London

by Edward Rutherfurd

  Trying to escape the vision, he allowed his eyes to wander round the crypt, and caught sight of the Host, glowing in the shadows. Christian faith can lead to martyrdom, the little red light seemed to be silently reminding him. Wasn’t the religion he held so dear founded upon exactly such sacrifice?

  And after the horror, after death – what then? Eternal peace, said the red flame. Salvation. He hoped so. He believed with all his heart it must be so. Yet even for the most devout, there is nearly always the awful doubt. What if it were not so after all? What if a man lost the only life he had, and went into eternal night for nothing? Looking away from that pinpoint of light, his eyes came to rest upon the old font at the other end of the crypt. How peaceful it looked, bathed in the greenish beams from the window; how quietly it seemed to speak of the spring day outside. He thought of his little house at Chelsea, his library, his wife and children. How precious they were. With a sudden vividness, he knew how much he desired life.

  For long minutes he remained there on his knees, and once or twice looked upwards and murmured: “Lord: show me the way.”

  At last, when he received his answer, it was no flash of illumination that came, nor even a silent whisper from the altar. It was the memory of Peter’s words that day they had first discussed the question in the little house at Chelsea: “Either something is right, or it’s wrong, my friend.”

  It was not even his lawyer’s mind but something much more instinctive in him that finally understood what he must do. A thing was either true or false, right or wrong, black or white. It was not the religious scholar, it was the generations of Anglo-Saxon Bulls in him that knew it. The king’s claim was a lie. There was nothing more to say. He was either a Christian believer or he wasn’t. That was it. He felt relieved.

  But there remained Susan and the children and his moral obligation there. Now his lawyer’s mind interposed. That too was a claim that must be satisfied.

  As he quietly left St Etheldreda’s and walked out through the walled garden Rowland knew what he must do.

  Susan stared at Rowland; at first she could hardly speak. It was dark outside, the children were in bed and they were alone. As much to give herself time to think as anything, she went over it carefully: “You think that the Charterhouse monks will refuse the oath?” He nodded. “But you believe that the king, even now, means to require the oath only from those, like the monks, who opposed him?”

  “I think so.”

  “You do not suppose he would require it of you.”

  “I took it before. Why should he trouble me?”

  “But if, by chance, the king altered his mind, and asked for the oath again . . .”

  “We must decide what I should do.”

  “So you have come to me, because you owe a duty to me as your wife, and to your children.” She nodded thoughtfully, and then, looking up, quietly spoke the terrible proposition he had made. “You are asking my permission to refuse the oath? You are asking if you may go to execution?”

  And returning her gaze with affection he calmly answered: “Yes.”

  From almost any other man, she supposed, it would have been a lie, an excuse. Tell me I must not go, he would have been saying. Let me be a coward with dignity. And, at that moment, she almost wished she had married a lesser man. But she knew that Rowland really meant it.

  This was her dilemma. In her innermost heart, she knew that Rowland and Peter were right. Yet here, also, was her pain: to know that, for the sake of the God they shared, he would rather leave her all alone. And worse yet, her knowledge as a wife, that if, to save her family, she refused her consent, he would accept it but, very likely never in his life forgive her.

  “You must do what your conscience tells you,” she therefore said. “I forbid you nothing.” She turned her face away, not only to hide her tears, but because she could not bear to see that she had made him happy.

  “It will not happen.” Thomas Meredith was adamant. “Unless he means to provoke the king deliberately, there is no danger,” he assured Susan. “I see Cromwell every day. I know exactly what is intended. The king will bring those who opposed him to heel. If those few, like the Charterhouse monks, still remain obstinate . . .” He grimaced. “I fear it may go hard with them.”

  “Poor Peter.”

  “I cannot help him,” he admitted sadly. “But Rowland,” he continued reassuringly, “is another case entirely. He took the original oath like everyone else. He is not under suspicion of any kind. Does he mean to speak out?”

