Rivals in the Tudor Court

by D. L. Bogdan

  His Majesty then proceeds to discuss his scruples. It is a heavy burden he carries, making this painful decision, but for the good of the succession and England, it must be made. His consistent argument remains in the fact that the queen consummated her marriage to Prince Arthur, which voids their union and has them living in a state of sin. It is a condition King Henry’s delicate conscience cannot abide.

  The Archbishop of Canterbury is nodding in agreement. “You speak true, if it pleases Your Highness,” he tells the king. “I don’t doubt all my brethren present will affirm the same.”

  John Fisher, Bishop of Rochester, and perhaps one of the only men wholly devoted to Queen Catherine, interposes with, “No, sir. Not I. You have not my consent thereto.”

  In a rage the king shakes a paper in the old bishop’s face. “Then what is this? Look here! Is this not your hand and seal?”

  Bishop Fisher shakes his head. “No, Sire, it is not my hand nor seal.”

  “You speak true,” says the Archbishop to Fisher. “But at the last moment, you were fully persuaded and let me sign for you!”

  “Under your correction, my lord, there is no thing more untrue,” the bishop scoffs. “The marriage of the king and queen can be dissolved by no power human or divine.”

  The king shakes his head, his lips twisting with a bitter smile. “No matter,” he hisses at the bishop. “You are but one man.”

  Undaunted, Bishop Fisher meets His Majesty’s gaze with eyes that smolder like embers, bearing the promise of the fire to come.

  The next few days are spent arguing about Prince Arthur’s ability to consummate his marriage to Catherine of Aragon. Forty nobles give evidence as to their own fitness in the sport.

  “I was not yet sixteen when I knew my wife,” says the Earl of Shrewsbury.

  Anthony Willoughby tries to suppress a laugh when he testifies. “Prince Arthur says to me, he says, ‘Willoughby, give me a cup of ale, for I have been this night in the midst of Spain.’ And then he says, ‘Masters, it is a good pastime to have a wife.’ ” Willoughby sits down with a satisfied smile, made playful by the memory of young men telling tales.

  Thomas Boleyn and Lord Fitzwalter waited upon the prince at table, where was repeated the same joke. Lady Fitzwalter recalls seeing the couple in bed together.

  And I, when called to bear witness, confess that I knew my wife at age fifteen and was more than capable of performing The Act. This is true only in part, for I did not know my wife till my early twenties, but it is what the king wants to hear, so hear it he shall.

  Even when sheets sent to Catherine’s mother, Queen Isabella, are displayed, the bishop of Ely confesses that Catherine often told him she never carnally knew Prince Arthur.

  I do not know what to believe. While the evidence is compelling, the queen’s passionate adherence to her story is just as convincing. I suppose it doesn’t matter anyway. Truth is rather a moot point in this world.

  On 23 July, Cardinal Campeggio adjourns the case to Rome. Enraged, the king stalks out as the Duke of Suffolk slams his fist on the table and shouts, “By the Mass, it was never merry in England while we had cardinals among us!”

  Wolsey regards the duke, his fat face wrought with sorrow. “Of all men in this realm, you have least cause to be offended with cardinals for if I, a simple cardinal, had not been, you should have at present no head upon your shoulders!”

  Humbled into silence as Suffolk perhaps recalls Wolsey’s intervention for him when he wed the king’s sister Mary, his fist unclenches and he bows his head.

  I shrug. If the cardinals cannot give us the divorce, we will find another way.

  The best thing to come of this, oh, the very best thing, is that no singular event is more worthy of bringing about Wolsey’s downfall.

  He knows it. As we lock eyes, I find in them an appeal. I offer him a sure and steady smile. Were our situations reversed, there is no doubt he would do the same.

  The case against Wolsey is all too easy to procure. The cardinal will be indicted under the Statute of Praemunire, which prohibits interference from Rome in English affairs without royal consent, such as receiving papal bulls. On 17 October, it is with great delight that Suffolk and I strip the corpulent cardinal of his post as lord chancellor by taking the Great Seal from him at Esher.

