by Alison Weir
“You will not dismiss Sir Edward? He is a loyal officer,” Katheryn said when Sir Anthony had gone.
“Not this time,” Henry said, returning to bed. “But I shall be watching him.”
* * *
—
Isabel was full of apologies when she came to attend Katheryn in the morning.
“Be assured I have given Edward a piece of my mind!” she said. “What was he thinking of, acting as if he were some young knave trying to impress his fellows? The great fool!”
“Think no more of it,” Katheryn urged. “I thought it was funny, but I didn’t dare tell the King that.” In truth, she had not thought Edward had it in him to put off his dignity and act like an idiot.
“Well, I didn’t think it funny!” Isabel declared. “Edward and every other man involved will be on their knees this morning, apologizing to the King.” She jabbed a pin in a cushion as if she were stabbing her errant husband.
Elizabeth Seymour came in. “Your Grace, one of his Majesty’s ushers is here. He says the King is unwell and has taken to his bed.”
Katheryn pulled on the hood she had chosen to wear. “I must go to him.”
She hastened to the King’s lodgings, but was stopped in the antechamber by Dr. Butts, one of his doctors.
“Your Grace, you may not enter. His Majesty is indisposed. His leg is inflamed and he has a fever. My colleagues are with him now. I will bring you word later.”
“But I must see him! He will want me to be there.”
Dr. Butts looked at her kindly. “I fear, Madam, that he would not have you see him looking poorly. He has ordered that you stay away, and bids you take your pastime with your ladies until he is better.”
She hesitated. She wanted to do Henry’s bidding, for she hated sickrooms, but felt that she owed it to him to try to see him. He would approve of that, surely.
“Let an ailing man keep his pride,” the doctor murmured.
“Very well,” she said, “but tell me, is he in danger?” She shied away from the thought of Henry dying. She had grown fond of him and could not imagine a world without him.
“Not at present, Madam, but we are concerned. I will send word, or come to you, if there is any change.”
* * *
—
She sat listlessly on her favorite shady bench, listening to her women chattering. Abruptly, she got up and went to the chapel, where she knelt to pray for Henry’s recovery. There was something else on her mind, too; something for which to beseech God. Her flowers were late, only by a few days, but she was beginning to be hopeful. She imagined herself telling Henry the glad news that she was with child. How pleased he would be with her!
As she left the chapel, Dr. Butts was waiting for her.
“Your Grace, we think there is an infection in both the King’s legs. We have applied plasters and bandages and are hoping to see an improvement soon.”
“May I see his Majesty?”
“Not yet. Allow the treatment time to work. We have given him a draft and he is sleeping now.”
She wondered if she dared mention her secret hope to this kind doctor and ask his opinion. She was desperate to confide in someone. But maybe it was best to keep silent until she was sure.
* * *
—
The next day, they told her that Henry had suddenly rallied and was asking for her. Again she sped to his apartments, wondering if it was too soon to cheer him by telling him her exciting secret.
To her surprise, he was up and dressed and sitting in a chair by an open window, his legs stretched out on a large footstool.
“Katheryn! Oh, what a joy it is to see you!” He held out his arms and she ran into them. He kissed her lovingly.
She could not resist the temptation. “There is something I have been longing to tell you,” she said as she knelt on the floor at his side. “I think I am with child.”
She had never seen anyone’s face light up so quickly.
“You are sure?” Henry asked, grasping her hand tightly.
“Almost,” she said.
“Then I will pray that you are right and that God has indeed blessed us,” he said, kissing her soundly. “But not a word of this to anyone else, mind. Let it be our secret for now.”
* * *
—
They moved on to Dunstable and then The More, which Anne Parr said had been another residence of Queen Katherine in her exile. Katheryn was pleased that they would be there for only two nights.
It was now early October, and every day Henry asked Katheryn if she still thought herself with child. He examined her body for signs, but there were none—yet there was no sign of her flowers, either. It was, after all, early days and, as those days went on, he became increasingly hopeful, and protective of her. Her every whim was to be gratified. He gave her two rosaries adorned with crosses and tassels. To please her, he granted her brother George a pension of a hundred marks and some manors that had lately been the property of Wilton Abbey, and appointed him and Charles gentleman pensioners—members of his own elite guard. Isabel received a gift of money for her good service to Katheryn, and Sir Edward was given a manor, a sure sign that his recent transgression had been forgotten.
On the eighth day of October, the first rain since June fell. Hearing it spatter on her window, Katheryn and her maids ran down into the garden and twirled about, reveling in it. The chapel at The More was crowded that day with people giving thanks for the rain. The drought had been dreadful, the relentless heat exhausting, but now it was cooler and very pleasant. And soon they would be home. At the King’s insistence, Katheryn traveled in a litter, nursing her secret. She was sure now that she was with child.
1540
Later that October, they arrived at Windsor. Henry assured her that she was quite safe, for the plague had died down and he had given orders that anyone who had been in contact with it was to leave the town.
