by Jean Plaidy
So as they rode along he listened to the King’s conversation, laughed at his jokes and gave an impression to all who saw them that they were the best of friends.
In the cavalcade rode the Cardinal and, as always, his retinue was as magnificent as that of the King. He was wearing his red robes of taffety this day – the finest obtainable – and about his neck hung a tippet of sables; borne before him was the great seal, and one of the noblemen, whom he had deigned to take into his household, carried his Cardinal’s hat on a cushion and was bareheaded to indicate the respect he had for it; behind him rode other gentlemen of his household and his higher servants in their red and gold livery.
Wolsey was uneasy during that ride. He felt that since the death of Buckingham the King had taken too great an interest in state affairs. He was inclined to meddle and he did not always want to follow in that direction in which Wolsey would have led him.
The Cardinal was no more sure of this quiet young man than he was of the flamboyant François. In fact he felt that it would be necessary to be even more wary of the Emperor. François was dashing, bold, reckless and lecherous; and a shrewd statesman could often guess which turning he would take. But this pale, serious young man, who was somewhat hesitant in speech and had an air of humility – which Wolsey knew to be entirely false – might be unpredictable and by far the shrewdest ruler of the three who were now so important in Europe.
Charles had had the foresight to recognise that, if he were to consolidate the alliance he wished for, he must first placate Wolsey, and for that reason he had promised the Cardinal a considerable ‘pension’. The thought of vast sums being paid to him from the Imperial coffers was sweet, but some promises were made to be broken; and Wolsey was not certain whether Charles was to be relied on. He had also promised what was more important still: to use his influence at the Papal election, for the great goal of the Cardinal was the Papal crown since, possessing that, he would stand apart from kings, a ruler in his own right. He yearned for that crown.
There had been a disappointment early that year when Pope Leo X had died and a Papal election had taken place. Wolsey had felt that his chances of election were slender, but the promise of Imperial favour had sent his hopes soaring. He received only seven votes, and Adrian VI was elected.
This was not such a bitter disappointment as it might have been, for the Cardinal did not believe Adrian would live long and it seemed certain that another election would be held before many months had passed. If by that time Wolsey could show himself to be the true friend of the Emperor it might be that the promise of help would this time be fulfilled.
Perhaps he had no reason to feel disappointed; he was rising higher and higher in his own country and only last year Henry had presented him with the Abbey of St Albans, doubtless to repay him for the money from his own pocket which he had spent on the recent embassy to Calais, whither he had gone to help settle differences between François and the Emperor.
And now the friendship with Charles was being strengthened and a treaty had been signed at Windsor in which Henry and Charles agreed on an invasion of France before the May of 1524.
This was where the King had shown himself inclined to meddle. Wolsey himself was not eager to go to war. War to him meant expense, for even with victory the spoils were often scarcely worth the effort made to obtain them. But war to Henry meant the glory of conquest, and it was as irresistible to him as one of the games he played with such élan at a pageant.
Still, a goodly pension from the Emperor, the promise of Imperial support at the next Papal election, and the need to fall in with the King’s wishes – they were very acceptable, thought Thomas Wolsey as he rode on to Greenwich.
At the door of the Palace stood the Queen holding the hand of her daughter.
The Emperor dismounted and went towards them. He knelt before his aunt and, taking her hand, kissed it fervently.
Mary looked on, and she thought she loved the Emperor – firstly because he was so delighted to see her mother and looked at her so fondly; secondly because her mother was so pleased with him; and thirdly because there was nothing in that pale face to alarm a six-year-old girl.
Now he had turned to greet Mary. He took her hand and stooped low to kiss it; and as he did so there was a cheer from all those watching.
The King could not allow them to keep the centre of the stage too long and was very quickly beside them, taking his daughter in his arms to the great delight of all who watched, particularly the common people. They might admire the grace of Charles, but they liked better the King’s homely manners. Henry knew it, and he was delighted because he was now the centre of attention and admiration.
So they went into the Palace, Mary walking between her father and mother while the Emperor was at the Queen’s side.
Katharine felt happy to have with her one who was of her own family, although Charles did not resemble his mother in the least, nor was he, with his pallid looks, like his father who had been known as Philip the Handsome.
A momentary anxiety came to Katharine as she wondered whether Charles resembled his father in any other way. Philip had found women irresistible, and with his Flemish mistresses had submitted the passionate Juana to many an indignity, which conduct it was believed had aggravated her madness.
But surely there was no need to fear that her daughter would be submitted to similar treatment by this serious young man.
‘I am so happy to have you with us,’ she told her nephew.
‘You cannot be more delighted than I am,’ replied Charles in his somewhat hesitant way; but Katharine felt that the slight stammer accentuated his sincerity.
Henry said: ‘After the banquet our daughter shall show Your Imperial Highness how skilful she is at the virginals.’
‘It would seem I have a most accomplished bride,’ replied Charles and when, glancing up at him, Mary saw he was smiling at her with kindliness, she knew he was telling her not to be afraid.
