by Derek Wilson
‘What brings you to England, Master Bourbon?’ he asked.
‘To renew old friendships, My Lord.’
‘When were you last here?’
‘More than five years ago.’
‘You will find much changed in those five years.’ The speaker was an older, clean-shaven man who spoke with an air of wistfulness. ‘Many friendships have not survived those changes.’
The third member of the group gave a snort of a laugh. ‘Listen not to dismal John Poyntz. He will tell you the world runs, will-he-nill-he, from bad to worse.’
‘And George Blagge will tell you that all’s well in this kingdom,’ Poyntz retorted. ‘Well, it may be so for the king’s “little pig”, as His Majesty calls him, but we do not all choose to tune conscience to the ever-changing pitch of the royal lute.’ Poyntz nodded, turned abruptly and walked away.
The smile faded from Blagge’s round face. ‘That oldster needs to watch his tongue. There are some would read treason in his words.’
‘Well,’ Hertford said, ‘he is taking himself from danger. His Majesty has given permission for Poyntz to retire from the court to his country estate.’
‘It is as well,’ Blagge sighed. ‘I doubt not it is today’s event at Tyburn which has unchained his tongue.’
‘Tyburn?’ I asked.
‘Aye, Tyburn, Master Bourbon. ’Tis the hanging place nigh Newgate. I wonder you have not heard what occurred there this morning. A dozen papists were despatched. Some were close-bosomed with Poyntz.’
‘You mean that men are still being executed for the old religion?’ I asked. ‘The stories I have been hearing since I arrived are of people jailed and tried for Lutheranism. Is it not true that hundreds have been rounded up in London alone since Lord Cromwell’s fall?’
‘Aye,’ Hertford agreed, ‘true indeed. Though His Majesty is loth to unleash a Spanish-style inquisition here – a bitter herb for Gardiner and his ilk to swallow just when they were savouring the taste of heretic blood.’
‘I own my mind is a-jangle with all this. What is the religion of Englishmen?’
Blagge’s abrupt laugh rang out again. Then, in a tone little above a whisper, ‘Welcome to King Harry’s England, Master Bourbon.’
It is difficult to have a people entirely opposed to new Errors which does not hold with the ancient authority of the Church and of the Holy see, or, on the other hand, hating the Pope, which does not share some opinions with the Germans. Yet the government will not have either the one or the other, but insists on their keeping what is commanded, which is so often altered that it is different opinion in the morning than after dinner . . .
(Report of Ambassador Charles de Marillac to King Francis, 6 August 1540)
Lord Hertford was quick to respond. ‘At the least we may be thankful that it is not Cromwell’s England.’
‘By which you mean a Lutheran England?’ I asked.
He scowled and it was as though a window was briefly thrown open, revealing what lay within. ‘I mean an England ruled by a Putney churl, using religion to enrich himself and reach out for the crown.’
Blagge protested. ‘My Lord, I cannot think—’
‘Indeed, little pig, you cannot – or you choose not to.’ Hertford pointed an accusing finger.
‘That cozening, holy-mouthed trickster was boasting only weeks since that he had almost all things in place to make himself master—’
At that moment we were summoned to table. The diners were, of course, seated in order of rank and I found myself towards the lower end of the long board. My neighbours were minor courtiers and members of the French diplomatic staff. Conversation ranged widely over many subjects as course followed course. I was quizzed on the latest Paris fashions and I had much to ask about affairs in England. There was, initially, an obvious reticence about answering my more probing questions but, as the meal progressed, self-censorship relaxed – and I realized why. Marillac’s servants were assiduous in ensuring that members of the royal household had their cups well filled while the ambassador’s own men exercised a noticeable degree of abstinence. Tongues gradually loosened and I had no doubt that morsels of court gossip and unguarded remarks were being carefully noted for reference back to the French ambassador.
