She glanced at me with her dark eyes, cutting up to my face under long lashes. The book continued to be held between us, her dainty fingers gripping the cover, the only evidence of her nervousness to my reaction.
Finally I reached out and gently took the book from her hand and slipped it into a pocket in my jacket. Our eyes remained locked and I could see the thrill of joy that danced across her face at my acceptance of her idea.
“You should not speak to my son,” I advised. “And you should not hold any more books like this; it is too dangerous for you.”
She nodded before backing out of the room. Alone with my thoughts I turned again to the window and stared down at my son. He walked arm and arm with his mother as she spread more and more ideas into his ear.
Thomas More would only be able to get so far. I would need to find new ways to convince my son.
During a typical summer progress we would spend at most a few weeks at each palace before moving onto a new one, sometimes staying for only one night before leaving. However, Catherine had requested that we remain at Ludlow for a full month. I had acquiesced, also calling the Princess Mary to Ludlow. She joined us after we had been there for a week.
Our time at Ludlow was drawing to a close when Thomas More staggered into my inner chambers without a knock or having one of my heralds announcing his presence. I glanced at him from my desk where I dictated a letter to my future son-in-law, the Emperor Charles. The young scribe, Thomas Cromwell, didn’t react to More’s intrusion into my room as his steady hand kept flowing across the paper.
“In conclusion,” I continued as More, seemingly just realizing what he had done, dropped to one knee. “I recommend the use of deadly force on the heretic Martin Luther. The knowledge that his books have traveled to England proves that he is more powerful than we had previously imagined. I will entrust that the next news I hear of the man will be of his execution. Your Loving Father.”
Cromwell finished the letter and I paused briefly over his shoulder to attach my signature to the paper. Without looking up I called out to More.
“You have cause to see me, Thomas?”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” came his breathless reply. “Queen Catherine’s confessor has raided her ladies chambers.”
“He’s done what?” I asked, outraged. I turned to face Thomas; he now held my full attention. Cromwell began to salt the letter he had just finished slowly, taking his time with it.
“He ordered a raid on the ladies chambers. And that is not all. Among one of the ladies’ personal possessions they found On the Freedom of a Christian, a book by—“
“By that heretic Martin Luther,” I finished for him. I closed my eyes, raising my hand to my face. It took a moment before I dared to ask the next question.
“Who was the lady?”
Thomas, who had remained kneeling throughout the conversation, hesitated for a moment before looking up to answer me.
“The Lady Anne Boleyn, Your Majesty.”
Without knowing many more details, I sent Cromwell and More to gather what information they could and report back to me. I had no desire to face my wife without knowing exactly what had occurred.
The two men had not been gone long when an even more unwanted visitor was announced by my herald.
“The Lady Mary Carey, daughter of Sir Thomas Boleyn.”
Normally I would have welcomed my mistress with open arms, even in the middle of the day. However I knew she was not here for one of her usual visits; indeed, she immediately went down to her knees in front of me, her head bowed, not a trace of seduction on her pretty face.
“Your Majesty –“
“I cannot, Mary.”
I had not waited to see what exactly she would ask me to do; I knew that, whatever it was, my hands were tied. There were laws to deal with heretics, ancient laws that I felt bound to obey. Beyond which, Anne Boleyn’s ideas were dangerous; I had finished the book she had given me two weeks prior and then saved her the trouble by burning it myself. I did not know she had been hiding even more treasonous material or I would have burned that as well.
The book she had given me had been bad enough, advocating that a king was superior to the pope, that only he should be the one that stood between his subjects and God. Luther had taken it even farther, saying that not even a king stood between a man and salvation, that the hierarchy of the church was unnecessary. To believe such things was to deny the entire order of our world.
Bowed in front of me, Mary was silent for a moment. She was not as bright as her sister or her brother George, and I had often caught her thinking deeply before she spoke, a trait which I normally found endearing. Today it merely frustrated me; I wanted her out of my chambers and for this entire issue to disappear.
“Her life, Your Majesty,” Mary finally said, looking up into my eyes. She may not be witty but she could be shrewd when she needed to be. I had no doubt that Thomas Boleyn would be in my chambers the next day demanding the release of his favorite child or that her brother George whom I had beaten at tennis that very morning would insist that she had been falsely accused. Mary seemed to know that these pleas would be useless and instead went right to the heart of the matter.
“It is a book. Nothing was said, Your Majesty,” she continued when I didn’t respond. “She may enter a convent, or exile, or if you believe she could survive the Tower, then leave her there. But please spare my sister’s life.”
I didn’t answer her for a moment and instead sat down at the large desk that stood against the window. I had hoped I wouldn’t need to offer Mary anything, especially before I knew everything. But I could never resist a pretty girl, and Mary was quite a pretty girl.
