by G Lawrence
“I will take your advice, my lady,” Cromwell said eventually. “And I thank you for offering it to me.”
“The King’s true friends are my true friends,” I said. “And I think that there is much that you and I might do for one another, Master Cromwell, if we put our heads together.”
He did as I had advised, and distanced himself from Wolsey. He must have known that I had taken a risk, but perhaps the fact that I had done so convinced him that I intended to be his friend and ally. He was not one to miss anything, Cromwell.
Later in September, I obtained a copy of Tyndale’s newest work, The Practise of Prelates, which had a subtitle most interesting to me: Whether the King’s grace may be separated from his queen because she was his brother’s wife.
I am sure you can see why I was interested.
Upon reading it, however, I was less than pleased. Tyndale said he had still found no argument within the Bible that would allow the King to leave his present wife. In saying this, I knew he would anger Henry, and there was worse to come. Tyndale criticized Henry for his condemnation of Luther for marrying a former nun, saying Henry’s disgrace was far worse than Luther’s. Since the King had argued he would return to Katherine, if it was found she was his true wife, and had not, Tyndale thought him shameful. Tyndale’s work, however, pleased Thomas More. Copies smuggled into the country did not seem as hindered by More’s men as other works were… strangely enough.
Henry was enraged. He told me he would have Tyndale found, arrested and executed. Tyndale’s brother, John, was arrested, tried in the Star Chamber, and flogged through London for having passed money to Tyndale. To me, it seemed that More had won on two counts, for not only did Tyndale’s work advocate for the Queen, a cause dear to his heart, but also, this new work had angered the King, and perhaps turned him against Tyndale for good.
It took a lot of effort on my part to try and uphold the arguments we had been working for, for so long, in Henry’s mind. “You should invite him here, my love,” I said calmly as Henry raged. “You have admitted that some of his notions are erroneous, and that he requires guidance, why not have him brought to England, and talk with him?”
Henry stared at me, dumbfounded, and then left to go riding. I hoped that, in leaving the thought within his mind, it might take seed and grow. Tyndale was not lately proving a lot of help in my cause, but luckily, I had other men to help.
One of those arrived back in England that October. Cranmer was set to work immediately after Henry had hammered him with questions about the universities of Italy and what their findings were for our cause. Most, it seemed, were for us, with some against, but we were hopeful that with the French universities generally finding in our favour, and all of the English ones doing the same, that we would have enough scholarly opinion to out-weigh the universities of Spain, who, of course, were all for Katherine.
Cranmer was staying at Durham House as the honoured guest of my father, who had recently made him his personal chaplain. Whilst there, he was working on perfecting the Collectanea, and on collating the responses of the universities in a document that would be published in the next year called The Determinations of the most excellent universities of Italy and France, that it is unlawful for a man to marry his brother’s wife; that the Pope hath no power to dispense therewith. Although not exactly a catchy title, it stated what it was about in no uncertain terms. Cranmer had some opinions already from the universities, and set about collating, translating and describing their discussions and arguments, whilst adding his own opinion to them as well. An English version of the draft work was published late that year, and Cranmer went on to add to it after that. The work was remarkable in one sense that it never once mentioned that the persons involved were Henry and Katherine, as the question had been put to the universities without names, although everyone knew who it was they were talking about, of course.
Cranmer met with me upon his return and I knelt before him, offering congratulations on his new post in the Rectory of Bredon. “It is so good to see a man such as you take this position,” I said, “for in you I feel there is all the goodness that our Church so desperately requires.”
Cranmer flushed and looked down at his hands. “I hope to live up to your expectations of me, my lady,” he said gently. I put my hand to his.
“I know that you will, my gentle friend.” I smiled softly at his burning cheeks. I genuinely believed that I could love a man such as Cranmer. Not in a romantic sense, but in one of true friendship. His humility touched my heart, and we had found much in common through our letters to each other. “For a man of faith, you have all too little in yourself.” I said warmly. “But take from the strength of God, as I have all these years, and you will see how He sees you… then will you know your own worth.”
He smiled shyly. “You should have been born a man and made a Bishop, my lady,” he murmured. “Then God would have had a true advocate within the Church.”
“God chose me for a different path, Master Cranmer,” I replied. “But I assure you, I will do all I can as Henry’s wife and Queen, to bring him to see the light of reform and the good that may be done for his people.”
“You are a child of God, my lady,” he whispered, looking at me with shining eyes. “A leader… like Esther, who delivered her people from persecution by intervening with her King, or the prophet and judge, Deborah, who led her people to freedom. And yet, there is within you the gentleness of Mother Mary. I see both strength and compassion in you, my lady. England is blessed to have you.”
“I will do all that I can to live up to your faith in me, Master Cranmer,” I said, a little overwhelmed by his vision of me.
“As I will, in your belief in me, my lady,” he said.
