“Perhaps the meeting was called to make final arrangements for the wedding,” I suggested, trying to keep my thoughts from straying back to the quiet happiness of my own.
“If so, surely the King himself would have been present. But those two Dutch gentlemen who came with the bride were called in—Waldeck and Hostoden, or some such names—together with the Duke Philip of Bavaria, who seems to have come as a suitor for the Lady Mary. And Holbein, who speaks their language, was telling me just before you came that the poor men were bewildered at being cross-questioned about some pre-contract between the Cleves Princess and the young Marquis of Lorraine. Some idea that was mooted years ago by the late Duke of Cleves, her father, but never implemented.”
“Then the King has changed his mind and must be trying desperately to find means to avoid marrying her,” I said, bitterly disappointed, because it seemed to wash out any faint hope of begging a mellowed bridegroom for Richard Fermor’s release.
“A pity he ever sent for her!” said Thurgood, not relishing another uncomfortable period like the end of the Boleyn reign.
“Or that he noticed that young Howard girl first!” I said. I had not meant to speak of it, but this was our common misfortune, and I understood my master all too well.
“You mean the auburn-haired orphan sired by that fine soldier Lord Edmund Howard, who was younger brother to the Duke of Norfolk?”
“Yes. The Duke’s detestable old stepmother brought her up, it seems. And now, after neglecting her since childhood, I suppose they suddenly realised that she had big appealing eyes and the right colour hair, and that the King is at the age to make a fool of himself over a cuddlesome girl of seventeen.”
“But surely he would never look with more than a passing lascivious eye at a penniless chit like that?”
“He might. Like all the Howards, she has royal blood. I saw him watching her from one of the windows in the long gallery while she was playing shuttlecock on the terrace with some of the Lady Mary’s maids. Young and fresh as a rose, she looked, although her cousin George Boleyn once told me she was no better than she ought to be. ‘Who is that sweet child, Tom?’ Henry asked. And poor Tom Culpepper, who clearly wants to keep her charms for himself, had to tell him, ‘Katherine Howard, my cousin, Sir!’”
“And you really think that Norfolk has pushed her upon his Grace’s notice purposely, Will? In the hope of getting another royal marriage in their family at the expense of this carefully planned Protestant one?”
I got up from the stool on which I had been sitting. “Bear me witness that I always refused to credit it when people said that Thomas Howard rushed to his other niece, Anne Boleyn, to tell her that her husband was at the point of death so that her son might be born dead, and leave the pathway for his own daughter open. But now—now I am willing to believe anything.” As I passed behind him I pressed my hands affectionately upon his shoulders.“Oh, John, John!” I exclaimed sadly. “How Court life stinks!”
“There are certainly some men about who make me prefer my monkeys,” he said, finally shutting them into their cage and beckoning to one of his property men to take them away. Then he uncoiled his lithe body from the floor and came and threw an arm about my shoulders, his round, cheerful face quite serious. “It is because you are freshly come back to it—from an unblemished happiness which is the nearest we humans get to Heaven. Come and tell me about your new home, Will. It must be hard indeed to leave the sweetness of a new wife, but never forget the odd sparks of goodness which you and I have often found in the most unexpected people even here.”
Most certainly it had been hard, and most truly I stood in need of such invaluable friendship. “The goodness of people whose devotion to truth as they see it ignores worldly gain or safety,” I said, enlarging on the comfort of his theme. “People like Queen Katherine and Sir Thomas More and frail, brave old Bishop Fisher.Though they died, their names burn like a row of steady candles lightening the darkness of our world.”
“And the gay young goodness of men like Hal Norris,” supplemented Thurgood.
“And the thrice-blessed goodness of all those kind kitchen folk who bring us surreptitious plates of food when we have had no time for a decent bite all supper time,” we both spluttered laughingly, almost in unison, coming down to everyday things.
