Tudor Turnabout

Tudor Turnabout

Change on Demand

by Robert Hyslop

Published as in Great Britain 2009, 2016

Cuthan Books ( mailto:cuthanbooks@btinternet.com )

First published as ‘Mutatis Mutandis’ Copyright: Robert Hyslop

The right of Robert Hyslop to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

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ISBN: 9780993438998

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

To my family and friends for their patience in listening to me talk about a passion.

And to the many martyrs in these pages.

Table of Contents

Prologue: Stormy Encounter

PART ONE: CATHERINE OF ARAGON (1526-31)

Chapter 1: A Troubled Conscience

Chapter 2: Rising Star

Chapter 3: Impasse

Chapter 4: All Change

PART TWO: ANNE BOLEYN (1531-36)

Chapter 5: A New Queen?

Chapter 6: The King’s Hammer Strikes

Chapter 7: Frustration

Chapter 8: Dissolution

PART THREE: JANE SEYMOUR (1536-39)

Chapter 9: Defiance

Chapter 10: A Son at Last

Chapter 11: Heresy, Plots and the Bible

PART FOUR: ANNE OF CLEVES (1539-40)

Chapter 12: The Mare of Flanders

Chapter 13: Fall from Grace

Chapter 14: Loose Ends

PART FIVE: CATHERINE HOWARD (1540-2)

Chapter 15: Reactionary Hopes

Chapter 16: Royal Disappointment

Chapter 17: ‘No Other Will But His’

Chapter 18: Foreign Diversions

PART SIX: CATHERINE PARR (1543-7)

Chapter 19: A Safe Pair of Hands?

Chapter 20: Going Home

Book List

End Notes

(This novel has extensive endnotes. Before accessing End-Notes PLEASE NOTE YOUR RETURN POINT as you will be taken to SET points in that long section (520 entries). Then scroll down to the relevant End-Note.

For example, in the TEXT click on [62] & you’ll go to a SET point (60) in End-Notes. Scroll down to End-Note 62 & read it.

To RETURN enter [62] in the file’s FIND Process (it may produce several so check you have the right 62), & you’re back where you were in the TEXT – or use if available.)

About the author

&&&

Prologue: Stormy Encounter

I hear His Majesty’s conscience is again proving troublesome. The cynical voice despite its softness seemed to fill the hall.

Hush! Don’t you know even walls have ears ... Never criticise …Best stay silent.

And hear all!

Giles Manning turned and looked over his shoulder. The walls were bare; no curtains to conceal an eavesdropper anxious to win favour by reporting any slip of the tongue. Even so, Giles made no comment; to criticise the King was to invite danger. It was the act of a fool. In that matter no man was a friend – or, if he were, there were ways of loosening the tongues of even children against their fathers. Speech made no man safe.

Yet even while Giles thought, he criticised. In less than ten years the illustrious King Henry the Eighth had enjoyed four wives – no, the official number was one, Jane Seymour, mother of Prince Edward, the hope of England. That is, thought Giles, at the moment. The last ‘wife’, my Lady of Cleves should have been packed off to join her German brother, and a good thing too! Boorish followers of that renegade monk, Luther,[1] had no place in England, whatever Master Cromwell might have said. As it was, she’d been merely pensioned off.

However, the Almighty had ensured the power – and life – of the Earl of Essex himself had gone.[2] The King had turned the son of a brewer into an earl, but he’d never been regarded by the true aristocracy as being anything more than what he was, an upstart crawling about doing the dirty work for his master. Now his star had sunk, along with a disastrous marriage. To Cromwell that union had been more than a diplomatic necessity, a ploy to tilt the balance of European politics, it had been a means of preserving his power. And it had failed. For to the King it had been something much more precious, a renewal of his youth!

For thirty years women had worshipped the ground he stood on. He’d always been the object of love and adulation. The Lady Anne should have joined the ranks of those ladies who’d been overcome by the royal grace and charm. But the Lady Anne had felt no such love. To her the marriage was an affair of convenience – the Emperor was the foe of both her brother and the King of England and so it was natural they should come together in alliance. As a woman she was but a pawn in the game of diplomacy and she made no attempt to hide her feelings. She didn’t love the King; she could NEVER love the King. He was no longer the athletic prince whose beauty and skill at tennis and jousting had won the hearts of a generation. Now, he was too fat to play tennis and was even beginning to find riding beyond him. Indeed, she didn’t even have to PRETEND to love him. Unlike his last two queens she lacked that fear which came from being a subject. She knew Henry could never harm her, without driving into the arms of his enemies one of his last friends on the continent of Europe. In fact, she found him rather boring. His blustering, his likes and dislikes, his very pettiness BORED her and she made no attempt to hide it.

And the Lady Anne was plain, that was the final rub. A man who’d had the pick of Europe’s beauties had been fobbed off with a PLAIN woman. The King had been misinformed. Cheated by Holbein[3] and his portrait. Cheated by Cromwell. Every one of them had cheated him, their KING. How they must still be laughing. Someone had to suffer. The King’s anger could only have been calmed by blood.

Nobles and clergy alike secretly gloated over the fall of the hated Vicegerent,[4] Cromwell.

Giles too had hated Thomas Cromwell. Giles was too old for these modern changes, too fixed in his ways. He could remember the old days when the power of Thomas Wolsey, Lord Chancellor and Archbishop of York,[5] had rivalled that of the King himself. Henry hadn’t been too proud to bend his knee before the representative of the Holy Pontiff and accept the Golden Rose[6] – and to receive the title of ‘Defender of the Faith’.[7] What faith? Certainly not that mishmash professed by the brewer’s son from Putney;[8] nor that of the obscure Cambridge divine now elevated to the Chair of Canterbury.[9] Nor, if one really considered the matter, the cause of it all, of Anne Boleyn.[10] Men might mutter heresy was long grown in England[11] but without the King it’d have stayed a sterile weed. Anne Boleyn made the difference.

