Richard Rich: The Man Who Kept His Head (A Biographical Novel)

By Elizabeth Engebretson

Richard Rich rose from 16th century landed gentry to become the Lord Chancellor of England. His absolute loyalty was to the reigning monarchs he served: King Henry VIII, King Edward VI, Queen Mary I and Queen Elizabeth I. All others, except his family, were expendable. His fellow courtiers: Sir Thomas More, Lord Chamberlain Thomas Cromwell, Archbishop Thomas Cranmer among others, wished to thwart the desires of the monarch. They lost their lives. When members of the powerful Percy, Seymour, Dudley and Howard families moved to wrest power from the monarchs, many of them lost their heads. Richard 1st Baron Rich of Leighs was instrumental in protecting all of the monarchs from treason wherever he found it.

Baron Rich is now 71 years old and nearing death at his Rochford manor. His eldest daughter, the faithful Joan, has spent her life caring for the extensive Rich estates and her 16 siblings. She convinces Rich to speak to her of his lifes memories. She knows many notable figures from his years in power are writing memoirs and histories of the time and wants to record her fathers own words.

Rich agrees to talk but his words soon discomfort Joan, especially his dismissal of the turmoil caused by Cranmers Reformation of the English Church that Rich aided as Lord Chancellor. Joan has worked closely with her father for the past 31 years and has substantial knowledge of the history she hears him reinventing. She records his words and her own.

This novel is based on extensive research into the life of Richard Rich, of the man and his impact on the era. It is a tale that has never been told in its entirety until now.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Feb 17, 2006
• ISBN: 9781467812283

Elizabeth Engebretson

    Elizabeth (Imholt) Engebretson was born and raised in Cincinnati, Ohio.  As a corporate wife, she lived in Yorktown Heights, New York; San Francisco (where her two children reside); Boston; Houston and Kansas City.  Internationally, she resided one year in Johannesburg, South Africa and sixteen years in London, England.  She now lives in Scottsdale, Arizona with her husband and three cats.

Book preview

© 2006 Elizabeth Engebretson. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 3/7/2006

ISBN: 1-4208-8859-5 (sc)

ISBN: 1-4208-8860-9 (dj)

ISBN: 978-1-4678-1228-3 (ebk)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2005908992

Printed in the United States of America

Bloomington, Indiana

Front cover: Richard, Baron Rich by Hans Holbein the Younger, RL 12238, The Royal Collection © 2005, Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II.

Back Cover: Rich Coat of Arms courtesy of the Royal College of Arms.

Author’s photograph by Mark Alan Portaiture, Scottsdale, Arizona.

To Jim

Contents

Author’s Note

Rochford Hall –

Essex, England

Joan’s Diary

Epilogue

Major Characters

Acknowledgments

Author’s Note

The spelling of Rich and Riche were used interchangeably in my research. I opted to use Rich throughout.

Documents from the 1500’s were dated using the Julian calendar. Research from later documents used hyphenated dates (eg 1539/1540) for the months early in the year. I have dated the years beginning January 1.

Upwardly mobile men in Tudor times were known by their most recent title rather than their given names. For example, John Dudley was known progressively as the Lord Admiral, Warwick, Northumberland and finally Lord Protector. For ease of the reader, I have noted each man’s advancements but have retained their given names throughout the narrative.

Rochford Hall –

Essex, England

Rochford was not Joan’s favorite of the family’s estates but it was her father’s. He had come here to die.

This day he felt well enough to sit on an ornately carved oak chair that had been carried by two servants to the knot garden west of the house. Swathed in tapestry rugs, with only his face and hands exposed to the bright April sun, he appeared to be asleep, but Joan knew he was not. The manor was being enlarged from a small country house to a grand mansion worthy of a Baron. Her father watched the workmen (all of whom he knew by name) and instantly reprimanded any who failed to perform to his standards.

She stood in a doorway leading from the northwest side of the building that was not being altered. She could see her father’s trembling hands adjust an old-fashioned coif he wore under a black velvet cap. The coif, he said, kept his ears warm. He wore it indoors and out year-round. He laid his beard carefully atop the rugs then rested his head against the high back of the chair. His beard was as white as the snowdrops peeking through the pale green grass at his feet.

