The White Lion of Norfolk

by Lynda M Andrews

  Wolsey’s hooded eyes regarded the cold eyes of Norfolk with ill-concealed distaste. “Good Day, My Lord of Norfolk.”

  Norfolk’s reply was cordial but beneath the outward show of civility hatred burned fiercely in both men.

  “Butcher’s brat!” was what the old Duke had called this man who held the reins of power in England and the blood of the Mowbrays and Plantagenets must bow to him! Norfolk seethed with hatred, vowing to find some way of bringing the Cardinal down.

  He did not know that Henry had begun to view his Chancellor’s wealth and power with suspicion. Wolsey’s new palace at Hampton Court far outshone any of the palaces that Henry owned and a little rhyme had come to Henry’s ears which did nothing to allay his suspicion.

  “Go ye to Court?

  Which Court?

  The King’s Court?

  Or Hampton Court?”

  Norfolk noted, too, that the Cardinal’s entourage was almost as large as that of the King and contained the sons of many aspiring fathers’ beside the Cardinal’s own servants. Amongst the latter were his usher, George Cavendish, and another despicable upstart – one Thomas Cromwell, the son of a blacksmith and Fuller. Cromwell had first travelled to Italy as a mercenary and later had set himself up as a merchant, then an attorney and five years ago had joined the Cardinal’s staff.

  Norfolk noted the pale, effeminate features of young Henry Percy amongst the crowd. “So old Northumberland has sent his son into the Cardinal’s household,” he thought. No doubt old Percy hoped to achieve some influential post for the lad. Norfolk was disgusted. The future heir to the Earldom of Northumberland, the old and honoured position of a great Marcher Lord, here in the train of a commoner and rubbing shoulders with the son of a cleanser of cloth’. Norfolk was determined that the heir to the Dukedom of Norfolk would never enter that obnoxious household!

  As he left the King, the Duke was a troubled man. He could only foresee trouble ahead if Henry continued to pursue this course of action for Katherine of Aragon was proud, a daughter of the indomitable Isabella of Spain and a devout woman. She was not a woman to stand meekly aside while her marriage vows were doubted and her daughter’s legitimacy questioned.

  He could understand Henry’s fears. Every yeoman farmer needed strong sons to follow him, every Duke and Earl needed an heir – how much more so did the King of England need a son? Henry was right when he had said that Mary was not strong enough to hold the realm. Mary Tudor was a quiet, docile girl, devout like her mother and more Spanish than English in her manner and girls needed husbands and that would either mean a foreign prince, who could possibly persuade his wife in her decisions, or one of her subjects which could cause infinite dissimulation resulting, either way, in great detriment to the country.

  He understood, too, Henry’s dissatisfaction with an ageing woman. Henry could not be blamed for wishing to add some pleasure to duty by taking a younger wife and there were plenty of young ladies of Royal blood who would be willing to become Queen of England. In this latter instance Norfolk sympathised greatly with his master for he himself was heartily sick and tired of Elizabeth but Henry’s excuse would be of no use to him – Elizabeth had proved herself upon that score. He was far from happy with the situation but decided that he would have to wait, watch and listen – things he was very adept at doing.

  * * *

  He was at supper a few days later when he was once again reminded of the power of the Cardinal.

  It was a Friday, a fast day, but this did not mean that the table was lacking in delicacies. The first course had already been served. Oysters in butter, pottage of rice, ling and saltfish, white herring, baked herring and salt salmon had been laid before them. Powdered cod, stewed eels, pike and finally a custard and the second course was now on its way.

  Norfolk’s appetite had deteriorated, a fact partly due to the present company for he was seated next to Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk and he found Suffolk intolerable. Loud, often coarse and common and scathingly sarcastic. Suffolk’s advancement to the high position he now held was based upon Henry’s friendship and the fact that he had married Mary Tudor, Henry’s younger sister. Had he not found so much favour in the King’s eyes or had the King not loved his sister dearly, then Suffolk would have walked to the block for his audacious marriage.

  Mary Tudor, upon being forced to marry the old, disease-ridden King of France, had extracted from her brother a promise that should old Louis die she would be free to marry the man of her choice. That man had been Charles Brandon.

