by Derek Wilson
‘I am sorry I was not here to greet you,’ I said. ‘I was told at the college that you were away.’
He nodded. ‘Yes, your informant was the porter, Peter Simkins. He disapproves of me. He knows that I can be contacted easily, but he tends to keep people away from me.’
‘Do you mean that you were in the college and that this Simkins was lying?’
‘Lying? No. Let us say, colouring the truth. I have a small cottage on the edge of the town and I spend much of my time there in prayer and study. Simkins knows where I am to be found, but he does not always choose to tell people.’
‘Well, I am glad that on this occasion he changed his mind and delivered my message.’
‘He did not.’
‘Then how—’
‘I was deep in prayer – the evening office, an invaluable discipline. The Lord interrupted my babbling.’ Bisley’s smile deepened. ‘He told me that someone needed to see me. So I returned to All Souls and shamed Simkins into producing your message.’
I was at a loss to find an appropriate response. ‘May I offer you some wine?’ I asked.
‘Thank you, no,’ he replied. With a slight tilt of the head he added, ‘And perhaps you should not take any more, just at the moment.’
I was beginning to see why Simkins might not like this highly observant and unnerving cleric.
‘So, Master Bourbon, what brings you to England and to Oxford?’ he asked.
As briefly as possible I explained my desire to understand the late Lord Cromwell. ‘I have yet to discover what inspired him, drove him. So far I have met no one who can explain this strange phenomenon. It was his nephew, Sir Richard Cromwell, who suggested that you might hold the key to this mystery.’
Bisley sat silently for some moments, hands clasped beneath his chin. Then he said, ‘And if I were able to hand you this key, what then?’
‘Then,’ I said, ‘the world could be told what a great man Thomas Cromwell was.’
Bisley stood quickly. ‘Then regrettably, Master Bourbon, I am unable to help you. Cromwell’s vision reached well beyond his own reputation and he would not have wanted glory for himself. As for me, I do not seek to gild his memory. I bid you good evening.’
I too sprang to my feet. Emboldened by panic, I raised a hand. ‘Sir, I beg you to stay.’ After all I had endured these last months I could not allow my only remaining contact to walk out into the Oxford night. Bisley tried to step around me. Still, I blocked his path. Then I did the only thing that I could think might stop him. ‘Please can you at least tell me the meaning of this?’ I held up Cromwell’s broken crucifix.
With a quick gesture Bisley snatched it from my hand. For a moment I feared that he would run off with it. Instead he sat down again, staring at the carved fragment. ‘He kept it, then,’ he muttered. Looking up, he demanded, ‘How came you by this?’
I resumed my seat and explained how Cromwell’s papers had come, unexpectedly, into my hands, and with them this broken talisman. ‘If you are surprised that he kept it, why is that?’
‘Because I advised him – urged him most strongly – to rid himself of it. God’s word strictly forbids us to worship idolatrous images.’
‘Apparently he could not bear to be parted from it. There was a piece of paper with it – old and brittle. On it were written two words—’
‘“Remember Always.”’
‘Yes. What was it he wanted to remind himself of?’
Bisley’s answerless answer came with a deep sigh. ‘God tells us through the prophet Isaiah, “I have dispersed your transgressions like a thick cloud.” If God can do that, why is it so hard for us to forgive ourselves?’
I was in no mood to be preached at and inwardly I cursed the man’s seeming inability to give straight answers to straight questions. I tried a new avenue of approach. ‘When did you meet Cromwell? Was it a long time ago, when he was a young man?’
‘He was much in Oxford in the fifteen twenties. Almost he was resident here.’
‘This was when he was working for Wolsey, in connection with his new college, was it not?’
‘Aye, that proud prelate was much occupied running the kingdom – or, we might say, ruining the kingdom. He left the establishment of Cardinal College entirely in Cromwell’s hands. Not just appropriating monastic property and overseeing the building works – he also hired the teaching staff, chiefly young graduates from Cambridge. The new foundation might have been called more truly “Cromwell College”.’
