by Jean Plaidy
He summoned one of his pages to him and said: “Send for Lady Fitzwalter, I would have immediate speech with her.”
The page rushed to do his bidding and soon returned with Elizabeth Fitzwalter.
She looked disturbed, Henry was pleased to notice. A prim woman, he thought, with none of her sister’s voluptuousness. The sight of her reminded him of Anne, and he was furious once more to contemplate what he had lost.
“Lady Fitzwalter,” he said, “you are, I believe, one of the Queen’s women.”
She was bewildered. Surely he knew. He had seen her so often when he was in the Queen’s company.
“Did I say you are one of Her Grace’s women? It was a mistake, Lady Fitzwalter. I should have said you were.”
“Your Grace, have I offended…?”
“We do not discuss why we banish from our Court those who do not please us, Lady Fitzwalter. We merely banish.”
“Your Grace, I beg to…”
“You waste your time. You would beg in vain. Go back to your apartment and make all haste to leave Court. It is our wish that you are gone within the hour.”
The startled Lady Fitzwalter curtseyed and retired.
Henry stared at the door for a few minutes. He thought of voluptuous Anne and realized suddenly how urgently he desired a change, a new woman who was as different from his wife as could be.
Then he began to pace up and down again…a lion, not sure of his strength, but aware of the cage which enclosed him. The bars were strong, but his strength was growing. One day, he knew, he would break out of the cage. Then there would be nothing—no person on Earth to restrain him.
ELIZABETH FITZWALTER came unceremoniously into the apartment where the Queen sat sewing with Maria de Salinas.
Katharine looked with surprise at her lady-in-waiting, and when she saw how distraught Elizabeth was she rose quickly and went to her side.
“What has happened to disturb you so?” she asked.
“Your Grace, I am dismissed from the Court.”
“You, dismissed! But this is impossible! None has the authority to dismiss you but myself. Why…,” Katharine paused and a look of horror spread across her face. There was one other who had the power, of course.
Elizabeth met Katharine’s gaze, and Katharine read the truth there.
“But why?” demanded the Queen. “On what grounds? Why should the King dismiss you?”
“I find it hard to say, Your Grace. I am to leave at once. I have been told to make ready and go within the hour. I pray you give me leave to make ready.”
“But surely the King gave you a reason. What of your brother?”
“He has already gone, Your Grace; and my sister also.”
“So the King is displeased with all your family. I will go to see him. I will ask him what this means. He will keep nothing from me.”
Maria de Salinas, who loved Katharine sincerely and with a disinterested devotion, laid her hand on the Queen’s arm.
“Well, Maria?”
Maria looked helplessly at Elizabeth as though asking for permission to speak.
“What is it?” asked Katharine. “If it is something I should know, it is your duty to tell me.”
Neither of the women spoke, and it was as though each was waiting for the other to do so.
“I will go to the King,” said Katharine. “I will ask him what this means, for I see that you both know something which you believe you should keep from me.”
Maria said: “I must tell Her Grace. I think she should know.”
Katharine interrupted sternly: “Come Maria, enough of this. Tell me at once.”
“The Countess of Huntingdon has been taken away from Court by her husband and brother because they…they feared the King’s friendship.”
Katharine had grown pale. She was almost certain now that she was with child and had been wondering whether she could tell the King. She had looked forward to his pleasure and had told herself how thankful she should be to have such a faithful husband.
She looked from Maria to Elizabeth and her gaze was bewildered. The King’s friendship for a woman could surely mean only one thing.
But they must be mistaken. They had been listening to gossip. It was not true. He had always been faithful to her. He had firm notions on the sanctity of marriage: he had often told her so.
She said quietly: “Pray go on.”
“Sir William Compton acted as His Grace’s emissary in the matter,” said Elizabeth. “Francesca Carceres discovered what was happening and warned me. I told my brother and, as a result, my sister has been sent to a convent. But the King was displeased with my brother and myself.”
“I cannot believe this to be true.”
“Your Grace, pray sit down,” whispered Maria. “This has been a shock.”
“Yes,” said the Queen, “it has been a shock, a shock that such rumors can exist. I believe it all to be lies…lies.…”
Maria looked frightened. Elizabeth whispered: “Your Grace, give me leave to retire. I have to prepare with all speed to leave Court.”
“You shall not go, Elizabeth,” said Katharine. “I will speak to the King myself. There has been some terrible mistake. What you believe has happened is…an impossibility. I will go to him now. You will see, he will give me the explanation. I will tell him that I wish you to remain. That will suffice.”
Katharine walked from the apartment, while Maria looked after her sadly; and Elizabeth, sighing, went to make ready to leave.
IT SEEMED TO HENRY that he saw his wife clearly for the first time.
How sallow her skin is! he thought comparing her with Anne Stafford. How serious she was! And she looked old. She was old of course, compared with him, for five years was no small matter.
She seemed distasteful to him in that moment, because he felt guilty, and he hated to feel so.
