Chapter Eight
Chapter Eight
A few days after his conversation with the queen, Thomas was saddened to hear that she had miscarried; to make matters worse, the midwives were certain that the foetus had been male. Anne was wild in her grief, and he could not help but wonder whether she might be less hysterical were the king to go to her and assure her of his continuing affection. But Henry did not, indeed, he did the opposite, furiously blaming his wife for taking insufficient care of herself and the baby.
“We gave her a gift, a precious son to nurture,” he bellowed, the day following the premature loss of Anne’s baby.
There was a stunned silence as the king’s closest courtiers waited to see who would be brave enough to speak first.
Finally, Gardiner piped up. “She will soon become with child again,” he predicted. “It is a sorry situation, but such things happen to women sometimes.”
“We wonder at how you can be so wise,” Henry snapped. “You have never suffered the loss of a male child, a prince no less.”
Thomas wished he could utter something wise, to calm the king’s fury, but could think of nothing. Even Cromwell, who was rarely lost for words, was silent.
Eventually, Thomas summoned up the courage to murmur, “My prayers are with Your Majesties. This news is truly terrible, but sometimes we are strengthened by grief, though we do not realise it at the time. The queen needs cosseting during this time, Your Majesty, and no one can comfort her the way you, her lord and husband, can.” He expected an explosive response, but it did not arrive. Emboldened, he added, “Only Your Majesty can command the queen to take rest. When she does carry another child, perhaps your good counsel and authority will convince her to conserve her strength.”
The king took several heavy gulps of wine from his cup. “We are being advised by two men who clearly do not have wives to command.” Calmer now, he eyed his Archbishop of Canterbury with a surprisingly mischievous expression. “We must wait a while before the queen can become pregnant again. After all, babes do not arrive in packing cases. If they did, things would be so much simpler.”
There was a ripple of sycophantic laughter. Relieved to have lifted the king’s mood, he impassively took the jibe about packing cases without flushing in embarrassment. Much as he loved the king, the only thing he could do to help him was to recommend that he be compassionate towards his wife, and hope that he acted upon the advice.
Shortly afterwards, Thomas visited the queen, and found her lying on her bed, looking pallid, depressed and unkempt. Her skin was greasy and blotched with weeping, whilst her hair, usually lustrous and flowing, was scraped back from her brow and tightly plaited, to keep it out of the way. It was a practical style, but not one likely to impress her husband. There was also a stale odour about her which would likewise not attract him.
As soon as Thomas entered the room, Anne dismissed her women, then immediately begged him to pray with her. This he was glad to do; faced with such a portrait of misery, he knew no other means of giving her solace.
“He no longer loves me.” Anne hastily rubbed the persistent tears away from her face. “As soon as I turn my back, he is with that Jane Seymour.” A note of resentment crept into her voice. “She is a viper! I am sure she drips poison against me into his ear.”
“You must stay strong, my lady. You are the queen, and His Majesty’s lawful wife. Mistress Seymour cannot bear him an heir to the throne, but you can.” He hoped his tone was encouraging. “Madam, no one knows better than you how to attract the king’s attention. I suggest you summon your ladies and your tiring women, so that when His Majesty visits, you look as radiant as the woman he was so eager to marry.”
Anne sat bolt upright and stared at him for a moment. “You men are all the same!” Her voice was harsh with resentment. “I am in agony; my body is broken; I have not stopped weeping for days on end; I have lost a child!” She flung herself back on her pillows. “But regrettably, I hear what you say. He shall not see me looking like this.” Her voice had suddenly dropped from a screech to almost a whisper. She proceeded to call for her women, and as Thomas departed, she called out to him, “I pray you will visit me again, my lord Archbishop.”
Bowing, he assured her that he would gladly visit her again in the very near future.
*****
Thomas was uncomfortably aware that Stephen Gardner was becoming an implacable enemy. Gardiner was totally opposed to any sort of change within the Church, and whatever he proposed, he knew that Gardiner would be opposed to it.
Matters were not helped when Thomas decided to address the subject of the Winchester Geese: this was the nickname of the prostitutes who worked in the stews near Winchester Palace, Gardiner’s London residence. These brothels fell under Gardiner’s jurisdiction, and he made the most of them, extracting lucrative rents from his clients, and thus providing himself with a substantial income. As for the prostitutes, because they came under Gardiner’s diocese, and because of their manner of trade, Gardiner could, and did, refuse them burial in hallowed ground. Instead, they were buried in the nearby unconsecrated Cross Bones Graveyard. It was believed that being buried in unconsecrated ground denied a soul access into Heaven. Although Thomas did not agree with this theory – souls who repented of sin and believed in Christ would be saved, wherever they were buried – he knew that many people did; it gave them comfort to believe they would be buried in holy ground.
Cautiously, he spoke with Gardiner about this matter, arguing that it was incongruous for a bishop to receive rents from brothels, and that he had no right to refuse those women Christian burials.
“The rent I charge is not within your remit of authority,” Gardiner hissed waspishly. “It has gone on for centuries. No one has criticised any Bishop of Winchester for receiving rent from the stews until now. I see no reason why anything should change.”
