The King's Secret Matter

by Виктория Холт

  But not for long, vowed Katharine—unless he can hold his place by his own qualities and not through the lewdness of his daughter.

  Wherever the King went there was ceremony. Now the heralds stationed at the doors were playing a fanfare—a warning to all those who had been within the Palace while the King was at sport to leap to attention. He would stroll through the Palace smiling graciously, if his mood was a good one; and it would seem that it was so now from the sound of his voice, and the laughter which followed his remarks.

  She wondered whether he would go to his own apartments or come to hers. What did he wish now? Sweet music? Would he call for his lute and entertain the company with one of his own musical compositions? Would he perhaps summon Mary Boleyn and dismiss his courtiers? He was a young healthy animal and his whims and moods could change in a moment.

  “He is coming here,” she said, and she saw the faint flush begin in Maria’s cheeks as the door was flung open.

  The King stood on the threshold looking at his Queen and her attendant bent over their tapestry.

  Maria rose immediately, as did Katharine, and they both made a deep curtsey as Henry came into the room chuckling, his fair face flushed, his blue eyes as bright as chips of glazed china with the sun on them; his golden beard jutting out inviting admiration; he had recently grown it because King François had one, and he believed that a golden beard was more becoming than a black one.

  Beside him most other men looked meager, and it was not merely the aura of kingship which made them so. It was true they fell away from him, giving him always the center of the stage, for every word, every gesture which was made in his presence must remind him that he was the King whom they all idolized.

  He was glittering with jewels. How he loved color and display! And since he had returned from France he had worn brighter colors, more dazzling jewels. It was true that he did so with a hint of defiance; and Katharine knew that it would be a long time before he forgot the sly looks of the King of France, the caustic wit which, it had to be confessed, had set the King of England at a loss; that long nose, those brilliant dark eyes, had frequently seemed to hold a touch of mockery. The King of France was the only man who in recent years had dared snap his fingers at Henry and make sly jokes at his expense. Oh, the extravagant folly of that Field of the Cloth of Gold! All sham, thought Katharine, with two monarchs swearing friendship while hatred filled their hearts.

  But Henry was not thinking of François now as he stood at the threshold of his wife’s apartment. He was in a favorite position, legs apart—perhaps to display that fine plump calf; his jerkin was of purple velvet, the sleeves slashed and puffed; his doublet of cloth of gold decorated with pearls; on his head was a blue velvet cap in which a white feather curled and diamonds scintillated; about his neck was a gold chain on which hung a large pearl and ruby; the plump white fingers were heavily loaded with rings, mostly of rubies and diamonds.

  It was small wonder that wherever he went the people shouted for him; unlike his father he was a King who looked like a King.

  “How now, Kate?” he said; and she straightened herself to look into his face, to read the expression there—his was the most expressive face at Court—and Katharine saw that for this moment his mood was a benign one. “You’ve missed a goodly sight.” He slapped his thigh, which set the jewels flashing in the sunlight.

  “Then ’twas good sport, Your Grace?” answered Katharine, smiling.

  “’Twas so indeed. Was it not?” He turned his head slightly and there was an immediate chorus of assent. “The dogs were game,” he went on, “and the bear was determined to stay alive. They won in the end, but I’ve lost two of my dogs.”

  “Your Grace will replace them.”

  “Doubt it not,” he said. “We missed you. You should have been at our side.” His expression had changed and was faintly peevish. She understood. He had been with Mary Boleyn last night and was making excuses to himself for conduct which shocked him a little, even though it was his own. She knew that he was tormented periodically by his conscience; a strange burden for such a man to carry. Yet she rejoiced in the King’s conscience; she believed that if he ever contemplated some dastardly act, it would be there to deter him.

  “It was my regret that I was not,” answered Katharine.

  He growled and his eyes narrowed so that the bright blue was scarcely visible. He seemed to make a sudden decision, for he snapped his fingers and said: “Leave us with the Queen.”

