The Sixth Wife: The Story of Katherine Parr

CHAPTER

V

DURING THAT AUGUST AND SEPTEMBER THE KING made the progress, from palace to palace, which had been a habit of his. From Westminster the court went in state along the river to Hampton Court; and after a brief stay at that palace they made the journeys to Oatlands, Woking, Guildford, Chobham and Windsor.

But when the court had reached Windsor it was seen that this last journey had greatly taxed Henry’s strength; and those whom his death would most affect watched him—and each other—with speculation.

Those who had hitherto behaved with the utmost obsequiousness became arrogant. Lord Hertford and Lord Lisle were back from their duties in France, and they were making preparations to rule through the boy King in whom they had instilled a strong appreciation of the new learning. Sir Thomas Seymour was on the alert; his brother was a great statesman and power in the land, but Thomas was the man whom the King-to-be loved more than any other. Cranmer, beloved of the King, was with these men, and they made a powerful party.

On the Catholic side was the Duke of Norfolk and his son Surrey, together with Gardiner, Wriothesley and their supporters.

Now that the King felt death to be near, he knew great anxiety for the future of his House which would have only a young boy at its head. One look from his bloodshot eyes, one gesture, could still strike terror into those about him. After all, he could still wield a pen; he could still sign a death warrant. Callous and brutal as he was, he had to deal with men who lacked his callous brutality, largely because they lacked his vitality. If he was a sick lion, he was still a lion. He was a ruler of men, even now as he lay in his bed, or sat painfully in his chair of state, or hobbled about on his stick, or was conveyed about the palace in that wheeled contrivance which had had to be made for him.

He made his will. Wisely he decided that the council of ministers, who should comprise the Protectorate during the little King’s minority, should be equally balanced by the two parties. Henry was confident that his wishes would be obeyed; he was enough of a King to rule after death.

The people were with him. They were his strength. They had always been with him from the days when he, as a pink and white boy, had ridden among them and sought their applause. It had been his policy to remove the dangerous influential nobles and placate the mob. The people believed that he had freed them from the tyranny of the Pope. The state had taken precedence over the church, and that appealed to the unemotional English as it was done under a cloak of piety. Terrible suffering had been witnessed in the cities: burnings, hangings, beheadings and the most horrible death accorded to traitors; there had been much bloodshed. But on the Continent of Europe the bloodshed had been more fierce; and bloodshed there must be, it seemed, when a new religion was born.

The King was still King and would remain the master of his subjects after death. His word was law and would remain so.

But those turbulent men about the throne were tensely waiting. Tempers ran high and men were reckless.

One November day, Protestant Lord Lisle, during a Council meeting, struck Gardiner in the face. Lisle was banished from the Council.

To be set against this was the fact that Gardiner had been in disgrace with the King ever since Katharine had come so near to being arrested. The King, characteristically, blamed Gardiner for that affair, for he had convinced himself that he had had no intention of allowing Katharine to be removed, and the whole plot had been devised by the Bishop.

The disgrace of Gardiner and the banishment of Lisle kept that balance of power which Wolsey had taught the King was always desirable. A great Reformer and a great Catholic were both in disgrace.

Gardiner tried to regain his position with an offer of money which could be extorted from the clergy. Henry was pleased to receive the money, but refused to reinstate the Bishop; and so Gardiner continued in disgrace. For, concluded the King, he is a man who tried to poison our mind against the innocent Queen! So Gardiner received nothing but scowls from his master. It was unfortunate for him, but that was what so often happened to those who served the King.

Those were anxious days for all, but with the coming of November, the King’s health began to improve a little. There was feasting and revelry at court, and at a certain banquet Henry’s eyes alighted on a fair lady of the Queen’s household. It seemed to him once more that it was a pitiable thing when a man such as he was—a mighty King, a great ruler—had but one legitimate son to follow him.

Surely there must be some truth in those accusations which some of his ministers had tried to bring. Had Gardiner been so wrong when he had plotted against the Queen? Was the barren Katharine a heretic at heart?

DURING THOSE WEEKS of tension, the manners of the Earl of Surrey became insufferable by those whom he chose to consider his enemies; the chief of these was Edward Seymour, Lord Hertford.

Surrey hated the Seymours more than he hated any, and in particular he hated the elder brother. Reckless Surrey, that elegant poet, was no clever statesman as Hertford had proved himself to be. Surrey had been born to a high place in the realm; Edward Seymour had fought for his place. Surrey was proud and foolish, and Edward Seymour was one of the most astute men in the Kingdom. That was why Henry had removed the Earl of Surrey from his post in the garrisoned French towns, to which his conduct had done no good service, in order to replace him by the clever elder Seymour.

This had seemed to Surrey an insult to himself and his house which he could not endure.

Swaggering about the court, he insulted all those who had risen to high places in the land through their talents. His father warned him, but he would not listen to warnings.

“This kingdom,” he declared, not caring who heard him, “has never been well since the King set mean creatures in the government. It would seem that His Majesty delights to rid himself of noble blood and to employ none but low people.”

This was a direct insult to the Seymours, so they watched him and waited for their opportunity.

“Since the King,” said Edward Seymour to his younger brother when they walked in the Great Park together, “cannot last long it might be well to lower the pride of these Howards while he yet lives.”

Thomas agreed that it would be well. “You will remember that Norfolk once proposed a match between Surrey and the Princess Mary.”

“The King would have none of it.”

“But if the King were dead and there was a young boy in his place, who knows what Norfolk might try? The Princess Mary is a Catholic, and so is Surrey. The Catholic Party would be strongly in favor of such a match.”

