Shaking the Throne

by Caroline Angus Baker

  ‘Cromwell!’ he altered the Duke’s words.

  ‘Y-y-you have made laws that shall prevent s-s-such. Meanwhile, laws are changing t-t-to suggest Fitzroy could b-b-be the next heir to the throne.’

  ‘Making your daughter the queen consort,’ Cromwell argued.

  ‘I am the Duke of Norfolk; my grandfather w-w-was slain at Bosworth. My first wife was a York princess. My s-s-second wife is a daughter to the d-d-Duke of Buckingham. Be not amazed th-th-that I married my daughter to the King’s bastard, f-f-for I know how one f-f-family can be legitimate one m-m-moment, attainted the next. The rules constantly change. But you have half the c-c-country wanting a Catholic heir, and another half who w-w-would happily see the King’s reformist bastard take the throne. You h-h-have just blocked Lady Mary from the throne, and s-s-suddenly Fitzroy falls ill?’

  ‘Poison?’ Nicòla muttered behind the group.

  ‘At least one of you un-un-understands, even if it is the w-w-Waif,’ Norfolk muttered as he threw a look over Cromwell’s shoulder to Nicòla. ‘Though, Creature, I h-h-heard you were crying on your knees over my n-n-niece as they smote her head but weeks ago, s-s-so you are d-d-difficult to understand.’

  ‘Let us see him,’ Cromwell hastened Norfolk.

  Norfolk opened the door to the enormous room, with Fitzroy in a large bed, the gold velvet curtains all drawn back, the boy atop his bedcovers, sweating in the room even though the windows were open to the night air.

  Norfolk’s son, Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey, sat at Fitzroy’s side, cradling his hand. The two had been friends most of their lives.

  ‘Archbishop Cranmer,’ Fitzroy said in a weak tone. ‘I am so grateful of your arrival.’ He paused to cough, and Cromwell cringed at the angry sound which came from the young duke.

  ‘In times of great struggle, the Lord shall soothe our fears,’ Cranmer said as he stood at the bedside.

  ‘My new Baron Cromwell,’ Fitzroy said and reached out for him. Cromwell took his hand, hot to the touch. The healthy young man of only days ago had gone. Poor Fitzroy was only a year older than Gregory.

  ‘Your Grace,’ Cromwell said as he held Fitzroy’s hand. ‘I come with all speed to do as you command.’

  Nicòla pushed past both Cromwell and Cranmer and stepped to embrace Fitzroy on the bed, his illness and sweating be damned. Cromwell noticed relief in the boy’s eyes to have someone hold him.

  ‘We shall do anything to ease your discomfort,’ Nicòla said while Fitzroy coughed in her face, yet she moved not. Instead, she reached for a cloth from the bedside cabinet and dabbed a touch of blood from his chin.

  Surrey dabbed Fitzroy’s forehead with the wet cloth, allowing the water to roll along Fitzroy’s pale and sunken cheeks. His eyes closed as he sat cradled by Surrey and Nicòla.

  Norfolk gestured his head to Cromwell and Cranmer, who stepped away from the bedside to seats placed close to a cold fireplace.

  ‘I have had the k-k-King’s doctors hither, and they say Fitzroy shall not l-l-last the night.’

  ‘Never,’ Cranmer said in shock. He fumbled in a pocket inside his purple robes and pulled out a small trinket of Jesus which he often had in his hand when worried. Poor Jesus’ face had just about been rubbed out with all Cranmer’s worries.

  ‘Just look at him,’ Norfolk replied. ‘I lost all f-f-four of my children by my first wife when they were young, a-a-and then my wife herself. You know the plague took my new d-d-daughter Katherine a few years back. Did not the s-s-sweating sickness take some of yours, Crowmell?’

  ‘Two daughters, the summer of 1528, along with my wife,’ Cromwell sighed, ignoring Norfolk saying his name wrong again.

  ‘Then you know h-h-how this appears. You know when you look upon a p-p-person and they are lost to you. The k-k-King loves his son dearly, no matter how he was b-b-born to a mistress. Fitzroy is a good man, the s-s-same age Henry was when he took the b-b-bloody throne! His Majesty has been m-m-most erratic of late and this shall not c-c-calm the difficulties of court, I can assure y-y-you of that.’

  ‘Thank you for the plain details,’ Cromwell retorted. ‘Can nothing be done? Where are the doctors, the servants to attend to Fitzroy’s illness?’