“The stews should be closed,” Thomas suggested. “I believe—”
Gardiner was quick to interrupt. “If one were to close the stews beside Winchester Palace, they would simply move elsewhere. You cannot eradicate them, archbishop,” he sneered. “Since the dawn of time, every city has had its brothels; London is no different to anywhere else.” Giving a brief nod, Gardiner walked away.
Thomas sighed. The list of grievances he had against this troublesome bishop seemed to be growing by the day. It was rumoured that Gardiner discretely kept several mistresses at Winchester Palace, and Thomas had also heard that one of his flunkeys was really a woman, dressed in male clothing. If this was indeed the case, the woman’s apparel was against the law; it was illegal for women to dress in male attire. Regrettably, it was impossible for Thomas to address these issues, since his own situation – his marriage to Margaret – was not yet acceptable for an archbishop… or any other member of the clergy, for that matter. As things stood, he was unable to remonstrate with any immorality Gardiner was indulging in. He gave a deep sigh. This was an issue he must discuss with Cromwell, whose spies would soon discover whether or not the rumours were true.
Fortunately, Thomas’ mind was swiftly diverted away from Stephen Gardiner, after being requested by His Majesty to informally interview Thomas More at Lambeth Palace. It appeared that the king still held some lingering regard for More, and he wished for Thomas to try and persuade him to sign the Act of Supremacy, so that he could be freed from the Tower and return to Court. Thomas had no great admiration for More – he was, after all, vigorously opposed to The New Learning – but if the man did not sign the oath, he would surely be executed for treason. He reasoned that this interview could be an opportunity to save the man’s life, and perhaps persuade him to cast aside his Catholic leanings.
Bearing this in mind, he sat in his library at Lambeth, with his secretary Ralph Morice – his quill poised to record everything which was uttered – and Sir Thomas More. No one else was present. More faced the archbishop cheerfully. His beard had grown ragged whilst in prison, and he had lost some weight, but his air of dignity remained. More assumed that the learned archbishop was hoping to persuade him to cast aside his Catholic faith, but as an equally learned man, he saw no reason why he should not do the same and try to persuade the archbishop to cast aside his Protestantism.
Thomas greeted More cordially, offering him refreshment, which was gladly accepted. The atmosphere between the two men was amiable; both were at ease in one another’s company, despite having always disapproved of one another.
Thomas spoke first, his tone persuasive. “I know that you are fully aware of what is required of you, More. You are bound to obey your sovereign lord, the king, therefore you are bound to leave off the doubt of your unsure conscience in refusing the oath, and take the sure way by obeying your king, who commands you to swear.”
Listening to that melodious voice – which in itself was convincing – and taking a sip of wine, More mentally saluted his companion. “My lawyer’s brain has stood me in good stead until now, and I trust it shall continue to do so,” he assured the archbishop. “Whatever other individuals may believe, whose consciences I will neither condemn nor judge, my own conscience perceives the truth to be otherwise.” He was seated in the chair opposite the archbishop and kept his candid gaze upon him. “Whilst in the Tower, I have had time to diligently examine my conscience.”
Meeting More’s steadfast gaze, Thomas felt a surge of sadness. This man was clearly intractable, but not wishing for More to die, he was determined to persist. “I know you have studied the Bible, as I have. Surely God’s word has revealed to you that the Pope has no position within the Church. He is the Bishop of Rome, and as such is to be respected, but for him, as Pope, to hold such power and authority… it is not in accordance with God’s most holy word.”
“Surely then, the king cannot be Head of the Church? He is not even a member of the clergy,” More promptly retorted.
After half an hour of debating with More, Thomas was buzzing with adrenaline, his body responding to the debate as though he were fighting a physical duel. More was an excellent orator and greatly learned; debating with him was truly stimulating. Before today, he had been wary of him, and had even purposefully avoided him on occasion. After all, More was bent upon imprisoning the Protestants. But now, well, he found himself rather enjoying the man’s company. It was a great shame that they were such opposites theologically, for had they not been, he was convinced that they would have worked well together.
As the interview progressed, More repeated that the Act of Succession was one he had gladly approved. “As you know, I have often stated that a king may leave his throne to whomsoever he wishes. But I cannot agree with the Act of Supremacy, my lord Archbishop.”
There was a moment of quiet; the rapid scratching of Morice’s pen was the only sound in the room.
Casting theology and law aside, Thomas attempted to tempt More by speaking of his wife and family. “What about Lady Alice, your wife. I pray you consider her. I know you are a loving family man; you are close to your children, especially, I hear, your daughter Margaret. I understand she is very dear to you.” At the mention of his wife and family, a look of sorrow crossed the prisoner’s face, but Thomas could see that even this was not enough to change More’s opinions. He was dealing with a very determined man.
The two argued for another two hours; had the circumstances been different, Thomas would have thoroughly enjoyed his time spent with More. He had been required to think deeply; to delve into his stores of knowledge in order to cap every quote or opinion More had thrown at him. He wished that More was not a prisoner; he would have made such an excellent debating companion. But there was nothing he could do, and eventually, he was forced to wearily dismiss the prisoner. Standing, he shook More’s hand firmly, as they eyed one another with regret.
