The Sixth Wife: The Story of Katherine Parr (27 page)

“And you, my lady?” he said. “What of you? Doubtless they will find a husband for you. What shall you say to that?”

His arm had tightened about her. This was, she well knew, flirtation of a dangerous nature, though disguised, because the words spoken between them had a hidden significance.

“Rest assured,” she said, “that I shall have a say in the choice of my own husband.”

He smiled at her and his fingers burned through the stuff of her dress.

“May I…rest assured?” he said lightly.

“You may, my lord.”

Then she remembered suddenly the dignity that she owed to her rank; she removed herself haughtily from his grasp.

When Sir Thomas left Hatfield House he was sure that the visit had been an important one. He believed that he had made progress in his courtship and that he had taken one step nearer to the throne.

CHRISTMAS CAME AND WENT. Everyone, except the King, knew that he was about to die. Henry refused to accept this dismal fact. Ill as he was, he insisted on meeting his council each day and discussing matters of state. He saw little of Katharine. He did not wish to see her. Since the cauterization of his legs he had not wished any female to come near him; and in any case, he was still contemplating ridding himself of her.

January came, cold and bleak. On the nineteenth of that month, the poet Surrey went out to meet the executioner on Tower Hill.

The young man died as he had lived, reckless and haughty, seeming not to care.

People of the court shivered as they watched the handsome head roll in the straw. What had this young man done except carry royal blood in his veins and boast of it? Well, many had lost their heads for that crime.

That was the end of Surrey; and his father, it was said, was to follow him soon.

The King, in his bedchamber, received news of the execution.

“So die all traitors!” he mumbled.

He was, in these days of his sickness, recalling to mind too vividly those men and women he had sent to the block. But he had an answer to his conscience, whatever name his memory called up.

“I have to think of my boy,” he told his conscience. “That is why Surrey has gone. That is why Norfolk shall go. He is too young, my Edward, to be without me and surrounded by those ambitious men who fancy their heads fit a crown.”

Surrey then. And after him, proud Norfolk.

Norfolk now lay in the Tower awaiting his trial.

Seymour was beside the King, proffering a cup of wine to his lips. There were times when Henry’s hands were so swollen with dropsy that he could not hold a cup.

“Good Thomas!” he murmured.

The handsome head was bent low. “Your Grace,” said Seymour, “the Lady Elizabeth was grieved to leave her brother. I thought it would please you to know how much they love each other.”

“Would the girl were a boy!” muttered Henry.

“Indeed, Your Grace, that would be well. But alas, she is a girl, and what will become of her? Will she grow, like her sister Mary, into spinsterhood?”

Henry gave the Admiral a sly glance. He knew what thoughts were going on in that handsome head.

“’ Twould be a sad thing, Your Grace,” persisted the bold Admiral.

“Aye! ’T would be a bad thing,” said the King.

“And yet, Sire, on account of the frailty of her mother, and the fact that she was not married to Your Grace because of that precontract with Northumberland, what… will become of the Lady Elizabeth?”

The King softened toward Seymour. He liked boldness, for he himself had been bold.

He smiled. “More wine, good Thomas.”

“Your Majesty might give her to one of your gentlemen…if his rank and wealth were commensurate.”

“I might indeed. But she is young yet. There’s no knowing… no knowing, friend Thomas.”

And the King’s friend Thomas felt elated with his success.

THE OLD DUKE OF NORFOLK lay in his cell awaiting his death. How many years had he expected this? All through his life there had been these alarms which he was too near the throne to have escaped. But he had been a wise man and had always made the King’s cause his own.

But the wisest men could be betrayed, and often by those who were nearest and dearest to them.

Tomorrow he was to die.

In the Palace of White Hall the King lay sick. He will not live long after me, reflected Norfolk.

When a man is going to die he thinks back over his life. He had been a great statesman, this Duke of England’s noblest House; he had had his place in the building of England’s greatness. He was a proud man and he hated to die thus…as traitors die.

Proud young Surrey had betrayed him—not with plots, but with vanity, pride.

Norfolk’s thoughts went back to his marriage with Buckingham’s daughter—a proud woman, a vain woman. He himself had been Earl of Surrey then and had inherited the title of Duke of Norfolk some years later. The trouble with Bess Holland had started when he was still Earl of Surrey.