If only that Channel crossing had turned out otherwise…

&&&

The storm, having stayed its malice for so long, had Finally, arrived in force. The sea had become an enormous cauldron’s stew convulsed by superhuman power. The ‘Marie’ was but paper at the mercy of the elements, dipping into the waves, half-drowned but struggling up for one last gasp of air before being overwhelmed again. Over her decks the torrent strived to swallow the ship and be met by its fellow carving an entry from the other side. For a brief moment both foes were pushed aside as the ‘Marie’ drove onwards; but retreating waves tore at the decks, the mast, any plunder to comfort their retreat before they returned, fresh and eager for a new assault.

The passengers were ill, cursing the day they’d ever left France and the safety of trusty dry land. On deck they’d been a menace to themselves and the seamen struggling to thwart disaster, so they were easily persuaded to shelter in what passed for quarters on the deck. Here they were sick, vomiting over what remained of the fine silks of France. Like abandoned waifs they huddled together – drenched, miserable and helpless.

The ladies at least tried to appear calm, setting an example to the gallants, which few attempted to follow. With patience they awaited whatever fate the Lord had provided. Everyone had heard Mass before quitting Calais, seemingly days ago, and so they all shared what remained of a state of grace.

One group shared more, a frantic interest in Court scandals, and their chatter defied the very elements to intrude on the important things in life. Europe had been shocked by events at the Court of Francis I, but had the King of France really said to Madame ... and what had Madame replied? Amid laughter the ladies contrived to hide their blushes (which failed to appear) somewhat to the amusement of their companions.

Giles smiled as he stood in an obscure corner, just out of the storm’s reach; were they trying to impress the seamen fighting for control of the vessel? No! They were bolstering up their courage in the only way they knew, facing down death with whispers of recent follies. The smile broadened as he reckoned they were succeeding. Not for them the misery of soaking limbs huddling away in corners, under the table, anywhere away from the storm outside. From the group came light, careless laughter – especially from a slight, dark-haired girl.

Giles couldn’t help watching her. She was ALIVE! She dominated her surroundings and yet so gently no admirer appeared conscious of her power. Even Giles felt drawn towards her. He’d no particular love of women; Father John had schooled him well in the wiles of the daughters of Eve. For years he’d observed how they could bring about the ruin of careless youths. France had given him no cause to question the wisdom of his monastic tutors. France was a country ruled by women, from the King to the peasant in his hut. Giles hadn’t liked France with its toying with life. This girl, however, was no French coquette mocking whatever gifts nature had bestowed. She possessed freshness and gaiety and YOUTH, being scarcely more than twenty,[12] and yet smoothly exercised her charms with a skill to match the most practised jewels of the French Court. The gentle swing of her head or the flash of her dark eyes could carve deeply into the heart of any young man. Her long black hair, not closely confined according to the dictates of fashion, taunted her rivals surrounding her- and bested them. Above all was her laugh – silver, pure silver.

Yet Giles was content to admire from afar. A blend of shyness and shrewdness told him such pleasures were best savoured from a distance. The girl’s vitality was like a keg of powder! No, rather like an untrained mare, brilliant but awe-inspiring.

……… and do you mean then to go to Court? laughed a young gallant, obviously with plans for this dark-haired beauty.

But of course, Master Thomas. Where else would I be truly appreciated? and her laughter dared any to contradict her. The ladies made no move, vanquished yet fascinated by this youthful doyen of their arts; the young men were simply enthralled.

And besides, she continued with a slight smile, I’ve an earnest desire to see our Lord of England… Is he really as handsome as they say in France?[13]

Aye, Anne, and more, chirped a rather plain girl, dressed in a vivid (drenched) blue gown. He sets every heart fluttering, and that’s for sure.

They all laughed and Anne, trying hard to control her own merriment (with, fortunately, too little success) put in, "So my sister, Mary,[14] writes. She says the King is admired by all, especially the ladies. Any lady in England, she says, would love to change places with Her Majesty ̶ "

Or with Bessie Blount![15] quipped a tall, long-nosed man in a red velvet cloak, as he leered over the current centre of attention.

Ah! But there you’re a little behind the times, Will Brough, retorted the rather plain girl. ’T’is said His Majesty no longer pursues Mistress Blount, the mother of his son. Now the royal eyes seek fresh game ...Surely, Anne, you must be afraid to go there!

This teasing barb provoked fresh merriment.

Giles couldn’t help smiling, despite his disapproval. He’d no wish to see his King a laughing stock. What WOULD she make of England’s pride? The King at thirty-one was the most handsome man in England – and many added, in whispered tones, the laziest. Henry VIII hated work and life had become one long round of pleasure. Cares of state were left for the hands of the assiduous and pompous Cardinal Wolsey. Perhaps few people liked that but Henry didn’t particularly care what people liked. The King was popular and knew it. He’d only to lift one hand and the people would raise cheer after cheer until their throats grew dry. And that was right. Let any mistakes or shortcomings in justice be laid at the door of the Archbishop of York; why else should a servant be given such power? Let Thomas Wolsey bear the brunt of the people’s displeasure while the King remained the darling of their hearts.

Giles completely agreed with the King. Henry enjoyed the wealth of the kingdom and England enjoyed her King. Any shortcomings, such as a temporary shortage of money for the King or the permanent overtaxing of his subjects, could be blamed on that upstart Wolsey.[16] Giles preferred it that way; an arrogant butcher’s whelp had been made Cardinal of Rome so Henry could remain untarnished in the affections of his subjects.