The brothers looked at each other cautiously—two scheming men; for the moment they seemed to harbor the same desires. But did they? Hertford wished to see himself Protector of this kingdom with the little Edward his puppet. Thomas visualized marriage with the Princess Elizabeth and, as a corollary, the throne.

Temporarily they stood together against the Howards, but only temporarily.

And while they talked, Hertford thought of the great power which would come to him through his little nephew; and Thomas’s dreams of a shared throne were tinged with other dreams, of an erotic nature.

Surrey, from his apartments, watched them and laughed aloud.

“See,” he said to one of his attendants, “there go the lowborn Seymours. They plot against me and my father, I doubt not. They hate our noble blood as we hate their baseness.”

He sought his sister.

She was not a very happy young woman at this time. The King occasionally looked her way, but although his desire for her was at times quite strong, he could not forget the affinity between them, since she was his daughter-in-law, and his desire was not quite strong enough to overcome that drawback.

“Look!” cried Surrey, entering her apartments, and not caring that some of her servants were with her. “See the two great men walking together?”

The Duchess looked, and she found it difficult to draw her eyes away from the younger of the Seymour brothers.

“You are a fool,” she whispered. “Brother, you are the most reckless fool at court.”

He bowed. He was not displeased with the epithet.

“And,” she went on quietly, still looking at the tall man who walked beside his brother in the park, “I will tell you this: If your folly takes you to the Tower—which it may well do—I will do nothing… nothing to help you.”

Her brother laughed aloud and did not bother to lower his voice. “So you think I have persuaded our father against a match with Seymour, do you? Then you are right. I’ll not stand by and see our noble family united with such lowborn knaves.”

“How dare you speak to me thus?” she demanded.

“Because I am your brother. I will never allow you to marry with Seymour…even if he would. Ah, but he never would. He looks higher. Lowborn as he is, he yet looks high indeed.”

“You speak of the King’s brother-in-law,” she murmured.

“I speak also of the man you long for, sister.”

“Go… Go. Do not come here to brawl.”

He bowed ironically. He saw that he had won her hatred. He had insulted her before her servants.

The courtiers continued to watch him with speculative eyes. They were beginning to look at him in the way they regarded those whose days they believed to be numbered.

What is wrong with me? he asked himself. He was getting old, he supposed. He was thirty; he longed for excitement; and he was so reckless that he cared little how he obtained it.

He looked about him for fresh mischief, and his interview with his sister gave him an idea.

SURREY LOST NO TIME. He dressed himself with the utmost care. Sparkling with jewels, haughty in the extreme, he called on Lady Hertford.

Hertford’s wife, who had been Anne Stanhope, was known throughout the court as one of its proudest and most ambitious women. She shared her husband’s ideals and ambitions; she was cold and avaricious. She was waiting with impatience for the day when she should be the first lady in the land. She was determined to gain that status, promising herself that when her husband was Protector of England she would take precedence over every other lady, and if any dared attempt to place themselves before her she would persuade her husband to make arrangements for their removal.

She was greatly surprised to hear that the Earl of Surrey had called to see her.

He bowed low over her hand and looked at her most humbly. She was a very conceited woman, so it gave her great pleasure to see the heir of the most noble house in the country bowing so graciously before her.

“Lady Hertford, I have something of great importance to say to you,” said the incorrigible Earl, “and it is for your ears alone.”

She dismissed her attendants; and as he watched them go, the Earl smiled insolently.

“Lady Hertford,” he said, “you are a fair and gracious woman, and it pleases me to see you occupying such a position in the land.”

“Thank you, my lord Earl,” she said. “But what is this matter of which you would speak to me?”

“I have long watched you, Lady Hertford.”

“You have watched me?”

“With great admiration; and that admiration has grown so strong that I have come to the conclusion that there will be no peace for me until I have revealed it to you.”

She began to regard him suspiciously.

He had come toward her, seized her hand, and pressed it to his lips.

“You are so beautiful,” he said.

“I think, my lord, that you have drunk too freely. I think it would be wise for you to go home.”

“Wise!” replied the poet. “But what is wisdom? It is for the old— a compensation for those whom love has passed by.”

“Love! You speak to me of love!”

“Why not? You enchant me. You delight me. So I come to lay my proposals at your feet, to beg you not to deny me, for I am dying of love for you.”

“I shall be grateful if you will leave at once.”

“I will not until you have heard me.”

“These are my apartments…”

“I know. I know. Your husband’s lowborn sister married the King. By my faith! I have often wondered how she seduced him to marriage. Well, she did, and thus were her lowborn brothers raised to greatness. The King delights in having those about him who are lowborn. Do you know why? It is because he need not fear them. It is the nobles whom he must fear. Look at them: Wolsey, Cromwell, Gardiner and… the Seymours. All lowborn people.”

“How dare you?” cried the enraged lady.

She went toward the door, but he barred the way. He seized her and held her fast, laughing as he did so.

“Do not imagine, my dear Lady Hertford, that my proposal is an honorable one. No, I could not…even if I were in a position to offer you marriage, and you in a position to receive such an offer… make such an offer. It has been suggested that your brother-in-law should marry my sister. But I would not allow that. Marry a Seymour with a Howard! That could not be. There is too great a gulf between our families. But another kind of liaison between your house and mine might be arranged….”

She had broken free and was about to call her servants when she remembered that she could not easily ask them to remove from her apartments such an important nobleman.

She was by no means a hysterical woman and, as she stood there, uncertain how to get rid of him, she was deciding that he should pay for this insult with his life.

There was nothing she could do but walk with dignity to the door. This she did, leaving him alone in the apartment.

Surrey stood watching her leave. He knew that of all the foolish things he had ever done in his life—and they were legion—this was about the most foolish. And he did not care.

