The King's Secret Matter

The Marriage Brief

CARDINAL LORENZO CAMPEGGIO ARRIVED IN LONDON IN October. It was three months since he had set out from Rome, and he had been expected long before. Wolsey received him at York Place where he arrived inconspicuously, much to Wolsey’s disgust, for even now, anxious as he was, he hated to miss an opportunity of giving the people a display of his magnificence. Wolsey would have preferred to go out with his household about him—his silver crosses, his pillars of silver, his seal and his Cardinal’s hat—and to have a ceremonial meeting with his fellow Cardinal in public.

Campeggio had other ideas and had kept his arrival a secret until he came quietly to York Place.

Wolsey embraced him and gave orders for apartments to be made ready for the distinguished visitor. “The best we have to offer. Your Eminence, we have long awaited this pleasure.”

Campeggio winced as Wolsey took his hands. “I suffer agonies from the gout,” he told his host; and indeed it was obvious that he spoke the truth. When Wolsey looked into that pale face with the lines of pain strongly marked on it, he assured himself that here was a man who would not be difficult to lead. Surely one who suffered as Campeggio did would be more concerned with resting his weary limbs than fighting Katharine’s battle.

“We shall do our utmost to make you comfortable here,” Wolsey told him; “and we shall put the best physicians at your service.”

“There is little physicians can do for me,” mourned Campeggio. “My friend, there are days when I am in such pain that I cannot bear the light of day. Then I ask nothing but to lie in a dark room and that no one should come near me.”

“Yours must have been a grievously painful journey.”

Campeggio lifted his shoulders despairingly. “There were times when it was impossible for me to ride; even travelling in a litter was too much for me. Hence the delay.”

Wolsey was not so foolish as to believe that Campeggio’s gout was the only reason for the delay. He guessed that the Pope, in his very delicate position, would not be eager to proclaim the marriage of the Emperor’s aunt invalid. Clearly Clement was playing for time. Campeggio’s gout had been very useful; and doubtless would be in the future.

“The King,” Wolsey told Campeggio, “is most eager to have this matter settled.”

“So I believe.” Campeggio shook his head sadly. “It is not good for the Church,” he went on. “Whatever the outcome, His Holiness will not feel easy in his mind.”

“But if the King’s marriage is no marriage…”

“His Holiness is horrified at the thought that the King of England and the Infanta of Spain may have been living in sin for eighteen years.”

“It should not be a difficult matter,” insisted Wolsey, “to prove that owing to the Queen’s previous marriage, that with the King cannot be legal.”

“I cannot agree,” Campeggio retorted. “It may well prove a most difficult matter.”

Wolsey understood then that the Pope was not going to grant a divorce, because he was too much in awe of the Emperor; and Wolsey believed that Clement had sent Campeggio, who was as much an expert in vacillation as he was himself, to conduct the case with very definite orders that nothing must be settled in a hurry, and before any decision was reached the Vatican must be informed.

The King would be infuriated by the delay, and if he were disappointed in the manner in which the case was conducted, he would blame Wolsey.

WHEN CAMPEGGIO had recovered from the strain of his journey, he went, accompanied by Wolsey, to Greenwich to see the King.

Henry received him with outward cordiality but inward suspicions. He did not like the appearance of Campeggio—the Legate was unhealthy; he looked pale and tired; his limbs were swollen with the gout which had so lengthened his journey across France. Could not Clement have sent a healthy man! the King grumbled to himself. Moreover there was a shrewd look in the fellow’s eyes, a certain dignity which Henry believed was meant to remind him that he was a servant of the Pope and served no other.

By God, thought the King, there has been delay enough.

“Welcome, welcome,” he said; and bade Campeggio be seated with Wolsey beside him.

When Henry had offered condolences for the Legate’s sufferings he plunged into the real reasons for his being in England.

“There has been much delay,” he said, “and I wish the proceedings to begin at once.”

“As soon as possible,” murmured Campeggio. “But I would like to say that if we could settle this matter without much noise it would please His Holiness.”

“I care not how it is settled, provided it is settled,” said the King.

“His Holiness begs Your Grace to consider the effect of a divorce on your subjects.”

Wolsey watching closely saw the danger signals leap up in the King’s eyes. He said quickly: “His Holiness has no need to ask His Grace to do that. His Grace’s one great concern is the wellbeing of his subjects, and it is for their good that he seeks freedom from this alliance which has proved a barren one.”

Henry threw a grateful glance at his Chancellor.

“Then,” went on Campeggio, “I am sure I have an acceptable solution. His Holiness will examine the dispensation made by his predecessor, Julius II, and adjust it, making a new dispensation in which there can be no manner of doubt that the marriage between Henry Tudor and Katharine of Aragon is lawful.”

Wolsey dared not look at the King because he knew that Henry would be unable to contain his rage.

“So I have waited three months to hear that!” spluttered Henry. “It may well be that I know more of this matter than any other person. I have grappled with my conscience, and it tells me this: never…never…shall I find favor in the sight of God while I continue to live with a woman who is not my wife in His eyes.”

“Your Grace knows more of the matter than any theologian, it seems,” said Campeggio with a faint smile.

“That is so!” thundered Henry. “And all I want of you is a decision whether or not that marriage is valid.”

