“The same rebels?” I asked.
“We believe so, Your Majesty,” he answered. “However, since they are farmers and peasants, it is difficult to ascertain their identities. They attack members of my committee one minute and the next are back on their farms with a plow. And their meeting location is still a mystery.”
“And the attacks are the same?”
“Yes, they attacked only my committee members. Richard Rich was leading this particular mission to close a charter for the St. Friar’s Observatory. The monks had been found guilty of lechery as well as replenishing their holy relic of St. Thomas’ vial of blood. They used the blood of sheep, Your Majesty.”
I closed my eyes at this. Lechery had proved to be common among the monasteries, many of the monks having at least one mistress, perhaps more. And to my great surprise it seemed rampant among the nunneries as well.
But the replenishing of a holy relic with sheep’s blood? That was the greatest crime Cromwell had brought to me thus far. To lie about a holy relic and tell the people it would heal their wounds when in reality it had come from a slaughtered lamb seemed unforgivable.
“Were these charges explained to the mob?” I finally asked.
“Sir Rich tried, Your Majesty,” Cromwell explained. “But all they saw was the destruction of what they considered to be a holy relic. They did not listen to his words.”
“And how many dead?”
“Three, Your Majesty,” Cromwell said with another bow of his head. “Two peasants and one of the king’s men.”
“That is the fifth death we’ve had,” I reminded him. “Something must be done with these peasants. Or this could quickly get out of hand.”
“Your Majesty,” Cromwell said with a frown. “I believe it already has.”
******
“I fail to see how this is necessary,” I said as I sat down on a small makeshift bed. Through the doorway I could see my bedroom and my great state bed. I would have much preferred to be in there. Alone.
“Your Majesty, the ulcer has not gone down,” Doctor Butts said firmly. “We must bleed you or it may get worse.”
“Very well,” I said. “But I want to know exactly what you are doing.”
I lay down and turned onto my side, gripping the bedpost above me. The shots of whisky I had taken a few moments before made me slightly dizzy, but I was thankful for the disorientation. I felt one of the doctor’s assistants lift my leg up and bend it in front of me. My stockings had already been removed and it felt strange to feel the cold chill of the morning on my calf.
“Your Majesty, we are preparing to make the incision.”
I braced myself for the pain, but it didn’t matter because as soon as the knife began to drag across the wound I was screaming, the piece of leather they had given me to bite on falling away. I quickly bit my lip and could suddenly taste the tangy tartness of my own blood. As a child I had enjoyed the taste, but lately there had been too much of it.
“The pus is exiting Your Majesty’s leg.”
I could felt the young assistant’s hands on my leg, squeezing around the ulcer. The blood from the cut ran down my leg, but the pus oozed out, sticking in thick globs which Doctor Butts would wipe away while encouraging the young man to squeeze harder.
“The wound is closing,” the doctor said to the man behind him. “Quickly, hand me the gold.”
My entire body shook as I prepared for what was to come next. Butts had only done this once before and it was the most excruciating pain I had ever felt. As I cried out, I tried to fix my grip on the bedpost once more but was still shocked the when the thin piece of gold was wedged into my wound.
“That should hold it,” Butts said. “Continue with the cleansing.”
I could feel the blood from my lip trickling down my chin even as blood gushed from my leg. I made to kick my leg, but one of my guards held it tight around the ankle.
“Please, refrain from moving, Your Majesty.”
Had I my voice, I would have screamed at the doctor for his request. I vowed that when I was on my feet again I would murder this man, gladly watch as his head was taken for doing this to me. But instead I felt my eyes rolling back into my head and gave into the sweet release of sleep.
Chapter Three
December 1536
“Your Majesty, they’ve taken York.”
This was not news that I wished to be awakened with. I bit back a curse as I turned to leave my bed, rolling onto my side before my page appeared to help pull me to my feet.
“How?” I demanded as my over jacket was thrown over my bedclothes.
