by Jean Plaidy
Henry looked nonchalant. “Have you, then? I cannot swear that I have marked the lady’s hands.”
“Has Your Grace not done so? I am surprised at that. Methought Your Grace talked often with the lady.”
Henry smiled deprecatingly, and Katharine found that she could be faintly amused at his discomfiture. “Why, bless you, Kate,” he said, “we are over-eager to help all in our realm. The lady, being lately widowed, is in need of comfort. We did but wish to make her happy. She misses our friend Brandon, I doubt not.”
“I noticed Your Grace’s kindness to the lady. Methinks it did much to help her forget the so recent loss of her husband.”
“Then our purpose was achieved,” said Henry with familiar unctuousness. He smiled impishly at the Queen. “We need not, therefore, give too much of our time to the lady in the future. Is that what you think?”
Katharine said, with a dignity which was not lost on him, and did not in his present mood displease him: “Your Majesty can be the only judge of how and where he shall give his time.”
Henry chuckled benevolently. “We would please our Queen in this matter. By my faith, we did miss her so much, and we were so concerned for her health, that we thought we must put an end to her melancholy by telling her these things without delay.”
“Ah, Your Majesty must have suffered much.”
“Those fools!” said the King. “My bandages are ever too loose or too tight when thou dost not fix them.”
“There’s none can fix a bandage, Sire, like a loving wife.”
He nodded; but a sternness had crept into his face, and it set her shivering afresh.
His eyes narrowing, he said: “Dost still think I should give license to that translation of the Scriptures?”
Katharine’s heart had begun to beat faster.
The mask of indulgence was removed from the King’s face, and the expression of well-remembered cruelty was exposed. She wanted to live, to fulfill those dreams which she had had before the King had made her aware of his intention to make her his sixth wife.
She folded her hands across her breasts and lowered her eyes demurely. “My lord King, ’tis not the task of a woman to discuss such matters. Her place is on the footstool at her husband’s feet. I would refer this, and all other matters, to the wisdom of Your Majesty.”
The King was not to be easily put off. He was watching her shrewdly. “Not so, by St. Mary! You are become a doctor to instruct us, Kate, as we take it, and not to be instructed or directed by us.”
“Nay,” said Katharine. “You have mistaken my intentions. I know there have been times when I have been led into discourse with Your Majesty, but such was to pass the time, for well I know the pain that besets your royal body. I took an opposite view but to entertain, for, had I shown immediate agreement, then would the discourse have ended ere it had begun, and Your Majesty would have had no amusement from our talk. My one thought has been to entertain Your Grace, to do my small part in taking your mind, when possible, from your grievous pains and burdens of state. Only for such a purpose would I venture such views—not to contradict my most gracious lord, but to divert him.”
Fearfully she threw a glance in his direction. He was stroking his beard and smiling. He was pleased with her answer.
She went on: “It was true that I did hope that, by hearing Your Majesty’s most learned discourse, I might perchance receive some profit.”
The King was laughing.
“And is it even so?” he said. “Then we are perfect friends again, sweetheart.”
He sat there, smiling at her. She had pleased him. He was her friend now; and the friendly smile was soon giving place to the lecher’s leer.
“Get up from your bed and come and kiss me, Kate,” he commanded.
As she rose, she thought: I am safe for a while. The danger is past…for a time. Now the pattern will be formed again—starting from the beginning. Will it have the same ending?
He caught her and pulled her on to his knees. She closed her eyes as she felt his mouth on hers. His lips were no longer tight and prim, but slack and eager.
This, she thought, is the price of postponement.
NEXT MORNING HE sent for her to sit with him in the walled garden.
He was much better, and able to hobble with the aid of a stick.
She came, her sister and Lady Jane Grey in attendance; but he dismissed those two with a wave of his stick.
“Good morrow to you, Kate. Come sit beside me. There’s tonic in this morning air. There, there, you may come close. Don’t feign to be a modest virgin…for I know better, Kate, eh? I know better.”
