by Jean Plaidy
Henry did not appear in person but sent two proxies. Katharine, however, arrived in the company of four Bishops and several of her women.
As Katharine entered there was a stir in the court, for she was not expected until that day when the King would be there. She did not go to the chair which was intended for her, but to the table where she stood before the Legates. There was a hushed silence in the court as she began to speak.
“My lords, I come to make a protest against this court and to ask that the case may be transferred to Rome.”
Katharine was conscious of the malevolent gaze of Wolsey and the peevish one of Campeggio. To the first she was an enemy to be ruthlessly removed; to the second she was an irritation, the woman who might, by going into a convent, have saved him so much trouble and allowed him to rest his gouty limbs in a more congenial climate. The sight of those two men filled Katharine with further apprehension and an immense determination to fight for her future and that of her daughter.
“Why does Your Grace object to this court?” Wolsey asked coldly.
“I object because it is hostile to me,” replied the Queen. “I demand to be tried by unprejudiced judges.”
Campeggio appeared to be shocked; Wolsey looked pained, but Katharine went on boldly: “This case has been referred to Rome; in due course it could be tried there; the verdict must have the sanction of the Holy Father. I protest against this matter's being tried here.”
Wolsey rose and said: “Your Grace is misinformed.” And Campeggio added: “Your Grace can be assured that justice shall be done, and I urgently pray you to take confidence in the members of this court who serve none but justice.”
Katharine turned away and, holding her head high, left the court followed by her train.
It was useless, she was telling herself. There was nothing she could do to prevent the trial.
She could only go back to her apartments and wait until that day when she, with Henry, must appear in person before the Legatine court.
“HENRY, KING OF ENGLAND, come into the court!” The cry rang out in the great hall of Blackfriars.
Henry was seated under the canopy, and above him on the dais were the two Cardinals, magnificent in their robes of scarlet. At the foot of this dais were the Bishops and officers of the court, with William Warham, Archbishop of Canterbury, at their head. There sat the counsellors of the two opposing parties; Dr. Bell and Dr. Sampson for the King, and the Bishop of Rochester and the Bishop of St. Asaph's for the Queen.
The voice of the crier, calling the King, silenced the whispers. Those who were present could not help but marvel that the King and Queen could be called into court as though they were common people.
This, it was murmured, shows the power of Rome. Only the Pope would dare summon the King of England to appear in court in his own country. Since we were ruled by one of the Pope's cardinals—our butcher's son— England has been but a vassal of Rome.
Henry himself felt a wave of anger to be so summoned. He would have refused to attend this trial; he would have stated that he had no intention of accepting any verdict but the one he wanted; but the people must be placated; they were already murmuring against the injustice done to his Queen. It was part of his policy to say: “Reluctant I am to part from her whom I believed to be my wife, but I do so on the orders of the Church.” Therefore what could he do but submit himself to the jurisdiction of the Church, making sure, of course, that his Cardinal understood how the verdict must go.
So he answered in a voice devoid of rancor: “Here I am, my lords.”
“Katharine, Queen of England, come into the court.”
Katharine stood up, crossed herself, and to the astonishment of the Bishops and officers of the court, made her way to the chair in which Henry sat. She knelt before him and began to speak in a ringing voice which could be heard all over the hall.
“Sir, I beseech you, for all the love there has been between us, and for the love of God, let me have right and justice. Take pity on me and have compassion for me, because I am a poor stranger born outside your dominions. I have here in this court no unprejudiced counsellor, and I appeal to you as the head of justice within your realm. Alas! Wherein have I offended you? I take God and all the world to witness that I have been to you a true, humble and obedient wife, ever conformable to your will and pleasure. I have been pleased and contented with all things wherein you had delight and dalliance. I loved all those you loved, only for your sake, whether they were my friends or mine enemies. These twenty years I have been your true wife, and by me you have had divers children, although it has pleased God to call them out of this world, which has been no fault of mine. I put it to your conscience whether I came not to you as a maid. If you have since found any dishonor in my conduct, then I am content to depart, albeit to my great shame and disparagement; but if none there can be, then I beseech you, thus lowlily, to let me remain in my proper state.”
There was a hush in the court as she paused for breath. She had at the beginning of the hearing stated that fact which was the crux of the matter. Her marriage to Prince Arthur had been no true marriage; she had stated before this court that she had been a virgin when she married Henry.
The King flinched a little; his face was stern; he did not look at his kneeling wife, but stared straight before him.
“The King, your father,” went on Katharine, “was accounted in his day a second Solomon for wisdom, and my father, Ferdinand, was esteemed one of the wisest kings that had ever reigned in Spain; both were excellent princes, full of wisdom and royal behavior. They had learned and judicious counsellors and they thought our marriage good and lawful. Therefore it is a wonder to me to hear what new inventions are brought up against me, who never meant aught but honestly.”
Again she paused. Campeggio moved in his chair to ease his painful limbs. She makes her own advocate, he thought; where could she have found a better? It will not be easy for them to find against her.