Cromwell looked alarmed, not expecting this question.
“With superior numbers, Your Majesty,” he finally responded, as if it was obvious.
“Superior numbers?” I spluttered as I rushed to my outer room. All around, page boys woke from their slumber, rolling off the mats made of hay that they slept on. Candles were being lit and a glass of wine was poured for me. I threw myself in my usual wooden chair and motioned for Cromwell to continue.
“It is thought the rebel forces number over thirty thousand, Your Majesty. York was overwhelmed. Since the threat with Scotland has lessened, fewer troops have been kept up north.”
I glared at him, not needing a lesson in my own troops. Cromwell looked down at his feet, pulling his own dressing gown further around him. In the face of my anger, he appeared at a loss for words.
“The battle?” I prompted.
“Ah, yes,” he said with a stutter, pulling out a long letter. “The rebels attacked the commissioners just north of the city. The guard that had been assigned to protect them was quickly overtaken and your men retreated inside the city gates. The rebels attacked, armed with little more than pitchforks and stones. However, many of the guards’ sympathies lay with the rebels. They allowed them in with little fight; only two casualties and no deaths.”
“The guards changed sides?” I asked. It seemed we had a bigger problem than I had originally thought.
“Yes, Your Majesty. When the mayor spoke out, he was locked in the dungeon. The flag of the rebellion has been raised over York.”
“They have a flag?” I said skeptically. “I was not even aware they had a name.”
“It seems they have taken to calling this the Pilgrimage of Grace, Your Majesty.” Cromwell covered a yawn before continuing. “My man describes their flag as red with the holy wounds of Christ mimicked.”
I closed my eyes. A play for sympathy, to help garner support. What garrison would fight against a crowd who called themselves pilgrims? What Christian would fight against a flag of Christ?
“What do we know about them, besides their names and their flag?”
“We know their leader,” Cromwell answered confidently. “A Sir Robert Aske of Aughton led the troops and is the one who spoke with the mayor of York. Though there seem to be factions within the group, all reports I have received call him their chief captain.
“He is a lawyer, by trade,” Cromwell continued, obviously eager to show that he did have some amount of information. “He was swept up by the rebellion in October when he was returning from London.”
“We must consult with the Privy Council,” I said, cutting off Cromwell’s speech. I turned to my page boys. “Fetch the Dukes of Norfolk and Suffolk to me, and send notices to all of the council members that a meeting will be held in my chambers as soon as the sun rises.” To their credit none of the page boys even glanced out of the darkened windows; instead, three of them quickly grabbed candles and left the room, talking amongst themselves as to which one would travel where.
A fourth page boy was sent to wake the kitchen staff so they could prepare the morning meal when a dirty messenger was shown into my room. Mud was caked against his boots and fell among the rushes that lined my floor; I could see the bugs that populated his jacket hop happily onto my rug. Rather than scold him, Cromwell merely turned to the boy and held out his hand.
“My thanks, Geoff,” he s
aid, placing a small coin into the boy’s palm as he took the letter. The boy glanced at me and was obviously as disturbed by my presence as I was by him. Without a bow or nod he turned and ran quickly from the room, mud slinging from his boots has he went.
“Forgive him, Your Majesty,” Cromwell said in a flat voice. “He is an orphan and unused to grandeur.”
I did not bother asking why an orphan was employed by Cromwell; it is not my nature to question means, only results.
“Read it aloud,” I ordered, not wanting to waste time as Cromwell decided what I needed to hear.
Cromwell looked at my through slanted eyes.
“It is addressed to the Duke of Suffolk,” he said quietly, as if Charles Brandon was outside the door listening in.
I narrowed my eyes. It was one thing to be aware of Cromwell’s ring of spies, it was quite another to see him reading his better’s mail. There would be time for sorting him out later though; now I needed all the information I could gather.
“Read it aloud,” I repeated. With a nod, he unrolled the letter.
