The Concubine (4 page)

She spoke from the surface of her mind for Emma’s last words had set something astir. Young children at one end, old women at the other, playing…but suppose someone in neither category, someone in the prime of life, someone actuated by the deepest hatred, someone who bore not merely one but two of the supposed signs…She touched with a finger of her right hand the heavy gold and enamel necklet which hid the dark, protuberant mole on her neck. Suppose…

Of course, it was all nonsense, and the idea that she could injure the Cardinal in any way, by means natural or supernatural, was really as absurd as the idea that she could destroy his great palace of York House with her embroidery tools. Quite, quite absurd but wonderful to think about. It was as though a ray of light had been let into the little stone prison where her thoughts went round and round; a sinister light, concentrated upon a laurel leaf upon whose glossy green surface the brown-edged holes spelled out the name of Thomas Wolsey.

T
HE CARDINAL’S PLUMP, WELL-CARED-FOR HANDS
tidied the papers as he said, “Your Grace may safely leave it all to me.” They were the words which had first endeared him to the King and during the past thirteen years he had repeated them uncountable times. Henry had always hated paperwork and any kind of administrative detail, mainly because he lacked patience: he was fully as able as his minister, his mind, if it lacked Wolsey’s subtlety, having a greater capacity for assessing a situation at a glance. He found it tedious to be obliged to explain to slower-witted persons, to persuade those who didn’t immediately see eye to eye with him. Wolsey had a passion for detail, a talent for explanation, an outstanding gift for persuasion. They made an almost perfect team. The King said, “It would be as well if…” “I would like…” “We should…” and the Cardinal said, “Your Grace may safely leave it all to me.” For thirteen years the association between them had been as close, as smooth working as the association between a man’s mind and his hands and feet. And this way of working had another advantage besides setting the King free of the routine which in a few years had turned his father from a knight-errant into a furrow-browed, round-shouldered bookkeeper; it didn’t merely give him time to hunt and dance and make music; it provided him with a scapegoat. When, as sometimes happened, the thing that Henry thought it would be well, I would like, we should, went wrong, all the blame fell upon Wolsey. Even when an expeditionary force, years ago, had first been defeated, and then mutinied and come home, the fiasco had been called “Wolsey’s War.” Beyond all question Thomas Wolsey had been very useful to Henry Tudor and he had been commensurately rewarded.

How, Henry asked himself, is he going to take
this
? And instead of, as usual, rising and making off as soon as the Cardinal had said the releasing words, he settled himself more firmly in his chair.

“There is,” he said, “another matter.”

The Cardinal gave a little inward groan. Once upon a time, as several people could testify, he had had such control of his body, as well as of his mind, that he could sit for twelve hours on end at a table, working away, undisturbed by the necessity to relieve his bladder. But those days were over and gone; he was fifty-one years old. He’d been in some discomfort for the last ten minutes, within a few more he would be in misery.

And the strange thing was that although he could have explained his need to retire to anyone else, he couldn’t do so to Henry. There were a number of reasons. They were close, very close, but the King after all was the Lord’s anointed and one didn’t, to one’s Sovereign Lord, mention a physical function. And there was always the fear—common he supposed to all
employed
persons—of revealing any weakness which might be regarded as a sign of age. A fine thing it would be, wouldn’t it, if the King left York House this afternoon thinking to himself, Wolsey is getting so old that he can no longer hold his water.

But it would be equally bad if he went away thinking that Wolsey had been hurried, or inattentive to this other matter.

He rose to his feet.

“If your Grace will honor me, I have a very special wine; from Burgundy, and this moment ripe. I saw to its laying away and I would like to point it out to my butler, so that there is no mistake.”

On almost any other day Henry would have made some light-hearted remark about the advisability of labeling one’s wine, of having a butler one could trust; or he might have asked, in the voice which he did now and then use to Wolsey, the reminding, the calling-to-heel voice, who it was who had sent a gift of special wine to the servant and not to the master. But this afternoon he had other, more heavy matters on his mind and merely said,

“I shall be glad to sample it with you, Thomas.”

