He wrote to Kate as often as his limited leisure permitted, and she kept him regularly informed as to what was happening at home. She was staying at Hampton Court with his children, and assured him they were all, thanks be to God, in good health. Later, he was alarmed to read that there was plague in London, but Kate had taken the children away on progress, and had decreed that no one who had been in contact with the pest was to venture anywhere near anyone from the court, on pain of her indignation, unless they wished to be punished at her pleasure. But the sickness soon abated, and she was able to return to Greenwich in August. That was one less worry for Harry.

  Boulogne fell on 14 September, and he entered the battered town in triumph, glorying in the moment. But the campaigning season was over, and there could be no more advances made this year. Reluctantly, he returned to England, to be greeted by joyful celebrations and the loving arms of his wife. Reveling in the adulation and the glory, he was confident that this was just the beginning and that he would go on to win France itself. It was happening at last!

  1545

  To mark the passing of the Act of Succession, Harry had commissioned a great painting of himself and his heirs. On a bright March day he stood admiring it as it hung in his magnificent presence chamber at Whitehall, where he had sat for it. It was truly masterful, and he himself was at its center, enthroned. The artist had rendered skilfully the richly decorated ceiling, the wall paneling, the pillars embellished with antique grotesque work, and the embroidered cloth of estate. But it was the figures that drew the eye. Prince Edward stood at Harry’s knee, while to the right, on a lesser chair of estate, was Jane, who had given him his heir. It was fitting that it was she who appeared in the picture, rather than Kate, and Kate, sweet soul that she was, had made no objection. To either side, beyond the pillars representing legitimacy, stood Mary and Elizabeth.

  Harry smiled to himself, well pleased, and stumped off to his bedchamber to read some dispatches. Sitting by the fireside, he found himself feeling feverish, and before long he was burning up so alarmingly that he had to summon his physicians. They urged him to go to bed and anxiously examined his leg, which was beginning to throb. Helplessly, he resigned himself to another bout of agony.

  He could not be seen to be ill or losing his grasp, not with the vultures on the Council ready to tear each other apart, given the chance. He remained behind closed doors and commanded his councillors and servants not to make public the true state of his health.

  “There’s a lot of speculation,” Will reported, serious for once. “Friend Gardiner fears you will not live until my lord Prince comes to man’s estate.”

  For once, Harry did not fly into a fury over his death being discussed, treason though it was even to imagine it. He shared Gardiner’s fears. He had inadvertently caught a reflection of himself in a window by candlelight and been horrified to see an old man with a bloated face in a skullcap and bonnet. Time had lain its hand on him. The grave beckoned.

  But he must live until Edward was of age. He could not leave his son, in his tender years, to the mercy of the wolves who bayed for each other’s blood.

  He made an effort. He had them dress him and emerged, limping badly, into the court. Chapuys had been waiting for an audience, so Harry saw him that morning, and was disconcerted to see his old sparring partner carried in in a chair because of a gouty leg. Yet Chapuys was regarding him with concern.

  “I am sad to see your Majesty so broken down,” he commiserated. “I too have been slightly unwell. It is depressing at our age.”

  Harry thought Chapuys looked as broken down as he was.

  “I have had a fever,” he admitted. “By St. George, I felt ten times better in France than I have since my return.” Suddenly, his head was swimming. “To be plain, I am not feeling well enough to continue with this audience, Eustache. I crave your indulgence—and your discretion.”

  Chapuys bowed his head. “You can rely on me, Sir.” Harry nodded as he summoned the ambassador’s bearers back and watched him being carried out.

  He was in no doubt that the truth about his health would be all over Christendom in half an hour.

  He dragged himself back to his chamber, and there he stayed for days, locked in melancholy, unresponsive even to Will’s witty jests. He dressed only to attend Mass, and occasionally roused himself to play cards with Hertford or Lisle. All the time, he was trying to come to terms with the dismal fact that he was doomed to be an invalid for the rest of his life—a bitter prospect for a king who had once been such an active and renowned sportsman.

  “Of all losses,” he lamented to Will, “time is the most irrecuperable, for it can never be redeemed by money or prayers.” He was feeling despondent and could not rise above it. Even reading was difficult, for his eyes kept blurring, and Kate urged that he order himself some new gazings from Germany. The frames were made of gold or silver and clipped onto the nose; the lenses, cut from rock crystal, came from specialists in Venice and were most effective. Yet being obliged to use them only darkened his mood. Maddened by inactivity and pain, he was more irascible than usual, aware that he was often of one mind in the morning and of quite another after dinner. Nothing pleased him, and his attendants approached him warily, obviously terrified of offending him or irritating him further.

  In the end, of course, his iron will asserted itself. He could not sit idle forever; it was not in his nature. He forced himself to carry on, heaving himself onto his horse and riding out to the hunt, or with his hawk on his wrist, trying to cover as many miles as he used to do before this damn leg laid him low. He played bowls as often as he was able and moved from house to house with restless frequency. The only people he felt he could confide in were Will, Dr. Butts, and Cranmer. Not Kate, for he wished to spare her worry. She was precious to him and must be protected.

