Chapter Twelve
Chapter Twelve
Much as he loved the king, he kept away from Court as much as possible following His Majesty’s marriage to Anne of Cleves. Richard Rich was gaining more and more influence, and Thomas Wriothesley had recently returned from an embassy to Brussels, so it seemed likely that he was destined to receive a higher office in the not-too-distant future. Thomas trusted neither of these men. The former would ally himself to anyone who could further his career and would think nothing of deserting them when fortune failed them. Wriothesley had a similar attitude, and though he had arrived at Court a Catholic, he had quickly switched sides to support the faction he considered closest to the king. Thomas very much suspected that neither man had any deep commitment to anyone or anything; their allegiance was to wealth and power, nothing else. At least Cromwell, though desirous of wealth and power, was deeply committed to the Protestant faith, and structured all his endeavours around that commitment.
When he did return to Court, he was warmly welcomed by the king, but was quick to note that both Wriothesley and Rich had the royal ear, as did Gardiner. Cromwell was nowhere to be seen, and Thomas had been several days returned to Lambeth before Cromwell finally visited him in the library at Lambeth.
“I have decided to spend more time at my own home now, and to only attend Court when I am required to meet with the Privy Council, or if I am requested by the king,” Cromwell explained. “The fact is, I know my authority is not what it was, so I feel it is wise to remain out of sight as much as is possible.”
“The king needs you,” Thomas reassured him. “Give him time.”
“But this marriage has been a disaster.” Cromwell began striding around the room. “Have you not heard? On the morning after the wedding, the king declared to his gentlemen that he had felt her breasts, decided she was no maid, and had neither the heart nor the courage to do the rest. He turned over and went to sleep! The queen’s ladies tell me they have asked her if she thinks she shall be soon with child. She replies that, every morning, the king kisses her and says, ‘good morning’, and every night he kisses her and says, ‘goodnight’. They say that, judging by this, she expects very soon to be pregnant. It is laughable!”
“She is no fool,” Thomas mused. “I believe she is deliberately keeping her own counsel.”
“I agree,” Cromwell nodded. “She is playing the innocent, which is wise in itself. She is also learning English remarkably well. The king has despatched all of her Dutch ladies back to where they came from, so she is completely isolated.”
“Poor woman.”
“And she is very frightened too. The king now has grounds for divorce, as well you know.”
With a sinking heart, Thomas had to agree. If it was unconsummated, then it was no marriage. “But he will offend the Duke of Cleves if he divorces her.”
“The King of France and the Emperor Charles are currently at loggerheads, so for the time being, the king no longer fears them. If they are arguing with one another, they will not invade England,’ Cromwell paused. “And he has found a new romantic interest.”
“Yes, so I heard from Wriothesley,” Thomas admitted. “I hoped it might be an exaggeration.”
“No exaggeration,” Cromwell assured him. “She is Lady Catherine Howard, another niece of the Duke of Norfolk. She is no more than a giggling teenager, but she is very beautiful. Nearly every night, the king travels by barge to the duke’s residence to dine with her.” After a moment of contemplative silence, he changed the subject. “How fares the treatise you were writing? The one against the Act of Six Articles?”
Thomas’ expression brightened. “Completed. It has kept me occupied whilst at Canterbury, alongside my other, ongoing occupation – that of ensuring my clergy are well-versed in the scriptures.”
“You need to choose your moment carefully if you are to present it to the king, though I know I need not warn you on that score.” Cromwell noted that the fur on the unworldly archbishop’s tippet looked well-worn. Had his wife been here, she would never have allowed him to wear such a shabby garment. “Tell me, how does your wife fare?” His expression was one of sympathetic concern.
“She is well.” Thomas always felt uneasy discussing his wife, despite knowing that he could be open with Cromwell. “She is frustrated that she cannot return to England. Our daughter, however, is thriving. Osiander assures me that Marjorie is becoming a good Protestant.” He managed a faint, wry smile. It saddened him that he was not able to educate his own daughter in the ways of the Protestant faith, but at least he knew she was in good hands with Osiander.
The two men sat in comfortable silence for a while, before returning to Court matters.
“Sir Edward Seymour is becoming increasingly influential,” Cromwell observed. “He is a cold sort of person, yet fiercely ambitious - as is his younger brother Thomas. Though it has to be said that the latter cannot be accused of being cold, especially where ladies are concerned.”
“So I have noticed. I met Sir Thomas Seymour yesterday, and he was all but surrounded by ladies.” Jane’s younger brother looked to be a bold, bluff man; witty and energetic. He was just the sort of person whose company appealed to the king. “Wriothesley informed me that Thomas Seymour is looking for a rich wife. But then, I suppose the same can be said of most men who come to Court,” Thomas reflected. Returning to the matter of the queen, he wondered aloud what would become of her.
