The King's Secret Matter

The Cardinal’s Revenge

KATHARINE, QUEEN OF ENGLAND, SAT AT HER WINDOW LOOKing down on the Palace gardens; her hands lay idly in her lap, her tapestry momentarily neglected. She was now approaching her thirty-fifth birthday, and her once graceful figure had grown somewhat heavy during the years of disappointing pregnancies; yet she had lost none of her dignity; the humiliation she was forced to suffer could not rob her of that serene assurance which reminded all who came into her presence that she was not only the Queen of England but the daughter of Isabella of Castile and Ferdinand of Aragon.

She wore the fashionable five-cornered hood which glittered with jewels, and from it hung a black mantilla, for although it was nineteen years since she had left her own country she still clung to certain customs and fashions of her native land; her gown was of blue velvet trimmed with sable; and as she sat, her feet gracefully crossed, her petticoat of gold-colored satin was visible; at her throat were rubies, and similar jewels decorated the cordelière belt which encircled her thick waist and fell to her feet.

Now as she gazed out of the window the expression on her regular, though heavy, features was serious in the extreme; and the high forehead was wrinkled in a frown. The woman who was watching her felt compassion welling up within her, for she knew that the Queen was uneasy.

And the reason was obvious, thought Lady Willoughby who, as Maria de Salinas, had come with Katharine to England nineteen years before, and until her marriage to Lord Willoughby had never left her mistress’s service; and even now returned to her whenever she found it possible to do so.

Katharine the Queen had anxieties enough.

If there could only be a male child, thought Maria. One male child. Is that too much to ask? Why is it denied her?

They had been so close to each other for so many years that there were occasions when they read each other’s thoughts, and the Queen, glancing away from the gardens, caught Maria’s pitying look and answered that unspoken thought.

“I have a feeling that it will never be, Maria,” she said. “There have been so many attempts.”

Maria flushed, angry with herself because she had betrayed thoughts which could only bring further pain to her beloved mistress.

“Your Grace has a charming, healthy daughter.”

Katharine’s face became young and almost beautiful as it invariably did when her daughter, the five-year-old Princess Mary, was mentioned.

“She grows more beautiful as the months pass,” murmured the Queen, smiling to herself. “She is so gay, so merry, that she has won her father’s heart so certainly that I do believe that when he is with her he forgives her for not being a boy.”

“No one could wish the Princess Mary to be other than she is,” murmured Maria.

“No. I would not change her. Is that not strange, Maria? If it were possible to turn her into a boy I would not do so. I would not have her different in any way.” The smile disappeared and she went on: “How I wish I could have her more often with me here at Greenwich.”

“It is because the King is so eager that she shall enjoy the state which is due to her that he insists on her maintaining a separate household.”

The Queen nodded and turned to her tapestry.

“We shall be leaving for Windsor shortly,” she said; “then I shall have her ferried over from Ditton Park. I long to hear how she is progressing with the virginals. Did you ever know a child of five who showed such musical talent?”

“Never,” answered Maria, thinking: I must keep her mind on Mary, for that will give her a respite from less pleasant matters.

But as she was reminding Katharine of that occasion when the King had carried his daughter down to the state apartments and insisted on the ambassadors of France and Spain paying homage to the little girl’s rank and accomplishments, a shout from the grounds diverted the Queen’s attention to other matters, and Maria noticed the momentary closing of the eyes which denoted that disgust she felt for what was happening down there.

It was a mistake, Maria told herself, for the Queen to hold aloof from the King’s pastimes; and while she sympathized with Katharine and understood her mistress’s revulsion, she felt that it was unwise of her to show such feeling. The King was a man who looked for adulation and, because it was almost always unstintingly given, he was quick to perceive when it was not; and merely by declining to accompany him to the arena, the Queen had doubtless offended him. True, she had pleaded indisposition; but the King, who was himself so rarely indisposed, was apt to regard the illness of others with scepticism and derision.

No, it was unfortunate that while the King, surrounded by his courtiers, was watching a bear being torn to pieces by his ban dogs, which had been kept hungry for hours in order to increase their ferocity, the Queen should be sitting over her tapestry with one faithful friend at her side.

More shouts followed, and the sound of trumpets came through the open window.

Katharine said: “The game will have ended. How thankful I am that I was not there to witness the death agony of some poor creature.”

“We shall never grow accustomed to English sports, I fear,” answered Maria. “After all these years we remain Spanish.”

“Yet we are English now, Maria, by reason of our marriages. We both have English husbands, and Spain seems so very far away; yet I shall never forget the Alhambra and my mother.”

“You would like to return to Spain, Your Grace?”

Katharine shook her head “I did not want to after she had died. For me she was Spain. I do not think I could have endured life there after she had gone. There would have been too much to remind me. It is so many years since she died…yet for me she never died. She lives on in my heart and brings me comfort still. I say to myself, when I think of my own sweet daughter: Katharine of Aragon will be such a mother to the Princess Mary as Isabella of Castile was to Katharine of Aragon.”

“She was both great and wise.”

“There are times,” went on Katharine, “when I wish with all my heart that she were here, that she had her apartments in this Palace and that I could go to her, tell her what perplexes me, so that out of her great wisdom she might tell me what to do.”

What could even great Isabella tell her daughter? wondered Maria. How could she advise her to please that wayward husband of hers? She could only say, as so many at Court could say: Give him a son. Then you will be safe.

Katharine looked at the woman who for so long had been her dearest friend. She knows of my troubles, thought the Queen. It would be impossible for her not to know. Who in this Court does not know that the King is persistently unfaithful to his wife, that he is beginning to find her five years seniority distasteful, that he is dissatisfied because, although she has proved herself capable of becoming pregnant, she has also shown herself unable to bear him a healthy male child? Twelve years of marriage had resulted in several miscarriages and only one healthy child—a daughter.

She was not one to ask for sympathy; she knew it was dangerous to confide in others. Yet Maria de Salinas was her very dear friend and she believed there was no one in her life who loved her more. It was a sad admission. Her husband no longer loved her; she was fully conscious of that sad fact. Her mother who had loved her dearly—even as she herself loved Mary—was long since dead. Recently her father, the ambitious, parsimonious Ferdinand, had died; but of course Ferdinand had never had much love to spare for any one person, his possessions taking all the affection he had to give; and to him she had merely been an important counter in the game of politics which was his life. Mary loved her; but Mary was a child.

God grant she never has to suffer as I have, thought the Queen hastily.

But all would be well for Mary who was now heir to the throne, because there was no Salic law in England. If there were no male children born to her parents, and one day she ascended the throne, she would be Queen in her own right, which was a very different matter from being a King’s Consort.

Katharine’s mother had been a Queen in her own right and, much as she had loved her husband, she had never forgotten it; for although Ferdinand had often been unfaithful—there were several illegitimate children to prove it—although she had accepted this as inevitable, forgiven him and remained his loving and submissive wife, in state matters she had held rigorously to her supremacy.

“Oh, Maria!” she sighed. “I am passing through troublous times, and I feel…alone.”

Maria went to Katharine and kneeling, buried her face in the blue velvet. “Your Grace, while I live to serve you, you are never alone.”

“I know it, Maria…my very good friend. I love you dearly, as you love me, and to no other would I speak of these matters. But to you I will say this: I despair of getting a male child. There is so little opportunity. The King rarely visits my bed. And since the birth of a son to Elizabeth Blount his manner towards me grows colder.”

“That sly creature!” Maria said angrily.

“Nay, do not blame her. She was a shy girl, and he is her King. He said, ‘Come hither’ and the girl has no more power to resist than a rabbit facing a stoat. And she has given him this son.”

“I hear that she no longer pleases him.”

The Queen shrugged her shoulders. “He has taken the boy away to be brought up.”

“In seclusion, Your Grace,” said Maria quickly. “But royally. If another woman should give him a son…”

Maria knew that the Queen was thinking of that catastrophe which she feared so much that she would not even speak of it. It was summed up in one dangerous word which was whispered throughout the Court: Divorce.

Impossible! Maria assured herself. Even Henry would never dare. How could he when the nephew of the Queen was not only King of Spain but Emperor of Austria, the greatest monarch of them all. No, it was all so much talk. Had the Queen been some humble princess, there might have been cause for fear; but the aunt of the Emperor was surely safe from all such indignities.

The Queen went on: “There is this new girl.”

Maria waited.

“She was in France; he found her during that extravagant frolic. She is of a bad reputation and is known in the court of France as a wanton. I cannot understand him. But I have decided to send for the girl.”

Maria trembled. She wanted to say: Oh…no…no. It is folly. Let the King have his women, and look the other way.

“She is the daughter of Thomas Boleyn. I believe he has two girls and a boy. The other girl is in France now and much younger, and is said to be more intelligent than her sister. It is to be hoped this is so. But I shall have something to say to this Boleyn girl.”

“And His Grace…”

“His Grace was amused by her wantonness…as it appears many have been before.”

“Your Grace, this affair has gone…”

“As far as it is possible to go. It would not surprise me if Mary Boleyn is not already with child…perhaps twins. Boys, I’ll dare swear.”

It was unlike the Queen to show such feeling, and Maria trembled afresh. Characteristically the Queen noticed the expression in Maria’s face and was sobered by it—not because she feared for herself, but because she had troubled her friend.

“Have no fear, Maria,” she said. “I shall dismiss this girl from the Court. I shall know how to deal with such a one. The King has amused himself with her, but she is no Elizabeth Blount. He will do nothing to detain her at Court. He will merely look about him and…find another.”

“But if he will find another…”

“I understand your meaning, Maria. Why dismiss this girl? Simply because her reputation is so light. No, if the King must have a mistress it should be one who has not shared the beds of quite so many. I hear that she even included the King of France among her lovers, briefly, oh very briefly. Elizabeth Blount at least behaved decorously and she was connected with the Mountjoys. These Boleyns, I have heard, have descended from trade.”

“Is that so, Your Grace? When one considers Thomas Boleyn that is surprising.”

“Thomas Boleyn gives himself airs, indeed. A very ambitious man, Maria. I wonder he does not take this girl of his and put her into a convent. But I do assure you that I have not been misinformed as to his origins, for when I heard of the King’s…connection…with this girl I had enquiries made. One Geoffrey Boleyn was apprentice to a mercer in London…oh, it is a long time ago, I grant you, and he became rich; but he was a tradesman, no more, no less. Becoming Lord Mayor of London and buying Blickling Hall from Sir John Falstaff, and Hever Castle from the Cobbhams, does not alter that. So this family rose through trade and advantageous marriages. They are connected with the Ormonds, and Thomas’s wife is Norfolk’s daughter. But this girl…this Mary…is doubtless a throw-back to the days of trade.”

How bitter she is, thought Maria; and how unlike herself. My poor Queen Katharine, are you becoming a frightened woman?

“It is a deplorable state of affairs when such people are allowed to come to Court,” went on Katharine.

There was a brief silence and Maria took advantage of it to say that she had heard the Emperor might again visit England and how she hoped this was true.

“I hope so too,” said Katharine. “I think the King has changed the opinion he once held of my nephew.”

“All who saw him on his visit to England were impressed by his serious ways and his fondness for Your Grace.”

Katharine smiled tenderly. “I could not look on him without sadness, although it gave me so much pleasure to see him. He is indeed worthy of his destiny, but I could not help thinking of my sister.”

Maria winced and wished she had not turned the conversation in this direction. There was so much tragedy in the life of the Queen that it seemed impossible to avoid it. Now in reviving her memories of her nephew’s visit she had reminded her of her poor sister Juana, Charles’s mother, who was insane and living out her sad life in the castle of Tordesillas and who would have been the ruler of Spain had she not lost her reason.

