The King's Secret Matter

The Queen’s Enemy

IN HER APARTMENTS AT GREENWICH PALACE THE PRINCESS Mary was being prepared by her women for a ceremonial occasion. They were all very excited and kept telling the little girl that she would be the target of all eyes on this occasion.

She wriggled beneath her headdress which seemed too tight.

“Be careful, my precious one,” said her governess. “Remember, you must walk very slowly and as I have taught you.”

“Yes,” said Mary, “I will remember.”

The women looked at her fondly. She was such a good child, rather too serious perhaps, but always eager to learn her lessons and please those about her.

Six-year-old Mary felt uncomfortable in the stiff gown, but she liked the dazzling jewels which decorated it; she pulled at the gold chain about her neck because it seemed so heavy.

“Careful, my lady. Hands down. That’s right. Let me see the sort of curtsey you will make to your bridegroom when you meet him.”

Mary obediently made a deep curtsey, which was not easy in the heavy gown, and several of the women clapped their hands.

“Does she not look beautiful!” asked one of another.

“She’s the most beautiful and the luckiest Princess in all the world.”

Mary did not believe them, and knew that they were bribing her to behave in such a way that she would be a credit to them.

“What is the Emperor Charles like?” she asked.

“What is he like! He is tall and handsome and the greatest ruler in the world—save only your royal father, of course. And he loves you dearly.”

“How is it possible to love people whom one does not know?”

The child was too clever for them.

“Do you not love the saints?” her governess asked. “And do you know them? Have you seen them and talked with them? Thus it is with the Emperor Charles. He has come all across the seas to hold your hand and promise to marry you.”

The little girl was silent, but there was nothing to fear, because her mother had told her that she was not to go away from her. Being affianced to the Emperor would make no difference at all; they would be together as before, she and her beloved mother.

Mary wished they could be together now, the two of them alone, in the royal nursery, bent over the books while she learned her Latin, and perhaps if her progress pleased her mother, to shut up the books and be allowed to sit at her feet while she told stories of those days when she was a little girl herself in far away Spain. There she had learned lessons in her nursery, but she had had sisters and a brother. How Mary wished that she had sisters and a brother. Perhaps only a brother would suffice. Then her father would not frown so when he remembered she was his only child and a girl.

No, there was no need to feel anxious about this coming ceremony. She had been affianced before. Strangely enough, although last time it had been to a French Prince, the ceremony had taken place in this very Palace; and she was not sure whether she remembered the occasion or her mother had told her about it and she thought she remembered; in any case it was vivid in her mind: Herself a little girl of two in a dress made of cloth of gold, and a cap of black velvet which was covered in dazzling jewels. There had been a man who had taken the place of her bridegroom-to-be because her bridegroom could not be present. He had only just been born, but he was very important because he was the son of the King of France, and her father had wanted to show his friendship for the King of France at that time. A diamond ring had been put on her finger; she was sure she remembered the difficulty she had had in trying to keep it on.

But that was four years ago, and now her father was no longer the friend of the King of France. She often wondered about that baby and whether he had been told that while he was in his cradle he was affianced to her; she wondered what he thought about it.

Now, of course, it might never have taken place; it was of no importance whatsoever.

What she did remember though, was her mother coming into her apartment and taking her in her arms and laughing with her, and weeping a little. “Only because I am so happy, my darling daughter,” she had said.

The reason for the Queen’s happiness was that there would be no French marriage. Instead there was to be a Spanish one. “And this makes me happy,” said the Queen, “because Spain is my country; and you will go there one day and rule that country as the wife of the Emperor. My mother, your grandmother, was once the Queen of Spain.”

So Mary had been happy because her mother was happy; and she shivered with horror to think that she might have been married to the little French boy; then she smiled with pleasure because instead she was to marry the Emperor who was also the King of Spain.

A page came into the apartment with the message for which Mary had been waiting.

“The Queen is ready to receive the Princess.”

Mary was eager, as always, to go to her mother.

The Queen was waiting for her in her own private apartments and when the little girl came in she dismissed everyone so that they could be alone; and this was how Mary longed for it to be. She wished though that she was not wearing these ceremonial clothes, so that she could cling to her mother; she wished that she could sit in her lap and ask for stories of Spain.

The Queen knelt so that her face was on a level with her daughter’s. “Why, you are a little woman today,” she said tenderly.

“And does it not please Your Grace?”

“Call me Mother, sweeting, when we are alone.”

Mary put her hands about her mother’s neck and looked gravely into her eyes. “I wish we could stay together for hours and hours—the two of us and none other.”

“Well, that will be so later.”

“Then I shall think of later all the time the ceremony goes on.”

“Oh no, my darling, you must not do that. This is a great occasion. Soon I shall take you by the hand and lead you down to the hall, and there will be your father and with him the Emperor.”

“But I shall not go away with him yet,” said Mary earnestly.

“Not yet, my darling, not for six long years.”

Mary smiled. Six years was as long as her life had been and therefore seemed for ever.

“You love the Emperor, Mother, do you not?”

“There is no one I would rather see the husband of my dearest daughter than the Emperor.”

“Yet you have seen him but little, Mother. How can you love someone whom you do not know?”

“Well, my darling, I love his mother dearly. She is my own sister; and when we were little she and I were brought up together in the same nursery. She married and went into Flanders, and I came to England and married. But once she came to England with her husband to see me…”

Mary wanted to ask why, if her mother loved her sister so much, she always seemed so sad when she spoke of her; but she was afraid of the answer, for she did not want any sadness on this occasion.

But into the Queen’s eyes there had come a glazed look, and at that moment she did not see the room in Greenwich Palace and her little daughter, but another room in the Alcazar in Madrid in which children played: herself the youngest and the gravest and Juana, in a tantrum, kicking their governess because she had attempted to curb her. In those days Juana had been the wild one; her sister had not known then that later she would be Juana the Mad. Only their mother, watching and brooding, had suffered cruel doubts because she remembered the madness of her own mother and feared that the taint had been passed on to Juana.

But what thoughts were these? Juana was safe in her asylum at Tordesillas, living like an animal, some said, in tattered rags, eating her food from the floor, refusing to have women round her because she was still jealous of them although her husband, on whose account she had been so jealous, was long since dead. And because Juana was mad, her eldest son Charles was the Emperor of Austria and King of Spain and, since the discoveries of Columbus, ruler of new rich lands across the ocean. He was the most powerful monarch in the world—and to this young man Mary was to be affianced.

“I wasn’t here when Charles’s mother came.”

“Oh no, my darling, that was long, long ago, before you were born, before I was married to your father.”

“Yet you had left your mother.”

Katharine took the little face in her hands and kissed it. She hesitated, wondering whether to put aside the question; but, she reasoned, she has to know my history some day, and it is better that she should learn it from me than any other.

“I left my mother to come here and marry your uncle Arthur. He was the King’s elder brother and, had he lived, he would have been the King, and your father the Archbishop of Canterbury. So I married Arthur, and when Arthur died I married your father.”

“What was my uncle Arthur like, Mother?”

“He was kind and gentle and rather delicate.”

“Not like my father,” said the girl. “Did he want sons?”

Those words made the Queen feel that she could have wept. She took her daughter in her arms, not only because she was overcome by tenderness for her, but because she did not want her to see the tears in her eyes.

“He was too young,” she said in a muffled voice. “He was but a boy and he died before he grew to manhood.”

“How old is Charles, Mother?”

“He is twenty-two years old.”

“So old?”

“It is not really very old, Mary.”

“How many years older than I?”

“Now you should be able to tell me that.”

Mary was thoughtful for a few moments; then she said: “Is it sixteen?”

“That is so.”

“Oh Mother, it seems so many.”

“Nonsense, darling; I am more than ten years older than Charles, yet you can be happy with me, can you not?”

“I can be so happy with you, Mother, that I believe I am never really happy when I am away from you.”

The Queen laid her cheek against her daughter’s. “Oh my darling,” she said, “do not love me too much.”

“How can I love you too much?”

