He took a deep breath. “Your Grace,” said Cromwell cautiously. “Like many men in my position, I employ those who keep me informed of the activities of others. I have one such, a most reliable personage, in the household of the Countess of Salisbury.”
Henry was silent for a moment. If he wished not to hear, for Cromwell not to go on, he would change the subject, or indicate in some subtle manner that the issue was not to be broached. Finally he said, “I see.”
Cromwell cleared his throat, shifted in his chair; he lifted his wine cup and took a sip. Still the king did not change his mind.
“Proof is to be had, Sire, if you desire it.”
Again that succinct word. “Who?”
“Sir Geoffrey Pole.”
The king swirled the dregs in his cup, studying them as if they contained the secrets of the universe. “Very well, then. Have him arrested and brought to the Tower.”
Rochester Castle, August 1538
The ride from Gravesend to Rochester was short and had been taken in easy stages to accommodate the king, who was slow now in the saddle because of his aching leg. Cromwell, never a good horseman, was glad of the sedate pace; he hung back a bit whenever possible. He had avoided the king since their conversation on the royal barge, lest the sight of him call to mind the order for the arrest warrant for Sir Geoffrey Pole. But the days they had spent in Gravesend, the king stumping about with his walking stick, endlessly ambling over the site of the planned fortifications, passed without any mention of the decision that had been taken, nor had the king suffered any change of heart that might lead to the warrant being rescinded.
So far, so good, thought Cromwell. The first part of his plan was well in hand; when they returned to London, Sir Geoffrey would be cooling his heels in a dark, dank cell in the Tower without, ostensibly, knowing the reason why. But that he was guilty Cromwell knew for certain, and it was through Sir Geoffrey that he planned to bring the Plantagenets down for good and all.
He had been mildly successful with his attempts to oust others who had what he considered undue sway over the king. Norfolk and Suffolk were kept busy on endless diplomatic errands that on the face of it were both important and necessary but whose true purpose was to keep them away from the royal presence. If any one mission had been questioned, Cromwell would have first explained why this or that duke was best suited to the task, but if challenged, would have backed down gracefully. So far, that had not happened and both the noble Duke of Norfolk and the parvenu Duke of Suffolk had seen their exposure to, and therefore their influence over the king, somewhat curtailed.
With the arrest of Sir Geoffrey, the internal threat of a Catholic uprising was about to be smashed. Now he must proceed to the second part of his grand plan for England, that of neutralizing the external threat of war. And the best way to accomplish that was with an alliance. But not just any alliance; and there must be ties of marriage to cement such bonds. For a fleeting moment, Cromwell swelled with pride to think that he, the son of a blacksmith, with the permanent calluses of the work he had done as a fuller in his youth still on his hands and feet, was in a position to broker a royal marriage. But he beat the feeling down. Pride was not for such as he. He had been put in this position to serve God and country and he must never lose sight of that. He had used his power to make solid provision for that other over-arching obligation, his family; his son Gregory was married to Queen Jane’s sister. That the queen was dead had no bearing on the usefulness of that; he had placed his son as uncle-by-marriage to the prince, and that would stand his family in good stead even beyond his own lifetime. That, and his thrift, would leave his wife and his children more than adequately provided for. Now he must see to England, and be glad of the opportunity to do so.
As he sat musing in his apartments in the castle, night began to fall, the twilight sky glowing a pale lavender at the horizon, and graduating to the color of a ripe plum where the first stars began to prick the sky. Finally, he heard footsteps approaching his apartments, and turned to face the door.
Cromwell had been awaiting the king’s summons, and had hoped for an auspicious opportunity, but it was not to be. His heart sank as he entered the royal bedchamber to find the king in nothing but his gown. His chausses and hose had been discarded and lay in a heap by his chair, stained with blood and pus and stinking of corruption. As he entered, a leech hurried past him, bearing a plaster and a pile of linen strips, while another departed holding a brimming bleeding bowl as far away from himself as possible. The very worst time to speak with the king, while his festering leg was being tended! The king had been bled from the foot of his good leg, which was elevated on a stool, while his afflicted leg was propped on what looked like a small sawhorse. The ugly wound was now as big as his palm, and heaven only knew how deep. The stench from it, coupled with the noxious odor emanating from the soiled chausses, evinced the beginnings of a gag that Cromwell fought to suppress.
