by Jean Plaidy
He was kept waiting for fifteen minutes and then, fuming with rage, was led through the eight splendid rooms to the Cardinal’s private apartment. Wolsey was seated at his table and did not rise when the ambassador entered.
What can one expect of a butcher’s son? de Praet asked himself.
Wolsey continued to study the paper before him for a few seconds until de Praet said angrily: “I have come as you asked me to, my Lord Cardinal.”
“Oh, yes,” said Wolsey, laying aside the paper with what appeared to be reluctance. “I have bad news for you, Mr. Ambassador.”
There was insult in the title and de Praet felt the blood rushing to his face. Was he, the Emperor’s ambassador, to be kept standing while the Cardinal remained sitting at his desk! He might be a servant come to receive a reprimand.
“Bad news!” he cried. “What bad news is this?”
“Your courier was arrested last night and certain documents were taken from him.”
“My courier! This is an insult to the Emperor.”
“It happened quite naturally,” explained the Cardinal. “He delayed his departure until the gates of the city were closed. As you may know, the law says that all foreigners, attempting to enter or leave the city after the gates are closed, are arrested and searched.”
“But he should have left before that. What delayed him?”
The Cardinal lifted his shoulders and smiled. “It is useless to ask me to keep an eye on your servants, Seigneur. This is what has happened. The letters you have written to the Emperor were brought before me. I had no recourse but to read them. We have to be very careful when dealing with those whom we believe to be spies. As it so happened I considered the contents of those letters treasonable, and I saw that it was my duty to lay them before the King.”
De Praet was startled. He remembered the frankness with which he discussed the King and Cardinal in his letters to his master; he remembered the slighting comments he had made about them both—particularly this man who was now smiling blandly at him.
“His Grace,” went on Wolsey, “was much displeased. It seemed to him that we have been harboring an enemy in our midst.”
De Praet shouted: “You have done this. You had the man arrested. It is a plot.”
“And the letters? Shall you say that I wrote those treasonable documents?” Wolsey demanded with a smile.
“They were intended for the Emperor.”
“I did not expect for a moment that they were intended for the King and myself.”
“I shall go to the King,” said de Praet. “I have evidence against you, Master Wolsey. I know that you have been receiving a spy from France. I know that you are working to destroy the alliance between the King and the Emperor. The King does not know the Cardinal whom he trusts. If he did he would not trust him. But he shall know. I have the evidence. I shall go back to my house; and when I have collected this evidence, which shall bear out my word, I will lose no time in going to the King and laying before him all I have discovered.”
Wolsey continued to smile, and the ambassador turned and walked quickly out of the apartments. The Cardinal went to the window and watched him hurrying across the grass to his boat.
“Helpful of him to explain his intentions in such detail,” he murmured to himself, and then called his stewards to him and began to give orders.
De Praet cursed the slowness of his boat as he was rowed back to London. His indignation increased as he rehearsed what he would say to the King.
When he reached his house he went in and collected certain documents which he had kept in a safe place, and made a careful list of all the people he would call as witnesses against the Cardinal.
Then he was ready to set out for Greenwich. But as he attempted to leave his house two guards barred his way. He saw then that many of them were stationed about his house.
“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded fiercely, but his fierceness had no effect on the guards.
“Begging Your Excellency’s pardon,” said one of them, “you are not to leave this house.”
“Who dares to restrict the Imperial ambassador?”
“The King, Your Excellency.”
De Praet was so angry that for a moment he could find no words to express his indignation; but as he grew a little calmer he realized that he was defeated. They called him the King’s prisoner, but he was in truth that of the Cardinal.
Yet, he reflected, in this country that was one and the same thing.
WITH SATISFACTION Wolsey presented himself to the King.
“The spy is a prisoner in his lodging,” he said. “He can do little harm now.”
“Let him remain so,” said Henry, who was still smarting from the references to himself in the ambassador’s correspondence; accustomed to flattery he was always surprised when he did not receive it, and on those rare occasions when he discovered disparaging comments had been made about him he never failed to be deeply shocked.
This was the moment to drive home the advantage, and Wolsey murmured: “It may be that Your Grace will see fit to acquaint our own ambassador with your horror. It is for the Emperor to send us an ambassador, not a spy.”
“I shall write to Dr. Sampson and command him to express my displeasure to the Emperor.”
“Your Grace is wise. It is as well that he should be acquainted with your displeasure. In this campaign he has had all the advantages.”
Henry scowled but he believed that what Wolsey said was true.
“Your Grace,” went on the Chancellor, “as you know, I am ever watchful and I have discovered that there are in England at this moment emissaries from France.”
The King’s face flamed, and Wolsey with great temerity continued before he could speak: “If Your Grace would but see these men there would be no necessity to commit yourself in any way. But in view of the manner in which the Emperor has behaved towards us, I personally see little harm in listening to these men. It may be that Your Grace, in his greater wisdom, has some reason for not wishing to see them. If that is so, then I shall see that they are sent back to France without delay.”
