Jean Plaidy - The Sixth Wife: The Story of Katherine Parr
Mr. Kyme was such a rich man; and it often happened that rich men were considered most worthy prey by those who wished to bring an accusation which might result in the confiscation of lands and goods. He trembled for his possessions; he was ready to give up his wife rather than place his lands and coffers in jeopardy.
“You will leave this house at once,” he had said. “I’ll dissociate myself from you and your evil teachings.”
And the day she left his house was a happy one for her. Now, kneeling in her cell, she was glad of that experience. It had taught her courage; and she knew she would have great need of courage.
Early that morning she heard footsteps in the passage outside her cell; the door opened and two men came in.
“Prepare yourself for a journey, Mistress Askew,” one said. “You are to go to the Guildhall this day for questioning.”
SHE STOOD BEFORE her judges. The strong, pure air had made her faint; the sunlight had seemed to blind her; and her limbs would scarcely carry her. But she did not care, for though her body was weak, her spirit was strong.
She looked up at the open timberwork roof and down at the pavings of Purbeck stone. It was warm in the great hall, for the early summer sun was streaming through the windows, picking out the carvings of the Whittington escutcheons.
Her trial was considered of some importance; yet she was not afraid. She knew that she was in the right, and it seemed to her that, with God and his company of angels on her side, she need have no fear of the Lord Mayor of London, of Bonner, Gardiner, Wriothesley and all the nobles of the Catholic faction who were there to discountenance her and hasten her to the stake.
She heard the words of the Lord Mayor:
“You are a heretic and condemned by the law if you stand by your opinion.”
Her voice rang out—a strong voice to come from such a frail body. “I am no heretic. Neither do I deserve death by any law of God. But concerning the faith which I have uttered, I will not deny it, because, my lords, I know it to be true.”
Wriothesley said: “Do you deny the sacrament to be Christ’s own body and blood?”
“Yes; I do. That which you call God is but a piece of bread. The son of God, born of the Virgin Mary, is now in Heaven. He cannot be a piece of bread that, if left for a few weeks, will grow moldy and turn to nothing that is good. How can that be God?”
“You are not here to ask us questions, madam,” said Wriothesley. “You are here to answer those which we put to you.”
“I have read,” she answered, “that God made man, but that man can make God I have not read. And if you say that God’s blood and body is in bread because man has consecrated that bread, then you say that man can make God.”
“Do you insist in these heresies?” demanded the Lord Mayor.
“I insist on speaking the truth,” she answered.
“You are condemned of your own mouth,” she was told.
“I will say nothing but that which I believe to be true.”
“Methinks,” said Gardiner, “that we should send a priest that you may confess your faults.”
“I will confess my faults unto God,” she answered proudly. “I am sure He will hear me with favor.”
“You leave us no alternative but to condemn you to the flames.”
“I have never heard that Christ or His Apostles condemned any to the flames.”
Her judges whispered together; they were uncomfortable. It was ever thus with martyrs. They discomfited others while they remained calm themselves. If only she would show some sign of fear. If only it were possible to confound her in argument.
“You are like a parrot!” cried Gardiner angrily. “You repeat… repeat…repeat that which you have learned.”
Wriothesley’s eyes were narrowed. He was thinking: I should like to see fear in those eyes; I should like to hear those proud lips cry for mercy.
She spoke in her rich clear voice. “God is a spirit,” she said. “He will be worshipped in spirit and in truth.”
“Do you plainly deny Christ to be in the sacrament?”
“I do. Jesus said: ‘Take heed that no man shall deceive you. For many shall come in My name saying I am Christ; and shall deceive many.’ The bread of the sacrament is but bread, and when you say it is the body of Christ, you deceive yourselves. Nebuchadnezzar made an image of gold and worshipped it. That is what you do. Bread is but bread…”
“Silence!” roared Gardiner. “You have been brought here, woman, to be tried for your life, not to preach heresy.”
The judges conferred together and, finding her guilty, condemned her to death by burning.
They took her back to her dungeon in the Tower.
TO DIE THE martyr’s death!
Had she the courage to do that? She could picture the flames rising from her feet; she could smell the burning faggots, she could hear their crackle. But how could she estimate the agonizing pain? She saw herself, the flames around her, the cross in her hand. Could she bear it with dignity and fortitude?
