by Barbara Kyle
“Problem?” Wolsey bellowed to the ceiling. “It’s not a problem, it’s a bloody rout!” He rubbed his forehead, eyes closed, as if overwhelmed by the disaster. He glanced at Campeggio. “We must speak privately. Dismiss your assistant.”
“I’d rather he stayed.”
“Bah,” Wolsey growled. “His fawning irks me. You brought a phalanx of clerics from Rome, every one of them better trained than this fellow. Why do you keep him on?”
Campeggio stared disconsolately at his swollen foot elevated on a cushioned chair. “My Roman assistants have turned listless on this interminable posting,” he said. “They long to return to civilization.” He looked pointedly at Wolsey, making it clear he had intended the insult, and added with quiet bitterness, “And so, I must confess, do I.”
Wolsey looked away, chastised.
“But though we Romans falter,” Campeggio said, “Father Bastwick’s energy does not. I’ve found him to be a tireless worker.”
Wolsey waved his hand with an impatient gesture. “Suit yourself.”
Campeggio looked over at Bastwick. “What was your question, Father?”
“I simply do not understand the Queen’s disclosure, my lord,” Bastwick said deferentially. “She says she has uncovered a separate papal bull of dispensation?”
“Not a bull technically,” Campeggio explained. “A brief. But whatever it is called, the Queen is claiming that it has as much validity as Pope Julius’s official bull of dispensation which allowed the King to marry her, his brother’s widow. This brief was written by Pope Julius as well, she says, and was dated the same day as his bull. She says—”
“She says,” Wolsey snarled, “that in Spain the Emperor’s lawyers, in combing through evidence of the marriage treaty, uncovered this brief among the papers of Dr. de Puebla.”
“Who is de Puebla?” Bastwick asked.
“Was,” Campeggio answered. “The Spanish ambassador here at the time of the marriage. Dead now. The crux of the situation is that this brief also dispenses for the marriage, as the bull did, but with significant differences of phrasing.”
“Fatal differences,” Wolsey added blackly. He snatched up the vellum copy of the brief that the Queen had sent with the letter. Scanning it, he tapped a finger at his temple. “I have the official bull up here,” he said. His finger stabbed at a word on the scroll. “It is this that sticks us. This phrase appears only in the brief: ‘His et aliis causis animum nostrum moventibus’—“moved by these and other reasons.”
“Aliis causis, my lord?” Bastwick asked. “What ‘other reasons’?”
“Unspecified,” Wolsey answered with a grim glance at Campeggio.
“But the phrase changes everything,” Campeggio said. “The canon law of dispensations is exact. Sufficient causa—adequate grounds—must always be listed why a waiver should be allowed.”
“But,” Bastwick pointed out, “the original bull did list them. First, that the marriage would confirm the friendship between England and Spain. Second, that it would prevent war between them.”
“Exactly,” Wolsey said quickly, trying to shore up the sand giving way beneath him. “And the King is attacking that sentence about the threat of war.” Though he spoke now to Bastwick, his eyes betrayed him by darting hopefully to Campeggio. “The King argues that the former Pope was deceived about the situation since there was, at that time, no danger of war between England and Spain. Consequently, the bull was procured by obreption—by misrepresenting the reasons for applying for it—and must now be declared invalid.”
“But,” Campeggio said sternly, “if the Pope said he had been moved by ‘other reasons’ as well, although he did not list them, who can say how much the threat of war weighed with him? Perhaps he had private information that led him, and him alone, to fear such a war. There is no better causa known to canon law than the furtherance of good relations between states.”
Wolsey’s voice rose to an uncharacteristic plea. “But Pope Clement has promised the King—”
“He has promised nothing,” Campeggio said firmly. “I am sorry, but this evidence cannot be ignored. It indicates that Pope Julius knew of other reasons, unstated but compelling reasons, to grant the dispensation.”
“And took his reasons with him to the grave.” Wolsey groaned. He threw up his hands, admitting the stark conclusion both of them had reached. “How can I fight a dead man? What defense can I mount against unknown motivations? By these ‘aliis causa,’ the King’s argument is shattered.” He ran a hand over his sweating upper lip.
