Queen's Gambit: A Novel of Katherine Parr (46 page)

‘I will not let it happen to you. I
will do anything.’

‘Anything?’

She had thought about it all night, praying,
waiting for a sign from God, for permission. None came – God was silent – but she knew
she would step into sin rather than face the scaffold. She had had enough of the
relentless, clinging dread and having to divine the King’s whims, mould herself
into whatever shape fitted, the permanent holding of her tongue for fear of something
slipping out unbidden. Though in the end it was not her tongue but her eyes that
betrayed her: that eternal moment in the King’s chambers haunts her still, when
she slipped for an instant into Thomas’s gaze and gave her innermost world
away.

Now either she is to survive, or the
King.

‘Anything, Kit. I mean it,’
Huicke had replied.

‘He will not get rid of me, Huicke. I
will get rid of him first.’ Her words had sounded like the hiss of a cat and she
wondered then if she was possessed, part of her horrified to the core by the sound and
shape of her own utterings.

‘I said anything, Kit.’

‘The poultice.’

Huicke nodded.

‘Foxglove, henbane, hemlock. Add them
all. You know what will do it.’ She felt cold to the bones just saying it; it is a
chill that has settled in, filled her veins with ice. ‘But take great care,’
she added, ‘that it doesn’t touch your own skin.’

‘Kit,’ whispered Huicke,
‘you know what this means?’

‘I know.’ She had had the sense
then of having passed over an invisible line, beyond which she was no longer herself and
where deeds could not be measured by the normal scale of things. She was no longer the
person she had always been. ‘It is he or I.’

She had gripped dear Huicke then around the
wrists, as if she were clinging on to the broken threads of her lost self. ‘Just
add a little, so it smells the same, and its effects will be gradual.’ She
appalled herself at the way the words slipped out of her mouth so easily, and the care
she had taken to think it all through, even down to Huicke’s gloves that would
protect him. And knowing that he, of all people, would do it for her, this terrible
thing.

It is that which horrifies her now – the
premeditated nature of her act, the ease with which she has dispensed with God. She no
longer knows herself, can barely look even her closest ladies in the eye; she lingers
alone, pondering on what she has set in motion, entertaining her own personal furies
that will never leave her now. Each time she hears news of the King’s
deterioration they flap about her head like
night-bats that peck at
her soul, ripping it open, emptying its last shreds of goodness. This is the soul she
must live with for eternity.

The monkeys sit by the fire. François
quietly picks a nit from Bathsheba’s fur, tutting and murmuring to her in their
monkey tongue. It is a gesture of such tenderness it makes Katherine feel the sharp stab
of tears deep behind her eyes and the tug, like a fish hook in her gut, of the love she
still has for dear, dear Thomas. François strokes his monkey wife now, the little ape,
with his odd hand, so much like a man’s but longer, made for clinging to branches.
Seeing them, she clucking with pleasure, he running his elongated finger behind her
furred ear, sends a wave of longing through her.

And she had felt it again, in that moment
when her eyes had met Thomas’s, the moment that stretched into a little lifetime.
The King was right, she supposes, for that instant was a whole, entire betrayal: Thomas
may as well have been her lover then, and the King may as well have been a cuckold, for
the merging of their eyes was more intimate by far than any night she has passed in the
King’s bed. The thought is as good as the deed, some churchmen will tell you. Her
insides are plucked at by a longing for tenderness, just a moment of it, like the monkey
moment she has witnessed. And she has put herself, like those little beasts, in a
godless place with all this.

She wonders where Thomas is now, fears for
him, hopes he has spirited himself away from court. Or perhaps not, for that would make
him seem culpable. He should stay there under the King’s nose, proving his
innocence, for he is not guilty, and his brother Hertford is rising so fast now, Thomas
will surely be taken up in his wake. He cannot be condemned for inspiring such a love,
for his blue eyes. But he can. She
knows that. And now she has damned
herself and Huicke.

