Fatal Throne: The Wives of Henry VIII Tell All

by M. T. Anderson

  I held up my hand. “No. Do not say it. I am not ready.”

  Henry came to me. He took my arm. “Our little babe,” he choked out. Our son. He is dead.”

  “No.”

  “They tell me he caught a chill,” said Henry, his voice cracking. “His tiny body was not strong enough to fight it.”

  I shook my head. “No! No! I left him brimming with health. Oh, Henry, I should never have left him. My boy…all alone…without his mother.”

  I fell to the floor, overwhelmed with grief. I sobbed and sobbed. Santa Madre de Dios, I was drowning in grief. I reached out a hand to Henry.

  He did not take it.

  I looked up.

  His tear-filled eyes were upon me, hard and angry.

  Even in my grief, I felt a flicker of fear.

  Then it was gone, and Henry’s expression softened. Dropping to his knees beside me, he wrapped me in his arms. I clung to him, my fists twisting in the fabric of his tear-soaked shirt.

  I do not know how long we sat thus, but at last he spoke. “We are young yet, Kate. There will be more babes. You will see. There will be other sons.”

  I burst into fresh tears. I did not want other sons.

  I wanted my baby.

  24 JULY 1527

  A verse from the Scriptures comes into my head: Those whom the Lord loves best suffer most.

  A sob catches in my throat. I am most certainly one of God’s best loved.

  “Are you well, Your Grace?” Maud’s quiet voice recalls me.

  I have a sudden, urgent need for the warm darkness of the palace chapel; for the scent of melted wax and incense. “I shall go and pray,” I say.

  Maud stands, preparing to follow me.

  “I shall go alone.”

  APRIL 1511

  Our marriage turned as cold and dark as the English winter.

  Henry withdrew to his apartments.

  I withdrew to mine.

  There was no comforting each other. We could barely be in the same room together. Henry detested my deep, keening grief. It sent him fleeing from me.

  Every day I knelt with my rosary. “Why me, Dios? How have I displeased You? Why have You turned Your face from me?”

  I knew Christendom was filled with great milagros. A statue of the Madonna begins to weep. Communion bread becomes human flesh. The marks of the Crucifixion appear on the wrists and feet of a simple farmer. So why could not my husband and I be blessed with the commonplace miracle of lasting love?

  Dios did not enlighten me. I strained my ears, but I could not hear Him. As the weeks passed, I lost all sense of His presence. I lost my confidence in His will, and my joy in His blessing. I felt nothing but despair.

  Winter turned to spring. The world thawed and greened. But still I grieved, cold and alone in my rooms.

  And then…¡un milagro!

  One morning, God in His grace returned. I knew this by the burning in my breast, the tingling in my limbs. In an instant, understanding found me.

  It had pained Him to take my child, grieved Him to leave me alone in my sorrow. But this was not punishment for my sins. Rather, my trials had served His purpose. Like Job, who was left on the ash heap, I had been stripped of all I held dear. By suffering these trials, I had proven my faithfulness and demonstrated my wholehearted love for Him. My endurance had made me worthy.

  Now, once again, He spoke my name. He called me to His service. His was a sacred plan, and I was part of it.

  I lifted my tearstained face. “Your will be done.”

  MAY 1511–MAY 1513

  Dios revealed His plan slowly, over months and years, through a string of faraway events that seemingly had little to do with my life.

  French troops invaded Italy.

  The Pope commanded them to leave.

  The French refused.

  His Holiness put his own papal troops in the field.

  And one morning Henry burst into my apartments. “It is stunning news. The French and the Pope are at war!” He grabbed my hand. “Kate, I would ask for your advice.”

  For a moment I could not catch my breath. I squeezed my eyes shut as my heart rejoiced. Gloria a Dios, for His ways are truly wondrous!

  The Lord had given me back my husband.

  JULY 1527

  I push open the chapel door, step into the darkness. No one else is here. Only the candles flickering in their glasses of red crystal provide any light. I move down the aisle, but halfway to the altar I stop. The circular space is so like my childhood chapel in Granada. Why have I never noticed this before?

