The Secret Keeper: A Novel of Kateryn Parr

SIXTEEN

Summer and Autumn: Year of Our Lord 1548

Sudeley Castle, Gloucestershire

We arrived at Sudeley in the flush of summer, when the trees in the gardens budded small, hard fruit and the baby birds pulsed insistently as their parents plucked all manner of bug and worm to satiate them. The household that traveled with us numbered more than one hundred and twenty: servants, attendants, maids of honor such as myself, and the usual ladies and gentlemen. All highborn children required a considerable household in attendance from birth, in accordance with their status, and Kate had arranged for a certain Mrs. Marwick to be employed as the babe’s nurse. We spent the summer playing cards, laughing, entertaining our neighbors, and listening to musicians, one by one. It was a season of peace and joy.

Doctor Huicke, who had also accompanied us from London, had instructed Kate to walk often in the gardens in preparation for the birth. None of us dared voice what all of us feared—Kate was, at thirty-six, well beyond the usual age for a first child and the risk of complication to both mother and babe was multiplied.

“Have a seat, Your Grace, do rest,” little Lady Jane Grey said to Kate one late August afternoon whilst we walked around the fountain in the garden near the west wing of the castle. I handed the queen a fine linen cloth with which she wiped her brow before reposing on a cool stone bench. Thomas’s ward, Lady Jane, was a delightful child of nine who, if given leave, would spend every minute of the day that she was not with her tutors with the queen. Jane’s mother, Lady Frances Grey, was especially aware of her royal standing as the daughter of Queen Mary of France, King Henry’s younger sister. I knew that connection made Kate attend even more closely to Jane, though the child was so sweet one would care for her even if she were a lost waif—which she oft seemed to be.

The mist of the fountain carried on the breeze and refreshed us; I closed my eyes and enjoyed the moment but then I felt Kate take my arm.

“I feel the lightest of pangs,” she said. “Mayhap it be time to find the midwife and Lord Thomas. For precautions.”

Lady Jane helped the queen into the castle and I set off to find the others. The midwife was sent for and left immediately to Kate’s chambers. I passed the baby’s nursery suite—recently done in Kate’s favorite colors of crimson and gold with summer light streaming in through the window that overlooked the gardens and the chapel. Fitting, I thought, for Kate’s babe. Mrs. Marwick had a room next door to the baby’s so that she could attend him in the night and nurse him if need be. There were several other rooms in the suite for the baby, though many of his attendants would be scattered through the house at large. Presently, I came to Thomas’s chambers. I knocked upon the door and one of his men appeared almost immediately.

“Yes?”

“I’m here to speak with Lord Thomas,” I said. Because I was close to the queen, he nodded, and I was let in immediately.

“Juliana!” Thomas stood from his desk, drew near to me, and took me in his arms for a moment, then held me at arm’s length. “How come you to me this afternoon?”

“’Tis the queen,” I said. “Her pains have begun and she sends for you.”

His face grew bright with enthusiasm. “I shall take my leave immediately to greet her afore her lying-in,” he said. He motioned to some letters he’d left on his table. “Could you please see that my page takes these for delivery?”

I nodded and he departed immediately. I took in hand the letters, which were already sealed. One was to Sir Paget, who Kate had told me had written to Thomas to tell him that the council remonstrated with Edward Seymour’s arrogance and unwillingness to take direction or counsel from others. I wondered what mischief Thomas had replied in return. One letter was to one of the king’s servants, by whom all knew Thomas sent small bits of spending monies to the king with which he might reward his servants or gamble. King Edward had been given no such funds by his uncle Edward Seymour, the lord protector. The last letter, I saw to my dismay, was addressed to the Lady Elizabeth at Hertford.

After delivering them to the page, who gave them to a messenger, who set out immediately, I returned to my lady’s chamber to find her abed. Lady Tyrwhitt, her closest lady in waiting, was at her side.

“Can I assist in any way?” I asked Lady Tyrwhitt.

“You may read aloud, to distract her,” she said. “And I’ve sent for cool drinks to help soothe her.”

I read aloud for some hours from Tyndale, from Erasmus, from the queen’s own books, and from such other stories and poems as would help her to better pass the time. After some hours the daylight waned and the babe still did not come.

My reading voice sped up with my agitation over her situation, and I had to force myself to speak slowly and steadily. I stopped as the midwife attended Kate.

“Here, now, I’ll just massage your belly and tissues and see if that helps the babe along,” the midwife said. She reached her hand under the sheets and when she made contact Kate screamed in agony.

The midwife pulled her hand out. “The babe is closer, and he’s turned properly. He will come.”

