The King's Secret Matter

The Jilting of Mary

THE KING GLANCED AT HIS CONFESSOR, JOHN LONGLAND the Bishop of Lincoln, and shook his head gloomily. He had confessed his sins and received absolution; but he did not dismiss the Bishop who waited, believing that the King had not confessed all that was on his conscience.

“Your Grace has something else to tell me?”

“A certain matter hangs heavily upon my conscience,” began the King.

“It appears so, Your Grace.”

“Then I will tell you, for it may well be that you can find some comfort to offer me. I would have you turn to the twentieth chapter of Leviticus, and you will see what disturbs me.”

The Bishop took his bible and turned to that chapter.

“I pray you read verse twenty-one,” said the King.

The Bishop read: “‘And if a man shall take his brother’s wife, it is an unclean thing; he hath uncovered his brother’s nakedness; they shall be childless.’” He stopped reading and was silent, not daring to make comment.

Then Henry said: “You see! You have read that. Does it not state clearly God’s will? They shall be childless…and in all these years…”

Seeking to comfort the King, the Bishop said quickly: “God cannot be displeased with Your Grace. He has given you the Princess Mary.”

“A girl!” snarled the King. “I think of those sons which were born to us. Born dead. Again and again God gave us signs of His displeasure…and we heeded them not. We went on living…in sin.”

“Your Grace distresses himself unduly. There may yet be a son.”

“There will be no son,” Henry shouted.

“Your Grace, there was a dispensation. There is no need for Your Grace to feel anxious.”

The King’s eyes narrowed. He snapped: “There is every need. This burden of sin lies heavy on my conscience. I, who have lived as near to God as a man can live…I who have heard Mass five times a day…have confessed my sins regularly and have always obtained absolution…I, the King, have offended against the laws of God. I have lived for all these years with a woman who is not my wife in the eyes of God. So He tells me this…He denies me my son. Do you not see that while I live thus there will never be a son!”

“Your Grace, let us pray for God’s help.”

Henry could have cuffed the Bishop. He was no Thomas Wolsey. He was anxious to please the King but he lacked the Chancellor’s wits. He thought to please him by assuring him that he had nothing to fear, that his marriage was legal.

Fool! Fool! he thought. Then he remembered the Chancellor’s injunctions: As yet it is our secret matter.

He went on to his knees, and while the Bishop prayed he thought: Thomas is right. Good Thomas. ’Tis a delicate matter. There is the Emperor to be thought of. He will never stand aside and see his aunt repudiated. We have to go carefully. So…caution for a while.

When they rose from their knees, the Bishop said: “Your Grace is unduly concerned; I shall redouble my prayers that you may be blessed with a son.”

And the King’s feelings were under such control that instead of roaring “Fool” at the man, he merely murmured: “I thank you, Bishop. I too shall pray.”

IN HIS PRIVATE CHAMBER at Hampton Court the Cardinal was reading the letters which de Praet had written to the Emperor. There was matter therein which if laid before the King could bring about the man’s downfall.

Had the time come to expose the ambassador to the King?

Wolsey was for prompt action. François and Louise were restive, and they were anxious for an immediate secret alliance with the English against the Emperor. An end, thought Wolsey, to this senseless war. What could be more desirable?

Although his spies worked well for him, there must be occasions when it was impossible to learn all that passed between the Queen and her nephew’s ambassador.

The case against the Queen must necessarily move slowly. But, thought Wolsey, you are doomed, Madam. You have yet to discover that. But I shall find a French Princess for Henry, and then the bonds with your perfidious nephew will be cut forever.

What of Mary? Well, that marriage was three years away and more royal marriages were proposed than celebrated.

He wished that he could take de Praet’s letters to Henry and say: You see how your ally’s ambassador works against you. You see what an opinion he has of your Chancellor who cares more for your welfare than his own.

He was sure Henry would be furious; and then would be the time to bring forward those French ambassadors, whom he had waiting in hiding, that they might treat with Henry.

Yet how could he go to the King and say, My spies bring me the ambassador’s letters; I have a method of breaking the seals and resealing them so expertly that none could guess they have been tampered with. Might not the King question the honor of his Chancellor? Of course he could explain that what he had done had been in the interest of the State; but it was never wise to expose one’s methods too freely.

Wolsey had an idea. The city gates were closed each evening, and if any foreigner tried to pass through them he would be arrested by the watch and brought before a royal officer. If the Cardinal gave orders that any letters found on suspected persons were to be brought to him personally, and if he could delay de Praet’s courier until the gates of the city had been closed, it was certain that the letters found on that courier would find their way to his table. It was almost certain too that those letters would contain words which would not please the King. And what more reasonable than that the Cardinal, so assiduous in the protection of the King’s realm, should read those letters in person, and lay them before his master?

It was the way to deal with the matter and not difficult, with so many spies surrounding the ambassador, to waylay his courier and prevent his attempting to leave the city until after the gates were closed; and as the man did not know the city’s laws the plot worked as smoothly as Wolsey could have hoped. In a very short time the courier had been arrested by the watch as he attempted to leave the city, searched, and the letters found. They now lay on Wolsey’s table.

