The King's Secret Matter

The King’s Conscience

EACH MORNING WHEN CARDINAL WOLSEY AWOKE, HE WOULD immediately be conscious of a black cloud of depression. He was not quite certain what it meant, but it was no phantom left over from a nightmare. It was real and it was hanging over him; each day it seemed to take him a little longer to assure himself that he could overcome any difficulties which might present themselves.

On this morning he awoke early and lay listening to the birds singing their songs in the trees of Hampton Court Gardens.

Once he could have said to himself: All this is mine. Those trees, that grass, this magnificent palace and all it contains. But that glory was of the past. He had lost some of his treasures; he must hold firmly to what he had.

Each day, it seemed to him, he was more and more unsure of the King’s temper.

Yesterday Henry had looked at him slyly and murmured that he had heard from Mistress Anne Boleyn’s lips that she had no love for My Lord Cardinal.

Why should he care for the malicious words of a careless girl? He would know how to deal with Anne Boleyn if she were ever important enough to demand his attention. At the moment she was amusing the King.

“Let be, let be,” murmured Wolsey. “I like the King to amuse himself with women. While he does so it keeps him from meddling in state affairs.”

And it was true that of late the King was paying less attention to state affairs; although of course, in a manner characteristic of him, he would think the “secret matter” the biggest state affair of all. To rid himself of Katharine, to take a new French Princess to be his bride…a French bride for the King; a French bridegroom for the Princess Mary…what heavier blow could be struck at the Emperor?

The King was eager that they should begin working out the details of his separation from Katharine. The difficulty was that, if the King’s marriage was no true marriage, what then of the Princess Mary? A bastard? Would François Premier want to betroth his son to a bastard?

The situation was full of dangers. Not that he did not believe he could overcome them; but he wished the attitude of the King had not changed towards him.

He had thrown Hampton Court to his master, and one would have thought that such a gift was something to remember for as long as they both should live; but the King did not seem to think so, for although he now proudly referred to “my palace at Hampton,” his attitude to the Cardinal had not grown more kindly.

There was no doubt about it; the King must be placated. And what he was demanding was the end of his marriage.

Wolsey rose from his bed and within an hour of his rising he was receiving Richard Wolman, who had been Vicar of Walden in Essex and Canon of St. Stevens in Westminster until the King, recently, had made him his chaplain, since when he had lived at Court.

When Richard Wolman stood before the Cardinal, Wolsey said: “I have sent for you that we may discuss the delicate matter of the King’s conscience.”

Wolman bowed his head.

“You know of this matter,” stated Wolsey.

“His Grace has mentioned it to me on several occasions.”

“Then you should go to him and accuse him of living in sin. Tell him that you think that as a sinner of nearly eighteen years’ standing he should put himself before his Archbishop and the ecclesiastical Court to answer the charges which you have brought against him.”

Richard Wolman turned pale. “Cardinal…you cannot mean…Why, the King would…”

Wolsey laughed, and lately his laughter was tinged with bitterness. “The King will frown at you, stamp his feet and show rage. But he’ll not forget those who serve him…as he wishes to be served. Go now and be thankful that you have been chosen to serve the King…and yourself.”

Wolman bowed his head. “You can be assured of my obedience,” he said.

“That is well,” answered Wolsey. “Lose no time. The King grows impatient.”

THE KING NARROWED HIS eyes and studied his chaplain.

“Speak up!” he barked. “Speak up!”

“Your Grace, it is in all humility I bring this charge against you.”

“You bring a charge against me!” The voice was fierce but there was a note of eagerness in it. He was like a tame lion going through his tricks.

“Your Grace, it is after much meditation and prayer…”

“Get on! Get on!” said Henry impatiently.

“I have been considering Your Grace’s marriage, and I come, with much fear and trembling, as Your Grace’s chaplain to…to charge you with living in sin for eighteen years with a woman who cannot be your wife.”

“What! This is monstrous!”

Henry stamped his foot and gave such a good imitation of genuine anger, that Wolman began to tremble. “Your Grace,” he said, “I crave your pardon. If I have offended you…”

“If you have offended me! You come here and charge me…and who has more earnestly endeavored to lead a godly life?…you charge me with…immorality.”

Wolman fell to his knees. He was thinking: This is a plan of the Cardinal’s to ruin me. What a fool I was to allow myself to be persuaded. This is the end of my career at Court, perhaps on Earth.

“I crave Your Grace’s pardon. I spoke carelessly. If Your Grace will overlook…”

“Silence!” thundered the King. Then his voice softened suddenly. “If my chaplain has a criticism of my conduct I am not the man to turn a deaf ear to that criticism.”

“It was presumptuous of me, Your Grace. I pray you forget…”

“Alas, I cannot forget. How could I forget a matter which for so long has given me many troublous thoughts?”

Great relief swept over Wolman. This was no trick. In coming here and making the accusation he had served the King and the Cardinal as they wished to be served.

“Get up,” went on Henry. “Now you have spoken, and right glad I am to have this matter brought into the light of day. I married a woman who was my brother’s wife, and in the Book of Leviticus we are told that this is a sin in the eyes of God. I have been shown God’s displeasure. I have been denied a male heir. What are you and your ecclesiastics prepared to do in this matter?”

