Chapter Two
Chapter Two
Within two days of learning about Tyndale’s death, Thomas found himself travelling to Waltham, dressed in plain, simple clothing, and carrying an excessive number of books. The annual plague had arrived in Cambridge at terrifying speed, and he had no desire to wait around for it to kill him. Unlike the Bubonic Plague, with its characteristic black buboes, the Sweating Sickness was swift, and less easy to identify, manifesting itself as uncontrollable shivering, followed by headaches, dizziness, and a sense of exhaustion. After a few hours of this, the characteristic sweating began, accompanied by delirium and intense thirst, a racing heartbeat, and a desire to fall asleep, though doctors recommended against allowing the sufferer to sleep, for fear that they might never wake up. The Sweating Sickness was wildly contagious, and although some people – usually the young and fit – survived, many did not.
For Thomas, escaping the plague gave him the perfect excuse to accept an invitation from the Cressy’s, the parents of two of his students, who coincidentally were distantly related to the Cranmers. Aside from periodic trips to his family home, he barely left Cambridge, and had no desire to do so. Since first arriving there as a young man, he had felt comfortable and at peace. Even his journeys home were only undertaken when it was necessary for him to leave the city, for he disliked having the peaceful tenor of his life disrupted.
His family, though proud of his achievements, often informed him of their concerns that his years of study had rendered him staid and serious. He would always protest, insisting that he was not a serious person at all, enjoying jokes and laughter as much as any man. Years of dwelling with learned people had not robbed him of his humour, it had simply given him a different appreciation of what was funny. He blamed this need to engage in intellectually stimulating conversation for his inability to communicate with the youngest of his nieces and nephews. Older children were not a problem, after all, he taught youths as young as twelve at Cambridge. But with the very young, especially his infant nieces, he found it took him the majority of his stay to get used to their inane chatter.
The Cressy’s had invited Thomas to their home in Waltham several times, not only because they were related to his mother, Agnes, but also because the two boys, who were aged fifteen and thirteen respectively, always wrote such complimentary letters, telling their parents how wonderful Dr Cranmer was, and how stimulating his lectures were. The boys’ father had sent a steady stream of letters over the past months, urging Thomas to grant them the pleasure of his company, and with the arrival of the plague, he had finally accepted.
After two days of riding, it was early afternoon when Thomas and the two Cressy boys arrived outside the Cressy’s home, to find Master and Mistress Cressy standing in the forecourt, ready to welcome them. They were agog with the news that King Henry himself had arrived at Waltham Abbey, just a few days previously, to escape the Sweat. Furthermore, his mistress, Lady Anne Boleyn, lay sick at her own family home of Blickling Hall in Norfolk, afflicted by that very illness.
“Some say that she is not the king’s mistress at all,” fussed Mistress Cressy, a plump, kindly lady whose cap remained constantly askew.
“Of course she’s his mistress,” Master Cressy robustly objected. “A red-blooded man like the king would not suffer to chase a woman who does not submit to his wishes.”
Mistress Cressy raised her eyebrows at her husband, then proceeded to lead the new arrivals into the hall, her belt jangling cheerfully with a vast assortment of household keys.
“She cannot creep up on anyone,” one of the Cressy boys whispered, nudging Thomas mischievously.
“Thank you, this is most welcome,” Thomas said gratefully, as he accepted a mug of spiced ale from Mistress Cressy, all the while wondering whether or not he was expected to reply to the boy’s jest.
Mistress Cressy came to his rescue. “Oh, ignore them!” She pinched the cheeks of both youths, using enough pressure to leave reddened blotches on each of their faces.
“Come, be seated,” Master Cressy invited. “Terrible thing, this plague,” he muttered, taking a hearty gulp of spiced ale. “As soon as we heard the Sweat was raging, we sent for our boys.” He shook his head ruefully. “It hits the grand folk as well as the ordinary.” He took another enthusiastic drink of ale, held his cup out for his wife to refill, then proceeded to discuss the academic progress of his sons.
The Cressy’s home was large and comfortable, but by no means grand. Like the Cranmers, they were hard-working farming folk, though their house and lands were more substantial that those owned by the Cranmer family. Mistress Cressy’s days were filled with the duties of an efficient farmer’s wife: she began at dawn, supervising the milking of the cows, then proceeded to tend to the buttery, make cheese, assist with the cooking, brew ale, and ensure that the house was as clean as possible, regularly replacing the rushes on the floor to keep vermin at bay. After eating dinner in the company of her family, their servants and farmhands, her evenings were spent using a drop spindle to make yarn out of sheep’s wool. She was rarely idle, and her respectable, modest clothing reflected this, comprising of a green kirtle with a gown over the top, dyed in a sensible shade of brown, complete with fitted and undecorated sleeves. Women who wore elaborate, colourful gowns, with long, trailing sleeves, were likely to be too grand to undertake domestic duties.
