Having learned that Wolsey was very sick when he left the castle of the Count of Shrewsbury, and fearing he might die on the road, the king had despatched this man in all haste to secure the money and valuables he supposed Wolsey might have concealed among his friends.
“I have told you the truth,” replied the archbishop, who remarked his movement. “I have nothing left in London, and but for the assistance of Monsieur Arundel I should have died of starvation at Asher. I implore you, then, that the king may have compassion on my poor servants, and allow them the wages now due them.”
“We will see, my lord,” said the dissatisfied scribe, who was waiting for an avowal which he had continued to solicit, without any
consideration, ever since his arrival; “we will see. But the treasury is so very much impoverished at this time!… However, we will do what we can. We will ask the king, if it is convenient.”
“Monsieur Vincent, I implore you!” replied the cardinal.
“Master Vincent,” said Cavendish, “I beg you to leave the room; your presence annoys and excites him. Have mercy, then, and leave him in peace.”
The scribe hesitated, but he did not go; he returned to the corner of the chamber and began to write as before.
Cavendish followed him with a look of indignation. It seemed very hard that his master could not even be permitted to die without this avaricious surveillance.
“Cavendish,” asked the archbishop immediately, “do you think she will come?”
“They expect her every moment, my dear lord,” he replied; “she will remain three days here.”