The Sixth Wife: The Story of Katherine Parr

by Jean Plaidy

  She sat at a window of her apartments in White Hall, those apartments which her stepmother had begged the King to give her, and which she used when she was with the court and the court was at this palace.

  For a short hour she was giving herself up to romantic dreams; she was allowing herself to think that she could marry whom she pleased.

  He was handsome, that man. Handsome? That was inadequate to describe him. There were many handsome men at court, but there was none like Thomas Seymour. He was so gay, so jaunty, and there was about him that air of wickedness which delighted her as it must delight so many more. She loved his boldness, the strength in those arms that seized her, the speculation in the laughing eyes as though he were wondering how far he dared go. There was so much in him that called to the like in her; and while he made discreet love to her with the most indiscreet look in his eyes and the most suggestive tones in his voice, she was always aware of that ambition in him which she understood and applauded because that very same ambition was a part of her own nature.

  He would be bold and passionate, and so would she. Her need of him, his need of her, were like a pair of mettlesome horses held in restraint by the reins of ambition. And because they were so checked their progress was the more exciting.

  I want him, she decided; but I want so much besides.

  She was her father’s daughter; she was her mother’s child. In her was that streak of levity which had characterized her mother; there was that desire to be admired and, because that desire for admiration was stronger than the sensuality which she had inherited from her father, she wished always to keep the admiration at fever heat; therefore the pursuit interested her more than any possible fulfillment. Even now she did not wish the Admiral to be her husband; she wished him to remain her suitor.

  Yet it was not endurable to continue in a state of uncertainty.

  When she had heard the conditions of her father’s will she had been filled with elation. Failing other heirs, she was placed third in the line of succession. She was to be treated with a respect and consideration almost equal to that which was to be bestowed on her sister Mary. Three thousand pounds a year was to be hers, and that seemed riches after the penury she had endured; a marriage portion of ten thousand pounds was to be given at the appropriate time. But there was a condition: This would only be hers if she married with the consent of her brother Edward and his Council. If she married without such approval, she would forfeit her dowry and, in all probability, her income.

  She had turned this matter over and over in her mind.

  She longed for Seymour; yet she longed also to stay where she was in the succession to the throne.

  Queen…Queen of England… and Queen in her own right—not lifted up, as her mother had been, to be cast down again at the whim of a husband. No! Queen—true Queen of England for the rest of her life!

  The chances of success were good. Edward was sickly and it was hardly likely that he would produce an heir. Mary was thirty-one— old to marry and have children; and Mary’s health was not of the best. Elizabeth was but thirteen years old. Oh yes, the chances of Elizabeth’s becoming Queen of England were good indeed.

  And if she married? What then?

  The Council, she knew, would never approve of her marriage with Thomas. The King could be persuaded. She laughed to think of the little boy’s being persuaded by herself and Thomas. That would be an easy task.

  But she immediately called to mind those grim men, the real rulers. Thomas’s brother would never agree. And Gardiner, Wriothesley, Cranmer? No! They would refuse consent. And then? Doubtless she and Thomas would find themselves in the Tower if they disobeyed, and all knew what could happen to prisoners in that doom-filled place.

  There was so much to think of, so much to consider.

  Her governess, Kat Ashley, came into the room and, finding her charge brooding in the window seat, asked if aught ailed her.

  “Nothing ails me,” said Elizabeth.

  “Your Grace looks to have a fever. Your cheeks look hot and your eyes are so bright. I am not sure that you should not retire to your bed.”

  “Pray do not bother me, Kat. I am well enough.”

  “Your Grace is bothered concerning the letter you have received?”

  “And how did you know there was a letter?”

  “In my love for Your Grace I keep my eyes open and my ears alert. Tell me, darling, it is from the Admiral, is it not?”

  Elizabeth looked at the woman and burst into sudden laughter. There were moments when she was very like her mother, thought Kat Ashley.

  “And what if it should be?” asked Elizabeth.

  “He’s a darling man, Sir Thomas, and I could love him myself, but he has no right to send you a letter.”

  “Lord Sudley now, if you please. You know that the first thing my brother did was to raise his dear uncle. Not Sir Thomas Seymour merely, but my Lord Sudley. My brother, like you, my saucy Kat, loves the darling man dearly!”

  “Well, all the Council have been raised, have they not? There is Lord Hertford become the Duke of Somerset, and Sir Thomas Wriothesley, my lord Southampton.”

  “Yes, but Master Wriothesley is deprived of his Seal, while my brother gives love to Thomas Seymour as well as land and title.”

  “And does the King’s sister love the man as much as her brother does?”

  Kat Ashley was a born gossip, a lover of tittle-tattle; she was vitally interested in the affairs of those about her and inquisitive in the extreme, though goodhearted; she was always eager for exciting events about which to marvel or commiserate, and if they did not happen quickly enough she was ready to apply a little gentle prodding. But the welfare of her little Princess meant more to her than anything on Earth. Elizabeth knew this; and because one of the great desires of her life was to receive the loving admiration of those about her, she was always as affectionate and considerate as she could be to Kat Ashley.

  “How could she?” answered Elizabeth. “Would it be wise to love such a man and yet be unable to enter into a marriage with him?”

