The Shadow of the Pomegranate

The Secret Life of Thomas Wolsey

AS THE DAYS PASSED THEY TOOK SOME OF KATHARINE’S sorrow with them, and she began to look at her life in a more philosophical way. Through the ages Kings had taken mistresses who bore them children, but it was the children who were born in wedlock who were heirs to their father’s crown. She must be realistic; she must not hope for impossible virtue from her lusty young husband.

More than ever she thought of her mother, who had borne the same tribulations before her; she must endeavor as never before to emulate Isabella and keep the memory of her as a bright example of how a Queen should live.

As for Henry, he was ready enough to meet her halfway. Reproaches would only result in sullen looks; and the pout of the little mouth, the glare of the little eyes in that large face implied that he was the King and he would do as he wished. But any signs of a desire on her part to return to the old relationship brought immediate response; dazzling smiles would light up his face; he would be boisterously affectionate, sentimental, calling her his Kate—the only woman who was of any real importance to him.

So Katharine set aside her illusions and accepted reality; which was, she assured herself, pleasant enough. If she could have a child—ah, if she could have a child—that little creature would make up to her for all else. That child would be the center of her existence; and her husband’s philandering would be of small importance compared with the delight that child would bring her.

In the meantime she would concern herself with another important matter. Since she had become Queen of England she had been in close contact with her father. She waited for his letters with the utmost eagerness, forgetting that, when she had been living in neglected seclusion at Durham House, he had not written to her for years.

“What a joy it is to me,” Ferdinand assured her, “that you, my daughter, are the Queen of England, a country which I have always believed should be my closest ally. I am beginning to understand that a father can have no better ambassador than his own daughter.”

Ferdinand in his letters to her artfully mingled his schemes with his news of family affairs. His daughter was the beloved wife of young Henry, and if the King of England was occasionally unfaithful to his marriage bed, what did that matter as long as he continued to regard his wife with affection and respect!

“If your dear mother could know what a comfort to me you have become, what a clever ambassadress for her beloved country, how happy she would be.”

Such words could not fail to move Katharine, for the very mention of her mother always touched all that was sentimental in her nature.

After receiving her father’s letters she would put forward his ideas to Henry, but never in such a manner that it would appear she was receiving instructions from Spain.

“The King of France,” Ferdinand wrote, “is an enemy to both our countries. Singly we might find it difficult to subdue him. But together…”

Henry liked to walk with her in the gardens surrounding his palaces. When he felt particularly affectionate towards her he would take her arm and they would go on ahead of the little band of courtiers, and occasional he would bend his head and whisper to her in the manner of a lover.

On such an occasion she said to him: “Henry, there are certain provinces in France which are by right English. Now that there is a young King on the throne, do you think the people would wish to see those provinces restored to the crown?”

Henry’s eyes glistened. He had always longed for the conquest of France. He was beginning to think he had had enough of empty triumphs at the jousts and masques. He wished to show his people that he was a man of war no less than a sportsman. Nothing could have given him greater pleasure at that time than the thought of military conquest.

“I’ll tell you this, Kate,” he said. “It has always been a dream of mine to restore our dominions in France to the English crown.”

“And what better opportunity could we have than an alliance with my father who also regards the King of France as his enemy?”

“A family affair. I like that. Your father and I standing together against the French.”

“I believe my father would be ready enough to make a treaty in which you and he would agree to attack the French.”

“Is it so, Kate? Then write to him and tell him that, having such regard for his daughter, I would have him for my friend.”

“You have made me happy, Henry…so happy.”

He smiled at her complacently. “We’ll make each other happy, eh Kate?” His eyes were searching her face. There was a question in them which he did not need to put into words. It was the perpetual question: Any sign, Kate? Any sign yet that we may expect a child?

She shook her head sadly. He did not share her sadness today. The thought of war and conquest had made him forget temporarily even the great need for a son.

He patted her arm affectionately.

“Have no fear, Kate. We’ll not suffer ill luck for ever. I have a notion, Kate, that England and Spain together are…invincible! No matter what they undertake.”

She felt her spirits rising. It was a great pleasure to see that his thoughts were turned for a while from the matter of childbearing; and it was equally gratifying that he was so willing to fall in with her father’s desires. Thus she could please them both at the same time. And surely her next pregnancy must result in a healthy child!

RICHARD FOX, Bishop of Winchester and Lord Privy Seal, was deeply disturbed, and he had asked Thomas Howard, Earl of Surrey, and William Warham, Archbishop of Canterbury, to call upon him.

