Chapter Seven
Chapter Seven
The following months flew past in a whirl of meetings and visits, with Thomas spending much of his time travelling through his new diocese. He also managed to visit Taunton – where he was still Archdeacon – and several other dioceses, which brought approval from some bishops but offended others, who accused him of interfering. For the most part, he ignored their criticisms, knowing that he could not possibly please everyone. King Henry, so far, was pleased with his work and approved of his diligence, which was all that mattered.
To his great relief, Margaret had finally joined him in England, and had settled herself discreetly in Lambeth Palace. Her presence was peaceful and soothing, whilst her English – true to her promise – was much improved. Her behaviour and demeanour, when anyone was present, was polite and respectful, but despite this, both of them knew that the general opinion was that she was more than a mere servant. He was also well aware that the worst gossips in any establishment were the servants themselves.
One of the most obvious signs of Margaret’s special status was her behaviour regarding his library. None of his servants ever disturbed him when he was writing in his library, at least, not without due cause. Margaret, on the other hand, would enter simply to rebuke him because he had missed a meal, or was overworking. He had discussed this dilemma with her after hearing the servants whispering about it, but she could not be persuaded to alter her behaviour. As his wife, his wellbeing was her primary concern, and she took this duty very seriously. In all honesty, he invariably enjoyed her interruptions, and did not push the matter further. It was comfortable to be fussed over by a well-meaning, doting wife, even if it did invite speculation.
He sighed. It was likely the punishment would be severe if his marriage was discovered. Certainly, he would be stripped of his office; imprisonment was a certainty, and death a possibility. At the moment, the king favoured him, so perhaps imprisonment might be his only punishment. But if he lost the king’s favour… he preferred not to consider what would happen then. Years ago, when ordained a priest, he had taken vows of celibacy, but had still married Margaret, in light of Martin Luther’s view that those men who could not handle celibacy should marry, and remain faithful to one wife, rather than risk their souls by indulging in lewd practices. The Bible was clear that marriage was a holy bond, and he hoped one day to persuade the king that, given the sacred nature of marriage, members of the priesthood should not be barred from taking wedding vows.
Cromwell, having met Margaret numerous times, approved of her. He also thought it hilarious that a rumour was going around the Court, suggesting that the Archbishop of Canterbury was not only married, but that he had smuggled his wife into Lambeth Palace in a packing case. This rumour was far from amusing to Thomas; indeed, it was a source of great unease. He knew the king was aware of the rumour, because His Majesty frequently made a reference to packing cases whenever his archbishop was present, much to his embarrassment and confusion. He always found his face flushing, and could never think of a suitably witty riposte to cap the king’s remarks.
August soon arrived, and Queen Anne was taken to Greenwich for her lying in. Notices had already been written to send abroad, announcing the arrival of a baby prince, and Henry was in high spirits, still supremely confident that the babe would be a son.
“Just feel how active he is,” he had often declared, laying a bejewelled hand over Anne’s swollen abdomen.
Thomas, aware that the babe was equally likely to be a girl, continued to find the king’s confidence unsettling, but remained silent on the subject. The Court was quiet for the next month, as they all waited in limbo for the birth of the infant prince. Then, on September the sixth, a messenger from the king arrived at Lambeth Palace. The king required the attendance of his Archbishop of Canterbury, for the queen had been delivered of a baby. A girl. Both mother and baby seemed likely to survive.
He was swiftly rowed to Greenwich, flanked by a joyful chorus of Te Deum’s, resounding from both sides of the riverbank, as the churches welcomed the new royal arrival into the world. The Londoners, always ready to celebrate a royal birth, were already on the river, with bearbaiting and cockfighting taking place on a series of floating wooden rafts. An oarsman informed Thomas that the streets were full of mummers and minstrels, as well as people dancing. They might not like the queen, and the baby was only a girl, but the common folk were more than eager to make merry regardless.
He found the king in a serious mood, clearly disappointed, but resigned. With him was Cromwell, naturally, whose constant attendance was making him the most disliked person at Court. The king seemed unsure of why he had summoned his archbishop.
“We require some spiritual counsel,” he eventually mused aloud, in a voice much lower than his usual, exuberant tone. He looked totally dispirited.
“Have you a name for the infant?” Thomas enquired, after offering warm congratulations.
“Elizabeth, after my lady mother,” the king replied tonelessly.
“Your Majesty, I do believe Princess Elizabeth is a gift from God. He knows what He is doing in our lives, even if we sometimes feel ourselves to be in turmoil.”
“Now we know why we sent for you,” Henry managed a weak smile. “You remind us that we are subject to God as much as the humblest ploughman.”
“Amen,” Cromwell piously agreed. “As are all men.”
“What about the baptism?” Thomas enquired. A massive state affair had been organised, and he assumed it would go ahead. After all, why not celebrate?
“Oh, just a small private thing, we think, archbishop,” the king declared airily. “Just a few guests. No need to make a celebration for a girl. We desire for you to be one of her godparents,” he added, as an afterthought.
And so, a few days later, as per the king’s command, Thomas performed the baptism of the little Princess Elizabeth in a small, understated ceremony.