He left the apartment. He knew that Hertford would take revenge. But he did not care. He had lost interest in living. There was one thing he would have liked, though; and that was to hear Lady Hertford’s description of the scene which had just taken place when she imparted it to her husband.

IT WAS A COLD December day and the King was now in his royal palace of White Hall.

He was feeling a little better than of late. He had suffered great pain through the cauterization of his legs, but he believed the treatment to have been successful and he was looking forward to the Christmas revels. His mind kept reverting to the past, and he was thinking now of other revels at which he had been the leading spirit. Wistfully he longed for a return of his youth.

It was at such times that he thought much of women, but his fancy did not stay long on any in particular. His wife? He was fond of her. She was a gentle nurse; but it was not always a nurse that he wanted. In any case, he was at this time preparing a charge of heresy against her. Soon he would have her questioned. But let her stay beside him for a while. Then, if she were proved to be a heretic, it was his bounden duty to rid himself of her. She would have to die. He had had two divorces and he did not like them. They were dangerous. A divorced woman might get a child, and rumor might have it that it was his. There had been such a rumor concerning Anne of Cleves. No! Death was the better solution. He did not want trouble for little Edward.

He merely wanted a wife—a young and comely woman to take his mind off his longing for the past.

Hertford begged an audience which the King granted.

“Ah, brother,” said Henry. “You wear an angry look.”

“Your Majesty, I have discovered treason.”

“What treason’s this?”

“My Lord Surrey, your Grace.”

“That braggart? What now?”

“He has foreign friends. Your Grace, we have always known that. There is in his employ an old servant of your enemy, Cardinal Pole. He has tried to persuade his sister, the Duchess of Richmond—Your Grace’s own daughter-in-law—to become Your Grace’s mistress!”

The King burst out: “The rogue! The knave! How dare he suggest such a thing! He should know how I would look upon such a horrible proposal!”

Hertford bowed. “Your Grace is happily married to a lady we all love and respect.”

“Indeed it is so,” said Henry. “How dare the young fool presume to provide me with a mistress! As if I were not capable of finding my own… should I desire one. But I do not. I have tried to uphold the sanctity of marriage. Always this has been my endeavor.”

Henry shot a swift glance at Hertford, but Hertford was looking grave, obsessed by his own anger, his own determination on revenge.

“He conspired, Your Grace, to govern you through his sister.”

That brought the hot blood to the King’s face. “By God, I’ll have him in the Tower for this. The man’s a traitor.”

Now was the moment to clinch the matter. Hertford was wise enough to understand that.

“My lord, in his arrogance, he has had the leopards of England emblazoned on a panel of one of the rooms at Kenninghall.”

“What!” roared Henry.

“It is true, Your Grace. This was discovered by an intimate of his, who, having seen that such amounted to treason, felt that he himself would be considered guilty if he did not report it.”

“It is treason!” cried Henry. “What right has he to bear the arms of England?”

“He said, when challenged, that he has a right to those arms, for the blood of Charlemagne and Plantagenet flows in his veins.”

“By God!” cried the King, rising and leaning on his stick. “He shall suffer for that!”

“He considers himself more royal than Your Grace. He and his father are both guilty of treason.”

“Norfolk also? What has he done?”

“He has seen the royal escutcheon on that panel at Kenninghall and has not testified against his son.”

“Aye,” said the King. “Aye.”

“And Your Grace will remember that he wished to marry his son to the Princess Mary. They are dangerous, those Howards. They are traitors.”

“Traitors!” snapped Henry. “Brother, you speak truth.” He was remembering the mocking brown eyes of England’s greatest poet; he was hearing the words which flowed so easily from the haughty lips. He pictured also the royal arms on a panel in Surrey’s mansion; and he foresaw the trouble that important house might bring to his little son, who was but nine years old.

“To the Tower!” he cried. “To the Tower with these traitors!”

And he brooded: I will not die. I will live yet. I will beget more sons. Edward is too young. I will not die until he has brothers growing up about him.

Hertford left gleefully with the King’s command. Henry promised himself that when these affairs were done with, and Norfolk and Surrey had lost their heads, he would, without further delay, have that charge brought against the Queen.

He would have a buxom wife—the seventh and the best; and she should bear him many sons in the years that were left to him.

SIR THOMAS SEYMOUR rode out to Hatfield House, where the Princess Elizabeth now lived with her brother Edward.

Thomas knew that the children were to be separated and that the following day Edward would be sent to Hertford Castle and Elizabeth to Enfield. These were the King’s orders. It might be that His Majesty believed the young Elizabeth to have too strong an influence on the boy.

Thomas felt pleased as he rode through the countryside. He saw the house in the distance and thought longingly of Elizabeth. He guessed that she might be watching his approach, from a window; but if she were, she would feign surprise at his arrival.

She was sharp for her thirteen years and was no doubt watching events as eagerly as any.

A groom took his horse, and he went into the house. He was received by the tutors of the royal children, Sir John Cheke, Dr. Cox and Sir Anthony Cooke.

“Greetings, gentlemen!” he cried in his jaunty way. “I hear there is to be a parting between our Prince and Princess; and I have ridden hither to see them both while under the same roof.”

“They will welcome your coming, Sir Thomas. The Prince speaks of you often and has been wondering when you will come to see him.”

“And the Princess?”

“She has not spoken of you, but I dare swear she will have pleasure at the sight of you.”

He went to the apartment where the young Prince and his sister were together. There were traces of tears on the faces of both.

Thomas knelt before the heir to the throne and kissed his hand.

“Uncle Thomas!” cried Edward. “Oh, how glad I am to see you!”

“Your Highness is gracious,” said Thomas. He turned to Elizabeth. “And the Lady Elizabeth, is she pleased to see me?”

