Justice for the Cardinal Page 14

  ‘Yes, what of it?’

  ‘He was married to my only daughter, the Lady Mary Howard. She is now the Dowager Duchess of Richmond and Somerset, and she is still a maid.’

  ‘Yet she was married to a Tudor? How did that miracle come about?’ Richard asked with a grin.

  ‘King Henry ordered that they live apart. She is still barely eighteen, and a virgin, insofar as she assures me. She is part Howard and part Stafford, which latter bloodline gives her a further Plantagenet connection through her grandmother Katherine Woodville. She is not uncomely, and would make a perfect wife for one who might one day become King of England.’

  ‘And what would you propose that I say to Lady Rochford?’ Richard asked.

  Norfolk waved his hand dismissively. ‘All kings have mistresses, and do you fondly imagine that you were the Lady Jane’s first roll outside the marital bed?’

  ‘Assuming for one moment that what you propose is of interest to me,’ Richard said, ‘what do you require of me? I cannot imagine myself at the head of an army, I am no diplomat or statesman, and I have no money to fund an uprising.’

  ‘You are well placed to bring down Henry Tudor,’ Norfolk told him with what looked like a straight face.

  ‘And how might that be?’

  ‘He relies too heavily on only a handful of advisers. His father had the same inclination, but he was better served. Foxe and Wolsey were far more worthy opponents than Cromwell or Seymour. He also has no ideas of his own, and no notion how a nation should be governed. Should his advisers desert his service, or should they feed him bad advice, he would not survive long.’

  ‘You wish me to somehow persuade Cromwell to desert the King’s service?’ Richard asked disbelievingly.

  Norfolk shook his head. ‘No. I wish you to work behind the scenes so as to ensure that the advice given to Henry by Cromwell is bad. The nation is close enough to uproar as it is, with a series of poor harvests, the Church in disarray, and one Queen after another gracing the royal bed.’

  ‘But there is hope for the future, with the birth of Edward,’ Richard argued.

  ‘He is not yet six months old, and he is entrusted to that weakling Edward Seymour. While it might have been better to make our move during the scandals created by my whore of a niece, there is yet time. Once Henry is gone, Edward is a mere infant with a country oaf for a protector.’

  ‘I was correct in my first understanding of why you are here,’ Richard scowled back at Norfolk. ‘The only task you have set me is to play Cromwell false in some way; this is really all about the enmity between the two of you, is it not? You pretend to offer me the crown of England in the hope that you can use me in your scheme to bring down my master.’

  ‘There is much more to it than that,’ Norfolk assured him. ‘In the immediate future you would certainly be cutting one diseased arm from the rotting corpse, but in the longer term you would be seizing the throne in the name of your long-honoured ancestors, and restoring England to greatness. I must leave you now, in order to begin my long ride back to Whitehall on the morrow. I shall send word to you through your chosen bedfellow, and do you likewise.’

  He strode out of the hall calling for his horse to be brought to the front door, without taking his leave of Jane Rochford, and Richard wandered out into the garden. It was approaching the middle of the day, and although it was now well into winter, the sun was hot in the clear sky, and the frost had retreated from its glare, leaving the lawn glistening with its memory.

  Richard walked slowly to the small arbour and sat on the rustic bench inside, deep in conflicting thoughts. On the one hand he was being offered a dream of glory, a promise of rising beyond what even his wildest speculations as a youth had imagined possible. The throne of England, a noble born wife, all the riches of the Treasury, and a place among the princes of Europe. All that was required of him was something that appealed to a twisted side of his nature that had been born when Cromwell double-crossed him and bought his son a bride who Richard had dearly wanted for himself. It would be nice to be able to demonstrate to that snake of a man that he had trained Richard all too well in deviousness and treachery.

  On the other hand, the mere prospect of lending even his name and lineage to something that would undoubtedly end on the scaffold if it misfired sent a churning through Richard’s bowels. He had never witnessed an execution, and for traitors the chosen means of conducting one was the most hideous imaginable. And how could he, with his simple, workmanlike honesty, lead Cromwell into making an error in policy sufficiently grievous to ensure his downfall?