  “No.”

  “Well then.” He smiled. “If his name were ever mentioned, which it will not be, I’ll assure Cromwell he is loyal.” He grinned. “Trust your brother. I’ll protect him.”

  “You are sure?”

  “I’m sure.” He kissed her. “You have nothing to fear.”

  It would be May tomorrow. The afternoon sun was pleasantly warm; there were yellow buttercups and cowslips in the meadows as the gilded royal barge slipped up the stream.

  Dan Dogget was smiling. There was no doubt about it, he had been lucky of late. And all thanks to Thomas Meredith. Was he free of worry, then? Almost, but not quite. He glanced back towards the covered cabin in the stern.

  The curtains of the cabin were drawn back, since the weather was warm, and the doorway was open so that, from where he sat amongst the oarsmen, Dan could see inside to where, on a broad, silk-covered seat, the two men were sitting: on the left, the big, bearded head of the king; on the right, the broad, pale and rather sulky face of Secretary Cromwell, murmuring something to him. Dan wondered what they were planning to do next.

  At last, after the long months during which he had quietly threatened all those who dared to oppose him, King Henry of England had struck with pinpoint accuracy. Only three men – the prior of the London Charterhouse and the priors of the two other houses – had been arrested for refusing to take the oath admitting his supremacy. The oath had not even been administered to the rest of the Charterhouse monks yet. Yesterday, in a private hearing in Westminster Hall, the three priors had been tried, with Cromwell presiding. Cranmer had pleaded for them, the jury had been unwilling to convict, but Cromwell had brushed their objections roughly aside and by noon all London knew: “They’ve been taken to the Tower. They’ll be executed in five days.”

  But what, Dan wondered, would this mean for him? Would Henry pursue the rest of the Charterhouse monks too? He guessed he would. And would they buckle when they saw the horror that was to come? He thought of Peter Meredith and suspected they would not. And if that happened, what would become of old Will?

  With a vague sense of misgiving, therefore, Daniel Dogget rowed the king to Hampton Court.

  He should not have entered the garden. He should have walked past when he heard the laughter. He had not realized that King Henry had arrived.

  He had kept his head down recently. He had attended to his duties assiduously; Cromwell had praised him. He had seen little of King Henry but was glad that few if anybody at court had been aware that his brother Peter had joined the offensive Charterhouse. As for the trial that day, word of the result had yet to reach Hampton Court. So it was with shock that he now beheld the king.

  There were only a few courtiers with King Henry. Wanting to stretch his legs after the long river journey, he had summoned them to attend upon him and Cromwell as they walked through the orchard. For no particular reason, he had turned into the quiet garden behind its high hedges only moments before Thomas entered.

  The king was in a jovial mood. He had been bringing order to his life recently. First there had been the queen. If Anne Boleyn was sometimes moody and jealous of his other loves, time spent with her recently, in the royal business of making an heir, had cured these domestic troubles. Indeed, he suspected she had already conceived. And now this business of the monks. He had just told the courtiers about the forthcoming executions and he could see that behind their polite faces there was a hint of fear. Good. Courtiers should be afraid of the king. I
ndeed, on the journey from London, he had been discussing whether he should apply the oath again more widely, to seek out any other opponents of his supremacy and strike them down too; but Cromwell had urged caution. “The fewer we have to destroy, the less opposition you will appear to have,” he had pointed out. He supposed it was true.

  But partly to irritate Cromwell, and partly to watch the courtiers tremble, he had just that moment returned to the theme. “Are you sure, Master Cromwell, that we should not demand the oath again? Why,” he allowed his eyes to wander round the little group, “there may be traitors even here, lurking in our midst.” He gave a great guffaw of laughter as his hard eye watched the courtiers blanch. And then he saw young Meredith.

  Henry liked Meredith. He remembered his father; Cromwell spoke well of his work. He remembered beating the young fellow at tennis, too. Seeing him now, therefore, hesitating bashfully at the garden entrance, he beckoned to him.

