Katharine of Aragon

by Jean Plaidy

  Maria came to her, for the news had reached her as soon as it had the Queen. She understood that Katharine was now forsaken.

  “Where does Your Grace wish to go now?” she asked.

  “What does it matter where I go?” retorted Katharine; and she wondered with increasing pain whether the King had determined, not only to live apart from her, but also to separate her from their child.

  She recovered her dignity. She had some friends even in England; and she was sure that the Pope would give his decision in her favor. Her nephew would support her. The battle was not yet lost.

  She said calmly: “We will go to my manor of the Moor in Hertfordshire; there I shall rest awhile and make plans for my future.”

  That day they left Windsor, and Katharine knew that she had reached yet another turning point in her life.

  Poison at the Bishop's Table

  JOHN FISHER, BISHOP OF ROCHESTER, FACED THE GATHERing of Bishops.

  He was deeply disturbed, he said, because of a certain request with which he could not comply. The King was asking the Church and clergy to accept him as Supreme Head of the Church of England, and he, John Fisher, could not understand how that could be. There was and had always been one Head of the Church, and that was His Holiness the Pope. He did not see how, by making the claim to this title, it could be the King's.

  The Bishops listened with averted eyes. The King had issued what he called this request, yet it was not in truth a request but a command. So many of them who owed their positions to the King, dared not contemplate what might become of them should they not bow to his will.

  John Fisher seemed oblivious of his danger. This was an impossible thing, he urged them. They could not, with good consciences, change the law of the Church which had existed through the ages.

  Warham, Archbishop of Canterbury, fidgeted uneasily as he listened. That head would be severed from the gaunt body before long, he was sure, if Fisher did not curb his tongue. Oh, that I should have lived so long! he thought. I am too old and tired now to navigate such dangerous waters. What will become of us all?

  Alas, for him, as Archbishop of Canterbury, he could not remain silent.

  Supreme Head of the Church! he mused. This is a break with Rome. There has never been anything like it in this country's ecclesiastical history. Nothing will ever be the same again. It is an impossible thing. And yet the King commanded it; and Warham knew well that it would go hard for those, like Fisher, who attempted to oppose it.

  Fisher was looking at him now. “And you, my lord Archbishop…?”

  Everything that he said would be reported to the King. One word spoken which should have been left unsaid was enough to send a man to the block. I am too old, he thought, too old and tired.

  He heard his voice speaking the carefully chosen words. “It is my belief that we might accept the King as Supreme Head of the Church as far as the law of Christ allows…”

  Beautifully noncommittal, certain to give offence to none. He was aware of Fisher's scornful eyes. But all men were not made to be martyrs.

  One of the Bishops added that His Grace, fearing that the Supreme Head of the Church was a title which might not be acceptable to some of the clergy, had modestly changed it to: Supreme Head… after God.

  Warham felt his lips curved in a smile of cynicism. So Henry was prepared to accept only the domination of God. He was safe enough, for he could expect no opposition to his desires from that direction. His conscience would always stand a firm bulwark between him and God.

  Fisher was on his feet again but Warham silenced him.

  “We have heard the views of the Bishop of Rochester,” he said, “and now I would ask the assembled company if they are prepared to accept the King as Supreme Head of the Church, as I am … as far as the law of Christ allows.”

  There was silence. Heads were downcast in the rows of benches. “Your silence I construe as consent,” said Warham. He did not look at Fisher who must understand that one voice raised against the King's command was of little matter when so many were in agreement. Fisher should learn wisdom; there were times when silence was salvation.

  THE BISHOP OF ROCHESTER lived humbly in his London residence, but his doors were kept open and there was always a meal to be given to any who called on him when there was food on his table.

  Perhaps his guests were not so many since the meeting of the Bishops. Those who wished him well deplored his outspokenness; some sought to advise him; but there were few who wished it to be said that they were in agreement with him.

