The King's Secret Matter

by Jean Plaidy

  ‘I pray you,’ went on Henry Norris, ‘allow me to put a lodging at your disposal.’

  The great Cardinal hesitated and then said: ‘I thank you for your kindness to me in my need.’

  So it was Henry Norris who took him to a lodging in Grafton, and but for the compassion of that young man there would have been no place for him at the King’s Court.

  There was excitement at Grafton. The Cardinal was in the Manor but all knew that no lodging had been prepared for him. That was on the orders of the Lady Anne, who commanded all, since she commanded the King. Now she would command Henry to dismiss his Chancellor, and all those who had hated the Cardinal for so long and had yearned to see his downfall were waiting expectantly.

  Henry knew this, and he was disturbed. He had begun to realise that his relationship with the Cardinal had been one based on stronger feelings than he had ever experienced before in regard to one of his ministers; and much as he wished to please Anne, he could not bring himself lightly to cast aside this man with whom he had lived so closely and shared so much.

  Anne insisted that Wolsey was no friend to the King because he worked for the Pope rather than Henry. And, she ventured to suggest, had the Cardinal so desired, the divorce would have been granted by now.

  ‘Nay, sweetheart,’ replied Henry, ‘I know him better than you or any other man. He worked for me. ’Twas no fault of his. He made mistakes but not willingly.’

  Anne retorted that if Norfolk or Suffolk, or her own father had done much less than Wolsey they would have lost their heads.

  ‘I perceive you are not a friend of my lord Cardinal, darling,’ Henry answered.

  ‘I am no friend of any man who is not the friend of Your Grace!’ was the reply, which delighted Henry as far as Anne was concerned but left him perplexed regarding Wolsey.

  And now he must go to the presence chamber where Wolsey would be waiting with the other courtiers. He could picture the scene. The proud Cardinal in one corner alone, and the groups of excited people who would be watching for the King’s entry and waiting to see the Cardinal approach his master – to be greeted coldly or perhaps not greeted at all.

  Henry tried to work up a feeling of resentment. Why should he be denied his divorce? Why had not Wolsey procured it for him? Was it true that when the matter had been first suggested the Cardinal had intended a French marriage? Was it possible that, when he had known that the King’s heart was set on Anne, he had worked with the Papal Legate and the Pope against the King?

  Scowling, Henry entered the presence chamber and it was as he had believed it would be. He saw the expectant looks on the faces of those assembled there – and Wolsey alone, his head held high, but something in his expression betraying the desolation in his heart.

  Their eyes met and Wolsey knelt, but the sight of him, kneeling there, touched Henry deeply. A genuine affection made him forget all his resolutions; he went to his old friend and counsellor and, putting both his hands on his shoulders, lifted him up and, smiling, said: ‘Ha, my lord Cardinal, it pleases me to see you here.’

  Wolsey seemed bemused as he stood beside the King, and Henry, slipping his arm through that of his minister, drew him to the window seat and there sat, indicating that Wolsey should sit down beside him.

  ‘There has been too much friendship between us two for aught to change it,’ said Henry, his voice slurred with sentiment.

  And the glance Wolsey gave him contained such gratitude, such adoration, that the King was contented, even though he knew Anne would be displeased when she heard what had happened. But there were certain things which even Anne could not understand and, as he sat there in the window seat with Wolsey beside him, Henry recalled the security and comfort which, in the past, this clever statesman had brought to him.

  ‘Matters have worked against us,’ continued Henry, ‘but it will not always be so. I feel little sorrow to see your fellow Cardinal depart; he has been no friend to us, Thomas.’

  ‘He obeyed orders from Rome, Your Grace. He served the Pope; it was not enough that one of the Legates worked wholeheartedly for his King.’

  Henry patted Wolsey’s knee. ‘It may be,’ he said darkly, ‘that we shall win without the Pope’s help.’

  ‘His Holiness would give it, but for his fear of the Emperor.’

  ‘He’s a weak fellow, this Clement. He sways with the wind.’

