by Alison Weir
Katherine began to cry. This was a side of Henry she had never seen, and it shocked her.
He was brutal. “This is your fault!” he shouted. “For years you’ve been urging me to heed your father’s advice. Well, see where it has led me! And you had the nerve to criticize me for listening to Wolsey—and you accused him of having too much love for the French! Well, madam, I will listen to you no more. You must bear the responsibility for your father’s desertion!”
“I did nothing,” Katherine cried out at last. “I swear that I knew no more than you did.”
Henry was implacable. “You did your best to make me sacrifice England’s interests to those of Spain. You tried to make me a vassal of your father. May I remind you that the Kings of England have never taken second place to anyone but God!”
“You told me you valued my father’s advice!”
“I listened to you, Katherine, fool that I was. I heeded you rather than Wolsey. Now I find myself wedded to the daughter of a man who was my enemy all along.”
“It does not matter who my father is,” she wept, deeply distressed now. “What matters is the love and trust we have between us—”
“Don’t talk to me of love and trust!” Henry spat. “That has been betrayed, and in future, madam, I will not be listening to you!”
Without another word, he stamped out of the door and slammed it.
—
Katherine broke down when she told Fray Diego what had happened.
“Highness, your duty is clear,” he said. “You must forget Spain and everything Spanish in order to keep the love of the King and the English.”
“But what of my loyalty to my father?” she asked in dismay. “And what of the alliance between England and Spain, which it is my duty to preserve?”
“Your first duty is to your husband!” he insisted.
Bewildered, she sent for Luis Caroz. It was essential that she explain to him what had happened and how angry Henry had been with her.
“I should not be here, Highness,” he said. “The King has made it clear to me too that my master is his enemy, and it would not do for me to be seen counseling you.”
“I beg of you, listen and help me,” Katherine urged, near to tears again. “It is essential that I regain the King’s confidence.”
“Highness, my advice is to do as King Henry wishes for now. Refrain from involving yourself in politics. Perform your ceremonial duties, order your household. Give him no cause for complaint. There has always been great love between you, and when the King’s anger dies, he will remember that.”
“But what of Spain’s interests? Fray Diego says I must forget Spain.”
“Highness, at this time the best way you can serve Spain is in obeying your husband the King. In pleasing him, you may yet recover your influence. That is what we must hope for.”
It was going to be hard, she thought after Caroz had gone. For five years she was at the center of events, and Henry had confided in her and consulted her. He had respected her views, so it was dreadful to think that he now held them in contempt. Worse still, the door was now open for Wolsey to usurp her place fully in the King’s counsels, and that she could not endure. But she knew that Caroz had given her wise advice. She must be patient, and trust in God to heal this terrible breach between herself and Henry. And if she bore him an heir, she might yet win back her influence. That was something Wolsey could not do!
—
But Wolsey could demonstrate his predominance in other ways. Katherine was appalled when she learned that he had brokered a new French alliance. Of course, it was what Wolsey had wanted all along, and once she was out of favor he had seized his chance.
Throughout these long, terrible weeks, Henry had treated her with cold courtesy. He listened to Wolsey these days and no longer heeded her opinions. The whole court seemed to know of his displeasure with her, and she burned with the injustice of it, yet she held her peace and showed herself cheerful and gracious when she and Henry were together in public. In private it was a different matter, for he had ceased visiting her apartments and she could not but mourn his absence. Many were the days when Maria had to offer her a shoulder on which to weep, many the nights when she cried into her pillow. And there was another thing, a new and uncomfortable awareness that she was a Spaniard in a court in which all things French were now the fashion. She did not think she could bear to lose the love of the English people as well as that of their king.
At last—just when she thought her breaking heart could take no more—Henry came to her, rosy from his exertions at tennis. She got to her feet in hope, full of love and forgiveness, and sank into the deepest of curtseys; but his manner was cool and distant.
“Katherine, I have come to tell you that the Princess Mary is to marry King Louis,” he announced.
