The King's Pleasure, page 19
Henry seemed glum; he did not brighten even at the sight of the suckling pig, brought to table with an almost shocking appearance of life, its eyes made of the whites of hard-boiled eggs with circles of pickled walnut in their centers. Did he envy the merriment at the low table? Had he heard of, and been annoyed by, the calls from the river? He himself had made the journey on horseback, perhaps he had been shouted at, too. She wished that she could think of something sprightly and amusing to say, but she had never been apt with verbal quips and she had already said that Richmond looked its best at this season and that they had had fine weather for their move. She was meditating some remark about Mary when Henry gave up the pretence at eating, shifted a little in his chair and said:
“Well, we have heard from Rome.”
Her heart seemed to stop and then moved again, thumping so heavily that the diamond pendant she wore shook and shimmered. The answer was wrong for him, in his present state of infatuation, but right for her, for Mary and for England. She waited, too breathless to speak.
“Clement is sending a special Legate to go into the case thoroughly.”
Not what she had hoped for. The facts were there. The Pope could read; he had the best lawyers in the world to consult. What was there to be gone into?
She managed to say, “When?”
“Early next year.” Autumn and the Christmas festivities to be lived through; but having faced this evening I can face anything.
“Do you know whom the Legate will be?”
“Cardinal Campeggio.”
“I remember him.” He had been in England twelve years earlier—on another special errand, urging England, as part of Christendom to join Europe in resisting the encroachments of the Turks. Apart from bringing about a treaty between France and England it had come to nothing: the age of positive Crusades was over, but Henry had liked Campeggio who spoke excellent English, and had presented him with an English bishopric—that of Salisbury.
For a second or two she thought, feeling hollow and sick, that the choice was sinister—a man whom Henry had favored, being sent to decide upon a matter in which only one decision would please the King. But she put that thought resolutely aside; it was unworthy. The Pope would be seeking justice and it was natural that he should send a man who knew the language and the country and was, besides, one of the great jurists of the day.
“He is a good lawyer,” she said.
“What we need is less law and more common sense,” Henry said grumpily.
“And that, alas, cannot be hired, my lord.”
“No,” he said, dragging the word out. The disgruntled look gave way to one almost wistful. “If only it were, you should have a wagon load, first thing tomorrow morning!” Then to her surprise he laughed; not quite the hearty booming laugh of former days; her practiced ear caught the sourish undertone as when a man joins in a laugh against himself. But it was laughter, loud enough to attract attention. Several heads lifted or turned. And she smiled, deliberately assuming the look of a woman who has said something amusing and been pleased by its reception.
Let them all puzzle over that she thought with a flash of her mother’s combative spirit. Here we sit, a King who wishes to put his wife away because in his dangerous middle-age he has met with a woman who rates her virtue too high; and a Queen who refuses to be put away; but who, coming into this hall, uninformed, would guess at our predicament? And that is how it must be, until judgment is given. Early in the new year. Oh God speed Campeggio’s journey across Europe, God guide his decision, and God grant that in this waiting time I may do nothing, say no word, cast no look, make no gesture which would make our life together difficult when the verdict falls in my favor.
Henry’s thoughts were busy, too. He had put some spite into the remark which hinted that she lacked common sense and there had been a jeer in his laughter. But it was like trying to fight a feather pillow. Still, it looked well. Appearing in public together, talking, even laughing, over their food, bolstered his claim that nothing but the qualms of conscience had persuaded him that his marriage was not good. And that was a claim far from being wholly false; nor was it wholly true. Only very simple minds were capable of making such judgments. He wanted Anne as he had never yet wanted a woman; he needed an heir, he doubted the validity of his marriage—and he was not alone in that. If it had been a sound, lawful marriage would Clement have hesitated for two whole years and then sent Campeggio as coadjutor with Wolsey?
