Fatal Throne: The Wives of Henry VIII Tell All

by M. T. Anderson

  “Thank you, Your Majesty,” I managed, curtseying deeply and kissing the ring on the hand he extended to me.

  I accepted the King’s sympathies for my husband’s illness, and breathed out in relief when he moved on. It was true what I’d heard: His leg did stink.

  Poor old man, I thought.

  In the six years since Jane Seymour’s death, King Henry had become a lumbering, grumbling bear. People said it had to do with that old, festering wound. But I wondered: Was the King eating so much simply to make up for a hole in his heart that no other woman could ever hope to fill?

  But then, with a little shrug, I forgot about Henry VIII and began to look around for Sir Thomas.

  BLACK TAFFETA, RED STRAWBERRIES

  Spring 1543

  My Lady Latimer, Item. For making a kirtle, black taffeta.

  —Tailor’s bill, gift for Lady Latimer from King Henry VIII,

  February 16, 1543

  When the bitter, dreary cold began to lessen its grip, my husband at last found peace. I was only thirty years old, but for the second time in my life I was a widow.

  Yet though I wore black, my spirits grew lighter each day. Spring was on its way. Winter jasmine would soon give way to forget-me-nots, tulips, and roses. We would dip red, luscious strawberries into fresh cream.

  “Have you been flirting with courtiers while I’ve been away?” Nan teased one day. She’d been gone for several weeks, tending her little boy through an illness.

  We were strolling in the gardens of Hampton Court, where the first spring blooms had already braved the cold. But it was the spectacular field of daffodils we had come to see, rippling before us in golden waves.

  It was almost, I thought, as if King Henry could command Nature to put on a grand display, just as he could order the finest artists and craftsmen to transform each room of the palaces he owned into a spectacle of rich, vibrant colours from floor to ceiling.

  “Well, a little,” I admitted with a giggle, “especially with Thomas Seymour, who seems as eager to flirt as I am. But it’s too soon to think of anything more than banter. Perhaps when I am out of mourning and stop wearing this black kirtle.”

  “By the way, that is a lovely gown, Kate.”

  “Isn’t it? The midnight taffeta cloth was a gift from the King.”

  Nan turned wide eyes on me. “Truly?”

  “Yes, the package arrived just before John died. I thought it a kind gesture, a sign that Henry had completely forgiven him for becoming entangled in that failed northern revolt a few years ago.”

  I shuddered, thinking of the night when an unruly mob had stormed our castle and taken me hostage, forcing my husband to take their side in that ill-fated rebellion called the Pilgrimage of Grace. We’d both been lucky to survive.

  But Nan was frowning, a sceptical look on her pretty face. “Kate, while I was away, did you speak often with King Henry?”

  “We’ve chatted several times when he has visited Lady Mary’s rooms,” I said. “Last week he was telling me all about his library at the Palace of Whitehall. Imagine! It has more than nine hundred books. I suppose reading is more important than ever to him. It must be hard for a man who had been so active to adjust to walking with a stick.”

  To my surprise, Nan grabbed my elbow and began whispering urgently. “Stop chattering, Kate.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  She steered me onto a side path. “Listen to me. King Henry doesn’t just give presents to married women, even if their husbands are not long for this world. Nor did he used to visit Lady Mary often.

  “I believe the King is singling you out. And there can be only one reason for his attention: He wants to marry you.”

  I felt suddenly light-headed and queasy. I took a long breath and willed myself to be calm. “You’re wrong, Nan. You must be.”

  “Let’s examine the evidence.” Nan had a logical mind. If she’d been born a boy, she might have been a lawyer, like Thomas Cromwell. “Besides books, what else have you and Henry talked about?”

  “Well, last week the King said he’d heard I was an excellent herbalist,” I replied. “He asked if I could suggest a tea to help him sleep at night because…because he was so lonely sleeping alone.”

  Sleeping alone.

  Nan was silent. And in that silence the true implication of King Henry’s words became clear, the way a candle reveals hidden forms in a dark room.

  “But, Nan, this can’t be. Why would King Henry choose me?”

