by Jean Plaidy
It was well into July before the final judgement was to be given. I was beside myself with excitement. I was visualizing my coronation. Queen of England—with the King my slave. We had passed through some difficult times. For four years the King's courtship of me had persisted. Such fidelity could mean only one thing: his devotion was complete.
What a brilliant future lay ahead of me! I was already paying back old scores on Wolsey. Poor old man, he would not last long when I came to power.
I would teach him—and all men through him—what it meant to insult Anne Boleyn, to take from her the only man she had ever loved, to ruin their lives…well, Northumberland's had been ruined. As for myself, I looked upon my brilliant future as a kind of consolation prize. I had lost what I had most desired, and in place of love I had ambition. I could not be Henry Percy's wife—which in my heart I believed would have brought me the greater happiness—so I would be the Queen of England. Fisher's outburst had caused a great deal of anxiety at the time, but Henry had decided to dismiss the man as a hotheaded fanatic. There were others to give evidence more to his liking, particularly those who had been with Prince Arthur on the morning after his wedding to Katharine, and who stated that the Prince had staggered out of the bridal chamber exhausted, declaring to them all that “that night he had been in the midst of Spain.” It was hard to believe in Arthur, a weakling who was not far from death and was of an especially retiring nature, making such a statement. But it was good evidence…or would have been but for the effect Katharine had had when she had called on God to be her witness with such obvious piety and dignity. Moreover, during the court proceedings the shouting of the crowds outside could often be heard in the hall… like a threatening chorus in a tragic drama.
All the same we were optimistic. The King could not believe that, as he had made his wishes so clear, his desire would be denied him in his own capital.
How wrong he was!
At last the day for which we had all been waiting arrived, and the judgment was to be given.
I was waiting impatiently for the verdict and in spite of certain misgivings my hopes ran high.
The King went into the gallery in the company of his brother-in-law, the Duke of Suffolk. He was certain of the verdict. The bishopric of Durham would be Campeggio's when the case was favorably settled and that would assure him of great riches. The man would not be such a fool as to turn his back on that, reasoned the King.
Perhaps he had forgotten that, when men are old and sickly and death does not seem to be so very far away, they are not so easily bribed by worldly goods. Campeggio's illness, which had served him so well in his efforts to play delaying tactics, was genuine. He did indeed suffer from excruciatingly painful gout. His one desire was obviously to leave our damp climate to get away to peace and perhaps a little comfort for his aching limbs.
He stood up and with the King's eyes on him declared: “I will not for favor of any mighty prince do that which should be against the law of God. I am a sick old man looking daily for death.”
He went on to say that he would not put his soul in danger by incurring God's displeasure. He had only one God before his eyes and the honor of the Holy See…He was giving no judgment. He was referring the matter to Rome.
I could well imagine Henry's fury. Suffolk was beside him. He muttered through his teeth: “It was never merry in England whilst we have Cardinals among us.”
It was a direct shaft at Wolsey.
Wolsey had promised the King that the matter would be dealt with speedily and as the King wished.
Wolsey had failed him.
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 l
iked 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 c
areer 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.
