by Anne Stevens
“And you, sir?”
“I think two steps is a better option, Your Majesty.” Cromwell gives an ironic bow, and raises one eyebrow in comic fashion, to show he is jesting with the king.
Henry understands. The king throws his head back, and roars with laughter. He cannot help but like this new man. Since Wolsey’s death, he has proved to be a constant support. It is four months since the cardinal died, and Henry has all but forgotten that he was the cause of his downfall. Instead, he chooses to salve his conscience by blaming bad advice from lesser men. Percy, Norfolk, More and even Lady Anne Boleyn are to blame.
Had he been given all the facts, and Wolsey would never have been deposed. It is what Henry has taught himself to believe.
“Then tell me, Master Cromwell,” the king asks, “where do I go from here? The Bishop of Rome means to break me.”
“Then he is a damned fool, sire,” Cromwell declares. “His word is law in Rome, but he has no legal rights in this realm. The Papal troops number less than five thousand mercenaries, and neither France nor Spain wish to test your mettle on the field of battle.”
“Well said, sir!” Henry loves his martial prowess being boasted of, and still remembers how he led his troops into action twenty years earlier, sweeping the French mounted knights from the field at the famous Battle of the Spurs. In truth, he had been hemmed in by a hundred knights, intent on keeping him safe, but he had been there.
“The throne is yours, by right, and English law says that makes you the supreme head of state. Every subject, you see, must be loyal to the king. That does not mean they can disobey you on certain matters, simply because the church says so.”
“Rome will not allow my annulment, sir,” Henry says. “That is their final word on the matter.”
“Yes, sire, but not yours.” Cromwell throws his chest out, and bangs a fist on the table. “Divorce Katherine, and do not refer the matter to Rome. To do so is tacit agreement that they can interfere. Do not ask permission, but take it, as your divine right. Do it, sire, and be damned to Rome!”
“Divine right, you say, Thomas?” It is a heady phrase, and Henry can scarcely take it in.
“You are the anointed King of England, by divine right,” Cromwell explains. “The oil on your brow is a direct tie with God, who bestows your power. Not the Bishop of Rome. Not the Earls of this realm. Not the Howard family, or the Percy brood. God grants you direct power. Brush the Roman church aside, sire!”
“They will excommunicate me, Thomas.” Henry often has bouts of melancholy these days, and can feel sorry for himself at the drop of a hat. He pictures himself as a poor outcast, spurned by Mother Church, and reviled by the faithful masses.
“Then excommunicate them right back, sire,” Cromwell says, waving his clenched fist in what he assumes is a southerly direction. “If they try to brow beat you, turn on them like an enraged bull. I have put in place such laws, as will put you above a mere Bishop. Parliament will declare you to be head of the English church, and insist on your immediate divorce, so an heir might be sired.”
“Parliament will insist?”
“They will, Your Highness. You respect the law, so will bow down to their demands, and re-marry. The new queen will produce a male heir, and the future of England will be secured.”
“You paint on a broad canvas, Thomas,” Henry replies. “Can you really make it so? Will Lady Anne be my wife?”
“You may choose whom you wish, sire,” Thomas Cromwell replies. “I am told there are some truly beautiful foreign princesses, eager to receive your attentions.”
“I have made certain promises to the lady we speak of,” Henry mumbles. “Can you really make all of this happen?”
“Only by your will, sire.” Cromwell holds out his hands, as if in supplication.
“What about Sir Thomas More?” Henry says. “He has been my conscience for many long years. A break with Rome is almost beyond comprehension. The man will never stand for it.”
“Then he has misled you,” Cromwell says. “In the matter of your brother’s wife, he failed you. In his dealings with Rome, he misled you, and in the matter of your divine right to rule, he will dare refute you. Some friend, sire!”
“He will stand in our way, Thomas.”
“I refer you to the eggs again, sire,” Cromwell tells his king.
“How can I ever thank you, Ambassador Chapuys?” Queen Katherine says. She is somewhat recovered, and propped up in her bed. The blood stained covers and drapes have been replaced, at the expense of Master Cromwell’s office.
“I was just doing my duty, madam,” Eustace Chapuys replies. He has his arm in a sling, despite the knife barely having broken the skin. “It is a cause of great sorrow to find the traitors were amongst our own people. I thank God I was able to foil their iniquitous plot, and deliver my queen safe from their treason.”
