by Anne Stevens
“It is disgusting,” Rafe says, with the certainty of youth. “She was more than thirty, and he, but a young fellow.”
“It never happened, Rafe,” Cromwell says. Rafe understands, and consigns the information to the nether regions of his mind. Her brother is the Duke of Norfolk, and she still has friends in court, so it would be foolish to goad her too far.
“I have a letter from George Boleyn. He writes, from Bristol, begging you to intercede with the king, and save him from having to go to Ireland. He swears undying friendship.”
“You see? Wear a thick glove, and you shall catch your rat. I am minded to rescue him. Write to Bristol, and have him return to court. Or do you think me too forgiving, Rafe?”
“No, master.” Rafe is smiling though. “Might we not write to Dublin, and bid him come home? That way, he will get the benefit of a fine sea voyage.”
“An excellent idea, for a mere blacksmith’s boy,” Thomas Cromwell says. “See to it. Anything else?”
“A letter from Venice, sent by fast post horses, across the empire,” Rafe says. “I dare say every one of Charles’ agents has read it, and reported back.”
“No matter.” Cromwell braces himself for the news. “What does it say?”
“Nothing much.” Rafe Sadler takes up the parchment, with the Doge’s seal hanging from it, and reads. It is, curiously enough, written in French, so the young man does not bother to translate.
“To the esteemed, and honoured Thomas Cromwell, greetings from his dearest friend, Andrea. I wish to advise you that your embassy arrived intact, and are doing their duty, as you would wish them to.”
“They are all safe then,” Cromwell says, nodding. “Go on.”
“Your poet has been away, visiting a friend in Rome, and is now with the others, performing a small duty for my city. I will write again, when things are out in the open, but for now, I can only say that your master’s wish is fulfilled. The ‘no’ is final!”
“Excellent.” Cromwell feels the need for a drink, and calls for a jug of watered wine. “Anything else?”
“Yes. Your Andrea goes on about some battle you both fought in, and mentions certain trade agreements he has concluded with our embassy.”
“Trade agreements?”
“It seems that Will Draper is granted import rights for mace, black pepper corns, sausages, and Venetian wine.”
“Dear God, but the man will be richer than the king!”
“I fear that it is Miriam who will prosper, master,” Rafe Sadler says. “Perhaps, one day, we might look to her for a loan or two?”
“Why not? If the new teaching allows for women to read the bible, why cannot they be our equal in other things too?”
“I take it that the ‘no’ in question is what you have been waiting for.”
“It is. I must speak with Lady Anne.”
“Not the king?”
“No, Anne first,” Cromwell replies. “For the next move is hers to make. God help her to make it well.”
“She is in a foul mood,” Lady Rochford whispers, maliciously to Cromwell, as soon as he enters the ladies chambers.
“What, not in Ireland with your beloved husband, My Lady?” Cromwell replies, smiling, graciously.
“The air will not suit me, nor the company.”
“I hear strange tales about your George,” he says, under his breath. “Are they true?”
“He does not lie with his lawful wife, if that is what you mean,” she mutters back. “Watch out for Anne today. She is in the mood to kill.”
“Ah, my dearest Lady Anne,” Cromwell says, bowing low. “I must thank you for granting me an audience at such short notice.”
“So that I might express my displeasure at you,” she snaps at him. The French lilt, used to show her affection, is gone. She sits, but pointedly does not invite the Privy Councillor to do the same. “I am furious, Cromwell, and think it is you I have to thank for my rage.”
“How so, madam, when I come with the two best pieces of news any man could deliver to you. Though one is a close guarded secret, that even the king does not yet know.” Cromwell holds out his hands, as if in supplication. There, I have set the trap, now walk into it, he thinks. What woman can resist knowing secrets?
“Always, Cromwell is the man of great secrets,” Lady Anne says, scornfully. “Do you think me so easy to placate? What have you done to my brother, you scoundrel?”
“Why, saved him, Lady Anne,” Thomas Cromwell replies, innocently. “The king was furious over some poor advice he gave, and asked how best to punish him. You know what His Majesty can be like. I feared he might, in his rage, overreact.”
