Catherine the Inquisitor

by Leigh Jenkins

  “May I ask why?”

  “Imprisonment would raise questions; the fewer people who hear his accusations the better.”

  I was impressed; my friend had seen a complication I had not. I nodded without responding. A fine it would be then.

  “I must return to my supper,” I said, taking a few steps before turning back to speak to him one last time.

  “Charles?”

  “Yes Your Majesty?”

  “Ask your boy what he has heard of Master Ashcot.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  The next evening the Queen hosted the court in her chambers; young Mary in particular loved to dance and twirled along with the dancers on the floor. Prince Harry sat on a small stool next to his mother; he had never been impressed with dancing.

  I had been seated next to Catherine, but as the evening wore on I found myself restless. Wolsey had confronted Ashcot earlier in the day and the tutor had absolutely denied that he had ever uttered those words. Likewise, Henry Brandon had vouched for his tutor, saying that nothing inappropriate had ever occurred, only that “his most beloved Prince Harry didn’t always desire Master Ashcot’s company.” Brandon refused to elaborate beyond that.

  I prowled around the edges of the court, feeling stifled by the many bodies crammed into the small room. I backed into one of the many alcoves that surrounded the larger chamber and turned to look out the narrow window up at the clear night sky. Sir Thomas More had retreated to his calm home at Chelsea for the holidays but would return before Harry’s birthday on January 1st. I missed him tonight; it would have been the perfect evening for astrology.

  My gaze was turned firmly towards the heavens as I attempted to determine the location of the North Star. Then, I felt someone approach my left. The person remained perfectly still, neither bowing nor attempting to grasp my attention.

  “Yes Elizabeth?”

  She didn’t answer at first, her hands were fidgeting with her dress and her beautiful eyes refused to turn towards me.

  “It’s about Henry, Your Majesty.”

  “Madame,” I reproached her, “One at your station should hardly refer to the crowned prince –“

  “No, Your Majesty,” she said quickly before glancing behind her to make sure we could not be overheard. “Henry … Fitzroy, Your Majesty.”

  “Oh,” I said, glancing away from her. Two years before Elizabeth had approached me quietly but in a public place to announce that she was pregnant. As she had no husband and no other known lovers, I accepted that the child was mine but knew there would be no way he could be accepted at court, much less legitimized. Elizabeth had spent a year at her mother’s country estate and the boy had remained there since.

  “Well, what is it?” I asked, when it was clear that she would not be any more forthcoming with information.

  “Since the death of my father last November, my mother has not had the funds to maintain his household, Your Majesty. As there were no male heirs, his lands and titles reverted back to the crown. My mother had to remove herself from our family estates as they became the property of the Duke of Norfolk.”

  She did not have to elaborate on this point. The entire court knew that Norfolk could not be counted on to show any amount of sympathy to a widow who was on his lands.

  I sighed and glanced over my shoulder. No one at the court besides Wolsey had noticed us and he knew everything. I continued to gaze around the room, hoping the answer would appear to me. I could not acknowledge the child or in any way elevate Elizabeth or her mother; our affair had begun without the court noticing and had ended without the court noticing. I would not bring their attention to it now. Nor her bastard son.

  “I will speak to Wolsey and see what can be done,” I finally said, giving her no more hope than that. In truth she should have approached Wolsey first but in a small flash of affection for her I remembered our late-night conversations in my bed and recalled her deep fear of the Cardinal. I indulged myself and looked down at Elizabeth with a gentle smile.

  “Don’t worry Bessie, there will be a solution.”

  With a smile of her own and a small curtsey she rejoined the dancing, slipping in as effortlessly as she had slipped out. I did not have to wait long for my next visitor.

  “How can I be of service, Your Majesty?”

  Wolsey always greeted me with these words — ever since he first entered my chambers a year after I had taken the throne. I had been eighteen years old at the time of Catherine and I’s coronation, and even with the help of my tutors and my father’s former ministers, I had been unable to satisfactorily make myself heard in my own council meetings. Wolsey had changed all of this — my agenda became his agenda. And my wishes became reality with Wolsey.

  The previous summer he had coordinated to perfection The Field of the Cloth of Gold, a meeting between King Francis of France and myself at the Vale of Ardres, which was technically on French soil but close enough to the English fortress of Calais that it could serve as a base for some of the stragglers that followed the court. The court itself was situated in giant tents that surrounded a large castle that had been built especially for the occasion, Wolsey’s men cleverly building the structure out of straw and cloth.

  He had also arranged on the trip back to England for my wife and I to meet with her nephew, the recently crowned Emperor Charles of Castile, King of Spain and Holy Roman Emperor. To Catherine’s great joy, his betrothal to our daughter Mary became official. She would join his court at the age of fourteen and the marriage would take place the following year.

