Shaking the Throne

by Caroline Angus Baker

  ‘You are to tell no one,’ Henry muttered. ‘No one is to know what happened. This baby shall never be mentioned. God has not forsaken me or my reign. He has not forbidden me male children. This baby never happened, this pregnancy never happened. Write nothing. Do you understand me, Cromwell?’

  ‘Yes, Your Majesty.’

  ‘I am not forsaken by God,’ Henry repeated.

  ‘No, Your Majesty.’

  ‘I shall have a son from Anne’s belly.’

  ‘Yes, Your Majesty.’

  ‘We shall travel to Greenwich once Anne is ready. No baby happened, Cromwell. No pregnancy. No confinement, no birth, nothing. History shall not know of this moment. We are not cursed.’

  ‘Never, Your Majesty. This is a private worry between yourself and the Queen,’ Cromwell soothed the man who had just punched his sore mouth and hit his precious Nicòla.

  Henry disappeared back into the Queen’s chambers again and Cromwell turned to Nicòla. One afternoon in the garden and England burned.

  F

  Chapter 13 – August 1534

  we live insyde the lyes we beleeve

  Austin Friars, London

  Cromwell had not moved about with such care in some time. With the King and Queen still on progress at Windsor, much of the court away while Henry pretended Anne’s stillbirth never occurred, the chance to be at Austin Friars gave a rare feeling of pure freedom to celebrate Jane’s fourth birthday with both her parents and her brother Gregory. It was a glorious chance to see the magnificent changes at Austin Friars as Cromwell’s star continued to rise and money flooded his accounts.

  Ever the man to be in control of every detail, Cromwell planned a lavish dinner party to be held while also overseeing details of how many people had signed the Oath. One moment he mentioned how many had taken the Oath in the Welsh Marshes, next he would talk about how much venison was to be served at dinner, all while Nicòla scurried behind him, trying to write his words. Every single remembrance which came from Cromwell’s mouth needed to be written. It would take clerks all day to file the notes.

  Cromwell stood, hands on hips, and looked out over his dining room, now doubled in size. A table for twenty was being laid by Ralph’s wife Ellen and her maids, the finest silver and fabrics being used, candles being carefully put in place. Now huge doors opened the dining room up into the garden, just as Francesco Frescobaldi’s dining room had once done back in Florence. Out in the garden, young Jane was running on the grass between the flowers, chasing one of Nicòla’s precious peacocks. Her little rose-gold ringlets bounced as she squealed more than the fleeing peacock, or the nursery maids chasing her.

  ‘Master?’ Nicòla asked, and he turned his head a little to her, his eyes still on his daughter in the garden. ‘I have a letter from Lady Alice, Sir Thomas More’s wife. She wishes to speak with you, to appeal for her husband in the Tower.’

  ‘And what shall I say?’ Cromwell shrugged, and his nephew Richard nodded as he entered the room. Cromwell clicked his fingers at Ellen, and she hurried all the maids from the room. ‘For seven thousand, three hundred and forty-two people have sworn the Oath so far, but More is too special to sign?’

  ‘You could say… worry not, Lady Alice, for I have no wish to chop your husband at the neck,’ Nicòla ventured.

  ‘Sir Thomas once threatened to expose you,’ Cromwell reminded her.

  ‘That is no reason to cut a man at the neck. Ambassador Chapuys threatened the same but quickly quietened his threats.’

  ‘Ambassador Chapuys only quietened because the Emperor told him not to expose you, and only because the “Pope” wanted your identity to stay quiet,’ Richard added. The conversation paused as Richard’s two sons, Henry and Francis, ran past the opened double doorway and into the garden to join their cousin and the peacocks.

  ‘I wish Gregory would come out,’ Cromwell said. ‘He seems determined to sit at Ralph’s desk in the offices all day.’

  ‘Gregory is a quiet boy, let him be,’ Nicòla replied.

  ‘Gregory will soon be fifteen years old, and today his greatest issue was to make sure the barber gave he and you the same short haircut. At fifteen, I had left home, sailed to France, and joined a mercenary army ready to face Italy.’

  ‘Yes, you were one of the few not slaughtered at Gagliano,’ Nicòla added. ‘Be pleased Gregory gets to grow in such peaceful times and become a good man as Richard and Ralph have done.’

  ‘Who is the master of his household?’ Cromwell grinned, and Richard laughed.

  ‘So… Lady Alice?’

