The King's Secret Matter

The Fall of Wolsey

NEVER IN THE WHOLE OF HER LIFE HAD KATHARINE FELT so desolate and alone.

She lay on her bed, the drawn curtains shutting her in a small world of temporary peace. What will become of me? she asked herself, as she had continued to do since the Council’s document had been brought to her. But she was not really thinking of what would become of herself; for there was one other whose safety was of greater concern to her than that of any other living person. She knew what it meant to be alone and friendless. What if such a fate befell her daughter?

“Holy Mother, help me,” she prayed. “Guide me through this perilous period of my life.”

The evil suggestion was afoot that she was trying to work some ill on the King and the Cardinal. Did they truly think that she—who never willingly harmed the humblest beggar—would try to poison the King and his chief minister? They had wronged her wilfully—at least the Cardinal had; she believed him to be the prime mover against her, and still saw Henry as an innocent boy who could be led. How could they honestly believe that she, a pious woman, could think for one moment of committing murder?

This was another plot of course to drive her into a convent.

Lying in her bed she thought of the comfort of a bare-walled cell, of the pleasant sound of bells, of escape from a world of intrigue. It attracted her strongly.

She sat up in her bed and once more read the scroll which she had been clutching in her hands as she lay there.

It informed her that she had not shown as much love for the King as she ought; that she appeared too often in the streets, where she sought to work on the affections of the people. She showed no concern for the King’s preoccupation with his conscience, and the King could only conclude that she hated him. His Council therefore was advising him to separate from her at bed and board and to take the Princess Mary from her.

To take the Princess Mary from her!

If they had not added that, they might have frightened her into a convent. But while she had her daughter to think of she would never retire into oblivion.

Attached to the document was a note in Wolsey’s hand. He had written that the Queen was unwise to resist the King, that the Princess Mary had not received the blessing of Heaven and that the brief which was held by the Emperor was a forgery.

“What will become of me?” she repeated. Whatever the future held, she would never allow them to frighten her into a convent, which would be tantamount to admitting that her marriage with the King was no true marriage. Never would she forget the slur this would cast on Mary.

She threw aside the scroll and lay down again, closing her eyes tightly, and said: “Let them do with this body what they will. Let them accuse me of attempting to murder the King and the Cardinal. Let them make me a prisoner in the Tower. Let them send me to the scaffold. Never will I allow them to brand Mary a bastard.”

EVEN GREATER than the Queen’s sufferings were those of the Cardinal, for he lacked Katharine’s spiritual resignation and constantly reproached himself for his own blindness which, looking back, he could see had brought him to that precipice on which he now stood; he mourned all that he had lost, and there was none of Katharine’s selflessness in his grief.

Henry had left London with the Court without seeing him, and was now at Grafton Manor, that beautiful palace which was situated on the borders of the shires of Buckingham and Northampton, and had once been the home of Elizabeth Woodville. Anne Boleyn was with the King, and Anne was now Queen of England in all but name; moreover she ruled the King as Katharine had never done. It was Anne who had suggested that Henry should leave Greenwich without informing his Chancellor; a procedure which but a few months before would have been unthinkable.

And now there had been no summons for him to go to Grafton; he had to beg leave—he, the mighty Cardinal—to accompany Campeggio who must pay his respects to the King before leaving the country.

What a sad and sorrowful journey it was, through London, where the people came out to see him pass! He travelled with his usual pomp but it seemed an empty show now, for the humblest beggar could not feel more fearful of his future than the great Cardinal of England.

Campeggio rode in silence beside him; his gout, he believed, had not improved since his sojourn in England and he was glad to be leaving and rid of a tiresome and delicate task; yet he had time to be sorry for his fellow Cardinal.

Poor Wolsey! He had worked hard to bribe his way into the Vatican…and failed. The Emperor had failed him; François had failed him; and now, most tragic of all, his own sovereign was being pressed to discard him. What then, when the whole world stood against him?

Optimism had never been far below the surface of Wolsey’s nature; it was to this quality that, in a large measure, he owed his success. He believed that when he saw the King, Henry would remember how, over so many years, they had worked together, and he would not leave him unprotected and at the mercy of his enemies who were even now massing against him. Lord Darcy had already drawn up a list of his misdeeds in order that he might be impeached. They would be saying of him that he had incurred a præmunire because he had maintained Papal jurisdiction in England. He had failed to give the King the divorce he needed, and his enemies would be only too ready to declare that he had served not the King but the Pope. Norfolk and Suffolk had always hated him; and now they were joined by the powerful Boleyn faction headed by Anne herself, who ever since he had berated her for daring to raise her eyes to Percy, had been his enemy and had sought to destroy him with a vindictiveness only paralleled by Wolsey’s own hounding of those who he considered had humiliated him.

It was the case of Buckingham repeating itself; only on this occasion the victim was the Cardinal himself.

And so they came to Grafton. There was revelry in the Manor, for Anne Boleyn and her brother George were in charge of the entertainments; and none knew how to amuse the King as they did. There would be hunting parties by day—the woods about Grafton had been the hunting ground of kings for many years—and the Lady would accompany the King and show him in a hundred ways how happy he would be if only he could discard the ageing Katharine and take to wife her brilliant, dazzling self.

