by Anne Stevens
“I had him retire, to save his life.”
“Well, it was to no avail. The king has told me to go to him, and demand that he take the oath.”
“God’s teeth!” Cromwell cannot believe it. “Why not leave the fellow to his own devices?”
“Consequences,” Archbishop Cranmer mutters. “Let More refuse, and half of England will follow suit, or so Queen Anne keeps on saying to the king.”
“That is a great nonsense.”
“Henry listens to her more than his ministers,” the archbishop replies. “Once the child comes, she will become quite insufferable.”
“She raised you to your current position,” Thomas Cromwell reminds him. “Are you not her creature?”
“I am God’s creature, sir, and I seek to bring the light of His knowledge into England. A bible, in every church, written in English. She seeks the wealth of Rome, so that she might aggrandise herself in His eyes.” Cranmer snaps back.
“Ah, then it all about the treasure, after all,” Thomas Cromwell says. “It is not to do with the church, but with its vile wealth. This coming year, I will milk almost a million pounds from the Roman faith in England, and would spend it on great works.”
“More new war ships?” Cranmer says.
“With England safe, its people will become freer, and this land will prosper, like no other,” says Cromwell. “Queen Anne will have her way, and dole out the wealth to only those who worship at her alter.”
“You throw caution to the winds, sir,” Cranmer tells him. “If she hears of this, she will…”
“Destroy me?” Thomas Cromwell chuckles. “Let her try. Brother George has had his chance, and failed. Thomas Boleyn has tried, and lost his way. They will find that a blacksmith’s lad can be even harder to bring down than the son of an Ipswich butcher. It took them all to fell Cardinal Wolsey.”
“But he fell, nevertheless.”
“As have his enemies,” Cromwell replies. “Where is Harry Percy? The Duke of Northumberland has not shown his face in council for many a long month. The Boleyns, father and son, are under a cloud, and even Norfolk is being edged out. The curse of Wolsey is powerful indeed.”
“Then I am glad I never crossed the fellow.” Archbishop Cranmer wishes nothing now, but a quiet life. He too would like to sit on Archbishop Stephen Gardiner’s wall, but he doubts there is enough room for more than one coward.
Colonel Will Draper is helping to peg out bed sheets with his wife, and two of the many servant girls in their employ. He is in his shirt sleeves, and must help hold up the wet bedding, so that the girls can fix it on the long rope clothes lines, with carved wooden pegs.
“I promised Tom Wyatt to meet him later,” he grumbles, only to receive a glowering look from Miriam. “Not for drinking,” he continues. “He has an idea to publish a book of his poems, and wishes my advice.”
“Wishes your money, more like,” Miriam says. “How much does he want?”
“Four hundred pounds,” Will admits.
“For how many prints?”
“He thought a hundred.”
“Then he must sell every one for five pounds, just to make a tiny profit,” Miriam says. “Why does he not ask Master Cromwell?”
“Miriam, it is only four hundred pounds.”
“Very well, but I must have control of the outlay. I wish to see the copy, and approve it. I will not spend hundreds and hundreds, on lilting love lyrics. His poems must be bawdy, and come across as quite rude.”
“What?” Will can scarcely believe what she says. “You want him to write … filth?”
“It is all that will sell well,” Miriam says. “Why, even your Holy Bible, when printed in English, must be given away to the churches. I shall invest five hundred, and expect two hundred volumes. At five pounds a turn, we will make a tidy profit, which we will split in half.”
“I do not know if Wyatt knows enough bawd to fill a book.”
“It need not have too many pages,” Miriam replies. “In fact, the fewer the better. That will keep costs down. Brother Mush, and Cromwell’s agents can start putting out a rumour that the book is so saucy, the churchmen wish it to be banned. Let it be known that it describes great men swiving, and court tarts simpering away their virginity.“
“Good God, what have I married?”
“Hints and promises, my dear.” Miriam winks at him across the wet sheets. “That way, it will sell out more quickly.”
“You are a marvel, my love,” Will says. “Do you never take a rest from making money for us?”
