by Jean Plaidy
“The fate of traitors is no concern of mine. He was judged by his peers and found guilty.”
Meanwhile the Cardinal waited anxiously in the antechamber. He knew that the Queen had come to plead for Buckingham. She must not succeed.
Moreover it was necessary that the Queen herself should learn her lesson from the fate of this man. Once she and the Cardinal had been good friends; but now, since the friendship with France, she had looked on him with suspicion. He had heard himself referred to as a butcher’s boy in her hearing, and she had offered no reprimand to the speaker.
It was not only noble dukes who must be taught that it was unwise to lose the friendship of the Cardinal.
He picked up a sheaf of papers and looked at them. Then with determination he passed through the anteroom into the King’s chamber.
“Your Grace,” he said, “I crave your pardon for the intrusion. An important matter of state requires your attention…”
The Queen looked angry, but that was of small importance as the King was not displeased.
He was saying: “He shall die. But we will show mercy unto him. It shall be the executioner’s axe in place of the sentence which you feel to be an insult to his nobility.”
The Cardinal was not ruffled.
The method mattered little to him, as long as Buckingham died.
ON A BRIGHT MAY DAY the Duke was brought out from his lodging in the Tower to meet his death on the Hill.
There were many to watch this nobleman’s last hour on Earth. There were many to sigh for him and weep for him. He had been arrogant and reckless; he had been harsh to some of his tenants, causing them great hardship with his enclosure laws; but it seemed cruel that this man, who was in his early forties, should have to walk out of his prison to face death on such a bright May morning. His good characteristics were remembered; he was a very religious man and had founded colleges. And now he was to die because he had offended the King and the Cardinal.
He met his death bravely, as all expected he would; and while his body was being taken to its burial place in Austin Friars, among those who thought of him were the King, the Queen and the Cardinal…the Queen with sorrow, the King with righteous indignation, and the Cardinal with deep pleasure which was however pricked by apprehension.
Buckingham would insult him no more, but the Cardinal was too shrewd a man not to know that he had paid a high price for his vengeance.
A subtle change had crept into the King’s demeanor. The lion was no longer couchant. He had risen; he was testing his strength.
And, when he had assessed the full measure of that power, who would be safe? A Queen? A Cardinal?
The Queen’s Enemy
IN HER APARTMENTS AT GREENWICH PALACE THE PRINCESS Mary was being prepared by her women for a ceremonial occasion. They were all very excited and kept telling the little girl that she would be the target of all eyes on this occasion.
She wriggled beneath her headdress which seemed too tight.
“Be careful, my precious one,” said her governess. “Remember, you must walk very slowly and as I have taught you.”
“Yes,” said Mary, “I will remember.”
The women looked at her fondly. She was such a good child, rather too serious perhaps, but always eager to learn her lessons and please those about her.
Six-year-old Mary felt uncomfortable in the stiff gown, but she liked the dazzling jewels which decorated it; she pulled at the gold chain about her neck because it seemed so heavy.
“Careful, my lady. Hands down. That’s right. Let me see the sort of curtsey you will make to your bridegroom when you meet him.”
Mary obediently made a deep curtsey, which was not easy in the heavy gown, and several of the women clapped their hands.
“Does she not look beautiful!” asked one of another.
“She’s the most beautiful and the luckiest Princess in all the world.”
Mary did not believe them, and knew that they were bribing her to behave in such a way that she would be a credit to them.
“What is the Emperor Charles like?” she asked.
“What is he like! He is tall and handsome and the greatest ruler in the world—save only your royal father, of course. And he loves you dearly.”
“How is it possible to love people whom one does not know?”
The child was too clever for them.
“Do you not love the saints?” her governess asked. “And do you know them? Have you seen them and talked with them? Thus it is with the Emperor Charles. He has come all across the seas to hold your hand and promise to marry you.”
The little girl was silent, but there was nothing to fear, because her mother had told her that she was not to go away from her. Being affianced to the Emperor would make no difference at all; they would be together as before, she and her beloved mother.
Mary wished they could be together now, the two of them alone, in the royal nursery, bent over the books while she learned her Latin, and perhaps if her progress pleased her mother, to shut up the books and be allowed to sit at her feet while she told stories of those days when she was a little girl herself in far away Spain. There she had learned lessons in her nursery, but she had had sisters and a brother. How Mary wished that she had sisters and a brother. Perhaps only a brother would suffice. Then her father would not frown so when he remembered she was his only child and a girl.
No, there was no need to feel anxious about this coming ceremony. She had been affianced before. Strangely enough, although last time it had been to a French Prince, the ceremony had taken place in this very Palace; and she was not sure whether she remembered the occasion or her mother had told her about it and she thought she remembered; in any case it was vivid in her mind: Herself a little girl of two in a dress made of cloth of gold, and a cap of black velvet which was covered in dazzling jewels. There had been a man who had taken the place of her bridegroom-to-be because her bridegroom could not be present. He had only just been born, but he was very important because he was the son of the King of France, and her father had wanted to show his friendship for the King of France at that time. A diamond ring had been put on her finger; she was sure she remembered the difficulty she had had in trying to keep it on.
