by Jean Plaidy
‘He’s one of these saints!’ cried the King. ‘I know full well his kind, that which declares: ‘I would give my head for what I believe to be right.’ Master Fisher should take care. He may one day be called on to prove his words. And now . . . send Warham and Tunstall to me. By God, we’ll have that document in our hands before many weeks have passed. As for Master Campeggio, you may tell him this: If he delays much longer he will have to answer to me.’
Wolsey bowed his head; he could not hide the smile which touched his lips. Campeggio cared not for the King of England, because he answered to one master only – a man who, in his own kingdom, was more powerful than any king.
It was pleasant to brood on Papal power.
Wolsey’s lips were mocking; he was praying for the death of Clement and that the result of the next Conclave might bring him freedom from an exacting master and the utmost power in his own right.
Katharine received her advisers and as they stood in a semicircle about her she looked at each man in turn: Warham, Fisher, Tunstall, Clerk and Standish. They were eagerly explaining to her what she must do and Warham was their spokesman.
‘It is clear, Your Grace, that the copy of this document cannot be accepted as of any importance. We must have the original. And we know full well that its contents are of the utmost importance to Your Grace’s case.’
‘Do you suggest that I should write to the Emperor, asking for it?’
‘It is the only discourse open to Your Grace.’
‘And you are all in agreement that this is what I should do?’
There was a chorus of assent, only Fisher remaining silent.
She did not comment on this, but she understood. The Bishop of Rochester was warning her that on no account must the document be brought to England.
‘The King grows impatient,’ went on Warham, ‘for until this document is produced the case cannot be opened. He declares that Cardinal Campeggio is delighted by the delay, but His Grace grows weary of it. Your Grace should with all speed write to the Emperor imploring him to send this document to you here in England.’
‘Since we have a good copy here,’ she asked, ‘why should that not suffice?’
‘A copy is but a copy which could well be a forgery. We must have the original. For your sake and that of the Princess Mary, Your Grace, I beg of you to write to the Emperor for the original of this document.’
She looked at Fisher and read the warning in his eyes. He was a brave man. He would have spoken out but he knew – and she knew – that if he did so he would shortly be removed from her Council of advisers and no good would come of that. But his looks implied that on no account must she write to Spain for the document and that it was false to say that the copy would have no value in the court. This was a ruse to bring the original document to England and there destroy it, since it would prove an impediment to the King’s case.
She answered them boldly: ‘Gentlemen, we have here a very fair copy. That will suffice to show the court. It is well, I believe, that the original should remain in the Emperor’s keeping. I shall not send to Spain for it.’
The men who were pledged to defend her left her, and she saw from Fisher’s looks that she had acted correctly.
But when they had gone she was afraid. Hers was a pitiable position, when she could not trust her own Council.
Katharine stood before the Royal Council which was presided over by the Chancellor. Wolsey studied her shrewdly. Poor, brave woman, he thought, what hope does she think she has when she attempts to stand against the King’s wishes?
‘Your Grace,’ said the Chancellor, ‘I have to tell you that I speak for the King and his Council. Are we to understand that you refuse to write to the Emperor asking him to return that brief which is of the utmost importance in this case?’
‘You may understand that. There is a good copy of the brief which can be used in the court; and I see no reason why the original should not remain for safe keeping in the hands of the Emperor.’
‘Your Grace, you will forgive my temerity but, in refusing to obey the King’s command, you lay yourself open to a charge of high treason.’
Katharine was silent and Wolsey saw that he had shocked her. Now she would perhaps begin to realise the folly of pitting her strength against that of the King and his ministers who, more realistic than she was, understood that not to obey meant risking their lives.
‘Your Grace,’ went on Wolsey soothingly, ‘I have prepared here a draft of a letter which the King desires you to copy and send to the Emperor.’
She held out her hand for it and read a plea to her nephew that he despatch the brief with all speed to England as it was most necessary for her defence in the pending action.
She looked at the Chancellor, the man whom she had begun to hate because she considered him to be the instigator of all her troubles. He was ruthless; he had to procure the divorce for the King or suffer his displeasure and he did not care how he achieved that end. She did not doubt that when the brief came to England it would be mislaid and destroyed, for it was the finest evidence she could possibly have.
‘So I am certain,’ went on the Chancellor, ‘that Your Grace will wish to comply with the King’s desire in this matter.’
She bowed her head. She could see that she would have to write the letter, but she would write another explaining that she had written under duress. She felt desolate, for it seemed that she depended so much on that pale aloof young man who might so easily consider her troubles unworthy of his attention.
Wolsey read her thoughts and said: ‘Your Grace must swear not to write to the Emperor any other letter but this. If you did so, that could only be construed as high treason.’
She saw her predicament. She had to give way, so she bowed before the power of her enemies.
As she knelt in her chapel, a priest came and knelt beside her.
‘Your Grace,’ whispered Mendoza, ‘the brief must not come to England.’
‘You know I must write to my nephew,’ she replied. ‘I am being forced to it, and I gave my word that I would write no other letter to him.’
‘Then we must find a means of communicating without letters.’
‘A messenger whom we could trust?’