“The king can hardly execute her.” Cromwell knew exactly what his friend was thinking. “There are no grounds for that. She is a good woman. Sadly, because she is illiterate and does not speak fluent English, people take her for a fool, but it is hardly her fault that she has not received an education. Indeed, had she been educated, I sense she would have been an excellent student, for she appears to be making good progress. Conversation with her is slow and difficult, her vocabulary is limited, but she improves by the day.”
Thomas was about to remark that his own wife had been extremely diligent about learning the English language, and had very quickly become proficient. Thinking better of it, he simply replied, “I think I shall visit her in the very near future.”
“Good idea,” Cromwell approved. “You are probably the only courtier who can be bothered to seek her out. They are all far too busy visiting Catherine Howard.”
*****
Two days after Cromwell’s visit, the king and Court had moved to Westminster. Nervous as to what the king’s reaction might be, Thomas gave his decidedly Protestant critique of the Act of Six Articles to Ralph Morice and despatched him to deliver it into the hands of King Henry.
“Let us pray that His Majesty does not imprison me for this,” he muttered through clenched teeth. “Or worse.” The critique would, he hoped, spur the king to retract the Act of Six Articles. It might also cause his own downfall.
Not knowing what to say to reassure his master, Morice simply tucked the treatise into his sleeve and summoned a passing barge.
No more than ten minutes later, after they had drawn away from Lambeth Palace, Morice noticed a commotion occurring on the opposite riverbank. “What is happening there?”
The oarsman pulled on the oars to steer the barge towards the opposite bank. “Looks like a bear baiting gone wrong, sir,” the oarsman informed him, as they drew closer. “The bear appears to have fallen into the water. No need to worry yourself. All manner of strange events unfold on the river. A few days ago, I recovered the bodies of two drowned women, and the body of a man; they had obviously been robbed and stabbed, then thrown into the river. The fellow was still alive, mind you, but only just. Then, yesterday, I rescued a dog which had jumped overboard from the Duke of Norfolk’s barge. It was the duke’s favourite hound, so he gave me a tidy reward. Guess I got lucky.”
A veritable flotilla of crafts was eagerly rowing towards the scene of the accident, hoping to rescue the bear and perhaps gain a generous remuneration. Bears were valuable animals. Quite suddenly, their barge was rammed with such force that Morice, who had been leaning over the side to see what was happening, tumbled into the river.
Within minutes, the terrified secretary was pulled out of the water, then promptly escorted back to Lambeth. He immediately hastened into the palace to shed his heavy and sodden garb, encountering several startled servants as he walked through the halls, water dripping from his garments. As he removed his clothing, he realised something was missing. The thesis was no longer tucked into his sleeve.
In due course, he joined the archbishop in the library, apologetically explaining that he had managed to lose the thesis. “It must have fallen from my sleeve into the water.”
Thomas regarded his obviously shaken secretary with concern. “I am simply thankful that you did not drown. Go and take a hot posset to warm yourself, then, once you are recovered, we shall begin rewriting this thesis. I have the notes, and I can remember much of it anyway.” It was a nuisance, certainly, but at least his secretary had not drowned.
Thinking nothing more of it, the two men soon began rewriting the thesis, imagining this was the end of the matter.
The bearward, whose animal had unfortunately drowned as a result of the accident, was a relatively poor man, whose sole asset had been his bear. He could neither read nor write, but it was he who chanced to find the thesis which had fallen into the water with Ralph Morice. Fishing it out, he realised it was smudged but still legible, so he took it to a priest to be interpreted. After all, it might be a valuable document, he reasoned. As a result of his consultation with the priest, he journeyed to Lambeth Palace the following day, and was escorted by a servant to see Ralph Morice.
“Are you the Archbishop of Canterbury?” The bearward demanded briskly, finding himself standing before a scholarly looking man wearing sombre attire.
“No, I am not. My lord Archbishop is at Court today. How may I help you? I am his secretary, Master Morice,” he replied, with great civility.
“Do you recognise this?” The bearward thrust the now dry sheaf of papers towards the scholarly looking man, who was alone in the library.
“Yes.” Morice was delighted to see the thesis again. “I thank you for your honesty.” He reached out to take the papers, wondering how much money he should give by means of a reward.
To Morice’s surprise, the bearward held the papers close to his chest and smiled unpleasantly, showing his stained and broken teeth. “I took this to a priest to read, and he said the person what wrote this should burn. I’m guessing the person what wrote it must be your master?”
“How much do you wish the archbishop to give to you for these papers?” Morice sighed inwardly. This was blackmail. Having lost his bear, which was his livelihood, obviously he would wish to purchase another.
The bearward, however, backed away. “I don’t want money. I just want to see the archbishop burn. He’s a heretic, and this…” He waved the thesis at Morice. “Will prove it.”
“The work is not heretical,” Morice explained, trying to sound convincing. “The king himself instructed the archbishop to write it.”
