by Anne Stevens
“The Spaniards have the New World, and the French are the most well managed country in Europe,” he says. “We must take the best from both, and become a world power, sire.”
“How?” Henry cannot see any further than his next round of arguments with Parliament.
“Policy, sire.” Henry purses his lips. He wants it done, but lacks the stamina to do it himself. Thomas Cromwell’s worth is becoming more and more apparent with every word.
“In a nutshell, Thomas. I must look at my stables this afternoon!”
“We build a strong army. And ships. Then we sail the world, and establish new trade routes… or absorb existing ones where the competition is still weak.”
“My war in France almost broke the bank,” Henry mumbles. It is the nearest he has ever come to admitting failure.
“You do not use an army to make war,” Thomas Cromwell tells him, as if instructing a small child. “Troops exist to give the appearance of power. Trade is the thing. We bring from one place, and sell into another, at a higher price. For this, we need ships. A navy. We go to the vast new found worlds, or scour the coast of Africa. Where we land, we leave troops. They build fortresses. Soon, this is perceived as an empire.”
“This is all very grand, Master Cromwell.” He is losing interest, and wishes to be about his sport.
“Your new Lord Chancellor will explain it, and handle the details, your Majesty.” Cromwell bows, and prepares to take his leave.
“You have promised me a new wife, and an empire, Master Cromwell,” the King says, heartily. “I have chosen well. See to it, and you will sit at my right hand.”
“Your Highness is too kind,” Cromwell says, wanting to be off before Henry thinks to ask him the one question he wishes to avoid. It is not to be. Henry calls, as he is almost free.
“Thomas, who shall I make Lord Chancellor?”
“Stephen Gardiner, at a pinch, or Tom Avery… they are both able enough men.” Able enough, and manageable, he thinks, but not for the King‘s liking.
“Yes, quite. I though Sir Thomas More might do a reasonable job.” Damn, and double damn. Cromwell does not need pious Tom More cluttering up the way ahead. Ask him to be reasonable, and he starts collecting faggots. He would as soon burn a heretic as pick his nose.
“A wise choice, sire,” Cromwell concedes. “He is a man of strong principle. Not to be deflected from that which he believes to be right.”
“Hmm. We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” Henry says, with the utter conviction that he can sway any man. “Sir Thomas More is a pragmatist at heart.”
Sir Thomas More is nothing of the sort. He is a staunch supporter of Pope Clement and Rome, and will torture or kill any man back to what he calls ‘the true faith’, Cromwell thinks, but does not say. Henry is only seeking to balance things out. Every right must have a left, and every puritan his persecutor. If he can, Tom More will have Henry crawl to Rome on his knees, and kiss Pope Clement’s papal ring, asking for forgiveness every yard of the way.
Then he is free. Henry has a horse to cosset, or a falcon to try out, and can spare no more time. As he finally leaves York Place, Richard Cromwell, Rafe Sadler, and four of his hardier young men step out of every corner. They are as well armed as a small Neapolitan army.
“What’s this?” Cromwell says. Pleased at seeing them. “Would you have knocked down the palace walls?”
“And carried you safe to the Netherlands,” Rafe says, in true earnest. Everything they have comes from Master Cromwell, and they would die for him, if need be.
“I am sorry to disappoint you,” he says with a theatrical sigh, “but I have been appointed to the King’s inner council.”
“What? But that is marvellous news.” Richard is ecstatic, and effects a little jig, which makes his comrades smile.
“Yes, and all I have to do is get him a new wife, and an empire by the Christmas after next.”
“A trifle.” Rafe snaps his fingers, and laughs. “We shall start by conquering the Holy Land, and Scotland.”
“Where is Captain Draper?”
“With his true love, I’m afraid.” Cromwell is disappointed, but cheers up when Richard discloses the sheer cunning of the new man.
“He tells me that he has been paying money to several of the guards at the Tower.”
“His own?”
“Who knows,” Rafe replies. “His notion is that, if you are taken, it will be to the Tower. His bought men will turn a blind eye, and you walk out, a free man.”
