The Sixth Wife: The Story of Katherine Parr

CHAPTER

II

THE KING WAS NOT DISPLEASED WITH HIS NEW WIFE. She had the gentlest hands that had ever wrapped a bandage about his poor suffering leg, and in the first few weeks of his marriage he discovered that he had not only got himself a comely wife, but the best of nurses. Nervous and timid she was during those first weeks, as though feeling herself unworthy to receive the great honors which were being showered upon her.

“Why, bless your modest heart, Kate,” he told her, “you have no need to fear us. We like you. We like your shapely person and your gentle hands. We know that you have been raised to a great position in this land, but let that not disturb you, for you are worthy, Kate. We find you worthy.”

She wore the jewels—those priceless gems—which had been worn by her predecessors.

“Look at these rubies, Kate.” He would lean heavily on her and bite her ear in a moment of playfulness. Why had she thought that elderly men were less interested in fleshly pleasures than the younger ones? She realized that the experience afforded her by Lords Borough and Latimer had taught her little. “You’ll look a Queen in these! And don’t forget you wear them through the King’s grace. Don’t forget that, my Kate.”

And she herself, because she was by nature kindly and gentle and looked for that good in others which was such an integral part of her own character, was more quickly resigned to this marriage than others might have been.

Yet there were nights when she lay awake in the royal bed, that mountain of diseased flesh beside her, thinking of her new life as Queen of England. Of the King she knew a good deal, for the affairs of kings are watched closely by those about them, and this man was a supreme ruler whose slightest action could send reverberations through the kingdom.

What sort of man was he whom she had married? First, because she had been the victim of this quality, she must think of him as the sensualist. Indeed, his sensuality was so great that it colored every characteristic he possessed. But he was far more than a man who delighted in pandering to his senses with fair women, good food and the best of wine; he was a King, and for all his selfindulgence, he was a King determined to rule. When he had been a young man, his delight in his healthy body had proved so great that he had preferred to leave the government of state affairs to his able Wolsey. But he had changed. He was the ruler now. And through that selfishness, that love of indulgence, that terrifying cruelty, there could be seen the strong man, the man who knew how to govern in a turbulent age, a man to whom the greatness of his country was of the utmost importance because he, Henry the Eighth, was synonymous with England. But for his monster conscience and a surprising primness in the sensualist, he would have resembled any lusty man of the times. But he was apart. He must be right in all things; he must placate his conscience; and it was those acts, demanded of him by the conscience, which made him the most cruel tyrant of his age.

What would happen to her in the months to come? wondered Katharine, staring at the ornate tester, although there was not enough light to show her its magnificent workmanship. And what of Thomas Seymour, temporarily banished from his country because he had been known to cast covetous eyes on the woman the King had decided to make his wife! How was he bearing the banishment?

What are this King’s subjects, Katharine asked herself, but figures to be moved about at his pleasure? Some please him for a while, and he lifts them up and keeps them close beside him until he sees others who please him more; then those who delighted him a week before are discarded; and if that prim quality within him suggests that the favorite of yesterday be removed by death, the conscience demands that this should be done. For the King must always be able to answer his conscience, no matter how much blood must be spilled to bring about this state of concord between a self-willed sensualist and his conscience.

So Katharine prayed in the silences of the nights for the courage of which she knew she would have great need. Often she thought of a friend with whom she had been on terms of affection before she came to court. This was the Reformer, Anne Askew, herself the victim of an undesired marriage; she thought of Anne’s courage and determination and she longed to emulate her.

But I am a coward, thought Katharine. I cannot bear to think of the cell, and the sound of tolling bells, bringing to me a message of destruction. I cannot bear to think of leaving that cell for Tower Green and the executioner’s ax.

Her prayer for courage, it seemed, did not go unanswered, for as the days passed her fears diminished and she felt that a new sense was developing within her which would make her aware of encroaching danger and give her the calm she would need to face it.

Some might have loathed the task which was thrust upon them. Each day it was her duty now to bathe the leg, to listen to his cries of rage when he was in pain; but oddly enough, instead of nauseating her, this filled her with pity for him. To see this man—this all-powerful King—such a prey to his hideous infirmity, was a sorry sight. Once when he looked at her he had seen her eyes filled with tears. He had softened immediately.

“Tears, Kate? Tears?”

“You suffer so.”

Then those little eyes, which could be so cruel, also filled with tears, and the fat hand which was heavy with flashing jewels came down to pat her shoulders.

“You’re a good woman, Kate,” he said. “Methinks I made a good choice when I took you to wife.”

She had asked that her sister Anne, Lady Herbert, might be a lady of her bedchamber, and that Margaret Neville, the only daughter of Lord Latimer, be one of her maids of honor.

“Do as you will, Kate,” said the King when she had made the request. “You’re a good woman and a wise one, and you’ll surround yourself with others of your kind.”

Yes, the King was pleased. This marriage had not begun with one of those burning infatuations such as he had felt for Anne Boleyn and Catharine Howard. That was all to the good. This, he assured himself, was a wise choice, a choice made while the judgment was cool and sober.

Then there were the children. He had made it clear to her that he wished her to take a stepmotherly interest in them, and for thisshe was grateful. It had been one of her deepest regrets that she had no children of her own, and that her strong maternal nature had always to be placated with stepchildren. Well, it had been so before, and never had she found anything but joy in mothering the children of those other women.

The royal children were as responsive as had been those of her other marriages. How happy she was to be so obviously welcome in their apartments! Poor children, they had known so many different stepmothers and they were accustomed to such changes.

When, as their stepmother, she paid them her first visit, they were all ceremoniously assembled to greet her.

Little Edward looked so puny that she wanted to take him in her arms and weep over him. Yet while he moved her with pity, he filled her with dread. This was the only male heir, and the King wished for others.

He put his hand in hers and, on sudden impulse, dispensing with that ceremony due to the heir to the throne, she knelt and kissed him, and, following her lead, he put his arms about her neck.

“Welcome, dear Mother,” he said; and in his voice was all the yearning of a little boy who has never known a mother and always longed for one, and whose childish pleasures had been overlaid by the great duties demanded of an heir to the throne.

“We are going to love each other,” she said.

“I am glad you are to be our stepmother,” he answered.

The Lady Mary knelt before her. Poor Mary, who was almost as unhealthy as Edward. She never dispensed with what she considered the right formalities, and this was a solemn occasion for Mary—the greeting of the new Queen of England. Previously it had been Lady Latimer who must kneel to the Lady Mary; now the position was reversed, and although there had been warm friendship between them, Mary never forgot the demands of etiquette.

“Rise, dear Mary,” said Katharine; and she kissed the slightly younger woman.

“Welcome, dear Mother,” said Mary. “I am glad to welcome you.”

And then Elizabeth came forward, dropping a pretty curtsy and lifting her sparkling eyes to her stepmother’s face.

“I, too, am pleased,” she said; and when she had received her stepmother’s kiss, as though on sudden impulse, she followed her brother’s example and, putting her arms about Katharine’s neck, kissed her.

Little Jane Grey, who was waiting with her sister Katharine to welcome the Queen, thought that Elizabeth seemed more pleased than any of them. Little Jane noted a good deal more than people guessed, for she never spoke, even to her beloved Edward, of all that she saw. She did not believe that Elizabeth was really half as pleased as Edward or Mary, although she was not displeased. (Who could be to welcome such a gentle and charming lady as the new Queen?) It was merely that Elizabeth could show great pleasure or great sorrow as she wished, and the more easily than others because she did not feel these emotions deeply and could remain in control of herself.

Now Elizabeth stood back that the Queen might greet the little Greys, and while Jane knelt before the Queen and was kissed by her, she was thinking that Elizabeth was not really so pleased because the King had married a good lady, but because this lady would be easy to persuade; and Elizabeth would know how to persuade her to ask the King to give her what she most needed; and what Elizabeth needed was that position which she considered hers by right. She wished to be received at court, not as the Lady Elizabeth, the bastard, but as a Princess; and she wished to have an income that she might buy beautiful clothes; she wished to have jewels with which to adorn her person. Jane felt sure that that was what Elizabeth was thinking as she greeted Katharine Parr.

And yet, when they had dispensed with ceremony as far as Mary would allow them, and were all gay and happy together, Jane noticed that it was Elizabeth’s gay chatter which most charmed the Queen.

Edward kept close to Jane, and now and then held her hand and looked at her with fresh tenderness. He was thinking that his father must be very happy to have this new stepmother for a wife, and that a wife could be a great help to a King.

Then he felt suddenly happy because of Jane, who was quiet and gentle and very clever—she was not unlike the new stepmother in these things—for Edward knew that Queen Katharine was quiet, gentle and learned.

While Elizabeth was talking to their stepmother, Edward said to Jane: “It is a good thing to have a wife, Jane. If a king loves her dearly and she is good and kind and clever, that is a very good thing. You are kind, Jane, and good and clever. You are beautiful too.”

Then he and Jane smiled at each other, because there was such accord between them that they did not always have to put their thoughts into words, and Jane knew that Edward meant that he wished he might have her for his Queen when he grew up.

The King too visited his son’s apartment on that day, for he wished to see how his wife was faring with his children.

His approach was heralded as he came slowly to those apartments.

“The King comes this way!”

Waiting women and ushers, guards and gentlemen-at-arms were alert, terrified that he might glance their way and find some fault, hoping that he would give them a nod of approval.

And into the room he hobbled, beside him one of his gentlemen on whom he might lean. His doublet was of crimson velvet, striped and slashed with white satin. About his neck was a gold collar from which hung a magnificent and very large pearl. His cloak was of purple velvet; and on his left leg he wore the Garter. He glittered with jewels; they adorned his cap, his doublet and his cloak; they sparkled on the pouch of cloth of gold which hung at his side and which hid from view the dagger with the jeweled hilt. The color of his face almost matched that of his cloak, so purple was it with the exertion of walking; but at the moment its expression was one of beaming kindliness. It pleased him to see his new wife and his children together.

