by G Lawrence
Henry liked my plans, but added ones of his own. “I will see to the betterment of my country,” he said, “in many ways. More defences, greater castles, more ships… in this way will we maintain peace.”
I heard his plans with a weighted heart. Would he ever understand? Of course one of the duties of a king is to keep his people safe, but what of the safety of the present, by aiding poor people, or ensuring the future, by educating scholars?
Henry did not look to the future, unless to look for a son, and even that aim, I was coming to think, was less about securing England and more about building his legacy. Henry felt the eye of history upon him, and wanted to prove that he, and no other, was the greatest King England had ever known.
*
By late July we were at Painswick Manor, a place perfectly situated for excellent hunting. A vast forest stretched from the Manor, out and over the countryside; a blanket of green leaves and murmuring branches coruscating under the light of the moon. It shimmered, beckoning, pleading for us to come. We took to our beds early, so we might hunt from first light to last the next day.
Cromwell was on another kind of hunt. As we made ready to pursue beasts of the forest at Painswick, he and his men were at Bath Abbey, investigating their possible sins and definite assets.
Grey dawn welcomed my eyes as I awoke. Slipping into my clothes, with some of my ladies helping me and others seeing to my bow and arrows, I felt at peace. There was something about the stillness of the morn that brought this to my soul; something about the quiet, the hush, the growing light and lingering dark. Cobalt blue stretched in the dark skies, flanking and swirling about patches of black and shimmering pearl-grey. Birds were starting to sing, hesitantly, but true. Everything was muted, still and tranquil.
Dripping trees, bowed with morning dew, whispered as we rode into their domain. Hooves crunched on bracken and briar. There was a slight noise of leaves and twigs unfurling from their night’s rest; a crackling noise, light and delicate on the fragile breeze, the sound of the world awakening.
We met the rest of the hunters in a glade. Shining emerald leaves swayed in the wind, and delicate blooms fluttered at the fringes of the clearing. Breaking our fast on hunks of crusty bread, fresh, soft cheese and salted meat, we inspected deer fumays and talked over plans for the hunt. Local foresters were brought in to show us the trails harts took through the trees, and local children, who were not supposed to be there, huddled at the edge of the woods, their eyes wide and sparkling to see so many nobles suddenly appear like fairies upon their lands.
“Here, Thomas,” Henry said, turning to his new page who was, as ever, hovering at his elbow. “You will carry the royal horn this day.”
Thomas Culpepper took the ceremonial horn in his hands, an expression of awe upon his handsome young face. Whilst not of great use in the hunt, being too clumsy for practical use, Henry’s horn was magnificent. Reportedly made of unicorn horn, it was carved, depicting fleurs-de-lys, lions and rings of gold. The horns Henry’s huntsmen used were vugles and ruets; French-style horns made of metal and ivory. They sounded calls, combinations of long and short notes, which all hunters knew, telling the riding parties and packs of hounds where to go, how far ahead they were, and when to stop, or rush forwards to take the kill.
Granting his ceremonial horn to Culpepper was a great sign of favour, and the young man did not miss this. He had recently been rewarded with a new tunic of satin as well, and Henry was fond of this young man. Culpepper had come from the household of Viscount Lisle, and his elder brother, also named Thomas, was in Cromwell’s service. It may seem confusing that two brothers would bear the same Christian name, but with infant death so common, some parents who wanted to keep a name alive in a family, chose to hedge their bets, and name two sons with the same name. The Culpepers had advanced at first through their connection to my family, as they were related to me through the Howards. Joyce Culpepper had married my uncle Edmund Howard, and had been the mother of the bedraggled children I had visited so long ago at their house.
Culpepper was a beautiful young man, there was no other way to put it. His skin was fresh as new grass, and his body as graceful as the wind. He took the horn reverently in his hands and tied the cord about his neck and shoulder. “Thank you, sire,” he said to Henry. As he looked to the other pages, I saw his eyes light up with glee that he had been honoured, and they had not.
Henry turned to his men and began eagerly discussing the hunt, the harts, and the route we would take. As I listened to Henry talk to his huntsmen in animated joy, I gazed over the dark earth. The air became still, breathless as fear. Puddles shone; long, dark mirrors laced along the black earth. On the pools’ surfaces, I saw the clouds, racing each other in the heavens. Birds were shots of rapid blackness, darting into and out of view on the water. Like my eyes, the pools were black and deep, wide and long. They stared up, as though something had taken them by surprise, and had become frozen, with nothing to do but look to God, and ask how such a fate had befallen them.
Henry’s men had gone into the woods two days before our arrival, seeking the best quarry. A hart of ten years was most desired, and the finest specimen amongst those available was even more sought after. Younger stags were known as rascals, and were not pursued, for the honour was not as great to take a young, inexperienced hart, rather than a grand master in his prime.