Night settled into day and early on the morning of August 30, my lady’s child was born with a lusty call from the lungs, upon which we all clapped and laughed with delight. ’Twas a girl and the queen held her to her bosom with delight touching upon ecstasy. I shed not a few tears, thanking God that my lady was safe delivered of the child she’d wished for these many years.

We hurried to get the queen cleaned up whilst she held the babe. The babe was then cleaned, too, and given to Mrs. Marwick to quickly suckle her before she was handed back to Kate.

“She shall be named Mary,” the queen dowager declared.

“Mary?” Lady Tyrwhitt inquired. “Are you sure? Not Maud after your mother nor Margery after Thomas’s?”

Kate shook her head firmly and insisted, “Her name shall be Mary.” It put me in mind of Zechariah, the father of John the Baptist, insisting for mysterious reasons that his child should be named John.

Later, Thomas was brought into the room, and though he had hoped and presumed upon a son, he seemed delighted with both the babe and his wife.

The next day a messenger arrived with a letter from his brother, Edward, congratulating him on the birth of so pretty a daughter and encouraging Thomas that sons would soon follow. He signed the letter, “Your Loving Brother, Edward,” which brought Lord Thomas great pleasure as he read it aloud for all to hear.

Perhaps the child would be the soft yarn that knit these hearts together and I had a hope, watching Thomas and the babe and Kate in her birthing chamber, that the worst days were behind us and the best days lay ahead.

The very next day Kate was still abed, not unusual for a new mother, but her face was more flushed than when she’d delivered. I brushed out her hair and noticed that the back of her neck was burning. The day after, it was worse.

“Do you want to sit up or take a walk about the room?” I asked her.

She shook her head. “When I sit up I become faint and weak and must immediately lie down.” This worried me. I had seen Kate ill but a few times in the six years I had been in her household.

“Should I call Dr. Huicke?” I asked.

She appeared to contemplate the idea. “No,” she finally said. “I am not fully dressed. Mayhap we will wait but a while. You can bring me some cool watered wine.”

I left to fetch it and when I returned, Lady Tyrwhitt was attending upon her in my place. I then walked past her chamber and toward the baby’s rooms, where Mrs. Marwick rocked Mary and caught my eye as I went past her. She smiled, but wanly. Something was amiss.

Two days later, when I made my way to Kate’s chambers to help her dress, she was still in bed and unwilling to get up. “My throat is fair parched and chafed. ’Tis difficult to swallow at all.” That evening, the midwife insisted upon Dr. Huicke tending to Kate.

“I think this shall pass, madam, as you take your leisure and allow the body to recover,” he said. But when he turned to leave the room his face had a look of stark terror and I saw him turn left down the hallway toward Lord Thomas’s chambers and not toward his own.

Kate asked for Mary to be brought to her and so she, with the wet nurse, soon arrived behind Lady Tyrwhitt. Kate cooed to the child and kissed her and held her close, breathing in her powdery newborn perfume afore falling back into her cushions. Lady Tyrwhitt dismissed us all, but the next morning, one of her servants came to knock upon my chamber door. It was September fifth, six days after the birth.

“The queen wishes to see you,” she said. “Immediately and alone.”

I made my way to her chambers down the long, bright gallery of Sudeley Castle; dawn had brightly broken like an egg yolk tilting out of its shell, but the light did not spill into my lady’s chambers, as her draperies were still drawn against disease. One of her menservants stirred up her fire afore leaving the room, making the hot September morning unbearable. When he finished, we were alone.

“Juliana,” Kate said weakly. “Come close. I cannot pass my sickness on to you, for it is childbed fever I suffer from.”

I drew my chair near to the side of her bed. There was another chair on the other side of her bed, and though I could see no one, I well sensed who sat in it, swinging his legs, abiding his time impatiently. It was the Angel of Death. Therefore, when she next spoke to me, I did not contradict her.

“I will die,” she said simply. “Soon.” And then she burst out in tears. “I have accomplished so little of what I wanted to. I have been of nearly no use to our Lord above all!”

I drew near and kissed her hot cheeks. “Nay, that is not so. By your sweet temper and remaining clothed with humility, you turned aside the king’s wrath, and because of that, King Edward’s council is led by reformers who make great strides in all religious manner, which you love. And your books, madam, your books. Many thousands have already partaken of your sweet words of faith, and many thousands more shall do likewise throughout the ages.”

She nodded some and then her tears and anguish rekindled. “But there I leave undefended and unloved Mary, my own babe, my own child. After I have mothered so many children I have not borne—my Lord Latimer’s children, His Majesty’s children, Lady Jane—’tis a folly of injustice to not have time to love mine own child!”

I took her fingers in mine and pressed them to my lips afore speaking. Her hand was aflame. “‘The righteous by Christ are never offended at the works of God because they know by faith that God does all things well, and that he cannot err, neither for want of power, nor by ignorance nor malice: for they know him to be almighty, and that he sees all things and is most abundantly good.’”