As he entered the room all fell to their knees.

He surveyed them with contentment, until he examined more closely the face of his little son. The boy was wan and there were dark shadows under his eyes. That tutor of his was letting him work too hard; he would have a word with the fellow.

“Rise,” he commanded; and they rose and stood before him in awe and fearful admiration.

He limped to the Prince. The boy tried not to shrink, but found it difficult, for in the presence of his dazzling father he felt himself to be more insignificant than usual. It always seemed to Edward that he shrank to a smaller size under that scrutiny; his headaches seemed worse, and his palpitations returned with violence; he was aware of the new rash which had broken out on his right cheek. The King would notice it and blame someone for it—perhaps dear Mrs. Penn, his beloved nurse. Edward was always terrified that Mrs. Penn might be taken from him.

From the boy the King turned his gaze on Mary. He felt an almost active dislike toward her, for she was a continual reproach to him. She ought to have been married, but what royal Prince wanted a bastard for his wife, even if she was a King’s bastard? And how could he declare her legitimate and still insist that he was right to put her mother away? No wonder the sight of her depressed him.

Then Elizabeth. She grows more like me every day, he was thinking. That hair is as mine was; once I had such a fair and glowing skin. Perhaps you didn’t make a cuckold of me with Norris after all, Anne.

He wanted to dislike Elizabeth, but he found that impossible, since to do so would be tantamount to disliking himself.

“Well… fostering friendship?” he asked.

Katharine spoke. “We were friends already, Your Majesty.”

“It pleases me to hear that.” He smiled, reminding his conscience that he was above all things a benign parent who had chosen a wife, not for carnal pleasures, but because he wished to benefit his children. He gazed at her and was pleased with what he saw. Her bodice of cloth of gold was a pleasant change after her widow’s black. The bodice fitted tightly, showing her neat but womanly figure, and at her throat glowed the great ruby which he had given her.

A comely Queen! he reflected. A good stepmother into the bargain. Not too old to have sons of her own. She was a healthy woman, small but sturdy. She would have sons. And he would be looking to her to provide him with one very soon.

He signed for his chair, and one of the attendants hurried to place it for him. He made his son come to him and he questioned the boy as to his studies. He placed his great hand on the small head.

“You must be healthy,” he said. “When I was your age I was twice your size.”

“I crave Your Majesty’s pardon for my size,” said the boy. “I ride every day, as did Your Majesty at my age, and I jump and run.”

“You’re a good boy,” said Henry. “But I should like to see you grow somewhat faster.”

He would like to hear the boy read to him in French and Latin, he said; and books were brought; but while the Prince stood at his father’s knee and read aloud, the King was watching the others, who stood, without speaking, in his presence.

This boy is all I have, he reflected sorrowfully. Oh Jane, why did you not live to give me more? And healthy ones too. His breathing’s bad, and he’s too thin. I’ll see his cook this very day. He shall be made to eat. He shall be made to grow strong and lusty.

This boy and two girls…a pretty state of affairs! He remembered his son, Richmond, and the delight he had felt when that boy had been born, proclaiming his father’s manhood to the world; for he had feared, before the birth of Richmond, that he could not beget a son. Then Richmond had died that horrible, lingering death.

Henry was afraid that the small child at his knee might go the way of Richmond. Mary had managed to cling to life, but he felt that that had been something like a miracle. Elizabeth alone seemed capable of living to the normal span. He wished there was some magician at his court who could change the sex of the girl. Ha! What an achievement that would be. If Elizabeth could be changed to a boy he would make her heir to the throne, by God he would!

But there was no one who could perform such a miracle, and he felt that it was cruel that it must be Anne’s girl who should claim his attention, whom he should long to make his successor. He had always believed that Anne might have the power to mock him from the grave.

Then he contemplated his Queen again. He had a good wife. She was small and dainty and he would like her better when her body broadened with his child. Well, it was early yet, but perhaps this time next year there would be another Tudor Prince to delight his heart.

“Have done,” he said to Edward. “Have done. Your reading’s good. I’ll compliment your tutor instead of berating him. And how do you like your new mother, eh?”

“Sire, I love her dearly.”

“That is well.” He touched the boy’s cheek with his sparkling forefinger. “More spots, eh?”

“They came only today,” explained the Prince apologetically. “I feel in very good health, Sire.”

“That is well.”

He rose painfully and Katharine came forward to help him. “Good Kate. I rejoice to see you here. Now help me back to my apartment.”

He took her arm and leaned alternately on her and on his stick.

When they were in the royal apartments he said: “The Prince looks poorly. My only son. I would I had a dozen more to follow him.” He pinched her cheek. “We’ll get ourselves a son, eh? We’ll get ourselves a son, Kate, my little pig.”

This, she brooded, is the height of royal favor. The King calls me his “pig” and asks for sons. If I provide them I shall continue to be his pig. If not…?

Why should she not have a child? She longed for a child. Some of the wise women said that those who longed for children most easily conceived them. And yet how those unfortunate Queens must have longed for sons!

She refused to be depressed. She had her friends about her—her dearest sister Anne and her beloved stepdaughter, Margaret Neville. She had her dear Nan with her, and Nan would serve her faithfully as long as they lived. And she had her new stepchildren, who had received her with warmth; and at the moment she was the King’s little pig.

“My lord,” she said, “I have a favor to ask of you.”

He surveyed her benignly. He wished her to know that, being pleased with her, he was in the mood to grant favors.

“Well, Kate, speak up. What is this favor?”

“It concerns your daughters. It is one of my dearest wishes to see them reinstated at court. My lord, I cannot help but feel that it is wrong that they should not be recognized as royal Princesses.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You know what I suffered through their mothers. Mary’s a bastard. You know that. And so is Elizabeth.”

“But were you not married to the Lady Elizabeth’s mother?”

“Nay. You meddle in things you do not understand. I never liked meddling women, Kate.” He caught her cheek between his thumb and finger and pinched it. “Mind you, Kate, I know your motives. You meddle for them and not for your own gain. I like you for it. The form of marriage I went through with Elizabeth’s mother was no true marriage. She was precontracted to Northumberland. That made our marriage void, and her girl a bastard. They’re both bastards, I tell you.”

“Yet they are your daughters. And how like you is the Lady Elizabeth! My lord, could you not have them brought back to the position they enjoyed when you believed yourself to be married to their mothers?”

He pretended to consider, pretended to be faintly displeased. This was one of the games of makebelieve which he so liked to play. He was not considering; he was not displeased. He knew that the people thought it wrong that his daughters should live in penury; providing all agreed that they were bastards—which they must do if his conscience was to be satisfied—he would not be unwilling to give them a position at court. And how pleasant it was to do this thing which he wished to do and still make it a favor to Kate, his new wife, his sweetheart, his little pig.

“Methinks I find it hard to deny you aught, sweetheart, for now you ask this favor I am inclined to grant it.”

“I thank you. I thank you most heartily. Your Majesty is indeed good to me.”

“And you in turn shall be good to me.” She knew what he meant. It seemed to her as though the bells in the chapel had begun to toll. “Sons. Sons,” they seemed to say. “Give me sons.”

“But first,” he said, with the air of one who offered yet another honor to a subject already overloaded with them, “you shall dress my leg. The walking has shifted the bandage and it plagues me.”

THERE WERE TWO men who were not pleased with the King’s felicity. One of these was Thomas Wriothesley and the other Gardiner, Bishop of Winchester.

It was Wriothesley, the sly and cunning, who discovered through his spies that, in the privacy of her chamber, the Queen read forbidden books, and he hastened to his friend Gardiner to acquaint him with the discovery.

The court was at Windsor, and Gardiner, greatly disturbed by the news that he had helped to put on the throne a Queen who leaned toward Protestantism, suggested that Wriothesley and he should walk together in the Great Park to discuss this matter which he would prefer not to mention within castle walls.

When the two men had put some distance between themselves and the castle, Gardiner said: “This is indeed disturbing news, my friend. I would have sworn that the Queen was a good Catholic.”

“A sly woman, my lord Bishop, I fear. While she was Latimer’s wife, she allowed it to be understood that she was as good a Catholic as you or I. As soon as he dies and she marries His Grace, we find her playing the heretic.”

“A foolish woman, friend Wriothesley. Playing the heretic when she was Latimer’s wife would have been a mild matter. Playing the same as the wife of our Sovereign Lord is another affair. But we waste time tattling of the follies of such a woman. We must act.”

Wriothesley nodded. This was what he expected of Gardiner. He would be ready to strike a blow for Catholicism and strike it in the right direction. Gardiner was a strong man; he had served under Wolsey; his tact and enthusiasm in the affair of the King’s first divorce had placed him in high favor. When Wolsey had fallen, Gardiner became Secretary of State. The Archdeaconry of Leicester and the Bishopric of Winchester had speedily fallen to him. And if the King did not care for him as he had cared for some of his ministers, if Gardiner’s origins were obscure, these facts merely meant that his rise to power was the more spectacular, and if he did not win the King’s love, he had his respect.

“Tell me what you have discovered of the Queen,” went on Gardiner.

“She surrounds herself with those who are interested in the new religion. There are her sister Lady Hertford, the stepdaughter Margaret Neville, the Duchess of Suffolk, Lady Hoby and others. They are secret ‘Reformers’ … as they call themselves. Remember, my lord Bishop, she has some charge of the education of the Prince and Princess. Prince Edward and Princess Elizabeth are but children; their minds could be easily perverted. The Lady Mary is a staunch Catholic and safe from any contamination. But not only has the woman charge of the young Prince and Princess, but of the two Grey girls, and they are near enough to the throne for that fact to be disquietening.”

“You have no need to warn me on that score. We cannot have heretics sharing the throne with the King.”

“Could we not take this matter to the King and lay it before him?”

