Chapter Five
Chapter Five
Towards the end of that year, Thomas found himself attached to the Holy Roman Emperor’s Court in Nuremberg, Germany. Nuremberg was a breeding ground for reformist ideas, and he was quickly admitted into the Protestant fold, albeit secretly. Prominent amongst the scholars was a man named Andreas Osiander, who had publicly declared himself Lutheran, in spite of the fact he and Martin Luther were known to disagree over certain theological dogmas. A former priest, Osiander took a huge liking to the little English theologian, who was obviously clever despite his reluctance to voice his views, and he was swift to invite Thomas to dine with him. Charmed by the kindly yet earnest manner of Osiander, Thomas readily accepted his hospitality.
Upon arriving at the German reformist’s home, he was introduced to Katarina, Osiander’s wife, and his two children, for whom it was now approaching bedtime. Judging by the fullness of Katarina’s figure, Thomas suspected another child would be arriving in the not-too-distant future.
“This seems a happy home,” he observed aloud, accepting a mug of ale from his host. They were seated at a well-worn table, the number of chairs indicating that there would be four people dining, in a large room clearly designed for eating and socialising. As he glanced about the room, he wondered fleetingly who the fourth person might be. The house was simply furnished, but comfortable. A large, shabby settle stood against one wall, whilst a fireplace, the fire as yet unlit, stood against another, a basket of logs beside it. A steep flight of narrow stairs took up the third wall, leading towards what Thomas assumed were the sleeping quarters. Katarina was currently negotiating the stairs with the children, who kept looking back at Thomas inquisitively. From somewhere nearby – the kitchen, he assumed – drifted an appetising smell, reminding him that he had not eaten for some hours.
“It is, praise God,’ Osiander replied cheerily. ‘It is a Protestant household. I agree with Luther most of the time, though not always. I see no reason to always agree with friends. Without criticism from our closest companions, we cannot grow.”
“I made a close circle of friends when I was at Cambridge University, and we often disagreed,” Thomas revealed.
The two men were conversing in Greek, as although Thomas knew some German, he had not spoken the language regularly enough at Cambridge to be fluent, since most of the translating he did was in Greek or Latin. As for his host, he spoke no English at all.
“But despite this, our friendship never faltered,” he continued. “Indeed, I would argue that the ability to engage in rousing discussions cemented our friendship, though certain persons would regularly storm off in a hot-headed rage, only to return the next evening as though nothing had happened.” He was principally referring to Latimer.
At that moment, a young woman entered the room carrying a platter of freshly baked bread. She was small; slender, without being too thin, and her head was modestly covered by a linen coif, allowing only a small amount of her fair hair to show at the front. Her air of modesty, combined with her demure attire, struck Thomas immediately. As for her eyes, which he later discovered were pale blue, she kept them primly lowered.
“Allow me to introduce my niece, Margaret Hosmer. She lives with us,” Osiander explained.
“Ich spreche nicht viel Englisch,” Margaret blushed, whilst simultaneously dropping a curtsey.
To his surprise, Thomas found himself boldly replying, “Keine Sorge, ich spreche ein bisschen Deutsch.”
Her face flushed a deeper red as she waved a hand towards the platter of bread. “Das ist für dich. Das Abendessen ist noch nicht fertig.” Bobbing another curtsey, she headed back into the kitchen.
Understanding enough German to realise she was inviting him to eat, he managed to reply, “Vielen danke.”
“She and my wife know a little Latin and Greek. I have been teaching them. So, providing the conversation is kept very simple, they will understand what is being said tonight,” Osiander explained. “I do not believe women should be left to fester in ignorance. What is the point of a marriage where a husband cannot converse intelligently with his wife?”
Indeed, Thomas found himself thinking.
“Katarina and my niece are also Lutheran in their beliefs,” Osiander continued. “Why, only last night, the three of us were discussing Luther’s theory that the Pope has no authority to release people from purgatory. If he had this ability, surely he should have already freed everyone?”