‘He really had that much authority?’
‘Oh, yes. He had a genius for making himself indispensable.’ Bisley was now warming to his subject. His earlier reluctance seemed to have evaporated completely. ‘He was so hard-working, so thorough, so efficient, so clear-thinking that his master left his college in Cromwell’s hands – just as the king later left his Church in Cromwell’s hands. Thus – God be praised – he was able to develop his own vision, to light in this university a beacon for the Gospel.’
‘So he was, by then, a Lutheran?’
Bisley shrugged. ‘He may have been.’ He fixed me with a stare, and the preacher’s glint was in his eye. ‘But he was not a Christian.’
‘I am not sure I understand.’
‘Perhaps you try too hard to understand – a common fault among scholars. They think to be saved by knowledge. St Paul tells us that salvation comes through faith, and faith through hearing, and hearing comes through sincere preaching of the word of God.’ He paused, a pulpiteer’s lacuna; an orator’s hiatus. ‘The word of God,’ he resumed, ‘not the word of Martin Luther or Ulrich Zwingli or John Calvin . . . or even Richard Bisley.’ He laughed, and in so doing softened what would otherwise have been a jagged-edged diatribe. He sat back, resting against the wainscot. ‘Dear Tom Crom. He read so much, so widely. He listened to anyone who claimed divine revelation. His problem was that there were so many people making that claim. He brought many of them here to Oxford to serve his new college.’
‘Yes, I saw for myself how he loved to surround himself with clever men and share in their debate.’
‘He often said he wished he had gone to university, to spend his life in academic speculation.’ He paused. ‘It was not true, of course. He would have been frustrated by our squabbles over doctrinal jots and tittles; felt hemmed in by our academic conventions. Thomas was a man of action, someone who wanted to make things happen.’
‘In those days, was it obvious what he would become?’
Again, the reply was accompanied by Bisley’s intense, searching stare. ‘Master Bourbon, how many of us fulfil our God-given potential? We are like runners in a race. Too easily we take our eyes off the finish line, distracted by our rivals or the spectators or even the clouds in the sky.’ He stopped suddenly. ‘No, that metaphor does not work well for Thomas. He knew not where the finishing post stood, but he did know that it existed and that he must reach it. His problem was that he was encumbered by his own problems, dragging a chain of personal guilt . . . No! No! Again the image does not serve. Think of it not as a chain but as a scourge, driving him on.’
My head was beginning to throb, and not entirely because of the wine. ‘I am finding it difficult to grasp.’
Bisley’s impatient frown was immediately banished by his disarming smile. ‘If you genuinely want to understand Thomas Cromwell and not just idolize him, then you must realize that his life was shaped by tragedy as well as triumph. Indeed, the triumph was part of his tragedy. We are all complicated creatures. Perhaps Thomas was more so than most. Something happened early in his life that dogged his heels ever after and allowed him no rest.’
‘Was that why he went to Italy?’
Bisley frowned, considering the question. ‘I doubt it,’ he said at last. ‘He would probably have given himself to travel in any case . . . an inquisitive mind . . . ambition . . . the need to escap
e from a domineering parent.’
‘Was he, then, at odds with his father? I have heard something of the sort.’
‘’Tis a common situation, is it not – an only son wanting to make his own way in the world; a father determined to keep him in the family business? Putney could never have held the young Thomas Cromwell, nor, I think, could England. So I do not think he believed Italy would provide salve to his spiritual malaise. No matter where he was, he was always seeking comfort for his troubled conscience. That explains his voracious reading and also his patronage of scholars. For many years he collected thinkers and preachers as avidly as he collected books.’
I struggled to superimpose the image of a man haunted by guilt upon the portrait I carried in my memory of a relaxed and genial host, self-confident in the company of subtle-minded academics. ‘Did he find no respite here, in Oxford, among like-minded friends?’
Bisley nodded, eyes closed. ‘Yes, I believe he did. A work of grace began in his life. I was privileged to play a part in it.’
