The Secret Keeper: A Novel of Kateryn Parr

SIX

Year of Our Lord 1544

Whitehall

Saint James Palace

Hampton Court Palace

The king had told Kate, upon her marriage, to choose whichever women she liked to pass the time with her in amusing manners or otherwise accompany her for her leisure. The queen certainly did so; we played cards and dice and she loved to hunt with her greyhounds. But His Majesty did not realize, I was sure, the extent to which Kate was about more serious business. Her chambers were oft filled with women who held spirited debates upon philosophy and religion.

Early in January, six months after Archbishop Cranmer had requested His Majesty’s marriage license for him, Cranmer was informed that he was to be sent to the Tower upon the morrow for beliefs and activities that were considered heresy. Tristram Tyrwhitt was near the king’s presence chamber when it happened, and he came to tell us that eve in the queen’s rooms. One of her footmen, dressed in a claret-colored doublet and hose, opened the doors and showed him in. After bowing, Tyrwhitt began.

“Cranmer appeared, white as mold on cheese and sweating like those who are ill. He abased himself before the king,” Tristram said, “and pled, ‘Sire, I am always and ever ready to subject myself to your law, justice, and rule.’”

“What next?” Kate asked, deeply distressed. She and Cranmer had become friends since her arrival at court.

“His Majesty looked down upon the heap of bishop and asked, ‘Think you to have better luck that way than your master, Christ?’”

At this, the room gasped.

“And then His Majesty did a complete turn,” Tristram recounted. “He held out his ring to Archbishop Cranmer and told him that when the council came to arrest him, he should show them the ring and all would be well. It’s been said that the investigation of Cranmer and his circle had been going on for months, and at the behest of Bishop Gardiner and his nephew.”

At this, Lady Temple glanced at Lady Matthews and scowled. I well remembered that Temple’s son was in the service of Bishop Gardiner, Cranmer’s enemy. Henry counted both bishops, of opposite leanings, as friends and confidants. I recalled the game of chess in which the Lady Elizabeth had bested me. Her father well knew how to play his pieces against one another.

Kate leaned over and whispered something to the Duchess of Suffolk.

By March, Gardiner’s nephew died the ignoble death of a traitor, hanged from his neck like a rooster at market.

The queen’s earnest business did not only involve religion. Parliament was meeting at Whitehall. She frequently dined with the king in her quarters, and I or Dorothy was sometimes there to assist her greater ladies, as Margaret Neville was often unwell.

His Majesty sat at the head of the table. “I am pleased to see that Your Grace passed the Christmas and New Year’s holidays with your illustrious children,” Kate said. Her carver was Thomas Seymour’s brother, specially chosen, and he hovered nearby to slice more of His Majesty’s venison if required.

“’Tis you we have to thank, sweetheart,” he said. “Never was a wife more bonny and buxom in bed and at board.” He indicated the fine spread before him and I glanced down at the intimate reference to their private life. That was the oath that Kate had taken upon her wedding, and although the nuptials were not what she had wanted, she had remained true to her vows. The king glanced up at the carver and indicated that he desired more meat. “How does your brother?” His Majesty asked him.

“My Lord Hertford does well, thank you, sire,” Henry Seymour responded.

“Your other brother,” Henry said pointedly. “Thomas.”

Kate indicated that her wine should be refilled. Her hand trembled as she picked up the golden goblet.

“He does well, sire,” the carver answered. “Always ready to serve Your Majesty.” Kate did not meet his eye nor acknowledge the subtle menace at the edge of the king’s voice.

“Good, good,” Henry said. “Kate, I have given some thought to your comments about our family, our children, and the succession, as you ever act upon our best interests. I will instruct Parliament to reinstate our daughters into the succession after the prince, this realm’s most precious jewel.” He gulped some wine and indicated for more. “Thus they will be placed ahead of the offspring of our sisters.” He winked at her, his cheeks pushing up into his eyes, his beard tufted and noticeably thinning. “Unless, of course, there are any children from you.”

