Chapter Thirty-nine
April 1525
THE FIRST YEAR IN OUR new home flew past without event. At Eastertide, I made one final visit to the Wood Street graveyard where my first husband was buried. I laid a bunch of evergreens on his grave. As I prayed for his soul, a blackbird hopped about the mound that was Tom Williams’ resting place. It studied me with curious eyes before flying off.
How far I had come since the day of Tom Williams’ funeral. How far would life’s journey take us, my family and myself, in future years? As I began to rise from the cold ground, my rosary beads rattled insistently. I knelt again and whispered another prayer, this time for Queen Catherine, with whom I would not exchange places for all the Orient’s silks.
After I had risen again, I thanked God for Thomas Cromwell, for everything we shared and the children we both loved deeply. A chill wind blew into my cloak and I drew it tighter about my neck. My servant waited at the gate to accompany me home. As we walked along Wood Street, I thought of the fire and the Benedictine monk who I hoped had by now, as Thomas had promised, returned in disgrace to Spain.
The presentiment I felt as I crossed the City was nothing to do with the Benedictine monk’s arrest, as I had at first wondered. On my return home, sad news awaited me. Thomas’ sister Cat, after a brief recovery and another a year of illness, was dying. He had left already to be with her. I had ridden on Sapphire to her home near the law courts to visit her several times during the past winter. We all knew that God would claim her for his own before summer.
As I sat out that evening for her home in Chancery Lane, riding my palfrey, the manservant following on one of Thomas’ jennets, I noted grey-blue clouds passing slowly across the stars. It might rain. I paused as we approached Morgan’s cobbled yard, and as I dismounted I heard the nearby church bell toll. It was announcing a death. When I hurried inside Morgan’s hall, I knew that Catherine, my dear friend, was already dead. Thomas was kneeling in the hall with Morgan, Richard and the servants. The priest was praying with them.
So as not to disturb them, I slipped past and softly climbed the staircase. Joan and Elizabeth were in Cat’s chamber, by the bedside, their eyes red from weeping. The women were already washing her body and dressing her in her shroud. Candles were lit about the bedchamber and a vigil was about to commence. The women nodded to me as I approached. Little Catherine was standing by her mother’s corpse like a sentinel, a miniature version of her mother, pale and dark, huge and solemn eyes stared at her mother. Her dark hair reached her waist in a long plait, secured with a black ribbon. She was such a little creature, so fragile, and, in that sad moment, I longed to protect her. The funeral candles flickered, casting shadows into the dark corners. It was a sorrowful scene. My eyes filled with tears.
‘Catherine,’ I whispered later, standing by her side and taking the little girl’s hand. ‘I am so sorry, my sweeting, for I loved her too.’
She looked up at me with huge frightened eyes. ‘Where is Mama now? Is she with the angels?’
‘Yes, my sweet, she is, for she is so good that angels will want to take her straight to Heaven.’
‘I shall miss my mama.’
‘You shall, and that is the way of things, but she has no pain now. She is at peace. In time, you will remember her with joy, little one.’
Catherine was only five years old, too young to lose her mother to a recurring canker.
‘I have ordered gloves as funeral gifts. I knew she was dying,’ Morgan said that evening.
‘We all knew she was dying,’ Tom said in a choked voice.
‘I had already sent to a haberdasher’s for them. Black lace gloves for the women and plain ones for the men. Do you think that wise? She loved gloves, Lizzy.’
‘I think you chose as she would have wished,’ I said quietly.
‘I had candles ordered too. I want all to be proper.’
‘It is, Morgan. It is proper and very sad.’ I felt my voice crack and bowed my head. It is hard to lose those you love. Life’s passing is but a fluttering in the great cosmos. We must try to live it well, I kept reminding myself that evening. It is the best we can do.
We promised that we would help Morgan however we could. Richard was already one of our household and if little Catherine would like to join our household too, I was happy to raise her as one of our own. Morgan said he would think about it. ‘Not yet,’ he said. ‘But if the offer remains open, when she is older, yours would be a fine and happy family for her to grow into womanhood. For now, we shall grieve together and recover.’
