by Jean Plaidy
“Oh come, come, such talk does no good. It was that fellow Tarbes… that monstrous suggestion about our daughter.”
“It is unforgivable.”
“Unforgivable… but is it true, Kate? Think of what has happened to us. We have been denied that which we most desire…a son, Kate. God has made it clear that He is displeased. Every time…every time…”
“We have our dear daughter.”
“Yes…yes… and none dearer…a cherished child, but a girl, Kate. A girl… when the country needs a man to follow me.”
“There have been worthy queens.”
“A queen cannot lead an army.”
“I was your regent while you were in France.”
“My mother did, and a good one, too. Ah, Kate, if only this man had not raised that question! It is too late now for us to get sons. My concern for your health…”
“And your desire for a new wife.”
“You joke. You know that is not my desire… though I could be forced to it… for the people, Kate, for the sake of the country… for the hope of a son.”
“And to satisfy your own desire.”
“For a son, Kate, only for a son. By God's Holy Blood, I would He had granted us a son… just one healthy son… and I would shake my fist at this Tarbes and anyone who dares raise such a question. I would not have it.”
“Yet you will,” said my mother softly.
“If I could quieten my conscience…if I could turn my face from the truth…I would be the happiest man on Earth.”
“You need not concern yourself, for it is lies. I was never Arthur's wife.”
“If I could but ease my conscience…”
I was almost on the point of dashing into the room and shouting at him, “Stop it. Stop talking of your conscience. We know too much. It is not your conscience you must appease but your desire for a new wife.”
I stood uncertain for a moment but I knew I must not betray my presence. I wondered what would happen if he knew that I had listened to their conversation, that I knew he was living a lie, that he wanted this divorce. He wanted to be rid of my mother even though I should be proclaimed illegitimate.
He was untrue to us and to himself.
I could not bear to hear him mention his conscience once more. I crept silently out of the ante-room and made my way to my bedchamber.
NOW THAT I SAW my father afresh, I placed myself firmly on my mother's side. My father had said they should no longer live together, for he feared it was sin in the eyes of Heaven. His talk about his conscience had seemed to me so blatantly insincere; and I had heard the whispers about Anne Boleyn. As she was at Court, one of my mother's women, I saw her now and then. She fascinated me. She scintillated and dazzled all those about her. She was surrounded by the wittiest of the young men, all the poets and the musicians; she planned the masques; laughter rang out round her; and the King wanted all the time to be close to her.
I was deeply aware of her blinding brilliance, her quick wits, her sharp, clever face. It frightened me. My tenderness for my mother was almost painful. I would sit and watch her sad, sad face and feel sick at heart. I longed beyond everything to comfort her.
Once she caught me looking at her and, taking my hand, she smiled at me.
“You must not grieve, dearest child,” she said. “It may not come to pass, you know. He cannot put me away from him. I am his true wife. Moreover I am the daughter of a great King and Queen. They are both dead now, it is true, but I am still a Princess of Spain as well as a Queen of England.”
“The Emperor would not allow it to happen,” I said confidently.
“I think you are right.”
“Does he know of it? It is called the King's Secret Matter, so it must be secret to some.”
“It is not easy to keep such secrets. The Court knows what is happening. In the streets they are talking of it. The Emperor would never allow the King to harm me, and the Emperor is more powerful than ever since he defeated the French. Your father has tried to get the Pope's sanction to a divorce but, as you know, the Pope is now virtually a prisoner in Castel Sant' Angelo. One could say he is the Emperor's prisoner. Your father is very angry about that.”
“His conscience worries him, he says.”
My mother smiled wanly, then she said, “This is too much to burden you with, dear child. You are too young fully to grasp the significance of this.”
“I do grasp it,” I said.
“Perhaps you should, for it could be vital to your future.”
“I know that, my lady.”
“Then listen. I will tell you a secret. I have sent one of my servants to Spain. He has taken a letter from me to the Emperor in which I have told him exactly what is happening.”
I clasped my hands together in relief.
“Everything will be well now,” I said with conviction. I still remembered the hero of my youth.
MY MOTHER WAS JUBILANT, for she had received an answer from the Emperor, brought to her through the ambassador Mendoza.
She called me to her, for she knew what my feeling for the Emperor had been.
“Here is his reply,” she said.
“He is deeply shocked. He says that, because I have been married to him for so long, the King has forgotten that I am a Princess of Spain, and the Emperor will not allow a member of his family to be treated thus. He is sending Cardinal Quiñones, General of the Franciscans, to Rome without delay. He will be in charge of the affair there. He writes, ‘My dear Aunt…' Yes, he calls me his dear Aunt. ‘You can be assured that Clement, still in Castel Sant' Angelo, will not be in a position to flout my wishes.'”
“What a wonderful message!” I cried.
I threw myself into her arms, forgetting all formality owed to the Queen, and we laughed together although we were near to tears.
THERE WAS SO MUCH about this affair that I learned later, and I was able to fit the information together like pieces in a puzzle. Consequently I now understand more than I did at the time it happened.
