Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Nineteen
By the end of January, Princess Mary had returned to her residence at Hunsdon, in Hertfordshire. Before she left Court, Thomas had requested that Nicholas Ridley should spend some time talking with her, to try and persuade her to shed her orthodox beliefs once more. If he were honest with himself, he did not think there would be a successful outcome. However, given the delicate state of the king’s health, they had to keep trying to persuade the princess to recognise the truth of The New Learning. If Ridley could not convince her that the Protestant faith was pure, and in accordance with the gospels, no one could.
Unfortunately, but not unexpectedly, Ridley arrived at Lambeth Palace to report on an utter failure.
“She was very polite,” he observed.
“Well, that is an improvement. She was certainly not polite towards me during the Christmas festivities,” Thomas stated gloomily. “She sees me as her enemy.”
“Well, you know how plain speaking she is,” Ridley gave a reminiscent smile “There is no falsehood about her at all. She said to me, as soon as I entered her presence, ‘my lord, for your gentleness to come and see me, I thank you, but for your offering to preach to me, I thank you never a whit’. She was clutching her rosary all the while; in fact, she constantly fingers it, as if it is some sort of talisman.”
“I know,” Thomas sighed. “It gives her comfort. I believe it once belonged to her mother. She has led a tragic, difficult life. She may have been born in a palace, but her life has been far from easy.”
At that moment, they heard a gentle knocking upon the library door, and Margaret’s head appeared. Stepping inside, she waved a letter at them. “I apologise for being of disturbing, but I have heard from Germany, and I know you will wish to read what it says. Please be to sit down, Dr Ridley.” Ridley had immediately stood up as she had entered the room. “I think this letter will of interest be to you also.”
Thomas observed that not only were her hands shaking, but her grammar was all over the place. His wife was clearly distressed. Taking her hand, he gently guided her to a comfortable chair. “Bad news, my dear?” he surmised.
“My uncle has died,” she informed him. “Andreas Osiander,” she added, for Ridley’s benefit.
“I am so sorry, Mistress Cranmer.” Ridley’s face was a mask of compassion. “He was a great man; so very gifted. His essays are a privilege to read.”
Ridley had spoken so kindly, Margaret needed to take a few deep breaths to compose herself. Her husband, meanwhile, had pressed a cup of ale into her hand; taking a sip, she addressed Ridley. “He and my husband did not always agree. Just as my uncle did not always agree with Martin Luther.” She tried to smile. “I have learned that you clever men are often splitting the hairs over details, but it does not necessarily ruin the friendship. Indeed, it can strengthen it, which is as it should be.”
“God speaks to us as individuals, and He gives us free will,” Thomas murmured. Scanning the letter, he decided to read some of it aloud. “It begins by announcing the death of Osiander, then delivers what appears to be promising information. There is to be a diet. An assembly.” He paused, holding the letter close to his eyes as he tried to interpret the writing, which was small and compact. “It says, ‘an assembly shall be summoned to deliberate about composing the differences of religion’, and it goes on to say, ‘dissension about religion shall be composed by placid and easy methods. None shall be molested for religious and other matters’.” He sighed. “As reformists, we need to work together. We cannot be a strong Church if we argue and quarrel over trivialities and dogma.” It was a source of uneasiness for him that Protestants were beginning to divide into factions. Such fragmentation would no doubt weaken, rather than strengthen, their cause.
“Let us pray to God that these men can find a means of being at peace,” Ridley spoke with feeling. Like his friend, he was troubled by the knowledge that disagreements were occurring between reformist groups. Turning to Margaret, he added, “I too did not always agree with your uncle, but I agreed with most of his writing. Over the years, his work has both educated and strengthened me. I can state with honesty that I respected him, and I regret that I was never able to meet him. As you have wisely said, we must respect each other’s differences, and keep our friendships strong.”
Thanking him for his kindness, Margaret departed from the library, and the two men returned to the subject of Princess Mary.
“She is very fond of Lady Jane Grey,” Thomas remarked. “Despite the latter being so devoted to Protestantism. I wish they could meet each other more often; Lady Jane might be able to influence the princess. Did you know that Lady Jane engages in regular correspondence with Calvin in Switzerland?”
“No!” Ridley gave an incredulous bark of laughter. “Such a young maid, corresponding with Calvin! Marry, I know she is seriously Protestant, but I did not imagine she was sending letters to him.”
