London

by Edward Rutherfurd

  By his new title of Supreme Head of the Church, Henry now intended not just to take all revenues, appoint bishops and even abbots – these things had been tried before by powerful and greedy medieval kings. He also meant, personally, to decide all doctrine, all theology, all spiritual matters as well. It had never even crossed the mind of any medieval king to do that. He intended, effectively, to be king, Pope and church council all rolled into one. It was outrageous. And almost like a final insult, giving him the title of Vicegerent, he had put Cromwell in charge of the entire body of the Church – priests, abbots, and bishops, they were all to answer for everything they did to the king’s hard-faced secretary.

  “Henry’s making himself the equal of God!” Rowland protested. “This,” he said quietly, “would be the end of the Church as we know it.”

  “Henry is a good Catholic,” Thomas replied defensively. “He will protect the Church against heresy.” Susan said nothing.

  “But what,” Rowland pointed out, “if the king changes his mind? What if Henry decides to abolish relics? What if he decides to alter the form of the Mass? What if he suddenly becomes a Lutheran?”

  Nobody said anything.

  “There’s to be another Act, you know,” the young man went on. “A Treason Act. Anyone who even argues against anything in the Supremacy Act will be guilty of treason. That’ll mean death,” he added unnecessarily.

  Susan began trembling, and she looked at Rowland. “We are not traitors,” she said, her voice as steady as she could make it. “We shall obey the Act if it is passed.”

  But Rowland was staring at the floor.

  As the weeks went by and the Supremacy Bill began to make its way through Parliament, she knew how Rowland was feeling. She felt the same way too, but she knew she must not show it. Indeed, she even found herself in the strange position of defending the king, of siding with her brother, who she suspected was a heretic, to deflect her husband’s criticisms.

  “In practical terms it changes nothing,” Thomas repeatedly assured him. “Not only is Henry a staunch Catholic, but even the most modest reforms would have to get past the bishops and Parliament. The faith is safe.”

  There was less opposition in Parliament than Susan might have expected. Partly, she realized, this was because of an attitude expressed to her by the wife of a neighbour one day. “Better to have our own Harry of England in charge of the Church than some Italian in Rome who knows nothing about us,” she had remarked. Others, Susan suspected, even amongst the bishops like Cranmer, might be covert reformers who thought their cause might stand a better chance in a separate English Church than under the Pope. But above all, as she watched ruthless Secretary Cromwell in action, she understood all too well the fundamental reason why Parliament was submitting to the will of the king. It was fear. And remembering that vision of the Great Harry, that golden ship with its concealed banks of murderous cannon, she knew in her heart that the grim ship of state meant to sail on.

  “We must obey the law,” she would say quietly.

  There was only one small consolation. Unlike the succession legislation of the spring, there was no talk of forcing everyone to take any new oath. If any of Henry’s subjects wished to defy the new Act publicly, it would be treason; but if they disagreed, they could at least suffer in silence.

  And that, Susan realized, was exactly what her dear husband was doing. He went about his work mechanically; though, after a period of looking deathly ill, he regained some of his usual colour, the spring went out of his step. As autumn turned to winter, he seemed to sink into a sad and silent gloom, and even alone in their bedroom, while the affection remained, the joy was all gone. As for her, trying to conceal the fact that she knew he was right, and knowing that she must do whatever was necessary to preserve her family, she would gaze at her children, and endure.

  If only, she thought as the year drew towards its close, if only Peter were here.

  It was a cold December afternoon and Susan had gone to the city. She had walked down Paternoster Row, a little street by St Paul’s where several booksellers had stalls, to buy a volume for Rowland as a present for Christmas. Pleased with her purchase, she strolled along Cheapside and on an impulse had turned down the little lane by St Mary-le-Bow. A few moments later she entered the church of St Lawrence Silversleeves.

  How warm the little parish church seemed with its dark rood screen, its stained glass windows, and its figure of the Virgin before which half a dozen candles were flickering. The whole place was redolent of incense. How well the church expressed her brother’s kindly parish ministry. If she closed her eyes she could almost imagine that he was there.