That was the cue to set the remaining wine on the table and withdraw. Henry Seymour did as well, as did the other servants. Lady Tyrwhitt closed the door to Kate’s chambers behind her to the sound of her muffled laugh at some coarse jest His Majesty had just offered, seemed to often offer, far from the noble stories of the golden prince I had heard him to be in his youth.

Within the month, the king had approved the Act of Succession, in which Mary and Elizabeth were restored, in that order, after their brother. ’Twas the first time that the right for women to be sovereign was invested in English written law. How many knew that Kate had urged it, though it was always His Majesty’s will that was done? Within the month the Lady Mary sent an expensive gold bracelet to Kate. The Lady Elizabeth sent a letter overflowing with love and affection, which touched the queen even more than Mary’s bracelet had.

Edward, a child, did not indicate his pleasure or displeasure at having them included, but by the unmediated affection he showed to Kate at the Lady Margaret Douglas’s wedding festivities, he had taken Kate deep into his young heart. He referred to her as his dearest mother. And yet it was his birth mother, Thomas Seymour’s sister, the long-dead Queen Jane, who appeared next to the king when he commissioned the first portrait ever of himself with all of his family not long after the Douglas wedding affairs wound down. I suppose that was to be expected, as Queen Jane had been mother to the prince.

Queen Kateryn was painted utterly alone. I wondered if none but I saw danger in this telling isolation. If they did, they kept those thoughts to themselves, but I drew closer to Kate because of it. My affections, unlike many of those in her household, were not based upon His Majesty’s pleasure in her but in love for the queen herself.

Each year, on Maundy Thursday, the queen distributed coins to the poor and aged. Kate chose to do so in her chambers, with her ladies there to assist.

“I cannot image Queen Catherine Howard distributing monies to the poor,” Dorothy said on our way down the long hallway, “nor sinking to her knees with her ladies to wash their feet.”

“But she did,” I said. It seemed uncharitable to speculate upon the beheaded queen. Dorothy took my comment as a rebuke. And I suppose it was intended as such. We walked the rest of the way in silence.

We arrived in the queen’s chambers and they were already set up; we were to hand linens to her and take the used ones away when she had finished. Kate had chosen some of her finest herbs for the washing water and her softest linens to dry the cracked, dung-crusted feet of some of those brought to her. There would be thirty-two petitioners, who would each receive thirty-two pence, one each for every year of my lady’s life.

“Thank ye, Your Grace,” one elderly woman said, her scarf pulled loosely around her hair, which wisped upward like goose down. When we were near to the end, and wearying, a woman approached Kate and with an unruly, high voice began to jabber.

“Beggin’ your pardon, Your Grace,” she said, her shrill voice parting the calm in the room in an unseemly manner. Every eye was drawn to her. “I’m here to speak on behalf a Anne Askew,” she said. “Mayha’ you do na know of her. She is of God.”

Kate looked up at the woman and indicated that Dorothy should wash the woman’s feet whilst she listened to her. “Go on, my good woman.” Dorothy bent down and carefully wiped away the dried mud.

“Mistress Askew speaks often of holy writ,” the woman continued. “She speaks not of her own words, but the words of our Lord.”

Kate nodded, and whilst I had not heard of Askew I gathered by the look on Kate’s face that she had.

“She’s about her in preaching and teaching the Word of God. Her husband, Thomas Kyme, has turned her out because she uses her own name, and na his, and because he says she has abandoned her children and her bed by her gospelling. The bishop of Lincoln, he rebuked her, he did, for reading an English Bible.”

The Duchess of Suffolk Katherine Willoughby spoke softly. “Her sister is married to my husband’s steward.”

The old woman continued. “Askew’s husband has turned her out, he has, with nothing a’tall. If it pleases Your Grace, I will pass along these alms to her.”

Kate nodded and I was at her elbow, assisting, so I could see her give the woman a double portion, closing her hand firmly around it so as not to be seen by the others.

The older woman bowed and scraped herself out of the room whilst muttering thanks. The Duchess of Suffolk, a newly dear friend, said to Kate, “I shall look into it.” I recalled that the duchess had once dressed her dog up as a bishop and called him Gardiner, to the great amusement of all when she called him to heel, but to the everlasting enmity of the cardinal himself. There was no doubt which riverbank her loyalties washed up on.

