Catherine the Inquisitor

by Leigh Jenkins

  I acknowledged her comments with a nod but made no move to reply. She was right. He could be dangerous. But not yet.

  At six weeks old, Little Harry was too young to be present at the tournament held in his honor. He had been living at the palace of Richmond for the past six weeks, since he had been christened. I was prepared to joust in his place and I had devised a clever motto for my armor: Sir Loyal Heart. In the past month, I had not slept with any woman save my wife. I intended to keep to her this time. With the birth of my son, she had proven herself loyal to me — now I would be loyal to her.

  I had been a strong contender at the jousts since I had become king at the age of 17. Before that time I had not been allowed to fight — indeed, I had not been given many chances to prove my physical prowess at all; first being considered too young and then, after the death of my older brother Arthur, sheltered as the only heir to my father’s throne.

  “Your Majesty?”

  I was startled back to the present when my groom reentered the tent — I had been left alone, a rare occurrence, only because he had stepped just beyond the curtain of the tent to watch the match.

  “Brandon advanced, Your Majesty,” he informed me as he stepped up to tighten my armor. I allowed his presence and didn’t respond to his comment. Of course, Brandon had advanced — Charles Brandon had been a childhood companion of mine and a fine military and athletic contender at my court. Over the years Brandon had grown to become the courtier closest to me. Although his father had been nothing more than a standard bearer for my father, I intended to reward Brandon for his loyal service to me.

  I squinted towards the field; an unusually harsh sunlight graced the day. In the distance I could see Brandon riding towards me; his was one of the few suits of armor free from grime. I gasped as the page tightened my chest plate, the cold steel knocking the breath from me. While he continued, I looked towards the pavilion that housed the ladies of the court and could just make out Catherine in her sumptuous dress, sitting beneath her cloth of estate. The Queen’s tent was made of green and white, the official colors of the Tudors. As a gift to my wife, I had her tent embroidered with our initials and the entwined H and C above her head glowed especially bright today.

  Finally I was prepared for the joust and was led out to the horse that had been selected for me today. I mounted the steed with the help of a few grooms and prepared to face the Earl of Pembroke. Before I lowered my helmet, Brandon trotted his horse up beside mine.

  “You advanced. My congratulations.” I said with a smile at my oldest friend. Brandon grinned back, the dark hole that should have held one of his front teeth more evident than ever.

  “Unfortunately that means I shall be jousting against your Majesty in the next round, and I believe that will mean the end of my run of good fortune.”

  “I haven’t advanced yet,” I responded, causing him to laugh. Charles looked down the field at the elderly Earl of Pembroke and then raised his eyebrows at me, still laughing at my joke.

  The first pass served me well. I had pulled my charger up and begun thundering down the list, able to lift the lance into the crook of my arm quickly. Looking down the line towards the Earl, I braced my arm, keeping my eye on the Earl’s chest. Not a large target, but a steady one. Out of the corner of my eye I registered that his lance seemingly went astray. Once I was confident he would miss me, I lowered my head and braced for the impact of my lance breaking against the old man’s armor.

  It was on the second pass that something went wrong. The right stirrup came loose from the horse’s saddle as I began my charge down the line. I tried to pull up or give some indication of stopping but it was too late — the horse could not feel my kick and continued bearing down on my opponent. In desperation, I attempted to straighten out my lance but I had lost valuable seconds trying to stop the horse. Instead of landing a blow, the Earl of Pembroke’s lance hit not my chest but my helmet, knocking the metal against my skull and tossing me from the horse.

  What had been a problem earlier now proved to be a blessing from the Lord — with the loose stirrup my foot easily slid from the saddle and I landed on the hard ground below. Amazed that I had not lost consciousness, I looked out the crowds and saw the face of my wife. Catherine, Queen of England, was holding her skirts tightly in her hands but otherwise gave no sign of distress. For a moment the anguished wail of my mother came back to me. I knew I would never see that from Catherine, a Princess of Spain. A longing for my mother and her gentle spirit was the last thing I thought of before the world went black.

  “Your Majesty?”

  The world returned slowly, as it often did after a great fall. I could feel the hard table beneath me, which meant that they hadn’t moved me far from the field — not a good sign.

  I attempted to speak, but a spluttering moan came out instead. Now that life had returned it had done so quickly — I was in my tent and it was Brandon who leaned over me so intently asking for a sign of life. I tried to move my eyes to him, but they stayed lifelessly to the side instead. What was wrong with me?

  I instead took a deep breath and tried to roll to my side. My muscles strained but refused to shift, as useless as my ability to see or speak.

  “He’s trying to move,” the voice of my doctor came from behind my head and it seemed an impossible feat to turn my gaze at him.

  “Your Majesty,” Brandon said urgently, “Try to lie still. Movement will only make this worse.”

