William Knight bowed. “I will set out for Rome at once,” he told the King, “and serve Your Grace with all my heart and power.”
Henry slapped his secretary’s shoulder.
“Begone, good William. I look to see you back ere long. Bring me what I wish and I’ll not forget the service you have rendered. But, by God, make haste. I chafe against delay.”
* * *
WOLSEY HAD set out for France, travelling to the coast with even more than his usual pomp. His red satin robes, his tippet of sables, made him a dazzling figure in the midst of his brilliant cavalcade; he held himself erect and glanced neither to right nor left, because he knew that the looks of those who had gathered to see him pass would be hostile. At one time he would have scorned them; he did so no longer; he, the proud Cardinal, would have eagerly welcomed one kindly smile, would have been delighted with one friendly word.
He thought as he rode along that he was like a man climbing a mountain. He had come far over the grassy slopes which had been easy to scale; but now the top was in sight and he had to traverse the glacial surface to reach it. He had come so far that there was no going back; and he was on the treacherous ground where one false step could send him hurtling into the valley of degradation.
All about him were his servants in their red and gold livery. Where the crowd was thick his gentlemen ushers cried out: “On, my lords and masters, on before. Make way for my Lord’s Grace.”
Even he who had been wont to pass each day from York Place or Hampton to Westminster Hall in the greatest pomp had never travelled quite so magnificently as he did at this time. Now he rode as the King’s vicar-general, and as he went through the City and over London bridge, through Kent on his way to the sea, he could not help wondering how many more such glorious journeys there would be for him; and what the next journey would be, and whether the people would come from their houses to watch Wolsey pass by.
Yet even though his heart was heavy with foreboding, he could enjoy this ostentatious display. Here he was the central figure among nine hundred horsemen, seated on his mule with its trappings of crimson velvet and stirrups of copper and gilt. In his hand he held an orange, the inside of which had been removed and replaced with unguents and vinegar which would be proof against the pestilential air. Delicately he sniffed it when he passed through the poor villages and from the corner of his eye saw the ragged men and women who had come out to stare at him. Before him were carried two enormous crosses of silver and two pillars, also of silver, the great seal of England and his Cardinal’s hat, that all might realize that he was not merely the great Cardinal, as his red robes proclaimed him, but the Chancellor and the richest man in England—under the King.
He proposed to make two calls on his way to Dover. One should be at Rochester and the other at Canterbury, that he might confer with the Archbishops, Fisher and Warham. The King had commanded him to do this for Henry was unsure of those two. It was Warham who had wanted time to consider the findings of the court. If this had not been so, it might have been declared, before the news of the Sack of Rome reached London, that the marriage was invalid. As for Fisher, since he was the Queen’s confessor, Henry suspected him of being the Queen’s friend.
So the Cardinal halted at Rochester and there was received in the Bishop’s palace.
When they were alone together Wolsey said tentatively that he believed the Bishop was not fully informed of the King’s Secret Matter and that the King was eager that this should be remedied. He then went over the old ground to stress the suggestion made by the Bishop of Tarbes and the King’s consequent misgivings.
Fisher listened gravely, and his compassion for the Queen was intensified by all he heard.
“I fear,” said Wolsey, “that when His Grace broached the matter to the Queen she became hysterical, much to the King’s displeasure.”
“I am sorry to hear it,” answered Fisher.
“As her confessor,” Wolsey replied, “you might bring her to a mood of submission. His Grace feels that you have much influence with her and that you might remind her of the comfort to be found in a life of seclusion.”
The Bishop nodded and, when the Cardinal had left him, he was on his knees for a long time praying for the Queen.
Then on to Canterbury to see Warham and to hint to him that Henry would expect no opposition to the divorce; and, sure that he was bringing Warham to the right state of mind, he continued on his way.
And so to France, there to pass through the countryside, to be gaped at and watched in silence as he proceeded along the road to Paris.
There was nothing lacking in the welcome given him by François and Louise. Pageants and balls were arranged for his pleasure; plays were enacted before him; and all of a greater wit and subtlety than those he was accustomed to witness at the Court of England. François insisted on showing him some of the fine building he was carrying out; building was one of the French King’s passions and almost as important to him as the pursuit of women. Wolsey was enchanted by the superb architecture he saw in France, and dreamed of rebuilding some of his own residences in England. This made him think of Hampton Court which was no longer his and, because when he had been obliged to throw that mansion to the King it had been a gesture which marked the change in their relationship, he was depressed; and it occurred to him then that he would never be able to plan new additions to his palaces.
But his skill was still with him. He completed the treaty with France and gave a pledge that Mary should marry the Duc d’Orléans. As yet he could do little but hint of the King’s marriage with the Princess Renée, because it was scarcely diplomatic to discuss the proposed marriage of a man who was not yet recognized as a bachelor in the eyes of the world. But François could understand a hint better than most; and naturally he was fully aware of the King’s Secret Matter, and he gave hint for hint; he would welcome a marriage between the Princess Renée and the King of England, once the latter was free to take a wife.
