by Jean Plaidy
Garbled versions of what was actually happening circulated. I was at the center of the controversy, it was said. This was true in a way, for but for me the matter would never have been raised, or would it? Partly it was due to the King's obsession with me and the fact that I would not become his mistress and held out for marriage; but on the other hand he desperately needed a male heir and it was clear that Katharine could not give him that. His continual complaint was: I need an heir. The country needs an heir… and that heir must be male.
If his wife had been anyone but aunt of the Emperor, the matter would have been settled long ago.
And now there was this mighty controversy for which I was blamed. I was a witch. I was a sorceress. I was an emissary of the Devil.
If only I could tell them that I had been drawn into this affair unwillingly at first. I had been robbed of my chance of happiness and because of that I had become ambitious.
Yet, I was the scapegoat. It could be terrifying at times. I was afraid to ride through the streets. They shouted after me. They called me lewd names.
Once, when I was supping with the King, a messenger came in haste to say that a crowd of people were assembled at the stairs waiting for me to leave.
“Your Grace, they look murderous to me,” said the servant.
Henry was angry. He hated little so much as these displays of the people.
I had to leave in haste by a side door and not take the barge. It was disconcerting.
I heard everywhere: “We'll not have Nan Bullen.”
I thought: We cannot go on like this. Something must happen soon.
I had my family and a few good friends like Norris, Weston, Brereton. George was the one I could truly trust. My father was growing uneasy. He was aware of the storms about me. He had so much relished the promotion and the way in which the money was rolling into his coffers. He was not particularly grateful to me; it was the Boleyn tradition, he believed, that the daughters should build up the family fortunes. I was only following along that road in a more spectacular way than my predecessors.
I read a good deal and was getting more and more interested in the new ideas. I always had a book near me so that, if I had any spare time, I could pass it in reading.
One day I found a book on the table which I had not seen before. It was a kind of almanac, a book of prophecies. I was always amused to leaf through such books. I even remembered some of the prophecies and took an interest in seeing whether they came true. I opened the book. There was a picture of the King. He was standing, and, kneeling at his feet, was the Queen. She was wringing her hands. It was clearly meant to portray the recent trial.
I turned a page and caught my breath in horror. There was a picture of a woman, and I knew at a glance whom it was meant to depict. There were the hanging sleeves; the sixth nail was visible, though it looked like an extra finger. The woman had no head on her shoulders. The head— unmistakably mine—was lying on the floor; the hair was like black snakes, and on it was a crown.
This was meant to be a prophecy, and after the manner of such was told in pictures. What it meant was that, if ever I attained the crown, I should have to pay for it with my head.
I was shaken. I knew of the enmity which surrounded me, of course, but that anyone should have gone so far as this was a great shock.
I sat back in my chair. One of my attendants came in. She was a pleasant girl named Nan Saville.
I called her. “Nan,” I said, “did you put this book here?”
She stared at it in astonishment. “No, my lady, I have never seen it before.”
“It is a book of prophecies,” I told her.
“Oh, I know the sort of thing, my lady.”
“I don't think you know this. Just look. Here is the King and here the Queen wringing her hands.”
“’ Tis a fair likeness, my lady.”
I turned the page. “And this?”
Nan gave a little scream and put her hand over her mouth to suppress it.
“You know who this is, Nan.”
“My…mylady. It …it is… horrible.”
“Yes, it is, is it not? It is meant to warn me.”
“Oh, my lady, if ever I thought that was to come to pass, I would not have him though he were an emperor.”
“It is only a book. Take it away. Burn it. Don't show it to anyone. It is just a bauble. Nan, I am resolved to have him that my issue shall be royal.”
“But, my lady …” She touched her neck.
“Whatever becomes of me, Nan, I shall be Queen of England.”
I think I disguised my disquiet from Nan Saville. She took the book away and I never saw it again.
I did not mention the book to the King. I wondered if anyone had shown it to him. That was hardly likely. He would have had inquiries made, and the publisher and printer would have been brought to trial and probably lost their right hands for producing such a book.
Then one day I saw that Suffolk had returned to Court. He had been forgiven. The King was lenient with those who amused him. Suffolk had been his companion for so long; they were alike in many ways.
I was about to protest but a flash of caution came to me. The King hated to be without Suffolk, and he could not remain for long on unfriendly terms with his sister. So I said nothing.
I was cool to Suffolk and ignored his attempts to behave as though nothing had happened.
My uneasiness was increasing.
The Cardinal was still on our minds. I knew that on the least pretext Henry would reinstate him. He would never have his old power, nor would he regain his possessions—the King loved York Place and Hampton Court too much to part with them—but Henry's affection for the Cardinal had gone deep and he did not forget it.
