by Iris Collier
‘Peverell, isn’t it time you returned to your duties in Sussex?’
‘Your Grace, I have enjoyed your excellent hospitality but I am aware that I have work waiting for me back home.’
‘You have indeed got work to do. You’re becoming idle, Peverell. Too much soft living. Too much dalliance with Lady Frances Bonville.’
‘Lady Frances is indeed a beautiful woman,’ said Nicholas evenly, wondering when the King would stop all this preliminary fencing and get to the point. ‘However, your Grace knows that my wife Mary still holds chief place in my affections and I am not yet ready to seek other company.’
‘Yes, yes, I know all that. But I didn’t summon you all this way to talk about affairs of the heart. I wonder if you have any idea that the part of Sussex you live in has become a nest of traitors? Conspirators, Peverell, that would have me off the throne. Do I take you by surprise?’ he said as Nicholas stared at him in astonishment.
‘You seem much better informed than I am, your Grace.’
‘Of course I am,’ the King roared. ‘Damn it, man, do you take me for a fool? It’s my business to know what’s going on in my kingdom, and let me tell you that I don’t like what I see, neither do I like what’s going on under your nose in Sussex. Fortunately I have people in strategic places who send me reports. My loyal Southampton assiduously watches the ports in your county and intercepts messages. We have enemies everywhere, Peverell, and whilst you tend that garden of yours and dine with that fat Prior, my enemies plot to remove me from the throne and put one of those damn relatives of my late, beloved mother on it. Yes, yes, Peverell, it’s time you knew you were living next door to Yorkist traitors who were actually corresponding with that accursed priest, Reginald Pole and his brother. Those two are the bane of my life. Reginald Pole is over on the Continent drumming up support for his base ambitions, and your neighbour keeps in touch regularly. But little did he know that all his diabolical letters have been read by my loyal Southampton. It was a flash of real genius when I made him Lord Admiral of the Fleet.’
‘My neighbour, your Grace?’
‘Yes, you’re a fool, Peverell. A blind fool; you and that Sheriff of Marchester. You seem to live in a different world from the rest of us. It doesn’t do to be a dreamer, Peverell. The conspiracy’s common knowledge – it’s even got a name – Day of Wrath – and you know nothing about it. Its leader, Roger Mortimer, lived next door to you, and you saw nothing and heard nothing.’
‘I see little of Sir Roger, your Grace. He lives a quiet life.’
‘Lived, Peverell, lived. He’s under arrest, and also that Yorkist wife of his. They’re on their way to the Tower, and will be interrogated. I’ve flushed out the conspiracy before it’s really begun, and all we need now is for Mortimer to name names. That’s only a matter of time. Not many people remain silent after a spell in the Tower.’
‘Your Grace, I am astounded. Mortimer’s been arrested whilst I’ve been up here and I wasn’t even consulted?’
‘Why should you be? Southampton’s got me the evidence we needed. If I’d asked you you’d only raise objections, tell me what a good fellow he was, how much his wife loves him and I should think about his family.’
‘I would certainly ask your Grace to spare his family. One of his children is a babe in arms.’
‘I’m not a cruel man, Peverell. Of course the children will be spared. They can go back to his wife’s family. But I need his wife. He’s more likely to talk if she’s around.’
He turned away to look out of the window, and Nicholas felt sickened. He’d never had much in common with Sir Roger, but he didn’t deserve what was going to happen to him. No human being should suffer like that. He hoped desperately for the Mortimers’ sake that the impending interrogation would come to a speedy conclusion. But he had his doubts. Sir Roger was a fanatic, and a stubborn one at that.
‘Well, Peverell,’ said the King, turning round to look at Nicholas. ‘Do you still think I’m lacking in compassion? No, don’t answer. I see that look on your face. You always were too soft. It will be your downfall. There’s no place in this country for weakness. It’s my destiny to be a strong ruler. This country needs me. And nothing is going to deter me. The Mortimers of this world must be eliminated. This continual plotting must stop.
‘I’m surprised at you, Nicholas,’ he said, coming over and putting an arm round Nicholas’s shoulders. ‘I didn’t think there was any love between you and Sir Roger. After all, he had your steward killed. A good man, I believe.’
