Jean Plaidy - The Sixth Wife: The Story of Katherine Parr
In his thirties he had been a giant among men, unmistakably a king. It had been his delight to go among his subjects feebly disguised and to play a pleasant little game of make-believe which all saw through. “Who is this man?” people were expected to ask. “Why, he has the bearing of a king!” And when they had speculated and marveled, he would throw off his disguise and say: “Cudgel your pates no more, my friends. I am your King!” That was just one of the games he had delighted to play. But a man of fifty is not to be compared with a man of twenty or even thirty, and now he was no longer able to win games with skill, and he would not play except to win. There were days when he could but hobble about his palaces, and then he must have the aid of a stick and the arm of a courtier to lean on. His leg—his accursed leg—grew worse instead of better; he had tried he could not remember how many remedies. He had promised a fortune to the man who could heal it; he had threatened to lop off the heads of those who failed. All to no avail. The leg might seem better for a while; then the ulcer would make itself felt again and the pain could at times be so agonizing that he would cry out with it and hit out at any who irritated him.
Last year had been a trying one for him. He had made fresh claim to the throne of Scotland, had attacked the Scots and given them a trouncing at Solway Moss. But the battle was not decisive. State affairs were pressing and he needed escape from them at times. For, as he often said to his friends, a king is a man for all he is a king. And he had suffered—as a man, as a husband—great sorrow.
Now, with the trees budding and the birds disturbing the royal slumbers in the early morning, so that he would awaken in his lonely bed (or if it was not lonely, it was occupied by one whose presence there disturbed his conscience), he felt that he, like the trees and flowers and grasses, was renewing his strength. As a husband, Fate had treated him cruelly. But did that mean he would never know good fortune in marriage?
The plain fact was (and, thought Henry, I am a plain man to whom facts should be plain) the King was in need of a wife.
So on this March day, when the winds seemed to penetrate the Palace of Greenwich, the King stumped up and down his Privy Chamber, while outside in the audience room several of his courtiers awaited his summons; none dared approach without it. They feared his anger. And he wanted none of them; he wished to be alone with his thoughts. Yet, because he needed a new wife, he could not shut out of his mind memories of his other wives.
Five of them! It was a good tally. François Premier, across the water, had had only two; but his mistresses were legion.
There, thought the King of England, we differ—the King of France and I. His little mouth grew prim; his little eyes were complacent. It was a habit of his to compare himself with the lecher, François. They were of an age; and love was the ruling influence in the life of the French King. Henry liked to think that kingship occupied that place in his. All knew that Madame d’É tampes ruled at the French court as once Madame de Chateaubriand had ruled.
Using his healthy leg, Henry kicked a stool out of his way. The veins stood out on his temples. The very thought of the dark, sardonic face of his enemy infuriated him at all times.
“He has no conscience,” he muttered. “And I…I am all conscience. Oh God, Thou knowest what a man of conscience I am.” The King often addressed God, addressed Him as an equal; for as the King saw himself to be always right, always obeying his conscience, he felt sure, as a man of God, of the constant approval of the Almighty.
Two wives of his had died at his command, young women both of them; and some called them martyrs. Not that any dared say such things in public…if they had any respect for their tongues, for tongues could be cut out for saying such words; and ears could be lopped off for listening to them. Henry insisted (and God must know this too, for Henry continually explained to God) that he had been reluctant to order the death of those two wives of his; but he was a good man, a man of God; he had a conscience which would not allow him to find happiness in an irregular union. It was better that a woman should die than that the King should be forced to illicit pleasure.
God understood that he was right, because the King and God saw through the same eyes. Henry was sure of that. Anne Boleyn haunted his dreams now and then, with her mocking black eyes and her clever tongue; but God had given him a sign that in the case of Anne Boleyn he had acted with wisdom and righteousness. Had not Jane Seymour, Anne’s successor, produced a son? Little Edward was now safely past his fifth year; he was the heir for whom, through the barren years with Spanish Katharine and the fiery ones with Anne Boleyn, he had longed. And Jane had given him that son. Meek little Jane. He had forgotten how quickly he had tired of her; he liked to say now: “Ah, God, if only Jane had lived, how different my life would have been!” Then he would smile and add that God doubtless had had His reasons for taking Jane. The King did not question the Almighty’s reasons, as doubtless the Almighty did not question his.
