by Fatal Throne- The Wives of Henry VIII Tell All (retail) (epub)
I mothered her myself. Despite her having her own staff of the nursery—governesses and guardians, manservants, laundresses, maids—I was the constant guiding hand in Mary’s upbringing. Who else could teach her all that a queen should know?
Court tongues, of course, wagged: “Queen Katharine acts as a commoner. She behaves like the wife of a sheep farmer; like a woman of market and midden.”
I cared not. Mine was a holy duty. I was raising the future monarch of England.
And I delighted in it. I taught my daughter her prayers, helped her sew clothes for her dolls, gamboled about with her in the garden, sang with her, and trimmed her coppery curls. When she was four, I hired the finest dancing and riding instructors. When she was five, I commanded she receive her own chess set and her first hunting falcon. And when she turned seven, I took up the task of teaching her the crucial skills of reading, writing, and Latin. After our lessons, as a treat, we shut up the books and snuggled together on the couch while I told her stories of myself as a little girl in faraway Spain.
How I wished Henry took the same delight in our daughter. Certainly, there were occasional moments when he acted the part of devoted father. But he was not constant. He would ignore her for days, then swoop her up and carry her about, showing her off to the court and calling her his “dearest treasure.” He expected her to squeal with pleasure, to kiss his cheek and smile prettily. And Mary did. Oh, she longed to please him! But she was anxious, too. She knew she did not please him, no matter how she tried.
“Did Father wish me to be a boy?” she asked me one winter’s morning just before her ninth year. “If I were a boy he would ride out with me and play games with me. He would stage mock fights with me as he does with Henry FitzRoy. He would shower me with titles and honours.”
As she sobbed against me, my fury grew. How could Henry cause his own child such pain? But I could not use ill words against him. I could not criticize or reproach him. As his wife, I was required to preserve harmony and remain silent. I could do nothing.
I pulled Mary into my lap even though she was really too big. “No, no, mi preciosa. You must not think such things. You are perfectly made, God’s holy creation, Princess of Wales, and one day, Queen of England.”
JUNE 1525
One morning, to my surprise, Henry requested I join him for a dew bit, as he called his huntsman’s early breakfast. Dressing quickly, I hastened to his privy chamber.
He was already chewing on a small loaf of bread when I arrived. Waving me into a chair, he reached for a wedge of cheese. “Ah, Kate,” he said, his mouth full. “I have been thinking. I believe it is time we prepared Mary for queenship.”
¡Gracias, Santa Madre! After all his insistence on a male heir, was it possible he finally accepted the idea of a woman on the throne? Was he finally content with Mary as his successor?
“Oh, Henry!” I exclaimed. “She will be the greatest of queens.” I reached over and swept some crumbs from his shirt. “I will arrange for the best master in England to draw up an educational regimen. I will—”
He held up his hand to silence me. “I have chosen another course of action.”
I did not like the cruel set of his mouth.
“While I refuse to bestow upon Mary the title of Princess of Wales, I shall give her the task of governing that principality.” He drank from his goblet before adding, “I am sending her to Ludlow Castle.”
“But she is only nine years old!” I cried. “And Ludlow Castle is so far away—a fortnight’s travel. Henry, you cannot. She is but a child, a child who needs her mother.”
“Do you want her to learn to rule? Do you want her to be Queen?”
“I do. You know I do. But this…this…” It took all my self-control to keep from bursting into tears. “You know the pain this separation will cost both her and me. Henry, please, do not do this.”
“It has been decided.”
“Then allow me to go with her,” I begged.
“Your place is here, as my Queen,” he replied coldly. “That is your duty.”
He pushed back from the table. “You wanted Mary to be Queen, did you not? And so she shall learn to be one.”
The sly expression on his face was easy to read: You have not given me a son, and so I am taking away your daughter.
AUGUST 1525
How could I bear her going? I stood outside the gates of Richmond Palace with Mary pressed against me, her head at my breast, her body fragile as a flower.
“When will I see you again, lady mother?” she cried.
“Oh, it will not be long,” I said, forcing lightness into my voice.
Her arms tightened around my waist. “But I do not want to go. It is so far away. And I do not know how to govern.”
“Oh, my darling!” How could I tell her that princesses must silence their wills, that their fates—though sometimes cruel—must always be accepted?
“Be brave,” I whispered.
Henry stepped towards us. “So you are off,” he said with smug satisfaction. He chucked her under the chin. “Do not look so grave, little Princess.”
“I wish I did not have to go alone, Father.”
“It is hard.” Henry’s voice deepened with false pity. “But sacrifice is required when ruling a kingdom.”
Her lips trembled as he escorted her to the head of her royal procession and helped her onto her horse.
We stood and watched until the last of the royal train disappeared from sight.
“She will return for Christmas, will she not?” I asked, clutching at Henry’s arm.
“Mary must learn to fend for herself. We must do nothing to interrupt her education.” He smiled cruelly. “No, Kate, Mary shall be gone for years.”
JULY 24, 1527
“Thomas Wolsey,” the prophetess says. Her voice sounds deeper, different.
I lean in. “Yes? What of him?”
