Young Thomas eyed his grandfather with awe for he had been familiarised, by his father, with the great power that the Duke wielded and the respect he commanded. Privately the boy was a little afraid of his grandfather who scrutinised him with cold, hard eyes beneath their bushy, white eyebrows. To Thomas the Duke seemed very, very ancient – almost as old as God, he thought. “Good Day, Grandfather,” he managed at last.
“Come, before we all freeze,” Francis said, leading the way towards the house.
The boy made his excuses and returned to his studies, glad to escape those penetrating eyes. Norfolk watched him go speculatively. The boy was Surrey’s heir and would carry on the Howard line but he wondered whether in this quiet and rather awkward grandson lay the seeds of a stronger, more dominant nature that would be needed to keep the power in Howard hands. He shrugged the thought aside, it was too soon to tell, the boy was still very young.
He had seated himself comfortably before the roaring fire, fortified by a cup of mulled wine provided by Francis and had begun to doze when his son appeared.
“Ah, I see Francis has taken care of you.”
“Admirably. I am growing old and the cold creeps into my bones.”
“But not into your brain, I trust?”
“My brain is acute as ever,” the Duke replied testily.
Surrey poured himself a cup of wine. He was a tall man, well formed and handsome. His doublet was of the finest Bruges satin and his short, padded trunk hose showed off his well formed legs encased in boots of soft, Italian leather. He sat down opposite his father and silently drained his cup. The Duke stared at him, thinking how fortunate he was in his son for he was proud of Surrey’s achievements as both soldier and poet, although Surrey's quick temper and pride had caused him many anxious moments in the past. Surrey, at times, seemed totally lacking in caution and Norfolk thought grimly that there was a more than slight resemblance to Elizabeth in him.
“Things do not progress to your liking at court?”
“The King is ill and the vultures are gathering.”
“Hertford is still wheedling his way into the King’s favour, he is a man to watch.”
“They must all be watched but it is treason to speak of the death of the King and it is necessary to be very cautious of every word and look for they are all over eager to find some cause to destroy one another.”
“And you in particular.”
His father did not reply.
Surrey leaned closer, “What better choice of protector could the King make than yourself? You alone are capable of anticipating the cunning plans of these upstarts, you have great knowledge of the King’s affairs and you have been his loyal and trusted servant in all matters.”
His father nodded, “I think as you do, but in this matter we must be very wary. No mistakes must be made; no excuse provided for those who would seek to undo us for the King reads treason into everything.”
Surrey concurred, “The whole court is crawling with scum! As one is struck down another rises to take his place, they are like the fruit of the dragon's teeth – an army without end!” He rose and paced the room, “These Seymours, who are they? Sons of a country squire. Oh, they claim to be of old and noble lineage but as I have oft said they are mushrooms, sprung overnight! Nay, not mushrooms – toadstools for they are poisonous!”
“I agree, but have a care lest your words be carried by toadstool’s spawn to the ears of the King.”
“I shall take care. But come, let me show you ‘Mount Surrey’. Is it not a beautiful house?”
The Duke reluctantly rose, loath to leave the comfortable warmth, and followed his son.
Surrey proudly conducted him through the house which had every modern comfort and was furnished with the finest tapestries, rugs and plate that could be obtained. His father was greatly impressed with the Hall which was panelled in oak, and was considerably warmer and less stark than the usual stone. The great fireplace was intricately carved and dominated the room, but his eyes stared unbelievingly at a carved stone pillar which stood next to the fireplace.
This pillar was a broken pedestal with the Royal Arms displayed at the top and the initials H.R. at either side and at the bottom the Howard Arms. Included in these arms were the quarterings of Edward the Confessor which, in respect of their ancestor, Thomas Mowbray, the Howards had been permitted to use since the time of Richard II, but the whole display was ominous to the Duke for it could be construed as smacking of treason.
His sallow skin turned a peculiar, ashen colour and his eyes hardened, “What is the meaning of this?”
