Shaking the Throne

by Caroline Angus Baker

  The truth of the matter was far removed from the trials. The execution took place on a wet day, the fourth day of May. No sounds of familiar voices placing calm judgement now; the air filled with cries, screams, gasps and shrieks. The smell of Londoners packed at Tyburn to watch the spectacle made Nicòla hold a glove to her face; the wide hat upon her head too thin to muffle the noise of the crowd. Cromwell did not attend; none of the lords attended. Twas not deemed safe. Nicòla went along, left the court when Cromwell had not a moment to notice her missing. She had sat in the court and listened as these men pledged to die for their beliefs, for their Catholic faith. These men would not betray what they believed and wanted to die the most horrific death. Nicòla had been the one to ensure that Cromwell’s trial, which he could not organise from his sickbed, got the result desired by the King. She needed to be the one to witness the deaths.

  Hanging each man took longer than expected. Each struggled against the rope, Nicòla close enough to hear them choking. Their bodies, cut down and moving more by chance than effort, wiggled in the light rain as they were castrated and disembowelled. The axe used to cut off their heads and end their pain needed several chops to get through the bone; but the bodies broke apart easily enough. They would all have body parts scattered around London, including in front of monastic houses. Nicòla reported all back to the King.

  Nicòla ordered a change of clothes before she went back into the Cromwell Chambers. When she found Cromwell, behind his new spectacles, he sat in his throne of a chair where she had sat these past eight weeks. No more; back to the stool in the corner at the desk dedicated to accounting.

  Cromwell tossed his glasses on the table before him with a stern brow. ‘Where were you all this time?’ he asked as he leaned back in his chair.

  Nicòla clasped her hands behind her back, to at least appear formal in the eyes of so many who could overhear the conversation out in the other offices. ‘I am sorry, Secretary Cromwella. For I have been at Tyburn this morning.’

  With a double click of his fingers, Cromwell gestured at the doors. Nicòla closed them and turned back to see an exasperated expression.

  ‘Why, Nicò? Why would you wish to see something so vile? These men have committed high treason. We were all cautioned not to attend, for reasons of safety.’

  ‘Because people could do to us what was done to those men of God.’

  ‘If those men were good people like us, they would have obeyed their master, the King. For that is the holy law of this country, we wrote those laws in this office.’

  ‘I made certain of those men’s guilty verdicts while you were ill. I was the one who made sure all the work you had done continued in your absence. I had to see the end of the whole awful mess.’

  ‘You lost a child – we both lost a child but weeks ago, Nicò. You need not be hither.’

  ‘If I am condemned to this life, it is nothing to see four men cut into strips.’

  Cromwell rose from his seat, feeling steady again. ‘A many number of things would have ended in ruin if I had died, Nicò. One of my main worries was what would become of you! Now I am returned to health and you seem angry at me for my recovery. I know you are not a vicious person. I know you are weak from your loss. I held my words when you told the King I needed deputies for many of my appointments. I hold my tongue as you spend every night in your own bed. Yet now you have defied me once again in witnessing executions without guards at your side. How are you condemned in this life? Do you mean our child’s loss?’

  Nicòla shrugged her shoulders, even she could not understand her recent anger.

  ‘Every night since I recovered from my fever, Nicò, I should have prayed in thanks for my survival. Yet I have begged God to help me relieve the pain I feel when I think of you losing a child while I laid silent in bed, but one room away, and provided you with no comfort. The country could have come apart with my death and I think of you, of our children, our family, our friends.’

  ‘I am angered none by your survival, Tom.’ Nicòla could not use the pet name she used for him. ‘I could not worry or mourn as a wife at a sick husband’s bedside. I could not be in confinement as a mother who lost a child. I had to be hither, as a servant working for his master. All I shall ever be is a servant to a master. If you had died, then I would be in hiding, as Margarete is for being the secret wife of an archbishop. It has been a time of worry. I sought to ease your burden by placing deputies in your place while you fought illness, and now too, so you do not fall back into illness. I am but a servant.’

  ‘You are my wife, Nicòletta.’

  ‘Not in law, and not by words said before a man of God.’

