The Nymph from Heaven, page 94
part #1 of The Tudor Chronicles Series
While Maria railed on about the shameful behavior of her rival’s daughter, Katharine recalled an incident that had taken place one day during her visit to Westhorpe that summer. Katharine, seeking Mary’s company, had come upon Charles Brandon, alone in the solar with his daughter Eleanor and Lady Catherine. Eleanor was only twelve years old and her father’s favorite; it was meet that a loving father should allow her to sit upon his lap while he coddled her. But Lady Catherine was no relation to Brandon, and at sixteen was far too old to be playing clippety-clop on her patron’s knee; and the fact that the girl was his own son’s betrothed made the scene doubly offensive to her. Katharine had backed away before they saw her; but she resolved, before she left for London, to speak firmly to the girl about her behavior.
Katharine had journeyed east to assure herself that Lady Catherine was properly settled, and to get away for a while from court and from the unhappy morass that life as England’s queen had become. She never doubted for one moment that in the end, Henry would recognize his folly on his own, or that the pope would pontificate, finally, in her favor, and force Henry to oust Anne. She simply would not permit herself to despair. But whether she was banished from the court, or summoned to it, where she must be exposed daily to the shattering heartbreak of seeing Henry fawn upon another woman, she was miserable.
Mary was delighted with Katharine’s suggestion that she pay a visit to Westhorpe, and had bid Katharine come in time to attend the wedding of Brandon’s daughters by Anne Browne.
The wedding ceremony had been lovely, and the brides and bridegrooms seemed contented with their lots. But instead of looking sleek and complacent, Katharine thought that Mary looked ill and haggard. “What ails you, Sister?” she had asked, as Mary lay on her couch during the informal celebrations taking place in the vast new solar at Westhorpe.
“It is my old complaint,” Mary replied, pressing an unconscious hand to her side. “I fear the wedding preparations have overtaxed my strength.”
In the old days, Katharine would have returned Mary’s hospitality by suggesting that they travel back to London and the court together. Anne had long since taken Suffolk Place from them, but there were other places. And Mary looked as if she needed a doctor. But the court was no place for Mary now, she who had vowed not to place herself in any situation where she might have to yield her royal place to a common wench who had once been her serving maid. Katharine understood Mary’s feelings; she herself was forced to endure such humiliation regularly when called to court. She often wondered if her recalls from time to time were not specifically designed to wear her down. She refused to believe that Henry could be so malicious; therefore, the culprit in that regard must be Anne. Katharine shrugged the thought away, and sought in her mind for a subject to distract Mary from her discomfort.
“The news from court is grim, I fear,” said Katharine.
“Hmph,” grunted Mary. “When is it not, these days? What is amiss now?”
“They say that Bishop Fisher, and some in his household, were poisoned almost unto death for his support of the clergy in the recent Praemunire proceeding against the English church.” Katharine shook her head and tears filled her eyes. “Forsooth, Mary, what is Henry about? How can he so endanger his immortal soul?”
“Surely you do not believe that Henry would cause the bishop to be poisoned?”
“Nay,” said Katharine. “The rumors are that the Boleyns are culpable in the matter. Which means that nothing will be done.”
“It is Anne’s doing,” Mary replied vehemently. “I hear that she is a supporter of Luther. Perhaps she seeks to undermine the church that refuses to free the king to marry her.”
“A fine of one hundred thousand pounds is a secular issue,” said Katharine. “But to insist that the clergy declare Henry to be Supreme head of the Church in England is…blasphemous. And the attempted murder of a bishop is a crime against God and man.”
“Well, poison is a woman’s weapon,” said Mary with a sigh. “I doubt that Henry would have sanctioned such a thing as an attempt on the bishop’s life, no matter how much the man exasperates him. In the end, my royal brother can posture and bandy titles all he likes. He is the king, after all. But it brings him no closer to being granted a divorce. Rather the opposite, I should think, the way he tweaks the pope’s nose.”