  Throughout the meal Norfolk had hardly spoken but had listened to the loud laughter and dubious wit of Suffolk. He had also watched him swill down great quantities of wine. As the haddock, founders, fried sprattes, roasted eels, tench and the savoury jelly called Leche arrived, Norfolk picked sparingly at a small piece of baked herring. His stomach was queasy and if overburdened caused him considerable agony and wretchedness. His eyes travelled to the Queen. Henry had obviously not even hinted of his doubts to Katherine for she sat smiling dutifully at her husband’s jokes and witty remarks, rather as a mother smiles upon a son who is acting rather foolishly.

  As the King's Fool – Will Somers – an ugly, malicious little man started to cut his capers Norfolk’s eyes strayed to the Queen’s ladies who sat together at a lower table. He took a mouthful of wine but it tasted sour for the sight of the ladies had reminded him that Elizabeth would join them the next day.

  “God Damn her! I will get little peace thereafter,” he thought.

  “She is not there,” Suffolk’s voice broke into his thoughts.

  Norfolk turned sharply, thinking that Suffolk referred to his wife. “She is not expected until to-morrow,” he answered curtly.

  Suffolk looked at him. “Who is not expected?”

  “My wife.”

  Suffolk’s guffaw could be heard above the laughter of the court and the Queen directed a look of disapproval in his direction.

  “I didn’t mean your wife. I meant your niece!”

  “My niece?”

  “Mistress Boleyn. She fancied that she had made a good match for herself with young Harry Percy – Northumberland’s dolt of a son. But my lord Cardinal sent her packing back to her father and the old demon of the North came thundering down to York House to remove his moonstruck son out of harms way. God’s Death! How it must gall old Percy to know that one day he must die and leave his lands and wealth to that fool boy of his. Keeper of the Northern Marches! The lad couldn’t keep cattle in order let alone the Scots!” Suffolk hooted loudly.

  Norfolk’s eyes were veiled. “By God! How it galls me to watch him sit there and mock my niece’s station when his own origins are far beneath those of hers!” he thought.

  “I had no idea there was a contract. I do not concern myself greatly with the affairs of my niece or her father.”

  “There was no contract, Harry Percy has been promised for years to Shrewsbury’s girl.”

  Norfolk shrugged, “Then there is no harm done.”

  He chewed thoughtfully upon a dried raisin. The incident did not greatly interest him. He could not blame the girl for trying to better herself, in fact he admired her. Countess of Northumberland would have been quite a feather in her cap for the Percys were virtually kings in their wild, barbarous northern region.

  The one thing that did irk him was the fact that Suffolk had said that it was Wolsey who had dealt with the affair. The Cardinal had a finger in every pie and it added to Norfolk’s hatred of him that he had calmly dismissed a niece of the Howards as ‘a foolish girl at yonder court’.

  Towards the end of the month Norfolk accompanied the King on a day’s hunting. The weather was fine and Henry excelled at the sport, often tiring out six or eight horses in a day – to say nothing of his long-suffering companions.

  They had hunted from early morning and had taken many fine bucks as the afternoon drew towards its close. As a much younger man Norfolk had thoroughly enjoyed the hunt but he felt that now he was
getting too old for such vigorous occupations. He was bone weary, his joints ached and his stomach churned and he was very thankful when the King called a halt.

  Henry was far from tired, in fact he seemed to thrive upon the physical exertions of the day. “A good day, Tom! Forty fine bucks and half as many does!” he beamed.

  “Your Grace is a marvel to behold. Tell me Sire, do you never tire? I fear you have quite worn out us lesser mortals.”

  Henry laughed delightedly at this flattery. “I think the kill will suffice for to-day, it grows late.” He twisted around in the saddle trying to mark his bearings. “Is not Tom Boleyn's house near here?”

  “Yes, Your Grace, Hever is but a few miles distant,” young Thomas Wyatt replied.

  “True Wyatt, I had forgotten your home is at Allington is it not?”

