by G Lawrence
“So why go ahead? Surely, if that is the case, drawing up these bills is a waste of time?”
“We will go ahead, if for no other purpose than to show the King and your father and uncle we will not find our answer this way,” Cromwell said. “I believe His Majesty must take a radical path. He must be urged into the revolutionary idea he can break with Rome, and that he, as leader of the English Church, can decide these matters himself.”
“That is all I have ever wanted,” I agreed. “But even with all I have shown him, still he grasps at the thread of Rome’s love. It is hard to make His Majesty turn on one he has loved.”
“And yet you have proved this is possible,” Cromwell said. “You showed him how to leave Wolsey, how to leave Katherine… why should the same not be true for Rome?”
He took a deep breath in and smoothed the front of his russet doublet. “I believe there is one area through which we can reach the King,” he went on. “His Majesty does not hold with the decisions of the Church Ordinaries, their Ecclesiastical courts, especially in cases where they accuse offenders of heresy without solid proof. Church judges use heresy as a weapon. His Majesty is aware of this, and he sees it, rightly, as an abuse of power. If we could convince him that if he were the true Head of the Church, justice would be carried out, rather than revenge, we would be a step closer to convincing him.”
“I have already told him as much myself,” I said. “But I will speak out again. In truth, Cromwell, my ambition to become Queen dims against the light of what might be achieved for the faith.”
“I know you feel that way,” he said. “As do I.”
“All thought of reforming the Church has been lost since More became Chancellor. His only focus is on rooting out heretics, and to him, a heretic is any man who does not agree with him.”
“So we must switch the King’s focus,” said Cromwell. “For my part, I would welcome a new Chancellor. More is lost in his private battle.”
“I agree,” I said. “And I can already think of one better suited to that title than More, the people-burner.”
“He has been working to cover up certain cases where the accused was not proved a heretic and yet burned for it,” Cromwell said, side-stepping my hint. “If the King could be made to see that the Church is corrupting even men he thinks are of the highest moral capacity, we can persuade him to take a stand. Not only for himself, but for England, and for God.”
“But you will go ahead with the bills in any case?”
“His Majesty wants them made, so I will make them.” Cromwell smiled. “But when they fail, my lady, you and I will convince the King of other options.”
“I am so glad you are here,” I said, and was surprised to hear the strained, almost desperate note in my voice. “For too long I have been without a true politician, one who understands much I do not.”
“But you, my lady, understand the King. You can reach him in a way that no man can.”
“Then we make a good team, do we not, Cromwell?”
His smile grew wider. “I like to think that is the case, my lady.”
Chapter Twenty-One
York Place
Winter 1531
“He has falsely claimed Bayfield is a married priest, my lady,” said Edward Foxe, anger high and red upon his cheeks. “And claimed he has two wives. More wishes to thrust Bayfield into a mist of such evil than none will be able to see the truth for his lies! All Bayfield is guilty of is moving banned books about England.”
“More would take that as reason enough for him to burn,” I said, feeling sorrowful. “I cannot speak for him, Foxe. Since Tyndale refused to come to England, His Majesty has been set against any layman who would read his books. He has recently asked the Emperor to extradite Tyndale, if he can be found. It is one of the few points where the King and Emperor agree. Whilst the King respects Thomas More, and listens to him, there is little I can do. More will take this life, and I doubt he will cease there, but one day the Chancellor will be stopped. That, I promise you.”
As Foxe departed, I stared out onto the frozen world. Chilled air lingered like remorse. Light crept over the grounds of York Place as though ashamed of its feeble presence. I understood how it felt. I wanted to help Bayfield, yet I knew I could not. I had to pick my battles carefully, and More had roused Henry into such ill-feeling against this man that I knew his case was hopeless.
Richard Bayfield burned for heresy early that December at Smithfield. Many protested that More had constructed falsehoods, and tortured Bayfield to make him confess. Three weeks later, another unfortunate was dragged to Smithfield. John Tewkesbury was a leather merchant. Before his horrific death he was kept at More’s house, in the Porter’s Lodge, continually held in stocks for six days, forcing him to shit and piss himself as well as lose function in his limbs.
“More also chained him to his Jesu’s tree in his grounds, my lady,” said Doctor Butts, another ally of the faith. “He whipped him and twisted rope about his head so blood wept from his eyes. Then he was taken to the Tower and racked.”
“Thomas More is a demon,” I said, venom pure upon my voice. “He does the Devil’s work.”
Tewkesbury burned, and More rejoiced that his victim was in Hell. “Tyndale is likely to find him when they come together,” he said. “A hot fire at his back, that all the water in the world will never be able to quench.”
More disgusted me. How such a man could be so respected was beyond my comprehension.
Some of More’s victims refused to admit guilt and burned, some were tortured or humiliated into publicly recanting their beliefs. More saw this persecution as his God-given crusade, and thought no one would ever stop him. He was wrong. I wanted him gone, and if Henry was pushed into a radical stance against Rome, More would have no option but to resign.