He was almost glad to have a moment or two alone, to shake off the memory of the state affairs which had been under discussion and to remember the cogent arguments, the telling phrases which had formed in his mind during a series of wakeful nights. Of Wolsey, as Wolsey, he was entirely sure; he was Thomas; he was My Lord of York; he was Chancellor, Ambassador, Privy Councillor and trusted friend; but, and this must never be overlooked, he was also a Prince of the Church, and Papal Legate; as such he owed some allegiance elsewhere, and there was no doubt that the subject about to be mentioned could lead to a conflict of allegiances. Still, the subject must be broached.

Wolsey rustled back into the room, followed by a page who poured the wine into gold cups, richly chased and studded with jewels, presented them, kneeling, and withdrew.

Henry sipped appreciatively.

“As you promised, a sound, ripe wine. When next your friend is in a giving mood I should be a not-unwilling recipient.”

“Your Grace, I was only waiting your word of approval before sending it to you.” It was, like many of his statements, a lie only by its timing. He was lavishly generous—not only to those who could in turn be generous to him—he liked giving; and beyond all he liked to give to his master.

“I would accept, with thanks,” Henry said, graciously. “But we’ll leave it in your cellar. For one thing a move would hardly improve it; for another, to drink it will sweeten our discussion. And as you will hear, by the time this business is fully threshed out, we shall be down to the dregs.”

It was unusual, out of character for him to beat thus about the bush. As a rule, both in giving an order and in stating a wish, he was brisk and forthright. Wolsey felt that this was one of those times when a direct question—ordinarily impermissible—might be welcome, so he said,

“And the business is, Your Grace?”

“Let formalities rest, Thomas. This is a talk between men.”

And still he hadn’t said what it concerned. A little glumly Wolsey made a guess. Something he knows will not please me; most likely another and more serious attempt to get his only son, Bessie Blount’s bastard, recognized as heir presumptive. Completely unfeasible; the English would never accept it, and it would break up the Princess Mary’s betrothal to the Emperor.
He
has agreed to marry the future Queen of England, not a dispossessed girl whose base-born brother sits on the throne.

“It is,” Henry said, forcing himself to frankness, “a matter of my conscience.”

They were words which were presently to echo and reecho around the known world; loaded, dangerous words which were to bring down many seemingly unassailable institutions and ruin many men, Wolsey foremost among them; yet he heard them now, for the first time, without a premonitory pang.

“Your conscience, sire? Then it must be a trivial matter, for there’s not a man in Christendom that can claim a clearer one!”

“You’re wrong, Thomas. I have—and have had for some time past—a very heavy burden upon my conscience.” He looked his minister full in the eye. “I’ve lived in sin, with my brother’s wife, these fourteen years.”

For a second Wolsey felt nothing save genuine astonishment. Nothing that the King or any other man could have said would have surprised him as much. He was seldom surprised; he regarded all men as venal; he could draw up a watertight treaty and at the same time speculate upon how soon, and in what manner, it would be broken. But now he was surprised; and then, as his powerful mind reached out and grasped every implication of Henry’s words, inside his stoutening body his heart halted, and then with a jerk beat on.

He said, quite cheerfully,

“What a freakish fancy! The Pope himself declared your brother’s marriage null and void. It was never consummated. Your union with Her Grace is as legal in the sight of God and man as it would have been had your brother never existed and you had married Her Grace when she arrived from Spain. Rest assured of that. I do beg you not to let such a doubt darken another moment.”

“I have told myself these things, on many a wakeful night. They are things that a man would
wish
to believe. But I can’t. All the evidence points the other way.”

“Evidence? What evidence?”

“My children,” Henry said heavily. “My children, all stillborn or dead before their navels had healed.”

“Not all. The Princess Mary…”

“I should have said my sons. For a King to have no son is to be childless, Thomas; you know that as well as I do. You know the history of your own country; only once has the throne gone to a woman, Matilda. And what did that lead to? Civil war, with such famine and widespread misery that men said Christ and His Saints slept. Is that to happen again? Can you sit there and contemplate, with an easy mind, the prospect of my leaving no heir but Mary?”

“We have, in a manner contemplated it, ever since Her Grace’s last miscarriage. Not with an easy mind, I agree. But we have contemplated it, and as far as possible prepared for it by arranging her marriage to the Emperor.”

