In the Shadow of the Crown

The Queen in Danger

THE KING CAME TO VISIT US AT HAVERING—OR PERHAPS not to visit us especially, but it happened to be on the route he was taking to somewhere else.

Edward was always uneasy when the King was under the same roof as he was.

“I am not the son he wants,” he told me, his pale face anxious, his blue eyes a little strained, as Margaret said, from too much reading.

I told him he was wrong. “You are everything he wants,” I assured him. “Elizabeth and I…we are only girls and a great disappointment to him. You are the son for whom he has longed for many years. Of course you are what he wants.”

“He would like someone big like himself.”

“You have a long way to grow as yet.”

“He said when he was my age he was twice as big as I am.”

“Big people are not always the best.”

“But they can ride and hunt without getting tired.”

I studied him carefully. He was a delicate child; his attendants had always fussed over him, terrified that something would happen and they be blamed for it.

“I would like to be able to dance and jump and run like Elizabeth,” he said.

“Oh, there is only one Elizabeth.”

He laughed. He agreed with me. He was completely in her thrall.

When the King arrived, we all had to make our respectful bows and curtsies, and when he looked at his son, I could see he did not like the boy's pale looks; he tried to stop himself looking at Elizabeth but she had a way of pushing herself forward, even in the royal presence, and at times I saw him giving her a furtive glance. She looked more than a little like him. If he would have allowed himself, he could have been very pleased with her. She was the one among us most like him.

To my surprise, shortly after his arrival he sent for me, and when I entered his presence I found that he was alone.

“Come and sit beside me, daughter,” he said.

I was amazed at such condescension and obeyed with some apprehension.

He saw this, and it seemed to please him. “There, there,” he said. “Do not be afraid. I wish to talk to you. You are no longer a child… far from it.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“How long is it since you were born?”

“Twenty-six years, Your Majesty.”

“And no husband! Well, these have been tragic times for me. I have been disappointed in my wives… though Jane was a good wife to me. It would seem that there is some curse upon me. Why has God seen fit to punish me thus?”

I felt myself growing stiff with anger, as I always did when anyone said a word against my mother. I wanted to shout at him: You had the best wife in the world and you cast her off for Anne Boleyn.

I think he sensed my feelings and, as he was favoring me at the moment and meant to continue to do so, he was mildly placating.

“I was under the spell of witchcraft,” he said. “I was bewitched.”

I did not answer. His eyes had grown glazed. He was seeing her, I imagined, the black-eyed witch with all her enchantments, seducing him … turning him from a virtuous wife and the Church of Rome. It was necessary to see her thus now. It was the only excuse for murder.

“And Jane,” he went on. “She died…”

“Giving Your Majesty your son,” I reminded him.

“How is the boy? Does he seem weak to you, Mary?”

“He is not strong like Elizabeth, but Lady Bryan says that delicate children often become stronger as they grow older.”

“I did not have to grow out of weakness.”

“Your Majesty cannot expect another to have your strength and blooming health, not even your own son.”

“I do expect it, daughter, and methinks I do not expect too much… only what is due to me. I am too trusting. You see how I am treated. I believed that girl was sweet and innocent…”

I thought: Then you can have had little experience of women. It was strange to be with him like this—answering in asides remarks which I dared not say aloud.

He made a self-pitying gesture, and I tried to look sympathetic, but I kept seeing that poor child running along the gallery at Hampton Court. I kept thinking of her terror as she realized that the axe which was poised above her head was about to fall on her as the executioner's sword from France had on her cousin—his second wife.

“Daughter,” he was saying, “I want you to be beside me. I have no Queen now. I need someone beside me … someone who can play the Queen. We will have a banquet and a ball. We will set aside our gloom. We must, for the sake of our subjects. They like not this sadness. The people must be amused. So …you will come to Court. You will be beside me.”

He was beaming at me, expecting me to express my joy.

I was uncertain of my feelings. I was finding life dull and monotonous. I wanted to be at Court. I wanted to know what was happening, to see events at first hand, not learn of them through hearsay.

And here was a chance.

Yet to be near the King was dangerous. Well, I had lived with danger for most of my life.

He was looking at me steadily.

“I see the idea pleases you,” he said.

He leaned over and patted my hand in a fatherly gesture.

Not since I was a very little girl had he shown me such affection.

MY POSITION HAD CHANGED. I was now in high favor. The King would have me beside him. He made it clear that he recognized me as his daughter.

The loss of Catharine Howard had had its effect on him. He looked much older; even he could no longer deceive himself that he was a young man. His legs were swollen and very painful; his appetite had not diminished, and now that he had less exercise he was beginning to grow very fat. His glinting eyes and his petulant mouth often seemed almost to disappear in the folds of flesh about them. He was melancholy and irascible. People feared him more than ever. I was amazed at his gentle attitude toward me. His health was clearly not good. That running sore on his leg was an outward sign of the state of his body; for some time he had tried to conceal it, but now it was impossible.

Naturally there were spies about the Court whose intention was to report everything that happened, and it was soon known throughout Europe that the King was not in good health, that Edward was frail—and at that only five years old; and it would seem significant that my father had brought me to Court and was treating me with more affection than he had shown toward me since he had decided to discard my mother.

It was not long before King François of France was putting out feelers. His son Charles of Orleans was in need of a bride, and there was none he would welcome as he would the Lady Mary.

I was not very pleased. I had almost become reconciled to being a spinster, to living on the fringe of the Court; after all, there was a great deal to be said for a certain obscurity. One did not have to suffer those alarms every time trouble with which one could be connected sprang up somewhere.

I had settled into a routine, where I could read, write to my friends, occasionally receive them, walk a good deal—I was fond of fresh air, be with my ladies in the evenings by the fire or perhaps, in summer, sit out of doors with dear old Jane the Fool to enliven the hours. It might be a little dull and unadventurous but it was not without its pleasure, and peace of mind was something to treasure when one had had little of it.

How should I know what would be waiting for me at the French Court? Moreover, Chapuys would be against it. If there was to be a union—and I could not have Reginald; that seemed impossible now for he was getting quite old—I would have liked it to bring me closer to the Emperor.

In fact, I found the whole matter rather distasteful, particularly when I discovered that French spies had been questioning my bedchamber women. It was well known that throughout my life I had had bouts of severe illness, and these spies asked delicate and embarrassing questions. They wanted to assure themselves that I was capable of bearing children. They would be considering the many miscarriages my mother had had; my father's children— apart from Elizabeth—were not strong. The Duke of Richmond had died young; Edward was fragile, and I was plagued with illness from time to time. Did that mean that I might not be capable of bearing children?

How serious the negotiations were, I am not sure. The political situation on the Continent was never stable for long; friends became enemies overnight, and that had its effect on proposed marriages. It might have been that it was never intended that there should be a marriage.

The fact that there was a great deal of squabbling over the dowry suggested to me—now experienced in these matters after so many proposals which had come to nothing—that the proposed marriage was a gesture to give the Emperor some apprehension, as the last thing he would want would be an alliance between France and England. My father offered a dowry of 200,000 crowns and François demanded 250,000. Charles of Orleans was only a second son, it was pointed out; I do not know what the response was, but it might have been that the doubts of my legitimacy were referred to.

As the haggling went on, I guessed nothing would come of it, but I was in a state of uncertainty. I had so wanted to marry happily and most of all to have children. I thought this must be the greatest joy on Earth. How wonderful to have a child who would be to me as I had been to my mother! The longing for such a life was with me always

I think it was due to this uncertainty—another proposed marriage which was to end in nothing—that made me ill. There were some doctors who thought my illnesses were due not so much to an affliction of the body as one of the mind. Not that I was in any way unbalanced; but I was often melancholy; and I had suffered so much in my youth, living as I had on the edge of death, that it had affected my health. I was different from my sister Elizabeth. She, too, was in a precarious position, but she seemed to thrive on it. But she was not in such danger as I was, for throughout the country I was seen as the figurehead for those people who wished to deny the King's supremacy in the Church and to lead them back to Rome.

I was very ill this time. Every time I lifted my head from the pillow, I suffered such dizziness that I could not leave my bed. My head ached and I was seized with trembling fits.

I believe those about me thought I would die.

My father visited me. He was most concerned.

“You must get well,” he said. “You shall come to Court. You shall take the place beside me which the Queen would have. You shall be my right hand.”

I smiled wanly. I was too tired and listless to care whether he favored me or not.

He sent Dr. Butts to attend to me—a sign of his favor; Dr. Butts was the only one who seemed to understand my illness and with his care I began to recover.

Susan told me that he thought that if I were happily married and had children I should cease to be tormented by these bouts of illness.

“The Lady Mary has nothing wrong with her body,” he told her. “If she could live in peace and ease…live naturally…I would be ready to wager that she would gradually cast off these periodic bouts of illness.”

He appeared to know how to treat me, and the very presence of Dr. Butts in the household had an effect on me.

My health was improving.

The King came to see me and said I must come to Court as soon as possible, where I could be sure of a welcome.

I always seemed to recover quickly after my illnesses, and I took a week or so to get completely well—taking walks, playing the virginals, chatting with my ladies and laughing at Jane the Fool.

Then I was ready to return to Court.

My father had been right when he said I should be welcomed. As I rode into the city with my household, the people came into the streets to cheer me. They had always been my friends. I did wonder whether the attention I was receiving now was partly to placate them. But as, recently, he had often acted in a manner to make himself unpopular, perhaps it was not that. It might be that he really did feel the need to have his family about him and wanted to have a happy relationship with his daughter.

The cheers of the people were always music in my ears.

It was Christmas, which was being celebrated at Hampton Court.

My father himself took me to the apartments which had been specially prepared for me and my ladies. They were splendid.

There was a happy smile on his face as he watched me examine them; he looked almost young, so delighted was he in my pleasure.

“You shall take the place of a queen,” he said. “I need a queen to be beside me.”

Ominous words, but they passed over my head at that time. I thought it was just his way of welcoming me.

I was courted now and treated with the utmost respect by those who had previously thought me unworthy of notice. It amused me; but it pleased me also.

I felt better than I had for a long time. I wanted to be at Court; I wanted to see at first hand what was happening. There was something extremely exciting in it, and I began to think that Dr. Butts might well be right that my illness grew out of melancholy and boredom.

My father never did anything half heartedly. His affection for me, which hitherto had not seemed to exist, now overflowed. There were jewels for me; fine clothes were sent for me to choose from. He expressed his delight to see me looking better. He treated me more like a mistress than a daughter. I think perhaps he did not know how to be a father.

In any case, I was delighted.

Chapuys was rubbing his hands with glee. Then I understood. We were once more in conflict with the French, and my father was seeking the friendship of the Emperor.

Nothing would please my cousin more than to see me brought back into favor. He would be well aware of my father's state of health and the frailty of Edward. The outcome seemed obvious. My dream did not now seem impossible, and it might well be that I was destined to bring England back to Rome. I must not betray for one moment that this was in my mind. It would be treason in the extreme; but one cannot help one's thoughts; and the need for friendship with the Emperor did explain to some extent my sudden rise to favor.

My father had cast off his gloom. He seemed better. He was at the center of the revels. He could not dance as he once did, but no one called attention to this; everyone behaved as though he were the handsome King he had once been—standing head and shoulders above all other men; it had never been difficult to deceive him in matters like that.