“Archbishop, I thank you for your kindness and hospitality. I deeply regret that we never conversed much in the past. I pray that, God willing, we shall oppose one another again.”
“I too pray that we may meet again one day,” Thomas sincerely replied. “May God keep you safe.”
As he watched More being escorted from Lambeth Palace, an unusual surge of depression washed over him. It seemed brutally unfair that a man of such intellect and talent should be executed simply for believing in false theology. He needed to get away, to free his mind from this injustice. It did not take him long to decide the best cure was to travel to Canterbury for a few days, his excuse being that he needed to review the situation there. His spirits immediately lifted when he thought of seeing his wife again. Whenever she had not seen him for a few weeks, Margaret fussed over him endlessly, insisting that he looked pale and weary, and was not taking care of himself. Though some might find such pampering annoying, Thomas rather enjoyed it, and he was certain that her care would make him feel a thousand times better.
He was not disappointed, though given how much she had increased in girth, he protested that it was she who needed pampering. Margaret, however, ignored his protests; never one to complain, she insisted that she was in good health, and continued to fuss over her husband. As they sat together one evening, eating a hearty meal, he informed her of the real cause for his visit: his interview with Sir Thomas More.
“But you were always so wary of him… why are you now so compassionate? He is a Catholic who believes Protestants should be burned, my Thomas.”
“Yes, but he is clever, and wise too. I knew he was an excellent orator, but I had never spoken to him at length before. He has such a wealth of knowledge, and yet is prepared to waste it all. I want him to understand the truth of the Protestant faith and thereby save his immortal soul. I want him to accept King Henry as Head of the English Church, so that he may be saved from the executioner’s axe.” He tried to explain his feelings. “If he signs the Act of Supremacy, he will be a free man, after which I would dearly love to convince him of the Protestant faith. If he would only embrace it, he could be such an asset to our cause.”
“Maybe you can interview him again?” Margaret leaned back in her chair, her hands resting comfortably upon her sizeable stomach.
“Maybe. I would certainly like to speak to him before he is formally tried for treason.” Thomas stifled a yawn. “I am going to write to Cromwell before I go to bed. He of all people will be able to intercede, and perhaps even convince the king not to bring Thomas More to trial. I shall ask him to intercede for Bishop Fisher as well, for though he has committed acts of treason, he is an old man. He deserves some sort of reprieve; perhaps he could just be kept in close confinement.”
“Will they burn?” Margaret gave a shudder.
“No, probably not.” Reaching out, he squeezed her hand reassuringly. “I do believe they shall either be beheaded or hung.”
“Bad enough, but better than burning,” Margaret replied solemnly.
Going to his desk, Thomas wrote to Cromwell: ‘I commend myself to your good lordship. Fisher and More have both agreed to sign the Act of Succession. In my judgement, I would be satisfied with that. If it is made public that they have signed the Act of Succession, it will act as an example to others in the realm, who are in doubt. It might also finally convince the Emperor Charles that his aunt and her daughter are no longer part of the line of succession. As for the Act of Supremacy, could you intercede, and ask that these two men be spared from signing it? At least give them more time to consider the matter. If they are not given time, I fear they will shortly be sentenced to death and executed. The deaths of two such men – staunch supporters of the old order – will make a bloody beginning for the new. Your friend, Thomas Cranmer’.
A few days later, he received a reply. Cromwell had shown the letter to the king, but as far as Bishop Fisher was concerned, the king refused to change his mind. Pope Clement had recently died and had been replaced by Pope Paul III, a firm supporter of Fisher. During his first few weeks as Pope, Paul had decided to make Fisher a cardinal, an action which had thrown King Henry into a rage. As a result, Fisher was to be tried for treason within the next couple of days. By the time Thomas returned to Lambeth, Fisher had been tried, found guilty of treason, and sentenced to be beheaded that very day, on Tower Hill.
Hastily he journeyed to the Tower to visit the aged bishop prior to his execution. He found Fisher looking pathetically gaunt and weak. He was so frail that he could hardly walk, and a chair had been brought in so that he could be carried the short distance from the Tower to Tower Hill.
“I gave a letter to Bishop Gardiner following my trial,” Fisher stated, his voice surprisingly firm and strong given his frail physical condition. “He will probably show it to you.”
“What did you write?” Thomas prompted, doubting if Gardiner would divulge the contents of the letter.
“That I do not condemn any other man’s conscience. Their conscience may save them, and mine must save me,” Fisher replied. “I know we disagree theologically, my lord Archbishop, but just as I am about to face God, one day, you shall do likewise. I therefore ask you to search your soul and make peace with Him who is the ultimate judge.”
Thomas noticed that Fisher was lovingly clutching at a well-worn copy of the gospel of John. He watched as the old man opened it at random.
