The Cromwell Enigma

by Derek Wilson

  ‘What about the table?’ I demanded. ‘What were we talking about?’

  Antonio shrugged. ‘Oh, I know not. I could not follow it.’

  ‘Of course not. Your thoughts were elsewhere.’

  He scowled. ‘Yes, yes. I have already admitted that. Any­way, you should remember what you were all talking about.’

  ‘But I do not. The crash put it from my head. The old lady was talking, I think, but what she said . . .’ I stopped as a new thought pushed its way into my mind. ‘Perhaps that was the point,’ I muttered. ‘A distraction!’

  ‘So that you would not remember what Mistress Prior was telling you? But that makes no sense. You have been invited here to meet Mistress Prior and hear what she can tell you about Thomas Cromwell’s early years.’

  ‘Yes . . . and now I am being kept away from her. You are right; something here is amiss. I am sorry I doubted you.’

  Antonio stepped across to the window and stared out. After some moments he asked, ‘Think you it has something to do with this old abbot who is coming? I have had my fill of monks.’

  ‘From what I can gather, he is not a man who allows principle to stand in the way of gain. Given the choice between saving his abbey and saving himself . . .’

  ‘’Twas all about survival, then?’

  ‘It usually is; the more so in uncertain times like these. I think I begin to see our hosts’ predicament. ’Tis a contest between family pride and family survival.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I am sure that they are concerned about Thomas ­Cromwell’s reputation. They want to know the truth, even if they cannot spread it. But if they are suspected of being in defiance of royal policy . . .’

  Antonio turned to face me. ‘I do not understand. The king has restored them to favour.’

  ‘Aye, but what the king restores, he can unrestore. Someone at court – someone who knows about these things – said to me that His Majesty has consigned Thomas Cromwell to oblivion. He has shut the door behind him and is determined that no one shall reopen it. If he believed that I was doing just that and that Cromwell’s family were helping me, then they would regret the risk they had taken and turn their thoughts to survival.’

  ‘What would they do?’

  I sat down on the bed, head in hands, and considered the question long and hard. ‘I can think of only one thing,’ I said eventually. ‘I wish to God it were otherwise.’

  ‘You believe they would hand you over?’

  ‘Is that not the danger you were warning me of yesterday?’

  ‘No. I just felt that something was not right. Now that you have spelled it out, it seems ridiculous. I see now why you could not believe my suspicions. You were right. I must have been panicking.’

  Antonio walked back to the fireplace and held out his hands to the barely smouldering ashes. ‘So,’ he muttered despondently, ‘we have both come full circle; talked ourselves into believing that black is white and sweet is sour. This is useless! What are we to do?’

  ‘Well,’ I said, ‘we could do nothing – just wait to see which of us is right.’

  Antonio scowled. ‘Or?’

  ‘Or we need to have plans ready in case a swift departure is necessary.’

  ‘Running away again! I like it not.’

  ‘Nor I. Let us hope things do not come to that pass. But if they do, what are the biggest obstacles we have to overcome?’

  We spent the greater part of an hour discussing the problems – not because there were several plausible solutions, but because the problem itself was adamantine: how to leave Launde suddenly without giving the impression that we were guilty fugitives. At the end, any plans we had devised were but vague demi-strategies, mere contingencies. But we devoted the next few hours to our decidedly elabor­ate preparations.

  ***

  How do you receive in your home a man who used to be an abbot and is not yet a bishop? For Lord and Lady Cromwell the answer was: with great pomp. The entire household of Launde Priory was assembled on the drive before the main entrance to greet John Chambers and his entourage of at least thirty. When their guest had dismounted, Gregory and Elizabeth stepped forward to welcome him. All smiles.

  I spoke in low tones to Antonio as we stood at the edge of the reception party. ‘Difficult to believe that it was only two years ago that Sir Richard Cromwell personally received the submission of Peterborough Abbey from this same man.’

  ‘As you said, closing the door on the past,’ he responded.

