Charles glanced at me, seeing how I would react to this hard truth, but I merely shrugged. Edward was correct; there had been many showings of bad faith. There was no point, here with these two men, in denying that.
“Then what else can be done?” Charles asked.
“Nothing,” I answered swiftly. “There is nothing else that can be done.”
I stepped forward, gripping the back of my chair, preparing to concede defeat. I had never liked the feeling, and had forfeited too much in the past years to this man. I waved over a page.
“Send for my secretary at once, boy,” I said. “Tell him that we must draw up an order for the execution of Master Cromwell.”
******
It was two days later that the letter came. It had been left open for the messenger, or anyone passing by, to read the hastily written words scrawled across the page with none of the usual neatness.
They brought it to me early in the morning, before I had even been dressed for the day. Cold light was streaming through the window as I took the paper from the shaking page boy’s hand, his face white.
“By St. George,” I muttered. “Will someone get the lad a glass of ale?” I glanced down at the letter, and seeing what it contained, pulled my robe tighter around me, and waved the few boys who were waiting to dress me from the room.
I had expected some sort of plea, but nothing as desperate as this. Secretly I had hoped that Cromwell would write to Charles or Edward Seymour, and that I would be spared his letter altogether. But never had I dreamed that it would be as bad as this.
The hand writing was nearly impossible to read, none of Cromwell’s careful script evident in the two short paragraphs. The tear drops were evident on the page, and I could not help but sigh in disgust. His low breeding was showing itself in the end; in all the letters I had received from people in the tower, none had ever been tear-stained.
In his distress Cromwell had skipped all opening pleasantries, just “to the king” scrawled across the top of the page and obviously added at the end of the letter. The first paragraph contained the general question of why he had been imprisoned, something he had been questioning for months now. How had he offended me, he asked. He begged my forgiveness. The letter contained everything I had seen in a writings from a man who had heard he was to be executed that afternoon before. I supposed that even now he could hear the scaffolding being built for his beheading; he at least did not have to endure hearing it overnight as Anne had before she had been executed.
It was the bottom paragraph that gave me pause though. It was only one line and written hastily.
But then you have always done what is best for you, to hell with the rest of us.
I lost my breath at that line, looking down at the hastily scrawled truth. It was then that the door to my inner chambers opened with a bang, followed by a swift curse by a messenger boy. I stepped to the doorway from my bedchamber and peered into the next room.
“Where is the letter from Master Cromwell to the King?” the new messenger was demanding of the young man who had brought me the letter I currently held. The trembling boy pointed towards my chambers.
“By God,” the messenger, who was dressed as one of Cromwell’s servants, cursed, hitting the boy across the head. “Why would you deliver a letter such as that?”
“He delivered it as he was bidden,” I snapped, my fury at Cromwell’s words and this boy’s angered arrogance coming out. “Now why have you been sent?”
The messenger fell immediately to both knees, holding a sealed letter in his outstretched hands. He bowed his head so deeply that his cap fell to the floor, scattering the rushes onto my feet.
“I bring for Your Majesty a letter from Mister Cromwell,” he said prettily. “And I beg that the letter given to Your Majesty previously be returned, as it was not meant to be sent.”
“Was it not?” I asked, reaching forward to pluck the new letter from the boy’s hand. His arms immediately dropped to his side as I broke the seal, and glanced at the new letter.
This looked like a letter from Cromwell. The appropriate titles and greetings at the top, a humble begging throughout the letter, flattery. No tear drops on this letter, and it was written in a firm strong hand.
I glanced at the boy in front of me, still shaking in what could be either anger or humiliation. Looking back down at the newer letter I noticed the signature at the bottom.
The “T. Cromwell” had been scratched along, uneven and ragged. The man who had written this letter, this formally worded request to be pardoned, was not the same man who had signed the bottom. No, that man had scrawled out a quick and hateful note, angry words that showed what my servant truly thought of me.
I looked back at the boy in front of me. A loyal page of Cromwell’s, perhaps his secretary, or even one of his sons. A boy trying to save his master from a fate he did not deserve.
“You may leave,” I said to the messenger. He stilled for a moment before backing away with mumbled farewells, his eyes never leaving the two letters I held in my hands.
I waited until the boy was gone and then looked down, first at the formal letter and then at the other. Here were the words of what my most loyal servant thought.
Turning back into my bedroom I took a moment to consider both letters one last time before turning to the fireplace in front of me and casting Thomas Cromwell’s final pleas into the flames.
******
I did not leave my chambers for the remainder of the day. Jane was in confinement and unable to send me words of comfort, and the few courtiers who remained with the court seemed to have vanished. While I did not wish to be disturbed, content to be alone with the sadness that weighed down on me, I found my hands could not remain still. I spent the rest of the afternoon and early evening writing out letters to my children.
This in and of itself was an oddity; I loathed writing and had only written a few letters in my own hand since becoming king. Those few letters would outlast my reign, and possibly even the reign of my son, as they were held by the Archbishop of Rome, whose spies had stolen them from Anne Boleyn when I was courting her.
It was hard not to think of Anne as I wrote. She had been the one to bring Cromwell to my attention so many years ago. Now, just like Anne had, Cromwell was to meet his end on the scaffold. I tried to push away thoughts of guilt, my imaginings of the wretched night Cromwell was having and the same sleepless night I had before Anne had been executed. And as I wrote out page after page to our daughter, Anne’s memory began to creep closer and closer to me with no one else about to keep her at bay.
In my attempt to think not of Cromwell, I wrote to my son Edward. Memories of my father, of my brother Arthur, who had been the favorite child of my father and grandmother. I wrote how I thought a king should behave, even going as far as to explain why it was necessary for Cromwell to die, that his death would be the key to survival for my court.
Once Edward’s pages had been filled I wrote to Mary, starting out as I did most of my letters to her, with words of encouragement as to her studies. A small remembrance of her mother’s intelligence had me writing of Catherine, telling the details of first Catherine’s wedding to Arthur, which I had played such a large part of, to our own wedding day. I wrote to Mary how the sorrows of her brothers and sisters destroyed her mother and how it tore our marriage apart. For the first time in my writings, I paused, allowing the tears to overtake me, remembering those dead babies that had meant nothing but failure.
With Elizabeth I did not even try to hide. Her mother had been a witch, had tricked me into loving her. But there was nothing else I could have done but love her, and wrote to Elizabeth of her mother’s charm and her laugh at jests from courtiers. I told her of the yellow dress her mother had worn the first time I noticed her and the jealousies that had broken her mother down. In my frenzy I even wrote of the last time I had seen Elizabeth with Anne, when her mother had taken Elizabeth from her nursery and, knowing her end was near, had come to beg for me to
see reason, to see how much she loved me. The quill in my hand broke under force as I was writing these words, but I had refused to shed tears for Anne then and would not shed them now.
My letter to Margery was about her own mother, Jane;, my sweet Jane who had been so loyal to me throughout this war. It had taken time, but I had turned Jane’s thinking away from those of the rebels and made her loyal to me. And a more loyal wife I could not have asked for; two healthy children and she was ready to present me with my third. She was as kind and devoted as my mother had been to my father and to me when I was young. Remembering my mother always reminded me of the day she died and I wrote, as hot tears lingered behind my eyes, of her death that had come so soon after Arthur’s.
Night had long fallen across the sky and I had not been disturbed by a single page this evening – none brought me dinner or asked me what was needed. I was alone in my bedchamber, throwing the occasional log on the fire and stoking it up when my hand cramped from the incessant writing.
Now I turned and looked at the stacks of papers scattered across my desk. They were in some amount of piles, Mary’s being the biggest, but no child was spared pages. Soon there would be a fifth pile. Sighing, I looked out the window and up to the moon. A full moon.
I reached out, gathering the pages in front of me, stacking them neatly upon one another. One the creases were undone and the pages stuck neatly together, I stood and walked towards the fire.
They all went in together. The memories of Catherine and Anne, the words of my father that Edward would need to hear. Stories of my precious Jane and my own mother, who had loved me more than any other woman I had yet to find. I watched the pages of my handwriting fold in on themselves as the yellow flames ate around the edges, watching as the name of my grandmother burned slowly, before a flame appeared in the middle of a story to take away the admonishments of my father.
Turning away I went back to my desk, settled into my chair, and placed my head along the cold wood surface that was now empty. I could still see the papers burning, the flames licking high momentarily as they consumed my words to my children. They were still burning when I fell asleep.
******
I was awakened by the cannons. They echoed across the courtyard and filled my chamber; their ringing continued through my head. Three rounds they fired, loud and final. Just outside my window I could see the smoke curling in the air, cutting across the clean blue sky.
I sat in my chair, stunned for a moment by the deafening sound. I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply, sinking back into my chair as I realized what the roar of the cannons meant.
Cromwell was dead.
Chapter Fifteen
March 1540
They arrived in London within the week.
Word of Cromwell’s death had spread much faster than my messenger, who met with the rebel army already on the move, ready to talk of peace now that my hated Lutheran advisor was dead.
The day they were scheduled to arrive in London I roused myself from my chambers and dressed in the best finery that could be made to fit me. I went before the court for the first time in over a week, and noticed that more nobles had traveled in to see the peace talks. Edward Seymour and his wife Anne, who had somehow managed to hold onto a large diamond pendant which she still wore proudly, led the court in their deep bow of greeting to me.
Charles Brandon stood slightly apart from the proceedings, having just returned from Dover where he had met a large garrison of men from Calais. My peace with Francis looked to be secure and the battered troops of Calais had sailed to London, ready for the large force of rebels that were now encamped outside the city gates. The Calais men were waiting five miles south of London, out of sight from the rebels but close enough to be on them in less than half a day’s march. I could only hope that rebel scouts would not stumble upon this reserve force and strike out against them.
