Katherine the Martyr

by Leigh Jenkins

  Silence followed that statement, and then he nodded.

  “Perhaps your father would not have said it,” Brandon finally admitted. Even more than forty years could not erase from our memories how hard my father and grandmother had been. “But he would have thought it. And no matter what, it still holds true.”

  I no longer argued with him about it, but some of my doubt must have still shown on my face, for Brandon shifted forward and placed his hand on my shoulder. His dark eyes bore into mine and his face took on a seriousness I rarely saw on my good friend. Lips twisting into a small smile he gave a small shake of his head.

  “You have been remarkable, Harry.”

  Chapter Nine

  November, 1544

  There had been little to say after that, and I had sunk into an exhausted sleep, Brandon still in the secretary’s chair watching over me. The next morning I was awoken by the sounds of the court outside one of the narrow windows and I peered at it, wondering how it had blown open during the night.

  “Close the window,” I ordered, my voice weak from sleep, and it took a few moments of blinking to realize there was no page boy to leap up and attend me.

  “Charles,” I said, my voice a bit stronger, ineffectually waving my hand toward him. But still he slumbered on, his head painfully lulling on his shoulder. I did not envy him a sore neck when he awoke.

  I considered calling out for a page boy to enter, but would have to bellow with more strength than I currently possessed to make myself heard through the thick oak door. In hindsight it had been foolish for us to remain in here without any assistance, but there was little I could do about that now. It took a few good heaves and a roll, but I managed to get myself to the edge of the bed.

  The curtains felt damp between my fingers, and I wondered how cold it had gotten last night, even with the fire that still glowed in the fireplace. Using the curtains on either side of me, I heaved to my feet. Though a few of the rings holding the right drape in place popped, it still held long enough for me to get to my feet.

  My right leg gave a lurch; it still was not prepared for my full weight. Holding onto first the table, and then two tapestries along the wall, I hobbled over to the window and grasped the latch, pulling it toward me. It slipped out of my hands, banging hard against the stone wall, but fortunately not breaking. With a curse under my breath, I pulled the window once more and managed to latch it. As I pushed myself back toward the bed, I realized this was probably the first time in years I had closed my own window. In fact, I could not remember the last time I had done so.

  “You have dodged a task,” I said to my still sleeping friend, making it to his chair. “But it is time to wake Charles. As I have told you, there is much to do today.”

  My hand touched his shoulder, and I immediately staggered as his body pitched forward, landing against my bed.

  “Charles?” I asked again, moving toward him, collapsing onto my feet by his side.

  But when my hand reached out for him again, I realized what had eluded me before. With a horror, I pushed myself away but my bulk kept me from escaping and I merely managed to push myself into the table by my bed, knocking the lone candlestick to the floor.

  “Page! Page! Help!” I heard my voice call, my fear finding the strength to yell out. Vaguely I heard a crash from my outside chamber, but it still seemed an age that I sat there, my heart pounding, my hand still cold from where it had touched my friend.

  I had lost wives, my parents and all my siblings, and countless babes to the hands of death. But I had never before sat with it, felt its bitter touch beneath my fingers, and had never hovered on the floor unable to escape it.

  By the time the boys finally entered the room, it was spinning and I was unable to catch my breath. I felt three hands grab my arms and haul me to my feet, and I continued to watch in muted horror as another boy felt the arms of my friend and then jumped back as he realized what I had understood too late.

  Death had chosen to visit me, and in doing so, robbed me of the only friend I had left.

  ****

  It took Charles’s widow almost a week to find the will. This was not the only piece of his life left in disarray and finally I had to send my own secretary to his home to make sense of what my friend had left behind.

  Once discovered, it was plain to see that Charles had lost none of his humble roots. A request to be laid to rest among his own chapel, with few attendants or mourners. The paragraph outlining the number of prayers to be said for his soul was hastily crossed out, as was mention of his first wife, my sister. It seemed he had not rewritten anything since his first child was born, merely added or detracted as he saw fit. My secretary reported that rather than hurt by seeing her name hastily scrawled over “Mary, Dowager Queen of France,” his wife seemed merely exasperated, shaking her head and continuing to try to right her household.

  As for me, I could feel no anger at this disrespect to my late sister, or the fond annoyance his widow now had. Ever since discovering my friend’s body, a detached numbness had overtaken me. Meals had little taste and we had of course vacated Windsor Palace. Indeed, I now felt I could never face that place again. The king’s rooms were now stained with death and even my large ornate bed had to be replaced before I could lie back upon it.

  My leg was still in agony, though at least healing, and the ride to Hampton Court was slow and miserable. A light rain had covered the land, though rather than making it smell sweet as it would in the spring, it only managed to turn up the stink that covered the roads that ran across my kingdom.

  We had been at Hampton Court for three days, me remaining in a bed that had been hastily found and placed in my rooms, along with all new hangings and sheets, when my wife finally found me.

  Since the death, Katherine had given me space, only seeking me out to occasionally ask a small question or to take my hand.