  Moments later we were being introduced to the honoured guest. Chambers was a rotund little man in his mid-fifties.

  ‘A real pleasure to meet you, Master Bourbon,’ he said. ‘Your Nugae are a delight to read and now I have the pleasure of hearing from you in person about your exciting travels.’ The smile was genial but the handshake less than enthusiastic.

  We filed into the house, where Chambers and his ­senior clergy were entertained with wine and cakes. In a quiet corner of the crowded hall I complimented Gregory on the arrangements. My host offered only a grunt in response.

  ‘Your father would, of a surety, have been glad to see men like Chambers submitting to the new order,’ I persisted.

  ‘Chambers?’ he sneered. ‘My father had not finished with him and his kind.’

  ‘Really? You surprise me. Sir Richard, I gather, holds the ex-abbot in high regard.’

  Gregory’s snorted laugh turned several heads in our dir­ection. ‘Cousin Richard,’ he said in a voice little above a whisper, ‘once described John Chambers as a snake who would always find a hole to wriggle through, be it never so small. When he went round closing the monk houses, he had a regard for those inmates ready to stand up for their hocus pocus. He had only contempt for those who kept their principles in their purses. Men like Chambers would not have survived much longer if my father had lived.’

  Shortly after this I let myself out of the house for a walk in the frosty evening air. I needed the cold to clear my head and the semi-darkness to remove distractions as I tried to comprehend why I was being fed contradictory information by husband and wife. My aimless route took me in the dir­ection of the stable yard. As I approached, a horseman arrived, his head well hooded against the winter wind. By the time I was abreast of the stable he had dismounted and was in a heated exchange with one of the grooms. Idly curious, I strained my ears to listen.

  ‘. . . either the abbot himself or his chaplain! Do you understand? This message is private and urgent.’

  ‘Then you must take it to the house, Sir.’

  ‘I cannot do that. It is highly confidential!’

  ‘’Tis not my place to carry messages to the house.’

  ‘All I want you to do is bring the abbot or his chaplain here. Show this ring and I’ll warrant they will come quickly. ’Twill only take you five minutes. Look, you see this silver groat? It is yours for performing a simple task. You will never come by easier money.’

  The bribe obviously worked, for the groom set off at a run towards the main house.

  My interest was sufficiently aroused for me to wait in the shadows to see the outcome of this animated exchange. The groom’s errand certainly took longer than the stranger’s promised five minutes, but eventually he returned, followed at a slower trot by another figure. Peering into the lamp-lit yard, I saw this person approach the stranger. There was a hurried conversation between the two men, but as they spoke softly I was able to pick up only a few words: ‘My master . . . vital . . . Father John must read . . .’ Then the horseman sprang back into the saddle and trotted past me. His hood had now fallen back. I looked up. And things suddenly became clearer.

  17

  On the road

  The day ended with an elaborate supper given by our hosts to the senior members of Chambers’ party. I was included among this select gathering, but Antonio had to be satisf
ied with a humbler repast set before the Cromwells’ less important guests. I was amused to discover that the man I was ­seated next to was the bustling cleric I had seen a short while before in the stable, taking possession of an urgent message for John Chambers. Amused and wary. He introduced himself as Francis Neville, the ex-abbot’s chaplain. What followed was a conversational ‘game’ that, under ­other circumstances, might have been amusing. My neighbour devoted considerable ingenuity to obtaining my opinion on several sensitive subjects and I, just as assiduously, parried his verbal thrusts.

  ‘Master Bourbon, you have become a legend in your own time. Your brush with the Inquisition in Italy—’

  ‘Has, beyond doubt, been much exaggerated. However, if it acts as a warning, the story may serve some purpose. You, in England, are much blessed with a king who will not countenance the exercise of sinister popish power.’

  ‘Oh, indeed, indeed. I gather matters are not so clear-cut in France. Even, it is said, that King Francis is at odds with his sister, Queen Marguerite, over matters of religion.’

