Six Wives (78 page)

    'So she parted with a very small suite.'
¹⁴

    Norfolk, of course, acted in the King's name. But Chapuys was in no doubt about the real source of his orders. '[The King]', he reported, 'is bewitched by this cursed woman [Anne] in such a manner that he dares neither say nor do except as she commands him.' Chapuys, of course, exaggerated: Henry had his own motives for requiring his ex-wife and his elder daughter to submit. He was King and everyone, even the closest members of his family, were 'subjects' whose principal, God-given duty was to obey. But there is also a kernel of truth in Chapuys's overstatement. It was Anne, as so often in the Great Matter, who supplied the emotional drive and energy behind the attacks on Catherine and Mary. The ambassador understood this – which is why, as the attacks were stepped up, his language about Anne became correspondingly more extreme. Thus far, his usual term for her had been 'the Lady'; now he calls her 'the whore' (
la putaine
), while the three-month-old Elizabeth, sleeping contentedly in her cradle, is denounced as 'the bastard'.
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    There is a shocking ferocity about all this – as there was to be in Anne's response to Mary's intransigence. 'The female', we are told, 'is more deadly than the male'. So it proved. For, from this contest, between two mothers and their daughters, was born the religious passion and violence that inflamed England for centuries.

* * *

The journey from Beaulieu to Hatfield was only about thirty miles and Mary, feeding off her rage and affronted dignity, remained in high spirits. When they arrived, Norfolk asked her 'whether she would not go and pay her respects to the Princess'. Mary had her reply off pat. 'She knew no other Princess in England except herself ', she said, 'and . . . the daughter of My Lady Pembroke had no such title.' Then she proffered a small, contemptuous olive-branch. Out of courtesy, she explained, she called her father's bastard son, the Duke of Richmond, 'brother'. On the same grounds, 'since the King her father acknowledged her to be his', she would be prepared to address Elizabeth as 'sister'.

    Exasperated, Norfolk asked her what message he should carry from her to the King. 'Nothing', she said proudly, 'except that his daughter, the Princess, begged his blessing.' He dared not bear such a message, replied Norfolk. Then he might leave it, she snapped.

    Then, suddenly, Mary's strength snapped too and 'she retired to weep in her Chamber' – which, Chapuys added, 'she does continuously'.
¹⁶

    And her Chamber now became her refuge. Elsewhere, in the public spaces of the house, her every action paid an involuntary tribute to the hated Elizabeth. When she dined or supped in the Hall, the place she sat in and the food she ate betokened her inferiority. So she played on medical advice to have a large, early breakfast served in her Chamber. That enabled her to cut dinner or at least to touch neither food nor drink if she did put in an appearance. Then, if she could, she pleaded sickness again to have her supper served in her Chamber as well.

    That her behaviour inflicted added cost and inconvenience on her half-sister's Household officers was, no doubt, a bonus.

    Anne of course quickly learned of Mary's tactics, and moved to block them. '[She] has now ordered that she shall not be served in her Chamber', Chapuys reported. Anne had also decided to visit Hatfield herself on 18 February and stay for two days: 'I pray this may not be to the injury of [Mary],' Chapuys wrote.

    Indeed, it seems clear that Anne trusted nobody in the matter of Mary apart from herself. Her aunt, Lady Shelton, who had been put in formal charge of the girl, received a stream of orders of mounting severity. If Mary used the banned title of 'Princess', she was to have her ears boxed 'as the cursed bastard that she was'. And if she persisted in refusing to eat except in her Chamber she was to be starved back into the Hall. But Lady Shelton seems to have been reluctant to exercise the full rigour of her instructions, and was sharply criticised by both Norfolk and Rochford for her leniency.
¹⁷