‘Your Grace has heard that?’
‘It’s my business to hear everything. And this business of your steward has interested me greatly. Hayward overheard Mortimer’s infernal plotting with Fitzroy. Fortunately Fitzroy valued his life, and would have nothing to do with it. But Hayward was discovered and had to be got rid of. Your servant, Giles Yelman, was Mortimer’s agent and arranged his murder. Now, Nicholas, my loyal subject, what do you think of that? You’ve been living all this time in the midst of a den of vipers, and you didn’t suspect anything. Well, it’s over now. Yelman was caught by the Sheriff on the Portsmouth road soon after you left to come here, and it didn’t take much to make him confess. But this is all by the by. We’ve caught the ringleader. It’s only a matter of time before Mortimer confesses, so you can go home and sleep in peace. There, what do you think of a King who solves all your problems, Nicholas?’
‘I am amazed at your Grace’s perceptiveness,’ said Nicholas, wishing the King would release him from his embrace. And the efficiency of your intelligence network is truly amazing, he thought.
‘It’s my wish to be your friend, Nicholas. And friends look after one another, don’t they?’ said the King, tightening his grip on Nicholas’s shoulder. ‘And now it’s your turn to look after me. I know you’re loyal. The Peverells always have been. After all, you’ve fought our battles for us down the ages; one of your ancestors was governor of Dover Castle when the first William was on the throne. And you’ve not a drop of treachery in you.’
‘Then what does your Grace want of me?’ said Nicholas, as the King released him and walked back to the window.
‘The conspiracy known as the Day of Wrath has been destroyed. Mortimer will give us more names. One of those treacherous priests at Marchester Cathedral, the Precentor, of all people, Rodney Catchpole, has been arrested with Mortimer; they were as thick as thieves, you know. They plotted to get the Bishop of Rome reinstated in this country. But there will be others; you may be sure of that. And your county seems to be particularly prone to treasonable activities. Too many of my mother’s relatives live there, and I can’t eliminate them all. Now I want you to keep an eye on things down there, Peverell. Watch Fitzroy. So far he’s kept his nose clean. He likes his castle in Arundel. He’s not a fool like Mortimer. But he might be tempted. Watch him, Peverell. And send your reports to me. You and my loyal Southampton will be my ears and eyes. You’re going to help me clean up your county. I don’t want this country plunged back into civil war. My father ended all that on the field of Bosworth, and it will never happen again as long as I live. I hope you share my sentiments, Peverell.’
‘Indeed I do, your Grace; and I hope to God that those times never happen again.’
‘Then live up to your family’s motto and I’ll not forget you. I’m not ungrateful, you know. I look after my friends.’
‘I shall never be disloyal, but I don’t like the idea of spying on my friends.’
‘Oh, but you must, Peverell,’ said the King, coming over and putting his face very close to Nicholas’s so that he could feel his soft, red-gold beard brushing his own. ‘To have friends is a luxury we can’t afford in these times. Don’t trust anyone, Peverell. You’re naive, but you will change. Everyone does who works for me. Otherwise they don’t last long. I want you as one of my spies. And I won’t forget you. I might even consider that Priory of yours. Have a word with Thomas Cromwell before you go. He’ll sort it out for you. I know you’ll be lo
yal, but I also know how much you value that chantry chapel of yours. With luck you may still be buried in it. Now get back to your manor. Oh yes, it’s my fancy at the moment, now that the weather’s warm and pleasant, to come and visit you in your rural solitude. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Peverell? How do you feel about entertaining me and my Queen? I’ll not stay long. Only a night or two. I might even stay with Fitzroy on my way back to London. No ceremony, now. I’m a simple man. Just light meals, some exercise. Do the Queen good. Oh yes, you’re short of a steward aren’t you? I’ll send one of my own and a few servants to help prepare the meals,’ he said, grinning enthusiastically at Nicholas. ‘See how thoughtful I am. I never want to inconvenience my friends. You see, I think it’s time I went to see my fleet at Portsmouth – sometime in early June. It’s my wish to build the fleet up into a fine fighting force. Got to keep invaders at bay, Peverell. Enemies at home and abroad – that’s my lot. Fix it up with Cromwell; he knows my timetable. Now be off with you, and remember, you are my eyes and ears in Sussex. See that you live up to your family’s motto.’
