by Jean Plaidy
We had decided that while Campeggio was presiding over the court it would be better for me to keep out of sight, to give the impression that Henry's desire for a divorce had nothing to do with me.
Although I was not present on so many of those occasions, I heard about them from several sources. Henry kept me informed; so did my brother and my father. They were both working assiduously for the divorce. My father was naturally overjoyed at the prospect of my becoming the Queen; even with his ambition, he had never visualized a daughter of his going so far.
So all through that year we waited.
Everything concerned with the matter seemed to take on an almost farcical note. The King had decided that Campeggio should be given a royal welcome. Indeed, while he was in England, deference must be paid to him; he must be placated; in every way his sympathy was to be won. Therefore he was to have a warm welcome.
The merchants of London with their apprentices brought out the banners of their guilds and their houses were decorated with streamers of cloth of silver and gold. Noble lords and their retinues formed the procession, which was joined by the clergy with all their paraphernalia of office, making a colorful display. And at the head of it rode the Cardinal, more splendid than any, in his rich red robes, his silver crosses and the Great Seal of office borne before him with his cardinal's hat.
This was to be the great occasion—the meeting of two Cardinals both appointed legates of the Pope. Such scenes were rare in London.
It was characteristic that Compeggio, for whom all this pomp and ceremony had been arranged, should fail to appear.
While London was waiting for his great entry, he was in bed, suffering from another attack of the gout. So the crowds who had come out to see him were disappointed of the spectacle to which they had looked forward.
Campeggio came into London by barge the next day, and no one noticed his arrival. As soon as he was there, he had to retire at once to bed.
I had expected that once he was in London the court would be set up and the verdict given quickly.
But no. That was what Wolsey might desire but he could not act without the cooperation of Campeggio, and I began to wonder whether that prelate ever intended to give a judgment, for he showed every reluctance in taking even the first steps.
Henry was in a state of suppressed fury. He wanted to shake them until their teeth rattled. He wanted to threaten to have their heads. But, of course, he was not Campeggio's master—even Wolsey must bow to the wishes of that other beside whom even the King's power was ineffective.
The head of the Church was the Pope of Rome, and this was a Church matter.
But for his difficult position I believe Henry would have stormed at them, threatened them, but he could not do so. He was caught by his own conscience. He must pretend throughout that it was the reason for the inquiry.
I soon realized that Campeggio must have had his instructions from the Pope to delay matters as long as possible, in the hope that most likely the King's passion for me would burn out—and they could play a waiting game until that happened, when the entire dangerous business could be forgotten.
This was all due to the powerful Emperor, who was clearly a man not to be trifled with. The Pope's position was very insecure. The Emperor had made great progress in Italy; and while the Pope sought to placate Henry, he could not offend the Emperor. My future depended on the politics of Europe.
After he had arrived in London, Campeggio lay in bed for two weeks, unable to move. Henry was getting frantic and Wolsey had to make some move, so he visited Campeggio and pleaded with him to help bring the matter to a conclusion. The court must be opened.
Campeggio was not feigning illness. He really was in great pain. The devious Pope must have sent such a man because he knew his very incapacity could help to bring about delay.
Then Henry had an unsatisfactory meeting with the legate; he explained to him how much his conscience troubled him. Henry could be very eloquent where his conscience was concerned. But he nearly lost his temper—which he realized he must not do—when Campeggio suggested that the Pope might be ready to give him a dispensation so that he need have no more qualms about his marriage to Katharine.
Henry was adamant. He could not reconcile his conscience to that. He had had God's warning in his inability to get sons.
God had made it clear to him that He was displeased with the marriage. He quoted Leviticus. No, Henry must divorce Katharine and marry again speedily for the sake of the heirs his country needed. He was acting as a monarch should—thinking solely of his country.
When Campeggio suggested that Katharine might go into a nunnery, Henry was delighted. He almost clapped the poor old man on the back, which would have had a disastrous effect on his bones. It was the answer. Why, there had been an example across the water only a short time ago. Louis XII's Jeanne had retired to a convent and the King of France had married Anne of Brittany. Yes, that was indeed an excellent idea.
Campeggio was sure the Emperor would not object to that.
“The Queen is a lady of great virtue and deeply religious,” said Henry. “I am sure that she would feel great happiness in a convent. She shall have her own. She shall live just as she chooses. It is the answer.”
Full of optimistic hopes that the end of this contentious matter was in sight, Campeggio and Wolsey presented themselves to Katharine.
