Cromwell wanted not to see Bishop Fisher killed, hanged in public, his innards cut from him, his head struck off, limbs chopped away, no. He wanted the people of England to stop rallying to Fisher’s defence, to stop believing in the Catholic faith, the faith Henry needed to take from his realm. Everyone needed to believe in Henry’s marriage to Anne, now two years old, and they had to believe Henry ruled the Church in England, not the Pope. Fisher was steadfast in his faith; Cromwell had no choice but to admire the man’s courage and conviction in his beliefs. But Fisher was ready to be a martyr to his religion, and Cromwell needed to make him one, to spare the wrath of Henry’s current rages.
On that warm seventeenth day of June, the court ruled that Fisher had to die for his crimes. The people of London were ready to explode in anger and disbelief at the decision made, not that a single person could swear it startled them. June 24 was the feast day of Saint John the Baptist, executed by King Herod for questioning his marriage to Herod’s brother’s widow. Even the most foolish man in London could see the lesson in the tale. As the people talked, Henry continued to feel angered, and promised to commute Fisher’s sentence to beheading if he was dead before the feast day. So, he left it to Cromwell to see that on June 22, Fisher’s head, due to be crowned with a cardinal’s hat, would instead be struck off at Tower Hill.
Grey clouds hovered over London on the morning of Fisher’s execution. Cromwell stood, Nicòla beside him as Fisher appeared in the main doorway from Bell Tower at nine in the morning, ready to go to the site of his death. Their eyes met for a moment, Fisher a man of five and sixty years, a man kept in the Tower for a year. He was no longer the man Cromwell remembered from all those years before, now he had been worn down by the agony of suffering for his faith. Yet Fisher would die for his God, and he stood, his dark eyes sturdy against Cromwell’s golden gaze, a man dressed in his best of black, ready to meet the God he stood for, who stood above his king. Just for a moment, Cromwell had no words to utter; he held the country and their souls in his hands, and yet he could find no words to mark such an occasion. It was Nicòla, quite out of turn, who found the words as Fisher stood in the meek sunlight.
‘And this is life eternal, that they might know thee the only true God, and Jesus Christ, whom thou hast sent. I have glorified thee on the Earth: I have finished the work which thou gravest me to do,’ Nicòla repeated calmly.
‘John 17:3-4,’ Fisher replied as he wrung his hands. ‘Even in this last hour, I can learn more from our Lord.’
Cromwell turned slightly to Nicòla to see her holding rosary beads between her fingers, forbidden in Cromwell’s presence now, hidden from all at court and the King’s spies. Yet they sat between her slender fingers. Where Nicòla could have gained them, Cromwell knew not.
Nicòla sank to her knees on the damp path before Fisher, and neither the sheriff nor the guards moved as she did so, none prepared to stop the moment. For none believed in the execution of a bishop.
‘O Lord, Jesus Christ, Redeemer and Saviour, forgive my sins against the great Cardinal Fisher,’ Nicòla begged her hands clasped before her, her green eyes shut tight. Fisher reached out and took her hands in his, his skin reddened and scratched from neglect.
Nicòla opened her eyes and looked up at the weary face of the man, and it occurred to Cromwell. Nicòla had poisoned Fisher several years ago, and they had boiled his cook to death after taking the blame. Time had passed, but the sin had not yet been cleansed from Nicòla as far she believed.
‘Count not my transgressions, but, rather, my tears of repentance. Remember not my iniquities, but, more especially, my sorrow for the offences I have committed. I long to be true to Your Word and pray that You will love me and come to make Your dwelling place within me. I promise to give You praise and glory in love and in service all the days of my life, for what I have done to Cardinal Fisher surpassed the glory I can be bestowed by Jesus Christ,’ Nicòla continued, her eyes fixed upon Fisher’s.
‘There is no offence, however serious, that the Church cannot forgive. There is no one who may not confidently hope for forgiveness, provided his repentance is honest,’ Fisher said, to Nicòla’s tender and hopeful smile. He placed one hand on Nicòla’s head as a tear bubbled in her eye. ‘May almighty God bless you, the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit.’