The group centred on Anne now turned their attention, and spite, on England’s Cardinal.

How dare he sit in judgement on the morals of his betters, when he himself has kept a whore for years and had children by her?[17] snarled a short, darkly-bearded man. His eyes swept over his companions as if weighing up their loyalty to Wolsey. His bluntness might shock and steal the limelight, but bluntness had its dangers.

Beware of that tongue of yours, my friend, before you lose it! put in Will Brough, lightly placing a hand on the shoulders of his companion. But there was no friendliness in his tone, rather a malicious pleasure. His Grace is said to have spies everywhere.

His companion, however, wasn’t so easily frightened, although his eyes probed every corner to see if any harboured an unwelcome interest. For a moment his glance lingered on Giles before dismissing him as no Cardinalist agent.

Perhaps the Cardinal is no longer so close to His Majesty, he persisted, giving Giles a second glance to make sure. His greed and luxury find no favour with the King. His Majesty is rumoured not to enjoy his stays at Hampton Court.[18]

But surely His Majesty is flattered when foreigners remark on the magnificence of one who, after all, is a mere subject and owes everything to the King? asked Mr. Thomas, although he clearly didn’t believe that.

At the moment perhaps, replied the little man, brushing aside the suggestion with ill-concealed irritation. But why let another enjoy such fruits when all might well be one’s own –

I think the Cardinal is a horrid man! interrupted Anne and then covered her face so alarmingly (and charmingly) her whole audience collapsed in laughter. Perhaps it was best any serious discussion of England’s politics should be brought to a close and the conversation return to the safer and intriguing topic of Court gossip.

Outside the storm still battered the ship with huge waves flooding the decks. Giles looked towards England or, rather, where England WOULD have been had not wind, sea and rain blotted out everything beyond the limits of the vessel. A prisoner of nature, Giles wondered how long it would be before they were safe on land. Three hours? How time dragged.

Suddenly behind him shouting erupted. Cries and laughter persuaded Giles to turn his back on nature. Anne was laughingly turning and, as she did so, brandishing aloft a single sheet of paper.

See what Mistress Catherine does to pass the long hours! She taunted the plain girl whose cheeks were turning scarlet with a mixture of rage and embarrassment.

Give me that back, Mistress Boleyn! she screamed, lunging at the paper which danced just beyond her grasp. Give me it back, I say!

But first let me read it to our friends, laughed Anne, mischievously holding out the paper, only to snatch it back when Catherine grabbed at it. "Listen! It begins… ‘My darling Peter, long have I dreamed-’"

Give it back, you hussy! screeched the tormented girl. Give it back immediately, do you hear! Again she lunged and again the paper danced out of reach. Temper was supplanting whatever embarrassment may have been felt for the paper’s contents. She was determined to recover her letter.

Her companions merely laughed, urging Anne to read them more. They placed themselves in the way of the tormented girl as the reader continued. "’My darling Peter, long have I dreamed’, here another laugh as she dodged behind Mr. Thomas, ... ‘of your kisses and your…’ This time she slipped behind a very tall red-haired individual who made as if to seize the pursuing Catherine in his arms. … ‘caresses.’ My, my, that’s a wicked word for a nice girl to use..." And Anne slipped behind Will Brough who playfully grabbed her pursuer.

By now, of course, the whole area was in uproar. Everyone joined in the fun, even those travellers who’d shown no interest beyond sheltering from the fury of the storm outside, became amused by the fury of the storm raging inside. Catherine’s eyes blazed and she tried, in vain, to hold back the tears as she lunged again and again at her tormenter. Round and round the passengers scrambled the two young girls; now the table was between them, now a bench stood in the way of Catherine recovering her letter, from which Anne continued, despite interruptions, to read yet more indiscretions.

Finally, Anne was cornered, driven away from the protecting circle of her friends and harried into the corner. A single means of eluding the advancing Catherine remained, and Anne took it. Still laughing and holding high the letter she slipped past Giles and out on to the open deck, right into the storm. Her baffled pursuer stopped at the door as Anne in triumph looked around at the whole space around her. Catherine could never corner her here.

Again she raised the letter to taunt her frustrated victim. Come, come, what horrible words for a young lady to use. Already soaked through, Anne was enjoying herself. Does Peter know of your desires... your longings? Shall I -

Her words became a scream as a huge wave crashed over the bulwarks and swept her across the deck like a discarded doll to be thrown against the sides. There’d been time only for one shriek when her fingers vainly grabbed at a rope attached to the mast as she was carried past. Then her small body was abandoned against the sides and lay still – wet, unconscious and helpless.

The tormented Catherine stood watching her helpless tormenter. Horrified? Delighted? Her expression gave no clue as she stood unable (or unwilling) to move.

However, Giles pushed past the motionless Catherine out into the storm. Rain, wind and waves were all ignored as he rushed towards the storm’s prey. Gently, almost lovingly, he gathered up the prostrate form. Then, in a single movement and without standing erect, he charged back towards the doorway. There was a smile on his lips as he brushed past the silent and brooding Catherine whose eyes scoured the deck of the ‘Marie’ for any trace of the letter. Satisfied no evidence of her indiscretions remained, she turned and followed Giles into shelter.

Giles lay the unconscious girl on the table, oblivious of both the proffered help of her friends, or the congratulations of the few who’d witnessed the incident. After all, that matter of life or death had taken up but a snatch of time. Anne still breathed and was soon overwhelmed by friends trying to summon life to her ashen features and warmth to her weak, soaked body; Giles seized the opportunity to sidle away to his corner. Ignored by the returning Catherine who approached the table to pay court to the slowly-recovering Anne. Willing hands helped the girl to a more comfortable bed and Giles was completely forgotten.