Campeggio, who had a wry sense of humor, murmured: “I gather that what Your Grace wishes is a decision that the marriage is not valid.”

“His Grace has suffered much from indecision,” added Wolsey.

“The indecision of others,” retorted Campeggio. “I see that there is no uncertainty in his mind. Now His Holiness is most eager that there should be an amicable settlement of this grievous matter, and my first duty will be to see the Queen and suggest to her that she retire into a convent. If she would do this and renounce her marriage, His Holiness would then without delay declare the marriage null and void. It would be her choice, and none could complain of that.”

Henry’s anger was a little appeased. If Katharine would but be sensible, how simply this matter could end. What was her life outside convent walls that she could not make this small sacrifice? She could live inside a convent in much the same manner as she did outside. It seemed to him a little thing to ask.

“She might be told,” he suggested, “that if she will retire to a convent, her daughter shall not suffer but shall be next in succession after my legitimate male heirs. There, you see how I am ready to be reasonable. All I ask is that she shall slip quietly away from Court into her convent.”

“I will put this matter to her,” replied Campeggio. “It is the only solution which would please the Holy Father. If she should refuse…”

“Why should she refuse?” demanded Henry. “What has she to lose? She shall have every comfort inside convent walls as she does outside.”

“She would have to embrace a life of celibacy.”

“Bah!” cried the King. “She has embraced that for several months. I tell you this: I have not shared her bed all that time. Nor would I ever do so again.”

“Unless of course,” murmured Campeggio rather slyly, “His Holiness declared the marriage to be a true one.”

The King’s anger caught him off his guard. “Never! Never! Never!” he cried.

Campeggio smiled faintly. “I see that an angel descending from Heaven could not persuade you to do what you have made up your mind not to do. My next duty is to see the Queen.”

KATHARINE RECEIVED the two Cardinals in her apartments where Campeggio opened the interview by telling her that he came to advise her to enter a convent. Wolsey, watching her closely, saw the stubborn line of her mouth and knew that she would not give way without a struggle.

“I have no intention of going into a convent,” she told him.

“Your Grace, this may be a sacrifice which is asked of you, but through it you would settle a matter which gives great distress to many people.”

“Distress?” she said significantly. “To whom does it bring greater distress than to me?”

“Do you remember what happened in the case of Louis XII? His wife retired to a convent and so made him free to marry again.”

“I do not intend to follow the example of others. Each case is different. For myself I say that I am the King’s wife, and none shall say that I am not.”

“Does Your Grace understand that unless you comply with this request there must be a case which will be tried in a court?” Wolsey asked.

She turned to Wolsey. “Yes, my lord Cardinal, I understand.”

“If you would take our advice…,” began Wolsey.

“Take your advice, my lord? I have always deplored your voluptuous way of life, and I know full well that when you hate you are as a scorpion. You hate my nephew because he did not make you Pope. And because I am his aunt you have turned your venom on me, and I know that it is your malice which has kindled this fire. Do you think I would take advice from you?”

Wolsey turned to Campeggio and his expression said: You see that we have a hysterical woman with whom to deal.

“Your Grace,” interposed Campeggio, “I would tell you that, if you allow this case to be tried in the light of day, it may well go against you, in which event your good name would suffer grievous damage.”

“I should rejoice if this case were brought into the light of day,” replied Katharine, “for I have no fear of the truth.”

Campeggio’s hope of an easy settlement of this matter was fast evaporating. The King was determined to separate from the Queen; and the Queen, in her way, was as stubborn as the King.

He still did not abandon hope of forcing her into a convent. If he could get her to admit that her marriage with Arthur had been consummated, he believed he could persuade her to go into a convent. He had summed up her character. She was a pious woman and would never lie in the confessional even though, for her daughter’s sake, she might do so outside it.

He said: “Would Your Grace consider confessing to me?”

She did not hesitate for a moment. “I should be happy to do so.”

Campeggio turned to Wolsey who said immediately: “I will take my leave.”

He went back with all haste to the King to tell him what had taken place at the interview; and Campeggio and Katharine went into the Queen’s private chamber that she might confess to him.

When she knelt the Legate from Rome asked the fatal question: “Your Grace was married to Prince Arthur for some six months, from November until April; did you never during that time share a bed with the Prince?”

“Yes,” answered Katharine, “I did.”

“On how many occasions?”

“We slept together only seven nights during those six months.”

“Ah,” said Campeggio, “and would you tell me that not once during those seven nights…”

Katharine interrupted: “Always he left me as he found me—a virgin.”

“And this you swear in the name of God the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost?”

“This I swear,” said Katharine emphatically.

He sighed, knowing that she spoke the truth; the gout was beginning to nag and he longed for the peace of a dark room. He could see that this case was not going to be settled without a great deal of trouble; nothing, he decided, must be settled quickly. The situation in Europe was fluid. It would go ill with him and the Holy Father if they granted Henry his wish and then found that the whole of Christendom was in the hands of the Emperor.

HENRY WAS FURIOUS when he learned of Katharine’s determination not to go into a convent.

He summoned Wolsey, and the Chancellor came apprehensively, wondering in what mood he would find the King. He was not kept long in doubt.Henry was striding up and down his apartment, his little eyes seeming almost to disappear in the folds of puffy flesh; an unhealthy tinge of purple showed in his cheeks.

“So the Queen will not go into a convent!” he roared. “She does this out of perversity. What difference could it make to her? As for your gouty companion, I like him not. I think the pair of you put your heads together and plot how best you can cheat me of my rights.”

“Your Grace!”

“Ay!” said the King. “Cardinals! They fancy they serve the Pope.” His eyes narrowed still further. “They shall discover that the Pope has no power to protect them from the wrath of a King!”

“Your Grace, I admit to sharing your disappointment in Campeggio. He seems to delight in delay. I have reasoned with him. I have told him of your Grace’s wishes. I have reminded him that when the Holy Father was in distress he came to you, and how out of your benevolence…”

“’Tis so,” interrupted the King. “I sent him money. And what good did it do? You advised it, Master Wolsey. You said: ‘We will help him now and later he will help us.’ Whom do you serve—your King or your Pope?”

“With all my heart and soul, with all the powers that God has given me, I serve my King.”

The King softened slightly. “Then what are we to do, Thomas? What are we to do? How much longer must I go on in this sorry state?”

“When the case is heard, Your Grace, we shall have the decision of the court…”

“Presided over by that man…he has his orders from Clement, and I may not like those orders.”

“Your Grace, you have your own Chancellor to fight for you.”

“Ah, Thomas, if they had but let you try this case as I so wished!”

“Your Grace would have been free of his encumbrances ere now.”

“I know it. I know it. But this waiting galls me. There are times when I think I am surrounded by enemies who plot against me.”

“Clement is uncertain at this time, Your Grace. I hear that he is not enjoying good health. The Sack of Rome and his imprisonment have shocked him deeply. It may be that he will not be long for this world.”

Henry looked at his Chancellor and suddenly he burst out laughing.

“Ha!” he cried. “If we had an English Pope there would not be all this trouble for the King of England; that’s what you’re thinking, eh Thomas?”

“An English Pope would never forget that he owed his good fortune to an English King.”

Henry clapped his hand on Wolsey’s shoulder.

“Well,” he said, “we’ll pray that Clement may see the light or…fail to see aught else. He’s shaking in his shoes, that Holy Father of ours. He fears to offend Charles and he fears to offend me, so he sends his gouty old advocate and says: ‘Do nothing…promise nothing…wait!’ By God and all His saints, I cannot think how I endure him and his master’s policy.”

“We shall win our case, Your Grace. Have no fear of it. Remember that your Chancellor will sit with Campeggio, and while he is there Your Grace has the best advocate he could possibly procure.”

“We shall find means of winning our case,” said Henry darkly. “But it grieves me that the Queen should have so little regard for the fitness of this matter as to refuse our request. Why should she refuse to go into a convent! What difference could it make to her?” His eyes narrowed. “There are times when I wonder if she does this to spite me; and if she is so determined to do me harm, how can we know where such plans would stop? I have my enemies. It might be that they work against me in secret. If the Queen were involved with them in some plot against me…”

Henry fell silent. He could not continue even before his Chancellor; and to Wolsey his words and the secretive manner in which he said them were like a cold breeze on a hot summer’s day. The climate of the King’s favor was growing very uncertain.

Wolsey could not have much hope for the Queen’s future peace if she did not comply with the King’s desires. Perhaps she was unwise. Perhaps life in a convent, however abhorrent it seemed to her, would be preferable to what her life would be were she to arouse the full fury of the King’s displeasure.

SINCE THE QUEEN REFUSED to enter a convent, Campeggio realized that there would have to be a court case; and as this was so it was impossible to deny Katharine the advisers who would be granted to any defendant in such circumstances.

Accordingly William Warham and John Fisher, Archbishops of Canterbury and Rochester respectively, were appointed her leading counsel; the Bishop of London, Cuthbert Tunstall and Henry Standish, Bishop of St. Asaph’s, joined them with John Clerk, the Bishop of Bath and Wells. It was arranged that as the Queen was a foreigner she should not rely entirely on Englishmen for her defense, and Luis Vives and one of her confessors, Jorge de Athequa, were appointed with two Flemings. The Flemings and Vives were abroad, and it seemed unlikely that they would be of much use to her; and she was shrewd enough to know that, with the exception of John Fisher, those who had been chosen to support her cause would be in great fear of offending the King.

Preparations for the hearing were going forward and Campeggio looked on with some misgivings. His great plan was to postpone the hearing on any pretext whatsoever, as he dreaded being forced to give a judgment while the affairs of Europe were so unsettled. His gout provided him with a good excuse, and there were whole days when he shut himself in a darkened room while the servants assured all callers that he was too ill to see them.

One day when Katharine was with her chaplain, Thomas Abell, the priest said to her: “Your Grace, the Imperial ambassador desires urgent speech with you, and he wishes to come before you disguised as a priest as he is fearful that, if he comes undisguised, that which he has to say to you will be overheard.”

Katharine was torn between her anger that she could not receive her nephew’s ambassador without fear of being overheard, and apprehension as to what new schemes were afoot.

She looked at Thomas Abell, and wondered how far she could trust him. He had not been long in her service but she could say that during that time he had served her well. She decided that she had such need of friends that she must accept friendship when it was offered, without looking too suspiciously at it.

