Виктория Холт - The King’s Secret Matter

So, because of her, he was riding back to London, and his constant prayer now was that he would never reach that city. In his dreams he was passing along the dark river and through the traitor’s gate; he was placing his head on the block. Was that to be the end of the journey?

There were many halting places as he could not travel far at one time. His dropsy had grown worse, and he suffered from dysentery and mental discomfort. He was an old, tired man, and he longed to rest his weary limbs; how could he travel quickly towards a cold bed in a dismal cell, there to live a few weeks under the shadow of the axe?

So far have I risen, he mused, that there is a long way to fall.

When he arrived at Sheffield Park the Earl of Shrewsbury welcomed him as though he were still the chief minister. He rested there awhile, for he was exhausted and it was physically impossible to ride on.

It was at Sheffield that messengers came from the King, and to his horror Wolsey saw that at the head of them was Sir William Kingston, the Constable of the Tower. This could mean only one thing: Kingston had come himself to take him straight to the fortress; and in spite of Kingston’s assurances that Henry still thought of the Cardinal as his friend, Wolsey was seized with violent illness, and all those about him declared that from that moment he lost his desire to live and began to yearn for death.

In the company of Kingston he travelled down to Leicester, blessing the people as he went. How differently they felt about him now. They no longer called him “butcher’s cur” because they were no longer envious of him. They pitied him. They had learned of the pious life he had led in exile, and they regarded him as the holy man his garments proclaimed him.

The party drew up at the Abbey; it was dusk and servants with torches hurried out to welcome them. The Abbot, knowing who his guest was, came forward to salute the Cardinal and receive his blessing; but as Wolsey tried to dismount, his limbs gave way and he collapsed at the Abbot’s feet.

“Your Eminence,” cried the Abbot, trying to raise him, “welcome to Leicester. Your servants rejoice to have you with us for as long as you can rest here.”

With the help of the Abbot the Cardinal rose to his feet; he was trembling with fatigue and sickness.

“Father Abbot,” he said, “methinks I shall stay with you forever, for hither I have come to lay my bones among you.”

Alarmed, the Abbot gave orders that the Cardinal should be helped to his room. His usher, George Cavendish, was at his side; indeed, he had been with him through his triumphs and his trials, and nothing but death could part them.

“Stay near me, George,” murmured the Cardinal. “You know as I do, that now it will not be long.”

Cavendish discovered that he was weeping silently but the Cardinal was too exhausted to notice his tears.

For a day and a night he lay in his room, unable to move, unaware of time. He slept awhile and awoke hungry and asked for food, which was brought to him.

He partook of the food almost ravenously and then paused to ask Cavendish what it was he ate.

“’Tis a cullis of chicken, my lord, which has been made especially for you in order to nourish you.”

“And you say we have been here a day and a night; then this will be St. Andrew’s Eve.”

“’Tis so, Your Eminence.”

“A fast day…and you give me chicken to eat!”

“Your waning strength needs it, Eminence.”

“Take it away,” said Wolsey. “I will eat no more.”

“Your Eminence needs to regain his strength.”

“Why George? That I may be well enough to travel to the block?”

“Your Eminence…,” began Cavendish in a faltering voice.

“You should not distress yourself, George, for I feel death near, and death coming now is merciful to me. Go now. I believe my time is short and I would see my confessor.”

He made his confession; and afterwards he lay still like a man who is waiting patiently though with longing.

Kingston came to his bedside and Wolsey smiled at him quizzically, remembering how the sight of the man had filled him with fear before.

“Your Eminence will recover,” said Kingston.

“No, my lord. For what purpose should I recover?”

“You are afraid that I come to take you to the Tower. You should cast aside that fear, because you will not recover while it is with you.”

“I would rather die in Leicester Abbey, Kingston, than on Tower Hill.”

“You should cast aside this fear,” repeated Kingston.

“Nay, Master Kingston, you do not deceive me with fair words. I see the matter against me, how it is framed.”

There was silence in the room; then Wolsey spoke quietly and firmly, and Kingston was not sure that he addressed himself to him.

“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 closed his eyes, and Kingston rose and left the chamber. At the door he met George Cavendish and shaking his head said: “Your master is in a sorry state.”

