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July 10, 1543
-A LITTLE sheepishly, Catherine Parr looked over the lavish gowns, decorated with numerous jewels and big pearls, which once belonged to the person of Kathryn Howard but were now hers.
It wasn't as if she needed more gowns and riches; Catherine had enough from her previous two marriages, and from her family. But it would please the King; and these days, everyone was expected to, under pain of death.
She stood still as her ladies fussed around her, tightening her bodice and lacing up her waist tightly.
For the third time, Catherine was to be married. For the third time, she was being pushed into another marriage. Catherine was getting used to the process by now.
One thing she wasn't used to at all, was being Queen. Queen! Catherine herself, normally composed and cool, could hardly contain her excitement.
Catherine remembered how this all came about, where it all started. It had begun by a simple act of kindness. Her second husband had just died, and she was left to wallow by herself, in her rich estates. "I don't want all this money," she had screamed erratically at the servants who were toiling around the estate and came close to tell her of the money and homes she inherited. "I want him back, not this," Catherine continued to screech, out of control for the first time in her life.
She had simply spent too much time with Lord Latimer. He had been against King Henry's split from the Catholic Church, a ridiculous, high-handed act done to get a dark-haired wench the people called 'Nan Bullen' or 'the Goggle-eyed Whore.'
Catherine would never forget that terrifying day when a mob of angry Catholics gathered around her home, and forced Lord Latimer to come out and help them with ushering back Catholicism. Lord Latimer was dragged out, and Catherine would never, never forget watching it unfold from the upstairs window in absolute fear, and gathering her step-children to her breast and trying to go on as normal, while the whole time her thoughts were on her husband and what he was doing.
An answer came to her question. Men came in one day, as political tension escalated in the country, and forced their way in and took Catherine and her dear step-children, John and Margaret hostage. She struggled to remain calm, soothing Margaret's sobs and calming John's vehement anger. The men contacted Lord Latimer, and threatened to kill his family if he didn't return as fast as possible.
Those were turbulent, terrible years. Catherine didn't like thinking on them; she barely even remembered every detail; all she cared to know was that they all got out alive somehow, and Catherine lived with her family for a while longer before her husband took ill.
She closed her eyes as her ladies did her hair, brown and lustrous. She thought back, again, to how it all began. After her second husband had gone and she truly accepted it, Catherine didn't want to wallow in grief. John and Margaret were in their separate households, and Catherine remembered how her late mother had been a good friend with the late Queen Katharine of Aragon. With this information in hand, she departed for the Lady Mary's household, who was Katharine of Aragon's daughter.
Catherine, with her poise and well-educated state, was well accepted. She remembered the way Lady Mary's usually grim and dour face had lit up when Catherine had curtsied and mentioned her mother being companions with the late Queen Katharine of Aragon. "Any friend of my mother's is also mine own," Lady Mary had replied graciously, lifting Catherine to her feet. "May you serve me well."
And, that was it! It surprised even Catherine, especially Catherine, how things took off from there. Her sister Anne was serving in court, and somehow the King had noticed Catherine, of all the other women. She was now the fourth commoner he would marry.
Catherine wasn't deaf or blind, though; she knew she was no grand and dignified Katherine of Aragon, nor a dark beauty like Anne Boleyn; she wasn't enticing and young and attractive like the poor Kathryn Howard; Catherine was simply married twice before; she was responsible, motherly and mature. She would take good care of the King and his children.
As the glittering jewels were set on her bare neck, Catherine contemplated that fact. She was chosen for convenience, not because the King necessarily wanted her. She didn't lack for beauty; Catherine had her own vivacious charm, with her long, lustrous hair and fair skin. But Catherine herself had the gut feeling that, after having a sixteen-year old as Queen, the people-especially Henry himself-wanted a more able woman. And Catherine supposed she was just that.
"Do you think I shall make a good Queen?" she dared to ask aloud to her ladies. Her own sister was there, and she smiled at once. "Of course, sweet sister," Anne replied boldly, "Of course. You have the makings of a great Queen." The other ladies chirped their agreements.
Catherine smiled and took a deep breath as she was laced up tight in her flowing, red gown. She looked sensual and strong. Her smile grew wider.
Perhaps she wouldn't enjoy a passionate, loving marriage, like her previous one; she didn't quite mind that, for though she would never say it, the King was obscenely obese, his leg was lame, his breath and manner foul, his rages wild and unpredictable like a storm. Catherine wouldn't marry him by choice.
But she already had made her choice, and so she smiled. She would take care of him, care for his children; the little and strong-minded Edward; the chirpy, sparky and bright Elizabeth and sad, grim, religious Mary. Catherine would be the stronghold for them all.
YOU ARE READING
The Six
Historical Fiction'Divorced, beheaded, died; divorced, beheaded, survived." In this way, the six wives of Henry VIII were remembered not for how they lived, but in the way they died. It is impossible to know exactly what they were thinking or had to go through, in h...
