Fatal Throne: The Wives of Henry VIII Tell All

by M. T. Anderson

  Text copyright © 2018 by M. T. Anderson, Jennifer Donnelly, Candace Fleming, Stephanie Hemphill, Deborah Hopkinson, Linda Sue Park, Lisa Ann Sandell

  Cover art copyright © 2018 by Anna & Elena Balbusso

  Interior illustrations © 2018 Jessica Roux

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Schwartz & Wade Books, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Anderson, M. T., author. | Donnelly, Jennifer, author. | Fleming, Candace, author. | Hemphill, Stephanie, author. | Hopkinson, Deborah, author. | Park, Linda Sue, author. | Sandell, Lisa Ann, author.

  Title: Fatal throne : the wives of Henry VIII tell all / M. T. Anderson, Jennifer Donnelly, Candace Fleming, Stephanie Hemphill, Deborah Hopkinson, Linda Sue Park, Lisa Ann Sandell.

  Description: First edition. | New York : Schwartz & Wade Books, [2018] |

  Summary: Seven award-winning young adult authors illuminate the lives of Britain’s King Henry VIII and his six wives from different viewpoints.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2017024872 (print) | LCCN 2017038961 (ebook) | ISBN 978-1-5247-1621-9 (ebook) | ISBN 978-1-5247-1619-6 (hardcover) | ISBN 978-1-5247-1620-2 (library binding) | ISBN 978-0-525-64448-4 (intl. tr. pbk.)

  Subjects: | CYAC: Henry VIII, King of England, 1491–1547—Fiction. | Kings, queens, rulers, etc.—Fiction. | Courts and courtiers—Fiction. | Great Britain—History—Henry VIII, 1509–1547—Fiction.

  Classification: LCC PZ7.A54395 (ebook) | LCC PZ7.A54395 Fat 2018 (print) | DDC [Fic]—dc23

  Ebook ISBN 9781524716219

  Random House Children’s Books supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.

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  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Before You Begin: Jennifer Donnelly

  Katharine of Aragon: Candace Fleming

  Henry VIII: M. T. Anderson

  Anne Boleyn: Stephanie Hemphill

  Henry VIII: M. T. Anderson

  Jane Seymour: Lisa Ann Sandell

  Henry VIII: M. T. Anderson

  Anna of Cleves: Jennifer Donnelly

  Henry VIII: M. T. Anderson

  Catherine Howard: Linda Sue Park

  Henry VIII: M. T. Anderson

  Kateryn Parr: Deborah Hopkinson

  Henry VIII: M. T. Anderson

  Queen Elizabeth I: M. T. Anderson

  Tudor Timeline

  Who’s Who in the Court

  Acknowledgments

  A Bibliographic Afterword

  About the Authors

  This book is about the six queens of Henry VIII.

  We know much about Henry. In the centuries since his death, hundreds of books have been written about him.

  Intelligent, charismatic, and handsome, the young Tudor king was loved and admired. He was brave, artistic, and athletic. He could debate theology, discourse on astronomy and medicine, compose music, joust, play tennis, and dance—all with grace and ease.

  Henry ruled England from 1509 to 1547, at a time when his country was still emerging from the shadows of the late Middle Ages. Life was hard. Most people didn’t live to see forty due to disease and the perils of childbirth. Women had few rights. Education was only for the privileged few; most of Henry’s subjects could not read or write.

  When Henry took the throne, the Renaissance had been flourishing in Europe for over a century, but England was only beginning to embrace its humanist ideals. Bold advances had been made in science and technology by thinkers such as Copernicus and da Vinci. Painters like Raphael and Titian, and writers like Dante, had introduced a new realism into the arts. Theologians such as Erasmus and Martin Luther were calling for reforms to the excesses of the Catholic Church, and Gutenberg’s printing press was speeding the dissemination of their radical ideas.

  Little would anyone have guessed in 1509 that Henry—a new, untested king—would eventually use those ideas to break with the past and set England on a course toward seismic political, economic, and social change.

