The King's Pleasure by Norah Lofts

Author:Norah Lofts
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Simon & Schuster
Published: 2008-02-15T00:00:00+00:00

Outside the audience chamber Wolsey, matching his step to Campeggio’s shuffle, said:

“That was unfortunate. The Queen neither likes nor trusts me. You would have done better alone.”

“If we could travel by river it would suit me well. A boat jolts less and we might avoid the crowd.”

The crowd had been very vociferous; shouting for the Queen and against Nan Bullen. Campeggio had wondered whether the English had no work to do, no homes or children to tend that at a moment’s notice, or no notice at all, they could flock into the streets and shout. He had made only one comment: “His Grace must know how his people feel.”

“He has no intention of marrying her,” Wolsey said, putting into words his own deep-seated belief. “And while they are shouting against her, they are happy.” And not shouting against you, or me.

They shouted lustily at Westminster steps where the Cardinals embarked and here and there along the river, and at Greenwich. And today every now and then, after the call, “We want no Nan Bullen,” there was a postscript. “Nor no Cardinals neither!”

Campeggio said, with tact, or malice, one never knew:

“I seem to share Mistress Boleyn’s unpopularity. They mistake my errand if they think I come to break a marriage.”

“It broke years ago,” Wolsey said morosely. His disappointment was almost equal to Henry’s. Campeggio, after all, had nothing new to suggest; no easy way out. And the Queen would never yield. A proposition which she would not take from the King, whom she loved, she would not take from Campeggio. Unless that secretive man had, somewhere concealed about him, a definite order from Clement: Get into a convent! Nothing less would move her; and the investigation would go on, taking time. And unless it ends as he wishes, the bell will toll for me. Wolsey thought wearily that God in His wisdom had made women, child-bearing animals or playthings—his own woman, Joan Larke had been both, and he still enjoyed the company and was interested in the well-being of his son and daughter, known as his nephew and niece. But the western world had given the creatures a ridiculous importance; dowries, marriage settlements, rights. The Turks had better sense; a man had only to say, “I divorce you,” three times and it was done.

So they came to Greenwich, where the lower steps, washed by every tide, were clean, those above slimy—“I beg you be careful, my lord!” and then a few which except in an exceptionally wet spring the water never touched.

“We want no Nan Bullen!” The crowd greeted them.

You muttonheaded fools, Wolsey thought, do you think I want her? You silly English people, Campeggio thought, she will be grey-headed and forgotten before His Holiness gives consent; get back to your looms and your counters!

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