The Scandal of Christendom

by G Lawrence

  “Norfolk plays both sides,” I had said to my father. “No one can win a game that way.”

  “That depends,” my father said, stroking his beard.

  “On what?”

  “On whether one seeks to win, or merely survive.”

  My father, unlike my uncle, was not one to hide his views. He flaunted his beliefs, and I had done the same, proclaiming about court that Clement was nothing more than a mere bishop, and Henry was righteous in his claim. But Henry was still not sure. That November, he had sent for books from the libraries of learned men and religious houses. Amongst them were tomes from the Abbey of Reading, which I commanded to be brought to Henry. Years ago, as Wolsey’s men sought to rid Oxford of reformist tracts, they discovered many had been sent to Reading Abbey. The Abbot had an open mind, willing to see value of reform, and precious books, many by banned authors, were hidden at Reading. I had connections to some of the men who studied there, through my old helpmate, Doctor Butts, and I had spoken for Thomas Forman and for the Prior, John Shirburn, when they had been suspected of passing forbidden works between abbeys.

  Henry had intervened for Shirburn at my request, and although my love had not approved of this man, he saved him from torture and death for me. When Henry called for books, therefore, to aid his understanding of his new power, I pointed him in Reading’s direction. There was much in that library that was to his liking. The more Henry read, the surer he became.

  The books Henry burrowed through, night after night, joined the findings of Europe’s universities and Cranmer and Edward Foxe’s work the Collectanea satis copiosa; a collection of sources, all claiming a king’s traditional, God-given right to rule over spiritual and temporal concerns. Henry’s crusading soul, never allowed true triumph in any of his young, war-like ventures, had finally found its battle.

  He was Emperor, King and Pope. Clement was a usurper.

  The shrill blast of a trumpet startled me from my thoughts. Henry glanced at me as I jumped, and smiled, placing a hand on my leg. He stroked my thigh, sending tingles of joy and frustration through my skin. Three years… and still we were not man and wife. We had found ways to nibble at our urgings, to tame the fire that drove us, for a short while. But it was not enough. Had man or woman ever been as tested as Henry and I? Had virtue ever withstood such trials? Some nights, when I lay in my cool bed, the heat from my body seemed to burn through the covers, casting embers into the skies.

  I narrowed my eyes on a less impressed face. Claude de la Guysch, head of the French Royal Embassy, looked on with ill-concealed horror. My father had brought him here to enlist his support, as alliance with France was a great deal more likely than Katherine’s Imperialists becoming our friends. But de la Guysch did not like the entertainment. He found it repulsive. My father and brother had tried to woo him, inviting him to dine with them and playing friends about court, but I had been informed by Jane, my sister-in-law, that de la Guysch was most outspoken about his disdain for the Boleyns. He laughed at George and my father, saying they were, at best, eccentrics in matters of government.

  But even if this ambassador was not impressed by us or our entertainment, there were reasons to believe France would become our good friend. In the summer, François’ sons, long held hostage by the Emperor, had been set free.

  “Who cares for the Emperor now?” I had crowed when we heard the news. “Why should we fear Spain, when France will be our natural ally? The Emperor has not the power to do England any harm, and should danger come, my family alone can provide ten thousand men for your service at their expense. Others will do the same.” I had stared at Henry with glowing eyes.

  “You should take care of making enemies with such ease.” My future husband was warier than I wanted him to be.

  “I make no enemies, my lord. Men make themselves my enemies. They fear my love for you, and yours for me. Even were I to be burned, as the Queen in the ancient prophesies of England, I would face death willingly, my love for you never abating.”

  “My lioness,” Henry had murmured, taking me into his arms. “My Queen…”

  Yes… There were reasons to hope, just as there were to despair, but surrender, I would not.

  I glanced up, surprised by a roaring din. On the stage a great door had opened. From within, silk scarves whirled in shades of yellow, red and purple. It was the door to the underworld, opening for Wolsey. With a harrowing scream, the devils drove the struggling Cardinal into the flickering flames.

  I looked at Henry. He smiled gently as he watched his friend ushered into Hell.

  Chapter Two

  York Place

  November 1530

  “How in the world did you orchestrate this?”

  My brother’s voice was simultaneously incredulous and impressed. I glanced up from my embroidery. Golden thread upon a silver needle was in my hand as I sewed Henry’s initials and mine into a background of honeysuckle, ivy, and fresh, green hills. My lips twitched. George’s face made me want to laugh.

  “I, and Cromwell, impressed upon Henry that to leave Tyndale at large would only lead to him continuing to write against the annulment,” I said in an infuriatingly serene tone which I knew would tease my baffled brother. “We told Henry if he wanted Tyndale to understand the arguments for the annulment, he should be called to court, for then Henry could show him where he had erred.”

  “I’ll wager Chancellor More was merry to hear that.”

  I laughed. “What do I care for Thomas More? Power is a flighty creature, George. It takes to the wing at the slightest of scares. More knows nothing of this, but a time will come when he will understand that if he wants to keep his position, he must bow not only to Henry, but to me.”

