‘Is Sir Richard not Recorder of York, and Vice-Chamberlain to Henry Fitzroy?’
‘Page is to vacate York.’
‘Page was a fine man in Wolsey’s household. He would do the job admirably, but, he is not always present at the palace. Perchance he could share the role with Henry Norris?’
‘That is why I ask your opinion, Thomas.’ Henry reopened his book. ‘I have a pressing issue you must remedy at once.’
‘Your Majesty?’
‘It is Katherine. I want her moved from Buckden Palace, six miles west to Kimbolton Castle. It is well-fortified, a decent moat and gardens. There I can hear nothing from her, no one can visit her, and the damp climate can keep her silent. Suffolk shall visit Katherine, oversee the tally of her household, which we shall reduce, along with her staff. Any jewels from the royal collection shall be taken from her and given to Anne. This includes her personal jewels and plate she brought from Spain when she married my brother.’
To take her belongings, given to her by her parents 35 years past seemed unduly harsh. ‘Your Majesty…’
‘Anne is my wife and shall wear all the royal jewels. Katherine is to have nothing. I shall not be swayed. Suffolk shall leave within the week.’ Henry re-opened his book.
‘Well indeed, Your Majesty. I am to the Tower to interrogate Bishop Fisher.’
‘Fisher can have a pardon if he begs my forgiveness. He must pay the misprision fine, but he must beg for a pardon from me.’
‘We could leave him in the Tower until he dies,’ Cromwell scoffed.
‘The Pope would fume endlessly.’
‘From next month it shall be illegal to call him the Pope. Clement shall be the Bishop of Rome and no more.’
‘Everyone shall be for me or be dead,’ Henry replied, still reading his book.
Cromwell had executed forty people in the last year for heresy, down from around one hundred a year under Thomas More’s watch. He had no desire to increase numbers.
‘You may go,’ Henry said, and finally looked up to Cromwell, deep purple lines under his blue eyes. Sleep again eluded the King.
Cromwell bowed politely but as he turned the King gestured to him.
‘One more issue,’ Henry said and closed the book. ‘Suffolk shall travel from his home at Westhorpe Hall, and I need someone to travel from London to witness Katherine’s move.’
‘I confess I cannot, Your Majesty, for the work to get the Act of Supremacy, the Act of Succession and the Second Annates bills through Parliament…’
‘No, they are the greatest laws passed in England, second to you creating the Church of England. No, I wish to send the Waif.’
‘My secretary, Your Majesty? Frescobaldi is much needed for the Parliament reforms.’
‘I can trust no other. For the Waif would never do anything which could harm you or herself.’
Another test. Every so often, Henry would devise tests for Cromwell, despite his constant fealty. A gentle threat to Nicòla would make sure Cromwell would heed to Henry’s every whim. Katherine would never submit to Henry, she would always be a Catholic. While Cromwell trusted Nicòla completely, he wanted none of the Catholic reminders of her life in Rome with the Pope. That man wanted Nicòla at his side again.
‘I can trust the Waif, can I not?’ Henry asked. ‘Your little creature has not turned back to the faith of her father-in-law and his house of corruption?’
‘Frescobaldi receives no correspondence from either Rome or Florence. The Pope is in ill health and has not written to her.’
‘The Pope’s bastard? Does he write to his wife?’
Cromwell looked to his flat shoes on the new carpets beneath him. He burned every letter Alessandro de’Medici sent.
Henry let out a wicked laugh. ‘Jealousy is a sin, Thomas.’
‘My priority is this realm. What the Pope and his family want is to rule us. They have the Roman Emperor’s power behind them and threaten war. Their words have no place in this country.’
‘Do you still trust your Waif? You married her in God’s eyes, even though she is married still by the Pope’s laws.’
The King was still married to Katherine by the Pope’s laws, yet he seemed to care little. ‘I trust Frescobaldi with my life, Your Majesty.’
‘Good, because I do not want to see you lose your head, or the Waif lose hers.’