  ‘His position is so uncertain since the sack of Rome.’

  Henry nodded, and Wolsey went on, his spirits rising: ‘If Your Grace will grant me an audience in the morning, before I must depart with Campeggio, we could discuss the matter further. There are many ears cocked to listen here, many eyes to watch.’

  ‘ ’Tis so,’ said Henry nodding, and rising he put his arm once more through that of his Chancellor, and went with him back to the group of his gentlemen who were standing some distance from them.

  What comfort to rest his weary limbs in the bed for which he must be grateful to young Norris! How simple to explain the neglect!

  It had happened without the King’s knowledge. Naturally he would have believed that preparations were made for his Chancellor, for his dear friend the Cardinal. It was his enemies who had sought to degrade him. He was fully aware of the existence of them. When had he ever been without them?

  As he stretched out blissfully he told himself that he had been unduly worried. He had suffered misfortunes, but he was as strong now as he had ever been and, while the King was his friend, he was invincible.

  How he had misjudged his King! Hot tempered, selfish, hypocritical, capable of extraordinary blindness where his own faults and desires were concerned, yet Henry’s heart was warm for those who had been his friends; and while that friendship could be relied on, there was nothing to fear. All that he, Wolsey, had done to serve his King was worth while. He would not regret the loss of Hampton Court; the gift was a symbol of the love between them which was indestructible. Nothing could change it . . . not even the vindictiveness of Anne Boleyn.

  And tomorrow, thought Wolsey, we shall be alone together. Before I ride away with Campeggio on our way to the coast, I shall have had my intimate talk with Henry. All misunderstandings will be cleared away and it will be as it was in the old days when there was perfect accord between us. I will procure the divorce for him, but by that time, Mistress Anne Boleyn, he will have recovered from his infatuation. You have declared yourself my enemy; I declare myself yours. It shall be a French Princess for His Grace.

  Tomorrow . . . Tomorrow . . . thought Wolsey, and slept. It was the most peaceful night he had enjoyed for a long time.

  ‘A good bed, Norris,’ he murmured, when he awoke and saw that it was daylight. ‘I’ll not forget you.’

  He rose and found that it was later than he had at first thought; but there was plenty of time to see the King before he left with Campeggio. In excellent spirits he dressed and, as he was about to make his way to the King’s apartments, he met Henry Norris.

  ‘I thank you for a good night’s lodging,’ he said.

  ‘Your Eminence looks refreshed,’ was the answer.

  Wolsey patted the young man’s shoulder. ‘I shall not forget your goodness to me. Now I go to seek the King.’

  Norris looked surprised. ‘His Grace left early this morning in the company of the Lady Anne.’

  Wolsey could not speak; he felt a lump in his throat which seemed as though it would choke him.

  ‘They have gone off with a party for a day’s hunting,’ continued Norris. ‘They’ll not be back till dusk.’

  It was like arriving at this place and finding no lodging prepared for him. She was the cause of that; and she was the cause of this. Doubtless she had heard of the King’s display of friendship and determined that there should be no more.

  So he must leave with Campeggio, and that interview from which he had hoped so much would never take place. His defeat seemed as certain as it had been on his arrival.

  In the palace they would be saying: Perhaps his fa
ll is not as imminent as we hoped . . . but it is coming. Look at the warning shadows.

  These were uneasy months. The King stormed through the Court sometimes like a bewildered, angry bull, at others like a peevish boy. Why was a divorce denied him? Why was he so provoked?

  He was politician enough to know the answer. It was because the Emperor was more powerful at the Vatican than the King of England, and the woman the King wished to put aside was the Emperor’s aunt; it was as simple as that.

  ‘Yet I will have my way!’ declared the King.

  In the Boleyn circle he had met a man who interested him because, although of somewhat obscure origins, he expounded original ideas. This man was a certain Thomas Cranmer, a scholar who had passed through Cambridge and had there become acquainted with Stephen Gardiner and Richard Fox. This man, Cranmer, had, during the course of conversation, which naturally enough turned on the main topic of the day, expressed original views on the way in which the King might obtain a divorce in spite of the continued vacillation of the Vatican.

