Jean Plaidy - The Sixth Wife: The Story of Katherine Parr

“There is no need of pardon, my friend.” The King laid his hand on Knevet’s shoulder. “Go back to your duties with a good conscience.”

Fervently Knevet continued to kiss the King’s hand.

As he was about to retire, Henry said: “And the woman…did she disclose…er… anything of interest?”

“No, Your Majesty. She is a brave woman, heretic though she be. I left the Chancellor and Solicitor-General working the rack themselves, and with great severity.”

The King frowned. “And…on a frail woman!” he said in shocked tones. “It may be that under dire torture she will betray others who are as guilty as she is.”

“I doubt it, Your Majesty. She was then too weak to know anything but her agony.”

The King turned away as though to hide his distress that such things could happen in his realm. “A woman …” he murmured, his voice half sorrowful, half angry. “A frail woman!”

But when the Lieutenant had gone, his eyes, angry points of light, almost disappeared in his bloated face.

“A curse on all martyrs!” he muttered. “A curse on them all!”

Memories of others came to him in that moment. Norris and Derham; Fisher and More.

And it seemed to him that the ghosts of those martyrs were in the room, mocking him.

IN THAT SQUARE where so many tragedies had been played out, where medieval duels had been fought, where the sixty-two-year-old Edward III had held a seven-day joust for the entertainment of the young woman with whom he was in love, where Wat Tyler had been bettered by the youthful Richard II—in that square of gay triumphs and cruel deeds, men were now piling the faggots around four stakes.

From all over London the people were coming to Smithfield. Today was a show day, and the crowning event of a day’s sightseeing was to be the burning of four martyrs, one of them a woman—the famous Anne Askew. They chattered and laughed and quarreled, and most impatiently they waited for the sight of those who were to suffer.

The hot sun burned down on the walls of the Priory renowned for the fine mulberries that grew in its grounds, picking out the sharp stones and making them glitter. The smell of horses was in the air, although this place was to be used for a purpose other than the marketing of horses on this tragic day.

On a bench outside the Church of St. Bartholomew sat Wriothesley, with important members of his party, among them the old Duke of Norfolk and the Lord Mayor.

Wriothesley was uneasy.

The King had not reproved him in private for the racking of Anne Askew, and he knew that he had done what His Majesty had wished even though he could not be commended for it in public. Still, the torturing had been a failure, for the woman had refused to give the names which were required of her; and it was not wise to forge a false confession, for she was a fearless woman who was quite capable of exposing the fraud when she was at the stake and there would be many to hear her.

Yes, the affair was a failure, for clearly the torturing and burning of a gentlewoman had not in itself been the desire of the King or the Chancellor. The motive had been to implicate the Queen, and that had not been achieved.

On this day a fence had been erected on all sides of the square. It was necessary to keep back the press of people. He was afraid of what they might do, what sympathies they might display toward a woman who had been broken on the rack … whatever her faith. He was afraid of what words Anne Askew might speak while the flames crackled at her feet. Fervently he hoped that if she did speak, the fences would prevent the mass of sightseers from being near enough to hear her. He was, therefore, a most uneasy man.

The victims were now on their way from Newgate, whither Anne had been taken after her torturing, to await the day of her death. Anne came first. She was carried to the stake in her chair, for her limbs were useless. The people shouted when they saw her. The cry of “Heretic! To the stake with the heretics!” was distinctly heard. But so also were the words: “God bless you.” And some pressed forward to touch the garment of one who they considered would shortly be a holy martyr.

Her golden hair lay lusterless about her shoulders, but how fiercely her blue eyes burned. No torture could douse the light which burned within her. She was the fanatical and triumphant martyr. She knew that she had come successfully through the greater ordeal. Death by the flames would offer a welcome release from pain.

With her were three men—three others who had denied the Mass. None of them was considered of any importance; they were humble people. John Lascelles was the most interesting, because he had been the man who had first spread the rumors concerning Catharine Howard and so sent her to her doom.

Wriothesley thought fleetingly that every man was near to death. He who condemned today, was in his turn condemned tomorrow.

He turned to Norfolk. “A woman to die thus! It seems cruel.”

“Aye,” said Norfolk, who had seen two female relatives, wives of the King, lose their heads. “But she is nevertheless a heretic.”

