CHAPTER ELEVEN

MEANWHILE, WOLSEY'S NEW strategy was taking form. The Sack of Rome had begun on the ninth of May. By July the third, the Cardinal had made his arrangements and was able to depart from London for France where he hoped to ratify a new treaty, ironical in name, of perpetual peace. It was to be his last journey abroad, but he travelled with his usual pomp and glitter. An army of servants, richly dressed in black velvet, left Westminster with him. A troop of nine hundred horse gave escort to his crimson- and gilt-caparisoned mule. His silver crosses and pillars, the Great Seal of England, the Cardinal's Hat, were carried m their accustomed places. There was a long train of carts and carriages. There were spearmen and archers. There were the haughty gentlemen of his household, and riding close by the scarlet magnificence was soberly-dressed Thomas More, quietly observing everything, disliking the idea of leaving England but obeying a command to employ his skill at the forthcoming negotiations. Closely guarded by men-at-arms was a paymaster and barrels of gold, for Wolsey was determined to leave little to chance in his bid for friendship with the French.

The second night from London he stopped at Rochester, where he was a guest of John Fisher in the Bishop's palace. Fisher was the firmest supporter of the Queen's position in the English hierarchy, and the Cardinal sought to change his opinion. More was a friend of Fisher's, but he was not invited to the conferences between the two prelates. They talked in secret until late at night, but Fisher remained of the same mind. In the morning the Cardinal set out again for the sea. At Canterbury the stately train paused, and there were services held for the Pope. Wolsey gave orders that the choir should sing Ora pro papa nostro Clemente instead of the usual Ora pro nobis. He wept as he prayed, and well might he shed tears. The plight of his spiritual master was sorry enough, and surely by this time his astute mind had some foreboding of the fatal road along which his temporal master was forcing him.

A large fleet took the glittering and unwieldy embassy across the Channel. At Amiens he met Francis with full pomp and ceremony. The procession that entered the French city was two miles long. He insisted that the French King dismount and accord him the greeting of a fellow monarch. Pageantry was met with pageantry. He dispensed indulgences with a lavish hand, and he was given the privilege of freeing prisoners. The Cathedral bells tolled a thunderous salute to the last of his great excursions. The discussions concerning the proposed Treaty began, and the Cardinal introduced a plan which was staggering in its audacity and scope. He proposed that, because the Pope was a prisoner of the Emperor, a Council of the Church should be convened at Avignon. There, those high prelates who were not under Spanish domination would meet with him, Wolsey, presiding and acting in effect as vice-regent for the enslaved pontiff. Wielding the papal power, he could accomplish many things, not least among them the granting of divorce. Henry then would be free to marry Francis' sister, the French and English thrones would be bound in permanent alliance, and thus the Treaty between the two countries firmly cemented. The fantastic scheme did not meet with success, and despite every device of statecraft that he could muster, the French King and his Cardinals, while courting and accepting the Treaty, evaded the proposed usurpation of papal authority.

Even at this date the Cardinal was unaware of the extent of Henry's passion. He who thought he knew every move of his master certainly must have known of the King's infatuation, but he continued to assume that Anne, like her sister was merely another royal mistress. That her intentions were directed beyond the bed and at the throne was something which did not enter his imagination. But while he treated with the French, Henry plunged deeper into his folly. The skill of Anne's coquetry was amazing. She could tantalize the lusty, headstrong King into giving wild protestations of his feelings for her, yet she was able to hold him off without inviting that quick rage which was so common to him. When he was not by her side his inflamed emotions forced him to concoct extravagant protestations of his aching devotion for her. "I beseech you now," he wrote, "with the greatest earnestness to let me know your whole intention as to the love between us two. For I must of necessity obtain this answer of you; having been for above a whole year struck with the dart of love, and not yet sure whether I shall fail, or find a place in your heart and affection . . . I beg you to give an entire answer to this my rude letter, that I may know on what and how far I may depend; but if it does not please you to answer me in writing, let me know some place where I may have it by word of mouth, and I will go thither with all my heart . . . Written by the hand of him who would willingly remain yours,-H. Rex''[1]

Five more impassioned letters went to Anne during the same hot summer month. The second began with the traditional complaint of the anxious lover: "Although, my mistress, you have not been pleased to remember the promise which you made me when I was last with you, which was that I should hear news of you, and have an answer to my last letter, yet I think it belongs to a true servant (since otherwise he can know nothing) to send to enquire of a mistress' health; and, for to acquit myself of the office of a true servant, I send you this letter, begging you to give me an account of the state you are in, which I pray God may continue as long in prosperity, as I wish my own, and that you may the oftener remember me, I send you by this bearer a buck killed late last night by my hand, hoping when you eat of it you will think on the hunter; and thus for want of more room I will make an end of my letter. Written by the hand of your servant, who often wishes you in your brother's room."[2]