  Every king, no matter how powerful, faces threats to his rule, and Henry was no exception. He needed healthy, vigorous sons to strengthen his hold on the throne, but his first wife could not produce them. So he decided to get rid of her. The Pope, head of the Catholic Church, did not like that, so Henry got rid of him, too, and thrust Catholic England headlong into the Protestant Reformation.

  We know much about Henry…but what of that discarded wife? And the five who followed her?

  Too often, the six queens are seen only in their relationship to a forceful, mercurial king. Katharine of Aragon is the old battle-axe; Anne Boleyn, the seductress. Jane Seymour is the good wife; Anna of Cleves, the ugly frump. Catherine Howard is the giddy bubblehead; Kateryn Parr, the stoical matron.

  But these women had lives of their own. They had dreams and hopes. Ideas. Opinions. Ambitions. They were fighters. Thinkers. Politicians. Strategists. They led troops into battle and hunted on horseback. They read, danced, intrigued, and sewed. They had children they loved. Pets they adored. They gave money to the poor and supported artists and scholars. They ate peacocks and swans, wore pearls in their hair and diamonds on their sleeves.

  They defied expectations—Henry’s, and our own.

  My fellow writers and I have spent days, weeks, and months with their ghosts.

  We’ve pored over books and essays. We’ve dug through papers and proclamations, read writs and acts, diaries and depositions.

  We’ve stared at their portraits, trying to decipher their souls from their expressions. We’ve stood in the rooms they stood in. Ate in. Loved, argued, danced, and died in. We’ve followed them down paths they trod, gazed at the hills, valleys, and rivers they knew.

  We’ve come to know the ghosts. We’ve asked them many questions.

  And they’ve deigned to answer.

  This book holds their stories.

  The ghosts, in turn, forever hold pieces of our hearts.

  A NOTE ABOUT SPELLING:

  Several of the Tudor queens in this book have the same names. To avoid confusion, we have chosen alternate spellings in order to easily differentiate each queen from the others—as with Katharine of Aragon, Catherine Howard, and Kateryn Parr.

  24 JULY 1527

  The world is still dark beyond my window, but I can make out the tall figure of my husband, King Henry VIII of England, in the stable yard below. Beside him stands his lover, the torchlight glowing on her smooth, young skin. They are readying to ride out. Just the two of them. Together.

  I watch as he helps her up into her saddle, lifts her easily, holds her. For a moment, he cradles her little leather boot in his hand, caressing it tenderly, before making sure it is safe in the stirrup. My breath snags.

  She laughs playfully, flirting, her eyes never leaving his as she places a hand on his upturned face.

  I sink into a chair. “Madre de Dios, ayudadame,” I whisper. Mother of God, help me.

  My lady Maud Parr comes into the room. She looks startled to see me. “Your Grace, what are you doing up so early?” she asks.

  �
��Sleep is impossible.” I pick up my sewing, a shirt I am embroidering for Henry.

  Maud sits across from me. “I must tell you something,” she says.

  I try very hard to listen. But the memory of Henry laughing with Anne, of him holding her in his arms, blots out everything else.

  “Your Grace?” Maud says.

  I blink. “Please, begin again.”

  I slip my hands inside the sleeves of my husband’s shirt as she gathers herself to tell me about the letter Cardinal Wolsey has sent to His Holiness in Rome. In it the cardinal claims I was not a virgin when I married Henry. That I made love with his brother, Prince Arthur, when he was my husband, and that I lied about it. That I am lying about it still. That because of my treachery, my marriage to Henry is not a true union.

  The cardinal is appealing to the Pope to declare Henry’s and my eighteen years together illegal. He is entreating the Pope to grant the King permission to marry again.

  Maud pauses before telling me the rest.

  Perhaps, she wonders, the cardinal felt he needed to make a stronger case against me, because in the same letter he accuses me of being a sex-crazed woman who lured Henry into a forbidden marriage to satisfy my carnal pleasures.

