by G Lawrence
One Syon monk, Richard Reynolds, an eminent doctor of divinity, had once facilitated a meeting between Thomas More and Elizabeth Barton at Syon, which Henry believed had only set More more firmly on the path to treason. Reynolds had died at Tyburn with his Carthusian brothers.
Meetings between Cromwell and the Bridgettine Order had not gone well, and neither had they been receptive to any of the other men sent to them. Cromwell’s men had attempted to convince, to coerce, and when that failed, to blackmail and threaten them, but the Abbess and her loyal followers stood firm. They were proving a nuisance. Their continued defiance made a mockery of Henry’s authority, and since the community were well-respected, and popular, their treasonous example set a dangerous precedent.
I knew Syon well. My ward, Henry Carey, was studying there alongside Norris’ son. My husband obviously thought that I might have success where his men had failed, possibly because, as a woman, I might have better luck in reaching the rebellious nuns, but also potentially because I had supported Syon with my generous patronage.
“Cromwell had no luck bullying them?” I asked.
“His men are too brash,” said Henry, a disgruntled glimmer in his eyes. “They threaten the monks and nuns, making them only more resistant.”
“And you think I will have more success?” I smiled. “I am not always known for tact.”
Henry chuckled. “But when something is important to you, you argue well. I would have you reason with the Abbess. If we can get the nuns, at least, to accept our supremacy, we are half-way there.”
“I will only be permitted into the nuns’ house. The Abbot might meet me, but I cannot go amongst the monks.”
“If you only convince the Abbess to accept,” he said. “I would be most happy.”
“You steal my motto.” Suddenly I let out a slight groan as a wave of nausea came over me.
“You are unwell?” Henry asked anxiously, putting his hand to my belly.
“No more than is to be expected,” I said. “Your son saps my energy, but I have enough left to undertake this task.”
“If you are not well, I would not have you exert yourself.”
I put my fingers to his lips, stalling his protests. “For our cause, Henry, I will always have strength.”
“My Diana,” he murmured, leaning in to kiss me.
“When would you have me go?”
“As soon as you can. There are whispers abroad. Syon’s continued resistance brings others out to speak. I would have them silenced.”
“I will go today, and fear not, husband, where your men have failed, I will succeed.”
I arrived at Syon with my ladies that afternoon, only to be told the nuns were at choir. As a married woman, I could not be admitted. “I will wait,” I said to the novice who escorted me through the grand, shadowy halls.
“They will be some hours at prayer, Majesty,” she said.
“Then I shall do the same,” I said. “We will wait until your Abbess is ready to receive her Queen.”
The novice scurried off, her footsteps echoing in the halls. “Settle into your seats,” I said to my women. “We are likely to be left for a long time. They will try to avoid us, but I will not return to the palace until we are seen.”
Eventually, the doors to the chapel opened and I was admitted. I found the nuns, sixty in total, prostrate with their heads upon the floor. This angered me. It was a traditional practice of Rome, one that Henry had already criticised, since it glorified the act of worship rather than the object. Seeing me, the Abbess, Agnes Jordan, came over and greeted me. Her welcome was not strikingly friendly, and she gazed at me with wary eyes.
“The King has sent me,” I said. “There have been many ill reports about lax standards at Syon which are being repeated at court.”
“None are true, Your Majesty,” she said stiffly, her back rigid.
I drew her to one side of the chapel. “I believe you,” I murmured. “Long have I held the house of Syon in my heart, for I know that whilst we differ on points of theory and practice, your order is one of the faithful, one of the shining lights of England.”
“Then why have you come?” she asked, surprise stripping her of not only her ability to dissemble, but apparently of the capacity to remember my title.
I paused and glanced at the nuns. Although many still had their heads to the ground, others I could see attempting to lean backwards to hear what I and the Abbess were saying. “These are troubled times,” I whispered. “Cromwell and his men are greedy, my lady Abbess. They seek evidence for the King, and sometimes, in their rush and zeal, they create it. I am sure I have no need to tell you this.”
Agnes inclined her head, her eyes wide with amazement. “I had heard, Majesty, you were fully behind the investigations.”
“I am behind the purpose of the investigations,” I said. “I believe there is much that requires change… but I am not behind the methods these men use.”
I stared into her pale blue eyes, seeing the colours of the stained glass reflected in them. “I would have reform, my lady, not obliteration. No matter what you have heard, I was not to blame for the executions of the Carthusians, or the expulsions of the Observants. I confess, at the time I thought them justified, for those who stand against His Majesty cannot be allowed to rebel. But of late, I have come to question much. I fear, in their quest to stamp out corruption, Cromwell and his men have become lost. They forget the great good that England’s religious orders bring when they are properly governed. They forget that reform does not mean destruction.” I rocked back on my heel. “I would remind them.”