  ‘The doctor has gone to f-f-fetch a tool he needs. But Fitzroy wanted my s-s-son to sit by his side, his best friend. The Waif t-t-too seems to have won his h-h-heart.’ Norfolk paused as the three turned to the bed to see Fitzroy smile as Nicòla brushed his wet blonde hair from his forehead for him. ‘He wanted you, Cranmer, b-b-because Fitzroy knows the end is coming. Crowmell, he knows y-y-you are close to the King, he wants t-t-to know you shall have all in hand upon his d-d-death; he wants certainty as he p-p-passes. Fitzroy wants you to t-t-tell the King of his son’s d-d-death.’

  ‘Could you tell him?’ Cromwell argued. ‘For you, Norfolk, you have been at the King’s side for over twenty years!’

  ‘Yes, but I came to h-h-hate Anne Boleyn, and yet the Seymours are f-f-far worse for Henry. Fitzroy knows m-m-my distaste for the c-c-court at present.’

  ‘And a distaste for me,’ Cromwell muttered.

  ‘My lords?’ Fitzroy spoke loud enough to pause the conversation.

  ‘Yes, my son,’ Norfolk said as he hurried to the bedside again, Cromwell and Cranmer close behind.

  ‘I must speak with you all. I need you, l-l-Lord Cromwell.’

  ‘Of course.’ Cromwell sat down next to Nicòla. ‘How can I serve you?’

  ‘I have a secret I have been holding for a week or more now. Tis about Lord Thomas Howard.’

  ‘Surely not me,’ Norfolk said, ‘the other Lord Howard, I presume.’

  ‘Yes, the other Lord Thomas Howard, the Duke’s brother of the same name.’ Fitzroy coughed, and his breath seemed to make a noise like wind whistling through trees. ‘Lord Howard is in love with Lady Margaret Douglas, daughter of Margaret, Dowager Queen of Scotland.’

  ‘The King’s niece is hither at court. Young Lady Margaret is safe under Henry’s care,’ Cromwell replied.

  ‘But Thomas and Margaret have been in a love affair for some time, and one week ago, they married in secret. I was there as a witness, at their request.’

  ‘What?’ Norfolk cried. ‘My idiot b-b-brother has married the King’s n-n-niece without permission! God in heaven, if he has b-b-bedded the girl…’

  ‘Howard bedded Lady Margaret before last Christmas,’ Fitzroy replied. ‘It was a secret I was ready to keep, but now, with Anne Boleyn dead and her daughter Elizabeth no longer a princess, Margaret Douglas, the daughter of a true Tudor princess, has jumped up in the line of succession.’

  ‘Howard married his young mistress to get closer to the throne,’ Cromwell mused.

  ‘No, because Lady Margaret is with child.’

  ‘In Jesus’ holy name,’ Cranmer muttered while Norfolk cried out in frustration and crossed himself.

  ‘I do not want my father to be angry with Lord Howard,’ Fitzroy whispered to Cromwell. He coughed, and his voice returned. ‘Lady Margaret confessed to me, being my cousin, and she is happily married now she is with child. Please, see that His Majesty harms Lady Margaret not.’

  ‘Lady Margaret and Lord Howard have committed treason, so there shall be punishment, but your father, in his kindness, would not harm a woman carrying a child, much less his own niece. I shall see her given the best rooms in the Tower, for her comfort.’

  ‘My father will be angry when I die,’ Fitzroy said as he closed his eyes, ‘and my cousin should not be the one to bear the burden of his rage.’

  ‘Your father will be sad if he were to lose you, Your Grace,’ Cranmer said where he stood behind Cromwell. ‘But by the Grace of God, we shall do all we can to heal you.’

  ‘I want to take my confession, Archbishop,’ Fitzroy said, his eyes still closed. ‘I need time to make my peace with God.’

  Norfolk led his son from the room, followed by Cromwell and Nicòla. They retreated into a quiet presence room off the bedroom where they would no doubt need to
reside for some time as Cranmer soothed Fitzroy’s sick soul.

  ‘See,’ Norfolk said the moment he sat down next to his son in a pair of matching soft chairs. ‘I was not w-w-wrong in calling you and Cranmer together t-t-tonight, rather than waiting until m-m-morning.’

  ‘Yes,’ Cromwell said as he straightened his coat. ‘Thank you, Your Grace, for this is a terrible night.’

  ‘And you,’ Norfolk gruffed at his teary son. ‘Henry, you must stop s-s-sniffing like an infant who has lost its m-m-mother. You are a man of almost twenty y-y-years! I know it to be a shame Fitzroy is about to b-b-breathe his last, but you look foolish by crying at h-h-his bedside. I suppose you shall h-h-hurry off now to write more p-p-poetry?’

