The Secret Keeper: A Novel of Kateryn Parr

TEN

Summer: Year of Our Lord 1546

Greenwich Palace

Smithfield

In June, the matter of Thomas Seymour marrying the Duchess of Richmond was broached again by her father, the conservative Duke of Norfolk.

“Norfolk knows he is losing power, and when the king dies, it might well rest with the Seymours, who will always have the prince’s best interests, as his family,” Elisabeth said as we whitened our teeth with chalk in our chamber. “Norfolk, on the other hand, covets the throne for himself or his kin. ’Tis unlikely his family shall give that cause up.”

“Shall he meet with success?”

Elisabeth shook her head. “I do not believe so. The king is not inclined to give him any more power by marrying Norfolk’s daughter to the prince’s uncle. And curiously, Henry Howard, Norfolk’s son, dislikes the idea.”

“Father and son butting heads once again,” I said.

“Indeed.” She motioned for me to help her with her laces, as we had no maid to assist us that day. “Whilst they still have them.”

I was glad for the queen. All knew that the king approached midnight and that she likely had many more years to live, as did Sir Thomas, who had remained strangely unmarried for a man of means and title. I put it to his love for Kate and it softened him in my eyes in spite of what I feared about him. I expected they were biding their time.

Within a few days of the quiet announcement that no marriage arrangement would take place, Kate hosted a feast for the king and his courtiers on the grounds of Greenwich. It was a risky thing to do in June, when it rained more oft than the sun shone, but this day the clouds obeyed and being outdoors in the gardens among the flowers put everyone in a merry mood.

The men played bowles on the lawns and Kate had tables laden with sweetmeats and comfits and delicacies of all manner. Minstrels wandered about and the blossoming trees sent delicately perfumed missives to land on gown and doublet alike. “I have not seen you keep company much with Tristram Tyrwhitt,” Kate said to me, quietly, as she made her way among her ladies and the other guests.

“He has not sought me out since I returned to court,” I said. “But we were naught more than friends, after all.”

“He has been occupied,” she said. “Go seek him. You are not unable to speak up, methinks.” A twinkle brightened her expression. She was glad that Sir Thomas would not be marrying Mary Howard, though she could not, of course, share the reason behind her merriment and hoped for romance for me too.

Though I was uninterested in Tristram, to honor my lady, I came up beside him as he was speaking with a group of other young courtiers. Many of them smiled and parted, and all conversation stopped. I nodded my head slightly. “Sir Tristram?”

He looked discomfited. “Mistress Juliana.”

“I have missed your friendship,” I said.

He smiled weakly, took my arm, and walked me toward a far table, alone but for the festive ribbons tied on it, streaming in the air.

“I have been remiss in not speaking to you, I admit. And I hope you’ll forgive me,” he said. We took a seat near one another and he kept his voice low though the minstrels would have covered our conversation in any case.

“After you left court, afore Christmas, I sought out your company. Mistress Dorothy told me that you’d gone back to Marlborough. She and I passed the season together and we grew … close. When I asked of you again and again, and she knew of my great affection toward you, she, as a friend to us both, sought to put me out of my misery, though more misery followed upon the disclosure.”

I looked in his eyes and I knew what he was going to say afore he said it. The flute in the background mourned, and I forced myself to take deeper breaths and wished I’d have worn looser stays.

“I am sorry that you were so cruelly attacked,” he said. “But I did warn you not to give John Temple any reason to believe you favored him.”

I drew away. “And what makes you believe that I showed him any favor at all?”

“I saw you dance together many times that evening. I saw you leave with him, arm in arm.”

He’d been watching me! “As you and I have danced and walked many times. And as you and Dorothy no doubt do even now.”

“Ah yes, but I am not John Temple.”

“And I am not the fair Dorothy—is that your next thought, Sir Tristram?”

He drew near. “I have my own reputation to think of as a man of integrity and a reformer, should this ever circulate,” he said coldly. “I do not desire to plant where another man has plowed.”

I recoiled from him in disgust. “You are detestable.”

“Come now,” Tristram said. “Mayhap this is all a result of you rooming with the harlot Elisabeth Brooke.”

“Harlot?” I could scarce keep my voice at a level that would not draw an unwelcome gaze.