  So it was with a little cry that she turned to see him standing behind her.

  1535

  In the month of January 1535, a disturbing report reached Secretary Cromwell from Rome. Poor, hesitant Pope Clement had died some months before and there was a new pontiff. No word had been heard from him, until the secret report had come, but when it arrived it was shocking.

  “He means to depose you,” Cromwell told the king.

  Letters, it seemed, had already been sent to the King of France and the Habsburg emperor. For all his shows of strength, if either, let alone both of these mighty powers were to invade the island to take his kingdom away from him, Henry would be in dire peril. Would they do such a thing?

  “They might be tempted,” Henry judged, “if they think the country is split and that people would rise up to greet them.”

  “What do you wish me to do?”

  “Simple,” the king smiled. “We must show them, once and for all, who is master in England.”

  It was a February day, cold but bright, when Peter finally came from the Charterhouse to visit the family at Chelsea. It was remarkable, Susan had noticed, how even the fact that Peter was in London again had changed the atmosphere in the house. She felt a sense of security and well-being; Rowland also seemed more cheerful; and whatever her doubts might be about Thomas nowadays, she determined to put them aside on this occasion at least. “We’ll have a family reunion,” she declared. “Thomas must be there too.” For days before, she had bustled about the house preparing, making sure that everything, wood, pewter and metal, was cleaned and polished until it gleamed. She sewed fresh lace on the children’s clothes and by the time the day arrived she felt proud of herself.

  The main celebration of the day would be the family dinner, served soon after noon; and in place of honour, as for any English family that could afford it, would be the great roast. “A swan,” Rowland had decreed. Londoners of sufficient means were permitted to keep their own swans on the Thames and since last year he had been the proud possessor of several.

  “We shall be eating it for a week,” Susan had laughed. And early that morning she was up preparing the huge bird.

  He came by barge and had hardly stepped out on to the little landing stage before he was raising the children, each in turn, into his arms. He smiled warmly at them all, and taking his sister by the arm, advanced up the path very cheerfully towards the house.

  Like the experienced parish priest he was, his eyes missed nothing. He praised the little garden, admired the house, expressed delight at the modestly growing library. He had made friends with the children in minutes.

  Thomas arrived at the end of the morning and soon after midday they all assembled at the big oak table. It gave Susan great happiness to hear Peter say a simple grace for them and to watch Rowland carve the great swan. Thomas, too, was smiling.

  “You still look alike,” he remarked to the two men.

  “I still have the advantage in weight,” Peter replied.

  “Not by much,” Rowland laughed.

  All through the meal Peter kept them entertained with his accounts of Rome and of the other religious sites and shrines he had visited, which included Assisi in Italy and Chartres in France. “I should have liked to journey to the great shrine at Compostela,” he remarked. “But Spain was just too far.”

/>   “And did you see any miraculous cures performed by these relics?” Thomas asked with a trace of mischief in his voice.

  “Yes. A woman was cured at Assisi,” he answered quietly.

  They sat a long time at table, talking easily on such cheerful topics. Despite what the cynics at court or the secret heretics might do, Peter would have words of calm and wisdom; and suddenly, even the king and his misfortunes and her anguish about the Supremacy seemed less important. These things would pass. The faith would remain. This was the comforting message Peter would bring. She was sure of it.

  But as the February afternoon grew dark and the children left to play upstairs, Peter turned quietly to Thomas and, with a faint glint of reproach in his eyes, enquired: “So Thomas, is the rumour we hear at the Charterhouse true?” And seeing that Susan and Rowland did not understand, he gently explained: “The king and Secretary Cromwell are planning to take a special interest in us.”

  It was, it had to be confessed, a logical step. Peter himself explained it very simply. “Henry wants to ensure that he is absolute master in his own house. His Supremacy Act has been passed by Parliament and accepted by his bishops – many of whom, of course, are his own men. But there are still a few thorns in his side which irritate him. There are More, Fisher and Wilson. But there are also the sterner religious houses, such as the Charterhouse and some of the friars, who took the oath only with reluctance in the spring. Since any dissent is now treason, Henry has just had the bright idea of frightening all these tiresome people into taking an oath of some kind – we haven’t seen it yet – which presumably will admit all his claims to Supremacy. Then he’ll have proved his point.” He paused and looked sternly at his brother. “Have I got that right, Thomas?”

