Chapter Six
Chapter Six
Thomas lingered, delaying his departure for as long as he dared, but King Henry did not change his mind. Thomas Cranmer was to become the next Archbishop of Canterbury. He reckoned he must be the most unwilling person to ever occupy such an exalted position; he knew that Stephen Gardiner would have gladly accepted the role. With no option left but to return to England, he arranged for Margaret to travel back to Germany and remain in Osiander’s protection for the time being. He optimistically calculated that perhaps, in a few months’ time, she would be able to join him. With much weeping, and a promise to arrive speaking English more fluently than the English people themselves, she departed. He did not doubt her. She was gentle and sweet-tempered, but tenacious, and he had quickly learned that if she set out to do something, she did it.
He was replaced in the emperor’s Court by a man called Nicholas Hawkins, to whom he sold most of the linen, bowls, and culinary utensils that he and Margaret had accumulated. He wished to travel to England unencumbered by a pile of worldly goods. Unwilling to overcharge Hawkins, he sold the items for far less than they were worth; as for the books he had purchased whilst abroad, they were another matter entirely. Most of them would be travelling with him.
It was painful parting with Margaret, therefore his return journey to England was utterly miserable. It was late February when he finally returned to York Place, where he would stay until Lambeth Palace, the London seat of the Archbishops of Canterbury, was ready for him. He was grateful for the delay, for York Place was comfortable and familiar.
Unsurprisingly, upon his return to his homeland, his first visitor was Cromwell, who arrived beaming with delight and offering him hearty congratulations. In fact, everyone had been loud in their congratulations, especially Sir Thomas Boleyn and his family. Thomas was well aware that his first duty as Archbishop of Canterbury would be to proclaim King Henry VIII a free man, able to marry his sweetheart, who was residing at Court. According to Lady Boleyn, Anne’s temper had improved of late, though Thomas had yet to see for himself whether this was true.
“You certainly took your time returning to England.” Cromwell restlessly paced around the room his friend had been using as a study since first arriving at York Place. “Just think, soon you shall be installed in your own palace. You must visit directly and take a look at it. Personally, I’ve never been over the threshold – I never had cause to visit poor old Warham – but I predict you will have room aplenty for your books.” He glanced around the room his friend currently occupied. It was clearly inadequate; there were books piled upon every available surface, including the floor.
“That’s one good thing about it, I suppose,” Thomas muttered gloomily.
“So, why the long delay?” Cromwell demanded. “You delayed six weeks by my estimation. I would have set out straight away, lest the king should change his mind.” Unhooking his cloak, Cromwell flung it over a chair. As always, he was conservative in his attire, though his clothes were clearly of good quality.
“I don’t doubt it.” Thomas managed a faint smile. He and Cromwell were complete opposites, at least, when it came to certain matters. So far, he had not informed his friend of his marriage; in fact, he had informed none of his friends of his marriage. For a fleeting moment, he longed to confide in Cromwell, but after a brief moment of hesitation, changed his mind.
Seating himself and leaning back against his chair, legs splayed out comfortably in front of him, Cromwell helped himself to a mug of ale, since his companion seemed incapable of performing his duty as a host. Smiling mischievously, lowering his voice he asked in a staged whisper, “so, when will your wife be joining you?”
“My wife?”
Cromwell tried not to laugh. His friend’s eyes looked about ready to pop out of his face, and his sallow skin was suddenly deathly pale. “Yes, your wife. Oh, don’t worry, Cranmer. I am the only person at Court who knows, and I just happen to be an expert at keeping my mouth shut. Your secret is safe with me.” He laid a reassuring hand upon his friend’s arm, though he had not been entirely truthful. His spies had informed him that the new archbishop was married, so it was more than likely that the king himself was also aware of the situation, having been informed by his own spies. “But I do sympathise. What a difficult situation to be in.” There was genuine compassion in his gaze.
How on Earth had Cromwell discovered his secret? Thomas anxiously picked at the sleeve of his gown, loath to speak aloud of his marriage.
“Come now, why so surprised? I have spies everywhere.” Cromwell’s expression switched from sympathy to amusement. “It is my business to know things. Why, I knew Lady Anne to be with child even before the king himself heard the glad tidings.”
“With child?” Thomas gasped.
“Pregnant,” Cromwell clarified.
Thomas was torn between surprise and curiosity. “How on Earth did you manage to discover that? And before His Majesty?” It was surely not possible.