He was happy. He was keeping his enemies and friends on the Continent guessing which way he would turn—secretly jeering at François who had haggled over 50,000 crowns. Perhaps he wished he had not been so parsimonious now! The King of England would not have wanted to go to war with the family into which his daughter had married; and now war seemed imminent and the King of England stood with the Emperor.

I was still the tool of their political schemes; but on the other hand my father did seem fond of me.

He talked to me now and then, and there was real affection between us. My father had acted in a manner which had seemed very shocking to me; his actions had been responsible for my mother's sufferings; yet such was his nature that I could forget that while I was with him, and be happy because he seemed fond of me. He had great charm when he cared to exert it; I had seen the effect he had on people, and I think it was not entirely due to his power and that aura of royalty. It was something in his personality. My sister Elizabeth had inherited it, and I sometimes saw it in her.

He said, “I am happy now, daughter, that all is well between us. We have been the victims of evil influences… both of us. They have contrived to keep us apart. But now, praise God, right has prevailed.”

It was yet another facet of his personality that I almost believed him when I listened to him. I suppose I wanted to shut my eyes to the truth which should have been clear enough and to accept the verdict which was his alone. It was no use reasoning with such a man. He saw only one viewpoint—that which was made to fit his ideal of himself in order to keep that conscience of his in the chains he had forged for it to keep it in restraint.

He said to me one day, “Methinks I owe it to my people to marry again.”

I was alarmed. So he was contemplating taking another wife.

He nodded regretfully. “It is a duty, you know, daughter. A king should have many sons. I have Edward … and I have my good daughter…” He patted my knee affectionately, “… but I should give my people more sons.”

I could see that the cosy period was over. There would be another woman led to the sacrificial altar. I could tremble for her. Who would be brave enough to be the next?

“I am no longer young, Mary,” he went on. “This leg… this devil of a leg…you have no idea what I suffer.”

“I have, Your Majesty,” I replied. “And I am deeply sorry for the pain it causes you.”

He pressed my knee again. “I know, I know. It is a trial. I need a good woman…”

I was silent, fearing to speak lest I chose the wrong words.

“I need someone who will not plague me … someone not too young …” Thinking no doubt of that fresh, sensuous face of the girl who had been no coy virgin and had doubtless pleased him because of that for which she had been taken away from him—though I never believed that it was his will that she had been. Left to himself, he would have found some means to reinstate her, but her enemies had been astute enough to get the story circulated abroad. He could not have endured to think of François laughing at the poor old cuckolded King of England. “Yes,” he went on, “a mature woman … of good looks … experienced of life. No doll … a woman of some intellect… tender and loving…to be a comfort to me.”

“Where could such a woman be found, Your Majesty?”

“Ah, there you speak wisely. And mayhap I shall never find her.”

I guessed then that it would not be long before we had a new Queen.

THE NEWS CIRCULATED round the Court. The King was looking for a wife. This time, it was whispered, he would not have some foreign bride who was sent to him to strengthen a treaty, someone he had never seen before. He would choose her himself and by so doing make sure that he was not plagued further in his mature years.

I went to visit Anne. She was deeply disturbed.

“My brother is hoping that the King will take me back,” she said.

I stared at her. Could that be possible? In spite of the King's original revulsion for her, she was quite a good-looking woman. She no longer wore the hideous Dutch fashions which she had arrived in, and in our softer clothes she was almost handsome. Moreover the peaceful life she had been living agreed with her.

The King visited her now and then. He had made her his dear sister, and since she had ceased to be his wife he had grown quite fond of her.

Yes, I thought, she has reason to be afraid.

“I could not bear it,” she said to me. “I like so much my life here. I have my home…my income…my friends. I see Edward, and he is glad to see me… and my dear Elizabeth. To be with her makes me happy. I am not denied their company. I see you, my dear Mary. You are my friend. I have this family I have inherited. I do not want to go back to Cleves. I want to go on living here in my nice house with my nice servants… and my dear family close. I want no change.”

“Do you really think he might want to take you back as his wife?”

She looked alarmed and then, as though she were trying to convince herself, she said, “No … he did not like me when I came…Surely he cannot have changed. But I do know he likes to talk to me. He respects my views. He is fond of his dear sister. There is just a fear …” She put her hand to her heart. “A little fear in here. But I could not bear it, Mary. Sooner or later…”

She put her hand to her throat.

“I understand,” I said. “Oh, my dear Anne, I hope it never comes to that.”

“Sometimes I wake in the night. I think they have come for me. I am not sure what I dreamed. Have they come to take me to the Palace or to the Tower? I think of that young girl… who followed me. I remember how enamored he was of her… and yet that did not save her.”

I said, “I cannot believe he will want to take you back. Not after all that has gone before.”

“But my brother wishes it.”

“Anne, try not to think of it. I am certain it will not come to that.”

“No,” she said slowly. “He did not like me when I came. He did not like me at all. He could not want me like that…now.”

“I am sure that is so,” I reassured her.

But I could well understand her terror; and it would be so with any woman he chose to be his wife.

IT SEEMED TO ME that my father expected his ideal woman to emerge from all the banquets and balls which were now taking place at Court.

I noticed him watching and assessing them. It was interesting to see that any woman who caught his eye on her would seek to efface herself. One thing was certain: no woman at Court—or in any foreign Court—was eager to become the King's sixth wife.

I marvelled that he was not aware of this. It did not seem to occur to him that the fact that he had beheaded two wives would be held against him. Those two wives, he would have told himself, had been traitors, and death was the penalty for that crime. Anne of Cleves had been honorably treated. As he was not pleased with her as a wife, he had made her his sister. My mother…well, that was a matter between him and his Maker. It was no fault of his that he had made a marriage which was no marriage and he had had to set her aside—reluctantly, he would assure himself.

I congratulated myself that I was outside the range of his choice, but I could well understand the apprehension of those within it.

I had made the acquaintance of Lady Latimer; she had had two elderly husbands and was now a widow. She was good-looking in a rather unspectacular way, wealthy, kindly and of an intellectual turn of mind. Her conversation was rather erudite, and it was a pleasure to join in discussions with her.

She was the daughter of Sir Thomas Parr who had at one time been Comptroller of my father's household. I never knew him. He had died a year after I was born, leaving a son and two daughters, one of whom was Katharine.

Katharine had married Lord Borough of Gainsborough when she was little more than a child. I do not know what difference there was in their ages, but I did know that Lord Borough's son's wife was fourteen years older than Katharine, so I should imagine she was quite a little girl.

On the death of Lord Borough, she was given to another old man. This was John Neville, Lord Latimer, who had taken part in the Pilgrimage of Grace. After his original foray into danger, from which he was lucky enough to emerge with his head still on his shoulders, Katharine, who was always wise and far-seeing, had persuaded him to have nothing to do with rebellion and to keep himself clear of trouble.

He had recently died, and there was Katharine, about thirty years of age, good-looking, clever and wealthy. She was her own mistress now. She had been the wife of two old husbands; if she wished to marry again, the choice should be hers.

I thought I knew on whom her choice would fall. I had noticed the looks which passed between her and Thomas Seymour. He was a dashing figure at Court—a great favorite of the King. He was just the type to appeal: flamboyant, adventurous, good-looking—and of course he was the King's brother-in-law and uncle of young Edward who adored him. He was the little boy's favorite uncle. He was about four years older than Katharine—a man in his prime—overambitious, I should say, like his brother Edward. It was these two brothers who had determined that their sister Jane should be Queen of England. Jane would never have done it on her own. Naturally the Seymours had received great favors since the marriage of their sister. The Duke of Norfolk had tried to ally himself with them through marriage, but Norfolk's son, Thomas, Earl of Surrey, had been so opposed to an alliance between the two families that the matter had been dropped.

Now it seemed that Seymour had his eyes on Lady Latimer, and she was more than willing to encourage him.

Then, to my horror—and certainly to hers, I noticed that the King's eyes rested on her often.

I heard him say one day, “Come and sit beside me, Lady Latimer. I overheard your discussions on Erasmus. I should like to hear your views on the Dutch scholar. You must tell me what you think of In Praise of Folly.”

At first she was not alarmed. She talked brightly and amusingly, and from time to time the King smiled.

The next day he looked for her, and when he did not see her he asked where she was and said that when she was found she must come to him.

“I enjoy her discourse,” he said. “She is a lady of firm views.”

That was a beginning.

He watched her as she danced, which she did gracefully enough, but she was not outstanding. She was perhaps not as beautiful as some of the younger ladies; but beautiful young women would remind him of Catharine Howard. He was looking for a sixth wife, and he wanted no mistakes this time.

I MISSED LADY LATIMER at Court, and when I enquired after her I was told she was unwell and had taken to her bed for a few days.

I visited her, and I found her melancholy.

“You are ill, Lady Latimer,” I said.

She nodded. Then she said, “The King has asked me to be his wife.”

I wanted to comfort her, to tell her that I was her friend; but I was never very good at showing my feelings. So I just looked at her with sympathy and understanding in my eyes.

“I am not young,” she went on piteously. “I am not beautiful. Why should he choose me?”

“I guess that he likes your company.”

“But I never thought …” Her eyes were appealing. I read in them that which she dared not utter. She was remembering that I was his daughter; how could she tell me she was afraid that to marry the King would be to put her life in danger?

I said, “You have agreed to become his wife?”

She replied, “I told him that I would prefer to be his mistress rather than his wife.” I stared at her. “That was bold of you.” “He thought so. It angered him. It shocked him. He said he did not understand my meaning. Then he smiled and said, ‘You are overcome by the honor, Kate. No need to be. I choose you and that is enough.' I could see how angry he would be if I refused. He went on, ‘Then the matter is settled. You shall be my Queen. I have had my eyes on you for many a day, and I know that there is happiness ahead for us two.'”

“And so,” I said, “the matter is settled.”

“When the King commands, one obeys.” She looked at me piteously.

“I have had two old husbands. I have been a nurse rather than a wife.”

I thought of his leg. I had never seen beneath the bandages but I believed it was not a pretty sight. Those in attendance on him must bathe it, apply the prescribed ointments and endure his fury when the pain was great.

It seemed that her fate was to act as nurse to old men. And there was Thomas Seymour, good-looking and romantic, cast by nature in the role of lover, waiting for her.

“If you are ill …” I said. “My father cannot bear illness. He never has.”

“But I am not ill. I am just… afraid.”

“Perhaps you could tell him you are already betrothed.”

She looked over her shoulder. I understood. We were speaking too frankly.

We had come to the conclusion that there was no way out for her.

“You will be our stepmother,” I said gently. “If I could have chosen, there would be none I would rather have.”

Then she embraced me, clinging to me for comfort.

I tried to give it to her. I wished I was able to convey more firmly my understanding and my sympathy; but it was not easy for me to give way to my emotions, and I am afraid I could not help her much. In any case, what help could I give her?

MY FATHER SENT for me. He was beaming; he was clearly happy and looking younger. He smiled at me affectionately.

“Good news, daughter. The best of news. I am to have a wife. This will be a good marriage. It is Lady Latimer.”

I fell to my knees and kissed his hand.

“I am happy for Your Majesty.”