  “It’s a new idea,” Thomas said. “It’s only the people you mention who’ll be asked for an oath. The rest of us,” he glanced at Rowland, “will be left alone.”

  “We are honoured to be singled out,” Peter said drily.

  Susan saw Rowland frown. “What will you do, Peter?” he asked.

  “I shall do what the prior tells me to. That is my duty since I have joined the order.”

  “And what will that be?”

  “I don’t know. He’s going to meet the heads of the other Carthusian houses. I imagine he’ll consult the brethren too. That would be proper.”

  For a moment nobody spoke. Then Rowland quietly asked: “If you were prior, Peter, what would you decide?”

  “Me?” He did not even hesitate. “I should refuse.”

  Susan went cold. “You can’t mean that!” she cried. “It would be treason!”

  “No,” he said quite coolly, “not really. Parliament can decide many things. It can decide the succession, certainly. But Parliament is not competent to alter Man’s relationship to God. If they insist on calling it treason, I can’t help it. As for me, don’t forget that I took vows to a higher authority long ago.” He looked at her kindly and his tone was matter-of-fact. “There’s no getting round it, you know. Henry’s trying to become the spiritual authority and he can’t. I’m sorry. And as for this Cromwell business, this Vicegerent,” he pronounced the word with mild contempt as he gazed steadily at Thomas. “The Church spiritual to be run by the king’s lackey? Obscene. Of course I can’t accept it.”

  “You would court death?” Thomas asked in surprise.

  But his brother only shrugged with a trace of impatience. “Court it? No. Why should I court it? But what would you have me do? Swear to this nonsense?” He turned to Susan and Rowland. “This is the trouble with being in power, like Thomas here. It’s very difficult, you see. They want to get things done and sooner or later they always forget their principles.” He turned back to Thomas. “Either something is right, or it’s wrong, my friend.”

  “So what,” Rowland said very quietly, “should a man like me do?”

  Susan looked at Peter in anguish. He saw and understood, but his expression did not change as he surveyed the two of them calmly. “I think,” he said, with consideration, “that there’s no necessity for the laity to intervene. It’s the monks who are being challenged, and it’s up to us to respond.”

  “But if it’s wrong,” Rowland began, “surely any Christian . . .” His voice trailed off.

  “We are warned not to seek martyrdom,” Peter replied gently. “It’s a spiritual error.” He smiled. “A family man like you, with those God-given responsibilities –” He reached across and placed his hand over Rowland’s. “I should leave it to the monks. That’s what we’re there for.”

  Susan sighed with relief.

  “What if I were asked to take an oath?” Rowland asked. “You won’t be,” she cut in. But Rowland was not satisfied. He looked uncertainly at Peter. Please God, Susan thought, let him give the right answer.

  Peter gazed at him thoughtfully. “You have a wife and children,” he said gently. “I cannot tell you what to do.”

  It was not enough. She waited, in vain, for more. And now, looking with terror at the two men, so alike, she almost cried aloud: oh, why, Peter, why did you have to come back?

  The two men were standing in the Great Hall at Hampton Court and Carpenter was proudly showing Dan Dogget his handiwork. It was an extraordinary structure. The palace at Hampton had originally been built by Wolsey and it was large then, but Henry seemed to make it huger every year; and of all his additions, none was more splendid than the hall. It took up the entire side of one courtyard and was three storeys high. At one end, a vast window, like one of the great curtains of glass in a Perpendicular church, let in a pleasant light through its stained glass. The outside brickwork was painted and even the mortar between the bricks was picked out in grey. The floor was of red tile, the walls hung with great heraldic tapestries. But most spectacular of all was the mighty hammerbeam roof. And it was to this now that Carpenter was proudly pointing.

