The King's Secret Matter

by Jean Plaidy

  Henry was disturbed when the news was brought to him. He was at Greenwich and he decided that he would stay there for a few days and not journey to Westminster through the infected city even by barge.

  It was his gentleman of the bedchamber, William Carey, who had brought him the news. He had been gracious to Will Carey because Anne expected him to be so to all her relations, and Will was in need of advancement, having very little money of his own. Moreover Henry was not displeased to favour the man, for he still thought affectionately of Will’s wife Mary, although he now heartily wished that she had never been his mistress, since there was a possibility that this might make it necessary for him to procure a dispensation on her account.

  ‘The sweat is claiming more victims, Your Grace,’ said Will. ‘I saw several people lying in the streets as I came through the city.’

  The King’s eyes narrowed. ‘I do not know,’ he said gloomily, ‘why this pestilence should visit my country every now and then. I do believe that there are some of my subjects who are of the opinion that it is sent to us when we have in some way offended God.’

  ‘Ah, it may be so, Your Grace.’

  Will was thinking that the King referred to his living in sin with Katharine and, because Mary had told him that they must always stand by Anne who had stood by them so magnificently, he added: ‘It may be that when your Grace’s matter is settled the sickness will pass.’

  ‘It may well be, it may well be,’ murmured the King.

  But he was uneasy. He had ceased to co-habit with Katharine these many months, so he could no longer be said to be living in sin; it was strange that God should have sent the sweat now that he had realised his sinful way of life and was seeking to rectify it.

  In common with most he believed that pestilences were a sign of Divine anger. Then, in spite of his desire to break away from Katharine, God had sent a pestilence to his Kingdom.

  His expression was sullen, and Will, who by living near to him had learned when to remain silent, said no more. Indeed Will himself was experiencing a strange shivering fit which had nothing to do with being in the presence of the King. When Henry had strolled to the window and stood looking out on the river accompanied by certain of his gentlemen, Will seized the opportunity to leave the royal apartments.

  Before he had time to reach his own quarters he felt the dreaded sweat on his body.

  ‘Your Grace, the sweat is in the Palace.’

  Henry heard the dreaded words and stared at the man who was speaking to him.

  ‘One of Your Grace’s gentlemen has succumbed to the sickness. He is dead.’

  Henry shouted: ‘Who?’

  ‘Will Carey, Your Grace.’

  Will Carey! He had been speaking to the man only a few hours before.

  Henry was trembling. ‘Leave me,’ he said.

  Will Cary dead! Will was a man whom he had favoured because of his relationship to Anne. And he was the first victim in the Palace, the King’s own Palace.

  Mary would be left a widow with her two young children, and Anne would be seeking help for her ere long, for she was ever zealous regarding the needs of her family.

  But even as he thought of Anne his terror caught up with him. Now he must face the truth. Why was he seeking to rid himself of Katharine? Was it indeed because he feared he had lived in sin all these years, or was it because he was tired of Katharine and wanted a new wife?

  He half closed his eyes and set his mouth into the familiar prim lines, but he could not hold that expression because he was thinking of Anne, Anne in black velvet, in scarlet and gold, Anne stretching out her arms to him, no longer holding him off. It was no use; there were times when even he could not deceive himself.

  He sent for Wolsey; he believed then that in times of peril he would always send for Wolsey.

  The Cardinal came from Hampton in his barge. He made no concessions to the plague, beyond the orange which he carried more as an elegant gesture than out of fear. Wolsey had little concern for the sweat; he had other and more pressing matters with which to occupy himself.

  ‘We are deeply disturbed by this pestilence,’ said the King. ‘It seems that the Almighty is displeased with us.’

  The Cardinal asked: ‘For what reason does Your Grace think God is displeased?’

  ‘I will admit,’ answered the King, ‘that I have thought with much eagerness of my approaching marriage.’

  Wolsey looked grim. Let the King’s conscience worry him. It was well that it should. If he lusted after Anne Boleyn, let him regard that as a sin.

