The King's Secret Matter

The Last Farewell

THOMAS CROMWELL WAS ON HIS WAY TO AN APPOINTMENT with the King. His eyes were gleaming with excitement; he had proved to himself that it was possible for an astute man to profit by disaster, to make success out of failure, for, incredible as it seemed, out of the decline of Wolsey had come the rise of Thomas Cromwell.

Yet he had remained the friend of Wolsey until the end. He wanted men to know that he was a true friend; and he and the Cardinal had been too closely attached for him to break away when Wolsey was in danger. As Member of Parliament for Taunton he had pleaded Wolsey’s case in the Lower House and so earned the Cardinal’s gratitude and at the same time the admiration even of his enemies.

He was a shrewd and able man. No one could doubt that; and it was said that if he could work so well for one master, why should he not for another. The son of a blacksmith, he must be possessed of outstanding ability to have come so far, a feat which was only outrivalled by that of Wolsey himself.

Shortly after Wolsey’s death Cromwell was made a Privy Councillor, not, naturally, of the same importance as Norfolk or Thomas Boleyn, who was now the Earl of Wiltshire, but a man who had already found his way into that magic circle in which limitless opportunity was offered.

It was not long before Cromwell had attracted the attention of the King. Henry did not like the man personally but the shrewdness, the alert mind, the humble origins, all reminded him of Wolsey, and he was already beginning to regret the loss of the Cardinal and remembered those days when, in any difficulty, he summoned his dear Thomas to his side.

Therefore he was more ready than he might otherwise have been to take notice of Cromwell. Thus came Cromwell’s opportunity—a private interview with the King.

When he was ushered into the presence, the King pondered wistfully: The fellow lacks the polish of Wolsey!

But he remembered that Wolsey had singled out this man and that fact counted in his favor. Cromwell had been a good friend to Wolsey in the days of his decline; so he was capable of loyalty.

The King waved his hand to indicate that Cromwell might dispense with ceremony and come to the point.

“Your Grace, I have long considered this matter of the Divorce…”

Henry was startled. The man was brash. Others spoke in hushed tones of this matter; they broached it only with the utmost tact. Cromwell looked bland, smug almost; as though he were playing a game of cards and held a trump in his hand.

“You are not alone in that,” said Henry with a hint of sarcasm which did not appear to be noticed by Cromwell, whose dark eyes burned with enthusiasm as he leaned forward and gazed intently at the King.

“Your Grace is debarred from success in this matter by the cowardly ways of your advisers. They are afraid of Rome. They are superstitious, Your Grace. They fear the wrath of the Pope.”

“And you do not?”

“Sire, I am a practical man unmoved by symbols. I fear only my King.”

“H’m! Go on, go on,” he urged, slightly mollified.

“It has been a marvel to me that Your Grace’s advisers have not seen what must be done, ere this. Thomas Wolsey was a Cardinal; it was natural that he should have been in awe of Rome. But those men who now advise Your Grace are not Cardinals. Why should they so fear the Pope?”

It was strange for Henry to have questions fired at him. He did not care for the man’s crude manners, but the matter of his discourse had its interests.

“At this time,” went on Cromwell, “it would seem that England has two heads—a King and a Pope. Furthermore, since the Pope denies the King that which he desires, it appears that the Pope holds more power in England than the King.”

Henry was beginning to frown, but Cromwell went on quickly: “As a loyal subject of the King this pleases me not at all.”

“The power of Kings is temporal,” murmured Henry.

“I would wish to see my King holding supreme power, temporal and spiritual.”

Henry was startled, but Cromwell continued blithely: “I cannot see why our King should not dispense with the Church of Rome. Why should not the Church of England stand alone with the King as its Supreme Head? Would it be necessary then for the King to plead in Rome for what he needs?”

Henry was aghast. He had often said that he would declare the Pope a heretic, that if the Pope would not grant him a divorce he would find some other means of getting it; but this man was proposing a more daring step than he had ever taken. He was suggesting that the Church should sever its connections with Rome; that the King, not the Pope, should be Supreme Head of the Church.

The King listened and his eyes burned as fiercely as those of Cromwell.

“In a few years,” Cromwell told him, “I could make Your Grace the richest and most powerful King in Christendom…but not while you remain a vassal of the Pope.”