Wolman, completely restored to confidence, began to outline Wolsey’s plan. “Your Grace will know that I have talked of this matter with His Eminence the Cardinal.”

Good Thomas, thought Henry. Acquisitive, avaricious he might be, but he could be relied upon to work out a plan of action which would bring the King his desires.

“The Cardinal feels it will be necessary to summon Your Grace before a Council led by himself and the Archbishop of Canterbury.”

The King nodded. He could rely on Thomas; as for Archbishop Warham, he was a timid fellow and could be trusted to do as his King commanded.

“There,” went on Wolman, “the matter would be discussed, and if the Council found that Your Grace had never in truth been married…”

The King interrupted: “I should then be free to marry.”

“It would be necessary doubtless to have the matter confirmed in Rome.”

The King nodded. Clement was a good friend to him and Wolsey. He felt jubilant.

He clapped his hand on Wolman’s shoulder. “You have been bold,” he said, with a twinkle in his eyes, “thus to accuse me. But we ever like bold men even when they upbraid us for our sins.”

GABRIEL DE GRAMMONT, Bishop of Tarbes, led his train into the King’s apartment, where Henry, with Wolsey, Warham and several of his most eminent ministers, was waiting to receive them.

Wolsey was delighted because he felt that at last the alliance with France was secure. This would mean war with the Emperor. Wolsey visualized a Europe rising in unison against that young man. Henry had recently received an appeal from Clement who implored him to stand against the Emperor; if he did not, declared the Pope, Charles would shortly be the universal monarch. The Italian countryside had been devastated by his troops, and there was only one course of action: England, France, and the Vatican must stand against the conqueror. The letter had come at an opportune moment and Henry had been deeply impressed by it. And when Wolsey had pointed out: “We must stand by Clement now, for it may be that shortly we shall wish him to stand by us” Henry understood, and was as eager as his Cardinal for the French alliance.

So they had helped the Pope by sending Sir John Russell to Rome with money which would enable Clement to pay his troops and assist in the garrisoning of the City. His Holiness, when he heard English help was on the way, had called a blessing on the English King and Cardinal, and had said that their friendly action had restored him from death to life.

The moment was certainly ripe to apply to him for the Bull which would confirm that the marriage between the King of England and the Emperor’s aunt was not valid and that therefore the King of England was free to marry where he wished.

Henry listened to the French Ambassadors outlining the terms of the new alliance which would mean certain war with the Emperor. François was not the man who would sit down under defeat; he would want to regain all that he had lost; he was waiting for his turn to impose harsh terms on Charles.

Henry nodded shrewdly. He knew that his people had always regarded the French as their natural enemies; and that since the coming of Katharine to England they favored the Spanish alliance. Katharine had contrived to endear herself to the people, because they thought her serious and virtuous and there were many who had profited from her charities. Henry was a little disturbed that she had made such a good impression, but the people must be forced to understand the desirability of getting a male heir. When they realized that the important men of the Church, backed by the Pope himself, considered the King’s marriage unlawful, they would be as eager as he was to accept it as no marriage at all. They would look forward to the pageantry a royal marriage would mean.

Henry pictured it: His bride beside him in the Palace of the Tower of London where she would come before her Coronation; he saw the glittering crown on her head; he saw her sitting beside him in the tiltyard, all haughtiness gone, only gratitude and love for him who had lifted her to such eminence. And the face he saw beneath the crown, the eyes that smiled at him with a faint hint of mockery, were not those of some stranger from France but a well-known young lady, a well-loved one, one who had haunted him ever since he had first seen her at Court and who had beguiled him in the gardens of her father’s castle of Hever.

“By God!” he whispered to himself. “Why not?”

He could hear her voice, high-pitched and imperious: “Your wife I cannot be, both in respect of mine own unworthiness and because you have a queen already. Your mistress I will not be.”

And, strangely enough, he who had never been humble was so before this girl; he, who had looked upon the gratification of his desires as his Divine right, was content to wait and plead.

He had to rouse himself from his reverie to listen to the Frenchmen; and when he did so the words of Grammont startled him.

“There is one point which I feel compelled to raise at this time,” he was saying. “Rumors are circulating concerning the King’s marriage. My master would wish to know whether it is certain that the Princess Mary is the legitimate daughter of the King.”

Sudden anger flamed in Henry’s eyes to be replaced by immediate exultation.

If the legitimacy of the Princess Mary was in question, who could blame him for his determination to have the circumstances of his marriage examined?

He forced a look of intense sadness into his face and glanced towards Wolsey, who said quietly: “We heed the Bishop’s words. Little good can come of discussing that matter further at this stage.”

KATHARINE WATCHED her daughter riding into the Palace of Richmond and she thought: This is one of the happiest moments of my life.

How radiant the child looked! How she had grown! Was she as happy as her mother was by this reunion?

Mary came forward ceremoniously, her eyes lowered. It is because she fears her emotions, Katharine decided. What a Queen she will make when her time comes.

With Mary came her governess, Margaret Pole, Countess of Salisbury, and Margaret’s son Reginald, both good friends of the Queen. So here was further cause for rejoicing.

Now her daughter knelt before her, and Katharine, who could stand on ceremony no longer, raised her up and embraced her.

