The King's Confidante: The Story of the Daughter of Sir Thomas More (28 page)

So it has come to this! thought Thomas. The King is indeed
determined to cast off his wife since he has made Warham and Wolsey accuse him of incest.

“You see,” said the King, “I am a King who is beset on all sides—by his love for his wife, by the demands of his ministers, by the reasoning of his own conscience. You are an important member of the Council, and there are many who set store by your opinions. You have many friends—Bishop Fisher among them. When this matter is discussed between you, I would have you obey
your
conscience as I am obeying mine. I would have you cast your vote not for Henry the man and Katharine the woman, but for the good of this land and its future heirs.”

“My Lord King, you honor me too much, I feel myself inadequate to meddle in such matters.”

“Nay, nay,” said the King. “You underestimate your powers.” His voice was kind still, but his eyes flashed a warning. This matter was very near his heart, and he would brook no interference. This was a matter of conscience—the King's conscience and no one else's, for the King's conscience was such a mighty monster that it would tolerate no interference from the consciences of others. “Come. You agree with these men who will bring a suit against me, do you not? You know, as they know, that your King and Queen are living together in sinful incest. Come! Come! Be not afraid. We ask for the truth.”

“Since your Grace asks for the truth, may I ask for time— time that I may consider this matter?”

The King's eyes were narrow, his mouth sullen.

“Very well, then. Very well. Take your time.”

He turned away abruptly, and several courtiers, who had been watching from a safe distance, asked themselves what Sir Thomas More had done to offend the King.

ONE OF
the sights to be seen in the City, rivaled only by that of the marching watch on Midsummer's Eve and the Eve of St. Peter, was the ceremonious procession which attended the great Cardinal on all his journeyings. Before him, about him and behind him,
went his retinue of servants, extravagantly clad in black velvet with golden chains about their necks; the lower servants were conspicuous in their tawny livery. And in the center of all this pomp, preceded by the bearers of his silver crosses, his two pillars of silver, the Great Seal of England and his Cardinal's hat, rode the Cardinal himself, in his hand an orange, the inside of which had been replaced by pieces of vinegar-soaked sponge and other substances to counteract the pestilential air; the trappings of his mule were crimson velvet and his stirrups of copper and gold.

He went with as much ceremony as if he were the King himself.

He passed over London Bridge, and the people watched him in sullen silence. They blamed Wolsey for all their ills. Who was Wolsey? they asked themselves. A low-born man who, by great good luck, lived in the state of a King. When taxes were too high—and they always were—they blamed Wolsey. And now that the King wanted to replace the Queen, they blamed Wolsey for that. The people wanted an heir to the throne, yes; but the more serious among them remembered that the Queen was the aunt of the Emperor Charles of Spain; they might not be troubled on account of the Emperors humiliation, which he would undoubtedly feel if his aunt were cast off, but they feared his armies. So … they blamed Wolsey.

He was on his way to France now, and in his retinue rode Sir Thomas More.

The great Cardinal was more deeply perturbed at this time than he had ever been before.

Fortune was turning against him. Had he looked too high when he had coveted the Papal Chair? Ah, if only he instead of Clement had been elected Pope, all his anxieties would be at an end. There he would have been content to rest, at the pinnacle of fame. There he would have had no need to fear any man. He had climbed to great heights, and now he was on a narrow ledge, his foothold precarious; he must retain a very careful balance if he were to continue to climb. About him snapped those angry, jealous
wolves—Suffolk, Norfolk and their followers. There was only one man who could save him from those ravening beasts, and that was the most dangerous of them all—the King.

The secret court which he and Warham had called, that the King's marriage might be proved incestuous, had failed because of the obstinacy of the Queen, who insisted that her marriage with Arthur had never been consummated; therefore there were no grounds on which legality could be denied. Wolsey's foreign policy had resulted in his winning for England the enmity of both France and Spain; and now the Pope, on whose help he had relied in this matter of the royal divorce, had been captured during the sack of Rome and was a prisoner in the Emperors hands.