*****
Not long after the baptism of the little princess, a strange incident occurred, involving a woman named Elizabeth Barton, nicknamed the Holy Maid of Kent. For the past two years, she had been making outrageous predictions, claiming that she could hear the voice of God Himself. She had powerful supporters, including Sir Thomas More and Bishop Fisher, all of whom considered her saintly. She was allegedly a Benedictine Nun, but from what Thomas had heard of her predictions, he was dubious. As far as he could deduce, she was a fraud; a peasant woman, prone to fits and hallucinations.
Unfortunately, she had suddenly come into considerable prominence, after loudly claiming that the saints had instructed her to tell the king that if he did not cast Anne Boleyn aside and return to Queen Catherine, both he and Anne would meet an untimely death. Of course, predicting the death of a king was treason, so Henry decided it was time to address the problem. Once she had been arrested, and the books and pamphlets containing her prophecies had been burned, the king handed the case over to his Archbishop of Canterbury and, naturally, Thomas Cromwell.
Having openly admitted to Margaret that he was fascinated by this case, Thomas had Elizabeth Barton brought to Lambeth Palace, where he could examine her in the presence of Cromwell.
“I shall lurk in the background, for want of a better description,” Cromwell declared, as they waited in the library for the heretic’s arrival. “I think you are best qualified to question the woman, for you are far more open-minded. I am already certain she is a fake, and I have yet to set eyes on her. Indeed, from what I have heard, she is being manipulated by a certain Edward Bocking, a member of the clergy who is also imprisoned.”
“I would not describe myself as entirely open-minded. I have my suspicions,” Thomas confessed. “And I have also heard of this connection with Master Bocking, whom I fear will turn out to be a rather unsavoury character. But I shall not permit my suspicions to prejudice me.”
“I don’t doubt it.” Cromwell was pacing around the library, restless and eager to prove Mistress Barton a fake. “I believe your natural delicacy might prevent you from asking some, shall we say, personal questions. If necessary, I shall interrupt,” he added bluntly, as a noise outside heralded the arrival of the prisoner.
Also present with the archbishop and Cromwell was a man called Ralph Morice, the newly appointed secretary to the Archbishop of Canterbury. An earnest, studious man, who was as sombrely attired as his two companions, Morice sat with a pen, ink and parchment, ready to record everything that was said during the interview.
There was a sharp knocking on the door, and two rough-looking gaolers entered, standing on either side of a thin, haggard-looking woman, who appeared to be no older than twenty-five. She was clad in a shabby, grubby, nun’s habit, and an unsavoury smell emanated from her person.
“You may leave. Wait outside, please.” Thomas addressed the gaolers, who were holding the woman more roughly that he thought necessary. Turning to Elizabeth, he indicted to a chair. “Please, be seated. No one here shall hurt you. You are merely required to answer my questions with total honestly.”
Silently, the young woman seated herself.
He could not help but notice that there was an air of assurance about her; she had clearly become well-used to public attention. “Tell me about your early life,” he invited gently.
“Little to tell.” The woman spoke with a strong regional accent, and it took very little coaxing for her to reveal that she had been born of lowly stock and had gone to work as a servant at Aldington, in Kent. Then, aged sixteen, she had suddenly started becoming uncontrollably hysterical, and going into strange trances.
“You had been in good health up until that point?” Thomas asked.
“Aye, sir,” she replied. “People asked the Blessed Virgin to intercede for me, and the fits stopped. But since then, I have continued to have visions, but because they is holy visions, I was allowed to enter a nunnery.”
She seemed perfectly at ease, he noted, , leaning back in her chair, her hands folded quietly in her lap. Just like Margaret looked when they sat peacefully together. “Tell me about Master Edward Bocking,” he requested, trying to cast aside his preconceived suspicion that Bocking was, very likely, a scoundrel of a man; he was surely manipulating this woman and using her to obtain money. People were paying him to meet with her and listen to her while she pretended to communicate with the saints.
“I met him at the nunnery,” Barton replied. “He is a member of Christ’s Church, Canterbury.” She announced this with huge pride, her face lighting up, making her look much younger. “He’s heard of ye, sir.”
“And I have heard of Master Bocking.” Thomas paused. “Tell me about your messages.”
“I hears from the Holy Virgin, and she does tell me how wrong the king is to marry Mistress Boleyn. I sent messages to the late cardinal, and to the Pope.” Her voice rang with pride.
“I take it you do not write your own letters,” he clarified.
“No sir, I cannot read or write. Master Bocking, he does most of em.”
“I also understand you have been in contact with the Bishop of Rochester and Sir Thomas More,” he encouraged gently. She was beginning to become distracted, looking around the room in awe, which was hardly surprising. She had probably never seen so many books in all her life.
“Oh yes, sir. But they is not in touch now. They stopped replying to my letters,” she assured him.
This did not surprise him. More was no longer in the king’s good grace, having opposed his marriage to Anne, and the Bishop of Rochester was threatened with praemunire, for being in contact with Barton. Since her imprisonment, her influential friends had evaporated. “Describe your visions to me,” he invited, listening to the sound of Morice’s pen energetically scratching away in the background as he recorded the interview.
