The Shadow of the Pomegranate

A Venetian Embassy and a Cardinal’s Hat

IT WAS NEW YEAR’S NIGHT AND THERE MUST BE ENTERTAINMENT at the Court to celebrate such an occasion; so the great hall of Westminster had been decorated with cloth of gold, and at night, by torchlight, it was a beautiful sight indeed.

The people had crowded in to watch the royal sport; and on such an occasion Henry liked to show his people that he lived in the splendor expected of a King.

Katharine was seated on a dais at one end of the great hall as she had sat so often before. About her were her ladies, and she was glad to have with her her dear Maria de Salinas who, with her husband, was paying a visit to the Court. Maria had heard of the King’s open liaison with Elizabeth Blount and had condoled with Katharine about this. It was the way of Kings, she said, and not to be taken seriously. Why, even the people accepted the fact that the King must have his mistress.

Katharine was considerably comforted by Maria and, perhaps because of that, looked more like her old self on that night. She was magnificently dressed in rich blue velvet, and diamonds, sapphires and rubies glittered about her person.

While she sat there a messenger came to her in the costume of Savoy and begged to be allowed to speak to her. Katharine recognized one of the gentlemen of the Court and knew at once that this was part of the entertainment.

“Pray speak on,” she said.

There was silence in the hall, and the Savoyard said in loud ringing tones but using a foreign accent: “Your Grace of England, there are without a band of dancers from Savoy. They have travelled far that they may enchant you with their dancing on this first night of the New Year. Have they your permission to enter and dance for the pleasure of the Court?”

“I beg you bring them in at once. They must perform for us.”

Katharine sat back on her throne while the party were brought in. There at the head of them were two tall figures—whom she knew well. One was Henry, the other Brandon. They were masked, but beneath the mask it was possible to see the King’s golden hair.

“Welcome, Gentlemen,” said Katharine.

They bowed low; and as they did so Katharine’s eyes began to sparkle, for this was as it had been in the old days, and it might mean that Henry was going to forget their differences and treat her once more as his wife.

When Henry spoke—and who could not recognize his voice—he said: “Most beautiful Queen of this fair land, we are strolling dancers from the land of Savoy. We would fain dance before you so that Your Grace may judge whether there are not as good dancers from Savoy as live in this fair land.”

Katharine threw herself into the game. “You may try,” she said, “but I must warn you, we have most excellent dancers in this land, and they are led by the King himself whom all agree none has ever equalled. If you would care to try your skill against us, do so. But I dare swear you will be dismayed when you see the King dance.”

“We are happy, Your Grace, to put our skill to the test, and you shall be our judge.”

Katharine signed to the musicians then and by the light of the torches the little party took its place before her. There were four men and four women, all in blue velvet and cloth of silver and their costumes were fashioned after the manner of Savoy.

The dancing began. It was a beautiful ballet outstanding on account of the high leaping of the leader.

There were murmurs in the crowd. “Can it be? Does he in truth outjump the King? Where is his Grace? He should see the unusual skill of these men and in particular the leader.”

Sitting back Katharine marvelled at the ability of all to enter so wholeheartedly into the game and to show such seeming innocence of the masquerade which all must have seen so many times before.

At length the dancing ceased and the dancers were all on their knees before the Queen’s throne.

“I pray you,” said Katharine, “unmask, that we may see your faces.”

The dancers rose to their feet and Katharine kept her eyes on the leader while he, with a dramatic gesture, drew off his mask.

There was a gasp throughout the Court and then loud bursts of applause. Henry bowed to the Queen and turned about so that none should be in doubt as to his identity.

He has not grown up at all, thought Katharine; and she felt a little happier, for it was more pleasant to see the naïve boy taking the place of the brutal man.

He then stepped to the Queen’s side and taking her hand kissed it, which drew more lusty cheers from the people.

Holy Mother of God, murmured Katharine to herself, can we really go back to the beginning? Can it really be as though our troubles never happened?

She was more than ready to meet him halfway.

She said so clearly that all might hear: “So it was Your Grace. I could not believe there was one to rival you, and yet it seemed that Savoyard could do so. I thank Your Grace for my good pastance.”

