by Anne Stevens
At that moment, Eustace Chapuys spurs his mount into a trot, and joins them. He is constantly on the lookout for other travellers, convinced that they will turn into wild, murderous outlaws, and descend on them, but is constantly disappointed.
“There are some men ahead,” he says. Gregory touches the heavy gun hanging on his saddle, to reassure himself, but in truth, he doubts he will be able to aim its great weight.
“They are going our way,” the boy observes. “I doubt they mean any harm. Perhaps they are travelling to some shrine, or other.”
“Perhaps,” the little Savoyard diplomat says, but he is uneasy. “The people here about are very pious, and there are many churches with holy relics to visit.”
“How long will our journey take?” Gregory asks.
“Master Cromwell tells me that it is about fifty miles,” Miriam tells the boy. “The weather is dry, and that makes the going much easier. If we keep on the road, until it begins to grow dark, we will have covered about twenty six, or twenty seven miles. So, with a dawn start on the morrow, we will reach our destination by late afternoon.”
“Allowing for fine, dry weather,” Gregory says, “and the carts holding up. When I came down from Cambridge, I did it in easy stages, so as not to tire my horse, and I stopped to see the sights. A little way on is a church which claims to have the shin bone of Saint Cuthburga, who was the Queen of Northumbria, over six hundred years ago.”
“Did she hop here from the north then?” Miriam says. She has little time for churches, and even less for the business of relics, which raises money from poor, ignorant folk.
“What ever do you mean, Mistress Miriam?” Gregory is astounded by what she says.
“Why do they only have one shin?” Miriam persists. “Why not both shins? Or the whole of her?”
Gregory cannot understand that she is jesting, because he is being given a grounding in religion by his tutors that precludes the questioning of his faith. He is not yet of the mind to separate the bible from the attendant dogma, and believes, simply because that is what you must do.
“The blessed Saint Cuthburga was the first abbess of Wimborne, in Dorset,” Gregory pronounces. “She was the daughter, wife, and mother of great kings. She and her sister, St. Quenburga, founded a monastery at Wimborne in the year seven hundred and five, and she sent missionary nuns to Germany, where they worked with Saint Boniface.”
“Good for her,” Miriam mutters. She doubts she will be able to stand two days listening to the history of English saints. Gregory, like most young men, is oblivious to anything other than that which he is currently thinking, and continues to bore his lovely companion.
“The saint was always hard on herself, but very kind to others,” he says. “She died around seven twenty five, and her bones were sent to various churches from Dorset, right up to Northumbria.”
“And did they give you board and food?” Miriam asks, sharply. “Or did you pay for it?”
“A donation was required.”
“And another penny to see the shin bone?”
“Why, yes,” Gregory replies, surprised that Miriam should know such a fact. “I paid double, because I was the only one who wanted to look. Money spent on God, is money well spent.”
“God and the church are not the same thing, Gregory,” Miriam tells him. “Does not your father tell you that? The church in England is corrupt, and in need of change.”
“The wind of a new order,” Gregory says. “That is what father calls it. He thinks Henry will become the English Pope, and that all men will read the bible, in English.”
“Is that what you think?” Chapuys asks.
“I try not to have too many thoughts,” the youth replies, solemnly. “It affects my sporting prowess. Father can think quite enough for both of us.”
“Well, what is it?” Will is becoming increasingly disturbed, as report after report comes to him. Cromwell’s agents are working without rest to uncover a lead to the whereabouts of Father George Constantine and his men, but can find nothing.
“We have questioned the guards of every city gate, to no avail, sir,” the agent says. “Each boatman has been spoken to, and they all say the same. The preacher and his men did not cross the river. They might have rode over the bridge, but so large a band would have been noticed.”
“Then they came in one by one.”
“Perhaps,” the man says. “Or they never intended coming to the city at all. Might they have ridden out into the shires?”
“If so, we are confounded,” Will tells the man. “For we do not have enough men to cover all points of the compass.”