Only Charles, Lord Lisle, and I knew that the men of Calais had joined us. It seemed that Robert Aske’s spy had been silent as of late, as Aske obviously believed that I had beheaded Cromwell out of loyalty to the rebel’s cause. Their continued march toward London also showed that they had not heard of the veteran warriors that lay so close to London.
I took my place on the dais, moving slowly but with purpose. It seemed I had changed in the past months; the dark days of winter pushing down onto my shoulders. Turning to my court, I finally sat upon my throne and motioned for them to once again stand. Looking over the haunted faces of my courtiers, I waved to Charles Brandon, who was to ride out and meet Robert Aske and his fellow leaders. I hoped they would all come willingly.
I waited until Charles had left before nodding to my herald. Until they arrived, which should not be until after dinner, I planned on hearing grievances from the people of London and the surrounding countryside, something I had not done since Jane had entered confinement.
The first three were minor disputes over land and property and I ruled as I saw fit, giving as little thought to the problems as I could. It was not until the fourth complaint came forward that I was roused from my dull stupor.
He was obviously a farmer, but a man of some means, successful at his craft. I glanced and saw that a minor nobleman had sponsored him, but had stepped away after introducing the man. I let the name wash over me and knew I would now have it forever. While most of my courtier’s stumbled over names and often had to ask for a reintroduction, I prided myself on remembering a man’s name the first time I heard it.
William Stewart stepped forward and bowed low before I gestured for him to speak.
“Your Majesty, I would ask that five pounds be paid to my farm for the loss of two cows that were stolen by Your Majesty’s army.”
I sat up straighter and looked around the court, startled at what this man had revealed. A few bored men who were close seemed to be listening and of course Sir John Stafford, who had introduced the man, was smiling politely at us both. I did not respond in my attempt to make sure no one had discovered what had been said. In my silence, William Stewart continued his plea.
“Your Majesty, the army has been encamped for three days and I am not the only one who has lost food to their appetites. I also ask that nine pounds be sent to the villagers of Dulwich, to be dispersed among the peasants who live there and have been inconvenienced by this—“
“That is fine,” I interrupted, aware that this man had just given away the position of my army. Five pounds was three times the price of two cows, and nine pounds was certain to be an extravagance for the few villagers of Dulwich, but I wished to silence this man’s tongue. Already a puzzled expression had overtaken John Stafford’s face and more than one courtier was now looking at William Stewart.
“Your Majesty,” Stewart began, obviously having expected some kind of bargaining to take place, but I silenced him with a wave of my hand.
“You will take the money and speak no more of this, to anyone, do you understand?”
Stewart’s eyes glazed over for a moment before growing wide with understanding. It was hard for me not to sigh in exasperation at the dullness of the man; he seemed to not even realize what he had let slip.
“Yes, yes Your Majesty,” he said finally, stepping away into a bow. He bobbed up for a moment and looked like he would step forward to ask for me to personally hand him the money when Sir John stepped forward and took the man’s arm, leading him away to one of my secretaries who would pay the amount. I watched the two men walk away and glanced around at the few men who stood closest to me, but none scurried away to report what had been said. I judged my army safe for now.
Two more disputes were settled when a young messenger burst through the door. He paused for only a moment, looking startled at the normal proceedings of the court. With a shake of his head he strode towards me, dropping to one knee when he reached the dais.
“Your Majesty, I am pleased to inform you that Queen Jane will shortly deliver a child.”
It took a moment for the words to sink in and then
I was on my feet. Stopping before the boy, I lowered my voice.
“Her labor has begun?” I asked.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” the boy answered. “Just earlier this morning. The midwives believe the child will be born tonight.”
A smile was now stretched across my face and I clasped the boy on the shoulder.
“Very well. See my chamberlain for a shilling.”
I turned and walked back up the dais, bolstered by the news that Jane would be with me again soon, as would our child. All I would have to do is wait.
“Send them forth,” I said, with a wave of my hand, ready to meet with the next grievance.
Much business was conducted that morning, most of it inconsequential, and a meager dinner was served to the court. My chamberlain had warned me that we were now serving the last chickens available to the court this week, but with the good news about Jane, I felt like celebrating. I waved him off just as Charles Brandon entered the room.
Though I imagined he was starving, he took no notice of the food and came immediately to my side. He dropped to one knee by my chair, unsettling a large amount of dust from his traveling cloak.
“Your Majesty, Sir Robert Aske, as well as half a dozen of his advisors, have entered the court. They have been shown to chambers in order to dress for a meeting with you once dinner has finished.”
“Very good,” I said, and then lowered my voice to make sure we could not be overheard.
“Who remained behind with their army?”
“No one of any importance or character,” Charles replied with a smile. It seemed our plan had worked; Charles Aske and his men were now trapped within my walls.
“Very good,” I repeated louder, sitting back. I waved over my chamberlain, who was standing a few paces away.
“Have the last chicken sent to Robert Aske and his men, with any amount of food that can be managed.”
Jane the Confidant Page 15