From then on Katharine should have reached a haven of happiness, but ill luck was hers. Desperately the King wanted a son, but for some reason, although the Queen was fruitful, disappointment after disappointment followed.
Within a year of her marriage, she had raised her husband's and the country's hopes by giving birth to a child. A daughter, it was true, but stillborn. The next year there was a son, who brought great joy just for one month before he died. Two years later there was another son, born dead, and a year later a premature delivery. After that a healthy child, but a girl. The Princess Mary, the only one who had lived. More miscarriages followed and the King, in his despair, had been heard to say that some evil fate was working against him.
I was sure that this caused the Queen great unhappiness. But at least she had the Princess Mary on whom she doted.
Perhaps the failure to produce the children for whom the King so longed had made her more pious than ever. I was aware that she derived little pleasure from the masques and banquets which so delighted her husband; but she certainly found great comfort in prayer and books of devotions.
She was interested in serious discourse, and people like Sir Thomas More, a man of great wit, charm and erudition, was a great favorite of hers. I had occasionally heard her laughing with him over some witticism; but it was obvious she could not share wholeheartedly in the festivities of the Court, and although she tried hard to fall in with the spirit of these things, she could not express the required surprise when the King emerged from his disguises to show himself as the monarch.
She did not show any rancor toward my sister Mary. It might have been that she realized that if the King must have a mistress it was better she should be a girl like Mary than some grasping female who would make all sorts of demands. Mary at least did not flaunt her position; she was just there, smiling placidly, available when required and, when she was not, quite contentedly giving herself the pleasure of warming her husband's bed.
I believed that Elizabeth Blount had been less retiring, though her day was over before I came on the scene. She had a son by the King of whom he was very proud, because he was a boy and had survived. In his heart, I believed he had feared that the inability to produce a healthy boy might lie with him—but this boy of Elizabeth Blount's proved that the fault lay with Katharine.
Having been in such close contact with Marguerite and listened to her discourse, I had come to realize how important affairs of the country were to individuals; and I was very interested in what was happening politically.
Our ally was now the Emperor Charles—a fact which greatly delighted the Queen because she was his aunt. It must have been very distressing for her when Henry and François were courting each other. Yet she had successfully hidden her feelings at Guines and Ardres. I realized now what she must have been suffering to know of the plotting which was going on against her nephew.
Now, however, Charles was our friend and François our foe. The Princess Mary was no longer affianced to the Dauphin—that betrothal which had been made at the Field of the Cloth of Gold; and to the Queen's delight there was talk of an alliance with the Emperor, even though the poor child was only seven and he was twenty-three.
But the man who was most talked of, whom people most feared and who was said to have the King's ear in all matters, was the great Cardinal Wolsey.
I was interested to learn how a man of humble origins could have risen so high as to dominate not only the Court but the King himself. Of course he was a man of great and rare intellect, of immense purpose and a certain charm, which he exerted with the utmost success over the King. I wished I could have discussed him with Marguerite. I was sure she would have found the secret of his success. That he was exceptionally clever was obvious—but it was more than that.
I learned all I could about him—and there were plenty to tell of his origins. “A butcher's son. His father had a shop in Ipswich,” they jeered. Such a man would inevitably engender envy which I was beginning to recognize as the most deadly of the seven deadly sins as well as the most prevalent. Let them sneer at him for his humble origins; it seemed to me that all the more credit was due to him for his spectacular rise. He must be almost twenty years older than the King, and it was said that Henry looked upon him as a father. Every problem which arose was taken to Wolsey and it was rarely that the King did not take his advice.
I think the butcher must have been a man of some means; he probably owned land on which he grazed his cattle. However, Thomas Wolsey was destined for the Church and, as was to be expected, once he had taken Holy Orders, made rapid strides in his chosen profession. Before he was forty he had been promoted to an archbishopric; he had graduated and was a B.A. at the age of fifteen and was known as “the Bachelor”; there followed his M.A. and eventually he became chaplain to Sir Richard Nanfan, Deputy of Calais, who, amazed at his brilliance, spoke of him to King Henry VII.
That was the big step Wolsey had been looking for. Henry VII was too astute to be affected by a man's origins, and Wolsey was soon in his confidence. Men of influence began to notice him, and one of these was Richard Fox, Bishop of Winchester. Wolsey was climbing high to the pinnacle of his ambition which was clearly the Papal Crown.
There is a story that Henry VII decided to try him out as a diplomat and sent him on a mission to the Emperor Maximilian in Flanders. The matter was urgent, said the King, and he wished Wolsey to act with all speed. Three days later the King, looking from a window, saw Wolsey making his way toward the palace of Richmond. He sent for him to come to him at once; he was preparing to reprove him for delaying so long before setting out, but Wolsey replied that he had been to Flanders, completed the mission and was about to present himself to the King to report on this when he had been summoned to his presence. That he could have acted so quickly and successfully surprised the King and he realized from that moment that he had a very rare servant in Thomas Wolsey.
There were many stories about him—his brilliance, his determination, his ambition, his love of ostentation. His houses were as grand as palaces; he had as much power as the King. He became Dean of Lincoln and, when Henry VII died, his son made Wolsey his Almoner and began to shower honors on him. In the year 1515 Pope Leo sent Wolsey his cardinal's hat with a very valuable ring, and there was a great gathering of bishops when the hat was placed on Wolsey's head in the Abbey. He had become the most interesting and important man at Court.
I was enjoying my life there. In France I had been aware of my youth until the last year, when my coming to maturity had raised problems with which I had feared I might not be able to deal. It was different here. Now, at sixteen, I was no longer a child and I felt I could take care of myself. Having been brought up in the French Court, I stood out among the others. I found that I attracted attention and I had many admirers, which pleased me. I was not pretty, as many of the girls were, but I knew that I made them appear commonplace. My dark hair and eyes, my choice of clothes, designed by myself, set me apart; and although others tried to imitate my gowns, they could not do it—or the garments did not look the same on them. I could dance better than any of them and play the lute to bring tears to many an eye; and I could sing so as to affect them in like manner. I was a success.