Fisher’s gaze fell upon chapter seventeen, verses three to five, and glancing towards his companion, he stated, “there is enough in this to last me to the end of my life.” Straining to read the words – his eyesight was failing – he read aloud, translating from the Latin, “Now this is life eternal, that they might know Thee, the only true God, and Jesus Christ whom Thou hast sent. I have glorified Thee on the Earth; I have finished the work which Thou gravest me to do. And now, O Father, glorify me with Thine own self, with the glory which I had with Thee before the world was.”
Thomas searched for the right words to say. “God be with you, Bishop Fisher,” he managed, his voice unsteady.
“God has always been with me.” Fisher reached out and took the hand of the archbishop. “I pray He shall always be with you, and that you shall heed His voice. May He bless you and keep you.”
They could both hear the sound of footsteps approaching. Fisher’s rheumy, faded eyes were dry, his face calm.
Thomas felt his own eyes welling up with tears. Biting his trembling lip, he watched the dignified old man being carried from his cell, still reading aloud from the gospel of St John. Half an hour later, he learned that Bishop Fisher had died, courageously and with dignity. As for the watching crowd, they had been sympathetically and respectfully silent. A tribute to a remarkable man.
He returned to Lambeth Palace, and a few hours later, received a brief letter from Sir Thomas More, which read: ‘Regarding Bishop Fisher, I reckon that no one man possessed such wisdom, learning and virtue; no one can be matched and compared with him.’ Thomas agreed. Fisher had lived selflessly and had served God as he saw fit. The pity of it was, his and Fisher’s theological views had been too diverse to permit them to work easily together. They had each believed the other to be misguided. It was much the same with More, whose trial would be held the following day, at Westminster Hall.
Thomas was already present at Westminster Hall when More arrived by barge. Having always been popular, More was greeted by a large, noisy crowd of well-wishers. With halberdiers on either side of him, he was marched into the hall without preamble, and the trial proceeded immediately. When asked, More, his voice firm, declared himself innocent, and proceeded to ably defend himself as the trial continued.
Richard Rich, the newly made Solicitor General, having once been a servant in the More household, was called upon to give evidence. He revealed that he had visited More in the Tower, not to ask after his wellbeing – which might be expected, given he was a former servant – but to remove More’s writing materials from his cell. When he heard this, Thomas felt his already low opinion of Rich descending lower still. How terrible, how cruel, to deprive such a man from his writing materials. Rich proceeded to describe a conversation he once had with More, claiming that the prisoner had openly denied Parliament’s authority to make the king supreme Head of the Church in England.
Thomas took a deep breath to prevent himself from gasping aloud. He may never have been close to Sir Thomas More, but from his interview with him, he could honestly say that More was not a man who would ever have pronounced such an opinion to Richard Rich.
More was quick to make a response, which confirmed Thomas’ own opinion. “In good faith, Master Rich, I am sorrier for your perjury than for my own peril.” He proceeded to make an oath, denying the accusation, then cuttingly began to give his opinion of Rich. “Master Rich, I have long been acquainted with you, ever since your youth, and I am sorry to say that you were always light of tongue and not of good reputation. I appeal to the good sense of my honourable lordships, my judges. Does it truly seem likely that I would, in this trial, overshoot myself so far as to trust Master Rich, a man whom I have always reputed to be of little truth? Does it seem likely that I would utter to him the very secrets of my conscience regarding the king’s supremacy?”
As More was speaking, Thomas glanced towards Rich, whose face had frozen. His entire posture was rigid, as if turned to stone. As a ripple of voices stirred around the hall, Rich suddenly flushed a deep red. At last, he moved, opening his mouth to protest, but was given no opportunity, for More, a skilled lawyer, proceeded to continue rallying to his own defence.
Thomas was impressed with More’s vigour, for he knew, as did More, that the judgment was a foregone conclusion. The judges included the Duke of Norfolk, Sir Thomas Boleyn, George Boleyn, and others from the Boleyn camp; such a panel would not listen to More’s argument, for the Boleyn camp wished him dead, to ensure that he could no longer cast doubt upon the validity of Anne’s marriage to the king. More would be pronounced guilty, regardless of his defence.
Once the trial was over, More was marched from the hall, the blades of the axes held by the halberdiers turned towards him, signalling to the bystanders that he was guilty and condemned to die. Leaving the hall sometime later, Thomas learned that More’s eldest daughter, Margaret, had forced her way through the crowds and flung herself at her father’s feet, begging for his blessing. In a surprising display of sympathy, the guards had waited for this touching ceremony to be performed, whilst many in the crowd watched and wept. As Margaret was about to leave, she had turned back to her father and flung her arms about his neck, embracing him. More had uttered what words of comfort he could, holding his daughter until they were firmly parted, and he was marched back to the Tower.
The following Tuesday, More was executed on Tower Hill. The watching crowd was either silent or weeping. No one mocked or jeered. Like Fisher, he died bravely, and the crowd mourned his passing. The day after, Thomas learned that More’s head had been removed from the spike upon which it had been placed on London Bridge, beside the head of Bishop Fisher. The rumours suggested that More’s daughter and son-in-law were responsible – his family had no intention of this beloved man’s head being pecked at by ravens – but it was impossible to say. To Thomas’ surprise, the king gave no objection or indication of displeasure upon hearing of this crime; unbeknownst to his courtiers, his regard for More had been greater than any of them had realised, making the man’s death all the more tragic.
