The Scandal of Christendom

by G Lawrence

  I shivered a little, nestling my chin into the rich ermine at my neck. The cloak was another gift from Henry, and one that was significant. Only royalty wore ermine.

  “And I want to see the lists of fools and mummers,” I went on. The planned entertainment was for François’ ambassadors. Henry wanted me to entertain them, rather than Katherine. It was a sign of his dedication to me but it was also a test. As Queen, it would be my duty to entertain diplomats and ambassadors and Henry was attempting to subtly train me in my new role. You might think I would resent this, but I did not. Taking Katherine’s place was a sign to the world of our resolution, and if Henry wanted to tutor me at the same time, I would prove an apt pupil.

  My beloved was as busy as I. Pamphlets and books were being printed, some containing the findings of Europe’s universities, many of which had decided in Henry’s favour. But there were also works by learned men, contributed to by the King himself, being distributed. The Glass of Truth, A Disputation between a Cleric and a Knight, and Christopher German’s New Additions, were all due to come out in the New Year. They advocated for Henry, showing the days of Rome’s authority were done. Through these works, England’s people would understand that Henry was God’s true and chosen son, subject only to the Almighty Himself. No more would petty men usurp Henry’s power.

  Parliament was due to reconvene soon, in its first sitting for several years. I hoped it would take action, bringing our stale stale-mate to an end. Henry was no less eager. Armed with his books, his arguments and his growing confidence, he wanted resolution. He would have been happier to gain approval from Rome, but was starting to understand that would never happen. Starting… but not yet was Henry utterly convinced.

  How can a man who seems so confident be so insecure? I wondered as we came to a high platform in the King’s Chamber. I thought I could hear Henry speaking below and paused to hear him. He needs others to bolster him, I thought. To speed his confidence on horses born of courage and strength… To make him see what could be achieved for everyone, if one with a heart as good as his governed the faith of his people.

  We stopped upon the platform and I looked down to the gallery below. Henry was standing with his back to me, but I would recognise him anywhere. That tall, muscular build and golden-red hair topped with a velvet cap. Even had I been a stranger to court, I would have known he was the King. It was not the gold on his coat, or the authority in his voice, it was something that seeped from Henry like mist floating over the winter seas. There was majesty not only in his title, in his blood, but in the aura that surrounded him.

  “Keep silent,” I said to my women. “Look… there is the ghost of Greenwich.”

  Chapuys. He tried to avoid me at all costs. As long as he could evade me, he did not have to insult Henry by treating me like a mere mistress, and would not offend his master or Katherine by treating me as though I were anything more.

  The most I usually saw of the ambassador was his back as he slipped out of a room, or a passing glance of his cheek as he whirled by, lost in crowds at court entertainments. Sometimes I believed Chapuys was indeed a wraith; a shadow of the past clinging to the present. He was the ghost of Katherine’s hope.

  “All men know my conscience will never allow me to rest with the Queen at my side,” I heard Henry declare to Chapuys. “In the eyes of God, our union is unnatural and perverse. I can be a brother to Katherine, nothing more.”

  “And yet the length of your marriage has made the union earnest and honest,” protested Chapuys. “Your Majesty must concede that.”

  “I concede nothing,” said Henry stiffly. “Nor shall I ever defend a union which God has turned His back on, allowing no heirs to issue from it.”

  “Your Majesty has a fine and glorious daughter,” Chapuys reminded him. “And has it not been said that the Tudors trace their honourable claim to the throne as much from the female line as the male? Your mother, the gracious Elizabeth of York, had as much right to the throne as your honoured father. Surely, your mother is a perfect example for the Princess to follow, being a noble, virtuous, beautiful and accomplished princess?”

  “My daughter is an innocent in this,” said Henry. I heard the affection in his voice and hated it. Katherine, Henry might abhor, but his daughter he adored.

  “If she is innocent, and her parents’ union is recognised as honest, no matter what Rome or Your Majesty may come to decide, then is not the Princess the true and honest heir to the throne?”

  “For now,” Henry admitted.

  “And if she is your heir, Your Majesty must admit that God has granted heirs from this marriage?”

  Oh Chapuys… I thought. You could weave a straight stick into a curl… I despised the man, but I could not help but admire his mind. He had deftly twisted Henry upon his own argument. I leaned forward, and as I did, Chapuys saw me. Quickly he turned, as though lost in ponderous contemplation, and managed to shift Henry about so he stood facing me, and all I could see of Chapuys was his back.

  Clever little hare, I thought. I had a habit of granting my foes pet names. Chapuys looked like a hare. His face was long, as was his nose, and his eyes were large and brown. There was something of the hare’s quickness in him too. A light step and a canny mind bent on evading traps set by persistent poachers. When I looked on him at that moment, I could almost see him dancing on the dusk skyline, boxing with Henry. Clever little hare… You cannot see me, so I am not here.