  Chapter 37

  1545

  One evening in spring, Kate joined Harry in his library. He left Gardiner and his clerks to their scribbling at the desks in the corner, and kissed her hand in welcome.

  “I trust I find your Grace better today,” she inquired.

  “Worse, if anything, Madam,” he said peevishly. “I have received reports of new heresies and that doesn’t help.” He saw Gardiner glance up briefly, then caught Kate looking coldly upon him. She did not like Gardiner.

  “You should not be bothered with such things when you are unwell,” she said. “And, if others took a more tolerant view of reform, there would be no need for them.” Her words were clearly meant for Gardiner’s ears.

  “And what do you mean by a more tolerant view, Madam?” Harry asked.

  “Ease the restrictions on reading the Bible. Let each man—and woman—follow their conscience…Be more tolerant!”

  “By God, Madam, we’d have religious anarchy—every man with his own opinion, and few qualified even to have one. No, it won’t do. Now, Kate, forget about that. I wanted to show you this.” He opened a large book of architectural drawings. “I fancy building a palace in the classical style.”

  She took the book. “These are from Italy?”

  “That is Bramante’s Tempietto in Rome. And that is the Palazzo Farnese. What a wonder it would be to have buildings like that in England.”

  “We don’t want newfangled foreign buildings in England!” piped up Somers, who had been lurking behind Harry’s chair. “What’s wrong with good, honest oak and brick?”

  Harry cuffed him. “Go away!” he ordered, and Somers slunk off into a corner, where he picked up a book and pretended to read it, upside down.

  Smothering giggles, Kate turned to Harry. “Will you build anew or alter an existing palace?” But he was testy with her, angry at her presuming to lecture him on his religious policies.

  “I am tired,” he said. “Farewell, sweetheart. I would rest now.” He closed his eyes, pointedly. When he opened them, she was gone.

  But Gardiner was standing there, all bristling concern.

  “Your Grace, I could not help overhearing what the Queen said.”

  Harry scowled. “A good hearing it is when women become such clerks, and much to my comfort in my old age to be taught by my wife!”

  Gardiner was all sympathy. “I marvel that the Queen should so far forget herself as to argue with your Majesty or dispute your learned judgment in matters of religion, which excels that not only of the princes of our age, but also of doctors of divinity. It is an unseemly thing for any of your Majesty’s subjects to reason and argue with you so malapertly, and grievous to me to hear it.”

  Harry nodded, feeling increasingly ill done by.

  Gardiner was in full flight. “It is dangerous and perilous for a prince to suffer such insolent words at a subject’s hands. If they are bold to contradict their sovereign with words, they might well try to thwart him in deeds. And, regrettably, your Grace, I have reason to believe that the religion the Queen so stiffly maintains does not only wish to overthrow the government of princes, but also teaches that all things ought to be in common.”

  “What religion?” Harry barked, astounded. “The Queen is as devout as I am!”

  “Alas, if I am not mistaken, she has embraced the Protestant heresy. I have long suspected it, and there are indications and ominous signs that I am right.”

  “I do not believe it,” Harry declared, but already he was casting back in his mind for any hint or clue that would support Gardiner’s allegation. And then he remembered something Kate had written in one of the letters she had sent when he was in Boulogne. It had struck him as odd at the time, but he had dismissed it as nothing, believing her sound in her beliefs. She had committed him to God, in the hope that he would long prosper on earth and enjoy the kingdom of the elect in Heaven.

  The elect. That was the word that had troubled him. It called to mind the heresies of the Swiss reformer John Calvin, who believed in predestination, and that God had chosen His elect before He created the world, and that they were the only souls who would attain Heaven. It was an extreme Protestant view.

  His heart contracted. Surely Kate, his beloved Kate, could not be a heretic? No, no, he could not deal with another disgraced wife—or bear the thought of her losing her hopes of Heaven. Nor could he contemplate her suffering the punishment for heresy. Having two wives beheaded had been bad enough, but burning…

  He had to know the truth.

  “Such pernicious beliefs,” Gardiner was saying, “are so odious, and for princes so perilous, that I make bold to say that the greatest subject in this land, speaking those words that she did speak, and defending those arguments, would deserve death.”

  “My lord Bishop, we must determine the truth of this matter,” Harry said, clutching Gardiner’s sleeve. “I command you to draw up a warrant to have the Queen arrested and questioned.”

  Gardiner looked just like a cat that had a mouse cornered, and Harry was certain he was out to destroy Kate. It was time he and his fellow zealots were taught a lesson, as surely his accusations would be proved nonsense. And, in the process, his own mind would be put at rest. And Kate would be warned of the peril in which she stood.

  * * *

  —

  A day or so later, with no word from Gardiner (whom he assumed was gathering his proofs, whatever they might be), Harry summoned Kate to his chamber, intending to test her himself.

  “I was in no fit state to listen to you before, sweetheart, so now, I pray you, speak your mind on religion,” he invited. They were quite alone. Even Will was absent.

  She launched straight in. “You have worked marvels, Harry, but there are those who feel you would be a Papist without the Pope. It is as if you have put a stay on reform, and now there is this persecution. People should come to Christ through love, not fear.”