“The boy is too cunning for his own good,” Cromwell says, but he is pleased, nevertheless. “Tell me about his girl.”
“Isaac ben Mordecai’s granddaughter.”
“Ah, the Spanish lady. I really must see what can be done in that quarter.”
“She is a Jewess, sir,” Richard says. He has no particular dislike for the race, but knows the law concerning their presence in England.
“Thank goodness she is not a Lombard,” Thomas Cromwell tells him. “For the King is not best pleased with them. From what you told me the other day, our Jewish friend is being sounded out by the King’s party.”
“Of course,” Rafe strikes his forehead, as though the light has just been let in. “King Henry is broke again. Lady Anne’s courtship is a costly affair. He must turn to whomsoever has gold, and will lend it to a monarch who is out of favour in Rome.”
“Correct.” Thomas Cromwell is thinking fast. “If I could become the conduit between the King and the Jewish bankers, we might earn a small commission.”
“And what of Will and his sweetheart?”
“The King might grant her and her family the right to call themselves English. Will could marry an English rose.”
“If Henry does not pluck it first,” Rafe says.
“The Lady Anne will not allow it.”
“The Lady Anne is being too chaste, master,” Barnaby Fowler puts in. “It is reported that she denies him, night after night. Some think he might return to the sister again, if only for a little bodily comfort.”
“Damn and bugger it.” Cromwell imagines Henry bedding the sister Mary again. He has one bastard by her already. “Warn Will not to become too friendly with Mary Boleyn after all. He might turn to her in the night, and find the King’s hairy body in the way!”
The posse of Cromwell’s young men surround him, and escort him back to Austin Friars, shouting, all the way:
“Make way. Make way for the King’s Councellor!” It is done in a seemingly joking manner, but soon, all London will know that Cromwell is the coming man, and must be respected as such. A word in the lawyer’s ear is now as good as a word in Henry’s.
They arrive home to find Will waiting at the front entrance. He comes forward, eager for the news. After a moment, he recalls, and tells Cromwell that a sour faced man is waiting to see him.
It is Sir Thomas More.
“What’s this, come for dinner again, Thomas?”
“The king has sent for me,” More says. His face is grey with worry. “I wondered if you might have heard something? Have I grieved Henry in some way?”
Thomas Cromwell is about to make up a tale that will terrify More, but he remembers that the man has a family at home, worried as to why he has been called to York Place, and he relents.
“I have just come from the king,” he says. “I am to join his council at once. We spoke about you, in confidence.”
“Yes?”
“He wanted my advice about who to make Lord Chancellor. He was for Stephen Gardiner or that dullard Avery, but I advised he settle on a sounder man than they.” Cromwell says you must seek to turn everything to your favour, and sees the chance putting More in his debt.
“You jest with me.” More is wary. He sees lawyers tricks in everything Cromwell says or does. He is not far wrong, of course.
“No. He will definitely offer you the post, my friend,” Thomas Cromwell insists. “My advice, for what it’s worth, is this: Do not accept.”
“Are you mad? Refuse the King?”
“Better now, than later… when it will matter more.” Cromwell knows he will ignore the advice, and he regrets it.
“I will serve my King well,” More says, haughtily, “and advise him to mend his fences with Pope Clement.”
“Then you and I will certainly clash,” Cromwell says, “and I will come off best. Think about it, Tom. Henry will have his way.”
“We shall see.” More says, standing up. Thomas Cromwell has done all he can to save his fellow lawyer.
“Yes, I’m afraid we will.”
“Stop trying to frighten me with your lawyer’s tactics, Master Cromwell,” Sir Thomas More tells him. “We have been friends for too long, and I know your ways too well. The King will bark and snap a little, then see the way ahead. Queen Katherine will return to court, and the Boleyn family will be packed off back to whatever backwater they swam out of.”
“Old Boleyn’s wife is a Howard,” Cromwell says. “Norfolk will not allow his niece to be thrown aside… not when the entire future of the monarchy is at stake. Henry needs a son.”
