WOLSEY. I’ve never favoured France – nor the Emperor neither. (Slight bow to CHAPUYS.) I favour peace.
KING HENRY. We have sinned together – we suffer for it. Accept it.
KATHERINE. Is that what you do with Anne Boleyn? Suffer?
KING HENRY. She is an honourable lady. And chaste.
KATHERINE. Ha! She consorts with wicked men – reads their heretic books. She is entwined in heresy and will snare you too. Sin if you must – if you cannot keep your marriage vows… But do not sin with her.
KING HENRY. I forbid you to slander the lady! Your duty is to obey me, as a good subject should.
KATHERINE. I obey you as your wife –
KING HENRY. You are not my wife.
CHAPUYS. With great respect, Majesty, that is for the courts to decide.
CHAPUYS gives WOLSEY a hard look – bows to KING HENRY. Exeunt KATHERINE and CHAPUYS. BISHOPS, the DUKE OF NORFOLK, the DUKE OF SUFFOLK, others assemble. More cartloads of documents are dragged squeaking in. WOLSEY takes his seat, towering over them.
WOLSEY. Majesty – I have convened this court to inquire into the lawfulness of your marriage –
KING HENRY. Marriage so-called –
WOLSEY. To Katherine of Aragon –
KING HENRY. My late brother’s wife – now his widow.
WOLSEY. You must bring before us the Pope’s dispensation that permitted you to marry.
KING HENRY. Here it is. Examine it. (Sincere.) I am confident this court will find the document in some way defective.
CHAPUYS. My Lord Cardinal, as Ambassador to the Emperor Charles V, I’m instructed by his Imperial Majesty, on behalf of his aunt, Queen Katherine, to hand to you the Pope’s dispensation. (Does.)
WOLSEY. Which is the original?
CHAPUYS. Ours.
KING HENRY. Mine.
CHAPUYS. Ours is the fuller version. With helpful notes.
KING HENRY. Ambassador Chapuys, I’ve no quarrel with your document – and no interest in it. Six times Katherine and I have lived in hope of an heir – six times our hopes have been dashed. What can this be but the judgement of Heaven? Why, after twenty years, am I left with one child – my daughter Mary – so frail any vagrant wind may destroy her? What have I done – what has the good woman I supposed my wife done – that God should take my children? I look to this court for an answer. I look to you, My Lord Cardinal, for remedy.
WOLSEY bows slightly. KING HENRY joins the BOLEYNS. WOLSEY, RAFE and THOMAS go to WOLSEY’s room – WOLSEY in a vile temper, shedding vestments. MARK is playing his lute.
THOMAS. Could have been worse.
WOLSEY. Could it? Could it! How!
The handcarts trundle in, squeaking.
Oh, dear God in Heaven – this affair of His Majesty’s will follow me to my grave.
RAFE. You’ll outlive us all, Your Grace!
WOLSEY. It’s killing me, Rafe. Eighteen hours toil every day for twenty years – I’m Cardinal Archbishop of York and I don’t even get Sundays off. What, then, will be my reward for a lifetime of loyal service to Our Sovereign Lord? (Playing with a ring on his finger.) I wonder which it is?
THOMAS. Your Grace?
WOLSEY. Which ring? They say I have a magic ring. It enables me to fly – it detects poisons, renders ferocious beasts harmless, ensures the favour of princes. Look. Which one do you think it is? If I knew, I’d have a copy made and give it to you. God! If only Anne Boleyn would grant Henry his pleasure he might take an easier view of life and talk less about his conscience! He does have a conscience, you know. Time was, I could bend it to my purposes and always for the good of the State. Why does Flat-chest hold him off, Tom? Why the delay?
MARK. She hopes to be the new wife perhaps?
WOLSEY. Mark? What did you say!
MARK. His wife. When Your Grace lends me to play at Court, I hear what the ladies are whispering. Ladies know more than men about such things – men are the last to know. Anne Boleyn won’t let the King touch her until she’s his wife. She means to be Queen.
WOLSEY. Take it from me, boy, you yourself stand more chance of being England’s Queen than that – that – that… When I get the King his divorce, he’ll marry a Princess of France.
MARK. No, he’ll marry Anne. She made him swear it.
THOMAS. Men will swear anything to get a woman into bed –
MARK. He’s not got her into bed – that’s the point, you see –
THOMAS. Now you go to bed, Mark. And take your f… your lute with you.