That month, the draft of the Collectanea reached Europe, and the Pope and Emperor were disgusted by the ideas it contained. Henry went to a gathering of lawyers and clerics and proposed that, on the weight of the evidence in the Collectanea, he could empower Parliament to grant the Archbishop of Canterbury the power to decide the Great Matter. The gathering were shocked, and told the King outright that Parliament could not act in such a way. Henry reacted with anger, stalking from the chamber and postponing Parliament until the New Year. As he left, he shouted that the Pope’s power was nothing but “usurpation and tyranny.”
At court, my father and I, along with our allies, spoke openly about our lack of faith in the Pope’s goodness and honesty. Sometimes, I admit, we got carried away, and managed to shock Chapuys so entirely with our anti-papal talk that we drove him to Katherine, saying that we would alienate England from the Holy See, if we had our way.
All were not, obviously, on our side. One such was of course Thomas More, who came to Henry often; speaking with him carefully on the radical suggestions and texts he was being shown. More had not been at all happy that Henry had pardoned Simon Fish, the reformer, and was at this time actually writing a book in answer, and against, Fish’s arguments. Henry was not about to stop More replying to Fish’s text, but, he told him more than once that he was not convinced that the Pope had the authority to decide on his Matter, and he believed the Pope was being influenced by the Emperor to stand against him.
“How can the Pope be true and just in any decision, when he is led so fully by the desires and wishes of another, Thomas?” Henry pleaded with More. I am sure that More believed Henry was also being led by another…
In late October, a papal bull reached Henry, absolutely forbidding him to marry again whilst his annulment was still under consideration. Whilst clearly a reaction to the Collectanea it also seemed to finally confirm, in Henry’s eyes, the evidence we had brought against Wolsey, for there were further rumours that the Pope intended to excommunicate Henry if he did not obey, and order me to be banished from court. Such rumours echoed the schemes of Wolsey too boldly to be ignored.
Around this time, Wolsey summoned many of the northern men of the Church to him to prepare for his enthronement as Bishop at York. Wolsey h
ad long held that title, but now had decided to honour the north with a celebration and formal enthronement. Norfolk was sure Wolsey was hiding something, and Henry became convinced that the Cardinal was in truth working against him. Henry believed that the enthronement was to be the stage from which the Pope would launch his excommunication of the King, and banishment of me.
It was the final push Henry required. There were simply too many small things that Wolsey was doing in the north for Henry to judge him still honest and true. Henry knew that Wolsey had been attempting to communicate with the Emperor and Katherine, and now, in light of the Pope’s threats, he believed Clement had indeed received Wolsey’s communications and they were both plotting against him. A threat of excommunication was no light matter, and Henry feared it greatly. Excommunication would not only endanger his immortal soul, but it would allow all Christians to lawfully rise against him, including his own people. Such a thing could bring his country to invasion, or rebellion. If this was what Wolsey was up to then he had to be stopped. Henry’s horror made him defiant; another aspect of character we held in common.
I watched Henry’s face closely as the warrant for Wolsey’s arrest was, at last, brought to him. He stared at the parchment on the table. His face was blank, bereft of joy, but his eyes were harrowing to look upon. In them I could see emotions fighting each other; love, friendship, disbelief, anger, sorrow and hatred. Even now, at the end, he could not believe the Cardinal would have defied him. Even now, as his quill was poised over the parchment, he hesitated.
“It falls to the Earl of Northumberland to arrest the Cardinal,” I said. “He is the greatest magnate of the north. It should be he who confronts the Cardinal.”
Henry looked up sharply, a dangerous glimmer in his eyes. The Earl of Northumberland was none other than Henry Percy, the man with whom I once thought myself in love with, and who I had been engaged to marry. Was Henry suspicious that in asking that Percy be sent to arrest Wolsey I was trying to obtain a special favour for him? Or that I still had feelings for him? It was not so. The Earl was the greatest noble of the north and one most suited in position and standing to arrest a Cardinal, a Prince of the Church. I had no feelings for Percy now but those of derision, but I knew, too, that sending him would remind Wolsey of the time he had chastised and humiliated me, and that thought was satisfying. In sending Percy, Wolsey would know it was me who had brought about his downfall. It was spiteful, but there was a hungry part of my soul that wanted that satisfaction. God forgive my sins. We do not always act as we should when facing down our enemies.
Henry’s gaze lingered on me for a moment, and then he dropped his eyes. “It will be done,” he said, dipping his quill in ink. He went to sign his name to the warrant, but paused over the parchment again. Ink dripped from the swan-feather quill, dropping onto the creamy parchment, blossoming like a flower.
“Have it done. Have this finished, my love…” I said smoothly. “I am sorry to cause you pain, Henry, but you have been deceived by a friend, by a man you loved. The sin here is not yours, it is his. Have it done. We will hear what the Cardinal has to say for himself when he faces trial.”
He did not look up. “That is true enough,” he said sadly. He put his pen to the paper, and quickly scrawled his signature. He stared at it for a moment. “I will go for a walk,” he said, trying not to look at the paper. Even now, he could not stand to act against Wolsey.