Gardiner smiled ruefully. He let his gaze rest on the two towers of the castle which were approached by the drawbridge. He was standing on a mound and could see the straggling street with its gabled houses, black and white, which formed the town of Windsor. He could see the winding river, silver under the summer sky, cutting its way through meadows gold with buttercups. But Gardiner had not a thought to spare for the beauties of Nature. Instead he thought of other Queens whom ministers had planned to destroy. He knew that any minister would be a fool to approach an amorous King with tales against the woman he had married as recently as two weeks before.

Cranmer had brought Catharine Howard to the block, but that had been some time after the marriage; yet the King had undoubtedly been infatuated with the woman. But what tales Cranmer had had to set before the King—such tales and such proof that poor nervous Cranmer had dared deprive Henry of a wife with whom he had been in love. And what Protestant Cranmer could do to Catharine Howard, Catholic Gardiner could do to Katharine Parr.

But not yet. Timing was all-important in such matters.

“This needs much thought,” he said slowly. “To strike at the Queen now would be to invite disaster. The King is pleased with her. Two weeks of marriage have increased rather than diminished his pleasure in her. I can assure you, Wriothesley, that she delights him more now with her nursing and her gentle ways than she did before the marriage. The time is not yet.”

“I am sure that you are right, my lord Bishop, but might not delay prove dangerous? It is while the King sets such store by her that she will have the best opportunity of whispering her heresies into his ears.”

The Bishop patted Wriothesley’s arm. “Yet we must wait. Later we shall no doubt have Seymour back at court. Then, mayhap, it may be possible to bring a case against those two. Such a case would be sure of success…if proved, and there are usually ways of proving these matters.” The Bishop’s lips formed into a smile, which disappeared as he looked toward the Castle walls. But they were fardistant and there was no one but his companion to hear this dangerous conversation.

“Ah, Seymour!” said Wriothesley. “If we could but prove something against those two! His Majesty would be mad with fury and we should bring down two groups of enemies at the same time. The Queen and her heretic friends… and the Seymours. What could be better?”

“We must remember if Seymour returns that it may not be as simple as you assume. Seymour is a very ambitious man. I doubt that he would allow his feeling for any woman to interfere with his ambitions. The King, moreover, is fond of the fellow.”

“Still, the Queen was enamored of him before her marriage with the King. He wished to marry her. And the King must have felt some uneasiness to have dispatched him to Flanders. It may well be that the King will keep him there. Oh yes, his jealousy is aroused—if only slightly—by the fascinating sailor.”

“That’s so; but his love for the Queen is not the whitehot passion it was in the cases of Anne Boleyn and Catharine Howard. We might attack through Seymour, I do not doubt; but Seymour is not here. That may come later. In the meantime, we might strike, not at the Queen, but at her friends.”

“Her friends? You mean her sister and the ladies?…”

“Nay, nay. You have something to learn, Wriothesley. We strike first at little deer and wait for the head deer. There are Reformers in most towns, and it is my belief that if we looked we might find them here in this town of Windsor. There is a priest I know of, a certain Anthony Pearson. The people flock to hear his sermons, and the good honest Catholic lawyer, Simons of this town, has already conveyed to me his suspicions of this man. Simons declares him to be a Reformer. There are others. A little inquiry into the life of this man Pearson would doubtless disclose their identities and give us what we desire. We could strike at the Queen through them and, while we await the opportunity to implicate Her Majesty, doubtless these men would help add a little fuel to a Smithfield fire.”

“I applaud your wisdom, my lord.”

The Bishop slipped his arm through that of Wriothesley. “Keep close to me. I will have you informed of the progress of this affair. Let us strike at the little deer before we bend our bows to bring down those at the head of the herd. We will return to the Castle, and I will seek an early opportunity of an audience with the King; and when it is over I will let you know how I have progressed. Watch me, my friend, and you will see how I intend to deal with this delicate affair, and I promise you that in a matter of months—though it may be a year or two—you will see Her Majesty following in the footsteps of other foolish Queens.”

“It would be the block.”

Gardiner nodded. “His Majesty has had two divorces. He does not like them. He prefers… the other method.”

“I doubt not,” said Wriothesley, “that it will be the…‘ other method’ … for Katharine Parr.”

IN ST. GEORGE’S HALL the King had seated himself in that chair of state above which was the ornate canopy of Edward the Third. It was at the head of the banqueting table, and on his right hand sat his Queen. The Lady Mary was present in a place of high honor, and as Gardiner said grace he reflected that his task might not be a difficult one, for Queen Katharine Parr must be a foolish woman so to raise such a staunch Catholic as the Princess Mary to work against her.

Before the King knelt one of his gentlemen with a ewer, another with a basin, yet another with a napkin. The great table seemed as though it must collapse under the weight of heavy flasks of wine and the enormous gilded and silver dishes. Venison, chickens, peacocks, cygnets, salmon, mullet and pies of all sorts were laid out. Gardiner watched the King’s eyes gleam as they studied the food. The King’s love of women was, it was said, being surpassed by his interest in food. The Bishop must speak to the King after the meal and he must make sure of doing so before his blood became overheated and his digestive organs complained of the great amount of work their royal master would give them to do.

The minstrels began to play and a humble chorister from the town of Windsor to sing one of the King’s songs. The King’s eyes were glazed with pleasure; next to his love of food, wine and women came his love of music; and there was no music that delighted him as much as his own.

This was a state occasion and the hall was thronged with men at arms, yeomen and halberdiers. Thus, thought Gardiner, must feast Henry the Eighth by the Grace of God King of England, France and Ireland, Defender of the Faith and Sovereign of the Most Noble Order of the Garter.

Defender of the Faith! His ministers, decided the Bishop, must needs keep him to that defense.

When the music was over and before the feasting began, the King sent for John Marbeck to come before him.

The man, deeply conscious of the honor done him, knelt in a reverence which was far from displeasing to Henry. He had always been eager to win the approbation of his humble subjects.

“Your name?” said Henry.

“John Marbeck, Your Most Gracious Majesty.”

“We liked your singing. You shall sing to us again. I said to the Queen that rarely have I heard my song sung so well.”

“I shall treasure the memory of those words for the rest of my life, Your Grace.”

The Queen gave Marbeck one of her smiles, and the man looked at her with a devotion which equaled that he gave to the King, for in those circles in which he moved he had heard of the Queen’s sympathies with that religion which he, Marbeck, was convinced was the true one.

The King gave orders that Marbeck should be given good food and wine, and the banquet began.

“I liked that fellow,” said the King to Katharine. “Methinks I know an honest face when I see it.”

“Your Majesty must have him to sing more of your songs,” said Katharine.

“That I will. And it shall be while we are here at Windsor. I hear he works with Priest Pearson and is a good churchman.”

When the King was heavy with much food and wine, Gardiner craved private audience, saying that he had matters of great importance which he wished to set before His Majesty.

Henry nodded, and before retiring to his bedchamber received the Bishop in his private closet.

“What now, Bishop?” he asked.

“It has come to my ears, Your Grace, that there are a number of heretics in the realm, men who doubt the word of Your Majesty and plan to work against those laws which you have set down.”

“What’s this?” cried Henry.

“Books are being circulated, books which Your Majesty has forbidden his subjects to read. They are being compiled against Your Majesty’s orders. There are men who seek, by sly and secret means, to work against you. They disagree with the Six Articles. They would defy Your Grace and teach a false religion.”

“Oh, these meddlers!” groaned Henry. “They torment and plague me. Why cannot they accept the religion which their King has given them?”

“They are wayward subjects, Your Grace. It is the books which are at the root of the evil. I ask Your Majesty’s permission to make a search of every dwelling in this town. Give me this permission, and I will have the ringleaders in a week.”

Henry was silent and Gardiner went on: “These heretics, Your Grace, they creep into every corner of the court. Even about Your Majesty they gather.”

He stopped, noting his master’s frown. Henry did not wish to be disturbed with these matters now. He had eaten well; he had drunk well; and he wanted his pleasant little Queen to sit beside him. They had been married for two weeks, and the more he saw of her, the more he liked her, so he wished that nothing should interfere with his postmarital courtship.

Clever Gardiner was a good servant, the sort he needed about him, but there were times when the fellow irritated him. He knew whither Gardiner wished to lead him. His Queen had been betraying her thoughts. She was not a foolish, frivolous woman, and she spent much time with her books. Some of these books, Henry guessed, would not have given great pleasure to his Catholic Bishop. Let the Queen read what she would; he wanted no fool for a wife, and as long as she did not imagine herself to be too clever, he was pleased that she should display a certain good sense. Most of the clever people at his court had a desire to examine new ideas; it was natural.

Regarding his wife, Henry was in a benevolent mood. He was happier than he had been since they had brought him the news of Catharine Howard’s infidelities. The fact was he had needed a wife, and now he had one. She was a good little woman who gave him much pleasure. He wished, therefore, to be left alone with his pleasure; and if Master Gardiner had the good sense he imagined himself to have, he should realize this.

“Your permission, Sire, to search the houses of Windsor, and I will bring you proof.”

“Oh…very well, Sir Bishop. Go to your searching.”

“Every room in Windsor, Sire, shall be ransacked in the service of Your Grace.”

The King narrowed his eyes. “You’ll not search the Castle apartments, my lord. You’ll keep your fingers out of them, Sir Bishop.”

Gardiner bowed, well pleased. So the King already knew of the Queen’s sympathies, and he did not wish to be disturbed with the knowledge. This could mean only one thing: the present Queen was in such high favor that her religious opinions were of little moment. They were to be ignored… for the time being.

Certainly the Bishop was not displeased. Once the King had tired of his little pig, he would be only too eager to listen to an account of her heresies. And, cogitated the Bishop, if and when that came about, and Master Thomas Seymour returned to court …the stage would be set.

THE BISHOP’S FIRST action after that interview with the King was to send for a certain Dr. London, whom he knew to be in the town of Windsor.

