Gregory House
The Cardinal's Angels
Prologue: The Cardinal’s Dilemma, September 1529
The changing colour of the trees, from shading green to red and finally a crumpled brown, was enough of a hint of the passing of summer’s bounty for any to heed, in this the year of Our Lord, fifteen hundred and twenty nine, the twentieth year of the reign of Our Sovereign Lord, King Henry VIII. Now that the colder winds of autumn were at hand, forewarning of winter’s chill and dearth, crossroad prophets warned of the nearing edge of Death’s dark scythe and railed for the repenting of sins. Considering the recent fickleness of the seasons and poor harvests, the prudent farmer or goodwife would look to the state of their stores and give a heartfelt prayer for a short winter and perhaps an offering at their parish church, to avert the ill omens. The cannier of them would, in the dark of the lengthening nights, also slip off to secretly consult the local hedge witch on their predictions for the season. As an added precaution, maybe also procuring a talisman to avert the dreaded ‘sweats’ that had recently ravaged the country, carrying off thousands in its grim tally. Others, clustered around the crackling tavern fires and made reckless by strong ale, growled of the exorbitant tithes demanded by the clergy, and shared dangerous complaints. The most common of these was that the damned priests and bishops had no God-given right to the rewards of men’s labour. The bolder amongst them stood up and with tankard held high, pledged to the coming day, when the mightiest of the church prelates, bloated by greed and with his Cardinal’s robes dyed red with the blood of murdered yeoman, would fall to the hand of a commoner. At that cry the tavern audience would cautiously nod agreement, while keeping a suspicious watch for the church’s pursuivants, sniffers of sedition and heresy. So far it was just a whisper amongst the market crowds, elusive, secret and deadly.
Treason was the usual charge for overheard slanderous public utterances regarding Cardinal Wolsey, the Lord Chancellor of the England, the excuse being that such claims defamed the sovereignty of His Majesty, Henry VIII. So as a precaution against unnatural pretensions the punishment was harsh, bloody and public. It was a long painful death by hanging, drawing and quartering on Tower Hill-spectacle, entertainment and warning for the commons, Parliament and gentry of London. For the past twenty years it had served as a useful choke on wayward treasonous tongues-that was until this season. Now it was openly spoken that the Cardinal’s power was wilting as fast as the fading leaves. Last week, according to a rumour sweeping the Spitalfield Market, the Abbot of Wigmore threw out Wolsey’s pursuivant, telling the retainer to go hang. The abbot, according to a friar who claimed to have seen it, had stood at his gate as the Cardinal’s servant was thrown into the mire of the road and screamed out he needn’t bend knee to some grasping upstart butcher’s brat from Ipswich. An indrawn gasp of shock and glee greeted the tale and the folk of London gathered around the parish wells and fountains gossiping and betting as to the probable rewards for the abbot’s impudence.
In Hertfordshire at the former royal estate of Manor of the Moor, by the village of Rickmansworth, one man was wracked by the recent waning of respect. Thomas Wolsey, Archbishop of York was deeply worried. His position and power should be unassailable. He was the King’s right hand, holding the royal seal as Lord Chancellor, as well as the unique position of a lifetime legatine commission of Cardinal, trumping the usual head of the English church, the Archbishop of Canterbury. Across the realms of western Christendom, monarchs and princes were accustomed to placing all matters of peace and war into his skilled hands for counsel and deliberation. Wasn’t he called the ‘Great Arbiter of Europe’ by Emperor Charles V, the master of half of the Christian world as well as the new lands across the Atlantic? Francis, the King of France, also held him in high esteem, hosting sumptuous banquets in his honour and clasping him by the hand and proclaiming him a loyal friend, rewarding him with a bishopric for his favour. Then his own sovereign, Henry Tudor, had also been unstinting, bestowing unlimited favours and wealth, entrusting him with the high affairs of the kingdom. As for the Holy Father in Rome, Clement’s retention of the papal throne was owed to Wolsey’s own blend of bargaining, negotiation, and threats.