  “Come closer, Thomas Meredith,” he called with a smile. “We are discussing traitors.”

  The young man went deathly pale. Now why should he do that?

  From the labyrinth of Henry’s suspicious mind came a memory, of another encounter in this very garden; which, since it had not been flattering to himself, he had chosen to forget until this moment. A memory of a young woman’s reproachful look, a hint of disloyalty and impertinence. Hadn’t the girl been Meredith’s sister? He thought so. “Remind me, Thomas,” he suddenly said, “about the rest of your family.”

  Thomas stared. How much did he know? Was he thinking of Peter? Probably. He must have discovered that he was at the Charterhouse. That King Henry had Susan in mind, and that he had once encountered her before, in this very garden, he had no idea.

  “I have a brother, sire,” he began cautiously. “A priest until he became ill, and retired.”

  “Indeed?” Henry had not known. “And where is he now?”

  He must know. It was a trap. Or even if it wasn’t, he would probably soon discover. Useless to deceive him, either way.

  “In the Charterhouse,” he replied miserably.

  Everything went very quiet.

  “The Charterhouse?” There was no mistaking his surprise. He had not known. His voice was now a rasp. “I hope you do not share their opinions. Their prior is about to die.” He glanced at Cromwell.

  “Meredith is loyal, sire.” Cromwell’s reply was instant. Thank God. Henry nodded. “Good.” But Thomas knew he did not like these surprises; and Henry clearly had not done with him yet. “What other family have you, Master Meredith?” he quietly continued.

  “Only a sister, sire.” Surely that could not interest him.

  “Married? To whom?”

  “Rowland Bull, sire.” He tried to keep calm, hoped the sudden trembling that afflicted him had not been noticed.

  “Bull?” Henry seemed to be searching his mind. “In the chancellor’s office?” Thomas nodded, as King Henry stared, apparently at the hedge.

  Yes. That was the woman. Henry hid a grimace. The one with the look: the living reproach. One did not look at kings like that.

  “And are Mistress Bull and her husband loyal?” He turned to Cromwell who in turned gazed at Thomas. They waited for him.

  “They are loyal, Your Majesty.”

  For a few seconds Henry was silent, nodding quietly to himself before he spoke.

  “We do not doubt it, Master Meredith.” His voice was quietly dry. Then he turned to his minister. “So we think, Cromwell, that Mistress Bull and her husband should take the oath. Let it be done tomorrow morning, before the sun is up. That is our will.” It was a command. Cromwell bowed his head. And now, suddenly, King Henry beamed at them all. “We have a better idea yet. Our loyal servant, young Master Meredith here, shall go to administer the oath to them himself. See it is done. How’s that?”

  And he let out a great laugh that echoed round the garden.

  The barge had left Hampton Court before dawn. For hours only the muffled sound of the oars had broken the silence as it passed through the greyness; and the mist was still swirling around Thomas’s feet as he reached the threshold of the little house at Chelsea. Once again Susan was dully repeating: “He will not take the oath.”

  They had been arguing for over half an hour, in urgent whispers. Rowland, still unaware of his presence, had not yet come down; the children were sleeping. Again and again she had reproached him: “You promised this would not happen. You promised.”

  There was only one thing he did not understand. So desperate, so guilty had her reproaches made him feel that, to defend himself, he had tried to explain to her exactly how he had come upon the king in the garden, and how Henry had so unexpectedly started to ask about his family. She became suddenly thoughtful then, and quiet, before at last she softly said: “Then it was my fault, too.”

  What had she meant by that? Above all, what were they to do? “I shall take the oath,” Susan said simply. He knew she believed in it no more than Rowland. Yet wasn’t there a chance, when Rowland saw her submit, came face to face with the awful consequences of his decision for his family, that he might take the oath after all? But Susan only shook her head and in a voice made small by her rising tears, answered: “No. He won’t.”