A third person of importance died shortly after Bishop Fisher and Sir Thomas More, and that person was Catherine, the Princess Dowager. She was not executed, but her many supporters muttered that she might as well have been; her place of lodging had been damp and uncomfortable, and she had been separated from her beloved daughter, Lady Mary, whom she had frequently begged to be permitted to see. Had she been treated more sympathetically, her followers argued, she might well have lived longer.
“Right to the end, she insisted upon being referred to as the Queen of England.” Cromwell’s tone was belligerent. “She was a stubborn woman. In her last letter to His Majesty, she wrote: ‘Lastly, I make this vow, that mine eyes desire you above all things. Farewell. Catherine, Queen of England’.”
“Poor woman,” Thomas murmured. “She was stubborn, certainly; misguided also. But she is to be pitied.”
“Pitied!” Cromwell almost shouted. “Had she accepted that she was no longer queen, she could have seen her daughter whenever she wished, and lived according to her status.”
“I agree.” Thomas inclined his head. “But I see no reason not to pity her.”
The two men had been requested to attend a masque, arranged by the queen in celebration of Catherine’s death. Thomas felt that this in itself was in poor taste, and when they arrived Court, he was even more astonished to find both the king and queen dressed in yellow: a symbol of celebration. He said nothing, but internally, he could not help but feel let down by His Majesty’s choice. Cromwell was, typically, more forthright in his opinions, but only to his friend, whom he knew would repeat nothing.
“Her Majesty’s position is tenuous now,” Cromwell whispered. “While the Dowager Princess lived, the king could not cast her aside. After all, he could hardly have two former wives; it would have been a political disaster. But now Catherine is gone, the queen is not safe until she bears a son.”
“She is pregnant again,” Thomas reminded his friend.
“Her security rests entirely upon the success of this pregnancy.” Cromwell’s tone was speculative.
“Her position is permanently secure,” Thomas whispered sharply. “Lady Jane Seymour has now left Court and the queen herself is, as you well know, lawfully wed.” Lady Jane Seymour had returned to her family home on the day Anne’s pregnancy had been announced.
“Mistress Seymour left Court to avoid any scandal regarding her good self. I suspect she intends to use her departure to inflame the passion of the king, for she has two ambitious brothers to advise her, and they recommended that she should depart. She is following the tactics the queen herself once used, refusing to be a mistress, then keeping her distance. Trust me, my friend, she is well advised. As for the queen, she has offended every powerful nobleman at Court, including her uncle, the Duke of Norfolk. Catherine had powerful people to protect her, but Queen Anne is totally dependent upon her husband.”
“The queen’s position is secure,” Thomas repeated, his tone agitated. A tingle of dread ran down his spine. Why was Cromwell implying otherwise? “What do you know?” he hissed.
“Nothing… yet,” came the quick response. “We need to wait and see whether Her Majesty gives birth to a boy or a girl.” Cromwell’s tone was indifferent. “After that, we shall see what transpires. I can tell you this: she needs a son more than her predecessor ever did.”
*****
A few weeks later, the king was knocked from his horse during a jousting tournament, and to the horror of the crowd of watching courtiers, he lay unconscious for several minutes. A messenger was immediately sent to the palace to inform the queen, and upon hearing the news, Anne waxed hysterical. By the time a second messenger arrived to inform her that the king was conscious again, she was doubled over with abdominal cramps, and tragically miscarried her baby. To add to the catastrophe, the midwife declared - once again - the child would have been a boy.
Thomas was summoned a few days later, to soothe the queen with spiritual counsel. He spent over an hour with her, listening to her anxious fears; praying with her; urging her to be gentle and submissive to her husband. King Henry, he knew, would not tolerate anything else. Since his previous effort to give her spiritual counsel had enabled her to become pregnant again, Anne respected his advice, and would have likely taken it, had the king not visited her immediately following the miscarriage to berate her for losing another male child. She had not seen him since; he was totally avoiding her company.
Two weeks passed and, upon hearing that Anne was fully recovered, Thomas visited her again. He found her almost feverishly merry. According to her ladies, her moods swayed between laughter and deep melancholy. The king, who was never subtle, had been heard several times shouting to anyone who cared to listen: ‘I see clearly. God does not wish to give me male children!’ Anne, who was likewise indiscrete, informed Thomas, in front of her ladies, that she was afraid she would be treated the same way as the Princess Dowager had been.
“You are the queen, Your Majesty,” he earnestly reminded her.
“So was she… at least, she thought she was,” Anne retorted. They were both silent for a moment, then, taking a deep breath, Anne demanded abruptly, “why should I be to blame for the loss of the child? Both the midwife and Dr Butts informed me that the shock caused the loss of the babe.”
