Katherine the Martyr

by Leigh Jenkins

  “Your Majesty,” she said, a serene smile on her lips. She wore a giant gabled hood on her head, which did a good job of hiding her hair. As usual, her dress shimmered with as many jewels as she would dare to wear.

  “My daughter,” I said, stepping up to her, kissing her cheek gently. She stood as still as a statue, not flinching, but obviously confused if she should return the gesture or not.

  In the end, I moved back and she held her smile.

  “Take a seat,” I said, gesturing to the stool across from my mine. I waved a page boy forward, and he appeared immediately, two glasses of wine in his hand. I had expected to share this with my wife, but Mary would do just as well.

  “I bring three letters from Elizabeth and one from Edward,” Mary said, placing the pile of papers on the table between us before taking her glass.

  “That is quite the number,” I answered, feeling my eyebrows rise.

  “Her Majesty begs your pardon, but she is quite busy with preparations for the christening this Wednesday,” Mary said, her smile now strained. It would do me no good to take my frustrations out on my daughter.

  “I hope you will convey my wish that if Her Majesty cannot spare the time to help her husband, she will at least send me these letters,” I said. Mary nodded, but of course could not promise what the queen would or would not do. At least my message would be delivered by someone Katherine may listen to.

  “Perhaps it would be more prudent for her time to be spent elsewhere,” I continued after a moment of silence.

  “You are undoubtedly correct,” Mary said, taking another sip of the wine. “But I believe that these plans are bringing the queen a kind of peace. It would be hard to deny her that.”

  “Peace?” I asked, my brow furrowing. Immediately Mary’s face flushed, and she looked as if she would begin to stammer.

  “Please, speak plainly,” I requested.

  Mary took a deep breath and another drink of wine.

  “I know the queen feels the loss of having no child. I believe that making these preparations help her fill that loss.”

  I sat back, considering this. It is true that Katherine and I had not been blessed with children yet, but she had also not conceived during either of her first two marriages. Of course in both of those cases, illnesses of the husband were to blame. But still, for a woman of her advanced age, the loss would be great.

  And as I looked at my daughter, I realized that she knew this pain from her own life. Almost thirty, and no husband. She doted on her two younger siblings, but certainly must long for a husband of her own. Did she and the queen discuss this desire for children? They must, for Mary did not look uncertain in her diagnosis.

  “Very well,” I said, waving my hand before picking up the letters from Edward and Elizabeth. “It will only be until the middle of next week. I suppose I will survive without seeing my wife before then.”

  I smiled, showing Mary that she could relax. She returned my smile and turned back to the wine, quiet while I read through the letters. Both children were obviously doing well in their studies; their Latin was near perfect.

  “I will have to write to them both. They are doing quite well,” I said. Mary nodded and looked ready to reply when a herald appeared.

  “The Lord Chancellor, Lord Wriothesley.”

  I waved for him to enter, glancing at Mary. She did not have the same look of fear that Katherine often did when my lord chancellor was announced, so I determined it would be safe for her to remain.

  “Your Majesty,” my lord chancellor said, bowing deeply, and coming up with a large grin on his face. This was enough to please me. Hopefully news of Norfolk had finally reached us.

  “Yes?” I asked.

  “I have a report, most serious,” he said, glancing at Mary.

  “Well, speak then,” I responded, anxiously waving my hand. With another look at Mary, who seemed indifferent to these proceedings, Wriothesley pulled out two books.

  “Both of these books were found,” he said, passing them over. Immediately I recognized one banned book. I had to squint at the other for a moment before understanding that Jehan Cauvin must be John Calvin’s name in French.

  Before another word could be said, Mary stood and moved away from us toward the fire. It was a completely natural move, but it seemed as if she was trying to put as much distance between herself and the books as possible.

  “Where were they found?” I demanded, frowning at him.

  “In the rooms of Margaret Neville,” he said, unable to keep the glee from his voice. “Stepdaughter to the queen.”