Luck was with him. Both the King and Wolsey were referred to in these documents in a manner which was slighting, and Wolsey could scarcely wait to reach the King’s apartments.

“A matter of some importance, Your Grace.”

The King waved a hand and those men who had been with him immediately departed leaving Henry alone with his Chancellor.

Wolsey quickly told Henry what had happened and as he laid the documents before him, was delighted to see the rich color flood the plump cheeks and the eyes blaze with anger.

“I had long suspected him,” said Wolsey; “and now Providence has enabled me to lay evidence of this man’s perfidy before Your Grace.”

“He shall go to the Tower!”

“A foreign ambassador, Your Grace?”

“By God, this is treason.”

“As he is an ambassador of the Emperor, might I suggest that we place guards at the door of his house and forbid him to leave?”

“Let it be done!” commanded the King.

THE SEIGNEUR DE PRAET stood before the Cardinal in the latter’s private chamber at Hampton Court. The Flemish nobleman looked with something like scorn at the red satin garments of the Chancellor; he had felt incensed, as he disembarked at the privy stairs and walked across the grass, at the sight of that magnificent edifice; but when he had entered the place and seen the gloriously apparelled servants, the valuable treasures in every room, he had said to himself: Is it possible that a man of the people could own so much? He was resentful, believing possessions and honors to be the prerogative of the nobility.

It was easy when he was not in the presence of Cardinal Wolsey to sneer at his origins; when he stood before him he could not help being conscious of the man’s intellectual power; the rather protruding brown eyes of the man of the people seemed to look into his mind, discovering his secret thoughts, to suggest that the reason he clung to the importance of his noble birth was because, knowing himself at a mental disadvantage, he sought to flaunt every little asset he possessed.

Archbishop of York, Cardinal, Papal Legate and Chancellor. So many great titles for one man to hold—and he a man who had risen from the people. In spite of one’s prejudices, one must feel in awe of such achievements.

He was received almost haughtily by the Cardinal’s stewards. They would make His Eminence aware of the Seigneur’s arrival. Had His Eminence summoned him to Hampton Court? Because if this was not so, they doubted whether they could disturb His Eminence at such an hour.

This was an insult. It did not occur to him that it might be intended. He presumed the servants to be ignorant of his standing.

“Tell the Cardinal,” he said in his haughtiest manner, “that the Ambassador of His Imperial Highness, The Emperor of Austria and the King of Spain, calls upon him at his own wish.”

He was kept waiting for fifteen minutes and then, fuming with rage, was led through the eight splendid rooms to the Cardinal’s private apartment. Wolsey was seated at his table and did not rise when the ambassador entered.

What can one expect of a butcher’s son? de Praet asked himself.

Wolsey continued to study the paper before him for a few seconds until de Praet said angrily: “I have come as you asked me to, my Lord Cardinal.”

“Oh, yes,” said Wolsey, laying aside the paper with what appeared to be reluctance. “I have bad news for you, Mr. Ambassador.”

There was insult in the title and de Praet felt the blood rushing to his face. Was he, the Emperor’s ambassador, to be kept standing while the Cardinal remained sitting at his desk! He might be a servant come to receive a reprimand.

“Bad news!” he cried. “What bad news is this?”

“Your courier was arrested last night and certain documents were taken from him.”

“My courier! This is an insult to the Emperor.”

“It happened quite naturally,” explained the Cardinal. “He delayed his departure until the gates of the city were closed. As you may know, the law says that all foreigners, attempting to enter or leave the city after the gates are closed, are arrested and searched.”

“But he should have left before that. What delayed him?”

The Cardinal lifted his shoulders and smiled. “It is useless to ask me to keep an eye on your servants, Seigneur. This is what has happened. The letters you have written to the Emperor were brought before me. I had no recourse but to read them. We have to be very careful when dealing with those whom we believe to be spies. As it so happened I considered the contents of those letters treasonable, and I saw that it was my duty to lay them before the King.”

De Praet was startled. He remembered the frankness with which he discussed the King and Cardinal in his letters to his master; he remembered the slighting comments he had made about them both—particularly this man who was now smiling blandly at him.

“His Grace,” went on Wolsey, “was much displeased. It seemed to him that we have been harboring an enemy in our midst.”

De Praet shouted: “You have done this. You had the man arrested. It is a plot.”

“And the letters? Shall you say that I wrote those treasonable documents?” Wolsey demanded with a smile.

“They were intended for the Emperor.”

“I did not expect for a moment that they were intended for the King and myself.”

“I shall go to the King,” said de Praet. “I have evidence against you, Master Wolsey. I know that you have been receiving a spy from France. I know that you are working to destroy the alliance between the King and the Emperor. The King does not know the Cardinal whom he trusts. If he did he would not trust him. But he shall know. I have the evidence. I shall go back to my house; and when I have collected this evidence, which shall bear out my word, I will lose no time in going to the King and laying before him all I have discovered.”

