During those hot June days I could not believe that the court would go against the King's wishes. Henry was optimistic, he was glad Katharine had walked out of the court and refused to return. It was much easier without her mournful, resolute figure to inspire admiration and pity.

There was only one who dared raise his voice against the King's wishes and that was John Fisher, the Bishop of Rochester, who stood up in court and said that his only intention was to have justice done and relieve himself of a scruple of conscience.

These consciences, how they bedeviled us! The King's conscience was well known to me; now here was Fisher's. He could not risk the damnation of his soul by failing to declare his opinion. He believed that the marriage of the King could not be dissolved by any power, human or divine; and he was prepared to encounter any peril for the truth.

Henry was furious. If he could, he would have had Fisher transported to the Tower on the spot. Wolsey came to see Henry, who berated him for allowing the bishop to stand up and make such a statement. Wolsey— torn as he was between Pope and King, disappointed of the Papacy—was showing signs of breaking up. His supreme confidence had left him. Being so much more shrewd and clever than most of us, he could see farther ahead and the danger toward which he was being hurried. He implored the King to believe him when he said that Fisher had given him no indication of his intentions.

“He'll be sorry for this,” growled Henry. “I'll not be plagued by these traitorous bishops.”

News of what was happening in the court always seeped out, and now the Bishop of Rochester was receiving acclaim from the people, which was a further source of irritation to the King.

“But fear not,” he said to me. “This matter must end soon and it can only go one way. I shall make those who act against me feel my wrath.”

But there were some who embrace martyrdom as joyfully as a bridegroom does his bride. I had a notion that Fisher was one of those.

The news from the Continent was not very encouraging. Charles had had a decisive victory over François in Italy; and worse than ever, the Emperor was making peace terms with the French and Clement at Cambrai. This was a greater blow than Fisher's outburst. Henry might deal with his own subject's waywardness; the great obstacle had always been the mighty Emperor.

And so the days passed.

My father, Norfolk and Suffolk were all working hard to have the matter settled. I felt I had powerful friends. It mattered not to me that both the Duchesses of Norfolk and Suffolk were haughtily cool to me. It was their husbands who could do me most good; and they were too firmly behind the King to be influenced by their wives.

It was well into July before the final judgement was to be given. I was beside myself with excitement. I was visualizing my coronation. Queen of England—with the King my slave. We had passed through some difficult times. For four years the King's courtship of me had persisted. Such fidelity could mean only one thing: his devotion was complete.

What a brilliant future lay ahead of me! I was already paying back old scores on Wolsey. Poor old man, he would not last long when I came to power.

I would teach him—and all men through him—what it meant to insult Anne Boleyn, to take from her the only man she had ever loved, to ruin their lives…well, Northumberland's had been ruined. As for myself, I looked upon my brilliant future as a kind of consolation prize. I had lost what I had most desired, and in place of love I had ambition. I could not be Henry Percy's wife—which in my heart I believed would have brought me the greater happiness—so I would be the Queen of England. Fisher's outburst had caused a great deal of anxiety at the time, but Henry had decided to dismiss the man as a hotheaded fanatic. There were others to give evidence more to his liking, particularly those who had been with Prince Arthur on the morning after his wedding to Katharine, and who stated that the Prince had staggered out of the bridal chamber exhausted, declaring to them all that “that night he had been in the midst of Spain.” It was hard to believe in Arthur, a weakling who was not far from death and was of an especially retiring nature, making such a statement. But it was good evidence…or would have been but for the effect Katharine had had when she had called on God to be her witness with such obvious piety and dignity. Moreover, during the court proceedings the shouting of the crowds outside could often be heard in the hall… like a threatening chorus in a tragic drama.

All the same we were optimistic. The King could not believe that, as he had made his wishes so clear, his desire would be denied him in his own capital.

How wrong he was!

At last the day for which we had all been waiting arrived, and the judgment was to be given.

