Katharine Parr, the Sixth Wife, page 2
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It was a mild winter and the older children were out of doors most days, playing ball, catch or hide-and-seek in the gardens and the vast hunting park, sailing their wooden boats on the River Lea, which fed the moat, or hunting for greenery to make Christmas garlands. They were given ponies and taught how to ride them, and were allowed to accompany the adults when they went hunting or hawking. Katharine loved being out in the fresh, crisp air; she was enthralled by the soaring flights of the falcons, the thrill of the chase and the feeling of freedom being in the saddle gave her. She was fearless, urging her willing pony on to ever greater exploits. Will was happy too. If their cousins had ever been reluctant to admit a boy to their pastimes, they had forgotten it; he was one of them now. Every day, as dusk fell, the children would arrive in the kitchens red-cheeked with their buskins muddy and their hair tousled, and Cook would give them drinks of steaming aleberry.
Not long after Katharine and her family arrived at Rye House, they were joined by a cousin, Elizabeth Cheyney. At twelve, she was much older than the Parr children, but she was pleased to join in their games and tried to mother them, although she got short shrift there. Only the youngest ones suffered her to fuss over them. Katharine felt sorry for Anne, who didn’t like being dressed up and pulled about, yet she was grateful to Elizabeth for diverting her. She loved her little sister, and would have spent more time with her, but Anne was too young to enjoy the many exciting distractions at Rye House, not least of which was Katharine’s growing friendship with Magdalen Parr. There was a warmth and spirit about the girl that drew her, and soon they were inseparable. And so the busy winter days passed, until the first buds of spring appeared in the gardens.
* * *
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As the days lengthened, Mother prepared for her confinement. She took from the bottom of her traveling chest the swaddling bands and tiny garments that Katharine, Will, and Anne had worn, and had them washed.
A midwife was sent for. The children were shooed away when Mother’s pains began, and Elizabeth was ordered to take them out into the park, where they spent a happy day running about.
When they returned, they found Uncle William in the hall, his countenance somber.
“Your mother is well,” he said, “but, sadly, the babe was born dead.”
Katharine burst into noisy tears for the sister she would never know. Aunt Mary hastened to comfort her, cuddling her against her warm bosom, as Anne joined in the wailing, not to be left out.
“Can we see Mother?” Will asked.
“When she has rested, child,” Aunt Mary said.
When they did enter Mother’s bedchamber, she held out her arms to them. “God has seen fit to take your sister,” she said in a shaky voice as they climbed up on the bed. “But He has left me you three dear children. And the little one has gone to be with your father. We must not mourn them too much. They are in Heaven, with God, where we all aspire to be. We will remember them both in our prayers.”
* * *
—
When Mother arose from her lying-in two weeks later, she spent hours closeted with Uncle William and Father Cuthbert, who was visiting Rye House before traveling on to Lincoln, where he was a canon at the cathedral.
“We are drawing up a plan for your education,” she told Katharine one afternoon, when they were all together in the parlor. “I shall have to return to the Queen’s service at some stage, and Uncle William has agreed that you will remain here to be tutored with your cousins. I will be here as often as I can to see you and discover what progress you are making.”
Young as she was, Katharine was aware that her mother was a clever woman who cared passionately about learning. She could speak French and even Latin.
“Your mother has very enlightened ideas,” Uncle William said. “She has decided that you girls will receive the same education as William. It’s all a bit beyond me; I’m just a plain fighting man, so I’m leaving the organizing of it to you, Maud.”
“Your mother is following the example of our kinsman, Sir Thomas More,” Father Cuthbert told Katharine. “He has had his daughters taught on an equal footing with his son. Their learning is renowned. The King and Queen are taking Sir Thomas’s advice in educating the Princess Mary.”
“Girls are as intelligent as boys,” Mother declared. “They are not as weak as some would have us believe.”
“Indeed, they are not!” Father Cuthbert agreed, though Uncle William looked slightly dubious.
“I keep an open mind,” he grinned. “Who am I to question the wisdom of Sir Thomas More and the King?”
“Oh, go on with you!” Aunt Mary said, giving him a playful buffet.
Katharine had enjoyed the lessons Mother had been giving her for the past year, when she was on leave from the court. She was a good teacher and enjoyed imparting her knowledge to her children. From the way the adults were talking, this new plan for her education sounded exciting.
Uncle William was looking speculatively at Mother. “It’s early days yet, Maud, but you are still young, and some gentleman of the court may offer you marriage. If that happens…”
“No,” Mother said firmly, her fair cheeks flushed. “I do not intend to marry again. I cannot jeopardize Will’s inheritance, which I hold in trust for him. No, William, I mean to devote my life to my children. I would see them well educated and well married. And I have a duty to the Queen too.”
“Well, if you change your mind, you know that the children will always have a home here, if need be,” Uncle William smiled.
He told Mother that she could have the smaller parlor behind the dais for a schoolroom. Tables and stools were provided for all the children except the youngest, who were to wait until they were four before they joined the lessons.