Wolsey continued to smile, and the ambassador turned and walked quickly out of the apartments. The Cardinal went to the window and watched him hurrying across the grass to his boat.

“Helpful of him to explain his intentions in such detail,” he murmured to himself, and then called his stewards to him and began to give orders.

De Praet cursed the slowness of his boat as he was rowed back to London. His indignation increased as he rehearsed what he would say to the King.

When he reached his house he went in and collected certain documents which he had kept in a safe place, and made a careful list of all the people he would call as witnesses against the Cardinal.

Then he was ready to set out for Greenwich. But as he attempted to leave his house two guards barred his way. He saw then that many of them were stationed about his house.

“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded fiercely, but his fierceness had no effect on the guards.

“Begging Your Excellency’s pardon,” said one of them, “you are not to leave this house.”

“Who dares to restrict the Imperial ambassador?”

“The King, Your Excellency.”

De Praet was so angry that for a moment he could find no words to express his indignation; but as he grew a little calmer he realized that he was defeated. They called him the King’s prisoner, but he was in truth that of the Cardinal.

Yet, he reflected, in this country that was one and the same thing.

WITH SATISFACTION Wolsey presented himself to the King.

“The spy is a prisoner in his lodging,” he said. “He can do little harm now.”

“Let him remain so,” said Henry, who was still smarting from the references to himself in the ambassador’s correspondence; accustomed to flattery he was always surprised when he did not receive it, and on those rare occasions when he discovered disparaging comments had been made about him he never failed to be deeply shocked.

This was the moment to drive home the advantage, and Wolsey murmured: “It may be that Your Grace will see fit to acquaint our own ambassador with your horror. It is for the Emperor to send us an ambassador, not a spy.”

“I shall write to Dr. Sampson and command him to express my displeasure to the Emperor.”

“Your Grace is wise. It is as well that he should be acquainted with your displeasure. In this campaign he has had all the advantages.”

Henry scowled but he believed that what Wolsey said was true.

“Your Grace,” went on the Chancellor, “as you know, I am ever watchful and I have discovered that there are in England at this moment emissaries from France.”

The King’s face flamed, and Wolsey with great temerity continued before he could speak: “If Your Grace would but see these men there would be no necessity to commit yourself in any way. But in view of the manner in which the Emperor has behaved towards us, I personally see little harm in listening to these men. It may be that Your Grace, in his greater wisdom, has some reason for not wishing to see them. If that is so, then I shall see that they are sent back to France without delay.”

“Were it not for the betrothal to our daughter, Thomas, I should be seeking a way out of this alliance.”

“We must remember the importance of this match,” agreed Wolsey. “But could we not say that this is a matter apart? If we listened to the French we could then perhaps use their desire for friendship to extract some advantage from the Emperor. Your Grace knows full well that we have had little so far.”

“I know it well.” The King hesitated. “I see no harm in listening to what these men have to say.”

Wolsey consolidated his gains before the King had time to withdraw.

“I beg of Your Grace to come to Hampton Court; I shall send for the men, and if you see them there it will make less talk than if they came to Greenwich.”

The King was agreeable. He was beginning to take a deep interest in Hampton Court, and the Cardinal had thought somewhat uneasily that occasionally he saw an acquisitive gleam in the blue eyes. “I will come to your fair manor, Thomas,” he said. “I confess to a fondness for the place.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “And there’s something else, I confess. My own palaces look a little less grand, less like the residences of a King, after my visits to Hampton Court.”

“I have furnished the place that it might be a refuge for Your Grace at any time it is your pleasure and my delight that you visit it.”

“Then let us see these men from France at Hampton, Thomas.”

Victory! thought the Cardinal. But in a measure uneasy victory. The King had changed since Buckingham’s execution. Often one had the feeling that he was eager to prove the power he had over all men—including his dear friend and counsellor, Thomas Wolsey.

THE KING PACED up and down his bedchamber. He was alone, which was rare for him; but he had wished it so. He was not at ease. He did not want to see these messengers from France; what he wanted was news of the Emperor’s victory, to hear that the fair land of France was conquered and that the King of England was invited to go to Rheims to receive the crown he longed for.

But to make peace would mean an end of that dream.

He hated the King of France as, he believed, he could never hate Charles. François was bold and witty; handsome and clever; he was a rival as Charles—pallid, without good looks, serious—could never be. So while Henry hated François he could only distrust Charles. Not that he did not distrust François also. But the Emperor was young, his wife’s nephew and therefore his own. Charles had called Henry Uncle when he was in England and deferred to his advice. Not that he had taken it. He was sly, full of pretence; but he was young and when they were together Henry could patronize him. When he was with François he had to summon all his wits and then be outwitted.

It seemed to him that he had reached a stage of his life when all that he longed for most was denied him. He wanted the crown of France and cynical François stood between him and it; he wanted a son and Katharine stood between him and that goal; he wanted a young girl who had caught his imagination, and she flouted him, telling him that he, being married, was in no position to make advances to her.

So he, the King, was frustrated of his three greatest desires. It was a state of affairs which he had not thought possible.

