The Nymph from Heaven, page 48
part #1 of The Tudor Chronicles Series
Watching little Henry toddle about reminded Katharine of his cousin, her little daughter, the Princess Mary, who was just one month older than he. I must get home, she thought, although the thought of leaving the beauty and peace of the countryside for the demands of court filled her with a certain dread. But she missed her child and, despite everything, she missed Henry, too. She sighed and took up her needle once more.
She understood why Mary longed to stay away from court. Suffolk was so beautiful, and the Brandon’s manor house of Westhorpe was exquisite. Brandon owned many castles and manors, and it was at Castle Rising in Norfolk where they had stopped to break their journey on their way back to Westhorpe from the shrine at Walsingham. Katharine had promised Mary that she would do all in her power to ensure that Henry did not summon the Brandons to court for Christmas again this year, and now, having seen and experienced Mary’s bucolic life, she understood why Mary had pleaded for her help in this.
“Katharine!” said Mary, breathless after her long climb to the top of the turret. “I knew that I would find you here. You are kind to look after little Henry. But it is not necessary; his nurse grows quite lazy while you are here!”
Bitterness filled Katharine’s heart as she replied, “I do not mind watching him. It is my pleasure to do so. If only I could bear such a one as he, my troubles would soon be over. And how is the babe this morrow?”
Mary’s face flushed with pleasure at Katharine’s query. “Frances does quite well, thank you. Since she was born in a priory, think you that she will become a nun?”
“Not with such a scheming papa as she has,” laughed Katharine. “He talks of nothing but the grand marriage she will make, and she barely out of her swaddling clothes!”
Mary’s eyes sparkled. “’Tis true. I only thought that since children often take up the aspects of their wet nurses, if perhaps Frances, having been born amongst the monks of Butley Priory, might not hanker for the religious life. I was glad, I can tell you, to have made it to Butley that day in the storm! I was a feared for many a mile that Frances would be born in the litter! But you are right about Brandon. I thought he would be disappointed with another daughter, but he seems so taken with the child! Would that he paid as much mind to husbands for Anne and Mary!”
“What of his daughters by Anne Browne? Have there been any offers for their hands?”
“A few, but none that would suit Brandon. I fear for those girls, Katharine, I truly do. Perhaps I shall take matters into my own hands.” Mary picked up the altar cloth that she was making for the church at Walsingham. She loved looking at the colorful red and blue silk threads, the spun gold, and the tiny white seeds pearls, but she deplored the tedium of actually stitching. She shuddered as she recalled the sore, rapped knuckles she had suffered many a time under Grandmother Beaufort’s discerning eye when she was a girl just learning to embroider. She put her needle down and wound a bright golden thread about her finger, admiring the pattern it made, and then looked over at Katharine, whose lap was filled with an abundance of fine white lawn. “I marvel much that you still make Henry’s shirts for him. After all he has put you through!”
Little Henry had just finished his latest circuit of the room and was pulling at Katharine’s skirts for his treat. Katharine lifted an almond paste morsel from a silver tray and pushed it into his mouth. She shook her head sadly. Looking at the gay smile and sparkling eyes of the laughing little boy with his golden hair, pink skin and blue eyes simply served to underscore her unhappiness over not giving Henry the son he so longed for.
Katharine shook her head sadly. “I do not blame Henry for taking a lover. Most men do. My mother had to turn her head many a time from my father’s infidelities. I am fortunate that Henry has taken so few to his bed, and been so circumspect about it. He is, you know. It is Mistress B-Blount…” her tongue stumbled over the name that always stayed so glaringly in her mind’s eye these days. “It is she who manipulates him into…into…”
“Insulting you,” finished Mary. “Nay, do not deny it. I will not soon forget that affair of the pomegranates, and I will never forgive it!”
“You are a dear sister to take these things so much to heart on my behalf,” said Katharine. “I do not deny that I am cut to the quick by it all. But, Mary, if I were to bear a healthy, living, son… why, Henry would drop her like a stone down a well! If only…” tears glistened in her eyes. She had not conceived again since Mary’s birth; she had to face the fact that she might never conceive again. Did the fault lie with her? It seemed not; she had quickened with regularity over the years, had borne some boys. Would that just one of them had lived! Perhaps the fault lay with Henry? After all, he had been with Bessie for almost two years now and she had not quickened once.
Did God simply not understand her pleas? Was she perhaps not worthy? Had she committed some grievous fault of which she was not aware, and for which God could not forgive her? Had Henry? She had spent hours on her knees on the cold stone floor of the shrine at Walsingham, praying, begging God the Father, Jesus his Son, the Holy Ghost, the Virgin Mary and all the saints in heaven to let her have one son…just one…If she failed in this after so many years, if she failed Henry, failed England, failed her royal lineage, of what use was her life? And then suddenly she straightened her spine and said in a loud, firm voice, “For the love of God, Mary, my mother was one of the greatest reigning queens that has ever been, and Mary is her granddaughter! Why must Henry have a son to rule England as king? Why not a queen?”
