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.
The Consummation
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 goaclass="underline" 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 months 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.
He passed a law immediately. Poisoners should be boiled alive.
The soup was tested. Richard Rouse, the cook, was taken for questioning and immediately confessed to the deed. He could not say who it was who paid him well for what he did; it was a stranger and he knew not whence he came.