by Anne Stevens
“Spit it out, girl!” Norfolk senses treachery, but does not have the intelligence to see from whence it comes. “Tell me plain, and be damned to it.”
“Thomas Cromwell seeks omissions, for his own purposes,” Anne explains.
“This is old news,” Norfolk tells her. “He wishes old Sir Thomas to be spared.”
“And you destroyed,” Anne says, sweetly.
“How so?”
“You step aside, to let the bill pass, yet you have not yet said that you will take the oath.” Anne watches the various emotions cross her uncle’s face, until he finally furrows his brow in anger. “My dear Henry will think you hold back, to show how you still love Rome.”
“I am a Roman Catholic,” Norfolk says, “but my first loyalty is to God, not that arse licking Pope Clement. God commands me to obey the head of his church in England, and that is Henry.”
“Then do not wait,” Anne urges. “Cromwell thinks to see you in the king’s disfavour, and would advance others into your rightful place. The Earl of Suffolk will swear any oath Cromwell puts forward, and he is jealous of your place at the king’s right hand.”
“Charles Brandon is a cringing whelp.” Norfolk spits out the words, as if they were poison. “Henry loves me over him… and over the blacksmith’s cur!”
“Then come with me now, and swear yourself to Henry,” Anne tells her uncle. “Pledge your entire being to his service, and declare him the true head of our English church. Deny Pope Clement, and urge the king to stand firm on the oath.”
“Yes, damn Brandon, and damn Cromwell. I will have my place, whatever they may try.”
George Boleyn, Viscount Rochford, Lord of Ormond, and Steward of Beaulieu, Master of the King’s Hounds, and member of the Privy Chamber, finally stops his snivelling, and follows them into the inner court. Anne sweeps past a dozen bowed heads, and gestures for the guards to open the great double doors to the throne room.
“My love,” she says, curtseying to the king. “See, here is My Lord Norfolk, with something urgent to say.”
“Good morning, Norfolk,” Henry says. He is poring over a new map that details all the strong points of his kingdom. “Still not brought that new mistress of yours to court?”
“Bess is unwell, sir,” Norfolk replies. Anne forbids the girl’s presence, for she knows Henry’s delight at swiving his friends mistresses. He thinks it is funny, and displays his puckish humour to good effect. “I must speak with you about the oath.”
“Must you?” Henry assumes his stance of splayed legs, upper body jutting forward, and hands on hips. “It is vexing me, sir, and I am of a mind to take the bill into parliament myself, and stuff it down their throats.”
“Bravo, Henry,” Norfolk tells him. “For I am, like you, mindful that it might give certain people a chance to insult you, without reproach. Give these dogs a sniff of a chance, and they will skulk away. Make it plain that all must take the oath. Let me swear now, on my honour, that I hold you, Henry, King of England, Ireland, and France to be my sovereign lord, above all others. Let this oath state that the head of the Church of England is answerable to none, save God, and let all who swear refute the Church of Rome’s rights within this realm.”
“You would swear this?” Henry throws his arms around Norfolk, and hugs him. “An oath to Henry, without any lawyers tricks. Let each man of noble blood…”
“No sir!” Norfolk is taken up with his own bombast, and is unstoppable. “Let every man swear. Excuse no man, from Earl to swineherd, My Lord.”
“Yours is the power, and the glory,” Anne Boleyn tells the king. “It is time for men to decide. Do they kiss Henry’s ring, or Clement’s?”
“Sire, Say the word, and I will close every harbour in the realm, so that none may avoid their duty,” George Boleyn says. “I will see that every man takes this oath, and puts aside the Roman church for good.”
“Well said, puppy,” Norfolk mutters.
“Send for Master Sadler,” Henry says.
“He is Cromwell’s man.” Anne reminds Henry that Rafe might still love his old master.
“And Cromwell is mine,” Henry tells her. “Sadler will tell Cromwell, wherever he may be hiding, and Cromwell shall present a final draft … my draft to both Lords and Commons, within the week.”
“There will be those who dissent,” Anne says, softly.
“Then let them,” Norfolk says. “Once they are known, Master Cromwell can use his famous treason laws to bring them low. Hang any commoner who refuses the oath, and deal with the rest, as befits their station.”
