by Anne Stevens
“Sire, this is Doctor Theophrasus,” Thomas Cromwell tells him. “I fear that the queen has miscarried.”
Henry Tudor, King of England, falls to his knees, and begins to sob like a child.
The miscarriage, Adolphus Theophrasus insists, is none of his doing, and he is as dismayed at the loss of the king’s heir as any of Henry’s subjects. It seems that the sudden shock of Henry’s pronounced death, was too much for her. The doctor was called, at once, but could do nothing to save the unborn child.
“The realisation that she was to be the ruler of the realm made her heart race, and her pulse quicken, to an alarming rate,” the doctor advises Cromwell. “I cautioned her to rest, but she would not. It seems she was too busy ordering the arrests, or assassinations of a long list of people. The news of King Henry’s sudden ‘re-birth’ caused the miscarriage. I am sure of it.”
“The king’s heir, you say …then it was a male?” Thomas Cromwell asks. “The lost child could be recognised as such?”
“Without a doubt,” the physician replies. “The features were formed, and the male genitalia were clear to see. Henry has lost a son … perhaps his last chance to sire an heir to his throne.”
“His last chance?” Cromwell pours out two tumblers of wine, and hands one to the physician. “Tell me everything, Adolphus… omit nothing.”
“They want me to go to her,” the king tells Cromwell. “They say I must be reconciled to my marriage, and show the queen that I bear her no ill will. They say she has been through a terrible ordeal.”
“Most commendable, sire,” Thomas Cromwell says. He drops his voice to a whisper, and stands as close to the king as he dare. “Which ‘they’ are we talking about? Who, in this realm, dares to tell my king what he must do?”
“The Earl of Wiltshire, of course,” Henry replies. “He says the fault lies with those who shouted of my demise. He says the queen was carrying a healthy son, and that she can bear many more.”
“Ah, the love of a father often blinds them to the truth, Your Majesty,” Cromwell says. “He is distraught, and does not consider what he says properly. It is true, that Queen Anne was carrying a male child, but not a healthy one.”
“Dear God, Thomas,” Henry sobs. “Are you the only man in England who will tell me the truth?”
“It is my duty, sire,” Cromwell replies. He sees that it is time to pile on the agony, and score points, whilst he may. “I had Colonel Draper speak with the court doctors, who all told the same story as Wiltshire … to the exact word. I spoke with Adolphus Theophrasus, who seems to be a good doctor, who speaks his mind.”
“Well?”
“He was there, sire, and he examined the … your son … after it aborted. His medical opinion was that the child was not as far developed as it might be, and unlikely to have gone to full term.”
“What reason did he give?”
“I am not a medical man, sire, and I cannot…”
“Do not falter now, Thomas,” Henry says. “The truth, and nothing less… I beg of you.”
“Very well, Your Majesty. The physician says that the queen’s womb was weakened by previous childbirth, and that he believes there to have been previous problems. He states that the queen is no longer young enough to carry a child, successfully.”
“Previous miscarriages?” Henry is confused. “Does he not think that the birth of Elizabeth might have…”
“No, sire. He says that the queen has had, at least, one previous miscarriage,” Cromwell says. “Upon investigation, this proves to be the case. It seems the queen lost a child, and was not treated properly afterwards.”
“How can this be?” Henry is beginning to wonder if he ever really knew Anne. “She kept it a secret?”
“One of her ladies let slip that the queen lost a child, very early on, and did not wish you to be told, for fear of you worrying.”
“For fear of me questioning her ability, more like,” the king growls. “It was kept from me, for her ends, not mine!”
“I cannot say, sire.” Cromwell sighs. “The physician has his doubts, sire. He believes that you may never have another child… at least, not with Queen Anne.”
“Once Christmas is done,” Henry says, “you are to instruct Colonel Draper that I want a full investigation of the queen’s past. I want him to see if any reason exists which might allow for a divorce. He might start with Harry Percy.”