“Ah, Cromwell,” bellowed the king, in surprisingly good spirits despite the ministrations he was enduring. “And what has my good Vicar of Satan been about this day?”
Cromwell smiled; for some odd reason, he was not offended by the appellation that had been bestowed upon him by Reginald, Cardinal Pole. Many powerful men feared and hated him, but that simply amused him. The cardinal hated him because of his project to dissolve the monastic system in England, and resented his influence over English policy. Chapuys, the Imperial ambassador, had said of him that his words were fair, but his deeds were bad, and his intentions worse. All true, but all in the service of the greater good. Vicar of Satan indeed! And what was that great, bloated spider who sat in Rome, sucking the lifeblood out of every country that subscribed to that idolatrous religion?
Suddenly Cromwell found himself being scrutinized by the king. He flushed. “Forgive me, Your Grace, I am preoccupied with the looming threats of war.”
“Yes,” Henry replied. “And well you should be! Well? And what are we to do, then?” He winced as the leech placed the plaster and bound up his leg with the fresh linen, under the assessing eyes of the apothecary who was supervising the entire routine. Would that the man would finish and be gone!
“Your Grace, it is my firm belief that we must make an alliance.”
“Yes, but with whom?” Henry replied. He was still smarting from the rebuff he had received from Marie de Guise; she had preferred his own nephew to himself, a whelp twenty years his junior! Oh, for the voluptuous, buxom Marie de Guise! But when he had remarked that he was a big man and needed a big wife, the insolent baggage had retorted that she might be a big woman, but she still had a little neck…a pointed reference to Anne’s execution. Well, to the devil with all of the French! There would be no mincing French maiden for him.
But what had really cut him to the quick was the tart refusal of the Duchess of Milan to his proposal of marriage. Christina, the tall, beautiful daughter of the deposed king of Denmark and the emperor’s sister, the widow of the Duke of Milan...what a rich prize she would have been! If Marie de Guise was a widow who had already proved herself by bearing two sons to the deceased Duc d’ Longueville, Christina was a widow who was still virgin and only sixteen. And yet Charles had allowed the impertinent chit to refuse the king of England with the saucy quip that if only she had two heads, one would be at the disposal of Henry of England. The duchess had gone on to say that she dare not risk marriage with a man whose first wife had been poisoned, whose second had been murdered, and whose third had died for want of keeping to her childbed. The cheek! Perhaps he was better off without her after all. He had already suffered one wife whose sharp tongue had helped to put her in her grave, he did not want for another!
# # #
“Well, who is left?” asked Henry peevishly. “François and Charles are in league against me. Where am I to look for a friend? Not to mention a wife? I refuse absolutely to ally with any Lutheran country. How Brother Martin would laugh at that!” He had won his religious title, Defender of the Faith, which
had been bestowed upon him by a grateful pope, for refuting Martin Luther’s ninety-five theses one by one. The document he had produced, his Assertio Septem Sacramentorum, was so well done, so convincing, that many accused him of not even being the author of it. But he knew the truth. It was his work, and the break with Rome notwithstanding, a monumental achievement. To crawl now to a Lutheran nation for an alliance, hat in hand, as it were, was unthinkable.
“Has Your Grace considered an alliance with Cleves?”
A man who prided himself on his cleverness, Henry had noticed lately that his memory was less than reliable. But he wished no one to know that. An evasion, then. “Yes, I believe so.” There. Let Cromwell fill in the lost details.
