Within days of my arrival in London I sent a letter to Nérac via Ambassador Marillac:
Serene Highness, I humbly commend me unto your regal goodness and am to report on my poor service to Your Ladyship. Would to God I had better tidings to deliver. My crossing hither by dire contrary winds was much delayed and its accustomed torments much multiplied. I swear that if there be a purgatory, which there is not, it could not be more vile than the rolling, tossing, heaving, diving, leaping of one ill-found ship making passage ’tween Calais and Gravesend, where I came ashore happy to find shiftless ground beneath my feet. Thinking to reach journey’s end sooner by road than remaining aboard the vessel bound for the Tower Docks, I took horse and was in London within two hours.
Yet, in truth, there was no need for haste. I had to make no search for news. It came to me on the road. It was, seemingly, on the lips of every gentleman riding from the city, every wench swilling out slops on to the highway, every carter calling out to any who might yet not have heard. All the street along, the shout went up from smiling lips: ‘He is dead!’ Aye, Highness, smiling lips, for I swear I saw not one man or woman in fifty heartsore to tell of Lord Cromwell’s execution or ready to lift to heaven a prayer for his soul. In brief I may tell that he who of late stood higher than any other in the kingdom of England was beheaded before a cheering crowd on the twenty-eighth day of this month.
Thus is my mission for Your Highness done ere it began. Yet knowing that you would hope for more details and would desire to know how this act may affect affairs between our country and England, I shall seek out some well acquainted with the workings of the royal court and will endeavour to satisfy Your Highness within days.
From London this thirtieth day of July 1540
They were dismantling the fence around the scaffold. A dozen men, a well-practised team, were hurrying to complete their task before a pewter sky released its threatened deluge. The stakes were loaded on to a large wagon. Soon, very soon, the horses would be whipped up for their short journey across the hill’s flank, past All Hallows Church and so to the storeroom somewhere in the city, there to leave their load until the next time it was called upon to perform its ceremonial role in killing another of the King of England’s subjects. Here, beyond the wall and the moat, only a wide circle of trampled green would be left as temporary witness that one of the age’s more remarkable Englishmen had perished in this place.
If anyone had asked me why I was there, I would have been at a loss to offer a satisfactory reply. Had I gone to pay my respects? I think not. Was mere curiosity my motive? Possibly. All I can recall is that somehow it seemed appropriate to begin at the end.
I was not alone. I do not mean that there were several other people walking or riding across the green on their way to or from the city or the Tower of London. Someone else was, like myself, standing still, gazing up at the platform from which, I supposed, Thomas Cromwell had spoken his last words to the spectators, cried out his last prayer to God. My ‘companion’ was a gentleman, to judge by his dress, though his clothes were somewhat dishevelled and he had neglected to don a cloak against the coming storm. For all I could tell he was about my own age (and I was then in my thirty-eighth year). A mourning relative, perhaps? I would not intrude upon his grief.
It was as I made to leave and stride across the grass to the shelter of the tenements flanking the open space that the other man also turned. And there was something familiar about him. His dark beard was very full and masked much of his lower face, but the blue-green eyes were of an intensity that had made their impression on me years before and never been forgotten.
As we passed each other I put memory to the test.
‘The greatest comfort that I can pretend
Is that the children of my servants dear
That in your word are set, shall without end
Before your face be ’stablished all in fear.’
The man stopped. Stared at me in panic. ‘What do you want of me?’
‘Only renewed friendship,’ I replied softly. ‘You are Sir Thomas Wyatt, are you not?’
‘Aye, fellow. Who sent you? By your voice you are not English.’
‘My name is Nicholas Bourbon; we met many years ago.’ I glanced towards the scaffold. ‘In far happier days.’
‘Truly?’ He peered closely. ‘You know my old verses.’
‘And share the faith they speak.’
‘You are not in Gardiner’s pay? Or Norfolk’s?’
‘I come at the behest of Queen Marguerite of Navarre.’
‘Even so?’ Wyatt relaxed somewhat. ‘Then, if you would take a cup in memory,’ he glanced upwards, ‘come with me – though I fear you will find me poor company.’
A few hurried paces took us to a very impressive mansion bordering the hill. Pausing only to give orders to a servant, Wyatt led the way up a broad staircase to a first-floor parlour.
‘A fine house,’ I ventured as I sat in the armed chair to which my host pointed.