“You are right, Mary. It can never be too much. I loved my mother so much that when I left her and when she left this Earth it seemed to me that she was still with me. I loved her so much that I was never alone.”

The child looked bewildered and the Queen reproached herself for this outburst of emotion. She, who to everyone else was so calm and restrained, was on occasions forced to let her emotions flow over this beloved daughter who meant more to her than any other living person.

I frighten the child with my confidences, she thought, and stood up, taking Mary’s hands in hers and smiling down at her.

“There, my love, are you ready?”

“Will you stand beside me all the time?”

“Perhaps not all the time, but I shall be there watching. And when you greet him I shall be beside you. Listen. I can hear the trumpets. That means they are close. We should be waiting to greet them. Come. Give me your hand. Now, darling, smile. You are very happy.”

“Are you happy too, Mother?”

“Indeed, yes. One of the dearest wishes of my heart is about to be fulfilled. Now we are ready to greet my nephew, who will be my son when he is the husband of my beloved daughter.”

She held the little hand firmly in hers; and together they descended to the hall for the ceremonial greeting.

AS THE ROYAL CAVALCADE came from Windsor to Greenwich the people massed in their thousands to watch their King pass by. Loudly they cheered him, for he was a magnificent sight on horseback, and beside him the Emperor appeared a somewhat poor figure. The King of England was over six feet tall, his skin was pink and smooth as a boy’s, his blue eyes were bright and clear, and he glowed with good health, so that in comparison the Emperor looked pallid and unhealthy. His teeth were prominent and none too white, and he breathed through his mouth which was perpetually ajar; his aquiline nose had a pinched look and the only color in his face was the blue of his eyes. He was serious, whereas the King of England was gay; he smiled faintly while Henry roared forth his good humor.

But he seemed happy to be in England, and Henry was clearly pleased with him because of the contrast they made and the attention which was therefore called to his own many physical perfections.

As they rode along Henry was thinking of the masques and pageants with which he would impress this young man; but Charles was thinking of the loan he must try to wring from the English. As his father had been, he was perpetually in need of funds to maintain his vast Empire, and in his struggle with the King of France he needed money to pay his mercenaries.

He knew that he would have to pay a price for English gold and English support, and had at last decided that he would accept betrothal to the Princess Mary. He had come to this decision with some reluctance—not because he was against an English match, not that he did not believe the child to be unusually accomplished; but it was distressing to contemplate her age and that he could not hope for an heir until at least eight years had passed. However, there was nothing to be done but accept the inevitable as graciously as he could, for he was fully aware that alliance with England was not only desirable but a necessity.

So as they rode along he listened to the King’s conversation, laughed at his jokes and gave an impression to all who saw them that they were the best of friends.

In the cavalcade rode the Cardinal and, as always, his retinue was as magnificent as that of the King. He was wearing his red robes of taffety this day—the finest obtainable—and about his neck hung a tippet of sables; borne before him was the great seal, and one of the noblemen, whom he had deigned to take into his household, carried his Cardinal’s hat on a cushion and was bareheaded to indicate the respect he had for it; behind him rode other gentlemen of his household and his higher servants in their red and gold livery.

Wolsey was uneasy during that ride. He felt that since the death of Buckingham the King had taken too great an interest in state affairs. He was inclined to meddle and he did not always want to follow in that direction in which Wolsey would have led him.

The Cardinal was no more sure of this quiet young man than he was of the flamboyant François. In fact he felt that it would be necessary to be even more wary of the Emperor. François was dashing, bold, reckless and lecherous; and a shrewd statesman could often guess which turning he would take. But this pale, serious young man, who was somewhat hesitant in speech and had an air of humility—which Wolsey knew to be entirely false—might be unpredictable and by far the shrewdest ruler of the three who were now so important in Europe.

Charles had had the foresight to recognize that, if he were to consolidate the alliance he wished for, he must first placate Wolsey, and for that reason he had promised the Cardinal a considerable “pension.” The thought of vast sums being paid to him from the Imperial coffers was sweet, but some promises were made to be broken; and Wolsey was not certain whether Charles was to be relied on. He had also promised what was more important still: to use his influence at the Papal election, for the great goal of the Cardinal was the Papal crown since, possessing that, he would stand apart from kings, a ruler in his own right. He yearned for that crown.

There had been a disappointment early that year when Pope Leo X had died and a Papal election had taken place. Wolsey had felt that his chances of election were slender, but the promise of Imperial favor had sent his hopes soaring. He received only seven votes, and Adrian VI was elected.

This was not such a bitter disappointment as it might have been, for the Cardinal did not believe Adrian would live long and it seemed certain that another election would be held before many months had passed. If by that time Wolsey could show himself to be the true friend of the Emperor it might be that the promise of help would this time be fulfilled.

Perhaps he had no reason to feel disappointed; he was rising higher and higher in his own country and only last year Henry had presented him with the Abbey of St. Albans, doubtless to repay him for the money from his own pocket which he had spent on the recent embassy to Calais, whither he had gone to help settle differences between François and the Emperor.

And now the friendship with Charles was being strengthened and a treaty had been signed at Windsor in which Henry and Charles agreed on an invasion of France before the May of 1524.

This was where the King had shown himself inclined to meddle. Wolsey himself was not eager to go to war. War to him meant expense, for even with victory the spoils were often scarcely worth the effort made to obtain them. But war to Henry meant the glory of conquest, and it was as irresistible to him as one of the games he played with such élan at a pageant.

Still, a goodly pension from the Emperor, the promise of Imperial support at the next Papal election, and the need to fall in with the King’s wishes—they were very acceptable, thought Thomas Wolsey as he rode on to Greenwich.

AT THE DOOR of the Palace stood the Queen holding the hand of her daughter.

The Emperor dismounted and went towards them. He knelt before his aunt and, taking her hand, kissed it fervently.

Mary looked on, and she thought she loved the Emperor—firstly because he was so delighted to see her mother and looked at her so fondly; secondly because her mother was so pleased with him; and thirdly because there was nothing in that pale face to alarm a six-year-old girl.

Now he had turned to greet Mary. He took her hand and stooped low to kiss it; and as he did so there was a cheer from all those watching.

The King could not allow them to keep the center of the stage too long and was very quickly beside them, taking his daughter in his arms to the great delight of all who watched, particularly the common people. They might admire the grace of Charles, but they liked better the King’s homely manners. Henry knew it, and he was delighted because he was now the center of attention and admiration.

So they went into the Palace, Mary walking between her father and mother while the Emperor was at the Queen’s side.

Katharine felt happy to have with her one who was of her own family, although Charles did not resemble his mother in the least, nor was he, with his pallid looks, like his father who had been known as Philip the Handsome.

A momentary anxiety came to Katharine as she wondered whether Charles resembled his father in any other way. Philip had found women irresistible, and with his Flemish mistresses had submitted the passionate Juana to many an indignity, which conduct it was believed had aggravated her madness.

But surely there was no need to fear that her daughter would be submitted to similar treatment by this serious young man.

“I am so happy to have you with us,” she told her nephew.

“You cannot be more delighted than I am,” replied Charles in his somewhat hesitant way; but Katharine felt that the slight stammer accentuated his sincerity.

Henry said: “After the banquet our daughter shall show Your Imperial Highness how skilful she is at the virginals.”

“It would seem I have a most accomplished bride,” replied Charles and when, glancing up at him, Mary saw he was smiling at her with kindliness, she knew he was telling her not to be afraid.

So into the banqueting hall they went and sat down with ceremony, when good English food was served.

The King looked on in high good humor. He was pleased because he and the Emperor were going to make war on François, and he had sworn vengeance on the King of France ever since he, Henry, had challenged him to a wrestling match only to be ignobly thrown to the ground by that lean, smiling giant.

He was even pleased with Katharine on this occasion. She had played her part in bringing about the Spanish alliance; for there was no doubt that the Emperor was more ready to enter into alliance with an England whose Queen was his aunt than he would otherwise have been.

Henry caught the brooding eye of his Cardinal fixed on the pale young man.

