Shaking the Throne

by Caroline Angus Baker

  ‘Fear not, Your Majesty,’ Nicòla tried to calm him, ‘for after three weeks of illness, none in the house fell ill, neither any of the attendants who spent ample time in Cromwell’s room.’

  ‘Not yourself?’ Henry eyed her.

  ‘Nothing, Your Majesty.’

  ‘For some say of late that you do not look in total health.’

  Nicòla resisted the urge to touch her slowly expanding belly. She prayed Cromwell would recover before her baby showed through her doublet and bindings, so she could enter early confinement outside London. ‘I can promise you that I have no illness which could spread to you, Your Majesty.’

  Nicòla opened the door for the King, who walked in ahead of her. His long steps became dainty and gentle as he entered the room, slowly crossing the carpets towards Cromwell’s bed. Someone had pulled the green curtains back to view Cromwell in bed, covered right up to his chin. The fire across the room flickered gently, just enough to keep the room warm for the attendants, as Cromwell, when awake, complained of the intense heat.

  Cromwell did not stir as Nicòla sat on the edge of the bed and took his hand. A chair placed close to the bed waited for Henry, who eased himself down, his blue eyes never leaving the man before him. Nicòla shook Cromwell gently to wake him, but he did not respond.

  ‘This… this is not what I thought to expect,’ Henry mumbled, and slowly brought a hand to his mouth, shocked by his own words. ‘Not the sweating sickness?’

  ‘Dr. Butts has said he has never seen a case like this. The season was too cool for a sweating sickness outbreak; London is free of the disease at present. Those who survive sweating sickness show some recovery within a week of their first stumble. It may take weeks before they return to their health, but alas, Secretary Cromwella has shown none of the same traits who suffer the illness.’

  ‘And what of the other doctors? Who are they?’

  ‘Doctor Toledo and Doctor Salomon have thoughts but no conclusion.’

  Henry sat up straight. ‘And they are Jews?’

  ‘They were men who had to leave Spain many years ago, while still children. Both travelled to the safety of Italy. Now they are educated as doctors like their fathers before them and live in the Low Countries. They have Jewish names, Your Majesty, and raised by Jewish parents. Yet everyone accepts them in Brussels as men of science and learning.’

  ‘They are Jewish doctors.’

  ‘They are the sons of the men good to my father and my family. I know you banned Jewish people and their faith, Your Majesty. I called upon these men to help, for perchance they had learned of the new ideas coming from the German States, learnings about health.’

  ‘They are still Jews.’

  ‘I understand, Your Majesty. These men are trying to navigate a new world, not so unlike yourself, as you change the religion of this country. The doctors are well-educated as humanists and reformers, and the learnings of their fathers’ faith. We live in difficult times and I have trusted their learnings, all while listening to the care of Dr. Butts.’

  ‘And what have these Jews learned?’

  ‘They have studied, at great length, how blood moves about the body. They believe if they can find a spot where blood is not moving as it should, it may to tell us the area of the illness inside the body.’

  ‘Does it work? Has he been bled?’

  ‘Even Dr. Butts felt bleeding him would do no good. Perchance the plan to follow the blood shall help. Secretary Cromwella’s heart is beating rightly, so the doctors say. He is sweating out an illness, and his face is not as swollen as once seen.’

  ‘I must confess I hit Thomas in the face and I thought I caused his sickness.’

  ‘No, Your Majesty, no one is to blame for such a problem.’ Nicòla paused; she felt livid every time Henry hit Cromwell, and it had become common since Anne’s last miscarriage. ‘Secretary Cromwella has not slept a good night in more than a year, Your Majesty. His workload does not let him rest, as he has the wish to be the best minister England has ever seen.’

  ‘That is admirable, Frescobaldi; but if Thomas dies, who shall replace him? There is no man to take his place.’

  ‘No, Your Majesty, you are right. Secretary Cromwella takes on the role of twenty good men; he holds so many offices he cannot keep count.’

  ‘And what is to become of these offices as he lies upon his deathbed?’

  ‘I have assigned each task to a courtier; then I assigned a group of clerks and attendants to help the courtiers see out tasks.’

  ‘It is taking an army of men to hold on to Thomas’ power.’

