The Scandal of Christendom

by G Lawrence

  “You should sit,” whispered my sister.

  “I will be fine,” I murmured, trying to stop little black lights dancing before my eyes. I sipped my wine and it seemed to restore me.

  “At least you have a little more colour in your cheeks,” Mary noted as she took my cup. “You looked like a ghost this morning.”

  “I have never felt more alive.”

  The procession moved back through the Abbey, past the clock tower where five fountains flowed with wine in place of water, and into Westminster Hall. I withdrew to my rooms whilst the feast was prepared. I was utterly exhausted, and the day was not over. I had seven more hours to face.

  Only when everyone was gathered did I make my entrance. I was to sit at the head of the great hall, at a table of glittering marble. Henry had constructed a special box in which to feast, so he could see all that went on without being officially present. Only Cranmer shared my table, and his seat was far from mine, a good way to my right. Nothing would steal focus from me.

  I processed through the hall to the sound of wild cheering. The windows had been re-glazed, the seating gilded, the walls hung with arras and tapestry. A central blue carpet separated rows of tables, with the diners arranged in order of precedence. I was to be served by the Dowager of Oxford and my friend Elizabeth Browne, the Countess of Worchester, with my sister and Jane sitting at my feet to do my bidding. Henry had thoughtfully provided a comfortable chair, fitted to sit inside the customary one of marble. I was glad of the soft cushions and warm blankets I found there. My pregnant state was hardly one where sitting upon stone would be comfortable. There were over one hundred and twenty servants for the head table alone, and the hall was hot with people, conversation and the high fug of sweat and smoke. Suffolk and my cousin, Lord William Howard, sat atop horses. Suffolk’s doublet dripped with pearls, his horse was covered in crimson velvet, and Howard, whose task it was to serve the banquet, or at least command the lower orders to do so, sat on a horse in purple trappings embroidered with the white lion of the Howards, with an inner lining of white satin. During the feast, they would ride up and down, overseeing the celebration.

  Tom was Chief Ewerer, deputising for his father who was ill. The ewerer provided materials for washing hands and face, necessary when one eats with one’s fingers and a knife. Tom oversaw the other ewerers, wandering through the hall in between Suffolk and Howard as they pranced up and down on their horses. I wished I could have talked to Tom. He would have allayed my nerves and made jests to calm me, but I could not. In truth, I could not speak to anyone but my ladies. Even Cranmer was too far away to hear me without shouting, which would hardly have been suitable.

  That sense of isolation I had felt sneaking upon me was only made clearer by that feast. By virtue of my position I was now apart from all people… besides Henry.

  I tried to tell myself that these ominous thoughts were born of tiredness, and concentrated on eating with delicacy and grace. Twenty-eight dishes were served for the first course, with the other diners receiving fewer, depending on rank. The second course was comprised of twenty-four dishes and the third of thirty. To see all the food, you might have thought there was no bird left in the skies or beast in the bracken. Pottages of almond milk and fish, mutton and herbs, and beef marrow were brought in, followed by roasted pheasant, venison, boar and oxen. Peacock in ginger sauce stood beside stacks of roasted capons, chicken pie, mortis of fish and cheese tarts. There were strawberry pies, apple fritters, and stewed herrings, steaks of porpoise, beef and lamb. Salmon and pike were presented whole and carved to perfection as servants carried in platters piled with crabs, whiting, codling in green sauce and boiled trout. There were buttered pot-herbs, golden-roasted onions, spinach tarts and shimmering pink shrimp. Conserves of cherries sparkled beside roasted apples, and succades of lemon peel glistened alongside marchpane stained gold with saffron and twisted into lover’s knots and Tudor roses.

  The new Knights of the Garter carried in food for me and Cranmer, and each course arrived to the blasting sound of trumpets, lutes and flutes. Subtleties were brought out between courses, and ships carved from wax and sugar proved an immediate hit. At nearly six o clock, the feast was done, but there were still ceremonies to attend to before I could retire.

  I was served spices by my Sewer and hippocras from a golden cup held by the Lord Mayor. All eyes were on me as I undertook these last rites. The sweet hippocras drifted over my tongue, reawakening my senses that had become dulled by the huge array of food I had eaten. Feeling thankful that something was keeping me awake, I sent cups of wine to my ladies and to my servants, as signs of favour.

  “It is time to retire, Majesty,” kindly Cranmer whispered, seeing my pale face.

  “Although I have never felt such honour as I do this day,” I whispered back, “I will welcome my bed.”

  I stood with my ladies. As I processed towards the door, the nobles knelt. I turned as I reached the edge of the hall. “I thank you all for the honour you have done me this day,” I said.

  I meant it, truly. I knew how many there despised me, and yet, for Henry, they had honoured me. There had been no protests, no jeers, and few problems. And if a few jesters had japed about our emblems, I cared not.

  In truth, as I was taken by barge to York Place, and almost carried to my bed, I believed there was nothing left for me to fear. The coronation cost Henry and London over two hundred thousand ducats; a staggering sum. The French had been honoured in the procession, as the Imperialists were all but left out. Every noble, commoner and clergyman in the realm, aside from a scarce few, had been present to honour me.

