The King's Secret Matter (50 page)

‘My master is a good one.'

‘Any cook can call a master good who has a poor palate. The Bishop might be eating stinking fish in place of the excellent dishes you put before him. He would know no difference.'

‘His thoughts are on other matters,' sighed Rouse.

‘That's a tragedy for a good cook. Such a master would never sing his praises in the right quarters.'

‘I fear so.'

‘How would you like to work in the royal kitchens?'

There was no need for Rouse to answer, but he did. ‘It is the ambition of my life.'

‘It need not be so far away.'

‘Who are you?' Rouse demanded. ‘You will discover, if you are a wise man.'

‘How can I convince you of my wisdom?'

‘By taking this powder and slipping it into the Bishop's broth.'

Rouse turned pale.

‘I thought,' said his companion contemptuously, ‘that you were an ambitious man.'

‘But this powder . . .'

‘It is calculated to improve the flavour of the broth.'

‘The Bishop will not notice that the flavour is improved.'

‘Others at his table might.'

Rouse was afraid, but he would not look at his fear. He tried to find an explanation of the stranger's conduct which would be acceptable to him. The man wanted to help him to a place in the King's kitchens because he believed his talents were wasted on the Bishop of Rochester; therefore he was giving him a new flavouring which would make people marvel at the broth he put before them. Perhaps at the table would be one of the King's higher servants . . . That was a very pleasant explanation. The only other was one he had no wish to examine.

He was a man who was always hoping for a great opportunity; he would never forgive himself if, when it came, he was not ready to take it.

The Lord Chancellor brought grave news to the King.

Henry studied Thomas More with affectionate impatience. Here was a man who might have done so much in moulding public opinion, because if it could be said ‘Sir Thomas More is of the opinion that my marriage is no true marriage,' thousands would say ‘This matter is beyond me, but if Sir Thomas More says this is so, then it must be so, for he is not only a learned man, but a good man.'

But Thomas was obstinate. His smile was sunny, his manner bland, and his wit always a joy to listen to. But whenever Henry broached the matter of the divorce Thomas would have some answer for him to which he could not take offence and yet showed clearly that Thomas was not prepared to advance his cause.

Now Thomas was grave. ‘The Bishop of Rochester is grievously ill, Your Grace.'

Henry's heart leaped exultantly. Fisher had become a nuisance; he always looked as if he were on the point of death. Henry was sentimental enough to remember his old affection for the man, but his death would be a relief. He was another of those obstinate men who did not seem to care how near they approached danger to themselves as long as they clung to their miserable opinions.

‘He has been ailing for some time,' the King answered. ‘He is not strong.'

‘Nay, Your Grace, he became ill after partaking of the broth served at his table.'

‘What's this?' cried Henry, the colour flaming into his face.

‘He was seized with convulsions, Your Grace, and so were others at his table. It would seem that there has been an attempt to poison him.'

‘Have his servants been questioned?'

‘Your Grace, his cook has been arrested and under torture confesses that a white powder was given him by a stranger with instructions to put it into the Bishop's broth. He declares he was told it would but improve the flavour.'

Henry did not meet his Chancellor's eyes.

‘Has he confessed on whose instructions he acted?'

‘Not yet, Your Grace.'

Henry looked at his Chancellor helplessly. He was thinking of a pair of indignant black eyes, of a lady's outbursts of anger because of the dilatoriness which she sometimes accused the King of sharing; he thought of her ambitious family.

What if the cook, put to the torture, mentioned names which must not be mentioned?

Yet the Chancellor was looking at him expectantly. He could not take this man into his confidence as he had that other Chancellor.

Oh, Wolsey, he thought, my friend, my counsellor, why did I ever allow them to drive a wedge between us? Rogue you may have been to some extent, but you were my man, and we understood each other; a look, a gesture, and you knew my mind as these men of honour never can.

He said: ‘Poisoning is the worst of crimes. If this fellow is guilty he must pay the full penalty of his misdeeds. Let him be put to the torture, and if he should disclose names, let those names be written down and shown to none other but me.'

Sir Thomas More bowed his head. There were times when Henry felt that this man understood every little twist and turn of his mind; and that made for great discomfort.

