The King's Pleasure, page 49
“Good day, Mistress.”
The couple stared at him in awe. They knew who he was. But when his eyes fixed appreciatively on the girl’s bosom, the man’s gaze became hostile. Harry made a quick decision and pulled her onto his horse. Ignoring the fellow’s shouts of protest, he rode off with her to the palace, where he found her a more than willing partner, so willing, in fact, that he decided to keep her in his lodging for several days before dismissing her. That, he thought, would be the end of it. But her paramour, a troublemaker called Webbe, had the audacity to make a formal complaint to the Council. It was quickly hushed up, of course. The woman was returned to him, and money changed hands, while Harry resolved to be more discreet in future. It would only be for a short time. In the late spring, Jane would be his again.
Chapter 30
1536
Harry’s worst nightmare became reality that October when a great rebellion broke out in Lincolnshire and the north, where the old ideas remained entrenched among the gentry, who fiercely opposed the King’s religious reforms. He knew, from the first alarming reports, that this was the most serious threat to his authority he had ever faced, and he immediately began preparing to lead an army against the rebels. At Greenwich, he had the tiltyard converted into a workshop and set his armorers to repairing his rusted old armor that had been taken out of storage. He would teach these traitors a lesson, by God!
His blood ran to ice when further reports made it clear that the rebellion was spreading through the north at an alarming rate—and that he did not have sufficient forces to deal with it.
“We must play for time,” he told his councillors.
* * *
—
Jane sat enthroned beside him as he gazed down on the sea of bared heads before him and announced how he would deal with the rising and suppress the rebels. The applause was deafening.
Suddenly, Jane rose, and the acclaim died away. As Harry stared at her, she fell to her knees before him, her face flushed. Not a whisper could be heard. He frowned. What mummery was this?
“Sir,” she said hoarsely. “Sir, I beg you, for the sake of peace and of those of your loving subjects who regret the passing of the old ways, please think kindly upon the monasteries. I urge you to restore those you have closed. It is wrong for subjects to rebel against their Prince, but perhaps God has permitted this rebellion as a punishment for the ruin of so many churches.”
Harry glared at her, shaking with fury, embarrassed and mortified. That his meek wife, a mere woman, should challenge his policy, and in public, was deeply insulting. It was as if a lamb had roared. She should have realized that queenly intercessions were invariably agreed upon beforehand, to enable a king to rescind an order without losing face. But now here she was, kneeling before him, looking up to him with those scared pale eyes.
The old bear in him took over. How dare she side with the rebels? “You forget yourself, Madam!” he snarled. “This has nothing to do with you. I might remind you that the last Queen died in consequence of meddling too much in state affairs. Go and attend to other things!” He pointed to the great doors.
Cheeks aflame, Jane got unsteadily to her feet and curtseyed, then hastened through the throng, the ranks of courtiers parting for her, staring, smiling, murmuring behind their hands.
He soon regretted his outburst. The pain in Jane’s eyes stayed with him. He would make things right between them later, yet he feared that something precious had been broken, something that might never mend. Damn the woman, why had she dared to speak out?
Making a false show of strength, he sent north an army under the command of Norfolk and Suffolk, with instructions to use conciliatory measures. And he postponed Jane’s coronation.
It was as well. Early in November, she sent for him, which was unusual. She was in her bedchamber, her ladies informed him, seemingly unable to meet his eye. A sense of dread gripped him. He knew, before she broke the news to him, that she had lost their son.
“It is God’s will,” she said gently, tears welling. “I am so deeply sorry.”
“What do I have to do to placate God?” Harry cried, balling his fists. “This marriage is pure, without any impediments! Why does He withhold sons from me?”
Jane looked so desperate that he felt as sorry for her as he did for himself—and for England. “We must pray, and we must try again,” she said.
“How many times have I heard that?” he sighed.
“I am so sorry, Harry. I took the greatest care.”
