Please enjoy Judith Arnopp’s essay about the portraits of Katheryn Parr, one of Henry VIII’s wives. Judith includes an excerpt from her novel Intractable Heart: the story of Katheryn Parr
Katheryn Parr was a champion of the arts and, although few survive, she commissioned many portraits of herself during her time as queen. The most iconic, the one we are most familiar with is by Master John; a full length depiction of her in the role of queen. Her gaze is level and calm as if she is confident and comfortable in her position. When Henry selected her as his next queen she was planning to marry Thomas Seymour for love, but once it became impossible to refuse the king she seems to have been determined to make the best of things. She put all her energies into being not just his queen but a good one and lived up to her motto, ‘to be useful in all I do.’
The painting in question was commissioned around 1545, at the same time that Henry commissioned one of his own, the famous ‘family’ group.
Henry’s painting depicts himself, not with his living wife, Katheryn, but with Jane Seymour at his side who, at this point, had been dead for some eight years. Their son, Edward, is in a cherished position at the king’s right hand. The (now illegitimate) Mary and Elizabeth are standing a little way off from the throne –it is a family group but a disjointed one – a family fragmented. Even the royal fools, Jane and Will Somers are given a place in it. Only Katheryn is omitted entirely.
It makes one wonder if she ever got a little fed up with the paragon that was Jane Seymour. She would be inhuman not to have some hint of jealousy of her predecessor. Also at this time she was working toward the reinstatement of Mary and Elizabeth in the line of succession and it is quite probable that their positioning in the portrait may have irked a little.
From what we know of both women Katheryn seems to have been a stronger character than Jane Seymour. While Jane did little to prevent the fall of the church she loved, Katheryn did all she could to champion the Reformation. It is easy to imagine that her decision to be painted as queen at this time, as well as commissioning portraits of Elizabeth and Mary, was instigated by a small touch of ire. It can be seen as an attempt to reinforce her prominence and influence in the royal family.
Records show that during her time as queen she commissioned many portraits of herself by John Betts the Elder and many miniatures by Hornebolt. Rather like today when we give photographs of ourselves to those we love, it seems it was Katheryn’s habit to hand miniatures out as presents. In a letter from her fourth husband, Thomas Seymour says, ‘give me one of your small pictures if you have any left.’ You can imagine her giving them out right, left and centre to her friends and supporters.
But today just five portraits of Katheryn survive. A miniature attributed to Lucas Hornebolt; two full-length examples in the NPG and another taken when she young by an unknown artist. The fifth shows an older Katheryn probably painted during her fourth marriage to Thomas Seymour.
All examples reveal a pretty woman with flawless complexion, determined chin and an unflinching gaze. It is strange that she is not pictured holding a book as Elizabeth is in the portrait commissioned around the same time; for Katheryn was a woman of learning and education was important to her. She was the first queen to become a published author and it was Katheryn who helped to select Elizabeth and Edward’s tutors.
In the following extract from Intractable Heart: the story of Katheryn Parr, Katheryn examines Master John’s half-finished portrait in the company of her former sweetheart, Thomas Seymour.
Late spring 1545 – Greenwich
When I see him waiting in the shadows I pause, sure he can hear the thumping of my heart. He stands, hands clasped behind him, looking up at the half-completed portrait. I can scarcely believe he is there, in the flesh, before me.
Blinking back tears I move silently toward him, and without speaking, take my place at his side. His head turns slowly, his welcoming smile opening like a flower. In that moment I forgive him everything.
“It is a good likeness,” he says at last.
I swallow, force myself to remain calm, remind myself I am a queen now and cannot fall into his arms. I turn my attention to the portrait.
“The king commissioned Master John to make my likeness as a sop to soothe the insult of the grand piece Master Holbein began.”
“Master Holbein is dead, is he not?”
“Yes, but his apprentice is to complete it. I am mean-spirited enough to hope his brush is not too kind to Jane.”
“She was his wife once too, and mother to Edward.”
“I am queen now and have had more shaping of the prince than his mother ever had.”
