by Anne Stevens
“Henry is dead?” The child tries to understand .
“One way, or another,” the Welshman confirms. “It is the only way. Your father was doing England great harm. He spurned the Pope, and split the aristocracy asunder. What kind of king is that?”
“This is a black day.”
“You shed insincere tears, sire,” Gruffedd tells him. “On the morrow, or the day after, fifty thousand men will hail you as King Henry, the ninth of that name, and you will accept their oath of loyalty, and take the crown.”
“Are men so weak?” the boy says. “What will we not do for a glittering jewel, or a shining crown?”
“I give you a kingdom… and you weep?” The Welshman shakes his head in disbelief.
“Baron Montagu, I am pleased to see you in such good health,” Thomas Cromwell says, nodding to Henry Pole. “How has the hunting been?”
“Poor, Master Cromwell,” Montagu says, through a rictus smile. Eight of his best men are supposed to have silenced the Privy Councillor, yet here he is, smiling, and nodding at acquaintances, as though he has not a care in the whole, wide world. “The weather is bad, and the hawks will not fly.”
“Then I am happy,” Cromwell says. “Their prey is safe for another day. I am often on the side of the deer, or the innocent wood pigeon, you see.”
“The law of the wild will have its way,” Norfolk says, overhearing the end of the exchange. “The strong shall bring down the weak. It is ever thus. What say you, My Lord?”
“Well said, Norfolk,” Suffolk says, catching Cromwell’s eye, and so drawing him to one side.
“Thank God you are here, Master Cromwell,” Charles Brandon says. “Montagu is most eager to get us in the field, despite the foul weather. What is going on, sir?”
“Treason,” Cromwell replies. “Is Montagu always so keen to go hawking in the rain?”
“Not he.” Suffolk begins to understand. Harry Pole is conspiring against Henry, and must be thwarted. “Shall we tell Henry?”
“Tell him what?” Cromwell says. “That his great friend is a traitor? I have no proof. The men he sent to kill me are all dead, and will make poor witnesses. I dare say he is poisoning the king’s mind against me?”
“Yes, he says you are writing to William Tyndale, the heretic.” Cromwell’s eyebrow goes up a fraction, and he smiles.
“You are late, Cromwell,” the king shouts, from across the room. “Though you have missed little, thanks to the rain.”
“A thousand apologies, sire,” Cromwell replies, loudly, “but I was waiting for news from William Tyndale.” The room falls silent, and Montagu is caught out by the revelation. Before he can cry out a denouncement, the Privy Councillor continues. “I write to the fellow, almost weekly, deploring his actions, and imploring him to stay out of England.”
“You … write to him?”
“Why, yes sire.” Cromwell allows a touch of surprise to creep into his voice. “As you instructed me to do.”
“I did what?” Henry is confused.
“You will recall the discussion, sire. This Easter gone. We were sending Stephen Gardiner off, to act as our new French ambassador. You told him to try and stop Tyndale printing his English translations, and told me to ensure he is kept under constant watch.”
“I did?”
“Yes, sire. A wise decision. I have it in writing, somewhere, I think. Because of the freedom you allow me, I was able to use my couriers to spy on him, and keep his whereabouts fixed. You must recall the report I gave you, just the other week, in which I marvelled at the man’s cleverness. It is said that he taught himself the Hebrew language, so that he could translate from the original, to English, and cut out the Latin versions.”
“He did?“ Henry is stunned at this, and wonders how he is expected to remember every little thing he is told. “I see better now why the Pope…”
“The Bishop of Rome,” Cromwell mutters.
“Yes, just so. The Bishop of Rome will feel the ground shift under his feet. Translated from Hebrew, by God. The cunning fellow, to understand such a process.”
“I suppose he thought that, with Jesus, the son of God, being Hebrew, that he might appreciate the gesture?” Cromwell jests, and receives a scatter of applause. “In every letter, I demand that he cease his activity, and I have forbade him entry to your realm.”
“You see, Montagu?” the king declares. “Cromwell has more brains than all my council put together. He fixes my enemies, and constantly reminds them of our righteous anger. I swear, if Tyndale ever returns, I will deal with him … most harshly. Well done, my dear Thomas. You must sit at my right hand at dinner. We haves o much to discuss.”
