The King's Secret Matter

by Jean Plaidy

  Vives bowed his head. ‘I will go to my task with the utmost pleasure, and I can immediately say that I think the Princess should read the New Testament both night and morning, and also certain selected portions of the Old Testament. She must become fully conversant with the gospels. She should, I believe, also study Plutarch’s Enchiridion, Seneca’s Maxims, and of course Plato and Cicero.’ He glanced at his friend. ‘I suggest that Sir Thomas More’s Utopia would provide good reading.’

  The Queen smiled to see the look of pride on Thomas’s face, thinking that his few vanities made him human, and therein lay the secret of his lovable nature.

  ‘And what of the Paraphrase of Erasmus?’ asked Thomas quickly.

  ‘That also,’ agreed Vives. ‘And I think the Princess should not waste her time on books of chivalry and romance. Any stories she might wish to read for her entertainment should either be sacred or historical, so that her time is not wasted in idleness. The only exception I would make is the story of Griselda, which contains such an excellent example of patience that the Princess might profit from it.’

  Katharine said: ‘I can see that you will be an excellent tutor, but we must remember that she is but a child. Her life must not be all study. There must be some pleasure.’

  Vives looked surprised; to him the greatest pleasure was in study, and he believed the Princess to be the most fortunate of children, having such a plan of study made for her.

  Thomas laughed. ‘I’ll swear the Lady Mary, who so loves her music, will find time to escape to it from her books now and then. I know my own daughters . . .’ (Katharine noticed the look of pride when he spoke of his daughters, which was even more marked than when he spoke of his books) ‘. . . are proficient in Greek and Latin but they find time to be merry.’

  ‘Yours is a merry household,’ answered the Queen.

  And she found that she was comparing the King and Thomas More – two fathers who could not be more unlike. She had seen Thomas in company with his eldest daughter, Margaret, had seen them walk, their arms entwined, had heard the girl’s unrepressed laughter ringing out as she scolded her father in an affectionate way. It was impossible to imagine Mary and Henry thus.

  What a fortunate man, this Thomas More; what a fortunate family!

  ‘There is much merriment at Court,’ answered Thomas gravely.

  But he understood of course – he was a man who would always understand – and a great tenderness touched his face; the Queen knew that it expressed the compassion he felt for her little daughter, who would study alone – not as Thomas’s family did – and would be taught by the somewhat stern though excellent Vives instead of merry Thomas.

  Somewhere from the grounds she heard the sound of laughter, and glancing down saw a group of young people. They made a charming picture on the grass in their brightly coloured clothes, and there was one girl among them who appeared to be the centre of attraction. She was dark-haired, dark-eyed, somewhat sallow of complexion and, although not a beauty, certainly striking. She seemed to have more vitality than any other member of the group and was quite clearly taking the attention of the young men from the other girls who were present.

  ‘A high-spirited party,’ said the Queen; and Vives and Thomas More glanced out of the window. ‘That girl seems familiar but I do not recall who she is. Surely that is Thomas Wyatt with her – and Henry Percy.’

  ‘The girl is Thomas Boleyn’s daughter, Your Grace,’ Thomas told her.

  Then Katharine knew of whom the girl reminded her. It was Mary Boleyn. The resemblance was slight, otherwise she would have realised immediately. This girl had an air of dignity and assurance, and pride too – all qualities in which Mary had been dismally lacking.

  ‘This is the second girl, I believe,’ said the Queen.

  ‘Recently home from France on account of the war,’ explained Thomas.

  ‘Doubtless her father is looking for a place at Court for her,’ said the Queen.

  ‘He will find it,’ replied Thomas, ‘not only for Anne but for his George also.’

  ‘I trust,’ said the Queen, ‘that this Anne is not like her sister in her morals, and that George does not bear too strong a resemblance to his father.’

  ‘From what I have seen of them,’ Thomas answered, ‘I should say they are a dazzling pair.’

