The Autobiography Of Henry VIII

by Margaret George

  He cocked one eyebrow. Clearly, he thought me a fool. He was not alone. I concurred. I wished myself a hundred miles away.

  “High summer is the most peaceful time.” You are not a fool, his voice seemed to be saying. You are human, and loved. Ah, that was the danger in More! He always made you feel human, and loved despite it. “Stand still, and listen.”

  The slight breeze stirred the leaves; the bees buzzed; the river water made small sounds far away. But more than sound, I drank in movement and light. The multicoloured hollyhocks around the house bending slightly; the movement of the bees in and out the golden, woven-straw hives; the dappling of light playing through the trees. And scent: the air here seemed lighter, bearing delicate smells from faraway meadows and nearby gardens. Flowers, cut grass, fertile ground—all blended into some elixir that cleared my head.

  “Aye,” I said, after what seemed a great while. “Aye.”

  Dame Alice was gesturing and seemed bothered. “Your Grace . . . if you would care to share a simple meal. You and your—your party—” She looked uncertainly at my retinue. “You see, we are not prepared—”

  More silenced her with a look.

  “We did not come to dine,” I said. “In summer, who thinks of food?”

  “Bring out ale, Alice,” instructed More. “I am sure the boatmen are thirsty after the long row up from London. Against the tide, too.”

  They looked grateful, and then he turned to me. His grey-green eyes seemed fairly to burn into mine.

  “While she prepares, shall we walk?” His caressing voice issued a command. I obeyed.

  He led me off in the direction of the rose garden, which in turn bordered on an orchard. The sun was behind us. Our bodies made long shadows. I remembered trying to avoid stepping on my shadow as a child. It was bad luck. Inadvertently, I kept treading on it this time, try as I would to avoid it.

  More pointed out several varieties of roses which he had taken pains in growing, then said simply, “You came about other matters.”

  “Yes,” I said. “I wish you to be Lord Chancellor. In Wolsey’s place.” If he was simple and straightforward, why should I not be?

  I expected either fluster or incredulity. Instead he laughed, a great, ringing laugh. When he stopped, he said, “I? In Wolsey’s place? But I am no churchman.”

  “I do not want a churchman! You are a Christian—more so than most churchmen!”

  “Are you entirely positive that you want a Christian, Your Grace?”

  Did he mock me? “Yes!”

  Instead of replying, he continued walking down the rows of neatly trimmed rosebushes, his hands clasped behind his back. At the end of the row of red roses, he suddenly turned. “I cannot,” he said quietly. “Forgive me.”

  The roses round him made a bloody, flowery frame.

  “Wherefore not?” I demanded.

  “Your Grace’s Great Matter—”

  I waved that aside. “The Lord Chancellor is not—”

  He cut me off. “The previous Lord Chancellor was deeply involved in this question.”

  “Because he was a Cardinal and empowered to preside at the legatine trial. Now it has gone beyond that, to—”

  “To become a political matter, which would involve your Chancellor more than ever, be he churchman or layman. I cannot—”

  “Thomas,” I suddenly said, “what is your opinion of this entire question?”

  He turned and inspected a half-blown rose overmuch. I waited. At length he could delay his answer no longer. “I believe . . .” His usually sure voice was low. “I believe that Queen Katherine is your true wife. And if she be not, I believe only the Pope has the power to pronounce that.”

  I felt anger rising cold in my neck, working up toward my head, where it would affect and twist my thinking. I fought it.

  “So that is why you refuse the Chancellorship.” I was surprised—and pleased—at how dispassionate my voice sounded. The coldness was receding, dropping down like water flowing from a pipe. I had overcome it.

  “Partly.” He smiled. “I cannot be Your Grace’s servant unless I embrace all things wholeheartedly.”

  We had left the rose garden now and approached the orchard. A worn brick wall enclosed it. More opened the wooden door and ushered me inside.

  Row after row of pruned and tended trees stretched before me, each about five yards apart from the next. Their branches spread neatly and evenly out, like round tents.