  ‘The King heard our words in marriage.’

  ‘A king who can change the whole Church to relieve himself of marriage when the time is right.’

  A heavy bang appeared from the other side of the closed doors.

  ‘Away with you!’ Cromwell boomed. ‘Nicò, if that is what you wish, we shall say vows once more before Cranmer in the chapel within the palace walls.’

  ‘Even Cranmer would not oblige, despite all his knowledge, for my annulment in Italy is not yet approved.’

  ‘Then we shall increase the speed and get the job done. We can send a secret envoy to the Emperor in Rome, telling him he can get his daughter married to the Duke of Florence because we can secure the agreement of Nicòletta Frescobaldi.’

  ‘And then what? I wear a dress and your reputation is tarnished by my association?’

  ‘I know not how to please you, Nicò!’

  The heavy bang appeared again. This time accompanied by the voice of his Cromwell’s nephew Richard.

  ‘Secretary Cromwell, urgent news!’

  Cromwell sunk back in his chair and Nicòla opened the doors. Richard came in with a rush, a message in his hand. ‘News, uncle,’ Richard said in a puff from running. ‘News from Rome that Bishop Fisher is to be made a cardinal.’

  ‘A cardinal!’ Cromwell cried as he stood up again in a second. ‘We shall sooner send Fisher’s head to Rome than receive a red cardinal’s hat in England! To think the Pope would make the traitor Fisher a cardinal, a privilege that once belonged to Cardinal Wolsey! He speaks and writes nothing but treason from his cell in the Tower.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Richard handed a pamphlet to Cromwell across the desk. ‘This is a new work by Fisher. Tis called “The Ways to Perfect Religion” and is to be distributed.’

  ‘Men have had their bodies carved up today for speaking against the King and Queen. And for speaking against the Reformation we seek to create,’ Nicòla said to the pair before her. ‘The time has come that Bishop Fisher and Sir Thomas More, who continue to sit in their cells after a year, who speak with one another through secret messengers, have their cases heard.’

  ‘And what do you suggest?’ Richard asked, looking between Nicòla and Cromwell.

