The King's Secret Matter

by Jean Plaidy

  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 for ever, 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 silently 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.’

  There was silence in the room; then Wolsey spoke quietly and firmly, and Kingston was not sure that he addressed himself to him.

  ‘If I had served God as diligently as I have done the King, He would not have given me over in my grey hairs.’

  He closed his eyes, and Kingston rose and left the chamber. At the door he met George Cavendish and shaking his head said: ‘Your master is in a sorry state.’

  ‘I fear he will not last long, my lord. He is set on death. He thought to die ere this. He said that he would die this morning and he even prophesied the time. He said to me: “George, you will lose your master. The time is drawing near when I shall depart this Earth.” Then he asked what time it was and I told him “Eight of the clock.” “Eight of the clock in the morning,” he said. “Nay it cannot be, for I am to die at eight of the clock in the morning.” ’

  ‘He rambled doubtless.’

  ‘Doubtless, my lord, but he seemed so certain.’

  ‘Well, eight of the clock passed, and he lives.’

  Kingston went on, and Cavendish entered the Cardinal’s chamber to see if he lacked anything. Wolsey was sleeping and seemed at peace.

  Cavendish was at his bedside through the night and the next morning – when he died.

  As the Cardinal drew his last breath, the faithful usher heard the clock strike eight.

  Chapter XI

  THE LAST FAREWELL

  Thomas Cromwell was on his way to an appointment with the King. His eyes were gleaming with excitement; he had proved to himself that it was possible for an astute man to profit by disaster, to make success out of failure, for, incredible as it seemed, out of the decline of Wolsey had come the rise of Thomas Cromwell.

  Yet he had remained the friend of Wolsey until the end. He wanted men to know that he was a true friend; and he and the Cardinal had been too closely attached for him to break away when Wolsey was in danger. As Member of Parliament for Taunton he had pleaded Wolsey’s case in the Lower House and so earned the Cardinal’s gratitude and at the same time the admiration even of his enemies.

  He was a shrewd and able man. No one could doubt that; and it was said that if he could work so well for one master, why should he not for another. The son of a blacksmith, he must be possessed of outstanding ability to have come so far, a feat which was only outrivalled by that of Wolsey himself.

  Shortly after Wolsey’s death Cromwell was made a Privy Councillor, not, naturally, of the same importance as Norfolk or Thomas Boleyn, who was now the Earl of Wiltshire, but a man who had already found his way into that magic circle in which limitless opportunity was offered.

  It was not long before Cromwell had attracted the attention of the King. Henry did not like the man personally but the shrewdness, the alert mind, the humble origins, all reminded him of Wolsey, and he was already beginning to regret the loss of the Cardinal and remembered those days when, in any difficulty, he summoned his dear Thomas to his side.

  Therefore he was more ready than he might otherwise have been to take notice of Cromwell. Thus came Cromwell’s opportunity – a private interview with the King.

  When Cromwell was ushered into his presence, the King pondered wistfully: The fellow lacks the polish of Wolsey!

  But he remembered that Wolsey had singled out this man and that fact counted in his favour. Cromwell had been a good friend to Wolsey in the days of his decline; so he was capable of loyalty.

  The King waved his hand to indicate that Cromwell might dispense with ceremony and come to the point.

  ‘Your Grace, I have long considered this matter of the Divorce . . .’

  Henry was startled. The man was brash. Others spoke in hushed tones of this matter; they broached it only with the utmost tact. Cromwell looked bland, smug almost; as though he were playing a game of cards and held a trump in his hand.

  ‘You are not alone in that,’ said Henry with a hint of sarcasm which did not appear to be noticed by Cromwell, whose dark eyes burned with enthusiasm as he leaned forward and gazed intently at the King.

  ‘Your Grace is debarred from success in this matter by the cowardly ways of your advisers. They are afraid of Rome. They are superstitious, Your Grace.
They fear the wrath of the Pope.’

  ‘And you do not?’

  ‘Sire, I am a practical man unmoved by symbols. I fear only my King.’

  ‘H’m! Go on, go on,’ he urged, slightly mollified.

  ‘It has been a marvel to me that Your Grace’s advisers have not seen what must be done, ere this. Thomas Wolsey was a Cardinal; it was natural that he should have been in awe of Rome. But those men who now advise Your Grace are not Cardinals. Why should they so fear the Pope?’

