by Jean Plaidy
Henry crowned in Rheims King of France! Himself crowned in Rome! The English King had no idea of the situation.
Charles had taken the French King prisoner, it was true, and that was a success; the army which had served with François was disbanded, but that did not constitute all the men at arms in France. Charles himself had suffered enormous losses; his army was only in slightly better condition than that of the French; moreover he had no money to pay his mercenaries.
Charles was a realist. He knew that the Italian princes, who had had to submit to him, did so with great unwillingness, that the Pope was watching his movements with anxiety. His mercenaries had demanded the spoils of battle as he could not pay them, and as a result the countryside had been ravaged as the troops passed through; and as the sullen people were ready to revolt against the conqueror, this was no time to talk of crowning ceremonies. Henry seemed to think that war was a game and that the winner received all the spoils of victory. Had he not learned yet that in wars such as this there were often very little spoils?
The Emperor was weary of battle. He had the upper hand now; François was in prison in Madrid, and while he was there it would be possible to make him agree to humiliating terms. It was a matter of taking what he could; but it was totally unrealistic to imagine that he could take France and hand it to his ally as though it were a particularly fine horse or even a castle.
‘When will my uncle grow up?’ he sighed.
There was another matter which was disturbing him. He was twenty-four years of age and affianced to Mary who was nine. He was tired of waiting, and his ministers had implied that the people of Spain were eager for an alliance with Portugal.
His cousin, Isabella of Portugal, was of a marriageable age at this present time, and her dowry was nine hundred thousand golden ducats. How useful such a sum would be! And Mary’s dowry? He had had it already in loans from her father, and he knew that to take Mary would merely be to wipe off the debts he had incurred in the war.
He wanted a wife now . . . not in three years’ time. In three years’ time he might have a lusty son. When he went to war he would have a Queen to leave in Spain as his regent. Moreover Portugal had always been closely allied with Spain. The people wanted one of their own as their Queen, not a strange little girl who, although half Spanish, would seem to them wholly English.
True, he had given his promise, but his grandfathers had made promises when it was expedient to do so; and when state policy demanded that those promises should be broken, they broke them. Charles was sorry because his aunt would be hurt and the King of England would be angry. But he did not greatly care for the King of England. A strip of Channel divided them and they had always been uneasy allies.
Wolsey had turned against him he knew from the few letters he had received from de Praet; and he was certain that he had not received all that de Praet had written. Wolsey was a wily fellow and it was unfortunate that they should be enemies, but that must be accepted.
He could not simply jilt Mary, but he could make a condition that her parents would find it impossible to fulfil. Suppose he demanded that she be sent at once to Spain? He knew his aunt would never agree to part with her daughter at this stage. He would demand half as much again as Henry had already paid towards the cost of the war, knowing that this would be refused. But these would be the terms he would insist on if he were to carry out his part of the bargain.
The Portuguese ambassador was waiting to see him; he would have to have something to tell him when he came. He must decide whether there should be discussions between the two countries regarding the betrothal of himself and Isabella.
He therefore sent for a gentleman of his entourage, and while he was waiting for him he wrote a letter which, on account of the news it contained, he put into code.
When the Knight Commander Peñalosa was shown into his presence, he signed to him to be seated.
‘I have a letter here which you are to take to England. It is in code, so you must go at once to de Praet who will decode it for you. Then you will read the contents and discuss with de Praet and the Queen the best manner of putting the proposals it contains to the King of England. De Praet will then inform me of the King’s reception of this news. This is of the utmost importance. You must leave at once.’
Peñalosa left with the letter and prepared to set out for England, while Charles received the Portuguese ambassador.
By the time Peñalosa reached England, de Praet had left and there was no one who could decode the letter. Peñalosa sought an audience with the Queen, but the Cardinal, who was more watchful of her than ever, had so surrounded her with his spies that Peñalosa was never allowed to see her except in public. If Katharine’s eyes alighted on him by chance she had no notion that he was an important messenger from her nephew.
Katharine was with her women engaged in that occupation which so frequently occupied her – the making of clothes for the poor – when the storm broke.
The King strutted into her apartment and one wave of his hands sent her women curtseying and scuttling away like so many frightened mice.
‘Henry,’ Katharine asked, ‘what ails you?’
He stood, legs apart, that alarming frown between his brows, so that she felt her spirits sink. She knew that he had come to tell her of some great disaster.
In his hand he carried a document, and her heart began to beat rapidly as she recognised her nephew’s seal.
‘You may well ask,’ said the King ominously.
‘It is news from the Emperor?’
‘It is, Madam. News from the biggest scoundrel that ever trod the soil of Europe.’
‘Oh no . . . Henry.’
‘Oh yes, Madam. Yes, yes, yes. This nephew of yours has insulted us . . . myself, you and our daughter.’
‘The marriage . . .’
‘There will be no marriage. Our daughter has been tossed aside as though she were of no importance . . . tossed aside for what he believes to be a better match.’
‘It is impossible.’
‘So you would doubt my word.’
‘No, Henry, but I am sure there is some explanation.’