“He will be called to reckon for his sins, for the lies he tells His Holiness in Rome, for the blasphemies he wrote in his letter.”
Oh, that letter! That horrid, horrid letter! My cheeks burn at the remembrance of how he dared suggest that Henry’s and my marriage was not legal.
“The Lord revengeth,” continues the prophetess. “Who can stand before His wrath? His fury is poured out like fire, and rocks are thrown down by Him.”
“Is this why you were sent?” I ask. “So that I would know of the cardinal’s punishment?”
The prophetess stares unblinking for a heartbeat. Then she groans and her eyelids flutter. “The King…the King…”
APRIL 1527
I entered the chapel at Greenwich Palace to find my husband behind the lectern. At his side stood Thomas Wolsey. Over the years, the almoner had made the greatest leap any churchman could have made. Now he wore a cardinal’s hat and bore the title of King’s Chancellor. Henry had raised him up so high because he believed Wolsey could answer any question.
Opened before them was the Holy Bible. Wolsey pointed to a verse, and Henry read it silently, his lips forming the words. So absorbed were the men that neither noticed me until I had reached the altar.
The cardinal looked up. Obviously, it was a fattening job serving the King, for his red silken robes flashed, and he frowned at me over his protruding belly. “Your Grace, we had not expected you.”
Why did the two look like stable dogs caught raiding the pantry?
“One’s need for prayer is rarely scheduled, my lord cardinal,” I replied.
He made a little bow. “A truer sentiment was never spoken, Your Grace.”
He glanced at Henry, who quickly closed the Bible, saying, “I commend your piety, Kate.” He clapped Wolsey on the shoulder. “Come, Thomas, let us disturb my wife’s devotions no further.”
As they passed down the aisle, I dropped to my knees and clasped my h
ands together. I was not praying, but puzzling. What had they been reading so intently? I waited for the chapel door to close behind them before moving to the lectern.
A ribbon of silver cloth still marked their page in the holy book. I crossed myself before opening it. “Make me worthy, Santa Madre.”
So much beauty dwells between the covers of the Bible! The illuminated initials. The elaborately decorated margins. The miniature illustrations. But most breathtaking are the words of the Lord. These are written in Latin, which is the language God uses to speak to His Church. Only the most high—men of the Church and anointed sovereigns—can read God’s language. The Holy Bible is so profound in its mysteries that the common man would be drowned.
Reverently, I turned to their marked page. It was in the Old Testament, the Book of Leviticus. My eyes scanned the Scripture until I came to chapter twenty, verse twenty-one: And if a man shall take his brother’s wife, it is an unclean thing; he hath uncovered his brother’s nakedness; they shall be childless.
“Dios ten misericordia,” I whispered. God have mercy.
MAY 1527
In the great hall at Richmond Palace, Henry danced hand in hand with my lady-in-waiting Anne Boleyn. Unlike the colouring of her fair, older sister, Mary—who had been my husband’s mistress until just last year—Anne’s eyes were very black and her dark hair very long. Tonight, she wore it interlaced with jewels and loose down her back.
No, I thought, Anne is not as pretty as her sister. But she has a sense of style and a certain grace.
She garnered attention. She was vivacious and witty; all eyes were upon her as she met my husband in the centre of the circle. They raised their hands and their fingers entwined. Anne laughed. So did Henry. His eyes, hungry and admiring, never left her face.
I knew that look.
It was time for my household to take its leave.
The music stopped when I stood. Reluctantly, but obediently, my ladies left their dancing and lined up behind me. All my ladies save Anne. She remained on the dance floor. Raising her narrow chin, she met my eye, then smiled, her teeth small and sharp as a kitten’s. She did not look ashamed for disobeying. She did not look contrite. She looked defiant, and something else…victorious.
“She is not coming, Your Grace,” said María.
My eyes went from Anne’s face to my husband’s flushed one. So she was his latest dalliance. Still, Henry would never allow such impudence; such an insult to the throne. I waited for him to command her obedience.
Instead, he remained at her side, his great hand wrapped around her tiny one.
The taste of humiliation was like iron in my mouth. Never had Henry shown me such public disrespect. Still, I would not expose my feelings. I was the Queen. No common girl would diminish that. Slowly, and with regal dignity, I turned and led my ladies from the hall.
Behind us, the music resumed.
* * *
—
“She does everything with him,” María reported the next morning. “She eats with him, hunts with him, plays and sings with him.” She made a face. “She even prays with him.”
“Anne Boleyn is a beast,” chimed in my lady Jane Seymour. Pale and mousey, Jane had come into my service two years earlier precisely because she lacked charm and beauty. Most assuredly, she would never catch my husband’s eye.
Maud leaned forwards and raised her eyebrows meaningfully. “She does not do everything with him.”
“Mistress Anne has bewitched him, besotted him!” Jane spat the words. “He will do anything to have her.”
“And she requires much,” added María. “She will not be like the others. She wants him to promise.”
“Promise?” I said. “What could he promise?”
It was Maud, eyes flashing, who replied. “A throne, Your Grace. She will accept nothing less than your throne.”
“Surely the King does not listen!” I exclaimed.
