After he had fallen from grace, Cardinal Wolsey, who had perhaps known him better than any other person, said of him: “The King is a man of royal courage. He has a princely heart; and rather than he will miss or want part of his appetite he will hazard the loss of onehalf of his kingdom.”
It was true of Henry. He was as Wolsey had seen him. But he was strong and ruthless in an age when strength and ruthlessness were the qualities a growing country looked for in its King; and under this man a little island had become a great power; he, who had seemed to his enemies on the Continent of Europe but of ducal standing when he ascended the throne, had become a mighty King.
But there was more than one Henry. Just as there was the moralist and the sensualist, so there was the strong and ruthless ruler, determined to make his country great, and that other who must at all cost have his pleasure and who was ready to sacrifice half his kingdom for his appetite. But every phase of Henry’s character—the moralist, the sensualist, the great King and the weak King—was dominated by the brutal, callous monster.
Those about him, those sly and subtle ministers, continually watching him, sensed his moods.
They had murdered Anne Askew, but they still had to rid him of his sixth wife and provide him with a seventh. And there came a day shortly after the executions in Smithfield when Gardiner found his opportunity.
Gardiner had been granted an audience with the King when His Majesty was alone with the Queen, and the Bishop sensed at once a certain tension in the atmosphere. The King was irritated and wished to quarrel with the Queen; and the woman would give him no opportunity.
When Gardiner had the King’s signature to the papers which he had set before him, he spoke of the execution of Anne Askew, a subject which never failed to upset the Queen so thoroughly that it set her emotions above her common sense.
The King scowled.
“The trouble, Your Grace,” said Gardiner, “can be traced to these books which are circulating in your realm. They lead astray those who read them.” Gardiner had turned to the Queen, and he added pointedly: “Your Majesty has doubtless seen the books to which I refer?”
“I?” said Katharine, flushing uncomfortably.
“I feel sure that the woman, Anne Askew, must have brought them to Your Grace’s notice.”
Katharine, who had suffered and was still suffering from the tragedy which had robbed her of a woman whom she had loved and respected, said sharply: “The books I see and read could be of little interest to you, my lord Bishop.”
“Not if they were forbidden books, Your Majesty.”
“Forbidden books!” cried the Queen. “I was unaware that I must ask my lord Bishop’s advice as to what I might and might not read.”
Henry, who could never like Gardiner, thought his manner insolent, and growled: “I, too, was unaware of it.”
Gardiner bowed. He was a bold man and he knew that he was but obeying the will of the King in what he was doing.
“In truth,” he said quietly, “it would be presumptuous of me to direct Your Highness’s reading. I would but express an opinion that it might be unwise for the Queen’s Grace to have in her possession books given to her by those who, by order of the King, have been found guilty of heresy and sentenced to death.”
The King’s eyes glistened; they almost disappeared into his face as they did in moments of great pleasure or anger.
“What books are these?” he growled. “Has our Queen become the friend of those who work against us?”
Gardiner caught the note of excitement in the King’s voice. Was this the moment? Could he, by subtle words, trap the Queen, as he and the Chancellor had been unable to do by applying the torture to Anne Askew?
“Indeed not,” said Katharine.
She saw the crafty wickedness in her husband’s eyes, and because of what had happened to those who had shared his throne before her, she read his thoughts.
“Not so?” said the King. “We would be sure of that.”
“Your Majesty will hear me out?” said Katharine.
The King would not look at her. “I am weary of these conflicts,” he said. “I will not have my Queen take part in them…or if she does, she will not long remain my Queen.”
The threat in his words terrified Katharine. “Courage!” she prayed, as Anne Askew had prayed before her. But she knew that she, who loved life so much, could never face death as Anne had. Anne had longed for death, for martyrdom; and Katharine had never ceased to long for life and Thomas Seymour.
“Conflicts…?” she stammered.
“You heard us,” said the King; and the scowl on his brow had deepened. His anger shifted from the Queen to Gardiner. At that moment he disliked them both heartily and he was thinking: I am a King, heavily burdened with matters of state. I need pleasure to soothe me; I need gentle relaxation. Instead I have these two to plague me. Methinks it is time I rid myself of them both. “It would appear,” he continued, keeping his eyes on Gardiner, “that there are some among us who, in place of preaching the Word of God, do nothing but rail against one another.” His eyes shifted unpleasantly from the Bishop to the Queen and back to the Bishop. “If any know that there are those among us who preach perverse doctrines, he should come and declare it before us or some of our council. Have I not said it before?”
Gardiner murmured: “Your Majesty has indeed, and it shall be done….”
The King waved a hand; he was not going to endure one of Gardiner’s speeches. If any should speak now it would be the King.
“We now permit our subjects to read the Holy Scriptures,” he said, “and to have the Word of God in our mother tongue, and I will have it known that it is licensed them so to do only to inform their consciences, their children and their families, and not to dispute and to make scripture a railing and a taunting stock. This I have said to my