“I knew it could not be Henry’s doing.” Katherine, despite everything, is still pathetically in love with her husband, and expects a visit from him at any moment. “Does he know?”
“No, My Lady.” Chapuys must lie, for the sake of everyone concerned. “Those who advise him will only use it to damage your cause. They will say the Spanish are untrustworthy, and urge him to ever greater folly.”
“The king is not a fool,” Katherine says.
“He seeks to put you aside, madam,” Chapuys replies, truthfully. “Is there a bigger fool in this kingdom?”
Will Draper’s injury is what soldiers in battle call ‘a happy wound’. The slim blade contrived to miss every major organ, and has left nothing but a painful cut, and a cracked rib. Adolphus Theophrasus has cleaned and dressed the injury, and advised a few days bed rest.
Miriam Draper is happy to have her husband back alive, and moves him into their new home, a tall, sturdily built house on the banks of the Thames. Once recovered, Will can stroll the short distance into Austin Friars, ready for the day’s work.
In rapid succession she turns away Rafe Sadler, her brother Mush, Richard Cromwell, and even Master Cromwell. Will must have rest, she tells them, sternly. No talk of business for at least another three days.
There is a basket of fresh fruit sent from Whitehall Palace, along with a purse of money. She makes Will eat the fruit at once, whilst counting the bounty bestowed at the king’s request.
“How much?” he asks, observing the small, neatly stacked piles
“Ten marks of silver,” Miriam tells him. One hundred and thirty silver shillings in return for a pint of her husband’s precious blood. Enough for a new bed, and the running of the stables for six months, she decides. A fair return, if her man has to shed blood. “I hope everyone has been paid out in kind. There are some who should be hanged for these past few days activities!”
Will well understands her anger. Sir Thomas More is still the Lord Chancellor of England, and able to condemn better men for heresy, and Edward Prudhoe is allowed his life. The cowardly sodomite has been given a purse of gold by Cromwell, and told to leave England at the earliest opportunity.
“You are no longer under our protection, sir,” Mush tells him. “Stay, and you will be fair game for the Lord Chancellor.”
Sir Edward takes the gold, and boards a ship for Calais the same day. News comes, two days later, that his body has been found floating in the harbour. The Lord Chancellor’s writ runs far a field, it seems, and the man’s failure has been duly punished.
The Duke of Norfolk is informed by Cromwell that his son has been meddling in grown up affairs. Despite his loathing of the boy, Surrey is his heir, and something must be done to reign him in, before Cromwell takes a hand in the matter.
“I hear you have been doing small favours for Tom More,” Norfolk says. “My family are no man’s errand boys, save the king’s. Your allowance is stopped, herewith, and you are to return home to your mother.”
“For how long?” Surrey cries, petulantly. “She prays four times a day, and allows no strong drink in the house!”
“Unt
il you are man enough to walk amongst your betters, sir!” Norfolk’s words are accompanied by a ringing cuff to the younger man’s left ear that will leave him partially deaf for a week.
Harry Percy receives a short, terse note, hand written by Thomas Cromwell. The king is most irate at being introduced to a common prostitute, and deplores Lord Percy’s poor sense of humour. Then, he is commanded to turn over one of his smaller border fortresses to Charles Brandon’s men.
“For the continued safety of the realm,” Thomas Cromwell finishes. He has put another nail in the Duke of Northumberland’s coffin, and makes a note of it in his special book. The slim volume, entitled ‘Vindicatio’ contains the names of all of his enemies, and each day he scratches out some names, and adds others.
Percy helped bring Wolsey down, and treated him badly whilst acting as his gaoler. Thomas Cromwell blames himself for not protecting the man who raised him so high, and will continue to exact vengeance, as long as he may.
For the moment, Sir Thomas More is safe, but there is a strong wind coming. It will blow away the cobwebs of Rome, and be strong enough to topple even the greatest men in the realm.
“One hundred and thirty shillings is a lot of money for a new bed, and six months worth of stable fodder,” Will Draper says from his sickbed.
“Perhaps.” Miriam smiles, and takes his hand in hers. “I was thinking we might save the rest to buy a crib?”
Will Draper, soldier of fortune, agent of Thomas Cromwell, and the king’s sword of justice, smiles then.
He is going to be a father.
~End~
© TightCircle Publications 2015
My special thanks to my wonderful, supportive partner, for all of the insightful comments, and other help in the writing of this, the second volume of my Tudor Historical series.