* * *
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The months passed tranquilly. They had been at Rye House a year, eighteen months…Every day began with prayers. Mother was a devout woman and desired to instill in her children and those in her charge a deep love of God and obedience to His Word. She found an excellent tutor in Uncle William’s household chaplain, Dr. Clarke, who taught his pupils about something called the New Learning.
“You know that the Bible contains the Scriptures, which are the Word of God?” he asked them. They all nodded. “For hundreds of years, the Scriptures have always been in Latin, and priests have sought to explain them to us. Now, scholars are seeking a better understanding of Latin and Greek, so that they can read the Bible for themselves. One day, God willing, we will all be able to read it in English, and it is for that reason, more than any other, that you children must be diligent at your lessons.”
Katharine loved the Bible stories her mother told them. How wonderful it would be to read them for herself. She worked hard at her Latin lessons and did so well that Dr. Clarke taught her some Greek too.
“You have an aptitude for languages, child,” he told her, beaming.
Her mother taught them French, which Katharine picked up easily. Anne did too, when she was old enough to join the older children in the classroom. They were a happy group, the eight of them, fair and auburn heads bent over their books, with the sun streaming in through the latticed window. Their mornings were devoted to lessons and, in the afternoons, they ran free out of doors, playing endless games of ball, chase, and make-believe, or building snowmen and gathering holly and ivy in the winter. So happy was Katharine in those heady days of childhood that, after Mother first returned to court, leaving her standing in tears under the gatehouse, watching until the little procession vanished in the distance, she barely missed her. She was lost without Will, though, when, in the spring of 1520, at the age of six, thanks to Mother’s influence with the Queen, he was taken as a page in the King’s train when his Grace went to France to meet with the French King. When he got home in July, he was full of the wonders he had seen.
“They are calling it the Field of the Cloth of Gold,” he related, “because so many people were wearing their finest clothes. There was wondrous splendor and pageantry, and I have never seen such crowds. The King glittered with jewels! He is a mighty man indeed! When I grow up, Kate, I am going to be a courtier!” Will was never content with his life at Rye House after that.
Uncle William was there more often than Mother was, a constant and affectionate father figure. Katharine knew it was thanks to him that she was enjoying life so much. When she was eight, wanting to tell him how much she loved him and show her gratitude, she decided to give him the Book of Hours she had inherited from her father, and wrote a special dedication in it: Uncle, when you do on this look, I pray you remember who wrote this in your book. Your loving niece, Katharine Parr. There were tears in her uncle’s eyes when he read it.
Chapter 2
1523–1525
In April, when the world was fresh and green and the trees were bursting with birdsong, Katharine looked at herself in her burnished silver mirror and decided she liked what she saw. She was nearly eleven now, and becoming quite the graceful young lady her mother wanted her to be. Her features were pleasing, her hazel eyes warm and bright. If there was a flaw, it was that her nose was a little too long and turned up, like her brother’s. She had grown taller than most girls her age, and she was slender, even with the small breasts budding beneath her bodice.
She hurriedly brushed her long auburn hair and hastened downstairs to join the others in the schoolroom. This morning, they were to study Petrarch’s sonnets as an aid to learning Italian, and Cicero. She liked Cicero and agreed with him that a room without books was like a body without a soul. Her younger cousins thought he was boring, and that living with her nose in a book would ruin Katharine’s eyesight and make it harder for her to secure a husband, but Magdalen and Anne understood. Neither they nor Katharine were bothered about finding husbands. They were happy as they were. As the wise Cicero said, “If you have a garden and a library, you have everything you need.” She looked fondly at the books lined up on top of the court cupboard. Precious things indeed!
But before they could get to Petrarch and Cicero, they were to study mathematics. It was Father Cuthbert’s idea. A keen mathematician himself, he had once written a treatise on arithmetic. On his frequent visits to Rye House, he liked to see what progress the children had made. Katharine was good with figures and geometry. It was deeply satisfying solving the conundrums they posed.
It was not Dr. Clarke who walked into the schoolroom that morning, but Mother, who was home on leave from her duties at court, and Aunt Mary, followed by Elizabeth Cheyney, who, at eighteen, had heavy, well-bred features with a certain demure charm.
“Your good tutor has a megrim,” Mother told them, as they rose from their curtseys and Will from his bow. “You will have to put up with us for today, girls. Will, Dr. Clarke tells me that you have an essay on Julius Caesar to finish, so you will get on with that.”
“And you, young ladies, will accompany me to the still room to make up some physick for the stores,” Aunt Mary told them.
Katharine sighed; she would rather have been at her books. But Mother was ever insistent that girls should be taught to be efficient in running a large household, against the time when they should be married. On certain days, when Will was learning horsemanship, fighting skills, and gentlemanly sports, she and Aunt Mary would teach their daughters how to budget and keep accounts, manage the servants, oversee the preparation and service of food, and become familiar with the mysteries of the still room, which included everything from jam-making to distilling scents and mixing medicines. Katharine would much have preferred to be out riding with Will, or even practicing fencing with the sergeant-at-arms in the courtyard. How she envied her brother his masculine freedom!
