by Jean Plaidy
Henry’s hand flew to his dagger. “Do you not know that it is high treason to disobey the King?”
Reginald was silent.
“Do you?” cried the King. “By God, if you do not I shall find means to teach you.” He called for a page, and when the young man appeared he shouted: “Send Lord Montague to me without delay.”
The page departed and in a few moments Reginald’s brother came hurrying into the gallery.
Henry shook his fist at Montague. “By God,” he cried, “I’ll have every member of your family clapped into the Tower. I’ll brook no more insolence from you.”
Montague stammered: “Your Grace, pray tell me what any member of my family has done to displease you.”
Henry pointed at Reginald. “This brother of yours should be kept in better order. He dares to come here and meddle in my affairs. I’d have you know, Montague, that I have a way with meddlers.”
“Yes, Your Grace; on behalf of my family I offer my deepest regrets.…”
“Take him away,” shouted Henry, “before I lose my patience, before I order him to be sent to the Tower.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
They bowed and left the irate Henry glaring after them, thinking: By God, ’twere better if Master Reginald had never come back to England.
When they were alone Montague turned indignantly to his brother.
“You…fool!” he cried.
“I will say to you, brother, what I have said to the King. Is it foolish to adhere to what one believes to be the truth?”
“Indeed you are a fool, having been at Court, to ask such a question. A man is a fool who attempts to wrestle with kings. I thought he would commit you to the Tower without delay.”
“I believe he was contemplating the effect it would have on certain of his subjects if he did.”
“You are calm enough. Do you seek a martyr’s crown?”
“I hope never to perjure my soul for the sake of my head,” said Reginald quietly.
He left his brother, who was filled with apprehension. Reginald was thinking of the King’s suggestion that he should write a treatise. He would; but it would not put forward the reasons why the King should separate from Katharine; instead it would show why the marriage was a true one.
WHEN HE WAS LEFT alone Henry’s anger abated a little. He began to think of the earnest young man whom he had threatened. He liked Reginald. He had always admired him; he knew him to be learned and pious; and now he had proved himself to be no coward.
Why could such men not see the truth about this marriage? Why did all the men he most respected set themselves against him?
He had tried to win the approval of Chancellor More but he could not do so. More was a clever lawyer and knew how to back out of any discourse that grew uncomfortable for him. What Henry most wanted was for Thomas More to work with him in all matters, and especially that of the divorce. He wanted Reginald Pole to do the same.
Brooding on these matters he sent once more for Reginald and his brother Montague, and when they stood before him he smiled at them in a friendly fashion.
“It is not meet,” he said, “for kinsmen to quarrel.”
“Sire, you are indeed gracious,” said Montague.
Reginald did not speak, and Henry went on: “I am overwrought. These are troublous times. It may be that I appeared more angry towards you two than I felt.”
“We rejoice to hear it,” said Montague, and Reginald echoed those words.
“Come,” said Henry, stepping between them and slipping an arm through one of each, “we are kinsmen and friends. Reginald here has his own ideas as to what is right and what is wrong. I will not say that he is alone in this, although many learned men would not agree with him—nor can I, much as I should long to. Remember this: I have to answer to my conscience. Oh, I respect those who have views and do not hide them and are not afraid to say ‘This I think,’ or ‘With that I disagree.’ I take all that has been said in good part.”
“Thank you, Your Grace,” said Reginald with real emotion in his voice.
Henry’s tones softened and he turned almost pleadingly to Reginald. “Why, if you could bring yourself to approve of my divorce, no one would be dearer to me than you.”
Montague was looking appealingly at his brother; but Reginald remained silent.
Henry released their arms and patted both brothers in a gesture of dismissal.
“Forget it not,” he said.
DURING THE WARM JUNE weather the Court rode from Greenwich to Windsor. The Queen was in the party with her daughter and Maria de Salinas; and the King rode gaily with the Lady Anne. In the party Cranmer and Cromwell also rode.
There was a new confidence about the Lady, as there was about the King. All noticed this except the Queen and her daughter, for the former believed firmly that nothing could be settled without the sanction of the Pope, and the latter fitted her mood to that of her mother.
There were grave rumors everywhere and the whole Court was expecting that the King’s patience would not last much longer.
Henry brooded as he rode. Why should I endure this continual frustration? he asked himself. He looked at the glowing face of Anne beside him and he longed to be able to soothe his troublesome conscience by telling the world that she was not his mistress but his wife.
But events were moving fast. Cranmer had now obtained the opinions of the universities of Europe regarding the divorce, and had discovered several who believed it was expedient. Henry had made up his mind that when they reached Windsor he would ask the Queen to allow the matter to be judged in an English court.
Once that took place he would have the desired result in a matter of days. Who in England would dare to go against him? He could count the dissenters on the fingers of one hand. More, Fisher, Reginald Pole. There were others, more obscure men whom he did not consider to be of much importance. It was different in the case of those three. The public looked to them for guidance.