A horse clatters into the courtyard, and Mush leaps from its back. He is covered in the dust of the road, and calls for something to drink.
“They are found!” He announces. “They used a ferry, far down river, and crossed to the northern bank. The ferryman marked them down as a troop of the king’s soldiers, for they were all armed to the teeth, and well mounted.”
“Then we have them?” Will asks, and Mush shakes his head.
“No, they have a half a day’s start on us,” he confirms, “but the ferry man says they were heading north east, as if making for Suffolk, or Norfolk.”
“Or any of another three counties,” Will curses. “We must ride at once.”
“Where to?” Mush is ready, despite a hard morning in the saddle. “Do we split our forces?”
“No, we ride for Norfolk,” Will decides. “It is the most likely source of trouble. Fast gallopers must go to Ipswich, Buckingham, Cambridge, and Oxford. Have them rouse the local militia, and conduct searches of their counties.”
“Miriam is on her way to Cambridge,” Mush says.
“I doubt she will be in any danger,” Will replies, trying to reassure himself, rather than any one else. “What would our treacherous preacher want with her?”
9 An Angel Falls
The great Palace of Whitehall never slumbers, and there is activity throughout the day and night. The quietest time is the early evening, when the diplomats have been seen, and everyone is preparing to dress for their evening repast. Some will dine with friends, and others in local taverns, where they must pay their own way. Most will eat sparingly, at the expense of their patrons, who demand their loyalty in return.
This evening Thomas Cromwell is honoured above all others in England. The Privy Councillor is invited to sup with His Majesty, and Lady Anne Boleyn. It is a meal he would rather miss, but duty demands his presence. With two of his toughest young men to keep an eye on him, he slips out of the Tower of London, and makes his way, unnoticed, or ignored, through the busy city streets.
He arrives at Whitehall, just as the fifth hour is struck, and enters by a discreet side gate. It gives access to a small courtyard, surrounded by high windows, and there is a stone sundial at its centre. In one wall is a solid gate, which is guarded, and leads to one of the king’s private walks. Thomas Cromwell is known to the guard, who salutes, and allows him passage.
“Not your lads, Master Cromwell,” the man says. “More than my life’s worth to let them in, unannounced.”
“Well said, Sergeant Cunliffe,” Cromwell says, and hands over a shilling. “My young men will keep you company, whilst I speak with the king.” He stoops, and goes through the low gate. Beyond is a long, rectangular space, with a central flower bed, in full bloom. The May weather has been better than of late, and everything is coming early … like Cromwell.
The king is strolling along the furthermost path, accompanied by his young son, Henry Fitzroy. Behind them comes Norfolk, and Suffolk, the king’s most senior councillor, and his best friend. The two men tolerate one another, knowing that the king loves them both in equal portion. It is Suffolk who sees Cromwell first, and coughs, politely, so that Henry might notice his Privy Councillor’s unannounced visit.
The king looks up, and his broad forehead furrows into a deep frown. Usually, he is pleased to see the man, whom he thinks is a creature of his own making,
so that they can exchange ideas, and come to decisions. Now though, he is concerned at the unplanned visitation, and unsure how to react.
Thomas Cromwell removes his cap, bows, and stands quite still, waiting to be either beckoned forward, or dismissed. After a moment, young Fitzroy returns Cromwell’s bow, and gestures for him to come and join them.
“Forgive me, Your Highness,” the young prince says, “but it is a while since I last saw Master Cromwell, and I still recall how he managed the saving of my life.”
“Of course,” Henry replies. “We cannot ever repay such a debt. Good day, Thomas, I thought it was for dinner that you are asked. You are early. Have I forgotten a state meeting?”
“Your Majesty forgets nothing,” Cromwell says, flattering his king. “For which I am grateful. It makes my duties easier to perform. I am glad to see you in better health, young Harry.”
“Yes, the coughing is improved today,” Fitzroy replies. He is consumptive, and his present state of improved health will not last long. “But, enough of me, I assume you wish to speak with the king?”