  Chapter Twelve

  May, 1544

  Immediately the finger-pointing began. It was not Margaret’s book, but a lady-in-waiting. It must have been hidden among her things. There are many who would wish the queen ill — perhaps Gardiner himself had put the book there. Margaret had never even heard of John Calvin.

  But it was all too little, too late. The trial, led by Bishop Gardiner and Chancellor Wriothesley, found Margaret Neville guilty within a week. Few people would rise to her defense, not when it would mean admitting they knew who John Calvin was.

  And I was no fool. My wife had gotten her papers from somewhere, though despite a complete search of her rooms, no banned works or heretical teachings of any kind could be found. But I knew that Katherine — like Margaret Neville, like Charles Brandon, like half my kingdom it sometimes seemed — wished for the ways of Martin Luther to come sweeping across the lands. And the rest had to be watched, dare they try to act on the Bishop of Rome’s excommunication of me, and return England to Catholicism and popish idolatry.

  The only thing standing between these two extremes was me. Head of the Church of England. King of England. And feeling so very alone.

  On the day of Margaret’s sentencing, I had locked myself away once again, only the smallest and most silent page boy standing by the door, looking as if he would rather be anywhere than stuck in a room with a king who did nothing but stare out the single slanted window, down onto the gardens below. Usually the court would be out these beautiful month of May, walking among the fragrant flowers, gossiping among the well-trimmed hedges.

  But not this May. Those who were not sitting in the galleries of Margaret’s trial were hiding in their rooms, or had fled to their own estates, lest they be picked up as heretics as well.

  This was not the first May that suspicion swirled around my court like a tempest. But this was the first time I had remained here, among the storm, and waited for the outcome with my courtiers.

  After the sun had slid out of my vision, and no shadows could be seen upon the ground, a knock came. The page boy jumped, and I nodded for him to pull the heavy door open.

  Heneage waited on the threshold. I was still in my sleeping gown, had not bothered to dress. My great chairs of estate were left empty, and I had pulled a stool — usually only used for lowly guests — over to the window to stare out. My legs had started to ache, but it had seemed like too much effort to move.

  “Your Majesty,” he said, dropping before me. “Margaret Neville has been found guilty of having banned works in her possession. She has been found innocent of the charge of sharing those works with anyone else.”

  Perhaps I should have attended the trail, for I knew her guilty of sharing information with her stepmother the queen.

  “She has been sentenced to banishment, though Bishop Gardiner still requests that you send her to be burned.”

  And so it was again. The decision came down to me, as it always did. Lords who couldn’t decide a thing without my guidance. The anger boiled up in me, and I hit the wall next to me twice, the palm of my hand making a satisfying slap against the stone tiles. It did little but make my hand ache, it certainly did nothing to lessen the flames inside of me.

  Every choice came down to me. King of England, Head of the Church of England. There was no way I could escape.

  Loneliness washed over me, and I slapped the wall again, pleased to have something
to hit. Heneage at least did not flinch, but after a moment, a commotion could be heard outside.

  “You have to announce her,” a page boy whispered as the door creaked open.

  But Katherine waited for no one to announce her and instead came straight to me, dropping to her knees beside her chair. I could tell at once, from the rich cut of her dark gown, to the jewels at her neck, that she had attended the trial. Perhaps she had even spoken in her stepdaughter’s defense. I could only hope she would not be so foolish, and feeling another wave of anger, I turned away and leaned my head against the cool glass, closing my eyes.

  “Your Majesty, I beg that my stepdaughter be spared the torture of burning.”

  I began to breathe heavily out of my nose with anger. Pushing myself up, I turned to her pale face.

  “I suppose you would rather her be beheaded then?” I asked, clipping my words out.

  Katherine gasped, and had she not already been on her knees, would have collapsed to them.

  “I did not — I meant — Henry …” she whispered after a moment, but I had already turned back toward the garden. It had taken so long to convince her she could use my name, not Your Majesty, or even sire. But now my name on her lips brought me nothing but anger.

