by Tony Riches
‘I had an agreement with your master that remains binding—despite the tragic loss of my eldest son.’
‘All we ask, Your Grace, is your acknowledgement that the betrothal of Princess Catherine to Prince Henry is equally binding.’
Henry felt his anger rising and nodded to his servants to open the doors. These meetings were not good for his health or his temper. It was becoming obvious why King Ferdinand had chosen Fuensalida as his envoy. The Spaniard gaped in astonishment that the meeting was over so soon.
‘There are still matters to discuss, Your Grace.’
‘I will therefore ask you to meet with my counsellors.’ He waved a hand. ‘Good day to you, Commander.’
After he’d gone Henry’s mother turned to him. ‘You could have indulged him for a little longer, out of courtesy.’
Henry shook his head. ‘I’ve had enough of their posturing, Mother. It irks me to allow Fuensalida to think he’s been responsible for letting Ferdinand off the hook.’
With Bishop Foxe away on other duties, Henry summoned the bishop’s secretary, an ambitious young cleric named Thomas Wolsey. It amused him to know Wolsey tried to keep secret his humble origins, although his father was a butcher and cattle farmer.
Establishing a reputation as a skilled administrator of both church and state, Wolsey was an Oxford graduate before his ordination. He’d been chaplain to the Archbishop of Canterbury and now acted as one of Henry’s chaplains, as well as supporting Bishop Foxe. He dressed in the sombre robes of a priest and carried a leather bag from which he produced several letters.
‘I thought these should be brought to your attention, Your Grace.’ He unfolded one and pointed a stubby finger. ‘It is from King Ferdinand to his daughter, Princess Catherine, and has been written in some form of code.’
‘Have you been able to decipher this, Master Wolsey?’ Henry squinted at the contents, frustrated by his poor eyesight before realising he could read none of the coded Spanish words.
Thomas Wolsey shook his head. ‘We managed to read his instruction to the princess to do everything in her power to preserve your goodwill, Your Grace, as well as the love of the Prince of Wales and the esteem of the people of England.’
‘That is all?’
‘He suggests you have no better chance of securing the succession of your son than by marrying him to Princess Catherine. I can only suggest that the other contents were intended to be kept secret.’ He produced a second letter and held it up for Henry to see. ‘Although it is in Spanish, we can learn more from Princess Catherine’s coded reply.’
‘You’ve intercepted her letters?’ Henry frowned.
‘All letters from the princess to Spain are checked as a routine precaution, Your Grace.’
‘Were they not sealed?’
Thomas Wolsey’s face reddened at the challenge. ‘There are ways of dealing with the seals.’ He gave Henry a knowing glance.
‘What does she say?’ Henry felt uncomfortable with the idea of intercepting Catherine’s messages yet was intrigued. He doubted young Wolsey would have bothered him with them if they were of no consequence.
‘The codes use strange symbols, as well as Latin numerals and keywords in place of names.’ Wolsey frowned. ‘We have been able to see she places the blame for her situation on Doctor de Puebla and asks for him to be removed from his post as Ambassador.’
‘That comes as little surprise. The two of them have always distrusted each other, although it seems unfair to blame Puebla now he is infirm—and has little influence over her situation.’
Wolsey consulted his notes of the decoded letters. ‘The princess also complains to her father, forgive me, Your Grace, of your... cruelty in not permitting her to see your son, the Prince of Wales.’
‘I allow her to live in the same house!’ Henry heard the defensive note in his voice, although he knew what she said was true and he must do something about it before too long.
Wolsey pointed out another line in the coded letter. ‘We think she says you wish to marry her sister—and hopes to use your interest to her advantage.’
‘I once considered the possibility of marriage to Queen Joanna. She is an attractive woman, Master Wolsey, still of childbearing age.’
‘It is no longer your intention?’ Wolsey’s dark eyes watched him with the same sharp interest as he showed in the letters.
Henry grew wistful as he recalled how entranced he’d been at his first meeting with Joanna. ‘I asked Doctor de Puebla to make enquiries. He informed me she is in mourning for her late husband and her excessive grief means she is unfit to marry anyone.’ He looked at Wolsey. ‘I do not accept that she is insane—but I no longer have any intention of marriage, to her or anyone.’
