Shaking the Throne

by Caroline Angus Baker

  ‘I can do two of those things, Your Majesty,’ Cromwell said. ‘With no knowledge of Lady Mary’s state, I could find only a remedy to the baby upon its birth. As for Mary away from court, that is easily arranged. I can send lawyers to check the marriage to whomever Lady Mary has taken to her bed.’

  ‘She is Mrs. William Stafford now,’ Anne snorted. ‘Married to a common man! A man of no standing or fortune.’

  ‘My daughter is sister to the Queen of England!’ Boleyn cried. ‘She is a jewel for us to remarry at our pleasure. We could form many an alliance with her hand, and she turns back to whoring, as if this is still the days of the French court!’

  ‘Who is this man?’ Cromwell asked.

  ‘The second son of Sir Humphrey Stafford, former Sheriff of Northamptonshire.’ Boleyn spoke every word as if they were cursed.

  ‘Sir Humphrey is the son of Sir Edward Stafford, executed for treason,’ Cromwell added, the name coming from his memory. ‘He has lands in Buckinghamshire, Warwickshire and Staffordshire. The attainder against the family has long been dropped, by your word, Your Majesty.’

  ‘He is a Stafford!’ Henry replied as he stormed towards Cromwell. ‘Stafford!’

  Cromwell wiped Henry’s spittle from his face. ‘A very distant relation to the Stafford dynasty, I believe,’ Cromwell commented.

  ‘Stafford is the strongest bloodline of all remaining Plantagenets!’ Henry screamed and shoved Cromwell with two hands. Cromwell thumped against the wall and steadied himself. Henry moved no closer, praise God.

  ‘Stafford was once one of His Majesty’s gentleman-ushers,’ Anne said across the room. ‘My sister married to an usher? Surely she committed some misconduct for which they can charge her.’

  ‘We are certain they married before God? Married according to the law?’ Cromwell asked, his voice plain.

  ‘Mary has signed paperwork from a priest who married them in London six months ago when Stafford was on leave from Calais, where he now again resides. Mary has been living in Warwickshire with her father-in-law, and not at Hever Castle as expected,’ Boleyn explained.

  ‘If Mary is with child…’ Cromwell began.

  ‘She is very pregnant!’ Anne cried and threw her dainty hands in the air. ‘She has a goodly belly and shall bear the child before Christmas!’

  ‘I believe Sir Humphrey Stafford married Margaret Fogge, did he not? Sir John Fogge was the treasurer for your grandfather, King Edward, Your Majesty, and many other posts besides. Fogge was the daughter of a Woodville princess, making her a cousin to your mother, Your Majesty. William Stafford would be your third cousin.’

  ‘And thus, a distant Stafford cousin to the Duke of Buckingham, whose head I had struck from his neck for treason!’ Henry replied. It was unlike the King to mention such an act; he liked to remove himself from any treasonous dealings. ‘And those Staffords have always supported Katherine.’

  ‘I am the Queen now,’ Anne said.

  ‘Shut your mouth, you stupid girl,’ Boleyn swore to his daughter.

  ‘I will not!’ Anne said as she swept from her seat. ‘My sister has married a soldier based out of Calais, who only comes to England while delivering packages for Lady Lisle, who is married to another Plantagenet!’

  ‘A love match,’ Cromwell mentioned and looked to the King. ‘Have we all not made missteps in the name of love?’

  ‘I wish I had such luxury,’ Boleyn spat back.

  ‘Lord Wiltshire, please escort your daughter back to her rooms, for I believe she needs to rest,’ Henry said through gritted teeth, though his eyes fixed upon Cromwell. He moved not an inch as Boleyn took Anne from the room, both equally hostile. Cromwell continued to hold himself against the wall, Henry before him, hands on hips.

  ‘I care for none for this,’ Henry sighed. ‘None. I care not if my former mistress is with child.’

  ‘But she is the Queen’s sister. If Stafford married Mary after they discovered the baby…’

  ‘Indeed, he did, came back from Calais and wed her at once,’ Henry interrupted.

  ‘Then Mary is guilty of misconduct. But to punish her for this, this whimsical act of love, shall do nothing but draw attention. Banish Mary from the court. Cut off the allowances her father pays. Mary’s older children…’

  ‘I refuse to acknowledge either of them,’ Henry snapped.