“I dare not,” Miriam says. “Especially now, when there is going to be another mouth to feed.”
“What, more guests?” Will Draper, the king’s best investigator takes a moment for it to sink home, then gasps in astonishment. “Again… and so soon?”
“I cannot think what is causing it,” Miriam says. “Will you still love me, when I grow fat again?”
“More than ever,” Will says. “This one shall be called Thomas, I think.”
“Or Thomasina,” Miriam says. “Master Cromwell will be honoured, either way.”
Will Draper can think of nothing better than another little Draper in the world. They are making more money than anyone can imagine, and are known, and liked, by the king. The new house, despite the recent arson attack, is going back up at a pace, and Miriam is introducing the most modern amenities into the design, much to the disgust of the builder, who cannot see the point of a fixed bath, when it would be used no more than three of four times a year. Nor could the poor fellow understand the need for tiled privies, with separate stalls.
“We are close to the river,” Miriam explains, time after time to the master builder and his men. “We will draw water into the house. I want a tank built, with an oven underneath it. My girls will stoke a fire, and heat water, for all the day long use.”
“It cannot be done.” The builder is, of course, wrong. Miriam has been reading in Cromwell’s library, and has the facts at her pretty fingertips.
“The Romans did it,” she says.
“They be dead, and long gone.”
“The Ottomans do it,” Miriam says, “and they are nothing more than heathens, are they not?”
“Even the king does not have such a thing.”
“Then he should have,” Miriam says to them. “Do this for me, and I will speak to my husband, who will speak to Henry, and the king will want exactly the same, but thirty fold. I shall recommend you, sir, and you will prosper.”
“Righto, lads,” the fellow says, at last. “Let us start work. If this fine lady wishes to shit in private, then so be it!”
The big, broadly built mariner is sitting in the hall of Austin Friars, when Cromwell returns. He stands, and bows, then offers his hand to shake.
“Master Cromwell, I believe I have you to thank for my new commission, and come to offer you my friendship. If ever I can be of some service to you, in any way… you have but to ask.”
“Excellent.” Thomas Cromwell ushers Admiral Travis into his library. “How do you feel about bombarding Tangiers for me, old fellow?”
“Tangiers?” Travis is taken by surprise. “Why would you wish me to do such a thing, Master Cromwell?”
“Gonçalo Mendes Sacoto, has just been appointed Governor of Tangiers, by the Portuguese.” Cromwell offers the admiral a seat by the fire. “They are allies of ours, but waver between us, and the French, in their struggle to keep the Spanish at bay.”
“So, you want me to capture Tangiers?” Travis is confused.
“Good heavens, no,” Cromwell explains. “I wish you to sail past the harbour, and fire a few cannonades against their walls.”
“It will do no harm,” the sailor advises. “The fortifications would need to be pounded for weeks.”
“I do not want any harm done,” Thomas Cromwell says. “Simply blow a few chunks out of the masonry, and sail off. Though you must be flying French colours at the time.”
“I see,” Travis laughs.
“The Portuguese will waver, until the French bombard Tangiers.”
“Precisely. They will ratify the treaty, at once, and ask for our help in defending their overseas possessions. The king will agree, and we will threaten the French with retaliation. They will protest … but that is what one expects. Henry will demand we build more ships, and let you loose along the Channel ports.”
“Then you seek war?”
“The opposite,” Cromwell says. “I seek to rob a lady of the money she needs to ruin me.” The king will start to think about arming England, and he will need every penny he can lay his hands on. The church confiscations will go into ship building, rather than Queen Anne’s purse. “France will not fight over a colony they do not actually want. They might try to raid our coast, but I am sure you can handle that. The king will pay a bounty for captured French warships … which we will split.”
“Halves?”
“Of course, Admiral Travis.”
“When do I sail?” the admiral asks.
“Soon,” Cromwell tells his new ally. “I await only a certain piece of news.”
“Father, come to bed, it is late,” Margaret Roper says, touching Sir Thomas More’s shoulder. He starts, and almost drops the parchment he has balanced on his knee.