He remained standing. ‘It belonged to the Crutched Friars until last year.’ He stared down at me intently. ‘Nicholas Bourbon, you say. Yes, now I also remember. You visited us in Queen Anne’s day. My apologies. So much has happened since then. So many curtains drawn across the past. It is as though we live now in a different country.’
A liveried page set a flagon of sack on the table beside me, together with Venetian goblets and a dish of saffron cakes. He was about to pour the wine, but Wyatt waved him away with his hand and he quietly withdrew.
‘I recall that you are a fellow poet, Master Bourbon. Are you now at the French court?’
‘I dwell in Navarre, serving Her Highness as tutor to the princess and, yes, I am something of a poet. Her Highness and I share fond memories of Queen Anne.’
‘You left before Anne and her supposed lovers were executed, as I recall.’
‘It seemed prudent.’
‘Prudent!’ He gave a bitter laugh. ‘Aye. Always we do what is prudent, do we not? We obey our rulers out of prudence. They, after all, have the power to advance our careers if we please them. And if we do not . . .’ He walked across to the wide window and stood staring out. ‘No one understood prudence better than him.’
I went to stand beside him. The casement offered a clear view of the ruined scaffold, no more than twenty paces away and almost on the same level as our vantage point.
‘What exactly happened?’ I asked.
He seemed not to have heard the question. ‘Prudence serves well ambition and self-preservation. Can it ever be made to serve a higher end, think you?’
‘Higher end? I am not sure . . .’
Wyatt turned to face me. ‘You were often at Lord Cromwell’s table in those good days, were you not?’
‘Aye. They were precious times – exciting, stimulating.’
‘And what was his driving passion?’
‘The Gospel of Christ,’ I replied without hesitation.
‘Exactly.’ His eyes glinted. ‘And to set that forth he had to act prudently – to serve the king faithfully, climbing the rickety ladder to the topmost rungs, little by little achieving the position that would enable him to influence policy.’ He sighed. ‘People watched his extraordinary rise and did not understand. They thought they were looking at a poor boy from Putney, driven by personal ambition, greedily grasping at power and wealth, lands and titles, the glittering baubles thrown from the king’s hands. But his prudence was in a good cause. Without His Lordship’s work over the last dozen years, England would still be under the thumb of Rome, the council would be dominated by arrogant bishops, and monks would be eating off the fat of the land while honest husbandmen go hungry.’
I was surprised and silenced by this febrile speech. Why was this courtier-diplomat unburdening himself thus to a virtual stranger? Clearly it was not because he had taken Nicholas Bourbon into his confidence. The pot of his grief and outrage would have boiled over whoever had been there to overhear it. I searched for some response that would not sound empty or sophistical. ‘This sudden reversal is a tragedy – and a mystery. In France, and I dare say in other lands, people will be struggling to make sense of it.’
Again my host shunned conversation. ‘To please the prince while clinging firmly to what you know to be true is a rare – a very rare – gift in a courtier, Master Bourbon. ’Tis one I do not possess.’ He opened the casement. ‘At the end, after his speech to the crowd, he looked straight at me here and called out, “Oh, gentle Wyatt, goodbye. Pray for me and weep not.” How could I keep from weeping? ’Twas I who brought him to this pass.’ He turned his face away, brushing tears with the back of his hand.
I withdrew to my chair, there being nothing I could say in response. Minutes passed before Wyatt came to the seat opposite, pressing a kerchief to red-rimmed eyes.
On the Death of Thomas Cromwell
The pillar perished is whereto I leaned,
The strongest stay of my unquiet mind.
The like of it again no man can find,
From Est to West still seeking though he went.
To my unhaps*, for hap+, away hath rent
Of all my joy the very bark and rind,
And I, alas, by chance am thus assigned,
Dearly to mourn till death do it relent.
But, since that thus it is by destiny,
What can I more but have a woeful heart,
My pen in plaint, my voice in woeful cry,
My mind in woe, my body full of smart,
And I, myself, myself always to hate,
Till dreadful death, do cease my doleful state.
(Thomas Wyatt)
*misfortune +fortune
‘You loved him dearly,’ I said, ‘but to blame yourself for his fall—’
‘When our king believed himself cuckolded – or feigned such a belief – Queen Anne’s supposed lovers were thrown in the Tower and brought thence to that scaffold out there. I was one of them. Innocent, of course, as were we all.’