“Very simply, my friend. I bribe her attendants on a regular basis, and they have always kept me informed about the regularity of her menstrual cycle.” Cromwell explained this as if it was a perfectly ordinary thing to do.
“Cromwell!” Thomas rebuked, appalled. Why on Earth would anyone wish to know about such an intimate matter?
“Anne finally surrendered herself to the king, in the knowledge that His Majesty is now so desperate for an heir that he will not hesitate to marry her if she becomes pregnant. You see…” Cromwell leaned forward confidentially, resting his elbows on his knees. “Once the king informed her that you would become Archbishop of Canterbury, she instantly agreed to become his mistress. She is no fool; she is well aware that you will pronounce the king free to marry and will perform a ceremony between her and King Henry.” Examining his fingernails with sudden intensity, Cromwell added, with exaggerated casualness, “of course, I might also have dropped a few hints in her direction that now would be a good time to produce a royal heir to the throne. A couple of months later, one of her ladies informed me that her monthly cycle had abruptly ceased.”
“You’re incorrigible,” Thomas gasped, marvelling at his friend’s audacity.
“Be that as it may, it has all worked out well,” Cromwell replied breezily. “Anyway, enough of my schemes. I am here to escort you to His Majesty. He wishes to meet with his new Archbishop of Canterbury. I would suggest you don’t refuse the position…” His voice trailed away.
“I fear I would be imprisoned, at the very least, if I were to refuse,” Thomas muttered. “But I have no intention of doing so. After much thought, it eventually occurred to me that it may have been God’s own will that led me to this position. Perhaps He wishes for me to rescue the souls of England’s people from the heresy of the Church of Rome?”
Cromwell nodded. “It could well be so.” He recognised his companion’s sincerity and respected it. He too supported the Protestant cause, but his support came secondary to his own ambition. He became brisk. “The king wishes to see you as soon as possible, and though the barge waits, the tide does not. We must go to Court, now. I suggest you change your gown; the one you are wearing looks as though it has seen better days. In fact, it looks as though it has seen better years.”
After a short journey downriver, they arrived at Hampton Court, to find the king looking pleased with himself. Standing beside him was Lady Anne Boleyn, who looked calm and serene; her sullen discontent had been erased. The king had recently honoured her by making her Marquess of Pembroke, a rare gesture, since women were seldom given a title in their own right.
After the initial greetings and congratulations, the king approached the matter at hand. “We have already sent the necessary Bulls to Pope Clement, so that your consecration may take place as soon as possible,” he announced. “We must marry the Marquess without delay.” The king shot a proud, doting glance towards his lady.
Thomas was silent. Papal Bulls? He was less than keen to become archbishop, but if he must be Archbishop of Canterbury, then he wished to be consecrated according to the Protestant faith.
“What is wrong, our good archbishop?” the king demanded.
Aware of Cromwell’s solid, stocky frame standing beside him, Thomas felt strengthened. If he must offend the king, then it would be better to do it now. That way, there would still be time to appoint another archbishop. Speaking his thoughts might mean disgrace, or worse, but he felt he had no choice. He refused to go against his faith. Taking a deep breath, he managed to rally both his thoughts and his courage. “Your Majesty, I cannot accept this position from the Pope.” His voice seemed to be coming from far away.
“Why not?” Henry’s voice was clipped.
“I thank Your Grace for bringing me here, in spite of my humble status,” he replied slowly, choosing his words carefully. “However, because I can only accept you, my king, as Head of the English Church, you alone have the authority to appoint me as the next Archbishop of Canterbury. My conscience cannot acknowledge any other authority; certainly, I cannot take it from the hand of the Pope.” There, it was said. The king would recognise the Protestant theology, and he would be escorted from Hampton Court and placed in the Fleet Prison, from which Robert Barnes had recently been released. It occurred to him he might even be given Barnes’ vacated cell.
While speaking, Thomas had kept his eyes firmly lowered, his gaze directed towards the king’s feet, fixed upon His Majesty’s crimson shoes, adorned with gems and slashed to display their white silk linings. They were magnificent shoes. Impractical, of course, but magnificent. Until he had come to Court, he had never realised people could adorn their feet in such a way. Eventually, after a moment of silence, he cautiously raised his eyes upwards, only to find the king grinning delightedly.
“We understand your concern, and we will do all we can to soothe your conscience,” said the king. “But, as king, we must also consider the stability of the realm. Unlike some rulers, we must take care not to rouse the common people with a sudden change, lest we give them cause to revolt; and we must also be wary of our foreign neighbours. We cannot give cause for our enemies to invade us.”