  I laughed. ‘How people love to gossip. ’Twas but the ­other day someone told me in all solemnity that King Henry is heavily fortifying the coast against an expected invasion from Spain to reimpose the Pope’s authority.’

  ‘Really? I fear we live in confused times when men will give credence to such absurd tales. I have heard that His Majesty abhors the English Bible foisted on the people by the late Lord Cromwell and intends to have all copies confiscated and destroyed.’

  ‘Best not repeat that tale,’ I suggested. ‘It might be thought you favoured the system when a popish clergy preserved their power by keeping the king’s subjects from the Bible.’

  This time the barb almost lodged itself firmly. Neville ­responded sharply, ‘You would, then, have every man to ­interpret God’s word as he lists – to have as many doctrines as there are men in England?’

  ‘No.’ I made my reply sound as casual as possible. ‘I would have all doctrine in England defined by one man: the king. ’Tis the only way to unity.’

  So we thrust and parried with our verbal rapiers, but it was never an equal contest. I was not manoeuvred into any comment that could be twisted into apparent sedition or heresy. The effort was, however, wearying and I was glad at last to retire to my chamber.

  It was far into the night before I snuffed my candle. My mind was an arena where, one after another, opposed recollections and observations wrestled each other in sweating combat. As a result, I slept late and was, in fact, woken by Antonio. I washed and dressed hurriedly, all the while reporting on my experiences of the previous day. Hearing my friend’s reactions was very much like hearing my own responses repeated.

  ‘Why were the opinions of Lord and Lady Cromwell about this old abbot so completely opposed to each other?’ he asked.

  ‘More to the matter, why did Sir Richard Cromwell send his most trusted servant all the way here from London yesterday in great haste with an urgent message for ­Chambers – a message that had to be kept secret, even apparently from Lord and Lady Cromwell?’ I described what I had seen at the stable.

  ‘You are sure the messenger came from Sir Richard?’

  ‘Oh, yes. I have no doubt on that score. It was Simon, his page.’

  ‘And what, think you, was the message?’

  ‘At a guess, it was to do with hastening whatever is being plotted against us.’ I sat on the bed to pull on and fasten my breeches. ‘If Gregory speaks true – and I doubt he has the wit to dissemble – Chambers has cause to covet Sir ­Richard’s favour. If he is to be sure of gaining a ­bishop’s ­mitre he needs friends at court. He will be ready to do favours in return for patronage. If ’tis true that Sir Richard has scant respect for the ex-abbot, his price might well be a high one.’

  ‘Perjured evidence?’

  ‘Exactly. Evidence the courtier can take to the king as proof that the Cromwell family’s loyalty is now absolute; that no hint of Thomas’s treason lurks within them; that they are proving it by denouncing some interfering ­foreigner intent on keeping alive Thomas Cromwell’s heresies.’

  ‘We must act quickly, then.’

  ‘We certainly cannot wait for Chambers and his team to act. We must put our plan into operation today. Collect the horses this afternoon and take them to the place we found. Tonight, as soon as the house is asleep, we will leave. Before anyone misses us tomorrow, we will be many long miles away.’

  Our ‘plan’, such as it was, was not so much simple as naive. The previous day, while the household had been busy with preparations for Chambers and his party, we had walked the two miles into the nearest village, Loddington, where we hoped to find someone with horses for sale. Our story was that we had been set upon by ruffians who had stolen our mounts and our baggage.

  Luck was on our side. We were directed to a nearby farm, where the farmer also had a side business as a coper of cart and saddle horses. We found two serviceable animals, more sturdy than sleek, and arranged to return for them when the owner had had them groomed, tacked-up and fresh-shod. It only remained, then, to find somewhere to house the beasts until such time as we would need them. Walking back to Launde through the woods, we located a derelict cottage that suited our purpose admirably. It would then be a simple matter to return for them under cover of darkness. Since our own mounts were to be abandoned in Launde’s stables, anyone instigating a search would assume that they were looking for two fugitives on foot.

  Our hurriedly arranged stratagem certainly did not deserve to succeed, but even Plato is not infallible and, on this occasion at least, his dictum of more haste, less speed was disproved. Nothing happened to threaten our vulnerable scheme.