Wolsey had done his work well! To have convinced Henry to make friends with the enemy he had not long since sworn to overthrow must have taken a special kind of cunning—although Henry, furious at Maximilian and Ferdinand’s betrayal, would have been glad to acquire a powerful ally against them, even if it was Louis.
How she kept the smile on her face she never knew. Poor, poor Mary…To be wasted on that horrible man, that French monster! At least the Archduke had youth on his side. Louis of France was old before his time, decrepit and in bad health. He had divorced his saintly first wife for her barrenness, and his second had only just died, worn out by many pregnancies, which had resulted in just two daughters, which meant—because women were barred from ruling in France—that Louis would be after making sons. Would a crown be compensation for all that in the eyes of a beautiful eighteen-year-old girl who was in love with someone else?
Henry was watching Katherine closely. “It is a great alliance,” he said. “Never before has an English princess become Queen of France. And it is because I alone have acted with the purest faith that God favors my designs.” He gave her a hard look.
“Sir, I rejoice with you and Mary,” Katherine said, trying to sound as if she meant it. “When is the wedding to be?”
“In October,” Henry told her. “Longueville is acting for Louis in finalizing the arrangements. We will hold the proxy ceremony here at Greenwich, next week. I trust you are in good health and able to be present.”
“I am well,” she said. “The child has quickened.”
“God be praised.”
There was a flicker of warmth in his eyes, and for a moment she thought he would unbend and show her some gesture of affection, but he merely bowed and walked away. At least he had come. The ice had been broken, and now it was up to her to win back his love and respect. She must suppress her hatred of the French, put on a brave face, and endure these ceremonies. And when Mary came weeping to her, as she had known she would, Katherine urged her to obey the King and be content with the great marriage he had made for her.
Well pleased with Jane Popincourt, who had made an honest show of heeding her advice, she lent her maid to Mary to help her perfect her French. Soon it became clear that the Duc de Longueville was also assisting. Katherine hoped that the lovers were being discreet. She reminded Jane of her promise.
“I assure you, madam, I have done nothing for which you could reproach me,” Jane assured her. Katherine trusted that she was telling the truth. Nothing at this late stage must be allowed to tarnish Mary’s reputation.
—
Shimmering in ash-colored satin with gold chains slung across her bodice, and a cap and caul of cloth of gold, Katherine sat in state next to Henry on a sweltering August day and watched Archbishop Warham join the Princess and the King of France—represented by the magnificently attired Longueville—in holy matrimony; and afterward she was present with the King and the whole court in the ceremonial bedchamber to see Mary lie down fully dressed on the state bed, and Longueville lie down beside her, each with one leg bared to the knee. Then, as everyone watched avidly, Longueville pressed his naked calf against the Princess’s. Jane Popincourt was going pink at
the sight.
“Now we may deem the marriage consummated,” Henry said with an air of satisfaction. Katherine saw him smile at Archbishop Wolsey, whose face bore a triumphant beam. She realized then that it would be impossible at this time to challenge his influence, and that any attempt on her part to do so could only be detrimental to her own interests, and Spain’s. So she sat there, in her chair of estate, smiling and nodding and exchanging pleasantries as if nothing were amiss in her world.
Katherine helped Mary draw up for King Louis’s approval a list of those she wanted to attend upon her and accompany her to France.
“Would your Grace object if I took Jane Popincourt with me?” Mary asked. “I like her well, and she would be glad of the opportunity to return to France. Besides, there is a certain lord who is accompanying me, with whom she is much enamored.”
“A married lord,” Katherine said. “Well, I will not stop her. Take her with my blessing.”
Wolsey looked over the list and nodded, and then Henry approved it. But two weeks later it came back with Jane Popincourt’s name struck out in the French king’s own hand. Mary was very upset. She had come to value Jane’s friendship and was relying on her to help negotiate the etiquette and customs of the French court.