Ha! he thought, Wolsey is uncertain. He is not enamored of our nephew. He looks for treachery in all who are not English. ’Tis not a bad trait in a Chancellor.

He thought of how Wolsey had bargained when they had made the treaty. A good servant, he mused, and one devoted to the interests of his King and country.

Enough of solemnity, he decided, and clapped his hands. “Music!” he cried. “Let there be music.”

So the minstrels played, and later Mary sat at the virginals and showed her fiancé how skilful she was.

“Is it possible that she is but six years old!” cried Charles.

And the King roared his delight.

“I think,” said the Emperor, “that with one so advanced it should not be necessary for me to wait six years for her. Let me take her with me. I promise you she shall have all the care at my court that you could give her at yours.”

Katharine cried in alarm: “No, no. She is too young to leave her home. Six years is not so long, nephew. You must wait six years.”

Charles gave her his slow, kindly smile. “I am in your hands,” he said.

Mary who had been listening to this conversation had grown numb with terror. Six years was a lifetime, but he wanted to take her now. This young man no longer seemed so kindly; he represented a danger. For the first time in her life she became aware that she might be taken from her mother’s side.

Katharine, who was watching her, noticed her alarm and knew the cause. She said: “It is past the Princess’s bed time. The excitement of Your Excellency’s visit has exhausted her. I ask your leave for her to retire to her apartments.”

Charles bowed his head and Henry murmured: “Let her women take her to bed, and we will show our nephew some of our English dances.”

So Mary was taken away while the royal party went into the ballroom; and soon the King was dancing and leaping to the admiration of all.

Katharine slipped away when the revelry was at its height and went to her daughter’s apartment, where she found Mary lying in her bed, her cheeks still flushed, her eyes wide open.

“Still awake, my darling?” Katharine gently reproved.

“Oh, Mother, I knew you would come.”

Katharine laid a hand on the flushed forehead. “You are afraid you will be sent away.”

Mary did not answer but her small body had begun to tremble.

“It shall not be, my little one,” went on the Queen. “The Emperor said…”

“He meant it not. It was to compliment you that he spoke those words. It is what is called diplomacy. Have no fear, you shall not leave me for a long, long time…not until you are old enough to want to go.”

“Mother, how could I ever want to go from you?”

Katharine lifted the little hand and kissed it.

“When you grow up you will love others better than your Mother.”

“I never shall. I swear I never shall.”

“You are too young to swear eternal love, my darling. But I am here now I slipped away from the ball because I knew you would be fretting.”

Katharine lay on the bed and held the child in her arms.

“Oh Mother, you love me, do you not?”

“With all my heart, sweeting.”

“And I love you with all of mine. I never want to go away from England, Mother…unless you come with me.”

“Hush, my sweetheart. All will be well. You will see.”

“And you will not let the Emperor take me away?”

“No…not for years and years…”

The child was reassured; and the Queen lay still holding her daughter fondly in her arms, thinking of a young girl in Spain who had been afraid and had told her mother that she wished to stay with her forever.

This is the fate of royal children, she told herself.

The comfort of her mother’s arms soothed Mary and soon she slept. Then Katharine gently disengaged herself; the Queen must not stay too long from the ball.

THE KING was momentarily contented. He was at war with France and he dreamed of being one day crowned in Rheims. His temper was good. He spent more time than he ever had engaged on matters of state, and the Cardinal, seated beside him, explaining when the need arose to do so, was feeling certain twinges of uneasiness.

He had been forced to support the war somewhat against his wishes; yet he was too wily to let anyone know that he was against it. The King wished it and Wolsey had no intention of arousing Henry’s anger by seeming lukewarm about a project which so pleased the King.

Henry had inherited the wealth which his miserly father had so carefully accumulated; but he had spent lavishly and already the treasury was alarmingly depleted.

“Nothing,” said the Cardinal, “absorbs wealth as quickly as war. We shall need money if we are to succeed in France.”

The King waved a plump hand. “Then I am sure there is no one who can raise it more ably than my good Chancellor.”

So be it, thought Wolsey. But the levying of taxes was a delicate matter and he suspected that the people who were obliged to pay them would blame, not their glittering charming King, but his apparently mean and grasping Chancellor.

There was talk of the King’s going to France with his army, but although Henry declared his eagerness to do this, nothing came of it. His adventures abroad with his armies in the earlier years of his reign had not been distinguished although he had thought they had at the time. Much as Henry would have enjoyed riding through the streets of Paris, a conqueror, and even more so returning home to England as the King who had brought France to the English dominions, he was now wise enough to realize that even hardened campaigners did not always succeed in battle, and that he was a novice at the game of war. Failure was something he could not bear to contemplate. Therefore he felt it was safer to wage war on the enemy with a strip of channel between himself and the armies.

François Premier was a King who rode into battle recklessly; but then François was a reckless fellow. He might win his successes, but he also had to face his defeats.

So Henry put aside the plans for a personal visit to the battlefields. But war was an exciting game played from a distance, and Wolsey must find the money to continue it.

THESE WERE HAPPY DAYS for the Queen. Her husband and her nephew were allies and they stood together against the King of France whom she believed to be more of a menace to Christianity than the Turk. François, already notorious for his lecherous way of life, must surely come to disaster; and since her serious-minded nephew had the power of England beside him she was certain that Charles was invincible.

She had her daughter under the same roof with her and she herself supervised her lessons.

Mary was docile and happy as long as her mother was with her. The King left Katharine alone, it was true, but she believed that even he had ceased to fret for a son, and accepted the fact that their daughter Mary was heir to the throne; and one day when she married Charles she would be the Empress of Austria and the Queen of Spain as well as the Queen of England. That matter was happily settled.

She was constantly seeking the best method of teaching her daughter, and one day she summoned Thomas More to her that she might discuss with him the manner in which his own daughters were educated.

As usual she found great pleasure in his company. She talked a little about the war but she saw that the subject was distressing to him—which was to be expected, for he was a man to whom violence was abhorrent—so she turned the conversation to his family, which she knew could not fail to please him.

She told him of her desire that the Princess Mary should receive the best education in all subjects which would be of use to her, and Thomas said: “Has your Grace thought of consulting Juan Luis Vives?”

“I had not until this moment,” she said, “but now that you mention him I believe he is the man who could help me in the education of the Princess. I pray you, bring him with you and come to see me at this hour tomorrow.” When Thomas had left her she wondered why she had not thought of Vives before. He had so much to recommend him. In the first place he was one of her own countrymen and she felt that, as her daughter was after all half Spanish and would be the wife of the King of Spain, there must be a Spanish angle to her education.

Both Erasmus and Sir Thomas More had called her attention to Juan Luis Vives, and those two were men whose intellectual abilities had won the admiration of the world. Vives was a man, said Thomas, forced by poverty to hide his light under a bushel. He was living at Bruges in obscurity; he had published very little of his writings and few people had ever heard of him. Erasmus would bear him out, for Vives had studied Greek with him at Louvain. It was Thomas’s opinion that Vives should be brought to England and encouraged by the Court, for there was little his native Valencia or the city of Bruges could offer him.

Katharine, out of her great admiration for Thomas, had immediately sent money to Vives with a letter in which she explained her interest in his work. It had not been difficult to persuade Henry—with the help of Thomas More—that Vives would be an ornament to the English Court; and Henry, who, when he was not masking or engaged in sport, liked occasionally to have conversation with men of intellect (François Premier boasted that his Court was the most intellectual in Europe and Henry was eager to rival it) very willingly agreed that Vives should be given a yearly pension.

Thus in gratitude Vives dedicated his book, Commentaries on Saint Augustine to Henry, which so delighted the King that he called him to England to lecture at the college which Wolsey had recently founded at Oxford.

This had happened some years before, but Vives made a point of spending a certain part of each year in England with his friends and patrons; and it so happened that he was in London at this time. So the very next day he arrived in the company of Thomas More for an interview with the Queen regarding her daughter’s education.

Katharine received them in her private apartment and they sat together at the window overlooking the Palace gardens as they talked.