  “Kate, you are lovely, virtuous, and, it would seem, very sympathetic to him.”

  “It’s true I’ve tried to cheer him,” I said. “But that is all. Besides, everyone knows Henry wants another son. I…I’ve been married twice, and have never been able to conceive.” My voice broke. “It…it must be God’s will that I am barren.”

  Nan patted my hand. “Perhaps Henry believes he can succeed where your other husbands failed.”

  Now it was my turn to raise an eyebrow at her. “But look at the size of him. It hardly seems likely that—”

  She cut me off. “Henry is still a king, and will always see it as his royal duty to beget male heirs. He certainly tried with Catherine Howard.” She paused, looking deep in my eyes. “What would you do if the King asked you to marry him, Kate?”

  I glanced away. My gaze fell on the sumptuous gold of the daffodils around us. “Oh, Nan, what could I do?”

  That is what we said. The next day, more gifts from the King arrived.

  O MY HEART!

  Summer 1543

  O my heart! and O my heart,

  It is so sore!

  Since I must needs from my Love depart;

  And know no cause wherefore!

  —“O My Heart”

  Song by King Henry VIII

  My bridegroom gave forth a hearty “Yea!” when Bishop Stephen Gardiner asked if he would take me for his wife. My own voice was steady, despite my pounding heart. And so on July 12, 1543, at Hampton Court Palace, I became the sixth wife of Henry VIII.

  Afterwards, I retreated to a corner, trying to breathe in the stifling air of the Queen’s Holy Day Closet, a small section within the Chapel Royal. I found myself staring up at the magnificent blue-and-gold ceiling, entranced by the detail and the brilliant colours. It made me wish I could look down at the scene from above, rather like one of the cherubs. Instead, I found myself the centre of attention and perhaps the object of ill will and envy.

  Certainly, Henry’s fourth wife, Anna of Cleves, had greeted me coolly. As she eyed me over her long, pointed nose, I could almost hear her thinking: Henry would have been better off coming back to me.

  “I don’t think Anna of Cleves likes me,” I confided to my lively new lady-in-waiting, Cat Willoughby.

  “Don’t worry about her,” Cat whispered. “But do watch out for those two over there, bending the King’s ear as usual: Thomas Wriothesley and Bishop Gardiner. They are suspicious of anyone who comes between Henry and them—especially a clever wife they fear they can’t control. They want him under their influence alone.”

  She leaned closer, a mischievous expression on her face. “I’ve named my new spaniel Gardiner, just so I can have the pleasure of calling him to heel.”

  “Oh, Cat, I hope Bishop Gardiner doesn’t find out!” I laughed.

  Later, of course, I would come to realize that Gardiner had his ways of knowing everything that happened at court. At sumptuous dinners in the great hall, I’d sense his prying eyes on me. But when I turned to look, all I saw were the faces in one of Henry’s tapestries, their golden threads shimmering in the candlelight. Don’t be foolish, Kate, I’d tell myself. Those embroidered men aren’t watching you. Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling that Bishop Gardiner was always hovering just over my shoulder.

  The smallest guest at my wedding turned out to be my favourite. Henry’s youngest daughter was almost ten, with a surprising shock of red curls atop her thin face. But as Elizabeth made me a sweet, formal speech, I noticed her s
harp brown eyes following her father longingly.

  On an impulse, I bent down and took both her hands in mine. “Elizabeth, I hope I can be a true stepmother to you.”

  The girl looked at me blankly.

  Poor thing, she hardly understands what a mother is, I thought. She just wants to be loved.

  I’d known not to expect young Prince Edward, since Henry preferred to keep his five-year-old son away from court for fear of plague. But as I accepted Lady Mary’s congratulations, I vowed to give all three of Henry’s children as much of a family life as I could.

