Mercy Prior and Richard Bisley danced energetically around a maypole. Yet it was not a maypole. On closer inspection it was a crucifix. The music changed to a slower tempo. The cross disappeared, to be replaced by a statue of the Virgin Mary. Draped around it was a sash bearing the words ‘Remember Always’.
I emerged suddenly from the bizarre realm of dreams. Bleary-eyed and with head throbbing, I realized that light was forcing its way through chinks in the shutters, and I eased myself out of the bed. After washing and dressing I still felt the need to clear my head, so I ventured out into the keen winter air. Following directions from one of the inn servants, I made my way first to the foundation on which so much of Cromwell’s labour had been expended in the 1520s. What had once been Cardinal’s College now stood as a monument to the folly of hubris. The visitor could take in at a glance both the exuberant conception of Wolsey’s building and its failure to achieve his ambitious design. I had heard the sad story of its fate – how King Henry had appropriated the site as part of the booty of Wolsey’s fall, renamed it King Henry’s College, then totally ignored it – but the bare facts had not prepared me for what now lay before my eyes. Part of the college was occupied and presumably functioning, but the rest was a desolation of roofless walls and long-abandoned scaffolding. I imagined how Cromwell must have felt at this dereliction. Had he lived, I wondered, would he have completed his ex-master’s project? Would I now be looking at Cromwell College? It was all very dispiriting and my mood was well matched by the damp, motionless air and the donkey-grey sky.
Walking on, I entered the meadows skirted by Oxford’s two rivers and forced my mind to concentrate on its own immediate problem. Prudence urged that, having followed the trail to the end, there was no more to be done but to put myself beyond the malicious reach of English politics and regain the safety and comfort of my own home. Another voice, however, was raucous and insistent in its challenge: ‘You have not come to the end of the road and you will never forgive yourself if you leave pressing questions unanswered. You pride yourself on your mental discipline, do you not? You even lectured young Antonio about it. Well, then, do not give up.’ My more adventurous self refused to be silenced. It threw up a succession of half-memories and hints that fidgeted around in my brain just as they had disturbed my sleep with their absurdities.
It was the name Mary that refused to be ignored. Its mention the previous night had disturbed Richard Bisley. Why? I asked myself. It was obvious that the cleric felt a deep respect, affection even, for the memory of Thomas Cromwell. Thomas had entrusted to him, uniquely, a secret – a guilty secret – that his confessor was rightly determined not to divulge. So if the name Mary had alarmed him and caused him to put a speedy end to our conversation, might it be that it was of real significance and there was chance that I would discover that significance?
Mary was the name that Cromwell had given to his holy talisman, the image of the Saviour that he always wore. The explanation I had worked out was that his ‘Mary’ was both a symbol of the religion he had rejected and an admonition to be vigilant in banishing from England all trace of that religion.
My reasoning was tortuous, but I had been able to make no better sense of the holy symbol and its aide-memoire, ‘Remember Always’. Now, however, if Cromwell’s Mary was not the Mary of the gospels, who was she? Obviously someone very dear to him. More than that, if Bisley was concerned that I might find her, she must be findable – still alive.
I paused to watch a group of young boys playing a dangerous game at the river’s edge. Ice had formed there, where the Cherwell moved more slowly, the frozen surface extending in places two or three yards out from the bank, and the children were daring each other to step out on it. None of them was heavy, but their sport was, nevertheless, perilous. Even as I looked, a crack suddenly appeared where the latest adventurer stood. It ran between his feet, leaving him straddling a slowly widening gap. I ran forward, hoping that I might be better able to reach him than his small companions. However, I had no need to play the hero. The nimble boy made a leap for the shore. He did not reach it but was lucky enough to escape with nothing worse than soaking breeches.
As I watched the boys scampering for home, I could scarcely avoid interpreting the spontaneous ‘parable’ they had performed, as it seemed, for my sole benefit. How far out am I justified in reaching? I asked myself. There is potential danger in every risk we contemplate taking.
That boy had been prepared to go farther than his friends, and he had been wrong. Time and again I too had ventured beyond the limits approved by my more prudent self. Antonio had not masked his disapproval of my continuance with my quest and I had ignored his misgivings. But what had I achieved? Only the hint, the suggestion, the suspicion that I might achieve my objective by venturing out still farther on the thin ice before me. And thin it was: a possibility that there might exist somewhere a lady called Mary who would have the vital evidence I needed to complete the story I had set myself to tell.