“Poor Juana,” went on Katharine, “she was always wild, but we never thought it would come to this. There are times when I can feel almost happy because my mother is dead. I always thought that the deaths of my brother and eldest sister shocked her so deeply that she went earlier to her tomb than she would otherwise have done. But if she were alive now, if she could see her daughters—one mad, the other tormented…”

Maria interrupted, forgetting that it was a breach of etiquette to do so. “Your Grace’s troubles will be over one day. You have a healthy daughter; there will surely one day be a son.”

And so they had arrived back at the matter of the moment; this was the subject which occupied the minds of all at Court. A son. Will there be a son born to the King and Queen? There must be…for, if there is not, the position of Queen Katharine in England will be uncertain.

The Queen had turned back to the window.

“They are coming now,” she said, and picked up her tapestry.

The two women worked in silence for some moments while the sounds from without increased. Those of voices accompanied by laughter floated up to them, but they kept their eyes on the tapestry.

The King’s voice was immediately recognizable; loud and resonant, it was that of a man who knew he only has to speak to achieve the result he wished. If he wanted laughter his courtiers gave it in full measure, with the required implication that his jokes were more witty than any other’s; his frown was also more terrifying.

Katharine was thinking: Yet at heart he is only a boy. He plays at kingship. It is those about him who hold the power; men such as Thomas Wolsey on whom he depends more and more. An able man, this Thomas Wolsey, but an ambitious one, and the daughter of Ferdinand must know that ambition could warp a man’s nature. But so far Wolsey’s ambition was—like the King’s strength—in check, and it seemed that Wolsey acted for the good of the state. Katharine had thought him her friend until recent months, when there were signs of a French alliance. Then she had not been so sure.

But it was not such as Thomas Wolsey whose company she most enjoyed. There were even now occasions when she could be at peace in the King’s company; this was when he invited men such as Dr. Linacre or Thomas More to his private apartments for an intimate supper. In particular was Katharine drawn to Thomas More; there was a man whose gentle charm and astringent wit had made an instant appeal to her, but perhaps what she had admired most of all was that integrity which she sensed in the man. It was so rare a quality that all seemed to change when they came into contact with it; even Henry ceased to be the licentious young man and was a serious monarch, determined to increase his intellectual stature and work for the good of his people. It was small wonder that she looked forward with pleasure to those days when the King said: “Come, Master More, you shall sup with us tonight, and you may talk to us of astronomy, geometry or divinity; but willy-nilly we shall be merry with you.”

And strangely enough they would be for, with Thomas More leading the conversation, however serious its nature, it must be merry.

But on this day such as Thomas More and Dr. Linacre would not be the King’s companions.

She glanced out of the window. The King was leading his courtiers towards the Palace, and with him were his brother-in-law the Duke of Suffolk, William Compton and Thomas Boleyn.

Katharine’s mouth tightened at the sight of the last.

Thomas Boleyn was the kind of man who would be delighted to offer his daughter to the King in exchange for honors. The honors were evidently being granted, and the man had been at the King’s side during his meeting with the King of France—that ostentatious and vulgar display of the “Field of the Cloth of Gold”—and he remained there.

But not for long, vowed Katharine—unless he can hold his place by his own qualities and not through the lewdness of his daughter.

Wherever the King went there was ceremony. Now the heralds stationed at the doors were playing a fanfare—a warning to all those who had been within the Palace while the King was at sport to leap to attention. He would stroll through the Palace smiling graciously, if his mood was a good one; and it would seem that it was so now from the sound of his voice, and the laughter which followed his remarks.

She wondered whether he would go to his own apartments or come to hers. What did he wish now? Sweet music? Would he call for his lute and entertain the company with one of his own musical compositions? Would he perhaps summon Mary Boleyn and dismiss his courtiers? He was a young healthy animal and his whims and moods could change in a moment.

“He is coming here,” she said, and she saw the faint flush begin in Maria’s cheeks as the door was flung open.

The King stood on the threshold looking at his Queen and her attendant bent over their tapestry.

Maria rose immediately, as did Katharine, and they both made a deep curtsey as Henry came into the room chuckling, his fair face flushed, his blue eyes as bright as chips of glazed china with the sun on them; his golden beard jutting out inviting admiration; he had recently grown it because King François had one, and he believed that a golden beard was more becoming than a black one.

Beside him most other men looked meager, and it was not merely the aura of kingship which made them so. It was true they fell away from him, giving him always the center of the stage, for every word, every gesture which was made in his presence must remind him that he was the King whom they all idolized.

He was glittering with jewels. How he loved color and display! And since he had returned from France he had worn brighter colors, more dazzling jewels. It was true that he did so with a hint of defiance; and Katharine knew that it would be a long time before he forgot the sly looks of the King of France, the caustic wit which, it had to be confessed, had set the King of England at a loss; that long nose, those brilliant dark eyes, had frequently seemed to hold a touch of mockery. The King of France was the only man who in recent years had dared snap his fingers at Henry and make sly jokes at his expense. Oh, the extravagant folly of that Field of the Cloth of Gold! All sham, thought Katharine, with two monarchs swearing friendship while hatred filled their hearts.

But Henry was not thinking of François now as he stood at the threshold of his wife’s apartment. He was in a favorite position, legs apart—perhaps to display that fine plump calf; his jerkin was of purple velvet, the sleeves slashed and puffed; his doublet of cloth of gold decorated with pearls; on his head was a blue velvet cap in which a white feather curled and diamonds scintillated; about his neck was a gold chain on which hung a large pearl and ruby; the plump white fingers were heavily loaded with rings, mostly of rubies and diamonds.

It was small wonder that wherever he went the people shouted for him; unlike his father he was a King who looked like a King.

“How now, Kate?” he said; and she straightened herself to look into his face, to read the expression there—his was the most expressive face at Court—and Katharine saw that for this moment his mood was a benign one. “You’ve missed a goodly sight.” He slapped his thigh, which set the jewels flashing in the sunlight.

“Then ’twas good sport, Your Grace?” answered Katharine, smiling.

“’Twas so indeed. Was it not?” He turned his head slightly and there was an immediate chorus of assent. “The dogs were game,” he went on, “and the bear was determined to stay alive. They won in the end, but I’ve lost two of my dogs.”

“Your Grace will replace them.”

“Doubt it not,” he said. “We missed you. You should have been at our side.” His expression had changed and was faintly peevish. She understood. He had been with Mary Boleyn last night and was making excuses to himself for conduct which shocked him a little, even though it was his own. She knew that he was tormented periodically by his conscience; a strange burden for such a man to carry. Yet she rejoiced in the King’s conscience; she believed that if he ever contemplated some dastardly act, it would be there to deter him.

“It was my regret that I was not,” answered Katharine.

He growled and his eyes narrowed so that the bright blue was scarcely visible. He seemed to make a sudden decision, for he snapped his fingers and said: “Leave us with the Queen.”

There was immediate obedience from those who had accompanied him into the apartment; and Maria de Salinas hurried to where the King stood, dropped a curtsey, and followed the others out. Henry did not glance at her; his lower lip was protruding slightly as the plump fingers of his right hand played with the great ruby on his left.

Katharine experienced a twinge of that apprehension which was troubling her more and more frequently nowadays. He had felt contented when he was watching his animals; when he had crossed the gardens and come into the Palace he had been happy. It was the sight of her sitting at her tapestry which had aroused his anger.

When they were alone he grumbled: “Here is a pleasant state of affairs. The King must sit alone and watch good sport because his Queen prefers not to sit beside him that people may see their King and Queen together.”

“I believed I did not displease Your Grace in remaining in my apartment.”

“You knew full well that I wished you to be beside me.”

“But Henry, when I explained my indisposition, you seemed contented enough that I should remain in the Palace.”

It was true; he had shrugged his shoulders when she had pleaded a headache; would she never learn that what he accepted at one time with indifference could arouse his anger at another?

“I liked it not,” he growled. “And if this headache of yours was so distressing, do you improve it with the needle? Nay, ’twas our rough English sports that disgusted you. Come, admit it. Our English games are too rough for Spanish ladies, who faint at the sight of blood. ’Tis so, is it not?”

“It is true that I find the torturing of animals distasteful.”

“’Tis odd in one who comes from Spain where they make a religious spectacle out of torturing people.”

She shuddered; the thought of cruelty was distasteful to her; she knew that during the reign of her revered mother the Spanish Inquisition had tortured heretics and handed them over to the Secular authorities to be burned to death. This she had often told herself was a matter of faith; those who suffered at the autos-de-fé in her native land did so because they had sinned against the Church. In her eyes this was a necessary chastisement, blessed by Holy Church.

She said quietly: “I do not care to witness the shedding of blood.”

“Bah!” cried the King. “’Tis good sport. And ’twould be well that the people see us together. Like as not we shall be hearing that all is not well between us. Rumors grow from such carelessness, and such rumors would not please me.”

“There are rumors already. I’ll warrant the secret of your mistresses is not kept to the Court.”

The King’s ruddy face grew a shade darker and there was a hint of purple in it. She knew she was being foolish, knew that he was like an ostrich, that he fondly imagined that no one was aware of his infidelities or, if they were, looked upon them as a kingly game no more degrading than the hounding of animals to death.

“And is it meet that you should reproach me for seeking elsewhere what I cannot find in your bed?” he demanded.

“I have always done my best to please you there.”

The eyes narrowed still more; the face was an even darker shade, the chin jutted out in a more bellicose manner; and only the beard prevented his looking like a boy in a tantrum.

“Then,” he shouted, “let me tell you this, Madam. You have not pleased me there!”

She closed her eyes waiting for the onslaught of cruel words. He would not spare her because, with the guilt of his adultery heavy upon him, he had to find excuses for his conscience. He was talking to that now—not to her.

The tirade ended; a slightly pious expression crossed the scarlet face; the blue eyes opened wider and were turned upwards. His voice was hushed as he spoke.

“There are times, Kate, when I think that in some way you and I have offended God. All these years we have prayed for a boy and again and again our hopes have been disappointed.”

And those words smote her ears like a funeral knell; the more so because they were spoken quietly in a calculating manner; he had momentarily forgotten the need to appease his conscience; he was planning for the future.

He had expressed that thought before, and always in that portentous manner, so that it sounded like the opening chorus, the prelude to a drama on which the curtain was about to rise.

So now she waited for what would follow. It must come one day. If not this day, the next. Perhaps a week might elapse, a month, a year…but come it would.

He was eyeing her craftily, distastefully, the woman who no longer had the power to arouse any desire in him, the woman who after twelve years of marriage had failed to give what he most desired: a son born in wedlock.

There was nevertheless still to be respite; for suddenly he turned on his heel and strode from the room.

But Katharine knew that the curtain was soon to rise.

AS THE COURTIERS left the King and Queen together, many an understanding glance was exchanged. It was common knowledge that all was not well between the royal pair. Who could blame the King, said the gay young men, married to a woman five years older than himself—a woman who was overpious and a solemn Spaniard—when he was surrounded by gay young English girls all eager for a frolic! It would have been different of course had there been a son.

There was one among the company whose smile was complacent. This did not go unnoticed. Edward Stafford, third Duke of Buckingham, had good reason to be delighted by this lack of royal fertility. Secretly Buckingham believed himself to be more royal than the Tudors, and there were many who, had they dared to express such an opinion, would have agreed with him.