He knew the position in Europe was so bad that it could not continue; and if he did not win France this year, perhaps he would win it some other year. He would never give up hope. The matter of getting a son was more urgent. He was not old by any means, but being thirty-four years of age he was no longer a boy. He was impatient for sons. Yet he remained married to Katharine—if it was a marriage. His conscience was telling him that it was not, and that the sooner he made this known to his people the more pleased God would be with him. But Thomas Wolsey was to be trusted and he had said: Wait.

And then the girl. He had seen her at the Court, and had been maddened at the thought of her marrying Percy—maddened with the foolish young man for thinking to take what the King desired, and with the girl herself for agreeing to the marriage; then he had seen her in her father’s garden at Hever, where she had treated him not as the King but as a would-be lover who did not please her. He should have been angry; he should have had the girl sent to the Tower; but a strange softness, which he had never felt before, had come to him. He had merely allowed himself to be so treated, which was wonderfully mysterious.

He had ridden away from Hever, still thinking of her and—although he was surprised at himself for doing so—had visited the place again and again…not as a King honoring a subject but as a humble suitor cap in hand.

Yet she continued to resist him. So here again he was frustrated.

A king must not consider his own personal desires, he told himself. I must not think of her but of these men who come from François.

He stood at the window looking out on the river, but he did not see it because instead he saw a garden at Hever and in it the most fascinating young woman he had ever known.

There was a bustle below, and as he turned from the window, roughly jolted from his dream of Hever, the Cardinal came into the room.

The King was surprised by his unceremonious entry, and by the fact that his cap was somewhat askew. The pockmarked face was as pale as ever but the brown eyes gleamed so that Henry knew the Cardinal came to announce some matter of importance.

“Your Grace…news…”

Wolsey was breathless and the King saw that behind him stood a man who was obviously travel-stained and looked as though he had ridden far.

“What news?” demanded the King who, in spite of the excitement, was still faintly bemused by memories of the bold and haughty girl who had dared repulse him.

“From the battlefield, Your Grace. The Imperial troops have routed the French at Pavia. The French army is destroyed and François himself is the Emperor’s prisoner.”

Henry clapped his hands together and his great joy showed in his face.

At last the vision of Hever was replaced by one of a handsome, golden-haired, golden-bearded King receiving the crown at Rheims.

“This is news which gives me the greatest pleasure. It is certain…? There has been no mistake?”

The Cardinal turned to the travel-stained man behind him, who came forward and bowed low before the King.

“Your Grace, this is true. The King of France has been taken prisoner at Pavia and is now the Emperor’s captive.”

Henry laid his hand on the man’s shoulder. “You are as welcome as the Angel Gabriel was to the Virgin Mary!” he declared. “Why, Thomas,” he went on, turning to the Cardinal, “this is the best news we have had for many a long day.”

Wolsey bowed his head as though in assent; and while the King fired questions at the messenger he slipped away to send his own messenger to meet the French emissaries. He wished them to be told that the King could not see them as he had hoped to on this day.

“NOW,” Henry wrote to the Emperor Charles, “is the time for us to invade France jointly. Let us meet in Paris. Let France be handed to me that it may come under the domination of England. I shall then have the greatest pleasure in accompanying Your Imperial Highness to Rome where I shall see you crowned.”

He was so delighted that he went about the Court in high good humor. He was jubilant with Katharine, for was it not her nephew who had captured the King of France? Had not she helped to strengthen the bonds between the two countries? Their daughter was the affianced bride of the Emperor who was now more powerful than ever. When she married him and had her first son, that son should be proclaimed the future King of England, lord of Ireland and Wales, and now…France. This boy would be the greatest monarch in the world, for he would also inherit Spain, Austria, the Netherlands, Naples, Sicily and the recently discovered dominions of the New World. This would be a boy with Tudor blood in his veins. Perhaps it was not so important that he had no son when his grandson would be a monarch such as the world had never seen before.

He was gay and jovial with his Queen—although he could not bring himself to share her bed. The memories of a laughing girl, who would not be put out of his mind, prevented that.

As for the girl herself, who had more respect for her own virtue than the King’s royalty, she should be dismissed from his mind. There would be other girls at his Court only too eager to comfort him for her loss.

Those were good days, spent chiefly in making plans for his coronation in France.

Katharine was delighted; at last she could share the King’s pleasure. He liked to walk with her in the gardens of the Palace, his arm in hers while he made plans for his journey to France.

But Henry could not forgive Charles’s ambassador for the manner in which he had written of himself and the Chancellor, and de Praet was still kept a prisoner in his house. In vain did Katharine plead for him; in vain did she ask permission for the man to come and see her. Henry became sullen when she mentioned these matters, and replied shortly that he would not tolerate spies in England, even Spanish spies. And finally, when the dispirited de Praet asked for leave to return to his own country and Henry gave it, Katharine was not allowed to see him before he left; she consoled herself however that never had Henry’s friendship for Charles been so firm as it was at this time, so that the fact that Charles had no ambassador in England did not seem so important as it would have been a short time ago.