“He helps her with her Old Testament studies, apparently. She also corresponds with Heinrich Bullinger.” Thomas gave a sigh. “It must be said, Lady Jane has endured an even worse upbringing than the Princesses Mary and Elizabeth. When I spoke with Princess Elizabeth over Christmas, and asked if she was happy, the princess said that she is content, and finds her lot far easier than that of Lady Jane, who is constantly beaten, whipped and bullied by her parents.”
“She is but a maid, and dutiful too, from what I have seen.” Ridley was shocked. “Why should they need to whip a maid of…” He tried to recall her age and failed. “A maid who cannot be more than fifteen years of age,” he concluded sadly. Changing the subject, he enquired, “Have you heard anything from our friend Latimer lately?”
“Only that he is reading through my soon-to-be distributed forty-two Articles of Faith, and is due to comment on them.” He referred to a series of articles he had compiled to teach the clergy – and anyone else who chose to read them – about Protestant doctrine. The Protestant faith was built upon the Bible; the Word of God Himself. The articles were aimed to demonstrate that the Protestant faith was grounded in this. He rolled his eyes upwards. “I anxiously await his opinion.”
“He will certainly be frank.” Ridley gave a throaty chuckle.
As the weeks sped past, he waited to hear from the foremost reformists abroad. He had, at the beginning of the year, written to people such as Bullinger, Luther and Calvin, suggesting they come to England to participate in what he described to them as an ‘Ecumenical Council’, where they would be able to air their opinions and doctrines, and perhaps form a strong, united, Protestant Church. Dishearteningly, thus far, all the meetings that had been held to resolve differences had failed to do so. Calvin sent a reply; he was keen, as was Luther, but neither had time to make the journey at present. The others did not respond, which was disappointing. By contrast, the orthodox Church had met in Trento, Northern Italy, in response to the now rapidly growing Protestant faith. The meeting was intended to strengthen the Catholic Church against what they referred to as ‘Protestant heresy’. He had hoped that, by gathering leading Protestants in England, they could formulate a response to what was now referred to as the ‘Catholic Council of Trent’, but clearly it was destined not to happen, not yet at any rate. He wrote back to Calvin, saying that he would continue to reform the English Church to the best of his ability, and work to improve its doctrines according to the Holy Bible.
Meanwhile, at Court, rumours surrounding the king’s poor health were circulating, and the boy was looking pale and weak. Unlike Edward Seymour, who had tried to keep the king in the background, John Dudley encouraged him to attend council meetings, giving every indication that, one day, he would hand over the reins of government to him. Thomas found himself often surprised by Dudley, and although he was certainly not fond of the man, he regretted his early suspicion that Dudley was not a committed Protestant. He had proved himself to be a staunch believer in The New Learning, and could even be considered a radical, having recently disclosed his friendship with the Scottish preacher and reformist John Knox, who was now one of Edward’s chaplains.
Knox was a fiery preacher, and totally unafraid to publicly oppose even the Archbishop of Canterbury, when he felt it necessary. Thomas and Knox had disagreed many times, their most recent point of contention being the taking of Holy Communion. In the new litany, Thomas had recommended that people should kneel, if possible, when receiving the sacrament. Knox objected, saying this instruction was nothing less than idolatry! Since Protestants did not believe in transubstantiation, the bread and wine only symbolised the body and blood of Christ, so why should people kneel when receiving it? He had called upon Thomas to defend the practice, so, in the revised litany, he explained that there was no adoration intended when kneeling. He personally felt the act of kneeling displayed respect; Knox and his supporters thought otherwise. He had always envisaged that, when the Reformation finally occurred, everyone would be united in this great cause: a set of like-minded individuals, coming together to spread the true word of God. He pondered ruefully over how naïve he’d been back then, to think there could ever be unity amongst the clergy.
*****
Another year had passed swiftly. Having received considerable feedback from Latimer, Thomas had completed his forty-two Articles of Faith and presented them before the council, but much to his disappointment, they were not issued and distributed throughout the churches. Heavily influenced by Knox, Dudley had refused to have them authorised. His treatise against Stephen Gardiner, however, was printed and circulated, though no one doubted that, in the very near future, Gardiner would produce a scathing response.
As the new year began, he found himself accused of being niggardly with money yet again. This time, it was Dudley who informed him of the rumour, though Dudley declared he had no idea who was spreading it. Thomas suspected it was probably one of the more orthodox clergy, but he never succeeded in tracking down the root of the accusation. Margaret, when informed, was furious, taking it as a personal insult. She felt they provided a hospitable household, which he agreed with, but their lack of wealth could not be denied. He sent a significant amount of his income to war torn Germany, to aid impoverished reformists, plus he also supported German refugees who had fled to England. The food served at Lambeth might be simpler that the fare served in the great households, but it was wholesome and nourishing. Likewise, the clothing worn by himself, Margaret and their children, was simple and practical, but of good quality. It seemed ludicrous to him that anyone should expect the Archbishop of Canterbury to run his household any other way, therefore he duly ignored the rumours. Soon, he was certain, some other rumour of a more compelling nature would replace those concerning his management of money.
