The Scandal of Christendom

by G Lawrence

  When the doctors knelt before her, Katherine did the same. She started to pray for them, and for Henry. She prayed to God to remove me, to persuade Henry to listen to his true conscience, and return to her.

  Unfortunately, the doctors had chosen to conduct this meeting before her whole household. Katherine was ensuring, even in isolation and dejection, she would be heard by the people of England. Katherine understood the value of theatre. She was playing on her well-known reputation as a humble wife, whilst simultaneously defying her husband. She was also ensuring that everyone would know Henry was pestering her, abusing her and keeping her away from court. I was informed that some present were moved to tears by her entreaties, including Henry’s doctors. They went on to inform her that if she refused, she had three options: she could stay at The More, move somewhere even more desolate, or retire to an abbey. Katherine retorted that she would go where the King commanded, as was her duty. “Even to a fiery stake,” she declared, “would I go if my husband commanded it.”

  Believe me, that option seemed awfully tempting. Katherine would be Queen, or she would die. That was the message. When I thought about my resolve to continue on even after seeing that hateful drawing of me sans tête, I wondered if Katherine and I were so very different. Neither of us would yield. Neither would surrender.

  Her supporters were alarmed that she would be treated worse than ever, and many wrote to the Emperor and to Clement, asking them to get on with the trial. If Clement declared for Katherine, her supporters thought Henry would have to surrender. If Katherine was not exactly winning, she was certainly preventing us from doing so.

  And it was not only Katherine’s insubordination holding us back. Henry had intended to recall Parliament that October, but set it back because there were no new policies or ideas to aid us. At a loss to know what more Henry’s men could do, I changed tactics and set out to charm the French ambassadors. France had always been my preference for alliance in any case, so I asked Henry to bring Jean du Bellay on progress. At a feast I sat between du Bellay and Henry and turned my attention to the ambassador, hoping to win France to our side.

  “I have always thought France and England should be good friends,” I mentioned to du Bellay in French, waving a hand to Jane to refill his goblet. “Spain is a stranger to both our lands, do you not think?”

  “It is true that Spain has often been a rude neighbour, my lady,” du Bellay agreed. “I know my master is desirous to once more meet with his brother of England. Perhaps, my lady, if that were to go ahead, the two kings might devise a plan to allow your marriage to the King.”

  “What a wonderful idea.” I waved Jane away and noted her sour expression. She did not like to be treated like a servant, even if she was one. “I shall speak about it with His Majesty. I would like, if it were possible, that we might come to France, rather than François to England,” I went on. “It has been many years since I saw France. I dream of the court sometimes, du Bellay… Sometimes, in my dreams, I walk the halls of King François’ palaces, as though I were a girl again.”

  “I am sure my master would love to see you again, my lady,” he said. “He often speaks of you with great warmth.”

  “I remember him with no small amount of affection.”

  I stopped for a moment, thinking of the night François had saved me. I often wondered what might have happened had François not been there as I stumbled from that arbour. The gardens where I had walked were far from François’ palace. The monster who had tried to rape me would have hunted me, of that I was sure. He would have followed me, and ensured that I paid for the swift kick to his groin I had dealt him. And if he had achieved his purpose, what would I have done? Nothing. With my sister’s reputation preceding me, who would have believed I had been forced? Accusations of rape are always followed by everyone questioning what the woman had done to provoke the attack. I would have been abused, defiled, and held accountable for the crimes of my attacker. I had good reason to think on François warmly.

  I swallowed hard, and tried to calm the thunderous beating of my heart. Even now, after so many years, I was not free of that night. I never would be. A part of me would always remain in that garden, struggling, terrified, alone. Some experiences define us, even if we wish they would not. I realised something in that moment. I had been made a victim in that garden. Was it so surprising, then, to understand that no one, not Katherine, not the Pope, not anyone, would ever be allowed to make me feel that way again?

  I swallowed the rank terror of that night, and smiled at du Bellay. “Please tell your master nothing would please me more than to see him and his sister again.”

  Henry smiled as he plucked a peeled grape from its glazed bowl. He liked to see me perform the role of Queen.

  *

  That October, Spain finally took a stand for its most tortured daughter. Discussions were unfolding in Rome about holding the trial of Henry’s marriage in a city closer to England, like Cambrai. Holding it close to England might satisfy England’s King, Clement rationalised, and holding it at all would placate Katherine. Charles of Spain had joined his aunt in pestering the Pope. Clement was starting to realise no matter how much he tried to ignore the trial, it was going to have to happen.

