The Cromwell Enigma

by Derek Wilson

  She seemed to be struggling to find the words she ­wanted. I intervened. ‘My dear lady, it is I who must be grateful. I real­ize that there are some reminiscences that must be painful to you. I would not for the world press you to reveal things you would rather keep secret.’

  ‘No, no, no!’ Mary frowned almost fiercely. ‘If we are to have the truth, it must be the whole truth – claws and all. We are not here to create a legend. There are facts about my Tom Crom that must be entered in the record.’

  ‘I have heard that there was something that weighed heavily on Thomas’s conscience,’ I said. ‘Richard Bisley intimated—’

  ‘You have met Master Bisley!’ She clasped her hands together in delight. ‘Such a fine man and a powerful preacher. Tom Crom brought him here to talk with the Lollards.’

  ‘Who exactly are these Lollards?’ I asked.

  ‘A small group of people who have lived in the area and worshipped in secret for generations. Of course, they were branded as heretics by the clergy. They had their own ­English Bible long before Master Tyndale came along. Tom Crom was always fascinated by them and he wanted ­Master Bisley to compare his teaching with theirs. I confess I did not follow all their discussion, but I saw that they were in broad agreement. Tom Crom said that it was the Lollards who had kept Christian truth alive in this country when the papists led the people astray. Such exciting times! I have no book learning, but in those days I understood something of what fires scholars.’

  For some moments Mistress Hankley sat with her eyes closed, relishing memory. Then she repeated firmly, ‘No. The truth. You must have the truth. It cannot harm Tom Crom now, and the pain I once felt no longer lingers.’ She took a deep breath, then in slow, deliberate speech, as though she was dictating, she said: ‘I was fifteen and Tom Crom was already a man. And, to put it simply, we fell in love – or realized we had long been in love . . . I know not. How do these things happen? I was in rapture. To think that the one I idolized also loved me. ’Twas very heaven. We spoke of marriage. Yet it could not be straight away. Tom Crom was set on going abroad to make his fortune.’

  ‘To Italy?’

  ‘Yes, he had formed some business connections through his mother’s family and meant to make a merchant’s career for himself. But he promised that we would be wed as soon as he returned. The day before he left the village we met in the hayloft of my father’s barn. We often met there to share our love as young people do, but never did loving go beyond kissing and embracing. Yet that day, because we were to be long parted, I let Thomas do all he would. After­wards he went on an errand for his father, promising to be back shortly. When I heard footsteps on the ladder a mite later I thought it was Tom Crom coming back, but it was not. It was Brother Robert, one of the friars from the ­local ­Franciscan house. I remember his face now with its evil grin.

  ‘“So this is where you have your sinful meetings!” he said. I begged him not to tell my father. “I will say nothing,” he replied, “but you must do penance.” What he meant by penance was submitting to his lust. He made me lie down. Then he hitched up his robe and took me by force. I fought him feebly, but I was not strong enough to stop him.’ She paused, tightly clutching a kerchief to her lips.

  I made to intervene. ‘There really is no need—’

  She held up a hand. ‘There is need. No more silence. No more hidden truth.

  ‘The vile rapist had no sooner finished than Tom Crom returned. Would to God he had not! I see him now, stepping from the ladder and staring down as the friar struggled to his feet. Never have I seen a man more angry. His face was twisted. His eyes glistened. He and Brother ­Robert stood, one each side of me: Tom Crom speechless with rage, the other man sneering at him, triumphant, as if to say, “Now who is the better man?” It was . . . it really was like an unspoken challenge. And Tom Crom responded. He grabbed the friar by his habit and pinned him against one of the posts. He shouted and punched in a frenzy of rage. The other man fought back, but he was no match for my Tom Crom. He turned aside to escape the rain of blows, but he was on the edge of the loft and had nowhere to go.

  ‘And then . . . did he stumble? Did Tom Crom push him? To this day I know not. All I recall is a weak cry and flailing arms. Then he was gone. Tom Crom helped me to my feet and held me close. I was all of a tremble. Then we went to the edge of the loft and looked down. The friar was ­lying on the stone floor and there was blood oozing from his head. Tom Crom went down the ladder and took a close look. Then he smiled up at me and said – I remember his exact words – “Well, he’ll not molest any more women.”’

