Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Sixteen
Shortly before Christmas, the king made a visit to Lambeth Palace, and Thomas found himself flattered by His Majesty’s unexpected interest in the Cranmer ancestral coat of arms.
“It has been the same for some generations,” he explained. “Three cranes.”
The king rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Have you considered changing it?”
It had never occurred to Thomas to change his coat of arms. It was three cranes, and always had been. His family was well contented with it.
“We have given the matter some thought and have concluded that it is definitely time it was changed.” With an air of triumph, the king produced a sheet of paper from his sleeve. It was a sketch of a new Cranmer coat of arms, designed by himself. “What do you think?”
Even had he not liked the new badge he would never have dared to openly disagree; but it was suitable and pleasing. “I like it, sire,” he pronounced, after closely studying the drawing.
“Three pelicans. A pelican will give its own blood to save its chicks, symbolising your willingness to shed your blood for your young ones, brought up in the faith of Christ.” The king studied his handiwork with satisfaction.
Thomas, meanwhile, felt a spasm of apprehension tricking down his spine. The king’s statement had sounded uncomfortably prophetic. “I thank Your Majesty for undertaking this. I am overwhelmed by your kindness.” He rolled up the piece of paper. “I did not know Your Majesty was such an artist.”
“We do not have much time to draw or paint, my lord Archbishop. To rule a realm is a task requiring constant self-sacrifice.” The king looked regretful. “Maybe we could have been an artist, if given the opportunity.”
Thomas permitted himself to smile, hoping he looked sympathetic rather than amused. The king loved being the king; he just sometimes felt inclined to appear regretful about his lot in life. “Or else a musician and composer?” he suggested.
“Indeed,” the king concurred.
“Or a theologian…”
The king gave a guffaw of laughter.
“You see, sire…” Thomas spoke sincerely. “God placed you on the throne and gave you gifts as blessings, some for you to enjoy personally, others to help you guide your people.”
The king nodded slowly. “We all must accept what God gives us, and use His gifts to serve Him, my lord Archbishop. A king even more so that his subjects.”
He nodded agreement, enjoying this short time alone with the king. There was richness in his company. Occasionally he could be frightening, of course; but, when they were alone together, their conversations were informative and varied. Though he knew the king loved being a ruler, had he not been so, Thomas was confident that he would have been splendid at whatever career he chose. His knowledge was varied, his skills equally so. Few people were blessed with such a wide variety of gifts.
*****
On Christmas Eve, the king surprised Parliament by insisting upon making the closing speech – a task usually undertaken by the Chancellor – and despite his ailing health, it was one of the most eloquent speeches he had ever delivered. He spoke for some time, reprimanding the clergy for speaking out against one another, scowling at Gardiner as he did so. He also accused the clergy of being morally unclean, of acting without charity and, also, of sowing doubt and discord amongst the common folk, who looked to their clergy for enlightenment.
His closing words concerned the English translation of the Bible. “It was intended to inform your own consciences, and to aid you in the instruction of your children and families. Preaching your own fantastical opinions, and vain expositions, is to usurp the duty of judging what is truth and what is error, which is a duty to be committed only by God. It pains me to know and hear how irreverently the most precious jewel, the word of God, is disputed, rhymed, sung, and jangled, in every ale house and tavern. Of this I am sure: charity was never so faint amongst you, and virtuous and godly living was never less used, nor was God Himself amongst Christians ever less reverenced, honoured or served.”
When the king had finished speaking, many of those present were emotional. It had been a remarkable oration; such had been the sincerity of his voice that it had touched the hearts of even the most self-seeking courtiers. They would have been even more emotional had they known it would be his last public speech.
Thomas spent Christmas Day at Court, in the delightful company of the now hugely respected Anne of Cleves. He remained in London for two weeks before travelling to Canterbury, but within a week, he received a letter from Edward Seymour, asking him to hold himself in readiness to return to London. A few days later, another communication arrived, this time informing him that the king was putting his affairs in order for his young son, who at only nine years old, would require a regent to guide him. It had been decided by the king that Edward Seymour would fulfil that role. Henry had also drawn up a list, detailing the members of the new Privy Council. Seymour recommended that, as Archbishop of Canterbury, Thomas should return to London immediately, to be with the king.
