by Anne Stevens
Then what? Norfolk and Suffolk will rally to Henry, and a civil war will have to settle the matter. The two great lords, together with the Welsh, and loyal Irish armies, would be enough to drive the Scots back over the border, and overcome Percy. His head would adorn the Tower of London’s high walls. No, he decides, it is far too mad a scheme to think about.
“Damn it to Hell’s Inferno, and back!” Thomas Cromwell curses. “What is going on?”
Sir Thomas More does not stray far from his Chelsea home these days, and feels comforted by Utopia’s solid walls. So it is with annoyance that he finds himself asked to visit the house of a city merchant, who claims he has important knowledge of a ‘known heretic’. It is something he cannot ignore, as the king still fears the full horror of Lutheranism, and any related topic.
If the king’s superstitious fears push him back into the arms of Mother Church, Sir Thomas reasons, then he must exploit the opportunity. It might be the right time to uncover a few witches, or expose some Satanic rite or other, and drum up some good, honest religious hysteria amongst the populace. After all, what matters a couple of wayward souls going to the pyre, if it steers England back into the arms of the Pope?
“Shall I fetch a palanquin, master?” his steward asks. “It might be better not to show yourself in public.” Wilfred Boscombe has been with his master for over twelve years, and knows that Sir Thomas does not inspire warmth and love amongst the common herd. “The mob favour your enemies, who scatter pennies amongst them, to buy their favours.”
“I do not fear the people of England, Wilfred,” More replies, softly. “I fear only their masters. Have a boy lead me, for I do not know the way.”
“I will fetch Isaac Gilby, and we will go armed, to ensure you are not misused, master,” the steward persists. “Mistress Alice will scold us for doing any less for you.”
“Pray do not upset my wife, dear friend,” Sir Thomas says, smiling thinly. “For her temper is uneven enough as is. Yes, do fetch young Gilby, and let us be on our way. I want to be back in time for dinner, as my daughter, Margaret, promises us a nice lamb stew.”
The early evening air is pleasant for the middle of May, and Sir Thomas does not bother to don one of his heavy fur capes. Instead, he wraps a light, woven garment about his narrow shoulders, and sets off, on foot. The walk from Utopia, down to the river, and onto a waiting boat is completed at a steady stroll, and several locals call greetings, or a kind word to him.
“See how the people still think of me?” he says, waving back to the passing Londoners. “They have no love for heresy, and the king might do well to listen to them, now and then. They might think they want their preaching in English, but deep down, they know only Latin will drive away the Devil and his denizens.”
“Have a care, Sir Thomas,” Boscombe says, taking his master’s elbow. “The riverbank is muddy here, and I would not have you fall for all the world!”
“Nor I, Wilfred,” the Lord Chancellor of England replies, smiling wryly. “Nor I.”
“Gor’ bless, your lordship,” the boatman says, taking up his oars. “Is it beyond the bridge you want? Only that will be an extra ha’penny, good sir.”
“Cheeky fellow!” More replies, handing over a single penny piece. “As Lord Chancellor, I still set the rates on this river. Take your penny, and be thankful I don’t have the skin off your back.”
“Your pardon, master,” the boatman says, “but I heard you were gone, and another in your place.”
“Then let me educate you,” Sir Thomas says. “I am Lord Chancellor, and nothing can be put into law without my hand set to it. If you speak of Cromwell, he is but a lawyer. He writes law, but I, and the king make it.”
“God save the king,” the boatman mutters, and poles his craft out into the middle of the river, where the current catches at them, and sweeps them down, under the great bridge. As they clear the structure, the boat swings towards the bank.
“Watch out for the shallows just here,” Thomas More warns. “There is a bank of sand just off your left side.”
“Have no fear, sir,” the boatman says. “I will land you safely at the Tower, as I was hired to do.”
“Not the Tower, you fool,” the steward snaps.
“I have my orders, sir,” the boatman says.
“And I have my cudgel,” Boscombe replies, raising his club above his head. “Do as you are instructed, or we will dash out your brains!”
