The Lady in the Tower

The Cardinal Departs

THAT WAS A TIME of great tension and anxiety for me. After all that had happened, we were just where we had started. Wolsey was in disgrace, and it angered me that Henry still could not bring himself to dismiss him. Had I been wiser, I should have welcomed that degree of fidelity in the King. He had relied on Wolsey ever since his accession and he really loved the man. It was only in this matter of the divorce—this conflict between Rome and the Crown of England—that Wolsey had failed him … and through no fault of his own. Had he had his way, Campeggio would have declared the marriage invalid and all would have been simple.

I was foolhardy. Looking back, I see my mistakes clearly—those impetuous steps which I had taken unheedingly all the way through to my dismal climax.

And so I was angered by the softness of the King's feeling for the Cardinal.

I was aided and abetted by Norfolk and Suffolk, whom I thought to be my friends. How misguided I was! Their aim was to dishonor and ruin Wolsey and they saw, through me, a way of doing it. I was young… twenty-three years old. What can an impetuous, vain, foolish girl know at that age?

We were fully aware of what would happen if the case were tried in Rome. The Pope would never dare give the verdict against Katharine. The Emperor would insist on that. To try the case in Rome was tantamount to saying that the verdict would be given against the King.

During the summer the Court made its journeys through the country. It was necessary for the King to show himself to the people, and these peregrinations had become a custom. Of course the Queen must be beside him to accompany him to all state ceremonies, and as a member of the Court I was there, too.

As we rode along, I wondered how much the people knew of what was no longer the King's Secret Matter. I was certain that the Queen would receive the sympathy and acclaim of the people wherever we went. And what of me? I was angry and frustrated. Again and again I raged within because I had not sought this in the beginning. It had been forced upon me. And yet I was held to blame.

The King was as devoted to me as ever, and spent as much time as possible with me. He had sent his emissaries to Rome but he was in no hurry for the case to be tried there, since the outcome would be inevitable. He wanted it delayed. He was ready to prevaricate with the Pope as the Pope had with him.

My character was such that when I was most anxious I gave way to an excess of gaiety. Perhaps there was an element of hysteria in my attitude. I used to wake up in the night from muddled dreams in which the fear that the King had abandoned me was prominent. That fear hung over me even when I woke up, and it could only be dispersed by his obvious passion for me. I heard it said that he was bewitched and seemed fit to go to any lengths to make me his Queen. Then my dreams seemed foolish, just shadows of the night; but the thought must have been in my mind to make me dream of it.

When the Court came to Tittenhanger, Henry actually went to Wolsey's place to visit him. When I heard, I was furious. And I let the King see my annoyance.

He said: “He is an old man, sweetheart. It was pitiful to see what good a little show of affection from me brought him.”

“He is no friend of mine,” I retorted. “He has ever worked against me.”

Henry said patiently: “The Emperor was the stumbling block. Wolsey would have freed me if it had been in his power to do so. But we were in conflict with the Emperor, and the Pope has about as much will power as a frightened chicken. Yes, Wolsey would have brought the matter to a satisfactory conclusion if it had been in his power.”

Mayhap, I thought—that the King might marry the Princess of France. Wolsey was determined to destroy me. I did not forget the incident of the book which George Zouch had stolen. He had hoped to deflate me in the eyes of the King and might have done me great harm if Henry had not been so besotted with me.

When we were at Grafton, a message came from Wolsey begging the King to receive him. He proposed to come with Cardinal Campeggio, who wished to take his leave of the King before departing.

It was from Suffolk that I had the news that the King had agreed to receive both Cardinals.

“It is a marvel to me,” said Suffolk, “that Wolsey dare show his face…Campeggio either. And a greater marvel that the King has sent word that he will receive them.”

I was angry, for the King had said nothing to me of the matter.

“I am going to teach both of them a lesson,” went on Suffolk. “I never liked Cardinals.”

“Nor I,” I answered.

“Wolsey will come to Court here at Grafton and he will discover that there is no apartment prepared for him. He will have to find his own lodgings.”

“That will be a great insult to his dignity.”

“As I intend,” said the Duke with a smile.

“And the other?”

“Master Campeggio? We must needs lodge him, I dareswear. But I have ordered that before he leaves this country his baggage shall be searched, for it would not surprise me if we should find there what does not belong to him.”

“That would be an even greater insult than Wolsey's.”

“I find a great delight in insulting Cardinals.”

I laughed with him. It was at the time when I thought he was my friend.

Wolsey arrived in somewhat humble state compared with the grandeur in which he had indulged previously. When I had talked to the King about my dislike and distrust of him, he had listened gravely and nodded. Suffolk and Norfolk believed that when the King saw him he would not speak to him and they were all looking forward to seeing the Cardinal's humiliation.

However, it was quite different from what they had imagined.

There were so many stories about Wolsey's villainies in circulation. It was true that he had amassed great riches. He was a perfect example of all the evils which Martin Luther had set out to condemn. He had lived in as great splendor as most monarchs. He had accumulated benefice after benefice. In addition to three bishoprics he held the most wealthy of the abbeys; as legate and chancellor he disposed of the entire patronage of the country. Any member of the Church—the richest abbot or the most needy priest—if he needed a license, had to pay Wolsey for it. Fees from wills and marriages were paid to him. He received pensions from abroad, for all knew his influence with the King. His wealth was enormous but, while he accumulated it, he posed as a man of God, in the service of the Master who had lived all His life in poverty and in the service of mankind. Wolsey served one master: Mammon, and Mammon was Wolsey.

I had reminded the King of all this and he appeared to listen. He had commented that Wolsey was richer than any subject ought to be.

With the others I was waiting for the Cardinal's reception by the King, who, I was sure now, was in a state of indignation against him.

I could scarcely believe my eyes. No sooner had the man come in— looking strained and ill—no sooner had he knelt before the King than Henry laid a hand on his shoulder and bade him rise.

“You look frail, Thomas,” I heard him say.

They looked at each other, and in the Cardinal's face there was a great joy because of the gentleness of the King's tone; Henry noticed this, and the soft and sentimental look came into his eyes and all the cruelty was gone from his little mouth, leaving it slack, as it had been so many times for me.

They talked together and I could see that the Cardinal's hopes were rising. He believed that if he could get past his enemies he could regain the King's favor.

The King received Campeggio somewhat coldly. He let him see that there was nothing for which he had to thank him.

Later, when I sat beside the King at dinner, I showed my displeasure at his treatment of Wolsey.

I reminded him of all that had come through the Cardinal's actions. He gave me that indulgent smile. I think he was not particularly interested in my words.

“How so, sweetheart?” he said idly.

