Shaking the Throne

by Caroline Angus Baker

‘Jewish doctors in London,’ Cromwell said, his voice already fading again. ‘I have worried you.’

  Nicòla shuffled up the bed, so she could sit alongside Cromwell and gently kissed his cheek. ‘You may come to remember all in time, Tomassito, but know this – the illness you have suffered, something no one can understand, is one of the greatest afflictions many have witnessed. None have suffered worse than this; this was worse than the sweating sickness and the plague together. You have been to the fires of hell.’

  ‘I have been dreaming, I think. I have been drowning in hot water. I close my eyes and see myself sinking in hot water. Thomas More is above the water, yet he will not help me to the surface. He meant to see me dead.’

  ‘More is still locked in the Tower. You must fear not, for we have done our best during your illness. The court continues to function. We will soon find the Carthusian monks guilty of heresy and see them executed. The monasteries continue to be inspected.’

  ‘And you? Pray, have I infected you?’

  ‘You infected no one, my love, for you suffer from an internal destruction, one where you could not breathe, nor eat or drink. You could not cool down, or talk, move, or sleep soundly. Your stomach pained you. Your head pounded. You choked on every mouthful of fluid I tried to give you, fought every wet cloth we sought to clean you with and vomited every day and night.’

  ‘God has been purging,’ Cromwell uttered. ‘I thought I had paid my debts to God.’

  ‘We have.’ Nicòla paused as a sharp pain started between her legs and shot up her back. ‘Tomassito, I did my best, I swear. Yet I have fallen short in one regard in your absence.’

  ‘How could it be so? There be nothing in this realm we cannot cure.’

  ‘I am afraid…’ Nicòla paused and took a heavy swallow, ‘I am afraid God does not see it fit for a woman to both work at court and carry a child. I had to hold your place in the King’s favour, and it came at great cost. My crying at your bedside added burdens to a son who could not bear any more. God did what needed to be done.’

  Cromwell’s weak hand drifted to Nicòla’s stomach, and she flinched when he touched the soft mass which should have been solid with a baby boy. ‘God took another Cromwell son?’ he whispered. ‘Why seek to torture me if the price to pay for our sins was the child’s soul?’

  ‘The boy’s soul is safe, for Cranmer made sure. But I fear I shall forever be in debt to the Lord.’

  ‘I know we must follow God’s will, and yet what God would take the soul of a child as payment? And more than once?’

  ‘All I can say to our Lord and Saviour is a great thank you for bringing you back. If I had to trade the life of the baby for yours, I can only submit to God’s will, no matter how awful it was to suffer.’

  ‘Are you in much pain?’ Cromwell asked.

  ‘It happened but yesterday, but for all the horror, it was not too difficult. I can only beg God to never again send me a child if he has no means to let me keep him.’

  ‘If God has done this to us,’ Cromwell said as he rested his tired head on Nicòla’s shoulder, ‘perchance now we can continue our love knowing God has taken all he can from us.’

  ‘God not yet has our heads.’

  ‘Then we shall have to take heads, for I believe you are no longer in debt to God. Perchance God is in debt to us.’

  ‘God cannot be in debt.’

  ‘Forget the torture we have endured these past weeks, past years, for it is time they treated us like the kings and queens we could be in this country. Perchance your Jewish men are right; for our bodily health to improve we must improve the health of our minds. We must learn to eat well, drink well, sleep well. Love well.’

  ‘I can mourn our baby, but I could not live a day without you.’

  ‘Or I you.’

  ‘Let this illness never be seen on Earth again.’

  C

  Chapter 23 – April 1535

  if soomeone you love deepends on your lye, then it is easy

  Whitehall Palace, London

  As much as Cromwell detested to admit it, his new rivet spectacles were rather useful. The silver frame, held by a single rivet which balanced upon his nose, held the Murano glass before his eyes, allowing him to see clearer than he had for years. He knew his old patron Francesco, Nicòla’s father, had worn them thirty years prior, yet never imagined himself to be old enough to wear them. Yet now, at court for the first time in six weeks, Cromwell wore new spectacles on his face, a walking staff at his side. At least the staff was beautiful; glorious polished dark wood, a silver knob atop with his initials engraved. Nicòla had it made to appease his indifference to relying on a stick to help him walk. But if wearing the spectacles and carrying a staff got him back to court, Cromwell was ready to do so. Such was the amount of his weight loss meant getting around the court was far simpler than he expected, though all his clothes had to be resewn, now half the man he used to be.

