Shaking the Throne

by Caroline Angus Baker

  Chapuys noticed Cromwell staring at Nicòla and Cranmer’s discussion. ‘What creates such a serious face upon you?’ he asked Cranmer across the table.

  Nicòla looked up to Chapuys. ‘We were discussing the role of women in the Church and within society,’ she answered for the Archbishop.

  Chapuys laughed off any notion. ‘Women have their place. Silent and grateful.’

  ‘You are a man who took holy orders. Do you believe men such as yourself can also take a wife?’ Nicòla probed him.

  ‘Why would I need to do such thing, for I live as ambassador to the Holy Roman Emperor, in the court of King Henry. I have seen the harm marriage does. No, a man who has taken holy orders cannot marry; you sit next to the Archbishop who would most certainly agree with you.’

  The whole table sat in a stiff silence for a moment. But Chapuys was not finished. ‘And what of you, Mr. Frescobaldi? For you have been in court for five years and have not taken a wife. Or is there is a marriage for you back in Italy?’

  ‘I fear your desire for gossip has given you lies, Ambassador,’ Nicòla spat back. ‘L'astuzia e l'inganno serviranno un uomo meglio della forza ogni volta.’

  Chapuys crossed his arms as he scoffed at her words. Nicòla looked to the confused faces around the table. ‘Tis a line from “Discourses on Livy” from Machiavelli; “cunning and deceit will serve a man better than strength every time.” Ambassador Chapuys prefers lies and gossip as he holds no real power.’

  ‘I use cunning and deceit, you claim?’ Chapuys cried. ‘Secretary Cromwell adopted your sister’s bastard daughter, did he not? Smuggled into England by you to be raised as a Cromwell in Austin Friars? Surely such behaviour tells you that marriage is essential for a woman, and the only role she needs to play. Your sister committed a grave sin in having a bastard child. The cunning and deceit comes from your sister, not I.’

  Cromwell, even with his swollen eye, could see Nicòla lick her lips and pause in anger. At best, Chapuys named Nicòla’s “sister” a whore. At worst, suggesting Nicòla herself was a whore, a whore with the audacity to play the role of a man at a royal court.

  ‘How is Duchess Nicòletta?’ Chapuys continued to bite. ‘I hear that my master wishes to marry his daughter to the Medici Duke and annul the marriage the Duke has with Nicòletta Frescobaldi. That will make your sister, the mysterious rose-gold beauty no one ever sees, to be a woman who is soiled goods.’

  With an angry flick of her wrist, Nicòla tossed her sharp knife in Chapuys’ direction, and it stuck deep in the wood of the table just before the Ambassador’s empty plate. A gasp came from every man at the table at the quick response.

  ‘Eustace, speaking in such tones is not permitted in this home,’ Cromwell barked. ‘Duchess Nicòletta is the precious daughter of my patron. I must ask you desist at once.’

  ‘You shall find the next knife in your tongue!’ Nicòla cried from the other end of the table. Nicòla seemed far angrier than Cromwell expected; perchance her heavy workload and the baby made for a difficult mood.

  ‘I expect such empty threats from you, Mr. Frescobaldi, as you seem too weak and fragile to hurt a man. Still, you must have a redeeming quality. Thomas keeps you so close, and you are a man as delicate as a girl, who kept close company with a filthy and corrupt pope, even in his bedchamber I heard. Tis no wonder your sister has become something of a gift, handed about the Medici men, much like yourself.’

  In just one nimble movement, Nicòla had a foot up on the table. She jumped forward from her seat and forced an angry fist right into Chapuys’ mouth. None of the men reached to stop her, all stunned by the violent outburst from the English court’s gentlest attendant. Cromwell opened his mouth to command Nicòla to stop, but he could not even gain air to create a sound. He gasped a few times, catching everyone’s attention, and Nicòla slunk back to her seat.

  Cromwell glanced at the blood on Chapuys’ lips. ‘To hurt the Ambassador,’ he croaked, ‘is to hurt the attentions our king wishes to pay to Rome.’ He paused and swallowed; his wine sat beside his meal yet appeared so far away, much too far away to reach. Through narrow vision Nicòla leaned forward at him; at least Cromwell thought she did.