But that was four years ago, and now her father was no longer the friend of the King of France. She often wondered about that baby and whether he had been told that while he was in his cradle he was affianced to her; she wondered what he thought about it.
Now, of course, it might never have taken place; it was of no importance whatsoever.
What she did remember though, was her mother coming into her apartment and taking her in her arms and laughing with her, and weeping a little. “Only because I am so happy, my darling daughter,” she had said.
The reason for the Queen’s happiness was that there would be no French marriage. Instead there was to be a Spanish one. “And this makes me happy,” said the Queen, “because Spain is my country; and you will go there one day and rule that country as the wife of the Emperor. My mother, your grandmother, was once the Queen of Spain.”
So Mary had been happy because her mother was happy; and she shivered with horror to think that she might have been married to the little French boy; then she smiled with pleasure because instead she was to marry the Emperor who was also the King of Spain.
A page came into the apartment with the message for which Mary had been waiting.
“The Queen is ready to receive the Princess.”
Mary was eager, as always, to go to her mother.
The Queen was waiting for her in her own private apartments and when the little girl came in she dismissed everyone so that they could be alone; and this was how Mary longed for it to be. She wished though that she was not wearing these ceremonial clothes, so that she could cling to her mother; she wished that she could sit in her lap and ask for stories of Spain.
The Queen knelt so that her face was on a level with her daughter’s. “Why, you are a little woman today,
” she said tenderly.
“And does it not please Your Grace?”
“Call me Mother, sweeting, when we are alone.”
Mary put her hands about her mother’s neck and looked gravely into her eyes. “I wish we could stay together for hours and hours—the two of us and none other.”
“Well, that will be so later.”
“Then I shall think of later all the time the ceremony goes on.”
“Oh no, my darling, you must not do that. This is a great occasion. Soon I shall take you by the hand and lead you down to the hall, and there will be your father and with him the Emperor.”
“But I shall not go away with him yet,” said Mary earnestly.
“Not yet, my darling, not for six long years.”
Mary smiled. Six years was as long as her life had been and therefore seemed for ever.
“You love the Emperor, Mother, do you not?”
“There is no one I would rather see the husband of my dearest daughter than the Emperor.”
“Yet you have seen him but little, Mother. How can you love someone whom you do not know?”
“Well, my darling, I love his mother dearly. She is my own sister; and when we were little she and I were brought up together in the same nursery. She married and went into Flanders, and I came to England and married. But once she came to England with her husband to see me…”
Mary wanted to ask why, if her mother loved her sister so much, she always seemed so sad when she spoke of her; but she was afraid of the answer, for she did not want any sadness on this occasion.
But into the Queen’s eyes there had come a glazed look, and at that moment she did not see the room in Greenwich Palace and her little daughter, but another room in the Alcazar in Madrid in which children played: herself the youngest and the gravest and Juana, in a tantrum, kicking their governess because she had attempted to curb her. In those days Juana had been the wild one; her sister had not known then that later she would be Juana the Mad. Only their mother, watching and brooding, had suffered cruel doubts because she remembered the madness of her own mother and feared that the taint had been passed on to Juana.
But what thoughts were these? Juana was safe in her asylum at Tordesillas, living like an animal, some said, in tattered rags, eating her food from the floor, refusing to have women round her because she was still jealous of them although her husband, on whose account she had been so jealous, was long since dead. And because Juana was mad, her eldest son Charles was the Emperor of Austria and King of Spain and, since the discoveries of Columbus, ruler of new rich lands across the ocean. He was the most powerful monarch in the world—and to this young man Mary was to be affianced.
“I wasn’t here when Charles’s mother came.”
“Oh no, my darling, that was long, long ago, before you were born, before I was married to your father.”
“Yet you had left your mother.”
Katharine took the little face in her hands and kissed it. She hesitated, wondering whether to put aside the question; but, she reasoned, she has to know my history some day, and it is better that she should learn it from me than any other.
“I left my mother to come here and marry your uncle Arthur. He was the King’s elder brother and, had he lived, he would have been the King, and your father the Archbishop of Canterbury. So I married Arthur, and when Arthur died I married your father.”
“What was my uncle Arthur like, Mother?”
“He was kind and gentle and rather delicate.”
“Not like my father,” said the girl. “Did he want sons?”
Those words made the Queen feel that she could have wept. She took her daughter in her arms, not only because she was overcome by tenderness for her, but because she did not want her to see the tears in her eyes.
“He was too young,” she said in a muffled voice. “He was but a boy and he died before he grew to manhood.”
“How old is Charles, Mother?”
“He is twenty-two years old.”
“So old?”
“It is not really very old, Mary.”
“How many years older than I?”
“Now you should be able to tell me that.”