Cromwell was silent, finding himself altogether surprised by his friend Cranmer’s sudden display of sheer bravery. He had clearly underestimated not only the man himself, but also his devotion to the Protestant faith. The man had spoken out in front of the king. It was something he could never have imagined Cranmer doing.
“What say you, Master Cromwell?” the king demanded.
“I would say that, at this moment, the emperor is too busy sending troops to drive the heathen Turks out of Hungary to worry about what is happening in England. I cannot vouch for the King of France as of yet.”
“We have also taken the precaution of appeasing the emperor by sending men to accompany his army and support his cause,” Henry mused aloud.
There was no better time than the present for the king to announce himself as being free to marry. The emperor would certainly be angered, but for the time being, his attention was diverted. As for Thomas’ own first task as archbishop, it would at least not offend his conscience. As he saw it, the king had never been married in the first place, so declaring him a free man, and therefore able to marry Lady Anne Boleyn, would not trouble him.
“Regarding my desire not to accept Papal authority, I can show Your Majesty the relevant pieces of scripture which support this,” Thomas murmured, wondering if this was the point at which the king would grow angry. But once again, as he cautiously glanced at the royal visage, he saw nothing but approval.
“We would gladly see these writings you speak of.” Henry smiled benignly. “As you all know, we are guided by scripture.” His small mouth became prim. “Did we not cast aside the woman whom we believed we had married, once we realised it was a sinful liaison?”
Cromwell kept his gaze decorously lowered. The king was such a master of self-deception, it was almost impossible keep a straight face sometimes. Queen Catherine was ageing, and past the age of childbirth. Anne Boleyn was glamorous and fertile. It was pure lust which had ended his first marriage, but the king was determined to dress it up it as virtue, so all his courtiers sycophantically applauded the king’s sacrificial decision to end his union with Catherine.
“Indeed, Your Majesty,” Thomas replied, totally accepting the king’s statement.
For some time, they discussed the application for Papal Bulls, along with the consecration ceremony, which would be held in due course. After a while, the king demanded that some of his theologians should be summoned, to address the problem. The fact was, he was looking to make a break with Rome, but it was a unique situation. No monarch had done it before, and he was uncertain how to go about it, without upsetting the Pope, the Emperor Charles, and King Francis of France. He might be able to garner support from the Protestant German princes, but they were not as powerful as Charles and Francis. He also liked the idea of being Head of the English Church; even more, he liked a suggestion Cromwell had recently made to him. The monasteries were a source of wealth, and he had already gleaned a lot of money from some of them by issuing fines to the abbots and abbesses for their lewd behaviour. But Cromwell had suggested closing them in their entirety, as the money rightly belonged to the king anyway - so said the devious Cromwell. It was exceedingly tempting.
Many hours passed, and it was almost evening before any agreement was reached, an agreement which Thomas was not altogether happy with. Wishing to appease the Pope for the time being – Pope Clement could easily arrange for an army to invade England if he so wished – Papal Bulls were a requirement. Then followed the problem of the Consecration Oath. Traditionally, this was made to Rome, but Thomas Cranmer was adamant that he could not make it.
It was the theologian, Dr Oliver, who proposed a solution. Thomas Cranmer should take the usual oath, then, after this, he would take a second one, stating that he would not admit papal authority any further than the word of God allowed. Furthermore, it would be lawful for him at any time to correct papal errors when the occasion demanded.
Thomas was unhappy, but everyone else was heaving sighs of relief. This was the nearest to a perfect solution they had come to, and everyone was ready to retire for the night. He sighed, ruffling his hair and setting his cap askew. It seemed dishonest to make the traditional oath when he had no intention of adhering to it. Plus, as far as he could see, the second oath did not correct matters.
The king was radiating delight, and the Marquess of Pembroke, who had long since quit the room out of sheer boredom, returned to find the situation was now resolved to everyone’s satisfaction, apart from the new archbishop himself.
The following day, Anne visited York Place, and without being formally announced, entered the study of the new archbishop. The room was crowded, as ever, with books, and she spent a few moments simply staring, her face a mask of astonishment. Regaining her poise, she declared, “You were once my chaplain.”
“And I shall always be so,” he assured her, smiling as he beheld her expression. “I have yet more books in my bedchamber. When I move to Lambeth, I shall have plenty of space to arrange them.” Rising, he bowed, offering her his seat; the only one which was not decorated with a pile of books.
“Have you read all of them?” she enquired in wonderment, accepting his chair.
