T
he guestroom at Leicester Abbey was silent. On a bed lay the fifty-seven-year-old Archbishop of York, Thomas Wolsey. He was under arrest for treason, and on his way to meet the king to explain himself. The archbishop was reading his Bible.
There was a sound outside the bed curtains. He looked up, apprehensively.
“Who’s there? Is that you, Edmund?”
The curtains pulled back. Outside was a hooded monk, his face in shadow.
“You’re not my secretary,” said the archbishop. “Who are you? Have you come to murder me?” He sighed. “You should; it will save the ignominy of a show trial, a few nights in the Tower, and a terminal visit to the block, as seems popular these days.”
“Is it that certain, my lord?” said the monk. “Is there no hope for you?”
“I have been instrumental in my own downfall,” lamented Wolsey. “I thought I was doing the right thing, but I underestimated how powerful the Boleyn family are. I don’t think Anne ever forgave me for breaking up her relationship with Henry Percy either, but I was only doing the king’s bidding. I’d warrant that if I had served God as well as I served King Henry, I wouldn’t be here.”
“Events have overtaken us all,” said the monk. “Who would have foreseen the destruction of the abbeys and the complete suppression of the true religion?”
“It was inevitable, I suppose,” agreed the archbishop, wearily. “I saw it coming, but made the wrong decisions.”
“And the people must accept new beliefs.”
“You are one of the displaced monks, I presume.” Wolsey squinted at the intruder in the candle-light. “The troubles are not my fault, you know. My eyes are not so good, but I recognise your Franciscan habit. Presumably you have a pension to live on? I was told that the houses were suppressed peacefully.”
“Most of the canons at my abbey retired,” said the monk, “but there were some who challenged the theft of our treasures and relics. They were slaughtered by the bailiffs.”
The archbishop sat up. “Outrageous,” he said. “Is the Law going to do nothing about that?”
“The Law has been misled. I saw the records,” said the monk. “They state there were ten canons in my house, and all people present were granted pensions. In fact there were more; I knew those brothers who resisted. They were brave men. But that will get lost in history I expect.”
“History is written by the victors and the powerful,” agreed the archbishop. “I wonder what they’ll say about me... if I get a mention after the king has finished with me.”
“I’m sure you will,” said the monk, “but I sense you are ready to leave this life. You are weary.”
“I cannot see that I will survive long, once I get to London. If I don’t get as far as the block, the Tower is not a pleasant place for one of my advanced years.”
“You wouldn’t consider ending your life earlier?”
“That would be a sin against God,” exclaimed the archbishop. “Would that I could, but I cannot.”
“I can help you,” the monk suggested.
“Murder me, you mean?” The man groaned. “As I suspected. They don’t want me to get to London.”
“Not exactly murder,” said the monk.
“You would be a wanted man.”
“I don’t think anyone will bother. Consider, are you sure you want to die?”
“And cheat the King Hal of his entertainment?” The archbishop scratched his head. “Hah, most certainly. Do it now. With luck the king will be accused of murder; sweet revenge. Here, stab me quickly. I expect it will hurt, but I will not cry out.”
“It will not hurt, my lord. Lie back on your bed. There will be no mess. I need no weapon.”
“Grammercy,” said the archbishop. “You must indeed be an angel of compassion.”
The monk reached out. A soft glow surrounded them both, as he gently absorbed the life essence. The old man smiled and closed his eyes. The monk breathed deeply as he garnered a few more months of life.
“I understand,” he said as he gazed at the peaceful expression on the archbishop’s face. “I have a choice. I can steal life to continue, or I can take it when given willingly. Either way, I have to survive. The lady will need me.”