Shaking the Throne

by Caroline Angus Baker

  ‘I come to see you on behalf of His Majesty,’ Nicòla said. ‘I was given much instruction on how to you are to be treated and cared for in this time of ill health, Your Majesty.’ Cromwell had told Nicòla never to refer to Katherine as a queen, but who could deny the dying woman the honour? Her throne had been usurped by Henry’s lust; Katherine bore the burden but not the guilt.

  ‘I am the true Queen of England,’ Katherine said before falling into a coughing fit. Nicòla held Katherine’s hand as Lady Maria wiped spittle from Katherine’s chin. In the handkerchief; blood.

  ‘I have written to my precious daughter, the rightful princess,’ Katherine mumbled as her ladies all drew near to the timid voice. ‘Now, I must write a letter to my true husband. I want England to know that I have always wanted to be a true queen to them, even if England has not always been kind to me. I wish not to be blamed for the heresies currently plaguing this country.’

  ‘The people have nothing but love and sympathy for you,’ Lady Maria assured her dear friend through heavy tears, and Nicòla stepped back for the bishop to administer confession and communion to the great queen. Nicòla stood with the ladies, their heads bowed in prayer as Katherine professed love for her husband and daughter, for her role as queen and love of her adopted country. Her voice shook the whole time; Katherine was a pious woman, who knew her moment to enter paradise had come, yet fear still lurked deep within her. The illness she bore; whatever had Katherine in its dark grip, the time had come. As women around Nicòla wept, hearing the bishop’s words of the last rites, Nicòla thought of Henry back in London, awaiting news of this death. How happy Henry would be, how Anne would no doubt fall to her knees in thanks to God. Yet this room held a reverence, a beauty and honesty Nicòla never saw in any palace occupied by the King.

  As minutes passed, Katherine’s breath grew loud yet shallow. When she ushered Nicòla close again, Lady Maria held of one of Katherine’s hands, pressed warm against her chest. Katherine reached to her and Nicòla felt the weak shake of death against her skin.

  ‘I must write to my Henry,’ she wheezed, a shallow breath between each word. ‘I must write and tell him that I forgive him for his wrongs, that I wish him to set upon the right path once more.’

  Lady Maria put her rosary beads between Katherine’s fingers, the beads entwined between their hands as Katherine closed her eyes. There would be no letter writing. All at once, the mighty Queen was ready to slip away. As her frail lips moved in a whisper, all her weeping ladies leaned forward to be close at hand for Katherine’s final prayers.

  ‘Anima Christi, sacrifice me. Corpus Christi, salve me. Sengis Christi, inebria me. Aqua lateris Christi, lava me. Passio Christi, conforta me. O bone Jesu, exaudi me. Intra tua vulnera absconde me. Ne permittas me separari a te. Ab hoste maligno defende me. In hora mortis meae voca me. Et iube me venire ad te, Ut cum Sanctis tuis laudem te, In saecula saeculorum. Amen.’

  ‘Amen,’ the room recited and they all crossed themselves, something Nicòla had not seen in some time. Katherine prayed for the saints to come to her, to ease her pain, keep her safe from foes, to sanctify her and place her in the loving arms of Jesus.

  The tiny hand in Nicòla’s loosened its grip, and Nicòla opened her eyes, still lowered in prayer, to see Katherine’s pained blue eyes grow still, her whispering lips hang open. At once, Lady Maria let out a desperate wail for the soul of her friend, and fresh tears stained the ladies’ cheeks, their whimpers strengthening with pain. The weeping bishop began to pray as the first tears of loss pricked Nicòla’s eyes; tonight, she had witnessed the death of what could be the last great Queen of England. A woman who understood the plight of others. The greatest soul to ever grace England’s shores.

  But Nicòla could write Katherine’s letter to Henry for her, to remind Henry of all he lost.

  My most dear lord, king and husband,

  The hour of my death now drawing on, the tender love I owe you forceth me, my case being such, to commend myself to you, and to put you in remembrance with a few words of the health and safeguard of your soul which you ought to prefer before all worldly matters, and before the care and pampering of your body, for the which you have cast me into many calamities and yourself into many troubles. For my part, I pardon you everything, and I wish to devoutly pray God that He will pardon you also. For the rest, I commend unto you our daughter Mary, beseeching you to be a good father unto her, as I have heretofore desired. I entreat you also, on behalf of my maids, to give them marriage portions, which is not much, they being but three. For all my other servants I solicit the wages due them, and a year more, lest they be unprovided for. Lastly, I make this vow, that mine eyes desire you above all things.