I mentioned Wolsey's failure in the matter which was so important to us both.

“He was of the opinion that we could come to a satisfactory conclusion with ease. It is no blame to him that we did not.” I should have been warned—but I did not see warnings in those days—because he added: “I know this matter better than you or any.”

But I could not stop. “If any nobleman had done half of what he has done, he would be worthy to lose his head,” I said. “If my father, my lords Norfolk and Suffolk or any other noble person had done much less than he has, they would have lost their heads ere this.”

There was a certain coolness in his manner as he drew away from me. “I perceive,” he said, “that you are not the Cardinal's friend.”

He was showing clearly that the discourse displeased him and that I had forgotten that he was the King and I but a subject. It was he, though, who had made me forget that.

I added: “I have no cause, nor has any other that loves Your Grace, to be his friend…if you consider well his doings.”

His lips were pursed. The meal was over and he indicated that he wished to leave the table; after that he sent for Wolsey. They went into the King's privy chamber and there they talked for a long while.

I was very annoyed but there was nothing I could do.

Suffolk had kept his word, and there was no lodging available for Wolsey. Then I heard that Henry Norris had taken pity on him and given up his rooms that the Cardinal might have somewhere to sleep.

The King kept Wolsey with him and when he left told him they would continue their discussion the following morning.

I was filled with rage. It was clear to me that Henry had only to see the man to be beguiled by him. He was really concerned about his health. A few hours listening to him, I thought, and Wolsey would have regained his old ascendancy over the King.

It must not be.

Henry had talked to me about a deer park he wished to install in this area. We had looked at it on the previous day and he had said that before we left Grafton he would like to take a closer look at it.

That gave me an opportunity. Very early the following morning I went to him, full of excitement. I told him I had arranged an excursion with his pleasure in mind. We should ride out with a few of our very special friends and we should go to the site planned for the deer park. We should have a picnic there. It would be a very merry occasion.

The King was delighted. He very much enjoyed my making such arrangements and he could always be sure that the entertainment I devised would be amusing, for I gathered around me the people whose company most pleased him—my brother, Weston, Norris, Suffolk and the rest.

“There is one thing we must do,” I said, taking his arm and smiling up at him. “We shall have to leave very early or we shall not get there and back in the day. I insist that Your Grace is ready to leave within the hour.”

It worked. We assembled in the courtyard and were all ready to start when Wolsey arrived, so there was no time for anything but a brief exchange of words between him and the King.

The Cardinal knew, of course, that this was of my arranging. But there was now no point in disguising the fact that he and I were the bitterest of enemies.

In spite of that brief respite for Wolsey, it was clear that his days of greatness were numbered. His enemies rallied around—as enemies will—like hunting dogs at the kill, all eager to take a part in his destruction.

Perhaps there were some who acted from motives other than envy and the desire for revenge on one who had risen higher than they, for all their advantages, were able to do.

Lord Dacre of Templehurst was an ardent Catholic and one of Katharine's most faithful friends. He had fought with her father, Ferdinand, during the conquest of Granada and he was against Wolsey as he wished for a closer alliance with the Emperor, which Wolsey had opposed. Dacre pointed out that Wolsey had extracted sums of money from bishops, deans and all members of the clergy for benefits and had taken for himself the plate and riches of the abbeys. There was a long list of his sins but the most significant of all Dacre's charges against Wolsey was that of praemunire, which meant that he had resorted to a foreign jurisdiction in matters which should be settled in an English court. This was a serious charge, because it meant that Wolsey was accused of serving the Pope against the interests of his master the King.

The penalty for this offense was that the guilty man must relinquish all his lands and goods.

Wolsey, by this time, was so sick and ill that I imagine all he wished for was peace. He knew his great career was over and was too feeble to want to fight; moreover his enemies were too numerous. I believe he thought I was the greatest of them and he blamed me for his fall. He referred to me as “that night crow who hath the King's ear.” He knew very well what the King's feelings were for me; he probably looked back and saw his mistakes. If he had placated me in the beginning, if he had worked for me and not against me, this would not have come to pass. With me he could have withstood those bitter enemies—Norfolk, Suf-folk and the rest who could not bear to see a man so low rise so high above them. If Wolsey had had a little more insight into human nature…But even he had failed in that.

So Wolsey resigned the Great Seal and left his beloved York Place forever—as he had earlier left Hampton Court.

Poor Wolsey! I felt pity for him now—and then, in my heedless way, I rejoiced in his fall.

As soon as he had left York Place, the King and I went together to inspect it. We were overcome with amazement by the treasures he had accumulated.

Henry's eyes glistened with acquisitive pleasure, and I remembered how he had taken possession of Hampton Court.

“How did the man gather together so much riches?” he demanded.

“Lord Dacre has an answer to that,” I retorted.

Henry nodded. This time he did not defend Wolsey, and together we went through the rooms gloating over the treasure which was now the King's.

But in spite of Wolsey's decline we were no nearer our goal. We continued to be alternately frustrated and hopeful.

Eustace Chapuys had arrived in England to take the place vacated by Mendoza. Like most ambassadors he was a spy for his master. He was clearly very astute and had no doubt been selected with care by the Emperor as a man with those very special qualities needed in a situation such as that which persisted at the Court of England.

Wolsey's loss of power meant a reshuffle of important positions. Wolsey had been in sole command. Now the King was his own First Minister, the Duke of Norfolk President of the Council, with Suffolk Vice President, and Sir Thomas More Lord Chancellor. The King announced that he intended to rule with Parliament to advise him.

It was turning out in the way which the Dukes of Norfolk and Suf-folk had wished, though they would have preferred to impeach Wolsey and send him to trial for High Treason. The Commons were less vindictive, largely because of a certain Thomas Cromwell who was vehement in his support of the Cardinal.

I think that was the first time the King noticed Cromwell. He was a man of very humble beginnings, the son of a blacksmith who must have been a very energetic man as he was also a fuller and a shearer of sheep, besides keeping a hostelry and a brewhouse. Thomas Cromwell was to play a big part in our story, and I learned a good deal about him later.

He had been wild in his youth and had even spent a time in prison— though I did not know this at the time. It is only when people attain power that there is an interest in their origins, and if they are in any way disreputable, this fact is triumphantly brought to light and even exaggerated. After serving his sentence he went abroad and was in the French army for a while. Then he returned to England and married the daughter of a shearman determined, some said, to remind everyone of his beginnings. He became a successful businessman and moneylender; he was clever, shrewd, quick-witted and witty, and in due course he was noticed by Wolsey, who liked to recruit clever people to his service. There was no doubt of Cromwell's cleverness, and Wolsey was quick to make use of it, rewarding him and teaching him a great deal—for which Cromwell was grateful.