Wolsey hesitated to reply and studied Henry as if deciding not to comment. ‘What do you wish to do about this correspondence, Your Grace?’
Henry scratched the grey stubble on his chin. ‘I wish to meet one last time with Ambassador Fuensalida. We must put an end to King Ferdinand’s games—and I would like you to attend as a witness, Master Wolsey, to note whatever is agreed.’
Later he shared a flagon of his best wine with Lady Katheryn in the privacy of his study. One of the few he felt he could trust, she knew him better than anyone now and had become his confidante, closer even than his mother.
‘Prince Harry resents my efforts to keep him safe. He hardly speaks since I broke off his engagement to Princess Catherine.’ Henry lowered his voice. ‘He takes his meals alone and spends more time sparring with his friends than studying to become king.’
Katheryn sipped her wine before replying. She wore a gown of azure blue satin that shimmered when she moved, and sat close enough for Henry to know she’d used the intoxicating French perfume he’d given her.
‘Harry is young and will understand in time.’
‘Time is the one resource I do not have in abundance.’ Henry frowned. ‘All I wish is the best for him, which might be to marry Princess Catherine, but first I must be sure.’ He took a deep drink of his wine, enjoying the rich taste and the soothing effect on his throat.
Lady Katheryn gave him a questioning look. ‘What do you have in mind?’
‘I plan to begin discreet negotiations for a marriage between my son and Catherine’s niece, Princess Eleanor of Austria.’
‘The daughter of Queen Joanna of Castile—and you would marry your daughter to her son.’
‘What do you think of it?’
‘Do you want to hear the truth?’ She took another sip of her wine.
‘Of course.’ He drained his glass.
‘If I didn’t know better, I would think you were doing this to spite King Ferdinand for playing games with Catherine’s dowry. Princess Eleanor is not yet ten years old.’ She studied him with a twinkle in her eye. ‘Prince Harry is not noted for his patience. He won’t thank you for making him wait another six years before he is allowed to... consummate a marriage.’
Henry examined his empty glass. Of the finest quality, it had been a gift from the Venetian ambassador and engraved with a lion wearing a crown. The slender stem had a spiral twist and the bowl sparkled in the light as he turned it. He frowned as he noticed it had suffered a chip on the rim.
‘You are right, as usual. Although I feel obliged to explore all the possibilities, I wonder if I will be around by the time this... marriage could be agreed.’
Her eyes narrowed with concern. ‘You feel unwell again?’
Henry massaged his knee. ‘My joints ache with this gout. The doctors have no idea of a cure—and warn me the quinsy could return at any time.’
‘I’m sorry.’ She placed a comforting hand on his arm. ‘I forget how you suffer.’
‘All I can do is pray, Katheryn—which seems to be my solution for most things these days!’ He liked the warmth of her touch. He missed the intimacy he enjoyed with Elizabeth. Lady Katheryn was an attractive woman and he might be in love with her, yet he would never take it further for fear of losing her
as a companion.
Thomas Wolsey wasted no time arranging Henry’s meeting with Fuensalida. This time they met in the Palace of Westminster and the Spaniard strutted in with an air of arrogance. Henry could imagine what Princess Catherine had been telling him.
‘Commander Fuensalida, I trust you bring me better news?’
‘I regret, Your Grace, that since our last meeting I have discovered your son is no longer engaged to Princess Catherine.’
Henry studied the Spaniard, trying to work out what game he played. ‘You must know there are many eligible princesses, with greater dowry prospects, yet I have not favoured any over Catherine.’
Fuensalida continued undaunted., ‘It is proposed that you agree to forgo the balance of the dowry. King Ferdinand also advises that he refuses to sign the declaration confirming the marriage of his grandson, Prince Charles and your daughter, Princess Mary.’
‘You insult us, Commander Fuensalida.’ Henry raised his voice and scowled as new pain flared in his throat. ‘It is no secret that we are negotiating the payment of a generous dowry to the Holy Roman Emperor Maximilian, Prince Charles’ paternal grandfather.’