  Cromwell stood in King Henry’s presence chamber, leaning heavily on the staff when Ambassador Chapuys entered the room. Without the King present, Chapuys wandered over and Cromwell gritted his teeth. News of Cromwell’s return to court spread, so a quiet return to work became impossible. Chapuys looked Cromwell up and down as if judging his existence.

  ‘The rumours are true,’ Chapuys squeezed through his French accent. ‘You have returned to court at last. Many thought the double-minded man dead, Cromwell.’

  ‘Many have wished so.’

  ‘Many have added it to their nightly prayers.’

  ‘Perchance, Eustace, perchance. Have you come to pick over my bones? I am sorry, but I have not yet finished with them.’

  Chapuys laughed just a touch. ‘I hear idle gossip you smuggled Jews into England, to cure you with witchcraft.’

  ‘Some would call your Catholic faith witchcraft also, so be careful who you throw such accusations towards, for I am still the Vicegerent of this country.’

  ‘And four monks are on trial now for their lives, all due to not signing your Oath. The judges hearing their cases are men in your pocket!’

  ‘Everyone is in my pocket,’ Cromwell said calmly. After the pain of the earlier six weeks, nothing Chapuys said would bait him into anger. He had not the strength for anger. ‘We issued these monks warnings for their treason and hateful speeches against Queen Anne. I gave them a chance to repent a year past, and they refused. Now, if they are found guilty of treason, be it on their heads only.’

  Behind Chapuys, Cromwell saw Nicòla come in, her hands full with papers, probably petitions given to her in the antechamber outside. She had fulfilled Cromwell’s role at court to her own detriment, and stood hither today, only two weeks after losing a child, and still weak from pain and worry.

  Before Cromwell could catch Nicòla’s eye, the door to Henry’s privy chamber opened and the man himself appeared looking worn and weary. Without a word, he climbed the two carpeted stairs to his throne and sat down while everyone remained bowed and hushed.

  ‘Thomas Cromwell!’ Henry said when he noticed him standing against the wall. Chapuys swiftly edged himself away from Henry, his flapping lips finally silenced. ‘You have come forth once more! How glad I am to see you in our court as we have much to contend with today.’

  ‘Thank you, Your Majesty.’

  ‘You look old,’ Henry replied.

  ‘As do you.’

  Henry roared with laughter. ‘Only you could speak in such words, Thomas. Only you.’ He paused and turned to Nicòla, standing firm in the centre of the large room. ‘Our dear Mr. Frescobaldi. I see you have come with all we need today?’

  ‘Indeed, Your Majesty,’ Nicòla said, her voice low and controlled. She did not even look to Cromwell, which hurt his feelings. Nicòla stood before the King in total confidence; she had watched court for years, stood in silence in the background, yet seemed to have no trouble in stepping forward now.

  ‘How is the trial against the monks from the London Charterhouse? Any confessions? We must s
ecure the public obedience of Carthusian monks, and they must support my marriage to Anne.’

  ‘All have confessed to speaking ill of the Queen, Your Majesty, and witnesses testified as such. The first four monks are due to be pronounced guilty and they shall face execution. That sentence will be handed out this week.’

  ‘Is Sebastian Newdigate among them?’

  ‘No, Your Majesty. Newdigate has not yet been arrested.’

  ‘Newdigate was a friend of mine, he worked within my privy chamber before taking up a monastic life. I would not wish to see him quartered. He is not arrested, yet he has not signed the Oaths of Supremacy and Succession?’

  ‘No, Your Majesty, he has not. These first four monks shall be executed promptly, but we shall arrest more. I am sad too that your friend shall be among those arrested unless you expressly forbid it.’

  ‘No, I cannot,’ Henry sighed. ‘We must punish all.’

  Cromwell watched Nicòla, who stood tall to Henry as she calmly spoke about having monks hanged, drawn and quartered. He had spent six weeks fighting in bed, yet Nicòla had lost a child and risen in Cromwell’s eyes. She locked her eyes on Henry while she spoke, something many men could not do.

  ‘Let us talk of finer things,’ Henry said. ‘I am to knight Thomas Wyatt.’

  ‘I think Sir Thomas Wyatt sounds most fitting,’ Nicòla replied with a smile. ‘He shall be hither tomorrow to thank His Majesty.’

  ‘Splendid. What else?’

  ‘We need to discuss which roles Secretary Cromwella shall cease to hold.’

