Part 86

BUCKINGHAM. Nay, Sir Nicholas, Let it alone. My state now will but mock me. When I came hither, I was Lord High Constable And Duke of Buckingham; now, poor Edward Bohun. Yet I am richer than my base accusers, That never knew what truth meant. I now seal it, And with that blood will make ’em one day groan for’t. My noble father, Henry of Buckingham, Who first raised head against usurping Richard, Flying for succour to his servant Banister, Being distressed, was by that wretch betrayed, And, without trial, fell. God’s peace be with him. Henry the Seventh succeeding, truly pitying My father’s loss, like a most royal prince, Restored me to my honours and out of ruins Made my name once more noble. Now his son, Henry the Eighth, life, honour, name, and all That made me happy at one stroke has taken For ever from the world. I had my trial, And must needs say a noble one, which makes me A little happier than my wretched father. Yet thus far we are one in fortunes: both Fell by our servants, by those men we loved most— A most unnatural and faithless service. Heaven has an end in all; yet, you that hear me, This from a dying man receive as certain: Where you are liberal of your loves and counsels Be sure you be not loose; for those you make friends And give your hearts to, when they once perceive The least rub in your fortunes, fall away Like water from ye, never found again But where they mean to sink ye. All good people, Pray for me. I must now forsake ye. The last hour Of my long weary life is come upon me. Farewell. And when you would say something that is sad, Speak how I fell. I have done; and God forgive me.

[_Exeunt Duke and train._]

FIRST GENTLEMAN. O, this is full of pity. Sir, it calls, I fear, too many curses on their heads That were the authors.

SECOND GENTLEMAN. If the Duke be guiltless, ’Tis full of woe. Yet I can give you inkling Of an ensuing evil, if it fall, Greater than this.

FIRST GENTLEMAN. Good angels keep it from us! What may it be? You do not doubt my faith, sir?

SECOND GENTLEMAN. This secret is so weighty, ’twill require A strong faith to conceal it.

FIRST GENTLEMAN. Let me have it. I do not talk much.

SECOND GENTLEMAN. I am confident; You shall, sir. Did you not of late days hear A buzzing of a separation Between the King and Katherine?

FIRST GENTLEMAN. Yes, but it held not; For when the King once heard it, out of anger He sent command to the Lord Mayor straight To stop the rumour and allay those tongues That durst disperse it.

SECOND GENTLEMAN. But that slander, sir, Is found a truth now, for it grows again Fresher than e’er it was, and held for certain The King will venture at it. Either the Cardinal, Or some about him near, have, out of malice To the good Queen, possessed him with a scruple That will undo her. To confirm this too, Cardinal Campeius is arrived, and lately, As all think, for this business.

FIRST GENTLEMAN. ’Tis the Cardinal; And merely to revenge him on the Emperor For not bestowing on him at his asking, The archbishopric of Toledo this is purposed.

SECOND GENTLEMAN. I think you have hit the mark. But is’t not cruel That she should feel the smart of this? The Cardinal Will have his will, and she must fall.

FIRST GENTLEMAN. ’Tis woeful. We are too open here to argue this. Let’s think in private more.

[_Exeunt._]

SCENE II. An ante-chamber in the palace.

Enter Lord Chamberlain, reading this letter.

CHAMBERLAIN. _My lord, the horses your lordship sent for, with all the care had I saw well chosen, ridden, and furnished. They were young and handsome, and of the best breed in the north. When they were ready to set out for London, a man of my Lord Cardinal’s, by commission and main power, took ’em from me, with this reason: his master would be served before a subject, if not before the King; which stopped our mouths, sir._ I fear he will indeed. Well, let him have them. He will have all, I think.

Enter to the Lord Chamberlain, the Dukes of Norfolk and Suffolk.

NORFOLK. Well met, my Lord Chamberlain.

CHAMBERLAIN. Good day to both your Graces.

SUFFOLK. How is the King employed?

CHAMBERLAIN. I left him private, Full of sad thoughts and troubles.

NORFOLK. What’s the cause?

CHAMBERLAIN. It seems the marriage with his brother’s wife Has crept too near his conscience.

SUFFOLK. No, his conscience Has crept too near another lady.

NORFOLK. ’Tis so. This is the Cardinal’s doing, the king-cardinal. That blind priest, like the eldest son of Fortune, Turns what he list. The King will know him one day.

SUFFOLK. Pray God he do! He’ll never know himself else.