A plague on them! he thought. Why must they put obstacles in my path?
As they came to Windsor, the King looked with pleasure at the forest. There would be good hunting, and there was little he liked better than a day in the open; then to return to good feasting and masking, and later to retire between the sheets with the right bedfellow.
She had succumbed at last and he wondered what he would do were she to become pregnant. Then, by God, he told himself, I would make them act.
Oddly enough she did not. But he would not spoil his pleasure by brooding on that. When they could be free in their love, when she could dispense with her fretful questions as to how much longer he would allow the delay; when he could take her with a good conscience…ah, then their union would be blessed with healthy boys.
They entered the castle, and the Queen retired with her little court and the King retired with his.
It would seem there are two queens at this Court, grumbled some of the courtiers; but most of them knew to which Court they should attach themselves…if they sought advancement. The Lady’s bright black eyes missed little, and any attention to the Queen or the Princess Mary was noted.
The Queen in her apartments was attended by her few ladies. She was not so much afraid of spies as she had been in the days of Wolsey; and she was very happy to have her daughter and Maria with her.
She prayed on her arrival and in her prayers, as always, asked that the King might be turned from his sad and evil scheme and come back to her.
Mary was in her own apartment, her women preparing her for the banquet, when Henry came to see the Queen. Her women went scuttling away at a look from him, and Katharine cried: “Oh, Henry, how pleased I am that you should come to see me. It is a rare honor.”
“I would come often enough if I could but satisfy myself that you were in truth my wife.”
“Henry, I do not think that deep within your heart you believe that I am not.”
It was wrong, of course. She should not say such things; but there were occasions when
the bitterness was too much to be hidden.
He ignored her words as though he had not heard them. He said: “Dr. Cranmer has procured the opinions of the universities. There are many who believe we should be formally divorced.”
“Ah, Henry, you have many friends. I alas have few.”
“I think you too have friends,” he said. “Now I am going to ask you to give me something.”
“There is little I would deny you.”
“I ask only sweet reasonableness.”
“I try always to be reasonable.”
“Then I am sure you will agree that this matter has continued too long, and it is time it were brought to an end. I want to refer it to the arbitration of four English prelates and four nobles.”
Her expression was stony. “No,” she said.
“Katharine, you call this reasonableness?”
“I do. A court in this country is unnecessary. It is a waste of time, for any court you set up would decide in your favor.”
“This is nonsense.”
“Henry, have done with hypocrisy. You know it to be truth. May God grant you a quiet conscience.”
“You talk to me of a quiet conscience when you know it to be perpetually disturbed by this matter.”
“Let it speak for itself, Henry. Do not provoke it with your desire, but let it say what it knows to be truth. Abide by it. Come back to me and then I think your conscience need never trouble you again on this matter.”
“Never!” cried the King.
She answered his obstinacy with her own.
“Never will I abide by any decision except that of Rome.”
The King gave her a murderous glance before he strode out of her apartment.
HENRY CALLED NORFOLK and Suffolk to him and when they were alone said: “I fear the Queen hates me.”
The Dukes looked alert. They had heard this statement from the King’s lips before this, and they knew that it was meant to be the prelude to some action which he was willing himself to take.
Henry went on: “I believe she delights in my discomfiture, that she seeks to prolong it; that, knowing herself not to be my wife, she is determined to proclaim to the world that she is. I believe that she is seeking to lure my subjects from me.”
“That,” said Suffolk, “would amount to treason.”
“Much as it pains me to admit it, I must agree,” replied Henry. “Eustache Chapuys is nothing but a spy. I believe that it is the Emperor’s desire to bring about a civil war in England, to split the country and to set the Queen and the Princess Mary at the head of the rebels.”
“This is indeed treason,” declared Norfolk.
“I have seen some of the letters which Chapuys has written to his master. In them he states that the English people are against a divorce and it would not surprise him if they rose in protest. They have full sympathy for the Queen, he writes significantly. I believe that the Spanish ambassador, with the help of the Queen, is ready to raise an insurrection.”
“Your Grace, should he not be arrested?” asked Norfolk.
Henry raised a hand. “This is a delicate matter. Although Katharine is no true wife to me, for many years I believed her to be so.”
Henry was thinking of the discontent among the people who, when Katharine’s barge sailed up or down river, lined the banks to cheer her. To put Katharine under arrest would be to turn their sympathy into fury and the desire to protect their Queen. Moreover, he did not believe for one moment that Katharine would ever put herself at the head of an insurrection. How lacking in subtlety were these two! Wolsey would have grasped his meaning immediately.
“Nay,” went on Henry, “she is no wife to me, but I confess to a certain tenderness. I would be lenient with her.”
“But Your Grace will not continue to be in her company,” said Norfolk, who was a little sharper than Suffolk and had at last begun to follow the King’s train of thought.
“I fear the time has come when we must part…finally,” Henry replied.
“I am in full agreement,” Suffolk put in. “Your Grace should separate yourself from the Lady Katharine both at bed and board. It would not be safe for you to do otherwise.”