“This may be true. His Majesty is shocked by both the accident and the loss of his son. When people are shocked, whether they are king or a commoner, their reactions are often bizarre.” This was true enough, he decided. “As for the king, his leg is badly injured after the accident; he is in a great deal of pain.”
“I know that.” The queen gestured to her ladies to withdraw and seat themselves some distance away. “I wish to pray with my lord Archbishop,” she stated, her tone haughty. Once they had left, her voice sank to a whisper. “Surely the loss of our children should draw us closer together. Why has he rejected me like this?”
Queen Catherine had lost a number of children, but it had certainly not helped her relationship with King Henry. Quite the reverse. It would not be of any help to Queen Anne to mention this, however, so Thomas kept his knowledge to himself. Instead, as before, he spent an hour with her, praying and trying to ease her distress, all the while knowing that he was failing miserably. The only thing that would soothe Anne was the return of King Henry’s passion, and even he could see that the king’s affection for Anne was totally spent.
Leaving the queen outwardly less hysterical, he sought out Cromwell, and found him looking gleeful.
“I am now Vicegerent,” his friend announced proudly. “What a blow to Gardiner. He desired for the position to go to one of the Catholic Seymours, if he could not have the position himself.”
Thomas congratulated him, thankful that this promotion had been given to someone whom he considered a friend, even if his and Cromwell’s principles sometimes differed. A vicegerent could assume some of the sovereign’s power when required to do so; this meant that, in Church matters – due to the break with Rome - Cromwell was now even senior to himself, the Archbishop of Canterbury. Thankfully, they both desired the same goal: the reformation of the Church.
“Now…” Cromwell’s tone was brisk, and he rubbed his hands together, poised for action. “The king is weary of his wife. He wishes to be rid of her and says he will no longer share a bed with the woman. We, as his servants, need to find a means of granting him a divorce, even though he almost certainly intends to marry the Catholic Jane Seymour.”
“How many times have I told you, he cannot,” Thomas expostulated, frustrated by his friend’s cool attitude.
“Ah, but he can,” Cromwell pronounced darkly. “If she is unfaithful to him, she will be accused of treason.”
“She is no fool, she would never—”
“She might,” Cromwell interrupted smoothly. “You never know with these women. She is said to favour her musician, Mark Smeaton, and I learned from one of the Duke of Norfolk’s staff that she used to be close to Harry Percy, son of the Duke of Northumberland. Perchance they were betrothed? In which case…” His voice, gleeful in tone, trailed away as he considered the use he could make of such knowledge, if it were true.
“I am sure that, if the queen was once betrothed to Harry Percy, it would be common knowledge. The son of the Duke of Northumberland has great status,” Thomas reasoned logically.
“Perhaps Wolsey intervened?” Cromwell speculated. “The two might not have been formally betrothed; they may have made a private agreement to wed. Such an agreement is as binding as a formal contract.”
Thomas was silent. Surely Queen Anne would not marry King Henry knowing she was legally bound to another man? As for Harry Percy, he had married a noble woman with a huge fortune… his marriage would be invalid too. “I am certain that the queen is not betrothed – or was not betrothed – before she married the king. She spoke with me on the eve before her marriage, in great confidence. She did not mention any engagement or pre-contract,” he firmly assured his companion.
*****
That night, Thomas received a message informing him that his wife had gone into labour. Taking only a couple of trusted servants, one of them being Ralph Morice, he rode hastily to Canterbury, and arrived to find that Margaret had been delivered of a baby daughter. To his great relief, mother and baby were both well.
Weak with emotion, he sat on his wife’s bed, clutching her hand whilst gazing upon the small bundle in her arms – his child! – and marvelling at the surge of love he felt for this tiny being. Looking pale and tired, Margaret was nonetheless eager to learn about events at Court.
“I heard about Sir Thomas More.” She gazed adoringly at their child, having now placed her nearby in a rocking cot. “So sad. As you said, he would have been a huge help to the Protestant cause if only he had not been so corrupted by the Catholic faith.”
“I think you need to rest,” Thomas informed her gently. “Do not overtire yourself.”
“I have rested enough. The midwife says I had an easy labour, considering it was my first,” Margaret proudly informed him, before swiftly asking how the queen was faring following the loss of her child. As Thomas described the queen’s situation, Margaret promptly fell asleep. As he had suspected, she needed rest.
Some hours later, with the baby fed and settled –unfashionably, Margaret insisted upon nursing the baby herself, and would have nothing to do with a wet nurse – she asked, once more, about the queen’s circumstances.
“You might fall asleep again,” he teased. “But I will explain anyway. Cromwell is trying to obtain a divorce for the king, and to find grounds for this, he must find out whether Anne has ever been unfaithful to His Majesty. If she has been unfaithful, she will be accused of treason.”
“These English laws seem odd to me. Why is being unfaithful to the king an act of treason?” Lying back on her pillows, Margaret held out her hand for him to hold.
Clasping her hand between both of his and chaffing it gently, he explained. “It is treason because any child she has borne during that marriage might not belong to the king.”
“Ach, of course. It is obvious when explained.” Unconsciously, her gaze drifted towards the sleeping baby.