The bearward hesitated, and for a brief moment, Morice thought he was going to hand the thesis to him. But it was not to be so.
“I think I’ll show this to the Bishop of Winchester. Then he can decide if it’s heretical or not.” The bearward, clinging tightly to the thesis, began walking backwards from the room.
“The king and my master will be displeased to hear of your conduct.” Morice hoped his voice was authoritative.
The bearward was unconvinced, and with another unpleasant grin, promptly departed.
Shocked and sickened by the man’s open hatred of the Archbishop of Canterbury, whom he considered to be a dear friend as well as a master, Morice hastened to the home of the one person who could extricate Cranmer from this situation: Thomas Cromwell.
Cromwell acted with his usual speed. Several of his servants intercepted the bearward before he reached Gardiner’s London residence, Winchester Palace. Fortuitously, he had not gone directly to Winchester Palace, but had seen fit to visit a tavern first. It was at the tavern where they forcibly extracted the thesis from his clutches and returned it to Morice, who was anxiously awaiting the outcome with Cromwell at the latter’s home.
“It is incredible that a mere bearward can cause such grievous harm to someone as eminent as an archbishop,” Cromwell pronounced ruefully, before firmly removing the papers from Morice’s hands and thrusting them into the fire.
The secretary’s eyes widened in surprise, but he made no protest. “And to try and cause harm to someone who is himself so kind. The archbishop would never hurt anyone,” he remarked loyally.
“His faith is enough of an offence to some, as you saw,” Cromwell shrugged. “But you acted well.” He placed a hand on the secretary’s shoulder. “Your loyalty is commendable.”
Morice found himself blushing. “I wish you well, my lord Cromwell. Maybe one day, I can return the favour.”
Cromwell smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. “I trust I shall never be in such a position,” he pronounced bleakly.
*****
When he returned to Lambeth, Thomas was shaken to hear the story of the bearward, but grateful to Morice for his quick thinking, and to Cromwell for his prompt intervention. What would have happened if Gardiner had seen the treatise? It was meant for the king’s eyes alone, but Gardiner was high in the king’s favour. He might have succeeded in convincing the king that his Archbishop of Canterbury was a heretic, and ought, therefore, to be punished.
“Did His Majesty say anything about the treatise?” Morice queried, feeing responsible for the loss of the papers, even though it was hardly his fault that the barge had been rammed.
“I spent very little time with the king,” Thomas replied. “His Majesty was busy, so I sought out the queen and spoke with her instead. Actually, my purpose in visiting Court was to speak with her and give encouragement. She has made tremendous progress; she does not use an interpreter at all now. Admittedly, her English is not perfect, but she can manage. She is an apt scholar; after only a few months in this country she can converse sufficiently to get by, though I must confess, we used a lot of sign language too.” He smiled. Speaking with Anne had reminded him of the early days of his marriage, when Margaret had been determined to learn English quickly, and had refused to speak in her own tongue. Anne was similarly diligent.
The queen was astute enough to know that the king was regularly travelling to dine with the Duke of Norfolk and his beauteous niece. She had spoken frankly of the matter, though it had been a difficult conversation, not only because of her lack of vocabulary, but also because of her modesty. Eventually, however, he had discovered that her marriage to the king had most definitely not been consummated.
“I am acting like the innocent little girl,” Anne had explained in her strong, guttural accent. “I pretend I do not know there is something missing.” She was lonely, often bored, and very much aware that few wished to be in her company. She had a very small band of ladies-in-waiting, for the majority had left, not wanting to be part of her Court. Those who remained pitied her and continued to keep her company for that reason. But she did not want pity. She understood that there was nothing to be gained from serving a queen who was totally without influence. This she had explained as well as she could to the kindly archbishop, whom she had grown incredibly fond of. He was always so willing to talk with her, and he was patient too, never placing her under any pressure to speak better English than she was capable of. “I am so glad you are here. I have the frightened,” she had informed him.
“Madam, what have you to be fearful of?” he had asked, quickly realising it was a foolish question. King Henry might not have actively killed Catherine of Aragon, but he had not treated her kindly; it was well accepted that if she had been well cared for, she might be alive now. His second wife had been beheaded, and his third had died in childbirth. Looking at the fates of Catherine and Anne, how could the new queen not be fearful of what might happen to her? She knew that the entire Court deferred to little Catherine Howard now, yet Thomas could not seriously believe that the ageing king would marry such a flighty young girl.
“I fear I shall be…” She had mimed an execution, swinging an imaginary axe.
“He has no reason to have you executed,” Thomas had reassured her. Then again, there had been no reason to execute Anne Boleyn either.
“The queen is in low spirits,” Thomas informed Morice. “And His Majesty is the opposite. He acts the way he did when he was first in love with Anne Boleyn.”
Morice shook his head sadly. “Poor dear lady… the queen, I mean. She seems such a kindly person and is clearly a devout Protestant.”
