The King's Pleasure, page 12
Thomas More thought of Thomas Wolsey with admiration and a certain pity. It was impossible not to admire the tenacity and industry of a man who could sit down to a job at four in the morning and stay there for twelve hours, not eating, ignoring the needs of nature. Impossible not to admire a mind, so acutely intelligent, so widely informed, and gifted with such power of memory. At meetings of the Privy Council it was noticeable how when some matter was mentioned—even a matter presumably outside the man’s immediate range—he could, without reference to book or paper, produce some relevant facts or what appeared to be a considered judgment. More, whose own tastes were simple, also admired the way in which Wolsey had taken to grandeur; ostentatious perhaps but always within context; never vulgar. Even his enemies—and he did not lack them, though they might snarl enviously behind his back, face to face with him, never failed to be impressed by his personal dignity. But More, who missed very little, had seen Wolsey’s single weakness—a too great dependence upon the King: he had, to a dangerous degree, made Henry Tudor his god. And if for any reason his god should cease to smile, should turn away his face, or frown, what would the poor fellow have left?
Wolsey, the indispensable man, brushed against all their minds and was gone and Henry reverted to his baby daughter, and again in terms which showed Katharine that when he looked towards the future he did not visualize Mary succeeding him.
“We may pick and choose what the child shall learn,” he said; “when it comes to whom she shall marry there is no choice. I’ve given this some thought of late and there is only one man fit to mate with my daughter—her cousin Charles.”
“But he is far too old,” Katharine said. “By the time she is marriageable he will be thirty and more.”
“In his prime,” Henry said, ignoring, as usual, anything which did not exactly fit his wish. “He is now King of Spain, when Maximilian dies he will have the Netherlands and Austria; and he is certain to be elected Emperor. Mary will be Empress.”
To both his hearers there was a touching naïveté in this confident plan-making.
“It would hardly do to count upon it,” Katharine said. “Before Mary is half-grown Charles will be under pressure to marry and…” She realized what she was about to say, faltered a second and then finished the sentence, controlling her voice, “beget an heir.” Once one admitted that a subject was too sore to be touched upon it was sore indeed.
“Mary will be worth waiting for,” Henry said. “And if Charles should need advice as to how to resist pressure, he can apply to me. Eh, my love?” He smiled at her and she was passionately grateful to him, both for refusing to admit that the subject was sore, and for thus indirectly reminding her that he had waited for her, avoiding all other betrothals.
More, watching them, thought how mysterious were the ways of God. A loving couple, both seemingly healthy, wedded for more than eight years, dead babies, miscarriages, one living child, female. And the Queen, poor woman, past her first youth, thirty-three at this year’s end; beginning to show her age, too.
Katharine was only too well aware of the way in which the gap in age between her and Henry was widening. Her glass was a constant reminder. Disappointment must be accepted and could be borne; but it left a mark. In repose her face now wore a look of settled gravity, of patient resignation. Her smile was still sweet and in moments of animation her eyes brightened into beauty again, and since the sight of Henry always pleased her, this was the face which he saw most often. But repeated pregnancies had thickened her figure and though she wore her stays tightly laced, was careful to preserve an erect posture, kept every fast day and on others ate sparingly, the slenderness of youth was gone forever. Her complexion, thanks to Maria de Moreto, was well preserved.
“My mother,” Maria said, “kept her looks into old age.” She spoke without fondness or pride, remembering how often she had beaten eggs and oil and honey into a cosmetic paste; when they could be ill spared. Now, with more loving care, she whisked and Katharine wore the sticky mask. “For the hands and neck, to keep them white, there is nothing like lemon juice,” Maria said. And though lemons were less easily come by in England than in Spain, they were obtained and the juice faithfully applied. Even more rare and expensive was henna, with which the prophet Mahomet was said to have dyed his beard. It was good for coloring, hiding the fading hairs and brightening the rest, but the silky luster was not restored. In all this business of fending off the damage of the years, clothes helped. She chose more somber colors now but the materials were always sumptuous and her fondness for jewels had not lessened. Fully garbed and bejewelled she was a magnificent, if not a youthful, figure. Sometimes she remembered her mother, too busy for vanity, caring only that her clothes should be clean and suitable to the occasion. But the lesson to be learned from that memory was plain—her mother and father had ended as a pair of working partners, and then not always in accord. It was not a relationship which she wanted to establish with Henry; never, not even when they were very old.
Presently Mary was three and there has been no sign of another child to follow next year, next year; next year. There were moments when Katharine felt that she had failed Henry, and England in not providing a prince; but neither King nor country seemed to bear her any grudge. To Henry she was still dear Kate, or my love, and he still took pleasure in her company: with the people she was still popular, the Princess who had somehow caught their unpredictable fancy, the Queen whom they knew to be good.