He became—doubtless through Wolsey's influence—member of Parliament for Taunton; thus, when Wolsey's case was brought forward, he was present in the House and he defended his old master with courage and determination to prove him innocent and avoid the accusation of traitor.

Whether he saw his own ambitions—which depended so much on Wolsey's favor—fading, or whether he acted out of loyalty to his old patron, I was not sure. But with everyone ready to attack the fallen man, his action was a brave one.

The King noticed it and approved. I think Henry had decided he was going to pardon Wolsey whatever verdict was reached. But it was Cromwell's speech which decided the Commons’ vote against impeachment.

So there was Wolsey—a broken man, robbed of almost all his vast possessions, but still free.

In spite of the fact that he had been my enemy and was no longer in a position to harm me, the situation had changed little.

It was true that I was at Court, where I lived in great state. I had my dressmakers working for me; I had the most exquisite materials sent to me by the leading mercers; my clothes, designed by myself, were a legend; but I had to keep changing the fashion because I was imitated to such an extent that, if I appeared in a new style of gown, a week later most of the ladies at Court would be wearing a similar one.

People paid homage to me. I was the acknowledged queen of the Court. But I was not Queen of England, and Katharine was there, a shadowy third to spoil my pleasure.

Moreover the strain of holding Henry off was great. I was in a state of bitter uncertainty as to whether or not it would be better to give way, fearful that if I did he might come the conclusion that Anne Boleyn was just like any other woman in the dark, and if I did not, would he grow tired of waiting? How long could I keep him at bay? I allowed certain intimate caresses. I was torn between my love of adulation and my fear of losing it. Of course I knew that those who flattered me today would be the first to attack me if I were brought low. I should have looked upon Wolsey's case as an example, but I am afraid I did not think of him very much now that he was out of my way. Most of the time I was too sure of myself, possessed as I was of that mysterious allure, the essence of which was my aloofness—so different from my sister Mary. I was a heedless girl in those days—but all the same I was becoming aware of the passing of time.

Another year was almost over and I was no nearer to becoming Queen in reality than I had been four years ago.

I had always been of a quick temper. My stepmother had constantly told me to guard it—especially in my precarious position. But when it flared up, I could not restrain it; and I was at this time under great pressure.

Henry had for some time given up sleeping in Katharine's bed. He had declared that, as he believed he was not really married to her, cohabitation must cease. His conscience would not allow him to continue to sleep with her, as it would be committing a sin. For some time they had occupied the big state bed, she at one end, he at the other—so he told me—but now he thought it wise that they should not share that bed.

I remember that November day—a dreary day with a heavy mist which seeped into the room and somehow added to my depression and the feeling that this matter would not be resolved.

Royalty is rarely ever alone, and there is always someone in attendance to report what is done and said. Only in bed at night do they have any sort of privacy, and then there are servants who, though they are not actually present, are aware of what is going on.

Henry had dined with Katharine and came to me afterward. He was looking glum and I asked him what ailed him.

“Katharine!” he said. “How that woman plagues me! Now she is reproaching me because I do not share her bed.”

“So … she misses you,” I said.

“By God's Holy Mother, she thinks of what she calls her rights. I told her that I was not her legal husband and therefore I cannot share her bed.”

“And she, being such a pious lady, doubtless agreed with you.”

“She would not leave it at that. She accused me of not daring to have the case tried before an unprejudiced court. She said that, for every one I could find to decide in my favor, she would find a thousand to declare that our marriage was a good one and indissoluble.”

I was amazed and apprehensive that he had allowed the discussion to go so far with her. I thought: We shall never defeat that woman. She will always win. And how could he allow her to speak to him thus? It showed that in spite of everything he was still in awe of her.

“I can see,” I said, “that she will always better you in argument. One day you will listen to her reasoning and cast me off.”

“Never,” he declared vehemently.

“I have waited for so long,” I said. “I might have been married by now. I might have had children, which is the greatest consolation in the world. But alas, farewell to my time and my youth… spent to no purpose.”

I stood up then and left.

Unfortunately one of Chapuys's spies overheard the scene between us and reported it to that cynical man, who in turn at once sent an account of it to his master.

I believe at that time they all thought that Henry would soon grow weary of the matter—as I so clearly was.

My words had had a particular effect on Henry, especially my reference to marriage. He knew that there were many men at Court who wanted to marry me. In fact, I thought sometimes that the King's unswerving devotion to me was fostered by the effect he saw I had on other men at Court. He was terrified of losing me. The desire for the divorce had become a passion with him—whether entirely due to his desire for me or because of that obstinacy in his nature which would not be denied, I was not sure. But his determination was fierce.

To placate me, he gave my father the title of Earl of Wiltshire. Thus George became Lord Rochford, and I was the Lady Anne Rochford. It increased our status considerably.

This was a settlement of that old matter concerning Piers Butler which was to have been brought about by my marriage to James Butler and which had so suddenly—seemingly without reason—been broken off. As a result, for years there had been a dispute about the earldom between Piers Butler and my father. Henry had kept the matter in abeyance. He did not want to offend me by disappointing my father of his hopes; but on the other hand Piers Butler was very useful to him in Ireland. Now Henry made the sudden decision that my father should have the title. Butler was given certain lands in Ireland to console him; and the matter was peacefully settled, for over in remote Ireland Piers Butler would know how important the Boleyns had become to the King.

Looking back over that year, I had to admit I had my triumphs—the chief of which had been the downfall of Wolsey. Campeggio had left, but before he went he had been submitted to the indignity of having his luggage searched, which upset him greatly, though nothing was found in his bags which should not lawfully be there. He complained bitterly to the King that this was a violation of his privilege as an ambassador. The King retorted sharply that there was no breach of etiquette on our part. The Cardinal had ceased to be a legate when he had revoked the case. However, he did think it wise to send an apology, which placated Campeggio.

Another uneasy year had started.

In January my father was created Lord Privy Seal. The King said to me: “I think it would be a good idea to send your father to the Emperor. None knows the case better than he, and he has been a very successful ambassador on other occasions.”

I agreed. We must have been foolish to have acted in such a way. My father was the last person we should have sent. Perhaps we were getting so frantic that we did not pay enough attention to our actions.

However, we soon learned our mistake.

Sly Chapuys came to see the King. I was present, as I often was, for I saw no reason why I should leave the King when something so vital to me was being discussed.

Chapuys said he had had a special message from the Emperor. Very soon the Earl of Wiltshire would be returning. The Emperor was surprised that His Grace had sent one to plead a cause of which he was an interested party.

“It is my master's view that the matter should be tried in Rome, without delay.”