One evening, at dusk, he and Margaret were sitting in the grounds of Lambeth Palace, enjoying some well-earned peace and quiet. Until a week ago, the weather had been cold, damp and windy, but now it was possible to sit out on an evening and enjoy the open sky, albeit swaddled in a cloak or woollen shawl.
“Look, that barge seems to be heading for the landing stage.” Margaret, whose eyesight was far superior to her husband’s, pointed at a dark shape on the water.
Thomas saw that a vessel was indeed approaching, the sound of its oars dipping rhythmically in and out of the water breaking the cosy silence. Walking towards the barge as it reached the landing step, he recognised one of Dudley’s servants.
“My lord Archbishop,” the servant bowed, having disembarked. “I am come to respectfully request your presence at Greenwich Palace, immediately. My lord Dudley says it is of supreme importance.” He pulled a piece of paper from his sleeve and handed it to Thomas.
“This gives no indication as to why I am summoned… something must have happened.” Bidding a swift g farewell to Margaret, he followed the servant onto the barge, clambered in, and seated himself. He wondered how many times he had travelled thus to the royal residences… hundreds? Thousands? It was a pleasing way to travel, especially when the river was not heaving with traffic; plus it was certainly convenient once he had got used to judging the tides.
A nocturnal summons these days was unusual, but not unheard of, unlike during Henry VIII’s reign, when it had been a fairly common occurrence. What was unusual, however, was Dudley’s behaviour when he arrived, and Thomas immediately recognised that something was truly wrong. Dudley was waiting at the Greenwich landing stage to greet him, striding impatiently up and down while his torchbearer tried to keep pace with him, lest he should stumble and fall into the river.
“My lord Archbishop,” Dudley greeted him. “We must speak at once, there is no time to lose. Follow me.”
Wondering at the apparent urgency in Dudley’s voice, he followed him into the palace, struggling to keep pace with his long-limbed companion.
At last, they reached a vacant anteroom, and Dudley threw aside his cloak, seizing his companion’s wrist in a vice-like grip.
Startled and out of breath, Thomas stared at him in mild surprise.
“My lord.” Dudley released the archbishop’s wrist. “The king is dying.” As Thomas opened his mouth to speak, he hastily added, “not right at this very moment, but soon. When did you last see him?”
“No more than three weeks ago, just before I left for Canterbury. Has he declined so quickly?”
Dudley nodded solemnly. “I shall take you to his bedchamber. He sleeps as present; he has been given poppy juice by his nurse to soothe him.” Beckoning for Thomas to follow, Dudley led him briskly to the king’s chambers.
Two halberdiers stood on guard outside, but quickly opened the door to admit Dudley and the archbishop. Entering the bedchamber, Thomas’ nostrils were assaulted by the rank smell of sickness, making him regret not having a pomander to hold to his nose. He noticed Barnaby Fitzpatrick, one of the king’s pages, who was standing half hidden in the corner of the room, gazing anxiously at the king’s frail body. Fitzpatrick had once held the position of Edward’s whipping boy.
“Master Fitzpatrick,” Thomas whispered, lest he should disturb the sleeping king. “I thought you were in France?” Nearly a year ago, the page had been sent to the French Court, to learn polished social graces.
“I was.” Fitzpatrick walked over to the archbishop, accompanying him as they moved towards the splendid, canopied bed where the king lay. “But I heard His Majesty was not as well as he could be.” It was obvious that the page was choosing his words carefully. “So I returned, to assure myself of his good health. I arrived last week, to find him much altered.” His voice cracked with emotion. “Once he recovers, pray God, I shall return to France to continue my education.”
“You are loyal,” Thomas approved.
“His Majesty has done much for me and my family in Ireland.” They had reached the king’s bedside, and Fitzpatrick gently stroked the young king’s hair, brushing Edward’s damp fringe away from his forehead.