Fox, some sixty-four years of age, was as much a politician as a man of the church. He had stood staunchly by Henry VII and had worked in cooperation with the King since the victory at Bosworth, receiving from that monarch the offices of Principal Secretary of State and Lord Privy Seal. When he had died Henry VII had recommended his son to place himself under the guidance of Richard Fox, and this young Henry had been prepared to do, particularly when Warham had declared himself against the marriage with Katharine.

Fox, the politician, had supported the marriage because he believed that an alliance with Spain was advantageous. Warham, as a man of the Church, had felt that a more suitable wife than the widow of his brother might have been found for the King. The fact that Fox had supported the marriage had placed him higher in the King’s favor than the Archbishop of Canterbury; but Fox was now becoming disturbed to see that the country’s wealth, which he so carefully had helped Henry VII to amass, was being extravagantly squandered by the young King.

But that was not the matter he intended to discuss with his two colleagues at this time—something of even greater importance had arisen.

William Warham, who was perhaps a year or two younger than Fox, had also served the Tudors well. Henry VII had made him Lord Chancellor and he had held the Great Seal for some nine years. Although he disagreed with Fox on certain matters they both felt deeply the responsibility of guiding a young king who lacked his father’s caution and thrift.

The third member of the party was the choleric Thomas Howard, Earl of Surrey, who was the eldest of the three by some five years.

His record was not one of loyalty to the Tudors for he and his father had both fought at Bosworth on the side of Richard III. At this battle Surrey had been taken prisoner and his father killed. There had followed imprisonment in the Tower and forfeiture of his estates; but Henry VII had never been a man to allow desire for revenge to color his judgment; he realized the worth of Surrey who believed in upholding the crown and the nobility, no matter who wore the first and whatever the actions of the latter, and it seemed to the crafty King that such a man could be of more use to him free than a prisoner. It cost little to restore his titles—but Henry kept the greater part of his property, and sent him up to Yorkshire to subdue a rebellion against high taxation.

The King proved his wisdom when Surrey turned out to be a first-class general and as ready to work for the Tudor as he had for Richard III. For his services he was made a member of the Privy Council and Lord Treasurer.

When Henry VII had died, Surrey, on account of his age and experience, had become the chief of the new King’s advisers; and recently, to show his appreciation, young Henry had bestowed upon his faithful servant the title of Earl Marshal.

As soon as these three men were together Fox told them of his concern.

“The King contemplates war with France. I confess that the prospect does not please me.”

“The expense would be great,” agreed Warham, “and what hope would there be of recovering that which we laid out?”

They were looking at Surrey, the soldier, who was thoughtful. The prospect of war always thrilled him; but he was becoming too old to take an active part in wars and therefore could consider them, not in terms of adventure and valor, but of profit and loss.

“It would depend on our friends,” he said.

“We should stand with Spain.”

Surrey nodded. “Spain could attack from the South; we from the North. It does not sound a pleasant prospect for the French.”

“The late King,” said Fox, “was against wars. He always said that it was a sure way of losing English blood and gold.”

“Yet, there could be riches from conquest,” mused Surrey.

“Victory,” put in Warham, “is more easily dreamed of than won.”

“The King is enamored of the prospect,” Fox declared.

“Doubtless because the Queen has made it sound so attractive to him,” added Warham. “Can it be that Ferdinand has placed an ambassador nearer to the King than any of his own advisers could hope to be?”

He was looking ironically at Fox, reminding him that he had been in favor of the marriage while he, Warham, had seen many disadvantages—of which this could be one.

“The King is pleased with his Queen as a wife,” put in Fox. “Yet I believe him to be wise enough to look to his ministers for advice as to how matters of state should be conducted.”

“Yet,” Surrey said, “he would seem eager for war.”

“How can we know,” went on Warham, “what has been written in Ferdinand’s secret dispatches to his daughter? How can we know what the Queen whispers to the King in moments of intimacy?”

“It always seemed to me that the young King must tire of his sports and pageants in time,” said Fox. “Now the time has come and he wishes to turn his energies to war. This was bound to happen, and the conquest of France is a natural desire.”

“What course do you suggest we should take in this matter?” Warham asked.

“Why,” Fox told him, “I believe that if we advised His Grace to send a few archers to help his father-in-law in his battles, that would suffice for the time.”

“And you think the King will be satisfied with that?” demanded Surrey. “Young Henry is yearning to place himself at the head of his fighting men. He wishes to earn glory for his country…and himself.”

