Catherine the Inquisitor

by Leigh Jenkins

  After a mere three months of marriage, young Mary had worn King Louise down to his death. After Mary’s time of mourning, I arranged for the newly instated Duke of Suffolk — my trusted friend Charles Brandon — to travel to Paris to collect her. It had come as a great shock to me when a mere few weeks later Cardinal Wolsey approached with a letter they had written him — begging my pardon but they had been married themselves.

  I was furious and prepared to not let them reenter England. They had broken many laws and deprived me of my right to choose Mary’s husband for her — she was not only my sister but a Princess of England. Furthermore, they had denied me the gains that could be had from any royal marriage I could have secured for her. Catherine’s young nephew Charles was already twelve years old and would need a bride shortly — and he held the possibility of being King of Spain and the next Holy Roman Emperor.

  Wolsey, however, advised me that what was done was done and we now must make the best of it. The best of it, as it turns out, was to exile the Duke of Suffolk and the Dowager Queen of France to his estates and to set them a fine greater than his annual income from his tenants. This enabled me to go without assembling Parliament any time in the near future — a terrible ordeal.

  But it had been a year since their transgression and nearly two years since my sister had truly been at court. It was time to be magnanimous and allow Brandon and my dear sister Mary back into my presence.

  “Yes,” I finally said, my mind made up. “Their fee has been nearly fully paid. Her Royal Highness, the Dowager Queen of France, can stand godmother for the Princess Mary.”

  Catherine bowed her head with a small smile. “As Your Majesty wishes it.”

  It took a while for me to be as fully charmed by my daughter as I had been by my son — but once Mary sank into my heart, she held a deep place there. Since her health and safety was not as vital to the kingdom’s as my sons, I allowed her to remain close to the court for longer. It wasn’t until nearly a year later that she left to join her brother’s court at Richmond.

  Harry, meanwhile, had begun receiving his tutoring and had been changed into long pants, as opposed to the gowns young boys wore. I had allowed Catherine and Sir Thomas More to determine who his tutor should be. They chose a young man from Cambridge named Alton Ashcot. The humanist scholar Erasmus had visited my court the previous year as well and I planned on taking his advice and hiring another tutor from the continent to assist Ashcot.

  We did not see the children that year at Easter as there was an outbreak of the sweating sickness. Catherine and I traveled into Kent while Harry and Mary stayed secluded at Richmond. By royal proclamation no one who had been in contact with the sickness was to enter within the gates of Richmond. A rumor that my sister had caught the sickness proved to be unfounded and the illness fortunately passed over the kingdom quickly.

  So it was not until the next Christmas that the prince and princess once again joined the court for the holiday season. And it wasn’t until then that I began to notice the change that had come over my son.

  “Presenting his Royal Highness Prince Henry, and her Royal Highness the Princess Mary!”

  The proclamation took the entire court down to one knee as everyone bowed toward the future king and his two-year-old sister. Harry, of course, walked on his own, but it surprised me that Mary followed on her own unsteady feet just a few paces behind her older brother. When they reached our thrones, both children bowed deeply to Catherine and I before I let out a roar of laughter at their mock seriousness and rushed down to take my boy in my arms.

  “My son!” I called out proudly, raising him so he could be seen by the thousands of people who had flocked to the Christmas court of 1518. The boy didn’t squirm, just took my excitement in stride and looked out over the crowd with his little mouth, which I had been told was an exact replica of mine, in a sharp line. His dark eyes darted around to each of the nobles and he seemed pleased to leave them on their knees.

  After a few moments of this a small thud hit my leg and I looked down to see that my daughter had thrown her arms around my right calf. I could see a few of the ladies who had dared to slightly raise their heads smile at this development and Mary’s wide eyes gazing up at me caused me to smile as well. She had her mother’s auburn hair and looked like a gentler version of the Princess of Spain. I placed Harry down beside his mother and lifted the little princess up. As I retook my seat I waved for the crowd to rise again.

  Nobles were continually presented to me and I left the Princess Mary on my lap throughout. Eventually the ceremony became a bit too much for her, but she merely fell asleep with her head against my shoulder. One of her nurses started forward but I nodded them away — I could hold my own daughter.

  Fortunately there was not much more to the evening’s festivities and Catherine and I walked our children back to their nursery, her holding Harry’s hand closely as I continued to carry young Mary. I would not have thought that holding a young child, even Harry, could bring me so much joy. Catherine remained in the outer chamber with Harry as I followed one of the nurses into Mary’s bedroom. I laid her gently down on her bed with a light kiss to her forehead and allowed her nurses to take over preparing her for bed.