“So, you suggest my brother be sent to Ireland?” Anne scoffs.
“I granted him lands in Ireland, that will bring him in something, one day,” Cromwell says, pressing his case. “Then, once the king calmed down, I gave instructions for your brother to be recalled from Dublin.”
“He is in Bristol, Cromwell,” Lady Anne says. “Why have him sail to Ireland, before recalling him?”
“He must be away from court for a week or two. It will seem that he has done his penance, and will keep him safe, whilst we conduct our next piece of business. He is too outspoken, and might say the wrong thing to the king again.”
“About what?”
“About my secret.”
“Curse you, Cromwell.” Lady Anne says, but she is calming down, and begins to suspect that something important is afoot. “I shall write to George, and tell him to stay away from court for a month. There, will that satisfy you?”
“It will satisfy the king, Lady Anne,” Thomas Cromwell replies. “Now, for my secret. May I speak to you alone?”
“Henry likes me to be accompanied, at all times,” she says.
“A secret only remains a secret, without it being told too widely.” Cromwell turns, and shoos Lady Rochford, Jane Seymour, and the rest from the room. Only George Boleyn’s wife offers resistance. “Go, lady, or I will make you join your man!”
“You are a wicked old fellow,” Anne Boleyn declares. “Even my mother trembles when I mention you. As if you were an old lover of hers. I say, Cromwell, you were not, were you?”
“My Lady jests. When your mother was a beauty, such as you now are, I was in Italy, cutting throats for a living.”
“How delicious. Did you cut many, Master Thomas?”
“Enough, Lady Anne. Enough.” Cromwell replies, smiling. She is using his first name again, and her mood is swinging. He is satisfied. “Let me whisper my secret to you, so that you might rejoice, even before the king can.” Anne Boleyn cocks her head to one side, and beckons him closer. He stands, and cannot help admire the soft swell of her breasts, and the smoothness of her neck. Had she not captured Henry, this one would have a thousand men dancing to her tune.
“The Bishop of Rome,” he says softly, “has refused the annulment. I am beside myself with happiness for you.”
Henry would have been dismayed, and demanded an explanation, but Anne understands at once. It is the one act that might move her closer to a crown.
“Then the break is complete?” she asks.
“He has already sent word to the Doge, and the Venetians will support him, and demand the king throws you over, or face excommunication. It could not be better for us, My Lady.”
“We must tell Henry.”
“In good time,” Cromwell tells her. “First, we must clear the way for the news. The Lord Chancellor will, almost certainly, insist that Henry gives in to Rome, and he is a persuasive man. You must go to Henry, and tell him that you do not trust Sir Thomas, and fear he is working with the Pope. Then I will bring him the news. He will see that More has misled him, and demand his resignation.”
“Give me a couple of days,” Anne Boleyn says. “The man has crossed me once too often, and I will have his head.”
“No, do not ask for that, Lady Anne,” Cromwell says. If you appear too spiteful, the king might relent. He has a soft spot for More,
and remembers how Cardinal Wolsey was brought down. You must ask only for his resignation. He will retire to Utopia, and spend his last days reading books, and dining with friends.”
“He deserves to be punished.”
“I say ‘no’!” Cromwell’s sudden change makes her jump. “It has taken me years to get to this place, Lady Anne, and you must not spoil things.”
“Must not?” She is tempted to argue with the man, but like her mother, has a certain fear of him. “Oh, very well. Have it as you wish, but if I am not queen soon…”
“We are a few weeks away from Christmas,” Cromwell tells her. “Come next Christmastide, and you will be Queen of England.”
“You swear?” She is suddenly like a small girl, waiting for a valued present to appear.
“I swear.” Why, she does not know, but Anne turns her head, and kisses him on his cheek. He colours up, and steps back.
“You honour me too well, My Lady,” he says. “Once the king dismisses More, he will want a new Lord Chancellor.”
“I shall recommend you to him, of course.”
