The Sixth Wife

Suzannah Dunn

• Publisher: HarperCollins e-books
• Year: 2011
• ISBN:
  9780062047236

A gripping novel of love, passion, betrayal, and heartbreak in the unstable Tudor court following the death of King Henry VIII

Clever, level-headed Katherine Parr has suffered through four years of marriage to the aging and irascible King Henry VIII—and she has survived, unlike the five wives who came before her. But less than a year after the old king's death, her heart is won by the dashing Thomas Seymour, and their hasty union undoes a lifetime of prudent caution.

An unwilling witness to the queen's late-blossoming love, Catherine, Duchess of Suffolk, harbors nagging suspicions of Kate's handsome and ambitious new husband. But as Catherine is drawn deeper into the web of politics ensnaring her oldest friend, it gradually becomes clear that she has her own dark tale to tell. For though Thomas might betray his wife for power, Catherine might betray her for passion, risking everything she has in a world where love is a luxury not even royalty can easily afford.

Thirty-four

In the morning, I was woken from a belated sleep by Kate. There she was, leaning over me as best she could, her hand on my shoulder. There, in my room, at my bedside, with no attendants. I was sitting up in a flash: ‘What?’

She shook her head — Nothing — but there was no smile. ‘It’s just that … you’re in bed so late. It’s not like you.’

‘What time is it?’

‘Eight.’

Not late, then. ‘I didn’t sleep well,’ I mumbled, a propos of nothing. Nothing was making sense.

‘Nor me,’ said quickly and quietly. Then, ‘Can you come to my study when you’re up?’

So, something was the matter. My stomach clenched. She said no more and left. I dressed slowly, shrugging off Bella’s attempts to help, desperate to be alone. Kate knows, I kept telling myself; told myself and told myself — Think, Cathy, think — but still couldn’t believe it. How did she know? How could she possibly know? And what — exactly — did she know? I had a sensation of her hands already around my throat; my own hands were there again and again, to check, to plead.

Kate was alone in her study when I got there; she was pacing but indicated that I should sit. I didn’t want to give myself up to the chair, but nor did I want to risk my legs giving way. Doing as I was told, sitting down, I felt trapped. The room was overly draped, caked in paint and gilt, the air laden with beeswax and motes. Kate looked as she had never before looked: as if she were sick with madness. Her huge, raw eyes darted, unseeing. I had no idea what was about to come my way — nothing would have surprised me, and anything would have — or how it was about to come; no idea how I might try to defend myself, what I could perhaps try to deny. So, this is the end: it was happening, at last, and of course it was. How had I ever assumed otherwise? I was going to be cast out, in disgrace. And when, really, anyway, had it ever been any different? Me, who’d been picked up for a while by a duke. That’s all it had been, my life, the good life that I’d had. I’d never been up to it; I’d made a good show of it but I’d never, really, been up to it, and she knew it. So, this is where it ends, for me. And for me, I didn’t care: Let it come. My boys, though … No, I didn’t think of the boys, didn’t dare. Whatever was about to happen to me I deserved, but the boys, my perfect Suffolk boys, who should have been facing their perfect futures …

Kate paused, leaned on the back of her chair, widened her already wide eyes and exclaimed, ‘It’s Thomas, isn’t it!’ Rushing on in a goading, sarcastic, fake-jocular tone, ‘You know, you’re going to have to help me with this one, Cathy; you’re really going to have to help me. I’m quite sure we can find a way to deal with this, you and me; there must be a way we can deal with it.’

Me, woman of words: I had no idea what to say; there were no words inside me, none. Blood thumped in my ears, and I was trembling, shaking, quaking. How visibly? I was ridiculous, nothing but a bundle of passions and grievances. And her: unrecognisable, too, this frayed, laid-low woman. Witty and daring was how I was supposed to have been; and Kate, clear-sighted and composed. But now look at us. What I’d done had destroyed both of us.

She said, ‘I saw Thomas kissing someone last night,’ and, having said it, she was suddenly a picture of calm. It was me, now, who was obliged to react. Someone: she’d said someone, kissing someone. When I said nothing — desperate for clarification, elaboration — she continued, ‘At one of the doors at the back. Midnight. I just happened to look out and there he was.’ A correction: ‘There they were. Kissing.’ She broke her stillness, stepped to the window.

What had it looked like, that one, brief, reluctantly received touch of his lips to mine? There had been no passion in it. Anger burned away my breath: it had so nearly been all right but now, because of one, pointless, momentary mistake by Thomas, it wasn’t. Had she already been to Thomas with this? If so, what had he said?

‘Of course, it wouldn’t surprise most people, would it, but, well, you know’ — and she turned back to me, impassioned — ‘I really did think it was something I’d never have to worry about, with him. Oh, a lot else, yes. But not that. He’s always been so very, very loving to me. I really did think —’ But there she stopped. When she spoke again, it was to tell me what I needed to know: ‘I haven’t yet spoken to Thomas.’

Just me and her, then, so far. I made myself ask, ‘Who was it? The woman.’ Subdued, my question sounded oddly nonchalant. If she’d replied, Well, it was you, wasn’t it, or, It was you, as you well know, what would I have said? Perhaps I’d have said, Oh, that kissing, you mean. Oh, that. And then perhaps, Oh, no, no, that was just …

She frowned. ‘Who was the woman? I don’t know,’ as if this was of not much more than passing interest, or certainly not her main concern. ‘I couldn’t see.’

