Shaking the Throne

by Caroline Angus Baker

  ‘After what I just witnessed, I am so frightened,’ Nicòla burst into silent tears. ‘My last birth was so horrific. Jane’s birth saw me almost alone in Rome. I have seen Anne on the bed today, perchance expelling a tiny life which had no chance to live because we constantly anger God…’

  ‘God will not stop us,’ Cromwell said. ‘You shall bear another child by me. You shall keep your secret, maintain your life in this chamber. I swear it, Nicò. We are unbeatable now.’

  C

  Chapter 18 – March 1535

  lyes told with confydance are better than week trouths

  Whitehall Palace, London

  Cromwell gently brought his hand to his chin, touching it enough to confirm the immense pain in the writhing lump of agony. The wide gash in his lip had abated some, enough he could now talk without sounding full of wine. His whole jaw ached with anger, with sadness and resentment. He had already been on the ground, flat on his back when the blow came. King Henry had already thrown him against a wall, punched his nose, pushed him to the carpets and kicked him. Henry had reached for the silver candlestick upon his desk as Cromwell rolled himself over in pain and confusion. The thump with the candlestick to Cromwell’s jaw was the final blow. All because he was the one to speak with the King after he learned Queen Anne was not pregnant. Henry’s devastation was obvious, not just in his beating of Cromwell in the privy chamber, but to all, and had abated none in recent weeks. There had never been a better time to leave the court for a week.

  Cromwell put his hand back on the table and looked up. The eight people around the table all looked back at him, Nicòla at the end, ready to write everything said and organised. Her face spoke of worry, no doubt because he was touching his injured face once more. No one knew what had happened, but gossip spread all the same.

  ‘The Valor Ecclesiasticus will be one of the greatest works done under the reign of our king,’ Cromwell began. He felt as if he said that about every paper he drafted for Henry over the last five years. But this rang true, not just for the King’s love life, but for every English subject. ‘This church valuation shall visit every single monastery, abbey, cathedral and the local church. It shall inspect every clergyman, every parish priest, monk, friar, nun, every head of any monasteries, colleges, hospitals and other institutions under church auspices. These men shall be commanded to give sworn testimony to you, the local commissioners, about their income, their lands and buildings owned, and all revenues they receive from any other source. Every donation, every single animal grazing on their land, every so-called “relic” they claim to have will get inspected, catalogued and assessed for its truth and merit. Every document and account book must be read and understood. This work is to be completed before the end of May, and you are to choose your own men who shall help you in this task. The speed at which this must be done is unlike any study which has been conducted in this country. You are to summon all local gentry, mayors, magistrates, bishops, sheriffs, any person of good standing in any county to get this done. There are no excuses, there shall be no delays.’

  While the men around the table knew the task ahead, Cromwell could see each of them nervous about the task, not just for the sheer volume of work, but for the hatred and suspicions which would fall upon them. Thomas Cromwell was not a popular man, for he had changed the laws in parliament, and now all religious houses had to pay ten percent tax on everything they owned and earned, after centuries of living tax-free and getting fat off profits. But no more. Henry needed to be abated; Cromwell needed to reform his country and make a fortune.

  ‘We are to begin this task without any guidance from our Archbishop of Canterbury, Thomas Cranmer. I shall be the sole head of this endeavour.’

  Heads nodded about the table. While news spread of Cranmer’s recent illness, the truth was that Cranmer’s secret young son, named for his father, had recently died, plunging the Cranmers into fresh grief, right after Margarete’s stillbirth.

  ‘How exact must we be?’ asked Ralph, who sat next to Cromwell at the table.

  ‘Thank you, Ralph,’ Cromwell replied, ‘for asking the difficult question. I want you to be broadly precise. They will expect you to estimate low values, you shall be bribed to keep secrets of priests and their dealings. I care not for this; for what bribes they offer you, you are free to keep. But we shall keep these volumes in Henry’s private records, and in my own, so accuracy is important. Consider each holding wisely, for this is your only chance to estimate the King’s wealth. Henry is the leader of the Church now, and we must do our best. The monasteries not doing well shall be closed immediately. The larger monasteries will be destroyed based on your calculations If something needs closing, then estimate a low value, for this shall make work much faster.’

