The Concubine (24 page)

L
ADY BO SAID BREATHLESSLY, “TOM
,
put your hand at the back of my waist and push me a little, please. Such steep stairs! And I don’t want to arrive all of a fluster.”

Wolsey, when he built what he had called York House which was now called Whitehall Palace, had built as he always did, proud and high. From the outside the turrets were impressive, inside they were full of attic rooms, reached by stairs intended for the active legs of young squires and pages, not for the ascent of middle-aged ladies, roused untimely from bed, dressed in their finery, and flustered anyhow.

Thomas Boleyn had tried to explain to her overnight. The King, he told her, and Anne, were to be married, secretly, very early in the morning.

“Married? Properly married?”

“My dear, did you ever hear of anyone being improperly married?”

“Yes, indeed I did. The King himself, all these years.”

He laughed. “An apt retort; but untrue. His Grace has been unmarried all these years. Tomorrow he will marry Anne and that will be his first legal marriage.”

“Then why does it have to be secret? Oh, I know all about the Pope, Tom, it took a bit of understanding, but I did get it clear in my head at last. What I mean is,
if
as soon as the Pope says that Dr. Cranmer is Archbishop, Cranmer and the King will go against the Pope over the divorce,
why
does it matter whether the Pope agrees to Cramner being Archbishop or not?”

“Now that is female logic and quite unanswerable in any terms that would have meaning for you. Look at it this way; suppose you and I fell out and to spite me you thought you’d sell Hever. The sale would be illegal. But suppose I fell ill and gave you something known as power of attorney; then you could act for me and it would be legal, whatever you chose to do. If Cranmer said the King was a free man, before he was confirmed by Papal Bull, it’d mean nothing. When he does it, after he is properly installed, it will have some authority.”

“Then why don’t they wait?”

“I imagine that they are tired of waiting. Wouldn’t you be? If you want a more definite answer,” he said teasingly, “I suggest that you ask His Majesty that question, tomorrow morning.

“You know I would not dare. But I still think, Tom, that it’s all a curious muddle; and if the Pope is to be thrown aside it might as well be done first as last.”

“That is heresy, my dear.
Now
. In six months it won’t be. The King clings to the Papacy as a man clings to an aching tooth. A clove will ease it, he says; I’ll bite on the other side, he says. But the end is certain. Tomorrow morning will see the end of the Pope in England.”

Lady Bo’s mind abandoned its brief concern with great matters.

“Tomorrow,” she said, “Anne will be married. And now I can confess that all along I’ve had grave doubts, and fears. I thought it all too likely that she had sold her good name for a mess of pottage.”

“Your terms of exchange are wrong, my dear. It is one’s birthright that one gives for that unappetizing dish.”

Now here they were, having been admitted by a side door, little used, to judge by the way its hinges squealed. There was no page, no squire in attendance, just that very pleasant young man, Harry Norris, who had indicated the stairs to be climbed. The stairs ascended in a spiral, and for a good part of the way there was a thick woolen rope, fixed by brass rings to the wall, and Lady Bo had hauled herself upward by clutching at it; but at the last turn there was nothing save a stone wall worn shiny and dark by the touch of hands. Faced with that she had asked her husband’s help.

At the top another of the King’s gentlemen was posted, Thomas greeted him, calling him Heneage. He opened the door for them and they entered the plain whitewashed room on the far side of which an altar had been placed. Nothing else had been done to cheer or beautify the attic and only the candles, burning bravely, mitigated the murky chill of the winter’s dawn.

The King arrived, attended by Norris and Heneage. He was wearing dull tawny, heavily embroidered in gold. He looked nervous and Lady Bo’s heart went out to him; such a great King, yet so human; so steadily faithful to Anne, and about to take a step which would not only restore her good name—sadly blown upon—but make her Queen of England.

Then Anne came in, with one of her ladies, Nan Savile, and her woman, Emma. Anne looked magnificent, but alarmingly pale, though that, Lady Bo tried to comfort herself, might in part be due to her dress, a dark cinnamon color, furred with black.

