by Derek Wilson
Why come ye not to court?
To which court?
To the king’s court
Or to Hampton Court?
Nay, to the king’s court!
The king’s court
Should have the excellence
But Hampton Court
Hath the pre-eminence,
And York Place,
With my lord’s grace
To whose magnificence
Is all the confluence of
Suits and supplications,
Embassies of all nations.
Straw for law canon
Or for law common
Or for law civil
It shall be as he wills . . .
Be it sour, be it sweet,
His wisdom is so partial
That in a rage or heat:
‘Warden, off to the Fleet!
Set him fast by the feet!
And by his royal power,
When he chooses to lower,
Then have him to the tower,
Without any remedy.
Haul him forth by and by
To the Marshalsea
To the King’s Bench.’
He entrenches himself so deep
In the court royal
That he ruleth them all.
(John Skelton, ‘Why come ye not to court?’)
This was not the only talk I heard during those Christmas festivities that brought together the names of Cardinal Wolsey and Lord Cromwell. The execution of the late minister was still vivid in people’s memories and it served to re-embellish recollections of the previous minister’s death, ten years earlier. Such is our love of making tidy the unruly affairs of men that the fates of the two royal servants became paralleled in many minds. Were not Wolsey and Cromwell both base born? Had they not both been a prey to overmastering ambition? Did they not both trample down many greater than themselves in their relentless march to power? Had not the king been deceived by them? Was not England much the poorer for their mishandling of power? So, it seemed, many English people reasoned.
For myself, I was fascinated to be in this place where Cromwell had first tasted real political power. It was here that he and Wolsey had earmarked monastic houses for closure and here that Cromwell had advised the cardinal on the statutes for his impressive new college. It took little imagination to picture hopeful Cambridge academics, handpicked by Cromwell for their bold and fashionable opinions, arriving for interview and hoping to be appointed to the teaching staff at Oxford. Could it have been Cromwell, I wondered, as I gazed up at the terracotta roundels decorating the gatehouse, who had recommended the Italian artist responsible for those elegant depictions of Roman emperors? It must have been here, in this very place, that ideas and convictions formed in Florence first hardened into reality – not just in the solidity of this imposing stone and brick edifice, but in the fabric of the nation.
Later, when the festivities began, the multitude crammed on to benches in a specially erected banqueting house, since the great hall could not contain all the lavish king’s guests. I was fortunate in being among those welcomed into the hall and able to glimpse the king and queen and the other occupants of the high table. We all, of any estate, feasted on a seemingly endless succession of exotic dishes set before us. Sweating servants came up from the kitchens in a procession bearing roasted peacocks decked in their plumage, and swans, partridges, quails, also lavishly presented. There was venison and also that rare delicacy the boar’s head to be tasted. Pies, pasties and spiced cakes abounded, as did sweetmeats elaborately fashioned into the shapes of crowns, towers and ships. Nor did the stewards stint on serving wine. We all had our fill and more than our fill.
As we ate and drank, mummers, dancers and singers performed and, when the tables were at last cleared to make a space, the Lord of Misrule and his outrageously clad acolytes amused the audience with their fooleries and antics. On more than one occasion I found myself trying to picture Thomas Cromwell in this setting. It was difficult. Not because the man I had met some five years previously was mirthless. He had a fund of witty stories – some scurrilous. Indeed, on my travels I had learned of pranks he had been involved in as a young man. Yet he never forgot himself in pleasure. He never, for example, overdrank. Always, that keen mind was in command. Always, those deep-set eyes were alert, probing, taking in every detail. Always, his tongue was well guarded. I recalled the answer he had given when a friend chided him for being taciturn: ‘’Tis as God’s word says: “Everything has its due time; a time for talk and a time for silence; a time to dance and a time to mourn; a time for joy and a time for sadness.”’
What time, I wondered, would he say we were living through now?
‘Beautiful, is it not, Master Bourbon?’
