The crowd silenced to hear the Maid’s final words.
‘I am the cause not only of my death, which I richly deserve… but also the cause of the death of the people who will suffer with me… I said anything that came into my head. I, full of the praises of priests, fell into pride and foolish fantasy… but now I cry to God and beg the King’s pardon,’ Barton called out over the crowd, her words littered with tears.
‘God bless you!’ a woman called from the crowd and others joined. Cranmer gestured for the guards to complete the proceedings. They dragged Barton back to the noose where the hangman awaited her. They held the poor girl in place as they tied the noose around her neck, and the crowd cried out as the noose snaked about her skin. Cranmer gestured to the men in charge to hurry; for the crowd could easily turn in favour of the Maid instead of the execution order all too easily.
Barton turned her feeble head one more time and looked Nicòla right in the eye. ‘Next, it shall be you,’ she called, barely heard, even up close. ‘One day it shall be you on the scaffold for your sins.’
‘Hurry along,’ Cromwell barked, and they easily lifted Barton off her feet. With her hands tied behind her back, her body twisted and lurched on the end of the rope for what felt like an eternity to Nicòla, as if she were to await her own death on the gallows. The crowd continued to call out as the woman, probably ill in the mind, used by men of the Church, slowly choked to death for the sins claimed by others. The rope had been useful, for Barton’s body had a little fight left.
‘Tell me why I must watch such scenes,’ Nicòla said.
‘Because this furthers our cause, and because our anointed king requested us as the witnesses to this occasion. Because those who further their causes are a direct threat to the realm we have created,’ Cromwell replied. His words appeared steady, but Nicòla felt the back of his hand against hers, the tiniest of comforts, all a man could offer to his “male” attendant.
‘God our deliverer,’ Cranmer cried out as executioners put Barton’s body down to be beheaded, ‘defender of the poor and in need of salvation; when the foundations of this Earth move, give strength to those who uphold justice and fight all wrongs in the name of your son, Jesus Christ our Lord.’
‘Amen,’ Nicòla, Cromwell and Ralph all recited, along with the cloud.
Nicòla shut her eyes as the axe fell on Barton’s neck, even though her soul had already departed. They dragged her dripping body away, her head carried in a basket, to be the first woman to have her head mounted on a spike on London Bridge. They would dump her body at Newgate, forgotten in an instant.
Five men stood awaiting in Barton’s blood, their heads to be brutally hacked before the crowd. Edward Bocking, the Benedictine monk who encouraged Barton came first, not allowed to speak before his death. The executioner struck him plain, one chop and the brown-clad man was gone. After him came John Dering, another Benedictine monk kneeling in Bocking’s blood as his life ended. Henry Gold, a priest, cried as his head got pushed onto the blood-soaked block, same for Hugh Rich, a Franciscan friar, and then finally Richard Rigsby, a fellow Franciscan friar. In what felt like only moments to Nicòla, the entire nest of traitors was dead, the basket filled with blood-soaked heads with their gaping wide eyes. No one would dare prophecise about the King again. The Marquess of Exeter’s wife would not dare hire another woman to foretell the future again, not with this much blood spilt. The King would be best pleased. Cranmer felt certain God would be pleased.
‘We took control of this country because Protestants were being burned by Sir Thomas More,’ Nicòla commented as they pulled away the bodies, the heads collected to get spiked at the London gates. ‘Now we kill Catholics.’
‘We kill traitors,’ Cromwell said. ‘It is them or us. It is the life we all chose. Think of Queen Anne, an innocent woman chosen by the King. It is her destiny to have the King’s son, whether she wanted the role or not. We must serve our masters. We must choose sides, and we are on the side of reform, on the side of the Boleyns. It is not our place to decide what is right and what is not.’
‘If not us, then who?’ Ralph asked, appearing paler than ever after the beheadings.
‘We do God’s work, and He shall guide us,’ Cranmer replied.
‘Might I be given leave to accompany Ralph back to Austin Friars to visit my daughter?’ Nicòla asked.
‘If that is what you wish,’ Cromwell sighed as the group left the scaffold, the crowd already dispersing. ‘I shall send guards with you.’
