The Nymph from Heaven, page 98
part #1 of The Tudor Chronicles Series
Mary blushed scarlet when she realized that there were tears in Lorenzo Pasqualigo’s eyes. “Oh, my-a dear and-a gracious lady,” he said, his accent still thick despite his fluent English. “It is a miracle! Your Grace-a has-a not aged by a single-a day since I first-a beheld-a your loveliness. Your Grace is indeed a nymph from-a heaven! An angel!” Overcome, he lifted a hand to his eyes to wipe away the tears that were now spilling down his cheeks.
“Dear Pasqualigo,” said Mary. “You are too kind. But I fear me that I am no longer the girl you saw that day!”
“I am beg-a Your Grace’s gracious-a pardon, but it is not-a so,” he sobbed. “I am only-a sorry that I must-a renew our acquaintance on-a so-a doleful an occasion.”
Capello noticed the traveling trunks strewn about the room, their contents spilling over onto the floor. “You are to accompany the archbishop to Canterbury?” he asked politely.
“Yes,” Mary replied. “We depart on the morrow. The king has bid me stay, but I must away!” Now why, she thought, did I blurt that out? She must make an effort to guard her tongue. The poppy syrup now had her firmly in its grip; the pain was gone, and had been replaced by a most pleasant euphoria. “Because I have not been well,” she explained.
Capello had heard about her strange ailment that seemed to baffle all the physicians. It was one of the reasons he had sought an audience with her. “With your gracious permission, My Lady, there is an Italian apothecary in my embassy. If you would permit me…”
“Nay,” said Mary, with an apologetic smile. “Do not trouble yourself, or the gentleman,” she said. “I fear none can help me, you know. And when they discover they cannot, they wish to bleed me, so as not to admit defeat. That is why I am so pale!” She laughed again, the sound coming high and shrill. The Mary in the rafters frowned and told the Mary who sat before the Venetians to stop laughing.
“All right,” she said, apropos of nothing.
The two men looked at each other in bafflement.
Mary felt she owed them some explanation for her strange behavior. “You see,” she said, leaning forward and whispering conspiratorially, “it is all the fault of the Lady Anne.”
Again the exchange of baffled looks. Capello shrugged. “My lady?” he asked confusedly.
This time both Marys frowned. “Have you not heard then? Mistress Boleyn, Lady Rochford, is to be created Marquis of Pembroke. But I cannot countenance such, and told the king so. Now I fear me that His Grace is most angry with me. But I am for the common folk in this thing; I want no Nan Bullen! She is both witch and whore, and I shall not be party to her ennoblement!”
The two men stood before her in shocked silence. Capello, too embarrassed on her behalf to meet her eyes, shifted his glance and spied the telltale bottle at Mary’s side. So that was it. He knew that she spoke from her heart, and he did not wish to betray her trust. But now that the words had been spoken, they must needs be reported to his master, the Doge. Pasqualigo obviously loved and revered the lady and held her in the highest regard; Capello felt certain that he could be trusted not to reveal Mary’s words to anyone.
“My lady,” said Capello, “we have delayed you from your rest, and if you must travel on the morrow, I would beg your leave to retire and leave you in peace. Once again may I express my deepest sympathies for your loss.”
Mary smiled dreamily, seemingly unaware of her faux pas. “Thank you so much for calling,” she said, extending her hand once again. “And my dear Pasqualigo, if you are ever in the east country, promise me that you will come to call on me there.”
“Oh, My-a Lady,” said Pasqualigo. “You do-a me too much-a honor.”
Too much honor, she thought. Was that possible? Yes, she decided, it was. Henry was about to do too much honor to Anne, was he not? Ah, said the Mary in the rafters to the Mary in the chair, one may think such things, but one must never say them!
# # #
Brother Michael awoke abruptly and wondered what had startled him out of his exhausted sleep. He glanced at the candle still burning by his bedside. Such a wicked waste! He had returned from Compline determined to continue his prayer vigil, but, after a trying day, he had instead fallen asleep to the far-off sound of the monks’ droning chant, and had never extinguished his candle. He sat up and peered closely at the waxen stub, protruding from the waterfalls of wax around the base of the candlestick. He could tell by its length that it was almost time for midnight prayers. Just as well, then, that he had awakened.