  “If only Mother had lived to see this day,” Nan said. “Look at Uncle William, strutting like a rooster back on his country estate. I heard him boast, ‘My niece has been chosen because of her grace and virtue—not because of family scheming like some of the other Queens.’ ”

  The other Queens. I’d felt the presence of Henry’s dead wives all day. Lady Mary was a reminder of her mother, Katharine of Aragon; Princess Elizabeth of Anne Boleyn. And when I looked at Sir Thomas’s brother, Edward Seymour, I thought of his sister Jane’s brief marriage and early death.

  But then, of course, part of Jane was even closer: Everyone knew Henry had ordered her heart buried beneath the stone altar of the Chapel Royal.

  Despite the heat, I gave a little shiver. I couldn’t help but wonder what else might lurk beneath the sumptuous, spectacular beauty of this place. It didn’t take much imagination to sense the spirit of Catherine Howard. Less than two years ago, she’d run through the tapestry-lined halls, desperate to reach Henry to plead for her life. The guards had dragged her back; she never saw her husband again.

  “Henry doesn’t like good-byes of any kind. And once he turns against someone, he puts that person out of his mind completely,” Nan once told me. “It’s as if he’s out riding. When he rounds a bend in the road, he never turns in the saddle to look behind him.”

  That won’t happen to me, I resolved, eyeing the colossal figure of my new husband across the room. Anyone would have picked him out for a king. It wasn’t just the erect posture, the greying beard, the ermine trim on his embroidered doublet. Henry projected power as mesmerizing as the shining gold on the ornate ceiling overhead.

  Catherine Howard had been foolish to cross him. She’d flitted through life like a butterfly, heedless of the great wind that would tear her wings to pieces. I’d never behave so recklessly.

  Or would I? I wondered. Would I be just as tempted to let my heart rule my head if Thomas Seymour were here today? Thomas wasn’t even in London. Henry had sent him off to a post in the Netherlands.

  Thomas and I had not dared to say good-bye; letters would have been too dangerous. There had been one long look across a room; he’d lifted his shoulders ever so slightly. I’d turned away.

  All men must step aside for the King. And all women must bow to his will.

  Just as I had done.

  “Sire, you do the Parr family and me a great honour,” I’d murmured when the King called me to his rooms and proposed. “May I have a few days to discuss this with my uncle William?”

  Annoyance had shadowed the King’s face. “Surely your uncle will not object! He fought loyally with me twenty years ago in France. Yet you hesitate, Lady Latimer?”

  “It is a courtesy only, Your Majesty,” I said, mustering my sweetest smile. “He has long been like a father to me.”

  Henry relaxed and pulled me towards him, planting a wet kiss on my lips. As he did, I caught a whiff of his vile wound. God help me! I thought, trying not to gag.

  “Imagine the jewels you’ll have,” my sister consoled me later, when I shared the news. “Though I must warn you, Kate, it’s quite likely that most of the gifts you receive will have once belonged to another of Henry’s Queens.”

  I shrugged. “Well, at least I’ll be able to order new clothes. I’ll dress my minstrels in scarlet and provide my footmen with velvet cloaks of crimson. I shall keep brightly coloured parrots, too. You know how much I love paintings. I think I’ll have my portrait painted wearing a red gown!” I smiled at the prospect. “Most of all, I’m excited about being able to buy books. I’ll have them bound in leather and velvet and encrusted with sparkling stones.”

  “As Queen, you will be able to make your library as dazzling as the courtiers who surround you. But, Kate…”

  “I can guess what you’re about to say—that I must look beyond the rich exterior to read what is contained within.” I reached over and took my sister’s hands. “Nan, I know how to be a wife. But I don’t know court as you do. I can make the King’s eyes sparkle as he watches me dance a galliard with ease, but can I also make elegant conversation with diplomats? How can I suddenly learn to be Queen?”

  Nan squeezed my hands to reassure me. “Do not fret, dear Kate. I promise to help you. And, remember, as Queen you can do much good for causes you care about—like education. You can be useful.”