  The king seizes much of the ecclesial property, Wolsey’s favorite houses of York Place, the More, Tittenhanger, and Esher. The jewel of them all, however, is Hampton Court, which is a palace in and of itself.

  With Wolsey fallen, the post of lord chancellor has opened up. My heart thrills as I ponder the possibility of being chosen, but it is not me but Suffolk—stupid, arse-kissing Suffolk!—the king considers. When I point out that the man is powerful enough, he capitulates and chooses, instead of me, Sir Thomas More, humanist, Lutheran-hating author of the fanciful Utopia, which I say I read but didn’t and he knows it.

  The whole thing is ridiculous! Even I can see that More doesn’t want the post! He wants no part in the nullity suit, has no care of anything worldly. His goal in life is to punish Lutherans and himself for whatever unlikely sins he may have indulged in, and spend time with his horde of a family at Chelsea, where he is free to study and ponder and mock his wife in Latin. To think this is the man the king has chosen . . . !

  “Ah, but there will never be a chancellor as honest and so thoroughly accomplished as he,” says the new imperial ambassador, Eustace Chapuys, in his broken English.

  There is nothing but to agree and it is with a reluctant but whole heart that I do so. For More is not like other men. He has something in him that we political-minded lack. The sweet, openfaced man is good, pure of heart and intention.

  In reality, I cannot think of a king requiring more than that.

  Elizabeth Howard

  “All is not lost yet, my dear duchess,” Queen Catherine tells me in her chambers while we sew shirts for the poor.

  “Your Grace conducted herself with the utmost dignity before the court,” I tell her, my voice wavering in awe that she could summon forth words now famous throughout England. “There is so much to be admired in you.”

  The queen shakes her head. “My motivations are not worldly,” she tells me. “I am driven toward a higher purpose. My husband must be made to see . . .” She bites her lip a moment, then shrugs, continuing her sewing. “Meantime I must fight for what is mine.”

  I nod. “Your Grace, I am compelled to apologize for the behavior of my niece. As a relation, I cannot help but feel responsible.”

  “Nonsense, Lady Elizabeth,” she says with a sad smile. “You’ve no control over that girl. I daresay she has very little control herself. She is a tool as we all are, a piece of iron meant to be bent and wrought to the designs of others.”

  “She seems more than willing to be made malleable,” I say in a tone edgy with bitterness.

  “Perhaps.” The queen cocks her head as though in thought. “But that is on her conscience.”

  Conscience. I am sickened by the misuse of the term. If I have to hear about His Majesty’s tender conscience once more, I fear I shall retch.

  The queen draws in a breath. “It has been difficult. I will not lie,” she tells me then. “Since your niece entered my life, I have not known a day of peace. Never before has anyone been able to sway the king as that woman has. I do not know why and how, except to say that she wields some dark power beyond my understanding.”

  It would be simple believing raven-haired Anne Boleyn to be a witch. But it is not so and in my heart I know it. She is a concubine and a harlot with French tricks, no different from Bess Holland.

  I do not give voice to this, however. I nod and offer a sympathetic sigh.

  “Your Grace, the imperial ambassador is here to see you,” a servant informs the queen.

  Her Grace rises, her face alight with a smile. “Do show him in.”

  “Perhaps I should leave you?” I ask.

  “Please stay, Lady Elizabeth. You bring us much comfor
t,” the queen says, gesturing for me to remain seated at the window.

  The ambassador enters and offers a deep bow. An exchange in Spanish rings in my ears melodic as a bubbling brook and I close my eyes a moment, wishing I could speak it, that I might be more intimate with the queen’s world. How much more could I understand her if I could speak her language!

  “Ambassador, it is my pleasure to introduce to you my dear friend, Her Grace Elizabeth, Duchess of Norfolk,” the queen says and I rise from the window seat. “Duchess Elizabeth, this is the imperial ambassador to my nephew, Charles V. Eustace Chapuys.”

  The ambassador takes my hand, placing upon it a warm kiss as he bows. “My lady.”