There was one of our company who showed less reticence about airing his opinions. His name was John Lascelles, one of the king’s attendants in the privy chamber. It appeared that he was of a good county family and had studied the law before being promoted to royal service as a result of Cromwell’s patronage. I took advantage of the young man’s legal knowledge to seek clarification of something I had heard since my arrival in England.
‘Is it true that your strange treason law in England applies not merely to active plots but also to disloyal words?’
The young man stared across dishes of venison pasties and partridges stewed with apricots, a frown of concentration on his face. ‘By the Act of fifteen thirty-four, chapter thirteen,’ he recited, ‘it is accounted high treason “to slanderously and maliciously publish and pronounce, by express writing or words, that the king our sovereign lord should be heretic, schismatic, tyrant, infidel or usurper of the crown”.’
‘Fifteen thirty-four?’ I mused. ‘Then this statute was made while Cromwell had the control of parliament and the framing of law. He made a net with a fine mesh – one to catch all manner of fish.’
‘It certainly caught Cromwell!’ someone farther down the table called out, at which there was much laughter.
Lascelles did not join the mirth. ‘Nay, ’twas for papists the law was made, and papists such as the Duke of Norfolk who compassed Lord Cromwell’s doom. But God is not mocked. You will see.’ He stared around the company, fiery-eyed. ‘His Majesty will rue the day he let Norfolk, Gardiner and the Romish hellhounds hunt down Lord Cromwell. Their time will come.’
Lascelles was suddenly aware that the hum of conversation had ceased and that several pairs of eyes were fastened on him. He raised his cup to his lips and took a long draught while calm was restored.
Later, as I was taking my leave of our host, George Blagge approached. ‘Do you travel back to the city?’ he asked.
‘I do.’
‘May I share your wherry? There is some business in London I must attend to.’
‘Certainly. I shall be glad of the company.’
Minutes later, as a westering sun speckled the river around us, we sat side by side in the stern of a Thames boat being rowed downstream by a sturdy, red-capped waterman.
‘What impression of England’s leaders will you be taking back to France?’ my companion asked. ‘Is the confusion you spoke of earlier lessened?’
‘Not a whit, I fear. You seem like sailors on a ship, all trying to grab the tiller now that the helmsman has been thrown overboard.’
‘You mean Cromwell. ’Tis an apt image.’
‘To judge by today’s company he was loved and hated in equal measure depending on whether men shared or rejected his religion. But he was, at least, steering a steady course. Now—’
‘Yes and no, Master Bourbon,’ Blagge interrupted. ‘Yes and no. I would not have you return to France thinking our divisions here so simply explained. For example, Lord Hertford—’
‘He certainly hated Cromwell.’
‘So you would think from his words today, would you not? Would it surprise you then to know that the Seymours and the Cromwells have equally strong kindred ties to the king?’
‘I know that Lord Hertford was brother to the late queen.’
‘Aye, but His Lordship has another sister, Elizabeth, who still lives. Now, who do you suppose she is married to? Why, no other than Gregory Cromwell, the son of the “traitor” whose execution the king sanctioned.’
‘So that is why Hertford is at pains to distance himself from his sister’s father-in-law?’<
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‘’Twas all very different but a few months ago. Then, Edward Seymour and Thomas Cromwell were bosom companions, comrades in arms – or, rather, comrades in intrigue. They forged an alliance that seemed unchallengeable. They were ideally placed to seize power when the time comes.’
‘What mean you by that?’
Blagge fell silent, his attention apparently absorbed in watching a swan with a flotilla of cygnets. I had to prompt him to explain his statement.
‘’Tis all about families.’ The courtier pointed to the birds, now drifting astern. ‘Mothers and children. Sires and heirs. Our king is about fifty years old and not the robust, hearty athlete he once was – though he will not admit it. All our troubles these last ten years and more have been brought upon us by His Majesty’s determination to have a son to inherit his crown. Two wives failed him and so had to be disposed of. He would not look abroad for a replacement – that would tie him to a foreign alliance. So he had to choose from among families of the leading nobility. That, in turn, meant that ambitious courtiers and their kin were jostling one another to place their girls where the royal eyes might light upon them.’