“My dearest daughter…”

“Oh Mother, it has been so long.”

“Soon we shall be alone, my darling, and able to talk freely to each other.”

“That will be wonderful, Mother.”

She has not changed towards me, thought Katharine exultantly. How foolish of me to fear that she would.

She turned reluctantly from her daughter to greet Margaret. “I thank you for the good care you have taken of my daughter.”

“To serve Your Grace and Her Highness is my pleasure,” answered Margaret formally, but the gleam in her eyes was certainly not formal.

“And your son is here too.” She smiled at Reginald. “That gives me great pleasure.”

So they entered the Palace, and as soon as possible Katharine took her daughter to her private apartments that they might be alone.

“I have longed for this,” she told Mary.

“Oh, Mother, if you could only know how much I longed to see you. I used to kneel in the turret watching for a party of riders which would be you and your suite on the way to the Castle.”

“My dear child…and I never came!”

“No, but I always hoped. I never knew before how important hope is. One goes on being disappointed and loses it for a while, and then…there it is again.”

“You have learned an important lesson, my dearest.”

“And one day, Mother, Reginald came. That was a consolation.”

“Ah, I noticed that there was friendship between you.”

“Is he not wonderful, Mother? He is so clever and yet so kind. I think he is the gentlest man I ever knew.”

Katharine smiled. “And you liked his gentleness?”

“So much, Mother. With him I felt at peace. And after he had been with us a short time the message came that I was to return to you. We shall not be parted again.”

Katharine did not answer. It was her duty to prepare her daughter to receive the French ambassadors who would carry news of her beauty, accomplishments and deportment to the King of France.

And if this marriage were to take place within a year…or very little longer…Mary would be sent to France, for there could be no excuse for keeping her at home any longer. Katharine felt she could not endure another separation.

“You are sad, Mother,” said Mary. “Is it this marriage they are arranging for me which makes you so?”

The Queen nodded. “But we will not think of unpleasant things. It could not happen for a very long time. I will tell you this: I will do everything in my power to postpone, nay prevent it.”

Mary threw herself into her mother’s arms and cried passionately: “Yes, please do. Do not let them send me away from you again. Why could I not marry in my own country?”

Katharine stroked her daughter’s hair.

“Because, my darling, you would have to marry someone who is as royal as yourself.”

“There are people here who are as royal as I am.”

Katharine felt a twinge of alarm. Such words, when applied to one of the King’s subjects, could be dangerous. Buckingham had used them too often.

“Edward IV was Reginald’s ancestor and mine also. So Reginald is as royal as I am.”

The Queen was silent, thinking: Then has she thought of Reginald as a husband?

The idea excited Katharine. And why not? It was true Reginald Pole had Plantagenet blood in his veins. Surely it was a better policy to arrange marriages rather than executions for those whose royalty could be a threat to the crown.

If Mary married Reginald Pole, she could remain in England. Katharine visualized a happy future with her daughter never far from her side. She pictured herself with Mary’s children who would take the place in her heart of those she had never had. If only it could be. If only she could prevent this French alliance!

“Yes,” she said slowly, “Reginald Pole has royal blood in his veins. I am glad that you feel affection for him because I know him to be a good man, and his mother is one of my dearest friends.”

Mary was astute enough to read the promise in those words. She embraced her mother in sudden ecstasy as though, thought Katharine, she believes me to be all-powerful.

But let her think that, because it makes her happy; and we must be happy in these hours of reunion.

LATER KATHARINE sat with her dear friend Margaret Pole and they were alone together, which gave pleasure to them both.

Katharine was saying: “This is one of the happiest days of my life. I have dreamed of it ever since Mary went away.”

“As she has too,” added Margaret.

“It pleases me that she and Reginald should be drawn to each other.”

“They have indeed become good friends. The Princess is such a serious child that the difference in their ages is scarcely noticeable. My son considers her to be one of the most highly educated ladies it has been his pleasure to meet.”

“Your son has not taken Holy Orders?”

“No, he has not done so yet.”

“Does he intend to?”

“I think he is eager to study more before he does so. That is why he is going to the Carthusians at Sheen.”

The Queen smiled and a thought came to Margaret which she had had before; then it had seemed a wild dream, but it did not seem so now because she believed she read the Queen’s thoughts correctly.

Katharine went on: “The French marriage does not please me.”

“But the King and the Cardinal…”

“Oh yes, the Cardinal leads the King the way he wishes him to go.”

Margaret was surprised that the Queen should speak so frankly; then she realized that Katharine did so because the bond between them was a little closer even than it had been before.

“I shall not allow Mary to receive the French ambassadors tomorrow,” went on the Queen. “I shall make the excuse that she is too weary after her long journey from Ludlow. Depend upon it, I shall do all in my power to prevent this proposed marriage. Nor do I despair of so doing. Monarchs are fickle, and François more fickle than most. Mary was betrothed to this boy once before, you remember. There was great enthusiasm…even a ceremony…and then a few years later it was as though that ceremony had never taken place.”

“The Princess is sensitive. One does not care to think of her in a foreign court. And I believe that that of the French is the most licentious in the world.”

The Queen shuddered. “How I should like to make a match nearer home for her. There are more worthy men in England than across the seas.”

