by Jean Plaidy
The King’s almoner saw great possibilities ahead.
He smiled at the eager faces about the table—flushed with good food and drink. This was his oasis of pleasure, of humanity; here it was possible to stray from the road of heated ambition to dally in a cool green meadow.
He saw Mistress Wynter through a veil of gratitude and desire, and she seemed fairer to him than any Court lady.
He said to the children: “You will leave your mother with me for a while. We have matters to speak of. I shall see you again before I leave.”
The children left their parents together, and Thomas took Mistress Wynter in his arms and caressed her body.
They went through to her sleeping chamber and there made love.
As she lay in his arms she thought: It is like a pattern, always the same. Will it remain so? What when he is the first minister at the King’s Court? This he would be, for in a moment of confidence he had told her so.
If it were not so, she thought, if he lost his place at Court, he might come home to us.
It was a wicked thought. He must not lose his place. It meant more to him than anything…more than this, his home, more than her and their children.
When he had dressed in that precise manner of his, he said: “I will see the children before I go.”
He noticed that she looked a little sad but he did not mention this. He knew that she was wishing they lived a normal married life, that they did not have to go to bed in the middle of the day because it was the only time they had. She was picturing him, being there every day—a merchant, a lawyer, a goldsmith…a man of some profession such as those of her neighbors. She thought of cosy conversations over the table, of discussions as to what should be planted in the garden, about the education of the children; she pictured them retiring to bed each night by the light of candles, the embrace that had become almost a habit, the slipping into sleep afterwards. It was normality she craved.
Poor little Mistress Wynter, he thought, she can only share one very small portion of my life and she wants to share the whole.
It was unfortunate for her that she loved not a man of ordinary ability, but one who had risen from a humble Ipswich butcher’s shop to his present position and was determined to go to the very heights of ambition.
He said: “Let us go to the children. I have little time left to me.”
He kissed her once more, but this time he did not see the sadness in her eyes. He saw only Wolsey, going higher and higher. He saw the Cardinal’s hat, but that of course was not the end. There was still the Papal Crown; and since even he must realize that he could never be the King of England, his ultimate ambition was that he should be head of the Church.
He went to his children, smiling happily, for his ambition did not seem an impossible one to achieve. Thomas Wolsey, who had learned so many lessons from life, believed that all that which he desired would eventually be his.
AS SOON AS he returned to Court a messenger informed him that the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Bishop of Winchester with the Earl of Surrey requested his presence.
He donned his clerical garments and washed his hands before making his way to their presence, for this was one of those occasions when time should be used to create an impression of his own power and importance.
They were waiting rather impatiently when he arrived.
“My lords,” he said, “you requested my presence.”
Surrey looked with distaste at Thomas Wolsey. He reeks of vulgarity, thought Surrey. That coarse skin, that over-red complexion—they proclaim him the vulgarian he is.
Surrey was scarcely pale himself, nor was his skin extra fine, but he was determined to find fault with Wolsey and looked for opportunities to remind him that he was not of noble blood and was only admitted to their counsels as a special privilege for which he should be perpetually grateful.
Fox welcomed him with a smile of pleasure. Fox had believed in his exceptional powers from the first and was determined to be proved right.
“We have been discussing the possibility of war with France,” Warham told him.
Wolsey nodded gravely.
“You, Mr. Almoner, should know how much we could put into the field,” Surrey pointed out, implying by his tone that it was as a lower servant of the King’s that Wolsey had been invited and that his opinion must be confined only to questions of goods and gold.
“Ah,” said Wolsey, ignoring Surrey and turning to Fox and Warham, “it would depend on what scale the war was to be carried on. If the King should put himself at the head of his men that could be costly. If we sent a small force under the command of some noble gentlemen…” Wolsey glanced at Surrey…“that would be well within our means.”
“I see you are of our opinion,” Fox put in. “At the moment any action should be kept on a small scale.”
“And,” continued Wolsey, “I dare swear we would not move until we had an assurance from the King of Spain that he also would take action.”
“Any alliance with the King of Spain,” Surrey interrupted hotly, “should surely be no concern of Mr. Almoner.”
“My lord is mistaken,” Wolsey said coolly. “That the alliance should be made and adhered to is of the utmost importance to every subject in this land, including the King’s Almoner.”
The veins seemed to knot in Surrey’s temples. “I cannot see that matters of state policy are the concern of every Tom, Dick or Harry.”
“Might it be that there is much that the noble lord fails to see?” retorted Wolsey. “But since he is now aware of his blindness he may seek a cure for it.”
Surrey lifted his fist and brought it down on the table.
“This is insolence!” he shouted. He glared at Fox and Warham. “Did I not tell you that I had no wish to consort with…tradesmen!”
Wolsey looked round the apartment in astonishment.
“Tradesmen?” he said, but the hot resentment was rising within him. “I see no tradesmen present.” He was fighting his anger because his very love of ostentation grew out of his desire to live as the nobility lived—and a little more richly—that he might leave behind him the memory of the butcher’s shop.
