The Cromwell Enigma

by Derek Wilson

  ‘I am sorry for any misunderstanding. The strain of these last months has perhaps—’

  ‘Only strengthened her resolve! Without her wit and determination Gregory would not have been able to stave off total disaster. If you hold Thomas Cromwell’s name in high esteem – as I believe you do – go to Launde and give his family your support.’

  His tone, so different from his former friendly attitude, puzzled and distressed me. ‘Forgive me, Sir Richard, but I cannot. I am ordered back to Navarre by my queen. She will brook no delay.’

  ‘Tush! What difference will two or three days at Launde make to affairs in Navarre? Why, you might spend the same amount of time on the quayside in London waiting on wind and weather for a fair crossing.’

  I was at a loss to find a suitable response, but ­eventually said, ‘I will seek out Lady Elizabeth immediately and explain my predicament.’

  All I received from Sir Richard by way of reply was a grunt.

  In the seclusion of my quarters I tried to work out how best to approach Lady Cromwell. But my mind was still held captive by the tenacious image of a blood-streaked, still-quivering stag – delivered for slaughter.

  15

  Leicestershire

  ‘Are you sure that is wise?’ Antonio sat on the edge of the bed, staring up at me as I closed the casement to block the noise of the street.

  ‘Not at all sure,’ I replied, turning back into the dimly lit chamber, ‘but as the poet Martial put it, sera nimis vita est crastina – vive hodie.’

  ‘Pah! Why do you scholars always quote Latin when you have no answer for a straight question?’ He fell back and lay full length on the bed.

  ‘Probably for the same reason that loggerheads do not bother to think about the question: ’tis a habit! But I will explain. The Roman poet pointed out that we should grasp our opportunities today, because they will not be there tomorrow. Anyway, you should not grumble. I have secured for you your first English commission!’

  It was the evening of the royal hunt and I had returned to the George Inn in London in mid-afternoon. But not before taking a decision and irrevocably acting upon it. It was that decision that my young Italian friend was questioning, and not without reason. Why had I taken it? Probably in order to convince myself that I was in charge of my own destiny. My conversations with Cranmer, Blagge and ­Richard Cromwell – indeed, the whole atmosphere of the royal court – had left me confused. In a place where self-interest was king; where honesty paid court to expediency; where quicksilver truth was hard to find and harder to grasp, it was difficult to know whom to believe. Why was Sir Richard frenziedly insistent that I visit his cousin’s country estate? Why did he hint at Blagge’s untrustworthiness and why did Blagge return the compliment?

  I had no answer to these questions, but pragmatism suggested that the darkness of ignorance might conceal danger, and that my wisest course would be to put several sea miles between myself and Henry VIII’s England. Would that mean abandoning for ever the opportunity to discuss with those who knew him best the influences that had shaped Thomas Cromwell’s beliefs? Yes. Was that a trade I was prepared to make in return for my own security? After all I had been through in pursuit of the real Tom Crom, would I be able to live easily with the regret of abandoning my quest at this late stage?

  By way of answer I had sought out Lady Cromwell and told her that I would be delighted to accept her kind invitation within a few days.

  She was effusive in her enthusiasm for my visit. ‘You must come prepared to tell us all about your travels,’ she said. ‘My husband is become somewhat of a recluse this last year. He is much occupied in work on the house. Nothing will lure him away from Launde and his local responsibilities – the farms, the tenants, the forests. Do you know, I cannot even persuade him to have his portrait made? And he is such a handsome young man.’

  ‘Mayhap I can help in that,’ I said, as a sudden thought struck me. ‘I have an artist friend; an extremely talented young Italian. He is currently seeking English patrons. May I bring him to you?’

  ‘What an excellent idea, Master Bourbon.’ She clapped her hands together in genuine delight. ‘Together we shall persuade Gregory.’

  Thus it was not without misgiving that, on a wet and blustery late December day, I left London on the Great North Road, accompanied by a grumbling companion who made no secret of the fact that he would rather be enjoying the company of his new friends in London.