Then boldly she rose and putting her hands to his face drew him down to her and kissed him.

For a few seconds she held her breath with apprehension, but he had returned her kiss, and the people cheered.

“Good Kate,” he whispered, “’tis all done in thy honor.”

It seemed to the watchers then that something of the Queen’s youth returned, as Henry sat beside her and they talked amicably.

That night they slept together. The need to get a child was as urgent as ever. It was a return to the old pattern; and there was, after all, to be another chance.

IT WAS SHORTLY AFTER the New Year revels when a messenger from France came to Westminster with an urgent dispatch for the King.

Henry read the news and let out an exclamation of dismay. He had the messenger taken to the kitchens to be refreshed and sent at once for Wolsey.

“News!” he cried. “News from France. Louis is dead. He died on New Year’s day.”

Wolsey took the news calmly; he had not expected Louis to live long; a new bride, such as Mary, would not act as an elixir to such as he was, for Louis was Gallic and as such would ape the gallant no matter at what cost.

Wolsey smiled secretly thinking of the old man trying to play lover to that young and passionate girl.

“This means, Your Grace, that Francis of Angoulême will now be King of France unless…”

“Exactly,” said the King, “unless my sister is with child by the King; then Francis’ long nose will be a little out of joint. I’ll warrant the sly fellow is beside himself with anxiety. Imagine! For years he and his mother and doting sister have watched old Louis…waiting for him to die. Then the old man marries my sister. ‘Is she with child?’ ‘Is she not with child?’ This is a fine joke.”

“Let us hope, Your Grace, that the Queen of France has conceived. With one sister Queen of France and another Queen of Scotland, Your Grace would be most fortunately placed.”

“’Tis so. ’Tis so.”

Henry smiled at Wolsey. He appreciated this servant, being fully aware that Wolsey possessed something which he himself lacked. He called it seriousness. He would come to it in time; but at this stage he did not want to devote all his energies to state affairs. He had discovered that he was not as completely devoted to war as he had imagined he would be. When he entered into a game he liked to know what the outcome would be. He wanted the shouts of wonder at his prowess. These did not always come in war. Even Ferdinand and Maximilian—those great warriors, who, all would admit, had had their share of victories—frequently suffered defeat and humiliation. Henry had not been prepared to go to war alone with France, and the reason was that he feared defeat.

He was indeed growing up and it was unfortunate for his peace of mind that, in spite of his vanity and frequent displays of naïveté, he was also intelligent. And this intelligence kept asserting itself—even as his conscience did—to disturb his peace.

Therefore he was grateful to Wolsey. That man had genius, and while he could place state affairs in those capable hands he could be at peace. He was ready to show his appreciation to Wolsey who must be well on the way to becoming one of the richest men in England—next to himself. Henry rejoiced in Wolsey’s advancement; he was ready to abet it. His face softened at the sight of the man; he would put his arm about his shoulders as they walked in the gardens, so that all might realize the esteem in which he held his new Cardinal.

So now he said: “Well, Thomas, what’s to be done?”

“There is nothing we can do but wait, Sire. All depends on whether the Queen of France carries the heir.”

Henry nodded. “My poor sister! There she is, all alone in that country. And she will have to endure the period of mourning as a widow, shut into her darkened apartments where she will be most unhappy. I must send my envoy at once to France to convey my condolences…to my sister, to Francis…”

“And we will not add, Sire,” said Wolsey with a smile, “that here we are praying that the Queen is with child.”

The King laughed aloud and slapped Wolsey’s shoulder.

“Nay, Thomas, we’ll not mention the matter. I had thought that Suffolk might be the envoy on this occasion.”

Wolsey was silent for a moment, and Henry’s expressive mouth tightened. Wolsey was grateful for that mobile countenance which so often gave a hint of the King’s desires before Henry uttered them.

Suffolk! pondered Wolsey. The Queen of France would be an excellent pawn in skilful hands. Were they going to throw her to Suffolk merely because her wanton body lusted after that man?

He followed Henry’s thoughts. This was his sister Mary, his favorite sister who was gay and pretty; knowing how to flatter her brother she fostered his sentimentality towards her, and had lured him into a promise. “If I marry the King of France, when he is dead I shall marry whom I please.” And Henry knew who pleased her.