Mary, startled, lifted her head and was about to speak when Katharine continued. “It is folly to say that whomsoever Mary marries will become de facto king of England. That is tripe. My daughter could be every bit as successful a queen regnant as my mother was. I will raise her to be such!”
Poor Katharine, thought Mary. The whole thing eats at her until she will die of it. Mary, too, had spent hours on her knees at the shrine at Walsingham, but she had not prayed for a son; she had her dear little Henry, and her precious little daughter Frances. She was now far removed from the throne; standing between her and her children was the Princess Mary, and after the princess and her issue would come her sister Margaret, and the king of Scotland. There was no pressing need for Mary to worry about the English succession.
Oh, there had been some nonsense of Louis’ during their marriage negotiations that failing legitimate offspring Henry would settle the succession on Mary’s children, and so far as she knew that had never been repealed. But Louis was dead and it was French heirs of whom he had been thinking. No, Mary was well-satisfied with her husband, her marriage, her children, and her life. So at Walsingham her prayers had not been prayers of pleading and supplication, but prayers of thanksgiving. But now she sent a silent prayer up to the heavens on Katharine’s behalf. Please, God, of Thy mercy, give Katharine that for which what she begs so brokenheartedly.
Abingdon, April 1518
Katharine looked at the faces ranged about her and smiled. Here were the people she loved best in the world. The intimate company included a few of those who discomfited her, like Wolsey, but still it was a rare treat to be once again away from court. All would yet be well; she was certain of it now. For her prayers at Walsingham had been answered. She hugged her secret to herself and unconsciously ran her hands over her belly.
It was so good to be out of doors again, to be sitting under a tree whose branches waved in the warm breeze, making the sunlight dapple the faces of the little party. It had been a very bad winter, so cold that the Thames had frozen solid. Katharine, who had grown up in warm, sunny Spain, had never really adapted to the cold, raw weather of her adoptive land. Still, she had borne it without complaint for Henry’s sake. But never in all her years in England had she seen a winter like the one just past.
She would never forget the spectacle of the brave souls who had ventured out onto the icy river to skate on slides made of the leg bones of sheep. From the windows of the Tower Katharine had watched by the hour, fascinated with the sport, laughing each time someone fell down, and clapping every time someone executed a spin without doing so.
Seeing the popularity of the game, some enterprising merchants began selling the skates, and soon more merchants had set up stalls selling mulled wine and hot cider to refresh those who were exerting themselves. Food sellers soon followed, and after it became apparent that the winter was getting colder and that the ice was here to stay, it seemed as if the whole of London had moved onto the ice. Never had it been so easy to get from one side of the river to the other.
The boatmen, at first dismayed by the wrecking of their livelihood, soon learnt to ply their trade by dragging people across the ice in their boats using horses hired from the livery.
Katharine had shaken her head and smiled. One could but admire the English and their merchant mentality. They could turn a groat from anything, it seemed.
It was a paradox, however, that when the English winter was unusually cold, the sweating sickness struck with particular virulence as the weather finally warmed. This year of 1518 was to be no exception. The sweat struck very early that year, in April, and raged throughout London. Henry, who lived in dread of infection during these times, quickly disbanded the court, and it was every man for himself. With just his immediate family and a few trusted servants and advisors, he had made for Abingdon.
Wolsey, who heretofore had simply stayed in London working each summer despite the risk, had the year before been stricken and was so ill that it was thought he would not survive. Mary had been distraught on his behalf, as she had been desperate to leave London for Suffolk to have her child in safety; and yet she had been loath to leave Wolsey, who was like a father to her, with only servants to care for him. Wolsey had actually suffered several attacks of the sweat in a row, but so strong was he that he had pulled through, to the amazement of all (and the disappointment of some).
This year he was taking no chances, and had left the court with Henry.
Katharine had been true to her word, and had made sure that the Brandons were not summoned to court for Christmas, so when Henry had requested their presence at Abingdon for Easter, they came willingly, glad of the trip in such fine weather, and even bringing the children with them.
So it was a merry and familiar party who dined in picnic style that lovely April day on the hillside overlooking the manse at Abingdon. Anne and Mary Browne played at bowls with little Henry and the Princess Mary, and the baby Frances slept in her cradle in the shade of the huge oak tree beneath which they all sat.
Katharine was waiting for just the right moment to impart her news. In the past she had always told Henry of her pregnancies first and in private, but of late he had seemed to be so detached from her that she no longer felt comfortable doing so. And so she had savored the knowledge of her quickening privately and waited for the right time and place to make her announcement. She decided that now was the perfect moment, when they were all full of good food and just a little drowsy from the wine and the spring sunshine.
“I have an announcement to make,” she said. Even after all these years her husky voice still had a trace of Spanish accent. All eyes turned to her, smiling and expectant. She took a deep breath. “If it is God’s will, I hope to present our gracious Lord with a son in November.”
Henry was on his feet in an instant and strode over to her. He stooped on bended knee and took her hand into his own. In his eyes was a faint glimmer of the old love he had once felt for her. “That is grand news,” he said. “And so timely! Madam, you have my sincerest congratulations!” He kissed her hand, and then stood and lifted his wine cup. “To the Queen!” he said, “and to our son!”