“It is from the Mayor of York,” Cromwell began. “To the Duke of Suffolk: my town has fell captive to the rebels this day. They attacked with a significant number of men, over forty thousand. The rebels attacked in the evening, during the final light, and no warning was given. I must report that those numbers grew upon the reaching of York; many of my men at the garrison joined their forces and barred the entrance for the royal guards who were stationed outside of the city. By the time the cry was taken up, it was too late.
The chief captain is Sir Robert Aske of Aughton. He is assisted by three other men; the rebels follow these men in all things. They guard my family and I, locked in the dungeon along with those men of the garrison who refused to join their cause. I have been instructed to write to you, Sir Charles, so that you may convey their grievances and demands to His Majesty.”
Cromwell glanced up at my stony expression but continued to read.
“They demand that the government ceases the dissolution of the monasteries. To see this through, they request that the next session of Parliament be held in York, with His Majesty in attendance, as a show of good faith. They also request an end to taxes during peace time and a repeal of the Ten Articles, as laid down by his Majesty the King. And finally the insist upon a purge —“
Cromwell trailed off, swallowing heavily. He glanced at me again before continuing in a thinner voice.
“A purge of all heretics within the government, starting with Mr. Cromwell.”
Cromwell took a deep breath and finished reading.
“They wish to meet with his Majesty before the year is out to discuss these terms. If they receive no reply they threaten to turn and to march towards London, with or without the invitation of the King.”
Cromwell bowed his head and rolled the letter back up. Silence reigned until I could hear the echo of a door slamming and the curses of the Duke of Norfolk line the corridors.
The grizzled old man entered my chambers just as Cromwell was reaffixing the seal onto the letter. As Norfolk bowed, Charles Brandon was led through the door, performing a bow of his own. Cromwell moved quickly to Charles’ side and held out the letter.
“This was brought here,” was all he said by way of explanation and waited while Charles opened and skimmed the letter, repeating everything Cromwell had already told me.
“Forty thousand?” Norfolk asked. “Surely their numbers are wrong.”
“Perhaps,” Cromwell answered. “But I have received separate figures that estimate there were at least thirty thousand. It is safe to assume that we are dealing with a large crowd.”
Charles signed as he folded the letter and placed it into one of his pockets.
“And this Robert Aske,” Norfolk continued. “What do we know of him?”
“A lawyer,” Cromwell answered. “From Aughton. He has never caused trouble before this.”
“Family?” Norfolk asked.
“Only a wife and three daughters. I do not believe he has any significant ties —“
“He is a cousin of the queen.”
We all three turned to look at Charles Brandon, who remained to the side of the room, his hands gripping a wooden chair.
“I’m sorry?” Cromwell asked, slightly stunned to have been interrupted.
“He is Queen Jane’s third cousin,” Brandon insisted.
“How did you find this out?” Cromwell questioned, for once not bowing to his betters. “I have had men researching this man for two days —“
“She told my wife,” was Charles’ simple answer. “I did not ask how the conversation arose. But Catherine found it fit to inform me last night. I planned on conversing with Your Majesty about it but did not realize the situation was so dire.”
I nodded; none of us had understood the situation for what it was.
“This will be discussed at the Privy Council?” Norfolk asked, turning to me.
“I see no reason to bring all of this information to light,” I responded. “And there is no need to discuss what will be done next with any members of the clergy. Mr. Cromwell, prepare a letter to Sir Robert Aske.” Cromwell nodded and took up his old place at the desk in my room, easily slipping back into his role as my secretary.
“Write to Sir Robert and tell him that we will be honored with his presence here at court this Christmas time. Make sure to include an invitation for the three men in his council and tell him we will discuss his grievances then, in person.”
Cromwell nodded and began to scratch out the letter.