The King laughed suddenly. He had thought how angry those brothers of Jane’s must have been with her for dying when she did.
Edward Seymour was a clever fellow, taking good advantage of the fact that he was young Edward’s uncle. Full of craft… diplomatic…a good servant. As for Thomas, the King could not help liking the fellow. In Thomas he saw something of the man he himself had been—a pale shadow, of course, a very pale shadow. But that breezy air, the great oaths, and his way with the ladies! Yes, it was big, hearty men like Thomas Seymour that the King liked to have about him.
He had heard rumors of Master Thomas’s ambitions, and that he did not like so well. It was necessary to be watchful of those who were too ambitious. There was that scoundrel Norfolk and his son, Surrey—they had to be watched. They were too near the throne for comfort, and the Tudor tree was not as firmly rooted as Henry would like to see it.
That was why he needed more sons to grow up with his little Edward … sons, sons…Tudor sons to live after him and keep the throne for his house.
Marriage! That was the answer. Marriage was in the air because it was springtime. Young Seymour wanted to marry, so it was said, and he had cast his insolent eyes on the King’s own daughter, on the young Elizabeth—Anne Boleyn’s bastard. For all that she was her mother’s daughter, he could not help having a certain feeling for her. He detected some fire within her, something she had inherited from him. He pretended to doubt that she was really his daughter. He had tried to believe she was like his old friend, poor Norris, who had gone to the block with Anne. He could feel the hot jealousy swelling in his head now when he thought of that May day when Anne had sat beside him in the tiltyard and Norris had ridden there. Although that was seven years ago he could remember it vividly. Seven years since the executioner’s sword, specially procured from Calais, had slashed Anne’s lovely head from her graceful body, yet whenever he saw the girl Elizabeth he remembered. She lacked her mother’s beauty and inimitable charm, but there was something of Anne in Elizabeth—something of Anne and something of himself. And now that rake Seymour had cast his eyes upon her.
The King had learned from his spies that if Thomas could not get the lady Elizabeth he would take the Lady Jane Grey, grand-daughter of Henry’s sister Mary, whom—so long ago now—he had sent to France to marry old Louis, and who, after leading that poor old monarch such a dance that in a few months he died, had secretly married Charles Brandon before returning to England. The fruit of that marriage had been Frances Brandon, who had borne Jane.
“Elizabeth for preference then,” said young Seymour. “But if I can’t get the King’s daughter, I’ll have his kinswoman.”
Henry considered them as he could not help considering all women. Elizabeth would be the more suitable. She was ten years old; Jane was only five.
But did it matter what plans Seymour made, since they would come to nothing unless the King willed otherwise? The important factor was the King’s marriage.
Whom should he choose? Who could be compared with the dainty Catharine Howard? The lady must have all that fair wanton’s charm and none of her wickedness.
He was aware that the ladies of the court were not eager for the honor he would bestow on one of them. That was a little disturbing. He could force the woman of his choice to marry him; but he could not force her delight in doing so. When Catharine Howard had died, he had made it a capital offense for any woman to marry a King of England if she were not a virgin. Surely there were some virtuous women in his court. Yet if any caught his eye upon her, she would seem overcome by embarrassment, and when he looked for her again he would find her absent; should he inquire of her, he would doubtless be told that she had fallen sick and was keeping to her apartments.
He shook his head sadly.
It was said—though he pretended not to know this—that no unmarried woman would care to risk marriage with him because she knew that when he was tired of her he could trump up a charge against her virtue. He preferred not to know of such talk. There was his giant conscience to be appeased. The King must always be right; his motives must always be of the highest. The conscience demanded that it should be so, and the conscience, if necessary, was monster enough to stamp out the truth.
Could they say that Catharine Howard was not a slut, not a wanton? Could they say that he had trumped up charges against her? Surely those charges had been proved.
But Anne Boleyn: only young Smeaton had “confessed” to adultery with her, and that under dire torture.
