How Wolsey was disgraced
by the King.
On the following day, a reconciliation
took place between the king and Anne Boleyn.
During a ride in the great park with his royal brother,
Suffolk not only convinced him of the groundlessness
of his jealousy, but contrived to incense him strongly
against Wolsey. Thus the queen and the cardinal
lost the momentary advantage they had gained, while
Anne’s power was raised yet higher. Yielding
to her entreaties not to see Catherine again, nor
to hold further conference with Wolsey until the sentence
of the court should be pronounced, Henry left the castle
that very day, and proceeded to his palace of Bridewell.
The distress of the unhappy queen at this sudden revolution
of affairs may be conceived. Distrusting Wolsey,
and putting her sole reliance on Heaven and the goodness
of her cause, she withdrew to Blackfriars, where she
remained till the court met. As to the cardinal
himself, driven desperate by his situation, and exasperated
by the treatment he had experienced, he resolved,
at whatever risk, to thwart Henry’s schemes,
and revenge himself upon Anne Boleyn.
Thus matters continued till the court
met as before in the Parliament-chamber, at Blackfriars.
On this occasion Henry was present, and took his place
under a cloth of estate, the queen sitting
at some distance below him. Opposite them were
the legates, with the Archbishop of Canterbury, and
the whole of the bishops. The aspect of the assemblage
was grave and anxious. Many eyes were turned on
Henry, who looked gloomy and menacing, but the chief
object of interest was the queen, who, though pale
as death, had never in her highest days of power worn
a more majestic and dignified air than on this occasion.
The proceedings of the court then
commenced, and the king being called by the crier,
he immediately answered to the summons. Catherine
was next called, and instead of replying, she marched
towards the canopy beneath which the king was seated,
prostrated herself, and poured forth a most pathetic
and eloquent appeal to him, at the close of which she
arose, and making a profound reverence, walked out
of the court, leaning upon the arm of her general
receiver, Griffith. Henry desired the crier to
call her back, but she would not return; and seeing
the effect produced by her address upon the auditory,
he endeavoured to efface it by an eulogium on her
character and virtues, accompanied by an expression
of deep regret at the step he was compelled to take
in separating himself from her. But his hypocrisy
availed him little, and his speech was received with
looks of ill-disguised incredulity. Some further
discourse then took place between the Archbishop of
Canterbury and the Bishop of Rochester; but as the
queen had absented herself, the court was adjourned
to the next day, when it again met, and as she did
not then appear, though summoned, she was pronounced
contumacious. After repeated adjournments, the
last session was held, and judgment demanded on the
part of the king, when Campeggio, as had been arranged
between him and Wolsey, declined to pronounce it until
he had referred the matter to the Pope, and the court
was dissolved.
About two months after this event,
during which time the legate’s commission had
been revoked, while Henry was revolving the expediency
of accomplishing the divorce through the medium of
his own ecclesiastical courts, and without reference
to that of Rome, a despatch was received from the
Pope by the two cardinals, requiring them to cite the
king to appear before him by attorney on a certain
day. At the time of the arrival of this instrument,
Campeggio chanced to be staying with Wolsey at his
palace at Esher, and as the king was then holding his
court at Windsor, they both set out for the castle
on the following day, attended by a retinue of nearly
a hundred horsemen, splendidly equipped.
It was now the middle of September,
and the woods, instead of presenting one uniform mass
of green, glowed with an infinite variety of lovely
tints. And yet, despite the beauty of the scene,
there was something melancholy in witnessing the decline
of the year, as marked by those old woods, and by
the paths that led through them, so thickly strewn
with leaves. Wolsey was greatly affected.
“These noble trees will ere long bereft of all
their glories,” he thought, “and so, most
likely, will it be with me, and perhaps my winter
may come sooner than theirs!”
The cardinal and his train had crossed
Staines Bridge, and passing through Egham, had entered
the great park near Englefield Green. They were
proceeding along the high ridge overlooking the woody
region between it and the castle, when a joyous shout
in the glades beneath reached them, and looking down,
they saw the king accompanied by Anne Boleyn, and
attended by his falconers and a large company of horsemen,
pursuing the sport of hawking. The royal party
appeared so much interested in their sport that they
did not notice the cardinal and his train, and were
soon out of sight. But as Wolsey descended Snow
Hill, and entered the long avenue, he heard the trampling
of horses at a little distance, and shortly afterwards,
Henry and Anne issued from out the trees. They
were somewhat more than a bow-shot in advance of the
cardinal; but instead of halting till he came up, the
king had no sooner ascertained who it was, than, despatching
a messenger to the castle, who was seen galloping
swiftly down the avenue, he rode off with Anne Boleyn
towards the opposite side of the park. Though
deeply mortified by the slight, Wolsey concealed his
vexation from his brother cardinal, and pursued his
way to the castle, before which he presently arrived.
