20 November 1510
Palace of Westminster
Thomas Wolsey ran a finger around the inside of his collar, his lips pursed in worry as he waited for the King to arrive and that day's Privy Council meeting to begin. Calmness under pressure might be his stock in trade but he wasn't feeling particularly calm at the moment.
He wasn't the only one trying to suppress a fit of nerves. Up and down the polished walnut table lords and bishops were sharing worried glances or mopping their foreheads, but unlike most of them he wasn't expecting bad news from Pavia out of the exhausted, begrimed messenger who'd arrived from Paris moments earlier; English gold in the balance or not, it was far too late in the season for the Queen's father to launch another offensive in the Po Valley. No, Wolsey was worried that the French had learned of last month's events at Eltham.
They'd been incredibly lucky that the courtyard had been almost deserted by the time Charles Brandon had arrived. Ironically, the grooms and stable boys who would have usually been loitering in the courtyard that time of day had been sent out into the deer parks by Sir Richard Vere to search for the traitorous knight, and only a few senior courtiers, half a dozen yeoman guards, the King's family (including young Chapuys, whom he supposed counted), and one lone religious sister had witnessed the standoff. The dearth of witnesses of questionable loyalty had made it child's play to concoct a story that completely obscured Brandon's real intentions and saved Mary's reputation. Virga intacta the Princess might still be, praise God, but even the single minute (if that) she'd spent alone with the blackguard in Eltham's forgotten service corridors would be enough to sow seeds of doubt in the minds of the crowned heads of Europe if they learned of it. No, let them think that Brandon had lured Henry to Eltham with the intention of killing him and taking the throne by right of conquest; let them think Sister Angelica had died protecting the King himself; let them think Brandon had been killed by a guard; and, most importantly, let them think the Princess and the Duchess of Somerset had been ensconced in the Royal Apartments in the presence of their ladies at the time, well away from the mayhem. But if someone spilled the beans, even inadvertently…
But he didn't have time to fret for very long over the matter as the doors leading to the King's study burst open and Henry rushed into the room, relief flooding his face. "It's a Dauphin for France, my lords!" he cried as the councillors jumped to their feet. "A healthy son!"
"Praise God!" Archbishop Bainbridge breathed, while Bishops Fisher and Stanley crossed themselves. "And the Queen?"
But at that the King's lips grew thin. "I regret Queen Anne has given her life in the performance of her sacred duty," he said. "It hadn't yet been publicly announced when Sir Thomas sent his message, but his informant is the midwife's assistant so we must assume the news is reliable."
The room fell silent. It was of course every married woman's duty to give her husband sons, even at the risk of her life, but that was little comfort to any man whose wife or mistress was currently increasing. Even his Joan, God bless her, had just discovered she was with child again; should he lose her…
No, he would not think of it.
"I have of course sent His Majesty a note of congratulations," the King continued as he took his seat and gestured for the councillors to join him, "and will forward my condolences when official confirmation of the death arrives. In addition, I will have five hundred masses said for Her Majesty's soul and the court will observe a week of mourning. I'll ask you to make the necessary arrangements, Archbishop; Dr. Stanley, I'll ask you to pass on the news to your nephew the Earl at Edinburgh. Sir Thomas writes that the Scots envoy in Paris is dying of a consumption and his opposite has yet to be selected, so I think it best that our ambassador assume the duty of informing my brother, King James."
Bishop Stanley grimaced. "I'll send a messenger to Holyrood straight away, Majesty."
"Let us also pray King Louis himself remains in good health," Lord Courtenay added. "There's been enough instability already this year with the wars in Italy and the assassination attempt; the last thing we need is a French regent throwing his weight around in the Channel."
Out of the corner of his eye Wolsey could see Lord More and the Duke of Norfolk exchange glances. It was strange, Wolsey mused; ever since that day at Eltham the proud old duke and the young, razor-sharp lawyer had become friends of a sort, or at least allies at Council. He wasn't sure what had happened to bring it about, but he hoped it would last until he could find a way to make use of the—
"There is one other piece of urgent business," the King said, breaking into his thoughts. "I have, as you know, visited the Tower numerous times over the past few weeks to discuss Sir Charles's actions with Mistress Wingfield." He suddenly frowned at Wolsey. "Your Grace, don't give me that look. I'm not intending to pardon her."