  ‘Friar Robert had a reputation?’

  Mary nodded. ‘Tom Crom told me there were at least three other victims of his lust – all sworn to silence by spiritual threats of eternal punishment. I went down and we rushed out of the barn to find fresh air and escape the horror within. I clung tightly to Tom Crom, crying till I thought I should never stop. He, by contrast, was completely calm. It was a characteristic of his: serenity. He ­never lacked for passion, but he never allowed it to master him. He could set it aside and think clearly.

  ‘I babbled my fear: “What are we to do? It was an accident, but people will think I pushed him or you pushed him or we—” He stopped my words with a kiss. “Hush, my dearling,” he said. “This lecherous rogue is well known or suspected. There will be no surprise at how he met his end and I doubt his prior will favour a close examination.” Then he looked around and added, “But there may be something we can do to forestall the coroner subjecting you to unpleasant questions.” He picked up a heavy stone and went back into the barn. I watched from the doorway as he went over to the ladder leading to the loft. It was very old and some of the rungs were well worn. When he struck one of them with the stone, it snapped easily.

  ‘“There you are,” he said. “That could have broken at any time – an accident waiting to happen.” He went back and bent over the body. When he returned he was carrying the wooden crucifix the friar had worn on a string around his neck. “How dare this hypocritical wretch carry out his lechery in the sight of our Saviour’s image!” he said. Deftly he broke the crucifix in two. Standing there we made a solemn vow over it that this dreadful event would not come between us. We each took one half of the image and promised that on the day of our wedding we would reunite them to bury the past and to symbolize our shared future.’

  My own eyes were moist as I listened to Mary’s dreadful and ineffably sad story. Yet the tale was not complete and what followed was in some ways even more tragic. Mary explained that Thomas tutored her in the simple ­story she was to tell her father: the friar had followed her to the barn, forced himself upon her and, on leaving, had fallen to his death.

  ‘I was terrified that I would not be believed. I am a poor liar, and yet it was not much of a lie. Most of it was true. Fortunately Brother Robert’s reputation was known and his prior was only too pleased to have the incident quickly dealt with and forgotten. As for me, I could not bear the misery and shame alone. I shared it with a close friend – someone who understood and comforted me.’

  ‘Mercy Prior?’ I asked.

  ‘Why, yes,’ she exclaimed in surprise, ‘although her birth name was Mary Langby. Do you know her?’

  ‘We have met briefly.’

  ‘I have not seen her in years. She was the mother of my closest friend, Elizabeth, and almost a second mother to me. She was an especially good friend to Tom Crom and me in our unhappy years. How is she?’

  ‘Well in body, I think, but her mind is not as clear as it was.’

  ‘Poor soul. She too has suffered. Her husband died young and after that she lived with Elizabeth and Tom Crom. I suppose you know that they were married.’

  ‘Yes. How came that about?’

  ‘When Tom Crom returned, I was in no position to ­marry him. I was happy to see him and Elizabeth wed – and it meant also that our secret was kept within t
he ­family. Elizabeth became the great lady I might have been – for a while. She died in fifteen twenty-nine and her two little ones followed her to the grave soon after. Poor Tom was broken by the loss.’

  ‘What happened to you in the years between?’ I asked.

  ‘I was miserable after Tom Crom left for Italy, but I soon had something else to think about. I was with child. I could not know who was the father, though I cared for little Mary as though she was the result of our love. My family and all our neighbours, of course, assumed that it was the friar’s bairn I carried. To avoid the shame, my father arranged for me to marry. Sam Hankley the miller was a widow in need of a new wife. He was many years older than me, but what of that! My happiness counted for little. We wed. I came to live at the mill. My daughter was born here. Within a sixmonth she died.