Mounting a horse, he duly did so, hurrying in a snow storm to Whitehall Palace. Leaving his now steaming horse with a groom, he hurried directly to the king’s quarters.
Seymour met him at the door. “You have arrived just in time, I believe,” he stated calmly. His voice, always dry and cold, was totally without emotion. “His Majesty has been asked if he would like to see Gardiner or Stokesley, or anyone else available, but he will see only you.”
“I… I did not realise he was so desperately ill,” Thomas stammered, deeply shocked by the finality of Seymour’s tone.
“He has arranged everything in readiness for Prince Edward.” Seymour permitted himself a grim smile. “Someone mentioned to him that he had forgotten to place Bishop Gardiner on the Privy Council. The king replied ‘marry, I remembered him well enough, and left him out. I myself could use him and rule him, but you shall never do so’. It appears Gardiner’s authority has been severely lessened, thankfully.”
They hurried along the corridors, but as they neared the king’s bedchamber, the queen and Lady Mary stumbled out, weeping, supported by the queen’s sister, Lady Herbert.
Trying to dust off the snow that was caked to his cloak, Thomas entered the dying king’s chamber. He had seen death many times before, and knew immediately that this king, whom he had loved and feared, would not last much longer. Dr Butts was nearby, as were the Admiral Thomas Seymour and Sir Anthony Denny. They stood back, allowing Thomas to approach the royal bed. The king himself was unable to speak, but the expression in his eyes showed relief that his trusted friend was near.
“Sire.” The voice that came out of his mouth was so strangled by grief he barely recognised it as his own. “Your Grace, do you call upon the Lord, Jesus Christ, to forgive your sins?”
The king could not answer but squeezed his friend’s hand.
“Do you die in the faith of Christ?” Thomas choked on a sob. This was even more difficult to utter. King Henry had been a monumental force in his life; everything he knew was about to change forever.
Again came that pressure from the king’s hand. Then, a few moments later, King Henry VIII peacefully passed away.
“His Majesty has died in the true faith of Christ,” Thomas intoned, and all those attending the king bowed their heads. Feeling emotionally drained, the peace of his Lambeth library beckoned, and he turned to Edward Seymour. “I shall return to Lambeth, if—”
“That would be unwise.” Seymour looked him squarely in the eye, taking his arm and pulling him into the deserted corridor, followed by Sir Anthony Denny.
Thomas stared at the two men in shock.
“We are now in the early hours of Friday the twenty-eighth of January,” Seymour hissed.
Wedged between the two men, Thomas had too many emotions racing through his mind to comprehend what they were saying. The date clearly meant something, but he could not recall its significance.
“My lord of Norfolk should have been executed this day. The warrant is not signed,” Seymour continued with exaggerated patience.
“But now the king is dead, surely the execution will not continue,” Thomas reasoned.
“I am appointed Regent.” Seymour radiated satisfaction. “I have the power to sign the warrant.”
“I pray you, do not begin this new reign with bloodshed,” Thomas pleaded, shocked to the core.
Seymour’s voice was tinged with impatience. “This matter must be discussed by the Privy Council, but my lord Archbishop, you, more than anyone, are aware that Norfolk is determinedly Catholic. It would be to the advantage of the reformist party if he were eliminated.”
Thomas vehemently shook his head. “I shall not vote for that.”
Seymour gave another exaggerated sigh. “It shall be considered at the next council meeting. As for the king’s death, it must not be announced.”
“I do not see why an announcement should not be ma—”
“We need to secure the prince,” Edward Seymour coldly interrupted. “He and his nurse are now being brought here, to Whitehall. We need to ensure he is safely guarded before the Catholic faction get hold of him.”
“Also, the king is a minor,” Denny added darkly. “There is always a danger of someone declaring they have a better claim when a minor succeeds to the throne.”
“A person such as the Duke of Norfolk,” Seymour voiced meaningfully.