"Your Majesty, I was only concerned—"
"I'm sure you were," he cut in. "I speak not of her today, though, but of the Tower itself. I happened to bring my spectacles to the Tower this morning, and looking around for the first time I found myself amazed by the piteous condition of the buildings surrounding Tower Green. The inner north wall in particular is falling to bits, and St. Peter's, the parish church for hundreds of royal servants, is perilously close to collapse. I have therefore decided to rebuild both, but I would like your thoughts on the matter."
"It would be quite the costly endeavour, Your Majesty, especially while we so lavishly fund the Venetian army," Bishop Fisher said, as a few of the lords nodded in agreement. "Could the work not be delayed until next summer?"
The King's reply was milder than the question deserved. "I very much agree with Your Grace that the expenditure comes as an inconvenience. It is however an indisputable truth that the Tower is the foundation stone of the security of our realm, one without which we cannot guarantee the safety of our people. Surely Your Grace would not wish rebels or Frenchmen to overrun our realm and bring death and destruction to the people of England."
Fisher frowned. "Majesty, I hardly think—"
But his reedy voice was drowned out by the King's booming baritone. "For more than four hundred years," Henry orated, "my predecessors and I have been burdened by God with the rule of this glorious realm, and not a day has gone by that they and I have not depended upon the security afforded England by the Tower's mighty walls. Why, I myself remember the day the Cornish rebels arrived at Deptford…"
Wolsey exchanged a tolerant glance with Bishop Stanley as the King rose to his feet and circled the Council table, waxing eloquently on not just the traitorous Cornishmen of his childhood but also the long-ago invasion by Louis VIII of France, the threat of Joan la Pucelle, and the upheavals of the Cousins' War. The centuries slipped away as he painted a vivid picture of the careless Saxon leaders whose failure to protect their realm with stone had resulted in Norman conquest; only the mighty edifice erected by King William – "bastard in body and soul, but a man of great foresight", as he put it – had brought stability and peace to the English people. "But we must never take that security for granted, Your Grace, not even now," he said in closing, taking his seat again with a polite nod to his episcopal opponent. "The mere presence of the Tower confounds our enemies; I cannot take the risk of allowing it to fall into ruin."
"But that doesn't answer His Grace's question, Your Majesty," the Earl of Arundel pointed out. "Necessary or not, the money simply isn't in the general expenditure budget. We can't ask Parliament for a subsidy now that the Commons has risen. So where will the money come from?"
"From Italy, my lord," Wolsey broke in, opening the portfolio he'd brought with him. "The first quarterly rents from Basso Lodigiano arrived early this morning, and if I'm not mistaken we have enough to rebuild the entire Tower with gold to spare."
The King was instantly alert. "How much did they send?"
He quoted a figure, noting with pleasure that, although a few of the bishops still seemed uncertain of the propriety of the transaction the King had entered into with his father-in-law, any qualms on the part of the lords on Council as to whether the matter constituted 'usury' had completely evaporated. "The gold is, coincidentally, currently under guard at the Tower," Wolsey added. "Lord Mountjoy and I personally supervised its arrival at the Mint early this morning."
The King was beaming so brightly Wolsey marvelled the Sun didn't file a complaint over the competition. "That's settled, then; thank you, Your Grace. It only remains for us to decide who will handle this very great responsibility." He turned to the Duke of Buckingham, who was sitting to his right. "My lord duke, I understand you're still in mourning for your lady sister but I would not wish to entrust the future of the Tower to less vigilant hands than yours. Would you, cousin, accept the great responsibility of supervising the renovations?"
The burly duke seemed to grow three inches in height, and no wonder. "It would be a great honour to serve Your Majesty," he replied, the desiccated sprig of rosemary in his hatband shivering as he dipped his head. "I'll begin on the plans immediately."
"Excellent. And Dr. Wolsey?" the King added, directing his attention down the table. "Would you take on the responsibility of refreshing and enlarging St. Peter's under His Grace's authority? I would ask Dr. Carvannell to handle it but the chaplain's health isn't what it should be, and I hesitate to increase his workload."
He quashed the urge to swear under his breath; if it were anyone but Buckingham…but he could hardly disobey a direct order. "I'm more than pleased to work with the Duke, Your Majesty," he said. "In fact, if His Grace is amenable we could meet at the Tower this afternoon, say at four?"
Buckingham's eyes were as cold as Boreas. "Bishop."