“The French king burns all who oppose his wishes,” Anne says. “Emperor Charles drags them apart with wild horses.”
“This is England, my dear,” Henry says, wagging a finger at her. “I think a turn of the rack, and the noose will suffice. After all, I am known to be a wise and beneficent ruler.”
“Flay the traitorous buggers,” the Duke of Norfolk says, with enthusiastic zeal. “Stick hot irons against their feet, and lop off their privates, Hal. Give them a choice between the oath, or a traitor’s death.”
“The due course of the law must be observed,” Henry says to his foremost peer of the realm. “Then Cromwell will do his worst.”
“And if he baulks at it?” George asks.
“Cromwell, disloyal?” Henry roars with laughter. “Not he, sir. I fashioned him from the clay, and made him that which he now is. Master Cromwell will not flinch from his duty.”
“Even if it means destroying friends?” Norfolk asks.
“My dear Norfolk, had you not sworn to me just now, I would have had your head first,” Henry explains. “Cromwell and I are of like minds. He will not waver.”
“As you say, sire,” Norfolk says.
“Excellent. Now, come and look at my new map. It is done in the most pretty colours, and each tower is drawn in. See … there are even tiny little canon!”
“I have finally heard from Master Cromwell,” Rafe Sadler says. Mush takes up the note, and reads the few, terse words. It says nothing, but promises an arrival in time for dinner.
“Then Will shall find out that he is a father,” says the young Jew. “The boy is lusty, and has the lungs of a Welsh brigand. His war cries resound around the room, and Miriam’s wet nurse cannot keep up with his demands.”
“Thank God,” Rafe says. “We need new, young blood about our houses. “How is your sister?”
“Back at work,” Mush reports, shaking his head. “It is scarcely a day since little Gwyllam made his appearance, and she is stooped over her ledgers. It seems that three cogs she thought lost have turned up, and she is in funds again.”
“My agent in Folkestone says that Master Dudley, the harbour master, seems to have run away, along with his pet rogues. Do you know anything about it?”
“The fellow was a thief, and he drew a pistol on me,” Mush explains.
“So you killed him?”
“It seemed like a good idea at the time,” Mush tells his friend. “I made sixty pounds, and have already put thirty into the Austin Friars fund. The lads will have a fine payday at month’s end.”
“You seem to court death, Mush,” Rafe says. “Why did you not take help?”
“There were only four of them,” Mush replies. “Where has the master been? I do hope he took help with him.”
“I know not. Though I fear it is to do with Sir Peregrine Martell. It seems his existence vexes Master Cromwell.”
“Then God help him,” Mush says, losing interest. “Come to the tavern, and I will stand you a bottle of good red wine.”
“I cannot,” Rafe says, reluctantly. “I must finish the final draft of the bill that will bring in Henry’s oath.”
“Then you could not hold it off?” Mush is sorry for it, as it means Sir Thomas More will be forced to make a choice. “Might not Master Thomas deflect the king, now he is coming back?”
“Norfolk has already sworn for Henry,” Rafe tells him. “The fool gave his word that he wo
uld put the king above all, save God. It means that everyone else down from him must swear, or be deemed a traitor. I do not think Cromwell dare argue, else he will be ruined, and lose the king‘s favour.”
“Then Anne has won.”
“This time, yes,” Rafe replies. “Henry is to be placed above everything, and everyone. He rules England, and will now rule God, it seems.”
“It is what Cromwell wants, is it not?” Mush asks. “Does he not want the Roman church cast out of England, and an English bible in every pulpit?”
“Of course, but now, he must have every single thing ratified, and agreed, by God’s representative … Henry.” Rafe throws down his quill, and rubs his eyes. “Sir Thomas may read this oath a thousand times, but he will not be able to swear it, unless he throws aside his principles, and denies his humanity.”
“And you, Rafe?” Mush asks. “I hope you can bend to this nonsense. I know Cromwell and Will have no qualms.”
“I will swear with my head, not my heart.”
“I doubt Henry will want a Jew’s oath,” Mush jests, “but I shall take it, for form’s sake.”
