Shaking the Throne

by Caroline Angus Baker

  ‘I fear nothing shall ever be well again,’ Nicòla sniffed. ‘I have seen so many people die. Fitzroy was one of the greatest of men and he lies forgotten in the Howard tomb. He lies unmarked, only given the most basic of rites by the Priory monk. Smeaton is in pieces, not even given a grave of his own in London… bodies and souls depart one another with such a pace that I fear the golden world we dreamed of has fallen into hell.’

  Cromwell rocked Nicòla the way she would rock little Jane after a bad dream. Nicòla dared to lift her face to look upon Cromwell’s battered lip. ‘The King?’

  Cromwell nodded with a sigh. ‘After you and Surrey left with Fitzroy’s body, I was with Henry when old Norfolk came to see His Majesty. Henry flew into rage, of which I have never seen, nor Norfolk. Henry demanded to see his son’s body, demanded there be a grand funeral in his honour in London. It was as if Henry forgot his own demands for Fitzroy’s body be taken from London and forgotten, rolled up and hidden from the world. Henry screamed, oh, how he screamed at Norfolk, who has since ridden north in deep shame. Henry screamed at me, as if I were the one who ordered Fitzroy be forgotten. The entire court knows of Fitzroy’s sad end, and yet no one can utter a word. We must act as if Fitzroy were never born. His wife, the Howard girl, shall receive nothing of her lands or estates as a widow, as the marriage was never consummated. Henry has remembered how dearly his son was loved by all, and regrets sending the body away. I was hurt in the battle of Henry’s dark humours. Poor Queen Jane, for she was in the way also, but I stepped in front of her and got punched.’

  ‘That is most kind,’ Nicòla commented as she touched Cromwell’s fat lip with her freshly washed hand.

  ‘And now we are hither, at Hatfield. I must prepare, for the King has taken only a short break in his private rooms, and soon he shall meet with both the Lady Mary and the Lady Elizabeth. Both now are bastards, but Henry will see his daughter Mary for the first time in five years. None of us know how this shall go.’

  ‘Pray that the loss of Fitzroy has some goodness, some light amongst the darkness. Henry may embrace his daughters once more, perchance learn the lessons so recently known by Fitzroy’s loss.’

  ‘We can but pray. Already Henry is worried he shall not get a son on Jane.’

  ‘It is only two months since Anne lost her head,’ Nicòla replied as she began to wipe away her tears.

  ‘Henry worries…’ Cromwell lowered his voice, despite being alone in the room, despite being so close in each other’s arms, ‘Henry confessed to me that he lately has trouble doing his duty by Queen Jane.’

  ‘Henry spoke so plainly?’

  ‘Indeed. We were playing dice in his privy chamber one night, and he asked me if I knew anything of the “problem.” He feared God has brought this affliction upon him for what we did to Anne.’

