The bridge slowly came down over the moat and Nicòla sighed a little and rubbed the base of her back. At once, Cromwell was at her side, his black horse right against hers.
‘Are you well?’ he asked.
Nicòla nodded and brushed a strand of rose-gold hair from her face, her black gloves damp from the earlier rain. ‘How long do we have to visit with the Lady Katherine?’
‘This visit must be as short as possible, for we have another thirteen miles to cover before we reach Bedford for the night, and then the fifty miles home to London starting tomorrow.’
Nicòla smiled a little and Cromwell gave the tiniest of smiles back. They argued the night before; Nicòla admitted to Cromwell that she had sent money to Mary Boleyn, enough to help her move to Calais where her commoner husband worked as a soldier. Mary Boleyn had not been discussed by any person and wrote to Cromwell many times asking for help, as banishment from her family meant poverty. Nicòla had sent Mary Boleyn money after the stillbirth of a daughter, so she could move and be closer to her husband stationed far from home. At least in Calais, Mary Boleyn was out of sight of the court and her angry sister. Still, Cromwell like none of Nicòla’s decision to send her own money to the ill-liked Boleyn girl. It went against a direct command from Queen Anne, against the wishes of the King.
They moved through the halls of Kimbolton Castle in silence, a huge yet freezing space. The cold castle had been redesigned and rebuilt not ten years past, but being so large, and lived in by so few, the castle appeared mostly closed; rooms bare, and windows uncovered.
Lady Katherine, or Queen Katherine as her servants still called her, allowed Cromwell and Nicòla into her presence in a large and warm parlour. She sat at a fireplace, a book on her lap. Her black dress appeared worn and dusty, her shoulders limp and covered with a dirty-looking fur. Katherine had appeared distraught at her last meeting with Nicòla, as she was taken away from Buckden Palace. Now, in this chilled prison, Katherine appeared most ill; both Nicòla and Cromwell paused at the sight.
‘I hear you are Secretary Cromwell now,’ Katherine spoke as Cromwell and Nicòla bowed before the old queen. Her blue eyes searched the pair for clues of their visit.
‘Dowager Princess,’ Cromwell greeted her with her new title. ‘I see news travels far from the court.’
‘News travels everywhere, Secretary Cromwell. Please do not call me a dowager princess, for I was only that after the death of Prince Arthur. I am called Queen Katherine in my household as my marriage to Henry is still lawful.’
Katherine would never give in. This argument had gone around so many times, surely even Katherine was sick of hearing such words. ‘Queen Katherine,’ Nicòla acknowledged her, knowing it would irritate Cromwell, but wished to calm the ill woman.
‘Nicòla Frescobaldi,’ Katherine replied and let out a gentle cough. The weather in Huntingdonshire, a damp place, did nothing for Katherine’s health. Her sharp Spanish accent spoke Nicòla’s name to perfection. ‘It has been some time since you visited me at Buckden. What brings you, and my husband’s most important adviser, all the way north?’
‘We are hither to speak to you about the new Pope,’ Cromwell replied.
‘Pope Paul the Third,’ Katherine said, her voice low and crackling. ‘I have had no correspondence with the new Pope, for I have the most important letter I ever need from Pope Clement.’
‘The ruling that your marriage is legal,’ Nicòla added.
Katherine turned and gestured to a servant in the far corner of the room, who came over. Katherine whispered in her lady’s ear, and the woman scurried over to the box in the far room. She came back with the ruling on the royal marriage; at once Nicòla could see the signature of Pope Clement on the page and thought of him dying alone in Rome without her. The six months since his death had passed quickly, but the pain and confusion had not yet left. Clement’s holy cross of gold still hung around Nicòla's neck.
Katherine’s pale fingers ran over the careful Latin words of her marriage ruling. She gazed at Nicòla and lost her easy smile. ‘I am sorry, Mr. Frescobaldi, for you have suffered a personal loss in the death of our Pope, God rest his soul.’ Katherine paused and crossed herself. ‘How is the son of Pope Clement?’
Nicòla shot a quick look at the lady-in-waiting, hopefully out of hearing. She looked like the woman Thomas Wyatt sometimes wrote poetry to Lady Elizabeth Darrell, who would know little of Nicòla’s situation, if any at all. ‘I must confess I have not had many letters from Alessandro de’Medici in recent months, Your Majesty. But to lose one’s father, and one who protects his son from his great enemies is surely a great loss.’
