The King's Pleasure, page 16
“It would be difficult not to; she left in no disgrace. The one thing is…she did not get along very well with the others. I could never see why.”
“Things will be easier now. As an Earl’s daughter she will have her own apartments,” Henry said.
He was tired of riding to and fro between London and Hever; he had been doing it for four years. No man had ever wooed a woman so sedulously as he had wooed Anne, or been so little rewarded. Four years earlier, his fancy lightly taken, he had told Wolsey to break up that boy-and-girl nonsense; Tom Boleyn’s daughter was no fit match for Northumberland’s heir. That had been done and after a little space he had gone down to Hever, set on easy conquest and been rebuffed and eluded in a way that had turned fancy into infatuation. Anne had made it cruelly plain that she would never be his mistress and that, instead of cooling his ardor, had fanned it. He had only lured her back to Court by making grandiose promises, which he intended to keep: and to do that he needed Wolsey’s help and full cooperation. He knew that Wolsey would not work his best on the problem if he knew that the ultimate aim was to make Tom Boleyn’s daughter Queen; so care was necessary and great discretion; he had not dared to go to Hever one hundredth as often as he wished. With Anne amongst Katharine’s ladies again he would at least see her, talk to her, dance with her sometimes without making himself conspicuous.
So Anne was back at Court; no longer a mere knight’s daughter, but Lady Anne, daughter of an earl; and the collar she always wore was now of gold, set with real jewels; her clothes were better too; dresses of amber-colored, or tawny velvet, or of silk, so darkly cream that it made her sallow skin look fairer than it was. She still lacked figure, no bosom at all; and she still lacked the power of endearing herself to other ladies. She was still the changeling.
Wolsey said, “Your Grace, I see Clement’s predicament; it is not easy for one Pope to go against a ruling which his predecessor gave under his leaden seal. But the Archbishop of Canterbury and I have gone very thoroughly into the matter and we have decided that there is sufficient doubt to make action feasible. The Holy See has many things to consider; we gave your great matter our undivided attention and our conclusion has been forwarded to Rome.”
“Where it will lie on a shelf, gather dust.”
“Things move slowly there,” Wolsey agreed. He knew why. He should have been Pope—and could, would have been, but for the hidden influence of the Emperor. That influence would also operate against Henry’s plea that his marriage was unlawful; the Emperor was Katharine’s nephew.
“The questioning of Julius’ dispensation,” he said, “could be made unnecessary, very simply. I considered it the other night when I lay wakeful. Her Grace is, as we all know, a woman of great piety. If she could be convinced that her marriage was unlawful, she would abjure it and retire into a convent…There is a precedent for it. A saintly Queen of France did precisely that, and allowed her husband to remarry. It would be much the speediest way.”
“I think she might do it,” Henry said, after a little pause. “She is half a nun already; she wears the habit, under her clothes. She has a room in Greenwich, bare as a cell. She gives time and money to charities…My true Thomas, unfailing friend; I think you have hit on it. Will you—as Cardinal—propose it to her?”
In the eighteen years of Henry’s reign Wolsey had come to power and more power by making himself indispensable, not only in great things, like the fitting out of an army or the organization of events like the Field of the Cloth of Gold, but in innumerable, small ways. “I will see to it.” “Your Grace may safely leave it to me.” But now, though he had no fondness for Katharine, whom he regarded as an obstacle to his French policy, and who had once criticized his way of life, he was glad enough to be able to say, with truth and with feigned regret,
“Your Grace forgets. I am about to leave for France. Francis must be persuaded, or spurred into doing something about this Italian business. If only because while Clement is virtually the prisoner of the Emperor, he is most unlikely to give a decision favorable to you. In case the Queen spurns the suggestion we must make certain that Clement has cause for gratitude to Your Grace and the King of France.”
“Rome, falling to Charles’ troops, was a stroke of ill luck for me,” Henry said.