“And some men must die for forms sake also.” Rafe Sadler concludes. “May God have mercy on them all.”
Miriam Draper can hear Gwyllam bellowing on an upper floor, and it takes all of her resolve to ignore his summons. There is work to be done, and commerce is a fickle thing. Fail to tend to business for a few days, and fortunes can be lost. She is just finishing the totalling of her shipping ledger, when there is a great commotion from outside. She can hear horses, and the cries of boys, willing to tend them for a penny.
Then, quite distinctly, she hears her husband’s commanding voice. He is at the front door, issuing orders to her maids. Fires are to be lit, and the best food and wine brought out, he says, for Master Cromwell is visiting Draper House. Miriam jumps to her feet, and scurries down to join the throng.
Will sees her coming down the stairs, and perceives that she is somewhat smaller than on their last meeting. He gestures to her shrunken girth, and she nods and smiles.
“A boy, sir,” she says, and curtseys.
“Then I must not stay, Will.” Thomas Cromwell is in the hall, and looks to turn about. Miriam hurries forward, and grabs at his fur lined mantle.
“Not so fast, Master Tom,” she says, warmly. “You must see your handsome godson without delay. Will bring him up, and meet Gwyllam.” Will Draper stops at the foot of the stairs, as if struck by lightening. He and Cromwell exchange bemused glances. “Does the name displease you, husband?”
“Not at all,” Will replies. The happy coincidence sends a shiver down his spine, as he thinks of the man who might have been his father. “The name is perfect, and Master Cromwell will come up at once.”
Thomas Cromwell is taken to the upper floor, and goes into the nursery. Will catches Miriam’s wrist, and holds her back a few steps.
“Master Cromwell is not himself, my love,” he whispers. “I pray seeing my son will enliven him.”
“Why, what is the matter?” Miriam asks. She cannot bear to see her benefactor in so poor a humour.
“He met a lady, and promises were exchanged,” Will explains. “We stopped last night at the nunnery of Mary Magdalene, because she was unwell. I thought it but a chill, but it must have been in her lungs. No sooner were we there than Lady Agnes began to cough blood. The nuns did what they could, but within the hour, she passed away in his arms.”
“Dear God, Will, what are you thinking of? The man must be broken hearted,” she says, and moves to Cromwell’s side. He has the infant in his arms, and there are tears welling at the corner of each eye. “Come, Master Tom. Bring little Gwyllam down, and we will sit by the hearth and warm our feet. Then you shall tell me about your terrible misfortune, and we will weep together. My people understand grief, and we have a song for those we have lost.”
“I cannot stay overlong, my dear,” Cromwell says. “There is so much to do. There is the oath, and poor Henry cannot be left alone, lest he listens to evil council.”
“Rafe Sadler knows your wishes,” Will tells him, and leads him to a comfortable chair by the fire. “I swear, little Gwyllam is smiling at you.”
“Wind,” Thomas Cromwell says, and they all laugh as the infant instantly fulfils his diagnosis. “Here Will, take the boy. He must know his father, and you have yet to hold him. How is Mush getting along, Mistress Miriam?”
“He also grieves,” Miriam Draper replies, holding back her own tears. She closes her eyes, raises her hands to the ceiling, and begins a soft, lilting chant:
‘Yitgaddal veyitqaddash shmeh rabba
Beʻalma di vra khir'uteh
veyamlikh malkhuteh
veyatzmaḥ purqaneh viqarev qetz meshiḥeh’
The words of the kaddish are alien to both Cromwell and Will, but they sense their power, and bow their heads. Miriam is praising her god, whose name cannot be spoken by the faithful, whilst remembering the departed, and the song reaches out, and touches every corner of the great house.
Later, they eat, and discuss Gwyllam’s future. Thomas Cromwell is all for an Oxford or Cambridge education, and Miriam wants him to be a great merchant. Will is mostly self taught, and sets little store by philosophy, or the sciences. His son shall grow up wealthy, if he has anything to say in the matter, and be able to raise his own regiment. Becoming a Colonel of the King’s Horse, or a Master of Ordinance is a soldier’s dream, and the son might achieve that which the father has fallen a little short of.
