The Lady in the Tower (36 page)

I was young and foolish. If only I had had the wisdom which later events were to force upon me!

I raged. I stormed. I would not let the matter rest. It should have been clear that Eleanor Carey's past made her unfit for the post, but I would not see that issue. All I saw was that I had asked a favor and it had been denied me because Wolsey thought it fit to do so.

I implored the King to give the post to Eleanor Carey.

Henry was torn between us; he hated to offend me and I think he understood the humiliation I had suffered.

He compromised. Neither Eleanor Carey nor Isabel Jordon—the woman whom Wolsey had installed—should have the post.

“But,” he wrote to me, “I would not for all the world clog your conscience or mine, to make Eleanor Carey a ruler of a House of God…”

He then went on to say that, as I had especially asked for it, this was the only way his conscience would allow him to act.

Wolsey could be foolish too. Isabel Jordon had already been appointed, he said. There was no way in which she could be cursorily dismissed.

I laughed when I heard it. I said: “Wolsey is one of the King's subjects who does not have to obey him.”

Henry was getting angry. The whole matter had been blown up to immense proportions. He sent a stern rebuke to Wolsey.

The Cardinal was the perfect diplomat. He put on a show of abject humility.

The epidemic had disrupted his household. He himself had been in a state of poor health. Somehow the matter had gone ahead too quickly.

The King's reply was: “It is understandable. The Cardinal would never go against my wishes.”

I was dismayed—fi rst at his lenience with Wolsey and secondly that I should be so blatantly outwitted by him.

I knew now that, for all his fine words and show of friendship for me, Wolsey was my enemy.

I think of that year as one of frustration and wild optimism, ending in the fear that nothing would ever be accomplished. I dared not think what would happen if the divorce was not granted soon. How long could Henry be kept with this burning desire for me? How long before he was as weary of the matter as I was?

It seemed then that everything worked against us. There was the Queen, who remained aloof with an air of piety which disturbed me more than any outburst of anger would have done. Wolsey was a frightened man, I knew. He feared that this matter of the divorce would be the end of him; he could hear his enemies baying at his heels. How Norfolk, Suffolk and the rest of them would rejoice to see him brought low. I shall never forget how two years before he had calmly handed over Hampton Court to the King. Hampton Court! The pride of his life, with its magnificent architecture and all its treasures which were indeed grander than many of those in the royal palaces.

“Should a subject have a palace more royal than those of his King?” Henry had asked him one day. He had long coveted Hampton Court, and Wolsey, so clever, so astute, knowing that the King's favor was essential to his well-being, had immediately realized his folly in creating such a residence and replied that a subject could build on the perfection of such a place with only one object in view. And that was to present it to his King.

What a masterly stroke! It was sheer genius. And how delightedly the King had accepted the magnificent gift. After that he had loved Wolsey more than ever. Wolsey knew better than to let a canker grow. Cut it right out was his method, however painful the surgery.

But this was something from which Wolsey could not escape. He was a Cardinal. Some would have said his first duty was to the Pope, and Henry would want none about him whose first duty was not to himself.

The Cardinal's power was slipping away from him. Yes, there were certain times when I thought he was a very worried man.

He was not the only one who was worried. That year was one of misfortune. Nothing seemed to go right.

We were still waiting for Campeggio's arrival. When the King made impatient inquiries, the reply was always the same. Cardinal Campeggio was an old man; he was racked with gout; he was making progress as fast as he could.

I was shuttling from Court to Hever. I never stayed long at Court—a fact which pleased me, for it was becoming more and more difficult to hold Henry off. His impatience was growing. He made constant references to the consummation of our love. I greatly feared it. How long would I be able to hold him once I had surrendered? But how long could I keep him at bay? It was a terrible situation to find oneself in. I often wondered at his devotion, which so far had not wavered, and sometimes I thought that all the obstacles which had been raised might have strengthened his purpose, made him more determined to overcome them, but at others I wondered if he would ask himself whether it was all worthwhile.