  Katherine was reportedly distressed to hear of the proposed change of venue, and wrote to her nephew, asking again for witnesses of her marriage night to be found. She had written to the Emperor many times that year, with little response, but this time, hearing of Henry’s cruelty, the Emperor became annoyed. His Queen, Empress Isabella, sent servants to search the royal archives. In Spain, men who retired from service took their records with them, so a search was made through Spain and her territories. The Empress sent men to locate surviving members of Katherine’s household from the time of her marriage. No easy task, since some of those people were actively trying to avoid the Spanish Crown, not least of them Katherine’s Moorish slave, also named Katherine, who had married a morisco crossbow-maker. Moriscos were former Muslims, often Moors, who had converted to Christianity. When Spain outlawed Islam, thousands had been coerced into conversion, but they were not trusted. Their conversions were forced upon them, therefore many believed they secretly remained Muslims. Indeed, Islamic leaders had issued a legal justification for Muslims to outwardly convert to Christianity whilst maintaining an internal conviction of faith in Islam, if necessary for survival. Some moriscos were of the true faith, others secret heretics. It was no wonder they chose to avoid detection.

  Some were easier to find. Katherine’s servant, Catalina Fortes, also a Moor, was a nun in Toledo, and she along with others, such as Maria de Rojas and Fray Diego Fernandez, Katherine’s once-confessor, were tracked down. It was slow work, but Katherine was relieved that something was finally being done. We were not.

  “They will say whatever they think will please Katherine!” I protested to Henry. “And why do we need to go over this again? Why do we continue to heed Rome, the Emperor or the Pope, when you are Head of the Church?”

  Henry had no answer for me. I knew why. Without a legal framework for his title to take on power, he remained in the same position he had been all these years. He held the title of Head of the Church, but not the authority.

  Clement reissued his bull that Henry was not to marry until his suit was resolved and forbade English Convocations to judge the Great Matter. But one event did go our way. Rome’s Cardinals refused to reissue the demand that we separate, on the grounds that adultery could not be proven.

  I did not care about the Pope anymore. Let Clement waver on his papal throne! We needed to move forwards. With France and England united, Spain and Rome would have to fall back. I spoke warmly of the idea of going to France, and of my love for all things French, but somehow another rumour surfaced that the Emperor and François were going to meet. This sent Norfolk, who heard it from his good friend Chapuys, into a blind panic. The notion that Europe’s two great Kings might form an alliance was terrifying to the Duke. He went to Henry, who
told my uncle that François was his good friend, and would never do such a thing without consulting his brother of England.

  I called du Bellay to my chambers and made it abundantly clear that England would not look with favour on such a meeting. “After all that has been said of friendship, ambassador, I hope you understand my sorrow to hear this. Why should King François be a friend to the Emperor? Did that man not imprison him, almost causing him to lose his life? Did he not steal his sons?”

  ”I believe it nothing more than a rumour, my lady,” du Bellay said. “And I know who put it about.”

  “Chapuys,” I said. It was not a question.

  “He would do anything for his mistress,” said the ambassador. “I will write to my master for clarification, but I assure you, my lady, France desires England’s friendship, and is more than aware that such a meeting, at such a time, would only earn the King’s ire.”

  When du Bellay heard from his master, he told me that a meeting had indeed been suggested, but not by François. “The Emperor suggested the meeting after receiving a letter from Chapuys,” he said.

  Chapuys was taking his lead from Clement; endeavouring to unseat our convictions, trying to make us run about, scampering after rumours to distract us. It would not work. Every time they tried to crush me, I stood a little taller. Every time they thought they had beaten us, we rose to stand once more. We could not be defeated.

  Chapter Twenty

  Greenwich Palace

  Late Autumn 1531

  Leaving progress that year and returning to London, I had a strange sense within me. I felt like a different woman.

  London had not changed. The White Tower within the Tower of London still crested to the skies, overshadowed only by the spire of St Paul’s Cathedral. London Bridge, its shops and houses stacked atop one another like a deck of cards, still guarded the Thames. Merchants, their houses fashionable and their offerings rich, continued to ply their trade upon the bridge, below the rotting heads of those executed for treason on Bridge Gate.

  The sound of voices had not altered, rising above the noise of cart wheels trundling and shrill whores screeching. There remained the sound of the tongues of many countries; French, Dutch, Spanish, and even languages spoken by Moors who wandered the streets in their fine merchants’ clothes. The river was packed with boats, more than two thousand of them, with nobles taking rides across the water to save their clothes from mud and their purses from thieves. Poorer people packed themselves into well-stuffed crafts, and ferries carrying stocks of spice, meat, sugar and lumber heaved their way up the Thames, past the night men who dumped loads of waste into the river just miles from where women washed clothes in the flowing water.

  The cobbled streets were still fine to ride upon, and the rough roads, which covered more than three quarters of the city, continued to cake a rider or walker in filth as soon as rain fell. Glinting light from diamond-shaped window panes still assaulted the eyes as one rode through the better parts of town. The pillory near the Standard continued to hold shrews who had scolded their husbands and tradesmen who had sold short weights. Butchers still allowed offal, blood and excrement to flow along the dirty channels beside the roads, and people carried nosegays to block out the noxious scent. Bear and bull baiting went on in Southwark, where crowds roared to watch Death fight Life in the crowded pens. Maids hawking pies and ale still wandered through the crowds, trying to escape the roaming hands of unwelcome suitors.

