The Lady in the Tower

by Виктория Холт

  “My dear child. I always knew that you, of all my brood, were the one with special talents.”

  “Mary had some excellent talents,” I reminded him.

  “Ah, your sister Mary… she was always a fool. Well, she reaped her folly. There she is… living humbly with Carey. He will never make a name for himself.”

  “Except as the husband of the King's one-time mistress.”

  He laughed, rather sycophantically, which amused me.

  “It is you we have to think of.”

  “I can think for myself.”

  “I am sure you can. But the King is most put out. He thinks Wolsey is dilatory about this Secret Matter.”

  “He has a big task before him.”

  “I don't trust Wolsey. At this moment he is trying to make an agreement with the King of France for the Princess Renée. If he knew the King's true mind, I cannot imagine what he would do.”

  “Surely he would do as the King commanded him.”

  “He is a wily creature. I would not trust him. And the King has a special feeling for him. He has been talking to me. He is very uneasy about his relationship with Mary.”

  “That is over.”

  “But the King has qualms. He is wondering whether his intimacy with Mary might be an obstacle to his marriage with you… due to the fact that you are her sister.”

  “You mean… the closeness of the relationship?”

  “It is natural that His Grace should want everything to be indisputable. He wants to get a dispensation on account of Mary. He has talked of it with George and me. Wolsey has plans for setting up a papal government in Avignon over which he, Wolsey, would have full powers. This is to last just during the Pope's captivity. He could then give sanction to the divorce, but before he could do this he would have to have the agreement of the Pope. He did not think it would be an insuperable task to smuggle a man into the Castle of St. Angelo to get the Pope's agreement to this scheme. The King does not think it a good idea. It is all too slow. He wants to send an ambassador, and he has chosen Dr. Knight. He is going out ostensibly to meet Wolsey and assist him, but in fact he has a secret document with him with which he will ask for a dispensation on account of the King's relationship with Mary.”

  Everything seemed to go against us. We discovered later that Wolsey's spies had searched Knight's bags before he joined him, and therefore the King's true intentions were revealed to him. This naturally made his position in France untenable. The King had betrayed him to such an extent that he was negotiating with the King of France for a marriage with the Princess Renée when all the time he was determined to marry me.

  Wolsey had no alternative but to return home.

  I daresay he was a very worried man. For the first time he did not have the King's confidence. The King was working against him, keeping him in the dark, which put Wolsey in an impossible position.

  We were at Richmond Palace when he arrived back.

  I was with Henry and a few of our special friends—my father, George, Francis Bryan, Weston, Surrey and several others.

  One of the Cardinal's servants came into the palace and was brought at once to the King.

  “The Cardinal is on his way, Your Grace,” said the man. “He comes straight from France and would know where Your Grace will receive him.”

  I knew that Wolsey wanted to see the King alone. I was very suspicious of Wolsey. I could never forget that he had called me a foolish girl unworthy to mate with Northumberland, and because of that I always felt that I wanted to show him my power.

  I said boldly: “Where should the Cardinal see the King but where the King is?”

  There was silence throughout the company. I had been over-bold. But I was sure of myself.

  Henry nodded and did not answer.

  So Wolsey came to him there… where we all were, and the look of amazement on his face when he saw how he was received was pitiful indeed.

  He seemed to change in that moment. He looked like an old, tired man who had failed in his mission.

  I think Henry was aware of his dismay and despair, and he had a true affection for Wolsey.

  He said gently: “Well, Thomas?”

  Wolsey bowed. Then he looked straight at me. I wondered whether he read the triumph in my eyes.

  They were difficult months to live through. There was frustration at every turn. Wolsey's position was growing more and more uncertain. Henry told me that, when he had confessed to him his true intentions, Wolsey had pleaded with him to abandon me and consider Renée of France.

  “I told him that in no circumstances would I.”

  “He has always hated me,” I said.

  “No, sweetheart. He is a good servant. He is afraid that if it is known that I wish to marry you no one will believe the question of divorce has arisen because of my doubts about the legality of my marriage with Katharine. They will say it is because of my desire for you.”

  I felt exasperation rising in me. That was the reason… but he would not accept it. He wanted his actions to be seen as selfless, a desire to right a wrong. But at least between ourselves surely he could admit the truth? But he could not do that. Sometimes I thought it was impossible to reason with such a man.

  When I look back, I see how foolish I was. I should never have allowed my desire to take revenge on Wolsey overcome my common sense. I should have taken more care in my attitude to those about me. I should have remembered Queen Katharine's gentleness, her dignity, her religious life, the fact that she had never wittingly done harm to anyone, which had made her many friends. They closed in around her now that she was in trouble.

  One who greatly resented me was the King's sister, Mary, whom I had accompanied to France when I was a little girl. She was at the Court often with her husband, the Duke of Suffolk. Because of the King's Secret Matter, doubts were being raised all around; and there had been some hints that due to Suffolk's previous marriage to Margaret Mortymer, the widow whose defunct husband had been Suffolk's grandfather's brother, his marriage to the King's sister might not be valid. This may have given Mary a special sympathy with Katharine. However, the two were great friends and Mary showed her resentment that one who had been her maid of honor should now aspire to be Queen of England.