“She cavorts with a married man most nights. It’s a wonder her father allows it to continue, but mayhap not, as his sister was notorious as well. She will be ruined if Parr turns from her.”

“I do not know what Lady Brooke does or does not do when she is not in the chamber with me,” I said. “But I do know that Sir William’s wife abandoned him for another man, committing the sin of adultery, and lives with him even now as man and wife. According to the Lord himself in the book of Saint Matthew, she has broken her wedlock. Sir William may not be free to remarry according to the king’s law, but he is according to the Lord’s. It is the latter you seem so concerned everyone live by, Sir Tristram, and not the former.”

He was caught and knew he could not both argue the point and keep his lofty ideal of himself. He stood up. “Good day, mistress.” He bowed properly, slightly, and took his leave.

I made my way back to my chamber and stayed there until I knew Dorothy would be back at hers. When that time came, I made my way to her room and knocked sharply.

“Juliana.” She opened the door and looked at me as a cornered mouse might.

I made my way into her chamber and saw that she was alone.

“You told Tristram.”

She said nothing.

I gazed upon her, our once promising friendship now broken into shards, as a dropped vase might be, never able to be reassembled. “’Tis nothing on earth I have ever done to you to earn such disloyalty, such disfavor, such a lack of charity. If there was, tell me now so I can repent of it,” I said, holding back my sobs.

“You were haughty from time to time,” she said in a pleading tone. “You have money and Kate’s favor and you shall find another man and I shall not. Tristram is my only hope and he favored you over me. But I knew he, like any of my brothers, would not want a woman who had been … tried.”

“Tried? Tried? Raped! You had been trusted with a most urgent secret, and you have not held to that faith.” I ran both of my hands through my loosened hair and then placed one at the back of my neck to steady myself.

“He will tell no one,” she said, her voice softer now. “He will shortly speak to his father and mine about being married; we will retire to his family’s estates, and the secret will go with us.” She drew close to me. “You did not want him, Juliana, so there is no harm done.”

I closed my mouth and did not respond till I’d mastered the sharp retort I wanted to unleash. After a minute I said, “Please return the blue gown I loaned to you.”

She walked to her cupboard and took it out and handed it to me gingerly. “I am sorry,” she said. “I hope one day you will forgive me.”

I took the gown from her and let the tears rush down my face. “I loved you not a little, Dorothy, but very much. I wish you well.”

I returned to my own chamber, glad for the fact that Elisabeth would likely not return to it that night, and cried myself sick into the returned blue gown.

Tristram’s response proved that, like one of the king’s coins, I’d been clipped, debased, lost some of my worth through no fault of my own, never again to regain my full value. No matter how I pressed on, I was kicked back. I was tired of trying and didn’t know how much longer I could persevere. After a time, I read in my book of hours, prayed for comfort, and fell asleep without first undressing.

It was a cliff, and next to the cliff, a tiny patch of green upon which grew some flowers. They were bright and bold, flos solis, sunflowers, with beautiful faces that turned toward the sun as it arced across the lustrous blue sky, and I felt a sense of peace and contentment.

Toward the end of its arc, a seed dropped from one flower’s bosom and implanted itself deep within the soil. Within a moment, a tiny shoot sprang forward, steady and green.

We were in the queen’s chamber sewing, a week or so after the feast, when her brother, Sir William, arrived. He drew near to his sister.

“Kate.” He looked around the chamber. I was there, and Dorothy, though we sat far apart and spoke perfunctorily and coolly. None from the faction opposed to Kate were present. They had been keeping their distance from her.

“Speak freely,” she said to William.

“A letter has been intercepted, from Mistress Askew, which has led to her rearrest in London and another imprisonment. There is a rumor that the letter’s content may implicate you.” He looked around the room. “And others. Though that may be but an excuse to question her about you and your ladies.”

A hush traveled from one lady to the next.

“Gardiner is already attempting to poison the king’s mind against you, and he is sniffing every hedgerow to find further evidence to add to his case.”

“Should I speak with His Majesty about this?” she asked.

Sir William shook his head. “I think that would be unwise. He is in a foul mood.”

“You should speak with him,” Kate said. “He trusts you, always has. Hasn’t he nicknamed you his Integrity, for you shall always tell him the truth no matter the cost?”