  Me!

  And then—¡por Dios!—the cardinal tells His Holiness that my husband finds me too repulsive to sleep with because my sex organs are diseased. He says Henry has vowed never to use my body again; that it is too dangerous to his royal person; that lying with me will make the King sick.

  I push the shirt’s long sleeves up my arms and rub my face against its fine linen. Cardinal Wolsey is the King’s closest advisor. He cannot have written such lies without my husband’s consent.

  How can Henry hate me so?

  I remember our wedding night, the feel of his hands on my trembling skin; the hot, stinging pain of our first loving; the blissful relief of lying in his strong, steady arms, a true wife at last.

  I pull my hands free of the shirt and lay it across my lap. I know Henry better than anyone else, certainly better than Anne Boleyn, for I have known him as a boy and a man; as a brother and a husband. Our destinies have been entwined almost since birth.

  “I was betrothed in marriage to the Prince of Wales when I was but a child of three,” I say.

  “Indeed?” replies Maud.

  I nod. “As Princess of Spain, I was a flesh-and-blood treaty, a breathing alliance between our two countries. And when I was fifteen I sailed to England to become his wife, and the future Queen.”

  Maud gets up and pours us both a small cup of wine. “I would have liked to have known you then, Your Grace.”

  “Oh, I was so young, and so sorry to leave my mother and my home. But it was God’s will that I go. I had unshakable confidence in Him—that He had favoured me and destined me for the greatest of things. I had no doubt that I would carry out my sacred obligation to fill the royal nursery with babies, most especially boys—heirs for the Tudor line.” I pause. “It was la voluntad de Dios, the will of God, you see.”

  Maud nods with sympathy.

  “But now the King has decided to rid himself of me. What can I do to stop him? Henry always gets what he wants. He takes it as his divine right.”

  I cover my eyes with my hand. “Oh, Maud, after all these years of marriage, is it truly God’s will that it now be over?”

  It is a question without answer.

  In silence we drink our wine as the sun creeps slowly in through the windows, and my life unwinds before me like a spool of embroidery thread.

  NOVEMBER 1501

  I prayed to the Holy Mother for courage: “Santa Madre, dadme coraje.” Had I not prepared for this moment all my life? And yet, when my friend and lady-in-waiting María de Salinas left me standing alone in my wedding gown in the great hall of the Bishop’s Palace, I felt like weeping.

  Stop this! I told myself. Such behaviour will not do. A princess must preserve the dignity of her rank no matter what the cost. She must appear calm, with the peaceful composure of Christ Himself. Biting my trembling lip, I recalled my mother’s advice: “Keep your chin up and smile, and no one will know you feel differently.”

  But, oh, it was so difficult! My new home, England, was such a strange place. I neither spoke the language nor understood the customs. I knew no one, not even la familia I was now part of—King Henry VII, Queen Elizabeth, and their children, Arthur, Margaret, Henry, and Mary. I had been here but a fortnight and had met them but once, to finalize the details of my wedding.

  My wedding! In just minutes, I would become the wife of a boy I barely knew: Prince Arthur, a thin, delicate fifteen-year-old who coughed often and tired easily. And who would one day be King.

  I crossed myself and sent up a silent prayer. “Santa Madre, favour our marriage that we may fulfil your sacred purpose and—”

  A boy’s voice broke into my holy petitions. “I have arrived, Princess!” It was Arthur’s younger brother, Prince Henry, come to escort me across the walkway into la catedral.

  When he saw me, his mouth fell open with surprise.

  I was dressed in the Spanish style, in layers of white satin that billowed out over the wide hoops beneath my skirt. On my head I wore a jewelled coronet from which an intricate lace veil edged in pearls and precious stones cascaded to my waist.

  “You look pretty,” Henry said in Latin, the one language we both understood.

  Unlike his brother, the ten-year-old Henry had the appearance of a boy who embraced life. His handsome face was round and pink-cheeked, his hair gleamed reddish gold, and his blue eyes sparked with wit and mischief. Although he was six years my junior, the Prince stood as tall as I, and radiated life in a way Arthur did not.