‘That is so. Francisco Felipez did good service once.’
‘Perhaps he would be suspect if he did so again.’
‘Is there anyone else in your suite whom you could trust?’
‘There is Montoya. He is a Spaniard, and loyal. But I do not think he would be so resourceful as Felipez.’
‘Then let us chance Felipez. This time he should not ask for permission, as the matter is very dangerous. Let him leave at once for Spain, with nothing in writing. When he reaches the Emperor he must explain to him how dangerous it would be to send the brief to England as it would almost surely be destroyed.’
‘Felipez shall leave at once,’ said the Queen. ‘He will then have a good start of the messenger with the letter.’
‘Let us pray for the success of his journey,’ murmured Mendoza. ‘But later. Now there is not a moment to be lost.’
The Cardinal, brooding on his affairs in his private apartments at York Place, was interrupted by the arrival of a man who asked permission to speak with him on a private matter.
Wolsey received the man at once, for he was one of his spies in the Queen’s household.
‘Your Eminence,’ said the man, ‘Francisco Felipez disappeared from the Queen’s household yesterday. I have made one or two enquiries and it seems he was seen riding hard on the road to the coast.’
Wolsey rose and his eyes glowed with anger.
So the Queen, for all her outward resignation, was putting up a fight. Her man must not reach the Emperor, as the King’s hopes of procuring a divorce could well depend on that brief. He would not rest – nor would the King – until it was in their hands.
Felipez must be stopped before he reached Madrid.
The Queen was seated with a few women while she wor
ked with her needle and one of them read aloud. She was anxious that there should be no change in her routine.
Yet she was not listening to the reader; her thoughts were with her nephew. Felipez would have reached him by now; he would be explaining all that was happening to the Emperor’s aunt in England, and the urgent need for Charles to hold that brief in safe keeping, so that it could be shown to the Pope if there were any attempt to declare her marriage invalid.
Charles was a man of honour; he had the utmost respect for family ties, and he would see that to treat her as Henry was planning to do was an insult to Spain. He would understand, as soon as Felipez explained to him, that the King’s ministers were not to be trusted. She blamed the King’s ministers – chief of them Wolsey. She could never for long see Henry as the monster he sometimes appeared to be. He had been led astray, she believed. He was young in heart and spirit; he was lusty and sensual and she had never greatly pleased him physically; she was too religiously minded and the sexual act to her was only tolerable as the necessary prelude to child-bearing. Henry had always seemed to her like a boy; those childish games which he had once played at every masque, when he had disguised himself and expected all to be so surprised when the disguise was removed, were symbolic. He had not grown up; he was easily led astray. He was still the chivalrous knight who had rescued her from humiliation when he was eighteen years old. Never would she forget those early days of their marriage; always she would remember that he it was who had rescued her. At this time he was in the thrall of the wicked minister, Wolsey, and he was bemused by the black-eyed witch named Anne Boleyn.
If she could live through these troublous days, if she could bring Henry to a sense of duty, she was sure that they would settle down happily together. This was what she prayed for.
But in the meantime she must continue the fight against the machinations of those about him and the inclinations of his own youthful desires.
There was a commotion below her window and, setting aside her work, she went to it and looking out, saw a man limping into the Palace; his arm was bandaged and it was clear that he had recently met with an accident.
She stood very still, clenching her hands, for she had recognised the man as Francisco Felipez, who should at this time be in Spain.
She turned to the group of women and said: ‘I think that one of my servants has met with an accident. One of you must go below and bring him to me at once. I would hear what has befallen him.’
One of them obeyed and Katharine said to the others: ‘Put away the work for today and leave me.’
When Francisco Felipez came to her her first emotion was relief to see that he was not seriously hurt.
‘You have been involved in an accident?’ she asked. His expression was apologetic. ‘I was riding through France, Your Grace, and in the town of Abbeville I was set upon by footpads. They knocked me unconscious and rifled my pockets.’ He grinned ruefully. ‘They found nothing to interest them there, Your Grace. So they left me with a broken arm which meant that I was unable to ride my horse. A merchant bound it for me and helped me to return to England.’
‘My poor Francisco,’ said the Queen, ‘you are in pain.’
‘It is nothing, Your Grace. I can only regret that I had to delay so long before returning to you, and that I was unable to continue my journey because of my inability to ride.’
‘I will send you to my physician. Your arm needs attention.’ ‘And Your Grace has no further commission for me?’ Katharine shook her head. She understood that he had been seen to leave England, that the nature of his mission had been guessed, that he had been incapacitated by the Cardinal’s men, and that the hope of conveying an understanding of her peril to the Emperor was now slight.
The Cardinal sat with his head buried in his hands. He had been reading despatches from Rome, and had learned that Clement, after seeming near to death, was making a remarkable recovery. The position at the Vatican was more hopeful and it seemed as though the Pope had taken a new grip on life. It followed that the chances of a Conclave in the near future were gradually but certainly fading; and the Cardinal’s position in England had worsened.