“Unfortunately, as things stand, the king no longer needs a Protestant alliance,” Thomas sighed.
For the next few weeks, Cromwell continued to keep to his house as much as possible, only leaving when required to attend formal meetings. It was on one such occasion, during a meeting at Lambeth Palace, that a furious row broke out between him and the Duke of Norfolk. This, in itself, was unsurprising, for the two had never seen eye to eye, and often opposed one another. But this particular row was something different, more menacing, and the fact that the duke made his dislike of Cromwell so apparent boded ill for the latter. Until now, outwardly at least, Norfolk had shown at least a degree of respect for Cromwell, but this had disappeared.
Thomas remained positive that the king would soon need Cromwell’s energetic mind; he refused to listen to the insinuations of Richard Rich and Thomas Wriothesley, who regularly seemed to seek him out when he was at Court, asking leading questions such as: ‘has the Earl of Essex uttered anything heretical during your private meetings?’ The answer Thomas gave to these men was always the same: ‘no, the Earl of Essex is nothing but discrete and loyal to His Majesty’, which was entirely true.
In early June, the king summoned his archbishop to Court, and the king’s favourite page, young Tom Culpepper – a youth clearly destined for high office – ushered Thomas into an anteroom, where, for the first time in over a month, he found himself closeted alone with His Majesty. In the hot, airless room, the stench from the king’s injured leg was pungent.
“Ah, my lord Archbishop.” The king’s tone was jovial, his face beaming. “We have missed your company recently. We suspect you are offended because we have not accepted your treatise against the Act of Six Articles,” he boomed.
A couple of weeks ago, Thomas had sent the rewritten treatise to the king, who had promptly returned it to him, with a note saying that he agreed with none of it. He was disappointed, but at least he had not been arrested. “Your Majesty.” Bowing, Thomas kissed the king’s extended hand, noticing how fat and swollen his fingers were. His rings appeared to have become entirely embedded into his skin; they were certainly no longer removable without being cut from his fingers. “I have been kept well occupied. As for the Act… under God, I am guided by my king,” he stated sincerely.
“Well then, let us forget the Act, for we have a task for you that none other can carry out.” The king’s expression was indulgent; he was regarding his companion with the air of a parent surveying his favourite child. “We desire a divorce from our queen, my lord Archbishop. The marriage has not been consummated, and is therefore no true union, as you are fully aware. We request that you speak with the lady and persuade her to admit that it is indeed so.”
There was a lengthy moment of silence as Thomas took this in. “But what shall happen to the lady?” His voice was little more than a hoarse whisper.
“She shall be…” The king thought about it carefully. “She shall be well kept and shall be… our much beloved sister. That’s it!” He slapped his sound leg. “She shall be our sister.” He tapped his teeth thoughtfully with a fat index finder. “We must keep the Duke of Cleves sweet… just in case.”
“Perhaps Cromwell would be the best person to deal with this,” Thomas suggested hopefully.
“No.” The king’s tone was sharp, making it clear Cromwell was still not in favour.
“Her Majesty is a woman of modesty and discretion, but I shall endeavour to achieve the response you desire.” Thomas felt a surge of relief. At least the lady was going to be treated with dignity.
The king was beaming again. “We shall send word to the queen, to inform her that you will be with her shortly. Culpepper,” he bellowed. Seconds later, the youth appeared; obviously he had not been very far away. “Bring us wine; we would speak with the archbishop for a while. Then, inform the queen that he shall be visiting her within the hour.”
Culpepper was quick to bring a flagon of wine, then, bowing, he disappeared.
“A fine and loyal youth,” the king said approvingly. “One day, we shall find him a more significant role. We think he shall go far.”
“He is certainly obliging and devoted.” Thomas had not missed the expression of admiration the youth had cast in the king’s direction. King Henry was quick to differentiate between those who were sincere and those who were not.
After half an hour of stimulating talk with the king, who remained an excellent theologian, Thomas left to visit the queen.
“Deliver to us her reply before you return to Lambeth,” the king called after him, as Thomas quit the stuffy anteroom.
He found the queen almost hysterical; she knew something significant was about to happen. Her eyes were wide with fear as he entered her audience chamber. Two ladies-in-waiting had brought wine to restore her – he had never before seen a queen with so few ladies attending her – and once she was settled, he asked permission to speak with her privately.
Soothed by his calm gentleness, and knowing she could trust him, the queen listened to him intently, and his task turned out to be one of the simplest he had ever undertaken. Yes, she would admit that the marriage was not consummated; yes, she would happily be His Majesty’s sister, as long as she did not have to return to Cleves, unmarried and rejected. After all, who would want to marry her now?
“His Majesty is anxious for you to remain in England,” Thomas informed her in his kindly, reassuring manner.
“He want for to imprison me?” Her eyes once again became wide with fear.