“That is exactly what I believe!” Thomas felt the familiar thrill of excitement that accompanied the discovery of finding a kindred spirit. Meeting someone with similar opinions inevitably led to stimulating discussion.
“A local man called Johann Tetzel, a friar, used to sell indulgences in exchange for forgiveness of sins, and it really used to irk Luther and myself. In my opinion, it is ridiculous to contemplate that the soul can be released from purgatory simply via the exchange of money. Does this outrage happen in England?” Osiander asked, taking a vicious bite out of a piece of bread.
“Oh yes,” Thomas confirmed, nibbling delicately at his bread. “There is a great outrage in England because of such practices. I long to see them purged from the realm, but the king, so far at least, does not seem inclined to abolish them.”
They chatted comfortably until dinner was finally ready, and Katarina and Margaret came to join them. Blushing yet again, and keeping her eyes primly lowered, Margaret pushed a bowl of what looked like some kind of stew in Thomas’ direction. During the course of the evening, his attention was continually drawn to the modest young woman, who was seated directly opposite him. He was, of course, being foolish, he reprimanded himself. He was over forty years old now, whilst she looked to be only around twenty. She was most probably engaged to be married already.
“Transubstantiation is something else which we are against. I suppose you, Thomas, concur with this?” Osiander enquired, as the women both nodded in agreement.
“Yes, indeed, I do,” Thomas replied sincerely.
According to the Church of Rome, when the priest blessed the bread and the wine at Holy Communion, the bread and wine became the body and blood of Christ Himself, without changing substance. But the Protestants believed that, at the Last Supper, Jesus had merely stated that the bread and wine should be taken in remembrance of Him. They still considered taking Holy Communion to be a sacrament, but believed that the bread and wine acted as a symbol, and did not become the body and blood of Christ.
“To be honest with you, at first, I was not so sure,” he admitted. “I agreed with most Protestant doctrines, but I found this particular concept very difficult to immediately accept, most likely due to all the Catholic teaching I have been exposed to over the years.”
“I understand. But once you take time to accept a doctrine, and that acceptance takes deep root, then it becomes entwined with your heart.” Osiander vigorously thumped his chest. “From then onwards, you will never change your mind.”
“I do deeply believe that the bread and wine do not become the body and blood of Christ and are instead symbols taken in memory of Christ’s great sacrifice,” he earnestly assured his host. “Once I had carefully studied the gospels, it suddenly became clear to me that transubstantiation is an error which leads people astray.”
The women beamed in approval, as did Osiander.
“Unfortunately, I think it is something the Church of Rome and the Protestants will continue to argue about for years to come,” he added.
“I am inclined to agree.” Osiander nodded gravely. “Alas, so many people combine faith with superstition.” Seeing the bemused look on his guest’s face, he quickly explained. “It is because most cannot read and write, and even those that can do not know Latin. With such a limited education, how are they supposed to understand the Latin Vulgate Bible?”
“Exactly!” Thomas exclaimed enthusiastically. “The Bible needs to be translated into the language of the common man. How can someone who only speaks German or English ever hope to understand the words of the Vulgate Bible?”
The women were again nodding eagerly in agreement, and quietly exchanging excited comments with one another.
“In England, so many priests are illiterate, and I found it bizarre that people thought I was eccentric for insisting that the priests I trained were able to read, write and understand Latin. Surely, no priest who cannot read the Bible is fit to go out into the community and teach the common man?”
Osiander had leapt from his chair and was now energetically pacing around the room. “It is obvious, yet so many people do not seem to see it. An ignorant priest means the souls of the common man are in danger.” He sat down suddenly. “That is why we, as reformists, must be prepared to lay down our lives for the cause. The very souls of our fellow men are at risk,” he stated gravely.
