The King's Secret Matter

The Princess at Ludlow Castle

THE PRINCESS MARY WAS MELANCHOLY IN THE CASTLE OF Ludlow and the Countess of Salisbury was alarmed on her account. The only thing which could bring the child out of that languid indifference as to what went on around her was a letter from her mother.

Each day she told the Countess how long they had been at Ludlow; and she would ask wistfully if there were any news of their returning to her father’s Court.

“All in good time,” the Countess would say. “With the passing of each day we are a little nearer to our return.”

The Princess rode often in the beautiful woods close to the castle; she had to admit that the country was some of the fairest she had ever seen; but it was clear that when she was separated from her mother she could not be happy, and the Countess feared that her health would be affected by her melancholy.

Great plans were afoot for the celebrations of Christmas, The New Year and Twelfth Night.

“There will be plays, masques and a banquet…just as at your father’s Court,” the Countess told her.

“I wonder whether my mother will come,” was all the Princess could say.

It was true that she had a certain interest in her lessons; she worked hard at her Latin and her music and sometimes she would chuckle and say: “My mother will be surprised that I have come so far. I shall write to her in Latin, and when she comes I shall play all my new pieces.”

The Countess was grateful that she had this interest in her Latin and music, and made the most of it. There had been rumors which had come to the Countess’s notice before she left Court and, although she could not believe there was much truth in them, they made her very uneasy. The fact that the Queen had married the King’s brother could have no effect on the present marriage. The Pope had given the necessary dispensation, and during all the years the King and Queen had been married there had never before been any suggestion that the marriage might not be legal.

She was a wise woman, and in her fifty-two years she had seen much tragedy. None understood, more than she did, the Tudors’s fierce determination to fight off all those who threatened to take the crown from them. It was natural that the King wanted to make sure of the Tudor succession. Desperately he needed a son, and Katharine had failed to give it to him.

There were times when Margaret Pole, Countess of Salisbury, wished that she were not a Plantagenet and so near to the throne. She had lived through troublous times. Her maternal grandfather had been that Earl of Warwick who had been known as the Kingmaker; her father had been the Duke of Clarence, brother of Richard III, who had been imprisoned in the Tower and there, it was believed, had been drowned in a butt of malmsey. She had been a young child when that had happened and it had made a deep and terrible impression on her; ever after she had been aware of the insecurity of life and the favor of Kings; and it seemed to her that those who lived nearest the throne had the most to fear. That was why she often thought with deep compassion of the Queen, and now as she sat with her royal charge she could grow quite melancholy wondering what the future held for her. Only recently tragedy had struck at her family through her youngest child, Ursula, wife of Henry Stafford, son of the Duke of Buckingham whose life had recently come to an end on the block.

Henry VIII had occasionally been kind to her family; she had fancied that he wanted to make amends to them for his father’s murder of her brother Edward who, as the Earl of Warwick, had been a menace to the throne. But how long would that favor last? She believed now that she was regarded with suspicion by Wolsey because of her close friendship with the Queen.

If Katharine could have been with her in Ludlow she would have been almost happy. It was peaceful here and seemed so far from the world of ambition. And how happy little Mary would have been if the Queen were here! But as the weeks stretched into months the love between the governess and her charge grew deeper and did—so the Countess fervently hoped—compensate in some measure for the child’s loss of her mother.

Margaret tried to replace that mother, and it was a great joy to her to know that the times of the day to which Mary looked forward more than any other were those when she and the Countess were alone together; and the little girl, released from her lessons which Margaret often felt were too much for her would sit at the Countess’s feet and demand to hear stories of her life.

And when Mary said: “My mother used to tell me stories of the days when she was a girl in Spain…” Margaret knew that the substitution had taken place in the child’s mind; and she wrote to the Queen telling her of these pleasant hours which seemed to give consolation to Mary for her exile.

