by G Lawrence
“If, in normal churches, statues were removed,” I went on. “It would allow your people to concentrate on the worship of God the Father, rather than on saints. And at the same time, an English Bible would teach them all they do not presently understand.”
“I have long thought we should have a Bible in our mother-tongue,” said Henry.
I smiled. What a lie! Henry had been against this for a long time, but now that it seemed almost patriotic to have one, he believed the thought had come from him. I did not correct him. It was better to have Henry think he was the author of this notion, and strive ahead with all the passion of the first convert to a faith.
*
Later that month, after the Emperor had won a stunning victory against the Ottomans, Henry told Chapuys that he yearned for reconciliation with Charles. I doubt he wanted anything of the kind. Charles was nine years Henry’s junior, and was now in possession of an Empire that stretched from southern Italy to Austria and across the tumbling, heaving oceans to the New World. He had raised a fleet like the conquerors of old, beaten back the infidel, and now might turn his attention on either troublesome France, or obstinate England. Henry did not like those who accomplished more than him.
It was important to win the Emperor’s friendship. Relying on France was impractical, and both Henry and I were unnerved by the Emperor’s war skills. We were truly alone; a stone shelf lingering in the wide open seas, surrounded by foes.
When Cromwell heard of the Emperor’s victory, I thought he might pass out, for a few moments, he seemed to cease breathing.
The Emperor’s triumph stirred people into action. Katherine wrote to her nephew and to the Pope, urging intervention in England, but neither was listening. Chapuys hoped for better treatment for his two beloved women, but it never happened. Henry took to playing mind games with Dinteville. He insinuated that he and Charles were close friends, in regular correspondence, in an effort to get the French worried enough to capitulate, but Chapuys informed his fellow ambassador that no such relationship existed, sullying our chances.
Chapuys might not have welcomed Henry’s friendship, but the Emperor did. He had no wish for England to make alliance with France, especially not after he had secured a peace treaty with them, on most favourable terms, upon the discovery of their friendship with the infidels. If France joined with England they would be made stronger, and even if he disliked Henry’s treatment of his aunt and cousin, Charles of Spain was not about to let that interfere when it came to politics. In response, we become colder to the French than ever before. The new ambassador, Antoine de Castelnau, the Bishop of Tarbes, was affronted when Henry refused permission for him to use Bridewell Place as an embassy as his predecessors had. Cromwell made a point of avoiding the ambassador, and Chapuys was invited to court each day, so Henry might flatter him.
Henry came to me often. His affection for Mary Shelton was on the wane, and everyone was wondering who would be his next mistress. But as More and Fisher edged ever closer to the executioner’s block, as Charles of Spain roared about the Mediterranean, and as France tried to hide behind diplomacy, Henry turned to me. In times of trouble, I was the courage he lacked and the strength he supped from.
At night, as he twitched in nightmares born of dread, I would pull him close. I heard the whimper of a small boy emerge from the mouth of this almighty King, but as I held him, his demons departed. In my arms, Henry of England slept like a baby.
*
As June unfolded, and a flaming heat wave broke over England, almost suffocating the land, More stood firm. Perhaps it was fitting that his resistance should be rigid in this month, for it seemed time had become still, seared into position by the glaring sun.
The hedgerows were ablaze with flowers, the fields a haze of yellow. Hoverflies held still, their invisible wings whirring in the shimmering air. Dog roses scrambled up haw and blackthorn, and swifts screamed through the heavens. Owl chicks blinked in the faded light of barns, and field mice emerged, dashing through the dry dust on the floor of storehouses. The air was rich with scent and pollen, but the heat was oppressive, clinging, and exhausting. England held her breath, waiting for a cool breeze, for a raindrop, for a sign that we were not abandoned to this tyrannical heat for the rest of time.
And it was then we had terrible news.
Tyndale had been arrested in Antwerp.
“Why did he not go to ground?” I whispered to Doctor Butts. “I sent men to warn him.”
“That was some time ago, madam,” said the poor man, who was just as concerned as I. “It may be that he grew careless as time went on and nothing happened.” Butts paused. “But I have intelligence, my lady, that Thomas More may have been working with Bishop Stokesley to have him captured.”
“From within the Tower?” I asked, although it was not as unlikely as it sounded. After his harsh incarceration some time ago, Henry had allowed his once-friend privileges again. The hope was that this would make More malleable, but clearly the ex-Chancellor had used his liberty for other purposes.
I called Cranmer to my chambers as Butts left. “We must aid Tyndale,” I said. “Much as we did with Bourbon. What can be done? The King is seeking reconciliation with the Emperor. Can we work through those channels?”
“The King wants Tyndale in England, so he might execute him, Majesty,” said Cranmer, twisting the rings upon his fingers. “I do not think he would agree to save him.”
“Let me work on him,” I said, thinking of how reliant Henry had been on me in the past few weeks. I was sure I could convince him. “If we can first ensure Tyndale’s escape from the Emperor, we can work on the King’s mercy.”
