by Fatal Throne- The Wives of Henry VIII Tell All (retail) (epub)
I saw Henry study me, uncertainty shadowing his face. On an impulse I took his hand and kissed his ring.
There was only one more thing to say. “I seek only to obey and serve.”
The moment stretched out, long and silent.
Afterwards, I wondered if conjuring Queen Jane’s motto had brought her spirit into the room. For suddenly Henry’s face cleared.
“And is it even so, sweetheart?” Henry grabbed both my hands. His broad face broke out in a smile. “Is this truly all you intended?”
“You know I live by the motto you graciously approved when I became your most fortunate Queen: ‘To be useful in all I do,’ ” I reminded him. “That is my vow, just as I have pledged to be your wife in sickness and in health, till death do us part.”
I saw relief spread over Henry’s face like sunshine on the daffodils in the Hampton Court Gardens. Maybe that was all he’d needed: reassurance that I was not plotting against him, as so many others had done.
I felt a sense of reprieve, but something else, too. For it seemed my husband could only be happy if I acted like a spaniel, lolling and looking up at him with doleful, begging eyes.
No, King Henry could only be happy with unconditional love from a woman, like Queen Jane, who was meek and obedient—or at least, who acted that way all the time. Jane had died early in their marriage. I wondered: Could she have kept her own spirit in check for a lifetime?
Henry was so entirely alone. He could only be a king—not a man who loved as other men do. He could never truly trust another human being: not me, not his advisors, not his own children.
No wonder he wants to be buried next to dear, plain Jane, I thought.
“Then, sweetheart, we are now perfect friends again. Come sit upon my lap.” Henry stretched out his large hands to scoop me in.
“You are my anchor,” I murmured. I let him fondle and kiss me. I giggled softly, pulling gently on his beard. “You need not doubt me, Your Majesty. I give you my word that I am true in all things.”
Our eyes met. I might not be the delectable dessert he had first desired, but I fancied I saw a tiny glimmer of affection still lingering there. “I believe you speak the truth, Kate.”
“I do, my love.”
Then he waved his advisors out of the room.
Later, as I made my way, weary and drained, back to my rooms, I couldn’t be sure whether I had succeeded. I still didn’t know the answer to one question: Would my husband gain more pleasure from having me on his lap, or in the Tower, about to lose my head?
* * *
—
I remained uncertain the next afternoon, when Henry sent for me to come to the garden. Only Nan and Cat were with me. As we stood chatting by the roses, I caught movement out of the tail of my eye. I whirled to see Wriothesley striding towards us, forty men behind him. He was clutching a piece of parchment. He waved it triumphantly: It was the arrest warrant.
It’s all been a trick, I thought. Henry let me grovel. Yet all the while he intended to arrest me—and my ladies.
I saw Nan go pale and Cat take her arm. Cat, like Nan, was already a young mother; I couldn’t bear to have their deaths on my conscience.
I wanted to cry out, “Please, Henry!” But I bit my tongue. It was too late. Not even the ghost of Jane Seymour could help me now.
And then into the silence came my husband’s booming voice. “What is this all about, Lord Chancellor?”
“Your Majesty…I…,” faltered Wriothesley.
“Over here,” ordered Henry, drawing Wriothesley to one side.
Waves of confusion passed over Wriothesley’s face. I held my breath as the two men talked. I saw Wriothesley’s hand begin to shake; the parchment fluttered in the air. Grabbing it, Henry tore it with both hands.
“Knave! Beast and fool! Be off with you!” shouted the King. “And tell Bishop Gardiner to stop his meddling and poking at my wife.”
Wriothesley retreated, looking as downcast as a dog rebuked by his master.
Henry returned to me, a satisfied smile on his face. He had, I suspected, made up his mind to spare me last night, but had not bothered to let Wriothesley and Gardiner know. He had let this charade play out for his own amusement.
I let out a shaky breath and linked my arm with my husband’s. It was over.
