The King's Secret Matter

by Jean Plaidy

  It was unlike the Queen to show such feeling, and Maria trembled afresh. Characteristically the Queen noticed the expression in Maria’s face and was sobered by it – not because she feared for herself, but because she had troubled her friend.

  ‘Have no fear, Maria,’ she said. ‘I shall dismiss this girl from the Court. I shall know how to deal with such a one. The King has amused himself with her, but she is no Elizabeth Blount. He will do nothing to detain her at Court. He will merely look about him and . . . find another.’

  ‘But if he will find another . . .’

  ‘I understand your meaning, Maria. Why dismiss this girl? Simply because her reputation is so light. No, if the King must have a mistress it should be one who has not shared the beds of quite so many. I hear that she even included the King of France among her lovers, briefly, oh very briefly. Elizabeth Blount at least behaved decorously and she was connected with the Mountjoys. These Boleyns, I have heard, have descended from trade.’

  ‘Is that so, Your Grace? When one considers Thomas Boleyn that is surprising.’

  ‘Thomas Boleyn gives himself airs, indeed. A very ambitious man, Maria. I wonder he does not take this girl of his and put her into a convent. But I do assure you that I have not been misinformed as to his origins, for when I heard of the King’s . . . connection . . . with this girl I had enquiries made. One Geoffrey Boleyn was apprentice to a mercer in London . . . oh, it is a long time ago, I grant you, and he became rich; but he was a tradesman, no more, no less. Becoming Lord Mayor of London and buying Blickling Hall from Sir John Falstaff, and Hever Castle from the Cobbhams, does not alter that. So this family rose through trade and advantageous marriages. They are connected with the Ormonds, and Thomas’s wife is Norfolk’s daughter. But this girl . . . this Mary . . . is doubtless a throw-back to the days of trade.’

  How bitter she is, thought Maria; and how unlike herself. My poor Queen Katharine, are you becoming a frightened woman?

  ‘It is a deplorable state of affairs when such people are allowed to come to Court,’ went on Katharine.

  There was a brief silence and Maria took advantage of it to say that she had heard the Emperor might again visit England, and how she hoped this was true.

  ‘I hope so too,’ said Katharine. ‘I think the King has changed the opinion he once held of my nephew.’

  ‘All who saw him on his visit to England were impressed by his serious ways and his fondness for Your Grace.’

  Katharine smiled tenderly. ‘I could not look on him without sadness, although it gave me so much pleasure to see him. He is indeed worthy of his destiny, but I could not help thinking of my sister.’

  Maria winced and wished she had not turned the conversation in this direction. There was so much tragedy in the life of the Queen that it seemed impossible to avoid it. Now in reviving her memories of her nephew’s visit she had reminded her of her poor sister Juana, Charles’s mother, who was insane and living out her sad life in the castle of Tordesillas and who would have been the ruler of Spain had she not lost her reason.

  ‘Poor Juana,’ went on Katharine, ‘she was always wild, but we never thought it would come to this. There are times when I can feel almost happy because my mother is dead. I always thought that the deaths of my brother and eldest sister shocked her so deeply that she went earlier to her tomb than she would otherwise have done. But if she were alive now, if she could see her daughters – one mad, the other tormented . . .’

  Maria interrupted, forgetting that it was a breach of etiquette to do so. ‘Your Grace’s troubles will be over one day. You have a healthy daughter; there will surely one day be a son.’

  And so they had arrived back at the matter of the moment; this was the subject which occupied the minds of all at Court. A son. Will there be a son born to the King and Queen? There must be . . . for, if there is not, the position of Queen Katharine in England will be uncertain.

  The Queen had turned back to the window.

  ‘They are coming now,’ she said, and picked up her tapestry.

  The two women worked in silence for some moments while the sounds from without increased. Those of voices accompanied by laughter floated up to them, but they kept their eyes on the tapestry.