  Heads nodded all around the table. These men knew their tasks; they knew the risks, and they all swore their alliance to Cromwell. He paused as Nicòla rose from her seat and rounded the table to present more papers needed. As she approached, Cromwell glanced to her stomach, bound tightly under her black doublet; their third baby was not due until the summer, but he still worried for signs of her condition. Cromwell needed Nicòla healthy and available for work, but he would not risk their child again, as he had before while making a queen out of Anne Boleyn.

  Cromwell took the list of names from Nicòla’s dark hand. ‘I am trusting you can fulfil your roles,’ he said as Nicòla returned to her seat. ‘John ap Rice and Thomas Legh, you are both fine diplomats and you shall oversee the inspections from York northwards. I trust your allies know trustworthy men for this task.’

  Thomas Legh was a lawyer of similar years to Cromwell and a cousin to Rowland Lee, a friend of Cardinal Wolsey, and a man who loved to hate Welshmen. Legh had been ambassador to Denmark and Ambassador Chapuys hated him, making him instantly pleasing in Cromwell’s eyes. Both he and fellow diplomat John ap Rice, a fine lawyer and member of parliament, would do anything Cromwell asked. Both sought to find fortunes in destroying monasteries.

  ‘And Richard Layton, I have assigned you the south and west of the country, Bedfordshire, Northamptonshire, Leicester, all just the start for you. I trust you can handle such tasks. After all, you inspected Syon Abbey for me and did a wonderful job in uncovering their immorality.’

  ‘I am honoured to do this task,’ replied Layton. Layton was a man of Nicòla’s years, an archdeacon and loyal to Wolsey, and Cromwell by association. He was a fine man, an honest man, ready to destroy corruption and lewdness in the Church. Nicòla had suggested Layton may be too lenient, being a man of the Church, but Cromwell remained confident in his ally. All the men who remained loyal to Wolsey after his fall would be rewarded now. ‘I am worried with the workload, Secretary Cromwell,’ Layton admitted.

  ‘Yes, even I see this as a formidable task,’ Cromwell sighed. ‘That is why I am personally seeing to monasteries in Cambridgeshire, so I have personal knowledge and practice of what we must do. I shall send Legh south to aid you once he is complete in the north, for I believe Legh shall have the task in the north in hand in no time.’

  ‘Thank you, Secretary Cromwell, or should I say, Vicar-general Cromwell,’ Legh commented, to gentle laughter around the table.

  ‘I never thought I would see the day the name “vicar” used for my uncle,’ said Richard next to Ralph, and everyone laughed again. Cromwell looked to Richard and Ralph, two men now, once boys he considered his own sons. He smiled; only they could tease Thomas Cromwell.

  ‘Richard Rich,’ Cromwell continued, and Rich sat up in his seat and Nicòla cringed. She disliked Rich and Cromwell knew not why; she feared Rich, a lawyer of doubtable morals, would be unfair in his assessment of the Church, but Cromwell cared not for this. ‘Rich, you are to be sent east, starting in Kent. I want those monasteries closed this year, for the rumours say the region has some of the worst. I fear they will not weaken you, though nuns, monks, priests and local men of the area will bribe you to keep their monasteries open.’

  ‘Monasterie
s are home to the clergy, but also house the sick, feed the poor, educate the local children,’ Nicòla warned. ‘We must prepare, or resistance shall be strong.’

  ‘That is why I am sending Rich to close these first houses,’ Cromwell continued, taken aback by Nicòla’s arguing tone.

  ‘The tears of women and bribes of men in Kent shall not sway me. Worry not, Secretary Cromwell,’ Rich said, his chest puffed with pride.

  Cromwell threw a stern brow to Nicòla, who looked at Rich with anger. Feelings mattered none in this issue. ‘Thomas Wriothesley.’ He paused as the young lawyer smiled with delight, his stupid white feather in his soft cap bobbing as always. The confidence in Wriothesley never ceased. He now sported the unruliest blonde beard and Nicòla would often ridicule Wriothesley behind his back.

  ‘Wriothesley, I will send you and my nephew Richard to Wales. I understand you may take longer in your matters, due to distance.’

  ‘No, Secretary Cromwell, we shall be brisk in our reports,’ Wriothesley said. ‘I look forward to being bribed already.’

  Everyone laughed but Nicòla scowled. ‘I look forward to going through your reports, written in expert Latin, detailing all Church abuses,’ she bit, her bad mood becoming more obvious by the second. Nicòla’s words brought Cromwell back to seriousness in a moment, which in turn silenced everyone.

