by Anne Stevens
“Ah, but does the lady return those feelings, Master Thomas?”
“Her brothers assure me that she talks of nothing else, save the kind words her king once spoke to her.”
“Did she truly refer to me as ‘my king’, Thomas?”
“It seems the lady is smitten, sire,” Cromwell says. “She is a shy girl, and not fond of those young men of her own age. They must seem fickle, and puny, when compared to you.”
“Just so.” Henry ponders for a moment. “Let us speak of these things anon … when little ears are not listening.”
“The trip is for men, sire,” Will says. “Not boys. George Boleyn can sit at home, and practice his needlework, with the ladies.”
“Ha!” Henry sees a jest where none is intended. “Let us hope his needle is up to the job!” Those around him chuckle, but the remark reminds the king that he has, himself, bedded Boleyn’s wife, and that he also found it hard to thread that particular eye.
“More wine, sire?” Rafe Sadler leans over the king’s shoulder, and fills his goblet to the rim. “Would Your Majesty care to be entertained?”
“What is there?”
“Some local girls, who wish to demonstrate their singing prowess, and Donald Kee, a travelling jester, who has been touring the northern counties, of late”
“Have him come in,” Henry says. “Send the singers away, but give them a few coins for their trouble. I have no appetite for caterwauling virgins tonight.” Rafe Sadler nods, and moves away from the long table. He beckons over a tall, thin man, dressed in bright apparel, and gestures for him to perform.
“Why, bless my merry old prodder,” the man declares, as he dances in front of the king. “Does not this fellow look like someone I know?”
Henry takes a moment to catch on, then throws himself into the jest. He stands up, places his fists on his hips, then juts out his big chest.
“They call me Hal,” Henry calls to loud laughter, and some clapping.
“Then they call me Don,” the jester replies, quickly. “For my father was an ass, sire. It is no fun being a Don Kee!”
“Ho!” Henry is as easily amused as he is roused to anger. “The fellow is a donkey, you see, Cromwell? Come tell me another, my little ass.”
“Little arse, Hal?” The jester scratches his head. “Then it is all the better to avoid a kick. Has the king ever been to Yorkshire?”
“It is a troublesome place,” Rafe Sadler calls out. “Why, they never pay their taxes on time.”
“The men all court the prettiest sheep, and they say that no sister is safe from her brothers!”
“Dear Christ, Sadler… but the man is a marvel,” Henry cries. “Pretty sheep indeed!”
The jesting goes on, but Thomas Cromwell has lost interest in the crude fooling. At the back of the hall, he sees a peculiar look come over George Boleyn’s face. The young man seems not to have a taste for the jests. Perhaps one has struck close to home, Cromwell thinks. Then he recalls the rumours about Boleyn’s sexual preferences, and wonders what is hidden within the devious little swine’s black heart.
“Hee haw!” Donald Kee is doing a passable imitation of an ass, and is trying to mount a passing servant, much to the king’s merriment. Cromwell is distracted for a moment, and when he looks back, George Boleyn has slipped away.
“Off to visit his new mistress,” Will Draper says in Cromwell’s ear. “It seems he has some secret love, and takes great pains to keep her hidden away.”
“Why would he do that?” Cromwell asks. “Boleyn does not love his wife, and tups where he wishes.”
“Perhaps he fears the king will steal her away,” Will guesses.
“Poor George,” Cromwell concludes. “He can swive a flock of sheep, if he likes, as long as he keeps away from Jane Seymour.”
“I cannot see the Seymour brothers letting Henry have his way for nothing,” Will says. “They are a mercenary lot, and will want a few thousand acres in return.”
“Would that the price were so low,” Cromwell replies, with a gentle smile. “You know, little Jane still remembers when I sent her some gloves. She is a sentimental girl, and I do not want her hurt. I must see that the Seymour price is met… in full.”
“You mean marriage?”
“What else?” Cromwell sighs. “It is almost time to start the negotiations. I must explain to Queen Anne that she has to step aside. Unless I have powerful arguments, she will sweep me aside, and poison Henry against me.”
