.
But people care not for reason when rumour is unleashed. The stories became wilder and wilder. Chapuys became utterly convinced someone had murdered Katherine, and pressed Henry to investigate. But Henry was in no mood for trouble and toil. He was beside himself with joy. Henry had lived in a private hell of horrors for more than a year, imagining every moment we were about to be invaded. Now, there was no cause. Katherine’s death had freed him. We were at liberty.
Chapuys, upon his return, was shocked to find a court in celebration rather than mourning and was made only more sceptical when Cromwell informed him the rumours of poison had originated in France.
To the disquiet of the hapless hare, Henry organised jousts and masques, and ordered matching yellow costumes for us, in which we appeared before court. Yellow is the symbol of rebirth and renewal; the colour of spring.
“For this is the spring of our lives, Anne,” he said, quite forgetting how angry he had been with me of late. He took me in his arms. “This is truly our beginning.”
“And I am finally the undisputed Queen.”
“You always were.”
We processed to Mass that morning, taking Elizabeth with us. In her father’s arms, she gazed about with her large, black eyes, calmly taking in all the acclaim and glory. That afternoon we feasted and after, Henry commanded all my ladies to his room, and held a dance. Elizabeth was brought in and passed around until Henry almost snatched her from Norfolk, saying, “The Princess is mine alone!” as he roared with laughter.
He was so merry, lost in joy. So much court did he pay to my daughter that I felt foolish about what I had said when we heard of Katherine’s death. When he was like this, I was sure there was no one else in the world for Henry but me.
After days of dancing and celebration, Henry ordered a joust, swearing he would compete. I did not attempt to reason with him, although given the turn of later events, I should have. I did not tell him he was no longer the young knight he once had been, or that his reactions were getting slower. I told him he should compete, for I wanted everyone to see how joyous he was that Katherine was gone, and I was the undisputed Queen of England.
Even in the minds of those who opposed me, there could be no further doubt. Henry’s first wife w
as dead. The path for friendship with Spain was clear, and France, seeing this, would have to fall in line.
Henry continued to court Jane, but everyone could see that some of the passion had gone from his wooing. The Seymours and their allies were not best pleased, which, of course, delighted me.
On orders from Henry, Cromwell reached out to France, informing them of Katherine’s death, and making it clear that since the impediment to friendship with Spain had now been removed, François was no longer in any position to dictate terms to England. Gardiner and his man Wallop were sent further instructions, telling them that England would now pursue alliance with the Emperor, and if François did not want to lose all allies in Europe, he would have to be much more polite and conciliatory than he had been in the past. Chapuys suddenly found himself frequently invited into Henry’s company, and more often than not was ushered into meetings in full view of the French ambassadors. The anguish on their faces was greatly soothing to my ruffled spirit and battered pride.
Henry was delighted to find himself suddenly in a position of power and influence. “We will play both sides,” he said to me one day at the lists as I tied a green ribbon about his lance.
I had been watching him ride, and seeing me in the stands, he had brought his horse over to accept my favours. It was a public gesture of love and respect, and although Jane Seymour was present, and of late she had sometimes tied her ribbon about his lance, that day he chose me.
“You will keep them guessing?” I asked, looping the silk ribbon into a pert bow. “Keep them on a knife edge for many months, my love, to richly pay them back for all they have done to us.”
Henry laughed. “It is all France and Spain deserve,” he agreed. “They have toyed with us, but now the game is ours.”
“Let them squirm,” I said, with a broad grin. “Show them who is master, my beloved.”
“The King wants to play both sides, Majesty,” said the voice of my sister-in-law in my ear as Henry rode off. “Yet Cromwell seeks alliance only with Spain.”
“Why?” I asked. “His Majesty has told him that he wants to delay a while, to see which side will grant the most benefit.”
“The King has told him this, indeed,” whispered Jane. “But Cromwell does not heed his commands. I heard him blatantly voicing disdain for France in the company of Chapuys just this morning. He suggested that Chapuys should come to the Augustinian Friary between their houses in London to meet him, but the ambassador refused, saying he had to attend a Mass for the soul of the Dowager.”
“What else did you hear?”
“That Chapuys told Cromwell to write to him instead,” said Jane. “But Cromwell was unwilling to put what he had to say on parchment.”
For fear it would be read, I thought. What was Cromwell up to? Henry was right. George was right. This man was overstepping his authority. He thought he was the King, and we were his subjects. Knowing that Henry was already angered at Cromwell’s growing arrogance, I stowed Jane’s information away, preparing it for use later on.
As I watched Henry ride in the joust, his armour gleaming in the early morning sun, I thought back to all the hundreds of times I had watched him. I thought of the day he had been thrown from his horse by Suffolk, and the terror I had experienced then… a terror that had told me, even though I had resisted long and hard, that I loved this prince.
And now we were united again, in love and in duty, I would not fail him.
