The Deception of Consequences

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  Richard, half hidden within a great oiled cape, strode towards them. “I am ready,” he said. “It is time to leave.”

  Thomas hurried behind, carrying two large wrapped parcels of baggage. “Get these into the saddle bags,” he ordered the page scurrying beside him. “And quick, before they’re soaked.”

  The doors were once again flung outwards. The chill rushed in and the rain beat like drums on the outer steps. Dawn was rising behind the trees’ silhouettes. A pale shadowed lilac hung clouded and striped by sleet. Orders had been given to saddle the horses, and they stood stamping in the slush, impatient and dismal, flicking their tails in showers of flying rain drops. The ostlers stared gloomily through the pouring wet. The steward bowed, back bent, as his master strode past.

  Richard, Thomas and the six armed men of the king’s own guard, disappeared into the shadows beyond.

  The doors closed and for a moment the silence seemed eerie and unnatural. Then everyone spoke at once. The maids ran up the stairs, pages down. Two scullery boys began to wail and a group of furious cleaning girls started to demand explanations. The steward clapped his hands and called for order. One of the cooks, standing alone and gaping, wiping his hands nervously on his apron, suddenly burst into tears.

  Jemima, still in the corridor outside her bedchamber, sat down abruptly on the boards, and began to cry too, her sobs muffled into the collar of her beautiful new bedrobe.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  The swirl of heavy skirts. The stamp of large feet in soft shoes on floorboards. The scrape of a wooden chair thrown aside. His majesty wore scarlet and the spots of high colour centred in his cheeks matched the brocade.

  “I have waited,” he said. The edge of menace seethed behind each word, but the king stood, legs apart, arms crossed, and made no obvious threat. “March is ebbing. We approach the last day of the year, and still nothing has happened.”

  “Legalities, majesty.” Thomas Cromwell stood before his king and smiled. “You ordered me to find a legal means, your grace. And I have scoured the nation, every avenue, without, as yet, discovering a manner that would satisfy the courts, should they be instructed to follow the law alone.”

  Henry raised a thin eyebrow. “And if the instructions are more – let us say – lenient? And the path to justice free and open?”

  “Those chosen to sit in judgement would never disobey your majesty’s orders.” Cromwell bowed. “It is a matter of how you wish it to be seen by the court and country, sire. After the earlier divorce, and the long delays preceding, after the upheaval of religious adaptation – indeed, sire, it is unlikely that I shall discover a means which will suffice in all directions, nor will a legally convincing solution be easily found.”

  The king looked down his nose. The points of high colour in both cheeks were now pronounced and Cromwell knew exactly what this meant. “If,” said King Henry through his teeth, “I had expected ‘easy’, I would have hired my ostler to arrange matters – easily – while saddling my horse for the hunt. You, sir – are paid to ensure matters which are not – in the least – easy.”

  Thomas Cromwell bowed low, a diplomatic response which also enabled him to hide his own expression. “I have a substitute direction, your grace, if it pleases you.”

  “It would not,” replied the king. “If it is not a legal imperative, I have no need to know it. I wish for no information requiring me one future day to confess either illegality or impropriety. Put this illegality into action, sir, and I shall be pleased to accept whatever works to my satisfaction. I will not question – legality. The result, sir, is my requirement and not the means. I do not bend and I do not sway. I am the supreme head on Earth of the Church of England, and above all sin. I have no interest in either your excuses nor your machinations.”

  “I understand, sire.” Cromwell held his breath.

  “You had better, Cromwell,” replied his sovereign lord softly, “you had better.”

  It was some two hours later when Thomas Cromwell discussed matters in utter privacy with Master Edward Scrow, an elderly man who was known as the least of all assistants, a minor scribbler of very little importance or standing, but who was, in private, an assistant of considerable influence and intimate with the kind of knowledge best kept in secret.

  It was Edward Scrow who stood, surveying his master across the long table and its littered papers. His voice was quiet, hurried, and sibilant. “The first brought in under these accusations, is under arrest in the Tower, sir. It will be a trial case, perhaps, since the accusation is not as firm as you ordered.”