“He has asked my assistance in this matter,” went on Thomas Abell, “and being eager to serve Your Grace I told him I would do what I could.”

“Then bring him to me in my chapel,” she said. “I will speak to him there.”

So it was that Iñigo de Mendoza came to her robed as a priest, a hood concealing his features, and as, there in the chapel, he knelt beside her, she realized at once that he was deeply excited.

“Your Grace,” he said, “the best of news! Do you remember a de Puebla who once served your father here in England?”

“I remember him well,” Katharine answered. “He is long since dead.”

“But his son who is now a chaplain lives, and he has found an important document among his father’s papers.”

“What document is this?”

“It is a brief of the same date as the Bull of Dispensation granted by Julius II, but this goes more deeply into the matter, and if we could lay our hands on the original—which is among the archives in Madrid—we could show without doubt that your marriage with the King is legal.”

“You have this?”

“I have the copy of it which de Puebla has given me. I propose to put it into the hands of your defending counsel.”

“Then pray do this,” said the Queen.

“I trust none of them save Fisher and I am afraid that, as this case is being heard in England, there will be scarcely a man here who would stand against the wishes of the King. What we must work for is to have the case tried in Rome. Then we could hope for justice. At least we have this document, which I have brought to you. Your best plan would be to give it to Fisher. Tell him that it is but a copy and that the original is in Spain. I think we shall see some consternation among our enemies.”

Katharine took the document and studied it. She was immediately aware of its importance and her spirits rose as Mendoza took his leave and left her in the chapel.

THE KING, pacing up and down his apartment, stopped to glare at his Chancellor.

“It seems that everyone conspires against me! When is this hearing to take place? When am I to be granted my divorce? With others, these matters are settled in a matter of weeks. With me they must last for years. And why? Because those who should serve me, bestir themselves not at all.”

The Cardinal’s thoughts were miles away…in Rome. Heartening news had been brought to him a few days before. Clement had suffered a great shock, his health was declining, and it was believed that he could not recover.

Let this be granted to me, prayed the Cardinal. Here is the way out of danger, the path which will lead me to new power. My day is over in England. I am going down…down…The King grows tired of his Thomas Wolsey who once so pleased him, since Anne Boleyn pours poison into his ear. My great mistake was when I made an enemy of that woman. She will not believe that it was at the King’s command that I berated her, that I told her she was not worthy to marry into the House of Northumberland. But she blames me; and she has determined to destroy me.

Once it might have been said: Thomas Wolsey’s will is the King’s will. That was no longer so, but it was true to say that that which Anne Boleyn desired, the King desired also, for at this time his one wish was to please her.

The woman was a witch. None other could so completely have bemused the King.

So he must become the new Pope. He prayed at every possible moment of the day, and often during sleepless nights, for this mercy. But he was not the man to trust to prayer. He had climbed high, he had often said to himself, through the actions of Thomas Wolsey rather than of God. Now Thomas Wolsey must continue to fight. He had asked François for his help, and François had promised to give it. But would the French King prove as unreliable as the Emperor? Wolsey had sent Gardiner to Rome with a list of Cardinals and bags of gold. No expense was to be spared, no bribe was to be considered too much. He would spend all he had to win at the next Conclave, because this time he knew he was not only fighting for power; he was fighting for his life.

So his thoughts wandered during the King’s tirade, and fervently he hoped that soon he would be free of the unpredictable moods of the King of England.

But the King’s next words were so startling that Wolsey’s thoughts were diverted from his hopes of the next Conclave.

“This brief that is in the Queen’s hands. We must get it. Warham tells me that it is worked out in such detail that it gives no shadow of a doubt that the marriage is a true one.”

“This…brief?” murmured Wolsey.

The King was too excited to show his impatience. “Warham has brought this news. He says that through de Puebla’s son this document has reached the Queen. It is enough to win the case for her.”

Wolsey was alert. He had to remember that the Papal Crown was not yet his; Clement was not even dead; he must not lose his grip on the power he possessed in England. He must show himself as eager as he ever was to work for the King.

He asked a few searching questions and then he said: “But, Your Grace, this is not the original document. It is only a copy.”

“But the original document is in Spain.”

“First,” went on the Chancellor, “we shall declare our belief that the paper which the Queen holds will be considered a forgery unless she produces the original. Therefore she must write immediately to the Emperor imploring him to forward the original to her here.”

“And when it comes…if indeed it be as the copy?”

“It will come to her counsel,” said Wolsey with a smile. “We shall not have any difficulty in laying our hands on it when it is in England.”

Henry smiled slyly.

“And,” went on Wolsey, “when it is in our possession…” He lifted his hands in a significant gesture. “But, Your Grace will see that we must get that brief, and our first step is to persuade the Queen to write to her nephew, urging him to send the document to her.”

“I shall order her to do this without delay,” said the King.

“Your Grace,” Wolsey began tentatively and hesitated.

“Yes, yes?” said the King impatiently.

“It would be well if the Queen wrote on the advice of her counsel. Allow me to send for Warham and Tunstall. They will not hesitate to obey Your Grace.”

