Katherine of Aragon, the True Queen

by Alison Weir

  With the King away, the ancient royal lodgings at Windsor felt empty, but the weather was good, so when Mary’s lessons were over, Katherine took her for long walks in the park, enjoying the peacefulness of it all. When Henry returned with Anne, Katherine kept to her apartments, not wanting Mary to see the woman flaunting herself.

  On the few occasions she herself came face-to-face with Henry, he was still irate with her. It did not help that he had recently turned forty, middle-aged by anyone’s standards, which made his lack of a male heir even more of a tragedy. Yet he was still a fine and regal figure of manly beauty. Looking on him, even as he berated her for her obstinacy with that hard-done-by, accusing look on his face, Katherine missed more than ever the closeness of their lovemaking.

  She was weary of their endless wrangling, and she suspected he was too. They seemed to go round in circles, never getting anywhere. He often accused her of never listening to him, but she did—she did! It was just that what he said made no sense to her.

  The court was due to leave Windsor on July 14. Everything was in readiness. That morning Katherine rose and heard Mass as usual. It was only when she was served breakfast afterward that she became aware of a stillness about the castle. Normally before the King removed to another house there was much commotion and bustle, but not today. Katherine rose and looked out of her window. The upper and middle wards were empty. No carts, no packhorses, no officers shouting orders, no servants racing hither and thither.

  She sent Lord Mountjoy to find out if the court was leaving after all.

  “Madam,” he told her, “the King left for Woodstock early this morning.”

  That was strange. Henry would surely have told her that he was going on ahead? But no doubt he had wanted to ride with the Lady Anne, and his wife’s presence was inconvenient.

  “Am I to follow?” she asked.

  “Madam, I cannot say. I have no instructions.” Mountjoy was absent-mindedly fingering his golden beard, a sure sign that he was perturbed.

  Perplexed, Katherine went to her daughter’s lodging. All Mary’s belongings were packed and waiting.

  “Are we going to Woodstock today?” Mary asked.

  “I do not know,” Katherine admitted. “We must await the King’s pleasure. He has left no orders.”

  Dinner was served at eleven o’clock, and Katherine and Mary ate it with due ceremony in the Queen’s privy chamber. The cloth had only just been lifted when a messenger wearing the Tudor livery arrived.

  “Ah, now we shall be on our way,” Katherine said.

  But the messenger, a pleasant-faced young man, seemed diffident about delivering his message. He looked, in fact, as if he would rather be anywhere else. At length he blurted out, “Your Grace, I am to inform you that it is the King’s pleasure that you vacate Windsor Castle within a month.”

  It took a moment for the implication of his words to sink in, and when it did, she began to tremble.

  The enormity of it was overwhelming. Henry had left her.

  1531–1532

  “Go where I may, I remain his wife, and for him I will pray,” she told the messenger, striving to keep her voice steady, for Mary was watching with a bewildered look on her face. “Pray say farewell to the King for me,” Katherine continued, “and tell him how sad I am that he did not say goodbye to me. And please tell him that I asked after his health, as a good wife should. It would be a consolation to me to hear that he is well.”

  The messenger looked stricken at that, and she suspected that Henry might be given a somewhat censored version of what she had said, so she repeated it.

  All she wanted to do was cry. She badly needed to throw herself on her bed and weep her heart out. But there was Mary to think of, Mary, who was looking at her questioningly, wondering what was going on.

  “We are not to leave after all,” Katherine said, keeping her voice light and smiling. “The King your father wishes us to remain here for now.” There was no need to say any more. Henry had gone from here for a brief visit to Hampton Court recently, so Mary must be led to believe that he would return again, once he had exhausted the hunting at Woodstock. He could well have a change of heart in the next few days, so there was no need to upset Mary in her present fragile state. Yet deep within her Katherine knew that this parting was final.

  Would the next thing she heard be that Henry had divorced her by unlawful means? What could she do then? She was alone, cut off from the court, and—which was worse—from Chapuys, her confidant and the vital link to her nephew Charles, the one person, besides this vacillating Pope, who could help her. Did she dare write to him? Or would Cromwell’s spies intercept her letter and show it to the King? A means must be found for sending messages privately to Chapuys. But how?

  She was still pondering on this that evening, after Mary had gone to bed, and thinking about seeking the advice of Maria and Margaret Pole, when another messenger was announced. The man was English and wore no livery, and she wondered whether it was wise to receive him. But it was too late to send him away: he was already kneeling before her.

  “Your Highness, I am come from Messire Chapuys,” the man said. “He thought it best that I did not wear his livery. I am to tell you that he knows about your situation and will do everything in his power for you.” He handed her a letter.

  She opened it and read. Chapuys wrote that he had been present when her message was delivered to Henry.

  His Grace became very angry. He asked me to tell you that he does not want any of your goodbyes, and has no wish to afford you consolation; and that he does not care whether your Grace asks after his health or not. He says you have caused him no end of trouble and have obstinately refused the reasonable request of his noble council. He knows that your Grace depends on the Emperor, but states that you will find that God Almighty is more powerful still. He commands that you stop it and mind your own business, and he wants no more of your Grace’s messages.