She gave him her hand and let it linger in his while he fervently kissed it.

“You come, my lord, at a sad time,” she said.

“We have been so happy here,” said Edward passionately, “but we are to be parted. I am to be sent to Hertford, and my sister to Enfield. Oh why, why?”

“Those are your royal father’s commands,” said the Admiral. “I doubt not that he hath good reason.”

He thought how fair she was, this little girl who, in spite of her slender child’s body—she was too restless of mind to put on flesh— had all the ways of a woman.

“I have wept,” said Elizabeth, “until I have no tears left.”

Thomas smiled. She had not wept so much that the tears had spoiled her prettiness. She would have wept discreetly. It was the poor little Prince who was heartbroken at the prospect of their separation. Elizabeth’s tears had been a charming display, an outward sign of the affection she bore to one who soon—surely very soon—must be King of England.

“We have been so happy,” persisted the Prince. “We love Hatfield, do we not, sister?”

“I shall always love Hatfield. I shall remember all the happy days I have spent here, brother.”

Hatfield! mused Seymour. A lovely place. A fitting nursery for the royal children. The King had taken a fancy to it and had intimated to the Bishop of Ely, to whom it had belonged, that he should present it to his royal master. It was true that His Majesty had given the Bishop lands in exchange, but one’s possessions were not safe when such covetous eyes were laid upon them.

And as she stood there, with the faint winter light on her reddish hair, in spite of the fact that she was a girl and a child, she reminded the Admiral of her father.

But I’ll have her, he swore. If I wait for years I’ll have her.

And so did he believe in his destiny, that he was sure this thing would come to pass.

The Prince dismissed his attendants, and the Admiral sat on the window seat, the Prince on one side of him, the Princess on the other; and never did he take such pains to exert his charms as he did on that day.

“My dear Prince, my dearest Princess,” he said, “you are so young to be parted. If I had my way I should let you do exactly as you wished.”

“Oh, Uncle Thomas, dearest Uncle Thomas,” said the Prince, “if only you had your way! Have you seen Jane? I see her so rarely now.”

“She is happy at court with the Queen.”

“I know. She would be happy with our dearest mother. But how I wish she could be with me. And now they would take Elizabeth from me.”

“It may not be for long,” said the Admiral recklessly, yet deliberately indiscreet.

The two children looked at him in astonishment.

“My dears, forget those words,” he said. “By God’s precious soul, I should never have uttered them. It is tantamount to treason. Would you betray me, Edward?”

“Never! Never! I would rather die than betray you, dearest Uncle.”

He put his arm about the boy and, holding him, turned to Elizabeth.

“And you, my lady, would you betray poor Thomas?”

She did not answer for a moment. She lowered her silky lashes so that he could not see her eyes. He put his unengaged arm out to seize her.

He said: “Edward, I’ll not let her go until she swears she will not betray me.”

To the boy it was horseplay, in which Uncle Thomas Seymour loved to indulge.

Her face close to his, Elizabeth said: “No. No. I do not think I would betray you.”

“And why is that?” he asked, putting his lips near hers.

He now held the children tightly. Edward was laughing, loving the man who made him forget the difference in their ages.

“Perhaps,” said Elizabeth, “it might be that I like you well enough not to.”

“Too well?” said the Admiral.

She lifted her eyes to his and hers were solemn with the faintest hint of adoration.

The Admiral’s hopes were soaring as she said: “That might be so.”

Then Seymour kissed the boy’s cheek and turned to the girl. She was waiting. She received his kiss on her lips, and as he held her she felt his heart beating fast.

He kept his arms about her.

“We three are friends,” he said. “We will stand together.”

How exciting he is! thought Edward. He makes everything seem gay and amusing, dangerous though it all is. He makes it seem a wonderful thing to be an heir to a throne. He never says: “You must do this; you must learn that by heart.” He never tires you. You feel that merely to be with him is an adventure, the pleasantest, most exciting adventure in the world.

Elizabeth was thinking: To be near him, to listen to him, is the most exciting thing that has ever happened to me.

“If our beloved King should die,” said the Admiral gravely, “and he is sick…very sick…Edward, my dearest nephew, you will be the King. You will not forget your old uncle then, will you?”

Edward took the Admiral’s hand and solemnly kissed it.

“I will never forget thee, dearest Uncle.”

“There will be many to tell you they are your dearest, when you are the King.”

“There is only one that could be that in very truth.”

“You will be a King. Your word will be law.”

“They will not let that be so,” said Edward. “My Uncle Hertford, Cranmer… Lisle…Wriothesley, Brown, Paget, Russell…. My father has appointed them to govern me. I must be guided by them, he says, for I am young yet to take the reins of kingship. I shall have to do as I am told…more then than now.”

“You will always be my dearest nephew,” said Thomas. “You will always receive me, will you not, and tell me your troubles?”

“As ever, dear Uncle.”

“And if they should keep you short of money, it shall be into Uncle Thomas’s purse that you will dip your fingers?”

“It shall, dearest Uncle.”

This was reckless talk. To speak of the King’s death was treason. But he was safe. He knew he was safe. He could trust Edward, for Edward was a loyal little boy. And could he trust Elizabeth? He believed he could. He had seen that in her eyes which told him that if there was a weakness in her nature, there was one person who could play on it; and that person was Sir Thomas Seymour.

“And you, my lady?” he said. “What of you? Doubtless they will find a husband for you. What shall you say to that?”

His arm had tightened about her. This was, she well knew, flirtation of a dangerous nature, though disguised, because the words spoken between them had a hidden significance.

“Rest assured,” she said, “that I shall have a say in the choice of my own husband.”

He smiled at her and his fingers burned through the stuff of her dress.

