Katherine the Martyr

by Leigh Jenkins

  “Yes,” I asked, the anger still coming through my voice.

  “It is the outer wall of Boulogne, sir,” the man said, breathing heavily.

  “What is it?” I demanded, wanting any news on the town we had been besieging now for a fortnight. Obviously pleased, the man turned a grin up at me.

  “It’s fallen.”

  Chapter Six

  August, 1544

  With the outer walls fallen, it was only a matter of time before Boulogne itself crumbled before us and we were allowed entry. For the first time in weeks I found myself in a bed in the best house that could be found—nothing compared to my usual palaces back in England, but certainly more comfortable than what I had been enduring. For three days and three nights the local cellars were opened and my men, those not on patrol, became drunk on their own success.

  Charles Heneage, my secretary, and I took pains to not listen to the carousing that happened beyond the two small windows of my chamber. Years ago I would have been out amongst them, Charles and a slew of other gentlemen by my side, taking pleasure in the victory as well. But now most of those other gentlemen had betrayed me and were now far gone.

  It was not until the wine ran out that the ruckus died down and I was able to sleep. Finally, five days after sending the messenger boy back toward England, I received the letter the queen had originally sent me regarding Lennox.

  “Send for Charles Brandon,” I ordered a page, one of only two boys awake to attend me so early in the morning. Back home it would be nothing to spare one of them; there would be another dozen to wait on me. Despite the luxury of a bed, we were still an army on campaign and I did not have my usual retinue.

  The older boy who remained behind worked as best as he could, holding my jacket and fastening buttons with a quick ease. As my secretary stumbled into my room, obviously barely awake, I tried to remember how long this page boy had been in my attendance. It was impossible for me to say.

  “Your Majesty?” my secretary asked with a sleepy air, one of which he immediately tried to shake off.

  “The queen’s letter arrived,” I said, nodding my head to where the messenger had left it. The young man began to move toward it eagerly, then checked himself. As always, I wondered who was paying him what for information about me and my correspondence. But I was doubtful I had had a truly loyal secretary in the past fifteen years. Watching him open the letter, I waved for him to move to his seat behind the desk.

  “His Grace, the Duke of Suffolk,” announced the same young page boy who had been sent to fetch him. I had to smile at his attempt at formality and nodded my good morning to Brandon.

  “Good morning, Your Majesty,” Brandon said, sweeping into a deep bow. He came across as better prepared than my secretary, despite the dark circles under his eyes.

  Finally, the page boy finished dressing me and Brandon and I moved together toward the small wooden chairs that flanked the small desk my secretary sat hunched at.

  “Read,” I commanded with a sweep of my hand, and sat back.

  “Your Majesty,” the secretary began, his voice much clearer than before. “I send you glad tidings, and my prayers that your campaign continues swiftly. In response to your last letter, I have kept the Lady Elizabeth here at court with me, overseeing her education personally. She is a bright girl and a credit to you.

  “I have also taken the liberty of sending the Earl of Lennox north to Scotland to meet with his cousin, who sits among the Scottish lords. The Duke of Norfolk has made some small inroads into Scotland, and it was thought best that someone loyal to us be in a position to talk with the Scots. His wife, Lady Margaret Douglas, remains here with me. I am pleased to pass along that she is showing all the signs of being with child.”

  I waved off the young man; that was the crux of the matter. Glancing over at Brandon, I saw the same startled expression on his face. The queen had sent a man to talk with the Scots about peace, without consulting me. Also, she now held his wife and possible unborn child as hostage.

  “It is …” Brandon began, but trailed off shaking his head.

  “It is brilliant,” I finally said for him. “However, obviously Lennox cares less for the Lady Margaret Douglas and his unborn child than the queen thought he would. He was not sent to take the reins of government, but to speak — discreetly — of peace. And that was ill-advised.”

  “Yes,” Brandon allowed. “But it still does not answer what exactly he has done or why.”