The Boleyns, father, brother, uncle, together with their sympathizers were now a most powerful influence at Court. They hated the Cardinal, but they still feared him. With intense interest they watched the King's wooing. A few days after he had sent Anne the trophy of his hunting prowess, his pen was again busy in a fervent plea: "I and my heart put ourselves in your hands, begging you to recommend us to your favour, and not to let absence lessen your affection to us. For it were great pity to increase our pain, which absence alone does sufficiently, and more than I could ever have thought; bringing to my mind a point of astronomy, which is, That the longer the Moors are from us, the farther too is the sun, and yet his heat is the more scorching; so it is with our love; we are at a distance from one another, and yet it keeps its fervency, at least on my side. I hope the like on your part, assuring you that the uneasiness of absence is already too severe for me; and when I think of the continuance of that which I must of necessity suffer, it would seem intolerable to me, were it not for the firm hope I have of your unchangeable affection for me; and now to put you sometimes in mind of it, seeing I cannot be present in person with you, I send you the nearest thing to that possible, that is, my picture set in bracelets . . ."[3]

Another letter, written before the month had closed, is not as happy. In it can be detected some hint of the provocative game that Anne is playing. She had apparently exercised the feminine prerogative, for Henry was fretful "because, since my last parting with you I have been told that you have entirely changed the opinion in which I left you, and that you would neither come to Court with your mother, nor any other way; which report, if true, I cannot enough wonder at, being persuaded in my own mind that I have never committed any offence against you; and it seems a very small return for the great love I bear you, to be kept at a distance from the person and presence of a woman in the world that I value the most; and if you love me with as much affection as I hope you do, I am sure, the distance of our two persons would be a little uneasy to you: though this does not belong so much to the mistress as the servant. Consider well, my mistress, how greatly your absence grieves me . . ."[4]

The days pass and the pendulum of his passion swings him to a more pleasant mood. In fervent declaration Anne is told that "the demonstrations of your affection are such, the fine thoughts of your letter so cordially expressed, that they oblige me forever to honour, love and serve you sincerely, beseeching you to continue in the same firm and constant purpose, and assuring you, that, on my part, I will not only make you a suitable return, but outdo you m loyalty of heart, if it be possible. I desire you also, that if at any time before this I have in any sort offended you, you would give me the same absolution which you ask, assuring you that hereafter my heart shall be dedicated to you alone; I wish my body was so too; God can do it, if he pleases, to whom I pray once a day for that end; hoping that at length my prayers will be heard. I wish the time may be short, but I shall think it long, till we shall see one another. Written by the hand of the secretary, who in heart, body and will is your loyal and most assured servant . . ."[5]

More's embassy occupied the whole summer and culminated in a Solemn Mass at the Cathedral of Amiens on August 17, 1527. Upon More's return to England he was summoned to appear before the King at Hampton Court. The impatient lover undoubtedly thought that the foremost lawyer of the land would assist in the strategy of his "Great Matter." He made no mention of Anne Boleyn. Conscience and scruple were his song. He flourished a Bible and quoted the familiar passage from Leviticus. He claimed precedent for authority and recited a list of previous annulments. He related the circumstances of his marriage, of how, before the wedding ceremony, he had made objection. He reminded More that Archbishop Warham had, at the same time, also expressed uneasiness. The King was eloquent and he had grounds for argument. But More pleaded that he was "unmeet to meddle in such matters" and that it was a question

to be solved by the proper canonists and theologians. Such a reply did not suit Henry, for he wanted the weight of More's opinion on his side. He ordered More to consult with the Bishops of Durham and Bath. More obeyed, but again insisted on his ineligibility. He referred to the teachings of St. Augustine and St. Jerome and other great Doctors of the Church. He explained to Henry that "to be plain with your Grace, neither my Lord of Durham nor my Lord of Bath though I know them both to be wise, virtuous, learned and honourable prelates, nor myself, with the rest of your Council being all your Grace's own servants, for your manifold benefits daily bestowed on us so most bounder to you, be, in my judgment, meet counsellors for your Grace herein."[6]

It was an unsatisfactory answer and a highly dangerous way to treat with Henry. When thwarted, he fell into a rage, but such was More's conciliatory and reasonable attitude, and so highly did the King regard him, that he showed no resentment either at this time or on certain future occasions when he could choose to discuss the subject again. Always as was his duty, More listened to his monarch's arguments, but never once did he change his opinions nor declare for the divorce.

