by Anne Stevens
“To Utopia, sire,” More replies.
“I think not,” Henry tells him, with one last twist of the blade, suggested by Anne Boleyn. “The country air will suit you better, I think. Cromwell will find you a place, down in Dorset, or Hampshire.”
“As you command, sire,” More says.
High above, Anne Boleyn is standing at a window, and observing the scene. She is there at Cromwell’s prompting, and turns to him now, for clarification.
“What am I seeing, Master Cromwell?”
“The end of Sir Thomas More,” he replies, simply. “See how he hands over his chain of office? The king will accept, and your enemy is finished.”
“But he still lives.”
“Pray leave him now, madam,” Cromwell tells her. “Press further, and it might rebound on us. The man is without his high office, without his king, and without hope. Left alive, he will suffer the agonies of failure. His fall is so complete, that even the hardest of hearts might pity him.”
“You have done well, Thomas,” she says, nodding her approval. “Only last evening, I advised Henry to send More far away from London. Let us hope he listens.”
“Without Utopia, Sir Thomas will not last a month,” Cromwell says, appalled at her cruelty.
“No, he won’t, will he?” she tells him, and smiles benignly. “I am pleased, and will reward you. What can I get the king to give you?”
“I want nothing for this days work, My Lady,” Cromwell replies. “It is done, because it has to be done. By your leave, I must retire, and see that Sir Thomas is escorted home safely.”
“Master Hot and Cold,” Anne says. “That is what I shall call you. You are nine parts cold business, and one part hot passion. It will be the undoing of you, sir.”
“Humanity often is the undoing of a man, Lady Anne,” he says, as he leaves. “Have a care for your own.”
Anne watches him leave, and sighs with satisfaction. More is gone, Henry is under her thumb, and even Master Cromwell seeks to do her bidding, despite his initial reluctance. She feels safer now More has finally fallen, and can turn her attention to Queen Katherine.
The new laws will ensure that Henry can divorce her, but she will still be there, in the background, like some spectre at the feast, and the king will never be at ease. Her father, and brother council her not to be hasty, but she will have her way. Once Henry marries her, she will be free to act against the old queen, once and for all.
It crosses her mind to involve Cromwell, but wonders if he is up to drawing up charges against the Dowager Princess of Wales, and the bastard child, Mary. Katherine lives in a dark, mysterious and foreign world, and it is easy to see how talk of witchcraft can start. Once Henry thinks Katherine is working against him, he will demand an investigation, and charges can be brought. She will be powerless to refute well constructed charges, which will point to her desire for revenge.
Any competent lawyer will do, but Anne wants it to be Cromwell. For only he has the king’s ear, and can push for the correct sentence. Katherine and her daughter must burn, and their names be expunged from the realm’s history. Then, and only then, will Anne Boleyn and her family be truly safe.
“That was not too painful, was it, my friend?” Cromwell asks on the return boat journey to More’s house in Chelsea.
“He bids me leave Utopia.” More is crestfallen. The house is the centre of his existence, and a magnet for the greatest minds of the age. In its time, Utopia has sheltered the genius, Erasmus, and entertained philosophers, royalty, and intellectuals, from across Europe.
“Leave it with me,” Cromwell replies. “I will dissuade him from such a foolish act. We do not want to draw attention to you, do we?”
“No, Tom, you have all that you want.”
“You should have come with me, Thomas,” says Cromwell.
“Why, when I was on the right path all along?” More tells his old friend. “Yes, the church is corrupt, but we could have healed it, from within. Now we are ruled by a king who thinks he is one step below God. Heaven help you all.”
“A new age is coming.”
“No it is not,” More argues. “It is the same old world, but with different masters, demanding different oaths. Men will still burn for heresy, and printing the bible in English will not make England a more tolerable place to live.”
“No more preaching,” Cromwell says. “See, here we are, and your Margaret is waiting for you. Look, my dear girl, your father is home, safe and sound, once again.”
“Is that the cat courting the mouse?” Margaret says, and turns her back on Cromwell.