‘Yet you were spared.’
‘Aye, and at whose behest? Cromwell’s.’
‘Then are we both indebted to him for our lives. He was one of those who interceded for me back in fifteen thirty-three.’
He nodded. ‘That was just one of many favours he showed me. He who had the power to give much did not stint. Whatever I have now I have almost all to thank him for – including this house. ’Twas Cromwell who had the Crutched Friars convent granted to me.’ He paused and for the first time the trace of a smile flickered on his lips. ‘It was to be a lasting reminder.’
‘Of your time in the Tower?’
Wyatt poured wine into the exuberantly decorated goblets. ‘He wanted me to know, every day I spent here, that the courtier walks always along the cliff edge of royal favour.’ He sighed. ‘I learned the lesson too well.’
‘But you have served your king faithfully. We hear often of your diplomatic service at the Emperor’s court – Madrid, Brussels. You have been very—’
‘Prudent!’ He laughed. ‘The word is excellent sauce to the meat. What do ambassadors do but tell foreign princes what they want to hear? Last winter I was sent to Flanders where our pious Catholic Emperor, Charles V, was holding court, to convince him that Harry of England, despite rumours to the contrary, was still an obedient son of Holy Mother Church.’
‘This was to conceal the fact that the king was making an alliance with the German Lutheran princess?’
‘Oh, no!’ Wyatt slammed his goblet down so hard that the fragile glass shattered. ‘Change of plan. Henry had decided to cement his friendship with the Emperor. He now claimed the agreement with the Lutherans was a devilish scheme dreamed up by his minister. He had discovered, to his shock and dismay, that Thomas Cromwell was a covert heretic. My task was to explain that Henry was encouraging Cromwell while evidence against him was being secretly gathered. The instructions I received were quite specific: use all the guile at my command to draw His Imperial Majesty into this secret scheme.’ He stared at me intently and never have I seen a man more abjectly melancholy. ‘God help me, Master Bourbon, that is exactly what I did – betrayed my friend and patron. And not even for thirty pieces of silver.’
‘I see. But if you had disobeyed your orders—’
‘I would have been sharing the scaffold with my friend. It would have been a privilege. That is why you see me wretched as Judas . . .’
I ransacked my mind for some words of consolation. ‘Even Judas might have found forgiveness.’ Then, after an awkward silence, ‘You may trust me to keep secret what you have told me. I will not even report it to Queen Marguerite.’
‘No!’ Wyatt was suddenly on his feet and pacing the room. ‘Tell her. Tell the world. Mayhap ’tis the reason you have been sent to me. Yes, that must be so. You are my salvation, Master Bourbon. You will make known what I still fear to reveal.’
‘But that might mean—’
‘Arrest. Trial. The chance for me to declare my faith firmly and do what I should have done weeks since.’ He stopped abruptly by the window. He turned. ‘Only take care. Say nothing of this till you are safely out of England. I would not have your blood also on my conscience.’
‘My blood? Come, Sir Thomas. No one here, surely, is interested in a poor French scholar.’
‘Oh, my friend, think not that.’ He seated himself again and leaned across the table. ‘Underestimate the hatred of our enemies and you are like to be lost. Keep well clear of Gardiner, Norfolk, Rich and their fellows; a kennelful of snarling curs. They have brought down the great stag and are still licking the blood from their maws. They are in full cry and nothing will stop them bringing to bay those they call “heretics”. Cranmer, our archbishop, keeps well away from court and I am minded to do the same. In the shadow of the throne lurk so many informers, liars and slanderers, a man knows not who to trust. I urge you, Master Bourbon, haste you back to France.’
He sat back in the chair as though exhausted. After some moments he took up a lute lying on the table and began plucking absently at its strings. It was clearly time for me to leave. I muttered my thanks and made my way downstairs. As I crossed the great hall I beckoned to a servant.
‘Someone should go to your master. It were best not to leave him unattended.’
