The Taming of the Queen
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About this ebook
Kateryn Parr, a thirty-year-old widow in a secret affair with a new lover, has no choice when a man old enough to be her father who has buried four wives—King Henry VIII—commands her to marry him.
Kateryn has no doubt about the danger she faces: the previous queen lasted sixteen months, the one before barely half a year. But Henry adores his new bride and Kateryn’s trust in him grows as she unites the royal family, creates a radical study circle at the heart of the court, and rules the kingdom as Regent.
But is this enough to keep her safe? A leader of religious reform and the first woman to publish in English, Kateryn stands out as an independent woman with a mind of her own. But she cannot save the Protestants, under threat for their faith, and Henry’s dangerous gaze turns on her. The traditional churchmen and rivals for power accuse her of heresy—the punishment is death by fire and the king’s name is on the warrant...
From the bestselling author who has illuminated all of Henry’s queens comes a deeply intimate portrayal of the last: a woman who longed for passion, power, and education at the court of a medieval killer.
Philippa Gregory
Philippa Gregory is an internationally renowned author of historical novels. She holds a PhD in eighteenth-century literature from the University of Edinburgh. Works that have been adapted for television include A Respectable Trade, The Other Boleyn Girl and The Queen's Fool. The Other Boleyn Girl is now a major film, starring Scarlett Johansson, Natalie Portman and Eric Bana. Philippa Gregory lives in the North of England with her family.
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Reviews for The Taming of the Queen
86 ratings29 reviews
What our readers think
Readers find this title to be a great read, especially for fans of Tudor history. It brings life to the character of Kat Parr and provides an exciting glimpse into the later years of Henry VIII. However, some readers were disappointed with the ending, finding it to be flat. There are also undertones in the book that some readers found to be seriously dark. Overall, it is a lengthy but engaging book that keeps the reader's attention throughout.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5I brought this book with me when I flew to London. I got to see Hampton Court Palace which is mentioned in this book! Seeing the palace helped to bring this book to life!
For those of you who don't know, "The Taming of the Queen" is a very good book featuring the last wife of King Henry VIII. Kateryn Parr was not like any other queen before her. She was studious and knowledgeable. She had her share of close calls, but she used her wits and her knowledge to "play" the game. It wasn't an easy challenge because "the rules" are constantly changing throughout the book. Henry VIII loved attention and enjoyed pitting people against one another. He thought of himself as a god, but he was not a just, merciful, loving god. He was a manipulator, an adulterer, and a murderer. He found joy in the misery of others. He did not love anyone other than himself.
I felt sorry for Kateryn and her household because women were targeted for heresy, treason, and any other crime that they could pin on them. The pressures of the day were insurmountable. I also felt sorry for the Princesses Mary and Elizabeth and Prince Edward because they had a rotten example of a father and king. But they had a great step-mom who did appear to genuinely care for their physical, mental, and spiritual welfare.
If you love English history, you will likely enjoy this book. This is not a "quick-read" by any means. Do give yourself time to pace yourself so you will enjoy it. - Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5This is a great book about Kateryn Parr. I have to admit I don’t remember reading much about her. We get a look at what her thoughts about Henry might have been and what their relationship was like. It is fascinating that she was the first queen to be a published as an author. She was also educated and we get a sense that she enjoyed learning. She is caught in a loveless marriage and is struggling within Henry’s constraints to be herself. I have to admit that this book gave me a new look at Henry VIII. While he did kill off his wives and demand submission, I don’t recall other books mentioning that he was abusive physically. He whips Kateryn Parr to “make her behave” and teach her a lesson. I wonder if there is any documentation that this really occurred? It makes for an interesting story though.
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5I would like to give a big shout-out to Bookreporter.com for awarding me the audio version of this book, and for introducing me to the historical fiction of Phillipa Gregory. This was my first book by this author, but I hope to read much more by her.In a short note at the end of this novel, the author comments about Kateryn Parr, her courage and intelligence, and states that it is quite surprising that she is not better known, for her role as the last wife of King Henry VIII, and her incredible work as a scholar. Kateryn was the first woman to publish her own writing in her own name, in English, and certain of her works survive to this day.In this tremendously satisfying portrait of the queen, her bravery as well as her quick mind are portrayed as the only things that kept her alive; when the king was advised by those around him to arrest her for treason, he too quickly agreed. It was only Kateryn's understanding of how this man thought that saved her life. Throughout the four years of her marriage to Henry, Kateryn learned how to sometimes lead him to her own way of thinking, but also to never contradict his egomaniacal views of himself. Kateryn was instrumental in pushing for the reforms of the church in England, and dared to stand firm in regard to the Bible being made available to even the common people, and in English! The narrative read by Bianca Amato helped enhance this story, and contributed to keeping me spellbound. I want to read more of the author's novels on the Tudors and their reign in England.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5I was surprised to find that this is among my favourites of Gregory´s novels: a wonderful yarn of Henry´s least known queen. Superbly written - was only mildly disappointed that the book ended with the death of H8 rather than hers. Nonetheless, a great read.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5This novel focuses on Katherine Parr, Henry VIII's last wife, who managed to outlive him. The book does not cover her entire life, but it starts when Katherine finds out the King of England – the King who has had 2 previous wives killed, set 2 more aside, and 1 died in childbirth – wants to marry her. It's not even possible to say no, though Katherine is in love with Thomas Seymour. Katherine needs to hide her love for Thomas, and at the same time, she would like to push Henry for further religious reforms. The book ends with a short wrap-up after Henry dies, though Katherine didn't live much longer after Henry. I really enjoyed this. I listened to the audio and it was done well: I didn't lose interest. Katherine is one of Henry's wives who I've not read very much about, so this was interesting. Of course, it was fiction, so liberties were taken, but Gregory does provide a historical note at the end. Katherine was a very smart woman and later (after Henry died) published a book under her own name.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5As usual Philippa Gregory has brought the life and times of the English kings and queens to life. Almost everyone in the English-speaking world must know that King Henry VIII had six wives. The mnemonic I learned to remember how that occurred was "divorced (Katherine of Aragon), beheaded (Anne Boleyn), dead (Jane Seymour), divorced (Anne of Cleves), beheaded (Katherine Howard), survived (Kateryn Parr)". This book is about the one wife that survived, Kateryn Parr.By the time Kateryn Parr wed King Henry in 1543, Henry was grossly obese and had a leg wound that would not heal. He had three children from his first three wives but only one male heir, Edward, who was six years old. Although Henry had reformed the Church of England in order to get a divorce from Katherine of Aragon, he had never fully accepted the Protestant church as espoused by Martin Luther. Kateryn came from a family of reformers and they had hopes that she would be able to convince the king to bring about more reforms. At first Henry indulged Kateryn and she was instrumental in translating some prayers and psalms into English so the common person could understand them. Later, as Henry's mercurial temper turned away from reform, Kateryn was endangered by her reformist views. Henry's Catholic advisors convinced him that Kateryn was plotting treason and he authorized a warrant for her arrest. Kateryn was warned about this and she managed to abase herself before Henry to convince him to withdraw the warrant. The title refers to this occasion which Henry called "The Taming of the Queen". The threat of arrest was always present in their relationship thereafter but fortunately Henry succumbed to one of his maladies and died. What a relief that must have been for the Queen.Gregory paints a distasteful picture of King Henry at this time in his life. He was a violent, boastful man who loved to play people off against each other. Even his closest friends and advisors were likely to fall out of favour and end up in the Tower or on the gibbet.
- Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5Easy reading imagining of Katherine Parr's marriage to Henry VIII; how she walked a tightrope between her interests as a religious reformer and scholar, whilst endeavouring to be seen at all times as beyond reproach for her own safety.Henry trusted her to rule in his absence, and so I would have expected more political detail. The Queen portrayed here seemed rather cocooned, apart from the occasional nod, from the policy makers at Court. Though lots of repetitive detail on Henry's stinking leg wound and gargantuan appetite. She was also responsible for bringing the heirs to court and forming bonds with them, and so I'm surprised that Gregory didn't dramatise how Katherine and Mary accommodated their different religious views in a novel dominated by the importance of belief.
- Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5Katheryn Parr was the last of Henry VIII's six wives, and one of only two to survive him. A women with an uncharacteristically independent streak, she relied heavily on the ability of her inner circle to faithfully protect secrets that might arouse the suspicion of her murderous husband. It didn't help that, from the start, she was pining for another (Thomas Seymour). Katheryn played an important role realizing Henry's own church (now the Church of England) by bringing religion into the English language and improving accessibility among peasants and lords alike. She was the first woman to publish a book under her own name, but this independence was enough to make Henry wary, and ultimately she had to endure persecution meant to entrap her into self-incriminating. At the time of Henry's death, Katheryn played the game and acted the part of an obsequious, obedient wife who deferred to Henry's slightest whim.This fictionalized account of Katheryn Parr's story portrayed the queen as a rather unhappy figure. From a brief fling with Thomas Seymour at the outset, she doted on his career and memories of their liaison throughout the book, trying hard to steal moments while never giving reason for Henry to become murderously suspicious. In the epilogue, Gregory explains Parr and Seymour did marry shortly after Henry's death, but their marriage was not a happy one. Perhaps Parr was just a miserable person.As a historical novel goes, Gregory gets it mostly right and explains in the end some of the notable things created out of whole cloth. Nearly all of Parr's private dialogue is fictionalized, of course; and if Gregory got her personality right, then the queen led a life to be pitied, not admired.
- Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5Philippa Gregory always takes a bit more leeway with her work than some other authors, but it's thoroughly enjoyable. 3.5 stars. It's interesting to read about what the last queen of Henry the VII did.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Kateryn Parr, the least known of Henry's wives, this is a good look at this queen and the fear and hope she lived with daily. My first surprise was the spelling of her name, Kateryn, for some reason I always thought she was another Katherine. I think Gregory's biggest skill is setting a scene, she takes the reader back to this Tudor time period, most thoroughly. As soon as I started reading I was captivated into another reading of Henry and his many wives.I have read previous novels about this queen so there was little in this that was new. This was just a more thorough telling, especially of her writings and endeavors on transcribing many of the Latin psalms and teaching into English for all to enjoy. Her treatment of the King's children was also portrayed in depth, she made a little family of them all, they learned from her and she learned from them. So this was a very good atmospheric read. Just not too much new here for me, but to a new reader of this queen, I am sure they will love this and be captivated by this most intelligent queen who managed to outlive the notorious Henry.ARC from NetGalley.
- Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5
This is a fictional account of Kathrine Parr the surviving Queen and last wife of Henry VIII....
I found it to be overly long with unnecessary fictitious dialog, but certainly interesting..... I'll tell you the more I read about Henry VIII, the more I dislike him and the more I'm convinced that he had diabetes....
The book highlighted her love of intellectual pursuits and church reform, her dedication to England as regent, her undying love for Thomas Seymour, and her insistence that Henry's children be raised together as a family.
It also highlighted was Henry's skills of spiteful manipulation pitting people/factions against each other so to insure their fear& loyalty to him as well as keeping them all insecure in their never-ending quest for power.
What I didn't know was that the painting of Henry, Edward, , the Queen (Katherine), Mary, & Elizabeth was painted with Jane Seymour's face, while Katherine was the Queen sitting for the portrait! - Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Liked this book much better than I thought. I don't think I have ever read anything by P Gregory and always considered it to be light weight, but this was interesting, and I believe a pretty fair representation of the life of Kathryn Parr, Henry VIII's last wife, the one that survived. Much of the book centers around the interpretation of the scriptures and the controversy over translating the Bible into English. There is a lot of church history of Catholicism vs. Lutheranism and the role of Henry in the reformation of the church in England. It was readable, interesting, and informative.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5i have grown tired of phil, but i was interested in kp. what a difficult life she had!
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Thank God Phillippa Gregory is hopefully finished with the Cousins War books - I really couldn't take any more of that. This book is about Katherine Parr, Henry VIII's last wife. I do love how Gregory uses the language, shaping the words, the conversation, the inflection to accurately reflect how people spoke during the period of which she writes. It's very elegant and really quite admirable. I enjoyed this book very much, which has been a rare occurrence for me lately - so thank you!
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5A good book about Henry VIII's last wife, Katherine Parr, and the perilous path she navigated in the Tudor court. The author digs into the characters and she has a deeply psychological approach to the relationship between Henry VIII and Katherine Parr, which sets this book apart from many others on the topic. A decent read and one that pretty much sticks to the historical record while also providing rich fictional depth.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5I adore historical fiction and have read extensively about the Tudors, and yet when Philippa Gregory’s Taming of the Queen was released, I had to read it. Taming of the Queen is centered on Henry VIII’s last wife, Kateryn Parr (or Catherine), and as is typical with Gregory’s woks, it is well researched and beautifully written. I look forward to Gregory’s next book.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Henry's last marriage, to Kathryn Parr who managed, just to survive him. Author suggests she was mad for Thomas Seymour really all the time, but later married and died in childbirth. I wonder whether non-Christians would really get into this, there is a lot about the Bible. Henry is shown up as cruel and a merciless player of parties against each other, fiendishly cruel really.
- Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5I have loved Philippa Gregory ever since The Other Boleyn Girl. This book covered the marriage of Katherine Parr and Henry VIII. Katherine was Henry's last wife and a scholar. She worked on translating the bible at a time when it was very dangerous for a woman to express her own opinions. By the time Katherine married Henry he already had two of his wives killed and he was in a foul temper from the constant pain of a leg wound. To say their marriage was not the most pleasant of times for Katherine is a bit of an understatement. She found herself married to a megalomaniac obese man, old enough to be her father and who had a putrid smelling leg wound. On top of that she was always in fear that he would have her killed so he could move in a younger replacement. Aside from the marriage other interesting historical events covered by this book include the sinking of the Mary Rose and the torture of Anne of Askew. I found the first 100 pages a bit slow with endless talk of religion but the last third of the book kicked into gear. If you don't know anything about Henry's last wife this would be a good book to read but if you are already familiar with her story you can take a pass on this one.
- Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5Kateryn Parr, sixth and final wife of Henry VIII is star of the show in this novel by the queen of historical fiction. I have to say that although I like and read all things tudor, KP is probably the queen that I have read about the least. However she was a fascinating lady who achieved so much, such as having books published in her own name and reuniting tbe royal children. The book as always started of with gusto and I was well in tudor England. However I found that the book became very long and became repetitive as PG novels can be. The research is there and if you don't know alot about KP then its there for you in this book. However I found myself getting bored because I felt the book just went on and on. The book concludes with the death of Henry VIII but KP life continues as she marries Thomas Seymour and they have a child. For me the story would have been better if it was less repetitive and shorter then the story could have included KP life after Henry.A very average read from a great historian and writer.I have been to Sudeley Castle where Kateryn Parr lived with Thomas Seymour and where she is buried and its well worth a visit.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Taming of the Queen is set in the 1540s, and is narrated by Kateryn Parr, the sixth and surviving wife of Henry VIII. Probably the least known of Henry's six wives, she is also quite different from the others. When Henry proposed, she was already in her early 30s, had been widowed twice, and was interested in religious study. She was secretly in love with another man, Lord Thomas Seymour, but knew she could not turn down the King's marriage proposal. Most books dealing with the court of Henry VIII seem to focus on his early years but in this book, the king is hugely obese and crippled by his putrid leg ulcer.
In some cases Henry seems to trust Kateryn and allows her to act as regent in England while he's in France. She was instrumental in bringing all three of his children together for the first time and he seemed to appreciate that. He enjoyed setting people on each other and he did that to Kateryn as well, one moment encouraging her to freely speak and then turning on her and requiring complete submission. She knew failure to meet his expectations will lead to a one-way trip to the Tower.
I found this a very interesting book but I was much more interested in the court happenings than I was with some of the repetitive focus on religious reform. The author did a first rate job of capturing the fear and uncertainty that Kateryn must have felt. While not my favorite Philippa Gregory book, I enjoyed it very much. - Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Philippa Gregory’s, THE TAMING OF THE QUEEN, was somewhat painful to read. How would any of us react to life under a tyrannical king such as Henry VIII, let alone be married to him?Kateryn Parr was Henry’s 6th wife and barely survived the court’s plots and counterplots, Henry’s murderous tendencies and egomania and mental illnesses.Kateryn was very scholarly and dared to write “original material in English for publication and put her own name on the title page.” She served as regent for a time when Henry went to war in France and she was very motherly to Henry’s three (largely) ignored children.Ms. Gregory’s writing is excellent. Her research is excellent. The book includes an author’s note and an extensive bibliography. There is also a ‘reading group’ guide.Ms. Gregory has opened up a whole new world of historical fiction with her ‘Cousins’ War’ and ‘Tudor Court’ series. I am a big fan.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5This book was decent, but some of the undertones are SERIOUSLY DARK! It's true we don't have a plethora of evidence to model her with, but this book does a seamless job engaging the audience in the story!
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Say what you will, Philippa Gregory know how to evoke an emotional reaction from her audience. You feel enraged with how the tyrant treats his latest queen, terrified for her safety, and heartbroken for who and what she cannot have.
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5The longest book I've read quite some time, it kept my attention the whole way through. A lifelike look into the past, showing the many twists and turns in the time of the Tudors. As other reviews said I also wished it was a chapter or 2 longer, I'd have loved to read more about Kat after the King died.
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5I've read most of the books in this series, and this is definitely one of my favorites. I already knew the basic plot, being a huge Tudor fan-girl, but this gave life to Kat Parr, unlike any other work I've been exposed to. A great read, and an exciting peek into the later years of Henry VIII.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5hy would a woman marry a serial killer?Because she cannot refuse...Kateryn Parr, a thirty-year-old widow in a secret affair with a new lover, has no choice when a man old enough to be her father who has buried four wives – King Henry VIII – commands her to marry him.Kateryn has no doubt about the danger she faces: the previous queen lasted sixteen months, the one before barely half a year. But Henry adores his new bride and Kateryn's trust in him grows as she unites the royal family, creates a radical study circle at the heart of the court, and rules the kingdom as regent.But is this enough to keep her safe? A leader of religious reform and a published author, Kateryn stands out as an independent woman with a mind of her own. But she cannot save the Protestants, under threat for their faith, and Henry's dangerous gaze turns on her.The traditional churchmen and rivals for power accuse her of heresy - the punishment is death by fire and the king's name is on the warrant...From an author who has described all of Henry's queens comes a deeply intimate portrayal of the last: a woman who longed for passion, power and education at the court of a medieval killer
- Rating: 2 out of 5 stars2/5The ending of this book fell flat on its face. I've been reading books by Philippa Gregory for years, but this one was utterly disappointing.
- Rating: 1 out of 5 stars1/5Did not like this audiobook at all.
- Rating: 2 out of 5 stars2/5Started off interesting if only because nobody knows (or cares) much about the last wife who survived. Ended weakly after a lot of romantic teasing.
Book preview
The Taming of the Queen - Philippa Gregory
HAMPTON COURT PALACE, SPRING 1543
He stands before me, as broad as an ancient oak, his face like a full moon caught high in the topmost branches, the rolls of creased flesh upturned with goodwill. He leans, and it is as if the tree might topple on me. I stand my ground but I think—surely he’s not going to kneel, as another man knelt at my feet, just yesterday, and covered my hands with kisses? But if this mountain of a man ever got down, he would have to be hauled up with ropes, like an ox stuck in a ditch; and besides, he kneels to no one.
I think, he can’t kiss me on the mouth, not here in the long room with musicians at one end and everyone passing by. Surely that can’t happen in this mannered court, surely this big moon face will not come down on mine. I stare up at the man who my mother and all her friends once adored as the handsomest in England, the king who every girl dreamed of, and I whisper a prayer that he did not say the words he just said. Absurdly, I pray that I misheard him.
In confident silence, he waits for my assent.
I realize: this is how it will be from now until death us do part; he will wait for my assent or continue without it. I will have to marry this man who looms larger and stands higher than anyone else. He is above mortals, a heavenly body just below angels: the King of England.
I am so surprised by the honor,
I stammer.
The pursed pout of his little mouth widens into a smile. I can see the yellowing teeth and smell his old-dog breath.
I don’t deserve it.
I will show you how to deserve it,
he assures me.
A coy smile on his wet lips reminds me, horribly, that he is a sensualist trapped in a rotting body and that I will be his wife in every sense of the word; he will bed me while I am aching for another man.
May I pray and think on this great proposal?
I ask, stumbling for courtly words. I’m taken aback, I really am. And so recently widowed . . .
His sprouting sandy eyebrows twitch together; this displeases him. You want time? Weren’t you hoping for this?