‘There is explanation enough. This treacherous scoundrel believes that he can serve himself better by marriage with his cousin of Portugal. He has already possessed himself of Mary’s dowry in loans . . . which will never be repaid. Now his greedy hands are reaching out for his cousin’s ducats.’
‘But he is promised to Mary.’
Henry came close to her and his eyes looked cruel. ‘When have your family ever respected their promises? I should have understood. I should have suspected. I do not forget how your father deceived me again and again. And Maximilian . . . this Charles’s grandfather . . . he deceived me in like manner. I am deceived every way I turn. Spain! I would to God I had never heard of that country. What have I ever had from Spain? Broken promises . . . my treasury rifled . . . lies . . . lies . . . lies and a barren wife!’
‘Henry . . . I implore you . . .’
‘You would implore me? What would you implore, Madam? That I say thank you to this nephew of yours? Thank you for deceiving me. Thank you for jilting my daughter. I’d as lief thank you, Madam, for all the sons you have not given me!’
‘That was no fault of mine,’ she said with spirit. ‘I have done my best.’
‘No fault of yours? Then whose fault, Madam? You know I have a healthy son. It is more than you have. All those years and one daughter . . . and that daughter, jilted . . . by your nephew.’
For the moment tears came to his eyes – tears of self pity. All that he desired was denied him. The crown of France; the sons; the marriage of his daughter to the greatest monarch in Christendom; the favours of a sprightly young girl who persistently avoided him. Why was the King so frustrated?
His conscience gave him the answer. Because you have offended God. You have lived with a woman who is not your wife because she was first the wife of your brother. You will never know good fortune while you
live in sin, for God will continue to turn his face from you.
He hated her then – this woman with her sagging shapeless body. How different from that other! This woman who could no longer arouse the slightest desire within him. The woman whose nephew had betrayed him and their daughter.
It was difficult to hold in the words, to remember that as yet it was the secret matter.
But how he hated her!
She flinched before the cruelty in his eyes; she saw the brutal curve of his mouth. Thus had he looked when he had determined to send Buckingham to the scaffold.
He was controlling himself; she knew that. He was holding in the words he longed to utter. She almost wished that he would speak so that she might know what thoughts were in the secret places of his mind.
He forced himself to leave her; he went straight to his apartments and summoned Wolsey.
He would be revenged on Charles. He could not reach the Emperor, but the aunt should suffer for the nephew. None should treat him so scurvily and escape. Charles should learn that he, Henry, cared nothing for the House of Spain and Austria. Had Charles forgotten that there was one member of that House who was completely in his power?
‘Come, Wolsey,’ he growled, while he waited for his Chancellor. ‘We’ll make peace with France; we’ll have a French Prince for Mary. We’ll form an alliance to make His Imperial Highness tremble. We shall show you, Master Charles, that we care naught for you and yours! A plague on the House of Spain and Austria – and all those who belong to it!’
That June day a ceremony took place in Bridewell Palace and the King had commanded all the high officials of the Court to attend: he was particularly anxious that Peñalosa, who was the only ambassador Charles had in England at the time, should be present at the ceremony and send an account of it to his master.
The hero of this occasion was a small boy, six years old. He was handsome, and his pink and gold Tudor beauty both delighted and exasperated Henry.
Every time he looked at the boy he said to himself: Why could he not have been my legitimate son!
Henry had ceased to think of the boy’s mother; she had been handsomely rewarded for giving the King a proof of his ability to beget sons. Manors in Lincolnshire and Yorkshire had been bestowed on her, so she would have no cause to regret those days when she had been the King’s mistress.
Henry had watched with smouldering eyes while this handsome boy was created a Knight of the Garter; and now this even more significant ceremony was taking place.
He came to stand before the King; on either side of him were the leading Dukes of England – Norfolk and Suffolk.
But this boy, thought Henry, shall take precedence over all. For I would have all understand that he is my son and living proof of the fact that I can get sons with other women – though not with my wife.
Holy Mother of God, he prayed as he watched; I see my fault. I live in sin with my brother’s wife and for that reason my union is not blessed with sons. How could it be when in the eyes of God it is a sinful union!
Now proud Norfolk and Suffolk had taken a step backwards that the newly created Duke might stand alone as one whose titles would henceforth set him above them; he would now be known as the first peer of the land, and his titles were impressive: Henry Fitzroy, Duke of Richmond and Somerset, Lord High Admiral of England, Wales, Ireland, Normandy, Gascony and Aquitaine, Knight of the Garter, and first peer of England.
There was a buzz of excitement throughout Court circles which extended to the streets of the city.
Even in the taverns the importance of the ceremony was understood.
‘This means one thing: The King, despairing of sons by his wife, honoured Elizabeth Blount’s boy.’
‘Note the significance of that title – Richmond,’ it was whispered. ‘The King’s father was Duke of Richmond before he became King. Depend upon it, the King has decided that that boy shall one day wear the crown.’
‘It is not possible while Mary lives.’
‘If the King decrees, it will be possible. None will dare gainsay him. And this ceremony is to prepare his people for what he intends to bring about.’
