by G Lawrence
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Hampton Court
Winter 1533
“Katherine’s servants will swear oaths of loyalty,” said Henry as we dined together one stormy night. Outside the red-bricked walls of Hampton Court there was a rough tempest blowing. The glass windows were assaulted by the wind and lashed by stinging, sibilant rain. But inside, we were safe. Our table was laid with fresh linen, and covered with plates of delicious-scented foods. We had passed a merry evening with Norris, Heneage, Richard Page and my ladies, before coming to the table, as man and wife.
It pleased me to have Henry to myself. Since I had supported him against du Bellay, he had all but taken up residence in my chambers. It was as though we had stepped back a year, to a time when he could not do without me. To all outward appearances, we were as much in love as ever we had been, and there had been no rumours of other lovers. Jane had been active about court. Like a little mouse she scurried and skittered into conversations, and listened at doors. She was skilful and was the only one I would trust. Margaret, Nan or Mary would have told me such underhanded methods were below me. Perhaps they were. But if Henry was about to stray again, I had to know.
“You will ask Mountjoy to make them swear again?” I asked, taking up slices of roasted, rare venison and putting them on his plate. Norris moved forward, but I waved him back with a gentle smile. I liked to serve Henry. It was a gesture of intimacy we both enjoyed.
“No,” he said, waving to Weston to fill his goblet. “Mountjoy is too old and set in his ways to undertake the task. Suffolk will go.”
“Lady Bryan wrote to say that Elizabeth has started laughing,” I said, a guilty shadow threatening to overcome my heart at the thought I had missed my daughter’s first chuckle. “Our daughter must have heard her father’s thoughts and known he was trying to make the world better for her.”
Henry beamed and set a hand over mine. I gazed down at it. Henry’s hands, all of him, had always been large, but now, with the weight he had gained, his fingers resembled the fat pork sausages glistening on the silver platter before me. Somehow, when Henry stood before his people, he still looked trim, but if you examined any one part of him, he was distinctly overweight. I had taken the directly opposing path and become slimmer than I had been before Elizabeth was born, to retain the lithe, strong body that had enticed Henry. I had to use everything I had, if I was in competition with other, younger, women. But it was more than that. I felt, since becoming Queen, since becoming a wife, I had lost control. If I could not control my life anymore, I could control my body. I would be master over something, even if only my own flesh and blood.
“Our daughter does know what I am thinking,” he said. “I have often thought it. They say that babes comprehend little until they are three or four, but when I talk to Elizabeth, I know she understands me. It was not that way with our…”
He trailed off and busied himself with his napkin. He had been about to speak of Mary, as though he and I were her parents. I wondered, at times, how often he mistook me for Katherine.
“Of course she knows,” I said, moving on with a brightness of tone I did not feel in my heart. “Elizabeth understands her father, and wishes only to please him, like her mother.” Henry chuckled, pleased to think his slip had gone unnoticed. “So you will send Suffolk,” I said. “I think him a wise choice, although…”
“Although what, my love?”
“Is not Suffolk’s new wife, Katherine Willoughby, the daughter of Maria de Salinas? I cannot help but think Suffolk’s wife might have influenced him in Katherine’s favour.”
Henry waved a hand. “Katherine Suffolk is but a girl,” he said, as though that meant anything. Was not Lady Mary but a girl too, yet was causing us untold strife? “Suffolk is not weak enough to be influenced by his wife.”
I hid how that indifferently spoken dart flashed into my heart. Had Henry spoken like this before we were wed? Perhaps he had, but since the wife he had spoken of then was Katherine, I had cheered him on, encouraged him to believe wives should obey their husbands. Naively, I had not thought these sanctions and prejudices would apply to me when we were married. Henry had told me we were equals in our love, and I had believed him. In so many ways, I was my own worst enemy.
Suffolk was sent to Katherine at Buckden. His mission was to secure oaths of loyalty from Katherine and her servants, and punish her by dismissing her chancellor, almoner, receiver and other officials. He was also to order her removal to another house; Somersham Castle in East Anglia, deep in the Cambridgeshire Fens. It was an unwholesome place, surrounded by marshes and bogs. Many believed I had told Henry to send Katherine there, hoping the damp air and pestilent waters would carry Katherine into the waiting arms of Death, but if anyone was plotting to remove Katherine by seemingly natural means, it was my husband. I had never heard of the house until Henry mentioned it.
Henry remained confident of Suffolk’s loyalty, but others were not. My father informed me that Suffolk resented his task, and had spoken in praise of Katherine. If Mary of Suffolk had been Katherine’s supporter, then his new wife, no matter her age, was her true successor. Katherine Willoughby was as much a champion of Katherine as her mother, and leaned on her husband’s pity.
Before he left, Suffolk was heard to say to Chapuys that he hoped some accident might befall him, to prevent him carrying out yet another odious task in the name of his King.
As before, Katherine gathered her entire household on the day the Duke arrived, so they could bear witness. When the reluctant Duke confronted Katherine, she told him she would rather be “hewn into pieces” than admit she was not Henry’s lawful wife. She said she would rather suffer a thousand deaths than go against God’s law, her honour and the conscience of the King. As for shifting house again, she would only go if she was carried. “If you want me there, Your Grace,” she said. “You will have to remove me by force.”
