The Autobiography of Henry VIII_ With Notes by His Fool, Will Somers - Margaret George [93]
Yet I could not reinstate Wolsey. He had failed me in my Great Matter, and only my clemency saved him from the enemies clamouring for his head. He was of no political use to me now. It was my wish, and command, that he retire to his Archdiocese of York and perform his spiritual duties there, for the rest of his life, quietly and without molestation.
This Wolsey proved singularly unable to do. He could not bear to be disconnected from power. The wild moors of Yorkshire did not soothe his spirit or speak to him. He was a creature of civilization and artificiality; he longed for the comforts of court: for satins and silver, for golden goblets and intrigues and spies. He judged himself to be still of worth to those in high places—if not to me, then perhaps to the Emperor or the Pope, who might pay him well for what he knew.
We apprehended his letters selling himself, in precisely those terms. His Italian physician, Agnosisti, had served as message-carrier. A clumsy device, but Wolsey was desperate.
My heart was heavy. There was no choice. Wolsey had delivered himself into the hands of his enemies at court and in Parliament, who had long been crying for his elimination; to them, mere banishment was not enough. He had clearly committed treason. And the penalty for treason is death.
For many months thereafter I staved them off. But finally I had to sign my name to the great parchment ordering his arrest for high treason. There was no other way.
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