Roses in the Tempest Page 17

  I groaned into my cup and drank more than I should have. All my thoughts cavorted about the person of the Lady Prioress. I languished for her, like some fresh-faced youth. The more it went on, the more foolish I felt, and yet I could not let the possibility go that I might woo her. Though I often wondered if I won her whether I would fall tired of the game. Where would that leave her? Such labyrinthine thoughts! They chased one after the other; a mad hoodman’s blind caper catching nothing but air. At six and thirty, I should have possessed enough maturity to relinquish such sport. Instead, I wrote her letters. She, in her wisdom, did not reply. Although a year had passed, she still would not allow me access to Blackladies. Perhaps she thought this would exorcise my passion once and for all, but it only served to rake the coals to flames.

  How could she treat me so?

  Drunk, the king at last was ready to retire. I rose unsteadily to attend him. Several other courtiers rose as well, including Wolsey’s secretary Thomas Cromwell—who was growing more in prominence at court. The king waved them off when he saw me, and leaned his full weight upon my shoulder. “I will take this Thomas with me,” he said, scanning his courtiers and all the Thomases who gathered.

  He chuckled as we made our way to his pavilion. Once entered, he let himself fall back upon the bed with an exhausted huff.

  “Shall I get the grooms, your grace?”

  “No, Giffard. You can assist me. First pour some wine.”

  His face was already red and bloated from too much indulgence, but I nevertheless obeyed and poured the red liquor into a goblet from an ornate flagon. He took the cup and drank. His lips were slick when he set the cup aside. “Do you know why I picked you over all those other Thomases, Giffard?”

  I shook my head, feeling the effects of my own overindulgence. “No, your grace.”

  “Thomas Wolsey, Thomas Cromwell, Thomas More, Thomas Giffard…So many Thomases. Why so popular a name, hmm? Should not all have been named Henry?”

  “I know not, your grace. Surely you must ask our sires.”

  “I tire of the other Thomases. I am berated with their opinions and demands.”

  “Demands, your grace?” He sat up, and I was able to remove his heavy fur-trimmed gown. I began to unbutton his jerkin.

  “Yes, Thomas. Know you not that there are great demands made of a king? As great as I am, even as the Lord Himself anointed me, I am not my own man. Does that surprise you?”

  “Indeed, your grace. I know that Parliament speaks for the people—”

  “I speak for the people!” he shouted, pushing me aside. The king’s wrath came easily, and just as easily blew off like a billow of steam from a kettle. Still, I stepped back lest he strike out as he was wont to do, until his face softened and he smiled again, gesturing me to continue to undress him. Cautiously I approached, pulling the bejeweled jerkin away and laying it gently to the side. He scratched his chest as he loosened the slops himself. “I am Fidei Defensor, Defender of the Faith, after all,” he said more gently. “The pope would not have named me so if he thought I could do less for my people.”

  He drew silent for a while, and I was able to finish disrobing him and get him into his nightclothes. He drew a gown on over his shift. “Stay awhile, Thomas. I seem to see little of you these days.”

  “My estates occupy me, your grace.”

  “Yes. To be king means to be occupied with many things at once. Sometimes I think I would have liked the pleasure of being only the lord of an estate deep in the country. Few cares there, eh Thomas?”

  “There are still cares, your grace, though not on the scale which occupies your majesty.” He rumbled his reply. I was weary, and hoped he would soon wish to retire so that I could go to my pavilion. Heartsick and exhausted, I feared to injure his humor if I stayed longer. “If you need me no further…”

  “Wait, Thomas. You have a blackness about you. What vexes you?”

  “Nothing, your grace.”

  “Nothing? With that sour a countenance? Come.” He rose, and spoke in confidential tones, even putting his arm about my shoulders. In his gown and nightshift, he was still a formidable man. He hugged me close. His breath reeked of stale wine. “Thomas. Do not think of me as your sovereign. Think of me as your cousin. Or better yet, your uncle, eh? Surely you can tell your Nuncle Hal your woes.”