“Very well,” I finally said, “I will spare her life. She is currently confined to her rooms here at Ludlow. Once I have heard the exact charges against her, I will determine what is to be her fate. It will not be death, if that is what you desire.”
“It is, sire,” she said, her body sagging with gratitude. I gestured for her to come to me and she came and sat on my lap as easily as my daughter Mary might have. I would miss this young girl, but there was no way after these events that she could continue to share my bed.
“But you do realize that this is all I can give you?” I asked, taking her hand in mine and turning her to look me in the eyes, “I could make your husband an earl or your father a marquis. After this you will have to leave my services, Mary. I could make your family a much grander offer; I had planned to raise your husband to the Earl of Pembroke. Is your sister’s life truly what you want?”
“Yes, Sire,” she whispered softly, not even considering the other offers or leaving to discuss them with her ever-greedy father or more ambitious uncle, the Duke of Norfolk. I had certainly picked the kindest of the family.
“Very well,” I responded, running my hands through her hair. I would take her one last time this afternoon before I had to let her go, but for now I let her remain where she was.
That evening in my inner chamber I was briefed by both More and Cromwell as to what had happened. Cromwell had discovered, by listening to servants gossip, that Mistress Anne had approached my son even after I had warned her not to. With an attitude that often got her uncle into trouble as well, she had begun to argue with the prince over what Cromwell had assured me were mostly innocent matters; the authority of the pope was not even mentioned. Remembering the book she had brought me, I had a clear idea of what her innocent matters had been. I gestured for him to continue.
That argument had taken place this morning and Anne had been left behind when Prince Harry had gone for his daily stroll with his mother.
More, who had spoken to Catherine’s chaplain Bishop Hastings, said that when my wife had returned for her dinner she had informed him about the discussion that had taken place and ordered him to search her ladies’ rooms while they dined. Only Anne’s trunk was actually searched and the book had been found at the bottom wrapped tightly in a blue sash. Hastings had waited until a
fter the noontime meal to take it to his mistress, who had immediately confronted Lady Anne and had the guards who protected her rooms seize the lady without letting her say a word of defense.
Not quite knowing what to do with a lady of rank who had been arrested, they took her to her own chambers and stood guard at the door, allowing only her mother to enter to visit her and then refusing the Lady Elizabeth Boleyn’s request to exit a few hours later.
“Well for God’s sake, release the mother,” I said when this was told to me. Cromwell left to make sure it was done and I motioned for More to join me as I travelled to Catherine’s chambers.
Her rooms held a deathly silence and the first face I noticed was Mary’s. Her expression was grim but she managed a smile to me before returning to the needlework that the ladies seemed intently interested in.
“His Majesty the King!” her herald called as I entered. Catherine and her ladies stood to then curtsey to me. It was then that I noticed young Harry was in the chair next to Catherine; he rose with the book he had been reading to her still in his hands. At fifteen years of age he towered almost as tall as I did. Growing closer, I saw that he had been reading to her in Spanish.
“Queen Catherine, I must speak with you about the behavior of your chaplain, Bishop Hastings, this morning.”
Catherine’s face registered for a moment in obvious surprise. I would not normally take matters into my own hands like this; any disputes we had in the past had been handled by her chamberlain and mine. I had never before approached her to discuss a member of her household.
“I am sorry to inform Your Majesty that he found evidence of heresy in the rooms of one my ladies, the Lady Anne Boleyn,” she replied after quickly regaining her composure. “She has been confined to her quarters and I had Hastings send word to Cardinal Wolsey. As chancellor of England he would be the proper man to handle the proceedings against her.”
“As King of England, I would be the proper man to handle proceedings against her,” I said back, my voice rising slightly. Before I could continue another voice broke into our escalating argument.
“Actually, I believe as Prince of Wales I would be the one to decide her fate.”
Catherine and I both turned towards our son, who was still standing and glancing between his mother and I. At first neither of us responded to him. Then a small smile spread over Catherine’s face.
“Yes, I do believe that is correct,” she said, holding her hand out to the boy who took it and climbed the two small steps to her throne to stand beside her.
“That is absolutely preposterous,” I responded. “He’s a mere boy. Beyond which she will have to be tried by a council of her peers, as she is of noble blood.”
“The laws of England, not of Wales.”
“The laws of England are the laws of Wales. You are a vassal and must pay homage to your king.”
Harry didn’t seem to have a response to that but it was the hand of Thomas More touched my back recalling to me to my surroundings. This was not the place to have this dispute. It could wait until at least the morning.