Through Margaret’s description of her family Mary began to know the Pole children so well that they seemed to be her intimate friends. There was Henry, Lord Montague, who had followed the King to France to the Field of the Cloth of Gold. Margaret did not tell the child of the anxiety she had suffered when Henry had been arrested at the time of the trial of the Duke of Buckingham because his father-in-law was a connection of the Duke’s; in any case he had been speedily released, and very soon afterwards had been restored to favor, being among those noblemen who had greeted the Emperor Charles on his arrival in England. The Countess would talk of her sons, Arthur, Reginald, Geoffrey and her daughter Ursula, with such loving detail that the Princess knew that these quiet hours were as enjoyable to the Countess as they were to her.

But it was of Reginald that Mary liked best to hear; Reginald was learned and deeply religious, and Mary had always felt that to give lifelong devotion to religion was the best way of living. Therefore Reginald became her hero.

The Countess told how she had always meant him to go into the Church and how eager he had been to follow that calling, although he had not yet taken holy orders.

“There is no better man in the world than my Reginald,” said Margaret proudly, and Mary began to believe her.

“When he was a boy at Oxford he astonished his tutors,” the fond mother declared. “In truth I think they began to realize that he was more clever than they. He became a Dean at Wimborne though still a layman. He held many posts, and then he decided to go to Padua, and that is where he is now. The King, your father, is pleased with him and there is great hospitality in his house there. Scholars flock to see him. He thinks it is because he is a kinsman of the King.”

“But it is really because of his noble character,” Mary asserted.

“I believe that to be so. Mary, I think he will soon be coming to England.”

Mary clasped her hands in ecstasy. “And will he come to Ludlow?”

“Come to see his mother! Of a certainty he will. You do not know my Reginald.”

“I do,” declared the Princess.

And after that they often spoke of his coming and when Mary awoke in the mornings she would say to herself: “Will there be news from my mother today?” And then: “Is Reginald now on his way to the Castle?”

It was only these hopes which made the separation tolerable. But the months passed and there was no news of Mary’s joining her mother; and Reginald continued to stay in Italy.

HENRY CUT HIMSELF OFF from communication with his Queen, and she rarely saw him. She lived quietly, working on her garments for the poor, reading religious books, going to Mass, praying privately. Her great joy was writing letters to her daughter, but what a difficult task this was when she must suppress her fierce longing, and not convey her fears that the long absence was stifling that deep affection they had for each other!

Henry was growing impatient. He had begun to wonder whether Wolsey was working as wholeheartedly for him as he had once believed. Wolsey was a man who had seen that his own pockets were well lined; and should a king feel such gratitude towards a man who in his service had grown as rich as surely only a king should be?

Wolsey was constantly whispering caution, and Henry was becoming a little uncertain of the game the Chancellor was playing. There was a new faction springing up at Court, and at the center of this was George Boleyn whom the King found a fascinating young man, largely because he was the brother of Anne.

Anne remained at Hever, but she should not do so for long. Henry had already shown his favor to the family by raising Sir Thomas to the peerage, so that he now bore the title of Viscount Rochford. He had even given poor Will Carey, Mary’s husband, a post at Court as gentleman of the Privy Chamber. He was certain that soon the haughty girl would give in to his pleading, and stop talking about her virtue.

But at the same time it was this Boleyn faction which was making him doubt Wolsey. He sent for his Chancellor in order to discuss a matter which was of great concern to them both at this time: the marriage of the Princess Mary.

When Wolsey entered, the King did not greet him with the affectionate look which the Chancellor usually received from him. Wolsey was acutely aware of the King’s changing attitude towards him and it was doubly alarming because he was not sure of its origin.

“I have news from France,” said Henry. “It seems that François is rejecting our offer of my daughter.”

Wolsey nodded gravely. Here was one matter on which they were in agreement; they shared the desire for a marriage between Mary and a member of the royal French family. Nothing would disturb the Emperor more; at the same time if Mary were to marry into France she would very soon be sent to that country; and if the King were about to rid himself of the Queen, Mary’s presence in England could prove an embarrassment. There was no need to speak of this matter. Each knew that it was well to the fore in the mind of the other.

The King took a document from his table which had been sent to him from Louise of Savoy who was her son’s Regent while he, François, remained the Emperor’s prisoner in Madrid.