Katherine looked up and down at Cromwell, his hands clasped before him. ‘You wear the turquoise Wolsey ring, the ring magically capable of controlling the King.’
‘I believe not in superstitions, my Lady,’ Cromwell replied.
Katherine sighed and leaned back in her heavy chair. ‘What brings you to Kimbolton, Cromwell?’
‘I know you are in correspondence with your nephew, the Holy Roman Emperor, and with his ambassador, Eustace Chapuys.’
‘I am not allowed to send correspondence; Henry banned such.’
‘And yet letters still flow. I have eyes everywhere, Lady Katherine. Let us not pretend. I will not tell Henry of such details. We come hither before you to say King Henry wishes to renew his bonds with Rome, with the Emperor and the new Pope.’
Katherine crossed herself again, at once her true-blue eyes alive with joy. ‘Henry has changed his path?’ she gasped. ‘I presupposed you came to force me to sign your new Oath of Succession! But no? Henry intends to turn back to his faith, his family?’
‘His Majesty wishes to renew alliances with the Emperor, alliances strained since your annulment, Lady Katherine. He wishes to find favour with the Emperor and his ambassador. There is no reason for there to be anger between His Majesty and the new Bishop of Rome.’
‘Pope, not just a bishop,’ Katherine snapped. ‘If Henry wants alliances and favour from Rome and my nephew, he must leave his whore and their bastard daughter. Henry must return to his true wife, me, who is to be at his side. To turn his soul to the Catholic faith and away from reformers such as yourself, Secretary Cromwell, is the only way Henry shall find favour in Rome.’
Nicòla glanced at Cromwell, his golden eyes weary. They knew all of this; Katherine would never help Henry in securing the friendship of the Pope or the Roman Emperor. ‘Your Majesty,’ Nicòla said again, to appease Katherine’s refusal to accept her annulment, ‘we come hither to know if there is anything you need to make your stay at Kimbolton a comfortable one.’
‘You mean you wish to bribe me with furs and servants, wines and silver plate, so I tell my nephew and his new pope that I am well cared for? It shall never work.’
‘We did not think so, either, Your Majesty,’ Nicòla said. ‘But we are not your enemy.’
‘You are!’ Katherine scoffed. ‘Cromwell, you are known as the Queenmaker. To make your precious whore queen, you had to destroy me. You even tried destroying the Catholic Church in England! For what? So the King can get a son on his mistress? Henry and I have a perfect, healthy, intelligent daughter to rule England, and yet Henry wanted to get a son on that Boleyn woman!’
‘I cannot hold the throne of England for Lady Mary,’ Cromwell replied. ‘Do I think your daughter could reign? Yes, of course, I do. With parents such as yourself and His Majesty, Mary could be nothing but suitable. But His Majesty wishes to give his throne to a son to make the role of monarch safe. A woman on an English throne never worked; there would be civil war. England has seen enough death. King Henry’s father ended the War of the Roses and a male heir is the only way to stop war returning to these shores. I am sorry, Lady Katherine, I truly am. No one is more capable of being an English queen than you. But King Henry remarried after your marriage was found unlawful by the English Church. His Majesty rules the Church, reform has come to England and your papers from Rome shall no
t change a thing. His Majesty wants to make peace now, while he waits for a male child from Queen Anne.’
‘I shall die before I care for anything you say. I am a Spanish princess and an English queen. You cannot force me to acknowledge any religious change in this country. You cannot banish me any further; for at Kimbolton I am already forgotten. I am ill and starved. They keep my precious daughter Mary at Hatfield House, as a maid to the whore’s bastard girl. You have destroyed me, and my daughter, in the making of your new queen. I want you from this castle at once.’
Cromwell bowed in silence and stepped away but Nicòla paused. Her eyes met with Katherine’s. ‘Your Majesty,’ Nicòla said politely.
‘Be careful,’ Katherine said and reached for Nicòla’s hand. She grabbed it tight the moment Nicòla outstretched her fingers. ‘You and I have come from another world to this land, one where they hate people like us. I have borne six children and lost almost as many. I have seen many other women with child, some elated, some with the news hidden. I see you and what you carry. They will one day turn on you like they did me.’