  ‘Master Sadler and Master Richard Cromwella are helping in a great capacity, but they are also tasked with working on the inspections of the monasteries. The Cromwell Chambers at court is run by myself, the Master of the Rolls office watched by Master Sadler, and the Privy Council matters and the parliament is cared for by Master Richard.’

  ‘You shall all receive a title for helping in this time of great calamity.’

  ‘Every man who serves Secretary Cromwella does so because they wish to, Your Majesty. They wish to be of service.’

  ‘I do not have that level of diligence from my own subjects.’

  ‘All we do is to serve Your Majesty. Toiling for you is our life’s work.’

  ‘Should I feel worried, Frescobaldi, of you as a woman? You should be at your husband’s bedside day and night praying for his recovery. You should not be running the highest office in my kingdom.’

  ‘I am no wife, Your Majesty, for I must play the part of the humble attendant. I lack certain body parts, but I am a man, as fantastical as I am.’

  ‘You are a wife in the eyes of God and your king.’

  ‘And I am grateful for such an honour. There is news I shall annul my husband if the new Pope permits.’

  ‘I wanted you to bring us closer to Rome, and yet you are punching the Imperial ambassador like a drunkard in a brothel and wanting an annulment of your Italian marriage!’

  The raised voice startled poor Cromwell in his bed. His golden eyes slowly opened, and he shifted his weight a little to focus on who sat there. His dry and cracked lips formed a tiny smile when he saw Nicòla and tried to tighten his fingers around her hand. But when he turned to see the King, he fumbled and made to rise.

  ‘Move not, Thomas,’ the King commanded. ‘Do not rise for your king and speak not. I came to see you in your time of great need.’

  ‘Your Majesty,’ Cromwell whispered and swallowed hard. Nicòla ran to fetch him water, which he could only take in tiny drops.

  ‘I came to see the recovery you are due to make!’ the King said, though his expression spoke of fear as he looked at his ever-thinning chief minister. ‘Soon we shall gain power and wealth from the monasteries, soon we shall execute our enemies, soon we shall reign supreme. England needs you to rise from this bed completely recovered, Thomas.’

  Cromwell tried to speak again but flopped his head back on his pillow. Nicòla reached forward to wipe his sweaty brow as his dull eyes closed again.

  ‘I am sorry,’ he whispered.

  ‘Worry not,’ Nicòla tried to calm him.

  Henry slowly rose to his feet as he watched Cromwell move in a series of contorted twists as he tried to become comfortable again, his body aching with tiny movements. Nicòla got only a few more drops of water into his mouth before sickness took Cromwell’s mind again. By the time he settled, Henry had edged himself all the way across the room by the fire, as if he were cold rather than frightened. Nicòla knew better.

  ‘I do regret, Your Majesty, that I could not help Secretary Cromwella to a better state for your visit.’

  ‘No,’ the King dismissed her with a wave of his hand. ‘I wanted to see the truth. Rumour flies at court and I wanted to see Thomas for myself. Tis worse than I thought after these three weeks. The spots on his skin, his falling hair, his fever. I was told to ready for Thomas’ death, but I wished not to believe.’

  ‘Who told of such thing
s, Your Majesty?’ Nicòla demanded, forgetting herself completely. ‘Who would lie so brazenly to you?’

  ‘Lie?’ Henry scoffed. ‘I see for myself. I came to wish Thomas an easy recovery from his bed rest, and yet I find him so sickly he cannot speak. The double-minded man has no mind at all! George was right.’

  ‘George Boleyn, Lord Rochford?’ Nicòla enquired. ‘Lord Rochford believes Secretary Cromwella shall pass due to this illness? Lord Rochford has not been hither, not sent a message of worry nor a gentleman-usher to enquire after proceedings. Your Majesty, once this fever breaks, you shall have your ally back by your side.’

  ‘I shall speak with Dr. Butts, for I believe he is staying at Austin Friars?’

  ‘Quite, Your Majesty. Allow me to show you to the doctor’s rooms.’

  With the King, eased comfortably in private rooms with his doctor, Nicòla raced back to Cromwell’s bedside and took his hand which had come out from under the blankets once more, searching for someone.

  ‘Worry not, Tomassito,’ Nicòla muttered as she wiped his brow again. ‘King Henry came to see you, to make sure you are recovering with the best care. That is how much he cares for you.’

