Katharine of Aragon

by Jean Plaidy

  It was the invitation to unmask, always the great climax of these childish games.

  The Cardinal stood up. “It shall be so!” he said. And he walked along the tables to that man with the black beard, and stood before him.

  “Take off his mask if you believe it to be he,” commanded a voice which was husky with suppressed laughter.

  And Wolsey stretched up and removed the false beard and the mask, to disclose the features of Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk.

  While he stared with dismay there was a shout of laughter and a tall figure rose and confronted Wolsey.

  “So my lord Cardinal,” he cried, removing his mask, “you would deny your King!”

  Wolsey knelt and took Henry's hand.

  “May God forgive me,” he murmured.

  Henry, his face scarlet with pleasure, his blue eyes sparkling, flung his gold wire beard from him. He began to laugh in that deep rumbling way which appeared to be infectious for the whole company laughed with him.

  Thomas stood up and raised his eyes to the jovial giant.

  “So Thomas, my friend, you did not know me.”

  “Your Grace, I have never seen you so perfectly disguised.”

  Henry slapped his satin thigh. “‘Twas a good mask. And I'll applaud Suffolk. He led you astray, did he not. Yet I thought you would have seen he lacked that inch or so.”

  “But surely Your Grace stooped to deceive me?”

  “Ha! Stoop I did. And 'twas effective.”

  “And I had thought I could find Your Grace anywhere…in any circumstances.”

  “So, friend Thomas, you offer me your seat of honor, eh?”

  “Everything I have belongs to Your Grace. And now I would crave your indulgence and ask you to wait awhile before you sit to table. That which was served for a band of travellers is not what I would put before my King.”

  “How so, Thomas?”

  “If Your Grace will excuse me I will send for my master cooks. When the King comes to Hampton Court that which is served must not only be fit for a King but fit for the King of England.”

  Henry's eyes gleamed with pleasure. There was never such a one as Thomas Wolsey. He could be trusted to rise to any occasion. Whether it was matching the wits of his great enemy, François Premier, or talking of treaties with the Emperor Charles, Wolsey was the man he wanted to have beside him. And in a mask such as this he could be as effective as at the Council table.

  “Go to, Thomas,” he said; and when Thomas gave a quiet order to his stewards the King's merry eyes watched the ceremonial arrival of Thomas's cooks in their scarlet velvet livery and golden chains.

  “The fellows look as royal as myself,” he said in an aside to Suffolk. But he enjoyed it. He admired Wolsey for living in this manner; it was a credit to his country and his King.

  “We are honored by the presence of the King,” said Wolsey to his cooks. “Have this food removed; bring in new and scented napery; set new dishes on the tables. I wish for a banquet—not worthy to set before His Grace, for that would be impossible—but the best we can offer.”

  The cooks bowed and with ceremony left the hall followed by their clerks of the kitchens, surveyors of the dresser, clerks of the hall-kitchens and clerk of the spicery who followed the master cooks as Wolsey's gentlemen of the household followed him on his ceremonial journeys from Hampton to Westminster Hall.

  Then the guests left the tables and Wolsey led the King to another apartment; the banquet was postponed for an hour that it might be made worthy of the King.

  Nothing could have pleased Henry more, for the climax of his game was that he should receive the homage due to him as King. Buckingham might grumble to Norfolk that the butcher's cur was vulgar in the extreme; but there was not a man present who did not know that it was the red-clad figure which led the way and that which was clad in jewelled cloth of gold followed, because it was pleasant and easy to do so.

  So it was with Wolsey that Henry walked in the hall of Hampton Court, his arm laid heavily on the shoulder of the Chancellor so that all could see— if they had ever doubted it—that he looked upon Thomas Wolsey as his friend, that he rejoiced in the Cardinal's possessions because they were a symbol of how high a humble man could rise in his service, that he saw Thomas's glory as a reflection of his own power. Nothing the jealous near-royals could do would alter that.