‘No, you need the security,’ Nicòla commented, noting the bitter expressions on the faces of commoners at Tyburn.
Cromwell took Nicòla aside as they headed to their horses. ‘The Maid was wrong, Nicò,’ he mumbled. ‘It will never be our turn on the scaffold, I swear it.’
‘If it is our turn, please tell me you would save your own head and live for Jane’s sake.’
‘If I was to have my head struck off, I would do so to save you. For that is the only reason in the world worth dying for.’
Nicòla looked up to Cromwell and his golden gaze. They seemed to age faster than ever. At four and thirty years, Nicòla felt as if her bones were long past their best. ‘If it were you on the scaffold, I would be there, holding your hands, screaming for them to show mercy.’
‘Believe none of Barton’s words, for she could not see the future. She could not hear God. God does not speak through whores found writhing in the mud. The people of England are on a perilous journey towards reformation and we need to help them.’
‘Unless they kill us first.’
‘Ride back to Austin Friars and hold our daughter tight, stroke her rose-gold hair and marvel at her beauty. Seek all that is good, and you shall find it in Jane. Find my Gregory and kiss him for me. I shall send a barge to you before nightfall to bring you back to Whitehall. From tomorrow, all those in London will swear the Oath and the dark times shall be over. I shall not kill those who refuse, I shall have them imprisoned. The worst is over. I have no will to kill people, Nicò. That is not the Church I want to install in this country, one imposed with fear and death. Never again shall you have to witness an execution.’
‘As admirable as your ideas are, Tomassito, whether they can come true is another matter entirely.’
C
Chapter 12 – July 1534
lyes require commytment
Windsor Palace, outer London
Even the double-minded man needed time outdoors occasionally. Cromwell pushed fifty acts through parliament in a year, and another fifty statutes, each at least 100 pages in length. With the summer progress of 1534 limited to palaces close to London due to Queen Anne’s pregnancy, Cromwell could keep up with work and still be at the King’s side every day. Cromwell spent time in the gardens with Henry, indulging in a spot of archery, neither of the men beaten by any of their attendants. But today Cromwell got away, to go for a walk in the wide quiet spaces surrounding the palace, in search of Nicòla.
There she sat hidden behind a tall hedge. Nicòla had tossed her black doublet on the grass and sat in just her hose and a white linen shirt, her feet dipped into a pond. Her rose-gold hair sat on her shoulders, moving just a little in the soft breeze. A letter sat in her hands, yet her gaze drifted off into the distance, over the nearby hedges and off to the tall trees which surrounded the gardens.
Cromwell took short silent steps in the dry grass as he approached, his heart a little nervous to disturb Nicòla. The last months had been difficult, ever since Nicòla came back from her visit with the former queen. Cromwell too had moments when he wondered if he could stomach the sacrifices of the Reformation, and now, the strain wore on Nicòla and the love she bore for Cromwell.
Nicòla jumped as he appeared beside her but said nothing. Cromwell sat down beside her, his back to the pond so he could look upon Nicòla’s face instead. His tired bones ached as he settled on the grass, but to sit down in the silent garden also soothed so much.
‘Do you remember the ligh
t?’ Nicòla asked without looking at him.
‘La bellezza della luce,’ Cromwell replied. At once the beauty of the light of Florence came to mind; how the city glowed in a bright sunshine that never crept as far north as England.
They sat so closely their arms almost touched. Cromwell put his hand down on the grass, his fingers touching Nicòla’s hand, the most he could do in public. Stretching his legs out on the grass felt like a luxury afforded to his younger self.
‘I cannot recall a time when you looked more beautiful,’ Cromwell commented as he watched her gaze off into the distance.
Nicòla let out a gentle laugh. ‘I feel sorry for you, Master. For you could not have picked a mistress any less attractive.’
‘I would call you wife sooner than call you mistress. And you have moments of true beauty which shine through any costume you may wear.’
‘When?’
‘Such as the moment you came back to Austin Friars those years ago, with infant Jane in your arms.’
Nicòla turned now to Cromwell, their faces close. ‘I was so frightened that day, frightened that you would turn me away.’