The King didn't seem to notice. "Then I leave the matter in your capable hands," he said. "I wish you a good day, gentlemen. Bishop Wolsey, if I could have a moment of your time?"
He rose from his bow, ignoring the glares of the other councillors, and followed the King out of the council chambers to his study. No doubt the other councillors suspected him of gaining additional favour with Henry's constant requests for private meetings, but in truth the only thing that ever arose from them was additional work for himself and his staff.
No, he corrected himself: he couldn't deny that the work had brought him many real if intangible benefits. Prestige, power, admiration: these were well worth a few aristocratic scowls – and sleepless nights.
He did have his suspicions as to why the King wished to speak to him, as it had been only last week that they'd discussed the possibility of sending Mary to France should Queen Anne die in childbirth. Louis was almost fifty, it was true, but he was still clearly capable of satisfying a wife; more importantly, his throne was subject to Salic Law, that odious scrap of ancient detritus that barred women – including Louis's only daughter, Princess Claude – from the succession. Henry had agreed that, living son or not, Louis would soon cast aside his mourning weeds in search of a new wife, and who better to raise his spirit (amongst other things) than a beautiful, blooming English princess?
But in this he was to be disappointed. "I'm afraid our plans have come to naught, Your Grace," the King said as he dismissed the groom and gestured for Wolsey to sit and join him in a goblet of wine. "If Boleyn's informant is right, Queen Anne didn't die of childbed fever or a birth accident but of the great pox. The surgeon," and with that he grimaced, "witnessed the marks on her person after her death."
He froze, his cup halfway to his lips. "Surgeon, Majesty?"
"The semi-official story is that she bled to death and the child had to be cut out," he said. "Boleyn didn't give me his opinion – given how quickly he got the message out he might not have had time to formulate one – but I have to wonder if she truly was dead when the first cut was made. Louis certainly waited long enough for a prince."
Wolsey digested the news. "If the report is true the King must also carry the malady. I trust Your Majesty is far too wise to marry the Princess to a poxed man, whether he ordered his Queen cut open or not."
Henry nodded. "It'd be a death sentence. As for the Duke of Valois, Boleyn writes…" He shuffled through the pages, peering down at the last one through his glasses. "Ah, here it is: François's betrothal to Princess Claude is likely to be confirmed, and the wedding is expected to take place the day after her twelfth birthday."
"So next October. A great deal can happen in eleven months."
"A great deal, yes. If Louis does die in the interim we might be able to convince François…" but he stopped with a grimace and looked up at Wolsey. "The problem is that, at least according to Boleyn, the French court is infested with whores – and not hidden away in dark corners like here at Westminster either. It's apparently quite the fashion for even great men to publicly patronize them. If Louis caught the pox from a court whore Valois might be infected as well. It's a damned shame, but if that's true I can't send Mary to France; the risk is just too high. So who do we marry her to?"
"The Archdukes Charles and Ferdinand are still unattached," Wolsey began, "as is Prince John, the heir to the throne of Portugal. They unfortunately suffer from the same defect that the Archduchess of Castile did with respect to Your Majesty's own marriage prospects; the inconvenient bond of consanguinity deriving from the Earl of Richmond's birth."
"'Inconvenient' is exactly the right word," he muttered. "I admit, I'm at the point where I wonder if it wouldn't be a good idea to pretend Juan really is Doña Lina's child and let God figure it out."
Wolsey was far too canny to agree with this eminently reasonable suggestion. He'd learned over the past year that the King could be led to a more pragmatic viewpoint only if he thought he was forging the way; any sign of premature agreement or encouragement from his advisers would send him scuttling back to the starry-eyed idealism he'd absorbed from Thomas More's tutelage. Let him chew on the idea, he thought; let him work it around in his mind. Within a year he'd be willing to consider the matter seriously, and by then Mary would be in the full ripeness of her womanhood and more than ready for the marriage bed – and it would be a Portuguese bed, if he had his way.
"Mind you," the King continued, "I doubt Maximilian would entertain an offer for Charles or Ferdinand, not after we broke her betrothal to Charles last year. He might privately understand that I was unable to guarantee Mary's hand until I had an heir of my own but the repudiation must still touch his honour. Are there any other possibilities?"
"There's the King of Poland," Wolsey suggested. "He's an older man – only five years younger than Louis, for that matter – but he's never married and has no heir."
Henry regarded him coolly under lowered brows. "Bastards or boyfriends, Tom?"