‘Amen,’ all uttered as Nicòla rose to her feet. Cromwell swallowed hard as Nicòla stepped back to come beside him once more. All the faces of those around him appeared as his own; all could not quite believe such a day had come.
Fisher stumbled, his health so bad from his time in prison he could no longer stand, indeed even the trip down the stairs had been brutal. Two guards rushed to hold Fisher, who fell into their arms with great anguish.
‘Fear not, Bishop Fisher,’ Cromwell found his voice, addressing him with the title he lost months ago, by Cromwell’s own directive. ‘We shall have you carried to Tower Hill, none shall punish you with such a demanding walk.’
Cromwell expected chaos along the short walk Fisher would take to the block, but no. Instead, the crowds who lined the way parted with much peace and reverence for the occasion. Cromwell stood with Nicòla tucked behind him, and they watched Fisher carried in a cart from the gates of the Tower and through the crowd. The people of London may have been willing to submit to what would happen today and would respect Fisher, but they could turn on Cromwell, the man who had begun the evil process of taking their Catholic nation apart. Never would Cromwell dare walk into that crowd with comfort and he would never risk Nicòla’s safety. Rather, once Fisher departed, Cromwell and Nicòla left through another doorway, out of the way of the commoners at Tower Hill. Nicòla stood close, right near the front of the execution. Cromwell questioned nothing, as Nicòla’s behaviour had been difficult since his recovery, and losing the baby had seemed to scatter her mind somewhat. If Nicòla thought watching the horror of Fisher’s execution was a punishment, or would make up for things they had done, then Cromwell had no choice but to accept Nicòla’s choice.
Fisher reached out to one guard, to gesture them to halt when he reached the bottom of the scaffold. ‘No,’ he uttered, ‘for I shall walk these final steps alone.’
Cromwell watched along with the silent crowd as Fisher managed to walk up the few wooden stairs unaided, an effort for a man who could barely stand. Fisher stood at the top of the stairs for a moment, and the sun appeared from beyond the clouds, beaming upon his face. His eyes closed, Fisher raised his hands towards the sky. ‘Accédite ad mum, et illuminamini, et facies vestrae ne confundaris,’ he uttered to himself.
‘They looked unto Him and were lightened: and their faces were not ashamed,’ Nicòla repeated to herself as she delicately touched the beads still between her fingers.
Forgiveness given to the hesitant executioner, his black gown and tippet hat stripped away, Fisher turned his attention to the hundreds within the small space waiting to see him die. ‘Christian people, I come hither to die for Christ’s Holy Catholic Church. I thank God that I have not feared death. I desire you to help me with your prayers, so now of death’s stroke, I may stand steadfast for the Catholic faith, free from fear. I beseech Almighty God of his infinite goodness to save the King and this realm, and that it may please Him to send the King good counsel.’
Fisher spoke with such confidence, such courage that the crowd dared not utter a word. Send the King good counsel; it stung Cromwell. He was the King’s counsel, the man to rule in the shadows. He knew he did right by England to pull them from darkness and into the light of the Reformation Yet, on this day, with the only sunlight over London shining upon Bishop Fisher, Cromwell had never felt more alone.
‘God bless you, Cardinal Fisher,’ cried a voice; Nicòla’s voice. She was not the only one; it started off a chain of cries of love and faith to Fisher on the scaffold before them all.
Voices died away again as Fisher fell to his knees before the block. His tired voice rang out once more, back to Latin for the Te De
um. With each line, the crowd joined in, blindly following the Latin words they did know, which was why Cromwell wished all to pray and give hymns in English. While stumbling Latin poured from many mouths, Nicòla spoke perfectly.
‘We believe that thou shalt come; to be our Judge. We, therefore, pray thee, help thy servants: whom thou hast redeemed with thy precious blood. Make them be numbered with thy Saints: in glory everlasting...’
Fisher’s voice trailed off with the final lines. The sun continued to shine in just the one spot where Fisher sat, his eyes closed to the light; the executioner placed the clean white handkerchief over Fisher’s dark eyes. His skin, worn by time, aged by prison, hardened by injustice, appeared grey next to the innocent fabric bound over his sight. Cromwell swallowed hard; again, truth sat in the air; either Fisher died, and the Catholic faith got chased away, or Cromwell would be on the block and the Reformation would sink back into Europe. No honesty, no justice, no fairness entered London today. How to worship God was the only subject under discussion and Cromwell had to keep his own head.
