Roses in the Tempest (17 page)

The moment she was gone I crumpled to my knees. I could not catch my breath, and it was made worse by Thomas’ clutching me. I pushed him roughly away, and crawled a distance, until I could gasp enough air to rise. Nauseated, I pressed my arm to my belly. “Do you see what sin is there in your relentlessness?” I whispered. “Do you see at last?”

“I see a vindictive woman who wants nothing more than to hurt—”

“Only as much as she has been hurt! Why are you so blind?”

“If I am blind it is only because of my love for you, Isabella. I care not what the consequences may be.”

“Even if she tells the king some half-truths, any of your enemies would be happy to hear about a nun and about you. Your love is strange, Thomas. And most unwelcome. I forbid you to come here again.”

“Isabella!”

“No! I forbid it! If you come you will be turned away. I will no longer allow it. May God forgive me for delaying so long that which I should have done from the first.”

“Isabella. You cannot.”

“I can and I will. Now go, Thomas. God…God be with you.”

“Isabella. You would tear what is left of my heart from me?”

The heat rose in my throat and my eyes blurred with tears. “Just go, Thomas! For the love of God!”

Unable to look upon his distress, I whirled from him and found myself face to face with Cristabell. She stood stiffly. God knows how long she was standing there.

“God forgive me, Madam,” she said, becrossing herself. Her own expression was void of all, except for a deep wound in her eyes. “But it is Dame Elizabeth. She has only just now passed from this world to the next. God have mercy.”

GRASS SEASON, 1527

Hunting Lodge in the country

XVIII

“This day is the end of our slavery, the fount of our liberty,

the end of sadness, the beginning of joy.”

–Sir Thomas More on the wedding of Henry VIII and

Catherine of Aragon

Snarling and tearing the bracken, the boar darted from the hedges and lunged toward the dogs, but His Majesty reared up in the saddle and thrust with his javelin, hitting the boar at the juncture between head and neck. Down it went, and the hound masters quickly pulled the dogs from our victim. The others moved in to jab their own javelins into the king’s boar until the beast was finished. King Henry threw back his head and chortled a war cry into the drizzling gray sky, his blood no doubt running hot from the chase and victory. It was good to see him so invigorated, for there seemed much of late to put him in a melancholy mood.

We returned to the pavilion tents where the boar and other goodly meats were prepared for the feast to follow. From my place at the banqueting table, I saluted George Throckmorton from across the room, and he winked at me. Today, I was seated near His Majesty, or at least beside the dais whereupon his table lay. As usual, the revelry went on long into the night, King Henry dancing merrily with the music. Ladies danced with gentlemen, yet their eyes seemed to rove about the room to other secret partners. The queen was not in attendance, having fallen ill, but there were many pretty maids to take the king’s mind from his wife’s difficulties. There was one with whom he seemed to dance most often, a dark-eyed creature. She was not the prettiest, but she possessed a presence about her not unlike Isabella.

I groaned into my cup and drank more than I should have. All my thoughts cavorted about the person of the Lady Prioress. I languished for her, like some fresh-faced youth. The more it went on, the more foolish I felt, and yet I could not let the possibility go that I might woo her. Though I often wondered if I won her whether I would fall tired of the game. Where would that leave her? Such labyrinthine thoughts! They chased one after the other; a mad hoodman’s blind caper catching nothing but air. At six and thirty, I should have possessed enough maturity to relinquish such sport. Instead, I wrote her letters. She, in her wisdom, did not reply. Although a year had passed, she still would not allow me access to Blackladies. Perhaps she thought this would exorcise my passion once and for all, but it only served to rake the coals to flames.

How could she treat me so?

Drunk, the king at last was ready to retire. I rose unsteadily to attend him. Several other courtiers rose as well, including Wolsey’s secretary Thomas Cromwell—who was growing more in prominence at court. The king waved them off when he saw me, and leaned his full weight upon my shoulder. “I will take this Thomas with me,” he said, scanning his courtiers and all the Thomases who gathered.

He chuckled as we made our way to his pavilion. Once entered, he let himself fall back upon the bed with an exhausted huff.

“Shall I get the grooms, your grace?”

“No, Giffard. You can assist me. First pour some wine.”

His face was already red and bloated from too much indulgence, but I nevertheless obeyed and poured the red liquor into a goblet from an ornate flagon. He took the cup and drank. His lips were slick when he set the cup aside. “Do you know why I picked you over all those other Thomases, Giffard?”

