The Sixth Wife: The Story of Katherine Parr Page 14

  “Good Chancellor,” he replied, wincing as he moved painfully in his chair, “it is the kingly lot to bear the troubles of our subjects. For many years we have sat on the throne of England, but we cannot hope to rule this realm for ever.”

  His eyes flickered angrily on the Queen who had failed to provide him with sons; then they went to the charming figure of his daughter-in-law.

  Watching them, Surrey speculated: So my words have borne fruit. Mary has already given him the glance, the promise. The seed has been sown. Oh, poor Katharine Parr, my heart bleeds for you. But you are as safe as the rest of us, so why should it bleed for you and not for poor Surrey? My head may not remain on my shoulders any longer than yours. I am a poet, and so is the King. I am the greater poet, and in that I offend. I am more royal than His Majesty, and I have written verses. Two of the greatest literary men of our age have already laid their heads on the block—More and Rochford. Tom Wyatt was a fine poet but he was born lucky. The ax did not catch him though he had his miraculous escapes. And the next who dares wield his pen with more dexterity than the King, shall he die? And is his name Surrey?

  Katharine had grown a shade paler, and the King went on with a trace of malice: “We’ll not talk of such matters. They disturb our Queen. Do they not, wife?”

  “There are topics which please me more, Your Grace,” said Katharine quietly.

  “We like not to brood on the days that lie ahead,” mused the King, “days when we shall no longer be here to lead this country. There is overmuch conflict in this land, and we like it not.” He glared at those about him and shouted: “We like it not. We would have peace in our time, and though that be denied us beyond the realm of England, we demand it at home.” Gardiner had moved closer to the King. The Queen looked at the Bishop and their eyes met. Something has happened, thought Katharine. There is some fresh plot against me.

  She had noticed the King’s frequent glances at the Duchess of Richmond. Could it be that Gardiner was offering the King the Duchess as his seventh wife? Had it already been suggested that the sixth wife should go the way of the second and the fifth?

  “We pray, as Your Majesty does, for peace,” said Gardiner. “And it is in the cause of peace that we will keep our vigilance night and day over those who dare to question your command. Though there are many in this land, my liege, who would see your enemies at large, working for the destruction of all that you, in your great wisdom and understanding, have laid down as our way of life….”

  Henry waved his hand, interrupting the Bishop. He was accustomed to Gardiner’s harangues. The Bishop was one of those unfortunate men who could not win his affection. He did not dislike Gardiner as he had disliked Cromwell, but the Bishop did not charm him as Wyatt had and as Seymour did. Gardiner, like Cromwell, seemed to him plebeian. He must tolerate them for their wisdom, for his need of them; but he never liked them, and with Gardiner, as with Cromwell, at the first sign of failure he would show no forbearance.

  “The state of kingship is an uneasy one, my lord Bishop,” he said. “None knows the truth of that better than ourselves.”

  Wriothesley murmured: “And about Your Grace’s throne there are many enemies.”

  His glance rested as if by chance first on the Queen, then on Seymour.

  Katharine shivered. Was there some plot to implicate herself and Thomas? Not Thomas! she prayed. Anything but that harm should come to him.

  Then insolently and ironically Surrey spoke: “Enemies of each other, my lord Chancellor, or enemies of the King, mean you? Enemies, say…of the Lord High Admiral, or of my lord Bishop?”

  Wriothesley’s eyes flashed hatred and his smile was venomous as he said softly: “What enemies could there be, of true and loyal subjects, but enemies of the King?”

  “We might well ask,” continued the irrepressible Surrey. “It would seem to me that there are men in this realm who seek first their own advancement, and secondly that of England—and the latter only if both are on the same road to the goal.”

  The King glared at the poet. “You make an accusation, my lord Earl. You tell us that there are those about us who would seek their way even though it did not run side by side with that of England’s.”

  “Alack, Your Grace, I make the suggestion because I fear it to be true.”

  Henry’s eyes had narrowed in that fashion familiar to them all. There was no one present—with the exception of Surrey—whose heart had not begun to beat faster, who wondered whither this mischief of Surrey’s would lead.