* * *
After Cat’s funeral, I wrapped my black lace gloves in silk and kept them in a drawer, but I often thought of her that summer. I had lost one of the few close friends in my life. She was irreplaceable. Eliza, her sister, had softened as the years passed and she often came to visit us with Christopher, who became a companion for Gregory, but never could the sharp Eliza replace Cat in my heart.
Gradually, we came to know our neighbours, merchants and humanists alike. It was an enlightened parish. When we attended our new parish church on Easter Sunday the priest asked Thomas if he would honour the parish by standing as a parish warden. He would, of course. It gave him more important connections, as the Broad Street Parish was a wealthy parish.
My mother and Sir John visited us to share our festivities on St George’s Day of 1525. We dressed up in our best finery and the children wore their queens’ and knights’ costumes. That afternoon, our house was filled with the laughter of children and of adults. The girls danced about our new hall in their steeple hats, the same they had worn for Thomas Wyatt over a year before. Joan was with child again and John Williamson attended to her every need. The children tried to make her dance but she was too cumbersome, she said. Life goes on, I thought sadly, thinking of Cat, only weeks before laid in her mossy grave.
We wore masks which we had spent days before creating from scraps of fabrics. The children chose a king. They chose Thomas who acted his part well, teasing us all and ordering us about in play in a way he never did in reality. Thomas always got what he wanted, but his methods more subtle than demanding. He used reason that usually was so sound no one challenged him, which was why the children picked their father. They adored him and I rejoiced that we were a happy family, for many families were not.
Hired musicians played long past the midnight angelus. We cleared back trestles and started the dancing. After the sorrow that surrounded Cat’s death, the dancing that night lifted our spirits.
‘I think one day, Lizzy, we must have our own resident players, musicians and actors.’
‘What, Thomas, here, at Austin Friars? Next you will be telling me that one day you will be a peer of England.’ I had long resigned myself to his ambition and recognised that nothing would stop him becoming closer to the king if this was where ambition led him. My dislike of the Cardinal had never lessened but I could not change what was. I could not dictate Thomas’ life.
He smiled at that. ‘One day, I may be granted such favour, though that is unlikely. I am happy as we are, for now.’
‘Good,’ I said firmly.
We glanced over at our children who pranced about in a circle with children belonging to our relatives. They were all wearing variously decorated dragon masks, growling and blowing out pretend smoke.
‘May God protect them from all the world’s evil, Lizzy, for they are truly innocent,’ Tom remarked as we turned around each other in the dance.
‘Amen to that,’ I said, as Gerard Smith reached out, caught me and twirled me around and around over and over again.
Chapter Forty
Midsummer 1526, The Hall
WE HAVE COME FAR in our twelve years of marriage.
I glance around at the company of family, friends and senior servants seated at our dining table in the great dining room at Austin Friars. Our side-boards are laden with food. The expensive Italian and Brussels tapestries that grace the walls make me feel proud. A warm sun creates lemo
n pools of light as it shines through long mullioned windows. I lift a spoonful of Midsummer tart to my mouth, allow it to graze slowly past my lips for a moment, thinking that some things, like my mother’s delicious Midsummer tart, never change.
Others do. Our lives thrive on change. We are thrusting upwards and forwards, ever hopeful of discovering the best way to live, hoping to discover our life’s purpose and happiness.
For now, all is peace in our lives. We feel the rumbles at court - the King’s pursuit of the Lady Anne, who has no hope of the happiness she sought with young Harry Percy, that gentleman long ago sent home to bleak Northumberland to marry a more suitable bride. The King desires the lady. With desire follows pursuit. The City goodwives say that he has no taste, this one being worse than the sister and maybe the greater threat. Poor Queen Catherine remains hopeful that her husband’s latest infatuation will pass.