Every woman hopes for it,
I assure him swiftly. There is not one lady at court who does not hope for it, not one in the country who does not dream of it. I among all the others. But I am unworthy!
This is better, he is soothed.
I can’t believe that my dreams have come true,
I embellish. I need time to realize my good fortune. It’s like a fairy story!
He nods. He loves fairy stories, disguising and playacting, and any sort of fanciful pretense.
I have rescued you,
he declares. I will raise you from nothing to the greatest place in the world.
His voice, rich and confident, lubricated for all his life with the finest of wines and the fattest of cuts, is indulgent; but the sharp little gaze is interrogating me.
I force myself to meet his gimlet eyes, hooded under his fat eyelids. He doesn’t raise me from nothing, I don’t come from nowhere: I was born a Parr of Kendal, my late husband was a Neville, these are great families in the far North of England, not that he has ever been there. I need a little time,
I bargain. To accustom myself to joy.
He makes a little gesture with his pudgy hand to say that I can take all the time I like. I curtsey and walk backwards from the card table where he suddenly demanded the greatest stake that a woman can wager: a gamble with her life. It is against the law to turn a back to him: some people secretly joke that it is safer to keep an eye on him. Six paces backwards down the long gallery, the spring sunshine beating through the tall windows onto my modestly bowed head, and then I curtsey again, lowering my eyes. When I come up, he is still beaming at me, and everyone is still watching. I make myself smile and step backwards to the closed doors that lead to his presence chamber. Behind me, the guards swing them open for me to pass, I hear the murmur as the people outside, excluded from the honor of the royal presence, watch me curtsey again on the threshold, the great king watching me leave. I continue backwards as the guards close the double doors to hide me from his sight, and I hear the thud as they ground their halberds.
I stand for a moment, facing the carved wooden panels, quite unable to turn and face the curious stares in the crowded room. Now the thick doors are between us, I find I am shaking—not just my hands, not just trembling in my knees, but shuddering in every sinew of my body as if I have a fever, shivering like a leveret tucked down in a wheat field hearing the swish of the blades of the reaping gang coming closer and closer.
It is long past midnight before everyone is asleep, and I put a blue cloak over my night robe of black satin and dark as a shadow in the colors of the night sky, go quietly out of the women’s rooms and down the great stairs. No one sees me pass, I have the hood pulled over my face, and, anyway, this is a court that has bought and sold love for years. No one has much curiosity in a woman going to the wrong room after midnight.
There are no sentries posted at my lover’s door; it is unlocked as he promised. I turn the handle and slip in, and he is there, waiting for me at the fireside, the room empty, lit only by a few candles. He is tall and lean, dark-haired, dark-eyed. When he hears me, he turns, and desire illuminates his grave face. He grabs me, my head against his hard chest, his arms tightening around my back. Without saying a word, I am rubbing my forehead against him as if I would drive myself under his skin, into his very body. We sway together for a moment, our bodies craving the scent, the touch of the other. His hands clutch at my buttocks, he lifts me up and I wrap my legs around him. I am desperate for him. He kicks open the door of his bedroom with his booted foot, and carries me in, slamming it behind him as he turns and lays me down on his bed. He strips off his breeches, he throws his shirt to the floor as I open my cloak and robe and he presses down upon me and enters me without a single word said, with only a deep sigh, as if he has been holding his breath all day for this moment.
Only then do I gasp against his naked shoulder: Thomas, swive me all night; I don’t want to think.
He rears above me so that he can see my pale face and my auburn hair spilling over the pillow. Christ, I am desperate for you,
he exclaims, and then his face grows intent and his dark eyes widen and are blinded by desire as he starts to move inside me. I open my legs wider and hear my breath coming short, and know that I am with the only lover who has ever given me pleasure, in the only place in the world where I want to be, the only place that I feel safe—in Thomas Seymour’s warm bed.
Sometime before dawn, he pours wine for me from a flagon on the sideboard and offers me dried plums and some little cakes. I take a glass of wine and nibble on a pastry, catching the crumbs in my cupped hand.
He’s proposed marriage,
I say shortly.
Briefly, he puts his hand over his eyes, as if he cannot bear to see me, sitting in his bed, my hair tumbled around my shoulders, his sheets wrapped around my breasts, my neck rubbed red with his biting kisses, my mouth a little swollen.
God save us. Oh, God spare us this.
I couldn’t believe it.
He spoke to your brother? To your uncle?
No, to me, yesterday.
Have you told anyone else?
I shake my head. Not yet. I’d tell no one before you.
So what will you do?
What can I do? I’ll obey,
I say grimly.
You can’t,
he says with sudden impatience. He reaches for me and snatches my hands, crumbling the pastry. He kneels on the bed and kisses my fingertips, as he did when he first told me that he loved me, that he would be my lover, that he would be my husband, that no one should ever part us, that I was the only woman he had ever desired—ever!—in a long life of lovers and whores and servant girls and so many wenches that he cannot even remember. Kateryn, I swear that you can’t. I can’t bear it. I won’t allow it.
I don’t see how to refuse.
What have you said?
That I need time. That I have to pray and think.
He puts my hand on his flat belly. I can feel the warm damp sweat, and the soft curls of his dark hair, the wall of hard muscle beneath the firm skin. Is this what you’ve been doing, tonight? Praying?
I’ve been worshipping,
I whisper.
He bends and kisses the top of my head. Heretic. What if you told him you’re already promised? That you were already secretly married?
To you?
I say bluntly.
He takes the challenge because he is a daredevil; any risk, any danger, and Thomas runs towards it as if it were a May game, as if he is only truly alive at a sword’s length from death.
Yes, to me,
he says boldly. Of course, to me. Of course we must marry. We can say that we are already married!
I wanted to hear him say it, but I don’t dare. I can’t defy him.
I lose my voice at the thought of leaving Thomas. I feel hot tears on my cheek. I lift the sheet and mop my face. Oh, God help me, I won’t be able to even see you.
He looks aghast. He sits back on his heels, the ropes of the bed creaking under his weight. This can’t be happening. You’re only just free—we’ve been together no more than half a dozen times—I was going to ask his permission to marry you! I only waited out of respect to your widowhood!
I should have read the signs. He sent me those beautiful sleeves, he insisted I break my mourning and come to court. He’s always coming to find me in Lady Mary’s rooms, and he’s always watching me.
I thought he was just flirting. You’re not the only one. There’s you, and Catherine Brandon, and Mary Howard . . . I never thought he was serious.
He has favored my brother far beyond his deserts. God knows William wasn’t appointed Warden of the Marches on his ability.
He’s old enough to be your father!
I smile bitterly. What man objects to a younger bride? You know, I think he had me in mind even before the death of my husband, God rest his soul.
I knew it!
He slams his palm against the carved post of the bed. I knew it! I’ve seen the way his eyes follow you around the room. I’ve seen him send you a little dish of this or a little piece of that at dinner, and lick his own spoon with his big fat tongue when you taste it. I can’t bear the thought of you in his bed and his old hands pulling you this way and that.