Kate dismissed most of her women after that. Margaret Neville and I were left folding the linens. The Countess of Sussex remained behind. She looked at me and Margaret, and Kate nodded. “Speak freely.”

“I have had prophecies of Anne Askew,” she said, her voice strong and fueled with anxiety. Kate glanced at me and I rather wondered if she regretted giving the Countess of Sussex leave to speak freely. But the countess pressed on. “Although she does good, her future does not bode well. I’ve seen the rack.”

At that I sucked in my breath. A highborn woman, racked? Surely not. It had never been done.

I wondered at the countess being bold enough to speak of her prophecies. As her husband was cousin to the king, she might be safe. And then I recalled Father Gregory’s warning that none, not even the highest born, would be safe from charges of witchcraft if ’twere truly suspected.

“I shall see what I can do,” was all the queen committed. The countess nodded, knowing that her audience was over.

After she left I asked Kate, “Why do you keep some women, like Lady Temple and Lady Matthews, in your household who will seek to do you ill when they can and even spy?”

Kate smiled. “Being one of the queen’s ladies is the privilege of many noble families, Juliana. Whether or not they agree with or like me, they must be admitted. And I seek to do good for all, even mine enemies. Mayhap I can turn them from evil to good.”

Gospelling.

“They can only turn from doing ill to doing good if they want to,” I responded. “And like as not some pleasure in evil and have no desire to turn.” I had no doubt that while there were good people on both sides of the religious matter, those who acted according to conscience and firm faith, there were also those on both sides who would do ill if it best favored them. Wheat and chaff grew tightly together in both camps.

I could see by the dreamy look upon Kate’s face that she supposed it differently. ’Twas not the first, nor the last, time she would dismiss the plain truth for Sir Thomas More’s utopian view, and I worried for her lack of clear sight.

In spite of Lady Sussex’s dismal vision of execution at Smithfield, the business of the court was preparing for war with the French. As such I was able to dismiss the whole matter from my mind for a time. I noted, though, that when the queen signed her documents she did it as Kateryn the Queen, KP, retaining her given name’s initials.

Anne Askew had been maligned for that very same thing. And for gospelling.

In July the king left for war with France. As age and gout anchored themselves in His Majesty’s person, all suspected that this would be his last chance for martial glory. Thomas Seymour was commissioned to war, too, as were nearly all able-bodied men. Each time I read of St. George I allowed my heart to stay upon Jamie and prayed that he met with success and his knighthood. When I let my mind settle upon thoughts of men, ’twas not a fancy of Matthias, nor any man at court, such as Tristram, but of Jamie.

The king, showing great honor and trust in the queen, left her as regent, in charge of the realm in his absence. He also left her as both regent and governor over Prince Edward should the king meet with an untimely demise. Although she had a council to advise her, Kate was in command.

“Please instruct the households of the king’s children that we will be conveying them, ahead of the plague, to meet us at Hampton Court Palace,” she said. Before Kate left Greenwich Palace she dictated a loving letter to the king that she finally brought to a conclusion.

God, the knower of secrets, can judge these words not to be only written with ink, but most truly impressed in the heart.

Kateryn the Queen, KP

In late July we arrived at Hampton Court by royal barge with Edward and Mary. Although Edward remained the quiet, reserved boy with the brilliant mind he was already becoming known for, he warmed noticeably, as did we all, because of Kate’s love and laughter, nearly to the point of joy. In August, the king’s youngest daughter, Elizabeth, joined us.

The castle was one of Kate’s favorites; it had lovely gardens and fountains, and its sturdy red brick was softened by white casements and easements all sculpted most carefully, like dried-sugar syllabubs. Her quarters were sumptuous. I noted with delight the deference all paid her, not only as queen but as queen regnant. She, not the king, sat enthroned in the presence chamber.

I curtseyed as the king’s daughter approached that chamber one day. “Lady Elizabeth.”

She turned to me and smiled. “Mistress St. John.” She’d remembered our chess game, and waved me into the room with a true, rather than courtly, smile and I, thus honored, delightedly sat with her whilst Kate talked to her of court business.