It was not a lover’s speech, but Katharine was no longer disappointed with Henry’s attitude. He was still young, not yet thirty, and she was entering, by the standards of the day, middle age. But just let her do her queen’s duty this time, and all might yet be well.
“Well, Wolsey!” Henry cried, clapping the cardinal on the back. “What say you to the Queen’s news? Is that not the best thing in the world?”
“I must admit that the Almighty’s timing is impeccable,” Wolsey replied. He looked around at the quizzical expressions on the faces of the Duke of Buckingham, Lady Guildford, Mary and Brandon, and the handful of others who graced the outing. “You see, the French king has been putting out tentative feelers regarding France’s inclusion in the treaty of peace on which His Grace and I have been laboring these many months.”
“Indeed?” said Brandon. He and Mary were always on the alert for good news as it regarded England’s relations with France. It seemed that François and his mother, the Queen Mother Louise, were like a pair of weathercocks when it came to Mary’s French dower payments. The money never came when it was due, came only in dribs and drabs, and only just in time to keep the wolves at bay. Henry was not the only one to whom the Duke and Duchess of Suffolk owed money; one of the reasons why Brandon loathed being at court, even while he dreaded being away from it, was that he could barely move there without coming up against his creditors.
But that spring a sizeable payment had reached Mary from France, along with a note in François’ own hand that said from now on, he would ensure that Mary’s rents were paid on time, and in full. It had baffled them at the time, but now they understood. François wanted to be included in the new treaty, and was hoping for a good word in the king’s ear from Mary and Brandon.
Wolsey sipped his wine cup complacently. The treaty of peace upon which he had been laboring now for over two years was at last coming to fruition. It would be the most ambitious project of his life; he would be remembered for it long after he was gone. It was to be his crowning achievement. But it had not been easy, and the machinations and political wrangling it had taken to bring the French around often tempted him to despair. But the problems now had all been resolved, even if not to the satisfaction of all concerned, and it would look as if the whole effort had been an Anglo-French treaty from the start, which was essential to convincing all the smaller countries and entities that had agreed to ratify the treaty to keep their word. For without the amity and agreement of the two most significant parties, of what use would the others be? And now it had all come together.
But there were still problems, for some of which it had seemed there was no remedy. And now, with Katharine’s words, another seemingly insurmountable obstacle had been removed. Surely the Almighty must be on the side of his powerful servant, the Cardinal Wolsey.
“The French made several conditions to their participation in the treaty, one of which is the betrothal of the Princess Mary to the baby dauphin,” Wolsey said. “There are those on the Council who greatly fear the implications of such an agreement.”
Henry sat, nibbling a cuticle. It was a valid concern, this fear that the English people had that his daughter’s husband would eventually become the king of England. He agreed; the fear was his own. And that that king should be the king of France was unthinkable. And yet, in the end, Wolsey had convinced Henry to mortgage the English succession of the future, in the interests of the present need for his glorious treaty. But now Katharine, of all people, had placed into their hands the very trump card they needed, and at just the right moment. “Well, they need fear no longer. The Queen’s news nullifies any fear that the Council or the people have about a French succession to the throne of England.”
How naïve he is, thought Wolsey. The queen’s record in child bed was not good. She might have another girl; the child, regardless of its sex, might not survive. And then they would be right back where they were now, hedging their bet that a miracle would occur and that the little Princess Mary would somehow not remain the king’s sole heir. Wolsey eyed Katharine with distaste. He had never liked her, and being staunchly pro-French, he feared her influence over Henry as it regarded her nephew, King Charles of Spain. There was only one miracle that could occur in his estimation; perhaps the queen, exhausted with her efforts, would die in childbirth, leaving the way open for the king to remarry. It was the only real hope.
Henry, as though he had read Wolsey’s thoughts, rose and paced again, taking great gulps from his wine cup as he did so. “I do believe that the Almighty has simply been testing my faith all this time,” he said with a nervous titter. “He has kept me waiting all these years, hoping for a male heir, disappointing us all every time. But this time, surely…” He left the sentence unfinished, hanging on the air.
His faith, as he said, had been sorely tried, especially in February when word reached the English court that Good Queen Claude, after bearing François two girls, had finally borne him a son. In the privacy of his chamber, with only Wolsey in attendance, Henry had voiced his bitter rage. “Why does God grant the French king a son after only three years of marriage? I have been patient, Wolsey, for eight years, and all I have to show for my patience, for my faith, is a daughter! I love Mary, she is an extraordinary child, but Wolsey, I need, England needs, a male heir! What is God doing? What is He thinking?”
Wolsey, who had heard it all before, had his pat answer ready. “The ways of Our Lord are inscrutable, Your Majesty.” When Henry did not reply, but simply continued to sulk in his agitation, Wolsey decided that he might as well broach another tender subject while the king was already in a rage. “There is another matter we must discuss. It concerns the princess.”
“What about her?”
“The Bishop of Tarbes has questioned the Princess’s legitimacy in regard to Her Grace’s proposed match with the dauphin.”
Henry, who was pacing about the room, stood stock still, his mouth frozen into a round “O” of astonishment. “He did what?”
