by David Field
THE KING’S COMMONER
The Tudor Saga Series
Book Two
David Field
Table of Contents
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
XI
XII
XIII
XIV
XV
XVI
XVII
XVIII
XIX
XX
XXI
XXII
A NOTE TO THE READER
MORE BOOKS BY DAVID FIELD
I
Ten-year-old Tom Wulcy groaned as he looked down Edmund Pountney Lane and saw Thomas Howard and his escort of ruffians waiting for him. It was the second time this week, and he could guess why. He had to answer to for the special commendation he had received that morning from the Abbott of Blackfriars, during the daily Mass of Our Lady. It was hardly Tom’s fault that his Latin was better than that of many ordained priests, but it seemed he had to pay the price for his cleverness.
Thomas Howard was the same age as Tom Wulcy, but there the resemblance ended. Tom was inclined to plumpness, and very disinclined towards martial arts, whereas Thomas Howard took his position as the son of the Earl of Surrey, and the grandson of the Duke of Norfolk, very seriously. Whereas the young Howard looked every inch the steely-faced knight that he would no doubt become in due course, Tom Wulcy looked more like an angelic altar boy than a knightly squire. Thomas was tall, dark and lean, whereas Tom was short, plump and light auburn in both hair and countenance.
‘Cross yourselves — here comes a priest,’ Thomas Howard yelled sneeringly.
‘I am no priest yet,’ Tom replied as assertively as he could, ‘but I will even now pray for your soul, should you be about to perjure it by attacking a defenceless boy, with your stout entourage in tow.’
Howard’s fox-like face darkened, and his eyes narrowed as he waved to his two companions with a dismissive gesture without breaking his glare at Tom. ‘Stand off a pace. I can deal with this Papal pudding without need of any bodyguard.’
Tom stared him down. ‘You will, as usual, dispose of me with ease, given that your power comes from the strength of your arm. But since mine comes from the depth of my learning, may I at least be permitted to place these books which I carry down on the ground? After all, for them to be of any value to you, you must first learn to read, and since you can barely do so in your native tongue, of what value to you would be a Latin discourse on the Stations of the Cross?’
One of Howard’s retainers sniggered, then straightened his face immediately as his young charge whipped round with a threatening glare. Thomas turned on his heel and walked quickly towards Tom, red in the face. ‘A pox on the Stations of the Cross! A pox on your heathen Latin, and a pox on you — butcher’s son!’
With a single straight-armed punch from his left fist, he sent Tom sprawling into the mud, his valued books skidding across the wet ground in all directions. Tom slowly and painfully picked himself out of the puddle in which he had landed, wiping the mixture of cow’s urine and sheep droppings off the seat of his tunic and the top of his hose as best he could.
Muttering to himself, Tom surveyed the damage to his clothing as he walked home, not that his attire was in any way grand; the sumptuary laws would have denied him the right to sport colours in his doublet such as the reds and blues that the Howards favoured. His short school doublet was — or rather had been, until it landed in a puddle of ordure — light brown, and his now stinking hose a darker shade of the same colour. Both were robust garments suitable for school wear, and they were made in the town from the fine wool worsted for which its craftsmen were famous.
Plain or not, his garments were not for playing in puddles with, and his mother would, when he got home, no doubt give him the benefit of another of her homilies on thrift. He looked up anxiously towards the jettied upper floor of his generously dimensioned family home, in case either of his parents was gazing out of one of the lead-mullioned windows to witness his return from school. Satisfied that he was unobserved, he slipped down the side passage to the external kitchen.
The pigs in the garden area were grunting and snuffling contentedly on the offal thrown from the kitchen door earlier in the day, and he could see his sister Bess bent diligently over the bench on which she was cutting out baked pastry into pie crusts, while young Dickon turned the spit on which the lamb carcass was basting nicely.
Tom’s plan was to discard his soiled clothing in the kitchen, leaving Bess to hand it over to the washerwoman who called twice a week. He would then need to enter the main house by the scullery door clad in only his undergarments, slide stealthily up the back stairs to his upper chamber overlooking the rear garden, and present himself at the supper table freshly attired, in the hope that no-one, least of all his father, would notice the change in his dress from earlier in the day.
Unfortunately his parents had chosen that time to inspect the kitchen for vermin, and as he slipped quietly through the open door it was his mother who spoke.
‘There you are, Tom, late as usual. And no doubt seeking some treat from Bess ahead of supper — little wonder that you grow so plump. And what in God’s name is that smell?’
His father appeared from behind her with a knowing grin. ‘Did you fail to make the jakes in time, boy?’
‘No Father,’ Tom confessed, realising that there could now be no pretence. ‘In truth it is a fine mixture of cow’s piss and sheep shit, which is to be found in abundance in the streets of this noble town.’
‘Such vulgarity!’ his mother protested, then in a more kindly tone, ‘Did you slip over?’
‘Nay, more like he was pushed,’ his father observed as he took a closer look at the bruising around his son’s nose and eye socket. ‘Was it young Howard again?’
Tom nodded his confirmation as his father gave vent to his wrath.