Despite the expectation, the readiness and the preparation, when the sharpened axe fell upon Fisher’s slender neck, the crowd gasped in fright; it had occurred on such a meek summer’s day. How so much blood could squirt from such a thin and weakened body worried even Cromwell, a man hardened by war.
The silence wore away as women wept, and men shuffled their feet on the damp ground, their silent faces stuck in hatred. Cromwell turned slightly to Nicòla, only to see a fresh horror, for in the front row of the crowd, fresh blood from Fisher’s tiny neck had splattered upon her dark olive cheeks. Her green eyes flicked to Cromwell, yet she said nothing; God had done this, another punishment, marking her face with the blood of a man she once tried to kill, and for the man boiled in her place years ago.
Without a word, Cromwell took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the blood from her face. Cromwell’s personal guards had moved ever closer to him and Nicòla as the crowd moved and began their shuffle now the spectacle was over.
‘If it is ever me on the scaffold, I wish you to be the last thing I see,’ Nicòla uttered as Cromwell wiped her face.
‘And I you,’ he replied, his voice gentle, almost lost among the people about them.
‘Pray us never be upon the scaffold.’
‘I work every day to avoid such.’
‘Morirei per te,’ she uttered as Cromwell wiped the final droplets from her cheeks.
‘I would die for you, too. Ti amo moltissimo.’
Nicòla smiled and repeated his words back to him, not understood by the crowd. She loved him deeply too. It took the death of a pious man before them for their rift to cease. Something good had to come from this awful St Alban’s Day, the day of the first Martyr of Britain. Hopefully, this head, to be stuck on a pole on London Bridge, Fisher’s body dumped in an unmarked grave, would appease Henry’s anger and hunger for power. Or any person could be next.
F
Chapter 26 – July 1535
lyes can kill, but so can trouths
The Tower, London
Sir Thomas Audley, Lord Chancellor. Sir Richard Leicester. Thomas Howard, Duke of Norfolk. Sir John Port. Sir John Fitz-James. Sir John Spelman. Sir John Baldwin, Lord Chief Justice. Sir Walter Luke. Sir Anthony Fitz-Herbert. Nicòla’s eyes ran over each man seated side by side at the bench of the court. Some were friends, some enemies, some strangers. All looked upon Nicòla, standing with her hands clasped together, her expression uncomfortable.
‘Mr. Frescobaldi?’ Audley prompted her.
Nicòla glanced to her left, and there sat Sir Thomas More, leaning back in his chair, his body of seven and fifty years weak from a year in the Tower cell. The great man himself, talked of throughout Europe as a genius, a humanist, a scholar and religious man, once the greatest friend to the King of England, sat in a chair and waited with patience for Nicòla’s words. Close behind More sat Cromwell, the man who had pushed her to this place. Someone had to give evidence against More in court; Nicòla swore it should be Richard Rich again, as he revelled in lying about Bishop Fisher. But no, Cromwell’s insistence put Nicòla forward, but Nicòla swore she would only tell the truth. Luckily, the men of the court knew how to frame questions, so the truth sounded guilty.
‘Lord Chancellor,’ Nicòla said, finding her voice. She turned slightly to face the judges again, there to decide More’s fate.
‘Please tell the court what Sir Thomas More said to you in his cell in the Tower when you sought to take his books and papers,’ Audley said.
Nicòla knew what to say, for the moment More had spoken with her, she knew his words sounded damning. ‘Sir Thomas said he believed the Pope was the Head of Spirituality.’
‘Indirect c-c-contradiction to the Act of Supremacy, st-st-stating that King Henry is Head of the ch-ch-Church in England,’ the Duke of Norfolk replied, his angry voice far louder than Nicòla’s.
‘Yes, Your Grace,’ Nicòla answered and turned to the jury again, away from More’s eyes. ‘Sir Thomas spoke of God appointing the Pope, as only God could decide who leads the Church on Earth.’
‘And what did you ask Sir Thomas afterwards?’ Audley asked.