At supper we saw our prospective Queen, dressed in a strangely round-cut gown of cloth of gold strung with jewels, and surrounded by the plainest bunch of jantlewomen imaginable. Some unkind rumour was going round that the fair hair showing beneath her elaborate headdress was a wig. She certainly was not the type for Henry who, like most big men, liked his women small, feminine and dainty. To those of us who knew him well it was evident that he was making an immense effort to play his part as chivalrous host. But from the hurt glare in his eyes, coupled with the fact that few of his guests had sufficient English to understand the subtlety of a joke, any attempt at humour seemed out of place. Thurgood had solved the difficulty nicely, I felt, by entertaining the foreign ladies with the charming antics of his monkeys, who danced and pranced and curtsied to them to the lively strains of a jog played on the virginals. For myself, I attempted nothing, save when some time-serving wit tried to be funny about our defenceless foreign guest and I took it upon myself to teach him better manners.
“And speaking of monkeys,” he said in a high, mincing voice, “how amusing is this new fashion of ladies wearing wigs to ape the Tudor hue!”
I had no means of knowing how much that is English Anne of Cleves understood, either of our language or of the reason for the strained atmosphere which prevailed. “Had you travelled much in Europe, Sir, you would know that for a great lady to wear her own hair would be as mean as for her to wear a coat of her own spinning,” I told him sharply. I thought she looked towards me, but it was difficult to tell. As Holbein had said, and shown—her eyes looked straightly out on the world. And they were very tired and anxious eyes just then. She and her ladies asked leave to retire early, which was just as well, because at the crack of dawn on the next day, which was Sunday, Henry sent word to the Princess’s apartments that he would be ready to marry her at eight o’clock—perhaps on the principle that things which cannot be avoided are best done quickly. We watched him, all resplendent in cloth of gold and crimson, striding up and down impatiently because the poor woman kept him waiting. “If it were not to satisfy my realm, or to avoid making a ruffle in the world where you have arranged it, I would not do what I must do this day for any earthly thing,” I overheard him complain to Cromwell.
And one of the captains who had fetched her from Cleves and who happened to be standing within earshot, too, said to me regretfully, “Well, it pleased his Grace to dislike her, but to me she always appeared a brave lady.”
The King went to her bedchamber that night in ceremonial nuptial procession and, according to her women, for many nights afterwards, but during each day he was as irritable as an ill-mated bull. More often than not he looked through me or waved me out of his way. Which was a blessing in disguise, because it left me free to go more often to Thames Street for stolen hours of happiness, and at the first opportunity I crossed London Bridge to try my fortune at the Marshalsea.
The very strength and age of the building dismayed me, and I was kept waiting for a long time at the porter’s lodge. I had put on my shabbiest clothes so that I might pass for a turnkey’s friend, and asked if I might speak to one Miles Mucklow. To my great relief the man was known, and at last came to me. “I have brought a message from your mother, Miles,” I said, in the rough voice of the people, frowning him into silence before he could speak. “The man she now lives with has been killed in a tavern brawl and she begs you to pay her rent.” It seemed to be a story in keeping with my surroundings. Staring open-mouthed, he yet had the sense to listen to my cock-and-bull story and to promise gruffly that if I came with him he would spare me a few groats for her. And once outside the lodge I was able to explain to him my real errand.
“
A pleasant gentleman, Master Fermor,” he said. “And I remembered you the moment I set eyes on you, Sir.”
“And you once said that if ever there was anything you could do for me—”
“An’ I’ll not go back on my word,” he vowed.
After a careful look round he led me up a narrow, ill-smelling stone stair and along a maze of foul-smelling passages, and, taking a great key from the jangling mass of iron hanging from his belt, unlocked a low-pitched door. “Only half an hour until I go off duty,” he warned me in a whisper. And then I was in a small, cell-like room, alone with Richard Fermor. It had been as easy as that.
“Will!” he cried, in amazed joy, rising from a kind of truckle bed and throwing aside the book he had been reading.