Serene Highness, my dutiful respects. This is to inform Your Grace that I have done my poor best to carry out Your Highness’s instructions. The task, though doleful, has been simple. I think the detailed news will have reached you ere you read this. It is soon told. Thomas Cromwell was raised to the position of Earl of Essex, but days later was arrested on suspicion of heresy, imprisoned and, on the twenty-eighth of July last, publicly beheaded. The king, meanwhile, was wed to a young woman of the Duke of Norfolk’s kindred. Men say she is no more than sixteen. God grant she tread not the same path as her cousin Anne four years since. The king’s former wife, sister to the Duke of Cleves-Jülich, is sent away into honourable retirement, though not, as it is rumoured, permitted to return to her kindred. Lutheran envoys invited here by Cromwell have been ordered back to their own land and all thought of a Protestant league abandoned. The king has renewed his amity with the Emperor Charles. I gleaned more details in conversation with a member of the court and will convey them to Your Highness on my return.
Pray permit me to begin my homeward journey soon, since I think I can be of little further service. I will await Your Highness’s instructions. I stay at the Sun in Cheapside and will send this by Ambassador Marillac which, in this troubled city, is the safest way to communicate.
This second day of August 1540
Charles de Marillac is an intemperate scavenger of gossip who vomits forth his ill-digested scraps of news as a fountain perpetually gushes forth brackish water. However, even self-important young men like him have their uses and I hoped the ambassador would add his support to my appeal to the queen for a recall. I was eager to obtain quittance from my English mission, the more so as I found the mood in London disturbing – menacing, almost. My initial impression of Sir Thomas Wyatt had been of a man almost beside his wits with melancholy at the loss of his friend and patron, but I soon realized that his fears were not without foundation. In taverns and market-places the talk was all of sudden arrests, of jails filling up with people suspected of ‘heresy’, of householders being pressed to inform against their neighbours.
When I called at Marillac’s town residence I learned that he was away. A courteous letter the following day explained that he was at Hampton Court, where the king was currently lodged, and that he, Marillac, had taken a house not far from the palace. He would be delighted to welcome me there for dinner two days hence, when he would be able to introduce me to some of his friends who were influential members of the royal inner circle.
The house I approached that Sunday sat atop a gentle rise flanking the Thames – old in style and built around a centre courtyard. A servant led me from the entrance and through a great hall that was but sparsely furnished. There was, however, nothing wanting in the decoration of the solar that adjoined it. Marillac had furnished it as a more intimate dining space, designed to impress. Brightly coloured tapestries (somewhat garish to my taste) covered all the walls, and a long buffet was well stocked with silver and gold plate.
My host detached himself from a small group of guests standing by the oriel and bustled across to greet me. ‘My dear Monsieur Bourbon, so good to see you again. I trust you are in good health. And the dear queen, your mistress? I long for news of her. Are you well lodged? We must find you somewhere more healthsome. The city is not a safe place in this thundery weather. It may be only days before the plague . . . but come and meet some other friends.’ The little ambassador hustled me across the room towards the tall window, where three men stood talking.
Introductions were made. The most important member of the group – sombrely but expensively dressed, a thin-faced man with little more than a wisp of beard – was the Earl of Hertford, Edward Seymour. I knew the name, of course. Seymour was Henry VIII’s brother-in-law, through the marriage of his late sister Jane, and uncle to Henry’s infant son, Prince Edward.
‘What brings you to England, Master Bourbon?’ he asked.
‘To renew old friendships, My Lord.’
‘When were you last here?’
‘More than five years ago.’
‘You will find much changed in those five years.’ The speaker was an older, clean-shaven man who spoke with an air of wistfulness. ‘Many friendships have not survived those changes.’
The third member of the group gave a snort of a laugh. ‘Listen not to dismal John Poyntz. He will tell you the world runs, will-he-nill-he, from bad to worse.’
‘And George Blagge will tell you that all’s well in this kingdom,’ Poyntz retorted. ‘Well, it may be so for the king’s “little pig”, as His Majesty calls him, but we do not all choose to tune conscience to the ever-changing pitch of the royal lute.’ Poyntz nodded, turned abruptly and walked away.
The smile faded from Blagge’s round face. ‘That oldster needs to watch his tongue. There are some would read treason in his words.’
‘Well,’ Hertford said, ‘he is taking himself from danger. His Majesty has given permission for Poyntz to retire from the court to his country estate.’
‘It is as well,’ Blagge sighed. ‘I doubt not it is today’s event at Tyburn which has unchained his tongue.’
‘Tyburn?’ I asked.
‘Aye, Tyburn, Master Bourbon. ’Tis the hanging place nigh Newgate. I wonder you have not heard what occurred there this morning. A dozen papists were despatched. Some were close-bosomed with Poyntz.’