The gentleness of the interrogation now seemed to confuse the woman, jolting her out of her previous calm demeanour. She had expected harshness, perhaps even physical violence; she knew how to deal with those. She found the archbishop’s kind and soothing voice unsettling, and soon began contradicting herself. Her description of her visions lacked any conviction, and it soon became apparent to her listeners that, as they had suspected, she was merely a simpleton, who’d had the misfortune to fall into the path of Edward Bocking.
As they were nearing the end of the interview, Cromwell finally stepped forward, and proceeded to ask the same questions as his friend, only couched differently. Her answers became even more confused, and she ended up admitting that her visions were not really visions at all. She also stated that she was obedient to Bocking’s instructions, but refused to admit that it was Bocking who had encouraged her to create these false visions. Eventually her gaolers were summoned, and she was returned to her prison cell.
A few days later, Elizabeth Barton was formally tried. Not only was she accused of heresy, as anticipated, but she was also accused of lechery, theft and various other crimes.
“I doubt she is guilty of anything other than deception,” Thomas remarked to Cromwell, as they sat listening to the trial. “If it were up to me, I would have her merely confess her mistakes in public. Bocking is the one who should be imprisoned.”
Cromwell, predictably, was less lenient. “I know she is a woman, but she must be made an example of. As for Bocking, I agree that his punishment should be more severe than hers. I say hang him.”
“His crime is surely not…” Thomas faltered. Cromwell was right, Bocking’s crime was classed as treason, and therefore worthy of the death penalty. “I just wish Mistress Barton could be dealt with lightly. She is a simpleton, a tool in the hands of a manipulative person. She did not intend to commit treason.”
“Ah, but by allowing herself to be instructed by a greedy man, she has herself committed errors. She is accountable and must be tried and punished according to the law.” Cromwell’s time as a lawyer had made him merciless. “If you had your way, my friend, no one would ever be hung, or otherwise executed. It is necessary to make an example of felons, else everyone would be out there committing crimes.”
The following day, at St. Paul’s Cross, both Barton and Edward Bocking publicly confessed to their crimes. They were both found guilty of treason, as were several others who had been complicit with them, and all were sentenced to death by hanging. Although he had not been in touch with Elizabeth Barton for some time, the Bishop of Rochester was also sentence: but to perpetual imprisonment rather than death. However, after agreeing to pay a three hundred pound fine, he was promptly released; his wealth permitted him to avoid punishment. Sir Thomas More was found to be innocent of conspiring with Mistress Barton and was acquitted forthwith.
Whilst walking back to the river, Thomas happened to come across one of his clergymen, John Capon, who was in the midst of spontaneously preaching sermons to groups of passers-by, telling them that the words of Elizabeth Barton were not to be trusted, and guiding them towards the ways of The New Learning. Thomas was informed that Capon had been doing this on a regular basis, and that the unrest appeared to be abating as a result, so effective was Capon’s message. Thomas duly reported this to the king, who was greatly impressed, and promptly suggested to Thomas that Capon should be made Bishop of Bangor in recognition of his support. Capon, bemused by his sudden elevation, duly promised to enthusiastically continue with his sermons.
“Uphold the break with the Church of Rome, and the king will be even more pleased, as will I,” Thomas solemnly advised.
*****
Since Elizabeth Barton’s demise, Cromwell – always eager to turn a situation to his advantage – had let it be known,, throughout the Court, that he had been busy creating a list of persons whom he suspected to be secret supporters of Barton and her rhetoric.
“You are a true follower of Machiavelli,” Thomas commented, as they both headed towards a meeting of the Privy Council at Hampton Court.
Cromwell smirked. He was now Master Secretary, a position which had formerly belonged to Bishop Gardiner, but to Gardiner’s chagrin, the king had seen fit to remove him and give the position to Cromwell instead. “Come, Cranmer, you must recognise the genius of this plan? Not everyone supports the break with Rome and the reforming of the Church, but if they think their name is on my list, they are likely to prove less… well… opposing.”
“Where do you keep this list hidden?” Thomas was curious. “What if it were to fall into someone else’s hands.”
“It won’t.” Cromwell was smug.
“You keep it under lock and key, I assume?”
“I keep it in my head. It changes by the day, you see. Actually, it changes by the hour, depending upon who irritates me, and when.”
Thomas shook his head as they were joined by other members of the council. It was easy to be overawed by the powerful, august members of the Privy Council, people such as the Duke of Norfolk, the Duke of Suffolk and Sir Thomas More. He tried not to be, but it was very much a work in progress; sometimes he wondered whether he would ever feel comfortable amongst them.
Cromwell, by contrast, was perfectly at ease, as he was when it came to dealing with most things in his life, including the king.
“Your Majesty,” Cromwell stated matter-of-factly. “Our alliance with France is uneasy…”
“Fox-nosed Francis practically licks the feet of the Pope,” Henry grumbled, alluding to his French rival’s long, thin nose.
