by Jean Plaidy
She was in love; and the eager glances which she cast down at the courtyard suggested that she was waiting for her lover.
Why should she not have a lover? She had married twice to please her family. Why should she not marry this time to please herself?
Soon he would come riding into the courtyard. He would look up and she would wave her hand, for there was no subterfuge in her nature, and she would not hide her feelings. He was quite sure that she loved him and that he had only to ask her to become Lady Seymour and she would most readily agree.
He was the handsomest man in the King’s court. It was not only her love that told her this. Others said the same; even his enemies—and he had many—granted him that. He was the brother-in-law of the King; and he was a favorite of the King, for all knew that the latter liked to have about him those who were gay, young and handsome. Some thought that Thomas Seymour had become too ambitious since his sister Jane had married the King; others said that favors won through a female relative and not as a reward for a man’s prowess, were built on flimsy foundations. Thomas, they said, lacked the ability of his elder brother, Edward, Lord Hertford. Edward had crafty diplomacy to set against Thomas’s charm. Edward was cautious; Thomas was reckless.
It mattered not, Katharine, the widow, assured herself. He was the most charming, the most delightful of companions. He was the only man she would ever love, and he loved her too. He was going to ask her to marry him and she—widow of a few months though she was—was going to marry him.
Contemplating her third marriage must naturally make her think of the other two. They had been no real marriages. She smiled now, a little tenderly, thinking of the poor frightened child whom they had married to Lord Borough of Gainsborough, an elderly widower, with children who had seemed to Katharine quite old. Her Mother had arranged that match, and she and her sister and brother had always obeyed their mother without question. Katharine could not remember her father, for Sir Thomas Parr had died when she was only four; and in the capable hands of his wife, Maud, he had left the care of his children.
Lady Parr had been a stern mother, continually scheming for the advancement of her children; and when young Katharine had been told she was to marry the rich Lord Borough, it had not occurred to her to protest.
And perhaps, Katharine told herself, as she threaded her needle with crimson silk, she had not been so unfortunate, for my Lord Borough had proved to be a kindly man, gentle and tender, and not so demanding as a young man might have been. She had been sorry when at the age of fifteen she had found herself to be a rich widow.
The first widowhood had been allowed to last only two or three years when another wealthy widower had been found for her. John Neville, Lord Latimer, was an excellent match, so said her family; and recognizing in him the same kindly tolerance which had made her first marriage less frightening than it might so easily have been, and finding friendship with his grownup children, Katharine had allowed herself to be married a second time—indeed, she had had little say in the matter—and had taken up residence in the beautiful mansion of Snape Hall, or sometimes in another of his houses in Worcester, or, when they visited London, here in the mansion near the Charterhouse.
With Lord Latimer she had attended court and had become acquainted with the Princess Mary, who was of an age similar to her own; they had interests in common and had found pleasure in each other’s company.
She had been a good wife to Lord Latimer; she had nursed him in sickness and she had astonished him with her wisdom, since but for her he might have come to a tragic end. He had taken an active part in the “Pilgrimage of Grace,” that insurrection against the reforms of the King and Cromwell, and it was only by great good fortune that he had escaped the King’s wrath; and this was due to his listening to Katharine’s entreaties that he should not join in the second rising.
Katharine could shudder now remembering those times, but they were behind her since she was widowed for the second time. She was still young—only in her thirty-first year—and she was rich, possessing several stately mansions and the fortunes inherited from two husbands. She was also in love.
Sir Thomas Seymour was quite different from either Lord Borough or Lord Latimer. The flashing eyes, the chestnut beard, the curling hair, the great stature, the booming voice, the air of jaunty recklessness, the sailor’s oaths which rose to his lips at the least provocation, set him apart; he was a man in a thousand. Perhaps she was rather foolish, she a widow of thirty, to love the most charming man at court. She would certainly have been had she not been sure that her affection was returned.
As she stitched she thought of their meetings in this mansion. Lord Latimer had been a Catholic, but she even during his lifetime had been attracted by the New Religion. She had friends who were interested in it; and how she had enjoyed their conversations, the books which had to be smuggled to her apartments because they were forbidden reading. She had never talked to Lord Latimer of her feelings for the New Religion. How could she when he was a staunch Catholic and supported Rome with such fervor that he was ready to disobey the King and risk his life to do so? She had been taught that it was a wife’s duty to follow her husband in all things. But when Lord Latimer had died there seemed no longer any reason why she should not admit to herself that she had these Protestant leanings.
She had first become interested through her conversations with a friend named Anne Askew, the daughter of a squire of Lincoln. Anne was fervent in her beliefs and Katharine felt that she herself could never be so pious. Her intentions were noble, but worldly matters came between her and her piety. She smiled as she paused in her work to smooth the folds of her velvet gown; she enjoyed wearing beautiful garments and rich ornaments.