“Do not offer me violence, sir,” the man replies, dropping a hand to the knife in his boot. “Your master is for the Tower, and I am to hear no more about it.”
“Then we will throw you into the river, and steer our own way, you saucy knave,” young Gilby growls, and edges towards the boatman. “Come, Master Boscombe, let us man handle the rogue into the Thames!”
“Stay your hand, sirs. I have my orders, I say, and should Sir Thomas complain, I am to tell him this … that ‘God moves in mysterious ways’.”
Sir Thomas More sighs, and waves his servant back onto his bench. In his younger days, he recalls his first meeting with a young man who used to run errands for the lawyers at Lincoln’s, Inn and the Inner and Middle Temples. The young fellow has something about him. He hints of having travelled abroad, and seems to know more than one so callow ought.
Despite himself, More likes him, and employs him for small errands. After a while, he finds their friendly chats have grown into full blown discussions on politics, religion, and financial matters. The scholar has acquired that rarest of all commodities, a true friend.
One day, the young man had ceased being a runner, and appears dressed in expensive black robes. He has, by some strange alchemy, become a qualified lawyer, and become attached to the household of Cardinal Wolsey, Chancellor of England. When More asks how this comes to be, the young man smiles and tells him how ‘God moves in mysterious ways’.
“Then let us make haste to the Tower, fellow,” the Lord Chancellor says. “For Master Cromwell is not a patient man.”
7 A Meeting of Minds
The boat grounds close to where Will Draper stepped ashore, but a couple of hours before, and Sir Thomas More steps from the craft, helped by his concerned steward. There is a small knot of men waiting to greet him. They are all dressed in black livery, and remind the Lord Chancellor of crows, brooding in a graveyard.
He tries to shake off thoughts of death, but the slime covered walls of the Tower, look like the cold walls of a mausoleum, and the flock of black cloaked crows seem like harbingers of some coming tragedy. He feels the familiar twist of pain under his heart that has become like a friend to him of late; visiting in the night, and making him wince with hurt.
The crows suddenly flutter, and Sir Thomas recognises the familiar embroidered ‘C’ adorning their sleeves, and breasts. One steps forward, and offers the Lord Chancellor a slight bow.
“Welcome, Sir Thomas.”
“Cromwell.” Thomas More returns the cursory nod, and sets his mouth into a tight frown of the deepest disapproval. “How long have you been kidnapping Ministers of State?”
“I stand reproved,” Thomas Cromwell replies, taking the Lord Chancellor by the elbow. He steers him towards the small, oak door, set in the great stone wall of the Tower. It does not seem large enough for a man to pass through. “Come, we must speak of important matters.”
“In secret, Master Cromwell?”
“Needs must… “
“When Satan drives?” The Lord Chancellor concludes the old saying. “What Devil’s work are you about now then?”
“Call me Thomas.” Cromwell wishes for the old days, when they discoursed on first name terms, and each held a great regard for the other. He remembers how they would discourse in Latin, stray into Italian, and end up in English, each arguing his own particular point of view. “I am the same man, as always.”
“That is for friends. Come then, Master Cromwell, let us talk.” More dips his head under the low door’s lintel, and enters the forbidding Tower. It
is well lit inside, and he is taken to the prepared room, where wine and some cold food awaits. The fare is plain enough, as suit’s a man who still wears a hair shirt beneath his outer clothing, as a permanent form of penance to his god.
“I know your simple tastes,” Cromwell says, gesturing to the bread and cold lamb laid out for them. “Would that the rest of you were as easy to understand.”
“I am not hungry. Though my men, lingering without, might wish a cup of ale whilst they wait for me.” Sir Thomas More ignores the table, sits, and places his hands, folded in his lap. There follows a short, uncomfortable silence, whilst each man composes what to say, in his own mind. At last, the Lord Chancellor speaks. “Well?”
“We must talk about the king.”
“Have you a man hiding behind a curtain, writing this down?” More sees the look of hurt on Thomas Cromwell’s face, and almost feels a stab of pity for the man.
