by Jean Plaidy
“Long live the Princess Mary!” cried the people; and Mary lifted a hand in acknowledgment of the greeting and smiled in her eager but dignified way which never failed to please them.
And so they came to the oddly shaped turrets of Richmond which glowed in the sunshine like inverted pears.
In the quiet of her apartments Bishop Fisher was waiting for Katharine who had summoned him thither.
“My lord,” she said, when they were alone, “it pleases me that you have come. I have need of your counsel.”
“I pray Your Grace to calm yourself. Wolsey visited me on his way to the coast. He told me how distressed you were after your interview with the King.”
“I fear I lost control.”
“We must pray for greater control.”
“Sometimes I could hope that death would come to me.”
“When we die, Your Grace, is a matter for God to decide.”
“I know it is wrong of me, but there are times when I feel that life is too bitter to be borne.”
“And you pray that this cup might pass from you,” murmured the Bishop. “There is one, Your Grace, who needs you now. You must not forget that this matter concerns your daughter.”
“It is that which breaks my heart.”
“We are not defeated yet.”
“My lord, you say we. Does that mean that you will stand beside me?”
“I will pray with you and for you.”
She looked at him searchingly. “I have always felt you to be my friend as well as my confessor. I know you to be a good man. But I am well acquainted with the King’s nature. He is a boy at heart, but boys can be selfish, my lord Bishop. They stretch out greedy hands for that which they want, and because they are boys, lacking the experience of suffering, they do not think what pain may be caused to those who stand in their way.”
The Bishop looked at her sadly. He believed she did not understand her husband if she thought of him merely as a boy who had been led into temptation. The Bishop had looked at the King and seen the cruelty behind the jovial mask. He prayed that this gentle woman would never be forced to see her husband in a different light from the one in which she saw him now.
“You will need courage,” said the Bishop. “Let us pray for courage.”
They prayed and when they rose from their knees the Queen said: “I shall not go into a convent. That is what they are trying to force me to do.”
“It is what they hope you will do.”
“I know. But I shall never do it. There is my daughter to fight for; and let me tell you this, my lord Bishop: I shall never agree to be put aside, and the reason is that, if I did so, they would brand my daughter with bastardy. That is something I shall never allow to happen.”
John Fisher bowed his head. He believed that the Queen’s decision was the right one and a brave one. He had seen the vicious determination in the King’s face; he had seen the shrewd cunning in Wolsey’s. Could this gentle woman defend herself against them; and what would be the result to herself…and to those who supported her?
She had made her choice and he knew that she would not diverge from it. John Fisher too made his choice.
She would not have many friends when the King abandoned her; but he, John Fisher, Bishop of Rochester, would be one of them.
THE QUEEN WAS DELIGHTED when Mendoza brought her the news.
“Felipez did his work well,” he said. “I have heard from the Emperor, and he sends notes for you and for the King. I know that His Grace was not pleased with his, as it reproved him for his treatment of you and expressed shock and indignation.”
The Queen clasped her hands together. “I knew I could trust Charles,” she cried. “He is immersed in his wars, but when a matter of vital importance arises, such as this, he would always stand by his family. His support will make all the difference in the world.”
“I am in agreement with Your Grace,” said Mendoza. “And we should not forget that the Pope, without whom the marriage cannot be declared invalid, is at your nephew’s mercy. Here is the letter he sends to you.”
Katharine took it eagerly and as she read it a smile of triumph touched her lips.
Charles was horrified; he was shocked beyond measure. It would seem that the King of England had forgotten, so long had his wife been in England, that she was a daughter of the House of Spain. He was sending Cardinal Quiñones, the General of the Franciscans, to Rome with all speed; he would look after her affairs there; and she could trust her nephew to watch over her cause and help her. Clement VII, still in Castel Sant’ Angelo, was too wise a man to flout the wishes of the Emperor.
Katharine put her lips to the letter. “God bless you, Charles,” she murmured. “Families should stand together always.”
She felt the tears touch her eyes, for she was reminded suddenly of Charles’s mother, running wildly round the nursery in the days when they were children, trying to quarrel with her sisters and brother; and their mother drawing the rebellious child to her and explaining that sisters and brothers should never quarrel; they must always stand together against the rest of the world if need be.
Oh to be a child again! thought Katharine. Oh to be back there in Madrid, in Granada, in Valladolid…under the loving wing of that best and wisest of mothers…never to grow up, never to leave the nest!
Then she thought of her own daughter. Had she remained a child herself she would never have had Mary.
She laughed at her folly. She should feel exultant because Charles had answered her cry for help.
THE CARDINAL had returned to England, and, hearing that the King was in residence at Greenwich, he sent his messenger to the Palace to tell Henry of his arrival and ask where His Grace would wish to receive him.
Henry was in good spirits when the messenger arrived; a pageant was being enacted before him and it had been the work of Anne Boleyn, her brother George and some of the bright young poets who were members of their set. Henry was finding these young people far more to his taste than the older men and women. Moreover Anne was the leader of the group, and where Anne was, there Henry wished to be.