  I had just informed my brother that not only was William Tyndale, the reformist author wanted by the Church for heresy, the same man who had produced tracts against Henry’s Great Matter, about to be offered a pardon, but that Henry had also agreed, secretly, to consider offering him a place on his Privy Council. No wonder my brother was amazed. Henry had long declared he despised Tyndale. To find him suddenly about to be offered a place on the Council was like waking one morn to find a bear in your bed.

  George shook his head in wonder. “I am lost for words. But once again I come to think, with you, anything is possible.”

  I smiled. Shocking my brother was almost as satisfying as managing to get Henry to consent to the plan. If Tyndale agreed to come to England he could prove a valuable asset. A mind like his, bent to our way of thinking, would be a precious commodity, but that was not the only reason I wanted Tyndale. If I could persuade Henry to hear Tyndale’s thoughts on reform, we would be one step closer to creating the Church I wanted for England; a faith free of corruption and the tyranny of Rome, with Henry at its head, leading his people out of darkness, into the light of God.

  However dear this was to my heart, I had learnt it was best that Henry did not understand the full workings of my mind. My love was a conservative man. He respected the Church and was proud of his titles granted by Rome. Henry was starting to see there were flaws in the Church, but he was not ready, not yet, to abandon it. Tyndale could convince him. I wanted him here to help set England free… to build upon the crumbled ruins of a broken Church and offer up something new and glorious to God… that was my higher purpose.

  I was not alone. Cromwell had helped me. Although he had once served Wolsey, and had made his name through the late Cardinal, Cromwell was now Henry’s servant, and was rising high both at court and in the King’s estimations. Cromwell had a seat on the Council, and Henry’s ear; no mean feat for a common man born the son of a Putney blacksmith… But Henry liked useful men. He found precious little that was useful in his nobles. They were too set on the notion that blood alone gave them the right to power. Henry saw things differently. He wanted men with minds, and the courage to use them. My love appreciated intelligence above noble blood.

  I also believed Cromwell sympathised with reformists, like me, but I ha
d to be careful. Accusations of heresy could be made even with the glow of Henry’s love protecting me, but I had good reason to believe Cromwell thought as I did. When I had gone to him, some weeks ago, to enlist him for Tyndale’s cause, I had found him with his secretary. They were going over a book Cromwell wanted translated into English. The Defensor Pacis was the work of a scholar named Marsiglio of Padua, a man excommunicated for his beliefs two hundred years before our time. Cromwell and his man had stopped their work as I entered, but I saw the parchment on his table, covered with scribbled notes. I recognised the book. I had read it in France at the insistence of Marguerite de Navarre, sister of King François. Marsiglio had been a rector of the University of Paris, and his work held that the Church was inferior to the State. Marsiglio had protested that the State, led by the King, was God’s true power-base, and believed the clergy should hold no privileges, as all the faithful were Christ’s churchmen. Cromwell liked the idea of granting his King more power than any English monarch had ever known, so his delight in this tome could have been seen as but a means to justify that end. But I did not think this was the only reason Cromwell turned to Marsiglio’s work.

  Books are strange, are they not? Such simple, fragile creations made of but paper or vellum and ink. Ink may be washed away by water and parchment can be consumed by the greedy fingers of flame. Dusty tomes may die in moist chambers, or crumble from the ravages of time. Yet they have such power. They reach into a part of us hidden from the world, perhaps even concealed from ourselves, and form bonds, wresting a reader’s heart from their body, and claiming it as their own. Books steal into the spirit, becoming part of the reader’s soul.

  Why would Cromwell turn to the words of a man who died two hundred years ago when there were plenty of learned scholars writing about similar ideas in the present day? The reason was, because this work had made a home in his heart. Cromwell and Marsiglio were joined by chains that could not be broken.

  “An interesting project, Master Cromwell,” I had noted, pointing to the parchment as Cromwell’s secretary hastened from the chamber.

  “You have read it, my lady?” His dark eyes were watchful, as always, but his face held no fear, for he knew I was not one to censure the act of gathering wisdom. But Cromwell was careful. Even with the tide of Henry’s sea turning against Rome, there was danger in his enemies discovering such a project in his hands.

  I smiled at his guarded expression. “Indeed,” I said. “And enjoyed it, too. Its ideas remain fresh even after two hundred years. It takes a special kind of author to manage such a feat; to remain relevant and inspire men when his bones are already crumbled to dust.”

  “I am having the work translated, and mean to present it to the King. I think there is much in it he will find interesting.”

  “A fine notion, Master Cromwell. His Majesty daily devours such a volume of books that I find myself astounded, yet his appetite is never sated.” A burst of warmth broke through my blood. Thinking of Henry at his desk, where he was always to be found these days, as he toiled through the books of Reading Abbey, only made me love him more.

  “You did not come to talk about books, my lady,” he said, sitting back, and setting the tips of his fingers against one another, creating an arch. “What may I do for you?”

  “Perhaps I did come to speak of books,” I said. “Or, more accurately, of authors.”