Cromwell heaved an inward sigh of relief. So the king did not remember, then, that their ambassador had sent word from the duchy, when he had first started his search for a new bride just after the queen’s death, that Cleves boasted eminently marriageable candidates in the form of a son and two daughters. The son, perhaps, for Mary; one of the daughters for the king. But Henry had been so intent on playing François Premier in France against the Emperor Charles that he had all but ignored all of the other, minor matches that had been suggested as possibilities. That was as well…for Cleves was to be Cromwell’s trump card. The envoy had reported that the two Cleves wenches were not well-favoured, or accomplished in any way that the king of England would find acceptable. But that could easily be explained away…beauty was, after all, in the eye of the beholder. Such an impression might have been the result of differences in dress, manners, culture. Besides, one princess was much like another in the dark. And the king had found Jane Seymour attractive, a circumstance that had baffled many at the time. Cromwell had no interest in feminine pulchritude; his own wife was as plain as a pikestaff. But a less favoured woman than Mistress Seymour he had never seen. And as for accomplishments, well, such could be learned, could they not?
“The duke of Saxony, upon hearing that Your Grace was searching for a husband for the Lady Mary, suggested his nephew, William of Cleves, Sire. That was…” Cromwell paused, assessing the king’s face to gauge his interest, “…some months ago.”
A brief flicker crossed the king’s face, then died. “Oh, yes, I think I do recall. But as I said, I am not interested in an alliance with any Lutheran country.” Henry winced as he lifted his leg from the wooden device upon which it had been propped. The apothecary and the leech bowed in silence, backed away, and were gone.
At last! thought Cromwell. “Ah,” he said, “but that is the beauty of it, Sire. Cleves is not Lutheran. They are Erasmian in outlook.”
Henry’s face lit up. “Are they indeed?” He had known Erasmus as an impressionable child, and had liked him very much. Erasmus had in turn been much impressed by the young prince, and had predicted great things for him. Erasmus had been much-loved by Henry’s paternal grandmother, Lady Margaret Beaufort, and had been Professor of Divinity at Cambridge in the chair she had endowed. He had been friends with many of the most influential men of Henry’s youth; John Fisher, Thomas More.
“They are,” confirmed Cromwell. “And Cleves boasts not only a son who will inherit the duchy, but three lovely daughters. The eldest, Sybille, is married to the duke of Saxony, who first made the suggestion. But there are two unmarried sisters. I am certain that one of them would be honoured to marry Your Grace.”
Suddenly all the bitterness that the words of Marie of Guise and Christina of Milan had uttered, words that had no doubt made him a laughing stock on the Continent, washed over him in a tidal wave of hatred. Cleves! He would make a marriage that would make those two ladies regret their refusals. He was certain that Marie of Guise was already regretting hers! Scotland! His sister Margaret had married into Scotland, much against her will, and had known nothing but deprivation and unhappiness.
“There is something else, Your Grace, if I may be so bold,” said Cromwell.
“Eh?” said Henry, rubbing his chin. He was lost in thought. Holbein must be sent to make a portrait of the two Cleves princesses.
“Cleves has a claim on the Duchy of Guelders,” said Cromwell. “They have been a constant thorn in the side of the emperor. Support from England would be a great boon to their efforts to assume control of the land there. The entire territory straddles the Rhine; no place on the Continent is better placed to launch an invasion into the emperor’s territory. And in return, Cleves is very well placed to provide England with mercenaries, should such ever be needed.”
Henry’s eyes sparkled. “Say you so, then? This is good news indeed!” A bride for himself, and an opportunity to put the emperor’s nose out of joint! What joy! No Catholic country would allow its daughter to marry with a heretic, and even though he was not that, he knew that he was viewed as such. And it was becoming evident that no Catholic princess would have him, not even to be queen of mighty England.
And the threat of internecine strife ate at him. If his royal cousins were indeed planning another uprising, Cromwell would certainly get to the bottom of it all, and on that happy day, he might even be rid of his Plantagenet rivals. What a relief that would be! He might boast of his good health to others, but he knew the truth, and feared it. If only he could hang on until the prince was of age. He was only forty-seven, after all…the Catholics in England who refused to accept the break with Rome viewed the prince as a bastard, a thought that made his blood boil. But even the most devout still did not want a woman on the throne. Even so, there were many who felt that Mary’s claim was better than Edward’s. He simply must live until the boy was old enough to rule.
