The King's Curse Read online

  I see he is genuinely distressed. I pour him a glass of wine and press him into a chair at the fireside. “Sit. Sit, my son. Take a breath.”

  “They called the queen into court and she was magnificent. She completely ignored the cardinals sitting in judgment and she walked past them and knelt before the king—”

  “She did?”

  “Knelt and asked him in what way she had displeased him. Said that she had greeted his friends as her own, done whatever he wanted, and if she had not given him a son it wasn’t her fault.”

  “My God—she said that in public?”

  “Clear as a tolling bell. She said that he had found her an untouched virgin, as she was when she came from Spain. He said nothing. She asked him in what way she had ever failed him as a wife. He said nothing. What could he say? She has been everything to him for twenty years.”

  I find I am smiling at the thought of Katherine speaking the truth to a king who has become accustomed to a diet of flattering lies.

  “She asked if she could appeal to Rome, and then she rose to her feet and walked out, and left him silenced.”

  “She just walked out?”

  “They shouted her name to call her back into court, but she walked out and went back to her rooms as if she thought nothing of them. It was the greatest moment. Lady Mother, she has been a great queen all her life but that was her finest moment. And everyone outside the court, all the common people, were cheering and blessing her name and cursing the Lady for a whore who has brought nothing but trouble. And all the people inside the court were just stunned, or longing to laugh, or wanting to cheer too—but not daring while the king sat there, looking like a fool.”

  “Hush,” I say at once.

  “I know,” he says, snapping his fingers as if irritated at his own indiscretion. “Sorry. This has shaken me more than I thought. I felt . . .”

  “What?” I ask. Montague is not Geoffrey; he is not ready with his feelings, quick to tears, quick to anger. If Montague is distressed, then he has witnessed something very great indeed. If Montague is distressed, then the whole court will be rocked with emotion. The queen has let them see her sorrow, she has shown them her heartbreak, and now they will be as troubled as children who see their mother cry for the first time.

  “I feel as if something terrible is happening,” he says wonderingly. “As if nothing will ever be the same again. For the king to try to end his marriage to a faultless wife is somehow . . . if the king loses her he will lose . . .” He breaks off. “How will he be without her? How will he behave without her advice? Even when he does not consult her, we all know what she thinks. Even when she doesn’t speak, there is still the sense of her at court, we know she is there. She is his conscience, she is his exemplar.” He pauses again. “She’s his soul.”

  “He hasn’t listened to her advice for years.”

  “No, but even so, even so, she doesn’t have to speak, does she? He knows what she thinks. We know what she thinks. She’s like an anchor that he has forgotten, but still it keeps him steady. What is the Lady but just another of his fancies? He’s had half a dozen of them, but he always goes back to the queen, she always welcomes his return. She’s his haven. Nobody believes that this time is any different. And to distress her like this . . .”

  There is a little silence as we think what Henry would be without Katherine’s loving, patient constancy.

  “But you yourself said that she should consider stepping aside,” I accuse him. “When this all started.”

  “I see that the king wants a son and heir. Nobody can blame him for that. But he can’t put a wife like this aside for a woman like that. For a princess from Spain or France or Portugal? Yes, then she should consider it. Then he might propose it to her, and she might consider it. But for a woman like that? Driven by nothing but sinful lust? And to try to trick the queen into saying that they were never married? Asking everyone of their opinion?”

  “It’s wrong.”

  “Very wrong.” Montague rests his face in his hands.

  “So what happens now?”

  “The hearing goes on. I should think it will take days, maybe weeks. They’re going to hear from all sorts of theologians, and the king has books and manuscripts coming in from all over Christendom to prove his case. He’s commissioned Reginald to find and buy books for him. Sent him to Paris to consult with scholars.”

  “Reginald is going to Paris? Why, when will he leave?”

  “He’s gone already. The king sent him the moment that the queen walked out of the court. She’s going to appeal to Rome, she won’t accept Wolsey’s judgment in an English court. So the king will need foreign advisors, admired writers from all over Christendom. England won’t be enough. That’s his only hope. Otherwise, the Pope will say that they were married in the sight of God, and nothing can put them apart.”

  My son and I look at each other, as if the world we know is changing beyond recognition.

  “How can he do this?” I ask simply. “It’s against everything he has ever believed in.”

  Montague shakes his head. “He’s talked himself into it,” he says shrewdly. “Like his love poems. He strikes a pose and then he persuades himself it’s true. Now he wants to believe that God speaks to him directly, that his conscience is a greater guide than anything else; he’s talked himself into love with this woman, and he has talked himself out of marriage, and now he wants everyone to agree.”

  “And who will disagree?” I ask.

  “Archbishop Fisher might, Thomas More probably not, Reginald can’t,” Montague says, ticking off the great scholars on his fingers. “We should,” he says, surprisingly.

  “We can’t,” I say. “We’re not experts. We’re just family.”

  RICHMOND PALACE, WEST OF LONDON, SUMMER 1529

  The king, bitterly disappointed by Wolsey and the cardinal he brought from Rome to try to find a compromise, goes on progress without the queen. He takes a riding court, Anne Boleyn among them. They are said to be very merry. He does not send for his daughter, and she asks me if I think she will be summoned to join him and her mother this summer.

  “I don’t think so,” I say gently. “I don’t think that they are traveling together this year.”

  “Then may I go and stay with my mother, the queen?”

  She looks up from her sewing, where she is doing blackwork embroidery on a shirt for her father, just as her mother taught her to do.

  “I will write to ask,” I say. “But it may be that your father prefers you to stay here.”

  “And not see him or my mother?”

  It is impossible to lie to her when she looks at me with that straight, honest York gaze.

  “I think so, my dear,” is all I say. “These are difficult times. We have to be patient.”

  She folds her lips together as if to stop any word of criticism escaping. She bends a little lower over her work. “Is my father to be divorced from my mother?” she asks.

  That word in her mouth is like a blasphemous oath. She looks up at me as if she expects me to correct her speech, as if the very word is dirty.

  “The case has been referred to Rome,” I say. “Did you know that?”

  A little nod tells me that she heard this from somewhere.

  “The Holy Father will make a judgment. We just have to wait and see what he thinks. God will guide him. We have to have faith. The Holy Father knows what is right in this; God will speak to him.”

  She gives a little sigh, and shifts in her seat.

  “Are you in pain?” I ask, seeing her bend forward a little, as if to ease a cramp in her belly.

  At once she straightens up, her shoulders down, her head held like a princess. “Not at all,” she says.

  My son Geoffrey is honored as the court leaves London. He is knighted for his services to the king in Parliament. Geoffrey becomes Sir Geoffrey, as he should be. I think how proud my husband would be, and I cannot stop myself smiling all day at the honor done to his son.

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