The Sixth Wife: The Story of Katherine Parr (21 page)

She heard the voice of Wriothesley beating like an iron bar on her shattered nerves:

“I will have those names. I will. I will. Again. Again. Give it to her again. You men are soft. You are too gentle. By God, I’ll have those names.”

Sir Anthony Knevet intervened: “My lords, I protest against this additional racking. The lady has been put to the test. That is enough.”

“And who, sir,” demanded the Chancellor, “are you to say what shall and what shall not be done?”

“I am the Lieutenant of this Tower. I am in sole charge in this Tower. The lady shall not, with my consent, be tortured further.”

“And who has placed you in command of this Tower? You forget to whom you owe your honors. This is rank disobedience to His Majesty’s orders. I will carry reports of this to the King, and we shall see how much longer you remain Lieutenant of the Tower, sir.”

Sir Anthony grew pale. He was afraid of the Chancellor and the Solicitor-General, for the two stood firm against him. But when he looked from them to the halfdead woman on the rack, he boldly said: “I cannot give my consent to the continuation of the racking.” He turned to the torturers. “Hold!” he ordered. “Have done.”

Wriothesley laughed.

“Then must we do the work ourselves. Come, Rich!” he cried; and he threw off his cloak. “We will work this together. We will show the lady what happens to those who defy us. As for you, sir Lieutenant, you will hear more of this matter. I, personally, shall convey the tale of your disobedience to the King.”

Knevet walked out of the chamber.

Rich hesitated; the two professional torturers, who dared not disobey the Lieutenant’s orders, stood watching. But Wriothesley had pushed them aside, was rolling up his sleeves, and, signing to Rich to do the same, he took an oar.

And venomously and most cruelly did those two go to work.

Anne was past prayers, past thought. There was nothing in the world for her, but the most exquisite agony ever inflicted on man or woman; there was nothing for her but the longing for death.

Sweating with their exertions, Wriothesley and Rich paused.

“She cannot endure more,” said Rich. “She is on the point of death.”

Rich was also thinking: And Knevet will be in his barge at this moment on his way to Greenwich. And what will the King say? His Majesty would not want this woman to die on the rack; he only wanted her to betray, as a heretic, the woman of whom he was so tired that he wished to rid himself of her.

Wriothesley followed his thoughts.

“Remove the ropes,” he said. “She has had enough.”

The professional torturers untied the ropes and laid the broken body of Anne Askew on the floor.

KNEVET SOUGHT AN AUDIENCE WITH THE KING.

“Your Majesty, I come in great haste. I come to lay before you my sincere apologies if I have disobeyed your orders. But I cannot believe Your Most Clement Majesty ever gave such orders.”

“What orders are these?” asked the King, his shrewd eyes glinting. He guessed that the Lieutenant of the Tower had news of Anne Askew.

“Your Grace, I have come straight from the racking of Anne Askew.”

“The racking of Anne Askew!” The King’s voice was noncommittal. He wished Anne Askew to betray the Queen’s guilt, but he did not care to have his name connected with the racking of a woman.

The Lieutenant of the Tower lifted his eyes hopefully to the King’s face.

“It is the woman, Your Grace, who is condemned to the stake.”

“The heretic,” said Henry. “She is condemned with three men, I understand. She has offended against our Holy Church and slandered the Mass. She has been tried and her judges have found her guilty.”

“That is so, Your Majesty. The sentence is just. But… they are racking her to death. Your Chancellor and Solicitor-General are racking her for information.”

“Racking her! Racking a woman!”

Knevet was on his knees, kissing the King’s hand.

“I knew that Your Grace in your great mercy would never have given your consent to such treatment of a frail woman. I could not allow myself to be involved in the matter unless I had written orders from Your Majesty. I trust I did right.”

The King’s lips were prim. To rack a woman! He had never given his consent to that. The rack had not been mentioned in his talk with the Chancellor.

“You did right,” said the King.

“Then I have Your Majesty’s pardon?”

“There is no need of pardon, my friend.” The King laid his hand on Knevet’s shoulder. “Go back to your duties with a good conscience.”

Fervently Knevet continued to kiss the King’s hand.

