The King's Secret Matter

by Jean Plaidy

  Graciously he granted this permission, for Mary had become an important member of the household since the King had elevated her to the position of mistress.

  Even so Thomas regarded her with faint distaste. Her dress was crumpled and her hair escaping from her headdress. Though, Thomas thought fleetingly, it may be the slut in her which appeals to the King. Yet although he was pleased with her, he was often anxious because he must constantly ask himself how long she would continue to hold the King’s attention.

  It was difficult to reconcile himself to the fact that Mary had sprung to such importance. She had always been the fool of the family. The other two were such a precocious pair. He had high hopes of George and it was his plan to bring him into prominence at Court at the earliest opportunity; he was sure that when that young man was a little older he would prove an amusing companion for the King. As for Anne, she was too young yet to make plans for. At the present time she was at the Court of France whence he heard news of her from time to time, and how her cleverness and charm pleased the King and Queen and members of their Court. But that the little slut Mary should have found favour with the King . . . was incredible.

  ‘Well, my daughter?’

  ‘Father, I have been thinking that it is time I married.’

  Thomas was alert. Had the King put this into her head? If so he would be following the normal procedure. The King would feel happier with a mistress who had a husband; it forestalled an undignified shuffling into marriage if the need to do so should arise. No doubt Henry had found some worthy husband for his favourite; and Thomas, even if he wanted to, would not be such a fool as to refuse his consent to a marriage suggested by the King.

  ‘Perhaps you are right, Mary,’ he said. ‘Whom have you in mind?’

  Mary smiled in what seemed to the practical Thomas a vacuous manner as she murmured: ‘It is William Carey, Father.’

  ‘William Carey! You cannot mean . . . No, you could not. I was thinking of Carey’s son . . . a younger brother . . .’

  ‘It is that Will, Father.’

  Thomas was astounded and horrified. Surely the King would never suggest such a lowly match for a woman in whom he had been interested. It was an insult. The blood rushed to Thomas’s face and showed even in the whites of his eyes. ‘The King . . .’ he stammered.

  ‘The King might not object to this marriage,’ Mary began.

  ‘He has suggested it to you?’

  ‘Oh . . . no! It is because Will and I have fallen in love.’

  Thomas stared at his daughter. ‘You must be mad, girl. You . . . have fallen in love with this Will Carey? A younger son of a family that can scarcely be called distinguished!’

  ‘One does not think of family honours or wealth when one falls in love,’ said Mary simply.

  ‘You have lost your wits, girl.’

  ‘I believe it is called losing one’s heart,’ replied Mary with some spirit.

  ‘The same thing, doubtless. Well, you may put this young man out of your mind. I want to hear no more of such nonsense. It may well be that, if you are patient, the King will suggest a good marriage for you. Indeed, it might be a good plan for you to make some light suggestions. Carefully, mind. Hint perhaps that marriage might be necessary . . .’

  Mary bowed her head that he might not see the defiance which had sprung into her eyes. Hitherto she had been as easily swayed as a willow wand, but the thought of Will had stiffened her resistance. Strangely enough she was ready to put up a fight, to displease her father and the King, if need be, for the sake of Will Carey.

  Thomas laid his hand on her shoulder; he had no doubt of her obedience. He was confident of his power when he looked back and saw how far he had come in the last years. He was forty-three years old, in good health, and his ambition was limitless. The King’s pleasure in him was stressed by the fact that he had designated Sir Thomas Boleyn to play such a large part in making the arrangements for the Field of the Cloth of Gold; and now that Henry had favoured his daughter he was more grateful to Thomas than ever, because he had produced such a willing and comely girl. Mary had always been pliable, lacking the arrogance and temper of George and Anne.

  Had he looked a little closer at Mary on that occasion he might have noticed that when her jaw was purposefully set, as it was at this moment, she bore a striking resemblance to her headstrong brother and sister.

