Catherine the Inquisitor
The Six Lives of Henry the VIII
Leigh Jenkins
Dedicated to my husband Alan,
for teaching me to follow my dreams,
no matter how impossible they may seem.
Prologue
April, 1502
The day that changed my world started out like any other. I was still living with the court, following my sisters Margaret and Mary as they cried “Henry, come here” and living in the constant shadow of my father. We had been enjoying the last rays of sunshine before nightfall when we heard a terrible wail. Looking towards the anguished cry, I saw a rare sight on a balcony — my father holding my mother by her arms, trying to convince her to stand. She had collapsed in tears, and my father, who seemed upset as well, was trying to console her when a menacing figure stepped out behind her.
Her Highness the King’s Mother, Margaret Beufort had always been with the court as well. My grandmother was small — smaller than even I was at the age of ten — and she wore severe clothes, the only adult I knew at that time who wore a hair shirt beneath her gown. Hugging her would have been uncomfortable, but she never demanded anything so familiar — it was through her blood that my father’s claim to the English throne flowed and she would not let him, or the rest of us, forget that fact.
Before my father could get my mother to her feet, my grandmother’s hand reared back, and in one of her few moments of physical contact with another person, she slapped my mother, the Queen of England. Her words that followed carried down to us children.
“That is not how the ruling family of England behaves. You are a princess and the eldest daughter of the late King Edward the Forth. You will compose yourself.”
I don’t know if it was the slap or the invoking of her father’s name, but my mother quieted down, bowed to her mother-in-law and swept past her down the hallway. It was then that a governess collected my sisters and took them to our mother. I never asked them how the news was given to them but I know it was given to me in a most startling way.
Margaret Beufort stepped out of a doorway and came to kneel before me— she had never acknowledged, much less bowed to me before. Arthur had always been her favorite.
She straightened and took a tight hold of my hands, looking me directly in the eyes.
“Your brother Arthur is dead. You are now the heir to the throne.”
Suddenly her cold voice echoed along the graveled pathway as she bowed once again.
“All hail Prince Henry, heir to the throne of England!”
Every servant in the courtyard sank to their knees and I noticed my father leaning on the doorway that lead into the courtyard, a stunned look upon his face.
I was ten years old and this was my first taste of the loss of life. I felt that I should cry as my mother had done, but I couldn’t find the will to do so or the desire, remembering my grandmother’s slap. No one had ever struck my mother before, and I knew my grandmother would not hesitate to strike me, heir or no.
Arthur and I had never inhabited the same court — he had his own establishment for as long as I could recall. In truth, I had never been too envious of him — as heir he had a much bigger place in the entertainments the court periodically produced and in every pageant he walked with my mother and father, followed by my grandmother, and then finally me with my sisters. While I had been momentarily jealous of this attention to him, I always succeeded later at taking the crowd’s attention with either my dancing or my oratory skills. Arthur had never held a crowd like I could.
Not knowing how quite to respond — I had never had the training Arthur had — I merely bowed my head and watched from the corner of my eye as my father came up behind her.
“What has he said?”
“Nothing. I think he’s mute.”
I bit back a retort and instead bowed to my father before formulating a reply.
“I am honored to accept my brother’s responsibilities, Your Highness.”
“There,” my father said a bit harshly. “He does know how to respond. Come Harry, it is time for you to be moved.”
And that was all. After that, I was given everything Arthur had been given — his tutors, his establishment, and his wife’s hand in marriage.
Arthur and Catherine had been living at the castle of Ludlow in Wales so that he could learn the art of statecraft. Catherine now returned to London with the body of her husband and, after a suitable mourning period, had her confessor and ambassador reveal to my father that she was still a virgin. Instead of being kept as the Dowager Princess of Wales — an expensive prospect to my father — or worse, being sent back to Spain, along with the large dowry she had brought with her, she was free to remain in England and possibly marry again. And here I was, the next King of England and unbethrothed. My grandmother called all of this “convenient.”
But along with his responsibilities I was also given Arthur’s lifestyle. I was not allowed to see my sisters or my mother as frequently, nor was I allowed the freedom to be a child. I now had only a small amount of time to learn what Arthur had been brought up to know — the certainty that I would be king.
Chapter One
January, 1511
I had succeeded. As I looked down into the small eyes of my son, I knew this time would be different. Catherine had lost children before, but here was a live baby. Not just any baby — my son and the future king of England, named Henry for me and my father.
There were plans for this one. The palace of Richmond was already being cleaned and readied for his use. Prayers were being written to be chanted in every church in England — a special day of thanks was needed. I’d talk to Wolsey about it and have him plan a tournament for little Harry as well.