I recalled the siren song that had so delighted the ears of Homer’s hero:
Come hither, renowned Odysseus, great glory of the Achaeans. Stay your ship that you may listen to our voices. For never yet has any mariner rowed past this isle in his black ship till he has heard the sweet song from our lips. Nay, he has joy of it and goes his way a wiser man.
The Trojan War hero had escaped the fatal song of the sirens by having himself tied to the ship’s mast and filling the ears of his crew with wax. Thus he could listen to the singing, but his men could hear neither the seductive melody luring them on to the rocks nor their captain’s order to take the ship in closer to the island. Odysseus had gained his prize and avoided paying the price. Unfortunately I lacked his cunning. My choice was thus a simple one: I could continue my pursuit, knowing that I faced, at best, months or possibly years of frustration and, at worst, provoking the displeasure of King Henry (a man it was unwise to displease), or I could resign myself to the knowledge that I had done all I reasonably could and that what was now unknown about the life of Thomas Cromwell would remain forever unknown.
During the course of a light meal at the Bear I made my decision. Then, having collected together my few belongings, I sought out the innkeeper in order to settle my account.
‘I will be leaving straight away,’ I said. ‘I hope to cover as much ground as possible between here and London before nightfall. Could you please direct me to the road?’
‘Certainly, Sir, ’tis very easy.’ He explained the route out from the town centre. ‘That will bring you to the Barton crossroads on the London highway. God speed you.’
I stared at the man, wide-eyed. ‘Barton, you say?’
‘Yes, Sir. ’Tis a tiny village, scarce more than a cluster of houses, but it straddles the main road. You’ll not miss it.’
Miss it? Miss it? That was exactly what I had been doing – missing the connection, the very link I had been seeking for days. It had been offered by Mercy Prior at the Cromwells’ dinner table, and the interruption engineered by Lady Elizabeth had driven it from my mind. But now I remembered. The old lady had mentioned that her son-in-law had, before marrying her daughter, been betrothed to a Mary Barton . . . Mary Barton . . . MARY! She had been Thomas’s first love – the one he had vowed always to remember.
I hurried out to the stable yard, collected my horse and set out for London – and Putney.
***
I could not, of course, be sure that Mary Barton was still alive or that, if she was, she still lived in Putney. It was reasonable to suppose that she, like Thomas, would have married at some point and that her name would have changed. However, there must still exist, I told myself, people in the village whose memories were long enough to recall that, some forty years before, there had been a young woman called Mary Barton living in their midst. Family chronicles survived long in such small communities. I permitted my ever-too-active imagination to paint a portrait of the lady I sought. She would be in her fifties and of some substance, for if she had remained as attached to Thomas Cromwell as he had to her, surely she would have benefited in tangible ways from her friendship with one of the richest men in England.
After a very brief stay in the capital, I rode my horse the short distance upriver. Islands of ice were afloat on the Thames and were making navigation difficult, so although the stiff ruts made hard going for horses, overland travel seemed the better option. I set out at dawn and reached Putney village by mid-morning. My only memory of Putney was the view I had had of it from the river – a sprawl of houses along the south bank and rising up to higher ground beyond. I began my enquiries at the inn, then moved to the landing stage, then the farrier’s forge. A succession of shaken heads initially suggested that my optimism had played me false. After a while, however, I sensed that the negative response bordered on hostility.
This was confirmed when I called at the curate’s house alongside the church. The incumbent, a rough-looking fellow, came to the door and did not invite me in. ‘I’ve heard who you are looking for,’ he said.
‘Then you know her and where I might find her?’ I asked.
He scowled. ‘What is your business?’
‘A private discussion,’ I replied, trying not to match his tone.
‘If ’tis Mary Hankley you seek, you would be best to turn your horse around and head back whence you came.’ With that he slammed the door.
I returned to the inn. My horse needed hay and water, and I needed time to think. I stationed myself at a corner table and ordered cheese and ale. I was not a whit distressed by the priest’s churlishness. His few ill-favoured words had answered my most pressing questions. Mary Barton was still alive. She still lived in or near Putney. And she now bore the married name of Hankley. Why she was apparently widely unpopular was a puzzle. Could it have something to do with her connection to Thomas Cromwell? That might explain the curate’s contempt for her and might also colour the emotions of his Catholic-inclined flock. How should I proceed now? Judging by the hostile glances being cast in my direction by the few other occupants of the room I was unlikely to learn anything of value from further enquiries.