‘You appeared not frightened, but innocent.’
Again Nicòla laughed, and Cromwell wondered how long it had been since he had heard the sound. ‘I am many things, but never innocent.’
‘In moments of silence, I am remembered of how much I adore you.’
‘I fear you may have been in the company of those practising courtly love, Tomassito, for it has made you soft.’
Cromwell laughed but his eyes gazed at her lips. ‘I wish I could kiss you, before the world, before God.’
‘I believe God knows our sins already,’ Nicòla whispered.
Cromwell laughed again and looked out over the garden. ‘The world could burn today, and we would have no knowledge of it.’
‘Do you know what is happening with your Subsidy Act for taxing during peacetime?’ Nicòla asked.
‘No.’
‘Neither do I. What of the poor relief bill or the new trade and agriculture laws?’
‘I know nothing.’
‘Neither do I. What of George Boleyn in France on the King’s behalf, being an embarrassment. Or of Reverend Lee in the Welsh Marches being trouble, or the Irish lords sending bribes to prevent their castles being searched by government men?’
‘I know nothing.’
‘Neither do I. Do you know who is running the King’s mistress into his bed? Who is collecting all the letters from our spies all over England?’
‘I know nothing. As I say, England could burn, and we would never know.’
Cromwell turned back to Nicòla as she still gazed upon him. For the briefest of moments, the weight of the kingdom did not sit upon their shoulders.
‘If it is so soothing to be free of the world, why do you hold such a weighty letter in your hands?’ Cromwell asked, and tried to see the writing on the paper. Italian.
‘I was reading while you were with the King, and I needed time to think on many things. As you did not need me, I walked, but ended up hither some time ago.’
‘Who dares to write my love?’
‘My husband does. He bears news I needed to understand for myself before I shared.’
‘And?’
Nicòla sighed and folded the letter, many pages written by the depraved Alessandro. ‘He writes with much news. His mistress, Taddea, she is with child again. Their son Giulio is thriving in Florence. He shall be two years old soon. Alessandro mentions that many families the Medicis and the Frescobaldis know in Florence have been stocking weapons. Alessandro has raised taxes on the people of Florence to pay for the building of his grand fortress, and they have drafted men from the ducal territories to continue the build. Many are unhappy, it seems. The city is not at peace. Some noble enemies have been gathering gunpowder. I know not why Alessandro wishes to share so much with me, but he also hints at happy tidings.’
‘The health of the Bishop of Rome?’
‘No, the “Pope”, for it is still legal to call him Pope in Italy, is still unwell, still wishes me to return to Rome to visit him. But rather he writes of the Holy Roman Emperor. Alessandro has met with Emperor Charles several times and his daughter, Margarete of Austria, who is still in need of a husband. If we could annul our marriage, Alessandro would be free to remarry. He has already taken my father’s vast fortune and spent it, so it is time to abandon me and remarry for the family. The Pope could marry his bastard son to the Holy Roman Emperor’s bastard daughter at last.’
‘Shall Clement give you an annulment? If he loves you as much as he claims, he would end your marriage to his wicked son.’
‘The people of Florence will care none for an annulment between Alessandro and myself. I am only the Duchess by marriage. No one has seen me in Florence for almost five years. But their Duke marrying the Emperor’s daughter; it may frighten them into submission thanks to Charles’ armies, or they may rebel and tear the city to shreds. Pope Clement shall be aware. The current tensions shall need to be quelled because any annulment must be blessed. Clement is ill; there is the talk of a successor if he dies. The favourite is Alessandro Farnese, Dean of the College of Cardinals. He has five bastard children, all powerful and connected, and many grandchildren rising in favour. Farnese bears love for the Medici name but would care nothing for annulments. But perchance Farnese would grant an annulment with ease as he has no issue to consider. If Emperor Charles wants his daughter married to Alessandro, I am likely to gain the annulment of our dreams.’
‘You could be Mistress Cromwell by law as well in as in the eyes of God and His Majesty.’
‘Shall I then need to live as a woman, Master Cromwella?’
