Shadow of Persephone

by G Lawrence

  Cookeels, a kind of bun from Norfolk with currents and cinnamon in them, were baked in the kitchens and handed out along with cakes fried deep in hog’s lard in a skillet over the fire. Pancakes were pounced upon by all of us, drizzled in honey they were a treat. My grandmother ordered these luxuries, for all stores had to be used up quickly. They would go rotten over Lent.

  Because there were so many treats, bands of boys went shroving, roaming from house to house, but especially to rich homes like my grandmother’s, offering songs and rhymes in return for a pancake or bun. We would hear them from the lanes, singing, “pit-a-pat! The pan’s hot! I be coming a-shroving!” If they were not rewarded well, it could become ugly; crockery broken in kitchens or stones thrown at a house. Some threw eggs, for if their mothers could not use them all up before Lent they were spare for once. But we never had trouble. There were always plenty of buns for boys at Chesworth.

  As Lent began on Ash Wednesday, the mood became sombre. All statues and images in our church were veiled, to be revealed anew on Easter Sunday. At Mass, the priest made a cross on our foreheads using ash from burned palms from Palm Sunday. We were to leave it there and not wash it away. As he crossed our foreheads, he intoned, “Remember, man, that thou art dust and to dust thou shalt return.”

  In the village that night a figure made of straw was carried around. It was called Jack O’Lent, but it was meant to be Judas, and as it was borne about, people threw rocks at it, and then burned it at the edge of the fields. We could see it from our windows, the hay head and cast off clothes rippling in the wind, releasing amber sparks into the darkling skies.

  The next morning, when in my grandmother’s chambers, I heard that the former Queen was insisting she would wash the feet of the poor on Maundy Thursday. The present Queen had sent a command that she would not.

  “The ritual of cleansing and alms giving on Maundy Thursday is reserved for royalty,” said Agnes. “But the King’s grandmother, Margaret Beaufort, used to do it.”

  The Queen’s command made plenty more people grumble. Slanderous ditties were made up, mocking my cousin’s attempts to play Queen, whilst England’s true Queen languished in the fens.

  “And the Queen is not in a good temper,” said my aunt. “My friend Lady Shelton wrote. Her daughter was recently in trouble with the Queen for writing poems in her prayer book.” She selected a wedge of Suffolk cheese and smeared pear preserve on it. “People say the Queen is upset because Mistress Shelton is with the King all the time.” Katherine nibbled her cheese, tiny yellow crumbs falling upon her lap.

  “But the Queen put the Shelton girl in his bed,” said my grandmother.

  “And now does not like it. She has been scolding others too. Young Weston, one of the King’s men, had a telling off for courting the same Mistress Shelton. The Queen said he should show more respect for his wife.”

  “It sounds as though she is upset for herself,” said my grandmother quietly. “For the King always having other women.”

  “Gardiner and Cromwell are bickering too,” said my aunt. “Cromwell mocks the Bishop openly, and Gardiner keeps losing that famous temper.”

  Then suddenly, things seemed brighter. The Queen was praised for her generous gifts to the poor on Maundy Thursday, and the King could not do without her for a moment. He was prancing about court with the look of a boy on him.

  “That means the Queen is with child,” said my grandmother to all the women in her chambers.

  The King brought Princess Elizabeth to court and was seen everywhere with her. At the same time, he declared Katherine and Mary would never meet and his bastard daughter was his worst enemy. He said her defiance was done to bring about invasion from the Emperor and he would have no more to do with her. And then, Aunt Katherine came with news that the parrot was suddenly gone from court.

  “The King will deny Anne nothing,” my grandmother gloated. “And it will be a boy this time.”

  *

  On the first day of April, as the Lady Mary moved closer to her mother, Cromwell’s investigations began.

  Some said Cromwell was becoming as powerful as his master. Others muttered he desired nothing less. There were rumours Carthusians who had stood against the King would be executed, but most people could not believe the King would kill men of God.

  “The court has fled Greenwich,” said my aunt in mid-April. “One of the Queen’s women came down with a pox.”

  “Is the Queen well?”

  “She had a fever, but seems fine again.”

  We did not know that my cousin had lost her baby.

  *

  At the end of that month, a group of Carthusians were charged with denying the royal supremacy and upholding the Pope and Rome over their King. They had said the King was the cursed Mouldwarp, prophesised by Merlin, who would bring about the destruction of England, and added my cousin would burn to death for her sins. The monks were found guilty, and sentenced to be hanged, drawn and quartered.

  Everyone reeled from this news in amazement.

  “The King will not really kill men of God,” my grandmother said to us. “It is his way to show strength, to get Fisher and More to obey him.”

  But they would not. More said again he would not argue against the King’s titles and was his devoted subject, but he had made it clear where he stood.

  And my grandmother was wrong about the monks.