Thomas could understand the situation, but still could not accept the signing of Norfolk’s death warrant. As for securing the king, this he could concur with. Whichever faction had the young king in their possession, also had the government. Edward was a child, and Thomas had, thus far, had very little to do with him. He knew the boy was clever and devoutly Protestant, partially due to his Protestant tutors. However, the Catholic faction, if they managed to seize him, might attempt to change his opinion. Children could be easily manipulated.
“I understand the king must be brought here. That I agree with,” he stated.
“My lord, with all due respect, in spite of your great learning, you are no statesman.” Denny’s gaze was warmer than Seymour’s. “The fact is, the death of Norfolk will be a political action, not one of spite or vengeance.”
“That does not make it necessary,” Thomas stated firmly.
Denny and Seymour exchanged exasperated glances.
“We shall see what transpires during the first meeting of the council,” Seymour declared coldly.
It was decided that both the boy-king and Lady Elizabeth should be brought to the palace, for their own safety, and by the time the king’s death was announced, both King Edward VI, as he was to be known, and Lady Elizabeth, were in the hands of Edward Seymour.
At his first appearance in the Council Chamber, the young king, standing on a stool so as not to be hidden by the table, presented a tearful but dignified face to ‘his’ Privy Council. The council members, though all respectful of his status as king, knew that it was not young Edward whom they were accountable to; the real power lay in the hands of his uncle, Edward Seymour, Earl of Hertford. Not only had this man been chosen to be Lord Protector, but according to King Henry VIII’s instructions, he was also to be Governor of the king during his minority. Already, there was acrimony between the Seymour brothers, Edward and Thomas. They had never been close, for their temperaments were totally opposite; the only thing they had in common was ambition and greed.
“It is preposterous that you should be both Protector and Governor,” Admiral Thomas Seymour protested once the Privy Council was seated. “I also am the prince’s uncle… the king’s uncle,’” he quickly amended. “I have the right to be his Governor.” He jabbed a finger towards his own chest. “I should have the care of his person, not Hertford.” He jabbed a finger towards his brother. “The honours should be equally distributed.”
The young king shot a glance of admiration at his younger, more glamorous uncle, and looked to be in favour of the Admiral becoming his Governor. The new king was a pink cheeked, healthy-looking child, Thomas noted. Fair, small, and slight, like his mother had been. It was doubtful that he would grow to his father’s impressive height and width, but his mouth was prim looking, a feature he had most certainly inherited from King Henry.
John Dudley, another ambitious courtier, was nodding in agreement. The more ill-feeling there was between the Seymour brothers, the easier it might be for courtiers such as himself to progress up the ladder towards power and wealth. However, the remainder of the council proved to be in favour of the older, more respected Seymour brother, and the majority voted that he should hold the dual role.
As he carefully scrutinised John Dudley, Admiral Seymour, and his brother, the newly appointed Lord Protector, Thomas suspected there would be trouble between the three of them. Both Dudley and the Admiral were already in favour with the boy; their outwardly merry personalities appealed to a child far more than Edward’s cold, aloof presence.
Having finished discussing who would assist the king, the topic of the meeting shifted to the fate of the Duke of Norfolk. Despite much deliberation, it was decided – thanks mostly to Thomas’ own fervent suggestion that the new reign should not begin with the shedding of blood – that the Duke of Norfolk’s death warrant should remain unsigned, to be dealt with at a later date.
*****
During the next few days, though Thomas was hardly away from Court, it dawned on him that now would be the perfect time to bring Margaret and his children back to Lambeth. Edward, child though he was, had already stated that he wished for England to fully embrace Protestantism, so it was likely that Thomas and his family were now safe from the charge of heresy.
In the meantime, there was the late king’s funeral to be taken care of. His massive corpse had been embalmed; Requiem Masses were to be held throughout the country at Henry’s instruction, and prayers offered for the repose of his soul. Henry had abolished purgatory, but he had clearly decided not to take any chances where his own soul was concerned.