He grinned. "Bastards, Majesty; his mistress is said to be the most beautiful woman in Poland and remarkably fertile, if unfortunate in the survival of her children. If Sigismund is too old in Your Majesty's opinion, we could look at Prince Christian of Denmark or even the Duke of Lorraine. Both Dukes of Bavaria are also in the market for brides, but I would caution against Duke Louis; I've heard reports that he's a violent man who beats his mistresses."
"As opposed to Duke William, who is a gentle shimmer of sunlight."
"Bavaria is a harsh land, Your Majesty."
"That it is, but England isn't that much softer, is it? They might have war and icy cold and violence on the streets, but what do we have? Knights running amok, ladies leading them around by their pizzles…" He leaned back in his chair, his lips thin. "I'm not going to pardon her, Tom. If Charles had tricked her into helping him I'd happily let her enter a convent, but under the circumstances I won't accept anything less than execution."
He bowed in acknowledgment of the King's decision despite not believing for a moment that it would stand. Henry Tudor, he firmly believed, would never kill a woman.
But the King had returned to his sister's fate. "Forget Sigismund, Tom; not only is he too old for Mary, I can't see how marrying her to Poland would be of any use to England. Denmark is closer and more powerful, and the Scandinavians have an inexhaustible hunger for wool and cheese. Make discreet enquiries, please – and talk to the envoy from Lorraine as well." He gathered up Boleyn's letter, darting a glance at Wolsey once he'd folded it away. "I take it you haven't heard any rumours about Cata and Chapuys yet."
"Nary a one, Majesty," he said, "but that's hardly unexpected; women, even princesses, are primarily valued for their fertility. A barren lady might as well not exist in most men's minds. Has Duke Charles written back, might I ask?"
"Oh, yes, and I'll leave you to imagine the apology he proffered at having misunderstood the situation. Needless to say he acceded to my 'request' and is willing to accept the connection in the 'spirit of true princely Christianity that would never turn its back on a lady requiring the protection of a valiant knight, no matter how meanly born'. He's just happy the matter didn't cost him anything except a few kind words to Chapuys's mother."
"From what I've heard, Majesty, the Duke is rarely generous with anything other than words." He pursed his lips; perhaps this was as good a time as any. "There is one matter, Majesty, that I've recently been made aware of. It seems as if the Viceroy's ambassador, Don Rodrigo, has learned something of the Duchess of Somerset's earlier situation from his sister, whom I understand is one of the Duchess's ladies in waiting."
"His sister…"
"Doña Esmeralda de Vargas, Majesty."
The King swore under his breath. "That disloyal little witch…do you know if Don Rodrigo has passed anything on to the Viceroy yet?"
"I don't believe so; none of his letters – either those sent through official channels or otherwise – have breathed a word of it. His mentions of Her Grace have been infrequent and wholly appropriate. My guess is that he doesn't quite believe his sister."
"Perhaps he doesn't, but even if he does…if you were the Spanish ambassador, Tom, and you had dirt on the Duchess of Somerset, would you pass it on? The Viceroy would likely think you mad."
"Or jealous, Majesty."
"As if Don Rodrigo had the right to be jealous of a princess," he muttered. "But I suppose he should be officially advised; it's not as if the news can be kept secret forever."
"Shall I draft a letter to Her Grace?"
Henry shook his head. "He'll take it better from me directly, and perhaps I can kill two birds with one stone and find out exactly which tales Doña Esmeralda has been telling. Is he at court, do you know?"
"Don Rodrigo was in the Great Hall earlier this morning, Majesty. Shall I send for him?"
The King's feral grin reminded Wolsey of a particularly self-satisfied bird of prey. "Please do."
He bowed, ignoring the shiver running up his spine.
Don Rodrigo de Vargas arrived almost immediately, his air that of a man who was granting an audience instead of receiving one. "Your Majesty."
He knows something, Wolsey suddenly realized as he met the King's eyes. He knows something and he hopes it will bring him advantage.
"Ambassador de Vargas, I thank you for your prompt reply to my summons," Henry said in French, smoothly gesturing for him to rise from his bow. "I assume you've met my Almoner, Bishop Wolsey?"
"Yes, Your Majesty. Your Grace," he said, giving Wolsey a tiny bow before turning back to the King. "I pray Her Highness the Queen is well?"