Henry was furious; he dismissed Chapuys, who went away with a secret, smug smile on his face which I loathed.

My father returned. He said that, before he had time to deliver his prepared speech, the Emperor had cut him short and declined to listen to “one who had a personal interest in the outcome.”

“So I heard from that snake Chapuys,” cried Henry. “The Emperor is determined to flout me. He wants the case tried in Rome, and we all know what that means.”

The next day there was a communication from the Pope. When Henry read it his face was scarlet, and his eyes blazed with wrath.

“Look at this, I… I am summoned to appear before the Rota in Rome. How dare they! Do they forget who I am?”

“He does it to degrade you,” I said.

Henry read on, his eyes narrowing.

“A pox take the fellow! Do you see what he hints here? I must return to Katharine or run the risk of excommunication.”

I do not think my spirits had ever been so low as they were on that occasion. I saw the fear in Henry's face. He was still sufficiently under the influence of Rome to dread that threat.

“He would not dare,” I said.

“He has the Emperor behind him.”

“He has always had the Emperor behind him. That is the reason why we are as we are.”

“Excommunication,” murmured Henry. I knew what he was thinking. There had been one occasion when a King of England had suffered this at the hands of a Pope. It had plunged the country into tumult; indeed, it had been one of the most disastrous periods of King John's disastrous reign. Although the new religion which had been started by men like Martin Luther and William Tyndale was being discussed with interest throughout the country, there were still many who regarded the Pope as the Vicar of Christ and who might well turn against the King if that dreaded sentence were carried out.

I feared that even for me the King would not lay himself open to a threat of excommunication.

I said boldly: “So the Pope is still your master.”

He clenched his fist. “Marry, God forbid it,” he said. “I'll not endure this. There must be a way out, Anne. I swear I'll find it.”

I put my arms about his neck and held him closely to me.

“Yes,” I said, “we'll find a way. You'll ignore this threat?”

He nodded. “They must come up with an answer soon.”

Would they? I wondered. Was there an answer? My uneasiness was increasing hourly.

For a time no more was said of the possibility of excommunication. It may have been that the Pope's agents, who were everywhere and would have a good idea of the state of affairs throughout Europe, realized that, if the King were cut off from Rome through excommunication, he might turn to Lutherism. These ideas were spreading with a speed which must have seemed alarming. Books might be banned but that did not prevent their being smuggled into various countries. Although the King had always supported the religion of Rome—was he not Defender of the Faith?— he was adamant about this matter of the divorce, and excommunication in the circumstances could be a double-edged weapon.

As an act of defiance he took me everywhere with him. Sometimes I rode beside him, my horse caparisoned in royal fashion; I even rode pillion with him.

I shall always remember riding through the sullen crowds as we came into London. The people did not cheer him, because I was with him. A man shouted an insult to me and the King ordered his arrest.

He had always enjoyed the people's acclaim and never lost sight of its importance; he had always gone to great lengths to seek popularity; but at the same time they must know who was master; and if he wanted to ride into his capital with me sharing his horse he would do so.

But he did not like it; nor did I… perhaps less than he did. It struck fear into my heart. He might wake up to the fact that it was I who was turning his people's love away from him. The years were passing. I was getting older. How long? I continually asked myself. How long?

Wolsey was still a source of anxiety. I could quite well imagine his returning to power. If the King were to repudiate me… then everything would be as it had been before… friendship with the Pope and the Emperor. And the divorce—for Henry was bent on that? As well as his obsession with me was that of getting a male child, which he believed he could never do with Katharine. Then Wolsey would negotiate marriage with some foreign princess, and Anne Boleyn could fend for herself. That was a continual nightmare, even though the King showed no sign of swerving from his devotion to me; but it was there, a niggling thought at the back of my mind even when I was riding in pomp beside him.

I knew that Henry thought of Wolsey often, and he was well aware how I hated and distrusted the Cardinal; but Sir Henry Norris, who was my very good friend, told me that, when Norfolk and Suffolk had taken the Great Seal from Wolsey and found much pleasure in doing so, Wolsey had been ordered to Esher.

He took his barge to Putney, from where he would go by mule to Esher; and thinking of him, the King was overcome with pity, for he knew that Wolsey's enemies would be assembled to jeer at him on his way.

So the King called Norris to him and gave him a ring which contained a rich ruby. Wolsey would know the ring well, for he had seen it on the King's finger. Norris was to give the ring to Wolsey and tell him to be of good cheer, and wear it for love of the King.

Norris, telling me, said: “It was a most affecting scene. Wolsey was like a man reprieved from the scaffold. I shall never forget his face when he saw the King's ring. I do believe he thought that his troubles were over. He believed that, if only he could get to the King, talk to him, explain so much to him, tell him that all his wealth had been accumulated that he might leave it to the King, all would be well.”

Norris went on: “He took a chain and cross from his neck and gave it to me. ‘Take this from my hand, good Norris,’ he said. I was deeply touched,as any man must be to see this once-great man now brought low, and hope come flowing back because of the kindness of the King. The King truly loved Wolsey. So did Comus, Wolsey's Fool. Comus was one of the best of Fools. One could be sure Wolsey would have the best of everything. He said to me then, ‘Take my Fool and give him into the King's care. Tell him I loved the man and mayhap that will endear him to the Fool.’ Then he said to Comus, ‘Come here, Fool. You are to have a place at Court.’ And do you know, the man begged Wolsey not to send him. He wanted to stay with his master. He wanted no other … not even the King.”

“You speak most affectingly of him, Sir Henry,” I said.

“It was a scene never to be forgotten. The Fool would not go and Wolsey called several yeomen to drag him away. I felt I was taking away a man in chains. And I said farewell to Wolsey and he went on to Esher.”

“Where I believe he found no warm welcome waiting for him.”

“A cold house without furniture…or plate or goblets. Poor Wolsey! How are the mighty fallen!”

And, I thought, so must he remain.

That Christmas the Cardinal was very ill.

I remember the news being brought to Henry when I was with him. Norris told him and I saw the concern in the King's face. Perhaps he felt a twinge of that conscience which was ever ready to be aroused—though usually at his bidding. However, this was a genuine twinge.

“How sick is he, Norris?” he asked.

“They say sick unto death.”

“I will send Dr. Butts to him without delay.”

This he did, and when Dr. Butts returned, he summoned him and wanted to know how the Cardinal fared.

“Tell me,” he said, “have you seen yonder man?”

“I have, Your Grace.”

“And how do you like him?”

“Your Grace, if you will have him dead, I warrant you that he will be dead in four days if he does not receive comfort from you.”