I think few of us believed then that the King really meant to marry Anne Boleyn. It seemed then preposterous; but my father was a most powerful man; he was the despotic ruler of our country, and it was only the heads of other countries who could prevent his having his own way. The divorce would have been settled in a few months but for the fact that the Queen was the aunt of the most powerful man in Europe; and, this being a matter for the Church, the Pope was involved—and that Pope was now virtually the Emperor's prisoner.
I can well imagine how my father raged against fate which had arranged the Sack of Rome at this time. An amenable pope could have given the divorce as popes had done in the past to powerful men who sought such— and the matter would have been at an end.
But what was accursed bad fortune for my father was good for my mother and me. I knew she believed right until she was proved wrong that the delay would bring the King to his senses and that he would tire of the waiting game. So prevarication and any obstacles which would stand in the way of my father's attaining his goal were welcome.
Now that so much is clear, and looking back on the facts that are known to many, it is easy to understand. He really did intend to marry Anne Boleyn. He was so enamoured of her, and she was adamant. His mistress she would not be, so that if he would possess her he must marry her. Someone had to give way. I often wondered about his conscience. He talked of it often, and it was always there to help him get what he wanted. It was serving him well over this matter of the divorce. It must have been so comforting to blame his conscience and not his lust. Oddly enough, sometimes I am sure that he really did believe in that conscience. It forced him to work against Wolsey and was probably the beginning of the rift between them.
Wolsey was not averse to the divorce. No doubt he agreed that a male heir would be an advantage, and it was clear that my father would never get one from my mother. She was so much older than he was, and even when she was younger she had shown how difficult it was for her to bear healthy
children. The constant theme all those years had been: All those attempts and only one daughter!
So Wolsey was for the divorce but certainly not for marriage with Anne Boleyn. He must have feared the increasing power of her family. Anne Boleyn was his proclaimed enemy. She blamed him for breaking up the betrothal between her and Henry Percy though she must, by this time, have known that he was acting on the King's orders. There could be no joy for Wolsey in a marriage between Anne Boleyn and the King, so he was scheming to bring about a stronger alliance with a French princess to replace my mother.
The King, who normally would have stated his pleasure and expected everyone to fall in with his wishes, was wary of Wolsey, for he knew that he was proposing something which must seem outrageous to most of his courtiers. First he wanted his divorce, and Wolsey to be presented with a fait accompli. I often wondered why he was not as frank as he might have been with Wolsey. It might have been because he respected the man and really had a great fondness for him. In any case, he allowed Wolsey to go to France and get François' approval for the divorce and to suggest the King's marriage to one of the princesses of France.
My father had called on his conscience so many times that it began to have a life of its own and would not always be guided by him. It now began to disturb him on account of his previous relationship with Mary Boleyn and, since he had lived on intimate terms with the sister of the woman he intended to marry, was he not in a similar position to that of which he was trying to accuse my mother? I knew this because it came to light later that he had sent one of his secretaries, a certain Dr. Knight, to the Pope to get a dispensation in advance so that he could feel perfectly free to marry Anne.
This mission had to be kept secret from Wolsey, who was at this time presenting himself to François suggesting a French marriage for the King. So my father was playing a double game in his own immediate circle. Poor Wolsey. Although he was no friend to my mother and me and would have cast us off without qualm if need be, I could spare a little pity for him. He had risen so high, and it is always harder for such people when the fall comes.
I did catch a glimpse of Wolsey setting out on his mission. Pride and love of splendor would be his downfall, I thought then. He rode with as much pomp as the King himself. He was at the center of his entourage on his mule caparisoned in crimson velvet, with stirrups of copper and gilt. Two crosses of silver, two silver pillars, the Great Seal of England and his Cardinal's Hat were all carried before him. It was a magnificent show, and people came out of their houses to catch a glimpse of it as it passed. They watched it sullenly, murmuring under their breath “Butcher's Cur.”
I have come to learn that the lowly, instead of admiring those who have risen, are so consumed with envy toward them that they cannot contain their animosity. I often wondered why they did not regard them as an example to be emulated; but no, they prefer to hate. Wolsey's exaggerated splendor increased their anger against him, I always believed. They did not like his habit of carrying an orange which was stuffed with unguents as an antidote to the foul smells which came from the press of people. This seemed to stress the difference between them and himself. It was small wonder that it added to the resentment.
It must have been during that visit to France that Wolsey realized his influence with the King was in decline, for one of his spies managed to steal papers from Dr. Knight's baggage, and so the Cardinal knew that my father had sent Dr. Knight to act in complete opposition to him. It was the writing on the wall. What could Wolsey do? How could he assume any authority if the King was working against him? He must have returned from that visit to France a disillusioned man.
I heard about his return. The King was surrounded by his courtiers, Anne Boleyn at his side, when Wolsey sent a messenger to tell him of his arrival, expecting my father to tell him he would receive him at once and naturally in private. He was travel-stained and wished to wash and change his linen before meeting the King, but Anne imperiously ordered him to come to them as he was, there in the banqueting hall. Wolsey was dismayed. This was not the treatment he was accustomed to, but when the King did not countermand Anne Boleyn's order, he must have known this was the end.
