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

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.

I dare not die! Edward often said to himself. I must not complain of this pain in my head. I must be a King, and a Tudor King. I am my father’s only male heir.

It was a great responsibility for such a small boy and such a frail one. No wonder he liked to sit in an alcove with Jane and talk to her of what he had read or what he had learned.

Yet it was pleasant to gaze at Elizabeth, with the color flaming under her pale skin, the freckles across her nose. Such a diplomatic Prince did not mention the freckles—although they pleased him— for Elizabeth’s women prepared lotions to make them disappear, as the vain creature imagined that they spoiled her lovely skin.

When she kissed him and told him he was her dearest brother, he could not be quite sure whether she was not remembering all the time that one day he would be the King and very important, and that she would need him to be kind to a Princess of uncertain birth.

Today she was excited. She had news.

She came in haughtily, as she did when the mood took her; and he fancied that she played a game of makebelieve in which she was a Queen and he her subject. With her came Mistress Ashley, her governess, whose life the Princess plagued, though the woman adored her.

Elizabeth was dressed in a new gown of which she was very proud, yet she was angry because she lacked jewels. She had told him that she wished for emeralds, because emeralds suited the color of her hair. He wished that he had emeralds that he might give her. When he was a King he would do so; but he hoped that would not be for a long time; he dreaded that day when he would have to be the King.

Now here was his sister, taking his hand and kissing it. “Nan Bullen’s girl,” he had heard her called; that was when people were angry with her. “Who is she?” they said then. “Who but Nan Bullen’s bastard.”

He knew of Nan Bullen, who, some said, had been a witch, a sorceress, and who had died that his father might marry his mother, the one pure Queen whom his father had loved.

Elizabeth, in her haughtiest manner, dismissed all attendants.

“That is what you wish, is it not?” she demanded, almost menacingly of the little boy.

“Yes,” he answered. “That is what I wish.”

Then Elizabeth looked from him to little Jane and back to him, and said: “Have you heard the gossip, brother?”

“What gossip?”

“The gossip that is all over the court. Our father has chosen his new wife.”

“A new wife!” cried Jane.

“A new stepmother for us!” said the boy with a perplexed look.

“But you like your stepmothers. You liked the last one.”

“Queen Catharine was so pretty,” said Edward wistfully.

“But she died.” Jane’s gentle eyes filled with tears. It was obvious that she knew in what manner Queen Catharine had died.

None of the children ever mentioned the way in which the Queen had died. The beheading of Queens was a sore subject with Elizabeth. If any lightly mentioned her own mother, her face would grow dark with anger. Edward knew that it was because Mistress Ashley had married a kinsman of Queen Anne Boleyn that Elizabeth kept the woman with her, loved her dearly, and would suffer none other to command and scold her as Mistress Ashley did.

“Who…is the new one?” asked Edward.

“Can you not guess?” demanded Elizabeth. “You know her. She has paid you many a visit. You will love her as much as you loved Queen Catharine Howard.”

“Please tell me quickly who it is,” said the small boy imperiously, for he could be imperious when kept in suspense.

“Lady Latimer.”

“Oh!” The two younger children exchanged smiles. They knew her well. She was a delightful lady. A short while ago when Edward had been recovering from a sickness, and there had been one of those dreaded scenes at his bedside, with the King cajoling and threatening all those in attendance, Lady Latimer had come to see him. He had thought her sweet and gentle, as a mother ought to be.

“You are not then displeased by this news?” said Elizabeth.

“Nay. It delights me. She will be Queen Katharine and our stepmother.”

“I too am pleased,” said the Princess. “I love her well.”

Mistress Ashley came into the apartment to tell them that the Lady Mary was on her way and would be with them in a few moments.

“She has heard the news, I’ll warrant,” said Elizabeth. “It will please her also.”

“She will be always at court,” said Edward, “when she is our stepmother.”

Elizabeth looked momentarily serious. She was old enough to remember a good deal more than Jane and Edward could. She remembered a dark-eyed, very beautiful woman who laughed and cried, who embraced her warmly and called her “Daughter,” and who loved her more than anyone in the world had ever loved her. Then quite suddenly Elizabeth had understood that she no longer had a mother; but it was not until some years after her loss that she knew the reason.

Cruel things had been said about her mother; and what was said about her mother must reflect on Elizabeth. Some had said she was not the King’s daughter at all, but the daughter of a man named Norris, who was supposed to have been the Queen’s lover and had died with her. Some said a thing even more horrible: that she was the daughter of Anne Boleyn’s own brother, Lord Rochford. But the King did not believe this. Indeed, how could he? He had but to look at her to know that she was his own daughter. And although there were times when he seemed to care not whether she had a rag to her back or a crust to eat—while if aught befell the precious body of young Edward all the great doctors of the realm must congregate at his bedside—still Elizabeth felt that the King had as warm a feeling for her as for any of his children.

The Lady Mary came into the room and Elizabeth at once went to her, knelt and kissed her hand.

How sick she looks! thought Elizabeth. She is old—old. The idea of being twenty-six—nearer twenty-seven—and without a husband!

So many great men had been promised to Mary and yet not one of them had married her. No wonder she was sick and sad and bore resentment against the world.

How healthy she is! thought Mary. How full of vitality! She cares nothing that they call her “bastard.” If I had been the daughter of Anne Boleyn, I would have died of shame ere this.

Mary paid homage to the little boy. She never forgot the relative positions of them all. Edward was the prospective King and the most important member of the family. She and her sister had both been called bastards; they had both been made much of by the King and both scorned by him when he had decided to discard their mothers.

Mary would have envied Elizabeth if she had not believed it was a sin to envy anyone and not to accept that lot which a Greater Power had ordained must be borne. She, Mary, had been the petted darling of the court when she had been a little girl. Her mother, who had adored her, had made great plans for her and longed to see her Queen of Spain. There had been a time when Mary had thought she would be Queen of France. And here she was, a Princess whom her father refused to recognize as his legitimate daughter; for if he did so it would mean that he had been wrong to set aside her mother. The King could do no wrong. That was the order of the day. So from great honor Mary had been cast down—not only to obscurity, but to actual danger, for the King had at one time threatened her life.

She, who had been brought up under her mother’s eyes, felt this deeply. She was steeped in tradition. She was the daughter of a Princess, the daughter of a King, and she possessed all that love of solemnity and ritual which came from her Spanish ancestry. There could not be two sisters more unlike than Mary and Elizabeth.

Elizabeth’s manner had changed at the entry of her sister as rapidly as Elizabeth’s moods could change. She had become demure.

“We were speaking of the news, sister,” she said. “You have heard it?”

“You mean that our father thinks to marry again?”

“Yes,” answered Elizabeth, watching her sister.

“It is Lady Latimer,” said Edward. “Jane and I are very fond of Lady Latimer.”

Jane smiled at him. She was awed by the two Princesses. They alarmed her slightly, each in a different way. With Elizabeth she could never be entirely at ease; and Mary seemed so old, dignified and solemn.

“She is a very virtuous lady,” said Mary, “and one who should bring great happiness to our father.”

Elizabeth looked at her slyly. Did she not know then that Lady Latimer was interesting herself in the reformed faith? Apparently she did not, for Mary would never esteem virtuous anyone who was not a good Catholic.

Mary did not know as much of what was going on at court as did Elizabeth. Mary spent so much time on her knees asking for guidance and courage to endure her lot. Elizabeth kept her eyes open, her ears trained, and had developed the trick of worming secrets out of her women. As for her courage, she was not sure of that, but she hoped that her wits would prevent its ever being put to the test.