He struggled to his feet, holding onto the arm of the sturdy chair. He stumbled in the dark, searching for his stick. His hand closed on the cold, golden knob; it was leaning against the chair at an angle. He must light a new candle, for the single one still aglow in the room was guttering and would soon go out.
He made his painful way to the sideboard, found a three-branched candlestick with thick, fresh tapers, and made his way back carefully to the candle on the table by his chair. He used the old candle just in time to light his new ones. All seemed still and quiet for a moment, and then it started again.
Curious now, he limped to the door, his stick held firmly in one hand, and the candelabra in the other. At the door he cried, “Give way!” and as if he had spoken an open sesame, the doors parted. The same startled halberdiers were still there; he must not have slept for very long.
“Where is that dreadful noise coming from?” he asked.
The king had never before spoken to his halberdiers; they regarded each other in confusion. But as in all things, it was the place of the senior of them to take the lead.
“That be the queen, Your Grace,” said the older of the two guards. “She be there, in her chambers.”
The queen? For a moment he was as confused as his disconcerted servants. Then he remembered; Catherine had moved into the apartments next to his own in every royal palace, forsaking the Queen’s Apartments to be near him. What in God’s name ailed the woman, he wondered? And praise God there was not far to walk!
Another pair of halberdiers stood with crossed weapons at the doors of Catherine’s rooms, but they parted immediately upon seeing the king and opened the doors without preamble.
Henry entered the room and what he saw appalled him. There was the queen and all her women, wild-eyed, tearful, and terror-stricken. Catherine did not even realize that he was there, she was on the floor, her gown in disarray, her hair in a tangled mess about her shoulders, hands clasped beseeching heaven in words he could not make out; her mouth was open wide and drawn down, and her chin quivered uncontrollably. Tears stained her face and her nose was running. For a fleeting moment he was reminded of the beauty of the Duchess of Suffolk’s tears just a short while ago. But that thought was banished at the recollection that he, too, had cried inconsolably that night.
He had always been moved by women’s tears. Nothing disconcerted him more, or so possessed the power to stir pity in his breast. He recalled that day so long ago at Blackfriars when Katharine of Aragon, his proud, Spanish queen, had thrown herself at this feet and begged him to stop his quest for an annulment of their marriage, that he might marry Anne Boleyn. He had been moved then, terribly so, and he had to resist the urge to lift her, to dry her tears, to comfort her. Those were the early days of his great infatuation with Anne, and he could not give in to the impulse to show even so much as pity, let alone love, for his soon-to-be discarded wife.
Anne had been another sort altogether; too proud to weep, or at least to let him see her do so. But at the end he doubted that her tears could have moved him, he had come to hate her so. He had never loved anyone quite as much as he had loved Anne; it had been beyond love, it had been obsession, coupled with the will, the need, to win. That lady had gone to her grave defiant to the last.
The times he had made Jane cry he had been instantly rueful and had bestowed many a jewel upon her to make amends. To the tears of Anne of Cleves he had been oblivious; he had never seen them, and had no wish to. Perhaps she had never cried for him; he did not know. And he had deliberately refused to see Katherine Howard after her great betrayal; even then had he seen her cry he might have been tempted…but, no. He had ordered her kept well away from him and in fact after he had been informed that there was no doubt of her guilt, he had never laid eyes on her again. He had not known that the last time he saw her was to be his last; it was better that way.
But here, in front of his very eyes, was his erstwhile cool, calm queen, hysterical, frantic, and seemingly panic-stricken. For what cause?
Suddenly the women in the room became aware of his presence and as if they had all been puppets controlled by strings, they disappeared from the room before one could have drawn one’s next breath. Catherine simply stared at him as though at an apparition, as if she could not quite believe that he was real. Momentarily distracted, she had ceased her wailing, but then all of sudden that dreadful sound issued forth once again from her throat.