He felt a sudden chill. He was not sure he was willing to lay down his life. When reformists were punished with death, it was never a quick, clean end; all too often, execution was preceded by torture. Then came the flames. Tyndale had been strangled prior to his burning, as a gesture of kindness, but it was said that the pain of his flesh being incinerated had brought him back to consciousness. He didn’t know whether this was true or not, but either way, death by burning was horrific.
“In truth, I believe the position of ‘Pope’ is to blame for many of these lost souls.” Osiander had resumed his pacing. “When Jesus asked Peter to feed his sheep, he was not telling Peter that no one could feed them without Peter’s permission, and he was certainly not telling Peter to become a Pope!” His face was flushed with indignation.
Once again, Thomas wholeheartedly agreed.
“How dangerous is it to be Protestant in England?” Osiander enquired seriously, returning to his seat as Katarina and Margaret began to clear the empty platters and bowls from the table.
“If my faith were discovered, I would be charged with heresy, and thus imprisonment. Then, if I refused to recant, I would be burned at the stake.”
“The same is true here, as you no doubt know by now.” Osiander gave a deep sigh. “The emperor would love to bring the Spanish Inquisition into Germany; one day I suspect he will succeed. It is dangerous, certainly, to be anything other than Roman Catholic. But he has spent much of his reign so far asserting his authority over the French and the Pope, and has not yet given us his full attention, for which I am sincerely thankful, for The New Learning is taking root and spreading rapidly. I rejoice in that.”
“Likewise,” Thomas agreed. Though it was unsafe, he knew in his soul that they had to continue spreading the truth.
The evening passed quickly, and after a few more hours of discussion, Thomas suddenly realised the hour was late. Feeling embarrassed, he apologised for outstaying his welcome, but to his pleasure, he was urged to visit again very soon. Preferably tomorrow.
“We have much to discuss,” Osiander assured him heartily. “I have enjoyed this evening very much.”
“As have I,” he replied earnestly.
During the next few weeks, Osiander began to take it for granted that, after debating and talking with various scholars and dignitaries during the day, Thomas Cranmer would come to his home to spend the evening. He was becoming increasingly fond of the articulate and intelligent theologian. As for Thomas, if he were honest enough to admit the truth, he was finding the quiet, gentle, Margaret Hosmer, very attractive indeed, though he supposed that she probably regarded him as some sort of uncle, rather than as a potential suitor.
The time was fast drawing near when he would leave Nuremberg, and despite having initially dreaded being sent on another foreign assignment, he was grateful for the experience. He had learned so much more about the Protestant faith, and had met many scholars, including a close friend of Luther’s called Philip Melanchthon, who often debated with Osiander. Not long before Thomas was due to depart, Melanchthon accompanied him to dine at Osiander’s house. Melanchthon was afflicted by a speech impediment, and one shoulder sat higher than the other, but neither of these hindered his work. His mind was sharp and his oratory brilliant, despite his stilted speech.
“I’ve heard that yourself and Luther have suggested to the king that he should consider taking a second wife… as in, polygamy,” Thomas addressed Melanchthon gravely. After all, it seemed a ludicrous suggestion from two such undoubtedly devout Christians.
“It depends how you look at it,” Melanchthon explained, as the three scholars sat gathered around Osiander’s table with Katarina and Margaret. “First of all, the king is not truly married, so it would not be polygamy per se. Secondly, you have to look at this as a unique case. He is the ruler of a realm and must think of both the safety of the line of succession and the security of his kingdom. Catherine has thus far failed to provide him with a male heir, so it only natural that he should consider a second wife.”
Thomas was silent for a moment, digesting this. “So, what you are suggesting is that, as the King of England, and being a free man according to the Bible, Henry does not require a divorce, and should simply marry Lady Anne?”
“Precisely,” Melanchthon declared. “I do not know what is stopping him. He should just get on with it.”