“My investigation into the queen progresses, sir,” Will Draper says. “Though it is nothing but vague whisperings at the moment, I think there is something to find.”
“What about lovers?”
“Since she married?” Will shakes his head. “Even she would not dare. Before … now that is a different matter. It is a pity we cannot have Harry Percy change his tale once more.”
“The duke swore an oath, on the Holy Bible, in front of the king, and two bishops,” Cromwell says. “Even Christ could not break that one down. I have arranged for Percy to be at Wulfhall, when the king visits, but I doubt it will help much.”
“Then I must continue my investigation,” Will Draper replies. “The father and brother are sure to be swindling the king, somehow. That might be enough to move Anne. The threat of her nearest relatives being charged could be just what we need.”
“Anne is a hard woman,” Cromwell says. “I want to convince her to step aside, for her own sake. Henry is set on Jane, and I do not know how far he will go to get what he wants.”
“God help us if he ever realises his true power,” Will says.
“You mean God help Anne, I think.” Cromwell claps, because the king is clapping. The jester is being pelted with food, and silver coins, and he is scrabbling around the floor, gathering all he can. Good paydays are few and far between. “Our fool is a wise man. Perhaps we should gather in whilst we can … and wait for the storm.”
“If the queen thinks she is going to lose, she will raise more than a storm,” Will says. “She has powerful friends in the West Country, thanks to her liberal dispensation of titles. She could have a dozen barons rise up in rebellion. An army of twelve or fifteen thousand men, ready to march on London.”
“Then we must whisper in other ears, and have enough troops ready to counteract such a move,” Cromwell replies. “I think we can rely on Brandon, whose Suffolk yeomanry number five thousand. They are a sturdy band, and will stand behind the king. I think the Master of Ordinance will remain loyal.”
“Miriam sends him gifts, often, so that he will keep his warships in the channel. It ensures pirates stay clear of her shipping.”
“Then he is a friend?”
“I drink with him, and our families dine together, now and then. He is as loyal as any to Henry, and can command fifty artillery pieces, at a day’s notice.”
“Then London is safe,” Cromwell says. “Anne Boleyn will not think to start a civil war, because she considers herself to be too clever to lose. She may not be able to bring forth a healthy boy heir, but my spies tell me that she has ways of pleasuring the king that few others know. Let her get him alone, often enough, and she will turn him against every one of her enemies.”
“Then we must outthink her, sir,” Will replies. “The woman has nothing but malice in her heart, and would ruin half of England, to keep her crown.”
“Then find me something to use,” Cromwell tells the King’s Examiner. “Give me enough, and I will scare her into abdicating her position. Let me be able to threaten death and destruction on her precious clan, and she might relent.”
“And if she does not?”
“Step aside?” Cromwell sighs at the prospect. “Then I must give her such a push, that she topples from the top of the hill to the its base. If I do this, she will be ruined. Her titles will go, and every man’s hand would be against her. She might even have to go back to France. God curse the day her damned father ever brought her back to England!”
15 The Interview
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It is the first day of November. Almost four months since the execution of Sir Thomas More, and the tide of recriminations, and external threats seems to have turned, at last. The French have sent their formal regrets over the perfidious death of a great philosopher, the Pope has reinforced his excommunication of the king, and Eustace Chapuys has placed his master’s strong objections on record, with England’s new Lord Chancellor, Sir Thomas Audley.
The little Savoyard is actively working against Queen Anne, whom he refers to as ‘that French whore’, at every opportunity, and he no longer cares to be secretive about what he writes, despite his letters being covertly read. On one occasion, he even opens with the salutation ‘My dear Cromwell’, just to show his distaste for his old friend’s methods.
“I could not save him from death, Eustace,” Thomas Cromwell complains, when next they meet, over dinner at Miriam Draper’s house. “I did all I could for the man, and I loved him most dearly. How can you think otherwise?”
“You have the king’s ear.” Chapuys thought he was to dine with the family, and is not expecting a Cromwellian presence. It vexes him to argue under Miriam’s roof, for he loves her and her family dearly.