  ‘It is clear,’ Cranmer had said, ‘that the Pope is reluctant to grant the divorce because he fears the Emperor. Is it not time that the King looked for a solution to his Matter outside the Vatican?’

  Gardiner and Fox had suggested that he should explain how this could be done; to which Cranmer made answer that he believed the King should first make the universities see the reason behind his desires, and then appeal to enlightened opinion. Was England always going to remain a vassal of the Holy See?

  Dr Cranmer had voiced these opinions in other circles, and it was for this reason that the Boleyns had taken him under their protection and were making it known that Dr Cranmer was a man of new, startling and brilliant ideas.

  When Gardiner and Fox told the King of Cranmer’s suggestion, Henry had listened intently and, as he did so, his expression lightened; he cried out: ‘By God, that man hath the right sow by the ear! Who is he? Let him be brought to me. I would talk with such a one.’

  So Cranmer had been brought forward and Henry had not been disappointed by their discourse, which had started a new train of thought in his mind.

  The Queen’s melancholy was lifted a little by the arrival of the new Imperial ambassador. This was Eustache Chapuys, an energetic Spaniard who had not been in England long before Katharine realised that here she had a stronger champion than she had had in Mendoza. Of humble beginnings, he had none of the aristocrat’s preoccupation with his own nobility and was not constantly looking for slights. His family had, with some struggle, managed to send him to the University of Turin, and from there he had begun to make his fortune. He was now forty years old and this opportunity to work for the Queen against the divorce seemed to him like the chance of a lifetime; he was determined to succeed.

  However, arriving in England he had discovered that it was very difficult to speak in private with the Queen, who very quickly warned him that she was spied on at all times, and implored him to be very wary of Wolsey. He understood at once that this was no exaggeration. As for the King, he met the new ambassador with reproaches, complaining that by withholding the Papal brief the Emperor had done a grave injury, not only to his but to Katharine’s cause.

  ‘If,’ Henry had said, ‘I could have been assured that the brief was genuine, I should, at this time be living with the Queen, for that is what I wish beyond all things, and it is solely because my conscience tells me that to resume marital relations with the Emperor’s aunt would be to live in sin, that I refrain from doing so. Yet, since the Emperor will not release the brief I must conclude that he knows it to be a forgery and is afraid to submit it to the light of day.’

  ‘Your Grace,’ Chapuys had answered, ‘I myself can assure you that the brief is no forgery and that the copy you received in England is exact in every detail. Your conscience need disturb you no more.’

  Henry had been angry with the ambassador, and this was not a good beginning to their relationship; but at least he would understand that in the new ambassador he had a worthy adversary, and Katharine a good friend.

  So Katharine’s hope increased, because she believed that her case would be tried in Rome, and there she would have justice. She was convinced that all that was necessary to make Henry send Anne Boleyn back to Hever and turn to his true wife was an order from Rome.

  But how sad she was in the Palace, where Anne ruled as though she were Queen, and Katharine was only at the King’s side on the most formal occasions! The humiliation she could have endured; but it was Anne’s decree that the Princess Mary should not be present at Court, and because Anne commanded this, Mary was kept away.

  She fears the King’s affection for my daughter, Katharine decided; and there was a little comfort in that belief. But how she longed for the child’s company. On those rare occasions when she was with the King she sought to lead the conversation to their daughter’s absence in an endeavour to arouse a desire in him to have her with them.

  But he was sullenly pursuing Anne, and Katharine often wondered whether his dogged determination to have his way was as strong as his desire.

  One day when he had supped in her apartments she seized an opportunity to whisper to him: ‘Henry, would you not like to see our daughter here?’

  ‘She is well enough where she is.’

  ‘I miss her very much.’

  ‘Then there is no reason why you should not go to her.’

  ‘To go to her would be to leave you. Why cannot we all be together?’