It was astounding. It meant more than the Divorce. The King was shaken. There was so much to consider. If only Wolsey were here…but Wolsey would never work for the severance of England from Rome. Wolsey had been a Cardinal, his eyes constantly on the Papal Crown; he had even pleaded guilty to attempting to set up Papal jurisdiction in England. New times needed new ideas. Wolsey’s day was gone and a new era was beginning.

When Henry at length dismissed Cromwell he was telling himself that Cromwell, like Cranmer, had the right sow by the ear.

KATHARINE AT RICHMOND was unaware of the great schemes which were absorbing the King and his new ministers. Mary was with her, and she was determined to enjoy the hours she spent with her daughter. Mary was now fifteen years old, an age when many girls were married; but the question of Mary’s marriage had been shelved; how could it be otherwise when there was so much controversy about her birth?

During these days Katharine seemed possessed of a feverish desire to make the most of each hour they spent together; each day when she arose she would wonder whether some command would be given and her daughter taken from her. She knew that Henry was as devoted to Anne as ever; that they had taken over York Place and, like a newly married pair, were exulting in all the treasures they found there.

The palace had ceased to be known as York Place, which had been its name as the town residence of the Archbishops of York; it was now the King’s palace and, because of the reconstructions which had been made in white stone, it was called White Hall.

Now Wolsey had gone, Katharine felt that she was rid of her greatest enemy. She could tell herself that in good time the Pope would give the only possible verdict, and when Henry realized that their marriage was accepted as valid, he must, for the sake of reason and his good name, accept her as his wife. So she allowed herself to be lulled into a certain peace which Mary’s presence made it possible for her to enjoy.

Reginald Pole was in England and it was delightful when he came to visit them, which he did very frequently. He was their friend and staunch supporter. One day, mused Katharine, why should he not be consort of the Queen? What a brilliant adviser Mary would have! What a tender, gentle husband!

“That is what I want for her,” the Queen told her friend, Maria de Salinas, who, now that she was a widow, had come back into the Queen’s service. “A tender, gentle husband, that she may never be submitted to the trials which I have had to bear.”

Katharine and Mary were sitting together over the Latin exercise when a page entered the apartment to tell them that Reginald was without and begging an audience.

Mary clasped her hands together in delight, and Katharine could not reprove her. Poor child, let her not attempt to curb her pleasure by hiding it. Katharine said with a smile: “You may bring him to us.”

Reginald came in and the three of them were alone together. Mary took both his hands when he had bowed first to the Queen and then to herself.

“Reginald, it seems so long since we saw you.”

He smiled at her youthful exuberance. “It is five days, Your Highness.”

“That,” said Mary, “is a very long time for friends to be apart.”

“We have so few friends now,” Katharine quickly added.

“You have more than you know,” Reginald replied seriously. “Many of the people are your friends.”

“They greet us warmly when we go among them,” Mary agreed. “But we have few friends at Court whom we can trust. I believe they are afraid of…” Mary’s lips tightened and she looked suddenly old, “…of…that woman,” she finished.

Katharine changed the subject. “Reginald, something has happened, has it not?”

“Your Grace has a penetrating eye.”

“I can see it in your expression. You look…perplexed.”

Reginald took a document from the pocket of his doublet and handed it to the Queen. While she studied it he turned to Mary who laid her hand on his arm. “Reginald,” she said, almost imploringly, “you are not going away?”

“I do not know,” he said. “So much depends on the King.”

“Please do not go away.”

He took her hand and kissed it. “If I followed my own will I would never go away.”

“Nor if you followed mine,” said Mary.

Katharine lowered the document and looked from one to the other. The sight of them together frightened her while yet it pleased her. If only it could be, she thought; yet how can it?

“So the King has offered you the archbishopric of York or Winchester,” she said.

Mary caught her breath in dismay. If he became an Archbishop he would take Holy Orders and marriage would be outside his power. Mary loved him with all the force of her serious young nature. She had dreamed that they would go away from Court, quietly with her mother to where they might forget such hateful matters as divorce, such hateful words as bastard, where they would never even think of the Lady who hated them so much and was determined to keep them apart. In her youthful innocence she dreamed of the three of them leaving Court in secret, going out of the country to Padua or some such place which Reginald knew well.