As he was about to retire, Henry said: “And the woman…did she disclose…er… anything of interest?”

“No, Your Majesty. She is a brave woman, heretic though she be. I left the Chancellor and Solicitor-General working the rack themselves, and with great severity.”

The King frowned. “And…on a frail woman!” he said in shocked tones. “It may be that under dire torture she will betray others who are as guilty as she is.”

“I doubt it, Your Majesty. She was then too weak to know anything but her agony.”

The King turned away as though to hide his distress that such things could happen in his realm. “A woman …” he murmured, his voice half sorrowful, half angry. “A frail woman!”

But when the Lieutenant had gone, his eyes, angry points of light, almost disappeared in his bloated face.

“A curse on all martyrs!” he muttered. “A curse on them all!”

Memories of others came to him in that moment. Norris and Derham; Fisher and More.

And it seemed to him that the ghosts of those martyrs were in the room, mocking him.

IN THAT SQUARE where so many tragedies had been played out, where medieval duels had been fought, where the sixty-two-year-old Edward III had held a seven-day joust for the entertainment of the young woman with whom he was in love, where Wat Tyler had been bettered by the youthful Richard II—in that square of gay triumphs and cruel deeds, men were now piling the faggots around four stakes.

From all over London the people were coming to Smithfield. Today was a show day, and the crowning event of a day’s sightseeing was to be the burning of four martyrs, one of them a woman—the famous Anne Askew. They chattered and laughed and quarreled, and most impatiently they waited for the sight of those who were to suffer.

The hot sun burned down on the walls of the Priory renowned for the fine mulberries that grew in its grounds, picking out the sharp stones and making them glitter. The smell of horses was in the air, although this place was to be used for a purpose other than the marketing of horses on this tragic day.

On a bench outside the Church of St. Bartholomew sat Wriothesley, with important members of his party, among them the old Duke of Norfolk and the Lord Mayor.

Wriothesley was uneasy.

The King had not reproved him in private for the racking of Anne Askew, and he knew that he had done what His Majesty had wished even though he could not be commended for it in public. Still, the torturing had been a failure, for the woman had refused to give the names which were required of her; and it was not wise to forge a false confession, for she was a fearless woman who was quite capable of exposing the fraud when she was at the stake and there would be many to hear her.

Yes, the affair was a failure, for clearly the torturing and burning of a gentlewoman had not in itself been the desire of the King or the
Chancellor. The motive had been to implicate the Queen, and that had not been achieved.

On this day a fence had been erected on all sides of the square. It was necessary to keep back the press of people. He was afraid of what they might do, what sympathies they might display toward a woman who had been broken on the rack … whatever her faith. He was afraid of what words Anne Askew might speak while the flames crackled at her feet. Fervently he hoped that if she did speak, the fences would prevent the mass of sightseers from being near enough to hear her. He was, therefore, a most uneasy man.

The victims were now on their way from Newgate, whither Anne had been taken after her torturing, to await the day of her death. Anne came first. She was carried to the stake in her chair, for her limbs were useless. The people shouted when they saw her. The cry of “Heretic! To the stake with the heretics!” was distinctly heard. But so also were the words: “God bless you.” And some pressed forward to touch the garment of one who they considered would shortly be a holy martyr.

Her golden hair lay lusterless about her shoulders, but how fiercely her blue eyes burned. No torture could douse the light which burned within her. She was the fanatical and triumphant martyr. She knew that she had come successfully through the greater ordeal. Death by the flames would offer a welcome release from pain.

With her were three men—three others who had denied the Mass. None of them was considered of any importance; they were humble people. John Lascelles was the most interesting, because he had been the man who had first spread the rumors concerning Catharine Howard and so sent her to her doom.

Wriothesley thought fleetingly that every man was near to death. He who condemned today, was in his turn condemned tomorrow.

He turned to Norfolk. “A woman to die thus! It seems cruel.”

“Aye,” said Norfolk, who had seen two female relatives, wives of the King, lose their heads. “But she is nevertheless a heretic.”

“I have the King’s pardon in my pocket. It is hers if she will recant. I wish to let the people know that pardon awaits her if she will see reason.”

“Have it sent to her before the sermon starts.”