* * *
—
“You’re safe!” Nan exclaimed later.
I put my hand over hers. We were alone in my bedchamber. “No, I’ll never really be safe, Nan. I never have been, though perhaps I never truly understood that before. But for now at least, the danger is past—thanks to you. I would never have feigned that terrible fit without your guidance.”
“You must thank Cat for that.” Nan grinned. “It was her idea that I hit you and make you lose control. She said she dare not, for fear that Dr. Wendy might have her arrested for attacking the Queen.”
I smiled, remembering the doctor’s shocked face.
Nan took my hand. “Kate, speaking of not being safe, there’s something…a piece of news I’ve wanted to tell you. Sir Thomas Seymour is returning to England.”
I nodded. “I know.”
“There was such an attraction between you,” Nan said, eyeing me sharply. “Kate, when he comes back to court you must—”
“Do not worry, sister,” I assured her. “After what has just happened, I feel I can handle anything that comes my way.”
I wrapped my hands around my knees. It was how we used to sit on our mother’s bed, when she would return from court to tell us tales of gallant knights and lovely ladies, or sad stories about the poor dead babies of Katharine of Aragon. If one of those baby boys had lived, my own fate would have been far different.
“I have made a resolution, though, Nan,” I said, thinking of her happy marriage, and the love match our own parents had enjoyed. “If I ever marry again, it will be for true love.”
PERFECT FRIENDS
Fall and Winter 1846–1847
“We are now perfect friends again,” Henry had said on the night I’d convinced him of my loyalty. And indeed we were, so long as I continued to obey him and follow his dictates.
Oh, there were rewards, I suppose. For the rest of that summer and into the fall, my husband showered me with gifts of rich fabric and sparkling jewels. Rather than take up my quill, I wrapped my fingers in perfumed gloves of crimson velvet, trimmed with buttons of diamond and ruby. I smiled sweetly, aiming to be a humble wife, a worthy Queen, the perfect consort.
I tried to make myself into Queen Jane.
But all the while, I hid the treasures I valued most—books and learning, prayers in English, my own writing.
As we had following our marriage three years earlier, we spent time in the countryside, where scented fruits bent the trees and sheep dotted hillsides like clusters of white flowers. Perhaps Henry realized it was the last time the glories of an English summer would be spread before him, more sumptuous than any palace feast. I think he knew.
I read to him often. I made sure to avoid religious texts, and never again offered my own opinion. Instead, I regaled him with the well-loved legends of King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table. Sometimes, Henry would close his eyes and smile, a distant expression on his poor swollen face. I wondered then if he was seeing again the glorious days of his own youth as the golden king of the Tudor court.
Once, Henry had a fever, and as I bent over him with a cool cloth, he whispered, “Thank you, sweetheart. Thank you, Jane.”
I did not correct him.
Then, in early December, Henry announced, “I am going to the Palace of Whitehall tomorrow, Kate.”
“I shall have my things packed, husband, and accompany you.”
Henry held up a swollen hand and shook his massive head. His eyes were bloodshot and clouded with pain. “No, dear
Kate. I have the work of my kingdom to do, to assure Edward’s ascension as my heir.”
Suddenly, I understood. I would not see him again.
I knelt before my husband and felt his hand on my head as a blessing. We were silent. Four years before, this man had given me black taffeta. Within weeks, I would be a widow again, with the head of death staring up at me from a gold ring on my finger.
For me, it would be the end of a chapter. But, of course, it was much more: Henry’s death would mark the end of an era. He had been king for thirty-eight years.
Henry did not plan to die as a normal man, surrounded by a sorrowing wife and children. He would die as he had lived, as a king.
* * *
—
Henry could no longer walk, but I stood in the doorway as a servant pushed his chair down the hallway.
I remembered what Nan had said, that Henry didn’t like good-byes. “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.” I knew he would not look back.