But the thing she has started cannot be
stopped. She struggles for breath, feeling faint, holding the wall for fear that she
will fall, dragging herself to the escritoire. She pulls the cork from the ink. It
tumbles to the floor, leaving a black trail on the flags. Taking a quill, she dips it
and begins to write, the nib scratching its way over the paper. She must tell Huicke to
stop. Her letter is brief and oblique, she does not want to raise suspicion.
What we
discussed
, she writes,
will not be necessary
. She sprinkles sand on to
the wet ink, shaking it away, folding the thick paper, dropping a glob of red wax to the
join, pressing her seal into it – the Queen’s seal.

She calls the usher and the letter is
dispatched in an instant, but it is futile to think she can undo the secret poisonous
ministrations of the past weeks.

A letter arrives from Westminster. It is a
summons. She is to prepare to leave with just a few of her ladies. Her gut tightens like
a fist. This is it – the start of her journey to the Tower. Her ladies pack again and
they travel towards the city in bitter, driving sleet, struggling upwind, barely moving
against the invisible currents. It takes an age. Time is governed by its own laws,
thinks Katherine, unable to erase the memory of that instant when she had entered into
the periwinkle world of Thomas’s eyes, and how it had stretched out into a
thousand lifetimes of bliss.

The Tower looms, iron grey against the grim
sky. She cannot look at Surrey’s bloodless ghoul head on the bridge. Cat Brandon
gasps and chokes back a sob. Katherine had forgotten that they’d been close once.
Cat had confided it, told of the poems he’d written for her. But that was an age
ago, before they became who they are – who he
was
. The Tower
is above them now. She steels herself, but the barge struggles on upriver. She will
not allow herself to imagine that this is a reprieve.

They pull up to the Westminster steps. There
is no troop of yeoman guards waiting for her, brandishing their halberds. They cross the
courtyard, blown about by the bitter wind that makes the ribbons of their gowns fly
about and their hoods flap like flags, masking the soft pat of their feet on the damp
stones and the rustle of their skirts, as they rush to the steps and the warm hall
beyond. A few people are gathered there, a sombre bunch who bow as the ladies pass.
There is no music, no gaming, everything is muted and still as if they are in the eye of
a storm.

In her chambers a fire has been lit and
candles, for though it is still early it is quite dark. She sits with Rig curled in her
lap, unable to put her mind to anything, while Dot and the others go about arranging
things. There is some noise beyond the door and her usher announces Hertford. The time
has come, she thinks, they are here to take me. She remembers Hertford coming to take
her to Henry on the day she learned she was to marry him; it was not a proposal but an
order wrapped in velvet.

The King had surprised her then with his
tenderness, the way they had looked together at his book of hours, seen his
father’s words scratched there, the pressed primrose. She had seen a glimpse of
the man he was, but she has not seen that man often enough of late – just the other one,
his terrifying double. She can hear the sad tinkle of those beautiful glasses smashing
against the hearth surround, the little fragments of crystal flying out, catching the
light like sparks.

Hertford is alone save for a hovering page
who carries his effects for him. He drops on to his knee and makes a fuss of
removing his cap without looking at her directly. There is something
of his brother in his posture; she has always seen it. It makes her eyes smart.

‘Hertford,’ she says,
‘there’s no need for all that; come and sit beside me. What news do you
bring?’ She surprises herself by the steadiness of her voice, as if nothing had
occurred, as if she is the same Katherine, the same Queen she always was, and not frozen
to the core and jumping with fear at every sound.

Hertford settles on the bench next to her
and, looking at the floor, murmurs, ‘He has not long to live.’

Her throat chokes up and she wants to ask
how long, but no words come out. Hertford takes it for tears rather than the guilt that
is clogging her up, making her struggle for breath.

‘It is a matter of days.’

She finds a small voice at last. ‘Did
he
send you?’

Hertford nods. ‘He thought you should
know. He would like you to go to him in the morning.’

The relief washes over her in a warm wave
but it cannot take the frost out of her bones. She may be safe from the King’s
wrath but God’s is far greater.

