Secrets of the Tudor Court Boxed Set (86 page)

It was war with Scotland that finally broke the routine. In August, an army was sent north to fight England’s traditional enemy. Lord Latimer was one of the commanders and Kathryn prayed daily for his safe return. She was devastated when, just after the Battle of Solway Moss, she received word that he had fallen ill.

“At least he was not wounded,” Nan said.

But Kathryn could not be consoled. When Latimer returned to London, she took a leave of absence from the Lady Mary’s household to nurse him.

In late November, the Earl of Sussex died at Chelsea. Nan felt sorrow for Cousin Mary’s loss. In spite of their age difference, Mary had been fond of her husband. Then it occurred to Nan that the widowed Countess of Sussex might make an excellent wife for the king of England.

The countess did not cooperate. Like Bess Brooke, she stayed away from court. So did Lucy Somerset. Lord Latimer’s declining health might mean his son would soon inherit the title. Nan was certain her friend would prefer a young and virile husband to the aging, ailing king, but she did not let that stop her from mentioning Lucy to His Grace at every opportunity, and Mary and Bess, too.

They moved to Hampton Court in December. The Lady Mary’s lodgings there had been newly refurbished since her last visit, no doubt because the king meant to spend more time in those apartments than in his own. Nan continued to be the focus of his attention. He hinted that he had a special New Year’s gift in mind for her.

Nan grew increasingly nervous as the Yuletide celebrations commenced. Everyone around her seemed cheerful and full of optimism. She avoided most of them, but she found herself drawn to Kathryn Latimer,
who had returned to her duties but showed as little enthusiasm for the festive season as Nan.

“What is wrong, Kathryn?” Nan asked. “Is your husband still ailing?”

“Lord Latimer is dying,” Kathryn said bluntly. Her fingers clenched so hard on the book of prayers she held that she left little pockmarks in the purple velvet cover.

“You should be with him.”

Kathryn burst into tears. “He will not allow it. He insisted I return to court.”

Nan comforted her, surprised all over again, as she rocked Kathryn in her arms, at how tiny the other woman was. She had a delicate build and attractive features, something people rarely noticed because she did not thrust herself forward. With a bevy of vivacious ladies surrounding the princess, she went virtually unnoticed.

Kathryn Latimer did have her enthusiasms, Nan remembered—dancing, jewelry, hunting with a crossbow. And she was by nature gentle, generous, and kind.

Nan stepped back to better study her friend. Kathryn had experience in nursing an ailing spouse. She was experienced in the bedchamber, as well, but no one could fault her for that because she’d gained it through two lawful marriages. She was thirty years old, but still young enough to have children.

The red-rimmed eyes were temporary. Once Lord Latimer was dead, Kathryn would mourn, but she’d recover. She’d undoubtedly remarry. Widows did.

Nan smiled to herself as she offered Kathryn Parr a handkerchief. Unless she was very much mistaken, she had just found the perfect candidate to become King Henry’s sixth wife.

… since he learned the conduct of his last wife, [the king] has continually shown himself sad … but now all is changed and order is already taken that the princess shall go to court this feast, accompanied with a great number of ladies; and they work night and day at Hampton Court to finish her lodgings.

—Eustace Chapuys, imperial ambassador to England, to Mary of Hungary, regent of the Netherlands, December 1542

18

On New Year’s Day, Nan avoided the annual gift giving by pleading a megrim and staying in bed. She did not expect to see anyone but her maid. She knew the king would not trouble her, not with his aversion to illness of any kind.

“Nan?” Kathryn Latimer’s soft voice pulled Nan from a light doze. “I have brought you a poultice.”

Inwardly, Nan groaned. “I only need sleep,” she protested, but Kathryn had already shoved the bed hangings aside.

The smell of herbs tickled Nan’s nose—vervain, she thought, and betony. A moment later a damp, warm cloth settled over her forehead and eyes. Nan felt the feather bed depress as Kathryn sat.

“When you have warning of the onset of a megrim, you might try eating raisins. My first husband often found that effective.”

“Warning?” Nan echoed. Kathryn’s nurturing was so unexpected, so overwhelming, that she had difficulty thinking clearly.

“With a megrim there are usually some signs in advance of the onset. Problems with vision. Nausea. Clumsiness. There are those who say the ailment is akin to the falling sickness, in which case it may be cured by drinking spring water at night from the skull of one who has been slain.”