  ‘Well then, I suppose we must resign ourselves,’ said the Queen with a smile, ‘for it seems the Boleyns have come to Court.’

  The Cardinal had shut himself in his private apartments at Hampton Court; seated at the window from which he could see the river, he was waiting for a message which was all-important to him, for it would tell him whether his greatest ambition was realised or not.

  The pale November sun shone wanly on the river. He thought: I shall miss Hampton Court; I shall miss England.

  He would miss his family too; but he would find means of seeing them. He would have young Thomas in Rome with him, because he would very quickly overcome all difficulties. He thought of Rodrigo Borgia, Alexander VI, who, while living in the Vatican, had yet arranged to have his children with him; for a Pope was as powerful as a King; and once he was supreme in the Vatican, the frowns of unpredictable Henry would be of little moment to him.

  Yet, he mused, I shall not forget my own country, and it will be a good day for England when an Englishman takes the Papal Crown.

  How long the waiting seemed! He would see nobody. He had told his secretaries that he was to be disturbed only by messengers from abroad because he was working on important matters of state.

  But soon the messenger must come.

  He began to pace the apartment because he could no longer bear to stare at the river.

  His chances were good. On the death of Leo X when Adrian VI had been elected, his hopes had been slender. Why should the Cardinals have elected a comparative newcomer to their ranks, an Englishman who had not previously worked closely with the Vatican? That election had taken place at the beginning of the year, and Adrian’s tenure of the Papacy had indeed been a short one for in September news had come to England of his death, and for the next two months the Cardinal had given less thought to affairs in England; his mind was on what would happen at the next conclave.

  Since the election of Adrian and his death the Emperor Charles had visited England, and he had become more aware than he had been before of the important part played by the Cardinal in the foreign policy of England. To win Wolsey’s approval of the alliance he had offered large sums of money, a pension no less; but Wolsey had begun to grow uneasy because none of these sums of money had yet been paid; and he could get no satisfaction as to when they would be from Louis de Praet, who was now Charles’s Ambassador in England.

  Money was needed to prosecute the war, was the excuse, and Wolsey was angry to contemplate the riches which were being squandered on useless battlefields in Europe, riches which could have been used not only to make the country prosperous but would have enabled him to increase his personal treasures.

  But there was one concession which Charles could make and would cost him little in money; and this was what the Cardinal needed more than anything else in the world: His influence at the Conclave. The powerful Emperor, of whom every Cardinal would stand in awe, had but to make it known that he wished to see an English Pope in the Vatican and that those who depended on his bounty were to give their vote to Cardinal Wolsey, and the Papal crown would be won.

  This the Emperor could do. He would do it, He must . . . since he had failed to supply the pension.

  ‘If he does not . . .’ said Wolsey aloud, but he did not continue.

  He would not face the possibility of failure. The Emperor could and would.

  The Cardinal’s unpopularity throughout the country was growing, and people looked on sullenly when he paraded the streets on his way to Westminster. He went in all his splendid pomp, but that did nothing to appease the people’s anger, but rather increased it. They were openly murmuring against him.

  He had always kn
own, during his brilliant career, when it was time to move on, so now he was aware that he had reached the pinnacle of power in England, and that it was time to take the final step to Rome. It must be now, for there might not be another opportunity.

  This war will end in failure, he thought. And when there are failures, scapegoats are sought. Who would make a better scapegoat, in the eyes of the people, than the opulent Cardinal?

  He was alert because he had seen a boat pulling up at the privy stairs, and he guessed it could be his messenger.

  He tried to curb his impatience; he was so eager to go down to meet the man, but, as much as he longed to, he must remember his position and his dignity.

  How long it seemed to take for him to cross the park! Now he had entered the palace. Soon the usher would come to his door.

  I must be calm, he told himself. I must show no excitement, no eagerness.

  Cavendish was at the door.

  ‘A messenger is without, Your Eminence. He asks that he may be brought at once to your presence.’

  ‘A messenger?’ He was sure the beating of his heart disturbed the red satin of his robe. ‘Let him wait . . . no, on second thoughts I will see him now.’

