The Concubine

by Norah Lofts

  For a second Wolsey felt nothing save genuine astonishment. Nothing that the King or any other man could have said would have surprised him as much. He was seldom surprised; he regarded all men as venal; he could draw up a watertight treaty and at the same time speculate upon how soon, and in what manner, it would be broken. But now he was surprised; and then, as his powerful mind reached out and grasped every implication of Henry’s words, inside his stoutening body his heart halted, and then with a jerk beat on.

  He said, quite cheerfully,

  “What a freakish fancy! The Pope himself declared your brother’s marriage null and void. It was never consummated. Your union with Her Grace is as legal in the sight of God and man as it would have been had your brother never existed and you had married Her Grace when she arrived from Spain. Rest assured of that. I do beg you not to let such a doubt darken another moment.”

  “I have told myself these things, on many a wakeful night. They are things that a man would wish to believe. But I can’t. All the evidence points the other way.”

  “Evidence? What evidence?”

  “My children,” Henry said heavily. “My children, all stillborn or dead before their navels had healed.”

  “Not all. The Princess Mary…”

  “I should have said my sons. For a King to have no son is to be childless, Thomas; you know that as well as I do. You know the history of your own country; only once has the throne gone to a woman, Matilda. And what did that lead to? Civil war, with such famine and widespread misery that men said Christ and His Saints slept. Is that to happen again? Can you sit there and contemplate, with an easy mind, the prospect of my leaving no heir but Mary?”

  “We have, in a manner contemplated it, ever since Her Grace’s last miscarriage. Not with an easy mind, I agree. But we have contemplated it, and as far as possible prepared for it by arranging her marriage to the Emperor.”

  “And that I never liked! Charles already has more territory than he can handle properly, and married to Mary he’ll have England, too. This England, yours and mine, Thomas, will be just one more unimportant bit of fringe on Charles’s great Empire; within twenty years it’ll be known as the Outer Isles or some such slighting name. And as the last-comer to the conglomeration, England would always get the dirty end of the stick, in every bargain, every market. It just so happens that at the moment the Emperor and I are allied against France, but it’d be madness to believe that there is any fondness between the Spaniards and us.” He drew a deep noisy breath. “Why must I give away England as part of a wench’s dower? It’s as unjust as though I claimed your manor of Tittenhanger simply because my bull had served your heifer!”

  “It’s been done from time immemorial.”

  “So have many other regrettable things. It isn’t what I want for England.”

  He spoke with sincerity. Even in his most lighthearted moments he had always remained aware of the responsibilities that were a part of Kingship; England and the English belonged to him; he was head of the State and Father of the People. But he was only a mortal man, and one day—a day so far ahead that it could be viewed calmly—he must die. What then?

  It was a question that he asked himself more frequently and more urgently as the years crept by. His marriage was fourteen years old; with the ordinary amount of luck, and God’s blessing on a pious man, he should by now be the father of a son moving from boyhood to manhood, a strong, handsome Prince of Wales, effortlessly acquiring from his father’s example skill in the use of arms, cunning in the management of men, the secret of maintaining personal popularity without sacrificing self-will. Blessed with such a son, he could, when the time came, die knowing that England was safe in the strong hands of Henry the Ninth. But there was no boy; the heir to England was a little girl, a grave, intelligent, lovable child, most satisfactory as a daughter, but viewed dynastically, a disaster.

  Wolsey said,

  “All that you say is true, and it is regrettable. But, Sire, I see no alternative.”

  Henry said, rather heavily, “I do.” Wolsey waited for the mention of little Henry Fitzroy, and braced himself. But the King went on, “I’m thirty-two, Thomas, and I have proved that outside this cursed, incestuous marriage I can breed a boy. And if I can, I should. You would agree that the provision of a successor could be reckoned part of a monarch’s duty?”

  One of those questions to which neither yes nor no was a safe answer.

  Cautiously, Wolsey said, “What does your Grace propose?”

  “Pope Julius annulled my brother’s marriage to Catherine and gave me leave to marry her. Events have proved him to have been in error. I propose that we ask Clement to look into the matter, find some flaw in Julius’s ruling and retract the annulment. That would make me free to remarry and try again.”