A look of sadness came into the King’s face. “After so many years…,” he murmured.
But the Dukes were now aware of the part they were expected to play, and Suffolk said sternly: “Your Grace would do well not to think of a woman with whom you have for so long been living in sin.”
Henry laid a hand on his brother-in-law’s arm. “You do well to remind me.”
His eyes were vindictive suddenly because he was remembering her obstinacy and how quickly this case could have been settled but for that. He went on: “’Tis my belief that she sets my daughter Mary against me.”
Suffolk piped up dutifully: “Your Grace, should not the Princess Mary be taken from her?”
“That might be wise,” answered the King, looking at Norfolk.
The Duke was well aware of what was expected of him. He spoke vehemently. “Above all, the Princess Mary should be removed from the Lady Katharine. That I consider to be of the greatest importance.”
“Thank you, my friends,” said the King. “You echo the thoughts which my tenderness would not let me utter. But since this is your advice, and I know it to be based on sound good sense, I will accept your decision.”
MARY CAME INTO the Queen’s apartments, her face pale, her eyes frightened.
“Mother,” she cried, even before Katharine had had time to sign to the women to leave them, “I am to go away from you.”
Katharine took her daughter’s hands and found that they were trembling. “Be calm, my precious.”
“I am to go to Richmond. Those are my father’s orders.”
“Well, you will go to Richmond and soon I shall come to you there.”
“Suppose you cannot?”
“But why…why?”
“I do not know…except that it is a feeling I have. I was told to prepare to leave at once. Why, Mother? What harm am I doing them here? Do I prevent his…his…being with that odious woman?”
“Hush, my love. Go to Richmond. I will find means of coming to you there.”
Mary had begun to shiver. “Mother, I am afraid. Reginald is writing his treatise and it is all for us. I tremble for Reginald. I do not believe he understands what this could mean.”
“He understands, my darling.”
“Then he does not seem to care.”
“Reginald is a good man, a brave man. He could not be so if he trimmed his opinions to the prevailing wind. Do not fear for him, my child; for the only thing we should fear in life is our own wrongdoing. Go to Richmond, as your father commands. Think of me, pray for me…as I shall for you. You will be in my thoughts every minute of the day, and rest assured that as soon as I am able I shall be at your side.”
“But Mother, what harm are we doing him…by being together? Does he not know that this is the only joy that is left to us?”
“My darling, be brave.”
“There is tension in the Castle. Something is about to happen. Mother, I have a terrible fear that, if I leave you now, I shall never see you again.”
“You are overwrought. This is merely another parting.”
“Why…why…should there be these partings? What harm are we doing?”
“It is the second time you have spoken of harm. No one thinks we are doing harm, my love.”
“They do, Mother. I see it in their looks. Our love harms him in some way and he is afraid of it. I cannot leave you. Let us go away together.” Mary drew away from her mother. Her eyes were brilliant with sudden hope and speculation. “I will send for Reginald. I will ask him to take us with him to Italy. There the Pope will give us refuge—or perhaps the Emperor will.”
Katharine laughed gently, and drawing her daughter to her stroked her hair.
“No, my love,” she said. “That would profit us little. We are in your father’s hands, but nothing can harm us if we
do our duty. It matters little what becomes of our bodies, as long as our souls are pure. Go to Richmond and remember that there I am with you as I am when we are close like this, for you are never absent from my thoughts.”
“Oh, Mother if I could but rid myself of this fear…”
“Pray, my child. You will find comfort in prayer.”
They embraced and remained together until one of Mary’s women came to say that her party was ready to leave for Richmond, and the King’s orders were that they were to depart at once.
At the door Mary turned to look at her mother, and so doleful was her expression that it was as though she looked for the last time on the beloved face.
HOW SHE MISSED MARY! It was but a few days since she had left, but it seemed longer. She had had no opportunity of appealing to the King as she had not since been in his company alone.
He treated her with cool detachment, and she noticed that never once did he allow his eyes to meet her own; she was aware of the speculative glances of the courtiers; they knew more than she did and they were alert.
One morning she was awakened early by sounds below; she heard the whisper of voices as she lay in her bed, and afterwards the sound of horses’ hoofs. People were arriving at the Castle, she supposed, and because she was weary after a sleepless night, she slept again.
In the early morning when two of her women came to awaken her, they brought her a message from the King, which told her that Henry was leaving Windsor and when he returned he wished her to be gone. Since she was not his wife and had no thought for his comfort he desired never to see her again.
She read the message twice before she grasped the full importance of it. Then she said: “I wish to see the King without delay.”
“Your Grace,” was the answer, “the King left Windsor with a hunting party at dawn. He is now on his way to Woodstock.”
She understood. He had slunk away without telling her he was going; he had not even wanted to say goodbye. But soon he would be returning to Windsor, and when he did so he expected to find her gone. More than that, he had expressly commanded that she should be gone.