“Sire, Lord Percy swore an oath, and you accepted it,” Cromwell reminds the king. “If he changes his story, he stands to be charged with perjury, and it will reflect badly on your own honour.”
“Then what?”
“I do not know, sire,” Cromwell replies. “though there is always something. If it can be proven that the marriage was false, in some way, Cranmer will allow a divorce.”
“And who will follow me?” The king is wallowing in self pity, and can think of nothing but himself.
“Why, your son, sire,” Cromwell says. “Once Queen Anne steps aside, you will be free to re-marry. Might I suggest that you select a strong, healthy young Englishwoman. A woman fit to bear the sons of a king?”
“Have you anyone in mind?”
“Not I, sire. That is for you to decide.” Cromwell is starting to bow himself away when he seems to have an afterthought. “Oh, I almost forgot, sire. Ned and Tom Seymour have left court, with their sister. It seems their father is unwell, and needs his daughter close by. Ned is an old friend of mine, and has asked me to visit in a few weeks.”
“And?”
“I thought I might leave it … until the hunting season is underway … and visit Wulfhall with some friends,” Cromwell says. “We might build it into a royal progression, if it please Your Highness.”
“If it please?” Henry barks with laughter. “Why, nothing would suit me better. Now, must I still confront the queen?”
“No, sire, that would not be a good idea now,” Cromwell replies. “Let her recover, and think you are reconciled to the fate she plans for you. Then, when we have enough evidence, the divorce can be enacted, in as private a manner as is possible. The people will not mourn her absence.”
“If I am to play a part, I must let her have that which she most wishes,” the king says.
“More?”
“Yes. You must press him, Thomas, and have him swear the oath.” Henry holds up a hand, to forestall Cromwell’s response. “You will tell him this. Tell him that I love no man better, and wish only that we be reconciled. Tell him that he has but to take the oath, with none but you, and I, present, and I will forgive him completely. Tell him that the moment he swears, I will take him to my heart again, and restore him to his former self. No, even higher.”
“A generous offer, My Lord,” Cromwell says. “I will go on bended knee to the man, if he wishes it, and beg him to accept your generous terms.”
“If he agrees, I will hold him, under house arrest, until I am divorced,” Henry concludes. He has thought it, and assumes that it must, therefore, come about. “Then, once Anne is gone, I will have him come to me, and return all that has been taken from him.”
“Yes, sire.” Cromwell bows, and leaves. He will try, one last time, but thinks that no man on earth is as stubborn as More. Even with such a generous offer, he can see how the man might still refuse, and choose death.
12 The Last Good Man
The Winter of 1535 proves to be one of the harshest anyone can recall, and the Thames freezes over, from bank to bank, for several weeks. Throughout January, and February, it is all the people of England can do to stay alive. Starvation, and coughing sickness, take their terrible toll, and there is unrest from the Scottish borders, to the Welsh Marches.
“I have written to the Duke of Northumberland again,” Will Draper says to Cromwell. “He begs to be excused a trip south just yet, because the Scots are marauding again. They starve, and raid southwards, in the hope of some relief. I say he must come, by order of the king.”
“Good, we need him here, if we are t
o progress against Anne any further,” Cromwell says. The investigation into Queen Anne has ground to a halt, as those who might know anything have become silent. Anne suspects something, as the king has not visited her bed since Christmas. Her own spies are out, and about, looking for any sign of trouble, and everyone is keeping their heads down.
“We must also press her childhood friends again,” Will ventures. “Tom Wyatt must know what sort of a child she was. It might be some childish indiscretion that disqualifies her from the marriage. Though God knows what.”
“What about her correspondence with Tyndale?” Cromwell asks. “Henry never quite liked the man, and she might have overstepped the mark in her writings.”
“Anne admires his philosophic outpourings,” Will replies, “but she has never done anything indiscreet, other than ask him to reconcile himself to Henry.”
“Her sister?”