  “It would not!” cried Kat. “If you as much as gave him a hint that you were eager for him—why then, there would be no holding him back.”

  They laughed together.

  “The Council would never agree to such a marriage, would they, Kat?” said Elizabeth wistfully.

  “Nay.”

  “They have their eyes on me now, Kat. I must walk warily. Do you not think so?”

  “With the utmost wariness, my darling lady.”

  “Kat Ashley, do you think I shall ever be Queen?”

  Kat was solemn for a moment; she laid her hands on the girl’s shoulders and studied the pale face, the eyes which could at some times be earnest and at others frivolous, the mouth that provoked and promised, yet denied.

  “Oh, my dearest mistress, my dearest mistress, I beg of you take care.”

  “It is you who should take care, Kat. You gossip whenever you have a chance. You must restrain yourself now. My poor brother… my poor sister! Kat, just think of them. They seem so sick at times, and then… then there will be just myself.”

  Kat sank to her knees and took the hand of her charge. She kissed it, and lifting her eyes to Elizabeth’s face said: “God save the Queen!”

  Then they laughed together, looking over their shoulders with furtive enjoyment.

  How like her mother she is! thought Kat again; and she held her fiercely and protectively. “God preserve her,” she prayed. “Take care of her. She is young…so very young.”

  Nevertheless, she was wise; she was crafty; it was possible to see the craftiness in her face at times; later she would be crafty enough to hide it. But she was young yet.

  “Keep her safe until she is old enough to keep herself safe,” Kat continued her prayer; and she thought: I am a fine one. I am as reckless as she is.

  Elizabeth drew herself away from her governess and was solemn, thinking, as she must when she considered her nearness to the thro
ne, of Thomas whom she could not have as well.

  I need not fear for her, reflected Kat Ashley. She’ll pass through all the dangers. I never knew one so clever.

  Her brother was learned, but the Princess was the cleverer of the two. Lady Jane Grey, who had been tutored with them, was also learned; they were a clever trio. But Jane and Edward loved learning for itself, while Elizabeth loved it for what she hoped it would bring her. It seemed as though she had trained herself from her earliest years for a great destiny. She excelled in all subjects; she was a Latin scholar; she spoke French, Spanish, Flemish and Italian fluently, taking great pains with those languages which she thought might be useful to her. Like young Jane and Edward, and indeed like most cultured children, she wrote verses; but while those children loved their verses and spent much time over them, Elizabeth wrote hers merely to show that she could do anything they could. Her greatest delight was to study the history, not only of her own country, but that of others. She wished to know how kings and governments had acted in the past, and the result of such actions. So the greater part of her time was devoted to the study of history, and she had learned foreign languages with such zest, that she might be able to read history written in those tongues. Always she was preparing herself for greatness. Therefore it seemed strange that a girl who, at such an early age, had so serious a purpose in mind which amounted almost to a dedication, could at the same time be so frivolous.

  But she was her father’s daughter and he, while occupying his mind with great state policies, had found the inclination toward his pleasures irresistible.

  Kat Ashley, while she admired her mistress’s uncommon astuteness, trembled for her.

  “Kat dear,” said Elizabeth suddenly, “leave me. I have a letter to write.”

  “To … the Admiral?”

  “It is no concern of yours.”

  “It is. It is. Have a care, sweetheart.”

  “I intend to.”

  “Do not forget….”

  “I forget nothing. Go now. Go quickly, I say.”

  Kat Ashley moved toward the door and, when she reached it, paused to look appealingly at the Princess.

  “Oh, Kat,” said Elizabeth, “do not forget. Tomorrow we go to Chelsea, to be with my stepmother. We must prepare.”

  “I had not forgotten. I, too, forget nothing, my lady.”

  “Get you gone, and leave me to my work,” said Elizabeth, with a return of the imperious manner which she employed at times and which was always an indication that she had done with play.

  She had made up her mind. Kat’s byplay had decided her. When she had knelt, and half in earnest had said, “God save the Queen!” she had brought Elizabeth to the point of decision.

  The Princess dared not risk the loss of that for which, above everything, she longed.

  I will not think of him, she told herself. I must not think of him. I will remember the tales I have heard of him. He is a philanderer; he has had many mistresses. If I were a commoner it would be different.

  Then she laughed aloud, for if she were a commoner would Thomas have looked her way? Yes, he would; it was not solely because she was third from the throne that he wanted her. If she had been a low serving girl he would have sought her out, even if only to make love to her.

  She took up her pen.

  “From the Princess Elizabeth to the Lord High Admiral.”

  Firmly she wrote, thanking him for his letter.

  “… but,” she went on, “I have neither the years nor the inclination for marriage, and I would not have thought that such a matter should have been mentioned to me at a time when I ought to be taken up in weeping for the death of my father, the King….”

  And as she wrote those words her mouth was remarkably like her father’s.

  She stared before her, and she was thinking, not of the dead King, but of the charm of Seymour.

  Her mouth softened. A Queen, she reminded herself, would choose her own husband. A Queen would not allow a council of ministers to decide such a matter.