“His father had turned a bankrupt state into one of some consequence,” Warham reminded them. “He did it through peace, not through war.”

“And,” put in Surrey, remembering the confiscation of his own estates, “by taxes and extortions.”

“I was not speaking of the method,” Fox told him coldly, “but of the result.” He went on: “I have asked the King’s almoner to join us here, for there are certain matters which I feel we should lay before him; and he is such an able fellow that he may help us in our counsels.”

Surrey’s face grew purple. “What!” he cried. “That fellow, Wolsey! I will not have the low-born creature sharing in my counsels.”

Fox looked at the Earl coldly. “He has the King’s confidence, my lord,” he said. “It would be well if you gave him yours.”

“That I never shall,” declared Surrey. “Let the fellow go back to his father’s butcher’s shop.”

“Ah,” said Warham, “he has come a long way from that.”

“I’ll admit he has sharp wits,” conceded Surrey. “And a quick tongue.”

“He also has the King’s ear, which is something we should not forget,” Fox told him. “Come, my lord, do not allow your prejudices to affect your judgment of one of the ablest men in this country. We have need of men such as Thomas Wolsey.”

Surrey’s lips were tightly pressed together and the veins in his temples stood out. He wanted them to know that he was a member of the aristocracy and that he supported his own class. If there were honors to be earned they should be earned by noblemen; to his bigoted mind it was inconceivable that a man of humble origin should share the secrets of the King’s ministers.

Fox watched him ironically. “Then, my lord,” he said, “if you object to the company of Thomas Wolsey, I can only ask you to leave us, for Wolsey will be with us in a very short time.”

Surrey stood undecided. To go would mean cutting himself off from affairs; he was growing old; he believed that Fox and this upstart of his would be delighted to see him pass into obscurity. He could not allow that.

“I’ll stay,” he said. “But, by God, I’ll stand no insolence from a butcher’s cur.”

THOMAS WOLSEY had taken time from his duties to visit his family. This was one of the pleasures of his life; not only did he enjoy being a husband and father but the fact that he must do so with secrecy gave his pleasure an added fillip.

He was a priest but that had not prevented his being uncanonically married; and when he had fallen in love with his little “lark,” and she with him, it became clear that their relationship was no light matter of a few weeks’ duration and must therefore be set on as respectable a basis as was possible in the circumstances.

So he had gone through a form of marriage with Mr. Lark’s daughter; he had made a home for her which he visited from time to time, leaving his clerical garments behind, and dressed so that he could pass through the streets as an ordinary gentleman returning to his home.

It was a rather splendid little home, for he enjoyed ostentation and could not resist the pleasure of making his family aware that he was rising in the world.

As he entered the house he called: “Who is at home today? Who is ready to receive a visitor?”

A serving maid appeared and gave a little cry of wonder. She was followed by a boy and a girl who, having heard his voice, rushed out to greet him.

Thomas Wolsey laid his hand on the boy’s shoulder and put an arm about the girl. The smile on his face made him look younger than his thirty-seven years. The alertness in the eyes almost disappeared; Thomas Wolsey briefly looked like a man who is contented.

“Why, my son, my little daughter, so you are pleased to see your father, eh?”

“We are always pleased to see our father,” said the boy.

“That is as it should be,” answered Thomas Wolsey. “Now Tom, my boy, where is your mother?”

There was no need to ask. She had started to come down the stairs, and as Thomas looked up she paused and for a few seconds they gazed at each other. The woman, thought Thomas, for whom I was ready to risk a great deal. Not everything, and perhaps what he had risked was not very much—for why should not a priest have a wife as long as he did not prate of it—but the fact that he was ready to risk anything, that he was ready to pause in his journey up the steep and difficult slopes of ambition to spend a little time with this woman and their children, was an indication of the extent of his feelings for her.

“Thomas, had I known…,” she began; and she came down the stairs slowly, almost reverently, as though she marvelled yet again that this great man should have time to spare for her.

He took her hand and kissed it.

“Well met, Mistress Wynter,” he said.

“Well met, Master Wynter.”

It was the name behind which they sheltered from the world. She longed to boast that she was the wife of the great Thomas Wolsey, but she knew well the folly of that. He had given so much; he could not be expected to give more. She was happy enough to be plain Mistress Wynter, with a husband whose business frequently called him away from home but who was now and then able to visit his family.

The future of her children was secure. Thomas was rising rapidly in the service of the King; he was proud of the children; he would not forget them, and their way would be easier than his had been. Honors, riches would come to them—that would be when they were of an age to receive them—and by that time Thomas would be the most important man in the realm. Mistress Wynter believed that, for Thomas had determined it should be so; and Thomas always achieved his ends.