Even as the queen and Elizabeth grew closer, the queen and Mary grew further apart. She did not like the reformed approach of Kate’s conferences in her chambers or the preaching of her chaplains. But Elizabeth gladly filled the space Mary’s absence created. Kate, for her part, allowed Elizabeth to remain nearby during several meetings with her council. They sat together whilst Kate dictated a letter to the king sharing the celebratory news that they had captured a ship off the Scottish coast bound to aid the king’s enemies, the French.

Elizabeth watched as Kate dispatched funds for the war and made arrangements for provisions to be sent. The queen was served her meals by attendants on bent knees. She disbursed funds and executed proclamations in her own name. The Earl of Hertford, Thomas’s brother, Edward, was on the queen’s council to advise in military matters, and as he was an accomplished soldier, she listened to him well. However, when Thomas Wriothesley, the lord chancellor for the finance of the war, spoke up too often and interrupted Kate, she hesitated not to rebuke him.

“Lord Thomas, I appreciate your concern and advice. I oft lean upon it. But His Majesty has left me, at the final, to make the determinations on his behalf. And I shall carry out that duty as I best see fit.”

“Your Grace,” Wriothesley replied, and bowed his head with a neat, tight nod. All who knew him understood that was not so much an indication of acquiescence as a hawk biding his time before the kill. I recalled that he held very conservative religious views, contrary to the queen’s, and that it was to his wife that Kate had sent her screed about not grieving overmuch a dead child, and I grew chilled.

The Lady Elizabeth, however, did not seem chilled. She seemed, if anything, warmed by this display, writing with admiration to the queen even though they saw one another daily, practicing Italian with her, seeking her affirmation on reading choices as well as on what to wear, and observing as Her Grace both confidently raised four thousand more men to aid the king and shared her thoughts and rationale with the young girl. They clearly held one another in deep love and affection.

I had the distinct impression, whilst watching and admiring them both, that Kate was preceptor in a most unusual Queens’ College.

“Victory is to the king!”

Sir William Herbert, married to the queen’s sister, strode into the queen’s presence a little more than two months after the king’s departure for war to announce the welcome news without waiting for the queen to invite him to speak. A great cheer rose among the small crowd and it traveled, like a wave, down the grandest halls, finally washing out in the furthest reaches of the scullery. Boulogne had fallen to His Majesty, a long-desired dream. Kate immediately sent word through the Earl of Shrewsbury to those fighting in Scotland so they might know that England was victorious and gain courage and force the Scots to wilt. Shortly thereafter, Wriothesley sent a letter to the queen asking that three ships, the Primrose, the Jennet, and the Sweepstakes, be sent immediately with provisions.

Kate dispatched the order with happiness. I caught her eye but held back a smile and a tease as others were in the room. Sir Thomas Seymour formerly commanded the Sweepstakes. I found it apt. Sir Thomas was in no way a primrose, demure and low to the ground. Nor was he a jennet, though he could be as obstinate as a donkey when he wished to be. Commanding the Sweepstakes, however, that was appropriate. I’d seen him at the card table. He was ever ready to gamble, always expected to best others, and did not mind if the stakes were high.

As winter seemed to have settled in early, Kate sent to one of her estates, Baynard’s Castle, for furs for all of us and then we set out on a small progress and hunt toward the coast. The king’s children were, of course, delighted for his victory. But now that it was over, he, and not they, must take precedence in Kate’s affections. She bid them a loving good-bye and went to meet her husband in Kent, and they made merry on their way back to London. The king seemed younger and happier than in all the time I’d been at court and spent a lot of time in Her Grace’s chamber, which he hadn’t done as often afore France.

I prayed for a prince.

Toward the end of progress the Countess of Sussex, the prophetess, received word that her young daughter, two-year-old Maud, had died of the plague far away at their home estate. The babe would have been quickly buried by few so as not to spread the disease whilst her parents were in London; there was no reason for the expense of leaving and returning to court, and the earl was expected to attend upon the king. The countess mourned, though, excusing herself from many of the festivities that would be held to instead remain quietly in her rooms. This time, Kate sent a letter full of compassion and hope. She’d learnt well since her letter to Lady Wriothesley upon the passing of her son, though she still had no child of her own.

