“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.
So Wolsey resigned the Great Seal and left his beloved York Place forever—as he had earlier left Hampton Court.
Poor Wolsey! I felt pity for him now—and then, in my heedless way, I rejoiced in his fall.
As soon as he had left York Place, the King and I went together to inspect it. We were overcome with amazement by the treasures he had accumulated.
Henry's eyes glistened with acquisitive pleasure, and I remembered how he had taken possession of Hampton Court.
“How did the man gather together so much riches?” he demanded.
“Lord Dacre has an answer to that,” I retorted.
Henry nodded. This time he did not defend Wolsey, and together we went through the rooms gloating over the treasure which was now the King's.
But in spite of Wolsey's decline we were no nearer our goal. We continued to be alternately frustrated and hopeful.
Eustace Chapuys had arrived in England to take the place vacated by Mendoza. Like most ambassadors he was a spy for his master. He was clearly very astute and had no doubt been selected with care by the Emperor as a man with those very special qualities needed in a situation such as that which persisted at the Court of England.
Wolsey's loss of power meant a reshuffle of important positions. Wolsey had been in sole command. Now the King was his own First Minister, the Duke of Norfolk President of the Council, with Suffolk Vice President, and Sir Thomas More Lord Chancellor. The King announced that he intended to rule with Parliament to advise him.