Jean Plaidy - The Sixth Wife: The Story of Katherine Parr Страница 38

So men and women stopped to talk in the streets of this matter.

“Queen Katharine Parr is dead. Her husband killed her…for the sake of the Princess Elizabeth. He waited until the child was born… then he poisoned her.”

He poisoned her! That became the simple cry which emanated from all the rumors.

The words held a menace, and the shadow of the ax deepened over the heads of those who had lived close to the King’s sixth wife.

THE END

About the Book

KATHARINE PARR married young to an older gentleman. Again in her second marriage, the caring Katharine nursed an elderly husband. Now in her thirties and a rich widow, Katharine longs to marry again—this time for love. The handsome and exciting Thomas Seymour promises Katharine a life of romance and happiness, and she eagerly accepts. King Henry VIII, meanwhile, is lonely after “putting away” his fifth wife, and begins to look for another. It is Katharine Parr who catches his eye—and is thrown into a life of danger and intrigue as the sixth wife of the fickle and ruthless Henry VIII.

Katharine’s skills as a nurse serve her well with the ailing king, who relies on her to make him comfortable. But as the years pass, no sons are born, and no amount of nursing can distract the restless king from the knowledge that the time to produce more heirs is growing short. Amid religious strife in the court and the country, Katharine’s Protestantism makes her vulnerable to powerful nobles who would remove her from the throne, standing ready to provide the king with grounds to arrest the queen. Katharine and her companions live in constant fear of the king’s displeasure, which they know could lead quickly to execution. As Henry’s health worsens, they dare to hope that the queen will once again be a widow, and once again be free.

Katharine Parr’s story is one of forebearance and fear, of hope and heartbreak. When at last the queen is free to reunite with Thomas, she can finally let down her guard and begin the life she has longed for. But Katharine, who has survived constant threat of arrest at court, is finally undone by the man who has vowed to protect her.

Questions for Discussion

Katharine urged her second husband, Lord Latimer, to downplay his religious convictions in order to avoid the king’s punishment. How far does she follow her own advice to keep dangerous opinions quiet from the court? Does she become bolder as her years with Henry pass? Why?

Katharine and her sister Anne agree that the wedding ring around Katharine’s finger is akin to a noose around her neck. Does this overstate the case? Does Katharine also derive benefits from the throne? Based on Katharine’s experience, is marriage to Henry a survivable state—or was it luck that saved her in the end?

In describing Henry’s style of leadership, Plaidy says that Henry threatens the nobility and courts the commoners. The reader experiences Henry’s reign through the eyes of the court. How do you imagine a commoner would view Henry VIII?

When Katharine asks the king for favors, Henry is pleased to be able to grant her that which he himself quietly wants, allowing him to feel at once benevolent and relieved. Do you think Katharine is aware of this dynamic? Does she orchestrate this dialogue to any degree, or is she sincerely appealing for favors on her own behalf?

Do Mary, Elizabeth, and Edward—bound by their relationship to the king but by little else—consider themselves a family? How would you describe their life in the palace? Having seen Henry’s queens come and go, why do you think the royal children allow themselves to become so attached to Katharine Parr?

Discuss Katharine’s friendship with Jane Grey. Why is the queen so fond of the young girl? Is Katharine a good role model for Jane? If Jane were to become Edward’s queen, what lessons from Katharine would help her in her role? Are there any ways in which Katharine’s example would be detrimental to the pair?

Dr. London’s plot to forge documents implicating Katharine as a heretic is foiled when Katharine takes a hand in her own fate, sending a message to those who would destroy her that this queen will not easily be put away. Does this bold and intelligent image ring true throughout Katharine’s reign as queen consort?

The author often takes us inside Henry’s head to witness the suspicions, longings, and justifications that lead him to act so unpredictably. Does this narrative device work to make him more sympathetic as a character, or more dangerous? Do his feelings about conscience and fraternity with God sound like insanity, or are they understandable as the musings of a man accustomed to great power?

