Roses in the Tempest

by Jeri Westerson

  It was not long after that the king’s bastard son, Henry Fitzroy, a lad of seventeen years, died. The king consoled himself with yet another bride, indisputably lawful as both former wives were dead. Mistress Seymour became the king’s consort, and in time delivered a legitimate and much-longed-for son, Edward. The child lived where so many before him died, but Queen Jane was not as fortunate. A kind and meek woman—such a stark contrast to that of Anne—died not long after her son was christened.

  So much had happened in so little time. I sat with Philip Draycot and George Throckmorton in my apartments at Hampton Court, and we, like three old men, purged our morose thoughts at the bottom of a goblet.

  “Prince Edward thrives, praise God,” Draycot said, perhaps thinking of his own son Richard, ill with a fever.

  “Praise God?” I echoed. “But where should I praise Him? I do not recognize this Protestant service nor these supposed priests.”

  Draycot cast a wine-soaked glance at me. “Do you still rankle at the surrender of the smaller monasteries, Thomas? The report stated how these were dwellings of corruption, where abuses of the worst sort were discharged with regularity.”

  “A report made by Cromwell. Do you take his word over that of a monk?”

  Throckmorton snorted into the bowl of his goblet, slurping the last of it. “How pious you have become over time, Thomas. For years you have disdained these very houses as evil places, succoring the ignorant and irreligious.”

  I glared at him, my own fingers strangling the goblet’s stem. “Can a man not change his mind on these matters, George? That these poor houses—so small they cannot possibly do the harm for which they are accused—should be shut down, their doors closed, their occupants turned out. What is to become of them? The nuns and their servants must shift for themselves, eh?”

  “Some will go into the larger houses, I imagine,” said Draycot. He rose and poured himself more wine from the flagon the servant left for us. He picked over a plate of sliced chicken, congealing under its glaze of honey and nuts.

  I stared at him, turning my incredulous expression to encompass Throckmorton as well. “Are you both fools? Do you think the king will stop with a few houses worth less than £200? Why do you think inventory was taken and accounting books gone through? Was it to make certain the money was spent on the poor, or was it to see what value the king could demand once he sold these properties—these properties belonging to the pope!”

  “God’s blood, Thomas!” Throckmorton shot toward the archway, pressing his ear to the door. He cast me a glare of reproof. “Keep your voice down, if you must speak this way!”

  “The plot is large, my friends,” I said to them. “If you think he will stop with the smaller houses, then you are fools. The tools of the pope must be annihilated, consumed back into the populace as if they never occurred.”

  Draycot peeled himself from his chair and stood above the fire, raising his curled knuckles to the warming blaze. He stared into the flames as he spoke. “The uprising in Lincolnshire last year did not last a month, Thomas. Many were killed. Mostly the poor, naturally, those who were dependent on monastery lands for sustenance. Their ‘pilgrimage of grace’ did not stir His Majesty, and they were all put down. There has been no whimper from the rest of the country.”

  “Are you saying that we welcome this dissolution, that these abbeys and convents are just as well destroyed?”

  Draycot leaned his arm against the mantle, his fist opening and closing. “I mean that men have new feelings about their faith they never dared have before. And that we wish to see what may come of this.”

  “Have they no love for their religion?”

  “Like you, Thomas?” spat Throckmorton. “You, who have always remonstrated these very houses you now canonize! You, to whom religion was an inconvenience! What is it, Thomas? What is it that has changed your heart?”

  I drew my finger under my mustache, toying with the bristly ends. “Are you not afraid?” I whispered. “Do you not fear this? Is this reform? Or is it greed? Is it Hal’s revenge at a pope who would not lie for him, would not give him a divorce?” I shook my head at the enormity of it. “This reformation of monasteries. Did monks and nuns spring forth from our heads only yesterday? Or was this an institution long held, long honored, since before even Saint Benet? Where is the precedence for such an acquittal?”

