by Jean Plaidy
There was one fact for which she was thankful. Her chaplain, Dr. Abell, who had written against the divorce, had been released from prison and allowed to come back to her. The man was too obscure, Henry decided, to be of much importance.
At Buckden Katharine endeavored to return to the old routine. Her life was quiet, and she spent a great deal of time in her chamber which had a window looking into the chapel. She seemed to find great comfort in sitting alone in this window seat.
She busied herself with the care of the poor people living close by who had never known any to show such solicitude for their well-being before. There was food to be had at the palace for the hungry; the Queen and her ladies made garments for those who needed them; and although Katharine was far from rich she set aside a large part of her income for the comfort of the poor.
“A saint has come among us,” said the people; and they declared they would call no other Queen but Katharine.
Henry knew what was happening and it angered him, for it seemed to him that all those who admired the Queen were criticizing him; he could not endure criticism. But there was one matter which occupied his thoughts day and night. Anne was about to give birth to their child.
A son, he told himself exultantly, will put an end to all trouble. Once I have my son there will be such rejoicing that no one will give much thought to Katharine. It will be a sign that God is pleased with me for discarding one who was not in truth my wife, and taking another.
A son! Night and day he prayed for a lusty son; he dreamed of the boy who would look exactly like himself. He himself would teach him—make a man of him, make a King of him. Once he held that boy in his arms everything would be worth while, and his people would rejoice with him.
IT WAS SEPTEMBER OF that fateful year 1533 when Anne was brought to bed.
Henry could scarcely contain his excitement, and had already invited François to be the boy's sponsor. His name? It should be Henry…or perhaps Edward. Henry was a good name for a King. Henry IX. But that was years away, of course. Henry VIII had many years before him, many more sons to father.
Queen Anne suffered much in her travail. She was as anxious as the King. Was there a certain apprehension in her anxiety? The King was still devoted to her—her passionate and possessive lover—but now that she had time for sober reflection she could not help remembering his indifference to the sufferings of his first wife. Once he had been devoted to Katharine; she had heard that he had ridden in pageants as Sir Loyal Heart; and his loyalty was then for Katharine of Aragon—short-lived loyalty. Was he a man whose passions faded quickly? He had been her devoted admirer for many years, but was that due to his faithfulness or a stubborn determination to have his will which her cleverness in keeping him at bay had inflamed?
A son will make all the difference, the new Queen told herself. Holy Mother of God, give me a son.
THE CRY OF A CHILD in the royal apartments! The eager question, and the answer that put an end to hope.
“A girl, Your Majesty, a healthy girl.”
The bitterness of disappointment was hard to bear, but the child was healthy. The King tried to push aside his disappointment.
Anne looked strangely humble in her bed, and he was still in love with her.
“Our next will be a boy, sweetheart,” he told her.
And she smiled in agreement.
So they rejoiced in their daughter, and called her Elizabeth.
MARGARET POLE was anxious concerning the Princess Mary who had never seemed to regain her full strength since her parting from her mother. Margaret knew that she brooded a great deal and was constantly wondering what would happen next.
Mary was no longer a child; being seventeen years of age, she was old enough to understand the political significance of what was happening about her. There was a strong streak of the Spaniard in her, which was natural as, before their separation, she had been so close to her mother.
Mary was restless, delicate, given to fits of melancholy. And what else could be expected? Margaret asked herself. What a tragedy that a child should be torn from her mother's side when the bond between them was so strong, and when her position was so uncertain with her father.
But for Queen Anne, Margaret often thought, Henry would not have been unkind to his daughter. She was his child and he was eager to have children, even girls. But those occasional bursts of fondness were perhaps the very reason why Anne would not allow Mary at Court. Could it be that the new Queen was afraid of the influence Mary might have on her father?
It was so very tragic, and Margaret, while she thought fearfully of her own son Reginald who had offended the King, continually asked herself how she could make Mary's life brighter.
Mary liked to play the lute or the virginals, for music was still her favorite occupation; but Margaret fancied as she listened to her that she played listlessly and there was a melancholy note in her music.
“Play something lively, something to make us feel gay,” Margaret suggested.
But Mary turned on her almost angrily: “How can I feel gay when I am not allowed to see my mother, when I know she is not in good health and mayhap has no one to care for her?”
“If I could write to her and tell her that you are cheerful, that would do her much good, I am sure.”
“You could not deceive her. How could I be cheerful when I long to see her as I know she does me?” Mary rose from the virginals and came to stand by her companion. “What will happen to us now that the Concubine has a child? They will say this Elizabeth comes before me, I'll swear.”
“How could they do that?”
“You know full well they could do it. They have said my mother's marriage was no marriage. That means one thing. The bastard Elizabeth will be declared heir to the throne until they get themselves a boy.” Mary's face grew hard and stern. “I pray they never get a boy.”
“Your Highness…my dear Princess… forgive me, but…”
“I must not say such things! I must pray, I suppose, that the Concubine may be fruitful! I must pray that there is peace in this land, even though to bring this about I must declare my mother lived in sin with the King and I am therefore a bastard!”