The arrival of the Cardinals was expected and several of the King’s household were assembled to welcome them. Campeggio was helped from his mule and led into the Manor to be shown the apartments which had been made ready for him; but no one approached Wolsey, and he stood uncertain what to do, a feeling of terrible desolation sweeping over him. For one of the rare occasions in his life he felt at a loss; it was no use assuming his usual arrogance because it would be ignored; he stood aloof, looking what he felt: a lonely old man.

He became aware that no preparation had been made for him at the Manor and that he would be forced to find lodgings in the nearby village. Such an insult was so intolerable and unexpected that he could not collect his wits; he could only stand lonely and silent, aware of little but his abject misery.

A voice at his side startled him. “You are concerned for a lodging, my lord?”

It was a handsome youth whom he recognized as Henry Norris, and because he knew this fellow to be one of those who were deeply involved with the Boleyns and formed part of that admiring court which was always to be found where Anne was, Wolsey believed that he was being mocked.

“What is that to you?” he asked. “I doubt not that lodgings have been prepared for me.”

“My lord, I have reason to believe that they have not.”

Only when Wolsey looked into that handsome face and saw compassion there, did he realize how low he had fallen. Here he stood, the great Cardinal and Chancellor, close friend of the King, seeking favors from a young gentleman of the Court who, such a short time before, had been wont to ask favors of him.

“I pray you,” went on Henry Norris, “allow me to put a lodging at your disposal.”

The great Cardinal hesitated and then said: “I thank you for your kindness to me in my need.”

So it was Henry Norris who took him to a lodging in Grafton, and but for the compassion of that young man there would have been no place for him at the King’s Court.

THERE WAS excitement at Grafton. The Cardinal was in the Manor but all knew that no lodging had been prepared for him. That was on the orders of the Lady Anne, who commanded all, since she commanded the King. Now she would command Henry to dismiss his Chancellor, and all those who had hated the Cardinal for so long and had yearned to see his downfall were waiting expectantly.

Henry knew this, and he was disturbed. He had begun to realize that his relationship with the Cardinal had been one based on stronger feelings than he had ever experienced before in regard to one of his ministers; and much as he wished to please Anne, he could not bring himself lightly to cast aside this man with whom he had lived so closely and shared so much.

Anne insisted that Wolsey was no friend to the King because he worked for the Pope rather than Henry. And, she ventured to suggest, had the Cardinal so desired, the divorce would have been granted by now.

“Nay, sweetheart,” replied Henry, “I know him better than you or any other man. He worked for me. ’Twas no fault of his. He made mistakes but not willingly.”

Anne retorted that if Norfolk or Suffolk, or her own father had done much less than Wolsey they would have lost their heads.

“I perceive you are not a friend of my lord Cardinal, darling,” Henry answered.

“I am no friend of any man who is not the friend of Your Grace!” was the reply, which delighted Henry as far as Anne was concerned but left him perplexed regarding Wolsey.

And now he must go to the presence chamber where Wolsey would be waiting with the other courtiers. He could picture the scene. The proud Cardinal in one corner alone, and the groups of excited people who would be watching for the King’s entry and waiting to see the Cardinal approach his master—to be greeted coldly or perhaps not greeted at all.

Henry tried to work up a feeling of resentment. Why should he be denied his divorce? Why had not Wolsey procured it for him? Was it true that when the matter had been first suggested the Cardinal had intended a French marriage? Was it possible that, when he had known that the King’s heart was set on Anne, he had worked with the Papal Legate and the Pope against the King?

Scowling, Henry entered the presence chamber and it was as he had believed it would be. He saw the expectant looks on the faces of those assembled there—and Wolsey alone, his head held high, but something in his expression betraying the desolation in his heart.

Their eyes met and Wolsey knelt, but the sight of him, kneeling there, touched Henry deeply. A genuine affection made him forget all his resolutions; he went to his old friend and counsellor and, putting both his hands on his shoulders, lifted him up and, smiling, said: “Ha, my lord Cardinal, it pleases me to see you here.”

Wolsey seemed bemused as he stood beside the King, and Henry, slipping his arm through that of his minister, drew him to the window seat and there sat, indicating that Wolsey should sit down beside him.

“There has been too much friendship between us two for aught to change it,” said Henry, his voice slurred with sentiment.

And the glance Wolsey gave him contained such gratitude, such adoration, that the King was contented, even though he knew Anne would be displeased when she heard what had happened. But there were certain things which even Anne could not understand and, as he sat there in the window seat with Wolsey beside him, Henry recalled the security and comfort which, in the past, this clever statesman had brought to him.

“Matters have worked against us,” continued Henry, “but it will not always be so. I feel little sorrow to see your fellow Cardinal depart; he has been no friend to us, Thomas.”

“He obeyed orders from Rome, Your Grace. He served the Pope; it was not enough that one of the Legates worked wholeheartedly for his King.”

Henry patted Wolsey’s knee. “It may be,” he said darkly, “that we shall win without the Pope’s help.”

“His Holiness would give it, but for his fear of the Emperor.”