“Each evening, we will light a candle for Lady Agnes, and name her in our prayers, along with Gwen,” Miriam tells Cromwell, after they have drunk far too much wine. “I wish only that I had met her, Master Tom. Come Will, what did you think of her?”
“Perfect for Master Thomas,” Will says. “You seemed to fit one another, sir, and I sensed some deep secret held you together, apart from your love.”
“There are no secrets now,” Cromwell says, draining his glass. “Ask what you may, Will…but first… tell me about Tobias Charnley. I cannot think you would hang an innocent man.”
“Nothing could save the fellow,” Will says. “So, I asked him to add the murder of Sir Peregrine Martell to the list of his crimes.”
“And he agreed?” Cromwell replies, incredulously.
“He had a wife, and small child,” Will explains. “I promised to keep them safe, and see the lad was educated. He had me swear on a bible.”
“A desperate man, hoping to salvage something for his family,” says Cromwell. “We must see the promise is kept.”
“I shall see my word is kept, sir,” Will counters. “One of the Austin Friars lawyers shall draw up a paper. The woman shall have six pounds a year, as long as she looks after the child, and the lad’s schooling shall be paid for, until he can read, write and attend to his arithmetic. Then I shall find him a post … perhaps within the King’s Special Examiner’s office.”
“As you wish.” Cromwell can still feel an ache in his heart, and wonders how long it will last. To have known a woman for only three or four days, and for it to feel like a lifetime is an odd emotion, and one he cannot understand. “Now, ask your questions, Will, whilst I am drunk enough to answer.”
13 Some Matters Settled
Mush eases himself over the sill of Lady Mary Boleyn’s window, and crouches, for a moment, in the dark. It is late, and the City Watch has long ago declared the eleventh hour, and continued on their way, checking that gates are secured, and honest men are abed. The palace guard are a more dangerous barrier, and must be avoided at all costs. Being caught within the palace, without permission, and after dark is not something that can be easily explained away.
He listens for any sign of life, then fumbles for the tinder box tucked into his doublet. After a moment, he has a spark, and blows gently until it is a small, glowing ember. He puts it to one of the candles slotted into a wall niche, until the wick catches, and flickers into life. The oak panelled room is illumi
nated, and by the dim light, Mush can see that the four poster bed has been stripped of blankets, and the embroidered hangings have been taken down.
Mary Boleyn’s few personal possessions no longer decorate the bed chamber, and it stands empty, as if ready for its next occupant. Mush sighs, and must accept that the rumour brought to him by one of Cromwell’s street urchins is true. The lady has been packed up, without a word of warning, and sent down to Sussex.
It seems that Anne Boleyn will tolerate no more of Henry’s nocturnal wanderings, and has furnished her sister with a small house, some acres, and a meagre pension. The young Jew is not heart broken, but wonders if he might uncover her whereabouts, and pay a social call one day. What they have is not love, but he values their friendship, and enjoys her soft, yielding, body.
He is about to leave, as he entered, when a dark shape slips through the open window, and creeps into the room. Mush draws a slender blade from his boot, and is about to defend himself when the shape resolves itself into a drunken Tom Wyatt.
“Come a calling, Tom?” Mush hisses, and Wyatt almost feints with shock.
“Is that you, Mush … you perfidious Jew?” Wyatt whispers back. “By the silent moon, he wonders still, so ladies swoon, and lovers thrill. The full…”
“Oh, do shut up,” Mush snaps. “Your poetic words will cost you your head one of these days. How come you to be here, you sly old dog?”
“I sought solace.”
“In Lady Mary’s chambers?”
“She is a dear old friend, and I thought that she might comfort me,” Tom Wyatt says.
“Liar!” Mush puts his knife away. “You thought she might let you slip into her sister’s chamber, did you not?”
“I confess that the thought did occur to me,” the poet replies, slurring his words. “For Lady Anne must long for the touch of a less aged fellow. Henry is old, and may not be fit for the purpose he is most needed for.”
“Devil take it, man,” Mush replies, pushing him back towards the window. “Henry will rise to the occasion, and Anne will give England a male heir. It is just the way things must be. Now, get out, before the guards hear us, and we end our days in the Tower of London.”