  Leaning forward, I buried my face in my hands, ignoring the ominous creek of the chair I was sitting in. This furniture was not built for kings and would not hold up much longer.

  “Call the messenger back,” I finally said, snapping towards one of my page boys. Once again the youngest nodded, then disappeared around the corner.

  “I must know where the Duke of Norfolk is,” I said to Brandon, who nodded as the sense.

  Silence overtook the chamber for a moment before my secretary spoke up.

  “Your Majesty … did you care to hear the rest of the letter?”

  The young man rarely said anything to me that was not a ‘yes your majesty’ or ‘no your majesty,’ so it took a moment before I felt I could answer.

  “Yes, continue,” I said, sensing he had already read the rest anyways.

  “So far, the Lady Mary has remained here with me as well, and is the chief companion to the Lady Margaret. It has been mentioned that with the war in Scotland and the war in France both being costly, Parliament may be called into session; that money will have to be raised. I thought it best to keep the Lady Mary close by, so that she may accompany if I am required to open Parliament. The Lady Elizabeth could also play a part if needed.”

  Next to me, Brandon barely stifled a groan.

  “Chancellor Wriothesley still refuses to meet with me over this matter, so if I have not heard from you on this matter by the end of progress, I will act as I believe fitting. I hope that I have your blessing, as you have mine. Queen Katherine.”

  Feeling as if I had tumbled from my horse and been winded, I grasped the edge of the desk and pushed myself to my feet. Immediately I heard the scrape of chairs as Brandon and my secretary rose as well, but before I could take a step, I fell back into the chair, the ornate groves of the back digging into my side.

  “Your Majesty, the messenger from this morning,” my page boy suddenly announced, not realizing the spell he was breaking. Shaking my head, I motioned for the young man to step toward me. I realized quickly it was not the same boy as before and could only pray that this one was as quick-witted.

  “Quickly, where has the Queen traveled on progress?” I asked.

  “She has gone west this year,” the boy answered promptly.

  “When is she expected to return to London?”

  “Not until the middle of September, I believe.”

  Feeling some of my senses return, I took a deep breath. There was time to write to her, to stop her from this foolish plan of opening Parliament with only my two bastard daughters by her side. I turned to my secretary but he had already hopped back on his stool and was nodding his head.

  “Yes, write to her and tell her not to open Parliament,” I ordered, then thought for a moment. Turning back to the messenger, who was now trying to discreetly wipe crumbs from his shirt, I waved my hand.

  “What news of the Duke of Norfolk?”

  The boy bit his lip, obviously trying to remember.

  “He was outside Swinton last anyone in London heard.”

  Halfway to Edinburgh then. But still no guarantee of success.

  “And the Earl of Lennox?” Brandon asked hesitantly.

  “The talk of the court!” the boy exclaimed. “He is still in power in Scotland, but no one knows what he plans.”

  “But the armies of Scotland still fight the Duke of Norfolk?” I pressed.

  The boy hesitated again.

  “I believe so,” he finally said.

  Brandon looked at me.

  “There
is no guarantee that the armies know what is happening in the capital. Or that whoever is controlling the Scottish government can even control some of the southern clans, who may continue fighting the duke on principle.”

  This was all true. The Scots had never been anything but unpredictable. And could hardly be called a cohesive force.

  Waving toward my secretary, I quickly made up my mind.

  “Add to this that myself and my escorts will be leaving France and returning to London within the fortnight. I will meet the queen at Windsor Castle. She is not to write to Lennox, or send any one else north. Nor should she open Parliament!”

  Despite my harsh words, my secretary smiled, nodding as he quickly scribbled out my letter. For a while there was nothing but the scratching of paper as he wrote, the rest of the room standing in bated silence while I waited for him to finish. As he began to sprinkle sand across the paper, I stood and moved behind him to quickly read what he wrote. Nodding my assent, he affixed my seal to the bottom and handed it over to the messenger.

  “Finish your breakfast, then return to England with this immediately,” I ordered him before turning to Brandon.