‘I recall well that when Anne Boleyn was Henry’s consort her uncle Thomas Howard, Duke of Norfolk, ruled all at court.’
‘Aye, and when she fell it was the Seymour family who won the next round in the contest – with not a little help from Cromwell. All went well for them until Queen Jane Seymour died. So the competition began all over again.’
‘And has now been won by the Howard clan once more.’
‘Aye. Cromwell, having no English girl at his disposal, tried to interest his master in a foreign match with the German princess from Cleves, while Norfolk produced another as a rival. Now we know who won this time. The Howards and their supporters only need to await the inevitable and they will control the government of the new king.’
‘And Lord Hertford?’
‘He sits and gnashes his teeth over the prize snatched from him. He kept his distance while his old ally fell and now loudly protests his hatred of “Cromwell the upstart”, “Cromwell the heretic”, for all the world to hear – especially the king. For a while, he even pursued a marriage alliance with Norfolk – a man he hates most heartily.’
‘So religion was not the cause of Cromwell’s fall?’
Blagge gave his snort of a laugh. ‘Heresy? Just an accusation used to frighten the king. Religion was never the real reason. Weigh it in the balance against dynasty, ambition and power, and which, think you, will be the heavier?’
‘Do you believe that Cromwell was equally tainted with these sins? Was he too a man who wore faith like a cloak to be donned and removed at will?’ A vivid picture came to mind: five or six friends gathered round a table and Cromwell at the head, Bible open before him and works by Erasmus and others ready to hand; candles burning lower and lower as our host expounded the word of God with a zeal and knowledge equalled by few popular preachers. ‘I can scarcely believe—’
With a movement as sudden as it was intense Blagge gripped my wrist with his gloved hand. ‘I know well what memories you carry: Cromwell the genial host; Cromwell the erudite conversationalist; Cromwell the passionate defender of the Gospel.’
‘And you believe that all this was a facade – a cynical, hypocritical pretence?’
The grip tightened. ‘Not at all. Such specious reasoning may serve his enemies; those set to besmirch his reputation. We who called His Lordship “friend” know better than to look on him through the crazed glass of prejudice. The truth is more complex: Thomas Cromwell was the most gregarious recluse in England.’
I shook off Blagge’s hand with the pretence of waving away some hovering insect and made a light-hearted response. ‘I was ever a dunce at riddles.’
‘Then think not to understand Lord Cromwell. He was a walking riddle.’
The unease that had been growing in me through the day now swelled into anxiety. I felt like someone who has set out to walk in pleasant woodland, only to find himself struggling through clinging undergrowth among close-growing forest trees obscuring the light.
‘My memory is this,’ Blagge continued. ‘His Lordship was the most congenial of hosts and the most generous of patrons. He was ever affable; approachable to suitors of all degrees. That was the public Cromwell. The private Cromwell was a hermit, chained for long hours to his desk, working through sleepless nights writing letters, evolving policies, making plans with the ceaseless devotion of an anchorite at his prayers.’
‘He was an exceedingly busy man,’ I suggested.
‘Indeed, none busier. He involved himself in every aspect of royal business. There was no aspect of the king’s affairs he did not master. But . . .’
Blagge fell silent and I had to prompt him to continue. ‘You think that secrecy was an obsession . . . that he had things to hide – things he was ashamed or afraid to reveal?’
My companion shrugged. ‘There were many stories. All anyone really knows is that he spent some years in Italy, that he returned having gained some expertise in mercantile law and that he joined the household of Cardinal Wolsey when that proud prelate was at the height of his power. Of course, what men did not know, they made up: Cromwell was a rakehell who fled abroad to escape the law; Cromwell had married a foreign widow and made away with her fortune.’
‘Why were people so eager to blacken his name?’