  I didn’t exit fully to the outer chamber when I had finished. The moments I had alone were so rare that I found the only way to get any sort of privacy, or to overhear a courtier’s honest comment, was to hesitate in doorways, allowing conversations to continue before I emerged with the typical fanfare.

  “It did not seem proper to me,” came a small voice from the chamber, the high-pitched voice of my son. I found myself remaining perfectly still and looking behind me to make sure that no nurses had followed me out into the small hallway.

  “My prince,” Catherine said, her accent rumbling through the room. “Your father was merely happy to have you and your sister here at the court. He meant no disrespect to you by lifting you into the air.”

  “And that is another thing,” the boy continued. “He lifted her up the same as me. I am the heir, why would he spend so much time on her? And give her the same accordance he gave me?”

  “Harry,” my wife said. “He did you the greater honor, allowing you to take your place between us. Your sister he picked up and handled like a mere babe — you he treated with honor, allowing you to stand by me.”

  I knew my solitude in the hallway wouldn’t last much longer, but I was loath to miss any of my wife and son’s candid conversation.

  “Yes, Mother, I see that,” his voice dipped down with supplication.

  “My good boy,” she said and after a few moments of silence I accepted that I had heard all I was going to on the subject of my impropriety of lifting young Harry up in front of the court. I took a few steps back from the doorway and made sure my approach was noticeable to anyone on the other side of the door. As I expected, Catherine and Harry were standing by the time I came through the doorway, the same small smile on his face that so often graced his mother. I smiled at them both, something I had learned first from card playing with Brandon and then about the art of statecraft from Wolsey — to never show all I knew.

  “Your Majesty,” mother and son said together, bowing slightly to me. Their change to sudden formality when I stepped into the room was not lost on me.

  “The Princess Mary is asleep,” I said, “And now Harry, I want to hear all about your studies with Master Ashcot.”

  Chapter Four

  December, 1520

  I declared a national day of celebration for my son’s tenth birthday. It was unusual to celebrate the day of a birth — indeed, most of my subjects could not name the day or in some cases even the year in which they were born. However, this birth had been the saving of my kingdom — without a son to inherit the kingdom, there was no purpose to anything I or my father had done. Once I was gone, there would be no one to keep the nobles in order or prevent another civil war.

  Since Mary’s birth, Catherine had not again conceived, desp
ite my frequent visits to her bed. This greatly disappointed me as another son would again strengthen our position. We both knew there was precious little time left in which conception would be possible. My mother had given birth to five children by the time she was Catherine’s age.

  Harry and Mary both remained with the court after Christmas to participate in the birthday celebrations. A joust had been planned, one in which Harry would not participate, a source for much complaint on his part.

  I waited until after his lessons and for his companions to be removed from the room before I was announced. My son and I stood in the middle of the room facing each other, his head slightly bowed. I waved the guards who had escorted me out of the room; only a chamber maid remained in the corner, dusting old reeds from the floor.

  “Good afternoon my son,” I began, keeping my voice formal. This was the longest my children had remained with the court and I had visited their rooms many times over the past month. But I wanted to keep this visit formal. Harry was not here to be coddled but to understand.

  “Your Majesty, to what do I owe the honor of this visit?” Harry’s voice sounded as stiff as always. While Mary had often treated me with the same familiarity she would show others, my son had always seen me as a distant and imposing figure and had never afforded me any friendliness.

  “I have heard from Master Ashcot that you are displeased about the tournament scheduled in your honor.”

  “Not displeased Your Majesty, merely curious as to why I was not allowed to participate.”

  “You will be participating. You are to signal the beginning of each joust and award the winners their prizes.”

  “A woman’s job,” he scoffed, “something Mother does at every joust. I’m nearly a man. I should be allowed to participate, as Henry shall.”

  Charles Brandon’s son, named Henry for me, was my son’s closest friend, as his father was for me. That Henry was being allowed to carry his father’s armor and his flag, and would be down on the field with the horses.

  “Harry,” I said, bending down to one knee in front of him. “It is not that I believe Henry to be braver than you. On the contrary, they tell me he is quite weak at riding a horse, something I know you excel at.” My son smiled with pleasure at this obvious compliment.

  “But Henry is not as important to me or to this kingdom as you are,” I said earnestly. One problem with our children being raised in another household — I was not sure if they understood the importance of their positions. Mary was too young to comprehend, but young Harry should have grasped his status by now.

  “Harry, if anything were to happen to you, it would not only devastate your mother and I, but the entire kingdom. You must know that you are elevated above your peers, treated differently not because you are not as brave as them but because you are worth so much more. Without you Harry, if anything were to happen to me, this country could descend into civil war. A lack of sons caused the War of the Roses, and could very well cause another terrible conflict. The most important thing a king can do is prepare his country and people for the future, to make them secure. Your life is the security England needs.”