  Henry was not there that night. As I curled up in bed, my hands wrapped about my belly, he celebrated our triumph with his men.

  I was joined to England and ever would I be. As I floated into welcome slumber, the words of the marriage service floated into my mind. “What God hath joined, no man may part.”

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Whitehall Palace and Westminster Palace

  Summer 1533

  Days of celebration unfolded like a flower sensing sunlight for the first time. There was jousting in the tiltyards, wrestling in the courtyards, feasting and dancing each night, matches of tennis and bowls, and private banquets of sweets in my chambers, to which only my good friends were invited. The great joust was held in Henry’s new tiltyards at York Place, recently renamed Whitehall Palace as Henry believed it should bear a worthier name. I agreed, for no other reason than to wipe away the stain of Wolsey. There were times when he, like Katherine, seemed to haunt me.

  The joust, however, was not as great a spectacle as Henry would have wanted. Carewe, Henry’s Master of Horse, was usually a talented jouster, and he led the answerers, but our eight knights put on a rather lacklustre performance, and did not break as many lances as Henry, and the swollen, braying crowds would have liked. The horses shied at the last moment, veering from the tilt, making it hard for the knights to secure hits on their opponents. I did wonder whether, Carewe, my once-friend and now new foe, had decided to slight me by infusing his men with a lack of enthusiasm. As I thought, however, I decided that would have been a costly and rash mistake to make in front of Henry. Anyone who refused to accept me now was risking their career at court, and potentially their lives.

  “Perhaps they wallowed too deep in their cups last night,” I said to Henry. “Had you ridden, my lord, your people would have learned a fine lesson in how this sport should be played.”

  “The terrain is imperfect,” said Henry, his eyes narrowed against the sun. “I have been watching them. The horses have difficulty reaching a full gallop.”

  “All can be put to rights,” I said. “Do not distress yourself on my account. I think this has been a fine day.”

  Henry smiled, tearing his eyes from the knights preparing to compete. “It is easier for ladies to enjoy jousting,” he said. “Not knowing anything of the sport, you are more easily impressed.”

  I had to bite my tong
ue, hard. Of course I had never ridden in a joust, but I had watched them all my life! I had seen jousts at the Field of the Cloth of Gold, at the French Court and Mechelan, and I had watched enough in England to fill all the days of eternity. A spectator I might be, but I knew well enough when a knight was talented or poor!

  I clenched my jaw and forced my lips into a smile. Henry put his hand absently on my belly as his eyes were drawn back to the joust.

  Despite Henry’s irritating, patronising manner, I maintained my merriness. Days of competition in the sword followed, and I won huge sums wagering against my ladies and Henry.

  “You always know who will win,” Henry marvelled, apparently quite forgetting he had said I could know nothing of sports in which I had never competed. “It is an odd talent, my love, that a woman should be able to pick the best fighter.”

  “You know about their training and their prowess,” I said. “So you know who should win. But I examine their eyes. There, nothing can be hidden. Even the best fighter, the most worthy knight, can be unseated by an opponent who wants to win.”

  “You see your fire reflected in them.”

  “Perhaps I see hope,” I said. “After our struggle, my lord, I recognise hope as if it were my own kin.”

  As I spoke, my head seemed to twist to one side of its own accord. I stared at Nan Gainsford for a moment as though I knew not who she was.

  “Majesty?” she asked, frowning at my suddenly white face.

  “It is nothing,” I said, but I was not sure it was.

  For the tiniest sliver of a moment, I had thought I had seen Katherine standing at my elbow, scowling at me.

  *

  A proclamation was issued during the celebrations, warning of dire penalties if any dared accord royal honours to anyone but me. The bill making this law had been passed just before my coronation, but no one dreamed it would be used during Katherine or Mary’s lifetimes. Obviously, they were foolish to think so, as Henry wanted to threaten his wife with the law since he could not get her to obey out of duty. Katherine and Mary’s servants pretended they had feeble memories in an effort to escape punishment, and kept saying they had so long used one title that it was taxing to remember a new one. But the time was drawing close when disobedience would cost them dear.

  Two weeks after my coronation, Fisher was set free without charge. There was no need to hold him, as long as he behaved. At the same time, Chapuys arrived to ask a boon of Henry. It was a foolish favour for the hare to ask, but Chapuys was never one to avoid confrontation; if anything, he thrived on it.

  He asked Henry that since Katherine had been once acknowledged as the King’s wife, should she not retain the title of Queen? Using Mary of Suffolk as an example, the hare protested that even though Mary had only been married to King Louis for a few months, and had remarried as a widow, she had kept and used the title of Queen of France. Quite swept away by his own cleverness, Chapuys embarked on a vein of argument of which I doubt his mistress would have approved, by saying that women were so very fond of their titles and allowing Katherine to retain hers would comfort her.

  “You once said you would choose her above all other women in the world,” said Chapuys. “And you loved and cared for her. If this is true, Majesty, you cannot in good conscience strip her titles away, nor cause her unrest. The Queen is not building castles or raising armies with her income, after all, out of love for Your Majesty.”