William sat down next to his sister and took her hand in his own. “He has already spoken to me, Kate, and expects me to tell him the truth—no matter if the cost be my own sister! He has appointed me to the council that is to interrogate Mistress Askew. And not only I, but John Dudley.”

“He appoints you, my brother, though I be implicated in her letter?” Kate’s voice, and my pulse, rose.

“Yes,” William said. “I am sore vexed about it. It be a test, I know it. Have a care.” He turned toward Lady Tyrwhitt. “Because your husband served with Mistress Askew’s father, and they are known to be friends, I should have an especial care for your family, too, lady.”

At this Dorothy’s face lost color and I was left rather wondering if she still thought Tristram was such a marvelous match. I did not wish for the king’s wrath to spill upon either of them, though, nor anybody. Save John Temple.

The queen’s brother would not return to the queen’s chambers for many days so as not to draw attention to her whilst the investigation was under way. But Elisabeth heard the details from him, and she shared them with Kate privately, and with me in our chambers, as she knew where my sympathies lay.

“Today they asked Askew what her views are on the Eucharist,” she told me.

“What did she answer?” I asked, knowing that was the one question which, if answered wrongly, would lead to her death.

“She replied, ‘I believe that as often as I in a Christian congregation do receive the bread in remembrance of Christ’s death, and with thanksgiving, according to his holy institutions, I received therewith the fruits of his glorious passion.’”

“She did not answer,” I said.

“Exactly,” Elisabeth agreed. “Gardiner then told her that she should answer directly and stop speaking in parables. She told him that even if she did he would not accept it. He became vexed and shouted to her, ‘You are a parrot!’”

I said nothing, but admired her tenacity to her faith whilst under duress.

“She did not give up any names,” Elisabeth said. “Even when the counsel had her put on the rack, and Richard Rich himself turned it so that her bones and members were disjointed like as to never return to their abilities again. Then they dumped her on the cold floor, half blinded, for hours.” I recalled the countesses’s prophecy.

I grew ill while envisioning the racking and determined to continue praying for Mistress Askew daily. “They did not mention the queen, did they?”

“Not by name—they dared not. But all knew they were trying to strangle Her Grace by implicating a necklace of women in her household. Gardiner has well planted a thought in the king’s mind that Kate is undermining him, and His Majesty has given Gardiner permission to explore this.”

“Did His Majesty know of this whilst it was happening?” I asked, although I knew he must have. Little of consequence happened in his realm without his knowledge or approval, and he did not shy from torture. But racking a woman? It seemed beyond him even.

“He did,” Elisabeth answered bluntly. “The lord lieutenant of the Tower sped to him by the river and told him. But he did not stay their hands. This is not about religion, no matter how it’s cast, on either side,” she continued, whilst clasping a diamond bracelet about her wrist. “’Tis about power.”

Then I understood. All of the wives implicated were married to men in the rising faction in the king’s household: those who had his ear, his purse, his stamp. And then there was the queen, who was named in the king’s will as regent over the prince should something befall His Majesty. Religion might be the arena the game was played in, but the prize, no doubt, was earthly power.

As for Anne Askew, as a woman in opposition to the men at court in power, she had no recourse whatsoever. Her execution by burning was set for July 18. We were numb with apprehension on her behalf and despaired of our inability to help her.

Shortly thereafter the Countess of Sussex sent one of her lady maids to my chamber. “Mistress, the countess would like to see you, if you do not object.”

It was not every day I was summoned by a countess. I was afraid for what she might beseech of me and made my way on weak limbs with racing thoughts toward her chamber.

We made our way down the halls, still dimly lit with the declining summer sun, and near the center of court where the grander courtiers lodged. The lady maid knocked on the door first and then pushed it open. The Countess of Sussex was waiting in her receiving chamber just within. “Thank you, that will be all,” she said, dismissing her servant. She indicated that I should take a seat near her and offered me a glass of wine. I took it but I was not thirsty.

“Anne Askew is going to be martyred,” she said without polite prelude. “We cannot forestall that, but we would like to ease her journey as we might. It is known that they often cause the fire to burn slowly, building with little wood and not high up, for those that displease the council.”