  I wanted to tell Charles that I was fine. If the damn horse hadn’t kept running, or the stirrup hadn’t been loose, I would’ve unhorsed the Earl of Pembroke and would even now be challenging him and unhorsing him as well. But nothing came out.

  “What will you do?” Charles asked anxiously, glancing over at where the doctor must be. I seemed to be gaining some control over my eyes and rolled them toward Charles, trying to convey my anxiety to him. I could think. Why couldn’t I move? Why couldn’t I command my mouth to say what I was thinking and to tell the doctor that I did not want to be bled?

  Unfortunately, they couldn’t hear my thoughts. I couldn’t gain control over my words. Despite the surgeon’s assurances to Brandon that I must be numb, I could feel his sharp blade cutting into the back of my knee, the warm blood spreading down my thigh and calf into the large bowl that had been placed below my legs. The surgeon insisted this would help, but all it did was make my world go black again.

  The next time I awoke, I was in my bed and it was Thomas More who stood anxiously with my surgeons. Thomas was a good friend and I could trust that he would stop these doctors from doing anything truly awful to my beaten body.

  “Harry?” Thomas whispered to me softly, touching my shoulder. He made sure his voice was low enough to not carry to the surgeons — this familiar greeting wasn’t allowed in public with my wife and should be taboo with any of my courtiers. But Thomas had always been a bit different from my regular courtiers — he always acted like how I had imagined my father had acted with Arthur. Not angry or disappointed that I hadn’t gotten a concept yet again, but supportive and caring while teaching me. As a young man, nothing had made my day pass more pleasantly than to know that there was an astronomy lesson scheduled for me that evening with the great Thomas More. Him calling me Harry was more natural than anyone else who had attempted that title.

  “Thomas,” I managed to breathe out to him and was suddenly flooded with relief that I could speak. The brief feeling I had earlier, the horrible sensation of being trapped within my body and unable to move, was gone and I tried to sit up.

  “Your Majesty, please relax and do not move,” the nearest surgeon said, rushing towards me as if he might physically push me back into the bed. I held my hand out and managed to sit all the way up before he reached me.

  “I’m fine,” I barked out and then cleared my throat. My voice felt raw from being unused and I looked to Thomas to tell me how long I had been out.

  “It’s been a mere three days, Your Majesty,” he responded. I
nodded to him. Three days was too long, but it would be useless to say anything about it to the doctors. I eyed them for a moment before demanding that they left the room.

  “Your Majesty it might be best if we bled— “

  “Nonsense,” Thomas interrupted, “His Majesty is awake and alert and needs no more of your services. Thank you for what you have done. We will call on you if you are needed again.”

  I glanced quickly at Thomas and he spoke again.

  “You will remain in the outer chamber and speak to no one.”

  It took a few moments for the men to clear out, the outspoken one looking miffed at being asked to leave. I waited until the door was shut and it was obvious they could not hear our conversation.

  “Who moved first?” I asked.

  Thomas didn’t pretend to not know what I meant.

  “The Duke.”

  I sighed. Currently there was only one Duke in England, the Duke of Buckingham. The time for pretending the man was no longer dangerous was over. I nodded for Thomas to continue.

  “Queen Catherine was able to consolidate power in a way that would not have been possible without your son. Norfolk declared his support for her immediately before retreating to his estates, no doubt to raise an army in case it came to a battle. As always, who he would support in a fight is unclear. The Duke of Buckingham did much the same — without declaring support for your son. It has been confided to me that spies have picked up the size of Buckingham’s army — a mere five thousand troops. This has not been seen as a major threat and can be swiftly dealt with, especially now that you have awoken.”

  “Wolsey?”

  “At Richmond with your son. Queen Catherine sent him and he has taken an additional thousand troops with him to hold Richmond if necessary. There have been a number of scouts sent towards Buckingham’s estates and he is not on the move yet. If there is sign of movement, young Harry will be brought here to London and we will use the Tower as defense.”

  “As it should be,” I said. “Have the spies picked up anything additional on Buckingham? His intentions? Anything I can use?”

  “Not as of yet, Harry, but his actions speak loudly. I imagine it cannot be long before he exposes his hand.”

  “I’ll feel better when he is no longer a threat,” I answered. I had taken Catherine’s suggestion and Wolsey and I had discussed what we could do with such a dangerous man, but nothing had become clear. This could give us the opportunity we needed to remove some of his power. And Thomas was right, his actions did speak loudly. I could allow his actions to dictate his punishment.

  “Keep it quiet about my awakening. It may be best to allow Buckingham to set his own trap.”

  Thomas nodded before rising from my bedside and moved to the doorway. I did not need to ask what his exact plan was; no doubt it would be carried out well. I sat back onto my bed as my surgeons reappeared. They shuffled in but obviously had nothing else to suggest to me — they would be prisoners in this room with me for the foreseeable future. As they began to talk in dull tones, I sincerely hoped that Buckingham would make his move sooner than later.

