At first, the shrewd money would have been on Henry's team. Catherine's withdrawal of course made their task easier. Her lawyers, especially Fisher, performed miracles and earned Henry's undying hatred for their pains. But, without the Queen, there was a limit to the resistance they could offer. And the pressure on Campeggio, in particular, was immense:
If your Lordship [he wrote to his friend and colleague, Cardinal Salviati] saw me in bed with a cruel attack of gout in seven places, accompanied with fever, although only incidental, brought on by the pain, and surrounded by fifteen doctors with two piles of books to show me all they conclude is according to law, and nothing else can or ought to be done, I am sure you would have compassion on me, especially as I am obliged to have myself carried to the place where the trial is held, God knows with what discomfort to me and danger in moving, in ascending and descending staircases, and in embarking and landing from the vessel.
Campeggio's wry humour, and the constant stream of letters he wrote to his friends in the Curia (as the Papal Court was known), saved his sanity. But they would offer no protection should the trial come to a natural conclusion. His secret instructions from Clement VII, which were repeated with every letter from Rome, were to drag things out as much as possible. But the English had grown wise to this tactic and, Campeggio ruefully observed, 'it is no longer possible to entertain them [string them along]' as previously. What then should he do, he asked Salviati, 'if the process be finished before any provision [that is, an order from Rome to abandon the trial] comes?' 'I beg your lordship to think how I can in such a heat avoid giving sentence – I mean if judgement be for the King.' He could say that he was unable or unwilling to give judgement. But, in that case, the commission authorised Wolsey to deliver a verdict alone. And there was not much doubt what that would be. 'God help me,' Campeggio concluded.
20
But, as Campeggio winced and fretted, Henry (despite the vast issues at stake) was enjoying the whole thing. The King was an amateur theologian and lawyer, with a shrewd eye for quiddities, distinctions and super-subtleties. The trial was a feast of such, and Henry glutted himself. He turned up in person to swear his depositions; he debated in private with Campeggio; he had endless discussions with his lawyers.
Meanwhile, as Campeggio feared, the trial was drawing towards its end. There was a final adjournment. Then Friday, 23 July, was fixed as the day that judgement would be given. Henry, casting his kingly dignity to the winds, decided to eavesdrop. According to Cavendish, he came 'and sat within a gallery' next to the door of the Parliament Chamber. The door gave a view of 'the judges where they sat, whom he might see and hear speak, to hear what judgement they would give in his suit'. The Court assembled at its usual time, between 9 and 10 o'clock in the morning. The counsel for the enquiry exhibited the written record of the trial and pressed the judges to give sentence. Henry's moment of liberation, he thought, was at hand.
21
* * *
Catherine's behaviour throughout this frenetic period could not have been more different from Henry's. After her dramatic walk-out from the court, she left Bridewell and went to Greenwich, where she remained, despite repeated written summons to reappear before the legates.
For she had done her work; she could only hope and pray that it would take effect in time.
Others, however, had laboured frantically on her behalf. The moment she had formally executed them, three documents had been rushed over to Brussels: her protestation against the legates, her appeal to Rome, and her power of attorney for the Spanish ambassador to the Curia. Her messenger was an un-named gentleman of her Household. It would be satisfactory to think that it was Francisco Felipez, now recovered from his broken arm. In Brussels, Mendoza, the former Spanish ambassador in London, took charge of the papers and ensured that they were 'sent to Rome by an express messenger'. By 5 July, they were in the hands of Miçer Mai, Charles V's ambassador to Pope Clement.
22
Mai was Catherine's ardent partisan. He dashed with the letters straight to Clement and upbraided him mercilessly for his failure to 'advoke' the case to Rome. Wearily, Clement agreed that Mai should set the machinery in motion. 'You have the Queen's powers to act for her,' he told Mai, 'let a petition be presented in her name and justice shall be done.' Five days later, on the 10th, Mai got firm information about the first stages of the Blackfriars Trial: that Catherine had appealed; that the legates had rejected her appeal; and that Catherine, in consequence of her failure to appear, had been declared 'contumacious' – that is, wilfully disobedient to the summons of the Court.
