by G Lawrence
“I do see, Your Grace,” she said. “And I thank you for talking of such matters with me. Many people are scared to discuss anything to do with faith.”
“People are scared of that which they do not understand,” I said. “The remedy is to come to understand it, and in doing so, appreciate both sides of an argument.” I brushed down my gown of green velvet. “I do not say that you should believe all you hear, on either side,” I went on. “Nor will I tell you that all arguments carry the same weight, or truth. But you are wise enough to decide much of this for yourself, and to establish a personal link to the Almighty, allowing yourself to be guided by His love.”
It was not only with Margaret that I discussed religion. The subject was debated in my chambers almost daily. Differences in interpretation and new theories on idols, the Mass, transubstantiation and the authority of Rome were often brought up by enquiring minds. We had to be careful, of course… it was easy to stray into regions that Henry would consider heresy, but we talked, we discussed, and ideas flowed through my household like water along a bustling stream.
Some of my ladies immersed themselves in discussion of the Scriptures as others shied away. Elizabeth Browne, the Countess of Worcester, along with Margaret and Mary Shelton, and Mary Howard, my young cousin, relished debate. Elizabeth Browne was a lively soul, blessed with a fine, strong mind and I welcomed her participation, for she often had much of worth to say.
Sometimes, in the evening, Cranmer would visit. At times, he wanted my authorization to accelerate Church appointments, so godly men might be put in place quickly. Sometimes it was just out of friendship that he came calling.
With him, I was perfectly safe. We kept our voices low when we talked of something controversial, but we dared to speak of much… sometimes of subjects of which Henry would not approve.
“I have had much cause of late to think on purgatory and limbo,” I mentioned one warm evening as we sat before my hearth. There was no fire, since it was summer, but the fireplace was flush with garlands of greenery and scented flowers from the palace grounds. “I am sure you understand why.”
“Of course,” said my old friend.
“Do you think it selfish to only think on weighty subjects when they affect me personally?”
“No, indeed, Majesty,” said Cranmer. “It is natural for us to find paths to the answers we seek for our own solace. God guides us in this way.” He paused and pursed his lips. “Some might say the challenges the Lord of Heaven sends are in fact offered in order to steer our thinking. We were granted free will, but our heavenly Father sends lessons that we might learn and grow as spiritual beings.”
“Perhaps that is the truth. For I find my mind is filled with questions.” I turned to him. “Some reformers deny purgatory. They say God would not allow the faithful, no matter their sins, to burn in fire to atone before entering Heaven. They say that faith alone takes a soul to God, and that repentance before death is all that is required. Do you think this is so?”
“I have long thought purgatory a myth, Majesty…” said Cranmer, his voice low. It was dangerous talk, for Henry upheld purgatory as a canon truth. “… Made up by Rome in order to sell pardons and indulgences to unwitting dolts.”
“Do you think the same of limbo?”
“You ask because of your son?”
I inclined my head. “He was carried by a faithful soul,” I said. “Should he be denied the glory of Heaven for coming too soon into this world? Should he dwell in limbo, without comfort, never to see me or his father again, for want of a sprinkle of water upon his head?” I shook my head. “I do not think God would be so cruel as to deny eternal peace to babes who have never sinned.”
“And it would seem odd, madam, that the founding fathers of the faith of our Lord Jesus Christ, should be starved of the solace of God.”
“Indeed, for if unbaptised babes linger in limbo, so do all souls who were not baptised before the coming of our Lord and John the Baptist.”
“Privately, my lady, I agree.”
“Then you think I will see my son again?”
Cranmer’s hand fell over mine. “I do, Majesty,” he murmured, clutching my fingers. “And then, you will have all the time in existence to be together.”
“I will tell him stories of our reform for England, when we meet again in Heaven.”
“He will be proud of you,” said my old friend, somehow reading my private, plaintive wish.
Even with Henry, I dared to speak my mind. I talked of limbo and our son, and although he did not agree with me entirely, he listened. It was one of the cornerstones of our relationship. There were many people he would not deign to hear when they spoke on subjects he did not agree with, but with me it was different. Henry respected my mind, even if not always my feelings.
“But,” he said after I outlined my theory. “The Limbo of Infants is not a bad place, Anne. The Church assures us that those who dwell there rest in perfect happiness, for whilst they were not freed from original sin, they committed no personal sin.”
“Why would God deny His comfort to souls of innocence?” I asked. “Even Rome is undecided on the matter, Henry. Not all adhere to the teachings of Augustine of Hippo, who said unbaptized souls would not attain Heaven, but would rest instead in the mildest of condemnations. Some say the Resurrection of Christ, which removed the stain of original sin, did so to the founding fathers of the faith, to Adam, to Eve, Moses and Abraham. Should not the same be true of our son?”
“The midwives should have been more diligent in their duty,” was all he would say.