Anne, imperious in her beauty and fully aware of the hold she had over the King, bold, flamboyant and arrogant, had already taken upon herself the role of Queen which she expected shortly to be hers in fact. She seemed to delight in shocking those about her by taking such liberties that the King would never have tolerated from anyone else and yet meekly accepted when coming from her.
So when the messenger asked where and when His Grace would wish to receive the newly returned Cardinal, it was Anne who answered in her sprightly way: “Where should the Cardinal come except where the King is?”
There was a breathless silence. Would the King endure such boldness even from her? Was she suggesting that the Cardinal—still the greatest of the King’s ministers—should come into the ballroom, travel-stained as he must be? Was she ordering him to come in as though he were some lackey?
Apparently in the King’s eyes she could do no wrong, for he laughed aloud and said: “That’s true enough!” and repeated: “Where should the Cardinal come except where the King is?”
“Your Grace will receive him here!” said Wolsey’s messenger, aghast.
“You heard His Grace’s command,” answered Anne sharply.
So the messenger bowed himself from their presence and went to Wolsey who, with the stains of travel on his red satin robes and sweat on his brow, a little breathless from the journey, very weary, hoping for a little time in which to bathe himself, change his linen and rest awhile that he might collect his thoughts and frame his conversation with the King, listened in astonishment.
“To go straight to his presence! You have not heard aright,” he insisted.
“Your Eminence, it is the King’s command, given through the Lady Anne, that you should go to him at once.”
The Lady Anne! So she was with him. She was already the Queen of England in all but name. And that would come, for the King demanded it. And he, poor
fool, had helped to sow the seeds of that desire for divorce in the fickle mind; he, who had had dreams of a French alliance, a permanent bulwark against the Emperor, had helped to bring the Lady Anne—his most bitter enemy—to where she now stood.
He could do nothing but obey; so, weary, conscious of his unkempt appearance, he went into the ballroom and made his way to the King.
It was as he had feared. There stood the King, and beside him the Lady Anne. The others had moved away leaving the three of them together.
“Your Grace…my lady…”
The King’s eyes were not unkind; but they showed he was absentminded; their blue was shining with pleasure in his companion, desire for her; even as they stood, his hand caressed her shoulder.
And she smiled at Wolsey—the enemy’s smile, the smile of one who inflicts humiliation and rejoices. It was as if she were saying to him: Do you remember Anne Boleyn who was not good enough for Percy? Do you remember how you berated her as though she were some slut from the kitchens? This is the same Anne Boleyn who now stands beside the King, who says, You shall come to us now! and whom you dare not disobey.
“I trust you have good news for us, Thomas,” said the King.
“The mission went well, Your Grace.”
But Henry scarcely saw his minister. Good news meant for him one thing. When could he go to bed with this woman, accompanied by a good conscience?
This was a more dangerous moment than any the Cardinal had yet passed through; he felt now as he had felt when he had heard the bell’s tolling at Compiègne, when he had seen the charcoal drawing of a Cardinal hanging on the gallows. No, his apprehension went deeper than that.
He knew that this day there were two people in England who were in acute danger. And if one of these was Katharine the Queen, the other was Cardinal Wolsey.
The King Penitent
THROUGH THE WINTER WHICH FOLLOWED, KATHARINE tried to ignore her fears. She continued to live much as she had lived before; her days were made up of sewing, reading, prayers, listening to music and playing an occasional game of cards with her maids.
There was one of these maids of honor who commanded her attention; she could no longer be blind to the position of Anne Boleyn in the Court. At the center of all the tourneys and masques was this woman, and her constant companions were her brother, Thomas Wyatt and some of the other bright men of the younger artistic set. They wrote plays and pageants which they acted for the King’s pleasure; and it was, during those fateful winter days, as though there were two groups—one which revolved round the Queen and the other round Anne; it was in Anne’s that the King was to be found.
Often Katharine would absent herself from some entertainment because her dignity would not allow her to see the King treating Anne Boleyn as though she were already the Queen.
She herself did not show by her demeanor that she regarded this woman as different from any other of her maids of honor; she made herself seem blind to the fact that the King was chafing against his marriage to her and made no secret of his desire for Anne.
As for Anne, imperious as she might be to all others, including the King, she was subdued by the dignity of the Queen; and because of Katharine’s restraint there were no difficult scenes between them. Henry avoided his wife as much as possible; they shared no part of their private life. He had said that he regarded himself as a bachelor and that while he deplored the necessity of waiting until he was publicly announced to be that, nothing could prevent him from regarding himself as one.
Only once did Katharine show that she knew Anne was trying to usurp her position; that was during a game of cards. Anne had dealt, and Katharine said: “My Lady Anne, you have good hap to stop at a king; but you are not like others, you will have all or none.”
Anne had seemed a little shaken by this comment and had played her hand badly, but Katharine remained serene, and those who watched said: “She believes that the King will come to his senses, that he will realize it is impossible for him to cast her off.”