  He had been anxious to have the child at his court — though Mary was four years old, her betrothed was twenty-two and as ready as possible to begin the process of getting an heir. While I understood his desire, Catherine refused to part with Mary before her fourteenth birthday and I agreed. Being married too young is what had caused many health issues with my grandmother Margaret Beufort. She had given birth to my father at twelve years of age and was unable to bear any more children after that time.

  And all of this had been coordinated by Cardinal Wolsey, the only man who knew all my secrets and the only man loyal enough to accomplish anything I decreed. Though he paid lip service to the Pope, I knew that his first allegiance was to me.

  “Elizabeth Blount’s father is dead.”

  “Yes I seem to remember hearing that. His lands went to Norfolk, did they not?”

  “Yes,” I replied shortly. “And now Henry Fitzroy is short of funds. There must be a remedy for this.”

  “A difficult position,” he acknowledged. “There is no possibility of declaring him her son; no way she could be elevated on her own. And I imagine keeping an establishment for him is quite difficult.”

  “He must be kept properly as a child of my body,” I argued. “He cannot be treated as an ordinary child. He must still be served on silver.”

  “Of course,” Wolsey said with a slight bow. “I would never dream of suggesting otherwise. But the matter is still delicate.”

  Wolsey’s eyes began to graze the room as mine had, as if a solution would appear magical in the crowd. And somehow, for Wolsey, it did.

  “Ah. Lord Clinton, Your Majesty.”

  “Pardon?” I asked, confused by his switch in topic.

  “Lord Clinton,” he repeated. “Approaching the advanced age of seventy, a Lord, considered loyal to the crown. Most importantly, he never asks questions.”

  Wolsey’s plan began to dawn on me. Lord Clinton had been looking for a bride for some time, but even his wealth had not been able to entice many fathers to enter into negotiations with him. Bessie, however, would need his wealth and would do what I asked of her. And Clinton, in turn, would take care of Henry Fitzroy without asking his origin; indeed, he would probably not even notice the boy.

  “See that it’s done,” I said to Wolsey and turned away, the court parting as I made my way back to my family.

  Chapter Five

  June, 1526

  “You can take yo
ur eyes off of them.”

  “Catherine?”

  “You can take your eyes off of them.”

  I glanced towards my wife; she spoke in the same tight tones she always did when she found out about one of my infidelities. I, however, had not indulged in any dalliance since the Christmas season, even though marital relations between Catherine and I had ceased two years prior. One of Wolsey’s spies had learned that Catherine no longer possessed the ability to bear children and after her confirmation of this fact when I confronted her, I no longer saw any reason to visit her bed. She didn’t seem upset by this and rarely showed any desire to receive affection from me. It was only when my glance would stray that she would pull her sharp leash.

  “I don’t know who you are speaking of,” I responded. “We are watching your ladies dance, how should I take my eyes off of them?”

  “Those Boleyn sisters,” she said, the look on her face not betraying what we spoke of. “I don’t know which one holds your interest, but you will not begin your flirtations here.”

  I didn’t answer her accusations. In truth I had not bedded one of the sisters, although I would not mind either. And as I had always begun my flirtations in the Queen’s chambers, I ignored that accusation as well. Her chambers were filled with the most beautiful and eligible young ladies of the court. Where else would I begin my flirtations?

  And looking about the room there were many ladies I would not mind flirting with. Catherine’s chambers were small, her outer chamber the only one large enough to house the lines of ladies dancing, their multicolored dresses swirling about their feet. I could not understand how they could seem so energetic; I was sweating from the heat of the day.

  No matter how I resisted, my eyes were continually drawn to Mary and Anne Boleyn. Sisters who could not be more different, Mary with her blond hair and sweet smile; Anne’s seductive gaze and dark locks of hair. I was sure that either girl would bring me joy in bed; it only depended on my mood. Realizing that I was once again staring, I looked away only to catch my wife’s frown.

  My irritation with being instructed by my wife rose in my throat but I refused to show it. She had not been this demanding earlier in our marriage. I was not sure if Catherine had not noticed my infidelities or if she hadn’t cared as long as I came to her bed.

  Of course there was another possibility. In the past three years Catherine had grown even more devout than she had been before. Instead of taking mass four times a day as the rest of the court had, she entered the chapel six times a day. She had also begun to wear a hair shirt, something which, had she still been of child bearing age, would have deterred me from her presence.

  Worse yet, I had heard that my son had begun to imitate her. The previous Easter had found him and his nine-year-old sister at court. I had been unable to control my rage when I realized that he too took mass six times a day, and what’s more he restricted his entire household to fish, even when it was not the Sabbath or a fast day. I immediately confronted his tutor, Master Willoughby, about this excess and how it was affecting the boy’s studies. The tutor insisted that Harry took the recommended six hours of instruction each day and that the additional masses kept him from his physical exercises, not his schooling. I spoke to Harry about this and the Lord Chamberlain of his household and demanded that mass would be heard only four times a day — something Henry Brandon had celebrated when he heard.

