by Jean Plaidy
The veins stood out at Henry’s temples; his face was purple and he cried: “The traitors! By God, I’ll be revenged for this. My friends indeed! Base traitors both. They’ll be sorry if these words you speak are truth. And if they are lies…then shall you be.”
“I speak truth, Your Grace.”
“By God!” cried Henry, and strode from the apartment; storming into Wolsey’s quarters, he told him the news.
Wolsey, who was already prepared for it, received it calmly enough.
“What now?” demanded Henry.
“We know our false friends for what they are.”
“That will not conquer France for us.”
“A project which Your Grace will doubtless decide must be set aside for a while.”
The King’s eyes were glazed with anger, and in those moments he looked like a petulant boy who has been deprived of some much desired toy.
“Your Grace, what else had the envoy to say?”
“What else? Was that not enough?”
“Enough indeed, Sire. But I thought mayhap the King of France, showing his friendship in this way, might have further signs of friendship to show us.”
Henry looked bewildered.
“Would Your Grace consider recalling the envoy? Perhaps a little delicate questioning with Your Grace’s usual subtlety might reveal something of the mind of the King of France.”
“What is this you are saying? Do you believe it possible that I might become the ally of the King of France!”
“Your Grace, the other powers of Europe have proved themselves no friends of yours.”
“’Tis true enough, by God.”
“And Your Grace is now telling yourself, I know, that there can be no harm in hearing what this Frenchman has to say.”
“Send for him,” growled Henry.
In a short time the envoy stood before them.
Wolsey said: “Is it Your Grace’s wish that I speak of those matters which you have explained to me?”
“Speak on,” said Henry.
“It would seem,” said Wolsey, “that the motive of the King of France is friendship towards his brother of England.”
“That is my master’s desire, Your Grace, Your Excellency.”
“Then how would he show this friendship?”
“By making a peace with the English who shall be his friends, and forming an alliance which could not but bring dismay to those who have so clearly shown themselves the enemies of both countries. He says that to show his good faith he would be happy to make a marriage between France and England. As you know, Your Grace, Your Excellency, the King is without a wife. He is still of marriageable age. The marriage of the Princess Mary with the treacherous Hapsburg surely cannot now take place. The King of France would be happy to take the Princess as his bride.”
Wolsey caught his breath. The King was astounded. This was a complete volte-face. But the treachery of Ferdinand and Maximilian rankled; and what better revenge could possibly be achieved than such a treaty, such a marriage? It would be France and England against Austria and Spain. Henry saw now that those two wily old men had wanted to set him fighting France while they turned their attention to Italy—thus widening the dominions of their grandsons.
It was all startlingly clear. And the revenge: this alliance, this marriage.
Wolsey was looking cautiously at the King. “His Grace will wish to have time to consider such a proposal,” he said.
“That is so,” said Henry.
The envoy was dismissed, and, placing his arm through that of Wolsey, Henry began to pace the apartment with him while they talked.
THE NEWS WAS OUT and Katharine was bewildered. So once more her father had shown his treachery. He and Maximilian together had been profiting by the inexperience of the King of England and had used him shamelessly: Ferdinand in the conquest of Navarre, Maximilian for the capture of those two towns which were important to Netherlands trade. In addition Maximilian had received many English crowns as payment for his double dealing. They had endeavored to win concessions from the King of France by informing him of imminent invasion by England so that he would be ready to make peace with them, almost at any price in order to be free to tackle the English invaders.
Louis however had had a plan of his own to outwit them: the French and English should forget old enmities and stand together as allies.
Caroz was bewildered; he did not know which way to turn; and, as on a previous occasion he saw that he would be in the position of scapegoat. He hurried to see Katharine and was met by Fray Diego Fernandez who informed him haughtily that the Queen was in no way pleased with his conduct of Spanish affairs.
Caroz, angry beyond discretion, pushed aside the priest and forced his way into the Queen’s apartment.
Katharine met him coolly.
“Your Grace,” he stammered, “this news…this alarming news.… The English are incensed against us.”
“Against you and your master,” said Katharine coldly.
“My…master…your Grace’s father.”
“There is nothing I have to discuss,” said Katharine. “I dissociate myself from the instructions of the King of Spain.”
Caroz was astonished, because he sensed the coldness in Katharine’s voice when she spoke of her father.
“Do you understand,” stormed Caroz, “that there is a possibility of a treaty of friendship between England and France?”
“These are matters for the King and his ministers,” said Katharine.
“But our country…”
“Is no longer my country. I count myself an Englishwoman now, and I put myself on the side of the English.”
Caroz was shocked. He bowed and took his leave.
As he went from the Queen’s apartments he saw Fray Diego who smiled at him insolently.
His recall to Spain shall be immediate, Caroz decided. It is he who has poisoned the Queen’s mind against her father.
THE PRINCESS MARY came hurrying into Katharine’s apartments, her lovely eyes wild, her hair in disorder.
