The Tudor Tales

Author’s Note
I put the six wives of Henry VIII and several other people of importance in close quarters in this story in order to compare and contrast more easily their personalities and the way Henry treated each one. Each woman was different in her own way. Also, the length of time that he pays attention to each wife or mistress in the story, in one summer, is supposed to emphasize the short
amount of time that Henry really cared for each of these women. He discarded them with such ease and remarried so quickly, especially later in his life, because he desired a second male heir over anything else.

The Tudor Tales
It was such a gorgeous day in May when we began our journey. The Summer Progress is everyone’s favourite time of the year. The King can finally be jolly and forget about the war with France. I even manage to enjoy myself. lthough I am the first daughter of King Henry VIII, I would much rather pray or study or sew than partake in the frivolities in which everyone else revels. I am a Roman Catholic, like my mother Catherine of Aragon, but we are more pious than most others. We are frowned upon for it. But my silence and tendency not to be noticed have
helped me observe many things.
The King has a gorgeous build and such strong, shapely legs. He is usually dressed in the finest jewels; ermine is always trimming his capes and hoods. His red hair and beard shine like fire, as does his temper. He and my mother, after their long time in marriage, have been arguing
constantly when they are together. Even their silences have tension. He was tender to her at first, I hear. He was her saviour. He saved her from disgrace in Spain after her first husband, Henry’s brother, died suddenly. They were married six months. But the gentleness decreased each time she had a miscarriage, and when she bore me it seemed he was through. He wants a male heir so much.
My mother is Catherine of Aragon. She has auburn hair, and though her face is wrinkled and tired, she is lively when she talks about her faith or her children. She wears high-necked, modest gowns. She ignores the King’s mistresses with dignity, and tries to keep her ladies pure.
Anne Boleyn is another story. She is so common and so French. Her father and uncle were once rewarded for bravery by the King, but are now forgotten. Anne was sent to France at a young age to be a lady at court. The court of Francis is a court of pleasures though, and I am sure
she has learned many whore’s tricks there. Anne has long dark hair cascading like a waterfall down her back. Her dark brown eyes can be mesmerizing. Her gowns are low-cut, and are often of deep colors that become her, such as black, royal purple, dark crimson and navy blue. Her
daughter Elizabeth is a bright little ball of light, speculated whether she is Henry’s or not, but her
hair is as red as a Tudor rose. I hate to say it, but she must be the King’s daughter. Bright and outgoing, she seems the exact opposite of her mother, a dark and mysterious woman. They both capture the attention of anyone around them.
Little Jane Seymour is going on Progress with us, even though she is nearly done her pregnancy. The King hopes it is a son. She is so young, but of noble enough birth. She dresses modestly, almost commonly. The King loves her brothers, Thomas and Edward, who are also
with us. Jane is such a sweet little thing. Religious like me, she is the only one of the King’s mistresses that I do not abhor.
As the Progress begins, we travel through some streets of villages. When the people see Anne, they shout out things like “Whore! Adulteress! Sorceress!” Elizabeth, just like her mother, pretends to ignore it, and she dances about, enchanting the townspeople with her grace and
brilliance. I sit with Jane in the carriage. She is terrified of the King. I can see it in her eyes. She
knows if this child is not a boy, she may end up like my mother. The King has been so happy lately. He dances and drinks into the night. He is confident about this one.
My Mother looks sicker as each day passes. I try to help, but she pushes me away and tells me only to pray for her. But the King doesn’t even notice her absence at the feasts. I saw him one night, obviously drunk, stealing away with Anne. I followed them. Words of passion were spoken.
Henry’s jeweled hand went to Anne’s ebony skirt. Then he saw her eyes look past him and at her friend, Henry Norris. Henry’s eyes widened, and his face turned a deep red. “Anne!” he screamed, “Why do you look at other men? Why can you not keep your eyes on me for more than a short
time?”