  “If any man among you,” continued the King, “knows aught against another, it is the sure and bounden duty of that man to lay his knowledge before the members of our council.”

  The King tried to rise, but with a sudden angry roar fell back into his chair. Katharine hastened to kneel at his feet.

  “Your Grace, the bandage is too tight.”

  “By God, it is!” cried the King, the sweat on his brow, his face almost black with pain. “Mercy on us, Kate. There’s none can dress my wounds as thou, for I declare that when others do it, the rags must either be overloose or overtight.”

  Katharine was glad to find occupation with the bandages. “Have I Your Grace’s permission to loosen them now?”

  “Indeed you have… and quickly… quickly, Kate.”

  There was silence while she worked, and the King lay back for a few seconds with his eyes closed. He was clearly too concerned with his pain to think of any enemy other than that.

  But at length he opened his eyes and looked at those gathered about him.

  Wriothesley said, as soon as he knew that he had the King’s attention: “When the Earl speaks of Your Majesty’s enemies, he must be thinking of the last to be discovered—the woman Kyme.”

  “What of the woman Kyme?” said Seymour quickly.

  “She lies in the Tower, as should all the enemies of our lord the King.”

  The Bishop said very clearly: “So be it.”

  Katharine was aware of the frightened eyes of three of her ladies—her sister, her stepdaughter and little Jane Grey. These were the three who loved her best, and they knew that an open attack on Anne Askew signified a covert attack on the Queen.

  Surrey said: “What is this of Anne Askew? She wishes to be called Askew in place of Kyme, I believe. A comely girl. Dainty of structure, tall and oversad. Her hair is gold as meadow buttercups, and her skin pale as garden lilies; her eyes are blue as skies in summer time.”

  “What’s this?” roared the King, recovering from his pain.

  “Anne Askew, Your Grace,” said Surrey.

  The King laughed unpleasantly. “Like my lord Earl, I remember her well. Overbold of tongue. I like it not when women presume to teach us our business.” He roared out in sudden pain. “What do you, Kate? Thou art pulling our leg this way and that.”

  “A thousand pardons, Your Grace,” said Katharine. “The bandage slipped from my hands.”

  “Have a care then.”

  Surrey could not resist continuing with the dangerous subject of Anne Askew. “She left her husband’s house, Your Grace.”

  Lady Herbert interjected quite heatedly: “It would be more truthful to say that her husband drove her from it, Your Grace.”

  “What was that?” asked the King.

  “Her husband, Your Grace, drove her from his house.”

  “For a good reason,” said Wriothesley, throwing a sly smile at Lady Herbert and the Queen. “He liked not her disobedience to Your Grace’s commands.”

  “Then ’t was rightly done,” said the King. “We’ll brook no disobedience in this land from man or woman… comely though they may be.”

  “Ah,” said Surrey lightly, “it is not always easy to bend the head to the prevailing wind.”

  The King gave the Earl a malevolent glance, and as he turned to do so, his leg was jerked out of Katharine’s hand and Henry cried out in agony.

  “It was, I fear, Your Grace’s movement,” said Katharine. “’ Twill be soothed when I ha
ve the bandages in place. I have a new ointment which I am assured will ease the pain.”

  The King took off his plumed hat and wiped his brow. “I am weary of new ointments,” he said peevishly.

  “How I long to find the remedy!” said Katharine.

  “Right well would I reward the fellow who found it. By my faith, I cannot sleep o’ nights from the pain in this leg. We’ll try the ointment tonight, Kate. Ah, that’s better.” The King turned to frown at his courtiers. “It is not for women to teach us our business,” he said. “We agree with St. Paul on this matter: ‘Let your women keep silent in the churches; for it is not permitted unto them to speak; but they are commanded to be under obedience…’”

  Henry paused significantly to glance at the kneeling figure of his wife. He trusted Kate would remember that. She was a good woman and she had the gentlest fingers in the court. For that he loved her. But he did not love women who meddled in matters which should be regulated by the superior intellects of men. Kate was another such as this meddling Anne Askew. The latter had most rightly been lodged in the Tower. He trusted his good nurse Kate would heed a gentle warning.