“Because they are a Catholic nation…”
The king interrupted again. “We are also a Catholic nation, Master Secretary. I am Head of the Church, not the Bishop of Rome. Nothing else has changed, as of yet.” The king’s speech was clipped, and his tone held a warning.
King Henry was alluding to the fact he had recently been declared excommunicate by the Pope. Thomas had also been excommunicated, though this did not trouble him in the slightest, since he did not consider the Pope to have any power anyway. Unfortunately, although those bishops who were inclined towards the Protestant faith were equally unfazed, most of the clergy he commanded were Catholic, and regarded his excommunication as a serious issue
Unlike his own situation, Thomas viewed the king’s excommunication with a certain degree of apprehension. After all, Henry was not a committed Protestant at present, and it was possible that this might convince him to return to Catholicism. Fortunately, thus far, Henry had only demonstrated feelings of outrage at the Pope’s decision, announcing angrily that it mattered not. In his view, the Pope was merely the Bishop of Rome, whereas he, King Henry VIII, was Head of the Church in England; how dare the Pope imagine he held any authority over the monarch or the Church in England.
The king’s anger had relieved Thomas, for it signified that the Church in England was now severed from Rome. Even though services were still at present conducted according to the Catholic format, God willing, in the near future, Protestantism would take over. Still, listening to the king and Cromwell, Thomas could not help but sigh internally. The king was slowly coming around to Protestantism as a concept, but there were many aspects of the Catholic Church that he still clung to. Whilst the king had recently removed four of the seven sacraments, by passing an Act of Ten Articles of Faith, he still insisted on upholding his belief in transubstantiation, which Thomas and his fellow Protestants so longed to dispose of.
Thomas had recently been involved in writing a pamphlet on the king’s behalf, entitled Institution of a Christian Man, designed to explain the Ten Articles of Faith to the common man. The king also hoped that the pamphlet would promote ‘unity and concord in opinion,’ and ‘stop so much bickering amongst the clergy’. In truth, Thomas saw very little point in releasing the pamphlet. Theologically, not a lot had changed: the Mass was the same and was still spoken or sung in Latin; the Bible was still written in Latin; the status of the Virgin Mary remained unchanged. People were also still expected to confess to a priest, in addition to confessing to God, for though the king accepted that God alone had the power to absolve one’s sins, he felt it best that things should remain as they were, just to be safe. Yes… there was still much that needed to change.
Cromwell, despite the king’s tone, continued to argue his case in his usual calm and urbane manner. “Your Majesty, I desire to merely suggest forming an additional alliance. The Emperor Charles’ empire consists of an alliance between Spain and Burgundy, and certain German states. France and England are allied, but France appears to have been drifting towards Charles in more recent times, ever since we separated from Rome—”
“Just spit it out, man!” Henry demanded testily.
“As you wish, Your Majesty. I propose that England becomes allied with the Protestant German princes: the Schmalkaldic League,” Cromwell announced, bracing himself for the king’s wrath.
Henry, however, looked intrigued. “Hmm… English trade with the Low Countries has been declining since Charles took control…”
“If we were to join with the Schmalkaldic League, we might be able to trade with the Baltic.” Cromwell’s tone was seductive.
“What do you think, my lord Archbishop?” Henry suddenly demanded.
Taken aback by the suddenness of the question, Thomas wished he could be truthful. Joining forces with the Protestant German princes seemed excellent to him; it might hasten a true Reformation in England. But, of course, an opinion could not be said aloud. “Your Majesty, I see nothing amiss in dealing with the princes, if it increases trade. Our sheep farmers have been unable to export fleeces to the Low Countries for some time now, so why not send their fleeces to the Baltic States?”
“Well said,” Henry concurred. “You make a good suggestion, Master Secretary.”
“There is more, Your Majesty,” Cromwell continued, ignoring the dark looks he was receiving from other members of the council. “I believe it would be sensible for everyone, whether they be nobility, the clergy, or a common man, to take an oath of… allegiance… of support; an oath that acknowledges the validity of Your Majesty’s marriage, and also the path of succession. Until the queen provides Your Majesty with a male heir, I believe your successor should be the Princess Elizabeth.”
Thomas blinked. Trust Cromwell to think of such a thing. He had become more politically astute over the past few years, but he was nowhere near Cromwell’s level. Though he sincerely hoped that the queen would give birth to a son, God willing, it was wise of Cromwell to anticipate what might happen if the king should die before he produced an heir. After all, life was uncertain, and many people still believed that Princess Mary was the rightful heir. If, God forbid, the king died before this was resolved, there would almost certainly be a civil war.
Sir Thomas Boleyn was looking well-pleased with the suggestion, but other members of the council exchanged uneasy glances. Meanwhile, the king was wondering at Cromwell’s apparent mind-reading abilities. The issue of succession was one he himself had been mulling over since the birth of his daughter. If he should die, the country would undoubtedly descend into chaos, and he had no guarantee that Elizabeth would be crowned queen. Also, unlike his archbishop, he fully understood Cromwell’s thinking regarding his subjects swearing an oath in support of his marriage. With such a rule in place, he could easily determine which members of the nobility and council supported him, and which members did not.