F
Chapter 7 – February 1534
the moor you defend a lye, the angryer you are
Buckden Palace, Cambridgeshire
Nicòla stood in the courtyard of Buckden Palace, having just crossed the bridge and entered the grounds. In the centre stood a new tower, surrounded by an older wall made of solid brown brick. Her riding boots sank in the mud, so Nicòla continued to pace to stay above the sticky mess.
Charles Brandon, the pompous Duke of Suffolk, came towards her from the doorway of the main tower. He looked different – thinner, his beard greyer than ever. He had been housed at Westhorpe Hall in Suffolk more often these days, for his son by his late wife Princess Mary, was once again sick. It would not be the first son and heir Suffolk would lose to illness if young Henry did not survive the winter.
Nicòla adjusted the black fur over her shoulders as Suffolk stood before her, the drizzle overhead leaving little beads of water on his dark blue cap. ‘The King’s henchman sends his creature to watch over me?’
Nicòla bowed, regarding Suffolk, but could not be calm in her words. ‘I come at His Majesty’s request to help Katherine, Dowager Princess of Wales.’
‘At Buckden, Katherine is referred to as a queen.’
‘Once Master Cromwella’s new laws pass, that shall be treason.’
‘And you think that is just? That a commoner can change laws to remove Queen Katherine’s title? I fail to understand how rules can be changed by men not worthy enough to stand in Queen Katherine’s presence.’
‘You ask why I was sent? Because the King cannot trust Your Grace. We have a new queen now. You claim to be noble, you claim to be the King’s greatest friend. Do you even believe in the King’s new religious changes to this realm?’
‘I believe in making changes to unseat the Catholic corruption in England.’
‘You are the son of a standard-bearer, are you not, Your Grace? The son of a man killed in battle by King Richard while defending a flag?’
‘I am a military commander and my father died with great honour. I was raised alongside the King. I married the Dowager Queen of France, King Henry’s own favourite sister, and have been the most favoured at court for as long as you have been alive,’ Suffolk seethed and clenched his fists. ‘What are you? Some effeminate creature, stalking Cromwell’s halls like a spider wearing black furs too valuable to cloak your disfigured little body. You climbed out of the Pope’s bedchamber and into Cromwell’s.’
It was not even a lie, but Suffolk still believed Nicòla a man and accused all those in her life to be evil by her association. ‘I am the sole heir to a wealthy house, known for centuries to be trustworthy, intelligent, pious and beloved. I came hither to Buckden Palace to pay a former queen the courtesy such a woman deserves, and to keep my eye on a courtier whom the King no longer values as much as he once did. Remember the words of Machiavelli, my Lord; la disciplina in guerra conta più della furia. Discipline in war counts more than fury.’
Nicòla swept around Suffolk and did not dare look back. It might have been five years since Suffolk beat and arrested her in Blackfriars monastery, but she would never stop feeling scared of him. Cromwell had the King’s total safety, but Nicòla would never have the same confidence.
The palace was in disarray as Suffolk’s men pulled apart the apartments when Nicòla wandered through, unasked about her presence. The men were itemising things as they boxed them, and servants mixed between them, several ladies-in-waiting watching helplessly as the already small household was carved up once more.
The walls were bare, as were the floors. The main dining hall had a small table on
ly fit for around twenty people. All the fireplaces were cold, many windows without curtains to shield out the winter. It almost felt colder indoors than out.
Along one cold hallway came a lady-in-waiting, a short blonde woman, her pale golden gown dirty around its hem. Nicòla paused and bowed, to see the woman smile just a little.
‘I know you,’ she said. ‘You visited Her Majesty at Windsor several years ago.’
‘Nicòla Frescobaldi, secretary to Thomas Cromwella,’ Nicòla obliged.
‘I am Lady Elizabeth Darrell. I heard the King was sending someone from London to watch over the Duke of Suffolk and his men. Fear not, Mr. Frescobaldi, for we can trust the Duke completely.’
‘Is this so?’ Nicòla asked as they walked in time along the hallway, the windows illuminating the grey space. ‘The King is worried over Suffolk’s fealty.’
‘His Grace married the King’s sister. Princess Mary and Queen Katherine were friends for many years. Katherine was heartbroken at the loss of Mary last year and could not even attend the funeral at Bury St. Edmunds Abbey. The Duke carries fealty to Katherine on behalf of his late wife. He even remarried the daughter of Katherine’s greatest friend.’