  ‘That may well be,’ said Wolsey.

  The King looked startled, but the Cardinal’s expression was as gloomy as his own.

  ‘It is true that I am not in actual fact married to Katharine,’ went on the King almost defiantly.

  Wolsey spread his hands. ‘Perhaps, Your Grace, it would be well, until we have proved that the marriage with the Lady Katharine is no true marriage, if Your Grace continued to live the life of a bachelor.’

  A hot flush spread itself across Henry’s features as he muttered: ‘I have heard Mass each day . . . more than once. I have confessed each day . . .’

  ‘None knows Your Grace’s piety better than I, but it may be that is not enough.’

  ‘Not . . . enough!’

  ‘It may be that it would be wise at this stage to send the Lady Anne back to her father’s castle.’

  Henry looked so angry for a few moments that Wolsey felt he had gone too far. But after a while the King nodded. He was clearly very frightened.

  ‘Mayhap you are right,’ he said.

  An easy victory, thought the Cardinal; and that day the Lady Anne Boleyn was sent to her father’s castle at Hever.

  As for Henry, he changed his mode of life. He made several wills; he was often in the Queen’s company when they conversed like good friends, and he would sit with her watching her at her tapestry; when she went to a religious service in the chapel, he would accompany her and none appeared to be more devout than the King. It would seem that he had dismissed Anne Boleyn and returned to the Queen in all but one respect; he would not share her bed.

  How virtuously he lived during those hot summer weeks! Soon after Carey’s death he insisted that the Court leave Greenwich, and first they went to Eltham and then farther away from the City. Henry kept his physicians beside him; he was in terror that he might become a victim of the sickness.

  He made Dr Butts talk to him of plasters and lotions which might serve, in less severe cases, to save the lives of victims. His greatest pleasure was to concoct these cures with the doctor, and he even made a plaster of his own and gave the recipe to apothecaries that they might make it for their customers. It was said to be efficacious in mild cases and was known as The King’s Own Plaster.

  Still further news came of death. When his old friend Sir William Compton died, Henry was deeply distressed. He remembered how, on his first illness, after his return from France, when an ulcer had appeared on his leg, he and Compton had made plasters together, for Compton had also suffered with an ulcer.

  And now . . . Compton was a victim of the sweat!

  The Cardinal, who was so busy with his affairs at Hampton, was surprised by the King’s conscience which insisted that at this time he part with Anne Boleyn by sending her home to Hever while he himself posed as a virtuous husband to Katharine, although not sharing her bed. Wolsey wondered whether Henry admitted to himself that he avoided this because he found her unattractive or whether he told himself that he still believed she was not his wife.

  But although he had sent Anne away, Henry wrote loving letters to her, erotic letters, telling her of his need of her, hinting at what the future held for them both. As though God, being so busy watching him at confession and Mass, did not see the sly little notes which were sent behind His back.

  At one time the Cardinal might have rejoiced in this characteristic of the King’s; now he knew how dangerous it might prove. So Wolsey was one who was too concerned
with his own affairs to be worried by the possibility of death through the sweating sickness.

  Nor was Katharine afraid. If death came she would be ready to welcome it, for life had little to offer her. Many people were dying, and accounts of deaths came every day, but she had few friends to lose. She thanked God that Maria de Salinas was in the country far from risk of infection, and Margaret Pole was with Mary who had also been sent out of danger.

  Meanwhile the King lived his ostentatiously virtuous life and longed for the epidemic to pass.

  But one day there came news from Hever which threw the King into a panic: Anne was a victim of the sweating sickness.

  Henry threw aside his penitence and sat down at once to write a letter to her.

  Her news had made him desolate. He would willingly share her sufferings. He could not send her his first physician because the man was absent at this time and he feared delay, so he was sending her his good Dr Butts. She must be guided by Dr Butts. He longed for her, and to see her again would be greater comfort to him than all the most precious jewels in the world.