The time of tempus pinguedinis was upon us, the time of grease, where rich summer had made deer fat and tender, and the time of their rutting was coming. By now, harts would have lost their antler velvet and would be in peak condition; swift enough to give a good chase, but not as vicious as they were in winter, when their mating instinct took over. The huntsmen had found several harts for Henry to choose from, and we had inspected their droppings, or femays, to note the size of each animal. Tracks in the damp woodlands were found and followed. These fues, along with froyeis, the frayings of bark on trees, and twigs disturbed by their silken bodies, were our clues to find our game.
We set off into the woods, lymers and huntsmen leading the way. The air smelt of earthy, decaying leaves and mud, fresh fallen rain and refreshing dew. Hawthorn, recently cut, sent the pungent smell of death tumbling into the air to contrast with the fine perfume of sweet flowers and leaf mould. The forest was deep and dark. Spindles of light broke through the clustered, green leaves. Dust sparkled in the gloom, as did moisture, lighting from leaf and bark, shimmering like silver. The hounds snuffled close to the ground, picking up the scent of piss, sweat and shit. We had chosen our quarry, a fine beast of more than ten years; a stag, who had fathered many, and would this day surrender his wild throne. Small groups of hounds and men were sent ahead, to line the trail this hart would take as he fled, and drive him into our path.
Ducking under moss-covered branches, deep in the dripping darkness, we came to the nest of the hart. Henry’s Master of Game knelt beside the patch of earth, setting a hand to it. As he looked up and nodded, the lymer at his side barked. The nest was warm. The stag had been there only a short while ago. The chase was on.
“Ho moy, ho moy!” called the Master of Game to his lymers, keeping their attention fixed on the scent. The huntsmen ran ahead, their feet pounding on the wet earth as they kept their eyes focussed on the ground to watch for droppings. The tracks were light upon the earth. If they were deep, that meant our quarry was running, but the hart was not aware we were after it, as yet.
As we rode on, the tracks became deeper, and huntsmen blew horns to call running hounds from the rear. Tipping their heads back to howl, the hounds cried out, shattering the silence of the morning.
We flashed through the trees, the sharp-barbed wind racing past our ears, blood pounding in our veins. The hounds had the hart cornered in a glade. He was huge; a mighty beast with a coat that was almost white, like the pagan agent of another realm whose presence signifies change.
He was trapped. Snapping, growling dogs surrounded him. Smokey, terrified breath plumed from his nose and m
outh as he lowered his antlers, stomping the damp earth to threaten the hounds. His black eyes were feral with fright. Sweat poured from him like water. The stink of terror and rage rose, outmatching the sweet scents of the forest. He bellowed, a mighty, crashing sound, and turned to face his foe.
Alighting from his horse, Henry approached the beast with his short hunting bow in hand. He pulled back, muscles straining against the weight of the bow. Henry’s eyes narrowed on the stag. The stag stared back, undaunted even in the face of death. Henry’s bow was quick and his aim true. His arrow flashed into the hart and as it staggered, kicking at the slathering hounds gnashing at its hooves, Henry’s men fell upon it with swords.
Bleeding, wounded, but still not dead, the hart fell. His voice cried out; a single, aching call, resounding in the woods, floating through the air. The last cry of a noble creature done to death.
I watched him fall; watched his knees shake and his powerful form crumple. As he slipped to the earth, and men about me started to cheer, I walked to the stag. It was dangerous to approach even a felled hart. They were formidable creatures who could stab the unwary with their antlers, or crush a hound’s skull beneath their hooves, but strangely I had no fear.
He lay upon the dark earth, puddles surrounding him. As I knelt at his side, I saw glimmering light in his black, liquid eyes. I put a hand to his face, smelling the overpowering stench of fear-laced sweat, piss, shit and blood. In the darkness of his eyes, I had the sense he was watching me. I stroked his hairy jaw and a bubble of pink, blood-filled liquid emerged from his nose.
With a sigh, he died. It was not a cry, nor a scream. He accepted death, and rushed to meet it. I felt a sorrow unlike any other come upon me and knew not why. More times than I could count I had been a part of such hunts. I had often loosed the killing arrow. I had taken life. But this time there was something different. I felt sorrow.
As the light left his eyes, he watched me. As the steady glow of life’s fire became replaced with the dullness of death, it was as though he was trying to tell me something.
I moved away as the unmaking began. The hart was cut open, so his entrails might be removed and his body cleaved up for Henry to share between his favourites. I watched from the edge of the glen as huntsmen took out their assortment of knives for cutting bone, hide, and removing the more delicate, desired organs, hoisted the hart up, and set to work.
Blood fell, dripping from the hart. I watched as a drop fell into a puddle of water. In the gloomy light, the water was black as ink, black as blood. As the drop of blood fell, the water rippled, tiny waves cresting out from the centre, heading swiftly to the sides and back again.
Black falling to black. Blood on blood… A ripple in a pool.
I turned away. I had no stomach for the hunt that day.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Berkley Castle and Thornbury
Late July – August 1535
“I have sent Rich to inform the Duke of your dissatisfaction, my lord,” said Cromwell.
“Suffolk should have more care about his claims,” I noted.