The two women had drawn closer together; they were not Queen and subject merely, not only lifelong friends; they were two mothers discussing the future of the children who meant everything in the world to them.

WHILE THE QUEEN sat with Margaret Pole, Iñigo de Mendoza called at the Palace and asked for an interview with her. It was imperative, he declared, that he see Her Grace without delay.

When the message was brought to the Queen, Margaret, without being bidden to do so, left her presence and Mendoza was ushered in.

Katharine saw from his expression that he was extremely agitated, and his first words told her why.

“The Cardinal is working to separate you and the King; he has called together certain bishops and lawyers that they may secretly declare the marriage to be null.”

Katharine could not speak. She knew that the King no longer desired her; that his disappointment at the lack of a male child continued to rankle. But to cast her off as a woman who had been living with him all these years outside the sanctity of marriage, was unthinkable. Such a thing could not happen to a daughter of Spain.

“I fear I have given you a great shock,” said the ambassador. “But it is a matter which must be faced quickly. This must not be allowed to happen.”

“It is the Cardinal who has done this,” said the Queen. “He has long been my enemy.”

“He could not have done it without the King’s consent,” the ambassador reminded her.

“The King is a careless boy at heart. He is tired of me…so he allows Wolsey to persuade him that he should be rid of me.”

“Your Grace, we must act immediately.”

“What can we do if the King has decided to rid himself of me?”

“We can do our best to prevent him.”

“You do not know the King. All that he desires comes to him. He takes it as his Divine right.”

“He may have his will with his own subjects, but Your Grace is of the House of Spain. Have you forgotten that the Emperor is the son of your sister?”

“They care little for the Emperor here now,” said Katharine wearily.

“Your Grace,” the ambassador replied almost sternly, “they will have to care.”

Katharine covered her eyes with her hand. “So this is the end,” she said.

“The end! Indeed it is not. Your Grace, if you will not fight for yourself, you must fight for your daughter.”

“Mary! Of course…she is involved in this.” The Queen had dropped her hand, and the ambassador saw how her eyes flashed. “Are they saying that Mary is a bastard?”

“If the marriage were declared null, that is what I fear she would be called, Your Grace.”

“That shall never be,” said the Queen firmly.

“I knew Your Grace would say that. I beg of you, be as calm as you can, for it is calmness we need if we are to outwit those who work against us. It would be helpful, I am sure, if you could behave as though you know nothing of this which is being called the King’s Secret Matter. The only help we can hope for must be from the Emperor and in view of existing relations our task is made difficult. I beg Your Grace to speak of this matter to no one until we have found a means of conveying the news to my master, your nephew.”

“This we must do without delay.”

“Your Grace is right. But to send a letter might be to act rashly. I feel sure that everything that leaves my hands is in danger of falling into those of the Cardinal’s spies. We must find a messenger who will go to the Emperor with nothing written down, who will tell him by word of mouth what is happening here in England. Let us discover such a man, who must be humble enough not to excite suspicion, yet loyal enough to keep his secrets until he arrives in Spain.”

The Queen, knowing that the ambassador spoke wisely, agreed.

“I will call on you tomorrow,” he told her. “By then I hope to have some plan. In the meantime I trust Your Grace will give no sign that we have wind of the King’s Secret Matter.”

When Mendoza left her, Katharine sat for a long time, very still, an expression of melancholy amplifying the lines on her face.

Such a short while ago she had felt so happy because her daughter was returned to her. Now her happiness had been shattered, for she knew that the greatest calamity which could befall her was threateningly near.

“There are times,” she murmured, “when I think God has deserted me.”

AS HENRY PREPARED to set out for the Cardinal’s Palace of York Place, a complacent smile played about his mouth, and his eyes were gleaming with satisfaction in which humour mingled.

It was an amusing situation when a King was summoned to appear before a court, charged with immorality. He believed that those lawyers and men of the Church must be telling themselves that here was the most tolerant King on Earth. He might have had them all clapped into the Tower for their presumption. But what had he done? Meekly accepted the summons to appear before them and hear his case thrown from the prosecuting to the defending counsels like a ball in a game.

He was certain that the outcome of the case would be that he was found guilty, after which there would be nothing to do but his penance for his sins, receive absolution and marry again that he might do his duty to his country and give it a male heir. The Pope would be called in to have the dispensation, which Julius II had given, declared invalid, but he need have no qualms about that; Clement was the friend of England. It had been a clever stroke to answer his appeal for help against the Emperor. Wolsey was to be commended for his far-sightedness.

So the King set out for York Place in high spirits.

As he stepped from his barge he studied the Palace and thought how grand it looked. It was the town residence of the Archbishops of York and thus it had passed into Wolsey’s possession; but the Cardinal had added a magnificence to it which it had not possessed before, and although it may have lacked the grandeur of Hampton Court it was a very fine palace. Henry’s eyes smouldered a little as he surveyed it. Hampton Court was now his, yet he felt a little resentful that a subject should possess such a residence as that of York Place.

He was slightly mollified when he entered and was received by the Cardinal who exchanged with him a secret look which was meant to imply that the stage was set and in a very short time they would have achieved their desire.

At the end of a hall on a dais Wolsey took his place beside William Warham, Archbishop of Canterbury.