Henry could see the information was news to him. They both knew Emperor Maximilian needed the money and the payment would unite him in an alliance against King Ferdinand. Henry glanced across at Thomas Wolsey.
‘You will inform King Ferdinand that I consider Princess Catherine as my own daughter. My son is free from the marriage contract because the dowry has not been paid within the time agreed.’
‘Forgive me, Your Grace, I am only the messenger.’ Fuensalida avoided Henry’s eye.
‘You may also inform your master that he has incurred my displeasure for refusing to support the marriage of Prince Charles and Princess Mary.’ Henry’s tone sounded harsher than he intended because of the soreness of his throat but it was clear Fuensalida understood.
The queen’s presence chamber at Richmond Palace, with its priceless tapestries and polished oak floor, held many poignant memories for Henry. Kept as a memorial to Elizabeth, it was the only place he could go to feel a sense of her, as her chambers had long since been occupied by Prince Harry.
Now he decided it would be the ideal place for the betrothal of his daughter Mary. In a treaty signed in Calais it was agreed the marriage would take place in six years, when Prince Charles reached the age of fourteen. In the meantime, Henry wished to bind Charles to Mary in the eyes of God.
The shutters were opened for the first time since Elizabeth’s death and the windows polished until they shone. A fire had been lit to ward off the December damp and rows of seats arranged for the guests, with a long red carpet down the middle to represent the nave of a church. Princess Mary sat alone on a low throne under a grand canopy of cloth of gold.
The Lord of Bergues, stand-in for young Charles at the ceremony, arrived with an impressive entourage of Flemish and Spanish nobles. Tall and thin, with a hat too large for his head, he bowed to Henry and presented him with a velvet covered box containing a gold fleur-de-lis glittering with fine diamonds.
Henry thanked him in French and introduced his daughter. The Lord of Bergues bowed again and presented her with another wedding present, a large diamond brooch set in a circle of perfect pearls. He then read aloud in French a letter from Charles, an unconvincing speech about how devoted Charles was towards his new bride. Princess Mary, dressed in her bridal gown, stared at the Flemish lord, her face reddening with embarrassment at his earnest words.
The sour-faced Lord Chancellor, Archbishop of Canterbury William Warham, gave an overlong sermon in his booming voice on the sanctity of marriage. He then blessed them both and asked Mary to repeat her marriage vows before God and the assembled witnesses.
Her voice lacked conviction as she promised her life to an eight-year-old prince she had never met, while staring at the thin-faced Lord of Bergues. At one point she stumbled over her words and Archbishop Warham had to prompt her.
After repeating his vows on behalf of Prince Charles, the Lord of Bergues kissed her on the lips with more enthusiasm than required. He then reached into a pocket in his doublet and took out a heavy gold ring, which he placed on her slender finger.
Henry breathed a sigh of relief to see another of his children married well. He’d grown close to Mary when she helped nurse him through his illness, and was glad it had not been her duty to marry a man much older than herself. She would have five years to learn to know her betrothed. Charles might be young but he would be wealthy and was heir to the Houses of Valois-Burgundy and the Holy Roman Empire, as well as Spain.
At the banquet that followed, Henry sat with Prince Harry and the Lord of Bergues, while the ladies were at a separate table. Later there would be dancing but for now the musicians played tunes chosen for the occasion by Mary.
Harry turned to Henry after the long grace was said by Archbishop Warham. ‘I see Princess Catherine is seated at the far end of the table, Father. Has she offended you in some way?’
Henry shook his head. ‘We thought to avoid causing awkwardness to your sister.’
‘You know they are still close, Father? Mary has been helping Catherine with her English, in return for tuition in Spanish.’
‘I’m glad to hear it, Harry. It is well past time when we could converse with the princess in English.’
He glanced across the room and caught his daughter’s eye. He was surprised to see a glimpse of sadness before she composed herself, rather than the joy he’d expected. He decided it must be due to the stress of the occasion, although somewhere in the back of his mind he guessed there might be another reason.