“There are no curtains in this room, Thomas,” Cromwell replies. He spreads his hands wide, to encompass the bare, stone walls, and closed door. “We are quite alone, and I swear our conversation will remain absolutely private, unless you choose to set it down in print, and have it broadcast about the realm. Come, take out that little bible you always carry in your cloak pocket, and I will put my hand upon it.”
For a moment, the Lord Chancellor considers just such an act, but forebears, convinced that his old friend would not keep even an oath sworn on the bible, if it suits his purpose. For their conversation not to be recorded, it must be of a most dangerous, and secretive nature.
“Then speak.” More will not unbend an inch. “Though I will not listen to any word of treason. Neither will I hear anything against His Eminence, Pope Clement.”
“Last year, you tried to resign your high office.” Thomas Cromwell is only stating what is known about the court, as the conversation was witnessed by several nobles.
“I did, and King Henry refused my offer, saying that he believed me to be somewhat overworked.” More says. “Instead of letting me go, he lifted some of the workload from my shoulders, and gave it to inferiors.”
“You seek to belittle me, Thomas, but I have done your duties well, and much as you would have done yourself. It was my suggestion that the king refused your resignation. I told him you were worn out, and must needs rest for a while.”
“Must I thank you for this?” More’s sarcasm is cuttingly obvious. He sees only that a man who was once his friend has undermined him, for personal gain.
“You should.” Cromwell sees that harsher words are needed to make his old friend listen. “I did not want your position, but Lady Anne Boleyn wanted your head.”
“It is not hers to take,” More replies. “That is the king’s prerogative. Let him put me to trial, and see where he might find fault with me. Then, and only then, will he take that which is his, Cromwell.”
“Once you resigned, Lady Anne Boleyn would have convinced Henry to arrest you, and charge you with treason.”
“Treason … how so?” More demands.
“The new laws would suffice to condemn you.”
“Laws you wrote.”
“Amongst others. The king has to be kept safe, until we have a male heir. These new laws protect his life, and bar anyone from speaking against him, either directly, or publicly. You voiced the opinion that the Bishop of Rome’s decisions must be above those made by the king.”
“Henry is King of England, but there is a King of Heaven, and Clement, for all his failings, is his chosen one, on earth. Of course the king must accept his ruling, but he can always appeal.”
“Until he is too old to sire healthy children?” Cromwell shakes his head. “No, you must stick to what is, rather than what you wish. Clement refuses the annulment, so we have pushed him aside. Henry is now head of the church in England, and soon, we will completely break with Rome.”
“I know all this,” More says. “So, why bring me here, to listen to it all over again. The King of any nation must obey the Pope. To refute the church means excommunication, and the loss of ones immortal soul.”
“Not any more, Thomas,” Cromwell says. “The law says Henry is the head of the church within England, and all taxes, levies and artefacts belong to him.”
“Ah, now you will steal bones, and take down crosses, and smelt them down, for their gold.” More sighs. The wealth of the church will enrich Henry’s coffers, he thinks, and ruin his soul. “The king will never destroy the church. He will stop short, when he sees how heresy becomes his bedfellow.”
“We are already closing down monasteries, and cleansing them of their venal old pederasts.” Cromwell pours a glass of wine for himself. “Next we shall start on the abbeys, and those clerics who dare oppose the king. I say all of this to show you but one thing. The Roman church will not survive in England.”
“Then consider me shown,” Sir Thomas seems weary, and rubs his chest, where he has, of late suffered stabbing pains. “Now, may I go back to Utopia, where my daughter has a stew waiting for me?”
“How is dear Margaret?” Cromwell asks. “Does marriage to young Master Roper suit her?”
“She is still a dutiful girl, and loves me better than any father deserves. I pray you, Tom Cromwell, do not threaten my family.”
