The Woman in the Shadows: Tudor England through the eyes of an influential woman

by Carol McGrath

  I thought him cynical. The Holy Father was God’s representative on earth. To complain about the Church and its cardinals was dangerous, especially in front of my parents, and the servants who hovered around the hall. ‘Where will you stay?’ I said aloud, determined to steer him to safer ground.

  ‘In a monastery hostel, a humble abode, a pilgrim’s hospice.’ He pressed my hands into his. ‘I shall return safely to you, and by midsummer: one month there, and another back on fast horses and with guards on equally fast horses, all armed and menacing. I promise it, Lizzy. Do not frown. It does not become you.’ He leaned over and kissed me lightly on my mouth.

  A few days later, we sat in a garden warmed by March sunshine that caused branch-shaped shadows to cross the path. Distant city sounds hummed, rang, and echoed beyond the garden walls. London with its great river, its pleasures, dangers and teeming life was placed safely outside of our lives. Behind my walls, with Thomas, I felt secluded and safe.

  ‘You really will return to us by Midsummer?’ I said holding his hand, still feeling concern for him.

  ‘I am like a cat with nine lives. Rest assured that I shall come back to you. Our banns can still be called in June.’

  I relaxed.

  We would marry quietly in the Wood Street parish church and we would donate generously to it, so that the parish officers would approve our marriage. After all, Tom Williams would be only a year in his grave.

  Despite my concern, I was, in truth, impressed by Thomas’ mission. I longed to hear about Italy, its palaces, ancient buildings and beautiful paintings, for although I had no desire to travel myself, I was happy listening to others’ tales of adventure in foreign lands. Thomas spoke often of distant places, of history and of great Greek and Roman thinkers, of the new learning he said was sweeping through Europe, the discovery of ancient Greek poetry, new translations of the Bible.

  ‘We must explore, question and debate,’ he would say.

  I had no idea that the Bible we had was not a true translation and determined to educate myself further. To that end, I began to purchase books, printed copies that did not cost me a great fortune. My first treasure, discovered amongst the print stalls by St Paul’s, was a fat copy of the Canterbury Tales. I read my books over and over in the years that followed. Stories from Ovid were my second purchase. I read my Ovid in secret and thought of Thomas.

  Some long evenings, however, I read the Canterbury Tales to Meg, who all but swooned at the tales of wooing and laughed at the bawdy stories contained within its covers.

  ‘I swear you are in love, Meg,’ I teased.

  ‘No, not I,’ she said, but blushed and bent over her sewing.

  I attended services in the parish church with renewed fervour, to pray with joy for Thomas’ safe travel in Flanders, and I prayed sadly for the safety of Tom Williams’ soul, always fancying that I saw devils torturing him. One May morning, Father Luke found me laying primroses on my first husband’s grave. Feeling his close presence beside me, I glanced up.

  He leaned over me and said, ‘He will be in Heaven. He was a kind man and he would want you to remarry. When shall I call the banns for your new wedding?’ He lifted my hand and looked upon my betrothal ring. ‘It is a lovely gem, my child. I am glad to see you settled, Elizabeth. These are difficult times for a young woman. There were rumours concerning that fire in your storehouse last year. Now, with this marriage to Thomas Cromwell, you will put that sort of talk to rest. Time passes and people forget.’

  ‘Rumours, Father Luke?’ I said, startled by his words. ‘Who is talking about the fire?’

  I wondered, and even dared to hope that Father Luke could led us to the perpetrators. I had never considered this before because I was too afraid of the priest’s criticism. I was never sure what he could have suspected about Tom Williams. What if the reason for the fire lay with my husband’s sin? But kindly Father Luke was not prepared to say, even if he knew. I thought and prayed that he did not. I could not unburden myself of this terrible, sinful secret to him. I could not bear to do so. My holding the secret from the confessional was yet another sin but I could not help myself.

  ‘Just talk. Even so, it is best for you to have a protector.’

  Holding my hand, he helped me stand. I swept the dust from the path off my skirt.