I grasped both his hands, too moved for speech. My eyes searched his face, and I rejoiced to find it not too ravaged by the terrible shock of his experience.
“Did you wheedle a pass from the King—or that unspeakable Cromwell?” he asked, almost laughing in his eagerness.
“No. From that huge, hirsute gaoler, Mucklow—I once did him a service.”
“Good indeed! He is more humane than most of them. He has been to sea, so we sometimes talk about ships and foreign ports when he has time. To talk to anyone helps to keep one sane. But to talk to you, Will, will be like a visit to Heaven.”
“A brief visit, I fear.”
We laughed awkwardly to cover our emotion. He cleared away a litter of possessions so that we could sit side by side on the roughly blanketed bed. “You will notice that I am not too badly treated,” he said. “As a political prisoner I was allowed to bring books, ink, paper, warm clothing—even a lute to pass the time, though I am not the wizard with it that you are.”
“And warmth?”
“As you see, they bring me a brazier—at a price! Sick as Emotte was when I left—home—she sewed money into my belt. And I still have a few assets in London which escaped even Cromwell’s cruel nose. You know, Will, when I feel murderous, or despairing, I have only to compare my lot with poor Nicholas Thayne’s.”
“I have bad news for you from Buckingham. Bart Festing tells me that Nicholas Thayne died soon after you visited him.”
“Small wonder, in that cold cell!”
We crossed ourselves and sat in silence thinking of his kindly goodness. “How few of us stand up to the world for what in our hearts we believe to be the truth!” said Fermor.
“And how he loved the family and the gardens at Neston!” I said, remembering how it was he who had first manoeuvred for a homesick lad the comfort of a meeting with Joanna. “But Father Thayne could take so much of his spiritual life into prison with him, whereas you—who have built up all those smoothly running strands of commerce, all those vast interests in various countries—”
He let his hand drop upon my knee. “I try not to think what is happening to them lest I go mad.”
“Festing has gone to Calais to join Master John,” I told him.
“I am glad. But, above all, what news have you of my daughter? What will become of her now, Will? I know that the Browns or other friends will take her in. But since having so much time in here to think, I have realised how selfish I have been in keeping her with me. She should have been comfortably married by now.”
“She is married, Sir,” I said quietly.
“Joanna married! You mean that good Northamptonshire fellow came forward after all and took her—dowerless?”
The moment of confession had come. I stood up and faced him.“No,” I said sharply. “Joanna is married to me.”
He let out a sound which might have indicated surprise or anger. He, too, sprang up, head held high. It could have been the instinctive pride which, years ago, would have repudiated such a thought with furious resentment. Then, slowly, his stance slackened into reasonable acceptance. His gaze passed round his prison room, assessing his misfortunate state. Then came to rest on my unyielding face, assessing me.
I was glad that he still thought of his daughter as being far above me as the sun and stars. No one could have been more utterly in agreement with him than I. But even so, through completely unforeseen circumstances, God had given her to me. “I do not always go about in darned hose and faded doublets,” I said, grinning down at my unprepossessing attire. “It was to persuade people that I am Mucklow’s bosom friend.”
Slowly the smile on my face was reflected warmly on his. “In the filthiest rags you could be nothing less than our friend and equal, Will Somers. And I am glad and—grateful,” he said, gripping my hand in his. “Where have you taken her?”
I told him about the arrangement we had made with the Fest-ings, and how Joanna herself preferred this to going to her relatives in Aldermanbury.
“I realise that you cannot at the moment take any daughter of mine to Court, even had you adequate lodgings,” Fermor said with a sigh. “And Heaven knows that I, on my side, would not have her breathe the same air as Cromwell!” He was not one to dwell on his bitterness, so went on quickly to speak of Emotte. “How I wish I had made over Wapenham to her! I always meant to do so in my will. I am afraid it is not in very good repair, but at least she would be near all her friends.”