He wanted to comfort her now, to say: Look, little sister, you are a widow in a foreign land; so I am sending you a gift to cheer you. And the gift was Suffolk.

Henry was telling himself that Brandon was a worthy envoy; and as he was ardently courting the Duchess of Savoy, in these circumstances sending him would merely be a gesture; no harm could come of it. Mary would have enough sense to know that there must be no dalliance with Suffolk while she might be carrying the heir of France within her.

In any case Henry had made up his mind.

So must it be, thought Wolsey, who was not going to commit the folly of going against the King in this matter and mayhap through it lose control of other and more important affairs.

“If Your Grace is satisfied with Suffolk as your envoy to the Court of France, then so I am,” he said.

THE CARDINAL READ the letter from Suffolk. He was gratified because the Duke had written to him. It indicated that this man understood that the one most likely to influence the King was Thomas Wolsey.

His Cardinal’s hat had not yet arrived, but that was coming. He was growing more and more certain that one day he would gain the Papal crown; in the meantime he was content to govern England.

Suffolk had written that he and Mary had married.

Wolsey laughed aloud at the folly of the man. Then he thought of his own folly with Mistress Wynter, and his laughter faded a little.

But to marry with the Princess so soon after the death of her husband! Moreover, was Brandon in a position to marry? There were some who maintained that he was already married; and he had certainly been involved in matrimonial tangles with three other women. The first was Elizabeth Grey, daughter of the Viscount of Lisle, who had been made his ward and whom he had contracted to marry. This lady had refused to marry him and the patent was cancelled. Later he had contracted to marry a certain Ann Brown, but before the marriage was celebrated he obtained a dispensation and married a widow named Margaret Mortymer, who was a relative of his. When he was weary of this woman he acquired a declaration of invalidity from the Church on the grounds of consanguinity, and it was said that later he went through a form of marriage with Ann Brown by whom he had had a daughter. Certainly his past did not bear too close a scrutiny and it was questionable whether he was in a position to marry again. Yet such was his fascination that not only had he charmed Mary but to some extent Henry as well.

Wolsey read the letter:

“The Queen would never let me be in rest until I had granted her to be married; and so now, to be plain with you, I have married her heartily, and have lain with her in so much I fear me lest she be with child. I am like to be undone if the matter should come to the knowledge of the King, my master.”

He was asking Wolsey to break the news gently and to convey loving messages from Mary to Henry in the hope that he might be softened towards them and allow them to return home, which they longed to do.

Wolsey considered the matter. The King had provoked this situation. He had known how headstrong his sister was, and he had promised her that if she married Louis she should choose her next husband. Henry, Wolsey was sure, would feign anger at the news, but he would not be greatly disturbed. He loved his sister dearly and missed her, so would be glad to have her home. He missed Suffolk too, for that gay adventurer was one of the most amusing of his friends.

Therefore it was without much trepidation that Wolsey sought an audience and showed Henry the letter which he had received from Suffolk.

“By God’s Holy mother!” ejaculated Henry. “So they are married—and she, like as not, with child. What if…”

“We should know, Your Grace, if the King of France was its father. I fear that is not so. Poor Louis, he could not get his wife with child.”

For a moment there was a deep silence, and to Wolsey’s consternation he saw the healthy flush in the King’s cheeks darken.

So, thought Wolsey, he is already beginning to wonder whether he is capable of begetting children. Is it so? One would have thought Elizabeth Blount might have shown some signs by now; and the Court was becoming so accustomed to Katharine’s failures that they expected her miscarriages before they occurred.

Wolsey said quickly: “The King of France was too old to beget children.”

The King breathed more easily. The danger was past, and Wolsey went on: “What are Your Grace’s wishes in this matter?”

“I am deeply shocked,” said Henry. “Punishment there must be. I am displeased with them…both.”

But indeed he was not. He was already wishing they were at the Court. He indulged his pleasures so much that he put their gratification before matters of state. While Wolsey thought of the grand marriages which might have been arranged for Mary, Henry was thinking: Mary will be happy; and I shall be happy to have my sister with me again.