  ‘Yes, allow her to come to Austin Friars and plead More’s case,’ Cromwell sighed. ‘But More is a threat who must take the Oath, as seven thousand, three hundred and forty-two people already done.’

  ‘How many times are you to repeat that number, Master?’ Richard asked.

  ‘I hope it shall rise and I shall revel in the number every time.’

  ~~~

  All the plans for the magnificent feast seemed worth it, just to see the light in Cromwell’s eyes when his long-time friend, Stephen Vaughan made his return to London. He had spent so long living in Antwerp as Cromwell’s man there but his correspondence with William Tyndale left a target upon Vaughan. Now he was the governor of the Company of the Merchant Adventurers of London from Antwerp, and now also president of the Factory of English Merchants in Antwerp, dignified roles Cromwell would once have sought had he not risen in royal service.

  Nicòla stood two steps back from her master as they all lined up to wait for Vaughan and his new wife Margery. As long as Cromwell ruled, More could not threaten Vaughan. No one could threaten Vaughan and his Protestant beliefs and friendship with the Lutheran writer William Tyndale any more. In the entranceway, filled with the lavish tapestry given to Cromwell after Wolsey’s fall, all waited in patience, but Cromwell dashed out into the fading evening light to meet his friend in Austin Friars’ courtyard.

  Nicòla watched through a window as a short man, about her age, embraced Cromwell with a huge grin. Vaughan was a small person, his wife similar, with dark red hair and a shy demeanour. Nicòla stood up straight and perfected her royal blue doublet to meet Cromwell’s old friend.

  ‘This…’ Cromwell said and pointed to Nicòla after he had introduced Gregory, Richard and Ralph, ‘is Master Nicòla Frescobaldi.’

  ‘I feel as if I already know you, sir,’ Vaughan said with a merry greeting. ‘The son of Francesco Frescobaldi of Florence! I am pleased you have become part of Cromwell’s household, for he and your father were much similar. I met your father but once when I was young when he worked with my father. I must thank you.’

  ‘For what, Master Vaughan?’ Nicòla asked, pronouncing his name a little rough in her accent.

  ‘For working as Thomas’ secretary and not as a merchant, for you and Thomas together would destroy my business throughout Europe. I could not compete against you!’

  The whole group laughed at the easy conversation, but Vaughan’s words caught in Nicòla’s mind. As a man, she could do as she pleased, worked as she pleased. Yet she constantly served only one man and neglected all her own skills in recent times, her skills as a lawyer, a merchant, a moneylender and investor. The thoughts of feeling trapped beneath the dirty business of making and supporting a queen never seemed to fade these days.

  Silver adorned the dining table, the wide doors opened to the summer air, and thankfully the plague in London ran quietly this summer. Nicòla sat in peace between Gregory and Ralph. Vaughan’s wife sat across from Nicòla, an English woman whose accent now seemed laced with her Flemish life. Along with Ralph’s wife sat Richard, Thomas Avery, Thomas Audley, and Thomas Cranmer and his wife Margarete, all men self-made. The comfort and ease of conversation and lack of etiquette made the evening gentle, peppered with the talk of children out in the garden, not hidden away like royal offspring. Jane and Gregory played with their cousins Henry and Francis, and Stephen’s namesake son, and daughters Katherine and Mary. For one ni
ght, it could be easy to think the weight of the kingdom did not lie upon the Cromwell household. They were just a group of wealthy merchants all with children keen to touch Cromwell’s pet leopard in the garden.

  ‘Ralph, here,’ Cromwell said as he waved a chicken leg toward his adopted son, ‘shall now be Master of Sutton House in Hackney, as the place is almost complete. Master Richard Cromwell, Privy Councillor, shall have a new home at Stepney Green, named Great Place, which is fitting. Nicòla shall be master of a manor in Dewhurst in Surrey once it is complete, and my adopted daughter Jane shall own a home in Mortlake. Gregory shall be gifted lands in Essex, Kent and Sussex.’

  ‘Is there any part of England you have not bought?’ Vaughan laughed to his friend, a friendly hand on Cromwell’s shoulder.

  ‘For myself, I have leased Allfarthing Manor in Wandsworth,’ Cromwell added, ‘and even a little land up in Lincolnshire, to collect the yearly rents.’

  ‘For a total of £417 a year,’ Nicòla boasted.