‘That is easy to answer. The hated Wolsey fell from power . . . when was it?’ Blagge mused. ‘Ten years ago. It seems longer. So much has happened since. It was something many men had longed to see. There were several councillors who hoped to step into his shoes. Everyone expected the king to choose one of the bishops or leading noblemen to become the second most powerful man in the land. You can scarcely imagine the shock when the news went round that Henry had elevated a nobody, a mere lawyer, to the chief place in his counsels. Cromwell was resented and hated from the very beginning.’
‘I suppose that would have given him a good reason to keep his past very secret.’
‘Aye, that may well be so. Which of us is blameless? We have all done things we would not willingly lay on the table for other men to embroider into scandals. To be sure, there may have been things he kept close for good purpose. Perhaps the answer lies over there.’
I looked in the direction of the courtier’s pointing finger. Just coming into view on the south bank was a moored ferry, a waterside inn and, clustered beyond them, a squat church with a square tower and several modest houses. It was no more remarkable than any of the other villages that clung to the Thames and owed their existence to it.
‘Putney,’ Blagge declared. ‘Over there some fifty or more years ago a baby was born who was destined to become second in power only to the king. That much we know. And that little we know.’
As the rhythm of the ferryman’s oars carried us steadily downriver I gazed across the water. Four people and a dog stood outside the inn. One man was waving his arms. An argument? A tale being told with graphic gestures? I could not know and never would know. Was it the same with Cromwell? Would he remain in death, as in life, an enigma, a gregarious recluse?
It was dusk by the time we reached Westminster, where George Blagge said goodbye and went about his business. I was rowed the short extra distance to St Paul’s Stairs, where I landed and walked, via the cathedral yard, to Cheapside. As I approached the inn I was looking forward to the seclusion of my room. I decided to order a posset and enjoy it slowly while I reflected on all I had seen and heard that day. Arriving at the sign of the Sun I made my wishes known to the innkeeper’s wife.
She looked at me anxiously. ‘Master Bourbon, here are two gentlemen who have been waiting for you an hour or more.’ She indicated a couple of men wearing livery surcoats, seated by the hearth.
I walked across and introduced myself. They stood, faces expressionless.
The taller man spoke. ‘Master Bourbon, I greet you well in the name of His Grace the Bishop of Winchester. He presents his compliments and would have words with you.’
I tried to reply in the same detached manner, though my heart was pounding. ‘I am grateful to His Grace. Please let him know that I will be delighted to call on him tomorrow.’
He shook his head, unsmiling. ‘Our orders are to escort you to him in Southwark now. We have a horse ready for you in the yard.’
It was clear that Bishop Gardiner’s men would countenance no delay.
3
London
In hindsight I can see that my interview with, or rather interrogation by, Bishop Gardiner was the incident that began a change in my attitude towards Thomas Cromwell and his legacy. What had begun as the curiosity of an interested outsider was developing into something more personal. At the time I was but scantily aware of what was happening. Part of me was resisting involvement – something that was evident from the detailed description of my clash with Gardiner that I wrote to the queen in the following letter and sent via Ambassador Marillac.
Serene Highness, in my youth I was put to a tutor much given to repeating old proverbs and wise saws. He made us boys commit many such to memory. Though this was tedious to me then, I have ever since had cause to bless my mentor. For as King Solomon wrote, ‘The words of the wise are as goads or staves studded with painful nails for a shepherd to drive his sheep.’* One of my old mentor’s adages was, ‘A scholar may change his mind but the foolish sluggard never will.’ Until yesterday I was the sluggard. Your Highness sent me hither to learn of Lord Cromwell’s fate. That task was soon accomplished. Our old friend is dead and, with him, all hope ended of a treaty with the Lutherans and the greater purifying of religion here. Or so I thought. Until yesterday. St Paul, writing of Abel, slain by his brother, tells us that ‘he being dead yet speaks’.† The same I believe to be true of Thomas Cromwell. People think to be rid of him. Some rejoice. Some mourn, though not openly. And some fear. Aye, fear, Highness, as though those who were against him feel his presence still and are threatened by it.