  Cromwell glanced at Nicòla, a step behind him, who too had only just wiped her eyes dry. Norfolk never had a way with words.

  ‘I could prove myself as able with the sword as with a quill if given the chance!’ young Surrey cried. ‘I will one day be the next Duke of Norfolk and I shall choose…’

  ‘Stop!’ Norfolk cried and turned from his son. ‘I w-w-want none of your outbursts.’

  ‘You did not raise me, so do not pretend you get to say how I am to behave,’ Surrey told his father. ‘The court raised me alongside Fitzroy. We have the same first name, learned from the same tutors, soothed by the same nurses, laughed with the same friends, shared the same servants, travelled the same roads, slept in the same beds. Tonight, I lose a brother, not just a brother-in-law.’

  Cromwell shared a glance with Nicòla; for they knew the love Surrey bore for Fitzroy was more than just brotherly love. He and Fitzroy had been unnaturally close for years.

  ‘I know all of th-th-this, Henry!’ Norfolk spat as he fell back in his seat with weariness. ‘How dare you dis-dis-disparage me before commoners?’

  ‘Norfolk…’ Cromwell began, to quieten the argument while Cranmer gave Fitzroy his last rites in the very next room.

  ‘No,’ Norfolk spat back. ‘I am the Duke of Norfolk. I am de-de-descended from the Mowbray family, who were d-d-dukes, and before that, n-n-nobles who created the Magna Carta for this c-c-country hundreds of years ago! I will not be argued against by my s-s-son before the sight of commoners!’

  ‘Yes, I am a commoner,’ Cromwell replied and kept his voice low. ‘Common as they come, and once, a common soldier. But now I am a baron, and one day, it shall be my children, and their children, and their children who sit high in society, just as your family does now. So, no admonishing me with the threat of being common shall ever hurt. You are angry, Norfolk, I know that, for I am angry as well. Fitzroy is the best chance we have at getting a king on the throne after His Majesty, and that chance is disappearing right before our eyes. Abusive tones upon your son who weeps for the loss of his brother-in-arms shall not restore what we are about to lose.’

  Cromwell left the Howards to their argument and went to sit in the far corner in a window seat where Nicòla soon joined him. They sat in silence for a while; to think they had been at a party not an hour ago. The wine had drained from his body the moment Cromwell saw Fitzroy upon his bed.

  ‘Ti importa?’ Nicòla asked in a whisper.

  ‘Do I care about what?’ he whispered back in Italian, so the Howards did not hear the conversation.

  ‘About Surrey’s grief.’

  Cromwell took a long pause before he answered. ‘Death and grief are part of life. At court, we must sit high above daily life as we must be beyond normal thinking and learning. We must be stronger, better educated, swift in our response and strong in our convictions. Tis been a hard life at court of late, and it becomes easy to forget that while we make decisions that rule a realm, this is a moment of grief. I am sorry for losing an heir which could have ruled over England, and yes, I am sorry for people suffering grief for those they loved. I am sorry that I had to execute Anne Boleyn, but I have no room for grief. That does not mean you cannot grieve for the friend you found in Anne, or in Fitzroy. I am sorry to lose such a good young man such as Fitzroy, and I accept that people, like yourself, like Surrey, also suffer personal loss. Surrey is about to lose the love of his life and I do feel for him.’

  ‘I would not swap my commoner for a thousand noblemen.’

  Cromwell raised half a smile as he looked to Nicòla and caught Norfolk scowling at their Italian conversation. ‘But never sacrifice a thousand noblemen to save me if we are ever at war.’

  ‘My love,’ she said to him, her sweet Italian words just a whisper, ‘we have always been at war.’

  Cromwell lost track of the time while Cranmer delivered the comforting words the Duke needed to hear from God. By the time he and Nicòla, plus the now silent Howards entered the bedroom, Fitzroy had declined even further. They took turns sitting by the bed as he dozed, the hours drifting by in a sea of tiredness and worry. But not long before dawn, something roused Cromwell from his gentle sleep in a chair.

  Cromwell woke to see Surrey and Nicòla sitting by the bed in tears as Cranmer prayed over Fitzroy. Norfolk too had dozed off in a chair nearby and awoke at his son’s cries. Cromwell struggled to the bedside with Norfolk, and together they watched as Fitzroy’s eyes fluttered, each breath long and whistling in pain.

  With Surrey embracing him, and holding Nicòla’s hand, the King’s precious son took a deep breath and let go, his face resting at once. The pain was at an end. Cranmer leaned past Nicòla and closed the Duke’s eyes.

