by Jean Plaidy
‘None, Your Grace.’
‘This is unlike the Queen. I have always thought her to be most considerate of her servants.’
‘The Queen has changed. She accused me of seeking to leave her, as all her servants would do in time.’
‘But why should she say such a thing?’
The man hesitated, but Henry insisted that he should continue. ‘Your Grace, the Queen says that, since you are displeased with her, all her servants will find excuses to leave her.’
‘I fear the Queen is suffering from delusions,’ said Henry. ‘It grieves me that she should have so little thought for her servants. You did well to come to me. I will grant your licence;
I will do more. I will give you a safe-conduct through France which will make your journey so much easier.’
Felipez fell to his knees, tears of gratitude in his eyes.
‘We see you are pleased,’ said Henry gruffly. ‘I will give you your licence now.’
‘How can I thank Your Grace?’ stammered the man.
But Henry waved a hand and went to the table. He wrote for a while, then handed the man a document.
‘This will stuffice,’ he said. ‘You need have no fear that you will be intercepted. I trust that you will reach your mother in time.’
When Felipez had gone, Henry thought: There is a man who, should he return to England, will be my servant, not the Queen’s.
It was some days later when Henry remembered the incident and mentioned it in a letter he wrote to the Cardinal who was now in France.
The Cardinal’s answer came back promptly.
‘This man but feigns to visit his sick mother. Your Highness will realise that it is chiefly for disclosing your secret matter to the Emperor and to devise means and ways of how it may be impeached. I pray Your Grace to ascertain whether this man has left England and, if he has not, to stop him. If he has left, I will, if it be in my power, have him intercepted in his journey across France, for if this matter should come to the Emperor’s ears, it should be no little hindrance to Your Grace.’
When Henry read that letter he was furious. He had been foolish not to see through the ruse. What a cunning woman the Queen had become! He should have seen through her deception. And because the Cardinal had seen at once, and because had the Cardinal been in England the licence would never have been granted, Henry, perversely, felt irritated with the Cardinal.
There was another reason which made him uneasy when he thought of the Cardinal. There were certain matters which he had withheld from his minister. Anne hated Wolsey and she was gradually persuading Henry to hate him.
Anne had said: ‘If the Cardinal knew of our desires he would work against us. Never have I forgotten the time when he treated me as though I were the lowest serving wench – and all because Henry Percy had spoken for me.’
‘But, sweetheart, if any man can get me my divorce, that man is the Cardinal,’ Henry had insisted.
Anne had agreed with that. They should use the Cardinal, for he was a wily man; she did not deny that. But he believed that the purpose of the divorce he was trying to arrange was that Henry might marry Renée, daughter of Louis XII, not Anne Boleyn.
So there were secrets which the King had kept from the Cardinal, and during recent months it had often been necessary to deceive him. Once there had been complete accord between them, but this was no longer so, and now Henry was irritated to think of those secrets; he might have despised himself for his duplicity, but as he could not do that, he gave vent to his feelings in his dislike of Wolsey.
He brushed the man out of his thoughts and had the Court searched for Francisco Felipez. He could not be found. It seemed that he had left England several days before.
The King sent for one of his secretaries, Dr William Knight. This was a man whom he trusted and who had already shown himself a worthy ambassador, for Henry had often sent him abroad on state business.
William Knight was a man of some fifty years and Henry had chosen him for his wisdom and experience.
‘Ah, my good William,’ said the King as soon as Dr Knight entered his apartment, ‘you have been in my service many years, and I have great faith in you; that is why I now assign to you the most important task of your life.’
William Knight was surprised. He stammered: ‘Your Grace knows that whatever task is assigned to me I will perform with all my wits.’
‘We know it, William. That is why we are entrusting you with this matter. You are to leave at once for Rome, travelling through France of course.’
‘Yes, Your Grace.’
‘And when you reach Rome you must find some means of seeing the Pope. I wish this matter of the divorce to be hastened. I chafe with the delay. I wish you to ask the Pope to give Cardinal Wolsey the power to try our case here in England. And there is one other matter. As soon as the divorce is settled I shall marry – immediately. I consider it my duty to marry and I have chosen the Lady Anne Boleyn to be my wife.’
William Knight did not answer. He had heard rumours of course. He knew that the Boleyn faction had great influence with the King, but had not realised that the matter had gone so far and that the King could possibly contemplate marriage with Thomas Boleyn’s daughter while Wolsey was in France – not exactly negotiating for a marriage with the Princess Renée, but surely with this in mind.
‘There is one matter,’ went on the King, ‘which gives me great concern. I fear there may be an obstacle to my union with the Lady Anne, owing to a relationship I once had with her sister, Mary. Because of the existing canon law a close relationship has been established between the Lady Anne and myself, and in order that this be removed there would have to be a dispensation from the Pope. Your mission in Rome is that you request the Pope, beside giving Wolsey permission to try the case, to give you the dispensation which would enable me to marry the Lady Anne with a free conscience.’
William Knight bowed. ‘I will set out for Rome at once,’ he told the King, ‘and serve Your Grace with all my heart and power.’
