by Derek Wilson
‘I did not realize the project was so costly.’
‘He spoke of it as his penance.’
‘Penance?’
‘Aye, a strange word, and though I know not what he meant by it, I feel that I do. He believed that much of his early life had been wasted . . .’
14
A royal Christmas
The archbishop preached from a canopied pulpit erected for the purpose in the base court. The king and queen listened from the open windows of their apartments, as did the more important guests and members of the royal household. The rest of us packed the square courtyard, our cloaks drawn close around us against an icy wind that rapidly circuited the open space. Mercifully, the sermon was not long. As to the content, I recall it not, save that it was based on the text from Psalm 133: ‘Behold, how good and how pleasant it is for brethren to dwell together in unity!’ Obviously it was intended for the royal ear. Cranmer was eager to distance himself from any suggestion of heresy associated with his old friend and colleague Thomas Cromwell.
Afterwards I waited on him in his chambers. He greeted me warmly and for a while we reminisced about our last meeting in Cromwell’s London house in 1535.
Cranmer sighed. ‘Ah, happy days! How far away they seem now.’ He sat by the closed casement and the light clearly revealed the anxiety lines threading his brow.
It was in an attempt to lighten his mood that I diverted the conversation. ‘“Happy days” – ’twas an expression Miles Coverdale used when I met him in Antwerp last October.’
‘Dear Miles.’ The archbishop allowed himself a smile. ‘How fares he?’
‘Sad at being obliged to dwell abroad, but well occupied in his work. He gains contentment from knowing that his translations are helping to spread the knowledge of the Bible.’
‘That they are.’ He was silent for some moments. Then, with a frown of concentration, he said, ‘I do not recall Miles being present at our meetings at Cromwell’s house. Surely he was already beyond the sea by that time.’
‘Forgive me, Your Grace. ’Twas the expression “Happy days” that lured me into confusing different memories. Miles was referring to earlier gatherings – in Cambridge, when Luther’s challenge was rousing much excitement among the students.’
‘Ah yes, the White Horse tavern. How brave we all were – reading banned books, discussing forbidden doctrines. We were idealists daring to challenge tradition, pioneers of a new age, heroes of faith – or so we believed.’
‘And believed truly,’ I said. ‘Think how much change we have seen over the last twenty years.’
Cranmer shook his head firmly. ‘Nay, Master Bourbon, you must not confuse men of ideas and men of action. We scholars are vain enough to believe we change the world, but ’tis not so.’
I opened my mouth to protest, but the archbishop continued. ‘Year on year on year we orate and dispute in our lecture halls and schoolrooms, and even in our rebellious White Horse cliques. Yet the world goes serenely on. Many of the ideas we discussed in those far-off Cambridge days had been disputed and picked over by theologians for centuries.’
‘But this time the world did change,’ I protested.
‘Aye, it certainly did, praise God.’ Cranmer’s slight smile was that of a dialectician who had moved the debate in the direction he had intended. ‘Small thanks to the mere thinkers.’
‘Then who?’
‘To present an idea requires mere rhetorical skill. To turn that idea into action demands passion and cunning, a very rare combination. The first time I met Thomas Cromwell – it was at one of our little White Horse gatherings – I knew that he was not drawn thither by an interest in theological niceties. He was far too busy to travel to Cambridge merely to listen to scholars scoring points in academic debate.’
‘I gather he was there to recruit teachers for Wolsey’s new Oxford college.’
‘Aye, that he was, and carefully noting the names of men who might be suitable. But he was also on the quest for preachers and pamphleteers – men of passion, men who could sell to a wide audience the ideas they believed in. Men who would prove their commitment – if necessary unto death.’
‘As he did himself.’