“Yes, yes… get up. We shall be married soon. There will be no point in delay. I have been long enough without a wife.”

Long enough! It was a year since Catharine Howard had walked out to Tower Green; it was scarcely six since Edward had been born, and there had been two wives since then. But he said he had been a long time without a wife, so that was what we must accept.

“It will not be a grand marriage. I want no delays. A family affair. You will attend on the new Queen.”

“And Elizabeth?” I asked.

He hesitated, then he said, “Yes. Let the girl be there. This is a family occasion. You should prepare her.”

I said I would, although I did not think she would need much preparation. Did she not revel in royal occasions and constantly endeavor to be included in them?

He dismissed me, and I left him happier than he had been for a long time.

Edward was at Hampton Court, and I knew that I should find Elizabeth with him. Those two were constantly together. They shared a love of learning. In fact, Edward could scarcely be parted from his books, and as soon as he rose in the morning he wanted to be reading. He was quick and clever, rather as Elizabeth was.

I had been something of a scholar myself but I was never as avid for learning as those two were. In Edward's case I believe it was partly due to the fact that physical exercise tired him; lessons never did; and as he excelled at them, his enthusiasm was great. But Elizabeth, though she loved to dance and ride, was as eager as he was to learn. It made a great bond between them.

I guessed that if I went to his apartments I should find Elizabeth there.

I was right; and I was not really surprised to see Thomas Seymour there, for I knew he was a frequent visitor.

I heard sounds of merriment as I approached the apartments but when I entered the schoolroom there was silence. The atmosphere had changed suddenly. Seymour bowed low and, coming to me, took my hand and kissed it humbly, raising his eyes to my face as he did so; there was nothing humble in the look he gave me. His eyes were admiring, his respect was flattering; but that was Seymour's way with women and it did not impress me.

Edward was slightly flushed; Elizabeth looked a little sly. I felt I had intruded on an intimacy which had been very enjoyable to the company.

I went to Edward. He held out his hand to me, and I kissed it.

He was aware of his position—second to the King—and he remembered it on occasions like this, though I imagined where Elizabeth was concerned much formality was dispensed with, for she was certainly in command.

Whenever I was in her company I was always very much aware of her. She seemed watchful. She was not yet ten years old and exceptionally clever—and not only in book-learning; she had a shrewdness, a maturity, a secretive air as though she harbored thoughts which would not bear the light of day. She was not pretty, but her startling vitality called immediate attention to her. Her green gown accentuated the red of her hair; her white skin was clear and radiant. She had more than beauty.

There was Seymour, too, who was of particular interest to me because of what I had just heard from Lady Latimer who was in love with this man and he—so she thought—with her. I wondered how far his love would carry him. Would he take her away… snatch her from under the King's nose and fly with her? Fly where? Leave the country? Seek refuge with the King of France or the Emperor? Would he dare? He looked daring but I fancied he would be concerned with himself. Heads rolled so easily, and his was far too handsome for him to wish to part with it.

I said, “I trust you are well, my Prince, my sister, Lord Seymour?”

Characteristically, I imagined, Seymour answered for them all.

“We are well, are we not? And we trust the Lady Mary is in the same happy state.”

I assured him that I was.

“I seem to have interrupted some frolic,” I said.

“There is always frolic when my Lord Seymour visits us,” said Elizabeth. “Is there not, brother?”

Edward lifted his shoulders and giggled. He looked younger—more like an ordinary little boy than I had ever seen him before.

“The Prince is always gracious to his poor uncle,” said Seymour.

“He calls him his favorite uncle,” added Elizabeth.

“Which gives me great delight, but I fear he flatters me.”

“He does not. He does not,” cried Elizabeth. “And you know it, Lord Seymour. You are his favorite uncle.”

I thought: How fond Edward is of him… and Elizabeth, too. It was understandable. He had charm and good looks, and they went well with his somewhat flamboyant manner.

“It is a great honor for our sister to visit us,” said Elizabeth demurely.

“Even when she interrupts a merry game?” I asked.

“But you are most welcome,” said Elizabeth. “Is she not, Edward? Tell her she is welcome.”

What presumption! I thought. She is telling the heir to the throne how to behave… she, who, though she may be recognized as the King's daughter, is his acknowledged bastard. Yet Edward seemed to like it, and Seymour was amused.

“I have brought news for you,” I said. “Though you may have heard it. It is not really unexpected. Perhaps my Lord Seymour has been imparting it to you and that is the cause of your merriment?”

They were looking at me expectantly.

“You are to have a new stepmother.”

Silence. Consternation. Edward's face puckered. He had known two stepmothers already—although never his own mother. Anne he liked very much, and he still visited her; Catharine Howard's beauty and easy manners had won his heart; he had been very sad to lose her. And now there was to be another!

Elizabeth was alert; and so was Seymour. Did he guess? I wondered. How much did he care for Lady Latimer? Not as much as she cared for him, I speculated.

“Who is it who will be our new stepmother?” asked Elizabeth impatiently.

“It is Lady Latimer.”

My eyes went to Seymour's face. I saw it pale slightly, and for a moment the mask of high spirits and favorite uncle slipped. He was disturbed.

“Lady Latimer!” said Edward. “She is a lovely lady.”

“I like her well,” added Elizabeth, as though that in itself was good enough reason for the marriage.

Seymour said nothing.

I looked at him and said, “For some time the King has been showing his interest in this lady, but I think she was as surprised as you are that he has asked her to be his Queen.”

He still did not speak. Elizabeth and Edward chattered about Lady Latimer and how they would welcome her as their new stepmother. I was sure they were both remembering Catharine Howard, for it was such a short time ago that she had held that unenviable position.

Seymour then said quietly, “My Lady Mary, you are sure of this?”

“I have had it from both Lady Latimer and the King himself.”

“Then it is so,” he said.

“The marriage will take place shortly. You are to be in attendance, Elizabeth.”

“Oh!” She clasped her hands together in ecstasy. There was little she liked better than to be present at royal functions. Showing herself to the people, Susan called it. Susan shared Margaret Bryan's view that Elizabeth would come to either great triumph or absolute disaster. There would be no half measures with Elizabeth. “When will it be?” she demanded.

“Very soon. The King wants no delay.”

She was smiling secretly. She turned to Seymour. “You hear that, my lord? I am to be present at the ceremony.”

Her look was almost defiant. I wondered how much she knew of the love between Seymour and Lady Latimer; she was teasing him in some way; he gave her a strange look, too. He seemed to be recovering fast from the effect of the first blow and it was something in Elizabeth which made him do so, I fancied. It was almost as though there was some secret understanding between them.

I said to her, “You will have to be prepared.”

“Yes. What shall I wear? What am I to do?”

“You will just be there. You will do nothing. It is just a gesture…to show this is a family matter.”

She clasped her hands and looked ecstatic. Edward was smiling, well pleased. I could not fathom Seymour's expression; but I felt sure that he must be very unhappy to have lost his bride.

MY FATHER WAS DETERMINED that there should be no delay. On the 10th of July of that year 1543 Archbishop Cranmer granted a license for the marriage, and two days later it took place.

Elizabeth and I were present, and with us was our cousin, Lady Margaret Douglas. The ceremony took place in the Queen's Closet at Hampton Court and was presided over by Gardiner, the Bishop of Winchester.

The King was attended by that other Seymour, Edward, now Lord Hertford. Thomas had tactfully retired from Court. I wondered whether it was because he could not bear to see the one he loved married to someone else, or that he feared the King might have discovered his feelings for the lady. In any case it would be discreet for him to banish himself. Over the years I had learned something of men, and I was almost certain that Thomas Seymour's feelings might not go as deep as he would charmingly indicate they did. Men such as he charm effortlessly. He did it automatically, and such men should not be taken seriously. Perhaps Lady Latimer had done just that. I was desperately sorry for her. How did she feel as the nuptial ring was put on her finger? Surely her thoughts must be with her predecessors?

I greatly admired my new stepmother. She was a woman of remarkable courage, and it was sad to think that she, who had been a nurse to two husbands, should have a similar task awaiting her… but with an alarming difference. This last marriage could take her by a few steps to the scaffold; and that was a thought which must always be with her.

Yet after she had overcome her initial fear she gave no sign that it haunted her. As for the King, he was delighted. Most people thought that here was a wife who was personable enough to please him and of a temperament to soothe him; and in any case they might hope for a more peaceful life ahead.

We were of an age to be friends, and I felt this could be a happy state of affairs between us.

On the day of her marriage she gave me a gold bracelet set with rubies. I exclaimed at their beauty.

“I want you to think of me when you wear it,” she told me. “It is a very special wish of mine that we shall be friends.”

I was touched and replied that it was what I hoped for.

“You must not think of me as a mother,” she said. “How could you? I know how dearly you loved your own mother. But perhaps we could be as sisters. I shall regard you and dear Edward and Elizabeth as my own… that is, if they will allow me to.”

“They will be pleased to. Both of them have lacked a mother.”

She nodded. “I want you to accept this money,” she went on. “I know that it is sometimes difficult for you to meet your expenses.”

“Oh please…you are too kind to me.”

“There must be no reluctance to help each other. That is how it is with sisters…is it not? Or it should be.”

She gave me £25, which was quite a princely sum to me.

She went on, “I want to make things happy … between you all and your father. You are at Court now … but Elizabeth shall come, too.”

“That is what she wants more than anything.”

“It is her right, and I shall do my best.”

“She will love you for it.”

“And for other things besides, I hope.”

I said earnestly, “I believe this is a happy day for us all now that you have become the Queen.”

“I pray so,” she said very seriously. “I hope so. You are to come with us on our journey. It is the King's wish.”

“Yes, he has changed toward me of late. Since he was… alone…he has sought my company. Perhaps now he will not want me there.”

She shook her head. “No, there will be no change. You are the King's daughter, and if it is in my power I shall remind him of this…if by some chance he should forget.”

“You must walk carefully,” I said before I could stop myself.

“Never fear,” she replied. “I shall take every step with care.”

BEFORE THE ROYAL PARTY could leave Hampton on what I supposed was to be a honeymoon, there was trouble over a group of reformers at Windsor.

The teachings of Martin Luther were taking a hold in some parts of the Continent and there were people who were working hard to bring them to England. Stephen Gardiner, Bishop of Winchester, was a firm Catholic, though he wholeheartedly supported the King's supremacy of the Church, but it was the Catholic Church and the only difference from the old religion was that the King was Head of the Church and not the Pope as before.

This was how the King preferred it to be. It was not the religion he objected to—only the power of the Pope to dictate to him. So, Gardiner was favored by him.

He was, however, watchful of those who wanted change, and as a result Anthony Pearsons, a priest, and three others, Robert Testwood, Henry Filmer and John Marbeck, were arrested. John Marbeck was a chorister at Court whose singing had particularly pleased the King.

Books favoring the new religion had been found in their apartments which was enough to condemn them all to the flames.

The Queen asked me to come to her, and when I arrived I found her in deep distress.

She dismissed all her attendants and we were alone.

“What ails Your Majesty?” I asked.

She looked over her shoulder nervously.

I said, “None can hear us.”

“It is these men,” she said. “They will be burned at the stake.”

“They are heretics,” I reminded her.