“I do, sir.” Thomas Cromwell glances over at Norfolk and Suffolk, who both, obtusely, stand their ground, until Henry waves them firmly away.
“Give us a moment, gentlemen,” he says, then starts to stroll along the path again. “Walk with me, Thomas. You look troubled. Does that mean I should be, also?”
“If I am troubled, it is only because I am the bearer of sad news, sire. It is Sir Thomas More …”
“Dear Christ, is he dead?” Henry’s face drains of its usual ruddy colour, and he feels genuine regret.
“No, not yet, sire.” Cromwell puts on his most pained expression, even wringing a tear from the corner of one eye. “I am here, because I know the esteem you still hold him in, and because he is an old friend of mine. His health is declining each day, and I wonder if he will live much longer.”
“What ails him?” Henry is glad the man has not died on him, which would make him look like a faithless dog, and make him feel badly about himself.
“His heart,” Cromwell says, truthfully. “I spoke with his doctors, and they fear greatly for his life. The heartbeat is most irregular, and his strength drains away.”
“I cannot visit him,” Henry says, and regrets his cowardly words. “Lady Anne would be furious if I show him any sort of favour. You know how she is where Tom More is concerned.”
“I understand, sire, but that is not why I am here.”
“No? Then speak plainly, Thomas, for we are alone, and I would hear what you think.”
“Sire…”
“Come, call me Henry, in private,” the king says. He is shocked at the news about More, and does not wish to seem like he is uncaring. The blacksmith’s boy will feel honoured by his show of friendship, and think better of him when More eventually dies.
“Henry, we must both look to the Lord Chancellorship,” Cromwell says. “If Sir Thomas dies, in office, there are those - the Spanish, the French, and others - who will whisper lies behind their hands. They will remind people about Cardinal Wolsey’s fall from grace, and say we are treating More in the same way.”
“I was going to forgive Wolsey,” Henry says, trotting out an old, familiar story. “I loved the man, as I love you, and as I love Sir Thomas!”
“Just so,” says Thomas Cromwell. “It is time to let More go, Henry. He is in poor health, and cannot continue in office. You can do him a final kindness. Let him resign, and retire into private life.”
“Will that stop the gossip?”
“Most of it,” Thomas Cromwell tells the king, honestly. “Sir Thomas will retire, and undertake to cease any involvement in court politics. Those who might speak evil of you will see him surrender his office, of his own free will. Then, a month or two from now, they will realise that you have no intention of taking action against him, and let it be. More will fade from men’s minds, before Christmas.”
“Yes, I see the wisdom of that.”
“Then let it be done, Henry,” Cromwell says. “I will summon him here, today, and he will resign. Take the seal from him, and let him thank you for the great honours you have bestowed on him. He will not want titles, or lands. Just let him keep the usual pension, which will keep him, until the end.”
“Then it will be so,” Henry decides. Then he stops, and utters a soft curse under his breath. “What will Lady Anne say?”
“She will applaud you, sire,” Cromwell says, though he does not really believe it. “Lady Anne wishes More destroyed, and so it shall come to pass. He is a fallen angel … cast down from heaven.”
“Yes, you are all my angels,” the king agrees. “Below me in the English firmament. How goes the investigation of the monasteries, Cromwell?”
Ah, the Privy Councillor thinks, we are done with first names again. He smiles, and brings a small ledger from under his cape.
“Your Majesties agents are making good progress, sire,” he reports. “Last month, thirty four establishments were shut down, and their land and revenues diverted to the Crown coffers. Over twenty thousand pounds of income, and seventeen thousand acres of good farm land, sire, and we are barely started.”
“When this is done, I will have enough to go to war with the French again,” Henry says, with a satisfied smile on his face. “The time may yet come when an English king sits on the French throne once more.”
“Why fight them, when they can be bought?” Cromwell asks. “A hundred thousand dead, and you will be the ruler of a ruined France. Much better to use commerce, sire, rather than risk open warfare.”