Gardiner had a special reason for sending for this man. He had watched the career of the Doctor of Divinity and knew him for a man of great resource and cunning. Dr. London had worked under Thomas Cromwell in the dissolution of the monasteries and he had been the perfect tool of his master. Cromwell had said: “Bring me evidence of the infamies which persist in such and such an abbey.” And Dr. London had never failed to bring what was required of him; he was an indefatigable exposer of foulness; he was a reviver of old scandals; and if he could find no scandal foul enough to please his master, well then, he was a man of ready wit and it was not beyond his power to invent them.

Moreover, Dr. London was a man who needed to show the Bishop his loyalty. As he had once been Cromwell’s man, he could not easily become Gardiner’s. In these dangerous times a man must take sides; and Dr. London had shown the Bishop that he wished to establish himself as a good Catholic.

The man had wisdom. He looked into the future. The present King was ailing; his son was weak; and there was Catholic Mary waiting to take the throne. Dr. London—like Gardiner—saw a return to Rome not far distant. He had no wish to feed the flames of Smithfield.

Such a man, the Bishop was sure, would work with zeal.

“Dr. London, I have work for you. You have shown me that you wish for preferment. You have sworn loyalty to me and the true religion. Now is the time to prove it.”

“I am at your service, my lord Bishop.”

“The task to which I am appointing you, good Dr. London, is the smellingout of heretics in Windsor.”

“Ah. They abound in this town, sir. They abound.”

“Alas, ’tis true. I have the King’s order to bring them to justice. Whom do you suspect of heresy?”

“There is a priest, Anthony Pearson. I have made notes of his sermons, your lordship. He has said enough to send him to the stake.”

“Mayhap examination of his house will lead you to others.”

“I doubt it not.”

“Go to it, good Doctor. I doubt not that you will find evidence against these rogues.”

“My lord Bishop, it is said that these people are given aid by some at court.”

The Bishop nodded. “For the time, Doctor, let us keep to the herd. We will shoot at the head deer later.”

The Doctor’s eyes gleamed. He understood. Great things lay ahead of him. This was but a beginning. He would perform the task required of him, and another and greater would come his way. That was what the good Bishop, the mighty Bishop, was telling him.

“How many heretics would my lord Bishop require?”

“Not too many. We might say… four. They should be humble men. The court is to be left alone. Start with this priest Pearson and see whither that leads.”

The Doctor bowed himself out of the Bishop’s presence and at once went to his task.

AS HE LEFT THE Castle of Windsor, John Marbeck was singing softly. It had been a successful evening, a wonderful evening indeed when the King had singled him out to express his pleasure.

John Marbeck was a simple man, a deeply religious man, a man of ideals. His greatest desire was not that he might win fame and fortune at court, but that he might help to give the Bible to the people of England.

He had many friends in Windsor, men with ideals similar to his own; he met them in the course of his duties at church and he sometimes joined gatherings at their homes and, on occasions, they visited his. During these meetings there was one subject which they discussed with passion: religion.

Each of these men wished to do some work which would aid others to reach the great Truth which they believed they had discovered.

Pearson did it by his preaching, as did Henry Filmer, a friar, who, being turned from his monastery, had become interested in the new learning and was now a vicar in Windsor.

Marbeck’s friend Robert Testwood, a fine musician and the head of the choir to which Marbeck belonged, had introduced him to these men; and how happy Marbeck had been to show them the great work which he was doing!

“I shall go on working at my Concordance,” he told them, “until I have made possible a greater understanding of the Bible.”

“Then keep it secret,” Pearson had warned him.

It was strange, thought Marbeck, looking back at the gray walls of the castle, how simple men such as himself and his friends, knowing the risks they ran, should continue to run them.

Robert Testwood had said: “This is more than a religious issue, my friends. We do these things because within us we feel that a man should have freedom to think as he wishes.”

Marbeck was not sure of that. The religious issue, to him, was all-important. And on this night he wished merely to be happy. The King had complimented him on his voice; the Queen had smiled graciously upon him—the Queen, who, some said, was one of them.

He smiled, thinking of the future. Perhaps he would dedicate his Concordance to that gracious lady.

He was singing the song he had sung before the King, as he let himself into his house.

He stood at the door listening. He heard noises within. Strangers were in his house.

His heart was beating fast as he opened the door and went into that room in which he did his work. There stood two men; he noticed that his cupboard had been turned out, as had the drawers of his table. In the hands of one were several sheets of his Concordance. These men had forced the lock; they had discovered his secret.

“What… what do you here?” he stammered.

“John Marbeck,” said one of the men, “we come on the King’s business. You are our prisoner. There will be questions for you to answer.

“Questions… questions? I beg of you, give me those papers…. They are mine….”

“Not so,” said the man. “These papers are our prisoners also. Come, master chorister. There is no time to waste.”

“Whither do you take me?”

“To London. To the Marshalsea.”

Marbeck was trembling, remembering tales he had heard and had bravely not heeded. Now they were close to him and he would have to heed them. He thought of torture and death; and as he left Windsor for London in the company of his captors he thought of the smell of crackling wood and burning flesh; he thought of the martyr’s death.

ANNE, LADY HERBERT, came to the Queen and begged a secret audience with her. Katharine forthwith dismissed all her attendants.

“What ails you, sister?” asked the Queen. “I declare you look as if you have seen a ghost.”

Ah! thought Anne Herbert. Mayhap I have. The ghosts of Anne Boleyn and Catharine Howard warn me.

“Gardiner is moving against you. He, with his friend Wriothesley, has ordered a search of the houses in this town.”

“A search!”

“There have already been arrests.”

“Whom have they arrested?”

“Four men of Windsor. Two priests and two musicians. Pearson is one of them, Marbeck another.”

“God help us!” cried the Queen. “I know why these men have been taken.”

“It is a blow at you, dearest sister. They dare not attack you now because you have the King’s favor. But this is a warning. As soon as they consider they have a chance to work against you, they will do so. Dearest Majesty, you must give up your reading, give up those little gatherings of our friends. It was unsafe when you were Lady Latimer; but now that you are the Queen it is desperately dangerous.”

“Anne, what will happen to these men?”

“I know not. Dr. London is preparing a case against them.”

“Dr. London! That rogue. He was Cromwell’s man. That is he, is it not? He roamed the countryside and turned the monks from their monasteries while he took their treasure.”

“He took those treasures for his master, Kate. He is a man without principles. Then he worked against the Catholic monks; now he works for Catholic Gardiner and the King’s Secretary, Wriothesley. He is wily; he is clever and he is unscrupulous. What is to become of these men, I do not know. They say they have found Marbeck’s notes on the Bible. That will ensure a fiery death for him.”

“But, Anne, the King has a fondness for Marbeck. He complimented him on his singing.”

“Gardiner has no fondness for Marbeck’s religious views.”

“The King is all-powerful.”

“But, Kate, Gardiner will show that Marbeck has disobeyed the King’s orders. I am afraid… desperately afraid. Not only for these men… but for you.”

“We must help them, Anne. We cannot let them die.”

“Let well alone. Listen to me, dearest Kate. Remember those who went before you. You have the King’s favor now. Keep it. Do everything you can to keep it, and stay away from trouble.”

“But I must do everything I can for these men, Anne.”

“You tempt Fate.”

“No, Anne. I must prove my courage in this. I have to acquire courage. Something within me tells me this. If I fail now I should fail later.”

“Later?” said Anne Herbert fearfully.

“Anne, there may come a time when I shall have to be very brave indeed.” Katharine put her arm about her sister. “Speak what is in your mind, dearest. You talk of four men of Windsor, and you think of two Queens. Remember, I have an advantage over them. I know what happened to them; though they, poor souls, had no indications of what they would come to. All will be well, I promise you. The King is fond of me and he grows fonder.”

“Dearest sister,” said Anne, “I would that you were merely my sister and not my Queen.”

IN THE DARKNESS of the royal bedchamber the Queen whispered to the King: “My Lord, you are pleased with me?”

The King’s laugh was a deep, satisfied rumble.

“Your Grace has been good to me.”

“Well, sweetheart, that is what I would wish to be to one who pleases me as you do.”

“In my happiness I think of others less happy.”

“That’s like you, Kate. You’re a kind woman.”

“I trust my ways do not displease you.”

“And what is all this talk of pleasing and displeasing? It seems that women talk in this way when they would ask a favor.”

“You are clever. You follow the workings of my mind.”

“I am well versed, Kate, in the ways of women.”

“It is of those men of Windsor so recently arrested that I think. They have been condemned to the flames.”

The King grunted. This was no time to talk of state matters. He wished Kate would ask for something for herself, some ornament, some fancy velvets to make a gown. Now, first, she must ask that his daughters might be reinstated; then she must ask for money for them. He had given way to her there. Now she was going to plead for these heretics who were condemned to die.

“Poor Marbeck!” she said.

“Aye!” said the King. “Poor Marbeck.” The man had an enchanting voice. A plague on Gardiner for arresting him. Why should he interfere with the King’s pleasure? For Marbeck, with his pleasant singing, had brought pleasure to his King. “It would be well if Marbeck’s accusers spent their time in no worse way than he does,” growled Henry.

Katharine felt exultant. “Your Majesty will pardon this man?”

Henry himself had been thinking of doing that; but he was not going to say that he would immediately. Katharine was going to ask a pardon for all four, and he did not wish to pardon them all. He was not going to allow men to act with impunity against himself; and these men, in acting against laws which he had approved, were acting against him.

Blood must flow, he reasoned. If any lift the mildest voice against the King’s command, blood must flow …or, as in this case, flesh must burn.

He could not therefore pardon all the offenders; but he liked Marbeck. What if he gave Marbeck to Katharine? But the other three would have to go to Gardiner.

“Kate,” he said, “this man has been condemned. Books have been found in his house.”

He felt the Queen’s shiver, and he knew that, had he allowed those men to search her apartments, they would have found similar books there. Well well, let her read her books for the time being; it was pleasant to discourse with a woman of good sense.

“Pardon them, my dearest lord,” pleaded Katharine. “Show your clemency.”