But there were the cries in the streets. Scattered and few, just sufficient to warn him. Along the river, no doubt, those whose sympathies were with Katharine and Mary had clustered, yelling vociferously. But on his own ride a voice had said, “No Nan Bullen for us,” another had said, “God bless the King—and the Queen,” and one had said, “Kill the witch—and her dog!” And amongst the loyal shouts of “God bless the King” there had been others, “God save the King,” with an emphasis which a poet’s ear for stress could hardly miss.
And how, Henry wondered, how by Christ’s Wounds, had the secret, so closely kept, leaked out? Who told the common people that his aim was to marry, not to seduce? Wolsey would be difficult now; paternal speeches—This I say from concern for Your Grace’s good…And the Emperor would undoubtedly take umbrage at the thought of his aunt, a Princess of Spain being supplanted by one of her own waiting ladies. Still, Wolsey could be cajoled, and if necessary ordered, and Charles could be ignored; he had enough on his hands without taking any practical measures in defense of his aunt. And now that the secret was out life would be easier; the elaborate subterfuges could be dropped. Also the very fact that she was being cried against in the streets would give Anne confidence in the sincerity of his intentions.
Early in the new year. It was now October. January. February. March at the very latest. Five months. In five months’ time…And Wolsey’s little homilies could be cut short by orders to get to work, use every influence, pull every string to expedite Campeggio’s arrival. After that more orders, to see that the right verdict was given. The year 1527 ran down into the trough of winter. The new year, so eagerly awaited by everyone, began.
XIII
Cardinal Campeggio was to set out for England at some time loosely defined as the spring of 1528. Wolsey wrote to him, expressing his pleasure that they were to work together, and urging him to make haste. He then brought his talent for organization to bear upon the arrangements for the journey; he had many contacts, many friends in France and could expedite or delay travel as he chose. Good horses and baggage mules stood at the various posting stages, eating their fill; comfortable places, such as Wolsey himself would choose to spend the night in, were chosen, hired or borrowed and kept in readiness. And Campeggio, as Wolsey knew, travelled light; in fact, when Campeggio had come to England earlier, Wolsey had felt so strongly that his paucity of baggage was unbecoming to a Prince of the Church that he had sent twelve empty coffers, covered with scarlet cloth and with gold furnishings, to augment his poor display for his entry into London. Wolsey knew his countrymen; they admired ostentation.
But that was years ago and Clement had another reason for choosing Campeggio in addition to the facts that he knew his law and spoke English. In the interval Campeggio had become very gouty; there were times when he could not hold his horse’s reins, or bear to put his feet into the stirrups; worse days when he could not bear the jolting of a litter; and worst of all days when his eyes were affected and he must lie, immobile, in a darkened room. His journey across France would necessarily be slow, and—Clement hoped—never concluded. The rumors had reached Rome and made it clear that all this bother was less a matter of the King of England’s conscience than his lust for Anne Boleyn. Clement knew that men’s passions could burn out as quickly as beacon fires; so let enough time be wasted on moves that could offend nobody—Clement knew that he could not afford to offend either the Emperor or the King of England—and all might yet be well.
So Campeggio moved, very slowly towards London, where impatience mounted. Wolsey fretted, this business was making an old man of him; although despite the rumors, he still did not believe that, once free to remarry, the King would actually risk the unpopularity that must come from marrying Tom Boleyn’s daughter; Henry fretted at the waste of another sweet summer, another year of his life; Anne was frantic, sometimes actually hysterical under the strain, sometimes rebellious, threatening to retire to Hever. Katharine waited with outward placidity—she learned to wait—but she too looked forward to the day when the special Papal Legate would arrive and justify her.
But the sweating sickness reached London long before Campeggio did.
The sweating sickness was a disease peculiar to the English. In the Irish Pale where the English settlers lived, in Continental Towns where they went as traders, even on a ship the sweating sickness picked out the English with a deadly precision, sparing their neighbors. That Katharine herself had suffered from it, was in her opinion proof that she had become English by marriage. And unlike some plagues, it made no distinction between those who lived in crowded hovels and those who lived in high, airy houses; the well-fed man was as likely to fall victim as a starving beggar, the man who had a fresh clean shirt every day as the fellow who wore one until it dropped to pieces.