  ‘Richard Page, you and Ralph shall tarry close to London, and as you are a fine lawyer and jurist page, you shall be a fine aid to Ralph.’

  ‘Tis an honour,’ Page replied, a young man which had come to prosperity by working for Cromwell. Courtiers swarmed like bees around Cromwell now, as Nicòla as often said, and this would work in his favour. It would take hundreds, if not thousands of men to visit every monastery and church, interview every priest, monk and nun. Everyone had to agree on the decision to close monasteries and abbeys or the plan would fail. Cromwell would have to give out extraordinary payments, bribes and endowments over coming years. He could see the paperwork already, all to appease King Henry.

  A loud knock came from the main door in the Cromwell Chambers dining room, and Cromwell growled. ‘We are trying to save England, so you better be of great importance!’ he yelled.

  The door opened, and a gentleman-usher stood with Thomas Heneage, one of King Henry’s privy chamber men. ‘Oh, Heneage, come.’

  Heneage entered the room with cautious footsteps, looking around the men at the table. Rich turned in his chair and looked up and down at Henry’s attendant, dressed all in green. ‘Heneage, should you not be fetching a mistress somewhere for our king?’ he commented.

  ‘I am soon to be Gentleman of the Stool,’ Heneage replied. ‘That is the most prized role in Henry’s chamber.’

  ‘Be careful, Heneage,’ Cromwell said and leaned back in his chair. ‘That role belongs to Sir Henry Norris, the King’s greatest friend. Be careful whose job you covet.’

  ‘I come hither for Master Frescobaldi, Secretary Cromwell. His Majesty requested Frescobaldi come at once to the presence chamber.’

  ‘Why?’ Cromwell replied.

  ‘I know not, only that it is to be now.’

  Cromwell sighed as Nicòla stood up at once and straightened her doublet and hose, her hair pulled under a soft velvet cap. ‘I shall go.’

  ‘We need you, Frescobaldi,’ Cromwell said. ‘Heneage, please understand that we have paperwork for the first six hundred monasteries we must examine. Can this not wait?’

  ‘His Majesty never waits for anything, Secretary Cromwell.’

  Cromwell would not let Nicòla into Henry’s presence alone, not in her delicate condition, which Henry did not know of; there would never be a good time to mention Cromwell would be a father again after all of Henry’s sad losses. ‘Gentlemen, please see to your paperwork and take wine while we are gone.’

  A double click of his fingers and servants appeared with wine for all, and an usher to brush Cromwell’s long black fur coat before seeing the King. He and Nicòla followed Heneage back to the presence chamber, Cromwell’s face already hurting in worry for any meeting, as he had for weeks now.

  Cromwell was right to go with Nicòla. Henry could be heard before they reached the antechamber. Henry Norris and his brother returned to stand in the antechamber and silently showed Cromwell in with Nicòla. They entered just in time to see Thomas Boleyn disappear through another door, leaving only Henry and a few ushers, all crumpled in the far corner, eager to get forgotten.

  ‘Cromwell,’ Henry said, his hand on his hips, his red doublet appearing much too tight for his wide shoulders, ‘I asked not for you.’

  ‘No, Your Majesty,’ he said as he and Nicòla bowed in time. ‘I took the opportunity to assist.’

  Henry took no notice as he walked over to the pair and looked up and down at Nicòla. Rather than staring down, Nicòla looked Henry right in the eye which often threw Henry’s tempers. Surely even he would not strike a woman again.

  ‘Frescobaldi, tell me of the new Bishop of Rome, Pope Paul.’

  ‘I have met him but a few times, Your Majesty,’ Nicòla said, surprised by the change in subject. ‘He is a friend of the Medici family and educated in Pisa, Florence and Rome. He was a cardinal in Padua, and his son is Duke of Parma now. Pope Paul, as he calls himself, has recently made his eight-year-old grandson a cardinal.’

  ‘What folly,’ Henry scoffed, and Cromwell nodded in agreement. ‘Frescobaldi, this country hates my wife. Anne is their queen, but the people like her not. I wish to renew ties with the Pope.’

  ‘Why?’ Cromwell cried out and Nicòla watched him with a look of anger and worry. ‘Wise, Your Majesty,’ Cromwell coughed.