“These offices became vacant on the death of the Cardinal,” Reginald explained, “and someone is needed to fill them.”

“It is a great honor,” the Queen said almost listlessly.

“It is one, I have told him, that I cannot accept.”

The relief in the apartment was great. Mary laughed aloud and took Reginald’s hand. “I am glad,” she cried. “I could not bear to think of your stepping into the Cardinal’s shoes.”

“Nor I,” he said. “But that is not all. In my refusal of this offer I implored the King not to be deluded by his ministers and his passion for a wanton woman. I am summoned to his presence in White Hall.”

Mary was horrified; although her father had shown her affection at times, she had never conquered her fear of him. Katharine was equally afraid. She knew the climate of the King’s temper. He was fond of Reginald, but when the people of whom he was fond ceased to agree with him he could easily hate them. She thought of the tenderness he had once shown to her; and she believed that his hatred of her was the greater because of it.

“Oh, Reginald,” she murmured, “have a care.”

“You should not have mentioned us,” said Mary imperiously.

“I believed I must say what I felt to be right.”

Katharine turned to her daughter and said gently: “We must all speak and act according to our consciences.”

“I came to see you before I presented myself to the King,” said Reginald. And both understood that he had come because this might, in view of the seriousness of the occasion, be the last time he could visit them. Neither of them spoke, and he went on: “I should go now. I dare not keep the King waiting.”

He kissed their hands, and Mary suddenly forgot the dignity due to her rank as, like a child, she flung her arms about him; and Katharine was too moved to prevent her.

When he had gone, Mary began to weep, silently.

“My darling, control yourself,” murmured the Queen, putting an arm about her.

But Mary merely shook her head. “What cruel times we live in,” she whispered. “What cruel and perilous times!”

WHEN REGINALD LEFT the Queen and the Princess he took a barge to White Hall. He knew full well that the archbishopric had been offered him as a bribe. He was of royal blood and the friend of the Queen and the Princess; the King was hinting: “Come, work with me, and here is an example of the prizes which shall be yours.”

That was why in refusing the offer he had told the King that he firmly believed in the royal marriage and implored his kinsman not to imperil his soul by attempting to deny it.

The result: A summons to White Hall.

As he entered the palace he thought of the great Cardinal who had once occupied it; and all this splendor had been passed to the King—a mute appeal…“all my possessions in exchange for my life…” What an example of the worth of treasures upon Earth!

Reginald uttered a prayer for the Cardinal’s soul as he made his way to the gallery whither the King had summoned him.

I enter the Palace of White Hall a free man, he thought; how shall I leave it? It was very possible that he would do so with a halberdier on either side of him and thence take barge to the Tower.

Before he reached the gallery he met his elder brother, Lord Montague, who, having heard of the summons, was waiting for him.

As soon as Montague saw Reginald, he drew him into an anteroom and cried: “You are a fool. Do you want us all to lose our heads?”

“News travels fast,” Reginald replied. “So you know I have refused York and Winchester.”

“And have sought to teach the King his business at the same time.”

“The archbishoprics were offered as a bribe; it was necessary to explain why I could not take either of them.”

“It was enough to refuse and thereby offend the King; but to add criticism of his conduct…are you mad, brother?”

“I do not think so,” answered Reginald, “unless it be madness to speak one’s mind.”

“That could be a very good definition of mental disorder,” said Montague; and he turned away from his brother, who went on to the gallery.

Henry was expecting him and he was not kept waiting long. The King stood, massive in his jewelled garments, and for a few seconds while Reginald bowed he glared at him through half-closed eyes.

“So, sir,” said Henry at length, “you think so little of my gifts that you haughtily refuse them!”

“Not haughtily, Your Grace.”

“Do not dare contradict me. How dare you tell me what I should do! Is the King to take orders?”

“No, Sire, but perhaps advice.”

“You young coxcomb, so you would presume to advise me!”

“Sire, I would plead with you on behalf of the Queen and the Princess Mary.”

“You would be wise to keep your mouth shut.”

“Nay, Your Grace, I hold that a wise man is one who speaks out of his love for the truth and not out of expediency.”

Henry came closer to him, and his scarlet glowing cheeks were close to Reginald’s pale ones.

“Is it wise then to gamble with your head?”