‘It worries King Henry that Suffolk cares too much for Queen Katherine and hates Queen Anne.’
‘I think Suffolk hates Anne as much as he loves Katherine. Queen Katherine and Suffolk have never been close, for Suffolk often helped Henry gain time with his mistresses, and many other shameful endeavours over the years, but Suffolk respects Katherine. He respected her place in the nobility, her place set above all others.’
‘The daughter of two sovereigns anointed by God,’ Nicòla replied. ‘A crowned queen in this realm, ruling for over twenty years.’
‘You sound most sympathetic to our cause, Mr. Frescobaldi. But I thought you worked for Mr. Cromwell; you seek to destroy our queen.’
‘Master Cromwella carries no disrespect or ill-will to Katherine. He seeks to promote Queen Anne as it is the King’s orders and desires. What the King wants, the King shall have. We all serve someone. Might I be permitted to see Katherine?’
‘She rests in her privy chamber at present. None of the Suffolk’s men dare go in there to take Katherine’s most private possessions.’
‘I shall do no such thing.’
Nicòla waited at a small door while Lady Elizabeth disappeared inside to attend to her queen. Buckden Palace was the opposite the lavish life of Whitehall Palace, with its happy king and a secret heir in Anne’s belly. Warm, decorated, with the best of everything, Whitehall owned all the exquisite enjoyments of England to Anne while Katherine sat in cold poverty, but not as forgotten as Henry would like. Hither, a tiny base of support for the “true” queen reigned.
‘You may enter,’ Lady Elizabeth said as she peered around the door once more. ‘Queen Katherine is much ill at present, so I ask you raise your gentle voice a little when you speak with her.’
Nicòla stepped inside and Lady Elizabeth excused herself. The small room had the only working fireplace Nicòla had eyed in the palace, God be praised. Warm curtains hung over the windows, pulled back to find the dull light of the wet day. A single carpet rested on the floor, beneath a chair where Katherine sat, beside the fireplace. Katherine, her greying hair pulled tightly under a gable hood, sat with a book in her hands, furs covering her thinning body. Her pale face looked over in surprise at Nicòla. To be in the presence of Katherine drew the air from Nicòla’s lungs. She possessed a regal essence, a living being that held both noble and godly powers on Earth. Nicòla bowed low, relieved to be in the warmth and light of the former queen.
‘Nicòla Frescobaldi,’ Katherine said, her accent as strong as ever. ‘You came alone all this way?’
‘Yes, Your… Majesty.’
Katherine smiled, but a cough passed her lips, as if being happy caused illness itself. She beckoned Nicòla over, but Nicòla did not dare to sit in Katherine’s presence. She stood with her hands, fresh out of her riding gloves, clasped before her as Katherine closed her prayer book.
‘Mr. Cromwell sent you to come and take away the few things I have left?’
‘Master Cromwella only serves at His Majesty’s pleasure. He wishes no disrespect to you.’
‘Cromwell keeps my daughter Mary from me. Cromwell refuses to meet with Chapuys to discuss my daughter. Cromwell stands at court and in parliament and tells everyone that the whore of Christendom is queen in my place! Cromwell changes laws to suggest that being a faithful Catholic is now heresy!’
Nicòla could expect nothing but distress and anger from the great Spanish queen. Nicòla said nothing, and her green gaze fell to her dirty riding boots on the carpet.
‘You, you came to me, on behalf of the Pope himself. You came to me and said Rome was on my side, that I would be queen. Yet the Pope has done nothing, he had not ruled my marriage valid, he has not named me Queen of England still, five years after hearing my appeal.’
‘Pope Clement is ill and I fear, not of sound mind.’
‘My priest, Thomas Abel, has been removed from my household by Cromwell’s orders.’
‘Thomas Abel was the man who smuggled your illegal letters to Rome, Your Majesty. It is understandable that the King wanted him punished.’
‘How long has Cromwell known Thomas Abel smuggles letters for me?’
‘Years, Your Majesty.’
Katherine leaned back in her seat and watched the small fire for a moment. ‘Do you swear I am still the Queen?’