Ignoring Dudley, who was hovering impatiently in the background, Thomas quietly repeated, “You are loyal, and that is something I respect.” The young king needed loyal friends. Most people wanted something from him, usually money or power; he needed people around him who were honest and selfless. He looked upon the frail young monarch. If he were honest with himself, the king did not look l as if he would be needing Fitzpatrick for much longer. The boy’s once rosy cheeks were red with sickness, and sunken too, for he had lost a significant amount of weight. His arms and hands, which lay on top of the sheets, were thin and shrivelled in appearance, and glowed an unhealthy yellow in the dim light. The boy remained sleeping, thanks to the poppy juice, but he was restless; his breath was foul, coming in wheezing gasps, and he coughed frequently.
“I shall leave, lest I disturb him,” Thomas whispered sadly, turning towards Dudley. He felt choked. This poor boy was the heir King Henry had so longed for and had loved so dearly. “I hope he remains sleeping for a while longer. He needs rest.”
“His nurse, Mrs Penn, sleeps just next door. She will give him more poppy juice if he needs it,” Fitzpatrick reassured the visitors. Mrs. Penn had been the king’s nurse ever since he was an infant, and was reputed, like King Henry, to love him dearly.
Not knowing what else to say, Thomas simply nodded, before following Dudley from the room. They returned to the anteroom, where someone had clearly pre-empted their need for refreshment; a jug of ale and some cups stood in readiness, as did a platter of meats. The smell of sickness still clung to his nostrils, so food was not something he felt able to relish. The ale, however, was welcome.
Dudley immediately took hold of a knife, speared a slice of meat, cramming it into his mouth, as if he was starving. “Help yourself, my lord Archbishop,” he mumbled. “What do you think of the king?” The words were indistinct.
“He is mortally sick.” Thomas poured ale into a cup and gratefully took a deep drink.
“I fear he has little time.” Dudley now turned his attention to the jug of ale. “Eat, my lord,” he urged, spearing another slice of meat.
Thomas picked up a slice of beef, but for the time being, only held it in one hand. With the other, he held on to his cup of ale. He felt sick, and it was not solely due to the stench of the king’s bedchamber. Once the king was dead, Mary would rule.
“The king produces foul, black sputum. The stench is vile, as you will not have failed to notice.” Dudley viscously bit into another slice of meat, swallowed, then began speaking again. “The doctors do not know what is amiss. They say his humours are at fault; I could have told them that without even examining the boy.” He almost spat the words. “I am inclined to say he has little time.”
“I would concur with that.” Thomas took an unwilling, dainty nibble from his slice of beef.
“So, who will rule after him?” Dudley stood, legs apart, as if challenging his companion.
“Princess Mary. She is the rightful ruler.” Thomas whispered the words.
“I say no,” Dudley declared. “She will return the country to orthodoxy.”
“She is, according to the late king’s Will, next in line.” Mary had to become queen; there was no one else to take the throne… apart from the Princess Elizabeth, but she was the younger of the two daughters.
“The king can bequeath his throne to whomsoever he wishes,” Dudley contradicted.
“No, my lord, he is not of age—”
“He is king.” Dudley sharply interrupted. “He can leave his throne to whomever he desires to leave it to,” he added with a degree of hauteur.
“Princess Elizabeth?” Thomas was shocked. Dudley could surely not be suggesting the younger sister should supersede the elder.
Dudley gave a vulpine smile. “Lady Jane Grey.”
Thomas sat down heavily on the nearest chair. Lady Jane Grey was royal, no doubt about that. She was the great niece of King Henry VIII. Also, unlike both Elizabeth and Mary, there was no doubt about her legitimacy.
“Lady Jane Grey is next in line after Princess Elizabeth.” The vulpine smile lingered on Dudley’s lips.
Thomas remained silent.
“King Edward is anxious for a Protestant to rule after him. Lady Jane is the perfect person,” Dudley explained smoothly, not making it known, as yet, that Lady Jane Grey would shortly be marrying his own youngest son, Guildford Dudley. “He has already informed me that he will gladly sign a Will, bequeathing his throne to her.”
“He knows he is dying?” Thomas felt immense pity for the poor child.
“Yes, and he wishes to legally leave his throne in the care of Lady Jane. After all, there is no one else; she is the eldest granddaughter of King Henry’s much-loved sister, Princess Mary Rose.”
“I find it difficult to agree to this.” Giving up trying to eat any meat, he swallowed more ale instead. “What will happen to the princesses? And don’t you dare say something so vague as ‘I will ensure their safety’. You gave your word that Edward Seymour would remain safe, and he is now buried in the Tower Chapel.” His tone was bitter.
“I know, my lord. You wrote to me objecting to his execution, as I recall.” Dudley was impatient. He needed the support of the Privy Council, and the Archbishop of Canterbury was one of its pivotal members.