Henry was terrified of it; at the first whisper of the sweating sickness abroad in London, he fled; and since the place he made for was one of Wolsey’s manors, he thought it wise not to take Anne with him; it would have been too obvious. Wolsey’s various manors, The More, Tittenhanger and others were all well appointed, but small, with no accommodation for ladies…
Katharine, sure of the immunity conferred by her earlier experience, remained in Greenwich with a depleted Court, a circumstance she welcomed because it brought a return of close association with Mary, whose household had also dispersed. It was the nearest thing to real family life that she had known since she was young and Isabella had dragged her family hither and thither and they had lodged where they could, sometimes sleeping three to a bed. She sometimes spoke about those days to Mary, who listened intently.
Anne was still resident at Greenwich; still a lady-in-waiting; until the morning when Emma Arnett came in her stead and said:
“My lady is sick—it is the sweating sickness.”
Mary was there then and the moment Emma had gone she said, “And I hope she dies of it! That would solve all.” The ferocity in her voice was almost frightening.
“I cannot think it right, Mary, to wish death upon a fellow creature. And would her death solve anything? As I see it she is the result rather than the cause of this dispute. The question that is to be settled is not whether the Lady Anne lives or dies, is or is not your father’s paramour, but whether Pope Julius’ dispensation was good. Whether for nineteen years I have been wife or an unwitting harlot; whether you are heir or not. That is what Cardinal Campeggio is coming to decide and, to my mind, whether she lives or dies makes no jot of difference. And she is only twenty—twenty-one—we must not wish her dead.”
“I wish her dead and in Hell,” Mary said. She jumped up from the stool upon which she had been sitting and began to walk up and down. She was twelve years old, small and spare for her age—as the French Ambassador had said, short, almost squat of stature and of complexion pale—but she walked as Henry did, or as Henry might, hampered by skirts, and her russet head shone and her young voice had undertones of her grandmother’s gruffness.
“Oh, I know,” she said, “you and my Lady Salisbury and everybody else have tried to hide the truth from me, fearing to hurt me. At the whisper of bastardy, I am supposed to go and cry in a corner. I do not. I am not meek. Our Lord said the meek should inherit the earth; but was He meek when he took a whip and drove the money lenders from the Temple? Was He meek when he stood before Pilate and refused to answer? Was He meek when He hung on the Cross and said to the dying thief who had given Him His rightful title, “Today shalt thou be with me in Paradise.” The word has been much misunderstood. I am meek in so far as I recognize authority. I do. Julius gave you and my father leave to marry. He had the power to do so, and to that power I bow. But I will not be put upon. And if Cardinal Campeggio decides against us, I shall not accept his verdict. Will you?”
She swung round and faced Katharine fiercely.
“Dearest, I have already promised to do so. I said when the matter was first mentioned that I would be guided by the Pope’s decision.”
“But will it be his decision? Campeggio already has cause for gratitude to my father—he gave him a Bishopric last time he was here; what bribe will he offer this time? We know what is in Wolsey’s mind. Will Campeggio be able to withstand him and his cajoleries? Besides, His Holiness is in no position to make a just and impartial judgment. Since the Imperial troops sacked Rome he has been under the Emperor’s thumb.”
“That surely is a factor in our favor. Charles is our relative.”
Mary made a wordless sound of repudiation.
“Not even the Pope enjoys bondage. Clement looks to my father and to the King of France to liberate him.” She narrowed her eyes and her likeness to Henry in one of his worse moods was startling. “If my cousin and the Pope were truly on our side they would have declared themselves at the beginning; not sent a sick old man to waste more time.”