He fell silent, just when I desperately wanted him to continue. Befuddled though my brain was, I knew or guessed or hoped that the secret I had pursued for so many months was about to be unveiled. I was as a sailor gaining his first sight of the longed-for haven. Surely the mist would not descend now and leave me among the empty waves.
Bisley spoke again. ‘It was a Sunday in February. I had preached at mass. A Lenten sermon . . . now, what was the text?’ His brow furrowed with concentration.
‘Go on,’ I urged. ‘What happened then?’
‘Thomas lingered in the chapel after everyone else had left. He wanted me to hear his confession. He was in grief for the death of his wife and children, and believed it to be a punishment for what he called an “unforgiveable sin” committed in his youth.’
I was aware of a faint glimmer of understanding. ‘Then that is why he carried his broken crucifix and the message “Remember Always”. And all because of some youthful misdemeanour.’
Bisley sighed and turned his head away. ‘That day he accepted the free and full pardon of God for all his sins – with his mind. Yet in his heart he could not completely forgive himself. Hence this bauble!’ He brought the flat of his hand down on the crucifix. ‘Thomas embraced a never-ending penance. Whatever he did for the cause of true religion was never enough. And not just because of his bereavement. As he pressed on with the work of reform, he grew richer. A grateful sovereign showered him with lands and honours. Yet at the same time, friends and agents who were helping in the work of reform were suffering for their faith. Tyndale was hounded to death by King Henry. Barnes, Coverdale, Bilney and others were thrown into prison, forced into exile or burned at the stake. He always felt it should have been him.’
‘What was this sin that so burdened him?’ I asked, caught up in the narrative and willing it on.
‘That, as you will know, I cannot tell you,’ he said calmly.
The mist returned – or rather an impenetrable fog. ‘Of course, the secrecy of the confessional. Can you at least tell me whether it was connected with this?’ I pointed to the broken crucifix.
Bisley shook his head.
‘Someone told me that Cromwell called it his Mary,’ I prompted. ‘His equivalent, I suppose, of the image of the Virgin worn by some papists.’
His expression remained unchanged, as though carved in granite, but there was a slight flickering of the eyebrows. He said, ‘I am sorry. I am not in a position to confirm or deny that. We must just thank God for Thomas’s relentless campaign. Because of it the scandalous lives of the religious have been stopped, the Church is being purified of popish nonsense and, above all, the word of God is available to the people. As David wrote in the Psalms, “This is the Lord’s doing and it is marvellous in our eyes.”’
‘And all because of one man’s guilty conscience,’ I muttered.
‘Well, as I once pointed out to Thomas, God’s big problem is that he only has us sinners to work through.’
‘Do you think all these changes will last?’ I asked.
Bisley stood up. ‘Have no concern about that,’ he said. ‘Twenty years ago when Thomas was here and we, his little band of supporters, were working with him to close down a few religious houses, we did not dare to believe what might grow from those small beginnings. We thought how good it would be if all the papal covens could be suppressed – never thinking that we might see this happen in England. Oh, in Saxony, yes; in Zurich, yes. But in England? Impossible. Then Cromwell was raised up by God to a place on the king’s council and the pace of reform speeded up. We have had the king’s official Bible for less than two years and already the impact has been more than we could have imagined. Every day priests, schoolteachers and even young university scholars are being approached by their illiterate neighbours. “Teach us to read!” is the cry of servants, farm workers, market traders and others. “We want to know what this Bible says!” they demand. So the answer to your question is yes. I believe we are privileged to live through stirring times. Let us pray we prove worthy of the tasks God lays upon us.’
He shook my hand warmly, strode to the door and went out into the night.
For some time after his departure I sat staring into the fire, oblivious of the noise and chatter of the busy inn. Despite Bisley’s refusal to answer my most pressing question, he had said things that seemed, somehow, to echo with thoughts that were already fluttering like bats about the crevices in my mind. If only I could connect them . . .