We had decided that while Campeggio was presiding over the court it would be better for me to keep out of sight, to give the impression that Henry's desire for a divorce had nothing to do with me.

Although I was not present on so many of those occasions, I heard about them from several sources. Henry kept me informed; so did my brother and my father. They were both working assiduously for the divorce. My father was naturally overjoyed at the prospect of my becoming the Queen; even with his ambition, he had never visualized a daughter of his going so far.

So all through that year we waited.

Everything concerned with the matter seemed to take on an almost farcical note. The King had decided that Campeggio should be given a royal welcome. Indeed, while he was in England, deference must be paid to him; he must be placated; in every way his sympathy was to be won. Therefore he was to have a warm welcome.

The merchants of London with their apprentices brought out the banners of their guilds and their houses were decorated with streamers of cloth of silver and gold. Noble lords and their retinues formed the procession, which was joined by the clergy with all their paraphernalia of office,
making a colorful display. And at the head of it rode the Cardinal, more splendid than any, in his rich red robes, his silver crosses and the Great Seal of office borne before him with his cardinal's hat.

This was to be the great occasion—the meeting of two Cardinals both appointed legates of the Pope. Such scenes were rare in London.

It was characteristic that Compeggio, for whom all this pomp and ceremony had been arranged, should fail to appear.

While London was waiting for his great entry, he was in bed, suffering from another attack of the gout. So the crowds who had come out to see him were disappointed of the spectacle to which they had looked forward.

Campeggio came into London by barge the next day, and no one noticed his arrival. As soon as he was there, he had to retire at once to bed.

I had expected that once he was in London the court would be set up and the verdict given quickly.

But no. That was what Wolsey might desire but he could not act without the cooperation of Campeggio, and I began to wonder whether that prelate ever intended to give a judgment, for he showed every reluctance in taking even the first steps.

Henry was in a state of suppressed fury. He wanted to shake them until their teeth rattled. He wanted to threaten to have their heads. But, of course, he was not Campeggio's master—even Wolsey must bow to the wishes of that other beside whom even the King's power was ineffective.

The head of the Church was the Pope of Rome, and this was a Church matter.

But for his difficult position I believe Henry would have stormed at them, threatened them, but he could not do so. He was caught by his own conscience. He must pretend throughout that it was the reason for the inquiry.

I soon realized that Campeggio must have had his instructions from the Pope to delay matters as long as possible, in the hope that most likely the King's passion for me would burn out—and they could play a waiting game until that happened, when the entire dangerous business could be forgotten.

This was all due to the powerful Emperor, who was clearly a man not to be trifled with. The Pope's position was very insecure. The Emperor had made great progress in Italy; and while the Pope sought to placate Henry, he could not offend the Emperor. My future depended on the politics of Europe.

After he had arrived in London, Campeggio lay in bed for two weeks, unable to move. Henry was getting frantic and Wolsey had to make some move, so he visited Campeggio and pleaded with him to help bring the matter to a conclusion. The court must be opened.

Campeggio was not feigning illness. He really was in great pain. The devious Pope must have sent such a man because he knew his very incapacity could help to bring about delay.

Then Henry had an unsatisfactory meeting with the legate; he explained to him how much his conscience troubled him. Henry could be very eloquent where his conscience was concerned. But he nearly lost his temper—which he realized he must not do—when Campeggio suggested that the Pope might be ready to give him a dispensation so that he need have no more qualms about his marriage to Katharine.

Henry was adamant. He could not reconcile his conscience to that. He had had God's warning in his inability to get sons.

God had made it clear to him that He was displeased with the marriage. He quoted Leviticus. No, Henry must divorce Katharine and marry again speedily for the sake of the heirs his country needed. He was acting as a monarch should—thinking solely of his country.

