London (88 page)

Now therefore, as Thomas gazed into his sister’s worried face, he wondered what to say. He was already sober enough to realize, with a shock, that he had allowed himself to say too much. He must somehow backtrack.

“I’m not Protestant,” he assured her. “Nor is anyone at court.” He smiled. “You worry too much.”

But she had seen his eyes. And for the first time in her life, she knew he was deliberately lying to her. And though she said nothing, it gave her great pain to know, whatever cynical schemes might or might not be going on at court, that from that day she could no longer trust her brother.

Shocked and disappointed as she was, Susan did not let this matter dominate her thoughts. Rowland, fortunately, had not really taken in their conversation. Nor did she enlighten him. If Thomas was, in some sense, secretly lost to her, she did not want to place the burden of her feelings on her hard-working husband. I must be a good wife and a support to him, she reminded herself.

Only sometimes, when she found herself in the house alone did a sense of desolation visit her. It was, she recognized, a moral loneliness. She would dearly have liked to correspond, at least, with Peter; but his last letter had told her that he was now well enough to undertake a pilgrimage to some of the greatest shrines so she did not even know where to write to him. Meanwhile, she continued, from time to time, to welcome Thomas to the house, and watch him play with the children, and pretend that all was well.

It had been her idea to visit Greenwich. She had always wanted to see round the greatest palace, and learning that King Henry was away one autumn day when both Thomas and Rowland had business there, she had suggested that she accompany them.

She enjoyed the day. Thomas had conducted them all round the great waterside palace. He had even procured a chamber inside the palace where they could spend the night before returning to Chelsea in the morning.

A little before sunset the three of them walked up the broad, green slope behind Greenwich Palace. For a short while they had strolled across to the edge of Blackheath and then returned to the top of the slope to watch the sun go down. It was certainly a fine sight. Above, the sky was clear; from the east, a faint cool breeze was coming up from the estuary, while in the west, grey clouds with burnished edges lay in long streaks above the horizon. Below her, the turrets of the palace caught the sun’s rays; to the left, in the middle distance, Susan could see all London laid out and beyond that, the golden ribbon of the Thames wandering westward. After they had gazed several minutes, when the sun went behind a cloud, turning the scene to greyness, Thomas suddenly pointed at the Deptford dockyard just upstream, and cried: “Look.”

No monarch had done more to build a navy than Henry VIII of England. There were several ships, including the great six-hundred-ton
Mary Rose
; but the pride of his fleet was the
Henry, Grâce à Dieu
, the mightiest English warship yet to float. This vessel, detaching itself from the cluster of masts by the Deptford wharfs, had just glided into the river.

As the four-masted ship moved out towards midstream, Susan found herself watching spellbound. It was certainly huge. The
Great Harry
, the sailors affectionately called the mighty vessel. “Weighs over a thousand tons,” Thomas murmured in a voice of awe. The ship seemed to dominate the whole river.

Then, suddenly and unexpectedly, the
Great Harry
unfurled not its everyday, but its ceremonial sails, which were painted gold. And at the same moment, as if in response, a cluster of the sun’s rays burst out through a gap in the western cloud, catching the ship and its sails magically in a pool of red gold light on the darkening river, so that it floated there like a fairy ship, gleaming, unreal, and so lovely that Susan caught her breath. For over a minute this vision lasted, until the sun was covered again.

This was the magical vision Susan would have carried away with her if the master had not decided on one more manoeuvre. Just as the sun withdrew, along the whole length of the ship’s side two lines of traps abruptly burst open and from these dark cavities ran out the muzzles of a score of cannon, so that in an instant the great ship was transformed from a golden phantom to a grim, brutal engine of war.

“Those cannon could reduce the palace to rubble,” Thomas remarked admiringly.

“Magnificent,” Rowland agreed.

But the warship filled Susan with dread. It reminded her of the other transformation that she had witnessed in a garden the summer before. It was as if the golden ship and the dour vessel with its dull, threatening cannon were two faces of the king himself. And while the men remained contentedly watching as the
Great Harry
moved slowly downstream, she felt a strange uneasiness, and a little shudder passed through her that, she told herself, was only caused by the breeze which now felt cold, coming from the east.

