The King's Pleasure, page 59
“Take this ring,” he said, drawing it from his finger. It held Becket’s ruby, which he had finally acquired when the saint’s shrine had been dismantled. It seemed a fitting token to give to another beleaguered Archbishop of Canterbury—although this one deserved it because he was loyal to his King. “When they come to arrest you, give it to them. They will know, by that token, that you have my support.”
The next day, Gardiner was back, with Wriothesley, demanding to know why Cranmer had confounded them and evaded arrest.
Harry rose. “Do you think I enjoy seeing my bishops at war with each other, my lord? I am sick to the stomach of the faction fighting in this court, and will not have an invaluable and devout servant like Archbishop Cranmer molested and hounded in this way! I command you to make your peace with him. Get out!”
No sooner had they fled his presence than Sir Thomas Seymour craved an audience.
“Your Grace.” He sketched a hasty bow, clearly a young man in a hurry. “I have just come from Lambeth Palace and I really must protest against the lack of state the archbishop maintains! His household is in no way adequate for his rank, and he knows not how to entertain in a style appropriate to his dignity. Might I urge, Sir, that his vast revenues be diverted to the Crown and replaced with a salary? That would be much to your Grace’s benefit.”
Harry was astonished that one of Cranmer’s own party was attacking him, but it was obvious that Seymour was out to curry his favor, hoping he would reward one who had suggested a new source of revenue. He studied the man, noting the swagger, the luxuriant red beard, the restless energy, and wondered what Katharine saw in this self-seeking rogue. Well, he had a score to settle with him!
“Thank you for drawing this to my attention, Sir Thomas,” he said smoothly. “I will deal with it.”
Seymour looked crestfallen, as if he had expected more, but he took himself off. Harry then wrote a note to Cranmer and had it delivered at once. Later that morning, he summoned Seymour.
“His Grace of Canterbury asks you to present yourself at Lambeth Palace this afternoon,” he informed him, gleefully noting Seymour’s astonishment. “On your return, you will report to me.”
That evening, Seymour joined Harry in the privy chamber.
“Back so soon?” Harry asked. “Had my lord Archbishop dined before you came? Did he make you good cheer?”
Seymour had the grace to look ashamed. “I fear I have abused your Highness with an untruth,” he admitted. “He feasted me most magnificently.”
“You see, the matter was easily rectified,” Harry said. “You should have considered well before you made your complaint. I warn you, there shall be no alteration made to the archbishop’s establishment while I live!”
Seymour had the grace to look chastened.
“However,” Harry went on, “as a reward for your diligence in coming to me with what you feared to be a matter of concern, I am sending you on an embassy to Brussels next month. Then you will report to Sir John Wallop at Guisnes and take up a new military command. We have need of men such as you to aid the Emperor against the King of France.”
If ever he saw a man’s face fall, it was now. It was obvious, from the fleeting flash of enmity in Seymour’s face, that the scoundrel knew he had been bested—and why!
When Seymour had departed, bowing low to hide his fury, Harry sat there humming, pleased with the success of his ruse. He felt sorry for Cranmer. Everyone seemed to have it in for him, one way or another. Well, Harry would do something to cheer him, for the man was sorely in need of it. He picked up his quill and wrote a private letter to the archbishop, sanctioning the return of Mistress Cranmer, whom he believed had gone back to Germany.
* * *
—
Thwarted of bigger fish, the conservatives now struck at the Privy Chamber. Gardiner informed Harry that the Council had drawn up indictments against eleven of his servants, among them several trusted gentlemen, the Master of the Revels, Master Penny, and even the royal cook. Harry was not impressed or pleased; he ordered the arrest of the man who had drafted the indictments and had him tried and convicted of perjury, then thrown into the Fleet prison.
Gardiner and his friends remained undaunted, determined to rid the court of radicals and heretics; their aim, Harry knew, was to eradicate all opposition to their party and suppress religious dissent. They would not find it easy, for the reformists were dominant and among them were several rising new men, including Sir William Paget who had one foot in every pageant. Harry had come to like him immensely and relied on him to screen most of his correspondence. What matter if the man enriched himself in the process and even (it was bruited) stooped to a little blackmail on occasion? He was honest at heart, and hardworking.
Harry had also come to rely on Sir Anthony Denny, another humanist and lover of learning, and a man of great personal charm. His painstaking devotion to his duties endeared him to Harry, who used him as a buffer against a clamorous world and the petitioners who never ceased to make demands on him. Gardiner and his cronies loathed Denny, a radical who had the courage to speak out against this latest persecution of Protestants, but Harry would not have a word said to his detriment.
Harry himself, feeling his age and thinking increasingly on the prospect of divine judgment, was inclining more and more toward traditional religion; his heart was with the conservatives. He had ordered the publication of a book written under his direction, some of it in his own hand. Its true title was The Necessary Doctrine and Erudition of Any Christian Man, but people were soon calling it “The King’s Book.” It was the most orthodox and reactionary statement Harry had ever made on the creed of the English Church, and the radicals were vociferous in their protests.
