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

The King had learned from his spies that if Thomas could not get the lady Elizabeth he would take the Lady Jane Grey, grand-daughter of Henry’s sister Mary, whom—so long ago now—he had sent to France to marry old Louis, and who, after leading that poor old monarch such a dance that in a few months he died, had secretly married Charles Brandon before returning to England. The fruit of that marriage had been Frances Brandon, who had borne Jane.

“Elizabeth for preference then,” said young Seymour. “But if I can’t get the King’s daughter, I’ll have his kinswoman.”

Henry considered them as he could not help considering all women. Elizabeth would be the more suitable. She was ten years old; Jane was only five.

But did it matter what plans Seymour made, since they would come to nothing unless the King willed otherwise? The important factor was the King’s marriage.

Whom should he choose? Who could be compared with the dainty Catharine Howard? The lady must have all that fair wanton’s charm and none of her wickedness.

He was aware that the ladies of the court were not eager for the honor he would bestow on one of them. That was a little disturbing. He could force the woman of his choice to marry him; but he could not force her delight in doing so. When Catharine Howard had died, he had made it a capital offense for any woman to marry a King of England if she were not a virgin. Surely there were some virtuous women in his court. Yet if any caught his eye upon her, she would seem overcome by embarrassment, and when he looked for her again he would find her absent; should he inquire of her, he would doubtless be told that she had fallen sick and was keeping to her apartments.

He shook his head sadly.

It was said—though he pretended not to know this—that no unmarried woman would care to risk marriage with him because she knew that when he was tired of her he could trump up a charge against her virtue. He preferred not to know of such talk. There was his giant conscience to be appeased. The King must always be right; his motives must always be of the highest. The conscience demanded that it should be so, and the conscience, if necessary, was monster enough to stamp out the truth.

Could they say that Catharine Howard was not a slut, not a wanton? Could they say that he had trumped up charges against her? Surely those charges had been proved.

But Anne Boleyn: only young Smeaton had “confessed” to adultery with her, and that under dire torture.

But he was tormenting himself. The past was done with. Forget it he must, and remember the need of the present. He needed a wife. Yet he could not think of one he would care to honor. He wanted a Queen. He was growing tired of the hunt—both in the forest and the women’s apartments at the palace. He wanted comfort now; he wanted a peaceful old age. He wanted a woman—not too young and frivolous, not the sort who might hanker after younger men. She need not be a beauty if she were comely enough. He called to mind the five he had had: Katharine from Aragon, Anne Boleyn, Jane Seymour, Anne from Cleves and Catharine Howard. How unsatisfactory they had all been in their different ways! And yet what he wanted now was a woman who would embody all their virtues and none of their faults: the piety, poise and nobility of the first Katharine; the great fascination of Anne; the meekness of Jane; the good sense of the second Anne (for that woman from Cleves had been sensible and had regarded herself as lucky to get away with a pension and her head on her shoulders to enable her to enjoy it); and the sweet, complacent beauty of little Catharine Howard. Yes, she must have all those qualities and she must be a good and faithful wife, a consort of whom one could be proud, a gentle, serene lady to soothe him when necessary, to enchant him, to make him feel young again, to be a stepmother to the children he had, and a mother to those he might yet have. Edward was sickly (what a perpetual anxiety the health of that boy was!), and there was always the need to get more sons.

That reminded him of the pretensions of his brother-in-law. He shouted to his attendants, and a page came fearfully into his presence.

“Find my brother, Sir Thomas Seymour, and bring him hither,” ordered the King.

The page bowed low, assuring his gracious Majesty that his will should with all speed be done, and set off in search of Sir Thomas.

Seymour was preparing himself for a trip on the river that he might call on Lady Latimer. His short gown, girdled at the waist, reached his knees and was of rich blue satin. His dalmatica was adorned with the widest sleeves; his hose were of white satin and his cap sparkled with sapphires and diamonds.

He was pleased with his appearance; he was pleased with himself. It was good to be young, handsome and full of vigor, to have ambitions which, because he was by nature optimistic, he was certain would very soon be fulfilled.

Sir Thomas Seymour, the great sailor, was not yet the Admiral he intended to become. But that should come about very soon, he promised himself. The young Prince Edward idolized him; Uncle Thomas was his favorite uncle, and such as Uncle Thomas did not forget that one day little Edward would be King of England, and little Edward was not the sort to forget his favorite uncle. What a good thing it had been for the House of Seymour when the King’s roving and most amorous eyes had alighted on his little sister Jane.

Dear Jane! So obedient. She had done just what her brothers had told her to. He was not sure that, in dying when she had, she had not done a good thing too; for the King would soon have tired of her, and who could say what might have happened if Jane had not made a perpetual shrine for herself in the King’s heart by promptly departing after the birth of her son? It was so easy for a sentimental, conscience-stricken King to sigh and tell himself and his courtiers that Jane had been the only wife for whom he had cared, the only woman worthy to have been his wife. So, because accommodating Jane had died at the right moment, she was now safely buried, with her head on her shoulders, and all was set fair for the Seymour brothers.