“Marry, God forbid that he should die,” cried Henry. “I would not lose him for £20,000.”

“Then must Your Grace send him some comforting message.”

“That I will do by you, good Butts.” He took a ring from his finger. “He will know this ring,” he went on, “for he gave it to me. Tell him that I am not offended with him in my heart for anything and bid him be of good cheer.”

“That will I do, Your Grace, and great good will it do him.” Dr. Butts looked at me significantly. Wolsey had probably told him that I was his enemy and that it was due to me that he had been brought low.

Henry intercepted the glance and understood it. “Good sweetheart,” he said, “As you love me, send the Cardinal a token at my request, and so doing you shall deserve our thanks.”

There was nothing I could do but obey when the King was in such a mood, so I unlinked a gold tablet which I wore at my waist and gave it to Dr. Butts and asked him to convey my wishes to the Cardinal for a speedy recovery.

The King's eyes were glistening with sentiment. He took my hand and kissed it.

And Dr. Butts went back to Wolsey with the tokens.

They were evidently effective, for within a few days Wolsey had left his bed.

I could see no way out of the maze in which we were caught up. Things grew worse instead of better.

Clement and the Emperor were now on good terms. Peace had been reached; the Pope was back in Rome; and Charles had received the crown of the Holy Roman Empire which was a symbol of unity between the Church and the States of Europe.

It was clear to me that we were never going to get papal approval for the divorce.

Then came a glimmer of hope from an unexpected quarter.

Henry's two chief agents who had been working assiduously for a settlement—his secretary Gardiner and his almoner Fox—happened to be staying at the house of a certain Mr. Cressy at Waltham Abbey. Mr. Cressy had two sons, both scholars who had been at the university with a certain Thomas Cranmer, and this Cranmer happened to be staying at the Cressys’ house, on a visit to his friends.

Cranmer was a man of about forty. We learned that he was a brilliant scholar who had taken degrees of B.A. and M.A. with great distinction and had become a fellow of Jesus College. He married, and this could have called a halt to his career at the college, but so that this should not be unduly interrupted, he sent his wife to live at an inn in Cambridge which was run by a relative of hers. There he used to go to see her until, about a year after the marriage, she died in childbirth. He was then re-elected to a fellowship. So, unencumbered, his career progressed and he was at this time one of the university's public examiners in Theology. It was only to be expected that, on the arrival of Gardiner and Fox, there should be a great deal of lively conversation, and the topic which was uppermost in the minds of most people at this time was the divorce.

Few men knew as much about this intricate matter as Gardiner and Fox, and Cranmer listened intently to what they had to say.

“There will be a very long delay if the King pursues this matter through the courts of Rome,” said Cranmer.

I could imagine the scene. The two men who had traveled extensively and talked endlessly in this search for a solution, to be confronted by a fellow who could not know very much about the affair.

“What the King needs,” went on Cranmer, “is sufficient assurance that his marriage is invalid—notwithstanding the dispensation. He then might take the responsibility of marrying again at once. He ought therefore to take the opinions of the divines of the universities and act accordingly.”

The two agents looked at him incredulously.

“To act against the Emperor!”

“As I see it,” said Cranmer, “the King does not need Rome. He just needs the assurance of the divines that his marriage is invalid.”

“You take a simple view of a complicated matter,” said Fox.

“The solution to most matters is found to be simple when one knows what it is,” replied Cranmer with a smile.

Then the matter was apparently dropped, but both Gardiner and Fox pondered what Cranmer had said and when they were next in the company of the King they mentioned it to him.

I was present at the time, so I saw what effect those words had on the King.

He was quiet for a second or two; then he crashed his fist down on the table. “By God,” he cried, “that man hath the right sow by the ear!” He turned to Fox and Gardiner. “Where is he? Bring him to me. I would see him without delay.”

Within hours Thomas Cranmer was at Greenwich.

The King talked for a long time with him and his mood changed. He saw hope through Thomas Cranmer.

Cranmer was made much of and taken into my father's household, where he was given a very comfortable apartment. He was to write a treatise on the matter and then to return to Cambridge to give a lecture in which he would persuade the learned divines to give their vote in the King's favor.

There followed months of preparations. It was necessary that the divines, not only in England but in the whole of Europe, should give the right answer. This involved a great deal of money for the expenses of journeys and also for bribes and promises of favors to come.

All through those months Henry labored. He was sure that we were working in the right direction now. If he could get the approval of the divines, he would dispense with that of the Pope.

Finally he had all the information he needed. He summoned the clergy and the nobles; he wanted their seal on the document he was sending to the Pope. It was amazing that some of them had the courage to refuse. There was Bishop Fisher and Sir Thomas More among the leaders of the opposition. If the King married without the approval of the Pope, they pointed out, the succession would be in danger.

If they did not agree, thundered Henry, he would find some other form of redress.

They were uneasy. I knew what the King had in mind. There was that man who had recently come into prominence—a very clever and artful fellow—a man of the people whom the King heartily disliked personally but who, he had to admit, had clever ideas. This was, of course, Thomas Cromwell—said to be the son of a blacksmith, who had risen high through his cunning. He had made an extraordinary suggestion which Henry could not forget. Since the Pope would not grant what the King wanted, why did not Henry make himself Head of the Church of England, which would mean that he could have his own way in the matter of the divorce—besides bringing many other advantages with it. Why this adherence to the Pope, a foreigner? It was obvious that the Pope regarded himself as the King's master. Had he not recently summoned him to Rome?

Henry had been obsessed with the idea ever since he heard it.

And now he was incensed because some members of the clergy and the nobility hesitated to sign his petition to the Pope.

They wanted discussion on the matter, they said.

“Delay, delay,” cried Henry. “Procrastination. By God's Holy Mother, I have had enough of it.”

He knew that their talk of discussion was just another example of those delaying tactics which was the method of all who feared to bring the matter to a conclusion.

He sent commissioners to the houses of all those who hesitated over giving their signatures, and it was made known to these dilatory men that if they did not sign they would lose the King's favor.

In time this method produced the required result, and the petition was dispatched to Rome, where it lay neglected for some time.

I could not see why Henry and I should not be married as the divines had declared the marriage to Katharine invalid. Why should we wait for the sanction of the Pope? Was not the reason for this that we should act without him?

But Henry's fear was not so much of the Pope as of the Emperor Charles. If he were faced with war through this matter, he would have lost the love of his people.

He was torn between his inclinations as a man and a king.

So the weary waiting went on.

