The Autobiography of Henry VIII: With Notes by His Fool, Will Somers (37 page)

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I felt anger rising cold in my neck, working up toward my head, where it would affect and twist my thinking. I fought it.
“So that is why you refuse the Chancellorship.” I was surprised—and pleased—at how dispassionate my voice sounded. The coldness was receding, dropping down like water flowing from a pipe. I had overcome it.
“Partly.” He smiled. “I cannot be Your Grace’s servant unless I embrace all things wholeheartedly.”
We had left the rose garden now and approached the orchard. A worn brick wall enclosed it. More opened the wooden door and ushered me inside.
Row after row of pruned and tended trees stretched before me, each about five yards apart from the next. Their branches spread neatly and evenly out, like round tents.
“Plums,” said More, gesturing to the farthest row on the left. “Cherries.” The next. “Apples.” a C—rather like a box all around—and narrowed little eyes. The sort of person one soon forgets, except for the eyes.
He knew all of Wolsey’s financial matters, down to every farthing in the household. It was in this capacity that I supposedly consulted him. But one does not merely go over figures. One begins to talk. Therein was I won. Master Cromwell had many interesting tales. In the beginning they were about others; in the end, about himself.
This Cromwell, the son of a Putney blacksmith, had spent hidden years abroad, first as a soldier of fortune in the Italian wars, then as a merchant on the Antwerp market, in the process learning enough common law to qualify for the bar. I received the impression of that rarest of creatures, a totally amoral man, yet ascetic in his wants and needs. Thus he would be singularly resistant to all normal temptations—the satins, the women, the dainty dishes—that had ensnared his master, the Cardinal. Was this the man I sought to help resolve my Great Matter? I hinted of the delicate “problem.” He nodded.
A few days later he sent word that he had some “suggestions” for my Great Matter. Thus one euphemism danced with another.
I called Cromwell to meet with me in person and discuss the details of his plan. This he was only too eager to do.
 
He appeared in my work room promptly after morning Mass, his dark, straight hair wet and combed, his cap in hand. I had not yet had breakfast, and had hardly expected him so soon. A tray of smoked eel, ale, and cheese sat upon my table, awaiting me. I eyed it hungrily. Nevertheless I turned to Cromwell and bade him welcome.
“Your written suggestions were most intriguing,” I began, picking them up from my work desk and waving them in my hand. “I have given much thought to them.” If I expected an answer, there was none; he stood poised and listening. “I would like a fuller explanation of your plan,” I continued. “It is cumbersome to commit all things to paper.”
He smiled, knowing what I meant. Then he looked round the room questioningly.
“There is no one here, Cromwell,” I said. “You may speak freely.” To prove my point—and because I was in a buoyant mood (of late my moods had varied alarmingly, so that I was often elated after breakfast and sunk in gloom by mid-afternoon, quite unlike myself)—I strode over to an arras and thumped it. Nothing but dust flew out.
I sat on a small stool; Cromwell then allowed himself to sit as well, and edged his stool close to mine.
“It is this, Your Grace. I have made an extensive study of the question. And my humble opinion is that it is a much greater issue than the marriage itself. The marriage was merely God’s way of opening other ideas to you, of leading you to ponder heretofore unthinkable things.”
“What things?” I asked. He was employing flattery, like so many before him. It bored me. The smell of the ale and eel wafted toward me. Let him get on with it!
“That some of Your Grace’s subjects are but half your subjects.” He paused and lifted his eyebrow significantly. This was supposed to intrigue me, but it was merely silly. I frowned, and he continued hastily. “The clergy. They take a vow of obedience to the Pope. How, then, can they be your loyal subjects? ‘No man can serve two masters,’ as Our Lord—”
“Yes, yes,” I cut him off. “But this has been done always. The heavenly kingdom and the earthly are separate.”