He was in good spirits.
“The pain’s relieved a little. A good nurse and a good bedfellow. Well, who could do better than that? That’s good enough for a King, eh, Kate?”
He pinched her cheek.
“It is indeed gratifying to see Your Majesty in such good spirits.”
“Oh, Kate, I fear I am a sad old bear when the pains are with me. What say you?” He drew back to watch her face, and it was as though he dared her to agree with him.
“Nay,” she said; “there was never a man more patient.”
“Ah, Kate, for one who has ever been sprightly, ever active, a leader in the jousts and tourneys, it is hard to stand by and see other men excel.”
“Your Grace’s skill is well remembered and will, I dare swear, never be forgot.”
“There was not a man who could tilt against me and be the victor,” said Henry sadly. “Ah well, I am skilled in other matters, am I not, sweetheart?”
“I know it well.”
“You know it well, eh, little pig? And it pleases you! It is well that we are blessed with a faithful and obedient wife. We shall never seek to change her, Kate, while she is thus.”
“Her desire,” said Katharine, “is to please her lord in all things.”
“If she would but give me a son, I should have naught to complain of.” He sighed.
“Ah, my lord, those matters are with God.”
That had been a mistake, for his eyes had narrowed at once. But there must always be such mistakes. It was not possible always to avoid words which could conjure up pictures in his mind, pictures which it was unwise for him to see.
“I cannot understand why God should deny me a son,” he said; there was the faintest criticism in his voice, for the emphasized word was significant. He would never deny me a son, those words implied; although He denies you one.
But he was too pleased with her on this bright morning to dwell on that dismal subject; he would shelve it for a more appropriate time.
“I like to hear you say you are an obedient wife, Kate,” he said. “Forget it not.”
“Nay, my lord,” said Katharine with great earnestness. “I’ll not forget. If I live to be a hundred, I’ll not forget.”
“A hundred!” cried Henry boisterously. “Why, bless you, Kate, thou art many a long year from that great age. And, by my faith, I swear you look younger than you did the day I made you my Queen.”
He turned to her and kissed her; he fondled her throat and let his hands stray to her breasts and thighs.
“Your…Your Majesty is kind to me,” stammered Katharine.
“To be kind was ever a fault of ours, Kate.”
“A fault? I would not call it that. ’Tis a virtue, and in one so great as your august self, doubly so.”
The lecher had now been succeeded by the sentimentalist. He took his hand from her thigh and laid it on her arm. “You speak sound truth, Kate. Yet it has been our kindness…our softness, which has led many to deceive us. We have been deceived again and again in our life. By those, mark you, who had the best reason to give us their loving regard. This garden doth remind me of another…. It was at Hever Castle. A garden of roses…walled thus…a pleasant place.”
Katharine heard the note of regret and longing, the self-pity which she had heard so many times.
“By God,” he cried suddenly, “if any try deceiving tricks on u
s, they shall pay. They shall pay with their blood.”
She drew away from him. His moods followed quickly on one another this morning.
“Who would dare deceive the King?” she soothed. “Who would dare deceive a wise and tender King?”
He mumbled: “That is what we would know.” He softened again and put an arm about her shoulders. “Thou art a good woman, Kate. Thy beauty is not of the devil; it is the beauty of meadow flowers, sweet and simple, and not to drive a man to torment.” He began to kiss her and his ringed fingers caught at the neck of her gown. “Thou and I have many a merry night before us, Kate. Old age? Who dares speak of it?”
“It is years away from us, my lord.”
“And we are here, and the sun doth shine. And you are a fair woman and I love you well. You are my wife, and we will get ourselves a son, eh?”
“I trust so. Indeed, I trust so. I care not that the sun doth shine. I care only that my lord’s content doth continue to shine on me.”
“It doth, Kate, and it shall. Thou mayest rest assured of that. Thou art good to kiss, and I am man enough to do the kissing.”