“I have the King’s pardon in my pocket. It is hers if she will recant. I wish to let the people know that pardon awaits her if she will see reason.”

“Have it sent to her before the sermon starts.”

Anne received the message while, about her body, they were fixing the chain which would hold her to the stake.

“I come not hither,” she said, “to deny my Lord and Master.”

She saw that the three men who were to die with her received similar messages.

They were brave, but they lacked her spirit. They turned their agonized eyes to her, and she saw how their apprehensive bodies longed to recant, although their spirits would firmly ignore the frailty of the flesh.

She said: “My friends, we have suffered…I more than any of you. I am happy now. I long for death. I long to feel the flames. To deny your God now, would mean that you would loathe the life offered you on such terms.”

She smiled and looked almost lovingly at the faggots about her maltreated legs.

Then the men smiled with her and tried to emulate her courage.

“They are beginning the sermons,” she said. “There is Dr. Shaxton. He will preach to us, he who a short while ago was one of us. Now he has denied his faith. He has chosen life on Earth in place of the life everlasting. Do not envy him, my friends, for very soon now you and I will be in paradise. We are to die, and we die for truth. We die in the Lord. God bless you, my friends. Have no fear; for I have none.”

She held the cross in her hands. She lifted her eyes to Heaven, seeming to be unaware of the flickering flames. She heard the shrieks of agony about her; but she was smiling as the flames crept up her tortured body.

Soon there was silence, and a pall of smoke hung above Smithfield Square.

CHAPTER

IV

THE KING WAS DISSATISFIED.

The execution had availed him nothing. He was a tired man; he was a King in need of relaxation, and my lady of Suffolk seemed to grow more fair as the days passed.

He was overburdened with matters of state. The cost of garrisoning the town of Boulogne and holding it against the French was a considerable drain on his resources, yet he would not give it up. It was an additional foothold in France which he felt was necessary to England. He affectionately called Boulogne “my daughter”; and it was said that he never squandered so much on any child of his as he did on the bricks and soil of that town.

Indeed he needed relaxation. In the days of his youth he had found great pleasure in the hunt; but he could no longer hunt with pleasure. He had enjoyed dancing, jousting, playing games, amusing and distinguishing himself in the tiltyard. But now that he was no longer a young man those avenues to pleasure were closed. There was still love. He needed love; but because he was a virtuous man—and he was continually worried by the thought that his end might not be far off—it must be legalized love; the sort of love which would not distress his conscience while it delighted his body.

All the kings of his age were egoists; but egoism was the very essence of this King’s nature. Everything that happened must be colored by his view of it, garnished and flavored to satisfy his conscience.

After he had fallen from grace, Cardinal Wolsey, who had perhaps known him better than any other person, said of him: “The King is a man of royal courage. He has a princely heart; and rather than he will miss or want part of his appetite he will hazard the loss of onehalf of his kingdom.”

It was true of Henry. He was as Wolsey had seen him. But he was strong and ruthless in an age when strength and ruthlessness were the qualities a growing country looked for in its King; and under this man a little island had become a great power; he, who had seemed to his enemies on the Continent of Europe but of ducal standing when he ascended the throne, had become a mighty King.

But there was more than one Henry. Just as there was the moralist and the sensualist, so there was the strong and ruthless ruler, determined to make his country great, and that other who must at all cost have his pleasure and who was ready to sacrifice half his kingdom for his appetite. But every phase of Henry’s character—the moralist, the sensualist, the great King and the weak King—was dominated by the brutal, callous monster.

Those about him, those sly and subtle ministers, continually watching him, sensed his moods.

They had murdered Anne Askew, but they still had to rid him of his sixth wife and provide him with a seventh. And there came a day shortly after the executions in Smithfield when Gardiner found his opportunity.

Gardiner had been granted an audience with the King when His Majesty was alone with the Queen, and the Bishop sensed at once a certain tension in the atmosphere. The King was irritated and wished to quarrel with the Queen; and the woman would give him no opportunity.

When Gardiner had the King’s signature to the papers which he had set before him, he spoke of the execution of Anne Askew, a subject which never failed to upset the Queen so thoroughly that it set her emotions above her common sense.

The King scowled.