  I think she would have spoken out against me had she dared but of course Henry would not have allowed that; and she had changed a little from the fiery young woman I had known. She was now a sober matron completely absorbed by her family and wanted to bring no trouble on them.

  My aunt, now the Duchess of Norfolk, did not approve either, although I could not see why she should resent the glory I should bring to the family; and another aunt, Lady Boleyn, out of jealousy I think, would have been critical if she had dared. The fact was that they were all friends of Katharine and they understood—as I did myself—what she was suffering at this time.

  They all knew now that the King wanted a divorce from the Queen in order to marry me. They looked upon me as some sort of siren possessed of evil powers which had bewitched him. They attached no blame to him. If I had told them that in the beginning I had tried hard to evade him, they would not have believed me. They would not accept the fact that I had been robbed of the man I loved and had had no wish to be in this situation—but now that I was, I was determined to make the best of it.

  Perhaps I flaunted my position too much. Perhaps I enjoyed the power I had over the King. I basked in the admiration of many of the courtiers; the King's passion had added a kind of glamour. I knew this and I reveled in it. I can only say that I was young—and like all the young thought I was wiser than I actually was.

  The summer had passed and the winter days had come, with their long evenings. Fires burned in the big rooms of the palaces, and there were dancing and entertainments which continued far into the nights.

  I often found the Queen's eyes on me. She knew—as everyone else did—that I was the object of the King's passion and the reason for his wanting to be rid of her. I think that, for all her saint
liness, she must have hated me. She would often give me duties to perform which meant that I must be at her side instead of that of the King. There was a brooding tension throughout the palace, and I wondered how much longer we could go on thus.

  The Queen liked me to play cards with her. I think this was because the manner in which I was obliged to hold the cards brought my sixth nail into prominence, and even my hanging sleeve could not hide it. I was sure it was whispered that it was a sign of witchcraft, and that only one with special powers could have had such an effect on the King.

  I shrugged my shoulders at them all. I cared nothing for their whispering, I told myself. But it was a little disheartening that so many of them should be against me.

  I remember one occasion when I was playing cards with the Queen and some others. In the game one had to take a card from the pack, and it was good luck to be dealt a king. This card came to me.

  The Queen looked at me very steadily and said: “The Lady Anne has had the good fortune to stop at a king. But she is not like the others. She will have all or none.”

  I smiled and continued to play as though I did not understand the bitterness behind her words.

  We were to go to Greenwich for the Christmas festivities. I and my little band of wits devised the masques, and each day I waited for the messenger to come from Rome with the good news that the Pope had given the sanction. I knew that Henry was waiting with the same eagerness and that it was not due to sloth on his part that we were making such little headway.

  Dr. Knight wrote encouragingly and frequently, but we never seemed to make any progress. There were always promises.

  A few days before Christmas a messenger came in great haste and demanded to see the King. I was with Henry at the time. It was the most exciting news we had had for a long while. The Pope had made a dramatic escape from his prison. Disguised as a merchant, he had left the Castle of St. Angelo, passed through the city undetected by the Emperor's men and found refuge in the bishop's palace there.

  He was therefore no longer the Emperor's prisoner.

  Henry was delighted. “It cannot be long now, sweetheart,” he said.

  That was a very merry Christmas at Greenwich. The plays were especially witty, the dancing more vivacious than ever. The King was in excellent spirits and was at the center of everything.

  Henry said: “This is a matter for great rejoicing. The Pope is free. Let the whole country thank God for his delivery.”

  The people were always ready for a celebration, and they threw themselves into the rejoicing with vigor. There was dancing in the streets, and the light from the bonfires made night like day.

  But no one could have been more delighted than the King and I. Henry said: “It will be easy now. Clement will have no love for the Emperor. He will want to pay him back for all he has suffered. This time next month you will be my Queen.”

  But it did not work out like that.

  At first when we read the letter we thought our hopes were realized.

  Dr. Knight said that Clement had hesitated and prevaricated and that he still feared the Emperor. He wished to please his good friend the King of England and he knew how dear this matter was to his heart. He therefore found himself unable to deny his friend what he so eagerly wished for.

  Henry read that aloud and embraced me. “At last!” he cried. “At last.”

  The dispensation was following. He had had to hold it back for Cardinal Pucci to do a little revision on it, and as soon as it was ready it would be dispatched.

  At first Henry wanted to celebrate immediately. He wanted to tell Wolsey that he could now hold his court and decide in his favor, for the Pope's dispensation was about to arrive any day now.

  And so we waited. The days passed. The King gave orders that any messenger was to be brought to him without delay.

  The waiting was hard and the delay seemed long. The King cursed first Clement and then Dr. Knight. Clement was a vacillating fool; Knight was slothful and indifferent to his master's needs.

  And then it came.

  With what joy it was received!

  But as the King read it, his face grew scarlet.

  “That meddling Pucci,” he cried. But he knew it was not Pucci who had made the thing useless. It was Clement… swaying this way and that, afraid of Henry but more afraid of the Emperor.

