Katharine of Aragon

by Jean Plaidy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “You are indeed a fool,” he said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  HENRY MISSED HIS WOLSEY.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “What statement is this?”

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

  Henry's face grew purple with anger.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “My dear boy…,” began Wolsey.

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

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

  THE PAINFUL JOURNEY BACK to London began.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “‘Tis so, Your Eminence.”

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

  “Your waning strength needs it, Eminence.”

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

  “Your Eminence needs to regain his strength.”

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

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

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

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

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

  “Your Eminence will recover,” said Kingston.

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

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

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

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

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