A homely, maternal woman, Mistress Cressy had taken an instant liking to the scholarly visitor, though his thinness did give her cause for concern, and she vowed to herself he would return to Cambridge with more meat on his bones. Socially unobservant as ever, Thomas did not recognise this motherly affection. He saw only a kindly woman of modest demeanour, who did not expose a shameful amount of bosom, for which he was immensely grateful, for he found such a manner of dress extremely embarrassing. He could not help but warm to her, and to her brusque but hospitable husband.
“Did your colleagues manage to escape the plague as well?” Mistress Cressy asked, with genuine concern.
“Yes, my companions, including my closest friends, left Cambridge with haste.” He smiled wryly. There had been just enough time for him to clasp hands with Latimer, Bilney, Ridley and Barnes, and utter promises to pray for them regularly, before they had all been forced to flee the city.
Cressy extended the hand which clutched his mug. “I need more ale, wife, as does Dr Cranmer. The man must be parched after his long journey!”
She obligingly proceeded to pour ale for everyone, just as a young serving girl arrived, bearing a platter of bread and meat, which she promptly laid on the table.
“Eat as much as you wish, there are still several hours to fill before supper,” Mistress Cressy instructed, noting the pale complexion of their visitor, who clearly spent most of his days indoors. Though clean shaven, he was somewhat shabbily dressed, his black gown was well-worn in several places, and she accurately suspected that he took little notice of his outward appearance. His dark hair was cut short; his priestly tonsure concealed by his cap. His face, however, was radiant when he smiled, revealing a full mouth of sound, even teeth. Having expected to feel in awe of such a scholar – she could not read or write – she found herself charmed instead. His voice was melodic and strong, yet also soft, and when he spoke, she could not help but listen; he was gentle, but there was an authority about him. It was little wonder her sons enjoyed his teaching.
“Have you ever met the king?” she enquired. It seemed to her very likely that such an educated man would be associated with royalty.
“No, despite my best intentions,” Thomas confessed apologetically. “The king once came to Cambridge and rode through the streets with members of the Court, but I did not see him, for I had become so immersed in my work that I completely forgot about the procession.”
Cressy slapped his thigh and gave a roar of delighted laughter. “Now there’s an example for you boys to follow,” he informed his sons, whilst helping himself to some bread and a slab of meat. “Work should always come first.”
The boys nodded and exchanged amused glances. They were intelligent and scholarly; learning was not onerous for them. But they would never choose books over enjoyment, or the excitement of seeing the king and his courtiers riding through the streets.
After a pleasant afternoon and evening spent eating and talking, Thomas eventually decided that it was time to retire. As Mistress Cressy handed out lighted candles to illuminate their way to the upper regions of the house, her husband made a welcome suggestion.
“I was thinking, Dr Cranmer, that we might head into town tomorrow, so that I may show you our magnificent abbey. Unless, of course, you are too weary from today’s travels?”
Thomas gave an eager nod of agreement. “I would dearly love to see the town of Waltham, and it’s famous abbey. I have read so much about it.” The abbey was said to have a remarkable library, including a Bible dating back to the thirteenth century, which he would dearly love to see. Furthermore, it was alleged to be the burial place of Harold II, his body having been taken there after the Battle of Hastings in 1066. Joseph of Arimathea was also rumoured to have been buried there, attracting pilgrims from all over the country. Although Thomas believed that the bones of many great kings of old, and religious figures too, lay beneath the flagstones of the abbey, he doubted any of them belonged to Joseph of Arimathea. More dubious still, he had heard that the ‘Waltham Cross’ was stored there. This crucifix had supposedly been found in Montacute, Somerset, and was claimed to be powerful enough to cure paralysis, amongst other things. Given his inclination towards Luther’s teachings, he was sceptical when it came to relics, and did not believe that such a thing existed, let alone that it was capable of curing the incurable. Only God Himself could do that.
“We are proud of the abbey,” Mistress Cressy told him fervently, her eyes shining. “It is such a holy place, visited by pilgrims throughout the year.”
Not wishing to cause offence by reminding her that many such places, whilst providing comfort to travellers and infirmaries for the sick, were riddled with corruption, he simply nodded and smiled.
