The King's Secret Matter

Katharine in Exile

IN THE CASTLE OF AMPTHILL KATHARINE TRIED TO RETAIN the dignity of a Queen. Her routine was as it had always been. She spent a great deal of time at prayer and at her needlework, reading and conversing with the women she had brought with her and in particular with Maria, the only one in whom she had complete trust; only to Maria did she refer to her troubles, and to the fact that she was separated from the King.

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

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

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

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

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

But so far they both had their letters.

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

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

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

This was momentous. This was telling the world that the rumor, that the Church of England was cutting itself free from Rome, was a fact.

But all this was paled by news of her daughter. Margaret Pole was with Mary still, and for that Katharine was grateful; Reginald had been sent to Italy, and Katharine knew that, much as Margaret loved her son, she was relieved that he was out of England, for it was growing increasingly unsafe to be in England and to disagree with the King.

Margaret wrote: “Her Highness the Princess has been ailing since she parted from Your Grace. It has grieved me deeply to watch her. She has had so little interest in life and her appetite is so poor. Constantly she speaks of Your Grace, and I know that if you could be with her she would be well. She has had to take to her bed…”

The Queen could not bear to think of Mary, sick and lonely, longing for her as she herself longed for Mary.

“What harm can we do by being together?” she demanded of Maria. “How dare he make us suffer so! He has his woman. Does our being together prevent that? Why should he be allowed to make us suffer so, merely that he may appease his conscience by telling himself—and others—that I plot against him with my daughter?”

But there was no comfort for Maria to offer her mistress, and at times Katharine came near to hating her husband.

Then she would throw herself on to her knees and pray.

“Forgive me, oh Lord. Holy Mother, intercede for me. He has been led into temptation. He does not understand how he tortures his wife and daughter. He is young…bent on pursuing pleasure, led away by bad counsellors.…”

But was this true? Was he so young? Who was it who had determined that no one should stand in the way of divorce? Who but Henry himself? Once she had blamed Wolsey, but Wolsey was dead, and this persecution persisted and had indeed intensified.

She sat down to write to him, and wrote as only a mother could write who was crying for her child.

“Have pity on us. My daughter is pining for me, and I for her. Do not continue in this cruelty. Let me go to her.”

She sent the letter to him without delay, and then began the weary waiting for his reply.

But the days passed, the weeks passed, and there was no answer from the King.

STIRRING NEWS came from Court. Sir Thomas More, unable to evade the great issue any longer, had resigned the Chancellorship rather than fall in with the King’s wishes.

Katharine prayed long for Thomas More when she heard that news, prayed for that pleasant family of his who lived so happily in their Chelsea home.

William Warham died; some said that like Wolsey he was fortunate to finish his life in a bed when he was but a few short steps from the scaffold. He was eighty-two years old and in the last weeks of his life had been issued with a writ of præmunire—a small offence but one by which he had shown he had not accepted the King as Supreme Head. Perhaps the old man was forgetful; perhaps he had not understood that it was necessary now to receive the King’s permission in all matters concerning the Church as well as the state. He had behaved according to procedure before the severance from Rome. These were dangerous times and the King was jealous of his new authority.

Fortunate Warham, who could take to his bed and die in peace.

Dr. Cranmer became the new Archbishop of Canterbury. Henry need fear no opposition from him; he was the man who, with Thomas Cromwell, had worked more than any to extricate the King from the tyranny of Rome.

Lord Audley was now Chancellor in place of Sir Thomas More, and gradually the King was ridding himself of the men who might oppose him.

John Fisher had recovered from the poison and was still living, but he was very frail. Katharine prayed for him and often trembled for him.

She heard that the King had honored Anne Boleyn by making her Marchioness of Pembroke and that he planned to take her to France with him as though she were his Queen.

This was humiliating in the extreme because it seemed that François and the French Court were now ready to accept Anne Boleyn as Queen of England.

But all these matters seemed insignificant when the news came from Margaret Pole that Mary had recovered and was almost well again.

“Still grieving for Your Grace, but, I thank God, growing stronger every day.”

“If I could but see her,” sighed the Queen. “I would cease to fret on account of anything else which might happen to me.”

ON A JANUARY DAY in the year 1533 the King rose early. There was a grim purpose about him, and those who lived close to him had noted that during the last months a change had crept over him. The strong sentimental streak in his nature had become subdued and in its place was a new cruelty. He had always flown into sudden rages but these had quickly passed; now they often left him sullen and brooding. All those men whose duty it was to be in contact with him knew they must tread warily.

The little mouth had a strong determination about it on that morning. This was a day to which he had looked forward for six years, and now that it had come, the thought occurred to him that it was less desirable than it had seemed all those years ago. Waiting had not enhanced his emotions; perhaps they had grown stale; perhaps his main thought as he prepared himself for what was about to take place was one of triumph over great odds rather than the climax of years of devotion.