Several moments of sombre silence followed. They were broken when Cranmer rose and crossed the room to a table on which were stacked books and papers. He searched among them, muttering his impatience as he did so. ‘Passion, passion, passion – my secretary is a slave to it. He is dedicated to order and system. Unfortunately, when he has “tidied” something, only he can find it . . . Ah!’ Triumphantly he brandished a sealed letter. ‘May I call upon your services as courier, Master Bourbon? This is a brief note for Queen Marguerite. I should be very grateful if you would convey it – personally,’ he stressed the word, ‘to Her Highness.’
‘She will, I know, be very pleased to receive it. She holds Your Grace in high regard.’
‘As do I esteem her,’ Cranmer replied. ‘How fares she in these difficult times?’
I conveyed something of the anguish my mistress and her daughter were feeling over the proposed marriage with Duke William.
Cranmer’s response was not what I had expected. ‘Pray God the princess will come to a more amenable frame of mind,’ he said.
‘You are in agreement with King Francis?’ I asked in some surprise.
‘I would not wish your young charge into a loveless union,’ he replied slowly, frowning. ‘We have seen what harm that can do.’
‘You mean the marriage of your king to the Princess of Cleves?’
‘Yes. I was against that from the start. I knew Anne would not please Henry. I tried to dissuade Thomas from pressing the match, but he was determined. He moved too far, too fast.’
‘Why did his judgement fail him?’
Cranmer stepped across to the window, speckled now with a fresh flurry of snow. ‘I said a moment ago that Thomas was a rare combination of passion and cunning. They are horses that do not go well in team harness, but he managed them with supreme mastery – until last winter.’
‘What happened?’
‘Passion overmastered cunning. Thomas devoted himself, heart and soul, to achieving a powerful alliance of Protestant states led by England. It involved immensely complex negotiations with the German Protestant league, the Baltic lands and various city states. The strain on him was immense and he was, by now, past his peak of vigour. His relationship with the king faltered. Always he had brought about reform by persuading His Majesty to believe in the changes he proposed. Now he neglected this skill. Previously he had prevented his enemies worming their way into Henry’s confidence. Now they gained easy access to the privy chamber. He became impatient. Impatience bred carelessness. Carelessness begat lack of control.’
‘So, after all those years of carefully gaining power, he abandoned the ladder by which he had climbed.’
Cranmer turned from the window. ‘Master Bourbon, I think you hit on an important point – the sense that time was passing. He once told me that God had laid upon him the heavy responsibility of establishing the Gospel in England. He had a holy vocation and the guilt would weigh heavily on his soul if he died before fulfilling it. That could well explain why, in winnowing the precious grains of truth, he threw to the winds the chaff of caution.’
For several seconds I mused on this image, trying to frame in my mind a more probing question – a question, the question, that had to be asked.
Unfortunately, the archbishop interpreted my silence as an indication that our conversation was at an end. He stepped forward, right hand extended. ‘It has been such a pleasure to meet you again, Master Bourbon. Pray extend to Queen Marguerite the assurance of my prayers for herself and her daughter.’
I bent to kiss the ring, my mind whirling to grasp the slippery words before the moment was lost. ‘Passion for truth . . .’ I faltered.
&nb
sp; Cranmer’s dark eyes asked his unspoken question.
‘’Tis just . . . What I want . . .’ I floundered foolishly.
He smiled. ‘Permit me to guess what it is you would like to ask. If I am right, ’tis a question that has occurred to many – including myself. It is this, is it not? “Did the high God of heaven really bypass all the bishops and all the clever theologians and all the nobles of the realm and all the wise royal councillors, and choose a self-taught boy from Putney to be his prophet?”’
‘There are many who point to the fact that Thomas Cromwell rose from obscurity to be one of the richest men in the land and the holder of a noble title.’
Cranmer smiled. ‘Did not David the shepherd boy become King of Israel? I worked closely with Cromwell over recent years and I can tell you that whatever drove him onward, ’twas not ambition.’
‘And not fashionable political ideas from Italy hawked by such as Machiavelli?’
‘I never heard him mention the name.’