After some minutes of this rueful reflection, a tall man approached my table. He wore good boots, a blue cloak and a chain of office around his neck.
‘Good day to you, Sir,’ the stranger said. ‘I gather you have had a sample of our Putney hospitality. I am Nicholas Welton, the constable. May I be of service?’
He seated himself opposite and I explained the reason for my visit.
‘I think it very likely Mary Hankley is the lady you seek. She is one of our wealthier residents.’
‘Why is she so unpopular?’ I asked.
‘Well, as to that,’ he replied with a sad shake of the head, ‘I could give you a long list, though probably it all comes down to envy. She is a widow. She is rich. She has friends in high places and dines at some of the best tables hereabouts. But she started life as the daughter of a farmer trying to make a living from thirty acres of inferior pasture.’
‘Yes. I can see that would create resentment.’
‘That is but the half. Mistress Hankley owns the mill. Have you ever met a popular miller? The world believes that they all make their money from false weights and adulterated flour.’
‘Is Mistress Hankley dishonest?’
‘No court has ever found her so, but that does not silence malicious tongues. If her wealth comes not from dishonest dealings, then there must be even more sinister explanations for it.’
‘You mean witchcraft?’
‘Aye, there’s plenty of folk will tell you stories of nocturnal demon gatherings at that lonely house on the hill.’
‘All invented, I suppose.’
‘Not all. Mary Hankley does sometimes play hostess to groups of other outcasts – heretics, the ones people call “Lollards”.’
‘Has she not been prosecuted by the Church for her beliefs?’
‘The curate would have me arrest her, and then he would doubtless find witnesses to bring false testimony against her, but I will have none of his scheming. Mary Hankley attends mass, pays her taxes, contributes generously to the relief of the poor.’ He paused. ‘More than that, as I said, she has powerful friends.’
‘Including Lord Cromwell?’ I asked.
He nodded. ‘So you see, Sir, I have no cause to molest her and it would not be in my interests to do so.’
I thanked the constable for the information and asked him for directions to the mill.
‘’Tis a mile or so out of the village at the top of the hill. Would you like me to have two of my men escort you?’
‘Is that really necessary?’
‘It might be a wise precaution. Word is already going around that you are a foreign heretic peddling banned books.’
I laughed. ‘They are welcome to search my panniers.’
His reply bore no trace of humour. ‘They already would have done so were it not for my men in the yard keeping an open eye.’
Thus it was that I rode out of Putney a little later accompanied by an armed guard. My excitement mounted with every yard of our progress up the long, straight hill. At last I was to meet someone who had been familiar with Thomas Cromwell – had known him intimately – before he became well known and, by that fact, unknown. As we approached the mill, I could see that its sails were stationary but that it was very busy. Men were loading bulging sacks on to one wagon and an empty vehicle behind it was waiting to be filled. In the doorway a customer was checking the sacks as they appeared and beside him stood the person who was obviously the mill’s proprietor.
Mary Hankley was small and slight, yet carried an air of authority. She wore a wide hood over her grey hair, and both it and her long apron were covered with a thin layer of wheat dust. Without pausing her conversation, she keenly appraised the new arrivals, particularly noting my armed escort. ‘Ned!’ she called out. A burly fellow appeared from the interior. Mistress Hankley spoke briefly to him, shook hands with her customer, then stepped across to where I stood beside my horse. ‘Good-day to you, Sir. I think we have not met before.’
I had thought much about how I would open my conversation with Cromwell’s Mary, and hopefully persuade her to share her memories with me, but now the words would not come. After some moments of stupid mumbling, I brought out the demi-crucifix and unwrapped it. ‘I have come to return this to you and I hope that you might satisfy my curiosity about it,’ I said.
Nothing could have prepared me for the lady’s reaction. She stared, wide-eyed, at the wooden fragment, held a hand to her mouth, then fell forward. I was only just able to catch her. The swoon was momentary but she was still very shaken and clutched my arm. ‘I must sit down,’ she said. ‘Come.’ She led the way to the house next to the mill.