Then he heard it again, the noise that must have awakened him. There were men shouting and the sounds of metal clanging. These were sounds he knew only too well. In a trice, Brother Michael was on his feet and running towards the church. It was odd, but it seemed that the faster he ran, the farther away the sounds were. It was almost as if he ran in a dream, where his quarry was always just out of reach no matter how hard he tried to catch it.
When he reached the church, there was no one there. At first all seemed as usual, but as he walked slowly across the transept towards the choir, he became aware that something was not quite right. The light…something about the light…why was it different? As Brother Michael approached the open space between the choir and the presbytery, he noticed that not all the candles were burning as they should be. Some of the candelabra had been upset and their lights extinguished. One candle lay on its side, and yet the flame had righted itself and it burned from the floor, casting unfamiliar shadows all the way to the vaulting in the ceiling.
And then he saw it. At first he thought it was a heap of rags, or a beggar stolen into the church to sleep. But as he approached the strange mound, his sandal stuck to something, causing him to lose his footing. He went down, trying, but failing, to break his fall onto the cold stone floor. When he opened his eyes he was staring right into the dead eyes of another man. He knew now what had caused him to slip and fall; the coppery smell of fresh blood filled his nostrils. Slowly he rose, heaving his bulk onto unsteady feet.
A glint caught his eye in the flickering candlelight. Brother Michael tore his fascinated eyes away from the dead man and walked towards it. He was in the sanctuary now, the holiest place in the abbey. There, on the floor before the high altar, lay a bloody sword. Unconsciously, he began to whimper. He could hear other voices now. The monks were arriving for prayers. Suddenly, he heard screaming; it was a high-pitched, keening noise that reverberated in the high, open spaces of the abbey, and split his ears; he covered them with his hands. It was several moments before he realized that the sound came from his own lips.
“I am afraid, Your Grace, that I must vehemently protest this most grievous violation of my personal correspondence,” said Capello. “There can be no denying it. The gentleman was caught…how is it you say it? …red-handed.”
Henry snorted. “An apt observation, Your Excellency. I assure you that we had no idea that the duke was censoring your dispatches. I will speak most forcefully to him on your behalf.”
Capello doubted that the king was unaware that his letters to the Doge had been molested, but he had done his duty and complained. He could do no more. He bowed himself from Henry’s presence.
As soon as the ambassador was out of earshot Henry said, “What the devil was Norfolk about, Thomas, being so clumsy? Haven’t we enough to contend with, without him stirring up such a hornet’s nest as this? It is bad enough that he was discovered rifling the Venetian’s letters, but then to cause such a row!”
Cromwell felt the little thrill he experienced whenever the king spoke to him as an equal, and in derogation of someone as high in rank as Norfolk. Cromwell had always known that his mentor, Wolsey, had likewise been gratified by the royal confidence. To what heights might he, who was unencumbered by the robes of a churchman, not rise, when the king obviously depended upon him, and thought so highly of him? He realized that he was rubbing his hands together at the thought; it was a nervous habit that he must try to break. To one who was watchful and could read the signs, it revealed too much of his thoughts. Being egocentric in the extreme, King Henry was literal and obtuse when it came to such things; but others were not so imperceptive.
“A most unfortunate episode, Your Grace, I agree,” he said. “But one that may prove useful to us in the long run.”
“Useful? How in the world could such a to-do be useful?” It was all so unfortunate; Norfolk, who had simply been carrying out the king’s own orders when he had intercepted the Venetian ambassador’s dispatch pouch, had taken great exception to Mary’s words about Anne, which an insult to all Howards, and of which Capello had dutifully informed the Doge. And just what wouldn’t he have to say to Mary when next he saw her…! Witch and whore, indeed! What could she have been thinking to say such things to a royal ambassador?