For a moment I forget we are speaking of Thomas’ sister. I quash my resentment, lower my eyes. “Forgive me, Thomas. I misremembered she was your kin but I find the situation difficult, that is all. I have carried this country through the trials of war; I have reconciled the king with his children, raising them as if they are my own, yet I am not good enough to be painted as queen, alongside the king? Everyone is included: Henry, Edward, Jane, Elizabeth, Mary. Even the royal fools, Janet, and Will Somers have wormed their way into it …”
“Shush, shush, I understand, but I must confess I find myself quite jealous of your jealousy.”
I realise I am being ridiculous and a little of my ire drains away, but the sting of Henry’s insult remains. I know Henry intends me no slight in commissioning a portrait of himself and his wife, Jane, with their children meekly beside them. It is the epitome of family unity and it hurts to be left out. More than I’d thought possible. They are my children. I’ve welcomed them, without hesitation, into my heart, into my household. His dead wife should stay in her grave where she belongs.
To ease me a little, the king has commissioned a full length painting of me, Katheryn the Queen, but still I feel excluded, segregated. I have been quietly sulking for a few weeks now but, as always, within minutes of his company, Tom has me laughing. He raises one quizzical eyebrow and instantly I see how petty and spiteful my behaviour is. For the first time since Margaret’s death, my heart lifts just a little and I almost laugh.
It is strange being here with him like this, speaking of everyday things, as if nothing has happened. The image of our entwined bodies passes through my mind, the delight we shared. I wonder if he remembers it.
I continue to speak of triviality while my adulterous mind recalls a thousand instances of shared pleasure. The conversation falters, our eyes lock before he breaks away and his gaze trickles treasonously down my body. Eventually he realises the significance of my sombre-hued gown, and his eyes refocus and meet mine.
“I am sorry for your loss, Kate. Truly.”
My name, spoken by his lips, is like a balm. I close my eyes for a moment as his voice continues. “Are you happy, apart from losing Margaret, I mean?”
As I ponder the question I look at the floor, the toe of my jewelled slipper peeping from beneath my kirtle.
“Not happy, Tom, but content. I have all I need.”
I do not miss the flash of hurt in his eye and to cover the unintended slight, I continue quickly. “Did you hear my book is soon to be published?”
He steps back a little as if to regard me from a different perspective, and gives an ironic salute. “I did. You are to be congratulated. All over Europe people are talking about England’s valiant and erudite queen. I am honoured to have known her.”
I grow very hot under his praise, disliking the past tense of his sentiment. I open my mouth to utter a tart retort but, at the sound of approaching footsteps, my head jerks up. We both look toward the empty doorway, listen in dismay as the sound of laughter grows closer.
“I must go.” He bends over my hand, his lips on my fingers, his beard tickling. And then he is gone, the hanging at the garden door undulating, his fragrance dissipating in the cool night air. My ladies spill into the room.
“There you are, Katheryn. We have been seeking you everywhere.” Anne pauses, offers me my ostrich feather fan. “Are you quite well? You are terribly pale.”
The spot on my hand where he placed his lips tingles. I turn back to the half-painted portrait of myself as queen. My image stares back, smug and serene amid the splendour that surrounds her. I do not recognise her; it does not seem remotely like myself.
“Evidently I am pale by nature,” I say, gesturing to the likeness. “Master John apparently thinks so.”
Master John, a newcomer to court, is working on a portrait of the Lady Mary also. Our images stand side by side, our faces complete, our nailess hands delicately hued, the sumptuousness of our gowns has only just begun to emerge from Master John’s brush.
It is strange standing before one’s own image. It is quite a different thing to looking in a glass. I observe the flaws, the characteristics that others see. For the first time I realise I am not plain after all, or at least, Master John sees me as pretty. Not beautiful, not handsome but, although I have passed my thirtieth year, my body is as slim as a girl’s and my face is neat and unlined. I am not yet ageing. I am content with that.
©Juditharnopp2014
Intractable Heart is available now on Kindle and in paperback.
Judith’s other books include:
The Kiss of the Concubine: a story of Anne Boleyn
The Winchester Goose: at the court of Henry VIII
Judith is currently working on her seventh historical novel A song of Sixpence which is the story of Elizabeth of York.
Find out more about Judith Arnopp and purchase her books at these links: