The King's Secret Matter

The King Penitent

THROUGH THE WINTER WHICH FOLLOWED, KATHARINE tried to ignore her fears. She continued to live much as she had lived before; her days were made up of sewing, reading, prayers, listening to music and playing an occasional game of cards with her maids.

There was one of these maids of honor who commanded her attention; she could no longer be blind to the position of Anne Boleyn in the Court. At the center of all the tourneys and masques was this woman, and her constant companions were her brother, Thomas Wyatt and some of the other bright men of the younger artistic set. They wrote plays and pageants which they acted for the King’s pleasure; and it was, during those fateful winter days, as though there were two groups—one which revolved round the Queen and the other round Anne; it was in Anne’s that the King was to be found.

Often Katharine would absent herself from some entertainment because her dignity would not allow her to see the King treating Anne Boleyn as though she were already the Queen.

She herself did not show by her demeanor that she regarded this woman as different from any other of her maids of honor; she made herself seem blind to the fact that the King was chafing against his marriage to her and made no secret of his desire for Anne.

As for Anne, imperious as she might be to all others, including the King, she was subdued by the dignity of the Queen; and because of Katharine’s restraint there were no difficult scenes between them. Henry avoided his wife as much as possible; they shared no part of their private life. He had said that he regarded himself as a bachelor and that while he deplored the necessity of waiting until he was publicly announced to be that, nothing could prevent him from regarding himself as one.

Only once did Katharine show that she knew Anne was trying to usurp her position; that was during a game of cards. Anne had dealt, and Katharine said: “My Lady Anne, you have good hap to stop at a king; but you are not like others, you will have all or none.”

Anne had seemed a little shaken by this comment and had played her hand badly, but Katharine remained serene, and those who watched said: “She believes that the King will come to his senses, that he will realize it is impossible for him to cast her off.”

Yet that evening when she was alone she thought of the imperious young beauty, with her flashing dark eyes and her exotic clothes, her grace, her manner of holding herself as though she already wore a crown on her head, and she dared not look too far into the future.

Sometimes she felt so alone. There was her daughter who meant everything to her, but she did not care to speak to Mary of this trouble. She hoped that Mary knew nothing of it; the child was too sensitive.

As long as we are together, she told herself, I suppose I can endure anything. But I shall stand out firmly against a convent, for Mary’s sake.

She considered those who might help her. Mendoza would stand beside her but he was only an ambassador and no theologian. His word would carry little weight in this country. Warham was an honest man, but he was old and very much in awe of Wolsey and the King. The women who had been her friends had been sent away from her. How comforting it would have been to have talked with Maria de Salinas! Luis Vives had left England after having been told sharply by Wolsey that he would be wise not to meddle in the King’s affairs. Vives was a scholar who was eager to avoid conflict, so perhaps he had thought it as well to leave while he could do so.

Thomas More came to see her. He did not speak of what was known as the King’s Secret Matter, but managed to convey to her the assurance that he was her friend.

John Fisher, to whom she confessed her sins, also came and brought comfort.

“I have been warned,” he told her, “not to meddle in the King’s matter, but if I can be of use to Your Grace I shall continue to disobey those orders.”

“I thank God for your friendship,” Katharine told him.

“Let us pray for courage,” answered the Bishop; and they prayed together.

Often during those winter months when her spirits were at their lowest, she thought of Fisher and More, and felt happier because they were not far away, and although they might not have much influence in this matter with the King, they were her friends.

With the spring came news from Rome. The Pope had appointed Lorenzo Campeggio, Cardinal of Santa Anastasia, to come to England to decide the case in conjunction with Cardinal Wolsey.

THERE WAS consternation at Court. It was June and the heat was oppressive. One day a man walking by the river suddenly fell and lay on the bank and, when certain passers-by paused to see what ailed him, it was clear that he was a victim of the sweating sickness.

The same day several more people died in the streets; the epidemic had come to London.

Periodically this scourge returned, killing people in their thousands, and when it appeared in the big cities such as London it brought panic with it for it was in the hot and fetid streets that the sickness was more quickly passed from one to another.

Henry was disturbed when the news was brought to him. He was at Greenwich and he decided that he would stay there for a few days and not journey to Westminster through the infected city even by barge.

It was his gentleman of the bedchamber, William Carey, who had brought him the news. He had been gracious to Will Carey because Anne expected him to be so to all her relations, and Will was in need of advancement, having very little money of his own. Moreover Henry was not displeased to favor the man, for he still thought affectionately of Will’s wife Mary, although he now heartily wished that she had never been his mistress, since there was a possibility that this might make it necessary for him to procure a dispensation on her account.

“The sweat is claiming more victims, Your Grace,” said Will. “I saw several people lying in the streets as I came through the city.”

The King’s eyes narrowed. “I do not know,” he said gloomily, “why this pestilence should visit my country every now and then. I do believe that there are some of my subjects who are of the opinion that it is sent to us when we have in some way offended God.”

“Ah, it may be so, Your Grace.”

Will was thinking that the King referred to his living in sin with Katharine and, because Mary had told him that they must always stand by Anne who had stood by them so magnificently, he added: “It may be that when your Grace’s matter is settled the sickness will pass.”

“It may well be, it may well be,” murmured the King.

But he was uneasy. He had ceased to cohabit with Katharine these many months, so he could no longer be said to be living in sin; it was strange that God should have sent the sweat now that he had realized his sinful way of life and was seeking to rectify it.

In common with most he believed that pestilences were a sign of Divine anger. Then, in spite of his desire to break away from Katharine, God had sent a pestilence to his Kingdom.

His expression was sullen, and Will, who by living near to him had learned when to remain silent, said no more. Indeed Will himself was experiencing a strange shivering fit which had nothing to do with being in the presence of the King. When Henry had strolled to the window and stood looking out on the river accompanied by certain of his gentlemen, Will seized the opportunity to leave the royal apartments.

Before he had time to reach his own quarters he felt the dreaded sweat on his body.

“YOUR GRACE, the sweat is in the Palace.”

Henry heard the dreaded words and stared at the man who was speaking to him.

“One of Your Grace’s gentlemen has succumbed to the sickness. He is dead.”

Henry shouted: “Who?”

“Will Carey, Your Grace.”

Will Carey! He had been speaking to the man only a few hours before.

Henry was trembling. “Leave me,” he said.

Will Carey dead! Will was a man whom he had favored because of his relationship to Anne. And he was the first victim in the Palace, the King’s own Palace.

Mary would be left a widow with her two young children, and Anne would be seeking help for her ere long, for she was ever zealous regarding the needs of her family.

But even as he thought of Anne his terror caught up with him. Now he must face the truth. Why was he seeking to rid himself of Katharine? Was it indeed because he feared he had lived in sin all these years, or was it because he was tired of Katharine and wanted a new wife?

He half closed his eyes and set his mouth into the familiar prim lines, but he could not hold that expression because he was thinking of Anne, Anne in black velvet, in scarlet and gold, Anne stretching out her arms to him, no longer holding him off. It was no use; there were times when even he could not deceive himself.

He sent for Wolsey; he believed then that in times of peril he would always send for Wolsey.

The Cardinal came from Hampton in his barge. He made no concessions to the plague, beyond the orange which he carried more as an elegant gesture than out of fear. Wolsey had little concern for the sweat; he had other and more pressing matters with which to occupy himself.

“We are deeply disturbed by this pestilence,” said the King. “It seems that the Almighty is displeased with us.”

The Cardinal asked: “For what reason does Your Grace think God is displeased?”

“I will admit,” answered the King, “that I have thought with much eagerness of my approaching marriage.”

Wolsey looked grim. Let the King’s conscience worry him. It was well that it should. If he lusted after Anne Boleyn, let him regard that as a sin.

“That may well be,” said Wolsey.

The King looked startled, but the Cardinal’s expression was as gloomy as his own.

“It is true that I am not in actual fact married to Katharine,” went on the King almost defiantly.

Wolsey spread his hands. “Perhaps, Your Grace, it would be well, until we have proved that the marriage with the Lady Katharine is no true marriage, if Your Grace continued to live the life of a bachelor.”

A hot flush spread itself across Henry’s features as he muttered: “I have heard Mass each day…more than once. I have confessed each day…”

“None knows Your Grace’s piety better than I, but it may be that is not enough.”

“Not…enough!”

“It may be that it would be wise at this stage to send the Lady Anne back to her father’s castle.”

Henry looked so angry for a few moments that Wolsey felt he had gone too far. But after a while the King nodded. He was clearly very frightened.

“Mayhap you are right,” he said.

An easy victory, thought the Cardinal; and that day the Lady Anne Boleyn was sent to her father’s castle at Hever.

As for Henry, he changed his mode of life. He made several wills; he was often in the Queen’s company when they conversed like good friends, and he would sit with her watching her at her tapestry; when she went to a religious service in the chapel, he would accompany her and none appeared to be more devout than the King. It would seem that he had dismissed Anne Boleyn and returned to the Queen in all but one respect; he would not share her bed.

How virtuously he lived during those hot summer weeks! Soon after Carey’s death he insisted that the Court leave Greenwich, and first they went to Eltham and then farther away from the City. Henry kept his physicians beside him; he was in terror that he might become a victim of the sickness.

He made Dr. Butts talk to him of plasters and lotions which might serve, in less severe cases, to save the lives of victims. His greatest pleasure was to concoct these cures with the doctor, and he even made a plaster of his own and gave the recipe to apothecaries that they might make it for their customers. It was said to be efficacious in mild cases and was known as The King’s Own Plaster.

Still further news came of death. When his old friend Sir William Compton died, Henry was deeply distressed. He remembered how, on his first illness, after his return from France, when an ulcer had appeared on his leg, he and Compton had made plasters together, for Compton had also suffered with an ulcer.

And now…Compton was a victim of the sweat!

The Cardinal, who was so busy with his affairs at Hampton, was surprised by the King’s conscience which insisted that at this time he part with Anne Boleyn by sending her home to Hever while he himself posed as a virtuous husband to Katharine, although not sharing her bed. Wolsey wondered whether Henry admitted to himself that he avoided this because he found her unattractive or whether he told himself that he still believed she was not his wife.

But although he had sent Anne away, Henry wrote loving letters to her, erotic letters, telling her of his need of her, hinting at what the future held for them both. As though God, being so busy watching him at confession and Mass, did not see the sly little notes which were sent behind His back.

At one time the Cardinal might have rejoiced in this characteristic of the King’s; now he knew how dangerous it might prove. So Wolsey was one who was too concerned with his own affairs to be worried by the possibility of death through the sweating sickness.

Nor was Katharine afraid. If death came she would be ready to welcome it, for life had little to offer her. Many people were dying, and accounts of deaths came every day, but she had few friends to lose. She thanked God that Maria de Salinas was in the country far from risk of infection, and Margaret Pole was with Mary who had also been sent out of danger.

Meanwhile the King lived his ostentatiously virtuous life and longed for the epidemic to pass.

But one day there came news from Hever which threw the King into a panic: Anne was a victim of the sweating sickness.

Henry threw aside his penitence and sat down at once to write a letter to her.

Her news had made him desolate. He would willingly share her sufferings. He could not send her his first physician because the man was absent at this time and he feared delay, so he was sending her his good Dr. Butts. She must be guided by Dr. Butts. He longed for her, and to see her again would be greater comfort to him than all the most precious jewels in the world.

Then he settled himself to wait. It was no use. He could no longer pretend. He could no longer sit with the Queen and listen to her conversation; he had to face the truth. He wanted Anne. He would have Anne.

So his conscience—on which he could almost always rely to do what was required of it—began greatly to trouble him once more concerning his marriage with his brother’s widow. If the sickness had been a sign of God’s anger, that anger was the result of his living in sin with Katharine, and the sooner he was free of her the better pleased would he—and God—be. Why was that Cardinal Campeggio taking such a long time to arrive? Wolsey was a laggard. Why had he not arranged matters better than this?

He waited for news from Hever. He could think of nothing but his need of her. And when that news came, and it was good news, he was full of joy for many days, taking it that, since his darling’s life was spared, this was a sign of heavenly approval for their union.

He no longer sat with Katharine; there was no longer need to confess so regularly, to pray so long.

The sickness was abating; Anne had recovered; soon she would be with him.

But where was Campeggio? And what was the sluggish Wolsey doing to bring him his heart’s desire?