Nicòla gazed down at her belly, which she swore was not showing her condition; all thought her male, so surely no one suspected. But Queen Katherine certainly did. ‘Sometimes the road to our rightful place is a long one,’ Nicòla uttered.
‘God be with you,’ Katherine said and released Nicòla’s hand. ‘Some of us have been sorely tested by God, and I will die one day, knowing Henry is my true husband, our daughter the rightful heir of England. Cromwell shakes the throne, but he does not sit upon it. Reckoning shall come and you must decide where you wish to make your stand.’
C
Chapter 20 – March 1535
a man can tryp over his own lyes
Austin Friars, London
One of Cromwell’s beloved hawks sat upon his left arm, the new leather glove Nicòla bought him for Christmas keeping the bird’s claws at bay. Despite the beautiful bird being right before him, Cromwell had trouble seeing his pet. His left eye saw little, its socket swollen and heavy. Nicòla had gently touched his face earlier in the day, and the pain seared through his cheek for hours. Despite placing a cold cloth on the skin, Cromwell’s eye continued to swell, as if someone had punched him in a fight. Now, when Cromwell swallowed, he felt his throat too had swollen. Still, best to say nothing, for he had felt ill for the trip around Cambridgeshire but had kept it secret.
‘Are you quite well, Thomas?’ asked Chapuys.
Cromwell turned his head to the ambassador who too had a bird on his arm, another Cromwell hawk, one of fifty kept at Austin Friars. It had been some time since Chapuys had visited Cromwell’s main home, and it would take more time again for Cromwell to feel comfortable in his presence. Yet, Henry wanted a renewed relationship with Rome, so the Holy Roman Emperor’s ambassador needed to be entertained. Already Chapuys had petted Cromwell’s leopard, only brought out for the best parties, the finest of guests.
‘I am well,’ Cromwell replied and raised his arm a little, readying the hawk to fly away, Chapuys’ bird following. Above them, the hawks circled around the large garden of Austin Friars, no doubt entertaining the nearby residents as early evening set over London.
‘Thomas, you do not look at your best.’
‘These past weeks have been out of my usual habits, and perchance I have eaten too many of the fine offerings,’ Cromwell jested.
Ginger, nutmeg, figs, oranges, marzipan, many of Nicòla’s favourites. She had accompanied Cromwell on multiple monastery visits, ridden hundreds of miles in recent weeks, all while being with child. Now she could rest back in London, all her treats laid out for a jovial evening at Austin Friars.
Over Chapuys’ grey fur-coated shoulders, Cromwell noticed Ralph and Richard setting up the longbows for more pre-dinner activities in the wide square garden. The canaries chirped while the hawks flew overhead in the fading light; Nicòla stood with Gregory nearby, as she fitted his new hawking glove made especially for his thin arm. Jane stood at Nicòla’s feet, watching her elder brother look upon his new glove with delight. Gregory was fifteen years old now; and yet Cromwell had little idea of what would be become of his young son. Jane would soon be five years old and spoke English, Italian and Latin. Already Nicòla insisted on Jane’s schooling being perfect; they had already employed many tutors.
‘So, your Mr. Frescobaldi,’ Chapuys continued, catching Cromwell’s attention once more.
‘What of him?’
Chapuys narrowed his eyes for a moment. ‘Has Mr. Frescobaldi been receiving letters from the Duke of Florence?’
‘No, indeed not. The Medicis are quiet, have been since the death of their pope, which had much effect I suspect.’
‘Indeed, though Farnese, Pope Paul – is a popular Medici friend. But I thought perchance Frescobaldi had received word from his sister, the Duchess.’
This time Cromwell narrowed his eyes, one being so swollen it lost itself. ‘Duchess Nicòletta? Why do you enquire after mail from my secretary’s sister?’
‘There are rumours in Rome. It is said that Emperor Charles wishes to marry his bastard daughter, Margarete of Austria, to Duke Alessandro. Of course, they could not marry if Alessandro de’Medici did not first annul his marriage to the only Frescobaldi daughter.’
This was it; if Charles wanted Alessandro de’Medici as his son-in-law, then it could be a way of having Nicòla’s marriage annulled. Finally, Cromwell could marry Nicòla legally, not just in God’s eyes. Friendship with Chapuys suddenly appeared to have a personal benefit. But his vision blended once more, and Cromwell swayed upon his feet.