  ‘Never hurt the needs of our king,’ Cromwell coughed. He felt himself sliding sideways in his chair but could not hold on to anything. He caught sight of Nicòla rushing towards him as he closed his eyes, ready to hit the floor, and he longed for the coolness to soothe his brow. But the feeling never came; Cromwell landed on nothing but a relieving sensation of emptiness.

  F

  Chapter 21 – April 1535

  it is not a lye if everyone undyrstands

  Whitehall Palace, London

  Nicòla looked to her fingertips perched on the edge of Cromwell’s desk. She stood in front of his throne of a chair, his desk piled high with papers. Across from her stood Richard, his hands clapped together in patience. She glanced up and remembered Richard had spoken.

  ‘I confess I find it hard to listen,’ Nicòla admitted.

  ‘I too,’ Richard replied and straightened his posture. ‘But I am hither to serve you, Nicòla.’

  ‘I need you to be my man in the Privy Council, and in parliament. For I never wish to visit either of those places. I have enough difficulty with the King and his private council.’

  ‘The Boleyn Council.’

  ‘How are they taking the changes?’

  Nicòla just shrugged. Nicòla cared none for gossip now. Cromwell had been delirious in bed for a week. Young Gregory was there to hold Cromwell’s hand if he awoke lucid; Cranmer stayed close to pray, to deliver the last rites if needed. Nicòla wanted to be there, but the court and the country would not run itself in Cromwell’s absence. He begged her to tarry at court for the King. Whatever illness threatened to take his life, he wanted no disease near Nicòla or the baby. He pushed Nicòla away from Austin Friars, where he slept frail in his bed, sweating through the sheets, suffering fits in his sleep, mixing his words, unable to even take water. His powerful golden eyes no longer gleamed with cheer, now dull and slow, trapped in their discoloured sockets. When Cromwell drew breath his lower lip shook, every breath a gasp of shock. His shaking hands clung to the edge of a blanket, his body so tired the blanket seemed as heavy as rocks against his aching bones. The swelling of his face had suddenly gone, replaced with a whole body of torment and the doctors did not understand what was wrong. Which led to Nicòla’s newest worry.

  ‘Richard, two guests are sailing from Calais, and their ship should arrive tomorrow, and I need you to be there to escort them to Austin Friars.’

  ‘Would you dare bring in people at such a time?’ Richard threw a stern brow back to Nicòla.

  ‘Two new doctors shall attend upon our master. They are Jewish doctors, who fled Spain very young and have been living in Brussels for some time.’

  ‘You would bring Jews to England to treat Uncle Tom?’ Richard cried. ‘You cannot bring Jews to England!’

  ‘This is no matter of religion, it is a matter of knowledge and healing. Your English kings may have expelled Jews from England, but my home has always had a Jewish presence. Many Jews expelled from Naples came north to Florence with wealthy patrons. Now I seek help for England’s most powerful man. Those doctors are Jewish men, trained by their fathers who got expelled from Spain many years ago. Do not let your fear guide you towards hatred, Richard. I seek to save Cromwella’s life.’

  ‘I shall speak with Ralph.’

  ‘Ralph is to run the Master of the Rolls offices in Secretary Cromwella’s absence. Leave him there. Did our master not put me in charge of his works?’

  ‘Yes, but…’

  ‘But you see me as a weak woman, when I have lived these twenty years as a man, can work as a man, think as a man, be a man.’

  Nicòla paused; beyond the slightly open door behind Richard, she could hear movement. There would be a line of people waiting for instruction, but the voices seemed to have quietened, something the office se
ldom did.

  ‘I am sorry, Nicòla, but I worry if you bring such… doctors to the bedside at Austin Friars.’

  ‘The last Pope, God rest his immortal soul, had a Jewish physician. He believed the Jewish can understand how blood travels through the body, and could help us know how illness travels, which could find cures. These men are well-versed in the new faith, for they had to hide their own beliefs many times. Fear not, Richard. All they need is their safe passage from the port to Austin Friars.’

  A knock upon the doors swung one door open, a gentleman-usher there with a look of trepidation. ‘Excuse me, Master Cromwell, Master Frescobaldi, but the Bishop of Winchester is upon us.’

