Shaking the Throne

by Caroline Angus Baker

  ‘Of course, Your Majesty. I believe in your marriage to Queen Anne and I believe in changes to stop corruption in the Catholic faith.’

  Henry gestured for Nicòla to step back, and she took several wide steps, passing Cromwell on the way. Cromwell’s heart began to ease as she stepped back, the scent of her washed hair lingering a moment.

  Cromwell turned his face a little and looked to Gardiner whose face had gone as white as his robes. All seemed to move into place in Cromwell’s mind. Gardiner had not sworn the Oath. This was the moment to strike.

  ‘Your Majesty, is there a person who has failed to take the Oath and troubles you with their behaviour?’ Cromwell asked as innocently as he could.

  ‘Cromwell,’ Henry sighed, ‘I need a new Chief Secretary. This person is supposed to be the person I trust most in the world. Now, as King’s Chief Minister, you oversee so much of the court, of the parliament, the country. Yet, you are the only man who can act as Chief Secretary.’

  ‘I would be honoured to take the place at your side and deal in all matters on your behalf, Your Majesty.’ This role meant total control, head of the table at the Privy Council, power within the Lords in parliament, and even walk ahead of some noblemen at court.

  ‘How?’ Henry despaired and threw his hands in the air in the direction of Gardiner. ‘How could you, the Chief Secretary of my court, refuse to take the Oath, Stephen?’

  ‘I…’ Gardiner stumbled, and Cromwell swallowed hard, ‘Your Majesty, I have been much busy…’

  ‘Will you take the Oath or not?’ Henry bellowed, throwing everyone off their guard.

  Gardiner managed to stand tall. ‘I oppose the Act of Supremacy and the Act of Succession.’

  This was the moment Cromwell needed to throw Gardiner in the Tower.

  ‘Am I not anointed by God?’ Henry cried as he walked straight up to Gardiner, who stepped back in submission.

  ‘Yes, Your Majesty.’

  ‘Am I to be obeyed in my realm?’

  ‘Yes, Your Majesty. But I cannot swear the Oath.’

  ‘You swore to the submission of the clergy not two years past. Any reason you have to deny my right would be treason.’

  Cromwell’s lips wanted to grin, as his enemy was about to fall. Only moments ago, he feared it might be Nicòla in trouble. He felt sweat on his forehead from the sheer terror that came from Henry’s daily moods.

  ‘You are banished from court,’ Henry said, strangely calm at once. His voice, deep and strong, conveyed little anger, more disappointment. ‘You must leave the court at once and have no freedom to return until such time you are ready to obey your sovereign. Only I can decide when you are ready to serve me once more. You are to be considered in disgrace and are not to speak or act for the court in any case. There are guards waiting to escort you from the court and you are to leave London at once.’

  Cromwell stood still as stone as Gardiner passed him, but their eyes followed one another, and the world slowed for a moment, as if to let Cromwell revel as his only real opponent at court was suddenly banished, and all without a single dealing from Cromwell himself. God found ways to thank his subjects in the strangest of ways.

  Henry paused until Gardiner was gone from the room. ‘You shall be formally appointed the Chief Secretary at the next council meeting, Thomas. You shall be the one to draw up the paperwork.’ Henry laughed and slapped Cromwell on the shoulder with a rough hand. ‘I shall also give you lands and grants for all your hard work on the Oath. How about I make you the Constable of Hertford Castle in Hertfordshire? That shall be a kind reward. Perchance you could take the role jointly with your nephew, Richard, for he is much beloved by me also.’

  ‘I thank His Majesty for such generosity.’

  ‘Take your little Waif and go about your work, Thomas, for I am to visit my wife and her goodly belly.’

  Both Cromwell and Nicòla bowed as they left the room, with the doors opened by Cromwell’s guards, the sound of waiting courtiers flooding the space.

  ‘Oh, and Cromwell,’ the King called over to him, loud enough to hush voices in the next room, ‘ensure that from today, those at court address you as Chief Secretary Cromwell.’

  Whispers followed Cromwell and Nicòla back to their chambers. By the time they were safely back in their offices, Nicòla’s hands were laden with letters pushed to her when the guards looked away. They stood in the antechamber, where clerks and lawyers sat at their desks, adding and working.

