Katherine the Martyr
The Six Lives of Henry VIII
Leigh Jenkins
Prologue
November, 1541
Despite the chill in the air, I felt my heart soaring as I headed for mass. Today was to be a day of honor for my queen, my perfect wife. Kitty had proved the best wife I could have asked for, young and energetic. Always willing to please, both at court and in bed. My fiftieth year was impending, but I had never felt more vigorous.
I approached my private chapel, where I could sit during the mass of special Thanksgiving that had been composed for Kitty. Similar masses would be said across England today, praising my rose without a thorn.
Settling myself into the large chair, I looked across the chapel to see Kitty kneeling in her own box, her ladies giggling as they arranged their dresses beside her. Even I often forgot to call her by her proper name — Kathryn. To most, she was a giggled “Your Majesty” or “Queen Kitty.” My bride kept a young court that could be wild at times, but which brought much needed life back into my palace. I smiled at her, noticing that her gaze strayed toward me and my gentlemen.
The familiar Latin of the mass began to wash over me, and I had to be helped up when we were called to stand. I could hear the door to my chapel open and close; though the person was trying to be silent, they failed. I would have to collect their name from my guards at the end of the service. No one should have been late today.
When I sat back down I found that the latecomer had left an envelope on the seat beside me. Curious, I reached for it, but it fluttered to the ground and just out of my reach. With my increasing bulk, I would find it difficult to lean over and pick it up.
“Your Majesty,” one of my gentlemen, Thomas Culpepper, whispered. He reached down and snatched the note, handing it to me with his usual grin. I nodded a quick thanks and he faded back against the wall once again.
Breaking the seal, I frowned; it was unusual for a letter to be sent to me in such a manner. It was likely nothing more than a unique bid for favors, filled with a plea for help from one of my many courtiers.
But the moment I opened it I could tell it was no such thing. My gaze had wandered down immediately to take in the signature of Thomas Cranmer, my Archbishop of Canterbury and the highest ranking member of the Church of England. We met daily to discuss the business of the realm; what could he possibly have to say to me in what looked like a hastily completed letter?
Before I could read the scrawl on the paper, the time for Kitty’s part of the celebration came. I stood, placing the letter inside my jacket to be read later. Before me, my dark-haired wife was smiling, her eyes darting across the small crowd as the bishop blessed her. The crowd then turned to me and I stepped forward, speaking loud enough to be heard by all.
“I render thanks to Thee, O Lord, that after so many strange accidents that have befallen my marriages, Thou hast been pleased to give me a wife so entirely conformed to my inclinations as her I now have.”
Similar words would be said across the country today, and before me Kitty preened with pride.
The rest of the service was concluded swiftly, and I, unusually, waited until Kitty passed me on her way to her chambers.
“Hello wife,“ I said, stepping toward her. The ladies about her shrank back, but not without a giggle.
“Hello, my dear husband,” she said, pressing forward into the side of my jacket. My arm slipped around her.
“Are you well pleased?” I asked, nodding to the chapel.
“Oh yes,” she said, allowing her eyes to cut up to mine. Eyes that always promised pleasure later that night.
“Then I am pleased,” I responded, stepping back, allowing her to pass. “Do you have entertainments planned for today?”
“Yes,” she nodded. “The musicians should already be in my room, preparing to play. We will have dancing.”
“I will join you then,” I promised, nodding as she curtseyed before sweeping away.
Retiring to my chambers, I recalled the letter and pulled it out, deciding to read it before going to Kitty’s rooms. As I squinted at the paper, reading the careful scrawl of my archbishop, my legs grew heavier and heavier, until finally I staggered and landed in a chair by the fire. Even as my two young page boys rushed over to see what was wrong, I did not stop reading, the dread in my stomach growing until I felt I could hardly breathe.
Finishing the letter, I glanced up to the astonished faces of my pages. The face that turned to them was not the king they had seen striding off to mass that morning. It was not even the face of the king that had entered this room, planning to dance with his young wife that afternoon. It was the face of an old man, of a king who had lived for too long and been betrayed too often.
Both boys shrunk from me, and I raised a hand to call them back to my side.
“Go, fetch Archbishop Cranmer at once.”
The boys shared a look before both tearing away, all but fleeing my presence in an effort to do my bidding. The shock still washing over me, I sat back in my chair. The archbishop would have much to explain.
For it seemed my rose had a few thorns after all.
Chapter One
July, 1543
It had taken me a year and a half to recover enough to love again. To forget the betrayal of the traitorous woman, Kitty Howard, who had tried to become my wife even while bedding a gentleman of my chambers. Her death, and the deaths of her lovers, had done little to end my suffering.
But it would not do to think of that today. Today, when I stood in the queen’s closet and — for the sixth time — said the sacred marriage vows. I prayed fervently, as did my entire court, that my wife would be true to me this time. That, unlike so many other women, this woman would be pure of heart and lack any deceit.
Of course, Katherine Parr was old by anyone’s standards; she had seen more than thirty summers, and was twice widowed. But a more virtuous woman could not be found in my court. She was so unlike my previous choice, another Kathryn, that I could safely put my previous disaster to rest. No taste of scandal could darken Katherine Parr’s door; no secrets would come pouring out after only a year of marriage. My Privy Council had made sure of that.