The Queen never forgot that she was the daughter of the great Isabella. Her health was not good but her determination was strong. Her devotion to her daughter was unswerving. I think she would willingly have sacrificed her life for her daughter's sake. Now she was going to fight for her daughter. Mary at this time was heiress to the throne and would remain so until the King begat a son. Katharine knew that she would never bear that son. Henry was her husband, she maintained, and therefore the crown must in time be Mary's. She would fight for her daughter as she never would have fought for herself. If she allowed her marriage to be branded invalid, then her daughter would have no right to the throne. I was sure that was the one thing which was uppermost in her mind. Strictly religious, adhering to the rules of the Church of Rome, she was not going to lie about her marriage because the King was besotted with one of her maids of honor who was ambitious enough to demand marriage in return for her favors. She told Campeggio and Wolsey that, although she had been married to Prince Arthur, the marriage had never been consummated and she had come as a virgin to Henry. She was not going to tell or act a lie before God; nor would she live a lie if by allowing herself to be sent to a convent, which would be tantamount to admitting that she had never been married to the King and had been living in sin all those years. The answer was No.
How Henry fumed! How Wolsey trembled! Campeggio retired to bed; he had no desire, it seemed, except to rest his painful body.
Anxiously we watched events on the Continent. The successful Emperor made an offer of peace to Clement which would be of advantage to him. Clement, in a difficult position, wavered. There was Henry thundering on one side and Charles menacing on the other; and Clement had more to fear from Charles than he had from Henry. What could he do? The peace with the Emperor was still being considered; Clement dared not offend on that front; on the other hand he needed Henry's friendship. He was an unlucky man. On other occasions when his predecessors had been asked to help kings out of unfortunate marriages, there had not been these complications. It had simply been a matter of placating the powerful monarch or accepting a bribe. Rarely had a man been in such a position— and a man such as himself who asked only for a peaceful life!
Campeggio was holding back—just in case affairs with the Emperor did not go as promised, for then, if Henry was offended, where would Clement be… without friends and allies?
To Wolsey the Pope wrote with feeling that if it were merely a matter of his own personal safety he would have given the King what he wanted; but it was more than that. If only the lady concerned did not have such powerful relations, it would have been easy. But he, Clemen
t, could not risk what action might be taken by the Emperor if he considered his aunt had been unjustly treated, even by a monarch so great as King Henry.
Wolsey had his network of spies, and most correspondence which came back and forth was scrutinized by him.
He knew that the Pope was telling Campeggio to prolong the matter in the hope that the King might change his mind, for what he asked could not be granted without peril and scandal.
Wolsey knew also that Clement had no intention of granting the divorce and that Campeggio was using his gouty condition to enable him to prevaricate with some semblance of plausibility.
I was so frustrated. Sometimes I was quite hysterical. I did not know what the outcome would be. The King seemed as deeply enamored of me as ever; but he was in a nervous state too. It had not occurred to him that when he asked for a divorce he would not get it. He could cite so many examples of monarchs in his position. “Why, oh why,” he demanded, “should I be the one to be denied?”
The answer was easy: Because his wife was the aunt of the Emperor Charles.
We saw each other now and then. I would chafe against the delay and he assured me that Wolsey was doing his best. I doubted this.
“Your Grace is bemused by that man,” I said incautiously.
Henry replied: “Nay, sweetheart, I know him well. No one knows him better. He has always worked well for me and he will continue to do so.”
“Cannot you see that he is working for his master, the Pope?”
“Wolsey is my man.”
“Cardinal Wolsey?”
I withdrew myself from his embrace. He was amazed. No one contradicted the King. No one but myself denied him what he wanted.
He left soon after that, his expression bleak.
When he had gone, I asked myself what I had done. I was letting my nervous tension get the better of my common sense. He had never looked like that before. He was frustrated beyond endurance, and instead of soothing him I had irritated him.
I thought of writing to him. No, that would not do. I must not show weakness. There might be a reconciliation, which could very well have the ending which I was so desperately trying to hold off. On the other hand criticism was something that he would not take from anyone… not even from me.
What should I do? I spent a sleepless night. If only this dreadful waiting was over! In the end I wrote a note to him in which I told him I was sorry for my outburst. I was so weary with the waiting.
His reply was instant.
What a joy it was to understand my reasonableness and he was delighted that I was suppressing my fantasies.
“Good sweetheart,” he went on, “continue the same not only in this but in all your doing hereafter, for thereby shall come to both you and me the greatest quietness that may be in the world …” He ended: “Written with the hand which fain would be yours, and so is the heart. H.R.”
Perhaps the most disturbing element of all came from the people. They knew of Campeggio's presence in London and they had heard of the King's Secret Matter. They knew that he wanted to put away Queen Katharine and set me up in her place.
Katharine had always been popular, though not as the King had, of course. They loved their large glittering monarch who gave such splendid entertainments at his Court, which they were sometimes able to see. He was always cheerful, smiling and approachable…to them, for the ordinary people found him much more affable than his courtiers did. His father—though he had made the country prosperous—had never enjoyed the popularity which had come to his son. The people wanted someone who looked like a king—and Henry certainly did that.
They did not like what they heard, so they had to have a scapegoat. The King was too popular to take that role, so who should it fall to but myself?