  Oh God… There was no fleeing from this. In truth, I wanted so to talk to someone of my troubles, though I did not imagine it would be the king. These matters were delicate, and I knew it could very well be misinterpreted. Dorothy saw the sense in keeping what she knew to herself, but this night I already spoke incautiously to him. Were he sober, he would not take offense—and certainly never insisted on this confidence. Alas, I needed to unburden myself almost as much as he believed—in his insobriety—that he wanted to help me.

  “Sire…it is…a woman.”

  “Aaah!” He nodded sagely, pumping his head upon his neck. “Thomas, Thomas. Of this sorrow I know well. Women. The glory and the curse of our lives… I take it we are not speaking of your wife?”

  “No, your grace.”

  His features grew serious, and he contemplated the problem with all earnestness. “Does she spurn you? Is that why your shoulders hang so heavily?”

  I was not aware that my soul was visible through my very posture, and I sobered immediately. “It is true, your grace. She will not receive me. My only wish is to be in her presence, to talk with her.”

  “This is a generous love. A gracious love. A love from afar?”

  Careful, Thomas! “She…she is a maid, your grace.”

  “Aaah! I admire you, Thomas. Then we speak not of adultery. Good, good. Such chaste affairs are noble, but most difficult. Most difficult. May I tell you something?”

  “Anything, Sire.”

  “Would it surprise you to hear that your own king, your Nuncle Hal, has such a love?”

  I tightened my jaw. Surely this was dangerous for me to hear! Were he not in his cups, he would not say. “Sire, I am unworthy of such confidence—” I tried gallantly to leave the tent, but he would not allow me to go.

  “Nonsense! You are a member of our household, Thomas. There was never cause to think ill of you or your kinsmen. You are like a right arm. Should my right arm be unaware of what the rest of the body is doing?”

  “I know not, your grace,” I said desperately. “Sometimes it is best.”

  He laughed. “You fear Wolsey? You are in the king’s grace. Have no fear of cardinals.”

  “Your Majesty.” I bowed low to show my relief, but my heart knew no such thing!

  “Love. If only love were all there was to it. There is more than that. Much more.” He eyed me steadily, licking the wine from his lips. Slowly, his mind, like a millwheel in a slow stream, seemed to work as he measured me. He smiled and touched his mouth with a finger. “Perhaps you are right. There are some things to which you may not be privy. You are wise, Thomas. You are cautious, but not deviously so. I have always admired that quality in your father. Now I see the son is as discreet. Very well. No doubt you are anxious to get to your own bed. Hurry you, now.”

  “Thank you, your grace. God give you rest.”

  Slipping past the heavy tent curtains, I brushed my hand along my brow to wipe away the sweat, and breathed a sigh of thankfulness. “Almighty God! I thank You for this relief.” It was a wise man who stayed close to the shining flame of power, but not too close as to be burned by it.

  So the king possessed a love. And so. He had many, and some proved to be fruitful, but I sensed more to this than was healthy to know. The scowls on Wolsey’s and Cromwell’s faces all week attested to that. Often they met in unholy circles, with that other Thomas, Thomas Cranmer, hovering nearby. It was a strange coven of Thomases, indeed.

  With that thought, I moved straightway to my own tent, but slowed when I heard fervent voices low and determined. Four shadows stood near a brazier, four I recognized by form or by their voices. I looked behind and saw back the w
ay I came to the king’s chamber. Ahead were the four in conversation. There was nowhere to go.

  “The king’s convictions lie with Leviticus,” said the deep-jowled voice of Wolsey. “Therefore, it is in Leviticus we will trust the king’s virtue.”

  Cromwell spoke next, quoting the scripture to his fellow secretaries Stephen Gardiner and Edward Fox. “‘And if a man shall take his brother’s wife, it is an unclean thing: he hath uncovered his brother’s nakedness; they shall be without sons.’“

  “You missay, Cromwell,” said Wolsey. “Not filiis. Liberis. ‘Childless’, not ‘sonless’.”

  “Your Eminence,” he said with a cursory bow. “I have it on the king’s authority that he believes the present scripture to be a false translation and that liberis should instead read filiis. I take the king’s word in all accounts.”

  Wolsey snorted, glancing from one man to the other. He said nothing, but grasped the wide sash about his waist, rocking on his heels.