“It is difficult to persuade anyone to keep watch over the late king’s body at night,” Seymour informed Thomas one morning, as they were discussing Henry’s funeral arrangements. Currently, the former king’s body was lying in state at Whitehall, in a massive lead coffin, draped in black velvet. The funeral would take place at Windsor, where he was to be interred next to Jane Seymour, the only wife to bear him a son. The simple truth was that there was no other queen he could rest beside. Two had been executed, and now lay in the Chapel of St. Peter ad Vincula in the Tower of London; his first wife had been repudiated, and lay in Peterborough Cathedral. The Princess of Cleves still lived, as did his final wife, Queen Catherine.
“Why?” Thomas was surprised. After all, usually several people were employed to watch the body; it was deemed an honour to do so.
“It has been reported that a headless woman has been seen hovering near to the coffin.” Seymour rolled his eyes expressively. “It is foolish talk, but we must find someone who is willing to undertake the task. I take it you will be officiating at the ceremony?”
Thomas had given this a great deal of thought; indeed, he had lain awake all night thinking it over. “I do not wish to officiate,” he finally replied. “I intend to ask Gardiner to do so. I know I cannot be anything other than emotional, whereas Gardner, well, he shall be able to carry the whole event through without shedding a single tear.”
“You genuinely loved the old king, then?” Seymour’s eyebrows rose in surprise.
“Of course. He was a remarkable individual. Frightening at times, I will admit, but he always gave me much to think about. He was a true intellectual.”
Seymour looked at him curiously. “Hmm… perhaps so.”
On its journey from Whitehall to Windsor, the king’s body was taken to Syon House, and despite being kept in a lead coffin, grizzly reports revealed that the coffin had burst open, and proceeded to emit a vile odour, leaking blood and bodily fluids all over its velvet coverings. The people of England, who loved a thrilling story, recalled that Syon House was the very place where Catherine Howard had resided prior to her execution, and thus suspected that this incident had been caused by the vengeful queen.
When he heard this, Thomas admitted that it was a far more exciting story than the truth. He was hardly surprised that many people had chosen to believe that the ghost of Catherine Howard was to blame. In reality, owing to the delay in announcing the late king’s demise, the embalmers were several days late in carrying out their grim task of preserving the royal corpse, and could not prevent the progress of decomposition. Henry’s body, now having been dead for eight days, had begun to expand in the coffin, as was natural. Being already very large in size, the pressure had built up so much that the body had burst, forcing the lid of the coffin open. It was not something he cared to dwell on.
As was to be expected, the funeral was a magnificent affair. The lead coffin, having been repaired, had been covered with a clean black velvet covering, and positioned atop a grand carriage, which was then pulled through the streets by eight horses, each of them mounted by a child. On top of the coffin was an effigy of the king, wonderfully crafted and dressed in clothes bedecked with jewels. The face, being a death mask, was particularly lifelike.
Gardiner, smarting over not being a member of the new Privy Council, performed his role very well. Outraged though he might be, he adored being the centre of attention, and at the funeral of such a magnificent and popular monarch, he was certain to be noticed. Thomas, meanwhile, had the coronation of King Edward VI to occupy his thoughts, for only the Archbishop of Canterbury could place the crown upon the head of the new king.
Because of the inclement weather, Margaret was, as yet, unable to travel to London, eager though she was to do so. The roads were entirely frozen, making it difficult to travel by carriage, and a woman with two young children could not possibly travel by horse. There was nothing else she could do but patiently wait for the weather to improve.
On the twentieth of February, the young king, attired all in white and riding upon a white palfrey, set out from the Tower of London to attend his coronation at Westminster Abbey. There was no disguising the fact he was pathetically young. The sight of him prompted the women in the watching crowd to dab at their eyes and call out blessings, whilst the men lifted their caps and cheered. Free wine flowed in the conduits, adding to the sense of merriment and good cheer.
In the abbey, the dais on which the throne stood was draped in red and gold, as were the tombs on either side of the altar. Once seated upon the throne, Edward looked smaller than ever, though to his credit, he conducted himself with a precocious dignity. In due course, after all the peers of the realm – in order of seniority – had vowed allegiance and fealty to their king, Thomas took the boy to present him to the four corners of the abbey, where his subjects were seated, crammed together, to witness the occasion.