  But upon his return to Ludlow where his establishment had moved the previous year, Harry defied my orders and submitted himself to six masses a day, as well as wearing a hair shirt to do penance for the masses he had missed while at the court. I immediately had Wolsey replace his chaplain, but it quickly became apparent that it was no one at Richmond who was responsible for his devotion — it began and ended with my wife.

  Fortunately, my daughter was safe from this excess of devotion. Her governess, the Lady Salisbury, said her establishment, still at Richmond, held no such restrictions and Mary was happy to continue in her studies of Latin and to explore her musical talents. Evidently my wife’s strong religion had not spread to her.

  I had spoken to both Cardinal Wolsey and Thomas More about this and More had suggested I visit Ludlow during the summer progress that was to begin in July. Wolsey had not been so keen on the idea, but the more I thought about it, the more I agreed. Having us there could curtail his extreme practices and I planned on having Thomas speak with the boy about the many flaws of the church.

  During Catherine’s childhood, her parents Isabella and Ferdinand had led an inquisition against those outside of the Catholic faith. I was as quick to judge against heresy as any king, but these two monarchs had taken it farther, torturing Jews and Moors to conversion, creating an atmosphere of terror in their kingdoms. Even the Pope, who had at first sanctioned their deeds, became deeply disturbed. Burning heretics was one thing, operating a full torture chamber was quite different.

  But there had been flaws even before. Two centuries before had seen the rise of dual popes, one reigning from Avignon in France and one from Rome. Stories had thundered around the Continent about popes who elevated their “nephews” — really their bastard sons — through the church. And there was a current movement against the acts of indulgence, paying the pope to absolve one of their sins.

  My only concern was with Catherine. By taking the court to Ludlow, I would be taking the opposition with me as well. Catherine would be just as free to speak to Harry and sway him even deeper into his dedication to the church.

  Well, I thought, as I watched the tempting Boleyn sisters swirl around the dance floor. Catherine will just not be able to see Harry alone.

  “Your Majesty, I hope I could be of some service to you.”

  I was startled from staring out of one of the windows in my outer chamber where I had been watching Catherine walk with our son around the grounds of Ludlow, the gardens lush with color at the height of summer. I had ordered Catherine not to be alone with Harry and rather than fight me on it as I had expected she had done something even worse — brought along her own men to help strengthen her position. Currently she was strolling with Harry, his tutor, and Bishop Edward Hastings, a man I completely despised. He had preached at our Sunday service three years ago, berating the court for its “love of pageantry.” I had wanted the man thrown out but Catherine had been charmed by him. I believed him to the cause of her sudden and intense devotion.

  “Your Majesty?” the voice asked again. I turned around this time, in a foul mood for being bothered twice, but came up short. The voice belonged to Anne Boleyn. In the month since my wife had admonished me for watching the two sisters, I had taken up with her older sister Mary – a girl who was very cheerful in bed but hardly a strong conversationalist. I had heard other things about her sister.

  “Very well, Mistress Anne,” I responded. “How do you propose to be of service to me?”

  The young woman had the decency to blush and glance away from the obvious intention of my words.

  “I realize there had been a few issues with His Highness, Prince Henry,” she said, straightening her back and looking into my face. “I would care to remind Your Majesty that I studied in France and the Netherlands during my childhood. I could speak with His Highness about these different courts and their religious practices.”

  “I thank you, Mistress Anne,” I answered, “but I have Thomas More working on my case; he has traveled all the way to Rome and spoken with the Pope. And I also have your own illustrious father, who has served as my ambassador to France.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” she smiled. “But I doubt these men would raise some points that could be helpful to your case.”

  “What points?” I asked, now on my guard.

  “Oh, nothing forbidden, Your Majesty, just a few books that have been written by very wise men that could show your son his true place in the world and why his status calls him not to be a member of the church but a member of society.”

  She spoke like a true courtier and a daugh
ter of an ambassador. Words that sounded sweet as honey but were filled with venom. I nodded to her to continue and she pulled a small book from the long sleeves of her gown.

  “It’s called ‘The Obedience of a Christian Man’ by William Tyndale. It speaks highly of how a king should act in his own country and how the Pope —“

  “That is a banned book, madam.”

  She was stopped short by the tone in my voice. Banned books had become a large issue for my kingdom ever since the elevation of Martin Luther, a monk who had begun challenging Rome and everything the Pope stood for. His books had caused a wave of panic throughout Christendom and I myself had written many responses to his treatises against the Pope, which had earned me the title Defender of the Faith from Pope Clement.

  “I of course do not believe that a courtier and a woman such as myself should be reading this book, nor that any commoner could understand the author. However, surely a king with such great understanding as yourself would be able to read a book and determine if the author is evil or not?”