“Am I such a monster?” Cromwell asks More, who only shrugs, and starts up towards the cold looking house.
“Do you want for anything, Mistress Margaret?” Cromwell calls to the retreating woman. He cannot bare the idea that she hates him too.
“We want for everything, Master Cromwell,” she flares. “We want for my father’s position, his good name, and his dignity. You have all three now … see how they benefit you, sir!”
“I meant the comforts of life,” Cromwell replies. “Your father’s pension will not stretch to running so large a house, I fear.”
“Sir, we will manage,” Margaret says. “Pray do not give us a second thought. You have a church to destroy, and a vainglorious king to pander to. Will not they be waiting for you at their dinner table?”
Cromwell is hurt by his rebuff, but can see no other way he could have gone. More is, he thinks, too stiff necked, and set in his ways. A minister of state needs to know how to bend in the wind, and fight only those battles that one can win.
By the time he has dined, and reaches the Tower of London, he is once again convinced that he is in the right, and that England must tread the path he has chosen for it. It is very late, and a cold supper is laid out for him, but he has little appetite after having to indulge at Henry‘s lavish table. He goes to the warden’s library, and takes down a book, but cannot settle to read. At length, he calls for one of his young men, and bids him take pen to paper.
“Make a list, Tobias,” he says. “We must attend to the needs of Utopia. See that fire wood his delivered each week, together with enough basic food stuffs, and ale to feed them all. Have a couple of bolts of good worsted cloth delivered, for the ladies to make dresses, and throw in sewing threads, needles, and ribbons. No, forget the ribbons … they will not be appreciated.”
“Yes, master.”
“Then see that my name is not on the transaction,” Cromwell says. “If anyone seeks their benefactor, it must not come back home to me. Make it seem as though some Holy Order is helping them live.” Cromwell knows that, even if Sir Thomas were able to accept his charity, his daughter would not. “Now, how goes the search for George Constantine?”
“Captain Draper is casting the net much wider, sir,” Tobias reports. “The rascal is thought to be heading for Norfolk.”
“Or a dozen places in between,” says Cromwell. “Let him but reach his great personage, and things will go badly for England.”
“More wine, sir?” Tobias holds up the jug of sweet, white Rhenish, from the vineyards of Hesse. Cromwell shrugs, and holds a hand over the top of his cup. His consumption, of late, is increasing, and he makes a mental note to curb his drinking from now on.
“I must keep a clear head,” he says. “Have we anything more from our agents, as to the nature of this great threat to us?”
“Nothing, master,” Tobias replies. “Our people in Augsburg tell us that Fugger is going about his business, as usual. The emperor’s court in Flanders is quiet, and there is no news from Calais, other than the usual trading reports, and merchants returns.”
“No troop movements?”
“The French are posturing along the Savoy border,” Tobias tells his master. “They gallop a few thousand men about the countryside, making idle threats against Annecy, but with ten thousand Swiss mercenaries protecting them, the Savoyards have nothing to worry over.”
“Nothin
g in the northern ports?”
“No, Flanders is perfectly quiet, sir.” Tobias turns to leave, then pauses in the door. “There is one thing … a minor irritation.”
“What?” Cromwell is wise enough to know that even the most trivial thing can be important.
“A report from the king’s shipyards, concerning the purchase of timber from the continent. We use our own oak, of course, but with the increased ship building, we must buy from the empire, to keep apace.”
“Are they refusing us?” Cromwell asks.
“No, not at all. They will supply as much cut board as we require, and at a fair price.”
“Then, I do not see what the problem is,” Cromwell says. He is tired now, and ready for his bed.
“They insist on payment in Ducats, French Solaires, or Brabant gold.”
“More fool them,” Cromwell says. It is only in the deepest part of the night that he awakens, bathed in a cold sweat. The purchase of cut boards for Henry’s new warships is on his mind, and he begins to realise the significance of it all, at last.
“Ah, at last I begin to see,” Cromwell sighs into the inky darkness. “There is the enemy.”