Henry grunted in agreement. The Duke had recently boasted he had set some religious houses right, and restored them to better practices, but upon investigation Cromwell’s men had found just the opposite. I was pleased Suffolk would suffer a reprimand, but there were other actions Cromwell was taking which left me less pleased.
George informed me that Cromwell had been seen with Carewe and Gertrude Courtenay. I hoped Cromwell was merely making overtures to my foes in the name of bringing peace to court, but my brother was distrustful.
“He has tried to undermine us in the past,” he said. “Perhaps he continues to do so. Carewe and Courtenay promote traditional religion, and would have us return to the Pope’s chains.”
“They do not truly fear us, George,” I said. “They fear losing tradition. They want a Church ruled by Rome, and a country overseen by nobles of ancient houses. Cromwell, being of low birth, stands for everything they hate. He would not truly ally himself to them.”
“In the shadows of court, strange friends are made, if only for a time,” said my brother in an ominous tone. “They may dislike Cromwell, but they see how close he is to the King, and note his influence at court. That cannot be ignored. Many a time have people made alliances with enemies in order to gain what they want.”
“And what do they want?”
“Speak not like a fool. Cromwell wants what Wolsey wanted; all others removed so he might control everything.”
“He cannot unseat us,” I protested, but my voice was not as sure as my declaration.
“Wolsey had me and others sent away, and the King agreed to it.” My brother tossed his cap into a chair of crimson silk, anger clouding his handsome face. “When the King is in company with a friend, no one could doubt they are in his favour, but when he is separated from them, he is easily manipulated.” George sighed. “Since Wolsey died, and increasingly, since More went to the block, the King has become only more suspicious of his friends.”
“He cannot doubt your loyalty.”
“Can he not? They say his father was as miserly with his friendship as he was with money. Perhaps the King draws on the influence of his blood.” My brother had a strange light in his hazel eyes. “Wolsey was his friend. More too. He claimed to love Katherine and Mary. The Carthusians and the Observants were orders he declared he supported without question.” My brother paused, staring not at me, but from the window. “It seems to me that the King protests often about friendship,” he said. “But he will discard it without a moment’s hesitation if something of greater use comes along.”
“More once said much the same.”
“He was a wise man.”
I ran my hands down my gown of fresh green velvet. “Cromwell has been careful and polite of late,” I said. “I would give him the benefit of the doubt.”
George nodded. “Do that,” he said.
“But you will not?”
“One of us should keep watch. There is something I cannot see here, and it nags at me.”
“Cromwell does not have as much influence over the King as he would like to think,” I said. “Wolsey… even More, had more than he. Henry will keep his hand upon all that happens in his kingdom now. That is the way of things.”
“Think that, if you wish,” said my brother. “I will think otherwise. Between us, we may find the truth.”
*
On progress, I received a note from Cranmer, informing me he had made a new friend. A Scottish reformer, Alexander Aless, who was also a theologian and doctor of medicine, had taken up residence in London.
“Cromwell thinks well of him too,” wrote my old friend. “And he has many ideas for England. It would seem the tide of reform has reached Scotland, too, my lady, and there are many men there willing to make changes for the betterment of their country. Aless is keen to meet you, and to know what you think of the Schmalkalden League. I have told him that you love to meet with those whose minds are open to the sweet cause of reform, and would ask permission to bring him to you when you return to London.”
Just after reading this note, I received another. As Cromwell had warned, plague had broken out in Bristol, and Henry’s fear of sickness, never far from the surface of his skin, meant we could not visit the city. Instead of a royal entrance to Bristol, a party of delegates came out to meet us at Thornbury. Henry was presented with gifts of livestock to feed his household on progress and I was given a gilt cup and cover with one hundred marks to accompany it.
“I thank you,” I said, taking the fine cup into my hands. “But I desire to demand or have no other gift than to be able to return to Bristol one day and see your fair city for myself.”
The meeting was a success for many in Bristol had listened to Latimer when he had preached, and were converted to reform. We went on that night to Acton Court, where Sir Nicholas Poyntz entertained us. Knowing since last summer we were to come to his house, Poyntz had built a whole n
ew range for our visit, an eastern wing, done out in classical style, holding lavish furniture and sumptuous hangings. Poyntz’s father had once been Katherine’s Vice-Chamberlain, and his uncle, John, a great friend of Tom’s, was a member of my household. Poyntz was close with Cromwell and a dedicated reformist. Henry wanted to honour him and did so with more than just our visit. At the end of our stay, he knighted Poyntz.
That night we feasted, eating from blue and white tin-glazed earthenware and drinking from Venetian glass goblets. Later that night, as I went to my rooms, I could hear people talking and laughing in the grounds, wandering about the moat whilst they drank, their shadows long on the inky waters. I sat in my chambers. They were familiar, being done in a French style to honour me. I was satisfied. Henry was close to understanding that whilst we had many enemies, there were converts to our cause.
From Acton we moved on a bare six miles to Little Sodbury, home of Sir John Walsh and then on another twenty-two miles to Bromham where Sir Edward Baynton, my Vice-Chamberlain, played host. Again, they were passionate reformists, and we engaged in many interesting discussions in their houses.