The king had planned a week’s worth of celebrations for his war victory. First was to be a wrestling match; His Majesty could no longer wrestle on account of his ulcerated leg, but he was a great enthusiast of his men wrestling and jousting and sporting in every way he once had.

Next there was to be a play, based upon the sacking of Troy, to illustrate England’s great victory, and finally a banquet. Kate, having anticipated her husband’s victory like every goodwife of any status, had arranged for us all to have new gowns made. We were thus ready to celebrate.

“I’ve not been to a wrestling match,” I confided to Dorothy as we sat in the stands. We were not attending upon the queen that day, as many of her higher-ranked ladies were there for this very public celebration. Sir Tristram Tyrwhitt came and stood by me.

“May I keep company with you?” He looked first at me and then at Dorothy. It seemed to me that his smiles were equal for both of us, and it must have seemed that way to Dorothy too because she lit with joy.

“Oh, yes,” she said. She moved over so he could sit between us and I thought that clever of her; he would not have to choose one of us over the other, thus appearing less gallant. “I’ve heard you performed wonderfully well in France,” she said.

He looked at her with surprise but also pleasure. “From whom did you hear this?”

“Your aunt Lady Tyrwhitt,” she said.

“I had not heard,” I added. “But I am not surprised. I’m sure the French cowed like maidens when they saw you coming.” I grinned.

“A jest, mistress?” Tristram asked.

“I admit to it. But a friendly one, well intentioned,” I said. “I congratulate you.”

He nodded. “And now, I thought I heard you say you had not been to a wrestling match before. I know Mistress Dorothy has, so I shall concentrate my explanations upon you.” With that he turned his back, slightly, to Dorothy and began to explain the rules to me. I tried to lean forward to include Dorothy, but it was to no avail. She leaned back in ill humor and would not be engaged.

Among the wrestlers that day were the Seymour brothers, Thomas and Edward. Edward bested his brother in the first match, but Thomas won the second. Watching them put me in mind of Jacob and Esau.

“A third match!” Thomas cried out, throwing his fist in the air. “To proclaim the victor!”

Edward politely declined, cuffing his brother on the shoulder, and Thomas eventually, gracefully, accepted a truce. I saw the ring on his small finger; he still wore it. My stomach turned as though I’d eaten bad fish with the reminder of the prophecy. I’d asked after that ring one night, casually, whilst attending to my lady. Kate had told me once that it had been a gift from his brother Edward and that inscribed within were the words, “What I have, I hold.”

I wondered if that inscription was a warning from the giver to the bearer. The story of Jacob and Esau did not end happily for either brother.

The next night was the banquet and I wore a gown of peach-colored velvet cut slightly lower than usual, a beguiling plunge. Because my mother sent money I was able to supplement the budget Kate had set with matching shoes and fine pearl strings to weave into my hair. I softened some kohl in the corners of my eyes and plucked my brows as Kate had taught me.

Dorothy looked becoming in a violet gown that made her complexion seem even fairer. “Would you like to borrow some of my essence of rose to lightly tint your lips?” I offered as she stopped by my chamber. Elisabeth had already left and the maid with whom Dorothy shared a chamber was often late. Dorothy nodded and I took a small piece of linen cloth and helped her apply it. “It took me months to get it right myself,” I said, so she wouldn’t feel bad that I was assisting her. “For quite some time I looked unwholesomely bruised!”

At that, she relented and willingly let me assist her.

“Sir Tristram will find you irresistible!” I said, and that, finally, coaxed a smile. When we left our chamber and stopped by to inquire if Lady Margaret Neville was ready to attend Her Grace, as we were wont to do, we found Margaret still in a linen dressing gown; her face matched the paleness of the cloth.

“Please give my regrets to Her Grace,” she begged. “I have been most unwell and fear that I may faint should I attend this evening’s activities.”