“Were it not for the betrothal to our daughter, Thomas, I should be seeking a way out of this alliance.”
“We must remember the importance of this match,” agreed Wolsey. “But could we not say that this is a matter apart? If we listened to the French we could then perhaps use their desire for friendship to extract some advantage from the Emperor. Your Grace knows full well that we have had little so far.”
“I know it well.” The King hesitated. “I see no harm in listening to what these men have to say.”
Wolsey consolidated his gains before the King had time to withdraw.
“I beg of Your Grace to come to Hampton Court; I shall send for the men, and if you see them there it will make less talk than if they came to Greenwich.”
The King was agreeable. He was beginning to take a deep interest in Hampton Court, and the Cardinal had thought somewhat uneasily that occasionally he saw an acquisitive gleam in the blue eyes. “I will come to your fair manor, Thomas,” he said. “I confess to a fondness for the place.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “And there’s something else, I confess. My own palaces look a little less grand, less like the residences of a King, after my visits to Hampton Court.”
“I have furnished the place that it might be a refuge for Your Grace at any time it is your pleasure and my delight that you visit it.”
“Then let us see these men from France at Hampton, Thomas.”
Victory! thought the Cardinal. But in a measure uneasy victory. The King had changed since Buckingham’s execution. Often one had the feeling that he was eager to prove the power he had over all men—including his dear friend and counsellor, Thomas Wolsey.
THE KING PACED up and down his bedchamber. He was alone, which was rare for him; but he had wished it so. He was not at ease. He did not want to see these messengers from France; what he wanted was news of the Emperor’s victory, to hear that t
he fair land of France was conquered and that the King of England was invited to go to Rheims to receive the crown he longed for.
But to make peace would mean an end of that dream.
He hated the King of France as, he believed, he could never hate Charles. François was bold and witty; handsome and clever; he was a rival as Charles—pallid, without good looks, serious—could never be. So while Henry hated François he could only distrust Charles. Not that he did not distrust François also. But the Emperor was young, his wife’s nephew and therefore his own. Charles had called Henry Uncle when he was in England and deferred to his advice. Not that he had taken it. He was sly, full of pretence; but he was young and when they were together Henry could patronize him. When he was with François he had to summon all his wits and then be outwitted.
It seemed to him that he had reached a stage of his life when all that he longed for most was denied him. He wanted the crown of France and cynical François stood between him and it; he wanted a son and Katharine stood between him and that goal; he wanted a young girl who had caught his imagination, and she flouted him, telling him that he, being married, was in no position to make advances to her.
So he, the King, was frustrated of his three greatest desires. It was a state of affairs which he had not thought possible.
He knew the position in Europe was so bad that it could not continue; and if he did not win France this year, perhaps he would win it some other year. He would never give up hope. The matter of getting a son was more urgent. He was not old by any means, but being thirty-four years of age he was no longer a boy. He was impatient for sons. Yet he remained married to Katharine—if it was a marriage. His conscience was telling him that it was not, and that the sooner he made this known to his people the more pleased God would be with him. But Thomas Wolsey was to be trusted and he had said: Wait.
And then the girl. He had seen her at the Court, and had been maddened at the thought of her marrying Percy—maddened with the foolish young man for thinking to take what the King desired, and with the girl herself for agreeing to the marriage; then he had seen her in her father’s garden at Hever, where she had treated him not as the King but as a would-be lover who did not please her. He should have been angry; he should have had the girl sent to the Tower; but a strange softness, which he had never felt before, had come to him. He had merely allowed himself to be so treated, which was wonderfully mysterious.
He had ridden away from Hever, still thinking of her and—although he was surprised at himself for doing so—had visited the place again and again…not as a King honoring a subject but as a humble suitor cap in hand.
Yet she continued to resist him. So here again he was frustrated.
A king must not consider his own personal desires, he told himself. I must not think of her but of these men who come from François.
He stood at the window looking out on the river, but he did not see it because instead he saw a garden at Hever and in it the most fascinating young woman he had ever known.
There was a bustle below, and as he turned from the window, roughly jolted from his dream of Hever, the Cardinal came into the room.
The King was surprised by his unceremonious entry, and by the fact that his cap was somewhat askew. The pockmarked face was as pale as ever but the brown eyes gleamed so that Henry knew the Cardinal came to announce some matter of importance.
“Your Grace…news…”
Wolsey was breathless and the King saw that behind him stood a man who was obviously travel-stained and looked as though he had ridden far.
“What news?” demanded the King who, in spite of the excitement, was still faintly bemused by memories of the bold and haughty girl who had dared repulse him.
“From the battlefield, Your Grace. The Imperial troops have routed the French at Pavia. The French army is destroyed and François himself is the Emperor’s prisoner.”
Henry clapped his hands together and his great joy showed in his face.
At last the vision of Hever was replaced by one of a handsome, golden-haired, golden-bearded King receiving the crown at Rheims.
“This is news which gives me the greatest pleasure. It is certain…? There has been no mistake?”
