He said: “He is an old man, sweetheart. It was pitiful to see what good a little show of affection from me brought him.”

“He is no friend of mine,” I retorted. “He has ever worked against me.”

Henry said patiently: “The Emperor was the stumbling block. Wolsey would have freed me if it had been in his power to do so. But we were in conflict with the Emperor, and the Pope has about as much will power as a frightened chicken. Yes, Wolsey would have brought the matter to a satisfactory conclusion if it had been in his power.”

Mayhap, I thought—that the King might marry the Princess of France. Wolsey was determined to destroy me. I did not forget the incident of the book which George Zouch had stolen. He had hoped to deflate me in the eyes of the King and might have done me great harm if Henry had not been so besotted with me.

When we were at Grafton, a message came from Wolsey begging the King to receive him. He proposed to come with Cardinal Campeggio, who wished to take his leave of the King before departing.

It was from Suffolk that I had the news that the King had agreed to receive both Cardinals.

“It is a marvel to me,” said Suffolk, “that Wolsey dare show his face…Campeggio either. And a greater marvel that the King has sent word that he will receive them.”

I was angry, for the King had said nothing to me of the matter.

“I am going to teach both of them a lesson,” went on Suffolk. “I never liked Cardinals.”

“Nor I,” I answered.

“Wolsey will come to Court here at Grafton and he will discover that there is no apartment prepared for him. He will have to find his own lodgings.”

“That will be a great insult to his dignity.”

“As I intend,” said the Duke with a smile.

“And the other?”

“Master Campeggio? We must needs lodge him, I dareswear. But I have ordered that before he leaves this country his baggage shall be searched, for it would not surprise me if we should find there what does not belong to him.”

“That would be an even greater insult than Wolsey's.”

“I find a great delight in insulting Cardinals.”

I laughed with him. It was at the time when I thought he was my friend.

Wolsey arrived in somewhat humble state compared with the grandeur in which he had indulged previously. When I had talked to the King about my dislike and distrust of him, he had listened gravely and nodded. Suffolk and Norfolk believed that when the King saw him he would not speak to him and they were all looking forward to seeing the Cardinal's humiliation.

However, it was quite different from what they had imagined.

There were so many stories about Wolsey's villainies in circulation. It was true that he had amassed great riches. He was a perfect example of all the evils which Martin Luther had set out to condemn. He had lived in as great splendor as most monarchs. He had accumulated benefice after benefice. In addition to three bishoprics he held the most wealthy of the abbeys; as legate and chancellor he disposed of the entire patronage of the country. Any member of the Church—the richest abbot or the most needy priest—if he needed a license, had to pay Wolsey for it. Fees from wills and marriages were paid to him. He received pensions from abroad, for all knew his influence with the King. His wealth was enormous but, while he accumulated it, he posed as a man of God, in the service of the Master who had lived all His life in poverty and in the service of mankind. Wolsey served one master: Mammon, and Mammon was Wolsey.

I had reminded the King of all this and he appeared to listen. He had commented that Wolsey was richer than any subject ought to be.

With the others I was waiting for the Cardinal's reception by the King, who, I was sure now, was in a state of indignation against him.

I could scarcely believe my eyes. No sooner had the man come in— looking strained and ill—no sooner had he knelt before the King than Henry laid a hand on his shoulder and bade him rise.

“You look frail, Thomas,” I heard him say.

They looked at each other, and in the Cardinal's face there was a great joy because of the gentleness of the King's tone; Henry noticed this, and the soft and sentimental look came into his eyes and all the cruelty was gone from his little mouth, leaving it slack, as it had been so many times for me.

They talked together and I could see that the Cardinal's hopes were rising. He believed that if he could get past his enemies he could regain the King's favor.

The King received Campeggio somewhat coldly. He let him see that there was nothing for which he had to thank him.

Later, when I sat beside the King at dinner, I showed my displeasure at his treatment of Wolsey.

I reminded him of all that had come through the Cardinal's actions. He gave me that indulgent smile. I think he was not particularly interested in my words.

“How so, sweetheart?” he said idly.

I mentioned Wolsey's failure in the matter which was so important to us both.

