The King's Pleasure, page 31
Such moments of self-examination never lasted long; he had only to think of Katharine, wronged for so many years and now since Clement’s verdict, wronged more than ever, and the crusading spirit was lively again. Increasingly, throughout that summer he spent time and energy and cunning and money which he could ill spare, in testing public opinion and making contacts. He could not lessen his allowances to his family, he was the only one of his mother’s children to have made any sort of headway in the world, so he entered a period of self-denial and it was often not from policy alone that he dined or supped wherever Henry was keeping Court.
He saw clearly that the pivot of all his plotting was the Queen herself. In the days when he was allowed access to her he had suggested flight, and later resistance. She had replied that she would never do anything that would lead to war. She had also said, with that smile which so changed her appearance, “Imagine my position if I resorted to force and then had the decision given against me.” Being vindicated might well have changed her point of view; Henry’s ignoring of the Papal verdict might have disillusioned her at last. But Chapuys had no means of knowing. He had requested permission to go to Kimbolton and been refused, civilly but firmly, not once or twice but several times.
In September he asked and was given private audience with Henry, and after greeting him said:
“Your Grace, I am in need of advice in a very difficult position.”
“Tell me your trouble,” Henry said. He liked giving advice.
“I fear that my master will be displeased with me. Your Grace, if a relative of your own were incarcerated in some foreign fortress and your Ambassador there appeared to do nothing, would you not incline to the opinion that he was idle, or puerile?”
Henry saw the point. “Would you like a certificate to witness that you have made a number of applications for leave to visit the Princess Dowager?”
“That would be better than nothing. An actual visit would be better still. As Your Grace knows I have been careful to maintain neutrality in this matter, but I think the Emperor is justified in wishing to hear, through me, that she is well-housed, in good health, and perhaps—even—resigned.”
“She is well-housed; she is in good health. Resigned she will never be. We know that, Messire. And I cannot allow a visit. I said that she should have no visitors and I cannot make exceptions, even for you.”
It was the answer Chapuys had expected, and he had come prepared.
“Then I wonder…It is much to ask, I know…but if Your Grace would connive with me a little. Permit me to make a gesture. Allow me to set out from London, openly, even with some ostentation. Then when I am near Kimbolton, halt me with an order to proceed no farther, giving as your reason that such a visit might disturb the lady’s peace of mind, or that my noisy suite had caused a breach of the peace in your realm.”
“An extraordinary suggestion. Is it, Messire, that by appearing negligent you risk recall?”
“That, amongst other things.”
And Chapuys might well be replaced by someone far less personally agreeable, more meddlesome, critical and biased.
“Very well; to strengthen your position we will indulge in this piece of mummery. But—you will not get nearer than five miles to Kimbolton.”
“Five miles from the place Your Grace’s messenger will overtake and halt me. My gratitude is unbounded.”
So he went about London, saying that he was going to Kimbolton to visit—and if he never said “The Queen” he also never said “The Princess Dowager.” He invited a number of people to go with him. There were Spanish merchants in London who could well afford to fit out their servants with fine new liveries, to buy good horses and great silk flags embroidered with the arms of Spain. With his own money he hired trumpeters and drummers.
Cromwell said, “Your Grace, this is open defiance. The man must be mad.”
“Rest easy and see what is to be seen,” Henry said.
“I see it now, Sire,” Cromwell said. He thought he did. He believed that Henry was tired of Anne, so unpopular as Queen, so unsatisfactory as a wife—a daughter and a miscarriage—a difficult and demanding disposition. The King was going to allow a reconciliation with Katharine to appear to be forced upon him. Very clever indeed! Devious himself, Cromwell admired deviousness in others; and what could be more devious than this?
September was unseasonably warm, just as June, July and August had been unseasonably wet. A cool, windy month would have served the harvest better; as it was the sunshine caused the flattened ears of corn to start sprouting; there would be little to gather in but straw. An unlikely season, part of, symbolic of, the troubled times. But there was hope; the Spanish Ambassador was on his way to Kimbolton to bring the good old Queen back to London; so people thought, as they gathered on every village green, at every crossroads, to see the gay cavalcade go by, the flags hanging limp in the hot air, the music calling, calling…A pity it had been left to the Spaniards to do, a pity it had been left so late, but better this than nothing; better late than never.
Chapuys, who amongst other motives had planned this as a test of opinion, was delighted by the response. Spaniards were not well-liked, even in country places where no Spaniard had ever been seen, but it was astonishing how many geese, fattening for Michaelmas, were killed untimely, mute offerings, and how many voices, once they were out of London, shouted for Katharine and how many men oddly armed, came up and said, “If you need any help…” and how many owners of manors and yeoman found themselves able, even in such bad times, to offer shelter and food for man and horse.
Chapuys had his own cynicism; many of these people felt the threat to the monasteries as a threat to themselves; monks were, on the whole, lenient landlords; as for the gentry, every possible closure would affect them, too. Younger brothers, second sons, sisters and daughters for whom for various reasons marriage had not been possible, had taken to the religious life, permanently provided for. At least half of the enthusiasm and goodwill could be attributed to self-interest in one way or the other, but even self-interest could be used; and the other half was formidable, men and women, even children, on their knees, weeping “God bless the Pope!” “God bless the Queen!”