“They are thinkers,” she replied.

“It is forbidden to have books such as they have had in their possession.”

“How can that be a crime?”

“It is a crime because it is against the law.”

“If men are not allowed to think…if they are not allowed to have opinions, how will the world ever advance?”

“They may have opinions if they coincide with what is the law of the country.”

She covered her face with her hands. “I cannot bear this intolerance.”

“Tell me,” I said. “Why does this affect you so deeply?”

“Because these men will be burned for their opinions.”

“A foretaste of what they will suffer in Hell.”

“Do you think God would be as cruel as men?”

“We are taught that Hell awaits the wicked.”

“All these men have done is read books and talk of religion.”

I stared at her. I was horrified… not so much because of her faith— which was diametrically opposed to my own—but because of what this could lead her to. Here she was, a few weeks married to my father, already confessing that she was as guilty as those men. She was leaning toward heresy. Yet such was my affection for her that I could only think of the danger she was in.

“Your Majesty…my lady…”

She held her head high. “I shall always uphold the right of men and women to act according to their consciences,” she said.

“Please… please do not mention this to anyone.”

Suddenly she put her arms round me, and I forgot my reserve sufficiently to cling to her. Already I loved the woman, and I wanted to protect her. My thoughts were all for her safety.

“You must never, never talk like that to anyone,” I said.

“Not yet …” she answered.

“You think…”

“There may come a time. Life is changing. Opinions change. The truth will shine through in the end.”

“You mean… the reformed Church?”

“I mean that whatever is right must prevail.”

“My lady…my dear stepmother, I want you to be here to see it.”

“How fortunate I am to have you as my friend!”

“I want our friendship to last. I do not want it to be cut short. I have lived through some dangerous years…”

“My poor, poor Mary.”

“I have not always said what I believe to be true. I have prevaricated…

I think on more than one occasion I have saved my life by being less than frank.”

“I know what you mean.”

“Promise me you will do the same. If you believe…it is better to live and help that belief… rather than die…however nobly.”

“I want to live. God knows I want to live.”

“Then watch for Gardiner. He will be your enemy.”

“It is at his instigation that these men have been arrested. Mary, I must try to save them.”

“How can you do that?”

“I thought to plead for them with the King.”

“Oh, take care. If Gardiner knew of these… tendencies in you…he would not hesitate. He would do his best to…remove you as others have been removed.”

“I know.”

“You could be in acute danger.”

“For a while the King is pleased.”

“He was pleased with others… for a while. Please be very careful.”

“I will. But I must plead for these men.”

“If you ask for them all to be freed, you will betray yourself.”

“If I say that it is unseemly that men should be burned at the stake while we are celebrating our marriage…”

“You would be suspect. Plead for one. Plead for Marbeck. He was a favorite of the King. It would seem as though you liked his music.”

“I did. But it is for his views…”

“I have told you. I have been in danger. My views are as strong as yours. But I know how to preserve my life. There may be work for me to do… work for you…Take care. Please listen to me. Plead for Marbeck. Save his life if you can… then perhaps that might help the others.”

She looked at me steadily. “I believe you may be right,” she said.

I left her. I was absolutely astounded by what she had betrayed to me. She leaned toward the Reformed Faith. I could not believe she understood what acute danger she was placing herself in.

CHAPUYS VISITED ME and told me what had happened.

He said, “Marbeck is to go free. It is a special favor to the Queen. She asked for the freedom of all four heretics, and the King has compromised by giving her Marbeck. It is whispered that he intended to pardon him in any case, for he did not want to lose one of his best choristers.”

“But the other three?”

“They got to the stake.”

“If she had asked for one of the others, it might have been better then.”

“Who knows? The King is in an uxorious mood at the moment, having been so shortly married. He must have been rather pleased that she asked for Marbeck because he was able to gratify her wish and please himself at the same time—though I am of the opinion that he would not have freed one of the others. A law has been passed to suppress what they call the New Learning, and it is forbidden to be in possession of translations like Tyndale's. It is against the law, and those men have broken the law. I am inclined to think that this is a beginning, and Gardiner will soon have more in the cells awaiting the fiery death.”

He looked at me steadily for a few moments, pausing before he went on, “The Queen is an erudite woman. Gardiner will have his eyes on her… after her pleas for Marbeck. It may be that he will think that it is not only on account of his singing voice that she wants him free.”

“What other reason could there be?”

He smiled at me and said quietly, “Gardiner will be watchful.”

I thought: I could not bear it if she went the way of the others…not good, kind Katharine who had married the King so reluctantly. It would be too cruel of fate. I could not stop thinking of Anne Boleyn in the Tower awaiting her end…of little Catharine Howard, running screaming along the gallery at Hampton Court. Not this kind stepmother who had never done anyone an injury in the whole of her life.

I must impress on her more strongly the need for caution.

She was delighted, of course, that Marbeck had been spared.

“But the others,” she said. “I dream of them…I can hear the crackle of the flames…I can feel the scorching of their limbs…”

“But your intercession saved Marbeck.”

“I tried for the others. I tried so hard … but he began to get irritable, and I was afraid that I might lose Marbeck if I persisted.”

“You were wise to desist. My lady … Katharine … they must never know. Gardiner must never guess… about your views.”

“I know,” she said. “He would have me at the stake if he did.”

“Please… please take care.”

She said she would, and I believed I had impressed on her the danger she was in.

THE REFORMERS HAD PERISHED at the stake, and we were leaving on a journey through the country to celebrate the King's marriage. We were to go to Woodstock, Grafton and Dunstable—there would be hunting on the way—and we should stay at the grand houses of noblemen who would be expected to put on grand entertainments for us. I know these royal progresses were a source of great anxiety to those who had to entertain us, for they could become bankrupt in the process. But the King would have been put out if an inadequate welcome was given to him; and those who failed to treat him royally would soon find they were out of favor at Court—and it was always feared what that might lead to.

We had not gone far when one of my attacks came on. I tried hard to fight it but it was no use.

My father was always irritated by illness, and it was thought best to send me off in a litter. We were not far from Ampthill, which had at one time housed my mother, and to this place I was sent.

I do not think it helped being in her old house. Memories of her came back, and I was plunged into melancholy. Dr. Butts was sent to me, and he thought the best thing was to move me to a house which was not full of shadows for me.

Edward was at Ashridge—Elizabeth with him—and it was decided that I should go there to recuperate.

I was feeling very tired, listless and far from well, so it was pleasant to be in the country away from the activities of the Court. I did enjoy seeing the children occasionally—after all, they were my own sister and brother.

Little Jane Grey was with them at this time. She was an attractive child, just about Edward's age—very pretty, dainty and quite learned. Edward was devoted to her. I was amused once more to see how Elizabeth dominated them. She was, after all, four years older, and she had the nature of a leader. The other two looked up to her and in a way protected each other against her.

There was no doubt that, much as Edward admired his sister, he was very pleased to have Jane as an ally.

Mrs. Sybil Penn, who had looked after him since he was a baby, said, “Lady Jane is such a dear little playmate for him. His sister, the Lady Elizabeth, is inclined to bully… much as he adores her. But Lady Jane… she is just sweet and gentle. To see them at their books together…well, it just amazes me that there should be such learning in those two little heads.”

Jane was a sort of cousin. She was the daughter of Henry Grey, Marquis of Dorset, who had married Frances, daughter of Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk, and my namesake, Mary Tudor, my father's sister. Jane herself was the eldest of three sisters.

Mrs. Penn was fierce in her defense of Edward. She reminded me of Lady Bryan. I often thought what a lot we owed to those women who were mothers to us in our babyhood. They would fight our battles with the King himself if need be. Thus it was with Mrs. Penn.

She was angry about the treatment little Jane received in her home. “Poor little mite,” she said. “They are very severe with her. They think nothing of beating her and locking her up in her room and keeping her without food. I've seen marks on her little body from the whip. I'd turn it on them, I would… dukes or marquises, whatever they be…to treat a child like that and her such a sweet little thing. She's happy here, and my prince is happy to have her with him. I hope we can keep her for a while. Perhaps you would speak for that, my lady.”

I said I would, and then the motherly soul turned her attention to me. She said I needed looking after. She would like to see a little color in my cheeks.

So it was rather pleasant to watch the children together—to note the tender affection of Edward and Jane; and Elizabeth watching them, making sure that she lost none of her influence over the pair.

I was recovering—and in due course I returned to Court.

The Queen was determined to persuade the King to give full recognition to his daughters and, emboldened by her success over Marbeck and knowing that the King was pleased with her, she attempted to do so.

Having nursed two husbands already, Katharine was experienced in the art. She had gentle hands which could be firm when necessary; she could dress his leg more quickly and less painfully than anyone else; he would often sit resting the leg on her lap, and that seemed to ease it considerably. He liked to talk to her of literature, music and theology; and providing she chose her words carefully he found the discourse to his liking.

He was happier than he had been for a long time. He was sure he had chosen wisely, and most would have agreed with him on that point.

In February of that year following his marriage, I was reinstated to my old position at Court. I was even included in the line of succession, but after Edward would come any daughter my father might have by the Queen or— ominous phrase—any succeeding wives. It was a great step forward—and Elizabeth was to come after me.

Elizabeth was full of high spirits during this time.

We owed a great deal to Katharine—but perhaps not all as far as I was concerned, for my father was eagerly seeking to renew his friendship with the Emperor, and it might well have been for this reason that he was treating me as he was.

But that would not account for Elizabeth's recognition, so I suppose we did owe a great deal to the Queen.

It was impossible not to be fond of her. She was determined to be a mother to us and took an especial interest in Edward and Elizabeth, on account of their youth, I think; and they both loved her. They were fond of Anne of Cleves too, and they had liked pretty Catharine Howard, but none had been the mother to them that the present Queen was proving to be. I think that Katharine had always longed for children of her own; it was sad that she had only stepchildren on whom to lavish her affection; and that she did with abandon. She really was a mother to those children—including Jane Grey, who was touchingly devoted to her.

She believed that my weakness and debility were due to a lack of interest in life. Like many people, she thought that I should have married. Perhaps she was right. I seemed to have withered. I had longed for children so much but I had come to the conclusion that I should never have them.

To give me an interest, Katharine suggested that I make a translation of Erasmus' Latin Paraphrase of St. John. It was a task which appealed to me, and I set about it with zest and found myself waking each morning with the urge to get on working at it.

When I had finished it, Katharine was loud in her praises; she said I must have it printed so that many could read it.

I was reluctant at first, wondering whether it was beneath the dignity of a princess—now recognized as such and in line for the throne—but Katharine said she would not rest until she had persuaded me.

Meanwhile I was becoming aware of danger.

Katharine and the King had been married for a year, and there was no sign of pregnancy. Was he beginning to be restless? The fact was that under her skilful hands he suffered less pain; indeed there were times when he was quite without it. It was ironic that Katharine, who had been the one who had brought about this relief, should be the one to suffer for it. It might have been my imagination, but did I see his eyes linger on some of the beauties of the Court? I had also seen a glimmer of anxiety when he looked at Edward. One son was all he had; he was feeling better; I could imagine his telling himself that he was still full of vigor. There were some tempting beauties at Court, and it must be Katharine's fault that there was no child.

It was amazing how those about him were aware of his feelings.

