by Anne Stevens
“A chill.” Theophrasus shrugs. “Nothing more.”
“That will not do,” Cromwell replies. “Henry is a generous man, but he will not pay much for a mild chill, will he?”
“Then it is more than mild.”
“Might we say it is a ‘bad chill’, Adolphus?”
“We might.”
“And might we substitute the word chill for another?”
“A bad fever, which might settle on the queen’s lungs?” the doctor guesses.
“How awful,” Cromwell says. “Would this involve a lengthy stay in her chambers, under constant supervision … for the sake of the unborn child?”
“A couple of weeks, at least,” Theophrasus advises. “For the child’s sake.”
“Then the king should stay close by his queen?” Cromwell asks. If the king stays at Hampton Court, he reasons, then he must too.
“Without a doubt.” The doctor smiles, and nods, as he perceives what Cromwell is about. “I shall advise that the queen rests herself, and he takes some exercise, if only to take his mind off things. Perhaps he can go out, hunting, for a few weeks?”
“Then that is what I shall tell Henry.” Cromwell takes a purse from his belt, and passes it to the physician. “With luck, November will be out, before we can return to London. Then the king will want to be merry right through to Christmas. I see that my business with Sir Thomas might have to wait until the new year.”
“I have potions for all ailments,” the doctor, a mixture of Greek and Jew, whispers. “I can cure a loved one, or rid you of an enemy.”
“Dear Christ, man!” Cromwell understands what the doctor offers, and almost staggers back with horror. He does not mind condemning anyone with the law, but there are some kinds of murder he cannot countenance. “I want Anne confined to her chambers for a few weeks. Then I expect her to be fit enough to return to Whitehall Palace. Do you understand?”
“Of course I understand,” Adolphus Theophrasus replies, slapping his friend on the back. “I promise you, Thomas, that the queen will not come to harm at my hands. I shall nurse her back to health, and she will celebrate, by having Sir Thomas More’s head cut off, before sending you to the Tower of London.”
“Oh, how you cheer me up, Adolphus,” Cromwell says. “She will try, but I will prove to be too strong for her. Her father owes me seventy thousand pounds, and dare not move against me. Her brother is a fool, and has no real influence.”
“Except with his sister,” the physician replies, and grins at some secret inner thought. “Back where I come from, such things are not frowned upon. A brother should love his sister.”
“Anne knows George is a spent force.” Cromwell has a sudden moment of blinding truth. Like Paul, on the road to Damascus, he suddenly sees the way ahead, and curses that he has been so long in understanding how things must be.
“As you say… a spent force,” Theophrasus says. “Now, I must attend my patient.”
11 Ordeals
“How is your young charge, Thomas?” Henry is being fitted for a new suit of armour, and insists he must be surrounded by his friends. Norfolk and Suffolk are both present, and Tom Wyatt is lounging in an alcove, chatting with Richard Rich. The armourer has watched the king’s girth grow, and has had to, carefully, suggest to Cromwell that Henry is too fat to fit the old equipment.
Cromwell is the great facilitator, and has used Tom Wyatt, and Charles Brandon, the Duke of Suffolk to pass on the news. They have achieved this by talking about the new designs coming out of Italy, and wondering if the French king, François will be buying a new outfit. Henry, never one to be outdone by a lesser man, has demanded a new suit of Italian design armour, and the armourer can make it, without alluding to the king’s burgeoning obesity.
So, Henry parades in his underwear, for all of his court to admire. The metal is discussed, as is the shape of each piece, and the cleverness of the foreign design. Even the disinterested Archbishops of Canterbury, Winchester, and Westminster, are there, hoping for some small Christmas gift, as a reward for their devotion to the king’s love of jousting.
Stephen Gardiner wants his cathedral in Winchester to have a new roof, and the others have similar hopes. One wants funds to build alms houses for the poor, and wonders at the cost of Henry’s armour, which would build six houses, and furnish them. Thomas Cromwell is there to keep them in order, and Rafe Sadler is close by, watching all that goes on. Cromwell realises the king is addressing him, concerning the Seymour girl, whom he has now met on three occasions, and bows.