Wolsey was resting at Compiègne when Dr. Knight caught up with him. The Cardinal was surprised to see his fellow countryman and received him warmly, eager to know on what business he had come to France.
Dr. Knight had received no instructions not to inform Wolsey of his mission; he believed that the Cardinal was perfecting the more difficult negotiations with François while he, Knight, had the simpler task—for it would be simple once he could reach the Pope—of requesting the required dispensation and asking permission for Wolsey to conduct the enquiry into the divorce.
When the two men were alone together, Knight explained: “The King decided, soon after you had left, that he would send me to Rome. I am now on my way there.”
Wolsey was startled and depressed. If the King was not keeping him informed of all the measures he was taking, it was a bad sign.
“What is your mission in Rome?” he asked, hoping to sound casual.
“In the first place to get the permission of His Holiness for you to try the case.”
Wolsey gave a great sigh of relief. It was reasonable that such a request should not come from him personally, and he immediately saw the point of the King’s engaging Knight for this commission.
“And in the second place?” he asked.
“Oh…a simple matter. The King’s conscience worries him regarding a previous connection with Mary Boleyn.”
“With Mary Boleyn!”
“It seems the girl was his mistress at one time.”
“And his conscience worries him…”
“I confess I was a little surprised. It is true that family has been giving itself airs of late but I did not know the King was infatuated so much as to consider marriage.”
“Please explain,” said Wolsey calmly.
“Since the King proposes to marry Anne Boleyn he requires a dispensation on account of his sexual conduct with her sister.”
Wolsey was speechless for a few seconds. Somewhere close by a bell began to toll, and it seemed to him that the bell tolled for Cardinal
Wolsey.
He soon recovered his poise. He was eager that Knight should not guess how deep the rift was between him and the King.
“The King’s conscience is ever active,” he said lightly.
“He is cautious now—eager that when he marries again it shall be a true marriage and that he runs no risk of offending the Deity and thus be deprived of a male heir.”
Wolsey nodded, eager to be alone with his thoughts.
When Knight had left him he sat for a long time staring before him. He had come to France, and one of his missions was to hint at a French marriage for the King. The King knew this. And yet…all the time they had discussed this matter together he had been contemplating marriage with Anne Boleyn.
“That black-eyed witch!” muttered Wolsey; and suddenly so much was clear to him. He knew why the King had slowly but certainly turned his back on him. Mistress Anne had commanded him to do so. Mistress Anne hated the Cardinal who had upbraided her as though she were a humble serving wench at the time when Percy had tried to marry her. Vengeance had blazed from those proud eyes and he had laughed, because he could not believe that he—the great Cardinal—had anything to fear from a foolish girl.
Now this girl was constantly at the King’s side; she had bewitched him so completely that, unsuitable as the marriage was (and to think he had declared her not good enough for Percy!) he was determined to marry her. It was desire for this black-eyed girl, not his miserable conscience, that had set this matter in motion. And the most powerful person at Court was now Anne Boleyn, the declared enemy of the Cardinal.
It had happened under his very eyes and he had not seen it. He had been blind—he who had come so far because he had always seen a move ahead of all others. But he was old and tired now and he was afraid.
What now? he asked himself; and once more he heard the tolling of the bell.
He wanted to pray then, for help, for guidance.
I shall overcome this, as I have all other obstacles. I shall make this woman sorry that she proclaimed herself my enemy.
He seemed to hear mocking laughter, and he thought it sounded like Buckingham’s laughter. Buckingham had lost his head; it had not been difficult to teach him a lesson, and he was one of the foremost noblemen in the land. Should he fear a woman—and one whose claims to nobility were slight?
No, he was not afraid.
Yet he wanted to pray and suddenly realized that he could not do so. All he could do was sink to his knees and talk of his fear, ask for the power to triumph over his enemies. But that did not seem like a prayer.
He rose. He would return to England and there he would see the King; and now there would be no secrets between them. He was no longer deceived by the King’s attitude to the Lady which he had believed to be similar to that which he had felt towards many another.
This was different. This was something the King had never felt before, and it explained the change in their relationship.
Wolsey must tread very warily. Always before he had triumphed; why should he not triumph again?
Tomorrow he would leave for England, his mission completed. He would retire and after a good night’s rest he would be refreshed.
He went to the window to look out on the peaceful scene below, and as he stood there he saw that someone had drawn a sketch on the woodwork with a piece of charcoal.
It was not pretty. There was a gallows and there was something lifelike about the figure which hung from it. The Cardinal’s robes had been roughly but effectively sketched.
Who had done that? Someone in his suite? Someone who hated him and took a vicious delight in making such a sketch where, more likely than not, his eyes would alight on it.
