The Autobiography of Henry VIII: With Notes by His Fool, Will Somers (36 page)

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Authors: Margaret George

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By this time Wolsey was already in the far North, within a day’s walk of York and his diocese there. And York was where the Percys held dominion.
Thus it was that God arranged it so that Henry Percy (Anne’s storklike suitor), as the chief lord in that district, was the only one empowered to arrest Wolsey.
I was not there, of course. But witnesses told me of the heartsick scene: the company coming upon Wolsey in his receiving quarters, his confusion upon seeing them—he is threadbare and almost barefoot. There is no fire in the fireplace, and no wood. Yet he rouses himself as in the old main toes not remember that he made an enemy of this lad, some five years ago.
He comes forward to embrace Percy, as a friend from his entourage of long ago. He apologises profusely to the company for the quality of their surroundings, as he was wont to do in his great palaces. He then gestures to Percy in a spirit of expansiveness. Percy nervously follows him all the while he is chattering. “I plan to do all the Confirmations in York diocese next May,” he says, to the air. “And perform all weddings. There are many in the summer. And to enjoy my simple life, in the country.”
“My Lord,” says Percy, in such a low voice that Wolsey scarce hears him, and continues talking. “My Lord,” repeats Percy, tapping him on the shoulder. “I arrest you for high treason.” The voice is a croak.
Wolsey whirls. They stare at each other—the chastised boy, the fallen Cardinal. Revenge should taste sweet, but it does not. Too late, it is rancid.
They take Wolsey away. Master Kingston from the Tower meets them to help keep Wolsey under safeguard en route to London.
“Ah, Mr. Kingston,” he says. “So you are come at last.” The remark is puzzling to the hearers.
Wolsey never reaches London. Before he leaves his little house at Cahill, he complains of pains in his bowels. (Self-induced? They did not appear before his arrest.) By the end of the first day’s journey he is extremely ill, and his party has to beg leave of the monks at Leicester Abbey for a place to rest.
Once within, he makes a great show, predicting his own death. “At the eighth hour of the eighth day,” he says piously, after announcing, “I have come to lay my bones among you.” This greatly impresses the good brothers. (But how could he know the exact hour, unless he had taken a potion, whose speed of action he knew?)
He is laid upon a simple pallet in a stone cell. He then calls for his gentleman usher, George Cavendish, and a monk. Then he utters his last words: “Had I but served my God with half the zeal I served my King, He would not in mine age have left me naked to mine enemies.” He then (as the saying goes) turned his face to the wall and died.
When I heard it I was happy. Wolsey had cheated the wolves at court. There would be—nay, could be!—no trial for treason. Had he taken poison? The more noble and brave he!
And at the end, he had called on God and died in a stone cell in Leicester Abbey rather than the Prior’s house at St. Lawrence’s. Had he repented in time? Where had his soul flown?
I was alone. Wolsey was gone. My father gone. Katherine gone—as my advisor. I stood alone. And there was much to do.
Before me stood a road leading to Rome. I knew it well. I could travel it, but it would be time-consuming, expensive, and humiliating. And the verdict was uncertain, for all that.
A smaller, sister road branched off. It led away from Rome, from Wolsey, from everything I had ever known. I could not see where it led, but it could be no less time-consuming and uncertain. Yet it beckoned me. There I would go, regardless of who tried to hinder me. It would not end at Rome, but ... where? At myself?
All the candles had been snuffed except one, flickering in a lantern. Anne was in her night-robe—a ruby velvet one—and her black hair was down and streaming over her shoulders. In the eerie light she looked half-supernatural, half-mad.
As I stepped in, she rushed toward me—a black and red wraith. A devil. “Are you finished?” she fairly shrieked. Her black eyes reflected odd jumpings of the firelight.
“Aye,” I said.
“While I sat here, alone! I could hear the music—” She turned away abruptly.
“Music you have heard many times before. And will hear again.” My head hurt, and I was weary. I had looked for comforting, not a harangue.
“When?” She whirled on me. “How many years will I endure Christmas shut up here like a prisoner? You leave me alone—”
My head ached. The bright firelight, once so enticing, now seemed hostile. I drew myself up. “Forgive me, Mistress,” I said. “I did not mean to intrude upon you. I also care not to be berated. Good night.” Before she could protest further, I turned and shut the door behind me.
Without thinking, I sought Katherine’s company. Soothing, kind Katherine.
She was having her hair brushed by a maid of honour when I entered. It was long and, at its ends, still a honey colour. But the rest was the colour of Thames mud.
She smiled to see me, then held out her hand and led me to a padded chair. She sat as near as possible. She leaned forward, and her eyes shone.
“I am so happy that you have come to see me!” she said. I smiled.
A fire was burning steadily. Just as I approached it, I could hear the strange sucking noise of the winter storm outside. The casements rattled. How miraculous to be inside, to be warm.