  “Plums,” said More, gesturing to the farthest row on the left. “Cherries.” The next. “Apples.” The row immediately before us. “Pears.” The last one before the wall on the other side.

  More began walking down the space between the apples and cherries. At this stage all the fruit looked much alike. More kept maddeningly silent as I followed him.

  “God has pronounced a sentence on it! He has cursed me!” Against my will, I heard my voice rising, coming to an anguished cry. More stopped and turned. Still I continued. “I have sinned! And that sin must be expiated! England will die else! Die!”

  A quizzical expression on his face, More came toward me. I no longer saw him, nor the golden summer afternoon. All I saw was blackness and despair. Without realizing it, I sank down at the foot of a cherry tree. Yes, England would die. She could not withstand any more wars within herself.

  A hand on my shoulder. More was bending down. “Your Grace?”

  “My conscience tells me that is true,” I finally said. “If all the world disputes it, I still know it to be true.”

  I got up, humiliated at my outburst. I shot a look at More. He was staring with an expression I had never seen before. One of surprise, awe, yet more than that.

  “Then I will be your Chancellor,” he said, quietly. “Provided you give my conscience equal deference.”

  The evening meal was jolly. It was a “picnic,” as Lady Alice called it, because it was simple. But long tables were set up on the lawn, covered with white linen, which flapped in the twilight breezes. Simple wooden plates were set down, and earthenware flagons. Great mounds of wild strawberries were brought out, with jugs of fresh cream. Pitchers of May wine, flavoured with woodruff, were passed round.

  More’s children sang and played the lute. The servants joined us and began dancing with my boatmen. Margaret More, Thomas’s eldest and favourite child, held hands with Will Roper, her suitor. More laughed. I laughed. As the shadows lengthened across the abnormally green lawn, I felt I had never been so happy. All would be right.

  XLII

  Once I was back in London, the mood dissipated. There was much to be done, and I must set about doing it, for it would never come about on its own. And set about it I did, as I shall now recount.

  The verdict of the universities came in, and it was (mostly) in my favour (thanks to golden-coined persuasion). But the Pope was unmoved. (Not that I cared any longer what he thought.) The scheme had been naïve to begin with. Cranmer was not the man, after all, to help me in my Great Matter.

  More, Cranmer, Wolsey—all were useless to me in the area of my greatest need. The thought of Wolsey saddened me. Even at this late date, I was still doing business with his estate. The eminent Cardinal had left his books in disarray. But it was time to close them. Wolsey had been dead more than a year.

  I had been impressed to discover that there was one former servant who retained all access to, and knowledge of, Wolsey’s finances. When others had fled, this Cromwell had stayed on, acting in his late master’s name, loyally seeking to clear it. I was further intrigued to learn that he was the same man who had made the point in the Parliament of 1522 that Scotland was near to hand and Europe far away.

  I sent for him.

  In the beginning I sensed only a keen little man. He had a flattened head—rather like a box all around—and narrowed little eyes. The sort of person one soon forgets, except for the eyes.

  He knew all of Wolsey’s financial matters, down to every farthing in the household. It was in this capacity that I supposedly c
onsulted him. But one does not merely go over figures. One begins to talk. Therein was I won. Master Cromwell had many interesting tales. In the beginning they were about others; in the end, about himself.

  This Cromwell, the son of a Putney blacksmith, had spent hidden years abroad, first as a soldier of fortune in the Italian wars, then as a merchant on the Antwerp market, in the process learning enough common law to qualify for the bar. I received the impression of that rarest of creatures, a totally amoral man, yet ascetic in his wants and needs. Thus he would be singularly resistant to all normal temptations—the satins, the women, the dainty dishes—that had ensnared his master, the Cardinal. Was this the man I sought to help resolve my Great Matter? I hinted of the delicate “problem.” He nodded.

  A few days later he sent word that he had some “suggestions” for my Great Matter. Thus one euphemism danced with another.

  I called Cromwell to meet with me in person and discuss the details of his plan. This he was only too eager to do.