“You know, Master Vives, why I have commanded you to come to me?” asked Katharine.

“My friend has given me some idea of what Your Grace desires,” Vives answered.

“My daughter’s education is a matter which is of the utmost importance to me. Tell me how you think this should be arranged.”

“Sir Thomas and I are of one opinion on the education of young people,” said Vives.

“It is true,” added Thomas. “We both believe that it is folly to presume that a girl’s education is of less importance than that of a boy.”

“It is but natural,” went on Vives, “that an intelligent girl may come to a better understanding of Latin and Greek than a boy who is not possessed of the same intelligence.”

“I would have my daughter educated in scholarly subjects, but at the same time I wish her to learn the feminine arts,” answered Katharine.

“In that I am in full agreement with Your Grace,” said Vives.

“What more charming sight,” mused Thomas, “than a girl at her embroidery?”

“Or even at the spinning wheel working on wool and flax,” added Vives. “These are excellent accomplishments, but Your Grace has not summoned me to discuss them.”

“I am going to appoint you my daughter’s tutor,” the Queen told Vives, “and I wish you immediately to draw up a list of books for her to read.”

Vives bowed his head. “I will go to my task with the utmost pleasure, and I can immediately say that I think the Princess should read the New Testament both night and morning, and also certain selected portions of the Old Testament. She must become fully conversant with the gospels. She should, I believe also study Plutarch’s Enchiridion, Seneca’s Maxims, and of course Plato and Cicero.” He glanced at his friend. “I suggest that Sir Thomas More’s Utopia would provide good reading.”

The Queen smiled to see the look of pride on Thomas’s face thinking that his few vanities made him human, and therein lay the secret of his lovable nature.

“And what of the Paraphrase of Erasmus?” asked Thomas quickly.

“That also,” agreed Vives. “And I think the Princess should not waste her time on books of chivalry and romance. Any stories she might wish to read for her entertainment should either be sacred or historical, so that her time is not wasted in idleness. The only exception I would make is the story of Griselda, which contains such an excellent example of patience that the Princess might profit from it.”

Katharine said: “I can see that you will be an excellent tutor, but we must remember that she is but a child. Her life must not be all study. There must be some pleasure.”

Vives looked surprised; to him the greatest pleasure was in study, and he believed the Princess to be the most fortunate of children, having such a plan of study made for her.

Thomas laughed. “I’ll swear the Lady Mary, who so loves her music, will find time to escape to it from her books now and then. I know my own daughters….” (Katharine noticed the look of pride when he spoke of his daughters, which was even more marked than when he spoke of his books) “…are proficient in Greek and Latin but they find time to be merry.”

“Yours is a merry household,” answered the Queen.

And she found that she was comparing the King and Thomas More—two fathers who could not be more unlike. She had seen Thomas in company with his eldest daughter, Margaret, had seen them walk, their arms entwined, had heard the girl’s unrepressed laughter ringing out as she scolded her father in an affectionate way. It was impossible to imagine Mary and Henry thus.

What a fortunate man, this Thomas More; what a fortunate family!

“There is much merriment at Court,” answered Thomas gravely.

But he understood of course—he was a man who would always understand—and a great tenderness touched his face; the Queen knew that it expressed the compassion he felt for her little daughter, who would study alone—not as Thomas’s family did—and would be taught by the somewhat stern though excellent Vives instead of merry Thomas.

Somewhere from the grounds she heard the sound of laughter, and glancing down saw a group of young people. They made a charming picture on the grass in their brightly colored clothes and there was one girl among them who appeared to be the center of attraction. She was dark-haired, dark-eyed, somewhat sallow of complexion and, although not a beauty, certainly striking. She seemed to have more vitality than any other member of the group and was quite clearly taking the attention of the young men from the other girls who were present.

“A high-spirited party,” said the Queen; and Vives and Thomas More glanced out of the window. “That girl seems familiar but I do not recall who she is. Surely that is Thomas Wyatt with her—and Henry Percy.”

“The girl is Thomas Boleyn’s daughter, Your Grace,” Thomas told her.

Then Katharine knew of whom the girl reminded her. It was Mary Boleyn. The resemblance was slight, otherwise she would have realized immediately. This girl had an air of dignity and assurance, and pride too—all qualities in which Mary had been dismally lacking.

“This is the second girl, I believe,” said the Queen.

“Recently home from France on account of the war,” explained Thomas.

“Doubtless her father is looking for a place at Court for her,” said the Queen.

“He will find it,” replied Thomas, “not only for Anne but for his George also.”

“I trust,” said the Queen, “that this Anne is not like her sister in her morals, and that George does not bear too strong a resemblance to his father.”

“From what I have seen of them,” Thomas answered, “I should say they are a dazzling pair.”

“Well then, I suppose we must resign ourselves,” said the Queen with a smile, “for it seems the Boleyns have come to Court.”

THE CARDINAL had shut himself in his private apartments at Hampton Court; seated at the window from which he could see the river, he was waiting for a message which was all-important to him, for it would tell him whether his greatest ambition was realized or not.

The pale November sun shone wanly on the river. He thought: I shall miss Hampton Court; I shall miss England.

He would miss his family too; but he would find means of seeing them. He would have young Thomas in Rome with him, because he would very quickly overcome all difficulties. He thought of Rodrigo Borgia, Alexander VI, who, while living in the Vatican, had yet arranged to have his children with him; for a Pope was as powerful as a King; and once he was supreme in the Vatican, the frowns of unpredictable Henry would be of little moment to him.

Yet, he mused, I shall not forget my own country, and it will be a good day for England when an Englishman takes the Papal Crown.

How long the waiting seemed! He would see nobody. He had told his secretaries that he was to be disturbed only by messengers from abroad because he was working on important matters of state.

But soon the messenger must come.

He began to pace the apartment because he could no longer bear to stare at the river.

His chances were good. On the death of Leo X when Adrian VI had been elected, his hopes had been slender. Why should the Cardinals have elected a comparative newcomer to their ranks, an Englishman who had not previously worked closely with the Vatican? That election had taken place at the beginning of the year, and Adrian’s tenure of the Papacy had indeed been a short one for in September news had come to England of his death, and for the next two months the Cardinal had given less thought to affairs in England; his mind was on what would happen at the next conclave.

Since the election of Adrian and his death the Emperor Charles had visited England, and he had become more aware than he had been before of the important part played by the Cardinal in the foreign policy of England. To win Wolsey’s approval of the alliance he had offered large sums of money, a pension no less; but Wolsey had begun to grow uneasy because none of these sums of money had yet been paid; and he could get no satisfaction as to when they would be from Louis de Praet, who was now Charles’s Ambassador in England.

Money was needed to prosecute the war, was the excuse, and Wolsey was angry to contemplate the riches which were being squandered on useless battlefields in Europe, riches which could have been used not only to make the country prosperous but would have enabled him to increase his personal treasures.

But there was one concession which Charles could make and would cost him little in money; and this was what the Cardinal needed more than anything else in the world: His influence at the Conclave. The powerful Emperor, of whom every Cardinal would stand in awe, had but to make it known that he wished to see an English Pope in the Vatican and that those who depended on his bounty were to give their vote to Cardinal Wolsey, and the Papal crown would be won.

This the Emperor could do. He would do it. He must…since he had failed to supply the pension.

“If he does not…,” said Wolsey aloud, but he did not continue.

He would not face the possibility of failure. The Emperor could and would.

The Cardinal’s unpopularity throughout the country was growing, and people looked on sullenly when he paraded the streets on his way to Westminster. He went in all his splendid pomp, but that did nothing to appease the people’s anger, but rather increased it. They were openly murmuring against him.

He had always known, during his brilliant career, when it was time to move on, so now he was aware that he had reached the pinnacle of power in England, and that it was time to take the final step to Rome. It must be now, for there might not be another opportunity.

This war will end in failure, he thought. And when there are failures, scapegoats are sought. Who would make a better scapegoat, in the eyes of the people, than the opulent Cardinal?