The fire was a hot one. I could feel it from ten feet away, and held out my hands to be warmed. Katherine came up beside me and held out her hands also—although they could hardly have been cold.
She smiled brightly. In the half-light of the fire I could see the young girl that once was. Then she, too, began to berate me.
You never come to see me ... you do not eat with me ... you leave me to sit neglected and forsaken, as lonely as in purgatory....
She reached out and grasped my arm, her fingers digging so painfully into my flesh that all I could think was how to disengage them.
She went on and on, about all my shortcomings and injuries to her person, until I thought her tongue must run dry. Still it did not. Then I became angry.
“It is your own fault if you are neglected and uncomfortable!” I yelled, then lowered my voice. “You are mistress of your own household and can go where you like and live as you like!”
“But not without my husband,” she said in mock subservience.
“You have no husband!” I burst out. “Your husband is dead, and has been, almost thirty years! I am
not
your husband. Learned doctors of the Church have e of that!”
Katherine drew herself up. “Doctors! They are stupid creatures. You yourself know the truth.”
Yes, I did. God had pointed out the truth.
“The Pope will decide,” she said smugly. “He will know God’s will.”
God’s will. What did Clement know of God’s will? Theologians knew better than he. “The learned theologians in every university will study the case and decide it. And if the Pope does not, thereafter, rule in my favour, I shall declare the Pope a heretic and cease to obey him.”
The fire snapped. Had I really meant to say that? Katherine stared. Nonetheless, I
had
said it. I took my leave and went back to Anne.
I told her of what had just happened, of the frightening words I had just said, and what they meant. But she focused only on Katherine, not on my challenge to the Papacy.
Standing in her velvet nightgown at the door to her inner chambers, she laughed. “You should know better than to argue with Katherine,” she said, once she got her breath. “Never once have you won an argument with her.”
I bridled at that, but she silenced me. She started to say more, but then her face fell and she looked close to tears. “Someday you will be so convinced by Katherine’s arguments you will return to her,” she said mournfully.
I started to protest, but again she cut me off. Her eyes brimmed with tears; her long, foxlike face was all aquiver.
“I have given up everything for you,” she said. “And now I know eventually you will go back to Katherine. You must. And in the meantime” —she kept the door adroitly half-closed, so I could not force my way inside and take her in my arms—“I have given up any chance I may have had for an honourable marriage, now that I am known as the King’s Great Whore! My youth has been wasted! There is nothing left for me, except ... I cannot say what will become of me!” Sobbing, she slammed the door.
I stood, bewildered. And envied the monks, who were free of the snares of women. Had I become Archbishop of Canterbury—
But I had not. We must embrace what we are.
If I ceased to obey the Pope, who would fill his place in my life? It was the very office itself I was questioning, rather than Clement himself. When had the emphasis shifted?
I had said it to Katherine, and suddenly I meant it: I would not obey the Pope, no matter
what
he pronounced. I did not believe in his spiritual authority any longer.
When had that happened? I did not know ... only that I was sure, in my deepest self, that the Pope was
not
the Vicar of Christ; that the entire office of the Papacy was a man-made thing and carried no more weight than one of those papier-mâché pageant-cars we use at Christmas. Pleasing the Pope had been one of my ways of trying so hard to be the “perfect” King.
What a fool I had been! To tremble before the Papacy and seek its approval! A triple-turned fool—but no more, no more!
More pointed out several varieties of roses which he had taken pains in growing, then said simply, “You came about other matters.”
“Yes,” I said. “I wish you to be Lord Chancellor. In Wolsey’s place.” If he was simple and straightforward, why should I not be?
I expected either fluster or incredulity. Instead he laughed, a great, ringing laugh. When he stopped, he said, “I? In Wolsey’s place? But I am no churchman.”
“I do not want a churchman! You are a Christian—more so than most churchmen!”
“Are you entirely positive that you want a Christian, Your Grace?”
Did he mock me? “Yes!”
Instead of replying, he continued walking down the rows of neatly trimmed rosebushes, his hands clasped behind his back. At the end of the row of red roses, he suddenly turned. “I cannot,” he said quietly. “Forgive me.”
The roses round him made a bloody, flowery frame.
“Wherefore not?” I demanded.
“Your Grace’s Great Matter—”
I waved that aside. “The Lord Chancellor is not—”
He cut me off. “The previous Lord Chancellor was deeply involved in this question.”
“Because he was a Cardinal and empowered to preside at the legatine trial. Now it has gone beyond that, to—”
“To become a political matter, which would involve your Chancellor more than ever, be he churchman or layman. I cannot—”
“Thomas,” I suddenly said, “what is
your
opinion of this entire question?”
He turned and inspected a half-blown rose overmuch. I waited. At length he could delay his answer no longer. “I believe ...” His usually sure voice was low. “I believe that Queen Katherine is your true wife. And if she be not, I believe only the Pope has the power to pronounce that.”

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