When we were seated at the table in her spacious main chamber, Mary had her maid set before us silver goblets and a jug of cordial. She left the room briefly and returned bringing something which she laid on the table. It was the bottom half of the crucifix. I reunited the two fragments and we both stared at it wordlessly. Of itself it was nothing – a cheap, crudely carved devotional aid such as one might buy from a market stall anywhere in Europe. Yet what it signified was more than obvious from Mary’s tear-streaked face. Seeing her obvious distress made me realize that it would be impertinent, perhaps cruel, to ask for the story of the figurine.
‘Thomas kept this until the very end,’ I said, ‘and now it returns to where it belongs.’
‘Did he give it to you?’ Mary asked. ‘On the scaffold, perhaps?’
I described the rather less dramatic circumstances that had brought Cromwell’s talisman into my possession. Then I told her something of the adventures into which it had led me.
‘Strange. Strange.’ She sighed. ‘It was all meant to be so very much simpler. A common enough story of young people in love. We made a vow that these two pieces showing our Lord’s death would be reunited on our wedding day. It was not to be. Our happiness was denied to us.’ She was silent for a while. ‘But if we had quietly married here in Putney my Tom would not have become a great man and a great champion of the Gospel. That thought gives me much consolation.’
‘’Tis my belief he was born for greatness,’ I said.
‘He was certainly very different from all the other boys here – wild, confident, impetuous. He promised that he would gain a fortune and make me a great lady. That was even before it . . .’ She faltered. ‘. . . before it happened.’ Another silence followed, her eyes glistening with the tears of painful memory. ‘When he came back from his foreign travels a rich and successful man, he would have married me. But by then it was not possible. I was already another man’s wife and, soon afterwards, Tom Crom married Elizabeth Prior, a dear soul and a good friend to both of us.’
‘Do you mean that you remained on close terms even after he became a member of the royal court?’
‘Oh yes, he had property nearby and we were able to meet there when affairs of state were not too pressing. Tom Crom made sure I never lacked for anything, including education. He urged me to learn my letters and I took lessons from our old curate, who was a good scholar – not like the clodpole we are cursed with now, who can scarce stumble through the mass.’
More silence. This time it was I who broke it. ‘I crave your forgiveness, Mistress. I have resurrected old sorrows. ’Twas not my intention. I will leave now and trouble you no further.’
‘That you will not, Sir!’ Mary Hankley was immediately on her feet. ‘’Tis not every day I have a visitor from the French court. I should be a very poor hostess if I allowed you to depart without a good meal in your belly.’
The lady was as good as her word and we were soon sitting to an ample meal of good country fare. Our conversation was lively. I traded anecdotes from my travels for amusing stories of life among Mary’s rural customers and neighbours. Some of her experiences, however, lacked any trace of humour. She spoke of local women who shunned her. She spoke of children throwing stones at her windows.
‘Once, I found one of my own mill workers searching my bed chamber,’ she said.
‘Searching for money?’
Mary shook her head. ‘Oh, no.’ She paused, thoughtful. ‘Though financial gain was certainly involved. The poor man had a sick wife and could not afford the apothecary’s charges. He went to the friary to seek help from the herbalist and was offered a deal: a potion in return for my copy of Tyndale’s New Testament. I need not tell you what would have happened if he had handed it over to the bishop’s snoopers.’
‘Then ’twas a mercy he did not find it.’
She smiled. ‘Oh, he found it, but then God stirred his conscience. He confessed all to me and I helped him to pay for the remedy.’
‘Did it occur to you that his story might have been a ruse to prevent you from having him arrested?’
Mary cackled a laugh. ‘Oh, yes. I know my workers. Poor John was a proud man. He did not like begging for my aid. His accusation of the friars might have been invented, but it was certainly plausible. Many of the local folk misliked the Franciscans – always begging money from simple people struggling to make a living, just to keep their own table well spread.’
‘That is interesting,’ I said. ‘Do you think Thomas’s assault on the whole monastic system had its origins here in his early years?’
She nodded. ‘Oh yes, he loathed that whole brood, even before . . .’ She stopped abruptly and there was an awkward pause.
To deflect her from obviously painful memories, I asked her to describe her earliest recollections of Thomas Cromwell. What sort of a young man had he been?