Huicke has Katherine’s letter tucked
inside his shirt where it chafes and irritates his skin. The room is stuffy and fetid
with death. He would like to see her – or get word to her, at least – to let her know
that God is taking the King’s life himself, without their help. He knows she has
arrived at Whitehall, as Hertford was sent to greet her, but dares not leave the
King’s sickbed without permission. Doctor Owen and Doctor Wendy have their heads
together. They are discussing whether to lance the King’s lesion again or to
cauterize it; they don’t include Huicke. He is not one of them, never has
been. He is the Queen’s physician and they fear that he will
take a slice of their pie, for the King favours him and his novel remedies. They are all
circling, manoeuvring themselves into position. None dare tell him he is dying, for it
is treason to talk of the King’s death. Huicke is glad not to be important enough
for such a task.

Lord Denny leans in towards the great
wheezing man in the bed, his head almost on the pillow, whispering to him and listening
carefully to his rasping responses. It is the meek Denny who is the one to finally
muster up the guts to tell the King he must prepare for death. Huicke, who had never
thought much of the man, is impressed. Behind him are Wriothesley and Paget, taking
notes. It is the will they are discussing – the new will. For the hyenas have played on
the King’s disdain of women, quietly suggesting one thing and another. Snippets of
what has been said buzz about the room like flies: weakness of morals; lack of
steadfastness; preoccupation with the flesh.

In the end, though, it is something that
Wriothesley says that does it. ‘Women’s judgement with regard to marriage
can be so flawed,’ he’d said.

The King had slapped a huge hand down
against the sheet and croaked, ‘We shall create a council to govern the country
until the Prince reaches his majority.’

So they had ousted Katherine in the end, and
with such ease, and tossed names about for their council, which shall, it seems, be made
up of them and their cronies. Huicke is happy to hear that Will Herbert has been
suggested for the council – he’s Katherine’s brother-in-law and will stand
up for her – but Will Parr will not be among them. They are all at sea without someone
to look to for direction and naturally turn to Hertford, who is blooming with
confidence.

He may have timed his blossoming to
perfection, but he is still capable of misjudgement, however. As Huicke watched, he had
moved to the King’s bedside and knelt there to ask, ‘And Thomas, my brother
Thomas, shall he have a seat, Your Majesty?’

The King had given an almighty roar –
‘NO!’ – the loudest thing he had uttered since his arrival at Whitehall. So
it wasn’t Katherine’s imagination. Huicke pondered on the irony of the King
finally being dispatched by his own jealousy: that single shout had precipitated a
terrible fit of coughing that they’d all feared would put an end to him that
instant, and he has barely been able to speak since.

Huicke pours out a dose of opium, which he
administers, watching as the black eyes lose their hardness and begin to swim into
delirium. Hertford returns, saying that the Queen is well and awaits her summons, but
the King is elsewhere, beyond comprehension. Owen and Wendy cluck about, dripping
tinctures into the gaping mouth. The hyenas position themselves. Cranmer is called for,
climbing on to the bed beside the great hulk of the King. The Archbishop smudges the oil
on to his forehead with a thumb and takes his hand, quietly incanting, just as the last
drops of life leak out of the King.

It is as if the very stones of the palace
heave a sigh of relief.

Katherine awaits her summons. No one comes.
Time passes. Dinner is put before her but she struggles to eat. Her ladies are quiet,
barely speaking above a whisper, and fidget as they sit with her. They are all in a
limbo of waiting. The iron clock chimes each time it passes the hour, slothfully. Supper
is served. Nothing. They retire for the night. Katherine doesn’t
sleep, not even for a moment. She thinks of the will, of becoming Regent, wonders if
she has the strength. She will have to tighten her bonds with Hertford. Questions fly
about her head. Has Henry rallied? Is she forgiven? What of the poison? Where is Thomas?
She listens to the pelting rain and watches dawn break through a crack in the bed
hangings, a bruised morning sky struggling to assert itself over the darkness.

She rises first and walks out along the
gallery. Save for the relentless thrum of rain, the place is deathly quiet, as if the
plague has taken everyone in a single night. She sits in a window embrasure, wrapping
her gown about her against the draught. She looks down at her hands; her nails are
bitten to the quick. When did she start biting her nails? From there she has a view of
the door to the King’s rooms and the two scarlet-liveried yeomen outside. They
seem to pretend she is not there, if they see her at all, and her mind drifts, wondering
if she is not perhaps already a ghost.