Behind us, in a dark green gown that mirrored Katherine’s own, stood Anne of Cleves. More than three years ago, she had stood here next to me, stumbling over the marriage vows in her heavily accented English. Now she stood behind us, honored at court as my most loyal sister. She, who had come to the shores a Lutheran, had utterly set aside her family’s foolish beliefs and joined my Church of England. My spies in her household had nothing to report back to me — she had done everything she could to conform to our ways completely.
As the marriage ceremony drew to a close, Katherine began to fidget slightly next to me. Her dark hair was loose down her back, resting over the green gown that she had first worn last winter, so soon after her husband, John Neville, had died. When my attention had first been drawn to her as a possible bride.
It was true that she had done nothing to encourage me. Indeed, she had instead first shown favor to Thomas Seymour, younger brother to my late wife, Queen Jane. However, this is a man that I know. I have watched him grow from a greedy young boy to a spoiled young man, and finally to a desperately indebted member of my court. This was not a man who would love Katherine like I would — it was a man who would only marry her for her widow’s fortune and then bed any whore he could find the moment she would show signs of carrying his child.
Something she would not need to concern herself with as my queen. As my queen, she would have all that she desired and be most comfortable during her confinement as she gave birth to a royal son. This I also prayed fervently for.
At last the ceremony was o
ver, and both Katherine and I stood to exit the chambers. Beside me, two page boys stepped forward for me to lean on as I stood, the youngest one grunting slightly as I bore down on him. The older one shot him a nasty look, but I did not reprimand him. To do so would only call attention to his faux pas.
As we turned to the doors, they were thrown open to the waiting crowd beyond. I held out my arm, which Katherine took with grace, and we exited to the cheers and congratulations of the court.
“To dinner,” I ordered, and my oldest friend, Charles Brandon, the Duke of Suffolk, held out his hand to Anne of Cleves, and began the procession behind us to the great hall. I let my eyes glance behind to see my niece Margaret Douglas demurely take the arm of Katherine’s brother, Lord William Parr. I released a sigh I did not realize I had been holding — my niece had twice attempted to marry a commoner. I had beheaded one of her lovers beheaded; the other escaped into exile. It would do the girl no good to once again be carried off by her fierce romantic tendencies.
Katherine and I sat on the dais at the end of the hall, facing out at the other long tables that ran lengthwise down the hall. Only a select few sat with us at the upper table, watching the rest of the court dine.
It was not until the trays of meat from the second course had been cleared away that I noticed the Bishop of Winchester, Stephen Gardiner, moodily picking over the roasted pork. He was seated as far down the row of diners as he dared, his back to the queen. He seemed to be whispering intently to the man on his left. The man’s name escaped me, though his face was frustratingly familiar.
“Charles,” I said, leaning slightly past Margaret Douglas to talk to my friend and courtier. “Who is the man conversing with Bishop Gardiner?”
Charles narrowed his eyes, eyes that were now pinched with age, and glanced down the hall.
“No good,” he answered, his gruff voice low with embarrassment. “I can’t see him.”
I sighed, pulling a succulent piece of duck off the bone and taking a large bite.
“He is of dark hair, and wears the ranking of earl,” I said after I had swallowed down most of the meat.
Beside me Margaret fidgeted, but was careful not to draw away from me.
“There are many earls of dark hair,” Charles said finally. “What is his height?”
“He is sitting,” I shot back. “It is entirely impossible for me to tell.”
“Well, his face?” Charles demanded.
“Is in profile, and looks sharp.”
Charles mulled over that as our ale cups were refilled. Lady Margaret held out her hand, indicating she would take no more.
“Is it not William Parr?” Charles asked.
“I know William Parr,” I snapped. “For he is now my brother-in-law, and sitting on the other side of Lady Anne. Besides he is not an earl. Not yet.”
Charles bit his lips and I realized then he had been teasing me. I growled.
“It is no small thing,” I hissed, and the grin was wiped from his face at once. For though he had retained his memory, his loss of eyesight was painful to him. My inability to recall the simple names of my courtiers plagued me.
“Is it Wriothesly, Earl of Southampton?” he finally said.
“Southampton!” I cried out, for that was exactly who it was, but my voice was too loud and the man jerked up and out of his chair, running to kneel before me.
“Your Majesty called?” he asked, breathless from his dash.
On the other side of Margaret, Charles was having a hard time keeping his laughter in check.
“I — simply wished to enquire after your health,” I finally said lamely. But this did not bother the man, who I could now see sported a beard lighter than his darker hair. Odd.
“It is most excellent, Your Majesty,” he said, refusing to rise before me.
“Very good,” I responded. “You may give your compliments to her Majesty.”
Katherine smiled a tight-lipped grimace at me, holding out her hand to the man who still stayed bowed before me. An uncomfortable silence grew until finally he seemed to rouse himself and went over to barely kiss the queen’s hand.
I waved my hand, allowing him to scurry back to Bishop Gardiner, and glanced over at Charles, who had ceased laughing.