Nicholas bowed, and left the King. He was appalled at what he’d been told. Mortimer arrested; and Rodney Catchpole. Giles Yelman caught and interrogated, and the King coming to pay him a visit. And now for Thomas Cromwell.
Chapter Eight
Thomas Cromwell, Secretary of State, Chancellor of the Exchequer and Privy Councillor, was never far away from his royal master. He was sitting behind his desk in the anteroom to the King’s private sanctuary, a plain, stocky figure dressed in a sombre grey robe over his doublet and hose, and, despite the warmth of the spring weather, a log crackled in the fireplace and two chairs were drawn up cosily on either side to catch the heat. Cromwell got up when Nicholas came in and went across to the fire. He stood there warming his back and rubbing his hands together in the nervous gesture of someone who was not quite at ease in his surroundings. However, he hid his lack of social graces with a bluff, slightly ingratiating manner which Nicholas found intensely irritating. But he was not blind to Cromwell’s undoubted talents, which had been finely honed in the service of the great cardinal, and which King Henry had so promptly recognised and rewarded with high office. Nicholas knew it was fatal to underestimate him. Already people called him ‘malleus monachorum’, the hammer of the monks, and the fate of his Priory and his chantry was in this man’s hands. He was the King’s man through and through. Whatever King Henry wanted, Thomas Cromwell made it his business to provide him with it.
That morning, his plain, pale face creased into a genial smile. He looked what he was, a man of the marketplace, a manipulator of parliaments, a cynical manipulator of men.
‘Welcome back to Court, Lord Nicholas. What can I do for you?’
‘The King wants to visit my house in Sussex, Master Cromwell, and you, so I’ve been told, look after his engagement diary.’
‘That is my privilege, my Lord. Now, let me see, he goes to Portsmouth on 7th June to review his fleet…’
‘Then I can expect to see him on the 6th?’
‘Yes, I can see no obstacle. An interview with the new legate from Constantinople on the 5th, but after that he’s free. I must say, my Lord, I am most envious of you. Fancy owning a house so near the sea and yet so close to the Downs when the weather becomes intolerably hot.’
‘Do you propose to come with him?’
‘I might, my Lord, I might. It would be a good opportunity to meet my two Commissioners, who will be at your Priory by then. They’ll be making their report and I can see for myself the Priory and that chantry chapel of yours which you seem so fond of.’
‘My family have always been the Priory’s patrons. The first Peverell was its founder.’
‘Quite so, quite so. Somewhat diminished in size now, I understand. Only eighteen monks?’
‘Seventeen. One is still a novice.’
‘Still, quite small. Now about this chantry chapel – it’s very beautiful, I suppose.’
‘I hope so. I built it for my wife to rest there and I hope to join her when my time comes. I shall die in peace knowing that the monks will sing masses for my family in perpetuity.’
‘In perpetuity, my Lord? Come now, that’s a bit ambitious. Perhaps you haven’t quite realised that the King has decided to put an end to such superstitious practices?’
‘I think it’s for me to judge whether they’re superstitious or not, Master Cromwell.’
‘Of course, everyone is entitled to his own private opinions, my Lord, but we should not let them come between us and the King’s policy. He wants the monks dismissed. He regards them as a bunch of useless parasites. They toil not, neither do they spin…’
‘They pray for us, have you forgotten that,’ Nicholas shouted, annoyed at Cromwell’s cynicism.
‘Oh prayers! Anyone can say those. You don’t need a lot of idle fellows chanting prayers for your soul. We pray for the King and his ministers every Sunday, surely that’s enough. Archbishop Cranmer is drawing up a new prayer book that will cover every aspect of our lives. We don’t need the monks. They’re out of date. The monks will have to go, my Lord, you can be sure of that. I am preparing the legislation. By this time next year the Act will be through parliament and will be law. Don’t try to turn the clock back, my Lord. It’s not worth the effort.’