“Proceed with both your suggestions, Master Secretary,” the king commanded. “And ensure that the Lady Mary also signs an oath, dictating that she will accept her legitimate sister’s place as immediate heir to the throne.” His tone was ominous. “We shall have no denial from her, or her mother.”
As they departed from the Privy Chamber, Cromwell nudged Thomas with his elbow. “I understand that you will soon be departing to Canterbury for a while, to settle into your official residence.”
“I find myself very pleased with the Manor of Ford,” Thomas admitted. “It is a lovely place, and one I could become seriously attached to. It is not too large or too grand and is homely and comfortable. But alas, my visit will mostly be spent seeing to the needs of the diocese. I must attend to the education of my clergy, especially those attached to Canterbury Cathedral itself. His Majesty has also asked me to write a treatise on irregularities in marriages, along with a treatise against Cardinal Reginald Pole.”
Cardinal Pole had recently been banished from the realm; ardently Catholic, he had been loudly supportive of Queen Catherine, and had written a book, De Unione Ecclesiastica, in support of her marriage to King Henry. Naturally, King Henry desired for this matter to be dealt with as quickly as possible.
Cromwell nodded sympathetically. “Rather you than me. It sounds as though you have some complex tasks ahead of you.”
Thomas smiled calmly. “Oh, it is only a matter of drawing attention to the corruption of the Catholic Church and its institutions. Believe me, it is much simpler that some other works I have written…” He was about to continue when his companion stopped walking, peered out through a window, and laid a hand upon his arm.
“Apologies, my friend, but I must interrupt.” Cromwell was looking out onto the gardens of Hampton Court. “Do you see that young lady?” He indicated towards a small, slight young woman, walking alongside a young man.
“I do indeed. Is she not Lady Jane Seymour? Catholic, I believe.” The Seymour family were all said to be Catholic, though one of them, Sir Edward, the young man whom Lady Jane was currently walking with, had apparently shown an interest in The New Learning.
“Yes, she is devoutly Catholic.” Cromwell lowered his voice to a whisper. “But mark her well, my friend. The Seymour’s are ambitious, and she has attracted the king’s eye.”
Thomas stared at the young woman. “Surely not?” he exclaimed. Lady Jane did not have the poise or sophistication of the queen, nor was she reputed to possess any great degree of wit. Certainly, he had never beheld anyone laughing at her jests, whereas the queen was constantly surrounded by laughing admirers, all enjoying her lively repartee. He had seen Lady Jane at close quarters, and though she was not plain, she was not remarkably attractive either. “His Majesty is married; she could never be anything more than his mistress, though for the queen’s sake, I hope His Majesty will not be unfaithful.”
“From what I have heard, the king tires of Queen Anne,” Cromwell hissed, keeping his voice low. “A few days ago, one of her ladies informed me that the queen publicly berated the king for flirting too enthusiastically with Lady Jane. The king replied, ‘you must close your eyes and endure, as those who are better than you have done’.”
Taken aback, Thomas stared at Cromwell in silence, trying to gather his scattered thoughts. Eventually, he whispered, “Poor Queen Anne. I pray His Majesty will behave kindly to her. He has torn the structure of the Church apart to marry her. His feelings are still strong, I am confident of that. This flirtation will surely pass. Besides, if he were to take a mistress, it would endanger his immortal soul. It is barely a year since he vowed to remain faithful to his wife.”
The worldlier Cromwell was less sanguine. Anne was brittle, her temper uncertain. Now that she was queen, and in what she felt was a stable position, she was less than respectful towards her husband, and apt not to disguise her feelings. If she was angry or upset, she showed it; and she never held back from being derogatory towards Henry, no matter who was present. Cromwell was not surprised that the king had grown tired of her. “We shall see what transpires,” he shrugged. “As you say, Anne is queen. Nothing can alter that. And having just divorced one wife, he cannot possibly divorce another.”
“He has no grounds for a divorce from Queen Anne,” Thomas stressed. “You can be assured of that.”
*****
Upon arriving in Canterbury, he immediately set about completing the tasks he had set himself. He had known that the standard of education amongst his clergy was poor, but it was not until he began to examine each individual that he realised just how little they knew. To have, in his own diocese, such a vast number of uneducated clergymen was nothing less than an outrage. How were they supposed to teach the wisdom of the Bible to the common man when most of them could not read and write themselves? The scriptures were written in Latin; if they could not even read English, how were they supposed to interpret Latin? Some were able to quote passages of scripture in Latin, having learned orally by repetition, but they had no idea of what they were saying. If a lay person approached them in need of spiritual counsel, their advice came entirely from their own minds, not from the scriptures.
His only comfort came in the form of his brother, Edmund, who was also a member of the clergy. Like Thomas, he had been educated at Cambridge, and whilst he was not as academically inclined as his brother, he had sufficient theological and linguistical knowledge to teach the individuals whose knowledge was lacking. Since Edmund was also based in Canterbury, Thomas enlisted his help in executing his educational programme.