“If God decides he must be content with a daughter, then he must bow to His will.”
“Then we must go to law, sir, and discover who it is who has the right to decide what God’s Will is. A fat, lecherous old man in Rome, or the most noble Henry Tudor. Who do you think God would choose, Sir Thomas?”
“Blasphemy,” More says. “I could draw up charges against you, Thomas Cromwell. Were we not friends.”
“Away with friendship,” Cromwell replies. He does not know why, but he wants to save More from his own arrogance. “Put in your charges that I say the King of England must not bend the knee to Rome, and see how far it gets you. Let me have my men walk you home. It is getting late.”
“And have honest men think I am of your mind?” More sneers. He sets off into the crowded streets. Cromwell gestures for one of his men to follow, and see him safe home.
“There goes the wisest man in Europe,” he says to no one in particular. “I would not want to fill his shoes from hence forth.”
7 Understandings
Will Draper has never spent a more enjoyable Christmas time than under Thomas Cromwell’s roof. The young men devise plays, and indulge in merry pranks, designed to surprise, rather than hurt. There are tubs of ice cold water balanced on door jambs, to catch the unwary, and flour parcels, dropped from upper floors. More than once Will has received a soaking, and a dusting with coarse brown flour.
He thinks hard as to how he can repay Rafe and the others, and comes up with a prank that leaves them speechless with admiration. He ties small sacks of ground charcoal to the heels of fighting cocks, and releases them into the long dormitory on Christmas night.
The household awakens to screams and roars of vengeance, as the birds bounce from wall to ceiling in a frenzy. Rafe Sadler emerges looking like a blackamoor, with a bird in each hand. There is a bad moment when they fear one of the creatures is free in the master’s study, but it passes, and they end up drinking good health until dawn.
Thomas Cromwell indulges them, but insists they are all back at their duties without losing a beat. Business makes the world turn, and Cromwell business is now the King’s business too. Between Christmas and New Year, a messenger comes, asking for Master Cromwell. The Lady Anne wishes to speak with him.
“Make yourself presentable,” he says to Will Draper. La Boleyn is in town, looking over her new quarters in York Place. When the workmen finish, there will be connecting doors, from Anne’s suite, to the King’s master bedroom. Cromwell is informed of all this by one of the new staff, a boy of twelve, who passes throughout the court without being much noticed.
She makes them wait for an hour. It is her prerogative, Cromwell says. Soon she will be a queen. Lady Mary Boleyn ambles by, and pauses to pass a few words with Will.
“Good day, Captain Draper. Whom have you come to stab today?”
“I have yet to make up my mind,” he replies. Cromwell smiles and bows. The lady is ripe for a stabbing of some sort. He wonders if Henry is tapping at her door yet. Time will tell.
“My sister will have adjoining rooms,” she whispers to Will.
“A cosy arrangement,” Cromwell says. His hearing is second to none. “I expect His Majesty is suited by the understanding?”
“I suspect not,” Mary tells him, and goes on her way, giggling.
“Then it is true,” Cromwell says to Will. “She still withholds her favours from the King. It might just work. He is a man who must satisfy his craving, and might promise… what … a crown?”
“How can that be,” Will asks. He is learning his politics fast, and knows that two queens are at least one too many for England. “Queen Katherine would have to…”
Cromwell nods, placing a finger to his lips. When he is called into Anne’s presence, Will Draper stands to one side, trying to remain unnoticed. It does not work. George Boleyn is perched on a window sill, glaring at Cromwell. The lawyer bows, deeply, to Anne, then nods towards George.
“Is the Viscount Rochford here in an official capacity, my lady?”
“You have a man with you.”
“A man… yes.” George Boleyn lurches to his feet, hand on the hilt of his sword. Will takes a casual pace forward, and Rochford retreats back to the safety of his sill.
“Have a care.” Anne is amused. “One day, brother George will be amongst the highest in the realm, Master Cromwell.”
