I had one or two faithful friends. There was my cousin Madge Shelton, my brother, Mary Wyatt, my dear stepmother, who was torn between pride and fear. There were plenty to flutter round me: Norris, Bryan, Brereton, Weston. They were all in love with me, or professed to be. I think the King's desire for me must have given me a special aura.
However, in spite of these people, I felt alone that Christmas.
The Queen, of course, could not be expected to receive me, so I had my own apartments at Greenwich, and Henry had seen that they were very splendid. In fact they had every aspect of royalty. At times it seemed as though I were already the Queen.
I was determined to hide my apprehension, and whatever the feelings against me, it was in my apartments that the lively and witty courtiers assembled; most people wanted to be there, including the King. I am sure Katharine's domain must have been very somber compared with mine. But, of course, for the traditional Christmas ceremonies, Henry must be with her, for instance at the church services and the state banquet when people crowded into the hall and helped themselves from the tables in accordance with custom. They would expect to see the Queen with the King, not with the Concubine—as they called me.
But it was gratifying that, whenever he could, he escaped to my quarters, and there we danced and sang and enjoyed all the entertainments which I and my friends had devised.
That was a great success but I had a heavy heart at these festivities. There is nothing so frustrating as to have one's hopes rise only to be dashed down again and again after months of planning and joyful anticipation, and to realize that there had been no move from the position one was in this time last year.
I was growing more and more suspicious of Wolsey. I began to believe he was in collusion with Campeggio and received his instructions from the Pope no less than the Italian did. Of course, his first obedience was to the Pope, but Henry was too bemused to see this.
During my stays in the country I felt time weighing heavily, and in order to pass it pleasantly I was studying the new religion which was beginning to take a hold on people. Ever since Martin Luther had pinned his theses on that church door in Wittenberg, something had been stirring.
I found that very exciting. I was drawn to the new ideas. I liked what I read. Perhaps it was because I felt a certain antipathy to the Pope that I was fascinated by the idea of curbing his power. The sale of indulgences, which had been Martin Luther's first complaint, was definitely wrong. How could forgiveness be bought in Heaven by giving money to a priest?
Since the King had written his book and become Defender of the Faith, he had been fierce against heretics. He had no fondness for Martin Luther. He had been ready to adhere to the Church of Rome, but I was not sure what his feelings would be now that the Pope was hesitating so long about giving him what he wanted.
Heretics were imprisoned. One sometimes saw them on their way to penance, carrying a faggot—though there was not enough fierce feeling against them to burn them at the stake. On the whole, we English are not a fanatical people. When I dwell on the horrors of the Inquisition in Spain, I feel a sense of pride because we never had it in England—apart from that one occasion when we had been obliged to in the case of the Templars. In almost every other country it had flourished—except ours. I think that says something for our national character. We are inclined to use religion as a crutch to help us along when we need it, not, as particularly is the case in Spain, to be dominated by it. I often marvel how people who claim to have special piety and virtue could calmly look on at the torture of others because they did not share the same faith. I preferred to be a little less religious if this helped me to regard others with tolerance. Moreover, if they had ideas, I wanted to hear them. I would not close my mind and shout: Heretic. For these reasons it seemed to me that our country was a good breeding ground for the new religion.
A man called William Tyndale had written a book which he had entitled The Obedience of a Christian Man and How Christ's Rulers Ought to Govern. I was very interested in this man because he was one of Luther's followers. Most of his time was spent translating. He had lived in England for a while, where he was translating the Bible, and he had gathered together a group of friends who were interested in Luther's doctrines, but after a while he left the country to go to Wittenberg. He had also written Parable of the Wicked Mammon which I had read. It was not easy to get these books, for they were forbidden entry into the country, and the King, at Wolsey's suggestion, had had a strict watch kept at sea-ports to prevent their being smuggled in.
Of course copies did get through and that was how this one had come into my possession. I found it quite fascinating.
I was reading The Obedience of a Christian Man one day when I was called away and I carelessly left the book lying on the window seat.
I forgot about it for several days. Then I asked one of my attendants, Mistress Gaynsford, a young and very pretty girl who was being pursued by a certain George Zouch, one of the gentlemen of the household, if she had seen it.
She blushed hotly and said she had.
“Come,” I said, “where is the book? Bring it to me.”
She stammered that she had been glancing through it when someone had come up on her and, in fun, snatched it away.
“Well, where is it now?”
“He…hekept it…toteaseme.”
“Was it George Zouch?”
She admitted it was.
“Well then, go to George Zouch and tell him I want my book and he is to return it at once.”
It was not as simple as that. Mistress Gaynsford came back without the book, and when I asked where it was, she said that George Zouch wished to speak to me.
He was clearly very embarrassed. “I took the book to tease Mistress Gaynsford,” he said, “and I was just about to go on duty in the King's chapel, and during the service I glanced into it, and to tell the truth I became so absorbed that I was reading it when the service was over. The Dean saw me and wanted to know what I was reading.”
“Yes…yes… Where is the book?”
“He…he took it from me. He was displeased. He wanted to know how I had come by it. I had to tell him that I had it from Mistress Gaynsford and that it was your book.”
“Why did he not give it back to you then?”
“He… said…he was going to take it to a higher authority. He… he mentioned the Cardinal.”
I confess I was dismayed. The book was forbidden. It had been smuggled into the country. There was a penalty for possessing it. It had been written in direct defiance of the Church.
So Wolsey had my book! I knew what he would do. He would take it to the King. He was trying to brand me as a heretic. Did he want to see me in prison? Walking barefooted in humiliation, carrying a faggot?
So it had come to a conflict between us. I was furious. I said to Zouch, who, poor young man, was in a state of abject terror at what he had done: “This will be the dearest book that either the Dean or the Cardinal took away.”
I thought it best to go to Henry, if possible before Wolsey reached him.
The Cardinal had just left him when I arrived, and Henry had the book in his hands.
I went to him and knelt, taking his hand. There was puzzlement in his face, but he was very soft and tender seeing me thus.
“Is it the book?” he said.
“You must understand.”
“Come, darling,” he said, taking my hands and helping me to rise. He looked into my face and added: “Wolsey has brought me this.”
I said: “It behooves those who love you to know what is going on.”