Surrey shrugged, “Those are the arms the Howards are entitled to bear.”
“But the Royal Arms and those initials! God’s Blood! Have I not just cautioned you to tread warily and this... this ! Do you not realise that some would say that you aspire to the throne? H.R. – Henricus Rex, but Henry Tudor or Henry Howard? You fool! Have done with it, destroy it before it destroys us both!”
Surrey remained unruffled by his father’s anger. “I see no harm in it. It is our entitlement, we have always borne those arms.”
“You see no harm? You are mad! Henry is ill, he realises that the boy cannot rule without aid and he realises that the strongest will snatch the power, therefore he is suspicious of anything, anything that indicates that intention!”
Still his son was not convinced.
“I have begotten a fool!” his father cried in desperation.
“There is little likelihood of the King or Hertford coming here,” he persisted.
“But there are those who would willingly loosen their tongues for gold!” his father reminded him.
“A great to do about a trifle,” Surrey persisted and dismissed the matter completely, taking his father by the arm to show him the long gallery.
As the Duke left he was filled with foreboding. The merest trifle aroused the King’s suspicions and in his opinion his son's pride and foolishness were dangerous. He returned to court to keep a close watch upon events but continued to fear lest some rumour reached Henry’s ears.
On the 12th December, 1546, the blow fell. Surrey was arrested and charged with treason. The charge was brought by Sir Richard Southwell who had at one time been a friend and associate of the Earl.
The Duke was at Norfolk House when Lord Chancellor Wriothesley arrived with a party of the King’s guards, and he started up from his seat while he felt the icy grip of fear clutch at his heart.
“My Lord of Norfolk, I have come on the undertaking of our Sovereign Lord, the King, to arrest you upon the charge of treason against the King and his son, Prince Edward. I must also inform you that your son, the Earl of Surrey, has also been arrested on the same charges.”
He could not reply, so stunned and shocked was he. How many times had he uttered these words, he thought as the Chancellor continued.
“You are to accompany us to the Tower, My Lord.”
In a daze he followed them to the river steps and into the barge which awaited them. He stared absently ahead of him, his mind in complete turmoil! So they had taken Surrey too, this was all his doing! The young fool! He had warned him that there would be trouble!
They passed beneath the Bridge and the Tower became visible, he thought of his two nieces and of Cromwell, all of whom he had been instrumental in sending to their deaths, but he had never envisaged the day when he, too, would enter the Tower by the Water Gate.
The barge tied up at the steps at the foot of St Thomas’ Tower, having passed beneath the portcullis of Traitor’s Gate, and he was taken across the green to the Beauchamp Tower. When they had gone and the door had been firmly bolted he looked around at the bare walls of his cell and in desperation sank down upon the truckle bed, his head in his hands. He was finished, done for, and all because of his son’s pride. Even more disturbing was the fact that Surrey, too, was here in the Tower. Surrey on whom he had pinned all his hopes for the future, on whom he relied to carry on his work when he himself was dead but now it
seemed that they were both to die and who would be left? A quiet, awkward boy of ten! What chance did a boy stand against men like Hertford?
He was informed of Surrey’s further humiliation, for unlike his father, Surrey had been taken through the streets of London to his prison – a calculated humiliation – for all prisoners of noble birth were usually taken by water. The Duke realised that there was little or no hope now of clemency from Henry.
The following day Surrey was taken to the Guildhall to be questioned by the council and on the 14th, Chancellor Wriothesley and the Secretary of State, William Paget, came to interrogate the Duke. The Chancellor read the charges which included conspiring by silence, against the life of the King and his son, Prince Edward, and by the use of private codes, inducing the Pope to break the treaty of peace which existed between the King, the Emperor and the King of France.