“I fear he will not last long, my lord. He is set on death. He thought to die ere this. He said that he would die this morning and he even prophesied the time. He said to me: ‘George, you will lose your master. The time is drawing near when I shall depart this Earth.’ Then he asked what time it was and I told him ‘Eight of the clock.’ ‘Eight of the clock in the morning,’ he said. ‘Nay it cannot be, for I am to die at eight of the clock in the morning.’”

“He rambled doubtless.”

“Doubtless, my lord, but he seemed so certain.”

“Well, eight of the clock passed, and he lives.”

Kingston went on, and Cavendish entered the Cardinal’s chamber to see if he lacked anything. Wolsey was sleeping and seemed at peace.

Cavendish was at his bedside through the night and the next morning—when he died.

As the Cardinal drew his last breath, the faithful usher heard the clock strike eight.

THOMAS CROMWELL WAS ON HIS WAY TO AN APPOINTMENT with the King. His eyes were gleaming with excitement; he had proved to himself that it was possible for an astute man to profit by disaster, to make success out of failure, for, incredible as it seemed, out of the decline of Wolsey had come the rise of Thomas Cromwell.

Yet he had remained the friend of Wolsey until the end. He wanted men to know that he was a true friend; and he and the Cardinal had been too closely attached for him to break away when Wolsey was in danger. As Member of Parliament for Taunton he had pleaded Wolsey’s case in the Lower House and so earned the Cardinal’s gratitude and at the same time the admiration even of his enemies.

He was a shrewd and able man. No one could doubt that; and it was said that if he could work so well for one master, why should he not for another. The son of a blacksmith, he must be possessed of outstanding ability to have come so far, a feat which was only outrivalled by that of Wolsey himself.

Shortly after Wolsey’s death Cromwell was made a Privy Councillor, not, naturally, of the same importance as Norfolk or Thomas Boleyn, who was now the Earl of Wiltshire, but a man who had already found his way into that magic circle in which limitless opportunity was offered.

It was not long before Cromwell had attracted the attention of the King. Henry did not like the man personally but the shrewdness, the alert mind, the humble origins, all reminded him of Wolsey, and he was already beginning to regret the loss of the Cardinal and remembered those days when, in any difficulty, he summoned his dear Thomas to his side.

Therefore he was more ready than he might otherwise have been to take notice of Cromwell. Thus came Cromwell’s opportunity—a private interview with the King.

When he was ushered into the presence, the King pondered wistfully: The fellow lacks the polish of Wolsey!

But he remembered that Wolsey had singled out this man and that fact counted in his favor. Cromwell had been a good friend to Wolsey in the days of his decline; so he was capable of loyalty.

The King waved his hand to indicate that Cromwell might dispense with ceremony and come to the point.

“Your Grace, I have long considered this matter of the Divorce…”

Henry was startled. The man was brash. Others spoke in hushed tones of this matter; they broached it only with the utmost tact. Cromwell looked bland, smug almost; as though he were playing a game of cards and held a trump in his hand.

“You are not alone in that,” said Henry with a hint of sarcasm which did not appear to be noticed by Cromwell, whose dark eyes burned with enthusiasm as he leaned forward and gazed intently at the King.

“Your Grace is debarred from success in this matter by the cowardly ways of your advisers. They are afraid of Rome. They are superstitious, Your Grace. They fear the wrath of the Pope.”

“And you do not?”

“Sire, I am a practical man unmoved by symbols. I fear only my King.”

“H’m! Go on, go on,” he urged, slightly mollified.

“It has been a marvel to me that Your Grace’s advisers have not seen what must be done, ere this. Thomas Wolsey was a Cardinal; it was natural that he should have been in awe of Rome. But those men who now advise Your Grace are not Cardinals. Why should they so fear the Pope?”

It was strange for Henry to have questions fired at him. He did not care for the man’s crude manners, but the matter of his discourse had its interests.

“At this time,” went on Cromwell, “it would seem that England has two heads—a King and a Pope. Furthermore, since the Pope denies the King that which he desires, it appears that the Pope holds more power in England than the King.”