  He appeared in my work room promptly after morning Mass, his dark, straight hair wet and combed, his cap in hand. I had not yet had breakfast, and had hardly expected him so soon. A tray of smoked eel, ale, and cheese sat upon my table, awaiting me. I eyed it hungrily. Nevertheless I turned to Cromwell and bade him welcome.

  “Your written suggestions were most intriguing,” I began, picking them up from my work desk and waving them in my hand. “I have given much thought to them.” If I expected an answer, there was none; he stood poised and listening. “I would like a fuller explanation of your plan,” I continued. “It is cumbersome to commit all things to paper.”

  He smiled, knowing what I meant. Then he looked round the room questioningly.

  “There is no one here, Cromwell,” I said. “You may speak freely.” To prove my point—and because I was in a buoyant mood (of late my moods had varied alarmingly, so that I was often elated after breakfast and sunk in gloom by mid-afternoon, quite unlike myself)—I strode over to an arras and thumped it. Nothing but dust flew out.

  I sat on a small stool; Cromwell then allowed himself to sit as well, and edged his stool close to mine.

  “It is this, Your Grace. I have made an extensive study of the question. And my humble opinion is that it is a much greater issue than the marriage itself. The marriage was merely God’s way of opening other ideas to you, of leading you to ponder heretofore unthinkable things.”

  “What things?” I asked. He was employing flattery, like so many before him. It bored me. The smell of the ale and eel wafted toward me. Let him get on with it!

  “That some of Your Grace’s subjects are but half your subjects.” He paused and lifted his eyebrow significantly. This was supposed to intrigue me, but it was merely silly. I frowned, and he continued hastily. “The clergy. They take a vow of obedience to the Pope. How, then, can they be your loyal subjects? ‘No man can serve two masters,’ as Our Lord—”

  “Yes, yes,” I cut him off. “But this has been done always. The heavenly kingdom and the earthly are separate.”

  “Are they, Your Grace? If, upon pain of death, a subject chooses to obey a foreign ruler over his King—what is heavenly about that? Is it not treason?” A pause. “Does not Your Grace have responsibility for all his subjects? Did not God deliver them into your hands for safekeeping? In days of old there were no Popes, but only Christian princes, who were charged with keeping the True Faith—”

  He went on with his extraordinary theory: that the head of each realm was empowered by God to protect his subjects both bodily and spiritually; that he was the highest authority in the land in both spheres; and that the clergy owed allegiance to him, not to the Bishop of Rome, who was a mere usurper. To restore his power to myself was merely to reinstate the ancient, correct, and divinely ordained order of things.

  “It is as God wills,” finished Cromwell. “He is displeased with the present state. It is a perversion of the truth. That is why prophets like Wycliffe and Hus and Luther have arisen. That is why Rome has been laid low and the Pope reduced to a shivering prisoner by the Emperor. These are all signs. Signs that you must act to restore the rightful order of things. Else the punishments will increase. Remember in Israel, when Ahab—”

  “Yes, yes.” I could bear the hunger no longer; I reached for the cup of ale. “An interesting theory,” I finally said. “Words. Wolsey was also full of words. What of deeds?”

  I was curious to know if he had worked this out as well. I was not disappointed. Cromwell leaned forward eagerly, his lizardlike eyes reflecting the morning light.

  “The people groan beneath the weight of the monstrous burden,” he said.

  I must cure him of this extravagant speech he affected. Could no one save Anne speak plain English to me?

  “But they are powerless to extricate themselves. Only one person can break their bonds. The King.”

  I grunted. “How?”

  “They will follow you, like the children of Israel following Moses.”

  This last simile was too much. Why should I not permit myself to indulge in the eel? This would-be orator deserved no deference on my part. I leaned over and selected a tasty-looking piece. “Pray speak plainly,” I finally said.

  He grinned—something no one had done in my presence for years. Throwing aside the grovelling and hyperbole like a heavy cloak, his voice leapt. “The clergy are helpless to release themselves. The people cannot, save through a general rebellion such as has occurred in Germany, and which above all we do not want. No. The rebellion, the break, must be led from above. And this most of all: it must seem no rebellion at all. People—even discarded people—like to feel that the order is eternal. Even while destroying it, we must maintain its outer structure.”