  My mind plays tricks. Suddenly, I am no longer at Greenwich Palace, but back in Spain, a seven-year-old sitting on a camp chair in my mother’s army tent. She puts on her breastplate and picks up her sword. My mother is a queen, but she is also a warrior, equal to any man on the battlefield. “We are each of us soldiers for Christ, Catalina,” she says, using my Spanish name, “born to fight for our faith and our throne; crusaders, defending our country from heretics. It is a holy war, and we must never falter.”

  I blink and I am ten, riding beside my battle-weary parents. Blood stains our path. Bodies bloat in the heat of the sun. “The cost of doing God’s work is high,” says my father. “Still, one must never flinch from bending to it.”

  I blink again and I am thirteen, holding my head high as I walk with my family up the winding path to the Alhambra. It has taken years of siege, but the fantastical palace with its white marble fountains and lush, fragrant gardens is finally ours. “Remember, Catalina, God pours out His blessings upon those who do His work,” says my mother. “Dios es bueno. His abundance is great.”

  I rub my eyes and am returned to the present. A figure, robed and veiled, rises from behind the lectern. Moving like a mist, it glides along the aisle towards me.

  I stumble backwards. “Santa Madre, help me.”

  MAY 1513

  It was natural that Henry should come to me, the daughter of a fighting queen, raised on the battlefield. What did his ministers—those crusty, cautious lords—know about war?

  “They claim a war with France will strain the Exchequer and leave England penniless,” he told me. “They say our interests are best served by remaining on peaceful terms.”

  “Louis is an enemy of the Church,” I replied, unable to keep my contempt for the French King out of my voice. “A heretic. A man who attacks His Holiness. Only you, Henry, can defeat France. Only you can defend the Pope and the Church.” I paused before adding, “It will make you the greatest defender of the faith in all of Christendom.”

  Henry did not speak for a few seconds, then he cried, “By God, Kate, I will form an army, a great army, and march into Italy at the head of it. I will show those French cowards what Englishmen can do.”

  An idea formed in my mind.

  “With you at the head of it, we are sure to be invincible,” I said. “But need you travel all the way to Italy? Might you attack France instead?”

  A slow smile spread across Henry’s face. “That’s it!” he burst out. “We shall cross the spit of sea that separates us from France, start from Calais, and go on from there. Louis’s attention will be diverted from Rome. He will be forced to fight a two-front war.” He smacked his fist into his palm. “By Jove, he’ll have no choice but to surrender to me.”

  “It is a brilliant strategy, my love.”

  “It is, is it not?” he agreed. I knew he was imagining his victorious return, laden with glory, and the coveted title “the Christian Monarch” bestowed by the grateful Pope. He whooped. “It will be a triumphant adventure!”

  “It will be una guerra santa,” I added. “A holy war.”

  * * *

  —

  We turned to preparations—mustering troops, buying horses, commanding blacksmiths to forge pikes, and ordering armour. One of Henry’s churchmen—a heretofore unknown almoner named Thomas Wolsey—proved especially capable of organizing an army.

  Thomas Wolsey.

  I confess I d
id not like him. He was too fawning, too zalamero, too smooth. Still, I knew he shouldered the burdens of government for my husband, and I was grateful for it. Henry was not a King to toil over state business. He yawned through the Privy Council’s meetings and grew impatient with the Lord High Treasurer’s balance sheets. “Take care of it, Thomas,” he would say. And Wolsey did, freeing Henry to hunt, or play tennis, or compose music on the virginals.

  But now Henry had state business that thrilled him. He spent all his days with Wolsey, talking of nothing but weaponry and transport and provisions.

  And he spent all his nights with me.

  JUNE 1513

  I bade farewell to my husband at Dover Castle. It was there on the strand, just before he set sail for France, that he called together his Council.

