stopped talking, brushing flecks of dust from his black hose.
(Isn't it strange how great men can lose their heads over a drop of water?)
'Your uncle was furious,' the doctor continued, 'and, shouting that he would sit on Stafford's robes, strode off, sloshing water, making himself look an even greater fool.'
I just lowered my head and thanked God I hadn't been there. The sight of Cardinal Tom walking like some little boy who had pissed his breeches would have had me roaring with laughter.
'The rest of the court laughed?' Benjamin asked.
'Oh, yes, they roared. The palace rocked with their merriment. Stafford only made matters worse. The next day he turned up wearing a common jerkin and hose and when the King asked him why, replied it was to prevent the Cardinal from sitting on his robes.' Agrippa spread his hands. "The mockery grew even louder.'
'But if a man is to lose his head for mocking a cardinal,' I replied, 'then Henry would lose all his subjects.'
Benjamin smiled wryly for, although he had great affection for his powerful uncle, he had no illusions about this commoner with a brilliant brain who had managed to rise to be Cardinal and Lord Chancellor of England.
'Ah!' Agrippa leaned forward as if he suspected there were spy-holes behind the panelling. 'You know your uncle, Master Daunbey. No man insults him, and Stafford he has always hated. My Lord Cardinal has always believed that revenge is a dish best served cold.
'Despite my advice, he began to play upon Henry's secret nightmares.' Agrippa studied his finger nails for a while. 'It's the same story,' he murmured, 'the same words, the same tune. Henry may be the son of Elizabeth of York but his father was Henry Tudor, nothing more than a Welsh farmer. The German reformer, Martin Luther, publicly derides him as Squire Harry. He has always feared that others such as Stafford have a better claim than he to the throne.
'Now,' Agrippa continued, 'the Tudors have a craving for a dynasty. The present King's father called his eldest son Arthur, trying to use his Welshness to build up legends linking his family to Arthur of the Round Table. Do you know these legends?'
I shook my head. 'Of course not. I'm no scholar.'
'Well', he stroked his chin, 'there is a legend that, after the great Arthur died, prophecies grew up in the West Country that one day he would return, come riding out of the setting sun to right all wrongs. The Great Miser wanted to depict his family as Arthur's line come again but his eldest son died and now Fat Henry is king. Nonetheless, the Tudor dream or nightmare continues.'
'Oh, come!' I interrupted. 'You are not saying our noble Henry is frightened of some mythical King riding down to Westminster with the Knights of the Round Table?'
Agrippa narrowed his eyes. 'Of course not, but he is frightened of the Yorkists, the Plantagenets, those who have better claims to the throne than he! And you know how superstitious he is. What would happen if Stafford or some other prince with Yorkist blood in his veins produced the sacred relics? Arthur's sword, Excalibur, or worse the Grail which sat on his table, the chalice which Jesus drank from at the Last Supper?'
(No, don't laugh. I know we live in the age of reason and commonsense but in my time I have seen the most incredible rebellions: people marching behind a piece of cloth or those who believe that pieces of the true cross will protect them from arrows or bullets. Isn't it wonderful what people will believe when they want to?)
'You are not saying,' I scoffed, 'that Buckingham obtained these relics?'
'Yes and no,' Agrippa replied. 'After Buckingham's insults, Wolsey's legion of spies went to work. The Cardinal concocted a story that Buckingham was plotting against the King and wished to gain possession of these sacred relics to rally forces to him.'
'Oh, that's ridiculous!' Benjamin interrupted. 'I understand that centuries ago Arthur's corpse was discovered at Glastonbury but, according to
(Isn't it strange how great men can lose their heads over a drop of water?)
'Your uncle was furious,' the doctor continued, 'and, shouting that he would sit on Stafford's robes, strode off, sloshing water, making himself look an even greater fool.'
I just lowered my head and thanked God I hadn't been there. The sight of Cardinal Tom walking like some little boy who had pissed his breeches would have had me roaring with laughter.
'The rest of the court laughed?' Benjamin asked.
'Oh, yes, they roared. The palace rocked with their merriment. Stafford only made matters worse. The next day he turned up wearing a common jerkin and hose and when the King asked him why, replied it was to prevent the Cardinal from sitting on his robes.' Agrippa spread his hands. "The mockery grew even louder.'
'But if a man is to lose his head for mocking a cardinal,' I replied, 'then Henry would lose all his subjects.'
Benjamin smiled wryly for, although he had great affection for his powerful uncle, he had no illusions about this commoner with a brilliant brain who had managed to rise to be Cardinal and Lord Chancellor of England.
'Ah!' Agrippa leaned forward as if he suspected there were spy-holes behind the panelling. 'You know your uncle, Master Daunbey. No man insults him, and Stafford he has always hated. My Lord Cardinal has always believed that revenge is a dish best served cold.
'Despite my advice, he began to play upon Henry's secret nightmares.' Agrippa studied his finger nails for a while. 'It's the same story,' he murmured, 'the same words, the same tune. Henry may be the son of Elizabeth of York but his father was Henry Tudor, nothing more than a Welsh farmer. The German reformer, Martin Luther, publicly derides him as Squire Harry. He has always feared that others such as Stafford have a better claim than he to the throne.
'Now,' Agrippa continued, 'the Tudors have a craving for a dynasty. The present King's father called his eldest son Arthur, trying to use his Welshness to build up legends linking his family to Arthur of the Round Table. Do you know these legends?'
I shook my head. 'Of course not. I'm no scholar.'
'Well', he stroked his chin, 'there is a legend that, after the great Arthur died, prophecies grew up in the West Country that one day he would return, come riding out of the setting sun to right all wrongs. The Great Miser wanted to depict his family as Arthur's line come again but his eldest son died and now Fat Henry is king. Nonetheless, the Tudor dream or nightmare continues.'
'Oh, come!' I interrupted. 'You are not saying our noble Henry is frightened of some mythical King riding down to Westminster with the Knights of the Round Table?'
Agrippa narrowed his eyes. 'Of course not, but he is frightened of the Yorkists, the Plantagenets, those who have better claims to the throne than he! And you know how superstitious he is. What would happen if Stafford or some other prince with Yorkist blood in his veins produced the sacred relics? Arthur's sword, Excalibur, or worse the Grail which sat on his table, the chalice which Jesus drank from at the Last Supper?'
(No, don't laugh. I know we live in the age of reason and commonsense but in my time I have seen the most incredible rebellions: people marching behind a piece of cloth or those who believe that pieces of the true cross will protect them from arrows or bullets. Isn't it wonderful what people will believe when they want to?)
'You are not saying,' I scoffed, 'that Buckingham obtained these relics?'
'Yes and no,' Agrippa replied. 'After Buckingham's insults, Wolsey's legion of spies went to work. The Cardinal concocted a story that Buckingham was plotting against the King and wished to gain possession of these sacred relics to rally forces to him.'
'Oh, that's ridiculous!' Benjamin interrupted. 'I understand that centuries ago Arthur's corpse was discovered at Glastonbury but, according to
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