He had lifted his head from her throat and, with him, Katharine heard the sound of soldiers’ marching feet.
The King stood up and shouted, but the sound of his voice was lost in the noise made by the approaching guard.
Katharine stood beside him; she could see a company of the King’s guard, and at its head marched Sir Thomas Wriothesley.
“Halt!” cried the King. “Halt there, I say. What means this? Who dares disturb the King’s peace?”
“Your Majesty…” began the Queen.
“Wait there!” commanded Henry; and he hobbled toward the Chancellor and the forty members of the Guard who had halted at his command.
Over the morning air their words came distinctly to Katharine.
“Wriothesley, you knave, what means this?”
Wriothesley ingratiatingly replied: “My lord King, I have come on your orders with forty halberdiers.”
“What means this?” cried the King. “I understand you not.” His face was purple with fury. “How darest thou disturb our peace?”
“Sire, Your Majesty’s orders. I come with forty men to arrest the Queen, and take her to the Tower. My barge is at the privy stairs.”
“Fool! Knave!” cried Henry. “Get you gone, or ’twill be you who are clapped into the Tower.”
Wriothesley, pale with confusion, yet persisted: “Can Your Majesty have forgotten? You gave the order. Your Grace signed the mandate…. To arrest the Queen at this hour…wherever she might be.”
“Get you gone from here,” screamed the King. “You fool…you arrant fool!” He lifted his stick and struck at the Chancellor, who managed, most skillfully, to avoid the blow.
“By God,” went on the King, “are you a fool, Chancellor? It would seem my lot to be surrounded by fools and knaves. Get you gone, I say. Get you gone.”
Katharine watched the discomfited Chancellor lead his men away.
The King hobbled back to her.
“He…he was disobeying Your Majesty’s command?” asked Katharine in a trembling voice.
“The man’s a fool. The man’s a knave. By God, I’ll not forget this.”
“Mayhap he thought he was obeying Your Majesty’s commands. Mayhap he thought he had Your Grace’s consent to do what he was about to do.”
Henry sat down heavily and signed to her to take her place beside him.
“Let be,” he said. “Let be.” He watched her covertly.
He does not know, she reflected, that I have seen his signature on the order for my arrest, just as Wriothesley does not know that he has changed his mind. From the bed to the scaffold is such a short step. How should Chancellor Wriothesley know that on the King’s whim I have turned about…away from the scaffold, back to the bed!
She began again: “Wriothesley…”
“Enough,” said Henry testily. “I command thee not to speak of that knave.”
“Your Majesty will pardon me, but I thought you regarded him as a good servant. Mayhap Your Majesty will not feel too hard toward him, since he has failed to interpret your wishes on this day.”
Henry, being ignorant of her understanding of this matter and not imagining that she could possibly know that he had signed a mandate for her arrest which should be her death warrant, looked at her pityingly.
“Do not defend Wriothesley,” he said. “Poor soul, poor Kate, you do not know how little he deserves grace at your hands. Come, Kate, enough of this man. You and I have more pleasant matters with which to occupy ourselves.”
His hands were caressing her. She was once more his sweetheart, his little pig.
By a miracle, it seemed, she had been saved from death. But was she saved, or had Death merely receded a pace or two?
CHAPTER
V
DURING THAT AUGUST AND SEPTEMBER THE KING made the progress, from palace to palace, which had been a habit of his. From Westminster the court went in state along the river to Hampton Court; and after a brief stay at that palace they made the journeys to Oatlands, Woking, Guildford, Chobham and Windsor.
But when the court had reached Windsor it was seen that this last journey had greatly taxed Henry’s strength; and those whom his death would most affect watched him—and each other—with speculation.
Those who had hitherto behaved with the utmost obsequiousness became arrogant. Lord Hertford and Lord Lisle were back from their duties in France, and they were making preparations to rule through the boy King in whom they had instilled a strong appreciation of the new learning. Sir Thomas Seymour was on the alert; his brother was a great statesman and power in the land, but Thomas was the man whom the King-to-be loved more than any other. Cranmer, beloved of the King, was with these men, and they made a powerful party.