  ‘Please, do not banish me, Your Majesty,’ Cromwell uttered, his eyes still closed. ‘I am sorry I rest in bed.’ Cromwell interrupted himself with a cough. ‘I cannot swim, Your Majesty, I cannot swim.’

  Once more Cromwell had lapsed into a madness, so hot and confused he knew not what he said. Nicòla sent for Mercy at once, so they could bathe him. Every time they peeled back his covers, Cromwell’s seemed thinner than the day before.

  ‘I shall not lose your place at court,’ Nicòla promised him as he opened his eyes again, no doubt relieved by his bed covers being peeled away. ‘You shall not lose your life to this fever. I promise.’

  In time God may listen. Or else he would take Thomas Cromwell from the Earth as a sign of anger for all he had done to the Catholic faith in England.

  F

  Chapter 22 – April 1535

  lyes can be mayde with words and with sylence

  Austin Friars, London

  It took a lot before Nicòla would agree to rest. The headaches would not stop her. The back pain made her slow but still, she had to work, so Cromwell would not lose his place beside the ear of the King. But once the pains crept around to her front, under the gentle curve of her baby, then Nicòla agreed to rest. She retired for the evening to Austin Friars, to see her precious Cromwell and sit long enough to ease her pains.

  It seemed so foolish now. As Nicòla rolled onto her back in her bed, tears which had been falling across her face instead pooled in her green eyes. Perchance the church teachings were true; women cannot rule, cannot lead. Women submit to the will of their husbands, their families. Not working at a royal court, not hiding in a doublet and hose, with men’s hats and shirts. Nicòla had thought not of God’s laws; worse, God’s laws were altered to suit, and someone had to take the anger of God.

  Cromwell rested in bed; now staying awake for more than a minute at a time, the deathly illness stalking his soul but still not ready to claim him. Nicòla slept in her bed only one room away, swaddled and padded to ease her belly pain.

  The pain should have been worse. There should have been more blood. Nicòla had lost a son before, one almost due, yet this new baby was but halfway through its journey to life. So small, born all too easily on the bedsheets where Nicòla desperately tried to stop the birth of her boy. Another boy lost to God. Had God taken this child as a punishment for changing the religion of England again? Perchance God no longer sought to punish Cromwell for his changes; perchance this time, God sought to punish Nicòla for daring to live a man’s life while trying to carry a child. A woman could not carry a child and help run a nation. God made sure of that.

  Mercy and Ellen again delivered the child, again hid the bloodstained sheets, the body of the child baptised by Cranmer and spirited away. As Nicòla’s body continued to drip blood, tears continued to form in her eyes.

  The private door which separated Cromwell’s room from Nicòla’s swung open with great power. No one was ever to use that door, for they would see Nicòla dressed in a shift, her hair down, suffering from a pain only a woman’s body could know. But only Mercy’s face appeared.

  ‘Oh, Nicòla, I am sorry, but you must get up at once. Tis Thomas!’

  Nicòla rolled herself off the bed and onto her feet. With her skin against the cold stone floor, Nicòla tiptoed through the door, silently praying that there would be no blood on the back of her shift. The doctors were all in attendance, and as the curtain about the bed got pulled back, Nicòla felt herself weaken. Not only had she lost another son, now she would lose his father too. Four weeks had passed with Cromwell lying still, his skin grey, his nights filled with fits and cries of pain from his fever. Mercy would never come through the private adjoining door unless something horrific happened. Cromwell sat in the bed, up for the first time in weeks. A weak smile crossed his pale face when he saw Nicòla limp towards the bed, only a day of recovery given to her body. Dr. Butts knew Nicòla was a woman, and the two Jewish doctors never enquired into Nicòla’s life.

  He was alive. Nicòla sat gingerly on the edge of the bed and Cromwell took her hand; for the first time, he had the slightest colour in his cheeks, as thin as they now appeared. The man painted by Holbein not a year ago bore no resemblance to this man, who had lost so much weight in the last month. Gone was the swelling to his face though the bruises of the cupping experiments remained on his skin.

  ‘I fear I have no remembrance of anything,’ he said, finally his voice heard again, quiet but more than a whisper at last.