  I had steeled myself to suffer another thinly veiled interrogation, this one probably from Chambers in person, but he joined a hunting party arranged by Gregory and, even when blustering winds and snow flurries curtailed the sport around noon, the bishop-elect made no attempt to seek me out. Perhaps he needed time to rehearse his verbal strategy. I spent much of the day in the library. The monastery’s collection of books had not been seriously pillaged by Thomas Cromwell’s agents, perhaps because the abbey was under his personal protection, and I was delighted to find a volume of Petrarch’s sonnets written in the Florentine dialect. In the poet’s company I found a peace and stability that dispersed the fog of anxiety, doubt and incomprehension that perv­aded everything at Launde Priory.

  I cannot have enough books. In truth I already have more than I should. Gold, silver, jewels, marble houses, well-groomed estates, religious paintings, proudly caparisoned steeds, and other suchlike possessions offer us a transient, superficial pleasure. But books give us complete delight. They converse with us and are bound to us in a lively and witty intimacy. Nor do they merely insinuate themselves on their readers; they introduce us to others. Thus each awakes a desire for further books.

  (Petrarch, The Letters)

  It could not last. After dinner I returned to my haven and had scarcely resumed my reading when John Chambers came in.

  ‘A fine library,’ he muttered, almost to himself. ‘We are quite jealous of it at Peterborough.’ He peered over my shoulder. ‘What has taken your fancy today?’

  I held up the book for his inspection.

  ‘Ah, Petrarch’s Triumphs – magnificent!’ Chambers en­thused. ‘And I see you read him in the Tuscan tongue. I envy you.’ He seated himself opposite. ‘I gather you were in Florence recently, Master Bourbon. How is everything there? We hear so many conflicting stories.’

  ‘Doubtless they are all true,’ I replied. ‘’Tis a troubled country – but then, what land is not in these days?’

  The door opened again and Chambers’ chaplain slipped in quietly. He briefly scanned the shelves, selected a small volume and sat at a table by the window to read and – ostensibly – to make notes on what he read. I recalled my ordeal in the Dominican
priory at Florence: the hours spent on my feet while my interrogators plied their questions, the secretary assiduously recording my replies. The ­circumstances could scarcely have been more different. Yet I was in no doubt that what I was about to undergo was no less an inquisition. On this occasion, however, I too was at liberty to ask difficult questions.

  ‘Abandoning the time-honoured monastic way of life must have been hard for you and your brothers,’ I observed.

  He sighed. ‘Sometimes ’tis good to re-examine old customs. A practice is not valuable merely because it has the sanction of ancient usage.’

  ‘You approve, then, of Cromwell’s attack on the religious life?’

  ‘I believe His Majesty, as head of the Church in this land, was right to carry out a purge of corrupt and immoral practices.’

  ‘I see. Cromwell, then, was merely his loyal agent?’

  ‘Er, yes.’ For the first time his voice faltered.

  ‘Not a heretic, then?’

  Chambers was silent for several moments, pondering his reply carefully. ‘Heresy is a disease of the mind, the soul. It is not so much what a man does that matters as why he does it. In Cromwell’s case it was the worm of Lutheranism that had eaten its way into the core of his being. Do you not agree that he was motivated by damnable heresy?’

  ‘I could not say. I scarce knew the man. I only met him a few times, some years ago.’

  ‘Yet I understand you have come to England in an effort to keep his memory alive.’

  I laughed, and hoped it did not sound forced. ‘What a strange idea. Does interest in someone assume agreement with him and a desire to spread his beliefs, however bizarre?’

  ‘Anyone condemned as a heretic should be consigned to obscurity!’ Chambers snapped.

  ‘And not exposed for all time so that later generations may not fall into the same pit?’

  ‘It is dangerous to dabble in devilish untruth.’

  ‘Then how is the Church to protect us from that untruth if it forbids scholars to examine it and show it for what it is?’