  Except for a whitening of his nostrils Wolsey’s face gave no sign of the disturbance he felt. This was worse, much worse than any suggestion of legitimizing and recognizing the bastard son; because basically Henry knew that to be impracticable. This new proposal was practicable, it had a kind of deadly logic; but oh, how difficult, how dangerous! And it could not be kept, as discussion of Henry Fitzroy’s fate could be kept, within these four walls.

  He was aware that he must say something and say it promptly; Henry was eyeing him with some eagerness, and behind the eagerness there was calculation. When the difficulties and the dangers proved too much it would never do for the King to be able to swing round and say, “You were against me from the first.”

  He said, “It sounds simple enough; but it would be, I don’t say impossible, few things are impossible, but it would be fraught with such difficulty and likely to lead to such unpredictable results that it is not a thing to be lightly undertaken.”

  “I am not undertaking it lightly. Nor hastily. I have even taken into consideration Catherine’s feelings. She has been a most excellent wife to me, Thomas, and I am fond of her; but she is of royal blood, she will realize the necessity.”

  “Will His Holiness? Is Clement the man to set a precedent by revoking an opinion given by his predecessor? In theory the Pope’s judgment and wisdom are infallible, his edicts inspired. If Clement says Julius was in error, where does Clement stand? And then, even suppose that it could be proved that when Julius issued his brief he had been misinformed in some particular so that the pronouncement was legally invalid, what of the Emperor? The Queen’s Grace is his aunt. Would he welcome a pronouncement that declared that she had eight times conceived out of wedlock? And even could he stomach that would he not gag on the notion of the Princess Mary being made a bastard?”

  “He’ll gag, and more, at the thought of losing England, but why should that fret us, Thomas? I gag at the thought of his having it as a marriage portion. As for the Pope—I’m a good churchman but I can say to you, surely without offense, you high clerics are skilled in dealing with awkward situations; slippery as eels, all of you. And by Holy Cross, the Papacy owes me something. I was the one who took up cudgels against Luther.”

  “That is true.” Wolsey shifted ground. “We must also bear in mind the common English people. On the whole they dislike foreigners but from the first, in their unpredictable way, they took the Princess of Aragon to their hearts and never once, in all the time that she has been Queen, has she acted in such a way as to diminish her popularity. Every time she had been brought to bed every woman in the land has hoped with her, suffered with her, and shared her disappointment. To say now that she was never your lawful wife will, I fear, incense all your female subjects—and all the men whose own marriages have brought them less than they hoped for in children, goods, or simple comfort. That must be thought of.”

  “I, too, have some popularity,” Henry said, touched in his vanity. “And naturally if anything comes of the matter it must be presented in an acceptable form. Every man with a conscience will recognize the claims of mine, and every man with his own good at heart will be concerned for the succession.”

  “And the Frenc
h, of course, would welcome it, as they would welcome anything that caused a breach between us and the Emperor,” Wolsey said, musingly, his mind leaping forward. The French would gladly provide some plump, nubile princess to take Catherine’s place in Henry’s bed.

  “Has your Grace some Princess in mind?”

  “God’s fingers! No! You go too fast, Thomas. The ground must be tested. I’ve thought the matter over and convinced myself. I’ve now asked your opinion. And you have mentioned the Pope, the Emperor and the common people. What does my own Lord Chancellor think?”

  It was one of those moments, frequent enough in Wolsey’s complicated life, when truth and commonsense dictated one answer and expediency the direct opposite. He wanted to say—Leave it alone, it can only lead to enmity abroad and rebellion at home; expediency urged that he give the pleasing answer. Also to expediency was added a genuine fondness. It was hard on a man in his prime, a strong, lusty man, to be tied to a woman six vital years his senior; it was even harder on a devoted King to be without a son to succeed him.

  “Your Grace knows that in this as in all things I have no other wish than to carry out your will to the best of my ability.”

  “That,” Henry said, “is a smooth answer and worthless. And you know it. Save your evasions for those who trade in such things. Give a blunt man a blunt answer. What do you think?”