He was going to make his way to an attic in the west turret of White Hall, not so much as a doting bridegroom as a man who has made up his mind to some action; and, even though it seemed less desirable to him than it had previously, he was determined to carry it out simply because it had been denied him and he was eager to show that he was a man who would allow no one to say him nay.

When he was ready he said to one of his gentlemen: “Go and seek my chaplain, Dr. Rowland Lee, and tell him that I wish him to celebrate Mass without delay. Bring him to me here.”

Dr. Rowland Lee, who had hastily dressed himself, came to the King in some surprise, wondering why he had been sent for at such an early hour of the morning.

“Ah,” said the King who had dismissed all but two of his grooms—Norris and Heneage. “I wish you to celebrate Mass in one of the attics. Follow me.”

The little party made their way to the attic and very shortly were joined by two ladies, one of whom was Anne Boleyn, Marchioness of Pembroke, and the other her train bearer, Anne Savage.

Henry turned to Dr. Lee. “Now,” he said, “marry us.”

The doctor was taken aback. “Sire…,” he stammered. “I…could not do this.”

“You could not do it? Why not?”

“I…I dare not, Sire.”

The blue eyes were narrowed; the cruel lines appeared about the mouth. “And if I command you?”

“Sire,” pleaded Dr. Lee, “I know that you went through a ceremony of marriage with Queen Katharine, and although I am aware of your Secret Matter I could not marry you unless there was a dispensation pronouncing your marriage null and void.”

For one second those assembled thought the King would strike his chaplain. Then suddenly his mood changed; he slipped his arm through that of the man, drew him away and whispered: “Perform this ceremony and you shall be rewarded with the See of Lichfield.”

“Your Grace, Your Majesty…I dare not…”

It took a long time, thought the King, for these dunderheads to learn who was the Supreme Head of the Church. He was impatient, and he could see that this fellow was so immersed in the old laws of the Church that he could not cast them aside easily. Yet this ceremony must take place. Anne was with child. What if that were a boy she carried! There could be no more delay. It would be disastrous if Anne’s boy should be declared illegitimate.

He made a decision. “You need have no fear. The Pope has pronounced himself in favor of the divorce and the dispensation is in my keeping.”

Dr. Lee drew a deep sigh of relief.

“I crave Your Grace’s pardon. Your Grace will understand…”

“Enough,” interrupted Henry. “Do your work.”

And in the lonely attic at White Hall, Henry VIII went through a ceremony of marriage with Anne Boleyn, while Norris, Heneage and Anne Savage stood by as witnesses.

THE KING SENT for the newly appointed Archbishop of Canterbury.

Thomas Cranmer, who had come so far since the Boleyns had brought him to the King’s notice, was very eager that his royal benefactor should not regret having raised him so high.

When they were alone Henry explained to his Archbishop what he expected of him. There were many in England who clung to old ideas, and he was going to have every man who held any position of importance sign an oath which would declare his belief in the supremacy of the King. But that was for later. There was this tiresome matter of the divorce.

He knew himself never to have been married to Katharine, and he had been surrounded by rogues and vacillating fools—until now, he hoped.

The matter was urgent. He considered himself already married to Queen Anne, and he was certain that he had God’s blessing because the marriage was already promising fruitfulness. He must have a speedy end to the old matter though, and it was the duty of the new Archbishop of Canterbury to see that this was so.

The Archbishop was nothing if not resourceful. “The first step, Your Grace, is a new law to make it illegal for appeals in ecclesiastical causes to be carried out of the kingdom to Rome.”

The King nodded, smiling. “I see where this will lead us,” he said.

“And when this becomes a law of the land, it would be meet for the Archbishop of Canterbury to ask Your Grace’s leave to declare the nullity of the marriage with Katharine of Aragon.”

The King, continuing to smile, slipped his arm through that of his Archbishop. “It is a marvellous thing,” he murmured, “that all the wise and learned men who argued this matter did not think of this before.”

And when Cranmer had left him, he continued to think of Cranmer, whose ideas had been so useful to him. Cromwell and Cranmer, they were two men who had suddenly sprung into prominence and, because their ideas were fresh and bold, with a few sharp strokes they were cutting the bonds which for so many years had bound him.

He would not forget them.

IT WAS A BRIGHT April day when Katharine heard the news. It came to her in a letter from Chapuys. Now that she was exiled she did receive letters more freely than she had when she had been at Court surrounded by Wolsey’s spies, and so was in constant touch with the Spanish ambassador.

Often she thought that, had her nephew sent her a man with the energy of Eustache Chapuys some years ago, she might have had the advantage of very valuable advice. Chapuys was indefatigable. She had a great admiration for him; she knew that he was of humble origin and that he had come to England hoping to achieve fame and fortune; yet, when he had heard of the wrongs done to her, he had thrown himself so wholeheartedly into her cause that he had become the most ardent champion it had ever been her good fortune to have. Alas, she thought, luck was never with me, for he came too late.

Now she read his letter and the news it contained startled her.