“He’s a weak fellow, this Clement. He sways with the wind.”

“His position is so uncertain since the sack of Rome.”

Henry nodded, and Wolsey went on, his spirits rising: “If Your Grace will grant me an audience in the morning, before I must depart with Campeggio, we could discuss the matter further. There are many ears cocked to listen here, many eyes to watch.”

“’Tis so,” said Henry nodding, and rising he put his arm once more through that of his Chancellor, and went with him back to the group of his gentlemen who were standing some distance from them.

WHAT COMFORT to rest his weary limbs in the bed for which he must be grateful to young Norris! How simple to explain the neglect!

It had happened without the King’s knowledge. Naturally he would have believed that preparations were made for his Chancellor, for his dear friend the Cardinal. It was his enemies who had sought to degrade him. He was fully aware of the existence of them. When had he ever been without them?

As he stretched out blissfully he told himself that he had been unduly worried. He had suffered misfortunes, but he was as strong now as he had ever been and, while the King was his friend, he was invincible.

How he had misjudged his King! Hot tempered, selfish, hypocritical, capable of extraordinary blindness where his own faults and desires were concerned, yet Henry’s heart was warm for those who had been his friends; and while that friendship could be relied on, there was nothing to fear. All that he, Wolsey, had done to serve his King was worthwhile. He would not regret the loss of Hampton Court; the gift was a symbol of the love between them which was indestructible. Nothing could change it…not even the vindictiveness of Anne Boleyn.

And tomorrow, thought Wolsey, we shall be alone together. Before I ride away with Campeggio on our way to the coast, I shall have had my intimate talk with Henry. All misunderstandings will be cleared away and it will be as it was in the old days when there was perfect accord between us. I will procure the divorce for him, but by that time, Mistress Anne Boleyn, he will have recovered from his infatuation. You have declared yourself my enemy; I declare myself yours. It shall be a French Princess for His Grace.

Tomorrow…tomorrow…thought Wolsey, and slept. It was the most peaceful night he had enjoyed for a long time.

“A good bed, Norris,” he murmured, when he awoke and saw that it was daylight. “I’ll not forget you.”

He rose and found that it was later than he had at first thought; but there was plenty of time to see the King before he left with Campeggio. In excellent spirits he dressed and, as he was about to make his way to the King’s apartments, he met Henry Norris.

“I thank you for a good night’s lodging,” he said.

“Your Eminence looks refreshed,” was the answer.

Wolsey patted the young man’s shoulder. “I shall not forget your goodness to me. Now I go to seek the King.”

Norris looked surprised. “His Grace left early this morning in the company of the Lady Anne.”

Wolsey could not speak; he felt a lump in his throat which seemed as though it would choke him.

“They have gone off with a party for a day’s hunting,” continued Norris. “They’ll not be back till dusk.”

It was like arriving at this place and finding no lodging prepared for him. She was the cause of that; and she was the cause of this. Doubtless she had heard of the King’s display of friendship and determined that there should be no more.

So he must leave with Campeggio, and that interview from which he had hoped so much would never take place. His defeat seemed as certain as it had been on his arrival.

In the palace they would be saying: Perhaps his fall is not as imminent as we hoped…but it is coming. Look at the warning shadows.

THESE WERE uneasy months. The King stormed through the Court sometimes like a bewildered, angry bull, at others like a peevish boy. Why was a divorce denied him? Why was he so provoked?

He was politician enough to know the answer. It was because the Emperor was more powerful at the Vatican than the King of England, and the woman the King wished to put aside was the Emperor’s aunt; it was as simple as that.

“Yet I will have my way!” declared the King.

In the Boleyn circle he had met a man who interested him because, although of somewhat obscure origins, he expounded original ideas. This man was a certain Thomas Cranmer, a scholar who had passed through Cambridge and had there become acquainted with Stephen Gardiner and Richard Fox. This man, Cranmer, had, during the course of conversation, which naturally enough turned on the main topic of the day, expressed original views on the way in which the King might obtain a divorce in spite of the continued vacillation of the Vatican.

“It is clear,” Cranmer had said, “that the Pope is reluctant to grant the divorce because he fears the Emperor. Is it not time that the King looked for a solution to his Matter outside the Vatican?”

Gardiner and Fox had suggested that he should explain how this could be done; to which Cranmer made answer that he believed the King should first make the universities see the reason behind his desires, and then appeal to enlightened opinion. Was England always going to remain a vassal of the Holy See?

Dr. Cranmer had voiced these opinions in other circles, and it was for this reason that the Boleyns had taken him under their protection and were making it known that Dr. Cranmer was a man of new, startling and brilliant ideas.

When Gardiner and Fox told the King of Cranmer’s suggestion, Henry had listened intently and, as he did so, his expression lightened; he cried out: “By God, that man hath the right sow by the ear! Who is he? Let him be brought to me. I would talk with such a one.”

So Cranmer had been brought forward and Henry had not been disappointed by their discourse, which had started a new train of thought in his mind.