They were standing in a hallway, whose dark wooden panelling was glowing softly in the candlelight when the young man came up to Thomas.

“Secretary Cromwell will need you first thing in the morning,” he murmured. And then with a smile: “It’s been decided. We’re to draft the new Act of Parliament at once.”

Wondering what this might be, she had glanced at Rowland; but he evidently did not know. Then she noticed, even in the shadow, that Thomas was blushing. “What Act of Parliament?” she quickly enquired.

The young man looked uncertain for a moment, but then grinned. “It won’t be a secret after tonight anyway,” he said, “so I can tell you. It’s to be called the Act of Supremacy.”

“What’s to be in it?” she asked.

“Well,” he replied cheerfully, “Thomas knows better than I, but the main provisions are these.” He began to explain.

At first, as she listened, Susan was not sure what the purpose of this new Act was. It seemed to recapitulate all the things, in his dispute with the Pope, that Henry had already done – the appropriation of Rome’s revenues, the succession provisions, and much else besides. But gradually, as he continued, her eyes grew wide with astonishment.

Rowland finally spoke. “No king in history has ever made such claims!”

By his new title of Supreme Head of the Church, Henry now intended not just to take all revenues, appoint bishops and even abbots – these things had been tried before by powerful and greedy medieval kings. He also meant, personally, to decide all doctrine, all theology, all spiritual matters as well. It had never even crossed the mind of any medieval king to do that. He intended, effectively, to be king, Pope and church council all rolled into one. It was outrageous. And almost like a final insult, giving him the title of Vicegerent, he had put Cromwell in charge of the entire body of the Church – priests, abbots, and bishops, they were all to answer for everything they did to the king’s hard-faced secretary.

“Henry’s making himself the equal of God!” Rowland protested. “This,” he said quietly, “would be the end of the Church as we know it.”

“Henry is a good Catholic,” Thomas replied defensively. “He will protect the Church against heresy.” Susan said nothing.

“But what,” Rowland pointed out, “if the king changes his mind? What if Henry decides to abolish relics? What if he decides to alter the form of the Mass? What if he suddenly becomes a Lutheran?”

Nobody said anything.

“There’s to be another Act, you know,” the young man went on. “A Treason Act. Anyone who even argues against anything in the Supremacy Act will be guilty of treason. That’ll mean death,” he added unnecessarily.

Susan began trembling, and she looked at Rowland. “We are not traitors,” she said, her voice as steady as she could make it. “We shall obey the Act if it is passed.”

But Rowland was staring at the floor.

As the weeks went by and the Supremacy Bill began to make its way through Parliament, she knew how Rowland was feeling. She felt the same way too, but she knew she must not show it. Indeed, she even found herself in the strange position of defending the king, of siding with her brother, who she suspected was a heretic, to deflect her husband’s criticisms.

“In practical terms it changes nothing,” Thomas repeatedly assured him. “Not only is Henry a staunch Catholic, but even the most modest reforms would have to get past the bishops and Parliament. The faith is safe.”

There was less opposition in Parliament than Susan might have expected. Partly, she realized, this was because of an attitude expressed to her by the wife of a neighbour one day. “Better to have our own Harry of England in charge of the Church than some Italian in Rome who knows nothing about us,” she had remarked. Others, Susan suspected, even amongst the bishops like Cranmer, might be covert reformers who thought their cause might stand a better chance in a separate English Church than under the Pope. But above all, as she watched ruthless Secretary Cromwell in action, she understood all too well the fundamental reason why Parliament was submitting to the will of the king. It was fear. And remembering that vision of the
Great Harry
, that golden ship with its concealed banks of murderous cannon, she knew in her heart that the grim ship of state meant to sail on.

“We must obey the law,” she would say quietly.

