The Lady in the Tower

by Jean Plaidy

  As soon as the meeting was over, the King came to me to tell me about it.

  “Wolsey was superb,” he said. “I never saw him more astute. The man is truly marvelous. He sat there at the table surrounded by the clergy and the lawyers and he told the court that the Archbishop had a searching question to put to me. You should have seen poor old Warham. He was trembling in his shoes. And understandably so. He had to stand up and charge me with living illegally for all these years with a woman who was not my wife.”

  “Oh yes, I can understand his fear.”

  “Wolsey had told him beforehand that it would be no surprise to me and that my conscience had been troubling me on this score for some time, so there was no need to fear that he would offend me. He told him that when I had heard what the Bishop of Tarbes had said and this was conveyed to me by the French ambassador, I knew that I must search my soul and face up to any questions which a court of inquiry might ask me.”

  “But to stand before those men and accuse you!”

  “Poor fellow, I was quite sorry for him. At one point he faltered, but Wolsey pulled him through. I listened carefully to what he had to say and when he had finished they were all watching me intently. I told them then how grieved I was and how I could understand their concern. I had no hard feelings toward those who had thought it necessary to bring this case.”

  “You could not have been expected to have hard feelings against yourself,” I reminded him.

  He frowned. That was one thing I had to learn about him. In the midst of the most blatant hypocrisy he could delude himself into believing what he was trying to make others believe. It was extraordinary that a man of his intellect could do that. It showed an unusual dexterity of the mind. It amused me and I could not help referring to it. That was dangerous. I was as impetuous and reckless as Thomas Wyatt.

  But he was too excited at that moment to reprove me. He went on as though I had not spoken: “I think there is only one thing for me to do and that is, however distressing, to submit to an inquiry.” He turned to me, his face alight with joy. “Anne, it will not be long now. We shall be together. All we have to do is wait for Wolsey. He will go to the Pope and get the whole matter sealed and settled before the Emperor hears a word of it.”

  I was beginning to believe that this fantastic future could be mine. The King would submit to an inquiry which Wolsey would see took the right course. The clergy would be convinced that the King's marriage to Katharine was no true marriage; and then Wolsey would declare it invalid. All he would need was the sanction of the Pope as a matter of form, and as a Cardinal he would be in a position to get that.

  It did not occur to Henry that the Queen would raise any objection. She had always been gentle and loving; she had pretended not to notice his peccadillos; she was of a dignified, quiet and retiring nature. He said with an air of magnanimity that he would regard her as his sister. She would be well looked after. She should have a household worthy of her, and she could spend her days in meditation and prayer. Perhaps she would like to go into a nunnery? It all seemed very simple.

  I was changing. That was inevitable. I excuse myself by stressing my youth. I was only twenty years old and not really as wise as I thought I was. Who is, at twenty? I thought, because I had been brought up in the sophisticated French Court, because I had a ready wit, because I was an accomplished musician, because I could thrust and parry in conversation and join in a discussion with the best of them, that I was wise.

  If only I had been, my story might have been different.

  Now my reluctance was slipping away from me. I now knew why it was that men risked everything for a crown; through the ages that had been so. They fought for it, sacrificed everything they had for it. I did not pause to think that often, when it came, it had brought only trouble, care and tragedy.

  I wanted now, desperately, to be Queen of England; and only now, when the crown seemed to be within my grasp, did I realize how much.

  I was sorry for the Queen but I told myself I was more suitable to share Henry's throne. She would have hidden herself completely away if that had been possible. Henry needed someone as lively as he was, someone who could share in the revelries, plan them, sing, dance, look the part of Queen just as he did that of King.

  He had urged me to buy what materials I needed—velvets, brocades, cloth of gold and silver. The cost would be taken care of. He wanted to see me outshine them all, which he assured me I could do if I were dressed as a beggar; but that did not mean he wished me to have anything but the finest.

  I gave way to my passion for clothes and he supplied the jewelry. Gifts came to me frequently; and they were usually priceless gems.

  I was now learning the meaning of ambition.

  The Queen was aware that something was very wrong. It was impossible to hide it from her. The King had not yet spoken to her as he intended to. He wanted the ecclesiastical court to have progressed a little farther in its findings. Then he would go to her, and I was sure he would put up a great show of melancholy which would appear all the more genuine since, while he was with her, he would be able to convince himself that he really felt it.

  I think she was a very frightened woman.

  She knew of his favor toward me, but she was not really concerned, for she did not realize what part I was to play in “the King's Secret Matter.” I was, she no doubt believed, his mistress as my sister had been before me.

  That she would have liked to banish me from Court I was sure, but she would not run the risk of dismissing me any more than she had Mary, for she knew that, if she did, the King would call me back to Court, which would be humiliating for her; she did not want, at this stage, to irritate him.