Rochford Hall’s two-story walls of intricate brickwork rose behind Joan. They stretched 200 feet to the east, longer to the south. In the old north end a series of tracery windows on both levels let in light from the north face of the building as well as the inner courtyards. The middle wing that divided the courtyards housed a private chapel above a chamber used as a magistrate’s court. The old Great Hall that had once been the manor’s southern face was becoming the center of the extended building.

The southern extension, planned to mimic the north with two additional courtyards, was far from complete except for the ornate gatehouse that was already in use as the watch-point down the beech tree-lined roadway, through the park, to the main road.

Atop the building were twisted brick chimneys that could be seen for miles around the countryside. All the bricks came from the family’s brickyard situated on a neighboring site well out of any views from the house. The massive roof drained through complicated waterspouts that never failed to bring a smile to whomever saw them.

At the corners of the building were three-story octagonal towers. The original tower was behind Joan. It alone contained an arrow-slit and one small window at the top. The others provided sweeping views of the eight acres of walled grounds and further across the flat Essex landscape to the estate’s farms and woodlands that stretched to the horizon.

In recent weeks Joan had spent many hours sitting alone in the south-east tower gazing toward Watery Lane, the road to London, wondering if she had the courage to ask her father for answers to questions about his life, his career, his role in history. Now, seeing him so frail, she knew that if she didn’t ask soon it would be too late.

She pulled her black woolen cloak tighter to her shoulders and approached his chair. He turned his head toward her, Joan, come sit for a minute before the sun goes.

She knelt in the grass beside his chair. He laid his hand gently on her shoulder. They sat in silence for some minutes before she took a deep breath and turned to face him. Father, would you please explain your testimony about Thomas More?

What? His eyes widened.

And John Fisher?

The elderly man leaned forward, clutching the arms of his chair, Joan, what - why are you asking these questions? That was all such a long time ago and has nothing to do with our lives now.

Her eyes locked onto his, It is important, father, it is important that you and I are completely honest with each other at last.

Joan, do we really need to speak the details of the past? Isn’t it enough we have each other in this beautiful place? He waved his arms about, Look at the trees about to explode with new life, the lambs there, in the field, leaping with joy for the future. We must look forward.

Father -

None of it Joan! He lay back and closed his eyes, What happened happened for the good of the family, for our safety, our betterment. It didn’t all just come to me. I had so much to overcome in order to succeed - prejudice, jealousy. So many hated me, tried everything to keep me down. I had to do what I did but now it is over. Done.

She grasped his arm, We must speak of it because your memories of the great events in which you participated have to be recorded. Others are writing their memoirs and histories and you have always refused. It is important for your life to be documented in your words, not just those of others.

His eyes flashed, Who is writing? To whom have you been speaking?

Roper has written a life of More.

The Queen would have his head if he tried to publish.

He knows that. But the manuscript exists. I’ve read some of it.

You’ve been meeting with William Roper? Who else? My God, Joan, do you want to bring the wrath of the Crown on us all? His hand clutched her arm.

Last winter he and I passed each other in London. He was quite thin and tired looking. I asked about his children. He asked about you. ‘Did your father ever tell you about More?’ he asked. I replied that I hadn’t heard you mention him in many years. He invited me to visit his lodgings, which were near, as he said he had a great deal to tell me but didn’t want to do so on the street.

And you went to his lodgings alone?

Joan narrowed her eyes, Father its not as though I was in any danger. He’s as …

… old as me, he said. It wasn’t your physical well-being that concerned me.

Joan shaded her eyes against the setting sun. We’d best go in before you get a chill.

He reached for her hand to steady himself on rising. You are as independent as ever, aren’t you? Even as a baby you were headstrong. You should have been a boy.

Don’t let Robert hear you say that! she laughed. He couldn’t stand not being your heir.

Ah, our Robert, he sighed, he never listens to anything I say.

The pair slowly made their way across the grass and up the steps to the north wing. He waved his men aside as Joan continued to support him. He shuffled to the library, then waited for her to hold his favorite chair near the fireplace before he sat.

The room was sumptuously furnished in heavy oak. One wall was lined with shelving laden with leather-bound books. At the junctions of the shelving units, finely carved oaken swags of flowers and fruits flowed to hide the seams. Two other walls were draped in huge tapestries depicting scenes from the Old Testament. The outer wall contained the oldest fireplace in the house. Its surround echoed the wooden fruits and flowers in marble. The cushions on the chairs and footstools were works of art in needlepoint, many of them done by Joan herself. The cellarer’s boy had already placed a jug of ale on the sideboard.