  I shut my lips. I could say no more, and no more could they think to say to that. I knew Draycot and Throckmorton celebrated private masses in their homes as did the Giffards, as we would continue to do.

  Blackladies—so small and of so little consequence—was one of the many slated for suppression. Not by any ill they found there, but precisely because it was of no consequence. I bought an exemption for them, but I soon found such an exemption to be of even less significance. Last month I was informed by Dr. Legh that this exemption was now forfeit and the doors would be closed forthwith. He seemed particularly pleased in the telling of it, but I could do nothing in retaliation to the king’s commissioner, though there was much I would have been pleased to do.

  “What will you do?” asked Draycot. The both of them knew my outward struggle with Blackladies, though not the inner struggle that kept my interest so piqued.

  “The priory will go on the block,” I said. “There is little to be done…but to buy it myself.”

  “Buy it? I see at last!” Throckmorton moved toward me. “Such protestations! And in the end you will do them the service of buying their precious priory. How many will your father buy?”

  “George!” warned Draycot.

  “No doubt he has chosen a few to covet,” I admitted. “I only want the one.”

  “But why, Thomas? Why such singular interest in that little nothing of a priory in Brewood, for God’s sake?”

  “I have my reasons,” I muttered.

  “It could not be that the rumors are true, could it?”

  “George…” Draycot seized Throckmorton by the arm, but George shook him off. “This is not the time, George…”

  “Of course it is. My brother-in-law intends to purchase this priory. To live in the place it is rumored he has a mistress. Is it true, Thomas? Do you forsake my good sister for some nun?”

  I should have shrugged it off, but I was incapable. I lunged from my seat, gripping George’s throat and stilling his words with the strength of my fingers.

  He stumbled backwards and we rolled along the floor as Draycot shouted at the both of us to stop. George managed to place his boot against my thigh and push himself away from me. Panting in a corner, he raised an accusatory finger. “It is true!”

  “She is not my mistress! How dare you! You know her not! You know me not! You cannot know what I have endured—”

  And then, I unmanned myself with weeping. Throckmorton stormed from my rooms, but Draycot knelt beside me and lifted me to my feet.

  “I did not believe this rumor…before now,” he said softly. “He is naturally outraged. His own sister is your wife. But a nun, Thomas!”

  “She was not a nun when I met her.” I wiped the tears from my face, but my relief was in the saying of something so long suppressed. “It seems I have known her all my life. And when I married Dorothy, she went to the convent. I did not realize that I loved her until I discovered where she went. By then, it was too late.”

  “But after Dorothy died—”

  “I went to her. I begged her to marry me, though she was completely unfit. She is the daughter of a yeoman farmer, after all. Unschooled, unlearned. Completely unfit. But I wanted her, Philip. I want her now. But I cannot have her.”

  “And…what of her?”

  “She loves me. I know it. But she is stronger in her vows than I am in mine. But now, what’s to become of her?”

  “You have kept this secret dear, Thomas, but I do not envy you your dilemma. What will you do?”

  “I will buy Blackladies and keep it for her and her sisters until this foolishness is over.”

  “What
if the king will not grant it to you?”

  “He must!”

  “You must talk to him of it at once, then. For I fear this Dr. Legh has a grudge against you, and may turn the king’s course.”

  I patted his arm. “You are right, Philip. I thank you for this advice and for…for not judging me.”

  “You need to seek out George. Explain it to him as best you can. He is a man. Perhaps a man first and a brother second.”

  I agreed with Draycot, and I moved to the door to do as he suggested without pause. Outside my rooms, Throckmorton paced the gallery. I approached him cautiously and waited for him to acknowledge me.

  “Well,” he said. “I apologize for making such a fool of myself.”

  “There is no need,” I said with relief. “George.” My hand fell gently upon his shoulder. “I have been faithful to your sister, my wife. In body, if not in my heart. But these matters conspired long before I met her. I am only sorry they continue. I am a weak man with a romantic heart. I cannot seem to change that which is embedded in me. But I assure you, I have done no wrong, and I shall not shame my family. You see, I love Ursula, too, for her understanding that there can be layers to a man which she cannot be privy to. Where no one can be. No one but his maker. I would give anything not to feel this cold fear, but it is not only for this chaste nun, George. You celebrate the mass, as do I. Would you ever give it up on the word of a secular prince?”