“I will see the papers are sent out,” I assured him, and, with a sigh, watched him leave. His shoulders were hunched with misery. He looked smaller, somehow. I was pained to see his sorrow, but this was for the best. Wolsey was too dangerous to be left at liberty.
Just after Henry issued the order for Wolsey’s arrest, Wolsey’s doctor was arrested as he visited with Chapuys again at court, and under interrogation, and, I have no doubt, torture, he confessed. The doctor admitted he had been ordered to take messages to ambassadors of both France and Spain, and a number of letters, written in cipher, were discovered on him. He confirmed all the charges against Wolsey.
Henry heard all of this and then looked away with the eyes of a broken man. He could not deny any more, even to himself, that Wolsey was a traitor.
Chapter Seventy-Four
York
November 1530
The day before Wolsey’s arrest, it was said that he had a premonition of his fate. Whilst finishing dinner with his men, one of his physicians rose from his seat and accidentally swept his coat against the giant silver cross of York, which stood on the cupboard beside them. The cross fell, and, with an almighty crack, bounced harshly off of the head of Edmund Bonner, Wolsey’s personal chaplain. The diners sat stunned, even as Wolsey’s retainer, Cavendish, hurried to tend to Bonner.
“Hath it drawn blood?” the Cardinal asked, staring in horror at the fallen cross on the floor.
“Yes, my lord,” replied Cavendish, grabbing at linen on the table to stem the flow from Bonner’s head. The Cardinal stared at Bonner, and then at the cross. All who saw him that night said that he went deathly pale, and his hand shook as he spoke.
“Malum omen,” said Wolsey, evil portent.
Hardly checking that Bonner was well, Wolsey made for his chambers to pray. Cavendish reported later that he was struck by the seriousness with which Wolsey seemed to take the event. The Cardinal, it seemed, had sensed something in the air, some portent of doom.
On the evening of the 4th of November, Wolsey was once again dining with his men. They had eaten well, and were savouring sugared slices of imported orange, peeled grapes and figs in syrup. A hurried messenger entered the chamber and whispered in the Cardinal’s ear. The Earl of Northumberland and a large group of his men had come to call upon him. Wolsey was happy to hear that his old servant Henry Percy had finally come to see him. Wolsey had been inviting all and sundry to his house in hopes of regaining favour and influence, but the Earl had thus far resisted his calls. He bade them to enter the house, and warm themselves at the fire in the great hall. He left his other guests, and went out to meet Percy.
“I regret, my lord, that we have already dined,” he cooed to Percy, not noting the pallor of Northumberland’s face. He led Percy towards the roaring fire, and gazed over at his men. “I am pleased to see that you have done as I suggested when you were in my service, my lord, and kept about you many of your father’s loyal men. I recognise many in this throng,” Wolsey went to greet the retainers he recognized, but stopped when Percy’s hand fell firmly on his shoulder.
“My lord,” Percy intoned darkly, “I arrest you of High Treason.”
Wolsey gaped at Percy, and then flinched, as just for a moment he saw a hint of satisfaction in the man’s face. If Wolsey remembered Percy with affection, the same was not true for the Earl. Since his forced marriage to Mary Talbot, he had known only strife and misery. Mary despised her husband and made no secret of it. Wolsey had been the one to take me from him, to publicly humiliate him and to shame him before his father. He had no love for his former master.
“I… I demand that you produce the seal of the King to prove this is true,” Wolsey stuttered, for Henry had promised him that only with his express order could the Cardinal ever be arrested. Wolsey glanced again at the men who had accompanied Percy, and recognised several members of Henry’s Privy Council. Wolsey understood then that he was being arrested in Henry’s name.
“Even the lowliest subjects of the King may come to arrest the greatest peer of the realm,” he said, insulting Percy, who ignored him, and demanded the keys to his coffers. Percy knew if Wolsey had access to his money, he might be able to bribe servants to help him escape. Wolsey stared at him for a moment, wondering at the hand fate had dealt him. Silently, he unhooked the keys from his belt, and handed them to the Earl.
“Am I to leave now, even in the dead of night?” he asked Percy.
“We will leave with the dawn. For tonight, your bedchamber will be locked, and my men will stand watch to ensure you do not escape.”
&nbs
p; “Where would I go, my lord?” Wolsey asked. “And why would I flee? Only the guilty run. I, an innocent soul, have no cause to fear.” Percy said nothing to Wolsey, but gave the keys to one of his captains, and started barking orders to others to secure the house. “May I not even know of what I am accused?” Wolsey asked.
“You are accused of high treason, of conspiring with enemies of England and the King. You are accused of attempting to bring foreign influence and armies to bear upon the fate of England.” Percy’s lip curled. “You are accused, Your Eminence, of betraying the King, your good and loyal friend.”
“The accusations against me are false,” Wolsey said. “But I know I can expect no indifferent justice in this. I am left here bare, wretched, and without help or succour.”
Wolsey put up no fight when Percy’s men took him to his chamber and locked him inside. But his men attempted to protest his innocence. They were told sharply they had better watch their tongues, lest they incriminate themselves along with their master. Quickly, they fell silent.