  ‘The time has come; they were warned of their fates,’ Cromwell gruffed. ‘Let us to the Tower at once.’

  ~~~

  Nicòla walked with Cromwell, though a step behind, as expected. Both clad in black, they walked the pathways inside the Tower grounds, aware of the silence. Since guards had dragged the monks from their cells at dawn, everything was again locked up tight. At least by travelling on a private barge, it could distance Cromwell from the people of London, all angered at him for the morning’s executions.

  ‘What are you to say to Bishop Fisher?’ Nicòla asked as they walked, a guard far ahead of them.

  ‘I shall say he has been made a cardinal, and suggest he take back his writings and statements and submit to the King’s will, or he shall not live long enough to receive his red hat.’

  ‘Can we stop a bishop becoming cardinal?’ Nicòla asked. ‘As of now, hat or not, he is to be Cardinal Fisher, by order of the Pope.’

  ‘To spite the King only. Rome does not rule religious law any longer. King Henry rules, he names cardinals.’

  ‘Yet Henry has not done so.’


  ‘Wolsey has been dead not yet five years. Fisher is no man to be a cardinal in Wolsey’s place.’

  ‘Perchance no man can be in Henry’s eyes.’

  Cromwell sighed, not looking at Nicòla as he spoke. ‘I wish to let Fisher live quietly, and I shall tell him so. But Fisher is for the Pope at present, against executions, arrests, monastery inspections. Fisher could become a symbol for a larger revolt against the King. If he does not submit to the Oath now, then he faces trial and execution.’

  ‘And Sir Thomas More?’

  ‘More is but a fool, but also a symbol for rebellion. He is a known Catholic, strong in his faith, and against Henry and Anne. Imprisoned, he could be the symbol the people need to refuse the Oath. He too has run out of time.’

  ‘Do you wish for us to execute More?’

  Cromwell paused as they came to a door at the base of the White Tower, the most secure building in the centre of the grounds. ‘I wish to stop people dying for faith, not promote death.’

  ‘No one can sway Henry,’ Nicòla replied as they continued along a dark hallway and up the first set of stairs.

  ‘We can try one more time. Once I tell His Majesty about Fisher’s cardinal elevation, Henry will want him dead. The least I can do is give Fisher this one last chance.’

  ‘I wish not to see Fisher,’ Nicòla replied as they walked along another hallway behind the guard. ‘I believe in the Reformation and yet, when seeing men like Fisher, of another time and of the old faith…’

  Cromwell stopped and turned around in the narrow hallway. She need not say any more. ‘I permit you to wait outside, Nicò. I need no witness to this meeting.’

  ‘Might I speak to Sir Thomas on your behalf?’

  ‘He threatens to speak your truth,’ Cromwell muttered under his breath.

  ‘I am not afraid of Sir Thomas More.’

  ‘Take his books, take his paper and quills. But he may turn vicious.’

  The door closed behind Nicòla and she waited in the silent cell. Sir Thomas More sat in a chair across the room by an arched window, the light falling upon a tiny desk. Gone was the man of majesty; after a year in confinement, More had aged at speed; his hair all grey and dry like hay, his skin ashen, his clothes filthy, and the smell made Nicòla hold her breath.

  ‘They send me the Waif?’ More said with a dry cough. He troubled himself none to move from his plain chair. Nicòla moved to stand closer to him, not willing to get comfortable in the cell.

  ‘Have I fallen so low I only get the creature which Cromwell keeps in his office?’ More continued.

  ‘Harsh words from such a pious man,’ Nicòla said as she brought her hands together.

  ‘Time has made me a different man. I cannot stand in this cell, with my wife and daughter crying, begging me, and not become a hardened man.’

  ‘I come bearing news. Bishop Fisher is to be Cardinal Fisher.’

  ‘What glorious news!’ A smile spread across More’s dirty face. ‘The Pope has seen Fisher’s determination to hold steady to the true faith!’

  ‘It will see Fisher killed. Which means you are in danger, for you have been imprisoned for a while, and we can lay new charges, Sir Thomas.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Such as you have been conspiring with Fisher within these walls. There are letters in Fisher’s room, written by you.’

  ‘No, he burns letters.’ More bit his lower lip but it was too late.

  ‘So, the letters are real. You fell into a simple trap, Sir Thomas,’ Nicòla teased. ‘Men were executed this morning for refusing to sign the Oath. Bishop Fisher, Cardinal Fisher, is likely to die also for this. Yet you also do not swear the Oath and still say the Pope is the Head of the Church. You argue about petty legal details regarding my master’s laws.’

  ‘Your master, Mr. Frescobaldi, wrote laws stating a king could be the Head of the Church. You cannot create laws and use them to replace divine teachings!’

  ‘We write such laws. Thousands across England are signing the Oath right now. You need to recant your words, sign the Oath, and you can go home, Sir Thomas. Fisher is being offered that same deal as we speak.’

  ‘And if I do not sign?’

  ‘Today I take your books, your papers and your quills, deprive you of all correspondence. They will give you a trial and then, if guilty, shall be executed at the King’s pleasure.’