“Most things are obvious once explained.” He smiled briefly, then continued with his tale. “She was also once allegedly close to someone some years ago, and Cromwell is trying to prove that she was once betrothed to this man. His name is Harry Percy; at the time he was the son and heir of the powerful Duke of Northumberland. Now he is the Duke. ”
“In Germany, a promise of marriage is the same as actual marriage.” Margaret sighed. “If it is to be ended, it must be done so legally. I have never met the lady, but I have never heard anything good of her. She is not loved by the people. No one will mind if she is divorced. Do you think she was betrothed?”
“I have never heard it spoken of before.” He too sighed. “I did hear that she was once in love with young Percy, but not that they were promised. As you have said, it is the same here as in Germany: a betrothal; a promise; a pre-contract… they all amount to the same thing. Marriage.” There was no shame in a betrothed woman being pregnant when taking her actual wedding vows. In fact, especially for simple country folk, a pregnant bride was something to rejoice over. “If there is evidence of her committing adultery, or being promised to Percy, and if that promise was not legally made null and void, then I can pronounce the king to be a single man, and thus free to remarry.”
“But what will happen to the queen?” Margaret leaned towards the cradle and touched the sleeping face of her baby, smiling in delight as she gazed upon the tightly closed eyes and the small, puckered mouth of her daughter.
In spite of the seriousness of their conversation, he too gave a besotted glance at his daughter. “Well, at one time, I could have predicted that the queen would be sent to a nunnery. However, everything is now in hand to have these institutions closed, so I very much suspect that she and her daughter will both have to retire to some house in the country. But if there are no grounds for divorce, well, His Majesty will have to find a means of cohabiting with Queen Anne. I admit, I am fond of the woman, unpredictable though her temper is.” He ran a gentle finger down her daughter’s cheek. “Ah, why must I return to Court tomorrow? I find it so difficult to leave both of you, my two beautiful ladies.”
“She looks just like her father,” Margaret declared.
He looked startled. “I hope not, I have never regarded myself as handsome.”
“But, my Thomas, I like your face,” Margaret protested. “What shall we call her?”
“Margaret,” came her husband’s prompt response.
Margaret was thoughtful. “Only if I have a son and can call him Thomas. But two Margaret’s will be confusing… could we refer to her as Marjorie? I do like that name.”
“Anything you wish,” he beamed indulgently. He hesitated for a moment, taking a deep breath. “I think I should like hold her, but she is so tiny.”
“She will grow, my husband. Do not be afraid. Lift her from her cradle and hold your daughter.” She watched, smiling, as he tentatively lifted the child. “Marjorie, your father holds you. You will always be safe with him.”
His voice was hoarse with emotion. “I pray that she shall always be safe. May God bless you and keep you, my daughter.”
*****
Upon returning to Court, Thomas received a letter from Philip Melanchthon, which was full of news describing how dangerous it was now to be a reformist in Germany. The emperor might be still engaged with fighting the Turks, but he was also managing to find time to begin purging Germany of Protestants. ‘I suggest you make contact with a man named Jean Calvin’, Melanchthon wrote. ‘He is from France, where it is even more violent and dangerous to be Protestant than it is here. He trained as a lawyer, and has been staying here for several months, but he will soon depart for Geneva. I consider him exceedingly learned and strongly recommend you begin corresponding with him’.
Communicating with Protestants from other countries was a source of both knowledge and support, so he was eager to make contact with this Jean Calvin. However, there was currently so much going on at Court that a letter would have to wait for another time. Cromwell’s programme to close the monasteries had begun. Making use of the ruthless ambition of Richard Rich, Cromwell had sent him all over the country to plunder the wealth of religious houses and evict the monks and nuns.
His friend Cromwell’s capacity for coldness often rendered him uneasy, and on several occasions, it had caused a disagreement between them, though neither of them were of a temperament to bear grudges. Furthermore, Cromwell did not actually expect constant agreement and approval from the Archbishop of Canterbury; he had sufficient confidence to act upon his own instincts and opinions.
“What about those who are evicted, what will happen to them?” Thomas demanded, when Cromwell visited him in his library at Lambeth.
“They are to be given a sum of money, all of them, the nuns too. They are expected to use it wisely, maybe to establish themselves in some sort of employment,” Cromwell responded smoothly. “After all, had they not entered into a religious house, they would have had to do so anyway. Many of them have lived in lazy luxury for years. Let them find out what it is like to live in the real world.”
“But what about the elderly?” Thomas persisted. “Some of them are too old to work.”
“They must seek out their families; throw themselves on their mercy,” was Cromwell’s cool response.
“I fear they might end up as beggars… what about those who refuse to leave?” Thomas found himself growing more and more uneasy about the programme of dissolution. Especially since Richard Rich was heavily involved. “And what about those who refused to sign the Acts of Supremacy and Succession?”
“They have no choice but to leave; their monasteries are being torn down and ripped apart. And if they do not sign the Acts, they shall be tried for treason,” Cromwell shrugged indifferently. “They are no different to anyone else in this matter, Cranmer.”