I became only more resolved to do away with More when I read about James Bainham, the brother-in-law of Simon Fish, author of A Supplication for the Beggars. Bainham had also been tortured by More, and had recanted his beliefs. He had held out for some time, but when his wife was arrested and thrown into the Fleet, he had surrendered. But his shame was unbearable. A week after his release, he stood up in church, holding Tyndale’s New Testament, and declared openly he had denied God but never would again. He spoke of the cowardice he had shown under torture, and told the congregation as he waved the tome before them, “if I should not return to the truth, this Word of God would damn me, body and soul, at the Day of Judgement.”
The valiant man signed his own death warrant. Bainham not only knew it, but wrote a letter to Bishop Stokesley telling him what he had done. He would hide his faith no more. More and Stokesley came for him, and no quarter was given. Bainham made no attempt to hide and went calmly to his second interrogation. He answered all questions with poise and control, and was made to suffer, in an effort to redeem him. He was chained up in the Bishop’s cellar at Fulham Palace, then taken to More’s house where he was shackled to a post and whipped. After that he was moved to the Tower, and tortured again. Bainham remained unrepentant, and it was deemed that More and the Bishop had shown enough ‘charity’.
More thought the crowds waiting to see Bainham burn would enjoy the spectacle, but Bainham was a popular man. As he approached the stake, Bainham embraced it and stood proud to speak his final words. “I come hither, good people, accused and condemned for a heretic, Sir Thomas More being my accuser and my judge,” he said, his words ringing over the silent crowds. Often, at such executions, there was jeering and hooting, but not that day. Bainham had many friends in the crowd, and even his enemies admired his courage.
Bainham spoke of the beliefs he had been accused of, and how he had answered for them. “First, I say it is lawful for every man and woman to have God’s Word in their mother tongue. Second, I say that the Bishop of Rome is the Antichrist, and there is no purgatory, but the purgatory of Christ’s blood, for our souls go to Heaven and rest with Jesus Christ for ever.”
I agreed with much h
e said. If Bainham was a heretic, so was I… so were a lot of people standing there.
When the town clerk shouted that Bainham was a heretic for denying the Sacrament, Bainham disagreed. “I deny not the Sacrament of the altar, but only your idolatry to the bread, and the belief that Christ, as God and man, should dwell in a piece of bread.”
They did not want him to continue talking. The crowds were muttering, growing restless. Shouts of support and “God bless you, Master Bainham!” rang out. They set light to the faggots at his feet. As the trail of gunpowder worked its way towards him, Bainham lifted his eyes and clasped his hands in prayer. “God forgive thee and show thee more mercy than thou showest to me,” he cried. “The Lord forgive Sir Thomas More!”
God might have had enough mercy to forgive More, but I could not. I wrestled with my conscience in uncomfortable dreams, knowing good men had died for their beliefs as I hid mine. When I am Queen, I told myself. I will see these matters altered. No more will good men of true faith burn for their beliefs.
When I was Queen, I would protect these men against the enemies of God. But until I was Queen, I was vulnerable. I could not allow myself to be removed from the possibility of power, by showing my true beliefs too obviously.
*
We attended the inauguration of Gardiner as Bishop of Winchester that December. I remained suspicious of this furrow-browed man. He was too deep in my uncle’s pocket to trust, but he was officially on our side, and this appointment was beneficial. Apparently it was not such a good event for Gardiner. Cromwell informed me that Gardiner started to complain as soon as the appointment was granted about payments he had to make for his new diocese.
“He said he would be gladder to pay nothing,” Cromwell smirked. “He protests he receives less income than the last Bishop did each year, but incurs the same costs.”
“And he wanted you to intercede with the King?”
“Indeed. Gardiner always seems to think himself hard done by.”
“He is no true friend to you, Cromwell. He likes not the influence you have with the King. I might think twice before aiding him.”
“Ah, madam…” He grinned. “… But to have an enemy in one’s debt is valuable.”
“I find enemies have a way of conveniently forgetting debts,” I said. “But you know your business.”
“I’m afraid there is another reason I came, besides Gardiner,” said Cromwell. “The King did not want you to know, for he knows this news will upset you.”
“I am stronger than many men think,” I said. “Tell me.”
“His Majesty is tired of waiting for Tyndale,” Cromwell said. “He despises what the man has written against him, and has grown so angered…”
“That he will resort to brutal measures to get him here,” I finished. Cromwell inclined his head. “I thought that such a fate might be coming,” I said. Cromwell was watching me carefully and I lifted my eyebrows. “Do not ask me more, Cromwell. You do not want to hear it.”
He nodded. I have no doubt he knew what I was going to do. No matter what Tyndale had said about the Great Matter, I was not going to allow Henry to bring him to England so More could get his hands on him. I could not help every man accused of heresy, but I could shelter some. My father and brother had contacts amongst men who peddled banned books. I would get the message out that Tyndale was being hunted by Henry’s dogs, and he would go to ground. Henry would not drag Tyndale to London, and More would not chain him to his wicked tree.
“I just thought you should know, my lady,” Cromwell said.
I realised then that Cromwell had kept me informed, not as further evidence of our growing friendship, but to get me to aid Tyndale. Cromwell respected the man, and saw truth in his work.
But whatever faith he had in me, Cromwell took steps for Tyndale too. Back in early December one of More’s prisoners, George Constantine, had escaped. More had been surprisingly ambivalent, even jesting with his men about it. This was totally out of character and raised the possibility that More had set Constantine loose to use him; a bloodhound on Tyndale’s trail. When Constantine turned up in Antwerp, I was sure More had set him free in return for clemency.
Constantine discovered what Vaughan had been up to on Henry’s behalf, information that no doubt shook More’s confidence. Vaughan wrote to Cromwell and told his master that Constantine had accused Vaughan of being a Lutheran. Vaughan begged Cromwell to intercede with Henry to stop More’s persecutions in England, and bring about good reform. He said his task as a covert agent was dangerous, and also that men and women were flooding into Antwerp from England, fleeing the Chancellor. Vaughan wrote he was giving up his search for Tyndale, since he was coming under suspicion of being a Lutheran himself.
Vaughan resigned, but I believe Cromwell had him do one last favour; to warn Tyndale Henry was after him.
I was not the only one working to protect men and women of true faith.
Chapter Twenty-Two
York Place
Christmas 1531
On Christmas morning I stepped out into a frost-covered courtyard in York Place and breathed in a deep lungful of icy air. Everything was sparkling. Ice covered the cobblestones, the bricks of the palace walls, and weighted-down tree branches stretched like skeletal hands into the bright blue skies. The breeze bit my cheeks and the glare of the snow blinded me for a moment, but when my sight returned, I gazed in wonder at this glittering, glowing world.
It was a beautiful morning. I liked to be outside as soon as possible each day, no matter how cold or wet it was. My ladies grumbled as they shuffled behind me, hands dug deep into fur wraps and hoods pulled up over their hair, but I did not care about the cold. I wanted to be outside, to breathe the fresh, crisp air, and settle my nerves for another day of shadowy games and intricate politics.
How could it be that a girl like me had ended up in such a situation? Where I played against opponents who had trained for these games their whole lives, and knew the rules so much better than I? Where I was forced to choose my loyalties on almost a day-to-day basis, as the players were ever changing sides?
Well, I thought. Aside from my two C’s…
Cromwell and Cranmer. My men. Not for them the wily slinking of Gardiner the sly fox, or the clumsy stumbling of Norfolk the bumbling ass… They were constant and true, dedicated to me and my goals. They had their own reasons to be so, of course, but all the same, I was grateful to have them. One was the canniest politician since Wolsey, and the other, one of the greatest theologians of our times. Together, we united to form a great and powerful force.
Cromwell had brought Cranmer in on our plotting to push Henry into a radical mindset. With me pushing Henry’s emotions, Cromwell demonstrating the political advantages, and Cranmer showing Henry this path was righteous in the eyes of God, surely, we could not fail. Cranmer was to leave court soon for Spain, where he would serve as England’s Ambassador, for Henry knew no man more suited to convince Charles about the annulment. I sorrowed at the thought of losing Cranmer, but he assured me he would continue to work on our case wherever he was.
We had laid our plans, and started work. We wanted Henry to believe that the ideas we presented came from his own mind, and so the groundwork had to be careful. We had to be on hand at all times to put forward our ideas. For me, this was easy, but Greenwich had become crowded with men slathering for a scrap of Henry’s time, making it harder for my two C’s to get a foothold.
The reason court seemed crowded with men was because there were few women present. With Katherine at The More, there was no Queen, and with no Queen, there was no reason for ladies to be at court, except the few in my household and the laundresses or maids serving in the kitchens. That made for a dull Christmas. I, for all my present power and influence, could not take Katherine’s place.
And opposition was growing, making me feel increasingly isolated. With every step I took towards the throne I felt my segregation more keenly. Is this how Henry feels? I had asked myself one day,
watching him laugh with Brereton and Weston. To look on him you would not think so, but I wondered. Kings and queens, princesses and princes… they are a part of their court and country yet set apart from their people. Henry had lived with this loneliness since he was a child, and perhaps that was why it did not appear to affect him. But for me, changing into this creature that was a part of everything yet apart from everyone was an unnerving experience.
For so long had I stood on the edge of possibility, it felt as though I were a falcon, hanging over a cliff, my talons gripping its crumbling edge and my wings outstretched. Would I fall or would I fly?
Sometimes I thought I might as well clip my wings. Henry had bribed several cardinals to achieve a delay in Rome’s courts, but we all knew this was a temporary measure. Katherine had a point when she said we were all in limbo. But Cranmer was making progress. A lawyer and scholar named Christopher St German had published a work arguing that the sacramental functions of the Church were outside of secular law, and ancient tradition alone allowed the Church to interfere in spheres not its own. St German argued Parliament should have power over spiritual matters. “The King in Parliament,” St German wrote. “Is the high sovereign over the people which hath not only charge on the bodies but also on the souls of his subjects.”