“No,” sneered Surrey, “how could you? There is no mirror in this room.”
“My lord,” said Wolsey almost gently, “I am not a tradesman. I graduated at Oxford and was elected Fellow of Magdalen College. Teaching was my profession before I took Holy Orders.”
“I pray you spare us an account of your achievements,” sneered Surrey, “which I admit are remarkable for one who began in a butcher’s shop.”
“How fortunate,” retorted Thomas, “that you, my lord, did not begin in such an establishment. I fear that if you had you would still be there.”
Warham lifted a hand. “I pray you, gentlemen, let us return to the point of discussion.”
“I prefer not to continue with it,” Surrey shouted. “There is scarce room for myself and Master Wolsey in this council.”
He waited for Warham and Fox to request Wolsey to retire. Wolsey stood still, pale, but smiling; and both Fox and Warham looked beyond the now purple-faced Earl. Surrey! Fox was thinking. With his inflated ideas of his own nobility he was scarcely likely to continue in favor with the King. Wolsey, with his quick and clever mind, his ability to smooth out difficulties, and make easy the King’s way to pleasure, was by far the better ally. Moreover, Fox had always looked upon the almoner as one of his protégés. Let Surrey stomp out of the apartment. They could well do without him.
As for Warham, he also recognized the almoner’s brilliance; he had no love for Surrey either. Surrey belonged to the old school; the days of his youth had been lived in that period when valor in battle brought glory; but Henry VII had taught his people that the way to make a country great was by crafty statesmanship rather than through battles, even if they should be victorious.
With an exclamation of disgust, Surrey flung out of the room.
Wolsey smiled in triumph. “The atmosphere, gentle
men, is now more conducive to thoughtful reasoning,” he said.
Fox returned his smile in a manner implying that they were well rid of Surrey.
“And your opinion?”
Wolsey was ready. He was not going to say that he was against sending an army to France, because it might well be that the King wished to send one; it was almost certain that the Queen did, because that was the desire of her father, and the Queen was naturally working for her father’s interests. If a decision was made which was contrary to the King’s wishes, let Fox and Warham make it.
“As my lord of Surrey pointed out,” he said almost demurely, “matters of state are scarcely the concern of the King’s Almoner. Should His Grace decide to go into battle I will see that all available armaments are made ready for him; but it is only reasonable to suppose that the mustering of arms to equip a small force, say under some nobleman, would be a simpler matter and one which would give us practice in this field before embarking on the great campaign.”
“I see,” said Fox, “that you are of our opinion.”
They discussed the matter in detail, and, although he seemed outwardly calm, inwardly Thomas Wolsey felt his pride to be deeply bruised. He could not forget the scorn in Surrey’s eyes when he had referred to the butcher’s shop. Would he ever escape such slights?
They could not be forgotten; therefore they could not be forgiven. Surrey’s name was on that list he kept in his mind of those who must one day pay for the indignity they had made Thomas Wolsey suffer.
Spanish Intrigue
KATHARINE REJOICED TO SEE THE CHANGE IN HER HUSBAND. She was sure that the irresponsible boy had been left behind and the King was growing to maturity.
He had forgotten their differences and talked with her of his ambitions; this made her very happy; he had even ceased to ask questions as to whether or not she had conceived again.
She had said to him: “It may be that the fact that we concern ourselves so constantly with my pregnancies is the reason that I am not with child. I have heard that constant anxiety can make one sterile.”
He may have taken this to heart, but on the other hand the prospect of war may have been entirely responsible for turning his interest into other channels.
One day he swept into her apartments, and she was aware that instead of glancing appreciatively at the prettiest of her women with that glazed look in his eyes which she had noticed with some alarm on previous occasions, he waved his hands for their dismissal.
“Ah, Kate,” he cried when they were alone, “I chafe at this delay. I would I could set out this day for France. These ministers of mine think the time is not meet for me to leave the country.”
“I have heard from my father,” she told him. “He writes that he knows that you would be welcomed in Guienne. The people there have never taken kindly to French rule, he says, and have always considered the English their true rulers. He says that once they see Your Grace they would rally to your banner.”
Henry smiled complacently. He could well believe that. He was certain that the wars with France should never have been allowed to die out while the position was so unsatisfactory for England. England had been torn by her own Wars of the Roses—which was a matter he could not regret as out of that had come the victorious conclusion which had set the Tudors on the throne; but now that there was peace within England and there was a King on the throne who was as strong and eager for conquest as Henry V had been, why should not the struggle be continued?
But Guienne! His ministers were a little anxious. It would have been so much simpler to have attacked nearer home. Calais was the natural starting point.
He would of course be near his ally if he attacked in the south; delay galled him. He could not imagine defeat, so he longed to set forth, to show the people his conquests.
“It would please me, Kate,” said Henry, “to lead my army and join up with that of your father. Together we should be invincible.”