Shortly before reaching Dover Anne rejoined them, her laughter and energy demonstrating how easily she’d shrugged off her narrow escape. She never approached Giles to express her gratitude but he hadn’t expected she would. They came from different worlds. Giles, preferring a quiet life of the gentry in the country, was a reluctant visitor to the capital. On the other hand, the career of Anne Boleyn at the court of Henry VIII was about to begin.[19]

&&&

Chapter 1. A Troubled Conscience

That year the gaiety of the Court at Christmastide appeared somewhat strained; still the food, the music, the lights, the games, the people – but the atmosphere was very different. The King seemed almost miserable and his mood had rubbed off on almost every member of the Court from the greatest Duke to the lowest kitchen scullion. In the Banqueting Hall the mighty picked at their meal in silence: no jokes, no coarse laughter. Every eye monitored the high table where the King confronted in silence his largely-untouched food. To gaze too long at the King in such a mood would invite a scowl. Men still wondered why His Majesty had lost his appetite for food, music and talk. Beside him sat Queen Catherine, very prim and very listless, with stolen glances at her husband but unwilling to raise the cause of Henry’s low spirits.

Alone in the Hall one man knew, or thought he knew, the reason for the King’s displeasure. He too fingered his meat while scrupulously avoiding any glance at the King. Eventually his royal master would tell him the cause of his black humour – and instantly expect his Chancellor to solve the problem, for that was the King’s way. In the end he always came to Wolsey and always the Cardinal had achieved the impossible. Was it money? A slight? A woman? The King always relied on Wolsey to find an answer and so the Cardinal wondered when his lord would come to him. Meanwhile he had his suspicions but whispered them to no one; a confidante would be unwelcome as TWO men could never exploit such a secret.

Later Wolsey in the grandeur of his bed-chamber sadly and wearily laid aside his chain of office. He enjoyed being Chancellor of England,[20] revelling in the power it gave him over the greatest subjects in the land. He knew he wasn’t loved but had no such desire, as long as he was feared. ‘Oderint dum metuant.’[21] A grim smile flitted across Wolsey’s lined features. All that mattered was for him to retain the confidence of the King, let that fail… The Chancellor shuddered, preferring not to think of what would happen to him if enemies were ever given their heads.

The Cardinal’s forehead creased into a frown. He was worried. He no longer seemed indispensable to the King. By now Henry should have told his old servant, and FRIEND, the cause of his sadness and expected him to find the answer. These days the King was thinking for himself too much. In the past, thinking had been left to the Chancellor, and Henry had been happy to enjoy the pleasures of Kingship without its responsibilities. Sometimes the royal will had coincided with the wishes of the Chancellor; then Wolsey had gone about his task with more than customary zest. Such had been the downfall of that numbskull, Buckingham, who’d offended the King by his royal blood and the Cardinal by his arrogance. Together King and Chancellor had destroyed the proudest Duke in England.[22]

Now the King appeared not so ready to seek the advice of his Chancellor, even preferring the counsel of upstarts such as Lord Rochford.[23] Wolsey’s lip curled in distaste. Just because his daughter had caught for a time the royal eye didn’t give Thomas Boleyn and his clique licence to govern the kingdom. Mary Boleyn had been but an empty-headed plaything and been amply rewarded.[24] In the end a tired royal fancy had married her off to the King’s friend, Will Carey.[25] Her father no longer had any claim on the King, so why did Henry still bother with him?

The Cardinal was well aware of what troubled the King, the same as what had disturbed His Majesty ten years ago. THEN, indeed, the King had consulted his Chancellor who’d advised patience.

Why do our children die? he’d asked after seeing another son pass into an early grave.

Misfortune, murmured the Cardinal. But the Almighty knows you as a dutiful son of Holy Mother Church. He recognises England’s need for an heir to carry on the work of your illustrious father and yourself. Eventually your prayers will be answered.

Henry had appeared satisfied and prayed all the more. Certainly he began to pursue the ladies of the court, perhaps anxious to prove his virility. Indeed, the Queen herself had become pregnant on several occasions over the next few years but with always the same result, a still-born child or one dead within weeks. Doubts gnawed more fiercely at the royal mind. Hadn’t he married the widow of his brother?[26] Surely God had condemned that in Holy Scripture? "If a man shall marry his brother’s wife he acts unlawfully: he has uncovered the shame of his brother; they will be childless’[27] Childless! Childless! And he so needed children. It had all been the Pope’s fault. Julius had never been much of a one for Scripture. Could papal dispensation outweigh Scriptural ban?[28] No! Henry had known that, even before taking the fatal step. He’d protested at being bound to the widow of his dead brother, Arthur.[29] But none had listened, so what else could he do? Spurn the Spanish alliance?

But the marriage had soon begun to turn sour, albeit away from the public gaze. Catherine aged rapidly, due to frequent pregnancies and genetic inheritance, and soon tired of her husband’s boyish tricks. At first, she’d tried to join in his games, his masquerades but then grew tired, despite continued love for her husband. Who could not love the King? Certainly Catherine admired the King: but did she really appreciate him? To do that would have meant, like Charles Brandon who became Duke of Suffolk,[30] immersing herself in all his pleasures. In many ways the King was a child, demanding all should be his playmates. Within months of Wolsey’s elevation to the See of York there’d been rumours of a divorce for the King. However, that had nothing to do with Wolsey but arose from Henry’s pique at being snubbed by his Spanish father-in-law. Indeed, as if to prove tales of marital unhappiness were exaggerated Catherine again became pregnant.[31] Henry may still sometimes act like a child but he was still a king. ‘Ira principis mors est’.[32] Wolsey shuddered.

