Then he was ready to set out for Greenwich. But as he attempted to leave his house two guards barred his way. He saw then that many of them were stationed about his house.
“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded fiercely, but his fierceness had no effect on the guards.
“Begging Your Excellency’s pardon,” said one of them, “you are not to leave this house.”
“Who dares to restrict the Imperial ambassador?”
“The King, Your Excellency.”
De Praet was so angry that for a moment he could find no words to express his indignation; but as he grew a little calmer he realized that he was defeated. They called him the King’s prisoner, but he was in truth that of the Cardinal.
Yet, he reflected, in this country that was one and the same thing.
WITH SATISFACTION Wolsey presented himself to the King.
“The spy is a prisoner in his lodging,” he said. “He can do little harm now.”
“Let him remain so,” said Henry, who was still smarting from the references to himself in the ambassador’s correspondence; accustomed to flattery he was always surprised when he did not receive it, and on those rare occasions when he discovered disparaging comments had been made about him he never failed to be deeply shocked.
This was the moment to drive home the advantage, and Wolsey murmured: “It may be that Your Grace will see fit to acquaint our own ambassador with your horror. It is for the Emperor to send us an ambassador, not a spy.”
“I shall write to Dr. Sampson and command him to express my displeasure to the Emperor.”
“Your Grace is wise. It is as well that he should be acquainted with your displeasure. In this campaign he has had all the advantages.”
Henry scowled but he believed that what Wolsey said was true.
“Your Grace,” went on the Chancellor, “as you know, I am ever watchful and I have discovered that there are in England at this moment emissaries from France.”
The King’s face flamed, and Wolsey with great temerity continued before he could speak: “If Your Grace would but see these men there would be no necessity to commit yourself in any way. But in view of the manner in which the Emperor has behaved towards us, I personally see little harm in listening to these men. It may be that Your Grace, in his greater wisdom, has some reason for not wishing to see them. If that is so, then I shall see that they are sent back to France without delay.”
“Were it not for the betrothal to our daughter, Thomas, I should be seeking a way out of this alliance.”
“We must remember the importance of this match,” agreed Wolsey. “But could we not say that this is a matter apart? If we listened to the French we could then perhaps use their desire for friendship to extract some advantage from the Emperor. Your Grace knows full well that we have had little so far.”
“I know it well.” The King hesitated. “I see no harm in listening to what these men have to say.”
Wolsey consolidated his gains before the King had time to withdraw.
“I beg of Your Grace to come to Hampton Court; I shall send for the men, and if you see them there it will make less talk than if they came to Greenwich.”
The King was agreeable. He was beginning to take a deep interest in Hampton Court, and the Cardinal had thought somewhat uneasily that occasionally he saw an acquisitive gleam in the blue eyes. “I will come to your fair manor, Thomas,” he said. “I confess to a fondness for the place.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “And there’s something else, I confess. My own palaces look a little less grand, less like the residences of a King, after my visits to Hampton Court.”
“I have furnished the place that it might be a refuge for Your Grace at any time it is your pleasure and my delight that you visit it.”
“Then let us see these men from France at Hampton, Thomas.”
Victory! thought the Cardinal. But in a measure uneasy victory. The King had changed since Buckingham’s execution. Often one had the feeling that he was eager to prove the power he had over all men—including his dear friend and counsellor, Thomas Wolsey.
THE KING PACED up and down his bedchamber. He was alone, which was rare for him; but he had wished it so. He was not at ease. He did not want to see these messengers from France; what he wanted was news of the Emperor’s victory, to hear that the fair land of France was conquered and that the King of England was invited to go to Rheims to receive the crown he longed for.
But to make peace would mean an end of that dream.
He hated the King of France as, he believed, he could never hate Charles. François was bold and witty; handsome and clever; he was a rival as Charles—pallid, without good looks, serious—could never be. So while Henry hated François he could only distrust Charles. Not that he did not distrust François also. But the Emperor was young, his wife’s nephew and therefore his own. Charles had called Henry Uncle when he was in England and deferred to his advice. Not that he had taken it. He was sly, full of pretence; but he was young and when they were together Henry could patronize him. When he was with François he had to summon all his wits and then be outwitted.
It seemed to him that he had reached a stage of his life when all that he longed for most was denied him. He wanted the crown of France and cynical François stood between him and it; he wanted a son and Katharine stood between him and that goal; he wanted a young girl who had caught his imagination, and she flouted him, telling him that he, being married, was in no position to make advances to her.
So he, the King, was frustrated of his three greatest desires. It was a state of affairs which he had not thought possible.
He knew the position in Europe was so bad that it could not continue; and if he did not win France this year, perhaps he would win it some other year. He would never give up hope. The matter of getting a son was more urgent. He was not old by any means, but being thirty-four years of age he was no longer a boy. He was impatient for sons. Yet he remained married to Katharine—if it was a marriage. His conscience was telling him that it was not, and that the sooner he made this known to his people the more pleased God would be with him. But Thomas Wolsey was to be trusted and he had said: Wait.
And then the girl. He had seen her at the Court, and had been maddened at the thought of her marrying Percy—maddened with the foolish young man for thinking to take what the King desired, and with the girl herself for agreeing to the marriage; then he had seen her in her father’s garden at Hever, where she had treated him not as the King but as a would-be lover who did not please her. He should have been angry; he should have had the girl sent to the Tower; but a strange softness, which he had never felt before, had come to him. He had merely allowed himself to be so treated, which was wonderfully mysterious.
He had ridden away from Hever, still thinking of her and—although he was surprised at himself for doing so—had visited the place again and again…not as a King honoring a subject but as a humble suitor cap in hand.
Yet she continued to resist him. So here again he was frustrated.
A king must not consider his own personal desires, he told himself. I must not think of her but of these men who come from François.
He stood at the window looking out on the river, but he did not see it because instead he saw a garden at Hever and in it the most fascinating young woman he had ever known.
There was a bustle below, and as he turned from the window, roughly jolted from his dream of Hever, the Cardinal came into the room.
The King was surprised by his unceremonious entry, and by the fact that his cap was somewhat askew. The pockmarked face was as pale as ever but the brown eyes gleamed so that Henry knew the Cardinal came to announce some matter of importance.