  ‘They are officially fathered by Mary’s first husband,’ Cromwell said calmly, hoping Henry would again quell his temper. ‘Both children are taken from Mary’s care and are wards of Queen Anne. Let Mary settle in the country with her poor husband. Forget her.’

  ‘Can it be so simple?’

  ‘Indeed. For there could be no great match for Mary Boleyn. She is known as the great whore of Europe. Had Mary been virtuous, then we would have gained her a fine marriage long ago. No, Your Majesty, they have lost nothing in this affair.’

  ‘I have but one mistress,’ Henry said and wiped sweat from his upper lip. ‘All others are to disappear once I have used them.’

  ‘Naturally, Your Majesty.’ Henry was strangely secretive about his mistresses. The first ones years ago were never mentioned. They only remembered Elizabeth Blount because she bore the handsome young Henry Fitzroy. Mary Boleyn needed to disappear from memory.

  The King moved away from Cromwell, and slunk into a soft chair, his temper gone. He gazed out the window for a long moment before speaking again. ‘Have you had many mistresses, Thomas?’

  ‘Enough, Your Majesty.’

  Henry laughed and gestured for Cromwell to sit across from him, and Cromwell accepted with delight that Henry bore no anger. ‘Be there such a thing as taking enough women to bed?’

  ‘I prefer being married, Your Majesty, to a generous woman.’

  ‘But your travels, France, the Low Countries... Italy! There are countries filled with mistresses-in-waiting.’

  Cromwell smiled in remembrance. ‘A long time ago.’

  ‘How long has the Waif been your mistress?’

  ‘Five years.’

  ‘There is a good mistress,’ Henry said and leaned forward in his seat. ‘The first girl I bedded, a French girl, my sister Mary’s French tutor. Jane was wonderful. I made her one of Katherine’s ladies when I wed, as a favour. She became useful many times, especially when Katherine was with child. Jane became the Duke of Orleans’ mistress for a while too. Another woman was a Stafford, like this soldier cousin of mine. Anne Stafford, she was the stepdaughter of my great uncle Jasper. She was wonderful and discreet. Elizabeth Carew, you know, Sir Nicholas’ wife? She has been discreet and useful on lonely nights for twenty years now! But these Boleyn women, to bed two sisters, is not the excitement many men would believe. And some gossiped that I also slept with their mother, but no, I would never invite that trouble.’

  ‘I can imagine,’ Cromwell said and leaned his elbow on the arm of the chair, his chin in his palm. The days of needing to be formal with Henry were long past.

  ‘Would my affinity with Mary be cause to annul from Anne?’ Henry asked.

  ‘Why would you do such a thing, Your Majesty? Anne is twice as beautiful as Mary, thrice as intelligent, and bore you a legitimate daughter.’

  ‘And a dead son. God is angry.’

  ‘I fear God is too often blamed for such things.’

  ‘Do you mean to suggest the stillbirth is my fault?’ Henry demanded.

  ‘No, not at all…’

  ‘You do! You mean to suggest the death of my son is because of me, not God’s will? You say I should be content with Anne, so you must believe I am to blame!’

  Henry leapt from his seat and before Cromwell could even rise, and swiped him across the face with a tight fist. Cromwell fell to the ground in an instant.

  ‘Get rid of this Boleyn whore, or I shall set you the task of ridding me of Anne, whom all call Cromwell’s queen, rather than mine! You are only hither because you made me a new wife, Thomas. You may have made Anne, but I made you, and I could kill you. I could reveal th
e secret of your perversion of that Waif creature. Imagine the punishment I could inflict on her! Every man at court could take their turn with your whore! If today does not end well, if that whore and her commoner baby do not disappear, you shall!’

  Cromwell stumbled to his feet and left the King’s rooms without a word. Outside the door stood Sir Francis Bryan, waiting for his master’s call. ‘Sir Francis,’ Cromwell muttered, feeling blood on his lips, ‘your brother-in-law, Nicholas Carew. Where is he?’

  ‘In London, seeing to his work.’

  ‘Your sister, the Lady Elizabeth Carew?’

  Bryan smiled, a crooked smile thanks to the pressure placed upon his wrinkled cheek around his eye patch. ‘The King needs a whore tonight?’

  ‘A sturdy one for that temper. I know he is bedding Margaret Shelton, but tonight may take a more experienced woman.’