“He is fearful of offending the emperor,” Thomas explained. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Margaret, quietly seated at the table with Katarina. Both women were leaning forward, their elbows on the table, listening avidly to the conversation. His mind kept drifting. Soon, he would be saying farewell to the calm, gentle young woman whom he had become so fond of.
As the evening wore on, Katarina lit several oil lamps, and Margaret’s smooth features became rosy and softened by the mellow glow. The women had both pulled shawls around their shoulders, enhancing their modest appearances and creating a homely scene, which reminded Thomas of an image from his distant past: his mother, sitting at their table with her shawl wrapped around her shoulders, passing food around, anxious to ensure that everyone had dined to their satisfaction and would not retire to their beds hungry.
Both women gave every appearance of enjoying the exchanges between the scholars, indeed, every time Thomas had visited the household, they had joined in as much as their limited knowledge of Greek and Latin would allow. It was an accepted fact that women’s brains were unable to learn as effectively as men’s, yet the two women present seemed to cope tremendously. They reminded him very much of some of the rare, educated ladies at court, Anne Boleyn included. His acquaintance of women was insufficient for him to draw any fully formed conclusions, but as far as he could tell, the female sex were quite capable of assimilating knowledge.
A mere twenty-four hours later, he was again dining at Osiander’s house, partaking in a discussion with his host about his imminent departure to France with the rest of the Holy Roman Emperor’s Court. He sincerely hoped that his stay there would be brief, and that he would swiftly be given permission to return to England, but the emperor’s plans often changed abruptly, so he could not be certain of anything.
His host’s tone suddenly became more serious. “I have not failed to observe that you are much taken with my niece.” Osiander was never afraid to cut straight to the heart of the matter.
The two men were seated outside in the small garden, enjoying some mild evening air together. Thomas had a feeling that his companion had deliberately manipulated the situation, so that they were able to talk alone.
“She is a good and virtuous young woman, but I am so much older than her…” He was quick to make his host aware that he had no intention of behaving in any untoward way.
“A man should always marry a younger woman,” Osiander swiftly interrupted. “They age so much more quickly than men. A man needs a young, energetic wife to run his household, and to see to his needs. I would never have married a woman the same age as myself.”
Thomas picked at the sleeve of his gown. Osiander’s advice was nothing if not practical. Certainly, it was not sentimental. He found himself saying, “so, if I were to propose to your niece, you would be agreeable?” Mentally, he was trying to work out what would happen if he did marry Margaret Hosmer. His fellowship would be withdrawn, again. Except, this time, it would definitely not be returned. He would also lose his position as Archdeacon of Taunton, but he would still be permitted to teach, so they would be able to live comfortably – if modestly – on his earnings. Certainly, marrying Margaret would not be anything akin to his former marriage. Of this he was confident. Margaret and Joan had absolutely nothing in common.
“Of course I would be agreeable,” Osiander declared. “Katarina tells me that the maid has been weeping these past two days because you are leaving. You must speak with her, the sooner the better.” He was regarding his clearly astonished companion with almost comic surprise.
“This has come as something of a shock. I never expected to take a wife at this point in my life.”
“You are no longer young; you have no time to waste,” Osiander pronounced logically. Then, standing up, he instructed, “Remain here. I shall find my niece and send her out to you.”
By the time he left Nuremberg, Thomas Cranmer had married for the second time.
*****
During the next few months, the emperor’s Court travelled south-east, eventually meeting with reformists at Regensburg. The reformists were understandably cautious about speaking with the emperor – after all, he had recently declared, in public, that he would punish the Protestants for their heresy against the Church – but before any meeting could take place, Charles’ mind was diverted. It was reported that Muslim Turks were set to invade Hungary, and the emperor’s immediate response was to begin to muster an army, to drive the Turks away from land he considered to be Christian soil. Instead of heading to France, he decided to head towards Mantua, instructing the Pope to meet him there, to discuss strategy for a new holy war. Consequently, Thomas had to accept that it would be months before he and Margaret would be permitted to set sail for England.
