‘I heard a rumour that Cromwell is the girl’s natural father, for she carries his golden eyes.’
‘Another rumour is that you are to marry Cromwella, Lady Mary, so perchance rumours are not helpful,’ Nicòla replied.
Lady Mary let out a little laugh. ‘What fun, perchance Cromwell can be my valentine,’ Mary smiled. ‘Is Cromwell on my side?’
‘Secretary Cromwella is on no one’s side, if I am plain with you, Lady Mary. He serves only the King. In all honesty, Cromwella wants you only to sign the Oath to make your father happy. Many at court want you to be the heir to the throne now Queen Jane sits at your father’s side. Cromwella wants you close to your father, safe from any outside plots.’
‘You mean the plots to overthrow the King and put me upon the throne?’ Mary admonished. ‘For no such thing would occur. I am no threat to my father. Perchance the only thing for me to do is dress as a man and pretend to be my father’s son.’
Nicòla’s eyes met Mary’s and Mary stared back at her, neither speaking for a moment.
‘Could you imagine doing such a thing?’ Mary asked.
‘I can imagine a father greedy enough to do that to his daughter.’
‘Would it be so bad though, to hide as a man and truly live?’
‘They chide and ridicule my whole life as an effeminate man, my Lady, and I can assure you there could be no joy in such matters.’
‘I wrote my mother when His Majesty banned such activities. The letters were smuggled and destroyed after reading. We spoke mostly in Spanish and in a code we developed. My mother once mentioned you as a person in great trust to the old Pope.’
‘Indeed, Pope Clement was close to my heart, and I to his.’
‘Your sister married the Pope’s bastard son, did she not?’
‘Indeed.’
‘Is it true you are half a woman and half a man, and you married the Pope’s bastard son?’
‘Is that what your mother wrote to you?’ Nicòla frowned.
‘No, that is my claim. My mother said you held a deep secret that allowed you to be a man of great tolerance to the needs of women.’
‘Because I am half a woman?’
‘That is what I believe she was telling me. The letter is long burned, I assure you, but I remember everything my mother wrote. I know people call you Cromwell’s creature, the Waif of the court, that they question your effeminate natures. But no man will strip down another man at court for the sake of such talk.’
‘Good!’
‘Why should I not tell all you are a woman, have you killed, and have Cromwell brought so low he may die also?’
‘The same thing Queen Jane threatened me with, my Lady. Allow me to tell you one thing. Anne Boleyn could have destroyed Cromwell with rumours of me but did not. Because Anne believed we should not use a woman as a weapon against a male enemy. I am safe, my Lady, regardless of my gender, because His Majesty knows the truth about me, in all openness and plainness and accepts I am not against God’s law. I am a creature, yes, but to denounce me would go against the King’s own knowledge and truth.’
‘I knew this not,’ Mary said. ‘I am sorry. I only wished to seek the truth.’
‘The truth is, Lady Mary, that the world is not a safe place for women, and the world is filled with men who only want sons. Queen Jane may bear a son for your father, and who your mother was, or whether or not you were born legitimate, will never matter. But you can go on, marry and live at court and be happy. His Majesty would never harm your mother, and would not harm you, but you know what he did to Anne Boleyn, so no one is truly safe. We must submit to His Majesty. I saw the Queen’s head smitten off, my Lady. A day earlier I saw traitors’ heads cut off, one of them a great friend of mine.’
‘But was he not guilty of heinous crimes against the King and against God?’
‘So the law claims, but it hurt me no less to see him die as he did. I saw Thomas More’s head smitten off, and Bishop Fisher, both men who stood up for your mother. Tis better to be with the throne than against it, my Lady. If the law changes that Cromwella has written are made official in parliament, then your father shall be able to choose his successor, rather than the order of birth. You could be a queen, Elizabeth could be a queen, even Henry Fitzroy could be a king. I ask you not to sign to choose earthly delights over your immortal soul, I ask you to sign the Oath as a means of safety. We mean to overhaul the Church and monasteries in England because they are foul and corrupt, and God’s light is not shining through them. Your soul cannot be harmed by signing; both God and your mother would understand. You are doing your duty and serving your faith.’