For the first time that day, I saw a small smile. “My own words return to tutor me.”

“As you wrote them, lady, in your most excellent book.” I stroked her brow. “They have brought me much comfort in ways you shall never know, and I know they do likewise for others. Now, what may I do to assist you, Kate, to bring you comfort?”

She rolled her head toward me. Her eyes were glassy and still, like the eyes of a newly killed doe. “I have much to tell you, much to ask of you, and little time before Lady Tyrwhitt comes to rejoin us.” She kept hold of my hand. “I have a confidence that I must share with you, one that is like to bring you great grief, but I must tell you anyway.” She seemed to be gathering what little strength she had. “Although Sir Hugh St. John raised you as his own child, you are not his daughter. Your father is Thomas.”

I looked at her strangely. “Thomas … whom, lady?”

“Lord Thomas Seymour,” she said.

I withdrew my hand. “Nay, lady, you are in a delirium is all. My father was a knight in Marlborough,” I reminded her. “And Lord Thomas owed him a favor”—at that I slowed a bit—“for business purposes.” My voice grew quiet and I saw that she recognized I was beginning to understand. Dread crawled over and through me.

“Your mother was, indeed, a companion to Jane Seymour, when her own family, though of good standing, fell upon difficult times. Whilst they were both young, and living at Wulf Hall, Thomas and your mother began to keep company. Within a little time it became clear that your mother was with child. That child was you.” She took my hand again. “I am sorry, but Thomas’s mother did not find the idea of her son marrying your mother to her approval. So the family arranged to have a knight, nearby and of good honor and personal qualities, marry your mother.”

“My father,” I whispered. “Nay, not my father.” My heart rushed between beating so hard that I felt near to fainting and stopping altogether. My lovely, honorable, noble father was not my father at all. Instead, I was the offspring of Lord Thomas, a rogue now chasing a girl much younger than his own daughter! How could this be? I was desperately dismayed and could scarce breathe, and yet I didn’t want to unduly upset Kate on her deathbed.

“Who else knows of this?” I whispered.

“Thomas’s mother, of course. Edward Seymour and Lady Seymour, I am sure. And my Lady Suffolk, when she had a concern about Lord Thomas’s insistence upon placing you in my household, inquired as to the relationship. Because we were dear friends, I told her. But that is all.”

I nodded. It was a confidence well kept. I did not have time to dwell upon the implications for myself, though, as Kate pressed on.

“Do not think ill of Lord Thomas,” she said. “He has not shared this truth with you these many years so as not to shame your mother. He, too, knew how beloved your father was to you and did not want to turn you from that affection. He sought to prosper your father’s business and to undertake to assist you and your brother. He has sometimes ill used King Edward, but he has also sought to bring pleasure and joy into the young king’s life. For all his faults—and they be many—Thomas does have finer qualities too.”

“He waited to marry you, lady,” I said, pointing out one point she had missed.

“Yes,” she said. “He did. But now he is blinded and consumed with anger and grief and greed over his brother’s position, and I worry for my daughter. If I were here to protect her, she’d be fine. But I will not be.” She rolled over, her damp hair falling limply upon her silken cushion. “Juliana, I beg you to remain in charge of my daughter’s household, as a highly placed and highly esteemed gentlewoman, mayhap as a governess, though the babe shall not need tutors just yet, until such time as Lord Thomas has remarried and his new … wife”—her voice caught like a snagged embroidery thread on that sharp word—“has settled my daughter in her household and provided for her.”

“But I am not yet married, madam. May I take such a position? And I have little experience with children.”

“Mistress Ashley was not yet married when she became a gentlewoman in the Lady Elizabeth’s household. If you have questions, she would be a guide unto you.” She smiled at me softly. “’Tis not your experience with children that will do Mary good. It is your honor, and strength, and spirit.”

“Will Lord Thomas agree?” I asked.

“He will,” she said. “I shall insist upon it. I shall leave funds for you to use at your disposal in assisting with her household, and you may hire your own servants. Mary’s nurse will of course remain with her, unless Sir Thomas’s new wife”—she began to sob again—“disagrees.”

“I shall ensure she is well placed and much beloved,” I promised her. “For this reason you have told me of Lord Thomas?”

She nodded and I began to see her mood whip up again like a squall. “I know you love me well and would endeavor to assist, but now that you know she is your sister—and she has no other but you—there is an especial reason to make sure she is well settled. I have seen the affection and devotion with which you looked after your brother, Hugh. I know you will do right by Mary too. And then, once Thomas has married and my daughter is cared for, you, my dear, should marry too.”