He had decided that the best solution to this travesty, was to personally deliver theological lectures to the clergy in his diocese, and to send for theologians from Cambridge to act as mentors, to help the clergy further their learning. Unfortunately, this did not go down well with the clergy of Canterbury, who simply wanted to proceed in the comfortable way they had always lived. Though he was used to such resistance – his former students at Cambridge had been much the same – he still felt somewhat disheartened. But instead of dwelling on the negative, he tried to focus on those who did thank him; those who were grateful to him for enabling them to discover and understand God’s word by teaching them to read and speak Latin.
“If only we could get an English Bible,” he sighed to Margaret one evening. “It would make my task so much easier. I would only have to teach them to read in English, instead of Latin also. Everyone ought to be able to read the Bible in their mother tongue.”
“I can’t believe some can neither read nor write.” Margaret was busy mending the cuff of a shirt and had paused to look for her scissors. Unable to locate them, she bit off a length of thread with a fair amount of venom. “It makes me so angry,” she announced. “I don’t like it when they criticise you.”
“Don’t worry, my love, I’m used to it.” Margaret’s support warmed his heart; even her reprimands about him working too hard were undertaken out of concern for his welfare. Fortunately for his wife, Thomas was making excellent progress with his written tasks, having already begun his treatise for the king on the subject of marriage, and his reply to Reginald Pole’s book. “Besides, I enjoy teaching. It is rewarding to see people acquiring new skills and new knowledge.” He paused for a moment, a thoughtful expression on his face. “You know… Cromwell tells me he is intent upon closing all the monasteries in the very near future.”
“Is that why he has sent all of those commissioners to the monasteries, to establish their wealth?” Margaret asked.
“Yes,” he replied. Very little happened in his life that his wife did not know about. “But there is so much wealth, you can hardly imagine it. I’ve been thinking… what if I were to ask His Majesty to use part of that wealth to promote education? To build more schools and universities, not only for the clergy, but for the common man also. All men should be taught to read and write, and all women for that matter.”
“Now that, I agree with.” Margaret beamed. “I love to read; it would be wonderful to be able to share my joy with the other women I know.”
Later that evening, a messenger arrived at the Manor, bearing a missive from Cromwell. Now that the Pope had been demoted to Bishop of Rome, it was down to the Archbishop of Canterbury to deal with dispensations for marriage, hence why Cromwell had contacted Thomas. He desired a dispensation for two of his friends to marry and hoped that Thomas would grant it to him.
“Oh no,” he groaned, having read the letter.
“Was ist los?” Margaret demanded anxiously, unconsciously reverting to her native German. Her husband appeared troubled.
“I’ll reply to this tomorrow, it’s not urgent. Cromwell wants me to agree to the proposed marriage of one of his friends, whose wife died some months ago. But this man now wishes to marry his wife’s niece. Her niece, Margaret! I cannot allow such a marriage; it is not lawful.” His voice was sharp. “Cromwell is my friend, but he cannot ask such requests of me. I cannot grant him favours when his demands are not only unlawful, but also immoral. I must be honest with him.”
“I agree, but how will you convince Cromwell?”
“I shall have to be tactful. He may be angry, but I trust that he will respect my judgement. Come, let us to bed, it grows late. I will deal with Cromwell in the morning.”
After a restless night, Thomas finally plucked up the courage to respond to his friend’s request. ‘Master Secretary, I commend myself to your lordship’, he began formally. ‘You know I would gladly agree to your request, if it were possible for me to do so, and if the word of God permitted it. However, this is not the case’. That sounded well enough, he decided approvingly. ‘It is not expressed in Leviticus that an uncle might not marry his niece, but it is stated that a nephew cannot marry his aunt. So, by the same process, we can understand that a niece cannot marry her uncle. They are within the same degree of consanguinity.
‘Also, touching on the recent Act of Parliament concerning the decrees of union prohibited by God’s law, they are not set out as clearly as I would like them to be. I did speak my mind at the time of the law being made, and consider it worthwhile that forbidden degrees of matrimony should be put forward more clearly, otherwise there is ample room for misinterpretation. I have no news from Canterbury at present, but I long to hear about what is concurrent with you; if you have any good news, I pray that you will send me some. I heartily bid you farewell, your lordship’s own, Thomas Cranmer’.
The letter completed, he quickly placed his seal upon it and summoned a messenger to despatch it to London. A week later, a letter from Cromwell – who thankfully appeared to be totally unruffled by his friend’s refusal to permit the marriage – informed him that Sir Thomas More had resigned the Great Seal, and that he, Cromwell, had been appointed Chancellor in his place. He also informed Thomas that the king demanded his presence at Court – immediately.
“But why so quickly?” Margaret protested.
He explained that it was mostly to do with the two recent Acts that had been introduced following the last meeting of the Privy Council. Cromwell had initiated both of them. The Act of Supremacy declared that King Henry VIII and his successors were to replace the Pope, and become Supreme Head of the Church; the Act of Succession decreed that the throne would be inherited by Princess Elizabeth, should King Henry die without producing a male heir. All members of the Privy Council were required to sign these documents, to show their support.