Norfolk, he knew, had always resented his friendship with Brandon, and had used the excuse of Mary’s ill-chosen words about Anne to have his men start a row with Suffolk’s. Things had quickly gotten out of hand, and had culminated with a band of Norfolk’s men pursuing Suffolk’s men into the abbey at Westminster. Sir William Pennington, one of Brandon’s men, had been killed right in front of the high altar by one of Norfolk’s men. The situation was tense in the town for several days afterward; he himself had had to intervene to stop further bloodshed.
“The fact, Your Grace,” said Cromwell smoothly, “that Suffolk’s men ran into the abbey for protection from Norfolk’s thugs supports the accusation in the Supplication that the church harbors dangerous criminals with its laws of sanctuary. The recent incident, and Sir William’s death, were unfortunate, but could not have been better timed to illustrate our claim.”
Henry gazed at Cromwell dumbfounded. A murder had been committed in a sacred place, even though its victim had sought refuge at the high altar. The murderer was still housed within the precincts of the church, and had not yet been delivered from sanctuary to face secular justice. “Why, I had not thought of that! Man, you are right! The whole situation serves to illustrate the point that church law is in direct conflict with secular law!”
Cromwell nodded sagely. “Admirably, Your Grace. Both factions, I assure you, created quite a stir outside the abbey. The pub in which the altercation began was all but destroyed with their fighting, honest citizens were trampled by the men’s horses as they pursued each other through the streets, property was destroyed, the King’s peace disturbed. It matters not which gang of ruffians first sought protection from the other in the abbey church. Both are equally culpable in the minor crimes, all had the temerity to disturb the tranquility of God’s house, and murder was done in sight of St. Michael and all his angels. If the laws of sanctuary did not exist there would have been no lure to try to end the quarrel in the north transept. And the fact remains that while those who fled the church have since been apprehended and even now await judgment, the murderers are still being harbored by the abbot, who will not surrender them until the church has investigated the incident.”
“True, true,” Henry replied. “This is just one more example of men using ecclesiastical law to escape the king’s justice, and I like it not!” But Cromwell was right; the occurrence could be used to point out that in England, only the king’s law should apply. With Warham dead and the church playing so nicely into his hands, soon he would be able to free himself from Katharine to marry Anne. The thought gave him a thrill, but not for the same reasons it used to. How strange! Whereas in the past the thought of marrying Anne, of bedding her, had provoked in his breast an almost holy awe, now it evoked only a feeling of triumph, of victory. Finally, finally, she would be not just a conquered maiden, but an enemy vanquished and wholly in his power.
Buckden, Cambridgeshire, September 1532
The last thought that went through Mary’s mind as she saw the shadow of the great gates of the palace of Buckden pass over her litter was that perhaps Henry had been right. Mayhap she should not have insisted on traveling in her condition.
The journey south and east to Canterbury had gone well. In fact, she had felt well enough, upon her departure from Kent, to plan a visit to Katharine at Buckden on her way home. She had only a very hazy idea of the lay of the land; she knew only that Cambridgeshire was not so very far from Suffolk, and that it would be a shame to miss a chance to see Katharine. But distances grow longer when little speed can be accomplished. The jolting litter made slow progress even on good days, and for the last two days the pain in her side had been so great that they had had to lie up in a small village.
“I am very concerned for her,” she heard a voice say.
How strange! thought Mary. She seemed to be in a bed, whereas her last memory was that of passing under the gatehouse.
“She has swooned from the pain more than once this day.”
Mary opened her eyes; she was indeed lying in a great bed.
“There, there,” said a man’s voice. “There is no need to worry. The Princess Dowager knows of the French Queen’s arrival, and has sent word that her own physician shall attend upon Her Grace. He will be here at any moment.”
Anger flared in Mary’s mind. “There is no such person,” she said.
“My Lady!” cried the woman, whose back had been turned to her while she was speaking with the man. “Oh, I am so relieved! I was afraid…”
“You will kindly refer to Her Grace as the queen in my presence,” said Mary to the man, whom she could now see.
Lord Mountjoy bowed and said, “I regret, Your Grace, that I cannot. We have strict orders from the king himself that his sister-in-law is to be referred to, and addressed as, the Princess Dowager.”