But then suddenly, to my astonishment, I saw Henry hold up his hand and order the servant to stop and turn him. I rushed forwards to close the distance between us.
“I just thought you’d like to know, Kate, that although I won’t name you regent after I am gone, I am not letting Bishop Gardiner anywhere near Edward once he ascends the throne,” Henry said quietly. “Neither he nor any of the conservatives will be allowed to advise him.”
I nodded. I could have sworn I saw a twinkle in his eye.
“And so, sweetheart, don’t despair. My people will still be able to read the Word of God in their own language,” he went on. The King raised his shoulders, as if to acknowledge that reform and change—progress—were inevitable.
“Prince Edward has been taught well, Henry,” I offered, hoping to reassure him. “He’ll be a worthy successor to Your Majesty.”
I stopped there, not daring to say my true thoughts aloud: If anything should happen to Edward, his sisters are prepared to reign. Mary is dedicated. And Elizabeth—Elizabeth is much like her father.
Henry reached out his hand. I knelt and kissed his ring one last time.
Then I watched until King Henry VIII was out of sight.
* * *
—
Back in my bedchamber, Nan and Cat were sorting through a pile of my garments. Just as she had when my John had been near death, Nan was choosing kirtles suitable for the mourning period we knew would soon come. Women help one another survive much in this world, I thought.
I sighed and straightened my shoulders, ready to meet the time of sorrow ahead. But I also couldn’t help wondering if, as it had before, my path might take an unexpected turn. I might, I thought, renew an old acquaintance; I might make a new life for myself with a man I loved. I was even still young enough to bear a child.
There was something else, too. I noticed Cat’s spaniel sleeping in a basket in the corner. “Gardiner, come!”
He padded over. I scratched his ears and smiled. “Cat, while Gardiner is up, I wonder if you could fetch my parchments and writing supplies from their hiding place under his cushions.
“I have a book to write.”
Alone. Alone.
My throne is empty, but the courtiers who pass by it still must bow and bob before the seat. I am the King of England still.
Kateryn, I can trust, though some whisper, even now, that she betrays me and my God. We read together in the long afternoons. She is a good friend to my children: Mary, daughter of my pious and leaden Spanish wife; Elizabeth, the daughter of the first of the two whores; and blessed Edward, son of my beloved Jane.
Now this new Kateryn plays chess with them in the garden in the afternoons, and all the story is ended.
I know I cannot stay here long. “Bury me next to my beloved,” I have said to Kateryn. When she did not understand, I said, “Jane. My sweet Jane.” She frowned, but did not dare argue.
Everything I have done, I did for England. I never worried about the cost to me, though God knows I suffered for my country like none other.
This is what the doubters and intriguers don’t understand: The wives—all of them—they were necessary. I needed them for heirs. Edward still is the only son, and if—God forbid it—a woman gains the throne: then, chaos. The great Anarchy. I have spent my life fighting for a clear succession.
But I gave the kingdom Edward. I have not failed. Never say that I failed. I cannot abide failure. I triumphed. My body might fail me now, but my loins never did.
Edward, you shall live long and rule wisely, with great age and might and manhood, and you shall be known as the greatest monarch England ever had. I see it in a vision.
God chose me as his instrument on Earth. He now smiles upon you, Edward, my hope, my heir, my boy, my darling son. Grasp the world with both hands, as your father did.
The pain is too great for me to move, and so I lie on my bed.
Kate, come suckle me. Render your teat. You alone are kind.
The minister who stands beside the bed in robes of black, I do not recognize.
I am the King. You must answer to me.
Will I be admired in the court of Heaven?
A short sleep. Wake me when the trumpets sound my fanfare.
TILBURY, 1588
She rides out towards the troops. There is news that her navy has clashed with the Spanish Armada off the coast. Tens of thousands of Spanish soldiers wait on the other side of the English Channel to cross over and invade. Watch fires burn up and down the beaches of Britain.