“And that I never liked! Charles already has more territory than he can handle properly, and married to Mary he’ll have England, too. This England, yours and mine, Thomas, will be just one more unimportant bit of fringe on Charles’s great Empire; within twenty years it’ll be known as the Outer Isles or some such slighting name. And as the last-comer to the conglomeration, England would always get the dirty end of the stick, in every bargain, every market. It just so happens that at the moment the Emperor and I are allied against France, but it’d be madness to believe that there is any fondness between the Spaniards and us.” He drew a deep noisy breath. “Why must I give away England as part of a wench’s dower? It’s as unjust as though I claimed your manor of Tittenhanger simply because my bull had served your heifer!”

“It’s been done from time immemorial.”

“So have many other regrettable things. It isn’t what I want for England.”

He spoke with sincerity. Even in his most lighthearted moments he had always remained aware of the responsibilities that were a part of Kingship; England and the English belonged to him; he was head of the State and Father of the People. But he was only a mortal man, and one day—a day so far ahead that it could be viewed calmly—he must die. What then?

It was a question that he asked himself more frequently and more urgently as the years crept by. His marriage was fourteen years old; with the ordinary amount of luck, and God’s blessing on a pious man, he should by now be the father of a son moving from boyhood to manhood, a strong, handsome Prince of Wales, effortlessly acquiring from his father’s example skill in the use of arms, cunning in the management of men, the secret of maintaining personal popularity without sacrificing self-will. Blessed with such a son, he could, when the time came, die knowing that England was safe in the strong hands of Henry the Ninth. But there was no boy; the heir to England was a little girl, a grave, intelligent, lovable child, most satisfactory as a daughter, but viewed dynastically, a disaster.

Wolsey said,

“All that you say is true, and it is regrettable. But, Sire, I see no alternative.”

Henry said, rather heavily, “I do.” Wolsey waited for the mention of little Henry Fitzroy, and braced himself. But the King went on, “I’m thirty-two, Thomas, and I have proved that outside this cursed, incestuous marriage I
can
breed a boy. And if I can, I should. You would agree that the provision of a successor could be reckoned part of a monarch’s duty?”

One of those questions to which neither yes nor no was a safe answer.

Cautiously, Wolsey said, “What does your Grace propose?”

“Pope Julius annulled my brother’s marriage to Catherine and gave me leave to marry her. Events have proved him to have been in error. I propose that we ask Clement to look into the matter, find some flaw in Julius’s ruling and retract the annulment. That would make me free to remarry and try again.”

Except for a whitening of his nostrils Wolsey’s face gave no sign of the disturbance he felt. This was worse, much worse than any suggestion of legitimizing and recognizing the bastard son; because basically Henry
knew
that to be impracticable. This new proposal was practicable, it had a kind of deadly logic; but oh, how difficult, how dangerous! And it could not be kept, as discussion of Henry Fitzroy’s fate could be kept, within these four walls.

He was aware that he must say something and say it promptly; Henry was eyeing him with some eagerness, and behind the eagerness there was calculation. When the difficulties and the dangers proved too much it would never do for the King to be able to swing round and say, “You were against me from the first.”

He said, “It sounds simple enough; but it would be, I don’t say impossible, few things are impossible, but it would be fraught with such difficulty and likely to lead to such unpredictable results that it is not a thing to be lightly undertaken.”

“I am not undertaking it lightly. Nor hastily. I have even taken into consideration Catherine’s feelings. She has been a most excellent wife to me, Thomas, and I am fond of her; but she is of royal blood, she will realize the
necessity
.”

“Will His Holiness? Is Clement the man to set a precedent by revoking an opinion given by his predecessor? In theory the Pope’s judgment and wisdom are infallible, his edicts inspired. If Clement says Julius was in error, where does Clement stand? And then, even suppose that it could be proved that when Julius issued his brief he had been misinformed in some particular so that the pronouncement was legally invalid, what of the Emperor? The Queen’s Grace is his aunt. Would he welcome a pronouncement that declared that she had eight times conceived out of wedlock? And even could he stomach that would he not gag on the notion of the Princess Mary being made a bastard?”