10 Old Bones
It is almost night when Miriam and her retinue arrive at the church of Saint Cuthburga. The six hundred year old place of worship is a little way outside of Hertford, and almost the mid point of their journey. Gregory trots ahead, to prepare the way for his precious charge, and her wagons.
“I am glad we managed the crossing of the river before dark,” Chapuys says. He makes it sound as if a great obstacle has been overcome, but the crossing of the River Lea, in truth, was easy, thanks to the dry weather.
“The water scarcely came up to the axles of our carts,” Gregory replies, but he is also relieved to be at this, their lodging for the night. “They are still up, for I could see a light within. The old priest will see we are fed and boarded, for a few pennies.”
The church is lit by candles, and there are a couple of horses tied up to a nearby tree. Miriam is wondering who these other travellers are, when the church door opens, and a thin, weasel faced little man appears. He is dressed in layman’s clothing, and does not seem to have the spirit of Christianity in him.
“Be off!” the man cries, rudely. “The church is closed.” Chapuys trots his horse right up to the man, who steps back in fright.
“I am Eustace Chapuys, ambassador to the court of King Henry,” the Savoyard demands. “Name yourself, rascal!”
“Rascal? Not I, sir,” the man replies. “I am Herbert Worthy, a commissioner of the king. What is your business here, sir?”
“We seek shelter for the night,” Miriam says.
“Not here!” the man says, again, but less rudely.
“Step aside, scoundrel,” Gregory says, and draws the heavy gun from its holster. “Or I will …”
“Master Cromwell!” Chapuys cries, and the situation changes at once. The man looks as if he has been slapped in the face.
“Cromwell, you say?”
“I am Gregory Cromwell, sir … and my father is Master Thomas Cromwell, Privy Councillor, and confident of the king.”
“My apologies, Master Gregory,” Worthy says, bowing. “The last time I saw you, it was as a small child, scarcely able to totter about. I am one of your father’s agents, sir. Please, dismount, and come inside. We have food cooking. My men will tend to your carts and horses.”
“Your men?” Gregory says, and four armed men step out of the darkness.
“Thank God you were named, sir,” the little man says, smiling. “Else you might have been shot from your horse.”
Miriam supervises the settling down of her small convoy of carts, and sees the horses fed, before she ventures into the old church. Herbert Worthy, Gregory, and Chapuys are sitting around a makeshift table, laden with a cauldron of rabbit stew, some root vegetables, and two loaves of hard bread.
“Ah, Mistress Draper,” Worthy says, rising to his feet. “Come and join us. The wife of the famous Captain Will must be our guest of honour.”
“Where is the priest?” she asks. The church has been stripped bare of all its adornment, and the walls painted over with a drab whitewash. The magnificent depictions of Christ and Saint Cuthburga can still be seen striking through. Another coat will obliterate the scenes for all time.
“Gone,” Worthy replies, casually. “He has been given the choice … Henry, or Rome, and chose badly. His living is taken, and will be reassigned to another, more amenable priest. The revenues, for what they are worth, go to the crown coffers.”
“This is monstrous,” Chapuys says. “How can a man of God choose his king above the Kingdom of Heaven?”
“We do not ask that, sir,” worthy explains. “We are not against God, but the Bishop of Rome. We love God, and will worship him in our English way. Though there are those who still fight against the changes, we will have an honestly printed English bible … and in my life time. What say you, Master Gregory? Your father is right, is he not?”
“I cannot go against my father,” Gregory says, “though I wonder what will remain, after all is done. Where is the saint’s relic?”
“Relic?” Worthy frowns. “You mean that scrap of animal bone in a box? Gone. Our new way will not tolerate the misuse of the people. Besides, what kind of idiot would pay a penny to look at a bone salvaged from the cooking pot?”
“It was part of Saint Cuthburga,” Gregory says, then sees the look of derision on Worthy’s face. “That is what they claimed.”
