The Rose Without a Thorn

The Scribe

THE FOLLOWING DAY Katherine was taken out to the scaffold, which had been set up on Tower Green before the church of St. Peter ad Vincula.

She was calm and dignified and there was an air of resignation about her. She looked very beautiful. A small crowd of people had come to watch her die. I noticed that the Duke of Norfolk had the grace not to be among them.

She stood by the block on which, the previous day, she had lain her head in practice, and she turned to the headsman, who looked most disconcerted.

She said to him firmly: “Pray hasten in what you must do.”

He knelt before her and begged her pardon.

She repeated: “It is what you must do.” Then she faced the crowd and said firmly: “I die a Queen, but I would rather die the wife of Thomas Culpepper. God have mercy on my soul. Good people all, will you pray for me?”

Then she knelt and laid her lovely head upon the block and the axe descended.

There was a strange preoccupation throughout the country. People could not forget that this was the second Queen who had been killed at the King’s command, for, try as he might to hide behind the verdict of his Parliament, it was he who had signed the assent. There would be pity for the one who was chosen to be the next Queen of England.

The King might give a banquet to his Council the day after Katherine’s death, and a few days later make good cheer with the ladies of the Court, but it was easy to detect that his heart was not engaged.

He looked older. He was indeed fifty years of age. It was true that during his brief marriage he had seemed younger. He had been in high spirits then; he had ridden a great deal, and his temper did not fray as easily as before. It was different now. He looked every year of his age. He was sad and deeply depressed. Katherine had given him back his youth, and now she was gone. He was listless: he had lost his desire for revenge.

The Duchess of Norfolk was released, and, with her, her son and daughter-in-law.

Perhaps the King only wanted to forget the beautiful girl who had delighted his life so briefly. Many had seen his distress on hearing of her lack of chastity; they had seen the tears he could not restrain; they suspected that, if it had been possible, he would have kept her. But he could not have sly Francis jeering at him as a cuckolded husband. There are some humiliations a King cannot endure. So it was done; she was gone; and he was a most unhappy man.

Lady Rochford was executed immediately after the Queen. She made an announcement on the scaffold to the effect that she deserved her fate because she had given false evidence against her husband and her sister-in-law. That was past history and nobody cared very much.

The question which was being asked throughout the Court was: “Who next?”

There were a number of ladies who might have been considered. A furtiveness crept into their manner. Some of them found excuses to leave Court. Few wanted to be chosen as the King’s sixth wife.

The Prince of Wales was very delicate. He was surrounded by tutors and was said to be more interested in his books than in the outdoor life. His poor health caused great disquiet and there was alarm throughout the royal nurseries if he so much as caught a chill. The Lady Mary, for whom several matches were being suggested, was an unhappy lady. The Princess Elizabeth was at Hatfield and often in the company of the little Prince: she was now nine years old, with the learning of a person twice her age; she bore a striking resemblance to the King in her looks.

It was obvious that the need for a son still existed. That was why the ladies of the Court walked in fear.

And at last she appeared—this lady who was destined to be the next victim. She was gracious, elegant, intellectual, and twice widowed, having been married to men many years older than herself. She was well acquainted with all the royal children and a favorite with everyone. She was the perfect stepmother, sober, good-looking in a quiet way—in fact, everything that Katherine had not been. She was, in fact, ten years older than the late Queen.

Poor woman! I wondered what her feelings could have been? She must have been in a state of shock, for she remarked to the King when he told her she had been chosen: “It would be better to be your mistress than your wife.” This, from one of the most sober and chaste of ladies, betrays the state of her fear.

Alas for her! It was not a case of choosing, but being chosen: and on the twelfth of July of the year 1543, one year and five months after Queen Katherine Howard had lost her head, the King was married to Catherine Parr.