Last of all the priest entered through a little low doorway behind the altar. He was a stranger, and at the sight of him Lady Bo remembered her own wedding where the priest had been an old familiar friend, part of her ordinary life. Later on, she was to hear a good deal of argument as to who, exactly, had performed the ceremony in this attic; some people said it was Dr. Rowland Lee, one of the King’s chaplains, others said he was an Augustinian Friar named George Browne, Nobody seemed to know for sure; though the King must have chosen him. And not too well, Lady Bo thought, her sense of this being a very odd wedding increased as she realized that the priest seemed not to know exactly what he was there for. He appeared to think that he had been asked to celebrate Mass; but before he could begin the King whispered to Norris, who stepped forward and spoke into the priest’s ear; whereupon he folded his hands with a helpless, puzzled gesture and looked at the King almost piteously.

“The Pope,” Henry said in a loud, firm voice, “has declared my former marriage invalid. I have that in writing, Sir Priest. I have also permission for this marriage. So, if it please you, proceed with the Nuptial Mass.”

After a second’s hesitation, during which a strange tension filled the attic room, and Lady Bo, despite the chill, felt sweat break out on her forehead and on her neck, the priest bowed his head; stood for a moment in a subservient attitude and then donned dignity and authority as though they were vestments and proceeded to speak the words that bound Henry and Anne together for life.

Lady Bo found herself inclining to melancholy. No choir, no bells, no hilarious guests, no presents. She belonged to a class where wedding presents mattered. And though Anne would not be setting up house and had no need for such practical tokens of goodwill as linen, blankets, pewter dishes and candlesticks, churns and milk skimmers, still her stepmother wished to give her something, and last evening, going through her own possessions, had chosen a necklace of onyx and crystal beads which she herself considered very handsome. Tom had said, bless her soft heart and her softer head, what use did she think Anne would have for such a trinket; when she had accompanied the King to France she had been so plastered with gems of incalculable worth that one could not look at her without blinking. Lady Bo had made the answer that came into her head—that it was the spirit of the gift which counted, because she had learned that her Tom, except where she herself was concerned, was completely without sentiment, just as some people were colorblind or tone-deaf. But she had not put the beads away; she had them in her pocket and if an opportunity occurred she intended to slip them into Anne’s hand.

And then it was over; and suddenly cheerfulness blossomed in the cheerless little room. Henry’s taut, fidgety manner gave way to geniality, and Anne, though still pale looked radiant. Lady Bo curtsied to Henry and would have curtsied to Anne, but before she could Anne put her arms around her and kissed her.

“I wish you well, dear,” Lady Bo said, and made her little gift. “And I pray God send you happy all the days of your life.”

“And no good wish for me, Lady Wiltshire?” Henry asked. “Oh indeed, your Grace, yes. Every good wish in the world.”

He thanked her and said he could never regard her as a mother-in-law, she was too young and too comely; and he slapped Thomas on the shoulder, and cracked jokes and hugged Anne, and gave for a little while such an impression of being young, transported with delight on the greatest day of his life that Lady Bo found herself thinking of country weddings she had known, and all the trappings, the worn old shoe thrown to represent the abandoned past, the herring, symbol of fertility, the expressions of goodwill, coarse maybe, but hearty and apt. She might even so far have forgotten her shyness as to have voiced one traditional wedding wish, had Henry not said,

“Come, sweetheart. You have been standing long enough. We must take good care of you now.”

Oh dear, oh dear, Lady Bo said to herself; so
that’s
the way it is! That is why there was so much haste that we mustn’t wait for the Archbishop and a proper wedding.

Still, Anne had managed well; and this morning’s ceremony constituted in Lady Bo’s eyes the wished-for happy ending. And there was another thing, too. Children conceived out of wedlock did tend to be boys. It was as though God knew that there was a risk of bastardy and thought the handicap of illegitimacy enough, without the added one of being female. So perhaps Anne had managed even better than she realized.

Going, with less effort, but with care, down the twisting stairs Lady Bo thought of one of the things country people, full of good meat and ale, said to bridegrooms, “Go to it, bor, and remember, God made Adam afore Eve.”

“…
AND IT IS HIS MAJESTY’S
express wish and command, that you should henceforth refrain from using the title of Queen and be known as the Dowager Princess of Wales.” That was the end of a longish speech which the Duke of Norfolk had, with some effort, committed to memory, and having delivered it he drew a long breath of relief.