“They thought, until the last, that there was hope,” I murmured. “They would have baptised him before death, had they not thought there was a chance he would live.”
Henry fell silent, then started to talk about alterations he was making to Whitehall Palace. When I slipped into speaking directly of our son, idle conversation was the shield he used to batter me backwards.
*
Towards the midst of August, as we went to Whitehall, others were on the move too. Lady Mary came to Greenwich, and on her way, she floated through London on an open barge, ensuring everyone could see her.
Mary incited pity and sympathy. She was a pretty girl, if frail in health, and Londoners adored her. As she sailed down the Thames, her boat rocking on the dim, muddy waters, she stood upon its deck, waving to those who crowded on the slippery banks and the beaches beside the Thames. Henry was not best pleased. He had granted no permission for his obstinate daughter to travel so openly.
Her performance was nothing more than false courage; a way to show the people of England that she was neither intimidated nor cowed by her royal father. I was sure she was not so brave in her heart. It was said openly at court that Henry despised her, and Mary was sure to have heard this. It must have been painful to know that her father thought ill of her, and more painful still to hear her mother’s protests and encouragement to maintain her war against the father Mary loved so dear.
There were others keeping up their rebellion too. More had been granted privileges in the Tower, and he used them well. Although Cromwell was checking his correspondence, More sent letters of hope to Fisher, his fellow inmate, and to family and friends. Stokesley, the Bishop of London and More’s good friend, had taken the oath along with all other bishops of England. Only Fisher stood firm amongst the clergy. But just because these bishops had surrendered to Henry, it did not mean they would cease to encourage More in his protest.
Inside his cell, More was busy. He was composing a new work, he told Cromwell, called A Dialogue of Comfort Against Tribulation, and hoped one day that the King would read it, and understand his pains.
“I want you to assure me that this will not be published,” I said upon hearing of this. “Neither I nor the King want to see that man gaining more sympathy.” I frowned as Cromwell inclined his head. “I think security is too lax, in any case,” I went on. “It would appear his letters have been stolen out and reached wider circulati
on.”
“They were allowed to, Majesty,” said Cromwell.
I paused, narrowing my eyes. “You would offer him rope to hang himself?”
“I would offer him rope to hang himself.”
Chapter Seven
Whitehall Palace and Eltham Palace
August – September 1534
Late that summer, a keening cry sounded over England; the sound of abject despair.
En masse, Observant Friars were expelled from their monasteries. Many were arrested, joining their friends in the Tower for refusing to swear the oath. Others were shipped off by the cartload, separated, and sent to orders that showed more obedience to Henry than the zealous Greyfriars. Henry was done with waiting for the clergy to bend to his will. He would have obedience, or they would die.
Public outcry was heard alongside the wailing friars. The Observants, along with the Bridgettines of Syon Abbey and the Carthusians, were the three religious orders who still served some use to England. To see their brothers arrested or detained for treason was unnatural and abhorrent to the people of England. I, too, was left uncomfortable. These orders actually kept to their vows. It seemed to me we should be persuading, rather than persecuting them, but Henry did not agree.
“They have stood against me, flouted me in public,” he growled. “And they shall be taught who their master is.”
There was no petitioning for clemency. Henry was done with patience. One hundred and forty-three monks were locked away in the Tower; singled out as ringleaders. Others were all but imprisoned by their fellow clergymen, who were scared of Henry and Cromwell. John Forrest, once Katherine’s chaplain, was arrested for a second time and sent to the Tower to await judgement. Along with his refusal to swear the oath, he had visited Katherine and offered her encouragement.
Forrest, along with Fisher and More were the first of Katherine’s friends to linger under the shadow of death. They would not be the last.
Katherine was reportedly bitter, but she blamed Clement, declaring the Pope’s dithering had forced Henry into direct and abominable action. By now, Katherine must have understood that her nephew was not coming to her rescue. This was what we all thought too, but as foreign affairs erupted that summer, we were forced to re-evaluate our convictions.
That summer Suleiman the Magnificent, Sultan of the Ottoman Empire, Caliph of Islam, sent his Admiral, Khair-ad-Din Barbarossa, to besiege southern Italy. His forces came close to the walls of Rome. In August, Tunis was captured, posing an immediate threat to Spain, Italy and the entire Mediterranean. The Emperor began to assemble an army, sending messengers to Rome to request support for his crusade. Henry swiftly became nervous that rather than gathering troops to battle the infidels, Charles might decide to turn his forces on England.
As though in response to her father’s paranoia, or perhaps because of his treatment of the clergy, Lady Mary suffered a fit of hysteria and became seriously ill. Mary had become increasingly isolated, with few servants and only two true supporters outside of the Tower; Katherine and Chapuys. But her mother was a prisoner and the Imperial Ambassador, although he adored Mary, could do little to aid her. She had always suffered painful monthly courses, much like her mother, but this time it was more serious. Her health collapsed in the wake of the expulsion of the Observants, and she languished, some claimed close to death.
