The King's Pleasure, page 30
Katharine was not surprised that as she greeted them, both men looked sheepish; many people would in the next few days. It was not easy to admit that one had been in the wrong. She would be very gracious to all—even to Anne…She greeted the two men very graciously indeed:
“My lords, I bid you welcome. I understand that you have news for me.”
Get it over and done with, Lee thought.
“Madam, the Bishop of Rome has declared in your favor, but his word no longer carries any weight in England. Therefore we, Edward of York, now call upon you the Princess Dowager, to take the oath of allegiance to our lord the King as Head of the Church of England, and to acknowledge the validity of his marriage to Queen Anne and the legitimacy of the Princess Elizabeth.”
Everything, the grave clerical faces, the bare wall, the window from which the light streamed in to fall upon the set table, receded, darkening and reeling. Mary, Mother of God! She fell into the dark, spiralling down. Dying, unconfessed…God, to you I commit my spirit, have pity, have pity…
The everlasting hands of the Almighty caught and held her and there she was, not dead; she was lying on one of the leather covered chests which were too big to be carried upstairs. The nails which made a decorative pattern around its rim and formed the letters KR, her mark, Katharine Regina, felt like stones beneath her, and under her nose Maria was waving stinking smouldering feathers.
What a plight to find oneself in.
She pushed the feathers away and struggled into a sitting position, “That will do, Maria. Help me to my chair.”
“A momentary weakness, my lords,” she said of a spell of unconsciousness that had lasted ten minutes. “You have more to say?”
They had both, in those ten minutes, entertained thoughts of fantasy, riding at all speed to London with the news that she was dead.
“A warning, Madam, that the penalty for refusing is death and that you are not immune.”
“If you have a commission to execute such a penalty upon me, I am ready. I claim only the ancient right, to die in the sight of the people.”
Traitors, or those accused of treachery, had this one right; their bodies might be mangled, their property confiscated, but they must die in public, their last words heard by all who could get within hearing distance.
“We have no such commission. We were told to inform you, and to warn you,” Lee said.
Tunstall broke in, speaking hurriedly. “Madam, before Blackfriars, I was assigned to advise you. I do most gravely advise you now. The decision of the Bishop of Rome has hardened His Grace’s determination. Where formerly there were words and arguments, there will be bloodshed…”
Afterwards, looking back, she realized that this had been the real parting of the ways, the moment of truth. Give in now and there would be the long, easy downward slither into heresy. She remembered again Wolsey on his knees—saying more was concerned than she dreamed of; the world already riven. But to give in now would be fatal; a halfway stand was worse than no stand at all because it implied recantation.
“Then my blood must be shed,” she said. “His Holiness the Pope—that newfangled term, Bishop of Rome sits awkwardly on your tongues and upon your hearts, I doubt—His Holiness has proclaimed my case good, my marriage legal, my daughter legitimate. And by that I will abide.”
The Archbishop and the Bishop went back to Huntingdon where now almost every house was decorated with a flag, a streamer of new woven linen or a green bough.
London, too, had shown signs of rejoicing, Henry noted grimly; but people were mistaken if they thought that Clement’s decision would influence things. He was angered by it and felt that he had been unfairly dealt with. That he was also thoroughly misunderstood was proved by something that the Spanish Ambassador had said, or rather by the way he spoke and looked. The conversation purported to be about Katharine’s place of residence, but there were undertones.
“If there is any impairment in health, premature demise or other misfortune,” Chapuys said, “the deepest suspicions would be aroused.” He felt that he would now be justified in referring to Katharine as Queen, but he avoided doing so; there was no purpose in annoying the King who was very easily provoked nowadays.
“Great God in Glory! What do you think I am? A poisoner of helpless women? I resent that, Messire. I resent it very hotly.”
“Your Grace, how could you place such an interpretation upon words that held no such intention? I was urging a removal from Buckden, which for some people seems not to be a healthy place. Nothing more I assure you.”