“As God help me and at my most need, I cannot remember hearing any man speak like words and as for the Bishop of Rome, if I had twenty lives, I would rather have spent them all than that he should have any power in this realm for no man knows better than I, through history, how his usurped power hath increased. My Lords, I trust ye think Cromwell’s service and mine hath not been like and yet it is my desire to have no more favour shown for me than was shown to him. He was a false man and surely I am a true, poor gentleman. I think that since great causes have been laid to my charge or else I had not been sent hither and I beg that my accusers and I may be brought face to face for I will hide nothing. Never gold was tried better with fire and water than I have been! I have always shown myself a true man to my Sovereign and have received no profits of His Highness’ throne before. Poor man as I am yet I am his near kinsman. For whose sake should I be untrue to him?”
“Then, My Lord, I would advise you to plead guilty to the charges and throw yourself upon the King’s mercy. You have long been a trusted servant and His Grace may be persuaded to afford you pity.”
Norfolk shook his head in despair. If he confessed he would be condemning his son to death. Surrey, he knew, would deny the charges and in either case, Henry’s vindictive wrath would not be swayed.
“My Lord, pray give me a little time to think upon so great a matter,” he begged.
Wriothesley nodded, “We shall give you until noon.”
They took their leave then he was left to choose. He argued each point with his conscience until he finally came to his decision. Surrey was doomed, of that he was certain. There would be no pity for him for he was a young man and would cause trouble for the young Prince, but he, Norfolk, was old and Henry must realise that the time left to him was short and therefore there was little that he could do to effect the disruption of government. In the short time that was left he would be able to school his grandson in his duties and therefore he decided to confess and plead guilty, begging the King for mercy. There was nothing else he could do.
He wrote to the King confessing and begging, in the light of past services, that the King have mercy upon him.
Surrev was tried, convicted and sentenced to death but the following night he made a daring bid for freedom. He was imprisoned in the Well Tower, where the privy consisted of a well in the floor beneath which the river rose and fell with the tide. Towards midnight, when the tide was at its height and (as Surrey thought) his guards would be less vigilant, he carefully eased himself down the mouth of the well. Unfortunately the water had not come as high as he had anticipated and so he had to crawl back up. He knotted together the blankets from his bed and secured them to the leg of the bed and tried again, but the bed was a flimsy affair and his weight dragged it noisily across the floor. The noise immediately alerted the guards who rushed into the cell and dragged him out of the stinking well. To prevent any future recurrence, they chained him to the wall.
His father heard of this attempt with sorrow, for there might have been some hope for the future had Surrey managed to escape. So the days passed in despair for both father and son and on the 19th, Surrey was led out to Tower Hill and beheaded.
The Duke heard the tolling of the bell from the Chapel of St Peter ad Vincula with overwhelming grief and despair. The talented star of the Howards had gone and no hope remained for himself for the King, sick unto death though he was, had signed the order for Norfolk’s execution.
There was nothing left now, he thought, as he knelt by the side of his bed and tried to pray, but although he tried desperately no prayers would come and he wondered whether his God, too, had deserted him. He could confess his faults easily enough. He thought back over the years and his sins were many. Pride and ambition had been at their root and he had not hesitated to use people to further his aims and then cast them aside. He thought of Wolsey and Cromwell whom he had deliberately set out to destroy and of his two nieces, also sacrificed to his ambition. Mary had been right when she had said that his life was a lie, for he had in his heart wanted to remain true to the Church of Rome and to his family but he had ruthlessly silenced his conscience and had bent before the prevailing forces to maintain his power and feed his ambition. That ambition had led him to this – the first Duke of Norfolk to die upon the scaffold, a convicted traitor! He thought of his father, a proud but honest man who had died peacefully in his bed, and his grandfather, the first Howard to bear the title, he had died bravely fighting at the side of the man for whom his loyalty had never wavered.
Once more he tried to pray but it was useless, he rose stiffly and moved to the window. All was in darkness but he could just make out the round, squat shape of the Bell Tower and he remembered the words of Thomas More. “I shall die to-day, and you shall die to-morrow!” The death of that good man was yet another sin that could be laid at his feet for had he not put into Anne’s head any thoughts of vengeance, More would still have been alive.