When Campeggio suggested that Katharine might go into a nunnery, Henry was delighted. He almost clapped the poor old man on the back, which would have had a disastrous effect on his bones. It was the answer. Why, there had been an example across the water only a short time ago. Louis XII's Jeanne had retired to a convent and the King of France had married Anne of Brittany. Yes, that was indeed an excellent idea.

Campeggio was sure the Emperor would not object to that.

“The Queen is a lady of great virtue and deeply religious,” said Henry. “I am sure that she would feel great happiness in a convent. She shall have her own. She shall live just as she chooses. It is the answer.”

Full of optimistic hopes that the end of this contentious matter was in sight, Campeggio and Wolsey presented themselves to Katharine.

The Queen never forgot that she was the daughter of the great Isabella. Her health was not good but her determination was strong. Her devotion to her daughter was unswerving. I think she would willingly have sacrificed her life for her daughter's sake. Now she was going to fight for her daughter. Mary at this time was heiress to the throne and would remain so until the King begat a son. Katharine knew that
she
would never bear that son. Henry was her husband, she maintained, and therefore the crown must in time be Mary's. She would fight for her daughter as she never would have fought for herself. If she allowed her marriage to
be branded invalid, then her daughter would have no right to the throne. I was sure that was the one thing which was uppermost in her mind. Strictly religious, adhering to the rules of the Church of Rome, she was not going to lie about her marriage because the King was besotted with one of her maids of honor who was ambitious enough to demand marriage in return for her favors. She told Campeggio and Wolsey that, although she had been married to Prince Arthur, the marriage had never been consummated and she had come as a virgin to Henry. She was not going to tell or act a lie before God; nor would she live a lie if by allowing herself to be sent to a convent, which would be tantamount to admitting that she had never been married to the King and had been living in sin all those years. The answer was No.

How Henry fumed! How Wolsey trembled! Campeggio retired to bed; he had no desire, it seemed, except to rest his painful body.

Anxiously we watched events on the Continent. The successful Emperor made an offer of peace to Clement which would be of advantage to him. Clement, in a difficult position, wavered. There was Henry thundering on one side and Charles menacing on the other; and Clement had more to fear from Charles than he had from Henry. What could he do? The peace with the Emperor was still being considered; Clement dared not offend on that front; on the other hand he needed Henry's friendship. He was an unlucky man. On other occasions when his predecessors had been asked to help kings out of unfortunate marriages, there had not been these complications. It had simply been a matter of placating the powerful monarch or accepting a bribe. Rarely had a man been in such a position— and a man such as himself who asked only for a peaceful life!

Campeggio was holding back—just in case affairs with the Emperor did not go as promised, for then, if Henry was offended, where would Clement be… without friends and allies?

To Wolsey the Pope wrote with feeling that if it were merely a matter of his own personal safety he would have given the King what he wanted; but it was more than that. If only the lady concerned did not have such powerful relations, it would have been easy. But he, Clement, could not risk what action might be taken by the Emperor if he considered his aunt had been unjustly treated, even by a monarch so great as King Henry.

Wolsey had his network of spies, and most correspondence which came back and forth was scrutinized by him.

He knew that the Pope was telling Campeggio to prolong the matter in the hope that the King might change his mind, for what he asked could not be granted without peril and scandal.

Wolsey knew also that Clement had no intention of granting the divorce and that Campeggio was using his gouty condition to enable him to prevaricate with some semblance of plausibility.

I was so frustrated. Sometimes I was quite hysterical. I did not know what the outcome would be. The King seemed as deeply enamored of me as ever; but he was in a nervous state too. It had not occurred to him that when he asked for a divorce he would not get it. He could cite so many examples of monarchs in his position. “Why, oh why,” he demanded, “should I be the one to be denied?”

The answer was easy: Because his wife was the aunt of the Emperor Charles.

We saw each other now and then. I would chafe against the delay and he assured me that Wolsey was doing his best. I doubted this.