But as ever he was ready to listen to Wolsey’s advice; and, when later Suffolk wrote to Henry begging to be allowed to come home and offering his body, knowing that he might be “put to death, imprisoned, or destroyed” for this great sin he had committed, Henry left it to Wolsey to suggest on what terms the erring couple might be allowed to return.

“Let them return to Your Grace the gift you made the Princess Mary of plate and jewels,” suggested Wolsey; “let Suffolk undertake to pay by yearly installments the expenses you incurred by the French marriage. Then it would seem that they had been adequately punished. All would know that none dares flout your Grace’s wishes with impunity, and at the same time these two, for whom we all have great affection, could—after a short period—return to Court.”

Henry was delighted with the solution.

Once again he was realizing how much he could rely upon his dear friend Wolsey.

THAT YOUNG GAY AMORIST, Francis of Angoulême, had leaped happily into the position which he and his family had coveted for himself for so long.

With what great joy he discovered that Mary Tudor was not with child; and, although he himself had cast lascivious eyes on this attractive English girl, the Suffolk marriage seemed a happy enough conclusion to that affair.

He was ambitious and energetic, and in the first weeks of his accession he was turning his eyes towards Italy.

It was during March of that year that a Venetian embassy arrived in England with the blessing of Francis.

The position of the Venetians in Europe was dictated by their trade. They were first and foremost traders and asked only to be allowed to continue to sell those goods for which they were famous. Since Maximilian had captured Verona, he had proved a serious handicap to Venetian trade, and the people of Venice believed that an alliance with France would enable them to regain Verona; and as France was aware that her power in Lombardy depended on Venetian friendship there was a rapprochement between the two.

It seemed important to Venice that England should strengthen her alliance with France, which should have been cemented by the marriage between Louis XII and the Princess Mary; but with Louis dead and his widow already the wife of English Brandon it seemed necessary to send an embassy to England.

So on a sparkling March day the Venetian embassy arrived, having been entertained most lavishly on the way by the new King of France.

Henry was on his mettle. He believed that Francis would have made a great effort to impress the Venetians with his grandeur and elegance, and was determined to outdo the King of France whom he had always believed to be his especial rival ever since he had heard that Marguerite of Angoulême—who had once been suggested as a bride for Henry—had declared her brother to be the handsomest, wittiest and most charming man in the world and one whom she would always love beyond any other.

So he was prepared. He was a sight so dazzling on that morning that even those who were accustomed to his splendor were astonished.

The Venetians had sailed up the Thames to Richmond in a barge which was gaily decorated with cloth of gold and silver. Before they entered the King’s presence they were given bread and wine to sustain them, and then they were taken to the King’s chapel to hear Mass.

When this was over they were led into the presence of the King. The Palace had been decorated to receive them, and gold and silver cloth and tapestries had been hung in each apartment. In these rooms three hundred halberdiers, wearing silver breast plates, stood at attention, in order to impress the newcomers with the might of England. They were astonished because the halberdiers, who were chosen for their height, towered above the little Venetians, their fresh faces glowing in striking contrast to the swarthy ones of the men of Venice.

Then to the King’s chamber where Henry waited to receive them. He was standing when they entered, leaning against his throne. He wanted them to receive an immediate impression of his great height, which they could not do if he sat. Henry was indeed an impressive figure; his purple velvet mantle was lined with white satin, and fell behind him in a train four yards long; this mantle was fastened across his massive chest by a thick chain made entirely of gold; his doublet was of satin, crimson and white in color; and on his head was a cap of red velvet decorated with a white feather. About his neck was a gold collar with St. George picked out in fine diamonds; and below that another collar from which hung a round diamond the size of a big walnut; and from this diamond hung a large flawless pearl.

The Venetians blinked. Francis had been elegantly splendid, but Henry was more colorfully so.

Henry was delighted with the impression he so obviously created; the blue eyes, under the red hair which was combed straight about his head, sparkled; he held out a hand, the fingers of which seemed entirely covered by dazzling gems.

Henry welcomed the newcomers warmly, telling them how happy he was to have them at his Court. They would be in need of refreshment, so he had a banquet prepared for them, and when they had eaten they should see the joust which Henry believed had been perfected by his countrymen.