NORFOLK. How holily he works in all his business, And with what zeal! For, now he has cracked the league Between us and the Emperor, the Queen’s great nephew, He dives into the King’s soul and there scatters Dangers, doubts, wringing of the conscience, Fears and despairs—and all these for his marriage. And out of all these to restore the King, He counsels a divorce, a loss of her That like a jewel has hung twenty years About his neck, yet never lost her lustre; Of her that loves him with that excellence That angels love good men with; even of her That, when the greatest stroke of fortune falls, Will bless the King. And is not this course pious?

CHAMBERLAIN. Heaven keep me from such counsel! ’Tis most true: These news are everywhere, every tongue speaks ’em, And every true heart weeps for’t. All that dare Look into these affairs see this main end, The French king’s sister. Heaven will one day open The King’s eyes, that so long have slept upon This bold bad man.

SUFFOLK. And free us from his slavery.

NORFOLK. We had need pray, And heartily, for our deliverance, Or this imperious man will work us all From princes into pages. All men’s honours Lie like one lump before him, to be fashioned Into what pitch he please.

SUFFOLK. For me, my lords, I love him not, nor fear him; there’s my creed. As I am made without him, so I’ll stand, If the King please. His curses and his blessings Touch me alike, they’re breath I not believe in. I knew him, and I know him; so I leave him To him that made him proud, the Pope.

NORFOLK. Let’s in, And with some other business put the King From these sad thoughts that work too much upon him. My lord, you’ll bear us company?

CHAMBERLAIN. Excuse me; The King has sent me otherwhere. Besides, You’ll find a most unfit time to disturb him. Health to your lordships.

NORFOLK. Thanks, my good Lord Chamberlain.

[_Exit Lord Chamberlain, and the King draws the curtain and sits reading pensively._]

SUFFOLK. How sad he looks! Sure, he is much afflicted.

KING. Who’s there? Ha?

NORFOLK. Pray God he be not angry.

KING. Who’s there, I say? How dare you thrust yourselves Into my private meditations? Who am I? Ha?

NORFOLK. A gracious king that pardons all offences Malice ne’er meant. Our breach of duty this way Is business of estate, in which we come To know your royal pleasure.

KING. Ye are too bold. Go to; I’ll make ye know your times of business. Is this an hour for temporal affairs, ha?

Enter Wolsey and Campeius with a commission.

Who’s there? My good Lord Cardinal? O my Wolsey, The quiet of my wounded conscience, Thou art a cure fit for a king. [_To Campeius_.] You’re welcome, Most learned reverend sir, into our kingdom; Use us and it. [_To Wolsey_.] My good lord, have great care I be not found a talker.

WOLSEY. Sir, you cannot. I would your Grace would give us but an hour Of private conference.

KING. [_To Norfolk and Suffolk_.] We are busy. Go.

NORFOLK. [A_side to Suffolk_.] This priest has no pride in him?

SUFFOLK. [_Aside to Norfolk_.] Not to speak of. I would not be so sick, though, for his place. But this cannot continue.

NORFOLK. [_Aside to Suffolk_.] If it do, I’ll venture one have-at-him.

SUFFOLK. [_Aside to Norfolk_.] I another.

[_Exeunt Norfolk and Suffolk._]

WOLSEY. Your Grace has given a precedent of wisdom Above all princes in committing freely Your scruple to the voice of Christendom. Who can be angry now? What envy reach you? The Spaniard, tied by blood and favour to her, Must now confess, if they have any goodness, The trial just and noble. All the clerks— I mean the learned ones in Christian kingdoms— Have their free voices. Rome, the nurse of judgement, Invited by your noble self, hath sent One general tongue unto us, this good man, This just and learned priest, Cardinal Campeius, Whom once more I present unto your Highness.

KING. And once more in mine arms I bid him welcome, And thank the holy conclave for their loves. They have sent me such a man I would have wished for.

CAMPEIUS. Your Grace must needs deserve all strangers’ loves, You are so noble. To your Highness’ hand I tender my commission, by whose virtue, The court of Rome commanding, you, my Lord Cardinal of York, are joined with me their servant In the unpartial judging of this business.

KING. Two equal men. The Queen shall be acquainted Forthwith for what you come. Where’s Gardiner?

WOLSEY. I know your Majesty has always loved her So dear in heart not to deny her that A woman of less place might ask by law: Scholars allowed freely to argue for her.

KING. Ay, and the best she shall have, and my favour To him that does best. God forbid else. Cardinal, Prithee call Gardiner to me, my new secretary. I find him a fit fellow.

Enter Gardiner.

WOLSEY. [_Aside to Gardiner_.] Give me your hand. Much joy and favour to you; You are the King’s now.