“I only look at other men to compare them to My Grace,” she replied demurely.
“ You know I still don’t have a son from you. Why not, Anne? Have you been unfaithful
to me? Has the Lord been keeping a son from me because my partner is a whore? Tell me Anne!”
“You will not speak to me in such a way!” Anne’s temper was riled now. There was no turning back. Henry may seem scary when he is angry, but Anne can match him any day. “I have been faithful to only you. You should know, you keep your spies on me all day and night! You
never trusted me. I am a good wife to you, I give you what you want, and all you give back are accusations!”
I expected him to falter, apologize like he usually would after such a retort from her, but he didn’t. “I brought you to where you are, Anne,” he said quietly, but with restrained rage, “And I can tear you down again. Cross me once more and see.” He stormed off. Anne sauntered back
to the party, as I went off to find my mother.
She was coughing when I came in her room. She was so pale. It frightened me. The rest happened in a blur. I was holding her hand, holding to her last life, as the doctor bled her. No one could do anything for her. She said to me, “Keep praying, darling. You will have the throne one
day. God wills it. He loves you, and so do I.” Then she closed her eyes, and her pillow seemed to sink a little.
The next day there was a short mass said for her. The King had a carriage take her body to Peterborough to be buried. He made me stay, though. There was barely any grieving time for her. When Anne heard of the Queen’s death, she said “So where has her piety and lying got her now? She is dead.” Then the King told Anne to leave. He said “Catherine was a better wife and queen than you could ever be. Leave now.” He didn’t allow her to take Elizabeth, but she fought for her. In the end, she was forced to say goodbye to her daughter. She told her that one day she
would come back for her, and if she couldn’t, then Elizabeth would still ascend the throne someday. Elizabeth understood. For such a small girl, she has already learned to mask all emotion from the court. She showed no anger or sorrow for her mother’s leaving.
Just weeks later, Jane had her baby. I was with her for a while after the labour. She was dazed. She was paler than usual, and the moment I looked in her eyes, I knew she would follow my mother. Three days later, she was dead.
Henry had his boy, though. Just like for my mother, a short funeral was said and her body was taken away. The King was so enamoured of his accomplishment, his little Edward, that he barely seemed to care that Jane died. Edward was a charming baby, with little tufts of blonde hair
on the top of his head. He smiles at everyone, especially when Elizabeth holds him.
Just a week after Jane’s death, Henry talked of a new wife. He needed more heirs, more security for his Kingdom, he said. A foreign woman, Anne of Cleves, was with us. But Henry did not like her looks. She was dressed as the Germans dress, with a strange headdress and the
silhouette of her attire giving her no shape. He refuses to admit that he has become impotent because of all the drinking and eating he had done that summer. He said that when he saw her body, he couldn’t go on. He dismissed the idea quickly.
Very soon, the King met Anne’s cousin, Catherine Howard. She was so young, younger than I. She was frivolous; she thought of nothing but flirting and dancing and getting everyone’s attention. She was not fit to be queen. She reminded the King of his younger days, though, and he adored her. He gave anything to her that she wanted. The King had become a pig though, and Kitty Howard was just a little girl doing what the big men told her to do. When she did follow her own heart, she was left behind. Catherine loved her cousin Thomas Culpepper. When the King
found out, he banished them both. Who knows what will become of them?
By then everyone knew how dangerous it was to be the object of the King’s affections. Katharine Parr was trapped though. She had been widowed twice before, but she was comely enough. She was pious, but not too pious; she was pretty, but not too pretty. She was the medium
of all the other wives Henry had. The Court was gay for the last few weeks of Summer Progress, but it was feigned. Katharine read the banned books, that heresy written by those Protestants, and everyone tried to take her down. She almost came down.
The King died the day we arrived at Greenwich Palace. Katharine and so many other women knew that their heads could rest easy now. England mourned for its beloved King, Warrior, and Philanderer. A new age began, the start of a happier time for women in England.