And there was always Mary, as satisfactory a daughter as any parents ever had. Unlike Katharine in her youth, Mary learned quickly and easily; in that way she was like poor Joanna; but there were no disquieting signs to be seen in that resemblance. Mary was sensible from the first, completely amenable and a stranger to fear. At the age of three, wearing a gown which save for its color was an exact replica of her mother’s, she would face any stranger, however impressive, make a perfect curtsey and say, in English, Latin, French or Spanish, “Welcome to our Court.” It was a performance that never failed to charm, and to astonish, since Mary was small for her age. Her parents, who had also appointed themselves as her first teachers, would look on with pride. Katharine would think: God saw fit to deny me a son, but in His mercy gave me Mary. Henry would think: My daughter so gifted, what might my son not be?
IX
As you say, a fine boy,” Elizabeth Taillebois said. “And it is a pity that he will have no name.” A little malicious sparkle brightened her eyes. She had done what the Queen had failed to do and borne the King a son. This boy was too late to be of her dead husband’s begetting.
“He will have a name,” Henry said, looking down at the cradle; “the best, after Tudor. Fitzroy. That will be his name; Henry Fitzroy, son of the King.” His face darkened a little and he looked stubborn. “If it pleases God to withhold from me a legitimate son, he will have titles too. Duke of Richmond: Duke of Somerset.”
More than she had hoped. Duke of Richmond was the title which the child’s grandfather had carried when he won the Battle of Bosworth and made the English crown his own. As for Henry begetting a legitimate child, that possibility could be dismissed. It was three years since Princess Mary was born and not a sign.
“That should go a little way to make up for being born a bastard,” Lady Taillebois said. “What a pity that there is not some pretty title that means King’s whore; then I could claim the honor.”
She had, not wit exactly, but a sharp, almost shrewish way of putting things which Henry found amusing. She had never had and would never have, any emotional hold on him, their relationship was quite unsentimental; she was good to go to bed with, once in a while, and she often made him laugh.
“You wrong yourself,” he said, “Or do you? Whore implies some degree of promiscuity. I suppose,” he said, pretending doubt, “that he is mine.”
“Mewed up here as I have been, by Your Grace’s order, I fail to see who else’s he could be. A stable boy’s? A gardener’s?” She too pretended doubt, squinting at the child. “I rather think not. To me he does not look like a peasant’s get.”
“You are a hussy.”
“When you say that, you should add, Thank God!”
“Sometimes I do. And I do thank God for the boy…” This was clear proof that he was capable of begetting a son, strong and healthy. But why, in the name of God, couldn’t he have been Katharine’s child, born at Richmond, Prince of Wales? As soon as Henry’s resignation had ceased to be mitigated by hope, a slightly rebellious element had crept into it. He never expected to be enlightened; commanding officers did not explain their motives or designs to those under them; on the other hand even a foot soldier was entitled to mutter and mumble a bit, under his breath, when faced with a situation that he could not understand. Henry muttered and mumbled to himself fairly often. This splendid child, now three months old, past the most dangerous post-birth period, and with the true Tudor red hair curling on his head, was a son whom Henry would most proudly and gladly have presented to the nation. Imagine the joy! Presumably God knew His own business best—one must believe that—but what a left-handed way of doing things! And how difficult God had made it for His true soldier! In order to give this child his due—and to show the world what Henry Tudor could produce, it would be necessary to hurt Katharine. And that he shrank from.
She was no longer the red-gold, pink-and-white princess from Spain whom he had coveted, envying Arthur, and married, defying some death bed words. She was a woman, settling down to middle-age, engrossed in the upbringing and education of her only living child. Her extreme piety sometimes bored him—he thought the wearing of a nun’s habit was carrying things to extremes—but she had never done or said anything that could, in the slightest way, diminish his respect and admiration for her. She was part of his youth, the first woman he had truly loved, and she fitted him well, in many ways. Her dignity complemented his; she had a sense of occasion that matched his; she had good sense, and magnanimity. He still admired her; he still loved her, but love, like a masker, had changed its face of late. She no longer stirred him, that little, most vital member, once so unruly when in near contact with her that he would assert himself, even during a scolding. He could still take her hand, kiss her, lie beside her but these touches were no longer a preliminary to bliss.
And could a man be blamed for that. He was not subject to the will. He no longer responded wholeheartedly to Elizabeth Taillebois. He had run off and involved himself with a woman as different from Katharine and from Elizabeth as a woman could be.
Her name was Mary Boleyn and she was the elder daughter of Sir Thomas Boleyn, one of the knights who had fought at the Battle of the Spurs. She was lovely to look at, very blonde and she never seemed to be more than half awake. Katharine was intelligent; Elizabeth was shrewd and amusing; both of them demanded some activity above the waistline. Mary Boleyn was, by comparison, a feather bed, a comfortable, almost anonymous receptacle.
There were times when Henry thought that perhaps the Turks had the right idea—God forgive him for admiring any infidel custom; but perhaps a man needed three women; one to be good with; one to be bad with; one with whom to be nothing.
Thinking these things he said to the woman who was so fit to be bad with, “I think when he is six; able to stand up to the ceremony and comport himself properly.”
The malice shone in her eyes again. “Naturally it will take longer than if he had been born in the right bed.” It was true that had the boy been legitimate he would not have had to wait six years for his title.