  ‘Because the King’s will and pleasure is law, all thanks to Cromwell.’

  ‘Indeed. Do you deny the King is the Head of the Church? That his marriage to Anne is lawful and his rightful heir is Princess Elizabeth?’

  ‘I stand not against Anne and Elizabeth. I am a true supporter of Katherine, and yet I seek not to argue against the marriage or succession.’

  ‘And Henry as Head of the Church?’

  ‘I have relied upon the legal precedent, the maxim “qui tacet consentire videtur” during my time in the Tower.’

  ‘He who is silent is taken to agree,’ Nicòla translated More’s Latin.

  ‘I have not expressed a word against the Oath of Supremacy.’

  ‘Yet you have not sworn and signed that the Oath is right. You may not have denied the Oath, but you have not spoken for it either. This argument shall not last forever, Sir Thomas.’

  ‘No man may be the Head of Spirituality!’ More said in anger.

  Nicòla narrowed her eyes. Those were the words she needed to have More convicted of treason. ‘You accept the Pope was Head of Spirituality.’

  ‘He is the Pope, chosen by God.’

  ‘God chose Henry to be king,’ Nicòla argued. ‘What if the law changed, and Henry was no longer the King? Would you accept it?’

  ‘I would have to, as an English subject, though it could never occur.’

  ‘What if a law passed saying Secretary Cromwella was king, would you accept it?’ Nicòla asked.

  ‘Again, I would have to face it, if the law was clear. I see not how this could be, but...’

  ‘I imagine this only, Sir Thomas,’ Nicòla interrupted. ‘What if we wrote a law, stating Secretary Cromwella was the Pope?’

  ‘No such law could be written. No one can make laws to decide a pope. That is a divine choosing.’

  ‘What if the law said Secretary Cromwella was now God?’

  ‘No, because man cannot make laws that decide on the spirituality. Only God can decide such things.’

  Nicòla desperately tried to keep her smile to herself; she had what she needed. More had just denied Henry as the Head of the Church, albeit in different words. She knocked on the cell’s door once more, and it opened at once. ‘See that all books, papers and inks are taken,’ she commanded. ‘Everything is to be cleared from this cell, as Sir Thomas More shall no longer be permitted to write, read or send and receive anything from his cell. Take the desk and chair too.’

  More rose from his chair as guards took away the pile of books nestled into the corner of the room, bathed in sunlight. ‘Tu loquerisne Latine?’

  ‘I speak Latin,’ Nicòla replied and turned back.

  More watched the guard for a moment. ‘Is it true?’

  ‘Is what true, Sir Thomas?’

  More fixed his eyes upon Nicòla again. ‘Vos autem femina.’ More still wondered whether Nicòla was a woman.

  ‘Yes,’ she taunted him. ‘One of great power, in Rome, in Florence, in London.’

  ‘Fornicariae,’ More spat back, calling her a whore.

  ‘And yet no one would believe you, were you to speak out against me. Your King trusts in me, your archbishop of Canterbury, so many people believe in me, Sir Thomas. You may slander me, as so many have done before. I came today in good faith and you have shown me what path you wish to take. God have mercy upon your soul.’

  C

  Chapter 25 – June 1535

  anger at lyes lasts forever

  The Tower, London

  Cromwell pleaded in private.

  King Henry raged in public.

  Cardinal Fisher mour
ned in private.

  Richard Rich lied in public.

  All of Catholic England prayed.

  Of all the sins and wants, all the questioning and avoiding, it was Rich’s words which did the most damage. A council of twelve, Cromwell among them, Lord Chancellor Audley at the head, presided over the trial of John Fisher, freshly stripped of his title as Bishop of Rochester. Now a commoner, accused of high treason by failing to swear the King’s Oath, would have to argue for his life. Yet there were no words to save the old man from death, for the decision was made the moment Henry decided he wanted Fisher gone forever. And so, Cromwell got Richard Rich, another of Cardinal Wolsey’s men from years past, to act as a witness to Fisher saying he would refuse to bow to the will of the King. Cromwell wrote the lies Rich was to say, and in return, the role of England’s Solicitor General would be in Rich’s keeping.

  ‘Fisher falsely, maliciously, and traitorously wished, willed, desired, and imagined, invented, practised, and attempted to deprive the King of the dignity, title, and name of his royal estate, the title of Supreme Head of the Church of England. He stated this in the Tower, on seventh day of May, when, contrary to his allegiance, he said, in the presence of different true subjects, falsely, maliciously, and traitorously, these words: “The King our sovereign Lord is not Supreme Head on Earth of the Church of England.”’

  The chorus of watchers and jurors of men sat in the court at Westminster Hall and listened to the lies as they poured from Rich’s smirking mouth, yet all Cromwell saw was Nicòla’s heavy shoulders. For reasons Cromwell never understood, Nicòla despised Rich. She claimed him to be untrustworthy, despite Rich’s constant service to Cromwell. But Cromwell and the other jurors needed a witness to Fisher’s treason, and Rich was more than willing to keep company with such lies.