Bessie! he brooded, seeing her as she had been then, with the sleeves of her cheap gown rolled up over her elbows showing her buxom arms—a slut, some might say, but bearing that indefinable attraction which even a great nobleman—so conscious of his status—found irresistible.

He had seduced her on their first meeting; yet he almost believed that she had seduced him. It had not ended there. One went back, and back again, to such as Bessie.

Naturally his wife had been furious. A daughter of noble Buckingham to be set aside for a laundress: But Bessie had had something more alluring than noble lineage. Bessie had that way of setting aside all the barriers of class.

Well, it was a lusty age and, although he was the most noble man in the realm, under the King, and one of its keenest statesmen, he had been unable to give up Bessie.

His Duchess had been a vindictive woman, determined to make trouble; so between her and Bess he had had enough of that in his life.

His family… his accursed family! First Anne Boleyn—though not all Howard, being part lowborn Boleyn—and then Catharine Howard. Both of these Queens had brought wealth and advancement to the Howards, and when they fell, the Howard fortunes declined with them.

He remembered now—he who believed he would soon go to Tower Green—how he had flayed with his scorn those two kinswomen of his, those fallen Queens. More fiercely than any, his tongue had condemned them. He had stood by the King and
deplored the fact—so tragic for the House of Howard—that it was those two women who had made the King suffer.

And now his own son—his elder son—on whom he had fixed his pride and hope, had lost his head. Gay Surrey, the handsome poet who could not keep his mouth shut—or perhaps did not care to do so.

“My son…my son…” murmured the Duke. “But what matters it, for tomorrow I shall join you.”

And as he lay there, waiting for the dawn, he wished that he had often acted differently during his long life. He could not forget the scornful flashing eyes of Anne Boleyn when he had conducted her to the Tower; he could not shut out of his mind the memory of Catharine Howard’s tears.

He waited calmly for the dawn.

THE KING HAD not yet signed Norfolk’s death warrant. He was too ill to deal with matters of state and kept to his bed that day. His limbs were swollen with dropsy; he felt low and was in great pain; and he was only half aware of the candlelit room in which he lay.

In a corner waited several gentlemen of the bedchamber. With them were members of his Council—the Seymours, Lord Lisle, Wriothesley, and Sir Anthony Denny among them.

They whispered together.

“He cannot last the night.”

“He has never been in this condition before.”

“He should be told. He should be prepared.”

“Who will dare tell him?”

All were silent; and then the King’s voice was heard calling.

“Go,” said Hertford to his brother. “You go. He has a liking for you.”

Sir Thomas went into the chamber and stood by the King’s bed.

“Who is there?” asked Henry, peering before him. “Who is it?”

“Thomas Seymour, my lord. Your humble servant and your friend.”

“Friend Thomas… friend Thomas… My arms are burning stumps of fire. My legs are furnaces. My body lies in the grip of deadly pain.”

“Rest, Sire. Speak not,” said Seymour, “for speech doth bring out the sweat beads, big as grapes, upon thy brow.”

“An we wish it, we will speak,” growled the King. “We will not be told, by a subject, when to speak.”

“Your Grace’s pardon. I but feared for you.”

“How goes the hour?”

“Creeping on to midnight, Sire.”

“I hear the bells in my ears, Seymour. I seem to be walking on soft grass. I think I ride in Richmond Park. I think I am up the river in my state barge. I think I sit beside my Queen, watching the jousting in the tiltyard. But…I lie here… with furnaces for limbs… adying in my bed.”

Two members of the Council had come into the chamber. They stood by the hangings and whispered together concerning the King’s condition.

Henry heard them. He tried to lift his head, but fell back groaning.

“Who whispers in the shadows? ’tis Surrey…’ Tis my lord Earl.”

Seymour bent his head and murmured: “Nay, Sire. Your Grace forgets. Surrey laid his head on the block nine days ago.”

“Surrey!” muttered the King. “Surrey…a poet…a handsome boy…a proud and foolish boy.”

“A conspirator against the Throne, Your Grace.”

Henry’s voice was more distinct. “’ Twas Surrey who first wrote blank verse. I remember it. He gave us the sonnet. A poet… but…a proud and foolish boy.”

“He plotted against Your Grace. He displayed the royal arms on his own. Your Grace forgets. Surrey thought himself more royal than royalty.”