‘The Devil take these arrogant sons of earls and high lords! They besport themselves around the nation in their finery, holding themselves higher in their own esteem than those whose honest labour and wisdom in commerce brings much wealth into the nation. Where would my high and mighty Duke of Norfolk and his whelps be without the fleeces and finished garments that depart daily from St. Mary Quay bound for Flanders? Where would the Earl of Surrey and his impudent brat be without the leather goods that supply half the nobles of France?’
Fearful that his intemperate words might be repeated in less sympathetic ears by house servants who might earn a shilling by reporting them, Joan Wulcy attempted a change of subject. ‘May we not complain to the bailiffs?’
Even Tom knew that this would be fruitless. Robert Wulcy might well describe himself as a butcher, if asked, but his real wealth came from less worthy activities, and he was more frequently the source of complaints to the town’s two bailiffs than he was in the habit of lodging his own complaints with them. His pigs were forever escaping into the street, and the building two doors down from the Wulcy residence that he ran as an alehouse of sorts attracted the lowest sort of clientele, while its upper rooms were available for rent by the hour, and were infamous for their licentious assignations.
‘The less we have to do with the bailiffs, the better,’ Robert observed. ‘Leave the matter with me, and let us discuss it further over supper.’
The determined look on his father’s face as Tom sat do
wn opposite his parents at the supper table, while their maid of all functions Alice fussed around them, left no-one in any doubt that the matter had been resolved, at least in Robert’s estimation.
‘I have in mind to remove you from the Grammar School as of this very day,’ Robert announced as he cut himself a generous slice of lamb. ‘Your learning shall continue here in this house, under the tutelage of an ordained brother from Holy Trinity.’
Tom smiled in appreciation. His best subjects were the classical tongues of Latin and Greek, and he had developed an avid interest in Divinity from the scholarly works he had studied in those tongues. There was an added advantage in a possible career in the Church, since it did not — so far as he was aware — involve riotous exercise.
His mother would have preferred Tom to be schooled more in the mysteries of commerce, since Robert would not live forever, and she wished to spend her final days in the same comfort she had enjoyed since marrying Tom’s father. However, father and son seemed to be in happy agreement for a change, and so the change was agreed upon.
The following Monday, Dom. James arrived at the house in St. Nicholas Street with a selection of elementary Latin and Greek texts, which Tom had exhausted by the middle of the morning, sending the astonished monk scurrying back to the monastery’s scriptorium for something more advanced. Three days later, almost in desperation, Dom. James sought an audience with his patron and confessed his dilemma.
‘Sir, there is not a brother in our holy house who could compare with your son in the Classics or the more advanced theological philosophies. Say you he is yet but ten years of age?’
‘Yes,’ Robert confirmed. ‘But if you cannot teach him ought, then who can?’
The monk thought hard. ‘There is but one place I could recommend, and that is the University of Oxford, whose fees are not light.’
‘The money is neither here nor there,’ Robert replied sternly. ‘When could he begin?’
The monk smiled back diplomatically. ‘There is also the question of his age. I have never heard of a boy of ten being accepted, regardless of his brilliance. I can of course make an enquiry on your behalf, since I am conscious of the many and generous endowments that my humble house has received in the past, but...’
‘Yes, yes,’ Robert cut him off testily. ‘And there shall be more yet, if you can secure a place of study for young Tom. Do not regard the matter of appropriate fees as a hindrance — either to your “humble house” as you call it, or to the university authorities. Just make it happen, Brother.’
On the first day of the Michaelmas Term, 1484, shortly after his eleventh birthday, and to the considerable amusement of fellow students almost five years older than him, Tom Wulcy took his seat on the study benches of Magdalen College, Oxford, at the start of one of the most distinguished careers as an undergraduate in Arts and Divinity that his tutors and professors could recall.
Four years later, as he presented himself at the Bursar’s office for the preparation of his reception of the degree of Bachelor of Arts, he was asked how his name was to be correctly spelt. He thought for a moment, before advising himself that someone as learned as himself, who intended to rise to great eminence in the Church, deserved a more fitting name than the one he had borne thus far. At the same time, he owed his father everything.
‘Wolsey,’ he replied, then spelt it out for the Bursar to copy it onto the vellum.
He walked back out into the May sunshine and recalled the day when Tom Wulcy had been slammed into the mud by an ignorant oaf whose father was now lying in the Tower of London under an attainder.
‘Tom, Tom, the butcher’s son’ was known throughout Oxford as ‘the boy bachelor’, and was about to become ‘Thomas Wolsey, Bachelor of Arts’ at the unheard of age of fifteen.
II
While Thomas Wolsey had been rising to academic pre-eminence, the fortunes of his old enemy, Thomas Howard, had sunk to a new low as the result of his family’s poor choice of who to accompany onto the battlefield. Henry Tudor now ruled England and had expressed his displeasure at the support given to Richard III by Thomas Howard’s father. The family’s estates had been attainted and were now in the grasping pocket of a monarch seeking to replenish a bankrupt royal Treasury, while the Earl of Surrey himself was now a guest of the Constable of the Tower.