  The King’s voice was immediately recognisable; loud and resonant, it was that of a man who knew he only has to speak to achieve the result he wished. If he wanted laughter his courtiers gave it in full measure, with the required implication that his jokes were more witty than any other’s; his frown was also more terrifying.

  Katharine was thinking: Yet at heart he is only a boy. He plays at kingship. It is those about him who hold the power; men such as Thomas Wolsey on whom he depends more and more. An able man, this Thomas Wolsey, but an ambitious one, and the daughter of Ferdinand must know that ambition could warp a man’s nature. But so far Wolsey’s ambition was – like the King’s strength – in check, and it seemed that Wolsey acted for the good of the state. Katharine had thought him her friend until recent months, when there were signs of a French alliance. Then she had not been so sure.

  But it was not such as Thomas Wolsey whose company she most enjoyed. There were even now occasions when she could be at peace in the King’s company; this was when he invited men such as Dr Linacre or Thomas More to his private apartments for an intimate supper. In particular was Katharine drawn to Thomas More; there was a man whose gentle charm and astringent wit had made an instant appeal to her, but perhaps what she had admired most of all was that integrity which she sensed in the man. It was so rare a quality that all seemed to change when they came into contact with it; even Henry ceased to be the licentious young man and was a serious monarch, determined to increase his intellectual stature and work for the good of his people. It was small wonder that she looked forward with pleasure to those days when the King said: ‘Come, Master More, you shall sup with us tonight, and you may talk to us of astronomy, geometry or divinity; but willy-nilly we shall be merry with you.’

  And strangely enough they would be for, with Thomas More leading the conversation, however serious its nature, it must be merry.

  But on this day such as Thomas More and Dr Linacre would not be the King’s companions.

  She glanced out of the window. The King was leading his courtiers towards the Palace, and with him were his brother-in-law the Duke of Suffolk, William Compton and Thomas Boleyn.

  Katharine’s mouth tightened at the sight of the last.

  Thomas Boleyn was the kind of man who would be delighted to offer his daughter to the King in exchange for honours. The honours were evidently being granted, and the man had been at the King’s side during his meeting with the King of France – that ostentatious and vulgar display of the ‘Field of the Cloth of Gold’ – and he remained there.

  But not for long, vowed Katharine – unless he can hold his place by his own qualities and not through the lewdness of his daughter.

  Wherever the King went there was ceremony. Now the heralds stationed at the doors were playing a fanfare – a warning to all those who had been within the Palace while the King was at sport to leap to attention. He would stroll through the Palace smiling graciously, if his mood was a good one; and it would seem that it was so now from the sound of his voice, and the laughter which followed his remarks.

  She wondered whether he would go to his own apartments or come to hers. What did he wish now? Sweet music? Would he call for his lute and entertain the company with one of his own musical compositions? Would he perhaps summon Mary Boleyn and dismiss his courtiers? He was a young healthy animal and his whims and moods could change in a moment.

  ‘He is coming here,’ she said, and she saw the faint flush begin in Maria’s cheeks as the door was flung open.

  The King stood on the threshold looking at his Queen and her attendant bent over their tapestry.

  Maria rose immediately, as did Katharine, and they both made a deep curtsey as Henry came into the room chuckling, his fair face flushed, his blue eyes as bri
ght as chips of glazed china with the sun on them; his golden beard jutting out inviting admiration; he had recently grown it because King François had one, and he believed that a golden beard was more becoming than a black one.

  Beside him most other men looked meagre, and it was not merely the aura of kingship which made them so. It was true they fell away from him, giving him always the centre of the stage, for every word, every gesture which was made in his presence must remind him that he was the King whom they all idolised.

  He was glittering with jewels. How he loved colour and display! And since he had returned from France he had worn brighter colours, more dazzling jewels. It was true that he did so with a hint of defiance; and Katharine knew that it would be a long time before he forgot the sly looks of the King of France, the caustic wit which, it had to be confessed, had set the King of England at a loss; that long nose, those brilliant dark eyes, had frequently seemed to hold a touch of mockery. The King of France was the only man who in recent years had dared snap his fingers at Henry and make sly jokes at his expense. Oh, the extravagant folly of that Field of the Cloth of Gold! All sham, thought Katharine, with two monarchs swearing friendship while hatred filled their hearts.