Katharine shook her head. “These are merely tactics,” she replied. “Henry seeks to intimidate the clergy in England into granting him that which he desires. He cannot see that they will never do so. The only way independent of Rome for Henry to free himself of our marriage bonds would be if the English church declared our marriage null and void. Such a proclamation could only be made by the Archiepiscopal See of Canterbury. But that Archbishop Warham will never do, despite Henry’s threats and bullying. Warham knows that such a declaration would be worth less than nothing. Only the pope or the Roman Curia can decide this issue.”
“I must say that I admire a man who can stand so firmly on principle in the face of Henry’s wrath. Did Warham not say early on that he believed Julius’ dispensation to be invalid?” asked Mary.
“Yes,” replied Katharine. “He did. That is what makes his recalcitrance so hard for Henry to accept. Even though he agrees with the king and sides with him, still he will not act. Because he knows that he has not the authority to do so.”
“That is good for you, then,” said Mary.
Katharine shrugged. “Perhaps. But bullying the English clergy is not Henry’s only tactic. When he tires of berating the bishops, he harangues the Parliament. But as much as that body enjoy this fining and censuring of the clergy, they will stop short of involving themselves in the matrimonial dispute of their king. Parliament will never authorize Henry to take matters into his own hands.”
Katharine rubbed her eyes. “Chapuys is convinced that Henry is on the verge of denouncing Rome and marrying Anne. But I do not believe this to be so. Henry does not want war with my nephew, and the English people do not want schism and all the concomitant pain that that implies.”
“I pray you are right,” said Mary. “But I fear me that if Henry grows overly impatient, he may say to the Devil with them all and do as he pleases.”
Katharine looked up in concern. “Why think you so?”
Mary sat up and leaned forward to whisper in Katharine’s ear. “It is some words of Henry’s that Brandon shared with me,” she said. “Henry said to him that he no longer recognizes Clement as being the judge of English affairs. He said that even if the pope did his worst and excommunicated him, he cared not a fig for the pope or his excommunications.”
“Jesu!” whispered Katharine, crossing herself. This was grave news indeed. “I cannot believe it.”
“It is true,” said Mary. “But Brandon told me one other thing that may hearten you, Sister. He said that after you faced down the council just after Whitsunday, Brandon was so impressed with your words that he took your side. He told Henry that he believed that you were ready to obey the king in all things but for two higher powers. Henry jumped to the conclusion that you meant the pope and the emperor; but Brandon said no, it was God and your conscience.”
Katharine disliked Brandon and thought him a common buffoon. She had always wondered what Mary saw in the man. But she was heartened by his words. “Said he so, then?” she replied.
“Indeed, yes,” said Mary. “Think, Katharine! If one can turn the mind of the king’s own friend…”
“Yes,” said Katharine. “Yes, I must hold fast. I am certain that in the end, I shall prevail.” Suddenly Mary’s gaze shifted from Katharine’s face. Katharine turned to see whom, or what, had distracted her. Oh dear, she thought. “Mary, I am so dreadfully sorry. I should never have sent the girl here. Had I but known…”
“It is not your fault,” Mary replied, placing a comforting hand on Katharine’s arm. Her eyes, however, followed Brandon, as he and Lady Catherine took a turn together around the solar. Every so often the girl’s tinkling little laugh sounded as she listened to Brandon regale her with some amusing anecdote.
“I will speak to the girl,” said Katharine, her lips pressed into a thin line of disapproval.
“Nay, I pray you, do not do so,” said Mary. “It would merely call attention to what is not overtly recognized by any of us. I am certain that Brandon can be trusted. I do not want to give substance to a fancy that may well prove incorrect.”
# # #
Katharine sighed as she recalled Mary’s words. At last Maria had ended her tirade against Maria de Salinas and her perfidious daughter, Lady Catherine. She had fallen silent and, tired by her outburst, was dozing. In the end Katharine had done as Mary bid her and said nothing to Lady Catherine. But she added Mary’s distress about the girl to the long list of the cares and woes that filled her waking hours.
