All will be well, thought Katharine. I am happy because I have learned to take life comfortably as it comes along; I no longer fight, I accept. Perhaps that is the lesson of life.
She did not greatly care. She busied herself with the preparations for her confinement.
She had never felt so calm and confident.
THAT SEPTEMBER the Cardinal’s hat arrived from Rome.
This, Wolsey assured himself, was the greatest moment of his life so far; but he was convinced that it was nothing compared with what was to come.
He determined that the country and the Court should be aware of his rising greatness; they should not be allowed to think that the arrival of a Cardinal’s hat was an everyday affair.
He was a little angry with the Pope for sending an ordinary messenger, and he immediately sent word that he was to be detained as soon after disembarking as possible.
He announced to the City that a great procession was about to take place, and the people, who liked nothing so much as the pageantry provided by the Court and were only content with their colorless lives because of it, turned out in their thousands.
Wolsey knew that Mistress Wynter and his children would be watching; and the thought added to his pleasure.
The Pope’s messenger was persuaded to discard his simple raiment in exchange for one of fine silk; this he was happy to do, for the clothes were his reward for taking part in the ceremony.
Then he rode towards London, and was met at Blackheath by a great and vividly colored procession made up of the members of the Cardinal’s household. There they were, his higher servants and his lower servants, all aping their master, all giving themselves airs and strutting in a manner which implied: “We are the servants of the great Cardinal and therefore far above the servants of every nobleman in the land. Only the King’s servants are our equals, and we wish the world to know it.”
So through the City the hat was borne so that all might see it and marvel at it.
“It is being taken to the great Cardinal,” said the citizens, “who is not only beloved by the people but by the Pope.”
In his apartments at the Palace of Westminster Wolsey waited to receive the hat.
Taking it reverently in his hands he placed it in state upon a table on which tapers glowed.
He then declared that this was in honor of England and he would have all Englishmen under the King pay homage to the hat. None should consider himself too important to come forward and pay his homage in deep obeisance.
There was a murmuring among the Dukes and Earls of the realm; but Wolsey was creeping higher and higher in the King’s favor, for Henry believed that he could not do without him if he were to pursue his life of pleasure. It gave him great content, when he hunted through the day, to think of friend Thomas grappling with state affairs. He believed in this man, who had come to his present position from humble beginnings. He had proved his genius.
Therefore Wolsey insisted that all those disgruntled noblemen—chief among whom was the Duke of Buckingham—should pay homage to his hat; and one by one they succumbed; so it was that Wolsey acquired at that time not only a Cardinal’s hat but the hatred and envy of almost every ambitious man in the land.
What did he care! If Katharine believed this was her year, Thomas Wolsey knew it was his.
Before the year was out he could count his gains. Cardinal Wolsey, papal legate, Archbishop of York and Lord Chancellor of England, Prime Minister of State. Under the King he was the richest man in England, and many believed that his wealth might even be greater than Henry’s. In his hands was the disposal of all ecclesiastical benefices; he held priories and bishoprics, among which were the rich ones of York and Durham, Bath and Hereford; he also held the Abbeys of St. Albans and Lincoln.
He had come as far as he could in this country; but he did not believe that was the end. His eyes were firmly fixed on Rome.
The Death of Ferdinand
FERDINAND WAS OFTEN THINKING OF HIS DAUGHTER IN England. Indeed lately he had begun to ponder on the past, a habit he had never indulged in before. This may have been due to the fact that his health was rapidly declining. His limbs were swollen with dropsy, and, although he longed to rest them, he found it difficult to breathe within closed walls because of the distressing condition of his heart.
There were times when he had to battle for his breath, and then would come these sessions of reminiscence. His conscience did not trouble him. He had been a fighter all his life and he knew that the only way he could have preserved what he had, was to have fought and schemed for it.
He had heard an alarming rumor that Henry of England believed his wife to be incapable of bearing healthy children because not one of them so far had lived. Ferdinand knew the significance behind such rumors.
But Catalina is strong, he told himself. She is her mother’s daughter. She will know how to hold her place.
It was not for him to worry about his daughter; his great concern was to keep the breath in his body.
There was one place where he felt more comfortable, and that was out of doors. The closeness of cities was intolerable to him, for the air seemed to choke him. He would not admit that he was old; he dared not admit it. If he did he would have young Charles closing in on him, eager to snatch the crown.
He could feel angry about young Charles. The boy did not know Spain, and did not even speak Spanish; he was Fleming from the top of his flaxen head to the toes of those—if he could believe reports—ungainly feet. He lacked the dignity of the Spaniard.
“If I could only put his brother Ferdinand in his place, how willingly would I do so.” Ferdinand thought lovingly of his grandson who bore the same name as himself, and who had been as the son he had longed for. He had had the boy educated in the manner of a Spanish grandee, he himself supervising that education; he loved young Ferdinand.
His eyes glinted. Why should he not give his possessions to Ferdinand?
He laughed to picture the disapproving face of Ximenes who would remind him of his duty and that Charles was the heir, the elder of mad Juana’s sons. Ximenes would rigidly adhere to his duty. Or would he? He had a great affection for young Ferdinand also.
But I have many years left to me, he assured himself, refusing to think of death. It was true he was nearly sixty-four years old—a good age—but his father had been long-lived and, but for this dropsy and the accursed difficulty in breathing, he would not feel his age. He had a young wife, and he still endeavored to persuade her that he was young, yet he was beginning to wonder if the continual use of aphrodisiacs did not aggravate his condition.
As he sat brooding thus he was joined by the Duke of Alva who looked at him keenly and said: “Your Highness yearns for the fresh air of the country. Come to my place near Placencia. There are stags in plenty and good hunting.”
Ferdinand felt young at the thought of the hunt.
“Let us leave this very day,” he said.
When they came into the country he took deep breaths of the December air. Ah, he thought, this suits me well. I am a young man again in the country. He looked at Germaine who rode beside him. She was so fresh and youthful that it did him good to see her; yet his thoughts strayed momentarily to his wife Isabella who had been a year older than he was, and he felt a sudden desire to be back in those old days when he and Isabella had fought for a kingdom, and at times for supremacy over each other.
As usual the fresh air was beneficial and he found that if the day’s hunting was not too long, he could enjoy it. Alva, concerned for his health, made sure that the hunt finished when the King showed signs of fatigue, and Ferdinand began to feel better.