Campeggio heaved an exhausted sigh.
“Perhaps not, my lords,” Bastwick said quietly. The cardinals looked at him.
Bastwick had stood. He was approaching their table. “This is only a copy the Queen has sent you, is it not?” he asked. “A copy of a copy? Well, how can we be sure the alleged brief even exists?”
Wolsey stared up at him. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, my lord, that the Queen is desperate.”
A smile began to creep over Wolsey’s face. “My lord Cardinal,” he said, lifting his glass in a toast to Campeggio, “I congratulate you in the discovery of this most astute assistant.” He lifted the glass in turn to Bastwick and studied him for a moment. “When all of this is behind us, Father, and Cardinal Campeggio has returned to his beloved Rome, you must come and see me. I can always make use of a good, sharp mind.”
Wolsey settled back comfortably in his chair, and drank.
“Read.”
Honor heard the distress in the Queen’s voice. She looked up from the hearth where she was laying wood for a fire against the March chill.
Catherine was thrusting out a letter to her. “Cardinal Wolsey means to terrorize me,” she said. “Yesterday, he announced that the legatine court, with him and Campeggio as my judges, will sit in June. And today, this. Oh, yes, he means to terrorize me. Read.”
Honor rose from the cold hearth and took the letter. The small antechamber of the Queen’s room at Richmond Palace was chilly, dark-paneled, and bare except for a bench under a single window, and her candle-studded prie-dieu in the corner. Here, Catherine spent hours praying after morning mass and before evening vespers. She and her reduced train were alone at Richmond. King and court did not come here anymore.
“What terrors can he threaten you with, my lady?” Honor asked as she began to read.
Catherine picked up her prayer missal from the bench and pressed it to her bosom as if for warmth. She began to pace. “Subtlety was never the Cardinal’s virtue. How miraculous, he declares, that this brief should appear after twenty years when not a soul knew of its existence. Doubly miraculous, he says, that it should so conveniently support my position.”
“He implies that you forged it?” Honor asked, incredulous. She had thought that Wolsey’s tactics, so consistently brutal, no longer had the power to shock her. Forgery, in a case against the King, could be construed as treason. And treason meant death.
“More than imply it,” Catherine said. “He threatens that no court of law will accept a mere copy of the brief, unattested as mine is. Only the original document, he says, can possibly be considered.”
“But the original lies in the Emperor’s treasury in Spain.”
“Precisely. Wolsey is deliberately transparent. He makes no effort to mask his skepticism about the very existence of the brief. He recommends…how has he put it?…‘For your sake and your daughter’s’—a clever touch of terror there, you’ll agree…that I dismiss any intention of introducing the copy in court.” She stopped in the center of the room and stared at the logs in the cold grate.
“If an agent could reach the Emperor for you…” Honor began, thinking.
Catherine shook her head. “Wolsey knows I am cut off from Spain. His spies watch my doors like jailers.”
“Pardon, my lady,” Honor said, “but is this new evidence really necessary to you? I had understood your defense to rest on the fact that you came to the King’s bed a vir
gin, and therefore all quibbling over the legality of the bull of dispensation was irrelevant.”
“And so my main thrust will remain,” Catherine said. “But I am not such a simpleton as to arm myself with only one argument, and an unprovable one at that. As a supplementary line of defense, this discovered brief answers my prayers. Or so I had thought.” Unnerved, she looked heavenward. “I thought God had sent me a weapon, but now…” A log on top of the stacked firewood slipped and crashed to the hearth, startling her. She hugged the missal as if it were a mast in a storm. She began to rock, unsteady on her feet, and the missal tumbled to the floor.
Honor dropped the letter and hurried over with arms outstretched to steady the Queen, but before she reached her, Catherine crumpled to her knees. Honor knelt beside her, embracing her. Catherine pulled back, trembling, blinking worry-smudged eyes up at Honor as if unsure of where she was.