Buckingham was a proud man; he could not forget that through his father he was descended from Thomas of Woodstock, son of Edward III, and that his mother had been Catherine Woodville, sister of Elizabeth Woodville who had married Edward IV. And who were the Tudors but a bastard sprig from the royal tree!

Never could Buckingham look on the King without this thought crossing his mind: There but for the chances of fate might stand Edward Stafford.

Such thoughts were only safe when locked in the secret places of the mind; and it was unwise to betray, even by a look, that they existed. Buckingham was a rash man and therefore, since he lived under Henry VIII, an unwise one.

The old Duke of Norfolk who was at his side, guessing his thoughts, whispered: “Caution, Edward.”

As Buckingham turned to look at his friend a faint frown of exasperation appeared on his brow. Further resentment flared up in his mind against the King. Why should he have to be cautious lest the stupid young King should realize that he fancied himself in his place? If Henry had a spark of imagination, he would guess this was so.

Norfolk and Buckingham were intimate friends and there was a connection between the families because Buckingham’s daughter had married Norfolk’s son.

Buckingham smiled wryly. The old man would want no trouble to befall his friend and connection by marriage, and would be thinking that such trouble often embraced the whole of a family.

“Your looks betray your thoughts,” whispered Norfolk. “There are those who are ready to carry tales. Let us go to your apartments where we shall be able to talk in peace.”

Buckingham nodded and they disengaged themselves from the crowd.

“You should be watchful,” murmured Norfolk as they mounted the staircase on their way to Buckingham’s apartment.

Buckingham shrugged elegant shoulders. “Oh come,” he said, “Henry knows that I’m as royal as he is. He doesn’t need my careless looks to remind him.”

“All the more reason for caution. I should have thought you would have been warned by the case of Bulmer.”

Buckingham smiled reminiscently. It had been worth it, he decided; even though at the time he had suffered some uneasy moments.

But he was glad that he had shown his daring to the Court; there was no doubt of that when he had approached Sir William Bulmer, who was in the service of the King, and bribed him with an offer of better service in his own retinue. He had done this out of bravado, out of that ever persistent desire to show the King that he was of equal standing. Buckingham had never forgotten how Henry had sought to seduce his, Buckingham’s, sister, as though she were some serving girl at the Court. Perhaps Henry also had not forgotten Buckingham’s action in having the girl whirled out of his orbit by her enraged husband just at that moment when successful seduction seemed imminent. Buckingham had scored then. It was a glorious victory for a Duke to win over a King. And he had tried again with Bulmer. Not so successfully, for the King, no longer an uncertain boy, had summoned Bulmer to the Star Chamber and accused him of having deserted the royal service. Bulmer had cowered before the onslaught of the King’s anger and had been kept on his knees until he despaired of ever being allowed to rise.

But at length Henry had relented, forgiven Bulmer and taken him back into his service. The affair, however, was meant to be a warning—chiefly to an arrogant Duke. Yet the Duke still thought his dangerous thoughts; and it was possible to read them in almost every gesture that he made.

“Ah, Bulmer,” he mused now. “That man was a coward. He should have returned to me.”

“It might have cost him his head,” suggested Norfolk.

“I would rather lose my head than be known as a coward.”

“Take care that you are not called upon to prove those words, Edward.”

“Henry does not possess a surfeit of bravery,” retorted Buckingham. “Look how he let my sister go.”

“It would be a different state of affairs if that had happened today. Henry was a boy when he decided on your sister. I do believe that up to that time he had never been unfaithful to the Queen. Those days are over.”

“He realized that we Staffords would not accept the insult.”

“You deceive yourself. If he fancied your wife or mine he’d care not a jot for our families. The King is no longer a boy to be led. He is a man who will have what he wants and thrust aside all those who stand in his way.”

“If he respects royalty he must include those who are as royal as he is.”

“Henry sees only one point of view, his own. He is the King. The rest of us, be we dukes or lords, are so far beneath him that he would have our heads, ay, and feel it was but his due, should the fancy take him. That is why I bid you to be cautious. Ha, here comes Wolsey, on his way to the royal apartments, I’ll swear.”

“The butcher’s dog is for ever sniffing at the heels of his master,” said Buckingham, without taking the precaution of lowering his voice.

Thomas Wolsey was making his way towards them, an impressive figure in his scarlet Cardinal’s robes. He was a man of about forty-five, his expression alert, his face mildly disfigured by smallpox, and the lid of one eye hanging lower than the other, which gave an added expression of wisdom to his clever face.

Buckingham did not pause as he approached; his gaze became cold and he looked beyond the Cardinal as though he could not see the red-clad figure.

“A merry good day to you, gentlemen,” said the Cardinal.

“Good day to you,” answered Norfolk.

“I trust, my lords, you enjoyed good sport and that His Grace is happy because of it.”

“The sport was fair enough,” murmured Norfolk; but Buckingham, who had not spoken, was walking on.

Wolsey did not appear to have noticed; he inclined his head slightly and Norfolk did likewise, as Wolsey went on towards the King’s apartments, the two Dukes on to Buckingham’s.

“’Tis my belief he heard your words,” said Norfolk.

“’Tis my hope that he did.”

“Curb your pride, Edward. Will you never understand that he is forever at the King’s side, ready to pour his poison in the royal ear?”

“Let him pour—if the King listens to the butcher’s boy he is unworthy to be King.”

“Edward…you fool! When will you learn? You already have an enemy in the Cardinal; if you love your life do not seek one in the King.”

But Buckingham strode on ahead of Norfolk, so that the old man had to hurry to keep up with him; and thus they came to his apartments.

As they entered three men of his retinue who were conversing together bowed to him and his companion. These were Delacourt his confessor, Robert Gilbert his chancellor, and Charles Knyvet who was not only his steward but his cousin.

The Dukes acknowledged their greetings and when they had passed into Buckingham’s private apartment he said: “My servants are aware of it. They know full well that their master might, by good chance, ascend the throne.”

“I trust,” put in Norfolk nervously, “that you have never spoken of such matters in their presence.”

“Often,” laughed Buckingham. “Why, only the other day Delacourt said to me: ‘If the Princess Mary died, Your Grace would be heir to the throne.’ Why, my friend, you tremble. Norfolk, I’m surprised at you.”

“I never heard such folly.”

“Listen to me,” murmured Buckingham soothingly. “The King is not such a fool as to attack the nobility. He has too much respect for royalty to harm me. So set aside your fears. This much I tell you: I will be treated with the respect due to me. Now, what do you think the King is saying to his Queen at this moment? He is upbraiding her for not accompanying him to watch the sport; but what he really means is that she is of no use to him since she cannot give him a son. I do believe he has begun to despair of ever getting a boy by her.”

“But the boys he gets by others will not provide the heir to the throne.”

Buckingham chuckled. “No. There’ll be no heir—and is the Princess Mary really a healthy child? But the King would do well to forget his anxieties. He has good heirs in me and mine.”

It was useless, Norfolk saw, to turn Buckingham from the subject which obsessed him; nevertheless he tried; and they talked awhile of the Field of the Cloth of Gold and the treaties which had been made with François Premier and the Emperor Charles.

Norfolk, who had not accompanied the royal party to France on that occasion, grumbled about the cost to which England had been put, and Buckingham agreed with him. The nobility would be on short commons for the next few months in order to pay for all the finery they had had to provide.

“And for what?” demanded Buckingham. “That our Henry might show François what a fine fellow he is! As if François could not match pageant with pageant!”

Norfolk sourly agreed. He had not stood in high favor with the King since Thomas Wolsey had risen to such eminence; he hated the Cardinal as much as Buckingham did, but he had had an opportunity of realizing the venom and power of the man, and he was too shrewd to take unnecessary risks.

Buckingham was in a rebellious mood that day and, being conscious that members of his retinue were hovering, and fearing some indiscretion might be uttered in their presence, in which he might be involved, Norfolk took his leave as soon as he could politely do so.

When he was alone Buckingham brooded on that favorite subject of his, which aroused such bitterness within him and which, try as he might, he could never succeed in dismissing from his mind. He could work himself to a fury over what he construed as an insult from anyone of lowlier birth than his own, and the very presence of Wolsey at Court seemed an affront.

Norfolk’s warnings had only succeeded in intensifying his recklessness, and when Knyvet came to his apartment to ask his advice about some matter of his stewardship, the Duke said: “His Grace of Norfolk has been talking to me of the affair of William Bulmer.”

“Ah, Your Grace,” said Knyvet, “that man is now back in the King’s service. Some say he had a lucky escape.”

“Oh yes, he went back like a whipped cur. He would have done better to have remained with me. I shall not forget that he deserted me…when the time comes.”

Knyvet looked startled. “It is not easy to disobey the King’s command.”

Buckingham lifted his shoulders. “At one time I believed the King was preparing to have me sent to the Tower for my part in that affair.”

“Your Grace to the Tower!”

Buckingham nodded. “Kings do not last for ever,” he mused. “My father learned that. He was in conflict with Richard III. But my father was no coward. He planned that when he was brought to the King he would have his dagger ready and plunge it into that false heart. I do assure you, cousin, that had an indignity been forced upon me, I should have been as ready to avenge the honor of my family as my father was.”

Knyvet murmured: “Your Grace cannot mean…”

“And,” interrupted Buckingham fiercely, “if the King were to die and the Princess were to die, I should take over the crown of this Kingdom, and none should say me nay.”

Knyvet recoiled, which amused Buckingham. How terrified everyone was of being drawn into a conspiracy! Such fear in others spurred the Duke on to further recklessness. He said: “Is Hopkins, the monk, in the Palace today?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“Then send him to me. I have heard that he can see into the future. I want him to look into mine.”

“I will have him brought to Your Grace.”

“With all speed,” cried Buckingham.

He paced excitedly up and down his apartment while waiting for the monk; and when the man was brought to him he shouted so that several of his servants could not fail to hear him: “So, Hopkins, you are here. I want you to tell me what the future holds for me. I want you to tell me what chance I have of attaining the throne.”

The monk shut the door and put his fingers to his lips. The face which peered out of his hood was shrewd. He took in the details of the apartment; the love of luxury was apparent. Here was a noble Duke who could do him much good in exchange for the prophecy he wanted. Hopkins knew that if he told the Duke that he would be more likely to end his days on a scaffold than on a throne (and one did not have to be a soothsayer to suspect that) he would be dismissed without reward. But such as this Duke would be ready to pay well for what he wanted to hear.

Hopkins looked long into that arrogant face, half closed his eyes and murmured: “I see greatness ahead for Your Grace.”

“What sort of greatness?”

“All that you desire will be yours. I see a crown…”

A slow, satisfied smile spread across the Duke’s face. This fellow has great and unusual powers, he told himself. It shall come to pass. Has he not prophesied that it shall?

So he presented the monk with a heavy purse; and from that moment his manner grew a shade more arrogant.

IN ONE OF the privy gardens of the Palace a young man and woman sat on a wicker seat, their arms about each other. In the distance the shouts from the arena could be heard but both were oblivious of everything but the ardour of their passion.

The woman was plump and dark-haired; her body voluptuously curved; and the expression of her face, soft and sensuous betrayed her nature. One glance was enough to see that she was one who had been endowed by nature with a deep appreciation and knowledge of fleshly pleasures; and her generous nature was one which wanted to share these. It was the secret of her great appeal to almost every man who saw her. And if they tired of her quickly it was because she could hold nothing back, but must give all that was demanded; so that in a short time there was little to learn of Mary Boleyn.

Since her early teens Mary had been in and out of more beds than she could remember. The Kings of England and France had been her lovers; so had the humblest officers of the Court. Mary was overflowing with desire which demanded appeasement and, being on such terms with pleasure and of a generous nature which never sought material gain, her favors had until this time been bestowed on most of those who asked for them.