23
Contumacy, Clement did not need telling, opened the way to moreor-less summary proceedings. There was now real urgency. The Pope summoned a meeting of the
signatura
, the advisory body which made recommendations on petitions of justice, for the 13th. Its unanimous advice was that Catherine's appeal should be allowed. But, to give the decision added weight (and probably to put off the inevitable for a few more days), Clement resolved that the 'advocation' should first be ratified by the Consistory: that is, by the Pope and cardinals meeting in solemn council. This was fixed for the 16th. But, the evening before, Clement collapsed with an illness that was either diplomatic or psychosomatic, and it was announced that the Consistory was postponed. Mai exploded with fury at one of the senior cardinals, threatening that the Emperor 'could and would find other means' to protect Catherine. Cowed and cornered at last, Clement allowed the advocation to be decreed as planned on the 16th in a Congregation: that is, a meeting of the cardinals without the Pope.
24
The English representatives in Rome had fought Mai every step of the way. And even now they had a final ploy: let the advocation be sent only to Catherine, they requested. Mai saw through that immediately. Their intention, he guessed, was either to waylay the single messenger or to have the document suppressed when it reached England. Once again Mai went directly to the Pope, who, weary and sick at heart about the whole business, told him 'I might do what I liked' about publication.
25
It was a task Mai relished. No fewer than six copies were drawn up. One was to be posted in Rome on the 23rd. Two more were to be sent to Flanders, to be posted in Bruges and Dunkirk. And no less than four were to be sent to Catherine via the Archduchess Margaret. That would teach the English.
In the event, one of Catherine's copies was sent by her faithful Gentleman of the Household.
26
* * *
But Mai's haste, it transpired, was superfluous. On 23 July, the day that the advocation was posted in Rome, the Legate's Court assembled at Blackfriars. But, instead of delivering its verdict, Campeggio, 'taking his faith upon the word of a true prelate' announced that, since 'the reaping and harvest vacation' had begun in Rome, the case would stand 'prorogued and continued' until the beginning of the new term on 1 October. Campeggio (or was it his friend Salviati?) had come up with the solution to his dilemma: he had decreed neither for Henry nor against him but had simply adjourned the case.
27
The leading members of the royal Court had come to hear the expected verdict. As soon as Campeggio announced the adjournment, the Duke of Suffolk, Henry's brother-in-law, stepped forward and struck the table in front of the two judges: 'By the mass,' he swore, 'now I see that the old . . . saw [proverb] is true, that there was never Legate nor Cardinal that did good in England.'
28
* * *
Du Bellay, the French ambassador, had got wind the day before that something had gone wrong with the expected smooth delivery of the verdict for Henry. But, despite such premonitions, the adjournment was a terrible blow for the King.
29
So far, Catherine had won every battle in the Great Matter. But Henry could not, would not, let her win the war. He would change his general. He would use new weapons. He would show who was master in England.
Then let his wife see how she would cope.
38. The aftermath
T
he advocation of the case by the Pope altered, as was intended, the balance of power sharply in Catherine's favour. For it meant that, eventually, the Great Matter would have to be tried in Rome, where Catherine was at least as strong as Henry. But first, if due process were followed, there was the 'citation' or summons. As soon as the necessary documentation arrived in England, Henry, as the respondent party, would be summoned to appear before the Papal tribunal like any other litigant and with the usual penalties for noncompliance. Now it was one thing for Henry to respond to such a summons as part of a collusive action which he himself had initiated, as in May 1529; it was quite another for it to be served on him against his will and by his wife or her agents. This, Wolsey informed the English ambassadors in Rome, 'is no more tolerable than the whole amission [loss] of his . . . estate and dignity Royal'.
1
Would Catherine dare to press home her advantage and use a weapon that was guaranteed to humiliate and alienate her husband beyond recall? Henry (in his own words) 'feared' that she would.