Joan dismissed the servants, poured a glass of ale for each of them, then settled herself in the slightly smaller chair to his left. Each sipped and stared into the fire in silence.

She thought of times long ago when she’d seen him sitting alone, in the dark, leaning his back against one of the massive Norman pillars in the ancient choir of St. Bartholomew’s Smithfield, another of the many properties he’d acquired for services to the Crown. The whole monastery, its grounds and holdings, the annual Fair - all his for services rendered.

Those nights they’d not spoken, yet, as she’d prayed she’d wondered what his thoughts were during those hours. His life was full of conspiracies, intrigues. Had he been plotting his next moves? Or been searching his soul?

With whom else have you been speaking?

No one recently.

You know what I’m asking.

She rose, walked to the table and retrieved the jug to replenish his ale. He held his hand over his glass to prevent her from pouring. His blue eyes searched her face.

She seated herself on a cushion at his feet. I don’t want you to think I’ve been single-mindedly pursuing the details of your Court life, but, over the years, I’ve heard a great deal in bits and pieces. I only want to make a whole of it.

While there’s still time? he finished her thought.

I’m sure we have many years together ahead of us.

You know better than that.

They retreated into silence, sitting close enough to touch but not touching. Minutes passed before she spoke, Mother was always so proud of you, of how you managed to rise to the very pinnacle of power and prestige. Joan smiled in memory, She loved all that pomp and ceremony.

He spoke with closed eyes. She did enjoy the balls and pageants. She could recount every hour she spent waiting on Queens. His voice drifted with the sights he was seeing in his mind. And she was a wonderful horsewoman. The way she took the jumps! In her youth of course. Only Princess Elizabeth rode with more abandon. But even when we went to Newall, to hunt with the Princess Mary, how old was your mother - more than 45 years? She sat the horse beautifully. Many commented.

Suddenly his eyes flashed and his voice turned cold, "If her father, old Grocer Jenks had had his way, she never would have married me. Too coarse for his fine taste. ‘A wastrel and a gambler’, he called me, ‘who will never be able to support himself much less a wife and family.’ Accused me of only wanting her dowry. He knew of my family’s Middlesex estates but he was convinced I wanted only his money. He refused to entertain the notion that I was in love with his daughter.

If it hadn’t been for my mother, his voice softened, you were named after her you know – I would have sought my fortunes in the King’s army. But she begged me to do what my father wanted. He paused in thought.

When he continued he spat the words, My father. He, too, believed me worthless. Said I’d never make it as a merchant. Could never follow in his footsteps much less those of his grandfather, once the Sheriff of London. Sheriff! Begrudgingly sent me to read law at Cambridge. Only under my own efforts did I later secure a place in the Middle Temple. In my early life I learned a great deal - not all from the books and lecturers.

He again lapsed into thought for some time before continuing, his voice lowered to almost a whisper, I regret that of them all only my brother Robert lived long enough to see me Lord Chancellor of England.

They heard the main door slam as a younger Robert returned for his evening meal. In his usual impatience he’d not waited for the servant to open the door for him. They could hear his thumping boots and loud demands as to the whereabouts of his father.

The father laid a hand on his daughter’s arm, Joan, we will not speak of any of this with Robert nor any of your sisters.

No, of course not father.

He nodded then turned his head as his only living son flung open the library doors, throwing his cloak toward the servant in the hall as he pushed past. Robert was wearing the latest in men’s fashion: a tightly-fitted pale blue jerkin with a small white ruff, trunk hose in blue-and-white stiffened satin of huge proportion and prominent cod-piece, all intricately embroidered in silver thread.

He thinks he’s the Earl of Leicester! Where ever did you get that feather in your cap? The father wore a black-faded-to-gray velvet gown with heavy lynx trim and his coif.

The son sighed at both his father’s clothing and remarks. Why aren’t you supervising our meal, sister? You are meant to be running this house.

I’m sure all is in order but, for you, I will make doubly certain. Excuse me, father, she pointedly avoided her brother’s glare as she rose from her place and strode toward the door.

Have some ale and tell me what is happening at Court. The older man’s tone was close to a plea.

Robert helped himself to a large goblet of ale, Oh, it’s the usual, will she or won’t she marry and if so, whom. Or the endless debates over what to do with Mary Queen of Scots. I have no plans to return until the end of May when the debates might be more rewarding.