Now she was in love and discovering that the emotions this young man aroused in her were of a different nature from those she had ever felt for any other person. She was still Mary, as uninhibited as a young animal in forest or jungle; lust was strong in her but it was tempered by affection, and when she thought of her future with her lover it was not only sharing his bed that filled her mind, but sharing his table, his fortune, and being a mother to the children they would have. This was a new and exciting experience for Mary Boleyn.

“And so,” he was saying now, as his hands caressed the bare plump bosom, “we shall marry.”

“Yes, Will,” she answered, her lips slightly parted, her eyes glazed, while she wondered whether they dared here in full daylight. If they were discovered and tales carried to the King…! It was only a few nights ago that His Grace had summoned her to his bed. He might be somewhat angry if he knew of her love for Will Carey.

“And when shall I speak to your father?”

Mary was alarmed. She caught his hand and pressed it against her breast. It was so easy to lose oneself in a sensuous dream and forget reality. In truth she was more afraid of her father than of the King. The King might decide that it was a good idea that she married. It was often the case in relationships such as theirs. He had found a husband for Elizabeth Blount and there was always a possibility that a mistress might become pregnant, when the necessary hasty marriage could be a little undignified. No, she did not think the King would object to the marriage; though he might insist that husbandly activities were confined only to giving his wife his name. Mary would not be greatly perturbed. Could she imagine herself living in a house with Will, and not…The thought made her want to laugh.

But her father—approaching him was another matter.

Thomas Boleyn had never thought much of his daughter Mary until she had caught the King’s eye. Now he was inclined to regard her with greater respect than he had even for his son George; and all knew how clever George was.

Strange that Mary should have been the one…with her wantonness which had earned her many a beating in the past…to have brought honors to the family. But if Will Carey went to her father and asked for his daughter’s hand there would be trouble.

“He’ll never give his consent,” she said sadly.

“Why should he not?”

“You do not know my father, Will. He is the most ambitious of men, and of late he has risen high in the King’s service.”

“Does he not wish to see his daughter married?”

“Mayhap, but alas, Will, you have no money and are only a younger son of your father. To us such matters are of no moment because we love, and that is all we ask. But my father does not believe in love. He will never give his consent.”

“Then what can we do?” Will asked in despair.

Mary took his face in her hands and kissed his lips. The kiss was full of invitation and promise. She was telling him that, even if they had to wait awhile for marriage, they had much to give each other in the meantime.

“I want to take you away from Court, Mary.”

“And I want to go.” She frowned. If the King sent for her, she must go to him. But it would really be Will with whom she wished to make love.

“What can we do about it? We must do something. I cannot wait forever.”

“Something will happen, Will, never fear. We will be patient…about marriage…and something will happen; you will see.”

Will fell upon her in a storm of passion. She was the ideal mistress, never withholding, always ready to give. But he wanted to take her away that he might keep her all to himself and that no others might share the pleasures which she gave so wholeheartedly. He knew about the King, of course. He could never be sure, when she was not with him, whether she was with the King.

She soothed him as she well knew how and after a while she said: “I will speak to my father of your offer.”

“And if he forbids us to meet?”

“No one could prevent our meeting, Will.”

But Will was unconvinced.

“They are returning from their sport now,” went on Mary. “My father will surely have been with the King. It may well be that his mood is a good one. Will, what if I spoke to him now?”

“But it is surely I who should speak to him, Mary.”

She shook her head, imagining her father intimidating her lover. Will was a man who might easily be intimidated, and her father, who had always been formidable, had become more so during the years of success.

She withdrew herself from him, sighing regretfully. “Nay, Will,” she said, “I will find him, and if the moment is a good one, speak to him. I know him better than you and if he shows signs of anger I shall know how to withdraw and pretend that our matter is of no importance.”

“You will not let him dissuade you?”

“No one shall persuade me to give you up, Will.”

He believed her, because he knew that she could be strong where her passions were concerned.

THOMAS BOLEYN, taking a moment’s respite in his private apartments of the Palace whither he had retired when the King dismissed the courtiers that he might be alone with the Queen, was confronted by his daughter, who asked to speak with him in private.

Graciously he granted this permission, for Mary had become an important member of the household since the King had elevated her to the position of mistress.

Even so Thomas regarded her with faint distaste. Her dress was crumpled and her hair escaping from her headdress. Though, Thomas thought fleetingly, it may be the slut in her which appeals to the King. Yet although he was pleased with her, he was often anxious because he must constantly ask himself how long she would continue to hold the King’s attention.

It was difficult to reconcile himself to the fact that Mary had sprung to such importance. She had always been the fool of the family. The other two were such a precocious pair. He had high hopes of George and it was his plan to bring him into prominence at Court at the earliest opportunity; he was sure that when that young man was a little older he would prove an amusing companion for the King. As for Anne, she was too young yet to make plans for. At the present time she was at the Court of France whence he heard news of her from time to time, and how her cleverness and charm pleased the King and Queen and members of their Court. But that the little slut Mary should have found favor with the King…was incredible.

“Well, my daughter?”

“Father, I have been thinking that it is time I married.”

Thomas was alert. Had the King put this into her head? If so he would be following the normal procedure. The King would feel happier with a mistress who had a husband; it forestalled an undignified shuffling into marriage if the need to do so should arise. No doubt Henry had found some worthy husband for his favorite; and Thomas, even if he wanted to, would not be such a fool as to refuse his consent to a marriage suggested by the King.

“Perhaps you are right, Mary,” he said. “Whom have you in mind?”

Mary smiled in what seemed to the practical Thomas a vacuous manner as she murmured: “It is William Carey, Father.”

“William Carey! You cannot mean…No, you could not. I was thinking of Carey’s son…a younger brother.…”

“It is that Will, Father.”

Thomas was astounded and horrified. Surely the King would never suggest such a lowly match for a woman in whom he had been interested. It was an insult. The blood rushed to Thomas’s face and showed even in the whites of his eyes. “The King…,” he stammered.

“The King might not object to this marriage,” Mary began.

“He has suggested it to you?”

“Oh…no! It is because Will and I have fallen in love.”

Thomas stared at his daughter. “You must be mad, girl. You…have fallen in love with this Will Carey? A younger son of a family that can scarcely be called distinguished!”

“One does not think of family honors or wealth when one falls in love,” said Mary simply.

“You have lost your wits, girl.”

“I believe it is called losing one’s heart,” replied Mary with some spirit.

“The same thing, doubtless. Well, you may put this young man out of your mind. I want to hear no more of such nonsense. It may well be that, if you are patient, the King will suggest a good marriage for you. Indeed, it might be a good plan for you to make some light suggestions. Carefully, mind. Hint perhaps that marriage might be necessary…”

Mary bowed her head that he might not see the defiance which had sprung into her eyes. Hitherto she had been as easily swayed as a willow wand, but the thought of Will had stiffened her resistance. Strangely enough she was ready to put up a fight, to displease her father and the King, if need be, for the sake of Will Carey.

Thomas laid his hand on her shoulder; he had no doubt of her obedience. He was confident of his power when he looked back and saw how far he had come in the last years. He was forty-three years old, in good health, and his ambition was limitless. The King’s pleasure in him was stressed by the fact that he had designated Sir Thomas Boleyn to play such a large part in making the arrangements for the Field of the Cloth of Gold; and now that Henry had favored his daughter he was more grateful to Thomas than ever, because he had produced such a willing and comely girl. Mary had always been pliable, lacking the arrogance and temper of George and Anne.

Had he looked a little closer at Mary on that occasion he might have noticed that when her jaw was purposefully set, as it was at this moment, she bore a striking resemblance to her headstrong brother and sister.

But Thomas was too sure of his daughter, too sure of his ability to subdue her, to be alarmed.

He patted her shoulder. “Now, my daughter, no more of this foolishness. There’ll be a grand marriage for you, and now is the time to ask for it. I see no reason why you should not become a Duchess. That would please you, His Grace, and your family.”

Still she kept her head lowered, and giving her a playful push he dismissed her.

She was glad to escape because of the overwhelming desire to tell him that she was no longer his puppet, nor the King’s; Mary Boleyn in love, fighting for the future she desired, was as formidable as any young woman of spirit.

THE GREAT CARDINAL was alone in his audience chamber, where he stood at the window looking out over the parkland of that most magnificent of his residences, Hampton Court. He could always find delight in this place which he regarded as essentially his own; for how different it had become in those years since he had taken over the lease from the Knights of St. John of Jerusalem and raised this impressive edifice to what it was at this time, built around five courts and containing 1,500 rooms.

Here was opulence of a kind not seen even in the King’s own palaces; the walls were hung with the finest tapestry which the Cardinal caused to be changed once a week; throughout the palace were exquisite pieces of furniture and treasures which proclaimed the wealth of their owner. The Cardinal was a man who liked to be constantly reminded of his possessions, for he had attained them through his own brilliance, and because he remembered humbler days he found the greater pleasure in them. He did not care that the people murmured and said that his court was more magnificent than that of the King; that was how he wished it to be. He often said to himself: “All that is Henry’s is his because he is his father’s son. All that is mine, is mine because I am Thomas Wolsey.”

He encouraged ostentation. Let noblemen such as Norfolk and Buckingham sneer. They would sneer once too often. Let them make sly references to the butcher’s shop in which they swore he had been born. What did he care? These men were fools; and Wolsey believed that one day he would triumph over all his enemies. He was determined to do so, for he was not the man to forget a slight.

He smoothed the crimson satin of his robes and caressed his tippet of fine sable.

Oh, it was good to be rich. It was good to have power and to feel that power growing. There was very little he wished for and did not possess, for he was not a man to seek the impossible. The greatest power in England, the Papal Crown…these were not impossibilities. And if he longed to install his family here in Hampton Court, to boast to the King of his son—his fine sturdy Thomas, named after himself, but known as Wynter—he accepted the impossibility of doing so. As a prelate he could not allow the fact of that uncanonical marriage of his to be known; he was therefore reconciled to keeping his family in the background while he could bestow honors on his son.

He was smiling to himself now because he knew of the activities which would be going on in the great kitchens. There was a special banquet this day; the King would be present in some disguise. Wolsey had not been specifically told that Henry would come; he had merely heard that a party of gentlemen from a far country planned to test the hospitality of Hampton Court, for they had heard that it vied with that to be enjoyed at the King’s Court.

Wolsey laughed aloud. Such childish games! One among them would be the King, and the company must express its surprise when he discarded the disguise, and then the great delight and pleasure all felt in the honor of having their King with them.

“A game,” mused Wolsey, “that we have played countless times and will doubtless play countless times again, for it seems that His Grace never tires of it.”

But was His Grace tiring? Had there been an indication recently of a change in the King’s attitude to life? Was he taking more interest in matters of state, a little less in masking?

The longer the King remained a pleasure-loving boy the greater pleased would the Cardinal be. Those workmanlike hands of his were the hands to hold the helm. He wanted no interference.

Let the golden boy frolic with his women. Wolsey frowned a little. Boleyn was growing somewhat presumptuous on account of that brazen girl of his; and the man was becoming a little too important. But the Cardinal could deal with such; it was the King’s interference that he most feared; and while the King was concerned with a girl he could be expected to leave matters of state to his trusted Chancellor.

The guests were already arriving. He would not join them until the coming of the party of gentlemen in disguise, for that was beneath his dignity. His guests must wait for him to come among them, as at Greenwich or Westminster they waited for the King.