  ‘Take heed,’ Nicòla called out, and at once all stopped to listen. Several men appeared from an adjoining room to hear Nicòla’s gentle voice. ‘From this day forth, Master Thomas Cromwella is to be addressed as Chief Secretary Cromwella, Chief Minister to King Henry.’

  A hearty round of applause encircled Cromwell as his loyal staff came to offer their kind words. By the time he had relayed the news of Gardiner’s banishment, Nicòla had already retreated to her desk and had opened some correspondence.

  Cromwell closed the double doors and locked them. He turned to Nicòla in the corner and leaned back on the wooden doors for a moment, his smile so wide it hurt his round cheeks. ‘Let us celebrate,’ he said and clapped his hands together. ‘An informal party tonight, hither in the chambers, and then we shall travel to Austin Friars towards the week’s end and celebrate officially. I must send news to Ralph at once, and to Richard, for he is now joint Constable to Hertford Castle!’

  Nicòla turned in her seat and looked at Cromwell with a face so darkened that Cromwell shivered. She stood slowly from her chair, paper in hand. She took but two steps in his direction and stopped, half offering the letter to him.

  ‘Che cosa nel sangue di Cristo?’ she said, her voice deep.

  ‘What be this?’ Cromwell asked. Nicòla only swore on the blood of Christ when most distressed.

  ‘Why have I received a letter from my husband who is in Rome with his father? Alessandro says he has written to me many times over these past months and worries I reply not! He writes this letter in code, as he worries the correspondence is being stolen. Every man in Europe knows letters in England are read by the spies of Thomas Cromwella.’

  Alessandro de’Medici had written monthly for some time, ever since the birth of Princess Elizabeth. Cromwell had read all the letters, even if only in the code which he could not break. He detested every call for help from the depraved Medici. He could never have his wife back in Florence.

  ‘Have you been hiding correspondence from Italy?’ Nicòla accused her master. Her eyes almost caught fire in anger under her stern rose-gold brow as she held out the coded letter.

  Cromwell could not lie to his Nicòla. ‘I hid the letters out of love, out of safety,’ Cromwell implored. He threw himself to his knees, not wise for a man of almost fifty and gaining weight by the day. ‘The letters started arriving when the princess was born, and we were urgent to create the Oath of Succession. Life has been so joyous for us, so peaceful. We have been happy with our children.’

  ‘If all is well and safe, then why hide letters from me?’ Nicòla asked, and tossed the letter, which floated onto Cromwell’s desk. ‘Where are the letters? Alessandro writes that the Pope is stricken ill, has been for some time. Pope Clement cried for my care, my presence, and you have denied the leader of the Catholic Church that comfort in his time of need.’

  ‘I was scared you would leave for Rome!’ Cromwell cried and clawed his hands together as if in prayer. ‘I am an ageing man with a widening waist, and in Italy, you are praised with a life of luxury and can reign as the Duchess of Florence.’

  ‘Abandoned Duchess of Florence, in a false marriage which could easily be undone.’

  ‘The Bishop of Rome loves you!’

  ‘He is the Pope, Tomassito! I care not for your laws of calling Giulio the Bishop of Rome. He is Pope Clement the Seventh, as decided by God. Just because the King cannot stand his precious wife Katherine, we are to not call the Pope by his title? Every day, I deny all I have ever known, ever learned, by
praising the new Church of England and I do this because I love you. Yet you trust me not, and your vanity leads you to lie and hide. I shall not go to Rome; that is impossible. I would be kidnapped and put in a Medici villa under guard as the Duchess until I produce an heir. I turned my back on Rome five years past and yet you trust me not, believe me not. You listen not. After all the wise counsel I have given you, after all the ideas and conspiracies I have created, of which you gain all the rewards. I stand hidden in men’s clothes just to have the right to be a person, to walk a step behind you so you feel powerful. I must deny I am the mother to my own daughter each time I visit her. I am called her uncle. Her uncle! No one questioned my sex because I am considered ugly with my dark skin and the pink-stained hair of my father. I am called the Waif, too weak to be considered a real man. I am a freak, a creature, scurrying about the court like a rat after its master. All I endure I do so for you and yet you trust me not with my own correspondence from my husband.’