"As well as any husband could hope for, and I thank you for asking. Given today's news from France…"
"And sad news it is, Majesty," he said with a sad shake of the head, "although I understand the boy thrives. May he live to rock his grandson's cradle!"
The King lifted his goblet. "Well put, Excellency; that's something I'll happily drink to. To the Dauphin!"
"The Dauphin!" they chorused.
"Still," Henry added, "it does make a man worry. I suppose it's easier to be blessed with a barren wife at times like this; Master Chapuys at least will never lose hairs over the possibility of losing Catalina in childbirth."
Don Rodrigo's shoulders suddenly narrowed and a faint line formed between his brows, as if someone had suddenly let the air out of him. "Majesty?"
"It's good for him to have agreed to my plan, of course," Henry continued. "My lady sister has no vocation and could never be persuaded to take the veil, and – well, I think we all know what can happen to women of property and rank if they don't marry. If I had passed from this world without seeing her settled the Queen would naturally have done her best to protect her – they're the closest of friends – but it would have been a great deal to ask of her." He gave the stunned ambassador a puzzled look, his mouth suddenly dropping open. "Oh, good heavens. She hasn't advised you yet, has she?"
Vargas's eyes were as wide as a deer's after a blast from the hunter's horn. "I…no, Your Majesty. I've heard rumours, but…"
The King could only shake his head and give Wolsey a fond look. "I should have known, Tom; she must have been waiting for me to pass on the news. She certainly knows her place. Do you remember when we were searching for a lady Queen to grace my throne, back before I was fortunate enough to be introduced to Nora?"
"I most certainly do, Your Majesty," he said, willing himself not to laugh as Don Rodrigo clutched his goblet in a desperate attempt to prevent his hands from trembling. "Every ambassador in Europe tried to bribe her into supporting their choice – even your predecessor, Señor, who as I recall gave Her Grace a fine Barbary colt. But she never said a word to His Majesty, never tried once to interfere in the process."
"Cata's a lady in a million," the King agreed, "but even a lady as great as she could never have found a husband without assistance. Who would marry a barren woman, princess or not? We're only lucky Chapuys agreed to it – and his cousin Duke Charles, of course. The Duke of Savoy is, after all, an eminently reasonable man."
Wolsey could only bite his lip and nod sagely.
"The Duke of…of course, Your Majesty," de Vargas got out. "I…you are certain that the marriage was truly made? That it is legal under canon law?"
"As certain as I believe the evidence of my own eyes," he retorted. "His Grace celebrated the nuptial mass just last Thursday in my presence; if you don't believe me, ask him."
De Vargas's face had turned beet red. "So…so they were married before witnesses under the aegis of Holy Church, Your-Your Grace. I…I suppose I must offer my congratulations, but the story I had heard was somewhat…different. I had heard there were…illicit connections, although Your Majesty may be assured I was far from believing the rumours."
By then Wolsey had fully entered into the spirit of the matter. "Illicit…" He and the King traded amazed stares. "Did they think she was…"
"God's blood!" Henry growled as he sprung to his feet, his face the very picture of ferocious injured royal dignity. "I don't know which thrice-damned liar you've been listening to, Excellency, but you may take my word for it: it took six full months for Her Grace to agree to marry him!"
By then the ambassador was quivering like a lute string. "Majesty, I don't…I cannot believe…"
But Henry was livid. "You cannot? I cannot believe that someone at my court would slander Cata's good name! Who was it, Don Rodrigo? If it's a man I'll have him whipped; if a woman…what do you think, Tom?"
"If she's married, Your Majesty, I'd send her back to her husband's lands to repent her filthy tongue; otherwise I'd recommend the veil."
He snorted an angry laugh. "As if any honest convent needs a woman like that. Six months: six long months spent convincing Cata, and this slanderer would have her…what? His whore? It's simply not to be tolerated!"
"I…it wasn't anyone at court, Your Majesty," de Vargas finally confessed. "It was a member of Her Highness's household..."
"Even worse!" he shouted. "Is the disloyal blackguard a Spaniard? Can you order him back to Madrid?"
"Insulting a princess of royal blood, and a Trastámara at that," Wolsey tutted under his breath. "One would never imagine that a Spaniard of all people—"
De Vargas was so flustered he began to wring his hands, apparently without realizing; it was all Wolsey could do not to laugh out loud. "I…I'll handle this, Your Majesty," the ambassador said. "And please, allow me to express my most sincere, most abject apologies and my solemn word before God that I never believed the rumours nor passed them on to the Viceroy or anyone else. My si…informant, she is a vicious troublemaker to whom I should never have turned an ear."