‘You call it progress to evict hundreds of innocent men and women to beg on the street?’
‘Come, come, my Lord, don’t be so melodramatic. We’re not that heartless. All your monks will be given pensions, generous ones at that. The Court of Augmentations is talking about six pounds a year and they can take their beds and habits with them when they leave. Some will probably become local parish priests. Your Prior, if he’s co-operative, as I’m sure he will be, could be offered the job of Precentor to Marchester Cathedral. You see, we think of everything.’
‘And the Priory? What have you in mind for that?’
‘Nothing as yet, my Lord. We haven’t had the valuation. Of course the King will be entitled to the church furnishings, the bells will be melted down in the royal arsenal at Woolwich to make guns. Much more practical. The gold and silver plate will be sold, of course, to pay for the refurbishing of the King’s fleet.’
Nicholas was appalled. This man had thought of everything: pensions, jobs, the church plate …
‘Do you realise that these things you take so lightly were given by my ancestors to the Priory to be used in the worship of God, not to be sold off to pay for guns and explosives and fund the navy?’
‘Oh, we’ll be reasonable, my Lord; we’re not insensitive. We’ll let you keep some of the church furnishings for future use. Of course,’ Cromwell said, rubbing his hands together and looking keenly at Nicholas, ‘there is one way you could still enjoy your church and retain your chantry chapel for future generations…’
So this was what it was all coming to, thought Nicholas bitterly. The marketplace haggle had started.
‘Please state your terms, Master Cromwell.’
‘Now, now, this is no time for cynicism, my Lord. We talk of serious matters and you talk like a jobbing lawyer. When the monks leave…’
‘And are you so sure of that?’ shouted Nicholas, angry that this man, who had started off as a jobbing lawyer in Putney, should adopt this patronising tone.
Cromwell looked pained. ‘We administrators have to look ahead. There’s no doubt that the monks will leave. As I said, I am in the process of drafting the legislation. I, personally, shall steer it through parliament. This time next year, these small monasteries will be closed down. Then we shall turn our attention to the great ones, like Glastonbury and Malmesbury. Now, let’s be clear, what I am saying is this: all these buildings will become vacant, including your Priory. The King will no doubt put in stewards to look after the properties until they are sold. Yours, I think, will be offered to Fitzroy for safe keeping. But there’s nothing to stop him from putting it up for sale. You could buy it, my Lord.’
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�Buy it?’ roared Nicholas. ‘Sold like any common house or mill or farm?’
‘My Lord, your attitude amazes me. Without the monks, the priories and abbeys are just buildings; some, admittedly, very fine. But they are buildings none the less. Take your Priory as an example. It could be sold for some pious purpose, an extension of the parish church, or a theological college, or some other type of teaching establishment. Or it could simply be turned into a fine country house. Don’t you understand what I’m saying, my Lord? Make the King an offer. I’ll see that you get a good deal. Don’t look so angry. Your Priory isn’t one of the wealthy ones. I’ve been told it’s only worth a couple of hundred pounds a year. I’m only saying that if you offered us a sum that was acceptable you could safeguard your chantry and that fine painted ceiling which your father commissioned. It should remain in your family. Think about it. You’ll see the sense of it, I’m sure. If you don’t buy it, others will. Fitzroy has already expressed an interest in it. As soon as the legislation is passed the monastic buildings will be sold off like hot cakes. And I’m trying to tell you that you’ll be head of the queue, and still you look furious.’
‘Yes, I am furious, Master Cromwell. And dumbfounded that all this has been planned without any consultation with the monks.’
‘Consultation? Of course we’re in consultation. My Commissioners are on their way to your Priory at this very moment.’
‘You call that a consultation? It sounds like a fait accompli to me. They’ll enjoy the Prior’s hospitality, and leave with a list of trumped-up accusations of vice and corruption, all of which are untrue. Don’t try to fool me, Master Cromwell. What you are doing is a disgrace. You are turning England upside down. We shall become a country where God has been pushed out and our churches turned into ruins.’
‘We must move with the times, my Lord. The King wants the Pope brought to heel and the monks evicted. Their great estates will be the country houses of the future. I am only suggesting that you make the most of this opportunity.’