Katharine of Aragon (113 page)

Margaret saw that she had acted foolishly. What were a few jewels compared with real friendship, devotion and love? What would happen to Mary when she had no one to protect her? How would the news that Mary's governess had been dismissed affect Katharine, who had admitted often that she could feel some comfort knowing that Mary was with her very dear friend?

The edict came. Margaret Pole, Countess of Salisbury, was to leave the household of the Lady Mary, who herself was to be sent from Beauleigh to Hunsdon, where she would live under the same roof as her half-sister, the Princess Elizabeth. And to remind her that she was not the King's legitimate daughter, and therefore not entitled to be called Princess, she should live in humble state near the magnificence of Anne's baby daughter.

Bitterly they wept. They could not visualize parting, so long had they been together.

“One by one those whom I love are taken from me,” sobbed Mary. “Now there is no one left. What new punishment will they inflict upon me?”

EUSTACHE CHAPUYS
had asked for a private interview with the King.

“Your Majesty,” said the Spanish ambassador, “I come to you because I can speak with greater freedom than can any of your subjects. The measures you have taken against the Queen and her daughter, the Princess Mary, are very harsh.”

Henry glowered at him, but Chapuys smiled ingratiatingly.

“I speak thus, Your Majesty, because it is my great desire to see harmony between you and my master.”

“There would be harmony between us but for the fact that you are continually writing to him of his aunt's misfortunes. If his aunt and her daughter were no more… that would be an end of our troubles.”

Alarm shot into the ambassador's mind. Henry was not subtle. The idea had doubtless entered his head that life would be more comfortable if Mary and Katharine were out of his way. The Queen must be warned to watch what she ate; the Princess Mary must also take precautions. Chapuys's mind had been busy with plans for some time. He dreamed of smuggling the
Princess Mary out of the country, getting her married to Reginald Pole, calling to all those who frowned on the break with Rome and the new marriage with Anne Boleyn to rise against the King. He visualized a dethroned Henry, Mary reigning with Reginald Pole as her consort, and the bonds with Rome tied firmly once more. Perhaps the King had been made aware of such a possibility. He was surrounded by astute ministers.

He must go carefully; but in the meantime he must try to make matters easier for the Queen and Princess.

“If they died suddenly Your Majesty's subjects would not be pleased.”

“What mean you?” Henry demanded through half closed eyes.

“That there might well be rebellion in England,” said the ambassador bluntly.

“You think my subjects would rebel against
me
!”

Eustache Chapuys lifted his shoulders. “Oh, the people love Your Majesty, but they love Queen Katharine too. They may love their King, but not his new marriage.”

“You go too far.”

“Perhaps I am overzealous in my desires to create harmony between you and my master.”

Henry was thinking: The man's a spy! I would to God we still had Mendoza here. This Chapuys is too sharp. We must be watchful of him.

He was uneasy. He did know that the people were grumbling against his marriage. They never shouted for Anne in the streets; and he was aware that when Katharine appeared they let her know that she had their sympathy.

“I come to ask Your Majesty,” went on Chapuys, “to show a little kindness to Queen Katharine, if not for her sake for the sake of the people. There is one thing she yearns for above all others: To see her daughter. Would Your Grace now allow them to meet?”

“No,” said the King firmly.

“Then would Your Grace give me permission to visit the Queen?”

“No, no, no!” was the answer.

The Spanish ambassador bowed, and the King signified that the audience was over.

It was unfortunate that Katharine's request should come when Henry was pondering the insinuations of Chapuys. She was finding Buckden very damp and unhealthy. She suffered from rheumatism and gout, and she asked the King to allow her to move to a house which would offer her more comfort.

Henry read her request frowning, and sent for Suffolk.

He tapped the letter and said: “The Queen complains again. Buckden is not to her liking. She asks permission to leave.”

“And Your Majesty has decided that she may leave?”

“I was turning over in my mind where she might go.”