“Read it,” commanded the King; and Wolsey read that the Duchesse of Savoy could not express sufficient regret that the marriage between her son and the Princess Mary was not possible. She knew that the Princess of England excelled all other Princesses; she had heard nothing but good of her character, her attainments and her beauty. Alas, a tragic fate had befallen her son; he was in the hands of the Emperor and harsh terms were being imposed on him. Not the least harsh of these—in view of the offer of the Princess’s hand from England—was that he should marry the Emperor’s sister Eleanora whom Emanuel of Portugal had recently left a widow. It seemed likely that the King of France would have to comply with this unless Eleanora refused to marry him.

The Duchesse however hoped that this might not make an end of their desire for a French-English alliance. She had grandsons. She was certain that François would welcome the Princess Mary as the wife of his son Henri, Duc d’Orléans.

“Well,” the King demanded, “what do you think of this proposition?”

“A fair one. Marriage to young Henri would, in truth, be more suitable than marriage with François.”

“A second son,” murmured the King.

“Eldest sons sometimes die,” Wolsey reminded him.

“That’s so,” replied the King, himself a second son. He was thoughtful for awhile. “The child is young…not yet ten years of age. There is time. But it shall be a French match for her.”

“I am in full agreement with Your Grace.”

“I rejoice to hear it.” Was it his imagination, wondered Wolsey, or was there a trace of sarcasm in the King’s voice? The little blue eyes swept over the rich satin robes. “We shall be having French ambassadors here soon, I doubt not. When they come it would be well for them to be entertained at Hampton Court.”

“Hampton Court is, as always, at Your Grace’s command.”

“These foreigners…,” mused Henry. “They do not think they are at Court until they are received at Hampton. Is it meet a subject should possess such a palace?”

Wolsey quickly saw the meaning behind the words. He had always gambled. He gambled now.

“There is only one reason why a subject could possess such a palace,” he answered quickly, “and that is that he can put it into the hands of his King.”

Suddenly the peevish animosity died in the King’s face and the old affection was back there. The blue eyes were so bright that Wolsey was not sure whether it was tears of friendship or covetousness which he saw there.

The Chancellor felt a catch of fear at his heart; it was as though he were running towards danger; and that only by throwing his most valued possessions to his pursuers could he stave off the evil moment of disaster. He was playing for time. He believed that he could regain his power over the King…given time. He could arrange a divorce for Henry, get him married to a French Princess, put an end to unprofitable wars—then he would be able to rout all his enemies. But he needed time.

The King put his own construction on those words.

“A goodly gift,” he said, “from a loyal subject to his affectionate master. I would not offend you, Thomas, by refusing your handsome gift. But you shall live on there…you shall entertain these foreigners there…in my name, eh? Then they will no longer sing in the streets: ‘The King’s Court or Hampton Court…’ for from now on Hampton Court is the King’s Court.”

Wolsey bowed his head and taking the King’s hand kissed it. He was glad to hide his face for a few seconds; the loss of his most cherished possession was a blow, and he found it difficult to hide the sorrow he was feeling.

THE DAYS WERE DREARY to Katharine, one so much like another. She had no friend in whom she could confide. Maria de Salinas was no longer at Court; Margaret Pole was in Ludlow with Mary; and, saddest of all, there was no mention of Mary’s returning.

The women who surrounded her, she knew, were not her true friends, but had been put there by her enemy, Wolsey, to spy on her. She saw the King frequently but never in private; he was courteous to her but she fancied that he was afraid to meet her eye and always seemed relieved when he parted from her.

On one or two occasions she had mentioned their daughter to which he invariably replied with prompt finality: “It pleases me that she now has her own Court in her own Principality. She will learn something of government there in Ludlow.”

She wanted to protest: She is only a child. At least allow me to go and stay with her there.

But she knew that it was impossible to speak of such things in public, and there was never an opportunity of doing so in private.

She guessed that there was a mistress—perhaps several. Light-o’-loves, she thought contemptuously; and as she could not discuss this matter with the women who surrounded her, who would report to their master every word she said, she was silent.