In his assessment of popular feeling he had been right. And after St. Neot’s, drawing near to his five-mile-limit, the flood of gifts became almost embarrassing, ranging from bunches of flowers from cottage gardens to a silk dress: “So that Her Grace may make a good appearance…”
Out of St. Neot’s and nearing Kimbolton, Chapuys began to cherish hope and fear, so evenly balanced as to be almost insupportable. He had tricked Henry; had Henry tricked him? Was he, after all, to be allowed his visit? Or were he and those with him moving towards a trap? Of the conversation with the King there was no record, save in their minds; he was openly defying the order, no visitors to Kimbolton; he had acted as no Ambassador should, and if tonight he found himself lodged in a dungeon under the castle, taken prisoner by a force pre-warned, whom could he blame but himself, and what defense could he make? Worst thought of all, what, as a discredited Ambassador, could he do for that poor lady?
The scheme which he had concocted with such care seemed suddenly worthless. Lock up for open defiance of the King. He would be worthless, too. He sweated more heavily than even the heat of the day warranted.
But the King had kept his word. Precisely five miles from Kimbolton, when Chapuys was considering calling a halt, the messenger arrived. Messire Chapuys was not to go one step farther along the road to Kimbolton.
“Then I must stay here,” Chapuys said imperturbably. “But news travels faster than men, and the poor lady there may already have heard of our coming. I will send a man on to inform her.”
“There is no need. I shall carry the word myself,” the man said and spurred on.
That was a setback. Chapuys’ somewhat shaky little scheme had depended upon getting one of his men, armed with this valid excuse, if not into Katharine’s presence, at least into the castle, where, under the pretext of speaking nothing but Spanish, he was bound to be brought face to face with one of the Queen’s household.
Now he must plan anew.
“We will rest here for a while,” he said. There were trees by the roadside, limes still green, chestnuts beginning to turn color. Into the shade the cavalcade moved and dismounted.
Sir Edmund, at Kimbolton asked, “How many?”
“Sixty at least.”
“Armed?”
“Not openly; but the Spanish are tricky.”
“And they did not turn back?”
“No. The Spanish Ambassador said that he would stay there. I looked back once. They were dismounting.”
Sir Edmund gnawed the inside of his cheek. Sixty men could not take Kimbolton, but they could raise the countryside. It needed only a spark now.
He went across to the other side, where an indifferent dinner had just been eaten and cleared away and said to Filipez, “Where is your mistress?” Filipez indicated the little room.
When the door opened and revealed Sir Edmund, who said, “Your Highness,” and bowed, Katharine, holding to her rule, ignored him; but the pain in her chest leaped. It must be something of grave importance to bring him here. Mary?
“I must ask you to listen, Madam. The Spanish Ambassador with a considerable force is now within five mile of this place. A message from His Grace halted them there, but they did not turn back. A message from you might deter them.”
It was all very confusing. Messire Chapuys knew that he was forbidden to visit her. Why had he come? Why had he not been halted sooner? And what was a considerable force? She looked at Sir Edmund and saw that he was suffering some agitation. She broke her own rule.
“Do you think, Sir Edmund, that a message from the Princess Dowager would be effective where one from His Grace was not?”
“They look on you as otherwise.” And there were times, in the dark of the night, wakened by cramp, when he had some curious thoughts himself. Two Popes had been concerned, one in the making, one in the confirmation of her marriage; and even in her present miserable circumstances she behaved as Queen. Such thoughts, highly unsuitable to one the King trusted, did nothing to endear Katharine to her jailer during the daylight hours.
“Send and say that there is no purpose in their delay,” he said. Get them out of the district. If trouble threatened, let it not be near Kimbolton. “Send that fellow of yours who is so good a horseman.”
“Fetch him to me,” she said. “And I should wish you to overhear the message I entrust to him.”
It was of the utmost correctitude. “Please tell the Spanish Ambassador that I am sorry he has come so far for nothing; but that in obeying the King’s order to withdraw he will be pleasing me. I think it might be permissible for you to enquire after the health of the Princess Mary.”
Chapuys was entirely unprepared to see one of Katharine’s own people. He had been so busy planning his next move. At the sight of Filipez, so obviously at home on a horse, he leaped to the next objective. He hardly listened to the message which was meaningless, anyway.
“Tell me,” he said urgently, “is there any person that you know of, in this district, allowed access to the Castle, and friendly to Her Grace?” One of his purposes in this seemingly fruitless journey was to establish some secret contact. It might have taken days, it might have failed altogether. As it was it was settled in a minute.
“Only one,” Filipez said. “And she has no access to the Castle. She is faithful; I know because whenever I go there…” “You go? Where? How often?”
“I get out when there is a horse to be tried out. The place is a little tavern; about a mile that way.” He nodded in the direction from which Chapuys had come “The Goat and Compasses.”