  ‘Say no more, I shall send for my sister.’

  ‘Henry will not want his wife,’ Cromwell sighed.

  ‘Your queen not as enticing?’

  ‘Only Henry can marry for love, bed for love. Everyone else makes him furious.’

  ‘Mary Boleyn is banished from court and sent back to her father-in-law?’

  ‘Yes,’ Cromwell replied as he wiped blood on his sleeve. ‘Keeping one Boleyn girl in Henry’s good graces shall be hard enough.’

  F

  Chapter 15 – September 1534

  one hundryd shaydes bytween a trouth and a lye

  Whitehall Palace, London

  Nicòla gasped as she woke. She rested on her stomach in Cromwell’s bed, the curtains drawn around them, the room dark. Cromwell too stirred from slumber.

  Nicòla paused for a moment; no one was to come to the private rooms. Cromwell’s chambers had three large bedrooms; one was for visitors, such as Ralph or Richard, one for Nicòla, where she pretended to sleep, and Cromwell’s room, which adjoined her own. But the knocking came not from Cromwell’s door; it echoed through from Nicòla’s room, the adjoining door open. No one ever came to knock on Nicòla’s door. The night guards were under strict instructions never to enter the private hallway to the bedrooms, as it continued through a small hallway to the King’s privy chamber.

  ‘What shall I do?’ Nicòla asked into the darkness.

  Cromwell fumbled to light a candle in the darkness. The tender flame illuminated his weary face. ‘Go into your room and call to who is there. Unlock nothing until you know of the man on the other side.’

  Nicòla fought on her gown over her nightclothes and lit a candle off Cromwell’s. She closed the adjoining door and tiptoed to her main door with an enormous bolt attached at Cromwell’s instance.

  ‘Who calls? Nicòla asked, instant fear in her tone. Was tonight the moment she got exposed as a woman and sent to the Tower? She struggled to smooth her curls with only one hand, to appear as masculine as possible, her nightgown having to do the work of her chest binding cloths, tossed on the floor.

  ‘Master Frescobaldi?’ came a gentle voice. ‘Tis me, John. I bear a letter for you. The messenger said I had to wake you; the letter warns of grave urgency.’

  John was a guard posted on the doors to the Cromwell Chambers, a young orphan boy Cromwell had taken in not two months past. ‘Who is the messenger?’ Nicòla asked, afraid to answer the door.

  ‘He says he is one of Cromwell’s men at the port.’

  Nicòla unbolted her door and held her candle before her to see young John in his new grey livery. ‘Sorry, Master Frescobaldi,’ he pleaded. ‘I know I am not to enter the hallway. But the letter bears a ducal seal and comes with instructions that suggested all haste and no manners.’

  ‘Tell the messenger to come at sunrise and I shall reward him for his haste. See he has a bed and meal.’

  As soon as Nicòla put the heavy bolt back in its place, Cromwell came through the adjoining door from his room, wrapped warmly in his fur coat. ‘Who shall I have whipped?’

  ‘Twas only young John delivering an urgent message, Tomassito. A letter bearing Alessandro’s seal. You cannot hide letters from Florence. I get them first.’

  ‘I said sorry for that, Nicò. Forgive me for not wanting your husband to write to you.’

  Nicòla sat down on a chair by the fire, which glowed red in the fireplace, small and almost dead. Sunrise could not be far away now. She fingered the red seal, hesitant to read the words. An urgent letter from the Medici Duke of Florence could not bring good news.

  ‘Shall I read it?’ Cromwell offered.

  Nicòla shook her head as she broke the seal and unfolded the paper, Cromwell’s candle held close for her tired eyes. ‘He has named me as Nicòla, not Nicòletta, so he means to shield my identity against spies. We can feel grateful for so much.’

  With humble reverence and due commendations to my brother-in-law Nicòla Frescobaldi

  This letter comes to you in haste, a swift note to be sent on the first ship leaving port. More detail shall be sent presently. You will be saddened by the secret news that our most revered and humble ruler, Pope Clement, has died this day.

  No words can express the pain and turmoil of such ruin. My dear father, a man as precious to me as to you, has gone. Father wrote to the Emperor to say goodbye, and to me. His Holiness marked many treasures for you, but you need to come home to receive them in Florence.