‘You mean that men are still being executed for the old religion?’ I asked. ‘The stories I have been hearing since I arrived are of people jailed and tried for Lutheranism. Is it not true that hundreds have been rounded up in London alone since Lord Cromwell’s fall?’
‘Aye,’ Hertford agreed, ‘true indeed. Though His Majesty is loth to unleash a Spanish-style inquisition here – a bitter herb for Gardiner and his ilk to swallow just when they were savouring the taste of heretic blood.’
‘I own my mind is a-jangle with all this. What is the religion of Englishmen?’
Blagge’s abrupt laugh rang out again. Then, in a tone little above a whisper, ‘Welcome to King Harry’s England, Master Bourbon.’
It is difficult to have a people entirely opposed to new Errors which does not hold with the ancient authority of the Church and of the Holy see, or, on the other hand, hating the Pope, which does not share some opinions with the Germans. Yet the government will not have either the one or the other, but insists on their keeping what is commanded, which is so often altered that it is different opinion in the morning than after dinner . . .
(Report of Ambassador Charles de Marillac to King Francis, 6 August 1540)
Lord Hertford was quick to respond. ‘At the least we may be thankful that it is not Cromwell’s England.’
‘By which you mean a Lutheran England?’ I asked.
He scowled and it was as though a window was briefly thrown open, revealing what lay within. ‘I mean an England ruled by a Putney churl, using religion to enrich himself and reach out for the crown.’
Blagge protested. ‘My Lord, I cannot think—’
‘Indeed, little pig, you cannot – or you choose not to.’ Hertford pointed an accusing finger.
‘That cozening, holy-mouthed trickster was boasting only weeks since that he had almost all things in place to make himself master—’
At that moment we were summoned to table. The diners were, of course, seated in order of rank and I found myself towards the lower end of the long board. My neighbours were minor courtiers and members of the French diplomatic staff. Conversation ranged widely over many subjects as course followed course. I was quizzed on the latest Paris fashions and I had much to ask about affairs in England. There was, initially, an obvious reticence about answering my more probing questions but, as the meal progressed, self-censorship relaxed – and I realized why. Marillac’s servants were assiduous in ensuring that members of the royal household had their cups well filled while the ambassador’s own men exercised a noticeable degree of abstinence. Tongues gradually loosened and I had no doubt that morsels of court gossip and unguarded remarks were being carefully noted for reference back to the French ambassador.
There was one of our company who showed less reticence about airing his opinions. His name was John Lascelles, one of the king’s attendants in the privy chamber. It appeared that he was of a good county family and had studied the law before being promoted to royal service as a result of Cromwell’s patronage. I took advantage of the young man’s legal knowledge to seek clarification of something I had heard since my arrival in England.
‘Is it true that your strange treason law in England applies not merely to active plots but also to disloyal words?’
The young man stared across dishes of venison pasties and partridges stewed with apricots, a frown of concentration on his face. ‘By the Act of fifteen thirty-four, chapter thirteen,’ he recited, ‘it is accounted high treason “to slanderously and maliciously publish and pronounce, by express writing or words, that the king our sovereign lord should be heretic, schismatic, tyrant, infidel or usurper of the crown”.’
‘Fifteen thirty-four?’ I mused. ‘Then this statute was made while Cromwell had the control of parliament and the framing of law. He made a net with a fine mesh – one to catch all manner of fish.’
‘It certainly caught Cromwell!’ someone farther down the table called out, at which there was much laughter.
Lascelles did not join the mirth. ‘Nay, ’twas for papists the law was made, and papists such as the Duke of Norfolk who compassed Lord Cromwell’s doom. But God is not mocked. You will see.’ He stared around the company, fiery-eyed. ‘His Majesty will rue the day he let Norfolk, Gardiner and the Romish hellhounds hunt down Lord Cromwell. Their time will come.’
Lascelles was suddenly aware that the hum of conversation had ceased and that several pairs of eyes were fastened on him. He raised his cup to his lips and took a long draught while calm was restored.
Later, as I was taking my leave of our host, George Blagge approached. ‘Do you travel back to the city?’ he asked.
‘I do.’
‘May I share your wherry? There is some business in London I must attend to.’
‘Certainly. I shall be glad of the company.’