GARDINER. [_Aside to Wolsey_.] But to be commanded For ever by your Grace, whose hand has raised me.

KING. Come hither, Gardiner.

[_The King and Gardiner walk and whisper._]

CAMPEIUS. My lord of York, was not one Doctor Pace In this man’s place before him?

WOLSEY. Yes, he was.

CAMPEIUS. Was he not held a learned man?

WOLSEY. Yes, surely.

CAMPEIUS. Believe me, there’s an ill opinion spread, then Even of yourself, Lord Cardinal.

WOLSEY. How? Of me?

CAMPEIUS. They will not stick to say you envied him And fearing he would rise—he was so virtuous— Kept him a foreign man still, which so grieved him That he ran mad and died.

WOLSEY. Heav’n’s peace be with him! That’s Christian care enough. For living murmurers There’s places of rebuke. He was a fool, For he would needs be virtuous. That good fellow, If I command him, follows my appointment. I will have none so near else. Learn this, brother: We live not to be griped by meaner persons.

KING. Deliver this with modesty to th’ Queen.

[_Exit Gardiner._]

The most convenient place that I can think of For such receipt of learning is Blackfriars. There ye shall meet about this weighty business. My Wolsey, see it furnished. O, my lord, Would it not grieve an able man to leave So sweet a bedfellow? But, conscience, conscience! O, ’tis a tender place, and I must leave her.

[_Exeunt._]

SCENE III. An ante-chamber of the Queen’s apartments.

Enter Anne Bullen and an Old Lady.

ANNE. Not for that neither. Here’s the pang that pinches: His Highness having lived so long with her, and she So good a lady that no tongue could ever Pronounce dishonour of her—by my life, She never knew harm-doing—O, now, after So many courses of the sun enthroned, Still growing in a majesty and pomp, the which To leave a thousandfold more bitter than ’Tis sweet at first t’ acquire—after this process, To give her the avaunt, it is a pity Would move a monster.

OLD LADY. Hearts of most hard temper Melt and lament for her.

ANNE. O, God’s will! Much better She ne’er had known pomp; though’t be temporal, Yet if that quarrel, Fortune, do divorce It from the bearer, ’tis a sufferance panging As soul and body’s severing.

OLD LADY. Alas, poor lady, She’s a stranger now again.

ANNE. So much the more Must pity drop upon her. Verily, I swear, ’tis better to be lowly born And range with humble livers in content Than to be perked up in a glist’ring grief, And wear a golden sorrow.

OLD LADY. Our content Is our best having.

ANNE. By my troth and maidenhead, I would not be a queen.

OLD LADY. Beshrew me, I would, And venture maidenhead for’t; and so would you, For all this spice of your hypocrisy. You, that have so fair parts of woman on you, Have too a woman’s heart, which ever yet Affected eminence, wealth, sovereignty; Which, to say sooth, are blessings; and which gifts, Saving your mincing, the capacity Of your soft cheveril conscience would receive, If you might please to stretch it.

ANNE. Nay, good troth.

OLD LADY. Yes, troth and troth. You would not be a queen?

ANNE. No, not for all the riches under heaven.

OLD LADY. ’Tis strange. A threepence bowed would hire me, Old as I am, to queen it. But I pray you, What think you of a duchess? Have you limbs To bear that load of title?

ANNE. No, in truth.

OLD LADY. Then you are weakly made. Pluck off a little. I would not be a young count in your way For more than blushing comes to. If your back Cannot vouchsafe this burden, ’tis too weak Ever to get a boy.

ANNE. How you do talk! I swear again I would not be a queen For all the world.

OLD LADY. In faith, for little England You’d venture an emballing. I myself Would for Caernarfonshire, although there longed No more to th’ crown but that. Lo, who comes here?

Enter Lord Chamberlain.

CHAMBERLAIN. Good morrow, ladies. What were’t worth to know The secret of your conference?

ANNE. My good lord, Not your demand; it values not your asking. Our mistress’ sorrows we were pitying.

CHAMBERLAIN. It was a gentle business, and becoming The action of good women. There is hope All will be well.

ANNE. Now, I pray God, amen!

CHAMBERLAIN. You bear a gentle mind, and heavenly blessings Follow such creatures. That you may, fair lady, Perceive I speak sincerely, and high note’s Ta’en of your many virtues, the King’s Majesty Commends his good opinion of you, and Does purpose honour to you no less flowing Than Marchioness of Pembroke, to which title A thousand pound a year annual support Out of his grace he adds.