‘Then what, Your Grace?’ I could hardly keep brusqueness out of my voice. ‘If ’twas a divine call, how came he by it? Some blinding vision like Paul’s on the Damascus road? Did he travel to Saxony and drink deep at the Lutheran spring?’
‘To my knowledge he had no direct contact with the Wittenberg people until they sent a delegation here last year.’
‘Thank you for your patience with my questions,’ I said as we moved towards the door.
‘You have asked no questions that I have not posed myself. I like to think that Thomas looked on me as a friend, but there were parts of his life he kept well hidden from me. At one time I even conceived the idea that there were episodes in his past of which he was ashamed.’
‘Truly?’ I responded. ‘What manner—’
‘No.’ The archbishop paused, one hand on the latch. ‘Stones in plenty have been cast at our friend. I will not add another. If, occasionally, he blamed himself when tragedy struck, ’twas grief rather than guilt that moved him. We both saw brave men – dear, good men – dragged into court, forced to recant their faith or condemned and publicly burned. These things touched Thomas deeply. “I was more deserving of death than them,” he would say. I always counselled him that God had preserved him because he still had work for him to do. I still believe I was right.’
Cranmer’s mournful features remained vividly in my mind as I gathered my possessions together in preparation for my return to London. One duty remained. I had to express my thanks to Richard Cromwell and explain my hasty departure. Enquiries the following morning revealed that Sir Richard had left the palace to go hunting with the king. More delay!
I chanced upon George Blagge and vented my frustration upon him.
‘’Tis unlikely they will be late back,’ he said. ‘His Majesty does not spend as long in the field as once he did. But come, let us ride out and see how they fare.’
I tried to excuse myself, pleading that I had not my riding boots and cloak with me, but he was insistent. ‘I am eager to hear about your travels since we met last summer. Many stories of your exploits are being told. You are famous: the quiet poet who challenges the Church. I want to know the truth. Did Bishop Gardiner threaten you with heretics’ fire? Were you really imprisoned by the Inquisition after a brawl in Florence?’ Blagge babbled on, steering me down the path towards the stables.
I knew not whether to be amused or alarmed by the garish word picture he was painting. ‘You know better than I that court gossip is a leaking vessel,’ I said.
‘Aye, and I know too that it sails well on the sea of uncertainty. When there is no news, that is when folk pay heed to baseless tales. That is why I bring my bowl to the fountain head – and also because I would not see you come to any harm.’
We had arrived at the palace stables. Some hard bargaining with a shrewd head groom produced a pair of skittish geldings and we steered them away from the palace into sparse woodland, where sunlight sparkled on frost-rimed boughs. I had some difficulty bringing my mount to acknowledge his new master, so it was several minutes before I could demand an explanation of Blagge’s comment. ‘Why do you suggest I might be in some peril?’ I asked at last.
Blagge reined in his horse. As I halted alongside him he said, ‘Once or twice recently His Majesty has mentioned your name.’
‘Doubtless he is amused by the ridiculous stories that seem to be circulating.’
‘Perhaps, but he has certainly been pressing Marillac for information about you.’
‘’Tis a pity that His Majesty did not come to me directly. I have nothing to hide from him.’
‘Are you sure?’ Blagge stared at me intently for a long moment, then heeled his horse into a walk.
‘Quite sure. My sole purpose in coming to England was to learn about Cromwell’s fate and what it might bode for relations with France.’
‘And to that end you made enquiries about Cromwell, his origins, his beliefs.’
‘Aye, and I was quite open about it. You yourself told me much that I had not known hitherto.’
‘Then you continued your questioning overseas – the Low Countries, Italy.’
‘Yes! Yes! To the point, man!’ The courtier’s bland tone was irritating me. ‘Nowhere did I discover anything to your king’s detriment, else I would not have returned here openly – even to the royal court.’
