Majesty, there is one true religion and one only. I have studied much in the last few years. I know that there is only one way to the salvation of England, and that is for her to adopt the true religion, the religion of Martin Luther.”
“Hush, Anne! Hush!”
Katharine looked fearfully about her; the little girl in the corner had her head bent low over her needlework.
“There are times when I think I am past caring what becomes of me,” said Anne.
“Heads have rolled in the straw because their owners have dared say words such as you have just said,” the Queen reminded her severely.
“Your Majesty would betray me?”
“Anne! How can you say such a thing! I am your friend. You have my sympathy. I too love the new learning. But I pray you, have a care what you say. Terrible things happen in the torture chambers of the Tower. Have you ever heard the shrieks of agony at Smithfield stakes? So recently three gentlemen of Windsor were burned to death.”
“Such shrieks,” said Anne, “are but the triumphant shouts of martyrs.”
“Martyrs indeed, poor souls!” said Katharine. “And, methinks, there are some of us who are born to wear the martyrs’ crown. But let us not be rash, dear Anne. You have come to me now because you have nowhere else to go, since your husband has turned you out. Is that so?”
“I put myself under Your Grace’s protection.”
“Rest assured, my dear friend, that I shall do everything in my power to help you. You shall stay here; but Anne, have a care. We are surrounded by enemies here. Your movements will be watched. You will be spied on. Oh, Anne, have a care.”
Anne knelt and kissed the Queen’s hands.
Katharine was uneasy. This burning love of the new religion in Anne Askew bordered on fanaticism. She guessed that it had been enhanced by her experiences. Anne should never have been forced into marriage with Mr. Kyme nor with anyone. Anne was not meant for marriage; she was without the desire for physical love.
Katharine longed to help Anne. She decided she would give her a place at court and see that she had leisure for her reading and study. And above all she would try to infuse into Anne the need for caution.
KATHARINE FOUND THAT the very absence of the King brought fresh fears to her.
The heat was intense that summer. From the noisome pits and sloughs of the highways rose the stench of decaying refuse. In the narrow streets flanked by houses with their high gabled roofs and the stories which projected one above another, the atmosphere was stifling although the sunlight was almost shut out. The hovels in which the poor lived were made of wood and clay and, in them, vermin flourished. The rushes on the floors were added to month by month and not removed until they were halfway up the walls; they abounded with lice; the dogs slept in them; bones and gristle lay rotting beneath the top layer; and it was only when the noses of the inhabitants, long accustomed to the smell of decay and sewage, were nauseated beyond endurance that any attempt was made to “sweeten.” The windows were small and not made to open, and the sick lay with the healthy on the malodorous rushes.
And one day a man, walking along the highway which connected the Strand with the village of Charing, collapsed and lay there on the road; when he was discovered it was seen that his face was covered with spots and was of a dark purple color. Some who saw him recognized the symptoms and turned shuddering away. There was nothing to be done for him; he had but a few hours to live.
Later that day one body was discovered by the Church of St. Clement Danes and another in Gray’s Inn Lane; more were found on the causeway leading from Aldgate to Whitechapel Church.
The news spread. The plague had once more come to London.
When Katharine heard the news, her first thoughts were for the young Prince. She was terrified. He was so weak that she felt he might be a ready prey for any fever that stalked the town.
She watched him; he seemed listless; and she could see that his headache was more acute than usual.
Should she shut him into his apartments, order that none should approach him, and hope that the pollution would not reach him? Or should she take the risk of riding through the plagueinfested streets, far away to some spot as yet unvisited by the plague?
She was uncertain. Haunted by visions of the King’s wrath if any harm should come to the all-important heir, she could not help putting her hands about her neck and shivering. She was no martyr. She was no Anne Askew. She wanted to live, even though she must not so much as think of the man she loved, even though she must be on perpetual guard against her enemies.
While the King had been away she had conducted herself with caution. Cranmer and Hertford, without whose advice she would not have dreamed of acting, were pleased with her, admiring her calm judgment. She herself had written regularly to the King, and in a manner which she knew would please him. Hypocritical, some might say those letters were. Always she applauded his greatness, speaking of him as though he were a god rather than a King, stressing her gratitude for the honor he had done her when he raised her to the throne.
What is a woman to do, she asked herself, when any false step might cost her her life? And is it not better to try to believe that I am honored and should be grateful, to make an attempt to see myself as the King sees me, rather than to rail against my fate? It is the presence of Anne Askew that has set me despising myself. Anne would never demean herself with hypocrisy. Anne would tell the truth and nothing but the truth. She would die rather than write or act a lie. But how different we are! Anne cares nothing for life, and I want to live; I want desperately to live.
In her heart she knew why. The King was not a healthy man; he was many years older than she was… older than Sir Thomas Seymour. Thomas had said: “The future is ours.” She could not help it if she longed for the future, if, while she tried to do her duty as the wife of the King and to accept the cruel fate which had been thrust upon her, she tried also to put the best face upon it and to give herself courage by believing that it could not last for ever and that she would outlive it.
She did not want to die, and if it were necessary to write those fulsome letters, to flatter the monster who could cut off her head with a stroke of the pen, then she would be a hypocrite. She would at least fight for her life.