  But Thomas was too sure of his daughter, too sure of his ability to subdue her, to be alarmed.

  He patted her shoulder.

  ‘Now, my daughter, no more of this foolishness. There’ll be a grand marriage for you, and now is the time to ask for it. I see no reason why you should not become a Duchess. That would please you, His Grace, and your family.’

  Still she kept her head lowered, and giving her a playful push he dismissed her.

  She was glad to escape because of the overwhelming desire to tell him that she was no longer his puppet, nor the King’s; Mary Boleyn in love, fighting for the future she desired, was as formidable as any young woman of spirit.

  The great Cardinal was alone in his audience chamber, where he stood at the window looking out over the parkland of that most magnificent of his residences, Hampton Court. He could always find delight in this place which he regarded as essentially his own; for how different it had become in those years since he had taken over the lease from the Knights of St John of Jerusalem and raised this impressive edifice to what it was at this time, built around five courts and containing 1500 rooms.

  Here was opulence of a kind not seen even in the King’s own palaces; the walls were hung with the finest tapestry which the Cardinal caused to be changed once a week; throughout the palace were exquisite pieces of furniture and treasures which proclaimed the wealth of their owner. The Cardinal was a man who liked to be constantly reminded of his possessions, for he had attained them through his own brilliance, and because he remembered humbler days he found the greater pleasure in them. He did not care that the people murmured and said that his court was more magnificent than that of the King; that was how he wished it to be. He often said to himself: ‘All that is Henry’s is his because he is his father’s son. All that is mine, is mine because I am Thomas Wolsey.’

  He encouraged ostentation. Let noblemen such as Norfolk and Buckingham sneer. They would sneer once too often. Let them make sly references to the butcher’s shop in which they swore he had been born. What did he care? These men were fools; and Wolsey believed that one day he would triumph over all his enemies. He was determined to do so, for he was not the man to forget a slight.

  He smoothed the crimson satin of his robes and caressed his tippet of fine sable.

  Oh, it was good to be rich. It was good to have power and to feel that power growing. There was very little he wished for and did not possess, for he was not a man to seek the impossible. The greatest power in England, the Papal Crown . . . these were not impossibilities. And if he longed to install his family here in Hampton Court, to boast to the King of his son – his fine sturdy Thomas, named after himself, but known as Wynter – he accepted the impossibility of doing so. As a prelate he could not allow the fact of that uncanonical marriage of his to be known; he was therefore reconciled to keeping his family in the background while he could bestow honours on his son.

  He was smiling to himself now because he knew of the activities which would be going on in the great kitchens. There was a special banquet this day; the King would be present in some disguise. Wolsey had not been specifically told that Henry would come; he had merely heard that a party of gentlemen from a far country planned to test the hospitality of Hampton Court, for they had heard that it vied with that to be enjoyed at the King’s Court.

  Wolsey laughed aloud. Such childish games! One among them would be the King, and the company must express its surprise when he discarded the disguise, and then the great delight and pleasure all felt in the honour of having their King with them.

  ‘A game,’ mused Wolsey, ‘that we have played c
ountless times and will doubtless play countless times again, for it seems that His Grace never tires of it.’

  But was His Grace tiring? Had there been an indication recently of a change in the King’s attitude to life? Was he taking more interest in matters of state, a little less in masking?

  The longer the King remained a pleasure-loving boy the greater pleased would the Cardinal be. Those workmanlike hands of his were the hands to hold the helm. He wanted no interference.

  Let the golden boy frolic with his women. Wolsey frowned a little. Boleyn was growing somewhat presumptuous on account of that brazen girl of his; and the man was becoming a little too important. But the Cardinal could deal with such; it was the King’s interference that he most feared; and while the King was concerned with a girl he could be expected to leave matters of state to his trusted Chancellor.

  The guests were already arriving. He would not join them until the coming of the party of gentlemen in disguise, for that was beneath his dignity. His guests must wait for him to come among them, as at Greenwich or Westminster they waited for the King.