“I believe you are hoping to keep some threads of power,” Thomas accused indignantly. “Lady Jane is young; she will need advisors.”
“Of course,” Dudley snapped. “But if Mary rules, you and I will both find ourselves being blamed for the reformation of the English Church, and we both know her opinion on that.” His tone became persuasive. “Just think, my lord, of the amount of work which shall be reversed if Mary is ever crowned queen.”
Thomas sighed. “I do not condone going against the former king’s wishes… but I know you are right. Catholic heresy cannot return to this land. The truth, the Reformation, must be protected at all costs.”
During the next few days, Thomas reflected constantly upon that meeting with Dudley. A niggling part of his mind told him it was wrong to rob Mary of the throne. According to King Henry’s Will, she should be queen. Yet, as Dudley had cunningly pointed out, a king could bequeath his throne to whomsoever he wished. Princess Elizabeth was the natural successor to Mary, and Protestant too. But if Mary was passed over on account of her parents’ marriage being declared invalid, then Elizabeth could not take the throne either, for her parents’ marriage had likewise been deemed invalid. So, that left the avidly Protestant and legitimate Lady Jane Grey.
He longed to discuss the situation with Ridley, and that very evening, he was granted the opportunity, when a letter arrived from Dudley, inviting him to visit Greenwich, where a meeting would be held with the king, several members of the Privy Council, and a couple of legal experts. The presence of Dr Nicholas Ridley, the newly consecrated Bishop of Durham, had also been requested.
As they travelled to Greenwich together, Ridley, who had only heard of the matter a few hours previously, delivered his opinion.
“If it is legal, I would dearly prefer Lady Jane Grey to take the throne. She is a clever maid and devoted to the Protestant cause. But I do keep asking myself, is it lawful?”
“That is my concern,” Thomas admitted, as their barge headed towards its destination.
Upon arriving at Greenwich, they were escorted by a servant to the king’s rooms, and were admitted by Barnaby Fitzpatrick, who greeted them affably. Fitzpatrick proceeded to inform them that the king was dressed and sitting upright, but no matter which great people were present, Mistress Penn ruled here; if she thought the king had endured enough, she would take him to his bed, and woe betide the minister who opposed her.
The king was seated in the room adjacent to his bedchamber, and as they bowed before him, Thomas could not help but pity the boy. He looked utterly exhausted; the simple act of being dressed in his doublet and hose had clearly wearied him. As before, the room reeked of sickness; the king’s body stank of stale sweat, and his breath was fetid. John Dudley, who was already present, rose to greet them, looking well pleased with himself. “My lords, we await the lawyers, and some other representatives from the Privy Council.”
“Whom should we expect?” Thomas wondered aloud.
“My Lord Wriothesley,” Dudley replied. As Chancellor, Wriothesley’s presence was required by law, even though it was recognised that his religious convictions were flexible, and always had been. “And the Duke of Suffolk.” The latter was the father of Lady Jane Grey.
Soon, everyone who had been invited to attend stood before the king, listening to the lawyers explaining his right to bequeath the throne, which was legally his, to whomsoever he wished. This would invalidate King Henry VIII’s Will. Courageously facing his impending death, Edward did not shrink from making his own Will. He did not wish the country to fall into Catholic hands; by leaving his throne to his sweet cousin Jane, as he called her, he knew England would remain safely Protestant. He had drawn up a list of his wishes, which he called ‘my device for the succession’. The list validated the fact that his sisters were both bastards, and unable to sit on the throne.
Dudley, unable to contain his excitement, decided it was time to deliver some news which would poleaxe everyone present. “My lord of Suffolk, here…” He nodded towards the now beaming man. “Has agreed that his daughter, Lady Jane Grey, shall very shortly marry my youngest son, Guildford Dudley.”
There was silence.
“The king has approved it.” Dudley’s expression was one of piety. “It is an honour to link my house with that of the great house of Suffolk.”
Thomas, shocked, could only gasp at the sheer ambition of John Dudley. He had organised a union between his son and Lady Jane, so he could rule, for as long as possible, through the two young, inexperienced people, such was his lust for power.
“Of course, at present, my daughter is stubborn, and says she desires to remain single. But never fear, my lord.” Suffolk nodded cheerful assurance towards Dudley. “She shall be whipped until she performs her daughterly duty.”
“Poor child,” Thomas could not help muttering.
Suffolk heard him. “Oh, she shall do as I bid her, my lord Archbishop,” he stated grimly. “She knows her duty towards her house and family.”
