by Jean Plaidy
She bowed her head. ‘I have been informed of this.’
‘You will know also that the coronation of Queen Anne has also taken place.’
Katharine nodded once more in acquiescence.
‘The King decrees that, as it is impossible for there to be two Queens of England, you will henceforth be known as Princess of Wales since you are the widow of his brother Arthur, Prince of Wales.’
Katharine raised herself on her elbow. ‘I am the Queen of England,’ she said, ‘and that is my title.’
‘But Your Grace knows that the Lords spiritual and temporal have declared the marriage invalid.’
‘All the world knows by what authority it was done,’ retorted Katharine. ‘By power, not justice. This case is now pending in Rome and the matter depends not on judgment given in this realm, but in the Court of Rome, before the Pope, whom I believe to be God’s vicar and judge on Earth.’
‘Madam, you speak treason,’ said Mountjoy.
‘It is a sorry state,’ answered the Queen mournfully, ‘when truth becomes treason.’
Mountjoy handed her the documents he had brought with him from the King and, glancing at them, she saw that throughout she was referred to as the Princess Dowager.
She called Maria to bring her a pen and boldly struck out the words Princess Dowager wherever they occurred.
Mountjoy watched her in dismay, and as he did so he remembered the occasion of her coronation and how she had always been a just mistress to him.
‘Madam,’ he said, pleading, ‘I beg of you to take care. It would be a grievous thing if you were charged with high treason.’
She smiled at him. ‘If I agreed with your persuasions, my Lord Mountjoy, I should slander myself. Would you have me confess that I have been the King’s harlot these twenty-four years?’
Mountjoy felt unnerved, and could not proceed as he had been instructed to do. Katharine sensed this and softened towards him.
‘Do not distress yourself,’ she said, ‘I know full well that you do what you have been commanded to do.’
Mountjoy went on to his knees. ‘Madam,’ he said, ‘should I be called upon to persecute you further, I should decline to do so . . . no matter what the consequences.’
‘I, thank you, Lord Mountjoy, but I would not have you suffer for me. Take these papers back to the King. Tell him that I am his wife now as I was on the day he married me. Tell him also that I shall not accept the title of Princess Dowager because my title is Queen of England. That I shall remain until my death.’
Apprehensively Mountjoy went back to Court.
Disturbed by Mountjoy’s account of what had happened, Henry decided that Katharine should be sent farther from London and commanded that she move her household from Ampthill to Buckden, there to take up residence in a palace which belonged to the Bishop of Lincoln. In the summer, when Katharine arrived, this place was charming, offering views over the fen country; Katharine had yet to discover how damp and bleak it could be in winter and what a disastrous effect it would have on her health.
She was extremely unhappy to move because, not only was she to change her place of residence, but she was also to lose certain members of her household. She had had too many friends at Ampthill, and they had upheld her in her sauciness, said the King. She could manage with a smaller household at Buckden; and one of the first to be dismissed should be Maria de Salinas who had always been her strong partisan from the days when she had first arrived in England. The edict had been that all those who refused to address her as the Princess of Wales should be dismissed. Katharine promptly forbade anyone to address her by any title but that of Queen.
She was desolate to lose Maria. This was the bitterest blow of the entire upheaval, and those who watched their farewell wept with them.
Katharine’s stubborn determination was a source of great irritation to the King, but he was fully aware that the people who lived in the villages surrounding her were her fervent supporters, and he had heard that when she had travelled from Ampthill to Buckden the way along which she had passed had been crowded with people who shouted: ‘Long live the Queen!’
She was an encumbrance and an embarrassment to him but he knew he must treat her with care. Therefore he finally allowed her a few servants – though he firmly refused to allow Maria to be one of them – whom he excused from taking an oath to address her as the Princess of Wales; and with this smaller household, Katharine lived at Buckden.
There was one fact for which she was thankful. Her chaplain, Dr Abell, who had written against the divorce, had been released from prison and allowed to come back to her. The man was too obscure, Henry decided, to be of much importance.
At Buckden Katharine endeavoured to return to the old routine. Her life was quiet, and she spent a great deal of time in her chamber which had a window looking into the chapel. She seemed to find great comfort in sitting alone in this window-seat.
She busied herself with the care of the poor people living close by who had never known any show such solicitude for their well-being before. There was food to be had at the palace for the hungry; the Queen and her ladies made garments for those who needed them; and although Katharine was far from rich she set aside a large part of her income for the comfort of the poor.
‘A saint has come among us,’ said the people; and they declared they would call no other Queen but Katharine.
Henry knew what was happening and it angered him, for it seemed to him that all those who admired the Queen were criticising him; he could not endure criticism. But there was one matter which occupied his thoughts day and night. Anne was about to give birth to their child.
A son, he told himself exultantly, will put an end to all trouble. Once I have my son there will be such rejoicing that no one will give much thought to Katharine. It will be a sign that God is pleased with me for discarding one who was not in truth my wife, and taking another.