  I bowed my head at his compliment. “I am glad you think so.”

  “It makes no difference if I think you’re pretty,” he retorted. “You are meant to please Arthur.” He looked suddenly sullen. “It is his wedding day.”

  “Someday you will have a wedding, too.”

  “I shan’t have one as magnificent as this, with feasts and tourneys and pageants.” He pouted. “I am only a second son.”

  “You are still a prince,” I reminded him.

  He said something in English before catching himself. “Will we always have to speak to you in Latin?”

  I shook my head. “Already, I am learning my new language.” I recited in stumbling English, “Good day…please…thank you.”

  He made a face. “That is not very good.” He patted his velvet doublet. “Now, I am very clever at languages, much more clever than Arthur. I read French and Latin and English, and I am starting Greek. I am very musical, too—”

  Trumpets blared.

  Henry blinked as if he had forgotten our purpose. Then he offered his arm. “It is time.”

  We stepped from the palacio.

  At the sight of us, a great roaring cheer from the crowds in the streets rose into the misty air.

  “Huzzah for our Princess! Huzzah for our Prince Harry!”

  Henry puffed out his chest.

  But I suddenly felt weak. Clutching his arm tighter, and glad of its strength, I moved with him towards the cathedral. Smile, I told myself. Keep your chin up and smile.

  The great church was packed, every possible space taken. People stood in the rood lofts and vaults; they perched on the wide sills beneath the windows; they pressed shoulder-to-shoulder against the tapestry-hung stone walls. Henry and I mounted the steps to the raised wooden walkway the King had ordered built along the entire length of the nave so that all might behold the marriage. As we slowly advanced, the congregation gaped and whispered. Before us an even higher platform had been built at the altar. Upon it stood eighteen robed and mitred bishops and abbots—the greatest men of the Church, come from all corners of the Tudor kingdom to sanctify this union between Spain and England.

  Arthur waited there, watching us draw near. Reluctantly, Prince Henry stepped back as his brother reached out and took my hand in his ice-cold on
e. His skin, in contrast with the white silk of his wedding suit, looked green-tinged, and a sheen of sweat glistened on his forehead.

  We turned to face the altar. Prayers were intoned and blessings bestowed. Solemn vows were made.

  “Wilt thou, Katharine, have this man to be thy wedded husband, to live together according to God’s law in the holy estate of matrimony?”

  “Sí, acepto,” I said. “I will.”

  Then Arthur slipped the heavy emerald ring onto my finger and I turned my mouth up for our first kiss.

  His lips, like his hands, were frozen.

  Church bells rang out.

  We were marido y mujer. Man and wife.

  * * *

  —

  We were alone. In the dark. In bed.

  For the second time that day, I prayed to the Holy Mother for courage. “Por favor, Santa Madre.”

  I knew what to do. My married sisters had whispered about it. Giggled. Isabella claimed it hurt no worse than twisting an ankle. And Juana declared it paraso, although how such an awkward and embarrassing act could be Paradise was beyond my understanding.

  I looked at Arthur. He lay stiffly against the pillows, his arms pressed against his sides so as not to touch me. With his pale skin, he reminded me of the wax dolls I had played with as a child. Only moments ago, we had been publicly tucked into our marriage bed, our guests staring at the sight of us in our nightclothes. My skin still burned from the way in which Prince Henry’s eyes—bright from too much wine—had raked over my bare arms and neck. The priests had said blessings over us and prayed for us to be “fruitful.” Then Arthur and I were left alone. In the dark. In bed.

  He coughed and turned to me. “I am not sure how to begin.”

  I closed my eyes in silent prayer.

  Then, summoning my courage, I moved over to Arthur’s side of the bed and boldly placed my hand on his chest. I could feel the sharp edges of his breastbone beneath his nightshirt, and the pounding of his heart.

  “You may kiss me,” I said.