“Oh God,” she prayed, “give me courage. Help me to bear my hour of pain, remembering how Thy Son, Jesus Christ, did suffer. Help me, God, for Jesus’ sake.”
She was on her knees throughout the night. Scenes from the past seemed to flit before her eyes. She was in her father’s garden, with her sister, feeding the peacocks; she was being married to Mr. Kyme; she was enduring his embraces; she was in the barge which was carrying her to prison; she was facing her judges in the Guildhall.
At last, swooning from exhaustion, she lay on the floor of her cell.
But with the coming of morning she revived. She thought: Previously it was so easy to contemplate death, but that was when I did not know I was to die.
WITHIN THE PALACE they were talking of Anne Askew.
She had deliberately defied her judges. What a fool! What a sublime fool!
“This is but a beginning,” it was whispered.
Those who had read the forbidden books and had dabbled with the new learning, were, in their fear, looking for plausible excuses.
“It was just an intellectual exercise, nothing more.”
“It was not a heresy… not a faith to die for.”
The Queen took to her bed; she was physically sick with horror. Anne—delicate Anne—condemned to the flames! This thing must not be allowed to happen. But how could she prevent it? What power had she?
The King had been irritable with her; he had ignored her when the courtiers were assembled. Once he had made up his mind regarding the Duchesses of Suffolk and Richmond he would find some means of disposing of his present Queen.
Her sister came and knelt by her bed. They did not speak, and Lady Herbert’s eyes were veiled. She wanted to beg her sister to plead for Anne; yet at the same time she was silently begging the Queen to do nothing.
Little Jane Grey went quietly about the apartment. She knew what was happening. They would burn Mistress Anne Askew at the stake, and no one could do anything to save her.
Imaginative as she was, she felt that this terrible thing which was happening to Anne was happening to herself. She pictured herself in that cold and airless cell; she pictured herself facing her judges at the Guildhall.
That night she dreamed that she stood in the square at Smithfield, and that it was about her own feet that the men were piling faggots.
She was with the Prince when Princess Elizabeth came to see him.
Elizabeth was a young lady now of thirteen years. There were secrets in her eyes; she wore clothes to call attention to the color of her hair, and rings to set off the beauty of her hands. She could never look at a man without—so it seemed to Jane—demanding to know whether he admired her. She was even thus with her tutors. And it was clear that Mistress Katharine Ashley, who thought her the most wonderful person in the world, now found her a difficult charge.
Everyone, even Elizabeth, looked sad because of Anne Askew. Elizabeth liked the new learning as much as Jane did—but differently. Elizabeth appreciated it, but would be ready to abandon it. Jane thought: I would not. I would be like Anne Askew.
“Something must be done to save her!” said Jane.
Edward looked expectantly at his sister, for she was the one who was always full of plans. If something could be done, Elizabeth would invariably suggest the means.
But now she shook her head.
“There is nothing to be done. Those with good sense will keep quiet.”
“We cannot let them send her to the stake!” insisted Jane.
“It is no affair of ours. We have no say in the matter.”
“We could plead, could we not?”
“With whom could we plead?”
“With the King.”
“Would you dare? Edward, would you dare?”
“With those near the King perhaps?” suggested Edward.
“With Gardiner?” cried the Princess ironically. “With the Chancellor?”
“No, indeed.”
“Then with Cranmer? Ha! He is too wise. He does not forget how, recently, he himself came near to disaster. He will say nothing. He will allow this affair to pass away and be forgotten—as we all must.”
“But it is Anne—our dearest Mistress Askew!”
“Our foolish Mistress Askew. She dared to stand up and say that the holy bread was not the body of Christ.”
“But that is what we know to be true.”
“We know?” Elizabeth opened her eyes very wide. “We read of these things, but we do not talk of them.”
“But if she believes…”
“I tell you she is a fool. There is no place in this court …nor in this world, I trow, for fools.”
“But you…no less than ourselves….”
“You know not what you say.”
“Then you are against Anne, against our stepmother? You are with Gardiner?”
“I am with none and against none,” answered the Princess. “I am … with myself.”
“Perhaps Uncle Thomas could put a plea before my father,” said Edward. “He is clever with words, and my father is amused by him. Uncle Thomas will know what to do.”