The Cardinal turned to the travel-stained man behind him, who came forward and bowed low before the King.
“Your Grace, this is true. The King of France has been taken prisoner at Pavia and is now the Emperor’s captive.”
Henry laid his hand on the man’s shoulder. “You are as welcome as the Angel Gabriel was to the Virgin Mary!” he declared. “Why, Thomas,” he went on, turning to the Cardinal, “this is the best news we have had for many a long day.”
Wolsey bowed his head as though in assent; and while the King fired questions at the messenger he slipped away to send his own messenger to meet the French emissaries. He wished them to be told that the King could not see them as he had hoped to on this day.
“NOW,” Henry wrote to the Emperor Charles, “is the time for us to invade France jointly. Let us meet in Paris. Let France be handed to me that it may come under the domination of England. I shall then have the greatest pleasure in accompanying Your Imperial Highness to Rome where I shall see you crowned.”
He was so delighted that he went about the Court in high good humor. He was jubilant with Katharine, for was it not her nephew who had captured the King of France? Had not she helped to strengthen the bonds between the two countries? Their daughter was the affianced bride of the Emperor who was now more powerful than ever. When she married him and had her first son, that son should be proclaimed the future King of England, lord of Ireland and Wales, and now…France. This boy would be the greatest monarch in the world, for he would also inherit Spain, Austria, the Netherlands, Naples, Sicily and the recently discovered dominions of the New World. This would be a boy with Tudor blood in his veins. Perhaps it was not so important that he had no son when his grandson would be a monarch such as the world had never seen before.
He was gay and jovial with his Queen—although he could not bring himself to share her bed. The memories of a laughing girl, who would not be put out of his mind, prevented that.
As for the girl herself, who had more respect for her own virtue than the King’s royalty, she should be dismissed from his mind. There would be other girls at his Court only too eager to comfort him for her loss.
Those were good days, spent chiefly in making plans for his coronation in France.
Katharine was delighted; at last she could share the King’s pleasure. He liked to walk with her in the gardens of the Palace, his arm in hers while he made plans for his journey to France.
But Henry could not forgive Charles’s ambassador for the manner in which he had written of himself and the Chancellor, and de Praet was still kept a prisoner in his house. In vain did Katharine plead for him; in vain did she ask permission for the man to come and see her. Henry became sullen when she mentioned these matters, and replied shortly that he would not tolerate spies in England, even Spanish spies. And finally, when the dispirited de Praet asked for leave to return to his own country and Henry gave it, Katharine was not allowed to see him before he left; she consoled herself however that never had Henry’s friendship for Charles been so firm as it was at this time, so that the fact that Charles had no ambassador in England did not seem so important as it would have been a short time ago.
WHEN THE EMPEROR read Henry’s letter he raised his eyebrows in dismay.
Henry crowned in Rheims King of France! Himself crowned in Rome! The English King had no idea of the situation.
Charles had taken the French King prisoner, it was true, and that was a success; the army which had served with François was disbanded, but that did not constitute all the men at arms in France. Charles himself had suffered enormous losses; his army was only in slightly better condition than that of the French; moreover he had no money to pay his mercenaries.
Charles was a realist. He knew that the Italian princes, who had ha
d to submit to him, did so with great unwillingness, that the Pope was watching his movements with anxiety. His mercenaries had demanded the spoils of battle as he could not pay them, and as a result the countryside had been ravaged as the troops passed through; and as the sullen people were ready to revolt against the conqueror, this was no time to talk of crowning ceremonies. Henry seemed to think that war was a game and that the winner received all the spoils of victory. Had he not learned yet that in wars such as this there were often very little spoils?
The Emperor was weary of battle. He had the upper hand now; François was in prison in Madrid, and while he was there it would be possible to make him agree to humiliating terms. It was a matter of taking what he could; but it was totally unrealistic to imagine that he could take France and hand it to his ally as though it were a particularly fine horse or even a castle.
“When will my uncle grow up?” he sighed.
There was another matter which was disturbing him. He was twenty-four years of age and affianced to Mary who was nine. He was tired of waiting, and his ministers had implied that the people of Spain were eager for an alliance with Portugal.
His cousin, Isabella of Portugal, was of a marriageable age at this present time, and her dowry was nine hundred thousand golden ducats. How useful such a sum would be! And Mary’s dowry? He had had it already in loans from her father, and he knew that to take Mary would merely be to wipe off the debts he had incurred in the war.
He wanted a wife now…not in three years’ time. In three years’ time he might have a lusty son. When he went to war he would have a Queen to leave in Spain as his regent. Moreover Portugal had always been closely allied with Spain. The people wanted one of their own as their Queen, not a strange little girl who, although half Spanish, would seem to them wholly English.
True, he had given his promise, but his grandfathers had made promises when it was expedient to do so; and when state policy demanded that those promises should be broken, they broke them. Charles was sorry because his aunt would be hurt and the King of England would be angry. But he did not greatly care for the King of England. A strip of Channel divided them and they had always been uneasy allies.