  George studied me an excruciatingly long time, before he slowly shook his head. “By God, I would not!”

  “I do it to protect more than a woman, but an ideal. I will not see it perish from this land.”

  He clutched my arm, frowning. “Would that we could do more, Thomas.”

  “We will all do what we can…within the law.”

  I left him, feeling better that we mended the fences between us. I held him in no ill will, for he was a man of much honor and tenderness. What would I do if my sisters Dorothy or Cassandra came to me weeping of similar misdeeds from their spouses, I wondered?

  I waited outside the king’s apartments until a servant came with wine. I took the tray from him and sent him off, taking it in myself. The king was in the company of Cromwell and Archbishop Cranmer. His majesty was glowering at a paper and booming to the ceiling, “These are not enough! You promised me more, Cromwell!”

  “The houses so far suppressed, sire, only bring in so much. Soon there will be—” He noticed me, and turned pointedly in my direction whilst drawing silent.

  The king turned as well, and waved his hand. “It’s only Giffard.”

  “Your grace,” said Cromwell, leaning toward the king to speak privately. But Henry would have none of it. He got to his feet as fast as his bulk would allow.

  “Out! Out with you, Cromwell. I’ll talk no more of this today.”

  Cranmer moved forward. “But your grace must discuss—”

  “My Lord Cranmer, do not speak for my chancellor, for he knows more words than a serpent to beguile me. Off! Both of you. I would be alone with my usher, here.”

  Cromwell hesitated, and for a brief moment, I thought he would argue with the king. Eyeing me, he thought better of it, and signaled to Cranmer. The both of them left with a bow, while I stood mutely in the shadows, a flagon in my hand. What did I come here for? To mete out the same to the king?

  I had played a safe game for too long. It was time to make an unexpected move.

  “Your grace, if I may beg your indulgence…”

  “Oh, not you too, Thomas. You were my excuse to rid myself of them and their damnable prattling.” His expression softened. “Very well. What is it?”

  I set the flagon down. “Your grace, I have just been made aware of a priory in the vicinity of my lands that is to be suppressed…”

  “And you want it excused.”

  “I have already paid for its exemption, your grace, but now it is to be suppressed anyway. My desire is to be able to purchase it.”

  He took a long moment to study me sidelong.

  “It is only a small convent, your grace. A little property outside of Chillington Hall in Brewood.”

  The edge of a smile formed on his face. “Why do you want this poor little priory so badly, Thomas? Hmm?”

  “It has memories for me, your grace. Precious ones.”

  “Precious memories? You sound as if you are mourning a lost love.”

  I swallowed hard. Would he understand? As the man he was, as the man I knew, could he not see into the depth of my heart and comprehend? Softly, I answered, “Yes, your grace. I am.”

  “One of the sisters you mean? Damnable!” He twisted quickly and unexpectedly for his size. After the death of Queen Jane, he ate to excess, growing larger until he was almost unmanageable, and the ulcers in his leg caused him to limp, decreasing further his mobility. He raised his staff, thrusting it in the air in anger. I stepped back out of the way. “That is precisely why I must lance this canker out of England, these faithless whores in nun’s weeds!”

  I must have been blinded by his words, out of my mind far worse than with George, for I pulled by blade partway from its sheath before realizing who it was I threatened.

  Too late I slapped the blade back in its scabbard. He drew himself up to his full height, tall, broad, altogether forbidding. “Do you draw your sword upon me, Giffard? ME?”

  At his shriek, two guards rumbled into the room, their halberds lowered toward me. I stared at them in horror. They grasped me each by an arm and I expected to be dragged forthwith to a dungeon cell.