I strain my throat and swallow down my fear. I know. I know. The marriage will be far worse than the courting, and the courting is like a play with mismatched actors and I don’t know my lines. I’m so afraid. Dear God, Thomas, I cannot tell you how very afraid I am. The last queen . . .
I lose my voice; I cannot say her name. Katherine Howard died, beheaded for adultery, just a year ago.
Don’t be afraid of that,
Thomas reassures me. You weren’t here, you don’t know what she was like. Kitty Howard ruined herself. He would never have hurt her but for her own fault. She was a complete whore.
And what d’you think he’d call me, if he saw me like this?
There is a bleak silence. He looks at my hands, clutched around my knees. I have started to tremble. He puts his hands on my shoulders, and feels me shudder. He looks aghast, as if we have just heard our death sentences.
He must never ever suspect you of this,
he says, gesturing to the warm fire, the candlelit room, the rumpled sheets, the heady, betraying smell of lovemaking. If he ever asks you—deny it. I will always deny it, I swear. He must never hear even a whisper. I swear that he will never hear one word from me. We must agree it together. We will never ever speak of it. Not to anyone. We will never give him cause to suspect, and we will swear an oath of secrecy.
I swear it. They could rack me and I wouldn’t betray you.
His smile is warm. They don’t rack gentry,
he says, and gathers me into his arms, with a deep gentle tenderness. He lays me down and wraps the fur rug around me, and he stretches out beside me, leaning over me, his head resting on his hand so that he can see me. He runs his hand from my wet cheek down my neck, over the curve of my breasts, my belly, my hips as if he is learning the shape of my body, as if he would read my skin with his fingers, the paragraphs, the punctuation, and remember it forever. Then he buries his face against my neck and inhales the perfume of my hair.
This is good-bye, isn’t it?
he says, his lips against my warm skin. You’ve decided already, you tough little northerner. You made up your mind, all on your own, and you came to say good-bye to me.
Of course it is good-bye.
I think I will die if you leave me,
he warns me.
For sure, we will both die if I don’t,
I say dryly.
Always straight to the point, Kat.
I don’t want to lie to you tonight. I’m going to spend the rest of my life telling lies.
He scrutinizes my face. You’re beautiful when you cry,
he remarks. Especially when you cry.
I put my hands against his chest. I feel the curve of his muscle and his dark hair under my palms. He has an old scar on one shoulder from a sword cut. I touch it gently, thinking I must remember this, I must remember every moment of this.
Don’t ever let him see you cry,
he says. He would like it.
I trace the line of his collarbone, map the sinew of his shoulder. His warm skin under my hands and the scent of our lovemaking distracts me from sorrow.
I’ve got to leave before dawn,
I say, glancing at the shuttered window. We don’t have long.
He knows exactly what I am thinking. Is this the way you want to say good-bye?
Gently he presses his thigh between mine so that the hard muscle rests against the folds of soft flesh and pleasure rises slowly through my body like a blush. Like this?
Country ways,
I whisper to make him laugh.
He rolls us both over so that he is on his back and I am lying along the warm lean length of him, on top of him so that I command this last act of love. I stretch out and feel him shudder with desire, I sit astride him, my hands against his chest, so that I can look into his dark eyes as I lower myself gently down to the entrancing point where he will enter me and then I hesitate until he pleads: Kateryn.
Only then do I ease onward. He gasps and closes his eyes, stretching out his arms, as if he were crucified on pleasure. I move, slowly at first, thinking of his delight, wanting to make this last for a long time, but then I feel the heat growing in me, and the wonderful familiar impatience rising, until I cannot hesitate or stop but I have to go on, thinking of nothing at all, until I call on him in pleasure, calling his name in joy and at the end weeping and weeping for lust, for love, and for the terrible loss that will come with the morning.
At chapel for Prime, I kneel beside my sister, Nan, the ladies of the king’s daughter, Lady Mary, all around us. Lady Mary herself, silently praying at her own richly furnished prie-dieu, is out of earshot.
Nan, I have to tell you something,
I mutter.
Has the king spoken?
is all she says.
Yes.
She gives a little gasp and then puts her hand over mine and squeezes it. Her eyes close in a prayer. We kneel side by side, just as we used to do when we were little girls at home in Kendal in Westmorland and our mother read the prayers in Latin and we gabbled the responses. When the long service ends, Lady Mary rises to her feet, and we follow her from the chapel.
It is a fine spring day. If I were at home we would start plowing on a day like this and the sound of the curlews would ring out as loud as the plowboy’s whistle.
Let’s walk in the garden before breakfast,
Lady Mary proposes, and we follow her down the stairs to the privy garden and past the yeomen of the guard, who present arms and then stand back. My sister, Nan, raised at court, sees the opportunity to take my arm and slide us behind the backs of the ladies who are walking with our mistress. Discreetly, we sidestep to another path and when we are alone and cannot be overheard, she turns to look at me. Her pale tense face is like my own: auburn hair swept back under a hood, gray eyes like mine, and—just now—her cheeks are flushed red with excitement.
God bless you, my sister. God bless us all. This is a great day for the Parrs. What did you say?
I asked for time to realize my joy,
I say dryly.
How long d’you think you’ve got?
Weeks?
He’s always impatient,
she warns me.
I know.
Better accept at once.
I shrug. I will. I know I’ve got to marry him. I know there’s no choice.
As his wife, you’ll be Queen of England; you’ll command a fortune!
she crows. We’ll all get our fortunes.
Yes—the family’s prize heifer is on the market once again. This is the third sale.
Oh Kat! This isn’t just any old marriage arranged for you; this is the greatest chance you’ll have in your life! It’s the greatest marriage in England, probably in the world!
For as long as it lasts.
She looks behind her, then puts her arm through mine so that we can walk, head to head, and speak in whispers. You’re anxious; but it might not last so very long. He’s very sick. He’s very old. And then you have the title and the inheritance but not the husband.
The husband I have just buried was forty-nine, the king is fifty-one, an old man, but he could last till sixty. He has the best of physicians and the finest apothecaries, and he guards himself against disease as if he were a precious babe. He sends his armies to war without him, he gave up jousting years ago. He has buried four wives—why not another?
I might outlive him,
I concede, my mouth to her ear. But how long did Katherine Howard last?
Nan shakes her head at the comparison. That slut! She betrayed him, and was foolish enough to be caught. You won’t do that.
It doesn’t matter,
I say, suddenly weary of these calculations. Because I’ve no choice anyway. It’s the wheel of fortune.
Don’t say that; it’s God’s will,
she says with sudden enthusiasm. Think of what you might do as Queen of England. Think of what you could do for us!
My sister is a passionate advocate for the reform of the Church in England from the state it is in—a popeless papacy—to a true communion based on the Bible. Like many in the country—who knows how many?—she wants the king’s reform of the church to go further and further until we are free from all superstition.
Oh, Nan, you know I have no convictions . . . and anyway, why would he listen to me?