I was waiting impatiently for the verdict and in spite of certain misgivings my hopes ran high.

The King went into the gallery in the company of his brother-in-law, the Duke of Suffolk. He was certain of the verdict. The bishopric of Durham would be Campeggio's when the case was favorably settled and that would assure him of great riches. The man would not be such a fool as to turn his back on that, reasoned the King.

Perhaps he had forgotten that, when men are old and sickly and death does not seem to be so very far away, they are not so easily bribed by worldly goods. Campeggio's illness, which had served him so well in his efforts to play delaying tactics, was genuine. He did indeed suffer from excruciatingly painful gout. His one desire was obviously to leave our damp climate to get away to peace and perhaps a little comfort for his aching limbs.

He stood up and with the King's eyes on him declared: “I will not for favor of any mighty prince do that which should be against the law of God. I am a sick old man looking daily for death.”

He went on to say that he would not put his soul in danger by incurring God's displeasure. He had only one God before his eyes and the honor of the Holy See…He was giving no judgment. He was referring the matter to Rome.

I could well imagine Henry's fury. Suffolk was beside him. He muttered through his teeth: “It was never merry in England whilst we have Cardinals among us.”

It was a direct shaft at Wolsey.

Wolsey had promised the King that the matter would be dealt with speedily and as the King wished.

Wolsey had failed him.

The Cardinal Departs

THAT WAS A TIME of great tension and anxiety for me. After all that had happened, we were just where we had started. Wolsey was in disgrace, and it angered me that Henry still could not bring himself to dismiss him. Had I been wiser, I should have welcomed that degree of fidelity in the King. He had relied on Wolsey ever since his accession and he really loved the man. It was only in this matter of the divorce—this conflict between Rome and the Crown of England—that Wolsey had failed him … and through no fault of his own. Had he had his way, Campeggio would have declared the marriage invalid and all would have been simple.

I was foolhardy. Looking back, I see my mistakes clearly—those impetuous steps which I had taken unheedingly all the way through to my dismal climax.

And so I was angered by the softness of the King's feeling for the Cardinal.

I was aided and abetted by Norfolk and Suffolk, whom I thought to be my friends. How misguided I was! Their aim was to dishonor and ruin Wolsey and they saw, through me, a way of doing it. I was young… twenty-three years old. What can an impetuous, vain, foolish girl know at that age?

We were fully aware of what would happen if the case were tried in Rome. The Pope would never dare give the verdict against Katharine. The Emperor would insist on that. To try the case in Rome was tantamount to saying that the verdict would be given against the King.

During the summer the Court made its journeys through the country. It was necessary for the King to show himself to the people, and these peregrinations had become a custom. Of course the Queen must be beside him to accompany him to all state ceremonies, and as a member of the Court I was there, too.

As we rode along, I wondered how much the people knew of what was no longer the King's Secret Matter. I was certain that the Queen would receive the sympathy and acclaim of the people wherever we went. And what of me? I was angry and frustrated. Again and again I raged within because I had not sought this in the beginning. It had been forced upon me. And yet I was held to blame.

The King was as devoted to me as ever, and spent as much time as possible with me. He had sent his emissaries to Rome but he was in no hurry for the case to be tried there, since the outcome would be inevitable. He wanted it delayed. He was ready to prevaricate with the Pope as the Pope had with him.

My character was such that when I was most anxious I gave way to an excess of gaiety. Perhaps there was an element of hysteria in my attitude. I used to wake up in the night from muddled dreams in which the fear that the King had abandoned me was prominent. That fear hung over me even when I woke up, and it could only be dispersed by his obvious passion for me. I heard it said that he was bewitched and seemed fit to go to any lengths to make me his Queen. Then my dreams seemed foolish, just shadows of the night; but the thought must have been in my mind to make me dream of it.

When the Court came to Tittenhanger, Henry actually went to Wolsey's place to visit him. When I heard, I was furious. And I let the King see my annoyance.