‘The people would not accept the boy while Mary lives.’
‘The people will accept what the King wishes. It is better not to argue against the King. Remember Buckingham.’
The name of Buckingham could still send shivers through most bodies.
And so it was generally agreed that the ceremony at Bridewell was a first step in the direction the King intended to go as regards his illegitimate son.
Katharine who could often suffer in silence on her own account could not do so on her daughter’s.
She faced the King boldly on the first opportunity when they were alone and declared her horror and fear at the recognition given to Henry Fitzroy.
‘You forget,’ Henry told her coldly, ‘that the Duke of Richmond is my son.’
‘Should you be so proud to call him so?’
‘Yes, Madam. Proud I am and always shall be. For his birth gave me the answer I sought. It is no fault of mine that I have no legitimate son.’
‘And so you had this one merely to prove this?’ she asked with a trace of sarcasm rare in her.
‘I did,’ said Henry who had told himself this was the case, so frequently that he believed it.
‘This is an insult to our daughter. Has she not been insulted enough?’
‘By your nephew . . . yes. This is no insult to Mary. I still accept her as my daughter.’ A cunning look came into his eyes. ‘She is a girl and her position may not be so different from that of the little Duke.’
This was going too far; it was betraying the secret matter. He must be cautious. Katharine did not construe his words as he had meant them. She thought only that he planned to set this illegitimate son before his daughter because of his sex.
‘You cannot mean you would set aside our daughter for a . . . bastard!’
His eyes narrowed. He wanted to speak of what was in his mind. He was never one for secrets. He wanted her to know that although she was a daughter of the hated House of Spain, because she had previously married his brother it might well be that she had no legitimate hold on him.
‘Mary is a girl,’ he said sullenly.
‘There is no reason why she should not make as good a monarch as a man. My own mother . . .’
The King snapped his fingers. ‘I have no wish to hear of your sainted mother. And know this, if I decide that any man, woman or child in this kingdom shall be elevated . . .’ His eyes were even more cruel suddenly . . . ‘or set down, this shall be done and none shall be allowed to stand in my way.’
‘I wonder,’ said the Queen, ‘that you allowed our daughter to keep the title, Princess of Wales. Why did you not take that away from her and bestow it on your bastard? Then there could have been no doubt of your intentions.’
He looked at her in silent hatred for a few seconds; then fearing that he would be unable to keep from her all the plans which were fermenting in his mind, he left her.
Wolsey was waiting for him in his apartment. The Chancellor saw the flushed face and angry looks and guessed that Henry had been listening to Katharine’s reproaches.
‘Your Grace looks displeased,’ he murmured.
‘ ’Tis the Queen. I have never known her so bold . . . so careless of my feelings.’
‘The Queen is afraid, Your Grace. She has her qualms about the marriage, even as you do. Perhaps more so.’
‘She could not be more uneasy.’
Wolsey lowered his voice. ‘She knows, Your Grace, whether or not the marriage with your brother was consummated.’
‘You think this is a sign of her guilt?’
‘The guilty are often those who feel most fear, Your Grace.’
‘You are right, Thomas. And her boldness astonished me.’
‘She is surrounded by women who urge her to behave thus. The Queen herself should be . . . malleable.’
Henry’s lower lip jutted
out. ‘There’s strength beneath that gentleness, Thomas.’
‘Your Grace is right as usual, but that strength is, shall we say, given support by some of those women about her.’
The King looked questioningly at Wolsey.
‘There is the Countess of Salisbury for one. She has ever been close to the Queen. Lady Willoughby is another. Women like that chat in secret, talking of wrongs, urging resistance.’
‘They shall be banished from Court.’
‘May I suggest, Your Grace, that we move with care? We do not want to rouse too much sympathy in . . . the wrong quarters.’
‘You mean that there would be those to take her side against me!’
‘Among the people, Your Grace. And some men of the Court, in secret. Let Lady Willoughby be sent away from Court. As for Lady Salisbury . . . If Your Grace will trust this matter to me, and commission me to deal with the Queen’s household, I will see that those women likely to influence her are removed from her side.’
‘Do that, Thomas. By God, she must understand that I’ll not stand by and accept her reproaches. She had the temerity to suggest that I might soon take Mary’s title of Wales that I might give it to young Henry.’
‘The Queen may well wean the Princess’s affection from Your Grace.’
The King looked at his Chancellor; and for a few moments they both remained thoughtful.
This was the most cruel blow of all. Katharine had been so stunned when she heard the news that she could not believe it was true.
All the humiliations, all the uneasiness of the past years had been forgotten when she was in the presence of her daughter; her only joy in life had been wrapped up in the child. The love between them was intense, as deep and abiding as that which Katharine had shared with her own mother.
In all her troubles she had been able to tell herself: ‘I have my daughter.’
And now Mary was to be taken away from her.
She did not weep. This was too great a sorrow to be assuaged by tears. She sat limply staring before her while her dearest friend, Maria de Salinas, Countess of Willoughby, sat beside her, desperately seeking for words which would comfort her.