“If you mean Lady Jane, sire, then she prospers,” Cromwell replies. “Her brothers are now at court, and they see she is given respect, and knows her proper place. She never ceases to praise Your Majesty’s generosity, despite returning the generous money gift you sent.”
“A hundred pounds, in a jewelled box, Master Cromwell,” Henry grumbles. “Was it not enough?”
“It was a wonderful gift, sire, but most ill conceived.” Cromwell can be so honest, because he knows it was not Henry’s idea. “It is the sort of thing a callow young man might do.”
“George Boleyn said it would work,” Henry curses. “I do not know why I listen to the bloody fool.”
“Because he is a fool, sire,” Cromwell replies. “We all like a good jest, but we should not take advice from the court jester.”
“Well said, Thomas.” Henry holds out a huge forearm for it to be measured. “I see how it might look, if it were to come out that I send gold to young girls.”
“Jane sought only to protect your reputation, sire,” Cromwell says. “She knew some would be spiteful, and try to hurt you with gossip.”
“The lady’s wit is surpassed only by her virtue,” Henry concludes. “Still, no harm done, eh?”
“I regret to say that is not the case, sire. It seems the queen has heard, and wishes her to leave the court. Lady Jane’s brothers are horrified, and say that such a thing would cast doubt on their dear sister’s honour. They are here to make urgent representations to Her Majesty.”
“Lady Jane will not leave the court,” Henry snaps. “Let me make it plain, that this is my court. Not the queen’s. I choose who to have, and who to cast off. Lady Jane is a pleasant young thing, and I enjoy the few, brief moments I spend in her company.”
“Perhaps that is why the queen reacts in so vindictive a manner?” Thomas Cromwell says, ingenuously. “Might she see Jane as a rival for your affections?”
“Damn the woman,” Henry replies. “Gardiner, come to me. I would have words, about the queen.”
“Sire?” Stephen Gardiner, though now the Archbishop of Winchester, is not a holy man. He was a priest, because the church educated him, and then became a good, though pedantic, lawyer. It is common knowledge that he is distantly related to the king, illegitimately, through his poorer Welsh relatives, and owes his good fortune to the bastardy of his father, rather than his talent. “How may I be of service?”
“What if the queen bears me another daughter?”
“Then you are doubly blessed, sire.”
“God’s teeth, Gardiner!” Henry sees that he must speak plainly. “I do not want a second daughter. Can I put the queen aside, if she fails me a second time?”
“That is a question for Archbishop Cranmer, sire,” Gardiner tells the king. “I have a legal mind, but his is of a more theological bent.”
“Cranmer!” The older prelate scurries up to the king, and bows. He knows Gardiner has dropped him into something, and wonders what is going on. “If I wish to divorce the queen, can it be done? I want a plain answer, mind.”
“That is a complex question, sire,” Cranmer says.
“Yes, or no, damn it!”
Cranmer looks about him, as if for some moral support, and Thomas Cromwell enters the discussion. The question is too important to be left to priests, and a careless answer could see Anne’s power increased, rather than removed.
“As a lawyer, I can answer you, sire.”
“Well
?”
“We wrote the law, so that you could put aside Katherine of Aragon,” Cromwell says. “The marriage was unlawful, and declared null and void, because you cannot marry your brother’s wife. To divorce the queen, you must have a similar reason.”
“As I thought,” Henry growls. “The woman is rude to me, and tries to isolate me from my friends. She is no fit wife, Thomas.”
“Sire, if I speak freely…”
“Do so. I will bear no ill will.”
“I might advise you, against the queen, whom is out of favour with you,” Cromwell tells the king, “but what if she bears you a son? You would forgive her, for the boy’s sake, but the queen would never forgive me.”
“I will not let her turn me against you, Thomas.”
“Yet you let her have More?”
“You go too far, sir!” Henry snaps. “You all wish to see if it is a boy, and offer me nothing. I care not, and want only my freedom. As for More, he does not take an oath, that you have all sworn to. He is a traitor, Thomas, and you must prove it.”