“There is Fotheringay, Your Majesty. That could be put at her disposal.”

Henry thought of the castle on the north bank of the river Nen in Northamptonshire. Its situation was notoriously unhealthy, but it was far enough away not to give cause for concern.

“Let it be Fotheringay,” said Henry.

WHEN KATHARINE
heard that she was to go to Fotheringay she cried out in protest.

“It is even more unhealthy than Buckden!” she said. “Is it true that the King wishes to see an end of me?”

She was weary of living and she was certain that if she went to Fotheringay she would not be long for this world. It was a comforting thought, but immediately she dismissed it. What of Mary? She visualized her daughter, shorn of her rank, forced to live under the same roof as Anne Boleyn's daughter, doubtless expected to pay homage to the child. It was intolerable. She must live to fight for Mary. Chapuys was full of ideas; he was constantly writing to her. He was ready to go to great lengths in her cause and that of the Princess Mary. And here she was, weakly welcoming death.

She would certainly not go to Fotheringay.

“I will not leave Buckden for Fotheringay,” she wrote to the King, “unless you bind me with ropes and take me there.”

But Henry was now determined to move her and, since she would not accept Fotheringay, he declared that she should go to Somersham in the Isle of Ely.

“As this place is no more acceptable to me than the Castle of Fotheringay,” she wrote, “I will remain where I am.”

But the King had decided that she should go to Somersham, for there she could live with a smaller household. Moreover he knew that she was far from well, and Somersham, like Fotheringay, was unhealthy. If Katharine were to die a natural death, and he could cease to think of her and the effect she was having on his popularity, he would enjoy greater peace of mind.

He sent Suffolk down to Buckden with instructions to move the Queen and certain members of her household to Somersham.

THE DUKE OF SUFFOLK
had arrived at Buckden and was asking audience of the Princess Dowager. Katharine, walking with difficulty, received him in the great hall.

“My lady,” said Suffolk, bowing, but not too low, making a difference in the homage he would give to a Queen and one who was of less importance
than himself, “I come on the King's orders to move you and your household to Somersham.”

“I thank you, my lord Duke,” answered Katharine coldly, “but I have no intention of leaving Buckden for Somersham.”

Suffolk inclined his head. “My lady, I fear you have no choice in this matter as it is the King's order that you should move.”

“I refuse this order,” retorted Katharine. “Here I stay. You see the poor state of my health. Buckden does not serve it well, but Somersham is even more damp and unhealthy. I shall not leave this house until one which pleases me is found for me.”

“My lady, you leave me no alternative…”

She interrupted him: “… but to go back to the King and tell him that I refuse.”

“That is not what I intended, my lady. I have orders from the King to move you, and I at least must obey my master.”

“I'm afraid your task is impossible, my lord, if I refuse to go.”

“There are ways, Madam,” answered the Duke, “and these must needs be adopted in the service of the King.”

Katharine turned and, leaving him, retired to her apartments.

She expected him to ride off to tell the King what had happened, but he did not do this; and sitting at her window waiting to see him leave, she waited in vain. Then suddenly from below she heard unusual noises, and before she could summon any of her women to ask what was happening, one came to her.

“Your Grace,” said the woman, “they are moving the furniture. They are preparing to take it away. Already the hall is being stripped bare.”

“This is impossible!” said the Queen. “They cannot turn me out of Buckden without my consent.”

But she was wrong, because this was exactly what Suffolk had made up his mind to do.

Secretly Suffolk was ashamed of this commission and wished that the King had chosen some other to carry it out; it was particularly distasteful to him, because he had, on the death of the King's sister Mary, recently married the daughter of Maria de Salinas who was such a close friend of the Queen. But his bucolic mind could suggest no other way of disguising his distaste than by truculence. Moreover he had orders to move the Queen from Buckden, and he did not care to contemplate what the King would say if he returned to Court and explained that he had been unable to carry out his task.

Katharine went to the hall and saw that what she had been told was correct. The tapestries had already been taken down from the walls, and the furniture was being prepared for removal.