  It was strange for Henry to have questions fired at him. He did not care for the man’s crude manners, but the matter of his discourse had its interests.

  ‘At this time,’ went on Cromwell, ‘it would seem that England has two heads – a King and a Pope. Furthermore, since the Pope denies the King that which he desires, it appears that the Pope holds more power in England than the King.’

  Henry was beginning to frown, but Cromwell went on quickly: ‘As a loyal subject of the King this pleases me not at all.’

  ‘The power of Kings is temporal,’ murmured Henry.

  ‘I would wish to see my King holding supreme power, temporal and spiritual.’

  Henry was startled, but Cromwell continued blithely: ‘I cannot see why our King should not dispense with the Church of Rome. Why should not the Church of England stand alone with the King as its Supreme Head? Would it be necessary then for the King to plead in Rome for what he needs?’

  Henry was aghast. He had often said that he would declare the Pope a heretic, that if the Pope would not grant him a divorce he would find some other means of getting it; but this man was proposing a more daring step than he had ever taken. He was suggesting that the Church should sever its connections with Rome; that the King, not the Pope, should be Supreme Head of the Church.

  The King listened and his eyes burned as fiercely as those of Cromwell.

  ‘In a few years,’ Cromwell told him, ‘I could make Your Grace the richest and most powerful King in Christendom . . . but not while you remain a vassal of the Pope.’

  It was astounding. It meant more than the Divorce. The King was shaken. There was so much to consider. If only Wolsey were here . . . but Wolsey would never work for the severance of England from Rome. Wolsey had been a Cardinal, his eyes constantly on the Papal Crown; he had even pleaded guilty to attempting to set up Papal jurisdiction in England. New times needed new ideas. Wolsey’s day was gone and a new era was beginning.

  When Henry at length dismissed Cromwell he was telling himself that Cromwell, like Cranmer, had the right sow by the ear.

  Katharine at Richmond was unaware of the great schemes which were absorbing the King and his new ministers. Mary was with her, and she was determined to enjoy the hours she spent with her daughter. Mary was now fifteen years old, an age when many girls were married; but the question of Mary’s marriage had been shelved; how could it be otherwise when there was so much controversy about her birth?

  During these days Katharine seemed possessed of a feverish desire to make the most of each hour they spent together; each day when she arose she would wonder whether some command would be given and her daughter taken from her. She knew that Henry was as devoted to Anne as ever; that they had taken over York Place and, like a newly married pair, were exulting in all the treasures they found there.

  The palace had ceased to be known as York Place, which had been its name as the town residence of the Archbishops of York; it was now the King’s palace and, because of the reconstructions which had been made in white stone, it was called White Hall.

  Now Wolsey had gone, Katharine felt that she was rid of her greatest enemy. She could tell herself that in good time the Pope would give the only possible verdict, and when Henry realised that their marriage was accepted as valid, he must, for the sake of reason and his good name, accept her as his wife. So she allowed herself to be lulled into a certain peace which Mary’s presence made it possible for her to enjoy.

  Reginald Pole was in England and it was delightful when he came to visit them, which he did very frequently. He was their friend and staunch supporter. One day, mused Katharine, why should he not be consort of the Queen? What a brilliant adviser Mary would have! What a tender, gentle husband!

  ‘That is what I want for her,’ the Queen told her friend, Maria de Salinas, who, now that she was a widow, had come back into the Queen’s service. ‘A tender, gentle husband, that she may never be submitted to the trials which I have had to bear.’

  Katharine and Mary were sitting together over the Latin exercise when a page entered the apartment to tell them that Reginald was without and begging an audience.

  Mary clasped her hands together in delight, and Katharine could not reprove her. Poor child, let her not attempt to curb her pleasure by hiding it. Katharine said with a smile: ‘You may bring him to us.’

  Reginald came in and the three of them were alone together. Mary took both his hands when he had bowed first to the Queen and then to herself.

  ‘Reginald, it seems so long since we saw you.’

  He smiled at her youthful exuberance. ‘It is five days, Your Highness.’

  ‘That,’ said Mary, ‘is a very long time for friends to be apart.’

  ‘We have so few friends now,’ Katharine quickly added.