“I must send one of my physicians,” said Henry upon reading the note from Lady Shelton. He handed it to me and I read. My aunt’s concern was justified, I believed, and I understood her fear. Should Mary die, Lady Shelton would be held accountable, but I would be blamed too. My position was fragile. I could little afford more venom poured my way.
“Send Doctor Butts,” I advised, thinking that my old helpmate would not only deal with Mary’s medical problems but could keep an eye on anything passing from her to the Emperor. “Once he saved me, beloved, when I was struck down by the dreaded sweat. I can think of no other man more suited to care for your daughter.”
Henry’s brow lifted in surprise, for I was no supporter of Mary, but he agreed. “Butts shall go,” he said and turned to Norris. “Henry, see to it this hour, will you?”
Doctor Butts shortly had a report for us. Lady Mary had fallen ill with headaches and cramps in conjunction with her courses, but as the symptoms had failed to alleviate, Lady Shelton had sent for a local apothecary. The pills this man had prescribed had caused a reaction, worsening Mary’s condition. Doctor Butts requested permission to consult Katherine’s doctor, and it was granted by a worried Henry. In the days that followed, I found my husband often in conversation with his men about the many virtues of his bastard. Whenever Mary fell ill, Henry’s love for her returned, stronger than ever. It was troubling.
I wrote to Lady Shelton, upbraiding her for bringing the leech to Hatfield. In truth, I wrote in fear that somehow his name would be linked to mine. “If you cannot exercise good judgement in the finding and ordering of such men,” I wrote, “then we will have all such matters conducted through court. I am wont to tell you that the King, too, suffers displeasure for your lack of care for his bastard daughter. If you cannot do the task assigned to you, you will be removed.”
Suffice to say, no matter how contrite and polite her apology, that letter won me no favour with my aunt. I heard unsubstantiated gossip that she had called me proud, disdainful and judgemental.
Katherine asked to join Mary so she could nurse her, but this was a step too far for Henry. Katherine’s doctor’s involvement was helpful however, as, having dealt with Mary’s malady for a number of years, he understood it better than Butts. But he was not permitted to speak with Mary unless witnesses were present, and for the sake of appearances neither was Butts. They were also only to converse in English. Henry believed his daughter was unwell, but his trust only stretched so far. He did not want Mary sneaking out messages to her Imperial cousin.
Doctor Butts wrote that he believed her illness was caused by stress and sorrow, “and she would be well at once if she were free to do as she liked.”
After Henry read this, he heaved a plaintive sigh. “It is a great misfortune that my daughter remains so obstinate,” he said. “She steals all occasion for me to treat her well, as I wish I could.”
Butts advised sending Mary to her mother, but Henry would not. “If I surrender, she will not,” he said. “I know my daughter’s resentful heart. She will read generosity as weakness.”
I could have laughed. For how long had I been telling Henry this was the way of things only for him to ignore me? But however long it had taken, I was glad the idea had finally taken root. That was the way with Henry. He liked to believe all ideas were his.
Some took a more pragmatic view. Cromwell told his good friend Tom Wyatt that the deaths of Lady Mary and her mother would be beneficial, putting an end to tribulation with the Emperor. Since everyone believed that Cromwell and I spoke with one voice, this was taken by many as a threat, easily traced back to me.
The hapless hare was suspicious of Cromwell. He was sure, not without cause, that Cromwell had spies in Katherine’s household.
“Well, he is not wrong there,” said my brother as he, I, and Norris walked in the gardens. “Cromwell has spies everywhere. There is no corner of England that is not infested with his little spiderlings.”
“He does good work for the King,” I protested. “Do not speak so wild of our allies, George.”
“I have come to think that Cromwell is an ally to many… for as long as it serves him,” said Norris.
“You doubt his character?” It was unusual for Norris to speak against another man. He was cautious and careful, never stepping far from the path of politeness.
“I harbour no doubts about his character, Majesty.” Norris smiled, his lips lifted in wry humour.
I was struck by his handsome face. When Norris smiled, he could light up the dullest gloom. He had a hawkish cast to his features; a slim nose and high brow and cheekbones. He was sharp of wit too, but never unkin
d.
“I am sure you are wrong,” I said. “Cromwell does much for the cause of reform, and to protect the King, England, my daughter and me. He believes in our cause.”
From the observable doubt on my brother and Norris’ faces, I could see they did not agree. It is his growing power that makes them wary, I thought. But if power is used for good, there is no danger in it.
Later that day, Henry found me with a book in my lap, staring from the window. “You would see that good tome rest upon your pretty lap, never to be taken up and honoured by your hands?” he asked.
I smiled sadly. I had been thinking of our boy. “I find my mind is distracted today,” I said, shutting the book.
