“It is true that I am not in actual fact married to Katharine,” went on the King almost defiantly.
Wolsey spread his hands. “Perhaps, Your Grace, it would be well, until we have proved that the marriage with the Lady Katharine is no true marriage, if Your Grace continued to live the life of a bachelor.”
A hot flush spread itself across Henry’s features as he muttered: “I have heard Mass each day…more than once. I have confessed each day…”
“None knows Your Grace’s piety better than I, but it may be that is not enough.”
“Not…enough!”
“It may be that it would be wise at this stage to send the Lady Anne back to her father’s castle.”
Henry looked so angry for a few moments that Wolsey felt he had gone too far. But after a while the King nodded. He was clearly very frightened.
“Mayhap you are right,” he said.
An easy victory, thought the Cardinal; and that day the Lady Anne Boleyn was sent to her father’s castle at Hever.
As for Henry, he changed his mode of life. He made several wills; he was often in the Queen’s company when they conversed like good friends, and he would sit with her watching her at her tapestry; when she went to a religious service in the chapel, he would accompany her and none appeared to be more devout than the King. It would seem that he had dismissed Anne Boleyn and returned to the Queen in all but one respect; he would not share her bed.
How virtuously he lived during those hot summer weeks! Soon after Carey’s death he insisted that the Court leave Greenwich, and first they went to Eltham and then farther away from the City. Henry kept his physicians beside him; he was in terror that he might become a victim of the sickness.
He made Dr. Butts talk to him of plasters and lotions which might serve, in less severe cases, to save the lives of victims. His greatest pleasure was to concoct these cures with the doctor, and he even made a plaster of his own and gave the recipe to apothecaries that they might make it for their customers. It was said to be efficacious in mild cases and was known as The King’s Own Plaster.
Still further news came of death. When his old friend Sir William Compton died, Henry was deeply distressed. He remembered how, on his first illness, after his return from France, when an ulcer had appeared on his leg, he and Compton had made plasters together, for Compton had also suffered with an ulcer.
And now…Compton was a victim of the sweat!
The Cardinal, who was so busy with his affairs at Hampton, was surprised by the King’s conscience which insisted that at this time he part with Anne Boleyn by sending her home to Hever while he himself posed as a virtuous husband to Katharine, although not sharing her bed. Wolsey wondered whether Henry admitted to himself that he avoided this because he found her unattractive or whether he told himself that he still believed she was not his wife.
But although he had sent Anne away, Henry wrote loving letters to her, erotic letters, telling her of his need of her, hinting at what the future held for them both. As though God, being so busy watching him at confession and Mass, did not see the sly little notes which were sent behind His back.
At one time the Cardinal might have rejoiced in this characteristic of the King’s; now he knew how dangerous it might prove. So Wolsey was one who was too concerned with his own affairs to be worried by the possibility of death through the sweating sickness.
Nor was Katharine afraid. If death came she would be ready to welcome it, for life had little to offer her. Many people were dying, and accounts of deaths came every day, but she had few friends to lose. She thanked God that Maria de Salinas was in the country far from risk of infection, and Margaret Pole was with Mary who had also been sent out of danger.
Meanwhile the King lived his ostentatiously virtuous life and longed for the epidemic to pass.
But one day there came news from Hever which threw the King into a panic: Anne was a victim of the sweating sickness.
Henry threw aside his penitence and sat down at once to write a letter to her.
Her news had made him desolate. He would willingly share her sufferings. He could not send her his first physician because the man was absent at this time and he feared delay, so he was sending her his good Dr. Butts. She must be guided by Dr. Butts. He longed for her, and to see her again would be greater comfort to him than all the most precious jewels in the world.
Then he settled himself to wait. It was no use. He could no longer pretend. He could no longer sit with the Queen and listen to her conversation; he had to face the truth. He wanted Anne. He would have Anne.
So his conscience—on which he could almost always rely to do what was required of it—began greatly to trouble him once more concerning his marriage with his brother’s widow. If the sickness had been a sign of God’s anger, that anger was the result of his living in sin with Katharine, and the sooner he was free of her the better pleased would he—and God—be. Why was that Cardinal Campeggio taking such a long time to arrive? Wolsey was a laggard. Why had he not arranged matters better than this?
He waited for news from Hever. He could think of nothing but his need of her. And when that news came, and it was good news, he was full of joy for many days, taking it that, since his darling’s life was spared, this was a sign of heavenly approval for their union.
He no longer sat with Katharine; there was no longer need to confess so regularly, to pray so long.
The sickness was abating; Anne had recovered; soon she would be with him.
But where was Campeggio? And what was the sluggish Wolsey doing to bring him his heart’s desire?
The Marriage Brief
CARDINAL LORENZO CAMPEGGIO ARRIVED IN LONDON IN October. It was three months since he had set out from Rome, and he had been expected long before. Wolsey received him at York Place where he arrived inconspicuously, much to Wolsey’s disgust, for even now, anxious as he was, he hated to miss an opportunity of giving the people a display of his magnificence. Wolsey would have preferred to go out with his household about him—his silver crosses, his pillars of silver, his seal and his Cardinal’s hat—and to have a ceremonial meeting with his fellow Cardinal in public.
Campeggio had other ideas and had kept his arrival a secret until he came quietly to York Place.
Wolsey embraced him and gave orders for apartments to be made ready for the distinguished visitor. “The best we have to offer. Your Eminence, we have long awaited this pleasure.”
Campeggio winced as Wolsey took his hands. “I suffer agonies from the gout,” he told his host; and indeed it was obvious that he spoke the truth. When Wolsey looked into that pale face with the lines of pain strongly marked on it, he assured himself that here was a man who would not be difficult to lead. Surely one who suffered as Campeggio did would be more concerned with resting his weary limbs than fighting Katharine’s battle.
“We shall do our utmost to make you comfortable here,” Wolsey told him; “and we shall put the best physicians at your service.”
“There is little physicians can do for me,” mourned Campeggio. “My friend, there are days when I am in such pain that I cannot bear the light of day. Then I ask nothing but to lie in a dark room and that no one should come near me.”
“Yours must have been a grievously painful journey.”
Campeggio lifted his shoulders despairingly. “There were times when it was impossible for me to ride; even travelling in a litter was too much for me. Hence the delay.”
Wolsey was not so foolish as to believe that Campeggio’s gout was the only reason for the delay. He guessed that the Pope, in his very delicate position, would not be eager to proclaim the marriage of the Emperor’s aunt invalid. Clearly Clement was playing for time. Campeggio’s gout had been very useful; and doubtless would be in the future.