Minutes later, as a westering sun speckled the river around us, we sat side by side in the stern of a Thames boat being rowed downstream by a sturdy, red-capped waterman.
‘What impression of England’s leaders will you be taking back to France?’ my companion asked. ‘Is the confusion you spoke of earlier lessened?’
‘Not a whit, I fear. You seem like sailors on a ship, all trying to grab the tiller now that the helmsman has been thrown overboard.’
‘You mean Cromwell. ’Tis an apt image.’
‘To judge by today’s company he was loved and hated in equal measure depending on whether men shared or rejected his religion. But he was, at least, steering a steady course. Now—’
‘Yes and no, Master Bourbon,’ Blagge interrupted. ‘Yes and no. I would not have you return to France thinking our divisions here so simply explained. For example, Lord Hertford—’
‘He certainly hated Cromwell.’
‘So you would think from his words today, would you not? Would it surprise you then to know that the Seymours and the Cromwells have equally strong kindred ties to the king?’
‘I know that Lord Hertford was brother to the late queen.’
‘Aye, but His Lordship has another sister, Elizabeth, who still lives. Now, who do you suppose she is married to? Why, no other than Gregory Cromwell, the son of the “traitor” whose execution the king sanctioned.’
‘So that is why Hertford is at pains to distance himself from his sister’s father-in-law?’
‘’Twas all very different but a few months ago. Then, Edward Seymour and Thomas Cromwell were bosom companions, comrades in arms – or, rather, comrades in intrigue. They forged an alliance that seemed unchallengeable. They were ideally placed to seize power when the time comes.’
‘What mean you by that?’
Blagge fell silent, his attention apparently absorbed in watching a swan with a flotilla of cygnets. I had to prompt him to explain his statement.
‘’Tis all about families.’ The courtier pointed to the birds, now drifting astern. ‘Mothers and children. Sires and heirs. Our king is about fifty years old and not the robust, hearty athlete he once was – though he will not admit it. All our troubles these last ten years and more have been brought upon us by His Majesty’s determination to have a son to inherit his crown. Two wives failed him and so had to be disposed of. He would not look abroad for a replacement – that would tie him to a foreign alliance. So he had to choose from among families of the leading nobility. That, in turn, meant that ambitious courtiers and their kin were jostling one another to place their girls where the royal eyes might light upon them.’
‘I recall well that when Anne Boleyn was Henry’s consort her uncle Thomas Howard, Duke of Norfolk, ruled all at court.’
‘Aye, and when she fell it was the Seymour family who won the next round in the contest – with not a little help from Cromwell. All went well for them until Queen Jane Seymour died. So the competition began all over again.’
‘And has now been won by the Howard clan once more.’
‘Aye. Cromwell, having no English girl at his disposal, tried to interest his master in a foreign match with the German princess from Cleves, while Norfolk produced another as a rival. Now we know who won this time. The Howards and their supporters only need to await the inevitable and they will control the government of the new king.’
‘And Lord Hertford?’
‘He sits and gnashes his teeth over the prize snatched from him. He kept his distance while his old ally fell and now loudly protests his hatred of “Cromwell the upstart”, “Cromwell the heretic”, for all the world to hear – especially the king. For a while, he even pursued a marriage alliance with Norfolk – a man he hates most heartily.’
‘So religion was not the cause of Cromwell’s fall?’
Blagge gave his snort of a laugh. ‘Heresy? Just an accusation used to frighten the king. Religion was never the real reason. Weigh it in the balance against dynasty, ambition and power, and which, think you, will be the heavier?’
‘Do you believe that Cromwell was equally tainted with these sins? Was he too a man who wore faith like a cloak to be donned and removed at will?’ A vivid picture came to mind: five or six friends gathered round a table and Cromwell at the head, Bible open before him and works by Erasmus and others ready to hand; candles burning lower and lower as our host expounded the word of God with a zeal and knowledge equalled by few popular preachers. ‘I can scarcely believe—’
With a movement as sudden as it was intense Blagge gripped my wrist with his gloved hand. ‘I know well what memories you carry: Cromwell the genial host; Cromwell the erudite conversationalist; Cromwell the passionate defender of the Gospel.’
‘And you believe that all this was a facade – a cynical, hypocritical pretence?’