She responded readily. ‘Tom Crom was four years older than me, and a close friend of my brother, who was also baptized Thomas. They were almost inseparable. That was why, to distinguish between them, we called them Tom Crom and Tom Bart. They were part of a gang of young men, always drinking and gaming together, but it was invariably Tom Crom who was the leader. I cannot think of a time when I did not idolize him – and I was not alone. Several of my friends tried to catch his eye.’
‘A popular fellow, then?’
‘Oh, yes. Always fun to be with. Forever thinking up new escapades.’
‘Was he inclined to religion?’
‘I think that came later. He certainly never discussed it with me. One or two of our mutual friends were from Lollard families and perhaps some of their beliefs interested him, but he was much more concerned in planning out his future. He used to say that his aim in life was to make a mark in the world.’
‘He certainly did that,’ I said. ‘But I can well see that Putney was no place for a young man with that ambition. His father’s trade would have held no attraction for him.’
Mary laughed. ‘Trade? What trade? Old Walter tried his hand at many things – farming, brewing, cloth shearing and so forth – and made no great success of any. I am sure it was his father’s failures that spurred Tom Crom to succeed.’
‘I have heard that the two of them were never on good terms. There is a common story that Thomas ran away from his father’s severe beatings.’
‘My Tom Crom could stand up for himself,’ the old lady asserted defiantly. ‘He did not so much leave a bad life as search for a better.’ Mary fell silent. Her fingers lovingly caressed the crucifix, but she was not looking at it. Her mind was somewhere else.
At last she turned in her chair and addressed her maid: ‘You may go now, Madge. These last dishes will wait until tomorrow.’ She looked across at me with a wistful smile that expressed both friendship and sadness. ‘You are a good man, Nicholas Bourbon. It was a great kindness to seek out the truth about Thomas at a time when he was out of favour and his name was being besmirched. I am so glad that you have come to me to help you complete the story. But this makes a problem for me.’
She seemed to be struggling to find the words she wanted. I intervened. ‘My dear lady, it is I who must be grateful. I realize that there are some reminiscences that must be painful to you. I would not for the world press you to reveal things you would rather keep secret.’
‘No, no, no!’ Mary frowned almost fiercely. ‘If we are to have the truth, it must be the whole truth – claws and all. We are not here to create a legend. There are facts about my Tom Crom that must be entered in the record.’
‘I have heard that there was something that weighed heavily on Thomas’s conscience,’ I said. ‘Richard Bisley intimated—’
‘You have met Master Bisley!’ She clasped her hands together in delight. ‘Such a fine man and a powerful preacher. Tom Crom brought him here to talk with the Lollards.’
‘Who exactly are these Lollards?’ I asked.
‘A small group of people who have lived in the area and worshipped in secret for generations. Of course, they were branded as heretics by the clergy. They had their own English Bible long before Master Tyndale came along. Tom Crom was always fascinated by them and he wanted Master Bisley to compare his teaching with theirs. I confess I did not follow all their discussion, but I saw that they were in broad agreement. Tom Crom said that it was the Lollards who had kept Christian truth alive in this country when the papists led the people astray. Such exciting times! I have no book learning, but in those days I understood something of what fires scholars.’
For some moments Mistress Hankley sat with her eyes closed, relishing memory. Then she repeated firmly, ‘No. The truth. You must have the truth. It cannot harm Tom Crom now, and the pain I once felt no longer lingers.’ She took a deep breath, then in slow, deliberate speech, as though she was dictating, she said: ‘I was fifteen and Tom Crom was already a man. And, to put it simply, we fell in love – or realized we had long been in love . . . I know not. How do these things happen? I was in rapture. To think that the one I idolized also loved me. ’Twas very heaven. We spoke of marriage. Yet it could not be straight away. Tom Crom was set on going abroad to make his fortune.’
‘To Italy?’
‘Yes, he had formed some business connections through his mother’s family and meant to make a merchant’s career for himself. But he promised that we would be wed as soon as he returned. The day before he left the village we met in the hayloft of my father’s barn. We often met there to share our love as young people do, but never did loving go beyond kissing and embracing. Yet that day, because we were to be long parted, I let Thomas do all he would. Afterwards he went on an errand for his father, promising to be back shortly. When I heard footsteps on the ladder a mite later I thought it was Tom Crom coming back, but it was not. It was Brother Robert, one of the friars from the local Franciscan house. I remember his face now with its evil grin.