  “Her Majesty the queen,” a herald announced in my presence room. I could almost picture Katherine entering the empty room, stopping for a moment on the threshold at the sight of the bare walls, the rushes unmoved on the floor. With me in my bed and many of my courtiers still between Windsor and Hampton Court, it seemed that nothing was moving as it should. Those who would usually oversee the smooth running of my home were currently away — or now dead — and those of us left behind acted almost as ghosts.

  “Your Majesty,” Katherine said, as she moved into my room, and sure enough, she was paler than the last time I saw her.

  “Sweetheart,” I said, my voice cracking slightly. I held out my hands to her, and she moved toward me, slipping both of her small hands into mine.

  “They tell me you are well enough to now receive me,” she said, a small smile on her face. I did not recall giving the order that she should stay away, but perhaps my doctors had ordered it and it had not been reversed at any point during the confusion.

  “I am on the mend,” I answered, then gestured toward my leg. “But still in considerable pain.”

  Katherine grimaced as she looked at the large stained bandage, and nodded, turning back toward me.

  “I pray for you constantly,” she said, unable to quite look me in the eyes. “And for our kingdom.”

  “I hope you do,” I answered. “The kingdom —” I trailed off. No business could be conducted while I had been ill, and now it seemed pointless to even try. Wriothesley was still at Windsor, Parliament was to be in session soon, and he felt he could not be away. The Duke of Norfolk remained north, mired down in the mud that seemed to rise out of Scotland this time of year. No fighting could happen; indeed, the army there seemed absolutely paralyzed. Never before had my entire kingdom hung in such a precarious balance as we all waited with bated breath to see what would happen next.

  Well, perhaps that wasn’t quite true.

  “I wish there was something I could do to put your mind at ease,” Katherine said, squeezing both of my hands.

  It was a kind thought, but there was little that could now be done. My bod
y weary, my greatest friend gone, my armies stuck. It felt as if my entire life was frozen.

  “Perhaps I could read to you?” Katherine suggested after a moment, and it was only then I saw the book on her lap. She held it up, and I saw it was her personal copy of the New Testament. “It could take your mind off of your worries and perhaps provide some comfort to your loss.”

  This was a sweet sentiment. Though I knew the New Testament well, and this was not the first loss I had experienced in my long life, perhaps she was correct. It was unlikely she would tell me something I did not already know, but perhaps the words could bring me comfort.

  Comfort. Something that had sorely been missing in my life as of late.

  I waved my hand, and Katherine’s voice washed over me, reading the familiar passages from the gospel of John. She was correct; the words, and her calm voice, did bring me comfort. At the very least, it made me feel less alone and reminded me that there was still someone here with me.

  I dozed — no small feat — as she read so it was a startle to us both when my herald’s voice came once again from my presence chamber.

  “Bishop Gardiner.”

  Katherine immediately closed the Bible with a thud and slid it slightly underneath her large skirt, but otherwise did not move from the bed. I frowned. What she was doing was not against the teaching of the church, but when I saw the stern face of my bishop and the slight scowl he sent toward the queen, I could not fault her for her action.

  “Your Majesty?” he asked, eyes darting between me and queen.

  “Speak,” I ordered, displeased with being interrupted. The old man hesitated for a moment then continued.

  “I have word from Chancellor Wriothesley.”

  I only raised one eyebrow and he nodded curtly.

  “He has heard from the Earl of Lennox.”

  Katherine’s head finally whipped around to look at him and even I sat up straighter in my bed.

  “You finally have news of Scotland?” I asked, my breath caught in my throat.

  “Yes,” the bishop said, smiling at catching us both off guard. “It seems the earl has finally made his move.”

  ****

  I could almost hear Charles’s voice in my ear, barking out a slight laugh before shaking his head and saying, You cannot be serious.

  “You cannot be serious,” I say, echoing his memory.

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” Gardiner said, passing a number of letters around my bedroom chamber. As I was still unable to get out of bed, a few select members of my council and Queen Katherine were gathered in my room to hear the news.

  “He is essentially holding Scotland ransom for whomever will pay the largest price,” said Lord Hertford, for once in agreement with the bishop.

  “Indeed,” Gardiner said, lifting a letter from Wriothesley. “The chancellor believes we can outbid the lords of Scotland, but it will not be cheap.”

  I glanced at Katherine, my wife who had made this mess, and saw her biting her lip and frowning at the letter before her.

  “Perhaps his wife, could —”

  “No,” I cut off the speaker, and even as I did so, Katherine was shaking her head.

  “I am afraid the Lady Margaret does not have the sway over him that we had hoped,” Katherine said, her voice small. “Though perhaps —”

  Despite only a few of the men in the room being loyal to her, the entire room remained silent until she continued speaking.

  “She is to begin her lying in shortly,” Katherine finally said. “If she were to give birth to a boy, he might be more inclined to work with us.”

  “He could have a dozen bastards running around Scotland in a year,” said the Earl of Surrey, as brutally honest as his father, the Duke of Norfolk, could be.

  “It is true that a son may not turn his head,” Hertford said, nodding slightly. Despite the poor news from Scotland, it was something to see all my counselors in agreement for once.

  “Is there any word from the Duke of Norfolk?” I asked, shifting slightly on the bed. The conversation could not distract from the continual pain in my leg.