During Thomas’ time at Court, the emperor had taken a liking to the English theologian, choosing to overlook the rumours he had heard regarding his theology. He had also turned a blind eye to his female companion, for it was not unusual for priests to have a secret mistress. Unfortunately, despite his favour with the emperor, Thomas felt he was making about as much progress as he had made with the Pope over a year ago. It seemed to him that neither of them would ever agree to King Henry’s divorce.
He and Margaret had decided to keep their marriage a secret for the moment, until the king decided to summon him back to England. He wanted to be able to explain himself before he tendered his resignation, on the grounds that being married meant he could no longer be a member of the clergy. He sighed. He would miss Cromwell, and he sincerely hoped that his friend would at least write to him sometimes. That would be gratifying. He would miss the king too, and his charismatic, larger than life personality. But life would be fulfilling in a much simpler way. The Court of King Henry VIII, with its plots and intrigues, was no place for him. He knew that. Soon, the Court of the Emperor Charles would be moving again, and he was weary of travelling. He wanted nothing more than to be summoned back to England and to resume a peaceful life. There came a light tapping on the door and Margaret’s head appeared.
“Is time you eat. Abendessen?” she asked, smiling.
“Abendessen,” he nodded. His once neglected German had vastly improved.
“English, please,” she scolded fondly, leading the way into their small kitchen; one of the three rooms they were sharing during this visit. Since she was now the wife of an Englishman, and would be living in England soon, she insisted that they spoke as much English as possible. She would one day be running a household – a small one, admittedly – and she needed to be able to communicate, especially with the servants, else they would not respect her and would take liberties. When her English failed, she reverted to German, and hoped that Thomas could understand what she was saying. Usually, he could, but on those rare occasions when he could not, their misunderstandings afforded a source of rich entertainment.
Watching Margaret serve their simple meal, Thomas felt a deep contentment. Some men coped well with celibacy; certainly Latimer, Ridley and Bilney had never appeared to suffer for it. But he had always found unmarried life a struggle. For over a decade, he had endured celibacy because of his ghastly experience with Joan, but now, with this young woman, he had found someone who possessed a deep faith in God and a belief in the Protestant movement, combined with a kind and gentle spirit. He was content, and he had even ceased shaving the crown of his head, where his priestly tonsure had been, so confident was he that he would no longer be a priest once he returned to England.
They had only just finished eating when they heard a sharp knocking coming from the main room. Motioning for Margaret to remain seated, Thomas rose from his chair and hurried to open the door. It was a messenger, with a surprisingly brief letter from Cromwell. He began to read, and quickly discovered that one of his friends, Robert Barnes, had been incarcerated in the Fleet Prison, and would likely be charged with heresy, having been discovered vociferously preaching Protestant teachings. There was worse news to follow: Thomas Bilney had been burned at the stake in Norwich, also for heresy. He had been loudly proclaiming, in public, that the bread and wine were only symbolic of Christ’s body and blood.
‘I am sorry to be the agent of such terrible tidings’, Cromwell wrote. ‘But I wished for you to be informed swiftly, lest you hear the news elsewhere. It has to be said, there was an outcry over his sentence. He was universally loved. I very much suspect that Bishop Nix and Stephen Gardiner are behind it’.
He felt a wave of nausea. Bilney, the most innocent and gentle of them all, burned at the stake. According to the date on Cromwell’s letter, Bilney had died over a month ago. Leaning forward, Thomas clutched his stomach, and Margaret gave a cry of dismay as her husband promptly parted company with his dinner.
Later, in bed, Margaret, her head nuzzled against his shoulder, asked, “Fühlst du dich jetzt besser? Dein Gesicht hat eine bessere Farbe.”
“Yes, I feel better, though my sadness lingers.” He rubbed his chin against the top of her head. “You’re speaking in German… what has happened to your English?”