  And when the food was prepared and the company reassembled in the great banqueting hall, Henry took his place under the canopy of state and all were merry as it pleased the King to be; but Henry would have, seated on his right hand, his host and friend, Thomas Wolsey.

  He wanted all to know that he had great love for that man.

  THE NEXT MORNING WHEN Knyvet again asked for an audience with the Cardinal, Wolsey received him.

  The Cardinal, in crimson damask on this morning, sat at his table, his hands—very white in contrast to the crimson—spread out before him.

  “You have something to tell me?” he asked.

  “My lord Cardinal, I have wrestled with my conscience…”

  How they always wrestled with their consciences! As though it was not the desire for revenge which so often brought them to him!

  “I am listening,” said Wolsey.

  “It concerns my Lord Buckingham.”

  “In whose service you are.”

  “In whose service I was, Your Eminence.”

  “So you are with him no longer?”

  Wolsey's face was impassive but he was chuckling inwardly. So the fool Buckingham had dismissed a man from his service after having been indiscreet before him. The trouble with Buckingham was that he felt himself too important to need caution. It might be that the time was near when he would learn that he misjudged that importance.

  “A little difference between us, Your Eminence. The Duke has a hasty temper.”

  “I am sorry.”

  “Your Eminence, it is a matter of relief to me to be free of him. Although he is my cousin I must say that.”

  There was venom there. It might be usefully employed.

  “And why have you come to see me?”

  “Because I felt it my duty to do so.”

  “You wish to tell me something about the Duke?”

  “Yes, Your Eminence.”

  “I am listening.”

  “I would have Your Eminence know that it is my duty to King and State which impels me to lay these matters before you.”

  “I accept that.”

  “Then I would say that my lord and cousin has uttered remarks against the King's Grace which seem to me treasonable.”

  “And what were these remarks?”

  “Before the Princess Mary was born he claimed to be heir to the throne. Since Her Highness's birth he has said that should she die he would be the heir.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Your Eminence, he has referred constantly to his noble birth and has made slighting remarks concerning the bastardy of a certain family.”

  Wolsey nodded encouragingly.

  “Your Eminence, he has consulted a soothsayer who has told him that the crown will one day be his.”

  “It would seem that your cousin is a rash man, Master Knyvet.”

  “‘Twould seem so, Eminence. You will remember that he lured Sir William Bulmer from the King's service into his.”

  “I remember the occasion well. The King was angry and declared he would have no servant of his hanging on another man's sleeve.”

  “Yes, Eminence, and my Lord Buckingham told me that had the King reprimanded him and sent him to the Tower, he would have asked for an audience with His Grace, and when it was granted would have stabbed the King and taken over the rule of this kingdom.”

  “His recklessness is greater than I believed it to be. Why was he such a fool as to dismiss a man to whom he had uttered such treasonable words?”

  Knyvet flushed uncomfortably. “He accused me of oppressing the tenantry.”

  “And he dismissed you? And it was only w
hen you were dismissed that you recognized these remarks of his as those of a traitor?”

  Knyvet shivered and began to wish that he had not come to the Cardinal, but Wolsey had begun to smile as he laid a hand on the ex-steward's shoulder.

  “My lord, I came to you because I felt it to be my duty…”

  “It was indeed your duty. But what will be said of a man who only recognizes his duty when his master dismisses him from his service?”

  “You would not find it difficult to prove the truth. I was not the only one who heard these remarks. There were Hopkins the monk, and my lord's confessor, Delacourt, and Gilbert his chancellor. My lord lacks caution and speaks his mind before his servants.”

  The Chancellor waved a hand, which was enough to tell Knyvet that he was dismissed.

  Knyvet looked at him in amazement; he had often heard Buckingham sneer at Wolsey; surely, he reasoned, Wolsey should reward one who brought such evidence to him.

  But the Cardinal's white hand was now at his lips suppressing a yawn; and there was nothing Knyvet could do but bow and retire with as much dignity as possible.