Mary was thoughtful for a few moments; then she said: “Is it sixteen?”
“That is so.”
“Oh Mother, it seems so many.”
“Nonsense, darling; I am more than ten years older than Charles, yet you can be happy with me, can you not?”
“I can be so happy with you, Mother, that I believe I am never really happy when I am away from you.”
The Queen laid her cheek against her daughter’s. “Oh my darling,” she said, “do not love me too much.”
“How can I love you too much?”
“You are right, Mary. It can never be too much. I loved my mother so much that when I left her and when she left this Earth it seemed to me that she was still with me. I loved her so much that I was never alone.”
The child looked bewildered and the Queen reproached herself for this outburst of emotion. She, who to everyone else was so calm and restrained, was on occasions forced to let her emotions flow over this beloved daughter who meant more to her than any other living person.
I frighten the child with my confidences, she thought, and stood up, taking Mary’s hands in hers and smiling down at her.
“There, my love, are you ready?”
“Will you stand beside me all the time?”
“Perhaps not all the time, but I shall be there watching. And when you greet him I shall be beside you. Listen. I can hear the trumpets. That means they are close. We should be waiting to greet them. Come. Give me your hand. Now, darling, smile. You are very happy.”
“Are you happy too, Mother?”
“Indeed, yes. One of the dearest wishes of my heart is about to be fulfilled. Now we are ready to greet my nephew, who will be my son when he is the husband of my beloved daughter.”
She held the little hand firmly in hers; and together they descended to the hall for the ceremonial greeting.
AS THE ROYAL CAVALCADE came from Windsor to Greenwich the people massed in their thousands to watch their King pass by. Loudly they cheered him, for he was a magnificent sight on horseback, and beside him the Emperor appeared a somewhat poor figure. The King of England was over six feet tall, his skin was pink and smooth as a boy’s, his blue eyes were bright and clear, and he glowed with good health, so that in comparison the Emperor looked pallid and unhealthy. His teeth were prominent and none too white, and he breathed through his mouth which was perpetually ajar; his aquiline nose had a pinched look and the only color in his face was the blue of his eyes. He was serious, whereas the King of England was gay; he smiled faintly while Henry roared forth his good humor.
But he seemed happy to be in England, and Henry was clearly pleased with him because of the contrast they made and the attention which was therefore called to his own many physical perfections.
As they rode along Henry was thinking of the masques and pageants with which he would impress this young man; but Charles was thinking of the loan he must try to wring from the English. As his father had been, he was perpetually in need of funds to maintain his vast Empire, and in his struggle with the King of France he needed money to pay his mercenaries.
He knew that he would have to pay a price for English gold and English support, and had at last decided that he would accept betrothal to the Princess Mary. He had come to this decision with some reluctance—not because he was against an English match, not that he did not believe the child to be unusually accomplished; but it was distressing to contemplate her age and that he could not hope for an heir until at least eight years had passed. However, there was nothing to be done but accept the inevitable as graciously as he could, for he was fully aware that alliance with England was not only desirable but a necessity.
So as they rode along he listened to the King’s conversation, laughed at his jokes and gave an impression to all who saw them that they w
ere the best of friends.
In the cavalcade rode the Cardinal and, as always, his retinue was as magnificent as that of the King. He was wearing his red robes of taffety this day—the finest obtainable—and about his neck hung a tippet of sables; borne before him was the great seal, and one of the noblemen, whom he had deigned to take into his household, carried his Cardinal’s hat on a cushion and was bareheaded to indicate the respect he had for it; behind him rode other gentlemen of his household and his higher servants in their red and gold livery.
Wolsey was uneasy during that ride. He felt that since the death of Buckingham the King had taken too great an interest in state affairs. He was inclined to meddle and he did not always want to follow in that direction in which Wolsey would have led him.
The Cardinal was no more sure of this quiet young man than he was of the flamboyant François. In fact he felt that it would be necessary to be even more wary of the Emperor. François was dashing, bold, reckless and lecherous; and a shrewd statesman could often guess which turning he would take. But this pale, serious young man, who was somewhat hesitant in speech and had an air of humility—which Wolsey knew to be entirely false—might be unpredictable and by far the shrewdest ruler of the three who were now so important in Europe.
Charles had had the foresight to recognize that, if he were to consolidate the alliance he wished for, he must first placate Wolsey, and for that reason he had promised the Cardinal a considerable “pension.” The thought of vast sums being paid to him from the Imperial coffers was sweet, but some promises were made to be broken; and Wolsey was not certain whether Charles was to be relied on. He had also promised what was more important still: to use his influence at the Papal election, for the great goal of the Cardinal was the Papal crown since, possessing that, he would stand apart from kings, a ruler in his own right. He yearned for that crown.
There had been a disappointment early that year when Pope Leo X had died and a Papal election had taken place. Wolsey had felt that his chances of election were slender, but the promise of Imperial favor had sent his hopes soaring. He received only seven votes, and Adrian VI was elected.