  ‘When Tom Crom came home three years later I was Mistress Hankley and our vow was voided. Perhaps it was God’s judgement on us. I know not. God forgive me, we both hoped for my husband’s death, but he lived to a good age and eventually Tom Crom took Elizabeth to wife. After her death, in fifteen twenty-nine, I suppose Tom Crom and I might have remained true to our old vow.’

  ‘What prevented you?’ I asked.

  ‘Our paths had diverged too far. I was busy running the mill, and Tom Crom, of course, was become a great man and much occupied in His Majesty’s service. We both knew that our chance for a life together had passed. God had granted us but a few minutes of true bliss and with that we had to remain content. I think I have read in the Bible that there is a time for everything under the sun.’

  ‘Aye, and as you say, had things fallen out differently Thomas Cromwell would not have become the man who changed this country beyond recognition.’

  I thanked my hostess for her frankness and for enabling me to complete my story. The hours had slipped past while we talked and Mary insisted on putting her guest ­chamber at my disposal. When I rose in the morning she was ­already at work in the mill and her maid set breakfast before me. As I consumed the simple meal in solitude I could not help but feel some anxiety for its provider, living as she did in this fairly isolated location, amidst neighbours who, for the most part, were by no means friendly.

  I expressed my concern afterwards when I found her in the mill. ‘Now that you have lost your powerful protector,’ I said, raising my voice above the trundling murmur of the mechanism, ‘do you feel safe here?’

  She laughed. ‘I provide a good service and, as I always tell people, if they like not the taste of heretic flour, they are free to take their grain to another mill – and the nearest is a good twelve miles off.’

  When I had saddled my horse and was ready to ­depart, Mary came out to say goodbye. ‘I will pray for you as you write your story,’ she said, ‘and I thank you again for ­undertaking it.’

  ‘It has been a pleasure to meet you,’ I replied. ‘Tom Crom was a fortunate man to have enjoyed your affection.’

  It was no empty compliment. Of all the people I had met on my travels there was none I admired more than ­Thomas’s Mary. She had given me much to think about as I rode back to London. On her advice, I made my way eastwards across the heath and picked up the London road beyond Putney in order to avoid any further encounters with its denizens.

  Within the last few hours I had learned so much and linked together several facts that had been floating free in my mind or colliding uncomfortably with each other. So, had I now discovered the real Thomas Cromwell? Well, it would have been rash of me to make such a boast, but I could claim that I was no longer mystified by the ­brewer’s boy who had come to exercise almost supreme power; by the self-taught scholar whose wisdom excelled that of the brightest students from the universities; by the politician who for so long outsmarted his opponents; by the member of the royal court who understood the lives of the king’s humble subjects. I could see a man of vision who believed that England’s religious life needed more than tinkering with theological niceties and a man of passion who hated the ecclesiastical establishment and especially what he saw as the worm-ridden edifice of monasticism.

  It remained only for me to set down in an orderly way an account of my investigation. Just as explorers were filling the bookstalls with their eye-widening accounts of new-­discovered lands, so I had to tell my story. But for whom? Should I publish now? The fractured world in which we were living made revelations hazardous. Many people had aided my quest and I would not burden my immortal soul by putting them in jeopardy. Perhaps my tale would have to wait for another age and an impartial readership. Yet would such an age of tolerance be worthy of Tom Crom? Could the ­issues of faith, truth, religious convention, life, death, ­heaven and hell ever be regarded as matters of personal opinion? If we make no search for truth we abide in windowless mansions, content with what lies within, satisfied with the mental chattels we gather for our amusement. Life is a quest or it is nothing.

  That was the least of what I had learned from Thomas Cromwell.

