Shaking the Throne

by Caroline Angus Baker

  C

  Chapter 55 – December 1536

  once the lyes are all layd bare, the light shynes everywhere

  Greenwich Palace, outer London

  ‘Sir, Your Majesty allows a tyrant named Cromwell to govern yourself.’

  Weeks passed between Cromwell abandoning his family on a ship, and the rebellion leader Robert Aske stating such words before the King. Three weeks was a long time to go without Nicòla’s comfort. Three weeks was an eternity of sorrow. Three weeks heralded only letters from Gregory, nothing from Nicòla.

  Cromwell had deserted his only true ally while he ended this rebellion, and yet it was Norfolk who prepared a truce between the rebels and the armies. Three weeks after sending his family abroad, the rebels came to London, but only in the form of negotiations while the disillusioned commoners returned to their homes under the watchful eyes of the King’s armies.

  ‘If not for Cromwell, I would not have the 7,000 priests in my company that are now ruined wanderers.’

  Everything came down to how much the people of England hated Cromwell. He took the full blame; even though he wrote laws and pushed them through parliament at Henry’s command. Cromwell’s taxes were only created to satisfy Henry’s greed. The rebels thought the dissolution of the monasteries was a cash grab rather than a chance to save English souls from the corruption and greed of the Catholic faith.

  ‘It is you, Lord Cromwell, who is the original cause of this rebellion.’

  The words said to his face, to the King’s face, by the rebels cut through Cromwell. But Cromwell’s heart hardened, and he had earlier beheaded a queen, so if the rebels thought they could break Cromwell’s spirit and resolve, they made a large misstep.

  ‘The blame lies on the King’s councillors; all is run and started by Cromwell.’

  The King, with his sore leg and the mood of a scared child in the face of rebellion, was easy to convince that the rebels were to blame. Henry would never relinquish control over the Church, not now he had fought so hard for it. Henry would not argue over the riches of the monasteries and abbeys, and how they would be in the royal exchequer with every commission undertaken. Henry promised a truce, a pardon for all the rebels if they downed their arms, put down the banners sewn in the shape of the five wounds of Christ, and returned to their homes in the frigid north. Henry promised to listen to all their complaints, to ratify all their pains and salvage all their losses. Not for one moment was Cromwell prepared to step down, and never once did the King ask him to make sacrifices. Cromwell had sent away his family, sent away his precious Nicòla, all for nothing.

  The rebels finally signed the proclamation of peace by December 3, five weeks after the Cromwells, the Sadlers and the Cranmers went abroad. Groups disbanded, with Norfolk returning to Kenninghall, angry that Cromwell had not lost his head to the King’s anger. Suffolk returned to London, smug that Cromwell was so hated right across the land. The court and parliament broke up for the celebrations of the season, with many laughing behind Cromwell’s back. One moment a man could be the highest in the court, the next day he could take a boat ride to the Tower for execution. All the panic and fear, all disarmed with a simple truce meeting. All the preparations, the tears and the worry, all gone in a moment, over in a single day.

  ‘It seems, Cromwell, that the country does not know you as I know you, and whoever harms you harms me.’

  The King’s word at the official court gathering did Cromwell much good, but by then, the world had stumbled about him. A ship from Calais brought everyone home; Gregory leapt into his father’s arms, pleased to be at home but also excited by the two months in Calais. The homecoming was bitter, for all on board and those waiting in London, for one reason.

  ‘Thomas.’

  Cromwell looked up from the fire. The King sat in the other chair across from him, the pair engaging in wine by the warmth on a bleak December eve. Henry felt like Cromwell’s only friend at the moment. Indeed, he wished to speak to no one else.

  ‘I am sorry, Your Majesty… I…’

  ‘You are trying not to cry again. Like you have done all day, all week, all month.’

  Cromwell blinked his golden eyes, for tears perched on his lashes. ‘Your Majesty…’

  Henry dismissed Cromwell’s words with his hand. ‘You do not place any coming policies before me, you do not discuss parliament, or plans to ensure the rebels do not rise again.’