  Katharine the Quene.

  C

  Chapter 31 – January 1536

  lyes can expire, but trouth cannot

  Greenwich Palace, outer London

  The large turquoise stone wiggled upon Cromwell’s finger as he rubbed the inside of the gold band, a constant distraction when he became lost in thought. The winter ground was so hard and cold at Greenwich Palace that the damp began to seep into his shoes. Jousting in January? Surely jousting in the summer was uncomfortable in the heat, yet in the depths of winter seemed utterly ridiculous.

  But the King was in a mood of utter celebration. His wife had begun the fourth month of her pregnancy, and mighty Katherine had finally fallen. From the moment Henry heard of Katherine’s passing, he had rallied the court with wild celebrations. Anne came out in a flowing golden dress at a party the very night after Katherine died, and Princess Elizabeth matched her mother. Somewhere at Hatfield, the Lady Mary would be sleeping in a cold bed, grieving for her mother, while Princess Elizabeth was carried around court by Henry, shown off as the greatest jewel in his possession.

  But jousting in January? Cromwell had no time to play glorified party planner. His bill to commence the closing of the lesser monasteries was only weeks away from entering parliament and that left little time for anything else. He still had to oversee Katherine’s funeral and its costs, which Henry insisted on inspecting down to the final coin. Poor Katherine had only been dead a little over two weeks, and yet Henry partied and carried on as if a huge cloud had lifted. Yes, the threat of war with the Holy Roman Emperor was now dead with Katherine, but enemies could appear from anywhere, even from at home.

  ‘Voglio avvolgere le mie braccia intorno a te.’

  Only one person would wish to wrap their arms around Cromwell. With half a weary smile, Cromwell turned his eyes away from the tilt yard busy with preparation for the day’s events, and looked upon Nicòla, who stood there with her hands behind her back and a playful smile upon her face.

  ‘You are very well met,’ he replied. ‘Even when I sneak away from my office, you find me, even out hither among the workers.’

  ‘Do you wish to lose me?’ Nicòla asked as she stepped from one foot to another to stay warm in the weak winter sunshine.

  ‘Never.’ Cromwell glanced up and down Nicòla’s crimson livery, which matched his own for the day. No black, that was Henry’s orders. No black that may suggest mourning at court, mourning for the late Katherine.

  ‘Are you wishing you could joust like the King today?’

  ‘No,’ Cromwell scoffed. ‘Tis bad enough that Richard participates. At least Gregory shall never have a fondness for the occasion. The King is much too old for such behaviour, but he needs to feel young.’

  ‘With a baby on the way, the King feels alive.’

  Cromwell just shrugged his shoulders. As Chief Minister and Vicegerent, some days that meant being the King’s nurse, as if he were still in the nursery.

  ‘I wished to inform you that Henry Fitzroy, Duke of Richmond’s household has sent word,’ Nicòla’s smiled dropped. ‘The Duke is much ill.’

  ‘Does His Majesty know?’

  ‘I know not, but someone needs to tell him, and soon.’

  ‘I can do it,’ Cromwell sighed. ‘He may be Henry’s
bastard son, but the King loves that boy.’

  ‘He has been such a good friend to me, and I worry for him. Fitzroy is a fine possible successor, had he not been a bastard son,’ Nicòla mused.

  ‘Not to mention constantly ill, not unlike Prince Arthur all those years ago.’ Cromwell paused and held Nicòla’s gaze. She would want to visit Fitzroy soon, their friendship ever growing. ‘I shall ensure the best physicians are sent to the boy’s household.’

  Nicòla smiled again as she nodded in agreement. ‘May I ask you to come to the King’s tent and inspect that all is well for the tournament this afternoon?’

  ‘Do I give off the appearance of a party planner?’ Cromwell gruffed as Nicòla turned in the direction of the royal tent, which sat behind the thrones set up in preparation for watching the joust.

  ‘You give the best parties at court, you serve the best meals, you give the finest gifts, so naturally, Thomas Cromwella’s eye is the one everyone needs.’

