Written by that secretary who is, and forever will be, your loyal and most assured servant. H.R.
“What a beautiful letter,” said my stepmother. “How he loves you!
Who would have thought that a King could care so much!” I put out my hand; she took it and kissed it. “Thank you,” I said, “for all you have done for me.” “My dearest child,” she replied, “it has given me great joy to be of service. As for what I have done, you must repay me by getting well. I long to see you on your feet again.”
My stepmother had kept disturbing news from me, and I was dismayed to hear that my brother had taken the sickness—so had my father. They had both recovered before I was told. Mary's husband, Will Carey, had not been so fortunate. Mary was now a widow.
She came to Hever in some distress, not knowing where else she could go.
My stepmother welcomed Mary but she clearly had not the same affection for her as she had for me. I think she had been greatly shocked by Mary's behavior in France. To have been sent home because of her immoral conduct was something which could not be easily forgotten; and then she had blithely entered into a relationship with the King, which was quite different from mine. Until now her misfortunes had sat lightly on her, but this was a bitter blow, because she had lost not only her husband, of whom she was quite fond, but her means of sustenance as well. Will Carey had been ineffectual but he had—owing to his complaisant attitude to his wife's affair with the King—been awarded certain grants which had given him a fair, if not affluent, income on which he and his family could live in comfort. He had been Constable of Plashy Castle and Steward of the Duchy of Lancaster—both very desirable posts. On his death, of course, there had been no lack of people clamoring to take them up, and the King had bestowed them.
This was to be expected, but what of Mary? She was left penniless.
“I do not know how I shall live,” she told me.
“Have you never saved anything?” I asked.
She shook her head.
“But all the time you were at Court …”
“I never asked for anything. Clothes I had, which the King's treasury paid for… but there was nothing else. And clothes wear out.”
“What do you propose to do?”
“I thought you could help?”
I raised my eyebrows.
“If the King would listen to anyone it would be to you.”
I felt ashamed that Mary should have been left like this. Of course it was her own fault. She had been feckless—or perhaps I should say over-generous. I felt a shiver of alarm. She had been his mistress—not just casually but over a long period. And here she was… cast off, penniless. What a lesson! That should never happen to me.
I said: “I will speak to the King.”
I wrote to him of her plight.
His reply was another of those love letters which he sent to me while I was absent from him. I had a number of them, all professing undying devotion. There was hardly a mention of Mary except that I should speak to my father, telling him that it was the King's wish that he should look after his daughter. Of course, it was what my father should do, and it angered me that he should need the King's order to do it.
When I pondered on the matter, it occurred to me that Henry had shown no interest or compassion to one who must have been very close to him at one time. It should have been a lesson to me, but I was heedless of lessons in those days. Looking back, I can see many that I failed to learn.
I knew that Henry hated any mention of Mary. She troubled his conscience not because of his affair with her and her present need but because he feared her relationship to me might prove a stumbling block in our union.
Henry was single-minded; he had no thought to spare for a discarded mistress who had fallen on evil times.
The tragic summer dragged on.
Cardinal Campeggio had left Rome and was on his way. He had been on his way for weeks. He was so old, so full of gout, that traveling was painful to him. He would travel for a day and rest for two in order to regain his strength.
At home in Hever, I fumed. Sometimes I despaired. I believed that the Pope had decided that the matter should never be settled and that, terrified of the Emperor as he was, he was determined to drag it out— hoping perhaps that Henry would grow tired of me. Perhaps that thought was in my mind too. Mary's affair had not helped to appease it. But I would get those letters of his, pulsating with his desire for me—and my optimism would return. I would beat them all—Katharine, Wolsey, Campeggio…every one of them.
My relationship with Wolsey would always be uneasy; no matter how we displayed our new friendship, for the pleasure of the King, the animosity was never far below the surface. I knew that he regarded me as an upstart. Is it not upstarts who are most antagonistic to other upstarts? At least I had not been born in a butcher's shop. Wolsey respected me now, but as a formidable enemy. Before, I had been a foolish girl. That was the difference.
Wolsey could see that another—as he would say—had the King's ear. Before my coming, Wolsey had been closer to the King than anyone. The King had, from the first, seen Wolsey's tremendous capabilities and moreover had a deep affection for him. Wolsey had carried him through many a difficult situation, but this matter of the divorce was defeating him. He had been thrust into an almost untenable position. He was a Cardinal who owed allegiance to the Pope, and it was almost impossible to serve two masters. Many powerful forces were against him. Before, his own power had been so great that he could withstand his enemies; now they were crowding around him, seeing the champion weakening, waiting for the moment to give him the coup de grâce.
I was not sorry for him. Mine was not a forgiving nature. I often thought of what my life might have been: the peace of it in Alnwick Castle with my husband who would love me devotedly all our lives, our children sturdily growing up in the clear northern air to be strong men and women. The Northumberlands were the kings of the North. I should have been a queen in a kingdom more congenial to me than that of the Court.
Wolsey had prevented that. No, it was the King, who had commanded it because all those years ago I had had a special attraction for him. But why had he let me go for so long? All that time he had been sporting with my sister Mary who now, poor girl, was cast aside and was an embarrassment to him. He simply did not want to know of her; he wanted to forget she had ever existed.
Was that the first warning sign? Perhaps my guardian angel was showing me a signpost on the dangerous road along which I was traveling. But I did not see that then and it was only afterward that these thoughts came to me.
If only I had had the wisdom to take heed!
Mary stayed at Hever. My father would of course have to provide for her, which he would have done, I suppose, though grudgingly. But now he must do it with a fair grace since the King commanded it.
Perhaps I wasted sympathy on Mary. As soon as she knew that she would be able to live in some comfort, she cast off her dejected looks and was almost her old self. Misfortune sat lightly on her.
My stepmother wanted me to be quite well before I returned to Court. I was nothing loath to remain at Hever during this time. It was becoming increasingly difficult to hold off Henry. He was impatient. He was not going to go on being content with a few caresses. All the time he was urging me to greater intimacy. Instinct told me I must hold back. If I submitted, where would be the incentive to fight for this divorce when he could have what he wanted without? It was a very difficult position for me. I often wondered whether I dared hold out, whether his lack of satisfaction might indeed curb his passion. On the other hand, if I submitted, would he decide to drop this contentious matter of the divorce which so many people seemed determined to prevent?