  He would have to somehow make a commitment one way or the other, and communicate his decision to Norfolk before much more time passed. And what if he said no? Hadn’t Norfolk gone too far in his disclosure of his disloyalty to Henry to allow Richard to live if he declined to go along with it? Richard urgently needed either some very sage advice, or a sign from God as to which road his feet should be travelling.

  He looked up as Jane appeared in the entrance with a worried expression.

  ‘Why did Uncle Norfolk dismiss me so abruptly, and why did he not say goodbye before galloping off like that?’

  Richard reached out a hand to guide her to the seat next to his. ‘Don’t worry, my sweet. It was really only Court business between my master and him. Nothing for you to concern yourself about.’

  They sat for a moment or two, hand in hand, with their faces upturned to the hot winter sun, then Richard felt compelled to say something. ‘How would it be if I were King of England?’

  ‘So long as it didn’t damage your cock, I’d have no objection,’ she giggled.

  ‘But what if I were to take a queen to sit on the throne beside me?’

  ‘If you were King, would I not be your Queen?

  ‘And you’d require me not to take mistresses?’

  ‘Of course. Particularly not now.’

  ‘Why do you say “now”?’

  ‘Because I’m carrying your child.’

  XXII

  Richard’s conscious mind was so focused on the momentous news of his impending fatherhood that he remained oblivious to his surroundings as his horse trotted patiently through the wetlands of South Norfolk, the flat dry pastures of Suffolk, the tidal reaches of the Thames as he grew closer to London, and even the familiar clamour, smells and squalor of the settlements on the northern approaches into the city, and Austin Friars.

  Cromwell had left word that Richard was to be summoned to wherever he was the moment that he returned, and it was in his master’s upstairs study that Richard found him, surrounded by vellum, scrolls piled upon scrolls on the table, and with his faithful hound Bofus acting as a panting paperweight for the additional mountain of records lying on the bare wooden floorboards.

  ‘I trust you had a restful and refreshing time away from those things that matter?’ Cromwell enquired sarcastically as he looked up upon Richard’s entry into the chamber, already illuminated by candles against the gloom of a drizzly October late afternoon.

  ‘I’m going to be a father,’ Richard told him, unable to hold back the news any longer, and having met no-one with whom he could share it during his three day ride south.

  ‘Assuming that you didn’t go to it with some wench employed in a wayside alehouse, isn’t Jane Rochford a bit old for childbirth?’

  ‘She’s only in her forty-second year,’ Richard replied. ‘Women have been known to give birth at that age.’

  ‘They certainly have,’ Cromwell conceded, ‘but not their first. She has no other children, of which I’m aware anyway.’

  ‘And you’d be the first to know, of course,’ Richard replied. ‘A sparrow is not allowed to fart on a Thames-side rooftop without the news is relayed to Thomas Cromwell.’

  ‘Talking of news,’ Cromwell replied with a smile, ‘there is much to impart, and much though it grieves me to have to admit it, I’ve missed your presence here.’

  ‘You have other clerks,’ Richard reminded him, ‘and if I
am to be a proper father, I must needs be absent more often. Grimston is three days’ ride from here.’

  ‘You forget that when Henry marries again, the Court will be resummoned, and your lady will then resume her duties as a Queen’s Lady.’

  ‘Assuming that she wishes to,’ Richard reminded him. ‘It may be that motherhood will absorb all her interest.’

  ‘We are talking about Jane Rochford, remember,’ Cromwell sneered. ‘Court etiquette runs through her veins, and the child, when born, will find that it is slurping the latest scandal through her nipple. Do you hope for a boy or a girl?’

  ‘I hadn’t really thought that far ahead — it’s probably not going to be born until next May.’

  ‘Boys are the most trouble, in my experience,’ Cromwell reflected reminiscently, ‘but girls pull more at your heartstrings, and therefore finish up wheedling more favours out of fathers. If you haven’t even thought ahead as to its sex, presumably it’s too much to hope that you have names in mind?’

  ‘Funnily enough, I have,’ Richard smiled. ‘I cannot think beyond “Thomas” if it’s a boy.’