“My lady, let me fetch Dr. De la Sa!”
“No! No!” Catherine whispered.
“But you are ill!”
Catherine shook her head in jerks, eyes shut. Slowly, with Honor’s arm around her shoulders, she seemed to subdue her panic. Her rigid muscles slackened, her breathing quieted. They remained kneeling together, for Honor was unwilling to let her go, but Catherine raised a cold hand to Honor’s face and stroked her cheek.
“Truly, sweetheart, I am not ill.” She patted Honor’s hand and started to rise, but again she faltered and clutched Honor’s elbow, and rasped, “Though God knows how sick at heart!”
Honor winced at the tortured voice. The forty-three-year-old face before her looked fifty. Threads of graying hair had escaped the Queen’s jeweled chaperon, and Honor noticed with a pang of alarm that her blue velvet bodice was sprinkled with crumbs of bread. Good God, Honor thought, does she hoard bread in this dark room to break her fasts? Munch it furtively during her solitary hours of prayer? This once-fastidious Queen?
Catherine turned her face to the flickering votive candles. She still held Honor’s elbow tightly as if hoping to draw some of the younger woman’s strength. “Wolsey means to strangle this evidence,” she whispered. “He means to strangle my last hope. And I must do as he says. If I do not, the Privy Council threatens the most extreme consequences for my disobedience.” She dropped her forehead onto Honor’s shoulder. “Blessed Mother of God, what am I to do!”
“Madam,” Honor said steadily, “let me go to the Emperor.”
Catherine looked up, astonishment on her face. “What are you saying?”
“Send me to Spain. In Valladolid I can pour out to your nephew your plea to release this document from his treasury. I’ll have it back here, safe in your possession, before Ascension Day. And with it you can confound these Cardinals in their legatine court.”
Catherine stared at her. “Oh, but my dear!” she whispered. “Dare I hope…? There is so little time. And…no, no, it is too dangerous.”
“Not for a pilgrim,” Honor smiled. “Don’t you see? Easter is the perfect time for such a ruse. I’ll be a pilgrim traveling to the shrine of Santiago de Compostela—just one among hundreds of English pilgrims.”
“But Wolsey’s spies…”
“I promise you I can evade them. Oh, my lady, let me do this for you!”
For a long moment Catherine searched Honor’s face, marveling at the offer. Finally, she allowed herself to smile.
“How could I have doubted God’s wisdom?” she said as tears blurred her eyes. “You are the tool He has sent me. With your help, I shall confound these Cardinals!”
Honor stood alone on the pier of Richmond Palace waiting for a barge. Her skirts flapped in the spring breeze as if they were as impatient as she to begin the first leg of her journey. She had brought no baggage to attract suspicion. She had arranged to spend this night at the London house of the Marchioness of Exeter, one of the Queen’s oldest and most trusted friends. She recalled that the Marchioness had recently commissioned Holbein for a portrait. Poor Hans, she thought. She had overwhelmed him with her volley of questions when she found him alone after that morning in Anne’s suite.
“I know nothing of the book, Mistress Honor,” he had protested. “Yes, the drawing of the speedwell is mine. I remember doing it. But I never knew what book it was for. I made hundreds of woodcut drawings in those days.” He had explained to her that most artists did not work in wood or metal. They provided the drawings, sometimes on the wood itself, and then the woodcutter did the rest. He had never known what volume the speedwell was destined for, he said, and never saw the final publication. He had even forgotten the name of the printer who had commissioned the drawing, “Because,” he said with a shrug of apology, “I did it on a short visit to Lucerne.” He had shaken his head. “I’m sorry.”
Honor was sorry, too. Another dead end.
A barge was approaching the pier, still several boat lengths away. She raised her hand to hail it. But before she could wave, she felt a tug at her sleeve. She turned. It was the red-haired Edward Sydenham.
Furtively, he glanced back towards the palace, his face very pale. He thrust a paper into Honor’s hand. Astonished, she opened her mouth to speak, but Edward held a finger warningly to his lips and shook his head. Then, as quickly as he had come, he hurried away.