The children stood aside while their parents embraced.

“How long will you stay, Thomas?” she asked.

“Naught but a few hours, my lark.” Even as he uttered the endearment he wondered what certain members of the King’s entourage would say if they could see and hear him now. Fox? Warham? Surrey? Lovell? Poynings? They would snigger doubtless; and the wise among them would not be displeased. They would tell themselves that he had his weaknesses like all other men, and such weaknesses were not to be deplored but encouraged, for they were as a great burden hung upon the back to impede the climb to the heights of success.

There are some who are afraid of Thomas Wolsey, thought Thomas, and the thought pleased him; for when men began to fear another, it meant that that one was high upon the ladder since others could see him mounting.

But I must take care, he thought as he stroked his wife’s hair; no one however dear must prevent my taking every opportunity; the road to disaster and failure is one of lost opportunities.

But for a few hours he was safely hidden from the Court, so for that time he would be happy.

“Why, Mistress Wynter,” he said, “you were not warned of my coming, but I smell goodly smells from your kitchen.”

The children began to tell their father what was for dinner. There was a goose, capon and chicken; there was a pastie which their good cook had made in the shape of a fortress; there was pheasant and partridge.

Thomas was pleased. His family lived as he would have them live. It made him happy to think that he could pay for their comforts; and the sight of the rosy cheeks and plump limbs of his children was an immense satisfaction to him.

Mistress Wynter in a flurry of excitement went off to the kitchen to warn the servants that the master was in the house; and there the cook harried the lower servants to do their best and prove that, although the master of the house was often absent on his important business, the house was so well managed that he need have no fears.

So Thomas sat at the table and watched the food brought in, while his wife sat facing him and on either side of the table was a child.

It was very humble compared with the King’s table, but here was contentment; and in such moments he deeply wished that he was not a priest and that he might take this charming family with him to Court and boast of the health of the boy and the good looks of the girl.

He now wished to know how young Tom was getting on with his studies, and he put on a sternly paternal expression when he discovered that the boy was not quite so fond of his studies as his tutor would wish.

“That must be remedied,” said Thomas, shaking his head. “Doubtless you think that you are young yet and that there is always time. Time is short. It is hard for you to realize it at your age, but soon you must understand that it is so, for when you do you will have learned one of the first lessons of life. It is those who dally by the wayside, my son, who never reach the end of the road.”

There was quiet at the table, as there always was when he spoke; he had a melodious voice and a way of driving home his points which demanded attention.

And as they sat eating their way through meat and pies to the marchpane and sugar-bread he told his family how he himself had once defeated time in such a way that he had convinced the King that he had a little more than ordinary men to offer in his service.

“It was when I was in the service of the old King…” He did not tell them that he had been the King’s chaplain; children often talked freely in the hearing of servants, and he must keep secret his connection with the Church. “This was not the King you have seen riding through the streets. This was the old King, his father, a King with a very serious mind and one who had learned the value of time.

“He called me to him and he said: ‘I wish you to go on a journey to Flanders as a special envoy to the Emperor Maximilian. Prepare to leave as soon as possible.’ So I took the message which I was to deliver and I set out for my lodgings. My servant said: ‘You will leave tomorrow, my lord?’ And I answered: ‘Tomorrow! Nay, I shall leave today…at this very hour.’ He was astonished. He had thought I should need time to prepare for such a journey; but I was conscious of time and I knew that the message I carried was of great importance. It might be that if it arrived a day later than I intended to deliver it, the answer to that letter would not be the same favorable one that I was determined to get. Circumstances change…and it is time which changes them.

“The message I carried was the King’s request for the hand of Maximilian’s daughter in marriage. If I could bring a favorable reply from Maximilian, the King would be happy, and that would make him pleased with me; and if that reply came quickly, the better pleased he would be.

“I crossed the water. I rode hot foot to Flanders; I saw the Emperor, delivered the King’s message and received his reply; then back to the coast and home. It had been three days since I left England. I presented myself to the King, who frowned in anger when he saw me. He said: ‘I had thought you received orders to take a message to Flanders. I expected you would have left by now. I like not dilatory service.’ Then my heart leaped in exultation and I waited a few seconds for the King’s anger to grow, for the greater it grew the more surprised he must be when he heard the truth. ‘Your Grace,’ I told him, ‘I left for Flanders within an hour of receiving your instructions to do so. I have now returned and bring you the Emperor’s reply.’ The King was astonished. Never had he been served with such speed. He grasped my hand and said: ‘You are a good servant.’”