Henry nodded and his eyes were affectionate once more. By God, he thought, this man Wolsey has much skill. Then he frowned. He greatly wished that Anne did not dislike the Chancellor so. He had told her that Wolsey was working for them, but she would not believe it. He was her enemy, she said, whose great desire was to marry the King to a French Princess, and now that he knew the King would have none other than Anne Boleyn he sought to delay the divorce with all the means in his power.

There were times when Henry agreed with Anne; but when he was alone with his Chancellor he was sure she was wrong. He did wish that there was not this hatred between two for whom he had such regard.

“Do that,” he commanded.

“We must watch Fisher,” said Wolsey. “There is a man whom I do not trust to serve Your Grace.”

“He’s one of these saints!” cried the King. “I know full well his kind, that which declares: ‘I would give my head for what I believe to be right.’ Master Fisher should take care. He may one day be called on to prove his words. And now…send Warham and Tunstall to me. By God, we’ll have that document in our hands before many weeks have passed. As for Master Campeggio, you may tell him this: If he delays much longer he will have to answer to me.”

Wolsey bowed his head; he could not hide the smile which touched his lips. Campeggio cared not for the King of England, because he answered to one master only—a man who, in his own kingdom, was more powerful than any king.

It was pleasant to brood on Papal power.

Wolsey’s lips were mocking; he was praying for the death of Clement and that the result of the next Conclave might bring him freedom from an exacting master and the utmost power in his own right.

KATHARINE RECEIVED her advisers and as they stood in a semicircle about her she looked at each man in turn: Warham, Fisher, Tunstall, Clerk and Standish. They were eagerly explaining to her what she must do and Warham was their spokesman.

“It is clear, Your Grace, that the copy of this document cannot be accepted as of any importance. We must have the original. And we know full well that its contents are of the utmost importance to Your Grace’s case.”

“Do you suggest that I should write to the Emperor, asking for it?”

“It is the only recourse open to Your Grace.”

“And you are all in agreement that this is what I should do?”

There was a chorus of assent, only Fisher remaining silent.

She did not comment on this, but she understood. The Bishop of Rochester was warning her that on no account must the document be brought to England.

“The King grows impatient,” went on Warham, “for until this document is produced the case cannot be opened. He declares that Cardinal Campeggio is delighted by the delay, but His Grace grows weary of it. Your Grace should with all speed write to the Emperor imploring him to send this document to you here in England.”

“Since we have a good copy here,” she asked, “why should that not suffice?”

“A copy is but a copy which could well be a forgery. We must have the original. For your sake and that of the Princess Mary, Your Grace, I beg of you to write to the Emperor for the original of this document.”

She looked at Fisher and read the warning in his eyes. He was a brave man. He would have spoken out but he knew—and she knew—that if he did so he would shortly be removed from her Council of advisers and no good would come of that. But his looks implied that on no account must she write to Spain for the document and that it was false to say that the copy would have no value in the court. This was a ruse to bring the original document to England and there destroy it, since it would prove an impediment to the King’s case.

She answered them boldly: “Gentlemen, we have here a very fair copy. That will suffice to show the court. It is well, I believe that the original should remain in the Emperor’s keeping. I shall not send to Spain for it.”

The men who were pledged to defend her left her, and she saw from Fisher’s looks that she had acted correctly.

But when they had gone she was afraid. Hers was a pitiable position, when she could not trust her own Council.

KATHARINE STOOD before the Royal Council which was presided over by the Chancellor. Wolsey studied her shrewdly. Poor, brave woman, he thought, what hope does she think she has when she attempts to stand against the King’s wishes?

“Your Grace,” said the Chancellor, “I have to tell you that I speak for the King and his Council. Are we to understand that you refuse to write to the Emperor asking him to return that brief which is of the utmost importance in this case?”

“You may understand that. There is a good copy of the brief which can be used in the court; and I see no reason why the original should not remain for safe keeping in the hands of the Emperor.”

“Your Grace, you will forgive my temerity but, in refusing to obey the King’s command, you lay yourself open to a charge of high treason.”

Katharine was silent and Wolsey saw that he had shocked her. Now she would perhaps begin to realize the folly of pitting her strength against that of the King and his ministers who, more realistic than she was, understood that not to obey meant risking their lives.

“Your Grace,” went on Wolsey soothingly, “I have prepared here a draft of a letter which the King desires you to copy and send to the Emperor.”

She held out her hand for it and read a plea to her nephew that he dispatch the brief with all speed to England as it was most necessary for her defense in the pending action.

She looked at the Chancellor, the man whom she had begun to hate because she considered him to be the instigator of all her troubles. He was ruthless; he had to procure the divorce for the King or suffer his displeasure and he did not care how he achieved that end. She did not doubt that when the brief came to England it would be mislaid and destroyed, for it was the finest evidence she could possibly have.

“So I am certain,” went on the Chancellor, “that Your Grace will wish to comply with the King’s desire in this matter.”

She bowed her head. She could see that she would have to write the letter, but she would write another explaining that she had written under duress. She felt desolate, for it seemed that she depended so much on that pale aloof young man who might so easily consider her troubles unworthy of his attention.

Wolsey read her thoughts and said: “Your Grace must swear not to write to the Emperor any other letter but this. If you did so, that could only be construed as high treason.”