“I know.” He sighed and patted her hand. “It is not your fault.” But was it his?
He had no time to grieve. He had a rebellion to deal with. He was gratified to see most of the nobility rallying to the Crown, proof that the Reformation and the Dissolution were widely supported, at least in the south. It was the northern lords he feared and the vast numbers of followers they could command. If Norfolk’s bluff were to be called, there was a very real danger of civil war breaking out. These rebels were on a mission to turn back the clock and spare the monasteries. They were calling their rising “the Pilgrimage of Grace,” and thousands were flocking to the banners of the hotheads who had started it all—banners that bore the Five Wounds of Christ.
Harry burned with indignation. They were attacking his authority as king, his supremacy over the Church, and his wisdom in pushing through his reforms. Worse still, they threatened the peace of his realm, which he had striven to maintain ever since Flodden. He waited in a fury of impatience to hear what the dukes had achieved.
“The main objective is to make them disperse,” he had commanded. “Agree to their demands and make them go home. Offer them all royal pardons.”
He had no intention, of course, of letting them get away with it. The promises and the pardons would be worth nothing. They would learn what it meant to defy their King.
In December, a truce was reached, with Norfolk, in the King’s name, agreeing to all the rebels’ demands, among them a request that the Queen be crowned at York, and dangling before them the royal pardons that Harry had no intention of putting into effect. But soon it was being reported that the pilgrims, as they called themselves, were still banding together.
It was Thomas Wriothesley who suggested inviting Robert Aske, one of the rebel leaders, to court for Christmas. Harry liked Wriothesley, for all the young man’s insufferable pretensions to greatness; his father, Master Wrythe, had been a mere herald, but the son had changed his name with a view to bettering himself. He was Gardiner’s man, for Gardiner was his patron and had furthered his career at court, where he had attracted the attention of Cromwell. It pleased Harry to call Wriothesley his “Pig,” just to bring him down a peg or two.
Where other councillors had urged him to deal gently with the rebels, Wriothesley had been the only one to criticize that policy.
“Bring Aske to court, your Grace, and lull him into a sense of false security,” he urged. “That way, he will get his men to disperse. Then you can deal with them more efficiently.”
Harry liked that plan. He saw no reason why it should not come smoothly to fruition.
* * *
—
In October, he had invited Mary back to court, where he and Jane welcomed her warmly. He was dismayed to see how nervous she looked, and shocked when she fainted during the reception, with the whole court looking on, aghast. But he raised her, walked her up and down, and assured her of his fatherly love, and Jane was wonderful. She took Mary by the hand and treated her as an equal, refusing to go first through a doorway. She persuaded Harry to assign Mary fine lodgings in the royal palaces, even though he had not anticipated that his daughter would live permanently at court. Now, she could, if she pleased.
Harry was aware that too much lay between him and Mary for theirs ever to be an easy relationship. He had forced her to choose where her loyalty lay, and she had chosen her mother against him—and neither could forget that. And yet he loved her, and it grieved him to see her so forlorn, for all the kindness she had received. If only she had been more dutiful, more amenable, in the past.
“She is an anxious soul,” he observed to Jane across the supper table one evening. “She is always suffering from one ailment or another. Women’s problems, I suspect.”
“Her life has not been easy,” Jane observed, then stopped, reddening. “I’m sorry, I meant no criticism.”
“If she and her mother had not been so stubborn, it would have been otherwise,” he replied.
“If she could make a good marriage…” Jane began. But they both knew that Mary’s bastardy stood in the way of that, and Harry would never stoop to giving his daughter to a commoner.
“I am considering several options,” he lied. “For now, let her rejoice in the reversal in her fortunes. She was thrilled with the gowns I gave her; she has always loved fine clothes. She has money for her charities and to reward those who do her kindnesses, and she can hunt, gamble, dance, and make music to her heart’s content. She should be content for now with all that.”