  ‘Saints of God, come to his aid. Come to meet him, Angel of the Lord,’ Cranmer said softly. ‘Receive his soul and present him to God the Highest. May Christ, who called you, take you to Himself; may Angels lead you to Abraham’s side. Give him eternal rest, O Lord, and may Your light shine on him forever. Let us pray.’

  The other four gathered their hands to pray, Nicòla and Surrey awash with tears, whether they be Catholic or Protestant, it mattered not as they recited a prayer they knew all too well, led by Cranmer.

  ‘All-powerful and merciful God, we commend to you Henry, Your servant. In Your mercy and love, blot out the sins he has committed through human weakness. In this world he has died: let him live with You forever. Through Christ our Lord. Amen.’

  They looked up again and Cromwell placed one hand on Nicòla’s shoulder. She dabbed her eyes upon the sleeve of her coat and took a deep breath. Through grief, they had to be above it, for the sake of their work in the royal court.

  ‘Eternal rest grant unto him, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon him,’ Cranmer added. ‘May he rest in peace.’

  ‘Amen,’ they all muttered.

  ‘May his soul and the souls of all the faithful departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace.’

  ‘Amen.’

  ‘What if someone has p-p-poisoned this poor boy?’ Norfolk muttered, not filled with tears; he was angry.

  ‘We must do an autopsy,’ Surrey said as he slipped off the bed to stand by his father.

  ‘We must go to the King and tell him of this at once. If this was poison, someone will burn for it,’ Nicòla added.

  ‘I can assure you of such,’ Cromwell said. ‘But we must wait until the autopsy before we tell any person of Fitzroy’s death. But the King must know at once. We shall go to Whitehall and tell him all and then we shall prepare a grand funeral for the Duke of Richmond and Somerset. If this death is in revenge for cutting Lady Mary from the succession, all shall know. All shall be punished.’

  F

  Chapter 51 – July 1536

  sumtymes you must lye to save yourself from trouth

  Hatfield Palace, Hertfordshire

  Nicòla and Surrey walked rain-soaked behind a hay-filled cart in the night, which held Fitzroy’s hastily-found coffin. They dumped the Duke, the sole son of the King, in a grave at Thetford Priory, eighty miles north of London. Nicòla could still feel the way she rocked in her saddle on the wet ride to Norfolk, poor Fitzroy’s body wrapped in lead. He was supposed to be placed in a closed cart, but she and young Surrey could not find one.

/>   The whole ride, Nicòla could hear the echoes of King Henry’s desperate wail as he lay upon the ground of his privy chamber, his fat hands grasping at Cromwell’s dark clothes after receiving the distressing news. Finally, the grief of the past months flooded from the King, pouring out in desperate despair for the son who could never take the crown.

  But facing death was something Henry could never take; no sooner than Henry knew of his son’s death, he fell into his melancholy once more, and ordered Norfolk to hide Fitzroy’s body. No announcement, no funeral, no burial tomb, and painfully, no autopsy. The truth was lost forever.

  A cart filled with hay carried Fitzroy to the Howard family tomb Thetford Priory. Oh, how the rain poured; Nicòla could still feel the drops upon her shoulders. Surrey, deep in grief for the man he loved, walked with Nicòla at a distance behind the cart through the graveyard at Thetford, while rain hid the painful moment from the eyes of the world.

  The King had refused an autopsy, so if someone had poisoned the Duke, no one would ever know. What an awful, silent end to the mighty Henry Fitzroy, the never-King of England.

  The ride seventy miles south to Hatfield hurt also; Surrey stayed behind with Fitzroy cold in the ground. The weather broke, allowing Nicòla to ride hard to Hatfield Palace, where Cromwell and the King awaited. Also waiting was a familiar sight; her precious Cromwell with a bloody lip.

  Cromwell appeared as soon as Nicòla dismounted her horse at Hatfield, her muddy riding boots glad to be out of stirrups, her back relieved to be out of the saddle. Cromwell must have waited for her by a window, a feeling which warmed every part of Nicòla’s worn soul. The moment servants of the palace were cast away, Nicòla fell into Cromwell’s arms, tears pouring from her eyes in silence; for no one could hear Cromwell’s secretary crying to him inside his private rooms.

  ‘All shall be well,’ Cromwell tried to soothe Nicòla as she wept against him. He pushed Nicòla’s dirty hair aside to look upon her face, but Nicòla could not bear to pull herself from him, her face buried in his chest.