‘I must swear to the allegiance of my masters, Your Majesty. I am but a servant.’
‘You swear to Anne Boleyn then, do you not? Pray for her in my place?’
‘My personal thoughts are not welcomed or encouraged, Your Majesty.’
‘Look at me.’ Katherine paused as Nicòla rose her eyes from her feet. ‘Why are you still hiding as a man? Was that not only for your mission to spy on Cardinal Campeggio? That was five years ago.’
‘Pope Clement tolerates me living as a man, has done so for almost twenty years, Your Majesty.’
‘Why?’
Looking upon Queen Katherine was like looking upon God. To lie seemed impossible; she appeared to be the ultimate ruler, yet without any malice or desire to control. Only a woman could be so.
‘It is often said I am a man trapped in the body of a woman,’ Nicòla explained.
‘The same has been said of me. Yet I rode at the head of an army, belly full with a baby, to defeat the Scots and kill their king. Why must you hide under doublet and hose?’
‘Because I am not a sovereign sent from God to light the Earth like you, Your Majesty. I am but a servant.’
Katherine smiled at the comment. ‘I want you to sit.’
Nicòla let herself sit on the chair opposite Katherine, but sat on the very edge, ready to jump to attention in a moment.
‘Why does the Pope like you so?’
‘The Pope was not always God’s chosen man. He used to be just a man. I used to be a young girl.’
Katherine turned her head away, her eyes closed at such a notion. She paused for a long moment before turning back again. ‘As women, we must accept the frailties of men and their needs.’
‘And I have done so. I hold nothing but peace in my heart for the Pope.’
‘But you serve the man casting God from this realm?’
‘I serve the man driving corruption and idolatry out of the Church, but God shall never be thrust from England.’
Every word hurt Nicòla. When forced to explain her actions with Cromwell and the Protestant Reformation, she felt deep shame. To cast Catholicism from her heart gave her a shame she could not explain; and Cromwell would dare not hear a word.
‘You are married, I fear. Your husband is the Duke of Florence.’
‘The marriage still stands firm. I have not pushed forward with an annulment.’
‘What is the point of the Reformation? To destroy marriages ordained by God?’
‘I wish no
t to be married to the bastard son of the Pope, Your Majesty. I desired none of this. My father desired this marriage.’
‘My father desired my marriage to Arthur, Prince of Wales. I was set to sea at fifteen to marry a stranger which could speak not one of my languages. I lived in poverty after the death of the kind prince, the only person in England I trusted. For seven years I waited in hope while God cleared the way for me to take my throne in England. I have lived a long life, and now I am cast into the shadows, hidden away. Why should I, a princess by birth, a queen by marriage, a ruler by blood and by right, be forced to endure men’s plans, and yet you can defy God’s orders? Why should you leave God, your Pope, and your own husband to help change the laws of the land to suit yourself? What then? Will you marry Cromwell? Is he your new master now? Running from one bed to another? You are not free, young Frescobaldi. As a woman, you shall never be free.’
Every tear which ran silently down Nicòla’s face stung with the pain of truth, of sin. Queen Katherine was a woman set far above Nicòla, by God’s choice, and yet she languished while Nicòla lived in relative freedom. The woman whose very existence held the alliance between England and Spain together, gave legitimacy to the Tudor dynasty, helped recreate England after the War of the Roses, could not be free, so how could Nicòla be?
‘Yet Cromwell sent you to watch over me?’
Nicòla wiped the end of her nose with her hand and took a deep breath. Her vision blended with tears as she looked to the Queen. ‘Master Cromwella was under orders to send me hither. It is a test, set by King Henry, to ensure Cromwella’s fealty.’
‘You are Mr. Cromwell’s most precious possession?’
‘I am.’
‘Why?’
‘I am the mother of his only living daughter.’
Katherine crossed herself and pulled her rosary beads from the folds of her skirt. Nicòla ached; no one carried them now, and Cromwell banned them, a part of idolatry he did not wish to see.
‘Would you not be safer in Florence, at your husband’s side, doing your duty? You could live openly before God as a woman and as a wife. God has decided your fate.’
Shaking the Throne Page 7