CHAPTER 10

ST. THOMAS MORE was in his forty-seventh year when in 1525 he was given the Chancellorship of the Duchy of Lancaster. Wolsey was fifty-two. Henry was thirty-four. His Queen was six years older. Her maid-in-waiting, Anne Boleyn, was eighteen. And Anne's elder sister was still, occasionally, the King's mistress.

The Cardinal was still bleeding the Treasury to keep English troops on French soil. In the long dreary war between France and Spain, victory had come suddenly to the Emperor Charles. The French King was captured at Pavia. There was rejoicing at the English court but not in Wolsey's heart. England's ally, nephew of Catherine, betrothed to the child Princess Mary, the Prince who had deceived Wolsey, and therefore England, at two conclaves, was now too strong, too independent. Fresh moves were needed in the Cardinal's shifty political game. He looked across the Channel, mind working, plans brewing.

The Emperor brought no ease to the mounting tension. The tie that bound Spain to England was his betrothal pact with the daughter of Henry and Catherine. But the little Princess Mary was only nine years old and Charles had another bride in mind. Isabella of Portugal was beautiful, nearer his own age, and possessed of a dowry of nine hundred thousand golden ducats in ready cash. He sent an Ambassador to England with a request that his betrothal be broken or that the child Princess be sent to Spain at once and with a huge cash dowry. Henry listened to the Spanish envoy in a cold fury. He deemed the proposal to be a personal and national insult. The betrothal was broken. The Emperor was free to marry the Portuguese Princess. The link between Spain and England was snapped. Wolsey was now encouraged to deal with France. And while England's Spanish-born Queen brooded and lamented over the change, her husband, as though both to humiliate her and emphasize his hatred of Spanish influence, brought to Court the bastard son whom he had sired by Elizabeth Blount. The little boy, who was called Henry Fitzroy, was now six years old. He was living proof to his father that he could produce a male heir. It was a Queen's duty, no less than a King's, to provide a son for the succession. And in this she had failed. Ten years of tragic miscarriages had given the dynasty but one surviving child, a daughter--and she half-Spanish at that. England was not yet reconciled to the idea of a ruling Queen. There must be a Prince to take up the scepter, and Catherine was now past the child-bearing stage.

Henry looked at his small son thoughtfully. He knighted him, and as soon as the dubbing was completed the lad was put before two earls and made a peer of the realm with the title of Earl of Nottingham. This was not all. The new Earl was then created Duke of Richmond and Somerset and to complement this rank, further dignities were to be conferred. He was to be Lord Admiral of England, Wales, and Ireland, of Normandy, Gascony and Aquitaine. He was to be a Knight of the Garter, Keeper of the City and Castle of Carlisle, and he was to take precedence as first peer of England. There was only one title lacking, that of Wales, already borne by the nine-year-old Mary, and it would seem that Henry wished Elizabeth Blount's son to be next King.

And there were other thoughts simmering in the royal mind. That peculiar apparatus, his conscience, was astir. Was not his marriage to Catherine, his brother's widow, a violation of the Levitical law? It was true that the Pope had given a dispensation permitting the marriage. Testimony had been sworn that Catherine's union with Arthur had never been consummated. But were all the facts truly known? Now that his friendship with the Spanish Emperor was terminated, it was possible, and very convenient, to think that a terrible mistake might have been made, a grievous sin committed. Henry muttered his scruples to his confessor and reminded him that the respected Archbishop Warham had voiced concern at the time of the marriage.

The alert ears of Wolsey caught the whisper. It has been charged, but not proved, that it was he who planted the thought. Henry's "scruple" may have been born as early as 1S22. A few years later, after the Emperor's victory, the whole idea could certainly be regarded by the Cardinal with considerable favour. Friendship with France was his course. The French King's sister was unmarried. If it were made possible for Henry to take her as a bride, strong cement indeed would be poured into the foundations of the new alliance. And if a male heir came from such a marriage, Henry would be happy and the Tudor dynasty would be assured. It was an inviting mirage, with unlimited possibilities.

In her chapel, Catherine, now separated from her daughter by Henry's orders, spent long hours in prayer, as well she might, for the King's "Secret Matter" was fast losing its secrecy and quickly becoming his "Great Matter."

Sir Thomas, strolling by the banks of the river with his son-in-law, suddenly remarked: "Now would to Our Lord . . . upon condition that three things were well established in Christendom, I were put in a sack and here presently cast into the Thames."

"What great things be those, Sir?" asked the young man, "that should move you so to wish?"

"In faith, son, they be these," replied More.

