One summer’s day Dr. Linacre, the King’s physician, begged an audience of the Queen, and when he came into her presence he brought a bouquet of beautiful roses.
Katharine congratulated him warmly because she knew that he had recently brought this rose to England, and had succeeded in making it grow in English soil.
The doctor was delighted and as he bowed low before her Katharine smiled at his enthusiasm and held out a hand to take the roses.
“They are beautiful,” she cried.
“I knew Your Grace would think so. I have come to ask permission of you and the King to present you with trees I have grown.”
“I am sure His Grace will be delighted.”
“I had doubts that they would grow in our soil. Our climate is so different from that of Damascus.”
“And you have succeeded magnificently. I know the King will be as pleased as I am to accept these trees.”
“I have called it the Damask Rose,” said the doctor.
“An excellent name, and so explicit.”
She was still admiring the roses when the King entered the apartment. The peaceful atmosphere was immediately disturbed for the King’s face was of that faintly purplish tinge which nowadays indicated anger, and his eyes ice-blue, his mouth tight.
“Your Grace,” began the doctor, who could think of nothing but the pleasure his roses gave him and, he believed, must give all those who looked at them, “I have been showing the Queen the new Damask Rose.”
“Very pleasant,” said the King shortly.
“Dr. Linacre wishes to present us with trees too,” said the Queen.
“They will be some of the first to be planted in this country, Your Grace,” went on the doctor. “I shall count it an honor…”
“We thank you,” said the King. He took one of the roses in his hand and studied it, but Katharine knew that he gave it little attention. “It is indeed beautiful. We accept the trees. They shall be tended with care, and I am sure give us pleasure for many years to come.”
The doctor bowed and asked the Queen’s permission to take some of the roses to the Princess Mary. Katharine gave that permission willingly and the doctor took his leave.
When he had gone, Henry walked to the window and stood glowering out.
Katharine knew that it was on occasions like this when his dogs and all wise men and women kept their distance from him, but she was his wife and must know what disturbed him, so she asked: “Does aught ail you, Henry?”
He turned and she noticed how his lower lip jutted out.
“Oh, ’tis naught but the folly of young Percy.”
“Northumberland’s son?”
“Yes, Henry Percy. The young fool has been presumptuous enough to promise marriage to one of the girls of the Court.”
“And you cannot grant permission for this marriage?”
“Northumberland’s is one of the most noble families in the land,” growled Henry.
“Is the girl whom he has chosen so lowly?”
“She is not of his rank.”
“So far below him then?”
“It is Thomas Boleyn’s girl.”
“Oh?” The Queen thought of the girl as she had seen her about the Court—a flamboyant personality, one made to attract attention to herself, decidedly French in manners and style of dressing. Indeed since the beginning of the French wars, when the girl had come to England, fashions had been changing and becoming more French, which was strange when it was considered that the English were at war with that country. “I have noticed her often,” went on the Queen. “She seems to be one who attracts attention to herself. I have seen Percy with her and Wyatt also.”
“Wyatt is married so he could not make a fool of himself,” muttered the King.
“Thomas Boleyn has risen in your favor in the last years, Henry. Is the girl so very much below Percy?”
“Come, come, he is the eldest son of Northumberland. His father will never consent to the match.”
“But the girl’s mother is a Howard and…”
Henry made an irritable gesture, wriggling his shoulders like a petulant boy. “Northumberland is coming to Court to forbid his son to have anything to do with the girl. Indeed she is pledged already to marry the son of Piers Butler. As to Percy, he is to marry Shrewsbury’s girl—Mary Talbot…a suitable match.”
Katharine stared sadly before her. She was sorry for the lovers.
“I thought the Boleyn girl to be well educated, and she has a certain dignity.”
The King turned on her angrily. “’Tis a most unsuitable match. The Cardinal has already reprimanded that young fool Percy and made him see his folly. ’Tis a pity he ever took service with the Cardinal, since it has brought him into close contact with the girl.”
“Percy will be docile,” said the Queen. She remembered him as she had last seen him at the side of that vital, glowing girl, and she had seen what a contrast they made—she so full of life, he so gentle, weak almost. She was certain there would be no rebellion from Percy.
“He had better be,” said the King. “In any case he’s banished from Court and has been ordered not to see the girl again. His duty now is to marry Mary Talbot as soon as possible, and we shall see that that is done.”
“Ah well, Henry, then the matter will be settled. But I am surprised that you should feel so strongly about it.”
“You are surprised!” The King’s eyes were fierce. “Let me tell you that the welfare of the young people at my Court is my greatest concern.”
“I know it well.”
The King strode from her apartment; and she continued to wonder why he should have been so incensed by such a trivial matter.
She saw Anne Boleyn a few days later, and all the sparkle seemed to have gone out of her. She was dejected and sullen.
Poor girl! pondered the Queen. She is heartbroken at the loss of her lover.
She wondered whether to send for her and offer her comfort; but decided that would be unwise, and tantamount to acting against the wishes of the King.
A week passed and she remembered that she had not seen the girl; so she asked one of her women if Anne Boleyn was still at Court.
“No, Your Grace,” was the answer, “she has returned to Hever Castle on the King’s command.”
Banished from Court! And simply because she accepted Percy’s offer of marriage.
The King’s anger was unaccountable.
AS THE CARDINAL bent over the documents on his table his usher entered and told him that a merchant of Genoa was craving an audience with His Eminence.
“What is his business?” asked the Cardinal.
“He would tell me nothing, Eminence, except that he had merchandise to show you which he would show no other, and that he felt sure you would be willing to grant him an interview if you would but look at the nature of the articles he has to lay before you.”
Wolsey was thoughtful. Was he right when he fancied there was a hint of subtlety in the merchant’s words? What was the nature of the merchandise he wished to show? Could it be information—secret information?
A year ago he would have had the merchant told that he might call again; since his defeat at the Papal election he had added that to his caution which he had subtracted from his dignity.
“Bring the man to me,” he said.
Cavendish retired and returned in a few moments with a dark-skinned man who carried a bag in a manner to suggest that what it contained was very precious indeed.
“You may leave,” Wolsey told Cavendish; and as soon as he was alone with the Genoese, the man set down his bag and said: “My lord Cardinal, I am not merely a merchant. I come on behalf of one who is eager to negotiate with you.”
“And who is that?”