The newly-fashioned Thomas Wolsey, meanwhile, had no desire to return to his home town, even to witness the fall of an old adversary, nor did he have any developed idea as to where he might venture with his first degree, and he was therefore easily persuaded to spend more of his father’s money in the acquisition of a Master’s degree in Arts, which he achieved in 1491. He then took an appointment as a Fellow of Magdalen College, before accepting a post as Rector to the vacancy at St Mary’s at Limington in Somerset.
In October 1500, Thomas donned the vestments of a priest of the Church of Rome, ahead of conducting his very first Mass. Underneath everything was his new white ‘alb’ gown, a symbol of the purity of every servant of God, fastened around his waist by a gold cincture. Draped across his shoulders, and lying directly on the alb, was a purple and gold stole that hung down on either side of it.
As Thomas raised his arms and intoned the prescribed blessing prayer, his two sturdy assistants lifted a heavy green chasuble over his head and into place on his shoulders; then finally a humeral veil was placed over his shoulders and back. It added considerably to the overall weight of the vestments that he was required to wear, but was essential for the raising of the Blessed Sacrament as the Mass reached its crucial moment. He nodded his thanks to his assistants, and bid them take their places at the side of the altar inside the church, where he would join them once he heard the choir begin the Veni, Domini. As they left the vestry with solemn faces, Thomas looked back at the overall effect of his appearance reflected in the window glass.
‘No filthy hose here,’ he muttered as he heard the opening anthem and walked out to impress the congregation with the richness of his apparel and the sanctity of his office.
A year later Thomas was in conflict with the secular authorities, in the person of Sir Amyas Paulet, whose family had effectively ruled most of the area around Yeovil for several generations from their seat in Hinton St. George. It began in June, when his lordship, who was also the local sheriff, sent a stern note of reproval to Thomas via his steward, following complaints he had received regarding the regular absence of Thomas from Sunday Mass, which was frequently conducted by one of his assistants.
It came to a head during the village fair to celebrate Harvest Festival. As usual, the apple harvest had been garnered some weeks beforehand, and there was a stall set up inside the fair on the village green at which local rough cider could be purchased for a groat. Thomas had many groats at his disposal, and had already developed a liking for the powerful local brew. When the stall opened, he was the first in line, a point not to be overlooked by the lord of the manor.
Paulet sent his steward to Thomas’s side with a message, ‘My lord says to remind you, Father, that this is his manor, and that he should be ahead of you in the queue.’
Thomas looked down his nose at the timorous steward. ‘Remind your master that the apples come from God, and are best sampled first by His representative in this community.’
Later that afternoon, Paulet’s revenge was sweet. It had been a hot day, and Thomas had consumed more cider than was advisable for an overweight man wearing a long black cassock. While wiping his brow for the tenth time that afternoon, he became light-headed and sat unceremoniously on his bottom in the recently scythed grass, to the excited chortles of several villagers. Paulet was attracted by the noise, and saw his chance.
He had earlier been plagued by locals to select a suitable target for the traditional fruit-throwing ceremony, in which a local ‘worthy’ was installed in the stocks on the village green in order that others might pitch over-ripe fruit in their direction upon payment of a silver penny for the local Poor Fund. The victim was normally on
e of Paulet’s senior household, but this opportunity was too good to miss. Accompanied by the parish constable and two of his grooms, he strode over to where Thomas was sitting on the ground.
‘I see we have a suitable candidate for this year’s ripe fruit pitching. Place this man in the stocks, and let the festivities commence.’
Thomas glared up at Paulet. ‘God will punish your sin should you allow over-ripe fruit to be hurled at one of His anointed while wearing his garment of office.’
Paulet took his sword from its scabbard, lowered the point and gently lifted the hem of Thomas’s cassock, before bending forward to peer up it. ‘This may well be, but He will think little of it should that man be clad only in his shirt and hose.’ He turned to his retainers and grinned. ‘Remove his cassock, and place him in the stocks clad only in his undergarments.’
Five minutes later, as the first of the browning tomatoes splattered down the front of his undershirt, and several of its seeds bounced onto his hose, Thomas asked himself whether he had really progressed all that far in his life. Once again he had filthy hose, but this time he vowed to make sure personally that one day the man responsible for that would pay dearly.
After recovering from his humiliation, Thomas sought out his superior, the Bishop of Bath and Wells, within whose diocese his parish lay. Once the bishop had suppressed his amusement at the mental picture he had formed of the portly and somewhat pompous young priest, clad only in his undergarments, being pelted with ripe fruit to the delight of his parishioners, he proposition to Thomas.
‘I am much vexed by this man Paulet,’ the bishop confided, ‘who is forever bombarding me with letters of complaint regarding how my clergymen conduct their offices. He has also caused complaint to be sent to the Archbishop of Canterbury, no less, regarding two benefices that remain unfilled within my diocese. They are at Ilchester and Yoevilton, and since it would seem that your duties at Limington do not unduly tax you, perhaps you might also wish to join two more of my parishes?’