The King's Secret Matter

by Jean Plaidy

  They invaded the churches, seizing the rich ornaments, images, vases, chalices which were brought into the streets and piled high into any means of conveyance the marauders were able to snatch. Every man was determined to have his pile of treasures, to reward himself for the months of bitter privation.

  During those five terrible days when the soldiers were in possession of Rome, they determined that every woman should be raped and not a single virgin left in the city. The greatest amusement was afforded them by the nuns who had believed that their cloth would protect them. Into the convents burst the soldiers. They caught the nuns at prayer and stripped them of those robes which the innocent women had thought would protect them. Horror had pervaded the convents of Rome.

  In the streets wine ran from the broken casks, and satiated soldiers lay in the gutters exhausted by their excesses. Priceless tapestry and gleaming utensils which had been stolen from altars and palaces and thrown from windows were lying in the street. The soldiers were mercenaries from Spain, Germany and Naples; and to the desecration of Rome each brought the worst of his national characteristics. The Germans destroyed with brutal efficiency; the Neapolitans were responsible for the greatest sexual outrages; and the Spaniards took a great delight in inflicting subtle cruelty.

  It was not enough to commit rape and murder; others must join in their fun. So they brought monks and nuns together, stripped them of their robes and forced the monks to rape the nuns, while these vile soldiers stood by applauding and mocking.

  Never had such sights been seen in Rome, and the people who had managed to escape with their lives cried out in great lamentation, declaring that if God did not punish such wickedness it must be believed that He did not trouble Himself about the affairs of this world.

  This was the story the messengers brought to the King on that May day, and to which he listened in increasing anger and horror.

  He sent the messengers away to be refreshed, and when they had gone he turned to the Cardinal.

  ‘This is the most terrible tale I ever heard.’

  ‘And doubly so,’ answered Wolsey, ‘coming at this time.’

  Henry was startled. While he was listening to the tale of horror he had forgotten his own predicament.

  Wolsey went on: ‘The Pope a prisoner in the Castel Sant’ Angelo! Although Bourbon led the attack on Rome, the Pope is now the Emperor’s prisoner. Your Grace will see that, being the prisoner of the Emperor, he will not be in a position to declare invalid the dispensation regarding the Emperor’s aunt.’

  ‘By God, I see what you mean,’ said Henry. ‘But he will not long be a prisoner. It is monstrous that the Holy Father should be treated so.’

  ‘I am in agreement with Your Grace. But I fear this will mean delay.’

  The King’s mouth was petulant. ‘I weary of delay,’ he murmured.

  ‘We must act quickly, Your Grace, and there are two tasks which lie ahead of us. We must send an embassy to France without delay in order that we may, with the help of our ally, liberate the Pope from this humiliating situation.’

  ‘Who will go on such an embassy?’

  ‘It is a delicate matter, in view of what is involved,’ said Wolsey.

  ‘You must go, Thomas. None could succeed as you will. You know all that is in my heart at this time; and you will bring about that which we need.’

  Wolsey bowed his head. ‘I will begin my preparations at once, Your Grace.’

  ‘You spoke of another task.’

  ‘Yes, Your Grace. The Queen will have heard rumours of our court of enquiry. I think she should be told of Your Grace’s conflict with your conscience.’

  ‘And who should tell her this?’ demanded Henry.

  Wolsey was silent and Henry went on sullenly: ‘I see what is in your mind. This should come from no lips but my own.’

  The Princess Mary was seated in her favourite position on a stool at her mother’s feet, leaning her head against the velvet of Katharine’s skirt. She was saying how happy she was that they could be together again, and that the long sojourn at Ludlow seemed like a nightmare.

  ‘Oh Mother,’ cried the Princess, ‘is there any more news of my marriage?’

  ‘None, my darling.’

  ‘You would tell me, would you not. You would not try to shield me . . . because, Mother, I would rather know the truth.’

