Shaking the Throne

by Caroline Angus Baker

  ‘Henry wants Anne entertained by the Italian Waif,’ Cromwell shrugged.

  ‘Henry wishes me to spy on the Queen and report to you,’ Nicòla spat back and dropped herself in the chair at her desk in the far corner. ‘You also use me as a spy, since you cannot stand spending time with your own queen.’

  ‘Let us not lose our joy over the greatest prize of them all – a boy in the cradle,’ Cromwell said and Nicòla smiled in return. ‘We can still create an England where it is safe for our children to flourish.’

  A swift knock echoed on the doors and Cromwell spun around on his heel. ‘No!’ he yelled, but the knocking persisted. ‘I said no!’ he yelled.

  ‘King’s orders!’ echoed back.

  Cromwell opened the door and there stood Edward Seymour, elder brother to the Seymour ladies in Anne’s rooms. Nothing like his sisters, Edward was a quiet gentleman, who served Henry in his private chamber on occasion. He must have been at court to fetch his sisters’ home to Wulf Hall for Christmas. Edward had two young sons, but his wife lived in a convent; she had embarked on an affair with Sir John Seymour, her father-in-law. Everyone laughed openly behind poor Edward’s back. His sons may be his half-brothers. Finding a new wife had not come easily for Seymour.

  ‘Mr. Cromwell,’ Seymour said, his voice now lowered and respectful. He stood tall in Tudor green doublet and hose, his large hands clasped before him.

  ‘Edward Seymour, we have not seen you at the court of late.’

  ‘My father has been serving the King in the bedchamber, as I am sure you are aware. My father and I do not serve the King at the same time.’

  Nicòla smiled a little, despite her desire not to; Seymour wanted to stay away from his father.

  ‘King Henry requests you in his presence chamber at once,’ Seymour continued. ‘I am sorry to disturb.’

  ‘Am I to play nursemaid to an angry king once more?’ Cromwell’s lip had only just healed since Henry’s last angry outburst.

  ‘His Majesty is in a fine mood, perchance eager to get all matters completed before we retire to enjoy the epiphany. Henry requested your presence, along with that of “The Waif” at once.’

  Nicòla stood up from her chair and smoothed her doublet. As it was, Cromwell had allowed her to wear clothing other than black, wearing a deep red with golden embellishments, which set off the rose colour in her hair, again neatly tied back. She crossed the room and nodded once to Seymour, already feeling the chill of being away from the nearby fire of Cromwell’s office.

  ‘Edward Seymour,’ Nicòla said, her accent rolling the final letter of his name. ‘I believe there are not many at court who have failed to make my acquaintance.’

  ‘It is said you often move at night, Mr. Frescobaldi, and often through private hallways only used by few.’

  ‘There are many rumours made of me. Who knows what they shall say next about the King’s favourite creature.’

  Seymour smiled, a tiny laugh passing his lips. After a scandal such as his at Wulf Hall, it came as no surprise he too wished to tarry in the shadows.

  The King wandered around his presence chamber, hands perched on his hips, his eyes gazing out the window. Nicòla stood one step back from Cromwell as they bowed upon being announced into his presence.

  ‘My daughter is to join me later,’ Henry said as he wandered towards Cromwell and Nicòla, not troubled with any greeting. ‘They say Elizabeth is a good child.’

  ‘A fair royal princess,’ Cromwell replied.

  Henry eyed a few of his attendants in the corner, and waved them out, the guards following them also, and the doors closed in the far corner of the room. No one lurked now, the door through the privy chamber also closed tight. A rare occasion.

  ‘My Anne,’ Henry whispered, and scratched his orange beard, as he did when nervous, ‘she likes it not when I speak of certain things, certain people.’

  ‘Your Majesty,’ Cromwell said with sympathy, ‘allow me to take care of any worries and the Queen shall hear no names which trouble her.’

  Henry smiled, but he looked worn. Dressed informally, but with a large fur over his shoulders, he seemed a man older than his one and forty years. ‘Do you presuppose that God is angry with me, Thomas?’

  ‘No, Your Majesty. I have great reason to believe God is indeed shining His light upon you.’

  ‘Why?’ Henry paused and glanced around Cromwell to Nicòla. ‘Have you been in the Queen’s apartments, as I asked?’