  Our alliance with the French is now broken. The Sacred College of Cardinals has already been summoned, but eleven cardinals shall be excused from voting, nine of them cardinals made by Medici popes. You know what all this means for us. We have no allies in the conclave, and they shall follow the choices of King Francis and Cardinal Medici, who has no love for me. My dear sister is in Paris, trapped to her French prince, alone and without her dowry paid. We must work together at this fragile time as your England turns heretic around you. Be not sour in our true faith, for one day you shall return to us in the Holy See. With the great loss in our hearts, the amount in which this death shall pain Nicòletta will be immense. Nicòletta shall need great guidance.

  Just two days ago, His Holiness asked his painter, a man named Michelangelo, to create a painting of The Last Judgement in the Sistine Chapel. He requested all the angels and virgins have rose-gold hair, like his Nicòletta.

  Wait but a little, for more news will follow

  Alessandro de’ Medici, Duke of Florence

  This day of our Lord Settembre 25

  Without a word or glance, Nicòla handed the letter to Cromwell and shivered as he gently took it from her fingers. The Pope was dead. Cardinal Giulio de’Medici was dead. Twenty years had passed since he took Nicòla as a mistress, stole her virtue. Twenty years since her father discovered the secret and felt forever shamed. Twenty years since her father decided to dress her as a man and made her into his secretary, because as an educated and soiled woman, Nicòletta Frescobaldi had no value. Nicòla had played her part as a good son, a merchant, moneylender, banker, lawyer, so well she did not know who she was any longer. Once the lover of a cardinal, then secretary to her father, then the wife of her lover’s son. The creature. Cromwell’s Waif. All because a man in cardinal’s robes fell in love with fourteen-year-old Nicòletta Frescobaldi of Florence.

  Nicòla felt herself slipping from her seat but did not try to steady herself. She fell in a heap on the floor as the tears flowed. Her father was now long dead. The Pope was now dead. Freedom had at last come, and yet far too late for salvation. The first sob gave way to a wail of heartache. Cromwell fell to her side on the floor and held her tight against him to muffle the sound of her cries in the silence of the palace. Nicòla could not even be sure why she cried; for the man she loved in the past, the Pope he became, or for the old, weak man, surrounded by his favourites who took excessive favours and emptied the papal treasury. But while a Medici sat on the papal throne, Nicòla’s secret was safe. All that was gone – but so was the guilt of leaving Italy for good.

  ‘Father of love, hear my prayer. Help me know Your will and to do it with c
ourage and faith,’ Cromwell whispered in her ear as the wails turned back to sobbing. ‘Accept my offering of myself, all my thoughts, words, deeds, and sufferings. May my life give You glory. Give me the strength to follow Your call, so that Your truth may live in my heart and bring peace to those I meet, for I believe in Your love.’

  ‘Amen,’ Nicòla sniffed. She rested her cheek against Cromwell’s shoulder and closed her tear-soaked eyes, nestled against Cromwell. ‘I know not what saddened me, for I never wished to return to the Holy See.’

  ‘All things end, good or bad. Relief comes in many forms. Be in remembrance of one thing; that the Pope used you as a trifle, but I love you.’

  ‘You must take this news to the King at once. The news of His Holiness’ death has not been swift. They shall have summoned the College of Cardinals to the papal conclave before releasing the news. The Pope had been ill a long time, so plans for a new pope shall have begun before his death.’

  ‘Who becomes Pope means nothing. Henry is Head of the Church in England. We rule this country; No Pope shall rule England again.’

  ‘A new pope could be aligned with enemies of England, or the French king. They are powerful allies against England.’

  ‘We can only see who shall be chosen as the new Pope.’

  ‘If Alessandro has aligned with the French king, the decision seems clear to me.’ Nicòla sat up and wiped the remaining tears from her cheeks. ‘Cardinal Alessandro Farnese is Dean of the Sacred College and is considered a neutral cardinal. Farnese was made a cardinal because his sister was the Borgia Pope’s mistress. There are twenty cardinals made by Clement who can vote, another thirteen made by his uncle, Pope Leo. The Medici connection is still in play. They educated Farnese in humanism at the instruction of Lorenzo de’Medici at the University in Spa, a similar education to mine. Medici sympathy on the papal throne is best for Florence. The Italian, French and Imperial factions should agree to Farnese taking power.’