  Gardiner obsequiously finished the quotation: “‘… as also saith the law.’”

  Henry nodded and shook a bejeweled finger at the company and then at his kneeling wife. “This woman, Askew—an I mistake not— was found in possession of forbidden books; she has spoken against the Mass. Keep her in the Tower, my lord. Keep her there until such time as she shall learn good sense.”

  Gardiner had stepped forward; his head was bowed and his voice had taken on a serious note. “The woman is oversaucy, alack, having friends at court.”

  “What friends are these, lord Bishop?”

  “That, Your Grace,” said the Bishop, looking for a few seconds at the kneeling Queen, “is what we have yet to discover.”

  “My lord Bishop,” said Seymour, “it cannot be of any great consequence to His Majesty that this woman has friends.”

  “I understand you not, brother,” said the King.

  “She is a foolish woman, Your Grace. Nothing more.”

  “Foolish in all conscience,” growled the King.

  “Scarce worthy of such notice,” said Seymour.

  Katharine, trying to steady her trembling fingers, wanted to implore him to take care. He must not involve himself in this. Did he not see that; that was just what his enemies wished?

  “Mayhap she is not,” said the King. “But we would teach a lesson to those who dare oppose us.”

  “The female sex,” said Gardiner, “can be as troublesome as the male. I would not excuse her, Seymour, on account of her sex. To my mind, any that work against our lord the King is an enemy to England—be it man or woman.”

  “Well spoken,” said the King. He looked at Sir Thomas and chuckled. “I follow our gallant Seymour’s thoughts. She is a woman; therefore to be treated tenderly. Come, brother, confess.”

  “Nay, my liege.”

  “Oh?” said the King. “We know you well, remember.”

  There was a titter of laughter among the courtiers, and Katharine must lift her eyes to look into the face of the man she loved. But he was not looking her way; he was smiling almost complacently. He was so clever, thought Katharine; he was so wise; he was far more restrained and controlled, for all his seeming jauntiness, than she could ever be. It was foolish of her to wish that he could have looked a little hurt at this estimation of his character.

  “I would say,” went on the obsequious Wriothesley, “an it please Your Grace, that, like Seymour, I do not think of Anne Askew as a woman. I think of her as a menace, for about her are gathered the enemies of the King.”

  “You are overfierce, friend Wriothesley,” said Henry.

  “Only in the cause of Your Majesty,” replied the Chancellor, bowing his head in reverence.

  “That is well, good Chancellor. And now … enough of this woman. I would be entertained by my friends’ achievements and not made sad because of my enemies. Master Surrey, you skulk over there. You are our great poet, are you not? Entertain us, man. Come… let us hear some of those fine verses on which you pride yourself.”

  The Earl rose and bowed before the King. The little bloodshot eyes looked into the handsome brown ones.

  “I am ever at Your Grace’s service,” said that most insolent of men. “I will give you my description of the spring.”

  “Ah!” said the King, reflecting: I’ll not brook your insolence much longer, my lord. You… with your royalty and your words. I see that sister of yours in your handsome face. She is proud… proud as the rest of you. But I like proud women…now and then.

  And for the sake of the young man’s sister, Henry softened toward him.

  “We would fain hear your description of the spring. ’T was ever our favorite season.”

  “Spring!” said Surrey ecstatically. “It is the most beautiful of all seasons. Wherein each thing renews, save only the lover.”

  The King shot a suspicious look at the Earl, but Surrey had already begun to recite:

  “The soote season, that bud and bloom forth brings,

  With green hath clad the hill and eke the vale:

  The nightingale with feathers new she sings;

  The turtle to her mate hath told her tale.

  Summer is come, for every spray now springs:

  The hart hath hung his old head on the pale;

  The buck in brake his winter coat he flings…”

  Surrey stopped short, for the King had spoken. He was saying to Seymour, who stood near him: “What meant he, brother? ‘Wherein each thing renews save only the lover’! The lover methinks breaks out in love as readily as any flowers in spring. Aye! Nor does he need to wait for springtime.”