Catherine said, “The King’s wish has always been, and will always be, a command to me.”

That was capitulation at last. Norfolk and those who had come to support him congratulated themselves upon the ease with which their mission had been accomplished.

“Subject always,” Catherine said, “to two overriding authorities.”

“And they are, Madam?”

Now let her mention the Pope and the Emperor and she was speaking treason; and if she were a traitor Chapuys, the busybody Imperial Ambassador, could cease his whining about how a helpless, inoffensive woman was being persecuted.

“God. And my conscience. God appoints to each of us his station in life, my lords; and He called me to be Queen of England. My conscience forbids that I should call myself by any other title.”

Norfolk said, “But, Madam, there can be but one Queen of England; His Grace can have but one wife.”

“There we are agreed, my lord.”

“His Grace married the Marchioness of Pembroke more than two months ago.”

The room went dark. She was standing, as she had received them, dragging her sagging figure to its full height, attaining dignity. Now she wished she were sitting. Her legs were failing her. She might fall; she might faint. No, pride forbade. Never should they see how deep and fatal this wound was.

“Married? How? By some hedge priest, under cover of darkness?” Her voice was bitter. “No proper cleric would have dared!”

“I can assure you, Madam, the ceremony was properly performed and duly witnessed. I was not myself present. But there are those here who were.”

“Which of you?”

They stared at her, their faces noncommittal. Seldom in all history had there been so well-kept a secret. The marriage had taken place in the presence of the bride’s parents, three attendants, one serving woman, and certain members of the King’s Privy Council; and only those who had been present knew who else was there. Even the exact date and place and the name of the officiating priest were secrets.

“It matters little who watched this masquerade. Marriage it was not. His Grace is my lawful wedded husband, and so long as I live he can have no other wife.”

The Duke of Norfolk felt again that unease which the whole question of the annulment, and the consequences arising from it were bound to arouse in a truly Catholic breast. While he turned his eyes inward for a second the Duke of Suffolk said in his brutal way,

“Madam, your information is outdated. The Convocation of Canterbury recently decreed that Pope Julius had no power to permit His Grace to marry you and therefore that the marriage was null and void.”

“I knew that. But I question the right of the Convocation of Canterbury to give judgment on the matter.”

“Then, Madam, you question the validity of our English law; for Parliament has said that the English Church is sufficient to determine all statutes and that as Head of the English Church the King is the final judge of all things spiritual.”

She wanted to say—These powers are self-assumed and mean nothing: I could call myself Queen of France, but that would not make me so. But bandying words was a waste of time. Once again she took her stand upon law as she understood it.

“My case is even now under consideration by the Roman courts and should not be tried elsewhere.”

“Your case was lost years ago. And it is essential that you should recognize the truth, Madam; for Queen Anne is already with child.”

Again their faces seemed to blur and recede into blackness. This was the end of all hope. No! The end of all hope if the child should be a boy. If Anne Boleyn could produce a prince the English would be so delighted that even the most conservatively minded of them would contrive to believe that the boy had been born in wedlock.

And Mary would be nothing. Worst of all, Mary would never have a chance to repair the damage which Henry—under the evil influence of that woman—had done to the Holy Roman Catholic Church in England.

Not a glimmer of fear or doubt showed in her face, or her voice, as she said,

“Until the Pope dissolves our marriage, the Princess Mary will be His Grace’s only legal issue and therefore heir to the throne.”

It was no more than they had expected; and Norfolk was prepared.

“In that case, Madam, I must, with regret, inform you of His Grace’s plans for you. The generous offers which he made in return for the withdrawing of your claim no longer hold good. Lord Mountjoy will no longer be your host, but your custodian; your allowance will be cut by three-quarters. You will be allowed to keep no state and your household will be reduced to a minimum.”

“Then I shall feel no pinch,” Catherine said calmly. “I need only my chaplain, my physician, and two maids. They will continue to address me, and refer to me, by my proper title. I wish you to tell His Majesty that, and add that if such a modest household is a burden upon his resources, I am prepared to go about the country asking alms.”