He knew that they would whisper together of the magnificence they saw about them, of the manner in which he dressed his servants, so that many of them were more richly clad than his guests. In the kitchens now his master cook, attired in scarlet satin with a gold chain about his neck, would be directing his many servants as though he himself was the lord of this manor; and that was how Wolsey would have it: that each man—from his steward who was a dean, and his treasurer who was a knight, to his grooms and yeomen of the pastry and his very scullery boys—should know, and tell the world by his demeanor, that it was better to be a page of the pantry in the household of Cardinal Wolsey than a gentleman steward in the house of any nobleman under the King.

As he brooded, his man Cavendish came to the door of the apartment and craved his master’s indulgence for disturbing him, but a certain Charles Knyvet, late of the household of the Duke of Buckingham, was begging an audience with him.

Wolsey did not speak for a second. He felt a surge of hatred rise within him at the mention of the hated Buckingham. There was a man who had been born to wealth and nobility and who never failed to remind the Cardinal of it. It was in every look, every gesture and, often when he passed, Wolsey would hear the words: butcher’s dog.

One day Buckingham was going to regret that he dared scorn Thomas Wolsey, for the Cardinal was not the sort to forget a grudge; all insults were remembered in order to be repaid tenfold; for that dignity which he had had to nurture, having cost him so much to come by, was doubly dear to him.

This was interesting. Knyvet to see him! He knew that the fellow was related to Buckingham—a poor relation—who had been in the Duke’s employ until recently. There had been some difference of opinion between Master Knyvet and his rich relation, with the result that Knyvet had been dismissed from the ducal household.

So he came to see the Cardinal.

Wolsey regarded his hands thoughtfully. “You discovered his business?”

“He said it was for the ears of Your Eminence alone.”

The Cardinal nodded; but he would not see the man—not at the first request. That would be beneath the dignity of the great Cardinal.

“Tell him he may present himself again,” he said.

Cavendish bowed. The man was favored. At least the Cardinal had not refused his request for an interview.

So Cavendish went back through the eight rooms, which had to be traversed before the Cardinal’s private chamber was reached, and in which none who sought an audience might wait.

Now Wolsey could hear shouts on the river, the sound of music, and he decided it was time for him to leave his apartment and cross the park to the water’s edge, there to receive the party, for it would contain one before whom even a great Cardinal must bow.

He made his way down his private staircase and out into the sunshine; standing at the river’s edge he watched the boat approach the privy stairs. In it was a party of men dressed in dazzling colors, all heavily masked and wearing beards, some of gold wire, some of black. The Cardinal saw with some dismay that the masks, the false beards, and caps of gold and scarlet which covered their heads were all-concealing, and this was going to be one of those occasions when it was not easy to pick out the King.

Usually his great height betrayed him; but there were several who appeared to be as tall. A faint irritation came to the Cardinal, although he hastened to suppress it; one of the first steps to disfavor was taken when one betrayed a lack of interest in the King’s pastimes. That was one of the lesser ways in which the Queen was failing.

“Welcome, gentlemen,” he cried, “welcome to Hampton Court.”

One of the masked men said in a deliberately disguised voice which Wolsey could not recognize: “We come from a strange land, and news of the hospitality of the great Cardinal has been brought to us, so we would test it.”

“Gentlemen, it is my pleasure to entertain you. Come into the palace. The banquet is about to be served, and there are many guests at my table who will delight you as you will delight them.”

“Are there fair ladies?” asked one.

“In plenty,” answered the Cardinal.

One tall man with a black beard came to the Cardinal’s side. “Fair ladies at the table of a Cardinal?” he murmured.

Wolsey spread his hands, believing he heard mockery in the voice. This disturbed him faintly for he fancied it might well be the King who walked beside him.

“My lord,” he answered, “I give all I have to my guests. If I believe the company of fair ladies will enliven the occasion for them, then I invite fair ladies to my table.”

“’Tis true you are a perfect host.”

They had come to the gates of the palace beside which stood two tall yeomen and two grooms, so still that they looked like statues, so gorgeously apparelled that they looked like members of the nobility.

“Methinks,” said the black-bearded man in an aside to one of his companions, “that we come not to the Cardinal’s court but to the King’s Court.”

“It pleases me that you should think so, my lord,” said Wolsey, “for you come from a strange land and now that you are in the King’s realm you will know that a Chancellor could possess such a manor only if his master were as far above him as you, my lord, are above my grooms whom you so recently have passed.”

“Then is the King’s Court of even greater brilliance?”

“If it were but a hut by the river it would be of greater brilliance because our lord the King was therein. When you have seen him you will understand.”

He was feeling a little uneasy. It was disconcerting to be unsure of the King’s identity. The game was indeed changing when that golden figure could not be immediately discovered.

“It would seem that you are not only a great Cardinal but a loyal subject.”

“There is none more loyal in the kingdom,” replied Wolsey vehemently; “and none with more reason to be. All that I am, I am because of the King’s grace; all that I possess comes from his mercy.”

“Well spoken,” said the black-bearded man. “Let us to your banquet table; for the news of its excellence has travelled far.”

In the banqueting hall the guests were already assembled, and the sight was magnificent, for the great hall was hung with finest tapestry, and many tables were set side by side. In the place of honor was a canopy under which it was the Cardinal’s custom to sit, and here he would be served separately by two of his chief servants. The brilliance of the gathering was dazzling, and the members of the Cardinal’s retinue in their colorful livery contributed in no small way to the opulence of the occasion.

Wolsey’s eyes were on the black-bearded man. “You shall be seated in the place of honor,” he said.

“Nay, my lord Cardinal, it pleases us that you should take your place under the cloth of state and behave as though we were the humblest of your guests.”

But as he took his place under the canopy the Cardinal’s apprehension increased. Previously during such masquerades he had discovered the King immediately and acted accordingly. Irritated as he was, he forced himself to appear gracious and to behave as though this really was a party of foreign travellers who had come unexpectedly to his table.

But it was difficult. Who were behind those masks? Buckingham doubtless. Boleyn? Compton? Suffolk? All Henry’s cronies and therefore casting wary eyes at a man of the people who had risen so far above them.

He signed to his servants to serve the banquet but his eyes ranged about the table. The napery was exquisite; the food as plentiful as that supplied at the King’s table. Everything was of the best. Capons, pheasants, snipe, venison, chickens and monumental pies. Who but the Cardinal’s cooks could produce such light pastry with the golden look? Peacocks, oysters, stags, bucks, partridges, beef and mutton. There were fish of many descriptions; sauces made from cloves and raisins, sugar, cinnamon and ginger; and gallons of French wines with Malmsey, and muscadell—all to be drunk from fine Venetian glasses which were the wonder of all who saw them.

But while the company gave themselves to the appreciation of this banquet Wolsey continued uneasy, and suddenly he raised his voice and said:

“My friends, there is one among us who is so noble that I know it to be my duty to surrender my place to him. I cannot sit under this canopy in good spirit while he, who is so much more worthy than I, takes his place unrecognized at my table.”

There was silence, and then one of the masked men spoke; and a great hatred seized Wolsey when he recognized the disguised voice as that of Buckingham. “My Lord Cardinal, there are many members of the nobility present.”

“I speak of one,” said Wolsey.

Then one of the masked men said in a muffled voice: “Since Your Eminence believes there is such a noble personage among us, you should remove the mask of that man that all may see him.”

It was the invitation to unmask, always the great climax of these childish games.

The Cardinal stood up. “It shall be so!” he said. And he walked along the tables to that man with the black beard, and stood before him.

“Take off his mask if you believe it to be he,” commanded a voice which was husky with suppressed laughter.

And Wolsey stretched up and removed the false beard and the mask, to disclose the features of Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk.

While he stared with dismay there was a shout of laughter and a tall figure rose and confronted Wolsey.

“So my lord Cardinal,” he cried, removing his mask, “you would deny your King!”

Wolsey knelt and took Henry’s hand.

“May God forgive me,” he murmured.

Henry, his face scarlet with pleasure, his blue eyes sparkling, flung his gold wire beard from him. He began to laugh in that deep rumbling way which appeared to be infectious for the whole company laughed with him.

Thomas stood up and raised his eyes to the jovial giant.

“So Thomas, my friend, you did not know me.”

“Your Grace, I have never seen you so perfectly disguised.”

Henry slapped his satin thigh. “’Twas a good mask. And I’ll applaud Suffolk. He led you astray, did he not. Yet I thought you would have seen he lacked that inch or so.”

“But surely Your Grace stooped to deceive me?”

“Ha! Stoop I did. And ’twas effective.”

“And I had thought I could find Your Grace anywhere…in any circumstances.”

“So, friend Thomas, you offer me your seat of honor, eh?”

“Everything I have belongs to Your Grace. And now I would crave your indulgence and ask you to wait awhile before you sit to table. That which was served for a band of travellers is not what I would put before my King.”

“How so, Thomas?”

“If Your Grace will excuse me I will send for my master cooks. When the King comes to Hampton Court that which is served must not only be fit for a King but fit for the King of England.”

Henry’s eyes gleamed with pleasure. There was never such a one as Thomas Wolsey. He could be trusted to rise to any occasion. Whether it was matching the wits of his great enemy, François Premier, or talking of treaties with the Emperor Charles, Wolsey was the man he wanted to have beside him. And in a mask such as this he could be as effective as at the Council table.

“Go to, Thomas,” he said; and when Thomas gave a quiet order to his stewards the King’s merry eyes watched the ceremonial arrival of Thomas’s cooks in their scarlet velvet livery and golden chains.

“The fellows look as royal as myself,” he said in an aside to Suffolk. But he enjoyed it. He admired Wolsey for living in this manner; it was a credit to his country and his King.

“We are honored by the presence of the King,” said Wolsey to his cooks. “Have this food removed; bring in new and scented napery; set new dishes on the tables. I wish for a banquet—not worthy to set before His Grace, for that would be impossible—but the best we can offer.”

The cooks bowed and with ceremony left the hall followed by their clerks of the kitchens, surveyors of the dresser, clerks of the hall-kitchens and clerk of the spicery who followed the master cooks as Wolsey’s gentlemen of the household followed him on his ceremonial journeys from Hampton to Westminster Hall.

Then the guests left the tables and Wolsey led the King to another apartment; the banquet was postponed for an hour that it might be made worthy of the King.

Nothing could have pleased Henry more, for the climax of his game was that he should receive the homage due to him as King. Buckingham might grumble to Norfolk that the butcher’s cur was vulgar in the extreme; but there was not a man present who did not know that it was the red-clad figure which led the way and that which was clad in jewelled cloth of gold followed, because it was pleasant and easy to do so.

So it was with Wolsey that Henry walked in the hall of Hampton Court, his arm laid heavily on the shoulder of the Chancellor so that all could see—if they had ever doubted it—that he looked upon Thomas Wolsey as his friend, that he rejoiced in the Cardinal’s possessions because they were a symbol of how high a humble man could rise in his service, that he saw Thomas’s glory as a reflection of his own power. Nothing the jealous near-royals could do would alter that.

And when the food was prepared and the company reassembled in the great banqueting hall, Henry took his place under the canopy of state and all were merry as it pleased the King to be; but Henry would have, seated on his right hand, his host and friend, Thomas Wolsey.

He wanted all to know that he had great love for that man.

THE NEXT MORNING WHEN Knyvet again asked for an audience with the Cardinal, Wolsey received him.

The Cardinal, in crimson damask on this morning, sat at his table, his hands—very white in contrast to the crimson—spread out before him.

“You have something to tell me?” he asked.