WHEN THE EMPEROR read Henry’s letter he raised his eyebrows in dismay.

Henry crowned in Rheims King of France! Himself crowned in Rome! The English King had no idea of the situation.

Charles had taken the French King prisoner, it was true, and that was a success; the army which had served with François was disbanded, but that did not constitute all the men at arms in France. Charles himself had suffered enormous losses; his army was only in slightly better condition than that of the French; moreover he had no money to pay his mercenaries.

Charles was a realist. He knew that the Italian princes, who had had to submit to him, did so with great unwillingness, that the Pope was watching his movements with anxiety. His mercenaries had demanded the spoils of battle as he could not pay them, and as a result the countryside had been ravaged as the troops passed through; and as the sullen people were ready to revolt against the conqueror, this was no time to talk of crowning ceremonies. Henry seemed to think that war was a game and that the winner received all the spoils of victory. Had he not learned yet that in wars such as this there were often very little spoils?

The Emperor was weary of battle. He had the upper hand now; François was in prison in Madrid, and while he was there it would be possible to make him agree to humiliating terms. It was a matter of taking what he could; but it was totally unrealistic to imagine that he could take France and hand it to his ally as though it were a particularly fine horse or even a castle.

“When will my uncle grow up?” he sighed.

There was another matter which was disturbing him. He was twenty-four years of age and affianced to Mary who was nine. He was tired of waiting, and his ministers had implied that the people of Spain were eager for an alliance with Portugal.

His cousin, Isabella of Portugal, was of a marriageable age at this present time, and her dowry was nine hundred thousand golden ducats. How useful such a sum would be! And Mary’s dowry? He had had it already in loans from her father, and he knew that to take Mary would merely be to wipe off the debts he had incurred in the war.

He wanted a wife now…not in three years’ time. In three years’ time he might have a lusty son. When he went to war he would have a Queen to leave in Spain as his regent. Moreover Portugal had always been closely allied with Spain. The people wanted one of their own as their Queen, not a strange little girl who, although half Spanish, would seem to them wholly English.

True, he had given his promise, but his grandfathers had made promises when it was expedient to do so; and when state policy demanded that those promises should be broken, they broke them. Charles was sorry because his aunt would be hurt and the King of England would be angry. But he did not greatly care for the King of England. A strip of Channel divided them and they had always been uneasy allies.

Wolsey had turned against him he knew from the few letters he had received from de Praet; and he was certain that he had not received all that de Praet had written. Wolsey was a wily fellow and it was unfortunate that they should be enemies, but that must be accepted.

He could not simply jilt Mary, but he could make a condition that her parents would find it impossible to fulfil. Suppose he demanded that she be sent at once to Spain? He knew his aunt would never agree to part with her daughter at this stage. He would demand half as much again as Henry had already paid towards the cost of the war, knowing that this would be refused. But these would be the terms he would insist on if he were to carry out his part of the bargain.

The Portuguese ambassador was waiting to see him; he would have to have something to tell him when he came. He must decide whether there should be discussions between the two countries regarding the betrothal of himself and Isabella.

He therefore sent for a gentleman of his entourage, and while he was waiting for him he wrote a letter which, on account of the news it contained, he put into code.

When the Knight Commander Peñalosa was shown into his presence, he signed to him to be seated.

“I have a letter here which you are to take to England. It is in code, so you must go at once to de Praet who will decode it for you. Then you will read the contents and discuss with de Praet and the Queen the best manner of putting the proposals it contains to the King of England. De Praet will then inform me of the King’s reception of this news. This is of the utmost importance. You must leave at once.”

Peñalosa left with the letter and prepared to set out for England, while Charles received the Portuguese ambassador.

By the time Peñalosa reached England, de Praet had left and there was no one who could decode the letter. Peñalosa sought an audience with the Queen, but the Cardinal, who was more watchful of her than ever, had so surrounded her with his spies that Peñalosa was never allowed to see her except in public. If Katharine’s eyes alighted on him by chance she had no notion that he was an important messenger from her nephew.

KATHARINE WAS with her women engaged in that occupation which so frequently occupied her—the making of clothes for the poor—when the storm broke.

The King strutted into her apartment and one wave of his hands sent her women curtseying and scuttling away like so many frightened mice.

“Henry,” Katharine asked, “what ails you?”

He stood, legs apart, that alarming frown between his brows, so that she felt her spirits sink. She knew that he had come to tell her of some great disaster.

In his hand he carried a document, and her heart began to beat rapidly as she recognized her nephew’s seal.

“You may well ask,” said the King ominously.

“It is news from the Emperor?”

“It is, Madam. News from the biggest scoundrel that ever trod the soil of Europe.”

“Oh no…Henry.”

“Oh yes, Madam. Yes, yes, yes. This nephew of yours has insulted us…myself, you and our daughter.”

“The marriage…”

“There will be no marriage. Our daughter has been tossed aside as though she were of no importance…tossed aside for what he believes to be a better match.”

“It is impossible.”

“So you would doubt my word.”

“No, Henry, but I am sure there is some explanation.”