So why should he be worried this night? What was the arrogant braying of a minor cleric to him? A gadfly bite, no more. However, as the yapping of a mastiff gave warning of the sneak thief, this open insult presaged dark moves by those who were jealous of the King’s favour and was not just the least insult, but rather the latest. Last week the King’s good friend and close brother-in-law, the Duke of Suffolk, stood up at the Blackfriars Court and swore before all the assembly, “that it was never merry in England whilst we had Cardinals amongst us”. The Court had cheered this vile insult.
He could have trumped that smear from Sir Charles Brandon with a flick of his hand, easily bringing the snarling cur to heel. Brandon was hot headed and vain, and without Wolsey’s intercession the strutting jousting companion to the King wouldn’t have survived his secret marriage to the King’s sister. Henry was touchy about his royal honour and that action had strayed too close to treason. That being so, after the cheers from the rabble, the Court had settled down. His Sovereign Majesty had sat on his throne watching, and said nothing.
How could this be? A few months ago Brandon was all smiles and scraping bows for his beloved patron. Now he displayed all the ingratitude of a treacherous heart. This betrayal wounded deeply, but of more concern was why? For all his bluff and swagger, Brandon was as cunning as a rat in sniffing the political winds of the Court. That one so formerly loyal should turn was an ominous portent and the King had watched, and said nothing. Nothing!
Cardinal Wolsey wearily rubbed his heavy jowls and considered the latest problem, his latest burden, that damned commission on the annulment of His Sovereign’s marriage to Queen Katherine. He snorted in provoked anger at the memory. Why couldn’t the Spanish harpy just leave it be? As well wish for the moon. That stiff necked woman hadn’t budged an inch and he’d even humbled himself on bended knee pleading for her to yield, promising lands and status as befitted her station. All that effort wasted! Even his personal solemn oath that she’d gain untold sympathy and guarantee a later return when His Majesty’s need for Imperial aid was stronger hadn’t altered her stubbornness. Finally during the commission her scheming and tricks had ruined the open hearing at Blackfriars. It was going so well, smoothly and rehearsed, and then the queen burst in, all tears and entreaties to her ‘loving husband’ and in a single act demolished years of work. The plan was too cunning to be Katherine’s work. He suspected Father Juan Luis Vives. It had taken but a few well placed and judicious threats to scare that learned scholar back to Spain. And what of that recent arrival, Don Alva? The Spaniard was young, clever and ambitious, a dangerous combination.
It was revenge, pure and simple, delivered with all the vicious calculation of a spurned wife. Wolsey had turned pale at the scene. Henry Tudor, his lord and master, did not forgive humiliation. Still it could have been saved and the royal ire deflected, if it wasn’t for the actions of one of his own, an English bishop even, that damned sanctimonious interfering fool, Fisher! Ignoring the hints of royal disfavour and legatine reward, he defended Queen Katherine. Of course the baleful glare of his outraged monarch alighted upon his most loyal chancellor and long-time solver of church problems, and the King said nothing! That was the culminating ruin of the commission.
Wolsey was almost tempted into profanity at the recollection. A muttered prayer pushed him past the sinfulness of anger into a moment’s blessed peace. It was all too brief. He turned to the work at hand, and putting quill to parchment, wrote out the salutations to Thomas Boleyn, Lord Rochford, and father of Anne, the new beloved of His Sovereign and the reason for his mounting calamities. After decades in royal service he knew how the play of power functioned. He’d expected the manoeuvrings of Rochford and the Boleyn faction. That was just the common practice at Court, as was so much of his business recently. It was another in a long succession of ‘gifts’, the coin of patronage. This one, by the King’s command, was a patent assigning the rents of the vacant see of Durham, worth two thousand four hundred pounds per annum, to Lord Rochford. One more favour drawn from his suddenly waning stock. At the memory of loss, Wolsey’s thoughts once more spiralled back to the last hour of the Blackfriars Court, and His Majesty’s ominous silence. Even now his requests for an audience were refused and His Majesty was not ten miles away!