Anne received the message while, about her body, they were fixing the chain which would hold her to the stake.

“I come not hither,” she said, “to deny my Lord and Master.”

She saw that the three men who were to die with her received similar messages.

They were brave, but they lacked her spirit. They turned their agonized eyes to her, and she saw how their apprehensive bodies longed to recant, although their spirits would firmly ignore the frailty of the flesh.

She said: “My friends, we have suffered…I more than any of you. I am happy now. I long for death. I long to feel the flames. To deny your God now, would mean that you would loathe the life offered you on such terms.”

She smiled and looked almost lovingly at the faggots about her maltreated legs.

Then the men smiled with her and tried to emulate her courage.

“They are beginning the sermons,” she said. “There is Dr. Shaxton. He will preach to us, he who a short while ago was one of us. Now he has denied his faith. He has chosen life on Earth in place of the life everlasting. Do not envy him, my friends, for very soon now you and I will be in paradise. We are to die, and we die for truth. We die in the Lord. God bless you, my friends. Have no fear; for I have none.”

She held the cross in her hands. She lifted her eyes to Heaven, seeming to be unaware of the flickering flames. She heard the shrieks of agony about her; but she was smiling as the flames crept up her tortured body.

Soon there was silence, and a pall of smoke hung above Smithfield Square.

THE KING WAS DISSATISFIED.

The execution had availed him nothing. He was a tired man; he was a King in need of relaxation, and my lady of Suffolk seemed to grow more fair as the days passed.

He was overburdened with matters of state. The cost of garrisoning the town of Boulogne and holding it against the French was a considerable drain on his resources, yet he would not give it up. It was an additional foothold in France which he felt was necessary to England. He affectionately called Boulogne “my daughter”; and it was said that he never squandered so much on any child of his as he did on the bricks and soil of that town.

Indeed he needed relaxation. In the days of his youth he had found great pleasure in the hunt; but he could no longer hunt with pleasure. He had enjoyed dancing, jousting, playing games, amusing and distinguishing himself in the tiltyard. But now that he was no longer a young man those avenues to pleasure were closed. There was still love. He needed love; but because he was a virtuous man—and he was continually worried by the thought that his end might not be far off—it must be legalized love; the sort of love which would not distress his conscience while it delighted his body.

All the kings of his age were egoists; but egoism was the very essence of this King’s nature. Everything that happened must be colored by his view of it, garnished and flavored to satisfy his conscience.

After he had fallen from grace, Cardinal Wolsey, who had perhaps known him better than any other person, said of him: “The King is a man of royal courage. He has a princely heart; and rather
than he will miss or want part of his appetite he will hazard the loss of onehalf of his kingdom.”

It was true of Henry. He was as Wolsey had seen him. But he was strong and ruthless in an age when strength and ruthlessness were the qualities a growing country looked for in its King; and under this man a little island had become a great power; he, who had seemed to his enemies on the Continent of Europe but of ducal standing when he ascended the throne, had become a mighty King.

But there was more than one Henry. Just as there was the moralist and the sensualist, so there was the strong and ruthless ruler, determined to make his country great, and that other who must at all cost have his pleasure and who was ready to sacrifice half his kingdom for his appetite. But every phase of Henry’s character—the moralist, the sensualist, the great King and the weak King—was dominated by the brutal, callous monster.

Those about him, those sly and subtle ministers, continually watching him, sensed his moods.

They had murdered Anne Askew, but they still had to rid him of his sixth wife and provide him with a seventh. And there came a day shortly after the executions in Smithfield when Gardiner found his opportunity.

Gardiner had been granted an audience with the King when His Majesty was alone with the Queen, and the Bishop sensed at once a certain tension in the atmosphere. The King was irritated and wished to quarrel with the Queen; and the woman would give him no opportunity.

When Gardiner had the King’s signature to the papers which he had set before him, he spoke of the execution of Anne Askew, a subject which never failed to upset the Queen so thoroughly that it set her emotions above her common sense.

The King scowled.

“The trouble, Your Grace,” said Gardiner, “can be traced to these books which are circulating in your realm. They lead astray those who read them.” Gardiner had turned to the Queen, and he added pointedly: “Your Majesty has doubtless seen the books to which I refer?”