“I have but one of them,” Cromwell replies, tartly. “The other still belongs to the Boleyn family, and they never tire of filling it with poisonous lies.”
“That whore … forgive me, Miriam … will destroy your country,” the ambassador snaps. “She seeks nothing but power for herself, and her disreputable family. The Boleyn name is even stolen, to make them sound grander.”
“True enough,” Miriam says, as she pours wine into their glasses. “They were once the Bullen family, and earned their money by cutting thatch, and game keeping. I, of course, was forced to change my name too, thanks to the anti Jewish laws in this country.”
“Then you had to change it again,” Will Draper puts in. “When you were foolish enough to marry me, my dear.”
“I can repent that at leisure, my sweet,” Miriam replies, cheekily. “Besides, I have the best of the deal. I have a fine house, a good business, and all our children shall be Jews. The blood descends through the female side with my people.”
“An excellent system, my girl,” Cromwell says, happy for the change of subject. “For it is a wise man who knows his own father.” The table erupts into laughter, but Eustace Chapuys is not to be put off.
“With Sir Thomas dead, there is no one to stop the queen,” he says. “More heads will roll before the year is out.”
“Not mine, Eustace,” Cromwell replies. “The king tires of her, as you often predicted, and longs for a son. It has come to the stage where he does not even visit the queen anymore. Instead, he dallies with bed warmers and chamber maids, or spends himself on various ladies-in-waiting.”
“You mean Lady Rochford?” Chapuys says this to show that he is not without his own spies. He does not yet realise that they are Cromwell men, who feed him whatever information their real master wishes.
“Amongst others,” Cromwell says. The king has been swiving a cousin of Anne Boleyn for some weeks now, but he wishes to keep her name secret, for the moment. “Quite apart from that, the king wants a male heir, and that means a wife who can bear him one. That woman is not Anne Boleyn.”
“He cannot think to put his wife away again?” Miriam says. She shares in the conversation of the men comfortably, and often provides food for thought. “The new church would not allow it. The bishops would look like fools … or pawns of the king. Even the people, who dislike the queen, would frown on a frivolous divorce.”
“Truly spoken,” Cromwell says. “So, we must find another, less painful way. We must allow the queen to exit with grace, and a pocket full of gold.”
“Then you must speak with her, my friend,” Chapuys says. It is hard to stay angry with Cromwell, who always seems to have some clever move in reserve. “I do not envy you that task. The French Whore would as soon cut off your head and place it on a spike, as listen to reason.”
“She will listen,” Thomas Cromwell says. “She must.”
“Master Thomas Cromwell is here, Your Highness.” Lady Jane Rochford leaves a slight pause between her announcement, and the queen’s title. She means to remind Anne of her own grievances, and sting her into treating her better. “He has been waiting for almost an hour.”
“Do not dare reproach me … sister …, or I will have you sent back to Kent, where my dear brother can ignore you to his heart’s content. It does Cromwell good to wait for me, for it reminds him that he is the servant, and not the master here. Now, I am ready, so have him enter.”
George Boleyn’s wife’s face reddens, and she goes to fetch Cromwell from the outer chamber. The Privy Councillor is chatting with Mark Smeaton, the new musician, who has just arrived from Antwerp. The young man is thin, and pale looking, and seems surprised at Cromwell’s open friendliness.
“You must know the De Groosen family,” Thomas Cromwell says. “They are related to … ah, here is Lady Rochford, come to fetch me. I must go, but we will speak again, Master Smeaton. Here, take this … to keep you honest.” He falls in, behind Jane Boleyn, and follows her into the queen’s outer chambers. Mark Smeaton looks down at the silver coins in his hand, and smiles. Then he wonders at such generosity, and the thought reminds him of his sins, and makes him wonder if they are common knowledge.
“Cromwell, at last,” Queen Anne says. “I thought you would never come.”
“You expected me, Your Highness?” Of course you did, he thinks. You know that the moment is here. From this day on, things will never be the same again.