She had evidently heard more about the business than Katharine would have wished; Lady Salisbury had tried to protect her; but of course women talked. And much of what she said was very shrewd; uncomfortably so. If, as Henry had said, he had first drawn the Pope’s attention to his qualms of conscience two years ago, it would have been simple enough, then, for Clement to have replied unequivocally—the dispensation was good. Why had he not done so?
Such thoughts were useless, and weakening.
“We must have faith, Mary, and hope and patience. It is not an easy situation; but we must not give way to doubt—or to anger.”
“Anger is a great heartener. I am very angry—on your behalf as well as my own—when I see her flaunting and setting such a high price upon her virtue, which is in fact no virtue at all, simply inordinate ambition. How you can bear to have her about you I cannot understand.”
“It was your father’s wish.”
“Would you jump into the Thames if that were his wish? I know—Lady Salisbury told me—that you consider that you owe him obedience in all matters not touching your conscience. But suppose—just for a moment suppose,” she halted her pacing and stood just in front of Katharine with her hands behind her back—another of Henry’s gestures—“Campeggio comes and decides against us. What action would your conscience then dictate?”
“Cardinal Campeggio comes as Papal Legate; he will have instructions, perhaps even his orders. I should feel bound to comply. I should do so with great sorrow, but I should comply.”
“I wonder,” Mary said, “if you realize how the common people feel about all this. We are very popular, you and I. They howl against her in the streets.”
“The common people have no say in great matters.”
“They are the stuff of which armies are made.”
There was such deadly intensity in those words that Katherine’s heart jolted. She reached out her hands and took Mary by the shoulder.
“Mary, you must not think in such a way. Never, no matter what the circumstances, or what our personal wrongs, must we resort to violence. Sit down and listen to me. I spent my youth in scenes of bloodshed. It was supposed to be a Holy War, a Crusade against the Infidel, and we celebrated our victories and mourned our defeats without much thought to the cost in dead men. The war was necessary and men were expendable. Then, when I was about your age, my sister Isabella lost her husband—he did not die in battle, but of disease—and she came back to Spain. I realized then what the death of a man meant. I had never seen Alfonso of Portugal—but I saw Isabella; and ever after, when I saw a dead man I saw the women who would weep for him. That is something to think upon; not the trumpets and the flags and the brave display. Mary, I speak of what I know. Three years before you were born it fell to me to raise an army against the Scots. Invaders must be resisted…but always I thought of the dead men and the women whose hearts would break. On no account over this dispute must even one man shed his blood. It would be civil war—the worst of all. And to have men die over what is, after all, a purely domestic matter, the concern of a mere four people, that would be so horrible that it must not be contemplated.”
Mary said, with a cool reasonableness more frightening than anger:
“But you say invaders must be resisted. Is she not an invader? You speak of four people concerned. Mother, it is the concern of all. Julius’ ruling can be only one of two things—the inspired dictate of the Vicar of Christ on this earth, or the scribbling of a silly old man who wrote what he was asked to write and whose authority can be set aside by another silly old man. Which was it?”
“Mary, you are speaking like a heretic. What have you been reading?”
“Everything that came my way. I am no heretic; but it is better to know your enemy than to blunder about in the dark. I hold Julius’ dispensation good. By that I stand. But I also think that this may be the testing time. Just at this minute when Papal authority is questioned, Papal power so much reduced, this which you call the concern of a mere four people could turn the balance. There have been Popes who were renegade, or mad—the Devil is cunning. Clement is weak and hesitant. If Cardinal Campeggio, on the Pope’s orders, reverses the dictate of his predecessor…what a triumph for those who refuse to admit that the Pope is anything more than Bishop of Rome. I wake in the night,” Mary said, “and I think upon these things. I dread Cardinal Campeggio’s coming. If he gives verdict against us, then Julius was wrong and Papal authority is cut down. If he gives verdict for us, then my father will be angry and there will be schism. In either case, through us, Holy Church will be stricken and that is a thought which I find almost unsupportable, except when I am angry and think the thoughts which you say I must not think.”
