by Jean Plaidy
“I tried for the others. I tried so hard … but he began to get irritable, and I was afraid that I might lose Marbeck if I persisted.”
“You were wise to desist. My lady … Katharine … they must never know. Gardiner must never guess… about your views.”
“I know,” she said. “He would have me at the stake if he did.”
“Please… please take care.”
She said she would, and I believed I had impressed on her the danger she was in.
THE REFORMERS HAD PERISHED at the stake, and we were leaving on a journey through the country to celebrate the King's marriage. We were to go to Woodstock, Grafton and Dunstable—there would be hunting on the way—and we should stay at the grand houses of noblemen who would be expected to put on grand entertainments for us. I know these royal progresses were a source of great anxiety to those who had to entertain us, for they could become bankrupt in the process. But the King would have been put out if an inadequate welcome was given to him; and those who failed to treat him royally would soon find they were out of favor at Court—and it was always feared what that might lead to.
We had not gone far when one of my attacks came on. I tried hard to fight it but it was no use.
My father was always irritated by illness, and it was thought best to send me off in a litter. We were not far from Ampthill, which had at one time housed my mother, and to this place I was sent.
I do not think it helped being in her old house. Memories of her came back, and I was plunged into melancholy. Dr. Butts was sent to me, and he thought the best thing was to move me to a house which was not full of shadows for me.
Edward was at Ashridge—Elizabeth with him—and it was decided that I should go there to recuperate.
I was feeling very tired, listless and far from well, so it was pleasant to be in the country away from the activities of the Court. I did enjoy seeing the children occasionally—after all, they were my own sister and brother.
Little Jane Grey was with them at this time. She was an attractive child, just about Edward's age—very pretty, dainty and quite learned. Edward was devoted to her. I was amused once more to see how Elizabeth dominated them. She was, after all, four years older, and she had the nature of a leader. The other two looked up to her and in a way protected each other against her.
There was no doubt that, much as Edward admired his sister, he was very pleased to have Jane as an ally.
Mrs. Sybil Penn, who had looked after him since he was a baby, said, “Lady Jane is such a dear little playmate for him. His sister, the Lady Elizabeth, is inclined to bully… much as he adores her. But Lady Jane… she is just sweet and gentle. To see them at their books together…well, it just amazes me that there should be such learning in those two little heads.”
Jane was a sort of cousin. She was the daughter of Henry Grey, Marquis of Dorset, who had married Frances, daughter of Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk, and my namesake, Mary Tudor, my father's sister. Jane herself was the eldest of three sisters.
Mrs. Penn was fierce in her defense of Edward. She reminded me of Lady Bryan. I often thought what a lot we owed to those women who were mothers to us in our babyhood. They would fight our battles with the King himself if need be. Thus it was with Mrs. Penn.
She was angry about the treatment little Jane received in her home. “Poor little mite,” she said. “They are very severe with her. They think nothing of beating her and locking her up in her room and keeping her without food. I've seen marks on her little body from the whip. I'd turn it on them, I would… dukes or marquises, whatever they be…to treat a child like that and her such a sweet little thing. She's happy here, and my prince is happy to have her with him. I hope we can keep her for a while. Perhaps you would speak for that, my lady.”
I said I would, and then the motherly soul turned her attention to me. She said I needed looking after. She would like to see a little color in my cheeks.
So it was rather pleasant to watch the children together—to note the tender affection of Edward and Jane; and Elizabeth watching them, making sure that she lost none of her influence over the pair.
I was recovering—and in due course I returned to Court.
The Queen was determined to persuade the King to give full recognition to his daughters and, emboldened by her success over Marbeck and knowing that the King was pleased with her, she attempted to do so.
Having nursed two husbands already, Katharine was experienced in the art. She had gentle hands which could be firm when necessary; she could dress his leg more quickly and less painfully than anyone else; he would often sit resting the leg on her lap, and that seemed to ease it considerably. He liked to talk to her of literature, music and theology; and providing she chose her words carefully he found the discourse to his liking.
He was happier than he had been for a long time. He was sure he had chosen wisely, and most would have agreed with him on that point.
In February of that year following his marriage, I was reinstated to my old position at Court. I was even included in the line of succession, but after Edward would come any daughter my father might have by the Queen or— ominous phrase—any succeeding wives. It was a great step forward—and Elizabeth was to come after me.
Elizabeth was full of high spirits during this time.
We owed a great deal to Katharine—but perhaps not all as far as I was concerned, for my father was eagerly seeking to renew his friendship with the Emperor, and it might well have been for this reason that he was treating me as he was.
But that would not account for Elizabeth's recognition, so I suppose we did owe a great deal to the Queen.
It was impossible not to be fond of her. She was determined to be a mother to us and took an especial interest in Edward and Elizabeth, on account of their youth, I think; and they both loved her. They were fond of Anne of Cleves too, and they had liked pretty Catharine Howard, but none had been the mother to them that the present Queen was proving to be. I think that Katharine had always longed for children of her own; it was sad that she had only stepchildren on whom to lavish her affection; and that she did with abandon. She really was a mother to those children—including Jane Grey, who was touchingly devoted to her.