The King, wrote Chapuys, had secretly gone through a form of marriage with the Concubine who was shortly to be proclaimed Queen. The fact was that she was with child by the King and Henry was taking no chances of the child’s being branded illegitimate. Therefore, Katharine would shortly receive a summons to appear before a court which Cranmer was about to open at Dunstable. On no account must she answer that summons. Nevertheless they would conduct the court without her; but her absence would cause some discomfiture and delay; and owing to the recent law that ecclesiastical cases must be settled in England and not referred to Rome, they could be sure that Cranmer would pronounce the marriage null and void. She would see, of course, that there would then be no need of a dispensation from the Pope, because such a dispensation was unnecessary as the King would accept the ruling of Cranmer’s court, which would be that Katharine and the King had never truly been married.

She sighed as she read these words.

She would obey Chapuys’s instructions. He was one of the few people she could trust; and when the summons came for her to appear at Dunstable, following quickly on Chapuys’s warning, she ignored it.

But her absence could not prevent the court’s being opened and the case tried.

On the 23rd of May Cranmer declared that the marriage between King Henry VIII and Katharine of Aragon was invalid, and that the Queen of England was no longer Katharine but Anne.

The weary waiting was over. The matter had been settled simply by cutting the knot which bound England to the Church of Rome. There need no longer be talk of the divorce, for a divorce was not necessary between people who had never been married.

NEWS CAME TO AMPTHILL of the coronation of Queen Anne. Great pomp there had been in the streets of London; Katharine heard of how Anne had ridden in triumph under a canopy of state in purple velvet lined with ermine. A Queen at last! All the nobility had attended her coronation; they dared do no other; but the people in the streets had shown less enthusiasm than was usual on such occasions. Royal pageants were the highlights of living to them; they always welcomed them, especially when the King ordered that wine should flow in the conduits; but on this occasion there were few cheers.

Katharine’s women tried to cheer her as they sat at their needlework.

“They say, Your Grace, that there was scarcely a cheer as she rode through the city.”

Katharine nodded, and Maria who sat beside her knew that the Queen was remembering her own coronation: coming to the Tower from Greenwich, dressed in white embroidered satin, a coronal set with many glittering stones on her head, her long hair hanging down her back: remembering the ardent looks of Henry, who had insisted on marrying her against the advice of his ministers. In those days she had believed that nothing could happen to spoil their happiness.

“I heard,” said one of her women, “that my lord of Shrewsbury declared he was too old to shout for a new Queen. He also said that the new Queen was a goggle-eyed whore; and many people heard him cry ‘God save Queen Katharine who is our own righteous Queen!’”

Katharine shook her head. “Do not repeat such things,” she warned.

“But, Your Grace, I had it on the best authority. It is true the people do not like Queen Anne. Many of them say they will not have her as their Queen.”

“You should pray for her,” answered Katharine.

Her women looked at her in astonishment.

“Pray for Nan Bullen!”

“Once,” said the Queen, “I rode through the streets of London, the Queen, the King’s chosen bride. He faced opposition, you know, to marry me.” She had dropped her needlework into her lap and her eyes were misty as she looked into the past. “And look you, what I have come to. It may not be long before she is in like case.”

There was silence, and the Queen took up her work and began to sew.

It was clear to all that Katharine’s thoughts were far away; and when the sewing was over, and rising from her chair she was about to go to her private chapel, she tripped and fell, driving a pin into her foot.

Maria and others of her ladies helped her to her bed, and in the morning her foot was swollen and it was necessary to call her physician.

During the next days she remained in her bed. She had developed a cough which would not leave her in spite of the warm summer weather. And as she lay she wondered what steps the new Queen would take to further her discomfiture, for she was sure this would come. She pictured Anne, riding through the streets filled with sullen people. Ambitious, haughty and bold, Anne would certainly take measures to show the people that she was their new mistress.

Katharine did not have to wait long.

She was still in bed on account of the accident to her foot, and her cough had not improved, when her women came to tell her that a party of men had come from the King, and at their head was Lord Mountjoy.

Lord Mountjoy! He had once been her chamberlain and a very good servant to her; she was pleased then to hear that he it was who had been chosen to convey the King’s wishes to her.

But when he was brought into her presence she realized quickly that her one-time servant was now the King’s man.

“Your Grace,” he told her, “you will know that at the court at Dunstable your marriage to the King was declared null and void by the Archbishop of Canterbury, and leave was given both to you and the King to marry elsewhere.”

She bowed her head. “I have been informed of this.”

“You will know also that the coronation of Queen Anne has also taken place.”

Katharine nodded once more in acquiescence.

“The King decrees that, as it is impossible for there to be two Queens of England, you will henceforth be known as Princess of Wales since you are the widow of his brother Arthur, Prince of Wales.”

Katharine raised herself on her elbow. “I am the Queen of England,” she said, “and that is my title.”

“But Your Grace knows that the Lords spiritual and temporal have declared the marriage invalid.”