Among those gathered in the hall were John Fisher, the Bishop of Rochester, who was said to be one of the wisest and saintliest men in England, Dr. Bell who was to be the King’s Counsel, and Dr. Wolman who was to state the case against Henry’s marriage.

Dr. Wolman opened the proceedings against the King.

“Henry, King of England, you are called to this archiepiscopal court to answer a charge of living in sin with your brother’s wife…”

Henry listened with the shocked appearance of a man who, in his innocence, has been caught up in a sinful intrigue, and when Wolman had stated the case against the King’s marriage Dr. Bell rose to speak for him.

His Grace had, it was well known, married his brother’s widow, but it was said that the marriage of Prince Arthur and the Infanta Katharine had never been consummated. The reigning King, Henry VII, had expressed his desire that this consummation should not take place on account of the bridegroom’s youth and delicate state of health. And when he died, six months after the marriage, Katharine had stayed in England and in the year 1509 had married their sovereign lord. A dispensation had been received from Pope Julius II, and it was the defense’s case that the King had married in good faith and that it had not occurred to him that his marriage could be anything but legal. Then the Bishop of Tarbes had made a suggestion, and it became clear that this was the result of some pernicious rumor he had heard. It was the King’s desire to stand by the finding of this court, but he was going to ask them to say that his marriage to Katharine of Aragon was a legal one.

Henry’s eyes narrowed as he studied Dr. Bell, but Wolsey had assured him that they could trust Bell. He must put the King’s case in such a manner that it would appear to be a case for the defense. But Bell would know how to act when the moment came.

Wolman was on his feet; he did not think the marriage could have remained unconsummated during the six months the married pair lived together. It would be remembered that they travelled to Ludlow with their own Court and there made merry together. If the marriage had been consummated then, Katharine of Aragon had been the wife of the King’s brother in actual fact, and Wolman maintained that the marriage was illegal.

When it was Henry’s turn to speak he did so with apparent sincerity, for he had convinced himself that it was solely because he wished to stand unsullied in the eyes of God and his subjects that he was glad the matter had been brought to light.

“I can but rejoice that this matter has been brought into the light of day,” he told the court. “Lately it has much troubled my conscience. I could not understand why our prayers should be unanswered. The Queen’s persistent ill health has been a matter of great concern to me, and I trust you learned gentlemen will unravel this delicate matter that I may peacefully return to my wife or—which will cause me much sorrow—declare that our marriage was no marriage and our union must end without delay.”

William Warham listened intently. He lacked the guile of Wolsey and he was coming to the end of an arduous life. He was in his seventies and often it seemed to those about him that he was failing. He was simple enough to believe that the reason for this enquiry was the fact that the Bishop of Tarbes had raised the question of the Princess’s legitimacy. He was anxious to give the matter his most careful attention with the hope that he might lead the members of this court to come to the right conclusion.

The details of the King’s marriage were discussed at length; Katharine’s arrival in England was recalled, followed by her marriage to Arthur which had lasted only six months.

“If that marriage was consummated,” said Warham, “then the Queen has most certainly been the wife of Prince Arthur, and the King could be said to have taken his brother’s wife.”

“Which,” sighed the King, “according to the Holy Word is an unclean thing. Such unions shall be childless, says the Bible. And behold a son has been denied me.”

“But there was a dispensation from the Pope,” put in the Bishop of Rochester. “I think Your Grace should not reproach yourself.”

“The Pope would have been under the impression that the marriage had not been consummated, when he granted the dispensation,” said Wolman. “If it could be proved that the marriage had been consummated, then clearly there could be no marriage between the King and Katharine of Aragon.”

“I think,” persisted Rochester gently, “that the King should suppress his qualms, for there seems little doubt that his marriage is a good one and that the Bull, which legalized it, was sufficient to do so.”

Henry studied John Fisher, Bishop of Rochester, from beneath lowered lids. He found it hard to hide his animosity. A curse on these saintly men who expressed their opinions with freedom even before their rulers. Fisher was the Queen’s confessor and clearly her partisan. Wolsey should not have included the man in this court. It was folly to have done so.

Warham was weak and growing simple in his old age. Warham could be handled. But the King was not sure of Fisher.

By God, he thought, I’ll have him in the Tower, beloved of the people though he may be, if he dares to stand out against me.

“My lords,” Wolsey was saying, “I beg of you to come to a quick decision in this case, for the matter is grievous to the King. His Grace is perplexed. If you decide that his union is unlawful, remember it will be necessary for him to part from the Lady Katharine at once, and this will afford him great sorrow for, though he be not in truth her husband, he has a husband’s affection for her.”

Warham’s gentle gray eyes were sad. He was thinking of the Queen who would be deeply disturbed if she knew what was happening at York Place.

Henry was now on his feet telling the court how devoted he was to his wife, how there was no other motive in his heart but the desire to free himself from a sinful union that he might live in peace with God. Katharine had been his wife for eighteen years, and he had found in her all he had hoped to find in a wife.