“You will join me in my chambers,” I ordered. “We will discuss this tomorrow. Before the dinner meal.” I would make sure that More had them brought to my chambers before they were able to go for their morning walk; I did not want them planning strategy without me. Both Catherine and Harry bowed to me as I turned around, storming out of her chambers. I was furious that either had the gall to contradict me. I hoped that it would not be obvious to her ladies that I didn’t have as strong of a case as I had hoped.
As I was leaving, I glanced back over to Mary’s face. Unlike the warm glow it had held that afternoon when she had left my chambers her skin was now deathly white. Even silly Mary Carey understood that I had lost control of her sister’s fate.
Chapter Six
August, 1526
My council with Catherine and Harry did not go much better the following morning. To my dismay, Bishop Hastings accompanied them and he had dominated most of the conversation thus far.
We were lined along the table in one of my inner rooms, Thomas More and I on one side, Catherine, Harry, and Hastings lining the other side, as the table drew a line down the battlefield.
“The book was brought into Prince Harry’s jurisdiction,” the Bishop argued. “He has been charged with keeping peace in this part of the realm and has dealt with prisoners before.”
“Petty thieves and highway men,” Thomas More responded. “Not a lady of rank and certainly not a case involving heresy.”
“That is incorrect,” Harry interrupted, but allowed the Bishop to continue for him.
“His Highness has passed judgment on three separate cases of heresy.”
“He has done what?” I asked, cutting into the conversation for the first time. Harry had been sent to Ludlow to learn about the difficult task of ruling a country, and for centuries Wales was the traditional location for the heir to the throne to learn the lessons he would need to be king. My brother Arthur had ruled Wales for years before his death — I had never been to Ludlow before this spring.
“There have been reports of heresy, Father,” Harry responded, “Even out here in Wales. I passed judgment on all three cases.”
“What did you decree?”
“We had three burnings.”
I sat back into my chair, stunned that my son had taken such heavy cases onto his own shoulders and that no one in his house had thought to alert me to this.
Thomas More glanced at me in the silence. We had spoken early this morning; while More was against a lady of rank from burning, the law did say that Harry would have the final judgment in her punishment. I had argued that she deserved to be tried by her peers but More, a lawyer by trade, reminded me that heresy trials could be ruled by the local nobleman; indeed, absolute proof was not even necessary. And in this case, there was absolute proof.
“I hope it has been imprinted on His Highness the implications for executing a lady of noble birth,” Thomas said gently, pressing home our only advantage at this point.
“She is a heretic,” Harry argued, his heavy gaze falling on More. “And should not be treated any differently for her noble birth.”
“No, the noble birth does make a difference,” I said. Whatever Harry had been learning here in Wales, he had obviously not received the right lessons. I felt my throat tighten as I gazed across the table at my son, his dark eyes boring into me like Catherine’s had done so often in the past. He felt strongly about this, but so did I. For so long, England had been known as a land of butchery and here was my son attempting to further that reputation.
The War of the Roses had caused some of the fiercest fighting ever seen in Europe. By the end of the conflict, which lasted over a hundred years, there was not a family who had not lost someone to the fighting. Indeed, entire families had been destroyed, their lines never to be seen again. The rest of Europe had looked to England and shook their heads at the deaths they saw as meaningless.
I held Harry’s gaze for a moment until he looked down at his folded hands in a mimic of his mother. Both sat there, heads slightly bowed, hands folded as if at prayer, their mouths drawn tight. I made no move to speak and waited for Harry to retaliate first.
“Because she has been born to a higher station, I should spare her life?” Harry asked. “She who has access to the king and who could influence other nobles, leaders of the community?”
“No, because it will be announced all over the courts of Europe,” I replied, knowing that this was a weak argument. “The execution of a noble, and a noble lady at that, is something that rarely occurs. England has always fought the title of barbaric. This will hardly raise our standing. It will be all the Continent will speak of for weeks.”
“Good,” Harry responded, “then the other courts will know we are serious about furthering the causes of our religion.”
Thomas glanced at me and I knew what he was thinking. Harry’s speech sounded like the letters the court had reg
ularly received from Catherine’s mother, Isabella of Castile. With her husband, Ferdinand of Aragon, they had eradicated the Moors from Spain – a noble goal, but one that had never been completed to their satisfaction. Once the Moor government had retreated to Africa, Ferdinand and Isabella had turned their inquisition to the Jews and the few Moors who had remained behind and had been promised sanctuary. Instead they had found torture.
I glanced at Catherine, the only one who could have instilled a fever like this in my son. She remained demur, keeping her eyes cast at the table before her. I could not tell if this was part of her plan to get rid of my mistress or if she hated Anne Boleyn for her own sake. Or maybe the religious fever that had consumed her mother had infected my family as well.
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