by Jean Plaidy
I could not give her an opinion. If she allowed Edward to stay here, and he caught the plague, she would be blamed for leaving him in danger; so would she be if she took him through the streets of London and he caught it. There was no way out of her dilemma.
She loved the boy; but also her own life was in danger. If Edward died, some charge would surely be brought against her.
She was in a state of nervous tension. There was no one who could advise her. None dared. They wanted no hand in this decision.
At length she made up her mind.
The sultry heat was continuing; the plague was growing worse.
She gave orders that the household was to prepare to leave London.
IN THE CLEAN COUNTRY air Edward's cough improved and Katharine gave thanks to God for one more deliverance. Her head was safe on her shoulders until the next alarm came.
The Regency had been successful, and the King was coming home. He had taken Boulogne so he could return as a conqueror, a role which pleased him mightily.
His friendship with the Emperor—never on very firm ground—had waned and, although they claimed themselves to be allies, they were fighting with different objects in view. Each was concerned with his own interests: my father to subdue Scotland forever and to bring it under the control of England and the Emperor to force François to give up Milan.
But he was home, and Edward was safe. However, the campaign had not improved the condition of his leg. The sores were spreading, and the other leg was infected now.
“The clumsy oafs did not know how to dress it,” he said. “The bandages were either too loose or too tight. By God's Life, Kate, I missed you. There is none that has the way with a bandage you have.”
So her task of nursing began again. She was appalled by the condition of his legs, which were indeed growing worse. He was in great pain at times and would shout abuse at any who came near him.
Only the Queen was allowed to dress the sores.
Chapuys said to me, “The King has the worst legs in the world, and the Queen should thank God for them.”
I looked at him questioningly and he gave me his sly smile. He was implying that it was the King's bad legs which kept the Queen's head on her shoulders.
UNDER KATHARINE'S SOOTHING HANDS and the new ointments she had discovered, the King's legs improved. But instead of being grateful to her, his eyes strayed to others.
Perhaps in his heart he believed that a miracle could happen—his legs would be well again; this excessive flesh would drop from him and he would be a young and agile man again. Perhaps he thought back to the days of his glorious youth when one ambassador had said that he was the most handsome man in Christendom. If one has been handsome, it is hard to forget it; and I suppose people see themselves not as they are but as they once were. I think that was how it was with my father; and in these moods he would ask himself: What am I doing with such a wife…a barren wife? Her only claim to his affections was that she knew how to tie a bandage.
There were beautiful women at Court. There was Lady Mary Howard for one, the widow of his son, the Duke of Richmond—a very lovely girl, with the Howard looks which, in the case of Anne Boleyn and Catharine Howard, had enchanted him.
Charles Brandon had now died and the young and beautiful wife was now an attractive widow. So there were two beautiful young women, either of them capable of bearing sons; and watching men, waiting to snatch at an opportunity, were aware of the King's thoughts.
Gardiner and Wriothesley wanted to be rid of the Queen—and with her, Cranmer. The Queen's leanings were well known. They had already come near to destroying her. If the King's legs had been better instead of worse, they might have achieved it. But this time they would act more carefully.
They were interested in the arrival at Court of Anne Askew. They regarded her closely. The woman was blatant in her conduct; she made no effort to disguise her views, and placing a few spies round her was an easy matter; in a short time she had said enough to give them reason to arrest her.
I was with the Queen when news was brought to her that Anne Askew had been walking in the gardens when two guards had come to take her away.
Katharine turned pale and dropped the piece of embroidery on which she was working.
“Anne…in the Tower,” she whispered.
Jane Grey, who was seated at her feet working on another part of the embroidered altar cloth, picked it up and looked appealingly at the Queen: I could see by the child's expression that she knew why Anne had been arrested and how deeply it disturbed the Queen.
“On … what grounds?” asked Katharine slowly.
“For heresy, Your Majesty.”
“They will question her,” said the Queen. “But Anne will be strong.”
A gloom had settled over the Queen's apartments. Everyone knew how fond she had been of Anne Askew.
Once I came into the schoolroom where Jane and Edward sat together. There were books on the table, and they were talking. Jane was saying that terrible things were happening in Spain, and under the Inquisition people were burned at the stake for their beliefs.
“They die for their faith, Edward.”
“Yes,” said Edward. “They are martyrs. They die for the true faith.”
When they saw me, they stopped talking. So, at their age, they were aware of the dangers regarding the old and the new religions. Could it be that, under the Queen's guidance, they were leaning toward the new?
I was anxious about the Queen. I wondered what trouble she was storing up for herself. On the other hand, I believed wholeheartedly in the old ways. It was my mission to bring England back to Rome, if ever I had the chance. I was fond of Katharine. I knew she was a good woman; yet we were in opposing camps.
All the same, I wanted no harm to come to her.
THEY HAD TAKEN ANNE Askew to the Tower for questioning. Questioning! That dreaded word! It sounded mild enough—just a few queries to answer; but everyone knew what methods could be used to get the answers, and unless they were the answers the questioners wanted, the prisoner could be maimed for life…if any life was left to him or to her.