“Save in one thing!” His voice thundered. “And that, gentlemen, is this matter which is of the utmost importance to my kingdom. Our marriage has not been as fruitful as we wished. We have but one daughter. Again and again it seemed that my wife would produce the son for whom we prayed each night and day; but we were disappointed. It is not until now—when the Bishop of Tarbes comes to my kingdom with his revealing enquiry—that I see the divine pattern of these continual misfortunes. Ah, gentlemen, if you decide that my marriage is no marriage, if I must part with her…whom I love dearly and have always regarded as my wife…then your King will be the most unhappy of men. For the Lady Katharine is of such virtue, such gentleness and humility, possessed of all the qualities pertaining to nobility; and if I were to marry again—and it were not a sin to marry her—she is the woman I would choose above all others.”

As he spoke he seemed to see a vital young face laughing at him, mocking him. There was more than a trace of mockery in Anne. It was part of her witchery and it enslaved him.

He found himself answering her in his thoughts: Well, ’tis for our future. Were I to tell these Bishops of my need for you, they would never understand. Poor old fellows, what could they know of what is between us two!

But the mood passed quickly, and in a few moments he was believing all he said. The little mouth, which had grown slack as he thought of Anne, tightened and became prim. I should never have thought of casting off Katharine but for the continued gnawing of my conscience, he told himself; and he immediately believed it. Katharine was the woman he had insisted on marrying eighteen years ago; it was not because her body had grown shapeless, her hair lacked lustre, and that she provoked no physical desire in him that he would be rid of her. It had nothing to do with the most fascinating woman he had ever known, who still kept aloof and would not submit to him, yet maddened him with her promises of what would be his if she were his wife. No, he told himself sternly, Anne was apart from this. He loved Anne with every pulse of his body; his unsatisfied desire was becoming more than he could endure; and since he had discovered that no other woman would suffice in her place, he was making secret plans now to give Anne what she wanted. (By God, she asks a high price for herself, a crown no less. But worth it, my beauty!) Yet, he assured himself, but for the demands of conscience he would never have questioned his marriage to Katharine. It was solely because he feared he was living in sin, and must quickly cease to do so, that he was here before his bishops and lawyers this day.

“This matter cannot be settled in any haste,” said Warham. “The findings of the court must be examined.”

Henry fidgeted. He was almost on his feet. He wanted to shout at them: You idle fellows. Time to examine your findings! What do you want with that? I tell you I want a divorce, and, by God, a divorce I shall have or clap every man of you into the Tower.

But in time he saw the horror which was dawning in the Cardinal’s eyes and restrained himself with difficulty.

So the court was adjourned.

THE KING WAS with the Cardinal when the messengers arrived; these were messengers with no ordinary tidings; they demanded that they be taken with all speed to the King’s presence, assuring those who tried to detain them that it would go ill with them if the news they carried were kept from the King an instant longer than it need be.

When this message was brought to Henry he said: “Let them come to me at once.”

They came in, travel-stained and breathless from their haste, their eyes alight with the excitement of those who have news which is such as is heard once in a lifetime.

“Your Grace…Your Eminence…” The words then began to tumble out. “Bourbon’s troops have attacked Rome. The city is in the hands of savage soldiery. The Pope has escaped with his life by shutting himself up in the Castle of St. Angelo. The carnage, Your Grace, Your Eminence, is indescribable.”

Henry was horrified. The Pope a prisoner! Rome in the hands of lewd and savage soldiers! Never had such a disaster befallen Christendom.

The Constable of Bourbon, the declared enemy of the King of France, was siding with the Emperor, and his army it was which had launched this attack on Rome. Bourbon himself was dead; indeed, he had had no desire to attack Rome; but his army was reduced to famine; there was no money with which to pay them; they demanded conquest and would have killed him if he had stood in their way.

So on that fateful May day this ragged, starving, desperate army had marched on Rome.

Bourbon had been killed in the attack but his men did not need him. On they had rushed, into Rome.

Never had men and women seen such wanton destruction; the fact that this was the city of Rome seemed to raise greater determination to destroy and desecrate than men had ever felt before.

The invaders stormed into the streets, killing men, women and children who were in their way; they battered their way into the palaces and great houses; they crammed food into their starving mouths; they poured wine down their scorching throats. But they had not come merely to eat and drink.

They invaded the churches, seizing the rich ornaments, images, vases, chalices which were brought into the streets and piled high into any means of conveyance the marauders were able to snatch. Every man was determined to have his pile of treasures, to reward himself for the months of bitter privation.

During those five terrible days when the soldiers were in possession of Rome, they determined that every woman should be raped and not a single virgin left in the city. The greatest amusement was afforded them by the nuns who had believed that their cloth would protect them. Into the convents burst the soldiers. They caught the nuns at prayer and stripped them of those robes which the innocent women had thought would protect them. Horror had pervaded the convents of Rome.

In the streets wine ran from the broken casks, and satiated soldiers lay in the gutters exhausted by their excesses. Priceless tapestry and gleaming utensils which had been stolen from altars and palaces and thrown from windows were lying in the street. The soldiers were mercenaries from Spain, Germany and Naples; and to the desecration of Rome each brought the worst of his national characteristics. The Germans destroyed with brutal efficiency; the Neapolitans were responsible for the greatest sexual outrages; and the Spaniards took a great delight in inflicting subtle cruelty.

It was not enough to commit rape and murder; others must join in their fun. So they brought monks and nuns together, stripped them of their robes and forced the monks to rape the nuns, while these vile soldiers stood by applauding and mocking.

