Richard Rouse, who had to be carried out to the place of execution, looked very different from the jaunty man who had spoken to a stranger in a tavern such a short time before.
He was crippled from the rack, and his hands, mangled by the thumbscrews, hung limply at his sides.
With dull eyes he looked at the chains and the great cauldron under which the flames crackled.
There was silence as he was hung in the chains and lifted high before he was lowered into the pot of boiling oil. His screams would be remembered for ever by those who heard them. Up again his poor tortured body was lifted and plunged down into the bubbling oil. And suddenly…he was silent. Once again he was lowered into that cauldron, and still no sound came.
People shuddered and turned away. Voices were raised in the crowd. “Richard Rouse put the powder into the broth, but who in truth poisoned those people who had sat at the Bishop’s table?”
It was recalled that the Bishop had been one who had worked zealously for the Queen. Now he was only alive because of his frugal appetite, although even he had come close to death. Who would wish to remove the Bishop? The King? He could send the Bishop to the Tower if he wished, merely by giving an order. But there were others.
A cry went up from Smithfield: “We’ll have no Nan Bullen for our Queen. God bless Katharine, Queen of England!”
Katharine in Exile
IN THE CASTLE OF AMPTHILL KATHARINE TRIED TO RETAIN the dignity of a Queen. Her routine was as it had always been. She spent a great deal of time at prayer and at her needlework, reading and conversing with the women she had brought with her and in particular with Maria, the only one in whom she had complete trust; only to Maria did she refer to her troubles, and to the fact that she was separated from the King.
Each day she waited for some news, for she knew that in the world outside Ampthill events were moving quickly towards a great climax.
She could not believe that Henry would dare disobey the Pope; and she was certain that when Clement gave the verdict in her favor, which he must surely do, Henry would be forced to take her back.
She had one desire to which she clung with all the fervor of her nature; only this thing mattered to her now. She had lost Henry’s affection forever; she was fully aware of that. But Mary was the King’s legitimate daughter, and she was determined that she should not be ousted from the succession, no matter what it cost her mother.
“I will sign nothing,” she told Maria. “I will not give way an inch. They can have me murdered in my bed if they will; but I will never admit that I am not truly married to Henry, for to do that would be to proclaim Mary a bastard.”
The great joy of her life was in the letters she received from Mary. What if the final cruelty were inflicted and that joy denied her! How would she endure her life then?
But so far they both had their letters.
Her faithful Thomas Abell had been taken from her when he had published his book, setting forth his views on the divorce. She had warned him that he risked his life, but he cared nothing for that; and when they had come to take him away, he had gone almost gleefully. It was well that he should, he told her, for many would know that he was in the Tower, and why.
News came to Ampthill. The Pope had at last decided to act, and he summoned Henry to Rome to answer Queen Katharine’s appeal; he must, was the Holy Father’s command, appear in person or send a proxy.
Henry’s answer had been to snap his fingers at the Pope. Who was the Pope? he demanded. What had the Pope to do with England? The English Church had severed itself from Rome. There was one Supreme Head of the Church of England (under God) and that was His Majesty King Henry VIII.
This was momentous. This was telling the world that the rumor, that the Church of England was cutting itself free from Rome, was a fact.
But all this was paled by news of her daughter. Margaret Pole was with Mary still, and for that Katharine was grateful; Reginald had been sent to Italy, and Katharine knew that, much as Margaret loved her son, she was relieved that he was out of England, for it was growing increasingly unsafe to be in England and to disagree with the King.
Margaret wrote: “Her Highness the Princess has been ailing since she parted from Your Grace. It has grieved me deeply to watch her. She has had so little interest in life and her appetite is so poor. Constantly she speaks of Your Grace, and I know that if you could be with her she would be well. She has had to take to her bed…”
The Queen could not bear to think of Mary, sick and lonely, longing for her as she herself longed for Mary.
“What harm can we do by being together?” she demanded of Maria. “How dare he make us suffer so! He has his woman. Does our being together prevent that? Why should he be allowed to make us suffer so, merely that he may appease his conscience by telling himself—and others—that I plot against him with my daughter?”
But there was no comfort for Maria to offer her mistress, and at times Katharine came near to hating her husband.
Then she would throw herself on to her knees and pray.
“Forgive me, oh Lord. Holy Mother, intercede for me. He has been led into temptation. He does not understand how he tortures his wife and daughter. He is young…bent on pursuing pleasure, led away by bad counsellors.…”
But was this true? Was he so young? Who was it who had determined that no one should stand in the way of divorce? Who but Henry himself? Once she had blamed Wolsey, but Wolsey was dead, and this persecution persisted and had indeed intensified.
She sat down to write to him, and wrote as only a mother could write who was crying for her child.
“Have pity on us. My daughter is pining for me, and I for her. Do not continue in this cruelty. Let me go to her.”
She sent the letter to him without delay, and then began the weary waiting for his reply.
But the days passed, the weeks passed, and there was no answer from the King.
STIRRING NEWS came from Court. Sir Thomas More, unable to evade the great issue any longer, had resigned the Chancellorship rather than fall in with the King’s wishes.
Katharine prayed long for Thomas More when she heard that news, prayed for that pleasant family of his who lived so happily in their Chelsea home.
William Warham died; some said that like Wolsey he was fortunate to finish his life in a bed when he was but a few short steps from the scaffold. He was eighty-two years old and in the last weeks of his life had been issued with a writ of præmunire—a small offence but one by which he had shown he had not accepted the King as Supreme Head. Perhaps the old man was forgetful; perhaps he had not understood that it was necessary now to receive the King’s permission in all matters concerning the Church as well as the state. He had behaved according to procedure before the severance from Rome. These were dangerous times and the King was jealous of his new authority.
Fortunate Warham, who could take to his bed and die in peace.
Dr. Cranmer became the new Archbishop of Canterbury. Henry need fear no opposition from him; he was the man who, with Thomas Cromwell, had worked more than any to extricate the King from the tyranny of Rome.
Lord Audley was now Chancellor in place of Sir Thomas More, and gradually the King was ridding himself of the men who might oppose him.
John Fisher had recovered from the poison and was still living, but he was very frail. Katharine prayed for him and often trembled for him.
She heard that the King had honored Anne Boleyn by making her Marchioness of Pembroke and that he planned to take her to France with him as though she were his Queen.