  “I heard a whisper that you were thinking of petitioning the King to pardon Tyndale.”

  I was not surprised Cromwell was already informed of this. He had spies everywhere, and I had hardly been subtle about it. Sometimes it was beneficial to allow Henry to hear about something and permit it to seep into his mind, rather than bombarding him with demands, for then, my beloved would believe he had come up with the idea himself. Henry was always more amiable when he believed he was in control.

  “I want you to help me,” I said.

  “Surely, my lady, you need no help in influencing His Majesty?”

  I chuckled. It was true enough. “The more voices that speak for Tyndale the better,” I said. “The King has been most displeased with the man, but I believe Tyndale could be a valuable instrument, if held by the right hands.”

  “You will not find me disagreeing, my lady.” Cromwell pursed his thin lips. “But you want this done subtly?”

  “It is of necessity that it is handled with tact,” I agreed. “The King would not embrace the notion of scandal or dishonour staining his name and Tyndale has proved resistant to the normal weight of respect that should be offered to royalty. I would like to provide His Majesty with a method to reach Tyndale, but should Tyndale refuse his overtures, a way to ensure this does not become common knowledge.”

  “So, you will send a man to Tyndale?” Cromwell asked, the corners of his eyes wrinkling as I nodded. “And your father cannot provide one from his impressive body of servants, my lady?”

  “He could,” I said. “But I would rather share this honour with you, Master Cromwell. I will not deceive you, I also share the risk. Should Tyndale not accept, the King could be enraged. But should he accept…”

  “His Majesty would be delighted.” Cromwell narrowed his eyes. “But the King would likely blame me, rather than you, for any failure, my lady, so when you say we share risk… that is not entirely true.”

  “I do not abandon those who are loyal to me, Cromwell. Should the King turn on you, I would abandon Tyndale to protect you, if the situation demanded it.” I spread my hands. “I am honest about my intentions, Master Cromwell, and always will I be so with you. I believe you and I can convince the King. I think, together, we make a formidable team.”

  Cromwell did not answer, but I knew he was interested. The proposal appealed to his lust for risk. Cromwell had made his own fortune and one does not rise from being the son of a blacksmith to becoming a member of the King’s Privy Council without some appreciation of the rewards of gambling. If we failed, Henry would be displeased, but if Cromwell had my protection, the risk was smaller. Cromwell liked those odds.

  “I have a man,” he said, tapping his fingertips against one another. “One named Stephen Vaughan, who might be suitable. He is a merchant venturer, with good reason to travel from England to the Low Countries as he trades in wool. He is discreet and clever, but also holds sympathies with the kind of evangelical thinking that I understand you glean wisdom from.”

  “A good selection,” I said with approval. “I do not want some papal advocate getting knowledge of this and revealing us to Katherine’s supporters or the Pope.”

  “Vaughan is prudent and tactful, my lady. He would be able to discover where Tyndale is hiding and offer the King’s terms inconspicuously.”

  “Tyndale may believe this is a trap.”

  Cromwell lifted his eyebrows. “Indeed,” he said. “I have no doubt that will be Tyndale’s first thought. We have Chancellor More to thank for that.” He scowled, a deep furrow burrowing into his brow. Thomas More was continuing in his never-ending quest to rid the world of heretics. Anyone who thought for themselves, read books the Church did not approve of, or spoke out for reform, was an enemy in More’s eyes. Smithfield, dead for so long under Wolsey, had come alive. Bonfires blazed as free-thinking men burned for their faith. I had never thought I would miss Wolsey, but when I witnessed his successor in action, I realised how moderate the Cardinal had been. More had prisoners held in the Fleet, the Tower, and the Lollard’s Tower. Some, he took to his house, so he could torture them at his leisure.

  “I think you approve of the Chancellor as much as I do,” I said lightly.

  “That may well be the case, my lady.”

  “I would rather we had a Chancellor who was sympathetic to the King’s cause,” I said. “And therefore to reform. Too many men have been blinded by misplaced loyalty to Rome. I would have that end.”

  I played with a golden brooch at my breast. It held the image of a woman’s hands holding a heart. Henry had presented it to me in the first days of his
pursuit, when all he saw me as was a mistress. It was part of a set. I had not known what to do with the brooches then, but now I wore them with pride. Henry laughed once when he saw me wearing one of them; an image of a lady holding a crown. “How little did I know, when I gave that to you, how portentous it would seem,” he had said. “And you will have your crown, beloved, if I have to move Heaven and earth to make it so.”

  Was there ever another woman in the world offered such love? Sometimes it was easy to believe I had only to stretch out a hand and oceans would part. Anything was possible, in the haze of his love.

  I toyed with the brooch. Golden light spilled from it, reflecting on Cromwell’s face. “The last man who held the position of Chancellor was once a humble man, like you,” I mentioned. “Wolsey was the son of a butcher… You, that of a blacksmith. It is interesting to consider how closely your paths and talents mirror each other. Perhaps one day, when More’s time is done, a new man, one better suited to such honour, will rise to his position.”