CHAPTER TWELVE

THE QUEEN WAS summoned to the great Hall of the Black Friar's Convent in London. The King, on a raised platform, sat at the upper end. Some distance away Catherine was given her place. The Cardinals, sitting lower than the King, flanked the royal presence, and near them the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Bishops were given position. Doctor Samson, afterwards Bishop of Chichester, and Doctor Bell, afterwards Bishop of Worcester, led those who pleaded for the King. Representing the Queen was John Fisher, Bishop of Rochester, and Doctor Standish, a Gray Friar and Bishop of St. Asaph.

The Papal Legate, racked with the gout, reported back to Rome every detail of the "whole tragic wretchedness of the subject." In cipher he wrote: "So far as I can see this passion of the King's is a most extraordinary thing. He sees nothing, he thinks of nothing but his Anne; he cannot be without her for an hour, and it moves one to pity to see how the King's life, the stability and downfall of the whole country, hang upon this one question . . . In the house of a foreigner, one cannot do all one wishes; the case has no defence. The King, especially in his own house, has no lack of procurators, attorneys, witnesses, and even laity who are hankering after his grace and favour. The Bishops of Rochester and St. Asaph have spoken and written in support of the marriage, also some men of learning have done the same, but in fear and on their own responsibility: no one comes forward any longer in the Queen's name"[1] He was wrong. John Fisher, the Bishop of Rochester, never ceased to champion the cause of the unhappy Catherine with unwavering courage.


Catherine had refused to admit the authority of the Court; nevertheless, on these first days she attended the trial. Dramatic was her response to the summons, "Catherine, Queen of England, come into the court." Slowly making her way past the prelates and dignitaries she knelt before her husband.

"Sir," she said, in a voice that all could hear, "I beseech you for all the loves that hath been between us, and for the love of God, let me have justice and right, take of me some pity and compassion, for I am a poor woman, and a stranger, born out of your Dominion. I have here no assured friend and much less indifferent counsel; I flee to you as to the head of justice within this realm . . . I take God and all the world to witness, that I have been to you a true, humble and obedient wife, ever conformable to your will and pleasure . . . being always well pleased and contented with all things wherein you had any delight or dalliance, whether it were in little or much . . . I loved all those whom ye loved only for your sake, whether I had cause or no; and whether they were my friends or my enemies. This twenty years I have been your true wife or more, and by me ye have had divers children, although it hath pleased God to call them out of this world, which hath been no default in me. And when ye had me at the first, I take God to be my judge, I was a true maid without touch of man; and whether it be true or no, I put it to your conscience."

What were the thoughts of Henry as he listened? The fortune that comes from truth? The justification that follows wrong? No man is completely villain. At this moment surely Henry was sick at heart. Surely at this critical time, there must have been, even for a fleeting moment, the accusation of conscience, the pain of doubt. He made no answer, nor did he speak any word when she concluded: "To God I commit my cause." She made a curtsy to her husband and then, with head held high, walked from the court.

The crier, under command, sought to bring her back. "Madam," he said, "ye be called again."

"It maketh no matter," was the brave answer, "for it is no indifferent court for me. Therefore, I will not tarry."[2] The mood of court, prejudiced of necessity, was heavy with sympathy for the Queen.

Henry made a bid to twist that sympathy to his own end. "She hath been to me as true," he said, "as obedient, and as conformable a wife, as I could in my fantasy wish or desire. She hath all the virtuous qualities that ought to be in a woman of her dignity, or in any other of baser estate . . ."

Cardinal Wolsey then asked the King to declare that he had not instigated the proceedings against Catherine. Henry readily absolved the Cardinal of all guilt and placed the blame on his conscience. The death of his children by Catherine and the lack of a male heir convinced him that he was being punished by God. "It drove me at last to consider the estate of this realm . . . whether I might take another wife . . . not for any carnal concupiscence, not for any displeasure or mislike of the Queen's person or age, with whom I could be as well content to continue during my life, if our marriage may stand with God's laws, as with any woman alive . . ." Again he lingered long upon his conscience, his wounded and ready conscience, and pleaded his cause with seeming humility and sincerity. His Bishops listened with docility, and their spokesman, the old Archbishop Warham, gave their answer. "That is true, if it pleases Your Highness. I doubt not that all my brethren here present will affirm the same."

There was a sudden stir in that packed room as plans went awry. John Fisher's voice rang throughout the room: "No, Sir, not I. Ye have not my consent thereto."

All eyes turned upon Fisher. The King was the first to speak: "Look here upon this"; he held the paper up. "Is not this your hand and seal?" Fisher looked angrily at his peers and then defiantly addressed the King: "No, forsooth, Sire, it is not my hand nor seal!"