  “He is snowed in just north of Hawick,” his son replied. “And is certainly not receiving any news about the Earl of Lennox.”

  I doubted that to be strictly true, but also knew the duke — now the only duke left in my kingdom — would not keep information that would be harmful to my realm from me. News that might benefit him or gain him power, yes, but nothing that would lead to our own destruction. And he had been fighting the Scots long enough, that any chance of their downfall would trump anything else in his mind.

  “Well, then we shall wait,” I said finally. “Have Wriothesley write to the Earl of Lennox and attempt to stall, at least until his child is born, and then until the Duke of Norfolk can return to the field. The tides may have turned by spring.”

  There was a slight silence before anyone said anything or moved to leave my chambers. I knew what they were thinking — that yes, in four months we could have everything in Scotland, but just as easily could lose everything by that time, too. But I was betting that my chancellor was right, that no lord in Scotland could tempt Lennox like we could, could raise no funds like we could.

  Finally the men began leaving, small bows and promises of swift action as they departed. At last Katherine came forward and held up not only her copy of the Bible, but a smaller text.

  “Just sent from Cambridge,” she explained with a smile. “I hoped to read it to you and hear your thoughts.”

  Behind her only Bishop Gardiner remained. I noted his small frown and pointed glare at her comments, but I waved my hand and dismissed him.

  “Read along sweetheart,” I said, allowing myself a smile at my doting wife. She did not even glance as the bishop shut the door behind him.

  Chapter Ten

  March, 1545

  The winter passed much as I had anticipated. Before the end of the Christmas season, I had held a state funeral for Charles, despite what his will had requested. I, of course, could not attend, as tradition held that a king could not be that close to death—despite the fact I had touched this corpse, had held him after he was gone, had been closer to this death than any other in my life. But I know his widow had appreciated the sentiment, and the fact that I had paid the entire bill for the affair. She had asked if he could still be buried in Suffolk, but I allowed him the honor of being buried in St. George’s Chapel at Windsor, and she did not ask again.

  Throughout the cold winter months, I would remain in my bed and Katherine would visit, unlike any of my previous wives, and read to me. At first her words brought comfort, but as the cold retreated and my strength returned, I found her presence a nuisance. Despite her sometimes meek appearance, she had no qualms arguing with me, or stating a point that was counter to mine. More than once I had to remind her of her place, which she retreated to with open frustration.

  My niece, Lady Margaret, began her lying in at the beginning of Lent. I considered moving the court, but it was rare for us to move during this time and simpler to be close to London at Hampton Court. She was placed in a chamber far from my own, and far from the goings on of the court. Though this baby could change our fortunes in Scotland, I was loath to be anywhere near the birth.

  One cold day I had finally left my bed and, with the help of two page boys, made it to a meeting of the Privy Council. Without Charles there, the entire place seemed empty, incomplete. The knowledge that his absence was permanent weighed over the entire proceedings, and I could not keep my body from slumping against the velvet cushion placed behind my back. My leg, still sore and smelling sourly of pus, was elevated before me and served as a constant reminder of my age.

  “There has been no news from Scotland,” Wriothesley began, glancing down both sides of the table. One side was lined with Bishop Gardiner and his ilk, the bishop’s crooked nose all that was visible from among his hats and cloak. Despite the two fires in the room, it was still chilly. Across the table, Lord Hertford’s breat
h could be seen as he tried to seem unaffected by the cold.

  “What of the Duke of Norfolk?” Hertford demanded, the only question it seemed anyone could be asking.

  “Still snowed in,” was all his son could say.

  “Still, the Scots are snowed in too,” the man to Gardiner’s left said. Even squinting at him, I could not place his face, and now there was no Charles to ask who this was. But no one else seemed alarmed at his presence, so I only waved for my page boy to bring more bricks from the fire to warm my feet. This had the effect of almost cooking the stench from my leg, but it was the only way to keep warm.

  What no one added was that the Scots may be snowed in, but they were snowed in at home. Able to meet, as we were, and to plan. Perhaps even to raise arms or funds, to counter the Earl of Lennox. There was no way to see what was happening.

  “So still no forward movement,” Hertford sighed, and around him heads nodded in agreement.

  “What of France?” Surrey asked, leaning forward to the edge of his small chair. His narrow face, coupled with the pointed beard, made it seem as if he was actually cutting into the conversation as he thrust his chin toward Gardiner.

  “They have made no move toward Lennox, though I suppose …” Wriothesley began.

  “No, I mean what of the fighting there?” Surrey interrupted.

  Wriothesley pursed his lips at the rudeness of the earl but, as I said nothing, could not reprimand him.

  Anger that once would have bubbled up inside me at his importance remained low. Indeed, throughout this entire meeting, I had felt nothing but the gaping hole that Charles left behind, and wished only to return to my bed in order to attempt sleep.

  “We have not discussed France,” Wriothesley replied diplomatically, glancing at me.

  If it had been in me, I would have shrugged; as it was, I could only wave my hand from its resting place on the curved arm of the chair.

  “There will be no more fighting in France,” I decreed.

  To a man, both sides of the table turned, to stare at me.