But he was tormenting himself. The past was done with. Forget it he must, and remember the need of the present. He needed a wife. Yet he could not think of one he would care to honor. He wanted a Queen. He was growing tired of the hunt—both in the forest and the women’s apartments at the palace. He wanted comfort now; he wanted a peaceful old age. He wanted a woman—not too young and frivolous, not the sort who might hanker after younger men. She need not be a beauty if she were comely enough. He called to mind the five he had had: Katharine from Aragon, Anne Boleyn, Jane Seymour, Anne from Cleves and Catharine Howard. How unsatisfactory they had all been in their different ways! And yet what he wanted now was a woman who would embody all their virtues and none of their faults: the piety, poise and nobility of the first Katharine; the great fascination of Anne; the meekness of Jane; the good sense of the second Anne (for that woman from Cleves had been sensible and had regarded herself as lucky to get away with a pension and her head on her shoulders to enable her to enjoy it); and the sweet, complacent beauty of little Catharine Howard. Yes, she must have all those qualities and she must be a good and faithful wife, a consort of whom one could be proud, a gentle, serene lady to soothe him when necessary, to enchant him, to make him feel young again, to be a stepmother to the children he had, and a mother to those he might yet have. Edward was sickly (what a perpetual anxiety the health of that boy was!), and there was always the need to get more sons.
That reminded him of the pretensions of his brother-in-law. He shouted to his attendants, and a page came fearfully into his presence.
“Find my brother, Sir Thomas Seymour, and bring him hither,” ordered the King.
The page bowed low, assuring his gracious Majesty that his will should with all speed be done, and set off in search of Sir Thomas.
Seymour was preparing himself for a trip on the river that he might call on Lady Latimer. His short gown, girdled at the waist, reached his knees and was of rich blue satin. His dalmatica was adorned with the widest sleeves; his hose were of white satin and his cap sparkled with sapphires and diamonds.
He was pleased with his appearance; he was pleased with himself. It was good to be young, handsome and full of vigor, to have ambitions which, because he was by nature optimistic, he was certain would very soon be fulfilled.
Sir Thomas Seymour, the great sailor, was not yet the Admiral he intended to become. But that should come about very soon, he promised himself. The young Prince Edward idolized him; Uncle Thomas was his favorite uncle, and such as Uncle Thomas did not forget that one day little Edward would be King of England, and little Edward was not the sort to forget his favorite uncle. What a good thing it had been for the House of Seymour when the King’s roving and most amorous eyes had alighted on his little sister Jane.
Dear Jane! So obedient. She had done just what her brothers had told her to. He was not sure that, in dying when she had, she had not done a good thing too; for the King would soon have tired of her, and who could say what might have happened if Jane had not made a perpetual shrine for herself in the King’s heart by promptly departing after the birth of her son? It was so easy for a sentimental, conscience-stricken King to sigh and tell himself and his courtiers that Jane had been the only wife for whom he had cared, the only woman worthy to have been his wife. So, because accommodating Jane had died at the right moment, she was now safely buried, with her head on her shoulders, and all was set fair for the Seymour brothers.
There was one minor irritation in the life of Thomas Seymour at that moment. The Lady Latimer, in mourning for her husband, was not at court; and he must make the long journey to her house if he would see her.
Katharine. Fair Katharine. And rich Katharine. He was very fond of her. She was perhaps not so beautiful as some other women he knew, but she had other qualities. For one thing, she adored him so obviously. What a refreshing change she must find him after those gouty old widowers of hers. She had never really lived, poor soul. She had been a nurse, not a wife. How different she would find life if she were the wife of Thomas Seymour.
He thought of those mansions which were hers; he thought of her fortune; he also thought of her charming person. He would have proposed marriage to her immediately after my Lord Latimer had died but for one thing.
He was well aware that the Princess Elizabeth was only nine years old. But he could wait… six or seven years. And who knew what was going to happen in the course of seven years. The King had lived for fifty-two years, and those fifty-two years had been somewhat rashly spent. The kingly body was none too healthy. It was said that the hideous leg was the outward sign of inner evils. The King of France suffered from similar abscesses, and all knew of the life he had lived. Fifty-two were not a great many years, but so much depended on how those years had been spent. And then, when Henry died, there was Edward. Poor Edward! Poor, sickly, learned little boy! His uncles would control him, and England would be ruled by her Protectors; and who should they be but the boy’s uncles? And if the boy should die—he certainly had not the appearance of one who would make old bones—and one of those Protectors was married to the King’s daughter…It was not difficult to see the possibilities in that situation. Moreover, that red-headed little girl was not displeasing to him; and he fancied—for there was something of her mother in her—that he was not altogether displeasing to her, young child that she was.