“My dear…my dear…”
Mary walked away to the window. “Reginald was brave,” she cried, clenching her hands. “He was strong. He did not care if he offended my father. He would not have cared if they had cut off his head.”
“He would have died a martyr's death and we should have been left to suffer,” answered Margaret soberly. “Let us thank God that he is out of the country at this time.”
“There is a party riding into the courtyard,” said Mary.
Margaret rose swiftly and came to her side.
“They come from the Court,” she said. “I recognize those women as of her suite.”
“We want none of the Concubine's household here,” Mary cried.
“You must receive them, Your Highness, and hear their business.”
“I will not,” Mary said firmly and went out of the room.
It was not Mary however whom they had come to see, but the Countess. Two women were brought to her and they stated their business briefly.
The Lady Mary was no longer heir to the throne, for her mother was the Princess Dowager and had never been the King's true wife. Certain jewels were in her possession which were the property of the crown. It was necessary now that these jewels be handed to them, for they were messengers from the King and Queen and had papers to prove this. The Lady Mary's jewels now belonged to the Princess Elizabeth, and it was Margaret Pole's duty to give them up.
Margaret stood very still; she had grown pale.
“I know the jewels to which you refer,” she said. “They are the property of the Princess Mary and I should be failing in my duty if I gave them up.”
“They are no longer the property of the Lady Mary. Here is an order from the Queen.”
Margaret studied the order. But I do not consider Anne to be the Queen, she said to herself. I shall
certainly not give up the Princess Mary's jewels.
So she remained stubborn, and the next day when the party rode away from Beauleigh, Mary's jewels remained behind.
When Mary heard what had happened she praised her governess. “Let them do what they will to us,” she said. “We will stand out against them.”
“They will be back,” said Margaret apprehensively.
Mary held her head high as she declared: “They know I am the true heir to the throne. They must. I shall never stand aside for this young Elizabeth.”
But how could they hold out against the King and Queen? They could show defiance for a while, but not for long.
Queen Anne, in her new power, would not allow Margaret Pole and Mary to flout her wishes. Shortly afterwards a command came from the King: The Countess of Salisbury was discharged from her duty as governess to the Lady Mary and the pension paid to her in that capacity would immediately cease.
When Mary heard the news she was stricken with grief.
“Not you too!” she cried. “I have lost my mother and Reginald…you are all that is left to me.”
“I will stay with you,” answered Margaret. “I shall have no pension but I have money of my own. We shall not allow a matter of my pension to part us.”
Then Mary threw herself into her governess's arms. “You must never… never leave me,” she said solemnly.
But it was not to be expected that the Queen would allow Margaret to remain with Mary after she had dared refuse to obey a command. She would make the King see what a danger Mary could be. It was clear that she was truculent by her refusal to return what did not really belong to her. Queen Anne had a child to fight for now, and she vas determined that her Elizabeth, not Katharine's Mary, should be regarded as heir to the throne.
Margaret saw that she had acted foolishly. What were a few jewels compared with real friendship, devotion and love? What would happen to Mary when she had no one to protect her? How would the news that Mary's governess had been dismissed affect Katharine, who had admitted often that she could feel some comfort knowing that Mary was with her very dear friend?
The edict came. Margaret Pole, Countess of Salisbury, was to leave the household of the Lady Mary, who herself was to be sent from Beauleigh to Hunsdon, where she would live under the same roof as her half-sister, the Princess Elizabeth. And to remind her that she was not the King's legitimate daughter, and therefore not entitled to be called Princess, she should live in humble state near the magnificence of Anne's baby daughter.
Bitterly they wept. They could not visualize parting, so long had they been together.
“One by one those whom I love are taken from me,” sobbed Mary. “Now there is no one left. What new punishment will they inflict upon me?”
EUSTACHE CHAPUYS had asked for a private interview with the King.
“Your Majesty,” said the Spanish ambassador, “I come to you because I can speak with greater freedom than can any of your subjects. The measures you have taken against the Queen and her daughter, the Princess Mary, are very harsh.”
Henry glowered at him, but Chapuys smiled ingratiatingly.
“I speak thus, Your Majesty, because it is my great desire to see harmony between you and my master.”
“There would be harmony between us but for the fact that you are continually writing to him of his aunt's misfortunes. If his aunt and her daughter were no more… that would be an end of our troubles.”
Alarm shot into the ambassador's mind. Henry was not subtle. The idea had doubtless entered his head that life would be more comfortable if Mary and Katharine were out of his way. The Queen must be warned to watch what she ate; the Princess Mary must also take precautions. Chapuys's mind had been busy with plans for some time. He dreamed of smuggling the Princess Mary out of the country, getting her married to Reginald Pole, calling to all those who frowned on the break with Rome and the new marriage with Anne Boleyn to rise against the King. He visualized a dethroned Henry, Mary reigning with Reginald Pole as her consort, and the bonds with Rome tied firmly once more. Perhaps the King had been made aware of such a possibility. He was surrounded by astute ministers.