“Yes. The king is unhappy, so he sends his dog.”
“The king does not know I am here, madam,” Cromwell says. “I am here, in the hope of avoiding a very great tragedy.”
“The answer is ‘no’, Master Cromwell.” Anne turns her back on him, and puts her hands on her hips, in imitation of her husband’s favourite stance.
“Might I not put the question first?” Thomas Cromwell spreads his hands in supplication. “That is the usual form.”
“Speak.” Anne spins about, and glares at the Privy Councillor.
“The king wishes to have a son.” There, that is the nub of it, he thinks.
“Then he must come to my bed more often, sir.”
“He cannot. He feels that this estrangement cannot be reversed, and wants you to step aside.” This here is the solution, if you but see, Cromwell adds, silently.
“Step aside?” Anne Boleyn laughs. “I am the queen, not some cheap mistress to be bought off with a promise.”
“The king would be most generous. He asks only that you make the first move. You must ask to be released from your marriage vows, for the sake of the realm. You must state that you cannot provide a male heir, and wish to step aside. Medical evidence will be found to support your claim. Henry would be blameless, and could then seek an honourable divorce.”
“And what of me?” The queen is surprised at the cleverness of it. She must beg Henry to release her, and he does, with much wringing of hands. Poor Henry, foiled by the failure of his wife’s womb, and what a brave lady, to sacrifice her position for the good of England.
“All your lands and titles, except ‘queen’ would be yours to keep,” Cromwell explains. “Your brother, and your father will be retained at court, if they wish, and all current investigations into their financial affairs would cease.”
“I see. Quit, and you will leave my family alone.” Anne smiles, and crosses to sit in one of the window bays. “Let me make a counter offer, Master Cromwell. Resign all of your posts, and retire to Austin Friars. Do this, within the next week, and I will stay my hand. Refuse, and I will have you dragged from your office. Your wealth will be confiscated, and your people condemned as thieves and traitors. The king is like a willow, Master Cromwell. Tomorrow, he will bend the other way, and I will be back in his favour.”
“I fear not, madam.” Thomas Cromwell does not know why he is wa
sting his time with her. “The king wishes to re-marry, and provide England with a male heir.”
“What, from the little, narrow hipped, Seymour cow?” Anne is almost shaking with anger now, and wants to smash Cromwell’s façade of polite firmness down. “He will soon find out what a lame duck she is, and come crawling back to me. I am the mother of the rightful heir to the throne. Elizabeth is the foundation of a new dynasty. The new church … any church … would refuse him a divorce. They know that to back a second divorce would show them to be straw men, under the king’s thumb. The people are not yet ready for that, sir.”
“If you consent…”
“Enough!” Queen Anne waves a fist at him. “He will get a divorce, but only if I consent. Canterbury and Winchester will not agree to his demands. Both bishops know such a divorce would ruin England’s honour.”
“But you might consent?” Cromwell sees a chink of light, but also fears a trap. “Under what circumstances?”
“That he comes to me, and begs the favour,” Anne says.
Cromwell sighs. Is this all you have, madam, he thinks. Force the king into a private meeting, and hope to sway him by appealing to his sense of honour … or guilt?
“The king cannot be seen to be in favour of a divorce, My Lady,” Cromwell reasserts. “He must be able to say that the idea was yours alone, and that you wish it, for the sake of the monarchy. Do this, and your family will rank alongside Norfolk and Suffolk in the realm. You will be the Dowager Queen, mother to the second in line to the throne. Elizabeth will grow up, legitimate, in line for the throne, and rich.”
“And if Henry does not sire a male child?”
“Your daughter would be queen.” Cromwell sees the glimmer of temptation in her eyes, but it flickers out.
“No, I cannot take the risk.” Anne throws herself into a chair, and puts her fist under her chin. It is something she does when not getting her own way. She is now at her most dangerous. “If the Seymour cow brings out a boy, Elizabeth is relegated a place. Let her bring out a second male child, and my daughter will be nothing, but a minor princess, to be bartered abroad.”