“All the world knows by what authority it was done,” retorted Katharine. “By power, not justice. This case is now pending in Rome and the matter depends not on judgment given in this realm, but in the Court of Rome, before the Pope, whom I believe to be God’s vicar and judge on Earth.”

“Madam, you speak treason,” said Mountjoy.

“It is a sorry state,” answered the Queen mournfully, “when truth becomes treason.”

Mountjoy handed her the documents he had brought with him from the King and, glancing at them, she saw that throughout she was referred to as the Princess Dowager.

She called Maria to bring her a pen and boldly struck out the words Princess Dowager wherever they occurred.

Mountjoy watched her in dismay, and as he did so he remembered the occasion of her coronation and how she had always been a just mistress to him.

“Madam,” he said, pleading, “I beg of you to take care. It would be a grievous thing if you were charged with high treason.”

She smiled at him. “If I agreed with your persuasions, my Lord Mountjoy, I should slander myself. Would you have me confess that I have been the King’s harlot these twenty-four years?”

Mountjoy felt unnerved, and could not proceed as he had been instructed to do. Katharine sensed this and softened towards him.

“Do not distress yourself,” she said, “I know full well that you do what you have been commanded to do.”

Mountjoy went on to his knees. “Madam,” he said, “should I be called upon to persecute you further, I should decline to do so…no matter what the consequences.”

“I thank you, Lord Mountjoy, but I would not have you suffer for me. Take these papers back to the King. Tell him that I am his wife now as I was on the day he married me. Tell him also that I shall not accept the title of Princess Dowager because my title is Queen of England. That I shall remain until my death.”

Apprehensively Mountjoy went back to Court.

DISTURBED BY MOUNTJOY’S account of what had happened, Henry decided that Katharine should be sent farther from London and commanded that she move her household from Ampthill to Buckden, there to take up residence in a palace which belonged to the Bishop of Lincoln. In the summer, when Katharine arrived, this place was charming, offering views over the fen country; Katharine had yet to discover how damp and bleak it could be in winter and what a disastrous effect it would have on her health.

She was extremely unhappy to move because, not only was she to change her place of residence, but she was also to lose certain members of her household. She had had too many friends at Ampthill, and they had upheld her in her sauciness, said the King. She could manage with a smaller household at Buckden; and one of the first to be dismissed should be Maria de Salinas who had always been her strong partisan from the days when she had first arrived in England. The edict had been that all those who refused to address her as the Princess of Wales should be dismissed. Katharine promptly forbade anyone to address her by any title but that of Queen.

She was desolate to lose Maria. This was the bitterest blow of the entire upheaval, and those who watched their farewell wept with them.

Katharine’s stubborn determination was a source of great irritation to the King, but he was fully aware that the people who lived in the villages surrounding her were her fervent supporters, and he had heard that when she had travelled from Ampthill to Buckden the way along which she had passed had been crowded with people who shouted: “Long live the Queen!”

She was an encumbrance and an embarrassment to him but he knew he must treat her with care. Therefore he finally allowed her a few servants—though he firmly refused to allow Maria to be one of them—whom he excused from taking an oath to address her as the Princess of Wales; and with this smaller household, Katharine lived at Buckden.

There was one fact for which she was thankful. Her chaplain, Dr. Abell, who had written against the divorce, had been released from prison and allowed to come back to her. The man was too obscure, Henry decided, to be of much importance.

At Buckden Katharine endeavored to return to the old routine. Her life was quiet, and she spent a great deal of time in her chamber which had a window looking into the chapel. She seemed to find great comfort in sitting alone in this window seat.

She busied herself with the care of the poor people living close by who had never known any to show such solicitude for their well-being before. There was food to be had at the palace for the hungry; the Queen and her ladies made garments for those who needed them; and although Katharine was far from rich she set aside a large part of her income for the comfort of the poor.

“A saint has come among us,” said the people; and they declared they would call no other Queen but Katharine.

Henry knew what was happening and it angered him, for it seemed to him that all those who admired the Queen were criticizing him; he could not endure criticism. But there was one matter which occupied his thoughts day and night. Anne was about to give birth to their child.

A son, he told himself exultantly, will put an end to all trouble. Once I have my son there will be such rejoicing that no one will give much thought to Katharine. It will be a sign that God is pleased with me for discarding one who was not in truth my wife, and taking another.

A son! Night and day he prayed for a lusty son; he dreamed of the boy who would look exactly like himself. He himself would teach him—make a man of him, make a King of him. Once he held that boy in his arms everything would be worth while, and his people would rejoice with him.

IT WAS SEPTEMBER OF that fateful year 1533 when Anne was brought to bed.

Henry could scarcely contain his excitement, and had already invited François to be the boy’s sponsor. His name? It should be Henry…or perhaps Edward. Henry was a good name for a King. Henry IX. But that was years away, of course. Henry VIII had many years before him, many more sons to father.