“Indeed we do, sire,” Cromwell says, throwing a sharp look at Baron Montagu. For his part, Harry Pole is not too dismayed. The king will hear no evil about him, and Owain Gruffedd and his men will soon make an appearance. The countryside will be in flames, and in the confusion, it will be easy to slip away.
Before he rides to join the rebels, Montagu will wait for his chance, and slip a knife into Henry’s ribs. With the king dead, he will march thirty thousand men on London, and make himself , in all but name, king.
Charles Brandon slips away. Cromwell has whispered in his ear, and he is on a mission. Taking a dozen loyal men, he rides out to the meadows where they were to hawk that very day. With swords drawn, they come upon four men, concealed in the thickest part of the hedgerow. They are armed with hunting bows, and have been waiting all day, to shoot Henry from his horse. In the confusion, they intend slipping away from the scene of the ‘tragic accident’ and joining up with their master.
They panic at the sight of so many armed riders, and loose off their arrows at Suffolk, and his men. One of Brandon’s men crashes from his horse, wounded in the shoulder, and the rest gallop forward, swords upraised. Suffolk cries for them to take prisoners, but he is too late. The assassins are foolish enough to draw blades, and are cut down in their tracks.
“Montagu has told me a funny story, Cromwell,” the king says at dinner. “It is about a mirror, and some confusion over … no, that isn’t it at all. No, forget about any mention of the mirror, or the joke is ruined. Damn, I wish I could jest.”
“Wiser men seldom have enough spare time to waste on jesting, sire.” Cromwell slices himself a piece of duck. “When can a king truly take his ease?”
“True enough, Thomas, old friend. My mind is ever full of important state business.”
“And personal matters, sire.” Cromwell is not going to waste a good opportunity. “You must let your friends share the burden of office. A king must instruct, and those, trusted few, about him are there to facilitate. If the king says ‘do this’, it is not our place to say ‘but no, that is not possible, because’. You see, sire?”
“I do, Cromwell. You mean to beard me about Rome, and the annulment.” Henry looks peevish.
“No, sire. I mean to ask you but one question … what do you really want?”
“Freedom. The Pope says ‘no’, and Sir Thomas More gives me reasons why I cannot gainsay the fellow. Some days, I do not know which way to turn.”
“I beg your pardon, sire, but you do.” Thomas Cromwell presses on. “Your Majesty knows, in his heart, what he wants, and that there is only one way to get it. May I speak plainly?”
“I wish someone would,” Henry replies, tearing at a leg of chicken. “My mind is in a confusion, and flatterers surround me on all sides.”
“A confused king makes for a confused kingdom, sire,” Cromwell says. “Let us remove all doubt. You have no legitimate male heir. That is a fact. The Lady Katherine cannot, because of her age, provide one. That too, is a cold, hard fact. The Bishop of Rome is a conniving weasel of a man. That, sire, is the most telling fact of all. Clement is under the thumb of the emperor, as Eustace Chapuys will tell you.”
“These facts damn me, Thomas.” Henry is beginning to feel sorry for himself. “I am in a maze, and know not how to get out of it.”
“Then let me council you, sire. The Bishop of Rome has no jurisdiction over you. That is also a fact. You are the supreme ruler of this realm. Anointed by God. Fact. Your word is law. Another fact. The people of England look to the law for their safety. So, give them law. Let us formulate more laws. Laws that say the king is above the Bishop of Rome. Let us get it down on the statute books, and the game changes, forever.”
“But, I am already the head of state,” Henry says. “Am I not?”
“Not on paper, sire. People believe that the king is answerable to God, and the people. Magna Carta has a lot to answer for. Let us provide a new charter. Declare yourself head of the church, in England, and pass a law saying that the clergy must submit to you.”
“Will they agree to that?”
“Of course,” Cromwell says. “If it is the written law. The king will guarantee their right to worship, because it is his right to do so. He is king.”