  On arrival at Launde Priory we rode into a boisterous arm-waving argument, conducted in Italian. Part of the conventual buildings were being demolished and it was the workmen standing amidst mounds of ­discarded stone and timber who were engaged in a heated altercation. They paid little attention to us as we rode around them in search of the entrance to the private mansion that was evolving from the old Augustinian monastery. Peace met us as soon as we turned along the front of the Cromwells’ house. It looked across an ancient fishpond to a wide expanse of greensward and thickly wooded slopes beyond.

  A tall young man with two dogs at his heels came striding across the grass towards us. ‘G’day to you,’ he called out as he reached the gravelled drive. ‘Are you the French poet? My wife told me we were expecting company.’

  I made a polite reply to this abrupt greeting: ‘Lady ­Cromwell did indeed invite us to your delightful house. I fear her description did not do it justice.’

  ‘It will serve,’ he responded with a shrug, ‘if ever these foreign masons complete their work.’

  Antonio said, ‘They seem to be arguing about money at the moment; something to do with pay by the day rather than pay by the wagon load.’

  Lord Cromwell looked up sharply. ‘Understand their ­language, do you?’

  ‘’Tis my language also, My Lord.’

  ‘Good, good! Come with me, then. Help me sort them out!’ The master of the house marched along the drive and Antonio wheeled his horse round to follow.

  I dismounted and knocked at the studded-oak main door. It was opened immediately, and within a few minutes my horse was led away to the stables and I was escorted into a spacious solar adjoining the main hall, where Elizabeth Cromwell stood to greet me.

  ‘I am so glad we were able to persuade you to come,’ she said. ‘Have you not brought your artist friend?’

  I explained how Antonio had been waylaid by Gregory Cromwell.

  His wife pouted in annoyance. ‘Portinari! I sometimes wonder whether he is worth the enormous sums of money we are paying him.’

  ‘You have brought a group of Italians here to do the alter­ations to Launde Priory? That certainly seems a strange idea.’

  Lady Elizabeth’s mood darkened suddenly. ‘If your house had been burned down with your infant children inside you might not think it so strange.’

  I gaped, answerless. The lady continued. ‘Let me explain. By order of the king and parliament the abbeys were to be pulled down. The papists responded by raising the standard of rebellion. By the grace of God they were defeated. Think you, Master Bourbon, that this stopped them? It did not. Those who financed the northern rising put their money to other uses, including intimidation. They used threats to dissuade the men employed on the demolition work. Sometimes they followed up their threats. Armed ruffians were sent to the dissolution sites. And, yes, there have been examples of homes and families being targeted. It was hard to see how we could stop them.’

  ‘Why? There are law courts—’

  ‘Too slow!’ she scoffed. ‘The men behind these acts are powerful – and real. Judges can be bribed. Witnesses sub­orned.’

  ‘I can see this kind of corruption is difficult to stop,’ I said, ‘especially if it is supported by powerful land­owners. Even so—’

  ‘Thomas Cromwell had a better answer – as usual. He out-thought his enemies every time. That was one reason for their intense hatred.’ She paused. ‘I can almost sympathize with the
m. It must be infuriating to find yourself up against someone who knows the answer even before you have decided on the question.’

  ‘And this time the answer was employing Italian workmen?’

  ‘Oh, not just Italians. What mattered was that they were strangers – men with no local families who could be put at risk. Thomas moved masons and other workmen all around the country. Giovanni Portinari just happened to be one of his London contacts. He can be very . . . awkward, but he is good at his job. Thomas used him three or four times, ­mainly in Kent and Sussex. That all went well, so ­Thomas brought him to Launde. My father-in-law was very fond of this place. He planned to move here himself when he left His Majesty’s service, though I doubt whether the king would ever . . .’ Her words ended in a sigh.

  At that moment, Gregory Cromwell entered with Antonio.

  The master of Launde slumped into an armed chair. ‘Your arrival could not have been timed better, Master Bourbon.’

  ‘Was Antonio able to help you?’ I asked.