  Then he settled himself to wait. It was no use. He could no longer pretend. He could no longer sit with the Queen and listen to her conversation; he had to face the truth. He wanted Anne. He would have Anne.

  So his conscience – on which he could almost always rely to do what was required of it – began greatly to trouble him once more concerning his marriage with his brother’s widow. If the sickness had been a sign of God’s anger, that anger was the result of his living in sin with Katharine, and the sooner he was free of her the better pleased would he – and God – be. Why was that Cardinal Campeggio taking such a long time to arrive? Wolsey was a laggard. Why had he not arranged matters better than this?

  He waited for news from Hever. He could think of nothing but his need of her. And when that news came, and it was good news, he was full of joy for many days, taking it that, since his darling’s life was spared, this was a sign of heavenly approval for their union.

  He no longer sat with Katharine; there was no longer need to confess so regularly, to pray so long.

  The sickness was abating; Anne had recovered; soon she would be with him.

  But where was Campeggio? And what was the sluggish Wolsey doing to bring him his heart’s desire?

  Chapter VIII

  THE MARRIAGE BRIEF

  Cardinal Lorenzo Campeggio arrived in London in October. It was three months since he had set out from Rome, and he had been expected long before. Wolsey received him at York Place where he arrived inconspicuously, much to Wolsey’s disgust, for even now, anxious as he was, he hated to miss an opportunity of giving the people a display of his magnificence. Wolsey would have preferred to go out with his household about him – his silver crosses, his pillars of silver, his seal and his Cardinal’s hat – and to have a ceremonial meeting with his fellow Cardinal in public.

  Campeggio had other ideas and had kept his arrival a secret until he came quietly to York Place.

  Wolsey embraced him and gave orders for apartments to be made ready for the distinguished visitor. ‘The best we have to offer. Your Eminence, we have long awaited this pleasure.’

  Campeggio winced as Wolsey took his hands. ‘I suffer agonies from the gout,’ he told his host; and indeed it was obvious that he spoke the truth. When Wolsey looked into that pale face with the lines of pain strongly marked on it, he assured himself that here was a man who would not be difficult to lead. Surely one who suffered as Campeggio did would be more concerned with resting his weary limbs than fighting Katharine’s battle.

  ‘We shall do our utmost to make you comfortable here,’ Wolsey told him; ‘and we shall put the best physicians at your service.’

  ‘There is little physicians can do for me,’ mourned Campeggio. ‘My friend, there are days when I am in such pain that I cannot bear the light of day. Then I ask nothing but to lie in a dark room and that no one should come near me.’

  ‘Yours must have been a grievously painful journey.’

  Campeggio lifted his shoulders despairingly. ‘There were times when it was impossible for me to ride; even travelling in a litter was too much for me. Hence the delay.’

  Wolsey was not so foolish as to believe that Campeggio’s gout was the only reason for the delay. He guessed that the Pope, in his very delicate position, would not be eager to proclaim the marriage of the Emperor’s aunt invalid. Clearly Clement was playing for time. Campeggio’s gout had been very useful; and doubtless would be in the future.

  ‘The King,’ Wolsey told Campeggio, ‘is most eager to have this matter settled.’

  ‘So I believe.’ Campeggio shook his head sadly. ‘It is not good for the Church,’ he went on. ‘Whatever the outcome, His Holiness will not feel easy in his mind.’

  ‘But if the King’s marriage is no marriage . . .’

  ‘His Holiness is horrified at the thought that the King of England and the Infanta of Spain may have been living in sin for eighteen years.’

  ‘It should not be a difficult matter,’ insisted Wolsey, ‘to prove that owing to the Queen’s previous marriage, that with the King cannot be legal.’

  ‘I cannot agree,’ Campeggio retorted. ‘It may well prove a most difficult matter.’

  Wolsey understood then that the Pope was not going to grant a divorce, because he was too much in awe of the Emperor; and Wolsey believed that Clement had sent Campeggio, who was as much an expert in vacillation as he was himself, to conduct the case with very definite orders that nothing must be settled in a hurry, and before any decision was reached the Vatican must be informed.