“May I…rest assured?” he said lightly.

“You may, my lord.”

Then she remembered suddenly the dignity that she owed to her rank; she removed herself haughtily from his grasp.

When Sir Thomas left Hatfield House he was sure that the visit had been an important one. He believed that he had made progress in his courtship and that he had taken one step nearer to the throne.

CHRISTMAS CAME AND WENT. Everyone, except the King, knew that he was about to die. Henry refused to accept this dismal fact. Ill as he was, he insisted on meeting his council each day and discussing matters of state. He saw little of Katharine. He did not wish to see her. Since the cauterization of his legs he had not wished any female to come near him; and in any case, he was still contemplating ridding himself of her.

January came, cold and bleak. On the nineteenth of that month, the poet Surrey went out to meet the executioner on Tower Hill.

The young man died as he had lived, reckless and haughty, seeming not to care.

People of the court shivered as they watched the handsome head roll in the straw. What had this young man done except carry royal blood in his veins and boast of it? Well, many had lost their heads for that crime.

That was the end of Surrey; and his father, it was said, was to follow him soon.

The King, in his bedchamber, received news of the execution.

“So die all traitors!” he mumbled.

He was, in these days of his sickness, recalling to mind too vividly those men and women he had sent to the block. But he had an answer to his conscience, whatever name his memory called up.

“I have to think of my boy,” he told his conscience. “That is why Surrey has gone. That is why Norfolk shall go. He is too young, my Edward, to be without me and surrounded by those ambitious men who fancy their heads fit a crown.”

Surrey then. And after him, proud Norfolk.

Norfolk now lay in the Tower awaiting his trial.

Seymour was beside the King, proffering a cup of wine to his lips. There were times when Henry’s hands were so swollen with dropsy that he could not hold a cup.

“Good Thomas!” he murmured.

The handsome head was bent low. “Your Grace,” said Seymour, “the Lady Elizabeth was grieved to leave her brother. I thought it would please you to know how much they love each other.”

“Would the girl were a boy!” muttered Henry.

“Indeed, Your Grace, that would be well. But alas, she is a girl, and what will become of her? Will she grow, like her sister Mary, into spinsterhood?”

Henry gave the Admiral a sly glance. He knew what thoughts were going on in that handsome head.

“’ Twould be a sad thing, Your Grace,” persisted the bold Admiral.

“Aye! ’T would be a bad thing,” said the King.

“And yet, Sire, on account of the frailty of her mother, and the fact that she was not married to Your Grace because of that precontract with Northumberland, what… will become of the Lady Elizabeth?”

The King softened toward Seymour. He liked boldness, for he himself had been bold.

He smiled. “More wine, good Thomas.”

“Your Majesty might give her to one of your gentlemen…if his rank and wealth were commensurate.”

“I might indeed. But she is young yet. There’s no knowing… no knowing, friend Thomas.”

And the King’s friend Thomas felt elated with his success.

THE OLD DUKE OF NORFOLK lay in his cell awaiting his death. How many years had he expected this? All through his life there had been these alarms which he was too near the throne to have escaped. But he had been a wise man and had always made the King’s cause his own.

But the wisest men could be betrayed, and often by those who were nearest and dearest to them.

Tomorrow he was to die.

In the Palace of White Hall the King lay sick. He will not live long after me, reflected Norfolk.

When a man is going to die he thinks back over his life. He had been a great statesman, this Duke of England’s noblest House; he had had his place in the building of England’s greatness. He was a proud man and he hated to die thus…as traitors die.

Proud young Surrey had betrayed him—not with plots, but with vanity, pride.

Norfolk’s thoughts went back to his marriage with Buckingham’s daughter—a proud woman, a vain woman. He himself had been Earl of Surrey then and had inherited the title of Duke of Norfolk some years later. The trouble with Bess Holland had started when he was still Earl of Surrey.

Bessie! he brooded, seeing her as she had been then, with the sleeves of her cheap gown rolled up over her elbows showing her buxom arms—a slut, some might say, but bearing that indefinable attraction which even a great nobleman—so conscious of his status—found irresistible.

He had seduced her on their first meeting; yet he almost believed that she had seduced him. It had not ended there. One went back, and back again, to such as Bessie.

Naturally his wife had been furious. A daughter of noble Buckingham to be set aside for a laundress: But Bessie had had something more alluring than noble lineage. Bessie had that way of setting aside all the barriers of class.

Well, it was a lusty age and, although he was the most noble man in the realm, under the King, and one of its keenest statesmen, he had been unable to give up Bessie.

His Duchess had been a vindictive woman, determined to make trouble; so between her and Bess he had had enough of that in his life.

His family… his accursed family! First Anne Boleyn—though not all Howard, being part lowborn Boleyn—and then Catharine Howard. Both of these Queens had brought wealth and advancement to the Howards, and when they fell, the Howard fortunes declined with them.

He remembered now—he who believed he would soon go to Tower Green—how he had flayed with his scorn those two kinswomen of his, those fallen Queens. More fiercely than any, his tongue had condemned them. He had stood by the King and deplored the fact—so tragic for the House of Howard—that it was those two women who had made the King suffer.

And now his own son—his elder son—on whom he had fixed his pride and hope, had lost his head. Gay Surrey, the handsome poet who could not keep his mouth shut—or perhaps did not care to do so.

“My son…my son…” murmured the Duke. “But what matters it, for tomorrow I shall join you.”

And as he lay there, waiting for the dawn, he wished that he had often acted differently during his long life. He could not forget the scornful flashing eyes of Anne Boleyn when he had conducted her to the Tower; he could not shut out of his mind the memory of Catharine Howard’s tears.

He waited calmly for the dawn.