~~~
Cromwell stood by the King’s side in the presence chamber while Henry spoke on his throne, a few steps above all milling about the room. Norfolk walked in first, holding the letter written to the King, along with the signed Oath. Ambassador Chapuys walked one step behind the Duke, and Nicòla followed at the end. Both Henry and Cromwell looked up in surprise to their arrival, already back at court after only several days away.
The three of them bowed together and Nicòla grinned at Cromwell as his golden eyes widened.
‘Your Majesty,’ old Norfolk said with hands out in triumph. ‘Behold, the Oath of s-s-Supremacy signed by your daughter, the Lady Mary, and a l-l-letter to you, to say sorry for her stubbornness in s-s-signing, to say sorry for being a b-b-bastard, and for her sister Elizabeth f-f-for being a bastard. Lady Mary also states she is c-c-comfortable about having you as h-h-Head of the Church.’
Just like Cromwell had written for Mary to copy, word for word. Lady Mary gave in; while Nicòla knew not who convinced Mary to sign, the main goal of calming the simmering Catholics was done. Mary now supported Henry’s reformation, in word and oath, if not in heart, not with faith. Now Henry could choose his own successor, all the heirs and their factions would be easy to control.
It was not like the King to order a meeting of his closest courtiers at such short notice. A grand banquet was ready for Henry Fitzroy’s birthday, where he, the King and Queen Jane would sit in the Grand Hall before their favourites, hundreds of people, all together to share in the occasion. But first, courtiers summoned had to gather in the presence room in Greenwich. Nicòla had no time to change from her riding clothes and scrub away the days on the road and dress in her best for the evening. Was Henry to announce Lady Mary’s signing? Surely not, for Henry was a private man, but rumour had already spread and was probably working its ways through messengers across England at this moment.
Nightfall soon passed when the group stood together in the presence room, knowing the main hall swarmed with the ladies of the court as they readied for a lavish evening hosted by the King and his new queen. But Henry stood at his throne, wearing his ermine cloak, not something he often wore, and he stood with Suffolk and Norfolk, two arrogant faces as stone-cold as the other. Nicòla tucked herself to one side to see what was happening around all the much taller men at court. Around one hundred people gathered in the presence room, brought in at short notice to hear the King speak.
‘I call upon the Lord Privy Seal, Thomas Cromwell,’ Henry called out.
Cromwell had been standing to one side close to the King as he always did, ready to give Henry what he needed. Cromwell shot a quick glance over the crowd and caught Nicòla’s eye for a moment. He had a look of surprise, but also of momentary excitement, a smile trying its best not to form upon his lips.
‘Mr. Thomas Cromwell.’ Henry said and gestured down to him. ‘I wish to reward you for fine work done these past months. I stand hither, a man who is free of sin and closer to God. I have the religious houses of England in my grasp as we purge their corruption from this realm. I now have a lawful and loving wife, and the signatures of all who support me as Head of the Church.’
Cromwell bowed to the King and said nothing.
‘No one could be more valuable in this court,’ Henry continued. ‘You are Vicegerent in government matters, but now I wish you to
be Vicegerent and Vicar-general of spiritual manners in this realm. Under me, you the most powerful man in the Church of England, and this is a role you shall share with Archbishop Cranmer.’
Cromwell turned to see Cranmer in the audience, who must have known about this appointment, for he had been in a private meeting with the King for hours. Cromwell turned back to Henry. ‘Thank you, Your Majesty, for the bestowment of your love.’
‘Speak not so fast, Cromwell,’ Henry laughed, ‘for I have not yet finished my speech. I wish for you to have greater power in parliament. I appoint you the role of Receiver of Petitions in the House of Lords.’
Cromwell opened his mouth, but paused, for he could not argue with a king. Nicòla could almost see him relaying the laws in his mind, knowing that was the role he could not hold.
Henry could see his secretary’s worry as well. ‘Worry not, Mr. Cromwell, as I know the Keeper of Petitions must be a lord of the house.’ Henry paused and gestured with a single finger to Suffolk, who produced the King’s sword. ‘I command you knell before me, Thomas Cromwell.’
Cromwell stumbled to his knees in what would be panic, Nicòla knew full well. Her own heart pounded with the surprise of the moment, all while the court murmured at the prospect looming over them all.