  The basic, rock hard, East Anglian realism that neither his friends nor his enemies ever gave its due came to Wolsey’s aid,

  “I think—in fact I know—that it will be difficult to bring about, and it will take time, more time than you imagine. But there is this…” Behind the massive brow the brain which even his most virulent enemies admitted to be formidable was already working; cog engaged upon cog. “The whole thing could be eased and accelerated if Her Grace could be persuaded to cooperate. She is a pious woman; she is of royal blood, she understands the need this land has for a prince. If she could be brought to agree that the marriage was no marriage, that His Holiness decreed it void, she might withdraw and retire to a nunnery. That would lift all shadow of blame from you. Your Grace, that is my concern—that you emerge scatheless, that you and Her Grace should seem in equal measure to have been victims of a Papal error.”

  “As we were. But you’re right, Thomas. This hinges on the Queen.” He imagined himself facing Catherine and mentioning the matter, and recoiled. “Not yet,” he said hastily. “Time enough to tell her when we have the Pope’s decision.”

  Wolsey nodded. “And that will not be yet. I suggest a careful preliminary approach by as secret a channel as can be found; then, in the event of failure there need be no gossip, no embarrassment.”

  “The means I leave to you,” Henry said simply. “They missed a rare chance, Thomas, when they failed to elect you for Pope, though for my own part I can’t help but be thankful.”

  Wolsey’s face remained impassive, though his casual reference to the greatest disappointment of his life hurt him. He had come very near to being chosen in 1521 when Leo X died, and had tried again eighteen months later upon the death of Adrian VI. His hopes, his dreams of being Pope—now shelved indefinitely—had given him, through anticipation, some insight as to what being Pope involved and he was able to think now that if he were in Clement’s place it would take something of a cataclysmic nature to induce him to revoke a bill of annulment granted by one of his predecessors. Yet, at the same time, thinking of his thwarted ambition he was reminded that the Emperor, Charles V, had promised to use his influence to get him elected. How far, how vigorously had he kept that promise? Wolsey, always pro-French at heart, would welcome the annulment, could it be obtained; and welcome, too, the French marriage which must almost inevitably follow. There was a Princess named Renée…

  He said, “Your Grace may rely upon me to give this matter great and careful thought, and to do my utmost to gain you what you desire.”

  “Then that is all for the moment,” Henry said, and rose. He glanced at the piled papers. “Everything seems to be in order here; I think, since the weather has cleared, I’ll have a few days’ hunting down at Hever.”

  “I trust Your Grace has good sport,” Wolsey said.

  A few minutes later, when the King had been seen off and Wolsey was back in his room, in the act of handing the papers to one of his secretaries he stopped suddenly and stared into space.

  Hever. That brought Thomas Boleyn to mind and that slant-eyed slip of a girl who was his daughter. The King had said, “Break off, as soon as you can, this affair between young Percy and Tom Boleyn’s girl. I have other plans for her. She can marry Piers Butler and that will settle that old dispute. I’d sooner not appear in this business because I have not yet made up my mind about the titles and wish to rouse no false hopes on either side.” Wolsey had said, “I can say, with truth, that she is no match for Northumberland’s heir.” “Good,” Henry said, “and get her away from the Court for awhile. Send her to her father.”

  Sir Thomas was then at Blickling, so the girl had been sent there. Now she’d be at Hever. And Henry, besides going there to hunt, would be arranging her marriage to Butler, and it looked as though, arranging it there when he was Sir Thomas’s guest, he had decided to give Boleyn the title after all. And Thomas Boleyn, ennobled, would be more unbearable than ever.

  There had been a time—not so long since—when the King would not have made such a move without consulting his chief minister; he’d have said, yes, as lately as a year ago, “Which shall it be, Thomas, Butler or Boleyn?” and Wolsey, after a pretense at pondering, at impartial judgment, would have given some good reason for passing over Boleyn whom he disliked and distrusted, and the King would have taken his advice. Now, without even discussing the matter, off he went to Hever, lightly mentioning a few days’ hunting.