To-morrow had come, for as he stood shivering with cold and fear, the first rays of dawn came creeping slowly over the belfry from which the Bell Tower derived its name. His time had come. Within a short space of time they would come for him and he would take the same path that led up to Tower Hill. At last he found that he could pray, “Almighty God, in this my hour of need, have pity upon me. My sins are manifold and heinous but Sweet Jesu pardon me! I am a product of the evil and greed that corrupts men's souls, I am a man of my times, have mercy upon me!”
Nine
He continued to kneel in prayer waiting for the sound of the bolts being withdrawn, heralding the last minutes of his life. It was becoming lighter in his cell as the grey dawn crept through the narrow, barred window.
Suddenly, he heard it, the desolate tolling of the bell of St Peter's on Tower Green – the signal of the forthcoming execution. He remained kneeling, gripped by a paralysing fear of the hereafter. It was a few minutes before he realised that the bells from the other churches close by had taken up the mournful dirge and that they were being followed by every church in the city.
He stumbled to his feet and leaned against the window embrasure, surely the bells could not be for him? Slowly, an immeasurable tide of relief swept over him. No, not for him – for the King! Henry was dead! That was the only possible explanation for the tocsin. The tears slowly trickled down his cheeks and as he sank to the floor, God had heard his prayer and the Angel of Death had claimed the King.
His hopes soared, he would be freed! Soon he would be free! The first exultant flood of joy gave way to the realization that it would be Hertford who now held the power and would not set at liberty his greatest foe. His life had been spared but he realized how futile his hopes of freedom had been.
He was informed of the King’s demise by the Governor later that day but could obtain no information concerning his release.
The days turned to weeks and the weeks to months and the young King was crowned. News filtered into his cell of Hertford’s power, Lord Protector and Duke of Somerset, Hertford now styled himself.
Autumn turned to winter and he petitioned the Lords for books to be brought from Norfolk House.
“Unless I have books to read, ere long I fall asleep, and after I wake again I cannot sleep, no did not this dozen years,” he begged. The days dragged interminably. He also requested that “a ghostly father be sent to me that I receive my Maker, have Mass and be bound upon my life to speak no word to him that shall sayeth Mass, which he may do in the other chamber and I remain within. I beg leave to walk in the chamber without in the light of day and do consent to be confined at night, as now I am. At my first coming I had a chamber without, a day. I would gladly have licence to send to London to buy one book at St Augustine’s de Civitate Dei and one of Josephus de Antiquitatibus and another of Sabellicus, who doth declare most of any book I have read, how the Bishop of Rome from time to time hath usurped his power against princes. I also beg that sheets to lie upon be sent to me!”
After a while the books and sheets were sent and he was allowed during the hours of daylight, to walk the leads.
The seasons turned and turned again and he began to despair of ever gaining his release. He was an old man of seventy-six and the bitterly cold winters spent in his cell without adequate fuel, combined with the damp, foetid odours which rose from the river, had impaired his health and his joints became swollen and inflamed during the cold weather. Often as he lay shivering beneath the thin blankets staring at the damp, grey walls he wondered whether the only way he would leave the Tower would be upon a bier, but despite his privations and the boredom he did not completely lose heart and his spirit remained steady and his mind alert.
Rumours concerning the scandalous behaviour of his great-niece, the Princess Elizabeth, with the brother of the Protector reached his ears and he grimly concluded that she was showing the same frailty of nature that had been her mother’s downfall. Her entanglement with Tom Seymour proved to be dangerous and she was closely questioned. It was not without a certain amount of satisfaction that Norfolk watched from his narrow window as Tom Seymour was brought to the Tower on a bleak February day in 1549. He was executed a few days later.
The White Lion of Norfolk Page 13