  Henry glanced up. So swift and nonchalant had the hateful hare’s movements been that Henry had not noted he had been turned about. When Henry saw me watching, he smiled gently, but took hold of Chapuys and moved him to a window seat further down the gallery. Henry did not want me to hear him being bested by the ambassador.

  Later, I questioned him. “What said Chapuys when you told him that a king may be Emperor and Pope in his realm?”

  “That he knew of no such right,” Henry said with a sigh. He gazed longingly at the sideboard, where delicate capon and wild onion pastries lay waiting. But I did not want him thinking of food.

  “Soon he, and all who doubt, will not only know of such a right, but recognise it.” I watched Henry. He looked grey and old. At times, when he was emboldened by the notions Cromwell, Cranmer and others were immersing him in, he seemed so young. At others, his years pressed keenly upon him. I wanted him excited, even angry, if it would serve our purpose, rather than dull, down and ineffectual.

  “Do you not agree?” I demanded. “Or is all of this a waste of time and effort?”

  “You forget to whom you speak.” A dangerous note entered Henry’s voice.

  “To whom do I speak?”

  “The King!” he roared.

  “That is good, then, for I thought you had forgotten whom you were.” I stared at him with icy eyes. “Forget not who and what you are, Henry Tudor. Forget not why we do this. It is not for us, nor even for England that we take this hard path, but for God.” I shook my head. “Do you not see, Henry? This is a battle greater than those fought with sword or cannon. This war is for the faith; a war of words and light over ignorance and darkness. God sees all we do, Henry. Do not weaken in His eyes.”

  “Enough!” Henry shouted. “God curse that tongue of yours, madam! Does it ever tire?”

  “Never will it know fatigue as long as there is work to be done,” I retorted. “Neither shall I.”

  “And I? You think I find rest? Everything that has been done has been done for you, yet you chastise and berate me every day!”

  “Everything that has to be done is not for one person alone,” I said. “The changes of religious authority we speak of, the necessary investigation into the practices of the monasteries and clergy, the reduction of reliance on indulgences, relics and icons, and the path that will be opened to the people of England… All this will be done for the glory of God, for the future of your country, and for the blessing of our love.” I gazed with eyes of flint. “For as Saint Paul says in his letter to the Corinthians, For we walk i
n faith and not by sight. That is your task, my lord… to be led by faith.”

  Henry made for the door, unwilling to hear me further. “And another thing,” I said as his hand closed on the doorknob. “I want courtiers who attend on Katherine prevented from so doing. They are passing information to Chapuys.”

  Henry threw his arms in the air and marched out. I could hear him muttering much he would not dare say to me in person; I was ungrateful, I was heartless, there were many others he could have chosen who would be kinder to him than I was. As I heard his voice trail off along the passageway, I let out a small, nervous chuckle.

  “He speaks the truth when he says he can find no rest,” said a voice behind me. I twisted about to find a familiar face. Norris had lingered. As Groom of the Stool, he usually was at Henry’s side. That he had remained after his master had stormed out was unusual.

  “You made me jump, Norris,” I said, placing a hand over my heart.

  “I did not mean to alarm you, my lady,” he said in his gentle voice. “But you should know the King spoke truths. He is not sleeping well. The Great Matter, Rome… Katherine. They plague his dreams. Often he sleeps no more than an hour a night.”

  “I am sorry for that,” I said. “I did not know.”

  “Of course, how could you?” Norris smiled. “It is we men who share the King’s rooms who are privy to his troubles.”

  “Have you had many restless nights?”

  “Many where I have played cards without seeing the suits before my eyes, from blurry tiredness,” Norris told me. “And many more where I have sat and listened to His Majesty set out his arguments time and time again.” Norris paused. “He loves you, my lady. When not talking of his troubles, he speaks only of you. You are his comfort, as you can, too, be his torment. Think on that, and be kinder to him. His heart is open, my lady, and you possess the means to make it bleed, or allow it to sing.”

  “I love him too, Norris,” I said quietly. “That is why we cannot falter.”

  “That I understand. But the King is devoted to your cause, my lady. He will have you as his wife, or he will destroy the world for trying. You have no cause to fear.”

  “Who said I was afraid?” I stuck my chin in the air.

  Norris cocked his head and smiled. “I see your heart, my lady, even if others are blind to it. Fear makes you strike out at the one you love. But if you could see his heart, you would know you are the only one in it. Therefore you have no cause to be afraid.” He bowed. “You are stronger, together,” he said. “Your enemies seek to divide you. Do not let them. As long as you are united, nothing can stop you.”

  I did not answer Norris, but that night, I went to Henry and found him at his desk with his head in his hands. I put my cool fingers to his brow and massaged his head. After a moment, his hands came up and clasped about my fingers.

  “You have magic in those hands,” he murmured.

  “As you have said many times. Have my spells worked?”

  “You can banish my pain,” he said. “Although it comes as a frequent visitor these days, and arrives only quicker and fiercer when you are angry with me.”