  ‘I shall to parliament,’ Richard said to Nicòla. ‘For we shall begin the trial of the monks who refuse to swear the Oath.’

  Nicòla nodded, and Richard left, off to listen to the latest gossip around London on their master’s behalf in case he was lucid enough to listen. Nicòla fell back into Cromwell’s chair and ached to be back at home at his bedside. The two-mile barge ride to Austin Friars seemed so far, too far. Nicòla got but a moment of silence before the Bishop himself strode into the office.

  ‘Bishop Gardiner,’ Nicòla sighed and sat up straight, not troubling to rise for Cromwell’s most beloved enemy.

  ‘Mr. Frescobaldi,’ Gardiner replied as he sat himself down across the desk. ‘Your appearance leads me to believe the rumours of Thomas’ health are not exaggerated.’

  ‘I wished for Secretary Cromwella’s health to be private, but you know the court…’

  ‘Well indeed. I come in friendship, Mr. Frescobaldi. Truly, I do. For all the anger between Thomas and I, never would I wish for him to die so soon.’

  For another to speak of Cromwell dying made Nicòla gasp; no one had spoken aloud of such a ruin.

  ‘Has the doctor understood the illness? Be it plague?’

  ‘They believe no plague, for his skin shows no sign of the illness, God be praised.’ Nicòla sighed and sat forward, her elbows on the desk. ‘He would have succumbed by now with sweating sickness, for he stumbled one week ago. For now, only God knows of Cromwella’s ailment.’

  ‘I have known Thomas for many more years than I care to admit, and I have never known him to be ill. Not once.’

  ‘You are far from the first to make such a claim, Bishop. We had been riding in Cambridgeshire this past month, and Cromwella, he seemed not himself.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘He complained of a sore neck often, sometimes he would speak and slur a word. Cromwella complained of tiredness or shortened breath, pain in his back, his knees. He jested he was just old.’

  ‘But perchance an illness was already upon him.’

  ‘He stumbled at a dinner with Chapuys.’

  ‘Oh yes, that dinner. You had your fist in Eustace’s mouth.’

  ‘And I regret it most ardently, Bishop Gardiner. Perchance my anger pushed Cromwella too far, causing his stumble.’

  ‘And his health has gotten worse since he took to his bed? There are rumours of a swollen face, of gasping for breath, of sweating.’

  ‘All those things. He cannot sleep for long, for he jumps himself awake. He cannot remember a thing, which is a serious worry for a man like Cromwella. One moment he is in pain, then his body is numb…’

  ‘And Archbishop Cranmer is by his side?’

  Nicòla nodded and took a deep breath. ‘I know you suspect Cromwella’s death.’

  ‘And no one could replace him. No one can be Thomas Cromwell, except Thomas Cromwell. He holds offices and titles no man has ever had before now. May I visit Austin Friars?’

  ‘Do you seek to wish him well, or rejoice in his illness?’ Nicòla shot back.

  ‘I came in peace only, Mr. Frescobaldi, I promise on God’s word. For I am to sail for France on a diplomatic mission.’

  ‘You fear Cromwella shall die before your return.’

  ‘I fear what his death would do for the country, but at least the monasteries would be saved from dissolution. As I say, I came in peace only.’

  ‘All the court swarms upon Cromwella. They all want to speak to him, to be in his favour, to beg for his time. I got a letter to Cromwella just this morning, from Elizabeth Seymour, the wife of the late Sir Anthony Ughtred. She just gave birth to a daughter and now needs a new husband. She is but seventeen years and thinks she could marry Cromwella! Such is the wish to be close to Cromwella’s prosperity that even young women such as a Seymour daughter wish to be at his side.’

  ‘Surely the Seymour girl would better suit Gregory,’ Gardiner scoffed.

  ‘I think Gregory would better suit the Church, but as an only son he must marry and breed.’ Nicòla threw her hands in the air in frustration ‘A man such as Cromwella may not die, he must live forever to serve his king and queen.’

  ‘Thomas’ queen is no longer thriving,’ Gardiner said. ‘Anne angers Henry with her presence. I cannot attend court any longer due to Henry’s dislike for me and that is not an ill-fortune. But I heard you, Mr. Frescobaldi, now run the court in Thomas’ absence.’