“My lord Cardinal, I have wrestled with my conscience…”

How they always wrestled with their consciences! As though it was not the desire for revenge which so often brought them to him!

“I am listening,” said Wolsey.

“It concerns my Lord Buckingham.”

“In whose service you are.”

“In whose service I was, Your Eminence.”

“So you are with him no longer?”

Wolsey’s face was impassive but he was chuckling inwardly. So the fool Buckingham had dismissed a man from his service after having been indiscreet before him. The trouble with Buckingham was that he felt himself too important to need caution. It might be that the time was near when he would learn that he misjudged that importance.

“A little difference between us, Your Eminence. The Duke has a hasty temper.”

“I am sorry.”

“Your Eminence, it is a matter of relief to me to be free of him. Although he is my cousin I must say that.”

There was venom there. It might be usefully employed.

“And why have you come to see me?”

“Because I felt it my duty to do so.”

“You wish to tell me something about the Duke?”

“Yes, Your Eminence.”

“I am listening.”

“I would have Your Eminence know that it is my duty to King and State which impels me to lay these matters before you.”

“I accept that.”

“Then I would say that my lord and cousin has uttered remarks against the King’s Grace which seem to me treasonable.”

“And what were these remarks?”

“Before the Princess Mary was born he claimed to be heir to the throne. Since Her Highness’s birth he has said that should she die he would be the heir.”

“Is that so?”

“Your Eminence, he has referred constantly to his noble birth and has made slighting remarks concerning the bastardy of a certain family.”

Wolsey nodded encouragingly.

“Your Eminence, he has consulted a soothsayer who has told him that the crown will one day be his.”

“It would seem that your cousin is a rash man, Master Knyvet.”

“’Twould seem so, Eminence. You will remember that he lured Sir William Bulmer from the King’s service into his.”

“I remember the occasion well. The King was angry and declared he would have no servant of his hanging on another man’s sleeve.”

“Yes, Eminence, and my Lord Buckingham told me that had the King reprimanded him and sent him to the Tower, he would have asked for an audience with His Grace, and when it was granted would have stabbed the King and taken over the rule of this kingdom.”

“His recklessness is greater than I believed it to be. Why was he such a fool as to dismiss a man to whom he had uttered such treasonable words?”

Knyvet flushed uncomfortably. “He accused me of oppressing the tenantry.”

“And he dismissed you? And it was only when you were dismissed that you recognized these remarks of his as those of a traitor?”

Knyvet shivered and began to wish that he had not come to the Cardinal, but Wolsey had begun to smile as he laid a hand on the ex-steward’s shoulder.

“My lord, I came to you because I felt it to be my duty…”

“It was indeed your duty. But what will be said of a man who only recognizes his duty when his master dismisses him from his service?”

“You would not find it difficult to prove the truth. I was not the only one who heard these remarks. There were Hopkins the monk, and my lord’s confessor, Delacourt, and Gilbert his chancellor. My lord lacks caution and speaks his mind before his servants.”

The Chancellor waved a hand, which was enough to tell Knyvet that he was dismissed.

Knyvet looked at him in amazement; he had often heard Buckingham sneer at Wolsey; surely, he reasoned, Wolsey should reward one who brought such evidence to him.

But the Cardinal’s white hand was now at his lips suppressing a yawn; and there was nothing Knyvet could do but bow and retire with as much dignity as possible.

When he was alone the Cardinal took a tablet from a drawer and set it before him; then he began to write: “Hopkins the monk, Delacourt the confessor, Gilbert the chancellor.”

It might be that he could use these men if and when a certain occasion arose.

THE QUEEN had dismissed all her women with the exception of Maria de Salinas.

“I think, Maria,” she said thoughtfully, “that when the woman comes in, you should go.”

Maria bowed her head. She was sorry that the Queen had made up her mind to see this woman. It would have been better, she was sure, to ignore her. Moreover, if the woman went to the King and complained to him, what an undignified position the Queen would be in!

“You are thinking that I am being unwise?” Katharine demanded.

“Your Grace, who am I to think such thoughts?”

“I am not the King, Maria, in constant need of flattery. I like to hear the truth from my friends.”

“I think, Your Grace, that the interview may be distasteful to you.”

“There is so much that is distasteful to me,” Katharine answered sadly.

“Your Grace, I hear voices without.”

“She is come. When she enters, Maria my dear, leave at once.” A page entered and told the Queen that Mistress Boleyn was without and saying that she had come at the Queen’s command.

“It is true. Bring her to me. Now Maria, you will go.”

Maria curtseyed and went out as Mary Boleyn entered.

Mary came to stand before the Queen; she made a deep curtsey, raising her big, dark eyes fearfully to the Queen’s face as she did so.

Mary shivered inwardly. How frozen she looked! No wonder Henry went elsewhere for his comforts. She would be a cold bedfellow.

So this is the girl for whom he has neglected me! thought Katharine. She has the look of a slut. Why does he not choose someone more in keeping with his rank?

“Mistress Mary Boleyn, pray rise,” said the Queen.

The girl straightened herself and stood forlornly waiting for what the Queen had to say.

“You are the center of a most distressing scandal,” began Katharine, and watching the slow flush mount to the girl’s forehead, thought that it was some small comfort that she felt some shame. “It is unbecoming of you and…in those who share your misdemeanors.”

Mary looked at her helplessly. She wanted to explain: It was at Ardres or Guisnes—she was not quite sure. She had noticed his eyes upon her; and she had known the meaning of the looks he gave her. Then he had caught her alone one day and when his hands had strayed over her body there was nothing she could do but say Yes. She would have said Yes to anyone who was as handsome and had such need of her. With the King, of course, there could be no thought of refusal. Did not the Queen understand this? Poor lady. Mary believed she really did not. She did not know the King very well then. She did not know the way of the Court.

But how explain? She hung her head for she was ashamed; and she was deeply sorry that she had caused the good and pious Queen distress. Strangely enough she had never thought of the Queen; she could never think of anything at such times but the need for gratification, and when it was over it was too late. Mary was not the sort to waste regrets on things which it was too late to change.

What was the Queen asking of her now? To refuse the King! Did anyone ever refuse the King?

Then an idea occurred to her. The Queen still had some power, even with the King. Although she was so old and the King was clearly tired of her, she was still a Princess of Spain and her nephew was the most important monarch in Europe.

Mary had wanted to tell the Queen that she was sorry, that she would willingly end her liaison with the King tomorrow if she could. But it was so difficult to explain. So Mary did the only thing possible; she burst into tears.

Katharine was quite unprepared for such a loss of control, and for a few moments did not know what to say to the girl.

“Your Grace,” sobbed Mary. “I wish I were a good woman…but I’m afraid I’m not. I was made this way. And now that I want to marry Will…Oh dear, it is all so difficult, but I wish…oh how I wish…”

“You should control yourself,” said the Queen coldly.

“Yes, Your Grace,” said Mary, dabbing at her eyes.

“What is this talk of marriage?”

“I am in love, Your Grace, with Will Carey. He is a younger son, and my father does not find him a good enough match for me. He has…forbidden us…”

“I see. So this young man is willing to marry you in spite of the scandal you have brought on yourself.”

“There would be no more scandal, Your Grace, if only I could marry Will. I want none but Will, and he wants none but me. If Your Grace would speak for us…”

A strange state of affairs, pondered the Queen. I send for her to reprimand her for her lewd conduct with the King, and she asks me to help her to marry with a young man whom she says she loves.

Yet there was something lovable about the girl. Katharine had never thought that she could feel a slight degree of tenderness towards any of her husband’s mistresses, but she was finding that this could be so. Mary with her plump bosom that seemed to resent being restrained within that laced bodice, her tiny waist and her flaring hips, had the air of a wanton even when she was distressed as she was at this moment; and there was also a look of the slattern about her; and yet that gentleness, that desire to please, that certain helplessness was appealing.

How could he deceive me with such a one? Katharine asked herself. Elizabeth Blount had been different—a young and beautiful virgin when he had first seen her; and their affaire had been conducted with decorum. But Katharine was certain that the King had not been this girl’s first lover.

And for many nights he had not visited his wife because the creature had claimed his attention. This slut had been preferred to a princess of Spain; the daughter of Thomas Boleyn—who for all his airs had his roots in trade—had been preferred to the daughter of Isabella and Ferdinand!

There were so many questions she wanted to ask. She was jealous of this girl, because she knew that there would be such passion between her and the King as there never had been between the King and his wife. How did you manage to attract him? she wanted to ask. How did you manage to keep him? He went to you in spite of his conscience, in spite of the scandal which he hates. Yet he cannot bring himself to come to me when it is right and proper that he should, and it is his duty to give me the chance of bearing a son.

She ought to hate the girl, but it was impossible to hate her when she stood there, an occasional sob still shaking her body.

The Queen said: “So you have spoken to your father of this marriage?”

“Yes, Your Grace. He is against it.”

“Why so?”

“Because Will is only a younger son.”

“And do you not think that you might look higher?”

“I could not look higher, Your Grace, than the man I love.”

Katharine was shaken. She had expected to find a calculating mind beneath that voluptuous exterior; but the girl’s looks did not lie. She was indeed soft and loving.

“That is a worthy sentiment,” murmured the Queen. “When I sent for you I had thought of dismissing you from the Court, of sending you back to your father’s castle at Hever.” The Queen half closed her eyes, visualizing the scene with Henry if she had dared to do this. “But,” she went on, “since you speak to me of your love for this young man, and speak of it with sincerity, I feel that I should like to help you.”

“Your Grace!” The babyish mouth was slightly open; the dark tearful eyes wide.

“Yes,” said the Queen. “I can see that you need to be married. Your husband will then keep you out of mischief.”

“And Your Grace will…”

“I will arrange for your marriage to Will Carey. The ceremony shall be here at Court and I myself will attend.”

“Your Grace!”

There was no mistaking the joy in the girl’s face.

Katharine held out her hand, Mary took it and pressed a damp hot face against it.

“You may go now,” said the Queen graciously, and watched the girl depart.

A slut, she thought. And no virgin when he found her. Yet he desired her as he never did his wife.

Why should this be? Katharine asked herself passionately. Is there no hope left to me? What is the use of praying for a son when the King has given up all hope of begetting one? How can there be a son when he never comes to me, when he spends his manhood on girls such as Mary Boleyn?

THERE WERE isolated moments in life, thought Katharine, which were sheer happiness; and what had happened in the past and what the future held could not touch them. As she sat watching her daughter Mary leaning against her father’s knee while he instructed her in playing the lute, she assured herself that this was one of them.

The King’s face was flushed and he was smiling; there was rare tenderness about his mouth; he dearly loved children, and he would have been a contented man if, instead of one small girl in the nursery, there were half a dozen—and more than one lusty boy among them.

But in this happy moment he was well pleased with his little daughter.

How enchanting she is! thought Katharine. How dainty! How healthy with that flush in her cheeks and her long hair falling about her shoulders! Why am I ever sad while I have my Mary?

“Ha!” boomed the King, “you are going to be a musician, my daughter. There is no doubt of that.” He turned, smiling to Katharine. “Did you hear that? She shall have the best teacher in the land.”

“She already has that,” said Katharine meaningfully, and she went to the pair and laid her hand lightly on the King’s shoulder. He patted that hand affectionately.

Holy Mother of God, the Queen prayed silently, if we had only one son, all would be well between us. Who would believe, witnessing this scene of domestic felicity, that he continually betrays me and that…

But she would not allow herself to say it even to herself. It was impossible. Only her enemies had whispered it because they hated her. They must have forgotten that she was of the House of Spain and that the Emperor was her own sister’s son.