Wolsey's tactics were proving too slow and tedious for Henry. While the Cardinal was still parleying in France Henry decided to send his secretary, Dr. Knight, to Rome, and there procure from the beleaguered Pope a special dispensation which would allow him to marry again without a formal annulment of his marriage with Catherine. This hasty and bigamous proposal was doomed from the beginning, but it was the act which marked Henry's first deliberate step away from Wolsey.

Dr. Knight's mission was supposed to be secret, but the Cardinal, with his agents everywhere, quickly was aware of what was happening. He met Knight in France, and after much questioning learned the whole story. For the first time probably he realized the scope of Henry's infatuation. If he entertained any lingering doubts concerning Anne's status, they were certainly dispelled when he came back to England.

The King was in residence at Richmond, and there the Cardinal hurried to make his report. It was the last day of September, and on his arrival, following the usual custom, he requested a private audience. It was not Henry but Anne who gave the loud answer: "Where else is the Cardinal to come? Tell him that he may come here where the King iS."7 And so he was received, not in private, but m the great hall, the young girl defiantly standing by the King's side, a crowd of courtiers smirking and staring at the discomfiture of the haughty and hated prelate. Before this audience, the shocked Cardinal bent to the royal presence and gave account of his embassy. It was a triumphant moment for Anne, the humiliation of the great man who had so despotically broken her romance with young Lord Percy. In the heady intoxication of her sway over the King, she acted in a manner that the royal-born Catherine, his Queen, had never attempted.

The episode at Richmond invited endless conjecture. Sir Thomas More could not but know of the whole sorry business. He kept aloof from the chatter of the Court. He was in the service of the King, but he was no courtier. He had his many official duties to perform, and his pen, whenever he could seize an hour, was busily employed in arguments against Tyndale and the others of heretical bent. He had explained his position to the King concerning the divorce, and as yet there was no resentment in that quarter. Queen Catherine said that the King had "but one sound councillor in his kingdom, Sir Thomas More." He steadfastly clung to his opinion that an annulment of marriage was a problem to be solved by proper ecclesiastical authority. Neither Wolsey nor the Boleyn faction had any great affection for More, but both recognized his ability, his fame for honesty and scholarship. Wolsey had brought him into the King's service, but he had proved to be no lackey, and on several occasions there had been clashes between the two. About this time there were discussions concerning the draft of a treaty. There were differences of opinion, and the Cardinal had angrily shouted at More: "You show yourself to be a stupid and foolish Councillor." For answer Sir Thomas, who seldom lost his temper had merely smiled and replied: "Thanks be to God, that the King's Majesty has but one fool in his Council."[8]

While Wolsey busied himself with the murky drag of a divorce, More was forced to leave England again. The King sent him to Cambrai along with his friend Tunstall, Bishop of Durham. Here the chimera of peace was pursued with a diligence that brought to England the longest freedom from foreign wars in the reign of Henry VIII. For thirteen years, English soldiery did not fire cannon, wield sword, or bend bow on European soil.

More's accomplishment at Cambrai added to his fame at home. Roper records that he "so worthily handled himself, procuring in our league far more benefits unto this realm than at that time by the King or his Council was thought possible to be compassed, that for his good service in that voyage, the King, when he after made him Lord Chancellor, caused the Duke of Norfolk openly to declare unto the people (as you shall hear hereafter) (more at large) how much all England was bound unto him."[9]

More composed his own epitaph, and he thought enough of his work at Cambrai to mention it alone of his diplomatic service. He wrote that "he both joyfully saw and was present ambassador when the leagues between the chief princes of Christendom were renewed again, and peace, so long looked for, restored to Christendom. Which peace our Lord stable and make perpetual.''[l0]