“Yes, Sire, for the sake of truth.”

“The sake of truth! You dare to come to my presence in the manner of a father confessor…you whom I could send to the block merely by signing my name?”

“I come not as a father confessor, Your Grace, but as a humble kinsman of you and the Princess Mary.”

“Ha,” interrupted Henry, “so you prate of your royal blood. Take care that you do not think too highly of it. Mayhap you remember what befell a certain Duke of Buckingham?”

The sight of Reginald’s calm face incensed the King; this was largely because here was another of those men, like Fisher and More, whose approval meant so much to him. They were men of integrity and he needed their approval and support. They maddened him when they would not give it.

“I remember well, Sire,” Reginald answered.

“And the memory does not help you to change your views?”

“No, Your Grace.”

The King’s mood altered suddenly. “Now listen. I am asking you to come down from the seat of judgment. I am assured by learned men that I am not truly married to the Lady Katharine. I need the help of men such as you. You could write a treatise for me; you could explain the need of my severance from the Lady Katharine and my remarriage. I command you to do this. You are a man whom people respect; your word would carry much weight.” He laid a hand on Reginald’s shoulder affectionately. “Come now, Reginald, my dear cousin. Do this for love of me.”

“Sire, on any other matter I would serve you with all my heart, but…”

“But!” Henry shrieked, pushing Reginald from him. “It would seem you forget to whom you speak.”

“I forget not,” answered Reginald. “But I crave Your Grace to excuse me in this matter.”

Henry’s hand flew to his dagger. “Do you not know that it is high treason to disobey the King?”

Reginald was silent.

“Do you?” cried the King. “By God, if you do not I shall find means to teach you.” He called for a page, and when the young man appeared he shouted: “Send Lord Montague to me without delay.”

The page departed and in a few moments Reginald’s brother came hurrying into the gallery.

Henry shook his fist at Montague. “By God,” he cried, “I’ll have every member of your family clapped into the Tower. I’ll brook no more insolence from you.”

Montague stammered: “Your Grace, pray tell me what any member of my family has done to displease you.”

Henry pointed at Reginald. “This brother of yours should be kept in better order. He dares to come here and meddle in my affairs. I’d have you know, Montague, that I have a way with meddlers.”

“Yes, Your Grace; on behalf of my family I offer my deepest regrets.…”

“Take him away,” shouted Henry, “before I lose my patience, before I order him to be sent to the Tower.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

They bowed and left the irate Henry glaring after them, thinking: By God, ’twere better if Master Reginald had never come back to England.

When they were alone Montague turned indignantly to his brother.

“You…fool!” he cried.

“I will say to you, brother, what I have said to the King. Is it foolish to adhere to what one believes to be the truth?”

“Indeed you are a fool, having been at Court, to ask such a question. A man is a fool who attempts to wrestle with kings. I thought he would commit you to the Tower without delay.”

“I believe he was contemplating the effect it would have on certain of his subjects if he did.”

“You are calm enough. Do you seek a martyr’s crown?”

“I hope never to perjure my soul for the sake of my head,” said Reginald quietly.

He left his brother, who was filled with apprehension. Reginald was thinking of the King’s suggestion that he should write a treatise. He would; but it would not put forward the reasons why the King should separate from Katharine; instead it would show why the marriage was a true one.

WHEN HE WAS LEFT alone Henry’s anger abated a little. He began to think of the earnest young man whom he had threatened. He liked Reginald. He had always admired him; he knew him to be learned and pious; and now he had proved himself to be no coward.

Why could such men not see the truth about this marriage? Why did all the men he most respected set themselves against him?

He had tried to win the approval of Chancellor More but he could not do so. More was a clever lawyer and knew how to back out of any discourse that grew uncomfortable for him. What Henry most wanted was for Thomas More to work with him in all matters, and especially that of the divorce. He wanted Reginald Pole to do the same.

Brooding on these matters he sent once more for Reginald and his brother Montague, and when they stood before him he smiled at them in a friendly fashion.

“It is not meet,” he said, “for kinsmen to quarrel.”

“Sire, you are indeed gracious,” said Montague.

Reginald did not speak, and Henry went on: “I am overwrought. These are troublous times. It may be that I appeared more angry towards you two than I felt.”