  ‘As soon as Master Cromwell returns I shall announce the wedding banns,’ he said. ‘I take it he will be back from Rome in time!’ he added, his voice softly reassuring.

  ‘Yes. He is already on his return journey.’

  Gathering up his cloak, Father Luke inclined his head and continued with a quick step past me along the path to the bell tower.

  ‘Thank you, Father,’ I called after him.

  He gave me a backward wave and vanished into the church.

  It would not be long now. I daily considered myself fortunate because love within a marriage was hard to discover. Love hid itself in shaded places, our marriages decided by parents and by duty, but I loved Thomas Cromwell with all my being and, that spring, I held my excitement to myself at this thought, in case our love was snatched away by fate.

  I glanced about the hillocks that marked graves, and studied the trees that overhung them, looking for a sleek little blackbird, but he had gone. Tom Williams had loved in a shaded place. ‘May his soul rest in peace,’ I thought to myself. I whispered a Pater Noster for my first Tom, fingering the ebony rosary beads that dropped from my waist chain. My mind at peace, I picked up the empty basket and retraced my footsteps along the churchyard path to the Wood Street gate. Hopefully, that day, I had put Tom Williams and his secrets to rest.

  Chapter Eighteen

  THOMAS RETURNED TO ME by the first Sunday in June. On his arrival, he unrolled a painter’s canvas to reveal a deep blue sky, a manger and the Holy Family clad in the garments of Italian nobles. The angels in their cerulean heaven were golden and white, happy, plump and pouting, so real that I felt they could fly with their gilded wings from their heavenly sky and hover around me.

  ‘It is a gift for you to hang in our new home. I shall have a carpenter make a frame to hold it.’

  I looked up from the painting. ‘But, Thomas, a new home already! I thought we would live here for a while first.’

  ‘No, since Rome, I have enough silver for us to move house. New beginnings start as soon as we are married,’ he said, smiling. ‘I have already taken a lease on a property. We need a spacious hall in which to entertain, and an office so I can see my clients in private. There are rooms for our apprentices, my clerks and a well-appointed parlour where you can hang this painting, or perhaps in our bedchamber to lull us into gentle acts of love.’ His fingers lightly trailed over the cherubs. ‘The new house is closer to the warehouse I am using, the one on St Catherine’s dock.’

  ‘Which street?’

  ‘Fenchurch Street, not at all far from the Tower and the river. You will like it, Lizzy. We shall have enough bedchambers for your father and mother to stay with us whenever they wish. We can move in after our wedding.’

  ‘You have arranged all this quickly, Thomas, and without once asking my opinion.’

  ‘The Boston aldermen paid me well for my legal work.’ He looked pleased with himself as he said this. Thomas, I had discovered, was proud of his ability with languages and his astounding memory. ‘I knew the property would come available and expressed my interest before setting out for Rome -’

  ‘And you said nothing to me.’

  ‘No, Lizzy, I hoped to surprise you. The fewer people who knew it was available the better.’ His left eyebrow was quizzically raised and, for a moment, I wondered what else he was arranging.

  ‘When can I see this new house?’

  ‘Soon.’

  Our wedding bans were called in the Wood Street parish church, over three Sundays. No one came forward saying I was unfit for marriage because I had protected a heretic. We would wed on Midsummer’s Day. A week later we would remove to Fenchurch Street and I knew deep in my heart t
hat I would not be sad to leave Wood Street.

  Gossip has its own wings and they are not gilded and gentle as those in my painting, and they flap quickly. The Company men soon found out that I was marrying the clever merchant who did legal work for the Merchant Adventurers. Their wives, who had viewed me with suspicion, now hovered about me like clucking pigeons, greeting me in church and on the street. They liked a funeral or a wedding, or both in my case. They never spoke again of Tom Williams, so apparently I was no longer perceived as a widowed threat.

  When Thomas and I had chosen Midsummer’s morning for our wedding, we had been wise. I would not have a great merchant gathering descending upon my hall, taking over my wedding with their showy presence, profligate drinking and boisterous behaviour. The City drapers observed their own riotous Midsummer feast at the company’s hall in St Swithin’s Lane. Not only did I not want a big wedding, I didn’t want to be fussed over by the wives from the Drapers’ Company while their husbands accosted my female servants. My wedding would be conducted to my liking, with only family and Thomas’ friends present. My cook and his assistants would provide a bridal cake and a feast for them and we would dance with dignity to pipes, tabors and the gentle sound of lutes.