  Nicòla pulled back the entrance to the tent, to find the room dressed magnificently for Henry and Anne. Silk floated around tables and chairs, candles laid out, the finest silver plate ready to serve. Not a person stirred within. ‘All looks well enough. What do I need to check?’

  Nicòla grabbed Cromwell by his crimson overcoat and pulled herself against him, her lips keen to feel his. Since returning from Kimbolton Castle almost two weeks past, Nicòla had seemed more affectionate, yet quiet as well. She climbed into Cromwell’s bed every night; he often woke in the darkness to find her huddled against him like a kitten seeking protection.

  ‘What be all this?’ Cromwell said the moment she let him take a breath. ‘Can you imagine the uproar if I was seen kissing my attendant?’

  ‘No one shall come to the King’s tent while the King is not yet ready to attend. Everyone is busy with their own work.’ Nicòla continued to hold onto the edges of his coat. ‘I received a letter from Rome. Alessandro tells of the Emperor keen to renew his alliance with London and complete his daughter’s marriage. So, my annulment shall be granted with all haste. With Katherine now passed from this world, our mission to create an alliance between Rome and Henry is easier. The news about Katherine has surely reached Rome by now. Alessandro can remarry in the summer and my marriage to him will be forgotten. My identity as a woman will be forgotten from the world and I shall be truly free at last.’