“I had hoped the old buildings might be retained and used as schools.” Thomas gave a grimace of disappointment. It seemed such a tragedy to pull those lovely buildings down; they could surely be put to good use. He turned his attention back to the queen. “What have you managed to unearth regarding the queen and Percy?” he enquired anxiously.
“I believe that the queen should have been investigated prior to her marriage.” Cromwell’s face was a mask of sincerity. “Certainly, since her marriage, I believe she has been unfaithful. But I am also becoming more and more confident that she was betrothed, or promised, to young Percy, and is therefore not the king’s true wife.” Seeing his companion taking a breath to interrupt, he quickly added, “She would be wise to admit to her betrothal, for she has been indiscreet. Tom Wyatt, the poet, treats her with too much familiarity, as does Francis Bryan, and there are others. Her relationship with her musician, Mark Smeaton, will not stand up to close scrutiny. Her sister-in-law is certain that George Boleyn, the queen’s own brother, is committing incest with her.”
“That is ridiculous!” Thomas exclaimed. Lady Jane Rochford was a jealous woman, and a bitter enemy to Queen Anne; it was no wonder that she was spreading such salacious rumours. Certainly, the queen was close to her brother… but incest? It was impossible. Queen Anne had often spoken to him, confidentially, about her sister-in-law’s deep hatred for her, and she had often asked God’s forgiveness for deliberately tormenting and mocking the woman. “The queen has never conducted any sort of indiscretion with her brother,” he stated firmly. “And I am certain that she has not done so with anyone else. If she was once betrothed to Percy, that is a valid enough reason for me to grant the king a divorce, so there is no need for you to investigate these other ridiculous rumours. Once if divorce is granted, Anne can go and live peacefully somewhere, perhaps at her old home, Hever Castle.” Thomas began picking anxiously at his sleeve. “She will not take easily to a life of peace, but there is no alternative.”
“Unfortunately, my friend, there is an alternative,” Cromwell contradicted. “An alternative that she may well be forced to endure.” As his companion shot a questioning glance in his direction, Cromwell dropped his voice to a whisper. “There is a significant possibility that she will die.”
“What?” Thomas stood so quickly that he knocked over a side table in the process, launching a mug of ale and a prayer book across the floor. Agitated, he demanded that Cromwell explain himself.
“The king does not want another divorce; it would be too messy politically, especially since it is a relatively short time since you declared him free to marry Lady Anne. I have questioned the queen, and she vehemently denies having any form of pre-contract with Percy. The king knows that the only solution is to find her guilty of treason, for consorting with other men, and you and I both know the punishment for treason…” Cromwell’s tone was cold and uncompromising.
Thomas seated himself again, corrected the overturned table, and stared silently at the wall as the shock of Cromwell’s words slowly sank in. Desperately, he attempted to clarify the situation. “But if she admits to pre-contract, then she was never married in the first place, and therefore cannot be executed for treason.”
“This is true.” There was a sinister twist to Cromwell’s smile. “But she denies that she was ever pre-contracted.”
Thomas fell silent again. Automatically, he reached for his cup to take a sip of ale, but soon discovered that only a few dregs had survived the overturning of the table. Most of the ale was soaking into the rushes on the floor. He stared blindly into his empty mug, his mind elsewhere. Henry, he was certain, would not consider executing a woman whom he had once loved so deeply. He would surely banish Anne instead, permitting her to live out her life in comfortable seclusion. After all, she was the mother of his child. Certainly, Anne may have been foolish, but no one could deny that Elizabeth was Henry’s own daughter; her very appearance was testament to her paternity. Cromwell had misunderstood the king’s wishes.
“I am entertaining Master Mark Smeaton later tonight.” Cromwell broke the silence.
Cromwell… entertaining a musician? There must be an ulterior motive. “You intend to question him, don’t you?” he guessed.
“Of course,” Cromwell shrugged. “The Duke of Norfolk has agreed to assist me.”
“Norfolk?” Thomas was incredulous. Norfolk hated Cromwell.
“He is the queen’s uncle as well you know, and the queen has now fallen from grace. Since Norfolk has no reason to like the woman, even though she is his niece, he has agreed to assist the king in getting rid of her, to avoid himself also falling from grace. It all works out very well for him, you know.” Cromwell’s tone was confiding. “He is Catholic, as is Mistress Seymour, whom the king intends to marry. By ensuring that this marriage goes ahead, Norfolk believes he will secure himself a position of power at Court.”
The eagerness with which men such as Cromwell, Norfolk and Rich tried to obtain positions at Court constantly amazed him. Court was a place of political mind games and treachery; no one was safe, not even the king, who had to constantly monitor the mood of his subjects, to avoid giving them cause for revolt.
The following morning, he received a brief but damning note from Cromwell, stating that the musician Mark Smeaton had last night admitted to receiving sexual favours from the queen, who was now accused of treason and was on her way to the Tower. The other men who frequently waited on her, including her brother, Lord Rochford, were to be interrogated later that day. There was no way back now. The brief but tumultuous reign of Queen Anne had come to an end.