I shuddered. I had never known a person who had gone on to be executed, and now came a woman nigh on my own age, with two small sons, about to be roasted slowly, like an ox on a spit. It seemed unbelievable.

“Will you help?”

I considered it for a moment before nodding cautiously. “How can I not? If Her Grace gives me leave, that is.”

“She does.”

I knew I should not speak of this with the queen herself due to the danger of the situation.

The countess went on to say, “Lady Hertford’s page brings Askew some monies to buy food whilst she is in prison, to strengthen her. But he cannot be seen going there again. We plan to deliver gunpowder to the executioner.”

“What for?”

“To place upon her body so she will die quickly. Would you be willing to assist by riding the funds to Smithfield and delivering them to the man providing the powder? You are little known and not like to draw attention. You understand the route to Smithfield better than most because it lies adjacent to Charterhouse, where you lived with your lady whilst she was married to Lord Latimer. You must go alone, but I would provide servant’s clothing. If any question you, as a last recourse, show them my husband’s chain of office and that should forestall further questioning for the moment, though it may lead to more later. Use it if all else fails.”

I nodded, as my tongue had become too dry to speak. This was a mission fraught with danger. If I should fail, she would die badly. If I were found out, I might well end up in the prison, or worse, like Anne Askew.

And yet I recalled her courage, her fearlessness, her willingness to press on for her faith. I assumed she knew that help would be provided, though all peril not forestalled, because the One whom she served would not leave her unaided though it might appear that way to others.

“I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee.”

The Lord is my helper, and I will not fear what man shall do unto me.

“Will you assist?” the countess asked me.

Are you afraid of battle? I’d asked Jamie.

Nay, he’d replied. I am eager to prove myself.

“I shall assist,” I agreed, gaining courage by doing something I knew would make him proud. In my head and in my heart, he smiled at me and urged me forward.

The countess nodded. “I knew you would.”

I presented myself to the stable boy, who looked at me oddly, in the mean dress and linen scarf that the countess had provided for me. The garments smelled of fire and I wondered who their owner was, mayhap someone who worked in the kitchens. The boy recognized me from my many rides with Elisabeth Brooke and brought round a fine mare.

“This’ll do ye,” he said, and I shook my head.

“I should prefer to ride with less attention,” I said. “Not a nag but—”

“There be no nags in the king’s stables, miss.”

“Something sturdy but with a plain saddle and no silver markings,” I said.

He nodded and brought out a gray mare, which would blend in with my gray cape, allowing me great anonymity. He seemed to understand and kindly asked no further questions.

After he helped me up, I pulled the light cape tight round me and took off out of the palace’s grounds and along the south bank. I knew I could follow the south bank all the way to the bridge where I must cross over. Although my lady did not have us ride in the sickly, crowded streets around Charterhouse, I could often see them from the edge of her property.

Greenwich was southeast of the city, and Smithfield, where the burning was to take place, was in the northwest portion. The south bank was a stench; fishwives cleaned their wares, knifing slippery guts into the river Thames afore tossing the gaping fish into wicker baskets under the hot sun. I heard the competing shouts of the boys selling water and wine and wished I could stop and avail myself of either; though the day was young the July heat was already stifling. Women, tired and poor, offered their bodies, young and firm or old and slack, and I prayed on their behalf.

I soon passed the Tower; even from a distance I could see Traitor’s Gate, where Queen Anne Boleyn had been rowed in but had never left. High atop the tower, with its gap-toothed turrets, perched several ravens and I recalled to me the vision of the Lady Elizabeth’s chopped gown. A cold sensation ran through my chest, and I felt like one taken with illness.

As I grew closer the noise grew louder. None stopped to take account of me; like beasts of burden they kept their heads down with their own day’s load, I supposed. I could soon see the wooden spire of St. Paul’s rising above the city.

I slowed my mare; she clopped across the bridge with the others, some on horseback, some in litters, most on foot. As I reached the outermost corners of Smithfield, where the livestock was sold and butchered, I could smell the tine of boiling bones. The fat melting down into tallow for poor households left a greasy residue on the wind and the loud voices bartered whilst the animals bleated afore being led to a shambles for slaughter.