  ‘If the people saw my friendship with the new Pope, then they would more readily accept by changes to the Church and my new queen.’

  ‘Most wise, Your Majesty.’ Nicòla said. ‘You still intend to reform the Church in England, though, as ruler in your own realm.’

  ‘Of course, Rome shall never rule England again.’

  Henry was still Catholic in almost all dealings, until it came to divorce. If Cromwell wanted to break the Catholic Church, he would need to start with Henry’s behaviour in church.

  ‘You are a Medici, of sorts, Frescobaldi. I want you to write to Rome, to this new Pope, and tell him that I wish to renew ties with the papal offices. I shall send an ambassador, instead of having Chapuys gossiping in every letter to the Roman Emperor. He writes as if we do not have spies reading every letter!’

  ‘We also have our spies reading his return mail, Your Majesty. Chapuys cannot be trusted.’

  ‘But you must be his friend, Cromwell,’ Henry instructed, and Cromwell felt a pain in his chest. Be friends again with Eustace Chapuys? After he threatened to reveal Nicòla’s womanly identity?

  ‘I can write to the new Pope, Your Majesty.’ Nicòla said, bold as a knight in a joust. ‘Secretary Cromwell and I are to Cambridgeshire tomorrow. Perchance we could stop at Kimbolton Castle and visit the former Queen Katherine.’ Nicòla paused for only a moment as Henry’s face turned the red of his doublet. ‘If the Pope can read that the former queen is well, then he shall be kinder to you, without question. Knowing you care for Katherine, even though she was never your true wife, shall soften Pope Paul’s opinions on England. I have nothing but love and admiration for Queen Anne.’

  ‘I know you do,’ Henry mumbled and looked at the calf leather shoes on his feet. Nicòla had been there for Anne that day of the possible miscarriage and Henry knew it; the pain of the loss lined his ever-ageing face.

  ‘So be it; visit Katherine if you choose, but your role is to ensure Paul likes England and understands my role as the King and Supreme Leader of the Church of England.’

  ‘As you wish, Your Majesty. It shall be a delicate matter, but we shall endeavour.’

  Henry dismissed the pair, and the moment they left the rooms, Nicòla muttered, ‘the only thing the new Pope shall do is excommunicate Henry from the Catholic Church. Pope Paul is the new leader of the
counter-Reformation. First, Paul shall send an army through the German States towards England to kill reformers like us.’

  ‘Then we should find good cause to close monasteries and make Henry rich and beloved, and fast, in case we have war,’ Cromwell replied.

  ‘I fear we shall all have our heads upon spikes for this monastery dissolutions.’

  ‘I will gladly lose my head to save yours, Nicò.’

  ‘Oh no, Master Secretary, we are all keeping our heads. Promise me.’

  F

  Chapter 19 – March 1535

  humility is trouth, and pryde is lying

  Kimbolton Castle, Huntingdonshire

  Once the horses stopped at the edge of the moat around Kimbolton Castle, Nicòla understood how much she had been sliding in her saddle. By her best guess, the baby was only halfway to its time, just enough to be a pain while riding. Luckily, most of the other symptoms of being with child had passed, a slight relief while being out on the road.

  The week spent travelling around Cambridgeshire had been a cold one, but not just the weather. The moment Thomas Cromwell, Vicegerent to the King, poked his nose into the workings and finances of a monastery, the clergymen within would step back in fear. Cromwell would march the halls of monasteries, his heavy black furs sweeping behind him, ready to destroy the lives of the priests, nuns and monks who called monasteries and abbeys home.

  Every time Nicòla picked up an account book, clergymen would stare at her in hatred, mutter things about her foreign accent, curse her dark skin. Monks would desperately try to stop laymen’s hands touching their fake relics, to avoid being discovered. Nuns would cower in fear, which upset Nicòla the most. Being a woman in any life was hard, and she sought not to hurt the women of the convents being searched.

  Anglesey Priory, Blackfriars Cambridge, Huntingdon Austin Friars and many more in a week. Cromwell took a liking to the last one, named alike their own Austin Friars at home in London. Nicòla could see Cromwell pulling apart monasteries in his head – some destroyed, others given away as bribes, some kept for himself. The mission would enrich Henry and his men along with controlling the power of religion. At each place, Cromwell left local men behind to complete searches as the London group rode on to Kimbolton Castle.