“Are they, Your Grace? If, upon pain of death, a subject chooses to obey a foreign ruler over his King—what is heavenly about that? Is it not treason?” A pause. “Does not Your Grace have responsibility for all his subjects? Did not God deliver them into your hands for safekeeping? In days of old there were no Popes, but only Christian princes, who were charged with keeping the True Faith—”
He went on with his extraordinary theory: that the head of each realm was empowered by God to protect his subjects both bodily and spiritually; that he was the highest authority in the land in both spheres; and that the clergy owed allegiance to him, not to the Bishop of Rome, who was a mere usurper. To restore his power to myself was merely to reinstate the ancient, correct, and divinely ordained order of things.
“It is as God wills,” finished Cromwell. “He is displeased with the present state. It is a perversion of the truth. That is why prophets like Wycliffe and Hus and Luther have arisen. That is why Rome has been laid low and the Pope reduced to a shivering prisoner by the Emperor. These are all signs. Signs that you must act to restore the rightful order of things. Else the punishments will increase. Remember in Israel, when Ahab—”
“Yes, yes.” I could bear the hunger no longer; I reached for the cup of ale. “An interesting theory,” I finally said. “Words. Wolsey was also full of words. What of deeds?”
I was curious to know if he had worked this out as well. I was not disappointed. Cromwell leaned forward eagerly, his lizardlike eyes reflecting the morning light.
“The people groan beneath the weight of the monstrous burden,” he said.
I must cure him of this extravagant speech he affected. Could no one save Anne speak plain English to me?
“But they are powerless to extricate themselves. Only one person can break their bonds. The King.”
I grunted. “How?”
“They will follow you, like the children of Israel following Moses.”
This last simile was too much. Why should I not permit myself to indulge in the eel? This would-be orator deserved no deference on my part. I leaned over and selected a tasty-looking piece. “Pray speak plainly,” I finally said.
He grinned—something no one had done in my presence for years. Throwing aside the grovelling and hyperbole like a heavy cloak, his voice leapt. “The clergy are helpless to release themselves. The people cannot, save through a general rebellion such as has occurred in Germany, and which above all we do not want. No. The rebellion, the break, must be led from above. And this most of all:
it must seem no rebellion at all
. People—even discarded people—like to feel that the order is eternal. Even while destroying it, we must maintain its outer structure.”
His eyes were dancing. He looked demented, delirious. I reached for more eel, as if something in my mouth would subdue the uneasy feeling in my head.
“The Church must be left intact,” he continued. “It must retain all the outward semblances of the past. No whitewashed walls,came visions of the Pope, who was sometimes Wolsey and sometimes Father. When Father wore the Papal tiara, he looked at me accusingly. “How has it all been spent? And what have you done with my realm? Given it an heir? Made new and just laws? Nay, that I doubt—” Even as he spoke, mercifully he faded away from my inner vision.
I awoke—had I ever really been asleep?—in the pale sky before dawn. I reflected on the dreams. Father ... Wolsey... the Pope. All my life I had been a dutiful son to one or the other, entrusting my most cherished longings and ambitions to them. Trying to please them and never succeeding. Always I fell short of the mark, some way or other. Then I would try again, only to be subtly told ...
just this or that is not quite right.
Now it would end. Now I would begin, at long last, to be my own man. Down with that persecuting trio of nay-sayers. I arose determined to do battle with the only surviving member of the three.
XLIII
I
called Convocation to convene immediately. This was important to my plan, as I wanted to take the churchmen by surprise, with no warning of what awaited them. When all the high-ranking churchmen (Convocation was a body representing the Church as a whole) were assembled, they were stunned to hear themselves charged with the treason of praemunire, or bringing Papal bulls into England without prior royal permission. Only the payment of a fine of a hundred thousand pounds could win them a pardon ... the fine and an innocent document bewailing and acknowledging their evil transgression, signed by them all, and addressed to the King, incidentally titled Supreme Head of the Church in England. Such a simple thing, was it not? So much simpler than the endless plots and ploys of Wolsey’s, devised to wring Clement’s arm. All those envoys, all those courts, meant nothing compared to that piece of parchment with those seven devastating words.