‘Are you well?’ came the voice from Archbishop Cranmer. ‘Your face does not look fine.’
Cromwell turned to see his other dinner guest behind him, dressed in his usual purple robes. ‘Thomas,’ he said with a smile. ‘They had not informed me of your arrival. I am glad you have decided to join us tonight.’
‘I arrived just this moment.’ Cranmer stopped and threw the pair a stern brow. ‘Thomas, your face is much swollen. I am sure you understand this.’
‘Indeed,’ Cromwell smiled again. Now his lips felt fat. ‘Tis nothing, I am certain.’
Cranmer’s arrival brought Ralph and Richard over, whose faces frowned as they too drew closer across the grass. Was his face that ill-looking? ‘You all worry so, but it is no matter.’
‘You are not the first person to utter such today,’ Chapuys commented as the men stood together in a circle. A hawk swooped down and landed on Cromwell’s arm, eager to receive a piece of orange.
‘I received a letter today,’ Chapuys continued. ‘It says the new Pope likes to gamble.’
‘That may the only thing I like about him,’ Cromwell replied, to the laughter of the group.
‘That may be so, but the Pope is a terrible gambler. He loses almost every hand of cards, every game of dice. Already he owes money.’
‘No Pope should be in debt to any man,’ Cranmer frowned. ‘This is why we are a country of reform. The Catholic Church is now headed by a man who likes to gamble; hardly a Christian advisor to the masses.’
‘The last Pope had a bastard son who married Cromwell’s secretary’s sister. That is much worse than gambling in idle time.’
‘Perchance we should go indoors, and I can beat you all at gambling. Except you, Thomas,’ Cromwell teased Cranmer.
‘You paint me as a man of no fun!’ Cranmer jested.
Hardly; for Cranmer had a wife hidden out of the city, now hiding at Dewhurst in Surrey, a home in Nicòla’s name. They could afford to mourn their lost son no more, but some good news did prevail, for already Margarete was with child again, soon after the stillbirth of their daughter just months ago.
‘Is it true you invited Stephen Gardiner to dine with us tonight?’ Cranmer continued.
‘Indeed, for I want to tell our friendly bishop that he is to go to France as a diplomat for the King. I think we shall all do well to have Gardiner out of London for a whil
e! We have pressing issues to plan in coming months, and I wish not to have Gardiner’s sympathetic Catholic heart casting its opinion. But Gardiner shall not visit tonight.’
‘Do you speak of those monks who have been arrested?’ Cranmer asked. ‘They are all in the Tower as we speak.’
‘And they have committed what crime?’ Chapuys asked. ‘Be it those monks who refused to sign the Oath of Succession?’
‘Indeed,’ Cromwell said and swallowed hard. His throat felt laced with stone. ‘Robert Lawrence, the new Prior of the Beauvale Charterhouse in Nottinghamshire, refuses to swear the Oath, and uses his influence to dissuades others from signing.’
‘And what is the punishment for this crime?’ Chapuys added, a stern brow added to his words.
‘As we have new high treason laws, ones stricter on such crimes. Refusal to sign the Oath is punishable by death by hanging, drawing and quartering.’
‘If you do this, it shall make these Carthusian monks into Carthusian martyrs,’ Chapuys replied. ‘Thomas, this shall go against the Catholic Church, against every man of Rome you wish to align with your king.’
Cromwell’s swollen eye twitched as his hawk took off from his arm again. This strange pain was such a blight at such a busy time. ‘Let us go inside to talk, but let the dinner talk be of things other than quartering.’
The small party of six sat around a table, filled with the most lavish meal served at Austin Friars in some time. Cromwell wished to treat his precious Nicòla, who sat at the opposite end of the end of the table to him. Ralph and Richard talked with each other, Cromwell and Chapuys listening in, but Nicòla and Cranmer were in their own conversation, one nobody else could hear. Cranmer had brought his wife Margarete to Austin Friars, as always, in a crate to protect her privacy, and she was elsewhere in the house, most likely with Ralph’s wife Ellen. Only once Chapuys left could they have Margarete in their company. Nicòla hated the treatment of Margarete, who had not long lost two children. Cromwell longed to create an England where Nicòla could be his wife freely and Margarete did not have to be treated as Cranmer’s dirty sin.
Shaking the Throne Page 17