by Jean Plaidy
Moreover, Lady More took her to her heart—for she was a very rich little girl—but all the same, riches or no riches, she must learn how to manage a household and take over the arrangement of domestic matters in turn with the other girls.
The third visitor was a painter from Basle—a young man full of enthusiasm and ideals, who had come to England to seek his fortune.
Erasmus—whom Thomas had visited on his trips to Europe and between whom there had been continual correspondence—discovered this man, and he wrote to Thomas asking him to receive him in his house. “His name,” he wrote, “is Hans Holbein, and I believe him to be a clever man at his craft. He wishes to come to England in order to earn some money. I beg of you, do all you can to help him.” Such a plea to Thomas could not be made in vain.
He welcomed the young man to his house, and so there was yet another to join the happy family group. He would sit sketching whenever the light allowed, listening to their talk, learning to speak their language, delighted because he could capture their expressions and draw them all with loving care.
“This man hath genius,” said Thomas to Alice.
At which Alice laughed. “Genius! He was sitting out in the east wind yesterday, sketching away. He’ll catch his death, I’ll warrant. And I shall have to nurse him. I shall have to spend my time, which I can ill afford, making hot possets for him. And you call that genius!”
Thus during the happy years life went on.
AILIE CAME one day with news hot from Court.
“Such a pother! It is Mistress Anne Boleyn. What do you think? She hath betrothed herself to Henry, Lord Percy. The eldest son of the Earl of Northumberland, if you please! Trust Mistress Anne to pick one of the noblest peers in the land.”
“Then the girl hath good sense,” said Alice. “For why should she not reach for the best plum on the tree?”
“And he was ready to fall to her touch,” cried Alice, “like a very ripe plum. Humble Anne Boleyn to mate with a Percy! So to Town comes my Lord of Northumberland, and poor little Percy hath been soundly berated. My lord Cardinal, in whose service he is, himself administered the scolding. And such a scolding! ’Tis said that poor Percy has not stopped weeping yet. And Mistress Anne? That’s a different matter. She has been going about the Court flashing her eyes, swearing she will not be told whom she is or is not to marry. But back she is gone to Hever Castle, and there she will stay for a while, so ’tis said.”
“And what will you do for your fashions now?” asked Margaret wryly.
“She has left us a few. Methinks we must wait until she returns to Court, which, some say, will not be long.”
“Come and help me feed the peacocks,” said Elizabeth. “I never heard such fuss, and all over one stupid girl!”
EARLY IN the following year, the King sent for Sir Thomas More. He was in his new Palace of Hampton Court, and he suggested that Thomas should take a walk with him, for he had heard that Thomas had made some pretty gardens round his house in Chelsea; he would like to discuss his own plans for altering the gardens at Hampton Court.
So they walked side by side, the man in the somber garments, his left shoulder a little higher than the right, his gown unadorned by jewels of any sort, and the gigantic, sparkling figure in doublet of purple velvet lined with ermine, his person sparkling with rubies and emeralds worth a fortune.
Now the King talked of the pond garden he would make; he talked of the beds of roses—red and white roses growing together side by side—symbols of the rival houses of Lancaster and York; and these should be enclosed by a wall, the pillars of which were to be made of stone and should be engraved with Tudor roses. All those who looked should see how the roses of York and Lancaster bloomed and faded while the Tudor rose altered not, engraved as it was on pillars of stone. The King enjoyed exploiting his fondness for allegory.
“Now, friend Thomas, what do you think of my pond garden? Have you anything to compare with that at Chelsea?”
“Nay, Sire. Our gardens are simple ones, tended mostly by my family.”
“Ah, that happy family of yours!” The King’s heavy hand was on his shoulder; the King’s flushed face was near his own and the little mouth was close to Thomas’s ear. “I’ll tell you a secret, Thomas, that I believe I have told you before: I envy you, man. Your King envies you. A happy family! How many grandchildren are there now? Six. And grandsons…. And your son soon to wed and provide you with more, I doubt not. You are a good man, Thomas More; and God has showered his favors upon you. Yet, Thomas, would you say your King was an evildoer?”
Into Thomas’s mind there flashed a procession of murdered men—Dudley, Empson and Buckingham at the head of them; he thought of Elizabeth Blount, flaunting the King’s natural son among her friends; he thought of wanton Mary Boleyn, and the quiet, long-suffering Queen Katharine. Was this King an evildoer?
What great good fortune that the King did not expect an answer to that which he considered a question so absurd that none could take it seriously!
“Nay, Thomas,” he went on. “I hear Mass many times a day. I am a devout man. I have dedicated my life to my country. You, my statesman, my Councillor who has lived close to me, know that. Is it not therefore a marvelous thing that God should deny me that which I most crave! Not for myself do I crave it. Nay. It is for this realm. Thomas, I must have a son. I need a son. I need a son for England.”
“Your Grace is young yet.”
“I am young. I am in the full vigor of my youth and manhood. I could have sons. I have proved…I have no doubt of that. And when a man and woman fail to produce an heir, when they wish above all things for a son, there is one explanation only of that Master More. They have displeased Almighty God.”