"The first is that whereas the most part of Christian princes be at mortal war, they were all at an universal peace. The second, that where the Church of Christ is, at this present, sore afflicted with many errors and heresies, it were well settled in a perfect uniformity of religion. The third, that where the King's matter of his marriage is now come in question, it were to the glory of God and quietness of all parties brought to a good conclusion.''[1]

The seed of the great schism had been sown by 1526, yet in that year nobody foresaw the rapidity with which Henry would move to deny allegiance to Rome. But the Cardinal set before his Master, never a dull pupil, a daily and dangerous example: as Legate and Lord Chancellor, he demonstrated that authority over Church and State could be vested in one person. He furnished continuous proof to a greedy sovereign that heavy taxes could be levied on the clergy and that ready monies could be gained by suppressing monasteries. He was also, by his almost incredible pomps and vanities, his ruthless rule and conduct, fomenting a general hatred not only towards the entire clerical state but towards the Pope he professed to represent.

No tinge of Lutheranism was in Henry's new bent. He was, as he always so fervently protested, the pious, the militant Catholic making his confessions, attending his daily Mass, damning the heresy that was erupting and spreading from Germany. He applauded and gave vast encouragement to More, whose pen was enlisted for the defence of Catholicity, even while the passions and forces that were to tear England from the Church mounted. "You cannot spend the occasional hours which you can steal from your official duties better," Tunstall wrote to More in 1527, "than in composing in your own language such books as may show to simple and unlearned men the cunning malice of the heretics and fortify them against the impious subverters of the Church."[2]

More listened to the arguments that had sprung from across the sea and made his first rebuttal in The Dialogue Against Heresies, sometimes referred to as Quoth He and Quoth 1. It was a lengthy work, divided into four books. With wit, scholarship and ability he defended the Catholic position, answering point by point all charges. He admitted the necessity for reform in the Church and the weaknesses of the clergy, but he maintained that there were good and there were bad in all professions. If clergymen were familiar, they were called light; if they were solitary, they were regarded as fantastic; if they were sad, they were called solemn; if they were merry, they were regarded as mad; if they were holy, they were called hypocrites; if they kept few servants, they were called niggards; if they kept many, they were pompous. He had not said that they were all faultless nor had he excused their faults. But if the bishops, he said, would take into the priesthood better and fewer laymen, all the matter would be more than half amended.

His calm reasoning was always marked by his humour. To Luther's assertion that it was not necessary to confess to a priest, that a friend, either man or woman, would suffice, More made the gay reply that if a pretty woman could hear confessions then many a man who formerly had delayed the duty would find it easy frequently to ease his conscience. To the Lutheran theory of predestination he told the story of a thief who at his trial defended himself on the grounds that he had been predestined to steal. But the judge replied that predestination also governed his actions. He had been predestined to sentence the thief to the gallows. For those who attacked the validity of miracles, More told a sweet story and gravely gave assurance of his personal knowledge and authentication of the miracle and those persons connected with it. In the village of St. Stephen's a young couple were married, and soon after "the seed of them twain turned in the woman's body into blood and after into shape of man child." In less than a year a boy child was born, "and forsooth it was not then passing the length of a foot." But a miracle has occurred, for the infant is now taller than More himself. When it is asked how long ago this incident took place, the solemn answer is "By my faith, about twenty-one years."

This phase of More's championship of the Church was to last about six years. He was a layman, but he became the principal defender of the Spiritualty. "The bishop's proctor," as he was called by his antagonists, was drawn into the controversy only because of a high sense of duty, for it was he who wrote:

When a hatter Will go smatter In philosophy, Or a pedlar Wax a meddler In theology All that ensue Such crafts new They drive so far a cast That ever more They do therefore Beshrew themselves at last.[3]

In the long literary controversy, four men led the lists against More: William Tyndale, John Frith, Simon Fish, and Christopher Saint-German. The first two were priests, influenced by the new heresy; the second two were lawyers. All four were able men and put their cases well, but their opponent was abler still. After completing the Dialogue, More answered Fish's Supplication of Beggars with Supplication of Souls. Again he showed his characteristic wit in the story of "a lewd gallant and a good friar. Whom, when the gallant saw going barefoot in a great frost and snow, he asked him why he did take such pain. And he answered that it was very little pain if a man would remember hell. 'Yea, Friar,' quod the gallant, 'but what and there be no hell? Then art thou a great fool?' 'Yea, Master,' quod the friar, 'but what and there be hell? Then is your mastership a much more fool.'"[4]

Even when he became Lord Chancellor, More somehow found time to wield his pen in defence of the Church, nor after his fall from the high office was the labour diminished. The pen continued to move; book after book answered the arguments and charges of the enemy. He deemed the great task he had undertaken to be both a duty and a work of love, and to keep his moral independence he avoided subsidy.