Henry gave him a long, searching look. "I take it, Don Rodrigo," he said, "that this is your first embassy?"
He nodded, his face still as red as a bowl of cherries.
"Then you haven't had much experience with gathering and evaluating information," Wolsey suggested. "You'll find that the most reliable informants are those with little emotional connection to the situation. Perhaps your…lady advisor…has conceived an amour for Master Chapuys, or even for Her Highness."
The King glared at him. "Your Grace! Such depravity!"
He held up a hand. "Such situations are not unheard of, Your Majesty. If I were you, Don Rodrigo, I'd ask her family to send her back to her husband, or perhaps find her a nice, secure convent back in Spain if she's unmarried. We could even find a place for her here in England if her family would rather wash their hands of her."
He nodded, his face lined with defeat and, Wolsey suspected, anger. "That might be for the best. I…if Your Grace would be so kind as to provide me with the name of a reliable house, possibly in the further reaches of His Majesty's realm, perhaps I could, um, pass the name on…"
"My diocese is actually in the west of England, Excellency; as such, I can heartily recommend St. Cecilia's just outside of Bath. It's more than suitable for a fine lady and the cloister is as secure as one could hope for, and as Bishop I can guarantee she would be accepted immediately. Does she speak English?"
"She does – that is, I believe so." He turned to the King, confusion suddenly apparent in his eyes. "It occurs to me, Majesty, that you had asked me to attend upon your royal presence. Was there something…?"
But he waved a hand. "I'd merely wished to know if you thought the Viceroy would have any questions about the nuptials," he said with a shrug, "but I suppose I should leave you to advise him of them first. I do thank you for your time, Don Rodrigo."
He bowed again. "Majesty. Again, my most sincere apologies."
The King could only laugh as the door closed behind the thoroughly befuddled ambassador. "I almost feel bad for him," he said as he removed his hat and chain of office and dumped them on the desk, "although if he were a more competent ambassador he'd already know about the marriage. I'm more worried about how Cata will take the news of the betrayal. Esmeralda's been with her since she was six years old, you know; she's her oldest friend."
"As Sir Charles was yours, Majesty," he pointed out. "Remember Aesop's tale of the fox and the lion: familiarity breeds contempt."
"You're right, of course," he sighed, "but perhaps it only breeds contempt in stupid people. You've met Maria de Salinas, Cata's other Spanish lady. She'd rather die than betray her mistress, and she's one of the most intelligent persons I've ever met. You could say the same thing about Will Compton. I offered him a barony, you know; he turned it down, said the knighthood was more than enough."
"He doesn't strike me as a man particularly hungry for titles – or particularly concerned with the legislative process, if I may say so."
At that the King laughed. "He is hungry for land, but that's to be expected. Are you dining at court today, Your Grace?"
He blinked at the change of topic. "I'd hoped to dine with Joan, Your Majesty. She's just informed me that she's with child again."
"Again?" the King asked, his eyes lighting up. "What excellent news. Then I won't keep you." He walked Wolsey to the door. "I look forward to hearing of your meeting with the Duke; do let me know if the two of you experience any difficulties…with the tradesmen." And he smiled sweetly.
So the choice to have him work with Buckingham had been deliberate, he thought, looking back at the closed door. Wonderful.
He arrived at Bath House to find Joan on her knees in the main presence chamber, clapping her hands as little Tom tried his best to crawl to her. "Aren't the rushes hard on his skin?" he asked.
"Tom!" she cried, springing to her feet and sweeping their son up in her arms. "I didn't expect you home today. Are you well?"
"As well as I could ask for. I have a meeting this afternoon at the Tower so I thought I'd dine at home with you. How is our little man?"
Just then the boy made a grab for Wolsey's nose. "Happy and healthy, as you can well see," she said with a smile as he took the boy from her and cradled him in his arms. "I'll let Cook know you're dining in."
He carried little Tom into his study and, crouching down, placed the infant on the carpeted floor – a much more appropriate surface for crawling, he thought. And the boy seemed to enjoy it; he reached out a tentative hand, his tiny chubby fingers digging into the soft wool as he gurgled with excitement.