“There is explanation enough. This treacherous scoundrel believes that he can serve himself better by marriage with his cousin of Portugal. He has already possessed himself of Mary’s dowry in loans…which will never be repaid. Now his greedy hands are reaching out for his cousin’s ducats.”

“But he is promised to Mary.”

Henry came close to her and his eyes looked cruel. “When have your family ever respected their promises? I should have understood. I should have suspected. I do not forget how your father deceived me again and again. And Maximilian…this Charles’s grandfather…he deceived me in like manner. I am deceived every way I turn. Spain! I would to God I had never heard of that country. What have I ever had from Spain? Broken promises…my treasury rifled…lies…lies…lies and a barren wife!”

“Henry…I implore you…”

“You would implore me? What would you implore, Madam? That I say thank you to this nephew of yours? Thank you for deceiving me. Thank you for jilting my daughter. I’d as lief thank you, Madam, for all the sons you have not given me!”

“That was no fault of mine,” she said with spirit. “I have done my best.”

“No fault of yours? Then whose fault, Madam? You know I have a healthy son. It is more than you have. All those years and one daughter…and that daughter, jilted…by your nephew.”

For the moment tears came to his eyes—tears of self pity. All that he desired was denied him. The crown of France; the sons; the marriage of his daughter to the greatest monarch in Christendom; the favors of a sprightly young girl who persistently avoided him. Why was the King so frustrated?

His conscience gave him the answer. Because you have offended God. You have lived with a woman who is not your wife because she was first the wife of your brother. You will never know good fortune while you live in sin, for God will continue to turn his face from you.

He hated her then—this woman with her sagging shapeless body. How different from that other! This woman who could no longer arouse the slightest desire within him. The woman whose nephew had betrayed him and their daughter.

It was difficult to hold in the words, to remember that as yet it was the secret matter.

But how he hated her!

She flinched before the cruelty in his eyes; she saw the brutal curve of his mouth. Thus had he looked when he had determined to send Buckingham to the scaffold.

He was controlling himself; she knew that. He was holding in the words he longed to utter. She almost wished that he would speak so that she might know what thoughts were in the secret places of his mind.

He forced himself to leave her; he went straight to his apartments and summoned Wolsey.

He would be revenged on Charles. He could not reach the Emperor, but the aunt should suffer for the nephew. None should treat him so scurvily and escape. Charles should learn that he, Henry, cared nothing for the House of Spain and Austria. Had Charles forgotten that there was one member of that House who was completely in his power?

“Come, Wolsey,” he growled, while he waited for his Chancellor. “We’ll make peace with France; we’ll have a French Prince for Mary. We’ll form an alliance to make His Imperial Highness tremble. We shall show you, Master Charles, that we care naught for you and yours! A plague on the House of Spain and Austria—and all those who belong to it!”

THAT JUNE DAY a ceremony took place in Bridewell Palace and the King had commanded all the high officials of the Court to attend: he was particularly anxious that Peñalosa, who was the only ambassador Charles had in England at the time, should be present at the ceremony and send an account of it to his master.

The hero of this occasion was a small boy, six years old. He was handsome, and his pink and gold Tudor beauty both delighted and exasperated Henry.

Every time he looked at the boy he said to himself: Why could he not have been my legitimate son!

Henry had ceased to think of the boy’s mother; she had been handsomely rewarded for giving the King a proof of his ability to beget sons. Manors in Lincolnshire and Yorkshire had been bestowed on her, so she would have no cause to regret those days when she had been the King’s mistress.

Henry had watched with smouldering eyes while this handsome boy was created a Knight of the Garter; and now this even more significant ceremony was taking place.

He came to stand before the King; on either side of him were the leading Dukes of England—Norfolk and Suffolk.

But this boy, thought Henry, shall take precedence over all. For I would have all understand that he is my son and living proof of the fact that I can get sons with other women—though not with my wife.

Holy Mother of God, he prayed as he watched; I see my fault. I live in sin with my brother’s wife and for that reason my union is not blessed with sons. How could it be when in the eyes of God it is a sinful union!

Now proud Norfolk and Suffolk had taken a step backwards that the newly created Duke might stand alone as one whose titles would henceforth set him above them; he would now be known as the first peer of the land, and his titles were impressive: Henry Fitzroy, Duke of Richmond and Somerset, Lord High Admiral of England, Wales, Ireland, Normandy, Gascony and Aquitaine, Knight of the Garter, and first peer of England.

There was a buzz of excitement throughout Court circles which extended to the streets of the city.

Even in the taverns the importance of the ceremony was understood.

“This means one thing: The King, despairing of sons by his wife, honored Elizabeth Blount’s boy.”

“Note the significance of that title—Richmond,” it was whispered. “The King’s father was Duke of Richmond before he became King. Depend upon it, the King has decided that that boy shall one day wear the crown.”

“It is not possible while Mary lives.”

“If the King decrees, it will be possible. None will dare gainsay him. And this ceremony is to prepare his people for what he intends to bring about.”

“The people would not accept the boy while Mary lives.”