“Then he must learn not to be so easily goaded, my dear Lady Anne,” Cromwell replies. He recalls when the Boleyn family were little more than farmers in Norfolk. Old Thomas Boleyn caught Uncle Norfolk’s sister for a bride, and they are now of the blood. “Half of the court are still for Katherine, and would have Henry back in her frigid bed. It would please them greatly to have George killed in some stupid quarrel. My man could spit him in a second.”
“Who would dare?” The Boleyn brother snaps.
“Anyone of a dozen men I know, for a handful of silver,” Will Draper says. “My master is right. You should learn how to fight well before being so objectionable.”
“Were you asked for an opinion?” George replies. Will smiles at him, measures him up, and gives him a mocking bow.
“The grown ups wish to speak now,” Mary says. “You sent your man to bait me, Cromwell. Why?”
“My pardon, my lady. I sent my man to deliver a precious thousand pound ring. The words were not meant to annoy you. Did it fit?”
“The ring… yes. I am not sure about the words.”
“May I speak plainly?”
“Can you do anything other?” Anne folds her hands in her lap and waits. Cromwell clears his throat.
“Pope Clement is under the thumb of Spain, and when he escapes them, it is to sell himself to France, or the Emperor Charles. Neither the Emperor nor the French or Spanish king want Henry to throw Queen Katherine off. It will upset their own church men, and give succour to the protestant clamour that is growing across Europe.”
“Cannot we buy the Pope?” George is unable to keep his nose out, and fancies himself as a diplomat.
“Feel free, George.” Cromwell subsides into silence.
“How much will it cost?”
“The whole kingdom would not be enough,” Anne says sharply to her brother. “Now be silent, or get out. Do go on, Cromwell.”
“Your brother is right in one thing. We must raise a great fortune, as soon as possible. There are too many enemies to kill them all. Some will want gold, a title, or both. Then we must have good men about us; men who know the law, and can be diplomatic.”
“You say ‘we’ like I have already decided to make you my man, Master Cromwell.”
“I am the King’s man, my lady.” Cromwell makes the point as clearly as he can. “I want only what the King wants. He wants you as his wife, and that means we must ease Katherine from the throne. To do that, we must have men in Paris, and with the Spanish King, turning their minds away
from war.”
“Spain will not go to war.” Anne has heard this from her father, who thinks himself to be knowledgeable in such matters.
“They will, if France does,” Cromwell explains. “And France will attack, if Spain does. It is a fine balancing act, my lady. That is why it will take a year or two. Can you hold on that long?”
“I can.” Anne smiles. Cromwell either knows, or suspects her methods. “Henry is sworn to me, and his honour is important to him. His one aim is to wed me, and make me Queen. Can you do it, Cromwell, or do you boast idly?”
“It can be done.” Cromwell glances at George. “The king must be kept entertained during his every waking hour. We must arrange jousting, hunting, tennis, and … games. Surround him with jolly friends. With that done, I can put our plans into motion.”
“We must look into the state of the annulment,” Anne says. “It will clear the way.”
“No, it will not.” Cromwell flicks an imaginary speck of dust from one sleeve. “There is to be no annulment. The Pope will take another three years to investigate every aspect of the case… then declare the marriage to be valid. We must approach certain Cardinals, and offer them generous gifts. All we will ask in return, is that they hurry the investigation. If they know we do not care which way the thing is decided, they will take out gold, and side with the Pope. The annulment will be dead and buried by next Christmas.”
“You confuse me,” Anne says. The man is a master of trickery, and his words make no sense. “Henry and I want an annulment.”
“No, my lady. You are confused indeed. The king wants only one thing. He wants to marry you. If the Queen dies, your immediate problem is solved, but I do not suggest anything underhanded. If she dies, people will say it is by poison, or that I had her strangled for you. Henry’s reputation is all. If there is even a hint of scandal, he will not marry you.”
“Then what do you suggest?” George Boleyn cannot hold his tongue any longer.
“Divorce, of course.” Cromwell is surprised that Anne has not already considered the possibility. “Not a separation sanctioned by a corrupt Pope, but a legal document, approved, and sanctioned by the highest common authority in England. Parliament.”