  When he was alone the Cardinal took a tablet from a drawer and set it before him; then he began to write: “Hopkins the monk, Delacourt the confessor, Gilbert the chancellor.”

  It might be that he could use these men if and when a certain occasion arose.

  THE QUEEN had dismissed all her women with the exception of Maria de Salinas.

  “I think, Maria,” she said thoughtfully, “that when the woman comes in, you should go.”

  Maria bowed her head. She was sorry that the Queen had made up her mind to see this woman. It would have been better, she was sure, to ignore her. Moreover, if the woman went to the King and complained to him, what an undignified position the Queen would be in!

  “You are thinking that I am being unwise?” Katharine demanded.

  “Your Grace, who am I to think such thoughts?”

  “I am not the King, Maria, in constant need of flattery. I like to hear the truth from my friends.”

  “I think, Your Grace, that the interview may be distasteful to you.”

  “There is so much that is distasteful to me,” Katharine answered sadly.

  “Your Grace, I hear voices without.”

  “She is come. When she enters, Maria my dear, leave at once.” A page entered and told the Queen that Mistress Boleyn was without and saying that she had come at the Queen's command.

  “It is true. Bring her to me. Now Maria, you will go.”

  Maria curtseyed and went out as Mary Boleyn entered.

  Mary came to stand before the Queen; she made a deep curtsey, raising her big, dark eyes fearfully to the Queen's face as she did so.

  Mary shivered inwardly. How frozen she looked! No wonder Henry went elsewhere for his comforts. She would be a cold bedfellow.

  So this is the girl for whom he has neglected me! thought Katharine. She has the look of a slut. Why does he not choose someone more in keeping with his rank?

  “Mistress Mary Boleyn, pray rise,” said the Queen.

  The girl straightened herself and stood forlornly waiting for what the Queen had to say.

  “You are the center of a most distressing scandal,” began Katharine, and watching the slow flush mount to the girl's forehead, thought that it was some small comfort that she felt some shame. “It is unbecoming of you and…in those who share your misdemeanors.”

  Mary looked at her helplessly. She wanted to explain: It was at Ardres or Guisnes—she was not quite sure. She had noticed his eyes upon her; and she had known the meaning of the looks he gave her. Then he had caught her alone one day and when his hands had strayed over her body there was nothing she could do but say Yes. She would have said Yes to anyone who was as handsome and had such need of her. With the King, of course, there could be no thought of refusal. Did not the Queen understand this? Poor lady. Mary believed she really did not. She did not know the King very well then. She did not know the way of the Court.

  But how explain? She hung her head for she was ashamed; and she was deeply sorry that she had caused the good and pious Queen distress. Strangely enough she had never thought of the Queen; she could never think of anything at such times but the need for gratification, and when it was over it was too late. Mary was not the sort to waste regrets on things which it was too late to change.

  What was the Queen asking of her now? To refuse the King! Did anyone ever refuse the King?

  Then an idea occurred to her. The Queen still had some power, even with the King. Although she was so old and the King was clearly tired of her, she was still a Princess of Spain and her nephew was the most important monarch in Europe.

  Mary had wanted to tell the Queen that she was sorry, that she would willingly end her liaison with the King tomorrow if she could. But it was so difficult to explain. So Mary did the only thing possible; she burst into tears.

  Katharine was quite unprepared for such a loss of control, and for a few moments did not know what to say to the girl.

  “Your Grace,” sobbed Mary. “I wish I were a good woman… but I'm afraid I'm not. I was made this way. And now that I want to marry Will… Oh dear, it is all so difficult, but I wish…oh how I wish…”

  “You should control yourself,” said the Queen coldly.

  “Yes, Your Grace,” said Mary, dabbing at her eyes.

  “What is this talk of marriage?”