“As you command, sire,” Thomas Cromwell says. It is his last attempt, and he can do no more to save his old friend. “As for the matter of a second divorce, it might be possible, under certain circumstances.”
“Name them.” Henry sees that he might get that which he desires, leaving him free to marry again.
“The law must be seen to be clear. If any man wishes to put aside his wife, there are certain reasons he can cite. She might be related to him, inappropriately, or have committed some act which makes it impossible for the marriage to continue. The list is a long one, and each must be examined, in detail.”
“I cannot see how this helps me.”
“The queen might be, quite unwittingly, unfit to be your wife. For whatever the reason. To this end, you must ask your Examiners Office to investigate the possibility of a divorce. Let them see if there is some legality we have overlooked. It must be made clear, that your son remains legitimate, even if you divorce the mother. He cannot be declared bastard, like Princess Mary was.”
“Of course not,” Henry agrees. “What else?”
“Secrecy will damage your reputation, sire,” Cromwell tells the king. “The queen must know you wish to divorce her.”
“Ah.” Henry does not relish the prospect of a screaming confrontation with a pregnant Anne Boleyn, and he is wondering whom he can saddle with such an unforgiving task, when Thomas Cromwell adds an important codicil.
“It must come from you, sire,” he says. “The queen will not have it from any other source. You must inform her, before we begin to look at the legalities. That way, I, and your servants will feel safer in our work.”
“It seems I must do everything for myself, as usual,” Henry roars. “Then let me get it done with, at once. I shall tell her now.”
“Your Majesty, one catches more trout with a line, than a club,” Cromwell advises. He cannot believe his good luck, and realises that he might now be rid of Anne Boleyn at little personal cost. “Promise her a couple of fine houses, and a generous allowance.”
“I shall promise her the entire world, if only it gets me my freedom!” the king says. He pushes the armourer aside, and clad in his new mail, he stomps off to tell Anne Boleyn that she is no longer loved. He crosses the throne room, barges through the doors to the outer court, and fails to see the low, stone step at his feet. He misses his footing, and falls forward, with an ear splitting crash.
Cromwell is first to reach the king, and he pushes Henry’s dead weight over, onto his back. The king’s eyes are open, but he is not breathing. The lawyer recalls his soldiering days, and begins to loosen the armour. Behind him, several courtiers stand, in shocked horror. Then one of them cries out that the king is dead, and the outer court is suddenly full of running people. The word spreads, and, by the time Cromwell has slapped Henry’s blue tinged face, Anne Boleyn is being told the tidings, by her brother.
“Then Elizabeth, or the child in my belly, shall rule,” Anne tells George. “We must act quickly. Find father, and have him gather together some loyal men. Cromwell must be taken, at once. Then we must make sure it is I who becomes Regent of England, not Uncle Norfolk.”
“He is with Cromwell now,” George says. “I will take some friends, and arrest them both.”
“Just Cromwell,” Anne says. “Once he is in our power, the rest will follow.”
“As you wish, sister,” George says. He gathers four friends, and, armed with daggers, they go to take Cromwell. The younger Boleyn has no intention of arresting the man. Instead, he will be stabbed to death, whilst trying to escape. Then he will search out Will Draper, and do the same.
He, and his confederates, burst into the outer court, just as the king is being levered back onto his feet. Thomas Cromwell’s slap has shocked Henry back into breathing, and after a minute, he is quite recovered. The lawyer is relieved, then disturbed to see George Boleyn, and his excitable gang of men.
“Guards!” His strident voice stops George Boleyn, and his eager men, in their tracks. “These men are armed.” A half dozen of the palace’s guards surround the dagger wielding men, and hem them in with their long shafted halberds.
“George?” Henry does not understand what is amiss.
“Sire!” George begins to stutter. “We thought you were dead… and we were …”
“Were what, My Lord?” Thomas Cromwell asks. “It is an offence to bring weapons into the king’s presence.”
“I thought…”
“I rather think not,” Cromwell replies. He has the man on the defensive, and does not allow time for him to offer a believable explanation. “Take them away, to await the king’s pleasure.”