  There were only a few—my brother George, for instance, and my father, both on intimate terms with Henry—who knew of his plans for me. He was very anxious to keep me out of it, and I believe he was determined that Wolsey should not know. Though Wolsey was his servant, he was also a Cardinal and owed a certain allegiance to the Pope. I could not guess what Wolsey's reactions would have been had he known. I expected he would have done his best to dissuade the King from that course of action and tell him that the only thing he could do, when he was free from Katharine, was to marry a foreign princess.

  Ambassadors were natural spies. I had always known that; and the Spanish ambassador was as skilled in the art as much as any, save only the French. They had to be because of the relationships between the countries. I do not know how many people Inigo de Mendoza had working for him in secret—although we did learn that he knew that Wolsey was promoting the divorce and that the King had assembled bishops and lawyers to prove that the marriage was illegal.

  I believed at this time that everything was going well. Wolsey was about to proclaim the marriage invalid and then go to Rome to persuade Clement to give the final word, which would be easy with a sizeable bribe. Only when this had been accomplished did the King wish him to know that he intended to make me his Queen.

  We anticipated no trouble, and the end seemed in sight.

  Soon, I told myself, I should be going to my coronation.

  An entertainment of rather special splendor was in progress. Since I had been of such importance at Court, I flattered myself that our masques and playlets were more cultivated, more witty. I was remembering so much of what I had learned in France.

  On this occasion we were dancing. I was with the King as usual, and people had fallen away so that we could be almost alone as we danced. This often happened when the King performed. He liked it. It was an indication that when he danced people wanted to look at no others but him … and his partner.

  I enjoyed it, too. I knew that my dancing was of the highest standard. I liked to be watched and admired—even as he did.

  Then there was a clatter beyond the hall. A man appeared in the doorway. The ushers sought to hold him off, but he cried: “I must see the King. I have news.”

  He was travelstained and muddy and looked as though he had ridden far.r />
  Henry shouted: “How now. What means this? What news have you brought? Ill it would seem.”

  “Your Grace, a most terrible tragedy. Rome has been overrun by the Constable de Bourbon's troops. The Constable has been killed. The troops have sacked Rome, and the Pope has escaped to the Castle of St. Angelo, where he is a prisoner.”

  There was a deep silence throughout the hall. The King's face had turned ashen and then purple.

  I knew what this meant. Bourbon had been an ally of the Emperor, and Clement was in truth the Emperor's prisoner.

  What hope was there now of getting the necessary sanction to the divorce which we had so confidently expected?

  There was no more dancing that night. The King summoned Wolsey and retired with him.

  There were several versions of that catastrophic event. It was the work of the Constable de Bourbon who had deserted François and become the Emperor's ally. It was his troops who had captured François at Pavia and handed him over to the Emperor.

  Charles had honored the Constable but some of the Spanish nobles had despised him as a traitor, and there was a story that when he arrived in Madrid and the Emperor had wished to do him great honor for the service he had rendered him, he asked the Marquis of Villena to give up his residence to be used by Bourbon while he was in the town, because it was one of the finest there. The Emperor called him the Hero of Pavia. The Marquis had replied that, since the Emperor asked it, he must indeed obey, but after the Constable had left he would set fire to it with his own hands, for he could not live in rooms which had been occupied by a traitor to his country.

  I wondered about the Constable. I did not think he had been a very happy man, although he had been known as one of the greatest soldiers of our day and the Emperor, delighting to have him in his service, had made much of him. But Bourbon had been too proud to be happy serving any man. Charles had promised him Milan but he had cast covetous eyes on Naples. He had been a brave and audacious leader and had never hesitated to face danger; and the soldiery had been ready to follow him where he led.

  He had gathered together a great army which included fifteen thousand landsknechts from Germany, many of whom had been deeply affected by the teachings of Martin Luther and regarded the Pope as the enemy of true religion. Bourbon had promised to make them rich from the treasure they would find in Rome. They would corner the Pope in his hideaway; they would help themselves to his riches… all the great fortune which had been milched from the poor in the sale of indulgences and suchlike anomalies.

  They went through Italy past Bologna and Florence, resisting the temptation to plunder these rich cities because the march on Rome was all-important.

  Outside the city they camped. The Constable made a moving speech, reminding them that they had come far, traveling through the bad weather of the winter; they had had several encounters with the enemy from which they had emerged at some cost; they had been hungry and thirsty; but now they had arrived at their goal. Now was the time to show their mettle. An astrologer had once told him that he would die in Rome, but he cared not. He knew what he must do. They were to attack in the early morning and if his men followed him they would take the city and be rich.

  Clad in white so that his men should always see him, and to show the enemy that he feared them not, he led the assault. It was a foolhardy gesture. As soon as he started to scale the walls of the city, he was identified and hit by an arquebus shot which mortally wounded him.

  His dying words were that an enterprise so well begun must be continued. Had he lived, it might have been a different story. He was a great soldier; he would have taken what he wanted from the town and made the Pope his prisoner, and the victory would have been conducted in accordance with the laws of warfare. But now Rome was at the mercy of rough, licentious and fanatical soldiery.