“She shall be moved as soon as I find a suitable residence.”
“My master will be relieved,” Chapuys said detachedly. “May I—since Your Grace has made mention of the matter—say one more word, well meant?”
“We have always spoken openly so far as I know.”
“Sire, Henry II did not desire the death of St. Thomas à Becket. As the story goes he said, “Will nobody rid me of this turbulent priest?” Your Grace might well make a similar remark, substituting troublesome woman. And there would be those ready to do what they believed, wrongly, to be your will.”
“That,” Henry said, “is not a thought to keep you awake at night, Messire. Have you ever heard me say a word against her? Has anyone? She is the most damned stubborn, obstinate woman God ever made. But that is her only fault…”
And was that a fault, he asked himself, indulging in a momentary feeling of self-distrust. Clement had pronounced the marriage good and in the eyes of half the world at least Kate had been not obstinate or stubborn, but right.
Chapuys thought: This should never have happened to him. He is one of those who flourish best in sunshine; healthy, gifted, handsome, he was not prepared for anything to go wrong for him. Given a son all would have been well with him, with Queen Katharine, with England. It was all a great pity, one of God’s mysteries.
But Eustache Chapuys had done his best which was all a man could do. He went home to write to Katharine, advising her, despite what Henry said, to be very careful of what she ate and drank; for now, he suspected, the Lutherans would be busy; they looked to Anne, they would want her, before the next child was born, to be Queen beyond any question. Clement’s verdict might well have been Katharine death sentence. But not, of that Chapuys sure, by any connivance of the King.
Henry went straight to Cromwell’s office.
“The Princess Dowager must be moved. The Spanish Ambassador has been at me again. Buckden is not healthy. If she dies of ague or malaria it would look ill. Get your map.”
Turning towards the open shelves where the maps lay, neatly rolled into cylinders, Cromwell said:
“A move is advisable for other reasons, Your Grace. Buckden is too accessible—as my lord of Suffolk discovered.”
He found the map, unrolled it and weighted it flat with a book at each corner.
“Not more than half a day’s journey away,” Henry said. “Long processions tend to invite demonstrations.”
Cromwell had been about to make that very statement. He moved a thick finger in a circle, the radius half a day’s ride from Buckden.
“There is Kimbolton, Your Grace.” The map was a new one, marked with little secret signs; prominence given to any place capable of being held in the event of trouble. On it Kimbolton was marked as more important than many a sprawling, open town.
“Before the late wars,” Cromwell said, “it was a manor. It was fortified during the troubles. It is remote. It is now a castle, with…” he peered at the signs, “a moat and a drawbridge.”
“How near is the moat to the dwelling? I am tired of complaints about dampness.”
“It stands on a mound, Your Grace. To the south I should say,” he made a rapid calculation, “between thirty and forty feet. Away from the moat, that is; and well above it. To the east the same. North and west at least double that distance.”
“It sounds…suitable.”
It was also final; The More, Ampthill, Buckden, all temporary, places where—he hoped—she would come to her senses, and the moment she did he would have installed her at Greenwich the place she loved and which he no longer could endure. Now, supported by that weakling, that vacillating, dilatory Clement who did everything too late and then wrong, she would never give in. In consigning her to Kimbolton he felt that he was putting her into her tomb. The thought was enough to hurt a little, still; and in response to the hurt anger flared, directed, paradoxically, at Katharine who had made difficult what should have been so easy.
“She is to have no communication with anyone,” he said sternly. “And those in charge are not to be likely to sympathize, or even listen to complaints. You understand?”
Cromwell pondered for a moment. “May I suggest Sir Edmund Bedingfield as Steward, and Sir Edward Chamberlayne, perhaps as Chamberlain?”
“Well chosen,” Henry said. Both were known King’s men; they were unlikely, even within the fastnesses of a lonely castle to call her anything but Princess Dowager. They were also decent men, equally unlikely to treat her harshly.