Nan pushed the poultice aside to stare at the smaller woman. “You must be jesting.”

“Indeed I am not. But there are many other remedies you might try if that one offends you. Lavender flowers in a bag—red silk for noblemen and plainer stuff for others—with bay, betony, red roses, marjoram, clove pinks, and nutmeg blossoms. Put that on your head and it will soothe the pain of most headaches. An infusion of cowslip juice, taken through the nose, can destroy some megrims. Or you might prefer a tisane of meadowsweet, feverfew, lavender, lemon balm, ground ivy, woodruff, melilot, lady’s bedstraw, or pennyroyal.”

“Kathryn, I just want to sleep.”

Through her lashes, Nan saw Kathryn’s eyes narrow. “Or, we could open the middle vein in your forehead.”

Nan’s eyes widened. She blinked when she saw the expression on her friend’s face. It was no use pretending any longer. Kathryn knew she was not ill. Nan removed the poultice from her forehead and sat up. “I have my reasons,” she said in a defensive tone.

“I am certain that you do. And I am pleased to know that you are not in any pain.”

“You will not … tell anyone?”

“Why should I?” When Kathryn started to slide off the bed, Nan caught her arm.

“Wait. Please. You … you seem to know a great deal about herbs and cures.”

“No more than any other countrywoman in charge of a large
household. I am the one Lord Latimer’s dependents come to when they need care. To me, or to the village cunning woman. Physicians are in short supply in rural areas and cost money besides.”

“My mother once had similar responsibilities,” Nan said, “but I have never spent much time in the stillroom. Tell me, what would you recommend for the king’s ulcer?”

Kathryn’s face paled. “I would never presume to make suggestions. His Grace has an army of doctors at his beck and call. Those gentlemen frown on consulting healers, especially uneducated females.”

“You may not have studied medicine at a university, Kathryn, but you are scarcely unlettered.”

“I would never presume—”

“Yes, yes, I understand. But you must have seen grievous wounds, been called upon to nurse a man gored by a bull or a lad injured at swordplay.”

“There was a fellow once who’d been attacked by a wild boar. He did not live.” Kathryn scrambled off the bed and hurried toward the door. “I must return to my duties, as you have no need of my care.”

Nan lay back against the pillows and stared up at the tester overhead for a long time. Could she trust Kathryn not to betray her? She would have to. But she would have to be very cautious in implementing her plan to bring the soon-to-be-widowed Lady Latimer to the king’s attention.

W
HATEVER
K
ING
H
ENRY
had intended to give Nan as a New Year’s gift, he had apparently reconsidered by the time she recovered from her megrim and returned to the Lady Mary’s presence chamber. His Grace greeted her warmly and demanded that she join him to play the card game Pope July, but he made no reference to her absence, nor did he present her with any bauble.

The return to court of Sir Thomas Seymour, the late queen’s younger brother, provided the next diversion. Sir Thomas looked just as Nan remembered him—tall, dark, and handsome. Feminine heads turned as he strode across a room. He even attracted the attention of those who
were usually immune to the charms of flashy courtiers, Nan herself and Kathryn Latimer.

Sir Thomas noticed Kathryn, too.

“Lady Latimer is married,” Nan warned him when she next had occasion to dance with Sir Thomas.

“I hear her husband is on his deathbed,” he countered. “She’ll soon be ripe for the plucking.”

Not by you,
Nan vowed as she watched him head straight to Kathryn to ask for the next dance.

Nan kept close to Kathryn after that, although she could not be with the other woman every moment. And when the king asked Nan to sup with him, she took Kathryn along.

King Henry frowned at the sight of two women when he’d invited only one, but he accepted Kathryn’s presence with good grace. “Two beautiful ladies,” he boomed. “I am truly blessed.”

Another place was hastily set and, with the king’s permission, they sat and supped. Kathryn, as was her wont, said little during the meal. Nan encouraged King Henry to do most of the talking. He was in exceedingly good spirits until he rose from table and put weight on his bad leg. He gasped in pain.

“Your Grace,” Nan whispered, appalled. “I believe your bandage needs to be changed.” A horrible yellow stain, streaked here and there with red, had seeped through the king’s hose. The stench that rose from it made Nan’s supper try to climb back up her throat. She stepped quickly away, barely managing not to gag.