  Notes on historical characters

  Many readers of historical fiction like to know where the boundary lines are between fact and imagination; which characters are real and which are made up. Here is a checklist of the men and women around whom I have woven my story:

  Nicholas Bourbon (c. 1503–c. 1550) was a humanist poet and Latinist involved in the early years of the French Reformation and, as such, a member of the international fraternity of advanced thinkers. He enjoyed the patronage of ­Marguerite, Queen of Navarre, and was a member of her salon. His connection with the French court brought him into contact with Anne Boleyn, who was an attendant of Queen Claude from 1514 to 1521. In 1533 his verses critical of the Church got him into trouble with the authorities and earned him several months in a Paris prison. News of his plight reached England, where Anne, now Henry VIII’s queen, persuaded her husband to intercede for the poet at the highest diplomatic level. Shortly after his release in 1534, Bourbon hastened to England (enduring violent seasickness en route) to thank his benefactor. For almost a year he moved in the highest court circles and wrote poems about several of the leaders of the evangelical party. ‘Oh wondrous happening!’ he exclaimed on hearing that Thomas Cromwell had been appointed King Henry’s Vicegerent in Spirituals (i.e. the royal agent in all matters to do with the Church). During this visit Bourbon’s portrait was painted by Hans ­Holbein (only a working sketch has survived). The conservative reaction that set in during the late 1530s and eventually brought Cromwell down was mirrored by events in France, so ­Bourbon and his friends had to tread warily. By this time, he was tutor to Jeanne d’Albret and a permanent member of Queen Marguerite’s court. Little is known of his remaining years – years I have partially filled with this tale.

  Clément Marot (1496–1544) was one of the foremost French poets of his day and, like Bourbon, radical in religion. He owed his early advancement to Marguerite of Navarre and was frequently a member of her salon. In 1529 he was appointed official poet to Francis I, but only after serving a spell in prison for heresy (presuming to translate the Psalms into French). This was not his only brush with the ecclesiastical hierarchy and he later sought refuge at Marguerite’s court in Nérac. Eventually he was forced to flee to Geneva where Jean Calvin, the reformer, was in control.

  Marguerite of Navarre (1492–1549) was one of the most remarkable women of her day. She was the much-loved older sister and confidante of King Francis I of France. In 1525 she married her second husband, Henry d’Albret, King of Navarre. As a result of Spanish invasion his realm had been reduced to Béarn and other dependencies in the southern part of what is now France. One of the couple’s main residences was the chateau of Nérac. Here Marguerite presided over the most cultured salon north of the Alps. She encouraged progressive thinkers such as the Bishop of Meaux, and Jacques Lefèvre d’Étaples, who translated the Bible into French. Among Marguerite’s numerous works of prose and poetry were her spiritual autobiography, The Mirr
or of the Sinful Soul, and Heptaméron, a collection of largely anticlerical stories.

  Princess Jeanne d’Albret (1528–72), Marguerite’s daughter, was from an early age known as high-spirited and stubborn. She received an enlightened and excellent education under the supervision of Nicholas Bourbon. Her uncle, King Francis, though genuinely fond of her, regarded her as a pawn in his game of dynastic politics. Jeanne was forcibly married to Duke William of Cleves-Jülich, but had to be carried, struggling and protesting, to the altar. She never consented to the marriage, or cohabited with her husband, and after four years the marriage was annulled. Her second marriage, to Antoine de Bourbon from a cadet branch of the royal family, was happy in the early years. After her father’s death, Jeanne and Antoine became rulers of Navarre. Jeanne was by now a staunch Calvinist and made Calvinism the religion of her kingdom.

  Sir Thomas Wyatt (1503–42) was a courtier, diplomat and the leading English poet of his age. His was a troubled life, thanks in part to his own emotional instability and also to his involvement in the events surrounding Anne ­Boleyn’s alleged extra-marital liaisons. He was imprisoned in 1536, but released on the intercession of Thomas Cromwell. Thereafter, his few remaining years fluctuated between royal favour leading to employment as an ambassador, and disgrace following fresh accusations of treason.

  Edward Seymour, Earl of Hertford (c. 1500–52), served ­Henry VIII as soldier and courtier. His career took off in 1536 when his sister, Jane, married the king. He remained in favour after Jane’s death in October 1537. He worked closely with Cromwell, whose religious convictions he shared, but was quick to dissociate himself after the minister’s fall.

  Sir George Blagge (1512?–51) was a seasoned courtier and a favourite of the king. However, he nearly came to grief in the fracas following the arrest and trial of Anne Boleyn. He was a devotee of the New Learning and close to Wyatt and Cromwell.