  ‘My dearest, if I knew of anything concerning your marriage I should tell you, because I believe with you that it is well to be prepared.’

  Mary took her mother’s hand and played with the rings as she used to when she was a baby.

  ‘I fancied you seemed distraught of late. I wondered if there had been some evil news . . .’

  Katharine laid her hand on her daughter’s head and held it firmly against her. She was glad Mary could not see her face. Evil news! she thought. The most evil news that could be brought to me! Your father is trying to cast me off.

  But she would not tell Mary this, for who could say how the girl would act? She might be foolhardy enough, affectionate enough, to face her father, to upbraid him for his treatment of her mother. She must not do that. Henry could never endure criticism, more especially when he was doing something of which he might be ashamed. He could harm Mary as certainly as he could harm Katharine. Indeed, thought the Queen, my daughter’s destiny is so entwined with mine that the evil which befalls me must touch her also. Better for her not to know of this terrible shadow which hangs over us. Let her be kept in ignorance for as long as possible.

  ‘There is no further news of your marriage,’ said the Queen firmly. ‘Nor do I think there will be. These friendships with foreign countries are flimsy. They come and go.’

  ‘It would be so much better if I were married to someone at home here,’ said Mary.

  ‘Perhaps that may happen,’ replied the Queen soothingly. ‘Who shall say?’

  Mary turned and lifted a radiant face to her mother. ‘You see Mother, not only should I marry someone who was of my own country . . . speaking my own language, understanding our ways . . . but I should be with you. Imagine, for evermore we should be together! Perhaps I should not always live at Court. Perhaps I should have a house in the country; but you would come and visit me there . . . and often I should be at Court. When my children are born you would be beside me. Would that not be so much happier than our being separated and your hearing the news through messengers?’

  ‘It would be the happiest state which could befall us both.’

  ‘Then you will tell my father so?’

  ‘My darling, do you think I have any influence with your father?’

  ‘Oh . . . but you are my mother.’

  The Queen’s brows were drawn together in consternation and, realising that she had let a certain bitterness creep into her voice, she said quickly: ‘Kings are eager to make marriages of state for their sons and daughters. But depend upon it, Mary, that if I have any influence it shall be used to bring you your heart’s desire.’

  They were silent for a while and the Queen wondered whether Mary was really thinking of Reginald Pole when she talked of marriage, and whether it was possible for one so young to be in love with a man.

  While they sat thus the King came into the apartment. He was alone, which was unusual, for he rarely moved about the Palace without a little cluster of attendants. He was more sombrely clad than usual and he looked like a man with a private sorrow.

  The Queen and Princess rose, and both curtseyed as he approached.

  ‘Ha!’ he said. ‘So our daughter is with you. It is pleasant to see you back at Court, daughter.’

  ‘I thank Your Grace,’ murmured Mary.

  ‘And you play the virginals as well as ever, I believe. You must prove this to us.’

  ‘Yes, Your Grace. Do you wish me to now?’

  ‘No . . . no. I have a matter of some importance to discuss with your mother, and I am going to send you away. Go and practise on the virginals so that you will not disappoint me when you next show me you
r progress.’

  As Mary curtseyed again and went away, Katharine was thinking: What can I say to him now, knowing what I do? How can anything ever be the same between us again?

  As soon as Mary had left them, Henry turned to her, his hands clasped behind his back, on his face an expression of melancholy, his mouth tight and prim, the general effect being that before Katharine stood a man who had forced himself to a painful duty.

  He began: ‘Katharine, I have a grievous matter to discuss with you.’

  ‘I am eager to discuss that matter with you,’ she answered.

  ‘Ah,’ he went on, ‘I would give half my kingdom if by so doing I could have prevented this from happening.’

  ‘I pray you tell me what is in your mind.’

  ‘Katharine, you were poor and desolate when I married you; you were a stranger in a strange land; you were the widow of my brother, and it seemed that there was no home for you in the country of your birth nor here in the country of your adoption.’