“’ Tis true,” said Elizabeth. “He will know what to do, and he will do what I shall do.”
She smiled and her face flushed suddenly; it was clear to Jane that Elizabeth was thinking, not of wretched Anne Askew, but of jaunty Thomas Seymour.
THE KING WAS in a merry mood. He sat, with a few of his courtiers about him, while a young musician—a beautiful boy— played his lute and sang with such sweetness that the King’s thoughts were carried away from the apartment. The song was of love; so were the King’s thoughts.
It should be my lady of Suffolk, he decided. She would bear him sons. He pictured her white body and her hair, touched with the bright yellow powder which so many used to give that pleasant golden touch. She was a fine, buxom woman.
Her glances had told him that she found him attractive. He liked her the better because she was the widow of Charles Brandon. There had always been friendship between himself and Charles. How readily he had forgiven the fellow when he had so hastily married Henry’s own sister, Mary Tudor, after old Louis’ death. Henry chuckled at the recollection of the old days, and a great longing for them swept over him.
He was not an old man. Fiftyfive. Was that so old? He decided angrily that he felt old because he no longer had a wife who pleased him.
Why is it, he pondered, that she cannot give me sons?
He had the answer to that. God was displeased with her. And why should God be displeased with her? She was no harlot—he would admit that—as the others had been. No. But she was a heretic. She was another such as that friend of hers, this Anne Askew. And that woman had been found guilty and condemned to the flames. Henry licked his lips. Was this wife of his any less guilty than the woman they had condemned to die?
I would not wish her to die such a death, he thought. I am a merciful man. But was it right that one woman should die for her sins while another, equally guilty, should go free?
There was an unpleasant rumor that the Duchess of Suffolk was one of those ladies who had dabbled in heresy. He did not want to examine that now. He refused to believe it. It was the sort of thing her enemies would say against her, knowing his interest. No! There was no need to occupy his thoughts with that matter…at this time.
She was a fascinating creature—aye, and not a little fascinated by her King. Feeling perhaps just a little afraid of such a mighty lover, seeming at times to long to run away? Perhaps. But he knew how she longed to stay!
In the old days she would have been his mistress ere this. But when a man grows older, he mused, he does not slip so easily into lovemaking. There is not the same desire for haste. Lovemaking must now be conducted more sedately, by the dim light of say…one candle?
His Chancellor was at his side. The King smiled. Wriothesley had comported himself well at the trial of the heretic. He had shown no softness merely because she was a woman.
A woman! A new vision of the Duchess’s beauty rose before him. Soon to be tested! he thought with pleasure.
Nay! Anne Askew was scarcely a woman. Lean of body and caring for books rather than the caress of a lover. That was not how a woman should be. No! Anne Askew was no woman.
He caught the phrase and repeated it to his conscience, for he was wily and shrewd and could guess what plans were being formed in the Chancellor’s mind.
No woman! No woman! he repeated to his conscience.
She was not alone in her guilt. There must be others. A little questioning, and she might disclose their names. The name of the Duchess of Suffolk came quickly into his mind. No, no. It was not true. He did not believe it. Moreover he had no fools about him. There was not one of them who would dare present him with the name of an innocent lady.
But why should Anne Askew not be questioned by his servants of the Tower? Because she was a woman? But she was no woman…no true woman.
And if I find heretics in my court, he said to his conscience, they shall not be spared. In the name of the Holy Church of which I am the head, they shall not be spared…no matter who…no matter who….
He could see the fair Duchess staring dreamily ahead, listening to that song of love. Was she thinking of a lover, a most desirable and royal lover?
He spoke to his conscience again: “I am a King, and many matters weigh heavily on my mind. I am the head of a great State, and I have seen that State grow under my hands. I have shown wisdom in my relations with foreign powers. I have allowed nothing to stand in the way of England. I have played off the Emperor Charles against sly François… and I have seen my country grow in importance in the world. I am a King and, because of these state matters, which are ever with me, I have need of the soothing sweetness of love. I have need of a mistress.”
The conscience said: “You have a wife.”
“A wife who is a heretic?”
“Not yet proven.”
The little eyes were prim.
“And if it were proved, I should have no alternative but to put her from me. I cannot tolerate heretics in my kingdom. Whoever they should prove to be, I could not tolerate those who work against God’s truth.”