“Some of the reformers say your book is not worth a fart,” Will remarked, lounging at Harry’s feet before the hearth.
“I care not for their opinions!” Harry growled, prodding him with his slippered toe. “They are but few men. Paget tells me that eleven twelfths of my subjects are faithful Christians.”
“That’s not enough for our friend Gardiner!”
It was true. Gardiner was incessantly urging Harry to clamp down on wholesale reading of the Bible. But it was too late to turn back the clock. Being able to read the Scriptures in English had encouraged his subjects to think for themselves, and Gardiner feared that many had gone dangerously beyond the unquestioning obedience expected of devout Catholics.
Harry compromised, bidding Parliament condemn false and untrue translations and restrict the reading of the Scriptures to men of the upper and middle ranks of society, where at least one might hope to find a better-educated, more thoughtful level of understanding. Women, he decided, were best left to learn from their husbands at home, as St. Paul had enjoined.
* * *
—
Katharine was now a frequent visitor at court and Harry was spending as much time with her as he could. He found their debates stimulating, especially those about religion, and was impressed anew by her erudition and sharp wits. Above all, he loved her company, and he had come to realize that she truly was the woman he had been waiting for.
He invited her to supper, just the two of them, alone. They talked of many things, but then he laid down his napkin.
“My Lady Latimer,” he said, “you must be aware that I think very highly of you. You are a comely lady with many virtues and rare gifts of nature—all the things in which I most delight. You are a warm and stimulating companion. You exude goodwill.”
Katharine blushed. “Your Grace, you flatter me.”
“I was never a flatterer,” he protested. “I’m a plain man. I say what I think. And I think you are a woman I can respect, and that you would be a perfect Queen of England.” He reached across and took her hand. “Lady Latimer, I am asking you to marry me.”
She seemed momentarily tongue-tied.
“Oh, Sir, I am utterly amazed. I mean, I am not worthy,” she gushed at length. “Your Grace does me too much honor.”
He squeezed her hand. “You have every requisite quality, and we two get on well together, do we not? I have had many disappointments in my marriages, and some ill-conditioned wives, but I know we would accord well.”
“In truth, I do not know how to answer your Majesty. I am not long widowed. I was not looking to remarry so soon, if at all. And, given your Grace’s health, I thought you just appreciated some feminine companionship.”
“By God, my lady, I’m not looking for a nurse, but a queen to grace my court and a wife to give me more sons! I want a mature and intelligent woman with whom I can enjoy good conversation, someone I can trust. And I know I can trust you. I’m lonely. I want a wife in my bed and at my board. And there is about you a certain glow. You have feelings for me, I think.”
He had poured his heart out, thinking it would melt hers. But she was looking doubtful. “I do,” she said. “I like your Grace very much, not just as my sovereign, whom I am bound to love, but as a friend. You have been so good to me and mine.”
“I hope you see me as more than just the fount of patronage?” he teased her.
“Of course! I would not have you think me mercenary, only grateful.”
“You have doubts? I am offering you the world.”
“Sir, I am indeed sensible of that,” she faltered. “You have taken me by surprise…”
“I love you, my lady,” he said. He creaked to his feet, stooped down, and kissed her gently on the lips. “I would kneel to you if I could, my lady. It is my hope that you will make me a happy man.”
“Your Majesty’s favor means everything to me,” she said. “If you would grant me a little time to think and pray on the matter?”
He sat down, disappointed. “Of course,” he said. “But pray do not keep me waiting too long.”
* * *
—
He could barely contain himself. It was as if he was in the thick of the hunt and the prey was eluding him, and he was immersed in that moment when its capture became the most desirable thing in the world. Suddenly, his whole desire was to marry Katharine. He loved her; he prized her. She must be his!
She came to his lodging on an early-summer evening, wearing an elegant green velvet gown he had given her with a French hood of white satin. He rose as fast as his bandaged leg would allow him and held out his hands. “No, Lady Latimer, there is no need to curtsey. Be seated.” He indicated the chair on the other side of the hearth, on which a great vase of roses had been placed.
“What beautiful flowers!” she said. “I trust your Majesty is well?”
“Aye, and I hope to be even better soon. My lady, do you have something to tell me?” He held his breath.
She smiled at him. “Yes, your Majesty. I am deeply honored to accept your gracious proposal.”
He could have wept for joy. “You have made me the happiest man in the world,” he said, his voice breaking.
Chapter 36
1543
They were married in July in the Queen’s closet at Hampton Court, with Gardiner officiating and the whole world, it seemed, applauding. Among the twenty guests were Harry’s daughters, Hertford, and Marget Douglas, now restored to favor and bearing the bride’s train. After the ceremony, the new Queen Katharine embraced Mary and hugged an excited Elizabeth, now nearly ten and already displaying the coquettish manners of her mother.
And so Harry settled contentedly into wedded bliss.
Katharine was quieter than any of the younger wives he had had, and they got on pleasantly. She had no caprices and made few demands on him. In bed and at board, she was loving and kind, and warmly sympathetic toward him when his bad leg incapacitated him. To his relief, he was able to play the husband creditably, and lead a fairly active life; and if he did not feel as rejuvenated as he had when he married Katheryn, he knew himself a lucky man, especially when Kate told him that their marriage was the greatest joy and comfort that could have come to her. Never, he thought, had he had a wife more agreeable to his heart.