  “Yes, Sire, Allington is also but a few miles distant and should Your Grace wish to honour my father, I am certain he will do his utmost…"

  Henry waved him into silence. “No, not this time. Methinks I will kill two birds with one stone for I have some matters I wish to discuss with Sir Thomas. Send someone ahead to give them warning. ’Tis to Hever we go.”

  Norfolk was thankful that a halt had been called to the proceedings and that rest was in sight but he would have preferred to have gone to Allington and wondered what it was that Henry was so desirous of discussing with his brother-in-law.

  The messengers had been sent on ahead with the venison and the sun was beginning to set when the exhausted party reached Hever Castle. Most of the party were slumped in their saddles, only the leonine figure of the King, dressed in now somewhat dusty green and white velvet, was instantly recognisable.

  That figure was instantly recognised by a slim, dark-haired girl as she leaned her head against the cool, stone window recess of her bed chamber. Quickly she jerked back into the room and her big, black eyes – red-rimmed and dark circled from days of weeping – filled with anger.

  “So he has dared to come here! He has come to disturb my grief and to mock me!” she thought. This man who with that predatory, pride filled butcher's cur had torn her lover from her.

  There was a loud rapping on her door.

  “Anne, Anne, for the Love of God, open this door!” the agitated voice of her step-mother called.

  “No!”

  “Anne, I beg of you! Your father insists that you change your gown and come down to greet the King.”

  “No!

  “Holy Mother! Have mercy upon me! What am I to do? ’Tis bad enough to have the King descend upon me at such short notice and your father in a black mood and the household in uproar. Anne, Anne do you hear me?”

  Despite her anger, Anne smiled to herself. Joyce Boleyn was a simple woman, the daughter of a country squire, and she would never become used to the ways of court but since the day her father had brought Joyce to Hever, Anne, at the age of twelve, had loved her step-mother.

  “I will open the door Joyce, but I will not go down!” she called.

  “In the name of heaven, Anne, hurry up!”

  She opened the door and Joyce rushed in. Her face was hot and flushed and Anne noted that she had on her best, dark blue taffeta gown, edged with goldsmith’s work.

  “It is of no use to beg and plead with me. I will not go down.”

  Joyce wrung her hands in despair. “But your father insists!”

  “He will have to insist.”

  “He will beat you!”

  “Then he can beat me. I do not care! I will not go, Joyce!” She took her step-mother's hot hands, “I will not go down and smile and joke and flatter the man who has broken my heart!” Her black eyes hardened. “That pig – Wolsey – informed my father that the King wished Harry…” her voice caught upon his name but she continued “to marry that Talbot girl and that I was to marry that oaf, Piers Butler!” She gripped Joyce's hands tighter and a wild, desperation seemed to possess her. “I will marry no one! No one! They took Harry from me, I’ll have no one else!” She tore herself away and fell weeping on the bed.

  Joyce rushed to comfort her as she had done so many times during the past few weeks, her simple heart torn for the girl who was wasting away before her eyes. Anne’s nature was a passionate one and she had given her heart to young Harry Percy.

  “What is the meaning of all this?” Thomas Boleyn’s voice asked sharply.

  Joyce turned to face him. “I have begged her, pleaded with her but she refuses.”

  Thomas Boleyn strode over to the bed. “Get up and stop that foolish noise!”

  His daughter raised a tear-stained face. “No, father, I will not! You can beat me senseless but I will not go down!”

  Her father lost his temper and seized her roughly by the arm, dragging her from the bed.

  “Tom, Tom please!” Joyce begged him.

  “You will have to drag me down father, and a nice spectacle that would present,” Anne defiantly flung at him.

  He glared at her but knew he was beaten. He pushed her back upon the bed. “We will tell His Grace that you are indisposed. Come, woman! His Grace is already at the front stairs.”

  Pushing his wife before him he slammed shut the heavy door, leaving his daughter staring morosely into space.

  Thomas Boleyn greeted the King with a great show of reverence and the Duke of Norfolk with suspicious civility. Lady Boleyn was obviously greatly put out, Norfolk thought. Tom Boleyn had not made as brilliant a match the second time. Norfolk classed Boleyn amongst the new upstarts and as such watched him carefully. Boleyn’s grandfather had been at Mercer and a Lord Mayor of London but his marriage to Elizabeth Howard and his ubiquitous service to the King had raised him to the ranks of the new nobility.