“Only fools show clemency, Kate. If I let those men go free, what would happen, think you? Others would proclaim themselves heretics without more ado.”

“Only those who do so in secret already would do that.”

“When men practice in secret what they fear to do in the open, that is not a good thing, Kate. Perhaps we should find more of these rogues.”

“No, my lord, I beg of you.”

“There, sweetheart. You are a woman and soft. You plead for these men because it is in your nature to be soft with all. You are our Queen—our wellloved Queen. We will do something to show you our regard.”

“Thank you. Thank you, Your Majesty.”

“I give you Marbeck.”

“A thousand thanks, Your Grace. And Pearson… Testwood and Filmer?”

“You’re greedy, Kate. No. Take Marbeck, and be grateful. I cannot interfere further with justice, even for your sake.”

“My lord …”

“The matter is closed, sweetheart.”

She was silent, and the King smiled smugly in the darkness. He felt loving and benign. He had granted his Queen’s request, and he had saved his friend Marbeck, which, after all, he had long made up his mind to do.

GARDINER WAS PLEASED with the Windsor episode. As he explained to Wriothesley, the Queen had Marbeck, but they had kept the other three for the flames which had now consumed them. This was no true victory for the Queen, as the King himself had not wished Marbeck to die and would doubtless have saved him even if the Queen had not asked for his life.

“The woman is soft and a fool,” said Gardiner. “She should have asked for one of the others and left Marbeck to rely on the King’s favor. Well, she is new to her position and I prophesy that she will not long hold it. And this is not an end to the matter. I have set the good Dr. London to pursue his inquiries, and ere long he will have more men and women to bring up for examination. And this time, Master Secretary, I think he might look a little higher. Oh, not so high as I intend him to go, but creeping up, creeping upward.”

“The Queen will protect her friends.”

“She has no chance against us. Remember there is the Act to suppress what is called the New Learning. Has not the King himself said that the ignorant people have contaminated and perverted the Scriptures by their translations, and that these translations are not in accordance with the Catholic Church of which he is head? Tyndale’s translation has been condemned as crafty and false. It is an offense to be in possession of such books. As for those who add to their sins by further translating and writing, they deserve the flames. If these people are allowed to proceed, the Latin tongue will become a dead one. The three men of Windsor have been rightly burned under the Act of the Six Articles. Rest assured that more arrests will follow. And very soon we may be in a position to take our aim at the main target, eh, Wriothesley, my friend?”

Gardiner was smiling as he spoke. Soon he hoped to see Cranmer fall with Katharine Parr, as Wolsey had with Anne Boleyn, Cromwell with Anne of Cleves. And after Cranmer it would be the turn of those men who had become the greatest enemies of all—the Seymour brothers, Lord Hertford and Sir Thomas. As brothers-in-law of the King, they had enjoyed special favor since Henry’s marriage with their sister; but as uncles of Edward they would be more dangerous still. Gardiner believed that Edward would still be a boy at the time of his accession and, if he were, he could easily be the tool of his uncles. Lord Hertford was constantly with the boy, molding him, dominating him. Hertford was not only an ambitious man; he was also a strong one. He would aim to be nominally the Protector of England and in actuality England’s ruler. Sir Thomas Seymour was even more to be suspected, for while the boy Edward feared his elder uncle he doted on the younger. It would, therefore, be a masterstroke to have the two brothers in their graves before the accession of their nephew. And why not? Powerful as they were, they leaned toward Protestantism, and that created a flaw in their armor. Moreover, Thomas had cast his eyes in the Queen’s direction.

These were ambitious schemes, in which Gardiner would need the help of the entire Catholic Party; they were not, however, impossible of achievement, if crafty patience were employed; and employed it should be.

He could visualize a future with the Lady Mary on the throne— Queen Mary, that true and loyal supporter of the Catholic cause. It might well happen in his lifetime, and he doubted not that if it did he would be one of those whom she would raise to a lofty eminence. He must be beside the Queen; he must teach her what should be done with heretics. When he contemplated his good Catholic Queen Mary on the throne he could almost smell the fires of Smithfield.

“Have no fear, my dear Wriothesley,” he said now. “Our good friend Dr. London will smell out our enemies. I think you will be surprised when he has done his work. We can rely on that man’s help.”

IN A WAY GARDINER was right. When Dr. London contemplated the future he saw a similar picture to that conjured up by Gardiner: Queen Mary on the throne and the Catholics triumphant.

He was very anxious to show himself a good Catholic, and how could he do this better than by pleasing the Catholic Bishop of Winchester and the King’s Catholic Secretary?

They had brought down the little game; now they looked higher.

“But not too high, good Doctor.” Those were the very words.

As usual he selected his victims, and his choice fell on the learned Dr. Haines who had been the Dean of Exeter and was now a Prebendary of Windsor. But he would go even higher than that; he would creep a little closer to that one who he knew was the most important on the list. He would go to the Queen’s household and select Sir Philip and Lady Hoby, together with Sir Thomas Carden. He would also take some of the minor gentlemen and ladies. That would suffice.

He outlined his plan to his friend Simons, the lawyer who had been a great help in the affair of the men of Windsor.

“A difficulty presents itself here,” said the wily lawyer. “We need evidence, and we have not the King’s permission to search the royal apartments.”

Dr. London confessed himself to be in a quandary. These people he had selected, he knew, had interested themselves in the New Learning, but how could he prove it?

He was disturbed, but, remembering the methods he and his master Cromwell had used during the dissolution of the monasteries, he decided on a plan of action. After all, had not the Bishop of Winchester something like this in mind when he had selected the experienced Dr. London for this task?

“It would be necessary,” said Simons, “for us to find men who would testify against them. That would not be easy.”

“We have not been given enough power,” said Dr. London. “Did not the three men who have recently been burned at the stake mention the names of these people?”

Simons looked at the Doctor sharply.

“That was not so, Doctor.”

“An oversight. Doubtless had we tried to extract these names from them we should have done so.”

“But we did not.”

“There was written evidence of what these men said during examination, was there not?”

“There was.”

“And where are these documents?”

“In the hands of the clerk of the court.”

“A man named Ockham. I know him well. He should be easy to handle.”

“What do you propose, Doctor?”

“My good man, the evidence is not there because of an oversight. It is always possible to remedy such oversights.”

“Do you mean to… forge evidence…to insert something those men did not say concerning and implicating these men and women?”

“Hush,” said the Doctor. “You speak too freely.”

“But that… would be criminal.”

“My dear lawyer, when the Bishop of Winchester asks for victims, he must have them.”

“You wish me to see…Ockham?”

“I will see the fellow.” The Doctor laid his hand on Simons’ shoulder. “Do not tremble, man. This is the task which has been set us. Success is expected of us; never doubt that we shall achieve it.”

THE QUEEN SAT in her apartment with a few of her ladies. They were working at their tapestry, but the Queen’s thoughts were far away.

On a stool beside her sat little Jane Grey. The child attracted Katharine. She was so small and so beautiful. She was only six years old, but she was wise enough for eleven; she was also clever with her needle, and most happy to be beside the Queen.

Little Jane believed that one day she might be a Queen. Edward had whispered to her that he would ask if she might be his, when he was of an age to ask. They wanted to marry him, he believed, to his cousin, young Mary of Scotland, but he was not sure, because such a matter as the choice of his wife would not be mentioned to him just yet. He had heard too that Mary had been promised to the King of France, and that his father was very angry about that. “But I am not, Jane,” he had said, “and you know why.”

They had smiled and nodded because they understood each other so well.

So Jane, who might one day be a Queen of England, liked to study the ways of the present Queen, and she found that study of great interest to her. She knew when the Queen was frightened as she was today, although she did not know the cause of her fear.

The tapestry was beautiful. In the center was a medallion about which flowers were being worked in gold and scarlet, blue and green silks. At each corner was a dragon with crimson fire coming from its mouth; and it was on one of these dragons that Jane herself was working.

It is a sad thing, I verily believe, to be a Queen, pondered Jane as she stitched at her dragon.

It was also a sad thing to be a King—a little King. It was all very well when you were mighty and all-powerful as was the King himself. It was when you were a little boy who was unsure of himself, as all young people must be, that it was alarming. It was only when they were in the apartments with Mrs. Sybil Penn that they were really unafraid. Mrs. Penn refused to look upon the Prince as the future King; he was her little one, she always said; and she would rock him on her knee and bathe his skin and croon over him; she would mutter threats against his tutors and his riding masters, and tell Jane that they should not long treat her little princeling as they did.

Edward would sit there contentedly in Mrs. Penn’s lap and Jane would sit at her feet.

“Jane,” the young Prince would say, “now let us play at being children.”

Jane intended to look after him when she grew up; that was why, if she were to be his Queen, she wished to know all about queenly duties.

Life was so difficult. It changed so quickly. The Princesses Mary and Elizabeth were now often at court and consequently the children saw less of them. It seemed a long time since Uncle Thomas Seymour had sailed away. Edward complained bitterly of his loss.

“It all changes so quickly, Jane,” he had said, his brow puckered so that Jane knew that he was thinking that soon the greatest change of all might come: the day when Prince Edward would become King Edward.

And now, what was it that was worrying this dearest of Queens? She was preoccupied; she was not paying attention to what her ladies said; every now and then she would glance toward the door as though she expected to see someone enter, someone whose coming would be very important; as though she longed for it and yet she dreaded it.

Jane knew that some of the ladies and gentlemen of the court had disappeared suddenly. Among them were Sir Philip and Lady Hoby and Sir Thomas Carden. People did go away suddenly, and when you asked for news of them, strange looks appeared on people’s faces.

Jane had often traveled along the river from Greenwich to Hampton and she had seen that gloomy fortress of the Tower. She had heard terrible stories of what went on behind those gray stone walls; and she knew also that when people looked as they looked now when the names of Sir Thomas Carden and the Hobys were mentioned, that meant that those of whom one inquired had gone to the Tower.