His mission to France was an uneasy one. He must talk with Francis; he must tell him of the King's doubts regarding the legality of his marriage; he must try to arrange a match between the Princess Mary and the son of Francis; he must cautiously hint that he was looking for a future Queen of England in France. Perhaps the Princess Renee, sister of the Queen of France? Perhaps Francis's own sister, the talented Marguerite de Valois?

Everything depended on the successful termination of the King's Secret Matter; and this was a most delicate matter even for a great statesman to handle. To juggle with the politics of Europe was one thing; to secure the gratification of the King's desires another.

Still he who had achieved so much would achieve this also. What perturbed him was the growing truculence of Norfolk, and particularly of Suffolk—for Suffolk, the King's brother-in-law and his greatest friend, had the King's ear; and there were times when Wolsey felt that Suffolk would not have dared to treat him so scurvily, had he not done so with the sanction of the King.

And at the root of this uneasiness was one factor; the King was no longer that careless boy who could be fed with the sugar plums of masques, jousts and fair women while the able hands of his shrewdest statesman steered the ship of state, which was England, along its perilous journey. This King had done with playing
the careless boy; he had come to
realize
that the fascination of power politics was as great as a new feast or a new woman. He was breaking the bars of his cage; he was testing his strength; he was roaring with pride in his own glory. And he was saying: “I will have all… all… I will be King in very truth. I will have my rich entertainments, and I will stand on the bridge of my ship, and if any attempt to come between me and my desires they shall not live long to do so.”

On went the procession—all the pomp and glory—and in the midst of it rode an apprehensive man.

Thomas, riding along unnoticed in the glittering throng, was also pensive. All his sympathy was for the Queen. Poor lady, what had she done to deserve this humiliation? Had she wished for marriage with the King in the first place? He doubted it. He remembered her, serene and dignified, at the Coronation. Yet she had accepted her fate with meekness; she had tried to love the King, and she had been a faithful wife to him; the second was to be expected, for she was a virtuous woman; but her love for the King must have been sorely tried during these last years.

Now was his chance to leave his post, to tell the King the state of his mind, to say boldly: “Sire, I resign my post, for you will wish to have about Your Highness those ministers who can help you to obtain the divorce.”

It was a relief to rest at Rochester on the the journey to France, and there to stay in the company of his old friend, Bishop Fisher.

It was pleasanter still to have a private talk with Fisher after Wolsey had sounded him.

In the small paneled room, the two friends were serious together. They talked solemnly of the terrible calamity which had befallen the Pope; then their talk turned on the King's Secret Matter.

How could the divorce be concluded without the sanction of the Pope? And how could the Pope give his consent to the King's
divorce from a lady who was a close relation of the man who held him prisoner, even if he was satisfied that he should grant a divorce?

“These are grave matters, my friend,” said Bishop Fisher.

“Grave indeed,” said Thomas, “for where they will end I do not know.”

And the next day, the Cardinal, with Sir Thomas More in his entourage, left for Canterbury, and so to France.

THE SWEATING
sickness had again come to England; it roamed through the streets of the City like a hungry beast who was nourished on the filth which filled the malodorous gutters and the fetid air inside the houses. Men, women and children took the sweat; they lay down where they were, in a state of exhaustion, and died unless they could be roused from the coma into which they fell. This horrible pestilence was no respecter of persons; it struck at beggars and the highest in the land.

In the streets, the people were muttering together, telling each other that it was clear why God had sent this affliction. He was displeased. And why should He be displeased? The Secret Matter was no longer secret; they knew that the King wished to put the Queen from him; and there was no denying the rumor that the woman he wished to make his Queen was Nan Bullen—his mistress, so it was said. Who was this woman? The daughter of a knight. She was no royal Queen.

All the hatred the people felt for the upstart Wolsey they now allowed him to share with the upstart Anne Boleyn.

God was angry with England, and this was His way of showing it; there was the reason for a further visitation of this terrible pestilence.