I was getting very tired of it all, and sometimes I thought with yearning of Hever. But how long would the peace of the countryside keep me happy? I had tasted power. I wanted power. I wanted adulation, grandeur and all the accoutrements of royalty. It was to be my consolation for losing the love and marriage which I had planned. Looking back now, I believe I romanticized my relationship with Henry Percy. I had made it into an ideal. Would our marriage—if it had taken place—have been like that? Should I have tired of that windswept castle? Would I have found Percy's gentleness insipid? On the other hand, here before me was grandeur such as, in those days, I could never have imagined would be mine. The King adored me; he would set me up beside him. I was different from all the other women at Court; and because of this I should be the Queen of England.

How foolish to dream of the green fields of Hever! What I wanted was the cloth of gold, the diamonds, the rubies, the homage, given to the power behind the throne.

I was so young and heedless. I had thought because Norfolk and Suf-folk had supported me and, with my father and brother, had been my strongest adherents, they were truly my friends.

How could I have been so foolish, how so simple!

What they had planned for—I know now—was the downfall of Wolsey, and they had seen that I could be of help in this. Now that Wolsey could not rise again, my usefulness to them was over.

The King was in a sullen mood; he was studying me speculatively and I could see that he was suppressing some secret emotion.

I felt a twinge of fear. I had so often thought that the day might come when he would be tired of waiting. It would be understandable, for indeed this patient fidelity of his had amazed me in a man of his sexual appetites. There was something miraculous about it. Sorcery, on my part, thought some; true love, a respect for purity, thought others. I sometimes wondered whether it was because he had passed his first youth. He was thirty-nine years of age. But always in my thoughts had been the fear that I could not hold him off forever.

Now he was seriously disturbed and displeased …with me.

I asked: “Is Your Grace not feeling well?”

His answer was: “I never forget Wyatt and that tablet of yours.”

Wyatt! But Wyatt had been away from Court for a long time. I had rarely seen him since he departed after the affair of the tablet. He had been having an adventurous time and I only heard news of him through his sister Mary. He had left the Papal Court to which he had traveled with Sir John Russell and had wandered through Italy to Ferrara, Bologna and Florence, and to Venice where he had been engaged in some diplomatic work in conjunction with Russell. Traveling from Venice to Rome, he had been captured by the Emperor's troops, and a ransom had been demanded. The adventurous Wyatt, however, escaped, after which he came back to England but only briefly. Henry did not wish him to remain and he was given the post of High Marshal of Calais, where he spent most of his time.

“But I explained to you that he snatched the tablet from me and refused to give it back,” I said.

He must have been on friendly terms with you to do such a thing,” retorted Henry coldly.

“What nonsense is all this!” I was frightened so I went into the attack, dispensing with that ceremony with which even I was expected to address him. “The Wyatts were my family's neighbors, in both Kent and Norfolk. We have known each other since we were children.”

“All the more reason…”

“All the more reason for what?”

He took me by the shoulders and looked into my face. “Wyatt was your lover,” he said.

“He declared himself in love with me, if that is what you mean. Many have declared themselves to be so. Why pick on Wyatt?”

“Tell me the truth.”

“The truth is that no one has been my lover in the sense that you imply; nor shall any man be. My virtue is for my husband.” I could see that slack look coming back into his face, so I whipped up my anger. “I see that you have some doubt. Mayhap you have been listening to those who would slander me. I will not remain here to be so treated. I shall go home at once. I will not stay where my word is doubted.”

“Anne… Anne…you are so impetuous…so quick to anger…”

“And so would you be, my lord, if you were doubted by the one in whom you had placed the most trust.”

He said: “The waiting is too long. It unnerves me.”

“I know, I know. But we have the remedy. The divines have supported you. Cromwell believes you can do without the Pope. Yet you continue to bow the knee to him and at the same time you believe calumnies about me. And that is something I will not endure.”

“It was false… that story of Wyatt? But he is an attractive fellow and I have seen you two together.”

“What would you have me do? Say to him, ‘Go away, old friend and neighbor. The King has forbidden me to speak to you.’ No …no…I see that this waiting is wearying you and you must seek excuses to be rid of me. There is no need, my lord. If I am not wanted, I am ready to go.”

He held me close to him. Inwardly I was exultant, while I assumed anger. I could command him. His love for me was not to be destroyed by scandals which my enemies sought to circulate about me.

“I believe you,” he said. “I would always believe you. It is sometimes hard to accept the fact that one so beautiful…so different from the rest…”

“You must believe me, Henry,” I said firmly. “If you do not, I must go.”

“Never even speak of it.”

“I must…if youwish to be rid ofme.”

“By God's Holy Mother, did you ever believe that?”

“Sometimes I do not know what to believe. The divines have declared your marriage invalid, yet you hold back. You are afraid of Katharine.”

“Her nephew is the most powerful man in Europe. I cannot risk offending him. The Pope!” He snapped his fingers. “Vacillating Clement… swaying in the wind…I will, I won't …What do I care for him?”

“The new religion sets out the wrongs of the Church of Rome.”

“I do not question the Church itself—only its leaders.”

“But the leaders are the Church.”

“Nay,” said the King. “I am as fervent a Christian as any man.”

“So can you be without adhering to the Church of Rome. What did Cromwell say: ‘Why should you not be the head of your Church…the Church of England?’”

“These are weighty matters, Anne, and I, at the moment, am most concerned about what I heard of you and Wyatt.”

“I would know who has whispered this slander to you.”

“I should not tell you.”

“But you will, Henry. I must know who it is who spreads lies about me.”

“I should not have troubled you. Suffice it that I believe the rumor to be false.”

“It does not suffice for me. I must know the names of those who have said this of me.”

“I do not believe the man.”

“So it was a man.”

“Let it be, Anne. It is you I believe. It is you I love. It is you whom I will make my Queen.”

“This can never be if you do not trust me, and if you refuse to tell me the name of my slanderer, I shall know you do not.”

“Anne, if it had not been someone close to me, one whom I love as a brother, I should have cuffed him and threatened him with my displeasure.”

So it was someone close to him! My heart was beating fast. It was not just something which had been whispered in the streets. Someone in a high place had actually come to him and told him this.

It was imperative that I knew who.

“But you believed him …”

“Only until you assured me. Oh, Anne, how I longed for that reassurance.”

“Henry,” I said seriously, “it cannot be as it was between us if you do not trust me. Who was it?”

He hesitated for a moment. Then he said: “It was Suffolk.”

Suffolk! The Duke who, with Norfolk and my father, had appeared to be my strongest adherent. His wife had come to hate me, although she had been friendly toward me long ago in France. She could not forget that once I had been her maid of honor and would—if all went well— soon take precedence over her. She was only the King's sister; I should be his Queen. She, at least, had been open in her resentment; he, the traitor, the sly schemer, had feigned support just until I had helped to bring about the fall of Wolsey, and now he was seeking to bring me to mine.