“Dear Christ in Heaven, does it come to this?” Cromwell cries, genuinely stung by More’s words. “I held your children in my arms as babes, and send them fine presents on their birthdays, do I not? Have I not written to you, commending your daughter’s wit, and intelligence. She has the best Latin of any scholar in England, and is as dear to me as my own departed girls.”
“Forgive me, Tom,” More says. He remembers Cromwell’s daughters as bright little things, tumbling around his ankles, and calling him Uncle Thomas. “I look for trouble in every corner, and ever fear for my family. They are my one weakness, as you well know.”
“Your family will be safe, no matter what happens,” Tom Cromwell promises. “I will guard them from all harm. Though I confess, you are a different matter. The situation is going to become ever more dangerous for you, and I am not sure how best to keep you alive.”
“My life is, as always, the king’s,” More replies, calmly.
“Remember how Wolsey’s death affected Henry?”
“I do. He often swears how he was going to restore him to his place, and forgive him.”
“Yes, after he was dead,” says Cromwell. “Let us have Henry bethink to spare you, before your head is in the basket!”
“He cannot think to do such a thing,” More says. “I have been careful not to offend him in any way. Of course, I would not sign for him to put Queen Katherine aside, but he embraced me, and commended my scruples.”
“That was then,” Cromwell tells him. “Since then, he has flexed his muscles, and found that his boundaries are now limitless.”
“And who made it so?” More snaps. “The lawyers. If ever Jesus came to save the world again, he will do well to first consign all lawyers to the fiery pit.”
“Guilty, as charged,” Cromwell replies. “The Boleyn woman has him at her mercy, Thomas. You must see that. She teases him to distraction, then makes her demands. She wants you dead. Once you went into your shell, I thought she might relent, but no, she is like the Devil’s own whore, and wants to watch you die. You spoke against her, and that is enough.”
“What do you suggest?”
“Would you rather live than die?”
“Yes.”
“Really?”
“Of course.”
“What if I asked you to denounce your faith?”
“Why would you?” More shakes his head, as he begins to see where Cromwell is going. “Ah, I see. There is to be an oath then?”
“It seems so.”
“What have you done to us all, Tom?” More cannot believe that Cromwell has instituted such a calamitous thing. The swearing of oaths can lead to nothing but heartache, and destruction.
“Not I,” Cromwell says. “Whil
st I was busy tending to your duties, a viper entered the garden.”
“Not Norfolk, surely?” More asks. “The duke is, in private, an ardent lover of the church. He will lose his soul if he takes an oath.”
“Not Norfolk,” Cromwell says. “It was the Bishop of Winchester, who mentioned it, almost in jest, and Lady Anne overheard him.”
“Oh, Stephen, what have you done?” More laments the folly of his old friend Gardiner. “How did he put it to Henry?”
“Some silliness. The king was speaking of a legal matter, where some fellow had lied under oath. The judge had him hanged, and Stephen said that an oath is sacred, and might bind a man tightly, whether to a king, or a cowherd. Anne Boleyn, very cleverly, asked which oath takes precedence.”
“Oh, clever woman,” More says. “For once it is sworn, no force on Earth might un-swear it. See how she plays on the king’s fear of treachery? Can his realm be left to swear oaths to any they wish? No, of course not.”
“Just so. La Boleyn told Henry that any subject might swear to any lord, or any faith, before him. From there, it was easy to make the king start thinking about a great oath. An all encompassing oath that binds his subjects to him.”
“Dear Christ.”
“Precisely. You see the implications at once. I set about tempering the oath, which Henry thought to be a splendid idea, but there are those about him who saw it as a useful weapon.”
“Must every man in England swear?”
“I think not,” Cromwell explains. “Only those of noble rank, all those employed by the king, and ministers of state. I could not remove the last.”
“When will it come into force?” More asks, ashen faced.
“I explained the legal complexities to Henry, and said it might take years to enshrine in law, but he will have none of that, and gives me eighteen months to bring in the legislation. Then the Boleyn woman said that we might start to compile a list of all those who must take it, and prick out those who might refuse.”
“She prepares a death list, for when she is queen,” the Lord Chancellor says.