She saw her predicament. She had to give way, so she bowed before the power of her enemies.

AS SHE KNELT in her chapel, a priest came and knelt beside her.

“Your Grace,” whispered Mendoza, “the brief must not come to England.”

“You know I must write to my nephew,” she replied. “I am being forced to it, and I gave my word that I would write no other letter to him.”

“Then we must find a means of communicating without letters.”

“A messenger whom we could trust?”

“That is so. Francisco Felipez did good service once.”

“Perhaps he would be suspect if he did so again.”

“Is there anyone else in your suite whom you could trust?”

“There is Montoya. He is a Spaniard, and loyal. But I do not think he would be so resourceful as Felipez.”

“Then let us chance Felipez. This time he should not ask for permission, as the matter is very dangerous. Let him leave at once for Spain, with nothing in writing. When he reaches the Emperor he must explain to him how dangerous it would be to send the brief to England as it would almost surely be destroyed.”

“Felipez shall leave at once,” said the Queen. “He will then have a good start of the messenger with the letter.”

“Let us pray for the success of his journey,” murmured Mendoza. “But later. Now there is not a moment to be lost.”

THE CARDINAL, brooding on his affairs in his private apartments at York Place, was interrupted by the arrival of a man who asked permission to speak with him on a private matter.

Wolsey received the man at once, for he was one of his spies in the Queen’s household.

“Your Eminence,” said the man, “Francisco Felipez disappeared from the Queen’s household yesterday. I have made one or two enquiries and it seems he was seen riding hard on the road to the coast.”

Wolsey rose and his eyes glowed with anger.

So the Queen, for all her outward resignation, was putting up a fight. Her man must not reach the Emperor, as the King’s hopes of procuring a divorce could well depend on that brief. He would not rest—nor would the King—until it was in their hands.

Felipez must be stopped before he reached Madrid.

THE QUEEN was seated with a few women while she worked with her needle and one of them read aloud. She was anxious that there should be no change in her routine.

Yet she was not listening to the reader; her thoughts were with her nephew. Felipez would have reached him by now; he would be explaining all that was happening to the Emperor’s aunt in England, and the urgent need for Charles to hold that brief in safe keeping, so that it could be shown to the Pope if there were any attempt to declare her marriage invalid.

Charles was a man of honor; he had the utmost respect for family ties, and he would see that to treat her as Henry was planning to do was an insult to Spain. He would understand, as soon as Felipez explained to him, that the King’s ministers were not to be trusted. She blamed the King’s ministers—chief of them Wolsey. She could never for long see Henry as the monster he sometimes appeared to be. He had been led astray, she believed. He was young in heart and spirit; he was lusty and sensual and she had never greatly pleased him physically; she was too religiously minded and the sexual act to her was only tolerable as the necessary prelude to childbearing. Henry had always seemed to her like a boy; those childish games which he had once played at every masque, when he had disguised himself and expected all to be so surprised when the disguise was removed, were symbolic. He had not grown up; he was easily led astray. He was still the chivalrous knight who had rescued her from humiliation when he was eighteen years old. Never would she forget those early days of their marriage; always she would remember that he it was who had rescued her. At this time he was in the thrall of the wicked minister, Wolsey, and he was bemused by the black-eyed witch named Anne Boleyn.

If she could live through these troublous days, if she could bring Henry to a sense of duty, she was sure that they would settle down happily together. This was what she prayed for.

But in the meantime she must continue the fight against the machinations of those about him and the inclinations of his own youthful desires.

There was a commotion below her window and, setting aside her work, she went to it and looking out, saw a man limping into the Palace; his arm was bandaged and it was clear that he had recently met with an accident.

She stood very still, clenching her hands, for she had recognized the man as Francisco Felipez, who should at this time be in Spain.

She turned to the group of women and said: “I think that one of my servants has met with an accident. One of you must go below and bring him to me at once. I would hear what has befallen him.”

One of them obeyed and Katharine said to the others: “Put away the work for today and leave me.”

When Francisco Felipez came to her her first emotion was relief to see that he was not seriously hurt.

“You have been involved in an accident?” she asked.

His expression was apologetic. “I was riding through France, Your Grace, and in the town of Abbeville I was set upon by footpads. They knocked me unconscious and rifled my pockets.” He grinned ruefully. “They found nothing to interest them there, Your Grace. So they left me with a broken arm which meant that I was unable to ride my horse. A merchant bound it for me and helped me to return to England.”

“My poor Francisco,” said the Queen, “you are in pain.”

“It is nothing, Your Grace. I can only regret that I had to delay so long before returning to you, and that I was unable to continue my journey because of my inability to ride.”

“I will send you to my physician. Your arm needs attention.”

“And Your Grace has no further commission for me?”

Katharine shook her head. She understood that he had been seen to leave England, that the nature of his mission had been guessed, that he had been incapacitated by the Cardinal’s men, and that the hope of conveying an understanding of her peril to the Emperor was now slight.

THE CARDINAL sat with his head buried in his hands. He had been reading dispatches from Rome, and had learned that Clement, after seeming near to death, was making a remarkable recovery. The position at the Vatican was more hopeful and it seemed as though the Pope had taken a new grip on life. It followed that the chances of a Conclave in the near future were gradually but certainly fading; and the Cardinal’s position in England had worsened.