THE QUEEN’S melancholy was lifted a little by the arrival of the new Imperial ambassador. This was Eustache Chapuys, an energetic Spaniard who had not been in England long before Katharine realized that here she had a stronger champion than she had had in Mendoza. Of humble beginnings, he had none of the aristocrat’s preoccupation with his own nobility and was not constantly looking for slights. His family had, with some struggle, managed to send him to the University of Turin, and from there he had begun to make his fortune. He was now forty years old and this opportunity to work for the Queen against the divorce seemed to him like the chance of a lifetime; he was determined to succeed.

However, arriving in England he had discovered that it was very difficult to speak in private with the Queen, who very quickly warned him that she was spied on at all times, and implored him to be very wary of Wolsey. He understood at once that this was no exaggeration. As for the King, he met the new ambassador with reproaches, complaining that by withholding the Papal brief the Emperor had done a grave injury, not only to his but to Katharine’s cause.

“If,” Henry had said, “I could have been assured that the brief was genuine, I should, at this time be living with the Queen, for that is what I wish beyond all things, and it is solely because my conscience tells me that to resume marital relations with the Emperor’s aunt would be to live in sin, that I refrain from doing so. Yet, since the Emperor will not release the brief I must conclude that he knows it to be a forgery and is afraid to submit it to the light of day.”

“Your Grace,” Chapuys had answered, “I myself can assure you that the brief is no forgery and that the copy you received in England is exact in every detail. Your conscience need disturb you no more.”

Henry had been angry with the ambassador, and this was not a good beginning to their relationship; but at least he would understand that in the new ambassador he had a worthy adversary, and Katharine a good friend.

So Katharine’s hope increased, because she believed that her case would be tried in Rome, and there she would have justice. She was convinced that all that was necessary to make Henry send Anne Boleyn back to Hever and turn to his true wife was an order from Rome.

But how sad she was in the Palace, where Anne ruled as though she were Queen, and Katharine was only at the King’s side on the most formal occasions! The humiliation she could have endured; but it was Anne’s decree that the Princess Mary should not be present at Court, and because Anne commanded this, Mary was kept away.

She fears the King’s affection for my daughter, Katharine decided; and there was a little comfort in that belief. But how she longed for the child’s company. On those rare occasions when she was with the King she sought to lead the conversation to their daughter’s absence in an endeavor to arouse a desire in him to have her with them.

But he was sullenly pursuing Anne, and Katharine often wondered whether his dogged determination to have his way was as strong as his desire.

One day when he had supped in her apartments she seized an opportunity to whisper to him: “Henry, would you not like to see our daughter here?”

“She is well enough where she is.”

“I miss her very much.”

“Then there is no reason why you should not go to her.”

“To go to her would be to leave you. Why cannot we all be together?”

He was silent and turned away from her. But she could not control her tongue. “As for myself,” she went on, “I see so little of you. I am often alone, neglected and forsaken. Who would believe that I was the Queen? I must brood on my wrongs continually.”

“Who forces you to do so?” demanded Henry. “Why do you not count your blessings?”

“My blessings! My daughter not allowed to come to me! My husband declaring he has never been my husband and seeking to marry another woman!”

“If you are neglected,” said Henry, his voice rising, “that, Madam, is your affair. There is no need for you to remain here if you wish to go. Do I keep you a prisoner? I do not. You may go whither you like. As for the way I live…it is no concern of yours, for learned men have assured me that I am not your husband.”

“You know that you are my husband. You know that I was a virgin when I married you. You choose to forget that now. But, Henry, do not rely on your lawyers and doctors who tell you what they know you want to hear. They are not my judges. It is the Pope who will decide; and I thank God for that.”

Henry’s eyes narrowed. He was thinking of recent conversations with Cranmer, Gardiner, Fox and Anne, and he said slowly and deliberately: “If the Pope does not decide in my favor, I shall know what to do.”

She flashed at him: “What could you do without the Pope’s approval?” Henry snapped his fingers and his lips scarcely moved as he replied, though the words smote clearly on Katharine’s ear: “This I should do, Madam. I should declare the Pope a heretic and marry when and whom I please.”

THE CARDINAL was taking a solitary tour through York Place, knowing that it was doubtless the last time he would do so. Here were stored many of his treasures which almost rivalled those which had been in Hampton Court when he had lost that mansion to the King.

He stood at the windows but he did not see the scenes below; he leaned his heated head against the rich velvet hangings, as he glanced round the room, at the tapestries and pictures, at the exquisite furniture which he had so treasured.

In the pocket of his gown was the communication he had received from the King. The Lady Anne, it seemed, had set her heart on York Place. She would have no other house in London. Therefore the King asked the Cardinal to offer this up to her.

Hampton Court…and now York Place! One by one his treasures were being stripped from him. Thus it would be until he had nothing left to give but his life. Would they be content to leave him that?

He knew that a Bill of Indictment had been registered against him; he knew the hour could not be long delayed when Norfolk and Suffolk would arrive to demand that he give up the Great Seal.

The days of greatness were over. The fight for survival had begun.

He did not have long to wait. Smug, smiling, like dogs who had at last been thrown the titbits for which they had been begging, Norfolk and Suffolk arrived to demand the delivering up of the Great Seal.

He received them with dignity in the beautiful hall, surrounded by rich treasures which he must soon surrender. His dignity was still with him.