  “Useful?” I repeated. “You’ve given me an idea! I’ll propose this to Henry as my motto: ‘To be useful in all I do.’ ”

  TO FOLLOW HIS WILL

  Summer and Fall 1543

  God…made me renounce entirely mine own will, and to follow His will most willingly…

  —Kateryn Parr to Thomas Seymour, 1547

  I knew the King would want me in his bed, or he would come to mine when the mood struck him. So one of my first acts as Queen was to order fine perfumes, as well as three pounds of sweet herb packets and flower sachets to place around my bed at Hampton Court.

  “That’s rather a lot,” remarked Lady Jane Wriothesley. “Might there be a particular reason, Your Highness?”

  I’d had to invite Lady Wriothesley to serve in my household because her husband was one of Henry’s top advisors. But if this lady thought she could trick me into an indiscretion, she would be disappointed.

  “Why, Lady Wriothesley, just this morning I heard you complain about the odour of roasting game from the kitchens below,” I replied with a honeyed smile. “Surely no woman wants to greet her beloved husband smelling like a goose.”

  I was determined to perform my duty as a wife. If I did my best, I hoped I might yet conceive a child.

  However, I soon discovered that Henry often had difficulty performing his duty as a husband, despite my most energetic and determined attempts to arouse him. Still, he never guessed that I feigned my pleasure or that my stomach roiled at the sight and smell of acrid, yellow pus on fine linen sheets. He never suspected that his grease-stained face and fingers robbed me of my appetite, or that his sour breath destroyed any desire to kiss his lips.

  Henry never knew that when his heavy breathing turned to snores, I sometimes lay awake in the darkness and dreamt of Thomas Seymour.

  * * *

  —

  Soon after we were married, plague broke out in London. The contagion consumed neighbourhoods like a rampaging fire. In one household after another, people broke out in tumours that soon turned into deadly black spots. Henry feared the Black Death and insisted on fleeing the city. And so we spent the rest of the summer and fall at his hunting manors in the countryside.

  Away from the intrigues of court, we got a chance to know each other. And, rather to my surprise, a sweet affection began to grow between us. Often we spent evenings reading, enjoying the late-summer light. “Kate, there is a passage that intrigues me in this book,” Henry would say. “Come sit on my lap and let me hear you read a little.”

  Though Henry could no longer hunt on horseback, he’d had stands built in the deer parks from which we could shoot, peering out into a dappled puzzle of green. We’d stroll through sweet-smelling meadows and spend long hours in the woods, speaking in whispers so as not to disturb any game. Henry seemed especially delighted with my talent as an archer.

  “Good shot, sweetheart!” he exclaimed one day. “Your uncle William taught you well.”

  Henry turned to Bishop Gardiner, who’d come out from London with Thomas Wriothesley to consult him on royal bus
iness, especially England’s disputes with Scotland and France. “You see, Bishop, I have found a wife who is intelligent and wise, and has the skill of Diana.”

  “Then you must be careful, Your Majesty, not to displease her lest she train her bow on you,” Gardiner said.

  I smiled, though his words sent a chill through me. “My bow will always be in service to my master, Bishop Gardiner, as I am sure yours is, too.”

  * * *

  —

  On our return to the manor, Wriothesley hung back to talk to Henry, while Gardiner fell into step beside me. “The King tells me you are quite a scholar, and interested in religious studies.”

  “I had a good education, Bishop, and am always seeking to improve my mind. I have just undertaken the study of Latin, to add to my knowledge of Greek.”

  I saw Gardiner frown; I doubted he would approve of any woman, even a queen, learning another language.

  He was still frowning when I decided to shoot my own arrow. “And of course, I shall take a special interest in the education of my stepchildren,” I said coolly. “I am sure Henry will welcome my advice, especially to ensure that Prince Edward receives a liberal education. Why, the Prince and I may even exchange letters in Latin as we learn together.”

  Bishop Gardiner shot me a dark glance under his lidded eyes. He had caught my hidden meaning. I would choose forward-thinking scholars who favoured reform.

  Gardiner would, I knew, prefer to select conservative tutors for Prince Edward—teachers he could control. Though Gardiner had been instrumental in securing Henry’s divorce and break with Rome, he was suspicious of taking reforms too far.

  “Are you sure that is wise, Your Grace?”