“A man’s a fool who’ll support the Pope’s cause against the King’s when he lives within reach of the King’s wrath and out of reach of the Pope’s succor.”
“We are not all as ambitious, mayhap, as Sir Thomas Seymour.”
“Ambitious? I?”
Katharine drew herself away from him and said with a touch of coldness in her voice: “I have heard it whispered that you are very ambitious indeed, and that you have aspired to make an advantageous marriage.”
“’ Tis true,” he said, “that I seek an advantageous marriage. I seek the advantages that a happy marriage could bring me. I seek the advantage of marriage with the woman I love.”
“And who might that be? The Princess Elizabeth?”
“The Princess Elizabeth!” Seymour’s expression was a masterpiece of astonishment. “I…marry a Princess! Come, Kate, you’re dreaming.”
“So the reason you have remained a bachelor so long is not because you wait for one whom you would marry to reach a marriageable age?”
“The reason I have remained a bachelor for so long is that the woman I wish to marry is only now free to marry me.”
“I wish I knew that it was true!” she sighed.
He laughed and held her closer to him.
“Kate! Kate!” he chided. “You are mad to speak thus. Could you be jealous of a child?”
She smiled contentedly. “It is said that those who study the ways of ambition learn patience,” she reminded him.
“Patience! It was never a virtue of mine. That is why I’ll not wait a moment longer before I kiss those lips.”
How pleasant it was there in the room with its windows overlooking the courtyard, and with him beside her promising such joy as she had never known.
They talked of the future which would be theirs.
“But we must wait awhile,” insisted Katharine. “I dare not marry yet. It is too soon.”
Seymour feigned impatience, but he was not sorry that there must be a time of waiting. He could not get the picture of the red-headed Princess out of his mind. She had such a white skin and a coquettish air, he fancied, when she looked his way. Not yet ten years old and a coquette already, and not insensible to the outstanding attractions of a man old enough to be her father.
He was not averse to waiting, for, in this age of surprises, events came thick and fast, and one could never be sure what would happen next.
“I warn you,” said Seymour, “I shall not wait too long.”
“Nor should I wish to, for now I know your mind I could not bear to.”
They talked once more of the life they would share. They would escape into the country as often as possible, for there were great joys, she would show him, to be found in the simple life.
When at length he left her, she stood at her window watching him for as long as was possible. It seemed to her that her happiness was almost too great. Perhaps she felt thus because she had waited so long for it. Yet thirty was not so old. He did not think so.
She tried to work at her embroidery, to read a little from her book of devotions, to write; but it was impossible; she could think of nothing but the happy promise of the future. The marriages which had been arranged for her, and which had brought friendship and riches, were over; and now she could make the romantic marriage which would bring her that perfect contentment of which she had often dreamed.
It was later that day when a messenger arrived from the court. The King missed the company of Lady Latimer, and he had discovered that he desired it. Lady Latimer would therefore present herself at court without delay.
THERE WAS SPECULATION among the courtiers.
Lady Latimer had arrived with a few attendants, and the King had noticeably singled her out for his special attention. On every possible occasion he extolled the piety of those women who, in their kindness and sympathy, nursed their husbands through sickness. The King’s ideal of womanhood was now Lady Latimer. There seemed to be only one person at court who did not grasp the situation, and this was Katharine herself. It was due to modesty, for she could not believe that the King would really regard her as a possible Queen. She was sure that she lacked all the gay, spirited fascination of Anne Boleyn, all the young beauty of Catharine Howard. Even Jane Seymour had had a pale beauty of her own. And I, Katharine told herself, am no more handsome than the Lady of Cleves; and the King would have none of her. It was true that Anne of Cleves had had strange, rough manners and awkward speech and that her skin was pitted from smallpox; but at least she had been the sister of the Duke of Cleves and of importance in European politics. But what had Katharine Parr to offer a man who had always demanded outstanding physical attraction or political assets in his wives?
What she heard concerning this matter must be merely court gossip, and Katharine would not allow herself to be disturbed by it. She was not going to relinquish her dreams as readily as that. She was going to marry Thomas Seymour; she loved him and he loved her.
Nan, who had accompanied her to court, was looking very mournful. Poor Nan! She was a pessimist by nature. Other ladies also threw her compassionate glances. Naturally, the whole court was concerned as to the King’s potential wife, merely because he lacked a wife. They did not realize that when men grew old they thought more often of their comforts than of erotic excitement. Katharine knew. She had had two old husbands.