A son! Night and day he prayed for a lusty son; he dreamed of the boy who would look exactly like himself. He himself would teach him – make a man of him, make a King of him. Once he held that boy in his arms everything would be worth while, and his people would rejoice with him.
It was September of that fateful year 1533 when Anne was brought to bed.
Henry could scarcely contain his excitement, and had already invited François to be the boy’s sponsor. His name? It should be Henry . . . or perhaps Edward. Henry was a good name for a King. Henry IX. But that was years away, of course. Henry VIII had many years before him, many more sons to father.
Queen Anne suffered much in her travail. She was as anxious as the King. Was there a certain apprehension in her anxiety? The King was still devoted to her – her passionate and possessive lover – but now that she had time for sober reflection she could not help remembering his indifference to the sufferings of his first wife. Once he had been devoted to Katharine; she had heard that he had ridden in pageants as Sir Loyal Heart; and his loyalty was then for Katharine of Aragon – short-lived loyalty. Was he a man whose passions faded quickly? He had been her devoted admirer for many years, but was that due to his faithfulness or a stubborn determination to have his will which her cleverness in keeping him at bay had inflamed?
A son will make all the difference, the new Queen told herself. Holy Mother of God, give me a son.
The cry of a child in the royal apartments! The eager question, and the answer that put an end to hope.
‘A girl, Your Majesty, a healthy girl.’
The bitterness of disappointment was hard to bear, but the child was healthy. The King tried to push aside his disappointment.
Anne looked strangely humble in her bed, and he was still in love with her.
‘Our next will be a boy, sweetheart,’ he told her.
And she smiled in agreement.
So they rejoiced in their daughter, and called her Elizabeth.
Margaret Pole was anxious concerning the Princess Mary who had never seemed to regain her full strength since he
r parting from her mother. Margaret knew that she brooded a great deal and was constantly wondering what would happen next.
Mary was no longer a child; being seventeen years of age, she was old enough to understand the political significance of what was happening about her. There was a strong streak of the Spaniard in her, which was natural as, before their separation, she had been so close to her mother.
Mary was restless, delicate, given to fits of melancholy. And what else could be expected? Margaret asked herself. What a tragedy that a child should be torn from her mother’s side when the bond between them was so strong, and when her position was so uncertain with her father.
But for Queen Anne, Margaret often thought, Henry would not have been unkind to his daughter. She was his child and he was eager to have children, even girls. But those occasional bursts of fondness were perhaps the very reason why Anne would not allow Mary at Court. Could it be that the new Queen was afraid of the influence Mary might have on her father?
It was so very tragic, and Margaret, while she thought fearfully of her own son Reginald who had offended the King, continually asked herself how she could make Mary’s life brighter.
Mary liked to play the lute or the virginals, for music was still her favourite occupation; but Margaret fancied as she listened to her that she played listlessly and there was a melancholy note in her music.
‘Play something lively, something to make us feel gay,’ Margaret suggested.
But Mary turned on her almost angrily: ‘How can I feel gay when I am not allowed to see my mother, when I know she is not in good health and mayhap has no one to care for her?’
‘If I could write to her and tell her that you are cheerful, that would do her much good, I am sure.’
‘You could not deceive her. How could I be cheerful when I long to see her as I know she does me?’ Mary rose from the virginals and came to stand by her companion. ‘What will happen to us now that the Concubine has a child? They will say this Elizabeth comes before me, I’ll swear.’
‘How could they do that?’
‘You know full well they could do it. They have said my mother’s marriage was no marriage. That means one thing. The bastard Elizabeth will be declared heir to the throne until they get themselves a boy.’ Mary’s face grew hard and stern. ‘I pray they never get a boy.’
‘Your Highness . . . my dear Princess . . . forgive me, but . . .’
‘I must not say such things! I must pray, I suppose, that the Concubine may be fruitful! I must pray that there is peace in this land, even though to bring this about I must declare my mother lived in sin with the King and I am therefore a bastard!’
‘My dear . . . my dear . . .’
Mary walked away to the window. ‘Reginald was brave,’ she cried, clenching her hands. ‘He was strong. He did not care if he offended my father. He would not have cared if they had cut off his head.’
‘He would have died a martyr’s death and we should have been left to suffer,’ answered Margaret soberly. ‘Let us thank God that he is out of the country at this time.’
‘There is a party riding into the courtyard,’ said Mary.
Margaret rose swiftly and came to her side.
‘They come from the Court,’ she said. ‘I recognise those women as of her suite.’
‘We want none of the Concubine’s household here,’ Mary cried.
‘You must receive them, Your Highness, and hear their business.’
‘I will not,’ Mary said firmly and went out of the room.
It was not Mary however whom they had come to see, but the Countess. Two women were brought to her and they stated their business briefly.