    Even Henry might backslide – or so Anne feared. He was, as we have seen, outraged at Mary's disobedience. But he was still the proud father, who, in 1527, had shown off Mary's auburn hair. It would take little, his new wife knew, to ignite that pride again. Finally, and most dangerously, Henry had a sentimental streak. He was easily moved to tears, especially when he was feeling sorry for himself. And he was impulsive. Better, Anne decided, not to trust him alone with Mary. Accordingly, when Henry visited Hatfield in January, she contrived that he should not meet his elder daughter.
¹⁸

    Henry naturally presented his behaviour in a different light. 'He had not spoken to [Mary]', he informed the French ambassador, 'on account of her obstinacy, which came from her Spanish blood.' But the ambassador's emollient reply that 'she had been very well brought up' was enough for 'the tears to come into his eyes and he could not refrain from praising her'.
¹⁹

    Anne's doubts were vindicated.

    But in fact she had little better luck herself on her flying visit to Hatfield. At first, she tried kindness. Mary was warmly invited 'to visit her and honour her as Queen'. 'It would be', she said, 'a means of reconciliation with the King.' Anne also offered to intercede with Henry for her. But Mary's response was intransigent: 'she knew no Queen in England except her mother'. Anne tried again, only to be rebuffed once more. Then she resorted to threats, which left Mary equally unmoved. Anne departed in a rage, vowing 'to bring down the pride of this unbridled Spanish blood'.

    'She will do the worst she can,' added Chapuys.
²⁰

* * *

Perhaps it was in response to the news of Anne's impending visit that Catherine had written an extraordinary letter to Mary. 'Daughter', she began, 'I have such tidings today that I do perceive, if it be true, the time is come that Almighty God will prove you.' 'I am very glad of it,' she continued, 'for I trust he doth handle you with a good love.' She had heard that 'this Lady' was coming to her, some said with a letter from the King. 'Answer you with few words,' she enjoined her, 'obeying the King your father in everything, save only that you will not offend God and lose your own soul.'

    But the rest of Catherine's letter, with its reference to Mary's loss of the servants 'of your acquaintance' and its commendations to her old governess, Lady Salisbury, suggests that it was written a few months earlier in December, when Mary's own Household was dissolved and she was first brought to Elizabeth's Court.

    Be that as it may, Catherine's purpose was clear: she was welcoming her daughter to the ecstasy of shared martyrdom. 'And now you shall begin and by likelihood I shall follow. I set not a rush by it; for when they have done the uttermost they can, then I am sure of the amendment.'

    And if things did not get better on earth, they would, she knew, in Heaven.
²¹

    Catherine's premonition was correct. On 17 December 1533, a few days after Norfolk carried Mary off to Hatfield, his fellow duke, Suffolk, turned up at Catherine's lodgings at Buckden in Huntingdonshire. The house was another episcopal mansion, belonging to the bishop of Lincoln. Like Hatfield, it was a modern, red-brick structure, with a handsome gate-house and fine lodgings. But it lay only a mile from the Great Ouse and Catherine, who was allergic to damp, found its situation detestable.

    Suffolk's mission was twofold: first, to compel Catherine's servants to swear a new oath of office to her not as Queen but as Princess Dowager; and, second, to persuade Catherine herself to move to Somersham, a few miles to the north-east. After much bullying, the Duke enjoyed limited success with Catherine's servants; but he failed completely with their mistress. Somersham, like Buckden, was situated on the Great Ouse, but it lay a few miles downstream, on the edge of the Fens. Chapuys paints a nightmarish picture of it as a sort of watery grave, 'surrounded with deep water and marshes'. It was also, 'as [Catherine] is informed, the most unhealthy and pestilential house in England'. Catherine refused to go. They would, she told Suffolk and his colleagues, have to 'bind her with ropes and violently enforce her thereto'.