Katherine said Suffolk had her permission to reduce her household. “You may take away any man or woman who offers an oath to call me by the title ‘princess dowager’,” she said. “I will not tolerate the presence of any who would deny my right to my true title of Queen.”
Since this was the exact opposite of everything Suffolk had been sent to carry out, the Duke was less than pleased. Many of Katherine’s servants argued with Suffolk. One of her chaplains, Thomas Abel, was locked up in the Porter’s Lodge for defiance, but as Suffolk started to threaten dismissal, some capitulated. Out of fear, eight of Katherine’s ladies agree to swear, along with five of her men, but others, led by Bishop Athequa, Katherine’s confessor, and Dr Miguel de la Sala, her physician, refused. These men had been with Katherine since she arrived in England, and owed everything they had to her. Suffolk threatened to dismiss Athequa, but Katherine insisted the Bishop was the only man in England who could hear her confession in Spanish, and was therefore irreplaceable. Suffolk had to content himself with dismissing Mountjoy, who was more than happy to relinquish his post. Katherine’s almoner and Master of Horse were also dismissed, and ordered never to return on pain of death. Her two chaplains were carted off to the Tower for boldly proclaiming her title, and for supporting the prophesies of Elizabeth Barton.
Suffolk wrote to Henry, asking for instructions, as Katherine was refusing to be moved unless by force. Henry told Suffolk to cast out anyone who resisted, and to convince Katherine to leave. “She is but one woman,” Henry wrote, “why should this challenge a lord like you, who has fought in battle and won wars?”
But Katherine clearly was a challenge, something Henry had forgotten.
All but two of Katherine’s ladies were dismissed. The two that remained were only permitted to do so when Katherine protested she would never accept their replacements, since she believed spies or assassins would take their places. She declared she would rather sleep in the clothes on her back, and lock her gate herself, than suffer foes so near. The servants who remained were forced to swear, and only three managed to wheedle out of it b
y pretending they spoke no English. Suffolk told Katherine to inform her confessor, physician and apothecary that they could call her Queen no more. Katherine said she would do no such thing, and would not regard the people left to her as her servants. “They are my guards,” she said. “I am a prisoner.”
Six days later, Suffolk and his men loaded Katherine’s chests and furniture, such as it was, onto wagons ready for her move to Somersham. Katherine’s horse was ready, but Katherine would not leave the house. An angry mob gathered outside, roused by Katherine’s dismissed servants who had told the tale of their mistress’ woes far and wide. Katherine had kept her door locked throughout the night, and when they came for her, they found it still locked.
Katherine shouted through the door that she would not be moved. If they wanted to take her, they would have to break down the door and abduct her against her will.
This, they did not dare to do, especially not with a seething, angry crowd outside, who could hear every word… since canny Katherine had left a window open. Suffolk thought the mob would riot if he tried to force her, and he did not have enough men to fight. He left Katherine, and returned to court.
Suffolk’s mission was an abysmal failure. He said Katherine was the “most obstinate woman that may be,” but even as he despaired of her, everyone knew she had won his respect. The crowds cheered as the Duke rode off, leaving Katherine in her dingy house. They believed she was triumphant, but her victory came at a price. Those servants left to her, aside from her Spaniards, had all sworn oaths of loyalty to Henry. She was no more a queen, no more even a princess.
She was indeed a prisoner.
Katherine refused to leave her cramped apartments, and declined food and drink brought by those left in her service. Only food and ale from her confessor, or others she trusted would she allow to pass her lips. Her maids prepared meals in her chamber, so Katherine could see everything that went into her food. This once-proud Queen had been reduced to existing in but one room. Her bedchamber was her sitting room, her bedchamber and her kitchen.
Katherine was fifty. She had lived in poverty and neglect before, but that was when she had been a young woman, hale in body and spirit. She was no longer.
Henry caused Chapuys to panic one afternoon when he passed on gossip to the French Ambassador. Henry said he had heard of an attempt to kill Katherine, by inducing false dropsy by means of poison. Henry said he had investigated the rumour, and found it was nothing, but added that if his people were considering taking such action, it showed they had no loyalty left to the former Queen. Chapuys became convinced that every doctor dispatched to Mary or her mother was sent to disguise the method of murdering them. Every ill that beset Katherine became a holy terror to Chapuys. Every outburst of hysteria or illness that Mary fell to was symptom of subterfuge.
The Duke had to explain to Henry that whilst he had achieved part of his mission, he had failed in many others. Henry railed at Suffolk, shouting that he was feeble, and had been trounced by a mere woman.
Once I had said to Henry that Katherine always got the upper hand. I had not been proved wrong. It did not matter what was done. Henry had taken her beloved daughter, he had stripped her of her status, banished her, taken her jewels, removed her glory, income and influence, and still she stood strong. Still she was immovable.
Katherine’s strength was not in her titles, her bloodline, or her wealth. It was in her spirit, and as long as she lived, it would never be broken.