The following morning, after about an hour of riding, he found himself standing beneath the magnificent abbey walls and gatehouse, accompanied by Cressy and his two sons. The king was currently residing in the abbey itself, an Augustinian priory which dated back to the eleventh century. After Henry II had served penance there, for the murder of Thomas Becket, the status of Waltham had been raised to that of an abbey, becoming one of the most important monastic houses in England.
As the four of them stood there, admiring the majestic building before them, the gates were flung open, and a noisy cavalcade on horseback emerged. The horses were splendidly caparisoned and were led by two burly outriders.
“Make way! Make way for His Majesty the king!” the riders bellowed.
Gasping, Thomas and his companions doffed their caps, bowed their heads, and looked up just in time to see a man who could only be King Henry himself, mounted upon a horse which was the most splendid of them all. As for the king, he was dressed in a short coat made from cloth of gold, which could only be worn by royalty, and his cap was studded with gems, as was the jerkin visible beneath his open coat. Seeing him in person, it was evident that he was long of limb and strikingly handsome, with red-gold hair and eyes that sparkled nearly as brightly as his jewels.
The king, noticing Thomas and his companions, gave them a cheerful wave as he rode past. Bowing again, Thomas felt overwhelmed with emotion. The king, the man who ruled by the grace of God, who had been placed on the throne by the divine intervention of God Himself, had noticed him and had waved to him. If he had not been convinced before, he was convinced now: the king was to be honoured and obeyed.
Some hours later, hungry and thirsty, the small group entered an ale house in search of sustenance, and Thomas heard a voice calling his name. Looking around the crowded tavern, he spotted a man waving at him enthusiastically. It was Edward Fox, formerly a Cambridge theologian, who had been interested in The New Learning, and who now worked for Cardinal Thomas Wolsey. With him was another man, of average height, with a prominent nose and a ruddy complexion. Thomas immediately recognised him as Stephen Gardiner, another of Wolsey’s men who had formerly studied at Cambridge. To be reunited with Edward Fox was a pleasure. Stephen Gardiner… less so. He had previously found Gardiner abrasive, ruthlessly ambitious, apt to be domineering, unscrupulous, and irritatingly sarcastic.
After Thomas had politely introduced his two former colleagues to the Cressy’s, he asked them what their business was here in Waltham. Apparently, they had arrived with the king.
“Alas, only the important members of the Court are permitted to reside in the abbey itself,” Fox explained jovially. “Us lesser mortals had to find our own accommodation in town, hence you find us here in this tavern.”
Gardiner shot a black look in Fox’s direction, presumably angered at being lumped with the ‘lesser mortals’.
“You must dine with us one night, my friend,” Fox urged. “And your company too, if they so wish,” he added, nodding politely to the Cressy’s.
“No, no, you scholars must enjoy an evening together,” Cressy insisted. “I can only talk of sheep and crops, hardly topics of conversation to stimulate such learned minds. That is why I want my sons educated.” He nodded towards his two boys, who were openly ogling one of the serving girls and her immodestly low-cut bodice.
An evening was selected for later that week, and after enjoying a brief meal of bread, cheese and ale, the four of them bade farewell to the two scholars and returned to the Cressy’s home. Regrettably, Thomas had not managed to see the ancient Bible at Waltham Abbey, and whilst the king was lodging there, he doubted he would be able to gain access. But still, it had been a wonderful day; he had met the King of England, and what a glorious sight he had been. He was quite certain that his brief glimpse of His Majesty would be a memory he carried with him to his death bed. After all, it was unlikely that he would ever meet the king again.
*****
A few days later, as arranged, Thomas rode into Waltham to spend an evening with his two former colleagues. He knew that Fox would be excellent company. He was erudite and enthusiastic, and like himself, Fox was quietly fascinated by Luther’s work. If they had any time alone together, he knew they would have much to talk about. In contrast, Gardiner was Catholic, orthodox to the depth of his being, and Thomas knew that he and Fox would have to tread carefully. At Cambridge, Gardiner had been open about his beliefs, regularly remarking that all Protestants should be imprisoned, at the very least, and that Luther should be burned at the stake. He was not a man whom one wished to cross, especially now that he was working for Wolsey.
As he neared the inn where they were to meet, Thomas anxiously considered what might happen were Gardiner to learn of Fox’s inclinations, and his own, for that matter. Surely, if he was in Wolsey’s service, working with Fox on a daily basis, he must have guessed that the man was interested in Protestantism? He could only pray that Gardiner remained blind to Fox’s leanings, and his likewise.