  Henry did not tarry to discuss the matter, and he was not about to allow Katherine to be known as Queen.

  But amidst this dissent, the celebrations continued. Even the death of Mary of Suffolk, on the 24th, did not dampen spirits. She had been suffering from a pain in her side, which confounded her doctors. She had endured ague and fever, as well as vomiting and coursing pain. They bled her and made her eat herbs, but nothing cured her. When last she had visited court, I had been amazed at how thin she had grown. And when she passed away, Chapuys told everyone she had died of a broken heart, over her brother’s Great Matter.

  “Do you wish to postpone the celebrations?” I asked Henry when I came to commiserate for his loss.

  “Only for a few days,” he said briskly. “We will hold a requiem Mass next month, and the funeral then also, but I will not allow this to detract from your celebrations.”

  He wore a strange expression. I could not tell if he was sad to have lost his sister, or annoyed Mary had so thoughtlessly expired in the midst of my coronation honours.

  “If you are sure…”

  “I am.”

  I went back to my rooms to rest, and I wondered at Henry. He had loved Mary. There was no doubt in my mind of that. They had been close, so why did he seem so… careless? The reason, as I realised, was because his sister had gone against his wishes. There was little patience or forgiveness left in Henry. In all honesty, I was not stung by the loss of Mary. Once I had admired her, but she had chosen her bed long ago and snuggled in beside Katherine.

  We entered mourning for a few days, which enraged Suffolk as he thought more was required. Once this was done, celebration returned. Presents poured in from dignitaries and ambassadors and we danced, played and laughed the whole day through. I took my litter with its three white mules, my gift from François, on a three-mile trip about the royal parks. Henry told me that I should not overexert myself, but as the strain of the coronation passed, I had never felt more alive.

  Perhaps that is the way of things, when people die. If they were friends, we mourn, and our lives take on a shade of Death. If they were enemies, we are granted grace by their demise. We become the freshly lighted candle; the light casting out the darkness. They are the blackened, wasted wick, consumed by a puddle of wax. Our lives burn brighter, as theirs dims.

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Whitehall Palace

  Summer 1533

  As July came in with hot sunshine and the trill of birds singing, all the court could speak of was my confinement. But there were other sentiments less pleasing to my ears being voiced.

  Katherine and Mary stood firm. They continued to style themselves as Queen and Princess, and their servants followed suit. And there was more rebellion. Mary’s plate, jewels, and chamber ornamentation was to be reduced, in keeping with her new position, but when Henry’s men arrived, the inventory list, which had been sent ahead so Mary could prepare, mysteriously disappeared. Mary refused to give up her jewels or plate, protesting they could not be spared and Katherine audaciously ordered new livery for her servants, embroidered with entwined H’s and K’s.

  They were doing all they could to show they did not accept me, and would fight the rights of my child. Contrary to my resolution for peace and kindness, I decided to teach them a lesson and demanded a royal christening robe from Katherine. It had been used in the christenings of all her children, and I saw it as a natural right that the next royal child should have use of it. Katherine swore she would never relinquish it. She had brought the blanket from Spain, she protested, and it was not the property of the English Crown, but her own. “God forbid that I should ever be so badly advised as to give help, assistance, or favour, directly or indirectly, in a case as horrible as this!” she cried when my men arrived.

  “There is nothing I can do, beloved,” Henry said as we dined. “The blanket is Katherine’s personal property. There would be uproar if I forced it from her.” He stroked my knee. “We will order a new one,” he went on. “It would be better to have a new blanket for our son. Anything associated with Katherine is cursed when it comes to childbirth. I would not have you put in danger.”

  “I see,” I said, unhappy. Katherine always bested me.

  “But Katherine’s continued disobedience will not be ignored,” Henry said, noting my disgruntled expression. “She will be moved again. Much did she complain about The More and Ampthill. We will see what the Dowager thinks of the next place she is carted off to!”

  Henry laughed but I felt uncomfortable. Katherine’s unhealthy house was already talked of with
disgust. If she was treated worse, would more people turn against me? I was also disturbed by Henry’s crass, cruel mirth. Henry had always attempted to mediate his anger, especially in the case of his daughter, but his mood had altered. Henry could not bear to be defied. He had put up with slights and insults for years from Rome, Spain, and even France, but he could not stand it from Katherine and Mary. Henry was not only a traditionalist in terms of religion, despite all he had done, he was conservative in marriage. Katherine had been his wife once, and he saw it as her duty to obey him. Mary, as his daughter, should also show natural, unquestioned deference. The fact that they did not was insupportable.

  I am sure Henry thought he had been nothing but fair. He believed he had been patient and kind. In his eyes, they were at fault. If Henry had one, true weakness, it was that he could never see through the eyes of another. He was, inherently, a selfish man. Perhaps this was not his fault, as princes are not raised to consider any point of view but their own, but this flaw led him to misunderstand people. Henry believed anyone who flaunted him was selfish. It is often the habit of people to see their own faults in another. Defiance struck at the core of Henry’s soul. As a king, he was obeyed. If he was not, it called his power into question. Power was the platform on which Henry’s whole sense of being stood; if it was shaken, the King might fall.