“Living quietly in the country.” Draper mutters. It is not a subject he wishes to have probed too deeply, but his old master is as all seeing as Pru Beckshaw.
“I know Mush visits her, Will.” Cromwell likes his young men, and does not wish to press them into anything they do not want to do “Might he not speak with her, and ask a few questions?”
“She will not speak of Anne,” Will tells his old master. “She runs her farm well, and lives very quietly. I doubt she has even spoken to her sister, let alone the king, these last twelve months.”
“Time is running out,” Thomas Cromwell complains. “The king asks, almost daily, what progress we make, and then wants to know when he might visit his ‘dearest Jane’ in Wiltshire. He means to divorce Anne, and replace her with Lady Jane Seymour, before the year is out.”
“Then, one way or another, he will have his wish. I wonder at how we have come to create such a king.” Will stands, and finishes his wine. Outside, Austin Friars servants are busy serving hot broth, and freshly baked bread to hundreds of starving Londoners. “If he could only look beyond his own needs, and see how his poor people are doing. Henry lives in a fool’s paradise.”
“Hush, Will.” Thomas Cromwell sighs. “He is the king, and we must act within that constraint. Let him try to run his love life, whilst we run his country. Let him think he is despised, and he will turn into a raging despot. We let him have his petty victories, where we must, and he gets to throw aside a queen, or destroy a minister of More’s ability. Make him feel unloved, and he will seek out those whom he can blame. The government would collapse under his oppression, and the people would suffer. So, we give him a few, small sacrifices. It is for the best that way.”
“Then he wants More still?”
“Of course.” Cromwell sees he must explain the workings of the king’s mind to his former agent. “He loves More, because he is honest. This means he wants to save him. However, he knows More does not agree with the first divorce, let alone the second. If More lives, he will urge Henry to return to Katherine. Henry wants Jane Seymour for queen, and sees that More will try to block him. It is, therefore, important that Sir Thomas More is despatched … if only for his honesty.”
“We live in a harsh world, sir.” Cromwell nods, and looks at the hungry faces. The crowd is dotted with men who are neighbours, but who have now fallen on hard times. The crops fail, the grass is sparse, and even the sheep do not prosper well enough. Men have gold, but there is little to buy with it. Bread is doubled in price, and murder is done over a joint of meat, or a few vegetables. “I hear the French are suffering far worse than we.”
“There is plague abroad,” Cromwell confirms. “Eustace Chapuys tells me that it started in Vienna, and is already lodging in Paris. Let us pray it stays there.”
“How is it going with Sir Thomas?”
“I have strung it out as far as I can,” the lawyer says. “Now, I must interview him. The order is signed to convey him to the Tower, where I must try to keep him alive.”
“He should swear the oath.” Will knows he voices advice that will never be heeded.
“There are two schools of thought on the subject,” Cromwell says. “There is what Tom More thinks, and there is what the rest of the world thinks. He will not change, and he will not give an inch.”
“Even a mountain can be worn away,” Will Draper says. “What of Bishop Fisher… will he recant?”
“Fisher is as stubborn as a mule. He writes to me from the Tower, begging extra blankets, and better food. Then preaches to me as to the king’s falseness. I fear he will die also.”
“You have much on your shoulders, sir.”
“Yes, my head. Which neither Fisher, nor More will be able to say, unless they recant. Once, Rafe and I jested about an unkindness of ravens, and a bastardy of lawyers. Now, I find myself involved with the fall of Katherine, the expulsion of Anne, and the instalment of Jane in her place. What would such a collection be called, Will.”
“Two are in the last stages of decay, and poor Jane has a grim, dark, future awaiting her. Perhaps it is a twilight of queens?”
“How droll,” Cromwell replies. “I might tell that to More, when I see him. He is a man condemned, but seems set to outlast most of Henry’s women.”
“If you see Meg, tell her that I have made arrangements for her and the family to leave,” Will tells Cromwell. “Though they might be safer here, rather than France, at the moment.”