  “Wolfdon?”

  “Indeed, sir. Richard Wolfdon. There was discussion, since Wolfdon is no lord, as to where he should be confined. But as a member of the court and a personal cohort of his majesty, I thought he would be more accessible if kept within the Tower’s walls.”

  Cromwell sat back, stretching his legs and peering down at the broken nib of the quill between his fingers. “I wonder,” he said, speaking only to himself. “Is this the best beginning, I wonder. Wondering indeed. I cannot be sure. I like to be sure.”

  “Richard Wolfdon would not have been my choice.” Scrow bowed, coming two steps forward and further lowering his voice. “I understand he is well liked by the king, and trusted by many. But I did not either initiate nor hasten the accusation, sir. It came soley from Lord Staines.”

  “And therefore we cannot be blamed for its inaccuracy, its spite, nor its inevitable failure,” Cromwell said, looking up again and tossing the quill to the table. “It will serve as experimentation, Scrow, a test case thus opening the door for more suitable candidates to come. As such, Master Wolfdon offers us a mightily useful path of discovery and practise. We can eventually dismiss the charges against him, and smoothly move into more believable accusations against others.”

  “You trust this man, sir? You like this man?”

  Cromwell paused. “Such opinions, Scrow, are irrelevant.”

  “And Lord Staines?”

  “There is no man who either likes or trusts his lordship.” Cromwell smiled suddenly. “We shall see, Scrow, we shall see, Once his spite against Wolfdon is uncovered, then perhaps we can turn the suspicion against him instead. In either case, he will fall from the favour which he does not, in any case, hold. A closet Roman Catholic and a creature of low intellect and no honesty. I shall aid his downfall with pleasure.” He smiled briefly. “You will look into it, Scrow. Begin to lay the foundations, not for Wolfdon, but for Staines. The man of honesty shall go free. The lord of dishonesty will serve us better.”

  “You honour honesty highly then, sir?” Scrow’s smile was barely distinguishable from sneer.

  “Honesty?” Cromwell looked up, then also smiled. “To the utmost value, Scrow, and of the utmost necessity. I am as entirely honest as my lord sovereign requires me to be, and as honest as he is himself. What more should be asked, Scrow, from a trusty servant of that monarch himself?”

  Scrow bowed. “And Wolfdon, sir? The deed is classified as treason. Shall I then authorise the rack?”

  “For what reason, Scrow, beyond your own entertainment? Since we know the man is innocent, no measure of torture is likely to bring him to confess his guilt. And should it do so, and his guilt be confirmed, then the complications will prove a distraction. No, my friend. Richard Wolfdon must eventually be found innocent, but experimenting with this situation shall lead us directly into more successful accusations against others in due time.”

  “I understand his majesty is impatient.”

  “A little time, Scrow, will not go amiss,” Cromwell nodded. “Appreciation will be more pronounced and more resilient if the matter proves less easy, I think. His majesty does not value matters which he considers easy. But the king’s own trusted friend must not be the first convicted, or his majesty might fall into a violent temper as so often, and close the way forward for others to stand successfully accused.”

  “Not the rack, then, Master Cromwell.”

 
“Not the rack, Scrow, nor any form of excessive duress. But some time in the dungeons, and a peaceful few weeks to explore the possibilities of such a way forwards.” Cromwell waved one plump hand towards the door, dismissing his servant. “But,” he added softly, “in the meantime, keep a watch on Staines.”

  The last few days of March heralded sunshine and early apple blossom along the wayside. Her majesty, Queen Anne, was picking wild flowers, pulling at the small golden sprouts peeping timid from the wet grass. The sunlight slanted over her face, beaming across the lines of tiredness and worry, exaggerating those pale bruises beneath her eyes and the stripes of wear and increasing age over her high forehead.