“According to Cromwell, Sir Thomas More was happy to sign the Act of Succession, claiming that the king can leave his throne to whomsoever he wishes, but he refused to sign the Act of Supremacy. He has since resigned as Chancellor of the realm and has retired to his home in Chelsea. Cromwell, naturally, has been appointed to that that position in his place.”
Margaret was tearful. “But we are happy here,” she murmured.
He could not help but agree with her. They were happy. But there was more to this situation than the passing of the two Acts. Bishop Fisher had become increasingly troublesome, having both verbally expounded his views on the Acts and refused to sign either of them. Furthermore, he had even written to the Emperor Charles, suggesting to him that he should invade England. Fisher had since been committed to the Tower of London and had been informed that he would stay there until the archbishop arrived; apparently, the king hoped that Thomas would be able to convince Fisher to reconsider.
“We must go,” he informed Margaret gently. “But we shall return here as soon as is possible.” Taking her hand, he kissed it gently. “You must pack your belongings, my dear.”
“No.” She shook her head, tears still pouring down her cheeks. “You must go, my Thomas, but I… I cannot. You have had so much on your mind… I did not wish to add to your worries. But I am pregnant, my Thomas. The baby is still small, but soon… soon I will not be able to hide it. I cannot return to London with you, people will talk..…”
He stared at her in astonishment. Pregnant? He had assumed that her recent weight gain had simply been due to her thriving in their new home; that life in the country was suiting her well. But now it seemed there was another explanation. He battled with the emotions swirling inside him. He wanted to be overjoyed, to wrap her in his arms and celebrate the new life they had created, but his fears tormented him. All he knew of childbirth was what Joan had been through, and he was terrified of what might happen to Margaret. Would she survive? Would the child? And even if her pregnancy went smoothly, what would happen if it were discovered that the child was his? Would he lose his position, or worse? He could not leave Margaret to care for the child alone while he languished in prison.
Taking a deep breath, he tried to quiet his mind, and focus on the present. Margaret had spoken wisely; she could not live at Lambeth Palace once she looked visibly pregnant. He forced himself to speak calmly. “Do not worry, my love. When the baby is due, I shall return here, and when you are ready, we shall all return to Lambeth Palace. I am sure we can come up with an explanation for the baby’s presence.”
Her lips quivered as she attempted to smile. “Perhaps we can say he or she is a findling… ach, I do not know the English word.”
“A foundling.” His lips were also quivering as he too attempted a smile. “It’s almost the same.”
“At least I am under no pressure to produce a son.” She held his hand tightly.
“Whatever God gives us we shall praise Him for His blessing.” He wrapped his arms around her and held her close. “May He keep you safe.”
“We are in His hands,” she whispered.
*****
Upon arriving at Lambeth Palace, he was greeted with the news that Sir Thomas More had been arrested and was being held in the Tower alongside Bishop Fisher. As for Cromwell, he had been busy, but that was to be expected. He was never anything other than busy. During the archbishop’s absence, Cromwell had prepared a Treason Act, which decreed that treason could be committed by words alone. It also stated that any plot which had the potential to harm the king, queen, or any of their offspring, was constituted as treason, and that anyone who aided and abetted any such plot was equally culpable. Cromwell knew that this Act would destroy Fisher and More, along with many others, and since Sanctuary had now been abolished, none of them could escape by rushing into a place of worship. The Church could no longer protect criminals from prosecution, a change which Thomas wholeheartedly approved of, for he had long since believed that the claiming of Sanctuary was too easily misused.
Whilst devising the Treason Act, Cromwell had also been solving the king’s financial difficulties. When Henry had inherited his throne, he had also inherited a huge fortune, because the royal coffers were full to overflowing, thanks to his frugal father. However, unlike his father, Henry was hugely extravagant, and had quickly spent all his inheritance. Cromwell knew of this, and whilst organising the closure of all the monasteries, it had occurred to him that the First Fruits and Tenths – the money given to the Church by any newly appointed member of the clergy – should not be sent to Rome, as tradition had always dictated. Instead, Cromwell decided it should be sent to the king. After all, the monarch was now Head of the Church, so why should the Pope receive the money? Henry, naturally, was delighted by this suggestion, and Thomas was, as ever, amazed by his friend’s creative and devious mind.
One of the first things he noticed when he returned to London, was the change in the atmosphere at Court. Whereas previously the king had spent much of his time in Queen Anne’s chambers, His Majesty now avoided the queen, unless Lady Jane Seymour happened to be in attendance upon her. Cromwell had already informed him that Queen Anne kept Lady Jane inordinately busy, because if she had an idle moment, she always ended up talking with King Henry.
“The king seeks her out,” Cromwell murmured, referring to Lady Jane, as he and Thomas walked through the palace gardens – always the best place to discuss anything private.
“Yes, it does appear that way.” Thomas wondered what else there was to say about this matter. Jane could be nothing more than the king’s mistress. However, she was Catholic, and as a mistress, she could be a powerful influence. She might persuade the king against becoming more active in promoting The New Learning, which would be problematic. “I note someone else who is new to Court.” Thomas nodded subtly towards a man who was approaching them. “Richard Rich. I know him from Cambridge,” he whispered.