  The King would be infuriated by the delay, and if he were disappointed in the manner in which the case was conducted, he would blame Wolsey.

  When Campeggio had recovered from the strain of his journey, he went, accompanied by Wolsey, to Greenwich to see the King.

  Henry received him with outward cordiality but inward suspicions. He did not like the appearance of Campeggio – the Legate was unhealthy; he looked pale and tired; his limbs were swollen with the gout which had so lengthened his journey across France. Could not Clement have sent a healthy man! the King grumbled to himself. Moreover there was a shrewd look in the fellow’s eyes, a certain dignity which Henry believed was meant to remind him that he was a servant of the Pope and served no other.

  By God, thought the King, there has been delay enough.

  ‘Welcome, welcome,’ he said; and bade Campeggio be seated with Wolsey beside him.

  When Henry had offered condolences for the Legate’s sufferings he plunged into the real reasons for his being in England.

  ‘There has been much delay,’ he said, ‘and I wish the proceedings to begin at once.’

  ‘As soon as possible,’ murmured Campeggio. ‘But I would like to say that if we could settle this matter without much noise it would please His Holiness.’

  ‘I care not how it is settled, provided it is settled,’ said the King.

  ‘His Holiness begs Your Grace to consider the effect of a divorce on your subjects.’

  Wolsey watching closely saw the danger signals leap up in the King’s eyes. He said quickly: ‘His Holiness has no need to ask His Grace to do that. His Grace’s one great concern is the wellbeing of his subjects, and it is for their good that he seeks freedom from this alliance which has proved a barren one.’

  Henry threw a grateful glance at his Chancellor.

  ‘Then,’ went on Campeggio, ‘I am sure I have an acceptable solution. His Holiness will examine the dispensation made by his predecessor, Julius II, and adjust it, making a new dispensation in which there can be no manner of doubt that the marriage between Henry Tudor and Katharine of Aragon is lawful.’

  Wolsey dared not look at the King because he knew that Henry would be unable to contain his rage.

  ‘So I have waited three months to hear that!’ spluttered Henry. ‘It may well be that I know more of this matter than any other person. I have grappled with my consci
ence, and it tells me this: never . . . never . . . shall I find favour in the sight of God while I continue to live with a woman who is not my wife in His eyes.’

  ‘Your Grace knows more of the matter than any theologian, it seems,’ said Campeggio with a faint smile.

  ‘That is so!’ thundered Henry. ‘And all I want of you is a decision whether or not that marriage is valid.’

  Campeggio, who had a wry sense of humour, murmured: ‘I gather that what Your Grace wishes is a decision that the marriage is not valid.’

  ‘His Grace has suffered much from indecision,’ added Wolsey.

  ‘The indecision of others,’ retorted Campeggio. ‘I see that there is no uncertainty in his mind. Now His Holiness is most eager that there should be an amicable settlement of this grievous matter, and my first duty will be to see the Queen and suggest to her that she retire into a convent. If she would do this and renounce her marriage, His Holiness would then without delay declare the marriage null and void. It would be her choice, and none could complain of that.’

  Henry’s anger was a little appeased. If Katharine would but be sensible, how simply this matter could end. What was her life outside convent walls that she could not make this small sacrifice? She could live inside a convent in much the same manner as she did outside. It seemed to him a little thing to ask.

  ‘She might be told,’ he suggested, ‘that if she will retire to a convent, her daughter shall not suffer but shall be next in succession after my legitimate male heirs. There, you see how I am ready to be reasonable. All I ask is that she shall slip quietly away from Court into her convent.’

  ‘I will put this matter to her,’ replied Campeggio. ‘It is the only solution which would please the Holy Father. If she should refuse . . .’

  ‘Why should she refuse?’ demanded Henry. ‘What has she to lose? She shall have every comfort inside convent walls as she does outside.’

  ‘She would have to embrace a life of celibacy.’