  “Yet I have oft heard that in such cases Deuteronomy supersedes the other,” said Gardiner, coughing into his hand as he softly spoke, “coming later in the texts as it does. As the queen was so married to the king’s late brother the Prince Arthur, so King Henry, too, married his brother’s wife, the former being an unconsummated union. ‘If one of them die, and have no child, the wife of the dead shall not marry without unto a stranger: her husband’s brother shall go in unto her and take her to him to wife.’“

  Wolsey laughed humorlessly. “This, I am told, only applies to Jews.”

  “Your Eminence!”

  Cromwell put out his hand to calm Fox, who said nothing more. “The situation is clear, gentlemen. The king wants his great matter resolved, and quickly. He is impatient for Mistress Boleyn, and he tires of his— that is, his soul grieves that he continues to live in sin with the Princess Dowager of Aragon.”

  I held my breath. What the king in his discretion could not tell me, I was now hearing in all its treasonous grandeur. At that moment I feared for my life, for should I be discovered, even the king’s witness could not now save me. I prayed to be as quiet as a mouse while the cats plotted mere inches away.

  “Your Eminence,” said Fox in a husky whisper, “do you mean to say that the king desires a divorce?”

  “Of course not, Master Fox. The Church would never allow such a thing and shame upon you for uttering such heresy.”

  “Forgive me, Cardinal…”

  “The king would have the question of the invalidity of his marriage resolved to clear his conscience, much as the king’s own sister Queen Margaret of Scotland did only two months ago. No, gentlemen. He has entrusted us to make certain. To that end we shall convene a solemn court.”

  “I do not understand,” said Gardiner. “This is Rome’s jurisdiction. Bulls need to be prepared.”

  “We will try it in England. I am the papal legate. His majesty expects his bishops to agree to the invalidity of the marriage. Presently we will call for an inquisitio ex officio.”

  “In secret?” cried Fox.

  Wolsey turned to him, and though I could only see his broad silhouette, he seemed to measure the man a long time. Wolsey’s perusals had an effect rather like the Gorgon of turning the offender into stone. “It cannot remain so if it is shouted to the rooftops,” he cautioned.

  “Forgive me, Your Eminence, but the pope will never agree to this subterfuge. An official examination in secret, without—I presume—the queen’s knowledge…”

  “The king’s conscience will not allow him to continue in this sham of a marriage. He believes—as do I—that this is why God does not give him sons. He needs a son. England needs a son. I shall serve my king,” said Wolsey.

  “As you serve us,” added Cromwell to Fox.

  They all fell silent, until Wolsey rubbed his hands toward the brazier. Its shadows resembled hellish, flying creatures winging up the tent walls. “At any rate, the pope has troubles now of his own. It is said the Emperor’s troops are in the foothills, breathing down Rome’s neck. Since he is otherwise occupied, I think he would expect his legate to do the preliminary work.”

  “I need not tell you, gentlemen,” said Cromwell to the assembled, “that secrecy and discretion need be utmost.”

  Fox and Gardiner agreed with murmurs, nods, and bows to their superiors. Sensing their meeting at an end, I stepped back into the shadows, pressing myself as close as I might to the tent poles. They passed through to the outer tents, and none saw me, praise God.

  I breathed again. I could empathize with the king, for I, too, lacked a son as heir, and all the court agreed the king needed a son. But a sovereign, anointed by God, putting aside his own lawful wife to do so…

  It chilled my bones. Cromwell and Wolsey seemed to put forth that the queen was not the king’s lawful wife, that some error took place. But she had avowed that her previous marriage to Prince Arthur was never consummated, and the king himself said as much once he wed Queen Catherine, swearing she was a virgin. Was he now to call himself false? Did he think we forgot this bit of news? All knew that the pope at the time of the marriage offered a dispensation to marry to alleviate any controversy, because she had been the wife of his brother.

  All the implications spun in whirlpools in my head. If he declared his marriage to her invalid, then Princess Mary would most certainly have to be declared a bastard, for she would be a threat to any future heirs to come from a new marriage, which was to be with that Boleyn woman, the Queen’s own lady.