“Most,” he admitted. “There are some I have just skimmed through; others I have dipped into for information. But mostly, they have all been read.”
Anne continued to marvel at his impressive collection of literature for a moment, before remembering that she had come with a purpose. “I wish to ask your advice on something, my lord Archbishop. You see, I am confused about confession. It is so much part of the Church of Rome, but I am soon to marry the king, and I seek to take my vows with my sins forgiven,” she solemnly informed him.
“We should retire to the chapel,” he suggested quietly. “People often enter this room to speak with me; we may be interrupted.”
In silence, they walked to the chapel. Whilst he had long ago discounted the requirement of making confession to a priest, and also of receiving absolution from a priest, he was more than willing to listen to people who wished to unburden themselves of their troubles. Lady Anne glided ahead of him in total silence, her pregnancy totally invisible beneath her tightly corseted bodice. Was this lady troubled? Surely not. She was about to achieve her dearest wish: marrying the king.
Once they arrived at the small chapel, they made their way to the corner furthest away from the door.
For a moment, Anne sat in silence. Then, fixing Thomas with a direct, penetrating stare, she asked, “do you find it strange not to make confession to one of your fellow priests?”
“No, my lady,” he replied, his voice low. “As soon as I accepted that confession need only be between oneself and God, I was at peace. I instantly ceased confessing to a priest. Sometimes I feel a need to talk or seek counsel, but that is another matter entirely.”
“It must be a habit… I am about to commence a whole new life, and I want to begin it absolved in the eyes of God.” Her voice had risen slightly, and she quickly lowered it. “For some strange reason, even though I know it is not necessary, I need to hear from you that I am absolved by God.”
“If you are repentant, God has forgiven you.” He gave an encouraging smile. “You see, Jesus left heaven and came to Earth for you. He gave His life for you - such is His love. He is longing for you to speak with Him, to confess your errors, and He longs to forgive,” he assured her.
His smile was always gentle and kind; she had often noticed that. It encouraged her to be honest. “That is the problem, my lord Archbishop. I am not repentant. I have not committed adultery; you have made it clear Henry was never married to that Spanish woman. But clearly…” She patted her outwardly flat abdomen and left her hand lying there protectively. “Clearly I have lain with Henry and conceived his son.”
“You do not wish to repent of engaging in a sexual union outside of marriage?” he clarified.
She was silent, reflecting upon her situation for a moment, wondering how to explain what was happening to the new archbishop, though she did not doubt he was already aware of it. She was to marry the king; it was all arranged. Yet, in just over a week, there was to be a Court, held in Paris, where Pope Clement and the French king, Francis, would declare whether they believed Henry’s marriage to Catherine was invalid. Henry had falsely led them to believe that he would abide by their opinion.
If it were announced that Henry’s marriage to Catherine was legitimate, Pope Clement would certainly refuse a Papal Bull permitting his new marriage. Henry desired not only for the English theologians to proclaim him free to marry, but also the Church of Rome. Anne seethed inwardly. Life was so complicated. But she was now certain of one thing: Henry was determined that the son she carried would be born in wedlock, so that no one would be able to query his legitimacy.
Finally, she replied to the archbishop’s question. “No, I do not. I had to lie with Henry. I wanted him to marry me, but he kept worrying over the Emperor Charles invading; the Pope invading; the French invading… he worried over everything. As soon as we knew Warham was about to die, Henry decided you should be the next Archbishop of Canterbury, so I gave myself to him; praise God, I conceived quickly. Thus, here we are, in this chapel. I am troubled in spirit, because I want forgiveness, yet I am glad I acted the way I did. What am I to do?” She shot a challenging glance towards her companion. “And what shall happen to my soul if I die in childbirth, still unrepentant?”
“First of all, God does not judge as we judge,” he explained. “You worry because you are unrepentant for this sin, and it is a sin. But it could be that you have committed other, worse transgressions. You see…” He leaned forward confidentially. “During your prayers, you need to peacefully sit with God, searching your soul for the sins you have unwittingly committed. These are every bit as serious,” he explained earnestly. “God is a communicating God; He longs for you to talk to Him, and to tell Him everything.”
“How easy it was when I believed in just paying for an indulgence.” She gave a wry smile. “Just pay the priest, and you are cleared of all blame. But you helped me to realise the falseness of such a practice; I am indebted to you for that.”
“And I am grateful to you for your open mind, my lady. It pains me that this practice still happens within the Church,” he murmured. “I used to know a marvellous man named Thomas Bilney, whom I doubt you ever knew…” It was difficult to speak of Bilney without choking up; the pain of his passing remained a raw wound.
