The Complete Tudors: Nine Historical Novels

by Jean Plaidy

  These pitfalls appeared on every occasion. Was there no escaping them?

  The King was staring at Mary’s brown curls, and she knew that he was thinking to himself: Why was this girl not a boy?

  The little girl was extremely sensitive and this was not the first time that she had been aware of the discontent she aroused in her father. She lowered her eyes and stared at the lute in his hands. He frightened her, this big and glittering father, who would sometimes pick her up in his arms and expect her to shout with glee because he noticed her. She did shout, because Mary always tried to do what was expected of her, but the glee was assumed, and in her father’s presence the child was never completely free from apprehension.

  She longed to please him and applied an almost feverish concentration on her lessons, and in particular, her music; and because she knew that he liked to boast of her abilities, she was terrified that she would fall short of his expectation.

  Those occasions when he smothered her with his exuberant affection were almost as alarming as when he showed his displeasure in her sex.

  She had begun to ask herself: “Where did I fail? What could I have done to have made myself be born a boy?”

  She took a swift glance at her mother. How glad she was that the Queen was present, for in the company of her mother she felt safer. If she could have had her wish they would have been together always; she would have liked to sleep in her mother’s chamber, and stay with her the whole day long. Whenever she was afraid, she thought of her mother; and when they were alone together she was completely happy.

  Now she raised her eyes and found her mother’s gaze upon her. The Queen smiled reassuringly because she immediately sensed her little daughter’s disquiet.

  We must never show our differences in the child’s presence, thought Katharine. But how long can I protect her from rumor? She already knows that her father constantly rages against the fate which made her a girl and not a boy.

  The Queen said quickly: “Now that you have the lute in your hands, Henry, play us one of your songs, and sing to us.”

  The frown lifted from the King’s brow. He was still boyish enough to be drawn from discontent by a treat. It was like offering a child a sweetmeat, and compliments were the sweetmeats Henry most desired.

  “Since you ask me, Katharine, I will sing for you. And what of my daughter? Does she wish to hear her father sing?”

  The little girl was alert. She said in a shy voice: “Yes, Your Grace.”

  “You do not sound quite certain,” he growled.

  The Queen put in hastily: “Mary is all eagerness, but a little shy of showing her pleasure.” She held out her hand to the Princess who immediately ran to her.

  Oh the comfort of those velvet skirts, the joy of hiding her face momentarily in them, of feeling that gentle, protective hand on her head! The Princess Mary looked up at her mother with adoration shining in her eyes.

  The Queen smiled and held that head against her skirts once more. It would not be wise for her father to see that the love she had for her mother was greater than that which she had for him. Mary did not understand that he demanded always to be the most admired, the best loved.

  “I do not look for shyness in my daughter,” murmured the King. But his fingers were already plucking at the lute and he was singing his favorite song in a pleasant tenor voice.

  The Queen settled herself in her chair and kept her arm about her daughter.

  Snuggling up to her Mary prayed: “Please, Holy Mother of God, let me stay with my mother…always.”

  The song came to an end and the King stared before him, his eyes glazed with the pleasure he found in his own creation, while the Queen clapped her hands and signed to her daughter to do the same. Thus the King was appeased.

  When their daughter had been returned to her governess, Katharine said to the King: “Mary Boleyn has been to see me to plead for permission to marry.”

  The King did not speak for a moment. Then he said: “Is that so?”

  “Yes. It seems that she wishes to marry a certain William Carey, who is a younger son and I fancy not to her father’s liking.”

  “Thomas Boleyn wants a better match for the girl, I’ll warrant.”

  “Thomas Boleyn is an ambitious man. I have promised to help the girl.”

  The King shrugged his shoulders. “The matter is in your hands.”

  “I had thought in the circumstances…”

  He swung round on her, his eyes narrowed. What was she hinting? Was she reproaching him because he had found the girl attractive?

  “In what circumstances?” he demanded.

  She saw that she had strayed into one of those pitfalls which it was always so necessary to avoid. She should have murmured that, as the girl was of the Court and her father stood high in the King’s favor, she had believed that she should first ask for the King’s approval before consenting to her marriage.

  But her natural dignity revolted. Was she not, after all, a daughter of the House of Spain? Should she allow herself to be treated as a woman of no importance? The recent interview with her daughter had reminded her of her own mother, and she believed that little Mary felt for her the same devotion that she herself had felt for Isabella of Castile. Isabella would never have lost her dignity over one of her husband’s mistresses.

  Katharine said coldly: “In view of the fact that the girl is—or was—your paramour…”

  The King’s face darkened. In his eyes sins seemed blacker when they were openly referred to. He might placate his conscience to some extent (“I am but a man. The girl was more than willing. My wife is sickly and after each pregnancy she grows more so. Providence sends me these willing girls, who, by God, lose nothing through the affair, that I may save my wife discomfort”) but when his wife actually spoke of the matter with that smouldering resentment in her eyes she emphasized the unworthiness of his conduct. Therefore if he had been dissatisfied with her a moment before, as soon as she uttered those words he hated her.