  On the appointed morning, my two young nephews, with rosemary pinned to their silken sleeves, led me to the church porch. Cat’s son, Richard, headed the procession carrying before us my silver bridal cup festooned with colourful ribbons. On that blue midsummer’s day, the sun beat down on us relentlessly. Though I wore my rose damask gown cut in a fashionable inverted open shape at the front, revealed my floating embroidered silk petticoat, and though the fabrics were light in weight, I felt myself perspiring because of my excitement, my undersleeves damp though scented with lavender.

  The fanfare of bagpipes, pipes and tabors that followed us ceased playing. We had arrived at the Church door where Thomas was waiting with his sisters, their husbands and a small number of his friends. Joan was my only maiden that day. She stepped behind me, joyful in this duty which no doubt she considered a rehearsal for her own wedding, pleased that I had given her a new blue gown of soft light weight wool that complimented her dark eyes and loose hair. Joan had passed her sixteenth birthday in May, ever a spring child with a sunny disposition, but still young for marriage. Only the children of the great could afford to wed before their eighteenth year, unless there was reason for a hasty wedding. Although we were wealthy merchants, we were not great.

  Father proudly stood by me as my dowry agreement was read aloud. A purse of coins which he produced from his cloak pocket was passed by one of my nephews to a priest to be distributed to the Parish poor. Thomas, who looked handsome in a grey, fur-trimmed gown placed a gold ring in a silver dish. After Father Luke blessed it and sprinkled it with Christ’s holy water, Thomas placed it on my finger and once we were married, my heart soared with joy. I was now Elizabeth Cromwell. Hand in hand, we returned to the Wood Street house followed along the narrow street by my noise-some procession. As was the tradition, we had presented our guests with gifts of silk ribbons. That day, I received a multitude of pewter basins, decorated plate and embroidered linen for our new home in Fenchurch Street.

  My wedding feast commenced with salads, roasted meats, pies and sauces. Thomas placed the finest cuts of beef and pork on my side of our shared plate. He served me with my cook’s best sweet sauce of apples spiced with cinnamon, teasing me to eat as our hired musicians played their lutes, and sang love songs and ballads of the greenwoods that lay far beyond the City walls.

  Between courses, Tom’s friends came over to speak with me, all educated gentlemen, like Thomas; followers of the new learning. Later, Joan and I were introduced to a delightful young man called John Williamson, almost as handsome as Toby, with fair locks that waved onto his collar and smiling eyes the colour of cornflowers.

  After he returned to his place on the lower trestles, my sister continued to gaze over, clearly besotted by the beautiful youth. I whispered to her to stop staring his way so boldly.

  ‘He smiled my way first,’ she murmured.

  ‘Even so, it is not becoming to stare at him, Joan.’

  She raised her eyebrows at me and I determined to send her over to Mother on an errand and out of John’s line of vision.

  Before I could accomplish this, I was distracted when Thomas nudged my elbow. He introduced me to an old friend, Henry Sadler, who was a steward for Thomas Grey, the Marquess of Dorset, for whom my husband had done legal work. His son, tow-haired Ralph, only seven years old, was already a charming boy with twinkling blue eyes that seemed to study us all. Thomas had said to me before our wedding day that he would like to take Ralph Sadler into our household for his education - if I were willing. With an education, he would one day make Ralph into a clerk.

  ‘Yes, it would be a pleasure,’ I said smiling. I liked the boy on meeting him and was glad I had agreed to take him into our household.

  Thomas’ cousin Robert, who was the vicar of Battersea, came over to be introduced. I had no idea on my wedding day how significant this man would be for our future. I did, however, realise that it was important that he was impressed by me, because this cousin knew Thomas Wolsey, the King’s most important advisor. I made conversation by asking him about this great man. I was very curious about the king’s advisor, whom many citizen disliked because he was so pompous. ‘Jumped-up,’ they would say, ‘fat and greedy, a butcher’s boy made good.’ I wondered at that. He had risen on his own merits, which I thought admirable at first, though then I did not know our future or how suspicious I would later become of this crimson silken-clad man.