The Venetians, overwhelmed by the friendliness and the hospitality of the King, were then graciously received by members of the King’s Council at the head of whom was the new Cardinal Wolsey whom they well knew to be the most important man in the realm.

They met the Queen—herself gorgeously attired and glittering with jewels; but they had heard rumors of the King’s feelings towards his wife and they did not believe her to have any real influence with him now.

Henry led the way to the banquet where he surrounded himself by the leaders of the embassy and delightedly watched their incredulity at the dishes produced by his cooks and the ability of the English to consume large quantities of food.

He had no intention of talking of state matters; that would come later with Wolsey; but he was eager to know whether the newcomers were comparing him with Francis in their minds.

He was soon asking questions about his great rival. “You have recently left the King of France; tell me, is he as tall as I am?”

“There can be very little difference in the height of the King of France and the King of England,” was the answer. “Your Grace is a big man; and so is Francis.”

“Is he a fat man, this young King of France?”

“No, Your Grace. He could not be called a fat man. Far from it. He is lean and lithe.”

“Lean and lithe.” Henry caressed his own plump thigh.

“What are his legs like?” demanded Henry.

The Venetians were puzzled; they looked at each other. What sort of legs had the King of France? To be truthful they had not taken particular note of his legs; but they recalled that they must be spare because of the leanness of the King’s body.

“Spare legs, eh!” cried Henry. “Look at mine.” He held up his legs to display the fine calf, well shaped, firm, the leg of an athletic man. “Has he a leg like that, eh?”

The Venetians were certain that the King of France had not a leg like that.

Henry laughed, well pleased. Then he threw open his doublet. “Look at this thigh,” he said. “’Tis every bit as firm and well shaped as my leg. Has the King of France a thigh like that?”

When the Venetians assured Henry that the thigh of the King of France could not be compared with the thigh of the King of England, he was delighted and felt full of affection towards them and Francis.

“Methinks,” he said, “I am very fond of this King of France.”

After the banquet Henry retired to prepare himself for the joust; and later this was held in the Palace courtyard.

Henry excelled even his previous exploits on that day, shivering many a lance; which was as it should be; and one by one his opponents went down before him.

He was extremely happy.

When he joined the Venetians to be congratulated he said: “I should like to joust with the King of France as my opponent.”

But even as he spoke there was a shadow on his face. He was alarmed by this King on the other side of the water; he had heard so many tales of him, of his bravery, his wit and his lechery. He had scarcely been on the throne a week when he was talking of leading his armies to victory; and Henry had discovered that he himself had no great desire to place himself at the head of his armies.

What if he were to joust with Francis and Francis should win? Did Compton, Kingston and the rest go down before their King because they knew it was wise to do so?

“So,” he growled, “the King of France thinks to make war on Italy. He will cross the Alps. Will his people love him, think you, since he plunges them into a war at the very beginning of his reign?”

Then he was angry because he had longed to bring conquests to his people; and this he had failed to do. He burst out: “He is afraid of me. Why, were I to invade his kingdom he would not be able to cross the Alps into Italy, would he? So you see, all depends on me. If I invade France, Francis cannot make war on Italy. If I do not, he can. You see, my friends, in these hands I hold the future of France.”

The thought pleased him, and he was once more in good spirits.

Now to forget war and plan new entertainments to impress the visitors.

THAT MAY WAS a happy month. Katharine rejoiced in the coming of spring which she had always loved in England. The dark winter was over; there were buds on the trees and wild parsley and stitchwort shone white in the hedges mingling with the blue of speedwell and ground ivy.

The season of renewal, she thought; and this year she had been happier than she had for some time, for it seemed to her that her relationship with Henry had been renewed and it was like the return of spring. She too had become wiser.

She had learned that she must accept her husband for the lusty young man he was, five years her junior; she must turn a blind eye on those flirtations which took place without too much secrecy; she must accept Elizabeth Blount as her maid of honor and her husband’s chief mistress, and not care that he shared the bed of one because of his great desire to do so and of the other in order to serve the state and produce an heir.

She was full of hope that May. He visited her often; he was kind to her; she rarely saw an outburst of anger. She had learned how to avoid them.

This then was May Day, and Henry was happy because the occasion called for one of those ceremonial pageants in which he delighted.

