'There is something,' the minister said, 'which troubles me. The King loves not the Queen, nor ever has from the beginning; insomuch as I think assuredly she is yet as good a maid for him as she was when she came to England.' 'Marry, sir,' Wriothesley answered, 'I am right sorry that his Majesty should be so troubled. For God's sake, devise how his Grace may be relieved by one way or the other.' 'Yes,' Cromwell said, 'but what and how?' Wriothesley said he could not tell on the moment; but standing the case as it did, he thought some way might be found. 'Well, well,' answered the minister, 'it is a great matter.' The conversation ended; and Wriothesley left him for the night.
'The next day following,' Wriothesley deposed, 'having occasion eftsoons for business to repair unto him, I chanced to say, 'Sir, I have thought somewhat of the matter you told me, and I find it a great matter. But, sir, it can be made better than it is. For God's sake, devise for the relief of the King; for if he remain in this grief and trouble, we shall all one day smart for it. If his Grace be quiet we shall all have our parts with him.' 'It is true,' quoth he; 'but I tell you it is a great matter.' 'Marry,' quoth I, 'I grant; but let the remedy be searched for.' 'Well,' quoth he; and thus brake off from me.'[1]
Wriothesley's remedy was of course a divorce. It could be nothing else. Yet, was it not a remedy worse than any possible disorder? Cromwell, indeed, knew himself responsible. He it was who, with open eyes, had
- ↑ Strype's Memorials, vol. ii. p. 459.