THE KING HAD not yet signed Norfolk’s death warrant. He was too ill to deal with matters of state and kept to his bed that day. His limbs were swollen with dropsy; he felt low and was in great pain; and he was only half aware of the candlelit room in which he lay.

In a corner waited several gentlemen of the bedchamber. With them were members of his Council—the Seymours, Lord Lisle, Wriothesley, and Sir Anthony Denny among them.

They whispered together.

“He cannot last the night.”

“He has never been in this condition before.”

“He should be told. He should be prepared.”

“Who will dare tell him?”

All were silent; and then the King’s voice was heard calling.

“Go,” said Hertford to his brother. “You go. He has a liking for you.”

Sir Thomas went into the chamber and stood by the King’s bed.

“Who is there?” asked Henry, peering before him. “Who is it?”

“Thomas Seymour, my lord. Your humble servant and your friend.”

“Friend Thomas… friend Thomas… My arms are burning stumps of fire. My legs are furnaces. My body lies in the grip of deadly pain.”

“Rest, Sire. Speak not,” said Seymour, “for speech doth bring out the sweat beads, big as grapes, upon thy brow.”

“An we wish it, we will speak,” growled the King. “We will not be told, by a subject, when to speak.”

“Your Grace’s pardon. I but feared for you.”

“How goes the hour?”

“Creeping on to midnight, Sire.”

“I hear the bells in my ears, Seymour. I seem to be walking on soft grass. I think I ride in Richmond Park. I think I am up the river in my state barge. I think I sit beside my Queen, watching the jousting in the tiltyard. But…I lie here… with furnaces for limbs… adying in my bed.”

Two members of the Council had come into the chamber. They stood by the hangings and whispered together concerning the King’s condition.

Henry heard them. He tried to lift his head, but fell back groaning.

“Who whispers in the shadows? ’tis Surrey…’ Tis my lord Earl.”

Seymour bent his head and murmured: “Nay, Sire. Your Grace forgets. Surrey laid his head on the block nine days ago.”

“Surrey!” muttered the King. “Surrey…a poet…a handsome boy…a proud and foolish boy.”

“A conspirator against the Throne, Your Grace.”

Henry’s voice was more distinct. “’ Twas Surrey who first wrote blank verse. I remember it. He gave us the sonnet. A poet… but…a proud and foolish boy.”

“He plotted against Your Grace. He displayed the royal arms on his own. Your Grace forgets. Surrey thought himself more royal than royalty.”

The King had become confused. “Buckingham!” he shouted, but his voice immediately fell to a whisper: “To the Tower with Buckingham. To the block, I say!”

Seymour reflected that it must be thirty years since Buckingham went to the block. Now the King remembered. Was his conscience, so long subdued concerning Buckingham, now rousing itself uneasily? The case of Buckingham had been similar to that of Surrey; both had been noble lords obsessed by their nobility.

The King was muttering again. He had returned to the present. “Seymour…are you there? Thomas…my friend…you spoke of Surrey. He has gone, has he? What was his crime?”

“He would have made his sister your mistress, Your Grace. Your Grace was enraged at such a suggestion.”

A leer, which made the bloated face more horrible, now curled the King’s lips. “Howard’s girl…a comely wench… and saucy…”

Seymour felt nauseated. He turned from the King, thinking with amazement: On his dying bed he contemplates his bedtime pleasures! And Kate… my poor Kate… she was married to this man; and this is the monster who planned to send her the way he has sent others; who was planning, if rumor be correct, but a few weeks since.

“Thomas …” cried the King suddenly. “There are men in our chamber. Our enemies whisper and conspire against us.”

“Nay, Sire. They are but your Councillors. They come to inquire of your health.”

“Is Norfolk there?”

“Nay, Your Grace, Norfolk lies in the Tower, awaiting your signature to his death warrant.”

“We’ll give it. We’ll give it. To the block with these Howards… father and son.”

“Your Majesty must preserve his strength.”

“There’s strength enough… I’ll sign it. Surrey…a foolish boy. A comely wench, thy sister, Surrey. A drink…a drink…my throat is scorched by fires. Douse them, Seymour. Douse them, my friend. What whispering goes on about me? Come forth! Come forth! Ah, I see you there, you rogue. What news, eh? Why do you look so smug? Am I going to die? Is that what you would tell me? Come…. You there, Denny. What news? What news, I say?”

Denny, braver than the rest and certain now that the King was dying, decided to tell him the truth.

“My lord King, all human aid is vain, your doctors fear. It is therefore meet for Your Majesty to review your past life and seek God’s mercy through Christ.”

There was a second of terrible silence while understanding showed itself on the King’s distorted face. But he was quick to recover his calm, to banish the terror which had laid hold on him. He said sternly: “Tell me, Denny, by what authority you come to pass sentence on me. What judge has sent you here?”

“Your doctors, Sire. I will send them to you. They await an audience.”

The King closed his eyes wearily, but when a few seconds later the doctors approached the bed with medicines for him, he opened his eyes and glared at them with the old ferocity. “What’s this?” he demanded. “You have passed sentence on me, you judges; and when a judge has passed his sentence on a criminal, he has no longer need to trouble him. Begone! Begone, I say!” As they continued to stand there watching him, he shouted: “Begone! Begone!”

The doctors bowed and turned away.

“Your presence can do no good here,” said Wriothesley.

When they had gone, the Chancellor approached the bed.

“Your Majesty, would you wish to see some of your divines?”

“Eh?” said the King. “What’s that? Ah…so it has come to that. Divines! Nay! I’ll see none but Cranmer… and him not yet.”

Wriothesley turned to one of the gentlemen. “Go you to Cranmer. He is at Croydon. Go with all speed. Tell him the King desires his presence at White Hall without delay.”