He was alert because he had seen a boat pulling up at the privy stairs, and he guessed it could be his messenger.

He tried to curb his impatience; he was so eager to go down to meet the man, but, as much as he longed to, he must remember his position and his dignity.

How long it seemed to take for him to cross the park! Now he had entered the palace. Soon the usher would come to his door.

I must be calm, he told himself. I must show no excitement, no eagerness.

Cavendish was at the door.

“A messenger is without, Your Eminence. He asks that he may be brought at once to your presence.”

“A messenger?” He was sure the beating of his heart disturbed the red satin of his robe. “Let him wait…no, on second thoughts I will see him now.”

Cavendish bowed low. Now he would be traversing the eight rooms to that one in which the messenger waited…the all-important messenger. It seemed an hour before he was standing on the threshold of the room.

“You have a message for me?” he said.

“Your Eminence,” said the man and held out a roll of parchment.

As Wolsey took it it seemed to burn his fingers, but still he restrained himself.

“You may go now to the kitchens. Tell them I sent you and you are to be refreshed.”

The man bowed and was gone; so at last he was alone.

He tore at the parchment, his trembling fingers impeding him; he felt dizzy and it was some seconds before he read the words which danced like black demons on the parchment scroll.

He stared at them and tried to force them by his dominant will to reform themselves into what he wished to read.

But of what use was that? The result was there for him to see and there was nothing he could do to alter it.

“Cardinal de’ Medici has been elected the new Pope of Rome, Clement VII.”

Never since the days of his obscurity had he known a defeat like this. Disappointed he had been when Adrian was elected; but then he had been sure that there would shortly be another conclave, and he had needed the time to consolidate his forces.

But when would he have another chance? Perhaps never.

This was the darkest moment of his life so far. He had come such a long way; he could not believe in failure. Was he to fail with the very peak of achievement in sight? It seemed so.

Then a burning rage took possession of him. It was directed against one man—a sly pallid youth who had promised so much and done so little, who had seemed perhaps a little simple in his humility. But there was no real humility behind those mild blue eyes. A wily statesman lurked there, a statesman who believed he could best outwit his rivals by deceiving them with their belief in his own incompetence.

Wolsey spoke softly to himself: “The Emperor has done this. He has refused me the Papal crown as he has the pensions he promised me. He shall regret it, as all those shall who become the enemies of Thomas Wolsey.”

ALL THROUGH THE WINTER Wolsey successfully hid his rancor against the Emperor while he was waiting for his opportunity. Determined to break the friendship between Henry and Charles, he kept a sharp watch on Katharine for, since her nephew was his enemy, she must be also.

He asked the King’s permission to introduce a new woman to the Queen’s intimate circle, and Henry, delighted to do his Chancellor a favor, agreed that the woman should become one of the Queen’s maids of honor.

Katharine did not like the woman, but she was enjoying her new peaceful existence too much to protest. She need not see much of her; and in any case she was so completely wrapped up in her daughter that she had little time for anything or anyone else. Vives’s curriculum was certainly a strenuous one and sometimes she thought Mary spent too much time in study; however the little girl was a willing pupil and, to help her, Katharine herself studied with her and commanded some of the ladies of the Court to do likewise.

Being so pleasantly engaged she scarcely noticed the woman and thus gave her excellent opportunities for hiding herself when the Spanish Ambassador called and had conversations with the Queen; nor was it difficult to find a means of conveying those letters, which the Queen wrote to her nephew, to Wolsey before they were sent to Spain.

As for the Cardinal, he had always been able to wait for revenge and, as he had never favored the Spanish policy and had always thought that alliance with the French would be a better alternative, he began to plan to this end.

The winter passed; there were good reports of the progress of the war, but no material gains came the way of the English; and the King preferred to forget what was happening on the Continent in the Christmas and New Year Revels.

During these Katharine was aware on several occasions of Thomas Boleyn’s daughter Anne who always seemed to be in the center of a merry and admiring group, with either Wyatt or Henry Percy at her side. Katharine had noticed the King, glowering at these young people as though their high spirits annoyed him. Could it be that he was angry because he was no longer quite so young; was he tiring of pageants and masques?

ALL THROUGH THE SPRING and summer there was news of the war, but none of it good. Wolsey was trying to raise money; the Emperor was still making promises to pay, not only what he had borrowed, but Wolsey’s pension.

That is money we shall likely never see, thought Wolsey; but he did not tell the King this because Henry was at the moment eager to maintain his alliance with Charles, and his hatred of François was as strong as ever.

One summer’s day Dr. Linacre, the King’s physician, begged an audience of the Queen, and when he came into her presence he brought a bouquet of beautiful roses.

Katharine congratulated him warmly because she knew that he had recently brought this rose to England, and had succeeded in making it grow in English soil.

The doctor was delighted and as he bowed low before her Katharine smiled at his enthusiasm and held out a hand to take the roses.

“They are beautiful,” she cried.

“I knew Your Grace would think so. I have come to ask permission of you and the King to present you with trees I have grown.”

“I am sure His Grace will be delighted.”

“I had doubts that they would grow in our soil. Our climate is so different from that of Damascus.”

“And you have succeeded magnificently. I know the King will be as pleased as I am to accept these trees.”

“I have called it the Damask Rose,” said the doctor.

“An excellent name, and so explicit.”

She was still admiring the roses when the King entered the apartment. The peaceful atmosphere was immediately disturbed for the King’s face was of that faintly purplish tinge which nowadays indicated anger, and his eyes ice-blue, his mouth tight.

“Your Grace,” began the doctor, who could think of nothing but the pleasure his roses gave him and, he believed, must give all those who looked at them, “I have been showing the Queen the new Damask Rose.”

“Very pleasant,” said the King shortly.

“Dr. Linacre wishes to present us with trees too,” said the Queen.

“They will be some of the first to be planted in this country, Your Grace,” went on the doctor. “I shall count it an honor…”

“We thank you,” said the King. He took one of the roses in his hand and studied it, but Katharine knew that he gave it little attention. “It is indeed beautiful. We accept the trees. They shall be tended with care, and I am sure give us pleasure for many years to come.”

The doctor bowed and asked the Queen’s permission to take some of the roses to the Princess Mary. Katharine gave that permission willingly and the doctor took his leave.

When he had gone, Henry walked to the window and stood glowering out.

Katharine knew that it was on occasions like this when his dogs and all wise men and women kept their distance from him, but she was his wife and must know what disturbed him, so she asked: “Does aught ail you, Henry?”

He turned and she noticed how his lower lip jutted out.

“Oh, ’tis naught but the folly of young Percy.”

“Northumberland’s son?”

“Yes, Henry Percy. The young fool has been presumptuous enough to promise marriage to one of the girls of the Court.”

“And you cannot grant permission for this marriage?”

“Northumberland’s is one of the most noble families in the land,” growled Henry.

“Is the girl whom he has chosen so lowly?”

“She is not of his rank.”

“So far below him then?”

“It is Thomas Boleyn’s girl.”

“Oh?” The Queen thought of the girl as she had seen her about the Court—a flamboyant personality, one made to attract attention to herself, decidedly French in manners and style of dressing. Indeed since the beginning of the French wars, when the girl had come to England, fashions had been changing and becoming more French, which was strange when it was considered that the English were at war with that country. “I have noticed her often,” went on the Queen. “She seems to be one who attracts attention to herself. I have seen Percy with her and Wyatt also.”

“Wyatt is married so he could not make a fool of himself,” muttered the King.

“Thomas Boleyn has risen in your favor in the last years, Henry. Is the girl so very much below Percy?”

“Come, come, he is the eldest son of Northumberland. His father will never consent to the match.”

“But the girl’s mother is a Howard and…”

Henry made an irritable gesture, wriggling his shoulders like a petulant boy. “Northumberland is coming to Court to forbid his son to have anything to do with the girl. Indeed she is pledged already to marry the son of Piers Butler. As to Percy, he is to marry Shrewsbury’s girl—Mary Talbot…a suitable match.”

Katharine stared sadly before her. She was sorry for the lovers.