“Suffolk!” I cried. “Then I must indeed leave Court.”

“Assuredly not. You cannot go.”

“The Duke of Suffolk is your brother-in-law and one of Your Grace's greatest friends. I know how you enjoy his company. I cannot ask you to deprive yourself of it; but that means you must be deprived of mine.”

“Anne, I'll speak to Suffolk. I'll tell him he was wrong. An apology…he shall apologize.”

I shook my head. “I do not trust him. He is a liar. He thinks as his wife, your sister, and resents my presence here. It is better for me to go. Let us have an end of this matter.”

“An end! What do you say, Anne?”

“I say that we have the approval of the divines; we have Cromwell's solution; but still we remain in this state. And you listen to the lies of your dear friend…your brother-in-law, whom I now know to be my enemy and who will not cease to pour poison in your ear concerning me. I cannot remain at Court while Suffolk is here.”

He sought to pacify me. I felt my power over him then. I had to show Suffolk that I would not allow him to go unpunished. As the King embraced me, I held aloof.

“I must leave,” I said.

“Nay, nay sweetheart. Suffolk shall go. He shall be banished from Court.”

“When?” I asked.

“This very day.”

This was victory. Suffolk would learn his lesson.

I was triumphant, but I felt exhausted and very uneasy.

I was surrounded by enemies. Norfolk had never really been appreciative of the fact that I was bringing great glory to the family. It seemed ironic that the Boleyns, whom the Norfolks had always resented, should be the ones to find such favor with the King. My father must now be one of the richest men in the country; George was rising; Mary remained in obscurity, but then that was Mary's own fault and probably her desire; she was unlike the rest of us, completely without ambition. The Suffolks were now my declared enemies. Perhaps I should have been more wary of them than I was. After all, Charles Brandon had always been, from the early days, a great favorite with the King, and there was no doubt that Henry loved his sister. So they were very powerful enemies.

It was impossible to keep news from seeping out. The whole country knew about the verdict of the ecclesiastical courts, and there were even whispers that there might be a break with Rome. People had been used to the old ways for centuries. Many did not like change but there were some who were becoming imbued with the new ideas. This was something quite different. The proposal was not that the religion should change in any way, only that the head of the Church in England should be the King and not the Pope.

Garbled versions of what was actually happening circulated. I was at the center of the controversy, it was said. This was true in a way, for but for me the matter would never have been raised, or would it? Partly it was due to the King's obsession with me and the fact that I would not become his mistress and held out for marriage; but on the other hand he desperately needed a male heir and it was clear that Katharine could not give him that. His continual complaint was: I need an heir. The country needs an heir… and that heir must be male.

If his wife had been anyone but aunt of the Emperor, the matter would have been settled long ago.

And now there was this mighty controversy for which I was blamed. I was a witch. I was a sorceress. I was an emissary of the Devil.

If only I could tell them that I had been drawn into this affair unwillingly at first. I had been robbed of my chance of happiness and because of that I had become ambitious.

Yet, I was the scapegoat. It could be terrifying at times. I was afraid to ride through the streets. They shouted after me. They called me lewd names.

Once, when I was supping with the King, a messenger came in haste to say that a crowd of people were assembled at the stairs waiting for me to leave.

“Your Grace, they look murderous to me,” said the servant.

Henry was angry. He hated little so much as these displays of the people.

I had to leave in haste by a side door and not take the barge. It was disconcerting.

I heard everywhere: “We'll not have Nan Bullen.”

I thought: We cannot go on like this. Something must happen soon.

I had my family and a few good friends like Norris, Weston, Brereton. George was the one I could truly trust. My father was growing uneasy. He was aware of the storms about me. He had so much relished the promotion and the way in which the money was rolling into his coffers. He was not particularly grateful to me; it was the Boleyn tradition, he believed, that the daughters should build up the family fortunes. I was only following along that road in a more spectacular way than my predecessors.

I read a good deal and was getting more and more interested in the new ideas. I always had a book near me so that, if I had any spare time, I could pass it in reading.

One day I found a book on the table which I had not seen before. It was a kind of almanac, a book of prophecies. I was always amused to leaf through such books. I even remembered some of the prophecies and took an interest in seeing whether they came true. I opened the book. There was a picture of the King. He was standing, and, kneeling at his feet, was the Queen. She was wringing her hands. It was clearly meant to portray the recent trial.

I turned a page and caught my breath in horror. There was a picture of a woman, and I knew at a glance whom it was meant to depict. There were the hanging sleeves; the sixth nail was visible, though it looked like an extra finger. The woman had no head on her shoulders. The head— unmistakably mine—was lying on the floor; the hair was like black snakes, and on it was a crown.

This was meant to be a prophecy, and after the manner of such was told in pictures. What it meant was that, if ever I attained the crown, I should have to pay for it with my head.

I was shaken. I knew of the enmity which surrounded me, of course, but that anyone should have gone so far as this was a great shock.

I sat back in my chair. One of my attendants came in. She was a pleasant girl named Nan Saville.

I called her. “Nan,” I said, “did you put this book here?”

She stared at it in astonishment. “No, my lady, I have never seen it before.”

“It is a book of prophecies,” I told her.

“Oh, I know the sort of thing, my lady.”

“I don't think you know this. Just look. Here is the King and here the Queen wringing her hands.”

“’ Tis a fair likeness, my lady.”

I turned the page. “And this?”

Nan gave a little scream and put her hand over her mouth to suppress it.

“You know who this is, Nan.”

“My…mylady. It …it is… horrible.”

“Yes, it is, is it not? It is meant to warn me.”

“Oh, my lady, if ever I thought that was to come to pass, I would not have him though he were an emperor.”

“It is only a book. Take it away. Burn it. Don't show it to anyone. It is just a bauble. Nan, I am resolved to have him that my issue shall be royal.”

“But, my lady …” She touched her neck.

“Whatever becomes of me, Nan, I shall be Queen of England.”

I think I disguised my disquiet from Nan Saville. She took the book away and I never saw it again.

I did not mention the book to the King. I wondered if anyone had shown it to him. That was hardly likely. He would have had inquiries made, and the publisher and printer would have been brought to trial and probably lost their right hands for producing such a book.

Then one day I saw that Suffolk had returned to Court. He had been forgiven. The King was lenient with those who amused him. Suffolk had been his companion for so long; they were alike in many ways.

I was about to protest but a flash of caution came to me. The King hated to be without Suffolk, and he could not remain for long on unfriendly terms with his sister. So I said nothing.

I was cool to Suffolk and ignored his attempts to behave as though nothing had happened.