  Below us, with the end of the trial, I could see courtiers beginning to enter the garden. But they walked huddled together, not happy to be out in the sunshine at all. Good. At least I was not the only one feeling this way.

  I let my eyes follow a pair of young ladies-in-waiting, who seemed to do nothing more than circle a handful of rose bushes as they whispered together, their eyes darting at the others in the gardens, but not thinking to look up to see that they were being observed from above.

  Beside me I could hear Heneage approach the queen, convincing her to rise, escorting her to the door. There was a small exchange there. All the while I watched the girls continue their tight circle. Eventually Heneage returned, this time pressing a cup of ale into my hand.

  “Your Majesty, you have not eaten nor drank today,” he said. It was not a request, but not a command either. Beside him was a tray laden with different foods, sweetmeats and breads, even fresh fruit from the country.

  “Eating will help,” Heneage said, and I felt myself nodding and doing as he said as if I was a schoolboy.

  “Her request —” I began, stuffing two rolls into a pile of gravy before taking a bite.

  “Was only that you follow what the peers said,” Heneage responded reasonably. “Banishment. Perhaps to France, a nunnery there.”

  “A Catholic nunnery,” I countered, picking up two fat strawberries and eating them.

  “Would be a fitting place for her, I believe,” Heneage said with a small smile.

  With a bit of ale and food in me, I could see the humor in this, and threw back my head in a laugh. One of the few I had recently.

  “Yes,” I said, finally digging into the food with relish. “I could see that as a fitting place.”

  ****

  Heneage’s suggestion proved just the thing, for I did not give into the demands of Gardiner, nor was Katherine pleased. Indeed, both factions of court sulked about for the next week, ignoring one another when they weren’t going out of their way to insult the other side.

  I allowed that Margaret could write to her stepmother, for I thought that hearing of Margaret’s misery would keep Katherine from being tempted to follow in her footsteps. And naturally, all letters would be read by my secretary, who knew how to look for treason.

  It was not until the end of the month that we finally had a response from the Earl of Lennox, still ensconced in Scotland. How he managed to hold the throne for almost an entire year, I could not fathom. The Scots were a notoriously wild people, fighting battles barefoot and without jackets. Perhaps it was just a matter of keeping the lords at one another’s throats, as I had done.

  Wriothesley was once again in attendance on me, bringing Lennox’s letter to my Privy Council early one morning.

  “He writes that he is ready to listen to our demands,” Wriothesley said, frowning down at the paper, as if still unhappy with what it said.

  “Our demands?” Lord Hertford said. “It is an offer to make him one of the richest men in either England or Scotland. It is hardly a demand.”

  There was some agreement around the long table, and Wriothesley held up a hand for silence.

  “He says that in return for the lands of Scotland, he will take the Dukedom of Suffolk, an additional 500 pounds a year, as well as retaining his place in Scotland. And before any talks are planned, we must send his wife and son north to him.”

  Silence met these demands.

  “The Dukedom of Suffolk, plus he still retains power in Scotland?” Lord Hertford finally spat out.

  “What would we be gaining by paying him off?” the Earl of Sussex asked, shaking his head.

  “Obviously we will not be sending his family to him,” Gardiner said, gesturing toward the paper that Wriothesley still held at a distance.

  “That would be the height of folly,” Hertford agreed. And once again, I watched as this man brought the two warring factions of court back together, their hatred of him and the Scots overcoming any differences in religion.

  Well, anger was one thing I could well understand. Despite being forewarned about the contents of the letter by Wriothesley, I still felt my fingers twitch as I thought of the demands. The Dukedom of Suffolk, Charles Brandon’s old title, going to this usurper rather than to his heirs. He obviously knew of Charles’s passing, and this was how he decided to respond. Not with sympathy, but with threats.