Then came what many believed was a definite sign that the Queen was losing her place in his affections.

Hans Holbein had been out of favor since he had brought back that deceiving picture of Anne of Cleves, representing her as a beauty and completely ignoring the fact that her skin was faintly pock-marked.

“But the fellow is a good painter,” said the King, “and I pay him a retainer of £30 a year, so he may as well earn it.”

He wanted a portrait of the family—with his son and daughters and his Queen beside him.

Elizabeth was delighted to be included. She would have liked to be in the forefront of the picture; but this was not the King's intention.

He would be in the center, with Edward beside him and on the far left should be one of his daughters and the other on the far right. Still, we were in the picture. But the crux of the matter was that, when Katharine prepared to take her place beside the King, she was brusquely told that her presence would not be needed. My father wanted the artist to make a picture of Edward's mother, Jane Seymour, the only wife who had given him a son, and she should take the place of honor beside him.

The insult to Katharine was too marked to go unnoticed. She had been deeply hurt—and, more than that, she must have been overcome with alarm.

It was the sign for her enemies to prick up their ears, to ask themselves if the familiar pattern was emerging again? No sons … a barren wife … and so on. Even though he now had one son and two daughters, we did not give him great delight. Edward was too delicate, and Elizabeth and I were only girls.

Gardiner was waiting to step in. He already suspected Katharine of leaning toward the new religion; he was right in that. I had warned her to be careful, and she had been, but it was not easy for one who was constantly on the stage to keep out of danger.

It was not only the Queen they had their eyes on. Wolsey had fallen through Anne Boleyn, Cromwell through Anne of Cleves; they had decided that Cranmer should go with Katharine.

Very soon after that portrait had been painted, several people of the Queen's household were arrested and taken to the Tower.

Katharine was in a state of great anxiety, but fate was kind to her on this occasion for the King's ulcer was worse and nobody could dress it like the Queen. She managed to soothe it with her gentle fingers; he was pleased with her and turned angrily on those who were preparing to trap her.

He wanted to know what all this was about—arresting people in the Queen's household. What did it mean?

It meant, they told him, that writings had been found in the possession of these people, and they had been overheard to make certain remarks.

The King made it clear that he wanted no implications about the Queen, and by arresting people in her household they had cast a slur on her. The whole thing was a fabrication to annoy him, he declared, and he wanted to get at the truth of the matter.

The truth actually was that evidence had been forged. It would have been perfectly acceptable if—as they had calculated—the King wished to rid himself of his wife. But he certainly did not at this time. He grumbled that he was surrounded by clumsy oafs who handled him roughly. Only the Queen had gentleness in her hands.

Gardiner was berated as a fool who should have taken more care before flinging accusations at his betters.

Gardiner pleaded that his servants were over-zealous in their service to the King, but he was sent away with the King's abuse ringing in his ears.

But Katharine was left uneasy. She had escaped this time, but would she again? It had just been good luck that he had happened to need her attentions more than usual and that had made him realize her value to him; he was still hankering after another son, and there were several younger and very pretty women at the Court.

Hostilities proved a diversion. Relations with Scotland were never good; now they were verging on disaster, and it seemed that we should soon be at war not only with that country but with France also.

Norfolk was sent north with an army, and at the Battle of Solway Moss James V was killed, leaving his infant daughter, Mary, Queen of Scotland.

My father now had the idea of preventing trouble in Scotland by uniting the two countries through a marriage between Edward and little Mary of Scotland. He wanted Mary to be sent to England to be brought up at his Court. The Scots blankly refused.

My father was now ready to conclude a treaty with the Emperor Charles; and we were at war with both France and Scotland.

Edward Seymour was sent to Scotland with an army, and Thomas Seymour to France. Then my father decided that he would accompany the army for, with the Emperor as his ally, he must have contemplated an early victory and naturally he wanted to be there for the triumph.

He must leave a regent in England and as, years ago, my mother had filled that role, it was now Katharine's turn. She would have Cranmer to help her.

My father set out for Calais, leaving her in charge not only of the country but of Edward.

I think the latter must have caused her the greater anxiety. Edward's health had been a matter of concern since his birth. It was not only Mrs. Penn who watched him so anxiously. Mrs. Penn did so from love of the child whom she regarded as her own, others out of fear of what their fate would be if anything should happen to the heir of England and they be held responsible.

Since her marriage Katharine had lived in a state of perpetual anxiety. I wondered she was as well as she was.

Naturally I was present when my father took his farewells of the family, and I heard him say to Katharine that she must take care of his son, for it seemed God had denied him the blessing of others. That was a veiled threat—well, at least a reproach—which must have made her shiver. I was so sorry for her. So unwillingly had she gone into that marriage, and rarely could a crown have sat so heavily on any head.

My friendship would have been deeper with her had it not been for her leanings toward the reformed religion. It put a barrier between us. My dream of bringing England back to Rome was stronger than ever, for I could not believe that Edward had a long life before him. I was approaching thirty, and I was the next in line. I was sure that my father would never get a healthy child. It was significant that the Duke of Richmond had died so young. It seemed that only the girls could cling firmly enough to life to sustain it. Elizabeth was an example of this, and I had managed to survive so far in spite of my recurring illnesses.

I suspected that the Queen was interesting Edward in the New Learning. She was with him and Elizabeth and Jane a great deal. Edward and Jane were almost fanatically devoted to her, and I was sure they would believe all she told them. I was not certain of Elizabeth. When I was present, these matters were only lightly touched on. The Queen knew that I was a devoted Catholic. My mother had been one, and I should never change. She knew in her heart that I did not accept my father as Supreme Head of the Church, but she never mentioned this because to do so would put me in acute danger.

I tried to discover from Elizabeth how far this indoctrination of Edward had gone, but Elizabeth was non-committal. She herself would never be totally immersed in religion. She was like so many in high places. Her religion would depend on what was most expedient to her own welfare.

While the King was away, Anne Askew arrived at the Court. I did not realize at the time how significant this was.

I heard about it from Susan.

She said, “The Queen is so kind to those in distress. Poor Anne Askew is indeed in trouble. Some people's lives are so sad…particularly women who are shuffled about to please their families. Anne should never have married. She is a reformer really. She is deeply religious… one of those people to whom religion means more than anything on Earth.”

“Tell me about her. Why is she here?”

“She was Anne Kyme and forced into marriage in spite of having no taste for it. Her elder sister was betrothed to Mr. Kyme of Kelsey. It meant a joining together of estates—those of Mr. Kyme and Sir William Askew. The elder sister died before the marriage could take place, and Anne was served up as the bride.”

“Poor girl. As you say, we are treated like clauses in a treaty. I should be well aware of this. How many times has it happened to me?”

“You, my lady, had the good fortune to escape.”

“I often wonder whether it was always good fortune.”

“Philip of Bavaria was a very charming man. Perhaps … who knows…?”

I shook my head. “Tell me more of this Anne.”

“She had two children, but her faith meant more to her than anything else. There are people like that.”

I thought of my mother, and I was aware that I had failed. I had saved my life with a lie. I had agreed to the King's supremacy. Well, Chapuys had advised me to do so and I had to think of my mission.

“In what way did her faith mean more to her than her children?” I asked.

“She would insist on proclaiming it. Now she has lost her home. Her husband has turned her out. It is said that there will be a divorce and she will lose her home and her children for her faith.”

“What will happen to her?”

“The Queen will help her. Doubtless give her a place in her household.”

“She will find her discourse interesting, I doubt not.”

Susan nodded but said nothing. We were on dangerous ground.

I saw Anne Askew on one or two occasions. She was very good-looking and clearly a woman of purpose. There was something rather awe-inspiring about her.

I forgot about her in the next few days. The weather had become exceptionally hot, and almost as soon as we had moved into a new house we had to leave it for sweetening. One could not escape the stench of decaying rubbish in the streets; there were flies everywhere.

At such times an outbreak of plague was almost inevitable.

Susan came to me and told me breathlessly that the body of a man had been found in Gray's Inn Lane. He had collapsed and died and the spots on his face indicated that he was a victim of the plague. That was the first case. Others came fast and in increasing numbers.

The Court was in London, and the Queen was full of anxiety.

She came to me and said, “Should we leave, do you think?”

I was unsure.

She went on, “Edward is not well at the moment. He is coughing and having his headaches rather frequently. We should have to pass through the streets on our way. He would be very susceptible to infection. On the other hand, to leave him here…”

I could not give her an opinion. If she allowed Edward to stay here, and he caught the plague, she would be blamed for leaving him in danger; so would she be if she took him through the streets of London and he caught it. There was no way out of her dilemma.

She loved the boy; but also her own life was in danger. If Edward died, some charge would surely be brought against her.

She was in a state of nervous tension. There was no one who could advise her. None dared. They wanted no hand in this decision.

At length she made up her mind.

The sultry heat was continuing; the plague was growing worse.

She gave orders that the household was to prepare to leave London.

IN THE CLEAN COUNTRY air Edward's cough improved and Katharine gave thanks to God for one more deliverance. Her head was safe on her shoulders until the next alarm came.

The Regency had been successful, and the King was coming home. He had taken Boulogne so he could return as a conqueror, a role which pleased him mightily.

His friendship with the Emperor—never on very firm ground—had waned and, although they claimed themselves to be allies, they were fighting with different objects in view. Each was concerned with his own interests: my father to subdue Scotland forever and to bring it under the control of England and the Emperor to force François to give up Milan.

But he was home, and Edward was safe. However, the campaign had not improved the condition of his leg. The sores were spreading, and the other leg was infected now.

“The clumsy oafs did not know how to dress it,” he said. “The bandages were either too loose or too tight. By God's Life, Kate, I missed you. There is none that has the way with a bandage you have.”

So her task of nursing began again. She was appalled by the condition of his legs, which were indeed growing worse. He was in great pain at times and would shout abuse at any who came near him.

Only the Queen was allowed to dress the sores.

Chapuys said to me, “The King has the worst legs in the world, and the Queen should thank God for them.”

I looked at him questioningly and he gave me his sly smile. He was implying that it was the King's bad legs which kept the Queen's head on her shoulders.

UNDER KATHARINE'S SOOTHING HANDS and the new ointments she had discovered, the King's legs improved. But instead of being grateful to her, his eyes strayed to others.

Perhaps in his heart he believed that a miracle could happen—his legs would be well again; this excessive flesh would drop from him and he would be a young and agile man again. Perhaps he thought back to the days of his glorious youth when one ambassador had said that he was the most handsome man in Christendom. If one has been handsome, it is hard to forget it; and I suppose people see themselves not as they are but as they once were. I think that was how it was with my father; and in these moods he would ask himself: What am I doing with such a wife…a barren wife? Her only claim to his affections was that she knew how to tie a bandage.

There were beautiful women at Court. There was Lady Mary Howard for one, the widow of his son, the Duke of Richmond—a very lovely girl, with the Howard looks which, in the case of Anne Boleyn and Catharine Howard, had enchanted him.

Charles Brandon had now died and the young and beautiful wife was now an attractive widow. So there were two beautiful young women, either of them capable of bearing sons; and watching men, waiting to snatch at an opportunity, were aware of the King's thoughts.

