The King's Secret Matter (9 page)

‘This girl's marriage is of no interest to me,' cried Henry. ‘But your insolent accusations are, Madam, I would have you know. I have suffered much. I have been a loving husband. You forget how I brought you out of poverty . . . exile, one might say. You forget that against the advice of my ministers I married you. And how did you repay me? By denying me that which I longed for above all else. All these years of marriage . . . and no son . . . no son . . .'

‘That is our mutual sorrow, Henry. Am I to blame?'

His eyes narrowed cruelly. ‘It is strange that you cannot bear a son.'

‘When Elizabeth Blount has done so for you?' she demanded.

‘I have a son,' He raised his eyes to the ceiling and his attitude had become pious. ‘As King of the realm and one whose task it is to provide his country with heirs I thought it my duty to see wherein the fault lay.'

How could one reason with such a man? He was telling her now that when he had first seen that beautiful young girl and had seduced her, it was not because he had lusted after her, but only to prove to his people that, although his Queen could not give him a son, another could.

No, it was impossible to reason with him because when he made these preposterous statements he really believed them. He had to believe in the virtuous picture he envisaged. It was the only way in which he could appease his conscience.

He was going on: ‘I have prayed each day and night; I have heard Mass five times a day. I cannot understand why this should be denied me, when I have served God so well. But there is a reason.'

Cunning lights were in his eyes; they suggested that he had his own beliefs as to why his greatest wish should have been denied him. For a moment she thought he was going to tell her; but he changed his mind, and turning, strode to the door.

There he paused, and she saw that he had made an effort to control his features. He said coldly: ‘If you wish to arrange the marriage of any of the Court women, you should consult me. This you have done and in this case I say I pass the matter into your hands.'

With that he left her. But she was scarcely listening.

What plans was he making? What did he say of his marriage, behind locked doors in the presence of that man Wolsey?

A cold fear touched her heart. She went to her window and looked out on the river. Then she remembered the visit of the Emperor and that he would come again.

Henry wanted the friendship of the Emperor, for England, even as she did.

He would not be so foolish as to dare harm, by word or deed, the aunt of the most powerful monarch in Europe.

On a bleak January day Mary Boleyn was married to William Carey. The Queen honoured the bride and bridegroom with her presence, and the ceremony was well attended because Mary, on account of her relationship with the King, was a person of interest.

When Mary took the hand of her husband, there were whispers among those present. What now? they asked each other. Surely if the King were still interested in the girl he would have made a grander match for her than this. It could
only mean that he had finished with her, and Mary – silly little Mary – had not had the wits to ask for a grand title and wealth as a reward for services rendered.

But Mary, as she passed among the guests, looked so dazzlingly happy that it appeared she had gained all she sought; and the same could have been said for Will Carey.

The Queen received the young couple's homage with something like affection – which seemed strange, considering how proud the Queen was and that the girl had lately been her rival.

The general opinion was that the King's affair with Mary Boleyn was over. The fact that Thomas Boleyn did not attend the ceremony confirmed this.

‘I hear he has renounced her,' said one of the ladies to the nearest gentleman.

‘Small wonder!' was the reply. ‘Thomas was climbing high, doing his duty as complaisant father. He's furious with the girl and would have prevented the marriage if Mary had not won the Queen's consent.'

‘And the Queen readily gave it – naturally.'

‘Well, it is a strange affair, I grant you. This is very different from the Blount affair.'

‘What of that child?'

‘Doubtless we shall hear news of him some day, unless of course the Queen surprises us all and produces that elusive male heir.'

‘Stranger things have been known to happen.'

Many furtive glances were sent in the Queen's direction and the whispered gossip went on, but Katharine gave no sign that she was aware of this.

She felt sure that there would be other mistresses. That had become inevitable since she no longer appealed to the King as
a woman; and because she could not safely suffer more pregnancies he was not interested in her.

She had her daughter Mary, and Mary would one day be Queen because it was impossible for the King to have a legitimate son. It was sad, but it was something they must accept.

This at least, she told herself, is the end of the Boleyn affair.

The King and Queen sat at the banquet table; about them were assembled all the great personalities of their Court, for this was a ceremonial occasion. On the King's right hand sat the Cardinal, and every now and then they would put their heads together to whisper something which was for their ears alone. The complacent expression on the Cardinal's face was apparent; there was little he liked more than these grand occasions when the King selected him from all others and showed his preference.

This was particularly delightful when the noblemen of the Court could look on and see the King's reliance on him; and on this occasion the Duke of Buckingham was present, and he made no secret of his distaste for the King's preference.

The musicians played as the sucking pig was brought in and ceased as it was placed on the table by the steward; homage to the dish was expressed by a respectful silence.

The King looked on the table with drowsy eyes; he had already partaken of many dishes and his face was flushed with wine. His bright blue eyes were slightly glazed as they rested on the group of young girls who sat together at some distance from him.

