THE BISHOP OF ROCHESTER lived humbly in his London residence, but his doors were kept open and there was always a meal to be given to any who called on him when there was food on his table.
Perhaps his guests were not so many since the meeting of the Bishops. Those who wished him well deplored his outspokenness; some sought to advise him; but there were few who wished it to be said that they were in agreement with him.
It was a few days after the meeting when his cook, Richard Rouse, returning to the kitchens after shopping in the markets, was met by a stranger who asked for a word with him.
Richard Rouse was flattered, for beneath the disguise of a merchant he recognized a person of the quality. The cook was a man of ambition; he had not been long in the service of the Bishop and he was proud to be employed by a man of such importance; he did not see why he should not rise in his profession; the house of an Archbishop might be his next appointment; and after that—why should he not serve the King?
The stranger took him to a tavern where they sat and drank awhile.
“I have heard that you are an excellent cook,” Rouse was told. “And that your services are not appreciated in that household in which you serve.”
“My master is a good one.”
“Any cook can call a master good who has a poor palate. The Bishop might be eating stinking fish in place of the excellent dishes you put before him. He would know no difference.”
“His thoughts are on other matters,” sighed Rouse.
“That’s a tragedy for a good cook. Such a master would never sing his praises in the right quarters.”
“I fear so.”
“How would you like to work in the royal kitchens?”
There was no need for Rouse to answer, but he did. “It is the ambition of my life.”
“It need not be so far away.”
“Who are you?” Rouse demanded.
“You will discover, if you are a wise man.”
“How can I convince you of my wisdom?”
“By taking this powder and slipping it into the Bishop’s broth.”
Rouse turned pale.
“I thought,” said his companion contemptuously, “that you were an ambitious man.”
“But this powder…”
“It is calculated to improve the flavor of the broth.”
“The Bishop will not notice that the flavor is improved.”
“Others at his table might.”
Rouse was afraid, but he would not look at his fear. He tried to find an explanation of the stranger’s conduct which would be acceptable to him. The man wanted to help him to a place in the King’s kitchens because he believed his talents were wasted on the Bishop of Rochester; therefore he was giving him a new flavoring which would make people marvel at the broth he put before them. Perhaps at the table would be one of the King’s higher servants…That was a very pleasant explanation. The only other was one he had no wish to examine.
He was a man who was always hoping for a great opportunity; he would never forgive himself if, when it came, he was not ready to take it.
THE LORD CHANCELLOR brought grave news to the King.
Henry studied Thomas More with affectionate impatience. Here was a man who might have done so much in molding public opinion, because if it could be said “Sir Thomas More is of the opinion that my marriage is no true marriage,” thousands would say “This matter is beyond me, but if Sir Thomas More says this is so, then it must be so, for he is not only a learned man, but a good man.”
But Thomas was obstinate. His smile was sunny, his manner bland, and his wit always a joy to listen to. But whenever Henry broached the matter of the divorce Thomas would have some answer for him to which he could not take offence and yet showed clearly that Thomas was not prepared to advance his cause.
Now Thomas was grave. “The Bishop of Rochester is grievously ill, Your Grace.”
Henry’s heart leaped exultantly. Fisher had become a nuisance; he always looked as if he were on the point of death. Henry was sentimental enough to remember his old affection for the man, but his death would be a relief. He was another of those obstinate men who did not seem to care how near they approached danger to themselves as long as they clung to their miserable opinions.
“He has been ailing for some time,” the King answered. “He is not strong.”
“Nay, Your Grace, he became ill after partaking of the broth served at his table.”
“What’s this?” cried Henry, the color flaming into his face.
“He was seized with convulsions, Your Grace, and so were others at his table. It would seem that there has been an attempt to poison him.”
“Have his servants been questioned?”
“Your Grace, his cook has been arrested and under torture confesses that a white powder was given him by a stranger with instructions to put it into the Bishop’s broth. He declares he was told it would but improve the flavor.”
Henry did not meet his Chancellor’s eyes.
“Has he confessed on whose instructions he acted?”
“Not yet, Your Grace.”
Henry looked at his Chancellor helplessly. He was thinking of a pair of indignant black eyes, of a lady’s outbursts of anger because of the dilatoriness which she sometimes accused the King of sharing; he thought of her ambitious family.
What if the cook, put to the torture, mentioned names which must not be mentioned?
Yet the Chancellor was looking at him expectantly. He could not take this man into his confidence as he had that other Chancellor.
Oh, Wolsey, he thought, my friend, my counsellor, why did I ever allow them to drive a wedge between us? Rogue you may have been to some extent, but you were my man, and we understood each other; a look, a gesture, and you knew my mind as these men of honor never can.
He said: “Poisoning is the worst of crimes. If this fellow is guilty he must pay the full penalty of his misdeeds. Let him be put to the torture, and if he should disclose names, let those names be written down and shown to none other but me.”
Sir Thomas More bowed his head. There were times when Henry felt that this man understood every little twist and turn of his mind; and that made for great discomfort.
He glanced away. “I will send my best physician to the Bishop,” he said. “Let us hope that his frugal appetite means that he took but little of the poisoned broth.”
The Chancellor’s expression was sorrowful. Fisher was a friend of his—they were two of a kind.
Death is in the air, he thought as he left the King’s presence.
CROWDS WERE GATHERED in Smithfield to watch the death of Richard Rouse. The name of the cook who had longed for fame and fortune was now on every tongue. He would be remembered for years to come because it was due to him that a new law had been made.
Several people who had sat at the Bishop’s table had died; the Bishop himself remained very ill. Poisoning, said the King in great indignation, was one of the most heinous crimes a man could commit. And, perhaps because he would have been so relieved to know the Bishop was dead, he felt it his duty to show the people how much he regretted this attempt on the old man’s life. The severest punishment man could conceive must be inflicted on the poisoner. After some deliberation the new law had come into being. The death penalty for poisoners from henceforth was that they should be hung in chains and lowered into a cauldron of boiling oil, withdrawn and lowered again; this to be continued until death.
And so the crowds assembled in the great square to see the new death penalty put into practice on the cook of the Bishop of Rochester.