The Lady Mary was no longer heir to the throne, for her mother was the Princess Dowager and had never been the King’s true wife. Certain jewels were in her possession which were the property of the crown. It was necessary now that these jewels be handed to them, for they were messengers from the King and Queen and had papers to prove this. The Lady Mary’s jewels now belonged to the Princess Elizabeth, and it was Margaret Pole’s duty to give them up.
Margaret stood very still; she had grown pale.
‘I know the jewels to which you refer,’ she said. ‘They are the property of the Princess Mary and I should be failing in my duty if I gave them up.’
‘They are no longer the property of the Lady Mary. Here is an order from the Queen.’
Margaret studied the order. But I do not consider Anne to be the Queen, she said to herself. I shall certainly not give up the Princess Mary’s jewels.
So she remained stubborn, and the next day when the party rode away from Beauleigh, Mary’s jewels remained behind.
When Mary heard what had happened she praised her governess.
‘Let them do what they will to us,’ she said. ‘We will stand out against them.’
‘They will be back,’ said Margaret apprehensively.
Mary held her head high as she declared: ‘They know I am the true heir to the throne. They must. I shall never stand aside for this young Elizabeth.’
But how could they hold out against the King and Queen? They could show defiance for a while, but not for long.
Queen Anne, in her new power, would not allow Margaret Pole and Mary to flout her wishes. Shortly afterwards a command came from the King: The Countess of Salisbury was discharged from her duty as governess to the Lady Mary and the pension paid to her in that capacity would immediately cease.
When Mary heard the news she was stricken with grief.
‘Not you too!’ she cried. ‘I have lost my mother and Reginald . . . you are all that is left to me.’
‘I will stay with you,’ answered Margaret. ‘I shall have no pension but I have money of my own. We shall not allow a matter of my pension to part us.’
Then Mary threw herself into her governess’s arms. ‘You must never . . . never leave me,’ she said solemnly.
But it was not to be expected that the Queen would allow Margaret to remain with Mary after she had dared refuse to obey a command. She would make the King see what a danger Mary could be. It was clear that she was truculent by her refusal to return what did not really belong to her. Queen Anne had a child to fight for now, and she was determined that her Elizabeth, not Katharine’s Mary, should be regarded as heir to the throne.
Margaret saw that she had acted foolishly. What were a few jewels compared with real friendship, devotion and love? What would happen to Mary when she had no one to protect her? How would the news that Mary’s governess had been dismissed affect Katharine, who had admitted often that she could feel some comfort knowing that Mary was with her very dear friend?
The edict came. Margaret Pole, Countess of Salisbury, was to leave the household of the Lady Mary, who herself was to be sent from Beauleigh to Hunsdon, where she would live under the same roof as her half-sister, the Princess Elizabeth. And to remind her that she was not the King’s legitimate daughter, and therefore not entitled to be called Princess, she should live in humble state near the magnificence of Anne’s baby daughter.
Bitterly they wept. They could not visualise parting, so long had they been together.
‘One by one those whom I love are taken from me,’ sobbed Mary. ‘Now there is no one left. What new punishment will they inflict upon me?’
Eustache Cupuys had asked for a private interview with the King.
‘Your Majesty,’ said the Spanish ambassador, ‘I come to you because I can speak with greater freedom than can any of your subjects. The measures you have taken against the Queen and her daughter, the Princess Mary, are very harsh.’
Henry glowered at him, but Chapuys smiled ingratiatingly.
‘I speak thus, Your Majesty, because it is my great desire to see harmony between you and my master.’
‘There would be harmony between us but for the fact that you are continually writing to him of his aunt’s misfortunes. If his aunt and her daughter were no more . . . that would be an end of our troubles.’
He must go carefully; but in the meantime he must try to make matters easier for the Queen and Princess.
‘If they died suddenly Your Majesty’s subjects would not be pleased.’
‘What mean you?’ Henry demanded through half closed eyes.
‘That there might well be rebellion in England,’ said the ambassador bluntly.
‘You think my subjects would rebel against me?’
Eustache Chapuys lifted his shoulders. ‘Oh, the people love Your Majesty, but they love Queen Katharine too. They may love their King, but not his new marriage.’
‘You go too far.’
‘Perhaps I am over-zealous in my desires to create harmony between you and my master.’
Henry was thinking: The man’s a spy! I would to God we still had Mendoza here. This Chapuys is too sharp. We must be watchful of him.
He was uneasy. He did know that the people were grumbling against his marriage. They never shouted for Anne in the streets; and he was aware that when Katharine appeared they let her know that she had their sympathy.
‘I come to ask Your Majesty,’ went on Chapuys, ‘to show a little kindness to Queen Katharine, if not for her sake for the sake of the people. There is one thing she yearns for above all others: To see her daughter. Would Your Grace now allow them to meet?’