The King took a document from his table which had been sent to him from Louise of Savoy who was her son’s Regent while he, François, remained the Emperor’s prisoner in Madrid.
“Read it,” commanded the King; and Wolsey read that the Duchesse of Savoy could not express sufficient regret that the marriage between her son and the Princess Mary was not possible. She knew that the Princess of England excelled all other Princesses; she had heard nothing but good of her character, her attainments and her beauty. Alas, a tragic fate had befallen her son; he was in the hands of the Emperor and harsh terms were being imposed on him. Not the least harsh of these—in view of the offer of the Princess’s hand from England—was that he should marry the Emperor’s sister Eleanora whom Emanuel of Portugal had recently left a widow. It seemed likely that the King of France would have to comply with this unless Eleanora refused to marry him.
The Duchesse however hoped that this might not make an end of their desire for a French-English alliance. She had grandsons. She was certain that François would welcome the Princess Mary as the wife of his son Henri, Duc d’Orléans.
“Well,” the King demanded, “what do you think of this proposition?”
“A fair one. Marriage to young Henri would, in truth, be more suitable than marriage with François.”
“A second son,” murmured the King.
“Eldest sons sometimes die,” Wolsey reminded him.
“That’s so,” replied the King, himself a second son. He was thoughtful for awhile. “The child is young…not yet ten years of age. There is time. But it shall be a French match for her.”
“I am in full agreement with Your Grace.”
“I rejoice to hear it.” Was it his imagination, wondered Wolsey, or was there a trace of sarcasm in the King’s voice? The little blue eyes swept over the rich satin robes. “We shall be having French ambassadors here soon, I doubt not. When they come it would be well for them to be entertained at Hampton Court.”
“Hampton Court is, as always, at Your Grace’s command.”
“These foreigners…,” mused Henry. “They do not think they are at Court until they are received at Hampton. Is it meet a subject should possess such a palace?”
Wolsey quickly saw the meaning behind the words. He had always gambled. He gambled now.
“There is only one reason why a subject could possess such a palace,” he answered quickly, “and that is that he can put it into the hands of his King.”
Suddenly the peevish animosity died in the King’s face and the old affection was back there. The blue eyes were so bright that Wolsey was not sure whether it was tears of friendship or covetousness which he saw there.
The Chancellor felt a catch of fear at his heart; it was as though he were running towards danger; and that only by throwing his most valued possessions to his pursuers could he stave off the evil moment of disaster. He was playing for time. He believed that he could regain his power over the King…given time. He could arrange a divorce for Henry, get him married to a French Princess, put an end to unprofitable wars—then he would be able to rout all his enemies. But he needed time.
The King put his own construction on those words.
“A goodly gift,” he said, “from a loyal subject to his affectionate master. I would not offend you, Thomas, by refusing your handsome gift. But you shall live on there…you shall entertain these foreigners there…in my name, eh? Then they will no longer sing in the streets: ‘The King’s Court or Hampton Court…’ for from now on Hampton Court is the King’s Court.”
Wolsey bowed his head and taking the King’s hand kissed it. He was glad to hide his face for a few seconds; the loss of his most cherished possession was a blow, and he found it difficult to hide the sorrow he was feeling.
THE DAYS WERE DREARY to Katharine, one so much like another. She had no friend in whom she could confide. Maria de Salinas was no longer at Court; Margaret Pole was in Ludlow with Mary; and, saddest of all, there was no mention of Mary’s returning.
The women who surrounded her, she knew, were not her true friends, but had been put there by her enemy, Wolsey, to spy on her. She saw the King frequently but never in private; he was courteous to her but she fancied that he was afraid to meet her eye and always seemed relieved when he parted from her.
On one or two occasions she had mentioned their daughter to which he invariably replied with prompt finality: “It pleases me that she now has her own Court in her own Principality. She will learn something of government there in Ludlow.”
She wanted to protest: She is only a child. At least allow me to go and stay with her there.
But she knew that it was impossible to speak of such things in public, and there was never an opportunity of doing so in private.
She guessed that there was a mistress—perhaps several. Light-o’-loves, she thought contemptuously; and as she could not discuss this matter with the women who surrounded her, who would report to their master every word she said, she was silent.
She knew that negotiations were going forward with a view to a French alliance for Mary. She prayed that this might not be carried through. What she dreaded more than anything was alliance with France because she longed to restore friendship between her nephew and her husband. She believed that, if only Charles could explain in person, or if only he had a good and efficient ambassador, Henry would understand that he had been forced to do what he had done. None could be more disappointed at his rejection of Mary than she was. Had it not been the dearest dream of her life that her nephew and daughter should marry? But Charles was no longer very young and it was understandable that he should feel the need to marry without delay. She did not believe that Charles had wantonly deceived her husband; it was pressure of circumstances—and that must at times afflict every head of state—which had made him do so.
She wrote many letters to Charles—cautiously worded—for she could not be sure that they would reach him. A little spice was added to those dreary days by this game of outwitting the Cardinal, whom she had now begun to regard as her greatest enemy.
And one day in the spring of that long year a letter from her nephew was smuggled to her and she felt a great triumph, as at least one of hers had reached him. That made her feel that she had some friends at the English Court.
Charles wrote that he was sending a new ambassador to England, Don Iñigo de Mendoza, who would be travelling through France and should arrive in England not long after she received this letter. He knew, of course, that Wolsey was doing his utmost to make a French alliance for Mary and that Katharine would agree with him that such an alliance would be fatal to their interests. He believed that she would find Mendoza more to her liking than ambassadors from Flanders, and it was for this reason that he was sending a Spaniard to England.
When Katharine read this letter she felt the tears of joy rushing to her eyes. Mendoza was coming. A Spaniard, one with whom she could converse in her native tongue. She even knew Iñigo. He had been her mother’s favorite page, and she had seen him often riding in the entourage when Isabella had gone from town to town visiting her dominions, her family with her, as she had insisted whenever possible. Perhaps they would talk of Granada and Madrid, of the days of Isabella’s greatness.
Katharine closed her eyes and thought of her early life in Spain, when she had never been forced to suffer the humiliation she had endured since coming to England, when she had been surrounded by the love of her family and, most of all, that of her mother.