  He knew that they would whisper together of the magnificence they saw about them, of the manner in which he dressed his servants, so that many of them were more richly clad than his guests. In the kitchens now his master cook, attired in scarlet satin with a gold chain about his neck, would be directing his many servants as though he himself was the lord of this manor; and that was how Wolsey would have it: that each man – from his steward who was a dean, and his treasurer who was a knight, to his grooms and yeomen of the pastry and his very scullery boys – should know, and tell the world by his demeanour, that it was better to be a page of the pantry in the household of Cardinal Wolsey than a gentleman steward in the house of any nobleman under the King.

  As he brooded, his man Cavendish came to the door of the apartment and craved his master’s indulgence for disturbing him, but a certain Charles Knyvet, late of the household of the Duke of Buckingham, was begging an audience with him.

  Wolsey did not speak for a second. He felt a surge of hatred rise within him at the mention of the hated Buckingham. There was a man who had been born to wealth and nobility and who never failed to remind the Cardinal of it. It was in every look, every gesture and, often when he passed, Wolsey would hear the words: butcher’s dog.

  One day Buckingham was going to regret that he dared scorn Thomas Wolsey, for the Cardinal was not the sort to forget a grudge; all insults were remembered in order to be repaid tenfold; for that dignity which he had had to nurture, having cost him so much to come by, was doubly dear to him.

  This was interesting. Knyvet to see him! He knew that the fellow was related to Buckingham – a poor relation – who had been in the Duke’s employ until recently. There had been some difference of opinion between Master Knyvet and his rich relation, with the result that Knyvet had been dismissed from the ducal household.

  So he came to see the Cardinal.

  Wolsey regarded his hands thoughtfully. ‘You discovered his business?’

  ‘He said it was for the ears of Your Eminence alone.’

  The Cardinal nodded; but he would not see the man – not at the first request. That would be beneath the dignity of the great Cardinal.

  ‘Tell him he may present himself again,’ he said.

  Cavendish bowed. The man was favoured. At least the Cardinal had not refused his request for an interview.

  So Cavendish went back through the eight rooms, which had to be traversed before the Cardinal’s private chamber was reached, and in which none who sought an audience might wait.

  Now Wolsey could hear shouts on the river, the sound of music, and he decided it was time for him to leave his apartment and cross the park to the water’s edge, there to receive the party, for it would contain one before whom even a great Cardinal must bow.

  He made his way down his private staircase and out into the sunshine; standing at the river’s edge he watched the boat approach the privy stairs. In it was a party of men dressed in dazzling colours, all heavily masked and wearing beards, some of gold wire, some of black. The Cardinal saw with some dismay that the masks, the false beards, and caps of gold and scarlet which covered their heads were all-concealing, and this was going to be one of those occasions when it was not easy to pick out the King.

  Usually his great height betrayed him; but there were several who appeared to be as tall. A faint irritation came to the Cardinal, although he hastened to suppress it; one of the first steps to disfavour was taken when one betrayed a lack of interest in the King’s pastimes. That was one of the lesser ways in which the Queen was failing.

  ‘Welcome, gentlemen,’ he cried, ‘welcome to Hampton Court.’

  One of the masked men said in a deliberately disguised voice which Wolsey could not recognise: ‘We come from a strange land, and news of the hospitality of the great Cardinal has been brought to us, so we would test it.’

  ‘Gentlemen, it is my pleasure to entertain you. Come into the palace. The banquet is about to be served, and there are many guests at my table who will delight you as you will delight them.’

  ‘Are there fair ladies?’ asked one.

  ‘In plenty,’ answered the Cardinal.

  One tall man with a black beard came to the Cardinal’s side. ‘Fair ladies at the table of a Cardinal?’ he murmured.

  Wolsey spread his hands, believing he heard mockery in the voice. This disturbed him faintly for he fancied it might well be the King who walked beside him.