“Outwardly Protestant. Outwardly anything that will bring him into prominence.” Cromwell’s tone was scathing. “Until a few weeks ago, he was attached to Sir Thomas More’s household. Now it appears that he hardly knows who Sir Thomas More is. Useful man though; totally without sentiment. Will do anything for power or money… as will most people at Court, apart from your good self.” He gave his companion a friendly nudge with his elbow.
Thomas said nothing. At Cambridge, he and Rich had not had much association with one another.
Rich was well within speaking distance now. Like the archbishop and Cromwell, he was clean shaven, but any similarity ended there. For a man who was not yet eminent at Court, he was frivolously clad, his clothing brightly coloured and clearly as costly as he could afford.
“My lord Archbishop.” Rich gave a bow. “I trust you are in good health.” He was warmly obsequious.
There was something about this man that made Thomas cringe, and after providing a polite reply, he awaited the reason for Rich’s arrival.
“The queen desires to speak with you,” Rich revealed. “Shall I accompany you?” he added eagerly.
“No, thank you,” Thomas replied quickly. “I am well acquainted with the location of the queen’s apartments.”
After bidding farewell to Cromwell, he obediently hastened to the queen’s rooms, wondering what the purpose of this summons might be. He found Anne seated with her retinue of ladies-in-waiting, with, as always, a group of young men. Under normal circumstances, they would all have been vying for her attention, eager to entertain her; but today her attendants seemed less exuberant than usual. Bowing, he kissed her hand as she extended it out to him. She was stylish as ever, but there was a weariness about her, as though she had won a great prize and found it to be a cup of poison.
“Leave me,” Anne demanded, clapping her hands. “You may retire to the other end of the room. I wish to speak with my lord Archbishop.” Waving a hand in dismissal, she offered a fleeting glimpse of the small protuberance on her right hand, a deformity she usually kept carefully hidden beneath her long, flowing sleeves. It had been there since birth, it looked nothing more than a small callous upon her smallest finger, but its presence offended her nearly as much as the strawberry mark on her neck.
“Are you in need of spiritual counsel?” Thomas enquired gently, once she had invited him to be seated. She looked brittle again, much as she had done prior to her marriage. But that could also be because she was pregnant again. “I am glad to help in—”
“No, not spiritual counsel,” she interrupted. “Though I wish you were my chaplain again.” The words all came in a rush.
“You know I am always available, my queen,” he assured her.
“You see that woman, Lady Jane Seymour?” She nodded pointedly towards her ladies, who were all seated together, and being unusually attentive towards the woman in question. “She wants my place. She wants to be queen.”
“She cannot,” Thomas assured her. The queen was obviously feeling unnecessarily anxious, a symptom, he had been told, that was common during pregnancy. He wondered whether Margaret was similarly afflicted, though he could not imagine her being so paranoid. “You are lawfully queen, Your Majesty.”
“The king does not care for me anymore,” Anne whispered desperately, her eyes brimming with tears. “He ignores me for days on end, and rarely shows affection. He always makes a great show in public, but I can tell that he only tolerates me now. Even if I flirt with other men when he is present, he is not jealous; he no longer rushes to me to end the flirtation. He used to do that… before we were married. He knows Lady Jane is here with me, archbishop. Trust me, before long, he will come to my chambers, under the pretence that he has come to see me. In reality, he will have come to see that woman.”
Thomas wondered what she expected from him. Advice? How could he possibly advise the queen on how best to reignite the king’s once intense passion? He could not advise her on what womanly wiles to apply - he knew nothing of such things. He began to wonder what he would do if Margaret decided to flirt with other men. That was something else he could not imagine happening. His wife was so totally unlike the queen.
Eventually, he produced some appropriate words of wisdom. “My lady, you hold a high position, and are bearing the king’s child. I advise you to be patient. God has placed you here, as queen, therefore you must resign yourself to His Majesty’s whims, hard though it may be at times. There is no evidence that the king is doing anything more than perhaps flirting with Mistress Seymour. Once your child is born, he will be so happy, and filled with such pride for you, that he will never so much as glance at another woman.”
“Only if I give birth to a son,” Anne retorted wearily.
As Thomas walked along one of the vast corridors, having been dismissed by the queen, it occurred to him that the king might be experiencing a similar change of heart to that which Thomas himself had experienced, albeit under very different circumstances. Anne was strongly opinionated, temperamental and fiery, not unlike Joan had been, whereas Lady Jane was demure and had a certain tranquillity about her, much like his own Margaret. Could it be that the king was now falling for Lady Jane because she was the complete opposite of Anne, just as he had fallen in love with Margaret, who was the very antithesis to the tempestuous Joan?
He was dragged from his thoughts by a commotion at the end of the corridor, and he quickly stepped aside as the doors opened. As Anne had predicted, the king, followed by a retinue of courtiers, had come to pay his wife, and Lady Jane, a visit.