  He was looking up at me through exhausted eyes as he leaned over the back of his chair, both hands gripping the sides.

  “Well my friend,” I said. “Are you ready to return home?”

  ****

  It took so much less effort to leave a campaign than to start one. For one, I was not bringing the troops home; they would remain behind, holding Boulogne under men less noble but more capable than had ever led an army of mine before. They were ordered to move onto Amiens, and thus be closer to Paris, if possible, but I held little hope of this — the battle season was about over.

  No more than twenty men, including Sir Heneage, my secretary, and Charles Brandon, accompanied me back across the Channel. I had never before crossed those waters with so few beside me. In some ways there was a peace about this, not having to worry about the needs of thousands of men, of the great bulk that followed the court the two times we had traveled to Calais to meet with the French king. Years ago, earlier in my reign, back before he showed how feckless a king he could be.

  But thinking of the earlier days, of traveling with Katherine, and then the witch Anne Boleyn, across the Channel did nothing but weary me, and rather than stay above for the smooth sailing, I went to the small bunk provided for me below. Since my return had been on such short notice, there were no ships of ours, or any royal ships for hire. Our navy was tied up in Southern France and any ship that might have been suitable remained in Dover. I wanted no delay while it was fetched. We instead traveled on a simple ship, one that made this journey every day.

  The gentle rolling of the waves put me to sleep in a way that I had not experienced since leaving home so many weeks before. Before I knew it, my youngest page boy was shuffling his feet before us and I could hear the boat knocking against the dock, a terrible sound that made it seem as if both the boat and dock would split in two.

  “We have arrived, Your Majesty,” the boy said, his voice low; he looked afraid to even be speaking at all. I nodded, pushing my arms below me to rise up. I paused for a moment. My vision swam before me, as it now so often did when I woke. After a moment I shook my head and the boy took a tentative step toward me, taking my right arm and helping me to my feet. The boat rocked as we stood and we both staggered to the side.

  “By St. George, get me off of this thing,” I muttered, and he nodded. Together we lurched toward the small passage and, by scuttling sideways, we managed to make it up to the deck with him still holding my arm steady.

  It was still a bright day, and the spray of the sea as we moved onto the dock did more to wake me. My small entourage stood along the dock, Charles Brandon at its head. He had a small smile for me as we began to walk toward the horses waiting at the end of the dock for us.

  “A moment,” I said, holding my hand up once we reached land. “We must regain our land legs.”

  The men all laughed, thinking it a jest. We had not been at sea for more than a few hours. But as Charles chuckled with them, I noticed he moved closer to me. He saw how unsteady I still felt, how the world below my feet swayed first one way and then the other. Clasping his hand on my back, he waved aside the page boy.

  “Shall we walk along the sea?” he asked. “I heard gazing at the horizon does wonders.”

  I nodded and allowed us to move, his hand still on my shoulder, in a move more familiar than we usually shared before others. A quick glance at the page boy saw his eyes grow wide with this familiarity, but he said nothing, only dropped back among the others.

  “Are you well, Your Majesty?” Charles said, his voice low, so as to not carry back.

  “I cannot get my feet under me,” I answered. “It feels as though I have been at sea for days.”

  Charles shrugged, but I doubt he was as carefree as he affected. “I hear that sleeping can make it worse. It will take you only a moment to regain your balance.”

  In truth it took me almost an hour to feel ready to ride my horse, most of that time spent pacing the shoreline with Charles beside me, his hand still resting on my shoulder. As one of the few men who was the same height as me, he was well suited for the task. Though I realized quickly, if I were to fall, as a man nearing sixty years, he would not be a good choice to catch me.

  Fortunately no catch was needed and we were finally able to mount the horses and begin the ride back to Windsor. There had been no delays in the sailing or on the road, so we would easily return to Windsor before the queen. The youngest page boy was sent ahead, once again, to tell of our arrival so that the palace could be well organized for me. I briefly wondered if this young boy ever resented being the one who was constantly sent ahead, or asked to fetch, but then I saw his bright smile and knew that his youth found movement exhilarating still, and not a burden.