“Do rest and don’t concern yourself unduly. Dorothy and I will tell the queen,” I said as she slipped back into her chamber. Later we decided to tell Lady Herbert, the queen’s sister, who would pose the news in a way that would not unduly discomfit Kate on this evening. ’Twas the zenith of the king’s celebration and Kate must revel with him.

The king’s cooks had limited themselves to fifty courses, including the king’s favorite dish: roast swan on a large platter, well larded afore being regowned in its feathers and ruffs, presented to the king with a sauce of vinegar and herbs. That was followed by jellied eels, gray and curled like sleeping snails, and black broiled carp with roast porpoise.

I picked at some marchpane and sugared fruit; politely refused a dance with Tristram, suggesting Dorothy instead; and looked for Jamie. Distressingly, he was nowhere to be found. I was surprised when, some minutes later, Sir Thomas sought me out for a dance.

“Certainly,” I replied, though I was a bit bewildered at why he had chosen me. I didn’t have to wait long to find out.

“How is Her Grace?” he asked me. “Truly.”

“Truly, sir, she does well. I know that circumstances have not always been … arranged to her preferences. But she has made do admirably. You would be proud of her.” As he was my benefactor, and always and ever a champion of Kate, I felt as though I could speak freely. Perhaps I was, as my mother had once claimed, too trusting.

“I am glad of it,” Sir Thomas said. “You shall tell me if she has some need, of a private sort, that she cannot share with another?”

“I shall,” I said, but thought it like as not that I would take care when trading confidences with Sir Thomas unless there were no other manner to inform myself. I knew he well loved my lady but also was apt to act and speak rashly. And then I went ahead and spoke rashly myself, because I knew of no one else I might ask. “One of your men, James Hart. Has he accompanied you back to court? Did he … fare well in France?”

Sir Thomas held me at arm’s length. “Unless I am mistaken, mistress, and I rarely am, you asked about that very same gentleman when we last danced.”

“I am surprised that you would remember anything I said,” I rushed on, trying to cover my shame, but I only worsened matters with my lack of composure.

He laughed. “I am very interested in what you have to say, Juliana,” he said. “James Hart has won his knighthood and, I suspect, returned to Ireland to tell his mother and crow to the local ladies about his conquests. He’ll be back at court presently.”

“Thank you, Sir Thomas,” I said, broken. I’d convinced myself that Jamie had thought of and wished for me on the long nights alone as often as I had yearned for him. Perhaps he’d not given much thought to me at all. Perhaps his nights had not been spent alone. I forfeited honesty for a bright smile as I turned back to dip my head at Sir Thomas.

He bowed and I curtseyed, and as he took his leave Tristram took my elbow. “May I?”

I smiled, glad of his friendly company to distract my mind from Jamie’s absence. “You may.” We danced and he tried to entertain me with stories of battle and bravery but they were a bit stilted in the retelling, perhaps due nothing to his own storytelling abilities but rather to my lukewarm interest in the one recounting them. Over his shoulder I noted that the queen danced two dances in a row with Sir Thomas. They kept a discreet distance from one another, their hands barely touching, their smiles and voices at a respectable level. But when Kate reached up and smoothed a wrinkle from the top of Sir Thomas’s doublet, a loving gesture, I held my breath. I looked to the king, who seemed deep in conversation. I knew, though, in spite of his recently waning eyesight and gray-spiced beard, that His Majesty missed nothing.

What he has, he holds.

Later that month, in recognition for his service to the king on the high seas, Sir Thomas Seymour was made lord high admiral of His Majesty’s navy. ’Twas a great honor, but a post that would keep Thomas away from the court, at the king’s bidding, for great periods of time, nautical miles away from the queen.

In the three months between the banquet and the New Year’s celebration, Sir Tristram often sought me out to walk in the galleries, to play cards, and to make merry in general. I sometimes agreed to accompany him when in a group, but sought to include Dorothy at all times and made it clear by a certain remove that I was not interested in more than friendship. I do not think he paid mind to my assertions, as by the end of the year he was asking after my father and my brother and plans in Marlborough.

In spite of Sir Thomas’s reassurances, Jamie did not soon return to court.