  Well, it was inevitable, Wolsey supposed. “If the lion knew his strength who could rule him?” To a degree Wolsey had looked upon Henry as his son, and even the most beloved, the most amenable sons grew up and delighted in a show of independence. Trotting off to Hever to promise Thomas Boleyn a title without having consulted Wolsey probably gave Henry a pleasing feeling of standing on his own feet.

  But it was, nonetheless, a little straw which indicated the way the wind blew. For a moment Wolsey was thankful that there were larger, nondomestic issues which only he could handle. Yes, Henry could make Thomas Boleyn, that assiduous toady and climber, Viscount Rochfort without either help or advice from Thomas Wolsey; but he needed him still, and would need him for a long while if one Pope’s ruling was to be set aside by another.

  He came out of his reverie, gave the secretary his instructions and sent him away and then sat down to give his whole attention to what, in his own mind, he had already named The King’s Secret Matter.

  He propped his chin on his hand so that the stone of his great Cardinal’s ring pressed into the thickening flesh.

  And suddenly his mind, instead of working in its usual smooth, logical, sensible fashion, chose to turn freakish, allowed itself to be taken over by the memory of an absurd happening which had taken place years ago and which he would have said he had forgotten.

  It was in his Court of Star Chamber; a complicated legal case concerning some property, and one of the claimants was a woman. He had given—as he always did in that Court—a just, an impartial verdict, against the woman who had felt herself aggrieved. She had jumped up and begun to shout some hysterical nonsense accusing him of being unfair to a woman and threatening that some day in the future another woman would make things even. “You sit high,” she had screamed, “but a woman will bring you down!” He had ordered her removal from the Court and calmly proceeded to the next case. Why think of her now?

  He knew the answer to that. This new, heavy, dangerous business which the King had just flung into his lap was concerned with a woman, Catherine the Queen. If she chose to be obdurate…

  Nonsense, he rebuked himself, superstitious nonsense, but he sighed and knew a moment’s envy for Henr
y who could broach such a subject, say “The means I leave to you,” and then go off, lightheartedly, to hunt at Hever.

  III

  There is reason to believe that Anne was tenderly attached to her stepmother, and much beloved by her.

  After a period sufficient to allow for the subsiding of ordinary feelings of displeasure had elapsed, the King paid an unexpected visit to Hever Castle.

  Agnes Strickland, Lives of the Queens of England

  HEVER. OCTOBER 1523

  SIR THOMAS BOLEYN’S SECOND WIFE was a plump, pleasant woman, who left in her proper social sphere would have been competent, a little managing, and as fully self-assured as a woman of good sense and virtue had a right to be. As the wife of a great man and mistress of several large establishments she suffered painful moments of self-distrust.

  It was not that she felt inferior; she came of sound Norfolk yeoman stock and was proud of the fact, but she did often feel misplaced. Sir Thomas had met her, fallen in love with her, and married her during one of his visits to Blickling where he had gone to sulk after suffering what he considered to be a slight at Court. He was consoling himself by playing the part of a rather bucolic squire, a shrewd judge of cattle, knowledgeable about crops. He had spoken of retiring from public life and settling down in Blickling. And Blickling she could manage; what was it, after all, but a magnified farm? They’d been married less than a month when an urgent messenger had summoned him to London; and there was the London house, and new dresses, and there was Hever, and there was Sir Thomas saying, “My dear, I realize that nobody can cure a ham as you can, but I cannot have you ruining your hands.”

  Then there was this business of being stepmother, of its very nature, an awkward, thankless role. If the children had been babies, she would have tended and reared them, and loved them like her own—she was just too old to expect children herself. But even Anne, the youngest, was fifteen, a maid-of-honor in France; Mary and George were fully adult. And Tom’s attitude toward them all kept Lady Boleyn constantly conscious of a difference in behavior between classes. The great put their babies out to nurse and that act was symbolic; there was none of the cozy family life such as she had known. George and his father got along very well, two worldly men, with common interests. Mary her father seemed to dislike, which was understandable; she had disgraced herself twice, even before becoming the King’s mistress for a short time; but she was now respectably married; and as Lady Boleyn had once tried to point out, she had lacked a mother’s guidance at the time when a girl needed it most. Tom had said, “God knows what she’d have done with it! Elizabeth was a trollop.”