The barge bumped alongside the pier. Honor climbed in and directed the boatman to Barnard’s Castle wharf. As they glided out into the traffic of the river, she settled herself and unfolded the paper. She glanced down at the signature: “Bridget S.”
Mistress,
I heartily recommend me unto you, not forgetting the courageous service you performed for me and mine, albeit in the end my untrusting heart did lead us all to ruin. Because I would not heed your warning, precious moments were lost and my lord was captured. He has lain these long months in the Lollard’s Tower. But right glad I am his heart is ever cheerful in the love of the Lord, Our Savior.
Honor was shocked. She had not known that Sydenham was being held in the prison of St. Paul’s. She had been so sure he would recant and be sent home.
Mistress, these trials are my lord’s and mine and I will not trouble you with our woe. The meat of my dispatch is this. I have this day had talk with Brother F. He inquired after you. Speaking of the infamous night that has blighted the happiness of me and mine, he told me you had asked after one Ralph Pepperton. Naturally, Brother F. knew no such name. Indeed, there are perhaps only two persons who can satisfy you in this, each holding one piece of the puzzle. The first of those two is myself, for I know that the man you refer to once called himself Ralph Pepperton.
He came to my husband’s notice three years ago in Coventry. He had come there years before as a masterless man fleeing some past crime that I know nothing of. He never spoke of those past days except to tell me once, in confidence, that his name had been Pepperton and that, for safety’s sake against his former crime he had put on the name of Roger Pym. (Ever jesting, he told me that though his conscience cleared him, yet the magistrate might not.) He got his bread driving a dray for a skinner, and he wed a Coventry lass of our circle, and fathered two fine lads, and nowhere lived a better Christian soul than this good Roger Pym. His help in our humble efforts to gladden men’s hearts with the word of Our Lord was always merrily offered. His ending will have made the angels weep.
For news of that dreadful ending you must seek the one other that I spoke of. More than this I dare not lay to paper. That other—the person with the shred of news that will fit mine—is your own guardian.
I tell you this, for I believe that those of us who live must bear witness for those who have suffered and died. Goodness must prevail.
Use this knowledge as you will. I have nothing but thanks in my heart for you for the help you tried to bring us. And I am safe assured that you will keep what I have told you unto yourself alone, except it be for the good purpose of breaking it unto your guardian.
And so I pray Jesu preserve you in long life to His pleasure.
From my London
house, though I had liefer lie in filthy straw so I might lie alongside my lord in his prison, I am ever your entire good friend,
Bridget S.
I beg you, destroy this paper.
Honor looked up, flushed with excitement. Now, she would learn the truth! Sir Thomas would lead her to her quarry. Bastwick was almost in her grasp. The erratic wind frisked across the waves and tugged at the letter in her hands.
“Boatman,” she said, tearing the paper into pieces and scattering them on the river, “stop in at Chelsea first. At Sir Thomas More’s.”
13
The Menagerie
“Sir Thomas, mistress?” a servant in the house replied to Honor’s question. “Why, he’s out feeding his creatures.”
Honor walked down to the menagerie, a stone shed that housed the two rows of caged exotic animals whose habits More delighted in observing. She stood in the doorway and found him stooped over a cage, obviously unaware of her presence. She watched with a smile as he coaxed a monkey to accept a scrap of meat he was poking through the bars.
“Sir!” she said severely, pretending disapproval. “Does this house not observe the Lenten fast?”
More looked up, startled. Then he straightened to greet her. “I believe,” he said with a smile, indicating the forbidden meat in his hand, “we may absolve a heathen creature for clinging to some heathen ways.”
“Oh, hunger is heathen indeed,” she said with a laugh, and stepped into the dim shed. She bent to look into the monkey’s cage and was shocked by what she saw. An emaciated figure was slumped in a corner among scattered bits of browning vegetables. Its fur was matted with filth, and a large bald patch, red and raw, festered on its shin. Its lusterless eyes followed her movements with only the barest glimmer of interest. “What’s wrong with him?” she asked.