“I would see the King’s handwriting on this demand,” said Wolsey, “for how may I know you come at his command if I do not?”

Norfolk and Suffolk flushed and looked at each other. Neither was noted for his quick wits. Then Suffolk spluttered: “You know full well that we come on the King’s command.”

“How should I know, when there is no written order from him?”

“Then is it a surprise to you that you should be asked to hand back the Seal?”

“This is not a question of my emotions, my lords, but of your authority to take the Seal from me. I shall not give it to you unless you bring me a written order from the King.”

The Dukes were angry but they had never been able to argue successfully with Wolsey.

“Come,” said Suffolk, “we will return in a very short time with what he demands.”

And they left him. It would be a short time, Wolsey knew. But there was a small hope within him. The King had not wished to put his name to a demand for the Great Seal. He had turned his back on Wolsey, but at least he had not joined the pack who were waiting to tear the old minister to pieces.

THE CARDINAL was in great terror. It was not the fact that Norfolk and Suffolk had returned to take the Seal from him, with a written command from the King. That, he had known, was inevitable. It was not that he was ordered to leave York Place for Esher, an empty house which belonged to his bishopric of Winchester. It was the knowledge that his physician had been taken to the Tower where he might be put to the question, and betray secrets which could mean disaster to Wolsey if they were ever told to the King.

He had been desperate. He had seen disaster coming and had sought to win back all he had lost in one desperate throw. His enemy was Anne Boleyn and he had determined to be rid of her, knowing that if he could do this, he could quickly win back the King’s regard.

As a Cardinal he was in a position to have direct communication with the Pope, and he had made use of his advantages by advising the Pope to insist that the King send Anne from the Court or face excommunication. This had seemed to him to offer a solution of his troubles, because if the King dismissed Anne he, Wolsey, would very quickly return to his old position. If the King did not dismiss Anne but defied the Pope, Wolsey calculated that opinion in the country would be split; the situation would be dangerous for England; and the King would quickly realize that there was only one man strong enough to save the country from disaster; that man was Wolsey.

This had been his plan, and it had been made not for the good of the country, not for the good of the King, but for the salvation of Wolsey.

He had failed in his attempt; yet it was not that failure which disturbed him, but the knowledge that his weak physician may have confessed this secret and that the King might soon be aware of what he had done.

What hope would there be for him then? Banishment to Esher! It would not end there.

The grim shadow of the Tower lay before him; he could see himself walking from his prison with the executioner beside him and the blade of the axe turned towards him.

Now outside York Place and all along the banks of the river the people were assembling; craft of all description crowded the river. It was a holiday for them. They believed they were gathering to watch Wolsey on his way to the Tower.

He would pass out of York Place with all the pomp and ceremony with which he had been wont to make his journey from Hampton to Westminster. There would no longer be the Great Seal to proclaim him Chancellor. But he still had his Cardinal’s hat and his magnificently attired entourage. He would have his fool beside him, his cooks and stewards, his ushers and secretaries, as though the journey from York Place to Esher was no different from many another journey he had taken.

But he felt sick and weary. Thomas Cromwell was with him, and Cromwell’s dejection was clear to see. Was he mourning for the downfall of a friend, or asking himself what effect the loss of an influential benefactor would have? Who could say? And what did it matter now?

So out of York Place he came to take barge for Putney. Soon they would be counting the treasures there, and delightedly laying before the King and the Lady the lists of valuables, the costly booty. York Place was following Hampton Court; and Esher lay before him, an empty house where he would endeavor to keep his state until perhaps he was called to an even less comfortable lodging.

He was making up his mind what he would do. There were two courses open to him. It was no use appealing to Parliament, which was under the influence of Norfolk; but he could take his case to the law courts. There he had a fair chance of winning, because he was still the wiliest statesman in the land. But it would never do to win. The King would never forgive that. There was one object which he must keep in mind; one preoccupation which must be his to the exclusion of all else. He must keep his head upon his shoulders. He knew what he must do. He would admit that he had incurred a præmunire and he would ask the King, in payment for his sins, to take all that he possessed.

He smiled wryly, thinking of those bright blue eyes alight with acquisitiveness. While Henry studied the lists of possessions which would fall into his eager hands he might spare a little kindness for his one-time Chancellor and favorite minister. He might say: “Good Thomas, he always knew what would please me best.”

Disembarking at Putney he continued his journey away from the glories of the past into the frightening unknown future. The people watched him sullenly. This was an occasion for which they had long waited.

“His next journey will be to the Tower!” they cried.

And some raised their voices, because there was now no need to fear: “To the scaffold with the butcher’s cur!”

But as he rode through the muddy streets on his way to Esher he was met by Sir Henry Norris, the young man who had given him a lodging at Grafton.

He was moved by the sight of the young man, and he found that he could be touched more deeply by discovering that there were some in the world who did not hate him than by anything else. He realized that, apart from that little family which he kept shut away from his public life and of whom during the last busy years he had seen very little, he had tender thoughts for no one and had used all who came within his orbit in the manner in which they could serve him best. Therefore a sign of friendship from any of these people seemed a marvellous thing.