“And for the world,” Wolsey said. “Even for the Emperor, in the long run. Those who sacked Rome were German landknechts, little better than heathen, as their behavior to nuns and monks showed.” Momentarily diverted from his egocentricity, Henry said:
“The Emperor once told me himself that his German subjects were hardly Christian…So, must I tell her myself or would the suggestion come better from a woman?”
“What woman has Your Grace in mind?”
“The Countess of Salisbury. The Queen trusts her completely and she is back in London now.”
Wolsey looked down at his plump, well-kept hands, the great Cardinal’s ring glowing on one finger.
“I should deem that unwise,” he said; “If I know women they would end crying on one another’s shoulders and saying that Julius, being Pope, could never be in error. Pious women hold extreme views.”
“As usual, you are right,” Henry said gloomily. “I must do it myself; but it is a job I have little heart for.”
Greenwich was still Katharine’s favorite residence, because here Henry had met her in the lime walk and taken her from the room that smelt of the stable to the room that smelt of the past; here she had been married, and here Mary had been born. As she grew older and knew less positive happiness and occasionally felt that she had failed Henry and England, she cherished her memories more fondly.
Katharine was taking advantage of the bright light of a June morning to work upon a shirt for Henry; the linen was so fine and the stitches so small that by candlelight or on a dull day such work was impossible. When Henry came in she thought he had come to pay his courtesy morning call, a thing he never failed to do when they were under the same roof. With the shirt still in her hands she rose and curtseyed, and waited for him to seat himself. He remained on his feet and jerked his head towards her women.
“I have a private matter which I wish to discuss with you.”
She imagined that she knew what it was. The new alignment with France was to be enforced by Mary’s betrothal to a French prince. Mary had in fact been in London for some time so that the French Ambassador could report upon her appearance, disposition and accomplishments.
Henry seemed to have difficulty in broaching the subject; he told her to sit down; sat down himself; jumped up and went to the window and made a comment about the fine weather.
“Is it about Mary?” she asked, resuming her stitching.
“Only indirectly. It concerns you and me.”
She looked up quickly. The light from the window fell upon his bright hair and massive figure. He ate and drank prodigiously, but he took so much hard exercise that it was muscle, not fat that made his bulk. His skin was still clear and ruddy, his eyes bright. Such a handsome man, she thought, and looked upon him with doting admiration. He saw the look, flinched and to escape it turned to the window. Speaking with his back to her he said:
“It concerns our marriage. I have thought long and hard about this, Katharine, and I beg you not to take it amiss…I think the dispensation should not have been given. You were my brother’s wife. That is why our union has been cursed.”
The gist of it jerked out as he swung around again and met her look of bland incomprehension. Something in his mind cried: Oh, understand; make it easy for me; you with such a reputation for kindness, be kind to me!
She seemed to have been struck dumb.
“It is plainly set down in Leviticus,” he blundered on. “If a man takes his brother’s wife, they shall be childless.”
Childless? Had he gone mad? Leviticus, a set of laws laid down for Jews. Had he taken a fall and deranged his mind?
“I cannot understand,” she said. “Ours is no childless marriage. We have Mary. Henry, are you well? Have you had a fall? There is no sense in what you are saying. No sense at all.”
“I am in my senses. I have seen the truth of the matter. So must you. We should never have married. The Pope was mistaken; the dispensation was not valid.”
“Your father and mine accepted it. So did you.”
“I was in love with you, Kate, and not responsible. My father, on his deathbed, tried to warn me. I gave no heed. I was wrong then and I have been punished. For a King to have no child but a daughter is to be childless.”
“There was the boy who might have lived had he not been christened in midwinter.”
She seemed calm; only her hands, kneading at the delicate fabric which had been handled so carefully and was now being treated like a dishcloth, betrayed agitation.
“How many children are christened in winter and survive? Hundreds. I see his death as part of the curse. My conscience has wakened. I know now that I have…we have…lived in sin for eighteen years, and been punished.”