“I will do as you say, lady,” I said. Tears ran down my own face and I wiped them away with the back of one hand. “I shall love her as you have loved me. And as I love you even now. I shall ensure Lord Thomas’s … household”—I could not say new wife—“treats her gently and well and toward the station that she, as the daughter of a queen, deserves. I will remain with her till that be certain.”

She threw off her coverlets and I saw her shivering in her thin bed gown, blood newly staining the sheets. Her eyes grew wild again. “His new household is like to be headed by someone you well know,” she said. “If he has his way.”

“I do not know of whom you speak,” I said, though I did.

“Oh, yes, the Lady Elizabeth would be his choice,” she said. “’Tis all too convenient now, my dying whilst he may have his bidding with her.”

I shook my head. “Nay, my lady, that shall not pass.”

She reached over to me, her breath hot and fetid. “Do not let him harm her,” she said. “You must be aware. Do not let harm come to her through his rash behavior.”

At that, she fell back into her bed.

“Her, madam? Whom must I guard from him? The Lady Elizabeth? Or your daughter, Mary?”

At that, Kate simply nodded to me and waved her hand. Within a minute Lady Tyrwhitt entered the room and Kate began to rave to her.

“What has taken you so long?” she cried out to her. “I have such feelings in me that I fear I shall not long live!”

“Fetch Lord Thomas,” Lady Tyrwhitt said. “Quickly!”

I ran down the hall, praying that I could keep my face steady and my eyes from betraying to him that I now knew that he was my father.

“Lord Thomas!” I insistently knocked at his chamber door without stopping till a page opened up to me. “Lord Thomas, the queen, she needs you now.”

He raced down the hallway and I ran after him. When we arrived a number of her household were already present, though mainly tarrying about the edges of the room.

He went directly to her bedside and pulled her to him, taking her full in his arms. I saw the anguish ground into his face, and whatever his other sins were, ’twas clear to all present that he did, indeed, love Kate. She did not seem to recognize for a moment that ’twas Thomas who held her. She directed herself, instead, to Lady Tyrwhitt.

“I fear I am not well handled,” Kate said, her voice shrill and still rising. “For those that be about me care not for me, but stand laughing at my grief, and the more good I do for them, the less good they do for me!” She turned her head, her mind seemingly clearing for a moment, and looked directly at Thomas.

“Why, sweetheart, I would not hurt you,” he replied, stroking her arm.

“No, my lord, I think so,” she said. “You have given me many shrewd taunts.” At that, she began to cry. Many of her household began to cry, too, either silently and remaining, or loudly and leaving the room so as not to disturb my lady.

“Let me lie with you, sweetheart, that I might bring you comfort and cheer,” Thomas said. She nodded and he slipped into the bed alongside her.

“I would have seen Dr. Huicke the first day I delivered,” she continued. “But I dared not for fear of displeasing you, as you do not care for any man to be with me alone or partially dressed, even my doctor!”

Thomas shook his head and whispered to her, then kissed her gently on the hairline, and within a few moments, she seemed to slump into his arms, her head on his shoulder, and grow quiet.

Within hours, she sent for her chaplain, her almoner, and her doctor, then began to dictate her will aloud, being not well enough to hold the quill and parchment herself.

“I leave all properties, possessions, and wealth to my husband, Thomas, wishing that it were ten thousand times more in value than it be,” she said. She gave him complete liberty at how to distribute them, and asked only that the household she had chosen for Lady Mary remain intact until such time as Thomas remarried.

Then my lady was quietly passed from the arms of her husband into the arms of her Lord.

Lady Jane Grey, who had come running down the hall at the last, slipped onto the floor and began to sob. I picked her up and held her frail body close to my own, sobbing with her.

That night my lady was wrapped in a waxen cloth as we awaited her burial upon the morn. She was not shriven, as that was not her custom. Lady Jane Grey, as the highest-ranking member of Kate’s household, would be chief mourner and there would be little fanfare, a simple ceremony, short and in English, with few attending, as the queen would have wished. She was as fully a reformer in death as she had been in life.

I lay abed that night, crying as quietly as I could, though I knew many others within the household, not least Lord Thomas, were likewise racked with grief.

All night I lay abed and not only images of Kate, and her gentle ways and bright laughter, but also thoughts of my father filtered through my heart and mind. He had known that I was not of him, and yet he loved me no less for it. He had never shown preference for Hugh, as my mother had.

It occurred to me that my mother had, indeed, held the sins of the father against the daughter. I would soon find out if Lady Margery Seymour, my grandmother, did as well. I cried until my nose ran, lamenting the loss of both mother and father. I was truly alone in this world now, a world I did not understand, could not command, and which proved more dangerous with each day that passed.