She looked thoughtful. “I think it disappeared wann your Gesicht war so pale. I think you feel better. Your Ges… face is a better… Farbe.” She managed to smile. “I cannot remember the word in English.”
“Colour, I think? Farbe means colour, doesn’t it?” Thomas suggested.
“Ja, Farbe. Colour. You have the colour now. Not so pale.”
“Well, I do feel less queasy,” he reasoned. His wife’s long, fair hair was draped over his bare shoulder and arm; looking at it, he regretted that women were not permitted to show their pretty hair in public.
“Vat are you thinking now, my Thomas?” she asked.
“I’m wishing you could wear your hair like this all of the time, instead of having it tucked away.” He managed a faint smile.
“Nein!” She was horrified. “I cannot! It is not… it is not gut for a woman…” Again, she searched for a word and failed to find it.
“You mean, not respectable?” he mumbled into the top of her head.
“Re-spect-able,” she pronounced slowly. “That is it. Not respectable. Only vicked vomen wear it so.”
He wrapped his arm tightly around her. England was becoming a dangerous place for reforming Protestants. What would become of her if anything happened to him? Cromwell believed Gardiner had been involved in Bilney’s death; when Gardiner became Archbishop of Canterbury, there would be even more deaths. Archbishop William Warham was over eighty years old now; his health was poor, and it was unlikely that he would live much longer. He tried to console himself with the notion that he might acquire a teaching position somewhere so obscure that no one would be concerned about his Protestant faith, but the chances of him finding such a safe position were unlikely at best. All he could do was pray to the good Lord that Stephen Gardiner would not be made Archbishop of Canterbury, and hope that whoever took the position would be more lenient towards his fellow reformists.
*****
In England, both Cromwell and Gardiner were attending upon the king. The Archbishop of Canterbury was unwell to a point beyond recovery, and it was generally accepted that he would not last very much longer. Gardiner, Cromwell gloomily realised, was the most likely man to be chosen to replace him, which was unfortunate as far as he was concerned, since Gardiner was a man whom he intensely disliked. Certainly, many others disliked him too: he was domineering, ruthless and sarcastic, but his clever mind and quick thinking made him useful to the king. However, Cromwell knew his friend Cranmer was also much admired by the king, and that there was a chance – a slim chance, but a chance nonetheless – that Cranmer might be selected in Gardiner’s place. As was Cromwell’s way, he began to ponder on how he might make this possibility a reality.
He and Gardiner were in the midst of listening to the king, who was voicing his desire for his clergy to be kept in their place. In His Majesty’s view, the Church should be controlled by the sovereign of the realm and should obey his commands. Cromwell was nodding in agreement. This, in his opinion, was as it should be. But before he could speak, Gardiner frankly delivered his own opinion.
“Forgive me, Your Majesty, but I disagree. The Church should stand apart from the Crown,” he declared in his brisk, dry voice. “The Church belongs to God and should therefore only answer to God. We should not need to seek external approval.”
Cromwell had difficulty hiding a smile. This time, there had been no need for him to intervene. The king was furious, and his face reddened as he rose to his feet and ordered Gardiner out of the room. The matter was settled. There was no chance of Gardiner becoming Archbishop of Canterbury now.
*****
Some weeks later, in mid-August, Thomas and Margaret found themselves in Matua, along with the rest of the emperor’s Court. The summer heat was almost unbearable, and Thomas could not help but sentimentally recall the cool dampness of autumn in England; watching the leaves turn from green to brown and feeling a cool breeze blowing over his face. On the plus side, at least there was no plague in Mantua at this time of year.