  It was a few days after the meeting when his cook, Richard Rouse, returning to the kitchens after shopping in the markets, was met by a stranger who asked for a word with him.

  Richard Rouse was flattered, for beneath the disguise of a merchant he recognized a person of the quality. The cook was a man of ambition; he had not been long in the service of the Bishop and he was proud to be employed by a man of such importance; he did not see why he should not rise in his profession; the house of an Archbishop might be his next appointment; and after that—why should he not serve the King?

  The stranger took him to a tavern where they sat and drank awhile.

  “I have heard that you are an excellent cook,” Rouse was told. “And that your services are not appreciated in that household in which you serve.”

  “My master is a good one.”

  “Any cook can call a master good who has a poor palate. The Bishop might be eating stinking fish in place of the excellent dishes you put before him. He would know no difference.”

  “His thoughts are on other matters,” sighed Rouse.

  “That's a tragedy for a good cook. Such a master would never sing his praises in the right quarters.”

  “I fear so.”

  “How would you like to work in the royal kitchens?”

  There was no need for Rouse to answer, but he did. “It is the ambition of my life.”

  “It need not be so far away.”

  “Who are you?” Rouse demanded.

  “You will discover, if you are a wise man.”

  “How can I convince you of my wisdom?”

  “By taking this powder and slipping it into the Bishop's broth.”

  Rouse turned pale.

  “I thought,” said his companion contemptuously, “that you were an ambitious man.”

  “But this powder…”

  “It is calculated to improve the flavor of the broth.”

  “The Bishop will not notice that the flavor is improved.”

  “Others at his table might.”

  Rouse was afraid, but he would not look at his fear. He tried to find an explanation of the stranger's conduct which would be acceptable to him. The man wanted to help him to a place in the King's kitchens because he believed his talents were wasted on the Bishop of Rochester; therefore he was giving him a new flavoring which would make people marvel at the broth he put before them. Perhaps at the table would be one of the King's higher servants… That was a very pleasant explanation. The only other was one he had no wish to examine.

  He was a man who was always hoping for a great opportunity; he would never forgive himself if, when it came, he was not ready to take it.

  THE LORD CHANCELLOR brought grave news to the King.

  Henry studied Thomas More with affectionate impatience. Here was a man who might have done so much in molding public opinion, because if it could be said “Sir Thomas More is of the opinion that my marriage is no true marriage,” thousands would say “This matter is beyond me, but if Sir Thomas More says this is so, then it must be so, for he is not only a learned man, but a good man.”

  But Thomas was obstinate. His smile was sunny, his manner bland, and his wit always a joy to listen to. But whenever Henry broached the matter of the divorce Thomas would have some answer for him to which he could not take offence and yet showed clearly that Thomas was not prepared to advance his cause.

  Now Thomas was grave. “The Bishop of Rochester is grievously ill, Y
our Grace.”

  Henry's heart leaped exultantly. Fisher had become a nuisance; he always looked as if he were on the point of death. Henry was sentimental enough to remember his old affection for the man, but his death would be a relief. He was another of those obstinate men who did not seem to care how near they approached danger to themselves as long as they clung to their miserable opinions.

  “He has been ailing for some time,” the King answered. “He is not strong.”

  “Nay, Your Grace, he became ill after partaking of the broth served at his table.”

  “What's this?” cried Henry, the color flaming into his face.

  “He was seized with convulsions, Your Grace, and so were others at his table. It would seem that there has been an attempt to poison him.”

  “Have his servants been questioned?”

  “Your Grace, his cook has been arrested and under torture confesses that a white powder was given him by a stranger with instructions to put it into the Bishop's broth. He declares he was told it would but improve the flavor.”

  Henry did not meet his Chancellor's eyes.

  “Has he confessed on whose instructions he acted?”

  “Not yet, Your Grace.”

  Henry looked at his Chancellor helplessly. He was thinking of a pair of indignant black eyes, of a lady's outbursts of anger because of the dilatoriness which she sometimes accused the King of sharing; he thought of her ambitious family.