It was at a religious gathering which she had arranged should take place in this house that she had first become aware of Thomas. He had looked incongruous at the gathering; he had not seemed in the least devout; his extravagant clothes and gay manners set him apart. Did he come for religious reasons? She doubted it. He came because the meetings were anti-Catholic and antagonistic to those—such as the Duke of Norfolk, Gardiner, Bishop of Winchester and Sir Thomas Wriothesley—who wished to wrest the King’s favor from himself and his family.
Katharine was not interested in his reasons for coming; she only cared that he came; and from the moment he had selected her for his attention, she had to admit that the religious purpose of the gatherings seemed to lose its importance.
At that moment her woman, Nan, came into the room.
Nan was younger than Katharine by a year or two; dark-haired and pretty, she had been with Katharine since her marriage with Lord Latimer; she was a very loving servant.
There was a cloud in Nan’s eyes today because she knew the reason for her mistress’s elation, and it disturbed her. Nan felt that Katharine judged all men by the two she had married, and innocently thought that Sir Thomas Seymour was a younger, more handsome and more charming version of Lord Latimer.
“Well, Nan,” said Katharine, “how do you think the pattern goes?”
Nan came and surveyed it.
“Very well, my lady.”
“It is cold today. But the spring will soon be here. There are signs of it everywhere.”
“They are saying, my lady, that the King feels the effects of spring.”
“The King?”
“Yes, my lady. And it is rumored that he looks for a new wife.”
“Oh, yes.” Katharine glanced down at her embroidery. Her mood had become solemn. There was not a lady at court who did not become solemn at the thought of the King’s last marriage, which had ended so tragically just over a year ago.
“It seems such a short while ago that we had a Queen,” went on Nan. “We thought the King was happy at last. And then quite suddenly…” She paused and shivered. “She was so pretty,” she went on. “I do not think I ever saw anyone quite so pretty. Queen Anne Boleyn was more striking to look at—more fascinating too, they say—but I do not think I ever saw
one so dainty, so sweet to look upon as Queen Catharine Howard.”
“Don’t speak of it, Nan. It is…upsetting.”
But Nan went on: “I remember how she ran screaming down the gallery at Hampton Court when the King was at chapel. I can’t forget the sound of her voice.”
“It is best forgotten, Nan.”
“But I shall never forget. I was there at the end. I should not have gone, but I could not help it. I had to go. And I saw her walk out and lay her pretty head on the block…like a child who had learned her lesson. They say she practiced how she should do it while she was waiting in her cell. And now, my lady, the King looks for a sixth wife.”
“A sixth wife!” said Katharine. “How I pity her…whoever she shall be. But what are we saying? This is no affair of ours. The King grows older—although doubtless it is treason to say so. Let us hope he is putting all thought of another marriage from him. And, if he should marry, now that he is older, there is less likelihood of his fancy’s straying.”
“It did not stray from Catharine Howard, my lady.”
“Let us not speak of it. Do I hear the sound of horses’ hooves in the courtyard?”
She looked out of the window, smiling, for riding into the courtyard was Thomas Seymour.
THE KING WAS becoming more and more occupied with thoughts of a wife. He was no longer young on that March day in the year 1543. Fifty-two. There were times when that seemed a great age for a man to be, particularly when in his teens and his twenties he had been one of the most vigorous of men, over six feet tall, of great girth, delighting in all sports and pastimes—and more than any in the sport of love.
In his thirties he had been a giant among men, unmistakably a king. It had been his delight to go among his subjects feebly disguised and to play a pleasant little game of make-believe which all saw through. “Who is this man?” people were expected to ask. “Why, he has the bearing of a king!” And when they had speculated and marveled, he would throw off his disguise and say: “Cudgel your pates no more, my friends. I am your King!” That was just one of the games he had delighted to play. But a man of fifty is not to be compared with a man of twenty or even thirty, and now he was no longer able to win games with skill, and he would not play except to win. There were days when he could but hobble about his palaces, and then he must have the aid of a stick and the arm of a courtier to lean on. His leg—his accursed leg—grew worse instead of better; he had tried he could not remember how many remedies. He had promised a fortune to the man who could heal it; he had threatened to lop off the heads of those who failed. All to no avail. The leg might seem better for a while; then the ulcer would make itself felt again and the pain could at times be so agonizing that he would cry out with it and hit out at any who irritated him.
Last year had been a trying one for him. He had made fresh claim to the throne of Scotland, had attacked the Scots and given them a trouncing at Solway Moss. But the battle was not decisive. State affairs were pressing and he needed escape from them at times. For, as he often said to his friends, a king is a man for all he is a king. And he had suffered—as a man, as a husband—great sorrow.
Now, with the trees budding and the birds disturbing the royal slumbers in the early morning, so that he would awaken in his lonely bed (or if it was not lonely, it was occupied by one whose presence there disturbed his conscience), he felt that he, like the trees and flowers and grasses, was renewing his strength. As a husband, Fate had treated him cruelly. But did that mean he would never know good fortune in marriage?
The plain fact was (and, thought Henry, I am a plain man to whom facts should be plain) the King was in need of a wife.