  On the 4th of May, Carthusians were hauled on hurdles through London to Tyburn, where each of them were half-hung, cut down before they lost consciousness, castrated and disembowelled whilst still alive. They were then beheaded. Their bodies were cleaved into quarters, so they might be displayed in London, York, and other prominent cities. Feet and hands were strung up on gates; heads were stuck atop spikes on London Bridge. And although all this blood had been spilt, although bits of monks were strewn all over England, people could hardly believe it had happened. When we spoke, it was with fear in our mouths.

  “As they died,” whispered Alice, “they asked God to spare England from its King. They told the crowds to defy His Majesty, and follow instead the truth and light of Rome.”

  My cousin was blamed. People said she was the Devil, she had asked for their executions, and thirsted for the blood of Fisher and More too. But it was the King who decreed they would die.

  Then, on the 22nd of that month, Fisher was made a Cardinal by the papacy.

  “The King cannot kill him now,” said Alice. “Not a prince of the Church.”

  We heard a day later that the King had said he would cut off Fisher’s head and send it to Rome to be anointed with his hat.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chesworth House

  Spring - Summer 1535

  “Lord Rochford’s embassy to France went poorly,” Norfolk said. “The King of France will not speak about another meeting until Lady Mary is offered as a bride for the Dauphin. François would not even see George Boleyn in person, so little regard does he have for him and his sister.”

  “What does the Queen think?” asked Agnes.

  “She blows inconstant, like all women. Now, she hates France and loves Spain, apparently. She and her brother are trying to get the King to make friends with the Schmalkaldic League, a band of heretic princes and lords of the north, but they are not strong enough to be true allies. She also thinks George was set up to fail.”

  “By whom?”

  “Cromwell. He favours alliance with Spain, like me. She thinks he set George up to fail so the King would have to talk to the Emperor. She and Cromwell are becoming opposed. She thinks he may be after the wealth of the monasteries for his own gain.”

  Two weeks later we heard that the Queen had held a party, and invited everyone… except the French ambassadors. It was a public insult. The Queen was heard praising Spain about court, and had torn her French hood from her head, asking to be brought an English gable one instead, which had caused a stir as married women were not allowed to display their hair to anyone but their husband.
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br />   Just as we were all laughing about this, there was more. Sir Thomas More had openly denied the royal supremacy to one of Cromwell’s men, and had been named a traitor.

  “But he was so careful to say nothing firm,” my grandmother said to my aunt.

  “It is said he was set up,” she replied. “Tricked into incriminating himself.”

  *

  That June, the Emperor set sail with a great fleet to face the infidels. No one would tell me exactly who they were, I suspected those I asked did not really know either, but one thing was for sure, they were heretics.

  This meant the Emperor was doing God’s work, but some said he did not meant to battle heretics far away, but was coming for England.

  This did not happen, no matter how many people said it was certain, but the Emperor won, and somehow the French were found to be supporting his enemies, the heathens. People said France would need England now.

  Another kind of war was being fought in England as Cromwell’s men spread far and wide. Their findings were shared, and it seemed my grandmother was right when she had said men of God sometimes slipped. To me, it appeared they must be constantly walking on ice, so often did they fall. People might support the monasteries in their heart, but that stopped no one gathering in groups to hear the latest feral tale. I learned new words that summer; orgy and sodomy.

  It was said abbots and monks had got nuns with child, hoarded wealth meant for the poor, and forced young boys to lie with them. “Perhaps it is as well the King is investigating,” I said to Alice, fanning my hot face as the oppressive sun beat down upon us.

  “Perhaps,” she said, her face troubled.

  But many said the monasteries were not so corrupt, or at least not all of them. Some did godly work, caring for the poor and upholding the ways of God. And yet all seemed in danger.

  My cousin, the Queen was behind the investigations, and spoke openly at court about her shock and dismay. I was proud of her. But others had more worrying tales.

  “Some say Cromwell commanded his men to invent sin if they cannot find it,” said my aunt. “The more lax a religious house, the more likely it is to be shut down; the more houses close, the more money for the King.”

  And it seemed France still did not want to be England’s friend, and the Emperor was still thinking of invading.

  “The Queen is standing in the way of peace, so says my brother of

  Norfolk,” said William. “As long as Katherine lives, the Emperor will never accept Anne as Queen. Some of her enemies are whispering she will poison Katherine and her daughter.”

  “She is a godly woman and would never do such a thing,” said my grandmother.

  “Of course, but her enemies blamed her when Fisher was poisoned, and when Wolsey died on his way to the Tower. There are plenty of stories.”

  “And does the King believe them?”

  “Of course not. In fact, he is closer to the Queen than ever. He is with her all the time, and Mistress Shelton is forgotten. Since Spain and France made their treaty, he is never without her.”