“And that was all, Father?” demanded young Thomas. “It seems a small reward to shake your hand and tell you you were a good servant.”

“He did not forget me,” said Thomas.

No, indeed he had not. Thomas Wolsey had become Dean of Lincoln and, had Henry VII lived longer, doubtless more honors would have come his way. But the old King had died; yet that was not a matter for mourning, because the new King was as interested in his servant Wolsey as the old one had been.

From this young King Thomas Wolsey hoped for much. He understood the eighth Henry. Here was a young man, lusty, sensual, far less interested in matters of state than in pleasure. He was the sort of King who is always beloved of ambitious ministers. Henry VII had conducted all state business himself; he had indeed been head of the state. But the joust, tennis, dancing, possible fornication and adultery gave no pleasure to his rheumaticky body. How different was his young and lusty son! This King would wish to place at the helm of the ship of state a man with capable hands; there was every opportunity for ambitious ministers to rule England under such a King.

The King’s almoner saw great possibilities ahead.

He smiled at the eager faces about the table—flushed with good food and drink. This was his oasis of pleasure, of humanity; here it was possible to stray from the road of heated ambition to dally in a cool green meadow.

He saw Mistress Wynter through a veil of gratitude and desire, and she seemed fairer to him than any Court lady.

He said to the children: “You will leave your mother with me for a while. We have matters to speak of. I shall see you again before I leave.”

The children left their parents together, and Thomas took Mistress Wynter in his arms and caressed her body.

They went through to her sleeping chamber and there made love.

As she lay in his arms she thought: It is like a pattern, always the same. Will it remain so? What when he is the first minister at the King’s Court? This he would be, for in a moment of confidence he had told her so.

If it were not so, she thought, if he lost his place at Court, he might come home to us.

It was a wicked thought. He must not lose his place. It meant more to him than anything…more than this, his home, more than her and their children.

When he had dressed in that precise manner of his, he said: “I will see the children before I go.”

He noticed that she looked a little sad but he did not mention this. He knew that she was wishing they lived a normal married life, that they did not have to go to bed in the middle of the day because it was the only time they had. She was picturing him, being there every day—a merchant, a lawyer, a goldsmith…a man of some profession such as those of her neighbors. She thought of cosy conversations over the table, of discussions as to what should be planted in the garden, about the education of the children; she pictured them retiring to bed each night by the light of candles, the embrace that had become almost a habit, the slipping into sleep afterwards. It was normality she craved.

Poor little Mistress Wynter, he thought, she can only share one very small portion of my life and she wants to share the whole.

It was unfortunate for her that she loved not a man of ordinary ability, but one who had risen from a humble Ipswich butcher’s shop to his present position and was determined to go to the very heights of ambition.

He said: “Let us go to the children. I have little time left to me.”

He kissed her once more, but this time he did not see the sadness in her eyes. He saw only Wolsey, going higher and higher. He saw the Cardinal’s hat, but that of course was not the end. There was still the Papal Crown; and since even he must realize that he could never be the King of England, his ultimate ambition was that he should be head of the Church.

He went to his children, smiling happily, for his ambition did not seem an impossible one to achieve. Thomas Wolsey, who had learned so many lessons from life, believed that all that which he desired would eventually be his.

AS SOON AS he returned to Court a messenger informed him that the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Bishop of Winchester with the Earl of Surrey requested his presence.

He donned his clerical garments and washed his hands before making his way to their presence, for this was one of those occasions when time should be used to create an impression of his own power and importance.

They were waiting rather impatiently when he arrived.

“My lords,” he said, “you requested my presence.”

Surrey looked with distaste at Thomas Wolsey. He reeks of vulgarity, thought Surrey. That coarse skin, that over-red complexion—they proclaim him the vulgarian he is.

Surrey was scarcely pale himself, nor was his skin extra fine, but he was determined to find fault with Wolsey and looked for opportunities to remind him that he was not of noble blood and was only admitted to their counsels as a special privilege for which he should be perpetually grateful.

Fox welcomed him with a smile of pleasure. Fox had believed in his exceptional powers from the first and was determined to be proved right.

“We have been discussing the possibility of war with France,” Warham told him.

Wolsey nodded gravely.

“You, Mr. Almoner, should know how much we could put into the field,” Surrey pointed out, implying by his tone that it was as a lower servant of the King’s that Wolsey had been invited and that his opinion must be confined only to questions of goods and gold.