“We rejoice to hear it,” said Montague, and Reginald echoed those words.

“Come,” said Henry, stepping between them and slipping an arm through one of each, “we are kinsmen and friends. Reginald here has his own ideas as to what is right and what is wrong. I will not say that he is alone in this, although many learned men would not agree with him—nor can I, much as I should long to. Remember this: I have to answer to my conscience. Oh, I respect those who have views and do not hide them and are not afraid to say ‘This I think,’ or ‘With that I disagree.’ I take all that has been said in good part.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” said Reginald with real emotion in his voice.

Henry’s tones softened and he turned almost pleadingly to Reginald. “Why, if you could bring yourself to approve of my divorce, no one would be dearer to me than you.”

Montague was looking appealingly at his brother; but Reginald remained silent.

Henry released their arms and patted both brothers in a gesture of dismissal.

“Forget it not,” he said.

DURING THE WARM JUNE weather the Court rode from Greenwich to Windsor. The Queen was in the party with her daughter and Maria de Salinas; and the King rode gaily with the Lady Anne. In the party Cranmer and Cromwell also rode.

There was a new confidence about the Lady, as there was about the King. All noticed this except the Queen and her daughter, for the former believed firmly that nothing could be settled without the sanction of the Pope, and the latter fitted her mood to that of her mother.

There were grave rumors everywhere and the whole Court was expecting that the King’s patience would not last much longer.

Henry brooded as he rode. Why should I endure this continual frustration? he asked himself. He looked at the glowing face of Anne beside him and he longed to be able to soothe his troublesome conscience by telling the world that she was not his mistress but his wife.

But events were moving fast. Cranmer had now obtained the opinions of the universities of Europe regarding the divorce, and had discovered several who believed it was expedient. Henry had made up his mind that when they reached Windsor he would ask the Queen to allow the matter to be judged in an English court.

Once that took place he would have the desired result in a matter of days. Who in England would dare to go against him? He could count the dissenters on the fingers of one hand. More, Fisher, Reginald Pole. There were others, more obscure men whom he did not consider to be of much importance. It was different in the case of those three. The public looked to them for guidance.

A plague on them! he thought. Why must they put obstacles in my path?

As they came to Windsor, the King looked with pleasure at the forest. There would be good hunting, and there was little he liked better than a day in the open; then to return to good feasting and masking, and later to retire between the sheets with the right bedfellow.

She had succumbed at last and he wondered what he would do were she to become pregnant. Then, by God, he told himself, I would make them act.

Oddly enough she did not. But he would not spoil his pleasure by brooding on that. When they could be free in their love, when she could dispense with her fretful questions as to how much longer he would allow the delay; when he could take her with a good conscience…ah, then their union would be blessed with healthy boys.

They entered the castle, and the Queen retired with her little court and the King retired with his.

It would seem there are two queens at this Court, grumbled some of the courtiers; but most of them knew to which Court they should attach themselves…if they sought advancement. The Lady’s bright black eyes missed little, and any attention to the Queen or the Princess Mary was noted.

The Queen in her apartments was attended by her few ladies. She was not so much afraid of spies as she had been in the days of Wolsey; and she was very happy to have her daughter and Maria with her.

She prayed on her arrival and in her prayers, as always, asked that the King might be turned from his sad and evil scheme and come back to her.

Mary was in her own apartment, her women preparing her for the banquet, when Henry came to see the Queen. Her women went scuttling away at a look from him, and Katharine cried: “Oh, Henry, how pleased I am that you should come to see me. It is a rare honor.”

“I would come often enough if I could but satisfy myself that you were in truth my wife.”

“Henry, I do not think that deep within your heart you believe that I am not.”

It was wrong, of course. She should not say such things; but there were occasions when the bitterness was too much to be hidden.

He ignored her words as though he had not heard them. He said: “Dr. Cranmer has procured the opinions of the universities. There are many who believe we should be formally divorced.”

“Ah, Henry, you have many friends. I alas have few.”

“I think you too have friends,” he said. “Now I am going to ask you to give me something.”

“There is little I would deny you.”

“I ask only sweet reasonableness.”

“I try always to be reasonable.”

“Then I am sure you will agree that this matter has continued too long, and it is time it were brought to an end. I want to refer it to the arbitration of four English prelates and four nobles.”