There was one minor irritation in the life of Thomas Seymour at that moment. The Lady Latimer, in mourning for her husband, was not at court; and he must make the long journey to her house if he would see her.

Katharine. Fair Katharine. And rich Katharine. He was very fond of her. She was perhaps not so beautiful as some other women he knew, but she had other qualities. For one thing, she adored him so obviously. What a refreshing change she must find him after those gouty old widowers of hers. She had never really lived, poor soul. She had been a nurse, not a wife. How different she would find life if she were the wife of Thomas Seymour.

He thought of those mansions which were hers; he thought of her fortune; he also thought of her charming person. He would have proposed marriage to her immediately after my Lord Latimer had died but for one thing.

He was well aware that the Princess Elizabeth was only nine years old. But he could wait… six or seven years. And who knew what was going to happen in the course of seven years. The King had lived for fifty-two years, and those fifty-two years had been somewhat rashly spent. The kingly body was none too healthy. It was said that the hideous leg was the outward sign of inner evils. The King of France suffered from similar abscesses, and all knew of the life he had lived. Fifty-two were not a great many years, but so much depended on how those years had been spent. And then, when Henry died, there was Edward. Poor Edward! Poor, sickly, learned little boy! His uncles would control him, and England would be ruled by her Protectors; and who should they be but the boy’s uncles? And if the boy should die—he certainly had not the appearance of one who would make old bones—and one of those Protectors was married to the King’s daughter…It was not difficult to see the possibilities in that situation. Moreover, that red-headed little girl was not displeasing to him; and he fancied—for there was something of her mother in her—that he was not altogether displeasing to her, young child that she was.

“By God’s precious soul!” he murmured. “I see great days ahead for the Seymours—and in particular for you, my dear Sir Thomas.”

One of his gentlemen came in to tell him that the King’s page had brought a message for him. He was to go at once to the King’s presence, and it seemed from the King’s mood that it would not be wise to delay.

Cursing softly, Seymour went to the King’s apartment, where he knelt in reverence.

“H’m!” snorted the King, noting the rich blue satin and the sparkling sapphires and how they made the sailor’s eyes look bluer and more vivid in his suntanned face. There should be a law, thought the King, forbidding a King’s servant to deck himself in finery rivaling his King’s.

“I had word that Your Majesty desired my presence and I came with all speed.”

“You were wise there, brother,” said the King. “Wiser than you have been in some other matters.”

Seymour opened wide his blue eyes and looked at the King with astonishment. He was ready with his tongue too, the King noted.

“My Gracious Lord, if my unwisdom has offended Your Grace, pray let me know in what cause, that I may hasten to be wise.”

“Methinks,” said Henry, “that when I honor a subject with a small favor, that subject is apt to look for bigger ones.”

“It is such an honor to serve Your Grace, and Your Grace’s smiles are treasured. You must forgive your loving subjects if, having received one of your royal smiles, they crave for more.”

“Smiles! It is not smiles some look for. Some enjoy lands and treasures which not so long ago belonged to others.”

Seymour bowed his head. It was true that, as Jane Seymour’s brother, he had received lands and riches from the despoliation of the monasteries; he had grown from a humble country gentleman into a rich courtier. Was the King planning to take away that which he had given? Seymour thought uneasily of another Thomas— Cardinal Wolsey—who had at one time been the richest man, next to the King, in all England; yet he had lost everything, even his life.

“But it is not of lands that we would speak,” went on Henry. “We have been hearing rumors of your conduct, Seymour, and we do not like what we hear.”

“I am deeply grieved, Your Grace.”

“Then that is well. And, hark ye, we shall look to you to mend your ways. We have heard rumors of your gallantry, Seymour. You know what store I set on virtue….”

Seymour bowed his head even lower. It would not do for his master to see the smile which played about his mouth, and, try as he might, Thomas Seymour could not prevent its appearing there. This model of virtue! he thought. This husband of five wives—this lover of how many women! Yet in his own eyes the King remained a figure of virtue. After all, he had always put away one wife before the official ceremony of taking another, even if it meant cutting off her head.

“I know, Your Grace,” said Seymour craftily; “and if I have offended, I crave your pardon and Your Majesty’s clemency. I would remind Your Majesty that it is not easy for a humble subject to follow the example of his King.”

Henry looked sharply at the man. Insolence? Was that it? He softened in spite of himself. Liking the fellow, he could not help it. Yes, he had a liking for Tom Seymour as he had had for others. Thomas Wyatt, for instance, who was reputed to have been the lover of Anne Boleyn; Thomas Wolsey was another who had had his regard. Dear Thomas Wolsey! A good servant. Henry had long persuaded his conscience that Wolsey’s decline and death lay at the door of Anne Boleyn, as did the execution of that other favorite, Thomas More. There was yet another Thomas who was beloved of the King— Thomas Cranmer. How different was pious Cranmer—rather sly, sensitive Cranmer—from this handsome braggart who now stood before him. Perhaps he liked Cranmer for his very cunning, for his clever way of extricating his King from troubles; and he liked Tom Seymour because he was amusing, because he seemed a pale shadow of a youthful Henry.