So that was dealt with. Henry and Cromwell went on to talk about the dissolution of the religious houses which still regarded the Pope as the ultimate authority. For Cromwell this was a profitable business; he was frequently approached by Abbots who felt their establishments to be in danger, and offered a bribe in return for leniency, or delay. He would accumulate a fortune. He was less spendthrift than Wolsey, architects, builders and painters did not find a patron in him. He had seen what happened to his old master. When Thomas Cromwell grew old, or fell from favor, he would have something to fall back upon, money soundly invested in the City of London, or with merchants in Germany and the Netherlands.
The move to Kimbolton was made in late May, in cold driving rain, for after opening with promise this summer showed signs of being as inclement as the previous one. And everyone knew why. Before the Pope had decided, there had been an element of doubt in the business, the faintest shadow of excuse for the King’s behavior; now there was none at all. Katharine was Queen and the majority of the people genuinely believed that there would be no good times, no good harvests until she was restored.
Despite the weather a menacing crowd gathered again by the gate at Buckden. Suspicion was allayed, even some hope engendered, when they learned that she was on her way to Kimbolton. That was a grand place, a fit residence, even for a Queen. Few of them had actually seen it, but they knew about it; it dominated the countryside and, to a degree, their thoughts.
It was not, like Buckden, in the heart of a village. It stood, as Cromwell had said, on a mound, completely isolated from the few humble houses that seemed to crouch in its shadow.
The moat, much wider than that at Buckden, had the dull gleam of pewter. The drawbridge was lowered with a crank and a creak, and as they rode in the hoofbeats sounded hollow and doomful. She had a sharp feeling of prescience: For me that bridge will be lowered only once more, when I go to my burying. I have not been sent here for the sake of my health, but to be out of sight and out of mind.
She was still unwilling, or unable to think ill of Henry. This was the doing of Anne, and her friends. She remembered wryly how on that dazzling morning of promise, when she expected the Bishops to bring her recall to London and the throne, she had determined to be gracious to Anne—to propose that she should have The More—a place which she herself wished never to see again—and an adequate pension; and how, presently she would treat the young Elizabeth exactly as she had treated the Duke of Richmond.
I was born to suffer disappointment.
No, I was born to bear what God sees fit to ask of me. And bear it I will, with God’s help.
She was strong again as they arrived in the large inner courtyard and the bustle of moving in began. She had less baggage now. Once she had needed twelve great chests to carry her clothes and her personal belongings; now two sufficed.
The rooms assigned her were to the north and west, and the accommodation was better than any she had had since she left The More. There was a sizeable room with a wide hearth and opening from it at one end a small one, which she intended to make her own private retreat, at the other two, medium-sized ones. The Chapel, surprisingly beautiful, was close by, backing on to the small room; and the stairs, part of the old manor house around which the fortifications had been built like a shell, were of wood, with shallow steps and a stout handrail.
It was as well that at first sight she should be contented with the rooms assigned her; for within a few minutes of arrival she had confined herself to them for so long as she was in Kimbolton.
Sir Edmund and Sir Edward came to welcome her officially, to express hopes that she was satisfied with her accommodation and to inform her that supper would be served shortly in the great hall across the courtyard. Civil and courteous; but they addressed her as Your Royal Highness and she said:
“Sirs, I am Queen of England. If you cannot bring yourselves to address me correctly, I can neither talk nor eat with you.”
“Madam, we are sworn…”
“And so am I. In this part of the house I am Queen, and those who enter it acknowledge me. No other arrangement is possible.”
It was as though the moat had been diverted and now lay, impassable between the two households.
Both the knights had been prepared to deal justly with her. In the great hall across the courtyard the table was set, her place at the head of it—she was Dowager Princess of Wales, the widow of that pale, fair-haired boy long dead. And, as Henry had thought, in Cromwell’s meticulously neat little office, these men were likely to be just. But the snub rankled.