Anne shook her head and gazed at him expectantly.
“Bilney did much to convince me of The New Learning. He once told me of the moment he realised forgiveness comes from God alone. He said to me: ‘my vigils; my fasts; my pilgrimages; my purchases of masses and indulgences… they were destroying me instead of saving me’. I knew then that all God desired from us was repentance to Him. I suggest you take some time to be quiet and contemplative. Talk exclusively to God; tell Him all you have told me. Then, listen to what your heart is saying. I sense you are repentant, otherwise you would not feel such a need for absolution.”
“You have read my soul, my lord Archbishop,” she rose, indicating that their interview was over. “As you have always done. It is as though you can see straight through me.”
He hardly knew what to say. “That I cannot do, my lady, but I shall always be here to help you unburden yourself, both now and when you are queen.”
She extended a hand for him to kiss, then swept out of the chapel, walking as though she already wore a crown upon her head.
Just a few days later, at Hampton Court Chapel, in the grey light of dawn, Thomas performed a marriage ceremony between King Henry VIII of England and Lady Anne Boleyn, Marquess of Pembroke. There were few witnesses, just a couple of Anne’s ladies, and two of Henry’s gentlemen, one of whom, inevitably, was Thomas Cromwell, who seemed to be included in all things these days.
“He’s putting the plough before the horse,” Cromwell remarked to Cranmer, whilst they awaited the arrival of the bride and groom. He was alluding to the fact that the king’s divorce had not yet been publicly announced.
“Hmm… I don’t think so,” Thomas murmured. “Since His Majesty has never been lawfully married, there is no actual need to declare him divorced, is there?”
“But the king wishes for you to announce his divorce anyway,” Cromwell persisted.
“Yes,” Thomas shrugged
Cromwell chuckled. “His Majesty is a true example of a man who believes he can have his mutton and eat it.” Cromwell’s voice became hushed as the king and Anne entered the Chapel.
Exchanging fond glances, the couple proceeded to kneel upon two newly made, lavishly padded stools. Anne looked tense, pale and wan; she had been sick twice before leaving her chamber, and the smell of tallow from the nearby candles was not helping matters. Her leather stays were also laced far too tightly, for she wanted no evidence of her pregnancy to be visible as of yet. Henry considered it wise to hide her condition for the time being, and to delay the announcement of their marriage until after the Papal Bulls for the consecration of the new Archbishop of Canterbury had been signed. He also clung optimistically to the hope the Pope might, at the same time, also sign Bulls granting him permission to wed Anne.
The ceremony was brief, and as Henry heartily kissed his new wife, Anne felt a surge of triumph, which eliminated her earlier tension. She was queen. Queen of England. No one could say this marriage was anything but legal; Cranmer himself had assured her of his belief that Henry was a single man. After a six-year courtship, she was finally queen.
Offering his congratulations, Thomas decided against bringing up his opinion that the king really should have waited until after he had been consecrated as Archbishop of Canterbury, and had publicly declared Henry free to marry. Following this, a public announcement could have been made, stating that Henry would be marrying the Marquess of Pembroke. That would have been the most dignified way to go about it. What really irked him – and the new queen, for that matter – was that the king was still persistently hoping to obtain a Papal Bull from Rome. King Henry had explained that he wanted to ensure that no one could cast doubt upon his new marriage, or the legitimacy of his unborn son, but Thomas wished that the king would cast aside his fears and have confidence in the Protestant faith.
Watching the departing couple, Cromwell gave his friend a conspiratorial nudge. “The king wishes this to be a secret and wants no one to know she is pregnant. Some hope.” He gave a snort of laughter. “Yesterday, Anne was telling Tom Wyatt, the poet, that she has an uncontrollable desire to eat apples, and that the king had told her she must be pregnant. She then went on to laugh off Henry’s claims, telling Wyatt that it could not be. A man with Wyatt’s lack of discretion will not permit such a juicy item of gossip to slip through his fingers without passing it on.”
Discretion was also not in Anne’s nature, even Thomas could see that.
“You know how Luther once remarked that the king should be allowed two wives, for the sake of providing an heir,” Cromwell whispered.
“Yes, of course,” Thomas replied, wondering where this was leading.
“Well, once this is made public, we have to accept that certain Catholic adherents will perceive that His Majesty has committed bigamy,” Cromwell continued.
Thomas was silent, still wondering where this was going.