  When he rights himself, I am startled by his handsomeness. He is young, forty years old, I am told, which is only eight years my senior and it shows in his fine form. His liquid brown eyes are alert and engaging, his black hair cascades to his shoulders in glossy curls, and the beard surrounding his full mouth is close-cut. Each feature, from his straight nose to high cheekbones and angled jaw, is sculpted as though from fine marble. His smile is warm and inviting. Regarding him I am reminded of the dashing Fra Diego, dismissed from court so many years ago for his wild ways. I wonder if this man who radiates the same raw sensuality is as amorous, then am ashamed for the thought. My cheeks flush and I bow my head.

  “Duchess Elizabeth has remained a dear friend to me throughout my many trials,” the queen is telling the ambassador, who, upon hearing her voice, shifts his gaze from me to her. “Besides Maria Willoughby, she is my staunchest supporter in this foreign land.”

  “No doubt you value her very much,” the ambassador says in his broken English. “Good friends can be most useful.”

  At this I am compelled to fall to my knees before the queen. “Allow me to demonstrate my loyalty to Her Grace and her cause in any way I can,” I say, my tone impassioned. “I am her humble servant.”

  The ambassador takes my hand, helping me to my feet, and I admit to a certain thrill at his touch. He holds my gaze a long moment.

  “We are most grateful, Duchess,” he says. “Your devotion is admirable. I am certain we will call upon you for assistance in the very near future.”

  “I am at your command,” I say in husky tones.

  At that moment no words are truer. It is not only the queen who has rendered me helpless but this man, this imperial ambassador who champions her cause with as much devotion as I, this dark and devastating Eustace Chapuys.

  Thomas Howard

  The king is far too generous with Wolsey. How that fat man weasels his way into His Majesty’s heart I have no idea. In any event, the king allows him to linger too close to court for my comfort. His Majesty has pardoned him—granting him the bishopric of York and his home at Esher once more, not to mention the rings he sends him as tokens of affection. I could tear out my hair at the thought!

  I will destroy him.

  My dark musings are interrupted by more pleasant diversions. On 8 December, Thomas Boleyn is created Earl of Wiltshire and Ormonde, wresting the title from the Irish Butlers at last. My dashing nephew George is styled as the Viscount Rochford, while Anne and her sister Mary are the ladies Rochford. George is also appointed as a gentleman of the privy chamber, which will keep him close to the king. I admit a certain pride in the boy; he is an accomplished diplomat and consummate courtier, slick and sly as they come. All Howard.

  The next day, the king gives a beautiful banquet to celebrate Thomas Boleyn’s ennoblement. The court can hardly retain a gasp when they note Queen Catherine’s absence. Who sits in Her Grace’s chair? None but my black-eyed niece, whose pretty cherry lips curve up in a smug smile that I return when my eyes fall upon her.

  Ah, the taste of success!

  My wife and stepmother are not as enthusiastic about the seating arrangement, and their blatant scowls reflect it; it is the popular belief that the king’s sister Queen Mary should have been seated in Catherine’s chair in her absence. But there is naught they can do but grumble, so I leave them to it.

  After dinner, there is dancing and I am paired with Anne. “Ah, my little gem,” I say with a slight laugh. “How goes it?”

  “You have eyes,” she quips. “What do they see?”

  “An arrogant little girl,” I state, “who must be careful. All is not won yet. Queen Catherine has made it clear that she will not yield easily.” I pause, then am reminded of another point as I watch the king dance with his sister. “Tell me—you are still being admired from afar?”

  She nods. “It isn’t easy. He is a persuasive man.”

  “Don’t underestimate your own powers of persuasion,” I say. “Remember, keeping your virtue is all that separates you from being another of his dispensable whores. You must not give in till that ring is on your finger—and the crown is on your head.”

  Anne breaks into a fit of edgy laughter. “Yes, Uncle,” she says, squeezing my hand.

  We take to whirling and spinning about the floor and I toss back my head, adding my own triumphant laugh to hers.

  It is good to be a Howard.

  The queen is beside His Majesty as a figurehead for the Christmas festivities, over which my niece throws one of her now famous tantrums, and only the promises of her future station will soothe her. Queen Catherine is packed off to Richmond soon enough, and Anne is reassured of the king’s devotion to their cause when he removes with her to York Place.