“Sirs, I present to you King Edward, the rightful heir to the throne of this realm.” Gently, he held the boy’s shoulders, turning him in each direction to receive the roars, cheers and shouts of ‘God save the king!’. After the huge bulk of his father, Edward felt frail and delicate. Silently, he prayed the boy would live a long and happy life. He was a healthy child, but child mortality was high, even where royalty was concerned.
Finally, it was time for Thomas to deliver an oration. He had prepared much of this speech weeks before the king’s death, when it became clear that Henry’s health was failing, and he was glad that he had done so, for he had still spent many hours during the past weeks reading paragraphs from it to the patient Ralph Morice, and promptly rewriting them. Now, the time had come to deliver it.
He began by commending the king to God’s guidance, asking that he would obey God and be a wise ruler of the realm. “Your Majesty is God’s Vicegerent and Christ’s Vicar within your own dominions. You must see God truly worshipped, idolatry destroyed, the tyranny of the bishops of Rome banished from your subjects, and images removed. These acts are the signs of a second Josias, who reformed the Church of God in his days. You are to reward virtue, revenge sin, justify the innocent, relieve the poor, procure peace, repress violence and execute justice throughout your realm.”
As he was speaking, he noticed that the boy-king’s earnest face was fixed upon his own, taking in every word that he said as though it were the word of God Himself. As Thomas turned to the congregation, he saw that the Princess Elizabeth – who, like her sister Mary, had been given royal status once again, according to the late king’s Will – was also listening intently. Princess Mary looked pale and ill, but she suffered much from abscesses in her mouth, so it could be she was focused on her own pain. Certainly, she was not listening.
Thomas took a steady breath, as he prepared to conclude his speech. “Being bound by my function to lay these things before your Royal Highness, may the almighty God, in His great mercy, grant you a prosperous reign, defend you and save you, and let your subjects say amen. God save the king!”
“God save the king!” The cry was repeated again and again by the peoples assembled. It was done; Edward VI was the crowned and anointed King of England.
Later, during the celebratory banquet at Westminster Hall, the king summoned his Archbishop of Canterbury to his side, and Thomas found himself suddenly wishing to laugh aloud. There was definitely something of King Henry’s pomposity in the young king.
“Your Majesty.” Thomas bowed, noticing that the child had spilled marchpane down his white doublet. He had heard tell that Edward had a sweet tooth, but then, most children liked sweet things.
“We applaud your speech, my Lord Archbishop,” Edward declared formally.
“Thank you, Your Majesty.” He bowed again. Edward was obviously following his father’s example of referring to himself in the plural. The boy was known to be very serious indeed regarding his faith, and his tutors had often written to King Henry, telling him how precocious he was with his reading and learning; how capable he was of forming his own opinions. Since the death of the old king, Thomas had spoken several times with Edward, to his infinite satisfaction. The rumours of how earnestly the boy was inclined towards The New Learning had not been exaggerated. He optimistically suspected rapid changes would soon be made within the realm.
Edward was beaming with delight. “We especially applaud your reference to the Bishop of Rome. Such is what he must always be.”
Thomas too beamed with delight. “Assuredly so, sire.”
Seconds later, Edward was a little boy again. “Look, my Lord Archbishop, a juggler! I have seen him before and he is very clever indeed. He used to come to Eltham Palace to entertain me. Come, let us watch him!”
*****
It was mid-March before Margaret arrived at Lambeth with the children, and Thomas was startled by how much Marjorie and little Thomas had grown. Margaret also received a shock, for Thomas, who had been clean shaven his whole life, had begun growing a beard, as a sign of mourning for King Henry. Since his once dark hair was now grey, Margaret’s reaction, when she first saw him, was to clap a hand to her mouth and cry, ‘my husband, you look like a grey goat!’. He had also allowing his hair to grow over his priestly tonsure, but since this change was mostly obscured by his cap, it received no comment from his wife.
Her exclamation only served to remind him that he was getting olde; indeed, they were all getting older. A couple of weeks previously, Hugh Latimer had visited, looking thinner and more haggard than Thomas had ever seen him. But his spirit remained feisty, and his eyes still held that same fiery brightness. His friend’s former position at Worcester had become vacant again, and he had tried to persuade him to return to it.