Cromwell’s brow was furrowed in thought. “I was just contemplating how we might best deal with them…”
*****
By April, he was installed in Lambeth Palace. The king had been kind enough to lend him some money to furnish the place, and also pay for other commodities, whilst he waited to receive revenue from his new position. It was immensely gratifying to be treated in such a familiar manner by the king; he felt a great deal of admiration and respect for His Majesty, so to be treated as a friend was a great honour. God willed that he should love and serve his king, but where King Henry was concerned, it was a joy to do so.
His days were busy, far more so than they had ever been previously, but sometimes he received a break from his work, in the form of an invitation from the king to go hunting with him. The king’s companions, usually including the Duke of Suffolk, who was the king’s robust and energetic brother-in-law, were initially startled by the horsemanship of the new archbishop. He suspected they had anticipated he would be a timid companion, clinging timorously to his horse’s mane - but had been confident in the saddle since childhood.
He felt that, at least as far as hunting was concerned, he had gained a small degree of respect, though that feeling was accompanied by a sobering thought. How much longer would the king continue to treat him in this way? Perhaps there would come a day when the king no longer looked to him for advice? After all, he assumed that the king had once approved of his predecessor, William Warham, yet by the time Warham died, the king had been seriously considering imprisoning the old man. Thomas knew the depth of his own loyalty to the king, but would the king be loyal to him? Probably not. He very much doubted his ability to continue to constantly please his master.
The consecration ceremony was to take place tomorrow, in the Chapter House of King’s College, situated near to the Palace of Westminster. Thomas had written a protestation that evening, which he was determined to deliver, having deliberated for some time over the formality of the actual wording. He intended to deliver it at the very beginning of the ceremony, to explain that the vows he was going to make would merely be a matter of form. He also wanted to stress that, in his opinion, the true Head of the English Church was King Henry VIII. By doing this, his conscience would be eased regarding the vows. Peace of conscience came before everything else. He was anxious – terrified, in fact – about the outcome of his protestation. To be viewed as a Protestant was dangerous; despite the measure of support coming from the king, The New Learning was still seen as heresy.
After a sleepless night, he was taken to the Chapter House, to be robed in readiness for the ceremony. All too soon, the two great symbols of his position would be bestowed upon him. The pallium – a Y shaped strip made from white lamb’s wool, newly sheared on the twenty first of January, the feast of St. Agnes, in accordance with tradition – would be placed around his neck, over his robes. Then, the crosier, or pastoral staff, would be placed in his right hand. This held more significance to him than anything else pertaining to his regalia, for it symbolised the role of the Lord Himself, according to the gospel of St. John, wherein He identified Himself as The Good Shepherd. As Archbishop of Canterbury, however reluctant he might be to assume the role, he must also assume the role of a shepherd, who must follow Christ’s example and lead his flock along a path to salvation.
As he walked into the Chapter House, he caught a glimpse of Stephen Gardiner, whose fury at not being selected was evident in his expression. According to Cromwell, when Thomas had first returned to England, Gardiner had looked as though he had just swallowed a wasp’s nest. Even now he was looking sour, his gaze fixed straight ahead, instead of being turned towards the procession of clergy ponderously making their way down the aisle.
Until this moment, he had felt relatively calm; only a mild flutter of anxiety had been lurking at the back of his mind. But now, he felt breathless, his heart pounding in his chest like that of a frightened rabbit. He could feel the beads of sweat forming on his palms, and he was struck by a sudden fear that the crosier, when he received it, would immediately slip from his grasp. What sort of message would that send out to the watching bishops and clergy? Collecting himself, he managed to deliver his protestation, much to the surprise of John Longland, the Bishop of Lincoln, who was officiating the ceremony. Such events usually followed the same traditional pattern, and it was most unusual for that pattern to be disrupted, especially by the soon-to-be archbishop. Thomas could hear an astonished murmuring from the observing clergy echoing around the room.
Next, he took his oath to the Pope, and holy oil was placed on his head and fingers. The pallium was then placed about his neck, and the crosier was handed to him; to his infinite relief, it remained firmly clasped in his damp hand. Another oath was then required, also to the Pope, and once again, prior to delivering it, he made another protestation. Following this, he made an additional oath to the king – the wording of which he had already discussed with His Majesty – declaring that his allegiance was, and always would be, to King Henry VIII.