  Cavendish bowed low. Now he would be traversing the eight rooms to that one in which the messenger waited . . . the all-important messenger. It seemed an hour before he was standing on the threshold of the room.

  ‘You have a message for me?’ he said.

  ‘Your Eminence,’ said the man and held out a roll of parchment.

  As Wolsey took it it seemed to burn his fingers, but still he restrained himself.

  ‘You may go now to the kitchens. Tell them I sent you and you are to be refreshed.’

  The man bowed and was gone; so at last he was alone.

  He tore at the parchment, his trembling fingers impeding him; he felt dizzy and it was some seconds before he read the words which danced like black demons on the parchment scroll.

  He stared at them and tried to force them by his dominant will to reform themselves into what he wished to read.

  But of what use was that? The result was there for him to see and there was nothing he could do to alter it.

  ‘Cardinal de’ Medici has been elected the new Pope of Rome, Clement VII.’

  Never since the days of his obscurity had he known a defeat like this. Disappointed he had been when Adrian was elected; but then he had been sure that there would shortly be another conclave, and he had needed the time to consolidate his forces.

  But when would he have another chance? Perhaps never.

  This was the darkest moment of his life so far. He had come such a long way; he could not believe in failure. Was he to fail with the very peak of achievement in sight? It seemed so.

  Then a burning rage took possession of him. It was directed against one man – a sly pallid youth who had promised so much and done so little, who had seemed perhaps a little simple in his humility. But there was no real humility behind those mild blue eyes. A wily statesman lurked there, a statesman who believed he could best outwit his rivals by deceiving them with their belief in his own incompetence.

  Wolsey spoke softly to himself: ‘The Emperor has done this. He has refused me the Papal crown as he has the pensions he promised me. He shall regret it, as all those shall who become the enemies of Thomas Wolsey.’

  All through the winter Wolsey successfully hid his rancour against the Emperor while he was waiting for his opportunity. Determined to break the friendship between Henry and Charles, he kept a sharp watch on Katharine for, since her nephew was his enemy, she must be also.

  He asked the King’s permission to introduce a new woman to the Queen’s intimate circle, and Henry, delighted to do his Chancellor a favour, agreed that the woman should become one of the Queen’s maids of honour.

  Katharine did not like the woman, but she was enjoying her new peaceful existence too much to protest. She need not see much of her; and in any case she was so completely wrapped up in her daughter that she had little time for anything or anyone else. Vives’s curriculum was certainly a strenuous one and sometimes she thought Mary spent too much time in study; however the little girl was a willing pupil and, to help her, Katharine herself studied with her and commanded some of the ladies of the Court to do likewise.

  Being so pleasantly engaged she scarcely noticed the woman and thus gave her excellent opportunities for hiding herself when the Spanish Ambassador called and had conversations with the Queen; nor was it difficult to find a means of conveying those letters, which the Queen wrote to her nephew, to Wolsey before they were sent to Spain.

  As for the Cardinal, he had always been able to wait for revenge and, as he had never favoured the Spanish policy and had always thought that alliance with the French would be a better alternative, he began to plan to this end.

  The winter passed; there were good reports of the progress of the war, but no material gains came the way of the English; and the King preferred to forget what was happening on the Continent in the Christmas and New Year Revels.

  During these Katharine was aware on several occasions of Thomas Boleyn’s daughter Anne who always seemed to be in the centre of a merry and admiring group, with either Wyatt or Henry Percy at her side. Katharine had noticed the King, glowering at these young people as though their high spirits annoyed him. Could it be that he was angry because he was no longer quite so young; was he tiring of pageants and masques?

  All through the spring and summer there was news of the war, but none of it good. Wolsey was trying to raise money; the Emperor was still making promises to pay, not only what he had borrowed, but Wolsey’s pension.

  That is money we shall likely never see, thought Wolsey; but he did not tell the King this because Henry was at the moment eager to maintain his alliance with Charles, and his hatred of François was as strong as ever.