The gate was thrown open at his approach, but he had
scarcely entered the lower ward when Sir Henry Norris,
the king’s groom of the stole, advanced to meet
him, and, with a sorrowful expression of countenance,
said that his royal master had so many guests at the
castle, that he could not accommodate him and his
train.
“I understand your drift, sir,”
replied Wolsey; “you would tell me I am not
welcome. Well, then, his eminence Cardinal Campeggio
and myself must take up our lodging at some hostel
in the town, for it is necessary we should see the
king.”
“If your grace is content to
dismiss your attendants,” said Norris in a low
tone, “you and Cardinal Campeggio can be lodged
in Henry the Third’s Tower. Thus much I
will take upon me; but I dare not admit you to the
royal lodgings.”
Wolsey tried to look unconcerned,
and calling to his gentleman usher, George Cavendish,
gave him some instructions in a low voice, upon which
the other immediately placed himself at the head of
the retinue, and ordered them to quit the castle with
him, leaving only the jester, Patch, to attend upon
his master. Campeggio’s attendants being
comparatively speaking, few in number, were allowed
to remain, and his litter was conveyed to Henry the
Third’s Tower a fortification standing,
as already stated, in the south side of the lower ward,
near the edge of the dry moat surrounding the Round
Tower. At the steps of this tower Wolsey dismounted,
and was about to follow Campeggio into the doorway,
when Will Sommers, who had heard of his arrival, stepped
forward, and with a salutation of mock formality, said,
“I am sure it will grieve the king, my master,
not to be able to accommodate your grace’s train;
but since it is larger than his own, you will scarce
blame his want of hospitality.”
“Nor the courtesy of his attendants,”
rejoined Wolsey sharply. “I am in no mood
for thy jesting now. Stand aside, sirrah, or I
will have the rod applied to thy back!”
“Take care the king does not
apply the rod to your own, lord cardinal,” retorted
Will Sommers. “If he scourges you according
to your deserts, your skin will be redder than your
robe.” And his mocking laugh pursued Wolsey
like the hiss of a snake into the tower.
Some two hours after this, Henry and
his attendants returned from the chase. The king
seemed in a blithe humour, and Wolsey saw him laugh
heartily as Will Sommers pointed with his bauble towards
Henry the Third’s Tower. The cardinal received
no invitation to the royal banquet; and the answer
to his solicitation for an interview was, that he and
Campeggio would be received in the presence-chamber
on the following morning, but not before.
That night a great revel was held
in the castle. Masquing, dancing, and feasting
filled up the evening, and the joyous sounds and strains
reached Wolsey in his seclusion, and forced him to
contrast it with his recent position, when he would
have been second only to the king in the entertainment.
He laid his head upon his pillow, but not to rest,
and while tossing feverishly about his couch, he saw
the arras with which the walls were covered, move,
and a tall, dark figure step from behind it.
The cardinal would have awakened his jester, who slept
in a small truckle-bed at his feet, but the strange
visitor motioned him to be still.
“You may conjecture who I am,
cardinal,” he said, “but in case you should
doubt, I will tell you. I am Herne the Hunter!
And now to my errand. There is a damsel, whom
you once saw in the forest near the great lake, and
whom you promised to befriend. You can assist
her now to-morrow it may be out of your
power.”
“I have enough to do to aid
myself, without meddling with what concerns me not,”
said Wolsey.
“This damsel does concern you,”
cried Herne. “Read this, and you will see
in what way.”
And he tossed a letter to Wolsey,
who glanced at it by the light of the lamp.
“Ha! is it so?” he exclaimed. “Is
she ”
“Hush!” cried Herne, “or
you will wake this sleeper. It is as you suppose.
Will you not aid her now? Will you not bestow
some of your treasure upon her before it is wholly
wrested from you by the king? I will do aught
you wish, secretly and swiftly.”
“Go, then, to my palace at Esher,”
cried the cardinal. “Take this key to my
treasurer it is the key of my coffers.