Thus with Norris. But it was more than his friendship that Norris had to offer on this day.

“Your Eminence,” he said; “I come from the King. He sent you this as a token of the friendship which he still feels towards you in memory of the past.”

Norris was holding out a ring which Wolsey had seen many times on the King’s finger, and when he recognized it the tears began to fall down the Cardinal’s cheeks. There had been some true friendship between them then. He had been more than a wily minister to his King.

If I could but reach him, thought Wolsey. Oh Lord, give me one half hour alone with him and I will make him listen to me and share my opinions. There was never ill-feeling between us that was not engendered by that black night-crow. Give me a chance to talk to him…

But it was too late. Or was it? Here was the ring…the token of friendship.

He must show his gratitude to this young man, so he dismounted and embraced Norris; then he knelt in the mud to give thanks to God because his King had sent him a token of friendship. He could not remove his hat easily because the ribbon was too tightly tied, so he tore the ribbon and knelt bareheaded while Norris looked on embarrassed, and the crowds watched in bewilderment.

The Cardinal had no thought for them. Henry had sent him a token, and with the token—hope.

He gave Norris an amulet—a gold cross and chain—and, wondering what gift he could send to the King which would convey the depth of his gratitude, he saw his Fool standing by and he called to him.

“Go with Sir Henry Norris to the King,” he said, “and serve him as you have served me.”

The Fool looked at him with mournful eyes and shook his head.

“What means this?” asked Wolsey. “It is better to serve a King than a Cardinal; did you not know that, Fool?”

He was expecting some merry retort, but none came. Instead the man said: “I serve none but my master.”

And as he stood there, his satin robes spattered with the mud of the streets, the ring warm on his finger, the Cardinal was once more astonished to find that he who had cared for nothing but ambition had yet found one or two who would serve him for love.

“You are indeed a fool,” he said.

“The Cardinal’s Fool, not the King’s Fool,” was the answer.

Wolsey signed to him to go, but the Fool knelt and clung to the red satin robes until it was necessary to call six yeomen to drag him protesting away.

The strangeness of that street scene, thought Wolsey, as he rode on to Esher, will remain with me for as long as I live.

IN THE MANOR HOUSE at Esher there were neither beds, cups, cooking utensils nor sheets.

Wolsey entered the hall and stared about him in dismay at the emptiness. His servants gathered round him wonderingly. Thomas Cromwell moved towards an embrasure and looked out of the window, his eyes alert, his traplike mouth tight. What now? he was asking himself. Need the end of Thomas Wolsey be the end of Thomas Cromwell?

The Cardinal asked that all his servants should be brought into the hall, and there he addressed them.

“As you see, we have come to a house which is empty of food and furniture. We must bestir ourselves and borrow for the needs of myself and one or two servants. For the rest of you, I advise you to return to your homes. It may well be that in three or four weeks I shall have cleared myself of the charges which are being brought against me; then I shall return to power and call you back to me. Now you must go for, as you see, you cannot stay here.”

Across that room the eyes of Cromwell met those of Wolsey.

Cromwell took five pounds in gold from his purse and said: “There are many among us who owe what they have to the Cardinal. There was a time when great blessings flowed from him. Now we see him stripped of his possessions, his home this manor in which there is nowhere to lay his head. It is my hope that many here will follow my example and add to this sum, so that some comfort may be bought for His Eminence during the time which may elapse before he returns to favor.”

And before the Cardinal’s astonished eyes certain members of his household came forward and laid what sums of money they could afford beside that set down by Cromwell.

Then his servants busied themselves and went out to borrow beds and cooking utensils from neighboring houses; and there was activity in the manor of Esher.

So, until a call came for him to go elsewhere, he would live there surrounded only by those lower servants who were necessary to look after his physical comforts.

The others—the ambitious men—rode away from Esher; and among them was Thomas Cromwell, who had made up his mind to try his fortune in the King’s Court.

THERE WAS TIME, in the weeks which followed, to review his life, to reproach himself with having strayed far from the road of self-denial, to do penance because his ambition had destroyed him first spiritually and now physically.

He was a sick man. He scarcely slept, and when he did he was constantly awakened by nightmares. During his stay at Esher, in much discomfort, he had suffered from dropsy. The house was damp as well as ill-furnished, and he had appealed to the King to allow him to move nearer to London where the air, suiting him better, might help him to throw off his malaise. Henry was still kind to him, though refusing all requests to receive him in audience. Was there some softness in the King’s nature which told him that once he and his ex-chancellor were in each other’s company all would be forgotten but the friendship they had once had for each other? Was that why the King so stubbornly refused that much-desired interview?

Well, he was alone, shorn of his power; no longer did men come to him seeking favors. But the King had allowed him to move to the lodge in Richmond Park, had sent him another ring with his portrait and had demanded that Anne Boleyn also send him a token of her esteem. An empty gift from the Lady, but showing that even she dared not disdain the Cardinal too harshly in the King’s presence. Henry had also sent Dr. Butts, with orders that his good physician’s commands were to be obeyed.