After her romance with the young Percy had been broken and she had been sent to languish in the country, very little is known of Anne Boleyn's activities or whereabouts for a few years. Equal mystery surrounds the date of her return to Court. Bishop Burnet, in his History of the Reformation, claims that she was sent to France after the end of the War and did not return to England until 1527. This is doubtful. Another source states that in order to avoid the King's attentions her father kept her secluded in the country. This also is doubtful. Sir Thomas Boleyn was no man to cross his prince. He had with the highest degree of equanimity seen his eldest daughter debauched by Henry. There was no reason why he should object to Anne accepting the same role. He was ambitious and unscrupulous, and during the little-known period of Anne's life he sought and received favour from Henry. He was made Treasurer of the Household, an appointment which carried rich revenues. He became Steward and Chamberlain at Tunbridge, receiver and bailiff of Bradsted, keeper of the manor of Penshurst, keeper of the parks of Thundersly, Essex and Westwood. He was one of Henry's boisterous drinking and hunting companions, and sometimes he served him as an Ambassador. In 1525 he was raised to the peerage with the title of Viscount Rochford.

It can be assumed that Anne was once again a maid-in-waiting to Catherine some time after 1525 and that as such she would be seen almost daily by Henry. This was the time when his "conscience" was troubling him concerning the validity of his marriage, and this was the time when he set in motion the machinery that was to satisfy his scruples and, eventually, his passion for Anne.

The capture and snaring of the King by Anne was not sudden. It was a slow and deliberate process. She had no wish to suffer her sister's fate, to be merely one of the royal mistresses, subject to whim and caprice, cast off and married to a complacent subject when Henry had tired of her. She was determined that this would not be her fate, and with an amazing blend of will power and shrewdness she succeeded For six years she held off the eager monarch, tantalizing him, inviting him, promising him, but never surrendering until her audacious goal was in sight. Her game was probably one of the most skillful and prolonged feats of coquetry ever to be perpetrated. One ponders over the secret of her success, the taming and subjugation of this lustful and willful creature who never before had been tamed or thwarted in any of his desires, let alone in the lists of love. What magic did she wield to make the Defender of the Faith break with Rome, reject his Queen, bring ruin and disgrace to Wolsey, his lifelong friend and chief adviser?

She was pretty, but not extraordinarily so, if we may judge by her portraits and the testimony of acquaintances, both hostile and friendly. But the written word, the brush and paint often fail to convey the dimension and measure of that peculiar and fatal attraction with which a woman can enthrall a man. She was slim in body and possessed of masses of thick, dark, lustrous hair. Her eyes were almond-shaped, sparkling black in colour, ready to dance with mischief, and equally ready to mirror her opposite moods. One hand was blemished by an additional nail, but by dexterity and cleverness she concealed this defect. She certainly was not beautiful in the conventional sense of the word, but beauty in the realm of amour is the property and endowment of the participants alone. Under the spell of emotion they dwell and move in an enchanted world of their own, confusing realities with dreams, peering at each other through the dangerous and distorted lens of guile and passion. It has ever been and ever will be.

At the Mardi Gras festivities in 1526, Henry flaunted a motto "Declare I dare not." Perhaps this was a message to the girl who still attended his wife. As for Anne, she certainly returned the look. She, of a certainty, plied all the devices of flirtation and coquetry, but steadfastly she held away from him. The enamoured monarch floundered deeper and deeper in the mire of his infatuation, becoming increasingly desperate, increasingly firm in his resolve to possess and own her. She still held away, but as though to show him the road she sent him a brooch that was a symbol in jewels of her position and ambition. The bauble represented a lone maid in a ship, and it carried the significant motto: "There or nowhere."

When the spring warmth of the year 1527 came to dispel the wet chill from London roofs and streets, the King's "Great Matter" was the exciting and public gossip of the crowded city. Everywhere, in the taverns, in the merchants' courtyards, in the artisans' shops, on the wharves, the subject was discussed and surmise made. Henry alone thought the business to be a secret. In April he was telling the French Ambassador, "I have certain things to communicate to your master, of which Wolsey knows nothing."

It is hard to believe that the astute Cardinal was unaware of something which was an open secret to everybody else. The important point of Henry's statement, terribly important to the Cardinal-and, indeed, to history-was the fact that the King, for a first time, was acting independently of the Cardinal and dealing directly with a foreign prince.