Queen Anne suffered much in her travail. She was as anxious as the King. Was there a certain apprehension in her anxiety? The King was still devoted to her—her passionate and possessive lover—but now that she had time for sober reflection she could not help remembering his indifference to the sufferings of his first wife. Once he had been devoted to Katharine; she had heard that he had ridden in pageants as Sir Loyal Heart; and his loyalty was then for Katharine of Aragon—short-lived loyalty. Was he a man whose passions faded quickly? He had been her devoted admirer for many years, but was that due to his faithfulness or a stubborn determination to have his will which her cleverness in keeping him at bay had inflamed?

A son will make all the difference, the new Queen told herself. Holy Mother of God, give me a son.

THE CRY OF A CHILD in the royal apartments! The eager question, and the answer that put an end to hope.

“A girl, Your Majesty, a healthy girl.”

The bitterness of disappointment was hard to bear, but the child was healthy. The King tried to push aside his disappointment.

Anne looked strangely humble in her bed, and he was still in love with her.

“Our next will be a boy, sweetheart,” he told her.

And she smiled in agreement.

So they rejoiced in their daughter, and called her Elizabeth.

MARGARET POLE was anxious concerning the Princess Mary who had never seemed to regain her full strength since her parting from her mother. Margaret knew that she brooded a great deal and was constantly wondering what would happen next.

Mary was no longer a child; being seventeen years of age, she was old enough to understand the political significance of what was happening about her. There was a strong streak of the Spaniard in her, which was natural as, before their separation, she had been so close to her mother.

Mary was restless, delicate, given to fits of melancholy. And what else could be expected? Margaret asked herself. What a tragedy that a child should be torn from her mother’s side when the bond between them was so strong, and when her position was so uncertain with her father.

But for Queen Anne, Margaret often thought, Henry would not have been unkind to his daughter. She was his child and he was eager to have children, even girls. But those occasional bursts of fondness were perhaps the very reason why Anne would not allow Mary at Court. Could it be that the new Queen was afraid of the influence Mary might have on her father?

It was so very tragic, and Margaret, while she thought fearfully of her own son Reginald who had offended the King, continually asked herself how she could make Mary’s life brighter.

Mary liked to play the lute or the virginals, for music was still her favorite occupation; but Margaret fancied as she listened to her that she played listlessly and there was a melancholy note in her music.

“Play something lively, something to make us feel gay,” Margaret suggested.

But Mary turned on her almost angrily: “How can I feel gay when I am not allowed to see my mother, when I know she is not in good health and mayhap has no one to care for her?”

“If I could write to her and tell her that you are cheerful, that would do her much good, I am sure.”

“You could not deceive her. How could I be cheerful when I long to see her as I know she does me?” Mary rose from the virginals and came to stand by her companion. “What will happen to us now that the Concubine has a child? They will say this Elizabeth comes before me, I’ll swear.”

“How could they do that?”

“You know full well they could do it. They have said my mother’s marriage was no marriage. That means one thing. The bastard Elizabeth will be declared heir to the throne until they get themselves a boy.” Mary’s face grew hard and stern. “I pray they never get a boy.”

“Your Highness…my dear Princess…forgive me, but…”

“I must not say such things! I must pray, I suppose, that the Concubine may be fruitful! I must pray that there is peace in this land, even though to bring this about I must declare my mother lived in sin with the King and I am therefore a bastard!”

“My dear…my dear…”

Mary walked away to the window. “Reginald was brave,” she cried, clenching her hands. “He was strong. He did not care if he offended my father. He would not have cared if they had cut off his head.”

“He would have died a martyr’s death and we should have been left to suffer,” answered Margaret soberly. “Let us thank God that he is out of the country at this time.”

“There is a party riding into the courtyard,” said Mary.

Margaret rose swiftly and came to her side.

“They come from the Court,” she said. “I recognize those women as of her suite.”

“We want none of the Concubine’s household here,” Mary cried.

“You must receive them, Your Highness, and hear their business.”

“I will not,” Mary said firmly and went out of the room.

It was not Mary however whom they had come to see, but the Countess. Two women were brought to her and they stated their business briefly.

The Lady Mary was no longer heir to the throne, for her mother was the Princess Dowager and had never been the King’s true wife. Certain jewels were in her possession which were the property of the crown. It was necessary now that these jewels be handed to them, for they were messengers from the King and Queen and had papers to prove this. The Lady Mary’s jewels now belonged to the Princess Elizabeth, and it was Margaret Pole’s duty to give them up.

Margaret stood very still; she had grown pale.

“I know the jewels to which you refer,” she said. “They are the property of the Princess Mary and I should be failing in my duty if I gave them up.”

“They are no longer the property of the Lady Mary. Here is an order from the Queen.”

Margaret studied the order. But I do not consider Anne to be the Queen, she said to herself. I shall certainly not give up the Princess Mary’s jewels.

So she remained stubborn, and the next day when the party rode away from Beauleigh, Mary’s jewels remained behind.

When Mary heard what had happened she praised her governess. “Let them do what they will to us,” she said. “We will stand out against them.”

“They will be back,” said Margaret apprehensively.