“God’s teeth!” Cromwell almost explodes again. “You must do nothing of the sort, Lady Anne. Advise him to ask for my candid opinion, and I will suggest a good man for the post. A man who will be manageable, and unlikely to oppose our ultimate aim.”
“Then you are a heretic?” Anne says, smiling at him.
“I have read Tyndale, as have you, Lady Anne. Is it not your belief that every soul in England should be able to read an English bible?”
“It is. My hold over the king is constantly threatened by the church of Rome. We must break that hold,” she says. “Once Henry realises that the only way forward is to take control, this country will change, for ever.”
“The laws are already in place,” Cromwell tells his co-conspirator. “The last Convocation made provision for the king to be head of the church in England, and my new treason laws hem the clerics in like sheep. Let them object, and I will pounce on them. We must play on the king, Lady Anne, and have him realise that he is the chosen one, anointed not by Rome, but directly by God.”
“Then he will have no-one to say him nay,” Anne Boleyn says. “He will dispose of Katherine, then marry me, and Rome may go and hang. Queen Anne will make a fitting partner for the king.”
“Just so,” Cromwell replies. “Though Katherine must not be harmed in any way. Otherwise, we will find the Holy Roman empire battering at our doors. We shall retire her, in some luxury, and let her fade, gently, away.” He sees far more than Anne Boleyn can imagine, and knows that the marriage of a king is but a small part of things. Given enough time, and he shall be able to make England over, and bring justice and freedom to every citizen.
“You play a close game, Master Cromwell,” Lady Anne Boleyn says. “Why do you not have Henry shower you with titles?”
“To what end, My Lady?” Cromwell asks. “I must remain a commoner, so that parliament stays on our side. I do not mind.”
Nor does he. Thomas Cromwell has little time for grand titles, without power. As a common man, he will choose the next Lord Chancellor, and put in place an Arch Bishop of Canterbury. As a common man, he will bring in laws that will allow the bible to be printed in English, and he will oversee the complete subjugation of the church in England. Selling indulgences, so that the rich might buy their way out of hell, or avoid years spent in purgatory will become a thing of the past. Poor men will no longer have to pay their penny taxes to Rome, and go hungry to support rapacious abbeys, venal monks, and corrupt priests.
Give me time, Cromwell thinks, and I will help to create a brave, new order. A world that does not suffer under the threat of the Roman church. A realm that gives all men an equal chance in life.
“Will you dance, My Lord?” Anne Boleyn is dressed in her finest, and shines like a star up above, in Henry’s eyes. He frowns, and slaps his leg, to signify that his knee, injured during the day’s hunting, is hurting far too much.
“Choose a fine young fellow, and command him to partner you, my dear.” Henry is a jealous man, but knows he must not entrap Anne, else she might rail against him.
“They bore me,” Anne says. “I need a man, but know how to wait, my beloved one.” Henry glows with pride, and gestures for her to sit beside him. She smells delightful, and is displaying her breasts in the French way, with them cinched in tightly, and thrust up towards the shoulders. The king feasts his eyes, and longs for the day she consents to his desires. He has not lain with another woman for months, and only then with her sister, Mary, who is a generous, and loving sister. Perhaps he might resort to one of the married ladies. They are usually discreet, and understand a man must relieve himself, now and then.
“They are a dreary lot tonight,” Anne says. “I miss George, even though the silly boy upset you.”
“Upset me?” Henry wonders where this is leading. If she demands his return to court, it will place him in a sticky position. He glances around, to see if Thomas Cromwell is nearby, and sees him leaning in an alcove, chatting with the Spanish ambassador.
“Yes, by suggesting that you make Stephen Gardiner into the Bishop of Winchester,” Anne explains. “I have told him a hundred times, not to try and play at politics. He has neither the wit, nor the ability. I am just pleased you only banished him from court for a month.”
“I did? I mean, why yes, it seemed the best course.”
“I love your wisdom,” she says, stroking his arm. “I also wish I had your patience. Why, Sir Thomas has taken an age over the matter of the annulment. One only hopes he is playing us fair, and not influencing the Bishop of Rome against our cause.”