‘“So this is where you have your sinful meetings!” he said. I begged him not to tell my father. “I will say nothing,” he replied, “but you must do penance.” What he meant by penance was submitting to his lust. He made me lie down. Then he hitched up his robe and took me by force. I fought him feebly, but I was not strong enough to stop him.’ She paused, tightly clutching a kerchief to her lips.
I made to intervene. ‘There really is no need—’
She held up a hand. ‘There is need. No more silence. No more hidden truth.
‘The vile rapist had no sooner finished than Tom Crom returned. Would to God he had not! I see him now, stepping from the ladder and staring down as the friar struggled to his feet. Never have I seen a man more angry. His face was twisted. His eyes glistened. He and Brother Robert stood, one each side of me: Tom Crom speechless with rage, the other man sneering at him, triumphant, as if to say, “Now who is the better man?” It was . . . it really was like an unspoken challenge. And Tom Crom responded. He grabbed the friar by his habit and pinned him against one of the posts. He shouted and punched in a frenzy of rage. The other man fought back, but he was no match for my Tom Crom. He turned aside to escape the rain of blows, but he was on the edge of the loft and had nowhere to go.
‘And then . . . did he stumble? Did Tom Crom push him? To this day I know not. All I recall is a weak cry and flailing arms. Then he was gone. Tom Crom helped me to my feet and held me close. I was all of a tremble. Then we went to the edge of the loft and looked down. The friar was lying on the stone floor and there was blood oozing from his head. Tom Crom went down the ladder and took a close look. Then he smiled up at me and said – I remember his exact words – “Well, he’ll not molest any more women.”’
‘Friar Robert had a reputation?’
Mary nodded. ‘Tom Crom told me there were at least three other victims of his lust – all sworn to silence by spiritual threats of eternal punishment. I went down and we rushed out of the barn to find fresh air and escape the horror within. I clung tightly to Tom Crom, crying till I thought I should never stop. He, by contrast, was completely calm. It was a characteristic of his: serenity. He never lacked for passion, but he never allowed it to master him. He could set it aside and think clearly.
‘I babbled my fear: “What are we to do? It was an accident, but people will think I pushed him or you pushed him or we—” He stopped my words with a kiss. “Hush, my dearling,” he said. “This lecherous rogue is well known or suspected. There will be no surprise at how he met his end and I doubt his prior will favour a close examination.” Then he looked around and added, “But there may be something we can do to forestall the coroner subjecting you to unpleasant questions.” He picked up a heavy stone and went back into the barn. I watched from the doorway as he went over to the ladder leading to the loft. It was very old and some of the rungs were well worn. When he struck one of them with the stone, it snapped easily.
‘“There you are,” he said. “That could have broken at any time – an accident waiting to happen.” He went back and bent over the body. When he returned he was carrying the wooden crucifix the friar had worn on a string around his neck. “How dare this hypocritical wretch carry out his lechery in the sight of our Saviour’s image!” he said. Deftly he broke the crucifix in two. Standing there we made a solemn vow over it that this dreadful event would not come between us. We each took one half of the image and promised that on the day of our wedding we would reunite them to bury the past and to symbolize our shared future.’
My own eyes were moist as I listened to Mary’s dreadful and ineffably sad story. Yet the tale was not complete and what followed was in some ways even more tragic. Mary explained that Thomas tutored her in the simple story she was to tell her father: the friar had followed her to the barn, forced himself upon her and, on leaving, had fallen to his death.
‘I was terrified that I would not be believed. I am a poor liar, and yet it was not much of a lie. Most of it was true. Fortunately Brother Robert’s reputation was known and his prior was only too pleased to have the incident quickly dealt with and forgotten. As for me, I could not bear the misery and shame alone. I shared it with a close friend – someone who understood and comforted me.’
‘Mercy Prior?’ I asked.
‘Why, yes,’ she exclaimed in surprise, ‘although her birth name was Mary Langby. Do you know her?’
‘We have met briefly.’
‘I have not seen her in years. She was the mother of my closest friend, Elizabeth, and almost a second mother to me. She was an especially good friend to Tom Crom and me in our unhappy years. How is she?’
‘Well in body, I think, but her mind is not as clear as it was.’
‘Poor soul. She too has suffered. Her husband died young and after that she lived with Elizabeth and Tom Crom. I suppose you know that they were married.’
‘Yes. How came that about?’