Nonplussed, Henry cried out, “God’s Toenails, woman! What lamentation is this? Why do you howl like a banshee?”
So he was real! For a brief moment, she thought she had imagined him. For only he could save her, and if what Dr. Wendy had told her were true, she was doomed to die the same death that had overtaken Anne Boleyn and Katherine Howard. Worse! Heretics were not vouchsafed that swift, painless (so they said!) ending…they suffered the agonies of Hellfire, being burnt alive at the stake. Who would there be to ease her passing, after the king signed her death warrant? For in Tudor England, an arrest warrant was tantamount to such. No one dared defy the king once he had made his wishes known. The only exception to that rule that she could recall was her dear cousin, Nicholas Throckmorton; he for whose life she had once pled when he had displeased the king. Nicholas had dared to go to the very Tower itself to comfort Anne Askew in her extremity. Brave Nicholas! Would he do the same for her, she wondered? She knew, for all her high-minded preaching, she now knew without a doubt, that she was not the stuff of which martyrs were made. The thought of burning horrified her, and it was this for which she wept.
If only she had been able to produce another prince! If she had, her position would have been well-nigh unassailable. But she had not, and the fact that the fault for that lack lay mostly with her self-righteous husband did nothing to comfort her. So much for her skill as nurse, and her spectacular success as royal step-mother and regent! She had been married twice before and had produced no child, male or female; she had been Queen of England for three years and there had been not even the hint of a pregnancy. Even if she were not a suspected heretic, her failure to produce a son was as great a sin as heresy in the eyes of the king, and well she knew it. Perhaps she was barren; it certainly appeared so. She was doomed, doomed, doomed…and with that, the keening that had ceased for the few seconds that it had taken these thoughts to traverse her mind began again in earnest. She could hardly credit that this awful sound was coming from her own mouth. But then it was not, really; the cries came from her heart.
Despite himself, Henry, already softened by Lady Catherine’s tears of earlier in the evening, and if the truth be owned, by his own, felt his heart go out to his distraught queen. He limped over to where she knelt on the floor, hands still clasped in that beseeching manner. When he stood before her, she looked up at him. She grasped the fabric of his robe in both of her trembling hands.
“Oh, my dear, whatever is the matter?” he cried. And then suddenly he knew. Someone had told her that she was to be arrested and taken to the Tower, tried, attainted, stripped of her titles and lands, her wealth, her goods and chattels, and burnt as a heretic. It was the only explanation.
The thoughts chased themselves around in his brain.
When all was said and done, he needed her, if not for himself, then for his children, who adored her, and who needed a mother.
He was also not blind to the fact that his marriage debacles were the source of much amusement on the Continent and that amongst his contemporaries, he was a laughingstock. He shrank from the very thought of how the news would be taken that he had executed yet another queen, for heresy no less, when he himself was viewed by Christendom… albeit unfairly! …as the greatest heretic of them all…and that he had taken yet a seventh wife.
The Duchess of Suffolk was a confirmed non-starter.
And he did not want to be alone.
Another fleeting thought crossed his mind at that moment. Those who had been jealous of Wolsey and, years later, of Cromwell, had manipulated him into executin
g the two best servants he, and England, had ever had. That bore thinking about.
He held his hands out to her and she, startled, took them in her own. He lifted her from the floor and when she was standing, he smoothed her hair and wiped the tears from her face.
Relief was as welcome as it was completely unexpected.
For the first time ever, she embraced him with a glad heart instead of a reluctant, bitter one. “Oh, Henry!” she cried.