  “Perhaps we could entice him by offering another title?” Wriothesley suggested. “A lesser one, and not the same amount of money.”

  “But he holds Scotland,” the Earl of Sussex pointed out. “He is able to demand a king’s ransom, for he holds a kingdom.”

  “This does not mean we should give into his demands,” Lord Hertford snapped, turning towards the boy with a scowl.

  “I am merely pointing out the obvious,” the earl returned, his temper easily rising to the surface.

  “What of the Duke of Norfolk?” Hertford asked, turning away from Norfolk’s son and asking the chamber at large. “Has anyone any idea of where he is?”

  “He is heading toward Melrose,” Wriothesley answered, lifting another sheet of paper before him. “But we have not heard if he has made it yet.”

  “Perhaps we need not offer a thing,” Hertford argued. “Lennox cannot hold Scotland indefinitely.”

  “But will he lose it to us or to the Scottish lords?” Gardiner countered. “This could be our only chance to take the kingdom, and with little bloodshed. We should not squander this opportunity.”

  Once again, every man fell silent, looking from one to another. These arguments could continue all day, and I wanted nothing more than to leave the oppressive heat of this room and return to my window.

  “Write to Lennox,” I said, watching as every head turned toward me as I finally spoke. My voice trembled with the anger I still felt toward the young man, but I did my best to keep my voice steady.

  “Say that his son is yet too young to travel, but we would be happy to be honored with a visit,” I continued. “Say that these are terms that cannot be discussed in a letter, but that we must meet. Suggest that perhaps he travel down to York. We can travel north to meet him there. Or for us each to name two trusted officers to speak on our behalf, if he feels he cannot leave. Say nothing about the dukedom or the sum.”

  “Your Majesty—” Hertford said, before his voice dropped off.

  “It will buy us time, to see what Norfolk can accomplish,” I ordered. The men nodded at the sense of this.

  “We still need to speak of—” Gardiner began, but I waved him off.

  “We will speak tomorrow,” I ordered. And there was no one to gainsay me, no one who felt powerful enough to cut in and demand that the business of the realm be conducted now. While the men scrambled to th
eir feet, I waved two page boys toward me, allowing them to raise me up and help me from the room.

  “Fall back, fall back,” I said, waving them off as I limped towards my own room.

  “Your Majesty,” a page boy said, the moment I appeared in my chamber. “The queen asks —”

  “Tell her I am not to be disturbed for the rest of the day,” I snapped. He fell back, his entire face flushing as he did so.

  “Your Majesty,” Heneage started, stepping forward. I turned on him with fury in my face.

  “Are you deaf or just dumb?” I demanded, pulling my pearl-laden cap from my head to swing at him. He jumped back only a hair before stepping forward again. “I have ordered that I not be disturbed!”

  “I have an urgent message from the Duke of Norfolk,” he said quickly. Though my anger didn’t abate, I clamped down on it, and sunk into a nearby chair. Not one of my own, but a smaller one, made of a poor wood that creaked and then shifted from my weight.

  “Speak,” I ordered.

  “Your Majesty,” Heneage said, smiling at me confidently. “The Duke of Norfolk has written. He has taken both Melrose and Duns.”

  As sudden as a cool breeze on a hot day, my anger is gone, replaced with a feeling of glee. Sitting back, I thought of what all now needed to be done with this new information.

  For certain, now everything is different.

  Chapter Thirteen

  July, 1544

  The news throughout the summer is nothing but good. Norfolk takes Haddington and then Linton. He marches right up to the gates of Edinburgh, sitting what is now a massive army just outside the Earl of Lennox’s doors. Somehow he and the Earl of Essex managed to recruit even more men; some I suspected were Scots, disloyal or dissatisfied with their lords. We sent word for him to use caution and he wrote back swiftly, saying that he wouldn’t trust a damn Scot farther than he could toss him, and that every man who had joined had been placed in with loyal Englishmen.

  “And he is keeping an eye on them,” Wriothesley continued.