  ‘I conduct paperwork, Bishop Gardiner, and that is all. I see that the careful plans and workings of my master continue so he may return to full health with God’s help and lead this country into the light of the reformed faith. It may be best you not visit Austin Friars, but instead, take your Catholic beliefs and enjoy your time in Paris. You are most liked in France.’

  Gardiner could take the gentle hint in Nicòla’s tone. He slowly rose from his chair and Nicòla did the same. ‘Then this is farewell for now, Mr. Frescobaldi. While Thomas and I have not been close in some time, I wish him no ill will. I seek not to take his place at court, indeed I pity any man who dares to come after the great Thomas Cromwell.’

  ‘Smooth sailing and safe travels, Bishop Gardiner.’

  Nicòla waited until the double doors of the office closed before she eased herself back into the seat and placed one hand on her belly. The baby would be over halfway to its birth by now, her waist stretching under her wide doublet. Just the thought of Cromwell in his bed, thrashing about as he sweated, next trembling with cold, his teeth chattering, his dull eyes rolling backwards made her clap a hand over her lips to stop a frightful sob. Her instincts held her back from constantly running to his bedside, but the wife in her, the mother in her, wanted to be close to Cromwell as his child stirred in her belly.

  ‘Almighty and Eternal God, you are the everlasting health of those who believe in You. Hear us for Your sick servant Thomas, for whom we implore the aid of Your tender mercy, that being restored to bodily health, he may give thanks to You in Your Church. Through Christ our Lord.’

  Nicòla crossed herself, something banned in Cromwell’s presence and unnecessary in the reformed faith. But only God could save them now.

  ~~~

  Nicòla stood between Ralph and Richard, each of them stretched as tall as they could, their hands clasped before them. They stood outside the front door at Austin Friars, the courtyard bathing in bright sunshine, the fountain twinkling in the centre.

  ‘Mark the date on the calendar,’ Ralph muttered under his breath as the gate to the property bolted shut.

  King Henry appeared with some thirty men accompanying him to Austin Friars. This was not his first visit, but before had been informal dinners. Now, the King came to the bedside of his master secretary, his vicar-general, his chief minister. For Henry to leave Whitehall for Austin Friars told the entire court just how ill Cromwell was now. The King would never visit someone when he was ill; once he even left Anne Boleyn ill with sweating sickness and rode away to safety. Yet here was a king terrified of illness, riding to visit a sick member of his court. It would conflict enemies of Cromwell; their enemy was close to death, yet the visit showed just how high Cromwell sat in the King’s eyes.

  Henry’s face told of an unforeseen happy expression as he dismounted his horse. His gloves tossed to an attendant beside him, Henry strode with heavy wide s
teps over the stones to the three who bowed in time at his arrival.

  ‘Tell me honestly,’ Henry said to the group as he frowned in the sunlight, ‘how bad is it?’

  They all paused; Cromwell would order them to say he was recovering or at least out of danger, yet none of them could utter such a lie to the King.

  ‘We know not the illness, Your Majesty,’ Nicòla admitted to Henry. ‘We have both your physician whom you kindly gave to us, along with doctors who were friends of my father when he lived in Brussels.’

  ‘Yes, I know they brought ashore several Jews in London on Thomas Cromwell’s orders,’ Henry sniffed. ‘Had it been anyone else, I would question such a secretive visit by foreigners without permission to come and go. Are you the one who used Thomas’ name to gain these Jews entry into the country?’

  Nicòla nodded quietly and averted her gaze to her feet. The Jewish men brought to London had soothed Cromwell’s pain and fever but could not understand the illness.

  ‘Thomas is the only man at court whom I trust,’ Henry said, ‘so I will not question the arrangement. If Thomas needs other doctors, he shall have them. Please, let us not tarry. Take me to Thomas.’

  Henry passed both Ralph and Richard who melted away into the hallways of Austin Friars, much like all the servants of the manor house. Henry encountered no one as Nicòla showed him to the third floor where Cromwell’s private room awaited. All the attendants and nurses were tucked away for Henry’s visit, and Nicòla noticed the King look pale as he stood at Cromwell’s bedroom door.