  Throughout the meal Norfolk watched closely both his host and the King. He did not trust his brother-in-law and Henry seemed to be on edge. Fidgeting, watching and waiting but for what?

  When the surnap had been removed and most of the party had retired, leaving the King, Norfolk and Sir Thomas alone with the sweet wines, the answer was made clear.

  “A fine meal. Pray give my compliments to Lady Boleyn.”

  “Thank you, Sire, she will be greatly pleased. I fear she was somewhat overcome by the honour bestowed upon her,” Sir Thomas replied apologetically.

  “A good wife is the heart of a home.”

  The atmosphere became a trifle strained. Henry seemed to be mildly agitated and Sir Thomas became uneasy while Norfolk was determined that he was not going to miss anything that Henry should have to say to his brother-in-law.

  Finally Henry spoke. “’Twas a pity your daughter was indisposed; she could have perhaps lightened the hours. I hear she is a talented performer upon the lute. ’Tis nothing serious I hope?”

  “No, no, Sire, naught but a chill. She was distraught that she was unable to play for Your Grace.”

  Henry rose and poured himself another goblet of wine. “Another time, Sir Thomas, another time.”

  “Most certainly.”

  Suddenly it became as clear as crystal to Norfolk. Hever had been no chance destination! From the very moment they had set out their path had led directly here. He saw now why his niece and Harry Percy had been separated – Henry wished to take the younger girl, too, into his bed.

  Henry drained the goblet and stretched, rising to his feet. Norfolk and Sir Thomas also rose.

  “The exercise has tired me more than I had thought. I will retire.”

  Sir Thomas hastened to the door to summon the necessary servants.

  Norfolk and Sir Thomas accompanied the King to the door of his chamber and bade him Good Night.

  Sir Thomas then requested a few words with the Duke in his private study and Norfolk followed in silence.

  With the door safely closed behind them Sir Thomas began.

  “You have seen the situation, My Lord.”

  “I see the situation very clearly – now.”

  “The girl is being obstinate! She refuses to have anything to do with the Ki
ng and is pining for that fool Percy.”

  “I would have thought that you could persuade her otherwise,” Norfolk replied smoothly.

  “Short of beating her into submission, which I fear would not answer with Anne, there is nothing I can do!” Sir Thomas cried desperately, seeing his hopes of advancement disappearing with his daughter’s recalcitrant attitude.

  “The girl has spirit,” Norfolk thought.

  “Will you speak to her? Try to instil some sense into her, she may take notice of you,” Sir Thomas begged.

  “Good God! Was not the honour of one daughter enough without pushing the other into the position of Mistress too?” the Duke thought.

  “If you wish, but I doubt that much good will come of it. She has the example of her sister before her eyes.”

  Sir Thomas’ face flushed with anger. “Mother of God! Was a man ever cursed with such daughters! Mary too stupid, too simple and trusting. Nothing did she ask of him. Not a thing, not a single piece of jewellery, a house – nothing! She loved him, she said. Stupid Bitch! And now, Madam Anne, too proud, too lovesick for a moonstruck boy that she refuses the honour!”

  “Some would not call it an honour to be used and then cast aside.”

  “You know what I mean, My Lord. Will you speak to her?”

  “Lead the way, Sir Thomas.”

  Anne was still lying on the bed. The moonlight streamed into the room through the open casement and shone upon her thick, black hair. In her hand she clasped a ring, a plain gold ring set with a single bloodstone. The ring that Harry had given her.

  She sat up as she heard the quiet knock.

  “Anne, open the door,” her father’s voice commanded.

  She did not answer.

  “Anne, your Uncle Norfolk wishes to speak to you.”

  Wearily she rose and crossed to the door. So he had enlisted help but it would not serve for she would not heed Uncle Norfolk either.

  She opened the door.

  Her father crossed the room and shut the casement. Norfolk closed the door behind him.