Gardiner and Wriothesley wanted to be rid of the Queen—and with her, Cranmer. The Queen's leanings were well known. They had already come near to destroying her. If the King's legs had been better instead of worse, they might have achieved it. But this time they would act more carefully.

They were interested in the arrival at Court of Anne Askew. They regarded her closely. The woman was blatant in her conduct; she made no effort to disguise her views, and placing a few spies round her was an easy matter; in a short time she had said enough to give them reason to arrest her.

I was with the Queen when news was brought to her that Anne Askew had been walking in the gardens when two guards had come to take her away.

Katharine turned pale and dropped the piece of embroidery on which she was working.

“Anne…in the Tower,” she whispered.

Jane Grey, who was seated at her feet working on another part of the embroidered altar cloth, picked it up and looked appealingly at the Queen: I could see by the child's expression that she knew why Anne had been arrested and how deeply it disturbed the Queen.

“On … what grounds?” asked Katharine slowly.

“For heresy, Your Majesty.”

“They will question her,” said the Queen. “But Anne will be strong.”

A gloom had settled over the Queen's apartments. Everyone knew how fond she had been of Anne Askew.

Once I came into the schoolroom where Jane and Edward sat together. There were books on the table, and they were talking. Jane was saying that terrible things were happening in Spain, and under the Inquisition people were burned at the stake for their beliefs.

“They die for their faith, Edward.”

“Yes,” said Edward. “They are martyrs. They die for the true faith.”

When they saw me, they stopped talking. So, at their age, they were aware of the dangers regarding the old and the new religions. Could it be that, under the Queen's guidance, they were leaning toward the new?

I was anxious about the Queen. I wondered what trouble she was storing up for herself. On the other hand, I believed wholeheartedly in the old ways. It was my mission to bring England back to Rome, if ever I had the chance. I was fond of Katharine. I knew she was a good woman; yet we were in opposing camps.

All the same, I wanted no harm to come to her.

THEY HAD TAKEN ANNE Askew to the Tower for questioning. Questioning! That dreaded word! It sounded mild enough—just a few queries to answer; but everyone knew what methods could be used to get the answers, and unless they were the answers the questioners wanted, the prisoner could be maimed for life…if any life was left to him or to her.

Susan said, “She will stand up to it. They will never wring anything from her.”

“What could they want to know?” I asked.

“She will state her beliefs. She always has. They are said to be treason…but she has never made any secret of them.”

“They know that. I fear it is not for her that they go to such lengths. They are angling for bigger fish.”

I knew what she meant by this, and I trembled for the Queen.

Anne Askew's arrest and subsequent incarceration in the Tower set people whispering. There was so much persecution now. Those whom the King called traitors to the Crown fell into two groups: the Lutherans and the Papists. All the King asked was that people should worship in the old way, the only difference being that he was head of the Church instead of the Pope. It seemed simple enough to him; but there were those who had to follow this wretched Martin Luther, and others who traitorously declared that the Pope was still head of the Church of England. Both must be eliminated.

The triumphs abroad had lost some of their glory. The Scots were putting up a great fight and having some success. The French had made an attempt to recapture Boulogne. They had not done so, but they had attempted to land in England and had come as far as the Solent.

At such times my father was at his best. He was a great king and, in spite of everything he had done the people recognized this quality in him. When he was concerned with the affairs of the country, he showed his powers of leadership. He did not spare himself; and although people were heavily taxed to deal with the emergency, he himself gave all he could. The common people had never suffered at his hands as those close to him had. The murdered wives were represented to the people as guilty of loose living in the case of Catharine Howard and of witchcraft with Anne Boleyn. Those who had suffered for their religion were mostly in high places, rarely those of humble origins. The people would always remember him as the glittering sovereign of their youth; even now, in his old age, he carried that aura of royalty with him wherever he went, and it could win them to his side.

Disease was his ally, for it worked for him against the French. The sailors in those French ships which had attempted an invasion of England were so stricken that there was nothing for them to do but turn back, and François was forced to make peace. Boulogne was to remain in my father's hands for eight years, then its fate would be reconsidered. The war with France was over.

True, there was still trouble in the north, but there was often trouble in the north, and my father was able to turn his full attention in that direction since he was not being harassed by another front.

Meanwhile there was news of Anne Askew.

Susan was alarmed. “She has been most grievously racked,” she said. “There are few who can withstand that pain.”

“What do you fear?” I asked.

“The others will be implicated.”

“Why… why should they be?”

“Because they share her opinions… because they have sent comforts to her in the Tower perhaps.”

I knew the Queen had sent warm clothing to her, and I felt sick with fear.

I learned later that the Lord Chancellor Wriothesley and Sir Richard Rich, exasperated with Anne because she would not implicate the Queen, had worked the rack most ferociously with their own hands in order to inflict greater pain.

Poor Anne Askew! There are some made to be martyrs, and she was one. Firmly she refused to betray anyone; nor would she deny her faith; and she was condemned to be burned at the stake.

The Queen was in a state of grief and panic. I do not know how she lived through those days. She must be with the King, talk to him, dress his legs, pretend to be merry … and all the time she must have been wondering when it would be her turn.

There came the day when Anne Askew was taken to the stake. The Lord Chancellor sent her a letter telling her that even now, at this late stage, if she would recant, she would have the King's pardon.

Anne proudly shook her head.

“I have not come here to deny my Master,” she said.

So her poor broken body was bound to the stake, and they lighted the sticks at her feet.

THERE WAS A SUBDUED atmosphere—not only in the Court but in the streets. A pall of smoke hung over Smithfield. People were whispering about Anne Askew—young, beautiful and brave. She had died for her faith. She had done no harm to any. All she had done was read books which were forbidden—that, and cling to her opinions.

People did not like it.

They were inclined to think the King was misled by his ministers. It amazed me how they always made excuses for him. They had made of him the strong leader, and that was how they wanted him to remain. Weakness was the greatest sin; he had never been guilty of that. Sensual he was; oh yes, fond of the pleasures of the flesh; but he always partook of them under a cloak of morality. Other kings sported with countless mistresses; the King had wives, albeit he either divorced or murdered them; but still he clung to the morality of the marriage vows; he might be a callous murderer but he was deeply sentimental; and his old friend—that adaptable conscience—was never far away. And somehow, in spite of all that had happened, he managed to keep his popularity.

He was faintly irritated with those who had arrested Anne Askew and taken her to the Tower. There had been too much noise about the matter because she was young, fair and a woman. He was displeased. Moreover, Boulogne was proving expensive to maintain and, although taking it from the French had been a great pleasure, he was beginning to find it a burden.

But he had driven off the French and had only the Scots to contend with, and they had never worried him very much; he had come to expect periodic warfare on the border, and the lords of the north were capable of dealing with that.

In the old days he would have found great pleasure in the hunt but that was denied him now. Long hours in the saddle tired him. Growing old was unpleasant, and he did not like it.

Edward was sickly. There was no denying it. And what had he besides? Two daughters! I could read his thoughts when his eyes rested on us.

I was very much aware of the tension, although the Queen did not take me into her confidence as much as I am sure she would have done had it not been for the divergence in our beliefs.

I had long become aware of the methods of men like Gardiner and Wriothesley; and I knew they were waiting to pounce. While Wriothesley had worked the rack so fiercely on Anne Askew, his aim had been to implicate the Queen. Previously he would have fabricated evidence, but in view of his last endeavors he dared not be proved at fault again.

He must have known, though, that in time the opportunity would come. And it did.

We were seated in the garden. The King had been wheeled out. That in itself was enough to put him in a testy mood; his leg was so painful that he could not put it to the ground without suffering acute agony.

Gardiner was with him, and the Queen was beside him. He had lifted his leg and placed it on her lap. The Earl of Surrey was present and one or two others.

Surrey was rather a mischievous young man. I guessed that one day he would be in trouble; but he was a good poet and he gave himself airs. I am sure he thought he was more royal than the Tudors.

He mentioned Anne Askew.

From my corner I watched the immediate effect on the Queen. Gardiner was aware of it, too. He said something about the books which were being smuggled into the country, and he added that there was no doubt that people like Anne Askew saw that they were circulated.

He looked directly at the Queen and said, “Your Majesty must be aware of this.”

“To which books do you refer, my lord Bishop?” she asked.

“Forbidden books, Your Majesty.”

“Forbidden?” she asked. “By you, my lord Bishop? Would you seek to instruct us on what books we must read?”

I was afraid for her. She was being reckless. She had suffered so much at the time of Anne Askew's death. She had lived for so long in fear of what might happen that she must be near breaking-point.

“Only, Your Majesty, if the books were those which the law forbids being circulated throughout the country.”

The King was growing impatient. He said, “We now permit our subjects to read the Holy Scriptures in our native tongue; and I have made it known that this is done so only to inform them and their children and not to make scripture a railing and a taunting stock. It grieves me that this precious jewel, the Word of God, is disputed and rhymed, sung and jangled in every alehouse and tavern, contrary to the true meaning and doctrine of the same.”

Katharine should have been wise enough to let the matter rest there but, as I said, she was in a reckless mood.

“When Your Majesty says to dispute,” she said, “you cannot mean that it is unlawful for people to discuss the interpretation of the Gospel.”

He frowned at her. “Would you question our decision?”

“Indeed not, Your Majesty, but I would ask Your Grace if you might cease to forbid the use of books which…”

The King's leg seemed to twitch. He shouted, “Madam, when I say it is forbidden, it is forbidden!”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” she said.

“But when people have a translation which they understand and they wish to talk…”

“No more,” said the King. “Come, I would go in.” He signed impatiently to the two men who stood by his chair. Then he muttered so that all could hear, “A good hearing it is when women become such clerks—and much to my comfort in my old age to be taught by my wife!”

His chair was wheeled away. The others followed, leaving Katharine standing there mortified.

I had seen the glint in Gardiner's eyes.

IT WAS NOT UNTIL later that I learned the true story. I just knew that the Queen was in such a state of health that those about her feared for her sanity.

I guessed what had happened. We had expected it must come some time. She had been fortunate so far, but she had been as near disaster as any wife of his must be on occasions, and everything depended on the chance of the moment whether it was the end or she went on to await the next alarm.

Looking back, I tell myself that Katharine must have had a special guardian angel.

She was surrounded by women who were completely devoted to her which was inevitable with a woman of her nature. She had always been kind to all, and however humble any servant of hers was, she was treated with consideration. When Katharine had changed from Lady Latimer to Queen, she herself had not changed with it; she still remained the kindly, motherly woman who always had time to listen to and condole with another's troubles. Hence the devotion which she now enjoyed.

Gardiner and Wriothesley determined to lose no time. The Queen was in disgrace. She had argued with the King once too often, and this in the presence of others. She had been reprimanded in front of them. She must be very low in the King's estimation at this moment; so therefore the time was ripe for her removal.

I could imagine Wriothesley and Gardiner closing in after that scene in the garden. Would the King be tutored by his wife? Indeed he would not. He was clearly piqued by her learning. But she was not clever enough to know when she should be quiet. The King did not want a clever woman; he wanted a Catharine Howard without her blemishes with the nature of Katharine Parr—or a Katharine Parr with the body and sensuality of Catharine Howard.