“Henry,” she said, “I have heard some disturbing news. Elizabeth Fitzwalter comes to me in great distress and says that you have commanded her to leave Court.”
“It is true,” he said. “She should be gone within an hour of our giving her the order to leave.”
“But she is one of my women, and I do not wish her to go. She is a good woman and has given me no offence.”
The color flamed into his face. “We will not have her at Court,” he shouted. “Mayhap it escapes your notice, but our wishes here are of some account.”
Katharine was afraid, yet she remembered that she was the daughter of Isabella of Castile, and it ill became any—even the King of England—to speak to her in such a manner.
“I should have thought I might have been consulted in this matter.”
“No, Madam,” retorted Henry. “We saw no reason to consult you.”
Katharine said impetuously: “So you had the grace to try to keep it from my notice.”
“We understand you not.”
She realized then that he was using the formal “we,” and she guessed he was attempting to remind her that he was the King and master of all in his dominions, even his Queen. She saw the danger signals in his eyes, for his face always betrayed his feelings, but she was too hurt and unhappy to heed the warning.
“It is true then,” she burst out, “that the woman was your mistress.…”
“It is not true.”
“Then she was not, because Buckingham intervened in time.”
“Madam, if the King wishes to add to his friends it is no concern of any but himself.”
“If he has sworn to love and cherish a wife, is it not his wife’s concern if he takes a mistress?”
“If she is wise and her husband is a King, she is grateful that he is ready to give her children…if she is able to bear them!”
Katharine caught her breath in horror. It is true then, she thought. He blames me for the loss of our two children.
She tried to speak but the words would not pass the lump of misery in her throat.
“We see no reason to prolong this interview,” said Henry.
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Her anger blazed suddenly. “Do you not? Then I do! I am your wife, Henry. You have told me that you believe that husband and wives should be faithful to each other; and as soon as a wanton woman gives you a glance of promise you forget your vows, you forget your ideals. The people look upon you as a god—so young, so handsome, so model a king and a husband. I see now that your vows mean nothing to you. You think of little but seeking pleasure. First it is your pageants, your masques…now it is your mistresses!”
He was scarcely handsome in that moment. His eyes seemed to sink into his plump red face. He hated criticism and, because he was so deeply conscious of his guilt, he hated her.
“Madam,” he said, “you should do your duty. It is what is expected of you.”
“My duty?” she asked.
“Which is to give me sons. You have made two attempts and have not been successful. Is it for you to criticize me when you have failed…so lamentably?”
“I…failed? You would blame me, then. Do you not know that I long for sons as much as you do? Where have I failed? How could I have saved the lives of our children? If there is a way, in the name of the saints tell it to me.”
Henry would not look at her. “We lost them both,” he mumbled.
She turned to him. She was about to tell him that she had hopes of bearing another child; but he looked so cruel that she said nothing. She was bewildered, wondering if this man who was her husband was, after all, a stranger to her.
Henry felt uneasy. He hated to know that Katharine had become aware of his flirtation with Anne Stafford. Looking back it was such a mean little affair—it had not even approached its climax. He felt small, having sent Compton to do his wooing for him, and taking such a long time to make up his mind whether he should or shouldn’t, and so giving Buckingham time to whisk his sister away.
He was angry with everyone concerned in the affair and, as Katharine was the only one present, he gave vent to his venom and let it fall upon her.
“It may be,” he said coldly, “that the difference in our ages is the cause. You are five years older than I. I had not realized until today how old you are!”
“But,” she stammered, “you always knew. I am twenty-five, Henry. That is not too old to bear healthy children.”
Henry looked past her, and when he spoke—although he did so more to himself than to her—she felt a cold terror strike at her.
“And you were my brother’s wife,” was what he said.
She could bear no more. She turned and hurried from his presence.
Before Lady Fitzwalter had left Court the news was circulating. “The King and Queen have quarrelled bitterly. This is the first quarrel. Perhaps there will be fewer of those entwined initials. Perhaps this is the end of the honeymoon.”
MARIA DE SALINAS helped the Queen to her bed. Never had Maria seen Katharine so distraught; for even in the days of humiliating poverty she had never given way to her grief but had stoically borne all her trials.
“You see, Maria,” said Katharine, “I feel I did not know him. He is not the same. I have glimpsed the man behind my smiling happy boy.”
“He was angry,” said Maria. “Perhaps Your Grace should not have spoken to him on the matter yet.”
“Perhaps I should never have spoken to him on the matter. Perhaps the love affairs of Kings are to be ignored by all, including their wives. My father was not entirely faithful to my mother. I wonder if she ever complained. No, she would be too wise.”
“You are wise too. Perhaps your mother had to learn also to curb her jealousy.”
Katharine shivered. “You speak as though this is but a beginning, the first of many infidelities.”
“But he was not unfaithful, Your Grace.”
“No, the lady’s brother and husband intervened in time. It is naught to do with the King’s virtue. I think that is why he is so angry with me, Maria…because he failed.”
“He is young, Your Grace.”