  That afternoon, I smiled when Cousin Robert, a small round balding man, leaned closer to me and said, ‘Elizabeth, Thomas Wolsey is an extremely large man.’ He widened his arms expansively. ‘Though not as tall as our king who is six feet and two inches tall. He is devoted to King Henry and a great churchman. The queen likes him well enough, though, truth to say, she prefers Thomas More.’ He lowered his voice and I felt my Thomas lean towards me to catch his words.

  Cousin Robert said, ‘I think my master will be a cardinal one of these days.’

  ‘Good,’ Thomas said in his quiet voice. ‘We need an English cardinal, a man who will give his loyalty to our King when debating with the French and the Spanish. He will be an improvement on the Pope’s men. I saw this only too clearly when I visited Rome this spring.’

  Cousin Robert smiled as he popped a fat grape into his mouth. ‘Perhaps I can introduce you, Cousin Thomas, that is, if you intend putting more time into legal matters than cloth matters.’

  ‘Aye, yes, I do, Cousin Robert, now that my father-in-law will oversee our cloth interests.’ Thomas patted my hand and smiled his most charming smile at me.

  I started at this revelation. Thomas had never said that he had amalgamated our interests and my father had never mentioned a change in our business relationship. I looked straight into my husband’s eyes and began to mouth, ‘You never -’

  He whispered into my ear, ‘I have only just made this agreement, Lizzy. I meant to tell you later. It was what we agreed. We should work with your father. It makes perfect sense.’

  Cousin Robert looked quizzically at us.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ I said aloud, remembering my manners in front of Thomas’ important cousin.

  The puddings had arrived. I lifted a slice of Mother’s midsummer tart from the passing platter and placed it on our shared plate. I did not want to upset Thomas, but for a moment I had uncomfortably wondered if the reason he had so swiftly sought my hand was to do with family connections and not for love’s sake after all.

  Cousin Robert was saying, ‘Come and visit me in Battersea, Thomas, and I shall see what I can do for you. Bring your Elizabeth.’

  My husband thanked him. In our world, patronage was everything. Thomas lifted my hand to his lips and kissed my fingers one by one. ‘Lizzy,’ he whispered once his cousin’s attention turned to his neighbour. ‘I will ne
ver make any decision that does not advance us. Trust me on it.’

  I loved him, but I had a niggling sense that, although Thomas cared deeply about family, he would sacrifice my own independence if he felt it advantageous to do so. I had not wanted to join my business with Father’s trade unless Thomas could watch over it. How could he watch Father if he took on more legal work? Yet, if Thomas became wealthy through his legal work, I reasoned, so would I. I swallowed my complaints. He was my husband and I must trust him. By the time the bridal cake appeared - a wonderful confection, a bridal crown, coated with marzipan and studied with little jellies fashioned as jewels - my good temper was restored, though I watched Cousin Robert cram marzipan into his mouth with suspicion. What if Thomas worked for the Archbishop one day? Would it take him from my side?

  Pipes and tabors opened the beats of dancing tunes. Servants dragged the trestles back to the walls. Guests sat in small groups on stools and benches. Children raced about the hall waving ribbons. The talk close to me became increasingly teasing and bawdy as more and more wine was poured. The Lincoln lawyer frowned as the women of our families opened the dancing with a stately pavan.

  Thomas took my hand. ‘Can you dance the gilliard?’ I nodded. I had danced it at the feasts I had attended for Christmas celebrations at the Drapers’ Guildhall. For a time, Father had allowed me a dancing master and, although I had not danced it for over a year, I thought I could remember the steps. We moved into the circle’s centre to great stamping and clapping.

  Thomas’ face would alight with a warm glow when his interest was taken, especially when he found himself in good company, as he was on our wedding day. ‘I’ll never remember all your friends’ names,’ I whispered.