Exit MARK.
WOLSEY. I am weary – weary of it all. When the work’s going well we don’t notice life draining out of us… But this case – (Picks up documents from one of the carts.) I’m in the mire and I doubt I’ll pull myself out. The wolves are circling – licking their chops. Go home, Tom. I hope you’ve sent your family out of the city? The sickness is back – you can’t stir out without seeing funerals…
THOMAS, RAFE and CHRISTOPHE set off home, leaving WOLSEY at prayer. A cart goes by with a dead body and a small church procession. They cross themselves.
RAFE. Five dead in St John’s, they’re saying.
THOMAS. I think Wolsey might come down. He makes so many enemies. ‘Man is a wolf to man.’
RAFE. What will become of you?
THOMAS. I must fall too. Stephen Gardiner will dance with delight – Thomas More will sing Te Deums with the monks in the Charterhouse… But I’ll go down fighting.
CHRISTOPHE. Pah! S’il tombait les fondations se fissurer! Ha ha ha!
RAFE. Let’s hope so, Christophe – let’s hope so.
Scene Eight
Later. Austin Friars. Boxes, chests and bundles being piled up. CHRISTOPHE supervising. LIZ and the girls are leaving London at last to avoid the sweating sickness. THOMAS and RAFE working at his table. LIZ in a corner sewing. GREGORY CROMWELL brings more candles.
GREGORY. I’ve brought more candles, Father.
THOMAS. Thank you, Gregory.
GREGORY. They said you were working. I thought you might need… more light. (Shuffles THOMAS’s papers.)
THOMAS. Gregory – what are you doing?
GREGORY. Trying to be helpful.
THOMAS. I was making copies of those letters.
GREGORY. Oh… Sorry.
GREGORY reads over his father’s shoulder. THOMAS remains patient. GREGORY plays with the counters on the counting board.
THOMAS. Gregory, this is an abacus. That was a calculation. It wasn’t just where I left the counters.
GREGORY. Oh, sorry. (Goes and sits by the fire, watching his father.) Father?
THOMAS (not looking up). What is it?
GREGORY. Do you think you could stop writing?
THOMAS. Give me a minute. (Signs letters, finishes.) Yes?
GREGORY. Are we rich?
THOMAS. I used to think one day we’d be rich.
GREGORY. We are rich. I know we are. Why are we rich?
THOMAS. Well… Because… Rafe – why are we rich?
RAFE. Well, Gregory… Suppose you want a low-interest loan from a German bank –
GREGORY. Why would I want a loan from a German bank?
RAFE. Your father will get you the best terms. Or say you’re a London merchant – your ship’s been holed as she comes into port –
GREGORY. I’m a sailor now?
RAFE. No – the ship’s owner. It’s loaded with gunpowder and sugar, Bay of Biscay salt and powdered pearls. But the whole cargo sinks beneath the waves. Who makes good the loss? The harbourmaster’s Flemish, the ship’s captain’s French, so they’re shouting in three languages. Send for Master Cromwell – everyone goes home happy. Or suppose you’re a landlord –
GREGORY. Wait. Am I still this same London merchant?
THOMAS. You could be.
RAFE. You want to put up your rents by ten shillings, so your tenants are rioting. Send for Master Cromwell. He’ll show those tenants why their rents should be twenty shillings. Next you know, they’re runnin
g after you thrusting silver into your hands – ‘Please let us pay you, sir! – God bless your generous soul!’ He’ll arrange a marriage for you, or break off a betrothal – he’s read more books than anybody – or if you want some Venetian glassware – or a Turkey carpet –
GREGORY. Why would I? I don’t have a house.
RAFE. You could buy one –
GREGORY. How would I get the money?
RAFE. With a loan from the German bank.
THOMAS. Does that answer your question, Gregory?
GREGORY. Yes it does… I don’t understand it though.
THOMAS (laughing). Oh, my son!
GREGORY. What I mean is… if the Cardinal comes down, shall we be poor?
THOMAS. He won’t come down.
GREGORY. If he can’t get the King his divorce he will. So they say in the kitchen.
THOMAS. Ah, in the kitchen!
GREGORY. And the Pope won’t agree.
THOMAS. Well, he hasn’t absolutely said no yet. We’re working on him.
LIZ. Your father means bribing him, Gregory.