  ‘I shall never forget those days,’ she answered.

  ‘And I determined to change all that. I was young and idealistic, and you were young too, then, and beautiful.’

  ‘Both qualities which I no longer possess.’

  The King turned his eyes to the ceiling. ‘That could be of no importance in this matter. But it seems that learned men . . . men of the Church . . . have examined our marriage . . . or what we believed to be our marriage . . . and they have found that it is no true marriage.’

  ‘Then they deceive you,’ she said fiercely.

  ‘As I told them. But they are learned men and they quote the law to me. They read the Bible to me and tell me that I have sinned against God’s laws. We have both sinned, Katharine.’

  ‘This makes no sense,’ retorted Katharine. ‘How could we have sinned by marrying?’

  ‘It is so clear to me now. It is in the Bible. Read it, Katharine. Read the twenty-first verse of the twentieth chapter of Leviticus. Then you will see that ours was no true marriage and that for all these years we have been living in sin.’

  Katharine stared at him blankly. This was no surprise to her, but to hear it from his own lips, to see that stubborn determination which she knew so well, light up his eyes, shocked her more deeply than she had ever been shocked before.

  ‘I know,’ went on the King, ‘that this is a matter which distresses you, even as it distresses me. I will admit to a temptation to turn my back on this, to scoff at my critics, to say, let us forget that I married my brother’s wife. But I can hear the voice of God speaking to me through my conscience . . .’

  ‘When did your conscience first begin to trouble you?’ she asked.

  ‘It was when I heard the suggestion made by the Bishop of Tarbes; when he questioned Mary’s legitimacy.’

  At the mention of her daughter, Katharine’s bravado crumpled; she looked older suddenly and a very frightened woman.

  ‘You see,’ went on the King, ‘much as this distresses me, and indeed it breaks my heart to consider that we can no longer live together . . .’

  ‘Which we have not done for some time,’ she reminded him. ‘We had ceased to be bedfellows before your conscience was troubled.’

  ‘Your poor state of health . . . my consideration for you . . . my fears that another pregnancy would be beyond your strength . . .’

  ‘And your interest in others . . .’ murmured Katharine.

  But Henry went on as though he had not heard her: ‘What a tragedy when a King and Queen, so long married, so devoted to each other, should suddenly understand that their marriage is no marriage, and that they must separate. I have given this matter much thought. I have said to myself, What will become of her? For myself, I have not cared. But for you, Katharine . . . you whom I always, until this time, thought of as my wife . . .’ He paused, pretending to be overcome by his emotions.

  She wanted to shout at him that she despised him, that she knew it was not his conscience that was behind this dastardly plot but his desire for a new wife. She wanted to say: How dare you cast insults at a Princess of Spain? And what of our daughter? Will you, merely that you may satisfy your lust in the sanctity of a marriage bed, cast me off and proclaim our daughter a bastard!

  It was the thought of Mary which was unnerving her. Her usual calm had deserted her; she could feel her mouth trembling so that it would not form the words she wanted to utter; her limbs were threatening to collapse.

  Henry went on: ‘Knowing your serious nature, your love of the Church and all it stands for, it seemed to me that you would wish to enter a convent and there pass the rest of your days in peace. It should be a convent of your choosing and you should be its abbess. You need have no fear that you would lose any of the dignity of your rank . . .’

  A voice within her cried: Do you think you could strip me of that? You have insulted me by telling me that I lived with you for all these years when I was not your legal wife; and now you dare tell me – the daughter of Isabella and Ferdinand – that you will not rob me of my rank!

  But the words would not come and the hot tears were spilling over and running down her cheeks.

  Henry stared at her. He had never seen her thus. That she, who had always been so conscious of her dignity and rank, should weep, was something he had not considered.

  It horrified him.