  ‘Perchance God has done much in punishment; we took Anne and God took Fitzroy from us in return. All we have now is Lady Mary and Lady Elizabeth. Mayhap what Anne said was true, that Henry could not satisfy a woman in the way he should as a man. The realm has never been more troubled.’

  ~~~

  Nicòla awaited with Cromwell in the small room outside the royal couple’s private chambers, their hands clasped before them as Lady Mary approached. Mary gained more of her mother’s look with each passing month; her delicate features, her fiery auburn hair, her gentle grace and confident stride. Mary uttered not a word as her blue eyes gazed upon Nicòla and Cromwell, who bowed in reverence, but as Mary passed them, she asked the guards on the doors to leave the entranceway open and looked back to the pair. For the first time, Lady Mary sought comfort from Cromwell and Nicòla, as if having the doorway open for the meeting provided her with extra eyes and ears, the only way Mary could find any support in a world vastly against her for simply living. Nicòla knew not how she could help Lady Mary if the meeting with the King did not go well, and Cromwell would not be able to say much in Mary’s favour either, but if Mary found comfort in their nearby presence, Nicòla knew there was nowhere else they could be at this moment.

  Tears. Nicòla expected none from the King, and yet Henry wept openly as he pulled his daughter into his arms. They had not seen one another in five years, and now Mary was a woman of twenty years of age. She bowed low to her king, but easily gave way to the welcoming arms of her father. Queen Jane stood by with a grateful smile, finally being the one to reunite King Henry with the daughter of Katherine of Aragon, the princess born to the greatest royal couple of Europe. Henry and little Mary spoke to each other in a careful embrace, words unheard by any ears other than their own. Nicòla watched Henry bestow a gentle kiss on Mary’s forehead, and Nicòla wished to cry all over again. How Fitzroy could have been comforted by the same gesture in his final moments, one which never came. Yet Queen Katherine’s soul would rest easy, for Henry had once again come to learn just how powerfully he loved his daughter.

  ‘My Baron Cromwell.’

  Cromwell and Nicòla turned to the voice, to see Lady Margaret Bryan, Lady Elizabeth’s chief nurse with her old lips pursed tight. Her graying hair had been pulled so firmly under a hood that her very face threatened to disappear up under the garments she wore.

  Nicòla stepped back and felt guilty to have been caught watching the King’s reunion with his daughter.

  ‘Lady Margaret, good morrow and thank you for allowing us to stay in the Lady Elizabeth’s palace,’ Cromwell said.

  ‘We are not calling the girl Princess Elizabeth any longer, as you instructed,’ Lady Margaret replied. ‘It was my son Francis who wrote to me, telling me of your new title as Baron of Wimbledon.’ The old woman paused and looked Cromwell up and down. ‘Is His Majesty ready to receive the Lady Elizabeth?”

  ‘His Majesty is speaking with Lady Mary at present, and Queen Jane has only just met the girl. But perchance now is the time to bring in Elizabeth, as the King is in his fine spirits for the first time in a while.’

  ‘I must thank you, Lord Cromwell,’ Lady Margaret spoke almost in a whisper. ‘Thank you for the personal funds you send us to clothe and feed Elizabeth. She may be a bastard of Anne Boleyn, but she is still the King’s daughter. All those lies saying Elizabeth is Mark Smeaton’s daughter; anyone who sees the girl knows she is Henry’s.’

  The mention of Mark Smeaton made Nicòla want to be sick. But Lady Margaret spoke her name and Nicòla sucked back the need to cry.

  ‘Thank you, also, Mr. Frescobaldi, as I know you given monies to both Mary and Elizabeth over the years, your own personal money.’

  ‘It is a pleasure to help,’ Nicòla managed to reply.

  Footsteps echoed from behind the wide dark skirts of the royal nurse, and Lady Margaret turned to see Lady Elizabeth coming towards her through the dark hallway, followed by her other nurses. Anne Boleyn’s daughter; Elizabeth had Henry’s orange hair and her mother’s beautiful black eyes. The girl did not pause to anyone standing in the hallway. She was a princess until now and bowed to no one. But Lady Margaret clicked her fingers and Elizabeth paused, for she was about to meet the King.

  ‘My Elizabeth!’

  Henry’s voice called to Elizabeth, who trotted in her little purple gown to her father, to be scooped up in Henry’s arms. Nicòla wondered if Elizabeth even remembered her father, for he rarely saw her. The daughter of Katherine of Aragon and the daughter of Anne Boleyn, alongside their father and his third wife. A sight no one ever could have foretold. Despite the need for a son, Henry loved his daughters. One look at Henry with Elizabeth in his arms told of his affection, no matter how much Henry grew to loathe Anne. The way he gently but desperately pulled Mary into his embrace spoke of an intense adoration for the sole surviving child borne to him by Katherine.

