Виктория Холт - The King’s Secret Matter

“This court is under the jurisdiction of Rome,” he announced, “and the holidays have begun in Rome. Therefore this court is closed until the holidays are over. We shall reassemble here on October the first.”

There was a gasp of astonishment. Wolsey was as startled as the rest, and his brown eyes looked like great marbles in his pallid face. True, he had been expecting something like this, but not so soon. He knew, of course, that Campeggio would never open the court again; that his one idea was to return to Italy and not come back. He had done his duty. He had opened the court of enquiry and had kept it going for a month; now he sought this excuse to close it; and meanwhile the state of affairs in Europe had steadied themselves, giving Clement some indication of which side he must take.

This was disaster at home and abroad. Wolsey’s French foreign policy had failed, for the Emperor and François were now friends, and neither felt much affection for England. So he had failed in that, and the people would be more against him than ever. He had also failed the King. He had promised him divorce, yet he was no nearer getting it than he had been more than a year ago.

Suffolk, Henry’s brother-in-law, who had been working zealously in the King’s cause, suddenly clenched his fist and hammered it on the table.

“England was never merry,” he declared, “since we had Cardinals among us.”

And as he spoke he glared at Wolsey who could not resist reminding him of that occasion when Suffolk had married Henry’s sister Mary and had appealed for the Cardinal’s help to placate the King. “Had it not been for one Cardinal,” he said, “you my Lord Suffolk, might have lost your head, and with it the opportunity of reviling Cardinals.”

The court broke up, and Wolsey was smiling as he saw Suffolk’s crestfallen face. Norfolk was watching him with hatred too. So was Darcy. But they dared not speak against him. He was still the most powerful man in the land—under the King; and while he had the King’s support, his enemies were powerless to touch him.

The King had already heard the news when Wolsey reached him.

Henry was alone and the Cardinal was surprised to see that his face was pale rather than scarlet as might have been expected. The eyes were as cold as ice.

“So,” he said, “the Pope’s man has closed the court.”

Wolsey bowed his head in assent.

“And all these weeks have been wasted. He never meant to settle this matter. Meanwhile I am left uncertain.”

“Your Grace, the Papal Legate has from the beginning practiced procrastination to a fine degree.”

“You need not tell me this. And the Queen has refused once more to enter a convent!”

“It is so, Your Grace.”

The little blue eyes were narrowed. “I’ll warrant she wishes me dead,” he said.

Wolsey was startled. “Your Grace…,” he began.

Henry was scowling. His Chancellor had not the sharp wits which had once been his.

“It would not surprise me,” went on Henry, “if there should be a plot afoot to kill both me and you.”

“Is it so, Your Grace?” Wolsey was waiting for orders and the King was satisfied.

“If such a plot should be discovered,” went on the King, “and it was found that the Queen had a part in it…” The little mouth was cruel, the eyes ruthless. “…she should not expect to be spared,” he added.

Wolsey was thinking: Queen Katharine, you are a fool. Why did you not take yourself off to a convent? There you would have been safe. This is a man who takes what he wants, no matter who stands in his way. And you, Queen Katharine, now stand most dangerously in his path.

The King went on: “This is a matter which should be laid before the Council. They will be prepared to act if evidence is brought before them. You will see to this, for I hold it to be of great importance to our safety…yours and mine.”

Wolsey bowed his assent.

He was vaguely troubled by his conscience, which over the years of good living he had learned to stifle.

So it has come to this, he thought. Katharine, you are in acute danger…and so am I.

NEVER IN THE WHOLE OF HER LIFE HAD KATHARINE FELT so desolate and alone.

She lay on her bed, the drawn curtains shutting her in a small world of temporary peace. What will become of me? she asked herself, as she had continued to do since the Council’s document had been brought to her. But she was not really thinking of what would become of herself; for there was one other whose safety was of greater concern to her than that of any other living person. She knew what it meant to be alone and friendless. What if such a fate befell her daughter?

“Holy Mother, help me,” she prayed. “Guide me through this perilous period of my life.”