The evening began with the usual exchange of personal news. His two companions, both ambitious men, had left Cambridge over a year ago, at almost the same time, in search of a more colourful career. Gardiner, in possession of an uncontainable volume of energy, had been especially eager to escape the dull monotony of scholarly life.
After they had finished their meal, the topic of conversation shifted to the king.
“He is seeking a divorce,” Gardiner stated crisply.
“It has become known as ‘The King’s Great Matter’,” Fox cut in, smirking.
Gardiner shot an irritated glance in his direction.
“I take it Mistress Boleyn is the woman he desires to wed?” Thomas queried.
“Indeed, yes,” Fox leaned forwards, whispering confidentially. “The king is frightfully worried about her current condition; he fears she may die of the Sweat. He has sent his own physician to Blickling Hall to tend to her, and sends her love tokens several times a day.”
“He has already taken his case to Rome, to the Papal Courts,” Gardiner said solemnly, steering the conversation back to the subject of divorce, though inwardly he was beaming, gratified to know that his career was taking him to greater heights than Cranmer’s. At Cambridge, Dr Cranmer had been regarded as a great authority on most matters, and his opinion had always been considered the most important. This favouritism had always irked Gardiner, who desired status more than anything. He was himself an able scholar, and now, here he was, privy to information that the learned Dr Cranmer would never know, in the service of Cardinal Wolsey, the man who had been guiding the king for years; the man who ruled the realm from the shadows. It was deeply satisfying, and he was determined to enjoy having the upper hand while he still could. Unfortunately, the great cardinal was no longer so great; he was rapidly falling out of favour with the king, so it was likely that his triumph would be short-lived. Indeed, both he and Fox intended to cease working for Wolsey within the next few months; serving a fallen master would hinder their career progression.
“But why Rome?” Thomas asked, baffled. He was feeling increasingly uncomfortable. Gardiner’s cool and appraising stare reminded him of the chilling, judgemental stare of his former schoolmaster, the man who had so terrified him as a child.
“Because Rome is the only court the queen will acknowledge,” Gardiner, astute enough to know the religious leanings of his two companions, spoke slowly, as if to a simpleton. “And besides, only the Pope has the power to grant a divorce.”
Thoughtfully, Thomas took a slip of ale, then proceeded to pick at the material of his sleeve, a habit he always fell into when thinking deeply. Eventually, he looked up, to find two pairs of eyes gazing at him, waiting for him to speak. “It seems strange that the Pope is so unwilling to grant a divorce in this case. After all, the king and queen are as good as brother and sister; she was married to his older brother, Prince Arthur, before the prince’s death…”
“We know,” Gardiner sneered, rolling his eyes. “The late Pope, our current Pope’s predecessor, issued a Papal Bull, remember? A document of permission, allowing the marriage to go ahead.”
“But the Bull should never have been allowed,” Thomas argued. “There should have been no certificate of permission. The Bible clearly states that marriage between a man and his brother’s wife should not be permitted.” He spoke quietly, though there was really no need. They were sitting together in a private room. No one would overhear them.
Placing his long fingers together, in the shape of a steeple, Gardiner was eager to air his knowledge. “The Bull was permitted for several reasons. First and foremost, to strengthen the ties between England and Spain, to promote peace.” He paused.
Thomas said nothing.
“The king, having agreed to these terms at the time, now objects,” Gardiner continued. “He argues that England and Spain were already on peaceful terms, so this reason was not valid. He also insists that, since the Bull was issued during the reign of the late king, Henry VII, it should have become invalid once the old king died.” Gardiner paused, expecting Dr Cranmer to speak. When again no argument was forthcoming, he resumed. “Campeggio, the Papal representative involved in this matter, disagrees. He claims that maintaining strong ties between England and Spain is crucial, and that the concept of the agreement being invalid after the late king’s death is quite preposterous. The Bull must remain valid. You’ve been awfully quiet, Cranmer. What are your thoughts on this matter?”
Both Gardiner and Fox were looking at him expectantly. Taking a deep breath to calm his nerves, he repeated his former argument. “The book of Leviticus sates plainly that a man may not marry his late brother’s wife.” He picked nervously at his sleeve.
“But the book of Deuteronomy states the opposite, insisting that a brother can marry his late brother’s wife,” Gardiner argued testily. “So, you see, there is a contradiction.”
“Indeed, yes.” Thomas looked up, abandoning his sleeve. “But Leviticus states that it is forbidden, which is a non-negotiable statement. On that premise, it is best considered as such, don’t you think?” His voice was soft but compelling, and his companions unconsciously leaned forwards, hanging onto his every word. “It is always best to avoid offending God, so I would argue that, in this instance, no marriage should have taken place. Therefore, since the marriage is clearly invalid, the king is a free man. A divorce is unnecessary.”