“We are in the hands of God,” Cromwell says. “I hope that He knows where all this will end.” Cromwell contemplates a thought that has come, quite unbidden, into his head. If Fisher were to be tried, and executed first, it might either shock the king into staying his hand with Thomas More, or frighten More into finally taking the oath. It is, of course, a wicked idea, but has its merits, in that one important man might be spared.
“I thought you had forgotten me, sister,” George Boleyn says. “So, what will you have of me?”
“Just your company, brother,” Anne says. “Half of my friends have left court, and I am in need of cheering up.”
“I could come to you … later.”
“That cannot be. Henry has not sought out my bed for four months,” Anne informs her younger sibling. “There is no chance of me coming with child at this rate, and he seems to be bored with me.”
“The king loves you still.”
“Does he?” Anne is stone faced. “Did he ever love anyone, save himself? They say he moons about, writing silly poems about Jane Seymour, and does not go about his kingdom, for fear of catching the plague. Tell me, George, does he still swive that dull witted little wife of yours? Or has he another mistress?”
“The courtiers say the same to me, sister. That he moons after Jane Seymour. Suffolk was asking her whereabouts, only this morning.”
“She is in the country, and will stay there,” Anne replies, smiling. “Father sees to that. Henry must be forced back to my bed, so that I might have the chance of another child. If he once lies with me, I can seek others out, who might prove to be more virile.”
“You need no others,” George says, stiffly. “I would never fail you, my love.”
“You say that… yet you spend your time feeling up the skirts of my own ladies-in-waiting. I think you to be … inconstant, little brother.”
“You are too cruel, Anne.” George paces up and down, and is becoming agitated. “It is true that I flirt with your ladies - who does not? - but I do not bed them. And as for my wife … she sleeps with everyone, save me and the king.”
“Poor Lady Rochford,” Queen Anne smirks. “Of all the men in England to choose from, she marries a faithless Boleyn man, and an impotent king.”
“For God’s sake!” George is genuinely frightened at her words. “If Henry cannot behave like a man, there will never be an heir.”
“Then Elizabeth will rule,” Anne replies. “Henry dare not put me aside, lest the world finds out about his shortcomings. Lady Jane Seymour can sleep with him, for all I care, but only as his mistress.”
“He might get her with child.”
“Then it will be a bastard,” Anne concludes. “No, Henry can never abandon me. He must resolve himself to his fate.”
“Until death do you part?”
“Precisely,” says Anne. “Once Henry is gone, I can choose whom to be with.”
“Do not tease me, sister.” George cannot abide the idea of his sister wanting another man, and her re-marriage is quite unthinkable. “I doubt any would put up with your foul little tempers.”
“Harry Norris admires me,” Anne tells her brother. “In fact, several about the court would enjoy being my husband.”
“Then they must all wish the king dead,” George Boleyn says. “Are they so mad?”
“Who knows what goes on in the minds of men?” Anne stands, and crosses to the window. She is intent on the scene below, and does not notice a slight shape, moving away from the door. The wife of George Boleyn, in search of her wayward husband, has heard quite enough. She tries to commit every word to memory, and puzzles over what some of it means. One day, it will be repeated, and her world will change, forever.
“Are you treated well, Sir Thomas?” Cromwell casts an eye about the small cell, and makes a mental note to have the man moved to a larger set of rooms.
“As well as any prisoner.” More replies. “What is the weather like, outside, Master Cromwell?”
“Wet, and cold.” Cromwell realises that More’s window is all of six feet above his head. “The French plague seems content with staying over the Channel, and the food situation is improving.”
“Thanks, I believe, to Colonel Draper’s wife?” More says.
“Yes. She has a fleet of cogs, and ships, scouring the far reaches of Europe, in search of supplies.” Cromwell shrugs. “It is enough to feed London, and with a little left for the rest of England.”
“She is a good woman,” More says. “Once, she fed only Utopia. Now, she succours all mankind. Ironic, is it not?”