  Which left him one alternative. He had considered it last night, and all the way down the river from Hampton Court. He had prayed it would not be necessary: the risks were terrifying and it might not even work. But as he looked at his sister and saw her pain, it seemed to him that he must try. The sun had already dissolved the mist as far as the river’s edge when Rowland took the oath. He did so calmly and without fuss, then smiled at his wife who looked back at him with relief.

  “I had not thought I could,” he remarked. And best of all, his conscience was clear.

  Thomas Meredith smiled. “I’m glad,” he said.

  It had not been so difficult. He had taken the greatest care, made Rowland repeat the words after him so that his lawyer’s mind could precisely understand their significance; and then, satisfied that his religion was not compromised, Rowland had sworn the oath.

  Thomas had simply administered the wrong oath.

  Or, to be precise, he had doctored it. The oath he had administered to his brother-in-law was hardly different from the one he had been prepared to swear about the succession the previous year. Above all, after a brief mention of Henry’s supremacy, he had added a crucial saving clause: “As far as the Word of God allows.” It was an old stand-by of the Church, this little clause, and they both knew it. With this qualifier, good Catholics could, if necessary, disclaim any improper interpretation the king might place upon the oath in the future. With it, Henry’s claim to supremacy became virtually meaningless. Had even the Charterhouse monks been allowed this saver, they too could have sworn in good conscience.

  “I am surprised the king allowed the disclaimer,” Rowland remarked.

  “It’s a special dispensation,” Thomas lied. “Those who opposed him publicly are being given a tougher oath. But nobody wants to embarrass loyal men like yourself. You mustn’t discuss it though. If anyone asks, just say you’ve taken the oath. You know what you’ve sworn to: that’s enough.” And though Rowland frowned a little, he agreed to abide by this.

  Let’s just pray, Thomas thought, that it works.

  “I must go now,” he said aloud. “I have to report to the king.” And then turned in surprise, as he saw Susan, with a look of horror on her face, staring out of the window.

  Cromwell did not trouble to knock on the door. He stepped straight in. Two assistants hovered just outside while two men-at-arms waited by his barge.

  “I have administered the oath,” Thomas began, but Cromwell cut him short.

  “Rowland Bull,” the secretary’s face was turned to the lawyer. The small, deadly eyes seemed to see no one else. “Do you accept the king’s supremacy in all matters temporal and spiritual?”

  Rowland was very pale now. He glanced at Thomas for guidance, then at Susan
. “Yes,” he replied hesitantly. “As far as the Word of God allows.”

  “Word of God?” Cromwell shot a glance at Thomas then stared at Rowland. “Never mind the Word of God, Master Bull. Do you or do you not, without any disclaimer, acknowledge King Henry as Supreme Head in matters spiritual? Yes or no?”

  There was an agonizing pause.

  “I cannot.”

  “As I thought. Treason. Open and shut case. Say goodbye to your wife.” He called outside to his assistants. “Bring the guards.”

  And only then did he turn to Thomas. “You fool,” he muttered. “Thought you’d save him with a let-out clause, then tell the king he’d taken the oath?” Thomas was too shocked even to answer. “Don’t you realize,” Cromwell growled, “the king wasn’t interested in this fellow. He was testing you. Wanted to see what you’d do. He was going to send someone else to give him the oath afterwards, to check up on you.” He grunted. “I’ve just saved your life.” Then, turning back to Rowland: “Your life, I’m afraid, you have just lost.” He nodded curtly to Susan. “You can give him some clothes. He’s going with us now, to the Tower.”

  Father Peter Meredith received two visitors at the Charterhouse that day. He was a little unwell, so he remained seated in his cell while old Will Dogget brought them to him. The first was Susan. She was very quiet as she stood before him, yet he thought he detected a faint note of reproach as well as desperation in her voice. Her request was simple.