Gardner and Fox were eyeing him keenly.
“But what of the emperor?” Fox enquired.
“Perhaps you are not aware of this, Cranmer,” Gardiner was keen to maintain his superiority. “The Spanish Emperor, Charles, the Holy Roman Emperor no less, is the uncle of Queen Catherine. He will be offended if his niece is cast aside. He might seek to invade England.”
“I may not be a politician, but I do know scripture.” Thomas took a deep breath. “Since the king is, according to scripture, a free man, I think this business should be conducted swiftly, for the satisfaction of the king’s conscience. The frustrating delays of the courts, in both England and Rome, will result in unnecessarily lengthy divorce proceedings, which may not even reach the desired conclusion. In contrast, if this matter were left to the theologians, whose opinions and verdicts may sooner be known, it would be promptly brought to conclusion with little industry or trouble. His Majesty, his conscience satisfied, may thus determine for himself whether all is well in the eyes of God. After all, what matters more than God’s blessing?” Having delivered his opinion, he suddenly became flustered. He had not intended to speak at such length.
“So, Cranmer, you believe the matter needs only to be placed before the judgment of learned men? Persons such as yourself?” Fox questioned, his intelligent face alight with interest.
“Exactly. If the matter were left to the universities, I do believe it would be sorted within the week.”
Gardiner eyed Cranmer speculatively. Whatever Cranmer’s leanings, there was sense to what he had just said. “Hmm…” he mused. “Putting it to the universities will not please the Pope; he is not fond of his authority being undermined.”
Thomas was convinced that the Pope had no authority, as was Fox, though neither of them would voice such an opinion aloud, not in front of Gardiner. Catholicism was the only thing Gardiner would ever adhere to; his faith was even more important to him than wealth and power, and that was saying something.
Thomas thought quickly, trying to change the subject to something less contentious. “Shall you see the king at all, whilst you are here in Waltham?”
“Who knows.” Fox rolled his eyes. “Since we are still in the cardinal’s service, there is nought to do but take refuge from the Sweat and await orders.”
Thomas thought nothing more of Fox’s comment until he was riding back to the Cressy’s home an hour or so later. Fox had said ‘since we are still in the cardinal’s service’. Were they intending to desert the man who had served the king for so many years?
*****
He saw no more of Fox or Gardiner during his stay at Waltham; a week after he had dined with them, the Court left for Greenwich. Though he was disappointed to have missed the opportunity to catch another glimpse of the king, he did succeed in viewing the ancient Bible that resided within the abbey, which more than compensated. Furthermore, the Sweat appeared to be abating, and he hoped he would soon be able to return to Cambridge. However, unbeknownst to him, his brief reunion with his former colleagues was about to change the peaceful tenor of his life forever.
Just over a month after their meeting with Cranmer, Fox and Gardiner were summoned to the Palace of Placentia, commonly known as Greenwich Palace, to attend to the king. Thomas’ suggestion of allowing theologians to adjudicate over The King’s Great Matter had deeply impressed Fox, and after a few weeks of contemplation, Fox had decided to discuss the possibility with His Majesty. His request for an audience with the king was duly granted; His Majesty would speak with him after attending Mass.
That day, the service was being led by the Bishop of Rochester, John Fisher, an ardent supporter of Queen Catherine. A thin, ascetic man, Fisher was fearless; not only had he openly criticised the king’s divorce plans, but he had also once compared Henry to Herod, much to the king’s fury. He had even added that he was ready to lay down his life for the sake of matrimony, just as John the Baptist had done, a barbed reference which King Henry would neither forget nor forgive. The king, having heard Mass, swept from the chapel without so much as a nod of thanks to the man who had led the service.
Fox had informed Gardiner of his decision to make Cranmer’s opinion known to the king, and Gardiner had thus ensured that he was present at the requested audience with King Henry. He could not help but feel disgruntled, for it had been deviously lurking within his mind that he might offer Cranmer’s suggestion to the king and pass it off as his own. But, in the small chamber beside the chapel, Gardiner could only stand and listen as Fox delivered Cranmer’s suggestion. Also present was yet another of Wolsey’s servants, one Thomas Cromwell, an ambitious and promising young man who was totally behind The King’s Great Matter. He was a common man, in Gardiner’s opinion, as was Wolsey: the latter, the son of an Ipswich butcher; the former, the son of a Putney blacksmith. Gardiner considered himself far superior, being a descendant (admittedly illegitimate) of Jasper Tudor, one of King Henry’s forbears, and the first Duke of Bedford.