  “Your grace,” Lady Rochford smiled, taking back the tiny scissors, “we are in danger of disorientation from the glare of the weather. Should we stay longer – ”

  Sighing, “And I’m exhausted, and have done enough. I’ll gladly surrender, and retreat to my chambers.” The queen stamped the damp leaf litter from her shoes, and turned to the throng of other women clustered behind. A dalliance of silks swirled with her. “Enough of adventure and the muddy budding of spring. I have the wind in my face and the sun on my back. I need hippocras, and soft cushions.”

  The gardens of Eltham Palace were a sloping haven for birds, berries and blossom. One of the younger women called out, “Look, your grace, there are still little mushrooms left from last year. A line like guardsmen, helmeted against the rain, marching beneath that hedge.”

  And another called, “Your grace, I’ll take the pretty flowers you’ve picked, and put them in a cup of water to perfume your bedchamber.”

  The queen looked down. The wilted drip of petals was still clutched in her hand. She opened her fingers and let the flowers drift to the path. “No,” and shook her head, as though watching a slow death as the sunshine flicked out and the clouds turned dark. “No matter. Soon it will pour, and soon I shall be in bed.”

  “I believe it to be only two of the clock, my lady.” A starling was singing, then flew from the branch, looking for dry grass to start weaving its nest.

  “I’m tired and I shall sleep,” murmured the queen. “Dreams are always sweeter than the truth any day dare bring.” She lifted her skirts a little, holding the hems free of damp leaf and low bushes. Staring down as she walked, she watched her steps along the pathway and spoke only to herself. “I have,” she said softly, “a feeling of inevitable doom. I search for sunshine, but gloom follows me. The rain will seal the daily shadows.”

  Thomas Cromwell watched the queen’s return from the great high windows on the second storey. He stood frowning, his hands clasped behind his back. “It will not be quick, for many reasons, and one of those reasons is for my own convenience. But,” and he turned away, striding across the boards and back to his high armed chair at the long polished table, “it will take time for other reasons. Who, for instance, will believe such a story when her majesty is never left alone for a moment, and is watched by a hundred eyes even when she sleeps?”

  “They will believe what they want to believe, as always, sir.”

  “They will believe what the king wishes them to believe. And what they admit in the utter privacy of their own quarters, matters not one jot for they will never dare say it aloud.”

  Edward Scrow had returned, following orders.

  “Master Wolfdon is now confined to the smaller cell in the gatehouse, sir, as you wished. He is as yet permitted some comfort and is not either shackled, nor will he be questioned on the rack. He has asked to see his lawyer, and has paid for his food and wine for the week.” Scrow paused, then added, “Will you question him yourself, sir?”

  “By no means,” Cromwell replied, again taking up his quill. “Leave the matter now, Scrow, and start to investigate Staines. Against him, I want a stronger case.” He began to write, leaning over the blank parchment. Scrow had left the small room, and the shadows were slanting through the mullioned window panes, when Cromwell shuffled his papers, closed his eyes, leaned back in the chair and addressed the dark brooding weight at the back of his mind. “And does it matter, then,” he murmured, “that I slaved long years for this wretched Anne to become queen, and bring her legal right in the eyes of our Lord, to be wife of the man who truly desired her? The divorce from the other wretched queen, and the marriage of this one, all to be undone and plastered above my bed proclaiming me a man of irrelevance, of pointless effort, of failure, of dishonour, and of hypocrisy? I achieve success yet must call it loss. And do I blame my king, who orders me? Or do I know the fault always lies with the servant who kills for his master, whenever his master decides?” Cromwell sighed. “What I plan, I plan for my own benefit as the king rewards those who produce the results he demands. The fault is mine. Time lost and time wasted will matter little, when the new marriage comes. Time is under the king’s command, as am I.”

  It was raining now, hard and dark, pelting against the windows as their frames rattled. Cromwell wondered, for just a moment, if the queen had any idea what was about to happen.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  No one had slept and the house, although slunk beneath shadows, was a rattle of running feet and loud talking. Clamour and questions, followed by orders from the steward to the pages, and the pages taking messages down to the kitchens, the ostlers and the cleaning-maids.