Susan said, “She will stand up to it. They will never wring anything from her.”
“What could they want to know?” I asked.
“She will state her beliefs. She always has. They are said to be treason…but she has never made any secret of them.”
“They know that. I fear it is not for her that they go to such lengths. They are angling for bigger fish.”
I knew what she meant by this, and I trembled for the Queen.
Anne Askew's arrest and subsequent incarceration in the Tower set people whispering. There was so much persecution now. Those whom the King called traitors to the Crown fell into two groups: the Lutherans and the Papists. All the King asked was that people should worship in the old way, the only difference being that he was head of the Church instead of the Pope. It seemed simple enough to him; but there were those who had to follow this wretched Martin Luther, and others who traitorously declared that the Pope was still head of the Church of England. Both must be eliminated.
The triumphs abroad had lost some of their glory. The Scots were putting up a great fight and having some success. The French had made an attempt to recapture Boulogne. They had not done so, but they had attempted to land in England and had come as far as the Solent.
At such times my father was at his best. He was a great king and, in spite of everything he had done the people recognized this quality in him. When he was concerned with the affairs of the country, he showed his powers of leadership. He did not spare himself; and although people were heavily taxed to deal with the emergency, he himself gave all he could. The common people had never suffered at his hands as those close to him had. The murdered wives were represented to the people as guilty of loose living in the case of Catharine Howard and of witchcraft with Anne Boleyn. Those who had suffered for their religion were mostly in high places, rarely those of humble origins. The people
would always remember him as the glittering sovereign of their youth; even now, in his old age, he carried that aura of royalty with him wherever he went, and it could win them to his side.
Disease was his ally, for it worked for him against the French. The sailors in those French ships which had attempted an invasion of England were so stricken that there was nothing for them to do but turn back, and François was forced to make peace. Boulogne was to remain in my father's hands for eight years, then its fate would be reconsidered. The war with France was over.
True, there was still trouble in the north, but there was often trouble in the north, and my father was able to turn his full attention in that direction since he was not being harassed by another front.
Meanwhile there was news of Anne Askew.
Susan was alarmed. “She has been most grievously racked,” she said. “There are few who can withstand that pain.”
“What do you fear?” I asked.
“The others will be implicated.”
“Why… why should they be?”
“Because they share her opinions… because they have sent comforts to her in the Tower perhaps.”
I knew the Queen had sent warm clothing to her, and I felt sick with fear.
I learned later that the Lord Chancellor Wriothesley and Sir Richard Rich, exasperated with Anne because she would not implicate the Queen, had worked the rack most ferociously with their own hands in order to inflict greater pain.
Poor Anne Askew! There are some made to be martyrs, and she was one. Firmly she refused to betray anyone; nor would she deny her faith; and she was condemned to be burned at the stake.
The Queen was in a state of grief and panic. I do not know how she lived through those days. She must be with the King, talk to him, dress his legs, pretend to be merry … and all the time she must have been wondering when it would be her turn.
There came the day when Anne Askew was taken to the stake. The Lord Chancellor sent her a letter telling her that even now, at this late stage, if she would recant, she would have the King's pardon.
Anne proudly shook her head.
“I have not come here to deny my Master,” she said.
So her poor broken body was bound to the stake, and they lighted the sticks at her feet.
THERE WAS A SUBDUED atmosphere—not only in the Court but in the streets. A pall of smoke hung over Smithfield. People were whispering about Anne Askew—young, beautiful and brave. She had died for her faith. She had done no harm to any. All she had done was read books which were forbidden—that, and cling to her opinions.
People did not like it.
They were inclined to think the King was misled by his ministers. It amazed me how they always made excuses for him. They had made of him the strong leader, and that was how they wanted him to remain. Weakness was the greatest sin; he had never been guilty of that. Sensual he was; oh yes, fond of the pleasures of the flesh; but he always partook of them under a cloak of morality. Other kings sported with countless mistresses; the King had wives, albeit he either divorced or murdered them; but still he clung to the morality of the marriage vows; he might be a callous murderer but he was deeply sentimental; and his old friend—that adaptable conscience—was never far away. And somehow, in spite of all that had happened, he managed to keep his popularity.
He was faintly irritated with those who had arrested Anne Askew and taken her to the Tower. There had been too much noise about the matter because she was young, fair and a woman. He was displeased. Moreover, Boulogne was proving expensive to maintain and, although taking it from the French had been a great pleasure, he was beginning to find it a burden.
But he had driven off the French and had only the Scots to contend with, and they had never worried him very much; he had come to expect periodic warfare on the border, and the lords of the north were capable of dealing with that.
In the old days he would have found great pleasure in the hunt but that was denied him now. Long hours in the saddle tired him. Growing old was unpleasant, and he did not like it.
Edward was sickly. There was no denying it. And what had he besides? Two daughters! I could read his thoughts when his eyes rested on us.