  Her heart broke all over again as she read Henry’s brutal words. And there was worse, farther down the page…

  Now that the Queen was banished, Chapuys had written, the Lady was trumpeting that it would be only three or four months until her wedding. She is preparing her royal state by degrees, and has just taken on new officers. Foreign envoys have been warned to appease her with presents. You may be assured that she will not receive one from your good servant.

  It did sound as if Henry meant to take matters into his own hands, which was a chilling prospect. Yet for all Anne’s optimism, it seemed that he was in no hurry. He’d had the declarations of the universities since March—four months now—but had not acted on them so far. If it had been his intention to push the matter through Parliament, he could have done it by now. Katherine suspected—and fervently hoped—that he believed the Pope would speak soon and spare him the necessity for rending Christendom asunder. Then he could be received back into the fold, like a lost sheep, and be a good son of the Church once more.

  The fragile edifice of her hopes came crashing down with the arrival of a letter from Henry, warning her that it would be a good deal better if she spent her time in seeking witnesses to prove her pretended virginity at the time of her marriage than in talking about it to whomever would listen to her. You should cease complaining to all the world about your imagined wrongs! he ended.

  She was taken aback at the unjustness of it. Most of the people of her acquaintance were for the King; she had few friends in England. Presumably, by “all the world” Henry meant the Emperor, the Pope, and Chapuys? But what did he expect her to do? Let him ride roughshod over her principles without complaint? Abandon the fight for her daughter’s rights? Make a mockery of the Holy See? As for her “pretended” virginity, he knew, none better, that it was a lie.

  She did not answer. There was no point in stoking up Henry’s rage any further. It would burn itself out eventually, as it always did, and one day surely he would see the light and return to her, as loving as before.

  —


  Katherine arrived at Easthampstead Park in August. It was a spacious royal hunting lodge in the middle of the royal forest of Windsor, and although it had been standing for two hundred years, and had a history that stretched back to Saxon times, it was as comfortable and well-appointed a residence as any queen could wish for. It had three wings ranged around a large courtyard and was surrounded by a moat, which was spanned by two drawbridges leading to twin gatehouses.

  Katherine had feared that Henry would send her to some mean house for the purpose of breaking her resistance, but at Easthampstead there was room for her entire household, including her two hundred and fifty maids of honor, and she was sufficiently provided for to live in great state, as she was accustomed. Yet for all her people around her, she still felt isolated, and deeply saddened at being parted from Henry, and from Mary, whom he had sent to Richmond. Katherine had written asking if Mary might remain with her, but he refused. She suspected it was another way of punishing her for opposing him. But was it fair to punish Mary too? His unkindness preyed on Katherine’s mind.

  She missed the fiery company of Elizabeth Stafford and the devoted loyalty and proud Spanish spirit of Gertrude Blount; both had been forbidden to visit her, although Elizabeth twice sent her gifts of oranges in which she’d hidden messages telling Katherine that she had taken great pleasure in impugning Mistress Anne’s ancestry and warning her to stop interfering in the marriages of Elizabeth’s children. She wants to marry them off to her supporters, but I told her I was having none of it! Katherine had to smile at the thought of the fiery Elizabeth Stafford taking her hated niece to task.

  Gertrude Blount had determinedly written several times and sent her maidservant, Elizabeth Darrell, to wait on the Queen in her place and act as go-between for them. Years ago, Elizabeth’s father had been Katherine’s vice-chamberlain, so she was pleased to receive the girl. Mistress Darrell, who soon became known to all as Eliza, was not yet twenty and was golden-haired, green-eyed, and very beautiful, and she soon became devoted to her new mistress. Of her many maids of honor, Katherine quickly came to love her best, although she also cherished the quiet mouse Jane Seymour, and Blanche de Vargas. Isabel de Vargas was loyal, but she was lazy; whenever Katherine wanted something done, she was nowhere to be seen, but would reappear as soon as she was no longer needed. Of the twins, Katherine far preferred Blanche.

  As for the great ladies of her household, only Maria and Maud were with her now, while Margaret was looking after Mary, thank the Lord. The rest—or their husbands—had deemed it politic to make their excuses and leave her service. That had hurt—but at least it left her with those who were congenial to her and whom she could trust.

  —

  Katherine had been greatly cheered by the reception she received from the people when she had ridden to Easthampstead from Windsor. They had come running across the fields and lined the dappled summer lanes to see her, crying out their support and their anger against Anne and Henry.

  “Truly you are beloved by these islanders,” Maria had observed. “The King should listen to his subjects!”

  Katherine knew she allowed Maria too much license in speaking critically of Henry, but in fact Maria was usually right. She might be abrasive at times, but she was a staunch friend, so much could be forgiven her. And she often voiced what Katherine herself was too reticent to say. Katherine dared not admit that she was missing Henry dreadfully and longed for his presence. At court she had known that he was nearby and might visit her, or that they might meet by chance; here she was cut off from him and condemned to a purgatory of loneliness and wanting, and had to hold her peace about it, for she knew exactly what Maria would say.