Elizabeth comes dressed not as a queen in silks, but as an armed hero, an Amazon, a warrior. Her silver breastplate shines beneath the sun; her arms flash with chased metal and gauntlets; and her hair, too, is red as metal and burns bright, just as her royal father’s did, as her half sister’s did and her half brother’s.
All of them are gone now, dead. Edward died when merely a boy, his chest too weak for the world’s thick air. Mary died a few years later, pregnant with ulcers and fantasies. Now it is Elizabeth, the Tudor Queen, who stands upon the field.
To the army assembled around her, she lifts her voice. It rings out over the ranks of the infantry in the chill morning air. To them all, she declares: “Let tyrants fear! I know I have the body of a woman, but I have the heart and stomach of a king, and of a King of England, too. I myself will be your general and judge. I have been your prince in peace; so will I be in war. The enemy perhaps may challenge my sex for that I am a woman—so may I likewise challenge them, for they are but men.”
The Sword of State is carried unsheathed before her.
She raises her arm, and thousands of voices clamour together. Her subjects shout in triumph, and the bellows of defiance echo outwards from a tiny island across a startled globe.
1485 Katharine of Aragon is born.
1491 Prince Henry, second son of Henry VII, is born on June 28.
1501 Katharine of Aragon arrives in England and marries Prince Arthur, older brother of Henry, on November 14.
ca. 1501 Anne Boleyn is born.
1502 Prince Arthur dies on April 2.
ca. 1507 Jane Seymour is born.
1509 Henry VIII assumes the throne in April. In June he marries Katharine of Aragon.
1512 Kateryn Parr is born (probably in August), the eldest of three surviving children.
1513 Henry goes to war in France in June. He appoints Katharine of Aragon regent.
In August the Scots invade England. Two weeks later, Katharine and her troops defeat them, killing their king, James IV, and claiming a great victory.
1515 Anna of Cleves is born.
1516 Mary, the daughter of Henry VIII and Katharine of Aragon, is born.
1517 Kateryn Parr’s father dies. Her mother, Lady Maud Parr, remains singl
e and devotes herself to her children, hiring a tutor to teach them Latin, French, Italian, and arithmetic. She continues to serve as a lady-in-waiting at court.
1520 Henry meets with King Francis I of France on the Field of the Cloth of Gold.
ca. 1521 Catherine Howard is born.
1526 In February, Henry begins to court Anne Boleyn.
1529 Jane Seymour becomes maid of honor to Katharine of Aragon.
1530 Cardinal Thomas Wolsey dies.
1531 Henry separates from Katharine of Aragon and she is banished from court.
1533 Henry secretly marries Anne Boleyn around January 25.
In May, Archbishop of Canterbury Thomas Cranmer declares the marriage of Henry and Katharine of Aragon invalid. Five days later, he validates the king’s marriage to Anne.
The coronation of Anne Boleyn takes place on June 1.
Princess Elizabeth is born on September 7.
1534 Parliament passes the Act of Succession, through which Anne Boleyn’s children will succeed the king.
1535 Bishop John Fisher is beheaded on June 22 for refusing to accept Henry as the Supreme Head of the Church of England.
Sir Thomas More, who also refused to accept the Act of Supremacy, is beheaded on July 6.
Henry begins to court Jane Seymour in November.
1536 Katharine of Aragon dies on January 7.
On May 2, Anne Boleyn is arrested and taken to the Tower of London. She is beheaded on May 19.
On May 30, Henry marries Jane Seymour.
In June, Parliament passes the second Act of Succession, putting Jane Seymour’s children ahead of Anne Boleyn’s in line for the throne.
The Pilgrimage of Grace, a revolt against Henry’s reign, takes place from September to March 1537.
1537 Prince Edward is born on October 12.
Jane Seymour dies on October 24.
1539 Henry is betrothed to Anna of Cleves on October 4. She arrives in Kent in England on December 27.