  ‘Yes, Your Majesty. I have been there many days this week.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And your queen is in fine spirits, in fine health and proud to be with you through this most holy of celebrations, with your daughter at your side.’

  Nicòla said nothing of the pregnancy looming; for it was not her place to say of the idle rumours of women.

  ‘But Mary is my daughter also.’

  ‘We have moved the Lady Mary to Hatfield, as requested, Your Majesty,’ Cromwell explained. ‘Lady Mary is set up in a room best suited to attendants of Princess Elizabeth and shall begin her time in the child’s presence after the epiphany.’

  ‘The Welsh, they love Katherine, they love Mary,’ Henry sighed. ‘They support them, and their Catholic cause more than they support me, their king!’

  ‘We are quelling the anger in Ireland and we shall endeavour the same in Wales, Your Majesty.’

  Henry appeared worried; not angry, not busy, instead distracted and lonely. ‘And what of Sir Thomas More? Anne says I am not to mention his name either.’

  ‘Sir Thomas has begun a steady recovery of his recent illness. He is officially attainted with the charge of misprision, of harbouring news and colluding with the criminal Elizabeth Barton.’

  ‘What shall be the sentence?’

  ‘A fine, Your Majesty, of £300. Bishop John Fisher has also been attainted and faces the same punishment.’

  ‘Is it enough, though, for the people to stop thinking that Fisher and More are both wiser than their king?’

  ‘Only a fool would dare to do such a thing,’ Nicòla muttered, and Cromwell half turned to look to her behind him.

  ‘By no manner, may it be lawful for the noblest King of England to divorce from the Queen’s grace, his lawful and very wife,’ Henry recited. ‘That is what Thomas Abel, Katherine’s priest, said in his book.’

  ‘All copies of Abel’s Invicta veritas have been found and burned, Your Majesty,’ Cromwell replied. ‘Abel too is attainted for misprision, along with four other inciters of Barton’s lies. They are all imprisoned in the Tower and shall not get released. The bill I will force through the House of Lords in February shall see them all executed. Only Fisher and More have the choice to beg for your pardon, Your Majesty.’

  ‘It has been over a year since Anne and I married in Calais, Thomas. As you would know. Yet all this trouble has not ended.’

  ‘All in due time, Your Majesty. Soon all shall swear you are the Supreme Head of the Church and that Princess Elizabeth is the rightful heir to the throne.’

  ‘I only do this because Anne does not want Mary to inherit,’ Henry admitted.

  ‘Queen Anne shall one day breathe easily around the Lady Mary,’ Nicòla said quietly. Once there was a son in the cradle, Anne would reign over all. ‘One day, your son shall be born, and the sun shall never set over England.’

  ‘I hope you speak rightly, and not only because you wish to soothe me, Waif. I hear your father-in-law, the Pope, is still much ill in Rome.’

  ‘I suspect so, Your Majesty, but I hear nothing from Rome or Florence.’

  ‘Good.’ Henry looked Nicòla up and down, and it made her shiver. ‘Thomas, would there be a way of setting Anne aside but not have to go back to Katherine?’

  Cromwell doubled over in a coughing fit and Nicòla reached over to help him. Henry already wanted to dethrone Anne? Cromwell’s queen?

  ‘Do excuse Master Cromwella, Your Majesty,’ Nicòla said as Cromwell got himself together.

 
‘Your Majesty,’ Cromwell croaked, ‘you could easily set aside Anne and embrace the Catholic faith again, citing the Pope’s ruling that Katherine is still your wife. There would be no way to supplant Anne with another. It is Katherine and the Catholics or Anne and the Reformation.’

  Cromwell paused and looked at Nicòla. He had to tell Henry the news. Nicòla nodded once in agreement.

  ‘Your Majesty,’ Nicòla said loudly, ‘I heard talk in the Queen’s rooms today.’

  ‘What is this to me?’

  ‘Talk that the Queen was due for her courses to begin last week, yet they have not done so. Queen Anne suspects she is with child but is not yet certain.’

  Suddenly Henry’s face lit up like a bonfire of delight. He threw off his heavy fur coat and embraced Cromwell tightly.

  ‘Could it be true?’ Henry asked, breathless with excitement.