It seemed that he was no longer enamoured of Mary Boleyn and that others might hope to take her place.

The Cardinal was aware of the King's glances and rejoiced.
He liked the King to have his pleasures. He had no desire for him to discover that statecraft could be more absorbing than the pursuit of women; when he did, that could mean a slowing down in Wolsey's rapid journey to the heights of power.

Wolsey wished his King to remain the healthy, active boy – the young man who could tire out five horses a day at the hunt, who could be an easy victor at the joust, who could beat all his opponents at a game of tennis; and whose thoughts ran on the pursuit of women.

Thomas More had said once: ‘If the lion knew his strength, it would be hard for any man to rule him.'

No one knew the truth of this better than Wolsey. Therefore he planned to keep the lion unaware of his strength. At the moment he was so. Not through any lack of conceit but because it was so pleasant to be a figure of glory in the tiltyard, at the masques and balls, and to leave state matters to the efficient Cardinal. Why should he tire his eyes by studying state papers? Wolsey was the man for that. The King had often said with a rumbling laugh that a state document could bring a brighter shine to Wolsey's eyes than any wench could.

It pleased Henry that the shrewd Cardinal should be the perfect complement to the dazzling King. But the lion must not know his strength.

Wolsey looked about the company and his eyes came to rest on the Queen. There was one of whom he must be wary. Relations between them had been less cordial since the friendship of England with France, for, like the good Spaniard that she was, Katharine hated the French. She looked at Europe and saw the only two rulers of consequence there – François Premier and the Emperor Charles – and she knew that they must inevitably be the most bitter of enemies. Each
fought for power and there would be continual strife between them. It was Katharine's great desire that England should be the ally of her nephew Charles; and she had blamed Wolsey for the
rapprochement
with François which had led to that fantastic spectacle at Guisnes and Ardres. She had been cool with him, a little arrogant, and would have to learn in time that none was allowed to show arrogance towards the great Cardinal – not even the Queen.

Rarely had the Cardinal felt so contented as he did at this banquet. He was climbing high and would go higher, never forgetting that the ultimate goal was the Papal chair, for once he had attained it he would be free from the whims of the King of England. Until then he must feign to submit to them.

He shall be kept in ignorance, thought Wolsey. Such blissful ignorance. Those bright blue eyes must be kept shining for conquest in the tiltyard and the ladies' chambers; they must not discover the delights of statecraft until the Cardinal had become the Pope.

The King's plump white hands were greasy with sucking pig; he called for music, and the minstrels began to play one of his songs, which could not fail to increase his good humour.

How easy to handle! thought Wolsey, and his eyes met those of Buckingham who gave him a haughty stare.

Buckingham turned towards Norfolk who was sitting beside him and made a comment which Wolsey knew was derogatory to himself. But Buckingham was a fool. He had spoken during the playing of the King's music.

‘You do not like the song?' demanded Henry, his eyes suddenly narrowed.

‘Your Grace,' answered Buckingham suavely, ‘I was but commenting on its charm.'

‘It spoils the pleasure of others when you drown the music with your chatter,' grumbled the King.

‘Then,' answered Buckingham, ‘would Your Grace allow the musicians to play it again that all may hear it in silence?'

Henry waved a hand and the tune was repeated.

Fool Buckingham! thought Wolsey. He was heading straight for trouble.

The Cardinal excelled at collecting information about those he wished to destroy. His spy ring was notorious throughout the Court. Did Buckingham think that because he was a noble duke – as royal as the King, as he loved to stress – he was immune from it?

The music over, the King rose from the banqueting table. On such an occasion it was the duty of one of his gentlemen to bring a silver ewer in which he might wash his hands. The duty was performed by noblemen of the highest rank, and on this occasion the task fell to the Duke of Buckingham.

The ewer was handed to Buckingham by one of his ushers; he took it and bowed before Henry who washed his hands as was the custom.

When the King had finished, the Cardinal, who had been standing beside Henry, put his hands into the bowl and proceeded to wash them.

For a few seconds Buckingham was too astonished to do anything but stand still holding the bowl. Then a slow flush spread from his neck to his forehead. He, the great Duke of Buckingham, who believed himself more royal than Henry Tudor, to hold the ewer for a man who had been born in a butcher's shop!

In an access of rage he threw the greasy water over the Cardinal's shoes, drenching his red satin robe as he did so.

There was silence. Even the King looked on astonished.

The Cardinal was the first to recover. He turned to Henry and murmured: ‘A display of temper, Your Grace, by one who thinks himself privileged to show such in your presence.'

Henry had walked away and the Cardinal followed him.

Buckingham stood staring after them.

‘ 'Tis a sad day for England,' he muttered, ‘when a noble duke is expected to hold the ewer for a butcher's cur.'