  Cromwell swallowed hard and looked to his mulled wine. ‘I received a letter today…’ he paused, his mind confused through his pain. ‘I received a letter from Her Majesty’s sister, the Lady Elizabeth Seymour. As a widow, she has no formal home for her two children, and seeks to acquire a monastery once it is closed, so she may turn it in a home for her son and daughter.’

  ‘Is it true she once wrote to you, suggesting she would be a good wife for you?’ Henry smiled.

  ‘Indeed, when her husband first passed away.’

  ‘I can tell with great certainty you do not wish to take Lady Elizabeth as a bride. She is much younger than my dear Jane and is fertile. Perchance she could marry your Gregory? He is of age now, is he not?’

  ‘Gregory is seventeen,’ Cromwell replied and placed his wine on a silver tray placed gently upon a table beside him. Marry Gregory to the Queen’s sister? That would make his son an uncle to any royal children Queen Jane had with Henry. ‘Do you think my son suitable for the Queen’s sister, Your Majesty?’

  ‘Your son shall be Lord Cromwell one day, in his own right. Elizabeth’s first husband was only a knight. I trust your son is in your service at Austin Friars, and can be groomed to be a suitable match?’

  ‘Yes, Your Majesty, most certainly! My son has lands and homes in his name at present, and could provide a home for Lady Elizabeth and her children.’

  ‘You do not need to care for Elizabeth’s previous children; just ensure your son can do his duty and give the girl more.’

  Cromwell swallowed hard again. This was a wonderful match for his son; he would be lavished with titles and honours in the future, awarded lands and monasteries as a member of the royal family. But Cromwell knew Gregory to be a gentle man, and marriage would be a big step for him, and he still grieved heartily over the recent pain done to the Cromwell family.

  ‘You would think I was asking for your head, not giving you a wife for your son,’ Henry interrupted Cromwell’s thoughts.

  ‘It would be an honour for my son to marry Lady Elizabeth Seymour,’ Cromwell replied. ‘Mayhap in the summer?’

  ‘If you wish to wait that long, so be it. Not ready to face a wedding?’

  ‘I am hither and ready to serve in any way needed, Your Majesty.’

  Henry leaned forward, careful not disturb his wounded leg. Blood often showed through his clothes now, for Dr. Butts could not stop the wound opening and seeping fluids of many shades. ‘Thomas, the whole court talks of you.’

  ‘Half the country wants my head.’

  ‘They ask me, Norfolk, Suffolk and others, why I would continue to promote a man as weak as Thomas Cromwell, a man once so powerful, suddenly wrecked upon the shore of misery.’

  ‘Have I failed in my duties, Your Majesty?’

  ‘No.’ Henry sighed and rubbed his tired face. ‘I must talk about the Waif. I hear rumours, Thomas.’

  ‘Nicòla Frescobaldi did not return to London with Gregory. The last words I heard from Frescobaldi were when the ship sailed for Calais.’

  ‘No letters? She is your creature, surely she writes you. What does your son say?’

  ‘Gregory farewelled Frescobaldi, who left Calais and sailed for Portugal, taking the child as well.’

  ‘The girl you say you adopted.’

  ‘Jane; Giovanna Frescobaldi also sailed for Portugal.’

  ‘Your mistress has left you and taken your bastard with her, leaving you deprived of a woman you should call wife, plus your daughter, and indeed your master secretary.’

  Cromwell nodded and said nothing. Nicòla�
��s ship sailed for Portugal and no one wrote to England to tell Cromwell, not even Gregory. By the time Cromwell heard of this progress, Nicòla and Jane would have landed in Lisbon, and now could be anywhere, travelling under any name, on land or sea, with Nicòla’s powerful fortune ready to move her through Europe. They surely had returned home to Italy, to Florence. Cromwell had so many spies in his employ reporting so many stories throughout Europe, from the opinions of the commoners to the movements of nobles and kings. But not a word came from Nicòla, nor any person who had conversed with her. Only time would allow letters to come to Cromwell through the slow channels of the winter months.

  ‘It has been a difficult year, Thomas,’ Henry sighed as he laid his head back against his soft chair. ‘And through all of this, still, there is no child in my queen’s womb.’