The goad of his frustrated passion spurred the hot-blooded King to action. On May 8, Wolsey was summoned to the royal presence and officially told of the King's doubts concerning the validity of his marriage and therefore the uncertain status of the succession. Nothing was said of Anne Boleyn, and in this the Cardinal was fooled. Even if he knew, as he probably did, of Henry's infatuation, he put it down as being a matter of no importance, a passing interlude among many such incidents in the crowded career of a practicing sensualist. The Cardinal pondered over the King's words on that May afternoon and then made his decision, and his mistake. There would be difficulties in dissolving the marriage That he perceived, but he also knew the fierce and unbridled will of the King. He would obey his master and, at the same time, channel events to serve England's interests in France. Catherine was of little political importance since her nephew, the Spanish Emperor, had severed his link with England. Alliance with France was a thing to be desired. The nimble brain of the Cardinal worked swiftly as he bowed low before his sovereign. He acted with speed.

Within a fortnight, Wolsey, acting as Legate, convened a Court of Justice to determine the status of Henry's marriage. The Archbishop of Canterbury, Warham, acted as assessor. The King was solemnly charged "to answer for eighteen years' sinful cohabitation with Catherine." The object of the "trial" was to find error with and pronounce invalid that dispensation of Pope Julius II which had enabled Henry to marry his brother's widow. The usual legality was thrown over the proceedings. An attorney was appointed to "defend" the King. A Dr. Wolman was made promoter or prosecutor. The whole affair was supposed to be kept a secret, but it was of a size too big to be confined to a corner.

All London rocked with the gossip. Sympathy was with the Queen. Tankards were raised to her health and honour. Wolsey was blamed. Ever unpopular, he was jeered and mocked when his stately processions disturbed the traffic of the narrow streets. When the news reached Catherine, she acted with courage and promptness. Off sped a message to Spain. She had been born a Princess of Aragon. She had been a good wife and a good Queen. Now to be told that she was neither, that her daughter was illegitimate, was unthinkable. The Pope must be informed. Wolsey must be curbed.

The conspiracy failed. The court did not, as had been the intention, heartily proclaim Henry to be a bachelor. There was much talk and delay, and, fume though Henry might, the slow forms of a trial followed. Episcopal opinion was invited. The bishops were mostly products of lay investiture. As such they wore their mitres because of the King's favour, but the pull of duty was still towards Rome. The powerful prelate, John Fisher, Bishop of Rochester and close friend of More's, was outspoken in his belief that the marriage was indissoluble. Torn between conflicting loyalties, the bewildered and worried tribunal decided that before a definite decision could be made, the sham secrecy would have to be abandoned, and that both the Pope and Catherine be notified.

While these proceedings were yet under way there came, with the dramatic suddenness of a thunderclap, startling news from Italy, news that was to make useless any continuance of the so-called trial. Mercenary troops of the Emperor, unafraid and without discipline, without strategy or direction, had marched upon Rome and given sack to the city. The unbridled mob, for mob this army became, breached the walls, and in a frenzy wreaked violence and brutality of every description upon the ancient scene. The rich treasures of the Renaissance were a wild invitation for looting. Terrified citizenry were murdered in crowds with a particular ferocity, their wives and daughters raped even as their houses were fired and gutted. Religion was no shield in this mad debauch of blood. Cardinals were flogged and dragged along the streets, priests were slaughtered before their altars, nuns were violated in the cloister. The Pope sought hurried refuge behind the thick walls of the Castle of St. Angelo and there, his ears still echoing with cries of the dying and the yells of assassins, he realized that he was cut off from Christendom, a prisoner of the Emperor. And it was from this unfortunate and helpless pontiff that Henry was seeking permission to divorce and humiliate the Emperor's aunt.

The new state of affairs was quickly and well understood in England, but it brought no change to Henry's wishes. The Pope might be surrounded by a marauding horde, but the King of England was the prisoner of a more dangerous captor; he was a slave to the bent and sway of his own passion. Wolsey was berated, the trial was discreetly dissolved to a nothing, and while the Cardinal, ever his master's servant, pondered over new plans, Henry tried a different tactic. He went to his Queen, and, on his knees, begged her understanding and sympathy. Catherine was a religious woman, and it was religion that he used as the theme of his supplication. He quoted the passage from the Book of Leviticus. He told of the learned clerics whom he had consulted. He swore that it was nothing but scruple and conscience which was driving him to ask her to accept separation and leave the Court. He prated of mortal sin and recited a long history of sleepless nights. The whole troublesome matter could be solved, he gently hinted, if she discreetly retired and entered a convent. But retreat from trouble, talk of scruple and conscience were arguments that only served to strengthen Catherine's belief in her own position. She also had scruple and conscience. She had been a good and loyal wife. She knew her marriage was valid and she declared it would be an irremediable wrong if she said otherwise. She would not bastardize her daughter. Her vows had been solemnly made before God and, for better or for worse, her place was by her husband's side. Defeated and for once abashed, Henry backed his bulk from her presence, muttering a request that for the moment she say nothing of his plea.

The Story of Thomas More, John Farrow

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