“You,” Henry said, “will end as a shrew.”
“I hope not. I intend to be a sweet-faced lady pensioner; in a lace cap.”
That was going one step too far. Katharine had lately taken to wearing a cap made of lace petals—and very becoming it was.
“The Queen,” he said swiftly, “will still be short of forty when this boy is six. If by then…” He left that sentence unfinished and went on, “Another disrespectful remark about Her Grace and you will get no pension at all.” That was a blow in a very vulnerable area; Elizabeth had always been greedy, for gifts, for allowances, property. Still, she had given him a son, she had bolstered his belief in his own virility.
“Mind your tongue,” he said, “and you shall have your pension.”
He thought of Mary Boleyn, curious girl, going through life like a sleepwalker; asking for nothing, refusing what was offered, even trinkets. Why? he asked. She replied in her soft, sleepy way, that to take anything from him would make her feel like a bought woman. “Besides, people would notice, and talk. And one gaping mouth in a family is enough.”
He had tried to conduct his second extra-marital affair more discreetly even than his first. Mary Boleyn had an appointment as one of Katharine’s maids-in-waiting, but it was natural enough for her to visit her father, useful, shrewd man who was seldom far from Court, except when Henry sent him on an errand. Mary went to see her father, housed not gloriously, but comfortably, wherever the Court was; the King strolled into those apartments to talk with Sir Thomas whom the old nobility called that lickspittle toady, the gentleman lackey who was not a gentleman at all. So far nobody seemed to have noticed the coincidences of the timing; he hoped nobody would. He had no wish to hurt Katharine again; and he had no wish to seem fickle. All things considered, he had been, where women were concerned, remarkably abstemious; only two mistresses in a reign of ten years; a man should be judged, not only by the temptations to which he had succumbed, but by those he had resisted. And, when he felt guilty, which was often, he remembered that he had never neglected his duty to Katharine; whenever that small, uncontrollable he could be forced to perform, into service he went. For one thing he had not quite abandoned hope; a woman in her later thirties, even in her forties, might still bear a child.
He intended to stay away from Jericho; Elizabeth’s attraction for him was outworn and he would have been happy to give her her pension and discard her. But the child drew him. He was a doting father; he loved Mary, disappointed as he was about her sex and the fact that she seemed doomed never to have a brother; he loved Henry, born of the wrong woman, in the wrong bed. Both were extensions of himself; their coloring, shape, mental ability, amusing, graceful ways were like mirrors, reflecting his superiority. In the company of either—Mary so apt with the lute and with a phenomenal memory, speaking good, almost perfect Latin at the age of four; Henry strutting about on his hobby-horse and flourishing his little wooden sword—he could momentarily forget that Mary was a mere girl, and Henry a bastard. Afterwards, when the entrancement ended and ran full tilt into grim reality, he would think—if only…if only the boy had been born Prince of Wales; if only the girl had been born on the wrong side of the blanket. If only, if only…The stark fact remained and sooner or later he must face it. He was King, he could give the little boy a name and confer titles on him presently. Would the English people accept him as heir? It seemed improbable.
From such troubling thoughts Henry could turn his mind to other things; to the making of his Court, by the hospitality and favor extended to scholars of all nations, the most cosmopolitan and modern Court in Europe; to his own enjoyment of hunting and violent sports; to his love of music and books; and, perhaps above all, to the preservation of his position as the third, greatly sought after, power in Europe.
It was the day of the young rulers. Joanna’s son, Charles V, had inherited his vast realms and been elected Emperor in 1519, when he was still only twenty; Francis of France had been twenty-one when he became King in 1515: Henry, in 1520, was still only twenty-nine and had ruled for eleven years. Between the rival powers of France and the Empire, England held the balance: between Francis and Henry there was a strong element of personal rivalry that had little to do with politics; it was even rumored that Francis was a shade taller than Henry, and equally expert at all sports which demanded skill and courage. They were both anxious to meet.
Katharine, not really a politically minded woman, had the Spaniard’s inborn distrust of France and was relieved when, just before the meeting between Henry and Francis was to take place, the Emperor proposed to visit England. She had never seen Joanna’s son, but she felt that he must have inherited something of his mother’s charm. Of her vagrant beauty, and the good looks that had gained his father his title of Philip the Handsome, she knew from report, that he had nothing. In her secret heart she reasoned in feminine fashion; physically Charles was no rival for Henry; therefore Henry would be more disposed to like him and to listen to him—he was said to be very reasonable and sensible—than to like Francis.
The meetings between the three young men who held Europe in their hands, were arranged for the spring and summer of 1520. Charles was to come to England in the spring; Henry was then to go to France and from there to proceed to Flanders, part of Charles’ realm, for another meeting. Katharine hoped that thus a true balance would be struck. If they could meet and talk and get to understand one another, the peace of the world might be assured; and as she grew older she became even more pacifist. Her remark after Flodden and the death of the King of Scots, “It should have been better for him to have been in peace,” expressed a conviction that had not diminished with the years.