  In January, Thomas Boleyn, for the sheer fortune of being Anne’s father, is named Lord Privy Seal and begins to savor his newfound power.

  That same month, Elizabeth and I remove to Kenninghall to see the children. I have been appointed governor to the king’s son, Henry Fitzroy, who is based at Windsor, and have decided to send my Henry to him as one of his companions. I have also decided to observe the girl Mary to examine her fitness for court. If I find her adequate, she could be a little maid to her cousin Anne and prove useful to me.

  As a gift I bring the child a little circlet that I took great care in designing. A subtle piece, it is silver and inlaid with tiny seed pearls, and gazing at it I cannot think of a more appropriate adornment for one such as Mary. When I see the girl, I make a show of placing it upon her golden head and she scrunches up her shoulders in her peculiar display of delight. Gazing at her, her delicacy, fine bone structure, and bewildered green eyes, I realize it is expedient for her to be at my side so that she might be in full view of all. She is eleven years old now, ripe for the plucking. Anne has discussed with the king a possible betrothal between her and Fitzroy. At court she can be seen by the king and approved by him. I have been told by Bess and her tutors that she is an accommodating little girl, a talented embroiderer, musician, dancer, and composer of verse, a skill I find rather useless but one King Henry seems to admire in women.

  Elizabeth, predictable as the sunrise, is against the idea of Mary coming to court.

  “She isn’t like us, Thomas,” she tells me in my study. “She never has been. Court is a dangerous place for such as she.”

  “She’ll get used to it right enough,” I tell her in impatient tones.

  “I don’t want her to get used to it!” Elizabeth cries. “I don’t want her to become hard and cold and accustomed to deceit and betrayal! Don’t take her, Thomas! Please!”

  I have tired of the constant arguing; she must be taught who her master is. I have been far too lenient thus far.

  I take her in hand.

  It seems to be the only form of discipline she will understand.

  And so, with an Elizabeth made compliant, Mary accompanies us back to court, where she waits upon her cousin and is given explicit instruction to report anything and everything involving Anne and the king to me. I do not worry overmuch about the girl’s behavior; should anything untoward come my way, I am not afraid to dole out the fatherly discipline that is my right. But she seems malleable enough and fortunately should not require such stricture.

  Meantime I am busy wreaking the final
downfall of Wolsey. The former cardinal’s secretary, Thomas Cromwell, a lowborn son of a blacksmith with, I must admit, considerable potential in the political arena, has aligned himself with the Howard star and is maneuvering away from his master in order to serve one of more prominence. By March he has begun a polite detachment from Wolsey and acts as messenger. When, uncomfortable with Wolsey’s proximity to court at Winchester, I send Cromwell with a message.

  “What will he do there?” I demand. “No, let him go to his province of York, where he has received his honor, and there lie the spiritual burden and charge of his conscience. So show him!”

  The king sanctions this move and sends Lord Dacre to assist him. But they do not move fast enough! What is that portly priest up to?

  “Show him that if he does not remove himself shortly, I will tear at him with my teeth!” I cry to Cromwell, who stares at me with wide eyes. He nods so much that his jowls jiggle. I think he believes me.

  In late April, Wolsey remains fifty miles from York, determined to be as close to His Majesty as possible. If I didn’t hate him so much, I’d find the display pitiable. But there is no use getting excited about it; he is as far north as I can send him for the time being.

  Now it is to the king’s divorce. I begin to oversee the collection of opinions from the theologians of English and European universities about the legality of his marriage while trying to sway Pope Clement to see His Majesty’s side of the situation.

  The Pope issues a bull revoking His Majesty’s case. In Rome’s eyes, the king is forbidden to remarry.

  “The best course is to ignore the bull and do it anyway,” I say to Eustace Chapuys.

  The handsome ambassador tosses back his head and laughs. “And you are worried about Charles V declaring war? There would be no need, for His Majesty’s own subjects would rebel and their king be deemed a heretic!”