Wriothesley had uttered very little throughout the meeting, but agreed to support the matter when it was laid before the entire council. Thomas remained cautious. He would not commit himself to either Jane or Mary. Ridley thought likewise and asked for time to contemplate the issue.
“I require you to make your decision in readiness for the next Privy Council meeting, which is in four days’ time,” Dudley snapped. “Meet again with the lawyers; talk with them.”
Edward, looking stooped and frail, managed to summon enough strength to speak. “At the next council meeting, our sisters shall be declared bastards again, therefore, they cannot take the throne. Our cousin’s birth is unquestionable.” He began to look around the room; his regal act swiftly evaporating. “Where is my nurse?” He became fretful. “I need Mistress Penn!” The words were followed by a fit of coughing, followed by a stream of black mucus, which dribbled lethargically down his chin. At that moment, a vigorous figure of a woman rushed into the room. Effortlessly, she scooped the fragile king into her arms, and without further ado, carried him into the bedchamber next door.
Thomas felt choked with emotion; glancing at Ridley, he realised that he too was similarly affected. The expression of peaceful contentment upon the king’s face, as that devoted motherly nurse picked him up, spoke volumes. Like Barnaby Fitzpatrick, she loved him for being Edward, not because he was king.
The lawyers were looking expectantly at the silent, austere figures of the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Bishop of Durham. One of them asked, “where do you wish to speak with us, my lords?”
“We can find an empty anteroom,” Thomas replied, eager to escape the vile air of the king’s chambers.
“Of course.” Dudley rubbed his hands together briskly. “As you wish. Fitzpatrick will escort you to a vacant room. Meanwhile, I shall leave you learned gentlemen together.”
“My lord, when you summoned me, just a few nights ago, were you aware then of this marriage between your son and Lady Jane?” Thomas found some pleasure in Dudley’s look of discomfort.
“I had an inkling,” he explained cautiously. “But I could say nothing because it was not a signed agreement. You must understand that.”
“But the girl has said no,” Ridley reminded him.
“She will do as her father wishes.” Dudley’s voice was curt and cruel. “They will be married by the end of this week.”
“I would remind you that it shall be Jane who is monarch, not your son,” Thomas remarked quietly.
Without uttering another word, Dudley stalked furiously out of the room.
Thomas and Ridley spent a number of hours closeted with lawyers, who verified that Lady Jane Grey could lawfully ascend the throne, and assured them that there was nothing irregular in signing the Will of King Edward. But no lawyer could soothe Thomas’ conscience. King Henry had left the throne to Edward, Mary and Elizabeth, in that order. The lawyers reiterated, time and time again, that Edward, as king, could leave the throne to whomsoever he wished, and Thomas could see the truth in this. The throne did indeed belong to Edward; he ruled by the will of God, and he should be obeyed… but King Henry had also ruled by the will of God. For some reason, it felt wrong to flout his instructions.
The following day, Ridley joined his friend at Lambeth Palace. Only Thomas, as Archbishop of Canterbury, was required to sign the king’s Will, but he was grateful for Ridley’s counsel. When Ridley departed, Thomas knew he would sign the document, however much it might trouble his soul. The defining fact was, if Mary ruled, the Reformation would come to a grinding halt. As for the pious but dying king, his chief concern had always been the wellbeing of the Protestant Church, and if he felt the fledgling Church was safe, he could die peacefully. For these reasons, he travelled to Court and reluctantly witnessed King Edward’s Will, placing his signature on the document, next to Dudley’s.
A few days later, the Privy Council met again, and it was declared that the Princesses Mary and Elizabeth were once again bastards, and thus erased from the line of succession. This was an act which was to be kept strictly secret until the king died. If it were to be made public, the princesses would have time to protest, or even lead a revolt.
As spring moved into summer, the frail king still lingered, and at the very beginning of July, he showed himself to his people for what would be the last time, waving from one of the palace windows. Unsurprisingly, the people of London were horrified by his emaciated appearance; some of those who beheld him wept.
On the sixth of July, Thomas was once again summoned to the king’s bedside late at night. Edward’s breathing had become shallow and quiet, and as he entered the royal bedchamber, he found the young king lying in the arms of one of his favourite Gentlemen of the Bedchamber, Sir Henry Sidney. The boy was mumbling incoherently, seeming to take peace and comfort from Sidney’s calm presence. The king’s page, Barnaby Fitzpatrick, and his nurse, Mistress Penn, stood nearby, occasionally patting Edward’s hand, or stroking his hair. Suddenly, the king fell silent, and all those present held their breath, waiting for his breathing to return. It did not.