  That startled Cromwell. He leaned away from the wall and leaned on his staff. He had heard none of this. Was he losing places at court? Was he losing positions? And yet Nicòla stood there and mentioned it as if it was acceptable?

  Now Nicòla glanced at Cromwell. Her green eyes were still and calm. ‘Shall we run through the list, Your Majesty?’ she asked, her eyes on Cromwell.

  ‘Your Majesty…’ Cromwell began.

  Henry raised a hand to stop Cromwell. ‘I am awarding you the position of Steward of the Manor of Savoy and Bailiff of Enfield in Middlesex, Thomas. Both roles I hope you can handle.’

  ‘Naturally, Your Majesty, and I thank you…’

  ‘Also, the Lordships of Edmonton and Sainsbury, Middlesex.’

  ‘Lordship?’ Cromwell asked, his throat already burned for the day, even though he had only broken his fast not two hours ago.

  ‘Can you cope with such a role, Thomas, with your illness?’

  ‘I have made a full recovery… to say I shall make a full recovery with all haste.’

  ‘I shall also appoint you Steward of the Duchies of Lancaster, Essex, Hertfordshire and Middlesex. I cannot make you a duke, Thomas, but I can award the duchies to you.’

  ‘The roles are handled through series of deputies,’ Nicòla said as she fiddled with the papers in her hands. ‘Secretary Cromwella shall be able to hold such a prestigious role with his other ministerial roles.’

  The Duchy of Lancaster was the greatest role, one Sir Thomas More had held, Sir Thomas Audley too, both before being Lord Chancellor. Even with the roles of Chief Minister and Vicar-general, Cromwell still longed for the title. He still did not have the King’s Great Seal in his possession.

  ‘Sir William Paulet shall take over much of the work as Surveyor of the King’s Woods from Secretary Cromwella,’ Nicòla said as if they had decided it without Cromwell’s opinion. ‘Privy Councillor Richard Cromwella shall take a joint role in the running of Hertford Castle and Berkeley Castle. Ralph Sadler shall take the role of Clerk of the Hanaper, held jointly with Secretary Cromwella. Robert Wroth, who has been working as the Steward of Westminster Abbey in Secretary Cromwella’s absence shall continue for now.’

  ‘See, we seek not to supplant you, Thomas,’ Henry said. ‘Only ease your burden.’

  ‘Running this kingdom is no burden!’ Cromwell cried. ‘Your Majesty,’ he added in hurry.

  ‘We are yet to appoint a new Chancellor and High Steward for Cambridge University, and Commissioners for the Peace for Bristol, Kent, Middlesex and Surrey,’ Nicòla added.

  ‘I can manage those roles,’ Cromwell spat out, hurt to not have Nicòla on his side. ‘I have aides and deputies all who work to keep my offices functioning, Your Majesty. I seek not to rule, only to serve.’

  ‘You may have those titles if you choose, Thomas,’ Henry warned. ‘But there is worry you are holding all the power in England and that almost killed you. Your pride took over your body, and you failed.’

  ‘I fail at nothing!’ Cromwell cried, already feeling sweat upon his brow.

  ‘It has not been a good time to have my Vicegerent of the monasteries in bed, Thomas. For the inspections around England are underway, and the inspection papers are filling offices.’

  ‘I have that well in hand, Your Majesty,’ Nicòla said, and again Cromwell felt supplanted. ‘At our next monasteries meeting in the privy chamber, we can discuss abuses seen in monasteries and abbeys around your country. Plus, we have new totals on the profits you shall gain from dissolving these corrupt institutions.’

  ‘I can be ready to take over the role as head of monastery inspections again, Your Majesty,’ Cromwell cut in over Nicòla. ‘I can be ready to discuss them today.’ Lies straight from his lips. He felt weak and needed to rest soon. But he did not work all his life to be cut out of important matters of state due to a mystery illness.

  ‘Mr. Frescobaldi has made for a good deputy in your absence,’ Henry replied, ‘and you should be most proud of the work done by your creature. The work is penance for his behaviour in assaulting the Imperial Ambassador. Frescobaldi has translated many great quotes from “The Prince” by Niccolò Machiavelli for me. Frescobaldi, which quote did you use to explain your outburst towards the Ambassador?’

  ‘Whenever men are not obliged to fight from necessity, they fight from ambition, Your Majesty,’ Nicòla recited.