ANNE. I do not know What kind of my obedience I should tender. More than my all is nothing; nor my prayers Are not words duly hallowed, nor my wishes More worth than empty vanities; yet prayers and wishes Are all I can return. Beseech your lordship, Vouchsafe to speak my thanks and my obedience, As from a blushing handmaid, to his Highness, Whose health and royalty I pray for.

CHAMBERLAIN. Lady, I shall not fail t’ approve the fair conceit The King hath of you. [_Aside_.] I have perused her well. Beauty and honour in her are so mingled That they have caught the King; and who knows yet But from this lady may proceed a gem To lighten all this isle? I’ll to the King, And say I spoke with you.

ANNE. My honoured lord.

[_Exit Lord Chamberlain._]

OLD LADY. Why, this it is: see, see! I have been begging sixteen years in court, Am yet a courtier beggarly, nor could Come pat betwixt too early and too late For any suit of pounds; and you, O fate! A very fresh fish here—fie, fie, fie upon This compelled fortune!—have your mouth filled up Before you open it.

ANNE. This is strange to me.

OLD LADY. How tastes it? Is it bitter? Forty pence, no. There was a lady once—’tis an old story— That would not be a queen, that would she not, For all the mud in Egypt. Have you heard it?

ANNE. Come, you are pleasant.

OLD LADY. With your theme, I could O’ermount the lark. The Marchioness of Pembroke? A thousand pounds a year for pure respect? No other obligation? By my life, That promises more thousands; honour’s train Is longer than his foreskirt. By this time I know your back will bear a duchess. Say, Are you not stronger than you were?

ANNE. Good lady, Make yourself mirth with your particular fancy, And leave me out on’t. Would I had no being If this salute my blood a jot. It faints me To think what follows. The Queen is comfortless, and we forgetful In our long absence. Pray do not deliver What here you’ve heard to her.

OLD LADY. What do you think me?

[_Exeunt._]

SCENE IV. A hall in Blackfriars.

Trumpets, sennet, and cornets. Enter two Vergers, with short silver wands; next them, two Scribes, in the habit of doctors; after them, the Archbishop of Canterbury alone; after him, the Bishops of Lincoln, Ely, Rochester, and Saint Asaph; next them, with some small distance, follows a Gentleman bearing the purse with the great seal, and a cardinal’s hat; then two Priests, bearing each a silver cross; then a Gentleman Usher bare-headed, accompanied with a Sergeant-at-arms bearing a silver mace; then two Gentlemen, bearing two great silver pillars; after them, side by side, the two Cardinals; two Noblemen with the sword and mace. The King takes place under the cloth of state. The two Cardinals sit under him as judges. The Queen takes place some distance from the King. The Bishops place themselves on each side the court, in manner of consistory; below them the Scribes. The Lords sit next the Bishops. The rest of the Attendants stand in convenient order about the stage.

WOLSEY. Whilst our commission from Rome is read, Let silence be commanded.

KING. What’s the need? It hath already publicly been read, And on all sides th’ authority allowed; You may then spare that time.

WOLSEY. Be’t so. Proceed.

SCRIBE. Say, “Henry King of England, come into the court.”

CRIER. Henry King of England, come into the court.

KING. Here.

SCRIBE. Say, “Katherine Queen of England, come into the court.”

CRIER. Katherine Queen of England, come into the court.

[_The Queen makes no answer, rises out of her chair, goes about the court, comes to the King, and kneels at his feet; then speaks._]

QUEEN KATHERINE. Sir, I desire you do me right and justice, And to bestow your pity on me; for I am a most poor woman and a stranger, Born out of your dominions, having here No judge indifferent nor no more assurance Of equal friendship and proceeding. Alas, sir, In what have I offended you? What cause Hath my behaviour given to your displeasure That thus you should proceed to put me off And take your good grace from me? Heaven witness I have been to you a true and humble wife, At all times to your will conformable, Ever in fear to kindle your dislike, Yea, subject to your countenance, glad or sorry As I saw it inclined. When was the hour I ever contradicted your desire, Or made it not mine too? Or which of your friends Have I not strove to love, although I knew He were mine enemy? What friend of mine That had to him derived your anger did I Continue in my liking? Nay, gave notice He was from thence discharged? Sir, call to mind That I have been your wife in this obedience Upward of twenty years, and have been blessed With many children by you. If, in the course And process of this time, you can report, And prove it too, against mine honour aught, My bond to wedlock, or my love and duty Against your sacred person, in God’s name, Turn me away and let the foul’st contempt Shut door upon me, and so give me up To the sharp’st kind of justice. Please you, sir, The King your father was reputed for A prince most prudent, of an excellent And unmatched wit and judgement. Ferdinand, My father, King of Spain, was reckoned one The wisest prince that there had reigned by many A year before. It is not to be questioned That they had gathered a wise council to them Of every realm, that did debate this business, Who deemed our marriage lawful. Wherefore I humbly Beseech you, sir, to spare me till I may Be by my friends in Spain advised, whose counsel I will implore. If not, i’ th’ name of God, Your pleasure be fulfilled.