Never had such sights been seen in Rome, and the people who had managed to escape with their lives cried out in great lamentation, declaring that if God did not punish such wickedness it must be believed that He did not trouble Himself about the affairs of this world.

This was the story the messengers brought to the King on that May day, and to which he listened in increasing anger and horror.

He sent the messengers away to be refreshed, and when they had gone he turned to the Cardinal.

“This is the most terrible tale I ever heard.”

“And doubly so,” answered Wolsey, “coming at this time.”

Henry was startled. While he was listening to the tale of horror he had forgotten his own predicament.

Wolsey went on: “The Pope a prisoner in the Castle Sant’ Angelo! Although Bourbon led the attack on Rome, the Pope is now the Emperor’s prisoner. Your Grace will see that, being the prisoner of the Emperor, he will not be in a position to declare invalid the dispensation regarding the Emperor’s aunt.”

“By God, I see what you mean,” said Henry. “But he will not long be a prisoner. It is monstrous that the Holy Father should be treated so.”

“I am in agreement with Your Grace. But I fear this will mean delay.”

The King’s mouth was petulant. “I weary of delay,” he murmured.

“We must act quickly, Your Grace, and there are two tasks which lie ahead of us. We must send an embassy to France without delay in order that we may, with the help of our ally, liberate the Pope from this humiliating situation.”

“Who will go on such an embassy?”

“It is a delicate matter, in view of what is involved,” said Wolsey.

“You must go, Thomas. None could succeed as you will. You know all that is in my heart at this time; and you will bring about that which we need.”

Wolsey bowed his head. “I will begin my preparations at once, Your Grace.”

“You spoke of another task.”

“Yes, Your Grace. The Queen will have heard rumors of our court of enquiry. I think she should be told of Your Grace’s conflict with your conscience.”

“And who should tell her this?” demanded Henry.

Wolsey was silent and Henry went on sullenly: “I see what is in your mind. This should come from no lips but my own.”

THE PRINCESS MARY was seated in her favorite position on a stool at her mother’s feet, leaning her head against the velvet of Katharine’s skirt. She was saying how happy she was that they could be together again, and that the long sojourn at Ludlow seemed like a nightmare.

“Oh Mother,” cried the Princess, “is there any more news of my marriage?”

“None, my darling.”

“You would tell me, would you not. You would not try to shield me…because, Mother, I would rather know the truth.”

“My dearest, if I knew of anything concerning your marriage I should tell you, because I believe with you that it is well to be prepared.”

Mary took her mother’s hand and played with the rings as she used to when she was a baby.

“I fancied you seemed distraught of late. I wondered if there had been some evil news…”

Katharine laid her hand on her daughter’s head and held it firmly against her. She was glad Mary could not see her face. Evil news! she thought. The most evil news that could be brought to me! Your father is trying to cast me off.

But she would not tell Mary this, for who could say how the girl would act? She might be foolhardy enough, affectionate enough, to face her father, to upbraid him for his treatment of her mother. She must not do that. Henry could never endure criticism, more especially when he was doing something of which he might be ashamed. He could harm Mary as certainly as he could harm Katharine. Indeed, thought the Queen, my daughter’s destiny is so entwined with mine that the evil which befalls me must touch her also. Better for her not to know of this terrible shadow which hangs over us. Let her be kept in ignorance for as long as possible.

“There is no further news of your marriage,” said the Queen firmly. “Nor do I think there will be. These friendships with foreign countries are flimsy. They come and go.”

“It would be so much better if I were married to someone at home here,” said Mary.

“Perhaps that may happen,” replied the Queen soothingly. “Who shall say?”

Mary turned and lifted a radiant face to her mother. “You see Mother, not only should I marry someone who was of my own country…speaking my own language, understanding our ways…but I should be with you. Imagine, forevermore we should be together! Perhaps I should not always live at Court. Perhaps I should have a house in the country; but you would come and visit me there…and often I should be at Court. When my children are born you would be beside me. Would that not be so much happier than our being separated and your hearing the news through messengers?”

“It would be the happiest state which could befall us both.”

“Then you will tell my father so?”

“My darling, do you think I have any influence with your father?”

“Oh…but you are my mother.”

The Queen’s brows were drawn together in consternation and, realizing that she had let a certain bitterness creep into her voice, she said quickly: “Kings are eager to make marriages of state for their sons and daughters. But depend upon it, Mary, that if I have any influence it shall be used to bring you your heart’s desire.”

They were silent for a while and the Queen wondered whether Mary was really thinking of Reginald Pole when she talked of marriage, and whether it was possible for one so young to be in love with a man.

While they sat thus the King came into the apartment. He was alone, which was unusual, for he rarely moved about the Palace without a little cluster of attendants. He was more somberly clad than usual and he looked like a man with a private sorrow.

The Queen and Princess rose, and both curtseyed as he approached.

“Ha!” he said. “So our daughter is with you. It is pleasant to see you back at Court, daughter.”

“I thank Your Grace,” murmured Mary.

“And you play the virginals as well as ever, I believe. You must prove this to us.”

“Yes, Your Grace. Do you wish me to now?”