“I am sure that you would. My father is considered one of the greatest soldiers in Europe.”
Henry frowned. “You would imply, Kate, that I should find it necessary to learn from him?”
“He is a man of great experience, Henry.”
Henry turned from her. “There are some who are born to be conquerors. They are endowed with the gift. They do not need lessons in bravery.”
She went on as though she had not heard him. “He and my mother had to fight for their kingdoms. She often said that without him she would have been lost.”
“I like to hear of a wife who appreciates her husband.”
“She appreciated him…although he was often unfaithful to her.”
“Ha!” cried Henry. “You have no such complaint.”
She turned to him smiling. “Henry, never give me cause for such complaint. I swear to love and serve you with all my might. I picture us growing old together with our children about us.”
His eyes were misted with sentiment. The thought of children could always produce this result. Then his face puckered suddenly.
“Kate, I do not understand. We have been unfortunate, have we not?”
“Many are unfortunate, Henry. So many children die in infancy.”
“But three times.…”
“There will be many times, Henry.”
“But I cannot understand. Look at me. See my strength. My good health is something all marvel at. And yet…” He was looking at her almost critically.
She said quickly: “I too enjoy good health.”
“Then why…I could almost believe that some spell has been cast upon us…that we have offended God in some way.”
“We cannot have done that. We are devout worshippers, both of us. No, Henry, it is natural to lose children. They are dying every day.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “One, two, three or four in every family. But some live.”
“Some of ours will live.”
He stroked her hair, which was her claim to beauty, and as he watched the sun bring out the red in it he felt a sudden rush of desire for her.
He laughed and taking her hand he began to dance, twirling her round, releasing her to caper high in the air. She watched him, clapping her hands, happy to see him so gay.
He grew excited by the dancing and he seized her and hugged her so tightly that she could not breathe.
“A thought comes to me, Kate,” he said. “If I go to France with my armies, you must stay behind. We shall be apart.”
“Oh Henry, that will make me very sad. I shall miss you so sorely.”
“Time will pass,” he assured her, “and while we are separated how can I get you with child?” Then he began to laugh afresh. “And we squander our time in dancing!”
Then with a swift gesture—eager even in this moment of excitement that she should marvel at his strength—he swung her into his arms and carried her across the apartment to the bedchamber.
FERDINAND, KING OF ARAGON and Regent of Castile until his grandson Charles should come of age, was eagerly awaiting dispatches from England.
His great desire at the moment was for the conquest of Navarre. He had made Naples safe and this left him free to make new conquests. It had always been one of his ambitions that Navarre should be under Spanish dominion; his great concern now was to persuade the Archbishop of Toledo and Primate of Spain, Francesco Ximenes de Cisneros, of the justice of this.
He had summoned Ximenes to his presence with the sole purpose of winning his approval of the project. Ximenes came, but from the moment he entered the King’s apartments in the Alhambra he showed his reluctance to be torn from his beloved University of Alcalá, which he himself had built and where he was now finishing that great work, his polyglot bible.
Ferdinand felt a surge of resentment as Ximenes entered the apartment. Whenever he saw the man he remembered how his first wife, Isabella, had bestowed the Archbishopric of Toledo on this recluse when he, Ferdinand, had so deeply desired it for his illegitimate son. He had to admit that Isabella’s trust
in Ximenes had not been ill-founded; the man was a brilliant statesman as well as a monk; yet the resentment lingered.
Even now, thought Ferdinand, I must make excuses for my conduct to this man. I must win him to myself, because he wields as much power as I do, since while I am Regent for my grandson, he is Primate in his own right.
“Your Highness wished to see me,” Ximenes reminded Ferdinand.
“I am concerned about the French, and the dilatory ways of the English.”
“Your Highness is eager to make war on the French for, I believe, the purpose of annexing Navarre.”
Ferdinand felt the warm blood rushing to his face.
“Your Eminence has forgotten that I have a claim to Navarre, through my father’s first wife.”
“Who was not Your Highness’ mother.”
“But I claim through my father.”
“Through his marriage into the royal house of Navarre,” Ximenes reminded Ferdinand, “it would seem that Jean d’Albret is the rightful King of Navarre.”
Ferdinand said impatiently: “Navarre is in a strategic position. It is necessary to Spain.”
“That is scarcely a reason for making war on a peaceful state.”
You old fool! thought Ferdinand. Go back to your university and your polyglot bible. Leave me to fight for my rights.
But he said craftily: “How can we be sure that their intentions are peaceful?”
“We have no evidence to the contrary, and it is scarcely likely that such a small kingdom would seek to make war on Spain.”
Ferdinand changed the subject.
“The English are eager to take Guienne.”
“A foolish project,” said Ximenes, “and one doomed to failure.”
Ferdinand smiled slyly. “That is a matter for them to decide.”
“Your Highness has doubtless roused these ambitions in the mind of the young King of England.”