  He was silent and turned away from her. But she could not control her tongue. ‘As for myself,’ she went on, ‘I see so little of you. I am often alone, neglected and forsaken. Who would believe that I was the Queen? I must brood on my wrongs continually.’

  ‘Who forces you to do so?’ demanded Henry. ‘Why do you not count your blessings?’

  ‘My blessings! My daughter not allowed to come to me! My husband declaring he has never been my husband and seeking to marry another woman!’

  ‘If you are neglected,’ said Henry, his voice rising, ‘that, Madam, is your affair. There is no need for you to remain here if you wish to go. Do I keep you a prisoner? I do not. You may go whither you like. As for the way I live . . . it is no concern of yours, for learned men have assured me that I am not your husband.’

  ‘You know that you are my husband. You know that I was a virgin when I married you. You choose to forget that now. But, Henry, do not rely on your lawyers and doctors who tell you what they know you want to hear. They are not my judges. It is the Pope who will decide; and I thank God for that.’

  Henry’s eyes narrowed. He was thinking of recent conversations with Cranmer, Gardiner, Fox and Anne, and he said slowly and deliberately: ‘If the Pope does not decide in my favour, I shall know what to do.’

  She flashed at him: ‘What could you do without the Pope’s approval?’

  Henry snapped his fingers and his lips scarcely moved as he replied, though the words smote clearly on Katharine’s ear: ‘This I should do, Madam. I should declare the Pope a heretic and marry when and whom I please.’

  The Cardinal was taking a solitary tour through York Place, knowing that it was doubtless the last time he would do so. Here were stored many of his treasures which almost rivalled those which had been in Hampton Court when he had lost that mansion to the King.

  He stood at the windows but he did not see the scenes below; he leaned his heated head against the rich velvet hangings, as he glanced round the room, at the tapestries and pictures, at the exquisite furniture which he had so treasured.

  In the pocket of his gown was the communication he had received from the King. The Lady Anne, it seemed, had set her heart on York Place. She would have no other house in London. Therefore the King asked the Cardinal to offer this up to her.

  Hampton Court . . . and now York Place! One by one his treasures were being stripped from him. Thus it would be until he had nothing left to give but his life. Would they be content to leave him that?

&n
bsp; He knew that a Bill of Indictment had been registered against him; he knew the hour could not be long delayed when Norfolk and Suffolk would arrive to demand that he give up the Great Seal.

  The days of greatness were over. The fight for survival had begun.

  He did not have long to wait. Smug, smiling, like dogs who had at last been thrown the titbits for which they had been begging, Norfolk and Suffolk arrived to demand the delivering up of the Great Seal.

  He received them with dignity in the beautiful hall, surrounded by rich treasures which he must soon surrender. His dignity was still with him.

  ‘I would see the King’s handwriting on this demand,’ said Wolsey, ‘for how may I know you come at his command if I do not?’

  Norfolk and Suffolk flushed and looked at each other. Neither was noted for his quick wits. Then Suffolk spluttered: ‘You know full well that we come on the King’s command.’

  ‘How should I know, when there is no written order from him?’

  ‘Then is it a surprise to you that you should be asked to hand back the Seal?’

  ‘This is not a question of my emotions, my lords, but of your authority to take the Seal from me. I shall not give it to you unless you bring me a written order from the King.’

  The Dukes were angry but they had never been able to argue successfully with Wolsey.

  ‘Come,’ said Suffolk, ‘we will return in a very short time with what he demands.’

  And they left him. It would be a short time, Wolsey knew. But there was a small hope within him. The King had not wished to put his name to a demand for the Great Seal. He had turned his back on Wolsey, but at least he had not joined the pack who were waiting to tear the old minister to pieces.

  The Cardinal was in great terror. It was not the fact that Norfolk and Suffolk had returned to take the Seal from him, with a written command from the King. That, he had known, was inevitable. It was not that he was ordered to leave York Place for Esher, an empty house which belonged to his bishopric of Winchester. It was the knowledge that his physician had been taken to the Tower where he might be put to the question, and betray secrets which could mean disaster to Wolsey if they were ever told to the King.