  Everyone laughed with great heartiness, and when the laughter had subsided, Surrey said: “The flowers, Your Grace, bloom with equal freshness each spring, but the coming of another spring finds the lover more jaded than did the previous one.”

  There was a short silence. What had happened to Surrey? Was it that which had been known to break out in men before? They lived under the shadow of the ax for so long that their fear changed into recklessness. Surrey had been showing this attitude for some time.

  Katharine looked at the young man and prayed silently for him: “Oh, Lord God, preserve him. Preserve us all.”

  She said quickly: “Your Grace, listening to the Earl’s verses has set up a longing within me to hear something of your own.”

  Henry’s good humor was miraculously restored. How strange it was, thought Katharine, that this great King, this man whom the French and the Spaniards feared, should be so childish in his vanity. The King’s character contained the oddest mingling of qualities; yet the brutality and the sentimentality, the simplicity and the shrewdness, made him the man he was. She should not regret these contrasts; she could watch for those traits in his character, and, as her knowledge of them grew, she might find some means of saving others from his wrath, as well as herself. She had indeed now saved Surrey from his displeasure.

  “Since the Queen commands,” said Henry graciously, “we must obey.”

  “Would Your Majesty care to come to my musicroom, that my musicians may first play the new melody set to your verses?”

  “Aye. That we will. And we will take with us those who most appreciate the pleasure in store.”

  He scanned the assembled company. “Come…you, my Lady Herbert, and you, my Lady of Suffolk….”

  The King named those whom he wished to accompany him to the Queen’s music room. Surrey was not among them, and for that Katharine was grateful. Let the young man withdraw to his own apartments and there ponder his recklessness in solitude.

  But others noticed that Surrey’s sister was one of those who received the King’s invitation; and that during the musical hour he found a pretext for keeping her close beside him.

  THOMAS SEYMOUR, not being among those who had been invited to the Queen’s chamber, stroll
ed out of the palace into the gardens.

  He was thinking of Surrey’s words, which had been deliberately calculated to stab the King. What a fool was Surrey! Thomas Seymour had no intention of being such a fool.

  He strolled past the gardens which would soon be ablaze with roses—red and white roses which would suggest, to all who saw them, from what the founding of the Tudor dynasty had spared the country. The Wars of the Roses had ended with the coming of Henry the Seventh; now the red roses of Lancaster and the white roses of York mingled peaceably, enclosed by wooden railings of green and white, the livery colors of a Tudor King; the pillars were decorated with the heraldic signs of the Tudors as an additional reminder.

  Looking at these gardens, Seymour thought afresh what a fool Surrey was. What was his motive? To undermine the Tudors? That was ridiculous. The Tudors had come to stay.

  Seymour leaned on the green-and-white fence and surveyed the rose trees.

  Life was good to the Lord High Admiral of England. Ambition would be realized. He was sure of his destiny. But, sure as he was, he knew that he must be constantly on the alert, ready to snatch every advantage; and one of the greatest assets which a kindly fate had thrown into the hands of Sir Thomas Seymour was his personal charm.

  Marriage! What could not be achieved by the right marriage!

  Now, it seemed, haughty Norfolk was looking his way; and if Seymour was not mistaken, so was his daughter.

  Seymour could not suppress the laugh which came to his lips. Her family would have no difficulty in persuading the Duchess of Richmond to become the wife of Sir Thomas Seymour, he fancied.

  How far we have come! he mused. The Seymours of Wolf Hall— humble country gentlemen—and now we are related to the King and fit to ally ourselves with the greatest families in the land.

  The question was not whether my lady of Richmond would take Sir Thomas Seymour, but whether Sir Thomas would take her.

  He liked her. He liked all beautiful women; but a woman must have more than her beauty to offer an ambitious man. “And, my dear Mary Howard,” he murmured, “there are others who have more to offer me than you have.”