Read by Clareine Cronin (fifth story in podcast, here, at 55:15)
The King always has blood beneath his fingernails. It is all I think about as he touches me, clumsily, with bloated hands that struggle to obey his desires. Rusty flakes crumble onto my skin, the dried blood of hunted deer and boar though they may as well belong to one of my predecessors. Henry sees his wives as dispensable, to serve his purpose and nothing more. The ghosts of his beheaded wives surround the bed, chanting a word that drowns out his grunts of carnal desire.
Run.
I count the specks of dried blood as they flake, reciting my predecessors' names and fates.
Catherine of Aragon, Anne Boleyn, Jane Seymour, Anne of Cleves, Kathryn Howard.
Divorced, beheaded, died, divorced, beheaded.
A ritual that helps me until his grunts are replaced with snores that allow me to slip away to my own chamber as I, Katherine Parr, intend to survive.
*
I walk down the corridor, head dipped, passing servants and ushers who bow and curtsy. The ghosts follow, they often do, namely Anne Boleyn and Kathryn Howard, whose heads were lost to a sword and axe for no good reason. Even in death, Anne is undeniably fashionable. Her low square neckline set trends, inspiring the black dress I wear now which sets off my auburn hair. Kathryn’s large emerald necklace glints, too big for her teenage body, but not big enough to mask the bloody scar on her neck.
We reach Robert, the flag bearer, who stands outside the chamber of Henry’s Privy Council. He stands silent and holds the staff at an angle, bearing the Royal Standard. It’s the only time I raise my head, to meet his gaze; there are few living souls I trust, and he is one. He blinks twice and the corners of my mouth curl slightly upwards before I drop my gaze again. The ghosts and I move past with the swish of our hooped skirts.
In the privacy of my chamber, I dismiss my Lady-In-Waiting, dear Lady Denny, who presses an envelope into my hand as she leaves. I have no doubt it’ll be from my love, Thomas Seymour, the one I desired when the King requested my hand. I tear open the envelope to find two words that were not written by any lover of mine.
Protestant whore.
The letters swirl on the page until they become indecipherable. I look at Anne.
A threat or a warning? I ask silently, with the raise of an eyebrow.
Both, perhaps. She cocks her head.
But from whom? Now, I look to Kathryn, wise beyond her years.
Take your pick. She shrugs.
Together, we laugh. It’s true—my Protestant sympathies are well known. Had I overstepped my mark?
Kathryn glides towards the miniature portrait of Henry on my dresser.
Henry? I raise both eyebrows this time.
She shrugs again.
It is possible. He could have written this note for my reaction. He likes games, pushing me to the edge then bringing me back. But two can play at that.
*
The next morning, I walk the gardens of Hampton Court Palace where I often take refuge. The air is balmy for January, and sunshine pours over the well-tended greenery. Encouraged by the mild weather, snowdrops and winter aconites bloom, beautiful flowers of milk white and sunshine yellow. Few know about the deadliness of the winter aconite—a potent heart poison. Maybe these dainty flowers could be my way out. I’d rather die by the flower than the axe, by my hand and no one else's.
There are no ghosts today. Instead, I’m accompanied by Lady Denny who walks behind me. When we are no longer in sight of the palace, I turn to speak to her.
“From whom was the letter you gave me last night?”
“I am unsure, your Highness, I found it slipped under your door.” She glances over her shoulder. “You must be careful, there are rumours the King is displeased.”
I cannot help but smirk. The King is often displeased.
We hear the familiar rumble of hooves and turn to see Henry atop a horse, leading a hunting party. The stallion bows under his enormous weight.
Henry cannot walk well any more; leg ulcers pain him greatly and he must be carried everywhere. His only joy is eating which he does in abundance, growing bigger each day than seemingly possible. Like his horses, I know too well what it feels like to be suffocated by his bulk.
Henry must see us, but he does not show it, and briskly moves off. Instead, another member of his party gallops towards us.
“The Lord Councillor requests your presence before the Privy Council, your Highness,” he says to me breathlessly, bowing his head before galloping off.
This is indeed unusual, especially without Henry. Yet, I can handle his advisors on my own, even the Lord Councillor—an insufferable, egotistical maggot of a man who feeds Henry’s hot-headedness no end.
I bend down to pick one of the yellow flowers and spin it between gloved fingers, hoping Anne’s and Kathryn’s ghosts return to give me strength.
*
It is long into the afternoon before I decide to grace the Privy Council with my presence. Outside, Robert stands as usual with the Royal Standard, but it is turned upside down—he is trying to get my attention. After checking behind me, I stride towards him.
“The warrant is out for your arrest,” he whispers.
“I don’t believe it,” I hiss in response, yet feel the blood drain from my face.
“I swear to you, my Grace, I overheard it from the King’s mouth this morn.”
I look into his kind face, curly golden hair falls in front of his wide green eyes. If I ever have a son, I wish him to have half the bravery of this boy. Behind us, the unmistakable drum of marching feet draws closer. I feel light-headed and the corridor swirls before resolving into the images of Kathryn and Anne, who chant over the increasing din.
Run. Run. Run.