Cranmer agreed to aid me, although he insisted it would have to be in secret. I understood. Henry was becoming a changeable beast, and Cranmer, even though he knew Henry loved him, was wary of his temper.
We learned that Tyndale had been betrayed by a friend… his own Judas. Henry Phillips was the son of a Dorset landowner who was also a Member of Parliament. Phillips was an Oxford graduate, with a bright future, who arrived in Antwerp apparently ready to embrace all that was new and evangelical. Tyndale and he had become friends, and had dined together often. Some of Tyndale’s companions were mistrustful, but Tyndale believed in his friend.
Tyndale, for all his wisdom, did not understand of the minds of men.
Tyndale did not know the lad was not what he appeared to be. Phillips had robbed his father upon leaving home, and had lost much of that money through gambling. A year later, he had somehow come into money, enabling him to enter the University of the Louvain, a conservative, Catholic institution. None of this did he tell Tyndale, for his friend would not have trusted that an avowed Catholic would be his friend.
Tyndale opened his arms, not seeing the viper nestled at his breast.
Phillips was working for More and Stokesley. He went to the Imperial Court at Brussels and told them he could deliver their quarry. Since arresting someone of the protected English House was a delicate business, they had to wait until Tyndale was outside of its perimeter before making their move.
Phillips returned to Antwerp, borrowed money from Tyndale that he had no intention of repaying, and betrayed him. They ate dinner together one night and set out from Phillips’ home, making for the English House. Phillips insisted that Tyndale lead the way through a squat, dark alley. At the end, soldiers were waiting. They took Tyndale to the Procurer General. Later, he was taken to the Castle of Vilvoorde. His possessions were seized and searched, and his books, his most precious belongings, were taken from him.
Phillips rapidly became a poor man again, without means to earn another bag of silver.
Cranmer and Cromwell tried to discover the reason for Tyndale’s arrest, and therefore reach a possible defence. They found much. The mysterious benefactor who had supported Friar Peto, he who had preached against Henry, calling him Ahab, seemed to have been the one who gave money to Phillips. The name on all lips was that of Thomas More, working with his
friend Bishop Stokesley. There was no proof, but I believed this accusation was correct. More had wanted to do one last service for the God he believed would reward him in Heaven. He had brought Tyndale down.
Whilst Cranmer, Cromwell and I attempted to have Tyndale freed, Tyndale’s adversary, More, remained immoveable. He once more failed to swear the oath, and maintained his stance on the supremacy. He declared the oath was a double-edged sword. To use one edge, and refuse the oath would endanger his life, but to take the other, and swear, would imperil his soul.
In thinking on More, I also came to meditate on Katherine. “I think she has cursed me,” I said to Cranmer. “I will not bear a son whilst she and her daughter live.”
Seeing his face crinkle with doubt, I went on. “Why else would I suffer two failed pregnancies, Eminence? Why would God withhold His blessing?”
“Many women lose children, Majesty,” he said. “It does not hold there is a curse upon you.”
I looked out from the window into the gardens where a bright moon shone. The paths, the flowers, and the grassy knolls were bathed in bright, silver light. White roses glowed, illuminated into wider, deeper being by the moon’s radiance. Red roses were black spaces; deep, unending holes in the fabric of space and time. There was no grey, no half-light. There was only black, only white.
“Believe what you will,” I said. “I know the truth.”
I voiced these concerns to Henry, who agreed with me. There followed immediate rumours that Katherine and Mary would be executed, as Henry spoke openly of his distaste for them about court. Cromwell joined in, telling Chapuys that everything would be better if both women simply died. But no matter the threat, Katherine was undaunted.
“I am determined without doubt to die in this kingdom,” she said to her servants.
If only Katherine would die, I thought. If only this ghost in my mind would become one in truth. People would stop seeing her at my elbow. Peace might be reached with Spain. My daughter would be secure. I might be less afraid.
If only you would die, I thought one evening as the wolf light fell.
Do you never think, Mistress Boleyn, how many say the same of you?
I shook my head and marched out to my privy garden to clear my head in the chilled twilight. Even in my own mind, Katherine always got the last word.
*
Late that May, another three monks stood trial for denying the supremacy. Cromwell was on the board of judges, and would be so again, some days later, when Bishop Fisher was tried. Just like before, with the Carthusians, Cromwell put pressure on the other judges to convict. A special commission of oyer and terminer for Middlesex was convened, commanded to make diligent enquiry into all treasons, and felonies in that county. Commissioners heard cases and determined the outcome. Everyone knew what the outcome would be.
The monks were found guilty and sentenced to death. They spent thirteen hollow days in Newgate Jail awaiting their grizzly executions. Shackled to the walls, and forced to remain standing throughout this time, their punishment for disobeying Henry began long before the time of their deaths.
As the monks waited for the sweet release of death, Fisher was brought to trial. The court was informed that Fisher had denied the supremacy. It did not take the judges long to decide his fate.
On the 19th of June, the monks went to their deaths and three days later, Fisher followed. Henry did not honour his oath that Fisher and More were to swear by St John’s Day. He had run out of patience.