You’ll return as soon as your business here is concluded. You cannot afford to be away from the seat of power for long. Whom the Queen marries is the most important debate I can imagine. As you know I was summoned just last September to discuss a number of questions on that very subject.

Father please, the son gulped the ale, hearing in his head the story of his father’s last council appearance that had been recounted repeatedly. He refilled his goblet then sat in the chair recently vacated by Joan. What were you and my spinster sister discussing? The quality of the fowls for the meal? He glanced around the room, And why do you not display that volume of Foxe’s ‘Martyrs’ that I brought you. The woodcuts are especially fine.

The father ignored his son’s reference to the gift he’d not wanted. He wondered if the son had ever read the words between the woodcuts, the lies Foxe had written about his father. We were speaking of your mother. Remembering –

Robert hated reminding of his mother. The pain of her death was as raw in his heart as if the eight years were eight minutes. His most vivid memory was a wall of weeping sisters between him and his dying, beloved mother. You dwell on the past too much. You should be thinking of your Felsted School that is attaining quite a good reputation. Master Berryman tells me he has more applicants of quality than he can accommodate.

Don’t you find the past, my past, of interest?

The son weighed his words; Your deeds are part of history. You knew everyone of influence and the rewards for your ability to deal with the realities of your time are visibly evident. We would not be sitting here; I would not have my position, if it were not for you. But, perhaps our own memories are enough.

The father acknowledged the meaning. When does Elizabeth return?

Is my lone presence troubling or has Joan been complaining?

Neither. It’s just that it isn’t good for a wife and children to be away for too long.

They’re leaving her family’s estate soon. Another few days at most.

The servants laid the food on the table set for three in the small paneled dining parlor. Joan invited the two men to dine. During the meal the conversation was stilted. After, she left them to their wine. The father nodded off. The son departed for his room.

Sister and brother met by accident in the hall.

He’s asleep at the table.

I’ll attend.

"When he’s gone, you’ll attend no more in my house."

I had no illusions about so doing.

And if I hear of any of your papist masses -

Robert! You know full well I am in complete communion with the Church of England as commanded by Her Royal Highness the Queen.

Their eyes met. They each knew. She was 15 years his elder. Unlike most of her sisters who, by the age of 10, had been sent to aristocratic homes to improve their status, Joan had been kept at home to aid her mother in running the household and raising the younger children. Joan’s duties included responsibility for the daughters of lesser gentry and her father’s wards who were lodged in the household. Her mother’s time was divided between courtly duties and a succession of babies.

Robert was born in 1537, the 13th of 17 children. He had three older brothers, Henry age 14, Hugh 7 and William 1.

In the years following Robert’s birth, their father’s duties at court multiplied rapidly thus he was absent from the family for extended periods. During those same years their mother gave birth to a daughter, Frances, another son, Thomas, and finally twins, Edward and Henrietta. None of the last three lived to see their first birthdays while their mother became increasingly frail. Robert resented his childhood separations from both parents and placed the blame upon his eldest sister. His resentment never abated even as he grew to ride at his father’s side.

I’ll cause you no grief, Robert. I’ve begun making plans for the time when Father no longer needs my attentions. Your properties will be entirely your own. I will happily hand over all the various estates’ records and accounts and responsibilities.

You’ll have your allowances.

Yes, and the small house in London that Mother left me.

I thought you’d go to a nunnery.

She laughed, My religion is indeed important to me but I’ve no inclination for a cloistered life. The City is in my blood and it’s there I’ll want to spend whatever time I have left. This country life is too isolating for me.

It’s the proper place for gentlewomen. Not the filth and danger of London, he sneered, turning toward his chamber, but then you’ve never been accused of being delicate.

She let the remark pass. His slurs occasionally angered her but this one only saddened her for his inability to find any brotherly love at the age of 30.

After insuring her father was safely in his bedchamber with his attendants, Joan retreated to her own rooms in the old east wing. Two of her women, Mary and Edith, helped her into her nightdress, combed her light brown hair then, as she’d insisted for many years, left her alone at her writing table.

There nightly she recorded the stories of her extensive family. She felt it was another of her duties as the eldest child of Elizabeth and Richard Rich.

Joan’s Diary

Friday, 4th April 1567

This morning I sat at my embroidery frame, basking in the early sun through my chamber’s windows, deciding if I should add another shepherd to the scene when the one of father’s men requested I attend him in his chamber.

He was in his carved-walnut bed propped up by a small mountain of pillows. His attendants had straightened the bedclothes and he looked quite regal.