But Wolsey had not been allowed to stay in Richmond. Norfolk and Suffolk saw to that. Wolsey smiled wryly to hear how disturbed those two were, and how they had put their ducal heads together to plan how to keep him and the King apart. And so he had returned to his house at Southwell for the summer months and attempted to live there in some state. But Norfolk would not leave him in peace and insisted that he go to York.

How painfully he travelled, a sad and lonely exile! Yet he was enjoying a hitherto unknown popularity with the people, and many came to him to ask his blessing.

And so he came to Cawood which was but twelve miles from the city of York, his destination. There he stayed awhile, confirming and blessing people who asked this service of him, in his obscurity living like a man of the Church, as in the role of statesman he had never done before.

Yet always he waited for a word from the King, a sign that Henry was ready to welcome him back. He was a sick man, and there was but one elixir which could restore him to health; it was what he had fought for and won, and now knew he could never live happily without: The King’s favor.

HENRY MISSED HIS WOLSEY.

Often he would shout at those who served him: “It was never thus in the Cardinal’s day.”

His new Chancellor was Thomas More, a man for whom he had a deep affection; but More was no Wolsey. He never considered his own comforts nor those of his King. More, who was a lawyer, was a thousand times more a churchman than the Cardinal had ever been, but saintly men made uneasy companions and More had taken office only on condition that he was not asked to act in the matter of the divorce. Henry was aware that Thomas More was one of those who believed him to be truly married to Katharine. It was small wonder that he yearned for his accommodating Wolsey.

But his enemies were pleading for the Cardinal’s blood. It did not please them that he should merely be sent into exile. They wanted to see him lay his head on the block.

There was Anne who would not rest until Wolsey was dead. She was scornful, her black eyes flashing. How often had she cried: “If my father or my lords Norfolk and Suffolk had done half what he has done they would have lost their heads.”

Henry wanted to explain to Anne: We were more than King and statesman. We were friends. I have sent him from me. Let that suffice.

There was Norfolk forever whispering in his ear. When the King was a little anxious about an ulcer on his leg, which refused to heal, it was Norfolk who cried:

“Your Grace, the Cardinal suffered from the great pox. Is it to be wondered at? Your Grace knows the life he led. Yet knowing that the pox was with him he came to Your Grace, blowing upon your noble person with his perilous breath.”

“Nay,” said the King. “This ulcer of mine has naught to do with Wolsey.”

“And, Sire, did you know that he spoke often of ‘The King and I’ as though there was no difference in your rank?”

“We were friends,” said Henry with a smile, “and when I was a young man and given to pleasure, he taught me much.”

“Did Your Grace know that he had as mistress the daughter of a certain Lark, and by her had two children…a son and daughter?”

“A son,” said the King wistfully. “So even Wolsey had a son.”

“I heard that he married the woman off to give her and her children a name. The boy received great benefits.”

The King nodded. He was not to be shocked or moved to anger against his minister.

But there came a day when news was brought to him by both Norfolk and Suffolk.

“Your Grace, the Cardinal’s Italian physician, Dr. Augustine Agostini, has made an important statement.”

“What statement is this?”

“He tells us that the Cardinal suggested to the Pope that he should command you to put aside the Lady Anne and return to the Lady Katharine and, if you failed to do this, to excommunicate you.”

Henry’s face grew purple with anger.

“Then he is indeed guilty,” he said. “He has indeed incurred a Præmunire.”

“Worse still, Your Grace. He deserves the traitor’s death, for what he has done could be called high treason.”

The King nodded. He was distressed; but before he had time to allow his feelings to soften, the warrant for the Cardinal’s arrest was put before him and signed.

Norfolk and Suffolk were delighted. No more need they fear the anger of the Cardinal. His days were numbered.

IN THE CARDINAL’S LODGINGS at Cawood there was peace. Wolsey sat at supper. He felt comforted, contemplating that soon he would arrive in York and there, he promised himself, he would endeavor to spend his last months—he was sure it would not be more—in pious living.

As he supped he became aware of a commotion in the house, and then of footsteps on the stairs, and when the door was thrown open, to his astonishment he saw a man who had once been in his service: young Northumberland. He rose somewhat hastily from the table and went forward to embrace the young man who, he believed, had come on a visit of friendship. In those first seconds he forgot that this was the young man whom once, in the days of his power, he had sternly berated for contemplating marriage with Anne Boleyn.

“My friend,” he cried, “it gives me great pleasure to see you here…”

But as he approached, Northumberland drew himself up and did not take the Cardinal’s outstretched hands.

He looked down at the old man and said in a voice so soft that it could scarcely be heard: “My lord Cardinal, I come to arrest you on a charge of high treason.”

“My dear boy…,” began Wolsey.

But Northumberland’s face was expressionless; he looked down on Wolsey, without emotion, without pity.

And as he stood there, the Cardinal saw others come into the room, and he knew that what he had dreaded for so long was about to happen.

THE PAINFUL JOURNEY BACK to London began.

There was time to brood, and he thought of Anne’s arranging that Northumberland should be sent to arrest their enemy. Poor, pallid Northumberland, doubtless he would not have been willing, for he had ever lacked Anne’s spirit. It would have been an ill match. She should have thanked the Cardinal for breaking it. But how like her, to send Northumberland, she, who resembled himself, and never forgot a slight, and demanded payment in full—with interest.