For the first time, she had reason to be grateful for having abandoned the Queen’s Apartments, and made to bide in this adjunct to the king’s rooms. She knew that with Henry, out of sight was very much out of mind, and even living right next to him he had had no difficulty ignoring her when he chose. Had he not heard her cries and been curious, she would have been done for. The search of her rooms and that of her ladies had not been lost on her; coupled with the fact that he had been sedulously avoiding her and keeping constant company with the Duchess of Suffolk, she had been expecting for some time some move against her on the part of the king. But heresy! Death by burning! She could hardly believe her ears when good Dr. Wendy, a fellow Reformer, had risked his own life to warn her of the imminence of her arrest. Lady Catherine had also warned her; but neither of them could have dreamt of the lengths the king would go to rid himself of an unwanted wife. Perhaps they should have known. But she, at the most, had expected another proposal similar to the one put to Anne of Cleves; step aside voluntarily and be the king’s Good Sister. She had her own wealth and lands, thank you very much!
And then she thought once again of Anne Askew, and the answer to the riddle exploded in her brain. Of course! She had not connected Anne’s arrest, torture, trial and burning with herself, but now, it made sense. Brave Anne! Never would she have given the queen and her ladies away; but also, it simply was not in that good lady’s nature to be bullied by anyone, as she had proved when she walked out on her husband to preach the Reformed faith to any who would listen.
She raised her eyes to Henry’s. So now she must plead for her own life, as she had once pled for her cousin’s and her sister-in-law’s. God and Anne forgive me for the lies I am about to tell, she thought. But she had more to live for than her faith. She was no Anne Askew, it was true; but even had she been willing to die for her faith, there was Thomas…she must stay alive for Thomas. The king was twenty-one years older than she was and ailing. She must live, live, live, and keep alive her dream of marrying Thomas and ruling England as regent for the prince.
She fell again to her knees, crossed herself and began to speak, this time in a low-pitched, normal voice, as normal as she was able to make it; “Your Grace,” she said. “Your very presence has revived my broken heart and rejoiced me greatly. If I thought that I had done aught to lose Your Grace’s love, I would be the most wretched lady that ever was. If ever I have done or said anything to displease Your Grace, when my only thought was to distract you from your pain, I most humbly beg your forgiveness.”
Henry regarded her blandly. The proud, haughty bitch, let her beg! “Is this true, then?”
Looking straight into his eyes, she replied, “I swear it. I only disputed with you to divert your thoughts from your distress.”
Still he held back, aloof now. “But that is not true, my lady! You have written books, popular books, on the subject of religion! One would think that you were the Supreme Head of the Church, and not I! You have become a doctor of theology, Kate!”
So that was it! Of all the petty, small-minded…he was jealous of her books! She felt her ire rise, but smacked it down; she sought to keep the face of her beloved Thomas squarely in her mind’s eye, even as she looked at the king.
“If I have unintentionally offended Your Grace in any wise, I am heartily sorry for it, and do most humbly beg your forgiveness.” The tears streaming down from her eyes were real enough; her very life stood in the balance.
It was time to respond to her humble self-deprecations magnanimously and graciously. He had taunted her and made her grovel; that was enough.
He held out his hands to her again and said, “Dear lady, please rise.” She placed her hands in his and once more he helped her to her feet. “You are my most dearly beloved wife and queen of England,” he said. “You should be on your knees to no man.”
Catherine smiled through her tears, and ran the back of her hand across her running nose. “At the risk of being disputatious,” she said, “Not so, Your Grace! I have always held that a woman, whether ale-wife or queen, must in all matters, defer to her husband’s judgment; even more so when that husband is king and Supreme Head of the Church, and of all your loving subjects; so God hath appointed Your Grace, and from you, next unto God, will I henceforward learn all things.” One may as well go the whole hog if one was going to debase oneself, she supposed…she sank to her knees and bowed her head abjectly.
Henry regarded her with a startled expression. “Is this so? Then we are perfect friends again.” He kissed her tear-stained cheek.
Catherine smiled adoringly. The fool! she thought. One could always dupe the king by appealing to his vanity.
He made to depart, and as he placed his hand on the door, Catherine said, “Your Grace…”
He turned.
“Dare I hope…” She clasped her hands and placed them aside her cheek.