  “I have prayed much over this matter,” he told the assembled group, “and have decided upon the person who shall govern the land in my absence.” He paused theatrically before turning to me. “Gentlemen of the Council, in my absence Her Grace, Queen Katharine, shall be your ruler.”

  A cheer rose.

  Henry handed me the Great Seal of the Realm. “Take care of our country until I return, Kate,” he said.

  “You have my solemn oath.”

  He knelt before me for a blessing then, and I laid my hands upon his head. “Stay safe, my love,” I whispered.

  I felt no fear as I watched him go aboard his ship. I felt no sadness. I had been transformed! In a twinkling, Dios had elevated me above Princess of Wales, above Queen of England. He had raised me up to the very greatest of positions—ruler of all England.

  * * *

  —

  Seated on my throne in my presence chamber, the room where I received the dozens of men who waited about to catch my attention, I read Henry’s letters from France.

  He was in high spirits as he detailed the excitement his army’s arrival in Calais had generated. To celebrate their safe passage, a round of feasts and parades were arranged in his honour by the people of that city. “My new armour is roundly admired,” he reported. “And many have declared me more handsome than King Louis.”

  Later, when his army invaded the town of Thérouanne, he wrote, “The French cavalry fled before us like terrified mongrels.” He added gleefully, “And I got to fire the cannon!”

  I frowned. Still such a child, he needed to take his campaign more seriously. Clasping my hands, I sent up a silent prayer. “Deliver King Henry a great victory, Santo Padre, one that will make him the greatest monarch in Christendom.”

  AUGUST–SEPTEMBER 1513

  But God did not will that Henry should win a great victory.

  He willed that I should.

  On a storm-lashed morning, a hundred thousand Scottish troops gathered on the muddy field at Edinburgh. They prepared to swarm across our northern border.

  “With the King and his soldiers away, those Scottish rats smell an opportunity to attack!” exclaimed Thomas Howard, one of the few army men who had not gone to France.

  “We must stand against them,” I said quickly.

  “But who will raise an army, Your Grace? Who will command it?”

  I rose from my throne. “I will.”

  * * *

  —

  Dressed in cloth of gold, I galloped out into the country on a white horse, warning the people of the gathering danger. We needed men to drive back the horde of warring Scots. Who would fight? Who would come to England’s aid?

  Wherever I went, in towns and villages, the people flocked to see me. They bowed and touched the hem of my gown. They begged for my blessing.

  “God smiles upon those who fight for their homes!” I shouted. “Does not English courage surpass all other nations?”

  Cheering, they rallied to my banner—farmers and peasants, workers and tradesmen. They had not swords and armour, as did Henry’s professional army. Instead, they came with pitchforks and scythes, choppers and billhooks. But their eyes shone with determination and purpose. Truly, they were soldiers of Jesucristo all.

  “You shall lead some of these men north to attack the Scots at the border,” I told Thomas Howard one morning in my presence chamber. I stood before a table spread out with maps. “I shall hold a line farther south.”

  “But, Your Grace…,” he began.

  “I am the ruler defending my country,” I replied. “I will ride out with my army.”

  This I did. Along the length of the line I galloped, my gold-and-crimson standard bearing my badge, the pomegranate, fluttering above my head so my men could recognize me and know I was with them. As I went, I shouted words to embolden them. “I urge you to victory. God is with you. It is His will that we do battle with the Scots. It is His will…and mine…that we defeat them!”

  A fortnight later, a package from Thomas Howard arrived at my army tent. I opened it. Inside lay the bloodstained coat of King James IV of Scotland.

  “The Scottish monarch is killed, his troops crushed at Flodden Field,” wrote Howard.

  ¡Gloria a Dios! England was saved.

  I clutched the bloody coat to my breast and danced about the room.

  “Your Grace, calm yourself!” cried Maud.

  “You must be careful,” said María.

  But I could not. Was I not the daughter of a warrior queen? I burst into a Spanish battle song remembered from childhood:

  Los pendones están en el campo.

  El rey debe levantarse de su alegre junta,

  Y apartarse de la fiesta a pesar de que el vino se fluye,

  Y tomar su espada y su escudo.