  But Henry was not thinking of François now as he stood at the threshold of his wife’s apartment. He was in a favourite position, legs apart – perhaps to display that fine plump calf; his jerkin was of purple velvet, the sleeves slashed and puffed; his doublet of cloth of gold decorated with pearls; on his head was a blue velvet cap in which a white feather curled and diamonds scintillated; about his neck was a gold chain on which hung a large pearl and ruby; the plump white fingers were heavily loaded with rings, mostly of rubies and diamonds.

  It was small wonder that wherever he went the people shouted for him; unlike his father he was a King who looked like a King.

  ‘How now, Kate?’ he said; and she straightened herself to look into his face, to read the expression there – his was the most expressive face at Court – and Katharine saw that for this moment his mood was a benign one. ‘You’ve missed a goodly sight.’ He slapped his thigh, which set the jewels flashing in the sunlight.

  ‘Then ’twas good sport, Your Grace?’ answered Katharine, smiling.

  ‘ ’Twas so indeed. Was it not?’ He turned his head slightly and there was an immediate chorus of assent. ‘The dogs were game,’ he went on, ‘and the bear was determined to stay alive. They won in the end, but I’ve lost two of my dogs.’

  ‘Your Grace will replace them.’

  ‘Doubt it not,’ he said. ‘We missed you. You should have been at our side.’ His expression had changed and was faintly peevish. She understood. He had been with Mary Boleyn last night and was making excuses to himself for conduct which shocked him a little, even though it was his own. She knew that he was tormented periodically by his conscience; a strange burden for such a man to carry. Yet she rejoiced in the King’s conscience; she believed that if he ever contemplated some dastardly act, it would be there to deter him.

  ‘It was my regret that I was not,’ answered Katharine.

  He growled and his eyes narrowed so that the bright blue was scarcely visible. He seemed to make a sudden decision, for he snapped his fingers and said: ‘Leave us with the Queen.’

  There was immediate obedience from those who had accompanied him into the apartment; and Maria de Salinas hurried to where the King stood, dropped a curtsey, and followed the others out. Henry did not glance at her; his lower lip was protruding slightly as the plump fingers of his right hand played with the great ruby on his left.

  Katharine experienced a twinge of that apprehension which was troubling her more and more frequently nowadays. He had felt contented when he was watching his animals; when he had crossed the gardens and come into the Palace he had been happy. It was the sight of her sitting at her tapestry which had aroused his anger.

  When they were alone he grumbled: ‘Here is a pleasant state of affairs. The King must sit alone and watch good sport because his Queen prefers not to sit beside him that people may see their King and Queen together.’

  ‘I believed I did not displease Your Grace in remaining in my apartment.’

  ‘You knew full well that I wished you to be beside me.’

  ‘But Henry, when I explained my indisposition, you seemed contented enough that I should remain in the Palace.’

  It was true; he had shrugged his shoulders when she had pleaded a headache; would she never learn that what he accepted at one time with indifference could arouse his anger at another?

  ‘I liked it not,’ he growled. ‘And if this headache of yours was so distressing, do you improve it with the needle? Nay, ’twas our rough English sports that disgusted you. Come, admit it. Our English games are too rough for Spanish ladies, who faint at the sight of blood. ’Tis so, is it not?’

  ‘It is true that I find the torturing of animals distasteful.’

  ‘ ’Tis odd in one who comes from Spain where they make a religious spectacle out of torturing people.’

  She shuddered; the thought of cruelty was distasteful to her; she knew that during the reign of her revered mother the Spanish Inquisition had tortured heretics and handed them over to the Secular authorities to be burned to death. This she had often told herself was a matter of faith; those who suffered at the autos-de-fé in her native land did so because they had sinned against the Church. In her eyes this was a necessary chastisement, blessed by Holy Church.