Could there be a more obvious sign of God's greatness, he thought, than the fact that a simple act – the scratching of an itch, really – could result in a miracle such as this tiny perfect scrap of humankind?
Wolsey fully realized how fortunate he was to live in a time when a bishop could discreetly keep his family in London. Had it been necessary to put Tom out to foster he would have, of course, but he would never have imagined the joys he would have missed out on.
Tom suddenly flopped on his back and began to roll himself around the carpet, giggling every time he caught sight of his father's face. "Are you Daddy's little boy?" he cooed, catching the boy before he could bump into a table leg and tickling him until he screamed with joy. "Aren't you just the sweetest—"
A discreet cough came from the doorway; it was Tom's nursemaid, smiling down at them. "It's time for Tommy's mid-morning feeding, Your Grace," she said.
He scooped up the child, kissing him on the head before passing him over. "You saw nothing, Mary."
"Nothing at all, Your Grace," she agreed, completely unperturbed by his forbidding tone of voice. "Shall I bring him back after dinner?"
"If he isn't in the mood for a nap. It seems I see him less and less every day."
He followed her out into the hallway, his eyes on Tom's little elfin face peeking out from above Mary's shoulder as she carried him up the stairs to the nursery. Doubtless his own father had played with him but he had no memory of it; by the time he'd reached the age of reason Robert Wolsey had turned into a remote, forbidding patriarch whose love for his wife, if it had ever existed, was dwarfed by his taste for the housemaids he regularly importuned and discarded. He'd promised himself over his father's grave that he would never mistake fear for respect as his father so clearly had. There would be no beaten children, no fits of violence, no coerced servant girls. And he'd kept his word: his beautiful Joan, his dazzling blonde jewel, had chosen him as freely as he had chosen her, and he'd grown to love her so deeply…
…and that sudden realization sent him rocking back on his heels.
He loved Joan.
When had that happened?
It was simply outlandish for a man of his stature and ambition. Keeping a mistress was one thing – all men had needs, after all – but love? It simply wasn't appropriate. He well remembered his old dominus, Dr. Wainwright, haranguing his pupils on the matter. 'Love is the privilege of the poor and miserable,' he'd maintained. 'If you wish to fall in love, you might as well take up a plough right now and leave your space to a more worthy boy.' It had been a harsh lesson but one he'd carefully absorbed and tucked away in his mind.
He only wished his heart had been paying attention, for there was no question about it: he loved Joan. What would he do about such an inconvenient—
The dinner bell roused him from his reverie; with a mental shrug he followed the sound to the lesser dining hall, where a minor miracle had taken place. It had been less than half an hour since he'd stepped off his barge into the courtyard of Bath House but in that time the simple dinner Joan had arranged for herself had been transformed into a feast fit for a bishop. He really shouldn't be surprised; who would better understand the importance of preserving the dignities of rank than an innkeeper's daughter? And who could be better at ensuring every detail was perfect?
He took his place at the table as she curtseyed. "Your Grace."
"My dear, please sit and enjoy the fruits of your labours," he said, lowering himself into the heavy oak chair. "I have news from the French court."
She perched on the edge of her seat, the green shot silk of her dress barely creasing under her reed-slim form. "From Paris? Has Queen Anne been delivered?"
"I'm afraid she has." They discussed the birth of the Dauphin and the Queen's death as the grooms brought in the meat and pastries – slightly fewer, he noticed, than a bishop would normally be served, but that could hardly be helped given the short notice. "It's unfortunate, but the news has put an end to any marriage negotiations involving the Princess Mary."
"Good riddance, I say. Better she go to Portugal or Savoy than the French."
He could only agree with – but he looked up from his veal with a puzzled frown. "Did you say Savoy, Joan?"
"The costermonger told me the Duke of Savoy sent a man to London to serve the Duchess of Somerset last year," she said as she buttered her bread. "He didn't know why, but I think the Duke is interested in Princess Mary and is wooing her through the Duchess."
So rumours were indeed spreading! He'd have to send a message to the King before he met with Buckingham. "That's not how betrothals are arranged among the crowned heads of Europe, my dear," he said gently. "Negotiations such as these are conducted through ambassadors, not directly with the parties in question."
"And wasn't the Duchess King Ferdinand's ambassador?" she countered. "Maybe the old coot isn't as struck as they say. But then again, maybe Katherine's thinking of marrying the Duke of Savoy herself. She's a widow; she can marry whoever she wants, and there isn't a thing the King could do to stop her."