  That which would have given Wolsey the power to pass judgment had been deleted. So the dispensation was useless, and all our efforts had been in vain.

  It was clear that the Pope—even now he was free—was unlikely to give us the help which was necessary before the King could marry me.

  The King was furious. He shouted threats against shilly-shallying Clement, sly Pucci and the bumbling Dr. Knight. Poor Dr. Knight, he had done his best. It was not his fault that Clement was in fear of the Emperor.

  “We should have left it to Wolsey,” he said. “He is the only man who can outwit them. I know you feel he is no friend to you, sweetheart, but it is not so. He is a friend to me and that means he must be to you. We need Wolsey to set this matter to rights.”

  In the meantime he declared war on the Emperor.

  I had to forget my animosity toward Wolsey. I must remind myself that it was the King who had prevented my marriage to Henry Percy; Wolsey had merely obeyed instructions. His manner in carrying out those orders, though, had certainly been arrogant and offensive. “This foolish girl …” I would never forget that, nor the humiliation he had meted out to us both. But I had to forget it. A master's hand was needed to sort out this business, and Wolsey's was undoubtedly the one.

  Wolsey decided to send two men to the Pope—Stephen Gardiner and Edward Fox. Fox was an extremely clever young man, about thirty years of age. He had been educated at Cambridge, where he had astounded his tutors with his brilliance and had been known as the wonder of the university. He was related to Richard Fox, the Bishop of Winchester, which had certainly not been a hindrance to his advancement; but Wolsey said he was a man of immense energy, ability, resource and tact; and he had those qualities which were necessary to bring this matter to a satisfactory conclusion.

  Stephen Gardiner was one of Wolsey's private secretaries and like Edward Fox had shown his brilliance. He was older than Fox—I should think by at least ten years; and his birth was somewhat obscure. Some said he was connected with the Rivers family. At Cambridge he was soon noticed. He was a doctor of civil and canon law; he became a lecturer and then tutor to the son of the Duke of Norfolk, and it was Norfolk who had introduced him to Wolsey. Always on the alert for talent which he could use, Wolsey decided to employ Gardiner. And thus he was chosen with Fox for this very delicate task which was going to need the utmost tact and resourcefulness.

  So together Fox and Gardiner left England, two ambitious men, fully aware of how much hung on the success of their mission.

  Meanwhile there was trouble at home. War with the Emperor meant a cessation of trade with the Netherlands, and the clothiers in Suffolk lost their markets in Flanders. The Flemish too were disgruntled by the interruption the war brought to their trade with England.

  Rioting broke out…fi rst in Suffolk, and then it began to spread.

  Henry had a dread of losing the affection of his people. He had always known that, however powerful a monarch might be, he must never lose the approval of his subjects as a whole. Emperor Charles no more wanted war with England than Henry did with him. A truce was arranged; trade was resumed; and the rioting died down.

  Henry had been very anxious to see a friendship between Wolsey and me. He made a point of the three of us supping together. He beamed on us both; he wanted the two people who were closest to his heart to be friends. There was a certain simplicity about him which was at that time endearing. It was hard to recognize in this Henry the cruel person I knew, even then, that he could be.

  His affection for Thomas Wolsey showed in his voice when he addressed him. “Good Thomas,” he would say, putting his arm about the Cardinal's neck in a gest
ure of affection, “he will lead us through this maze.” It showed that he was capable of caring for people. I was not sure that his affection was disinterested though. He was no fool. He had been most carefully educated; he was a man of culture; and he knew Wolsey's worth. Perhaps it was for that that he loved him. And myself? Why did he love me? For the excitement I could bring? Were we loved for the pleasure we could bring him? But was that not the source of all loving? So why should I doubt Henry?

  During those meetings Wolsey, because it was the King's wish, showed great deference to me and I to him; and it was amazing how some semblance of friendship grew up between us. I do not think it went very deep, but it was there on the surface for the King to see and delight in.

  Wolsey had given Gardiner and Fox an account of my virtues to take to the Pope. He had been most flattering; he had also written a masterly treatise on how important it was to get a male heir, and the King's fears as to what would happen on his death if he did not leave a son to follow him. He was young yet…young enough to have a son and bring him up as a ruler. If the matter were delayed for a few years, he might no longer be young enough to get a son and give him the necessary guidance.

  The spring had come and all through the days we awaited news of the mission with which Gardiner and Fox had been entrusted.

  At last it came. They had made some progress, and the Pope now realized the King's predicament. Clement wanted to help, so he was sending Cardinal Lorenzo Campeggio to England, and he, together with Cardinal Wolsey, should try the case.

  It was not what he had hoped, but it was something.

  The King was eager for the court to be set up immediately, but before this could be done calamity struck us.

  The sweating sickness came to England.

  The dread disease struck terror in everyone. It spread rapidly through the country and into the towns. It was dangerous to be in the company of anyone who had suffered from it because it was so infectious; and one could never be sure where it would strike. If anyone in a household contracted it, it was necessary that no one should leave or enter that house.