Angrily she confronted Suffolk. “How dare you move my furniture without my consent?” she demanded.

He bowed. “The King's orders are that it and you should be removed.”

“I tell you I shall not go.”

She left him and went up to her bedchamber. Several of her faithful women were there, and she locked the door on herself and them.

Suffolk followed her and stood outside the door begging her to be reasonable.

She would not answer him and, realizing that it was no use arguing with a locked door, Suffolk went back to the hall.

“Go into all the rooms save those of the Queen's private apartments, which are locked against us,” he commanded. “Dismantle the beds and pack all that needs to be packed. We are moving this household to Somersham.”

The work went on while Katharine remained in her own apartments; but Suffolk and his retinue had been seen arriving, and it was not long before news of what was happening within the manor house was spread throughout the villages. As the crowd outside grew, Suffolk, who had posted his guards about the house, was soon made aware that the Queen's neighbors were gathering to protect her. It was a silent crowd, watching from a distance; but it was noted that many of the men carried choppers and billhooks; and Suffolk, who had never been noted for his quick wits, was uneasy. Here was a humiliating situation: the Queen locked in her own apartments with a few of her faithful servants; he and his men dismantling the house, preparing to move; and outside, the Queen's neighbors gathering to protect her! Suffolk knew that if he attempted to remove the Queen by force there would be a battle. He could imagine Henry's fury when news of this reached his ears.

Yet something must be done; but the winter evening was near and he could do nothing that night, so he called a halt to his men. They should see about their night quarters and making a meal. They were prepared for this for they had not expected to complete their task in one day and night.

In the morning, Suffolk told himself, I shall work out a plan. He thought wistfully of the Christmas revelry which would be taking place at the Court. The new Queen and her admirers would certainly arrange a lively pageant. There would be fun for those at Court, while he had to spend his time in this gloomy mansion, trying to persuade an obstinate woman to do something which she had sworn not to do.

But in the morning the situation was the same. Katharine remained in her own apartments, waited on by her faithful servants who treated the invaders as though they did not exist.

Meanwhile by daylight the crowds waiting outside seemed to be more
formidable—young, strong countrymen with their ferocious-looking billhooks. If he attempted to force a way through them Suffolk knew there would assuredly be a clash.

More than ever he wished himself back at Court; but he could see only one possible course. He must write to the King and tell him the circumstances; he would be cursed for an incompetent fool, but that was better than being responsible for a fight between the King's soldiers and the Queen's protectors. Suffolk was shrewd enough to know that such an incident might be the spark to start a civil war.

Already the King was preoccupied with fears of a rebellion which might seek to set his daughter Mary on the throne.

Yet he was undecided. He put off writing to the King, telling himself that Katharine might relent. She was after all an ageing woman, a lonely woman who had suffered the greatest humiliation possible. Perhaps those yokels waiting outside to defend her would grow tired. So Suffolk decided to wait.

For five days he waited and still Katharine's door remained locked. She took her food in her own apartments and would not open her door to Suffolk.

His patience ended. He went to her door and hammered on it.

“If you do not come out, I shall take you by force,” he shouted.

“You would have to do that,” was Katharine's answer. “Break down my door if you will. Bind me with ropes. Carry me to your litter. That is the only way you will get me to move from this house.”

Suffolk swore in his angry uncertainty. There were spies in this household. They were carrying tales to those waiting people so that everything that was happening in this house was known. He was sure that the Queen's neighbors were sending word to friends miles away, and that the ranks about the house were swelling.

He dared not take her by force. He and his men would be torn to pieces if he did.

He returned to the hall, looked gloomily at the dismantled room; then he wrote to the King, to Cromwell and to Norfolk, explaining the Queen's obstinacy and his fear of mob violence from the crowd which now seemed to be some thousands.

He dispatched the letters and prepared to depart himself.

He saw Thomas Abell coming from the Queen's apartments and called to him.