  ‘Do you seek to flatter, or have you, out of a total absence of imagination, lighted upon the most common name in England these days?’

  ‘You would not object?’

  ‘Why should I? It was also the Cardinal’s name. Regrettably, it is also the name that was granted to Norfolk in the days when somebody loved him. I find it hard to conjure up any image in my mind of Thomas Howard as a helpless mewling infant wrapped in a shawl.’

  ‘My other request is more delicate,’ Richard ventured while the atmosphere between them was still civil. ‘For a girl, I cannot get my mind beyond “Grace”. It’s the most beautiful name I’ve ever heard, but I know that you had a daughter of that name, and I would not wish to offend.’

  Cromwell appeared momentarily stunned, then recovered himself. ‘Should you wish to avoid incurring my displeasure, you may take this draft over to the other table and begin copying it. I have to present it to Council in two days’ time, and it has seen so many changes in wording that even I can barely follow it.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘My latest proposals for the abolition of holy shrines. They are idolatrous, and if we are to ban statues of the Virgin in our churches, we should at least take steps to prevent pilgrims being seduced into throwing money into wishing wells, or wasting their hard-earned wages on altar candles and keepsakes that purport to be holy relics, but were created in monks’ cells only the previous day.’

  ‘There is such a shrine not far from Grimston. It is said to be the place where the Virgin appeared to the lady of the manor.’

  ‘Walsingham,’ Cromwell muttered in distaste. ‘It’s the first on my list, since even monarchs have been known to be lured there. It is also well within Norfolk’s bailiwick, so it must go.’

  ‘You made mention of the King’s remarriage,’ Richard reminded him. ‘Is there talk of such at Court?’

  ‘Not at Court, as such,’ Cromwell replied, ‘but of late I have been obliged to consider little else. My doorstep is all but worn smooth by the boots of Ambassadors seeking to urge upon me the merits of this princess, or that widowed Countess. Even, in Chapuys’s case, a Spanish prince whose ambitions are such that he would bed the Lady Mary.’

  ‘Has Henry shown any interest in these proposals?’ Richard asked.

  ‘I have not put any of them to him, as yet. He seems content to wallow in his misery following the death of Queen Jane, and it is probably safer for England’s soul if I let it remain that way.’

  ‘How?’

  Cromwell looked disappointed by the question. ‘I will assume that all this distraction of impending fatherhood has quite emptied your brain of any diplomatic sense. Chapuys speaks for Charles of Spain, who has Europe’s greatest collection of ugly female cousins, while Francis of France has foolishly consigned his interests into the clammy hand of Jean de Dinterville, who when not constantly complaining of our weather, and dripping snot into his embroidered kerchief, is seeking to persuade Henry to dip his prick into some elderly aunt of the House of Valois.’

  ‘Apart from the ugliness of these ladies — and let us remember that despite the undoubted talents of Master Holbein, Henry is hardly any longer the romantic troubadour — why should an alliance with either Spain or France not suit England’s interests?’

  Cromwell stared at him. ‘I cannot believe that you have worked alongside me all this time, and still have to ask such a question. What religion do they continue to follow in Spain and France?’

  ‘They are Catholic, I assume,’ Richard replied humbly.

  Cromwell slapped his hand against his forehead in a gesture of despair. ‘You assume? They are as Catholic as a Requiem Mass, or salvation through the confessional. Charles and Francis each have a hand inside the Pope’s vestments, and they are currently allied with each other. They wish to draw Henry into their net at the behest of the Pope, who has yet to accept that England is lost to him forever. Should Henry seek another bride from a royal stables, it will need to be in Germany or the Low Countries, where the Pope is no longer welcome either, and where Reformist policies are not regarded as treasonous.’

  ‘And are there any suitable royal princesses to be found there?’

  ‘A few, but I have yet to delve deeper into such matters. It may be that in due course I shall be obliged to squelch through the bogs of the Low Countries in search of same, but for the moment I would wish to create a flutter of diplomatic unease in Guelders. It is a wealthy principality which has long been a bone of contention between France, Spain and Germany. If the current alliance between Charles and Francis can be split like a walnut shell, it may be through their dispute over the territory. At present, the most likely to come between them is William of Cleves, who seeks France’s aid to enforce his claim to Guelders against Charles of Spain, who jealously guards what he believes to be his ongoing entitlements in the Low Countries.’