Sir Edmund said, “Madam, this will be awkward. There is no kitchen on this side.”
“Then, unless I and those who acknowledge me are to starve, food must be sent to us.”
It will be sent over, Sir Edmund thought furiously, but it will not be to your taste! He thought sourly of the preparations made, the orders given, the pains he had taken for the proper treatment of the Princess of Wales. What came across the courtyard for the woman who insisted that she was Queen of England, would be the worst of every dish; those who refused the first cut must be satisfied with the scrag end, and lukewarm at that.
She could have reigned in a minor way, wearing her purple dress and her jewelled collar; she was the daughter of Isabella of Castile and Ferdinand of Aragon; she was the widow of a Prince of Wales. From a wide area, people adjudged by Sir Edmund and Sir Edward to be “safe” would have been very glad to come and visit and stare and grovel. She was allowed no visitors, but no such embargo applied to the two knights. As it was she lived in a jail of her own making, in an isolation of her own choosing; and as the year tipped downhill into autumn, in increasing discomfort, for fuel as well as food came from the other side of the courtyard, and the logs brought over were mainly green, giving more smoke than heat.
The single link between the two households, apart from a few careless pages, was Francisco Filipez who was drawn to the stable yard and stood about there, at first quietly and then throwing out a few laconic words which showed that he was knowledgeable about horses, and then lending a hand, giving advice, until he was part of the scene. If he had cause to refer to his mistress he invariably gave her her title, and this caused no offence. He was a Spaniard, he was old. He was also half-crippled with rheumatism but astonishingly spry, therefore admirable, and he was friendly, the only one “from across the way” who was. Nobody in the larger establishment envied anyone in Katharine’s or, given the option, would have joined it, but simply because it was so rigidly exclusive it exerted a certain charm and Filipez, coming out of it—with a civil word and a grin, seemed to be conferring a favor. He had tales to tell, too, of campaigns in Granada when he was young and although some of them must be taken with a grain of salt, his listeners thought, they helped to while away a wet afternoon. In yet another rain-drenched summer in England it was not unpleasant to sit in the shelter of stable or smithy and hear an old Spaniard speak of droughts in Spain when trees as tall as those on Kimbolton Hill died for lack of water, and rivers wider and deeper than the Ouse ran dry. In return he was made free of any story current in the yard, mainly kitchen door stuff, what a page had overheard between Sir Edmund and Sir Edward last night at table; what was being said at the little ale house on the London road. It was none of it momentous, but to Katharine who would not speak to anyone who would not give her her proper title, nor set foot in any place where she was not acknowledged, Filipez’s little gatherings provided human interest, a breath from the outer world.
XXII
In the outer world a great deal was going on and Chapuys was in the thick of it. He had many visitors, some coming boldly in open daylight, some secretly by night. They all said the same thing. He could with truth and confidence write to his master, the Emperor, that England was on the verge of revolt; that the Pope’s declaration in Katharine’s favor had brought many waverers to her side; that though in and around London the new ways were being reluctantly accepted, the North and East, were for Katharine and the Pope. Now, if ever, Chapuys urged, was the time for action; if the Concubine bore a son, fickle public opinion would veer. All that was needed was firm and positive leadership. The old nobility, some of whom had taken the oath from expediency, were willing to rise, so were the peasants; of the merchant class Chapuys was doubtful, but if the Emperor would only forbid all trade between Flanders and England, because of the way the Queen had been treated, even the London countinghouses would take notice.
Occasionally, usually when he was undressing before going to bed, Chapuys would mentally step back and take a look at himself. Eustache Chapuys, what are you about? What has happened to you? Men entrusted with ambassadorial duties were supposed to act with impartiality and, unless given orders to the contrary, to promote goodwill between countries. He was unable to plead either youth or inexperience in his own defense, yet here he was behaving like a novice Knight instead of a seasoned diplomat.