  Tears ran down Nicòla’s face, unable to keep her cover as a man at this moment, and she clutched Cromwell’s hand to her chest. As she silently cried, Mercy stood by her side, one hand on her shoulder, she too in tears of joy at the recovery.

  ‘I do believe we have witnessed something of a miracle,’ Dr. Butts said. ‘For I checked on Secretary Cromwell, not an hour gone, and he remained the same. God has performed a miracle.’

  ‘I woke hither,’ Cromwell croaked, ‘to find myself in bed. I feel I have been hither for some time… I remember Gregory in the room, figures standing around the bed, you, Mercy and Nicòla…’

  ‘The King came to the house to visit,’ Mercy replied with a sniff.

  ‘No, Henry hates illness,’ Cromwell croaked.

  ‘Another miracle,’ Dr. Butts said. ‘Shall I inform the King and court of your current state, sir?’

  Cromwell looked feebly to Nicòla, who instructed Butts to leave for Whitehall at once. As the doctor sped away, she turned to Mercy. ‘Tell Gregory at once that his father has broken his fever. Get messages to Ralph and Richard… and to everyone they need to tell. We are well due for some good news. Awake Archbishop Cranmer from his bed, for we must truly thank God for this miracle.’

  Mercy turned away with a happy smile while Cromwell turned his attention to the doctors. ‘Who are you, fine gentlemen? Forgive me, but you appear…’

  ‘Jewish,’ Nicòla finished for him. ‘Dr. Toledo and Dr. Salomon have come from Brussels at my request, with the King’s permission. They have discovered remedies to help you recover.’

  ‘You shall feel discomfort in your bruises,’ Dr. Salomon said as he touched Cromwell’s arm. Cromwell’s eyes followed his arm, shoulder and onto his chest as the doctor pulled back his nightshirt to reveal bruising from the hot glass cups stuck to his body. ‘We have sucked fluids loose in your body to help you recover from your illness. All shall heal in good time.’

  ‘Now you are awake, we can discover more remedies for you,’ Dr. Toledo added. ‘We shall start simple. You must drink a broth made of chicken and garlic at least three times a day. You have been suffering a pain of the stomach and garlic shall cure all. But first, more onion water with garlic and mustard.’

  ‘To drink?’ Cromwell screwed up his nose.

  ‘And we must
get you bathed, Mr. Cromwell, for “hygiène”, as the French say, is important in your recovery. You are fortunate to be one of the cleanest English men I ever met, but still, the faster we get you from the bed, the better. Dr. Butts will demand you rest, but we believe in gentle movements to restore your health. Even if you simply sit in a chair and we move your arms for you. It moves the blood and will too help your mind. We must rub every muscle every day as you learn to walk again.’

  ‘Have I been much ill?’ Cromwell asked.

  ‘You have been in bed for a month. We thought you so close to death that the King came to the bedside, only to witness you in the fits of fever,’ Nicòla explained, to Cromwell’s shock.

  ‘Worry not, Mr. Cromwell,’ Doctor Toledo added. ‘For now, you are awake; not only can we look after your bodily health, we can restore your mind’s health. We have heard of your devotion to your faith, and we have said prayer of many forms for you. You should also take a wife, Mr. Cromwell.’

  ‘Would that help me recover?’ Cromwell smiled, still holding Nicòla’s hand.

  ‘We must balance all parts of your life. We believe this lack of balance has caused your break from health. You are a man much loved by those in your household, Mr. Cromwell, and that shall help your health.’

  ‘Dr. Toledo and Dr. Salomon knew my father when their families passed through Florence many years ago,’ Nicòla said. ‘Their fathers were doctors forced from Spain and treated Father and the Pope many years past.’

  ‘I shall reward you dearly, and ensure you have safe passage and contacts back in Brussels,’ Cromwell whispered to them both.

  ‘We come where our souls guide us, Mr. Cromwell. Worry not.’

  ‘Could I have a moment with my companion?’ Cromwell asked. ‘For soon my children, born and adopted, of all ages shall be upon me.’

  ‘While their love is needed to help cure your body and mind, we shall ensure they are limited in their time with you,’ Dr. Salomon replied, and both men bowed to their patient and shuffled from the room.