  ‘The creation of a child is God’s will,’ Cromwell mumbled. ‘If you feel I have offended God on your behalf, I shall stand aside, Your Majesty.’

  ‘I could never bear losing you from the court, Thomas. I know I have threatened you in the past, but that was the pain of my leg, my worry over my country. Please think not of leaving. Though, without your Waif following you, you seem a man lost.’

  ‘I am bereft, but every man must make his own way in the world, and that includes Mr. Frescobaldi.’

  ‘But not a woman, indeed a woman who pre-contracted herself to you in marriage, and has your child at her side. Surely the Pope will annul her marriage to the Duke of Florence, so he can remarry the Emperor’s daughter. The Waif could return to London, I would allow any passage into England if it means you can have your creature back again. You cured me of Anne and I can at least help you in this one way. For you made the same marriage vows that night in Calais, the same that bound Anne to me.’

  ‘All matters not if Mr. Frescobaldi stays in Florence with our daughter.’

  ‘Are you heartbroken, like I was when I heard what the witch Anne had done behind my back?’

  ‘My heart is in my chest and ready to work for Your Majesty.’

  ‘No, Thomas, you are in a state of pure agony. You cannot think, you mumble and slur your words. Your skin is ill-coloured, your walk bent. You grieve.’

  ‘I am above grieving, Your Majesty. I must be, to do my duty for the realm.’

  ‘No one is above grief, Thomas. Not even me.’

  A panicked knock on the door echoed through the stillness of the privy chamber, occupied only by the King, his chief minister and a roaring fire. The chamberlain rushed in, a wet hat in his hands. ‘Your Majesty, an urgent message from the Duke of Norfolk.’

  Henry snatched the letter and ripped it apart in a moment as Cromwell leaned forward in his seat. ‘Is the Duke well?’ he asked.

  Henry’s eyes scanned the brief note, his face reddened to match his hair, even with its growing number of silver streaks. ‘Tis the rebels,’ Henry said, his voice rising in tone, his fearful panic returning. ‘There is talk, through your man, Ralph Sadler, that the Percys in Northumberland are funding and angering the rebels into returning once more to rise and take the north. I gave those men a pardon!’

  Cromwell watched Henry throw the letter on the floor and he swiped it up for the King. ‘Where is this rebellion forming?’

  ‘They want to take the port city of Hull and then stretch out through Lincolnshire from there,’ Henry said while Cromwell read the same words, written in Norfolk’s own hand. Norfolk had been in the north listening to whispers from the gentry, who still wanted to overthrow the Chief Minister.

  ‘Find Sir Francis Bryan,’ Cromwell said as he read the message, ‘for he is a man much indebted for his poor decisions and spending,’ Cromwell told the King. ‘Also, John Hallam, he was one of those who rose in the first Pilgrimage of Grace. These traitors have taken your promise of peace and negotiation and thrown it back. They want York and Durham in open revolt against Your Majesty.’

  ‘I want heads for this!’ Henry cried as he limped from his chair and Cromwell followed suit. ‘How dare they presume to rebel against my mercy?’

  ‘I shall get the armies together at once, Your Majesty,’ Cromwell said. His thoughts instead went to his family, for now, they were back at Austin Friars for Christmas, but now there would be killings. The angry expression of the King’s face said such.

  ‘I shall have the head of every man, woman and child, as I warned them,’ Henry said as he paced a little, one hand on his bejewelled chest. ‘I warned them once, and now they shall suffer! I will have Suffolk put them all to the rope!’

  The door banged again with a messenger, this time the chamberlain accompanied by one of Cromwell’s men. ‘Your Majesty, Your Lordship,’ the messenger said. ‘A message for Lord Cromwell, fresh from a ship docked in Dover.’

  Cromwell grabbed the letter and sent the messengers on their way, distracted by the sudden panic, after hours of drinking warm wine by the fireplace, playing cards and dice with the King, his only friend. Cromwell could not recognise the seal on the letter and cared not; the damp letter had come a long way and was in Italian. Now, finally, perchance news had come to England, and yet war was about to strike. Only war could take Cromwell’s mind from Nicòla and his pain over losing her, and yet now she and war came in the form of letters at the same time.