Each day the King viewed him with more disfavor after listening to the complaints of Anne Boleyn. Continually Henry chafed against the delay. Had there ever, he asked himself, been such procrastination over such a simple matter? Other Kings, when they needed to rid themselves of unwanted wives, procured a dispensation and the matter was done with. But he, Henry Tudor, who had always until now, taken what he wanted, was balked at every turn.

And what could his faithful servant do to hasten the decision when Campeggio had clearly been advised by the Pope to avoid a trial of the case if possible, and if not to use every means to delay bringing matters to a head! Wolsey was powerless to work without Campeggio; and the Pope and the King were pulling in opposite directions.

One of his most trusted servants entered the apartment, and the Cardinal, startled, withdrew his hands.

“I suffer from a headache,” Wolsey explained.

“A pressure of work, Your Eminence,” was the answer.

“Can it be so? I have suffered from a pressure of work, Cromwell, for as long as I can remember.”

Thomas Cromwell sighed sympathetically and laid some documents before the Cardinal. In a lesser degree Thomas Cromwell shared his master’s uneasiness, for people in the Court and in the City were beginning to show their dislike of him, which was entirely due to the fact that he was the Cardinal’s man.

He thought of himself as a parasite feeding on the abundance of the Cardinal; and if Wolsey fell, what would happen to Cromwell?

Could Wolsey stand out against all the powers that fought against him? There could not be a man in England who had more enemies. Norfolk and Suffolk were watching like vultures; so was Lord Darcy; and the Boleyn faction, which was daily growing stronger, was standing by eagerly waiting for the kill.

The King? The King was Wolsey’s only hope. Henry still admired the cleverness of his minister and was loath to part with his favorite. That was Wolsey’s hope…and Thomas Cromwell’s.

Now suppose the Lady Anne lost a little of her influence over the King; suppose she gave way to his pleadings and became his mistress; suppose Henry made the natural discovery that Anne was very little different from other women…then Wolsey might yet retain his hold on the King. That was if the French alliance provided all that Wolsey and Henry hoped for. But François was an unreliable ally—even as Charles had been.

So many suppositions, thought Thomas Cromwell, for a Cardinal’s fate to depend on, and the fate of his lawyer who had risen because he was in his service hung with that of his master.

It was nearly six years before that Thomas Cromwell had set up in Gray’s Inn and had been called to work for the Cardinal. He had helped to suppress certain small monasteries in order to promote colleges at Ipswich and Oxford in which the Cardinal was interested, and there had been complaints about the manner in which he, Cromwell, and his colleague, John Allen, had set about this business, but the Cardinal had protected them from trouble.

Wolsey had been pleased with him, and since then all his legal business had gone into Thomas Cromwell’s hands. Thus it was that a lawyer could rise from obscurity to greatness, but Thomas Cromwell was too shrewd not to know that a man could as easily fall as rise.

He had come a very long way from his father’s blacksmith’s shop, although his father was a man of enterprise and had been a fuller and shearer of cloth in addition to his trade as blacksmith. Thomas had intended to go farther, and after a somewhat wild youth, which had resulted in a term of imprisonment and flight from the country, he had, following a period spent abroad, returned sobered, with the intention of making his fortune.

He had every reason to be pleased with what he had done until he suddenly understood that the Cardinal’s good fortune was turning sour.

“These are troublous times,” murmured Cromwell.

“You speak truth,” answered the Cardinal grimly.

“Your Eminence,” went on Cromwell, “what in your opinion will be the King’s answer if the Pope refuses to grant his divorce?”

Wolsey’s body seemed to stiffen. Then he said slowly: “The King will have only one course of action. He will accept his fate, and give up all plans for remarriage.”

“Your Eminence has noticed, no doubt, that there are many Lutheran books entering the country.”

“I know it. Since that man Luther set the new doctrines before the world there seems no way of preventing these books from coming here. They are smuggled in; they are read, talked of…”

“Is it true, Your Eminence, that the King himself is interested in these ideas?”

Wolsey looked up sharply at the thickset lawyer, with the big head which seemed too close to his shoulders; at the strong jaw and thin lips which made his mouth look like a trap, at the cold expression, the gleaming, intelligent dark eyes.

“How did you know that he was?” demanded Wolsey. “Has he told you this?”

Cromwell smiled deprecatingly to indicate his humility. That smile said: Would the King confide in Thomas Cromwell? “No, Your Eminence,” he answered. “But the Boleyns are interested. I believe the Lady passed a book to the King and told him he must read it. And he, being told he must, obeyed.”

Wolsey was silent.

Cromwell leaned forward slightly and whispered: “What if the King should so dislike the Pope that he became more than a little interested in heresy?”

“He never would,” declared Wolsey. “Is he not Defender of the Faith?”

“He was a fierce foe of Luther at the time that title was bestowed on him. But times change, Eminence.”

Once more Wolsey looked up into that cold, clever face. He had a great respect for the lawyer’s intelligence.

“What mean you, Cromwell?” he asked.

Cromwell shrugged his shoulders. “That the Lady and her friends might give their support to Lutheranism, seeing thereby a way to dispense with the services of the Pope.”