    And that was a step too far. Suffolk was prepared to do almost anything for his King and former brother-in-law. But to use force against the woman he had called Queen for twenty-four years was too much, even for him. It was an 'extremity' and, he informed Henry, since such 'extremities' had not been foreseen in his instructions, he referred the matter back to him for further orders.
²²

* * *

* * *

This, then, is what Catherine was reduced to: the daughter of Spain and the sometime Queen of England, she who had had the Alhambra and Hampton Court at her command, was squatting in a squalid bed-sit. Chapuys, of course, contrived to make it sound as though it were Henry's fault – or rather Anne's, since, in his book, Anne was to blame for everything. In fact, however, the full indignity of Catherine's situation was self-inflicted. She had decided that Henry and Anne were out to poison her, or at least to destroy her constitution by forcing her into unhealthy lodgings. But the truth was that her counter-measures were more damaging than anything her enemies were prepared to do. Cooped-up in her Chamber, without air or exercise, she became really unwell, and her health, indifferent for several years, broke down entirely.

    The terrible mental strain of the last half dozen years was also catching up with her. She was, she knew, in the right. But Henry refused to admit the fact and persevered in his sin. Indeed, he gloried in it and flaunted his new 'wife' and daughter in her face. The Pope, who owed her justice, had done nothing and still seemed more anxious to conciliate Henry than to vindicate her. And her nephew Charles (though she scarcely dared admit the fact to herself even now) had not lifted a finger to enforce her rights either. To whom then should she turn? Many English nobles offered their sympathy. But, despite their fine, brave words, they too did nothing. Her women were loyal. But they were as helpless as she. Only Chapuys was left. Brave, trustworthy and indefatigably active on her behalf, he ceased to be an ambassador and became instead 'My Special Friend' – as she addressed him in intimate letters written in Spanish.
²⁵

    But even Chapuys at times thought of giving up. 'Considering that my words only serve to irritate [Henry]', he informed Charles, 'and make him more fierce and obstinate, I have resolved not again to address to him a single word [about the plight of Catherine and Mary] . . . without a command from [Catherine].'
²⁶

    Catherine was indeed alone.

* * *

These frustrations and tensions all came to a head in the spring of 1534. On 23 March, Rome finally gave sentence in Catherine's favour. But the sentence was not couched in the form she wished. She had staked everything on her claim to have been a virgin when she married Henry. But the sentence did not even mention the issue. Instead, with admirable economy, it simply declared that Henry's first marriage 'was and is valid and canonical'. Nor, it is clear, was Catherine's plight of much concern in Rome. Instead, Pope Clement acted at last because of outrage against Cranmer's unilateral sentence and the Act in Restraint of Appeals. These were direct challenges to Papal power and they could not go unanswered.
²⁷

    But, however disappointing the sentence and however demeaning its motive, at least Catherine had got the substance of what she wanted. Or at least she had in Rome.

    In England, though, it was a very different matter.

    For, on 23 March, the same day that sentence was given in Rome, the Act of Succession completed its final reading in the Lords. It cleared the Commons three days later and, on 30 March, in the ceremonies marking the end of the session, it received the royal assent.

    And the Act was the mirror-image of the Papal sentence. It began by citing Cranmer's verdict on Henry's marriage to Catherine, and Henry's good and lawful union with Queen Anne. Then it drew the consequences. Catherine was to be styled the Princess Dowager. The succession was to be fixed in Henry's male heirs by Anne or by a subsequent wife. And, in default of such male issue, the succession was to pass to Elizabeth.

    Mary was not mentioned at all in the final version of the Act. In an earlier version, she had paid the full penalty for her 'rebellious and disobedient' behaviour. But the King's legal counsel, cautious and con servative like most lawyers (and probably sympathetic to Mary as well), found fault with the drafting. Rebellion, they pointed out, was already treason, while disobedience, though no doubt deplorable, 'is no cause of forfeiture of inheritance'. Thanks to these quibbles, Mary's exclusion (like her bastardy) was left merely tacit.

    Nevertheless, the Act was a crushing blow to Catherine and her daughter. Also, unlike the Pope's sentence, the Act had teeth. Anne's marriage to Henry and its issue were now protected by the full penalties of treason. And all Henry's subjects, noblemen and commoners alike, were required to take an oath 'truly, firmly and constantly without fraud or guile' to observe and maintain its provisions.
²⁸