She therefore persisted in her dreams of marriage with Thomas and refused to admit to herself that he had seemed to grow aloof, that he was often absent from court, and that when the King was present he scarcely looked her way. It was agreed between them that they must wait for marriage; she had been the one who had insisted on that. Naturally, they must wait for a reasonable time to elapse after the death of Lord Latimer; and until they could announce a date for their marriage it was better to keep silent about it and let none guess that they contemplated it.
So Katharine went on blithely dreaming.
Thomas Cranmer watched the progress of events. He was cautious by nature; a man must be cautious in the service of such a master. Lady Latimer was a pleasant woman; she would serve the King well if she could do what most of his wives had failed to do: provide him with sons. Cranmer wished to play the safe game. He would not further the marriage of his master with Katharine Parr; nor would he thwart it. Many men had fallen after taking a hand in the King’s matrimonial affairs. Anne Boleyn had caused the downfall of Wolsey; Anne of Cleves that of Cromwell; and because of the frailty of Catharine Howard, Norfolk and his family were in decline. A statesman must play for safety when the King contemplated marriage.
Cranmer’s thoughts went back to a longago marriage in which he had been bridegroom to Margaret Anne Osiander. Very charming she had been—the daughter of a Reformer with whom he had conferred when he was in Germany on the King’s business. But that marriage had been declared void, for Cranmer had had to choose between the King and Margaret Anne. Often he despised himself— the coward who longed to be brave, the priest devoted to his religion, yet longing for a wife and family… longing to be a martyr to his beliefs, yet fearing the martyr’s flaming crown.
So Cranmer would keep as aloof as possible from the King’s affair with Lady Latimer; but he hoped that the marriage would take place, because the lady leaned toward the Protestant faith, and a Protestant Queen was what Cranmer—a Reformer at heart—would have advocated for his King.
Thus, while keeping aloof, Cranmer prayed for the success of the King with Lady Latimer.
Stephen Gardiner, the celebrated statesman and Bishop of Winchester, saw how matters stood and, as he was unaware of the lady’s religious leanings and remembered the service her late husband, Lord Latimer, had paid to the Catholic cause, he was not against the match. He was an ambitious man, this Gardiner, this statesman and priest. He wished to rule the country, as Secretary of State, through the King; and as a churchman he wished to stamp out those he deemed heretics. There was only one religion for him; and if he accepted the King as head of the Church of England, that was for expediency’s sake; for the rest he wished to support the religion of his youth, which had its roots in Rome.
And Lady Latimer herself? She was a good woman, not likely to cause trouble to the King’s ministers. Could she give the King a son? He doubted it. The King, it seemed, could not have healthy sons. Not one of his Queens, except Anne Boleyn, had been able to give him a really healthy child. Anne’s other pregnancies had come to nothing, just as had those of Katharine of Aragon. Jane Seymour had had at least one miscarriage. His natural son, whom he had created Duke of Richmond, had died in his teens; Edward, the heir to the throne, caused much anxiety on account of his health. Princess Mary was a sickly woman who suffered frequently. Only the young Princess Elizabeth was a healthy child. Therefore it seemed unlikely that the King would achieve in his declining years what he had failed to accomplish in his youth. Then would the old familiar pattern begin to form? Would he, tiring of yet another partner, desire a new wife and look to his ministers—his long-suffering ministers— to find a way of ridding him of a woman who had become an obstruction?
If all the young ladies at court dreaded the King’s attentions for fear of the consequences to themselves when they ceased to amuse him, the King’s ministers, remembering the disasters which had befallen their predecessors, also had their fears.
But the King was ageing; perhaps his sixth marriage would conent him; and as Lord Latimer had been a good Catholic, so, reasoned Gardiner, would his widow be also. If the King wished to marry the lady and if—as surely he must—he no longer expected children, Gardiner would welcome the match.
He said to Wriothesley when he obtained a private interview with that man: “What think you of this matter of the King and Lady Latimer?”
Sir Thomas Wriothesley, as zealous a Catholic as Gardiner himself and longing for promotion to the Chancellorship, was ready to agree with such an influential Catholic as Gardiner.