The young woman who asked the question wore a crimson overgown with sleeves richly embroidered in gold, over which hung a jewelled medallion on a long chain. Her hair was tidily swept back under a French hood. Her lips smiled, but her eyes suggested contemplation rather than amusement. We were standing in the midst of the royal chapel, where mass had just been concluded. Priests, choir and congregation had left, and I found myself alone with Lady Cromwell and her two attendants. I recognized the daughter-in-law of the king’s late minister, for Sir Richard had pointed her out to me seated at one end of the high table during the previous day’s banquet.
‘Beautiful indeed, My Lady,’ I replied. ‘I understand it took three years to install.’ Our eyes were inevitably drawn towards the radiant blue and gold of the ceiling, with its elaborately carved pendants decorated with Tudor motifs.
‘His Majesty was obviously determined to prove to God that his devotion was greater than the late cardinal’s.’ It was impossible to detect from Lady Elizabeth’s features whether irony was intended. ‘Would it please you, Sir, to converse with me awhile?’ She indicated one of the stalls either side of the nave.
As we sat she motioned to her attendants. ‘Wait outside. I shall be quite safe in this holy place.’ Again, her enigmatic expression cloaked what I assumed to be a jest.
‘Allow me to congratulate you on the new honour bestowed on your husband,’ I said.
‘His Majesty is very gracious.’ Her delivery was emotionless.
I risked a tentative probe. ‘Some say, I believe, that the king regrets the loss of his minister and wishes to make amends.’
‘What exactly is your interest in my father-in-law?’ she countered.
‘That is something that changes from day to day. Last summer my mistress, the Queen of Navarre, was surprised to hear of Lord Cromwell’s arrest. She wondered what it presaged – a question being asked in all the courts of Europe. She sent me to discover what was afoot here and how it might affect relations between King Henry and her brother, the King of France.’
‘And now?’
‘My Lady?’
‘You said that your interest was ever changing. What have you discovered that prompts you to probe further?’
The interrogation was becoming uncomfortable. ‘My Lady, if I seem to trespass too far on your family affairs I beg your forgiveness. These last months have been cruel for you, I know.’
‘You know nothing!’ The response was like the crack of a whip.
I stood up. ‘My Lady, I see that I distress you, which I would not do for all the world. Please give me leave to depart.’
She held out a hand. ‘No, I beg you, do not go.’ There was a tremor in her voice. As I resumed my seat she sighed deeply. ‘Do you not think it unfair that we cannot choose our parentage? You are a poet. You must have pondered much on how we are thrust, unprepared, into the world. Why does God not equip us beforehand for the roles he wishes us to play? Gregory and I want nothing more than to live quietly with our dear children. Yet we were both born into politics. Because Gregory’s father and my b
rother, Lord Hertford, were ambitious we, perforce, shared their rise and fall.’
‘But the king has been gracious to you and Gregory. You are restored to favour, are you not?’
‘Only because I too studied politics – sitting at the feet of a master.’
‘Do you mean—’
‘My father-in-law and I were close friends. I think, perhaps, he saw in me something of his wife, whom he deeply missed. She too was named Elizabeth and he always said that she had a natural cunning in understanding people. He gave me advice on what Gregory and I should do if ever fortune’s wheel brought us evil days: three steps to winning support from people we might need. Number one: tell them what they want to hear. Number two: encourage them to believe that what they want to hear is what you have to tell them. Number three: convince them that what you have to tell them is the truth.’
‘And this counsel helped you back into favour?’
‘I wrote letters – scores of letters – to councillors, courtiers and eventually His Majesty. I deplored Lord Cromwell’s abominable heresies. I persuaded my correspondents that, thanks to his misdemeanours, my husband and I were ruined. I vowed that, in truth, we were loyal and God-fearing servants of His Majesty, who did not deserve to be so ill-used.’