Because he always listens to his wives at first. And we need someone to speak for us. The court is terrified of Bishop Gardiner, he’s even questioned Lady Mary’s household. I’ve had to hide my own books. We need a queen who will defend the reformers.
Not me,
I say flatly. I’ve no interest and I won’t pretend to it. I was cured of faith when the papists threatened to burn down my castle.
Yes, that’s what they’re like. They threw hot coals on Richard Champion’s coffin to show that they thought he should have been burned. They keep the people in ignorance and fear. That’s why we think the Bible should be in English, everyone should understand it for themselves and not be misled by priests.
Oh, you’re all as bad as each other,
I say roundly. I don’t know anything about the new learning—not many books came my way in Richmondshire, and I didn’t have any time to sit around reading. Lord Latimer wouldn’t have had them in the house. So I don’t know what all the fuss is about, and I certainly don’t have any influence with the king.
But Kat, there are four men, who only wanted to read the Bible in English, accused of heresy in Windsor prison right now. You must save them.
Not if they are heretics, I won’t! If they’re heretics, they’ll have to burn. That’s the law. Who am I to say it’s wrong?
But you will learn,
Nan persists. Of course you were cut off from all the new thinking when you were married to old Latimer and buried alive in the North, but when you hear the London preachers and listen to the scholars explaining the Bible in English, you’ll understand why I think as I do. There is nothing in the world more important than bringing God’s Word to the people and pushing back the power of the old church.
I do think that everyone should be allowed to read the Bible in English,
I concede.
That’s all you need to believe for now. The rest follows. You’ll see. And I will be with you,
she says. Always. Whither thou goest, I will go. God bless me, I’ll be sister to the Queen of England!
I forget the gravity of my position and I laugh. You’ll puff up like a cock sparrow! And wouldn’t Mother have been pleased! Can you imagine?
Nan laughs out loud and claps her hand over her mouth. Lord! Lord! Can you imagine it? After marrying you off and setting me to work so hard, and all for brother William’s benefit? After teaching us that he must come first and we had to serve the family and never think of ourselves? Teaching us all our lives that the only person who mattered was William and the only country in the world was England, and the only place was court, and the only king was Henry?
And the heirloom!
I crow. The precious heirloom that she left me! Her greatest treasure was her portrait of the king.
Oh, she adored him. He was always the handsomest prince in Christendom to her.
She would think me honored to marry what remains.
Well, you are,
Nan points out. He will make you the wealthiest woman in England; nobody will come near you for power. You’ll be able to do exactly as you please, you’ll like that. Everyone—even Edward Seymour’s wife—will have to curtsey to you. I’ll enjoy seeing that, the woman is unbearable.
At the mention of Thomas’s brother I lose my smile. You know, I was thinking of Thomas Seymour, for my next husband.
But you haven’t said anything directly to him? You never mentioned him to anyone? You’ve not spoken to him?
Bright as a portrait I can see Thomas naked in the candlelight, his knowing smile, my hand on his warm belly, tracing the line of dark hair downward. I can smell the scent of him as I kneel before him and put my forehead against his belly, as my lips part. I’ve said nothing. I’ve done nothing.
He doesn’t know that you were considering him?
Nan presses. You were thinking of marriage for the good of the family, not for desire, Kat?
I think of him lying on the bed, arching his back to thrust inside me, his outflung arms, the dark lashes on his brown cheeks as his eyes close in abandonment. He has no idea. I only thought his fortune and kin would suit us.
She nods. He would have been a very good match. They’re a family on the rise. But we must never mention him again. Nobody can ever say that you were thinking of him.
I wasn’t. I would have had to marry someone who would benefit the family, him as well as any other.
It has to be as if he is dead to you,
she insists.
I’ve put aside all thought of him. I never even spoke to him, I never asked our brother to speak to him. I never mentioned him to anyone, not to our uncle. Forget him; I have.
This is important, Kat.
I’m not a fool.
She nods. We’ll never speak of him again.
Never.
That night I dream of Tryphine. I dream that I am the saint, married against my will to my father’s enemy, climbing a darkened stair in his castle. There is a bad smell coming from the chamber at the head of the stairs. It catches me in the back of my throat and makes me cough as I climb upwards, one hand on the damp curving stone wall, one hand holding my candle, the light bobbing and guttering in the pestilential breeze that blows down from the chamber. It is the smell of death, the scent of something dead and rotting coming from beyond the locked door, and I have to enter the door and face my greatest fear, for I am Tryphine, married against my will to my father’s enemy, and climbing a darkened stair in his castle. There is a bad smell coming from the chamber at the head of the stairs. It catches me in the back of my throat and makes me cough as I climb upwards, one hand on the damp curving stone wall, one hand holding my candle, the light bobbing and guttering in the pestilential breeze that blows down from the chamber. It is the smell of death, the scent of something dead and rotting coming from beyond the locked door, and I have to enter the door and face my greatest fear, for I am Tryphine, married against my will to my father’s enemy, and climbing a darkened stair in his castle . . . And so the dream repeats itself, over and over again, as I climb up and up the stair, which grows into another stair, which grows into another stair, up and up while the candlelight glitters on the dark wall and the smell from the locked room becomes stronger and stronger until finally I choke so hard on the stench that the bed shakes and Mary-Clare, another lady-in-waiting, who shares the bed with me, wakes me and says: God bless you, Kateryn, you were dreaming and coughing and crying out! What’s the matter with you?
I say, It’s nothing. God bless me, I was so afraid! I had a dream, a bad dream.
The king comes to Lady Mary’s rooms every day, leaning heavily on the arm of one of his friends, trying to hide that his bad leg is rotting away beneath him. Edward Seymour his brother-in-law supports him, talking pleasantly, charming as any Seymour. Often Thomas Howard, the old Duke of Norfolk, is holding up the other arm, his face locked in a wary courtier’s smile, and broad-faced, broad-shouldered Stephen Gardiner, the Bishop of Winchester, trails behind them, quick to step forward and intervene. They all laugh loudly at the king’s jokes and praise the insight of his statements; nobody ever contradicts him. I doubt anyone has argued with him since Anne Boleyn.
Gardiner again,
Nan remarks, and Catherine Brandon leans towards her and whispers urgently. I see Nan go pale as Catherine nods her pretty head.
What’s the matter?
I ask her. Why shouldn’t Stephen Gardiner attend the king?
The papists are hoping to entrap Thomas Cranmer, the finest, most Christian archbishop the court has ever had,
Nan mutters in a rapid gabble. Catherine’s husband has told her that they plan to accuse Cranmer of heresy today, this afternoon. They think they have enough on him to send him to the stake.
I am so shocked I can hardly respond. You can’t kill a bishop!
I exclaim.
You can,
Catherine says sharply. This king did: Bishop Fisher.
That was years ago! What has Thomas Cranmer done?
He has offended against the king’s Six Articles of Faith,
Catherine Brandon explains rapidly. The king has named six things that every Christian must believe, or face a charge of heresy.