“Oh Katharine,” she cried, “you have heard this news?”
Katharine nodded.
“I!” cried Mary. “To marry with that old man! He is fifty-two and they say he looks seventy. He is old, ugly and mean.”
“I wish I could help you,” said Katharine, “but I know of nothing I can do.”
Mary stood clenching her hands. She was of a deeply passionate nature and had been greatly indulged by her brother. Her youth and beauty aroused his tenderness; and the fact that he was her guardian had always made him feel sentimental towards her, so that she had had her own way in all other matters and was furious that in this, the most important of all, she could not.
“I will not be used in this way. I will not!” she cried.
“Oh Mary,” Katharine tried to soothe her, “it happens to us all, you know. We are obliged to marry the person who is chosen for us. We have no choice in the matter. We must needs obey.”
“I’ll not marry that old lecher,” cried Mary.
“You’ll be Queen of France.”
“Who cares to be Queen of France! Not I…if I have to take the King with the crown.”
“He will be kind to you. He has heard of your beauty and is very eager for the match.”
“Lecher! Lecher! Lecher!” shouted Mary, and Katharine thought how like her brother she was in that moment.
“He will be gentle, perhaps kinder, more gentle than a younger man.”
“Do I want gentleness! Do I want an old man drooling over my body!”
“Mary, I pray you be calm. It is the fate of us all.”
“Did you have to marry a rheumaticky old man?”
“No, but I came to a strange land to marry a boy whom I had never seen.”
“Arthur was handsome; he was young. And then you had Henry. Oh you fortunate Katharine!”
“You may be fortunate too. I am sure he will be kind to you, and kindness means so much. You were prepared t
o marry Charles, yet you did not know him.”
“At least he is young.” Mary’s eyes blazed afresh. “Oh, it is cruel…cruel. Why should I, because I am a Princess, not be allowed to marry the man of my choice?”
Katharine knew that she was thinking of Charles Brandon. The whole Court knew of her feelings for that handsome adventurer; none more than Brandon himself who would dearly have liked to match her passion with his own. And now that it seemed he was not going to get Margaret of Savoy, he would doubtless be very happy to take the Princess of England.
Mary’s defiance crumbled suddenly; she threw herself onto Katharine’s bed and began sobbing wildly.
WOLSEY WAS DIRECTING the King’s thoughts towards the French alliance. He could see great advantages there. He believed the King was willing enough; Henry had counted on the help of Ferdinand and Maximilian to enable him to win territories in France; he had memories of Dorset’s disastrous campaign, and he had begun to see the dangers of tackling the conquest of France alone.
Wolsey was forever at his ear, explaining without appearing to do so; carefully, skilfully planting those thoughts in the King’s mind which he wished him to have.
Contemplating an expedition to France gave Wolsey nightmares. What if they should fail to maintain supplies? What if there should be disaster for the English? There had to be a scapegoat, and that might well be the almoner who had won such praise for his conduct of the previous campaign. No, Wolsey was determined that there should not be an expedition to France this year.
There was something else which made him long for the French alliance.
He had received information from the Vatican to the effect that the Holy Father would be pleased to see an alliance between France and England and trusted his newly created Cardinal would work to that end. It was very necessary to please the Pope. It was important that the Holy Father and his Cardinals in the Vatican should feel they had a good friend in Cardinal Wolsey. It would be remembered when the time for the next conclave arrived.
So each day Henry began to see more clearly the advantages of the suggested alliance; and one of the most important clauses would be the marriage treaty between the Princess Mary and Louis XII.
In vain did Mary storm; Henry was sorry, but England must come before his sister’s whims.
He was truly sorry for her and his eyes were glazed with tenderness when she flung her arms about his neck and sought to cajole him.
“I would do what you ask, sister, if I could,” he cried, “but it does not rest with me.”
“It does. It does,” she cried vehemently. “You could refuse this day, and that would be an end to the matter.”
“Then there would be no alliance with the French.”
“Who cares for alliance with the French?”
“We all must, sweet sister. It is a matter of policy. We have to stand against those two scoundrels. You cannot see how important this is because you are yet a girl, but it is a matter of state. Were it not, willingly would I give you what you ask.”
“Henry, think of me—married to that old man!”
“I do, sweetheart, I do. But it must be. It is the duty of us all to marry for the good of our country.”
“He is old…old…”
“He is no worse than Charles. Charles looked to me like an idiot. By God, were I a maiden I’d as lief take Louis as Charles.”
“Charles is at least young. Louis is…ancient.”
“So much the better. You’ll be able to twirl him round your pretty fingers. Ah, you’ll get your way with the King of France, my sister, as you do with the King of England.”
“But do I? When he will not grant me this one little thing?”
“’Tis the one thing I cannot grant my dear sister. Be good, sweeting. Marry the man. He’ll not live long.”
Mary drew away from him and looked long into his face. He saw the new hope spring up in her eyes.
“Henry,” she said slowly, “if I make this marriage, will you grant me one request?”
