by Derek Wilson
Coverdale vigorously shook his head. ‘I can say quite firmly that his faith was sincere. Certainly he had to be cautious about expressing it. There were always enemies ready to pluck him down. But among trusted friends he spoke freely – and entertainingly. He was always welcome in Cambridge.’
‘He paid visits to the university? I have heard nothing of this. When was it?’
‘In the early twenties, soon after he entered Wolsey’s service. The cardinal was founding a new college in Oxford and he sent Cromwell as his agent – dissolving small religious houses and confiscating their assets, but also seeking the best teachers in the land. That was what brought him to Cambridge.’
‘Were there not enough good scholars in Oxford?’
‘In Oxford!’ Coverdale laughed. ‘Certainly not. They were – still are – cramped and bigoted Aristotelians. In Cambridge we were not afraid to explore new ideas.’
‘And to read banned books?’
‘Even that. We had some of the most independent-minded scholars in England. That was what attracted Cromwell. He wanted the cardinal’s college to be a beacon of advanced thinking, a centre of learning to rival any other in Europe.’
We had now arrived at the quay. Between the gentle-nodding masts of the moored ships we could see lights on the far bank of the Scheldt reflected in the water. We paused, breathing in the cool evening air drifting across the river.
My companion sighed. ‘Ah, those were brave days, exciting days, stimulating days.’
‘Tell me about them,’ I urged.
‘I will do the best I can and rely on your poet’s imagination to make up for my inadequacies.’ Coverdale pointed to some empty crates that were waiting to be cleared away. He took his seat on one and I occupied another. ‘They were happy days. We were a very daring band of modern progressive thinkers,’ he began, ‘mostly young men studying for their first degree, but some were senior university teachers and there were also several of my colleagues from the friary. We gathered often, but irregularly, in a tavern close by the river. It was called the White Horse. I think the authorities never quite realized how dangerous some of the books were that we were reading and discussing, or if they did, they turned a blind eye, not wanting to stifle our eager young minds. Let me try to paint the scene for you:
‘You are in a smallish room. By the time there are two score people there, it is on the verge of seeming crowded – the more so as the door and casements are fast shut against the damp, fenland air. It is late spring, so though the dinner hour is past, there is still sufficient light for us to dispense with the need for lamps.
‘Rows of benches and stools are arranged in circles, leaving a space at the centre for whoever is addressing the assembly. Today the main speaker is Robert Barnes, the prior of the local Augustinian house. No one in Cambridge – or perhaps in all England – has shown a greater interest in the renegade German monk who has recently been denounced not only by the Pope but also by the young Emperor, Charles V, and the imperial diet. Today, he has come to introduce the Wittenberg monk’s recently published diatribe against monastic vows. We all listen attentively as he presents Luther’s case that the life of the religious order is without the warrant of Holy Scripture.
‘After several minutes we are aware of a slight disturbance behind us. A late arrival has crept into the room and there is some shuffling of seats as space is made for him to sit. Prior Barnes breaks off his discourse to address the newcomer. “Ah, I see my lord cardinal’s emissary has found our little gathering. Welcome, Master Cromwell.” As all eyes turn to see him, Cromwell stands and bows, his lips set in that slightly cynical smile we came to know so well. “My apologies for my late arrival, Master Barnes. Pray continue.”
‘Our distinguished visitor makes no contribution to the questions and the debate that follows Barnes’s discourse. But he lingers and is still present when the company has dwindled to some ten or a dozen people. He thanks the prior warmly for his address. “You agree, then, with Luther that the monastic orders should be abolished?” someone inevitably asks. Cromwell’s reply is measured, like that of someone trained in the divinity schools. “As I read his argument, it is that God does not grade Christians, regarding some as spiritual nobility and the rest of us as mere peasants in the Church. I see no flaw in that argument. If we are allowed to make any distinctions it must surely be on the basis of holy living. Would you not agree?”
‘As the conversation moves on and inn servants enter with lamps something interesting happens. The seating arrangement changes. Without thinking, we move our stools and benches to make a smaller circle – and at the centre of it is Master Cromwell. The company listens enthralled as he talks about his travels – enthralled and amused.
‘“Rome has more priests and monks than any city in Europe,” he declares, and pauses while he looks round his audience. “And Rome has more whores than any other city in Europe. I wonder why that should be.” A young student from St John’s College takes the question seriously. “My father, who has travelled much, says that Italians have the loosest morals of all the nations of Europe.” “Then your father is a shrewd observer,” Cromwell replies. “All Italians owe a great debt to Rome and its clergy. Their example has liberated the nation from the restraints of true religion. You may take it as a rule that the nearer a nation comes to the Roman Curia the less religion it has.” “That is your honest opinion,” the young Johnian replies. Cromwell laughs. “No, that is the opinion of one of the more remarkable Florentines of the age, Niccolò Machiavelli. You may have heard of him.” “I know him for a scurrilous, amoral rogue,” an aged friar says indignantly. Cromwell nods sagely. “I see no flaw in that argument. The clergy are less priests of God than pimps of the devil.” The friar falls into the trap. “I suppose that is another of Machiavelli’s libellous taunts.” “No,” says Cromwell. “Those are the words of St Bridget, spoken nigh on two hundred years ago.” The retort brings a roar of laughter. It is in high spirits that the meeting breaks up and we all make our way back to our various lodgings.’