My ladies exchanged looks before Maud said, “Already the King has asked Cardinal Wolsey to investigate the possibility of divorce.”
I held very still. I knew Henry no longer desired me. I knew he was bitter that I had not given him a male heir. But I could not fathom that he would try to set me aside. No matter the Scripture he had read in the chapel. No matter the gossip.
“The Pope gave us a dispensation,” I said, more to myself than to my ladies.
“The King believes what Mistress Anne has told him,” replied María. “That by marrying his brother’s widow he has offended God. That he has been denied sons as punishment.”
I was suddenly furious. What did a harlot like Mistress Anne know of God’s will? “It matters not what she says,” I snapped. “She is nothing but a commoner. He cannot marry her. He cannot give her a crown.”
“They say he has already proposed to her,” said María.
“And they say,” added Maud, “that she has accepted.”
23 JULY 1527
It was late, hours after the evening’s merrymaking had ended, when Henry came to my apartments. “Kate, I have a grievous matter to discuss with you,” he began. “It seems we have been living in mortal sin these many years.”
“Who says this?” I asked, knowing exactly who.
“Learned men,” he smoothly lied. “Men of the Church.”
“They deceive you.”
“It is written in the Holy Bible, Kate, in Leviticus.” He forced a tear from his eye. “The truth has become so clear. Ours has been no true marriage because I unlawfully took my brother’s wife. Oh, Kate, for all these years we have been living in sin.”
I stared at him. Of course, none of this was a surprise to me. But to hear him say it aloud? Santa Madre, it was almost too much to bear.
“Our marriage is lawful,” I managed to say. “The Pope declared it so.”
“God’s anger is there for all to see. Our sons are dead. We have no heir. That is our punishment.”
“We do have an heir,” I insisted. “We have Mary.”
Henry’s lips pursed, but then he went on as though he had not heard me. “My soul is in torment, Kate, and it breaks my heart to even say this to you.” He dabbed at his eyes, pretending to be overcome by emotion. “But now…now I hear the voice of God speaking through me.”
Now you do, I thought, now that you have made promises to the Boleyn girl.
“Kate, it is a terrible thing for us both, but we must separate. For the good of both our souls.”
I wanted to scream that I knew all about his harlot. How dare he stand before me, playing the masque of a virtuous Christian King, and insult me? I was not a sinner. I was his true and lawful wife. I was his Queen, Katharine of England.
He rushed on, eager to have this unpleasantness behind him. “I would not want to put you through the embarrassment of a divorce. Your well-being is my deepest concern. Therefore, knowing your religious nature and your praiseworthy devotion to the Church, I have decided you should enter a convent. I know you will be contented there, passing your remaining days in peace.”
Santa Madre, help me.
“That is, of course, after you formally renounce your marriage vows,” he added.
Renounce my marriage vows? I could no more do that than I could choose to stop breathing.
Hot, angry tears spilled down my cheeks.
How dare he?
“All I ask is for your cooperation,” he continued urgently. “Will you go to the convent, Kate? Will you?”
I refused to answer him. Instead, I fell to my knees and covered my face with my hands. “¡Por favor!” I cried. “Santa Madre, help me. Please, help me.”
Henry lapsed into silence. At last, he cleared his throat. “That’s right, Kate. Ask the Lord to bless and guide your thoughts. I am sure you will come to see that He and I know what is best for you.”
He stoo
d there but a moment longer. Then I heard the chamber door click shut. My husband was gone.
* * *
—
I remained on the floor until my knees ached and my back throbbed. Then I drew myself back into my chair and took a shaky breath. To renounce my vows and admit my marriage was illegal would make Mary a bastard, no better than Henry’s out-of-wedlock son. And I? I would be a harlot like Bessie Blount, like Anne Boleyn. Was this what God wanted of me?
I turned my face Heavenwards once more. “Dios, guide me accordingly, execute Your will in my life, reveal to me my purpose, O merciful saviour.”
I picked up my needlework, a shirt I was embroidering for Henry. I felt so weary.
I rubbed the shirt’s collar against my cheek.
My heart ached with sadness.
Outside my window it was still dark, but dawn was not far away.
Already someone stirred in the stable yard below.
I looked down.
24 JULY 1527
“The King…” The prophetess is struggling, her facial muscles contorting, her eyes rolling back in her head.
I take her arm to steady her. “What about the King? What is it?”
Her words, when at last they come, tumble out in a rush. “God will call the King to obedience, demand that he cleave to his wife. But the King will turn his back on God’s voice. He will abandon his true wife and England’s true Queen to enter into a false marriage. To do so, he will usurp the Pope’s power. He will form his own church, the Church of England, and he will make himself head of it.”
“No,” I manage to say. “Impossible.” To overthrow the Pope was to overthrow God.
“The King will sever the people of his kingdom from the true Church. He will make his subjects heretics, their souls—including his own—damned to the fires of Hell.”
My legs cannot hold me. I sink into a pew. “It cannot be,” I mutter. “It cannot be.”
“God is true, and He always speaks the truth.”
I shake my head. “Can I not prevent this? What am I to do?”