“I?” said Katharine, flushing uncomfortably.

“I feel sure that the woman, Anne Askew, must have brought them to Your Grace’s notice.”

Katharine, who had suffered and was still suffering from the tragedy which had robbed her of a woman whom she had loved and respected, said sharply: “The books I see and read could be of little interest to you, my lord Bishop.”

“Not if they were forbidden books, Your Majesty.”

“Forbidden books!” cried the Queen. “I was unaware that I must ask my lord Bishop’s advice as to what I might and might not read.”

Henry, who could never like Gardiner, thought his manner insolent, and growled: “I, too, was unaware of it.”

Gardiner bowed. He was a bold man and he knew that he was but obeying the will of the King in what he was doing.

“In truth,” he said quietly, “it would be presumptuous of me to direct Your Highness’s reading. I would but express an opinion that it might be unwise for the Queen’s Grace to have in her possession books given to her by those who, by order of the King, have been found guilty of heresy and sentenced to death.”

The King’s eyes glistened; they almost disappeared into his face as they did in moments of great pleasure or anger.

“What books are these?” he growled. “Has our Queen become the friend of those who work against us?”

Gardiner caught the note of excitement in the King’s voice. Was this the moment? Could he, by subtle words, trap the Queen, as he and the Chancellor had been unable to do by applying the torture to Anne Askew?

“Indeed not,” said Katharine.

She saw the crafty wickedness in her husband’s eyes, and because of what had happened to those who had shared his throne before her, she read his thoughts.

“Not so?” said the King. “We would be sure of that.”

“Your Majesty will hear me out?” said Katharine.

The King would not look at her. “I am weary of these conflicts,” he said. “I will not have my Queen take part in them…or if she does, she will not long remain my Queen.”

The threat in his words terrified Katharine. “Courage!” she prayed, as Anne Askew had prayed before her. But she knew that she, who loved life so much, could never face death as Anne had. Anne had longed for death, for martyrdom; and Katharine had never ceased to long for life and Thomas Seymour.

“Conflicts…?” she stammered.

“You heard us,” said the King; and the scowl on his brow had deepened. His anger shifted from the Queen to Gardiner. At that moment he disliked them both heartily and he was thinking: I am a King, heavily burdened with matters of state. I need pleasure to soothe me; I need gentle relaxation. Instead I have these two to plague me. Methinks it is time I rid myself of them both. “It would appear,” he continued, keeping his eyes on Gardiner, “that there are some among us who, in place of preaching the Word of God, do nothing but rail against one another.” His eyes shifted unpleasantly from the Bishop to the Queen and back to the Bishop. “If any know that there are those among us who preach perverse doctrines, he should come and declare it before us or some of our council. Have I not said it before?”

Gardiner murmured: “Your Majesty has indeed, and it shall be done….”

The King waved a hand; he was not going to endure one of Gardiner’s speeches. If any should speak now it would be the King.

“We now permit our subjects to read the Holy Scriptures,” he said, “and to have the Word of God in our mother tongue, and I will have it known that it is licensed them so to do only to inform their consciences, their children and their families, and not to dispute and to make scripture a railing and a taunting stock. This I have said to my parliament, and now I say it to you, Bishop, and to you, wife. I am sorry to know how irreverently that precious jewel, the Word of God, is disputed, rhymed, sung and jangled in every alehouse and tavern, contrary to the true meaning and doctrine of the same.”

He paused and raised his eyes devoutly to the ceiling, as though he knew that God was watching and applauding.

“My lord King,” said Katharine, “when Your Most Gracious Majesty says ‘to dispute,’ Your Grace cannot mean that it is not lawful to discuss, one with another, the interpretation of the Gospel?”

“I should have thought that we had stated our meaning clearly,” said the King with weary menace. “What do you, madam? Would you question the decision of our ministers?”

“Never, my lord, but…but…”

“But? But?” cried the King threateningly. “You would then question
our
decision?”

“I do no such thing, Your Majesty,” said Katharine quickly, “since it would be unseemly on my part. I would only beg Your
Grace that you might cease to forbid the use of that translation which you previously licensed.”