  She had been at Easthampstead for two months when, as the golden, rust-brown leaves of October were falling, another deputation of lords of the council arrived. She received them with Maria and Jane Seymour in attendance.

  Archbishop Lee was again their spokesman. “We are come to advise your Grace to be conformable to the will of God, and to inform you that all the universities have clearly determined that the Pope can in no wise dispense with your marriage to the King, therefore the dispensation in which you trust is clearly void and of no effect.”

  Katherine made herself stay calm. She had to show them that she was not to be moved or swayed by lies. She knelt with quiet dignity before these hard-faced, intractable men, and raised her hands as if in prayer.

  “I am the King’s true wife!” she declared. “He has yielded to mere passion, and I cannot think that the court of Rome and the whole Church of England will consent to anything that is unlawful and detestable. But still I say I am his wife, and for him I will pray.”

  The lords regarded her sternly.

  “It is our duty to warn your Grace of what the King might do to you if you persist in your defiance,” the Archbishop told her.

  “I will go even to the fire if the King commands me!” Katherine declared, meaning it, but inwardly shrinking in terror.

  “It may yet come to that,” she was told, brutally. When they were gone, bowing themselves out, her courage deserted her, leaving her in misery and fear. She was shuddering, rooted to the spot, and Maria and Maud came hastening to help her up.

  “He would never hurt you!” Maria cried. “You have committed no crime.”

  “It seems that in England it is a crime to oppose the King,” Katherine gasped through chattering teeth, a great pall of fear engulfing her. “Yet I cannot believe that His Grace means to proceed so harshly against me.” She was praying that when her words, said so impulsively, were reported to him, they might not take root in his mind. She should not have courted martyrdom while she had Mary to think of!

  —

  A few days later she received the King’s command to leave Easthampstead and go to the More, Wolsey’s old house. As Katherine’s small cavalcade passed on its way, crowds gathered to see her. “We will always hold you for our Queen!” they cried out.

  There was no diminishing of her state at the More. It was a house of great splendor, built of red brick and surrounded by excellent hunting parks. There were wonderful sets of tapestries, several of them embroidered with Wolsey’s coat of arms, and other reminders of the Cardinal too. His portrait hung on one wall, and his stall was there in the chapel. What magnificence he had lived in once, Katherine mused—and what had it availed him? Because, in the end, all turned to dust, and he was brought lower than he’d deserved, another victim of the Lady Anne’s malice. She shivered at the thought of the night crow’s power.

  To her surprise, a few local worthies and gentlemen visited her. The Venetian ambassador and his suite of thirty finely dressed Italians came too. She enjoyed playing hostess and impressing them with the magnificence of her estate, and when they came to watch her dine, she took care to see that thirty maids of honor stood around her, while a further fifty waited at table. Let none doubt that she was the true Queen of England! And all the while she was asking herself why the Venetians had felt it politic to visit her. Did they know something she did not? Had they gained the impression that she was about to be recalled to court? But they gave nothing away in their conversation, and she concluded that they could not be aware of the true situation, and were merely there to pay their respects, as was customary. After all, Henry’s courtiers had stayed away.

  —

  Soon afterward there arrived a letter from Chapuys, who had diligently maintained contact ever since Katherine left the court. Bishop Fisher had told him something disturbing: the Lady had sent a message warning Fisher not to attend the next session of Parliament in case he should suffer a repetition of the sickness that had struck him down in February.

  How could one not now conclude that she was behind that attempt to poison him? Chapuys wrote. Here seemed to be proof indeed, and the worst of it was that Anne clearly thought she was invincible and could get away with murder. At the very least it was a threat made in the worst taste. Either way, it made Katherine feel especially vulnerable, and even m
ore fearful for Mary.

  But when a summons came from the King, bidding her attend the annual feast for newly appointed sergeants of the City of London at Ely Place in Holborn, her spirits rose and she felt more optimistic than she had for a long time. For she and Henry had attended this feast on several occasions in the past, and the fact that he had commanded her to be present could only be construed as an olive branch. He would be there; she would see him again, see his beloved face, hear his voice. In the months of their separation, she had found that it was possible to forget his unkindnesses—which were all due to Anne Boleyn’s pernicious and bewitching influence, of course—and remember increasingly the loving husband he had once been.

  “Surely your Grace is not going?” Maud asked when Katherine ordered her to brush and lay out her crimson velvet gown.

  She stared at Maud. “Not going? The King has summoned me. I must obey.”

  “Forgive me, madam, but your attendance may purely be a formality, and I fear you may regret it.”

  Maria looked up from her sewing. “Maud is probably right, madam. His Grace seems set on this course he has taken; otherwise, surely you would have been summoned back to court.”

  She frowned at them. She knew Henry, knew the way his mind worked. He hated to admit he was wrong. He would not make the first overt move. He would want to test the water in a neutral setting. She was sure of it.

  “I appreciate your concerns, but I assure you both that you are probably worrying needlessly.”

  She left the More in a state of hopeful anticipation. She could even see this event marking a public reconciliation. Perhaps—she tried not to let her hopes run away with her—Henry had already sent Anne away, in readiness for her to resume her rightful place at court.