“A king must be great,” Henry says, softly. He is in his middle years, and his health is beginning to fail, but he still wants to lead a charge, or storm a town wall, to show his bravery.
“You are great, sire,” Cromwell replies. “What other king rules, without the Roman church at his elbow? What other king in Europe is even solvent? In your younger days, you led the charge which broke the French.”
“True … it was magnificent.”
“In your middle years, you led the charge against Pope Clement, and broke his hold on your realm.”
“By God, yes, I did.”
“And in your later years, you will reign over the richest country in the world. Your navy will rule the seas, and your merchants will rule the continent. The French and the Spanish will have to beg for your favour, if they want our wool, and they will, by God … they will!”
“Without a war though?”
“Imagine, being the king who made England the greatest nation on earth, without losing a single soldier, or having to fire off a single canon,” Cromwell continues. “Besides, Your Majesty will be too busy reforming his church, and planning for his wedding. Soon, the legislation will be in place, and parliament will ask you to produce an heir. To comply, you will be compelled, by parliament, to divorce Katherine, and re-marry.”
“The word ‘compel’ concerns me, Thomas.”
“A mere legality. It is the duty of parliament to protect the realm, which ‘compels’ them to ‘compel’ the king to act. As no monarch would willingly fail to provide an heir, the word has no force, other than a moral one. It is your duty to sire a child, and you will not flinch from it. In truth, Your Majesty, you only ‘compel’ yourself.”
“I see. Then I shall re-marry, and have a son … for duty’s sake. Lady Anne will be pleased. I thought a Christmas wedding might be rather nice.”
“Perfect, sire,” Cromwell says. “You are to visit Calais just before Christmas, for talks with your cousin King Francois. He wants us to lower import duties on French wine.”
“Oh, and will we?”
“Why ever not? In return, we will extract a promise from the French that they will allow us to import mulberry bushes from the south of their country.”
“Mulberry bushes?” The king is taken by surprises. “We lose revenue on wine, and gain a few bushes?”
“Mulberry bushes, sire. They are eaten by silkworms. The exchange wil
l strengthen our silk trade. Later, we will introduce some other levy, to make up the lost revenue.”
“By God, if Norfolk, Suffolk, Gardiner and the like, are my angels, you are my archangel, sir.” Henry mellows, and is in an expansive mood. “Name your reward, Thomas, and you shall have it.”
“A reward is given for a job well done, sire, and the job of helping you to run England will last for ever,” Cromwell says. He has little time for empty titles, and is content with his rents, and earnings from his duties with the Privy Council, and the courts of law. He is worth sixty thousand a year, which is three times the worth of any duke, or baronet in the land.
“There must be something?”
“Very well, sire, if you insist,” Cromwell says. “Grant me but one request. Allow me to tell Lady Anne about More, so that she might look favourably on me, once more.”
“Granted,” Henry says, relieved that he does not have to explain to his beloved. She can, he thinks, be like a weathervane, and veer from one mood to another, at short notice. “It is the least I can do for so loyal a servant.”
Cromwell bows, and retreats, confident that the evening’s repast will be a pleasant one.
“Sir Thomas, you wish to see me?” King Henry says, in a not unkindly manner. He notes the grey pallor of the man’s skin, and his unsteady gait, and agrees with Thomas Cromwell’s physical assessment of his councillor. They are in the same garden as Henry’s earlier meeting with Tom Cromwell, and the light is now fading into a pink suffused evening.
“Your Highness,” Sir Thomas More says, bowing with a little difficulty. “I come as a supplicant. It is plain that my health is failing me fast, and I cannot continue in even those lighter duties you ask of me. It is not my wish to bring the office of Lord Chancellor into disrepute, by dint of my health, and I beg you to let me lay down this heavy burden. Take my chain, sire, and bestow it on a worthier pair of shoulders, for mine are grown too weak.”
“I thank you for your past service, Sir Thomas, and willingly grant you leave to resign your high office. You will retire to the country?”