The King had become confused. “Buckingham!” he shouted, but his voice immediately fell to a whisper: “To the Tower with Buckingham. To the block, I say!”

Seymour reflected that it must be thirty years since Buckingham went to the block. Now the King remembered. Was his conscience, so long subdued concerning Buckingham, now rousing itself uneasily? The case of Buckingham had been similar to that of Surrey; both had been noble lords obsessed by their nobility.

The King was muttering again. He had returned to the present. “Seymour…are you there? Thomas…my friend…you spoke of Surrey. He has gone, has he? What was his crime?”

“He would have made his sister your mistress, Your Grace. Your Grace was enraged at such a suggestion.”

A leer, which made the bloated face more horrible, now curled the King’s lips. “Howard’s girl…a comely wench… and saucy…”

Seymour felt nauseated. He turned from the King, thinking with amazement: On his dying bed he contemplates his bedtime pleasures! And Kate… my poor Kate… she was married to this man; and this is the monster who planned to send her the way he has sent others; who was planning, if rumor be correct, but a few weeks since.

“Thomas …” cried the King suddenly. “There are men in our chamber. Our enemies whisper and conspire against us.”

“Nay, Sire. They are but your Councillors. They come to inquire of your health.”

“Is Norfolk there?”

“Nay, Your Grace, Norfolk lies in the Tower, awaiting your signature to his death warrant.”

“We’ll give it. We’ll give it. To the block with these Howards… father and son.”

“Your Majesty must preserve his strength.”

“There’s strength enough… I’ll sign it. Surrey…a foolish boy. A comely wench, thy sister, Surrey. A drink…a drink…my throat is scorched by fires. Douse them, Seymour. Douse them, my friend. What whispering goes on about me? Come forth! Come forth! Ah, I see you there, you rogue. What news, eh? Why do you look so smug? Am I going to die? Is that what you would tell me? Come…. You there, Denny. What news? What news, I say?”

Denny, braver than the rest and certain now that the King was dying, decided to tell him the truth.

“My lord King, all human aid is vain, your doctors fear. It is therefore meet for Your Majesty to review your past life and seek God’s mercy through Christ.”

There was a second of terrible silence while understanding showed itself on the King’s distorted face. But he was quick to recover his calm, to banish the terror which had laid hold on him. He said sternly: “Tell me, Denny, by what authority you come to pass sentence on me. What judge has sent you here?”

“Your doctors, Sire. I will send them to you. They await an audience.”

The King closed his eyes wearily, but when a few seconds later the doctors approached the bed with medicines for him, he opened his eyes and glared at them with the old ferocity. “What’s this?” he demanded. “You have passed sentence on me, you judges; and when a judge has passed his sentence on a criminal, he has no longer need to trouble him. Begone! Begone, I say!” As they continued to stand there watching him, he shouted: “Begone! Begone!”

The doctors bowed and turned away.

“Your presence can do no good here,” said Wriothesley.

When they had gone, the Chancellor approached the bed.

“Your Majesty, would you wish to see some of your divines?”

“Eh?” said the King. “What’s that? Ah…so it has come to that. Divines! Nay! I’ll see none but Cranmer… and him not yet.”

Wriothesley turned to one of the gentlemen. “Go you to Cranmer. He is at Croydon. Go with all speed. Tell him the King desires his presence at White Hall without delay.”

“Your Majesty,” he went on, “Cranmer will come.”

“I’ll have him when I am ready… and not before. Begone! Begone, I said. Leave me….”

His eyes glared at them, although, to him they were like shadows at his bedside. They moved away to a far corner of the chamber, and after a while the King closed his eyes and began to speak again.

“Begone…. Begone… I’ll have none of ye.” He moaned and cried out suddenly in a startled voice: “Anne! Anne! You’re there, you witch. I see you.” He spoke in a whisper then. “Why lookest thou at me with those great black eyes? Thy neck is small. Thou wilt not feel the sword. Ah! You would have a sword from Calais. That is like you. The ax is for ordinary mortals. Haughty to the end! Anne… Anne…’ tis for England, sweetheart. An heir for England. A King is the servant of his country. He is not the servant of his passions. Anne, thy black eyes scorn me. I’ll not have it. To the block! To the block!”