“Wolsey’s information is that our ambassador in Paris warned him that she was leading an evil life as Longueville’s mistress,” Henry told his wife and his sister. “Moreover, Madame de Longueville will be attending the King’s wedding.”
“Is there nothing to be done?” Mary pleaded.
“No,” Henry said. “Louis has written to me in adamant terms. He insists that his only concern is for the moral welfare of his new queen. And to compensate you, dear sister, he has sent you this.” He handed Mary a small silver-gilt casket. Inside, nestling on a bed of the finest Florentine velvet, was the largest diamond Katherine had ever seen, with a shimmering pendant pearl attached.
Mary gasped.
Henry was eyeing the jewel covetously. “It is the famous Mirror of Naples, and it is worth at least sixty thousand crowns!” he told her. “You are the most fortunate of women!” Katherine could hear the envy in his voice.
Mary was delighted with her gift and declared that she would wear it at her wedding, but then her voice broke as she remembered that she would shortly be going to a foreign land to marry a stranger, and leaving not only Brandon but her dear friend Jane behind. Katherine watched her turn away so that Henry should not see. And she could only imagine how poor Jane Popincourt would feel at losing her lover when he returned to France with the bridal train.
—
At least this time Henry would not be sailing away and leaving her behind, Katherine told herself as she stood beside him on the windswept quayside at Dover to bid Mary Godspeed. Countless chests of baggage had been loaded onto the ships that were to escort the Princess to France, her officers and servants had boarded, and her ladies were standing shivering in the wind as they waited to attend her on deck. The October weather had been appalling, the court holed up here in Dover Castle for two weeks, waiting for the gales to subside. Katherine prayed that this calm would hold until her sister-in-law reached France. She had never forgotten how seasick and terrified she herself had been on her voyage to England.
Mary, calm and white-faced, said her farewells to the lords and ladies of the court. When it came to Brandon bowing and kissing her hand, no one would have guessed it was a desperately sad moment for both of them, for Mary’s poise was admirable. Katherine reflected that life had not been kind to Henry’s sisters: here was Mary, forced to renounce the man she loved, and in Scotland there was Margaret, who had lost her cherished King James to a bloody death at Flodden, and then, as they had heard only last month, impulsively taken a second husband, the Earl of Angus, and lost custody of her sons to the outraged Scots nobles, who hated Angus and were determined not to allow him any influence over the young king.
And there was Jane Popincourt, barely concealing her misery as the Duc de Longueville made her a courtly bow and formally kissed her hand in farewell. How she must long to give him one last embrace, she thought, one final kiss on the lips…Katherine pulled herself up. It was for the best, she told herself.
All the while Henry was growing fidgety, and she guessed that for all his fine words about the French alliance, he was dreading the parting from his sister. Sure enough, when the time came for Mary to kiss him and crave his blessing, there were tears in his eyes.
“Be of good cheer, brother,” Mary said. “I pray God we will meet again soon.”
“And I pray that Louis proves a kind husband to you,” Henry replied, sounding very emotional.
“A kind husband is a blessing from God,” Katherine observed, looking pointedly at Henry, then startled by the misery in his face as he returned her glance.
“There is one thing I would ask, brother,” Mary said. “I beg this favor of you. King Louis is a sickly old man, by all reports. If he dies, will you give your promise that I may choose my next husband?”
“It’s a fine thing to be going to your wedding and thinking of widowhood,” Henry said, forcing a laugh. “Very well, I promise. Now I commit you to the sea and to the King your husband, and may God go with you.”
As Mary was assisted up the gangplank, Katherine noticed a dark-haired young girl hanging back at the end of the train of ladies who followed her, and looking nervously at the churning sea below.
“It looks as if that little maid doesn’t want to board,” Katherine said.
“That’s Boleyn’s daughter, Mary,” Henry told her. “She’s new to court.”
“He has two daughters, doesn’t he?” It felt so good to be talking normally to Henry again.