He motioned me to come near. I’ve not slept well thinking of your words yesterday.

I didn’t mean to upset your rest.

A great deal of rest is ahead of me. You are right. I must tell you about all that happened in my life. I remember when you were a baby and the sound of my voice seemed to soothe you. I would hold you and whisper my secrets in your ear to stop your wailing. You’d look up with your huge, serious gray eyes and I almost felt you understood my words. 45 years later, I will again share my secrets with you, now knowing you’ll understand.

(Before I continue, I will interrupt to say that I am thrilled he’s agreed to speak for the first time. I will try to record faithfully what I hear from Father - hereafter I will just use ‘Rich’ - in his own words whenever I’m able and will keep these journals separate from my personal and business musings as much as possible. I will also include the remembrances of others with whom I have spoken and copy sections from others’ works when their words help in the understanding of events.)

There is a large, heavy chair that sits in Rich’s room next to a table where he spends hours writing letters and legal opinions (when still consulted). I asked Martin and Edward to help me move the chair next to the bed before Rich dismissed them. I added a cushion to the seat and wrapped myself in a fur rug that Rich had pushed to the side.

Are you finally settled? he inquired with not too much displeasure.

I nodded.

Let us then begin with the subject of your rather rude question from yesterday: Thomas More. Whom else have you been seeing besides William Roper?

I decided to tell him of the least of my contacts, Margaret Giggs Clement and Mary Walsingham Mildmay.

He was surprised at Mary’s knowledge. I told him how close she’d been to her uncle, Sir Edmund Walsingham, after the death of her father, William, when she was age 11. Her uncle served as Lieutenant of the Tower for 23 years during which time many important prisoners including More had been under his charge. Mary dwelt in our household for about 3 years before her marriage and, as we are the same age, we became great friends. Whenever she’d return from a visit with her uncle, Aunt Katherine and their family in their apartments in the Tower, she’d recount every detail. We delighted in frightening ourselves with stories of the dungeons.

Rich knows that Margaret Giggs Clement is a kinswoman of Thomas More and was raised in his family. More insisted that Holbein include her in the portrait of the family. Rich did not know that she still has all More’s letters, including the one he wrote her just before his execution. She also has both his hair-shirt and the bloodstained shirt in which he died. She inherited the latter on the death of More’s daughter, Margaret More Roper, in 1544. The daughter sent it in thanks for Margaret Giggs’ accompaniment of More to his execution. All are treated by Giggs as relics. Rumor has it that she also possesses More’s skull, recovered from London Bridge, but I’m sure William Roper has it.

I told Rich of Margaret’s initial hostility to my inquiries that later evolved into determination to convert me to her and Roper’s beliefs in More’s sainthood both during my visit to her home and after. I did not tell him of the letters she sent to me. I have kept those hidden in fear of their accusations bringing treasonous suspicions on our family.

Rich’s countenance conveyed his displeasure with my contacts but he opted to speak of his memories instead. "Both More’s and my family lived in the Parish of St. Lawrence Jewry in the heart of the City of London. My grandfather is buried in the church.

"More was 16 years older than I. Our families were acquainted but he and I had little reason to converse until I began to read law at the Middle Temple. There we occasionally spoke more from necessity than from desire. More disapproved of every pleasure in which a young man might partake in his formative years. I ignored his admonishments, determined to find my own path.

"More’s handling of the May Day Riot of 1517 was my first experience with a side of More I’d grown to suspect. Many foreign businessmen had premises in the City. Poor economic conditions existed at the time for reasons that needn’t be recounted here. Suffice it to say the natives of London blamed the foreigners for their woes. There was regular fighting between the two groups during the month of April.

"As Londoners gathered for the annual May Day festivities serious rioting began. More, then Under Sheriff of the City, and his men tried to disperse the mobs who were attacking both the persons and premises of anyone remotely imagined to be foreign. The method More used was to simply arrest anyone within reach. Over four hundred in one night.

A curfew was called for the 30th of April but too late in the day to be effective. The streets were heaving with locals ready for another battle.

Rich asked for a glass of wine. I poured one for each of us then returned to my chair. He took a long drink then continued. "I was walking home after spending some time with my friends in the Hand and Shears on Noble Street. There’d been some talk of a nine o’clock curfew but none of us had paid much mind to such interfering nonsense. I could hear shouting over toward St. Martin’s-le-Grand but thought the problems with the foreigners were not mine. I’ve always chosen fights that suited my advancement, not that of others, so I turned down Forster Lane.