The king listened intently to Fox’s report, then contemplated the matter in silence. No one dared speak until the king delivered his opinion.
“What do you think, Cromwell?” Henry demanded, turning to the fast-rising young man. “We think this man has the sow by the right ear.” As always, Henry referred to himself in the plural.
“I think so too, Your Majesty,” Cromwell agreed. “It makes me wonder what other opinions this man has stored in his learned head.”
“Send for him, Master Cromwell. We desire for him to attend to us as soon as possible. Our thanks to you, Fox. You did well in reporting this.” Grinning broadly and giving Fox a powerful but genial thump on the back, which nearly winded him, the king swept briskly from the chamber.
*****
He was a frightened man. He had returned to Cambridge but had not even had time to unpack his bags or refresh himself before a messenger arrived, wearing what he recognised as the royal livery. Initially, he had thought the messenger was mistaken when he had pulled a letter from his sleeve and handed it to him. But no, it was definitely addressed to Dr Thomas Cranmer. He read quickly. The letter instructed him to accompany the servant to Greenwich Palace, to meet with the king. Immediately. Without delay. The words could not have frightened him more if they had leapt off the scroll of paper and slapped him in the face.
Hugh Latimer, who had himself just returned from fleeing the Sweat, heard voices coming from his friend’s room. Curious, he poked his head around the door to greet him, and found Thomas looking pale and shocked, along with a man whose mantle bore a regal looking insignia. Unlike Cranmer, he had never seen a royal crest, and understandably failed to recognise it. However, the huge seal attached to the document indicated that the letter had come from some very important person.
“I am summoned to Court,” Thomas gasped, trying to subdue the panic which threatened to rise within him. Taking a deep breath, he clarified, “To the king’s Court, at Greenwich.”
“Without delay,” the messenger reminded him.
Latimer read the letter. “It says His Majesty wishes to speak with you. He simply seeks your opinion. I see nothing amiss with that,” Latimer reassured his friend, aware of the thoughts that must be galloping around Thomas’ head. It was no secret that Cambridge was a town where many residents held meetings to discuss The New Learning. It was also known that many of the theologians owned forbidden books. But if the king suspected Cranmer of saying or reading anything unlawful, he would have simply had him arrested. The king would not personally summon him to Court for that.
“Why is the king so desperate to see me? My companion here says he has no idea,” Thomas looked beseechingly at the messenger, hoping he would suddenly say something useful.
The messenger merely shook his head. “We must leave now, Dr Cranmer. It is the king’s wish to see you as soon as possible.”
“I’m sure I shall only be gone a few days,” he told Latimer, reassuring himself as much as his friend.
Latimer nodded in agreement. “Keep your mind fixed upon the fact that the king seeks your learned opinion. You are not being arrested.” His tone was deliberately reassuring.
“Yes…” Thomas took a deep breath. “It seems I must leave directly.”
“Farewell. God speed, my friend. I shall be praying for you.” Latimer clasped his friend’s hand firmly. “God keep you safe.”
Clutching a satchel filled with the few items he thought he would need, he departed, unaware that he was about to begin a new life; one that he would never have imagined possible.
*****
Three days later, he found himself about to enter the presence of King Henry VIII. He had arrived at Greenwich late the previous evening and had been allocated temporary quarters in the palace itself, sharing a chamber with a man called Thomas Cromwell. Cromwell immediately gave him a lesson on the etiquette of entering the king’s presence.
“When approaching the king, you must bow three times: as soon as you enter the room, as you reach the halfway point, and when you are just a few feet away from His Majesty.” Though their chamber was small, Cromwell managed to demonstrate the necessary obeisance’s with an air of confidence.
“I don’t believe I can be as polished as your good self,” Thomas told him, his voice anxious.
“I have had time to practice. Now, approach me and bow three times, in succession. Remember, when you depart, you make the same obeisance’s, and on no account must you turn your back.”
“You mean, I must walk away backwards?” Thomas clarified.
“Exactly. You must face the king at all times. To turn your back is a grave insult. When you gauge that you are halfway to the door, bow.” Cromwell walked backwards, then gave a sweeping bow to demonstrate.
“I am certain I shall fall over, bowing and walking backwards at the same time,” Thomas fretted. “I can be clumsy sometimes, especially when I am anxious.”
“If it’s any consolation, you would not be the first, and you will certainly not be the last,” Cromwell grinned impishly.