“That’s my good sister,” he said. “Have done with your tantrums—for if news of these reached Louis’ ears he would not be pleased—and I’ll grant whatsoever you request.”
Mary took her brother’s face between her hands.
“Swear this,” she said.
“I swear,” he answered.
Then she went on, speaking very slowly and distinctly: “I will marry old Louis; but when he dies, I have Your Grace’s promise that I shall marry wheresoever I like for me to do.”
Henry laughed.
“You have my promise.”
Then she threw her arms about his neck and kissed him heartily on the lips.
Henry was delighted; she could always charm him, for his pride in this pretty sister—all Tudor, as he was fond of saying—was great.
Now the Court noticed that the Princess Mary had become resigned to the French marriage. There were no more displays of temper, no more tears of rage.
She allowed herself to be drawn into the preparations, and her manner was quiet and calculating yet a little aloof, as though she were looking far ahead, well into the future.
THE SUMMER was progressing. Henry was as deeply involved with Bessie as ever; he delighted in her, and familiarity did not pall.
He hated all Spaniards, he told himself; and he could not entirely forget that Katharine was one of them. She seemed to grow less attractive and, had it not been for the fact that she was pregnant, he could have come near to hating her at this further revelation of her father’s treachery.
It was comforting to see Mary quieter and even showing an interest in the preparations for her wedding.
One day in the early autumn, when he was told that Caroz wanted to see him, he agreed to give the audience although he disliked the Spanish ambassador and had scarcely spoken to him since he had discovered that he had been betrayed by Ferdinand a second time.
Caroz came into his presence and Henry nodded briefly to him, without warmth.
“Your Grace is indeed kind to receive me. I have sought this interview for many days.”
“I have been occupied with state matters which do not concern your master,” the King answered coldly.
“It is a great grief to me that we are excluded from Your Grace’s favor.”
“It is a greater grief to me that I ever trusted your master.”
Caroz bowed his head sorrowfully.
“My master seeks to recall the Queen’s confessor, Fray Diego Fernandez.”
Henry was about to say that this was a matter for the Queen, but he changed his mind. His conscience had been worrying him lately. He was spending a great deal of time in Bessie’s company, and after a passionate night with her he often felt uneasy. During one of these uneasy periods he had told himself that Katharine had worked for her father rather than her husband, and this was another reason why she had forfeited the right to his fidelity.
Now he asked himself why he should consult Katharine about the return of her confessor. He did not like the man. He did not like any Spaniards at this time.
Bessie had been particularly enchanting last night and consequently the burden of his guilt this day was heavier.
He stuck out his lower lip petulantly.
“Then let the man be sent back to Spain,” he said sullenly.
Caroz bowed low; he was exultant. The Queen could not countermand the King’s order; and he had the King’s word that Fernandez should be sent back to Spain.
KATHARINE was distraught. She had sent for her confessor and had been told that he was no longer at Court.
In desperation she summoned Caroz to her presence.
“What does this mean?” she demanded. “Where is Fray Diego?”
“On his way to Spain,” replied Caroz, unable to restrain a smirk.
“This is impossible. I was not told of his departure.”
“The orders were that he was to leave immediately.”
“Whose orders?”
“Those of
the King of Spain.”
“The King of Spain’s orders are invalid here at the Court of England.”
“Not, I venture to point out, Your Grace, when they are also the orders of the King of England.”
“What do you mean?”
“The King, your husband, ordered that Fray Diego should be sent back to Spain with all speed. He had no wish for him to continue to serve you as confessor.”
Katharine hurried to the King’s apartment with as much speed as she could, for her body was now becoming cumbersome.
Henry, who was with Compton mixing an ointment, turned with the pestle in his hand to stare at her.
She said curtly to Compton: “I would speak to the King alone.”
Compton bowed and retired.
“What is the meaning of this?” demanded Henry.
“I have just heard that my confessor has been dismissed.”
“Is that so?” said the King in a deceptively light tone.
“Dismissed,” went on Katharine, “without any order from me.”
“It is my privilege,” Henry told her, and so disturbed was she that she did not see the danger signals, “to decide who shall and who shall not remain at my Court.”
“My own confessor.…”
“A Spaniard!” Henry almost spat out the word. “May I tell you, Madam, that since I have had dealings with your father I do not trust Spaniards.”
“He has been with me many years.…”
“All the more reason why he should return to his own country.”
Katherine felt the tears in her eyes. Pregnancies were becoming more trying than they had been in the beginning, and her weakness often astonished her; usually she was not one to give way to tears.
“Henry…,” she began.
“Madam,” he interrupted, “do not seek to dictate to me. There have been spies enough at my Court. I would like to rid it of all Spaniards.”
She caught her breath with horror.
“You have forgotten that I am…,” she began.
But he cut in: “I do not forget. I know full well that you have been in league with your father, whispering in my ear, tempting me to this or that project…knowing all the while that it was to your father’s benefit…and not to mine.”