He would address the problem of finding her a husband, he resolved. At twenty, Mary should be married. Fortunately, she was still an innocent where men were concerned. She knew no foul or unclean speech. He had not believed it, and only last week had charged Sir Francis Bryan to test her virtue by using a lewd word while dancing with her during a masque. Mary had failed to react, to Harry’s astonishment and Bryan’s amusement.
He raised the matter of her marriage with Cromwell.
“I do not foresee a problem,” the minister said. “Many princes would be glad to ally with your Grace, and the Lady Mary is comely.”
That was putting it diplomatically. She was small, spare, and button-nosed with a prim mouth like Harry’s. In looks, however, she resembled Kate, with that firm chin. But her Tudor lineage should compensate for her lack of beauty.
“Finding a husband for the Lady Mary would be to your Grace’s advantage,” Cromwell said, after a thoughtful pause. “If she bears sons, the succession would be assured.”
“But they would be of some other man’s house,” Harry protested.
“They would be of your blood, Sir.”
“True. But the Queen may bear a prince soon. Let us trust in that.”
* * *
—
It was a bitter winter, so cold that the Thames froze. Wrapped in furs, Harry and Jane rode on horseback through the gaily decorated streets of London to a service in St. Paul’s Cathedral, then galloped across the ice-clad River Thames to Greenwich, to the delight of the crowds who came to see them. Christmas was kept with impressive solemnity and splendor, marred only by news of the death of the Queen’s father, Sir John Seymour. But Jane put on a brave face. Mary and Elizabeth were at court, and she made every effort to ensure that both enjoyed themselves, hiding her private grief.
And there, looking somewhat bemused amid the magnificence and the revelry, was the Yorkshire lawyer, Master Aske, out of place in his good black worsted gown and his old-fashioned long hair. Harry took care to make much of him, walking with his arm around the man’s shoulders and acting like a good friend rather than a king. Of course, he would pay heed to the rebels’ concerns; of course, he understood why they had risen; of course, he forgave them. Aske went back north convinced that his sovereign was on his side.
1537
In January, another uprising broke out in Yorkshire and this time Harry was prepared—and hell-bent on vengeance. He sent orders that martial law be imposed in the north, and commanded Norfolk and Suffolk to suppress the rebellion, sparing no one.
He was feeling vicious. News had just come from Italy that his cousin Reginald Pole had not only accepted a cardinal’s hat from the Bishop of Rome, but had also published a vile tract condemning Harry as a heretic and adulterer. Worse still, the Bishop of Rome had appointed Pole to organize a European offensive against Henry while he was occupied with the rebellion.
“This is treason of the worst kind!” Harry shouted across the council board. “His family shall suffer the consequences.”
“But they have done nothing wrong,” Gardiner protested.
“Not that we know of,” growled Suffolk.
“Your Grace would be wise to keep them under surveillance,” Cromwell said. “You will recall my warning you of the risk that my Lady Salisbury and her other sons might unite with the Exeters and the conservatives against you.”
“Lady Salisbury has condemned Reginald Pole’s tract,” Norfolk pointed out.
“Words are cheap,” Harry spat. “Have them all watched, Cromwell. Given the chance, to be revenged on Reginald, I would execute them all and be done with them.” He sat there, glowering.
* * *
—
God, it appeared, was still on Harry’s side, for in March, Jane told him that she was with child again.
They were in bed together, and he had been intent on making love to her, but he drew back. “You are sure?”
“I have missed two courses. There can be no doubt. I now know why I have been feeling tired, and why my breasts are tender, but I am very happy!”
He embraced her gently. “Sweetheart, I have prayed for this! Maybe Heaven is smiling on me after all. A son to crown my victory—a blessing given by God.” His kiss was full of joy. “We must take the greatest care of you this time.” He postponed her coronation, determined to spare her any undue strain that might threaten the child. He had had no intention, of course, of having her crowned in York, but he promised her that, after the child was born, she would go to Westminster and have the most splendid coronation ever seen.