Katharine looked out of the litter and watched as the flat, endless landscape of Suffolk rolled past her like a living tapestry. An overwhelming memory assailed her of the last time she had made this journey. Along with a visit to Mary, its purpose had been to pray and to make offerings to the shrine at Walsingham, to beg God for a son. Well, that prayer would never be answered now. What, she wondered, was to become of her? Everyone, it seemed, was against Henry in this thing, even unto his own sister and best friend. But was God on her side? He must be, she decided. She had only to hold on just a little longer…
Windsor Castle, July 1530
“This is outrageous, Mother,” cried Princess Mary. “He left without even saying goodbye! How can you permit him to treat you so? Are you not the queen of England still, and the daughter of kings?”
Maria de Moreto, who was packing the queen’s trunks, muttered steadily under her breath, and every now and then Katharine heard a blistering Spanish oath issue forth from her lips.
“That will do, Maria,” said Katharine sharply. But in her own breast she also felt the urge to rage against Henry, against Anne, against fate. But she could not give in to such desires; she must set an example.
Katharine had barely returned from her visit to the east country when she was informed, by royal messenger, that her presence at court was no longer required and that she should repair at once to The More. She had not even been allowed to see Henry, who had ignored her requests for an audience. Ignored, not refused; that was ominous.
But was it not better, reasoned her practical side, to be away from the court, where one’s heart would not constantly be broken anew each day? Windsor was very large, and she was no longer installed in the queen’s apartments; Anne was afforded that privilege now. Katharine’s new rooms were in a quiet, obscure wing of the castle. It was torture, and no less, knowing that Henry, her beloved, was in the same place as she, and yet she was rarely able to catch even a glimpse of him. And when she did, Anne was usually at his side. She had to bite back the tears at the thought of that sight. Still, her heart cried, to be separated from Henry completely would be even worse.
“And why in God’s name are we not allowed to be together?” asked Mary. “That is most unfair.”
“Mary,” said Katharine sternly. “I really must insist that you cease taking the Lord’s name in vain. It is blasphemous and accomplishes nothing.” Katharine looked at Mary, who glared back at her, the question still hanging on the air. “I know not,” Katharine replied, shaking her head. “Truly, I know not.”
“It is only to vex Your Graces that you are to be kept apart,” said Maria. “It is the doing of that…that…harlot!”
“I pray you, Maria, lower your voice,” said Katharine. Her days of being able to protect her retainers from the king’s wrath were long over; she feared what Maria’s fate would be if anyone repeated her careless words to the king. But why indeed was Henry forcibly separating mother and daughter once again? There could be only one answer to that question. Henry was trying to coerce her into giving up. He had already said as much; he had offered her money, lands, comfortable homes, the freedom to see Mary whenever she liked, if only she would renounce her title of queen and agree to the annulment. But that she would never do; surely Henry must know that by now.
“Maria is right,” said Mary. “My Lord Father has become quite cruel in his quest to make a bastard of me!”
Katharine laid down the buskins and stockings she was rolling for placement into the trunk that held her personal linen and walked over to where Mary was pacing the room like a restless lion. She laid a soothing hand on her daughter’s cheek and said, “Hush, Child. You must not say such things, even if they are true. You must do your best to put all of this out of your mind and enjoy the summer progress.”
“I shall not go on the progress,” Mary replied. “How can he ask it of me? Would you go, knowing that you must give way to a parvenu mistress? I shall simply feign illness and join you at The More.”
Katharine felt a pain grip her heart at her daughter’s plaintive words. It was exactly what she had been planning to ask of Henry, to spare Mary the pain of yet another royal progress with Anne. The last one had been a disaster, with the people hissing Anne and cheering the princess. But Henry had not even bothered to acknowledge her request to speak with him, so she had not been able to ask. It had been like a blow upon a bruise to learn that Henry had left Windsor without even the courtesy of informing her of his departure. She had learned from an angry Maria that he had left that very morning for Woodstock with Anne by his side, preparatory to the annual summer journey, and that Mary was expected to join them there before the month was out, while she herself was to be exiled to The More.