  With his fist, the king clouted me hard upon my shoulder, and then my head. He rained his blows upon me, and I could do nothing in my own defense. Indeed, I knew all was lost, for how could I escape this room alive now that I had drawn my sword on my sovereign?

  I fell to my knees.

  For a long moment I sat there panting, aching from his blows. It took another long moment for him to wave off his guards. They protested, but he insisted, shouting to the rafters. More courtiers crowded the passageway, but the king bellowed for all to retreat. At last, reluctantly, the guards left the room, ushering the others away from the door. His Majesty stood glowering over me, fists punched into his hips.

  With my head bowed I implored with my hands. “Forgive me, your grace. If you only knew how faithful a servant this woman is to God and to the crown, you would not speak so. It is only because I have such respect for her that I did so imprudent a thing…”

  “And for this one you draw your sword on the king! God’s wounds, Thomas! This is not the Roundtable!”

  “I beg forgiveness and mercy, your grace.”

  I waited on my knees, my head bowed. I expected at any moment for him to hew it off himself. Not only did I ruin myself, but my course. Blackladies was now lost.

  “So much you would sacrifice for this little scrap of land. You could have lied about it. You could have made up a story to satisfy me.”

  “I…am not in the habit of lying to you, your grace.”

  “Nor of drawing your weapon, I hope.”

  “No, your grace.”

  “You are a bold man, Giffard,” he huffed. “Stubborn and mayhap unwise. But chivalrous, and that I have always admired.” Energized, he seemed to want to pace but his leg prevented it. He rocked instead. “I have never had cause to mistrust the Giffards. Must I now?”

  “No, your grace. We are ever loyal to the crown. Ask any man.”

  “Yes. How many men can swear to that, to ‘ask any man’? I’ll wager a bitter few can rely upon it. Yet I know I can ask any man about you, and hear each and every one to speak of your integrity and your character.” Henry measured me. “I know you are a pope-Catholic, Thomas. What is your intention with this priory, eh? I will not have it continue as it is in its vicious living.”

  “I am not making of it a new priory, sire. As your grace has proclaimed, these properties must be remade into proper houses. A new residence for myself and my wife. No intention further than that, my lord.�
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  “How many children have you, Thomas?”

  His ire abated, but well I knew him, and suspected that his rage was only held at a distance, easily conjured again. Still on my knees and cautious, I said, “Four, your grace.”

  “And how many of them sons?”

  “Two, Majesty.”

  “And your wife. Is she fruitful?”

  “Your grace?”

  “Don’t be coy, Thomas. Is she pregnant again? Always you are away from court because your wife is lying in. Do you think I do not know the doings of my ushers?”

  “I pray you, sire.”

  “Answer me.”

  “Yes, your grace. She is.”

  His cheek trembled and he shook his head. How brilliantly copper were those locks once. How bright the beard. Now they were dulled with gray, his skin textured with creases. Yet my beard was still as dark as ebony, and he and I were both forty-six. “You who sires so many children, with yet another on the way. And I, who had three wives, could only beget three children, and only one a son. It does not signify that you should also covet in convents.”

  “My lord, it is not as you think. I only want the property so that no other creature should defile it.”

  “It’s to be a home, Thomas.” His voice rose again, warning me of distant thunder.

  “There are vile homes,” I said steadily, “just as there are vile monasteries, sire.”

  He ticked his head at me as a nurse does to her charge. “Thomas, Thomas… Yes, so there are.” He stood over me, laying his hand tenderly on the shoulder he lately clouted. At length, he sighed, patted my bruised shoulder, and dropped his hand away. “This is the love from afar?” I said nothing, amazed he remembered our conversation from so long ago. “I will do you this favor, Thomas. I will consider your request because I owe you for your years of service and loyalty. But hear me; henceforth, if I choose to insult your own mother’s virtue, you will leave your blade where it lies. Is that understood?”

  “With my heart, your grace.”

  “Then get up. It makes me knees ache to see you thus. And don’t make me angry again, Thomas. I have so few men at court I genuinely like. Make no enemy of me.”