I shook my head, feeling the effects of my own overindulgence. “No, your grace.”

“Thomas Wolsey, Thomas Cromwell, Thomas More, Thomas Giffard…So many Thomases. Why so popular a name, hmm? Should not all have been named Henry?”

“I know not, your grace. Surely you must ask our sires.”

“I tire of the other Thomases. I am berated with their opinions and demands.”

“Demands, your grace?” He sat up, and I was able to remove his heavy fur-trimmed gown. I began to unbutton his jerkin.

“Yes, Thomas. Know you not that there are great demands made of a king? As great as I am, even as the Lord Himself anointed me, I am not my own man. Does that surprise you?”

“Indeed, your grace. I know that Parliament speaks for the people—”

“I speak for the people!” he shouted, pushing me aside. The king’s wrath came easily, and just as easily blew off like a billow of steam from a kettle. Still, I stepped back lest he strike out as he was wont to do, until his face softened and he smiled again, gesturing me to continue to undress him. Cautiously I approached, pulling the bejeweled jerkin away and laying it gently to the side. He scratched his chest as he loosened the slops himself. “I am Fidei Defensor, Defender of the Faith, after all,” he said more gently. “The pope would not have named me so if he thought I could do less for my people.”

He drew silent for a while, and I was able to finish disrobing him and get him into his nightclothes. He drew a gown on over his shift. “Stay awhile, Thomas. I seem to see little of you these days.”

“My estates occupy me, your grace.”

“Yes. To be king means to be occupied with many things at once. Sometimes I think I would have liked the pleasure of being only the lord of an estate deep in the country. Few cares there, eh Thomas?”

“There are still cares, your grace, though not on the scale which occupies your majesty.” He rumbled his reply. I was weary, and hoped he would soon wish to retire so that I could go to my pavilion. Heartsick and exhausted, I feared to injure his humor if I stayed longer. “If you need me no further…”

“Wait, Thomas. You have a blackness about you. What vexes you?”

“Nothing, your grace.”

“Nothing? With that sour a countenance? Come.” He rose, and spoke in confidential tones, even putting his arm about my shoulders. In his gown and nightshift, he was still a formidable man. He hugged me close. His breath reeked of stale wine. “Thomas. Do not think of me as your sovereign. Think of me as your cousin. Or better yet, your uncle, eh? Surely you can tell your Nuncle Hal your woes.”

Oh God… There was no fleeing from this. In truth, I wanted so to talk to someone of my troubles, though I did not imagine it would be the king. These matters were delicate, and I knew it could very well be misinterpreted. Dorothy saw the sense in keeping what she knew to herself, but this night I already spoke incautiously to him. Were he sober, he would not take offense—and certainly never insisted on this confidence. Alas, I needed to unburden myself almost as much as he believed—in his insobriety—that he wanted to help me.

“Sire…it is…a woman.”

“Aaah!” He nodded sagely, pumping his head upon his neck. “Thomas, Thomas. Of this sorrow I know well. Women. The glory and the curse of our lives… I take it we are not speaking of your wife?”

“No, your grace.”

His features grew serious, and he contemplated the problem with all earnestness. “Does she spurn you? Is that why your shoulders hang so heavily?”

I was not aware that my soul was visible through my very posture, and I sobered immediately. “It is true, your grace. She will not receive me. My only wish is to be in her presence, to talk with her.”

“This is a generous love. A gracious love. A love from afar?”

Careful, Thomas! “She…she is a maid, your grace.”

“Aaah! I admire you, Thomas. Then we speak not of adultery. Good, good. Such chaste affairs are noble, but most difficult. Most difficult. May I tell you something?”

“Anything, Sire.”

“Would it surprise you to hear that your own king, your Nuncle Hal, has such a love?”

I tightened my jaw. Surely this was dangerous for me to hear! Were he not in his cups, he would not say. “Sire, I am unworthy of such confidence—” I tried gallantly to leave the tent, but he would not allow me to go.

“Nonsense! You are a member of our household, Thomas. There was never cause to think ill of you or your kinsmen. You are like a right arm. Should my right arm be unaware of what the rest of the body is doing?”

“I know not, your grace,” I said desperately. “Sometimes it is best.”

He laughed. “You fear Wolsey? You are in the king’s grace. Have no fear of cardinals.”

“Your Majesty.” I bowed low to show my relief, but my heart knew no such thing!