Cromwell was of average height, clean shaven, stocky, and wore an air of supreme self-confidence. His attire was of good quality, but plain – brown, black, and grey were his colours of choice – and he favoured a short coat over his companion’s long, scholarly gown. Financially, he was no more well off than his new acquaintance, but this was more or less the only thing they had in common, apart from one very important and desirable gift: they were both highly intelligent and eager to learn.
Unlike Cranmer, Cromwell was fiercely ambitious, a quality he very quickly revealed to his new acquaintance. “Work hard, whether you are in the service of King Henry or Cardinal Wolsey, and you will go far. They both appreciate servants who are willing to go that extra mile for them. Though, perhaps don’t rely too much on the cardinal. He is something of a falling star.” Cromwell gave Thomas a solemn look. “You see, Lady Anne Boleyn is the king’s favourite; he wants a divorce, but so far, Wolsey has failed to procure it. I promise you, this is not gossip, I have heard these words from the king himself,” he assured the quiet little man who looked, in his opinion, like a startled rabbit. Cranmer’s dark eyes were huge and wary; he appeared overcome with terror. “Come now,” he urged. “His Majesty is pleased with you! Master Fox told the king of something you said when the Court was at Waltham, and he has been desperate to meet you ever since. You have no need to worry, for I shall escort you into the royal presence. Do you perchance have a better gown to wear?”
Thomas studied his gown. It looked presentable to him, at least, as presentable as a gown could be after enduring a lengthy journey on a horse. “I have brushed the mud from the hem, so it is as clean as it can be,” he explained, as Cromwell’s words sank in. So that was why he was here: the king had appreciated the suggestion he had given to Fox. But why had he been required to come to Court? He had nothing more to offer; the king was going to be bitterly disappointed.
“I am sure the king will not mind. You look like an unworldly theologian who does not care for outward show. His Majesty will respect that, as I do.” Cromwell was at ease and cheerful; very little phased him. “To tell you the truth, I care not for frivolous costumes and outward displays of wealth, but there are many at Court who love to strut about like peacocks. In fact, many courtiers consider such outward displays to be obligatory.” There was an edge of contempt in his voice. He intended to rise through the ranks and make himself indispensable at Court, but for the moment, he must look and dress according to what he was: a lawyer, whose knowledge of his subject was equal to that of the great Sir Thomas More. But despite his ambitions, there were plenty at Court who were keen to keep him down, unwilling to allow the son of a blacksmith to rise to a position of power.
Thomas nodded sympathetically, and Cromwell smiled in response.
“Now, come. Let us discover what the king has planned for you.”
He found himself being led through a labyrinth of corridors, whilst sincerely hoping he would be guided back to his room afterwards. How anyone could find their way in a place such as this was a mystery to him; it was totally bewildering.
After a while, Cromwell stopped abruptly. “There is something you need to know; something you may not be aware of.”
“Nothing terrible, I hope?” Thomas enquired nervously.
“No, no.” Cromwell gave a reassuring smile. “I simply thought it would be wise to inform you that the king always refers to himself in the plural. As ‘we’ and ‘us’.”
“I see… has he ever explained why?”
Cromwell shrugged. “He is the king. He represents England. He is England, in a way. I assume that is the reason. You’ll get used to it.” He gave another reassuring smile.
“I doubt I shall be staying here long enough to do so.” There was an edge of determination in Thomas’ voice. He was eager to return to Cambridge as soon as possible. “But I thank you for the information,” he added.
Cromwell’s smile became a knowing grin.
A little while later, Cromwell paused before a set of large double doors, flanked by two heavily armed men. Thomas could not help but notice that they both looked very capable of using the weapons they held.
“Dr Cranmer, to see His Majesty, King Henry,” Cromwell announced, as the doors were pushed open.
Thomas found himself entering a massive chamber, and his immediate impression was that it was flooded with light. On either side of the room was a series of tall windows, hence the wonderful illumination. As for the brickwork, it was covered in colourful, richly detailed tapestries. But the person who commanded all attention was the king himself. Tall, broad-shouldered, athletically built, his auburn hair gleaming in the sunlight, the king looked even more magnificent than he had when Thomas had first seen him in Waltham. Indeed, he was so overawed that Cromwell had to nudge him to remind him to perform the necessary three bows.
King Henry, quickly assessing the newcomer, was pleased with what he saw. The man looked unworldly, he decided, unconsciously echoing the thoughts of Thomas Cromwell, plus he looked fearful. But beneath that fear, Henry – an astute observer of men – recognised honesty and sincerity. Qualities he valued in his servants.