  ‘Yes,’ Henry agreed. ‘I like to see those who work in my court have such ambition to impress me.’

  Nicòla did not flinch, not blink, nothing. Cromwell could see her face lined with pain. She did not seek to supplant him, only save him from his own ambition. She appeared dull, hidden under rose-gold curls. Cromwell’s vanity and need for power had pushed them both to their limits.

  ‘Have you heard the Waif’s plan for royal progress, Thomas?’ Henry asked. ‘We are to be away for months, promoting the Reformation outside of London.’

  ‘I confess I know none of this, Your Majesty.’

  ‘Tell us the details,’ Henry asked Nicòla.

  ‘The court shall be on progress for almost four months,’ Nicòla said, to the people in the room, and listening from the doorway. ‘We shall make thirty stops along the way, travelling through Oxfordshire, Wiltshire, Hampshire and Berkshire, starting and finishing at Windsor Castle. Has my foreign tongue pronounced these curious regions, Your Majesty?’

  ‘Well enough. Oh, Thomas, it shall be marvellous, a chance to show off my beautiful Anne and talk of the Reformation we shall push through this country, Thomas. You shall come?’

  ‘I could but try.’

  ‘Try getting more deputies such as the Waif, and perchance you could enjoy this glorious reign of ours. I cannot award titles to Frescobaldi, being the foreign creature of the Cromwell Chambers,’ Henry continued. ‘I know you reward your master secretary well enough. Frescobaldi, could you suggest a reward for your work?’

  ‘I live to serve my master, Your Majesty. If I could ask for anything, I would ask you to promote Archbishop Cranmer to be the deputy of the Vicar-general position, so you have Secretary Cromwella in charge of the legal matters, while Archbishop Cranmer deals with any religious matters.’

  Again, Nicòla sought to take roles from him. Cromwell could not believe his own ears. Perchance he was still in bed, raging with fever.

  ‘Another sound decision. We must take care of our Thomas, should we not?’ Henry laughed.

&nb
sp; ‘Your Majesty, I am well…’

  ‘You know what we need, Frescobaldi?’ Henry said to the room. ‘Secretary Cromwell needs a new wife.’

  Both Cromwell and Nicòla startled at this suggestion, said where hundreds of ears were in the close distance.

  ‘Your sister,’ Henry said and winked to Nicòla. ‘Your sister’s name?’

  ‘Nicòletta Frescobaldi de’Medici, Duchess of Florence,’ Nicòla choked.

  ‘But the Duke wants an annulment, does he not? To marry the bastard child of the Emperor?’

  ‘That is the rumour, yes, Your Majesty,’ she replied.

  ‘Your sister will lose her vast dowry if they annul the marriage?’

  ‘Yes, Your Majesty.’

  ‘Does the annulment have good cause?’

  ‘I believe it does. The new Pope is eager to make peace with the Emperor and will undo the marriage sanctioned by the old Pope. Florence is not a safe city, and it needs to be in the embrace of Rome and the Emperor.’

  ‘Your sister, one hidden away in country estates outside Florence, shall need refuge. Her bastard daughter lives in Cromwell’s home still, does she not?’

  ‘She does, Your Majesty.’

  ‘Perchance the Duchess shall make a fine bride for our Thomas?’ Henry continued to tease.

  Cromwell gasped as the floor came towards him. He knew he was fainting but was powerless to stand up to the King’s jests and his illness.

  F

  Chapter 24 – May 1535

  people lye when they are afrayd of the trouth

  Tyburn, London

  ‘John Houghton, of the London Carthusian Charterhouse, you are found guilty of high treason. You are to be laid on a hurdle and so drawn to the place of execution, and there to be hanged, cut down alive, your members to be cut off and cast in the fire, your bowels burnt before you, your head smitten off, and your body quartered and divided at the King’s will, and God have mercy on your soul.’

  The words came forth from the panel with ease. Houghton’s verdict, along with the others, went just as planned. In Cromwell’s absence, Nicòla had spent much time in the court, listening to the charges laid against the four Carthusian monks who refused to take the Oath. Houghton had been warned a year before his arrest; all the men had been warned. Now, Houghton, Prior of the London Charterhouse, and Robert Lawrence, Prior of Beauvale and Augustine Webster, Prior of Epworth would die at Tyburn. So too would Richard Reynolds, a Bridgettine monk from Syon Abbey. A secular priest from Middlesex, who called himself John Haile, would be executed for speaking against King Henry’s new marriage.