She knew that negotiations were going forward with a view to a French alliance for Mary. She prayed that this might not be carried through. What she dreaded more than anything was alliance with France because she longed to restore friendship between her nephew and her husband. She believed that, if only Charles could explain in person, or if only he had a good and efficient ambassador, Henry would understand that he had been forced to do what he had done. None could be more disappointed at his rejection of Mary than she was. Had it not been the dearest dream of her life that her nephew and daughter should marry? But Charles was no longer very young and it was understandable that he should feel the need to marry without delay. She did not believe that Charles had wantonly deceived her husband; it was pressure of circumstances—and that must at times afflict every head of state—which had made him do so.

She wrote many letters to Charles—cautiously worded—for she could not be sure that they would reach him. A little spice was added to those dreary days by this game of outwitting the Cardinal, whom she had now begun to regard as her greatest enemy.

And one day in the spring of that long year a letter from her nephew was smuggled to her and she felt a great triumph, as at least one of hers had reached him. That made her feel that she had some friends at the English Court.

Charles wrote that he was sending a new ambassador to England, Don Iñigo de Mendoza, who would be travelling through France and should arrive in England not long after she received this letter. He knew, of course, that Wolsey was doing his utmost to make a French alliance for Mary and that Katharine would agree with him that such an alliance would be fatal to their interests. He believed that she would find Mendoza more to her liking than ambassadors from Flanders, and it was for this reason that he was sending a Spaniard to England.

When Katharine read this letter she felt the tears of joy rushing to her eyes. Mendoza was coming. A Spaniard, one with whom she could converse in her native tongue. She even knew Iñigo. He had been her mother’s favorite page, and she had seen him often riding in the entourage when Isabella had gone from town to town visiting her dominions, her family with her, as she had insisted whenever possible. Perhaps they would talk of Granada and Madrid, of the days of Isabella’s greatness.

Katharine closed her eyes and thought of her early life in Spain, when she had never been forced to suffer the humiliation she had endured since coming to England, when she had been surrounded by the love of her family and, most of all, that of her mother.

“Oh Holy Mother,” she murmured, “how sad life becomes when the greatest joy it has to offer is in remembering the past.”

THROUGH THE SPRING and summer Katharine awaited the arrival of Mendoza in vain. A little news did seep through to her and eventually she discovered that the French were determined to delay the arrival of the Spanish ambassador in England until a French embassy had been able to arrange for the marriage of Mary with the Duc d’Orléans.

They had promised Mendoza free passage through France, but shortly after he had set foot on that land he was arrested as a foreign spy and put into prison where he remained for months without trial.

Katharine was in despair because plans for the French marriage were going forward, although she did console herself that the matter could not be viewed with any certainty. François had been released from his prison in Madrid but he had only been allowed to go home if he promised on oath to send his two sons to Madrid as hostages for his good faith in carrying out the terms Charles had imposed on him. Thus the little boy who was betrothed to Mary was now the Emperor’s prisoner in his father’s stead.

Katharine was reminded now of those days between the death of her first husband, Arthur, and her marriage with Henry, when she lived through the uneventful yet dangerous months. Unable to be lulled by a false feeling of security and with dreadful premonition always in her mind that a storm was soon to break about her, she waited, knowing that when it did come it would contain an element of the unexpected, to face which she would need every scrap of courage she possessed.

It was December of that year when Mendoza arrived in London, but by that time she knew it was too late to stop the negotiations with France.

The first action of Mendoza was to beg an audience of the Queen. This she granted and he came speedily to her apartments.

She received him with emotion because of the memories of early and happier days he brought with him.

“It gives me great pleasure to see you,” she told him.

“I cannot express to Your Grace my pleasure in being here. I have found the delay almost intolerable.”

She looked at him closely and saw what those months in a French prison must have done to him; but, of course, when she had seen him in her mother’s entourage he had been nothing but a boy. She was forgetting how many years ago that was.