  ‘You said I was your husband,’ Cromwell pleaded and pulled at the edge of her doublet. ‘You swore before God I was the only man you wanted as a husband. Please, Nicò, for all the love I bear for you, please cease your anger. I trust you; I do not trust the Italians.’

  ‘Without Italians, neither of us would be as successful or educated as we are,’ Nicòla replied, and swatted away Cromwell’s hands. ‘Only I decide what to write to Alessandro, for he is my cross to bear. Already I have felt angry for months after being forced to see Queen Kathrine hidden away even more, pushed into poverty, knowing her daughter is alone and unwell. I thought all men hated their women, but you were different. Instead, I find you are the same.’

  ‘No, Nicò, please,’ Cromwell begged, unable to find any more words. Nicòla had never unleashed her rage on Cromwell, and suddenly the lack of her favour caused pain in his chest.

  ‘I am to Austin Friars to visit my daughter,’ Nicòla replied. ‘Or shall you deny me rights to leave the court to visit Jane?’

  ‘I shall come also.’

  ‘You are the Chief Secretary of the King’s court. Just moments ago, you were celebrating your victory, revelling in your win.’

  ‘I would have no such prosperity without you. Let me fix this.’

  Nicòla wavered over Cromwell, rather than moving away. Tears welled in her green eyes; she was angered not; rather hurt, betrayed.

  ‘Let me right my wrongs, Nicò. I shall start with sending money to Katherine at Kimbolton, and Lady Mary at Hatfield.’

  ‘I have already done so from my own pocket. Let me deal with Rome and Florence. And stop your gloating over the banished Gardiner. Your pride shall see you punished by God. You are but a servant of the King, like everyone. Your head could be on the block as easily as any person. One day it could be you banished.’

  Still on his knees, Cromwell wrapped his arms around Nicòla’s body, feeling her tremble with disappointment. ‘I beseech Thee, O Most Blessed Trinity, to shed the fire of Thy merciful love upon this most frigid heart, to let shine upon this most darkened mind, the light of the Son, in whom alone is every grace and truth. Have pity on me, most merciful God, and regard not my sins and offences, but in Thy mercy, forgive me yet again, and grant me the graces to serve Thee now in fidelity and truth,’ he recited, his eyes closed as he leaned his face against her warm body.

  ‘A Catholic prayer,’ Nicòla lamented.

  ‘In honour of you and your father, who saved me in the Catholic faith and made me the man I am today,’ Cromwell said.

  Nicòla pulled Cromwell’s arms and he rose to his feet, eager to wrap his arms around her. Never had Nicòla’s confidence wavered in him. Never had Nicòla been angry or upset, no matter the urgent and crippling acts they sometimes needed to endure. God sent a warning; Cromwell could easily lose all he wanted in the pursuit of the King’s happiness.

  F

  Chapter 11 – April 1534

  a lyar knows she is a lyar

  Whitehall Palace, London

  ‘Et ne nos inducas in tentationem, sed libera nos a malo. Amen.’

  Nicòla whispered the end of the Lord’s Prayer and crossed herself as she looked out the window of her bedroom. The sun had not quite surfaced upon this fateful day, April 20. Grey whispered across the sky, the world ready to rise from its bed and say its daily prayers. But no more Latin, for Nicòla had to pray in English now, because of the man who rested behind her, his arms wrapped tightly around her naked body. Thomas Cromwell, the most powerful man in the country, had the nation’s throat in a noose.

  A week had passed since Cromwell took the closest position to the King, that of Chief Secretary. A week since he fell to his knees and begged for forgiveness from Nicòla. His repentance appeared honest; it was the detail that Cromwell would knowingly deceive her, the person he claimed to trust most, which lingered between them. Nicòla slept in his bed at night knowing he was truly sorry, but also that she truly had no choice but to forgive him.

  The warmth of Cromwell’s body moved against her back as he stirred from his sleep. His hands moved against her body, wandering as he ended his slumber. Today the charges they had concocted against Elizabeth Barton would see her hanged at Tyburn. No one had “heard” her confession but Cromwell. Barton had merely repeated but a few words he forced into her. She had been put to the rack, her arms and legs torn from their sockets. She had been beaten, screamed at, starved and humiliated. Now, the careful papers Cromwell wrote in his own hand, stating her fake confession, sat with the bill of attainder, meaning she would receive no trial. Today Barton would die, along with her closest allies, by Cromwell’s demand, to satisfy Henry’s vanity.