  The English hammerbeam was not just a roof, it was an institution. Invented in the Middle Ages, this useful piece of engineering had proved so pleasing to everyone that it was to last, even when not really needed structurally, for centuries. Soaring, yet sturdy, elaborately carved and painted, yet massively solid, it was everything the English liked. There was the great early hammerbeam in Westminster Hall. Every London guild or livery company that could afford a hall would want one; Oxford and Cambridge colleges boasted sumptuous examples.

  The wooden hammerbeam roof was simply a series of partial arches – exactly like wall brackets – arranged one on top of, and jutting out from, another. By building a line of these brackets out from each side of a wide hall, and joining them above with a great beam, a big space could easily be crossed and a heavy roof supported.

  It was, indeed, magnificent. There were eight of these mighty oak hammerbeam arrangements down the length of the hall, dividing the roof space into seven compartments. At the foot of each was a huge wooden corbel; from the end of each bracket a heavy wooden pendant hung in the space overhead. And all these, together with many of the other details, were elaborately carved in gleaming, oaken magnificence.

  “I did some of those,” Carpenter said.

  So perfectly were the accounts of the works at Hampton Court kept that every scrap of painting, carpentry and masonry carried out during those years was detailed with the name of the craftsman and what he was paid. Carpenter was thus already, as perhaps all men are, immortal without knowing it.

  “So what news of your father?” the craftsman asked his brother-in-law, as they left the Hall together. “Has he kept to quarters?”

  And now Dan was able to surprise him. “It seems,” he said, “he’s reformed.”

  It was Father Peter Meredith’s arrival in the Charterhouse that seemed to be the cause of this miracle. No one could say quite how he had done it: perhaps it was his spiritual influence, or perhaps he just kept the old man company; but within a week Will Dogget had attached himself to the priest. “As long as Father Peter’s around the old man seems perfectly happy,” Dan said.
“It’s the most remarkable thing I’ve ever seen.”

  “Better hope the priest stays there,” said Carpenter.

  Outside Newgate and a little way westward across the Holborn there was a modest stone church dedicated to St Etheldreda, a saintly Anglo-Saxon princess in the island’s early Christian days nearly a thousand years before. During the Middle Ages, the bishops of Ely had built their London mansion beside it, surrounding the whole with a big walled enclosure and using the church as their chapel; but it was still open to any of the faithful who chose to venture for spiritual refreshment within its old grey walls.

  On a bright day early in March Rowland Bull, coming from the Charterhouse and intending to walk down Chancery Lane on his way to Westminster, caught sight of the roof of St Etheldreda’s over the bishop’s wall and, on a sudden impulse, decided to go in.

  Spring was in the air as he passed through the gateway. The first green buds were on the trees; beside the path to the chapel were little clumps of white and violet crocuses; and on a grassy bank, some yellow daffodils. There was a faint, sharp smell of freshly turned earth in the damp air. St Etheldreda’s consisted of two parts: the upper, raised well above ground level was a handsome chapel with a fine window taking up much of its western wall; the lower, called the crypt, was only a few steps down and, though smaller than the chapel above, was often used for services. Finding this lower space empty, Rowland went in.

  The crypt was a quiet place. On his left was a small altar beside which, in the shadow, he could see the tiny red glow of the Host. At the far end, on his right, set in the upper part of the wall, was a window of green glass which provided the crypt’s soft illumination. Just below it was an old stone font with Saxon carving. In the middle of the floor were some benches and kneeling pads, where Rowland knelt down to pray.

  There were so many things troubling his mind. His meeting with Peter had brought him no comfort. The Charterhouse monks were praying for guidance. The prior was going to ask Cromwell to let them take a less objectionable oath. “But he’ll refuse,” Peter had predicted. “He’s got to break us.” Either the Carthusians would yield to Henry’s will, or be found guilty of treason. Even now he found it hard to believe: the saintly Charterhouse monks, going like criminals to execution? The idea was so outlandish it seemed unreal. Could King Henry really do such a thing? “Certainly,” Peter had said. “Who will stop him?” But a traitor’s death? That was a fearful thing: the lucky few went to the block, but most died by the harsh old medieval way – hanged first, taken down still conscious, their bowels cut out and their limbs hacked off before their eyes. He pictured the nerve-searing horror of it and shuddered.