Katheryn was glad to alight in the upper ward and go into her apartments. It had been a long journey and she decided to rest on her bed before having a wash and changing her clothes. Later, attired in a crimson gown with a black velvet partlet and one of the new stand-up collars, she joined the King for supper in his dining parlor and was surprised to find him looking ill at ease.
“What is wrong?” she asked, when the servants had left them alone.
“There is something you should know, Katheryn, and I’d rather you heard it from me than from idle gossip.” A shiver went through her; pray God no one had betrayed the secrets of her past.
Henry sighed. There was a slight flush to his cheeks. “I am told that rumor credits me with getting the Lady Anna of Cleves with child when I visited her in August. There is, of course, no truth in it.”
Relief flooded Katheryn. “Of course not,” she said. “I would not believe it for a moment.” How anyone would credit such a calumny was beyond belief, for no one could doubt where Henry’s heart lay. And he had never loved or fancied Anna.
“Why would anyone spread such a rumor?” she wondered, as he served her some chicken.
“The Lady Anna was laid up in bed with a bad humor of the stomach. I am told she is better now. But some fool put two and two together and made five, and let it be known that she was suffering the sickness of pregnancy. If they are discovered, they will know my displeasure!” He downed his wine and refilled the goblet. “You will not let this upset you, sweetheart?”
“Not at all,” Katheryn told him.
He raised her hand to his lips. “No sign yet of your courses?”
“No.” She smiled. “And I don’t think there will be.”
* * *
—
Two days later, they returned to Hampton Court. That night, as Henry snored beside her, Katheryn was awakened by a cramping pain in the bottom of her stomach. With mounting dismay, she thought
she knew what it portended.
Rising to go to the close stool, she saw blood on the sheets. The sight was so awful that she burst into tears. Henry sat up suddenly, his hand already reaching for his sword.
“What is it?” he asked. “What is wrong?” Then he noticed the blood. “Oh, darling…”
Katheryn was sobbing uncontrollably. “I am so sorry, Henry. So sorry! I so wanted to gladden you with a prince. I really did think I was with child. I’m so sorry…”
He rose stiffly and came to her, folding her in his arms. “And maybe you were with child. There are many babes lost early on, as I well know. Do not distress yourself, Katheryn.”
He gentled her until she had calmed down a little, then sent for Isabel.
“Her Grace needs you,” he said when she arrived in her night robe, her graying hair loose about her shoulders. Then he was gone.
“Oh, Isabel…” Katheryn began weeping again and, between sobs, explained what had happened.
“It is not unusual to lose a first baby,” Isabel said. “I did, and I know several others who have. It usually happens very early on. Or you may have just had a delayed course. That can happen when you commence married life. It is all the upheaval and adjusting to the, um, physical side.” Katheryn could not tell her that she had been well used to that long before she wed the King.
“But I went on to have a healthy child,” Isabel comforted her, “and so do many other women. Don’t let this upset you too much. Now let’s find you some cloths and a clean night-rail.” She got up then saw that Katheryn was weeping again.
“Come on now,” she said gently. “It’s not the end of the world.”
“But he called me Katheryn!” She could not stem the tears.
“What’s wrong with that?”
“He always calls me darling or sweetheart. He’s angry with me, I know it.”
“He didn’t seem angry when he spoke to me,” Isabel said, rummaging through the chest. “He was very concerned. He must be upset, too, and when people are upset, they don’t always behave as you expect them to. You are reading too much into this, Katheryn. Now, take these through to the stool chamber. I’ll be with you in a moment.”
Isabel stayed with her for the rest of the night. The cramping pains got worse and the blood flow was heavy, but, by morning, things had settled down. Katheryn, though, was exhausted and decided to lie in bed for the day. And then Henry was there, come to see how she was, tears in his eyes and a red rose in his hand.
“For you, sweetheart,” he said. “Lady Baynton tells me that all is well.”
She held the rose to her lips; its fragrance was exquisite. “You have forgiven me?”
“There is nothing to forgive.” He bent forward and kissed her. Isabel stood there, beaming.
“I told you,” she said, when Henry had gone to Mass. “There is nothing amiss.”
“You are so kind,” Katheryn said. “I want you to have this.” She took from the table by the bed a gold brooch. “It’s a thank-you.”
Isabel stared at it in wonder. “I couldn’t possibly—”
“Yes, you can! I want you to have it. You’re the best sister anyone could have.”
Isabel hugged her and took the brooch. “Thank you.” She smiled. “I will treasure it.”
* * *
—
Katheryn lay in bed trying to sleep, but she could not. She had got the idea into her head that God had punished her for fornicating with Harry and Francis—and for concealing it from the King. There was nothing to be done. It was far too late now to confess, and the consequences would be disastrous, so she must continue to live with her guilt and her fear of exposure. She was sure she had seen the last of Harry; he had married and would not want to risk raking up old scandals. But Francis? She had not heard a word of him in months, which was a comforting thought. Yet he might still be nursing the conviction that they were man and wife. Would he, at some point, feel so grieved about losing her that he had to say something?