The king’s gentlemen surrounded him. Someone brought fresh bandages. A moment later, they fell back as the king roared, “Incompetent bumblers! Can no one change a dressing without causing me more agony?”

A low, soothing voice answered. “I can, Your Grace.” Moved to pity by his suffering, Kathryn Latimer slipped gracefully through the crowd of courtiers and knelt at the king’s side.

*  *  *

B
Y THE END
of the third week in February, King Henry was visiting his daughter’s apartments two or three times every day. It was no longer Nan he came to see. To Nan’s great relief, His Grace now wanted Kathryn beside him when he played cards or threw dice. Soon he began to send her gifts, small tokens of his esteem.

Lord Latimer obligingly died at the end of February and was buried on the second of March. His widow mourned, but she did not put on widow’s weeds. “The king insists that I continue to wear bright colors,” she confided to Nan.

“Then you must do as he wishes.”

“It is no hardship.” Kathryn managed a shy smile. “I am particularly fond of red.”

“And the king,” Nan murmured, “seems particularly fond of your company.”

“I did not set out to draw him away from you, Nan. You must believe that.”

“I never thought any such thing,” Nan assured her. “And I ask no more than to see King Henry be happy.”

“He is … very kind to me.”

“May I be blunt, Kathryn? The king is lonely. He would like to take another wife, but he wants neither a foreign princess nor a slip of a girl. He wants a companion. Someone to comfort him in his declining years.”

“There were many who said he wanted you.”

Nan shook her head. “I am familiar to him. Like an old shoe.” She forced a laugh. “And I am not brave enough to deal with him when his leg pains him or his temper is short. I fear for my family at those times. What I do here at court has repercussions as far away as Cornwall.”

“I have family, too.”

“But your brother and your sister are both at court and already in favor with the king. He even remembers your mother fondly, from her days in service to Catherine of Aragon. When he thinks of my mother, he remembers Botolph’s conspiracy against the Crown.”

Nan took note of the pity in Kathryn’s eyes. She told herself that was
good, nearly as useful as sympathy. Kathryn must believe her when Nan said she did not want the king for herself.

“I do not think I am suited to be queen,” Kathryn said quietly.

“You are as well born as Anne Boleyn or Jane Seymour or Catherine Howard.”

“That is not what I mean.” Color stained her cheeks and she did not meet Nan’s eyes. “There was … someone else who showed an interest in me during my husband’s illness. Someone I would … prefer to the king.”

“Sir Thomas Seymour, I presume. Kathryn, Tom Seymour is a notorious womanizer.”

Nan could have gone on categorizing Seymour’s flaws, but if Kathryn had fallen under that clever rogue’s spell, she was not likely to listen to warnings. Criticism would only make her more determined to have him.

“If you truly care for Sir Thomas,” Nan said instead, “you must have no more to do with him. The king has a jealous nature. He would rather destroy you both than let another man have what he desires.”

“Surely not!”

“I have seen the way the king looks at you, Kathryn. He’ll not let another man have you.”

“But … but I am not suited to be his wife. I cannot give him children. I have been married twice and never conceived. The fault is clearly mine.”

“The king has heirs enough.” Nan lowered her voice. “It is possible he lacks the ability to sire more children. He has not … we have not—”

She broke off when she saw the shocked expression on Kathryn’s face. Checking carefully to make sure no one was near enough to overhear, Nan leaned closer to her friend.

“Could you bring yourself to marry the king if you did not have to couple with him?”

“I … I do not know. But surely, if he is incapable—”

“I cannot be certain, but I think that is why he has not sent for me. Not once since before his marriage to Queen Anna.”

“But with Catherine Howard—”

“If he satisfied her, why did she risk everything to be with Tom Culpepper?”

Kathryn’s brow furrowed in thought. “There was a story that Lord Latimer told me. About the trial of George Boleyn, Lord Rochford, before the House of Lords. He was handed a slip of paper and asked if his sister, the queen, had ever made such a claim. Rochford knew already that his life was forfeit. The king was that desperate to rid himself of Anne Boleyn and marry Jane Seymour. So he pretended to misunderstand. He read aloud what was written on the paper—that the king was well nigh impotent.”