Mary held her head high as she declared: “They know I am the true heir to the throne. They must. I shall never stand aside for this young Elizabeth.”

But how could they hold out against the King and Queen? They could show defiance for a while, but not for long.

Queen Anne, in her new power, would not allow Margaret Pole and Mary to flout her wishes. Shortly afterwards a command came from the King: The Countess of Salisbury was discharged from her duty as governess to the Lady Mary and the pension paid to her in that capacity would immediately cease.

When Mary heard the news she was stricken with grief.

“Not you too!” she cried. “I have lost my mother and Reginald…you are all that is left to me.”

“I will stay with you,” answered Margaret. “I shall have no pension but I have money of my own. We shall not allow a matter of my pension to part us.”

Then Mary threw herself into her governess’s arms. “You must never…never leave me,” she said solemnly.

But it was not to be expected that the Queen would allow Margaret to remain with Mary after she had dared refuse to obey a command. She would make the King see what a danger Mary could be. It was clear that she was truculent by her refusal to return what did not really belong to her. Queen Anne had a child to fight for now, and she vas determined that her Elizabeth, not Katharine’s Mary, should be regarded as heir to the throne.

Margaret saw that she had acted foolishly. What were a few jewels compared with real friendship, devotion and love? What would happen to Mary when she had no one to protect her? How would the news that Mary’s governess had been dismissed affect Katharine, who had admitted often that she could feel some comfort knowing that Mary was with her very dear friend?

The edict came. Margaret Pole, Countess of Salisbury, was to leave the household of the Lady Mary, who herself was to be sent from Beauleigh to Hunsdon, where she would live under the same roof as her half-sister, the Princess Elizabeth. And to remind her that she was not the King’s legitimate daughter, and therefore not entitled to be called Princess, she should live in humble state near the magnificence of Anne’s baby daughter.

Bitterly they wept. They could not visualize parting, so long had they been together.

“One by one those whom I love are taken from me,” sobbed Mary. “Now there is no one left. What new punishment will they inflict upon me?”

EUSTACHE CHAPUYS had asked for a private interview with the King.

“Your Majesty,” said the Spanish ambassador, “I come to you because I can speak with greater freedom than can any of your subjects. The measures you have taken against the Queen and her daughter, the Princess Mary, are very harsh.”

Henry glowered at him, but Chapuys smiled ingratiatingly.

“I speak thus, Your Majesty, because it is my great desire to see harmony between you and my master.”

“There would be harmony between us but for the fact that you are continually writing to him of his aunt’s misfortunes. If his aunt and her daughter were no more…that would be an end of our troubles.”

Alarm shot into the ambassador’s mind. Henry was not subtle. The idea had doubtless entered his head that life would be more comfortable if Mary and Katharine were out of his way. The Queen must be warned to watch what she ate; the Princess Mary must also take precautions. Chapuys’s mind had been busy with plans for some time. He dreamed of smuggling the Princess Mary out of the country, getting her married to Reginald Pole, calling to all those who frowned on the break with Rome and the new marriage with Anne Boleyn to rise against the King. He visualized a dethroned Henry, Mary reigning with Reginald Pole as her consort, and the bonds with Rome tied firmly once more. Perhaps the King had been made aware of such a possibility. He was surrounded by astute ministers.

He must go carefully; but in the meantime he must try to make matters easier for the Queen and Princess.

“If they died suddenly Your Majesty’s subjects would not be pleased.”

“What mean you?” Henry demanded through half closed eyes.

“That there might well be rebellion in England,” said the ambassador bluntly.

“You think my subjects would rebel against me!”

Eustache Chapuys lifted his shoulders. “Oh, the people love Your Majesty, but they love Queen Katharine too. They may love their King, but not his new marriage.”

“You go too far.”

“Perhaps I am overzealous in my desires to create harmony between you and my master.”

Henry was thinking: The man’s a spy! I would to God we still had Mendoza here. This Chapuys is too sharp. We must be watchful of him.

He was uneasy. He did know that the people were grumbling against his marriage. They never shouted for Anne in the streets; and he was aware that when Katharine appeared they let her know that she had their sympathy.

“I come to ask Your Majesty,” went on Chapuys, “to show a little kindness to Queen Katharine, if not for her sake for the sake of the people. There is one thing she yearns for above all others: To see her daughter. Would Your Grace now allow them to meet?”

“No,” said the King firmly.

“Then would Your Grace give me permission to visit the Queen?”

“No, no, no!” was the answer.

The Spanish ambassador bowed, and the King signified that the audience was over.

It was unfortunate that Katharine’s request should come when Henry was pondering the insinuations of Chapuys. She was finding Buckden very damp and unhealthy. She suffered from rheumatism and gout, and she asked the King to allow her to move to a house which would offer her more comfort.

Henry read her request frowning, and sent for Suffolk.

He tapped the letter and said: “The Queen complains again. Buckden is not to her liking. She asks permission to leave.”

“And Your Majesty has decided that she may leave?”