  The consequence of my pining for my beloved seemed now to pale against this new intrigue at court. As soon as I could, I would set off for Caverswall. It was imperative I discuss these tidings with Father and plan accordingly. Suddenly, I was glad I was a Giffard.

  ISABELLA LAUNDER

  SUMMER, 1531

  Blackladies

  XIX

  Lo, the hand of the Lord is not too short to save,

  nor his ear too dull to hear.

  –Isaiah 59:1

  We spent much time of late in the Divine Office, praying for the soul of England. So much had happened at court in the last few years, that we worried over all the tidings. We begged news from the bishop when he came, but his anxious scowl only vexed us more.

  It was never spoken aloud, but I could tell it in the eyes of my sisters that they wished for Thomas Giffard to come again and tell us honestly what was transpiring, for we were like a boat adrift at sea with no view of land and no oars to propel us.

  It was three years since I cast eyes upon Thomas Giffard, and I knew I was the better for it. Each month he sent me letters. I should not have opened any of them, but each time they arrived, I laid them upon my desk, looking at their waxen seal, until finding the courage to tear them open. I devoured his careful script, his discreetly chosen words. I longed to keep them, but knew the foolishness of such a thing, and cast them into the fire instead.

  Many months had now passed since I received a missive from him. Perhaps he had given up at last.

  Despite the terrible talk of divorce at court, we in our little world of Blackladies persisted on our course. Dame Alice became a very industrious nun and my right arm, while Cristabell remained indifferent to my ministering, though I was gratified that she continued to stay with us. Many times I feared I would awaken and she would be gone, but always there she was.

  I still grieved at the passing—three years ago now—of that wise and eloquent nun Dame Elizabeth. A year passed before we acquired her replacement from Farewell Priory, a suppressed convent whose scattered flock found themselves all over England. Dame Felicia Bagshawe came to us with a strong will and ideas she’d grown accustomed to in a larger house. At first she was appalled at our poverty, at sharing a bed with another, at our diet, but to this, too, she became—after a fashion—accustomed.

  “Lackaday, Lady Prioress!” trumpeted Dame Felicia, as she was wont to do with her strident and powerful voice. It seemed inappropriate to the small size of the chapel, but she was neverthe
less compelled by her nature to be at all times at the top of her voice. “We suffocate under our ignorance! We should write to the bishop to discover the truth of what is transpiring at court, so that our prayers may better suit the circumstances.” She screwed her tiny and nearly transparent brows into her gray eyes, wrinkling her long, straight nose.

  “Is it necessary to know all when we only ask that God’s will be done?” offered Dame Alice.

  “I have found,” Dame Felicia said, “that often we must encourage the Almighty in the direction of His most powerful will, else His will might put us in worse stead.”

  “Then that, too, is His will,” said Alice.

  “Sisters,” I reminded softly. “We are in chapel. This is not Parliament where we quibble about this law or that. We are supposed to be in prayer for our good queen. We should pray for her continued strength to endure, to persevere against all the odds. Whatever is to become of her should Cranmer and Cromwell prevail against her?”

  “‘Nan Bullen the mischievous whore,’” quoth Felicia, though I was shocked by her blunt speech in such a place. “That is what they are saying in the village. They are also saying she will be queen.”

  Alice shook her head, her veil shuddering. “How can this be? The queen is the king’s lawful wife. How can he say otherwise when he knows right well? Does he not fear the wrath of God?”

  Felicia drew herself up. “He deposes those who stand in his way, even if they represent the Church. Look at Wolsey. Deposed, imprisoned, under sentence of death for treason, and now dead before he could meet the headsman. And what was he accused of: praemunire. Simply by exercising his authority given to him by the pope, he stood under the king’s judgment. Though now he will get his just judgment, to be sure.”

  “By that logic,” said Alice, “any papal envoy may be charged with questioning the king’s authority.”

  “Sisters!” I rose, leveling my glare at all of them, even the silent Cristabell. “We are in chapel! I pray you, work on the Divine Office, for in this we do for the world. These matters at court do not affect us. We will continue our work here and do what we have always done. Now, sisters, let us to it.”