‘I asked Sir Thomas if parliament could change a law, stating that King Henry was no longer king, and would he, Sir Thomas, accept the law change.’
‘And?’ Norfolk pushed.
‘And Sir Thomas claimed he would accept that change, as parliament can decide on such matters, even though Henry is king in God’s eyes and man’s.’
‘Go on,’ Audley gestured to Nicòla to speak freely.
‘I asked if Sir Thomas would accept Secretary Cromwella asking parliament to change the law, and he replied yes, as an English subject, he had to accept such law changes. So, I asked if Sir Thomas would accept Cromwella as Pope if the law was passed in parliament. But Sir Thomas claimed he would not accept the law as neither man nor parliament has any power over God or the Church.’
‘And all these w-w-words directly contradict the laws in England that sit within the Act of s-s-Supremacy,’ Norfolk boomed once more.
‘Mr. Frescobaldi, do you believe Sir Thomas More is truthful in his words? Do you believe Sir Thomas was holding firm to his belief about the King’s position in our realm and Church?’ Audley asked.
Nicòla turned slightly again, looking over More’s head to Cromwell, who nodded only once. Could Nicòla know whether More was telling his opinion, his true thoughts, his idea of the day? No, she could only guess. But she had to do her part in destroying Sir Thomas More. ‘Yes, Lord Chancellor,’ she sighed, ‘I believe Sir Thomas More spoke his true feelings on that day, for he had no reason to lie. His words were the same as other interrogations in recent months. Sir Thomas believes no law change could make any man Head of the Church of England. Sir Thomas thinks himself above the law.’ That last sentence was something Nicòla believed. Sir Thomas cared nothing for honesty or truth when he tortured men personally in his home for being members of the Reformation.
From the corner of her eye, Nicòla saw More shaking his head at her words. She caught the expression on Cromwell’s face; his stern brow showed how desperately he needed Nicòla to be the witness at the trial. She took another deep breath as a tiny bead of sweat formed at her hairline.
‘I believe Sir Thomas More thinks his conscience to be the wisest, most sincere, of all men in England. From bishops to laymen, all take the Oath yet More refuses to do so. He does not stand for his faith, as the late Cardinal Fisher did, nor any monks who have died for this cause. Sir Thomas comes before the court with the belief he need not be held to the laws of England.’
With sudden agitation, More rose from his seat, his long grey beard shaking with anger. More had said little throughout the day of his trial, little to any person in the past year. Nicòla’s words had shaken free his patience and restraint.
‘You are of no standing,’ More seethed at Nicòla, standing only feet away from him. ‘You are no
t credible, and you are but a foreigner from a background no one can understand. You stand hither today as a mere puppet of Thomas Cromwell. You, nothing but the creature from Italy. I am sorry you feel such need to commit perjury, but again, you are not even a real man.’
‘That is enough!’ Cromwell cried over murmurings of the crowd.
Nicòla turned to More and looked him dead in the eye. ‘If the court needs, I am happy to grant you the details of both my birth and my education. Indeed, all be far from these lands, and I may not have the legal experience of Sir Thomas More, of Secretary Cromwella, or of Lord Chancellor Audley, but I have a legal mind. Speak not of perjury, Sir Thomas, for the crimes committed by you speak of worse things!’
‘If I did say these words to you in my cell, little puppet, they were said with no malice, and therefore can give no offence to the King! You come hither today, with four charges against my name and yet your only witness in the court is that of the Waif that Cromwell keeps as a pet? This is the guardian of your trial?’ More scoffed and threw any angry wave at Nicòla as if to present her like a dead rat.
‘You may s-s-seek to discredit the witness if you wish,’ Norfolk said plainly, ‘but you m-m-must do so in a way that is respectful to the c-c-court.’
More dropped into his seat once more. ‘I seek to do no such thing. I seek to discredit the laws that see me hither today, these laws, written by Thomas Cromwell, at the whims and wills of King Henry, which are not just. The laws have no power and I seek nothing from false witnesses.’
Audley rose calmly from his seat to address More. ‘This is the kingdom of England, Sir Thomas. In England, the laws of the land are for men to obey. You are an Englishman on English soil and you shall obey the laws.’
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