  What if the cook, put to the torture, mentioned names which must not be mentioned?

  Yet the Chancellor was looking at him expectantly. He could not take this man into his confidence as he had that other Chancellor.

  Oh, Wolsey, he thought, my friend, my counsellor, why did I ever allow them to drive a wedge between us? Rogue you may have been to some extent, but you were my man, and we understood each other; a look, a gesture, and you knew my mind as these men of honor never can.

  He said: “Poisoning is the worst of crimes. If this fellow is guilty he must pay the full penalty of his misdeeds. Let him be put to the torture, and if he should disclose names, let those names be written down and shown to none other but me.”

  Sir Thomas More bowed his head. There were times when Henry felt that this man understood every little twist and turn of his mind; and that made for great discomfort.

  He glanced away. “I will send my best physician to the Bishop,” he said. “Let us hope that his frugal appetite means that he took but little of the poisoned broth.”

  The Chancellor's expression was sorrowful. Fisher was a friend of his— they were two of a kind.

  Death is in the air, he thought as he left the King's presence.

  CROWDS WERE GATHERED in Smithfield to watch the death of Richard Rouse. The name of the cook who had longed for fame and fortune was now on every tongue. He would be remembered for years to come because it was due to him that a new law had been made.

  Several people who had sat at the Bishop's table had died; the Bishop himself remained very ill. Poisoning, said the King in great indignation, was one of the most heinous crimes a man could commit. And, perhaps because he would have been so relieved to know the Bishop was dead, he felt it his duty to show the people how much he regretted this attempt on the old man's life. The severest punishment man could conceive must be inflicted on the poisoner. After some deliberation the new law had come into being. The death penalty for poisoners from henceforth was that they should be hung in chains and lowered into a cauldron of boiling oil, withdrawn and lowered again; this to be continued until death.

  And so the crowds assembled in the great square to see the new death penalty put into practice on the cook of the Bishop of Rochester.

  Richard Rouse, who had to be carried out to the place of execution, looked very different from the jaunty man who had spoken to a stranger in a tavern such a short time before.

  He was crippled from the rack, and his hands, mangled by the thumbscrews, hung limply at his sides.

  With dull eyes he looked at the chains and the great cauldron under which the flames crackled.

  There was silence as he was hung in the chains and lifted high before he was lowered into the pot of boiling oil. His screams would be remembered for ever by those who heard them. Up again his poor tortured body was lifted and plunged down into the bubbling oil. And suddenly … he was silent. Once again he was lowered into that cauldron, and still no sound came.

  People shuddered and turned away. Voices were raised in the crowd. “Richard Rouse put the powder into the broth, but who in truth poisoned those people who had sat at the Bishop's table?”

  It was recalled that the Bishop had been one who had worked zealously for the Queen. Now he was only alive because of his frugal appetite, although even he had come close to death. Who would wish to remove the Bishop? The King? He could send the Bishop to the Tower if he wished, merely by giving an order. But there were others.

  A cry went up from Smithfield: “We'll have no Nan Bullen for our Queen. God bless Katharine, Queen of England!”

  Katharine in Exile

  IN THE CASTLE OF AMPTHILL KATHARINE TRIED TO RETAIN the dignity of a Queen. Her routine was as it had always been. She spent a great deal of time at prayer and at her needlework, reading and conversing with the women she had brought with her and in particular with Maria, the only one in whom she had complete trust; only to Maria did she refer to her troubles, and to the fact that she was separated from the King.

  Each day she waited for some news, for she knew that in the world outside Ampthill events were moving quickly towards a great climax.

  She could not believe that Henry would dare disobey the Pope; and she was certain that when Clement gave the verdict in her favor, which he must surely do, Henry would be forced to take her back.