Her expression was stony. “No,” she said.

“Katharine, you call this reasonableness?”

“I do. A court in this country is unnecessary. It is a waste of time, for any court you set up would decide in your favor.”

“This is nonsense.”

“Henry, have done with hypocrisy. You know it to be truth. May God grant you a quiet conscience.”

“You talk to me of a quiet conscience when you know it to be perpetually disturbed by this matter.”

“Let it speak for itself, Henry. Do not provoke it with your desire, but let it say what it knows to be truth. Abide by it. Come back to me and then I think your conscience need never trouble you again on this matter.”

“Never!” cried the King.

She answered his obstinacy with her own.

“Never will I abide by any decision except that of Rome.”

The King gave her a murderous glance before he strode out of her apartment.

HENRY CALLED NORFOLK and Suffolk to him and when they were alone said: “I fear the Queen hates me.”

The Dukes looked alert. They had heard this statement from the King’s lips before this, and they knew that it was meant to be the prelude to some action which he was willing himself to take.

Henry went on: “I believe she delights in my discomfiture, that she seeks to prolong it; that, knowing herself not to be my wife, she is determined to proclaim to the world that she is. I believe that she is seeking to lure my subjects from me.”

“That,” said Suffolk, “would amount to treason.”

“Much as it pains me to admit it, I must agree,” replied Henry. “Eustache Chapuys is nothing but a spy. I believe that it is the Emperor’s desire to bring about a civil war in England, to split the country and to set the Queen and the Princess Mary at the head of the rebels.”

“This is indeed treason,” declared Norfolk.

“I have seen some of the letters which Chapuys has written to his master. In them he states that the English people are against a divorce and it would not surprise him if they rose in protest. They have full sympathy for the Queen, he writes significantly. I believe that the Spanish ambassador, with the help of the Queen, is ready to raise an insurrection.”

“Your Grace, should he not be arrested?” asked Norfolk.

Henry raised a hand. “This is a delicate matter. Although Katharine is no true wife to me, for many years I believed her to be so.”

Henry was thinking of the discontent among the people who, when Katharine’s barge sailed up or down river, lined the banks to cheer her. To put Katharine under arrest would be to turn their sympathy into fury and the desire to protect their Queen. Moreover, he did not believe for one moment that Katharine would ever put herself at the head of an insurrection. How lacking in subtlety were these two! Wolsey would have grasped his meaning immediately.

“Nay,” went on Henry, “she is no wife to me, but I confess to a certain tenderness. I would be lenient with her.”

“But Your Grace will not continue to be in her company,” said Norfolk, who was a little sharper than Suffolk and had at last begun to follow the King’s train of thought.

“I fear the time has come when we must part…finally,” Henry replied.

“I am in full agreement,” Suffolk put in. “Your Grace should separate yourself from the Lady Katharine both at bed and board. It would not be safe for you to do otherwise.”

A look of sadness came into the King’s face. “After so many years…,” he murmured.

But the Dukes were now aware of the part they were expected to play, and Suffolk said sternly: “Your Grace would do well not to think of a woman with whom you have for so long been living in sin.”

Henry laid a hand on his brother-in-law’s arm. “You do well to remind me.”

His eyes were vindictive suddenly because he was remembering her obstinacy and how quickly this case could have been settled but for that. He went on: “’Tis my belief that she sets my daughter Mary against me.”

Suffolk piped up dutifully: “Your Grace, should not the Princess Mary be taken from her?”

“That might be wise,” answered the King, looking at Norfolk.

The Duke was well aware of what was expected of him. He spoke vehemently. “Above all, the Princess Mary should be removed from the Lady Katharine. That I consider to be of the greatest importance.”

“Thank you, my friends,” said the King. “You echo the thoughts which my tenderness would not let me utter. But since this is your advice, and I know it to be based on sound good sense, I will accept your decision.”

MARY CAME INTO the Queen’s apartments, her face pale, her eyes frightened.

“Mother,” she cried, even before Katharine had had time to sign to the women to leave them, “I am to go away from you.”

Katharine took her daughter’s hands and found that they were trembling. “Be calm, my precious.”

“I am to go to Richmond. Those are my father’s orders.”

“Well, you will go to Richmond and soon I shall come to you there.”