Hastily Warham turned to Fisher. There was discreet murmuring on his part but the sturdy voice of Fisher rose high and with insistence: "I said to you, that I never would consent to no such an act, for it were against my conscience . . ."

The old Archbishop was all of a flutter, and in a flurry of words he tried to explain a forgery and said that he had thought that he had the power to affix the seal of Fisher Steadily Fisher made reply: "Under your correction, my Lord, there is no thing more untrue."

Henry frowned and intruded: "Well, well," he said bluntly "it shall make no matter. We will not stand with you in argument therein, for you are but one man."[3]

The case went on. The Queen refused to appear again and was declared contumacious. The King's will dominated the court, yet the proceedings were held to a tedious pace. Wolsey was for hurrying; Campeggio, the Italian, delayed. Forty witnesses were called, all acting for the one side Fisher's voice was the only plea heard for Catherine: "Whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder," he thundered.

Wolsey listened with anxiety, for he knew well that this trial was in reality his trial, a test of his influence and strength. As it was, things were going far too slowly for the King. The Cardinal was summoned, and on his return from the royal presence, he met the Bishop of Carlyle. "Sir," said the latter, "it's a very hot day." "Yes," said Wolsey, "and if you had been as well chafed as I have been within this hour, you would say it were very hot."[4]

In desperation, he persuaded his fellow cardinal, Campeggio, to go with him to the Queen and make a final effort to change her thinking. She received them courteously, making apology for being engaged in the disorder and paraphernalia of sewing. Her ladies stood about her.

"If it please you, to go into your private chamber," Wolsey said, "we will show you the cause of our coming."

"My Lord," she said calmly, "if you have anything to say, speak it openly before all these folks; for I fear nothing that you can say or allege against me, but that I would all the world should both hear and see . . ."

Again the Cardinal looked at the circle of ladies-in-waiting, all sympathetic to their mistress, all hostile to him. He tried another stratagem and began to speak in Latin, which he knew she well understood. But he was interrupted.

"Nay, good my Lord," Catherine said, "speak to me in English I beseech you; although I understand Latin."

"We come both to know your mind . . ." declared Wolsey, "and also to declare secretly our opinions and our counsel to you, which we have intended of very zeal and obedience . . . to your Grace."

She thanked him. "But to make answer to your request I cannot so suddenly, for I was set among my maidens at work, thinking full little of any such matter, wherein there needeth a longer deliberation . . . I had need of good counsel . . . think you . . . my lords, will any Englishmen counsel or be friendly unto me against the King's pleasure, they being his subjects? Nay, forsooth, my lords! I am destitute and barren of friendship and counsel here in a foreign region: and as for your counsel, I will not refuse but be glad to hear."[5]

Relenting, she allowed them to talk to her in private. They submitted their arguments as to her submission to the King's will. But she was obstinate and remained unchanged, acting with the strength of one who was carrying the banner of right against wrong, acting with the immeasurable strength of a mother fighting for her child. Her daughter was the King's daughter, and unless she, the Queen, had a son by him, or unless death removed her from the scene, Mary was heiress to England's crown.

Clearly there was no hope of compromise. The trial dragged on, day by day, until finally Campeggio adjourned the court and transferred the case to Rome. It was as though a cannon had been exploded. Speechless with fury, Henry abandoned all pretense of civility and rushed from the Hall. His brother-in-law, Suffolk, acted for him: "It was never merry in England whilst we had cardinals amongst us!" As he spoke, he beat the table and glared at the two members of the Sacred College.

For a moment Wolsey, amidst all his anxieties, recovered some of his former dignity. He had once shielded Suffolk from Henry's displeasure.

When the King's sister had become the widow of King Louis of France she had, in secret and in haste, married Suffolk, who was in France to negotiate with her husband's successor. Suffolk had then sought Wolsey's help, explaining ungallantly that the Queen would not let him rest till he had granted her marriage, he having lain with her so much he feared she was with child. When Henry heard the news his anger had flared, but Wolsey had intervened, and had made smooth the way of the anxious bride and still more anxious groom. At that time the latter had written to the Cardinal that he was obliged to him next God and his master.

And now here they were, Duke and Cardinal, debtor and indebted. The Cardinal measured his words and faced the angry nobleman.

"Sir," he answered, "of all men within this realm, ye have the least cause to dispraise or be offended with cardinals: for if I, simple cardinal, had not been, you should have had at this present no head upon your shoulders . . ."[6]

It was an angry and frustrated Henry who went to Waltham Abbey to give the bitter news to Anne Boleyn. There was little hope for an annulment. If and when the court were to be reconvened, it would be in Rome. And in the Eternal City, the Pope made peace with Catherine's nephew, the Emperor Charles.