THOMAS. God forgive you, wife! We’re arranging a loan.
GREGORY. If Wolsey’s no longer here to protect us… What’s to stop Thomas More coming and smashing up our house?
Nobody wants to answer this.
RAFE. We should go to bed now –
THOMAS. Yes – go – you’re off to the country tomorrow.
GREGORY. I’d rather stay here with you.
THOMAS. You must look after your mother and sisters for me.
GREGORY. Yes, I’m very tired, though I don’t know why I should be.
THOMAS (worried). Tired? What sort of tired? Aches and pains?
GREGORY. No – just tired-tired. Goodnight, Father. (Kisses THOMAS.)
THOMAS. Goodnight, my son.
GREGORY. It’s not the fever – it’s just bedtime. (Yawns.) D’you remember when I was a devil in the Christmas play?
THOMAS. I do. I remember.
GREGORY. Wrapped in a black calfskin with my face dyed black?
Kisses LIZ – exits with RAFE.
LIZ. Sometimes I think he’s still three. I’m embroidering a shirt for him – look. This is blackwork. It’s the Queen’s own pattern.
THOMAS. You’re very patient.
LIZ. So are you. (Sewing.) Is it true that Katherine still makes her husband’s shirts?
THOMAS. Liz! How could I possibly know a thing like that?
LIZ. If I were her, I’d leave the needle in them.
THOMAS. I’m sure you would.
LIZ. They say she’s not stopped crying since he left her.
THOMAS. He hasn’t left her. That’s the thing. Katherine still has her household. And now Anne Boleyn has a household too. The King runs back and forth between them and they both shout at him. They’re leading him a dog’s life. Last time I saw Katherine she wasn’t crying. She was briefing her lawyers.
LIZ. Men say, ‘I can’t endure it when women cry’ – as if it were nothing to do with the men at all… The crying. Give me my scissors.
THOMAS. I’ve never made you cry, have I?
LIZ (a long look). Yes you have. But only with laughter.
THOMAS. Come to bed.
LIZ (absorbed). Just finish this bit. (Struck by a thought.) Who does the King sleep with?
THOMAS. Nobody. He won’t have Katherine in his bed – Anne won’t have him in hers. I imagine he wanders the cold passages of his palaces in his nightshirt looking for somebody who will have him.
LIZ. Alone… Nobody should be all alone.
THOMAS. The Cardinal says he pities him.
LIZ. Do you?
THOMAS. It is not permitted to touch a king. But I’d like to shake him. If he were our neighbour I’d go round and say, ‘Sort it out, Harry! You’re the scandal of the parish.’
LIZ. Can’t he just give Lady Anne more and more money until she says yes? Wouldn’t that sort everything out?
THOMAS. We’re trying something similar with the Pope. (Silence.) I ought to make a will.
LIZ (reaching for his hand). Tom, don’t die.
THOMAS. I’m not proposing it. Good God, no!
LIZ. Don’t die. Don’t leave me alone.
THOMAS. I’ll never leave you, Liz.
LIZ has disappeared. THOMAS stares at the place where she has been. He looks up. A bell tolling before coffins. Sung Requiem. He’s in the street with RAFE and CHRISTOPHE – a funeral procession coming towards him. Then GREGORY joins him – the relief is overwhelming. THOMAS is left in the street with RAFE and CHRISTOPHE. It snows.
Scene Nine
THOMAS, grim, hurrying along with RAFE. CHRISTOPHE carrying document cases. MORE falls in.
MORE. Heard the news from Rome, Cromwell?
THOMAS. I’ve heard the Emperor’s troops are in the city.
MORE. In the city! They’re sacking it, man! Plundering churches – looting and burning – raping holy nuns – wives and virgins.
THOMAS. So the French would have us believe –
MORE. The Pope’s in the Emperor’s prison. In the circumstances His Holiness is hardly likely to annul the marriage of the Emperor’s aunt, is he? The Queen will see the hand of God in it – saving her husband from himself.
RAFE (cold). How will it save His Majesty?
MORE. By keeping him married – preventing his fall into error. That’s how Katherine will see it – her people will rejoice. Not the Cardinal, of course. The King has little patience with those who fail him.
THOMAS. Rafe, we must turn around and go to York Place.
MORE. Naturally he’ll lose his place as Chancellor.
THOMAS. Do you hope to step into it?