  She said quietly: ‘I do not care to witness the shedding of blood.’

  ‘Bah!’ cried the King. ‘ ’Tis good sport. And ’twould be well that the people see us together. Like as not we shall be hearing that all is not well between us. Rumours grow from such carelessness, and such rumours would not please me.’

  ‘There are rumours already. I’ll warrant the secret of your mistresses is not kept to the Court.’

  The King’s ruddy face grew a shade darker and there was a hint of purple in it. She knew she was being foolish, knew that he was like an ostrich, that he fondly imagined that no one was aware of his infidelities or, if they were, looked upon them as a kingly game no more degrading than the hounding of animals to death.

  ‘And is it meet that you should reproach me for seeking elsewhere what I cannot find in your bed?’ he demanded.

  ‘I have always done my best to please you there.’

  The eyes narrowed still more; the face was an even darker shade, the chin jutted out in a more bellicose manner; and only the beard prevented his looking like a boy in a tantrum.

  ‘Then,’ he shouted, ‘let me tell you this, Madam. You have not pleased me there!’

  She closed her eyes waiting for the onslaught of cruel words. He would not spare her because, with the guilt of his adultery heavy upon him, he had to find excuses for his conscience. He was talking to that now – not to her.

  The tirade ended; a slightly pious expression crossed the scarlet face; the blue eyes opened wider and were turned upwards. His voice was hushed as he spoke.

  ‘There are times, Kate, when I think that in some way you and I have offended God. All these years we have prayed for a boy and again and again our hopes have been disappointed.’

  And those words smote her ears like a funeral knell; the more so because they were spoken quietly in a calculating manner; he had momentarily forgotten the need to appease his conscience; he was planning for the future.

  He had expressed that thought before, and always in that portentous manner, so that it sounded like the opening chorus, the prelude to a drama on which the curtain was about to rise.

  So now she waited for what would follow. It must come one day. If not this day, the next. Perhaps a week might elapse, a month, a year . . . but come it would.

  He was eyeing her craftily, distastefully, the woman who no longer had the power to arouse any desire in him, the woman who after twelve years of marriage had failed to give what he most desired: a son born in wedlock.

  There was ne
vertheless still to be respite; for suddenly he turned on his heel and strode from the room.

  But Katharine knew that the curtain was soon to rise.

  As the courtiers left the King and Queen together, many an understanding glance was exchanged. It was common knowledge that all was not well between the royal pair. Who could blame the King, said the gay young men, married to a woman five years older than himself – a woman who was over-pious and a solemn Spaniard – when he was surrounded by gay young English girls all eager for a frolic! It would have been different of course had there been a son.

  There was one among the company whose smile was complacent. This did not go unnoticed. Edward Stafford, third Duke of Buckingham, had good reason to be delighted by this lack of royal fertility. Secretly Buckingham believed himself to be more royal than the Tudors, and there were many who, had they dared to express such an opinion, would have agreed with him.

  Buckingham was a proud man; he could not forget that through his father he was descended from Thomas of Woodstock, son of Edward III, and that his mother had been Catherine Woodville, sister of Elizabeth Woodville who had married Edward IV. And who were the Tudors but a bastard sprig from the royal tree!

  Never could Buckingham look on the King without this thought crossing his mind: There but for the chances of fate might stand Edward Stafford.

  Such thoughts were only safe when locked in the secret places of the mind; and it was unwise to betray, even by a look, that they existed. Buckingham was a rash man and therefore, since he lived under Henry VIII, an unwise one.

  The old Duke of Norfolk who was at his side, guessing his thoughts, whispered: ‘Caution, Edward.’

  As Buckingham turned to look at his friend a faint frown of exasperation appeared on his brow. Further resentment flared up in his mind against the King. Why should he have to be cautious lest the stupid young King should realise that he fancied himself in his place? If Henry had a spark of imagination, he would guess this was so.

  Norfolk and Buckingham were intimate friends and there was a connection between the families because Buckingham’s daughter had married Norfolk’s son.