Cromwell wanted to make himself a king, just as Wolsey had. He thought to stand behind the throne, pulling Henry’s strings. It would not be. England was Henry’s, and Henry was mine. No matter how long and brutal we argued, no matter how often we hurt each other, our love was deeper than any other. And our commitment to each other, although strained and battered, had not died.
I would not allow another Wolsey to rise.
*
“I do not understand the problem,” I said to Cranmer. “Katherine left her property for the King to deal with after her death, did she not?”
“In a way, madam,” said Cranmer, frowning. “But the King wishes to use her funeral to accentuate that she died his brother’s widow. If she died a widow without a living husband, then it was her right to decide where her property went after her demise.”
“And if His Majesty makes a claim to her property, it will seem as though he was her husband,” I said. “I see.”
“Rich has been set on the task,” said Cranmer. “He is a wily fox, that one, although I cannot admit any affection for him.”
“I feel the same,” I said. “There is something disturbing about his company. I need to bathe when he has been near me.”
My gentle friend smiled. “The cloud of the evidence against More hangs over him,” he said. “There are many who believe Rich lied to obtain the evidence that sent More to his death.”
“So said my brother,” I noted. “And I have wondered too. At the time, Cromwell spoke for Rich, and at the time, I believed him.”
“But now you do not, Majesty?”
“Sometimes I know not what or whom to believe anymore,” I said. “I always thought I was a creature of court, Eminence, born to live here, fated to dwell in these shades of brilliant light and infinite darkness. As time wears on, I wonder if I was as suited to this life as I thought.” I smiled. “I find myself enamoured with honesty,” I said. “Perhaps because I have grown sick on a diet of lies.”
“I was told you wept at the death of Katherine,” said Cranmer. “The court was speaking of it with surprise.”
“But you were not?”
My old friend shook his head. “Your heart is known to me,” he said. “Even for an enemy, you would sorrow.”
“I am not sure that is true of all my enemies, Eminence, but for Katherine…” I trailed off, my eyes seeking to express what my lips could not say. “Perhaps it was for fear and relief that I wept,” I said. “Since I became Queen, even before that, perhaps, I have felt as though Katherine was with me. As though she stood at my elbow and everyone could see her and compared us. I thought I would experience only relief when she passed, but it was not so. I feared that should the King tire of me, he might treat me as he had her.”
“The King loves you, Majesty.”
“Sometimes,” I said. “Sometimes I think he loves me, at others I think he hates me. At times, I think he might like to be free, to choose again, to pick another wife, one who would be kind and gentle all the time. One who had no opinions of her own, but would echo back his thoughts, pleasing him with flattery.”
“You speak of the Seymour girl,” said Cranmer, shaking his head. “She is a diversion, Majesty, that is all. She is not you. The King often says that there is no one like you and he is right. When troubles come, does he go to his fair shade, or does he come to you? When he feels joy, he does not go to her but to you. His Majesty is bound to you. You are the one he turns to in strife and in happiness. It is only when you argue that he goes to others. He does not love the Seymour chit, for she is a child. You are right when you say that she but echoes his own thoughts back to him. She is an empty cave, that one. The King stands and shouts and all he hears in return is his own voice. He comes to you for just counsel, and receives it. He goes to her when he is bruised, and needs comfort.” Cranmer paused. “But he would never do to you what he did to Katherine. You are the light in his darkness, the path in his grim forest. Without you, he is lost. He knows that.”
“You bring me great comfort,” I said. Cranmer was right. I was the tonic that Henry needed to bolster his strength and courage. I was the stability he sought when his world trembled. Were it not for the necessity of carrying his children, Henry might never have strayed.
*
Despite frantic requests from Chapuys, the Courtenays and the Carewes, it was decided that Katherine would be laid to rest in Peterborough Abbey, rather than Westminster. As Katherine’s body was taken for examination and embalmment, I began to think about Lady Mary.
The girl had l
ost much. Perhaps everything. Her mother had been a huge part of her life, and I knew she had loved her. Henry had softened towards Mary, sending her a purse of money and a kind note. He also had not reiterated his demands that she recognise me as Queen or Elizabeth as his heir.
Pity moved me. I wrote to Lady Shelton, instructing her to relieve pressure on Lady Mary. I told her that I had hoped harsh measures would bring forth obedience, but in the light of her loss, and in hope of a better relationship in the future, I would have her treated gently. I asked my aunt to inform Mary of this, and to tell her that she needed to submit whilst there was still a chance to gain from her submission. I told her also to officially inform Mary that I was with child, as another incentive to surrender.
But I had not been alone in thinking of Mary. People feared that Katherine’s demise would lead to harsher tactics being used against her daughter. Chapuys had written to my aunts, passing on a titbit of gossip in the hope that it would make them kinder. The rumour was based on something that Henry had apparently said to the Marques of Exeter, husband to Gertrude Courtenay.