He was pleased with her. It was what he wished, for Clement's orders were that the court should come to no decision.
“You cause me to stand to the judgment of this new court,” continued the Queen, “wherein you do me much wrong if you intend any kind of cruelty; you may condemn me for lack of sufficient answer, since your subjects cannot be impartial counsellors for me, as they dare not, for fear of you, disobey your will. Therefore most humbly do I require you, in the way of charity and for the love of God, who is the just Judge of all, to spare me the sentence of this new court, until I be advertised in what way my friends in Spain may advise me to take. And if you will not extend to me this favor, your pleasure be fulfilled, and to God do I commit my cause.”
Katharine stood up and all in the court saw that there were tears on her cheeks. The Bishops looked on grimly, not daring to show their sympathy in the presence of the King, who still sat staring stonily before him; but in the body of the hall many a kerchief was applied to an eye and secret prayers for the Queen were murmured.
She took the arm of her receiver-general and instead of making her way back to her seat she began to move through the crowd towards the door.
The crier was in consternation. He called: “Katharine, Queen of England, come again into the court.”
But Katharine did not seem to hear and, staring before her, her eyes misted with tears, she continued towards the door.
“Your Grace,” whispered the receiver-general, “you are being called back to the court!”
“I hear the call,” answered the Queen, in tones which could be heard by those about her, “but I heed it not. Let us go. This is no court where I may have justice.”
“Katharine, Queen of England, come again into the court!” shouted the distracted crier.
But Katharine passed out of the court into the sunshine.
The Queen had gone, and Henry was fully aware of the impression she had made.
He rose and addressed the assembly. He spoke with conviction and considerable powers of oratory; he was
well practiced in this speech for he had uttered it may times before. He explained that he had no wish to rid himself of a virtuous woman who had always been a good wife to him. It was his conscience which urged him to take action. It had been put to him by learned men—bishops and lawyers—that he was living in sin with a woman who had been his brother's wife. The twenty-first verse of the twentieth chapter of Leviticus had been brought to his notice, and it was for this reason that he— determined to live at peace with God—had decided to ask learned men whether he was truly married. If the answer was in the affirmative he would rejoice, for there was none who pleased him as did the woman who had been his wife for twenty years; but if on the other hand it were shown to him that he was living in sin with her, then, much as this would grieve him, he would part with her.
After Katharine's speech the King's sounded insincere. It was a fact that the whole court and country knew of his passion for Anne Boleyn, and that it was this woman's desire to share his crown before allowing him to become her lover which was, if not the only motive for bringing the case, an important one.
However, Henry, believing in what he said while he said it, did manage to infuse a certain ring of truth into his words.
When he had finished speaking Wolsey rose to his feet, came to the chair in which Henry was sitting and knelt there.
“Your Grace,” he said, “I beseech you to tell this assembled court whether or not I have been the first to suggest you should part from the Queen. Much slander has been spoken against me in this respect and there are many who feel that, should this be truth, I am no fit person to sit as Legate in this case.”
The King gave a short laugh and cried: “Nay, my Lord Cardinal, I cannot say you have been the prime mover in this matter. Rather have you set yourself against me.”
Wolsey rose from his knees and bowed to the King. “I thank your Grace for telling this court that I am no prejudiced judge.”
Wolsey returned to his seat and Warham, Archbishop of Canterbury, rose to produce a scroll which he told the court contained the names of the Bishops who had agreed that an enquiry into the matter of the King's marriage was necessary. He then began to read out the names on the scroll.
When he came to that of John Fisher, Bishop of Rochester, Fisher rose from the bench and cried: “That is a forgery, for I have signed no such document.”
Henry, who was growing more and more impatient at the delay and wondering when the judges would declare his marriage null and void— which he had believed they would quickly do—was unable to restrain himself. “How so?” he cried irritably. “Here is your name and seal.”
“Your Grace, that is not my hand or seal.”
Henry's brows were lowered over his eyes. Once he had loved that man Fisher. It was such men who, in the days of his youth, he had wished to have about him. Thomas More was another. They had never flattered him as blatantly as other people did and when he did wring a word of praise from them it was doubly sweet. John Fisher had at one time been his tutor—a gentle kindly man with whom it had been a pleasure for an exuberant youth to work with now and then.
But now Fisher was on the Queen's side. He was the Queen's counsel. He did not approve of a divorce. He believed that, having married Katharine and been disappointed in her, his King should yet remain her faithful husband.
What did Fisher know of the needs of a healthy man who was in the prime of life?
As he glowered at his one-time tutor, Henry hated the tall, spare figure. The fellow looks as though he spends his time shut in a cell, fasting, he thought derisively. No matter what love I had for him it shall be forgotten if he dares oppose me in this matter. He will have to learn that those who cross me do so at the peril of their lives.
And now what was this matter of a forgery?
Warham was saying: “This is your seal.”