“I cannot yet, daughter,” he says. Return to Roper, and be a goodly wife to him. I shall speak with you both tomorrow.”
“You read the document over and over, father,” Margaret says. “The words will not change.”
“But their meaning might,” More replies, rubbing his weary eyes. “If I can find one chink of light, I can use it to confound this prurient oath.”
Margaret leaves him then. She has read the draft of the Supreme Oath until it is fixed in her mind, and she cannot yet see a way around the clever wording. Rafe Sadler, Thomas Cromwell, and the rest of Henry’s fine lawyers, have done good job.
“I Margaret Roper do utterly testify, and declare, in my conscience, that the Kings Highness is the only Supreme Governor of this Realm,” she mutters to herself, “and all other of His Highnesses dominions and countries, as well in all spiritual, or ecclesiastical things or causes.” She ponders over this part, which grants the king sway over the church in England. “And that no foreign prince, person, prelate, State, or potentate, hath, or ought to have, any jurisdiction, power, superiorities, pre-eminence, or ecclesiastical or spiritual authority, within this Realm.”
She recognises that the foreign princes alluded to include, pre-eminently, Pope Clement, in Rome, and any other who may ever follow him into office.
“And therefore, I do utterly renounce, and forsake, all jurisdictions, powers, or authorities; and do promise that from henceforth I shall bear faithful, and true allegiance to the Kings Highness, his Heirs, and lawful successors,” she finishes. “and to my power shall assist, and defend, all that belongs to the king. So help me God.”
Every single exit is, seemingly, blocked, and every road leads back to that one, central question. My God, or my king? The oath puts duty to one’s king above duty to God, and even suggests that the two are indivisible. Margaret Roper knows, no matter how he reads it, that her father will never be able to take the great oath.
He will argue his case, and repel all attempts to sway him, but they will have their way in the end. Even if Thomas Cromwell, that most unlikely ally, moves as slowly as he can get away with, the end is inevitable. Within twelve, or eighteen months, her father will be condemned to death, for treason.
She slips back into her husband’s bed, and he enfolds her in his arms. She begins to weep. He squeezes her tighter to him.
“I know, my dearest one,” he says. “I know.”
Back in his chair by the dwindling fire, Sir Thomas More reads the oath through once more.
“Just one misplaced word, dear God, and I will argue them to a standstill,” he mutters. “My eyes grow weary. Show me the way, O Lord, that I might come into the grace of God, and confound those who would pervert your word.”
“Where is Brandon?” Henry’s casual question causes a flurry of action, and Thomas Cromwell is sent for, to give the king an answer. The Privy Councillor arrives at Whitehall Palace, armed with several good reasons why the Duke of Suffolk is absent at this time. Henry will have none of them.
“Ill, you say?” the king asks shaking his head. “Charles has never had a moment’s illness that I know of, and that would not keep him away from his dearest friend. There is a deeper reason, I fear, Master Cromwell, and I would have it, at once.”
“His Lordship might be out of sorts because of Your Highnesses own current good fortune,” Cromwell extemporises. In truth, he has thrown Brandon out of court, as a punishment for his recent attempt at stealing from the treasury, but dare not admit it.
“What, he resents me?” Henry is beginning to colour up, and his fists are clenching and unclenching.
“Never, sire!” Cromwell puts on his shocked expression. “It is just that he lost his dear wife … your sister … and you are about to become a father again. Perhaps he does not wish to mope about court, and ruin your happiness.”
“Ah, that is just like Charles. Noble to the last. Can a man ever have had a better friend, Thomas?”
“Indeed not, sire.” Cromwell sees what is coming, so uses it to make himself look better in Henry’s eyes. “Though his nobility of thought is misplaced. His duty is to be by the king’s side, during these last days of the queen’s confinement. His nobility might be misinterpreted as sulking by lesser men, such as…”
“Say it, Thomas, say it!” Henry wants someone to blame for his current state of boredom.
“The Earl of Wiltshire can be a little … over sensitive, sire,” Cromwell says. “Then again, George, whom you have forgiven for his attack against you…”
“Against me?” Henry is confused.