There was just a hint of a threat there. Catherine had retained the affection of the ordinary people, particularly of the women; if every man, married twenty years, could find some excuse for following his latest fancy, what woman would be safe? Catherine was Mrs. Everywoman; and the world was full of interlopers, wicked women, would-be breakers of homes, like that Nan Bullen. If it once got about that the King was being mean to Catherine over money, while loading Anne with gifts, there would be an uproar!

Norfolk said, “That will hardly be necessary, Madam. His Grace meant only that since you are not Queen, if you refused the rank of Dowager Princess of Wales and the allowances that accompanies the title, then you must be content to be an ordinary gentlewoman.”

“And that I can never be in this life,” she said simply. “If it pleases God, and His Holiness to take away my title as Queen, I shall remain what I was born, Princess of Aragon.”

To that there was no answer; the Dukes and the lords went away.

Now she could sit down and give way to the trembling which shook her like a palsy. She wanted to weep, but weeping did no good, it only made one’s head thick so that clear thought was difficult. And she needed to think clearly; because one of the things which Norfolk had learned by heart and repeated concerned Mary. He’d said that Mary was to go to London and be one of Anne’s ladies, by the King’s wish. If that were true, Mary must go; for over a matter of such small consequence Henry was entitled to double obedience, as King, as father. But, however much humiliated, Mary must stand firm upon her unassailable right; she was Henry’s daughter, born in wedlock, heir to the throne.

She must write to Mary. To encourage, not to admonish. Mary needed no admonishment; Mary was a rock. But she was only seventeen; and she was dreadfully alone.

As I am, Catherine thought. How eagerly
she
would have welcomed a letter of encouragement. None ever came. Clement went from procrastination to procrastination; making a little promise, withdrawing it; making threats against Henry and taking no action. And the Emperor Charles was just as bad. Nobody had ever come, fully armed and wholeheartedly to her aid. No! To think in that way wronged Fisher, Bishop of Rochester, who had never wavered, and her chaplain, Thomas Abell, who had first pleaded her cause in Rome and then published a book defending the marriage. For that he had been imprisoned in the Tower. And she had, she was certain, many faithful, nameless friends. She owed it to them to fight on.

Her mind moved on to Henry. How displeased he would be by the answers she had returned him. She imagined how Anne, insolent in her hope of a son, must have nagged him before he—always so generous—would have agreed to cut down her allowance. Then another thought came, an icicle in the heart; how convenient for everyone if she—and Mary—died. Those who accused Anne of witchcraft also called her a poisoner. Bishop Fisher’s supper broth had been poisoned one evening; several of his guests had died and he had been ill for a month. Mary must be warned of that danger, too, and she herself must be very careful. Anne would become desperate now, knowing, as she must in her heart, that her marriage was no marriage and that her child would be a bastard.

As Catherine took her place by the table where she spent so many hours, and prepared to write, one of her women entered and hovered as though anxious to speak.

“You have heard the news, I daresay,” Catherine said, wishing to forestall any lamentations over the reduced household, any veiled expressions of sympathy because of the marriage and the pregnancy. “I shall make my own arrangements, when I am ready. Nothing else has altered so far as I am concerned.”

“I was wondering, your Grace, whether they told you about Bishop Fisher. I heard just now, in the courtyard.”

“What about him?”

“They say he’s been arrested and taken to the Tower and will have his head cut off.”

Catherine thought of that noble, craggy old head; of that clear brain, dauntless courage, golden tongue.

“For being my friend,” she said faintly.

“There was another reason given, your Grace. He found fault with something that Lord Rochfort said, or did in France.”

“And since when has it been treason to criticize George Boleyn? That is too flimsy…But if such a charge can take Bishop Fisher to the block there is no law left in England.”

Suffolk had said, “
Then, Madam, you question the validity of our English law
.” The implication was—You, a Spaniard.

I may be next, she thought. If the English law can declare me unmarried it can behead me.

She began to write to Mary the kind of letter, urgent, full of advice, that a mother would write, thinking it to be her last.

She laid no blame on Henry. This was all the work of that wicked woman who held him in thrall, the cruel, ruthless, clever creature whom the London crowds called Nan Bullen.