  “I am in love, Your Grace, with Will Carey. He is a younger son, and my father does not find him a good enough match for me. He has…forbidden us…”

  “I see. So this young man is willing to marry you in spite of the scandal you have brought on yourself.”

  “There would be no more scandal, Your Grace, if only I could marry Will. I want none but Will, and he wants none but me. If Your Grace would speak for us…”

  A strange state of affairs, pondered the Queen. I send for her to reprimand her for her lewd conduct with the King, and she asks me to help her to marry with a young man whom she says she loves.

  Yet there was something lovable about the girl. Katharine had never thought that she could feel a slight degree of tenderness towards any of her husband's mistresses, but she was finding that this could be so. Mary with her plump bosom that seemed to resent being restrained within that laced bodice, her tiny waist and her flaring hips, had the air of a wanton even when she was distressed as she was at this moment; and there was also a look of the slattern about her; and yet that gentleness, that desire to please, that certain helplessness was appealing.

  How could he deceive me with such a one? Katharine asked herself. Elizabeth Blount had been different—a young and beautiful virgin when he had first seen her; and their affaire had been conducted with decorum. But Katharine was certain that the King had not been this girl's first lover.

  And for many nights he had not visited his wife because the creature had claimed his attention. This slut had been preferred to a princess of Spain; the daughter of Thomas Boleyn—who for all his airs had his roots in trade—had been preferred to the daughter of Isabella and Ferdinand!

  There were so many questions she wanted to ask. She was jealous of this girl, because she knew that there would be such passion between her and the King as there never had been between the King and his wife. How did you manage to attract him? she wanted to ask. How did you manage to keep him? He went to you in spite of his conscience, in spite of the scandal which he hates. Yet he cannot bring himself to come to me when it is right and proper that he should, and it is his duty to give me the chance of bearing a son.

  She ought to hate the girl, but it was impossible to hate her when she stood there, an occasional sob still shaking her body.

  The Queen said: “So you have spoken to your father of this marriage?”

  “Yes, Your Grace. He is against it.”

  “Why so?”

  “Because Will is only a younger son.”

  “And do you not think that you might look highe
r?”

  “I could not look higher, Your Grace, than the man I love.”

  Katharine was shaken. She had expected to find a calculating mind beneath that voluptuous exterior; but the girl's looks did not lie. She was indeed soft and loving.

  “That is a worthy sentiment,” murmured the Queen. “When I sent for you I had thought of dismissing you from the Court, of sending you back to your father's castle at Hever.” The Queen half closed her eyes, visualizing the scene with Henry if she had dared to do this. “But,” she went on, “since you speak to me of your love for this young man, and speak of it with sincerity, I feel that I should like to help you.”

  “Your Grace!” The babyish mouth was slightly open; the dark tearful eyes wide.

  “Yes,” said the Queen. “I can see that you need to be married. Your husband will then keep you out of mischief.”

  “And Your Grace will…”

  “I will arrange for your marriage to Will Carey. The ceremony shall be here at Court and I myself will attend.”

  “Your Grace!”

  There was no mistaking the joy in the girl's face.

  Katharine held out her hand, Mary took it and pressed a damp hot face against it.

  “You may go now,” said the Queen graciously, and watched the girl depart.

  A slut, she thought. And no virgin when he found her. Yet he desired her as he never did his wife.

  Why should this be? Katharine asked herself passionately. Is there no hope left to me? What is the use of praying for a son when the King has given up all hope of begetting one? How can there be a son when he never comes to me, when he spends his manhood on girls such as Mary Boleyn?

  THERE WERE isolated moments in life, thought Katharine, which were sheer happiness; and what had happened in the past and what the future held could not touch them. As she sat watching her daughter Mary leaning against her father's knee while he instructed her in playing the lute, she assured herself that this was one of them.

  The King's face was flushed and he was smiling; there was rare tenderness about his mouth; he dearly loved children, and he would have been a contented man if, instead of one small girl in the nursery, there were half a dozen—and more than one lusty boy among them.