The grip tightened. ‘Not at all. Such specious reasoning may serve his enemies; those set to besmirch his reputation. We who called His Lordship “friend” know better than to look on him through the crazed glass of prejudice. The truth is more complex: Thomas Cromwell was the most gregarious recluse in England.’
I shook off Blagge’s hand with the pretence of waving away some hovering insect and made a light-hearted response. ‘I was ever a dunce at riddles.’
‘Then think not to understand Lord Cromwell. He was a walking riddle.’
The unease that had been growing in me through the day now swelled into anxiety. I felt like someone who has set out to walk in pleasant woodland, only to find himself struggling through clinging undergrowth among close-growing forest trees obscuring the light.
‘My memory is this,’ Blagge continued. ‘His Lordship was the most congenial of hosts and the most generous of patrons. He was ever affable; approachable to suitors of all degrees. That was the public Cromwell. The private Cromwell was a hermit, chained for long hours to his desk, working through sleepless nights writing letters, evolving policies, making plans with the ceaseless devotion of an anchorite at his prayers.’
‘He was an exceedingly busy man,’ I suggested.
‘Indeed, none busier. He involved himself in every aspect of royal business. There was no aspect of the king’s affairs he did not master. But . . .’
Blagge fell silent and I had to prompt him to continue. ‘You think that secrecy was an obsession . . . that he had things to hide – things he was ashamed or afraid to reveal?’
My companion shrugged. ‘There were many stories. All anyone really knows is that he spent some years in Italy, that he returned having gained some expertise in mercantile law and that he joined the household of Cardinal Wolsey when that proud prelate was at the height of his power. Of course, what men did not know, they made up: Cromwell was a rakehell who fled abroad to escape the law; Cromwell had married a foreign widow and made away with her fortune.’
‘Why were people so eager to blacken his name?’
‘That is easy to answer. The hated Wolsey fell from power . . . when was it?’ Blagge mused. ‘Ten years ago. It seems longer. So much has happened since. It was something many men had longed to see. There were several councillors who hoped to step into his shoes. Everyone expected the king to choose one of the bishops or leading noblemen to become the second most powerful man in the land. You can scarcely imagine the shock when the news went round that Henry had elevated a nobody, a mere lawyer, to the chief place in his counsels. Cromwell was resented and hated from the very beginning.’
‘I suppose that would have given him a good reason to keep his past very secret.’
‘Aye, that may well be so. Which of us is blameless? We have all done things we would not willingly lay on the table for other men to embroider into scandals. To be sure, there may have been things he kept close for good purpose. Perhaps the answer lies over there.’
I looked in the direction of the courtier’s pointing finger. Just coming into view on the south bank was a moored ferry, a waterside inn and, clustered beyond them, a squat church with a square tower and several modest houses. It was no more remarkable than any of the other villages that clung to the Thames and owed their existence to it.
‘Putney,’ Blagge declared. ‘Over there some fifty or more years ago a baby was born who was destined to become second in power only to the king. That much we know. And that little we know.’
As the rhythm of the ferryman’s oars carried us steadily downriver I gazed across the water. Four people and a dog stood outside the inn. One man was waving his arms. An argument? A tale being told with graphic gestures? I could not know and never would know. Was it the same with Cromwell? Would he remain in death, as in life, an enigma, a gregarious recluse?
It was dusk by the time we reached Westminster, where George Blagge said goodbye and went about his business. I was rowed the short extra distance to St Paul’s Stairs, where I landed and walked, via the cathedral yard, to Cheapside. As I approached the inn I was looking forward to the seclusion of my room. I decided to order a posset and enjoy it slowly while I reflected on all I had seen and heard that day. Arriving at the sign of the Sun I made my wishes known to the innkeeper’s wife.
She looked at me anxiously. ‘Master Bourbon, here are two gentlemen who have been waiting for you an hour or more.’ She indicated a couple of men wearing livery surcoats, seated by the hearth.
I walked across and introduced myself. They stood, faces expressionless. The taller man spoke. ‘Master Bourbon, I greet you well in the name of His Grace the Bishop of Winchester. He presents his compliments and would have words with you.’
I tried to reply in the same detached manner, though my heart was pounding. ‘I am grateful to His Grace. Please let him know that I will be delighted to call on him tomorrow.’
He shook his head, unsmiling. ‘Our orders are to escort you to him in Southwark now. We have a horse ready for you in the yard.’
It was clear that Bishop Gardiner’s men would countenance no delay.