Katharine, as she stitched at her tapestry, was marveling at her own temerity. Her sister Anne had been against what she had done, had implored her not to interfere.

“Discard these new ideas,” Anne had pleaded. “Shut your mind to them. These people are beginning to look to you as a leader. You know what these arrests mean. They mean that Gardiner and Wriothesley are working against you. They have marked you for their victim.”

Anne was right. Katharine knew these things to be true. She was a meek woman, but she had a mind and she could not shut it to ideas, however dangerous. If she thought they were the right ideas she must accept them; she must read, and be true to herself; and because of some urge within her she must accept Gardiner’s challenge.

She had said to Anne: “How can these men possibly have found evidence against the Hobys and Carden? I know they are in possession of books, but those books remain in their apartments. The King has not given his permission that the castle shall be searched.”

“Someone has informed against them.”

“I do not believe it. Who would have done so? None but our friends here at court knows of their connection with the New Faith. And none of our friends has been questioned. We know that.” It came to her as an inspiration. After all, she was no fool. Had not the Bishop appointed that rogue Dr. London to work for him, and did not Katharine know in what manner London’s evidence against the abbeys had been compiled?

From that inspiration grew another: If he were going to prove that some had spoken against the men and women of the Queen’s household, who could be better informants than dead men who could not speak for themselves? At the house of the clerk of the court would be those documents which had been written at the time of the examination of the three martyrs. If those papers could be seized and they could be proved to contain forgeries, not only would Katharine’s friends be saved, but her enemies would be exposed.

It was bold, but she felt the need to be bold. The right action—if her suspicions were correct—could save not only her friends now, but perhaps herself in the future.

She had not hesitated. This day, while the court was sitting, she had sent men on whom she could rely to the house of the clerk of the court. They would seize those documents on her authority.

If she had made a false step her position would be an unenviable one, but the King was still very kindly disposed toward her; if she were right, then would she be triumphant indeed.

No wonder she was nervous. No wonder she kept glancing toward the door.

She looked down and saw the wondering eyes fixed upon her. Was it sympathy she saw in those lovely eyes? Katharine stooped and kissed the upturned face.

“Jane, my dear,” she said, “you shall come to my chamber. We will find a post for you. Oh, you are overyoung to be a maid of honor, but you shall be there to serve me, because it pleases me to have you with me.”

Jane kissed the hand of her royal benefactress and expressed her thanks in the solemn manner which was habitual to her.

She wished she knew what ailed the Queen.

THE KING WAS FURIOUS. The trial of those members of the Queen’s household had been proved to be full of trickery. The clerk of the court had been arrested; papers had been found at his home which contained forgery, inserted by him to implicate the arrested men and women. Dr. London and Lawyer Simons, together with the clerk, had been concocting evidence.

He sent for Gardiner and berated him severely.

Gardiner swore he had been deceived by Dr. London and the lawyer.

“Then let them feel our wrath!” cried the King.

His eyes narrowed, and they told Gardiner, although the King spoke not a word of this matter, that he understood these accusations, purporting to be directed against members of the household, were meant to involve his Primate Cranmer and the Queen; and that if more such tricks were played it would be Gardiner himself who felt the weight of the King’s displeasure.

Henry reflected: I’d dismiss this fellow now if he, being so sly, were not so useful to me.

As it was he would be content with the punishment of others.

“Let this Dr. London be set in the pillories of Newbury and Reading and Windsor. Let papers be attached to his person, notifying all who can read them that he has committed perjury, so that all may know what the King’s will is toward those who would accuse the innocent.”

The King raged up and down the apartment, calling God to witness that he was a just King. He shook his fist at Gardiner.

“Remember it, Bishop. Remember it.”

Gardiner was trembling when he left the royal presence.

He found Wriothesley and told him that it would be unwise to take further action against the Queen for the time being. They had underrated her. They had thought her weak, and this she most certainly was not.

“It would seem,” said Wriothesley wryly, “that all we have done is to bring to the stake three men of little importance, while much harm has been done to ourselves in the eyes of the King.”

“You are impatient, sir,” said Gardiner testily. “We have lost the first battle, but it is the last one that proclaims the victor. This would not have happened but for the fact that the King’s marriage is as yet young. In a few months…in a year…he will have ceased to love Madame Katharine. His eyes will have fixed themselves on another lady. We have acted too soon, and London was a fool. Many men are exposed in these matters of policy… exposed as fools. There is no place for fools. Let us not accuse each other of folly. We will wait and, ere long, I promise you, Katharine Parr will go the way of the others.”

In her apartments Katharine embraced her friends who had returned unharmed from their imprisonment. They fell on their knees and thanked her; she was their savior and they owed their lives to her courage.

“Do not rejoice too soon,” warned her sister.

But Katharine kissed Anne tenderly. She felt strong now. She had made up her mind as to how she should act in a future crisis; it would be as her integrity demanded.

“Beware of my lord Bishop,” whispered Anne.

And afterward, Katharine often heard those words when the hangings rustled or when the wind howled through the trees.

“Beware…Beware…Beware of my lord Bishop.”

They mingled with those words which seemed to come from the tolling of the bells.

THE FIRST YEAR of Katharine’s life as Henry the Eighth’s sixth Queen was slowly passing.

It was full of alarms as startling and terrifying as those sudden attacks of Gardiner and his Catholics. During the year, Gardiner had seemed to turn his attention from her to Cranmer; and contemplating the manner in which the Catholic Party had plotted for the downfall of the Primate Thomas Cranmer, and noting how on two occasions it was the King himself who had saved Cranmer, Katharine was comforted. The King, it seemed, could feel real affection for some. In the case of Cranmer, the astute monarch, knowing his well-loved Thomas to be in danger, had presented him with a ring which he might show to the Council as a token of the royal regard. None, of course, had dared attack a man who was possessed of such a token. On another occasion when the Catholics had wished to set up a Commission for the examining and discovery of heretics, the King had given his consent to the formation of this Commission but had foiled the purpose of it—which was to ensnare the Archbishop of Canterbury—by setting none other than that Archbishop, Thomas Cranmer, at the head of it.

Yes, the King had his affections and loyalties. But would he feel for Katharine the same regard he had shown to Cranmer?

How often during the passing months had the King demanded of his wife: “No sign of a child?”

Once he had said: “By God, I have, I verily believe, got me another barren wife!”

That had been said after a state banquet when he had been feeling more sprightly than was his habit, for his leg had been in one of its healing phases and he had been listening to the singing of one of the ladies, a very beautiful lady, whose person pleased him as well as her voice had charmed him.

“No sign of a child?” The words were ominous; and the glance which accompanied them had been one of dislike.

But a few days later the leg had started to pain more than ever, and it was Katharine, that gentle nurse, to whom he turned. He was calling her his little pig again; and when the beautiful young lady begged leave to sing His Majesty another song, he said: “Another time. Another time.”

How strange, thought Katharine, with that philosophy which had come to her since she had become the Queen, that the King’s infirmity, which made him so irritable with others, should be her salvation!

Uneasy weeks flowed past her. There were nights when she would wake up after a dream and put her hands about her neck, laughing a little, half mocking herself, saying with a touch of hysteria in her voice: “So, my dear head, you are still on my shoulders?”

She was a little frightened of that hysteria. It was new to her. She had always been so calm, so serene. But how could one remain calm when one was close to death?

But what a fool she was to brood on death. It seemed far away when she sat with the courtiers, and the King would lift his heavily bandaged leg and lay it across her lap. “’ Tis easier there,” he would say. “Why, Kate,” he added once in a rush of grateful affection, “there would appear to be some magic in you, for it seems you impart a cooling to the heat, that soothes my sores.”

“Good Kate, good Kate,” he would say; and sometimes he would caress her cheek or her bare shoulder. “Little pig,” he would call her and give her a ruby or a diamond. “Here, Kate, we like to see you wearing our jewels. They become you…they become you.” They were gifts given in order to soothe his conscience; they indicated that he was planning to replace her by some fresh victim who had caught his eye; then because of infirmity and age he would decide not to make the effort; if his wife could not always charm him, the nurse, when pain returned, had become a necessity.

It was about this time that the King decided he would have a new portrait of himself.

Katharine remembered that occasion for a long time afterward, and remembered it with fear. It seemed to her that this matter of the portrait showed her—and the court—how dangerous was her position. The King, when he tired of a woman, could be the cruelest of men. He believed he himself was always in the right, and that must mean that anyone not quite in agreement with him must be quite wrong.

Katharine’s great sin against the King lay in her barrenness. So, after a year of marriage, the King constantly brooded on the fact that there was no child…no sign of a child. Why, he would say to himself, with the others there were pregnancies. Seven, was it, with the first Katharine? Four with Anne Boleyn, two with Jane and one with Catharine Howard. He remembered wryly that he had given Anne of Cleves no opportunity to become the mother of a child of his. Katharine Parr had had her opportunities and there was not even a sign.

Did this mean that God did not approve of his sixth marriage?

When this King imagined that God did not approve of a wife, it could be assumed that he was looking for another. And he could not more clearly expose to the court his state of mind on this matter than he did over the affair of the portrait.

His health had improved; he had been recently bled and his ulcers were healing, so that he could move about with greater ease than of late. In this false spring he had been struck by the beauty of one of the ladies of the Queen’s bedchamber.

His little eyes grew mean as he considered the manner in which he would have his portrait painted. It had occurred to him that Katharine, his wife, was a little too clever with her tongue. He did not like clever women overmuch. The thought made him mourn afresh for little Catharine Howard. The ambassadors and emissaries from other countries seemed to find pleasure in the conversation of this present Queen, and this appeared to delight her. He fancied she gave herself airs. She would have to learn that they paid homage to her because she was his Queen and not because of her accomplishments. He wished to show her that though he had raised her up, he could put her down.

There was that fellow Holbein. He was paid thirty pounds a year. Let him earn his money.