Apropos of nothing he exclaimed, “The Duke of Beja is a Catholic.”
Taken aback at the king’s statement of the obvious, Cromwell replied, “He is indeed, Your Grace.”
“Well, we don’t want him,” said Henry peevishly. “He is not for Mary. I want that negotiation stopped. Mary must do it herself, only that will convince the Emperor. Have her write to him that she knows he is dragging his feet, and that the financial settlement offered is paltry to the point of insulting.”
“Certainly, Your Grace, right away. I will see the Lady Mary tonight and speak with her,” said Cromwell. So not only would there be no marriage for the king with the Hapsburgs, but neither would there be one for the king’s daughter. “A most wise decision, Your Grace. Especially if another Catholic uprising is in the offing.” So instead of the Catholic Dom Luis of Portugal, it would be the son of the Duke of Cleves, a Protestant even if not a Lutheran, for the Lady Mary. That would take the wind out of the Catholic sails, both at home and on the Continent! The seed of a heretic being regularly deposited into Mary’s Catholic womb and the inevitable result a heretic bastard in the eyes of the Catholic world! Add to that a Cleves sister for the king, and he could die happy, his ambitions all fulfilled.
Henry reached for his walking stick and made to rise. Cromwell scrambled to his feet. The king towered over him. The icy blue eyes regarded his chief minister for a moment. “Send Master Holbein to Cleves forthwith. I want portraits of these paragons as soon as possible. But make no mention for the time being of a match for the Lady Mary. We must first conclude this business with the emperor and Dom Luis.” Henry inclined his head. “For form’s sake, Cromwell.”
Cromwell was a little disappointed, but not much; what the king said made sense. They would wait to test the waters with Cleves, which as a small, seemingly insignificant player in European politics should not but be pleased at the attention of mighty England. He had infinite patience; he could wait.
Hampton Court Palace, November 1538
The ferry moved through a mist so thick that Mary could not see the banks of the river. The ferryman was a wizened old man, and one who had been plying his trade between Kingston and Hampton Court for most of his life. He did not need to see his way; he could have navigated the river had he been blind and Mary had complete confidence in him. If only she had not been in such a hurry! Because even if he knew the way, some
caution was still needed in a mist so substantial.
The harvest had come in uneventfully, but no sooner had the last sheaves of wheat been stooked, and the corn dolls hung in every barn to bless the next year’s planting, than the sky had burst open and for the past two months violent storms had raged across southern England. Fields were flooded, roads were muddy bogs made the more impassable by fallen trees. Even the river was dangerous, and perhaps should not even have been tried. But she must, she simply must, get to Hampton Court Palace, and to Edward.
The Marchioness of Dorset knew her cousin well, and could sense her anxiety. Holding her cloak close at the neck so that the fur of her hood blocked the wind that rocked the none-too-steady ferry, she laid her hand on Mary’s arm and said, “Do not fret, Cousin. We will soon be there. And I am certain there is no cause for alarm.”
“Oh, Frances,” said Mary, with a catch in her throat. “The poor child! And I promised Jane…”
“To look after her son, yes, of course,” said Frances. “But you could not have known that he would take ill. Lady Bryan and Mistress Jack will see to him. They will let no harm befall him, upon that I would stake my life.”
Mary’s haunted, hollow eyes strained to see in the fog. “How far have we come? Are we almost there?”
Frances flicked a glance at Lady Margaret Douglas, who hitched up her skirts and inched her way carefully on the slippery deck towards the rear where the ferryman fought with the rudder, to get his opinion on how much longer the trip was likely to take.
Another royal cousin, the Lady Elizabeth Fitzgerald, a solemn child of ten, silently placed a spare cloak around Mary’s shoulders and took her hand. Mary patted her cheek and turned back to Frances.
“It just vexes me so, to have left, only to have the prince fall ill. I should have been there. I promised Jane…”
The Baker's Daughter Volume 1 Page 43