But to lighten the dejection of the royal lover, another hope came from Cambridge University. The future Archbishop of Canterbury, Thomas Cranmer, in a bid for Henry's favour, reasoned that since the whole matter hinged on an interpretation of the Scriptures, the case should be presented to biblical scholars. But not merely to the selectees of an ecclesiastical court. It was his suggestion that all the great universities of Christendom should be consulted. Henry, ever the ardent amateur theologian, took to the scheme with enthusiasm. Machinery was constructed and put into motion. Cambridge, and soon Oxford, voted for the King's cause. Royal messengers and English gold crossed the Channel. Poitiers was against him, and at Angers there was disagreement. The King of France intimidated the University of Paris into supporting Henry. Because of the same influence Orleans, Bourges and Toulouse gave a similar verdict. But, perhaps because of Imperial pressure, Alcala and Salamanca opposed him, as did the University of Naples. Ferrara and Padua voted for the divorce and so would have the University of Vicenza, if the Bishop of that city had not intervened. A great deal of bribery accompanied these decisions, although in the Papal states the University of Bologna declared for the divorce and refused Henry's gold. Almost every available scholar of note was importuned; even eminent Jewish rabbis were engaged to endorse Henry's interpretation of Deuteronomy.

Cranmer's idea was to bring solid theological support to Henry, support that would influence the decision of Rome. But at this stage the Pope was not to be swayed. In fact, there was little courtesy now between England and Rome. When Campeggio left England his baggage was seized and searched, in violation of all recognized diplomatic custom. It was Henry's final attempt to secure the Decretal Bull.

The tragedy of Wolsey's downfall gained momentum. On Saturday, the 9th of October, even while presiding at his duties of Lord Chancellor, he was indicted. A week later he was ordered to give up the Great Seal. It was a momentous hour in England's story. The Papal Legate, he who represented the power and authority of the Church, was challenged by the secular power. That for which Becket had died was again at stake. Wolsey was not equal to the occasion. Instead of courageous defiance, instead of martyrdom, and perhaps victory, he chose to beg, hoping that past friendship between himself and Henry would stay his destruction.

The King was not insensitive to the bond that had existed between him and the Cardinal, but always there was the whisper of Anne Boleyn. "Is it not a marvelous thing," she asked her lover one day, "to consider what debt and danger the Cardinal hath brought you in with all his subjects?"

"How so, Sweetheart," asked the King. She talked of the heavy taxes the Cardinal had brought on the people, and when the King tried to give justification she interrupted with: "Nay, Sir, besides all that, what things hath he wrought in his realm to your great slander and dishonour? There was never a nobleman within this realm that if had done but half as much he were well worthy to lose his head."

"Why I then perceive," Henry said, "ye are not the Cardinal's friend."

"Forsooth, Sir," came the feminine answer, "I have no cause, nor any other that loveth your Grace, no more hadh your Grace, if you consider well his doings."[7]

Following Campeggio's departure from England, the King sent the dukes of Suffolk and Norfolk to Wolsey with the request to surrender the Great Seal. The Cardinal was incredulous, but when, on the following day, they returned with the King's letters, he obeyed the royal command. The Cardinal was stripped of his wealth and banished to his country home at Esher. For a while it seemed as though Henry might spare him any further hurt. But Wolsey had too many enemies and too few friends, and relentess in the effort to destroy him was the Boleyn faction, fearing that if Henry weakened and the Cardinal came back to favour, the King's "Great Matter" might be left to the direction of Rome. He had been untrue to his responsibilities. Because of his shameful subservience to Henry he had brought grievous detriment to the Church. He had abused and deserted the Legatine power. He had broken his priestly vows. He had sought to secure the divorce by every device at his command. All these things were true. But no man believed that, if the dreaded time of decision arrived, Wolsey would permit the Church in England to abandon and reject the authority of the Holy See.

When he departed from London, it was by barge, and a noisy crowd gathered on the banks of the Thames hoping that he would be taken to the Tower. They yelled a vigorous disapproval when his craft did not land at the Traitors' Gate.

Henry had a turn of heart at this moment. He sent a messenger, Sir Harry Norris, who gave the Cardinal a bejewelled ring and a message to be "of good cheer, for he was as much in his Highness' favour as ever he was, and so shall be."[8] Given some hope by this symbol of the King's favour, the Cardinal proceeded to Esher. Here, in a country house, his existence, if not literally, was actually that of a prisoner, living with all the terrible uncertainties and fears of a prisoner not yet sentenced. He who had ruled a kingdom with a heavy hand, who had insulted the powerful and goaded the great, he who had fostered the whims of his Prince and who had made, or at least helped make, a tyrant was under no illusions as to how dark and cruel his fate could be.