On the Catholic side was the Duke of Norfolk and his son Surrey, together with Gardiner, Wriothesley and their supporters.
Now that the King felt death to be near, he knew great anxiety for the future of his House which would have only a young boy at its head. One look from his bloodshot eyes, one gesture, could still strike terror into those about him. After all, he could still wield a pen; he could still sign a death warrant. Callous and brutal as he was, he had to deal with men who lacked his callous brutality, largely because they lacked his vitality. If he was a sick lion, he was still a lion. He was a ruler of men, even now as he lay in his bed, or sat painfully in his chair of state, or hobbled about on his stick, or was conveyed about the palace in that wheeled contrivance which had had to be made for him.
He made his will. Wisely he decided that the council of ministers, who should comprise the Protectorate during the little King’s minority, should be equally balanced by the two parties. Henry was confident that his wishes would be obeyed; he was enough of a King to rule after death.
The people were with him. They were his strength. They had always been with him from the days when he, as a pink and white boy, had ridden among them and sought their applause. It had been his policy to remove the dangerous influential nobles and placate the mob. The people believed that he had freed them from the tyranny of the Pope. The state had taken precedence over the church, and that appealed to the unemotional English as it was done under a cloak of piety. Terrible suffering had been witnessed in the cities: burnings, hangings, beheadings and the most horrible death accorded to traitors; there had been much bloodshed. But on the Continent of Europe the bloodshed had been more fierce; and bloodshed there must be, it seemed, when a new religion was born.
The King was still King and would remain the master of his subjects after death. His word was law and would remain so.
But those turbulent men about the throne were tensely waiting. Tempers ran high and men were reckless.
One November day, Protestant Lord Lisle, during a Council meeting, struck Gardiner in the face. Lisle was banished from the Council.
To be set against this was the fact that
Gardiner had been in disgrace with the King ever since Katharine had come so near to being arrested. The King, characteristically, blamed Gardiner for that affair, for he had convinced himself that he had had no intention of allowing Katharine to be removed, and the whole plot had been devised by the Bishop.
The disgrace of Gardiner and the banishment of Lisle kept that balance of power which Wolsey had taught the King was always desirable. A great Reformer and a great Catholic were both in disgrace.
Gardiner tried to regain his position with an offer of money which could be extorted from the clergy. Henry was pleased to receive the money, but refused to reinstate the Bishop; and so Gardiner continued in disgrace. For, concluded the King, he is a man who tried to poison our mind against the innocent Queen! So Gardiner received nothing but scowls from his master. It was unfortunate for him, but that was what so often happened to those who served the King.
Those were anxious days for all, but with the coming of November, the King’s health began to improve a little. There was feasting and revelry at court, and at a certain banquet Henry’s eyes alighted on a fair lady of the Queen’s household. It seemed to him once more that it was a pitiable thing when a man such as he was—a mighty King, a great ruler—had but one legitimate son to follow him.
Surely there must be some truth in those accusations which some of his ministers had tried to bring. Had Gardiner been so wrong when he had plotted against the Queen? Was the barren Katharine a heretic at heart?
DURING THOSE WEEKS of tension, the manners of the Earl of Surrey became insufferable by those whom he chose to consider his enemies; the chief of these was Edward Seymour, Lord Hertford.
Surrey hated the Seymours more than he hated any, and in particular he hated the elder brother. Reckless Surrey, that elegant poet, was no clever statesman as Hertford had proved himself to be. Surrey had been born to a high place in the realm; Edward Seymour had fought for his place. Surrey was proud and foolish, and Edward Seymour was one of the most astute men in the Kingdom. That was why Henry had removed the Earl of Surrey from his post in the garrisoned French towns, to which his conduct had done no good service, in order to replace him by the clever elder Seymour.