Careful, Cathy. Perhaps she was springing me a trap. Again cautiously, I asked, ‘But how could you not see?’

‘It was dark.’ She was exasperated, genuinely: she really hadn’t seen. ‘I’m not bothered who she was, to tell you the truth; I’m bothered that it was Thomas.’

A spark of hope had hit my heart and taken my breath away: she really didn’t know who the woman was!

‘She’s not staff, though,’ she said, and my heart flattened.

‘Not staff?’ I needed to know precisely what she’d seen.

She shook her head. ‘Oh, you know how you know: dress, demeanour … The stairs she was going up, too: this side of the house, not servants’ stairs. Whoever she was, she was one of us.’

Us. I looked down at my hands, tried to think. ‘So, how did you know it was Thomas?’

This, she considered risible. ‘Oh, I know.’ I know my own husband. Then, more reasonably, ‘I just knew, Cathy. It was Thomas.’ She knew him enough to recognise him in darkness, across a garden, merged with someone else’s silhouette.

I asked her what she was going to do.

‘Speak to Thomas.’

What on earth would he say? He was quite likely not to lie but to tell something close to the truth. That’s the problem with him, I realised: he’s not so much a liar as a man who believes his own nonsense. ‘Perhaps it was nothing,’ I suggested. ‘Nothing much.’ A kiss, I meant her to understand: one kiss, a momentary silliness of his.

Sceptical, she said, ‘Yes, that’s probably what he’ll tell me. But —’ She inclined her head, absently tapped the glass in the window; she was thinking. ‘There was considerable familiarity in it,’ she decided.

Panic battered my heart, because there was to be no escape. But then: familiarity. The word had sparked an idea and there it was, bright and insistent. Elizabeth. It was Elizabeth who’d been overfamiliar with Thomas. And now this, the kissing: Kate might believe it of her.

But no.

No, I couldn’t.

Could I?

‘You don’t think it was Elizabeth, do you?’ I only put it to her as an idea; didn’t claim it was Elizabeth. Wouldn’t have dared. I’d still been wondering whether to say anything at all as I’d somehow gone ahead and voiced it, and it sounded properly tentative.

She looked blank. ‘Elizabeth?’

What had I done?

‘Well,’ I flailed, ‘Mrs Ashley …’ but I didn’t say it. Kate, too, said nothing and I feared that this was something else that was about to go against me; she might be about to throw at me, What are you? What kind of woman are you, to suggest such a thing? When she did finally speak, though, what she said was, ‘My stepdaughter. My fourteen-year-old stepdaughter.’

There had been a shift; Thomas was, now, accused. The accusation was out of my hands and had a life of its own. This was complicated, and could easily be exposed as nonsense. I almost said, ‘It might not have been Elizabeth.’ I could still have said it, could have checked the momentum and brought some sense to the matter.

Kate said, ‘Second in line,’ and, full of wonder, ‘He couldn’t do any worse, could he.’

She seemed to require a reply, so I had to say, ‘Probably not, no.’

‘Did he not think what this — whatever it is, just a few kisses or whatever it is — could do to her?’

Her? Her? Oh, believe me, she gets what she deserves.

‘She’s fourteen, Cathy,’ Kate despaired.

Fourteen, just as I was when —

Kate said, ‘Don’t, Cathy.’ She sounded sad. ‘Don’t be angry.’

Was I? Why was I? Unclenching my fists, I glimpsed a scattering of fingernail marks in each palm.

‘It’s for me to be angry,’ she said, ‘if I can work myself up to it. I’m not sure I have the energy. Problem is, I’m getting so used to stupidity from Thomas and having to deal with the consequences.’

As if this were just another of his ill-judged plans.

The way I saw it: even if he hadn’t done what I’d said he’d done, he could have, might have, probably would have. And what had he done? Far, far worse than I’d led her to believe. He’d had sex again and again with his pregnant wife’s best friend. ‘But this,’ I insisted. ‘How could he? And her?’

Kate spoke wearily. ‘Oh, I doubt Elizabeth had much to do with it. Thomas can be very persuasive.’

Had I been persuaded? Yes and no. I didn’t know, I didn’t know the truth of it. And Kate, what about her? Had she been persuaded to marry him? Were we two women who’d let ourselves be persuaded? Is that what had happened to us?

She should rest, I insisted, and think through her approach before confronting either Elizabeth or Thomas. The truth was, I had to get to him before she did. At the door, though, opening it and glancing back, I stopped in my tracks. Because there was something odd in the way that Kate was looking at me. Sneaking a look: that was what she was doing. Moments later, I’d decide that it was as if she didn’t know me. At the time, I came up with no more than an instinctive, ‘What?’

‘Nothing,’ she replied too quickly, adding a similarly quick, utterly unconvincing smile. Then, ‘Nothing. Nothing!’ and laughing, as if giving herself a shake. Only when I was on the other side of the door did I wonder: had she been looking at me as if perhaps I fitted the shape of the woman whom she’d glimpsed with Thomas? That wasn’t it, was it? There in the hallway, hands pressed flat onto the full skirt of my gown, I wondered how distinctive an outline I’d make in semi-darkness. Not distinctive, I told myself: I might well be in other ways — certainly I’d hope to be — but not in my appearance, my size and shape. But, then … that look, that look of hers … Appraising, and quizzical.

I shook off that sickening doubt by rushing around Sudeley to ask after Thomas’s whereabouts, all the time making sure to appear calm. Eventually, I learned that ...