“Then… you are for Rome?”
I shook my head, irritated. Why did people see only in black and white? Opposing Henry or Cromwell on one issue was not the same as supporting Rome.
“The King is the Head of the Church,” I said. “God made David his King, did he not? And guided David’s ruling hand. The same will be true of our King. Unlike Rome, he will not look aside as sin holds sway. He will root it out and make our houses of religion clean. Ungodly orders will fall, but I would preserve those who are doing good yet require guidance. I would have those who work with their communities in peace, offering medical care and aid, kept alive. To me, holy Abbess, reform must be tempered by control. Cromwell wants extremes. I desire moderation.”
“Why do you tell me this?”
“Because the King wants Syon to accept his supremacy,” I said and went on as I saw her face harden. “If it comes not, Syon will come under attack, much as the Greyfriars and the Carthusians, and if the King is convinced by men who have nothing but greed in their hearts to move against Syon, there will be little more I can do for you… Syon will fall.” I touched her arm. “But if you submit, I swear I will do all I can to protect your order. We can become united in this goal; to keep the worthy orders of England alive; to preserve all that is good as we weed out that which is rotten.”
The Abbess looked away, her eyes lost in thought.
“Will you work with me?” I asked.
“I hardly know what to say,” she said. “Since the start of this month, both I and the Abbot have encountered nothing but threats, blackmail and promises of riches if we will submit. But never have any of the King’s men said anything as honest as your words, my lady.” She gazed into my eyes. “Will you swear to me, on the Bible, and on your faith, that if I agree you will protect us?”
“I swear on my life and on my soul,” I said. “On the faith I hold dear and on the lives of my children, I will do all within my power to uphold Syon and other deserving houses, and protect you from dissolution.”
“Then I place myself under your protection,” she said. “With a grateful heart.” She paused. “But I cannot compel any of the sisters to go against their souls.”
“I can arrange a meeting between your sisters and Cromwell. Tell the sisters that the question will be put to them, on whether they accept the supremacy. If they accept, they are to remain seated, and if not they are
to leave the chamber. Ask them to remain seated, but say nothing. In that way, any who object can say that they never said they supported the supremacy, which will satisfy their consciences. This will be enough to persuade the King.”
“That is a lie, is it not, my lady?” she asked. “Our order is sworn to honesty.”
“For a lie to be a lie, it must be spoken,” I said. “Please, allow me to guide you. There must be some sign of hope for the King. He is already talking about disbanding Syon. If you are separated, sent to other orders, or offered pensions to leave, then this great house, and all it might offer England will be lost.”
I breathed in. It was dangerous to speak like this. The Abbess might well betray me, but I had to take a risk. “The saints and Christ died for their faith,” I said. “I ask you to live for yours. England needs you.”
She fell silent, her eyes lost to contemplation. “We are taught that glory lies in death,” she said quietly, “for that was the path our Lord took to save the world.” She gazed at me with steady eyes. “Death and glory,” she went on. “Martyrdom and sacrifice… These are the cornerstones of faith, so we are taught. But today I think otherwise. It is my duty to protect these women, but we also owe a debt of service to the people of England. Without us, what will they do?”
She looked to the altar, and the cross on which an image of Christ hung, suspended in the air, his bleeding wounds glimmering against the light of the sun. “To live for faith, rather than to die for it,” she pondered.
“Something must remain,” I pressed. “The Lord never intended for all His faithful to die, otherwise who will instruct the children? Who will lead the path of the righteous? We cannot allow everything good to crumble, only to be replaced by that which is ill.”
“We cannot,” she said. She drew herself up and set her shoulders back, like a knight preparing for battle. “I will do as you say, Majesty.”
“Then you have my thanks.” I looked across at the hall of nuns. “I must lecture them, with your permission,” I said. “There must be a solid reason for your submission. If it is said you and I talked alone, Cromwell will grow suspicious. He will know we made a bargain.”
“Say what you will,” she said. “I will explain later what we must do in order to survive.”
I went before the nuns and lectured them. “The enormity of your wanton incontinence cannot be measured. You should cease to use Latin prayer books you do not understand.” I nodded to Nan Gainsford who nudged forward a boy dragging a chest of English primers. “Read the Word of God in English, and you will understand your faith and Lord better.”
I rebuked them hard and strong, for this was what was expected. My words would be reported to Henry and Cromwell and I could not allow them to think that I wavered in my support for the supremacy, or the investigations. My secret purpose was safe, as long as I played my part in public.