She believed that my weakness and debility were due to a lack of interest in life. Like many people, she thought that I should have married. Perhaps she was right. I seemed to have withered. I had longed for children so much but I had come to the conclusion that I should never have them.
To give me an interest, Katharine suggested that I make a translation of Erasmus' Latin Paraphrase of St. John. It was a task which appealed to me, and I set about it with zest and found myself waking each morning with the urge to get on working at it.
When I had finished it, Katharine was loud in her praises; she said I must have it printed so that many could read it.
I was reluctant at first, wondering whether it was beneath the dignity of a princess—now recognized as such and in line for the throne—but Katharine said she would not rest until she had persuaded me.
Meanwhile I was becoming aware of danger.
Katharine and the King had been married for a year, and there was no sign of pregnancy. Was he beginning to be restless? The fact was that under her skilful hands he suffered less pain; indeed there were times when he was quite without it. It was ironic that Katharine, who had been the one who had brought about this relief, should be the one to suffer for it. It might have been my imagination, but did I see his eyes linger on some of the beauties of the Court? I had also seen a glimmer of anxiety when he looked at Edward. One son was all he had; he was feeling better; I could imagine his telling himself that he was still full of vigor. There were some tempting beauties at Court, and it must be Katharine's fault that there was no child.
It was amazing how those about him were aware of his feelings.
Then came what many believed was a definite sign that the Queen was losing her place in his affections.
Hans Holbein
had been out of favor since he had brought back that deceiving picture of Anne of Cleves, representing her as a beauty and completely ignoring the fact that her skin was faintly pock-marked.
“But the fellow is a good painter,” said the King, “and I pay him a retainer of £30 a year, so he may as well earn it.”
He wanted a portrait of the family—with his son and daughters and his Queen beside him.
Elizabeth was delighted to be included. She would have liked to be in the forefront of the picture; but this was not the King's intention.
He would be in the center, with Edward beside him and on the far left should be one of his daughters and the other on the far right. Still, we were in the picture. But the crux of the matter was that, when Katharine prepared to take her place beside the King, she was brusquely told that her presence would not be needed. My father wanted the artist to make a picture of Edward's mother, Jane Seymour, the only wife who had given him a son, and she should take the place of honor beside him.
The insult to Katharine was too marked to go unnoticed. She had been deeply hurt—and, more than that, she must have been overcome with alarm.
It was the sign for her enemies to prick up their ears, to ask themselves if the familiar pattern was emerging again? No sons … a barren wife … and so on. Even though he now had one son and two daughters, we did not give him great delight. Edward was too delicate, and Elizabeth and I were only girls.
Gardiner was waiting to step in. He already suspected Katharine of leaning toward the new religion; he was right in that. I had warned her to be careful, and she had been, but it was not easy for one who was constantly on the stage to keep out of danger.
It was not only the Queen they had their eyes on. Wolsey had fallen through Anne Boleyn, Cromwell through Anne of Cleves; they had decided that Cranmer should go with Katharine.
Very soon after that portrait had been painted, several people of the Queen's household were arrested and taken to the Tower.
Katharine was in a state of great anxiety, but fate was kind to her on this occasion for the King's ulcer was worse and nobody could dress it like the Queen. She managed to soothe it with her gentle fingers; he was pleased with her and turned angrily on those who were preparing to trap her.
He wanted to know what all this was about—arresting people in the Queen's household. What did it mean?
It meant, they told him, that writings had been found in the possession of these people, and they had been overheard to make certain remarks.
The King made it clear that he wanted no implications about the Queen, and by arresting people in her household they had cast a slur on her. The whole thing was a fabrication to annoy him, he declared, and he wanted to get at the truth of the matter.
The truth actually was that evidence had been forged. It would have been perfectly acceptable if—as they had calculated—the King wished to rid himself of his wife. But he certainly did not at this time. He grumbled that he was surrounded by clumsy oafs who handled him roughly. Only the Queen had gentleness in her hands.
Gardiner was berated as a fool who should have taken more care before flinging accusations at his betters.
Gardiner pleaded that his servants were over-zealous in their service to the King, but he was sent away with the King's abuse ringing in his ears.
But Katharine was left uneasy. She had escaped this time, but would she again? It had just been good luck that he had happened to need her attentions more than usual and that had made him realize her value to him; he was still hankering after another son, and there were several younger and very pretty women at the Court.
Hostilities proved a diversion. Relations with Scotland were never good; now they were verging on disaster, and it seemed that we should soon be at war not only with that country but with France also.
Norfolk was sent north with an army, and at the Battle of Solway Moss James V was killed, leaving his infant daughter, Mary, Queen of Scotland.
My father now had the idea of preventing trouble in Scotland by uniting the two countries through a marriage between Edward and little Mary of Scotland. He wanted Mary to be sent to England to be brought up at his Court. The Scots blankly refused.