‘I can see that it would have been folly to openly honour Lord Cromwell’s memory, but—’
‘’Twas not easily done. I had a great affection for Gregory’s father. Yet what I did was exactly what he would have done and it protected his son and his grandchildren.’
‘Why are you telling me this?’ I asked.
‘Cousin Richard speaks well of you. He says you can be trusted. If some people learn the truth about a great man through whatever you do with the information you gather, that will, in part at least, cleanse my conscience.’
Several moments of awkward silence followed. Then Lady Cromwell rose and gave every indication of having regained her composure. ‘My husband and I live at Launde Priory in Leicestershire,’ she said. ‘We would consider it a great honour if you would visit us before your return to Navarre.’
‘The honour would be mine,’ I responded.
‘Excellent!’ Her sudden smile was radiant, like sunshine after showers. ‘We live simply, but the house is lovely, and the gardens . . . Oh, and of course you could meet Aunt Mercy. She knows more than anyone about Thomas.’
‘Aunt Mercy?’
‘Yes, Mercy Prior. Well, she is really Gregory’s maternal grandmother, but Thomas looked after her for years and now she lives with us.’ She linked her arm with mine as we walked from the chapel.
Those brief days in the English royal court were both informative and disturbing. Elizabeth Cromwell was not the only ‘politician’ amidst the gay throng of revellers. Indeed, all whose prospects centred on royal favour were careful about what they said and to whom they said it. Like captains steering their vessels into the haven Prosperity, they were ever watchful of the jagged rocks of Jealousy, Slander and Evil Rumour and, if I may strain the imagery further, they were at the same time manoeuvring to outpace their rivals or steal their wind. The name ‘Cromwell’ was scarce ever mentioned. The atmosphere had changed greatly since the last time I had met some of these courtiers at Marillac’s board back in the summer. Then, everyone had wanted to join in the paeans of condemnation directed at the fallen minister. Then, it was clear to all which party was ‘up’ and which was ‘down’. Now, no one could interpret the confused signals emerging from the privy chamber.
I sought among the crowd the faces of any courtiers I knew, but there were few. One especially I missed. Poor Tom Wyatt, I learned, was not welcome.
‘He lurks on his estate in Kent, writing sonnets, all the while hoping for and yet fearing a royal summons. If it comes will it be an honourable appointment to some foreign embassy or a warrant borne by the Captain of the Guard for his arrest?’
The speaker was a man I dimly recognized from my first visit to London five years before. Then, he had been one of Cromwell’s confidential aides. Now I could not put a name to his face. Fortunately, he came to my assistance. ‘Richard Morison at your service. I recall that we met at Lord Cromwell’s board in happier times. You are the French poet, are you not?’
We were in the great hall and part of a crowd watching a play performed by a troop of mummers. It was poor stuff and my neighbour and I, standing towards the back of the hall, were not the only ones engaged in private conversation. Thus it was that we fell to discussing poetry and so Tom Wyatt’s name came up.
‘He sent me some of his verses not a seven-night since. Would you like to hear them?’
I said I would be delighted.
‘Good, good,’ he replied. ‘Come, I’m too hot in here. Let us get some air.’
We strolled towards the river. The staithe was deserted but brilliantly illuminated by a row of torches. It was a crisp, still night and the threat of snow had vanished. Our cloaks well wrapped round us, we sat on a low wall gazing across the water at the far lights pricking the darkness on the opposite bank.
‘What think you of our England since your last visit?’ Morison asked.
‘Confusing,’ I replied.
He laughed. ‘Aye, ’tis the best word. We are like a warship with its rudder shot away.’
A long silence followed and, since he did not elaborate, I reminded him, ‘You were going to read me some of Tom Wyatt’s verse.’
‘Yes, indeed. The poor man has little to do but scribble his poems and send them to trusted friends.’ He took a sheet of paper from his purse and read from it by the light of the torch.
‘What vaileth truth? Or, by it, to take pain?