MORE. Bless you, no! If it’s offered I shall refuse. My books and my family are enough for me. (Ambling off.) Though, of course, if one could do some good in that position…
Scene Ten
York Place. Confusion – noise within. THOMAS WYATT, looking as if he’s been in a fight (he has), waiting in the antechamber. THOMAS, RAFE and CHRISTOPHE arrive.
RAFE. What’s happening?
THOMAS. Tom Wyatt – what are you doing here?
WYATT. I came to see the Cardinal – but the Dukes of Norfolk and Suffolk were here before me –
SUFFOLK yelling within.
THOMAS. Sounds as if the whole of East Anglia is brawling in there.
CHRISTOPHE. Oho!
THOMAS. You look as if you started it. Where there are fights there is Tom Wyatt.
WYATT. Nothing to do with me – not this time.
THOMAS. Then stay out of it. Wait here. Christophe.
The Dukes’ SERVANTS are taking the house apart – bundling up parchments, scrolls, missals, pictures, hangings, plate, chests – others remove WOLSEY’s coat of arms. STEPHEN calmly makes an inventory.
STEPHEN (to the plunderers). For God’s sake, gentlemen – you must line those chests with a double thickness of cambric. Would you shred fine work that has taken nuns a lifetime to embroider?
NORFOLK (covered in holy medals and reliquaries – he clanks as he moves). Aha! Here’s blacksmith’s boy –
SUFFOLK. The butcher’s dog –
NORFOLK. Come in – come to me!
SUFFOLK. Explain it to him – he’s dismissed as Chancellor. Go on, tell him – I can’t make him understand.
NORFOLK. He must hand over the Great Seal of England –
SUFFOLK. And his chain of office –
NORFOLK. I want that chain. Give me the chain, Wolsey –
THOMAS. He can’t. The law states that a Chancellor may return the chain and the seal only to the King himself.
SUFFOLK. Harry’s in Windsor.
THOMAS. The Master of the Rolls would do.
SUFFOLK. Fetch him then!
THOMAS. The Master of the Rolls is with the King. In Windsor.
NORFOLK. Oh, by the tits of Holy Agnes – bugger him and bugger his rolls! I want that chain!
He grabs it – pulls WOL
SEY about.
WOLSEY (frail, bewildered). Handle me gently – I warn you! The King loves me – he can’t rule without me. When he’s had his frolic with your niece, Norfolk, I’ll be recalled – then I may come to your houses and turn you out! Hands off me! Wait! (Pause.) If it is His Majesty’s will… then I cannot see why the law should hinder it.
He drops his chain. SUFFOLK and NORFOLK dive.
A statue of the Blessed Virgin Mary is carried across the stage. The WORKMEN take off their caps and do reverence. NORFOLK falls to his knees, jangles his relics and crosses himself. Then all resume the squabble where they left off.
SUFFOLK and NORFOLK struggle for the chain – NORFOLK gets it.
SUFFOLK. Where’s the seal?
STEPHEN. Here it is. (Hands it to SUFFOLK.)
NORFOLK. The King wants rid of you by nightfall. Anne’s moving in and needs the place scrubbed clean. Can’t have the smell of butcher’s boy hanging in the air – now, out you go!
THOMAS. York Place belongs to the Archdiocese of York. When was Anne Boleyn made Archbishop?
NORFOLK. You’d do well, Cromwell, not to question the King’s pleasure.
STEPHEN. Have you thought where you might take him?
THOMAS. I have.
SUFFOLK. He may go where he pleases.
NORFOLK. For now. Sooner or later he’ll end up in the Tower – and you with him, Cromwell.
WOLSEY (overhearing). Why would the King send me to the Tower?
STEPHEN. Your Grace, I’ll take my leave. His Majesty has sent for me.
THOMAS. Why?
STEPHEN. He has taken me into his service. I’m to be Master Secretary. I shall have my own barge. And he’s promised me the manor at Hansworth – the gardens are a delight. The house will need considerable renovation, of course –
WOLSEY (sarcastic). Then Cromwell here’s your man. He’ll get you antique statuary from his Italian friends – fountains – he’ll plant you a knot garden if you pay him well enough.
STEPHEN. Your Grace, His Majesty cannot countenance failure – accept it. You’ve had many good years in his service. Perhaps the days remaining to you should be spent in the service of God? Prayer and contemplation, My Lord – prayer and contemplation.