“No, no.” He took the liberty of patting her hand. “He wants to give you houses. Several of them, in fact. They shall all belong solely to you, for you to live in as you please.”
“With the garden? I am wish of mine own garden… and I am wondering if this is dreaming.” Bemused, the queen took a sip of wine.
“With gardens.” He smiled. She had once told him how much she loved gardens. It was a relief to know that the king was not going to humiliate this sweet woman, and even more of a relief to know that he did not intend to execute her, though given that her father was Duke of Cleves, it would have been a most unwise decision.
“So, king will wed little Miss Howard next,” she nodded sagely.
“Of that I am not informed.” His smiled broadened as she looked at him with an arch expression. “It is the truth, Your Majesty. The king has said nothing to me about Lady Catherine Howard.” He produced a document the king had given to him just a short while ago. “Would you please sign this, Your Majesty? It says that you admit to the marriage being unconsummated, but that you desire to remain in England. In this realm, you shall be known as Princess Anne, the king’s beloved sister, and shall be treated as such. At Christmas, Easter and all other festivals, the king will invite you to join him at Court, where you will be honoured above all women, except the queen herself.”
Anne took a deep breath, then gave one of her wide, beaming smiles, as she finally accepted the reality of her new situation. “I have learned to sign mine name,” she informed him proudly. “When I live in mine own house, I will ask that you come and dine with me. I will be able to do mine own cooking in mine own home, no one shall stop me. You see, mine father would not have his daughters learning readings and writing, but we all cook very well.”
“Your Majesty, I shall be honoured,” he replied sincerely.
Anne readily signed the document, and he returned to the king. For his part, the king looked undecided as to whether he should be relieved or offended by her readiness to accept a divorce. He settled for relieved; he would soon be a free man, able to marry the beautiful Lady Catherine Howard.
Bidding farewell to the king, Thomas returned to Lambeth, looking forward to seeing Cromwell in few days’ time, when the Privy Council was due to meet. For once, he would be the person delivering information to Cromwell. He grinned. His heart felt lighter than it had done for some weeks. With a clear conscience, he could pronounce the king to be divorced, and free to remarry. The queen’s situation had weighed heavily upon him, for he liked her enormously, and her future had looked bleak. But she was safe now and would be treated with kindness and honour. Had the situation had been different, and he had been able to openly declare his marriage to Margaret, he firmly believed that the two women would have become close friends, for they were very similar in temperament and personality. Perhaps, in the future, when the king fully accepted the Protestant faith, he would be able to introduce them.
On the tenth of June, the Privy Council met, and Thomas hurried to Cromwell’s side as the two of them walked towards the Council Chamber, to whisper the details of the forthcoming divorce in his ear. As they were about to walk into the chamber, side by side, Richard Rich tugged at Cromwell’s sleeve, begging to speak with him. As Thomas entered the room alone and seated himself, he realised that the only member missing was Cromwell – Rich was not yet a member of the Privy Council – and he began to wonder whether Rich’s little stunt outside had been a deliberate ploy.
On this occasion, the king was not expected to make an appearance, making the Duke of Norfolk the most senior person present. Norfolk was sitting with a grim smile on his face, looking expectantly towards the doorway. There had always been an austere grimness about Norfolk’s countenance. When Thomas had first become a member of the Privy Council, it was Norfolk who had terrified him most. There was something so very imposing about him, and it had come as a great consolation when several other members of the council admitted to feeling likewise.
When Cromwell finally walked into the Council Chamber, Norfolk stood up from his chair, which meant everyone else must do likewise. Walking over to Cromwell, the Duke promptly tore off Cromwell’s Order of the Garter.
“A traitor may not wear these, Master Cromwell.” His voice rang with satisfaction, as he proceeded to swiftly remove, one by one, the clearly stunned Cromwell’s badges of office, including the Great Seal. “You are to proceed to the Tower, sir, where you shall be imprisoned, on charges of treason and heresy.”
Quickly regaining his wits, the outraged Cromwell flung his cap to the floor. “Is this my reward for the service I have done?” He glared at Norfolk, and then at the clearly delighted Stephen Gardiner. “On your consciences, I ask you, am I a traitor?”
The Catholic faction of the Privy Council had already started thumping their fists on the table, shouting, ‘traitor! Traitor!’.
“Such faults as I have committed deserve grace and pardon, but if the king, my master, believes so ill of me, let him make quick work and not leave me to languish in prison.” Cromwell’s gaze swept around the room, easily identifying those who were opposed to him and those who were not. For his part, Cranmer looked white and shaken, as if it was he who had been accused of being a traitor, whilst Edward Seymour’s mouth hung open in shock.
The Catholic faction continued to rhythmically beat their fists and shout obscenities in his direction as Cromwell was hustled out of the chamber. Blinking in astonishment, Thomas glanced around the room, and found the Catholic faction eyeing him gleefully. There was no doubt about it: his downfall would be next.