  Lady Margaret dutifully closed the doors, for surely none, even Lady Mary, needed Cromwell and Nicòla now. Nicòla watched Lady Margaret and the nurses wander away and just smiled to Cromwell.

  ‘Can we return to London with all haste?’ Nicòla asked. ‘As heartening as it is
to have this reunion today, I want to hold my own daughter. Jane is all I have thought of since the moment I watched Fitzroy lowered into the ground. We have suffered enough for the royal family. Please, let us stop shaking the throne. Let us love Jane and Gregory while we can.’

  ‘My heart aches too, aches for the chance to be happy once more, Nicò,’ Cromwell whispered. ‘Do we not deserve happiness?’

  ‘I do not know the answer to that, but I shall become a thief and steal happiness if I must. Please, Tomassito, for if the King can be happy with his children, surely so can we.’

  F

  Chapter 52 – October 1536

  the trouth has legs, but lyes have wyngs

  Whitehall Palace, London

  ‘A convocation headed by Archbishop of Canterbury, Thomas Cranmer, shall give a section to the “Ten Articles created by the King’s Highness’ Majesty to set up Christian quietness and unity.” Five articles relate to the doctrines and five relate to ceremonies…’

  Nicòla paused reading the papers in her hand as Cromwell crept up behind her and wound his arms around her waist. She smiled as he pulled off her soft cap and tossed it on the floor. ‘My Lord?’

  ‘Say that again,’ Cromwell mumbled as he gently kissed her neck.

  ‘We are not in the country any longer.’

  ‘Let us pretend.’

  Nicòla tried not to laugh as his lips tickled along her neck. Three weeks away in Northampton at the new manor gifted to Cromwell by the King had been the first time in years that any peace had come to the Cromwell family. Some three months after Henry Fitzroy’s death, the world seemed to have calmed down. ‘Article one,’ Nicòla continued. ‘Holy scriptures are the basis and summary of the Christian faith.’

  Cromwell took the paper from the top of the pile and tossed it on his desk as he kissed her neck.

  ‘Article two. Baptism is essential for both children and adults as it conveys remission of sins and the grace of the Holy Spirit.’

  Cromwell also took that one and dropped it on the floor.

  ‘Article three – penance is necessary for salvation. Article four – the body and blood of Christ is present in the Eucharist. Article five - justification is remission from sin but good works are necessary for reconciliation with God…’

  Cromwell took those laws and dropped them as he turned her in his arms.

  ‘I hope we locked the doors,’ she commented. ‘Do you not wish me to learn the ten articles, as you have made it law for all in England to learn these laws, Tomassito. If we are to re-educate every church in England, I must learn the ten articles you and Cranmer made with the King.’

  ‘We worked on these articles for months, why would I want to hear them again?’ Cromwell said.

  Nicòla read over his shoulder as Cromwell kissed her neck. ‘Article six – images are useful in remembrances, but not objects to worship.’

  ‘I can worship you,’ Cromwell mumbled against her skin.

  ‘Article seven – saints are examples on how to live a good life, and helpful in prayer. Article eight – saints are useful for remembering holy days, and article nine – ceremonies are to celebrate devotion and are reserved for their mythical significance.’

  ‘Are you done?’ Cromwell muttered against her neck.

  ‘Article ten,’ Nicòla raised her voice. ‘Prayers for the dead are good and useful, but papal pardons and masses for the soul are not good and should not be offered at sites of worship.’

  ‘Amen.’ Cromwell lifted Nicòla up onto the edge of his desk as she tossed the last of the papers on the floor to let Cromwell kiss her.

  ‘For a man reforming the Church, you like to sin often,’ she murmured.

  ‘What we are is not a sin,’ he smiled. ‘Tis too beautiful to be a sin. And you read the new articles; we can repent sins.’

  Nicòla laughed as Cromwell brought his lips to hers again, his arms wrapping around her as she perched on his desk. Getting old was not as bad as Nicòla feared.

  An offensive, intense banging came from the other side of the office doors and Cromwell’s face turned to anger. ‘Now?’ he cried toward the doors.

  ‘Lord Cromwell!’ came the panicked voice of Richard Rich. Rich never panicked about anything.

  Nicòla jumped from the desk and forced her hair back under her hat as Cromwell swiped up the articles from the carpets on the floor. He sat back down in time for Nicòla to unlock the doors.

  Rich blustered past Nicòla in a second and stood at the other side of the desk. ‘Lord Cromwell, I come with the most fearsome news. Murder and rebellion.’

  ‘What?’ Cromwell scoffed as Nicòla approached Rich, and she noticed sweat running down his forehead, his hat in his hands, wrung out of shape by nervous fingers.

  ‘It started a week ago now when a man named Thomas Kendall did a sermon for the evening in Louth.’

  ‘Where is Louth?’ Nicòla asked.