  ‘This is all above my head, but I take from it that you seek a bride for Henry in the Low Countries, so let us leave it at that. But you say that Henry is not for marrying at present?’

  ‘Indeed not,’ Cromwell confirmed. ‘Instead he seems content to regard himself as a man cursed by God, which of course does not assist my attempts to push through further reforms in the Church.’

  ‘At least he now has his male heir,’ Richard pointed out, ‘so in what way does he regard himself as cursed?’

  ‘The loss of Jane, who, or so it would seem from his genuine grief, he truly loved. As for the infant Edward, he is stifled, smothered and cosseted by that insufferable prattler Margaret Bryant, who was aunt to the late Queen Anne, and had charge of the Lady Elizabeth until the birth of the heir. Before that she wiped puke from the infant garments of Henry Fitzroy. She is another Howard who has been allowed too close to the throne for my liking.’

  ‘I received a visit from Norfolk during my stay at Grimston,’ Richard said uneasily.

  Cromwell looked up sharply. ‘What did he want?’

  ‘It seems that he has been talking to the Countess Margaret Pole, and she revealed to him that I am of the line of York. It also seems that the Howards were historically aligned with York.’

  ‘The Howards would align themselves with Satan himself, if it would advance their interests,’ Cromwell snarled. ‘Do not be misled by anything you may be promised by a Howard. They might seek to place you on the throne for long enough to remind you that they put you there, and that henceforth you must do their bidding. Thomas Howard sees himself as another Warwick.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘No matter. See to that copying before supper.’

  XXIII

  The next morning, fully rested, Richard was up and about early, with a healthy appetite. The bread was freshly baked, and the cheeses were still moist, while the small beer that he swilled them both down with made him glad to be English. He could hear birdsong from the gardens outside, and the sun had
reappeared for the first time in days. All in all, life seemed somehow more enjoyable, and of course he could now look forward to holding his own infant in his arms once next spring gave way to summer.

  Cromwell stumbled to the breakfast table like a man in the grip of a nightmare and took the bench on the opposite side from Richard. The two of them sat in uneasy silence, until Cromwell revealed the source of his discomfort.

  ‘I have not slept, thanks to you.’

  ‘I am aware of your eagerness to blame me for every misfortune that befalls you,’ Richard snapped, ‘but how did I disturb your slumber?’

  ‘It was your talk of Grace,’ Cromwell replied dully. ‘She was my favourite, as you may know, and even now there are cupboards and storerooms here at Austin Friars that all but myself are prohibited from entering because they contain things that were hers. Her schoolbooks, in which she wrote in such a fair hand. Her Christmas guise costumes, in which she was wont to prefer the role of angel, with gossamer wings and wax halo.’ His voice began to crack, and his lips trembled as a harbinger of tears. ‘She came to me last night, and I fear that it was not in a dream,’ he continued in a trembling voice. ‘There she was, my lovely Grace, as I remember her. She begged me, if I loved her, to allow her name to live on in your daughter’s name. “If I loved her”? Dear God, she was my world!’

  He choked, and his shoulders heaved. Instinctively Richard reached out and placed a hand over Cromwell’s two trembling ones interlaced on the table between them. Cromwell bowed his head on Richard’s hand and began to weep like a child — choking, unashamed sobs that racked his entire body.

  Richard sat looking at his bowed head, embarrassment mingled with compassion, until the sobs subsided, and Cromwell looked up at him through bleary reddened eyes. He wiped the mucus from his nose with the back of his hand and stared Richard in the eye.

  ‘I have gone about showing it in the most unlikely of ways, but you have been like a second son to me. Gregory is of my flesh, obviously, but I have provided for him at your expense, and it plucks at my conscience. Before Grace left me, she enfolded herself in my arms and begged me, as a final token of the love we shared, to provide for the girl that will perpetuate her name. She was cold as ice as we embraced, but I have no doubt that it was no mere dream, and that Jane will be delivered of a girl.’