“Who put this to you, Henry? It is not true. We have not lived in sin; we have lived in the holy state of matrimony. My marriage to Arthur—as you know very well—was in name only. Pope Julius knew that and gave permission for our marriage. Who troubled your conscience with this nonsense?”
Her apparent calm angered him; he said sharply:
“It is not nonsense. Cast your mind back to Charles’ last visit. You were there when he said that some of his advisors had questioned Mary’s legitimacy.”
“I was not,” Katharine said. “He would never have dared to say such a thing in my presence. If Mary is illegitimate what am I? A strumpet?”
“No, no. Perhaps you were not there. But he said it. More lately the French have raised the same question and I…”
“I think German lawyers, tainted with Lutheranism and the French who have never properly respected the Pope, are responsible for such talk. I think you would be well-advised to ignore it.”
“How can I? Two years ago I sent to Clement asking him to confirm or to refute Julius’ dispensation. No answer has yet come. More lately the Archbishop of Canterbury and Cardinal Wolsey have gone thoroughly into the matter and say that the legality of our marriage is doubtful.”
Two years. All this going on behind her back.
“What then can be done about it? Had Clement found a flaw in the dispensation, he would surely have amended it. It rests with him.”
“With us. Katharine, the way is clear. We have only to admit that we were in error, that we were never married in the sight of God, and the whole thing would be undone. I would look after you well, you and Mary. You are both dear to me; I would look upon you as my sisters. My favorite sisters,” he added, remembering the bitter quarrels he had had with both Mary and Margaret. “I would find a kind, suitable husband for Mary and dower her well. You could revert to your title as Dowager Princess of Wales; and you could enjoy all the comfort you now have in any convent that you chose.”
“Convent!”
“It would be the best way. An acknowledgment. I thought…I mean of late…” Embarrassed he turned to the window again. “It would not be so very different from the life you live now. It would show the world that you admitted the invalidity of our marriage. But…if the idea of a convent repels you, I daresay it could be managed in another way.” He needed Wolsey now. “A public statement, perhaps, admitting that you and I were never legally married. In that case, any manor you choose. Or any palace…”
A small part of her confused mind, schooled by eighteen years of having no will but his, of trying to please him, was tempted to yield. Give way, please him, retain some remnant of affection. She stamped the impulse down.
“I can never consent to anything, never say a word or make a move that would make Mary, my daughter and yours, a bastard in the eyes of the world.”
“She is that already,” he said. She heard the change in his voice; the explanatory, persuasive, almost apologetic note had gone, replaced by something hard and ruthless.
“Not until Clement says so. Until he says otherwise—and if the decision had been so simple he would have declared himself by now—I am your lawful wedded wife, Mary, your lawfully begotten child, and your heir. By that I must stand.”
Something in him, not yet lost to grace, tendered its unwilling admiration; it said—A woman of quality and I recognized it from the first; a most admirable woman. But there were, in his mind, other, louder voices reminding him of Anne, that dark enchantress, waiting in the far wing of the palace, her bed for which he craved, forbidden because she would not be his mistress, only his wife, and Queen; reminding him of the slowness with which things moved in Rome; reminding him of his—and England’s—need for an heir; reminding him that this summer, part of the sweet summer of life—thirty-six this month—was passing.
He said, “If you obstruct me, I fear you will regret it.”
“And if I did not, you might regret it more. Henry, I beg you; think where this might lead. Julius gave us leave to marry. Clement must recognize the Papal authority of his predecessor, or undermine his own. If you shuffle me aside and marry the Frenchwoman whom Wolsey has chosen for you…”
“There is no question of that,” he said, “until I am free.”
But he was pleased that his real intention was so well concealed.
“…the matter of authority will always remain,” Katharine said. “You might well find yourself with nothing but bastards—if Clement gives you leave to marry again and half the world holds, as I do, that Julius’ dispensation was good. I think you have been ill-advised.”