He snapped at his servants bustling around to leave him in peace. Wolsey had no desire for bed yet, he needed to think. It all might have been different years ago when the birth of Princess Mary had at last given the King an heir. Once again it hadn’t been the longed-for son, but the King had mastered his disappointment.[33] For a time the King had been happy, showing off his precocious daughter to foreign and native gentry.[34] But no sons followed and the old doubts had reappeared. God must be angry. Why? The King became an even more fervent worshipper at mass and a dutiful son of the Church.

Catherine herself was growing old and fat, no longer pleasing the King. Henry grew churlish and impatient toward his wife; she became more self-pitying, suspicious and reproachful. The King no longer shared her bed, but lusted after the not-unwilling beauties of the Court. By 1519 he’d fathered a son by Bessie Blount and became even more convinced his marriage was buried under a web of sin. After all, the boy was but a bastard, incapable of holding the throne of England. He demanded a son from God and God had denied – no, cheated – him. For the new Tudor dynasty (and the Cardinal thought, but never uttered aloud, one with somewhat-dubious claims) the King had to have a legitimate son.

That was the King’s worry thought the Cardinal and he knew how to fix it, if only His Majesty would approach him. God, and Leviticus, couldn’t be defied. As Henry Fitzroy grew older and stronger, his royal father’s mood grew blacker and blacker.

Not that Wolsey wasted any sympathy on the Queen. Whenever the King was angry it was necessary, and safer, to be angry with him. And besides, Catherine was the aunt of the Emperor,[35] and the Cardinal remembered how often he’d been the victim of imperial duplicity. By now he should have been installed in the Chair of St. Peter. Wasn’t he the pre-eminent churchman in the whole of Christendom? If it hadn’t been for the lies of Charles V.[36] But no man, not even an Emperor, could cheat the Cardinal with impunity. The Emperor needed the friendship of England to cling on to Italy in the face of French aggression. His time would come.

The Chancellor sighed and looked down at his chain of office; how heavy was this symbol and how onerous the office! Papers! Papers! What good were they when it was Rochford possessing the royal ear. All this work for nothing! He may organise the government but he no longer organised the King, and without that all this paper was rubbish! He brushed aside the papers strewn over his desk with a force to match his despair. Oh, for the days when Henry had laughingly boxed the ears of his Chancellor before wandering off, leaving him with another problem to solve. And he’d done it. He’d never failed his King – well, scarcely ever. Wolsey frowned. Two years ago Parliament had defied the demands of both King and Cardinal for more money, and it was all the fault of Master Thomas More.[37] There was a dangerous man, far too virtuous for an age like this. Even so, Wolsey liked More;[38] he could trust him but he couldn’t trust Rochford.

Wolsey slapped his hand down against the desk as if swatting a fly. Rochford …… Rochford must be removed, but how? How?

Wolsey paced to and fro in his bed-chamber, his head sunk deep into that mountain of flesh once a chest; his hands hidden behind his back, one playing a grim tattoo on the other.

He had it! Wolsey swung back towards his desk and seized a pen. Sitting down he drew a large soft sheet of paper towards him and began to write furiously in his solid handwriting……

‘May it please your Majesty,

Thy humble servant, Thomas Ebor,[39] most earnestly craves audience to impart news of a most urgent nature…’

He screwed up the paper and threw it on to the floor. No! Completely wrong! At this hour it would be almost impossible to get an audience with the King, and he’d certainly be in no mood for letters, especially if they seemed to concern Matters of State. Wolsey knew his King. It must be the personal approach or nothing else. The Cardinal rang a bell to summon servants; in moments his valet, Cavendish,[40] appeared, and disappeared with just the message to arouse royal interest.

Yes, he had the answer to all his worries. But for the presence of his servants, he might almost have skipped for joy. So easy. So simple. He allowed himself such a broad smile his servants muttered about ‘changing moods’. Quietly and efficiently they helped the Cardinal, suddenly feeling exhausted, to bed...

Wolsey lay in the darkness chuckling. It was so easy. First, define the problem – in fact, problems as there were three: Rochford needed to be cut down to size, Henry was furious at Catherine’s inability to produce a healthy son, and Wolsey wanted revenge on that cheat, the Emperor.

And for all this there was one simple solution. Wolsey congratulated himself. Just sound advice. Advice which the King couldn’t shrug aside and, in gratitude, would shove aside Rochford. If Henry couldn’t have a son by his ageing Catherine, he must have a younger wife. The sister of the King of France, for instance. The King had admired her several years ago. And that would settle the Emperor, at one stroke his aunt would be sent packing and England would be bound in close alliance to his arch-enemy. Francis.[41] Brilliant, thought Wolsey, and again allowed himself congratulations. The King would still need his Cardinal.

&&&

To be face to face with the King, however, was a very different matter. Wolsey was highly nervous – tense, lacking his usual confidence and he felt, sensed, the King knew it. He was sure Henry was enjoying his discomfiture and felt angry. He felt small and the Cardinal didn’t enjoy feeling small, even before his King.

