“O Rochester,” cried More, invested with the grand official robes of the king’s exchequer, “do you think this man will succeed with his arguments in carrying the crown by storm?”
“No, no,” replied Rochester, “and especially as he wishes to place it upon such a head.”
“But listen, listen!” exclaimed More, “he declares the brief of dispensation to have been a fraud.”
“Ah! what notorious bad faith!” murmured the bishop.
“What answer can they make to that?” said Viscount Rochford, in another part of the hall, addressing the lords belonging to Anne Boleyn’s party. “It is certainly encouraging; we cannot doubt of our success now.”
But at length the arguments, principally dictated by Henry himself, were closed; his advocate demanding, in the most haughty and authoritative manner, that a decision should at once be rendered, and that it should be as favorable as it was prompt. The king during this time, in a state of great excitement, paced to and fro before the entrance of the hall, the door being left open by every one in passing, as if he were afraid to close it behind him. He surveyed from time to time, with a glance of stern, penetrating scrutiny, the assembly before him, each member of which tried to conceal his true sentiments—some because they were secretly attached to the queen, others through fear that the cause of Anne Boleyn might ultimately triumph. When the advocate had finished his discourse, each one sat in breathless suspense anxiously waiting the queen’s reply; but not recognizing the authority or legality of the tribunal, she had refused to accept counsel, and no one consequently appeared to defend her. Profound silence reigned throughout the assembly, and all eyes were turned toward Campeggio, who arose and stood ready to speak. The venerable old man, calm and dignified, in a mild but firm and decided tone began:
“You ask, or rather you demand,” he said, “that we pronounce a decision which it would be impossible for us in justice to render.” Here, on seeing the king turn abruptly around and confront him, he paused, looking steadily at him. “Knowing that the defendant hath challenged this court, and refused to recognize in our persons loyal and disinterested judges, I have considered it my duty, in order to avoid error, to submit every part of the proceedings of this council to the tribunal of the Sovereign Pontiff; and we shall be compelled to await his decision before rendering judgment or proceeding further. For myself individually, I will furthermore affirm, that I am here to render justice—strict, entire, and impartial justice, and no earthly power can induce me to deviate from the course I have adopted or the resolutions I have taken; and I boldly declare that I am too old, too feeble, and too ill to desire the favor or fear the resentment of any living being.” Here he sat down, visibly agitated.
Had a thunderbolt fallen in the midst of the assembly, the tumult and astonishment could not have been greater. Anger, joy, fear, hope—all hearts were agitated by the most contradictory emotions; while nothing was heard but the deep murmur of voices, the noise of unintelligible words, as they crossed and clashed in an endless diversity of tones. The Duke of Suffolk, brother-in-law of the king, cried out, beating his fists violently on the table before him, with the gross impetuosity of an upstart soldier, that the old adage had again been verified; “Never did a cardinal do any good in England.” And with flashing eyes and furious gestures he pointed to Cardinal Wolsey. The cardinal at once comprehended his danger, but found it impossible not to resent the insult. He arose, pale with anger, and with forced calmness replied that the duke, of all living men, had the least cause to depreciate cardinals. For, notwithstanding he had himself been a very insignificant cardinal, yet, if he had not held the office, the Duke of Suffolk would not this day actually carry his head on big shoulders. “And you would not now,” he added, “be here to exhibit the ostentatious disdain you have manifested toward those who have never given you cause of offence. If you were, my lord, an ambassador of the king to some foreign power, you would surely not venture to decide important questions without first consulting your sovereign. We also are commissioners, and we have no power to pronounce judgment, without first consulting those from whom we derive our authority; we can do neither more nor less than our commissions permit. Calm yourself, then, my lord, and no more address, in this insulting manner, your best friend. You very well know all I have done for you, and you must also acknowledge that on no occasion have I ever referred to your obligations before.”
But the Duke of Suffolk heard nothing of the last words uttered by Wolsey. Exasperated beyond measure, he abruptly turned his back on the cardinal and went to join the king in the next apartment. He found the latter in the act of retiring, being no longer able to restrain his wrath within bounds; and as his courtiers entered and stood regarding him with a look of hesitation he went out, commanding them in a fierce tone and with an imperious gesture to follow him immediately.
Meanwhile, in the council chamber the utmost confusion prevailed. “God be praised!” cried Sir Thomas More, who in the simplicity of his heart and the excess of his joy was incapable of dissimulation or concealment. “God be praised! Our queen is still queen; and may she ever triumph thus over all her enemies!”