Cromwell had been arrested under an Act of Attainder, a method of sentencing someone to death, usually for treason, without first going through a trial. Thomas knew that, unless the king pardoned him, Cromwell stood no chance of getting out of the Tower alive. In desperation, as soon as he returned to Lambeth Palace, he wrote to the king.
‘Your Majesty, he whose surety was only by Your Majesty; he who served Your Majesty no less than God; he who studied always to set forward whatsoever was Your Majesty’s will and pleasure; he that cared for no man’s displeasure to serve Your Majesty; he that was such a servant in wisdom, diligence, faithfulness and experience, as no prince in this realm ever had, can surely not be deemed a traitor. I loved him as my friend, for I so took him to be, but I chiefly loved him for the love which I saw him bear ever towards Your Grace, singularly above all others. Whom shall Your Grace trust hereafter if you might not trust him? Alas, I bewail and lament Your Grace’s chance herein; I know him to be whom Your Grace may trust’.
It was impossible to imagine the king not sparing this servant. No one else possessed such energy and cunning intelligence as Cromwell; he was a great asset to the king’s Court. But whilst the king read the letter, and announced himself to be as shocked as his archbishop by Cromwell’s sudden fall, he did nothing about it.
In response to this, Thomas asked Ralph Morice to visit the Tower, to request a list of the charges that had been laid against Cromwell.
Morice returned with a long list of accusations.
“He has never done any of these things!” Thomas exclaimed, his gaze rapidly skimming down the list of crimes as he restlessly strode around his spacious library. “This is ludicrous, all of it. He has not given heretics licence to preach, and he is certainly not an Anabaptist…” His hands were shaking as he tried to make sense of it. “It says he has failed to enforce the Act of Six Articles…” his voice trailed away. That could well be true. Cromwell was, after all, Protestant. “And it says he has been plotting to marry Princess Mary.”
“Ridiculous,” Morice exclaimed, his face a mask of shock. No one had served the king as diligently as Cromwell. That this man should now be placed in the Tower… it was too much to take in.
“Princess Mary and Cromwell have never been on civil terms. She has always disliked him as much as she dislikes me,” Thomas declared.
Slowly, he read the list afresh. Cromwell was accused of corruption; of giving heretics licence to preach; spreading heretical literature; and of being an Anabaptist. The latter accusation meant he could be burned at the stake. “I don’t know what I can do to have him spared,” he informed Morice forlornly. “I have written to the king, but it has done nothing to aid his release.”
Collapsing into a chair, he regarded the list yet again. Norfolk currently had King Henry’s ear, thanks to his pretty niece being a royal favourite these days. Since Gregory, Cromwell’s only surviving son, had married Queen Jane’s youngest sister, Elizabeth, a few years ago, the aristocratic Norfolk had found it impossible to hide his displeasure. In Norfolk’s opinion, the Cromwells were marrying too close to the crown, and Thomas knew that Norfolk had been waiting for any opportunity to get rid of the person whom he considered to be an the upstart statesman. The disastrous marriage between King Henry and Anne of Cleves had left Cromwell in a vulnerable position, so Norfolk and his Catholic supporters had seized an opportunity to strike.
There had been times when Thomas’ own relationship with Cromwell had been strained, but it was a fact that the two of them needed one another; despite their differences and disagreements, they held each other in high regard, and respected one another’s opinions. Witnessing his friend’s sudden arrest had shaken him to the core.
From his room in the Tower, Cromwell also wrote to the king, asking for mercy. He knew only too well that he was destined to die, and his enemies would desire for him to endure the traitor’s death. They wanted him to be hung, drawn and quartered, or else burned. Whilst it was evident that the king did not feel inclined to save his life, Cromwell hoped that he would at least agree to a beheading instead. His letter sent, he soon received a reply, not written by the king, but by a secretary, which stated that he was to be beheaded. Being of lowly stock, he was unfit to be executed on Tower Hill, but was informed that he would be beheaded at Tyburn. Ironically, the date set aside for this was the twenty-eighth of July, the same day on which the king intended to marry Catherine Howard.
As Archbishop of Canterbury, Thomas had been informed that he must perform the marriage ceremony, so he travelled to the Tower the evening before the wedding, to visit his friend. Cromwell had been denied visitors, but the Governor of the Tower, Master Kingston, sympathetically turned a blind eye to the arrival of the Archbishop of Canterbury. After all, he reasoned, a man who was about to die could not be denied the attendance of a member of the clergy.
It was a painful meeting, for both men. It had all happened so suddenly. At Christmas, Cromwell’s execution would have seemed impossible. He had been high in royal favour; no one had been more so. Thomas hardly knew what to say to him now, other than to suggest they should pray together, which Cromwell was eager to do. He sat with Cromwell for over an hour: sometimes they were silent, sometimes they prayed. His friend was no longer buzzing with suppressed energy; there was a stillness about him, as if he had accepted his fate and already belonged to another, higher realm.