  ‘We have a rogue stonemason who insists on doing everything his way. Whenever I put him right he throws up his hands and shakes his head. “Non capisco, Signore! Non capisco!” Well, we made him capisco today, did we not, ­Antonio? It will be a while before he tries that trick again.’

  His wife frowned but said nothing.

  Antonio grinned and glanced at his clenched fists. ‘Oh yes, I am sure he understands now.’

  As the conversation rolled on I watched our host and hostess for any indications of how they were reacting to the doleful situation in which they found themselves. ­Elizabeth, I knew, had been very close to her father-in-law, but ­Gregory? How did it feel, I wondered, to know that you were the son of an executed traitor? At one time Gregory could have looked forward to inheriting an immense fortune and an honoured place among the leaders of the land. But now? Elizabeth had described her husband as a man who enjoyed rural obscurity, but was it fear that kept him away from the centre of the nation’s life? Or shame? Or, perhaps, a sense of personal inadequacy? It could not be easy to step into the shoes of Thomas Cromwell.

  It was the following morning before I had the oppor­tunity to probe Gregory’s memories. We were riding side by side, through Launde’s parkland. He was eager to try a new peregrine he had acquired recently and he invited me to ­accompany him.

  As we rode side by side through sparse woodland, I ­admired the hooded raptor my host carried on his left wrist. ‘A fine-looking bird.’

  ‘Yes.’ He stroked the hawk’s feathers with his gauntleted right hand. ‘A New Year gift from my brother-in-law, Lord Hertford. I hope she is as fierce as she is beautiful.’

  He fell silent, and when I tried to steer the conversation into his memories of his father he stared vacantly along the path ahead. When eventually he spoke it was in little more than a murmur. ‘Truth is, I never knew him well.’

  ‘I suppose he was much absent on royal business.’

  ‘Aye, first for Wolsey and then for the king. If he was not at court he was away around the country, shutting down abbeys. Then, after my mother died, I was sent away to be looked after by nuns.’

  ‘How liked you that?’ I asked.

  ‘They were very kind, but ’tis not the right training for a gentleman.’

  Another silence followed, during which I racked my brains for another conversational opening.

  Suddenly, Gregory turned to me with a frown. ‘All dispersed now. Married, most of ’em. Some secretly to priests, or so I’m told. What think you to that, Master Bourbon? Are men and women free to unmake their vows?’

  ‘’Tis a deep point of theology, too solemn for such a pleasant day,’ I replied, sidestepping the question. ‘Where were you educated when you were older?’ I asked.

  ‘Cambridge. We turn down here to the right. I have a place where we might find good sport.’

  ‘University must have been more to your liking,’ I suggested.

  ‘Too many preachers,’ Gregory muttered, urging his mare into a trot.

  It was not until we came to a halt in a wide glade that I was able to ask him to explain his statement.

  He did so with obvious reluctance. ‘There was no escap­ing them. They were in every pulpit – churches, college chapels. Each one urged his own beliefs and denounced the beliefs of his rivals.’

  ‘You did not find that kind of open debate stimulating?’

  ‘’Tis all very well for theologians in the schools, but all that argument confuses ordinary people. Ah, this sounds promising.’

  The air was loud with the warbling of wood pigeons, several of which swooped from time to time across the open space. All Gregory’s attention was now focused on his sleek huntress. He removed her hood, held her at arm’s length and let go of the jesses securing her to his wrist. Then, with a shout of ‘Fetch!’, he threw the hawk into the air. Swiftly she mounted higher and higher, until it seemed that she was intent on making her escape. But in an instant her graceful gyrations ceased. Wings folded, she plunged earthwards. A plump pigeon crossing from our right took the full force of the raptor’s thrust and fell to earth in a distressed fluttering of wings. Gregory jumped from the saddle, threw down a piece of meat as the hunter’s prize and while she was gor­ging he gathered up the jesses. Having bagged the pigeon, he remounted.

  ‘Impressive,’ I said.

  ‘That was easy,’ he conceded. ‘I must try her on rabbits. There is a warren nearby. We might be lucky enough to find one or two out foraging.’