Fisher walked from the belly of the Tower, broken in body but not in spirit. He was painfully emaciated. Some said you could count his ribs through his thin shirt.
He had been sentenced to die the traitor’s death of hanging, drawing and quartering, but Henry commuted the sentence to beheading. Think not this was through mercy. No… Henry was afraid. No matter his bold words about Fisher’s Cardinal’s hat, he worried that killing a high-ranking clergyman would bring war upon England. But he would not allow Fisher to live. The cup of Henry’s mercy had run dry.
Mary Howard witnessed the spectacle with her father, who had been ordered to attend by Henry. Norfolk had no love for his task. He despised Fisher on principle, for being of common blood, but he respected the office he held.
“He was clearly weak and fragile, Majesty,” said Mary when she returned. “He had trouble walking, but as four sheriff’s officers made ready to carry him up the stairs, he waved them away. ‘Nay, masters,’ he said. ‘Now let me alone. You shall see me go to my death well enough myself without any help’.”
She sighed, for she understood I was none too happy about this fate for Fisher either. Long had the man been my enemy, but this public execution was causing unrest. I feared what it would bring upon us.
“They stripped his gown away,” Mary continued. “And there were many gasps, for he was so thin. He looked like a corpse, Majesty… wasted and ghastly. Some said that Fisher was truly Death hiding in a man’s form, using his voice to speak.”
I shivered and crossed myself.
“He said a few words, telling the crowd that the King was a merciful prince, but was led astray. He declared he wore his finest clothes, for the day of his death was also that of his marriage… wedding his soul to God. They granted him one last chance to swear the oath, and he refused. He lay down, his body upon a straw mat and his head on the block. The executioner was quick and his blade was true. As he sliced Fisher’s head from its body a great fountain of blood gushed forth. People at the front had to scuttle back, amazed to see so much blood come from such a thin man.”
This was not the only tale told after Fisher’s death. His body was guarded through the night, and in the morning it was flung into a grave in All Hallows, in Barking. It was said that the soldiers who laid him to rest did so with little dignity, making jests about him. Fisher was thrown into his pit without a winding sheet, and lay flat upon his belly in the dank soil. His head was parboiled and set on London Bridge, beside the heads of the Carthusian monks. But soon, people were remarking how good the head looked. Even after two weeks, it was fresh and clean as it stared down upon London’s jostling people. People took this as a miracle; a sign that Fisher was blessed by God. It signified his innocence and holiness, it was whispered, and London Bridge became jammed by masses that came to see it.
In the wake of Fisher’s death, Cromwell sought to link him to Katherine. Fisher had been interrogated about letters he had sent to her, which said she despaired of God’s mercy. This admission was used to demonstrate that Katherine had a troubled conscience, for only the guilty would despair of the light of God. Cromwell’s minions declared that Katherine was beset by a troubled conscience for lying about her relationship with Arthur. Rumours abounded that she and Mary would be arrested, but I knew Henry would not dare. Thinking, however, that the notion of her arrest might frighten people into ceasing to support her, I welcomed the gossip. Katherine lost much with Fisher’s death. She lost her knight and defender. She turned on Pope Paul, saying that had he not taunted Henry by making Fisher a Cardinal, he might still be alive.
The day after Fisher died, Henry attended a pageant to celebrate the royal supremacy, seeking to show detractors that he cared not a fig for their protests or miracles. Henry rose early that day, and walked ten miles from Windsor to the village where the entertainment was being held, carrying a two-handed sword. The pageant had been organised by Cromwell for the eve of St John the Baptist’s Nativity and it was based on the Book of Revelation. Henry was taken to a small house to view the entertainment, which showed him as a righteous king, punishing wicked clergy members who wanted only to wallow in sin.
So greatly did Henry enjoy himself that he removed his crown and went bareheaded. He sent Richard Page to tell me that I must see it when it was due to be performed again, on the eve of St Peter.
I rewarded Page with a purse of money and sent him back to tell my husband I would of course see the performance. I spoke at court about the righteousness of Fisher’s death. Bu
t privately I was unsure.
The laws of England were no more being written in ink, but in blood.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Windsor Castle
June 1535
That month I heard that Joanna Dingley had borne a child… a girl, named Ethelreda, in honour of the Saint upon whose feast day she was born.
Relations between Henry and me had been good, but as I heard this all the pain of the past returned. A dark cloud fell upon me, thoughts of vengeance and recrimination poured through my mind. This jade he had courted as I had carried our daughter had been granted a child in my stead.
I could not comprehend why God would reward her and punish me. For this was punishment. Even though her child was a girl, and therefore of no consequence to Henry, it was still a babe of his seed borne by another woman.
Why would God reward sinners and punish the faithful? My chaplains had no answer for me. All I could think was that in some way I must have displeased the Almighty. Had He looked into my soul and found it wanting? Had He seen my dark thoughts about Mary and Katherine and chastised me? Was the Almighty displeased with the executions? Or had I been correct when I had said Katherine had laid a curse upon me? Hours did I spend upon my knees, praying to God and asking His forgiveness.