He sent for the man. He had a weakness for those who excelled in the arts. He often declared that, had he not been burdened with matters of state, he would have devoted himself to the writing of poetry and the composing of music. But Master Holbein had painted some fine pictures since he had been introduced to the court by Sir Thomas More. There were two allegorical and certainly very beautiful paintings by the man, on the walls of a salon at White Hall; and there were in addition many portraits of the royal household and the nobility.

The King, however, was not altogether pleased with Master Holbein. He remembered how the fellow had deceived him with a portrait of his fourth wife, Anne of Cleves, representing her as a beautiful woman. Whenever the King saw the painter he would be reminded of the shock he had received when he had gone, with a handsome present of sables, to meet the original of the picture. Ah! The horror, when he had looked into that pockmarked face, so different from the Holbein representation!

Moreover the man revived other memories. It was in More’s Chelsea house that he had first met him; and so the painter reminded the King of More, the great man—the greatest statesman of his age, he had been called—the family man who loved to joke with his sons and daughters and who had sought to evade the glories of office when he could not accept them with honor. The King would never forget how More’s daughter had stolen her father’s head from London Bridge, and how the people had quickly called the man a saint. Saint! thought Henry angrily. People were too ready to apply that word to any who lost his head. Had not More been jubilant at the prospect of burning heretics at Smithfield?

Ah yes, the King liked to remember that. More had not been all softness, not all saintliness. True, he had gone to the block for his beliefs, but one did not forget the Smithfield fires. Every time he smelled the smoke, heard the crackle of flames, he could think of Thomas More… Saint Thomas More.

He was sage enough to know that these thoughts came to him because he was growing old. Being all-powerful here on Earth, he must yet placate the invisible powers; and sometimes, with the pain on him and the hot blood pounding through his veins, he could fancy his end was not far off; then the fears multiplied, the uncertainties returned; and then it was consoling to remember the faults of other men.

“Now, Master Holbein,” he growled, “I pay you well, and I want you to earn your money. We want a picture of ourselves. We want something larger and grander than anything you have done before. Yes, we will have a picture of our family. My son, my daughters, my…Queen. You will start tomorrow.”

Hans Holbein bowed. Nothing, he declared, would give him greater pleasure, and he would be eager to start on the royal portrait the next day.

And during that day the lady of the bedchamber, who had caught the King’s eye, sang a song of his which greatly charmed him. A strong-looking girl, he reflected, with health as well as beauty. A girl molded to bear children.

When he was alone with the Queen that night he said: “It is a marvelous thing that God denies me a son.” And the look which accompanied the words was that which Katharine had begun to dread more than any other.

The next day when Hans Holbein came to the King, Henry’s resentment had increased. His son and daughters stood before him, and he surveyed his daughters with distaste, his son with apprehension.

In health he felt well; his leg scarcely pained him at all. Before leaving his chamber he had examined himself in his mirror; he had seen a magnificent figure in a gown of gold and scarlet drawn in at the waist with a sash of white satin, its short skirts embroidered in gold; about his neck was a collar of pearls and rubies; his dalmatica was lined with sables and decorated with pearls to match those in his collar. More than usual he glittered with jewels, and if he did not look too closely he could imagine he was young again.

“By God!” he had told his reflection. “I feel I have many years of health left to me. Have I once more saddled myself with a woman who cannot give me sons?”

He looked at her now, at her meek eyes and gentle mouth. He did not want gentle meekness; they were all very well for a sick man; but when a man feels himself to be in good health and hopes to be cured of the accursed humors in his leg, he does not wish to waste his time with a barren nurse. He wants fire and fertility.

The Prince looked pale, and the crimson cap of velvet with its feather and jewels merely accentuated his pallor; the red damask garment did not suit him, and no amount of artful padding could hide the fact that he was thin and puny.

The two girls in their crimson velvet gowns, wearing their pearl and ruby crosses, angered him; the elder because she reminded him of his first Queen (and he did not wish to be reminded of his past and the Spanish woman’s reproaches), the younger because she was the most healthy of his children and had failed to be born a boy.

The picture would be of himself, his children and his Queen; but he would not have Katharine in it. This was a family portrait, and had she helped him to add to his family? She had not.

He growled his instructions. “I will sit as though on my throne, and the boy shall stand beside me. Come here, my son. Let my daughters take their stand by the pillars there, and my Queen should be beside me.” He glowered maliciously at Katharine. “Methinks though that there should be another beside me on this day, and that is the Queen who gave me my son.”

There was silence. Hans Holbein looked uncomfortable. Katharine forced herself not to show the fear that came to her whenever the King talked in this way.

Henry had seated himself. His son and daughters took the places he had assigned to them. Only Edward dared to look compassionately at the Queen.

“I have it!” cried Henry. “You shall paint the boy’s mother beside me. Queen Jane must be the Queen in this family group. She is dead, and that fact grieves me sorely, but she was our Queen; she was the mother of our son. I will have you set her beside me, sir painter. You understand?”

“I shall be for ever at Your Gracious Majesty’s command.”

“She will be painted pale and shadowy… almost like a specter…as though she has come from her grave to join our family group. So, madam” (he had thrown a malevolent glance at Katharine), “we shall have no need of your presence here.”

Katharine bowed and retired.

This was the greatest insult she had received since her marriage, and it filled her with a terrible fear. It could mean only one thing: the King regretted his marriage. When Henry the Eighth started to regret a marriage he was already looking for a new wife.

Everyone at court now knew how the picture was being painted; all had heard of the spectral Queen.

Gardiner and Wriothesley congratulated each other. Now was surely the time to strike.

Cranmer and Hertford were watchful of Gardiner and Wriothesley. Katharine’s closest friends were nervous. As for Katharine herself, she thought constantly of her predecessors who had walked out to Tower Green and died there, for she felt her time was near.

The bells rang jubilantly: Sons… sons… sons….

And all through the court there was tension and a sense of waiting.

FATE, IN THE GUISE of War, distracted Henry’s attention.

There had for some months been trouble in Scotland. It was Henry’s dearest wish that his son should marry Mary, the baby Queen of Scots, and so bring Scotland and England under one crown. This the French King wished to oppose with all his might. François planned to remove the child and bring her up at his court as the future wife of his eldest son. He had sent ships and supplies to Scotland, and the Scots thereupon repudiated the promises they had made to Henry and began to negotiate with France.

Henry’s great ideal was a British Empire; he realized that a marriage between Scotland and France would make this impossible. He decided therefore that the only course open to him at this stage was a war on two fronts.

The Emperor Charles had been seeking England as an ally against France, and Henry decided to join forces with the Spaniard. He had sent troops to the north of France under Thomas Seymour and Sir John Wallop; he was sending his brother-in-law the Earl of Hertford to Scotland. Henry decided that he himself would go to France for the attack; he and the Emperor planned to meet triumphantly in Paris when that city fell to them.

Temporarily Henry had ceased to think of a seventh wife.

There must be a Regent in England, and if his wife had ceased to appeal to him as a bedfellow, nevertheless he could trust her to act in his name during his absence. With Cranmer and Hertford to help her, he decided he could safely leave England and cross with his Army to France.

Thus on a July day he set out for Dover and reached Calais in safety.

While deeply aware of the immense responsibility which now rested upon her, and aware also of what reward would be hers if she failed in her duty, Katharine could feel nothing but relief. After all, when one was married to a man who had murdered two wives and terrified and humiliated three others, one must be prepared for alarms; and it was possible, if not to feel contempt for death, to be less unnerved by the contemplation of it.

He had gone; and she was free, if only for a little while. She rejoiced in secret.

He had parted from her with loving assurances of his devotion, but before he had left he had given her a special charge with regard to Prince Edward.

“We cannot get ourselves another son,” he had said reproachfully, “so we must guard well him whom we have.”

When he had kissed her fondly she had known he was thinking: A whole year and no sign of a son! Doubtless, as he crossed the Channel under his sails of cloth of gold, he was telling himself that he was a patient man and that a year was a very long time to wait for the sign of a son.

One day when she was with the children, superintending their studies, word was brought to her that a lady had presented herself at court and, stating that she was a friend of the Queen, asked if an audience might be granted her.

Katharine bade the messenger say that as soon as she was free she would see the lady; and shortly afterward there was brought to her a young woman, tall and slender, a pale primrose of a woman, with golden hair, and deep blue eyes in which seemed to burn an emotion not of this world.

“Your dearest Majesty …” The young woman knelt before the Queen.

“Why, Anne! It is Anne Askew. Though I suppose I should call you Mistress Kyme now that you have married. Rise, my dear Anne. I would hear your news.”

“Pray call me Anne Askew, Your Majesty, as you did in the old days, for that is how I wish to be known from now on,”

Katharine, seeing signs of distress in the face of her friend, dismissed her attendants with the exception of little Jane, whom she sent to her needlework in the far corner of the apartment.

“What has happened?” asked Katharine.

“I have left my husband. Or perhaps it would be truer to say that he has sent me from him.”

“He has turned you out of his house?”

“I fear so, Your Majesty.”

Anne laughed without mirth.

“I am sorry, Anne,” said Katharine.

“Do not look so sorrowful, Your Majesty. It is no great sorrow to me. I was married to Mr. Kyme, as you know, because he is the richest man in Lincolnshire. He was to have had my elder sister, but she died before the marriage contract could be completed; and so, my father gave me to him. I had no wish for the marriage … nor indeed for any marriage.”

“Alas,” said Katharine, “such as we are, we have our marriages made for us. Our wishes are not consulted.”

She thought of her own three marriages, particularly of the present one.

“And now,” she went on, “he has turned you out of his house?”

“Yes, Your Majesty. I was forced to marry him, but I cannot be compelled to abandon my religion.”

“So, Anne, he has discovered where your sympathies lie?”

“How could I deny them?” She stood before the Queen, her eyes a burning blue, her hands clenched. “Your Majesty, there is one true religion and one only. I have studied much in the last few years. I know that there is only one way to the salvation of England, and that is for her to adopt the true religion, the religion of Martin Luther.”

“Hush, Anne! Hush!”