  Everything was so familiar, but I had changed. In the mirror I saw a harder, sterner version of the girl I had once been. So much had happened… Was it so surprising to think I had altered? Could I think ill of the loss of my innocence, when I had managed, finally, to get Henry to leave Katherine? Perhaps I should have thought well of it, but a part of me mourned the bright, excited young girl I had lost. There was an echo of her still, in my heart. To that, I clung.

  Katherine had to be called to London, on rare occasions, to attend state events, and when she was at court Henry avoided her. He did not mean to look her in the face ever again. They held separate feasts for the Lord Mayor and the citizens of London at Ely Place. The two feasts were in adjoining rooms, so guests could move from one to the other, but Katherine was forbidden from entering the chamber where Henry entertained. This ludicrous situation was laughed about at court, and the day after, Katherine was shipped back to The More.

  “I want that to be the last time she is brought to London,” I said to Henry. “It is too ridiculous, my love. I heard Chapuys was sniggering about it with Gertrude and Henry Courtenay, saying it was clear you could not do without Katherine.”

  Henry’s face darkened. He agreed this would be the last time, but I worried, even though with Katherine generally gone, I was the court’s Queen. And I was determined to do more with my new power than simply holding feasts. I was going to oust Katherine’s supporters, and for that I needed aid. I went to Cromwell, who was happy to help.

  Cromwell and I began to undermine Katherine’s supporters at court. I ensured he understood that if any of Katherine’s followers on the Privy Council wanted leave, it was to be allowed. Exeter and Nicholas Carewe found their influence reduced as Cromwell’s men spread rumours of their hatred for Henry. The Duchess of Norfolk, my dear aunt, was intercepted taking secret messages from Katherine to Chapuys, and promptly found herself banished again. I was also keeping an eye on Gardiner. He had been distracted of late, and seemed tight with Norfolk. He was too wily to betray himself, but I suspected he was no longer my servant. As a man of the cloth, he was uncomfortable with the idea of Henry’s title. Like so many others, he feared the King might diminish the power of the Church.

  We were busy, Cromwell and I, as crisp autumn fell to frosty winter. And we were becoming close. I leaned on him. Cromwell was reliable, clever and he was as enamoured as I of the idea that one day Henry would be the true leader of the Church, and not just in name.

  “I have come to think you were ahead of us all when you said years ago a king should lead in spiritual matters as well as temporal,” he said to me as we wandered through Greenwich’s gardens one cold morning.

  “I am glad you think so,” I said. “I am also glad we have become friends, Master Cromwell.”

  “We are united in purpose, my lady. It is fitting that we should be friends.”

  “How goes Cranmer’s work?” I asked. “Will his Determinations be ready soon?”

  “He hopes to publish soon,” said Cromwell. “I have found him groaning over his work often, these past months.”

  “He suffers for his art.” I smiled warmly. “I should visit him. My gentle friend is too hard on himself. He punishes himself over his writing, never seeing its beauty.”

  “Is it not that way for all of us?” Cromwell asked. “We are our own greatest critics, are we not? For whilst others never see the beauty we have tried to express, we do. We know how far the work we set on parchment is from the glory that lives in our minds.”

  “I begin to suspect you are a poet, Cromwell.”

  “I would never dare,” he said. “I was made for hard tasks, not pretty ones.”

  “The world needs all kinds of men, Cromwell. I have need of you.”

  “I hope that will always be the case, my lady.”

  “Sometimes, I think it will ever be the case.”

  Cranmer published his Determinations that November; a collection of historical and theological ideas and examples supporting the case that Henry held supreme authority in his realm. To us, it was a vindication of all we had thought about Henry’s powers. To detractors it was nothing but a web of lies.

  But this was not the only work that emerged that year. Thomas Audley, Speaker of the Commons, and Henry’s senior legal advisor, produced drafts for legislation to allow the annulment to be granted by the English Church, and to ignore papal countermeasures. At the same time, Cromwell and Audley drafted separate bills, to convince Rome that Henry was in the right. One draft made it illegal to bring any sentenc
e Clement issued against Henry into England, and the other attempted to curtail activities of English clerics abroad, with an eye on Reginald Pole. There was also a related bill intended to strike at Clement where it hurt the most, by cutting off certain payments from England to Rome. The more radical parts of these bills and drafts came from Cranmer’s Collectanea, but the language used about the Pope was mild in comparison. They were to be taken to the Commons and Lords when Parliament sat in January.

  Even though there were two different bills, and I was not sure which Henry would use, I was pleased something was happening. Henry wanted to gauge the reaction of his Houses. He was putting a finger into the wind. Cromwell, however, had a different idea about the bills.

  “I do not believe, my lady, we will get the result we want by going through Parliament. There is much opposition. Many within the Houses are dedicated to the Church, and others fear Rome and the Emperor. They will not vote them through.”