  ‘My lord,’ he answered, ‘I give all I have to my guests. If I believe the company of fair ladies will enliven the occasion for them, then I invite fair ladies to my table.’

  ‘ ’Tis true you are a perfect host.’

  They had come to the gates of the palace beside which stood two tall yeomen and two grooms, so still that they looked like statues, so gorgeously apparelled that they looked like members of the nobility.

  ‘Methinks,’ said the black-bearded man in an aside to one of his companions, ‘that we come not to the Cardinal’s court but to the King’s Court.’

  ‘It pleases me that you should think so, my lord,’ said Wolsey, ‘for you come from a strange land and now that you are in the King’s realm you will know that a Chancellor could possess such a manor only if his master were as far above him as you, my lord, are above my grooms whom you so recently have passed.’

  ‘Then is the King’s Court of even greater brilliance?’

  ‘If it were but a hut by the river it would be of greater brilliance because our lord the King was therein. When you have seen him you will understand.’

  He was feeling a little uneasy. It was disconcerting to be unsure of the King’s identity. The game was indeed changing when that golden figure could not be immediately discovered.

  ‘It would seem that you are not only a great Cardinal but a loyal subject.’

  ‘There is none more loyal in the kingdom,’ replied Wolsey vehemently; ‘and none with more reason to be. All that I am, I am because of the King’s grace; all that I possess comes from his mercy.’

  ‘Well spoken,’ said the black-bearded man. ‘Let us to your banquet table; for the news of its excellence has travelled far.’

  In the banqueting hall the guests were already assembled, and the sight was magnificent, for the great hall was hung with finest tapestry, and many tables were set side by side. In the place of honour was a canopy under which it was the Cardinal’s custom to sit, and here he would be served separately by two of his chief servants. The brilliance of the gathering was dazzling, and the members of the Cardinal’s retinue in their colourful livery contributed in no small way to the opulence of the occasion.

  Wolsey’s eyes were on the black-bearded man. ‘You shall be seated in the place of honour,’ he said.

  ‘Nay, my lord Cardinal, it pleases us that you should take your place under the cloth of state and behave as though we were the humblest of your guests.’

  But as he took hi
s place under the canopy the Cardinal’s apprehension increased. Previously during such masquerades he had discovered the King immediately and acted accordingly. Irritated as he was, he forced himself to appear gracious and to behave as though this really was a party of foreign travellers who had come unexpectedly to his table.

  But it was difficult. Who were behind those masks? Buckingham doubtless. Boleyn? Compton? Suffolk? All Henry’s cronies and therefore casting wary eyes at a man of the people who had risen so far above them.

  He signed to his servants to serve the banquet but his eyes ranged about the table. The napery was exquisite; the food as plentiful as that supplied at the King’s table. Everything was of the best. Capons, pheasants, snipe, venison, chickens and monumental pies. Who but the Cardinal’s cooks could produce such light pastry with the golden look? Peacocks, oysters, stags, bucks, partridges, beef and mutton. There were fish of many descriptions; sauces made from cloves and raisins, sugar cinnamon and ginger; and gallons of French wines with Malmsey, and muscadell – all to be drunk from fine Venetian glasses which were the wonder of all who saw them.

  But while the company gave themselves to the appreciation of this banquet Wolsey continued uneasy, and suddenly he raised his voice and said:

  ‘My friends, there is one among us who is so noble that I know it to be my duty to surrender my place to him. I cannot sit under this canopy in good spirit while he, who is so much more worthy than I, takes his place unrecognised at my table.’

  There was silence, and then one of the masked men spoke; and a great hatred seized Wolsey when he recognised the disguised voice as that of Buckingham. ‘My Lord Cardinal, there are many members of the nobility present.’

  ‘I speak of one,’ said Wolsey.

  Then one of the masked men said in a muffled voice: ‘Since Your Eminence believes there is such a noble personage among us, you should remove the mask of that man that all may see him.’