So into the banqueting hall they went and sat down with ceremony, when good English food was served.
The King looked on in high good humour. He was pleased because he and the Emperor were going to make war on François, and he had sworn vengeance on the King of France ever since he, Henry, had challenged him to a wrestling match only to be ignobly thrown to the ground by that lean, smiling giant.
He was even pleased with Katharine on this occasion. She had played her part in bringing about the Spanish alliance; for there was no doubt that the Emperor was more ready to enter into alliance with an England whose Queen was his aunt than he would otherwise have been.
Henry caught the brooding eye of his Cardinal fixed on the pale young man.
Ha! he thought, Wolsey is uncertain. He is not enamoured of our nephew. He looks for treachery in all who are not English. ’Tis not a bad trait in a Chancellor.
He thought of how Wolsey had bargained when they had made the treaty. A good servant, he mused, and one devoted to the interests of his King and country.
Enough of solemnity, he decided, and clapped his hands. ‘Music!’ he cried. ‘Let there be music.’
So the minstrels played, and later Mary sat at the virginals and showed her fiancé how skilful she was.
‘Is it possible that she is but six years old!’ cried Charles.
And the King roared his delight.
‘I think,’ said the Emperor, ‘that with one so advanced it should not be necessary for me to wait six years for her. Let me take her with me. I promise you she shall have all the care at my court that you could give her at yours.’
Katharine cried in alarm: ‘No, no. She is too young to leave her home. Six years is not so long, nephew. You must wait six years.’
Charles gave her his slow, kindly smile. ‘I am in your hands,’ he said.
Mary who had been listening to this conversation had grown numb with terror. Six years was a life-time, but he wanted to take her now. This young man no longer seemed so kindly; he represented a danger. For the
first time in her life she became aware that she might be taken from her mother’s side.
Katharine, who was watching her, noticed her alarm and knew the cause. She said: ‘It is past the Princess’s bed time. The excitement of Your Excellency’s visit has exhausted her. I ask your leave for her to retire to her apartments.’
Charles bowed his head and Henry murmured: ‘Let her women take her to bed, and we will show our nephew some of our English dances.’
So Mary was taken away while the royal party went into the ballroom; and soon the King was dancing and leaping to the admiration of all.
Katharine slipped away when the revelry was at its height and went to her daughter’s apartment, where she found Mary lying in her bed, her cheeks still flushed, her eyes wide open.
‘Still awake, my darling?’ Katharine gently reproved.
‘Oh, Mother, I knew you would come.’
Katharine laid a hand on the flushed forehead. ‘You are afraid you will be sent away.’
Mary did not answer but her small body had begun to tremble.
‘It shall not be, my little one,’ went on the Queen.
‘The Emperor said . . .’
‘He meant it not. It was to compliment you that he spoke those words. It is what is called diplomacy. Have no fear, you shall not leave me for a long, long time . . . not until you are old enough to want to go.’
‘Mother, how could I ever want to go from you?’
Katharine lifted the little hand and kissed it.
‘When you grow up you will love others better than your Mother.’
‘I never shall. I swear I never shall.’
‘You are too young to swear eternal love, my darling. But I am here now. I slipped away from the ball because I knew you would be fretting.’
Katharine lay on the bed and held the child in her arms.
‘Oh Mother, you love me, do you not?’
‘With all my heart, sweeting.’
‘And I love you with all of mine. I never want to go away from England, Mother . . . unless you come with me.’
‘Hush, my sweetheart. All will be well. You will see.’
‘And you will not let the Emperor take me away?’
‘No . . . not for years and years . . .’
The child was reassured; and the Queen lay still holding her daughter fondly in her arms, thinking of a young girl in Spain who had been afraid and had told her mother that she wished to stay with her for ever.
This is the fate of royal children, she told herself.
The comfort of her mother’s arms soothed Mary and soon she slept. Then Katharine gently disengaged herself; the Queen must not stay too long from the ball.
The King was momentarily contented. He was at war with France and he dreamed of being one day crowned in Rheims. His temper was good. He spent more time than he ever had engaged on matters of state, and the Cardinal, seated beside him, explaining when the need arose to do so, was feeling certain twinges of uneasiness.
He had been forced to support the war somewhat against his wishes; yet he was too wily to let anyone know that he was against it. The King wished it and Wolsey had no intention of arousing Henry’s anger by seeming lukewarm about a project which so pleased the King.
Henry had inherited the wealth which his miserly father had so carefully accumulated; but he had spent lavishly and already the treasury was alarmingly depleted.
‘Nothing,’ said the Cardinal, ‘absorbs wealth as quickly as war. We shall need money if we are to succeed in France.’
The King waved a plump hand. ‘Then I am sure there is no one who can raise it more ably than my good Chancellor.’
So be it, thought Wolsey. But the levying of taxes was a delicate matter and he suspected that the people who were obliged to pay them would blame, not their glittering charming King, but his apparently mean and grasping Chancellor.