“We have been informed of your opinion regarding our divorce, Dr Cranmer,” the king announced without preamble, presenting his hand for Thomas to kiss.
Bemused by the whole situation, he hardly knew what to say. Clumsily, he managed to kiss the royal hand, though the gems adorning the king’s thumb and middle finger were of such a size that he wondered whether he was supposed to kiss the gems or the king’s flesh.
“You are most welcome here,” the king proclaimed, before seating himself upon a magnificently carved chair with luxurious velvet padding. “Pray sit, Dr Cranmer. You too, Cromwell.”
The latter had been hovering, wondering whether to stay or leave.
“You see, though we are king, we are still a man, and need the support of a good wife, whose life has been joined to our own through a union blessed by God. Sadly, our union with Princess Catherine of Spain was not blessed; it troubles our conscience.”
Thomas, feeling the force of the king’s direct gaze, realised that he must actually speak. In a voice hoarse and strained – unlike his usual mellow tone – he reiterated everything he had said to Fox and Gardiner. According to the Holy Scripture, the king was a free man.
Cromwell, his chin resting upon his hand, managed to hide a cynical smile; he was of the opinion that the king’s conscience had probably never troubled him until he had met Lady Anne Boleyn, though he would never say such a thing aloud of course. He observed the newcomer with speculative interest. Though he was an intelligent man, Cromwell’s knowledge of theology was comparatively meagre; but this man, Thomas Cranmer, was undeniably well-read and well-versed in the ways of the Church. He could only imagine the wealth and power that would be within their grasp were they to join forces… though Cranmer seemed the type to have no desire for either… which meant it would all be his for the taking. Furthermore, though he fully intended to exploit Cranmer’s intellect, he found himself taking a liking to the studious little man.
“We need the woman we love by our side,” the king continued, plaintively. “Even our late father felt such a need, and he was not a man who showed his feelings readily. When our beloved mother died, he was most distressed, but soon decided to make overtures to wed Queen Juana of Spain. However, once he discovered that she carried the corpse of her dead husband around with her everywhere she went, his enthusiasm for the match cooled somewhat, and he decided to remain single.” The king observed the scholar before him shrewdly. The man was finally beginning to relax… a little.
The anecdote was clearly intended to amuse, so Cromwell – who had heard it before – gave a chuckle of laughter.
Thomas felt his lips give an involuntary twitch.
“Do we amuse you, Dr Cranmer?” The king gave a sunny smile.
Utterly charmed, he gave brief nod. “Yes, sire. Forgive my awkwardness. I never thought I would find myself seated beside the King of England.”
“Wine!” the king bellowed, beaming approvingly at Thomas. A door that had previously been hidden behind one of the tapestries swung open, and a pageboy rushed in, bearing a tray laden with goblets and a flagon of wine.
King Henry possessed a massive amount of charisma and an ego to match, characteristics that Thomas was not accustomed to dealing with. Indeed, now that the king was moving rapidly away from the influence of Cardinal Wolsey, the king was discovering just how powerful he was. The rumours concerning the king’s lack of involvement in the decisions made at Court, and Wolsey’s control over him, both of which Thomas had heard and promptly dismissed, were not far from the truth. Yet though the king had spent much of his youth and early reign indulging in pleasant pastimes, he possessed an excellent grasp of affairs of State, and was well-versed in theology and canon law.
“What do you think of the fact that Princess Catherine of Spain insists that the marriage between herself and our late brother was not consummated?” Henry enquired eagerly. “Some would say that their marriage was thus invalid.” He eyed the scholar keenly.
“But, sire, they took vows, did they not?” Thomas’ response was swift.
“Indeed,” the king nodded eagerly. “You say that you hold fast to Leviticus, which claims marriage between a brother and his late brother’s wife is unlawful?”
“Yes, sire.” Again, his response was swift and confident. “However, Deuteronomy states otherwise. Since there is a contradiction, I believe it would be wise to avoid such a marriage, for the sake of your immortal soul.”
The king banged his now empty cup on a nearby table, leaned back, and gave a loud guffaw of laughter.
Thomas nearly jumped out of his chair in surprise.
“We are grateful to you for your wisdom, Cranmer. We feel more at peace than we have felt in months. Years, even. You must remain at Court; you shall join the household of my lady, Anne Boleyn.” The king’s small mouth twitched with amusement; he could not fail to observe the expression of dismay which flitted over the somewhat long features of the scholar.
Thomas forced himself to speak. “As Your Majesty wishes.” His voice sounded unnaturally strangled. As soon as the divorce was procured, he would make his case for returning to Cambridge. He only hoped that the king would agree.