  ‘So, you have indeed brought all of England.’ Vaughan repeated.

  ‘For you, Stephen, I have bought a manor here in London for you and your family while you live in England. I know you shall only be hither some time with your new role in the chancery and an official spectral role at court…’

  Nicòla watched Vaughan and Cromwell embrace again over the great gift. Never had Cromwell lavished so much on one man. After a huge thank you for much good fortune, Vaughan said, ‘so, Thomas, tell me, how many have sworn the Oath?’

  ‘Seven thousand, three hundred and forty-two,’ Nicòla, Ralph and Richard all said in time, to the laughter of the group. ‘And growing by the day,’ Nicòla added.

  ‘As we are in good company, I shall show you my gift, Thomas,’ Vaughan added. He had a servant bring him a small box, put on the table between Cromwell and young Gregory. Vaughan had brought a new printed copy of William Tyndale’s New Testament.

  ‘I know you can recite the New Testament,’ Vaughan explained, ‘but Tyndale has updated his version, with more view to both Luther and the Greek texts. There are words and phrases never uttered by English lips until now,’ Vaughan gushed. ‘This copy has a personal inscription from Tyndale for you, Thomas. Tyndale is in hiding in the Low Countries, I know not where, but I received this gift. Tyndale has used a new word – atonement – which he has ascribed, a reconsolidation between God and any man who seeks His peace.’

  ‘I believe atonement means to be “at one” with God,’ Cranmer said for the group, possibly the only other expert beside Cromwell on the new bibles.

  ‘One day England shall be at one with God,’ Cromwell said to the group, everyone filled with wine and summer merriment. ‘No purgatory, no penance, just peace.’

  Yet all around the table knew pain would be needed if the Reformation were to encompass England, but Nicòla smiled and hid the thought.

  ‘They have made Master Cromwell the Constable of Berkeley Castle,’ Richard told Vaughan.

  ‘As we are in the company of common men and women and no one at court shall hear,’ Vaughan said, and raised his glass, ‘long live King Cromwell.’

  While it was treason to utter such words, no one repeated the toast but still raised their glasses. Cromwell’s star soared, and God help the men who tried to stop him now.

  C

  Chapter 14 – September 1534

  it is haarder to lye to someone’s fayce

  Greenwich Palace, outer London

  Cromwell yawned as he sat back in his throne of a chair behind his desk. Being at Greenwich to be close to the King was easy during the summer; picnics, hunting, sports, and while Cromwell only took part in some, it left him tired while trying to hold on to his dozens of other roles in the royal court. He opened his eyes again and watched Nicòla across the room, reading letters from the chest of mail which arrived for the morning. Cromwell absently clicked his fingers twice to instruct her.

  ‘Tis a letter from the new Duchess of Suffolk,’ Nicòla replied without looking up from the page. ‘She writes in the hope of privacy. Her mother, Baroness Maria, is living with her daughter at Westhorpe Hall, but desperately wishes to travel to visit the former Queen Katherine. The Duchess begs you, Tomassito, to ask the King to allow her mother to visit Katherine.’

  ‘We deprive Lady Katherine of all comforts and that includes her closest friends,’ Cromwell replied and folded his arms over his chest.

  Nicòla dropped the letter upon her desk. ‘Lady Maria has been Queen Katherine’s lady-in-waiting ever since Katherine came over from Spain to marry Prince Arthur! That is my whole lifetime ago! Lady Maria loved Katherine as a sister. She named her daughter after her; Queen Katherine is her daughter’s godmother.’

  ‘Lady Katherine,’ Cromwell amended Nicòla’s words. ‘Tis the King’s orders. I cannot change this.’

  ‘You are the only man who can change these laws. Let Katherine see her daughter, her friends. What harm could it do?’

  ‘Katherine could give her friends letters, who could send them to Emperor Charles, asking him to invade England for her, and kill us all.’

  ‘If the Emperor were to take England, he would have done so by now. Charles is also the Spanish King. He has too many issues to worry about rather than his aunt’s divorce. Invasion from the Turks will always be Charles’ biggest worry.’

  ‘I am not preparing to take the risk; we destroyed a queen and made another, and now we can have the Reformation and can have total control of England. Katherine is a casualty of that.’