Henry slapped his secretary’s shoulder.
‘Begone, good William. I look to see you back ere long. Bring me what I wish and I’ll not forget the service you have rendered. But, by God, make haste. I chafe against delay.’
Wolsey had set out for France, travelling to the coast with even more than his usual pomp. His red satin robes, his tippet of sables, made him a dazzling figure in the midst of his brilliant cavalcade; he held himself erect and glanced neither to right nor left, because he knew that the looks of those who had gathered to see him pass would be hostile. At one time he would have scorned them; he did so no longer; he, the proud Cardinal, would have eagerly welcomed one kindly smile, would have been delighted with one friendly word.
He thought as he rode along that he was like a man climbing a mountain. He had come far over the grassy slopes which had been easy to scale; but now the top was in sight and he had to traverse the glacial surface to reach it. He had come so far that there was no going back; and he was on the treacherous ground where one false step could send him hurtling into the valley of degradation.
All about him were his servants in their red and gold livery. Where the crowd was thick his gentlemen ushers cried out: ‘On, my lords and masters, on before. Make way for my Lord’s Grace.’
Even he who had been wont to pass each day from York Place or Hampton to Westminster Hall in the greatest pomp had never travelled quite so magnificently as he did at this time. Now he rode as the King’s vicar-general, and as he went through the City and over London bridge, through Kent on his way to the sea, he could not help wondering how many more such glorious journeys there would be for him; and what the next journey would be, and whether the people would come from their houses to watch Wolsey pass by.
Yet even though his heart was heavy with foreboding, he could enjoy this ostentatious display. Here he was the central figure among nine hundred horsemen, seated on his mule with its trappings of crimson velvet and stirrups of copper and g
ilt. In his hand he held an orange, the inside of which had been removed and replaced with unguents and vinegar which would be proof against the pestilential air. Delicately he sniffed it when he passed through the poor villages and from the corner of his eye saw the ragged men and women who had come out to stare at him. Before him were carried two enormous crosses of silver and two pillars, also of silver, the great seal of England and his Cardinal’s hat, that all might realise that he was not merely the great Cardinal, as his red robes proclaimed him, but the Chancellor and the richest man in England – under the King.
He proposed to make two calls on his way to Dover. One should be at Rochester and the other at Canterbury, that he might confer with the Archbishops, Fisher and Warham. The King had commanded him to do this for Henry was unsure of those two. It was Warham who had wanted time to consider the findings of the court. If this had not been so, it might have been declared, before the news of the Sack of Rome reached London, that the marriage was invalid. As for Fisher, since he was the Queen’s confessor, Henry suspected him of being the Queen’s friend.
So the Cardinal halted at Rochester and there was received in the Bishop’s palace.
When they were alone together Wolsey said tentatively that he believed the Bishop was not fully informed of the King’s Secret Matter and that the King was eager that this should be remedied. He then went over the old ground to stress the suggestion made by the Bishop of Tarbes and the King’s consequent misgivings.
Fisher listened gravely, and his compassion for the Queen was intensified by all he heard.
‘I fear,’ said Wolsey, ‘that when His Grace broached the matter to the Queen she became hysterical, much to the King’s displeasure.’
‘I am sorry to hear it,’ answered Fisher.
‘As her confessor,’ Wolsey replied, ‘you might bring her to a mood of submission. His Grace feels that you have much influence with her and that you might remind her of the comfort to be found in a life of seclusion.’
The Bishop nodded and, when the Cardinal had left him, he was on his knees for a long time praying for the Queen.
Then on to Canterbury to see Warham and to hint to him that Henry would expect no opposition to the divorce; and, sure that he was bringing Warham to the right state of mind, he continued on his way.
And so to France, there to pass through the countryside, to be gaped at and watched in silence as he proceeded along the road to Paris.
There was nothing lacking in the welcome given him by François and Louise. Pageants and balls were arranged for his pleasure; plays were enacted before him; and all of a greater wit and subtlety than those he was accustomed to witness at the Court of England. François insisted on showing him some of the fine building he was carrying out; building was one of the French King’s passions and almost as important to him as the pursuit of women. Wolsey was enchanted by the superb architecture he saw in France, and dreamed of rebuilding some of his own residences in England. This made him think of Hampton Court which was no longer his and, because when he had been obliged to throw that mansion to the King it had been a gesture which marked the change in their relationship, he was depressed; and it occurred to him then that he would never be able to plan new additions to his palaces.
But his skill was still with him. He completed the treaty with France and gave a pledge that Mary should marry the Duc d’Orléans. As yet he could do little but hint of the King’s marriage with the Princess Renée, because it was scarcely diplomatic to discuss the proposed marriage of a man who was not yet recognised as a bachelor in the eyes of the world. But François could understand a hint better than most; and naturally he was fully aware of the King’s Secret Matter, and he gave hint for hint; he would welcome a marriage between the Princess Renée and the King of England, once the latter was free to take a wife.
Wolsey was resting at Compiègne when Dr Knight caught up with him. The Cardinal was surprised to see his fellow countryman and received him warmly, eager to know on what business he had come to France.