He came to the Queen’s apartment early and he was already clad in green velvet—doublet, hose and shoes; and even his cap, which was sporting a jaunty feather, was of the same green.

“A merry good day to Your Grace,” he called blithely. “I come to see if you will venture a-maying with me this morn.”

“There is none with whom I would wish to go a-maying but Your Grace.”

“Then Kate, your wish is granted. We leave at once. Come.”

She was dressed in green velvet to match the King’s, and because she was happy she had regained some of that youthful charm which had attracted him in the early days of their marriage.

So from the Palace of Greenwich they rode out to Shooter’s Hill surrounded by members of the Venetian embassy and nobles of the Court, all gaily dressed to share in the maying.

When they reached the hill a party of men dressed as outlaws, led by one who was clearly meant to be Robin Hood, galloped up to them.

“Ho!” cried Henry. “What means this, and who are you who dare molest the King and Queen of England?”

Robin Hood swept off his hat; and Katharine recognized him through the mask as one of Henry’s courtiers.

“Molest His Grace the King! That we would never do. The outlaws of the Forest respect the King even as do the gentlemen of the Court. Would Your Grace step into the good green wood and learn how the outlaws live?”

Henry turned to Katharine.

“Would Your Grace venture into the forest with so many outlaws?”

“My lord,” answered Katharine, “where Your Grace ventured there would I fearlessly go.”

Henry was delighted with her answer and Katharine thought: I begin to play his games as well as he does himself.

So into the forest they rode, and there they were taken to a sylvan bower made of hawthorn boughs, spring flowers and moss, where a breakfast of venison and wine was laid out.

“All for the pleasure of Your Graces,” said Robin Hood.

The King expressed his delight and watched Katharine closely to see if she appreciated this surprise. She did not disappoint him.

They sat close like lovers and the King took her hand and kissed it.

He was happy; he knew that his sister Mary and her husband were on their way to England, and that pleased him. He was going to enjoy being very displeased with them and then forgiving them; and he was going to be very happy to have them near him once more.

The sun shone brilliantly, and after the feast when they left the wood, several beautiful girls in a vehicle which was decorated with flowers and drawn by five horses were waiting for them. The girls represented Spring and they sang sweetly the praise of the sweetest season of all, not forgetting to add a few paeans of praise to their goodly King and Queen.

And so the May Day procession rode back to Greenwich.

That was a happy day. The King was like a young lover again.

Within the next few days Katharine conceived once more; and this time she was determined that her child should live.

THAT SUMMER WAS a happy one. The knowledge that she was once more pregnant delighted Katharine and the King.

“Why, this time, sweetheart,” said Henry, “our hopes shall not be disappointed. You have a goodly boy within you and he’ll be the first of many.”

Katharine allowed herself to believe this. She would not think of possible bad luck. This was her year.

In September there came news of Francis’s victory. The King of France was hailed already as one of the greatest soldiers in history. Young, intrepid, he set out to perform the impossible and prove it possible.

Contrary to Henry’s assertion that it depended on him whether or not France went into Italy, Francis—indifferent as to whether or not Henry made an attempt to invade France—had crossed the Alps with twenty thousand men, going from Barcelonnette to Salazzo, crossing passes which were no more than narrow tracks, accoutred as he was for war. That was not all. He had fought and won the resounding victory of Marignano.

Henry’s anger when this news was brought to him was too great to hide.

He looked, said those who watched him at the time, as though he were about to burst into tears.

“He will have to face Maximilian,” snapped out Henry.

“Nay, Your Grace. Maximilian now seeks friendship with my master,” the French envoy answered.

“I assure you he is not seeking that friendship,” snapped Henry.

The envoy lifted his shoulders, smiled and remained silent.

“How many of France’s enemies have fallen in battle?” demanded Henry.

“Sire, it is some twenty thousand.”

“You lie. I hear from sources which I trust that it was but ten thousand.”

Henry dismissed the envoy and sulked for several hours.

News of Francis’s success with the Pope was brought to him. Leo hailed the young conqueror and when Francis had attempted to kiss his toe had lifted him in his arms and embraced him.