So, because of her, he was riding back to London, and his constant prayer now was that he would never reach that city. In his dreams he was passing along the dark river and through the traitor’s gate; he was placing his head on the block. Was that to be the end of the journey?

There were many halting places as he could not travel far at one time. His dropsy had grown worse, and he suffered from dysentery and mental discomfort. He was an old, tired man, and he longed to rest his weary limbs; how could he travel quickly towards a cold bed in a dismal cell, there to live a few weeks under the shadow of the axe?

So far have I risen, he mused, that there is a long way to fall.

When he arrived at Sheffield Park the Earl of Shrewsbury welcomed him as though he were still the chief minister. He rested there awhile, for he was exhausted and it was physically impossible to ride on.

It was at Sheffield that messengers came from the King, and to his horror Wolsey saw that at the head of them was Sir William Kingston, the Constable of the Tower. This could mean only one thing: Kingston had come himself to take him straight to the fortress; and in spite of Kingston’s assurances that Henry still thought of the Cardinal as his friend, Wolsey was seized with violent illness, and all those about him declared that from that moment he lost his desire to live and began to yearn for death.

In the company of Kingston he travelled down to Leicester, blessing the people as he went. How differently they felt about him now. They no longer called him “butcher’s cur” because they were no longer envious of him. They pitied him. They had learned of the pious life he had led in exile, and they regarded him as the holy man his garments proclaimed him.

The party drew up at the Abbey; it was dusk and servants with torches hurried out to welcome them. The Abbot, knowing who his guest was, came forward to salute the Cardinal and receive his blessing; but as Wolsey tried to dismount, his limbs gave way and he collapsed at the Abbot’s feet.

“Your Eminence,” cried the Abbot, trying to raise him, “welcome to Leicester. Your servants rejoice to have you with us for as long as you can rest here.”

With the help of the Abbot the Cardinal rose to his feet; he was trembling with fatigue and sickness.

“Father Abbot,” he said, “methinks I shall stay with you forever, for hither I have come to lay my bones among you.”

Alarmed, the Abbot gave orders that the Cardinal should be helped to his room. His usher, George Cavendish, was at his side; indeed, he had been with him through his triumphs and his trials, and nothing but death could part them.

“Stay near me, George,” murmured the Cardinal. “You know as I do, that now it will not be long.”

Cavendish discovered that he was weeping silently but the Cardinal was too exhausted to notice his tears.

For a day and a night he lay in his room, unable to move, unaware of time. He slept awhile and awoke hungry and asked for food, which was brought to him.

He partook of the food almost ravenously and then paused to ask Cavendish what it was he ate.

“’Tis a cullis of chicken, my lord, which has been made especially for you in order to nourish you.”

“And you say we have been here a day and a night; then this will be St. Andrew’s Eve.”

“’Tis so, Your Eminence.”

“A fast day…and you give me chicken to eat!”

“Your waning strength needs it, Eminence.”

“Take it away,” said Wolsey. “I will eat no more.”

“Your Eminence needs to regain his strength.”

“Why George? That I may be well enough to travel to the block?”

“Your Eminence…,” began Cavendish in a faltering voice.

“You should not distress yourself, George, for I feel death near, and death coming now is merciful to me. Go now. I believe my time is short and I would see my confessor.”

He made his confession; and afterwards he lay still like a man who is waiting patiently though with longing.

Kingston came to his bedside and Wolsey smiled at him quizzically, remembering how the sight of the man had filled him with fear before.

“Your Eminence will recover,” said Kingston.

“No, my lord. For what purpose should I recover?”

“You are afraid that I come to take you to the Tower. You should cast aside that fear, because you will not recover while it is with you.”

“I would rather die in Leicester Abbey, Kingston, than on Tower Hill.”

“You should cast aside this fear,” repeated Kingston.

“Nay, Master Kingston, you do not deceive me with fair words. I see the matter against me, how it is framed.”

There was silence in the room; then Wolsey spoke quietly and firmly, and Kingston was not sure that he addressed himself to him.

“If I had served God as diligently as I have done the King, He would not have given me over in my gray hairs.”

He closed his eyes, and Kingston rose and left the chamber. At the door he met George Cavendish and shaking his head said: “Your master is in a sorry state.”

“I fear he will not last long, my lord. He is set on death. He thought to die ere this. He said that he would die this morning and he even prophesied the time. He said to me: ‘George, you will lose your master. The time is drawing near when I shall depart this Earth.’ Then he asked what time it was and I told him ‘Eight of the clock.’ ‘Eight of the clock in the morning,’ he said. ‘Nay it cannot be, for I am to die at eight of the clock in the morning.’”

“He rambled doubtless.”

“Doubtless, my lord, but he seemed so certain.”

“Well, eight of the clock passed, and he lives.”

Kingston went on, and Cavendish entered the Cardinal’s chamber to see if he lacked anything. Wolsey was sleeping and seemed at peace.

Cavendish was at his bedside through the night and the next morning—when he died.

As the Cardinal drew his last breath, the faithful usher heard the clock strike eight.