“The trouble, Your Grace,” said Gardiner, “can be traced to these books which are circulating in your realm. They lead astray those who read them.” Gardiner had turned to the Queen, and he added pointedly: “Your Majesty has doubtless seen the books to which I refer?”

“I?” said Katharine, flushing uncomfortably.

“I feel sure that the woman, Anne Askew, must have brought them to Your Grace’s notice.”

Katharine, who had suffered and was still suffering from the tragedy which had robbed her of a woman whom she had loved and respected, said sharply: “The books I see and read could be of little interest to you, my lord Bishop.”

“Not if they were forbidden books, Your Majesty.”

“Forbidden books!” cried the Queen. “I was unaware that I must ask my lord Bishop’s advice as to what I might and might not read.”

Henry, who could never like Gardiner, thought his manner insolent, and growled: “I, too, was unaware of it.”

Gardiner bowed. He was a bold man and he knew that he was but obeying the will of the King in what he was doing.

“In truth,” he said quietly, “it would be presumptuous of me to direct Your Highness’s reading. I would but express an opinion that it might be unwise for the Queen’s Grace to have in her possession books given to her by those who, by order of the King, have been found guilty of heresy and sentenced to death.”

The King’s eyes glistened; they almost disappeared into his face as they did in moments of great pleasure or anger.

“What books are these?” he growled. “Has our Queen become the friend of those who work against us?”

Gardiner caught the note of excitement in the King’s voice. Was this the moment? Could he, by subtle words, trap the Queen, as he and the Chancellor had been unable to do by applying the torture to Anne Askew?

“Indeed not,” said Katharine.

She saw the crafty wickedness in her husband’s eyes, and because of what had happened to those who had shared his throne before her, she read his thoughts.

“Not so?” said the King. “We would be sure of that.”

“Your Majesty will hear me out?” said Katharine.

The King would not look at her. “I am weary of these conflicts,” he said. “I will not have my Queen take part in them…or if she does, she will not long remain my Queen.”

The threat in his words terrified Katharine. “Courage!” she prayed, as Anne Askew had prayed before her. But she knew that she, who loved life so much, could never face death as Anne had. Anne had longed for death, for martyrdom; and Katharine had never ceased to long for life and Thomas Seymour.

“Conflicts…?” she stammered.

“You heard us,” said the King; and the scowl on his brow had deepened. His anger shifted from the Queen to Gardiner. At that moment he disliked them both heartily and he was thinking: I am a King, heavily burdened with matters of state. I need pleasure to soothe me; I need gentle relaxation. Instead I have these two to plague me. Methinks it is time I rid myself of them both. “It would appear,” he continued, keeping his eyes on Gardiner, “that there are some among us who, in place of preaching the Word of God, do nothing but rail against one another.” His eyes shifted unpleasantly from the Bishop to the Queen and back to the Bishop. “If any know that there are those among us who preach perverse doctrines, he should come and declare it before us or some of our council. Have I not said it before?”

Gardiner murmured: “Your Majesty has indeed, and it shall be done….”

The King waved a hand; he was not going to endure one of Gardiner’s speeches. If any should speak now it would be the King.

“We now permit our subjects to read the Holy Scriptures,” he said, “and to have the Word of God in our mother tongue, and I will have it known that it is licensed them so to do only to inform their consciences, their children and their families, and not to dispute and to make scripture a railing and a taunting stock. This I have said to my parliament, and now I say it to you, Bishop, and to you, wife. I am sorry to know how irreverently that precious jewel, the Word of God, is disputed, rhymed, sung and jangled in every alehouse and tavern, contrary to the true meaning and doctrine of the same.”

He paused and raised his eyes devoutly to the ceiling, as though he knew that God was watching and applauding.

“My lord King,” said Katharine, “when Your Most Gracious Majesty says ‘to dispute,’ Your Grace cannot mean that it is not lawful to discuss, one with another, the interpretation of the Gospel?”

“I should have thought that we had stated our meaning clearly,” said the King with weary menace. “What do you, madam? Would you question the decision of our ministers?”

“Never, my lord, but…but…”

“But? But?” cried the King threateningly. “You would then question our decision?”

“I do no such thing, Your Majesty,” said Katharine quickly, “since it would be unseemly on my part. I would only beg Your Grace that you might cease to forbid the use of that translation which you previously licensed.”