The Cardinal took his kerchief and was about to rub it away. Then he hesitated. No. It would be a sign of weakness. Let it remain; let others see it. He was accustomed to abuse. It had always been his from the start of the climb, yet it had had little effect on his success. If it had not then, why should it now?
So he went to bed; but he slept ill that night. He dreamed of a black-eyed woman who, for the King’s delight, was drawing charcoal sketches of a Cardinal swinging on the gallows.
* * *
THE QUEEN’S BARGE SAILED from Greenwich to Richmond, and all along the banks the people stood cheering her as she passed. The Princess Mary was with Katharine; she could scarcely bear the girl to be out of her sight, and her greatest fear was that they would be separated.
“God bless the Queen!” shouted the people. “God bless the Princess Mary!”
Katharine acknowledged their greetings and the Princess did the same. It was comforting to go among these people, for everywhere they showed their pleasure in her. Henry might talk in hushed tones of his Secret Matter, but he was the only one who believed it was a secret, and the King’s desire for a divorce was discussed in every tavern along the river. Almost without exception the people were on the side of the Queen. The women were fierce in championing her cause.
“A pretty state of affairs,” they grumbled, “when a man tires of his wife and says she is not his wife that he may be free to choose a younger woman. If this is marriage, then save us from it!”
Since Queen Katharine had come to England, the English had felt the Spaniards to be their friends, and their natural enemies the French; some believed the latter to be a species of monkey and that many of them had tails which their fine clothes hid.
And the villain behind it all was the Cardinal. They had always hated the Cardinal. “Who was the Cardinal?” they had often asked each other. “No better than you or I. Did you know his father was a butcher?”
Who imposed taxes to fight wars which no one wanted? The Cardinal.
Who lived like a king although he was the son of a butcher? Who made treaties with France because France paid him well to do so? Who was responsible for all the poverty in the country? Who chopped off the head of the noble Duke of Buckingham because he had thrown dirty water over his shoes? The answer to all these questions was Wolsey.
They thought of him as they had seen him so many times, riding through the streets on his mule which was caparisoned in scarlet and gold, sniffing his orange as though he disdained them and feared contamination with them.
The King has been led astray by him. The King was jovial, fond of sport; the King was young and easily led. Wolsey had wanted to make an alliance with the French, so he had made the King doubt the validity of his marriage to Katharine of Aragon; and the Princess Mary—the dear little Princess Mary—was proclaimed a bastard!
“Long live Queen Katharine!” cried the people. “Queen Katharine for ever!”
To the barge came the sound of singing and Katharine took heart as she heard it, for it proclaimed the love of the people for the Princess Mary whom they regarded as the heir to the throne.
“Yea, a Princess whom to describe
It were hard for an orator.
She is but a child in age,
And yet she is both wise and sage—
And beautiful in flavor.
Perfectly doth she represent
The singular graces excellent
Both of her father and mother.
Howbeit, this disregarding,
The carter of York is meddling
For to divorce them asunder.”
In that song was not only their love of their Princess and their determination to support Katharine’s cause but their hatred of Wolsey, Archbishop of York, whom they sometimes referred to as a carter, sometimes a butcher.
“Long live the Princess Mary!” cried the people; and Mary lifted a hand in acknowledgment of the greeting and smiled in her eager but dignified way which never failed to please them.
And so they came to the oddly shaped turrets of Richmond which glowed in the sunshine like inverted pears.
In the quiet of her apartments Bishop Fisher was waiting for Katharine who had summoned him thither.
“My lord,” she said, when they were alone, “it pleases me that you have come. I
have need of your counsel.”
“I pray Your Grace to calm yourself. Wolsey visited me on his way to the coast. He told me how distressed you were after your interview with the King.”
“I fear I lost control.”
“We must pray for greater control.”
“Sometimes I could hope that death would come to me.”
“When we die, Your Grace, is a matter for God to decide.”
“I know it is wrong of me, but there are times when I feel that life is too bitter to be borne.”
“And you pray that this cup might pass from you,” murmured the Bishop. “There is one, Your Grace, who needs you now. You must not forget that this matter concerns your daughter.”
“It is that which breaks my heart.”
“We are not defeated yet.”
“My lord, you say we. Does that mean that you will stand beside me?”
“I will pray with you and for you.”
She looked at him searchingly. “I have always felt you to be my friend as well as my confessor. I know you to be a good man. But I am well acquainted with the King’s nature. He is a boy at heart, but boys can be selfish, my lord Bishop. They stretch out greedy hands for that which they want, and because they are boys, lacking the experience of suffering, they do not think what pain may be caused to those who stand in their way.”
The Bishop looked at her sadly. He believed she did not understand her husband if she thought of him merely as a boy who had been led into temptation. The Bishop had looked at the King and seen the cruelty behind the jovial mask. He prayed that this gentle woman would never be forced to see her husband in a different light from the one in which she saw him now.
“You will need courage,” said the Bishop. “Let us pray for courage.”
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