“Why yes, sire. He sought to do damage to your Official Examiner, which constitutes an attack on the king. He is fortunate indeed, as to whom his sister is.”
“Yes, the Boleyns take far too much for granted,” Henry says. “I want Charles back in court. He is my friend. Then find some little way that I might slight Boleyn, and his idiot son. Nothing too harsh, for I would not upset the queen for all the world.”
“Now you mention it, sire… there is one thing.” Thomas Cromwell cannot believe his luck at how easily he can use that which Rafe Sadler has just brought to his attention. “One of your people came to me, but this morning, worried that a royal prerogative has been usurped.”
“How so?”
“Wiltshire, Your Majesty.” Cromwell explains. “It seems that there has never been a previous Earl of Wiltshire. Now, whenever the king decides to create an entirely new dukedom, it is his prerogative to appoint the holder.”
“Naturally.” Henry understands this well enough, as no king would allow lesser men to choose his earls, or dukes, for him. In the past, English kings have been served badly, by those with too much power. It is Henry’s maxim that he will bestow position where it is deserved, but not too much, and not too often. “As the father of my wife, Thomas Boleyn should have an earldom, which will devolve onto George, his idiot son.”
“As it should be, sire, but it is the custom for those chosen, to pay an enfeoffment to the king, to show his loyalty.” Thomas Cromwell raises a finger to his lips, as if he finds this talk of huge wealth to be a little distasteful to him. “Your man showed me the rules, concerning these very rare, and wonderful, endowments. They are enshrined in our laws, and date from the time of the first King William.”
“William the Bastard, they used to call the fellow,” Henry digresses. “Though he must have been a fearsome wager of war. I have his blood in me, no doubt.”
“Quite, sire.” Cromwell pauses, waits for the king to settle again, then continues. “The amount due, can vary from one tenth, up to a full quarter part of the estate’s overall value.”
“I say!” Henry is smiling now. He glances across the throne room, and s
ees Thomas Boleyn, 1st Earl of Wiltshire, chatting to Sir Edward Crompton, who acts as the king’s chief lackey, whenever The Duke of Suffolk is away. “This might be a merry jest to make, Thomas. Have him over.”
Thomas Cromwell bows, and whispers to Rafe Sadler, who bows in return, and goes across the room, to fetch Thomas Boleyn from his small corner. The Earl of Wiltshire sees Rafe coming towards him, and turns his back, slightly, as if to exclude him from any conversation. Rafe Sadler does not even pause. He taps the man, quite rudely, on the shoulder, and plucks at his sleeve, until the earl is forced to acknowledge him.
“The king would have a word, Boleyn,” he says, roughly, and the earl can hardly control his rage. About him, people have noticed the deliberate insult, and are beginning to snigger and laugh at him, behind their cupped hands. “At once!”
“Keep your hands to yourself, fellow,” Boleyn snaps, but not loud enough for the king to hear. “Else my cousin will hear of it.”
“Your cousin, who is also your son-in-law?” Rafe Sadler sneers. “What a complicated family tree for any dog to sniff around, sir. I think that you have more to worry about than I do. Whilst I think on it, Master Cromwell’s first repayment is due at month’s end. Three thousand four hundred pounds, and some shillings, I believe. See you do not renege on it … fellow.” He walks away, forcing Thomas Boleyn to fall in behind, like some naughty child, going to the head master.
“Master Cromwell, here is the earl,” Rafe says to his old master. “As you commanded.”
“Ah, yes. Your Majesty, here is Thomas Boleyn, as you commanded.”
“My title is My Lord.” Boleyn cannot refrain from protecting his public stature. He sees himself as but a step down from Henry, and many steps above the likes of Thomas Cromwell. Only Tom Howard, Duke of Norfolk, has a higher opinion of himself, and he sees the throne as his family’s entitlement.
“It seems not,” the king says, chuckling. “For you have not yet paid me an enfeoffment, my dear father-in-law. You do know what an enfeoffment is, do you not, father-in-law? Master Cromwell tells me that it is customary, nay … statutory … in such cases.”