I was very much aware of the tension, although the Queen did not take me into her confidence as much as I am sure she would have done had it not been for the divergence in our beliefs.
I had long become aware of the methods of men like Gardiner and Wriothesley; and I knew they were waiting to pounce. While Wriothesley had worked the rack so fiercely on Anne Askew, his aim had been to implicate the Queen. Previously he would have fabricated evidence, but in view of his last endeavors he dared not be proved at fault again.
He must have known, though, that in time the opportunity would come. And it did.
We were seated in the garden. The King had been wheeled out. That in itself was enough to put him in a testy mood; his leg was so painful that he could not put it to the ground without suffering acute agony.
Gardiner was with him, and the Queen was beside him. He had lifted his leg and placed it on her lap. The Earl of Surrey was present and one or two others.
Surrey was rather a mischievous young man. I guessed that one day he would be in trouble; but he was a good poet and he gave himself airs. I am sure he thought he was more royal than the Tudors.
He mentioned Anne Askew.
From my corner I watched the immediate effect on the Queen. Gardiner was aware of it, too. He said something about the books which were being smuggled into the country, and he added that there was no doubt that people like Anne Askew saw that they were circulated.
He looked directly at the Queen and said, “Your Majesty must be aware of this.”
“To which books do you refer, my lord Bishop?” she asked.
“Forbidden books, Your Majesty.”
“Forbidden?” she asked. “By you, my lord Bishop? Would you seek to instruct us on what books we must read?”
I was afraid for her. She was being reckless. She had suffered so much at the time of Anne Askew's death. She had lived for so long in fear of what might happen that she must be near breaking-point.
“Only, Your Majesty, if the books were those which the law forbids being circulated throughout the country.”
The King was growing impatient. He said, “We now permit our subjects to read the Holy Scriptures in our native tongue; and I have made it known that this is done so only to inform them and their children and not to make scripture a railing and a taunting stock. It grieves me that this precious jewel, the Word of God, is disputed and rhymed, sung and jangled in every alehouse and tavern, contrary to the true meaning and doctrine of the same.”
Katharine should have been wise enough to let the matter rest there but, as I said, she was in a reckless mood.
“When Your Majesty says to dispute,” she said, “you cannot mean that it is unlawful for people to discuss the interpretation of the Gospel.”
He frowned at her. “Would you question our decision?”
“Indeed not, Your Majesty, but I would ask Your Grace if you might cease to forbid the use of books which…”
The King's leg seemed to twitch. He shouted, “Madam, when I say it is forbidden, it is forbidden!”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” she said.
“But when people have a translation which they understand and they wish to talk…”
“No more,” said the King. “Come, I would go in.” He signed impatiently to the two men who stood by his chair. Then he muttered so that all could hear, “A good hearing it is when women become such clerks—and much to my comfort in my old age to be taught by my wife!”
His chair was wheeled away. The others followed, leaving Katharine standing there mortified.
I had seen the glint in Gardiner's eyes.
IT WAS NOT UNTIL later that I learned the true story. I just knew that the Queen was in such a state of health that those about her feared for her sanity.
I guessed what had happened. We
had expected it must come some time. She had been fortunate so far, but she had been as near disaster as any wife of his must be on occasions, and everything depended on the chance of the moment whether it was the end or she went on to await the next alarm.
Looking back, I tell myself that Katharine must have had a special guardian angel.
She was surrounded by women who were completely devoted to her which was inevitable with a woman of her nature. She had always been kind to all, and however humble any servant of hers was, she was treated with consideration. When Katharine had changed from Lady Latimer to Queen, she herself had not changed with it; she still remained the kindly, motherly woman who always had time to listen to and condole with another's troubles. Hence the devotion which she now enjoyed.
Gardiner and Wriothesley determined to lose no time. The Queen was in disgrace. She had argued with the King once too often, and this in the presence of others. She had been reprimanded in front of them. She must be very low in the King's estimation at this moment; so therefore the time was ripe for her removal.
I could imagine Wriothesley and Gardiner closing in after that scene in the garden. Would the King be tutored by his wife? Indeed he would not. He was clearly piqued by her learning. But she was not clever enough to know when she should be quiet. The King did not want a clever woman; he wanted a Catharine Howard without her blemishes with the nature of Katharine Parr—or a Katharine Parr with the body and sensuality of Catharine Howard.
Now was the time to strike at the Queen, for she clearly leaned toward the Reformed Faith which the King had forbidden. Thus she was giving her enemies the opportunity they needed. She was questioning the King's right to supremacy. His Majesty would never endure such behavior from a woman. Anne Askew had been such another—saucy, defiant, acting in utter disobedience to the King's orders and the laws of the country.
Surely there must have been intervention from Heaven. It happened like this: one of the Queen's women was hurrying across the courtyard when she saw the Lord Chancellor Wriothesley passing through, carrying a batch of papers. He was a man whom none—great or humble—wished to come face to face with unexpectedly, for it could not be known whether one might offend him—and he was not the man to take an offense lightly.