“But why would I stop the clergy from…”
“No, sire. You guarantee the people the right to worship, as they wish. In a stroke, you have the whole of England behind you. If the clergy refuse to bow the knee, the law says they are committing treason.”
“Will that work?”
“Of course. Englishmen live by the law of the land. If the law says we must paint cows blue, then they will reach for the brush, without demur.” Cromwell sips at his watered wine. “They will see that you are protecting your subjects from the excesses of Rome. The church will not be able to tax the common folk anymore. The people will love you for it, sire. The economy will be enriched, and you can raise new taxes.”
“But I thought we were going to stop taxes.” Henry is following, but slowly.
“Church taxes,” Cromwell explains. “The church charges for everything, from performing a mass, to selling heavenly discounts from purgatory.”
“They do?”
“They do, sire. A wicked man, heading for a thousand years in purgatory, pays the priest fifty pounds, and he is excused five hundred years. Pay a hundred, and you can go straight to heaven.”
“What will you have me do, Thomas?”
“Simple enough, Your Majesty. We divert the money from Rome, to the royal treasury.”
“How much?”
“I estimate that the church is taking about two million pounds a year out of the country.”
“Two million? Henry’s eyes are sparkling. It is enough to build a dozen new men o’war, and a great palace in every city in England. “And it all goes to Rome?”
“It does.” Cromwell knows the king can do his sums. The crown takes in about a million each year, and Rome takes two.
“No more.” Henry is suddenly in regal mood again. “We will allow you to take the relevant measures, Master Thomas. It is in my mind to endow you with noble honours, sir.”
“No!” Cromwell almost jumps out of his chair. The king is startled. “Laws must be passed in parliament, sire. I must become a member of parliament, and do your bidding there … in with the commons.”
“Then you must wait to be Lord Cromwell,” Henry says. “Though I have never had a man refuse me, as you do. Pass your laws, Thomas. Then turn your wit to my other problem.”
“Your Majesty is tired, else he would see the way forward,” Cromwell says. “As head of the English church, it is for you to decide the matter of your marriage. You can enact a bill of divorcement, and be free, as soon as the laws are in place.”
“Yes, I see.” Henry has one more worry. Cromwell senses it, and supplies an answer.
“The Bishop of Rome has no say over your church in England. If he wishes to excommunicate… then it is of no matter at all. Why sire, you can excommunicate him from your church!”
“His priests will preach against me.”
“They will not,” Cromwell says, “for they must acknowledge you as head of the church, or leave it. They can be removed from their places, and either expelled, or, if they continue with their heresy, executed.”
Eustace Chapuys, seated three down from Cromwell sighs. He understands what will now happen, and sees that Thomas Cromwell is, truly, unstoppable. Beside him, Suffolk is picking at his food. He has failed Cromwell, by not taking a prisoner. They cannot yet denounce Montagu, for the traitor he is.
“How long, Cromwell?” Henry asks.
“If I am not hindered … two years, sire.”
“Let no man hinder you,” Henry growls. “Else he must face my wrath!”
And that is the end of Sir Thomas More, Eustace thinks. The man is too stiff necked to yield his position, even to a king. Montagu also turns his thoughts inwards, wondering when he might get Henry alone. It is a dangerous move, but his men, hidden in the countryside, cannot act unless the king ventures forth.
“Did my Lord have good sport this afternoon?” Chapuys asks of Suffolk. “I saw you and your friends riding forth.”
“Oh that?” Suffolk settles his gaze on Montagu. “It was nothing. One of the gamekeepers reported seeing three poachers in the far meadow. We rode them down.”
“Bravo, sir,” Chapuys says, urging Suffolk to understand his meaning. “I trust you hanged the rogues.”
“Yes.” Suffolk suddenly sees what Chapuys is saying. “That is to say, we strung up three of them, but one, I sent under guard to the tower. The rascal claims he has news that will save his worthless hide. The Master of the Tower will have him in a day or two, and crack his bones for the truth.”
“Such rogues,” Chapuys replies, smiling. “I look forward to hearing what fantastic story this one dreams up.”