“I thought the Boleyn girl to be well educated, and she has a certain dignity.”

The King turned on her angrily. “’Tis a most unsuitable match. The Cardinal has already reprimanded that young fool Percy and made him see his folly. ’Tis a pity he ever took service with the Cardinal, since it has brought him into close contact with the girl.”

“Percy will be docile,” said the Queen. She remembered him as she had last seen him at the side of that vital, glowing girl, and she had seen what a contrast they made—she so full of life, he so gentle, weak almost. She was certain there would be no rebellion from Percy.

“He had better be,” said the King. “In any case he’s banished from Court and has been ordered not to see the girl again. His duty now is to marry Mary Talbot as soon as possible, and we shall see that that is done.”

“Ah well, Henry, then the matter will be settled. But I am surprised that you should feel so strongly about it.”

“You are surprised!” The King’s eyes were fierce. “Let me tell you that the welfare of the young people at my Court is my greatest concern.”

“I know it well.”

The King strode from her apartment; and she continued to wonder why he should have been so incensed by such a trivial matter.

She saw Anne Boleyn a few days later, and all the sparkle seemed to have gone out of her. She was dejected and sullen.

Poor girl! pondered the Queen. She is heartbroken at the loss of her lover.

She wondered whether to send for her and offer her comfort; but decided that would be unwise, and tantamount to acting against the wishes of the King.

A week passed and she remembered that she had not seen the girl; so she asked one of her women if Anne Boleyn was still at Court.

“No, Your Grace,” was the answer, “she has returned to Hever Castle on the King’s command.”

Banished from Court! And simply because she accepted Percy’s offer of marriage.

The King’s anger was unaccountable.

AS THE CARDINAL bent over the documents on his table his usher entered and told him that a merchant of Genoa was craving an audience with His Eminence.

“What is his business?” asked the Cardinal.

“He would tell me nothing, Eminence, except that he had merchandise to show you which he would show no other, and that he felt sure you would be willing to grant him an interview if you would but look at the nature of the articles he has to lay before you.”

Wolsey was thoughtful. Was he right when he fancied there was a hint of subtlety in the merchant’s words? What was the nature of the merchandise he wished to show? Could it be information—secret information?

A year ago he would have had the merchant told that he might call again; since his defeat at the Papal election he had added that to his caution which he had subtracted from his dignity.

“Bring the man to me,” he said.

Cavendish retired and returned in a few moments with a dark-skinned man who carried a bag in a manner to suggest that what it contained was very precious indeed.

“You may leave,” Wolsey told Cavendish; and as soon as he was alone with the Genoese, the man set down his bag and said: “My lord Cardinal, I am not merely a merchant. I come on behalf of one who is eager to negotiate with you.”

“And who is that?”

“The Duchesse of Savoy.”

The Cardinal was silent. He knew that in truth this man was a messenger from François Premier, because, in everything François did, his mother, Louise of Savoy, was firmly behind him. Therefore if this man did indeed come from the Duchesse, it was tantamount to coming from the King of France.

At last Wolsey spoke. “For what purpose are you here?”

“My lady Duchesse knows full well the perfidy of the Emperor, which Your Eminence has so recently had reason to deplore. She believes that England would be happier in friendship with the King of France than with this perfidious Emperor. She knows that the King of England is deeply involved with the Emperor, that the Princess Mary is the Emperor’s betrothed; but she feels that a greater understanding could be possible between France and England if Your Eminence and she were friends. She sends you letters which I bring to you; and if it should please Your Eminence to answer these letters, your reply can be safely trusted to my care.”

“Your credentials?” asked the Cardinal.

The merchant opened his bag and produced papers which Wolsey studied.

These told him that he was in the presence of Giovanni Joachino Passano, a man whom he could trust; Passano was in England as a merchant and would carry on that trade. If the Cardinal could find lodgings for him it would make their meetings easier to arrange and he would be always at his disposal as the go-between for correspondence between France and England.

The Cardinal was thoughtful.

He was determined to end the war, the cessation of which was necessary for England’s solvency; he was equally determined to show the Emperor that he could not neglect his promise to Thomas Wolsey with impunity. Secret communications with France would be useful at this moment.

“I shall lodge you in London with a servant of mine in whom I have the utmost trust,” he said. “As a merchant of Genoa it will be understood that you are constantly travelling between London and the Continent. I shall study these papers you have brought to me and it may be that I shall wish you to carry my answers to the Duchesse.”

“If that is so, Your Eminence, I shall be at your service.”

“Let me see the articles you have brought with you to sell.”

For the next ten minutes the Cardinal examined the exquisite cloth which the merchant showed him; then he summoned one of his pages and told him to send in a certain servant, one who did not live in the Cardinal’s intimate entourage but had his lodgings in London.

When this man arrived he said to him: “Here is Giovanni Joachino Passano, a merchant from Genoa, who has brought me rich cloth. I wish him to return to Genoa in due course to bring me more, but for the time being he needs lodgings in London. Take him into your house, that he may be near at hand when I wish to give him my orders.”

The servant was delighted to be so selected and assured the Cardinal that the Genoese merchant should have the best room in his house, and all the respect deserved by one whose merchandise pleased the Cardinal.

Wolsey nodded his approval in a manner which implied good services would not be forgotten.

And so the agent of Louise of Savoy—who was naturally the servant of François Premier—had his lodgings in London; and the Cardinal often called him to Hampton Court, where they would remain together and alone, sometimes for hours at a time.

THE KING CAME riding to Greenwich from Hever Castle where he had been spending a night as the guest of Sir Thomas Boleyn. As soon as he reached the Palace he summoned the Cardinal to his presence.

He greeted Wolsey with the pleasure he habitually bestowed upon his favorite minister, but there was a change in his manner which baffled the Cardinal.

He seemed almost subdued, which was rare in Henry; he looked more like a boy than ever and there was a certain gentleness about him which the Cardinal had never seen before.

“’Twas pleasant in the country,” he said. “I declare Boleyn’s castle of Hever is a restful place in which to spend a night.”

That was strange also. When had Henry ever asked for restfulness?

“Your Grace took but a small party with you?”

“’Twas enough. I declare, Thomas, I am weary of ceremony on every occasion.”

“’Tis pleasant for Your Grace to escape now and then; and may I say that it is doubly pleasant for your servant to see you again.

“Good Thomas,” murmured the King, but the Cardinal felt that his attention was elsewhere.

Was this a good time to let him know that it might not be difficult to make peace with France, to whisper in the royal ear those first drops of poison regarding the Emperor? It seemed likely while he was in this gentle mood.

“Boleyn entertained me royally at his castle,” went on Henry musingly. “I thought I would show my gratitude by granting him certain land. You might see what we could do for him.”

“It shall be so, Your Grace.”

“I had thought of elevating him to the peerage…as Viscount Rochford.”

“This would take time, Your Grace.”

“Yes, yes,” said Henry testily. “But it is in my mind to do so.”

“He is a fortunate man to have found such favor in Your Grace’s eyes, particularly as his daughter so recently offended you.”

“Ah…the girl.” The King began to smile. “A haughty wench, Thomas. I saw little of her during my stay at Hever.”

“She was absent from her home?”

“Indisposed.”

“Your Grace was doubtless glad not to be bothered by the presence of the girl, preferring the company of her father.”

“Bold,” mused Henry, “and haughty.”

“Your Grace believes this indisposition to have been sulks on account of banishment from Court. The saucy wench should be clapped into prison for behaving so.”

“Nay nay,” said the King. “I do not disturb myself with the vagaries of girls. I believe her to have declared she will be revenged on you, Thomas.”

Thomas laughed. “Should I tremble, Your Grace?”

“I notice she has flashing black eyes and the look of a witch. She blames you for sending Percy back to his father.”

“She should blame Percy for being so easily persuaded, or herself for choosing such a lover.”

“As usual, Thomas, you speak good sense.”

Wolsey bowed his head in appreciation of the compliment and went on: “Your Grace, I confess I am disturbed about the war.”