  ‘You minded when Cardinal Wolsey was the casualty of these changes. You loved Wolsey, and he died; Katherine has people who care for her. One day we could be casualties. Will no one show us mercy?’

  ‘Mercy is in short supply, Nicò.’

  ‘Shall we not be the ones to supply mercy?’

  Cromwell sighed; Nicòla was right to offer mercy, but such mercy could incur the wrath of the King.

  The main door opened out in the offices and in came one of the gentleman-ushers, with Sir Francis Bryan. Cromwell clicked his fingers to dismiss the usher, but Bryan waited until they shut the doors behind him.

  ‘You need to go to the King’s rooms,’ Bryan offered at once.

  ‘È impossibile rimuovere un inconveniente senza che emerga un altro,’ Nicòla mumbled. It is impossible to remove one inconvenience without another emerging. Machiavelli had a quote for any occasion.

  ‘This be of honest consequence, and I seek to stop rage before it occurs,’ Bryan offered and adjusted the strap which held his eye patch steady. ‘Much ruin is occurring at this moment in the Queen’s apartments. Her sister, the Lady Mary Carey, has arrived unannounced and is with a child.’

  Cromwell bolted upright in his chair. ‘Mary Boleyn is with child?’ he croaked, almost unable to hear his own voice.

  ‘And with the Queen still grieving the loss of her own son, Anne is most vexed at the sight. Her sister, a widow, with child!’

  ‘Who is the father?’ Cromwell’s mind searched for possible suitors, but Mary seldom came to court.

  ‘They say Mary married in secret to a man named William Stafford,’ Bryan explained. ‘Some man of no fortune.’

  ‘Stafford?’ Cromwell groaned. ‘The King shall force us all to wither in fear. Does Henry know of this?’

  ‘I think not but shall in no time.’

  Cromwell charged to the King’s rooms, Bryan and Nicòla trailing behind. Henry paced back and forth, his hand on his forehead as Anne sat by, yelling the most tearful words to him. Indeed, Henry and Anne had spent little time in each other’s company since losing the baby; Anne kept quiet in her rooms with her ladies, and Henry was still with his mistress, Margaret Shelton. Cromwell barely saw Anne these past weeks since their arrival at Greenwich; much of the palace was empty as they hushed the Queen’s pregnancy from the world. Any time and peace away from Anne Boleyn was gratefully received by Cromwell.

  Anne sat in a soft chair, tears on her face. But rather than u
pset, Anne appeared most angry. Cromwell waved Bryan away, who slunk off to hide in the corner with the other men of the privy chamber, all in the far corner of the light, spacious room, eager for gossip.

  ‘In God’s name, Anne, calm yourself,’ came the voice of her father as he entered from a door on the other side of the room. Boleyn too appeared flushed red in the cheeks. Boleyn paused when he saw Cromwell, his hands folded before him. A glance of relief appeared on Boleyn’s face as he took a deep breath.

  ‘You shall address me with the title I deserve,’ Anne shot back to her father. ‘Be not angry at me, for it is your older daughter who is the whore and liar!’

  ‘Your Majesties,’ Cromwell interrupted and bowed. ‘Lord Wiltshire,’ he added politely to Boleyn.

  ‘This is a family problem, Cremwell,’ Anne snapped at him. ‘Run along and play your conspiracies elsewhere!’

  ‘Speak not harshly to Thomas!’ Henry chided his wife. ‘For he is the Queenmaker. You should bow at his feet!’

  Cromwell pursed his lips; the hostility between the King and his wife had not yet mended, despite the baby they equally grieved. ‘Cromwell may be the only man who knows how to fix such an issue,’ Boleyn told Anne as he folded his arms over a grey doublet. Sweat trickled along his face beside his ears, even more in his pale grey hair. The hunch of Boleyn’s old back appeared more pronounced than usual.

  With one angry wave, Henry dismissed his men in the corner, the room closed to all but his wife, father-in-law and Cromwell. ‘I like this not, Thomas,’ Henry said, his voice warning of impending wrath.

  ‘Your Majesty, please, tell me what you need.’

  ‘I need my whore of a daughter not to be pregnant!’ Boleyn spat back.

  ‘I want my sister’s secret marriage undone!’ Anne added.

  ‘I want Mary away from court!’ Henry added.

  Henry never dealt with intimate issues well. War, no problem. Anger, it was a speciality. Anything to do with matters of the heart and Henry panicked and hid away. To have Mary Boleyn back, a woman he took to bed ten years ago now, caused Henry much embarrassment. Henry had got Mary pregnant before, both children hushed away from both their mother and father.