But how can he offend? He can’t be against the teaching of the church; he’s the archbishop: he is the church!
The king is coming towards us.
Beg for the archbishop’s pardon!
Nan says to me urgently. Save him, Kat.
How can I?
I demand and then break off to smile as the king limps towards me, merely nodding to his daughter.
I catch Lady Mary’s quizzical glance; but if she thinks my behavior is unsuitable for a thirty-year-old widow, there is nothing she can say. Lady Mary is only three years younger than me but she learned caution in a cruelly painful childhood. She saw her friends, her tutor, even her lady governess, disappear from her service into the Tower of London and from there to the scaffold. They warned her that her father would have her beheaded for her stubborn faith. Sometimes when she is praying in silence her eyes fill with tears, and I think she is sick with grief for those she lost and could not save. I imagine that she wakes every day to guilt, knowing that she denied her faith to save her life; and her friends did not.
Now she stands as the king lowers himself into his chair placed beside mine, and sits only when he waves his hand. She does not speak until he addresses her, but remains silent, her head obediently bowed. She is never going to complain that he flirts with her ladies-in-waiting. She will swallow her sorrow until it poisons her.
The king gestures that we may all sit down, leans towards me, and in an intimate whisper asks what I am reading. I show him the title page at once. It is a book of French stories, nothing that might be forbidden.
You read French?
I speak it too. Not as fluently as Your Majesty, of course.
Do you read other languages?
A little Latin, and I plan to study, now that I have more time,
I say. Now that I live at a learned court.
He smiles. I have been a scholar all my life; I’m afraid you’ll never catch up, but you should learn enough to read to me.
Your Majesty’s poetry in English is equal to anything in Latin,
one of the courtiers says enthusiastically.
All poetry is better in Latin,
Stephen Gardiner contradicts him. English is the language of the market. Latin is the language of the Bible.
Henry smiles and waves a fat hand, the great rings sparkling as he dismisses the argument. I shall write a poem for you in Latin and you shall translate it,
he promises me. You can judge which is the best language for words of love. A woman’s mind can be her greatest ornament. You shall show me the beauty of your intelligence as well as the beauty of your face.
His little eyes drift down from my face to the neck of my gown and rest on the curves of my breasts pressed against the tight stomacher. He licks his pursed lips. Isn’t she the fairest lady at court?
he asks the Duke of Norfolk.
The old man produces a thin smile, his dark eyes weighing me up as if I were sirloin. She is indeed the fairest of many blooms,
he says, glancing around for his daughter, Mary.
I see Nan looking urgently at me, and I remark: You seem a little weary. Is there anything that troubles Your Majesty?
He shakes his head as the Duke of Norfolk leans in to listen. Nothing that need trouble you.
He takes my hand and draws me a little closer. You’re a good Christian, aren’t you, my dear?
Of course,
I say.
Read your Bible, pray to the saints and so on?
Yes, Your Majesty, every day.
Then you know that I gave the Bible in English to my people and that I am the head of the church in England?
Of course, Your Majesty. I took the oath myself. I called in every one of my household at Snape Castle and made them swear that you are the head of the church and the pope is just the Bishop of Rome, and has no command in England.
There are some who would have the English Church turn to Lutheran ways, changing everything. And there are some who think quite the opposite and would turn everything back to how it was before, restoring the power of the pope. Which do you think?
I am very sure that I don’t want to express an opinion either way. I think I should be guided by Your Majesty.
He laughs out loud and so everyone has to laugh with him. He chucks me under the chin. You are very right,
he says. "As a subject and as a sweetheart. I tell you, I am publishing my ruling on this, calling it The King’s Book so that people can know what to think. I will tell them. I am finding a middle wafy between Stephen Gardiner here—who would like all the rituals and the powers of the church to be restored once again—and my friend Thomas Cranmer—who is not here—who would like it pared back to the bone of the Bible. Cranmer would have no monasteries, no abbeys, no chantries, no priests even—just preachers and the Word of God."
But why is your friend Thomas Cranmer not here?
I ask nervously. It is one thing to promise to save a man, but quite another to set about doing it. I don’t know how I am supposed to prompt the king to mercy.
Henry’s little eyes twinkle. I expect he is fearfully awaiting to hear if he is to be charged with heresy and treason.
He chuckles. I expect he is listening for the tramp of soldiers coming to take him to the Tower.
But if he is your friend?
Then his terror will be tempered by hope of mercy.
But Your Majesty is so gracious—you will forgive him?
I prompt.
Gardiner steps forward and lifts a gentle hand as if he would silence me.
It is for God to forgive,
the king rules. It is for me to impose justice.
Henry does not give me a week to come to terms with my great joy. He speaks to me again only two days later, on Sunday evening, after chapel. I am surprised that he combines piety with business, but since his will is God’s will, the Sabbath can be holy and satisfactory, both at once. The court is processing from chapel to the great hall for dinner, the bright sunshine pouring in the great windows, when the king halts everyone and nods to summon me from the middle of the ladies to the head of them all. His velvet cap is pulled low over his thinning hair and the bobbing pearls encrusting the brim wink at me. He smiles as if he is joyful but his eyes are as blank as his jewels.
He takes my hand in greeting and folds it under the great heft of his arm. Do you have an answer ready for me, Lady Latimer?
I have,
I say. Now that there is no escape for me I find that my voice is clear and my hand, crushed between the bulge of his great belly and the thick padding of his sleeve, is steady. I’m not a girl, afraid of the unknown, I am a woman; I can face fear, I can walk towards it. I have prayed for guidance, and I have my answer.
I glance around. Shall I speak it here and now?
He nods; he has no sense of privacy. This is a man who is attended every moment of the day. Even when he strains in constipated agony on the closestool, there are men standing beside him ready to hand him linen to wipe, water to wash, a hand to grip when the pain is too great for him. He sleeps with a page at the foot of his bed; he urinates beside his favorites, when he vomits from overeating someone holds the bowl. Of course he has no hesitation in speaking of his marriage while everyone tries to hear—there is no risk of humiliation for him: he knows that he cannot be refused.
I know I am blessed above all other women.
I curtsey very low. I shall be deeply honored to be your wife.
He takes my hand and brings it to his lips. He never had any doubts, but he is pleased to hear me describe myself as blessed. You shall sit beside me at dinner,
he promises. And the herald shall announce it.
He walks with my hand squeezed under his arm, and so we lead everyone through the double doors to the great hall. Lady Mary walks on the other side of him. I cannot see her beyond the spread of his great chest, and she does not try to peep round at me. I imagine her face frozen and expressionless, and know that I must look the same. We must look like two pale sisters marched in to dinner by an enormous father.
I see the high table with the throne and a chair on either side, the head of the servery must have ordered the chairs to be set in place. Even he knew that the king would demand my answer as we walked in to dinner, and that I would have to say yes.
The three of us mount the dais and take our places. The great canopy of state covers the king’s throne but stops short of my chair. Only when I am queen will I dine under cloth of gold. I look down the hall at the hundreds of people staring up at me. They nudge and point as they realize that I am to be their new queen, the trumpets scream and the herald steps forward.