“Suppose you cannot?”

“But why…why?”

“I do not know…except that it is a feeling I have. I was told to prepare to leave at once. Why, Mother? What harm am I doing them here? Do I prevent his…his…being with that odious woman?”

“Hush, my love. Go to Richmond. I will find means of coming to you there.”

Mary had begun to shiver. “Mother, I am afraid. Reginald is writing his treatise and it is all for us. I tremble for Reginald. I do not believe he understands what this could mean.”

“He understands, my darling.”

“Then he does not seem to care.”

“Reginald is a good man, a brave man. He could not be so if he trimmed his opinions to the prevailing wind. Do not fear for him, my child; for the only thing we should fear in life is our own wrongdoing. Go to Richmond, as your father commands. Think of me, pray for me…as I shall for you. You will be in my thoughts every minute of the day, and rest assured that as soon as I am able I shall be at your side.”

“But Mother, what harm are we doing him…by being together? Does he not know that this is the only joy that is left to us?”

“My darling, be brave.”

“There is tension in the Castle. Something is about to happen. Mother, I have a terrible fear that, if I leave you now, I shall never see you again.”

“You are overwrought. This is merely another parting.”

“Why…why…should there be these partings? What harm are we doing?”

“It is the second time you have spoken of harm. No one thinks we are doing harm, my love.”

“They do, Mother. I see it in their looks. Our love harms him in some way and he is afraid of it. I cannot leave you. Let us go away together.” Mary drew away from her mother. Her eyes were brilliant with sudden hope and speculation. “I will send for Reginald. I will ask him to take us with him to Italy. There the Pope will give us refuge—or perhaps the Emperor will.”

Katharine laughed gently, and drawing her daughter to her stroked her hair.

“No, my love,” she said. “That would profit us little. We are in your father’s hands, but nothing can harm us if we do our duty. It matters little what becomes of our bodies, as long as our souls are pure. Go to Richmond and remember that there I am with you as I am when we are close like this, for you are never absent from my thoughts.”

“Oh, Mother if I could but rid myself of this fear…”

“Pray, my child. You will find comfort in prayer.”

They embraced and remained together until one of Mary’s women came to say that her party was ready to leave for Richmond, and the King’s orders were that they were to depart at once.

At the door Mary turned to look at her mother, and so doleful was her expression that it was as though she looked for the last time on the beloved face.

HOW SHE MISSED MARY! It was but a few days since she had left, but it seemed longer. She had had no opportunity of appealing to the King as she had not since been in his company alone.

He treated her with cool detachment, and she noticed that never once did he allow his eyes to meet her own; she was aware of the speculative glances of the courtiers; they knew more than she did and they were alert.

One morning she was awakened early by sounds below; she heard the whisper of voices as she lay in her bed, and afterwards the sound of horses’ hoofs. People were arriving at the Castle, she supposed, and because she was weary after a sleepless night, she slept again.

In the early morning when two of her women came to awaken her, they brought her a message from the King, which told her that Henry was leaving Windsor and when he returned he wished her to be gone. Since she was not his wife and had no thought for his comfort he desired never to see her again.

She read the message twice before she grasped the full importance of it. Then she said: “I wish to see the King without delay.”

“Your Grace,” was the answer, “the King left Windsor with a hunting party at dawn. He is now on his way to Woodstock.”

She understood. He had slunk away without telling her he was going; he had not even wanted to say goodbye. But soon he would be returning to Windsor, and when he did so he expected to find her gone. More than that, he had expressly commanded that she should be gone.

“It matters not where I go,” she murmured, “I am still his wife. Nothing will alter that.”

Maria came to her, for the news had reached her as soon as it had the Queen. She understood that Katharine was now forsaken.

“Where does Your Grace wish to go now?” she asked.

“What does it matter where I go?” retorted Katharine; and she wondered with increasing pain whether the King had determined, not only to live apart from her, but also to separate her from their child.

She recovered her dignity. She had some friends even in England; and she was sure that the Pope would give his decision in her favor. Her nephew would support her. The battle was not yet lost.

She said calmly: “We will go to my manor of the Moor in Hertfordshire; there I shall rest awhile and make plans for my future.”

That day they left Windsor, and Katharine knew that she had reached yet another turning point in her life.