My father was now ready to conclude a treaty with the Emperor Charles; and we were at war with both France and Scotland.
Edward Seymour was sent to Scotland with an army, and Thomas Seymour to France. Then my father decided that he would accompany the army for, with the Emperor as his ally, he must have contemplated an early victory and naturally he wanted to be there for the triumph.
He must leave a regent in England and as, years ago, my mother had filled that role, it was now Katharine's turn. She would have Cranmer to help her.
My father set out for Calais, leaving her in charge not only of the country but of Edward.
I think the latter must have caused her the greater anxiety. Edward's health had been a matter of concern since his birth. It was not only Mrs. Penn who watched him so anxiously. Mrs. Penn did so from love of the child whom she regarded as her own, others out of fear of what their fate would be if anything should happen to the heir of England and they be held responsible.
Since her marriage Katharine had lived in a state of perpetual anxiety. I wondered she was as well as she was.
Naturally I was present when my father took his farewells of the family, and I heard him say to Katharine that she must take care of his son, for it seemed God had denied him the blessing of others. That was a veiled threat—well, at least a reproach—which must have made her shiver. I was so sorry for her. So unwillingly had she gone into that marriage, and rarely could a crown have sat so heavily on any head.
My friendship would have been deeper with her had it not been for her leanings toward the reformed religion. It put a barrier between us. My dream of bringing England back to Rome was stronger than ever, for I could not believe that Edward had a long life before him. I was approaching thirty, and I was the next in line. I was sure that my father would never get a healthy child. It was significant that the Duke of Richmond had died so young. It seemed that only the girls could cling firmly enough to life to sustain it. Elizabeth was an example of this, and I had managed to survive so far in spite of my recurring illnesses.
I suspected that the Queen was interesting Edward in the New Learning. She was with him and Elizabeth and Jane a great deal. Edward and Jane were almost fanatically devoted to her, and I was sure they would believe all she told them. I was not certain of Elizabeth. When I was present, these matters were only lightly touched on. The Queen knew that I was a devoted Catholic. My mother had been one, and I should never change. She knew in her heart that I did not accept my father as Supreme Head of the Church, but she never mentioned this because to do so would put me in acute danger.
I tried to discover from Elizabeth how far this indoctrination of Edward had gone, but Elizabeth was non-committal. She herself would never be totally immersed in religion. She was like so many in high places. Her religion would depend on what was most expedient to her own welfare.
While the King was away, Anne Askew arrived at the Court. I did not realize at the time how significant this was.
I heard about it from Susan.
She said, “The Queen is so kind to those in distress. Poor Anne Askew is indeed in trouble. Some people's lives are so sad…particularly women who are shuffled about to please their families. Anne should never have married. She is a reformer really. She is deeply religious… one of those people to whom religion means more than anything on Earth.”
“Tell me about her. Why is she here?”
“She was Anne Kyme and forced into marriage in spite of having no taste for it. Her elder sister was betrothed to Mr. Kyme of Kelsey. It meant a joining together of estates—those of Mr. Kyme and Sir William Askew. The elder sister died before the marriage could take place, and Anne was served up as the bride.”
“Poor girl. As you say, we are treated like clauses in a treaty. I should be well awar
e of this. How many times has it happened to me?”
“You, my lady, had the good fortune to escape.”
“I often wonder whether it was always good fortune.”
“Philip of Bavaria was a very charming man. Perhaps … who knows…?”
I shook my head. “Tell me more of this Anne.”
“She had two children, but her faith meant more to her than anything else. There are people like that.”
I thought of my mother, and I was aware that I had failed. I had saved my life with a lie. I had agreed to the King's supremacy. Well, Chapuys had advised me to do so and I had to think of my mission.
“In what way did her faith mean more to her than her children?” I asked.
“She would insist on proclaiming it. Now she has lost her home. Her husband has turned her out. It is said that there will be a divorce and she will lose her home and her children for her faith.”
“What will happen to her?”
“The Queen will help her. Doubtless give her a place in her household.”
“She will find her discourse interesting, I doubt not.”
Susan nodded but said nothing. We were on dangerous ground.
I saw Anne Askew on one or two occasions. She was very good-looking and clearly a woman of purpose. There was something rather awe-inspiring about her.
I forgot about her in the next few days. The weather had become exceptionally hot, and almost as soon as we had moved into a new house we had to leave it for sweetening. One could not escape the stench of decaying rubbish in the streets; there were flies everywhere.
At such times an outbreak of plague was almost inevitable.
Susan came to me and told me breathlessly that the body of a man had been found in Gray's Inn Lane. He had collapsed and died and the spots on his face indicated that he was a victim of the plague. That was the first case. Others came fast and in increasing numbers.
The Court was in London, and the Queen was full of anxiety.
She came to me and said, “Should we leave, do you think?”
I was unsure.
She went on, “Edward is not well at the moment. He is coughing and having his headaches rather frequently. We should have to pass through the streets on our way. He would be very susceptible to infection. On the other hand, to leave him here…”