There was only one small consolation. Unlike the succession legislation of the spring, there was no talk of forcing everyone to take any new oath. If any of Henry’s subjects wished to defy the new Act publicly, it would be treason; but if they disagreed, they could at least suffer in silence.

And that, Susan realized, was exactly what her dear husband was doing. He went about his work mechanically; though, after a period of looking deathly ill, he regained some of his usual colour, the spring went out of his step. As autumn turned to winter, he seemed to sink into a sad and silent gloom, and even alone in their bedroom, while the affection remained, the joy was all gone. As for her, trying to conceal the fact that she knew he was right, and knowing that she must do whatever was necessary to preserve her family, she would gaze at her children, and endure.

If only, she thought as the year drew towards its close, if only Peter were here.

It was a cold December afternoon and Susan had gone to the city. She had walked down Paternoster Row, a little street by St Paul’s where several booksellers had stalls, to buy a volume for Rowland as a present for Christmas. Pleased with her purchase, she strolled along Cheapside and on an impulse had turned down the little lane by St Mary-le-Bow. A few moments later she entered the church of St Lawrence Silversleeves.

How warm the little parish church seemed with its dark rood screen, its stained glass windows, and its figure of the Virgin before which half a dozen candles were flickering. The whole place was redolent of incense. How well the church expressed her brother’s kindly parish ministry. If she closed her eyes she could almost imagine that he was there.

So it was with a little cry that she turned to see him standing behind her.

1535

In the month of January 1535, a disturbing report reached Secretary Cromwell from Rome. Poor, hesitant Pope Clement had died some months before and there was a new pontiff. No word had been heard from him, until the secret report had come, but when it arrived it was shocking.

“He means to depose you,” Cromwell told the king.

Letters, it seemed, had already been sent to the King of France and the Habsburg emperor. For all his shows of strength, if either, let alone both of these mighty powers were to invade the island to take his kingdom away from him, Henry would be in dire peril. Would they do such a thing?

“They might be tempted,” Henry judged, “if they think the country is split and that people would rise up to greet them.”

“What do you wish me to do?”

“Simple,” the king smiled. “We must show them, once and for all, who is master in England.”

It was a February day, cold but bright, when Peter finally came from the Charterhouse to visit the family at Chelsea. It was remarkable, Susan had noticed, how even the fact that Peter was in London again had changed the atmosphere in the house. She felt a sense of security and well-being; Rowland also seemed more cheerful; and whatever her doubts might be about Thomas nowadays, she determined to put them aside on this occasion at least. “We’ll have a family reunion,” she declared. “Thomas must be there too.” For days before, she had bustled about the house preparing, making sure that everything, wood, pewter and metal, was cleaned and polished until it gleamed. She sewed fresh lace on the children’s clothes and by the time the day arrived she felt proud of herself.

The main celebration of the day would be the family dinner, served soon after noon; and in place of honour, as for any English family that could afford it, would be the great roast. “A swan,” Rowland had decreed. Londoners of sufficient means were permitted to keep their own swans on the Thames and since last year he had been the proud possessor of several.

“We shall be eating it for a week,” Susan had laughed. And early that morning she was up preparing the huge bird.

He came by barge and had hardly stepped out on to the little landing stage before he was raising the children, each in turn, into his arms. He smiled warmly at them all, and taking his sister by the arm, advanced up the path very cheerfully towards the house.

Like the experienced parish priest he was, his eyes missed nothing. He praised the little garden, admired the house, expressed delight at the modestly growing library. He had made friends with the children in minutes.

Thomas arrived at the end of the morning and soon after midday they all assembled at the big oak table. It gave Susan great happiness to hear Peter say a simple grace for them and to watch Rowland carve the great swan. Thomas, too, was smiling.

“You still look alike,” he remarked to the two men.

“I still have the advantage in weight,” Peter replied.

“Not by much,” Rowland laughed.

All through the meal Peter kept them entertained with his accounts of Rome and of the other religious sites and shrines he had visited, which included Assisi in Italy and Chartres in France. “I should have liked to journey to the great shrine at Compostela,” he remarked. “But Spain was just too far.”