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February 13, 1542
-KATHRYN PUT on her pretty French hood, along with her grey dress. There were no twinkling jewels, no pearl necklaces, no pretty, richly woven gowns and dresses.
She sat down once more, feeling as if she would go mad. Kathryn pathetically wrung her hands, and fixed her hood once more, her lustrous hair cascading down her back.
Oh, she missed those days when she was Queen! When she wore the best dresses and jewels in the whole world, and she could dance and make merry, sneaking little glances at handsome Thomas Culpeper.
Kathryn's heart ached. Thomas was dead; along with poor, foolish Francis Dereham, their heads put up for show, for everyone to see.
She rose once more, restless. It was nearing dawn; she knew her time was nearing.
It had all happened so fast. She had appointed Francis in her household simply because her doddering old grandmother had said so! Francis was still handsome, still very good-looking and the way he'd look at her...but there was nothing, Kathryn kept saying it over and over and over again. The thing with Francis was in the past.
She barely even remembered it all. Kathryn had been fourteen and in-love with broad-shouldered, smiling, passionate Francis Dereham. He'd taken her and they'd called each other 'wife' and 'husband'.
But it was nothing! They were simply lovers, that was all. Francis had taken her and he'd said the marriage vows in front of the empty church altar...but it wasn't a real marriage, was it? Kathryn knew well it wasn't. There were no crowds, no priest; there wasn't any glamorous wedding gown, no glittering jewels on Kathryn's dainty neck, no rich sables and diamonds or anything. How could such a plain thing be a proper wedding?
Yet...Henry and his men kept saying it was. They said that they were married before, that Kathryn employed Francis again to be close to him...and that she'd been laying frequently with Thomas Culpeper.
Only one of those were true, Kathryn knew. She'd fallen passionately in love with Thomas.
So, Lady Rochford had helped her. She'd overseen Thomas sneaking into the room, and grabbing Kathryn by her slim little waist and kissing her on the lips, on the cheeks, on the neck, on her breasts. Kathryn loved it, loved it all, loved him and loved what he'd do to her and loved thinking of him and his cheeky, lovely grin and his messy brown hair.
Kathryn kept doing it. She played the good little Queen for the world, succumbing to the King's wishes, but behind closed doors it was just her and Thomas; just the two of them, with the pale shadow of Lady Rochford and her cold, pinched face in the background.
How could she resist him? Kathryn had to lie, almost every night, next to a big, fat slob of a King, and feign pleasure when he'd go on top of her and grunt like some boar. She's sigh and smile and teasingly touch him but inside she was absolutely, terribly disgusted. Henry wasn't tall, well-built, muscular and handsome anymore like in the days with old Queen Katharine of Aragon and Anne Boleyn...he was old, fat and sick, obese with a stinking, lame leg, infected with ulcers and pus.
Kathryn had come crying out of his bed many a night, sniffling and sobbing to Lady Rochford she couldn't do it any longer; she wouldn't, she simply wouldn't. But Lady Rochford, sensible and mature, would soothe her and Thomas would sail in quietly and he'd have her and everything would be all right.
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...