“Ah,” said Wolsey, ignoring Surrey and turning to Fox and Warham, “it would depend on what scale the war was to be carried on. If the King should put himself at the head of his men that could be costly. If we sent a small force under the command of some noble gentlemen…” Wolsey glanced at Surrey…“that would be well within our means.”

“I see you are of our opinion,” Fox put in. “At the moment any action should be kept on a small scale.”

“And,” continued Wolsey, “I dare swear we would not move until we had an assurance from the King of Spain that he also would take action.”

“Any alliance with the King of Spain,” Surrey interrupted hotly, “should surely be no concern of Mr. Almoner.”

“My lord is mistaken,” Wolsey said coolly. “That the alliance should be made and adhered to is of the utmost importance to every subject in this land, including the King’s Almoner.”

The veins seemed to knot in Surrey’s temples. “I cannot see that matters of state policy are the concern of every Tom, Dick or Harry.”

“Might it be that there is much that the noble lord fails to see?” retorted Wolsey. “But since he is now aware of his blindness he may seek a cure for it.”

Surrey lifted his fist and brought it down on the table.

“This is insolence!” he shouted. He glared at Fox and Warham. “Did I not tell you that I had no wish to consort with…tradesmen!”

Wolsey looked round the apartment in astonishment.

“Tradesmen?” he said, but the hot resentment was rising within him. “I see no tradesmen present.” He was fighting his anger because his very love of ostentation grew out of his desire to live as the nobility lived—and a little more richly—that he might leave behind him the memory of the butcher’s shop.

“No,” sneered Surrey, “how could you? There is no mirror in this room.”

“My lord,” said Wolsey almost gently, “I am not a tradesman. I graduated at Oxford and was elected Fellow of Magdalen College. Teaching was my profession before I took Holy Orders.”

“I pray you spare us an account of your achievements,” sneered Surrey, “which I admit are remarkable for one who began in a butcher’s shop.”

“How fortunate,” retorted Thomas, “that you, my lord, did not begin in such an establishment. I fear that if you had you would still be there.”

Warham lifted a hand. “I pray you, gentlemen, let us return to the point of discussion.”

“I prefer not to continue with it,” Surrey shouted. “There is scarce room for myself and Master Wolsey in this council.”

He waited for Warham and Fox to request Wolsey to retire. Wolsey stood still, pale, but smiling; and both Fox and Warham looked beyond the now purple-faced Earl. Surrey! Fox was thinking. With his inflated ideas of his own nobility he was scarcely likely to continue in favor with the King. Wolsey, with his quick and clever mind, his ability to smooth out difficulties, and make easy the King’s way to pleasure, was by far the better ally. Moreover, Fox had always looked upon the almoner as one of his protégés. Let Surrey stomp out of the apartment. They could well do without him.

As for Warham, he also recognized the almoner’s brilliance; he had no love for Surrey either. Surrey belonged to the old school; the days of his youth had been lived in that period when valor in battle brought glory; but Henry VII had taught his people that the way to make a country great was by crafty statesmanship rather than through battles, even if they should be victorious.

With an exclamation of disgust, Surrey flung out of the room.

Wolsey smiled in triumph. “The atmosphere, gentlemen, is now more conducive to thoughtful reasoning,” he said.

Fox returned his smile in a manner implying that they were well rid of Surrey.

“And your opinion?”

Wolsey was ready. He was not going to say that he was against sending an army to France, because it might well be that the King wished to send one; it was almost certain that the Queen did, because that was the desire of her father, and the Queen was naturally working for her father’s interests. If a decision was made which was contrary to the King’s wishes, let Fox and Warham make it.

“As my lord of Surrey pointed out,” he said almost demurely, “matters of state are scarcely the concern of the King’s Almoner. Should His Grace decide to go into battle I will see that all available armaments are made ready for him; but it is only reasonable to suppose that the mustering of arms to equip a small force, say under some nobleman, would be a simpler matter and one which would give us practice in this field before embarking on the great campaign.”

“I see,” said Fox, “that you are of our opinion.”

They discussed the matter in detail, and, although he seemed outwardly calm, inwardly Thomas Wolsey felt his pride to be deeply bruised. He could not forget the scorn in Surrey’s eyes when he had referred to the butcher’s shop. Would he ever escape such slights?

They could not be forgotten; therefore they could not be forgiven. Surrey’s name was on that list he kept in his mind of those who must one day pay for the indignity they had made Thomas Wolsey suffer.