‘You bring the scene vividly to life, Master Coverdale,’ I said. ‘I certainly recognize that younger Cromwell as the man I knew all too briefly during my time at the English court five years ago. Did he come often to your meetings at the White Horse?’
‘No,’ my companion replied, as we resumed our walk. ‘He really came in search of teachers for Wolsey’s college, but he genuinely enjoyed the company of academics. He always lamented the lack of a university education – though he achieved more through self-tuition than many men who lecture in the schools. The Italian influence on him was very strong. He arrived there just at the right time. He was young, impressionable. In Florence he found himself in the company of a generation of brilliant artists, writers, poets and preachers. I envy him that.’
‘Do you know how he came by the works of Luther?’ I asked.
‘No. He was a voracious reader and could devour books – in Latin, English, Italian, French – at great speed. He once told me that he had read Erasmus’s rewriting of the New Testament while riding homeward from Rome – and consigned much of it to memory. It was he who urged me to take up the study of Hebrew in order to have the whole Bible Englished.’
‘This was, then, a long-term project of his?’
‘Oh yes, a cherished dream. He knew the king would never accept any translation that had Tyndale’s name attached to it, so from his early days at the royal court he gave his patronage to scholars who could complete Tyndale’s work.’
We had by now reached the English House. On entering the common room we found Stephen Vaughan and John Rogers deep in conversation. Vaughan looked up with a welcoming smile. ‘And here he is,’ he said.
‘That suggests you have been talking about me,’ I observed as Coverdale and I took our seats with them close by the hearth.
‘Indeed we have. We are
still concerned about your journey back to Navarre,’ Rogers replied.
‘John is right,’ Vaughan said. ‘I would not recommend anyone to make such an overland journey unless he was part of a large and well-armed group.We understand your reluctance to make another sea voyage, but if you permit we would like to put one of our pinnaces at your disposal. We keep three swift vessels for carrying urgent messages. Their masters are ever ready to sail at short notice and they know well the coastal waters on this side of the Channel. One of them shall take you as far as Bordeaux and you may travel on from there either by river or by road. As well as being safer, this will take half the time of an overland voyage.’
The Master of the English House would brook no contradiction and it was soon arranged that I would depart on the next day’s afternoon tide aboard the Swallow, commanded by Edward Harries. Soon afterwards Rogers and Coverdale took their leave. I was about to do the same when Vaughan said, ‘There is one more thing I wanted to discuss with you. My offer of safe transport was not, I confess, made out of pure Christian charity. I have my own reasons for wanting you to come safe home to Nérac. I have delayed my own departure for Brussels because I wish you to undertake a commission. For the love you bore our mutual friend, I hope you will agree to it.’
‘Anything I can do—’
‘No, pray do not agree until you have heard what it is.’
‘This all sounds very serious.’
‘Indeed, indeed.’ After a long pause, he continued. ‘Thomas was a great man, as, please God, one day the world will know. We cannot save his life, but perhaps we can rescue his reputation.’
‘How so?’
‘Thomas always thought ahead. It was one of his many great gifts. He knew that his enemies might one day triumph and that, if they destroyed him, they would set themselves to destroying his work. They would raid his office, confiscate all his papers and use them to implicate others. Gardiner and Norfolk would stop at nothing in tracking down men committed, as was Thomas, to spreading God’s truth.’
‘I have certainly experienced something of their zeal.’
‘Then you know that there are others whose lives are in danger. But, as I say, Thomas out-thought his foes. He made sure they would not find any documents that could be used to put his friends and colleagues in danger. Copies of letters sent to those who shared his love of the Gospel he kept separate from all his other correspondence. They were locked in a special coffer kept by his most trusted servant. When his master was arrested, that servant made haste to bring the coffer here to Antwerp, to me. I want to entrust it to you.’
7
Home
I was stunned, and for some moments unable to respond. ‘To me?’ I gasped. ‘But why? What can I—’
‘I realize this is no small request, but I beg you to think of it as Thomas who asks. Should Gardiner send his hounds to Antwerp – as well he may – they will find nothing, and they will never think of invading the court of Navarre. Why should they? Nowhere will these papers be safer. I believe God brought you to Antwerp as sure as he brought Jonah to Nineveh. Will you accept your destiny?’
While I was still contemplating a suitable response, Vaughan continued. ‘As to what you are to do with Thomas’s papers, I know not. What I do know is that God will not allow his truth to be veiled and kept from men’s eyes. Please, Nicholas, keep safe Thomas Cromwell’s secrets until they can be revealed and can put to shame the liars and calumniators who destroyed God’s servant and foolishly thought they could destroy God’s work.’
‘You really believe Gardiner’s triumph will be short-lived?’