Bid him deliver to you the six caskets in the cabinet
in the gilt chamber. Here is a token by which
he will know that you came from me,” he added,
delivering him a small chain of gold, “for it
has been so agreed between us. But you will be
sure to give the treasure to Mabel.”
“Fear nothing,” replied
Herne. And stretching forth his hand to receive
the key and the chain, he glided behind the tapestry,
and disappeared.
This strange incident gave some diversion
to Wolsey’s thought; but ere long they returned
to their former channel. Sleep would not be summoned,
and as soon as the first glimpse of day appeared, he
arose, and wrapping his robe around him, left his
room and ascended a winding staircase leading to the
roof of the tower.
The morning promised to be fine, but
it was then hazy, and the greater part of the forest
was wrapped in mist. The castle, however, was
seen to great advantage. Above Wolsey rose the
vast fabric of the Round Tower, on the summit of which
the broad standard was at that moment being unfurled;
while the different battlements and towers arose majestically
around. But Wolsey’s gaze rested chiefly
upon the exquisite mausoleum lying immediately beneath
him; in which he had partly prepared for himself a
magnificent monument. A sharp pang shook him as
he contemplated it, and he cried aloud, “My
very tomb will be wrested from me by this rapacious
monarch; and after all my care and all my cost, I
know not where I shall rest my bones!”
Saddened by the reflection, he descended
to his chamber, and again threw himself on the couch.
But Wolsey was not the only person
in the castle who had passed a sleepless night.
Of the host of his enemies many had been kept awake
by the anticipation of his downfall on the morrow;
and among these was Anne Boleyn, who had received
an assurance from the king that her enmity should
at length be fully gratified.
At the appointed hour, the two cardinals,
proceeded to the royal lodgings. They were detained
for some time in the ante-chamber, where Wolsey was
exposed to the taunts and sneers of the courtiers,
who had lately so servilely fawned upon him.
At length, they were ushered into the presence chamber,
at the upper end of which beneath a canopy emblazoned
with the royal arms woven in gold, sat Henry, with
Anne Boleyn on his right hand. At the foot of
the throne stood Will Sommers, and near him the Dukes
of Richmond and Suffolk. Norfolk, Rochford, and
a number of other nobles, all open enemies of Wolsey,
were also present. Henry watched the advance
of the cardinals with a stern look, and after they
had made an obeisance to him, he motioned them to rise.
“You have sought an interview
with me, my lords,” he said, with suppressed
rage. “What would you?”
“We have brought an instrument
to you, my liege,” said Wolsey, “which
has just been received from his holiness the Pope.”
“Declare its nature,” said Henry.
“It is a citation,” replied
Wolsey, “enjoining your high ness to appear
by attorney in the papal court, under a penalty of
ten thousand ducats.”
And he presented a parchment, stamped
with the great seal of Rome, to the king, who glanced
his eye fiercely over it, and then dashed it to the
ground, with an explosion of fury terrible to hear
and to witness.
“Ha! by Saint George!”
he cried; “am I as nothing, that the Pope dares
to insult me thus?”
“It is a mere judicial form
your majesty,” interposed Campeggio, “and
is chiefly sent by his holiness to let you know we
have no further jurisdiction in the matter of the
divorce.”
“I will take care you have not,
nor his holiness either,” roared the king.
“By my father’s head, he shall find I will
be no longer trifled with.”
“But, my liege,” cried Campeggio.
“Peace!” cried the king.
“I will hear no apologies nor excuses. The
insult has been offered, and cannot be effaced.
As for you, Wolsey ”
“Sire!” exclaimed the
cardinal, shrinking before the whirlwind of passion,
which seemed to menace his utter extermination.
“As for you, I say,” pursued
Henry, extending his hand towards him, while his eyes
flashed fire, “who by your outrageous pride have
so long overshadowed our honour who by
your insatiate avarice and appetite for wealth have
oppressed our subjects who by your manifold
acts of bribery and extortion have impoverished our
realm, and by your cruelty and partiality have subverted
the due course of justice and turned it to your ends the
time is come when you shall receive due punishment
for your offences.”
“You wrong me, my dear liege,”
cried Wolsey abjectly. “These are the accusations
of my enemies. Grant me a patient hearing, and
I will explain all.”