“Henry,” went on Katharine, “I want to discuss her general education with you. I wish her to receive tuition in languages, history and all subjects which will be of use to her in later life.”

“It shall be so,” agreed Henry.

“I have been talking to Thomas More on this subject.”

“A good fellow, Thomas More,” murmured the King, “and none could give you better advice.”

“His daughters, I have heard, are the best educated in England. He firmly believes that there should be no difference between the education of girls and boys.”

The King’s look of contentment faded; his lower lip protruded in an expression of discontent.

I should not have said that, thought Katharine. I have reminded him that while Thomas More has a son, he, the King, has none—at least not a legitimate son.

These pitfalls appeared on every occasion. Was there no escaping them?

The King was staring at Mary’s brown curls, and she knew that he was thinking to himself: Why was this girl not a boy?

The little girl was extremely sensitive and this was not the first time that she had been aware of the discontent she aroused in her father. She lowered her eyes and stared at the lute in his hands. He frightened her, this big and glittering father, who would sometimes pick her up in his arms and expect her to shout with glee because he noticed her. She did shout, because Mary always tried to do what was expected of her, but the glee was assumed, and in her father’s presence the child was never completely free from apprehension.

She longed to please him and applied an almost feverish concentration on her lessons, and in particular, her music; and because she knew that he liked to boast of her abilities, she was terrified that she would fall short of his expectation.

Those occasions when he smothered her with his exuberant affection were almost as alarming as when he showed his displeasure in her sex.

She had begun to ask herself: “Where did I fail? What could I have done to have made myself be born a boy?”

She took a swift glance at her mother. How glad she was that the Queen was present, for in the company of her mother she felt safer. If she could have had her wish they would have been together always; she would have liked to sleep in her mother’s chamber, and stay with her the whole day long. Whenever she was afraid, she thought of her mother; and when they were alone together she was completely happy.

Now she raised her eyes and found her mother’s gaze upon her. The Queen smiled reassuringly because she immediately sensed her little daughter’s disquiet.

We must never show our differences in the child’s presence, thought Katharine. But how long can I protect her from rumor? She already knows that her father constantly rages against the fate which made her a girl and not a boy.

The Queen said quickly: “Now that you have the lute in your hands, Henry, play us one of your songs, and sing to us.”

The frown lifted from the King’s brow. He was still boyish enough to be drawn from discontent by a treat. It was like offering a child a sweetmeat, and compliments were the sweetmeats Henry most desired.

“Since you ask me, Katharine, I will sing for you. And what of my daughter? Does she wish to hear her father sing?”

The little girl was alert. She said in a shy voice: “Yes, Your Grace.”

“You do not sound quite certain,” he growled.

The Queen put in hastily: “Mary is all eagerness, but a little shy of showing her pleasure.” She held out her hand to the Princess who immediately ran to her.

Oh the comfort of those velvet skirts, the joy of hiding her face momentarily in them, of feeling that gentle, protective hand on her head! The Princess Mary looked up at her mother with adoration shining in her eyes.

The Queen smiled and held that head against her skirts once more. It would not be wise for her father to see that the love she had for her mother was greater than that which she had for him. Mary did not understand that he demanded always to be the most admired, the best loved.

“I do not look for shyness in my daughter,” murmured the King. But his fingers were already plucking at the lute and he was singing his favorite song in a pleasant tenor voice.

The Queen settled herself in her chair and kept her arm about her daughter.

Snuggling up to her Mary prayed: “Please, Holy Mother of God, let me stay with my mother…always.”

The song came to an end and the King stared before him, his eyes glazed with the pleasure he found in his own creation, while the Queen clapped her hands and signed to her daughter to do the same. Thus the King was appeased.

When their daughter had been returned to her governess, Katharine said to the King: “Mary Boleyn has been to see me to plead for permission to marry.”

The King did not speak for a moment. Then he said: “Is that so?”

“Yes. It seems that she wishes to marry a certain William Carey, who is a younger son and I fancy not to her father’s liking.”

“Thomas Boleyn wants a better match for the girl, I’ll warrant.”

“Thomas Boleyn is an ambitious man. I have promised to help the girl.”

The King shrugged his shoulders. “The matter is in your hands.”

“I had thought in the circumstances…”

He swung round on her, his eyes narrowed. What was she hinting? Was she reproaching him because he had found the girl attractive?

“In what circumstances?” he demanded.

She saw that she had strayed into one of those pitfalls which it was always so necessary to avoid. She should have murmured that, as the girl was of the Court and her father stood high in the King’s favor, she had believed that she should first ask for the King’s approval before consenting to her marriage.

But her natural dignity revolted. Was she not, after all, a daughter of the House of Spain? Should she allow herself to be treated as a woman of no importance? The recent interview with her daughter had reminded her of her own mother, and she believed that little Mary felt for her the same devotion that she herself had felt for Isabella of Castile. Isabella would never have lost her dignity over one of her husband’s mistresses.

Katharine said coldly: “In view of the fact that the girl is—or was—your paramour…”

The King’s face darkened. In his eyes sins seemed blacker when they were openly referred to. He might placate his conscience to some extent (“I am but a man. The girl was more than willing. My wife is sickly and after each pregnancy she grows more so. Providence sends me these willing girls, who, by God, lose nothing through the affair, that I may save my wife discomfort”) but when his wife actually spoke of the matter with that smouldering resentment in her eyes she emphasized the unworthiness of his conduct. Therefore if he had been dissatisfied with her a moment before, as soon as she uttered those words he hated her.

“You forget to whom you speak, Madam,” he said.

“Why should you think that? Is the girl then the mistress of others? I must say it does not surprise me.”

“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 honored 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 enamored 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.”

IN THE KING’S PRIVATE CHAMBER, Henry was laughing.

“’Twas a merry sight, Thomas, to see you there with the water drenching your robes.”

“I am delighted to have provided Your Grace with some amusement,” murmured Wolsey.

“I have rarely seen you so astonished. As for Buckingham, he was in a rage.”

“And in your presence!”

Henry clapped a hand on Wolsey’s shoulder. “I know Buckingham. He was never one to hold in his temper. And when you…Thomas Wolsey…not a member of the nobility, dipped your hands into the bowl…”

“As Your Grace’s Chancellor…”

“Buckingham pays more respects to a man’s family tree than to his attainments, Thomas.”

“Well I know it, for the man’s a fool, and I thank the saints nightly that this realm has been blessed with a ruler who is of such wisdom.”

The King smiled almost roguishly. “As for me, Thomas, I care not whether men come from butchers’ shops or country mansions. I am the King, and all my subjects are born beneath me. I look down on one and all.”

“Even on Buckingham!”

“Why do you say that, Thomas?”

“Because the Duke has strange notions about his birth. He fancies himself to be as royal as Your Grace.”

The roguishness disappeared and a look of cruelty played about the tight little mouth. “You said Buckingham was a fool, Thomas. We are once again in agreement.”

Now it was Thomas’s turn to smile.

He believed the time had come to make an end of his enemy.

THE CARDINAL allowed a few weeks to pass; then one day he came to the King in pretended consternation.

“What ails you, Thomas?” asked Henry.

“I have made discoveries, Your Grace, which I hesitate to lay before you, of such a shocking nature are they.”

“Come, come,” said the King testily; he was in a white silk shirt and purple satin breeches, puffed and slashed, ready for a game of tennis.

“They concern my Lord Buckingham. I must regretfully advise your Grace that I believe him to be guilty of treason.”

“Treason!”

“Of a most heinous nature.”

“How so?”

“He lays claim to the throne and declares he will have it one day.”

“What!” roared the King, tennis forgotten. There was one subject which filled him, as a Tudor, with alarm. That was the suggestion that anyone in the realm had a greater right to the throne than he had. His father had had to fight for the crown; he had won it and brought prosperity to England, uniting the houses of York and Lancaster by his marriage; but the hideous Wars of the Roses were not so far behind that they could be forgotten; and the very mention of a pretender to the throne was enough to rouse Henry to fury.

“I have long suspected him,” the Cardinal soothed. “Hence his hatred of me and the enmity between us. This I should feel towards any who sought to harm Your Grace. I have made it my duty to test his servants, and I now have the results of these labors to lay before Your Grace.”

“What are these results?”

“In the first place Buckingham feels himself to be as royal as your Grace.”

“The rogue!” cried Henry.

“He has said that there is no bar sinister on his escutcheon.”

Wolsey had the pleasure of seeing the red color flame into the plump cheeks. “He has told his confessor, Delacourt, that if you were to die and the Princess Mary were to die, he would have the throne.”

“By God!” cried the King. “He shall lose his head—for it is his just deserts.”

“That is not all,” went on the Cardinal. “I have learned that he consults a soothsayer, and that he has been told that one day he will mount the throne.”

“And how can he do this? Tell me that. Does he think to go to war…with me!”

“He’s a fool, Your Grace, but not such a fool as that. He knows the people love you and that you have your friends. Soothsayers often practice another trade. I have heard they are often well versed in the art of poison.”

Henry was speechless for a few seconds. Then he burst out: “We’ll have him in the Tower. We’ll have him on the rack. We’ll have the truth from him. By God, his head shall be forfeit for what he has done.”

“Your Grace,” murmured the Cardinal, “we must build up a case against him. This I believe we can do.”

“You mean we can send him to the scaffold?”

“Why should we not, if we can prove him guilty of treason?”

“He would have to be tried before his peers. Forget not, Thomas, that this is Buckingham; ’tis true that there is royal blood in his veins. You think his peers would judge him worthy of the traitors’ death?”

“If the case were strong enough against him.”

“Norfolk would be one of his judges. You know the bonds between them. He and his fellows would be loth to condemn one of such nobility. Had he raised an army against the Crown, that would be another matter. But it would seem that he has done nothing but prate.”

“Against Your Grace!”

“Thomas, I understand you well. You serve me with all your heart. I brought you up, and you have had little but insults from these men. But they are the nobility; they make a shield around the throne. They have certain privileges.”

“Your Grace, I concern myself only with the safety of my master.” The Cardinal snapped his fingers. “I care not that for this shield. Your Grace, I crave pardon but I say this: You know not your strength. All men about the throne should tremble at your displeasure…be they scullions or noble dukes. This could be so. This must be so. You are our lord and our King.”

For a few seconds the two men regarded each other. The Cardinal knew that this was one of the most significant moments of his career.

He was showing the young lion that the golden walls of his cage were only silken strands to be pushed aside when ever he wished. Yet looking at this man of turbulent passions, even then the Cardinal wondered what he had done. But he was vindictive by nature; and from the moment he had seen the greasy water splash his satin robes he had determined at all costs to have his revenge.

THE NEWS SPREAD round the Court.

“This cannot be,” it was whispered. “What has he done, but talk? Who can prove that this and that was said? Who are the witnesses against him? A pack of disgruntled servants! This trial is a warning. Do not forget this is the noble Duke of Buckingham. He will be freed with a pardon and a warning.”

But the King’s anger against Buckingham was intense when he examined the evidence which his Chancellor had put before him.

His face was scarlet as he read the report of Buckingham’s carelessly spoken words. It was infuriating that anyone should dare think such thoughts, let alone express them. And in the hearing of servants, so that those words could be repeated in the streets, in taverns, wherever men congregated! This was treason.

And what care I, thought Henry, if this be a noble duke! Am I not the King?

For the first time he had realized the extent of his power. He was going to show all those about him that none could speak treason against the King with impunity. He was greedy for blood—the blood of any man who dared oppose him. He could shed that blood when and where he wished; he was the supreme ruler.