In truth, it was ridiculous to claim that the nuns did not understand Latin. The majority of Syon’s clergy hailed from noble houses, and would have been instructed in Latin from childhood. But the theory that lack of understanding led to disobedience was deeply rooted in the reformist cause, and it would lead Henry to think they had defied him from ignorance.
They listened with ill grace, thinking me a shrew, but as my speech came to a close, and with the help of the Abbess, the primers were accepted. I went back to Henry and told him of my success. He was pleased and said we would wait to see if I had made an impression on the nuns.
Some days later, Cromwell and his men went to Syon and the Abbess did as I had asked. The Abbot and his monks refused to attend the meeting, but the nuns came. They remained sitting as the question was asked, and although a few offered resistance, Henry was pleased to learn that the majority had accepted the supremacy. William Latimer praised me about court, telling everyone how I had reached the nuns through reason, bringing them closer to God. Latimer was a touch over-generous in his praise, but it was useful to me at this time, so I did not contradict him.
“You see, Thomas?” Henry asked Cromwell when he returned to Richmond. “My wise Queen can convince anyone of anything!”
Cromwell smiled, but I could see he was displeased. Further resistance from Syon would have meant he could easily convince Henry that they, like the Greyfriars and Carthusians, were rebels. The wealth of Syon would then have been his, to toss into the already swollen coffers of the Crown.
Cromwell had failed. He knew it, and when Henry came to understand what he had lost as Syon slipped through his fingers, the King might not be as pleased as he was now. This put Cromwell in danger.
As Cromwell smiled and complimented me, I was reminded of the day Wolsey came back from France to find me in Henry’s arms.
Circles in sand have a way of repeating themselves. This was a new fight, a new battle and a new opponent, but an old war.
Our armies were assembled. The field had been decided. The fight for Henry’s favour had begun.
“Let battle commence,” I murmured as Henry left with his arm about Cromwell. “You will find me no slack opponent, Thomas Cromwell.”
Chapter Forty-Four
Greenwich Palace
December 1535
“Another young man of promise, my lady,” said Doctor Butts as I perused his lists of men seeking financial aid to study at Cambridge.
“And another who wants to enter Gonville Hall,” I noted, glancing up with a teasing grin. “Does every one of these men seek to study in your old college, Doctor?”
“Many, madam,” he said with a smirk, completely unabashed to be caught out. “I cannot help but retain loyalty to my old college. I would have it filled with good men, with your help, Majesty.”
Ever since the days when he had saved me and my family from the sweat, I had nurtured great affection for Doctor Butts. Together, we had done much for the cause of reform, and he had brought many of my chaplains into my household. Latimer was one, and Shaxton and Skip were both ex-students of Gonville Hall too. Cambridge seemed to breed reformers, probably because Butts supported so many there with my money. It pleased me that a new generation of scholars, priests and doctors would emerge from the educated womb we had created.
Another of my chaplains, Matthew Parker, had proved rather reluctant at first to take up the offered post. He possessed a mild temper and gentle sensibilities, and was therefore perhaps unsuited for court life. I had recently had him appointed dean of the college of secular canons at Stoke-by-Clare in Suffolk, and Hugh Latimer, ever a watchful man, had asked him to take care not to disappoint me. Parker had replaced William Betts, another of my chaplains, who had died some months ago. When his post fell vacant I could only think Betts’ soul would be pleased that Parker, a fellow ex-student of Corpus Christi, would take it. Cranmer spoke well of him, but Parker was reluctant to place himself in danger. John Skip wrote to Parker almost every day, and eventually the man was won over. Assured of my protection, he came to court.
I found him immediately endearing. He was a large, powerfully-built man, who looked more suited to warfare than the Church, but hearing his soft voice and seeing his gentle nature, I came to understand he was a man of peace. He was also moderate, and agreed with me about the monasteries. I found great solace with Parker. There was something infinitely caring in his soul.
Henry was also fond of Parker, finding his natural humility and reserve pleasing, and sometimes sent him gifts of game for his table. But for all his humbleness, Parker was a fine preacher and I had him speak before Elizabeth’s household, as well as mine, often.
One of the reasons Henry liked Parker was that he did not seek to make trouble. He stuck to subjects Henry found acceptable, not attempting to speak on iconoclasm, transubstantiation, or purgatory. Parker’s tact was notable, but I knew his sympathies were more in line with mine than with his King’s.
He also did not speak too long. An hour and a half was more than enough for Henry in one sitting.
But if Parker was moderate and cautious, many o
f my men were not. They were marked leaders of the new order, and as such came into conflict with traditionalists. Conservatives spread rumours about them, some that were true and others which were pure fiction.