Thomas says that Lady Anne has good sense about religious matters. He has told me more than once that to the best of his knowledge, she is broad-minded, cultured and enlightened. Like our humanist friends she follows the notions of new learning; to question and to discuss scripture; to study history and art; to find out interesting things; to explore Heaven’s firmament and earth’s boundaries, whether by voyages to new lands or by listening to travellers’ stories about the distant islands that are recently added to our maps.
From what I hear, the Lady Anne is intent on the King’s interest and encourages him. She is flirtatious, young Wyatt informs us. Thomas, I think, must not allow himself to be seduced by her intellect, the talents she has with music and dance, or by her affected French words in conversation, because she will entrap him within her ambition. Let us pray that such things will never come to pass and that Thomas, now closer to affairs at court, will have good sense and keep his distance as he rises within the Cardinal’s council. It is dangerous to become involved in the King’s private matters.
At last dinner is over and we set off to see the Midsummer processions. Jon Woodall bows and wishes me a good day and Happy Midsummer. He sets off to find other companions with whom to make merry but Vaughan will remain with us.
‘Down to the river,’ says Thomas, grabbing his bonnet from the peg in our porch. ‘We may be in time to enjoy the King’s journey up river to Westminster.’ He glances down at our three excited clustering children and at Meg’s son. ‘Would you like to see the boats and their pennants?’ They squeal with delight. A mischievous grin crosses his countenance. He winks at me. ‘Would you like to go out on the river today?’
I raise an eyebrow. ‘Why so?’
‘We have been granted the Cardinal’s own barge. He is with the King. It is waiting for us by the bridge wharf, on the other side so as to avoid the rapids close to the bridge. I said we would be there by four in the afternoon. That is the surprise.’ He hurries into his light wool cloak. ‘Just think, Lizzy, we can become part of the river pageant instead of watching it pass.’ He glances at the hanging clock. ‘Vaughan, have you fetched down your cape? Meg, you and Bessie keep the children together. Ralph and Richard, carry the basket with our masks.’ He chivvies us out into the courtyard. ‘And did I say that the Cardinal’s cooks are providing our supper?’
Stephen Vaughan groans. ‘I cannot manage another bite today. The pasties, the beef, the Midsummer tart - Meg, Mistress Elizabeth, this year it has been better than ever.’
‘My mother’s recipe,’ I remind him, though this is not the first time Stephen has been with us at Midsummer. Absent from our table are Barnaby and Wilfrid, since they have travelled to Flanders with Smith. Since they have both now graduated to journeymen and will be allowed to become members of the guild later in the year.
Everything changes. Nothing can remain as it is for long.
‘Thomas, is it sensible to accept such a gift from the Cardinal?’ I say with anxiety creeping into my voice.
‘It would be foolish to refuse and we shall enjoy it.’
‘I hope we are not out too late. Remember we are to join Thomas More’s hunt tomorrow.’
‘And I am on holiday,’ says Thomas taking my arm. ‘You have me for two whole days.’ He smiled. ‘So let us enjoy the afternoon.’
I note, when we reach the barge, that servers are rushing about, setting our supper on a table covered with a crisp linen cloth. We admire the silver and the dainty dishes and confections that grace the Cardinal’s golden plates. Our fingers lightly touch the crystal drinking vessels he has provided for us to drink from tonight.
I sink onto a cushioned seat in the boat’s prow and the oarsmen push off. There are rowing boats and barges as far as the eye can see and a late afternoon sun gives all a soft pinkish saffron glow. The oarsmen guide us through the river traffic until we are part of the King’s procession. We pick out his barge because it is golden with embossed figures and carvings. The red Welsh dragon flutters high above it more proudly than the many other royal banners. The children are as delighted as I had been so many years ago when I travelled by river boat to watch the King and Queen’s coronation procession through Cheape Street and Cornhill; the day Queen Catherine sheltered from the rain under our awning.
That had been a day of great optimism for it heralded their new reign and Queen Catherine was beautiful. I had envied her long red-gold hair and was delighted on that far off day to be the recipient of her smile. It was a smile that spilled kindness on all receiving it. I wondered if we would draw closer to the King’s barge and if I would be able to catch a glimpse of her again.