“We had a good partnership, you and I,” Cromwell quietly remarked as his friend prepared to depart. “You were my conscience you know. What ever I planned, I always took your conscience into consideration.”
Thomas managed a weak smile. “I have to say I never noticed my conscience hindering you in anything!”
When they parted, his eyes were brimming with tears that he was trying not to shed. Cromwell’s were dry, and the hand which he extended to grasp that of his friend was firm. It was some time before he released his grip.
Ralph Morice had agreed to the grizzly task of attending Cromwell’s execution in place of his master. Cromwell’s unpopularity meant the crowd would be gleeful and disrespectful, and Thomas had wanted to ensure that at least one well-meaning and supportive presence was there. He prayed that Cromwell would spot Morice’s kindly face.
“He died bravely,” Morice later reported. “The executioner was clumsy; it took three strikes of the axe, but he didn’t make a sound. As for the crowd, they were mostly gleeful. He was jeered at on the journey from the Tower to Tyburn, but there were a few kind people. He saw me, and I beheld a glance of glad recognition.”
“I am grateful to you for attending, Morice,” Thomas responded. His own position would be a lonely one now. Since coming to Court, he had worked side by side with the stocky, clever, energetic statesman. Just a few weeks ago, he could have been brought down by a bearward, but he had been saved by the quick thinking of Morice and Cromwell. The Court, always a viper’s nest, would be even more dangerous without Cromwell by his side.
*****
During the following weeks, Thomas spent most of his time at the Manor of Ford in Canterbury. Gardiner, Rich and Wriothesley were in high favour at Court; it was thanks to their influence that there had recently been a spate of executions. More Anabaptists had been burned at Smithfield, all of whom had allegedly been closely associated with Cromwell. In addition to this, three men, including Thomas’ old friend, Robert Barnes, had been accused of heresy, and promptly burned alive. It had come as a great blow to to learn of his friend’s untimely death.
Considering the volatility of the situation at Court, Thomas felt it was prudent to keep out of the way. In addition to the burnings, the plague was making another unwelcome appearance, so he had a legitimate excuse to leave the city. He soon discovered that the citizens of Canterbury were pleased to hear Cromwell had been beheaded, for they blamed him for the dissolution of the monasteries and for the high taxes they were forced to pay. No one seemed to understand that all of this had been enthusiastically sanctioned by the king. Cromwell was a scapegoat, and the king’s popularity soared in response. Slowly, Thomas had realised this was probably the reason why the king had signed Cromwell’s death warrant.
As was ever the case at Canterbury, his clergy were obdurate, resenting the recent demolition of Becket’s shrine, for they detested any form of change. Clutching a sheaf of notes, Thomas stepped into the pulpit, yet again, to explain the true meaning of reformation in England.
“The clergy are minsters of the Crown,” he began, not failing to detect the disinterest of his audience. “Instead of receiving Papal Bulls, we receive Letters Patent from the king.” Out of the corner of his eye, he could see his brother, Edmund, already stifling a yawn on account of having heard this several times already. “Parishes, dioceses, cathedrals and so forth, are all under the control of the king, and he may visit, repress, reform and restrain them as he wishes, or may appoint anyone under the Great Seal to do so for him. However, it remains for the clergy to command, reward and punish their congregation. The legal system of the clergy in no longer a separate court; we are tied to His Majesty’s Court of Chancery. I stand in place of Papal authority, to receive supplications for dispensations and licenses, being empowered to do so by the Dispensations Act.” He sensed a ripple of disapproval from those who were most deeply entrenched in Catholicism.
For a short while, he talked of the Act of Six Articles, then finally closed his lecture with the subject of the king’s divorce and remarriage, news of which was gradually filtering through the realm. “His Majesty’s recent divorce from the Princess of Cleves has been passed by Parliament, therefore His Majesty has been deemed free to marry the rightly virtuous Lady Catherine Howard, who was wedded to the king a few weeks ago.” Given the age of the bride, Thomas reasoned this would be the last marriage ceremony he would perform for the king. Catherine was young and lovely; her cheerfulness and vitality would strongly appeal to the king’s love of beauty.
Once Edmund was alone with his brother, he demanded, “Did the king instruct you to speak of his latest marriage?”
“Yes, he did.”
Edmund, helping Thomas to remove his chasuble and dalmatic before they left the cathedral, was irate. “The poor lady of Cleves was cast aside because of her plainness, so that Henry, who is no vision of beauty himself, may hastily marry a girl young enough to be his daughter. In fact, she is younger than his daughter, his eldest one at least.” His tone was outraged.
“Hush, you speak treason,” Thomas gently warned. His brother could be fiery sometimes.
“I speak the truth,” Edmund protested.
“Even so, you must be careful with your speech.” Uneasily, he wondered what his brother said when he was not nearby to urge caution.