“Yes?”
“Dare I hope that we might sit in the garden in the morn, as we used to do?” She knew that Henry liked nothing better than granting boons that confirmed his own self-importance.
Unexpectedly, his face lit up. He had not realized how deeply he had been hurt by the Duchess of Suffolk’s refusal to marry him. But this woman still wanted him! “Why, of course, my dear. Rest now. I will call for you on the morrow and we shall tarry in the garden to your heart’s content.” With that, he closed the door softly behind him.
Catherine sank to the floor. Never had she felt the cold finger of death so closely.
# # #
The day was hot and very still. Barely a breath of air moved. It bordered on the macabre for Catherine; here they sat, in the garden at Whitehall, as if nothing untoward had happened. She noticed that Henry never apologized; he simply magnanimously allowed his victim to forget his offense as if it had never been. It was one of the prerogatives of royalty, she supposed. She looked over at him, dozing in the sun, snoring slightly. Dangerous as a snake!
They sat in an area well away from the river, which stank abominably. The flowers in this part of the extensive garden had been planted for their fragrances. Spikey snapdragons, fluffy gillyflowers, delicate lily-of-the-valley, striking blue delphiniums, all competed for the eye; but it was the heady perfume of the hyacinths that dominated the various scents.
She was very well read; she had once come upon an aphorism written by a thirteenth century Persian poet. She had been slightly embarrassed to be reading the writings of an infidel, but once she had become queen she had been given the run of old Duke Humphrey’s library. And the verse was so beautiful: “If thou of fortune be bereft, and from thy slender store two loaves to thee alone are left, sell you one and from the dole, buy hyacinths to feed your soul.” In the days of her innocence, such poetry had once had the power to move her to tears.
She gazed at the perfect pink and blue blossoms on their stems, some so top heavy that they bent to touch the ground. The damage done to her the night before could never be repaired; a part of her had died along with the wrenching fear of death. True, she had been snatched back from the brink; but she would never be the same again. The beautiful flowers, their perfume, the remembered poem, all still were part of her; but she was different now. Always she would think now, how long will I be here to enjoy such things? What if he changes his mind?
She was brought out of her reverie, and Henry out of his doze, by a loud noise that they at first could not identify. Then she knew what it was. Marching. Feet stamping in time. Her heart skipped a beat, seemed to drop to her feet, then bounced uncomfortably back up in
to her throat. It was beating so hard she thought she must die right there on the spot.
Down the path that led from the palace and into the garden marched an entire company of forty men-at-arms in full array, pikes glinting in the sun, with Wriothesley at their head. The look of triumph on his face was unmistakable. So Henry had changed his mind, and had fooled her, lulled her into a false sense of security, only to hand her over to her enemies!
Catherine was an eminently practical woman who had never swooned in her life; the vapours were for young maidens whose virtue was threatened, or who wished to display their fragility to the superior male. But suddenly she felt a blackness coming over her, almost in slow motion. The deafening sound of the marching men receded; the glare of the sun made her bile rise, and there were white spots shooting through the blackness that was closing in on her. She felt herself plummeting down, down…
The inevitable process of her faint was interrupted by the sound of raised voices. She was seated, and was clinging to the table in front of her with both hands, trying to keep herself upright as she battled the vertigo that had seized her.
“Fool!” shouted the king. “Knave! Arrant knave! Beast! Get out of my sight, and take your ill-intentioned minions with you!”
Catherine squinted in the glare. Who was shouting? At whom? And why?
The dizziness passed now that something had distracted her from it, and she blinked several times. Just a few yards away, without his stick! …was the king, railing at an astonished Lord Chancellor. Wriothesley sank to his knees, and Henry dashed off his cap and slapped him, one, two, across each cheek. One of the diamond pins that adorned the king’s hat must have caught Wriothesley, for his cheek was split and streamed blood.
The Baker's Daughter Volume 2 Page 2
