The Lady in the Tower (37 page)

“Your Grace is bemused by that man,” I said incautiously.

Henry replied: “Nay, sweetheart, I know him well. No one knows him better. He has always worked well for me and he will continue to do so.”

“Cannot you see that he is working for his master, the Pope?”

“Wolsey is
my
man.”

“
Cardinal
Wolsey?”

I withdrew myself from his embrace. He was amazed. No one contradicted the King. No one but myself denied him what he wanted.

He left soon after that, his expression bleak.

When he had gone, I asked myself what I had done. I was letting my nervous tension get the better of my common sense. He had never looked like that before. He was frustrated beyond endurance, and instead of soothing him I had irritated him.

I thought of writing to him. No, that would not do. I must not show weakness. There might be a reconciliation, which could very well have the ending which I was so desperately trying to hold off. On the other hand criticism was something that he would not take from anyone… not even from me.

What should I do? I spent a sleepless night. If only this dreadful waiting was over! In the end I wrote a note to him in which I told him I was sorry for my outburst. I was so weary with the waiting.

His reply was instant.

What a joy it was to understand my reasonableness and he was delighted that I was suppressing my fantasies.

“Good sweetheart,” he went on, “continue the same not only in this but in all your doing hereafter, for thereby shall come to both you and me
the greatest quietness that may be in the world …” He ended: “Written with the hand which fain would be yours, and so is the heart. H.R.”

Perhaps the most disturbing element of all came from the people. They knew of Campeggio's presence in London and they had heard of the King's Secret Matter. They knew that he wanted to put away Queen Katharine and set me up in her place.

Katharine had always been popular, though not as the King had, of course. They loved their large glittering monarch who gave such splendid entertainments at his Court, which they were sometimes able to see. He was always cheerful, smiling and approachable…to them, for the ordinary people found him much more affable than his courtiers did. His father—though he had made the country prosperous—had never enjoyed the popularity which had come to his son. The people wanted someone who looked like a king—and Henry certainly did that.

They did not like what they heard, so they had to have a scapegoat. The King was too popular to take that role, so who should it fall to but myself?

Little did they know that in the first place I had been brought reluctantly into this. If only I had married Henry Percy, they would have known nothing of me; I should have lived my life in obscure and peaceful happiness as the Countess of Northumberland.

Now I was called Sorceress. I had a sixth finger which had been given to me by the Devil. By spells I had seduced the King from the path of virtue. The Devil and I had concocted a scheme to break up the King's marriage, that I might take the Queen's place.

They gathered about the palace. They cheered Katharine whenever she appeared, which I think she did more frequently than in the past, reveling in their sympathy. Who could blame her? She was fighting for her position, for her child's right to the throne. I saw that clearly… much as I wanted her out of my way.

They greeted the King with silence. It was the first time in his life that he had lacked the vociferous appreciation of the crowd and he did not like it. It worried him considerably. He must be remembering that his father had come by a devious way to the throne.

“We'll have no Nan Bullen,” they shouted at the King.

Angrily he gave orders that crowds were not to be allowed to gather near the palaces.

They talked about my low birth. This was amusing coming from the apprentices, the seamstresses and the watermen. They passed over the fact that I was of Howard blood—one of the highest families in the land. I
was of tradesmen's stock, they said. It had always been amazing to me that the lower orders hate to see someone rise in life. Though humbly born themselves, they cannot bear to see one whom they consider to be of their kind rise to greatness. It was the same with Wolsey. One would have thought they would have been delighted, and see in such a rise a chance for themselves.

So the demonstrations grew and I could not go to London. It was depressing to be so hated.

Henry wrote that I must stay away for if I were there he would fear for my safety.

I had heard that he had appeared before the Mayor of London and the Aldermen because he wished the City of London to understand what was actually happening.

He spoke eloquently of that which always aroused a passionate fluency in him—his conscience. He was thinking of his people. As men of intelligence, they would know that one of the most important safeguards to a country's security was the succession. If only he could be shown that his marriage was legal, nothing would please him more. The Queen had so many good qualities which he had good reason to know, and in births she was incomparable. If he had to make a choice now, he would choose her above all women.

When such words were reported to me, I was filled with fury; but I grew calmer. Hypocrisy was second nature to Henry and he used it so well because he believed it when he said it. But could he even for a moment have believed that he would have chosen Katharine now if he had a choice? It was not a matter of choice. He only had to stop proceedings and Katharine could remain his wife; and I did not suppose for a moment that anyone would question the matter.

How could one trust a man who could talk so convincingly and so untruthfully?

Was that another signpost which I ignored? Should I have asked myself at that time more searchingly what dangers lay ahead in union with him?

It was decided that I should spend Christmas at Court. I should go to Greenwich.

How many weary months ago had I thought that by this time I should be crowned Queen of England.

No sooner had I arrived in Greenwich than I realized it had been a mistake to come.

The Queen was naturally there and, as the King's
Secret Matter was secret no longer, all knew that his desire for a divorce was because he wished to marry me. That put me in a very difficult position. There were those who flattered me because of the favors I should be able to bestow on them when I became Queen; on the other hand there were those who thought I never would be, that Katharine's obstinacy and piety would prevail, and to her they wished to show their fidelity. There were some, I knew, who had a genuine affection for Katharine and would rally around her no matter what happened.

I had one or two faithful friends. There was my cousin Madge Shelton, my brother, Mary Wyatt, my dear stepmother, who was torn between pride and fear. There were plenty to flutter round me: Norris, Bryan, Brereton, Weston. They were all in love with me, or professed to be. I think the King's desire for me must have given me a special aura.

However, in spite of these people, I felt alone that Christmas.