‘When Tom Crom returned, I was in no position to marry him. I was happy to see him and Elizabeth wed – and it meant also that our secret was kept within the family. Elizabeth became the great lady I might have been – for a while. She died in fifteen twenty-nine and her two little ones followed her to the grave soon after. Poor Tom was broken by the loss.’
‘What happened to you in the years between?’ I asked.
‘I was miserable after Tom Crom left for Italy, but I soon had something else to think about. I was with child. I could not know who was the father, though I cared for little Mary as though she was the result of our love. My family and all our neighbours, of course, assumed that it was the friar’s bairn I carried. To avoid the shame, my father arranged for me to marry. Sam Hankley the miller was a widow in need of a new wife. He was many years older than me, but what of that! My happiness counted for little. We wed. I came to live at the mill. My daughter was born here. Within a sixmonth she died.
‘When Tom Crom came home three years later I was Mistress Hankley and our vow was voided. Perhaps it was God’s judgement on us. I know not. God forgive me, we both hoped for my husband’s death, but he lived to a good age and eventually Tom Crom took Elizabeth to wife. After her death, in fifteen twenty-nine, I suppose Tom Crom and I might have remained true to our old vow.’
‘What prevented you?’ I asked.
‘Our paths had diverged too far. I was busy running the mill, and Tom Crom, of course, was become a great man and much occupied in His Majesty’s service. We both knew that our chance for a life together had passed. God had granted us but a few minutes of true bliss and with that we had to remain content. I think I have read in the Bible that there is a time for everything under the sun.’
‘Aye, and as you say, had things fallen out differently Thomas Cromwell would not have become the man who changed this country beyond recognition.’
I thanked my hostess for her frankness and for enabling me to complete my story. The hours had slipped past while we talked and Mary insisted on putting her guest chamber at my disposal. When I rose in the morning she was already at work in the mill and her maid set breakfast before me. As I consumed the simple meal in solitude I could not help but feel some anxiety for its provider, living as she did in this fairly isolated location, amidst neighbours who, for the most part, were by no means friendly.
I expressed my concern afterwards when I found her in the mill. ‘Now that you have lost your powerful protector,’ I said, raising my voice above the trundling murmur of the mechanism, ‘do you feel safe here?’
She laughed. ‘I provide a good service and, as I always tell people, if they like not the taste of heretic flour, they are free to take their grain to another mill – and the nearest is a good twelve miles off.’
When I had saddled my horse and was ready to depart, Mary came out to say goodbye. ‘I will pray for you as you write your story,’ she said, ‘and I thank you again for undertaking it.’
‘It has been a pleasure to meet you,’ I replied. ‘Tom Crom was a fortunate man to have enjoyed your affection.’
It was no empty compliment. Of all the people I had met on my travels there was none I admired more than Thomas’s Mary. She had given me much to think about as I rode back to London. On her advice, I made my way eastwards across the heath and picked up the London road beyond Putney in order to avoid any further encounters with its denizens.
Within the last few hours I had learned so much and linked together several facts that had been floating free in my mind or colliding uncomfortably with each other. So, had I now discovered the real Thomas Cromwell? Well, it would have been rash of me to make such a boast, but I could claim that I was no longer mystified by the brewer’s boy who had come to exercise almost supreme power; by the self-taught scholar whose wisdom excelled that of the brightest students from the universities; by the politician who for so long outsmarted his opponents; by the member of the royal court who understood the lives of the king’s humble subjects. I could see a man of vision who believed that England’s religious life needed more than tinkering with theological niceties and a man of passion who hated the ecclesiastical establishment and especially what he saw as the worm-ridden edifice of monasticism.
It remained only for me to set down in an orderly way an account of my investigation. Just as explorers were filling the bookstalls with their eye-widening accounts of new-discovered lands, so I had to tell my story. But for whom? Should I publish now? The fractured world in which we were living made revelations hazardous. Many people had aided my quest and I would not burden my immortal soul by putting them in jeopardy. Perhaps my tale would have to wait for another age and an impartial readership. Yet would such an age of tolerance be worthy of Tom Crom? Could the issues of faith, truth, religious convention, life, death, heaven and hell ever be regarded as matters of personal opinion? If we make no search for truth we abide in windowless mansions, content with what lies within, satisfied with the mental chattels we gather for our amusement. Life is a quest or it is nothing.
That was the least of what I had learned from Thomas Cromwell.