“I will try…” Chapuys said. “Tell Her Grace that I will try to arrange that she has news, regularly. You must get out as often…”
“I shall not get out again if I delay now,” Filipez said.
“Tell Her Grace to be of good heart…”
Filipez nodded and disappeared in a cloud of dust.
Chapuys after a second said to himself: You blundering fool! You could have given him the letter. The truth was that this entirely unexpected, God-sent chance of possible operations in the future, had driven this day’s doings out of his mind.
So back to plan two.
He had been concocting it ever since his offer to send a man with a civil message had been forestalled.
He said to his fool, “You understand me. Fail in this and you are no longer my jester.”
To the eight picked men, all young, he said:
“You understand me. Your object is to entertain and draw attention from the fool. You must look as harmless as you are. Ride without hats and in your shirts. If ordered to retire, do so, a little way, but continue to make a show.”
The Spanish Ambassador, the banners, trumpets and bugles had been turned back; but it was just permissible that eight high-spirited young men should go on a sunny afternoon, out of curiosity, to see the place where the woman who was a Princess of Spain was held, and to offer, by a show of Spanish horsemanship, an hour of entertainment in what must be a life of superlative dullness.
“You did not even ask, Francisco. The one thing I most longed to know.”
“Your Grace, there was no time. They know how long it takes to ride five miles and back. I was neither trying a sick horse nor schooling a young one. And Messire Chapuys talked of other things. Of sending news through Jennie Turnbull.”
“The kind, very kind woman who sends the food?”
“That woman, Your Grace.”
The little tavern was nothing to look at but it had resources. To the rear a duck pond and a dovecote, a row of beehives, pigs in a sty, two cows, a productive garden and an orchard. Filipez always rode in that direction and he never came back without some token of goodwill from the landlady for the poor lady shut up in Kimbolton for no fault of her own. Jennie Turnbull, like most married women, was wholeheartedly in sympathy with Katharine.
Whether her sympathy was deep enough to lead her to engage in surreptitious handling of messages, Filipez was not sure; it was a service of rather different order from the sending of what Jennie called something a bit tasty for the poor lady’s table.
The eight young Spaniards—one with a clown perched behind him—arrived. The drawbridge was up, and they looked harmless enough, but Sir Edmund went out and shouted to them to go away. One called back that they had only come to show off their horsemanship, while their elders rested, could they not have permission to do so? Life, even for the jailers, was dull in Kimbolton and soon Sir Edmund was watching as eagerly as the rest of its inmates, as the Spanish trained horses showed their tricks. Then one of the young men took the lute that was slung on his back and sang, a Spanish song. A voice from the battlements congratulated him, in Spanish. He said, to the clown, “There is your mark.” Then he sang again, Spanish words to an English tune, one of Henry’s own. It was an eerie experience to hear, “Pastance with good company I love and shall until I die,” rendered, the tune faultless, as “The Princess waits upon the babe and keeps her dignity; When at a doorway she yields place, each time she says: It is my father’s will that I obey.”
Katharine said, “Men’s voices carry better. Dr. de La Sa, ask is she well? Are her spirits cheerful?”
Across the moat question and answer. Somebody called, in Spanish, “Watch the clown!”
Nobody not particularly instructed to do so would bother to watch the clown, who, in truth was not very good except at turning somersaults, which he did so near to the moat’s edge that he seemed likely to fall in—and serve him right. When the horses, having rested, drew away a little and resumed their display, most eyes watched them; and the clown fell into the moat and struggled, throwing off his motley coat, letting go his stick with the bells, one shoe, then another. Then, with a deadly accuracy, for he had no wish to end his days competing with dancing bears in Cheapside, he aimed the little casket. Maria de Moreto caught it and pushed it, wet and dripping green slime as it was, into her bodice.
In English and in Spanish he shouted for help, he was drowning. He was happy to realize that nobody was paying him any attention at all.
“Poor man, he is drowning,” Katharine said.
“He swims like a carp,” Maria said. It was true. He struggled out and with an oriental gesture, put his hands to his brow and bowed.
Chapuys and the main party rode back to the little tavern, and with a brusque, “Wait here for me,” he dismounted and entered alone. He asked for ale which Jennie Turnbull served, her temper already ruffled. Why had only one of the fine gentlemen come in? Why did that one ask for ale? She had hoped, watching the party rein in that all would enter and demand wine, of which she had a small store, though it was seldom called for.
“Would the other gentlemen not like something to drink?”
“Probably,” Chapuys said haughtily, “but it would be unfitting for them to drink with me. You could not know that my good woman. I am the Spanish Ambassador.”
There were a few people—all local gentry—entitled to address her thus, from a foreigner the term was offensive; and the idea that nobody was good enough to drink with him angered her. Chapuys knew the English well; they were as riddled with class-consciousness as any people on earth, but they did not like it to be mentioned. He completed his task of enraging her by drinking her ale without a word of praise and with an expression of faint distaste.
“If it’s not to your taste there’s wine to be had.”
“This sad drink is more suited to my mood,” he said. “I am disappointed in my errand. I had hoped to see the prisoner at Kimbolton, but was turned away.”
The woman’s neck reddened, a sure sign.