  Banners are in the field.

  The King must rise from his joyous board,

  And turn from his feast e’er the wine be poured,

  And take up his sword and his shield.

  It was a pity the earl had not sent me James’s head. What a prize that would have made for Henry.

  I almost laughed at the thought of how proud my husband would be when he learned of my victory. Had I not guarded our kingdom? Had I not defeated the Scots? Mine was a victory that would go down in English history. ¡Santa Madre! Surely God had never before lifted a queen to such dizzying heights.

  I laid my hand on my slightly rounded belly.

  What I had kept secret—even from Henry, for I hoped to surprise him upon his return—was that I was again with child.

  All the time I had been planning military strategy and riding out to my troops, I had been carrying the Tudor heir.

  This time I did laugh. I was a queen who could hold a kingdom and carry a son. It was God’s grace after sacrifice.

  OCTOBER 1513

  Autumn’s breath chilled the land. In the garden below my window, the once-lovely colours withered, and the trees, their branches bare, stood like corpses.

  One evening towards the middle of the month, I took to my bed early. My limbs cramped and I had a nagging ache in my back. Hours later, pain gnawed through my sleep. I pushed back the coverlet. Everything was wet. Wet with my blood.

  “¡Por favor, Dios, no, no!” I cried weakly. It was not yet time. It was too soon.

  Maud ran for the midwife while my ladies gathered helplessly about my bed.

  He came in a rush, my small, frail son who had no life in him, and could not even take his first breath.

  The midwife shrouded his limp, white body in a linen cloth. She moved towards the door.

  “No,” I said. “Give him to me.”

  My baby. I took in every bit of him—his fluff of golden-red hair, his pointy little chin so like his father’s. He had blood on his head and I wiped it off, a motherly instinct to care for him even if he would never know my loving touch.

  “Dormid, mi niño,” I whispered. Sleep, my boy.

  I had saved England for Henry, and lost him his son.

  “The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away.”

  24 JULY 1527

  It is not a memory.

  It is not a trick of my imagination.

  It is a wom
an dressed in a homespun robe of green, a wooden cross hanging from a leather cord around her neck.

  “Fear not,” she says. Stepping into the candlelight, she pulls back her hood.

  She is plain of face, a common girl with sun-freckled skin. And yet…her eyes! They glow with serenity and peace, like those of the saints portrayed in the altarpiece behind her. “Gloria a Dios,” I whisper. She can see into my soul. I know it.

  She moves closer. “I bring you word from God in Heaven. He would have you know, Catalina, that this is not the end.”

  She knows my childhood name, uses it with familiarity. I should be angry at this unbidden intimacy. Instead, I am overcome with an urge to fall on my knees.

  She gazes at me as if she can see my thoughts. “Retiring from your marriage will not serve His purpose. Did not God place you here at your coronation? He asks that you live your life in the position that He appointed.”

  “How do you know this?”

  She looks to the altar, as if seeking permission. Then she nods and turns back to me. “Once I was but a simple servant-girl. Then one morning I fell into a deep trance. My master, in hopes I would be cured, carried me to the church and laid me before the statue of the Blessed Virgin Mary. For twelve days, I remained thus, neither eating nor drinking, the limbs of my body stiff as cordwood. Only my lips moved, and from them tumbled a river of words.”

  “And what spoke you?” I ask.

  “Prophecies,” she replies. “Predictions. God has blessed me with His revelations. I am His messenger. And all that I say comes to pass.”

  OCTOBER 1513

  I stood before the mirror. Despite the bright silk of my gown, I looked far older than my twenty-seven years. I was pale and my face was etched with weariness. I should have been abed, should still have been recovering from the birth—and death—of our son. But Henry was arriving from France today. He would expect me to be up and about.

  I pinched my cheeks to give them a bit of colour. He cannot be angry with me, I reassured myself. He must see that I had no other choice. I had to ride out. I had to rally the troops. Without his kingdom, what would Henry be?