  ‘You have more than you know,’ Reginald replied seriously. ‘Many of the people are your friends.’

  ‘They greet us warmly when we go among them,’ Mary agreed. ‘But we have few friends at Court whom we can trust. I believe they are afraid of . . .’ Mary’s lips tightened and she looked suddenly old, ‘. . . of . . . that woman,’ she finished.

  Katharine changed the subject. ‘Reginald, something has happened, has it not?’

  ‘Your Grace has a penetrating eye.’

  ‘I can see it in your expression. You look . . . perplexed.’

  Reginald took a document from the pocket of his doublet and handed it to the Queen. While she studied it he turned to Mary who laid her hand on his arm. ‘Reginald,’ she said, almost imploringly, ‘you are not going away?’

  ‘I do not know,’ he said. ‘So much depends on the King.’

  ‘Please do not go away.’

  He took her hand and kissed it. ‘If I followed my own will I would never go away.’

  ‘Nor if you followed mine,’ said Mary.

  Katharine lowered the document and looked from one to the other. The sight of them together frightened her while yet it pleased her. If only it could be, she thought; yet how can it?

  ‘So the King has offered you the archbishopric of York or Winchester,’ she said.

  Mary caught her breath in dismay. If he became an Archbishop he would take Holy Orders and marriage would be outside his power. Mary loved him with all the force of her serious young nature. She had dreamed that they would go away from Court, quietly with her mother to where they might forget such hateful matters as divorce, such hateful words as bastard, where they would never even think of the Lady who hated them so much and was determined to keep them apart. In her youthful innocence she dreamed of the three of them leaving Court in secret, going out of the country to Padua or some such place which Reginald knew well.

  ‘These offices became vacant on the death of the Cardinal,’ Reginald explained, ‘and someone is needed to fill them.’

  ‘It is a great honour,’ the Queen said almost listlessly.

  ‘It is one, I have told him, that I cannot accept.’

  The relief in the apartment was great. Mary laughed aloud and took Reginald’s hand. ‘I am glad,’ she cried. ‘I could not bear to think of your stepping into the Cardinal’s shoes.’

  ‘Nor I,’ he said. ‘But that is not all. In my refusal of this offer I implored the King not to be deluded by his ministers and his passion for a wanton woman. I am summoned to his presence in White Hall.’

  Mary was horrified; although her father had shown her affection at times, she had never conquered her fear of him. Katharine was equally afraid. She knew
the climate of the King’s temper. He was fond of Reginald, but when the people of whom he was fond ceased to agree with him he could easily hate them. She thought of the tenderness he had once shown to her; and she believed that his hatred of her was the greater because of it.

  ‘Oh, Reginald,’ she murmured, ‘have a care.’

  ‘You should not have mentioned us,’ said Mary imperiously.

  ‘I believed I must say what I felt to be right.’

  Katharine turned to her daughter and said gently: ‘We must all speak and act according to our consciences.’

  ‘I came to see you before I presented myself to the King,’ said Reginald. And both understood that he had come because this might, in view of the seriousness of the occasion, be the last time he could visit them. Neither of them spoke, and he went on: ‘I should go now. I dare not keep the King waiting.’

  He kissed their hands, and Mary suddenly forgot the dignity due to her rank as, like a child, she flung her arms about him; and Katharine was too moved to prevent her.

  When he had gone, Mary began to weep, silently.

  ‘My darling, control yourself,’ murmured the Queen, putting an arm about her.

  But Mary merely shook her head. ‘What cruel times we live in,’ she whispered. ‘What cruel and perilous times!’

  When Reginald left the Queen and the Princess he took a barge to White Hall. He knew full well that the archbishopric had been offered him as a bribe. He was of royal blood and the friend of the Queen and the Princess; the King was hinting: ‘Come, work with me, and here is an example of the prizes which shall be yours.’

  That was why in refusing the offer he had told the King that he firmly believed in the royal marriage and implored his kinsman not to imperil his soul by attempting to deny it.

  The result: A summons to White Hall.

  As he entered the palace he thought of the great Cardinal who had once occupied it; and all this splendour had been passed to the King – a mute appeal . . . ‘all my possessions in exchange for my life . . .’ What an example of the worth of treasures upon Earth!