It was no use. Try as I might, I could not extract what was significant from the jumble of mental images. At last I stumbled up to my chamber, thwarted and frustrated, feebly resisting the knowledge that my mission was over.
19
Putney
Mercy Prior and Richard Bisley danced energetically around a maypole. Yet it was not a maypole. On closer inspection it was a crucifix. The music changed to a slower tempo. The cross disappeared, to be replaced by a statue of the Virgin Mary. Draped around it was a sash bearing the words ‘Remember Always’.
I emerged suddenly from the bizarre realm of dreams. Bleary-eyed and with head throbbing, I realized that light was forcing its way through chinks in the shutters, and I eased myself out of the bed. After washing and dressing I still felt the need to clear my head, so I ventured out into the keen winter air. Following directions from one of the inn servants, I made my way first to the foundation on which so much of Cromwell’s labour had been expended in the 1520s. What had once been Cardinal’s College now stood as a monument to the folly of hubris. The visitor could take in at a glance both the exuberant conception of Wolsey’s building and its failure to achieve his ambitious design. I had heard the sad story of its fate – how King Henry had appropriated the site as part of the booty of Wolsey’s fall, renamed it King Henry’s College, then totally ignored it – but the bare facts had not prepared me for what now lay before my eyes. Part of the college was occupied and presumably functioning, but the rest was a desolation of roofless walls and long-abandoned scaffolding. I imagined how Cromwell must have felt at this dereliction. Had he lived, I wondered, would he have completed his ex-master’s project? Would I now be looking at Cromwell College? It was all very dispiriting and my mood was well matched by the damp, motionless air and the donkey-grey sky.
Walking on, I entered the meadows skirted by Oxford’s two rivers and forced my mind to concentrate on its own immediate problem. Prudence urged that, having followed the trail to the end, there was no more to be done but to put myself beyond the malicious reach of English politics and regain the safety and comfort of my own home. Another voice, however, was raucous and insistent in its challenge: ‘You have not come to the end of the road and you will never forgive yourself if you leave pressing questions unanswered. You pride yourself on your mental discipline, do you not? You even lectured young Antonio about it. Well, then, do not give up.’ M
y more adventurous self refused to be silenced. It threw up a succession of half-memories and hints that fidgeted around in my brain just as they had disturbed my sleep with their absurdities.
It was the name Mary that refused to be ignored. Its mention the previous night had disturbed Richard Bisley. Why? I asked myself. It was obvious that the cleric felt a deep respect, affection even, for the memory of Thomas Cromwell. Thomas had entrusted to him, uniquely, a secret – a guilty secret – that his confessor was rightly determined not to divulge. So if the name Mary had alarmed him and caused him to put a speedy end to our conversation, might it be that it was of real significance and there was chance that I would discover that significance?
Mary was the name that Cromwell had given to his holy talisman, the image of the Saviour that he always wore. The explanation I had worked out was that his ‘Mary’ was both a symbol of the religion he had rejected and an admonition to be vigilant in banishing from England all trace of that religion.
My reasoning was tortuous, but I had been able to make no better sense of the holy symbol and its aide-memoire, ‘Remember Always’. Now, however, if Cromwell’s Mary was not the Mary of the gospels, who was she? Obviously someone very dear to him. More than that, if Bisley was concerned that I might find her, she must be findable – still alive.
I paused to watch a group of young boys playing a dangerous game at the river’s edge. Ice had formed there, where the Cherwell moved more slowly, the frozen surface extending in places two or three yards out from the bank, and the children were daring each other to step out on it. None of them was heavy, but their sport was, nevertheless, perilous. Even as I looked, a crack suddenly appeared where the latest adventurer stood. It ran between his feet, leaving him straddling a slowly widening gap. I ran forward, hoping that I might be better able to reach him than his small companions. However, I had no need to play the hero. The nimble boy made a leap for the shore. He did not reach it but was lucky enough to escape with nothing worse than soaking breeches.