"The Upstart "
November 1530
Wolsey found himself walking aimlessly amongst the hedge rows of his privy garden at Hampton. His calloused waxen hands were outstretched and brushing against the tips of the hedges and yet he couldn't feel the cool edges of the leaves nor the cold bite of the winter air. A flurry of snowflakes slowly descended, landing upon his upturned face yet yielded no cold to burn his wrinkled brow.
The world had not changed yet Thomas Wolsey knew that, in some fundamental way, he had. He placed the tip of his fingers to where the snowflakes had landed and did not feel them melt at his touch. His expression was one of utter bemusement at finding his established reality so altered. He had no sensation at all. He swiped his rough hand quickly over his forehead to ensure that he was not mistake and once again his hand was dry. Inexplicable thought Wolsey as he inspected his hand. As he looked over his knotted hand, a memory stirred. Wolsey remembered wiping his sweating brow as he coughed up foul tasting bile as he wrote to the king for mercy. He remembered clutching the writing desk as his body shook from spasms and he wheezed for air. He remembered being carried into bed by his jailers when he could no longer stand. Wolsey remembered dying in that cramped little bed in Leicester, His life oozing out of him like pus from plague boil. His hands dropped to his side and he collapsed to his knees. He felt crushed by the realisation that he was a dead man.
For a moment, he stayed knelling in the frost covered lawn as the snow settled around him. He had died without wealth or even a loved one to watch over his body. His body, Where was it? Had it been treated with respect or like that of a traitor? Was he buried in his black sarcophagus in Windsor? Oh god, Wolsey could have wept for himself. He had risen so high and was brought so low. But then a more troubling thought struck him that shook his very soul. If he was dead, why was he at Hampton and not with God Almighty in paradise? Wolsey let out an anguished yelp, certain that he was in Purgatory.
He knew the doctrine well enough to know that most mortals would be bound to Purgatory for a time for multiple sins. They would be tormented and punished and only through the prayers of those living or facing such tribulations would the soul be purified and taken back to the Lord. Wolsey had, of course, known the touch of a woman and had lived in sin. But surely that was not enough to warrant a servant of God, such as himself, to be abandoned between worlds? He cradled his head in his hands and wept bitterly. Had he not served god and the king well? Had he not been a loyal and most diligent servant? Yet despite this he was lost in Purgatory and knew that not a living soul would pray the "upstart Butcher's Boy". How long would he stay in this limbo? Hadn't his last few weeks of life facing the King's displeasure been punishment enough for any sin he committed? The questions rolled into his head as plentifully as the tears rolled down his plump cheeks. Yet there was no answer just the sound of the river lapping against the barges and the fleeting song of a blackbird.
Wolsey's sobs stopped abruptly as he heard a hearty roar of laughter. The sound was sudden and ugly compared to the near silence that had cloaked him moments before. He gazed up at the upper floor windows of his grand home and caught sight of movement and bejewelled clothing. A striking broad figure led a procession of gaudily dressed men and women along the corridor. The man had hair of bronze underneath a jaunty feathered cap and was dramatically telling a tale with wide hand movements and wild expressions. Despite his apparent vigour for the story he was telling, the man never took his eyes of the slender woman at his side. The dark haired woman in turn didn't take her eyes off him and protectively intertwined her arm with his.
'Henry! My god, Henry!' Wolsey stumbled to his feet and cried before he realised what he was doing. He took two steps forward before he fell back to his knees, his hands reaching upwards imploringly as he watched the procession pass between window panes. He knew they could not see him and part of him was thankful for that small mercy. He would hate to be loathed for his begging by Henry and he would hate to see that Boleyn girl look over him in triumph. He watched the last of the couriers go by without even a glance thrown in his direction. In the past, all of them would have sought his favour and now he was completely forgotten. No one seemed to mourn for Wolsey.