Henry wasn’t in a pleasant mood. He’d lost at tennis. Henry may not have played for years and realised he was ageing, but he hated losing at anything. Of course, openly he had to play the good sport the English people so adored. He’d laughed, slapping young Simon Travers around the shoulders, swearing few could boast at beating the King of England at the game he’d first made popular. Young Travers had played his part; his Majesty must be tired and, of course, it was so long since he’d played the game... Rubbish! The King had admitted he’d been soundly beaten, turned and joked with a few bystanders. Tomorrow young Travers wouldn’t be so lucky and his eyes had twinkled. To him losing was nothing; the game was all important. Even the King of England couldn’t win ALL the time. But some weren’t so easily fooled. They knew, deep down in the royal soul, defeat rankled, adding itself to that pile of past insults and petty injuries which fired Henry's temper. It paid to avoid royal tantrums. Simon Travers was a fool to have won. True, he’d tried to lose but the King had seemed to try even harder. His footwork was awkward, his stroke-play was clumsy and his whole movement had been sluggish. He’d chased impossible shots and missed easy chances. Even so, Simon Travers had had to be careful. There could have been no obvious attempt to lose. If the King thought for a moment, he was being trifled with there’d be no mercy. So the last shot had been played – and missed by the King whose mind was clearly elsewhere. There’d been the usual mutual compliments and the promise of future games and Henry had strode from the court surrounded by the usual collection of hangers-on.

Now, however, Henry was alone with the Cardinal, HIS cardinal. Yes, Wolsey must well remember for what, and to whom, he owed all his wealth and power. The King irritably tapped the small table at which he sat, one foot nervously stroking against another in its soft shoe. His eyes, still smarting at the effort of keeping his reaction to defeat from the world, gloated maliciously at the Cardinal. Here was one man before whom he never needed to keep up appearances. Besides, the Cardinal was getting old and ... too fat. Henry didn’t like old men. They grew too fixed in their ways; they’d no time for the pleasures of life.

Well, Thomas, well? You say you’ve urgent news for me? The King was impatient and was feeling spiteful. Perhaps Wolsey had uncovered some plot, perhaps.

My lord...Your Majesty… If...If I may be so bold... faltered the Cardinal, terrified at losing his way. Before subordinates Wolsey could be arrogant. But he knew this mood of the King. Henry wanted to hurt somebody and that somebody mustn’t be the Cardinal.

Come on, man! Out with it. We haven't got all the time in the world! Henry was using the royal plural, exalting himself above his Chancellor. This wasn’t going to be an interview between old collaborators. Besides, Henry could hear somewhere the sound of the lute and Henry liked music. State business shouldn’t take up so much of his time.

No, Indeed, sire. I have noticed how sadly Your Majesty contemplates the future –

What mean you, sir? What mean you? Henry sprang up, his eyes blazing. Have you dared to spy upon your King? He over-awed his minister and, for a moment, Thomas Wolsey thought he was about to be knocked to the floor.

Never, sire, never. Wolsey began to back out of reach. But the whole court cannot but notice how often frowns replace smiles on your face... Henry appeared about to explode. His face grew crimson. Suddenly he sat down and gave a little laugh. ...and your whole court are plunged into gloom. Wolsey fell silent, his eyes fixed on those of the King.

Gloom doesn't appear to cause you, my Chancellor, to moderate either your dress or your figure. The King always turned to spite when lost for words. Wolsey was pleased. Let the King criticise his scarlet robes, the sign of his office, or his size. At least that meant Henry was listening.

My dress, sire, is but in keeping with the dignity of both Christ's Church and those high offices which you have bestowed on me... And as for my figure...Lack of exercise, long hours toiling over Matters of State -

Oh, stop! Stop! Henry's eyes had assumed their usual twinkle. This really was too much. There stood the man who passed laws cutting down the size of nobles' meals while increasing the size of his own. The man who, after Henry himself, of course, kept the best kitchen in England. Stop, Thomas, you’re breaking my heart! Again the personal tone, but then the frown briefly returned. But this news – this news – come on, man, out with it.

Your Majesty...if I may be so bold. Your Majesty seems worried about there being no son to guide England's future.

There, it was done. Wolsey bowed his head, waiting for the storm of abuse which must follow this crude exposure of royal thoughts. None came. Instead the King's voice was pleading.

But I have a son, Thomas. I have a boy, the Duke of Richmond.

Wolsey examined the King's features more closely. Henry no longer glared. In fact, there was a strange look in his eyes. Henry glanced up and noticed Wolsey's inspection. Few men dared look the King of England in the eyes. With an angry shrug of his shoulders he turned away. A minister shouldn’t question his King even with a glance. However, Wolsey wasn’t to be put off.

He IS yours, my lord, and a fine lad ... but ... but he’s not the Queen's. Here Henry swung round. England would never accept him as King ... Many would prefer the Poles –

"The Poles![42] The Poles! They shall be stamped out...every single one and the Courtenays.[43] No other blood in England shall rival that of Tudor! Henry furiously turned away. His great fist smashed against the panelling, to be followed immediately by his face. He hid his eyes from the scrutiny of his Cardinal. There might even have been a note of despair in his voice. We’ve been too patient... All – all of them mock their King. He swung back, again barking out his fury. Well, let them! 'We’ve dealt with Poles before – and the Staffords They’ll never live to challenge our son...none of them!"

They are so many, my lord, and some live over the sea...and even your will cannot force the whole of Europe to accept your son.

For a moment Wolsey wondered if he’d gone too far. But Henry was beaten. There was no answer and even he knew it. To hide his defeat, the King swung away to stare at the Thames from the window. A moment silence, and then the King of England asked in a weary voice.

And was this, Thomas, the news you HAD to bring?

There was disappointment there, a feeling of betrayal.

Now was the time. It was the defeated voice of England’s pride which sought consolation.

No, Indeed, Your Majesty, for I have a plan to overcome all the problems which disturb the King of England.

Yes, Thomas? Yes! Still the face of the King was hidden from his Chancellor. But the tone had changed. There was no longer despair rather a sense of awakening hope.