  ‘There is every chance Queen Anne is right. But I am sure only she can give you the fine news at the ready moment.’

  ‘I must go to the Queen,’ Henry said as he gave Cromwell a hefty slap on the back, enough to make him lose his footing. ‘I had almost forgotten why I called you hither on this miserable afternoon.’

  ‘It matters not, I fear,’ Cromwell replied.

  ‘Oh, indeed, but it does. I need a new Recorder of Bristol. It comes with great London chambers that I believe you can use for your work.’

  ‘Me, Your Majesty? The Recorder of Bristol?’

  ‘Why not? You seem to cope with so many of the offices I command you to lead. Bristol needs a new judge.’

  Henry dashed from the brightly decorated chamber toward his privy chamber, and Nicòla heard his deep voice calling to his attendants to fetch the Queen at once.

  ‘Do you suppose Henry will tell Anne that I shared her secret?’ Nicòla asked.

  ‘No, he will make it sound as if the whole conversation is his own idea,’ Cromwell replied. ‘You know he must appear as the wisest man in England.’

  ‘The Recorder of Bristol?’

  ‘A solicitor who works as a judge in Bristol, or least makes decisions from chambers in London, for cases being heard in Bristol. They shall pay a goodly fee to us.’

  ‘That sounds busy.’

  ‘We have many lawyers to act for us. We can use many of our staff from Austin Friars’ offices to oversee Recorder cases. We shall rule this country before you know it.’

  C

  Chapter 6 – February 1534

  within every lye, a cruymb of trouth

  Whitehall Palace, London

  The House of Lords caved to Cromwell’s demands. They always did. Who could refuse the King’s Chief Minister? It gave stuttering Norfolk something to do, while Suffolk was away at Westhorpe Hall; his son and heir was dying. Thomas Boleyn was wandering around with a grin like the devil, and the King swaggered with pride; Anne was indeed pregnant and had just missed her third monthly course. Not that Cromwell cared about what any person did with their time. He had to create new high treason laws, so they could hang Elizabeth Barton for speaking ill of the King. The House of Lords did not dare complain. The world needed to give Henry what he wanted; everyone had already suffered enough from the King’s whims over the last few years.

  ‘It is the end of February; and had I been home in Florence, we would soon look for the ever-lightening sun,’ Nicòla mumbled from her desk.

  Cromwell glanced at his secretary, but she did not turn to face him. ‘Poor Secretary Frescobaldi, doomed to live in England with its long dark winters,’ he teased.

  Now Nicòla turned in her seat and showed him a sly smile. ‘I would not leave this palace for all the world. But this…’ she gestured to the chest of mail at her feet, which she sorted… ‘I fear brings us nothing but bad tidings.’

  At once Cromwell’s mind shot to Alessandro de’Medici in Florence. For months he had written to Nicòla, begging his wife to return to Rome, as the Pope was ill and desperate to see his favourite in case he died. Cromwell could not dare tell Nicòla of the letters and let her go home, lest they trapped her there, unable to return. Pope Clement himself had not once written, a worrisome sign; for if His Holiness died and Nicòla discovered she could have gone to him before his death, she would be livid at Cromwell’s lies.

  ‘You seem so troubled,’ Nicòla frowned and caught Cromwell’s golden gaze. ‘I shall deal with the correspondence. We have many hundreds of men at your will. Fear not, Tomassito.’

  ‘What do you read?’

  ‘A letter from one of our creatures in Warwickshire. A priest, Ralph Wendon, is predicting that they shall burn a queen at Smithfield. Wendon hopes that queen will be the whore and harlot Anne.’

  Cromwell sighed and covered his eyes with a weary hand. Life held enough curses without the creation of prophecies as well. ‘I shall have him arrested at once.’

  ‘Another letter speaks of a woman hither in London, one Elizabeth Amadas, who says that King Henry tried to take her as his mistress and she escaped him. Amadas believes that Henry is cursed by God’s own mouth and will be banished from England by a Scots army before midsummer this year. Mysterious monks living on an island will come to England and summon the Commons and the Lords to create a Parliament of Peace.’

  ‘Elizabeth Amadas?’ Cromwell spat and stood up from his desk. ‘She married Robert, the goldsmith who ran the Jewel-House until I took over! She remarried, to Thomas Neville, Speaker of the House of Commons. I spoke to him yesterday!’