The King was also angry. He had been deprived of the presence of his beloved mistress, who he desired to make his wife more than he desired anything on Earth. What had she said to him? “Your mistress I will not be; your wife I cannot be.” But he must
be her lover even if, as she implied, the only way in which he could be was by making her his wife.

And now she had left the Court.

Wolsey had done this. What had happened to Wolsey? He had lost a little of his arrogance. He now knew that the King had not given him his confidence, and that when he, Wolsey, had been trying to negotiate a marriage with one of the princesses of France, the King had already firmly made up his mind that he would have none other than Anne Boleyn. Wolsey now knew that it was mainly Anne Boleyn who had set the King searching his conscience; but he had learned that important factor too late.

Now a sad and anxious Cardinal had advised his royal master that, since the people were angered against the Lady Anne, it would be wise at this stage to send her back to Hever.

So Henry was alone and wretched, longing for her, asking himself why it was that, surrounded as he was by the cleverest men in the world, there was not one of them who could settle this matter to his satisfaction.

There was a message from Hever.

The sweat cared nothing for the wrath and anguish of the King himself. Anne Boleyn—more precious to the King than his kingdom—had become a victim of the sweating sickness.

Now the King was in terror. He wept and stormed and he prayed. How could God put the King's beloved in danger! Had he not been a good King … a good man … always striving to do God's will! And was it not solely for the good of England that he would take Anne to wife?

He could for his physicians, and the only one who was at Court was his second, Dr. Butts. The King threatened this man while he beseeched him to save the Lady Anne, before he dispatched him in all haste to Hever.

Then he sat down and, weeping, wrote to her: “The most displeasing news that could occur to me came suddenly at night….” He wept as he wrote of his laments, of what it meant to him to
hear that his mistress, whom he esteemed more than all the world, and whose health he desired as he did his own, should be ill. He told of how he longed to see her and that the sight of her would give him greater comfort than all the precious jewels in the world.

And when he had written and dispatched this letter, he paced up and down his apartment, weeping and praying; and all the time longing for Anne, cursing the fate which kept them apart, promising himself how he would reward those who helped him to marry Anne, promising revenge on all those who continued to keep them apart.

In the Court the news spread: The Lady hath the sweat. This will doubtless impair her beauty, even though she should recover. Could she do so and be so charming when and if she returned to the Court?

Important events were being decided in a lady's bedchamber at Hever Castle.

GREAT SORROW
had touched the house in Chelsea.

Margaret had been to the village, taking some garments to one of the families, and she had seemed quite well when she had returned to the house. She had sat with them at the supper table and had joined in the talk. Then, as she had risen, she had tottered suddenly and had been obliged to catch at the table to support herself.

“Margaret!” cried Mercy in terrible alarm.

“What is it?” demanded Alice.

“Let us get Margaret to bed at once,” said Mercy. “She is sick, I am afraid.”

“Margaret sick!” cried Alice. “Why, she was eating a hearty meal a moment ago!”

“Yes, Mother, I know. But don't hinder me now. Will! Jack! Father … help me.”

It was Will who carried her to her room. Now her eyes were tightly shut and the beads of sweat were beginning to form on her face; she was shivering, yet burning hot.

Thomas followed. He caught his daughter's limp hand.

“O Lord God,” he prayed silently. “Not Margaret…. That I could not endure.”

Will was beside himself with anxiety. “What shall we do, Mercy? Mercy, in God's name, what
can
we do?”

“Cover her up. Keep her warm. No; don't attempt to undress her. I will try the philosopher's egg. I have it ready. God be thanked.”

She lay on the bed, no longer looking like Margaret; her face was yellow and the sweat ran down her cheeks.

“Please,” begged Mercy, “everybody go. There is nothing you can do. Leave her with me. No, Will; you can do no good. Make sure that the children do not come into this room. Father… please … there is nothing … nothing you can do.”

Mercy's thoat constricted as she looked into his face.