When negotiations at Cambrai had been concluded, More went back to England and made his report to the King, who was at Woodstock. While this was happening he received news of a calamity which had befallen his beloved home at Chelsea. There had been a fire and much damage. The letter he sent to his wife is a magnificent mirroring of his philosophy, his piety, his kindness. "I am informed by my son Heron of the loss of our barns," he wrote, "and our neighbours' also, with all the corn that was therein, albeit (saving God's pleasure) it is great pity of so much good corn lost, yet since it hath liked him to send us such a chance, we must not only be content, but also be glad of his visitation. He sent us all that we have lost: and since he hath by such a chance taken it away again, his pleasure be fulfilled. Let us not grudge thereat, but take it in good worth, and heartily thank him, as well for adversity, as for prosperity. And for adventure we have more cause to thank him for our loss, than for our winning. For his wisdom better seeth what is good for us than we do ourselves. Therefore I pray you be of good cheer, and take all the household with you to church, and there thank God both for that he hath given us, and for that he hath left us, which if it please him, he can increase when he will. And if it please him to leave us yet less, at his pleasure be it. I pray you to make some good search with what my poor neighbours have lost and bid them take no thought therefore, and if I should not leave myself a spoon, there shall no poor neighbour of mine bear no loss by chance happened in my house. I pray you be with my children and household merry in God. And devise some-what with your friends, what way were best to take, for provision to be made for corn for our household and for seed this year coming, if ye think it good that we keep the ground still in our hands. And whether ye think it good why we shall do or not, yet I think it were not best suddenly thus to leave it all up, and to put away our folk of our farm, till we have somewhat advised us thereon . . . I would not any man were suddenly sent away he knows not whither." He had tarried with the King's grace. But now because of this chance, he thought to get leave "this next week to come home and see you; and then shall we further devise together upon all things, what order shall be best to take; and thus as heartily fare you well with all our children as you can wish . . .''[ll]

After More had reported on his negotiations abroad he was given permission to join his family, while Henry, with Anne ever by his side and her coterie in favour, moved the Court back to Richmond, and then to Greenwich, all the time feverishly pressing for the dissolution of his marriage.

Pope Clement VII was greatly distressed. England's schism was now perceptible, but evident too was the watchful interest and ever-ready displeasure of Catherine's nephew, the Emperor. Clement was a weak man, and, caught between the two forces, he sought a solution in procrastination. He deferred answer to Henry, thinking perhaps, that the royal passion might ebb with the passing of time.

Knight's mission to Italy having proved valueless, Wolsey dispatched abler men, Stephen Gardiner and Edward Fox. They arrived at Orvieto and were received by Clement on March 20th, 1528. The Pope's quarters in this mean town were vastly different from the magnificences of the Vatican. "The Court here is bankrupt," reported an envoy, "the bishops go about on foot in tattered cloaks; the courtiers take flight in despair."[12] Cried the unhappy Pontiff: "They have plundered me of all I possess, even the canopy above my bed is not mine, it is borrowed."[l3] Short of food, short of drinking water even, shorn of all vestige of temporal power, confined to his bed because of crippled feet, this perplexed successor of St Peter greeted the English agents with suspicion and apprehension. Of the wretched circumstances of the Papal Court they reported that the Pope lay in an old palace of the Bishops of Orvieto, ruinous and decayed: When they came to his privy bedchamber, they passed three chambers "all naked and unhanged, the roofs fallen down, and, as we can guess, thirty persons, riff-raff and other, standing in the chamber for garnishment. As for the Pope's bedchamber, all the apparel in it was not worth twenty nobles, bed and all.''[14]

The beleaguered Pope, made nearly frantic by his intolerable position, listened to the arguments of the Englishmen and well understood the implied threats. He tried to explain his own position. He was reminded of his supreme authority and the infallibility of his office. Seeking to avoid the persuasion of the Englishmen, Clement brought in two of his Cardinal advisers, Santi Quatro and Monte. Both were against the idea of a trial being held in England. In return the Englishmen protested that the necessary witnesses, and indeed the principals, could not be brought to Italy. In the end Clement was forced to a not very creditable compromise. He consented that a Commission to examine the facts of the case should be held in England, presided over by the Cardinals Wolsey and Campeggio. The latter, as the Pope's representative, would carry a document issued by the Pope, and if Henry's marriage were found to be invalid, Campeggio, with the authority of this document, a Decretal Bull, would pronounce Henry free to marry again. Gardiner and Fox thought that they had won a victory, for in England a trial would surely go the King's way, but the Pope was following an odious and shifting policy. Campeggio was instructed to take as much time as he could on the long journey to England. After his arrival he might show the Decretal Bull to the King, but he was never to allow it to leave his hands.

The Commission was projected in April of 1528, but Campeggio did not set foot in England until October. Even then he procrastinated so much that the trial did not commence until June of the following year. Wolsey knew what these delaying measures meant and fretted with anxiety, although at this point he apparently still enjoyed the favour and confidence of his master. Even Anne Boleyn was writing him kind and grateful letters. ". . . all the days of my life I am most bound, of all creatures, next the King's Grace, to love and serve your Grace: of the which, I beseech you, never to doubt, that ever I shall vary from this thought as long as any breath is in my body . . . And, as for the coming of the legate, I desire that much, and, if it be God's pleasure, I pray him to send this matter shortly to a good end; and then I trust, my Lord, to recompence part of your great pains."[l5]

The Story of Thomas More, John Farrow

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