Catherine the Inquisitor

by Leigh Jenkins

  “Then I say that is our course,” I pronounced with a smile at Charles Brandon. My friend had truly surprised me today.

  With my word the two dukes exited, not meeting each other’s eyes. More and Cromwell, both being lawyers by trade, had many more papers and books to gather up, but finally Cromwell exited before Thomas More had made it over to my side. With an eye out to make sure Cromwell was completely out of earshot he leaned in close to me.

  “I don’t know if this is the best course.”

  I grimaced at my old friend.

  “I agree, but I cannot see another way besides using the statute. And Brandon is right, better to let Wolsey hang himself.”

  More nodded and stepped back before glancing back up at me.

  “Just be careful, Harry.”

  “His Majesty the King!”

  The ladies of Catherine’s chamber stood as I entered with the regular gentlemen who made up my train. Normally upon entering Catherine’s chambers I would glance around for the prettiest women or look to see if there was a game happening that I could join in. More often than not I would be interrupting the women sewing as they listened to a young girl reading from the Bible.

  Today, though, I went right up to Catherine’s dais and took a seat at the throne that remained up there for my occasional visits to her room. Catherine put down her own sewing and called for some musicians. I had no desire to dance but knew that this would provide a good distraction from any discussion Catherine and I may have.

  “Your Majesty,” she said with a deep curtsey to me. There was one thing you could give to Catherine; she would never give me any outward reason to complain of her.

  I waited for the musicians to begin and for the dancers to take their places before I leaned over to my wife.

  “Both of our children will be here within the week.”

  She smiled and nodded, a proud look on her face.

  “I had thought to call for a joust to celebrate the Christmas season and for the entertainment for the children of the court.”

  “That sounds like a satisfactory plan, Your Majesty.”

  I sighed. Catherine would always agree with me, but never give me any reason to feel like I had done something special. Even when young Harry was only a few years old, I had led an attack on France, securing a victory now called The Battle of the Spurs. And yet she had still not been impressed. When I wrote to her to tell her about the battle, how the French had turned and fled the field, she had sent me no written reply. Instead I had received the blood drenched shirt of King James of Scotland — one of my many enemies, and one who had just died in a bloody battle that Catherine had orchestrated.

  “Yes, well, I wanted to inform you that I will be calling on Prince Harry to take his place in this joust.”

  Suddenly the smile left Catherine’s face and she looked every one of her forty-one years.

  “Your Majesty, do you truly think that is wise? He is merely a boy.”

  “He is not merely a boy. He will be eighteen at the beginning of the new year.”

  “Yes, and when you were his age, you had not fought in your first joust either.”

  I glanced sideways at Catherine, giving her a look to make sure she knew I was not pleased to be reminded of this fact. But, instead of looking chagrined, she continued to stare earnestly into my face.

  “Yes, a fact that I do not think is proper for a king. He must know how to face fear.”

  Catherine sat back in her chair, her usual benign smile gracing her face. Most of the courtiers would be fooled, thinking we were merely passing the time talking, but I could tell that she was greatly unhappy.

  “I thought it would be better if I alerted you to this,” I said, not surprised when she refused to respond. I waited through a few more dances before standing. I turned back to Catherine and bent over her outstretched hand, giving it a light kiss. She didn’t let go immediately and I glanced up at her before turning to leave the room.

  “Your Majesty…” Catherine’s voice trailed off and for once I was able to read her face perfectly. I gave my wife a few moments to try to think of a way she could ask me to her bed tonight before I straightened up and left her presence.

  “His Royal Highness, Prince Henry!”

  I watched from my tent as my son rode out for his first joust. Even though he had some trouble sitting straight in the saddle and I could tell his arm was tiring from holding the lance, he had advanced through the last three bouts. He was now to face his good friend, Henry Brandon.

  Charles stood by his son’s horse, obviously coaching him on the best way to approach his future monarch in the joust. We each had our part to play and Brandon’s was just as important as Harry’s.

  My page began to put my own armor on me as the two boys drew up their horses and began down the line toward each other. Brandon’s horse was out of the gate faster, but he had more trouble pulling up his lance. My son had a much slower start, which gave him less power but afforded him a better chance to stabilize his lance and aim for a better hit.

  I could see that missing at the first pass angered Harry, even though Henry Brandon had missed as well. The two boys were once again given lances by their page boys, Harry shooing his away quickly. I watched the second pass with baited breath and felt my heart hammer as Brandon scored a hit against Harry, the heavy lance pounding into my son’s chest.

  After everything that had happened with Anne Boleyn and Catherine, I knew that that my son had turned into a dangerous enemy, as was so often the case with fathers and sons who fought for thrones. As he took another hit, along with Brandon, I felt my heart clench.