This was not the time to waste on reminiscences and she said: “There is much we have to say to each other. I am seriously alarmed about the relations between my nephew and this country.”

“The Emperor greatly desires to put them back on a friendly footing.”

“The King is incensed on account of his treatment of Mary.”

“Your Grace is also displeased.”

“It was of course a bitter disappointment to me.”

“The Emperor was pressed hard by the people of Spain, and he needed money from Portugal.”

“I know…I know. But let us talk of what we shall do to put matters right between Spain and England. I must tell you that the Cardinal is my most bitter enemy. I am surrounded by his spies and I know not whom I can trust. You will know that he is the most powerful man in England.”

Mendoza nodded. “We shall have to make sure that he cannot interfere with our correspondence as he did with de Praet’s.”

At that moment a page appeared at the door. Katharine looked at him in surprise, because she had given orders that she was not to be disturbed.

The page’s look was apologetic, but before he could speak he was thrust aside and a red-clad figure came into the room.

“My lord Cardinal!” cried the Queen.

“Your Grace…Your Excellency…I come on the King’s orders.”

“What orders are these?” demanded Katharine haughtily.

“He requests the Imperial Ambassador to come to his apartment without delay.”

“His Excellency called to see me…,” the Queen began.

The Cardinal smiled at her whimsically. “The King’s command,” he murmured.

“His Excellency will call on the King within an hour.”

“The King’s orders are that I shall conduct him to his presence with all speed.”

Katharine felt exasperation. She turned to the Ambassador and said rapidly in Spanish: “You see how it is. I am constantly overlooked.”

But there was nothing to be done and the Ambassador must leave at once for the King’s apartment, having achieved nothing by his visit to the Queen.

Katharine, with resignation, watched him go, knowing that future meetings between them would be difficult to arrange, and that when they talked together they would never be sure who overheard them; they must remember that anything they wrote to the Emperor would almost certainly be first censored by the Cardinal.

TWO WONDERFUL EVENTS befell the Princess Mary.

It was strange, she reflected afterwards, that she should have waited for these things to happen and that they should have followed so swiftly on one another.

She was in one of her favorite haunts on a tower looking out over the battlements. The country was so beautiful that she found great peace merely by looking at it. She enjoyed riding in the woods with a party from her suite; during the warm days they had picnicked on the grass, and that was pleasant; but one of the most pleasurable occupations was kneeling up here on a stone seat inside the tower and looking out over the hills. This was her favorite view, for below in all its beauty was the valley of the Teme with the Stretton Hills forming a background.

She had been here so long that she was beginning to believe she would never leave the place; and yet every day she awoke with the thought in her mind: Will it be today?

Sometimes she let her fancy wander, imagining that a party of riders appeared in the valley, that she watched as they came nearer; and seeing the royal standard, knew that her mother had come.

It was nearly eighteen months since they had been parted.

How fortunate that I did not know how long it would be! she thought. If I had, I should never have been able to endure it.

But all through those months hope had been with her, and she often prayed that whatever happened to her she would always be able to hope.

She had grown considerably in the months of separation. Her mother would see a change. She had learned a great deal; she could write Greek and Latin very well now, and could compose verses in these two languages. As for her music, that had improved even more.

One day, as she knelt in her favorite position, she did see a party of riders in the valley. She stared, believing in those first moments that she was dreaming, so often she had imagined she saw riders.

She kept her eyes on the party and as it came nearer she saw that it was a group of men and that they were making straight for the Castle. She watched until they were within its walls before she turned from the battlements and went to her own apartments, knowing that she would soon be told who the newcomers were.

It was the Countess herself who came into Mary’s apartment and, in all the eighteen months during which they had been in Ludlow Castle, Mary had never seen the Countess so radiant.

“Your Highness,” she cried, “I have wonderful news. There is someone who is most eager to meet you. I want your permission to present him to you at once.”

And there he was, in the room; tall, handsome, obviously of the nobility, austerely dressed though not in clerical robes, he seemed godlike to Mary.

“My son Reginald,” went on Margaret, “who is also your humble servant.”