WOLSEY. You have here, lady, And of your choice, these reverend fathers, men Of singular integrity and learning, Yea, the elect o’ th’ land, who are assembled To plead your cause. It shall be therefore bootless That longer you desire the court, as well For your own quiet as to rectify What is unsettled in the King.

CAMPEIUS. His Grace Hath spoken well and justly. Therefore, madam, It’s fit this royal session do proceed, And that without delay their arguments Be now produced and heard.

QUEEN KATHERINE. Lord Cardinal, To you I speak.

WOLSEY. Your pleasure, madam.

QUEEN KATHERINE. Sir, I am about to weep; but, thinking that We are a queen, or long have dreamed so, certain The daughter of a king, my drops of tears I’ll turn to sparks of fire.

WOLSEY. Be patient yet.

QUEEN KATHERINE. I will, when you are humble; nay, before, Or God will punish me. I do believe, Induced by potent circumstances, that You are mine enemy, and make my challenge You shall not be my judge; for it is you Have blown this coal betwixt my lord and me, Which God’s dew quench! Therefore I say again, I utterly abhor, yea, from my soul Refuse you for my judge, whom, yet once more, I hold my most malicious foe and think not At all a friend to truth.

WOLSEY. I do profess You speak not like yourself, who ever yet Have stood to charity and displayed th’ effects Of disposition gentle and of wisdom O’ertopping woman’s power. Madam, you do me wrong. I have no spleen against you, nor injustice For you or any. How far I have proceeded, Or how far further shall, is warranted By a commission from the Consistory, Yea, the whole Consistory of Rome. You charge me That I have “blown this coal”. I do deny it. The King is present. If it be known to him That I gainsay my deed, how may he wound, And worthily, my falsehood, yea, as much As you have done my truth. If he know That I am free of your report, he knows I am not of your wrong. Therefore in him It lies to cure me, and the cure is to Remove these thoughts from you, the which before His Highness shall speak in, I do beseech You, gracious madam, to unthink your speaking And to say so no more.

QUEEN KATHERINE. My lord, my lord, I am a simple woman, much too weak T’ oppose your cunning. You’re meek and humble-mouthed; You sign your place and calling, in full seeming, With meekness and humility; but your heart Is crammed with arrogancy, spleen, and pride. You have, by fortune and his Highness’ favours, Gone slightly o’er low steps, and now are mounted Where powers are your retainers, and your words, Domestics to you, serve your will as ’t please Yourself pronounce their office. I must tell you, You tender more your person’s honour than Your high profession spiritual; that again I do refuse you for my judge; and here, Before you all, appeal unto the Pope, To bring my whole cause ’fore his Holiness, And to be judged by him.

[_She curtsies to the King and offers to depart._]

CAMPEIUS. The Queen is obstinate, Stubborn to justice, apt to accuse it, and Disdainful to be tried by’t. ’Tis not well. She’s going away.

KING. Call her again.

CRIER. Katherine, Queen of England, come into the court.

GENTLEMAN USHER. Madam, you are called back.

QUEEN KATHERINE. What need you note it? Pray you keep your way. When you are called, return. Now, the Lord help! They vex me past my patience. Pray you, pass on. I will not tarry; no, nor ever more Upon this business my appearance make In any of their courts.

[_Exeunt Queen and her Attendants._]

KING. Go thy ways, Kate. That man i’ th’ world who shall report he has A better wife, let him in naught be trusted, For speaking false in that. Thou art, alone— If thy rare qualities, sweet gentleness, Thy meekness saint-like, wife-like government, Obeying in commanding, and thy parts Sovereign and pious else, could speak thee out— The queen of earthly queens. She’s noble born, And like her true nobility she has Carried herself towards me.

WOLSEY. Most gracious sir, In humblest manner I require your Highness That it shall please you to declare, in hearing Of all these ears—for where I am robbed and bound, There must I be unloosed, although not there At once and fully satisfied—whether ever I Did broach this business to your Highness, or Laid any scruple in your way which might Induce you to the question on’t? or ever Have to you, but with thanks to God for such A royal lady, spake one the least word that might Be to the prejudice of her present state, Or touch of her good person?