While this strange scene was being enacted within the palace at Greenwich, one of an entirely different nature was occurring in the courtyard. From the road leading from Greenwich a cavalcade approached, headed by a personage invested with the Roman purple, and apparently entitled to and surrounded by all the “pomp and circumstance” of royalty. He was mounted on a richly caparisoned mule with silver-plated harness, adorned with silver bells and tufted with knots of crimson silk. This distinguished personage was no other than the Archbishop of York, the potent minister, who united in his person all the dignities both of church and state—the Cardinal Legate, the king’s acknowledged favorite, Wolsey. To increase his already princely possessions, to extend his influence and authority, had been this man’s constant endeavor, and the sole aim of his life. And so complete had been his success that he was now regarded by all as an object of admiration and envy. But how greatly mistaken was the world in its opinion!
In his heart, Wolsey suffered the constant agony of a profound humiliation. Compelled to yield in all things, and bow with servile submission to the haughty will of his exacting and imperious master—who by a word, and in a moment, could deprive him of his dignities and temporalities—he lived in a state of constant dread, fearing to lose the patronage and favor to secure which he had sacrificed both his honor and his conscience.
He was accompanied on this journey by a numerous retinue, composed of gentlemen attached to his household and young pages carrying his standard, all of whom were eagerly pressing upon him the most obsequious attentions. They assisted him to dismount, and as he approached the palace the guards saluted and received him with the utmost military deference and respect; and with an air of grave dignity Wolsey passed on, and disappeared beneath the arch of the grand stairway.
Let us again return to the royal apartments. The king, seeing Wolsey arrive, immediately turned from the window and, confronting Catherine, abruptly exclaimed:
“Come, madam, I wish you to retire; the affairs of my kingdom demand instantly all my time and attention.” And hastily turning to the window, he looked eagerly into the courtyard.
Catherine arose without uttering a word, and approaching the centre of the apartment she took from the table a small silver bell, and rang it twice.
On this table was a magnificent cloth cover that she had embroidered with her own hands. The design represented a tournament, in which Henry, who was devoted to chivalrous amusements, had borne off the prize over all his competitors. In those days her husband received such presents with grateful affection and sincere appreciation, and, as the souvenir recalled to her mind the joy and happiness of the past, tears of bitterness flowed afresh from the eyes of the unhappy princess.
In answer to her signal, the door soon opened, the queen’s ladies in waiting appeared, and, arranging themselves on either side, stood in readiness to follow their royal mistress. She passed out, and was slowly walking in silence through the vast gallery leading to the king’s apartments, when Wolsey appeared, advancing from the opposite end of the gallery, followed by his brilliant retinue.
Catherine, then, instantly understood why the king had so abruptly commanded her to retire. Suddenly pausing, she stood transfixed and immovable, her soul overwhelmed with anguish; but, with a countenance calm and impassible, she awaited the approach of the cardinal, who advanced to salute her. In spite of all her efforts, however, she could no longer control her feelings.
“My lord cardinal,” she exclaimed in a low voice, trembling with emotion, “go, the king waits for you!” And as she uttered these words, the unhappy woman fell senseless to the floor.