  ‘No,’ Nicòla said as she watched Cromwell pace around his desk, his dark overgown swishing with the speed of his tight steps, ‘the letter alludes to her husband being a sergeant-at-arms.’

  ‘We must find which Elizabeth Amadas the letter speaks of and have her locked up at once!’

  ‘There is plenty more,’ Nicòla sighed and picked up a pile of letters. ‘James Harrison, parson of Leigh, is calling Anne a whore in church. A Welsh priest, William ap Lli says he wishes to bash the King’s head soft. Dan John Frances, a Colchester monk is calling the King and his councillors heretics. He stated that when Henry went to meet King Francis at Bologne, the Queen’s grace followed his arse as the dog follows his master’s arse.’

  ‘Enough!’ Cromwell cried, which brought a halt to the clerks working in the next room. He clicked his fingers twice, and they all returned to their work. ‘Round up every letter, send them to Richard Rich and instruct him that all must be arrested. Those letters from our creatures are evidence of crimes.’

  ‘At once.’ Cromwell watched Nicòla set aside what appeared to be over 100 letters.

  ‘Be there any good news among the correspondence?’ he asked and finally stopped his pacing.

  ‘There is a letter from the Lady Mary from her new lodgings at Hatfield,’ Nicòla held up. ‘Perchance you should read this personally. Lady Mary is of too greater importance to have her letters read by me.’

  ‘Master Cromwell?’

  Cromwell turned to the sound of one of the gentlemen-ushers in the doorway. ‘A messenger from the Tower for you.’

  Cromwell clicked his fingers twice and Nicòla left the room to deal with the issue. Cromwell opened Lady Mary’s letter and frowned. Her usually beautiful handwriting seemed laboured, messy, as if she had tried to write against a soft surface. Perchance she needed better rooms at Hatfield. Young Mary spoke of the humiliation of having to serve infant Princess Elizabeth, and that her champion, Ambassador Chapuys could never get time to speak to Cromwell on her behalf. Lady Mary was regularly ill and was banned from seeing her mother. She felt shame for being named a bastard in Cromwell’s Act of Succession legislation, which was now but weeks away from becoming law.

  ‘Tomassito?’ Nicòla spoke quietly as she came back into the office. ‘Be you well?’

  ‘I must write to the Lady Mary. No matter what happens, Henry loves his first daughter over the new Princess Elizabeth. They must see us as kind to her while not disobeying Henry’s demands to silence her.’

  ‘I have a more pressing
charge,’ Nicòla replied and glanced over her shoulder; no one was near. ‘Bishop Fisher, from his cell in the Tower, is speaking heavy words and terrible threats against you.’

  ‘Mayhap I shall visit him in the Tower, get him moved to far worse conditions than he now enjoys.’

  ‘Fisher wants a confrontation.’

  ‘Then let us give him one.’

  The gentleman-usher returned, this time with a young messenger dressed in black. ‘Master Cromwell, the King awaits your presence in his privy chamber.’

  ‘For what?’ Cromwell said over his shoulder, irritated by the constant insistence on his time. ‘I have a country to run from this room.’

  The young messenger appeared confused at the words from the King’s Chief Minister. Nicòla rounded Cromwell’s desk and tossed the boy a coin and dismissed him. Cromwell stood with his eyes closed, Lady Mary’s letter still in his hands.

  ‘Prepare a barge to the Tower, we leave with great haste. Give me but five minutes with Henry,’ he instructed Nicòla as she took Lady Mary’s letter from his hands.

  A run along the private hallway to Henry’s privy chamber left Cromwell feeling breathless. The past years had seen him living in much luxury and his waistline matched the indulgence. To add to his ageing and gaining of weight, if his marriage to Nicòla was not legal, he would constantly fear another man might steal Nicòla away.

  Henry sat in a chair by the fireplace, a fur over his shoulders as he read. He closed the book but did not look up as Cromwell came in and bowed low. ‘Thomas, I had a thought.’

  Oh splendid, interrupted for a thought, Cromwell imagined saying.

  ‘I thought to make Richard Page my official Keeper of the Privy Purse. That way, as Page works hither in the privy chamber, he can oversee all my accounts. You, of course, shall see all paperwork and accounts to make sure all is well.’