I placed a gentle kiss on the head of my son before handing him back to his wet nurse. She seemed thankful to have him back in one piece and I swept past her into Catherine’s chamber, ignoring her outraged call of “Your Majesty!” at my back.
The three ladies in waiting who surrounded my wife looked up in surprise when I entered, but I waved them out and none of them thought to cross me. Catherine, for her part, looked unruffled by my break in protocol — men were not welcomed into the birthing chamber, even after the nasty business had been concluded.
Her calm acceptance of my presence reminded me of when she had first entered England from her home country of Spain years ago. My father had liked to tell the story of how he and my older brother Arthur — her betrothed — had galloped to Richmond to welcome her entourage after it landed. Against the wishes of her Spanish chaperone, my father had insisted on meeting Catherine, shocking the ambassadors by asking if the reason they kept her hidden was because of her ugliness. Catherine, hearing this argument, stepped out of her chamber and brushed aside her heavy veil. Both he and my brother were in awe of her beauty — and so was I when I walked her down the aisle to my brother a few short weeks later.
In the years that had passed since that day, Catherine had changed very little. Her dark auburn hair had grown, reaching down her back when it was loose, as it was today. Unlike what I had imagined Spaniards to look like as a child, Catherine had fair skin and blue eyes. She was descended from John of Gaunt, as I was, and the English coloring had traveled down four generations to bless her.
“You’ve done very well, Queen Catherine of England,” I said, offering her a small smile, teasing her with the title she had been addressed as since she was five years old and had become engaged to the throne of England.
“I am glad to have pleased your Majesty,” she replied, nodding her head as she did so. Her Spanish accent was still evident even after ten years in this country.
“Catherine,” I said warmly, sinking
down onto the bed next to her. I took both of her hands in mine and brought them to my lips, “Catherine, it’s a live boy.”
“Yes,” she said, and I could tell she was pleased. “Have you named him?”
“Henry, after me and my father,” I said with a smile. “I will, of course, allow you to name the second son you are sure to have.”
“God willing,” she said, touching the light rosary she seemed to always have with her. “We can name him after my father.”
“Ferdinand?” I barked out, startled at her suggestion. “He is a traitor to me, Catherine. He was until his death. You cannot name a son of mine after someone who betrayed me and God so thoroughly.”
After a moment of silence, Catherine bowed her head. “I will think on a better name for when the time comes.”
Happy once again, I patted her hand.
“I will have Cardinal Wolsey prepare the christening. I believe a tournament in a few months should be held as well.”
“As you see fit, your Majesty,” she answered. She wasn’t pleased with me, and it couldn’t have been over the naming of a son not yet conceived. I squeezed her hand — I wouldn’t demean myself by asking her what was bothering her.
“Shall I send in your ladies?” I asked, rising from the bed.
“Please,” she responded, letting my hand slip through her fingers.
“Oh, and Henry,” she called as I reached the door.
“Yes?” I responded, turning back to her.
“I will be churched in two weeks. See that she is gone.”
It was useless to act as though I hadn’t taken a lady to my bed while Catherine had been lying in the past month. I gave her a short nod and left her chamber, gesturing for her three ladies to reenter her room. As they bowed and flitted past, the last girl stopped at my arm before entering.
“Tonight, your Majesty?”
I looked down into her blue eyes for a moment before responding.
“No Ursula, not tonight,” I said, turning my gaze away from her. She would be a hard one to give up.
Her eyes filled with tears — they always seemed to — and she turned to go wait on the woman whose husband she was sleeping with. She was sweet but sensitive, and blessed with a small frame. She would be easy to find a husband for.
Now it was time to find Wolsey. He could find the girl a husband; an earl, perhaps. Yes, she had earned an earl.
I approached Catherine again three weeks later, after she had been churched. The business of bearing a child made women unclean in the eyes of the church, so before they could reemerge into the society of men they had to be purified. I had no plans to ask Catherine what this purification consisted of.
The previous week had held Henry’s baptismal, an event which both Catherine and I had not attended due to tradition. Instead, the focus had been on Henry and his godparents: Archbishop Warham and the Earl and countess of Devon. And now that his first stately duties had been completed, he was to be moved to the palace of Richmond in his own establishment. The court, full of disease and vice, was no place for the Prince of Wales.
I found my wife sitting serenely amongst her servants, supervising the packing of goods that were to travel to Richmond. Catherine sat in a regular wooden chair, our son sleeping in her arms. We had already begun to call him Harry, to differentiate him from not only me but the number of other Henrys who had been named in my honor.