Harry Pole, 1st Baron Montagu quickly loses his appetite. The man will name names, and the game will be over. At first light, he decides, he must slip away, and join his rebel army.
“I always enjoy a funny story,” Cromwell says. “Come, Baron Montagu, let us hear about this mirror of yours. His Majesty tells me that it is the funniest thing he has heard this six month.”
“I am not in the mood to jest,” he says.
“Perhaps the jest is too ribald for the ears of ladies,” Cromwell replies. “Yes, that will be it. I shall discount the gossip.”
“Gossip?” Montagu is startled. Why would a jest cause gossip within court.
“Why yes … as to what you meant by it.” Cromwell turns away, precluding any further discussion, and Montagu fumes at his back.
10 A Fine Nose for History
The valley, when they come to it, is as Hans Holbein has sketched it, and better than Will Draper could have hoped for. He sits on Moll, his sturdy Welsh Cob, and peers through the early morning mist. In a couple of hours, Owain Gruffedd and his troop will arrive, expecting an easy passage.
To his left, the valley rises steeply, and is quite thickly wooded. The right hand side is also steep; impassable on horse back. The valley floor is about thirty or forty paces across, and the ground is rock strewn in places, and sodden in others. It reminds him of the valley he fought in when he took Moll from a Welsh bandit chief.
The battle had been hard fought, with a half dozen bounty hunters against a score of robbers. Will had killed their chief, despite him being mounted, and he on foot, and claimed the mare as his part of the prize. Today, there will be no prize, just enough killing to sicken any man.
“Is your Gwen still game, Mush?”
“She is not my Gwen. She is free to come and go, as she wishes.” Mush protests far too much. Since the first moment, he has been unable to take his eyes off the girl. Indeed, after a good wash, and the loan of Sir Jeremy’s comb, she proves to be something of a beauty. With long, lustrous black hair, and a cream like complexion, she is a match for any lady in Whitehall Palace.
“As you say,” Will replies. “It is as well, for I think Sir Jeremy and Barnaby Fowler have a fancy for her. They might wish to make her their mistress.”
“Then I will slit their…” Mush stops in mid rant, as he sees the trap he has blundered into. “Very funny, brother-in-law. What if I do like the girl?”
“Then tell her, and be done with it,” Thomas Wyatt says, as he rides up alongside the pair. “Tell her that her eyes are like twin pearls of radiant beauteousness and her hair is as a raven in flight. They love all that sort of stuff.”
“It comes readily to your lips, Wyatt,” Will says. “You must write it all down, for posterity.”
“Bugger posterity, Will,” he says. “When we may not see sunset alive, I do not crave a quill and ink, but a sharp sword. A couple of guns would be welcome.”
“Mad things,” Draper replies. “I tried one in Ireland. You can hold it, like a crossbow. The flash and the noise are great, but more than a few paces, and I doubt you could hit a wall. I ended up on my arse, and missed the target. No, they will never catch on. The only way is to get in close, and use a fine blade.”
“There will be much of that today,” Mush says. “I will take Barnaby, and go with Gwen. Remain in hiding, until the last moment.”
“We will,” Wyatt says, slapping the youth on his back. “I wager you a silver shilling that I get Gruffedd’s head, before you do.”
“We must stake the horses, close by, in case we have to withdraw.” Will has never retreated from a fight, but understands the importance of keeping the Welsh occupied. Retreat must be slow, and deliberate, drawing the enemy on, at a snails pace. In this way, help, should it be on the way, will have time to arrive.
“Hans and Richard are already collecting fallen brushwood,” Wyatt tells him. “If we pile it about, we can conceal ourselves within, and … upon the given hour, leap forth, with faerie lights aglow, and smite the evil tyrants low.”
“That’s terrible.”
“I admit, it needs some work yet,” Thomas Wyatt replies. “Poetry … good poetry … doesn’t just fall out of the sky, you know. I‘m currently toying with the Petrarchan Octave.”
“It sounds like a foreign noble woman,” Richard says, dropping a huge bundle of scavenged woodland at their feet. “Dig a shallow pit, and start sticking these into the ground. Don’t stop until you look like a bush, Master Wyatt.”