‘Thomas Cromwell,’ Henry said, and placed the sword on one shoulder, ‘by letters patent, I name you Baron Cromwell of Wimbledon.’ He paused and moved the sword upon Cromwell’s other shoulder. ‘Lord Privy Seal, Vicar-general, Vicegerent of the Spirituals, Chief Secretary, Chancellor of the Exchequer, Chief Minister… and all the other offices you hold,’ Henry laughed, to the laughter of the audience. ‘Please stand, Baron Wimbledon.’
Cromwell stood up to the reluctant applause of the court, Henry one of the few honest in congratulations. Nicòla thought of Machiavelli, of his prince. A prince should make himself feared in such a way that if he does not gain love, he at any rate avoids hatred. Cromwell may have inspired Machiavelli twenty-five years ago, but Cromwell did not yet succeed in obtaining England’s love, love which he needed to stay in power.
Cromwell’s golden eyes fell on Nicòla as she saw tears ready to form; for he was no longer the commoner of the court, now he was Lord Thomas Cromwell, Baron of Wimbledon, a member of the peerage. It may have been by letters patent and not birth, but no matter, for the court applauded Cromwell at the King’s command. There was nothing left that Cromwell did not rule.
‘Now,’ Henry called out to quieten the crowd, ‘as tomorrow marks the seventeenth birthday of my dear son, so Henry and I shall dine in private, but later, we shall join the party!’
Nicòla glanced over at Fitzroy, who also stood close to the King. For a young man of seventeen, he looked weary. His skin appeared whiter than ever before, his blonde hair oily on his head, his eyes dull. Fitzroy needed to lie down, not have a party in his honour. He may have been half Nicòla’s age, but Fitzroy was still one of her closest friends. Hopefully, the next time that Baron Wimbledon entered parliament, he could make Fitzroy a legitimate heir to the throne, and England could be at peace.
C
Chapter 50 – July 1536
lyes cannot work all the tyme
St. James’ Palace, London
‘More wine, my Lord?’
Cromwell laughed as Nicòla offered him more wine, fresh from a ship from Portugal, which had docked only a day earlier. He happily took the new Murano glass filled with the sweet wine and leaned back, to feel the sable fur of his new coat tickle the back of his neck. It felt good to be a baron, a baron who could rejoice at Austin Friars and wear sable like a noble.
‘Must we have parties so often?’ Ralph asked, drunk on the wine. ‘I am to be in the King’s privy chamber now, but alas…’ Ralph trailed off as he gestured to the wine in his hand, his cheeks pink with festivity.
‘Have we not had a difficult year?’ Richard asked across the dining table and Chapuys next to him nodded with his eyes closed, the wine too taking his thoughts. ‘Why not celebrate?’
‘We have celebrated for weeks,’ Chancellor Audley replied with a mouthful of cheese.
‘My father is a baron of England,’ Gregory said as a servant also filled the younger Cromwell’s glass. ‘What can be wrong in celebrating for a few weeks before the work begins in earnest?’
‘Right, my boy,’ Wriothesley said across from Gregory as he brought his glass to Richard Rich’s next to him. ‘Are we not slandered at court as creatures, as men of common birth, with ideas instead of titles?’
‘Excuse me, Wriothesley,’ Rich said, ‘for I am the Secretary General!’
‘I am Lord Chancellor,’ Audley added, ‘Chapuys is an ambassador, Cranmer an archbishop. We have all the main titles.’
‘You know what we need?’ Chapuys said as Nicòla returned to her seat next to him, close to Cromwell’s side. ‘We need Stephen Gardiner to return from France.’
‘Why would I want my enemy at my table?’ Cromwell scoffed and sipped his wine again.
‘You and Bishop Gardiner could not live without each other,’ Nicòla said and patted Cromwell’s hand on the table. Cromwell took her hand in his and held it, the eyes of the room be damned. ‘You write to Gardiner weekly, and he to you in return!’
Cranmer raised his head from the opposite end of the table from Cromwell. His wife Margarete had retired to bed hours ago, likewise Ralph’s wife. ‘Baron Cromwell and Bishop Gardiner, from common men to leaders of the English court.’ He raised his glass, and all did the same.
‘To the Baron!’ they all cried again and brought their expensive glasses together with laughter.
