Another important actor in this scene, and who secretly nourished ambitious designs scarcely less daring than those of Hertford, was John Dudley, Viscount Lisle. Son of that Edmond Dudley, whose death upon the scaffold inaugurated Henry’s accession to the throne, this scheming and far-seeing noble had early distinguished himself by his bravery in the wars with France, and obtained the honor of knighthood, besides regaining his forfeit rights. Attached both to Wolsey and Cromwell, he rose by their aid, and being appointed governor of Boulogne, which he successfully defended against all assaults, he was elevated to the dignity of Viscount Lisle, and made High Admiral of England. He was, moreover, enriched by the lavish sovereign, whose favor he had won, by large possessions wrested from the Church, which were afterwards thought to bring down a curse upon him. Bold and ambitious, Lord Lisle was a profound dissembler, and though even at this moment he meditated plans which were not developed until long afterwards, he allowed no hint of his designs to escape him, but was content for the time to play a subordinate part to Hertford, whom he hoped in the end to eclipse. As a means towards that object he looked to Sir Thomas Seymour. Lord Lisle was now in his forty-fifth year. His large and strongly-marked features evinced sagacity, shrewdness, and determination. His beard was scanty, and his short moustache disclosed a singularly firm-set mouth. His figure was tall, and his deportment martial, but his manner had nothing of the roughness of the camp about it. He could play equally well the part of soldier or of courtier. Compared with Hertford he was soberly attired, his habiliments being of dark velvet, destitute of embroidery, though his cassock was richly furred. But he wore the George and collar, and the lesser ensign of the Garter.
Near to Lord Lisle stood a venerable nobleman with a long silvery beard descending almost to his girdle. This was Lord Russell, privy seal. The old peer bore his years well; having a hale look, and a stout frame. Like Hertford and Lisle, he was a knight companion of the Garter, and decorated with the insignia of the order. Besides those already mentioned, there were several others grouped around the king, whom it will not be needful individually to describe. Amongst them was the Lord St. John, great master; Sir Anthony Brown, master of the horse; Sir William Paget, chief secretary; Sir Anthony Wingfield, vice-chamberlain; Sir Thomas Cheney, treasurer; Sir Anthony Denny and Sir William Herbert, chief gentlemen of the privy chamber; Sir Richard Rich, Sir John Baker, Sir Ralph Sadler, Sir Richard Southwell, and others—all shining in rich habiliments, and making a goodly show.
The Lord Chancellor Wriothesley and Gardiner were likewise there, but held themselves apart from Hertford. But Gardiner was not the only ecclesiastic present. Others there were, besides—namely, Tunstall, Bishop of Durham, and the king’s confessor, the Bishop of Rochester. But there was yet another greater than them all—Thomas Cranmer, Archbishop of Canterbury.
Clothed in his full ecclesiastical vestments of stole, chimere, and rochet, the primate stood on the right of the king. His manner was grave and dignified; his looks stern and full of thought, and a long grey beard added to the reverend expression of his countenance. Cranmer’s features were hard, but yet not wholly destitute of kindliness. He seemed profoundly impressed—almost weighed down by the gravity of the occasion.
Indeed, notwithstanding the splendor that marked it, the assemblage had a mournful and solemn character. Not a word was spoken save in a whisper; each countenance wore a sad and sombre expression. All felt, though none cared to acknowledge it, that, in all likelihood, it was the last occasion on which they should be thus brought together during the king’s life. Few among them would have retarded Henry’s departure to his last home, had it been in their power to do so; some, indeed, would willingly have accelerated the event; and yet, to judge by their faces, all were full of sorrow, as if about to sustain a deep and irreparable loss.
For a few minutes it seemed as if the king himself were overpowered by this general semblance of grief. At length he roused himself, glanced with moistened eyes around the assemblage, and pressed Cranmer’s hand kindly. He next called for a cup of wine, and, fortified by the draught, seemed to shake off his weakness. “Let the princesses come in,” he said to Hertford; “I am ready to receive them.”