“He was of the opinion that we could come to a satisfactory conclusion with ease. It is no blame to him that we did not.” I should have been warned—but I did not see warnings in those days—because he added: “I know this matter better than you or any.”

But I could not stop. “If any nobleman had done half of what he has done, he would be worthy to lose his head,” I said. “If my father, my lords Norfolk and Suffolk or any other noble person had done much less than he has, they would have lost their heads ere this.”

There was a certain coolness in his manner as he drew away from me. “I perceive,” he said, “that you are not the Cardinal's friend.”

He was showing clearly that the discourse displeased him and that I had forgotten that he was the King and I but a subject. It was he, though, who had made me forget that.

I added: “I have no cause, nor has any other that loves Your Grace, to be his friend…if you consider well his doings.”

His lips were pursed. The meal was over and he indicated that he wished to leave the table; after that he sent for Wolsey. They went into the King's privy chamber and there they talked for a long while.

I was very annoyed but there was nothing I could do.

Suffolk had kept his word, and there was no lodging available for Wolsey. Then I heard that Henry Norris had taken pity on him and given up his rooms that the Cardinal might have somewhere to sleep.

The King kept Wolsey with him and when he left told him they would continue their discussion the following morning.

I was filled with rage. It was clear to me that Henry had only to see the man to be beguiled by him. He was really concerned about his health. A few hours listening to him, I thought, and Wolsey would have regained his old ascendancy over the King.

It must not be.

Henry had talked to me about a deer park he wished to install in this area. We had looked at it on the previous day and he had said that before we left Grafton he would like to take a closer look at it.

That gave me an opportunity. Very early the following morning I went to him, full of excitement. I told him I had arranged an excursion with his pleasure in mind. We should ride out with a few of our very special friends and we should go to the site planned for the deer park. We should have a picnic there. It would be a very merry occasion.

The King was delighted. He very much enjoyed my making such arrangements and he could always be sure that the entertainment I devised would be amusing, for I gathered around me the people whose company most pleased him—my brother, Weston, Norris, Suffolk and the rest.

“There is one thing we must do,” I said, taking his arm and smiling up at him. “We shall have to leave very early or we shall not get there and back in the day. I insist that Your Grace is ready to leave within the hour.”

It worked. We assembled in the courtyard and were all ready to start when Wolsey arrived, so there was no time for anything but a brief exchange of words between him and the King.

The Cardinal knew, of course, that this was of my arranging. But there was now no point in disguising the fact that he and I were the bitterest of enemies.


* * *

In spite of that brief respite for Wolsey, it was clear that his days of greatness were numbered. His enemies rallied around—as enemies will—like hunting dogs at the kill, all eager to take a part in his destruction.

Perhaps there were some who acted from motives other than envy and the desire for revenge on one who had risen higher than they, for all their advantages, were able to do.

Lord Dacre of Templehurst was an ardent Catholic and one of Katharine's most faithful friends. He had fought with her father, Ferdinand, during the conquest of Granada and he was against Wolsey as he wished for a closer alliance with the Emperor, which Wolsey had opposed. Dacre pointed out that Wolsey had extracted sums of money from bishops, deans and all members of the clergy for benefits and had taken for himself the plate and riches of the abbeys. There was a long list of his sins but the most significant of all Dacre's charges against Wolsey was that of praemunire, which meant that he had resorted to a foreign jurisdiction in matters which should be settled in an English court. This was a serious charge, because it meant that Wolsey was accused of serving the Pope against the interests of his master the King.

The penalty for this offense was that the guilty man must relinquish all his lands and goods.

Wolsey, by this time, was so sick and ill that I imagine all he wished for was peace. He knew his great career was over and was too feeble to want to fight; moreover his enemies were too numerous. I believe he thought I was the greatest of them and he blamed me for his fall. He referred to me as “that night crow who hath the King's ear.” He knew very well what the King's feelings were for me; he probably looked back and saw his mistakes. If he had placated me in the beginning, if he had worked for me and not against me, this would not have come to pass. With me he could have withstood those bitter enemies—Norfolk, Suf-folk and the rest who could not bear to see a man so low rise so high above them. If Wolsey had had a little more insight into human nature…But even he had failed in that.