“Yes. The younger one is at the court of the Archduchess Margaret in Brussels. He tells me she is very accomplished.”
Katherine gave no thought to the little Boleyn. She was remembering the Archduchess, Maximilian’s daughter, in those far-off days when young Margaret had been married to the Infante Juan. Her memories of Margaret were of a boisterous, laughing, vital girl. By all accounts that girl had matured into the gracious and capable woman who was now acting as regent for her father in the Low Countries, and bringing up her nephew, the Archduke Charles. Katherine wished she could see her again.
Mary Boleyn was now in tears. Her father had stepped forward and was haranguing her to hurry up and get on the ship, shooing her up the gangplank. Katherine shook her head, pitying the child. She knew Thomas Boleyn was an ambitious man set on his own advancement. Henry liked him enormously. He was learned and capable, useful as a diplomat, thanks to his gift for foreign tongues, and an expert jouster, a talent guaranteed to win his master’s favor.
“She’s gone,” Henry remarked, grinning. “You can rely on Tom Boleyn to prevail. There’s no skilled negotiator to equal him. Bravo, Tom!” he called as Sir Thomas walked toward him, shaking his head.
“Little minx,” he muttered. “What use are daughters if they don’t do as they’re told? Good riddance, I say, eh, Harry?”
The King laughed, but Katherine thought Boleyn’s manner overfamiliar. She did not like or trust the man. Even Henry had said of him that he would sooner act from self-interest than from any other motive.
She watched as Boleyn joined his wife, Elizabeth Howard, Surrey’s daughter. It was easy to see that she had once been a great beauty, with her oval face, delicate features, and dark eyes. Years ago the poet laureate John Skelton had written verses about her that were still in circulation at court. Katherine had read them and was shocked at the implication that Lady Boleyn was no better than she should be. Small wonder that she rarely visited the court, if that was what people were saying about her. Today, naturally, she looked unhappy, for she was here to see her daughter off; yet Katherine sensed there was a distance between husband and wife.
There was no time to ponder on that now. The ship was moving away from the quayside, the Princess and her ladies waving and blowing kisses as they were
borne away, and Jane Popincourt was crying on Isabel de Vargas’s shoulder. Henry raised his hand in farewell, tears streaming down his cheeks. When Katherine discreetly laid her hand on his, he did not draw it away.
—
Soon after the court returned to Greenwich, Luis Caroz came craving an audience of the Queen.
“He would like to speak to you in private, madam,” Lord Mountjoy informed her.
“Very well, have him announced,” Katherine directed.
Caroz, that consummate diplomat, seemed uncomfortable. He stood before her tense and frowning. “Highness, there are delicate matters that I have to discuss. May I speak freely?”
“By all means,” Katherine said, wondering what was coming.
“It concerns your confessor, Fray Diego. He is very suspicious of me.”
“Alas, he has always believed that you would like to have him dismissed.”
There was a pause. “Actually, I would, Highness,” Caroz said. “I fear his mind is not quite right.”
“You had better explain what you mean.”
“Naturally, Fray Diego has considerable influence with your Highness, but he does his best to prevent me and others from obtaining audiences with you. It is becoming increasingly difficult to see you; nearly every time he puts me off, saying that you are at prayer or indisposed. Your servants go in fear of him. They dare not cross him, as they know he can have them dismissed if he so pleases.”
Katherine had listened in mounting disbelief.
“Excellency,” she said, “I fear that you are as crazed in your mind about Fray Diego as he apparently is about you. I wish you would both make an effort to be friends with each other. It has gotten to the point where I feel guilty if I show favor to either one of you.”
“Highness,” Caroz said, “there are things you do not know about Fray Diego, things I would blush to tell you. I have never seen a more wicked person in my life.”
This was insupportable! “You have been listening to gossip!” Katherine reproved him. “I know that is what ambassadors do, but I pray you, use your judgment. I know what people say about Fray Diego, but it is all lies and jealousy. I assure you he is not wicked, but a good man.”