Each day the King viewed him with more disfavour after listening to the complaints of Anne Boleyn. Continually Henry chafed against the delay. Had there ever, he asked himself, been such procrastination over such a simple matter? Other Kings, when they needed to rid themselves of unwanted wives, procured a dispensation and the matter was done with. But he, Henry Tudor, who had always, until now, taken what he wanted, was balked at every turn.
And what could his faithful servant do to hasten the decision when Campeggio had clearly been advised by the Pope to avoid a trial of the case if possible, and if not to use every means to delay bringing matters to a head! Wolsey was powerless to work without Campeggio; and the Pope and the King were pulling in opposite directions.
One of his most trusted servants entered the apartment, and the Cardinal, startled, withdrew his hands.
‘I suffer from a headache,’ Wolsey explained.
‘A pressure of work, Your Eminence,’ was the answer.
‘Can it be so? I have suffered from a pressure of work, Cromwell, for as long as I can remember.’
Thomas Cromwell sighed sympathetically and laid some documents before the Cardinal. In a lesser degree Thomas Cromwell shared his master’s uneasiness, for people in the Court and in the City were beginning to show their dislike of him, which was entirely due to the fact that he was the Cardinal’s man.
He thought of himself as a parasite feeding on the abundance of the Cardinal; and if Wolsey fell, what would happen to Cromwell?
Could Wolsey stand out against all the powers that fought against him? There could not be a man in England who had more enemies. Norfolk and Suffolk were watching like vultures; so was Lord Darcy; and the Boleyn faction, which was daily growing stronger, was standing by eagerly waiting for the kill.
The King? The King was Wolsey’s only hope. Henry still admired the cleverness of his minister and was loth to part with his favourite. That was Wolsey’s hope . . . and Thomas Cromwell’s.
Now suppose the Lady Anne lost a little of her influence over the King; suppose she gave way to his pleadings and became his mistress; suppose Henry made the natural discovery that Anne was very little different from other women . . . then Wolsey might yet retain his hold on the King. That was if the French alliance provided all that Wolsey and Henry hoped for. But François was an unreliable ally – even as Charles had been.
So many suppositions, thought Thomas Cromwell, for a Cardinal’s fate to depend on, and the fate of his lawyer who had risen because he was in his service hung with that of his master.
It was nearly six years before that Thomas Cromwell had set up in Gray’s Inn and had been called to work for the Cardinal. He had helped to suppress certain small monasteries in order to promote colleges at Ipswich and Oxford in which the Cardinal was interested, and there had been complaints about the manner in which he, Cromwell, and his colleague, John Allen, had set about this business, but the Cardinal had protected them from trouble.
Wolsey had been pleased with him, and since then all his legal business had gone into Thomas Cromwell’s hands. Thus it was that a lawyer could rise from obscurity to greatness; but Thomas Cromwell was too shrewd not to know that a man could as easily fall as rise.
He had come a very long way from his father’s blacksmith’s shop, although his father was a man of enterprise and had been a fuller and shearer of cloth in addition to his trade as blacksmith. Thomas had intended to go farther, and after a somewhat wild youth, which had resulted in a term of imprisonment and flight from the country, he had, following a period spent abroad, returned sobered, with the intention of making his fortune.
He had every reason to be pleased with what he had done until he suddenly understood that the Cardinal’s good fortune was turning sour.
‘These are troublous times,’ murmured Cromwell.
‘You s
peak truth,’ answered the Cardinal grimly.
‘Your Eminence,’ went on Cromwell, ‘what in your opinion will be the King’s answer if the Pope refuses to grant his divorce?’
Wolsey’s body seemed to stiffen. Then he said slowly: ‘The King will have only one course of action. He will accept his fate, and give up all plans for remarriage.’
‘Your Eminence has noticed, no doubt, that there are many Lutheran books entering the country.’
‘I know it. Since that man Luther set the new doctrines before the world there seems no way of preventing these books from coming here. They are smuggled in; they are read, talked of . . .’
‘Is it true, Your Eminence, that the King himself is interested in these ideas?’
Wolsey looked up sharply at the thickset lawyer, with the big head which seemed too close to his shoulders; at the strong jaw and thin lips which made his mouth look like a trap, at the cold expression, the gleaming, intelligent dark eyes.
‘How did you know that he was?’ demanded Wolsey. ‘Has he told you this?’
Cromwell smiled deprecatingly to indicate his humility. That smile said: Would the King confide in Thomas Cromwell? ‘No, Your Eminence,’ he answered. ‘But the Boleyns are interested. I believe the Lady passed a book to the King and told him he must read it. And he, being told he must, obeyed.’
Wolsey was silent.
Cromwell leaned forward slightly and whispered: ‘What if the King should so dislike the Pope that he became more than a little interested in heresy?’
‘He never would,’ declared Wolsey. ‘Is he not Defender of the Faith?’
‘He was a fierce foe of Luther at the time that title was bestowed on him. But times change, Eminence.’
Once more Wolsey looked up into that cold, clever face. He had a great respect for the lawyer’s intelligence.
‘What mean you, Cromwell?’ he asked.
Cromwell shrugged his shoulders. ‘That the Lady and her friends might give their support to Lutheranism, seeing thereby a way to dispense with the services of the Pope.’