Now was the time to strike at the Queen, for she clearly leaned toward the Reformed Faith which the King had forbidden. Thus she was giving her enemies the opportunity they needed. She was questioning the King's right to supremacy. His Majesty would never endure such behavior from a woman. Anne Askew had been such another—saucy, defiant, acting in utter disobedience to the King's orders and the laws of the country.

Surely there must have been intervention from Heaven. It happened like this: one of the Queen's women was hurrying across the courtyard when she saw the Lord Chancellor Wriothesley passing through, carrying a batch of papers. He was a man whom none—great or humble—wished to come face to face with unexpectedly, for it could not be known whether one might offend him—and he was not the man to take an offense lightly.

So the woman drew back to the shelter of a pillar, and as she did so, she saw him drop one of the papers. He obviously did not notice, for he did not stop to retrieve it. She ran from her hiding-place and picked it up, meaning to give it to him, but by that time he had disappeared into the Palace. Some impulse made the woman look at the scroll, and she saw at once what it was. It was a mandate for the Queen's arrest.

She stood for a moment staring at it, unsure how to act. If she took it to the Chancellor, the Queen would be in the Tower very shortly. But if the paper were lost, he would have to get another. That would take time, and time was all-important on such occasions.

Tucking the scroll under her arm, she made her way in great haste to the apartments of the Queen's sister.

Lady Herbert almost swooned when she saw what it was. She had been expecting trouble and had, I believe, on many occasions warned her sister, to whom she was devoted; when she actually saw a warrant for the Queen's arrest, she must have thought the end was near.

She decided what she must do. Her sister must be prepared. She went to her immediately and showed her what the woman had brought to her.

It was then that Katharine sank into such melancholy that they feared for her life.

She wept piteously, Lady Herbert herself told me afterward. They did not know what to do. They had seen the mandate, and there would be some delay, but it would come. The King had approved this. His signature was on the document. So there was no hope.

Katharine could think of nothing to do. She was a very religious woman but she was afraid of death. The shadow which had hung over her since that fearful day when she had been told the King wished to marry her, was now upon her—a shadow no more: a reality.

The fact that she had had this on her mind and had lived so long with fear did not help her. It would come soon: the walk to the block, the gory death while people looked on and would say: “That is the end of the sixth wife.”

“And who will be the seventh?” she said hysterically. “The Duchess of Richmond… the Duchess of Suffolk? And how long for them?”

Lady Herbert tried to console her but there was no consolation.

“The King put a ring of doom about me when he put the ring on my finger,” she said. “I knew it at the time. I am no martyr. I am no Anne Askew. She went willingly to her death for her faith. I am merely a woman who does not please her husband.”

Anne Herbert was afraid for her sanity. Her eyes were wide and tragic… she saw herself taking those last steps to the scaffold.

Her sister called me, and I went to see Katharine. We tried to soothe her. Her eyes were glazed and she began to sob. Then she called out that she did not want to die. She was too young to die. She had never lived the life she had wanted. She had been nothing but a nurse to old men, and now she was to die.

We tried to calm her but a fearful hysteria had taken possession of her. She was laughing and crying at the same time. It was heartbreaking to hear her.

I really think she would have lost her senses, but God saw fit to save her. She was the most fortunate of the King's wives, which was due to the fact that he was now old. His fancy for the Duchesses of Richmond and Suffolk waned according to his health. The state of his diseased body was Katharine's salvation; she was such a good nurse.

He had signed the mandate that she should be taken to the Tower and questioned about her religious beliefs; no doubt it had been presented to him when he was smouldering with anger against her because he thought she was daring to contradict him. The rumblings of discontent which had followed Anne Askew's death were not far behind. They had aroused his rage, and to think that there was dissension in his own household must have infuriated him.

So in a flush of resentment he had signed the document.

With Katharine indisposed, one of his gentlemen had to dress his leg— and that was when he missed her.

Katharine was certainly lucky. I often thought of poor little Catharine Howard, who had not had a chance. I had always believed that, if she could have reached him, pleaded with him, he, who had been so enamored of her at that time, would have forgiven her and turned against all those who had attempted to destroy her, and she would have been alive today. But she had not had the luck of Katharine Parr.

He asked where she was. She was sick unto death in her apartments, he was told.

“Then I must go to her,” he said.

He could not walk. His accursed leg would not allow it. He must be wheeled to her. This was done. I wondered how he felt when he heard her sobbing. Did he feel a twinge from that well-ordered conscience? I doubted it. That conscience was as well disciplined as he expected his loyal subjects to be.

I only know what I heard later of that interview. Katharine herself told Lady Herbert, who told others, and so it came to my ears.

I wondered what the Queen had felt, seeing before her the man who had signed the mandate for her arrest. At that time, Lady Herbert said, Katharine despaired of saving her life and thought she was looking Death straight in the face.

He must have had a little pity for her. He was a sentimental man at times. He could change in a few minutes. Here was the Queen, of whom, shortly before, he was planning to rid himself, now lying helpless, frightened, believing that she was going the way of her predecessors. He must have remembered her gentleness, her kindness to his children, how she had made a home for them such as they had never had before. She was a woman of some learning: that was where the trouble had arisen; but he had enjoyed her discourse, and she had such gentle hands.

He must have made up his mind that, if her beauty did not set him afire with desire, if she failed to give him sons, he was getting too old for amorous adventures; he needed a good nurse rather than a voluptuous wife. So he came to her in a conciliatory mood.

He said that he disliked to see her in such a state, and he would do a great deal to restore her to health.

It must gradually have dawned on her that he had changed his mind about ridding himself of her. But she was too far gone in melancholy to rejoice. No doubt she thought that, if she were saved today, what would her fate be tomorrow? In those first moments she must have been far too bemused to remember what was said, and he, being aware of her state and the reason for it, realized how important she was to him.

This much she did remember. He became thoughtful. He said that they were well matched. He was no longer young; he was looking for peace, and she brought him that. He had been deceived by those he had loved; his marriages had failed when all he had sought was a loving and happy family. All he had wanted from a wife was fidelity, love… and obedience.

It was the last word which was significant. It was where Katharine had failed.

At this stage her hysteria was fading. Death was receding. There is an urge in all of us to cling to life, and Katharine must have realized that here was a chance to save hers. She had to forget that bold signature on the mandate. She must remember how quickly his moods changed.

He then raised a theological point concerning the scriptures. She believed that more should be translated into English so that many people could understand them. He wanted her to tell him if there was still disagreement with him. Here was the crux of the matter. He was swaying toward her, giving her a chance to save herself in a way which would be easy for him.

“Your Majesty,” she said, “it is not for a woman to have an opinion. Such matters should be passed to the wisdom of her husband.”

I could imagine his little eyes watching her shrewdly. He would know of the state to which she had been reduced. He would want to make absolutely sure that this was a mood of true repentance and not merely a desperate, frightened woman fighting for her life.

He replied, “Not so, by Mary. You are become a doctor, Kate, to instruct as we take it, not to be instructed by us.”

She assured him that he had mistaken her intentions. She had taken a different view now and then only to amuse him, to divert him, to take his mind from the terrible pain he suffered. She had believed he found their talk entertaining, and she had sometimes taken a view opposed to his own, for if she had not, there would have been nothing to discuss. That had been her sole intention—to divert, to amuse, to entertain. Moreover, she wanted to profit from his learned discourse. She wanted to hear him express his views with more vehemence than he would, perhaps, if she agreed with him.

The words were widely chosen. He was placated. After all, he had intended to be. He needed her. She was the best possible nurse, and there was no one who could replace her.

He had said, “Is that so, sweetheart? Then we are the best of friends.”

The battle for her life was over. But she must have asked herself: For how long?

THE SEQUEL WAS AMUSING. She had returned to his apartments with him, removed the clumsily applied bandages in her skilful way, dressed his leg and talked to him.

The next morning they were in the garden together, and it was there that Sir Thomas Wriothesley came with his guards to arrest her.

There were several to witness this scene, so I had an accurate report of what happened.

“What means this?” demanded the King.

Wriothesley replied that he came with forty halberdiers on the King's orders. “We have come to take the Queen to the Tower, Your Majesty. My barge is at the privy steps.”

One would have thought my father would have felt some embarrassment. He may have done but he let it erupt in anger against Wriothesley.

“Make sure it is not you who are sent to the Tower,” he growled.

“Your Grace…Your Majesty …” stammered Wriothesley. “The mandate…Your Majesty has forgotten… the Queen was to be arrested at this hour…”

“The Queen is where she belongs… with the King!” shouted my father.

“The order was to arrest her wherever she might be, Your Majesty.”

My father lifted his stick and would have struck Wriothesley if the man had not quickly dodged out of the way.

“Get you gone!” he shouted.

Katharine must have been in a state of terror. The King's mood might have changed. He might have remembered the order and decided to carry it out after all. She had only to say one thing of which he did not approve and which might have sounded to him like arrogance, making a doctor of herself to instruct him…

The King turned to Katharine.

“The knave,” he grumbled.

“Methinks he believed he was obeying Your Majesty's orders.”

“Don't defend him, Kate. Poor soul, you do not know how little he deserves grace at your hands.”

So for this time she was saved. She had seen death very close, and now there was a reprieve. But still there must be the eternal question: For how long?

IT SEEMED CLEAR to everyone except the King that his end could not be far off. His legs were now in such a state of decay that they could scarcely support him. He needed constant attention, and the Queen was essential to his comfort. We did not say it, but it was in everyone's mind that she was the luckiest woman on Earth, for it seemed possible that she was going to outlive him. He was beyond sexual desire now—another point in her favor.

Yes, said the Court—and, I have no doubt, the country—Katharine Parr is a very fortunate woman.

He was irritable in the extreme and his anger could boil up in an instant, so it was still very necessary to take care. As for Katharine she looked blooming, younger than she had for some time; she could see the end in sight.

Intrigue was rife. There would be a young King, and he was already in the hands of his Seymour uncles, who were supporters of the Reformed Faith. This was not at all to the liking of the Howards, who must have cursed fate which gave the heir to the Seymours and not the Howards, who had had two chances, one with Anne Boleyn and one with Catharine Howard.

The more feeble the King grew, the greater was the arrogance of the Seymours. Young Edward doted on them, and in particular on the younger uncle, Thomas; and everyone knew that the Seymour brothers were the two most ambitious men in the country.

The Duke of Norfolk and his son, the Earl of Surrey, stood on one side, and the Seymours on the other. I watched with interest. They were like carrion crows, fighting over the carcass before it was dead, while the King, who had always hated even to talk of death, went on pretending to himself that he had years before him.

It was certainly an anxious time. Edward would be King, and he was not ten years old. No wonder the uncles were rubbing their hands with glee. The government of the country—by grace of their sister Jane—would be in their hands.

Surrey was one of the most reckless men I have ever known. He was extremely handsome, proud, arrogant, a poet of some ability, a scion of a family which considered itself the highest in the land—so great, he implied, that the Tudors were upstarts in comparison.

On the other hand there were the Seymours, and Edward Seymour was, without doubt, one of the cleverest men at Court. I could not say the same for Thomas. Like Surrey, he was exceptionally attractive—and well aware of it. He had charmed Edward and, I fancy, little Jane Grey and even Elizabeth. He was very ambitious but a little lacking in wisdom, I always thought.