  Ever since I had taken Catherine for my wife, I had waited for this day — watching my son fight in the jousts. I had anticipated feeling pride and joy watching the heir to my throne and all of my ambition breaking lances and scoring points against an enemy. Now, however, I only felt a faint sense of dread.

  The boys ran three more times before Harry was declared the victor, by a narrow margin. Charles lifted his son down from his horse himself, patting him on his back, obviously proud with how Henry Brandon had behaved.

  “You did very well,” I said, approaching my son after he had dismounted. I had learned my lesson long before; Harry did not like physical displays from me. He would never have slung his arm back around my shoulders as Charles and Henry had done.

  “Yes,” Harry responded, no modesty built into the future king of England. I suppose I could not blame him for this. I had done as much to make sure he knew his place above his peers as anyone else.

  “Who are you against next?”

  “Lord Penberry,” Harry said in a bored voice. “He should not be much of a challenge. Then we will have to check the brackets, but the rest of the joust is looking well.”

  He was quiet for a moment before turning to look at me critically.

  “Who are you against next?”

  I smiled at my son, glad he had shown interest in my lists as well.

  “I am against Sir Henry Norris,” I answered. “A young man, but his inexperience should work in my favor.”

  “Of course it shall, Father.”

  I was momentarily stunned at this familiarity from the son I barely knew, even more startled when he put forward a cautious hand to place it on my shoulder. The boy was as tall as I was now, and I stood well over most of the court. Even with the dark coloring of Catherine’s family, there was no doubting that this was my son.

  We turned away from one another; I for once pleased at our interaction. Perhaps there was hope for a relationship yet. My page boy was quickly by my side, ready to help lift me into the saddle. Down the line I could see Norris being similarly placed into his saddle. After a few moments of struggling he was ready and we both placed our visors on our heads. In no time my lance was strapped firmly to my right hand. I raised it proudly.

  “His Majesty the King!” My herald’s voice rang out strong before the crowd broke into a thunderous cheer, echoing all along the l
ists. I glanced up at the dais where Catherine sat, and I noticed our son had shed his armor and gone to kneel by his mother’s throne to watch my first list. Even though they could not see me, I smiled out at them.

  I turned my attention towards the flag. The moment it dropped, I kicked my horse into action, pulling my lance up securely next to me. I could see the small figure of Henry Norris galloping towards me, and I placed my lance firmly on course to hit him in the chest. I knew that I had a strong chance of unhorsing him.

  Our lances were nearly ready to crash when there was a screech from Sir Henry’s horse. I saw the creature rear up in front of me, its eyes wide in terror. I was ready to pull my horse, a much steadier ride than Sir Norris’s steed, when I felt my horse’s front knee give way. I was able to glance down at the dog that had gotten right beneath my horses foot before I was lifted over the front of the horse. I had taken enough falls in my time and would have landed safely, except it was while I was sailing down towards the ground that Sir Henry’s horse reared up again, his strong front leg coming up to meet my skull.

  After that, there was nothing.

  Chapter Eight

  January, 1529

  The burning smell of incense was the first thing to break through to my consciousness. I tried to open my eyes, but they were weighed down and the task seemed impossible. Instead I attempted to move, to wave away the oppressive odor but found my arms would not obey my command either. The smell continued to assault me, and after a few moments I could hear a faint chanting from above.

  I did not recognize the voice, but knew that the Latin words must be coming from a priest. The thick incense smelled like the inside of a parish during Lent, and the voice was rolling the odd words around in a bored tone.

  A small, crying noise would occasionally interrupt the chants and as more feeling entered my body, I could tell that a small hand was gripping my own. Occasionally hot wet tears would travel over my hand.

  I spent a long time concentrating on those tears, trying to raise my arm to wipe them away or to least grip the hand back. Eventually the crying stopped but the fierce grip remained.

  The only indication I had of time passing was the droning voice of the priest. After a while another voice replaced his and then Latin words began again. Still, the hand never left mine and the part of my brain that could think was touched by such devotion.

  The priest had been replaced again when I heard the door being opened, and a soft voice announced “Her Majesty the Queen!” The proclamation proved that it was not Catherine who was crying by my bedside. I had not believed it was, but could not think of another woman close enough to me to care.

  I felt the hand shift, but not release me. The soft bed I had been placed in dipped down on the other side of me, but I still couldn’t open my eyes or reach out for the person next to me.

  “You must leave his bedside sometime.”

  The woman holding my hand didn’t answer, but rather tightened her grip again.

  “It has been over a month since the tournament. You cannot keep this wake over his body anymore.”