Norfolk came to him in some distress. Henry had never felt any great affection for Norfolk. The Duke seemed so ancient, being almost fifty years older than the King; his ideas were set in the past, and Henry thought that the old man would have liked to censure him if he dared. He had been young and daring in the days of Henry’s maternal grandfather, Edward IV, but those days of glory were far behind him.

“Well, well?” Henry greeted him testily.

“Your Grace, I am deeply disturbed by the imprisonment of my kinsman, Buckingham.”

“We have all been deeply disturbed by the treason he has sought to spread,” growled the King.

“Your Grace, he has been foolish. He has been careless.”

“Methinks that he has too often repeated his treason to offer the excuse that he spoke in an unguarded moment. This is a plot…a scheme to overthrow the Crown, and there is one word for such conduct; that is treason. And I tell you this, my lord Duke, there is but one sentence which rightminded judges can pronounce on such a man.”

Norfolk was startled. He knew the King was subject to sudden anger, but he had not believed that he could be so vehemently determined on the destruction of one who had been in his intimate circle and known as his friend. And for what reason? Merely a carelessly spoken word repeated by a dissatisfied servant!

Norfolk had never been noted for his tact; he went on. “Your Grace, Buckingham is of the high nobility.”

“I care not how high he be. He shall have justice.”

“Your Grace, he has erred and will learn his lesson. I’ll warrant that after the trial he will be a wiser man.”

“It is a pity that there will be so little time left to him to practice his newfound wisdom,” said the King venomously.

Then Norfolk knew. Henry was determined on the death of Buckingham.

But even so, he could not let the matter end there. He and Buckingham were not only friends but connected by the marriage of his son and Buckingham’s daughter. He thought of the grief in his family if Buckingham should die; moreover he must stand by the rights of the nobility. This was not rebellion against the King; Buckingham had not set out to overthrow the Crown. The King must be made to understand that, powerful as he was, he was not entitled to send the nobility to death because of a careless word.

“Your Grace cannot mean that you demand his life!”

The King’s eyes narrowed. “My lord Norfolk,” he said significantly, “do you also seek to rule this realm?” Norfolk flinched and Henry began to shout: “Get from here…lest you find yourself sharing the fate of your kinsman. By God and all His saints, I will show you, who believe yourselves to be royal, that there is only one King of this country; and when treason stalks, blood shall flow.”

Norfolk bowed low and was glad to escape from the King’s presence. He felt sick at heart. He had received his orders. Buckingham was to be judged guilty by his peers; he was to pay the supreme penalty.

The pleasure-loving boy King was no more; he had been replaced by the vengeful man.

HE STOOD AT THE BAR, the reckless Buckingham, facing the seventeen peers, headed by Norfolk, who were his judges. His arms folded, his head held high, he was ready to throw away his life rather than beg for mercy.

Old Norfolk could not restrain his tears. He wanted to shout: This is madness. Are we going to condemn one of ourselves to the scaffold on the evidence of his servants?

But Norfolk had received his orders; he had looked into those little blue eyes and had seen the blood-lust there. Insults to the King, though carelessly uttered, must be paid for in blood; for the King was all-powerful and the old nobility must realize that.

Calmly Buckingham heard the charges brought against him. He had listened to prophecies of the King’s death and his own ascension to the throne; he had said that he would kill the King; he had many times mentioned the fact that only the King and the Princess Mary stood between him and the throne.

He defended himself against these charges. He pointed out that none but his unworthy servants had been able to speak against him. Was the court going to take the word of disgruntled servants before that of the Duke of Buckingham?

But Wolsey had prepared the case against him skilfully; and moreover all seventeen of his judges knew that the King was demanding a verdict of guilty; and if any of them refused to give the King what he wanted, it would be remembered against them; and it was likely that ere long they would be standing where Buckingham now stood.

The old Duke of Norfolk might weep, but nevertheless when his fellow judges agreed that the prisoner was guilty he read the terrible sentence.

“Edward Stafford, third Duke of Buckingham, you are found guilty of treason.” His voice faltered as he went on: “You shall be drawn on a hurdle to the place of execution, there to be hanged, cut down alive, your members to be cut off and cast into the fire, your bowels burned before your eyes, your head smitten off, your body to be quartered and divided at the King’s will. May God have mercy on your soul.”

Buckingham seemed less disturbed than Norfolk.

When he was asked if he had anything to say, he replied in a clear, steady voice: “My lord, you have said to me as a traitor should be said unto, but I was never a traitor. Still, my lords, I shall not malign you as you have done unto me. May the eternal God forgive you my death, as I do!” He drew himself to his full height and a scornful expression came into his eyes. “I shall never sue the King for my life,” he went on. “Howbeit, he is a gracious Prince, and more grace may come from him than I desire. I ask you to pray for me.”

They took him thence back to his prison of the Tower, and those who had gathered to watch his progress knew that he was condemned when they saw that the edge of the axe was turned towards him.

MARIA DE SALINAS, Countess of Willoughby, was with the Queen when she heard that the Duke of Norfolk was begging an audience.

Katharine had him brought to her at once, and the old man’s grief distressed her because she guessed at once what it meant.

“I pray you be seated, my lord,” she said. “I fear you bring bad news.”

He gazed at her, and he seemed to be in a state of bewildered misery.

“Your Grace, I have come from the court where I have pronounced the death sentence, for treason, on the Duke of Buckingham.”

“But this is impossible.”

The old Duke shook his head. “Nay, Your Grace. ’Twas so.”

“But to find him guilty of treason…”

“It was the King’s wish.”

“But his peers?”

The Duke lifted a trembling hand in resignation.

Katharine was indignant. She had known Buckingham to be arrogant, to have offended the Cardinal, to have been overproud of his royal connections, but these were venial sins; a noble duke was not condemned to the barbaric traitors’ death for that.

“It is known what influence Your Grace has with the King,” went on Norfolk. “I have come to plead with you to beg him to spare Buckingham’s life. I am certain that this sentence will not be carried out. I am sure that the King means only to warn him. But if Your Grace would but speak to the King…”

“I promise you I shall do so,” said Katharine.

The Duke fell to his knees and taking her hand kissed it.

“Maria,” said Katharine, “send for my lord Surrey that he may look after his father.”

The Duke shook his head. “My son is in Ireland, Your Grace. Dispatched thither on the orders of the Cardinal.” His lips curved ironically.

“The Cardinal doubtless thought to spare him the anxiety of his father-in-law’s trial,” the Queen suggested.

“He sent him away because he thought he might have spoken in his father-in-law’s favor,” Norfolk replied roughly.

Poor old man! thought Katharine. Buckingham is very dear to him and if this terrible sentence is carried out there will be mourning, not only among the Staffords, but the Howards also.

She shivered, contemplating the hideous ceremony of pain and humiliation. They could not do that to a noble duke!

She laid her hand lightly on Norfolk’s shoulder. “Rise, my lord,” she said. “I will speak to the King and implore him to show mercy.”

“Your Grace is good to us,” murmured Norfolk.

When he had gone, Maria looked sorrowfully at her mistress.

“Your Grace…,” she began.

Katharine smiled sadly at her dear friend. “I know what you want to say, Maria. This is a dangerous matter. You want to advise me not to meddle.”

Maria said quickly: “’Tis so.”

“No harm can come to me if I plead for Buckingham. I am at least the King’s wife, Maria.”

Maria did not answer. She was afraid of the new trend of events, afraid of what effect it would have on her mistress.

“I shall go to the King at once,” said Katharine. “I want to put those poor people out of their misery as quickly as possible.”

There was nothing Maria could do; so, as Katharine left her apartment for the King’s, she went to the window and stood looking broodingly out over the gardens.

THE CARDINAL was with the King.

“What now, Kate?” asked Henry, mildly testy.

“I would have a word with Your Grace if you will grant me a few minutes.”

“Say on,” said Henry.

Katharine looked at the Cardinal who bowed and went with reluctance towards the door.

“Henry,” said Katharine, catching her husband’s sleeve, “I want you to show mercy to the Duke of Buckingham.”

“Why so?” he demanded coldly.

“Because I believe that a warning will suffice to make him your very good friend in the future.”

“So we are to allow traitors to live?”

“It was not treason in the accepted form.”

“And what, I pray you, is the accepted form?”

“There was no rebellion. He did not take up arms against you.”

“How can you know what methods he used against me? I believe he was planning to poison me.”

“Henry, he would never do that. He was rash and foolish…but I do not think he would ever commit a crime like that.”

“And what can you know of the schemes of such a rogue?”

“I knew him well. He it was who met me when I first came to England.”

“I tell you this, Madam,” roared the King. “Any who acts treason against me shall pay with his life—be he your dearest friend on Earth.”

“But Henry, he is a noble duke…the highest in the land.”

“So he believed. ’Twas his opinion of himself which brought him to where he is this day.”

“His relations are the most powerful in the land,” persisted Katharine. “His wife, the daughter of Northumberland; the Percys will not forget. His son married to Salisbury’s daughter. This will alienate the Poles. His daughter is married to Norfolk’s son. The Howards will grieve deeply. Then there are the Staffords themselves. Four of our noblest families…”

Henry moved a step nearer to his wife. “I forget none of this,” he said. “And were my own brother—and I had one—guilty of treason, he should suffer a like fate.”

Katharine covered her face with her hands. “Henry, shall a noble duke be taken out and barbarously killed before the eyes of the people!”

“The fate of traitors is no concern of mine. He was judged by his peers and found guilty.”

Meanwhile the Cardinal waited anxiously in the antechamber. He knew that the Queen had come to plead for Buckingham. She must not succeed.

Moreover it was necessary that the Queen herself should learn her lesson from the fate of this man. Once she and the Cardinal had been good friends; but now, since the friendship with France, she had looked on him with suspicion. He had heard himself referred to as a butcher’s boy in her hearing, and she had offered no reprimand to the speaker.

It was not only noble dukes who must be taught that it was unwise to lose the friendship of the Cardinal.

He picked up a sheaf of papers and looked at them. Then with determination he passed through the anteroom into the King’s chamber.

“Your Grace,” he said, “I crave your pardon for the intrusion. An important matter of state requires your attention…”

The Queen looked angry, but that was of small importance as the King was not displeased.

He was saying: “He shall die. But we will show mercy unto him. It shall be the executioner’s axe in place of the sentence which you feel to be an insult to his nobility.”

The Cardinal was not ruffled.

The method mattered little to him, as long as Buckingham died.

ON A BRIGHT MAY DAY the Duke was brought out from his lodging in the Tower to meet his death on the Hill.

There were many to watch this nobleman’s last hour on Earth. There were many to sigh for him and weep for him. He had been arrogant and reckless; he had been harsh to some of his tenants, causing them great hardship with his enclosure laws; but it seemed cruel that this man, who was in his early forties, should have to walk out of his prison to face death on such a bright May morning. His good characteristics were remembered; he was a very religious man and had founded colleges. And now he was to die because he had offended the King and the Cardinal.

He met his death bravely, as all expected he would; and while his body was being taken to its burial place in Austin Friars, among those who thought of him were the King, the Queen and the Cardinal…the Queen with sorrow, the King with righteous indignation, and the Cardinal with deep pleasure which was however pricked by apprehension.

Buckingham would insult him no more, but the Cardinal was too shrewd a man not to know that he had paid a high price for his vengeance.

A subtle change had crept into the King’s demeanor. The lion was no longer couchant. He had risen; he was testing his strength.

And, when he had assessed the full measure of that power, who would be safe? A Queen? A Cardinal?