  “But if they fall into heresy, they will not come to Him at all,” he said gently.

  “Yet where is the line between reform and heresy?” she asked. “How are we to know who is right?”

  “Through reading the Scriptures, prayer, and a good grounding in theology,” he said.

  “But both Catholics and Protestants could say that.”

  “Kate, we are talking about salvation. Tell me, do you believe that it is predestined?”

  “No,” she said, emphatically enough. “I believe we can achieve it through our faith in Christ.”

  “Is that all?” He watched her closely. “Do we not need to do good works in this world to attain salvation?”

  “Of course we should.”

  He nodded, not wholly satisfied, but fully resolved, this time, to spare the woman he loved, even if she was guilty.

  * * *

  —

  That evening, having sat brooding for hours, he sent for Dr. Wendy, who had been one of his physicians for the past five years, and had a bedside manner that invited confidences.

  “I need to unburden myself to you,” he confided. “I am worried that the Queen is lapsing into heresy. She has become a doctress, always dictating to me what I should do, and I can no longer put up with it, if only for her own good, for I know that her enemies are working against her. Wendy, I charge you, on peril of your life, not to utter this to any creature living, but I will not give way to their demands. Her Grace is to be arrested, but my intention is only to have her questioned, for I expect her to clear herself. If she does not, I will intervene and stop the examination, for I intend her no harm. I wish only to bring home to her the danger she is risking.”

  Wendy was thoughtful. “Could your Grace not just have warned off her enemies?”

  “I need to be sure of my Queen. And when I am, those who are trying to destroy her shall feel my displeasure.”

  * * *

  —

  Harry was dozing in his chair when he was suddenly roused by a dreadful shrieking somewhere outside his open window. On and on the wailing went. Someone—a woman—was in terrible distress. Rubbing his eyes, he struggled to his feet, hobbled to the open casement and leaned out, then realized that it was coming from Kate’s apartments. By God, it was Kate herself, he was sure of it.

  Had Gardiner sent guards to arrest her? No, he would have warned Harry first. So what was wrong with her? Had she had some terrible accident?

  He could barely stand, let alone walk, as his leg was bad today, so he sent Dr. Chamber and Dr. Butts to discover what was amiss.

  Presently all went quiet, and Harry wondered what was happening. Was Kate all right now? Then the screaming began again. You would have thought she was being murdered.

  He could bear it no longer. Summoning two of his Gentlemen Pensioners, he had them support him as he made his way to her chamber.

  “Kate! Kate!” he gasped, out of breath. “Help me to that chair.” The two men heaved his bulk into it.

  Kneeling on the carpet, with Dr. Wendy crouched beside her and the other doctors looking on helplessly, Kate stared at him through her tears, her face ravaged, her hood askew.

  “Kate, what ails you?” he asked. “I could hear you in my lodgings. I was worried for you.”

  “Oh, Sir.” She drew herself up and clasped his hands as if they were a lifeline. “I fear your Majesty is displeased with me and has utterly forsaken me.” Tears streamed down her cheeks.

  “And why do you think that?” He kept his voice gentle.

  Her hands trembling, she picked up a document from the floor and gave it to him. It was the warrant for her arrest. He stared at it.

  “How did you get this?”

  “I found it in the gallery, your Grace,” Dr. Wendy said. “I thought one of her Grace’s people had dropped it.”

  “The fools!” Harry barked, without thinking. “I did not mean it to go this far. I just wanted to have my doubts resolved. Kate, tell me truly: are you a heretic?”

  She looked at him, horrified. “No, Sir,” she said firmly.

  His eyes searched her face for any sign that she was lying, and found none. “Darling, calm yourself. Nothing bad is going to happen to you. Be at ease now. Help me up, sirs!”

  The two Gentlemen Pensioners sprang to attention.

  “Good night, darling,” Harry said, as he limped to the door, leaning heavily on them. “Be at peace. We will talk at length tomorrow.”

  “Good night, Sir,” Kate sobbed, still on her knees.

  * * *

  —

  The next morning, she arrived unannounced in Harry’s bedchamber as he was chatting with his gentlemen.

  “Madam!” he greeted her. “This is a pleasant surprise. Do be seated.” Denny hastily vacated the other chair by the fire and Kate took it. She had dressed becomingly, and Harry’s eyes fixed appreciatively on her low bodice and the cleft between her breasts. He was not so old and decrepit that he could not appreciate a woman’s charms.

  But that must wait until later. “So, Madam, have you come to talk about religion again?” he challenged sternly. “Are you going to resolve my doubts? For you have said things to me that are capable of more than one interpretation.”

  “Sir, I did not intend for you to take my ignorant utterances that way!” she cried. “Your Majesty knows as well as I do what great imperfection and weakness God allotted to us women, and that we are ordained to be inferior and subject to man as our head, from which head all our direction ought to proceed; and that, when God made man in His own likeness, with more special gifts of perfection, He made woman of man, by whom she is to be governed, commanded, and directed. Her womanly weakness and natural imperfection ought to be tolerated and aided, so that, by man’s wisdom, such things that are lacking in her may be supplied.”