That was another thing to which she must hold; he had been ill-advised. It was Wolsey, so pro-French, so anti-Imperialist, thwarted because his ultimate ambition, to be Pope, had failed, who had concocted the whole abominable plot. And suddenly she saw Henry, herself, Mary, Clement, and all the thousands upon thousands of people who believed, as she did, that Popes, though subject to human weaknesses, were in their decisions inspired by Divine grace, all of us, in those plump white hands reduced to nothing but pawns in a game to be played for his advantage.
She began to cry, mopping her eyes with the shirt which she had been making for Henry, part of his birthday present.
On Henry the eighteen years of marriage, ecstatic, and then with the passing years, placid, had left their mark. As her desire to please him had been cultivated, so had his desire to cherish her. Old habits held. He said, “Oh, for the love of God, Kate, do not cry. You know I cannot bear to see you cry.” Nor could he bear to be opposed; for eighteen years his will had been law in England. What was to be his curiously ambivalent attitude towards her was born then, when he wished to stem her tears, and wished also to beat her over the head. The whole thing could have been as easy as slipping on a glove; now it would be painful, long drawn out, and public. Anne waiting, nagging, despairing, defiant. God help any man, caught as he was, between two such stubborn women.
Katharine thought: This is a horrible world; one from which, but for Mary, I should be only too glad to retreat: and she sobbed on.
“Well, we shall see,” Henry said, unable to bear his conflicting impulses any longer; the beautiful Princess from Spain whom he had loved, who had loved him, lost and gone, even death could not be more irrevocable—her he wanted to hold and comfort; but she was entombed, not in stone, but in the body of this middle-aged, stubborn woman. He went away; and for the first time there was a heaviness, a lack of liveliness in his step.
The whole interview had taken no more than fifteen, at most twenty minutes. He had put forward a proposition which she had rejected. Both were good pious Catholics and they had unleashed, in a small room, forces that were to shape and alter half a world.
Left alone, Katharine cried on, seeing what must be done; but shrinking from it; seeing what had been done and abhorring it. But tears served no purpose except to induce pity in others. She was alone, unobserved. Nobody could weep forever. And she had other resources.
She sent for the Spanish Ambassador, Don Inigo de Mendoza. Dr. Puebla she had never wholeheartedly liked; his successor had lacked tact; Mendoza was, in her opinion, as nearly ideal an ambassador as a man could be, dignified, astute, tactful. He was a member of a noble Spanish family and as a boy had been one of Isabella’s pages. He had formed part of the escort which had ridden with Katharine on the first stage of her journey to England and she looked upon him as a friend. When he was appointed, she had imagined that they would have long talks together and she would hear all the intimate, trivial news from Spain. It had never come about. She had observed that, no matter how crowded the room, as soon as she and Charles’ ambassador had exchanged a dozen words, Wolsey would make his way towards them and either hover, or make an interruption. She was wise enough to realize that the Cardinal suspected the possibility of connivance between a Spanish-born Queen and a Spanish ambassador—though what was there to connive about? Not to lend substance to the suspicion, however, she had never, until now, made any effort to see Mendoza in private. But this was a crisis.
She saw, by his face, his manner, that he was already informed. She had hardly begun when she stopped and said, “You knew?”
“Your Grace, there have been rumors. In Europe for months. Lately here, even in taverns.”
“And no one saw fit—you did not see fit, Don Mendoza, to inform me?”
She sounded exactly like her mother, chiding him, years ago, for biting his nails.
“We all hoped,” he said, “that it would blow over, without the need for Your Grace to suffer a pang. Even the ale-drinkers would spare you and have hoped, as I have, that the Pope would give the decisive word, in your favor.”
In my favor? As though I were a criminal. What have I done?
“It was left to His Grace to inform me. To me it was a great shock. To be asked to admit, after eighteen years of happy marriage that I was never wedded at all, that my child bore the stigma of bastardy…” She would have wept again there, but the last tear had been wrung out of her; and the lovely June day had clouded over; she was empty, cold, wretched, greatly in need of some heartening word.