To strive by steadfastness for to attain
To be just and true and flee from doubleness,
Since all alike, where ruleth craftiness
Rewarded is – both false and plain.
Soonest he speedeth that most can fawn.
True-meaning heart is now had in disdain.
Against deceit and doubleness
What vaileth truth?’
I shivered, and not because of a night breeze off the water. ‘’Tis much as I recall him saying when we met last summer. The melancholy vapours have not left him.’
The diogenic resignation of the poet’s verse was a match with Elizabeth Cromwell’s observations, though viewed from a different perspective. Both acknowledged the importance of duplicity in gaining and retaining royal favour. The lady felt the shame of yielding to it, while the poet feared the consequences of not doing so. I pulled my hood up against the nocturnal chill.
‘Was not Cromwell an example of that very cynical avarice that Wyatt condemns?’ I suggested. ‘He prospered greatly from courting royal favour and making his king the richest in Christendom. There are those who say he was England’s arch-Machiavellian.’
Morison’s reply was quick and impassioned. ‘If they say so, they understand neither Cromwell nor the Florentine. Thomas and I had both worked in Italy; seen the angry rivalry of the states there; observed their feuds and alliances; witnessed the corrosive power of the papacy, cloaking territorial ambition in the mantle of divine law. What we both admired in Machiavelli was his well-honed mind. He could cut through arguments and counter-arguments and grasp the fact that Italy’s only salvation lay in unity. That unity could only be provided by an all-powerful dictator, ready to use whatever means were available to bring the states together and hold them together. Thus far Thomas and I agreed. Thus far we were Machiavellian. But power is not an end in itself. Nor is preservation of unity sufficient justification for wielding power. What matters is the use the ruler makes of power, the policies he implements, the benefits he brings to the commonwealth.’
‘This is what Plato argued, is it not? He taught that the ideal ruler would be the “philosopher king”, and, as we say in Navarre, su
ch a one is as rare as a hen’s tooth.’
‘I agree, and so have some of our best English thinkers, like Thomas More and Thomas Elyot. I argued much with Cromwell in this vein, but he was ever of another mind. He believed, with Erasmus, that kings can be guided, educated, persuaded to embrace wisdom and virtue.’
‘So he took on the role of tutor to this king?’
‘Aye.’
‘Then his fate proves that he was wrong.’
‘In part. But this is melancholy talk and the chill has reached my bones.’ He stood up. ‘Let us return inside.’
As we walked back towards the palace, I asked, ‘Why did you say that Cromwell was only wrong in part to try to educate the king?’
‘Think of what he achieved – good laws, an end to papal power, the closure of the monasteries, those outer bastions of Rome, and above all the Bible free for all His Majesty’s subjects to read. They are benefits that can never be taken away.’
‘But why?’ I asked.
‘Why? I do not take your meaning.’
‘Stay a moment, if you will.’ I laid a hand on his arm as we stood close by the wall. ‘This goes to the heart of what has long puzzled me. I can see why Cromwell persuaded the king to banish the papacy. Indeed, I doubt Henry needed much urging to rid himself of his spiritual rival. And driving out the monks brought all their lands and wealth into the royal coffers. All this might be forwarded by a pragmatic Machiavellian, but to push the king towards the heretics he hated, was that not foolhardy? Would that not provide his enemies with powder and shot to fire against him? Did he latterly abandon that caution and good judgement that had ever served him well?’
We were standing in deep shadow and I could not read Morison’s features as he replied with slow deliberation. ‘He was, towards the end, somewhat a changed man. The Cromwell who had schemed, calculated and intrigued in the service of the king turned his energies and his guile to a higher project; one that was never out of his mind – his Englished Bible. He hired the translators, financed the work with his own money, had it printed in Paris under the noses of the Catholic vigilantes, by the best printer in Europe. And when the papal hellhounds swooped, he bought the press and the plates and brought them here to complete the work.’