“The people will accept what the King wishes. It is better not to argue against the King. Remember Buckingham.”

The name of Buckingham could still send shivers through most bodies.

And so it was generally agreed that the ceremony at Bridewell was a first step in the direction the King intended to go as regards his illegitimate son.

KATHARINE WHO COULD often suffer in silence on her own account could not do so on her daughter’s.

She faced the King boldly on the first opportunity when they were alone and declared her horror and fear at the recognition given to Henry Fitzroy.

“You forget,” Henry told her coldly, “that the Duke of Richmond is my son.”

“Should you be so proud to call him so?”

“Yes, Madam. Proud I am and always shall be. For his birth gave me the answer I sought. It is no fault of mine that I have no legitimate son.”

“And so you had this one merely to prove this?” she asked with a trace of sarcasm rare in her.

“I did,” said Henry who had told himself this was the case, so frequently that he believed it.

“This is an insult to our daughter. Has she not been insulted enough?”

“By your nephew…yes. This is no insult to Mary. I still accept her as my daughter.” A cunning look came into his eyes. “She is a girl and her position may not be so different from that of the little Duke.”

This was going too far; it was betraying the secret matter. He must be cautious. Katharine did not construe his words as he had meant them. She thought only that he planned to set this illegitimate son before his daughter because of his sex.

“You cannot mean you would set aside our daughter for a…bastard!”

His eyes narrowed. He wanted to speak of what was in his mind. He was never one for secrets. He wanted her to know that although she was a daughter of the hated House of Spain, because she had previously married his brother it might well be that she had no legitimate hold on him.

“Mary is a girl,” he said sullenly.

“There is no reason why she should not make as good a monarch as a man. My own mother…”

The King snapped his fingers. “I have no wish to hear of your sainted mother. And know this, if I decide that any man, woman or child in this kingdom shall be elevated…” His eyes were even more cruel suddenly. “…or set down, this shall be done and none shall be allowed to stand in my way.”

“I wonder,” said the Queen, “that you allowed our daughter to keep the title, Princess of Wales. Why did you not take that away from her and bestow it on your bastard? Then there could have been no doubt of your intentions.”

He looked at her in silent hatred for a few seconds; then fearing that he would be unable to keep from her all the plans which were fermenting in his mind, he left her.

WOLSEY WAS waiting for him in his apartment. The Chancellor saw the flushed face and angry looks and guessed that Henry had been listening to Katharine’s reproaches.

“Your Grace looks displeased,” he murmured.

“’Tis the Queen; I have never known her so bold…so careless of my feelings.”

“The Queen is afraid, Your Grace. She has her qualms about the marriage, even as you do. Perhaps more so.”

“She could not be more uneasy.”

Wolsey lowered his voice. “She knows, Your Grace, whether or not the marriage with your brother was consummated.”

“You think this is a sign of her guilt?”

“The guilty are often those who feel most fear, Your Grace.”

“You are right, Thomas. And her boldness astonished me.”

“She is surrounded by women who urge her to behave thus. The Queen herself should be…malleable.”

Henry’s lower lip jutted out. “There’s strength beneath that gentleness, Thomas.”

“Your Grace is right as usual, but that strength is, shall we say, given support by some of those women about her.”

The King looked questioningly at Wolsey.

“There is the Countess of Salisbury for one. She has ever been close to the Queen. Lady Willoughby is another. Women like that chat in secret, talking of wrongs, urging resistance.”

“They shall be banished from Court.”

“May I suggest, Your Grace, that we move with care? We do not want to rouse too much sympathy in…the wrong quarters.”

“You mean that there would be those to take her side against me!”

“Among the people, Your Grace. And some men of the Court, in secret. Let Lady Willoughby be sent away from Court. As for Lady Salisbury…If Your Grace will trust this matter to me, and commission me to deal with the Queen’s household, I will see that those women likely to influence her are removed from her side.”

“Do that, Thomas. By God, she must understand that I’ll not stand by and accept her reproaches. She had the temerity to suggest that I might soon take Mary’s title of Wales that I might give it to young Henry.”

“The Queen may well wean the Princess’s affection from Your Grace.”

The King looked at his Chancellor; and for a few moments they both remained thoughtful.

THIS WAS the most cruel blow of all. Katharine had been so stunned when she heard the news that she could not believe it was true.

All the humiliations, all the uneasiness of the past years had been forgotten when she was in the presence of her daughter; her only joy in life had been wrapped up in the child. The love between them was intense, as deep and abiding as that which Katharine had shared with her own mother.

In all her troubles she had been able to tell herself: I have my daughter.

And now Mary was to be taken away from her.

She did not weep. This was too great a sorrow to be assuaged by tears. She sat limply staring before her while her dearest friend, Maria de Salinas, Countess of Willoughby, sat beside her, desperately seeking for words which would comfort her.

But there was no comfort. Maria herself would not long be at the Queen’s side. She was to leave Court, and she believed she knew why.

One of the Queen’s women had recently been dismissed from the Court and she had confessed to Maria that the reason was because she had declined to act as the Cardinal’s spy. His idea was clearly to remove from the Queen’s side all those who would not work for him against her.