Elizabeth has many of the characteristics that made her father a strong and respected ruler. Does she also have qualities that could lead her to repeat Henry’s cruelty? What do you see as weaknesses?

Anne Askew is in many ways a dangerous friend for Katharine to have. Why does Katharine risk so much to help her? Does Katharine relate to her friend’s religious zeal, or is she just trying to help a friend in need? Is she in any way responsible for Anne’s fate?

Henry VIII is described as a man of many moods and a fierce will. Henry himself repeatedly declares, “A king is still a man.” Amid his many personas—sensualist, sovereign, diplomat, conqueror, husband, patient, father—can you identify one “real” Henry? How would he describe himself? What might Henry the man have been like if he were not king?

After reading Wriothesley’s warrant for her arrest, Katharine despairs until Thomas Seymour urges her to fight for her life. Why does she not fight before this? Does she realize her advantage in having found the lost scroll, or could she have made more of the opportunity?

What does Thomas find so alluring about Elizabeth? How big a part of the appeal is her place in line for the throne? Without her political stature, would Thomas have risked so much to seduce her? How do Katharine and Elizabeth compare in his eyes?

Why does Surrey deliberately provoke the king with his words and actions? Is he motivated by the same kind of reckless delirium that Katharine sometimes feels—or is something else driving him? Does he harbor a real desire to take power from Henry, or does he court danger out of restlessness?

By her fourth marriage, Katharine is an experienced wife—but naïve in the ways of romance. Why does she not see hints of Thomas’ indiscretions earlier? Is she foolish to trust him? If she had known about his proposal to Elizabeth, do you think she would have married Thomas? How could she have saved herself?

About the Author

JEAN PLAIDY is the pen name of the late English author E. A. Hibbert, who also wrote under the names Philippa Carr and Victoria Holt.

Born in London in 1906, Hibbert began writing in 1947 and eventually published over 200 novels under her three pseudonyms. The Jean Plaidy books—about 90 in all—are works of historical fiction about the famous and infamous women of English and European history, from medieval times to the Victorian era. Many were bestsellers in the United States and abroad, although they are currently out of print. At the time of Hibbert’s death in 1993, the Jean Plaidy novels had sold over 14 million copies worldwide.

Prologue

I WAS QUITE YOUNG WHEN I STARTED TO KEEP A JOURNAL. Mama said it would be good for me. She would read it, and that made it like a lesson; then she and Baroness Lehzen could put their heads together and say: The child is too exuberant, too emotional, and lacking in dignity. She is too impulsive and there are too many storms. All true, of course; but during the time of what I called my captivity I was never free from them; and it continued from the day of my birth to that glorious moment on the 20th of June in the year 1837 when the Archbishop and the Lord Chamberlain came to the Palace of Kensington to tell me I was the Queen.

I do not remember ever being alone. I even had to sleep in Mama’s room, and Lehzen used to sit with me until Mama came to bed so that I should not be left to myself. How significant it was that one of the first things that occurred to me on that memorable day was: Now I can be alone.

So in my journal I would write that which would win their approval and that was sometimes not in accordance with my true feelings. I have always found great pleasure in writing, in music and painting; and I truly believe that I could have excelled at any of these occupations if destiny had not had other plans for me.

When I was a child and beginning to be aware of the frustrations of being watched and forbidden to do so many things which I wanted to, I longed to have a secret diary in which I could write down the daily happenings, for one is apt to forget important details if one does not record them at the time. I wanted to write of my life in Kensington Palace, of Lehzen, Spath, of my beautiful lifelike dolls and my scandalous uncles; I wanted to write of sinister Sir John Conroy and his influence on Mama and his determination to ensnare me when I was too young and inexperienced to resist him; I wanted never to forget the shivers he sent down my spine, for I do believe he seemed to me as menacing as my wicked oneeyed Uncle Cumberland. I wanted to be quite frank about the growing change in my feelings towards Mama. Naturally one must love one’s mother; it is a duty; but I used to wish I could stop my eyes from seeing so much and my mind from coming to such conclusions. But that is no way for anyone to act—certainly not one who may become a queen.

