Brandon and Catherine exchanged looks. For Henry to actually admit to weakness, even indirectly, was a rare occurrence.
“Your Grace should rest assured,” said Brandon, pacifically, “that you have taken every sensible step to avoid the illness. Remaining here, at Hampton, will allow you the space and wholesome air, so that you might avoid the dangers of Windsor and the city.”
“It really is the worst place to be, is it not?” asked Henry, stroking his beard. “The city? And Westminster hard upon it.”
“My Lord, of course, you are best here, away from people.”
“Away from people,” Henry echoed.
And it was then that Thomasin realised the nature of Henry’s concern. He was away from Anne. They had quarrelled and he had ridden away, leaving her behind in London, and now he feared that she would be in danger.
Brandon had come to the same realisation. “The most important thing of all must be the king’s own, sacred life. The Lord saw fit to take your brother Arthur, of blessed memory, in order for you to become king. It was part of His plan. You should rejoice in your good fortune, secure in the belief that He will protect you as His chosen ruler.”
But Henry did not look convinced. “Who is to say this is not another part of His plan? He has chosen not to give me the son and heir the kingdom needs. Is this not a great mark of His disfavour? What if He has tested me, tried me, and found me wanting? How little does He value the life of a king to whom He will not grant a son?”
“You must trust in the Lord’s plan,” Brandon reiterated.
Henry paced again. “I don’t know. The books I have read lately. They make me wonder. What if God does not intervene as much as we thought? What if he is more of an observant God, watching while we make our own choices? What if our decisions are not governed by him but are our own free will? Such words I have read, lately, but such minds, which almost addle my own. And who would plant these very doubts in my mind, but God himself?”
There was a stunned silence. Catherine looked aghast.
Thomasin recognised something in the king’s words that was close to what William Hatton had spoken of last autumn; a new way of looking at the world. A belief in each individual’s ability to choose their own path, rather than to simply follow where they were led. And More’s free will.
“Heretical books again?” asked Brandon, half joking. “I thought you had banned them.”
“I have been hearing much about this new book by Tyndale, which he is writing in Antwerp. There is something in his ideas about kingship that demands answers. I wonder what advice he would give me, if he were recalled to England.”
Brandon was stunned. “But two years ago, you had his translation of the Bible burned in the streets. I remember it well. And have not Wolsey and More and Bishop Tunstall of London all condemned his ideas? They go against the Pope!”
Henry frowned deeply. Thomasin wondered if Brandon had overstepped the mark. “Much has happened in two years,” he replied, his voice ominously soft.
Catherine lifted her chin. “My Lord, for years you have been accustomed to coming to me for advice, and I have done my best to advise you, from my faith, my learning and the wisdom instilled in me by my parents. If you would listen to my counsel now, I would recommend other books for your Lordship to read, other minds that might satisfy yours, put you at peace, rather than into this state of turmoil, which befits not a king nor benefits his kingdom.”
It was a brave speech, a generous speech, but not one that Henry wished to hear.
“The world has changed, Madam,” he pronounced, curtly. “Such books reflect old ways of looking at the world. Rather than counselling me to read your books, you would do better to read mine, then perhaps you might come to understand me better.” His words cut through the room.
“My Lord…” Catherine hesitated.
He halted, turned back to her.
“My Lord,” she tried again. “Your mind is troubled.”
“Indeed it is, Madam, indeed it is.”
“These are dangerous ideas, dressed up to impress your mind, but they are subtle masks for heresies.”
“Heresy? Heresy? You accuse me of heresy?”
The room was still and sharp as a knife. His words wheeled about them like falcons.
Catherine dropped to one knee. “Of course not, My Lord.”
Brandon was on his feet. “Come, Henry, nothing of the kind was said. You are likely overtired by the day’s strains. Some rest will restore you.”
Henry seemed to accept this, nodding. “I should rest.”
But Catherine, as if on a mission, had not finished yet. “My husband, will you come with me, tomorrow morning, to the little chapel, where we can pray together with the cardinal and ask for God’s guidance?”