“Catherine,” I said, holding out my hand to keep her from rising. “I would not dream of disturbing the prince.”
“Your Majesty,” Catherine smiled, bowing her head to me. “You honor us with your presence.”
I took a chair next to my wife, our backs turned towards the stone wall. It was then that I looked about in surprise; the room was bare, the rich tapestries that usually lined the walls to keep out the cold air had been stripped away. Instead, the gray stone shone from the candles that had been lit to aid the servants who were having trouble seeing due to the dark storm clouds that were gathering that afternoon.
To my dismay I could see that the walls were filthy; excrement from both dogs and men ran down the walls. I saw that someone had painted a red cross on the wall in one corner with the hopes that men would not dare to desecrate a symbol of Christ. Evidently their hopes had been futile.
“Must they have packed the tapestries?” I asked, horrified at the smell their removal had unleashed.
“They are the tapestries my mother sent me upon my marriage to you,” Catherine explained. “They show the great deeds that she and my father have accomplished in Spain as well as the history of Castile.”
I pursed my mouth in displeasure.
“Should he not see the great deeds of England?”
“Of course he shall, Henry,” she said, turning to face me. “That is why I have commissioned another set of tapestries showing the history of England as well as your lineage to accompany them.”
I knew there was no arguing with her. The tapestries were of no real importance, of course, and she had already sought to placate me by having similar tapestries created for my lineage. And there was no way to explain to her my distress at this—to have her family, her noble royal lineage with her parent’s many accomplishments lined up against my family. Royal, yes, but only for one generation. While her panels would show military victories and the Pope’s sanction of their expulsion of the Moors from Spain, mine could show my miserly father counting gold or my great-grandfather who had been the Queen’s stable hand.
“That will be satisfactory,” was all I could respond.
We fell into silence as the rain began to pour down outside, a few young page boys hurrying to shut some of the windows that had remained open. Beside me rain poured down a small crack in the window seal, water pooling on the floor among the rushes. I kicked some of the wooden shavings aside; they were strewn about the castle to absorb the dirt and grime that was one of the many problems facing a household with so many occupants. I sighed.
“We shall have to vacate Westminster soon,” I said to Catherine. “It has become filthy.”
“Perhaps to Greenwich?” she recommended, knowing that my birthplace was my favorite palace.
“Perhaps,” I agreed. “I shall discuss it with Wolsey.”
Catherine nodded before calling out to one of the serving girls.
“No, do not remove the christening gown,” she said in a strong voice. “I shall have that sent to the Master of the Wardrobe to be preserved for the next child.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” the girl said with a grin and sat the elaborate gown to the side.
“If Your Majesty will be speaking to the Cardinal,” Catherine said to me, her Spanish accent rippling. “Then perhaps you may speak to him of a concern I hold.”
“Of course,” I said, ready to hear her concerns.
“I have heard that the Duke of Buckingham did not attend the Prince of Wales’ christening.” Her words were clipped and I could hear anger behind them.
“Ah,” I answered, pulling against my collar in what I knew was a nervous action. The Duke of Buckingham, proud, stupid, and too close to the throne, had often been a thorn in my side. Catherine had maintained that he be dispatched on a diplomatic mission, or fined for his excess in pride. Wolsey had suggested further action be taken.
But I could make neither of them understand. Edward Stafford, the Duke of Buckingham, had been a difficult ally since I had taken the throne. Older than me and with what some considered a stronger tie to the throne of England, he had always kept a larger standing army than I could afford to match. Indeed, his lifestyle had become as large, if not more grandiose, than my own.
But Stafford, who I did accept as a threat, was also a friend. This man had played tennis with me, had been by my side when I learned to joust, and had encouraged me to stand up to my father as a boy. And that was the curse of the nobility — those you had trusted as a child could become your deadliest enemies as adults.
And I had not yet reached the point where I
could have someone I considered a companion executed. I had not been raised to distrust the nobility as had Catherine, nor did I possess the ruthlessness of Wolsey. In many ways I still felt like Harry, the ten year old boy who had been trained to enter the church, instead of King Henry the Eighth, ruler of England.
“He sent word to Wolsey that he was unwell,” I explained, hoping that Catherine would let the matter rest.
“He was well enough to attend the banquet,” she countered, waving for a page to take away two packed trunks.
“Catherine, he has committed no crime,” I replied. Indeed, failing to attend the christening, while foolish, was not a matter of treason.
“I am merely saying that I do not trust him,” she said, drawing herself up a little in her chair. “He does not respect us as he should. He could be dangerous.”
Catherine the Inquisitor Page 1