The evil suggestion was afoot that she was trying to work some ill on the King and the Cardinal. Did they truly think that she—who never willingly harmed the humblest beggar—would try to poison the King and his chief minister? They had wronged her wilfully—at least the Cardinal had; she believed him to be the prime mover against her, and still saw Henry as an innocent boy who could be led. How could they honestly believe that she, a pious woman, could think for one moment of committing murder?

This was another plot of course to drive her into a convent.

Lying in her bed she thought of the comfort of a bare-walled cell, of the pleasant sound of bells, of escape from a world of intrigue. It attracted her strongly.

She sat up in her bed and once more read the scroll which she had been clutching in her hands as she lay there.

It informed her that she had not shown as much love for the King as she ought; that she appeared too often in the streets, where she sought to work on the affections of the people. She showed no concern for the King’s preoccupation with his conscience, and the King could only conclude that she hated him. His Council therefore was advising him to separate from her at bed and board and to take the Princess Mary from her.

To take the Princess Mary from her!

If they had not added that, they might have frightened her into a convent. But while she had her daughter to think of she would never retire into oblivion.

Attached to the document was a note in Wolsey’s hand. He had written that the Queen was unwise to resist the King, that the Princess Mary had not received the blessing of Heaven and that the brief which was held by the Emperor was a forgery.

“What will become of me?” she repeated. Whatever the future held, she would never allow them to frighten her into a convent, which would be tantamount to admitting that her marriage with the King was no true marriage. Never would she forget the slur this would cast on Mary.

She threw aside the scroll and lay down again, closing her eyes tightly, and said: “Let them do with this body what they will. Let them accuse me of attempting to murder the King and the Cardinal. Let them make me a prisoner in the Tower. Let them send me to the scaffold. Never will I allow them to brand Mary a bastard.”

* * *

EVEN GREATER than the Queen’s sufferings were those of the Cardinal, for he lacked Katharine’s spiritual resignation and constantly reproached himself for his own blindness which, looking back, he could see had brought him to that precipice on which he now stood; he mourned all that he had lost, and there was none of Katharine’s selflessness in his grief.

Henry had left London with the Court without seeing him, and was now at Grafton Manor, that beautiful palace which was situated on the borders of the shires of Buckingham and Northampton, and had once been the home of Elizabeth Woodville. Anne Boleyn was with the King, and Anne was now Queen of England in all but name; moreover she ruled the King as Katharine had never done. It was Anne who had suggested that Henry should leave Greenwich without informing his Chancellor; a procedure which but a few months before would have been unthinkable.

And now there had been no summons for him to go to Grafton; he had to beg leave—he, the mighty Cardinal—to accompany Campeggio who must pay his respects to the King before leaving the country.

What a sad and sorrowful journey it was, through London, where the people came out to see him pass! He travelled with his usual pomp but it seemed an empty show now, for the humblest beggar could not feel more fearful of his future than the great Cardinal of England.

Campeggio rode in silence beside him; his gout, he believed, had not improved since his sojourn in England and he was glad to be leaving and rid of a tiresome and delicate task; yet he had time to be sorry for his fellow Cardinal.

Poor Wolsey! He had worked hard to bribe his way into the Vatican…and failed. The Emperor had failed him; François had failed him; and now, most tragic of all, his own sovereign was being pressed to discard him. What then, when the whole world stood against him?

Optimism had never been far below the surface of Wolsey’s nature; it was to this quality that, in a large measure, he owed his success. He believed that when he saw the King, Henry would remember how, over so many years, they had worked together, and he would not leave him unprotected and at the mercy of his enemies who were even now massing against him. Lord Darcy had already drawn up a list of his misdeeds in order that he might be impeached. They would be saying of him that he had incurred a præmunire because he had maintained Papal jurisdiction in England. He had failed to give the King the divorce he needed, and his enemies would be only too ready to declare that he had served not the King but the Pope. Norfolk and Suffolk had always hated him; and now they were joined by the powerful Boleyn faction headed by Anne herself, who ever since he had berated her for daring to raise her eyes to Percy, had been his enemy and had sought to destroy him with a vindictiveness only paralleled by Wolsey’s own hounding of those who he considered had humiliated him.