“I was turning over in my mind where she might go.”

“There is Fotheringay, Your Majesty. That could be put at her disposal.”

Henry thought of the castle on the north bank of the river Nen in Northamptonshire. Its situation was notoriously unhealthy, but it was far enough away not to give cause for concern.

“Let it be Fotheringay,” said Henry.

WHEN KATHARINE heard that she was to go to Fotheringay she cried out in protest.

“It is even more unhealthy than Buckden!” she said. “Is it true that the King wishes to see an end of me?”

She was weary of living and she was certain that if she went to Fotheringay she would not be long for this world. It was a comforting thought, but immediately she dismissed it. What of Mary? She visualized her daughter, shorn of her rank, forced to live under the same roof as Anne Boleyn’s daughter, doubtless expected to pay homage to the child. It was intolerable. She must live to fight for Mary. Chapuys was full of ideas; he was constantly writing to her. He was ready to go to great lengths in her cause and that of the Princess Mary. And here she was, weakly welcoming death.

She would certainly not go to Fotheringay.

“I will not leave Buckden for Fotheringay,” she wrote to the King, “unless you bind me with ropes and take me there.”

But Henry was now determined to move her and, since she would not accept Fotheringay, he declared that she should go to Somersham in the Isle of Ely.

“As this place is no more acceptable to me than the Castle of Fotheringay,” she wrote, “I will remain where I am.”

But the King had decided that she should go to Somersham, for there she could live with a smaller household. Moreover he knew that she was far from well, and Somersham, like Fotheringay, was unhealthy. If Katharine were to die a natural death, and he could cease to think of her and the effect she was having on his popularity, he would enjoy greater peace of mind.

He sent Suffolk down to Buckden with instructions to move the Queen and certain members of her household to Somersham.

THE DUKE OF SUFFOLK had arrived at Buckden and was asking audience of the Princess Dowager. Katharine, walking with difficulty, received him in the great hall.

“My lady,” said Suffolk, bowing, but not too low, making a difference in the homage he would give to a Queen and one who was of less importance than himself, “I come on the King’s orders to move you and your household to Somersham.”

“I thank you, my lord Duke,” answered Katharine coldly, “but I have no intention of leaving Buckden for Somersham.”

Suffolk inclined his head. “My lady, I fear you have no choice in this matter as it is the King’s order that you should move.”

“I refuse this order,” retorted Katharine. “Here I stay. You see the poor state of my health. Buckden does not serve it well, but Somersham is even more damp and unhealthy. I shall not leave this house until one which pleases me is found for me.”

“My lady, you leave me no alternative…”

She interrupted him: “…but to go back to the King and tell him that I refuse.”

“That is not what I intended, my lady. I have orders from the King to move you, and I at least must obey my master.”

“I’m afraid your task is impossible, my lord, if I refuse to go.”

“There are ways, Madam,” answered the Duke, “and these must needs be adopted in the service of the King.”

Katharine turned and, leaving him, retired to her apartments.

She expected him to ride off to tell the King what had happened, but he did not do this; and sitting at her window waiting to see him leave, she waited in vain. Then suddenly from below she heard unusual noises, and before she could summon any of her women to ask what was happening, one came to her.

“Your Grace,” said the woman, “they are moving the furniture. They are preparing to take it away. Already the hall is being stripped bare.”

“This is impossible!” said the Queen. “They cannot turn me out of Buckden without my consent.”

But she was wrong, because this was exactly what Suffolk had made up his mind to do.

Secretly Suffolk was ashamed of this commission and wished that the King had chosen some other to carry it out; it was particularly distasteful to him, because he had, on the death of the King’s sister Mary, recently married the daughter of Maria de Salinas who was such a close friend of the Queen. But his bucolic mind could suggest no other way of disguising his distaste than by truculence. Moreover he had orders to move the Queen from Buckden, and he did not care to contemplate what the King would say if he returned to Court and explained that he had been unable to carry out his task.

Katharine went to the hall and saw that what she had been told was correct. The tapestries had already been taken down from the walls, and the furniture was being prepared for removal.

Angrily she confronted Suffolk. “How dare you move my furniture without my consent?” she demanded.

He bowed. “The King’s orders are that it and you should be removed.”

“I tell you I shall not go.”

She left him and went up to her bedchamber. Several of her faithful women were there, and she locked the door on herself and them.

Suffolk followed her and stood outside the door begging her to be reasonable.

She would not answer him and, realizing that it was no use arguing with a locked door, Suffolk went back to the hall.

“Go into all the rooms save those of the Queen’s private apartments, which are locked against us,” he commanded. “Dismantle the beds and pack all that needs to be packed. We are moving this household to Somersham.”