Another letter had arrived from Cromwell, this time far longer, in which he informed Thomas that two academics had been despatched to Rome, having been instructed to search the Papal library for information which could be used to validate caesaropapism. Naturally, their task was gargantuan, for the library was huge, and neither the Pope nor his cardinals had offered to help them find the appropriate books. The academics had also been forbidden from copying anything down, and had been informed that a large collection of the library’s books had been lost in transit, after the sacking of Rome. Cromwell revealed that the two of them had since written to the king, saying they felt despondent and that their mission was a failure. Thomas was saddened but not overly surprised to hear of this outcome, and he could not help but feel somewhat glad that he was not the only person to have failed to be successful in his mission. The progress towards a royal divorce was frustratingly stagnant.
Cromwell ended his letter by gleefully announcing that he had just secured a place on the king’s council. It seemed the king had finally rewarded Cromwell’s knowledge and talents. Thomas was pleased to know that things were going well for his very capable and very ambitious friend.
That evening, he and Margaret sat outside to eat their meal; the heat was so intense that neither of them had been able to contemplate the thought of eating until dusk, when the air was less heavy and stifling. Their lodging was comparatively luxurious compared to what they had been given previously, featuring both a ground floor and upper floor. The ground floor opened out onto a small, enclosed courtyard, and it was here that they had elected to dine and enjoy the cool of the evening.
“You must find it boring, my love, all of this travelling; spending time alone whilst I am meeting with people,” Thomas remarked, once they had eaten their food.
“Sometimes,” Margaret concurred candidly. “But not always. Mostly, I am practicing my English. I think I am improving.” She looked to him for affirmation.
“I agree. Your English now far exceeds my German. You would make an excellent scholar.” He patted her hand fondly.
“And I meet people too, so I am quite happy, my husband. When we get to England, I shall make a nice home for us. Plenty of good food and, God villing, children too.”
The prospect of children was often in his thoughts, and he knew Margaret longed for them. He too wished to have children, but the prospect was terrifying. Childbirth was dangerous; he could not help but remember what had happened to Joan. He kept telling himself that some women did survive; after all, his own mother had given birth numerous times. But the sound of Joan’s screams and the sight of her sightless eyes staring blankly up to the ceiling still haunted him.
“In God’s own time, my dear.” He patted his wife’s hand again. The sky had grown dark, and the only illumination came from a lantern on the courtyard table. There was a sweet fragrance coming from a nearby climbing rose. “The air is so still,” he remarked. “Yet it is not heavy, as when a storm is brewing…”
At that moment, there came a sudden, authoritative knocking upon the door. Laying a hand upon Margaret’s shoulder, to indicate that she should remain where she was, he approached the door cautiously. Could it be a messenger from the emperor? A twinge of fear passed through him. Was it a summons? Was he to be accused of heresy? Unbolting the door, he opened it carefully to discover two messengers standing outside, wearing the royal livery of King Henry VIII.
“Dr Thomas Cranmer?” one of them enquired, in what could only be described as a peremptory tone.
“Y… yes,” he stammered, feeling a surge of terror. Were they here to arrest him?
“For you.” The other pulled a scroll from his sleeve and thrust it in Thomas’ direction.
Managing to gather his wits, he opened the door fully. “Please… come in for some refreshment,” he invited, his voice hoarse with relief. It appeared that no one was going to arrest him tonight.
“Thank you, but we have plans to go elsewhere for refreshment.” Both messengers bowed before stepping back. They had spotted a suitable tavern nearby, which seemed a far more exciting establishment than the lodgings of a scholar.
Clutching the scroll, Thomas walked back into the courtyard, where Margaret was now standing, her eyes wide with anxiety. “Is all vell?” she whispered.
“Yes… well, I hope so. I need to read this.” He waved the scroll aloft. Henry’s personal royal seal glinted in the lantern’s flickering light. “It is clearly something of importance.” He began to unroll it, holding it as close to the lantern as was possible without setting it alight.
Margaret rushed into the house to find another lantern. Returning, she held it over the scroll.
Having read the contents, Thomas sat down heavily.
“Vas ist falsch?” Margaret asked, her English now entirely forgotten.