Suddenly, his heartbeat slowed, and he felt calm again. Resuming the tone that he had used throughout his career as a teacher at Cambridge, he coolly addressed the assembled clergy. “I, Thomas Cranmer, renounce and utterly forsake all such clauses within the oath I am about to make which are, or may be, hurtful or prejudicial towards His Majesty, his heirs, estates, or royal dignity.” He glanced around the Chapter House, and found everyone’s gaze fixed upon him, each face a mask of astonishment. “I also henceforth renounce all financial ties with the Church of Rome, and acknowledge myself to take on the archbishopric immediately, and only, for His Majesty, King Henry. I promise to be a faithful and obedient servant to His Majesty, his heirs and successors, for as long as I shall live. So help me God.”
There, it was said. His clergy now knew where he stood. He would accept no income from the Pope, only from the diocese of Canterbury itself, a decision which no doubt his predecessors would have baulked at. He was set to become the poorest Archbishop of Canterbury England had seen in a long time, but having never sought wealth, this did not trouble him.
After making his final, if somewhat unnecessary, oath to the Pope, the consecration was over, and Thomas was finally free to return to the peace of his own personal library in Lambeth Palace, sit down with a book, and ignore the outside world for a while. After the stress and intensity of the morning’s events, it was well needed.
*****
His first task as Archbishop of Canterbury was to present a Bill of Restraint of Appeals to Parliament, which forbade anyone from making an appeal to the Pope in Rome. This included the Princess Catherine, who wished to contact the Pope to complain about her new title: the Dowager Princess of Wales. The king insisted that referring to his brother’s wife by any other name was treason, though she stubbornly continued to call herself ‘the queen’. The passing of the Bill was no mean feat, and it took all of King Henry’s charm and authority to push it though.
Unsurprisingly, the requested Papal Bulls, permitting the king’s new marriage, had not arrived. The French king and the Pope had firmly decided that Henry was not permitted to divorce his first wife, and was, therefore, not free to remarry. Following the archbishop’s consecration, the Pope had sent a nuncio to England, a man called de Borgo, whose thankless task was to present King Henry with a brief, instructing him to separate from Anne until his case for divorce was tried yet again. Somehow, King Henry managed to persuade de Borgo not to present him with the brief, though no one knew how. Cromwell informed Thomas that it was through bribery, which Thomas conceded was the most probable explanation. The king could be exceptionally charming in manner, and when handing out bribes to dignitaries and ambassadors, he could be very difficult to resist.
Almost immediately following his consecration, Thomas issued a document pronouncing the king to be a single man and free to remarry. This was followed five days later by an announcement that the king was now lawfully married to the Lady Anne Boleyn, Marquess of Pembroke; an announcement which was taken in sullen silence by the people of London. Anne had never attempted to cut a popular figure with the Londoners, whereas Catherine had been widely loved for her grace, dignity, and compassion for the weak and poor.
Following his declaration regarding Catherine’s title, the king also declared that his daughter, Mary, formerly known as Princess Mary, should be referred to as nothing other than Lady Mary. In retaliation, mother and daughter insisted that their household staff should address them only by their former titles, and Catherine ordered new liveries for her servants, embroidered with the intertwined letters H and C.
Furious, Anne, not to be outshone by her predecessor, walked to Mass attended by sixty ladies in waiting; Catherine had always made do with thirty. Her gowns, already sumptuous, were even more so now, and Henry uxoriously indulged her every whim, even designing a new crown for her coronation. All the carvings and tapestries, in every Royal Palace, that had not already been altered were immediately changed. Each building echoed with the cacophony of stone masons and carpenters, hammering and chiselling at the initials on the walls, whilst embroiderers strained their eyes in the gloom as they undertook alterations to the hangings.
This likewise applied to the Royal Barge, which now featured the letters H and A on all its curtains and banners, as well as on the woodwork. Inevitably, when the Londoners saw the barge passing, they jeered and laughed, even though tongues could be removed for such mockery. Indeed, Anne demanded this punishment, but no one came forward to condemn anyone for such disrespect.
“She is greatly disliked,” Cromwell remarked one evening, as he and Thomas were walking though the gardens of Lambeth Palace.
Thomas nodded contemplatively. Anne was no fool, so he found it strange that she had not attempted to endear herself to the common people. King Henry recognised that his subjects were the ones who kept him on the throne, and his genial, bluff manner endeared him to everyone. But Anne seemingly believed she was above them.
“I wish she would do more to make herself loved… or even just respected,” Cromwell added. “And not only amongst the common people. She offends courtiers left, right and centre. She flaunts her condition too, which offends the more matronly ladies. Even her sister in law, the Duchess of Suffolk, who is no prude, confesses to being disgusted by her behaviour.”