“Ah yes.” The King seemed reluctant to end the discussion of his trip to Hever.

“I do not trust the Emperor.”

“I begin to agree with you, Thomas.”

“We have been pouring our resources into war and have so far not gained a foot of French soil. If Your Grace considers our expenditure…”

“I am considering it, Thomas, considering it with great sadness.”

“Look at the progress the Emperor has made. He has driven the French from Italy. But what gain to us is that? He has strengthened his frontiers in the Netherlands and Spain. That is good…for the Emperor. I would say, Your Grace, that in Charles we have another such as Maximilian.”

Henry nodded and his face darkened, as he remembered how he had been duped by Charles’s grandfathers—the Emperor Maximilian and Ferdinand of Aragon.

“I had hoped much from the rising of the Duke of Bourbon against François,” said Henry.

“And we hoped in vain, Your Grace.”

“Well, Thomas, what can we do?”

“I should be ready to forget all that we have spent on this enterprise and put out feelers for a separate peace with France.”

The King’s frown sent a shiver of alarm through the Cardinal. Fleetingly he wondered what Henry’s reaction would be if he discovered that Giovanni Joachino Passano paid regular visits to him, not to sell him cloth but to carry letters back and forth between the chief of the King’s ministers and the mother of François. One thing was certain; he was playing a dangerous game.

The King was like a child who had set his heart on a certain glittering bauble; in this case the conquest of France. Such a project was an impossibility—Wolsey knew.

“Dispatches from the Emperor have been increasingly gloomy, Your Grace.”

Henry stuck out his lower lip like a petulant child.

“I have poured money into this project,” he began.

“And the Emperor asks for more, Your Grace. He says that unless we provide it the entire enterprise may be fruitless. It would appear now that even the Pope…” Wolsey’s voice was faintly bitter. “…whom he helped to elect, is uncertain of him!”

“Ah, the Pope!” said Henry, and an alert expression had crept into his face. He knew it had been a bitter disappointment to Wolsey that he was not elected, and he wondered how he himself would have fared, robbed of the services of his Chancellor. It seemed to him in that moment that there was a tinge of disloyalty in the Cardinal’s disappointment. “You were overeager to leave us, Thomas,” he said with a trace of petulance.

“Solely that I could have worked for England from the Vatican.”

Henry was sorry for his suspicions. “I believe that to be so,” he said. “Well, it did not happen as we wished it, Thomas. But Clement is a good friend to you and to me.”

“He could not be the friend of one and not the other,” said Wolsey.

“’Tis true,” answered the King. “And I rejoiced when he confirmed your Legateship for life, and gave you the Bishopric of Durham.”

“Your Grace is good to me.”

“Well, you have a King and a Pope as your good friends, Thomas; I wonder which you value the more.”

“Your Grace does not need me to answer that question.”

Henry smiled well pleased, and the Cardinal knew that no rumors had reached him concerning the French spy in their midst.

“Then Your Grace would not be prepared to think of peace?”

“Thomas, there is one reason why I stand firmly with the Emperor and, no matter what our losses, there I shall remain. Do not forget that he is betrothed to the Princess Mary. While he adheres to that promise we must forgive him if he breaks some others.”

The Cardinal then understood that he must continue to work in secret.

THE QUEEN and her daughter sat with some of the women of the Court busily working with their needles. As they bent over their work one of their number read to them from Thomas More’s Utopia; this was a custom which Katharine remembered from the days of her childhood, when her mother had sought to have the hands usefully employed while the mind was exercised.

Katharine’s life was becoming increasingly busy. She spent a great deal of time with her daughter, whose education was, she believed, in constant need of her supervision. Her daughter was her greatest joy, and while she had her with her she could not be unhappy. Mary was now nine years old and it was distressing to remember that in three more years she would be expected to leave her home and go to the Court of the Emperor. Three years was such a short time. But I must not be selfish, thought the Queen. My daughter will be a great Queen, and it is not for me to regret that which is necessary to make her so.

Nevertheless, she wished to have her with her at every moment of the day, so that none of the time which they could spend together would be lost.

Now they were working on small garments which would be given to the poor women who had babies and no means of clothing them. Katharine was alarmed by the growing poverty among some classes in England; she knew that many people were wandering from town to town, village to village, homeless, sleeping in barns and under hedges, working when they could, eating when they could; and, as was inevitable in these circumstances, now and then stealing or starving to death.

Thomas More, when he came to her intimate suppers, had on several occasions spoken of his growing anxiety about the new conditions in England. He had pointed out that the prosperity of the upper classes was in some measure responsible for the poverty of the lower. There was a great demand for fine cloth which meant that many of the landowners, deciding to keep more sheep, took small-holdings from the men who had hitherto farmed them, and turned them into grazing land. The land which had been rented to them lost, turned out of their cottages, hundreds of these small farmers had become vagabonds.

Thomas More had said that the enclosing of land had so far affected no more than about five percent of the entire population but he felt that to be a great deal.

Katharine was therefore doing all she could to right this evil, and she had appointed her Almoner to distribute funds from her own purse to the poor. She set aside a regular portion of her income for charity and took a great pleasure in providing the needy with clothes and food. Thus, temporarily, she abandoned the tapestry which she delighted to work and set herself and her women making garments for the poor.

Thus they were sitting together when a page entered to tell the Queen that the Seigneur de Praet, the Emperor’s ambassador in England, was without and begging an audience.

As it was rarely that she had an opportunity of seeing her nephew’s ambassador, she said that she would receive him at once; and this meant the dismissal of all present.

Seeing the look of disappointment in Mary’s face she took the child’s hand in hers and kissed it. “Go along now for your practice on the virginals,” she said. “When the Seigneur has left I will come and hear how you are getting on.”

Mary smiled and curtseyed; and the Queen’s eyes remained on her until she had disappeared. Almost before the ladies had all left the apartment the Seigneur de Praet was being ushered in.

Katharine received him with graciousness although she did not feel the same confidence in him as she could have had in an ambassador of her own nationality. But the Seigneur, as a Flemish nobleman, was preferable, in Charles’s eyes, to a Spaniard. Katharine had to remember that Charles was more Fleming than Spaniard because he had spent very little time in Spain and had been brought up in Flanders, so it was natural of course, that he should choose Flemings rather than Spaniards to represent him.

The Seigneur was a very grand gentleman and he had already been unwise enough to show his lack of respect for Cardinal Wolsey on account of the latter’s humble birth. It seemed incredible to him that he should be expected to treat with one who, so rumor had it, had spent his infancy in a butcher’s shop.

As for the Queen, he found her so Spanish in some ways, so English in others, that he had never felt on very easy terms with her. Moreover whenever he had sought an interview he had always found it difficult to reach her; and he suspected the reason. The Cardinal contrived this—and for what cause? Because, for all his outward protestations, he was no friend of the Emperor.

Now de Praet was excited because he had made an important discovery and was determined at all costs to lay it before the Queen. Strangely enough on this occasion he had found no difficulty in reaching her.

As Katharine welcomed him and he bent over her hand, one of the women who had been in the sewing party slipped away unnoticed from the group of women who had just left and went swiftly into the anteroom adjoining the Queen’s apartment. There she took up her stand near the door and very quietly lifted the latch so that it was slightly ajar without seeming to be so.

“Your Grace,” said de Praet, “it is a great pleasure to find myself at last in your presence.”

“You have news for me from the Emperor?”

“No, but I have discovered treachery which I must immediately lay before you. Our enemy is working against us. Your Grace knows whom I mean.”

“The French?”

“They work continually against us. I was referring to one nearer at home who, while he pretends to be our friend and supports the King’s war, is in fact working against us.” He lowered his voice and whispered: “The Cardinal.”

“Ah!” said Katharine.

“It does not surprise you.”

“Nothing the Cardinal did would surprise me.”

“What can be expected…he was not born to this.”

“Do not let us underestimate his skill,” said the Queen. “He is a brilliant man. It is for this reason that we must be very wary of him.”

“Your Grace will be surprised when I tell you that I have discovered he is in secret negotiations with the French.”