Cromwell sat back in his seat and glanced around the table; his son was sixteen years old now, old enough to sit with Ralph and Richard and take wine and laugh and talk politics. Gregory would now inherit a noble title. Cranmer, Audley, Chapuys, Wriothesley, Rich… all men who made something of themselves, men who once rode the wave of Cardinal Wolsey’s prosperity and now ruled England themselves. Not one of them were born to power but had earned it.
The door to the dining room opened and Cromwell let go of Nicòla’s hand on instinct. A gentleman-usher, looking tired in his new grey livery tunic, handed Cromwell a damp letter. ‘With all urgency,’ the boy said and excused himself.
The conversation and jests carried on around the table continued as Cromwell unfurled the message.
Lord Cromwell
His Grace Henry Fitzoy, Duke of Richmond and Somerset, requests you to wait upon him at St. James’ Palace with all speed. His health has declined at pace and needs your presence, likewise Archbishop Cranmer to give the last rites.
Norfolk
Cromwell looked up from the letter to Cranmer at the other end of the table. He caught Cromwell’s golden glare and frowned, seeing the sudden serious expression on the new baron’s face.
Nicòla too noticed Cranmer’s face and turned to Cromwell. The smile fell from her lips. ‘What is it?’
All silenced their discussion and looked to Cromwell. Everyone loved Fitzroy dearly, he would be an ideal reformist king for England. ‘I must away at once,’ he said. ‘Cranmer, I beg you go with me.’
‘But what has happened?’ Nicòla asked again, everyone else frowning in panic.
There would be no sense in delaying the news to Nicòla. ‘It is His Grace, Henry Fitzroy. He is much ill and is calling for myself and Archbishop Cranmer.’
‘What?’ Nicòla cried. ‘Fitzroy has had a difficult cough these past weeks, but it is summer! Even the plague has not been so bad in the city this season… surely you do not fear the worst?’
‘I am afraid his attendants fear the worst. Ralph, you must away to court at once and tell the King that his son is ailing. The best doctors shall already be at St. James’, but the King should know the truth. We have three miles to travel to Fitzroy’s home, and we have not a moment to delay.’
Nicòla would not tarry at Austin Friars after the news; she rode the three miles to the palace beside Cromwell
and Cranmer, a dozen guards about them in the warm London night air. The Duke of Norfolk stood in the main hall as the group arrived, and he grimaced at the sight of Nicòla behind Cromwell.
‘My l-l-Lord, as I presuppose I must now pr-pr-pronounce you,’ Norfolk said to Cromwell, and turned and bowed his head to acknowledge Cranmer. ‘Archbishop, thank you f-f-for coming. My son-in-law has taken a s-s-serious turn.’
‘I saw Fitzroy not two days ago,’ Cromwell said as the group followed Norfolk up the main staircase through the palace, the red brick stairs and hallways mostly unlit, save for a few flickering candles in the cool air wafting through open windows. ‘Fitzroy seemed fine, his usual cough, but nothing more.’
‘The b-b-boy has coughed since the m-m-moment his mother bore him,’ Norfolk replied as he walked on ahead on the party to Fitzroy’s private rooms. ‘I r-r-remember when he became a d-d-duke, a boy of five, coughing as the k-k-King awarded him some of the highest honours in th-th-the kingdom.’
‘I remember,’ Cromwell said. ‘Cardinal Wolsey was Fitzroy’s godfather, and I helped him draft Fitzroy’s honours. Have you informed your daughter that her husband is most unwell? Where is Duchess Mary?’
‘She is at the f-f-family estate at Kenninghall. While my daughter has n-n-never lived with her husband, she shall not be p-p-pleased he is ill.’
‘What ills His Grace?’ Cranmer asked.
‘I know not, but p-p-perchance it is consumption, as the d-d-doctors say,’ Norfolk said as they stopped at the door to what must have been Fitzroy’s bedroom. ‘But… if I am h-h-honest…’
‘That would make a splendid change,’ Cromwell shot back.
Norfolk pursed his lips for a moment. ‘Let me be p-p-plain. The Catholic supporters at court have g-g-got their queen on the th-th-throne, and they mean their p-p-prize to be Lady Mary as s-s-successor. You, Crowmell…’
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