“Then,” replied More, “how can you expect to live peaceably in a condition in which you are afraid to die? In a few hours, or at least in a few years (that is as certain as the light of day which shines this moment), your life and mine will have to end, leaving nothing more than regrets for the past and fears for the future.”
“You say truly, More,” replied the king; “but life appears so long to us, the future so far removed! Is it necessary, then, that we be always thinking of it and sacrificing our pleasures?… Later—well, we will change. Will we not have more time then to think of it?”
“Ah!” replied More sadly, “there remains very little time to him who is always putting off until to-morrow.”
As he heard the last words, the king’s face grew instantly crimson. He kept More with him, entertaining him with his trials and vexations, and the night was far advanced before he permitted him to retire.
During four entire days the king remained shut up in his apartment, and Anne Boleyn vainly attempted to gain admittance.
Meanwhile, a rumor of her downfall spread rapidly through the palace. The courtiers who were accustomed to attend her levées in greater numbers and much more scrupulously than those of Queen Catherine, suddenly discontinued, and on the last occasion scarcely one of them made his appearance. They also took great care to preserve a frigid reserve and doubtful politeness, which excited to the last degree her alarm and that of her ambitious family.
The latter were every moment in dread of the blow that seemed ready to fall upon them. In this state of gloomy disquiet every circumstance was anxiously noted and served to excite their apprehensions. They continually discussed among themselves the arrival of the despatches from Rome, the nature of which they suspected from the very long time Sir Thomas More had remained with the king. Then they refreshed their memories with reflections on the inflexible severity of the lord chancellor, his old attachment for Queen Catherine—an attachment which the elevation of More had never interrupted, as they had hoped would be the case. Finally, the sincerity of his nature and the estimation in which he was held by the king made them, with great reason, apprehend the influence of his counsel. Already they found themselves abandoned by almost all of those upon whose support they had relied. Suffolk, leagued with them heretofore, in order to secure the downfall of Cardinal Wolsey, now regarded them in their disgrace as of little consequence to one so closely related as himself to his majesty by the princess, his wife. The Duke of Norfolk, justly proud of his birth, his wealth, and his reputation, could not believe the power with which the influence of his niece had clothed him in the council by any means bound him to engage in or compromise himself in her cause. In the meantime they realized that they would inevitably be compelled to succumb or make a last and desperate effort, and they resolved with one accord to address themselves to Cromwell, whose shrewdness and cunning, joined to the motives of self-interest that could be brought to bear on him, seemed to offer them a last resort.
Cromwell immediately understood all the benefit he would be likely to derive from the situation whether he succeeded or failed in the cause of Anne Boleyn, and determined, according to his own expression, to “make or unmake.” He wrote to the king, demanding an audience. “He fully realized,” he wrote, with his characteristic adroitness, “his entire incapacity for giving advice, but neither his devoted affection nor his sense of duty would permit him to remain silent when he knew the anxiety his sovereign was suffering. It might be deemed presumptuous in him to say it, but he believed all the difficulties embarrassing the king arose from the timidity of his advisers, who were misled by exterior appearances or deceived by the opinions of the vulgar.”
The king immediately granted him an audience, although his usual custom was to remain entirely secluded and alone while laboring under these violent transports of passion. He hoped that Cromwell might be able to present his opinions with such ability as would at least be sufficient to divert him from the wretchedness he experienced.