The King let loose his anger. He flagellated it to greater vehemence. He wanted to find fault with his wife; he was tired of her. Through the haze of his fury he saw the alluring body of the Duchess of Suffolk.

“By my faith!” he cried. “I’ll have obedience from my subjects; and hark ye! a wife is not less a subject because she is a wife. Madam, when we say it is forbidden to use a translation, it
is
forbidden.”

“My lord,” said Katharine, trembling before the storm which she had raised, “your word is law indeed, but this translation did so clearly set forth the truth…”

“We would hear no more,” roared the King. “Therefore you have our leave to retire from our presence.”

She knelt before him, but he waved her away.

“Come,” he said, turning to Gardiner, “let us attend to matters of state.”

When Katharine had gone, the purple color flamed anew into his face.

“A good hearing it is,” he snarled, “when women become such clerks; and much to my comfort to be taught in my old age by my wife!”

Gardiner’s eyes were glistening; he wetted his dry lips. “Your Majesty, have I your leave to speak to you on a very serious matter?”

The King’s shrewd eyes appraised his Bishop. He knew the nature of this serious matter; it was a matter, above all others, that he wished to discuss.

“You have my leave,” he said.

“Your Majesty said that if any offended against your laws, no matter what rank that person should hold … it was the bounden duty…”

“Yes…yes…” said the King testily. “I remember my words. There is no need to repeat them.”

“There are secret matters, Your Majesty, which I have long sought an opportunity of bringing to your ears…but since they concern the opinions of the Queen…”

“Well?” cried the King. “Get on, man. Get on.”

“Your Majesty excels the princes of this and any other age as well as all the professed doctors of divinity. It is unseemly for any of Your Majesty’s subjects to argue and discuss with you as malapertly as the
Queen hath done. It is grievous for any of your counselors to hear this done.”

“You’re right, Bishop. You’re right there.”

Gardiner lowered his voice. “Your Grace, I could make great discoveries, were I not held back by the Queen’s faction.”

The King looked fiercely at his Bishop, but his pleasure was obvious; and Gardiner knew that the moment for which he had longed was at hand. He would not have been in his eminent position if he had not been a man to seize his opportunities.

NAN WANDERED LISTLESSLY about the gardens of Hampton Court. It was no use pretending that she was unafraid. Every time a messenger came to the apartment she would find herself shivering.

She had heard of the terrible things which had happened to Anne Askew in the Tower. She had been there, at Smithfield Square, and had seen the poor broken creature they had carried out in her chair. She could not look on that gruesome end to Anne’s tragedy; she had knelt on the stones praying while the horrible smoke rose to the sky.

And those wicked men who had destroyed Anne now sought to destroy the Queen.

Nan watched a bee fly past, on the way from the flower garden, laden with pollen. She envied the bee who knew nothing of court intrigues, of fear, and the terrible things which could be done to a good and virtuous woman who had asked nothing but to be allowed to think for herself.

And what next? wondered Nan.

She was in constant dread that she herself would be taken to the Tower. What if they questioned her under torture? It was not the pain that she dreaded so much as the fear that she would not be strong enough to keep silent, and that she might betray the Queen.

What tragedies these gardens must have seen! It seemed to Nan that tension and horror were in the very air of this place. So many had suffered here. So many had walked these gardens waiting for disaster to overtake them.

And now, in the court, people were saying that the days of Katharine Parr were numbered.

The King had turned his eyes elsewhere; and here was the same pattern that had been worked before, with Katharine Parr in place of Anne Boleyn.

I would die for her! thought Nan; for dying would be easy. And oh, how I pray that it may never be my evil lot to betray her.

She must not delay. It was time to attend, with the other ladies, in the Queen’s apartment. The Queen’s apartment…. How long before there would be a new Queen in place of Queen Katharine?

She was about to cross the great courtyard when she saw, hurrying across it, that man who had taken off his mantle that he himself might ferociously work the rack and so inflict greater torture on the suffering body of Anne Askew. Nan drew back and hid herself in an archway.

Sir Thomas Wriothesley, the Lord Chancellor, was smiling, and it occurred to Nan that she had never seen him look so smug.