“Your Grace, have patience for a while. The Queen has given you a healthy daughter.”
“A healthy daughter! Much good is she! I want sons…sons…. I am King of England, Thomas More; and it is necessary for a King to give his country an heir.”
Thomas was silent and the King frowned as he went on: “There is a matter which lies heavy on my conscience. The Queen, as you know, was my brother’s wife ere she became mine. You are a learned man, Master More, a religious one. You read your Bible. God inflicts a penalty on those who commit the sin of incest. That is what I fear I have done in marrying my brother’s wife. Every son has died…every son the Queen has borne has died. Is that not significant? Is that not a sign from Heaven that I am a victim of Divine judgement? The more I study this matter, the more certain I become that I have offended God’s Holy Laws in my marriage.”
Thomas was deeply shocked. He had heard rumors of the King’s Secret Matter, and he had dreaded being asked to give an opinion. He thought of the Queen, that grave and gracious lady, who had offended none but the King; and him she had offended merely because she was growing old and unattractive and had been unable to provide him with a male heir.
The King had stopped in his walk and turned to face Thomas. He rocked on his heels; his face was creased with emotions—sentiment, cruelty, cunning and simplicity, and chiefly with his determination to make Thomas see him as he saw himself.
“I was against this marriage ere I made it. You remember the protest I made?”
Thomas looked in surprise at the King. “I remember, Sire.”
“There you see, I did not wish to enter into the marriage, then. She was, after all, my brother’s widow.”
Thomas dared not say: You protested on your father’s orders. It was when you made the protest that you determined to marry Queen Katharine.
Thomas was aware of the selfish cruelty, the predominant desire in the King to see himself as a righteous man. It would not be worth risking his displeasure by making such a remark. It would be folly to anger him at this stage. At this moment Henry was so carefully nursing his conscience that any man who dared suggest that his conscience was really his own desire would surely forfeit his head.
“But…I married her,” went on the King. “I married her, for sh
e was a stranger in a strange land and she had been brought to us for marriage with the heir of England. And, because she was my wife, I cherished her and I loved her, as I still do. To part with her…that would be a bitter blow to me. You, who have married two wives and lived with them in amity, know that. It is nearly twenty years since I married the Queen. A man cannot cast off, without a pang, a woman to whom he has been married twenty years. Yet, though I am a man—aye, and a loving husband—I remember first that I am a King. And, Master More, if it were demanded of me to cast off this wife of mine and take another…though this matter were hateful to me, I would do it.”
“Your Grace should not sacrifice his happiness so lightly,” said Thomas, seizing the opportunity the King had given. “If a King has his duty to his country, a husband has his duty to his wife. And if the crowning of a King is a holy sacrament in the eyes of God, so is the ceremony of marriage. You have a daughter, Sire, the Princess Mary….”
The King waved his hand impatiently.
“That gives us much anxious thought. This country has never been happily ruled by a woman. You know that, Master More. And you, who call yourself a religious man, should ponder this: Is an incestuous marriage a holy one? Can it find favor in the sight of God? And what of a man and woman who, disturbed by their conscience, continue to live in such a marriage? Nay, this state of affairs cannot go on.” The King smiled slyly. “Nor will my Ministers allow it. Warham, the Archbishop, and Wolsey, the Papal Legate, are bringing a secret suit against me.”
“A secret suit against Your Grace!”
The King nodded mournfully. “A pretty pass when a King’s subjects act thus against him. Mark you, I have tried to be an honest man over this matter and, much as I deplore the action of Warham and Wolsey, I yet admit they act with reason and within their rights.”
So it has come to this! thought Thomas. The King is indeed determined to cast off his wife since he has made Warham and Wolsey accuse him of incest.
“You see,” said the King, “I am a King who is beset on all sides—by his love for his wife, by the demands of his ministers, by the reasoning of his own conscience. You are an important member of the Council, and there are many who set store by your opinions. You have many friends—Bishop Fisher among them. When this matter is discussed between you, I would have you obey your conscience as I am obeying mine. I would have you cast your vote not for Henry the man and Katharine the woman, but for the good of this land and its future heirs.”
“My Lord King, you honor me too much, I feel myself inadequate to meddle in such matters.”
“Nay, nay,” said the King. “You underestimate your powers.” His voice was kind still, but his eyes flashed a warning. This matter was very near his heart, and he would brook no interference. This was a matter of conscience—the King’s conscience and no one else’s, for the King’s conscience was such a mighty monster that it would tolerate no interference from the consciences of others. “Come. You agree with these men who will bring a suit against me, do you not? You know, as they know, that your King and Queen are living together in sinful incest. Come! Come! Be not afraid. We ask for the truth.”
“Since your Grace asks for the truth, may I ask for time—time that I may consider this matter?”
The King’s eyes were narrow, his mouth sullen.
“Very well, then. Very well. Take your time.”
He turned away abruptly, and several courtiers, who had been watching from a safe distance, asked themselves what Sir Thomas More had done to offend the King.