‘Did not Christ himself promise that the gates of hell would not prevail against the Church? Who would ever have thought to see the power of the Bishop of Rome broken in England, the papal bastions of the monasteries pulled down, God’s word set up in every church for all to read – and this all in a mere ten years? When my fellow countrymen realize how much they owe to Thomas Cromwell, they will cherish his memory and clear away the lies and insults that have been daubed over his reputation.’
The memory flashed into my mind of that word ‘Heretic’ painted on the wall of Cromwell’s London house.
Vaughan’s beardless jaw was firm-set and the lamplight reflected in his eyes gave him the appearance of a fervent preaching friar. That image remained vivid in my mind long after I had reached my bed. I knew that he was right – no man deserves to have his name blackened for posterity.
The chest entrusted to my care the following forenoon was smaller than I had expected – some three feet in width and half as much for the other dimensions – but it was of thick oak and iron-bound, with a German lock and concealed keyhole which Vaughan revealed to me once we were aboard the Swallow. He saw Cromwell’s coffer safely stowed beneath my berth in the main cabin before bidding me farewell.
As the ship slid easily down the long Scheldt estuary I passed much of the time gazing out over the flat landscape and getting to know Harries and his crew, but whenever I retreated to my own quarters I reflected on what I had learned from my travels. And the more I thought, the less I understood. At the outset my unwanted mission had seemed a simple one: to learn one man’s fate. Well, that had not been difficult. Thomas Cromwell was beyond the reach of everything except prayer. Rien de plus à dire. And yet, as I had discovered, there was very much more to say. The man was dead. Yet his reputation loomed larger than his corporeal presence. Everyone I spoke to was poring over the book of Cromwell’s life, bestowing, as it were, immortality upon him. And who was the man who emerged from this scrutiny, this cacophony of judgements? Who was Thomas Cromwell? Was he the fearless promoter of the Gospel of my memories? Or Wyatt’s faithful friend? Or one of the characters described by others – a tyrant’s time-serving lackey, an ambitious dynast, a miscreant with a shameful past that had to be kept hidden, an impious hypocrite, an ill-bred social climber, an untutored churl pretending to knowledge beyond his meagre ability, a philosopher à l’italien, a cynical pragmatist? Was he perchance an actor of genius, capable of playing all these roles? Socrates had declared that a man who would leave a good reputation must choose the personality he wishes to project and then study to live up to it. How, then, did Thomas Cromwell wish to be remembered? The more I pondered the question, the more I wondered about the contents of the box that lay beneath my recumbent form every time I settled myself to sleep.
And yet I did not open the box. I had not been forbidden to scrutinize the contents. Whether or not Vaughan was familiar with them he did not say and I did not ask. I suppose that his immediate concern had been to be rid of evidence that might have spelled danger for himself as well as others, and that beyond this he had given little thought to Cromwell’s secrets. His only instruction had been to keep the box safe until some future date when he would come to collect it.
The days passed. The voyage was calm. The sea unruffled. Occasionally I played chess with Master Harries, who proved himself a cunning adversary. I gave some thought to the report I would make to the queen. Beyond that I had nothing to occupy my mind. And yet I did not open the box. It was not for want of curiosity. Quite the reverse. The oaken chest seemed to peer out from the overhanging bedclothes, begging me, challenging me to take the key to it and rifle its contents, like some dockside strumpet, prompting, cajoling, tempting me to possess her.
Cromwell’s box was still virgo intacta when it was unloaded on the quay at Bordeaux. I had sent word on ahead to Nérac and was met by one of my stable lads with horses and a wagon. After an overnight stay at Marmende, I rode into Nérac on a dank afternoon that threatened to bring a storm down from the hills. Yet, grey as the day was, my own house had never looked more attractive.
After dinner I settled in my study before a good fire with a flagon of hippocras on the hearth and a dish of comfits on a table beside me and worked my way through the letters that had multiplied in my absenc
e. Of course, I dealt first with the ones from the queen, written from the French royal court. There were three of them and they made no happy reading.
God, I think, has cursed my family with a contrary nature. I know not which is the more stubborn, my brother the king or my daughter Jeanne. His Highness is determined on her marriage to Duke William of Cleves and will listen to no entreaties. And for what purpose? I see no advantage to France in such an alliance. Even less now that Harry of England has rid himself of Anne, the duke’s sister. Yet so great is Francis’ hatred of the Emperor Charles that he will do anything to annoy him. So poor Jeanne’s back and buttocks bear the red wheals of the king’s determination. Her only response is to swear that if she is taken to Paris for the wedding she will jump into the Seine. I, God help me, am caught between the two . . .
Sire, in my extreme desolation I have only one solace: the certain knowledge that neither I nor the King of Navarre, my husband, have any other desire than to obey you, not only with regard to this marriage, but in whatever you may commend in this life. But now, Sire, having understood that my daughter, not appreciating the great honour you bestowed in deigning to visit her, nor the obedience she owes you, nor also that a daughter can never follow her own inclinations, clings to her folly and begs that you will not compel her to marry the Duke of Cleves, there is nothing I can think or say. I am plunged into extreme misery and have no kith or kin who can offer me counsel or consolation.