  Thomas would still be there. She pictured him, calling as often as he dared, and those little scenes when he made excuses to touch her.

  She was thrilled at the thought of him; but even more thrilling was the echo of those words: God save the Queen.

  THOMAS SEYMOUR, the new Lord Sudley, was angered by that letter from the Princess.

  He wanted a wife, and he wanted the Princess, but if she would not have him he would have another. He was a man who could love many women; and a motherly, tender woman, a Queen who had become very rich and was of some importance in the land, was not a bad substitute for a prickly Princess.

  He, like Elizabeth, realized that had she accepted his proposals they would have been in great danger. He had been prepared to risk that danger. But since the Princess had refused him, he saw no reason why he should remain a bachelor. The Princess was but thirteen; he might still have her, for who knew what the future held?

  In any case, he was piqued by the tone of her letter, and, a few days after the receipt of it, he set out for Chelsea, where the Dowager Queen was in residence. The young Princess, who had been assigned to her care, was now there with her. It was a piquant situation—the two women with whom the Admiral had contemplated marriage, together under one roof—a Queen and a Princess.

  But he would call to see the Dowager Queen.

  It was not quite a month since the death of the King, and he saw that snowdrops were beginning to appear in the gardens before the cottages which he passed on his way through the villages, and the purple flowers of the butterbur were blooming along by the river.

  Katharine was staying in the Dormer Palace of Chelsea (which Henry had built after he had seized the Manor of Chelsea), with its gardens that ran down to the Thames. Thomas approached the palace by the only road through the village, which wound between the meadows. He crossed Blandels Bridge—very pretty now with the hoar frost on the nearby bushes, but so dangerous at dusk on account of the many robbers who infested the place, and who had so often added murder to their crimes that the bridge had become known as Bloody Bridge.

  Lord Sudley’s eyes glistened with excitement as they turned from the small turrets to the long narrow windows, while he hoped for a glimpse of a red head.

  He wondered if the weather was warm enough to walk in the gardens with Katharine, for those gardens had been made very pleasant with their lawns and miniature fishponds.

  Katharine received him rather cautiously, because several of her ladies were in attendance. How fair she looked! She wore her royal widow’s hood and barb with its sable pall as though she did so with great relief—as indeed she must. She could not hide her feelings for him, so he was glad when she dismissed her women and they were alone together.

  He took her hands. “At last!” he said.

  “Thomas! How I have longed to see you! But is it not a little too soon?”

  “It is most improper,” he replied with a laugh.

  He knew she was hoping he would take her into his arms, and how could he refuse? He had never been able to refuse such a thing to a woman.

  “Thomas… what if we were seen?”

  “Ah, my brother Somerset’s spies are everywhere. Somerset now, remember. No longer merely Hertford.”

  “And you are no longer plain Sir Thomas.”

  He bowed. “Lord Sudley at your service.”

  “Always Thomas…my dearest Thomas.”

  “Oh, Katharine, how I have trembled for you in these latter years.”

  “And yet you seemed not to notice me. How you made me suffer!”

  “How I should have made us both suffer if I had looked at you and betrayed my thoughts!”

  “You were the wise one, Thomas. I was foolish.”

  “Now you understand how greatly I love you. I can even be wise for your sake.”

  “You make me so happy.”

  “And when, Katharine, my sweet Katharine, will you make me happier still?”

  He was
carried on by his feelings, as he always was. He owed his successes at sea to this very impetuousness. He believed so firmly in the destiny of Thomas Seymour that he was able to forget that five days ago he had asked Elizabeth to marry him; now it seemed to him that he had always loved Katharine, that during those years of danger he had deliberately forced himself to think of others for her sake.

  Elizabeth, that child! It was a pretty joke, a pleasant game. And, oh, what an exciting game! But how could he marry the Princess without the consent of the Council? Besides, she was a child; and here was a warm, loving woman, so earnestly, so faithfully in love with him.

  He took her roughly in his arms. He liked to play the buccaneer. It was usually successful, accompanied as it always was, in his dealings with women, by an underlying tenderness. See the strong man who could vanquish an enemy, see how he curbs his strength for fear of harming the one he loves!

  She was a Queen; he could not help it if, in calculating her desirable qualities, he had in mind not only her gentle nature, her adoration of himself, her charming little body, not too mature, but so comfortable, so pleasant and delightful; there were also her lands, her endowment, her influence. The King loved his uncle, but without a doubt the boy idealized his stepmother. The two of them together would make a team to guide the King. With her riches, her influence and her charm, she was irresistible.

  “My dearest,” he said, “when?”

  “When?” she cried. “And the King not dead a month!”

  “I shall not hesitate this time.”

  “My love, you must… hesitate a little… for the sake of decency, for the sake of etiquette.”

  But he had seized her again. “Do you think I care for these things when love burns in my heart? No, no! I lost you once. Do you think I will allow that to happen again?”

  “Nay, my dearest, you must be patient.”

  “Patience and love, dear Kate, go not hand in hand.”

  “What would be said of me if…my husband not dead a month…I took another?”

  “I would take my fists to the ears of any who spoke ill of you, Kate… from the lowest to the highest. Take off the hood.”