The look on his face told me all that he was thinking — that the earl had not wanted to pay homage to his new queen.
The only question was, why?
****
Southampton’s odd behavior aside, the day passed peacefully and Katherine settled into the queen’s room with little fuss. It wasn’t until a week later that she appeared in my chambers before dinner, kneeling before me in a new gown trimmed with ermine, her luscious dark hair pulled tight back under a large hood sewn with pearls.
“My sweetheart?” I asked, reaching out to help her rise. She let me guide her up and smiled. My well-practiced grin took my face, though my mind was whirling with what she would need to ask me in front of the entire court. That morning she had said nothing unusual as I had risen from her bed.
“I wished to ask Your Majesty’s permission to bring my stepdaughter to court.”
“Your stepdaughters?” I asked, frowning. None of my children had been at court much since Kitty Howard had — since that time.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” she said, bobbing down slightly. The smile on her face never wavered. “Lady Tyrwhitt, my stepdaughter from my previous marriage.”
Relief flooded through me. My oldest daughter, Lady Mary, had not trusted Kitty Howard and her small time at the court with her had been tense. Besides, Mary had a thirst to be married, but it was impossible to find a man who would take her — my daughter who had once been a princess of the blood and was now simply another bastard. No prince would consider her, to marry her to a nobleman would make him over-important in my kingdom. My solution for her was not yet clear.
My other daughter, Elizabeth, was even more difficult than Mary. It was her mother, Anne Boleyn, who had ensnared me with witchcraft and had ended her days by the sword of a French executioner. Some even said that Elizabeth was not my child, but the child of Anne’s musician. However Elizabeth’s red hair — so like mine — made that hard to believe.
I had no desire to see either of these girls, who always bowed down so low to me and looked up at me with such hope mixed with fear. To see them was to remember their mothers, two women who had both ill-served me. Together, their mothers had taken my youth.
“Lady Tyrwhitt would be most welcome in your household,” I said, nodding. Katherine smiled at me, nodding.
“I thank Your Majesty for the gift,” she said, before stepping forward slightly, resting her hand on my arm.
“I will give Your Majesty time before asking for the company of my other two daughters.”
She stepped back, bobbed down into a curtsey, and then swept away before I could respond. Immediately my anxiety had returned, but I dared not let it show on my face. To be frightened of my daughters’ presence was ridiculous. Besides, only I could allow them to court. Katherine had no right to invite them without my express permission.
Feeling confident once again, I continued on to where the Privy Council was meeting. Katherine had delayed me and I knew the men there had been standing and waiting for me. As soon as I was announced into the room, all forty members swept into elegant bows, keeping their heads down until I reached my large chair at the head of the table. Usually I would only meet with a handful of these men to discuss matters, but today evidence was to be shown against a dozen men from York who had been found with heretical books. The Council had worked hard to find if these men had kept the books to themselves, or if they had been teaching the words of Martin Luther to my unsuspecting subjects.
“Your Majesty,” began Bishop Gardiner, who had led the investigation. “Before you is the evidence against the men who had been kept in the Tower this past month. All twelve men had confessed to not only reading the books that have been banned by Your Majesty, but attempting to teach these books to
others. I recommend immediate execution by burning.”
I frowned, leaning forward to read over the documents. Before I could take in the first book, the man sitting across from Gardiner cleared his throat.
“Your Majesty, I have here three written confessions that these men did not preach what was written in those books, and that three of them had never even seen such books. These confessions are from the men who the bishop sent to raid their homes, saying that these gentlemen’s names were added to the list of accused later, only after they attempted to intervene for their neighbors.”
On my left, Bishop Gardiner made a low growling noise, his black hair shaking about his face like a lion’s mane. The thin mustache that defined his wide face twitched comically.
“Perhaps Lord Hertford would like to explain why he is only now bringing this to Bishop Gardiner’s attention?” Lord Wriothesley asked from beside Gardiner.
“Because it was only brought to me this morning,” Lord Hertford responded smoothly. “As it was nearly impossible to find these men that had been sent across the Channel to Calais. And certainly impossible to talk to the twelve men you’ve had on the rack for the last month.”
Though it was no secret that these men had been tortured, the room broke out in anger at Hertford’s words. Amongst all this, Hertford sat back smugly, his long beard stretching out his already narrow face. Hertford, Thomas Seymour’s older brother and thus also my brother-in-law from my marriage to Queen Jane, had never been one to laugh much. But I could tell he was enjoying himself now.
“It seems there is more to this than I expected,” I said after a moment, my voice causing the chamber to fall silent. I reached my hand forward, taking the documents from Hertford. As he had said, they were confessions from three men who had said to be in the raiding party. A quick glance at the evidence Gardiner had provided me, showed that these men had been listed as ones who had traveled to York in order to find evidence of heresy.
I shook my head. “These will have to be studied,” I said, pushing the pile of papers to my left. Bishop Gardiner, his face now red, leaned toward me to argue at the same moment that Lord Hertford began pointing to his own documents. Their voices clashed together, causing the rest of the table to break out into arguments all the way down.
Katherine the Martyr Page 1