Katharine looked fearfully about her; the little girl in the corner had her head bent low over her needlework.

“There are times when I think I am past caring what becomes of me,” said Anne.

“Heads have rolled in the straw because their owners have dared say words such as you have just said,” the Queen reminded her severely.

“Your Majesty would betray me?”

“Anne! How can you say such a thing! I am your friend. You have my sympathy. I too love the new learning. But I pray you, have a care what you say. Terrible things happen in the torture chambers of the Tower. Have you ever heard the shrieks of agony at Smithfield stakes? So recently three gentlemen of Windsor were burned to death.”

“Such shrieks,” said Anne, “are but the triumphant shouts of martyrs.”

“Martyrs indeed, poor souls!” said Katharine. “And, methinks, there are some of us who are born to wear the martyrs’ crown. But let us not be rash, dear Anne. You have come to me now because you have nowhere else to go, since your husband has turned you out. Is that so?”

“I put myself under Your Grace’s protection.”

“Rest assured, my dear friend, that I shall do everything in my power to help you. You shall stay here; but Anne, have a care. We are surrounded by enemies here. Your movements will be watched. You will be spied on. Oh, Anne, have a care.”

Anne knelt and kissed the Queen’s hands.

Katharine was uneasy. This burning love of the new religion in Anne Askew bordered on fanaticism. She guessed that it had been enhanced by her experiences. Anne should never have been forced into marriage with Mr. Kyme nor with anyone. Anne was not meant for marriage; she was without the desire for physical love.

Katharine longed to help Anne. She decided she would give her a place at court and see that she had leisure for her reading and study. And above all she would try to infuse into Anne the need for caution.

KATHARINE FOUND THAT the very absence of the King brought fresh fears to her.

The heat was intense that summer. From the noisome pits and sloughs of the highways rose the stench of decaying refuse. In the narrow streets flanked by houses with their high gabled roofs and the stories which projected one above another, the atmosphere was stifling although the sunlight was almost shut out. The hovels in which the poor lived were made of wood and clay and, in them, vermin flourished. The rushes on the floors were added to month by month and not removed until they were halfway up the walls; they abounded with lice; the dogs slept in them; bones and gristle lay rotting beneath the top layer; and it was only when the noses of the inhabitants, long accustomed to the smell of decay and sewage, were nauseated beyond endurance that any attempt was made to “sweeten.” The windows were small and not made to open, and the sick lay with the healthy on the malodorous rushes.

And one day a man, walking along the highway which connected the Strand with the village of Charing, collapsed and lay there on the road; when he was discovered it was seen that his face was covered with spots and was of a dark purple color. Some who saw him recognized the symptoms and turned shuddering away. There was nothing to be done for him; he had but a few hours to live.

Later that day one body was discovered by the Church of St. Clement Danes and another in Gray’s Inn Lane; more were found on the causeway leading from Aldgate to Whitechapel Church.

The news spread. The plague had once more come to London.

When Katharine heard the news, her first thoughts were for the young Prince. She was terrified. He was so weak that she felt he might be a ready prey for any fever that stalked the town.

She watched him; he seemed listless; and she could see that his headache was more acute than usual.

Should she shut him into his apartments, order that none should approach him, and hope that the pollution would not reach him? Or should she take the risk of riding through the plagueinfested streets, far away to some spot as yet unvisited by the plague?

She was uncertain. Haunted by visions of the King’s wrath if any harm should come to the all-important heir, she could not help putting her hands about her neck and shivering. She was no martyr. She was no Anne Askew. She wanted to live, even though she must not so much as think of the man she loved, even though she must be on perpetual guard against her enemies.

While the King had been away she had conducted herself with caution. Cranmer and Hertford, without whose advice she would not have dreamed of acting, were pleased with her, admiring her calm judgment. She herself had written regularly to the King, and in a manner which she knew would please him. Hypocritical, some might say those letters were. Always she applauded his greatness, speaking of him as though he were a god rather than a King, stressing her gratitude for the honor he had done her when he raised her to the throne.

What is a woman to do, she asked herself, when any false step might cost her her life? And is it not better to try to believe that I am honored and should be grateful, to make an attempt to see myself as the King sees me, rather than to rail against my fate? It is the presence of Anne Askew that has set me despising myself. Anne would never demean herself with hypocrisy. Anne would tell the truth and nothing but the truth. She would die rather than write or act a lie. But how different we are! Anne cares nothing for life, and I want to live; I want desperately to live.

In her heart she knew why. The King was not a healthy man; he was many years older than she was… older than Sir Thomas Seymour. Thomas had said: “The future is ours.” She could not help it if she longed for the future, if, while she tried to do her duty as the wife of the King and to accept the cruel fate which had been thrust upon her, she tried also to put the best face upon it and to give herself courage by believing that it could not last for ever and that she would outlive it.

She did not want to die, and if it were necessary to write those fulsome letters, to flatter the monster who could cut off her head with a stroke of the pen, then she would be a hypocrite. She would at least fight for her life.

During Henry’s absence the campaign in Scotland had, mercifully, gone well for the English. Hertford had sacked both Leith and Edinburgh; and Katharine had been able to send this joyful news to the King. Henry himself was full of optimism. François was already putting out inquiries for a secret peace, but Henry had for some time cast longing eyes on Boulogne and did not intend to leave the soil of France until he had captured the town.

Henry was satisfied with the way the regency was being conducted, but if anything were to happen to the little Prince, he would certainly blame the consort who had so far failed to provide him with another boy. Moreover, if the heir to the throne died, it would seem imperative that the King find a wife who could supply an heir.

What can I do? Katharine asked herself. Get him out of London to the country, or stay here? Which would be the greater risk?

Lady Jane Grey was watching her. The child was always watching her.

“What is it, Jane?” asked the Queen, laying her hands on the soft curls.

The little girl said: “Your Majesty is uneasy. I would I could do something to help.”

Katharine bent and kissed the pretty head. “You do much to help me with your presence,” she told Jane. “You are like my own child. I wish to God you were.”

“Is that what ails Your Majesty… that you have no children?”

Katharine did not answer. She bent swiftly and kissed the child again.

The wise little creature had struck right at the root of her fears. If she had a child, if she had a son, she would have no need to be continually in fear of losing her life. If Princess Elizabeth had been a boy, it might well have happened that Anne Boleyn would still be alive and on the throne.

Yes, that was the very root of her troubles. It was the old cry of “Sons!”

“Have you seen the Prince today, Jane?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“And how was he?”

“He had the pain in his head and he was tired.”

Then Katharine made up her mind suddenly.

“Go to the Prince, Jane. Tell him we are leaving for the country. We leave this very day. Go, my dear, quickly. I wish to leave as soon as possible.”

KATHARINE WAS PROVED to be right in the action she had taken. The plague had died down with the passing of the hot weather, and the little Prince’s health was no worse than it had been before his father left England.

Katharine had been fortunate during those months of the regency. Might it not be that fortune had decided to favor her? She was full of hope.

The King came home not altogether displeased with the way affairs had gone abroad. He had taken Boulogne; but it was not long before he and Charles had fallen out. They had been uneasy allies. The enemy was a common one, but the motives of the two allies were quite different. Henry wished to force the French to abandon Scotland to the might of England; Charles wished François to give up his claim to Milan and his help to the German Princes. The Emperor, convinced that Henry’s possession of the town of Boulogne would satisfy him, and that having achieved it he would desert his ally, made a secret peace with the French. Henry was furious. The French and the Spaniards were now allies, and England was their enemy. It was necessary for him to return to England, for there was a possibility that the French might attempt an invasion of his island. This he did, leaving Boulogne heavily fortified. Yet, he was not displeased. He had set out to capture Boulogne and he had captured the town; he swore to keep it, no matter at what cost.

There had been great rejoicing at the capture of Boulogne all through the country, and the King returned, a conquering hero.

The journey across the water had not improved his health. The sores on his leg were spreading; the other leg had become infected; and both were so swollen that it was difficult for him to move about his apartments. A chair on wheels was made for him, and this had to be pushed about by his attendants and carried up staircases.

All this did not improve the royal temper; yet again Katharine realized that his infirmity made her more important to him, and her position seemed less precarious than it had before he left the country. She was once more his sweetheart and his little pig; as he told her, none could dress his legs as she could.

“We missed you on our journeyings,” he said. “None but clumsy oafs to bandage me! I said: ‘I’ll not stray far from my Queen again!’ And I meant it, sweetheart. Aye! I meant it.”

Then would come those days when he would feel better and could walk with the aid of a stick. It was the well-remembered routine. There would be feasting and music; and the King would grow mellow and glance with appreciation at the more beautiful of the young ladies. He would reiterate those reproaches. Why had he not another son? Why should some of the noblemen in his realm have sons—great stalwart men—while their King could not get himself another to set beside Prince Edward? God had been unjust to him. He had given him power but denied him sons. And why should God be unjust to one who served him as had Henry the Eighth of England? There was only one answer: The fault could not lie with the King. It lay in his partners. He had exposed those wicked women who had cheated him; then he had known why sons had been denied him. When he meditated thus, he would watch his sixth wife with narrowed eyes and think what a comely wench was that young Duchess, or that Countess—or perhaps that simple daughter of a knight.

Something was wrong. Why, why should sons be denied him?

Then again the leg would be so painful that he could think of nothing else. There was Kate, dear Kate, with the gentle hands, who never for a moment showed that she did not regard it as the greatest honor to wait upon him.

Chapuys, the Spanish Ambassador and spy of his master, wrote home to Spain: “This King has the worst legs in the world.”

But those legs were the Queen’s salvation; and the worse they grew, the safer she became.

But her life was still in danger. There was never a day when she dared not be on the alert. Royal storms could spring up in a moment, and how could she know what the outcome of those storms would be?

Always it seemed that beside her stalked the shadowy figure of the executioner. It seemed that the bells continually warned her: “Sons, sons, sons!”

And then Sir Thomas Seymour returned to the court.