“Master Gregory, let me tell you something about the holy relics that fill our churches,” the little man says. “If we take all the pieces of the true cross, and put them together, we will have enough wood to build another warship for King Henry. It is a fraud, designed to take money from poor folk, who know no better. The new church will also ban the sale of indulgences.”
“Then how can sinful men ever hope to escape from their years in purgatory?” Gregory asks. He knows his father has sinned often, and does not wish him to stay in purgatory for ten thousand years. Better by far to pay for an indulgence, and free his soul the sooner.
“Read your bible, Master Gregory,” Worthy says. “There is no mention of the place. The Roman church invent Purgatory and other such places, to scare unwitting people into giving them their hard earned money. There are but two places for us to go. Heaven, or Hell. Let each man behave as to how he wishes to end up, is what I say.”
“Then only the truly good will ever see Heaven?” Miriam asks. The convolutions of the Christian faith confuse her, and she likes her own Jewish beliefs, despite having to conceal them from a dangerous, Jew hating world.
“Who knows?” Worthy spoons more stew into her bowl. “The good book says that God rejoices in a repentant sinner. Perhaps that is the way.”
“Ha!” Chapuys can stay silent no longer. “You believe a man can spend his life in sin, but gain a place in Heaven, simply by apologising to God?”
“Perhaps that is all He asks of us, sir.”
“Then, when I am in heaven, I will search you, and your like out … but in vain,” the Savoyard diplomat concludes. “For no man that offends me, can redeem himself with a casual word. To forgive, I must needs see some genuine act of contrition.”
“Then I am pleased you are not God, sir,” Worthy says, and grins at Eustace Chapuys. “You are a long way from London … for an ambassador.”
“I go to visit Queen Katherine, who is currently lodged near Cambridge.” Chapuys has papers to explain his mission, but is disinclined to show them to so insolent a man.
“The Dowager Princess of Wales, you mean?” Herbert Worthy strokes his beard in contemplation. “A popular lady, these days, sir.”
“What do you mean?” Chapuys feels a grip of apprehension in the pit of his stomach.
“Only a couple of hours ago, a party of men were here, asking after her whereabouts.”
“A party of men?”
“I took them f
or some of the king’s men,” Worthy replies. “The leader told me they were a protection detail, though he looked more like a priest than a soldier.”
“Constantine,” Miriam says. “He is making for Katherine, but why?”
“To spirit her away,” Chapuys tells her. “It is as Cromwell and I suspected. Whatever is coming, they want Katherine out of harms way. My guess is they intend removing her by force, and taking her abroad. It is utter madness.”
“I don’t know,” Worthy says. “A dozen, heavily armed men will be enough to take the old queen’s guard unawares. Some fast horses, and they can be across Norfolk, and aboard a waiting cog in no time.”
“If the plot fails, and Katherine is taken, it will mean her head … and the head of her daughter.” Chapuys stands, and starts for the door. “ I must ride through the night, and try to stop this lunacy.”
“I too,” Gregory Cromwell says, jumping to his feet. “We must stop Constantine, and save Queen Katherine from a horrible fate.”
“The horses are fed,” Miriam says, standing.
“You mean to give chase?” Herbert Worthy sighs, and wishes they had never happened upon him. “Very well, take my four men. They are armed, and the villains do like a good fight. I will send word to London, and raise a hue and cry for their leader.”
“What?” Gregory asks. “Did he not leave with them?”
“He did not, sir,” worthy replies grimly. “He sent his men on towards Cambridge, but he set off on the road to Norfolk. He has another errand, perhaps?”
Will Draper’s troop, over thirty strong, and armed to the teeth, make good time. They can afford to ride hard, as fresh mounts await them every ten or twelve miles. Despite starting off several hours behind his wife, they clatter into the cobbled churchyard of Saint Cuthburga scarcely an hour behind.
Herbert Worthy appears with a lantern, and in the moonlight, explains to Will what has happened. He is keen to emphasise that he has sent his men with Miriam, Gregory, and Chapuys.
“There was no stopping them, sir,” he concludes. “Though, if you ride on, you will overtake them, before they reach their destination. God’s speed, Captain Draper.”