Panic gripped her. She could see the whole glittering edifice of her life crumbling around her—and not just that. She stood to lose Henry’s love and all that flowed from it, and that she could not have borne.
She felt helpless. She was desperate to take steps to protect herself, but what could she do without giving herself away? There was no one she could talk to, not even Isabel. Tom was still away from court, or she might have thought of confiding in him. He could not think any less of her than he already did. Then again, he might well believe that his duty to the King required him to reveal her secrets. No, it was as well that Tom was still convalescing.
She lay there, trying to still her fears. They would pass, she assured herself, as they had on earlier occasions. She was overreacting again. If Francis wanted to expose her, he would surely have done so by now.
* * *
—
Toward dinnertime, Lady William Howard came to help her dress. As they chatted, it occurred to Katheryn that Lady William might have news of Francis.
“Do you know where Mr. Dereham is these days?” she asked, hoping it sounded like a casual inquiry about an old acquaintance.
“Madam, he is here with my lord,” Lady William replied.
“Oh,” Katheryn said, panicking at the knowledge that Francis was near at hand, at court, and frantically searching for something to say to justify her interest. “It’s just that my lady of Norfolk has asked me to be good to him, and I will be.”
“He’ll be pleased,” Lady William said.
“I’m sure, but don’t say anything to him as I haven’t decided what I shall do for him.”
Lady William stood back to admire her handiwork. “I shan’t say a thing. My lord will be pleased to hear of your kindness. He thinks well of Dereham.”
Damn! Katheryn thought. What a fool she had been to let her tongue run away with her. She would now have to show some favor to Francis—and how would he interpret that? Maybe it was best just to forget about her voiced intention and hope that Lady William did, too.
* * *
—
Early in November, Richard Jones, the High Master of St. Paul’s School in London, begged an audience with Katheryn and, on his knees, presented her with a book, looking up eagerly at her. She thanked him and opened it to see the title, The Birth of Mankind, otherwise named the Woman’s Book. It was a treatise on childbirth and midwifery, dedicated to “our most gracious and virtuous Queen Katheryn,” with an exhortation to all men to use it in a godly fashion.
How she stopped herself from weeping she did not know. Grief for her lost hopes was still raw. But she managed to smile and thanked Master Jones for the compliment he had paid her. When he had gone, and she was back in her privy chamber, she handed the book to Isabel.
“Take it away, please. You keep it.”
Isabel hugged her. “Try not to dwell on your loss,” she whispered. And then the other ladies were coming into the room, so they broke apart and Katheryn announced that they would spend the afternoon practicing their dance steps.
She was glad when, toward the end of the month, Henry took her away to Woking in Surrey for the good hawking to be had in those parts. They were accompanied only by a small riding household and four privy councillors: the grim-faced Earl of Southampton, the Lord Privy Seal; Sir John Russell, the Lord High Admiral; the gallant Sir Anthony Browne, Master of Horse; and Sir Anthony Wingfield, the Vice Chamberlain. With them were Monsieur Chapuys and Monsieur de Marillac, the Imperial and French ambassadors.
“His Majesty seems like a new man,” Browne told Katheryn as they watched the Master of the King’s Hawks tie the jesses of the royal falcon to Henry’s wrist. “He has been rejuvenated by his marriage to your Grace.”
It was true. Henry had adopted a new daily regime. He was up between five and six, heard Mass at seven, then rode out hawking wit
h Katheryn until dinner was served at ten o’clock. In the afternoons, he was closeted with his councillors, attending to state affairs, while she and her ladies made merry with the gentlemen of the Privy Chamber. Mercifully, Tom Culpeper was not among them; he was better, Henry had told her, but was attending to duties that took him away from the court. She wondered if Henry had sent him away on purpose, having an inkling of Tom’s feelings for her. She had made sure to suppress hers, knowing that to think of him in that way was futile now.
“I feel much better in the country than near London,” Henry said, as they trotted out of the stables one morning. “My leg is better and I think I’ve lost weight.” It was hard to tell if this was true, since his clothing was so padded and puffed, but he did look better. It was all this good fresh air, Katheryn thought. After the hot summer, they were enjoying a pleasant autumn with lots of pale sunshine.
One afternoon, as Katheryn was strumming her lute, Isabel came to her, looking worried.
“Kat Tilney is here, asking to see you,” she said. “She is seeking a place in your household.”
“I’m sure I can find one for her.” Katheryn smiled.
“Mr. Dereham is with her,” Isabel told her.
Katheryn’s heart plummeted like a stone. “What does he want?” she hissed, more sharply than she had intended.
“Nothing, Madam,” Isabel answered. “He escorted her here. He did not speak to me.”
“Send her in alone,” Katheryn ordered. “Tell him he may obtain refreshment at the servery and be on his way.” She was praying that he would not demand to see her and that he had no sinister intent in coming here.
To her relief, Kat came in by herself and curtseyed before her. Katheryn welcomed her warmly and asked after her mother. Kat said that she was better and that she herself was keen to return to court.