What did it all mean? Maria asked herself. Should I try to warn her? If only I could stay with her to comfort her.

But now Katharine could think of nothing but her daughter.

“Why should she be taken from me?” she demanded passionately. “When she marries it may be necessary for her to leave me. There cannot be many years left to us. Why must I lose her now?”

“I think, Your Grace,” said Maria, desperately seeking a reason that might soothe the Queen, “that the King wishes her to go to Wales so that the country may know she is still Princess of the Principality and heir to the throne.”

The Queen brightened at that suggestion. “It may be so,” she said. “The people did not like his elevating the bastard.”

“That is the answer, Your Grace. You can depend upon it, she will not stay long. It is merely a gesture. I feel certain that is the reason.”

“I shall miss her so much,” said the Queen.

“Yes, Your Grace, but perhaps it is well that she should go.”

Katharine said: “There is one consolation; Lady Salisbury is going with her as her governess. I cannot tell you how that cheers me.”

One more friend, thought Maria, to be taken from the Queen’s side.

Katharine rose suddenly and said: “I shall go to my daughter now. I would like to break this news to her myself. I trust that she has not already heard it. Stay here, Maria. I would be alone with her.”

In the Princess’s apartments the little girl was seated at the virginals; one or two of her attendants were with her. When the Queen entered they curtseyed and moved away from the Princess who leaped from her chair and threw herself into her mother’s arms.

“That was well played,” said the Queen, trying to control her emotion.

She smiled at the attendants and nodded. They understood; the Queen often wished to be alone with her daughter.

“I was hoping you would come, Mother,” said the Princess. “I have learned a new piece and wanted to play it to you.”

“We will hear it later,” answered Katharine. “I have come to talk to you.”

She sat on a stool near the virginals, and Mary came to stand beside her while the Queen put her arm about her daughter.

“You have heard no rumors about Wales?” asked the Queen.

“Wales, Mother? What sort of rumors?”

The Queen was relieved. “Well, you know you are Princess of Wales and it is the custom for the Prince or Princess to visit the Principality at some time.”

“We are going to Wales then, Mother?’

“You are going, my darling.”

Mary drew away from her mother and looked at her in startled dismay.

“Oh, it will not be for long,” said the Queen.

“But why do you not come with me?”

“It is the wish of your father that you go alone. You see, you are the Princess of Wales. You are the one the people want to see.”

“You must come too, Mother.”

“My darling, if only I could!”

“I will not go without you.” For a moment Mary looked like her father.

“My darling, your father has commanded you to go.”

Mary threw herself against her mother and clung to her. “But it is so far away.”

“Not so very far, and you will come back soon. We shall write to each other and there will be the letters to look forward to.”

“I don’t want to go away from you, Mother…ever.”

The Queen felt the tears, which she had so far managed to keep in check, rising to her eyes.

“My love, these partings are the fate of royal people.”

“I wish I were not royal then.”

“Hush, my darling. You must never say that. We have a duty to our people which is something we must never forget.”

Mary pulled at the rings on her mother’s fingers but Katharine knew she was not thinking of them. “Mother,” she said, “if I were to plead with my father…”

The Queen shook her head. “He has decided. You must go. But do not let us spoil what time is left to us in grieving. Time will pass, my darling, more quickly than you realize. I shall hear of you from your governess and tutors, and you will write to me yourself. You see I shall have all that to live for.”

Mary nodded slowly. Poor child! thought the Queen. She has learned to keep her feelings in check. She has learned that the fate of Princesses can often be cruel and that one thing is certain, they must be accepted.

“You will go to Ludlow Castle,” said the Queen trying to speak brightly. “It is a beautiful place.”

“Tell me about when you were there, Mother.”

“It was long…long ago. I went there with my first husband.”

“My father’s brother,” murmured Mary.

“It was so long ago,” said the Queen, and she thought of those days when she had been married to the gentle Arthur who was so different from Henry; Arthur who had been her husband for scarcely six months.

“Tell me about the castle,” said Mary.

“It rises from the point of a headland,” the Queen told her, “and is guarded by a wide, deep fosse. It is grand and imposing with its battlemented towers; and the surrounding country is superb…indeed some of the best I have ever seen.”

The Princess nodded sadly.

“You will be happy there,” murmured Katharine, putting her lips to Mary’s forehead. “We shall not be very far away from each other, and soon you will come back to me.”

“How soon?” asked Mary.

“You will be surprised how soon.”

“I would rather know. It is always so much easier to bear if you know how long. Then I could count the days.”

“My darling, you will be happy there. When I left my mother, the ocean separated us. This is not the same at all.”

“No,” said Mary slowly. “It is not the same at all.”

“And now, my love, go to the virginals. Play the piece which you wished me to hear.”

Mary hesitated and for a moment Katharine feared that the child would lose her hold on that rigid control. But obediently she rose, went to the virginals, sat down and began to play; and as she did so, the tears, which would no longer be kept back, rolled silently down her cheeks.