  Chapter Two

  February, 1511

  Wolsey’s spies were able to pick up Buckingham’s intentions within the next week. Operating under the assumption that I was still unconscious, Buckingham had raised an army and written letters to many of the major nobles throughout England, looking for support to overthrow the “Spanish princess” as he called Catherine. The Duke of Norfolk — whose own spies had no doubt heard I was awake and lucid—traveled to Richmond with the letter. He and Wolsey together came to see me, bringing my son with them.

  After that, it was an easy matter to raise an army. The Duke of Norfolk led the troops and accepted Buckingham’s defeat without a fight. Most of Buckingham’s retainers were not looking to overthrow the throne — they instead had just answered their lord’s call without questioning why they were leaving their farms. His tenants were released, and as none of the other nobles had seemed to answer his call, only the Duke was brought before me.

  “Your Majesty,” the Duke of Buckingham began, bowing to me in his usual manner — not quite low enough and with a bit of a smirk on his face, as if he was simply allowing me to be king with his permission.

  I remained seated at my throne, comfortable in my receiving room. These outer chambers, where I conducted so much of my business, were small and always crowded with courtiers. The cool morning light poured through the windows, warming the perpetually cold palace.

  Usually I heard petitions and dealt with business alone, but today Catherine sat to my right with our son settled gently in her lap. Today we were portraying our strength.

  “Our dear Duke, we are quite disturbed by the information that has been given to us during my absence,” I began and glanced to my right. Catherine remained stiff in her chair, refusing to look at the man who had threatened her son. Her dark eyes were narrowed and locked on the back wall of the chamber. I once believed she would only look this fierce on my behalf. I’d since learned that the strength I’d seen before paled in comparison to the strength she would show for her child.

  “You misunderstand what I was attempting to accomplish, Your Majesty,” he responded, raising himself up to his full height— just a hair taller than myself. “I was merely consolidating my considerable power to protect your son.”

  “You left the court before speaking to me,” Catherine said, almost spitting the words out. She was far angrier than I had earlier anticipated.

  Instead of answering, the Duke merely kept his gaze on me, as if he had not even noticed her accusation. I nodded to Wolsey who immediately stepped forward, pulling the intercepted letter out from his church robes.

  “Your statement contradicts what we have here in this letter, sent out to certain nobles you considered to be … what did you write?” Wolsey took a moment to peer down on the letter. This gave me a chance to appreciate the look that had appeared on the Duke’s face when he realized we had one of his letters. Most men would have a look of fear; the Duke only looked enraged, furious that we dare look at his personal items.

  “Ah, here it is,” Wolsey continued, “the nobles you considered ‘those of the old ways and dedicated to the true bloodline of England.’ Perhaps you could clarify what you had meant by that.”

  “That letter is a fake, you are unable to prove—“

  Wolsey merely nodded behind him and watched as two constables came out to formally arrest the Duke.

  “Get your hands off of me,” he insisted before turning back to me, “What do you want? More money? You can’t borrow from the nobles forever.”

  I paused for a moment so I would not respond in anger to his accusations. Before I could answer, Catherine had a reply for him.

  “Money is not a factor with your treason,” she said, sounding more controlled and powerful than I could have managed at the moment. “You will be taken to the tower, await your trial, and then you will be beheaded. There will be no reprieve for you.”

  The room became deathly silent with Catherine’s verdict on the Duke’s life. There would, of course, be the trial — as a noble he had the right to be tried by his peers — but no one would now go against the direct wish of Queen Catherine. As the Duke began to bluster and was dragged away, I sat back on my throne. I had eliminated one enemy but with that I had learned I had another potentially deadly enemy here among my allies — and she was much closer to me than the Duke had ever been.

  Four days later, Wolsey brought me the request for the execution of the Duke of Buckingham. There was no need for us to discuss it or for me to even read the document. I, however, waved for him to leave it at my table to await my signature. Wolsey knew better than to question my reasoning — I rarely read documents before signing them, why should this one be any different?

  I let the paper lie there while I finished reading the latest treatise on the pope from the University of Paris. The pope’s power seemed like such a fragile thing re
cently. I wanted to be as prepared as possible for any attack against him.

  Next I dictated a short letter for King Louise of France — his wife had died recently and I wanted to make sure I could influence his next choice of a bride. The fact he was in his last years of life did not make a difference — he had no son and would surely be anxious to conceive one even at this late date. Perhaps I could send Cardinal Wolsey to Paris to begin negotiations. My older sister Margaret had married King James of Scotland many years before, but my younger sister Mary was eighteen years old and needed to be wed soon. There was a great opportunity here.

  As the sun began to set for the day, there was no way I could continue to avoid the execution order. I picked the paper off the desk where Wolsey had left it hours before and began to study the document.

  It was no different than any other execution notice. And it was not as if I had not signed one before. However, this was different. This, I could already feel, was a turning point in my reign.