“The lady’s husband, recently dead, was a good Catholic,” said Wriothesley. “The lady was a dutiful wife to Latimer, and would be so to His Majesty, I doubt not.”
Gardiner came nearer. He liked Wriothesley as well as he liked any man; he liked him a good deal, for his liking depended on a man’s usefulness to himself.
“With a good Catholic Queen,” murmured Gardiner, “there would be one near him to whisper wisdom in the King’s ear.”
“And he needs such whispering,” said Wriothesley, “with the Seymours ever about him, paving the way for themselves with young Edward.”
Gardiner nodded and laid a hand on Wriothesley’s shoulders. “Audley looked sick today; I thought.”
They exchanged nods and smiles of understanding.
Wriothesley knew that if Audley became too sick for the post of Lord Chancellor, it would not be Gardiner’s fault if Sir Thomas Wriothesley did not receive the Great Seal.
Edward Seymour, Thomas’s elder brother, who was now Lord Hertford, being one of the chief Reformers, was aware of Katharine’s leaning toward the Party; so he, also, was not averse to the King’s marriage with Lady Latimer.
There was only one notable gentleman of the court who was against it. That was Sir Thomas Seymour himself. It seemed to him that the more Katharine became out of reach, the more desirable she became.
He thought longingly of her sweet comeliness, of her gentleness, her unspoiled nature—and her considerable possessions.
Sir Thomas Seymour was a very sad man as that blustering March of 1543 gave way to softer April.
THE YOUNG PRINCE EDWARD was entertaining his two sisters in his apartments.
He was not quite five years old, a palefaced, puny child, whose health was a source of great anxiety to all those who were responsible for him. It was their constant fear that he would die and that the King would punish them for his death.
His tutors feared either that he might overtax his brain or that he might not please his father with his learning. Those in charge of his physical training suffered even more acutely. They were apprehensive every time the little boy mounted a pony or played a game of tennis. But these things he must do, for the King wanted Edward to be another such as Bluff King Hal had been. At five, Henry had been a lusty boy, “pink and gold,” they had said of him, taller than his brother Arthur, outshining him in everything he did. He had been a Prince who looked a Prince, and that was the sort of Prince Edward must be.
Little Edward knew what was expected of him, for he was knowledgeable beyond his years. Sports tired him, but book-learning did not, and therefore he loved books. He could write Latin and read it fluently. He already knew that one day he must be the King, and a Tudor King. Wishing fervently to please his father and do all that was expected of him, he rigorously performed all his duties; but his greatest pleasure was in being with the younger members of his family, and in particular with his half-sister Elizabeth and her whom he called his cousin—little Jane Grey. He was sure that he loved Jane best of all. There were several reasons for this; Jane was nearer his age than the others, being barely a year older than he was. His sister Elizabeth, who was nine years old, was clever, but not in quite the same way as Jane was. Jane and he were of a kind; but Jane was beautiful and not made breathless by small exertions, as he was; her legs were fine and firm and could support her with the greatest ease; she had no pains in her head and there were no outbreaks of rashes on her delicate skin.
He was glad this was so. Jane was his dearest.
But he was greatly excited by the presence of his sister Elizabeth—perhaps more excited by her than by anyone else. Her sharp eyes were everywhere; she knew all the court gossip and would tell it, throwing back her mane of red hair and playing the parts of all the people who figured in the stories she told.
She looked for admiration while she talked, and nothing pleased her more than a compliment. Edward never forgot to admire her gown. She had asked him whether he thought Jane prettier than she was, and Edward found it very difficult to give a truthful answer to that, for a reply in the affirmative would have infuriated her; so he told her that as Jane was just a child and merely Lady Jane Grey, and she herself was grown up and a Princess, there could be no comparison.
Then Elizabeth had kissed him in her quick way and burst out laughing. She knew that he deceived her, but she did not mind that. She told him he was a clever little boy.
He was not so pleased to see his sister Mary, for she always saddened him. When she came into a room she seemed to bring sorrow with her. She was often ill, as he feared he was. Mary had been so ill a little while ago that it had been feared she would die. The King had not greatly cared what befell his elder daughter, but when his son was sick there were doctors all about the boy. His father, sparkling with jewels, looking bigger than anyone else in the world, would stump up and down the chamber, haranguing the doctors, threatening them—almost threatening Edward himself—if the Prince should die.