“I think not,” said the Cardinal, rising and smoothing the red folds of his robe as though to remind himself and Cromwell of the importance of Rome. “The King has always been devoted to the Church.”

Cromwell bowed and Wolsey said: “I must go now to His Grace. I have a matter of some importance to discuss with him.”

The lawyer walked from the apartment at the side of the Cardinal, his manner obsequious. He was thinking that Wolsey was growing old and that old men lost their shrewdness. Then his problem was pressing down upon him: What will Cromwell do when Wolsey has fallen? When would be the time for the parasite to leave his host? And where would he find another?

Cromwell’s eyes glinted at the thought. He would leap up, not down. Was it such a long jump from a Cardinal to a King?

THE CARDINAL had summoned Thomas Abell, the Queen’s chaplain, to appear before him and the King.

“He will be here in a few minutes, Your Grace,” Wolsey told Henry.

“And you think he is the man for this mission?”

“I am sure we could not find a better, Your Grace, for since he is the Queen’s chaplain, the Emperor will think he acts for the Queen.”

“It seems a marvellous thing,” said Henry peevishly, “that there should be this delay. When…when…when shall I be granted what I wish? How much longer must I live in this uncertainty?”

“As soon as we have the brief safely in our hands the case can be opened. But let us not despair of the Queen’s entering a convent.”

“She is a stubborn woman,” grumbled the King.

“I know, Your Grace, but she pins hope to this brief. Once it is in our hands her case will crumble.”

A page entered to say that Thomas Abell was without.

“Send him in,” commanded Wolsey.

Thomas Abell bowed low before the King.

“Now to our business,” said Henry.

“It is His Grace’s wish,” said the Cardinal, “that you should leave at once for Spain. You are to go to the Emperor and hand him a letter from the Queen. He will give you a certain document, and this you are to bring to His Grace with all speed.”

“Your Grace, Your Eminence,” said Thomas Abell, “gladly would I serve you, but I must tell you that I have little Spanish and I fear that would be an impediment to me in this mission.”

Henry looked at Wolsey who said quickly: “You shall take a servant and interpreter with you.”

“Then I shall set out with all speed. There is a man in the Queen’s household who would make a good servant and is moreover a Spaniard. I refer to Montoya. If this man could accompany me I should have no qualms in setting out immediately.”

“Let it be so,” said the Cardinal. “You should leave tomorrow, and in the meantime it is His Grace’s wish that you should have no communication with the Queen. You must carry with you, apart from this one, no letters from the Queen to the Emperor. To do this would incur the King’s displeasure and, as you know, you could then be accused of high treason.”

Thomas Abell said he understood, and withdrew in order to make his preparations for the journey, while Wolsey summoned Montoya that the importance of his journey might be impressed upon him.

When he left the King and the Cardinal, Thomas Abell was thoughtful. He was to carry a letter from the Queen to the Emperor, and this letter was to be given him by the Cardinal. He was not to take any other message from the Queen to her nephew. It therefore seemed to him that the letter which he carried, although in the Queen’s handwriting and purporting to express her wishes, had no doubt been written under duress.

Thomas Abell was a deeply religious man. His position at Court had by no means increased his ambitions, which were not for worldly gain. He was a man who cared passionately for causes; and it seemed to him that the Queen’s cause was more worthy than the King’s.

There had been a moment, as he confronted the King and Cardinal, when he had almost refused to obey their orders. No, he wanted to say, I refuse to work against the Queen in this matter of the divorce.

That would doubtless have been construed as high treason and he might have been hustled to the Tower. Such a possibility would not have deterred him in the least. Indeed, he had a secret longing for a martyr’s crown. But it had occurred to him that by accepting this commission he might serve the Queen’s cause more effectively than by refusing it.

He obeyed the instructions and did not see the Queen before he left, her letter safely in his scrip; the voluble Montoya riding beside him.

They travelled across France and the journey was tedious; but there was much to talk of as they went, for Montoya was well versed in what was known throughout the Court as the Secret Matter; he filled in gaps for Abell; so that long before they came into Spain, the chaplain knew that the Queen had been forced to write the letter he carried, that she knew that, once the brief left the Emperor’s safe keeping, her case was lost, that she had tried to reach him by means of Franciso Felipez who had been set upon and all but killed by the Cardinal’s men.

So Abell made up his mind; and when he reached Spain and was taken into the Emperor’s presence, with Montoya to translate, he told the Emperor that the Queen had been forced to write the letter asking for the brief, and that unless the Emperor kept the original in his hands the Queen would have no redress; he had, moreover, worked out a plan that a notorially attested copy, which would be valid in any court, should be made and the original kept in safety in Spain.

The Emperor listened gravely and thanked the chaplain, who he saw was his aunt’s very good friend. He assured Abell that the copy should be made and he himself would ensure that the original brief would be kept in the royal archives at Madrid.

Abell was delighted with the success of his mission and, while he waited for the copy of the brief to be made, he started to write a book in which he set out the Queen’s case; and the more he worked, the clearer it became to him that the King based his desire for a divorce on false premises.

Abell now had a cause for which he was ready to give his life.

He was eager to return to England, there to hand the copy of the brief to Wolsey, and complete his book which he would eventually publish, no matter what the consequences should be.