  As we rode on I tried to reignite the conversation. ‘Your father had many friends in the university.’

  Gregory laughed. ‘Aye, and many more who would like to think themselves his friends. I was always being pressed by ambitious preachers seeking rich appointments.’

  ‘Was Richard Bisley among them?’

  He looked round sharply at the name and seemed about to make an angry response. But he paused, collected himself and replied with studied casualness. ‘Bisley? No. As I recall, he was an Oxford man. One of Cardinal Wolsey’s protégés. What know you of Richard Bisley?’

  ‘Only that your father thought highly of him.’

  He shrugged. ‘Well, I knew him not. Never met him. Best we go quietly from here. The warren lies just beyond that hawthorn brake.’

  We found no rabbits and Gregory had to be content with another pigeon and a hen pheasant to add to his bag. As we returned to the house I had the strangest feeling of ­identity with the patient raptor. We were both, it seemed, being denied our quarry. Just as the rabbits were safe from her in their concealment below ground, so Gregory’s real feelings and thoughts were being kept in subterranean darkness. And I was the blind, hooded hunter.

  Later, I met the only other adult member of the family. Gregory and Elizabeth’s three children were mere infants and did not take meals with their parents. Their only resident relative, as Elizabeth had explained to me at ­Hampton, was Gregory’s maternal grandmother, Mercy Prior. She had her own quarters in the south wing of the house but, as I learned, occasionally dined with the young couple at their table. ‘Aunt Mercy’ had obviously known Thomas from his early years in Putney and I had been greatly looking forward to hearing her recollections. Once again, however, my hopes of a clear shaft of light illuminating Cromwell’s pre-Florence years were to be frustrated.

  The family took their meals in a room that had once been part of the monks’ refectory. As we were about to ­enter, Elizabeth drew me to one side and spoke softly. ‘Mercy was much affected by Thomas’s death – perhaps more than any of us. Please try not to remind her of it. They were very close; had been for years.’

  The lady already seated at the table was, I guessed, in her late sixties, perhaps older, and dressed simply in yellow with a grey overgown that matched her swept-back hair covered by a coif. She was small of stature, but seemed less so by ­reason of her very upright
posture. She had a ready smile and her bright eyes appeared to follow the conversation closely, though she spoke little. Talk was largely of county affairs and it was evident that Gregory was much interested in the activities of his gentry neighbours.

  At last there was a lull in his narrative of land deals and local marriages, and I addressed the matriarch across the table. ‘Mistress Prior, I understand you are from Putney.’

  ‘Putney!’ Mercy’s smile widened. It was as though clouds had dissolved, allowing sudden sunlight to break through. ‘Do you know it well, Sir?’

  ‘Alas, no, but I think Thomas passed a happy childhood there.’

  ‘You are a friend of Thomas?’ She wagged a finger at me. ‘Then you tell him it is too long since he came to see me. It is shameful of him to neglect me after all I have done for him.’

  Elizabeth was quick to intervene. ‘Come, Aunt, you know how busy he is. His Majesty—’

  ‘His Majesty? A fig for His Majesty! Did His Majesty save Thomas from a murder trial? Thomas should not forget who his real friends are!’ Mercy’s voice grew shrill with indignation.

  Elizabeth poured the oil of distraction on the troubled water. ‘Master Bourbon, have I mentioned that we are to be joined by another important guest in a couple of days?’

  ‘No, My Lady.’

  ‘John Chambers, who until recently was Abbot of ­Peterborough, is honouring us with a visit. He is a highly educated man. I am sure you will have much in common.’

  ‘I look forward to meeting him. What is he doing, now that his abbey is dissolved?’

  ‘Enjoying a fat pension,’ Gregory growled, ‘and looking to be a bishop. He will do handsomely out of my father’s changes.’

  It was Elizabeth who provided a fuller explanation. ‘Some of the abbeys are being turned into cathedrals, with new ­dioceses created. It is rumoured that Chambers will stay on as the new bishop.’

  ‘Rumoured!’ Gregory scoffed. ‘No rumour. He offered a weighty bribe – which, of course, my father refused.’