He knelt before Mary and she smiled at him as she bade him rise. “Welcome,” she said. “I feel I know you already because we have talked of you so often, your mother and I.”

“Yes,” agreed Margaret. “Her Highness insisted on hearing tales of my family.”

“I found those tales interesting,” said Mary. She turned to Margaret. “I trust they are busy in the kitchens preparing a welcoming banquet.”

In that moment she felt grown up, the mistress of the Castle, Margaret noticed, and a wild hope was born in her mind.

She said: “I will leave my son with you while I go to the kitchens. I want to give orders myself for, as Your Highness says, this is a special occasion and we wish everyone within the Castle to know it.”

Mary scarcely noticed that she had left. She went to the ornate chair which was kept especially for her and sat down, signing for Reginald to be seated too.

“We live somewhat simply here,” she told him, “when compared with my father’s Court. I pray you tell me about your stay on the Continent.”

“It has been a very long one,” he answered. “It is five years since I left England. A great deal can happen in five years; I have lived in Padua and Rome, and I have now come to complete my studies at Sheen…in the Carthusian monastery there.”

“How wonderful! Your life is dedicated to God.”

“All our lives are dedicated to some purpose,” he replied. “I was fortunate to be able to choose the way I should go. My mother wanted me to go into the Church. I was very happy to do this but I have not yet taken Holy Orders.”

“Have you come straight here from Rome?”

“Oh no, I visited London first and presented myself to Their Graces.”

“You have seen my mother!”

“Yes, I saw her and when I told her that I should visit my mother at Ludlow she begged me to commend her to you and to tell you that she sends her dearest love.”

Mary turned away for a moment, overcome by her emotion. Even the arrival of this man who had played a part in her dreams could not stifle her longing for her mother.

She asked questions about the Court. He did not tell her of the plans for a French marriage, nor of the speculations as to the efforts the Queen and the new Spanish ambassador would make to prevent this. He thought her charming, but a child; and yet during that first interview he was made aware of her serious turn of mind and that she had long ago put away childish things.

When Margaret returned and found them, absorbed in each other, and saw her son’s interest in the child and Mary’s in him—for Mary was unable to disguise the change his coming had made, and during the whole of her stay at Ludlow she had not looked so joyous—she said to herself: “Foreign matches seem to come to nothing. Why should not Mary marry my son?”

Oh, but how handsome he was! Twenty-seven years old, yet he looked younger; his gentle, noble nature had left his face unlined. There was in him the nobility of the Plantagenets, and the resemblance to his ancestor, Edward IV, was at times marked. It would strengthen the crown if Tudor and Plantagenet were joined together, thought Margaret. And she was glad that Reginald had not yet taken Holy Orders.

During the next days the two of them were continually together. They rode out of the Castle, surrounded by the Princess’s attendants naturally, but they were always side by side, a little apart from the rest of the cavalcade. She played on the virginals for his pleasure; and there were balls and banquets as well as masques in Ludlow Castle.

The Princess Mary was growing pretty, for the sternness and slight strain, which had prevented her being so before, had left her; her pale cheeks were flushed and she was less absorbed in her lessons than she had been.

It was not possible, thought Margaret, for an eleven-year-old child to be in love with a man of twenty-seven, but Mary’s feelings were engaged and she was ready to idealize the man who for so long had figured in her reveries.

And as though the tide of Mary’s fortune had really turned, a week or so after the arrival of Reginald Pole, Margaret came to her apartment one day holding a letter in her hand.

Mary’s heart leaped with excitement because she saw that it bore the royal seal.

“I have news from Court,” she said. “We are to prepare to leave at once for London.”

“Oh…Margaret!”

“Yes, my love. We have waited so long, have we not. But did I not tell you that if we were patient it would come? Well, here it is.”

Mary took the letter and read it. Then she said slowly: “And Reginald…will he come with us?”

“There would be no point in leaving him in Ludlow. He will surely accompany us on the journey.”

Mary looked as though she were about to dance round the room; then she remembered her dignity, and smiling she said in a clear, calm voice: “I am well pleased.”