He knew she’d been seen with Charles Brandon on more than one occasion. Brandon had proved himself an unsuitable companion for Mary. He'd fathered a child with an attractive young courtier, Lady Anne Brown, then married her wealthy widowed aunt, Lady Margaret Neville, eighteen years his senior.
Henry suspected Harry’s involvement when Brandon divorced his new wife and married Anne in a secret ceremony. He should be banished from court, yet he was a great favourite of Prince Harry, and Henry felt reluctant to further antagonize his son.
Chapter Twenty-Five
April 1509
Henry lay in his canopied bed in Richmond Palace, propped up with silk pillows and exhausted by his aches and pains. The quinsy had returned with a vengeance and he struggled to eat or speak. He’d lost track of the days and slept restlessly, waking in the night with a raging thirst.
His most frequent visitor was his mother. Approaching her sixty-sixth year, she looked thin and pale in her black gown, another concern to add to Henry’s list. Although she sometimes stayed in her apartments in Richmond, she’d moved her household to Coldharbour so she could visit him every day.
‘My dearly beloved son,’ she studied him, as if making a judgement, ‘I pray for you, yet in my heart I know this will not be so easily recovered from.’
He replied in a hoarse whisper, so she needed to lean closer to hear. ‘I have learnt to read the faces of our physicians, lady Mother. I know to ignore their reassuring words...’ He coughed, doubling up in pain with each contraction of his throat. ‘They do not expect me to last long and there is much to do—while there is still breath in my body.’
Lady Margaret wiped a tear from her eye then regained her composure. ‘I understand you have appointed me as executor of your will.’
‘Who better?’ His voice rasped, each word an effort.
‘Master Wolsey read it to me, as my own eyesight is not as sharp as it once was.’ A flicker of concern passed over her face. ‘You make no mention of the succession?’
‘Prince Harry will succeed me, Mother.’ He coughed again and grimaced as he tried to control the pain. ‘I regret he has not been well enough prepared...’
Lady Margaret shook her head. ‘He is too young at seventeen for such responsibility.’
‘I appoint you as Regent until he is of age. Will you speak with Harry, to assure him of my
intention?’ He suppressed another cough.
His Mother held his cup of mead while he took a sip. ‘Has he not visited you?’
Henry was unable to reply. It saddened him that Harry found better things to do than comfort his ailing father. His mother would deal with it, as she always had. His Uncle Jasper used to say it was Beaufort steel that gave her such strength in adversity.
Bishop Foxe came to administer a special mass and blessing while Henry remained in his bed to receive communion. He couldn’t manage the wafer of bread but he sipped a little holy wine. The familiar rituals gave him a certain inner strength and provided order in his waking and sleeping hours. Afterwards, Foxe sat to keep him company by reading from the scriptures.
‘I owe you a debt, Richard.’ Henry wheezed when he had finished.
‘Your Grace?’
‘I learnt from Wolsey it was you who secured the betrothal of my daughter Mary.’
‘It was not difficult, Your Grace.’ Foxe was dismissive. ‘Once Emperor Maximilian knew it would be to his advantage he could not wait to agree.’
‘Accept my gratitude, Bishop, while I can still speak.’
Foxe nodded, concern written on his lined face. ‘Two thousand masses have been said, Your Grace, and Thomas Wolsey is arranging for all the parishes to pray for you.’
‘Convey my thanks to Master Wolsey. He is thorough in his work.’
Foxe stood, holding his precious Vulgate Bible. ‘I shall, Your Grace, and will return once I’ve dealt with matters at Winchester.’
‘Before you go, as my confessor, you must help redeem my sins.’ Henry’s voice reduced to a wheezing whisper. ‘I’ve been... too ready to jail those who offend me and too slow to release them, for fear of what they might do.’
Bishop Foxe thought for a moment. ‘You could proclaim a general pardon, Your Grace. Free all those held in jails except for murder and treason. They might pray for you in gratitude for your mercy?’
Henry nodded. ‘Make it so.’ His voice was failing now and he held up a hand in farewell. ‘Thank you, Richard.’