  There was immediate obedience from those who had accompanied him into the apartment; and Maria de Salinas hurried to where the King stood, dropped a curtsey, and followed the others out. Henry did not glance at her; his lower lip was protruding slightly as the plump fingers of his right hand played with the great ruby on his left.

  Katharine experienced a twinge of that apprehension which was troubling her more and more frequently nowadays. He had felt contented when he was watching his animals; when he had crossed the gardens and come into the Palace he had been happy. It was the sight of her sitting at her tapestry which had aroused his anger.

  When they were alone he grumbled: “Here is a pleasant state of affairs. The King must sit alone and watch good sport because his Queen prefers not to sit beside him that people may see their King and Queen together.”

  “I believed I did not displease Your Grace in remaining in my apartment.”

  “You knew full well that I wished you to be beside me.”

  “But Henry, when I explained my indisposition, you seemed contented enough that I should remain in the Palace.”

  It was true; he had shrugged his shoulders when she had pleaded a headache; would she never learn that what he accepted at one time with indifference could arouse his anger at another?

  “I liked it not,” he growled. “And if this headache of yours was so distressing, do you improve it with the needle? Nay, ’twas our rough English sports that disgusted you. Come, admit it. Our English games are too rough for Spanish ladies, who faint at the sight of blood. ’Tis so, is it not?”

  “It is true that I find the torturing of animals distasteful.”

  “’Tis odd in one who comes from Spain where they make a religious spectacle out of torturing people.”

  She shuddered; the thought of cruelty was distasteful to her; she knew that during the reign of her revered mother the Spanish Inquisition had tortured heretics and handed them over to the Secular authorities to be burned to death. This she had often told herself was a matter of faith; those who suffered at the autos-de-fé in her native land did so because they had sinned against the Church. In her eyes this was a necessary chastisement, blessed by Holy Church.

  She said quietly: “I do not care to witness the shedding of blood.”

  “Bah!” cried the King. “’Tis good sport. And ’twould be well that the people see us together. Like as not we shall be hearing that all is not well between us. Rumors grow from such carelessness, and such rumors would not please me.”

  “There are rumors already. I’ll warrant the secret of your mistresses is not kept to the Court.”

  The King’s ruddy face grew a shade darker and there was a hint of purple in it. She knew she was being foolish, knew that he was like an ostrich, that he fondly imagined that no one was aware of his infidelities or, if they were, looked upon them as a kingly game no more degrading than the hounding of animals to death.

  “And is it meet that you should reproach me for seeking elsewhere what I cannot find in your bed?” he demanded.

  “I have always done my best to please you there.”

  The eyes narrowed still more; the face was an even darker shade, the chin jutted out in a more bellicose manner; and only the beard prevented his looking like a boy in a tantrum.

  “Then,” he shouted, “let me tell you this, Madam. You have not pleased me there!”

  She closed her eyes waiting for the onslaught of cruel words. He would not spare her because, with the guilt of his adultery heavy upon him,
he had to find excuses for his conscience. He was talking to that now—not to her.

  The tirade ended; a slightly pious expression crossed the scarlet face; the blue eyes opened wider and were turned upwards. His voice was hushed as he spoke.

  “There are times, Kate, when I think that in some way you and I have offended God. All these years we have prayed for a boy and again and again our hopes have been disappointed.”

  And those words smote her ears like a funeral knell; the more so because they were spoken quietly in a calculating manner; he had momentarily forgotten the need to appease his conscience; he was planning for the future.

  He had expressed that thought before, and always in that portentous manner, so that it sounded like the opening chorus, the prelude to a drama on which the curtain was about to rise.

  So now she waited for what would follow. It must come one day. If not this day, the next. Perhaps a week might elapse, a month, a year…but come it would.

  He was eyeing her craftily, distastefully, the woman who no longer had the power to arouse any desire in him, the woman who after twelve years of marriage had failed to give what he most desired: a son born in wedlock.