  Exhilaration was a feeling I had lost many years ago.

  Chapter Seven

  September, 1544

  “Her Majesty, the Queen!”

  I had debated — silently, alone, as I debated every issue that came before me — about greeting Katherine in private. We had been apart for months, and despite my irritations with her, I had missed my queen. She was a steady presence, and a good influence on my daughters. But then I would remember her plan to open Parliament while I was not even in my own country, and I would feel a flare of anger I had trouble controlling. In the end, it was more for my benefit that I chose to first greet her in public. I was less likely to lose my temper in public and any rift with my queen would immediately be picked up and reported about across the continent. And a simple spat between a royal couple could echo across the Channel and have terrible consequences — I knew this from experience.

  Katherine looked well. Her eyes were bright and she had a beautiful blush across her cheeks. I could see her hair, sleek under her gabled hood, with no sign of gray amongst the brown. Her pink gown contributed to the youthfulness she exuded. Slightly behind her my daughter Mary, though years younger, looked like she could be her mother. With her face pinched, her deep red gown did more to age her than flatter her.

  Stopping before my throne, Katherine dropped into a deep curtsey, deeper than was called for from my queen, and remained down until I motioned for her to rise.

  “Your Majesty,” she said, smiling at me warmly. “I am so pleased to have you return to me and to your place among us. I am so thankful for your safe return that means that the burden of ruling England has passed from my feeble hands, back to you who, anointed by God, knows best how to lead our great land.”

  Despite knowing it was a speech meant to flatter, I could not help the surge of pride that flowed through me. I allowed a smile to fall across my face, and pushed against the sturdy throne behind me to rise to my feet. Spreading my arms before me, I stepped down to where Katherine still stood, a kind smile on her face.

  “Sweetheart,” I said warmly, embracing her before the court, ki
ssing both of her cheeks. I would have liked to kiss her fully, but she pulled back to sink into another curtsey. But with her pretty words still in my mind, I found it hard to be angry with her.

  “Come, join me,” I continued, gesturing to her throne. She mounted the dais just behind me, and sat just a moment after I did. Mary moved swiftly to stand behind her stepmother’s chair. I noticed my daughter’s cool greeting of me, but a quick glance around the presence chamber showed that I was the only one to see this. Nothing but smiling faces, courtiers’ faces, looked back at me.

  The rest of the afternoon was quickly filled with complaining courtiers, petitions without number, and a flowery speech from a minor marquis from up north that did more to annoy than inform.

  Feeling my shoulders sag with every bow, my eyes droop with every plea, I had to concede that returning to court was just as exhausting as being on campaign. It was not until I spied the sun beginning to set behind the trees through the narrow windows on the far wall that I felt able to wave my hand.

  “We will hear no more today,” I decreed. Rising to my feet, Katherine and Mary scrambled to do the same. A glance at my wife showed that she did not feel the same weariness that I felt at these proceedings and a surge of irritation flowed through me. She was not better suited for the throne than I, no one was better suited for the throne than I. Perhaps she was merely better at hiding her discomfort.

  And I was, of course, still tired from my journey. Perhaps that was all.

  The court moved, evidently believing we were going to supper, but I instead walked toward my inner chambers, motioning for my wife and daughter to follow. The crowd before us still parted, but with a slight confusion and murmur, tripping over their own long capes that swept the ground. At the very least, the rushes on the floor still smelled sweet and fresh. Moving as swiftly as I could, I brushed past the inept courtiers and into the smaller room, moving directly to the great wooden chair before the fire.

  “Stoke it up,” I said, dropping my body into the chair that creaked with every movement I made. Startled, the young page boy moved forward and poked the dying embers of the fire. Despite the heat of the day, my bones felt chilled. By the door I noticed both Katherine and Mary hesitating, if they were dismayed by the fire or my presence, I did not know or care. With a wave of my hand I motioned for them both to take the stools across from me.