  “You forget to whom you speak, Madam,” he said.

  “Why should you think that? Is the girl then the mistress of others? I must say it does not surprise me.”

  “This girl’s marriage is of no interest to me,” cried Henry. “But your insolent accusations are, Madam, I would have you know. I have suffered much. I have been a loving husband. You forget how I brought you out of poverty…exile, one might say. You forget that against the advice of my ministers I married you. And how did you repay me? By denying me that which I longed for above all else. All these years of marriage…and no son…no son…”

  “That is our mutual sorrow, Henry. Am I to blame?”

  His eyes narrowed cruelly. “It is strange that you cannot bear a son.”

  “When Elizabeth Blount has done so for you?” she demanded.

  “I have a son.” He raised his eyes to the ceiling and his attitude had become pious. “As King of the realm and one whose task it is to provide his country with heirs I thought it my duty to see wherein the fault lay.”

  How could one reason with such a man? He was telling her now that when he had first seen that beautiful young girl and had seduced her, it was not because he had lusted after her, but only to prove to his people that, although his Queen could not give him a son, another could.

  No, it was impossible to reason with him because when he made these preposterous statements he really believed them. He had to believe in the virtuous picture he envisaged. It was the only way in which he could appease his conscience.

  He was going on: “I have prayed each day and night; I have heard Mass five times a day. I cannot understand why this should be denied me, when I have served God so well. But there is a reason.”

  Cunning lights were in his eyes; they suggested that he had his own beliefs as to why his greatest wish should have been denied him. For a moment she thought he was going to tell her; but he changed his mind, and turning, strode to the door.

  There he paused, and she saw that he
had made an effort to control his features. He said coldly: “If you wish to arrange the marriage of any of the Court women, you should consult me. This you have done and in this case I say I pass the matter into your hands.”

  With that he left her. But she was scarcely listening.

  What plans was he making? What did he say of his marriage, behind locked doors in the presence of that man Wolsey?

  A cold fear touched her heart. She went to her window and looked out on the river. Then she remembered the visit of the Emperor and that he would come again.

  Henry wanted the friendship of the Emperor, for England, even as she did.

  He would not be so foolish as to dare harm, by word or deed, the aunt of the most powerful monarch in Europe.

  ON A BLEAK January day Mary Boleyn was married to William Carey. The Queen honored the bride and bridegroom with her presence, and the ceremony was well attended because Mary, on account of her relationship with the King, was a person of interest.

  When Mary took the hand of her husband, there were whispers among those present. What now? they asked each other. Surely if the King were still interested in the girl he would have made a grander match for her than this. It could only mean that he had finished with her, and Mary—silly little Mary—had not had the wits to ask for a grand title and wealth as a reward for services rendered.

  But Mary, as she passed among the guests, looked so dazzlingly happy that it appeared she had gained all she sought; and the same could have been said for Will Carey.

  The Queen received the young couple’s homage with something like affection—which seemed strange, considering how proud the Queen was and that the girl had lately been her rival.

  The general opinion was that the King’s affair with Mary Boleyn was over. The fact that Thomas Boleyn did not attend the ceremony confirmed this.

  “I hear he has renounced her,” said one of the ladies to the nearest gentleman.

  “Small wonder!” was the reply. “Thomas was climbing high, doing his duty as complaisant father. He’s furious with the girl and would have prevented the marriage if Mary had not won the Queen’s consent.”

  “And the Queen readily gave it—naturally.”

  “Well, it is a strange affair, I grant you. This is very different from the Blount affair.”

  “What of that child?”

  “Doubtless we shall hear news of him some day, unless of course the Queen surprises us all and produces that elusive male heir.”

  “Stranger things have been known to happen.”

  Many furtive glances were sent in the Queen’s direction and the whispered gossip went on, but Katharine gave no sign that she was aware of this.

  She felt sure that there would be other mistresses. That had become inevitable since she no longer appealed to the King as a woman; and because she could not safely suffer more pregnancies he was not interested in her.

  She had her daughter Mary, and Mary would one day be Queen because it was impossible for the King to have a legitimate son. It was sad, but it was something they must accept.

  This at least, she told herself, is the end of the Boleyn affair.

  THE KING AND QUEEN sat at the banquet table; about them were assembled all the great personalities of their Court, for this was a ceremonial occasion. On the King’s right hand sat the Cardinal, and every now and then they would put their heads together to whisper something which was for their ears alone The complacent expression on the Cardinal’s face was apparent; there was little he liked more than these grand occasions when the King selected him from all others and showed his preference.

  This was particularly delightful when the noblemen of the Court could look on and see the King’s reliance on him; and on this occasion the Duke of Buckingham was present, and he made no secret of his distaste for the King’s preference.

  The musicians played as the sucking pig was brought in and ceased as it was placed on the table by the steward; homage to the dish was expressed by a respectful silence.

  The King looked on the table with drowsy eyes; he had already partaken of many dishes and his face was flushed with wine. His bright blue eyes were slightly glazed as they rested on the group of young girls who sat together at some distance from him.

  It seemed that he was no longer enamored of Mary Boleyn and that others might hope to take her place.