Convocation balked; it pleaded; it tried to excuse itself. But in the end it capitulated, paid the money, and signed the document. The highest ecclesiastical body in the land had just proclaimed its King to be its head.
I waited for Pope Clement’s reaction with curiosity. Surely this would galvanize the stubborn yet weak-willed creature, and let him know I meant to proceed along the course of freeing myself and my country entirely from Rome. It would be so simple for him to sign a parchment freeing me from Katherine, thereby preserving England and its sweet income for the Church—almost as simple as Convocation signing its document.
But no. The recalcitrant goat refused. He issued warnings telling me to cease my actions upon pain of excommunication. He forbade anyone to speak in favour of the annulment until the case had been “decided”—in Rome, presumably. Did the fool not understand that there would be no decision from Rome that would bind me? And if he truly wished things to be impartial, as he made believe, he would have put a ban of silence on
any
discussion of the case, not just on those in favour of the annulment.
“If the Pope issues ten thousand excommunications, I wouldn’t care a straw for them!” I bellowed when told of his latest threat.
Cromwell and Anne were present then. Anne looked gleeful; of late she had been questioning my steadfastness to the cause. She ch Palace. Usually there was a thought-provoking sermon from the pulpit, as well as the ever awe-inspiring Mass. When we came to Mass one blustery February day, however, I was attacked even from there.
It was cold and damp inside the chapel; the braziers failed to keep the chill from sinking in. I saw Anne shiver a bit from time to time. She was so thin that even the furs she constantly wore did little to alleviate her constant shivers and shakes. She had been ill several times since Christmas.
The friar began to speak. But instead of offering an interesting theological premise, he began to shout.
“Do you remember the story of King Ahab?” he screamed. “King Ahab was King of Israel. But he abandoned God and turned to false gods. Yes, a King of Israel worshipped Baal! Evil as he was, there was one by his side still more evil: his wife, Jezebel. She urged him on to even greater abominations.
“Elijah the Prophet tried to warn him. But Ahab was a creature of Jezebel, not the Lord! At length he coveted a vineyard near his palace. It was owned by a man named Naboth. He proposed to buy it from Naboth, but Naboth refused.
“King Ahab was not used to being refused. He was crossed in nothing. So he went home and sulked. Jezebel asked what was troubling him, and when he told her, that wicked woman smiled and said, ‘Come, eat and take heart; I will make you a gift of the vineyard of Naboth.’ ”
Here the friar paused and looked around fiercely, like an owl perched and searching for rodents.
“And what did she do? She arranged a ceremony in which Naboth was given the seat of honour—then paid two liars to come in and charge him publicly with cursing God and the King. The crowd, believing this, dragged him outside the city and stoned him to death. Thus did Jezebel make a ‘present’ of the vineyard to her husband.”
The congregation was silent now, hanging on every word.
“But Elijah went to the King and said, ‘This is the word of the Lord: where dogs licked the blood of Naboth, there dogs shall lick your blood. And Jezebel shall be eaten by dogs by the rampart of Jezreel.’ ”
By now one could hear the wind whistling outside, through the thick stone walls, so silent had it grown in the chapel.
“Now there is in this land a similar thing. A King who has turned his back on God and God’s true vicar, and has gone whoring after false gods!
“A King so greedy for money and worldly things that he will rob not only Naboth, but God Himself! A King who is besotted with his own Jezebel, a woman who is bringing about his ruin, and that of the Church.
“I say unto you, as Elijah said unto Ahab:
The dogs shall lick your blood!”
Anne was pale. The congregation broke out into murmurs. The friar stared balefully at me. He expected me to stamp out, guiltily. I intended to disappoint him, and continued to sit calmly in the royal box.

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