He must go carefully; but in the meantime he must try to make matters easier for the Queen and Princess.
“If they died suddenly Your Majesty's subjects would not be pleased.”
“What mean you?” Henry demanded through half closed eyes.
“That there might well be rebellion in England,” said the ambassador bluntly.
“You think my subjects would rebel against me!”
Eustache Chapuys lifted his shoulders. “Oh, the people love Your Majesty, but they love Queen Katharine too. They may love their King, but not his new marriage.”
“You go too far.”
“Perhaps I am overzealous in my desires to create harmony between you and my master.”
Henry was thinking: The man's a spy! I would to God we still had Mendoza here. This Chapuys is too sharp. We must be watchful of him.
He was uneasy. He did know that the people were grumbling against his marriage. They never shouted for Anne in the streets; and he was aware that when Katharine appeared they let her know that she had their sympathy.
“I come to ask Your Majesty,” went on Chapuys, “to show a little kindness to Queen Katharine, if not for her sake for the sake of the people. There is one thing she yearns for above all others: To see her daughter. Would Your Grace now allow them to meet?”
“No,” said the King firmly.
“Then would Your Grace give me permission to visit the Queen?”
“No, no, no!” was the answer.
The Spanish ambassador bowed, and the King signified that the audience was over.
It was unfortunate that Katharine's request should come when Henry was pondering the insinuations of Chapuys. She was finding Buckden very damp and unhealthy. She suffered from rheumatism and gout, and she asked the King to allow her to move to a house which would offer her more comfort.
Henry read her request frowning, and sent for Suffolk.
He tapped the letter and said: “The Queen complains again. Buckden is not to her liking. She asks permission to leave.”
“And Your Majesty has decided that she may leave?”
“I was turning over in my mind where she might go.”
“There is Fotheringay, Your Majesty. That could be put at her disposal.”
Henry thought of the castle on the north bank of the river Nen in Northamptonshire. Its situation was notoriously unhealthy, but it was far enough away not to give cause for concern.
“Let it be Fotheringay,” said Henry.
WHEN KATHARINE heard that she was to go to Fotheringay she cried out in protest.
“It is even more unhealthy than Buckden!” she said. “Is it true that the King wishes to see an end of me?”
She was weary of living and she was certain that if she went to Fotheringay she would not be long for this world. It was a comforting thought, but immediately she dismissed it. What of Mary? She visualized her daughter, shorn of her rank, forced to live under the same roof as Anne Boleyn's daughter, doubtless expected to pay homage to the child. It was intolerable. She must live to fight for Mary. Chapuys was full of ideas; he was constantly writing to her. He was ready to go to great lengths in her cause and that of the Princess Mary. And here she was, weakly welcoming death.
She would certainly not go to Fotheringay.
“I will not leave Buckden for Fotheringay,” she wrote to the King, “unless you bind me with ropes and take me there.”
But Henry was now determined to move her and, since she would not accept Fotheringay, he declared that she should go to Somersham in the Isle of Ely.
“As this place is no more acceptable to me than the Castle of Fotheringay,” she wrote, “I will remain where I am.”
But the King had decided that she should go to Somersham, for there she could live with a smaller household. Moreover he knew that she was far from well, a
nd Somersham, like Fotheringay, was unhealthy. If Katharine were to die a natural death, and he could cease to think of her and the effect she was having on his popularity, he would enjoy greater peace of mind.
He sent Suffolk down to Buckden with instructions to move the Queen and certain members of her household to Somersham.
THE DUKE OF SUFFOLK had arrived at Buckden and was asking audience of the Princess Dowager. Katharine, walking with difficulty, received him in the great hall.
“My lady,” said Suffolk, bowing, but not too low, making a difference in the homage he would give to a Queen and one who was of less importance than himself, “I come on the King's orders to move you and your household to Somersham.”
“I thank you, my lord Duke,” answered Katharine coldly, “but I have no intention of leaving Buckden for Somersham.”
Suffolk inclined his head. “My lady, I fear you have no choice in this matter as it is the King's order that you should move.”
“I refuse this order,” retorted Katharine. “Here I stay. You see the poor state of my health. Buckden does not serve it well, but Somersham is even more damp and unhealthy. I shall not leave this house until one which pleases me is found for me.”
“My lady, you leave me no alternative…”
She interrupted him: “… but to go back to the King and tell him that I refuse.”
“That is not what I intended, my lady. I have orders from the King to move you, and I at least must obey my master.”
“I'm afraid your task is impossible, my lord, if I refuse to go.”
“There are ways, Madam,” answered the Duke, “and these must needs be adopted in the service of the King.”
Katharine turned and, leaving him, retired to her apartments.
She expected him to ride off to tell the King what had happened, but he did not do this; and sitting at her window waiting to see him leave, she waited in vain. Then suddenly from below she heard unusual noises, and before she could summon any of her women to ask what was happening, one came to her.
“Your Grace,” said the woman, “they are moving the furniture. They are preparing to take it away. Already the hall is being stripped bare.”