Again Blagge brought his horse to a halt. He lowered his voice, though there was no sign of any movement among the leafless trees. ‘I will put it as simply as I can. The king has closed a door and it would be a brave – or foolish – man who opened it.’
I urged my gelding on along the path. ‘If you have only riddles to offer, I would prefer not to hear them,’ I said sharply.
Blagge drew alongside again and now there was a new earnestness in his tone. ‘You cannot know what life has been like here these last few years. Rebellion. Half the country in arms. Battles, massacres, overfull prisons, preachers screaming hatred at each other from rival pulpits, and at court men grumbling at the closure of monasteries while at the same time scrabbling to grab their lands as they came on the market. I know not who were in the worse situation: those thinking only of their own profit, or those genuinely torn between their fealty to the king and their devotion to God. England was spinning out of control. But, at last, His Majesty closed the door on this hell. Slammed it hard! And the key that fastened it was Cromwell’s execution.’
‘It was thought expedient that one man should die for the people?’
‘Indeed. All the blame was placed on the minister. His name was blackened. More, he was consigned to oblivion, by royal command. Thrust into outer darkness and the door bolted against his memory. The Cromwells are still closely watched and it was inevitable that His Majesty would take an interest in rumours of someone travelling round Europe, deliberately reviving Thomas’s memory.’
Suddenly the woodland’s icy stillness was rent by the blast from a huntsman’s horn. It was followed by the shouts of beaters and the cries of hounds not far ahead of us.
‘Would you see the end of today’s sport?’ Blagge asked.
I nodded and we trotted on down the track. We were brought to a halt by a cordon of halberdiers barring entrance to a clearing. As we reined in, the air filled with boisterous cheers and applause. Peering into the glade I saw huntsmen calling the pack of excited hounds from the body of a stag that had just been felled. I lifted my gaze to the opposite edge of the natural arena. There stood the mounted royal party and at its centre was a triumphant King Henry, brandishing his crossbow.
‘I wonder if they are making another stand,’ Blagge muttered. He moved forward a few paces to have a brief conversation with one of the guards. ‘No, that is the end of today’s sport – if you can call it sport. Come, we can join the brave huntsmen as they ride back to the palace.’
As the royal throng moved awa
y from the clearing we attached ourselves to it.
‘Does the king not follow the chase now?’ I asked.
‘Chase? No. He lacks the energy and stamina for that nowadays. Besides, he has servants aplenty to bring his victims to him.’ Blagge treated me to a long, penetrating stare before turning in the saddle to greet a colleague.
Minutes later I spotted Sir Richard Cromwell on a handsome grey mare and urged my reluctant gelding through chest-high ferns to join him. As I did so, Blagge pointed to Cromwell and called out, ‘Have a care, Master Bourbon!’
Sir Richard greeted me with an inquisitive stare. ‘You must be cold in that satin doublet and light cloak.’
‘A last-minute decision,’ I muttered. ‘Sudden need for exercise.’
‘Was that Sir George Blagge I saw you riding with?’ he asked.
‘Yes, he was in haste to catch up with the king and said he would enjoy some company.’ I suddenly realized that I was lying and I knew not why.
Richard sighed. ‘Poor George. His mind has become somewhat disordered. He is very close to Tom Wyatt and sorely in need of friends in case Wyatt should fall again. I hope he has not been filling your ears with court gossip. He has some strange ideas.’
We jogged quietly through the thinning cover of the woodland edge. I could not rid my head of the image of the fallen stag and Blagge’s words about the king: ‘He has servants aplenty to bring his victims to him.’
It was Sir Richard who broke the silence. ‘I gather you are starting for my cousin’s place in Leicestershire tomorrow.’
The words drove the unwelcome image from my head. ‘I? No. Lady Cromwell was kind enough to invite me, but we made no firm arrangements for a visit.’
He looked round sharply. ‘You must be mistaken. Elizabeth was quite sure that you would be riding to Launde with her, and she is not the sort of person to make foolish mistakes.’