“No…no. I have a matter of some importance to discuss with your mother, and I am going to send you away. Go and practice on the virginals so that you will not disappoint me when you next show me your progress.”

As Mary curtseyed again and went away, Katharine was thinking: What can I say to him now, knowing what I do? How can anything ever be the same between us again?

As soon as Mary had left them, Henry turned to her, his hands clasped behind his back, on his face an expression of melancholy, his mouth tight and prim, the general effect being that before Katharine stood a man who had forced himself to a painful duty.

He began: “Katharine, I have a grievous matter to discuss with you.”

“I am eager to discuss that matter with you,” she answered.

“Ah,” he went on, “I would give half my kingdom if by so doing I could have prevented this from happening.”

“I pray you tell me what is in your mind.”

“Katharine, you were poor and desolate when I married you; you were a stranger in a strange land; you were the widow of my brother, and it seemed that there was no home for you in the country of your birth nor here in the country of your adoption.”

“I shall never forget those days,” she answered.

“And I determined to change all that. I was young and idealistic, and you were young too, then, and beautiful.”

“Both qualities which I no longer possess.”

The King turned his eyes to the ceiling. “That could be of no importance in this matter. But it seems that learned men…men of the Church…have examined our marriage…or what we believed to be our marriage…and they have found that it is no true marriage.”

“Then they deceive you,” she said fiercely.

“As I told them. But they are learned men and they quote the law to me. They read the Bible to me and tell me that I have sinned against God’s laws. We have both sinned, Katharine.”

“This makes no sense,” retorted Katharine. “How could we have sinned by marrying?”

“It is so clear to me now. It is in the Bible. Read it, Katharine. Read the twenty-first verse of the twentieth chapter of Leviticus. Then you will see that ours was no true marriage and that for all these years we have been living in sin.”

Katharine stared at him blankly. This was no surprise to her, but to hear it from his own lips, to see that stubborn determination which she knew so well, light up his eyes, shocked her more deeply than she had ever been shocked before.

“I know,” went on the King, “that this is a matter which distresses you, even as it distresses me. I will admit to a temptation to turn my back on this, to scoff at my critics, to say, Let us forget that I married my brother’s wife. But I can hear the voice of God speaking to me through my conscience…”

“When did your conscience first begin to trouble you?” she asked.

“It was when I heard the suggestion made by the Bishop of Tarbes; when he questioned Mary’s legitimacy.”

At the mention of her daughter, Katharine’s bravado crumpled; she looked older suddenly and a very frightened woman.

“You see,” went on the King, “much as this distresses me, and indeed it breaks my heart to consider that we can no longer live together…”

“Which we have not done for some time,” she reminded him. “We had ceased to be bedfellows before your conscience was troubled.”

“Your poor state of health…my consideration for you…my fears that another pregnancy would be beyond your strength…”

“And your interest in others…,” murmured Katharine.

But Henry went on as though he had not heard her: “What a tragedy when a King and Queen, so long married, so devoted to each other, should suddenly understand that their marriage is no marriage, and that they must separate. I have given this matter much thought I have said to myself, What will become of her? For myself, I have not cared. But for you, Katharine…you whom I always, until this time, thought of as my wife…” He paused, pretending to be overcome by his emotions.

She wanted to shout at him that she despised him, that she knew it was not his conscience that was behind this dastardly plot but his desire for a new wife. She wanted to say: How dare you cast insults at a Princess of Spain? And what of our daughter? Will you, merely that you may satisfy your lust in the sanctity of a marriage bed, cast me off and proclaim our daughter a bastard!

It was the thought of Mary which was unnerving her. Her usual calm had deserted her; she could feel her mouth trembling so that it would not form the words she wanted to utter; her limbs were threatening to collapse.

Henry went on: “Knowing your serious nature, your love of the Church and all it stands for, it seemed to me that you would wish to enter a convent and there pass the rest of your days in peace. It should be a convent of your choosing and you should be its abbess. You need have no fear that you would lose any of the dignity of your rank…”

A voice within her cried: Do you think you could strip me of that? You have insulted me by telling me that I lived with you for all these years when I was not your legal wife; and now you dare tell me—the daughter of Isabella and Ferdinand—that you will not rob me of my rank!

But the words would not come and the hot tears were spilling over and running down her cheeks.

Henry stared at her. He had never seen her thus. That she, who had always been so conscious of her dignity and rank, should weep, was something he had not considered.

It horrified him.

“Now, Kate,” he said, “you must not weep. You must be brave…as I would fain be. Think not that I cease to love you. Love you I always shall. The Bishops may say what they will; you may not be my wife in the eyes of God but always I shall love you as I did in those days when you were so poor and lonely and I lifted you up to share my throne. Do not grieve. Who knows…they may find that there is naught wrong with our marriage after all. Kate, Kate, dry your eyes. And remember this: For the time being this is our secret matter. We do not want it bruited abroad. If I could but come to terms with my conscience I would snap my fingers at these Bishops, Kate. I’d have them clapped into the Tower for daring to hint…”

But she was not listening. She did not believe him. She did not see the virtuous, religious man he was trying to show her; she saw only the lustful King who was tired of one wife and wanted another.

Her tears fell faster, and convulsive sobs shook her body.

Henry stood awhile, staring at her in dismay; then he turned abruptly and left her.