Once I reached Smithfield’s west gate I handed my horse to one of the boys loitering nearby hoping to earn a coin. “Keep my mare here,” I said, handing a small coin to him, “and let none harass her. When I return, you shall have two more of these.”

“Yes, mistress, I will. Shud be a good show. A lady’s burnin’ with ’em and the highborn are here for sport as well as us folk.”

I handed the reins over to him, suddenly thankful that he had not noted my speech to be highborn. There was already a thick hedge of people surrounding the stakes, which were in the center of a long row. I was to find a certain copper merchant and hand the purse to him, and he was to hand the funds collected by the ladies, especially Lady Seymour and Her Grace, to the executioner—who would then hang bags of various lengths under the stained ivory gown of Mistress Askew. I soon found the copper merchant, his mean shop guarded by a handful of belligerent hens.

“Do you fashion pots on request?” I asked him. His long red beard matched what the countess told me I should find.

“I do, mistress, with half the funds up front and half upon delivery.”

Having stated and received the proper words, I handed the purse over to him.

“God be with you,” he whispered to me. I nodded, but dared not speak more than required lest others about us hear my inflections and know I was not common townsfolk.

At that, my requirement had been met. I was tempted, of a moment, to return to my mare and quickly make my way back to the safety of Greenwich, away from the bloodlust of Smithfield. As I passed near the stakes again, I overheard some who were sitting on a bench nearby. I pulled my stained scarf close to my head to allow me the chance to view who ’twas speaking.

Wriothesley, for one. Norfolk, who’d gladly sent his own niece Queen Anne Boleyn to the block almost exactly ten years earlier. And Bishop Gardiner.

I quickly moved away from them but it was unlikely they would ever glance at so mean a person as I. Although I was weak with fear and revulsion and desired nothing more than to flee back to court to pray to have this scene removed from my mind, I determined right then to stay, in case Mistress Askew looked up and saw no friendly face in the crowd. I did not want her to die alone but for those being martyred with her.

An hour later they carried her out in a chair; her joints and bones had been so badly racked that she could no longer walk, and her hair was shorn to her scalp like a badly handled sheep. I endeavored to make eye contact with her, for comfort, but she could not lift her head and I doubted that she would recognize anyone at all.

Once at the stake they bound her to the two men who were to die with her, chaining her middle to the post as well, as she had lost all ability to sit upright. I swallowed back some bile, some of which remained to coat my tongue. As they lit the bundle, Nicolas Shaxton, who only weeks before had been arrested with Mistress Askew, then released when he recanted, began to boldly speak. As a condition of his freedom he was to preach the service whilst his former friends burned. I turned away from his harsh and hypocritical words; he had only received any position at all at court through the kindness of Queen Anne Boleyn.

The men began to moan and cry immediately and I closed my eyes and prayed for them, the words formed upon my silent, moving lips. Askew herself did not scream until the fires hit her face. Instead, till the end, she corrected Shaxton on his Scripture. “Yes, he’s got that right,” she’d boldly call out of a passage, or, “No, there he misseth and speaks without the book.” I was strengthened by her courage and forced open my eyes in order to honor her.

At the end, she too began to scream, and then the gunpowder blew small bits of sticky wood and flesh onto the crowd, which had held itself at a shouting distance. Some pieces struck my cloak and I patted them out in horror, and tried to hold back the rising gorge in my throat but could not contain the tears running down my cheeks. I now understood why the garments of someone who tended fire had been chosen for me.

Take them quickly, Lord Jesus.

Justice at court belongs to men, not women, John Temple had said, leering, and his bitter comments came back to me among the wailing of those around me, which echoed the wailing in my own heart.

If I had been more devout, I would have prayed for mercy upon the souls of the men who sent Mistress Askew to the stake, and for John Temple. But I did not want mercy for them. I coveted justice, instead, for myself, and for Anne Askew and those burning with her, and for all others who are harmed at the hands of ruthless men.

I rode home in shock, my horse, thankfully, mostly guiding herself, and she made her way quickly. I did not eat or drink or sleep that night, fasting from all, grateful that Mistress Askew was now at peace but sickened at how she’d died.

Within the week all of the highborn reformers, including Bishop Cranmer, fled the court for the safety of the countryside and even for France, leaving Her Grace alone and undefended at court.