“You are so good to me.” Jane kissed him. “But I want only you—and our son. That is enough for me in this life.”
* * *
—
The Pilgrimage of Grace had been ruthlessly suppressed, a sure sign of divine approval. Two hundred rebels had been executed; Aske had been hanged in chains at York. Norfolk and Suffolk were in high favor, and other lords who had been active on the Crown’s behalf were basking in their King’s gratitude. Harry was exultant, knowing himself to be stronger, more powerful, and more respected than ever before.
That spring brought warm weather. He had been determined to ride north to overawe the subjects who had dared rebel against him, but he was suffering from a great sore in his leg, which oozed pus. His physicians bandaged it up and advised him not to travel in the heat of the year. It was frustrating, but it could not be helped.
The doctors, it seemed, were perplexed as to what was causing him such pain. He had suffered a similar ailment some years before, yet had soon recovered. Maybe this flare-up had something to do with that fall from his horse last year. The worst of it was that both legs were affected, one more than the other. The pain was sharp, like hot knives, but he would not give in to it. He had ever been an active, sporting man, and had no intention of becoming an old graybeard, moaning by the hearth with his leg up on a stool.
He was aware that he had not been so active of late and that he was putting on weight. He must change his way of life now—yet how could he do so when it hurt to walk? Riding a horse was bearable, though, and he took care to go hunting regularly, driving himself on when his doctors were urging him to rest. He ignored them. As a monarch, he could not afford to be seen to be losing his grasp.
But the pain worsened, and soon he had no choice but to keep to his chambers. The physicians tried numerous remedies, and he devised some of his own, but to little effect. For a man who had always been fastidious and sensitive to smells, the condition was distasteful and humiliating. Only Will Somers could keep up Harry’s spirits when his leg was paining him—Will, who was always there to cheer him in his darkest hours.
“They’re all speculating about what’s wrong with you, Hal,” he said. “Can’t count the number of times you’ve been dead and buried.”
“That’s treason, fool.” Harry scowled.
“ ’Twas not I! It was Exeter. He said you’d die one day, all of a sudden, for your leg will kill you, and then we shall have jolly stirrings!”
“Begone, varlet!” Harry roared, then, as Will slunk to the door, he called, “Did Exeter really say that?”
“As sure as I stand here!”
“It is treason to predict the King’s death. Do you think he means me ill?”
“Nah! He’s more of a fool than I am. Hey, Hal, there’s a French merchant here to see you, with the latest bonnets, trimmings, and fripperies from Paris.”
Harry sighed. “Send him away. I’m too old to wear such things.”
Will eyed him up and down cheekily. “You could have fooled me, ha ha! Strikes me that’s a fine bonnet you have on, and a lot of trimmings you must have chosen to wear?”
“Very well, send him in,” Harry groaned, “if only to shut you up.”
The merchant spread his wares for Harry to see—and Harry liked what he saw. He ended up buying a rich collar, a hat, fur, linen, and a mirror, and felt much better for it. A king ought to look like a king, he reminded himself. He was not dead yet.
* * *
—
Finally, his leg was better, and he celebrated by taking Jane on a short pilgrimage to Canterbury, where they made offerings at the magnificent shrine of St. Thomas Becket.
As he knelt there, Harry’s eyes narrowed. What was he doing here? This was no saint, but a rebel. Becket had been a traitor to his King. He had defied him and been justly punished when those four knights, loyal to their sovereign, had burst into his cathedral and slaughtered him. That, of course, had been a reprehensible and sacrilegious deed, but justice had been done. Aware of Jane on her knees beside him, eyes devoutly closed in prayer, Harry stared at the jewels adorning the shrine. There glinted a ruby once donated by a long-dead King of France, big as an egg. One day, he promised himself—and that not too far in the future—it would be his, along with all the other gems that had been donated to honor this treacherous renegade.