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Whitehall Palace
Winter 1533
As flurries of silent snow came to England that year, I was sent a request from Henry. Edward Seymour, one of his esquires of the body, wanted a place at court for his sister, Jane.
Jane had lost her position with the Dowager during one of Henry’s purges of Katherine’s household, and she was now seeking to crawl back to court.
The last thing I needed was more pretty women at court to attract Henry, so I agreed. Besides, I thought, it will show Jane where she has erred. I had once promised she would serve me, and that promise would be upheld.
Jane Seymour came to court, entering my service as a maid of honour. I greeted her coolly, and gave her my usual speech about being chaste and humble. I did not think I would have much trouble from her. She seemed even more meek and mild than she had been before.
I did not see the heart that lay beneath those still waters. I did not see the seed of ambition, so obvious in her brothers, which also lived in her soul. I opened a door, and in the serpent slipped.
*
That December, although it had been brewing for some time, I was surprised to hear that Norfolk and Chapuys had fallen out.
“I thought they were united in their love for the Pope and all things traditional,” I said to George as we strolled through my frozen privy gardens, the path crackling underfoot as ice snapped beneath our shoes. “Why now do they find themselves opposed?”
George smiled. “Norfolk has been barking about court at any who will listen, howling that the Pope is a scoundrel, a bastard and a worker of evil. Chapuys overheard Norfolk say he would stake his wife, children, and even his own person, to be revenged on one who had done his King such wrongs.”
My eyebrows almost disappeared into my hairline and George chuckled. “It was nothing more than playacting for the benefit of the King,” he said. “Norfolk is uneasy. He finds the King has little use for him, and others, like me and Cromwell, ride the crest of the King’s wave of favour as he drifts away. He worries that His Majesty will not allow his daughter’s marriage to be made legal. He thinks his power is dimming.”
“And thinks to reignite it by prancing about like a performing ape?” I asked. “If he had wanted to appear sincere, perhaps he should have done all this a year ago.” I shrugged. “If Norfolk is finally realising he is obsolete, and other, worthier, men have taken the place he might have had, I am not unhappy. It is about time that man was taken down a peg or two.”
“His pegs are falling to the floor as we speak,” said George. “And in flapping about to discredit Clement, Norfolk might gain Henry’s affection for a while, but he has utterly lost his friendship with Chapuys. I have no doubt the ambassador knows what Norfolk’s masquerade was about, but even so, it goes against everything Chapuys believes to countenance such blatant disregard of the papacy.”
“And makes Norfolk a hypocrite and a liar, either way,” I mentioned. “The hawkish hare will not retain a plotting partner who is so easily swayed.” I paused, glancing at the dazzling world. The trees wore collars of white. Grass was buried deep under banks of snow. I wondered if Elizabeth would be taken to a window by one of my aunts, so she might gaze out at the pretty winter scene. I hoped so. I hoped they would do all that I would, if I were with my daughter.
“I have no doubt that the hare also despises Norfolk for what he said to Mary,” I said. “Chapuys will never cease to fight for her. Norfolk abused Mary and shamed her. The hare will never stand for that.”
Norfolk was not alone in departing from his conservative stance. Many traditionalists felt the changing winds and started to abuse the Pope. Others kept their mouths firmly shut. The Observant Friars were obliged to formally beg for Henry’s forgiveness for supporting Katherine, and Cromwell told me there were plans to examine their order.
Those of us who had pushed for reform found ourselves free to speak against the Church, and against Rome in particular. Henry encouraged it. With Clement’s threat of excommunication looming over his head, Henry wanted his people utterly opposed to Rome.
With rumours that Katherine was to be assassinated still prevalent, there was gossip that Chapuys had asked his master in Spain to lean on his cousin, Mary, Governess of the Low Countries, to halt trade with England. If Imperial trade was lost, it would be an almighty blow. The notion behind this rumour was, naturally, to force Henry back to Katherine, but it did not go as planned. Katherine was ready to fight, but her nephew was not. Charles knew there was no
better raw material than English wool, and if he stopped trade, his income would suffer. It has often been said that blood is thicker than water. To Charles, it seemed, wool was thicker than blood.
I entered a time of merriment. With Christmas approaching, my first as Queen, I could finally take the place I had so long coveted. Finally, I was to sit upon the throne I had watched Katherine’s generous behind thrust into all these years! No more waiting for Henry to arrive by cover of night so we could be together. No… That was all in the past. My rooms became the centre of all gaiety and joy. There was dancing every night, players to perform, and I had Norris and George delight all who came with riddles and games. The book of poetry Mary Shelton governed was still making rounds, and I called for it often to amuse me. So much more had been added, and I delighted in the game of trying to deduce who each author was.
Tom found himself in the centre of all entertainments, along with Mary Shelton, who was a talented poet and a merry soul. Henry joined me, gravitating as always to the place where laughter and attention were wed. He watched me flit through the laughing crowds, adored by all. I took on the Queen’s traditional role as the object of courtiers’ love and affection. Poems were written for me, and I sat at Henry’s side as they were read. When I glanced at his face, I saw pride and love where once there had been distance and disgust. He had forgotten our arguments. With me at his side, it seemed Henry had nowhere else he would rather be.