Although at times Henry appeared to be childish—as in those disguising games which he loved to play and in deceiving himself that what he wanted to believe was the truth—as I have said he was a man of conflicting characteristics. He was romantic and sentimental; he was something of a scholar. He had governed his kingdom with a shrewdness which had aroused the envy of François, who, at the time of the Field of the Cloth of Gold, had been inclined to have a certain contempt for his naïveté. Henry was complex, and I had to remember that he was all-powerful and could, if he so wished, exert that power over his subjects. True, he had to consider the will of other rulers and that was galling for him. But he was our monarch and I must not forget that he had complete power over us.
He was fair enough to accept that what had happened over the divorce negotiations was not Wolsey's fault. Wolsey had wanted the divorce but marriage into France; and that was reasonable. It was the Pope and the Emperor who were the reason for Henry's frustration, not Wolsey. I was sure that Henry was remembering the past and all the good Wolsey had done for him and the country.
So the situation with Wolsey was fraught with danger. If he came back, if he ever had the King's confidence again, he would remember his enemies.
So it was necessary for Wolsey's fall to be complete. We had all expected him to die early in the year, and so he would have but for the King's leniency which had given him so much comfort; and Henry's physician had supplied physical help.
So …the years of frustration continued and Wolsey was still with us.
Neither Norfolk nor Suffolk would allow matters to stand still. They sought evidence against Wolsey.
Norfolk claimed to have wrung an admission from Wolsey's Italian physician, Dr. Augustine, that at the time the Cardinal was persuading François to write to the Pope asking him to favor the divorce, he was urging the Pope to excommunicate the King if he married Anne Boleyn.
This was outright treachery. Norfolk pretended to be deeply shocked by Augustine's revelation; he had the doctor brought to London in a most humiliating fashion—with his legs tied under his horse, as prisoners were carried.
However, when Augustine arrived at the Duke's residence, he was given spacious quarters and lived there in some comfort.
During th
e year Wolsey had been traveling north, and it was discomfiting to hear how the people came out to cheer him. It was ironic that during the days of his prosperity they had loathed him, called him “the butcher's cur” and blamed him for the taxes they had to pay, and for the ills of the country; but now in his misery he had become the Great Cardinal.
Wolsey did not encourage the people, for he knew that would not help his cause, and he did try to travel as lightly as possible.
But the end was near, and he must have known it, particularly when the revelations of Dr. Augustine were brought to light.
There was only one course open to Henry then: Wolsey would have to stand trial for treason.
He was at Cawood near York and from there he was to be brought to the Tower of London. Henry was very upset but the suggestion that he should be excommunicated angered him.
I had an idea. Someone had to arrest him, and he was in the North. How ironic if the man to do the task should be the Earl of Northumberland who, some years before, Wolsey had humiliated and castigated because he had had the temerity to fall in love with a “foolish girl.”
I said: “I wish the Earl of Northumberland to make the arrest.” And the King did not raise any objection.
I wondered what Henry Percy would think when he was confronted with this task. I thought of him often, wondering how much he had changed. Had he remained the same gentle, rather ineffectual boy whom I had known?
I heard the story afterward. Northumberland did not relish the task and wished he had not been chosen for it. He was not as vindictive as I. Perhaps he did not care so much that our romance had been blighted. But I did know that his marriage was unhappy. We had blamed Wolsey— yet it had not been Wolsey's wish to separate us, but the King's, I reminded myself over and over again. However the fact remained that Wolsey had acted in a most offensive manner.
I could imagine the scene. It was described to me by Walter Walsh, a gentleman of the Privy Chamber who had been sent north to accompany Northumberland on this mission.
The Cardinal had been dining in Cawood Castle, and when the Earl of Northumberland and Walter Walsh were announced, I could picture his astonishment.
The visitors were taken into the dining room, and Wolsey reproached them for not warning him of their intended arrival that he might prepare to honor them. Northumberland appeared to be tonguetied. I supposed he could not find it in himself to say the necessary words. He had always been in awe of Wolsey.
Wolsey said he remembered Northumberland well. “You were an impetuous boy,” he said; to which Northumberland replied that he remembered the Cardinal well.
How had Northumberland felt then, faced with the man who had ruined his life? He must remember me; he would scarcely have been able to forget me, for talk of what was happening at Court would have reached even the remote North. It may have been that he had dreamed romantic dreams. He was more likely to have done so than I was.
However, he seemed impassive, so Walsh told me, when he approached the Cardinal and said: “My lord, I arrest you on a charge of High Treason, and you must travel to London as soon as possible.”
Wolsey must have been in great fear, for he knew he would be taken to the Tower of London—and it was few who entered by the Traitor's Gate who ever came out free men. Usually the only time they left the Tower was to make the short journey to Tower Hill, where they laid their heads on the block.
The Cardinal's legs were bound to the stirrups of the mule he rode. He was the King's prisoner for all to see.
The people came out to cheer him as he passed along. How they loved a fallen man—even though they had hated him bitterly in the days of his influence.
So he rode into Leicester.