  ‘Now, Kate,’ he said, ‘you must not weep. You must be brave . . . as I would fain be. Think not that I cease to love you. Love you I always shall. The Bishops may say what they will; you may not be my wife in the eyes of God but always I shall love you as I did in those days when you were so poor and lonely and I lifted you up to share my throne. Do not grieve. Who knows . . . they may find that there is naught wrong with our marriage after all. Kate, Kate, dry your eyes. And remember this: For the time being this is our secret matter. We do not want it bruited abroad. If I could but come to terms with my conscience I would snap my fingers at these Bishops, Kate. I’d have them clapped into the Tower for daring to hint . . .’

  But she was not listening. She did not believe him. She did not see the virtuous, religious man he was trying to show her; she saw only the lustful King who was tired of one wife and wanted another.

  Her tears fell faster, and convulsive sobs shook her body.

  Henry stood awhile, staring at her in dismay; then he turned abruptly and left her.

  Chapter VI

  THE QUEEN AND THE CARDINAL

  IN DANGER

  When the Queen had recovered from her grief she sent for Mendoza.

  ‘All that we feared has come to pass,’ she told him. ‘The King is determined to rid himself of me. He has told me that his conscience troubles him because learned men have assured him that we are not truly married.’

  ‘So it has gone as far as that!’ muttered Mendoza. ‘We shall need a strong advocate to defend Your Grace . . .’

  ‘Where should I find one here in England?’ she asked.

  ‘Your Grace can trust none of the King’s subjects. We must immediately appeal to the Emperor.’

  ‘I will write to him with all speed.’

  Mendoza shook his head. ‘It is very doubtful that any appeal from you would be allowed to reach him.’

  Katharine stared helplessly at the ambassador.

  ‘Or,’ he continued, ‘any appeal from me either. The Cardinal’s spies will be doubly vigilant. We must smuggle a messenger out of the country, and it must be done in such a way that no suspicion is attached to him.’

  ‘What a sad state of affairs when I am denied a lawyer to defend me.’

  ‘Let us be hopeful,’ answered Mendoza, ‘and say that the King knows that he has such a poor case that he dare not allow a good lawyer to defend you. Is there any member of Your Grace’s household whom you trust completely?’

  Katharine thought awhile and then said: ‘He must be a Spaniard for he will have to travel into Spain to reach the Emperor. I can only think of Francisco Felipez who has been in my service for twen
ty-seven years. I am sure he is to be trusted.’

  ‘An excellent choice. He should leave for Spain as soon as possible. But he should carry nothing in writing and it should seem that you do not send him but that he wishes to go of his own accord.’

  ‘I will summon him and together we will form some plan.’

  ‘It would be unwise for Your Grace to send for him now while I am here. I am certain that we are being closely watched. Indeed, it may be unwise to send for him at all, because it will doubtless be suspected that you will try to get a message through to the Emperor. If Your Grace could seize an opportunity of speaking to him when he is performing some duty – just whispering a word to him when no one will notice – that would be the best plan. Then if he expresses a desire to see his family, it will not appear that he is on Your Grace’s business.’

  ‘How I hate this intrigue! I feel like a prisoner in the Tower rather than a Queen in her Palace.’

  The ambassador looked at her sadly. He wondered what might have befallen her, standing in the King’s way as she did, had she not been the aunt of the Emperor.

  Francisco Felipez presented himself to the King and asked if he might speak to him in private.

  Henry granted this request, thinking that the man came with some message from the Queen, but as soon as they were alone Felipez said: ‘Your Grace, I am in great distress. My mother is dying and wishes to give me her blessing. I have come to ask your permission to go to her.’

  ‘You are a servant of the Queen,’ said Henry. ‘Have you not asked her for this licence?’

  Felipez looked uneasy. ‘I have, Your Grace.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘And she has refused it.’

  The King’s blue eyes were wide with astonishment.

  ‘Why so?’ he demanded.

  ‘She believes that I do not speak the truth.’

  ‘And has she reason to believe this?’