My uneasiness was increasing.

The Cardinal was still on our minds. I knew that on the least pretext Henry would reinstate him. He would never have his old power, nor would he regain his possessions—the King loved York Place and Hampton Court too much to part with them—but Henry's affection for the Cardinal had gone deep and he did not forget it.

Although at times Henry appeared to be childish—as in those disguising games which he loved to play and in deceiving himself that what he wanted to believe was the truth—as I have said he was a man of conflicting characteristics. He was romantic and sentimental; he was something of a scholar. He had governed his kingdom with a shrewdness which had aroused the envy of François, who, at the time of the Field of the Cloth of Gold, had been inclined to have a certain contempt for his naïveté. Henry was complex, and I had to remember that he was all-powerful and could, if he so wished, exert that power over his subjects. True, he had to consider the will of other rulers and that was galling for him. But he was our monarch and I must not forget that he had complete power over us.

He was fair enough to accept that what had happened over the divorce negotiations was not Wolsey's fault. Wolsey had wanted the divorce but marriage into France; and that was reasonable. It was the Pope and the Emperor who were the reason for Henry's frustration, not Wolsey. I was sure that Henry was remembering the past and all the good Wolsey had done for him and the country.

So the situation with Wolsey was fraught with danger. If he came back, if he ever had the King's confidence again, he would remember his enemies.

So it was necessary for Wolsey's fall to be complete. We had all expected him to die early in the year, and so he would have but for the King's leniency which had given him so much comfort; and Henry's physician had supplied physical help.

So …the years of frustration continued and Wolsey was still with us.

Neither Norfolk nor Suffolk would allow matters to stand still. They sought evidence against Wolsey.

Norfolk claimed to have wrung an admission from Wolsey's Italian physician, Dr. Augustine, that at the time the Cardinal was persuading François to write to the Pope asking him to favor the divorce, he was urging the Pope to excommunicate the King if he married Anne Boleyn.

This was outright treachery. Norfolk pretended to be deeply shocked by Augustine's revelation; he had the doctor brought to London in a most humiliating fashion—with his legs tied under his horse, as prisoners were carried.

However, when Augustine arrived at the Duke's residence, he was given spacious quarters and lived there in some comfort.

During the year Wolsey had been traveling north, and it was discomfiting to hear how the people came out to cheer him. It was ironic that during the days of his prosperity they had loathed him, called him “the butcher's cur” and blamed him for the taxes they had to pay, and for the ills of the country; but now in his misery he had become the Great Cardinal.

Wolsey did not encourage the people, for he knew that would not help his cause, and he did try to travel as lightly as possible.

But the end was near, and he must have known it, particularly when the revelations of Dr. Augustine were brought to light.

There was only one course open to Henry then: Wolsey would have to stand trial for treason.

He was at Cawood near York and from there he was to be brought to the Tower of London. Henry was very upset but the suggestion that he should be excommunicated angered him.

I had an idea. Someone had to arrest him, and he was in the North. How ironic if the man to do the task should be the Earl of Northumberland who, some years before, Wolsey had humiliated and castigated because he had had the temerity to fall in love with a “foolish girl.”

I said: “I wish the Earl of Northumberland to make the arrest.” And the King did not raise any objection.

I wondered what Henry Percy would think when he was confronted with this task. I thought of him often, wondering how much he had changed. Had he remained the same gentle, rather ineffectual boy whom I had known?

I heard the story afterward. Northumberland did not relish the task and wished he had not been chosen for it. He was not as vindictive as I. Perhaps he did not care so much that our romance had been blighted. But I did know that his marriage was unhappy. We had blamed Wolsey— yet it had not been Wolsey's wish to separate us, but the King's, I reminded myself over and over again. However the fact remained that Wolsey had acted in a most offensive manner.

I could imagine the scene. It was described to me by Walter Walsh, a gentleman of the Privy Chamber who had been sent north to accompany Northumberland on this mission.

The Cardinal had been dining in Cawood Castle, and when the Earl of Northumberland and Walter Walsh were announced, I could picture his astonishment.

The visitors were taken into the dining room, and Wolsey reproached them for not warning him of their intended arrival that he might prepare to honor them. Northumberland appeared to be tonguetied. I supposed he could not find it in himself to say the necessary words. He had always been in awe of Wolsey.

Wolsey said he remembered Northumberland well. “You were an impetuous boy,” he said; to which Northumberland replied that he remembered the Cardinal well.

How had Northumberland felt then, faced with the man who had ruined his life? He must remember me; he would scarcely have been able to forget me, for talk of what was happening at Court would have reached even the remote North. It may have been that he had dreamed romantic dreams. He was more likely to have done so than I was.

However, he seemed impassive, so Walsh told me, when he approached the Cardinal and said: “My lord, I arrest you on a charge of High Treason, and you must travel to London as soon as possible.”

Wolsey must have been in great fear, for he knew he would be taken to the Tower of London—and it was few who entered by the Traitor's Gate who ever came out free men. Usually the only time they left the Tower was to make the short journey to Tower Hill, where they laid their heads on the block.

The Cardinal's legs were bound to the stirrups of the mule he rode. He was the King's prisoner for all to see.

The people came out to cheer him as he passed along. How they loved a fallen man—even though they had hated him bitterly in the days of his influence.

So he rode into Leicester.

During the journey his health deteriorated rapidly and he found difficulty in sitting his mule. Perhaps he prayed that he might never reach his dreaded destination. If he did, that prayer was answered.

When he came to Leicester Abbey, he was failing so fast that, when the people crowded around him, he said: “I am come here to leave my bones among you.”

He was immediately taken to a bed. It was November and the mist hung heavy in his chamber, but nothing could have been so heavy as the Cardinal's heart.

His life was over. All his greatness was gone. I wondered if he thought of himself riding in that proud procession as he so often had, in his glorious scarlet garments, his hat and the Great Seal carried before him, an orange stuffed with cloves in his hand that he might not smell the offensive odor of the populace.

His days of glory were gone forever.

He arrived at Leicester on the 26th of November. His stay there was brief, for on the morning of the 29th he passed away.

Sir William Kingston was with him at the time and he told me how Wolsey had feared the ax—not for the pain it would bring his body, but because it would mean the end of his hopes and greatness. He had risen high and because of this his fall was the greater.

His last words to Kingston were: “I see this matter against me. I see how it has been framed. But if I had served God as diligently as I have done the King, He would not have given me over in my gray hairs.”

And having spoken those words, he died.

When his death was reported to the King, and Henry was told of his last words, he went into his chamber and shut himself away. He would not see anyone.

I think he was filled with remorse. Oh yes, Henry had truly loved Wolsey.