The younger Seymour was often in my thoughts, because I knew that the Queen was in love with him. Poor lady, had the King's eyes not alighted on her, she might have been Thomas Seymour's wife by now. I fancied I had seen his eyes on Elizabeth. I could not believe that he fancied her as a possible wife for himself. She was, after all, the daughter of the King, and she would be Protestant or Catholic, whichever the people desired. Seymour would recognize her qualities, and her position could be considered promising.

Uneasy days they were, with all eyes on the King. Serious-minded people willed him to live until his son was just a little older. It was not good for a country to be left with a minor for a king and a divided people.

Edward Seymour, Lord Hertford, with John Dudley, Lord Lisle, and Cranmer were preparing to rule through the new King. They—with the help of the Queen—had managed to instill in him a fondness for the New Learning. On the other hand there was Norfolk, with Surrey, and the Catholic supporters such as Gardiner and Wriothesley who might even attempt to return to papal authority.

It was an interesting situation, which it was feared, if the King were to die, might lead to civil conflict.

I wondered how Katharine felt when she saw death coming nearer and nearer to my father. Did she dream of days without the threat of death hanging over her? Did she dream of the marriage with Thomas Seymour which had been stopped by the King's preference for her? Was married bliss with the man of her choice to prove to be just a postponement?

That was how it was as my father's health deteriorated and it became obvious to all that his days on Earth were limited.

Surrey became more reckless. There were times when it seemed that his contempt for the Seymour brothers would bring about open warfare between them.

He referred to them as a low family which had been brought up solely because one of its women had happened to please the King.

The Seymours retaliated by demanding: What of the Howards? Had they not used their women to further their own ends?

The quarrel between the Howards and Seymours went on during the whole of the winter. Everyone knew that it could not be long before it flared into open warfare. The Howards were foolish and no match for the wily Hertford, who saw himself lord of all England when his nephew became King; and he was determined to rid himself of his enemies.

It was not difficult to bring a case against the Howards. They might have blue blood but they had very little common sense to go with it.

Edward Seymour was soon accusing them before the King. They were in communication with Cardinal Pole, the King was told, and there was little that aroused his fury more than the very mention of that name. He had regarded Reginald as his friend, and there was greater enmity in his heart for one whom he had trusted in years gone by and who had, as he said, turned traitor. Moreover the Howards had planned to make Mary Howard, Duchess of Richmond, who was, of course, Surrey's sister, the King's mistress so that she could influence him.

To tell the King that someone was going to influence him was the quickest way to arouse his fury.

Then there was the final outrage. Surrey had had the leopards of England emblazoned on one of the walls of his mansion at Kenninghall. Thus he proclaimed himself royal. He boasted that he had Plantagenet blood in his veins besides being descended from Charlemagne.

This was too much to be borne. Norfolk and his son, Surrey, were sent to the Tower.

IT WAS A BITTERLY COLD Christmas. The King was growing feeble. He was the only one who would not admit it.

In the January Surrey lost his head—a lesson to all. He had died from his own vanity. Was the setting up of the royal arms on a wall worth his life? For it was that which had really been responsible for his death.

Crowds had gathered to see Surrey die. There was silence as his head fell. It was such a handsome head and he such a proud man. He was so young to die, son of a noble house and one of the finest poets at Court; but a man of little sense, to barter his life for the sake of a witty quip, for the sake of parading his claim to royalty.

And his father was in the Tower. Norfolk was not much loved. He had been a meddler in affairs all his life. He had been callous to his poor, sad kinswomen; he had applauded them when they became Queens of England and turned against them as soon as they fell out of favor. When those two women had been condemned to death, they had not had a greater enemy than their noble kinsman—apart from Anne Boleyn, whose enemy was her own husband.

There had been a scandal when Norfolk left his wife for the laundress Bess Holland. Yet he had been loud in his condemnation of what he called his lewd and immoral kinswomen. I think everyone hates a hypocrite—so Norfolk was certainly not popular.

How bleak it must be in the Tower with the January winds buffeting the walls, seeping through every crack and crevice to make his prison more uncomfortable than it had been before. How did he feel, I wondered, knowing his son had lost his head … believing perhaps that in a few days he would be led out to meet the same fate?

Everyone about the King knew that he was dying. Wriothesley had said the King was rotting to death. Fortunately for him, not in the King's hearing. But it was an apt phrase. His legs were a mass of putrefying sores. The end could not be far off.

To my surprise he sent for me. I had heard how ill he was but I must confess to surprise—I might say horror—when I saw him. He lay in his bed, his eyes scarcely visible in the folds of unhealthy-looking flesh. Some of his color had gone now but I could see the network of veins where it had been; his mouth looked slack; his beard and hair were white. I would hardly have known him for the King; and the contrast with that grand and handsome figure of my childhood was tragic indeed.

His lips formed my name. “Mary…my daughter.”

“Your Majesty, I heard you wished to see me, and I came with all speed.”

“All speed,” he murmured. “That was well. Daughter, come closer, I cannot see you. You seem far away.”

“I am here, Your Majesty.”

“Fortune has not gone well with you. I have not given you in marriage … as I desired to. It was the Will of God. Daughter, the Will of God… perhaps the state of my affairs…your ill luck…Understand… it was the Will of God.”

“It was the Will of God,” I repeated.

“And now …you are no longer young… and there is not much time left to me. There is your brother. He is little yet. Take care of your brother…a little helpless child…be a mother to him. Be a mother…”

“I will, Your Majesty, I will…Father…”

He nodded slightly.

One of the doctors came and laid a hand on my arm. He led me to a corner of the chamber.

“His Majesty is failing fast,” he said.

Royalty cannot die in peace. Death is like birth. The important men of the day must be sent for to see it happen.

So they were coming to see the King die. Members of the Council. I recognized the Seymours…Lord Lisle, Wriothesley, Sir Anthony Denny. The Queen was not present.

My father half rose in his bed and with a cry fell back on the pillows.

“What news?” he growled. “Why do you stand there? What do you say? My legs are on fire. What do you? Will you let me burn?” Then he said a strange thing. “Monks…who are these monks? They cry to me. Why do they cry? They look at me with their wild eyes. I like not those black-cowled monks. What news, eh? What news, Denny?”

Denny came to the bedside. He said, “Your Majesty, there is nothing more that can be done. Your doctors can do no more. You should prepare to meet God. You should review your past life and seek God's mercy through Christ.”

There was a look of disbelief on his face. Death…so close. All his life he had refused to think of death; he had hated sickness; he always wanted to shut himself away from it; now here he was, face to face with death and there was no running away this time.

“Review your past life!” Did I detect a note of triumph in the words? “You, who have had great power, of whom we all went in fear and trembling, must now face One greater, more powerful than yourself. How does it feel, Sir King?”

Oh no! Denny's face was a mask of sympathy. But the King had made them all tremble for their lives at times.

They told him he must see his divines, but he started up and said he would see no one but Cranmer.

Cranmer was at Croydon, and they sent for him to come right away. We wondered whether he would arrive in time, for the King was in delirium. He seemed not to know where he was and why so many people had crowded into his bedchamber. It was uncanny. He was seeing ghosts, and through his eyes one saw those figures from the past who were there to watch him as he died, to mock him for the power he had once had over them, to remind him that he had none now nor ever would again.

“Anne …” His lips formed her name. I could almost see her, her black hair loose, her flashing eyes, that quick tongue that cared nothing for any… not even him.

“Witch,” he murmured.

“Anne, you're a witch. Had to be… Sons for England…”

So even at the end he was making excuses.

“Cardinal… what do you, sitting there? Why do you regard me so? I like not your look, Cardinal. Too clever…knew too much. You died. I was sad to see you die, Thomas. Can you see her there? Tell her to take those black eyes from me. Witch…sorceress. Blood… blood everywhere. The monks are there. Monks… monks. Monks.” His voice rose to a scream.

One of the doctors gave him a soothing drink.

“Ah,” he murmured. “Better… better. Who is that by the door? Tell her to go away. Who is that screaming? Catharine. She is young…very young. Led astray. Stop her screaming. Where is the Queen? Kate. Kate. Such gentle hands. There she is … that one. She is coming closer. Her hands are about her neck … I can see the blood there … and she is laughing … mocking. Send those monks away. I like them not. What time is it?”

“Two of the clock,” said Wriothesley.

“Shall I live through the day?”

No one answered. None believed he would.

“The boy is young yet…Take care of him. Watch over him. He will be your King. Such a little boy… not yet ten years old… not strong…”

“Your Majesty should have no fears,” he was told.

“Your ministers will do all that has to be done.”

By the time Cranmer came, the King could not speak. He placed his hand in that of the Archbishop. Then he closed his eyes.

The King was dead.

HE LAY IN STATE for twelve days in the chapel of Whitehall. A wax figure had been set up beside the coffin. It was uncannily like him, dressed as it was in jeweled robes of great magnificence. The body was to be taken to Windsor for burial and placed beside that of Jane Seymour, the mother of his son.

The procession was four miles long, and the wax effigy was put into a chariot and rode beside the coffin. At Sion House they rested awhile, and the coffin was placed in the chapel there.

It was at Sion House, where Catharine Howard had spent some of her most tortured hours while she was waiting to be taken to the Tower, that a most gruesome event was supposed to have taken place.

It was said that, when the coffin was removed, beneath it was seen blood on the stone flags of the chapel, and it could only be assumed that it had seeped through the wood of the coffin. Then some man said he saw a little dog come in and lick up the blood.

Whether this was true or not I cannot say. But if it was not, it was an indication of what was in people's minds. They would remember those two murdered wives; one might say three, for my mother's death had been hastened by his treatment of her. Katharine Parr had come near to losing her head, and barbarous torture had been inflicted on the monks. People would remember handsome Surrey. Norfolk, by sheer good luck for him, was still in the Tower, the King having died before he could sign his death warrant.

It was remembered that Friar Peto had likened the King to Ahab and had prophesied that the dogs in like manner would lick his blood.

Perhaps it was this prophecy which had prompted the man to imagine he had seen the dog in the chapel. One could not tell. But it did show that the people were aware of the blood which had been shed, and there could not have been one man in the country who would have liked to take on the burden of guilt which must be the King's.

And so to Windsor, where the coffin was buried next to Jane's under the floor of the chapel. After it was lowered by means of a vice, sixteen Yeomen of the Guard of his household broke their staves of office over their heads and threw them down onto the coffin.

De Profundis was said, and Garter's voice rang out to tell everyone present that there was a new king.

“Edward the Sixth, by Grace of God, King of England, France and Ireland, Defender of the Faith and Sovereign of the most noble Order of the Garter.”

Gardiner caught my eyes. There was speculation in his. He must be feeling very uneasy.

He knew that the new King had leanings toward the Reformed Faith and that he would be in the hands of his uncles—and Gardiner was a staunch Catholic.

I knew what he was thinking as he looked at me. I was no longer young. I was thirty-one years of age… old for marriage, but when the crown was considered, youth was not such a desirable asset. There was Edward, for example, whose youth was greatly deplored. No, I was a good age for a ruler and would be so for another ten years or more. The King was not ten years old and was delicate.

I read hope in Gardiner's eyes; and I felt my mission was coming very close.