Fisher retorted: “My Lord, you know full well this is not my seal. You know that you approached me in this matter and I said that I would never give my name to such a document.”
Warham could see the King's anger mounting. Warham was all for peace. He did not think that Fisher realized the full force of the King's passion in this matter. Perhaps Fisher was too honest to understand that when the King was being driven by his lust he was like a wild animal in his need to assuage it. Warham tried to end the matter as lightly as possible.
“You were loath to put your seal to this document, it is true,” he murmured. “But you will remember that in the end we decided that I should do it for you.”
“My lord,” said Fisher, “this is not true.”
The King shifted angrily in his seat. Warham sighed and put down the document; it was a gesture which meant that no good could come of pursuing that matter further.
“We will proceed with the hearing,” Wolsey announced. Henry sat sullenly wondering what effect Fisher had already had on the court. By God, he thought, that man's no friend of mine if deliberately he flouts me in order to serve the Queen.
But all would be well. Katharine had been right when she had said that few in this court would dare disobey him. They would not; and thus they would give him the verdict he was demanding. What difference would one dissenting voice make?
But he hated the dissenters. He could never endure criticism. And when it came from someone whom he had once admired, it was doubly wounding.
He scarcely heard what was being said about him until it was Fisher's turn to make his speech for the Queen.
“Those whom God hath joined together, let no man put asunder…”
As soon as Fisher had finished speaking, Henry rose from his seat.
He had had enough for one day. The session was over.
THE DAYS PASSED with maddening slowness for the King. It was a month since the trial had begun and still no conclusion had been reached. Each day the counsels for the King and those for the Queen argued their cases; and it was clear that Fisher alone was determined to do his utmost to win a victory for the Queen.
Campeggio was in despair, for although he applied his delaying tactics whenever possible he could see that he could not extend the proceedings much longer, and, in view of the evidence he had heard, he knew that if he made a decision it would have to be in favor of the King.
This he could not do, as his strict orders from the Pope were that he should give no definite verdict.
Understanding the motives behind his fellow Legate's methods Wolsey was depressed; he knew that Campeggio's one desire was to prolong the action of the court until he could suitably disband it.
This was the state of affairs when the Cardinal was summoned to the King's presence.
Henry was purple with anger, and striding up and down the apartment waving papers in his hands. He did not speak as Wolsey approached, but merely thrust the papers at the Cardinal.
Wolsey read the news and felt sick with horror. François had suffered defeat in Italy and a peace was to be made between him and the Emperor. Margaret, Regent of the Netherlands, who was the Emperor's aunt, and Louise of Savoy, the mother of François, had arranged this peace which was consequently called The Ladies' Peace. It was natural that Clement should at the same time sign a treaty with the Emperor.
“And,” cried Henry, glowering at his Chancellor, “these matters are settled and we are told nothing of them until they are completed. It seems to me that our French ally is as treacherous as our Spanish ones. Why is it that we are always betrayed?”
“Your Grace,” stammered Wolsey, who was near exhaustion and whose mind had been concentrated on the King's divorce, “this will mean that Campeggio will never give us the verdict we want.”
“This trial is nothing but a mockery!” roared the King. “Is it not marvellous that I should be made to wait so long for that which others have for the asking?”
“Circumstances have moved against us, Your Grace. But for the sack of Rome…”
“Do not give me your buts…,” cried the King. “Give me freedom to marry, that I may provide my kingdom w
ith an heir.”
“It would seem, Your Grace, that we should make another appeal to the Queen. If she would but retire to a convent, I am certain that Clement would immediately grant the divorce. All we need is her consent to do so, nay her desire to do so. The Emperor himself would not object to that.”
“She must be made to see reason,” insisted the King.
“Your Grace, have I your permission to make one more appeal to her?”
“Do so, without delay.”
Wolsey was relieved to escape from the King, and immediately went to Campeggio's apartments, and there made the suggestion that they should go to the Queen and endeavor to show her what a benefit she would confer, not only on herself, but on all others, if she would retire to a nunnery.
THE TWO CARDINALS went by barge to Bridewell where the Queen at that time had her lodging. She was sitting with some of her women, working on her embroidery, for, she had said, she was so melancholy at this time that working with bright colors raised her spirits.
When she heard that the Cardinals had called on her, she went to greet them with skeins of red and white silk hanging about her neck.
“Your Grace,” said Wolsey, “we crave your pardon for disturbing your peace, and pray you to give us a hearing.”
“Gladly will I do so,” she answered, “but I cannot argue with such as you. I am not clever enough.” She touched the skeins about her neck. “You see how I pass my time, and my maids are not the ablest counsellors, yet I have no others in England. And Spain, where there are those on whom I could rely, is far away.”
“Take us into your privy chamber,” said Wolsey, “and there we will show you the cause of our coming.”
“My Lords,” answered the Queen, “if you have anything to say, speak it openly before these folk, for I fear nothing that can be alleged against me, but I would all the world should see and hear it. Therefore speak your minds openly, I pray you.”