  She had one desire to which she clung with all the fervor of her nature; only this thing mattered to her now. She had lost Henry's affection forever; she was fully aware of that. But Mary was the King's legitimate daughter, and she was determined that she should not be ousted from the succession, no matter what it cost her mother.

  “I will sign nothing,” she told Maria. “I will not give way an inch. They can have me murdered in my bed if they will; but I will never admit that I am not truly married to Henry, for to do that would be to proclaim Mary a bastard.”

  The great joy of her life was in the letters she received from Mary. What if the final cruelty were inflicted and that joy denied her! How would she endure her life then?

  But so far they both had their letters.

  Her faithful Thomas Abell had been taken from her when he had published his book, setting forth his views on the divorce. She had warned him that he risked his life, but he cared nothing for that; and when they had come to take him away, he had gone almost gleefully. It was well that he should, he told her, for many would know that he was in the Tower, and why.

  News came to Ampthill. The Pope had at last decided to act, and he summoned Henry to Rome to answer Queen Katharine's appeal; he must, was the Holy Father's command, appear in person or send a proxy.

  Henry's answer had been to snap his fingers at the Pope. Who was the Pope? he demanded. What had the Pope to do with England? The English Church had severed itself from Rome. There was one Supreme Head of the Church of England (under God) and that was His Majesty King Henry VIII.

  This was momentous. This was telling the world that the rumor, that the Church of England was cutting itself free from Rome, was a fact.

  But all this was paled by news of her daughter. Margaret Pole was with Mary still, and for that Katharine was grateful; Reginald had been sent to Italy, and Katharine knew that, much as Margaret loved her son, she was relieved that he was out of England, for it was growing increasingly unsafe to be in England and to disagree with the King.

  Margaret wrote: “Her Highness the Princess has been ailing since she parted from Your Grace. It has grieved me deeply to watch her. She has had so little interest in life and her appetite is so poor
. Constantly she speaks of Your Grace, and I know that if you could be with her she would be well. She has had to take to her bed…”

  The Queen could not bear to think of Mary, sick and lonely, longing for her as she herself longed for Mary.

  “What harm can we do by being together?” she demanded of Maria. “How dare he make us suffer so! He has his woman. Does our being together prevent that? Why should he be allowed to make us suffer so, merely that he may appease his conscience by telling himself—and others—that I plot against him with my daughter?”

  But there was no comfort for Maria to offer her mistress, and at times Katharine came near to hating her husband.

  Then she would throw herself on to her knees and pray.

  “Forgive me, oh Lord. Holy Mother, intercede for me. He has been led into temptation. He does not understand how he tortures his wife and daughter. He is young… bent on pursuing pleasure, led away by bad counsellors.…”

  But was this true? Was he so young? Who was it who had determined that no one should stand in the way of divorce? Who but Henry himself? Once she had blamed Wolsey, but Wolsey was dead, and this persecution persisted and had indeed intensified.

  She sat down to write to him, and wrote as only a mother could write who was crying for her child.

  “Have pity on us. My daughter is pining for me, and I for her. Do not continue in this cruelty. Let me go to her.”

  She sent the letter to him without delay, and then began the weary waiting for his reply.

  But the days passed, the weeks passed, and there was no answer from the King.

  STIRRING NEWS came from Court. Sir Thomas More, unable to evade the great issue any longer, had resigned the Chancellorship rather than fall in with the King's wishes.

  Katharine prayed long for Thomas More when she heard that news, prayed for that pleasant family of his who lived so happily in their Chelsea home.

  William Warham died; some said that like Wolsey he was fortunate to finish his life in a bed when he was but a few short steps from the scaffold. He was eighty-two years old and in the last weeks of his life had been issued with a writ of prœmunire—a small offence but one by which he had shown he had not accepted the King as Supreme Head. Perhaps the old man was forgetful; perhaps he had not understood that it was necessary now to receive the King's permission in all matters concerning the Church as well as the state. He had behaved according to procedure before the severance from Rome. These were dangerous times and the King was jealous of his new authority.