“Without the King’s knowledge!”

“That I cannot say, Your Grace, but he is a traitor to my master and your nephew. There is a certain merchant from Genoa, now lodging with one of his servants, and this man is a regular go-between for François and Wolsey.”

“It is impossible!”

“Not with such a one. I can tell you we should never have trusted him.”

“The King knows nothing of this, I am sure.”

De Praet lifted his shoulders. “It is impossible to know what the King knows, how far Wolsey works in conjunction with His Grace, how far on his own account.”

“Should not the King be told of Wolsey’s action?”

“If the King is already aware of these negotiations with France—and we must not lose sight of this—we should be playing into their hands by telling them of our discovery.”

Katharine was horrified. It seemed to her that Charles’s ambassador was drawing her towards a controversy in which she might well, by supporting her nephew, be obliged to work against her husband. This was reminiscent of those days of humility before her marriage to Henry when her father, Ferdinand, had used her in his negotiations with Henry’s father.

She said quickly: “I fear my nephew has made promises which he has not kept.”

“The Emperor is engaged in bitter war and needs all the money he can find to prosecute that war; he has little to spare for bribes.”

“He has accepted loans and has not repaid them,” Katharine reminded him.

“He will…in due course. Your Grace knows that he is a man of honor.”

“I am sure of that.”

“Then Your Grace will write to the Emperor and tell him of these discoveries? He should be warned.”

“I could not work against the King.”

“This would not be so. You would merely be telling him of the Cardinal’s perfidy. Your Grace, it is imperative that he should be aware of this. I myself shall write and tell him, and to stress the urgency of the situation I beg of you to do the same.”

“I will write to him,” said the Queen.

De Praet bowed. “If you would do so with all speed I believe you would be doing your nephew a great service.”

“I will do so without delay.”

“Then I shall take leave of you that you may lose no time. I do assure Your Grace that the matter is urgent.”

As soon as he had left her she went to her table and took up writing materials, carefully considering what she would say to her nephew. She began by imploring him to be frank with her husband, to let him know exactly how the war was progressing, and above all not to make promises unless he was sure he could keep them. She added that the Cardinal was aggrieved because he believed that with the Emperor’s help he might have achieved the Papacy. She implored Charles to be aware of Wolsey who was as vindictive as he was ambitious. There were rumors that he was already pondering the desirability of a rapprochement with the enemy. Charles must not make the mistake of so many who believed that because of Wolsey’s humble origins he lacked ability; rather should he believe that the Cardinal possessed a shrewd and brilliant brain; for the more lowly his beginnings, the greater must be his brilliance, since he had come so far.

Carefully she sealed the letter and summoned a page.

One of her women was coming towards her, having slipped unseen from the anteroom wherein she had overheard the conversation between Katharine and de Praet.

“I want a page to take this to the courier,” said Katharine.

“If Your Grace will allow me I will take it to him.”

Katharine handed the letter to the woman, who took it not to the courier, but to another of the Cardinal’s spies. It was not difficult to find one as the Cardinal had them placed in the most strategic positions in the Court, and one of these was undoubtedly the Queen’s household.

“Take this with all speed to the Cardinal,” she instructed.

Then she joined the ladies who were stitching together and listening to Utopia.

THE CARDINAL read the Queen’s letter which she had addressed to her nephew. So it was known that he was in negotiation with the French! He did not relish the Queen’s comments about himself; but they did not surprise him for he had long suspected that she regarded him as an enemy.

It would be unfortunate if his negotiations with Louise of Savoy through Passano were made known to the King by Charles’s ambassador. He did not think this was likely, because his spies were thick about the ambassador and all his correspondence came to Wolsey before it went overseas. It was not difficult to reconstruct the ambassadorial seal; and the Cardinal had felt it was a matter of common sense that he should ascertain what de Praet was writing to his master at such a time.

If the letters contained news which Wolsey did not wish Charles to receive they were destroyed; only those which were innocuous went through. De Praet was scarcely a subtle ambassador; Charles must realize this. He would have been wiser to have chosen a Spaniard rather than a Fleming. The Cardinal had always had more respect for the solemn subtleties of the Spaniards than for the brash bonhomie of the Flemish.

De Praet concerned him but little for if he became dangerous some means could be found to remove him; it was the Queen with whom his thoughts were occupied. She would be an enemy of some consequence. He would never lose sight of the fact that she was not only the King’s wife and mother of the heir to the throne, but also the aunt of the Emperor. Relations between the King and the Queen were not of the best; but still she was the Queen and as such wielded a certain influence.

She was therefore a potential enemy to be watched with the utmost diligence; and as the Cardinal had always believed in crippling the power of those who he feared might harm him, he began to think frequently about the Queen.

In the meantime he burned the letter which she believed was on its way to the Emperor, and decided to be ready for the first opportunity which came his way.

It came soon, as he expected it would.

He had been going over the cost of the war with Henry, a subject which never failed to make the King angry. Wolsey could see that it would not be difficult to wean him from the Emperor, and that it was only the hope of marrying Mary to Charles that caused him to remain Charles’s ally.

“This marriage is of such importance,” murmured Wolsey. “And it should be taking place within three years. The Queen already mourns because her daughter will have to go away. Alas, daughters must leave their royal homes; which is always so sad for those who love them. With sons…”

The King was startled. Few people were bold enough to mention the subject of sons in his presence. He looked at the Cardinal who was staring idly before him.

Wolsey went on as though to himself: “I do not altogether despair.”

“What’s this?” growled Henry.

Wolsey made a show of appearing startled. “Your Grace, I crave your pardon. My thoughts ran on. It is unforgivable in your presence, but I forgot…”

“Of what do you not despair?”

Wolsey pretended to hesitate. Then as the King frowned he went on: “It is a matter which occupies my thoughts day and night.”

“What is?”

“Your Grace’s happiness; Your Grace’s contentment.”

The King looked slightly mollified but he said sullenly: “You speak in riddles.”

“Louis XII did it satisfactorily. Your Grace’s sister Margaret did it in Scotland…”

Light dawned in the King’s face; the little eyes were suddenly ablaze with interest. There was no need to ask what his Chancellor meant, because the people he had mentioned had rid themselves of unwanted spouses.

“Well,” said Henry as Wolsey did not go on, “what have you in mind?”

“I have spoken too soon,” murmured Wolsey. “I am certain there must be a way…I am certain that we can find it. But so far I cannot see it clearly.”

“Thomas,” said the King almost tenderly, “I have known you but once fail to reach your objective and that was when you did not get the Papal Crown.”

“I relied on false friends then, Your Grace. It is a good lesson to have learned. Henceforth let us rely on none but ourselves.”

Henry nodded.

“And you say there is a way out for me?”

“I shall not rest,” said the Cardinal, “until I see Your Grace the sire of a healthy boy…nay, not one, but several.”

“How is this possible?”

“As it has been possible for others.”

“Divorce!” whispered Henry.

“Your Grace, let us make this our secret matter. Let us keep it constantly in our minds. That is what I do when a problem baffles me. Leave it there…maturing, one might say. It so often happens that after a while the answer presents itself.”

The King grasped his Chancellor’s hand.

“You bring me that which I had almost lost, Thomas. You bring me hope.” The Cardinal returned that affectionate smile. “It shall come to pass because Your Grace can only know contentment when he gives his country what it most needs.”

“How well you know me, Thomas.”

“It may be necessary for Your Grace to harden his heart. You will remember how nobly you married your brother’s widow. Your brother’s widow…,” he repeated emphatically.

“I know full well,” replied Henry. “But I tell you this, Thomas, though I am a man with feelings most tender, I am a King also.” The little mouth was prudish suddenly. “And I would not consider the fine feelings of Henry Tudor if my duty to my kingdom dictated that I should overcome them.”

“Then, Your Grace, let us bring our minds to bear on it…and for a time…this shall be our secret matter.”

The King was excited and well pleased.

So the battle had begun, the Cardinal told himself. Let those who set themselves against Thomas Wolsey beware—even though they be queens.