“Your Majesty,” Norfolk began. “Do you believe it wise to barter with —“
“I never mentioned that we would barter,” I corrected Norfolk with a smile. “And I believe it will be much easier to deal with Sir Aske here in London, rather than sending up an army to fetch him down.”
******
I glanced around my small presence chamber and pulled my furs further around me. The tapestries lining the walls were doing little to keep out the winter chill and I could see that most of my courtiers were gathered closely to the large fireplace. I looked to the opposite corner to find Cromwell and nodded for him to leave. He did so with a slight bow of his head just before the herald entered.
“Sir Robert Aske of Aughton!”
Many of my courtier’s heads turned at this unknown name but, seeing it was merely a meek old man, turned back to their own conversations and the heat of the fireplace.
“Your Majesty,” Sir Robert said, dropping into a deep bow. He did not rise even after I gestured for him to do so; Charles Brandon had to step forward and lift him up.
“Sir Robert, you have been brought before His Majesty to speak on behalf of the movement known as the Pilgrimage of Grace,” Brandon said in clipped tones.
“Yes,” the man said, bowing again at Charles before turning his bow once again to me. I could feel my frustration with his excessive groveling growing; though I was a station above all men I found myself sometimes loathing the barriers between us. Now was one of those times.
“Sir Robert, you have brought with you a list of demands, have you not?” I asked, hoping to prod him into his reason for being here.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” he said eagerly, though thankfully this time without a bow.
“Perhaps you would care to state them?” Charles asked. I looked to him, grateful he was remaining by Sir Robert’s side to prompt him.
“Oh, yes, well,” Sir Robert fumbled, glancing from Charles to myself and back again. Finally he produced a copy of the letter that had been sent to Charles and began to read the demands verbatim.
“Yes, thank you, Sir Robert,” I said, cutting him off when he mentioned the purging of Cromwell again. I glanced outside the door and saw Cromwell in my outer chambers. I knew he would have a spy within hearing of Sir Robert’s requests, but it seemed that he could not resist watching.
“On the matter of the monasteries that is, of course, up to Parliament,” I
lied. I saw Charles stiffen and glance towards Sir Robert, but he accepted my statement.
“Of course, Your Majesty,” he said with another bow. “That is why we wished for Parliament to be called in York.”
“Parliament has never been called anywhere other than London,” I stated firmly.
“Except in time of war,” Charles amended, looking at Sir Robert. “And I do hope that this does not count as a time of war.”
I hid a smile from my friend’s wily ways and watched as Sir Robert turned a dark shade of red before apologizing profusely.
“It is not, Your Majesty,” he said with another bow. “We have merely drawn together to protect Your Majesty from evil council that has permeated your government.”
I raised my eyebrows, impressed he could articulate that much. It was an old argument, one that had been used during the War of the Roses. Henry Bolingbroke had said as much when challenging King Richard II and had then become King Henry IV. Almost a hundred years later, his grandson Henry VI had fought off Edward of York, who only wanted to rid the king of his evil councilors. Ten years later, Henry VI was dead and England saw the rise of King Edward IV.
I did not plan to let the sins of my forefathers echo onto me. I did not plan on being murdered in prison or my bed, as Richard II and Henry VI had been. I would fight this uprising with every weapon I possessed.
“Very well,” I said, as I swallowed my anger. “We shall hold Parliament in York before the summer progress. From there my guidelines for the Church of England, the Ten Articles, will be discussed, as will the dissolution of the monasteries. While there, if a member of the House of Lords brings again evidence against any councilors, it will be considered.
“Will that satisfy you, Sir Robert?” I concluded.
“Yes, yes, Your Majesty,” he said, seemingly shocked that I promised so much. What he failed to realize was that everything I had promised had only been heard by four people, myself and two more that were loyal to me. And the other was him.
“Very well. We will see you in York, Sir Robert,” I said, with a wave of my hand. Bowing while leaving my presence, Sir Robert did not turn around until he reached the door of my presence chamber.
Jane the Confidant Page 3