Leo, it was said, had promised to support Francis, and when Maximilian died—and there must then be an election to decide who should be the next Emperor—he promised to give Francis his support.

It was intolerable.

“Ha,” cried Henry. “They will learn that wise men do not trust Frenchmen.”

But even these events worked favorably for Katharine, for Ferdinand, knowing that the alliance between France and England was weakening, wrote to Henry in a most friendly fashion. He guessed how that young bantam, Henry, would be feeling and was determined to exploit the situation to the full.

Ferdinand did not like to see lack of good faith in families, he wrote. He thought fondly of his dear son and daughter. And to prove this he did an extraordinary thing; he sent Henry a collar studded with jewels, two horses caprisoned in the richest manner, and a jewelled sword.

Ferdinand, it was said, was either genuinely seeking Henry’s friendship this time or in his dotage to send such gifts.

But it was very pleasant for Katharine, nursing the child in her womb, basking in the tenderness of her husband, enjoying the atmosphere of tolerance which had grown up about them—all this and reunion with her own country!

All will be well, thought Katharine. I am happy because I have learned to take life comfortably as it comes along; I no longer fight, I accept. Perhaps that is the lesson of life.

She did not greatly care. She busied herself with the preparations for her confinement.

She had never felt so calm and confident.

THAT SEPTEMBER the Cardinal’s hat arrived from Rome.

This, Wolsey assured himself, was the greatest moment of his life so far; but he was convinced that it was nothing compared with what was to come.

He determined that the country and the Court should be aware of his rising greatness; they should not be allowed to think that the arrival of a Cardinal’s hat was an everyday affair.

He was a little angry with the Pope for sending an ordinary messenger, and he immediately sent word that he was to be detained as soon after disembarking as possible.

He announced to the City that a great procession was about to take place, and the people, who liked nothing so much as the pageantry provided by the Court and were only content with their colorless lives because of it, turned out in their thousands.

Wolsey knew that Mistress Wynter and his children would be watching; and the thought added to his pleasure.

The Pope’s messenger was persuaded to discard his simple raiment in exchange for one of fine silk; this he was happy to do, for the clothes were his reward for taking part in the ceremony.

Then he rode towards London, and was met at Blackheath by a great and vividly colored procession made up of the members of the Cardinal’s household. There they were, his higher servants and his lower servants, all aping their master, all giving themselves airs and strutting in a manner which implied: “We are the servants of the great Cardinal and therefore far above the servants of every nobleman in the land. Only the King’s servants are our equals, and we wish the world to know it.”

So through the City the hat was borne so that all might see it and marvel at it.

“It is being taken to the great Cardinal,” said the citizens, “who is not only beloved by the people but by the Pope.”

In his apartments at the Palace of Westminster Wolsey waited to receive the hat.

Taking it reverently in his hands he placed it in state upon a table on which tapers glowed.

He then declared that this was in honor of England and he would have all Englishmen under the King pay homage to the hat. None should consider himself too important to come forward and pay his homage in deep obeisance.

There was a murmuring among the Dukes and Earls of the realm; but Wolsey was creeping higher and higher in the King’s favor, for Henry believed that he could not do without him if he were to pursue his life of pleasure. It gave him great content, when he hunted through the day, to think of friend Thomas grappling with state affairs. He believed in this man, who had come to his present position from humble beginnings. He had proved his genius.

Therefore Wolsey insisted that all those disgruntled noblemen—chief among whom was the Duke of Buckingham—should pay homage to his hat; and one by one they succumbed; so it was that Wolsey acquired at that time not only a Cardinal’s hat but the hatred and envy of almost every ambitious man in the land.

What did he care! If Katharine believed this was her year, Thomas Wolsey knew it was his.

Before the year was out he could count his gains. Cardinal Wolsey, papal legate, Archbishop of York and Lord Chancellor of England, Prime Minister of State. Under the King he was the richest man in England, and many believed that his wealth might even be greater than Henry’s. In his hands was the disposal of all ecclesiastical benefices; he held priories and bishoprics, among which were the rich ones of York and Durham, Bath and Hereford; he also held the Abbeys of St. Albans and Lincoln.

He had come as far as he could in this country; but he did not believe that was the end. His eyes were firmly fixed on Rome.