“What is it, Thomas?” Henry asks. His breathing is now quite normal, and he has quite forgotten about his need for a divorce. “What is George up to … what is going on?”
“Boleyn thought you were dead, sire,” Cromwell says.
“The ignorant little bastard,” the Duke of Norfolk curses. He sees that, had Henry been dead, the Boleyns would have arrested both he, and Cromwell. Being left to his niece’s gentle mercy holds no appeal, and he sides with Cromwell, if only to make sure the king understands what has just happened. “I see what the knave was about, sire. It is written in his treacherous eyes!”
“He thought me dead?” Henry is beginning to realise what has occurred. “He was coming to arrest you, Cromwell, and you too, Norfolk, I should guess.”
“With you dead, there would be a terrible struggle for power, sire,” Cromwell explains. “George Boleyn sought to remove me, and the man who might well become Regent to the rightful heir.”
“Dear God!” Henry turns, and lumbers back into his throne room. “Come, Thomas … and bring along Norfolk. We must put something down, in writing. I am the king, and it is God’s divine will that I set out the right order of things.”
“And the divorce, sire?”
“Later,” the king replies. “I must first ensure the succession.”
It is late, and Thomas Cromwell is just scratching down the last few words on the parchment. He, Henry, and the Duke of Norfolk, have laboured long, and hard, to enshrine the succession in law. On the morrow, the lawyer will present the new, hastily written, legislation to Parliament, and have it swiftly enacted.
“Then my unborn son will rule England, after my eventual death,” Henry says. “Failing that, my little Elizabeth will sit on the throne.” Mary is excluded, as the king has declared her to be a bastard, because his marriage to Katherine was not deemed to be valid. It is the best Cromwell can do, and he hopes that the strong Roman Catholic faction does not seek to start a civil war, and try to put the girl on the throne.
“What about George Boleyn?” Cromwell asks. “What do you wish us to do with him, sire?”
“Death.” Tom Howard, Duke of Norfolk spits the word out, with the vehemence of a striking snake. “The dirty little turd was coming to murder me, and you too, Cromwell.”
&n
bsp; “Then it was not treason,” Cromwell explains. “He thought only to arrest his sister’s enemies. He thought the king was dead.”
“The silly bastard,” Norfolk sneers.
“Because of that, he did not realise he was bringing a weapon into the king’s presence.” Cromwell does not like it, but he must explain the law, even if it helps Boleyn, else the king might come to doubt his word.
“Ah, my blacksmith’s boy understands the law, better than any man in England,” Henry says, smiling for the first time that night. “Let them stay in the Tower for a few nights, then throw them out. Tell George that it is the last time I spare him.”
“As you wish, sire.” Cromwell presents the document, and Henry signs it. Norfolk drips hot wax onto the bottom of the page, and the royal seal is applied. The Privy Councillor will obey the king, in his own way. Boleyn will be released, but only after a dose of refined torture.
He shall have Rafe Sadler visit George, in the Tower, and advise him to write his last will and testament. Will Draper has men within the Tower too, who will drop terrible hints about Boleyn’s fate. On the day he is released, he will think he is being taken to the block, rather than being freed. The man will be broken with fear.
“A good nights work, gentlemen,” Henry says. “Let us get to our beds, and put this day behind us, for I have seldom had a worst one.” There is a knock, and one of the many pages peeps around the door. He sees Thomas Cromwell, who often drops a shilling into his hand, and addresses himself to him.
“Master Cromwell … someone seeks you out, most urgently. It is the physician, whose name I cannot pronounce.”
“Send him in,” Henry says. “Is he here to tend my injuries, Thomas? You worry too much, my friend.” A moment later, and Adolphus Theophrasus is standing before them, wringing his hands in dismay.
“Thomas … Your Majesty … My Lord Norfolk,” he says, with tears in his eyes, “I did all that I could. I am beyond mortal sorrow.”
“What is this?” Henry demands. He has a vague recollection that he knows this man, but cannot place where he fits into his well ordered world. “ You speak of sorrow, sir? Has something gone amiss?”