  It was the steward who came to Jemima and bowed slightly. “Madam, the master presented you as the lady he intended to marry. Although the chapel service has not yet been officiated nor the banns read, I will gladly follow your orders, madam, and refer to you as to what we should all do next. If there is any way, any manner of service, we may do to help the master and his return, we will do it, madam, I assure you.”

  Jemima had not the slightest idea. Her mind was blank in terror, her thoughts a jumble of incoherence, fear and utter confusion, her fingers a ’fidget with worry. “Wine,” she said on a gulp, finally managing one small decision. “Hippocras, perhaps. I need to think and gather what little wit – what little brain I have left to me.”

  Although knowing that as soon as she crawled into bed she would howl the dark hours through, Jemima stayed stiff, erect and determined. Quietly she prayed for guidance. A muffled nonsense of knotted circles clouded her thoughts. Banishing the black fear, she banished also all understanding.

  They brought wine, then watching as she sat in silence, hugging her bedrobe to her chin and sipping the hippocras, welcoming the heat and spices that burned her tongue. It was quite suddenly that she called for paper, ink, quill and sand pot. Hurrying to the little table, while gulping down the remainder of the heated wine, she asked for more, ordered a candle to be lit, and began to write.

  She wrote first to her father. Then she wrote to Sir Walter, Richard’s step-father and asked if she might speak to him once she arrived back in the city. She did not explain what had happened, since she barely knew it herself. Then she wrote to Alba, addressing it to the house in Holborn. With a scribble and ink blots that wearied her wrist and discoloured her fingers, she continued to write. But her letter contained no mention of her father’s surprising return to life, nor her own relationship with Richard Wolfdon. She wrote simply that she was returning and hoped for help from all her friends. Next she wrote in more detail to her nurse Katherine and finally but briefly to her miserable cousin Cuthbert.

  It was some time later after considerable thought and with greater care, that she wrote to his majesty, King Henry.

  With great deliberation, she sealed each folded paper with wax heated over the candle flame and then impressed with the signet ring the steward brought her. When she eventually looked up, her eyes were red rimmed and her mouth tight.

  “Each of these must be delivered to the name, and to the direction I have written on each. They must be put into the hands of the right person. Finally,” she nodded, “this last letter must be delivered to Eltham Palace and presented to whoever is the official allotted to accept messages on behalf of his majesty. I’ve no
idea who that is. But you must ensure that it is not just a page, nor some lowly servant. This message must eventually reach the king himself.”

  The steward bowed. “I must confess, my lady, I’ve no knowledge of how that may be ensured, but I will give the orders and the utmost shall be done. I swear, madam, we will achieve whatever must be achieved.”

  The final hours of night drifted. Jemima crawled into the bed, curled cold and wretched as she sobbed until her pillow was sodden and its feathers flat, eventually falling into a shallow and restless sleep. But she woke with a very different determination. “Pack,” she ordered the young cleaning maid, grabbing up the bedrobe she had thrown off to the floor some hours previously. “I am going first to London, and to the courts of the lawyers. Then to the Strand. To Holborn. And finally, if I am able to ensure admittance, to the palace itself.” She marched to the garderobe, clasping a handful of combs, mirror and hairpins. “Quick, Mary, help me do my hair. I must look respectable, though in this wind and rain that may not last long. But now the appearance of respectability, which I’ve always despised, is suddenly important after all. Horses must be saddled, and I need a guide and at least two guards. How long,” she stared up at the maid who hovered over her, “will it take me to ride to London?”

  “Lord have mercy,” the maid whispered, “I ain’t got no idea, mistress. The big scary city be way to the north and I never bin there.”

  “Then find out,” said Jemima, whirling around to face the cluster of servants hurrying to her call. “There is a great deal to do, and very little time to do it in. I’ve no idea what my fiancé has been accused of, but it is false, whatever it is. I have to prove that before someone judges him guilty.”