This time, I listen. I bring a hand to Robert’s shoulder and touch it—a brief show of gratitude. Turning back, I catch sight of the wretched Lord Councillor at the end of the corridor.
I run in the opposite direction, unsure where to go. Kathryn and Anne glide beside me and I frantically look between them.
Help.
Go where they least expect. Anne sweeps ahead.
Follow us. Kathryn smiles weakly.
I tear down the corridors as fast as my damned dress will allow.
*
A short while later, we stop outside Henry’s chamber.
Surely not. I shake my head. But they are right. He has played his hand, and now I must play mine.
Kathryn and Anne glide through the closed door. I take a moment to catch my breath. He mustn’t know that I know. Smiling, I push open the door.
“Your Majesty, how are you feeling?” I ask.
He rearranges himself with difficulty in his bed. His beady eyes set deep in his swollen face make it hard to believe he was once attractive.
“Your heresy, Katherine, your Protestant beliefs …”
Normally, we would engage in debates at length on the matter, but I recognise the trap.
“Forget them, your Majesty. I only argue to distract from your pain when I tend to your wounds.”
“You see yourself as a teacher, but do not allow yourself to be taught,” he replies.
“Forgive me, I took too much freedom. I am hindered by the weakness of my sex, therefore in all matters I refer myself to your Majesty’s better judgement.” I bow my head, and the silence that follows is deafening.
“Is it really so?” he says at last.
“Of course.” I move to kneel by his bed and place my head on his clammy hand.
“Then, we are perfect friends again.”
I look up at his smiling face. Kathryn and Anne hover behind him, their expressions echoing my disquiet.
He breaks eye contact to wince, groaning with pain.
“Your ulcers are bothering you. I will change your dressings this evening.”
“Doctor Wendy says he has a new treatment.”
“I shall fetch it from him now.” I move towards the door but, as I touch the handle, he speaks again.
“You are clever, Katherine, but don’t get too clever.”
Another warning.
“You knew, didn’t you?” he continues. I freeze. He refers to the warrant for my arrest, I assume.
“You knew I knew,” I realise this as I say the words. He gave me the clues, both the note as well as Robert’s warning—the King would never publicly discuss something so secret.
“Yes, and I now know whom I cannot trust.”
As I walk out, the hairs on my neck stand on end.
*
I follow the ghosts back to my chamber and ponder whether it would be so abhorrent to live as a dutiful wife, to quell the reformist beliefs that burn inside me. Perhaps, I should devote myself solely to Henry. He may not have long left after all.
Kathryn and Anne come to an abrupt halt.
What? I move forward, but they look down.
Blood.
Drops of scarlet lead to my bedchamber.
My heart hammers as I follow the trail to my door which is ajar. I push it open with the bloodied tip of my shoe to reveal a scene of horror.
Robert’s severed head is placed atop my bed, his golden hair soaked crimson.
I fall to my knees, tears blurring my vision.
I cannot live as a dutiful wife. A new fire rages inside me.
*
Hours later, I return with Anne and Kathryn to Henry’s room, dressings and a new ointment in hand. Anne and Kathryn give me a nod as I knock and push open his door.
“Did you visit Doctor Wendy?” Henry does not look at me as I walk in, lying back in his bed.
“Yes, your Majesty, I have the new ointment here.”
I move to take off his dressings. Henry’s many leg ulcerations are purulent and seeping. It is difficult to repress gagging at the stench.
In a large jar, the ointment is thick and tinged yellow. With a spatula, I coat the sores generously as it turns pink, mixing with pus and blood. Henry sweats profusely.
“You have a fever, your Majesty, let me mop your brow.”
“I trust you had a pleasant afternoon,” Henry says as I sponge at his puffy face with damp cloths. Still, he goads me.
“Yes, thank you, your Majesty. After visiting Doctor Wendy, I took another walk in the gardens. The winter aconites are blooming beautifully.”
Henry shivers uncontrollably, flabs of skin rippling.
I do not tell him that I returned to my room and ground down the flowers, roots and all, mixing them into the jar of ointment. Henry’s eyes roll back.
It’s acting quickly. Anne smiles as she glides over, followed by Kathryn.
Still, slower and more painful than the axe. Kathryn takes Anne’s hand.
When I glance up, Robert is with them, a matching heinous scar around his neck. Even in death, his golden hair glistens.
Henry spasms and I count each one aloud.
“Catherine of Aragon, Anne Boleyn, Jane Seymour, Anne of Cleves, Kathryn Howard and I, Katherine Parr.”
Anne, Kathryn and Robert surround the bed.
Thank you. I’ll miss you all. I touch my hand to my chest.
They nod their heads as they disappear, one by one, finally free.
As Henry’s breath shallows, I recite our fates once more, adding mine to the list.
Divorced, beheaded, died, divorced, beheaded, survived.
(c) Leila Murton Poole, 2023
Leila Murton Poole is a writer/director who has just completed a round the world trip without flying; a journey which constantly inspires her work. She usually writes at night so finds that most of her stories have a certain darkness to them. Find out more about her work at leilamurtonpoole.com.
Clareine Cronin trained at Drama Studio London and has extensive experience as a corporate communications trainer and facilitator.
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