Edmund had seen the king six months ago, when he had cause to briefly visit London; he had beheld the king riding in a procession through the streets and had been shocked by the sight of the monarch, a man whom he had heard was tall, magnificent and handsome. He knew he and the king were more or less the same age, yet the man he had seen appeared haggard and old. Like Thomas, Edmund was still agile, and they could both walk for miles or spend a day in the saddle without discomfort. By contrast, the king looked uncomfortable, sick, and grossly fat. His eyes were pouched, and his cheeks red and bloated. King Henry was not ageing gracefully at all, and it was Edmund’s opinion that the king did not need a young wife, he needed a nurse. Unfortunately, it was treason to utter this aloud, even if it was true.
During the first two months of the king’s new marriage, the weather was the hottest it had been in living memory, and the king promptly sent a letter to Canterbury, instructing his archbishop to pray for rain. Meanwhile, he and his young wife, to escape from the plague, were staying at the Palace of Oatlands, in Weybridge. Edmund Cranmer would have been surprised to see the king now displaying a suddenly renewed vigour, which everyone, himself included, attributed to his lively bride. He began hunting again, and plunged himself into frantic celebrations, to honour his marriage to his ‘Rose Without a Thorn’, as he called her. He even took to jousting again, though not with the speed and aggression of his younger days.
As the weeks passed and the weather cooled, the cases of plague diminished, and king and Court returned to London, as did Thomas. Christmas drew near, and to his dismay, he found himself expected to join the festivities at Court. He had hoped to spend his time at Canterbury, but the king had taken to sending for him regularly; his society appeared to be more sought after than anyone else’s, with the exception of the queen, much to the chagrin of Gardiner, Rich and Wriothesley.
“My lord Archbishop, you do not seem delighted by our invitation,” the king observed, his eyes alight with mischief.
“On the contrary, I am overcome with such honour,” Thomas murmured. This was at least partly true. It was an honour to be invited to spend the festive season at Court.
“The queen is planning a selection of games, and there shall be mummers and much music and dancing.” The king’s expression remained amused. He had summoned his archbishop to attend him at Hampton Court for no other reason than to enjoy his company. At Christmas, he would be surrounded by courtiers, and his wife would no doubt be dancing with the younger men at Court, so amid the noise of the music, laughter and raised voices, to sit and talk with this learned man would be an oasis of calm.
“I request to be excused, as usual, from dancing and games,” Thomas begged. “I have never danced… at least, I do not recall dancing. Maybe I attempted it as a child.” He shrugged. “But I enjoy watching others dancing, whilst listening to music is one of my pleasures.”
There was a slyness to Henry’s smile. He knew exactly why his archbishop was dismayed at being required to attend the queen’s Christmas celebrations: the archbishop’s wife and daughter, who had fled to Germany, had recently returned to Canterbury.
“Our sister, the Princess Anne, is to join us for Christmas. The queen invited her; they are close friends, you know,” Henry confided. “I never would have thought it possible that a current wife and a previous wife could be such good friends.”
“I am glad, for the queen’s sake, that they are friends, Your Majesty. The Princess of Cleves is a sensible woman, and a kind one. If she remains at Court, she will provide a worthy example for the queen to follow, and will provide her with wise feminine advice. I see the Lady Rochford is also at Court now.” Thomas had never been fond of Jane Rochford, but since her damning testimony against her late husband, George Boleyn, he felt a considerable distaste towards the disagreeable woman. Most people felt likewise.
“The queen feels sorry for her, widowed and alone. She has such a soft heart.” The king’s voice rang with indulgence. “It pleased her to be able bring her back to Court.” Like Thomas, the king felt there was something unsavoury about a woman who would willingly testify against her husband, but he was glad to please his little queen.
As they were speaking, the Duke of Norfolk, in higher royal favour than ever before, thanks to his niece being so beloved of the king, drew near, wishing to speak with His Majesty. Standing aside to permit Norfolk some privacy, Thomas wondered how quickly he could take his leave of the king and return to Canterbury, without causing offence. Three weeks ago, he had been totally taken aback to discover that his wife had returned to England. Not daring to journey to London, she had wisely travelled directly to Canterbury, and upon learning that her husband was at Court, she had sent a message informing him of her presence.
Eager to be reunited, he had hastened to pay a brief visit to the Manor of Ford, yet his delight had been combined with fear. When he had enquired why she had not written to him first, to be advised whether it was safe to return, her reply had been simple. She had not asked because she had known that his response would be ‘no.’ She had discerned from the tone of his his letters that he was feeling low, so she was, she insisted, here to stay. If Thomas was honest with himself, he did not think she was any safer in Germany than she was here, and besides, the king was all too aware of his marriage. Some years ago, His Majesty had consistently mentioned packing cases when they were together, and several times during the past few days, he had taken to mentioning them again. It seemed the king, who missed very little, was fully aware of Margaret’s return.