Tfw you’re married to an dangerous unstable butcher and made queen to this guy and everyone at your court waits for you to die too and you have nightmares about this man killing you as he killed his wives so you hide your religion and placate and love him and keep yourself a secret as best as you can and do everything right but you’re still in torment with these dreams and their judgement and they give you his dead wives’ jewels and clothes and castles so you have to wear the gowns of a murdered child whom you can’t even admit was innocent because her name was dragged through the mud so much and just as you think you’ve achieved his love and reunited his family he paints his dead wife in your clothes on the royal portrait and she is in your clothes as if you are the ghost, alongside all the others who came after her and this was the woman he abandoned in childbed, and all of this happens to you smack bang in the middle of public so you can’t even rage or grieve smhhh
Kids today don't know what it was like being a Catherine Parr fan in 2007. We were starved of content. Everything was Catherine of Aragon and Anne Boleyn. A whole movie just about Catherine Parr? We could only DREAM.
I'm really enjoying Jessica Raine's Catherine Parr on Becoming Elizabeth, so I started writing this. It's a bit negated by the events of 1.3, but I still like the feeling of it.
Who is she, now that he is dead?
In her short years she's had too many names - Lady Burgh, and Lady Latimer, and finally Queen of England, the last a title that meant nothing, carried no weight. He’d had six - what was the last of them? What use was a queen but for bearing children, they would say. He went to his grave with three, and none of them were out of her. Who would she be, now that the King was dead? A queen dowager? A lady? Could she be only Katherine?
{read more on AO3 or below the cut!}
But even that name, sometimes, did not belong to her - he married three Katherines and she was but the third. Some days, when he was near the end, and his sight was failing a little, and his memory even more, some gentleman of his chamber would announce her and he would nearly fly into a rage, thrashing in the bed he could scarcely move from for his gout. "Katherine? Katherine? I have been rid of her these thirty years! Why comes she now? To haunt me?"
And she would have to come to his bedside, where the light was better, and stroke his sleeve until he could see her a little. "Peace, my darling, peace. It is Kitty. It is Kate."
Sometimes hearing her voice was enough, sometimes the name. But usually he remembered. "Kate? Kate!"
She hated when he called her Kate. Kate was a maid of five and twenty, flirting in an orchard. Kate had sunshine on her skin and flowers in her hair. Kate belonged to Tom.
And Henry was not Tom.
She'd heard the stories, of what the king had once been like - when he'd married his first Katherine and courted his first Anne. A giant among men, strong and beautiful to behold, hair like gold and and legs like a Greek statue, a treasure for a royal treasury. And where was that treasure now? Confined to his bed, plagued with gout, and rotting from the inside out. Perhaps she might have loved him when he was young and pretty - but it was hard to love an old and impotent thief.
King or not, that's all he was to her. He'd stolen her - every last bit of her. Stolen her name, her youth, her match with Tom. She'd arranged it, once John had died - a woman twice widowed and an heiress ought to be allowed her own mind. But Henry was the King, and kings got what kings wanted, and Henry wanted her, to be a cool and pleasant balm after his latest Katherine had burned him quite. Rings for her fingers, and women for her household, chests and plate and plasterwork badges to say what she now owned, and a new motto, too - To be useful in all I do. Useful - a nursemaid, a cupbearer, a pleasant face with which to pass the time. A thing to be stolen, not a prize to be won.
Tom thought she was a prize - Tom fought for her. Not well enough, before he went to Antwerp, but still, he fought.
She loved him, in those days - the feel of him, the smell of him, the weight of him. All of her husbands were old men in their winters and Tom - Tom was summer. His curls, his height, his smile, his cock - the Green Man embodied, one of those ancient things that made things green and growing. And he will make her grow, too, the way Henry could not - she could feel it. It was Tom who brought the news from Whitehall, that the King was dead, and she barred her door and let him ravish her for celebration, her legs trembling as he kissed her from throat to quim and with every thrust cried out Kate, Kate, Kate.
For four blessed hours she was happy, before her sun started to fall on other flowers.
She loved her husband’s children - she wanted that made plain. What else was there to do, when she had none of her own? Mary was near enough her own age, and Edward a scrap of six, but Elizabeth was still a girl of fifteen, and what kind of mother could the German have been, when she was hardly at court, or the latest Katherine when she was a child herself? Let the Princess come to Chelsea, she’d said. She is young, and in need of minding still. She is her father’s daughter, and her mind needs recreation. Her mother’s, too, and that needs temperance.
If he’d give me a child, she’d thought to herself, on one of those cold nights in the King’s chamber, I wish she’d be like Elizabeth.
But I have none to claim as mine - so I’ll claim her. Make her a woman of which her father might be proud - fine in languages, great in debate, attendant in the true faith, a creature witty, worthy, and wise. Yes, that’s what I’ll do. A Princess for princes to envy and attend, and me her lady mother - a position of respect.
Then the girl came, and she realized she’d made an error. The lady was not so young as she’d remembered - and Tom was still a fool for a fine face.
Was it only the chase he loved? She could remember running through a garden, sleeves flying and her hair loose, letting him trap her and pretending to be ashamed, begging for mercy when they both knew what she meant to be merciful. Release me, sir, I beg. Is it only this release you want, Kate? Is there to be no release for me? He’d been chasing her for near four years, and she thought now that he’d be happy, but that seemed not to be, as he smiled over his cups at her ward, and made jokes to make her laugh, chasing again.
When they’d come for the jewels, it wasn’t only that they’d take away her ornament, or cast her aside. The cut ran deeper still. Where are my smiles, Thomas? Wherefore my laughter? Where is my position and my honor and my favor? Why do you only fight with me and not for me now? Where is my sunshine, and my shadow, as you were wont to be of old?
His eyes left her more and more, and she began to worry - what is a woman when a man ignores her? Who is she, when no one remains to call her name?
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