  There was nevertheless still to be respite; for suddenly he turned on his heel and strode from the room.

  But Katharine knew that the curtain was soon to rise.

  * * *

  AS THE COURTIERS left the King and Queen together, many an understanding glance was exchanged. It was common knowledge that all was not well between the royal pair. Who could blame the King, said the gay young men, married to a woman five years older than himself—a woman who was overpious and a solemn Spaniard—when he was surrounded by gay young English girls all eager for a frolic! It would have been different of course had there been a son.

  There was one among the company whose smile was complacent. This did not go unnoticed. Edward Stafford, third Duke of Buckingham, had good reason to be delighted by this lack of royal fertility. Secretly Buckingham believed himself to be more royal than the Tudors, and there were many who, had they dared to express such an opinion, would have agreed with him.

  Buckingham was a proud man; he could not forget that through his father he was descended from Thomas of Woodstock, son of Edward III, and that his mother had been Catherine Woodville, sister of Elizabeth Woodville who had married Edward IV. And who were the Tudors but a bastard sprig from the royal tree!

  Never could Buckingham look on the King without this thought crossing his mind: There but for the chances of fate might stand Edward Stafford.

  Such thoughts were only safe when locked in the secret places of the mind; and it was unwise to betray, even by a look, that they existed. Buckingham was a rash man and therefore, since he lived under Henry VIII, an unwise one.

  The old Duke of Norfolk who was at his side, guessing his thoughts, whispered: “Caution, Edward.”

  As Buckingham turned to look at his friend a faint frown of exasperation appeared on his brow. Further resentment flared up in his mind against the King. Why should he have to be cautious lest the stupid young King should realize that he fancied himself in his place? If Henry had a spark of imagination, he would guess this was so.

  Norfolk and Buckingham were intimate friends and there was a connection between the families because Buckingham’s daughter had married Norfolk’s son.

  Buckingham smiled wryly. The old man would want no trouble to befall his friend and connection by marriage, and would be thinking that such trouble often embraced the whole of a family.

  “Your looks betray your thoughts,” whispered Norfolk. “There are those who are ready to carry tales. Let us go to your apartments where we shall be able to talk in peace.”

  Buckingham nodded and they disengaged themselves from the crowd.

  “You should be watchful,” murmured Norfolk as they mounted the staircase on their way to Buckingham’s apartment.

  Buckingham shrugged elegant shoulders. “Oh come,” he said, “Henry knows that I’m as royal as he is. He doesn’t need my careless looks to remind him.”

  “All the more reason for caution. I should have thought you would have been warned by the case of Bulmer.”

  Buckingham smiled reminiscently. It had been worth it, he decided; even though at the time he had suffered some uneasy moments.

  But he was glad that he had shown his daring to the Court; there was no doubt of that when he had approached Sir William Bulmer, who was in the service of the King, and bribed him with an offer of better service in his own retinue. He had done this out of bravado, out of that ever persistent desire to show the King that he was of equal standing. Buckingham had never forgotten how Henry had sought to seduce his, Buckingham’s, sister, as though she were some serving girl at the Court. Perhaps Henry also had not forgotten Buckingham’s action in having the girl whirled out of his orbit by her enraged husband just at that moment when successful seduction seemed imminent. Buckingham had scored then. It was a glorious victory for a Duke to win over a King. And he had tried again with Bulmer. Not so successfully, for the King, no longer an uncertain boy, had summoned Bulmer to the Star Chamber and accused him of having deserted the royal service. Bulmer had cowered before the onslaught of the King’s anger and had been kept on his knees until he despaired of ever being allowed to rise.

  But at length Henry had relented, forgiven Bulmer and taken him back into his service. The affair, however, was meant to be a warning—chiefly to an arrogant Duke. Yet the Duke still thought his dangerous thoughts; and it was possible to read them in almost every gesture that he made.