“That you must not do,” said Katharine. She placed both hands on her daughter’s thin, pale arms and looked into her eyes. “You must always obey the king in all things. In addition to being your father, he is also your sovereign lord. Unless the matter touches your conscience, you must do as he bids you.”
“Just as you do,” said Mary impatiently. “Always with you it is resignation, acquiescence, acceptance! Why do you not defy him? The people would support you, you know.” She, too, recalled a previous summer progress, upon which she had been forced to accompany her father and Anne, when the crowds in the towns and on the roads had shouted, “Whore!” and “We want no Nan Bullen! No Nan Bullen for us! God save the Princess Mary and Good Queen Katharine!”
Why indeed, Katharine asked herself. Were she of a mind she could have made rousing speeches and raised the populace. She certainly could have pressed the issue harder with her imperial nephew, gained his support, perhaps even asked him to send troops. With Charles’ help, they could have deposed Henry and placed Mary upon the throne, with herself as regent until the girl attained her majority. But Katharine had seen war with her own eyes. She knew what it was like, with its mangled men and rotting corpses, its widows and orphans, its ruined crops and famine, its misery, hopelessness and despair. Her mother’s war had been a holy war, and justifiable; it had been waged to reclaim the lands taken by the Infidel from Spain and if possible, to save their heathen souls. But she would not visit such a scourge upon the people of her adopted land for any reason, especially not for one so personal. The last civil war, that which had been ended by Henry’s own father, had been both bloody and long. She could not, in good conscience, start another one.
“Mary, you must put all thought of such things from your mind,” said Katharine firmly. “Such words are folly, and worse. They are treason.” Katharine’s heart twisted anew at the sight of Mary’s face as it crumpled. She had gone from angry defiance to anguished tears at her mother’s words. Katharine held her daughter in hers arms and whispered, “There, there, my child, all may yet be well. We must be strong. And above all, we must never, never, give up.”
London, September 1531
“Hi, you, Jenny Brewer! More ale, if you please!” The sound of banging mugs and tankards could be heard all over the crowded pub, along with men shouting, serving wenches squealing, dogs barking, and some intermittent raucous singing.
“Just you ’old your ’orses, Bobby Platt,” retorted Jenny, as she placed a tankard under the tap and tilted the cask. She had been lucky in her marriage to Tom Brewer. He owned his own business, and what a successful one it was! She had been saved just in the nick of time from the fate of her sisters, who were now prostitutes in Southwark. As she contemplated her good fortune and thanked Providence for it for the hundredth time, she realized that no liquid was issuing forth from the tap. “Damn!” she said, under her breath. To her husband Tom, who was tapping at the other end of the long bar, she said sweetly, “Tommy! Be a luv and fetch me a new cask, won’t ye?”
Tom looked over at his wife in exasperation. She had been such a pretty wench at fifteen, wearing a red ribbon in her long, brown curls, and she turned a pretty ankle; but in the pub she was next to useless. “’Ow many times ’ave I tole you, Woman, to tilt the cask and drain the dregs? You’ll ‘ave us in the Poor House yet with your extravagant ways!”
“But I did tilt it,” she replied with a pout. “It’s empty.”
Tom threw up his hands in frustration. “That’s even worse, then! ’Ow many times ’ave I tole you, Woman, to call for a new cask afore the old ‘un is drained? Think of the money we’ll lose whilst these chaps wait!” He lumbered off in the direction of the cellar for another cask. Before he disappeared down the stairs, he shouted back, “I should look to divorce ye, as Great King Harry is doing with Good Queen Katharine!”
It was all that was needed; all conversations about other topics ceased, and the excited crowd, already mostly drunk, took up the gauntlet and aired their various points of view on the King’s Great Matter.