Little did they know that in the first place I had been brought reluctantly into this. If only I had married Henry Percy, they would have known nothing of me; I should have lived my life in obscure and peaceful happiness as the Countess of Northumberland.
Now I was called Sorceress. I had a sixth finger which had been given to me by the Devil. By spells I had seduced the King from the path of virtue. The Devil and I had concocted a scheme to break up the King's marriage, that I might take the Queen's place.
They gathered about the palace. They cheered Katharine whenever she appeared, which I think she did more frequently than in the past, reveling in their sympathy. Who could blame her? She was fighting for her position, for her child's right to the throne. I saw that clearly… much as I wanted her out of my way.
They greeted the King with silence. It was the first time in his life that he had lacked the vociferous appreciation of the crowd and he did not like it. It worried him considerably. He must be remembering that his father had come by a devious way to the throne.
“We'll have no Nan Bullen,” they shouted at the King.
Angrily he gave orders that crowds were not to be allowed to gather near the palaces.
They talked about my low birth. This was amusing coming from the apprentices, the seamstresses and the watermen. They passed over the fact that I was of Howard blood—one of the highest families in the land. I was of tradesmen's stock, they said. It had always been amazing to me that the lower orders hate to see someone rise in life. Though humbly born themselves, they cannot bear to see one whom they consider to be of their kind rise to greatness. It was the same with Wolsey. One would have thought they would have been delighted, and see in such a rise a chance for themselves.
So the demonstrations grew and I could not go to London. It was depressing to be so hated.
Henry wrote that I must stay away for if I were there he would fear for my safety.
I had heard that he had appeared before the Mayor of London and the Aldermen because he wished the City of London to understand what was actually happening.
He spoke eloquently of that which always aroused a passionate fluency in him—his conscience. He was thinking of his people. As men of intelligence, they would know that one of the most important safeguards to a country's security was the succession. If only he could be shown that his marriage was legal, nothing would please him more. The Queen had so many good qualities which he had good reason to know, and in births she was incomparable. If he had to make a choice now, he would choose her above all women.
When such words were reported to me, I was filled with fury; but I grew calmer. Hypocrisy was second nature to Henry and he used it so well because he believed it when he said it. But could he even for a moment have believed that he would have chosen Katharine now if he had a choice? It was not a matter of choice. He only had to stop proceedings and Katharine could remain his wife; and I did not suppose for a moment that anyone would question the matter.
How could one trust a man who could talk so convincingly and so untruthfully?
Was that another signpost which I ignored? Should I have asked myself at that time more searchingly what dangers lay ahead in union with him?
It was decided that I should spend Christmas at Court. I should go to Greenwich.
How many weary months ago had I thought that by this time I should be crowned Queen of England.
No sooner had I arrived in Greenwich than I realized it had been a mistake to come.
The Queen was naturally there and, as the King's Secret Matter was secret no longer, all knew that his desire for a divorce was because he wished to marry me. That put me in a very difficult position. There were those who flattered me because of the favors I should be able to bestow on them when I became Queen; on the other hand there were those who thought I never would be, that Katharine's obstinacy and piety would prevail, and to her they wished to show their fidelity. There were some, I knew, who had a genuine affection for Katharine and would rally around her no matter what happened.
I had one or two faithful friends. There was my cousin Madge Shelton, my brother, Mary Wyatt, my dear stepmother, who was torn between pride and fear. There were plenty to flutter round me: Norris, Bryan, Brereto
n, Weston. They were all in love with me, or professed to be. I think the King's desire for me must have given me a special aura.
However, in spite of these people, I felt alone that Christmas.
The Queen, of course, could not be expected to receive me, so I had my own apartments at Greenwich, and Henry had seen that they were very splendid. In fact they had every aspect of royalty. At times it seemed as though I were already the Queen.
I was determined to hide my apprehension, and whatever the feelings against me, it was in my apartments that the lively and witty courtiers assembled; most people wanted to be there, including the King. I am sure Katharine's domain must have been very somber compared with mine. But, of course, for the traditional Christmas ceremonies, Henry must be with her, for instance at the church services and the state banquet when people crowded into the hall and helped themselves from the tables in accordance with custom. They would expect to see the Queen with the King, not with the Concubine—as they called me.
But it was gratifying that, whenever he could, he escaped to my quarters, and there we danced and sang and enjoyed all the entertainments which I and my friends had devised.
That was a great success but I had a heavy heart at these festivities. There is nothing so frustrating as to have one's hopes rise only to be dashed down again and again after months of planning and joyful anticipation, and to realize that there had been no move from the position one was in this time last year.
I was growing more and more suspicious of Wolsey. I began to believe he was in collusion with Campeggio and received his instructions from the Pope no less than the Italian did. Of course, his first obedience was to the Pope, but Henry was too bemused to see this.