He was proud to see her exerting her benevolent influence over the court and welcoming men of learning to her chamber. Her rare goodness made every day like a Sunday, which was virtually unheard of in a royal palace, and she was sound in her religious observances. She was forever scribbling down her thoughts, and when he read her private writings, he saw she was graced with a personal piety that had more in common with the teachings of Erasmus than those of Luther.
Kate soon gathered around her a circle of ladies who shared her love for learning and impassioned debate. One was Suffolk’s young firebrand of a wife, Katherine Willoughby, an ardent reformist who kept a spaniel she had mischievously named Gardiner. Harry had to smile when he heard her calling him sharply to heel.
It did not worry him that Katharine’s chamber might be a haven for radicals and reformist preachers, since she liked to encourage self-improvement and pious devotion. Whenever he joined her, he found everyone absorbed in virtuous study, reading, writing, and applying themselves to extending their knowledge. It set a good example, even if it did arouse the undue resentment and suspicions of the conservatives.
But Katharine also enjoyed dancing and shared Harry’s passion for music. One of his great pleasures was sitting in her chamber, listening to her Italian musicians, and holding her hand. Simple pleasures. They were what a good woman brought to her lord.
* * *
—
There was plague in London that summer, and Harry issued proclamations forbidding the citizens to approach the court and courtiers to enter the City. Soon after his wedding, he took Katharine and Mary on a long hunting progress to the south and west of England. But the pestilence was still lively in the autumn when they returned. To Harry’s great sorrow, Holbein was one of those who had succumbed. Visiting the master’s workshop at Whitehall, he gazed on the last work he had commissioned—a vast painting of himself presenting a charter to the Barber Surgeons Company of London, which would now never be finished—and wept. How easily the tears came these days.
He began to seek out new artistic talent, though no one could replace the genius of Holbein. The best was a gifted native of Antwerp called Hans Eworth, whom he set to finishing off portraits Holbein had left incomplete. Kate liked Eworth and commissioned from him miniatures of herself and Harry. She also had a full-length picture of herself painted by another follower of Holbein, Master John.
Then Harry lured to England, with the inducement of a high salary, a Dutchman, Guillim Scrots. Influenced by the art of France and Italy, Scrots was famed for painting costume in intricate detail. It was he who produced a most extraordinary portrait of the six-year-old Prince Edward.
Harry could not hide his dismay when he first saw it. It was uncommonly distorted.
“Your Grace does not like it?” Scots ventured, frowning.
“The Prince looks fat,” Harry complained. “Elongated.” And then it came to him. “It’s an anamorphosis, of course!” He moved to the side and squinted at it, seeing the picture come into perspective. “And a good one, too! Holbein painted a skull in this fashion in his portrait of the French ambassadors. Well done, Scrots! I shall have it hung in Whitehall Palace. My courtiers will love it!”
* * *
—
Harry could not have wished for a better stepmother for his children. Kate was kind and supportive to them all, and they were quickly coming to love her. She had become close friends with Mary, who was only four years her junior.
“I mean to win the affection of your other children,” she had told Harry before they wed. Since then, she had invited all three to come to court whenever he permitted, and wrote regularly to them when they were absent, encouraging Edward to reply in Latin, at which he was making good progress.
“And Elizabeth has written to me in Italian!” she informed Harry, delighted. “I must send her a gift. She ate something that disagreed with her and needs something to cheer her. And I will send Edward some money for his little pleasures. Oh, and Harry, you must see the suits of crimson velvet and white satin I’ve ordered for him!”
He beamed at her and kissed her hand.
He loved all his children, but Edward, the precious, long-awaited son, was naturally his favorite. The boy was growing up fast—he would soon be breeched—but Harry worried that he was small for his age. He had one shoulder higher than the other, and was short-sighted, but he was an attractive child with blond hair, gray eyes, an elfin face, and a resolute, direct gaze, like his father’s. On his recent visits, Harry had been proud to see that, already, the boy was copying his mannerisms and stance, standing proudly with his feet firmly apart, hand on hip or dagger.
“Your Grace, we constantly urge the Prince to satisfy your Grace’s good expectations,” Lady Bryan had assured Harry, more than once. Maybe that was why Edward was plainly in awe of him. On one occasion, when Harry and Kate had been visiting the boy at Hertford Castle, Harry had given him some jewels from the suppressed monasteries. Edward’s face had lit up.
“Most noble Father, I thank you for these wondrous gifts, which betoken your great love for me. If you did not love me, you would not give them to me.”
“Of course I love you—you are my son as well as my heir,” Harry replied, embracing him. Yet he was aware that, to the child, he must seem a distant and awe-inspiring figure.
In October, when his birthday came, Edward was breeched and removed from the care of women. He did not seem moved at the departure of Lady Bryan and his nurses, and was sanguine about being given into the charge of the tutor Harry had chosen for him, who was supported by a staff of male officers.