The King intended to marry the woman; and farseeing, clever as he was, Wolsey could see that there would be no place for him at Court while she was there.
When my mother heard what had happened, she was very melancholy.
It seemed that the King was determined.
She said, “But time is on our side. He will tire of her in due course. I am sure of it.”
She was right in a way, but she did not see it. Perhaps she knew him too well to trust in his fidelity. Heaven knew, she had had experience of his nature in this respect.
There was little comfort for us except in the love and support of the people. When my mother and I took a barge from Greenwich to Richmond, they lined the banks of the river to cheer us. The sound was heartening. “Long live the Queen! Long live the Princess!”
Did we imagine it or was there an extra fervor in their cheers? How much did they know of the King's plan to replace my mother and disinherit me?
THERE WAS TROUBLE EVERYWHERE. My father was on unfriendly terms with the Emperor. There was no doubt that he was shocked by my father's attempts to divorce my mother and regarded it as an insult to Spain. I rejoiced that she had such a strong champion. This meant a halt to trade, which caused unrest in the country. England did a certain amount of business with Spain but that with the Netherlands was vital to our people and especially the clothiers of Suffolk. As before, the manufacturers found it necessary to discharge workers and there was a return of the riots.
My father had always dreaded to lose his subjects' affection. I had never seen anyone so delighted by approval as he was. Despot that he was, he wanted to be loved. It was a measure of his infatuation with Anne Boleyn that he risked their displeasure.
However, there was an immediate truce with the Netherlands.
Then disaster struck. The sweating sickness came to England.
This was the most dreaded disease which seemed to strike our country more than any other, to such an extent that it was often known as the “English Sweat.” There was a superstition about it because it had first appeared in the year 1485, at the time of the battle of Bosworth Field when my grandfather, Henry VII, had become King after defeating Richard III. People said it was revenge on the Tudors for having usurped the throne; and now here it was again when my father was contemplating divorcing my mother.
It was dreaded by all and was so called because the victim was struck until his death—which was usually the outcome—by profuse sweating. It was a violent fever; it rendered those who suffered from it with pains in the head and stomach and a terrible lethargy. The heat the patient had to endure was intense, and any attempt to cool it meant instant death.
When victims were discovered in London, there was great consternation.
The Court broke up. The King believed that the best way to escape the disease was to leave for the country without delay and move from place to place, and this he proceeded to do.
I could not help feeling great satisfaction when I heard that Anne Boleyn had caught the disease. She was immediately sent to Hever, away from the Court.
My father was deeply distressed and sent his second-best physician—but only because his first was away—to look after her. This was Dr. Butts, a man of great reputation. I heard my father was in a panic lest she die.
I frankly hoped she would.
I said to my mother and the Countess, “This is God's answer. When she is dead, all our troubles will be over.”
My mother answered, “It may be that her death would not be the end of our troubles.”
I retorted angrily, “My father says that he is afraid his marriage is no true marriage but the truth is that he wants to marry Anne Boleyn.”
The Countess looked at me steadily. Since they had known I was aware of what was happening, they had treated me more like an adult, talking to
me frankly—and at least I was grateful for that.
She said, “He wants to marry Anne Boleyn, but it is true that he wants sons, too.”
“And he thinks she will provide them.”
“He has two desires—one for her, and one for sons.”
“Suppose she could not have them?”
The Countess said slowly, “Well, then it would depend…”
“On what?”
“How deep is his feeling for her? Is it love? We shall never know perhaps. I will say this: I have a feeling that these negotiations will drag on for a long, long time.”
“But I wish she would die,” I said. “It will save us all much unhappiness if she does.”
The Countess was silent. I was sure she agreed with me that that would be the best solution.
DURING THAT PERIOD everyone at Court realized how obsessed the King was by Anne Boleyn. I was in dark despair. My hatred for the woman overshadowed everything for me; she was never out of my thoughts. I gloated over the fact that she was suffering from the dreaded disease. I reminded myself again and again that there were not many who survived. People said it was a punishment from God. Surely, if God's wrath should be turned against anyone, that should be Anne Boleyn. So I whipped up my hatred. I prayed for her death. What a wonderful release that would be!
My father wrote often to her. He was plunged into melancholy. Hourly he waited for news from Hever. So did I… for the news that she was dead.
But she did not die. She was nursed back to health by her devoted stepmother. My father was joyful. His sweetheart was saved. Meanwhile my mother and I had been traveling from place to place with the Court.
“God is not on our side,” I said bitterly, and my mother admonished me.
“Whatever happens,” she said, “we must endure it because it is God's will.” So when the epidemic was over, we were in the same position as we had been in before it started.
That year was the most unhappy I had lived through—up to that time. I did not know then, mercifully, that it was only a beginning. I thanked God that I was surrounded by those I loved. I was with my mother each day, I had my dear Countess, and there was also Lady Willoughby, my mother's greatest friend. Maria de Salinas had been with her when she came from Spain and had stayed beside her ever since. She had married in England and become Lady Willoughby but their friendship had remained steadfast.