The Queen, of course, could not be expected to receive me, so I had my own apartments at Greenwich, and Henry had seen that they were very splendid. In fact they had every aspect of royalty. At times it seemed as though I were already the Queen.

I was determined to hide my apprehension, and whatever the feelings against me, it was in my apartments that the lively and witty courtiers assembled; most people wanted to be there, including the King. I am sure Katharine's domain must have been very somber compared with mine. But, of course, for the traditional Christmas ceremonies, Henry must be with her, for instance at the church services and the state banquet when people crowded into the hall and helped themselves from the tables in accordance with custom. They would expect to see the Queen with the King, not with the Concubine—as they called me.

But it was gratifying that, whenever he could, he escaped to my quarters, and there we danced and sang and enjoyed all the entertainments which I and my friends had devised.

That was a great success but I had a heavy heart at these festivities. There is nothing so frustrating as to have one's hopes rise only to be dashed down again and again after months of planning and joyful anticipation, and to realize that there had been no move from the position one was in this time last year.

I was growing more and more suspicious of Wolsey. I began to believe he was in collusion with Campeggio and received his instructions from the Pope no less than the Italian did. Of course, his first obedience
was
to the Pope, but Henry was too bemused to see this.

During my stays in the country I felt time weighing heavily, and in order to pass it pleasantly I was studying the new religion which was beginning to take a hold on people. Ever since Martin Luther had pinned his theses on that church door in Wittenberg, something had been stirring.

I found that very exciting. I was drawn to the new ideas. I liked what I read. Perhaps it was because I felt a certain antipathy to the Pope that I was fascinated by the idea of curbing his power. The sale of indulgences, which had been Martin Luther's first complaint, was definitely wrong. How could forgiveness be bought in Heaven by giving money to a priest?

Since the King had written his book and become Defender of the Faith, he had been fierce against heretics. He had no fondness for Martin Luther. He had been ready to adhere to the Church of Rome, but I was not sure what his feelings would be now that the Pope was hesitating so long about giving him what he wanted.

Heretics were imprisoned. One sometimes saw them on their way to penance, carrying a faggot—though there was not enough fierce feeling against them to burn them at the stake. On the whole, we English are not a fanatical people. When I dwell on the horrors of the Inquisition in Spain, I feel a sense of pride because we never had it in England—apart from that one occasion when we had been obliged to in the case of the Templars. In almost every other country it had flourished—except ours. I think that says something for our national character. We are inclined to use religion as a crutch to help us along when we need it, not, as particularly is the case in Spain, to be dominated by it. I often marvel how people who claim to have special piety and virtue could calmly look on at the torture of others because they did not share the same faith. I preferred to be a little less religious if this helped me to regard others with tolerance. Moreover, if they had ideas, I wanted to hear them. I would not close my mind and shout: Heretic. For these reasons it seemed to me that our country was a good breeding ground for the new religion.

A man called William Tyndale had written a book which he had entitled
The Obedience of a Christian Man and How Christ's Rulers Ought to Govern
. I was very interested in this man because he was one of Luther's followers. Most of his time was spent translating. He had lived in England for a while, where he was translating the Bible, and he had gathered together a group of friends who were interested in Luther's doctrines, but after a while he left the country to go to Wittenberg. He had also written
Parable of the Wicked Mammon
which I had read. It was not
easy to get these books, for they were forbidden entry into the country, and the King, at Wolsey's suggestion, had had a strict watch kept at sea-ports to prevent their being smuggled in.

Of course copies did get through and that was how this one had come into my possession. I found it quite fascinating.

I was reading
The Obedience of a Christian Man
one day when I was called away and I carelessly left the book lying on the window seat.

I forgot about it for several days. Then I asked one of my attendants, Mistress Gaynsford, a young and very pretty girl who was being pursued by a certain George Zouch, one of the gentlemen of the household, if she had seen it.

She blushed hotly and said she had.

“Come,” I said, “where is the book? Bring it to me.”

She stammered that she had been glancing through it when someone had come up on her and, in fun, snatched it away.

“Well, where is it now?”

“He…hekept it…toteaseme.”

“Was it George Zouch?”

She admitted it was.

“Well then, go to George Zouch and tell him I want my book and he is to return it at once.”

It was not as simple as that. Mistress Gaynsford came back without the book, and when I asked where it was, she said that George Zouch wished to speak to me.

He was clearly very embarrassed. “I took the book to tease Mistress Gaynsford,” he said, “and I was just about to go on duty in the King's chapel, and during the service I glanced into it, and to tell the truth I became so absorbed that I was reading it when the service was over. The Dean saw me and wanted to know what I was reading.”

“Yes…yes… Where is the book?”

“He…he took it from me. He was displeased. He wanted to know how I had come by it. I had to tell him that I had it from Mistress Gaynsford and that it was your book.”

“Why did he not give it back to you then?”

“He… said…he was going to take it to a higher authority. He… he mentioned the Cardinal.”

I confess I was dismayed. The book was forbidden. It had been smuggled into the country. There was a penalty for possessing it. It had been written in direct defiance of the Church.

So Wolsey had my book! I knew what he would do. He would take it to the King. He was trying to brand me as a heretic. Did he want to see me in prison? Walking barefooted in humiliation, carrying a faggot?

So it had come to a conflict between us. I was furious. I said to Zouch, who, poor young man, was in a state of abject terror at what he had done: “This will be the dearest book that either the Dean or the Cardinal took away.”

I thought it best to go to Henry, if possible before Wolsey reached him.

The Cardinal had just left him when I arrived, and Henry had the book in his hands.

I went to him and knelt, taking his hand. There was puzzlement in his face, but he was very soft and tender seeing me thus.