"That is true," he said, "but I doubt the Duke would marry a barren woman. He needs an heir."
"I suppose you're right." She put down her goblet, peering at him. "Then what's his man doing in England? He is the Duke's man, isn't he? You would know."
It was as good a time as any, he decided, to test the waters. "I do indeed know," he admitted, "but he isn't actually a servant of the Duke. He is however His Highness's cousin – a distant cousin, on his mother's side."
"Cousin, eh? Younger son?"
"Second of five, I understand. Not yet twenty."
"Legitimate? Good-looking?"
"So legitimate it hurts, and grandson of a viscount as well. He's thought…tolerable looking, I suppose. Blue eyes, dark hair – typical European colouring. Very long nose."
"Oh-ho; now there's a…" She suddenly gasped and turned to him, her green eyes widening in surprise. "He's the Duchess's lover!"
He stared at her. "How – how did you come up with that from the size of his nose?"
She gave him a disarmingly cheeky grin. "I didn't and you know that. I simply asked myself why a handsome young man would wish to live in dirty, cold England if he could instead live in the Alps. You have to admit it doesn't make a lot of sense, does it?"
"I suppose…"
"The only way it does make sense is if he's here for a reason," she continued. "So he's either here as an envoy, which you said he wasn't; a merchant, which he isn't if he's joined a royal household; a spy, which he isn't because nobody would send a boy that age to spy on anyone; or he's here for personal reasons, which for a young man means a woman. If he'd been sniffing around one of the Duchess's ladies-in-waiting or even a servant she would have either arranged their marriage by now or sent him home with his peck…his tail between his legs. So what does that leave?"
There were times, Wolsey mused, that it was easy to forget how intelligent Joan truly was. "I'm unable to fault your logic," he said once he'd picked his jaw off the floor, "but I must fault your timing. He's not Her Grace's lover – not since last Thursday, at least." And he smiled.
It was her turn to show amazement. "Saints preserve us. Does the King know?"
"He was there, as was I – and I must say, your table is clearly superior to Her Grace's. This veal is exquisite."
Any other woman would have been mortally offended not to have been involved in as great a matter as a royal wedding, no matter how discreet, but Joan merely smiled, pride suffusing her face. "One cannot expect a great lady to have the knowledge to hire a good cook on her own," she said modestly, gesturing to the groom to serve the cheese tarts. "Are they intending to formally announce the marriage? I suppose they have to."
"There's no hard and fast rule, but I suspect the news will eventually emerge. Do you believe the people would accept it?"
She laughed. "The people don't care, love, but they might wonder at her morals if they realize it wasn't arranged. If I were the King I'd pretend I ordered her to marry him; no matter who he is, they'll assume he was the best a barren woman could get."
Astounding. "That's exactly how the King is handling it," he told her. "Perhaps you should be on the Privy Council instead of me."
"And perhaps pigs should fly, Tom."
Once lunch was over he returned to his study, first checking out the window for any signs of porcine levitation, and scratched out a note to the King – and one to the Duchess herself, taking care to salute her as "Madame". As he sealed the notes, he thought back to Joan's words. Savoy…
He reached out and touched the bell on his desk. "Rob," he said as his principal secretary entered the room, "what do we know about the Duke of Savoy?"
"Greedy, selfish, and unintelligent, Your Grace," Rushton replied. "He's also constantly at odds with France."
"And therefore with Mantua," he mused. "No, it'll have to be Portugal."
"Sir?"
He shook his head and handed Rob the note addressed to the King. "Never mind. Take this message to Westminster; tell Bishop Ruthall it's urgent. As for this one…" He looked down at the folded paper and picked up his pen to address it to the Duchess…but at the last moment he thought better of it and wrote down another name. "This one I want you to take to Banstead," he said, handing the note to Rushton, "and I'd like it to arrive by supper if at all possible."
"I can get a royal barge to Richmond and…" The boy's voice trailed away as he caught sight of the name Wolsey had written on the letter. "Sir, Your Grace…are you sure?"
"Trust me: I can't think of anything she'd like better."
He still seemed hesitant but, knowing his place, he bowed and left.
A little thing it was, he supposed as Mary returned with Tom, but it never hurt to spread a little goodwill around – and had there ever been an easier way to do so than to write three simple words, in French?
À Madame Chapuys.
He didn't think so.