There was talk of the King’s going to France with his army, but although Henry declared his eagerness to do this, nothing came of it. His adventures abroad with his armies in the earlier years of his reign had not been distinguished although he had thought they had at the time. Much as Henry would have enjoyed riding through the streets of Paris, a conqueror, and even more so returning home to England as the King who had brought France to the English dominions, he was now wise enough to realise that even hardened campaigners did not always succeed in battle, and that he was a novice at the game of war. Failure was something he could not bear to contemplate. Therefore he felt it was safer to wage war on the enemy with a strip of channel between himself and the armies.
François Premier was a King who rode into battle recklessly; but then François was a reckless fellow. He might win his successes, but he also had to face his defeats.
So Henry put aside the plans for a personal visit to the battlefields. But war was an exciting game played from a distance, and Wolsey must find the money to continue it.
These were happy days for the Queen. Her husband and her nephew were allies and they stood together against the King of France whom she believed to be more of a menace to Christianity than the Turk. François, already notorious for his lecherous way of life, must surely come to disaster; and since her serious-minded nephew had the power of England beside him she was certain that Charles was invincible.
She had her daughter under the same roof with her and she herself supervised her lessons.
Mary was docile and happy as long as her mother was with her. The King left Katharine alone, it was true, but she believed that even he had ceased to fret for a son, and accepted the fact that their daughter Mary was heir to the throne; and one day when she married Charles she would be the Empress of Austria and the Queen of Spain as well as the Queen of England. That matter was happily settled.
She was constantly seeking the best method of teaching her daughter, and one day she summoned Thomas More to her that she might discuss with him the manner in which his own daughters were educated.
As usual she found great pleasure in his company. She talked a little about the war but she saw that the subject was distressing to him – which was to be expected, for he was a man to whom violence was abhorrent – so she turned the conversation to his family, which she knew could not fail to please him.
She told him of her desire that the Princess Mary should receive the best education in all subjects which would be of use to her, and Thomas said: ‘Has your Grace thought of consulting Juan Luis Vives?’
‘I had not until this moment,’ she said, ‘but now that you mention him I believe he is the man who could help me in the education of the Princess. I pray you, bring him with you and come to see me at this hour tomorrow.’ When Thomas had left her she wondered why she had not thought of Vives before. He had so much to recommend him. In the first place he was one of her own countrymen and she felt that, as her daughter was after all half Spanish and would be the wife of the King of Spain, there must be a Spanish angle to her education.
Both Erasmus and Sir Thomas More had called her attention to Juan Luis Vives, and those two were men whose intellectual abilities had won the admiration of the world. Vives was a man, said Thomas, forced by poverty to hide his light under a bushel. He was living at Bruges in obscurity; he had published very little of his writings and few people had ever heard of him. Erasmus would bear him out, for Vives had studied Greek with him at Louvain. It was Thomas’s opinion that Vives should be brought to England and encouraged by the Court, for there was little his native Valencia or the city of Bruges could offer him.
Katharine, out of her great admiration for Thomas, had immediately sent money to Vives with a letter in which she explained her interest in his work. It had not been difficult to persuade Henry – with the help of Thomas More – that Vives would be an ornament to the English Court; and Henry, who, when he was not masking or engaged in sport, liked occasionally to have conversation with men of intellect (François Premier boasted that his Court was the most intellectual in Europe and Henry was eager to ri
val it) very willingly agreed that Vives should be given a yearly pension.
Thus in gratitude Vives dedicated his book, Commentaries on Saint Augustine to Henry, which so delighted the King that he called him to England to lecture at the college which Wolsey had recently founded at Oxford.
This had happened some years before, but Vives made a point of spending a certain part of each year in England with his friends and patrons; and it so happened that he was in London at this time. So the very next day he arrived in the company of Thomas More for an interview with the Queen regarding her daughter’s education.
Katharine received them in her private apartment and they sat together at the window overlooking the Palace gardens as they talked.
‘You know, Master Vives, why I have commanded you to come to me?’ asked Katharine.
‘My friend has given me some idea of what Your Grace desires,’ Vives answered.
‘My daughter’s education is a matter which is of the utmost importance to me. Tell me how you think this should be arranged.’
‘Sir Thomas and I are of one opinion on the education of young people,’ said Vives.
‘It is true,’ added Thomas. ‘We both believe that it is folly to presume that a girl’s education is of less importance than that of a boy.’
‘It is but natural,’ went on Vives, ‘that an intelligent girl may come to a better understanding of Latin and Greek than a boy who is not possessed of the same intelligence.’
‘I would have my daughter educated in scholarly subjects, but at the same time I wish her to learn the feminine arts,’ answered Katharine.
‘In that I am in full agreement with Your Grace,’ said Vives.
‘What more charming sight,’ mused Thomas, ‘than a girl at her embroidery?’
‘Or even at the spinning wheel working on wool and flax,’ added Vives. ‘These are excellent accomplishments, but Your Grace has not summoned me to discuss them.’
‘I am going to appoint you my daughter’s tutor,’ the Queen told Vives, ‘and I wish you immediately to draw up a list of books for her to read.’