forbidden reading. She had never talked to Lord Latimer of her feelings for the New Religion. How could she when he was a staunch Catholic and supported Rome with such fervor that he was ready to disobey the King and risk his life to do so? She had been taught that it was a wife’s duty to follow her husband in all things. But when Lord Latimer had died there seemed no longer any reason why she should not admit to herself that she had these Protestant leanings.
She had first become interested through her conversations with a friend named Anne Askew, the daughter of a squire of Lincoln. Anne was fervent in her beliefs and Katharine felt that she herself could never be so pious. Her intentions were noble, but worldly matters came between her and her piety. She smiled as she paused in her work to smooth the folds of her velvet gown; she enjoyed wearing beautiful garments and rich ornaments.
It was at a religious gathering which she had arranged should take place in this house that she had first become aware of Thomas. He had looked incongruous at the gathering; he had not seemed in the least devout; his extravagant clothes and gay manners set him apart. Did he come for religious reasons? She doubted it. He came because the meetings were anti-Catholic and antagonistic to those— such as the Duke of Norfolk, Gardiner, Bishop of Winchester and Sir Thomas Wriothesley—who wished to wrest the King’s favor from himself and his family.
Katharine was not interested in his reasons for coming; she only cared that he came; and from the moment he had selected her for his attention, she had to admit that the religious purpose of the gatherings seemed to lose its importance.
At that moment her woman, Nan, came into the room.
Nan was younger than Katharine by a year or two; darkhaired and pretty, she had been with Katharine since her marriage with Lord Latimer; she was a very loving servant.
There was a cloud in Nan’s eyes today because she knew the reason for her mistress’s elation, and it disturbed her. Nan felt that Katharine judged all men by the two she had married, and innocently thought that Sir Thomas Seymour was a younger, more handsome and more charming version of Lord Latimer.
“Well, Nan,” said Katharine, “how do you think the pattern goes?”
Nan came and surveyed it.
“Very well, my lady.”
“It is cold today. But the spring will soon be here. There are signs of it everywhere.”
“They are saying, my lady, that the King feels the effects of spring.”
“The King?.
“Yes, my lady. And it is rumored that he looks for a new wife.”
“Oh, yes.” Katharine glanced down at her embroidery. Her mood had become solemn. There was not a lady at court who did not become solemn at the thought of the King’s last marriage, which had ended so tragically just over a year ago.
“It seems such a short while ago that we had a Queen,” went on Nan. “We thought the King was happy at last. And then quite suddenly…” She paused and shivered. “She was so pretty,” she went on. “I do not think I ever saw anyone quite so pretty. Queen Anne Boleyn was more striking to look at—more fascinating too, they say—but I do not think I ever saw one so dainty, so sweet to look upon as Queen Catharine Howard.”
“Don’t speak of it, Nan. It is… upsetting.”
But Nan went on: “I remember how she ran screaming down the gallery at Hampton Court when the King was at chapel. I can’t forget the sound of her voice.”
“It is best forgotten, Nan.”
“But I shall never forget. I was there at the end. I should not have gone, but I could not help it. I had to go. And I saw her walk out and lay her pretty head on the block … like a child who had learned her lesson. They say she practiced how she should do it while she was waiting in her cell. And now, my lady, the King looks for a sixth wife.”
“A sixth wife!” said Katharine. “How I pity her… whoever she shall be. But what are we saying? This is no affair of ours. The King grows older—although doubtless it is treason to say so. Let us hope he is putting all thought of another marriage from him. And, if he should marry, now that he is older, there is less likelihood of his fancy’s straying.”
“It did not stray from Catharine Howard, my lady.”
“Let us not speak of it. Do I hear the sound of horses’ hooves in the courtyard?”
She looked out of the window, smiling, for riding into the courtyard was Thomas Seymour.
THE KING WAS becoming more and more occupied with thoughts of a wife. He was no longer young on that March day in the year 1543. Fifty-two. There were times when that seemed a great age for a man to be, particularly when in his teens and his twenties he had been one of the most vigorous of men, over six feet tall, of great girth, delighting in all sports and pastimes—and more than any in the sport of love.
In his thirties he had been a giant among men, unmistakably a king. It had been his delight to go among his subjects feebly disguised and to play a pleasant little game of make-believe which all saw through. “Who is this man?” people were expected to ask. “Why, he has the bearing of a king!” And when they had speculated and marveled, he would throw off his disguise and say: “Cudgel your pates no more, my friends. I am your King!” That was just one of the games he had delighted to play. But a man of fifty is not to be compared with a man of twenty or even thirty, and now he was no longer able to win games with skill, and he would not play except to win. There were days when he could but hobble about his palaces, and then he must have the aid of a stick and the arm of a courtier to lean on. His leg—his accursed leg—grew worse instead of better; he had tried he could not remember how many remedies. He had promised a fortune to the man who could heal it; he had threatened to lop off the heads of those who failed. All to no avail. The leg might seem better for a while; then the ulcer would make itself felt again and the pain could at times be so agonizing that he would cry out with it and hit out at any who irritated him.
Last year had been a trying one for him. He had made fresh claim to the throne of Scotland, had attacked the Scots and given them a trouncing at Solway Moss. But the battle was not decisive. State affairs were pressing and he needed escape from them at times. For, as he often said to his friends, a king is a man for all he is a king. And he had suffered—as a man, as a husband—great sorrow.
Now, with the trees budding and the birds disturbing the royal slumbers in the early morning, so that he would