At that moment, Gregory shrieks because a band of puppeteers appeared as if summoned magically from one of the boat’s striped awnings. ‘Puppets,’ he called. ‘We have our own puppet masters, Mama.’
We do, I thought to myself.
The children, thrilled, become engrossed in the puppet show, a story of Robin Hood and the Mistress Marion. Painted scenery depicts a forest with trees and flowers and a musician who makes appropriate noises when the Sheriff of Nottingham appears. There is even a miniature castle with a bower for Mistress Marion. When Friar Tuck appears, jiggling a very fat belly, he makes them laugh. Robin Hood and his puppet outlaws attack and take possession of the castle of Nottingham. They rescue Lady Marion. Now the children cheer.
As the show ends, we draw closer to the King’s barge, so close that we could hear his musicians’ music float over the water. The tall pinnacles of King Henry III’s great abbey church rise up to our right.
‘We have passed Westminster,’ I say with surprise because I had thought that would be our destination. ‘Where are we going?’
‘To the Cardinal’s palace.’
‘At Hampton?’
‘Yes, but worry not, for we are turning back soon enough. We are only travelling part of the way.’
The Cardinal’s barge is now closing in on the King’s vessel. Other boats have made way for the gilded craft, recognising its fluttering banner with cross, cardinal’s hat, crossed keys and Tudor rose flanked by two cockerels. The grey velvet-uniformed oars men plough steadily through the traffic, passing the many vessels out on the wide river. I see the Queen. For a time, I cannot not lift my eyes from her. She remains as elegant as ever, her garments rich and her face serene. She is larger and more commanding in appearance than on that long-gone day of their coronation. The King too has broadened. He wears cloth of gold and a large blue velvet bonnet below which his hair falls as golden as it ever was. My eye rests upon Princess Mary, a slender lovely girl with red hair that flows like a waterfall over her green silk gown. She is crowned with a coronet of pink roses, and sits close to the Queen on her own golden chair.
‘Look at the Princess,’ I say to our children who have been trailing their hands in the water and have been exclaiming at the pennants and the glittering ladies and nobles who accompany the royal couple and their daughter.
‘She looks lonely,’ Annie remarks.
‘She might be a queen one day,’ I answer. ‘Being a queen is lonely because you cannot be t
oo familiar with anyone.’
‘I wish she had a friend,’ Annie says. ‘There are no other girls with her.’
‘Or a brother,’ Gregory remarks. ‘I would make a good brother for her.’
I laugh. ‘I have no doubt of it, but you, Gregory, are not noble. You should be thankful, for one day like your father you will be a great lawyer.’
Gregory does not yet know much about his father’s work though he makes us laugh, saying earnestly, ‘I am learning Latin and soon I shall know as much as Father.’
‘You have much to learn yet, Gregory,’ Thomas says, ruffling our son’s hair. He looks again towards the King’s party.
Stephen Vaughan remarks, ‘The lady is not there today.’
‘Apparently not,’ Thomas says. ‘She is not at court this Midsummer.’
The Cardinal rises from the King’s side. Gazing about the river he spots his own vessel now gliding just behind the King’s party. He waves, and as my husband waves back, I observe the watchful King studying Thomas. King Henry smiles and leans down to speak into the Cardinal’s ear. They are speaking of Thomas. I am sure of it, and for an intake of breath, I feel as if a north wind has risen over the river, the glittering pageant, and us. For a moment, a cloud obscures the sun. The King inclines his head in our direction. It is as if an invisible finger has singled Thomas out and summons him closer into King Henry’s orbit. Thomas rises and bows. Yes, we are fragile moths, compulsively drawn to the royal candle where, if we are not careful, we shall be singed.
Thankfully, we slow down as we reach a bend in the river and a distance opens up between us and the King. It is time for us to turn back towards the City.
Epilogue
1528, Summer
The Woman in the Shadows: Tudor England through the eyes of an influential woman Page 32