Dr Knight had received no instructions not to inform Wolsey of his mission; he believed that the Cardinal was perfecting the more difficult negotiations with François while he, Knight, had the simpler task – for it would be simple once he could reach the Pope – of requesting the required dispensation and asking permission for Wolsey to conduct the enquiry into the divorce.
When the two men were alone together, Knight explained: ‘The King decided, soon after you had left, that he would send me to Rome. I am now on my way there.’
Wolsey was startled and depressed. If the King was not keeping him informed of all the measures he was taking, it was a bad sign.
‘What is your mission in Rome?’ he asked, hoping to sound casual.
‘In the first place to get the permission of His Holiness for you to try the case.’
Wolsey gave a great sigh of relief. It was reasonable that such a request should not come from him personally, and he immediately saw the point of the King’s engaging Knight for this commission.
‘And in the second place?’ he asked.
‘Oh . . . a simple matter. The King’s conscience worries him regarding a previous connection with Mary Boleyn.’
‘With Mary Boleyn!’
‘It seems the girl was his mistress at one time.’
‘And his conscience worries him . . .’
‘I confess I was a little surprised. It is true that family has been giving itself airs of late but I did not know the King was infatuated so much as to consider marriage.’
‘Please explain,’ said Wolsey calmly. ‘Since the King proposes to marry Anne Boleyn he requires a dispensation on account of his sexual conduct with her sister.’
Wolsey was speechless for a few seconds. Somewhere close by a bell began to toll, and it seemed to him that the bell tolled for Cardinal Wolsey.
He soon recovered his poise. He was eager that Knight should not guess how deep the rift was between him and the King.
‘The King’s conscience is ever active,’ he said lightly.
‘He is cautious now – eager that when he marries again it shall be a true marriage and that he runs no risk of offending the Deity and thus be deprived of a male heir.’
Wolsey nodded, eager to be alone with his thoughts.
When Knight had left him he sat for a long time staring before him. He had come to France, and one of his missions was to hint at a French marriage for the King. The King knew this. And yet . . . all the time they had discussed this matter together he had been contemplating marriage with Anne Boleyn.
‘That black-eyed witch!’ muttered Wolsey; and suddenly so much was clear to him. He knew why the King had slowly but certainly turned his back on him. Mistress Anne had commanded him to do so. Mistress Anne hated the Cardinal who had upbraided her as though she were a humble serving wench at the time when Percy had tried to marry her. Vengeance had blazed from those proud eyes and he had laughed, because he could not believe that he – the great Cardinal – had anything to fear from a foolish girl.
Now this girl was constantly at the King’s side; she had bewitched him so completely that, unsuitable as the marriage was (and to think he had declared her not good enough for Percy!) he was determined to marry her. It was desire for this black-eyed girl, not his miserable conscience, that had set this matter in motion. And the most powerful person at Court was now Anne Boleyn, the declared enemy of the Cardinal.
It had happened under his very eyes and he had not seen it. He had been blind – he who had come so far because he had always seen a move ahead of all others. But he was old and tired now and he was afraid.
What now? he asked himself; and once more he heard the tolling of the bell.
He wanted to pray then, for help, for guidance.
I shall overcome this, as I have all other obstacles. I shall make this woman sorry that she proclaimed herself my enemy.
He seemed to hear mocking laughter, and he thought it sounded like Buckingham’s laughte
r. Buckingham had lost his head; it had not been difficult to teach him a lesson, and he was one of the foremost noblemen in the land. Should he fear a woman – and one whose claims to nobility were slight?
No, he was not afraid.
Yet he wanted to pray and suddenly realised that he could not do so. All he could do was sink to his knees and talk of his fear, ask for the power to triumph over his enemies. But that did not seem like a prayer.
He rose. He would return to England and there he would see the King; and now there would be no secrets between them. He was no longer deceived by the King’s attitude to the Lady which he had believed to be similar to that which he had felt towards many another.
This was different. This was something the King had never felt before, and it explained the change in their relationship.
Wolsey must tread very warily. Always before he had triumphed; why should he not triumph again?
Tomorrow he would leave for England, his mission completed. He would retire and after a good night’s rest he would be refreshed.
He went to the window to look out on the peaceful scene below, and as he stood there he saw that someone had drawn a sketch on the woodwork with a piece of charcoal.
It was not pretty. There was a gallows and there was something lifelike about the figure which hung from it. The Cardinal’s robes had been roughly but effectively sketched.
Who had done that? Someone in his suite? Someone who hated him and took a vicious delight in making such a sketch where, more likely than not, his eyes would alight on it.
The Cardinal took his kerchief and was about to rub it away. Then he hesitated. No. It would be a sign of weakness. Let it remain; let others see it. He was accustomed to abuse. It had always been his from the start of the climb, yet it had had little effect on his success. If it had not then, why should it now?
So he went to bed; but he slept ill that night. He dreamed of a black-eyed woman who, for the King’s delight, was drawing charcoal sketches of a Cardinal swinging on the gallows.