“There is no need to make a face, Katharine,” Mother said. “Domestic tasks are as important for young ladies as book-learning, and have to be done. There is no point in walking around with a head full of Cicero if your husband is roaring for his dinner! Perhaps you would rather I set you to spinning?”
Katharine caught the twinkle in Mother’s eye. She knew her daughter hated spinning. Probably she herself would also have liked nothing better than to be left alone with her books. But, with Mother, duty always came before her personal inclinations.
“Before we get started,” Mother said, “we have some good news.”
“Elizabeth is to marry the son of Lord Vaux,” Aunt Mary told them. Elizabeth blushed, looking a trifle smug. Lord Vaux was her guardian, and the young couple had been betrothed in infancy; it was an excellent match, for she would one day be a baroness. At fourteen, Thomas was a stolid-featured boy, but old for his age—already, he was studying at Cambridge. He had visited Rye House with his father from time to time over the years, and Katharine had been impressed by his learning and the poems he composed. He and Elizabeth were well suited.
The girls kissed Elizabeth and congratulated her, but Aunt Mary forestalled them, raising her hand. “It is to be a double wedding,” she said. “Magdalen, your father has found you a husband too.”
As her sisters gasped, Magdalen went white. She loved her life at Rye House and Katharine knew that she regarded marriage as something that would happen far off in the future.
“Are you struck speechless, child?” Aunt Mary asked.
“I am am-amazed,” Magdalen stuttered.
“Don’t you want to know who the lucky bridegroom is?” Mother smiled at her.
“He is Ralph Lane of Orlingbury in Northamptonshire,” Aunt Mary said, without waiting for Magdalen to reply. “He is fourteen, just a year older than you, and he is set to inherit a fair manor house with twenty rooms.”
Magdalen burst into tears. “Mother, I do not want to marry anyone, however rich! I don’t want to leave you and Father, or Rye House.”
Aunt Mary put comforting arms around her. “It is natural to feel some reluctance, dear child. You are young and the prospect of marrying must feel strange to you. But you have a careful father, who has made a good match for you, and you will not be leaving immediately. After the wedding you will stay here until you are fourteen. We think you are too young at present to bear the duties of marriage, so you will go to Orlingbury next spring. That will give you time to get used to the idea. And it’s not at the ends of the earth—we will be able to visit each other.”
“So I can stay here for another year?” Magdalen raised a tear-streaked face.
“Yes, my chick, you can. And, in that time, we will make you a lovely wardrobe against your becoming a fine lady.”
Magdalen dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief, sniffing a little. Katharine felt sorry for her—and for herself, for she knew that she would miss her friend dreadfully when she left for Northamptonshire.
That afternoon, Magdalen went off on her own, striding through the park. She needed time alone to think, she said. When she returned, Katharine and Anne were practicing dance steps in the hall as Will strummed his lute. At the sight of Magdalen, they ceased, but she put on a brave smile and bade them continue. Katharine adored dancing, but she could not put any heart into it that day. It was the same with chess and making music, other pastimes she loved—they offered little distraction. Normally, she loved listening to Mother’s tales of the court, that fabulous, fascinating place she longed to see, yet, that evening, as Mother chatted with Uncle William and Aunt Mary, she could not concentrate. It had just dawned on her that she too might be found a husband before very long, and that Magdalen might not be the only one who was being torn away against her will from the earthly paradise that was Rye House.
* * *
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Mother returned to court the following week. When she came home for the weddings, she looked very pleased with herself. Gathering her children about her in the parlor, she embraced Katharine.
“My dear child, I have excellent news!” she said. “I have found you a husband, a better match than I could ever have expected.”
Katharine suddenly felt sick. It was the news she had feared to hear. She had known it would come, but she had been praying that it would not be soon.
She would not break down, as Magdalen had. She would not dash her mother’s hopes for her or spoil her happiness. “That is marvelous news,” she said, surprised that her voice sounded so steady. “Who am I to wed?”
“Lord Scrope of Bolton’s son!” Mother was triumphant. “Think of it! He is the heir to a barony. His grandfather, Lord Dacre, who is cousin to your father, himself suggested it. Lord Scrope is his son-in-law. Henry Scrope is thirteen, just the right age for you, and Lord Dacre thinks you will be a good match for him. A marriage between you will strengthen our ties with our noble kinsfolk in the north. I have already written to Lord Scrope. With Lord Dacre’s backing, he must agree.”
Katharine relaxed a little. With any luck, Lord Scrope would not agree, for all her mother’s excitement. Why should he marry his heir to a knight’s daughter with only a modest dowry? And she was but eleven, not yet old enough for marriage, and Mother might decide that she should wait until she was fourteen before going to live with her husband. She might have another three years at Rye House left to her.
“Bolton is a long way away,” she said. “It would pain me to go so far from you.”
“But it is a great castle,” Mother protested, “and I dare say Henry Scrope will be often at court, so we will see each other frequently. I will ask the Queen for a place for you when you are married.”