2
He was right to be fearful. During the Blackfriars Trial, Catherine had shown her customary courage. But, in the weeks that followed, her mood turned sour. The trial had ended inconclusively, and still there was no firm news of what had happened to her appeal in Rome. Under the strain, she succumbed to resentment and mistrust. She resented what Henry and Wolsey had done to her, and she was mistrustful of what they might yet do. Her anxieties centred on the Legatine tribunal. This was adjourned rather than dissolved and so might still, she feared, be employed against her.
The man charged with rescuing Henry from the toils of his wife's illfeeling was Wolsey himself.
* * *
By any standards, Wolsey was a man of extraordinary despatch in the conduct of business: he was able to write for twelve hours, from four in the morning till four in the afternoon, without rising 'once to piss', as Cavendish, his Gentleman Usher, reported. But even his fearsome efficiency was at the mercy of the vagaries of contemporary transport. For communications in the sixteenth century could go no faster than a man could ride along potholed roads, through treacherous passes and in the teeth of brigands and customs- and frontier-officials who were scarcely less lawless. In the circumstances, the news of the advocation of the case and citation of Henry to Rome reached England promptly. But the documentation and official notification followed much more slowly. This protracted timetable set the framework for Wolsey's actions.
3
The English ambassadors in Rome wrote to Wolsey on 16 July, to inform him that the advocation had been granted. But they warned him that they were 'obliged to send this letter by a private courier and by an unsafe route', since the regular posts had been closed as 'the Pope does not wish the King to know anything until the advocation is [officially] sent'. Clement himself wrote to Wolsey three days later, on the 19th. He informed him of the advocation, apologised for having to grant it and trusted that Wolsey would take it in good part.
4
Despite the fears of the ambassadors, their letter of the 16th made good time to England and was in the King's hands by Monday, 2 August. In the interim, Henry had at last started to contemplate seriously the possibility of a trial of his marriage at Rome – and what Campeggio's role in it might be after his return to the Curia. For an unavoidable consequence of Campeggio's extended stay in England was that he knew where all the bodies were buried. Acting on Henry's orders, Wolsey tried to tie his fellow legate's hands by getting him to sign a written undertaking or 'pollitication'. Wolsey sent the pollitication to Henry by the hands of Brian Tuke, the Master of the Posts, who arrived at Greenwich on Friday, 30 July 'towards evening'. The pollitication, Tuke reported, was unexpectedly well received. The King was especially pleased with Campeggio's undertaking that, if Henry objected to the advocation, he (Campeggio) would use his best efforts with the Pope
ut nec a serenissma Regina permittat dictam causam prosequi aut
tractari
(that he shall not permit her Serene Highness the Queen either to pursue or to conduct the case). He was even more satisfied with Campeggio's assurance that he had 'no intelligence [understanding] with the Queen'.
5
Campeggio's apparently favourable attitude to Henry made him the King's first line of defence when, the following Monday morning, the letters from Rome with firm news of the advocation were put in his hands. Immediately, Henry invoked Campeggio's undertaking in the pollitication. Wolsey was to require Campeggio that, 'according to his promise', 'he will use all ways and means possible that it come into his hands (before) it comes into the Queen's sight'. 'For his Highness', the instructions continued, 'feareth lest she would not facilely [easily] agree the alteration, but use it as it maketh most to her benefit.'
6
The 'alteration', to which Henry referred, was the scheme to draw the fangs of the citation by removing the elements most offensive to his royal dignity. Wolsey had earlier listed these as citation of the King to Rome, either in person or by proxy, 'with any clauses of interdiction, excommunication, incurring into contempt,
vel cum invocatione brachii
secularis aut poenis pecuniariis
[either with the invocation of the secular arm or with financial penalties]'. If these were included, he said, 'the dignity and prerogative Royal of the King's crown, whereunto all the nobles and subjects of this realm will adhere and stick unto the death, will not tolerate nor suffer that [the citation] be obeyed'. Wolsey was instructed to reiterate these arguments to Campeggio and get him in turn to press them on Catherine: 'to be content to procure that no such thing be comprised in the said advocation as shall irritate the King's Highness and his nobles, and say that a King in his own realm may not be violently [compelled]'.
7