“Five years younger than I. He reminded me of it.”
“It will pass, dearest lady.”
“Oh, Maria, I am so tired. I feel bruised and wounded. I have not felt so sad…so lost…since the old days in Durham House when I thought everyone had deserted me.”
Maria took the Queen’s hand and kissed it. “All did not desert Your Grace.”
“No. You were always there, Maria. Oh, it is good to have staunch friends.”
“Let me cover you. Then you should try to sleep. When you are rested you will feel stronger.”
Katharine smiled and closed her eyes.
IT WAS LATER that night when she was awakened by pains which gripped her body and brought a sweat upon her skin.
She stumbled from her bed, calling to her ladies as she did so; but before they could reach her she fell groaning to the floor.
They put her to bed; they called her physicians; but there was nothing they could do.
On that September night Katharine’s third pregnancy ended. It had been brief, but the result was no less distressing.
Once more she had failed to give the King the son for which he longed.
She was ill for several days, and during that time she was tormented with nightmares. The King figured largely in these—an enormous menacing figure with greedy, demanding hands which caressed others, but when he turned to her, held out those hands, crying: “Give me sons.”
The Secret Life of Thomas Wolsey
AS THE DAYS PASSED THEY TOOK SOME OF KATHARINE’S sorrow with them, and she began to look at her life in a more philosophical way. Through the ages Kings had taken mistresses who bore them children, but it was the children who were born in wedlock who were heirs to their father’s crown. She must be realistic; she must not hope for impossible virtue from her lusty young husband.
More than ever she thought of her mother, who had borne the same tribulations before her; she must endeavor as never before to emulate Isabella and keep the memory of her as a bright example of how a Queen should live.
As for Henry, he was ready enough to meet her halfway. Reproaches would only result in sullen looks; and the pout of the little mouth, the glare of the little eyes in that large face implied that he was the King and he would do as he wished. But any signs of a desire on her part to return to the old relationship brought immediate response; dazzling smiles would light up his face; he would be boisterously affectionate, sentimental, calling her his Kate—the only woman who was of any real importance to him.
So Katharine set aside her illusions and accepted reality; which was, she assured herself, pleasant enough. If she could have a child—ah, if she could have a child—that little creature would make up to her for all else. That child would be the center of her existence; and her husband’s philandering would be of small importance compared with the delight that child would bring her.
In the meantime she would concern herself with another important matter. Since she had become Queen of England she had been in close contact with her father. She waited for his letters with the utmost eagerness, forgetting that, when she had been living in neglected seclusion at Durham House, he had not written to her for years.
“What a joy it is to me,” Ferdinand assured her, “that you, my daughter, are the Queen of England, a country which I have always believed should be my closest ally. I am beginning to understand that a father can have no better ambassador than his own daughter.”
Ferdinand in his letters to her artfully mingled his schemes with his news of family affairs. His daughter was the beloved wife of young Henry, and if the King of England was occasionally unfaithful to his marriage bed, what did that matter as long as he continued to regard his wife with affection and respect!
“If your dear mother could know what a comfort to me you have become, what a clever ambassadress for her beloved country, how happy she would be.”
Such words could not fail to move Katharine, for the very mention of her mother always touched all that was sentimental in her nature.
Afte
r receiving her father’s letters she would put forward his ideas to Henry, but never in such a manner that it would appear she was receiving instructions from Spain.
“The King of France,” Ferdinand wrote, “is an enemy to both our countries. Singly we might find it difficult to subdue him. But together…”
Henry liked to walk with her in the gardens surrounding his palaces. When he felt particularly affectionate towards her he would take her arm and they would go on ahead of the little band of courtiers, and occasional he would bend his head and whisper to her in the manner of a lover.
On such an occasion she said to him: “Henry, there are certain provinces in France which are by right English. Now that there is a young King on the throne, do you think the people would wish to see those provinces restored to the crown?”
Henry’s eyes glistened. He had always longed for the conquest of France. He was beginning to think he had had enough of empty triumphs at the jousts and masques. He wished to show his people that he was a man of war no less than a sportsman. Nothing could have given him greater pleasure at that time than the thought of military conquest.
“I’ll tell you this, Kate,” he said. “It has always been a dream of mine to restore our dominions in France to the English crown.”
“And what better opportunity could we have than an alliance with my father who also regards the King of France as his enemy?”
“A family affair. I like that. Your father and I standing together against the French.”
“I believe my father would be ready enough to make a treaty in which you and he would agree to attack the French.”
“Is it so, Kate? Then write to him and tell him that, having such regard for his daughter, I would have him for my friend.”
“You have made me happy, Henry…so happy.”
He smiled at her complacently. “We’ll make each other happy, eh Kate?” His eyes were searching her face. There was a question in them which he did not need to put into words. It was the perpetual question: Any sign, Kate? Any sign yet that we may expect a child?
She shook her head sadly. He did not share her sadness today. The thought of war and conquest had made him forget temporarily even the great need for a son.