Your Majesty...Your Majesty must take a new wife.[44]

Wolsey felt safer with that suggestion. At least he knew that whatever love Henry had once felt for his Queen had long passed.

But what of our Queen, my Catelina, Thomas?

The Chancellor knew very well that Henry understood what part Catherine had to play; but the King always preferred others to take the responsibilities for the nastier subtleties of his whims.

Your marriage, sire, must be dissolved.

Wolsey was blunt. Henry swung round, his face flushed but there was no anger in his eyes, merely the glint of suspicion. For a moment the King of England resembled a caged beast glaring at his tormenter.

What! What is this you say, Wolsey? Why must our marriage, of seventeen years, be dissolved?

Wolsey remained calm. Again, Henry merely wanted another to state openly what had long been in the royal mind. Because, sire, the Queen had been your brother's wife and Holy Scripture itself forbids a man to marry his brother's widow.

Henry was silent. Wolsey knew the King was waiting for various arguments to be produced to buttress the royal conscience. This was all going just as he had hoped. Rochford – hah!

Why else has Your Majesty no male heir? You are young, fit to be the father of many sons. Indeed, you DO have a son, and so the fault cannot lie in you.

What do you mean, Thomas?

Now the Cardinal assumed the role of the royal conscience at work. Henry always preferred others to state what he was thinking. It almost seemed to make it easier for him to make up his mind!

You were young, my lord, innocent in the ways of the world. Your father had need of an alliance...Perhaps he did overlook the duties of a father, but he was led by England's needs just as Your Majesty is now...

Here Henry nodded as he wearily sat down, staring at the golden tapestry which adorned one wall of the room, whilst the Cardinal continued.

…Catherine was older, however, and had already been married. She knew of the responsibilities of the married state. Perhaps she was lonely and shunned in a foreign land, perhaps she was frightened. Perhaps it did seem the easiest way out, to find shelter in marriage with Your Majesty.

Here Wolsey paused. He noted the frown which had begun to appear on the royal features. Henry was beginning to resent his Queen. Whatever fault there is regarding the marriage, so contrary to the law of God, must lie with the Queen, my lord.

It's true, Thomas, it's true. The King's voice seemed weary, almost sickened by the effort of having had such a burden on his conscience for so long. Young as I was, I did protest against the marriage with Arthur's widow but... and his voice died away at the prospect of admitting failure.

Your marriage could never have been a true one, sire. It must be annulled.[45]

It must be annulled, echoed the King, rising and grasping his Chancellor by the shoulders. The blue eyes of the King gazed with affectionate admiration into those of the Cardinal. You can do it, Thomas. Your voice is heard in Rome. We trust you, Thomas.

It shall be done.

Wolsey's tone was final. Had he ever failed his master?[46] Europe knew the power of the Cardinal came from efficiency, speed of action and ability in carrying out every command of the King.

Then, my lord, you’ll be free to marry and have your son to carry on the work of your House.

Yes, Thomas, yes. The King seemed suddenly full of nervous energy. For a moment Wolsey was puzzled.

Had Your Majesty any particular lady in mind?

The King dropped his hands from the Cardinal's shoulders.

NO, Thomas, of course not. Did Henry resent the suggestion?

Wolsey hesitated for a moment. Then he gazed into the royal face, seeking a reaction.

Might I then most humbly suggest, my lord, the cousin of the King of France... There was no reaction....Such a marriage would bring us a powerful ally.

Henry seemed interested. He’d actually stopped fidgeting with the cuff of his left sleeve, a sure sign of royal emotion. Wolsey felt he could now afford to go into details. There was considerable work to be done.

&&&

Later, much later, the King of England was alone, in bed. His thoughts went back to the interview with his Chancellor. He knew his worst fears had been justified. Catherine could never be a true wife to him. From her he’d never father England's heir. The ghost of his brother, Arthur, stood in the way. That was why son after son had been born dead and now Catherine was too old for children. It was now over six years since she’d been pregnant with a dead son. She could have no more children. But other women could.

Henry's thoughts flew to that fascinating dark lady-in-waiting, Mistress Anne Boleyn. She’d be a fine mother for his children. Her sister had been content to be the royal mistress, and had gratefully accepted the many rewards coming her way. Her father, Lord Rochford, had also got his reward. And when the royal mood had changed, Mary had quietly bowed out.

Henry smiled at the memory. Mary had been full of love, full of duty towards her King. Not like this Anne. His lips puckered in disappointment. The younger Boleyn daughter rejected the proposals of the King, despite what her father and family said.[47] Had she really preferred young Percy to himself?[48] Rubbish! What woman would? Yet the bitch had been in tears when separated from young Percy. She’d spurned the pleas of her lord.

Go to the wife who loves you!

Those had been her words. Henry scowled. How dare the hussy speak to her King like that! Anyway, how could he possibly content himself with a fat, ageing wife when such a nymph remained unconquered?

Never had she let him so much as hold her. When he tried to tell of his love, she brusquely told him to save his love speeches for his wife. Damn Catherine! It was all her fault. She WAS in the way.

An annulment. That was it. Just the answer. Let him but be a free man and he’d make Anne notice him. He'd even offer her marriage! That would make Wolsey jump, and his Court. Let them mutter about upstarts as much as they like. He’d have her, though all the world should go against him.

So was the sleepless King of England tormented by the vision of the dark, slight centre-piece of his Court. In the silence of his bed-chamber he seemed to hear the laugh which spurned him, while it drew him on. Why didn’t Anne give in? Would any other lady in England act thus? No, but Anne wasn’t like any other woman. She alone dared defy the royal will. She refused to listen to her father. Why couldn’t the girl have more sense?