“The duchess told you that?” Thomas enquired, raising his eyebrows. Cromwell’s network of spies was growing by the day.
“No.” Cromwell gave a shrug. “That particular duchess does not deign to speak with me.”
Thomas sighed. He liked Queen Anne, and always had, but he knew others found her fiery temper intimidating. Strangely, he seemed to possess the ability to calm her outbursts, which he found rather odd, since he had certainly not been able to do the same with Joan’s fits of rage. “Now that she is securely married to His Majesty, she will no doubt be as gracious a lady as I have heard Queen Elizabeth, the king’s late mother, to be.”
Cromwell could not visualise Anne being as deeply loved as Elizabeth had been, nor could he imagine her being gracious, but he kept these opinions to himself.
“Is everything now arranged for the coronation?” Thomas enquired. His companion had been given the task of arranging everything, including the processions to and from Westminster Abbey, the banquet afterwards, and the entertainment. “I am relieved that I only have the task of saying a few prayers and placing the crown on her head,” he added.
“It is organised,” Cromwell replied complacently. “The queen is to be carried on a litter to and from the ceremony, given her delicate condition. She has a new musician in her retinue, a boy called Mark Smeaton; he has such nimble fingers and plays the lute remarkably well. I have requested for him to play some of the king’s own compositions while everyone is feasting. I have also arranged other entertainments, which I believe will ensure no one is bored.”
Silently, Thomas applauded his companion’s astute mind. To have a musician playing the king’s own compositions was a master stroke; King Henry would be delighted. The king adored his compositions being lauded. Cromwell knew exactly how to flatter the king without being obsequious.
“And for the common folk, there shall be free wine flowing in the conduits, plus a whole plethora of banners bearing the queen’s emblem, the White Falcon, as well as her chosen motto: The Most Happy,” Cromwell continued.
“Free wine,” Thomas mused aloud. “There is nothing like free wine to keep the people happy.”
“Indeed,” Cromwell agreed optimistically. “It might even make them cheer for the queen.”
*****
On the day of Anne’s coronation, the Londoners remained sullen, despite the free wine. As he travelled to Westminster Abbey, Thomas could not fail to sense the mood of the people. There was an air of disinterest, and though many people had lined the streets to watch the procession, there was little joyful cheering. As for the king himself, he was not attending. He wished his wife, the woman who would soon bear him a son, to enjoy her moment of glory alone. The one person who could have prompted the crowds to cheer, was absent.
Having never performed a coronation before, Thomas sincerely hoped that he at least appeared confident. Anne herself, according to the tradition of previous monarchs awaiting their coronation, had spent the night in the Tower of London. Today, however, as he watched her gracefully progressing down the aisle, he noticed she looked out of sorts. He hoped this was due to her condition, though more likely she was disappointed that the people had barely acknowledged her. When she had arrived at Westminster Abbey, and the great doors had ceremoniously been opened to receive her, there had been no roars of applause and shouting from without. He had personally felt chilled by that silence; there was something sinister about it. No wonder Anne felt disturbed, he thought sympathetically, as he carefully placed the newly made crown on her glossy black head.
At the banquet following the coronation, Anne appeared to revive herself, though Cromwell believed she still felt fragile; her laugh was just a little too loud, and too frequent. As for the king, he was ebullient, taking Cromwell and Cranmer aside to inform them that the Emperor Charles was now entirely uninterested in the affairs of England, not only because he was much taken with waging war against the Turks, but also because he was now fully intent on ridding his own realm of all Protestants. Henry’s marriage had occurred at just the right time, and he felt smugly secure in his position. Had he tried to plan it thus, it could not have been more perfect. It was clearly a sign of God’s blessing.
“Well, we are happy for Your Majesty’s contentment,” Cromwell congratulated the king warmly, despite having known about the emperor’s disinterest for many months now.
Thomas managed to nod agreement, but inside felt a tremor of concern. Some of those heretics the emperor was so intent on ‘purging’ from his realm were his close friends. Indeed, one of them was his wife’s closest relative. God keep them safe, he silently prayed.
“All we require now is for my son to be delivered safely,” beamed Henry.
Nodding yet again, Thomas wondered how the king could be so certain that the baby was going to be male? What if Queen Anne delivered a girl? He supposed the solution would be that she must become pregnant again, as soon as possible. After all, she was the Queen of England now; her duty was to provide heirs. Whatever the gender of the child she carried, her position was totally secure.