  “Why?” the voice croaked out, its owner’s throat so scratchy that I couldn’t recognize it. “So you can pretend that he’s dead?”

  Catherine rose from the bed. My hearing had grown much sharper the longer I had been conscious and I could now even hear her footfalls as she walked around the bed to where the other woman sat.

  A sharp slap echoed around the room, even the priest faltered over his reading. His voice picked back up after a moment, I could picture the sharp look that Catherine must have given him.

  “Mary, you have continued to try my patience. You will join your brother and I for supper this evening and you will appear in a different gown than the one you have worn for the past week. I will not tolerate this disobedience any longer.”

  With that, Catherine’s footsteps led her out the door. The priest’s voice continued its chant but there was only one person I was concerned about.

  “Oh, Papa!” Even with her raspy throat I could now hear my daughter’s voice in the cry. I felt her head come back down to my hand, the tears once again falling fast and furious onto my hand. I wanted nothing more than to open my eyes and take my daughter into my arms, promising her that everything would be fine now.

  But I was still incapable of movement. With a sharp pain, I thought back over Catherine’s words and this time something other than Mary’s name leapt out at me.

  I had been in this prison for over a month.

  Consciousness remained elusive. It soon became obvious that Catherine had ordered a priest to remain with me at all times. I eventually could tell the voices apart, a rotation of six different men came to read to me.

  More often than not Mary remained by my bedside, her hand slotted into my left one easily. The passage of time became more evident to me by her schedule — she would enter the chamber with one of the priests and remain there until her mother came to demand her presence at dinner. Then, after a rotation of one priest, she would return for a rotation of six priests until Catherine came to demand she depart for bed.

  After a few days of this, Mary entered in the afternoon. Instead of sliding her hand into mine, she sat on the bed where her hand would normally lay. I was alarmed by this change until her voice, now much clearer, rang out over the priest’s chants.

  “If you would, please depart for this afternoon.”

  “Your Highness, I have been instructed by Queen Catherine and the Lord Protectorate Cardinal Wolsey to chant for his Majesty’s soul.”

  “Yes, I know what you have been ordered. I, however, am asking that you retreat to my father’s outer chambers. You have been instructed to chant for two hours. Surely, you must welcome a break?”

  Mary’s voice reminded me of Catherine’s at its most regal. Though she lacked the Spanish accent her mother held, she gave commands with the assumption that they would be obeyed. Sure enough after a moment the priest, instead of continuing his chanting, walked swiftly out of the room. Just outside the open door he continued speaking but his voice was blessedly softer. I had not yet achieved the ability to tune him out.

  “Now Papa. I have brought you Nicolo Machiavelli’s The Prince to begin reading to you. It has just been translated to English.”

  And with that my daughter’s voice began to echo out around the room, effectively silencing the priest. How she knew I could hear her and understand her words I could not know, but I was thankful for the break in the monotony that had become my day.

  “Chapter five, concerning the way to govern cities or principalities which lived under their own laws before they were annexed. Whenever these states which have been acquired –“

  “Sir Thomas More!”

  Mary’s daily reading was interrupted by a proclamation by my herald. For the first time I spared a thought for the pages and my herald who must still be outside my chambers, ready to do the bidding of no one.

  “Sir Thomas!” Mary’s voice picked up, and I could feel her move off of the bed.

  “Princess Mary,” Thomas’ rich voice floated across the room, I could hear the rustle of fabric as he bowed in his greeting.

  “May I ask what you are reading to His Highness?”

  “The Prince by Machiavelli. It is our second time through it.”

  “What a dedicated daughter you are to His Majesty.”

  “I try to remind him that he is not alone. Although I wish I knew if he could hear me.”

  “I am sure that he knows you are there and appreciates your companionship.”

  This was the first time I had heard a conversation that was not Catherine and Mary’s arguments over her time at my bedside since my fall. My mind, which would still cloud or become hazy even while Mary was reading to me, tried to absorb all of the information that had been said.

  “I see you have banished Father Orbein to the outer chambers.”

  “Yes,” and I could hear the blush in Mary’s voice, “My mother is against
it, but how else could I read to Papa?”

  “I believe you are correct to stay with him.”

  Another silence fell across the room, my twelve- year-old daughter and chief minister having nothing much to discuss beyond me.

  “Might I beg your pardon, Sir Thomas. Did you come here to see my father alone?”

  “Yes. Well … no, I suppose it does not make much difference. It is only that I had not seen him since his fall and I am preparing to leave for my home, Chelsea, for the next few weeks. I wanted to say goodbye. I suppose that was foolish of me.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Silence once again rang out and the priest’s chanting from the other room became clearer.