Latimer, however, had been adamantly against it. “I find it too restricting,” he had explained.
“But a bishopric will not stop you from preaching!”
Latimer had been silent for a moment, before replying with finality, “no, my friend. I feel God’s will is for me to continue as I am. I know our friend Ridley has been persuaded to take up his old position at Rochester, whilst you naturally wish to have a Protestant majority in your clergy. But the land is now in the hands of a Protestant-majority council, so be content with that. Shake hands and leave me to go the way God sends me.” He had extended a bony hand, and Thomas had gladly shaken it.
“If you feel it is God’s will, then I cannot suggest otherwise. I am meeting with the king tomorrow at Hampton Court. I shall inform him of your decision.”
Upon arriving at Hampton Court, he found the boy-king translating his stepmother’s book into Greek, purely for his own amusement. Uncertain of how to approach a child with the news of someone refusing a bishopric, he decided to speak openly, as if to an adult, proceeding to explain Hugh Latimer’s reasons for so doing.
Putting his work aside, Edward stated reflectively, “we like Master Latimer, but that is from hearsay, for we have never actually heard him preach.”
“That can be arranged very easily, sire,” Thomas replied eagerly. “Dr Latimer will be very pleased to speak the word of God to you, and to anyone else whom you might choose to invite.” It was wonderful to be able to openly make such a suggestion. Finally, Protestants could be candid about their faith.
“My cousin, Lady Jane Grey, would also love to hear him.” Edward was now an eager boy. “I love my cousin, and it is a pleasure to please those whom we love, is it not, my lord Archbishop?”
“Indeed,” Thomas heartily agreed.
“I would like to send presents to her, but I have no pocket money left. My lord Seymour keeps me short of money.” The boy’s mouth pursed with displeasure.
He had heard about Seymour’s miserly behaviour, and had been informed that the Admiral was making good use of his older brother’s niggardly nature, undermining the Protector’s authority by secretly sending money to the boy. Inch by inch, Admiral Thomas Seymour was turning the boy against the Lord Protector. However, he was not the only person bent upon this project. John Dudley was doing pretty much the same.
“I shall speak with the Lord Protector about this,” Thomas assured him.
“Please do. As for my uncle, the Admiral, he is to be made Lord Sudley.”
Thomas nodded; he had already been made aware of the Admiral’s promotion. The Protector was not keen on elevating his brother, but it would reflect badly on him if he did not seem to be looking after his own family. “Now, sire.” He looked serious. “I need to speak with you regarding the Act of Six Articles. You do understand what this Act involves?”
Edward did indeed understand the document; his intelligent little face, eyes wide and full of knowledge, clearly displayed this.
“The council plans to repeal this. Are you in favour?” The king might be a child, but if this boy announced publicly that he wished the Act to remain, it would make matters difficult for the Protestant faction. The Catholics would instantly side with the king, and the Act might well remain in place.
“Oh yes,” Edward nodded eagerly. “We think the principles of the Church and the country should be in accordance with the Bible. My tutors agree with me. Everything that is true is written on those pages. I… we believe the Act of Six Articles is not according to the truth of God’s word. Do you agree with that, my lord Archbishop?” Looking pathetically young and uncertain, he regarded his companion earnestly.
“You are correct, Your Majesty. The word of God is the only guide we need. If I ever need something to refer to, the first place I visit is the Bible.” The boy had been well tutored. “There are also hopes that clergy shall be permitted to marry,” Thomas continued, gently and hopefully.
“Oh yes.” The boy became lofty. “All men should marry. We intend to marry wisely when the time comes, and we shall marry whom we desire to marry, not according to the Lord Protector!” His mouth pursed, transforming into a small, petulant ‘o’. Already, the Protector had arranged a betrothal between Edward and the young Queen Mary of Scotland, who was now living in France under the protection of the French king, Henry II. Edward objected, because Mary was Catholic. “And I intend to marry more wisely than the Protector, for I dislike his wife. I know she tells her husband he is acting rightly by keeping me short of money.” He had quickly switched from stately king to aggrieved child.