He glanced away. ‘I will send my best physician to the Bishop,' he said. ‘Let us hope that his frugal appetite means that he took but little of the poisoned broth.'

The Chancellor's expression was sorrowful. Fisher was a friend of his – they were two of a kind.

Death is in the air, he thought as he left the King's presence.

Crowds were gathered in Smithfield to watch the death of Richard Rouse. The name of the cook who had longed for fame and fortune was now on every tongue. He would be remembered for years to come because it was due to him that a new law had been made.

Several people who had sat at the Bishop's table had died; the Bishop himself remained very ill. Poisoning, said the King in great indignation, was one of the most heinous crimes a man
could commit. And, perhaps because he would have been so relieved to know the Bishop was dead, he felt it his duty to show the people how much he regretted this attempt on the old man's life. The severest punishment man could conceive must be inflicted on the poisoner. After some deliberation the new law had come into being. The death penalty for poisoners from henceforth was that they should be hung in chains and lowered into a cauldron of boiling oil, withdrawn and lowered again; this to be continued until death.

And so the crowds assembled in the great square to see the new death penalty put into practice on the cook of the Bishop of Rochester.

Richard Rouse, who had to be carried out to the place of execution, looked very different from the jaunty man who had spoken to a stranger in a tavern such a short time before.

He was crippled from the rack, and his hands, mangled by the thumbscrews, hung limply at his sides.

With dull eyes he looked at the chains and the great cauldron under which the flames crackled.

There was silence as he was hung in the chains and lifted high before he was lowered into the pot of boiling oil. His screams would be remembered for ever by those who heard them. Up again his poor tortured body was lifted and plunged down into the bubbling oil. And suddenly . . . he was silent. Once again he was lowered into that cauldron, and still no sound came.

People shuddered and turned away. Voices were raised in the crowd. ‘Richard Rouse put the powder into the broth, but who in truth poisoned those people who had sat at the Bishop's table?'

It was recalled that the Bishop had been one who had
worked zealously for the Queen. Now he was only alive because of his frugal appetite, although even he had come close to death. Who would wish to remove the Bishop? The King? He could send the Bishop to the Tower if he wished, merely by giving an order. But there were others.

A cry went up from Smithfield: ‘We'll have no Nan Bullen for our Queen. God bless Katharine, Queen of England!'

Chapter XIII

I
n the castle of Ampthill Katharine tried to retain the dignity of a Queen. Her routine was as it had always been.

She spent a great deal of time at prayer and at her needlework, reading and conversing with the women she had brought with her and in particular with Maria, the only one in whom she had complete trust; only to Maria did she refer to her troubles, and to the fact that she was separated from the King.

Each day she waited for some news, for she knew that in the world outside Ampthill events were moving quickly towards a great climax.

She could not believe that Henry would dare disobey the Pope; and she was certain that when Clement gave the verdict in her favour, which he must surely do, Henry would be forced to take her back.

She had one desire to which she clung with all the fervour of her nature; only this thing mattered to her now. She had lost Henry's affection for ever; she was fully aware of that. But Mary was the King's legitimate daughter, and she was determined that she should not be ousted from the succession, no matter what it cost her mother.

‘I will sign nothing,' she told Maria. ‘I will not give way an inch. They can have me murdered in my bed if they will; but I will never admit that I am not truly married to Henry, for to do that would be to proclaim Mary a bastard.'

The great joy of her life was in the letters she received from Mary. What if the final cruelty were inflicted and that joy denied her! How would she endure her life then?

But so far they both had their letters.

Her faithful Thomas Abell had been taken from her when he had published his book, setting forth his views on the divorce. She had warned him that he risked his life, but he cared nothing for that; and when they had come to take him away, he had gone almost gleefully. It was well that he should, he told her, for many would know that he was in the Tower, and why.

News came to Ampthill. The Pope had at last decided to act, and he summoned Henry to Rome to answer Queen Katharine's appeal; he must, was the Holy Father's command, appear in person or send a proxy.

Henry's answer had been to snap his fingers at the Pope. Who was the Pope? he demanded. What had the Pope to do with England? The English Church had severed itself from Rome. There was one Supreme Head of the Church of England (under God) and that was His Majesty King Henry VIII.