“Your Majesty,” he went on, “Cranmer will come.”

“I’ll have him when I am ready… and not before. Begone! Begone, I said. Leave me….”

His eyes glared at them, although, to him they were like shadows at his bedside. They moved away to a far corner of the chamber, and after a while the King closed his eyes and began to speak again.

“Begone…. Begone… I’ll have none of ye.” He moaned and cried out suddenly in a startled voice: “Anne! Anne! You’re there, you witch. I see you.” He spoke in a whisper then. “Why lookest thou at me with those great black eyes? Thy neck is small. Thou wilt not feel the sword. Ah! You would have a sword from Calais. That is like you. The ax is for ordinary mortals. Haughty to the end! Anne… Anne…’ tis for England, sweetheart. An heir for England. A King is the servant of his country. He is not the servant of his passions. Anne, thy black eyes scorn me. I’ll not have it. To the block! To the block!”

The King opened his eyes suddenly and stared about him in a startled fashion. The candles were burning low and flickering in their sockets.

“Review your past life and seek God’s mercy through Christ,” he murmured. “That is what they tell me. That is what they tell me now. A great reign…a great and glorious reign. Oh God, always did the eighth Henry work for Thy glory and for the good of England. No thought gave he to his own desires….”

His voice died away; his breathing was heavy; then suddenly it stopped, and those watching in the shadows thought the end had come.

But before they could move toward him, he had begun to speak again.

“Is that you, Cardinal, sitting there? Why do you smile, Cardinal? I like your smile not at all. The Cardinal died of a flux. Many die of a flux…be they Cardinal or beggar. You keep good wine, Thomas… good food and wine. A subject should not keep such state. Look at me not with those great black eyes, Anne. You witch! Sorceress! Poisoner! The roses are beautiful at Hever. Red roses… red… the color of blood. Shadows… shadows move about me. Shadows in my room. There. There! Monks… monks. …Black cowls that drip red blood. Oh, dear God, they creep toward me. Closer… closer they come. Monks… monks from all corners….” He tried to lift his hands, but he could not move them; he tried to shout for help, but his voice was a whisper. “The candles are going out and the darkness is coming, and with it… monks…. To Tyburn with them! To Tyburn! I…am not at Tyburn. I lie in bed… adying…adying.”

The sound of his stertorous breathing filled the chamber.

“A drink!” he gasped. “A drink…a cup of wine, for the love of God.”

“He is scorched with the death thirst,” said Wriothesley.

As the Chancellor approached the bed and poured wine into the cup, the King said: “Kate… Kate, is that you… good wife?”

“It is your Chancellor, my lord,” said Wriothesley. “Here is the wine you crave.”

“Good Kate,” said the King; and his eyes were closed now. “Good wife.”

“There, ’tis refreshing, is it not, my lord?”

“It doth but cool the fires ere they burst to wilder fury. Kate… Kate… I’ll not see the sun rise again.”

“Speak not thus, my lord,” said Wriothesley.

“Kate… I loved thee. I loved thee well. I had not thought of putting you from me that I might take another wife. I would not have married… Jane…yes, Jane…an my subjects had not urged me to it.”

Even the grim heart of the Chancellor was moved to pity, and listening to these last words of the King he wished to soothe the monstrous conscience.

“Your subjects urged Your Grace to the marriage,” he said softly.

“’ Twas so. Katharine… canst thou see a dark shadow there… over there by the arras at the door?”

“There is nothing there, Your Grace.”

“Look again,” commanded the King.

“Nay, Sire. Your eyes deceive you.”

“Come closer, Kate. I would whisper. It doth look to me like a fellow in a black robe. Can you not see a monk standing there?”

“It is but the hangings, my lord.”

“You lie!” cried the King. “I’ll have your head off your shoulders an you deceive me. Suffolk’s wife, ah! She doth please me. Her eyes are dove’s eyes and she would be a loving wench, I vow. And not too docile. I never greatly cared for too much docility. Jane, dost remember what happened to thy predecessor? A Flander’s mare… and Howard’s niece the prettiest thing that ever graced a court. Is that you, Chancellor? Monks…. Chancellor. They come at me. They come at me. Hold them off. Hold them off from your King, I say!” The King was breathing with difficulty. “What day is this?” he asked.

“The morning has come, for it is two of the clock,” said Wriothesley.

“What day? What day?”

“The twenty-eighth day of January, my lord.”

“The twenty-eighth day of January. Remember it. It is the day your sovereign lord the King was murdered. There in the hangings. See! Take my sword. Ah, you would have a sword from Calais to sever that proud head. The huntsman’s call…do you hear it? There… look. In the hangings. I swear I saw the curtains move. Monks… monks… Hanged, drawn and quartered. So perish all who oppose the King!”

Those who had been standing back from the bedside now drew near.

“He dies, I fear,” said Wriothesley. “His hour is come.”

The King seemed calmed by the sight of his ministers.

“My lords,” he said, “my time approaches fast. What of my son—my boy Edward? His sister Mary must be a mother to him; for look, he is little yet.”

“Be comforted, Your Majesty. Edward will be well cared for.”

“He is your King. Supreme head of the Church. Defender of the Faith. A little boy…but ten years old.”

“Your Majesty may safely leave these matters to your ministers, those whom you yourself have appointed to guide the affairs of your realm.”

The King chuckled incongruously. “A motley lot. You’ll have a noisy time, fighting together. But I’ll not be there to see it… I’ll not be there. Kate…. Where is Kate? I see her not. I command you all to honor her, for she has been a good wife to me. We…we never thought to… put her from us. ’T was but for sons… for England. Wine, wine… I am a burning furnace.”