So on this March day, when the winds seemed to penetrate the Palace of Greenwich, the King stumped up and down his Privy Chamber, while outside in the audience room several of his courtiers awaited his summons; none dared approach without it. They feared his anger. And he wanted none of them; he wished to be alone with his thoughts. Yet, because he needed a new wife, he could not shut out of his mind memories of his other wives.
Five of them! It was a good tally. François Premier, across the water, had had only two; but his mistresses were legion.
There, thought the King of England, we differ—the King of France and I. His little mouth grew prim; his little eyes were complacent. It was a habit of his to compare himself with the lecher, François. They were of an age; and love was the ruling influence in the life of the French King. Henry liked to think that kingship occupied that place in his. All knew that Madame d’Étampes ruled at the French court as once Madame de Chateaubriand had ruled.
Using his healthy leg, Henry kicked a stool out of his way. The veins stood out on his temples. The very thought of the dark, sardonic face of his enemy infuriated him at all times.
“He has no conscience,” he muttered. “And I…I am all conscience. Oh God, Thou knowest what a man of conscience I am.” The King often addressed God, addressed Him as an equal; for as the King saw himself to be always right, always obeying his conscience, he felt sure, as a man of God, of the constant approval of the Almighty.
Two wives of his had died at his command, young women both of them; and some called them martyrs. Not that any dared say such things in public…if they had any respect for their tongues, for tongues could be cut out for saying such words; and ears could be lopped off for listening to them. Henry insisted (and God must know this too, for Henry continually explained to God) that he had been reluctant to order the death of those two wives of his; but he was a good man, a man of God; he had a conscience which would not allow him to find happiness in an irregular union. It was better that a woman should die than that the King should be forced to illicit pleasure.
God understood that he was right, because the King and God saw through the same eyes. Henry was sure of that. Anne Boleyn haunted his dreams now and then, with her mocking black eyes and her clever tongue; but God had given him a sign that in the case of Anne Boleyn he had acted with wisdom and righteousness. Had not Jane Seymour, Anne’s successor, produced a son? Little Edward was now safely past his fifth year; he was the heir for whom, through the barren years with Spanish Katharine and the fiery ones with Anne Boleyn, he had longed. And Jane had given him that son. Meek little Jane. He had forgotten how quickly he had tired of her; he liked to say now: “Ah, God, if only Jane had lived, how different my life would have been!” Then he would smile and add that God doubtless had had His reasons for taking Jane. The King did not question the Almighty’s reasons, as doubtless the Almighty did not question his.
The King laughed suddenly. He had thought how angry those brothers of Jane’s must have been with her for dying when she did.
Edward Seymour was a clever fellow, taking good advantage of the fact that he was young Edward’s uncle. Full of craft…diplomatic…a good servant. As for Thomas, the King could not help liking the fellow. In Thomas he saw something of the man he himself had been—a pale shadow, of course, a very pale shadow. But that breezy air, the great oaths, and his way with the ladies! Yes, it was big, hearty men like Thomas Seymour that the King liked to have about him.
He had heard rumors of Master Thomas’s ambitions, and that he did not like so well. It was necessary to be watchful of those who were too ambitious. There was that scoundrel Norfolk and his son, Surrey—they had to be watched. They were too near the throne for comfort, and the Tudor tree was not as firmly rooted as Henry would like to see it.
That was why he needed more sons to grow up with his little Edward…sons, sons…Tudor sons to live after him and keep the throne for his house.
Marriage! That was the answer. Marriage was in the air because it was springtime. Young Seymour wanted to marry, so it was said, and he had cast his insolent eyes on the King’s own daughter, on the young Elizabeth—Anne Boleyn’s bastard. For all that she was her mother’s daughter, he could not help having a certain feeling for her. He detected some fire within her, something she had inherited from him. He pretended to doubt that
she was really his daughter. He had tried to believe she was like his old friend, poor Norris, who had gone to the block with Anne. He could feel the hot jealousy swelling in his head now when he thought of that May day when Anne had sat beside him in the tiltyard and Norris had ridden there. Although that was seven years ago he could remember it vividly. Seven years since the executioner’s sword, specially procured from Calais, had slashed Anne’s lovely head from her graceful body, yet whenever he saw the girl Elizabeth he remembered. She lacked her mother’s beauty and inimitable charm, but there was something of Anne in Elizabeth—something of Anne and something of himself. And now that rake Seymour had cast his eyes upon her.
The King had learned from his spies that if Thomas could not get the lady Elizabeth he would take the Lady Jane Grey, granddaughter of Henry’s sister Mary, whom—so long ago now—he had sent to France to marry old Louis, and who, after leading that poor old monarch such a dance that in a few months he died, had secretly married Charles Brandon before returning to England. The fruit of that marriage had been Frances Brandon, who had borne Jane.
“Elizabeth for preference then,” said young Seymour. “But if I can’t get the King’s daughter, I’ll have his kinswoman.”
Henry considered them as he could not help considering all women. Elizabeth would be the more suitable. She was ten years old; Jane was only five.