Thomas wondered what to say. The Protector’s wife could be an unpleasant woman, and he was well aware that even the kindly Queen Catherine was not fond of her. The Duchess was every bit as niggardly as her husband when it came to money, and equally as glacial in manner.
Diplomatically ignoring the latter part of the king’s statement, Thomas focussed on the earlier comment. “Your Majesty is wise to choose carefully. A king must marry a woman who can stand beside him and help him rule.”
“Like Queen Catherine.” Edward was boyish now. “My sister Elizabeth is now in her household, as is Lady Jane. I do wish I could be there with them.”
“Sire, you are king.” Thomas shook his head sympathetically. “But I am sure we can arrange for you to see all of them more regularly. In the meantime, I shall bring Dr Latimer to you, so you may listen to him personally,” he promised, by way of compensation. The boy’s genuine delight was touching to behold.
Leaving the king, he ventured to speak with Edward Seymour, immediately giving his opinion that there was nothing to be gained by keeping the child short of money, for it would only foster resentment. Seymour merely gave the excuse that King Henry had left the royal coffers empty; the sooner Edward realised this, the better. But Thomas well knew that this was not the real reason Seymour kept the boy short of money; it was in Seymour’s nature to be miserly.
“Look at this.” Irritably, Seymour thrust a document into the archbishop’s face.
Taking it, Thomas discovered it was a letter from Henry, the eldest of the Seymour brothers, who never bothered to visit Court, much preferring to live simply at Wolf Hall, the family seat.
“He has refused a dukedom and a place at Court!” Edward Seymour, who had recently given himself the title of Duke of Somerset, was indignant. “The uncle of a king cannot be merely Sir Henry Seymour; he must have a title, yet he refuses it!” Irately he snatched the paper from Cranmer’s hands.
“So I have read,” Thomas mused. “But I think he must be an honourable man. I dare say he is far happier than any person at Court.”
“He’s a bumpkin,” Seymour snapped. Trust Cranmer to take the side of Henry Seymour. They were two of a kind, he supposed. “He is the uncle of the King of England. He needs to act like the uncle of the King of England.”
“Not everyone desires to live at Court, where there is wealth and power for those who seek it. The country needs people who are content to rear sheep and cattle, and provide crops to fill our stomachs,” Thomas reasoned.
Seymour looked aghast. “A king’s uncle should have dignity; he should be above such peasant duties as rearing sheep and cattle.”
“If he is happy, leave him alone,” Thomas advised, pulling his cloak about himself in readiness to return to the relative peace of Lambeth Palace.
At Lambeth, he found his wife eager to reveal the latest scandal to him. Astonishingly, it involved that soul of discretion, Queen Catherine.
“She has a lover,” Margaret announced.
“Where have you heard this?” He could not believe this of the Dowager Queen. Catherine was no flighty girl. She was a devout, sober matron. And besides, her husband had been dead only a few brief months.
“There is a tradesman who has been delivering supplies to Hatfield House, where the Dowager Queen is currently living with Princess Elizabeth,” Margaret gleefully revealed. “He told one of our housemaids, who has told me, that the Admiral Seymour visits Queen Catherine at night, and he has been seen riding away early in the morning.”
He could believe it of the Admiral, but not of Catherine. It was well known that Thomas Seymour had been her suitor before Catherine married King Henry. However, if the pair still had feelings for each other, then it was more seemly, more dignified, to wait at least a year before engaging in any form of courtship.
Astonishingly, the rumour proved true; only a couple of weeks later, the Admiral, Lord Sudley, requested permission to marry the Dowager Queen. He was cunning enough to first place the matter before his nephew, the king, and since the Admiral and Queen Catherine were young Edward’s two favourite people, the lad was naturally inclined to agree to their marriage. When it was brought before the council – a necessity, given Catherine’s proximity to the late king – the young king loudly gave his opinion, before his Lord Protector could utter a word. Once the king had made his position clear, no one saw any reason why the marriage should not take place, except, of course, Edward Seymour. By marrying the Dowager Queen, his brother, the Admiral, would become infinitely wealthier than himself, and indeed any other member of the Seymour family. After years spent vying for the better position, Thomas Seymour had finally found himself a prize that Edward could not compete with.