I remembered the disused priest house at Wapenham, the living of which had been in his advowson, and which was only a few miles from Easton Neston, and well understood his regret, as it would have made one small piece of his former world salvaged. He was much concerned for all who had worked for him, but his last thoughts and messages were all for his beloved daughter.
“I will go straight back to the wharf and tell her everything you have said. She will be overjoyed that I have seen you,” I promised.
“Tell her I am well and warm, that her watch which she made me bring still ticks away the hours till I see her again, and that I am glad she has gotten herself so good a husband,” he said, standing firm and dauntless in spite of all his cruel misfortune.
And then—in what seemed to be the flash of minutes—Miles Mucklow came to see me out.
IT WAS A STRANGE Court to which I returned, and all agog with whispered rumours. The King did not like his new wife and she had neither coquetry nor the art of flattery with which to win him. He complained to Cromwell that she waxed stubborn, at which we could scarcely wonder. He complained to Cromwell that he could not bring himself to beget sons on her, and most of us guessed that he was impotent. Since it was bullet-headed Cromwell who had urged him into this unfortunate marriage, he complained to him about everything. He had given him the earldom of Essex in gratitude for his negotiations, and now that there was nothing to be grateful for he grudged it to him.
The Tudor’s eyes and appetite were ever turned towards the dainty Howard morsel which Norfolk and his scheming wife dangled so painstakingly before him. And in his chafing anger he agreed with Chancellor Cromwell that Lord Montague, the Countess of Salisbury’s elder son, was conspiring with his brother Reginald Pole against him and that Lord Lisle, the Governor of Calais, was secretly acting as their go-between. Had not the Poles tried to stir up trouble because he divorced his first wife? And now they would meddle and rouse up his people—and his people’s ineradicable sense of fair play—because he was trying to divorce his fourth.These arrogant Plantagenets were best swept out of the way. So Cromwell—who could probably have concocted some plausible charge against the Archangel Gabriel himself—had tried to regain the royal approval by convicting Montague and his kinsman, Courtney of Devon, of treason, and having them executed. For which the people hated Cow Crommuck, as they called him, more than ever.
“It seems only a few months ago that Montague was with us at Queen Jane’s funeral,” lamented milady Mary, as some of us were walking back with her from the bowling alley where the news had been brought to her. “Oh, God be thanked that Reginald Pole is safely in Rome!”
“And now a Cardinal, I hear,” I said, knowing how much she had always cared for him and trying to cheer her.
“But have you heard, Will
, that they have taken my beloved Lady Salisbury to the Tower—at her age, when she feels the cold so much. Though what offence they can bring against her blameless life I cannot imagine, unless it be that she was ever kind to me,” said Mary Tudor bitterly.
“Or because, like any good mother, she refused to bear witness against her own sons,” said her waiting woman, Bess Cressy, who was carrying her woods.
“Or simply because she is the daughter of the murdered Duke of Clarence, and niece to Edward the Fourth and Richard the Third,” added Susan Toenge, her favourite lady.
“Or because Cardinal Reginald keeps crying milady Mary’s wrongs in Rome,” muttered Jane, the Princess’s pampered female fool, who was in some ways no fool at all.
To take her mind from her own troubles I told milady of the imprisonment of my former master and—because I had long wanted to tell her of my happiness—I told her of my marriage to Joanna. With her usual goodness of heart her Grace wished us well.
But for her there was worse to come. In a final effort to regain the King’s approbation, Cromwell excelled himself in rounding up victims. Mary’s former tutor, Dr. Featherstone, and her late mother’s chaplain, Father Abel, were dragged on hurdles to the flames at Smithfield together with a Protestant martyr, Dr. Barnes, because he denied the doctrine of transubstantiation. Which naturally provoked the witty French ambassador, Marillac, to many a caustic comment on the crazy inconsistency of our country. And then, as if poor Mary Tudor had not suffered enough, Cromwell’s spies brought the aged Margaret Plantagenet, Countess of Salisbury, to the scaffold.
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