  ‘Lincolnshire,’ Rich said, still breathless. ‘Kendall spoke about how the Church is being destroyed and the people should rise to destroy Thomas Cromwell who is sending men to churches and monasteries to steal goods for his personal use. The next day, the commoners in Louth seized John Tenage, registrar to the Bishop of Lincoln, when he tried to read out your commission over the closure of their monastery. They burned all your papers, Lord Cromwell.’

  ‘Arrest those responsible,’ Cromwell shrugged.

  ‘By the next day, 3,000 men had gathered in Louth and marched twenty-five miles north to Caistor and seized His Majesty’s subsidy commissioners.’

  ‘What in God’s name?’ Cromwell said as he sat up straight in his chair.

  ‘That is when the trouble exploded. On October 4, the rebels captured Lincoln’s Chancellor, along with one of his servants, a cook I believe, and both were murdered. The cook was hanged, but when the Bishop cried foul over the murder, he was wrapped in the hide of a freshly killed cow, and left to be attacked by dogs, as they stated that was what they wanted to do to you, Lord Cromwell.’

  Cromwell jumped from his seat in wild anger, a kind Nicòla seldom saw in him. ‘They killed two of our men?’

  ‘Brutally,’ Rich swallowed hard. ‘These men are saying they are on a pilgrimage and we are the targets for their rage, due to the changes to the Church and the Statute of Uses bill regarding tax. The laws ruined their lives and they blame you, Lord Cromwell. Some say there are many as 10,000 men. It has taken days for word to reach this far south. Their leader is a man named Robert Aske, a commoner who has been speaking on behalf of these murderous men, and they are mustering men while marching upon York. Yorkshire is now in rebellion. They have dispatched word to the King as we speak.’

  Cromwell shoved past Rich and he and Nicòla struggled to follow him as they flew down the hallway to the King’s privy chamber. Cromwell burst through to find Henry and the Duke of Suffolk talking together.

  ‘Look who is hither,’ Suffolk said as he looked upon the three bowing in reverence.

  ‘Your Majesty, I have just received word…’

  ‘Yes, that half the country wants your head on a spike. As many as 10,000 men are fighting against changes to the Church and taxes. I am sending Suffolk north with an army to put down this rebellion.’

  ‘Your Majesty, I believe…’ Cromwell began.

  ‘You do not get an opinion this time, Cromwell,’ Suffolk said as he wandered over to him, a confident swagger in every step. ‘I am to war with my own countrymen thanks to your new laws,’ Suffolk said with a sigh. ‘You may wish to think over your personal safety in case the rebels have sympathisers at court.’

  ‘Charles,’ Henry warned his best friend. ‘Thomas is my Chief Minister and Lord Privy Seal. No man in this nation can threaten his life, as Cromwell speaks for me.’

  ‘Your Majesty,’ Rich gently said, ‘the rebels have sent a six-point complaint against Lord Cromwell and the changes they demand.’

  ‘Thomas writes my laws for my realm!’ Henry screamed, which frightened the wh
ole room. ‘How dare they send me a list of demands?’

  Rich pulled a screwed-up letter from his wrung hat and Cromwell snatched it from him and gestured for him to step back behind Nicòla, a step behind her master already. Nicòla watched him open the list, which looked crudely written by a simple man.

  ‘What do they want?’ Henry asked as he looked to Suffolk rather than Cromwell.

  ‘Sheriff Dimmock in Lincoln states that the crowd, through a show of hands, want six changes. One – stop the dissolution of the religious houses and of the consequent destitution of “the destruction of the realm.” Two – change the restraints imposed on the distribution of property by the “Statute of Uses,” which is a law we put in place to help with taxes a year ago. Three – change the grants to the King of the first-fruits of spiritual benefices, so the monies can instead be given to the community.’

  ‘They want my money and to change my laws,’ Henry replied with a smug laugh.

  ‘Four – stop the payment of the subsidy demanded of them.’ Cromwell shook his head. ‘Now they believe they do not have to pay taxes? Five – stop the introduction into the King’s Council of Cromwell, Rich, and other “such personages of low birth and small reputation,” as decided by them.’

  ‘They mean you, Frescobaldi,’ Suffolk commented.

  ‘I am not on the King’s Council!’ Nicòla shot back, too worried to care what Suffolk thought of being addressed in such a manner.

  ‘The final change,’ Cromwell continued, ‘to reverse the promotion of the Archbishops of Canterbury and Dublin, and the Bishops of Rochester, St. David’s, and others, who, in their opinion, have “subverted the faith of Christ.” So, they want me dead, all my men dead, and Cranmer and his followers brought down after all the work they have done to help the Reformation.’ Cromwell screwed up the message and tossed it on the floor. Nicòla scooped it up in a hurry; they would need that later.

  ‘I am to ride north and deliver a message to these rebels,’ Suffolk told his king and closest friend. ‘Shall I place the message on the end of my sword?’