With tears trickling down his face, Sidney gently released the young king and laid him on his bed, whilst Mistress Penn, tears falling down her ruddy cheeks, solemnly closed Edward’s eyelids
Wiping tears from his own eyes, Thomas turned away, leaving the king with his two most faithful servants, Barnaby Fitzpatrick and Mistress Penn.
Sidney, who was now sobbing, accompanied Thomas from the death chamber. “The last thing he said to me was, ‘I am faint; Lord have mercy upon me, and take my spirit’,” Sidney whispered hoarsely. “I tell you, my lord Archbishop, I never saw anyone die so bravely, or with such dignity.”
“He trusted in God. God supported him,” Thomas replied simply. At that moment, his arm was seized by the firm grasp of John Dudley.
“My lords, I must speak with you. Both of you. Please, do not mention the king’s death to anyone yet. It must go no further than the death chamber, for the time being.”
This was the second time he had been in this situation, and he felt just as uncomfortable now as he had when the young king’s father had died. “His illness was no secret,” he objected.
“But his death must be… at least for a few days,” Dudley insisted. “Now is the time for me to summon his sisters to Court. I shall tell them that he is sinking fast and wishes to see them. When they arrive, they shall be placed in the Tower.” Dudley smiled slyly. “Once they are in the Tower, Lady Jane will be safe from them.”
“My lord, that is wrong. King Edward’s Will clearly bequeaths his throne to Queen Jane, as she is now. It is not necessary to imprison the princesses,” Thomas protested. It was ludicrous. They were both daughters of a king and deserved respect. Furthermore, they had done nothing to merit being imprisoned in the Tower.
Sidney, looking perplexed, nodded agreement with the archbishop.
“There is no harm in a short delay,” Dudley declared. “If necessary, I shall imprison everyone who was present at his death, if they will not keep silent.”
“I want your word that the princesses shall be treated well,” Thomas requested urgently, uncomfortably recalling Dudley’s word was rarely binding.
“I am not a man who will mistreat women,” Dudley looked affronted. “They shall be treated in accordance with their status as the bastard daughters of the late King Henry. They will be lodged comfortably and will be released once Jane is established on the throne. Remember, my lord Archbishop, they are no longer princesses. They are bastards and are to be referred to as Lady Mary and Lady Elizabeth.”
“I see that we do not have much choice in this matter,” Sidney muttered. “But as my lord Archbishop has observed, it is wrong to imprison them. They must be released as soon as possible.”
Two days later, there was no sign of either Mary or Elizabeth arriving in the city. According to the messengers, Elizabeth had declared herself ill, and had taken to her bed. As for Mary, she had been stopped enroute from her house in Hunsdon, and had been warned that King Edward was already deceased. She had immediately stopped travelling, and her current place of lodging was unknown. With both sisters unattainable, they had no recourse but to announce the death of the king.
Lady Jane Grey, now married to Dudley’s son, was promptly proclaimed queen, and a couple of days later a huge banquet was held at Westminster Palace in her honour. However, to the surprise of those present, the most eminent people there, namely John Dudley, his son Guilford, and the new queen, looked most discontented. Indeed, John Dudley was furious, for not only had he failed to capture the two bastardised former princesses, but Queen Jane was refusing to pander to his demands. That day, having been shown the new crown she was to wear, she had made it clear that no similar headpiece was to be made for her husband. Guildford Dudley would not be receiving the crown matrimonial, nor would he be addressed as King Guildford. Meanwhile, a rumour was circulating that the marriage between Jane and Guilford had not been consummated, putting both Guilford and the Dudleys in an uncertain position. To his intense frustration, John Dudley had no control over these matters. The new queen herself had an air of dutiful resignation about her; she kept fidgeting with the crown she was wearing, finding the weight unfamiliar and uncomfortable, and throughout the evening, she did not smile once.
Just as the banquet was ending, a messenger arrived with a message for the queen. As Dudley extended his hand to take it, Queen Jane insisted upon receiving it personally. Snubbed, Dudley tried, with limited success, to arrange his features into a benign expression. Eventually, Jane passed it to him. It stated that the Princess Mary had been lodging at Kenninghall but was now heading to the heavily fortified Framlington Castle. He did not fail to observe that Mary had been referred to as ‘Princess’ Mary.
Dudley quickly beckoned for the key members of the Privy Council to follow him into an anteroom, before promptly demanding the opinions of those gathered.
“Mary has always been popular in the south-east,” Thomas mused aloud, receiving an impatient glance from Dudley.