  Again, Nicòla stood between Cromwell and Cranmer on a day of violence and ridicule. They stood with Ralph Sadler, who had travelled the six miles from Austin Friars to join the proceedings. The group stood together, flanked by several of the guards from the Cromwell Chambers, all on the scaffold where Barton would be hanged and beheaded, and her co-conspirators all beheaded. The scaffold was wide enough to take care of these acts, yet Nicòla could not wish to be far enough away. She had watched Richard Roose be boiled to death at Smithfield for her own crime several years ago, and it still haunted her. This time, though, Nicòla may not have been guilty of the crime, but she did not wish to see a woman hanged because of the lies she told to satisfy the whims of the men who ruled her.

  ‘What are you holding?’ Ralph asked Nicòla as he pushed his blonde hair from his eyes; the spring wind twirled around everyone on a grey day.

  Nicòla looked to her gloved hands; a letter one of Cromwell’s spies shoved into her hand as she dismounted her horse on arrival. He had come and gone from the crowd so fast, Nicòla could not be sure who delivered it, perchance a guard.

  ‘Idle rumour from one of our little creatures,’ Nicòla opened the folded paper. The letter went unsigned, but the crude lettering suggested a boy working on behalf of Henry Norris, one man closest to the King in the privy chamber.

  ‘It says Henry Norris visits the Queen’s chambers not to pay favour to Lady Margaret Shelton, as he claims. Norris is not keen to court Lady Margaret. Lady Margaret is to be King Henry’s new mistress, and Norris fetches her to the King’s bed when needed.’

  ‘It was only a matter of time,’ Cromwell mumbled as he closed his hands together and looked out at the large crowd there to watch the spectacle. ‘Queen Anne must take great care with her child and Lady Margaret can hold Anne’s place in Henry’s bed.’

  ‘Can no man simply wait for his wife?’ Nicòla scorned as she closed her angry fingers over the letter.

  ‘Not a king,’ Cranmer said as he smoothed his purple robes, the golden cross about his neck perfectly centred. ‘We must accept the fault of men, especially a king. Only God can judge.’

  ‘Yet any woman who does work in a man’s bed shall be tainted for her whole life,’ Nicòla spat.

  ‘The Reformation shall increase the rights of women,’ Cranmer said. ‘You are well read, Nicòla, and I
know you understand this. It is unnatural for men to abstain; a woman has no sexual needs.’

  ‘Do you forsake your wife when she is with child, Archbishop?’ Nicòla asked, not looking up to any of the surrounding men.

  ‘I do not.’

  ‘And you, Ralph? Ellen has already borne you one child and is preparing for another after only two years of marriage. Do you forsake her?’

  ‘No,’ Ralph admitted.

  ‘Our existence at court is based on Anne being the Queen,’ Cromwell uttered. ‘Without Anne, we would be lost. The Reformation is safe if we have Anne’s cousin in the King’s bed while Anne creates an heir, and we should thank God for such a happening.’ Cromwell paused and Cranmer and Ralph both nodded. ‘Or it could be all of us lined up on a scaffold when an act of attainder is readied against us.’

  An attainder created by you to give people no rights or safety, Nicòla thought but brushed it aside. Anger against her precious Cromwell would do no good. But attending executions had to stop for Nicòla personally; it rattled her too much.

  The crowd rose in cheers and Nicòla saw the six get led to the scaffold, the executioner already in place. The crowd appeared a strange mix - some cheered for the killing to begin, some booed and jeered, others called out in praise for their Holy Maid of Kent.

  They dragged Elizabeth Barton forward to face the crowd before the noose was tied to her neck. She was barefoot, covered in just a dirty and misshapen white shift, her long dark hair matted to itself, many parts of her scalp bald and bloody. She hung in the arms of her jailers, her limbs broken from torture. How any person could endure such agony surpassed any strength God could offer.

  Barton took one look to Cromwell, her eyes surrounded by bruises. Nicòla knew Cromwell had convinced Barton that confession was the only way to make a good death. What went on in the Tower’s underground rooms defied Nicòla’s knowledge.