  Harry was silent for a long time after I finished speaking, and I was tempted to ask if he understood. Master Ashcot had told me that my son was a serious student — something I had always taken heart at, knowing that this boy would lead my kingdom someday.

  I moved to the window to gaze out at the gardens below, watching Mary and her mother playing with the small dog I had presented her on Christmas. Finally Harry spoke.

  “Thank you for explaining this to me father,” he said, “I had understood some but not all of what was said. Perhaps this is an oversight on Master Ashcot’s part.”

  “Pardon?” I said, turning back towards the boy.

  “As the one entrusted with my knowledge and wellbeing, Master Ashcot should have made this clear to me, instead of merely treating me different from the other boys. I believe another tutor should be found for myself, one who will understand this difference.”

  “Has Master Ashcot done something displeasing?” I asked. I had never heard a negative word about the man from the controller of Henry’s household or my wife, two people who certainly would have informed me if anything was amiss.

  “He has—“

  Harry paused and glanced to the side door, his back straight and his hands clasped firmly behind him. “He has berated me in front of the other boys.”

  “Berated you? In what way?”

  “He spoke ill of me in the classroom and forced me to stand during one of his lessons, instead of punishing Piers.”

  Piers was a young page who filled the post of whipping boy. Harry, a crowned prince, could not be punished. Piers was beaten in his stead.

  My face must have clouded a bit because Harry continued the rest in a bit of a rush.

  “He also said I was unfit to be a prince and that I must be a changeling.”

  This stopped me in my tracks. The other things Harry said could be considered part of learning or a small oversight. But to question the royal family was quite another, and to suggest that we had swapped young Harry in as a baby was an outrageous error on the schoolmaster’s part.

  “I will speak to your mother and the Cardinal Wolsey,” I finally replied, “He will not travel back with you to Richmond.”

  Harry smiled and turned to look out the same window I had, down on his little sister and mother. I nodded at him and made to leave the room, pausing at the door when I heard his young voice.

  “I should hope he will be punished more than that,” was all he said.

  “Your Majesty, may I speak with you?” I turned away from my discussion with my grooms into the serious face of Charles Brandon.

  “Of course my dear Duke,” I replied, waving him down to the chair on my left that had been vacated by the Princess Mary some time ago. I had ordered that the supper meal be served in my outer chambers and I dined with some of my most privileged courtiers. I was still quite isolated however, seated at a table on my dais, two long wooden tables trailing down either side of the room and filled with the highest ranking nobles.

  “I would prefer in private.”

  I frowned and rose from the table, the other chairs scraping back as the rest of the room stood to honor my leaving. I made for a small stone alcove along the great hall and Brandon immediately followed, leaning his head down in both a bow and to make sure we were not overheard. I flinched, stepping into the chill that came from being so far from the great fire.

  “I spoke with my boy Henry this afternoon, Your Majesty,” he began, “and he informed me that Mater Ashcot would not be rejoining them at Richmond. That Prince Harry had told him this himself.”

  “That is correct,” I replied, not understanding why this would bother Charles.

  “Sire, I would like to question why this is. I have a great respect for Master Ashcot, as does my wife. We have been very pleased with Henry’s advancements.”

  “I have heard certain comments had been made by Master Ashcot on the validity of Harry’s birth.”

  Charles stepped back, clearly shocked and, I assumed, outraged. It turns out I was correct; he was outraged, but not at Master Ashcot.

  “Who made these accusations?” he whispered. “I will challenge them myself. I recommended him to Queen Catherine and would stand by his reputation –“

  “Young Harry told me.”

  Charles’ face fell from shock to disbelief.

  “But I had never heard a word of this. From anyone in the household or my son. Surely someone —“

  “I will not question what my son said.”

  “I would never dream of questioning the prince, Your Majesty,” Brandon bowed with these words, aware he was dangerously close of overstepping our familiar boundary.

  We stood in silence, inspecting the court at supper. I allowed my gaze to roam to my son, seated beside his mother and looking out over the court with her same serious eyes. He looked so like Cather
ine and I, I could not see how anyone would suspect him of being a changeling. Nor why they would have the stupidity to say this to the prince.

  “What will happen to Master Ashcot?” Charles finally asked.

  “I am undecided,” I replied. “I believe relieving him of his post should be sufficient, but Harry wanted a greater punishment.”

  Charles’ eyebrows knitted together but he refrained from speaking his mind.

  “I believe a small fine could be in order. Perhaps time in the tower.”

  “I would caution your Majesty against any imprisonment.” Charles had become a courtier indeed, bowing his head at the same angle I had seen Wolsey or Thomas More do when they disagreed with something I had said, and using the same supplicating tone and words.