“Yes, which is why I need advice.” Dudley’s expression was sour, as though the contents of his wine cup had turned to vinegar.
“She could be planning to contact her uncle, the Emperor Charles?” Wriothesley suggested.
“Framlington Castle is heavily fortified. She might be planning to fight for the throne,” Jane’s father, the Duke of Suffolk, contributed.
“Then I must raise an army,” Dudley stated crisply. He was a man who was unafraid of conflict.
The next day, Margaret reported to her husband that the mood of the Londoners had turned ugly. The general populace – whom Henry VIII had always known were responsible for keeping the crown on a monarch’s head – disliked seeing Princess Mary, whom they considered to be the rightful queen, overlooked. In response, Thomas retired to his library, and began writing letters to the German Protestant scholars who were taking refuge in England, informing them that England might soon be unsafe for them. He suggested they should prepare to leave for Germany, unless they deemed it too risky, in which case they should seek refuge in Switzerland. Ralph Morice, entering the library, found his master writing frantically.
“Permit me to write some of those letters.” Morice was quick to realise what would happen if Mary should ascend the throne. England would no longer be a place of refuge for reformists.
The two men wrote in silence for several hours, until a messenger arrived from Greenwich, holding in his hand a letter, informing the archbishop that John Dudley had raised an army and was heading towards the south-east, his intention being to halt the Progress of Lady Mary. As for Lady Elizabeth, she was still allegedly clinging to her sick bed.
During the next few days, he rarely left Lambeth Palace, waiting anxiously for the outcome of the battle to be decided. There was an air of tension everywhere, not just at Lambeth; Margaret revealed that one of the servants had told her the atmosphere in London was equally strained, though there was also an air of excitement and expectancy. The Londoners felt Princess Mary had been badly treated by Dudley – who had rapidly fallen from his pedestal – and they now gave their support to the person whom they considered to be the rightful Queen of England.
“What news do you have, my husband?” Margaret asked one July evening, as they sat out in the gardens of Lambeth. Her husband looked preoccupied and worried, which was not unusual, but the sadness in his eyes concerned her. “It is not good news?” she prompted.
“No, the news is not good. Princess Mary’s supporters are steadily increasing in number, and are nearing London. As for Dudley’s army, many men are defecting, and joining the princess. I doubt if Jane will remain queen for much longer; the people regard it as an injustice that Princess Mary has been deposed. I very much doubt that this is a battle Dudley can win.”
Margaret looked at him earnestly. “If Princess Mary becomes queen, will you resign as Archbishop of Canterbury?”
“No, I cannot resign. I cannot let everything that has happened during the past six years of King Edward’s reign be cast aside. But you…” His voice broke; taking her hand, he squeezed it gently.
“I will remain with you,” she assured him, guessing his thoughts.
“You and the children must go to Zurich.”
“I will not go, but the children shall… I will join them later,” she reasoned.
“You must go. The children cannot go without you. I will join you when things settle here, when I have made it clear that I cannot apologise for the reformation of the English Church.” He suspected he would probably never be permitted to leave England, let alone travel to Zurich, but earnestly he prayed that somehow, God would find a way. “We shall only be separated for a few months. For the children’s safety, you must leave as soon as possible. I will write letters for you to present to Calvin and Zwingli; they will see you are cared for until we meet again.” This was a good strategy, he knew that. She would only leave England to ensure the safety of the children.
“I will not leave until we are certain Mary is queen,” she informed him, in a tone that meant nothing he could say would persuade her otherwise. “Mary may prove to be lenient,” she optimistically suggested. “Perhaps she will be so delighted to be queen that she will leave the Protestants alone?”
He was certain that the opposite would be the case. Mary would restore the Catholic faith, and seek to punish those who had allowed her to be usurped… those who had signed King Edward’s Will. He might have saved her life once, but he had also declared her mother to be unlawfully married to King Henry. He had declared Mary a bastard, twice. He knew she would never forgive him for those slights; Mary had always been one to bear a grudge. All he could do was cling to the hope that once he had spent some time in prison, she would have mercy, and cast him out of England. He would much rather be an exile than dead.
“What do you think shall befall Queen Jane?” Margaret’s voice was almost a whisper. “Poor young girl.”
“Even her parents have deserted her, to save themselves and their estates,” he replied, also in a whisper. “Princess Mary has always been fond of her, despite her Protestant beliefs. I pray to God this affection will save the young lady.”
“And I pray to God that she will spare you,” Margaret exclaimed, burying her face against his shoulder to hide her tears.