“I trust my Lord Chancellor,” Henry replies, stiffly. “He is the wisest man in all Christendom.”
“Let us see,” Anne says, softly. “If he is true, we will be free to marry soon. If not, I dare say the Pope will reward him well enough.”
“Good God, Anne, what are you saying?” Henry’s inherent mistrust begins to flare. “The man would not dare betray me!”
“But if he fails? What if he swears he did his best?”
“Then it is not good enough, and I would have his office from him!”
“Then let it be so,” Anne concludes. “Pray that we soon hear from Rome. Sir Thomas is lucky that you are so benign a ruler, and would seek only his position. Perhaps a new man in the job might hurry things along.”
“Not Cromwell,” Henry says, quietly. “I know you like the man, and so do I, but his bloodline is … somewhat … diluted.”
“Oh, you mean the business about him being a blacksmith’s child?” Anne says. “He tells me that, some years past, he was wont to cut throats in Italy.”
“The rogue!” Henry says, admiringly.
“No, I would never suggest him, but perhaps, you might consult with him. He gives better advice than my brother, George.”
“A splendid idea … should the occasion ever arise.”
Henry can recall no adverse decision against a ruler, ever being given by Rome. He beckons Thomas Cromwell over, and puts the matter to him. The Privy Councillor frowns, and thinks hard. At length, he confesses his inability to remember any such case.
“The Bishop of Rome claims to be the anointed of God, and over mortal kings, and emperors. He retains their trust, and support, by allowing them indulgences. If a Pope can make your marriage legal, another can just as easily make it null and void. If Clement refuses you, sire, it is because he has been bribed, or badly advised.”
“Do you mean by my Lord Chancellor?”
“Sir Thomas?” Cromwell expresses surprise. “If he fails you in any way, sire, it is in his desire to do everything he can for you. I fear he tries too hard, at too many tasks. How can a man run your realm for you, make laws, search out heretics, and deal with a corrupt, and venal Roman bishop? If anything, I would call him your greatest, and most loyal subject.”
“Yes, he loves me. I know that.” Henry seems relieved.
“Perhap
s, he needs a rest?” Cromwell turns away, sees Rafe hovering, then curses. “A thousand apologies, Your Majesty, but I am expecting news from my embassy to Italy, and told Master Sadler to bring it to me, no matter where I am.”
“See, Anne? I have my blacksmith, and he has his saddler,” Henry says, chuckling at his own, small jest. “Have him come to us. Perhaps we have good news, at long last.”
Thomas Cromwell takes the refolded, and re-sealed parchment, and pulls it open with a flourish. He pretends to read, then looks up, his face a picture of horror.
“Your Majesty, Clement refuses your demands!” He crumples the missive up, as if in anger. “Sire, the Roman church have thrown down a gauntlet!”
“Then, by Christ,” Henry snarls, “I shall pick it up, and dash it back at them! We must confer, my friend, and make ready our reply. For, as God is my witness, I will not settle until I have satisfaction!”
Thomas Cromwell turns to the crowded court, raises the crumpled letter above his head, and cries out: “God save Henry, King of England, and Defender of the English Church!”
The crowd roar and clap their approval. To one side, Eustace Chapuys shakes his head, and offers up a prayer for the realm, which is, in his eyes, about to turn its back on God.
“We must start with the monasteries,” Cromwell says. “Once their revenue is ours, Henry will forget his scruples. Have our men start their enquiries at once, despite the damned weather. Let them crawl through the snow, if they must, but I want the monasteries closed, and the monks scattered.”
“I will give the orders, Master Cromwell,” Rafe Sadler replies. “I was thinking of putting Barnaby Fowler in charge of the task.”
“Is he well enough?”
“He is recovered, sir, and ready to serve you again.”
“These next few months are critical, Rafe,” Cromwell says. “You understand that, don’t you?”
“Of course. We must bring the church down, then re-build it in the new way,” Sadler says. “Every pulpit shall have an English bible, and Rome will be erased from the realm. There will be opposition, of course. Arch Bishop Warham will speak out against the king, and Sir Thomas More will bring his power to bear against us.”