“Love. If only love were all there was to it. There is more than that. Much more.” He eyed me steadily, licking the wine from his lips. Slowly, his mind, like a millwheel in a slow stream, seemed to work as he measured me. He smiled and touched his mouth with a finger. “Perhaps you are right. There are some things to which you may not be privy. You are wise, Thomas. You are cautious, but not deviously so. I have always admired that quality in your father. Now I see the son is as discreet. Very well. No doubt you are anxious to get to your own bed. Hurry you, now.”

“Thank you, your grace. God give you rest.”

Slipping past the heavy tent curtains, I brushed my hand along my brow to wipe away the sweat, and breathed a sigh of thankfulness. “Almighty God! I thank You for this relief.” It was a wise man who stayed close to the shining flame of power, but not too close as to be burned by it.

So the king possessed a love. And so. He had many, and some proved to be fruitful, but I sensed more to this than was healthy to know. The scowls on Wolsey’s and Cromwell’s faces all week attested to that. Often they met in unholy circles, with that other Thomas, Thomas Cranmer, hovering nearby. It was a strange coven of Thomases, indeed.

With that thought, I moved straightway to my own tent, but slowed when I heard fervent voices low and determined. Four shadows stood near a brazier, four I recognized by form or by their voices. I looked behind and saw back the way I came to the king’s chamber. Ahead were the four in conversation. There was nowhere to go.

“The king’s convictions lie with Leviticus,” said the deep-jowled voice of Wolsey. “Therefore, it is in Leviticus we will trust the king’s virtue.”

Cromwell spoke next, quoting the scripture to his fellow secretaries Stephen Gardiner and Edward Fox. “‘And if a man shall take his brother’s wife, it is an unclean thing: he hath uncovered his brother’s nakedness; they shall be without sons.’“

“You missay, Cromwell,” said Wolsey. “Not filiis. Liberis. ‘Childless’, not ‘sonless’.”

“Your Eminence,” he said with a cursory bow. “I have it on the king’s authority that he believes the present scripture to be a false translation and that liberis should instead read filiis. I take the king’s word in all accounts.”

Wolsey snorted, glancing from one man to the other. He said nothing, but grasped the wide sash about his waist, rocking on his heels.

“Yet I have oft heard that in such cases Deuteronomy supersedes the other,” said Gardiner, coughing into his hand as he softly spoke, “coming later in the texts as it does. As the queen was so married to the king’s late brother the Prince Arthur, so King Henry, too, married his brother’s wife, the former being an unconsummated union. ‘If one of them die, and have no child, the wife of the dead shall not marry without unto a stranger: her husband’s brother shall go in unto her and take her to him to wife.’“

Wolsey laughed humorlessly. “This, I am told, only applies to Jews.”

“Your Eminence!”

Cromwell put out his hand to calm Fox, who said nothing more. “The situation is clear, gentlemen. The king wants his great matter resolved, and quickly. He is impatient for Mistress Boleyn, and he tires of his— that is, his soul grieves that he continues to live in sin with the Princess Dowager of Aragon.”

I held my breath. What the king in his discretion could not tell me, I was now hearing in all its treasonous grandeur. At that moment I feared for my life, for should I be discovered, even the king’s witness could not now save me. I prayed to be as quiet as a mouse while the cats plotted mere inches away.

“Your Eminence,” said Fox in a husky whisper, “do you mean to say that the king desires a divorce?”

“Of course not, Master Fox. The Church would never allow such a thing and shame upon you for uttering such heresy.”

“Forgive me, Cardinal…”

“The king would have the question of the invalidity of his marriage resolved to clear his conscience, much as the king’s own sister Queen Margaret of Scotland did only two months ago. No, gentlemen. He has entrusted us to make certain. To that end we shall convene a solemn court.”

“I do not understand,” said Gardiner. “This is Rome’s jurisdiction. Bulls need to be prepared.”

“We will try it in England. I am the papal legate. His majesty expects his bishops to agree to the invalidity of the marriage. Presently we will call for an inquisitio ex officio.”

“In secret?” cried Fox.

Wolsey turned to him, and though I could only see his broad silhouette, he seemed to measure the man a long time. Wolsey’s perusals had an effect rather like the Gorgon of turning the offender into stone. “It cannot remain so if it is shouted to the rooftops,” he cautioned.

“Forgive me, Your Eminence, but the pope will never agree to this subterfuge. An official examination in secret, without—I presume—the queen’s knowledge…”

“The king’s conscience will not allow him to continue in this sham of a marriage. He believes—as do I—that this is why God does not give him sons. He needs a son. England needs a son. I shall serve my king,” said Wolsey.