“Poor girl. As you say, we are treated like clauses in a treaty. I should be well aware of this. How many times has it happened to me?”
“You, my lady, had the good fortune to escape.”
“I often wonder whether it was always good fortune.”
“Philip of Bavaria was a very charming man. Perhaps … who knows…?”
I shook my head. “Tell me more of this Anne.”
“She had two children, but her faith meant more to her than anything else. There are people like that.”
I thought of my mother, and I was aware that I had failed. I had saved my life with a lie. I had agreed to the King's supremacy. Well, Chapuys had advised me to do so and I had to think of my mission.
“In what way did her faith mean more to her than her children?” I asked.
“She would insist on proclaiming it. Now she has lost her home. Her husband has turned her out. It is said that there will be a divorce and she will lose her home and her children for her faith.”
“What will happen to her?”
“The Queen will help her. Doubtless give her a place in her household.”
“She will find her discourse interesting, I doubt not.”
Susan nodded but said nothing. We were on dangerous ground.
I saw Anne Askew on one or two occasions. She was very good-looking and clearly a woman of purpose. There was something rather awe-inspiring about her.
I forgot about her in the next few days. The weather had become exceptionally hot, and almost as soon as we had moved into a new house we had to leave it for sweetening. One could not escape the stench of decaying rubbish in the streets; there were flies everywhere.
At such times an outbreak of plague was almost inevitable.
Susan came to me and told me breathlessly that the body of a man had been found in Gray's Inn Lane. He had collapsed and died and the spots on his face indicated that he was a victim of the plague. That was the first case. Others came fast and in increasing numbers.
The Court was in London, and the Queen was full of anxiety.
She came to me and said, “Should we leave, do you think?”
I was unsure.
She went on, “Edward is not well at the moment. He is coughing and having his headaches rather frequently. We should have to pass through the streets on our way. He would be very susceptible to infection. On the other hand, to leave him here…”
I could not give her an opinion. If she allowed Edward to stay here, and he caught the plague, she would be blamed for leaving him in danger; so would she be if she took him through the streets of London and he caught it. There was no way out of her dilemma.
She loved the boy; but also her own life was in danger. If Edward died, some charge would surely be brought against her.
She was in a state of nervous tension. There was no one who could advise her. None dared. They wanted no hand in this decision.
At length she made up her mind.
The sultry heat was continuing; the plague was growing worse.
She gave orders that the household was to prepare to leave London.
IN THE CLEAN COUNTRY air Edward's cough improved and Katharine gave thanks to God for one more deliverance. Her head was safe on her shoulders until the next alarm came.
The Regency had been successful, and the King was coming home. He had taken Boulogne so he could return as a conqueror, a role which pleased him mightily.
His friendship with the Emperor—never on very firm ground—had waned and, although they claimed themselves to be allies, they were fighting with different objects in view. Each was concerned with his own interests: my father to subdue Scotland forever and to bring it under the control of England and the Emperor to force François to give up Milan.
But he was home, and Edward was safe. However, the campaign had not improved the condition of his leg. The sores were spreading, and the other leg was infected now.
“The clumsy oafs did not know how to dress it,” he said. “The bandages were either too loose or too tight. By God's Life, Kate, I missed you. There is none that has the way with a bandage you have.”
So her task of nursing began again. She was appalled by the condition of his legs, which were indeed growing worse. He was in great pain at times and would shout abuse at any who came near him.
Only the Queen was allowed to dress the sores.
Chapuys said to me, “The King has the worst legs in the world, and the Queen should thank God for them.”
I looked at him questioningly and he gave me his sly smile. He was implying that it was the King's bad legs which kept the Queen's head on her shoulders.
UNDER KATHARINE'S SOOTHING HANDS and the new ointments she had discovered, the King's legs improved. But instead of being grateful to her, his eyes strayed to others.
Perhaps in his heart he believed that a miracle could happen—his legs would be well again; this excessive flesh would drop from him and he would be a young and agile man again. Perhaps he thought back to the days of his glorious youth when one ambassador had said that he was the most handsome man in Christendom. If one has been handsome, it is hard to forget it; and I suppose people see themselves not as they are but as they once were. I think that was how it was with my father; and in these moods he would ask himself: What am I doing with such a wife…a barren wife? Her only claim to his affections was that she knew how to tie a bandage.
There were beautiful women at Court. There was Lady Mary Howard for one, the widow of his son, the Duke of Richmond—a very lovely girl, with the Howard looks which, in the case of Anne Boleyn and Catharine Howard, had enchanted him.
Charles Brandon had now died and the young and beautiful wife was now an attractive widow. So there were two beautiful young women, either of them capable of bearing sons; and watching men, waiting to snatch at an opportunity, were aware of the King's thoughts.
Gardiner and Wriothesley wanted to be rid of the Queen—and with her, Cranmer. The Queen's leanings were well known. They had already come near to destroying her. If the King's legs had been better instead of worse, they might have achieved it. But this time they would act more carefully.
They were interested in the arrival at Court of Anne Askew. They regarded her closely. The woman was blatant in her conduct; she made no effort to disguise her views, and placing a few spies round her was an easy matter; in a short time she had said enough to give them reason to arrest her.
I was with the Queen when news was brought to her that Anne Askew had been walking in the gardens when two guards had come to take her away.
Katharine turned pale and dropped the piece of embroidery on which she was working.
“Anne…in the Tower,” she whispered.
Jane Grey, who was seated at her feet working on another part of the embroidered altar cloth, picked it up and looked appealingly at the Queen: I could see by the child's expression that she knew why Anne had been arrested and how deeply it disturbed the Queen.
“On … what grounds?” asked Katharine slowly.
“For heresy, Your Majesty.”
“They will question her,” said the Queen. “But Anne will be strong.”
A gloom had settled over the Queen's apartments. Everyone knew how fond she had been of Anne Askew.
Once I came into the schoolroom where Jane and Edward sat together. There were books on the table, and they were talking. Jane was saying that terrible things were happening in Spain, and under the Inquisition people were burned at the stake for their beliefs.
“They die for their faith, Edward.”
“Yes,” said Edward. “They are martyrs. They die for the true faith.”
When they saw me, they stopped talking. So, at their age, they were aware of the dangers regarding the old and the new religions. Could it be that, under the Queen's guidance, they were leaning toward the new?