  His eyes were dancing. He looked demented, delirious. I reached for more eel, as if something in my mouth would subdue the uneasy feeling in my head.

  “The Church must be left intact,” he continued. “It must retain all the outward semblances of the past. No whitewashed walls, no smashed statues. All will be as always, with one exception: the King, not the Pope, will be Supreme Head of the Church in England. The rebellion will be directed and imposed from above, rather than from below. And the people will follow like sheep, as they always do.” He leaned back and folded his hands over his belly, triumphant.

  “A pretty picture. And how is this to be achieved?”

  “Parliament. Parliament will empower you. Then you may do as you please. Grant yourself an annulment—”

  “Parliament is composed of men. All men do not favour my separation from Katherine. In fact,” I conceded glumly, “most do not. There is great public sympathy for the Princess Dowager.”

  “But to a man they resent the privileges of the clergy. Let that be the wedge to separate you from Rome. They can easily be led into attacking the clergy. Once that is achieved, you will have the power to do as you will. Provided you keep them blindfolded until the end.”

  I merely stared at him, less astonished by his suggestions than by the gleeful way in which he recounted them. He took my silence for compliance, and continued.

  “In the meantime you can reduce the Church to subservience. Attack them for some trumped-up transgression; make them pay a penalty and, in so doing, acknowledge you as head of the Church. Thereby they will have set a precedent, will have put themselves in an awkward position. . . . And once all this is accomplished, you can begin to dissolve the monasteries!” he concluded with a flourish.

  A look of dismay must have flitted across my face, as Cromwell hastily went on, “Foreign bodies, Your Grace! They send their revenues outside England, draining her as a leech drains blood from a sick man! And lax! The immorality! Rich whores become abbesses, and monks have offspring in all the nearby villages. Their lasciviousness has become a byword! Even in John of Gaunt’s time, Chaucer was writing of their immorality. It does this realm no good, as they drain our resources, and it does Christ no good, to have such as His representatives!”
/>   I thought of the luxurious Priory of St. Lawrence, sheltering the King’s mistress and bastard. . . . But I also thought of the peaceful, honey-stoned monasteries dotting the land, and of the monks who spent their time tilling the fields, studying manuscripts, raising sheep, spinning wool, providing shelter for travellers, pilgrims, vagabonds. Without them—

  “No,” I said. “No. They do good.”

  “They are hotbeds of corruption,” hissed Cromwell. “For every good and pious monk, there are ten who spend their days in drunken revelry. It is no accident the best wines come from the monasteries! You imagine they spend their nights in their bare cells, praying, fasting, and flagellating themselves! Only the Lord Chancellor does that. No, the monks . . . I tell you, they loll in a sweaty bed with a village wench while Christ on the crucifix looks down upon them!”

  His fervour mounted. What did he mean about the Lord Chancellor? I reached for my ale-cup, but had no desire to offer him a similar cup. He seemed to be edging closer to me. I disliked people to come too near. I moved my stool back.

  He sighed and seemed to relax. “I can see you do not believe me. You think only of the kind monks and nuns you have heard tales of. Only allow me to have these ‘houses of religion’ investigated. That is all I ask. Then judge the findings for yourself.” His voice had turned ugly, wheedling.

  “Later.” I wanted to hear no more of it for now. It pained me. “Parliament,” I said, returning to a more comfortable topic. “How do you propose it be used to this purpose?”

  He had thought it all out. Parliament would attack the clergy and make laws rendering the Church impotent, thinking all the while that they were merely curtailing the hated clerical privileges and the separate canon law, which allowed churchmen to be tried in their own courts and thus to escape common law.

  In the meantime, the clergy was to surrender its power into my hands. The outcome would be that the entire Church would be subservient to the King. The lower clergy would surrender its legal privileges, while the higher would acknowledge the King as its final arbiter. It would be done piece by piece, and only in the end would all be fitted together. Then I could secure power in my own realm. And end Papal jurisdiction in England. And be absolute ruler. And be free of Katherine. And rich.