  The Sack of Rome would surely be remembered as one of the most horrifying events of the century. Churches were desecrated; priests were murdered and nuns raped on altars. There was no end to the stories of horror, and for weeks people talked of nothing but the terrible events which had taken place in Rome.

  But to us it had a special significance. For how could Clement give us the sanction we needed while he was virtually the prisoner of the Queen's nephew?

  “This,” said the King, grinding his teeth, “is going to delay our matter.”

  He turned to Wolsey, and afterward I learned what had taken place at that interview.

  “Wolsey says the ecclesiastical court should be closed without delay. No good can come of keeping it open. We can get nowhere until the Pope is free of the Emperor. Wolsey proposes to go to France and get François to work with him. The Pope must be freed. There must be peace throughout Europe. If he could bring that about, with the help of the French, he would consider making a fresh alliance with them against the Emperor. I said to him, ‘But what of my matter, Thomas?’ And he replied, ‘Your Grace, nothing is closer to my heart, but before we can continue further we must be sure of success. We cannot proceed while the Pope is in captivity. Unfortunately we need his sanction. Allow me to proceed to France and I swear to Your Grace that I will seize every opportunity to conclude Your Grace's matter to Your Grace's satisfaction.’”

  Henry looked at me and shrugged his shoulders.

  I said: “It seems like fate. Just now … at this time… the Pope to be taken prisoner and delivered into the Emperor's hands.”

  He nodded somberly. “You'll see, sweetheart. He'll have the answer. I doubt it not. This unfortunate matter of the Pope has delayed us, but Wolsey will find the solution. Never fear. He always has and he knows that this matter is of greater importance to me than anything has ever been.”

  It was the beginning of July when the Cardinal left for France. Crowds gathered in the streets to see him pass, for he and his entourage were a splendid sight indeed. He was noted for his ostentatious love of ceremony and show, which some unkind observers said was natural since he had begun life in a butcher's shop. I was not sure of that. He did not love such things more than the King who had first seen the light of day in Greenwich Palace and had lived as a prince all his life.

  But the Cardinal certainly loved splendor. His palaces—York Place and Hampton Court particularly—were as magnificent as (some said more so than) the royal residences. There was a little rhyme which the people often quoted. It had been written by Shelton, one of the poets of the Court. It ran something like this:

  Why come ye not to Court?

  To which Court?

  The King's Court

  Or to Hampton Court?

  Wolsey had certainly made his place at Hampton worthy to be royal, and there was nothing he liked better than to entertain the King there. Henry himself had remarked on its magnificence and, I fancy, was a little envious of it. But he was really fond of Wolsey. It was not only the man's brain—and really he was amazingly astute—but something in Wolsey's personality which charmed Henry; and in spite of all the jealousy and sneering remarks which were directed at the Cardinal, Henry ignored them, or on some occasions showed his displeasure, which was the quickest way of putting a stop to Wolsey's detractors.

  Wolsey took with him a large company of attendants. They were all elegant in black velvet with gold chains about their necks. Their servants must be there, and they were distinguished by their tawny livery.

  The Cardinal himself was a most impressive figure. He used a mule, but what a mule! It was caparisoned in crimson to match the Cardinal's robes; and, lest anyone should forget his high office, in both Church and State, carried before him was the Great Seal of England and his cardinal's hat.

  I do not think he was a very happy man. I was sure that, as far as the treaties he had in mind, he felt confident enough; it was the King's Secret Matter which gave him such concern. I believed in his heart he was against the divorce. Perhaps he thought there was still time to get a son. On the other hand, the King had no brothers, no obvious heirs, and there could be trouble for a country when a monarch di
ed and there might be several claimants to the throne.

  Perhaps Wolsey thought it was a matter with which he need not concern himself overmuch. The King was younger than he was, and it was plausible to think that he would be dead long before such a contingency arose.

  And so he passed on his ceremonious way to France.

  TIME WAS PASSING. Wolsey was making progress in France but he was no nearer to bringing about the freedom of the Pope.

  Henry wrote impatiently. I saw the letter. It accused the Cardinal of not giving his full attention to the matter uppermost in the King's mind.

  Wolsey replied that he was straining every effort. François was sympathetic and Wolsey believed that he would welcome a union with the Princess Renée.

  My father came to see me. He now regarded me in a very different light. He looked at me with some wonder and called me “dear daughter.”

  I was skeptical of his sudden affection for me. Of course I was carrying on the tradition of the Boleyn family, which had forced a few roots into society through the women of the house. I was about to follow the tradition—but in a much more spectacular fashion than any of my predecessors.

  I wanted to laugh at him.

  “My dear daughter,” he said, “you look in good health.”

  “You too, my lord,” I replied coolly.

  “This is a most exciting project we have on our hands. The King has told me of his feelings for you.”

  “So I have found favor in your sight, my lord?”

  “My dear child. I always knew that you, of all my brood, were the one with special talents.”

  “Mary had some excellent talents,” I reminded him.

  “Ah, your sister Mary… she was always a fool. Well, she reaped her folly. There she is… living humbly with Carey. He will never make a name for himself.”