“I would not sharpen the king’s
resentment against you, lord cardinal,” said
Anne Boleyn, “for it is keen enough; but I cannot
permit you to say that these charges are merely hostile.
Those who would support the king’s honour and
dignity must desire to see you removed from his counsels.”
“I am ready to take thy place,
lord cardinal,” said Will Sommers; “and
will exchange my bauble for thy chancellor’s
mace, and my fool’s cap for thy cardinal’s
hat.”
“Peace!” thundered the
king. “Stand not between me and the object
of my wrath. Your accusers are not one but many,
Wolsey; nay, the whole of my people cry out for justice
against you. And they shall have it. But
you shall hear the charges they bring. Firstly,
contrary to our prerogative, and for your own advancement
and profit, you have obtained authority legatine from
the Pope; by which authority you have not only spoiled
and taken away their substance from many religious
houses, but have usurped much of our own jurisdiction.
You have also made a treaty with the King of France
for the Pope without our consent, and concluded another
friendly treaty with the Duke of Ferrara, under our
great seal, and in our name, without our warrant.
And furthermore you have presumed to couple yourself
with our royal self in your letters and instructions,
as if you were on an equality with us.”
“Ha! ha! ‘The king
and I would have you do thus!’ ’The king
and I give you our hearty thanks!’ Ran it not
so, cardinal?” cried Will Sommers. “You
will soon win the cap and bells.”
“In exercise of your legatine
authority,” pursued the king, “you have
given away bénéfices contrary to our crown and
dignity, for the which you are in danger of forfeiture
of your lands and goods.”
“A premunire, cardinal,”
cried Will Sommers. “A premunire! ha!
ha!”
“Then it has been your practice
to receive all the ambassadors to our court first
at your own palace,” continued Henry, “to
hear their charges and intentions, and to instruct
them as you might see fit. You have also so practised
that all our letters sent from beyond sea have first
come to your own hands, by which you have acquainted
yourself with their contents, and compelled us and
our council to follow your devices. You have
also written to all our ambassadors abroad in your
own name concerning our affairs, without our authority;
and received letters in return from them by which
you have sought to compass your own purposes.
By your ambition and pride you have undone many of
our poor subjects; have suppressed religious houses,
and received their possessions; have seized upon the
goods of wealthy spiritual men deceased; constrained
all ordinaries yearly to compound with you; have gotten
riches for yourself and servants by subversion of
the laws, and by abuse of your authority in causing
divers pardons of the Pope to be suspended until you,
by promise of a yearly pension, chose to revive them;
and also by crafty and untrue tales have sought to
create dissention among our nobles.”
“That we can all avouch for,”
cried Suffolk. “It was never merry in England
while there were cardinals among us.”
“Of all men in England your
grace should be the last to say so,” rejoined
Wolsey; “for if I had not been cardinal, you
would not have had a head upon your shoulders to utter
the taunt.”
“No more of this!” cried
the king. “You have misdemeaned yourself
in our court by keeping up as great state in our absence
as if we had been there in person, and presumptuously
have dared to join and imprint your badge, the cardinal’s
hat, under our arms, graven on our coins struck at
York. And lastly, whenever in open Parliament
allusion hath been made to hérésies and erroneous
sects, you have failed to correct and notice them,
to the danger of the whole body of good and Christian
people of this our realm.”
“This last charge ought to win
me favour in the eyes of one who professes the Opinions
of Luther,” said Wolsey to Anne. “But
I deny it, as I do all the rest.”
“I will listen to no defence,
Wolsey,” replied the king. “I will
make you a terrible example to others how they offend
us and our laws hereafter.”
“Do not condemn me unheard!”
cried the cardinal, prostrating himself.
“I have heard too much, and
I will hear no more!” cried the king fiercely.
“I dismiss you from my presence for ever.
If you are innocent, as you aver, justice will be
done you.. If you are guilty, as I believe you
to be, look not for leniency from me, for I will show
you none.” And, seating himself, he turned
to Anne, and said, in a low tone, “Are you content,
sweetheart?”
“I am,” she replied.
“I shall not now break my vow. False cardinal,”
she added aloud, “your reign is at an end.”
“Your own may not be much longer,
madam,” rejoined Wolsey bitterly. “The
shadow of the axe,” he added, pointing to the
reflection of a partisan on the floor, “is at
your feet. Ere long it may rise to the head.”
And, accompanied by Campeggio, he
slowly quitted the presence-chamber.