Mary looked him in the eye and said, “You are forbidden by me to do so in my presence. Katharine of Aragon is my brother’s wife, and queen of this land. Any person who cannot give her her rightful title is not welcome in my presence.”
“Dearest,” said the girl, taking her hand, “please do not distress yourself…”
It was ironic that Lady Catherine Willoughby seemed so attached to her. Wisely, no words had ever been spoken between them about the girl’s behavior towards Brandon. Lady Catherine acted at all times as if she regarded Mary as her future mother-in-law. Indeed, the girl seemed most solicitous of her comfort and had intervened several times during their travels to ensure that orders were given, and followed, when Mary was too ill to do so.
“Dr. De la Sa!” exclaimed Mary, holding her hand to her painful side. “It is right glad I am to see you!”
The doctor bowed and said, “Your Grace, Her Grace has sent me to see to your comfort, and sends her greetings and her most tender love. She regrets that she cannot attend you in this part of the palace…” as he said these words he looked about him at the damp clinging to the walls. Palace, indeed! His look seemed to say. Mary had always been amused by Katharine’s ability to infuse so much meaning into a few innocuous words and a meaningful look; now she realized that it must be a talent possessed by all Spaniards. “…but Her Grace has made a solemn vow not to place herself in the way of any who will not address her by her proper title of queen.”
Poor Katharine, thought Mary. Did Henry realize just how much indignity he had heaped upon his loving wife for the sake of one she herself had recently called both witch and whore? She sighed. Henry was stubborn, but he had yet to learn that Katherine balanced her loyalty and obedience to her husband with an equal measure of obstinacy.
Mary regarded the doctor. “Then you must needs make me well again very quickly,” she said, forcing herself to smile. “For I have missed the queen…” she placed just a hint of emphasis on the word, “…most sore, and would see her as soon as possible.”
Over the next few days, the bed rest in which she was indulging served to improve Mary’s condition greatly. Finally, one sunny morning, she asked to be escorted to the queen’s apartments.
“Oh, Mary!” cried Katharine. “I am so glad to see you, my dear. How the sight of you cheers my heart!” With tears shining in her eyes she embraced her sister-in-law.
Mary looked about her in dismay at the shabby furnishings. Her eyes alit upon a tray of half-eaten food. “Katharine, I feel certain that if Henry knew…”
“He does not wish to know,” she said. “Oh, I do not mind all of this so much…” she waved an expansive hand at the meanness of her surroundings, “…but I do miss Mary so! A child needs its mother, Mary, especially…” Especially, she had been about to say, when her father no longer thinks with his head, but with his…but she found that she could not even think the thought, let alone say it aloud.
Mary shook her head. “It is so unlike Henry to be vindictive. I just do not understand…”
“It is not Henry,” said Katharine vehemently. “It is Anne. It is she who poisons the king’s mind against me. Has not my behavior shown that I will obey him in all things except those that touch my conscience? Why forbid me Mary’s presence? Why cannot he at least allow us our letters? It is cruel, and that is something Henry has never been. This is all Anne’s doing.”
Mary opened her mouth to speak and then changed her mind. It would give Katharine little comfort to disabuse her of the notion that Henry was instrumental in ordering the things that vexed her so.
Just then the door opened and Maria de Moreto appeared with a laden food tray. To Mary’s surprised look Katharine said, “I cannot take my meals in the hall. It would create an awkward situation for all if I did. My Spaniards would take great offence to any who disrespected me by addressing me as anything but queen, and Lord Mountjoy and the servants, by order of the king, cannot do otherwise than they have been told. Besides, I fear poison.”
“But does not the food come from the palace kitchens, regardless of who prepares it for you?”
“Surprisingly, no,” said Katharine, with a hint of the old wry humor that Mary knew so well. “The people of the surrounding area somehow heard of my plight and have taken to sending food to me. Some send fruits and cheeses; others send a dressed fowl, or a haunch of venison, or a woodcock. Any offering that does not arrive already prepared, Dr. De la Sa himself cooks on the spit, never leaving it until it is done. All of my food is served to me by my own servants.”