Henry, for a while, continued to send him messages and marks of friendship. But Anne Boleyn's father, the Earl of Wikshire, and her uncle, the Duke of Norfolk, persisted in their campaign to ruin him. Unwisely perhaps, he took possession of his Archiepiscopal See of York and made ready to be installed with some of the pomp of former days. It was enough for his enemies. On the fourth of November, the Earl of Northumberland, who, as a stripling, had been chided by the Cardinal because of his passion for Anne Boleyn, burst in upon him with terrible words: "My Lord, I arrest you for high treason."

Under arrest Wolsey was ordered back to London. Unlike the citizens of that town, the crowds of York gathered around him crying, "God save your Grace, God save your Grace! The foul evil take all that have thus taken you from us! We pray God that a very vengeance may light upon them."

So unpopular was his arrest in those regions that his guards were obliged to travel in the night. Dark and gloomy was the long journey, dark indeed for Wolsey with the knowledge that every mile brought him closer to the Tower. They rode in stages, stopping at Hardwick, then Nottingham, and by now it was obvious to every member of the little band that the Cardinal was not only ailing in spirit but also in health. On the third day of the journey, Saturday, November 26th, they arrived in the darkness of night at the Augustinian Abbey at Leicester. By torchlight the prisoner was escorted into the Abbey. The Abbot and monks stood in sad greeting. As he passed amongst them Wolsey said: "Father Abbot, I am come to lay my weary bones among you."

Once to his bed, the Cardinal never rose again. On Monday night he called the monks and told them that by the stroke of eight in the morning he would be dead. The pale dawn of the cold winter morning came, and the old man made a long and full confession to the Abbot. He talked for over a full hour, then, anxious for his charge, came the Keeper of the Tower, Sir William Kingston. The official asked him how he did. "Sir," answered the broken man, "I tarry but the will and pleasure of God to render my simple soul into his divine hands."

Then came the sad words that were ever to be remembered: "If I had served God as diligently as I have done the king, he would not have given me over in my gray hairs."

He turned on what was his deathbed and further addressed Kingston: "This is the just reward that I must receive for my worldly diligence and pains that I have had to do him service; only to satisfy his main pleasure, not regarding my godly duty. Wherefore I pray you, with all my heart, to have me most kindly commended unto his Royal Majesty; beseeching him, in my behalf, to call to his most gracious remembrance all matters proceeding between him and me, from the beginning of the world unto this day, and the progress of the same, and most and chiefly in the weighty matter yet depending: then shall his conscience declare, whether I have offended him or no. He is sure a Prince of a royal courage, and hath a princely heart; and rather than he will either miss, or want any part of his will or appetite, he will put the loss of one half of his realm in danger."

The halting voice went on conjuring up the past. "For, I assure you, I have often kneeled before him in his Privy Chamber, on my knees for space of an hour or two, to persuade him from his will and appetite; but I could never bring to pass to dissuade him therefrom. Therefore, Master Kingston, if it chance hereafter you to be one of his Privy Counsel, as for your wisdom and other qualities ye are meet to be, I warn you to be well advised and assured what matter ye put in his head or ye shall never put it out again." After giving a strong warning concerning the heresies that were being imported into England, he realized it was nearing the time that he said he would die.

"Master Kingston, farewell," he said, "I can no more, but wish all things to have good success. My time draweth on fast. I may not tarry with you. And forget not, I pray you, what I have said and charged you withal!; for, when I am dead, ye shall, peradventure, remember my words much better."[9]

He called for the Father Abbot. He was anointed with the Holy Oil and all the solemn rites of the Last Sacrament were performed.

As the Abbot concluded his functions the great bells of the Abbey tolled the hour. It was eight o'clock. And before the eighth stroke came, Cardinal Wolsey was dead. His corpse was dressed in the full splendour of his rank, the embroidered mitre placed on his head, the ring on his finger. Before the coffin was closed, the Mayor of Leicester and other notables were called to take a last look at him so that there would be no suspicion or murmur as to his death. The coffin was then carried into the Lady Chapel, where all that day it was guarded and all the next night. Then, in the morning, the monks sang the Requiem for his soul.

The remains of Cardinal Wolsey were committed to the earth, but he who had loved pomp and palaces so much was given no high monument to mark his tomb. And to this day the place of his burial is not known.


The Story of Thomas More, John Farrow

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