During the journey his health deteriorated rapidly and he found difficulty in sitting his mule. Perhaps he prayed that he might never reach his dreaded destination. If he did, that prayer was answered.
When he came to Leicester Abbey, he was failing so fast that, when the people crowded around him, he said: “I am come here to leave my bones among you.”
He was immediately taken to a bed. It was November and the mist hung heavy in his chamber, but nothing could have been so heavy as the Cardinal's heart.
His life was over. All his greatness was gone. I wondered if he thought of himself riding in that proud procession as he so often had, in his glorious scarlet garments, his hat and the Great Seal carried before him, an orange stuffed with cloves in his hand that he might not smell the offensive odor of the populace.
His days of glory were gone forever.
He arrived at Leicester on the 26th of November. His stay there was brief, for on the morning of the 29th he passed away.
Sir William Kingston was with him at the time and he told me how Wolsey had feared the ax—not for the pain it would bring his body, but because it would mean the end of his hopes and greatness. He had risen high and because of this his fall was the greater.
His last words to Kingston were: “I see this matter against me. I see how it has been framed. But if I had served God as diligently as I have done the King, He would not have given me over in my gray hairs.”
And having spoken those words, he died.
When his death was reported to the King, and Henry was told of his last words, he went into his chamber and shut himself away. He would not see anyone.
I think he was filled with remorse. Oh yes, Henry had truly loved Wolsey.
WOLSEY WAS DEAD, and so began another year. Could there be any end to our problem? Were we going on like this forever? We could not. We had to succeed soon or fail altogether.
Cranmer, together with Cromwell, had brought us new hope, and it was to Cromwell I looked. He was a man with a single idea; that idea was entirely his, and he could see—and so could I—that on the success of that idea hung his entire future; it could be the foundation of his fortunes.
It was so simple. The Church of England should have as its natural head the King of England.
It was a daring idea, and I do not believe it would have occurred even to Cromwell but for the growth of those ideas, begun by Martin Luther, in parts of the Continent of Europe for a reformation of the old religion, which would mean breaking away from the influence of Rome. Cromwell did not, however, suggest a change of religion in England— only a change of Head, the King in place of the Pope. Wolsey had been a brilliant statesman; he had guided the King through many troubled waters; he had encouraged education in the country; his foreign policy had been successful and won respect—and pensions for him with it— from royalty other than his own; but he had become a Cardinal and kept England bound to the Vatican.
The King spent a good deal of time with Cromwell, but he could not like him. Cromwell had a natural coarseness which his elevation could not overcome; he had great ugly hands; but if his uncouth manners offended the King, Henry liked his ideas. He could snap at Cromwell and Cromwell remained imperviously servile. Cromwell was pursuing one goal: he was going to break with Rome and set the King up as Head of the Church of England.
Henry could be all powerful at home, he pointed out, free of the domination of the Church through Rome. No more fear of giving offense and of threats of excommunication. What would the Head of the Church feel for the vague threats of one who was of no importance in his country? Such an act would make England great, and, moreover, it would be a simple matter for the King to marry where he pleased. Already the authority of the Pope was being questioned in Germany and Switzerland. A new form of the old religion would come about. It would not be sub-servient to Rome. The King would be leading the way. Others would follow.
But Henry could not forget that he bore the title of Defender of the Faith and he had to wrestle with his conscience.
“Would Clement have denied the divorce if Queen Katharine had not been the Emperor's aunt?” he asked.
The answer was, of course, he would not. But for that relationship, the matter would have been settled four years ago.
Still the month
s passed in indecision and I was chafing more and more against the delay. Why could not Henry follow Cromwell's suggestion? Cromwell had the answer. Why should the King bow down to Rome?
Henry declared that it was not a simple matter. There was so much to be considered. He must have the people behind him.
“The people?” I cried. “What do the people know?”
“There would be those who would adhere to Rome and they would create a danger. Why, even all my ministers are not with me.”
“That old fool Fisher!”
“The man is no fool, Anne. There is Warham, too… and More is against it.”
“How dare they oppose the King.”
“Oh, Anne,” he said, “I do not know which way to go.”
My father was as frantic as I was. He feared that the King might be swayed and turn from me. The price of my queenship was too high. Warham was an old man, his protests would not mean much. Still, he stood for the old ways. There was Fisher. He was a man who did not care what trouble he brought on himself; he would stand up and say what he believed to be the truth.
One day there was a disaster at Fisher's dining table. Twelve members of his household died. There was one woman beggar who was also affected, for the Bishop's palaces were always open to the hungry at mid-day; they came into the dining room and sat there at a table on trestles which had been set up especially for them.
The Bishop was unharmed. He had been in deep discourse with a friend and had left his soup untasted.
It was soon discovered that an attempt had been made to poison him.
Henry was enraged. This was not the way. Fisher would have to be coerced, threatened perhaps, but any attempt to poison him—and such a clumsy one—would not be tolerated.