  My Lord Cromwell,

  The news comes fresh to us from Florence this eve of a most incredible tragedy. Inside the fortress of the Fortezza de Basso in the central city, where Alessandro de’Medici, Duke of Florence lives, is the most lamentable tale. They say they lured the Duke to a room for a sexual encounter with a woman named Laudomia, the widow of his cousin. But the Duke had been drinking wine poisoned by Laudomia’s brother, Lorenzino de’Medici. Duke Alessandro died the most painful and horrid death while waiting for his whore. But to make this worse, Alessandro had not been drinking alone, for he had been in the company of his brother-in-law, Nicòla Frescobaldi, lately of your service, who believed you to be “The Prince” of Machiavelli’s writings. They found both Medici and Frescobaldi dead in the fortress, a slow and bloody death came to each of them. We quickly rolled the bodies in carpets and carried them to hidden tombs at St. Lorenzo. The Spanish king shall hold a small vigil for the deaths in Valladolid, Spain. The anti-Medici families have not risen in joy, so Lorenzino de’Medici could not raise an army to overthrow Florence and is now in hiding.

  I am sorry to tell you of this occasion without many details, but it was known that Frescobaldi was a close friend to you for many years. They have not seen the Duchess of Florence since the deaths of her husband and her brother and shall be in hiding. Nor can anyone find the bastard child who travelled with Frescobaldi, stolen from the fortress. Frescobaldi did not get a true Catholic burial and has been buried with Alessandro, as the threat of war in the area over the poisonings was a terrible threat to everyone’s safety.

  I am sorry to tell you such poor news in haste, but for tonight, we know little but disaster.

  The letter fell from Cromwell’s fingers onto the carpet. Somewhere in the dark distance, he could hear the King’s strong tone, as if calling from underwater, ordering Cromwell to start a civil war, while Cromwell thought of his daughter far away. The heat of the room soared as Cromwell felt himself falling, darkness encircling him.

  Nicòla Frescobaldi was dead.

  To be continued…

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Thomas Cromwell sat in obscurity until around the 1950’s when he was brought back into public knowledge, as the villain behind King Henry VIII and the destruction of Catholic England. In the last decade, much has been written to reinvent Thomas Cromwell as a hero, a smart man who was caught under a despot king. I seek to write neither a hero nor a villain. In a world such as the Tudor court during the 1530’s, every man and woman would have needed to take sides – hero or villain – but I wanted to show that people can be both and neither. Neither Cromwell nor Frescobaldi are in any way perfect, and have intentions of their own as well as serving a king.

/>   While Francesco Frescobaldi was the man who found a starving English teenager on the streets of Florence, nothing is known about his immediate family. All characters focused around Frescobaldi are purely fictional, including Nicóla/Nicóletta. Male and female roles in the 16th century were indeed strict; a woman was considered so inferior that to consider her an advisor at court would be inconceivable, an affront to what God ordained a woman. While some noble women were given the chance to assist husbands, and poor women were able to hold down a ‘feminine’ job, people such as Nicóla would fall outside all traditional boundaries.

  Much has been made of who ‘The Prince’ of Niccoló Machiavelli’s book really was. While dedicated to Lorenzo Di Piero De Medici, the book is said to be sometimes based on Cesare Borgia, the infamous son of Pope Alexander VI. The book, published in handwritten form in 1513, was first published on a printing press in 1532, when Pope Clement VII agreed to its release. Thomas Cromwell and the Protestants were known as fans of the Machiavelli book, though Catholic kings such as Charles V, and French Queens such as Catherine de’ Medici, also endorsed the writing. Who inspired much of the book may in fact be a wide number of people, but Thomas Cromwell and his incredible mind lived in Florence from around 1503 until 1513. Very little is known around this period of his life.

  Part three of the Queenmaker Series,

  NO AMOUR AGAINST FATE,

  will be available in July 2019

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Always, my number one thanks goes to my four sons – Grayson, Torben, Espen and Lachlan, who have learned more about the 1400’s and 1500’s than any child probably needs to know. Thanks for keeping me company on long nights, endlessly hearing about my love for Thomas Cromwell, and cheering me on through the book process for the eleventh time.