ONE OF the sights to be seen in the City, rivaled only by that of the marching watch on Midsummer’s Eve and the Eve of St. Peter, was the ceremonious procession which attended the great Cardinal on all his journeyings. Before him, about him and behind him, went his retinue of servants, extravagantly clad in black velvet with golden chains about their necks; the lower servants were conspicuous in their tawny livery. And in the center of all this pomp, preceded by the bearers of his silver crosses, his two pillars of silver, the Great Seal of England and his Cardinal’s hat, rode the Cardinal himself, in his hand an orange, the inside of which had been replaced by pieces of vinegar-soaked sponge and other substances to counteract the pestilential air; the trappings of his mule were crimson velvet and his stirrups of copper and gold.
He went with as much ceremony as if he were the King himself.
He passed over London Bridge, and the people watched him in sullen silence. They blamed Wolsey for all their ills. Who was Wolsey? they asked themselves. A low-born man who, by great good luck, lived in the state of a King. When taxes were too high—and they always were—they blamed Wolsey. And now that the King wanted to replace the Queen, they blamed Wolsey for that. The people wanted an heir to the throne, yes; but the more serious among them remembered that the Queen was the aunt of the Emperor Charles of Spain; they might not be troubled on account of the Emperor’s humiliation, which he would undoubtedly feel if his aunt were cast off, but they feared his armies. So…they blamed Wolsey.
He was on his way to France now, and in his retinue rode Sir Thomas More.
The great Cardinal was more deeply perturbed at this time than he had ever been before.
Fortune was turning against him. Had he looked too high when he had coveted the Papal Chair? Ah, if only he instead of Clement had been elected Pope, all his anxieties would be at an end. There he would have been content to rest, at the pinnacle of fame. There he would have had no need to fear any man. He had climbed to great heights, and now he was on a narrow ledge, his foothold precarious; he must retain a very careful balance if he were to continue to climb. About him snapped those angry, jealous wolves—Suffolk, Norfolk and their followers. There was only one man who could save him from those ravening beasts, and that was the most dangerous of them all—the King.
The secret court which he and Warham had called, that the King’s marriage might be proved incestuous, had failed because of the obstinacy of the Queen, who insisted that her marriage with Arthur had never been consummated; therefore there were no grounds on which legality could be denied. Wolsey’s foreign policy had resulted in his winning for England the enmity of both France and Spain; and now the Pope, on whose help he had relied in this matter of the royal divorce, had been captured during the sack of Rome and was a prisoner in the Emperor’s hands.
His mission to France was an uneasy one. He must talk with Francis; he must tell him of the King’s doubts regarding the legality of his marriage; he must try to arrange a match between the Princess Mary and the son of Francis; he must cautiously hint that he was looking for a future Queen of England in France. Perhaps the Princess Renee, sister of the Queen of France? Perhaps Francis’s own sister, the talented Marguerite de Valois?
Everything depended on the successful termination of the King’s Secret Matter; and this was a most delicate matter even for a great statesman to handle. To juggle with the politics of Europe was one thing; to secure the gratification of the King’s desires another.
Still he who had achieved so much would achieve this also. What perturbed him was the growing truculence of Norfolk, and particularly of Suffolk—for Suffolk, the King’s brother-in-law and his greatest friend, had the King’s ear; and there were times when Wolsey felt that Suffolk would not have dared to treat him so scurvily, had he not done so with the sanction of the King.
And at the root of this uneasiness was one factor; the King was no longer that careless boy who could be fed with the sugar plums of masques, jousts and fair women while the able hands of his shrewdest statesman steered the ship of state, which was England, along its perilous journey. This King had done with playing the careless boy; he had come to realize that the fascination of power politics was as great as a new feast or a new woman. He was breaking the bars of his cage; he was testing his strength; he was roaring with pride in his own glory. And he was saying: “I will have all…all…I will be King in very truth. I will have my rich entertainments, and I will stand on the bridge of my
ship, and if any attempt to come between me and my desires they shall not live long to do so.”
On went the procession—all the pomp and glory—and in the midst of it rode an apprehensive man.
Thomas, riding along unnoticed in the glittering throng, was also pensive. All his sympathy was for the Queen. Poor lady, what had she done to deserve this humiliation? Had she wished for marriage with the King in the first place? He doubted it. He remembered her, serene and dignified, at the Coronation. Yet she had accepted her fate with meekness; she had tried to love the King, and she had been a faithful wife to him; the second was to be expected, for she was a virtuous woman; but her love for the King must have been sorely tried during these last years.
Now was his chance to leave his post, to tell the King the state of his mind, to say boldly: “Sire, I resign my post, for you will wish to have about Your Highness those ministers who can help you to obtain the divorce.”
It was a relief to rest at Rochester on the the journey to France, and there to stay in the company of his old friend, Bishop Fisher.
It was pleasanter still to have a private talk with Fisher after Wolsey had sounded him.
In the small paneled room, the two friends were serious together. They talked solemnly of the terrible calamity which had befallen the Pope; then their talk turned on the King’s Secret Matter.
How could the divorce be concluded without the sanction of the Pope? And how could the Pope give his consent to the King’s divorce from a lady who was a close relation of the man who held him prisoner, even if he was satisfied that he should grant a divorce?