The work went on while Katharine remained in her own apartments; but Suffolk and his retinue had been seen arriving, and it was not long before news of what was happening within the manor house was spread throughout the villages. As the crowd outside grew, Suffolk, who had posted his guards about the house, was soon made aware that the Queen’s neighbors were gathering to protect her. It was a silent crowd, watching from a distance; but it was noted that many of the men carried choppers and billhooks; and Suffolk, who had never been noted for his quick wits, was uneasy. Here was a humiliating situation: the Queen locked in her own apartments with a few of her faithful servants; he and his men dismantling the house, preparing to move; and outside, the Queen’s neighbors gathering to protect her! Suffolk knew that if he attempted to remove the Queen by force there would be a battle. He could imagine Henry’s fury when news of this reached his ears.

Yet something must be done; but the winter evening was near and he could do nothing that night, so he called a halt to his men. They should see about their night quarters and making a meal. They were prepared for this for they had not expected to complete their task in one day and night.

In the morning, Suffolk told himself, I shall work out a plan. He thought wistfully of the Christmas revelry which would be taking place at the Court. The new Queen and her admirers would certainly arrange a lively pageant. There would be fun for those at Court, while he had to spend his time in this gloomy mansion, trying to persuade an obstinate woman to do something which she had sworn not to do.

But in the morning the situation was the same. Katharine remained in her own apartments, waited on by her faithful servants who treated the invaders as though they did not exist.

Meanwhile by daylight the crowds waiting outside seemed to be more formidable—young, strong countrymen with their ferocious-looking billhooks. If he attempted to force a way through them Suffolk knew there would assuredly be a clash.

More than ever he wished himself back at Court; but he could see only one possible course. He must write to the King and tell him the circumstances; he would be cursed for an incompetent fool, but that was better than being responsible for a fight between the King’s soldiers and the Queen’s protectors. Suffolk was shrewd enough to know that such an incident might be the spark to start a civil war.

Already the King was preoccupied with fears of a rebellion which might seek to set his daughter Mary on the throne.

Yet he was undecided. He put off writing to the King, telling himself that Katharine might relent. She was after all an ageing woman, a lonely woman who had suffered the greatest humiliation possible. Perhaps those yokels waiting outside to defend her would grow tired. So Suffolk decided to wait.

For five days he waited and still Katharine’s door remained locked. She took her food in her own apartments and would not open her door to Suffolk.

His patience ended. He went to her door and hammered on it.

“If you do not come out, I shall take you by force,” he shouted.

“You would have to do that,” was Katharine’s answer. “Break down my door if you will. Bind me with ropes. Carry me to your litter. That is the only way you will get me to move from this house.”

Suffolk swore in his angry uncertainty. There were spies in this household. They were carrying tales to those waiting people so that everything that was happening in this house was known. He was sure that the Queen’s neighbors were sending word to friends miles away, and that the ranks about the house were swelling.

He dared not take her by force. He and his men would be torn to pieces if he did.

He returned to the hall, looked gloomily at the dismantled room; then he wrote to the King, to Cromwell and to Norfolk, explaining the Queen’s obstinacy and his fear of mob violence from the crowd which now seemed to be some thousands.

He dispatched the letters and prepared to depart himself.

He saw Thomas Abell coming from the Queen’s apartments and called to him.

“So, sir priest, you are still here with the Princess Dowager.”

“As you see, my lord Duke.”

“And upholding her in her obstinacy as you ever did,” snarled Suffolk.

“The Queen is a lady of stern ideals.”

“The Queen? There is but one Queen of England. That is Queen Anne.”

“There is but one Queen, my lord; and I say that Queen is Queen Katharine.”

“By God,” cried Suffolk, “you speak high treason.” He shouted to his men. “Take this priest. He will leave with us as our prisoner.”

He summoned all those servants, who were not with Katharine, to his presence and forthwith arrested several of them. At least he would not go back to London empty handed. Then he was ready to leave. He glanced round the castle which looked as though it had been sacked by invading soldiery—which in some measure it had—before he rode out into the courtyard and gave the order to depart.

The crowds parted for them to pass; no one spoke, but the looks were sullen.

Katharine came down from her private apartments and gazed in dismay at the havoc in her house. But when she heard that some of her servants had been taken prisoner, among them the faithful Abell, she ceased to care about the state of her dwelling. She thought of Abell going back to the discomfort of the Tower, where he might be submitted to torture as he had been before, and a feeling of utter desolation took possession of her.

Will there be no end to this persecution? she asked herself. Then she began to weep, for the strain of the last days had been greater than she had realized while they were happening; and although when confined to her room, unsure of whether she would be removed by force, she had not wept, now she could not prevent herself from doing so.

Two of her women came and stood with her.

“Your Majesty, pray return to your bed. There is more comfort there.”

She did not answer but held her kerchief to her streaming eyes.

“A curse on Anne Boleyn,” said one of the women.

Katharine lowered her kerchief and turned her stern gaze on the speaker. “Nay,” she said. “Hold your peace. Do not curse her. Rather pray for her. Even now the time is coming fast when you shall have reason to pity her and lament her case.”

She turned slowly and mounted the stairs to her apartment. Her women looked after her in wonderment. Then they shivered, for she spoke with the voice of a prophet.