“What’s wrong?” He laughed humourlessly. “Everything is wrong. The Archbishop of Canterbury, William Warham, has died. He died a few weeks ago.” He took a deep breath, trying to assimilate the news he had received. “I am informed, by His Majesty the king, that I have been appointed as Warham’s successor. I am the new Archbishop of Canterbury.”
Taking a deep breath, Margaret digested this. “Aber es ist eine Ehre… it is an honour, my husband. Warum bist du verzweifelt?”
“I am of insufficient status to be archbishop. I am only Archdeacon of Taunton. The Pope made me Penitentiary for England last year while I was in Rome, but that is nothing compared to…” He nearly choked on the word. “… archbishop. So many others are better—”
Margaret firmly interrupted. “Nein. No one vill do better than you.”
“It’s not as simple as that.” He shook his head. “You see, apart from my being ill-suited, I am also married. It was my intention to resign my fellowship once we returned to England, obtain a teaching position, and have done with the matter. I will never regret marrying you,” he assured her earnestly. “But the Archbishop of Canterbury simply cannot be married.” Thomas read the letter again, hoping he had misunderstood the contents.
He had not.
“Can you not just tell king you are married?” It seemed very simple in her opinion.
“No.” He shook his head vehemently. She did not know King Henry. “If our marriage were discovered, I could be imprisoned, or even executed. The Archbishop of Canterbury cannot be a married man, it is forbidden.A mere priest cannot marry, let alone the Archbishop of Canterbury!” He began to pace around the courtyard, thinking rapidly and running his fingers through his hair.
Margaret sat silently beside him, trying to think of something helpful to say and failing miserably, fearing this good and kindly man regretted marrying her. Even worse, he might wish to divorce her. Taking a deep breath, she tried not to weep.
“This is what I shall do,” he finally spoke. “What we shall do,” he amended, allaying her fears. “If we delay leaving Mantua long enough, the king might change his mind, and consecrate someone else as archbishop.”
She nodded, watching him expectantly, her eyes fixed upon his face.
“Yes, we will delay returning to England. Then, if that fails…” He looked at his wife with an uncertain expression. “Would you find it very humiliating if you were to join my household and pose as… I don’t know… a housekeeper, perhaps? No.” He shook his head. “That is far too much to ask—”
“No, I vill do anything!” she exclaimed, leaping up and flinging her arms about his neck, nearly knocking a lantern from the table in the process. “I am just happy you do not regret marrying me.”
He held her tightly. “I could never regret marrying you. But the king might regret making a man such as myself Archbishop of Canterbury.”
Leaning back in his arms, Margaret studied him thoughtfully. “I think it is God’s vill,” she suggested calmly, her earlier panic subsiding rapidly. “Have you not thought of that?”
“No,” he admitted, smiling softly. “You see? You were destined to be my wife, to remind me of that.” He drew her towards him, resting his chin upon her head.
“Yes, I was,” she agreed, giving a deep sigh of relief. “Remind me, what does this word ‘destined’ mean?”
*****
The following day, the messengers returned, expecting to receive a reply. They had no idea what the contents of the scroll had been, but since the king had sent them to Mantua in search of Dr Thomas Cranmer, it seemed likely that a reply would be in order. However, to their surprise, there was no reply, only another offer of refreshment before they set out on their journey back to England.
“What exactly do ve do now?” Margaret asked curiously.
“The same as we have been doing for the past few months… well, over half a year now,” he amended. “We remain with the emperor’s Court, and I shall continue to try and persuade him to agree to the king’s divorce. Hopefully King Henry will forget about me.”
“If this is what God vishes you to do, your English king, he vill not forget about you,” Margaret cautioned.
“If the king does not forget about me, I shall accept it as the will of God,” he sighed. The king ruled through God’s will, so it was unthinkable not to obey him. If King Henry wished for him to be Archbishop of Canterbury, then Archbishop of Canterbury he must be.