If I could have had my secret diary, I could have confided in it. I could have recorded the sudden changes in my feelings. I could have found a reason for those sudden outbursts which Mama referred to as the “storms”. I might have come to a better understanding of myself as well as others.

But now, at this time, I am my own mistress, and in my lonely years when the one who was all the world to me has been taken away, I can indulge my whim. I like to spend long hours remembering the past, re-reading my journals and setting it down as I should have done had it been for my eyes alone. There are differences now from what I wrote then, and in the writing I seem to see myself more clearly, to know myself—and the task absorbs me. I recall days of childhood in Kensington Palace—the prison, as I called it. I like to think back to that time when I first realized that I was not as other children about me, that I was Victoria who was destined for a crown.

That destiny dominated my childhood; it was the reason for Mama’s concern. How she longed for the crown to be mine—far more than I ever did—preferably before I was of age so that she could reign in my stead. How she hated poor old Uncle William because he refused to die! How she hated all my paternal uncles! She was protecting me from them, she would say. I must never forget how much I owed her. Poor Mama, she did not know that one cannot wholeheartedly love, however much one wants to, just because it is one’s duty. There were times when Mama could become quite wearisome.

Now I can write for my eyes alone without consideration of what may be construed by my words, without the probing eyes of Mama or Lehzen finding in my simple observations characteristics which must be suppressed. Poor Mama! Dear Lehzen! They are beyond passing judgement on me now. And I am a lonely widow, with only memories of happier days left to me and the hope of finding comfort in the memory of time past.

The Wicked Uncles

IF MY COUSIN CHARLOTTE HAD NOT DIED SO TRAGICALLY— and her baby with her—I should never have been born and there would never have been a Queen Victoria. I suppose there is a big element of chance in everybody’s life, but I always thought this was especially so in mine. But for that sad event, over which the whole nation mourned, my father would have gone on living in respectable sin—if sin can ever be respectable—with Madame St. Laurent who had been his companion for twenty-five years; my mother would have stayed in Leiningen, though she might have married someone else, for although she was a widow with two children, she was only thirty-one years old and therefore of an age to bear more children. And I should never have been born.

It is hard to imagine a world without oneself, as I remarked to my governess, Baroness Lehzen, when she told me all this. She was a gossip and she liked to talk about the scandals which seemed perpetually to circulate about my family. She excused herself by pointing out that it was history, and because of what lay before me—although it was not certain at that time that I should come to the throne—it was something I should know.

It was unfortunate that my family—on my father’s side—had a flair for creating scandal—although this made those conversations with Lehzen more interesting than if they had been models for virtue. Almost all the uncles behaved without the decorum expected of a royal family; there were even rumours about the aunts. Poor Grandpapa, who had been a faithful husband and kept strictly within the moral code—so different from his sons—had to be put under restraint because he was mad; and Grandmama Queen Charlotte, even though she had been equally virtuous had never found favor with the people. So many queens in our history had failed to win approval because they could not produce an heir; Queen Charlotte had overdone her duty in that respect and fifteen children had been born to her. “Encumbrances,” “A Drain on the Exchequer,” it was said. How difficult it was to please the people!

I was always interested in hearing of my cousin Princess Charlotte, which was natural since I owed my life to her death. Her father, who was the Prince Regent when I was born and became King George IV when I was about seven months old, had created more scandal than any of his brothers and one of the greatest scandals in that family of scandals was the relationship between Charlotte’s parents.

Charlotte had married my mother’s brother, Prince Leopold, and Louisa Lewis, who had lived at Claremont with Charlotte and Leopold, told me they had been true lovers. Charlotte had been a hoyden. “There was no other word for it,” said Louisa, her lips twitching, implying that the frailties of Charlotte made her all the more lovable. That puzzled me considerably and I wondered why some people’s faults made them endearing, when virtues did not always arouse the same kindly feelings.

Charlotte, however, this flouter of conventions, this wild untamed girl, had won the hearts of all about her, and chiefly that of Prince Leopold, her young husband, whose character and temperament were so different from her own.