‘No, for I like to disguise you close to me.’ Cromwell took off his hat and tossed it, public place be damned. He kissed Nicòla full on the lips, a long lingering kiss which turned to another and another. But a shrieking cry echoed through the garden and Cromwell and Nicòla jumped up in a moment. To get caught kissing his secretary would destroy Cromwell and he knew it. But as they stood on the edge of the pond, they could see no one. As Nicòla pulled on her shoes, another cry echoed; a woman’s voice. Nicòla grabbed her black doublet off the grass and the pair set off towards the sound of agony. Through the hedges stood the Queen, with several of her ladies and a solitary guard. Queen Anne stood hunched over her goodly belly, holding her baby tight as two of her ladies held her to standing.
‘Get her inside,’ Cromwell cried as the pair rushed to the group, still dishevelled from their peace in the garden. Cromwell eased the ladies aside and took Anne’s arm over his shoulders to hold her weight, and Nicòla took up the other arm to get Anne back in the palace.
‘Oh, Cremwell, please, you must send for the doctors and the midwives and the King,’ Anne cried as she got carried along, her face showing fear, her hair already covered in sweat.
‘Worry not, Your Majesty,’ Cromwell strained through his voice as he carried his queen, ‘for many can bear fine kings early and survive such an ordeal.’
Long before they reached the palace the guards came running to carry their queen. For all the fun by the pond, the moment Cromwell and Nicòla left the palace, the country started to burn. The son England needed was suddenly in danger.
‘You must go to the King at once,’ Nicòla said, panting from the rush with Anne. ‘Henry must hear this from you, otherwise, they shall give him the news with no care and in a rush of blind panic.’
‘You stand guard in the Queen’s rooms, so we can hear what is happening. I shall keep the King at bay for now. Could a baby live if born this soon?’
‘The Queen is seven, eight weeks from delivering.’
They paused for a moment; their son Thomas was born at that age and had no hope of survival.
‘God help us all,’ Nicòla said, and Cromwell just turned in a panic to find Henry still out with his longbow.
~~~
Cromwell tried to calm Henry, who stumbl
ed upon hearing the news of his beloved Anne. Rather than wait in his apartments, Henry insisted on being close to the Queen’s rooms, close enough to hear the cries of a woman struggling with the truth of creating new life. Cromwell stood in the hallway gallery with Henry, all his gentlemen banished, so as not to see Henry’s worry and grief at the thought of losing yet another son.
When the door opened at last, after hours of hearing Anne’s cries, Nicòla appeared. Cromwell knew they had confined Nicòla to the antechamber, not the bedroom, being in her guise as a man, yet the face on Nicòla told them all. The precious second child of Henry and Anne was dead.
Without a word spoken, Henry stumbled to the floor in despair, crying out in pure torment. Cromwell fell to his knees beside his king, and Henry turned and pounded a fist into Cromwell’s mouth in anguish. Cromwell fell onto his back, grateful to land on the carpets rather than the stone floor. The moment he sat upright, Cromwell watched Nicòla get punched by the King, who had jumped to his feet in a moment. Nicòla too fell to the floor when hit by the ageing monarch, who stepped over her body to enter the Queen’s chambers.
Cromwell struggled to pull Nicòla up, her face stuck in surprise. They sat on the floor, stunned by the moment, the air shadowed by Henry’s cry choking from the bedchamber beyond.
‘A boy,’ Nicòla said as Cromwell placed a hand on her reddened cheek. ‘A blessed son, perfectly formed yet too small for life. The poor child never took a breath. Poor Queen Anne was so desperate to hold the child inside her. I could hear her ladies telling her to push, but she did not wish to do so; for she wanted to preserve the son within her. Alas, God wanted to take this royal boy to heaven.’
‘Why would God forsake us like this?’ Cromwell sighed.
‘God was not in that room,’ Nicòla shook her head. ‘God would not take a blessed boy away.’
The King entered the hallway just as the pair got themselves to their feet. Henry stumbled from the chambers alone and looked to Cromwell with total surprise, as if he had forgotten he and Nicòla were ever there.
Shaking the Throne Page 11