  ‘Shrug off not all your womanly aspects,’ Cromwell replied as he wrapped his arms around her little frame. A sense of urgency ran through his body as they kissed again, something Cromwell had not felt since his illness so long ago now. Its return only made Cromwell feel more amorous towards Nicòla, for he worried he may not be able to still satisfy a woman so much younger than him. Thank the Lord for such a beautiful gift.

  ~~~

  One benefit of hosting a jousting tournament in the winter meant that the smell of horses did not stray as far. Flies did not buzz around everyone sitting in the hot weather. In truth, sitting in the tilt yard watching jousting was not all that exciting. When his friends were on horseback, certainly, but the days of riding for glory ended more thirty years ago for Cromwell, when he learned he had a mind worth nurturing rather than endangering. So Cromwell sat idly among the highest noblemen, enjoying the scent of Nicòla still upon his skin, rather than watching the entertainment.

  The roar of the crowd woke Cromwell from his dream; the King was to joust. ‘Who is facing Henry?’ Cromwell asked, and frowned in the low winter sun.

  ‘Tis Brereton,’ Norfolk grumbled from his seat only a few spots away from Cromwell, seated with his brother-in-law and nephew, the Boleyn men. ‘Brereton w-w-was the only idiot willing to t-t-take on Henry.’

  ‘My days are long behind me,’ the Duke of Suffolk mumbled close by. ‘I have almost killed Henry twice with my lance; I shall never be so foolish again.’

  ‘Do you suggest the King is foolish, Suffolk?’ Cromwell laughed.

  ‘You cannot hang me for treason, Cromwell,’ Suffolk retorted. ‘I am ennobled.’

  No, but I could have you beheaded, Cromwell thought but did not even move his lips. Nicòla, who stood nearby with the other attendants, caught his expression and smiled. ‘With some luck,’ Cromwell continued, ‘it shall be Brereton on his back in a moment.’

  ‘Are you still mad at Brereton for having that Welshman killed a few years back?’ came the voice of Henry Norris behind Cromwell, higher up in the seating. ‘Best to just leave it behind, for I know Brereton thinks not of the moment.’

  ‘An innocent man was hanged because Brereton hid under Queen Anne’s skirt after having killed a man loyal to me,’ Cromwell replied. ‘I shall never forget such a thing.’

  Cromwell caught sight of George Boleyn throw him a disapproving gaze but paused at the trumpets; Henry was on his horse.

  The crowd of the court all cheered for their king, who did not have his wife close to give him favours and applaud his bravery. Anne had not left the palace to watch, indeed she and Henry had not spoken much in two months now. Henry seemed tired of her company, of her ideas. Even when they celebrated the death of Katherine weeks ago, they had remained apart at the party, talking in separate groups, silent when dining next to one another. Cromwell had a mind to plant Nicòla into the Queen’s chambers a little more to see what the women thought of affairs. Jane Seymour remained in Anne’s inner circle of ladies, so whatever notion Henry had of the blonde, none had spread to Anne’s ears.

  The sound of a wooden lance hitting amour snapped Cromwell from his thoughts. By some accident of God, Brereton’s lance had struck Henry right in the chest. The saddle on Henry’s magnificent beast slipped, pulling the King from the horse, the weight of the armour too much for any man to control. The poor animal twisted upon its own legs, landing on Henry just seconds after he hit the ground, his neck crashing into the sand a moment before his head and back.

  The crowd was screaming, gasping; all seemed distant to Cromwell as he moved as fast as he had as a fleeing soldier in Italy. He pushed through those seated about him, Nicòla close behind. With wide steps through the sand, Cromwell reached the still King as the horse tried to stand, Henry’s foot still attached to the animal. Nicòla struggled to pull Henry’s twisted foot from the stirrup, setting the animal free.

  A lump formed in Cromwell’s throat; he knew if Henry were dead, chances are he would sink from his own grand heights. ‘Henry!’ Cromwell screamed, his voice caught in the lump of fear behind his tongue. ‘Henry, can you hear me?’

  ‘I shall find the doctor!’ Suffolk cried. Cromwell noticed Suffolk had fallen to Cromwell’s side, and a great number more men gathered around.

  Nicòla brazenly flipped up Henry’s pivot visor to find blood running between closed eyes.

  ‘Pull off the helmet!’ Norfolk cried from the gathering crowd behind Cromwell.

  ‘No,’ Nicòla gasped and looked up to Cromwell. ‘Tis like a dagger wound, when you release the weapon from the belly of your enemy, far more blood weeps. The helmet may be holding his head together.’

  Cromwell’s own blood pumped in his ears, making all sound so lost he started to feel dizzy. He watched Nicòla feel around Henry’s nose for breath.

  ‘He lives!’ she cried, to the gasp of the crowd.

  Dr. Butts pushed his way through to the King’s lifeless body. ‘Let us fetch the King to his tent at once,’ he commanded the surrounding men. ‘We cannot leave His Majesty to die like this.’

  Cromwell grabbed Henry by the arm, as did Suffolk, the Boleyns and the privy chamber men Norris and Weston helped to lift the tall King in full amour, each man straining under the weight of a seemingly dead king. Cromwell found himself walking as if driven by God; each step continued onwards, though Cromwell’s mind could not see what to do next.

  With a string of clattering, the long table in the King’s tent was cleared; just hours ago Cromwell had seen the elaborate decorations while in a dalliance with Nicòla. Now, his precious patron slept in a state of near
death on the very same table.

  ‘Does his blood flow?’

  Cromwell turned to find Nicòla at his side again. The tent filled with people; Suffolk, Norfolk, the Boleyns, Weston, Norris, a nervous-looking Brereton, Chancellor Audley, Ambassador Chapuys, Ralph and Richard had come in worry, and Richard Rich and Thomas Wriothesley clambered into the tent before guards closed it off from court.

  ‘What?’ Dr. Butts asked as several men began untying Henry’s armour, shaking his limp body.

  ‘Does his blood flow?’ Nicòla repeated. ‘Remember, the doctors who came from Brussels some months ago now, who studied the blood flowing about the body when Secretary Cromwella fell ill.’

  Dr. Butts touched Henry’s neck and took a pause. ‘I feel signs of the blood moving,’ he said. ‘The King still lives.’ He gently lifted the helmet while the others continued to relieve Henry of his armour. Cromwell saw a huge gash on Henry’s leg, his leg crushed by the horse and cut open. He turned his mind back to the helmet as, coated with blood, it slipped from Henry’s white face to reveal red and silver hair laced with the blood of an anointed king.

  ‘Non so cosa fare,’ Cromwell muttered, for it was true; he knew not what to do.

  Nicòla looked up to him. They shared a long glance, and Nicòla dashed to Rich and Wriothesley. With a hurried conversation, both men left the tent at once. Nicòla rushed back to stand beside Cromwell, but he could not take his eyes from the King’s pale complexion. Henry was totally motionless, blood oozing from a wound upon his forehead which Dr. Butts desperately tried to stop with a dirty handkerchief.

  ‘I have told Rich and Wriothesley to ensure Princess Mary’s safety,’ Nicòla whispered in Cromwell’s ear. Her breath on his skin made him understand how hot he felt; the instant terror had lifted him from cold in the seats to boiling in panic. ‘If the worst happens, so help us God, Mary must be safe from reformers who will want Elizabeth to reign. Make sure the Catholics do not rally to Mary’s cause.’