Yet that evening when she was alone she thought of the imperious young beauty, with her flashing dark eyes and her exotic clothes, her grace, her manner of holding herself as though she already wore a crown on her head, and she dared not look too far into the future.
Sometimes she felt so alone. There was her daughter who meant everything to her, but she did not care to speak to Mary of this trouble. She hoped that Mary knew nothing of it; the child was too sensitive.
As long as we are together, she told herself, I suppose I can endure anything. But I shall stand out firmly against a convent, for Mary’s sake.
She considered those who might help her. Mendoza would stand beside her but he was only an ambassador and no theologian. His word would carry little weight in this country. Warham was an honest man, but he was old and very much in awe of Wolsey and the King. The women who had been her friends had been sent away from her. How comforting it would have been to have talked with Maria de Salinas! Luis Vives had left England after having been told sharply by Wolsey that he would be wise not to meddle in the King’s affairs. Vives was a scholar who was eager to avoid conflict, so perhaps he had thought it as well to leave while he could do so.
Thomas More came to see her. He did not speak of what was known as the King’s Secret Matter, but managed to convey to her the assurance that he was her friend.
John Fisher, to whom she confessed her sins, also came and brought comfort.
“I have been warned,” he told her, “not to meddle in the King’s matter, but if I can be of use to Your Grace I shall continue to disobey those orders.”
“I thank God for your friendship,” Katharine told him.
“Let us pray for courage,” answered the Bishop; and they prayed together.
Often during those winter months when her spirits were at their lowest, she thought of Fisher and More, and felt happier because they were not far away, and although they might not have much influence in this matter with the King, they were her friends.
With the spring came news from Rome. The Pope had appointed Lorenzo Campeggio, Cardinal of Santa Anastasia, to come to England to decide the case in conjunction with Cardinal Wolsey.
THERE WAS consternation at Court. It was June and the heat was oppressive. One day a man walking by the river suddenly fell and lay on the bank and, when certain passers-by paused to see what ailed him, it was clear that he was a victim of the sweating sickness.
The same day several more people died in the streets; the epidemic had come to London.
Periodically this scourge returned, killing people in their thousands, and when it appeared in the big cities such as London it brought panic with it for it was in the hot and fetid streets that the sickness was more quickly passed from one to another.
Henry was disturbed when the news was brought to him. He was at Greenwich and he decided that he would stay there for a few days and not journey to Westminster through the infected city even by barge.
It was his gentleman of the bedchamber, William Carey, who had brought him the news. He had been gracious to Will Carey because Anne expected him to be so to all her relations, and Will was in need of advancement, having very little money of his own. Moreover Henry was not displeased to favor the man, for he still thought affectionately of Will’s wife Mary, although he now heartily wished that she had never been his mistress, since there was a possibility that this might make it necessary for him to procure a dispensation on her account.
“The sweat is claiming more victims, Your Grace,” said Will. “I saw several people lying in the streets as I came through the city.”
The King’s eyes narrowed. “I do not know,” he said gloomily, “why this pestilence should visit my country every now and then. I do believe that there are some of my subjects who are of the opinion that it is sent to us when we have in some way offended God.”
“Ah, it may be so, Your Grace.”
Will was thinking that the King referred to his living in sin with Katharine and
, because Mary had told him that they must always stand by Anne who had stood by them so magnificently, he added: “It may be that when your Grace’s matter is settled the sickness will pass.”
“It may well be, it may well be,” murmured the King.
But he was uneasy. He had ceased to cohabit with Katharine these many months, so he could no longer be said to be living in sin; it was strange that God should have sent the sweat now that he had realized his sinful way of life and was seeking to rectify it.
In common with most he believed that pestilences were a sign of Divine anger. Then, in spite of his desire to break away from Katharine, God had sent a pestilence to his Kingdom.
His expression was sullen, and Will, who by living near to him had learned when to remain silent, said no more. Indeed Will himself was experiencing a strange shivering fit which had nothing to do with being in the presence of the King. When Henry had strolled to the window and stood looking out on the river accompanied by certain of his gentlemen, Will seized the opportunity to leave the royal apartments.
Before he had time to reach his own quarters he felt the dreaded sweat on his body.
“YOUR GRACE, the sweat is in the Palace.”
Henry heard the dreaded words and stared at the man who was speaking to him.
“One of Your Grace’s gentlemen has succumbed to the sickness. He is dead.”
Henry shouted: “Who?”
“Will Carey, Your Grace.”
Will Carey! He had been speaking to the man only a few hours before.
Henry was trembling. “Leave me,” he said.
Will Carey dead! Will was a man whom he had favored because of his relationship to Anne. And he was the first victim in the Palace, the King’s own Palace.
Mary would be left a widow with her two young children, and Anne would be seeking help for her ere long, for she was ever zealous regarding the needs of her family.
But even as he thought of Anne his terror caught up with him. Now he must face the truth. Why was he seeking to rid himself of Katharine? Was it indeed because he feared he had lived in sin all these years, or was it because he was tired of Katharine and wanted a new wife?