  The Cardinal was aware of the King’s glances and rejoiced. He liked the King to have his pleasures. He had no desire for him to discover that statecraft could be more absorbing than the pursuit of women; when he did, that could mean a slowing down in Wolsey’s rapid journey to the heights of power.

  Wolsey wished his King to remain the healthy, active boy—the young man who could tire out five horses a day at the hunt, who could be an easy victor at the joust, who could beat all his opponents at a game of tennis; and whose thoughts ran on the pursuit of women.

  Thomas More had said once: “If the lion knew his strength, it would be hard for any man to rule him.”

  No one knew the truth of this better than Wolsey. Therefore he planned to keep the lion unaware of his strength. At the moment he was so. Not through any lack of conceit but because it was so pleasant to be a figure of glory in the tiltyard, at the masques and balls, and to leave state matters to the efficient Cardinal. Why should he tire his eyes by studying state papers? Wolsey was the man for that. The King had often said with a rumbling laugh that a state document could bring a brighter shine to Wolsey’s eyes than any wench could.

  It pleased Henry that the shrewd Cardinal should be the perfect complement to the dazzling King. But the lion must not know his strength.

  Wolsey looked about the company and his eyes came to rest on the Queen. There was one of whom he must be wary. Relations between them had been less cordial since the friendship of England with France, for, like the good Spaniard that she was, Katharine hated the French. She looked at Europe and saw the only two rulers of consequence there—François Premier and the Emperor Charles—and she knew that they must inevitably be the most bitter of enemies. Each fought for power and there would be continual strife between them. It was Katharine’s great desire that England should be the ally of her nephew Charles; and she had blamed Wolsey for the rapprochement with François which had led to that fantastic spectacle at Guisnes and Ardres. She had been cool with him, a little arrogant, and would have to learn in time that none was allowed to show arrogance towards the great Cardinal—not even the Queen.

  Rarely had the Cardinal felt so contented as he did at this banquet. He was climbing high and would go higher, never forgetting that the ultimate goal was the Papal chair, for once he had attained it he would be free from the whims of the King of England. Until then he must feign to submit to them.

  He shall be kept in ignorance, thought Wolsey. Such blissful ignorance. Those bright blue eyes must be kept shining for conquest in the tiltyard and the ladies’ chambers; they must not discover the delights of statecraft until the Cardinal had become the Pope.

  The King’s plump white hands were greasy with sucking pig; he called for music, and the minstrels began to play one of his songs, which could not fail to increase his good humour.

  How easy to handle! thought Wolsey, and his eyes met those of Buckingham who gave him a haughty stare.

  Buckingham turned towards Norfolk who was sitting beside him and made a comment which Wolsey knew was derogatory to himself. But Buckingham was a fool. He had spoken during the playing of the King’s music.

  “You do not like the song?” demanded Henry, his eyes suddenly narrowed.

  “Your Grace,” answered Buckingham suavely, “I was but commenting on its charm.”

  “It spoils the pleasure of others when you drown the music with your chatter,” grumbled the King.

  “Then,” answered Buckingham, “would Your Grace allow the musicians to play it again that all may hear it in silence?”

  Henry waved a hand and the tune was repeated.

  Fool Buckingham
! thought Wolsey. He was heading straight for trouble.

  The Cardinal excelled at collecting information about those he wished to destroy. His spy ring was notorious throughout the Court. Did Buckingham think that because he was a noble duke—as royal as the King, as he loved to stress—he was immune from it?

  The music over, the King rose from the banqueting table. On such an occasion it was the duty of one of his gentlemen to bring a silver ewer in which he might wash his hands. The duty was performed by noblemen of the highest rank, and on this occasion the task fell to the Duke of Buckingham.

  The ewer was handed to Buckingham by one of his ushers; he took it and bowed before Henry who washed his hands as was the custom.

  When the King had finished, the Cardinal, who had been standing beside Henry, put his hands into the bowl and proceeded to wash them.

  For a few seconds Buckingham was too astonished to do anything but stand still holding the bowl. Then a slow flush spread from his neck to his forehead. He, the great Duke of Buckingham, who believed himself more royal than Henry Tudor, to hold the ewer for a man who had been born in a butcher’s shop!

  In an access of rage he threw the greasy water over the Cardinal’s shoes, drenching his red satin robe as he did so.

  There was silence. Even the King looked on astonished.

  The Cardinal was the first to recover. He turned to Henry and murmured: “A display of temper, Your Grace, by one who thinks himself privileged to show such in your presence.”

  Henry had walked away and the Cardinal followed him.

  Buckingham stood staring after them.

  “’Tis a sad day for England,” he muttered, “when a noble duke is expected to hold the ewer for a butcher’s cur.”

  IN THE KING’S PRIVATE CHAMBER, Henry was laughing.

  “’Twas a merry sight, Thomas, to see you there with the water drenching your robes.”

  “I am delighted to have provided Your Grace with some amusement,” murmured Wolsey.

  “I have rarely seen you so astonished. As for Buckingham, he was in a rage.”