I see Edward Seymour’s carefully composed expression as he notes the arrival of a new wife who will bring her own advisors, a new royal family, new royal friends, new royal servants. He will be measuring the threat that I pose to his position as the king’s brother-in-law, brother to the queen who tragically died in childbirth. I don’t see his brother, Thomas, and I don’t look to see if he is here, watching me. I gaze blindly down the long hall and hope that he is dining somewhere else tonight. I don’t look for him. I must never look for him again as long as I live.
I pray for guidance, for God’s will, not my own, for the bending of my own obstinate desires to His purpose and not mine. I don’t know where God is to be found—in the old church of rituals and saints’ images, miracles, and pilgrimages, or in the new ways of prayers in English and Bible readings—but I have to find Him. I have to find Him to crush my passion, to rein in my own ambitions. If I am to stand before His altar and swear myself to yet another loveless marriage, He has to bear me up. I cannot—I know I cannot—marry the king without the help of God. I cannot give up Thomas unless I believe it is for a great cause. I cannot give up on my first love, my only love, my tender yearning passionate love for him—this unique, irresistible man—unless I have God’s love overwhelming me in its place.
I pray like a novice, ardently. I pray kneeling beside Archbishop Cranmer, who has returned to court without a word said against him, almost as if a charge of heresy was a step in a dance, forwards and backwards and turn around. It is incomprehensible to me but it seems that the king tricked his own council into charging the archbishop, and then turned on them and commanded the archbishop to inquire into those who brought the charges. So Stephen Gardiner’s affinity are now the ones filled with fear and Thomas Cranmer returns confidently to court, secure in the king’s favor, and kneels beside me, his old lined face turned upwards as I silently pray, trying to hammer my desire for Thomas into a love of God. But even now—fool that I am—even in the most fervent prayer, when I think of the crucifixion, it is Thomas’s dark face that I see: eyes closed, exalted in his climax. Then I have to squeeze my eyes shut and pray some more.
I pray kneeling beside Lady Mary, who says not one word about my elevation other than a quiet commendation to me and formal congratulations to her father. There have been too many stepmothers between the martyrdom of her mother and my arrival for her to resent me aspiring to Katherine of Aragon’s place, too many for her to greet me with any hope. The last stepmother lasted less than two years, the one before that, six months. I could swear that Lady Mary kneels beside me in silent prayer and secretly thinks that I will need God’s help to rise to her mother’s position, and God’s help to stay there. The way she bows her head and crosses herself at the end of her prayers and glances at me with brief pity tells me that she does not think God’s help will be enough. She looks at me as if I were a woman walking into darkness with only the light of one small candle against the damp shadows—and then she gives a little shrug and turns away.
I pray like a nun, constantly, on the hour, every hour, anguished on my knees in my bedchamber, silently in chapel, or even desperately whenever I am alone for a moment. In the dark hours before the early summer dawn, when I am feverish and sleepless, I think that I have conquered my desire for Thomas, but when I wake in the morning I am aching for his touch. I never pray that he will come for me. I know that he cannot. I know that he must not. But still, every time the door of the chapel opens behind me, my heart leaps because I think it is him. I can almost see him, standing in the bright doorway, I can almost hear him saying: Come, Kateryn, come away!
That’s when I twist the beads of the rosary in my hands and pray that God will send me some accident, some terrible catastrophe, to stop my wedding day.
But what could that be but the death of the king?
Nan demands.
I look blankly at her.
It’s treason to think of it,
she reminds me, her voice low under the hum of the liturgy from the choir stalls. And treason to say it. You cannot pray for his death, Kateryn. He has asked you to be his wife and you have consented. It’s disloyal as a subject and as a wife.
I bow my head against her reproach; but she is right. It must be a sin to pray for the death of another, even of your worst enemy. An army going into battle should pray for as few deaths as possible even while they prepare themselves to do their duty. Like them, I must prepare myself to do my duty, risking myself. And besides, he is not my worst enemy. He is constantly kind and indulgent, he tells me that he is in love with me, that I will be everything to him. He is my king, the greatest king that England has ever had. I used to dream about him when I was a girl and my mother would tell me of the handsome young king and his horses and his suits of cloth of gold, and his daring. I cannot wish him ill. I should be praying for his health, for his happiness, for a long life for him. I should be praying for many years of married life with him, I should be praying that I can make him happy.
You look terrible,
Nan says bluntly. Can’t you sleep?
No.
I have been getting up all through the night to pray that I shall be spared.
You have to sleep,
she rules. And eat. You’re the most beautiful woman at court, there’s nobody even comes near you. Mary Howard and Catherine Brandon are nothing beside you. God gave you the gift of great beauty: don’t throw it away. And don’t think that if you lose your looks, he’ll desert you. Once he decides on something he never changes his mind, even when half of England is against him . . .
She breaks off and corrects herself with a little laugh, Unless of course—suddenly—he does, and everything is upside down and he is determined on the opposite course and no one can persuade him otherwise.
But when does he change his mind?
I ask her. Why?
In a moment,
she says. In a heartbeat. But never that you could predict.
I shake my head. But how does anyone manage? With a changeable king? With a slippery king?
Some don’t,
she says shortly.
If I can’t pray to be spared, what can I pray for?
I ask. Resignation?
She shakes her head. I was talking to my husband, Herbert. He said to me that he thinks that you have been sent by God.
At once I giggle. Nan’s husband, William, has never troubled much about me before. I measure my growing importance in the world if now he realizes that I am a heavenly messenger.
But Nan is not laughing. Truly he does. You have come at the very moment that we need a devout queen. You will save the king from sliding back to Rome. The old churchmen have the king’s ear. They warn him that the country is not just demanding reform but becoming Lutheran, completely heretical. They are frightening him back to Rome, and turning him against his own people. They are taking the Bible from the churches of England so that people cannot read the Word of God for themselves. Now they have arrested half a dozen men at Windsor, the choirmaster among them, and they will burn them in the marshland below the castle. For nothing more than wanting to read a Bible in English!
Nan, I can’t save them! I was not sent by God to save them.
You have to save the reformed church, and save the king, and save us all. This is godly work that we think you can do. The reformers want you to advise the king in his private moments. Only you can do it. You have to rise to it, Kat. God will guide you.
It’s easy for you to say. Doesn’t your husband understand that I don’t know what people are talking about? I don’t know who’s on which side? I am not the person for this. I know nothing about it, and I have little interest.
"God has chosen you. And it’s easy enough to understand. The court is divided into two parties, each of them convinced that they are in the right, guided by God. On the one hand are those who would have the king make an agreement with Rome and restore the monasteries, the abbeys, and all the ritual of the papist church. Bishop Stephen Gardiner and the men who work with him: Bishop Bonner, Sir Richard Rich, Sir Thomas Wriothesley, men like that. The Howards are papists and would have the church restored if they could, but they’ll always do the king’s bidding, whatever it is.