  One summer’s day Dr Linacre, the King’s physician, begged an audience of the Queen, and when he came into her presence he brought a bouquet of beautiful roses.

  Katharine congratulated him warmly because she knew that he had recently brought this rose to England, and had succeeded in making it grow in English soil.

  The doctor was delighted and as he bowed low before her Katharine smiled at his enthusiasm and held out a hand to take the roses.

  ‘They are beautiful,’ she cried.

  ‘I knew Your Grace would think so. I have come to ask permission of you and the King to present you with trees I have grown.’

  ‘I am sure His Grace will be delighted.’

  ‘I had doubts that they would grow in our soil. Our climate is so different from that of Damascus.’

  ‘And you have succeeded magnificently. I know the King will be as pleased as I am to accept these trees.’

  ‘I have called it the Damask Rose,’ said the doctor.

  ‘An excellent name, and so explicit.’

  She was still admiring the roses when the King entered the apartment. The peaceful atmosphere was immediately disturbed for the King’s face was of that faintly purplish tinge which nowadays indicated anger, and his eyes ice-blue, his mouth tight.

  ‘Your Grace,’ began the doctor, who could think of nothing but the pleasure his roses gave him and, he believed, must give all those who looked at them, ‘I have been showing the Queen the new Damask Rose.’

  ‘Very pleasant,’ said the King shortly.

  ‘Dr Linacre wishes to present us with trees too,’ said the Queen.

  ‘They will be some of the first to be planted in this country, Your Grace,’ went on the doctor. ‘I shall count it an honour . . .’

  ‘We thank you,’ said the King. He took one of the roses in his hand and studied it, but Katharine knew that he gave it little attention. ‘It is indeed beautiful. We accept the trees. They shall be tended with care, and I am sure give us pleasure for many years to come.’

  The doctor bowed and asked the Queen’s permission to take some of the roses to the Princess Mary. Kathari
ne gave that permission willingly and the doctor took his leave.

  When he had gone, Henry walked to the window and stood glowering out.

  Katharine knew that it was on occasions like this when his dogs and all wise men and women kept their distance from him, but she was his wife and must know what disturbed him, so she asked: ‘Does aught ail you, Henry?’

  He turned and she noticed how his lower lip jutted out.

  ‘Oh, ’tis naught but the folly of young Percy.’

  ‘Northumberland’s son?’

  ‘Yes, Henry Percy. The young fool has been presumptuous enough to promise marriage to one of the girls of the Court.’

  ‘And you cannot grant permission for this marriage?’

  ‘Northumberland’s is one of the most noble families in the land,’ growled Henry.

  ‘Is the girl whom he has chosen so lowly?’

  ‘She is not of his rank.’

  ‘So far below him then?’

  ‘It is Thomas Boleyn’s girl.’

  ‘Oh?’ The Queen thought of the girl as she had seen her about the Court – a flamboyant personality, one made to attract attention to herself, decidedly French in manners and style of dressing. Indeed since the beginning of the French wars, when the girl had come to England, fashions had been changing and becoming more French, which was strange when it was considered that the English were at war with that country. ‘I have noticed her often,’ went on the Queen. ‘She seems to be one who attracts attention to herself. I have seen Percy with her and Wyatt also.’

  ‘Wyatt is married so he could not make a fool of himself,’ muttered the King.

  ‘Thomas Boleyn has risen in your favour in the last years, Henry. Is the girl so very much below Percy?’

  ‘Come, come, he is the eldest son of Northumberland. His father will never consent to the match.’

  ‘But the girl’s mother is a Howard and . . .’

  Henry made an irritable gesture, wriggling his shoulders like a petulant boy. ‘Northumberland is coming to Court to forbid his son to have anything to do with the girl. Indeed she is pledged already to marry the son of Piers Butler. As to Percy, he is to marry Shrewsbury’s girl – Mary Talbot . . . a suitable match.’