  “She has always been his courage in times of trial,” said my grandmother.

  *

  As June unfolded, flaming heat broke over England, almost suffocating the land. Boys were out swimming in ponds and rivers, girls standing in the shade, playing at weddings. We had to wear masks to protect our skin, although gallants went out without protection and often came home ruddy of face.

  One day, as I entered my grandmother’s chamber after lessons, I found Norfolk there, already in full swing at his favourite pastime; shouting about my cousin.

  “And she is working for more heretics,” Norfolk bleated as I entered, shutting the door quietly. “She wants the King to send men to rescue Tyndale! And worst of all, His Majesty thinks to obey!”

  “When she is in his love, there is no person more powerful in England,” said Agnes.

  “And whilst she labours for that heretic Tyndale, Sir Thomas More, widely regarded as a saint still living, steps close to death,” Norfolk spat.

  “More is no saint,” scoffed Agnes. “I do not hear of saints keeping torture chambers in their houses, or whipping men in their gardens.”

  “You mistake me,” Norfolk said. “I have no more affection for the long-winded, insufferable dullard myself, but many in Europe do. The King is determined More will submit or he will die. He will not submit. If he dies the Emperor may well turn on England.”

  But More was not the first to trial. Bishop Fisher was. He was found guilty of denying the King’s supremacy, and sentenced to death.

  “The King cannot,” said Alice.

  But he could. More monks died in agony first, and then Fisher. On the block, Fisher said the King was a merciful man, but had been led astray. They took his head.

  “A huge fountain of blood came from his neck, more than any man’s body could bear,” a man wandering the roads looking for work told Ned. “A sign Fisher was of God, for as the blood of Jesus washed away the sins of the world, the Bishop tried to do the same for England.”

  And that was not the only tale. Fisher’s head was parboiled and set on London Bridge, beside the heads of the monks. But even after two weeks, it was fresh and clean. People took this as a miracle; Fisher was blessed by God.

  After Fisher’s death, it was said Katherine and Lady Mary would be arrested, but nothing happened. The King was merry, going to pageants and dances as though he had not a care in the world. The Queen was not so happy.

  “She complains the King is fickle,” said my aunt. “He is flirting with women in her chamber again. The Emperor reaches out to be England’s friend, it is said, and so the King has become confident and leans on the Queen no more. The Queen is distraught, and has said ill words against her husband. My friend Elizabeth Browne wrote and said the Queen had said the King had not strength nor skill enough to please a woman.”

  A hiss came from my grandmother’s lips. “She needs to be more careful,” she said. “Norfolk heard nothing of this?”

  “He is in France.”

  Norfolk returned at the end of June, unhappy. He wrote to my grandmother saying he and Lord Rochford had not been allowed to compromise in negotiations with the French, and talks had therefore failed. George had told his sister of this, and she had all but accused Cromwell of treachery, and threatened to take his head. “She is fast running out of allies,” he wrote.

  But other heads rolled, and not Cromwell’s. On the first day of July, Thomas More was found guilty of treason. It was a charge strange to my ears, for it was called malicious silence. I knew not how silence could be treason.

  Norfolk was one of the judges. More tried to say nothing about the King’s title as Head of the Church, but was found guilty, his sentence decided within fifteen minutes.

  Once condemned, More spoke openly, saying the King could not be Head of the Church. He said the reason he was to die was because he did not support the King’s marriage to my cousin.

  Men begged for his life, and the King turned them away. He was on progress, the summer journey he took almost every year to visit loyal lords. It was said this time he and the Queen would visit reformers and abbeys, showing how their cause to reform the Church was a good thing.

  Thomas More died on the 6th of July on Tower Hill. We heard later he had jested his way to the block, saying to one of the guards, “I pray you, Master Lieutenant, see me safe up. As for my coming down, let me shift for myself.”

  Before death, he said, “I go to death as the King’s servant, but God’s first.” He died with one blow, his head set on a spike on London Bridge, replacing Fisher’s, which was tossed into the Thames.

  When messengers brought the news to the King, he turned and shouted at my cousin. “You have done this! You have killed this man, my friend!”

  He left her, leaving all the court staring at her astonished face.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chesworth House

  Summer - Autumn 1535

  �
��At least the Pope understands who signed the death warrants of Fisher and More,” muttered my grandmother, staring at rain pouring down the windowpanes.

  The flaming heat had turned to sudden rain. There had been floods in our fields as dry, hard-baked earth was assaulted by deluges of water from the skies. Crops were being lost, and that was not England’s only trial. Thomas More and Bishop Fisher had been named martyrs by powerful men in Europe. Many were calling them saints, and the King was named a second Herod. Pope Paul had written to the King, saying he had “exceeded his ancestors in wickedness,” and the Holy Father went on to announce he was compelled to uphold the sentence of excommunication.