  “Ah, Bulmer,” he mused now. “That man was a coward. He should have returned to me.”

  “It might have cost him his head,” suggested Norfolk.

  “I would rather lose my head than be known as a coward.”

  “Take care that you are not called upon to prove those words, Edward.”

  “Henry does not possess a surfeit of bravery,” retorted Buckingham. “Look how he let my sister go.”

  “It would be a different state of affairs if that had happened today. Henry was a boy when he decided on your sister. I do believe that up to that time he had never been unfaithful to the Queen. Those days are over.”

  “He realized that we Staffords would not accept the insult.”

  “You deceive yourself. If he fancied your wife or mine he’d care not a jot for our families. The King is no longer a boy to be led. He is a man who will have what he wants and thrust aside all those who stand in his way.”

  “If he respects royalty he must include those who are as royal as he is.”

  “Henry sees only one point of view, his own. He is the King. The rest of us, be we dukes or lords, are so far beneath him that he would have our heads, ay, and feel it was but his due, should the fancy take him. That is why I bid you to be cautious. Ha, here comes Wolsey, on his way to the royal apartments, I’ll swear.”

  “The butcher’s dog is for ever sniffing at the heels of his master,” said Buckingham, without taking the precaution of lowering his voice.

  Thomas Wolsey was making his way towards them, an impressive figure in his scarlet Cardinal’s robes. He was a man of about forty-five, his expression alert, his face mildly disfigured by smallpox, and the lid of one eye hanging lower than the other, which gave an added expression of wisdom to his clever face.

  Buckingham did not pause as he approached; his gaze became cold and he looked beyond the Cardinal as though he could not see the red-clad figure.

  “A merry good day to you, gentlemen,” said the Cardinal.

  “Good day to you,” answered Norfolk.

  “I trust, my lords, you enjoyed good sport and that His Grace is happy because of it.”

  “The sport was fair enough,” murmured Norfolk; but Buckingham, who had not spoken, was walking on.

  Wolsey did not appear to have noticed; he inclined his head slightly and Norfolk did likewise, as Wolsey went on towards the King’s apartments, the two Dukes on to
Buckingham’s.

  “’Tis my belief he heard your words,” said Norfolk.

  “’Tis my hope that he did.”

  “Curb your pride, Edward. Will you never understand that he is forever at the King’s side, ready to pour his poison in the royal ear?”

  “Let him pour—if the King listens to the butcher’s boy he is unworthy to be King.”

  “Edward…you fool! When will you learn? You already have an enemy in the Cardinal; if you love your life do not seek one in the King.”

  But Buckingham strode on ahead of Norfolk, so that the old man had to hurry to keep up with him; and thus they came to his apartments.

  As they entered three men of his retinue who were conversing together bowed to him and his companion. These were Delacourt his confessor, Robert Gilbert his chancellor, and Charles Knyvet who was not only his steward but his cousin.

  The Dukes acknowledged their greetings and when they had passed into Buckingham’s private apartment he said: “My servants are aware of it. They know full well that their master might, by good chance, ascend the throne.”

  “I trust,” put in Norfolk nervously, “that you have never spoken of such matters in their presence.”

  “Often,” laughed Buckingham. “Why, only the other day Delacourt said to me: ‘If the Princess Mary died, Your Grace would be heir to the throne.’ Why, my friend, you tremble. Norfolk, I’m surprised at you.”

  “I never heard such folly.”

  “Listen to me,” murmured Buckingham soothingly. “The King is not such a fool as to attack the nobility. He has too much respect for royalty to harm me. So set aside your fears. This much I tell you: I will be treated with the respect due to me. Now, what do you think the King is saying to his Queen at this moment? He is upbraiding her for not accompanying him to watch the sport; but what he really means is that she is of no use to him since she cannot give him a son. I do believe he has begun to despair of ever getting a boy by her.”