Виктория Холт - The King’s Secret Matter

Katharine laughed gently, and drawing her daughter to her stroked her hair.

“No, my love,” she said. “That would profit us little. We are in your father’s hands, but nothing can harm us if we do our duty. It matters little what becomes of our bodies, as long as our souls are pure. Go to Richmond and remember that there I am with you as I am when we are close like this, for you are never absent from my thoughts.”

“Oh, Mother if I could but rid myself of this fear…”

“Pray, my child. You will find comfort in prayer.”

They embraced and remained together until one of Mary’s women came to say that her party was ready to leave for Richmond, and the King’s orders were that they were to depart at once.

At the door Mary turned to look at her mother, and so doleful was her expression that it was as though she looked for the last time on the beloved face.

* * *

HOW SHE MISSED MARY! It was but a few days since she had left, but it seemed longer. She had had no opportunity of appealing to the King as she had not since been in his company alone.

He treated her with cool detachment, and she noticed that never once did he allow his eyes to meet her own; she was aware of the speculative glances of the courtiers; they knew more than she did and they were alert.

One morning she was awakened early by sounds below; she heard the whisper of voices as she lay in her bed, and afterwards the sound of horses’ hoofs. People were arriving at the Castle, she supposed, and because she was weary after a sleepless night, she slept again.

In the early morning when two of her women came to awaken her, they brought her a message from the King, which told her that Henry was leaving Windsor and when he returned he wished her to be gone. Since she was not his wife and had no thought for his comfort he desired never to see her again.

She read the message twice before she grasped the full importance of it. Then she said: “I wish to see the King without delay.”

“Your Grace,” was the answer, “the King left Windsor with a hunting party at dawn. He is now on his way to Woodstock.”

She understood. He had slunk away without telling her he was going; he had not even wanted to say goodbye. But soon he would be returning to Windsor, and when he did so he expected to find her gone. More than that, he had expressly commanded that she should be gone.

“It matters not where I go,” she murmured, “I am still his wife. Nothing will alter that.”

Maria came to her, for the news had reached her as soon as it had the Queen. She understood that Katharine was now forsaken.

“Where does Your Grace wish to go now?” she asked.

“What does it matter where I go?” retorted Katharine; and she wondered with increasing pain whether the King had determined, not only to live apart from her, but also to separate her from their child.

She recovered her dignity. She had some friends even in England; and she was sure that the Pope would give his decision in her favor. Her nephew would support her. The battle was not yet lost.

She said calmly: “We will go to my manor of the Moor in Hertfordshire; there I shall rest awhile and make plans for my future.”

That day they left Windsor, and Katharine knew that she had reached yet another turning point in her life.

JOHN FISHER, BISHOP OF ROCHESTER, FACED THE gathering of Bishops.

He was deeply disturbed, he said, because of a certain request with which he could not comply. The King was asking the Church and clergy to accept him as Supreme Head of the Church of England, and he, John Fisher, could not understand how that could be. There was and had always been one Head of the Church, and that was His Holiness the Pope. He did not see how, by making the claim to this title, it could be the King’s.

The Bishops listened with averted eyes. The King had issued what he called this request, yet it was not in truth a request but a command. So many of them who owed their positions to the King, dared not contemplate what might become of them should they not bow to his will.

John Fisher seemed oblivious of his danger. This was an impossible thing, he urged them. They could not, with good consciences, change the law of the Church which had existed through the ages.

Warham, Archbishop of Canterbury, fidgeted uneasily as he listened. That head would be severed from the gaunt body before long, he was sure, if Fisher did not curb his tongue. Oh, that I should have lived so long! he thought. I am too old and tired now to navigate such dangerous waters. What will become of us all?

Alas, for him, as Archbishop of Canterbury, he could not remain silent.

Supreme Head of the Church! he mused. This is a break with Rome. There has never been anything like it in this country’s ecclesiastical history. Nothing will ever be the same again. It is an impossible thing. And yet the King commanded it; and Warham knew well that it would go hard for those, like Fisher, who attempted to oppose it.

Fisher was looking at him now. “And you, my lord Archbishop…?”

Everything that he said would be reported to the King. One word spoken which should have been left unsaid was enough to send a man to the block. I am too old, he thought, too old and tired.

He heard his voice speaking the carefully chosen words. “It is my belief that we might accept the King as Supreme Head of the Church as far as the law of Christ allows…”

Beautifully noncommittal, certain to give offence to none. He was aware of Fisher’s scornful eyes. But all men were not made to be martyrs.

One of the Bishops added that His Grace, fearing that the Supreme Head of the Church was a title which might not be acceptable to some of the clergy, had modestly changed it to: Supreme Head…after God.

Warham felt his lips curved in a smile of cynicism. So Henry was prepared to accept only the domination of God. He was safe enough, for he could expect no opposition to his desires from that direction. His conscience would always stand a firm bulwark between him and God.

Fisher was on his feet again but Warham silenced him.

“We have heard the views of the Bishop of Rochester,” he said, “and now I would ask the assembled company if they are prepared to accept the King as Supreme Head of the Church, as I am…as far as the law of Christ allows.”

There was silence. Heads were downcast in the rows of benches. “Your silence I construe as consent,” said Warham. He did not look at Fisher who must understand that one voice raised against the King’s command was of little matter when so many were in agreement. Fisher should learn wisdom; there were times when silence was salvation.

* * *

THE BISHOP OF ROCHESTER lived humbly in his London residence, but his doors were kept open and there was always a meal to be given to any who called on him when there was food on his table.

Perhaps his guests were not so many since the meeting of the Bishops. Those who wished him well deplored his outspokenness; some sought to advise him; but there were few who wished it to be said that they were in agreement with him.

It was a few days after the meeting when his cook, Richard Rouse, returning to the kitchens after shopping in the markets, was met by a stranger who asked for a word with him.

Richard Rouse was flattered, for beneath the disguise of a merchant he recognized a person of the quality. The cook was a man of ambition; he had not been long in the service of the Bishop and he was proud to be employed by a man of such importance; he did not see why he should not rise in his profession; the house of an Archbishop might be his next appointment; and after that—why should he not serve the King?

The stranger took him to a tavern where they sat and drank awhile.

“I have heard that you are an excellent cook,” Rouse was told. “And that your services are not appreciated in that household in which you serve.”

“My master is a good one.”

“Any cook can call a master good who has a poor palate. The Bishop might be eating stinking fish in place of the excellent dishes you put before him. He would know no difference.”

“His thoughts are on other matters,” sighed Rouse.

“That’s a tragedy for a good cook. Such a master would never sing his praises in the right quarters.”

“I fear so.”

“How would you like to work in the royal kitchens?”

There was no need for Rouse to answer, but he did. “It is the ambition of my life.”

“It need not be so far away.”

“Who are you?” Rouse demanded.

“You will discover, if you are a wise man.”

“How can I convince you of my wisdom?”

“By taking this powder and slipping it into the Bishop’s broth.”

Rouse turned pale.

“I thought,” said his companion contemptuously, “that you were an ambitious man.”

“But this powder…”

“It is calculated to improve the flavor of the broth.”

“The Bishop will not notice that the flavor is improved.”

“Others at his table might.”

Rouse was afraid, but he would not look at his fear. He tried to find an explanation of the stranger’s conduct which would be acceptable to him. The man wanted to help him to a place in the King’s kitchens because he believed his talents were wasted on the Bishop of Rochester; therefore he was giving him a new flavoring which would make people marvel at the broth he put before them. Perhaps at the table would be one of the King’s higher servants…That was a very pleasant explanation. The only other was one he had no wish to examine.