  “Then know I am not angry,” I said, running a finger down his jaw. “Not with you. I am never really angry with you, Henry. I am angered by enemies that stand in our way for pride and envy, and with others who have no part to play, but set themselves on this stage for the thrill of seeing their names amongst the list of players.” I stroked his face. “I am not angry with you.”

  His eyes danced. “A good thing to know,” he said, taking my hand and kissing it. “The next time you fly at me in a fury, shall I inform you are not angry at me but at others?”

  I smiled. “Do you dare?”

  Henry chuckled. “Sometimes, when you rouse me, I believe I could take on the world and everyone in it… besides you.”

  “You and I have no cause to fight each other for the world,” I said. “Together, we will claim what we want from it.” I put out my hand. “My ladies are entertaining your men in the next room. Would you care to join them?”

  “I should read this.”

  I shook my head. “Put work to one side, Henry of England, for one night. Come with me; hear laughter and the voices of friends. Books are patient souls. They will all be here come the morrow, waiting for you.”

  That night we laughed and danced with friends. As I watched, the grey of Henry’s face was replaced by a merry glow. The lines on his brow dissipated. His shoulders snapped back, his back became unbent.

  At times, I did possess magic. As the world tried to make him old, I could make my King young again.

  Chapter Five

  York Place

  December 1530

  “Father thinks Fisher and Chapuys are working together, on Katherine’s behalf?” George asked, his hand hovering over a platter of pears poached in ginger and red wine.

  “Is it so surprising? They are united in a cause.”

  I watched as my brother stabbed a slice of succulent pear with his eating knife and popped it into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. Fisher was more than in Katherine’s cause. He was Katherine’s cause. Chapuys might be Katherine’s faithful hare, darting here, there and everywhere for her, but ever since Blackfriars, Fisher had been Katherine’s busy bee. He was penning documents, pamphlets and persuasions, all written in Katherine’s defence. I had no idea how many Fisher had written, perhaps he himself did not know, but Katherine’s buzzing Bishop was relentless, resourceful, and he had respect amongst England’s people, the clergy, and Rome. He was a formidable foe, and there was no chance of converting Fisher. He was certain he was on the side of virtue and all opposed were miserable sinners.

  Tom Wyatt had been listening to us talk in silence, but now he interjected. “Fisher is but one man, Anna, as the King rightly said at Blackfriars.”

  “One man with a great deal of influence,” I said. “Do you have anyone, Tom, who could move into his household and keep watch? Fisher would spot one of my servants, or my brother’s.”

  “If that is what you wish.” His voice was faintly disapproving.

  “It is.” I had no time for Tom’s scruples.

  “Then I shall move someone into his household.” Tom’s eyes watched me closely.

  Are you wondering what became of that innocent girl you loved so long ago? I thought. Sometimes I wondered too.

  “Good.” I shook myself. “Let us talk of something else. Tom, show us your verses for the Christmas pageant.”

  He brought them out, relieved to be speaking no more of spies and subterfuge, although Tom was hardly a stranger to deception. Henry had used him as an ambassador in the past, to Rome, and ambassadors were spies. Anyone who thought otherwise was a simpleton. But the notion of tricking Fisher disturbed Tom, perhaps because he admired the man. Tom was, however, firmly on our side, and for all involved in our faction that meant sometimes doing things which made them uncomfortable. God only knew, I was ill at ease with much I had done in the past. The pageant of driving the Cardinal to Hell weighed on my conscience, just like many of the acts I had done to bring about Wolsey’s fall.

  My confessor was a busy man. But even as I did penance and received absolution, I was forced to take steps that ensured I was never free of sins to confess. Goodness and virtue are not easy to sustain at court. There is little for them to feed upon.

  “These are masterful, Tom,” I said, glancing up from a sheet of music. I had been humming the tune with my rich, sweet voice, and noticed that Tom had closed his eyes, as though in bliss, as he listened.

  He grinned as his eyes opened. “Some of it is passable, but I shall never be Chaucer.”

  “You do not have to be another man in order to have worth, Tom. Nor do you have to write like another. You have your own way, your own style. It is your voice that is important. Never wish yourself to be another, Master Wyatt. You are a good man and a talented poet on your own merit.”

  “It is a tortured existence, to seek forever for
the right words,” he said. “But even though the road is long, perhaps never-ending, I must confess the journey can be a beauteous one.” He sighed. “I shall attempt to do as I am bidden, but the most critical of critics is the author.”

  I was about to reply when a messenger arrived. “The King is here to see you, my lady.”

  George and Tom rose, ready to bow, and as the door swung open, Henry marched in. My love never walked into a room. He always looked as though he were on his way to war. Dressed in a tunic of bright, royal purple, with white silk stockings on his legs and a cap of purple velvet and white silk on his head, he was magnificent.

  “My dearest love,” he announced, giving a cursory nod to George and Tom. Henry’s focus was always on me. “I come with news.”

  “Will you leave us, gentlemen?” I asked. As George walked away, Jane scurried after him. She was always just a step behind him, as though she were his cloak. Truth be told, he discarded her as often as he did his fine clothing, so perhaps my thought was apt.