He had not the strength to drink the wine which was offered.

His eyes rolled piteously.

“All is lost. All is lost,” he moaned.

Cranmer came hastening to the chamber. Henry looked at this well-loved minister, but he could no longer speak to him.

The Archbishop knelt by the bed and took his master’s hand.

“My lord, my beloved lord, give me a sign. Show me that you hope to receive the saving mercy of Christ.”

But Henry’s eyes were glazed.

Cranmer had come too late.

IN THE PRIVY CHAMBER, the King’s body lay encased in a massive chest; and in this chamber, for five days, the candles burned, masses were said, and obsequies held with continual services and prayers for the salvation of his soul.

On the sixth day the great chest was laid on the hearse which was adorned with eight tapers, escutcheons, and banners bearing pictures of the saints worked in gold on a background of damask.

Dirges were sung as the funeral cortège began its stately journey to Windsor, where the chapel was being made ready to receive the royal corpse.

And the mourners?

There was his wife, now strangely light of heart. How did one feel when the ax which had been poised above one’s head for nearly four years, was suddenly removed? She was a young woman in her mid-thirties, and she had never known that happy marriage which she had thought would be hers before the King had decided to make her his wife. Those four years had seemed liked forty; but she had come through them unscathed. The death of the King had saved her; and as she rode with the procession or took her place in the state barge, she could think of little but Thomas, who was waiting.

In his cell in the Tower of London, the Duke of Norfolk felt a similar lifting of the spirits—for he too had escaped death, and in his case, it was by a few hours. The King had intended that he should die, and instead the King had died; and now, without that master of men, there was no one left who would dare destroy the great Catholic leader. The Catholics were too strong, and there must be much diplomacy if the country was to avoid a bloody civil war. None wanted that. The hideous Wars of the Roses were too close to be forgotten. So, like Katharine, Norfolk, who had narrowly escaped with his life, could not be expected to mourn sincerely the passing of the King.

Lord and Lady Hertford could scarcely wait to take over control. They had the young King in their keeping and they were the rulers now.

There was the little King himself, frightened by the homage which was now done to him. Men now knelt in his presence and called him Majesty, but he was wise enough to know that he was their captive as he had never been before.

And Mary? One life was now between her and the throne. The King was sickly; and so was she; but she prayed that God would take her brother before her so that she might have the glory of leading the English back to Rome.

There were two other important actors in England’s drama at this time—two of the most ambitious people in the kingdom—a Princess of thirteen and a man in his thirties.

Why not? the Lord High Admiral asked himself. I verily believe the King would have given me his daughter, had he lived. But he is dead and Kate is free, and the Council will put obstacles between myself and the Princess.

The Admiral had need of caution, and he was the most reckless man in the kingdom.

And the Princess Elizabeth? She was impatient of her youth, impatient of her inexperience. She longed for the Admiral. She had her mother’s love of gaiety and admiration and she yearned for the man who titillated her senses and roused within her that which was delightful and wholly dangerous. And yet… she must remember. There were two lives between herself and the throne. She was sure that her brother would never have an heir. And Mary with her ills and complaints—how long would she last? And then…! The glory of it was dazzling. She wanted it so eagerly, so urgently. But she also wanted Seymour. She wanted the man and the throne. Yet something told her she could not have them both.

Here was a problem for a girl not yet fourteen years of age to solve. What could she do? She could wait; she could watch; she could remember always to act with caution, the greatest caution she could muster. Those who were very near the throne were in great danger until they reached it. And even then… But not a Tudor. No, once a Tudor was on the throne, he—or she—would know how to stay there.

Such were the dreams of those who had lived near the King, as the funeral procession went its solemn way.

The body was brought to rest for a while in the chapel at Sion House; and while it was there the chest burst open and the King’s blood was spilt on the chapel floor.

Horror ran through the land when this became known. The terrible tortures, which had been inflicted on many during this King’s lifetime, were remembered; and the names of thousands who had died at his orders were recalled.

What has this King to answer for? it was whispered.

And the people shuddered.

A certain William Greville declared that a dog had appeared and licked the King’s blood; and although great efforts had been made to drive the dog away, none had been able to do so.

It was a ghost, said the superstitious—the ghost of one whom he had murdered.

It was then recalled that his fifth wife, Catharine Howard, had rested at Sion House on her way to the Tower, and this was the anniversary of that day when she had laid her head on the block and departed this life.

Had not Friar Peyto, greatly daring, preached against the King when he had put Queen Katharine of Aragon away from him and married Anne Boleyn? Had not the bold man compared Henry with Ahab, and prophesied that the dogs would, in like manner, lick his blood?

In the church of Windsor, Gardiner stood at the head of the vault, surrounded by the chief officers of the King’s household while the corpse was lowered by means of a vice and sixteen of the strongest Yeomen of the Guard. Out of favor with the late King and looking fearfully toward a new reign by a King indoctrinated with the new learning, he turned his eyes to the Princess Mary and prayed God that it might not be long ere she took her place on the throne.

The Lord Chamberlain, the Lord Treasurer and all the company which stood about the grave held their rods and staves in their hands, and when the mold was cast down, each in turn broke his staff upon his head and cast it on to the coffin. De Profundis was then said and when the planks were laid over the pit, Garter, standing among the choir, proclaimed the little King’s titles.

“Edward the Sixth, by Grace of God King of England, France, and Ireland, Defender of the Faith and Sovereign of the most noble order of the Garter,” repeated Garter’s officers; and three times they said this while the trumpets rang out.

A new reign had begun. A mighty ruler was laid to rest, and in his place stood a pale-faced boy.

It seemed to many who watched that ceremony that among them were the ghosts of murdered men and women.