And yet Henry wouldn’t have had her any different. In his more honest moments he admitted the fascination of being spurned. To a man long grown used to having every whim satisfied, to be denied was to be excited. It was a new and not unwelcome feeling

But he’d not be rejected for long. When he was a free man; in the eyes of the world what he was already in the eyes of God, a bachelor. Anne would then have to make a very simple choice; Henry and the Kingdom of England or nothing. Would she take him? Yes. Yes! If he were rid of his wife.

&&&

Meanwhile in his no less comfortable, ornate bed Thomas Wolsey, Bishop of Lincoln, Archbishop of York and Cardinal, was thinking.

He congratulated himself on recapturing the confidence of the King. That would settle Rochford. He’d show the King Wolsey alone was capable of sorting out royal problems.

Henry wanted a son, he must be free to have one. Already letters had been despatched to Rome. Wolsey's name meant much more there as did that of his master, the King of England. There’d be no trouble, perhaps some haggling over terms, some delays, some expense, some need to go through petty legal formulas. But Henry would get his annulment, thanks to the Cardinal. Wolsey had staked his career on the success of the efforts at Rome. But he was confident.

The Cardinal smiled and his thoughts became a mixture of calculation and dream. The dream gradually took over...The half-built St. Peter's provided a sumptuous setting for the coronation of Wolsey as Pope. Apart from Nicholas Brakespeare,[49] four centuries before, he’d be the first English Pope. As the majesty of Rome rode slowly past, the crowd burst into cheer after cheer, whilst some of them scrambled in the dust for the gold coins showered by the servants of the new Vicar of Christ. By the door of St. Peter's itself stood a grateful King Henry. Dressed in a brilliant golden suit, he towered above the gorgeously dressed nobility who crowded there as the new Pope entered. Then the King of England led the lords of half Europe in bending the knee before the successor of St. Peter. Alone, in a dark archway, one man scowled and bit his lip in vexation. Charles V, UNCROWNED Emperor,[50] regretting all the lies and trickery used against the English Cardinal. Now he knew the imperial crown, the gift of the Pope, would never be his. Alone, he stood – shut out from the general gaiety – like one damned sinner on the steps of Paradise. The procession moved on and Wolsey drifted into a happy sleep.

&&&

You are a fool! shrieked Mary Boleyn, now Mistress Carey. The ‘You’ was her younger sister, Anne, and they’d met one hour before, after six months apart. Was Mary jealous of her sister? Certainly not! She’d a natural generosity absent in the personality of her sister and she really did fear for the dangers in which Anne was engulfing herself.

What the King takes easily he never really appreciates, was the reply, possibly a philosophical point but delivered with a contempt which’d have shocked (and alarmed) their father if he’d heard it. Fortunately, no ears were close enough to pick out the words, especially those attached to mouths ready to pass the opinion on. All his life he’s been spoilt, offered things he never really wanted and given things too readily.

He is the King!

But he’s not a god! He can bear frustration and the excitement adding to the taste of pursuit-

You flatter yourself, young lady! interrupted the elder sister. Henry is easily bored and, for him, frustration will lead to boredom.

Unlike any other man?

Perhaps. For him boredom has become a defence against debasing himself-

His doing what?

Henry views himself as invincible – in war, in love, in anything to sets his mind to, was the summary of Mary Boleyn. He’s become so used to conquest, the threat of defeat can’t be faced so he becomes bored.

As in your case, Mary? was the spiteful retort.

No, was the soft answer as if tempered by nostalgia. Henry had enjoyed what he could of our relationship and so decided to move on. HE decided to move on and, as I didn’t squeal or shriek or beg or wail, he was generous.

And gave you Will Carey![51] laughed Anne. She liked her brother-in-law but the thought of being bedded by him, let alone tied to him by the bounds of marriage, left her cold.

Will’s kind and we’re happy!

And poor!

Perhaps. But we are respected-

"’Una grandissima ribalda, infame sopra tutti’,[52] muttered Anne who appeared to have taken the last sentence as a criticism of herself, perhaps as the focus of much Court gossip and dirty jokes.

How dare you! screeched Mary. Why repeat that obscenity in this house! If father heard ̶

Father hears what he likes to hear and sees what he likes to see, answered Anne with a smug smile on her face. That’s why he’s no longer a humble knight but Lord Rochford.

That’s because of me!

Of course, and fine payment for any pander! sneered Anne. However, I won’t be so easily bought off.

Suddenly Mary changed tactics, dropped her voice and became curious. Hasn’t he even kissed you yet?

He’s tried two or three times, laughed her sister. But he’s so tall and I’m so petite it all becomes rather difficult unless I cooperate, and I won’t.

How long will he persist?

I don’t know, admitted Anne and a slight frown appeared. I’ll know when he’s about to give up and then ……

And then?

I’m not telling you, because I don’t know myself! And both sisters laughed.

&&&

The Cardinal and the King now entered into a conspiracy to test the validity of the marriage; and then present the findings to the public (including the Queen!). Wolsey as Legate[53] set up a secret tribunal at Westminster, the elderly Archbishop of Canterbury being bullied into cooperating, and then formally summoned the King to answer the charge of unlawfully living with the widow of his brother.[54] As Henry appeared Wolsey fell on his knees before his sovereign.

Sire, I beg your forgiveness for raising a matter so personal to yourself and the Queen. There was almost a tear in his eye as he continued. For some time theologians and those entrusted with guarding public morality have questioned a marriage seeming to defy Holy Scripture itself. At this Henry, with the practised stagecraft of an accustomed performer in pageants, moved to protest and the Cardinal hung his head but continued, speaking