"We were then living on Watlinge Street, which meant I had to cross Cheapside. Just as I got to the corner a mob carrying torches and staves came racing toward me, breaking into properties, grabbing anyone they didn’t recognize. I backed into a darkened doorway around on Forster, hoping they’d stream past, which they did.

But then, following, came the Mayor and his band, one of whom spied me and yanked me from my hiding place, screaming I was under arrest. I began to argue when along came More. He recognized me, stuck his face an inch from mine, glared at me for some time before he backed away and ordered my release. ‘He’s a wastrel but not a rioter. Besides, he’s too drunk and whored-out to do any damage.’ He looked me straight in the eye and spat his words, ‘I won’t forget you though. If I ever learn you have anything to do with treasonous business, I’ll hang you myself.’

Rich took another drink from his glass, I never forgot his threat, he growled.

I intervene here to observe how often people experience an incident in their lives that they recount over and over again, not because the actual event was truly important but due to its personal impact. Rich has retold this three-minute encounter in a variety of ways but always with the same anger.

I now know the first I heard the story was the day in 1526 when Rich lost his bid for the office of Common Sergeant of London to William Walsingham. Rich was angry at what he perceived to be the establishment’s conspiracy against his candidacy. His supporters at an earlier meeting of the Common Council were of equal number to Walsingham’s but the council deferred their decision until this date by which time letters had arrived from both King Henry and Queen Katherine supporting the Walsingham appointment.

That day Rich raged against any number of people but then yelled-out the story, already nine years past, of More in the darkened lane. I was 4 years old and frightened of his emotions as I cringed behind mother. Over the years I have heard other versions, including some with graphic descriptions of the female servers at the alehouse when he thought he and his male associates were outside the earshot of the family. In the end, though, the anger about More has always been the same.

Rich digressed in his story to describe the cold joy More displayed twelve years after the riot when he signed Wolsey’s impeachment charges and of More’s lack of sympathy when the old Cardinal died at Leicester after being stripped of all his possessions and powers. "More, always dreaming of Utopia, lecturing about God’s love and man’s striving for perfection. Sanctimonious - at the same time he intensified his persecution of those he declared heretics. But, Rich waved his hand in dismissal, that’s a tale for another time."

Rich continued, "I did learn from More. How to read a monarch’s moods. How to play one courtier against another. How to insure notice by those in power. I listened to the way More spoke and watched the manner in which he carried himself both in the company of his superiors and those in lessor positions. I saw how his arrogance and inflexibility destroyed him. I did learn.

"It was 1527, just after our Agnes was born, that I wrote to Cardinal Thomas Wolsey, then the most powerful man in the country, second only to the King. I had learned of Wolsey’s passionate desire to achieve specific reforms of common law but also of his being too busy with other pressing matters to properly attend to the work. I agonized over that letter as I knew any possibility for employment with him depended on the exact wording.

"In the letter I requested a private meeting as I knew if Wolsey heard my remedies for the legal abuses that concerned him, I could convince him of my usefulness in his employ. That letter and the meeting it secured sealed my future, the family’s future.

"I can still see More’s face on my first day at court in Wolsey’s entourage. More sneered, of course, as More had already planned Wolsey’s downfall – I’d heard of More’s lies about Wolsey in the House of Lords even as he was bullying Wolsey out of his Battersea house - and More assumed I’d fall with Wolsey. But I knew of the King’s determination to marry Boleyn.

In Wolsey’s service I witnessed his frustrations with the Papal stubbornness regarding King Henry’s divorce, the duplicity of the Emperor Charles and the discontent of the populace over taxes. I also saw repeated episodes of Wolsey’s humiliation by the King. God, what a temper King Henry had! Rich sat for some time with that thought.

He spoke quietly, "Early in my service I saw the necessity to integrate myself into the circle around Thomas Cromwell, Wolsey’s most trusted aide. Cromwell soon recognized my talents and in 1529 recommended my appointment as the Commissioner of Sewers. In that position I was safe from Wolsey’s wake when he sank in 1530.

"To this day I am amazed at how completely More failed to read the King’s obsession with Boleyn and begetting a legitimate male heir. As usual More thought his beliefs of the God-given powers and rights of the Pope mattered more than the King’s determination for the marriage. More seemed certain that the King would eventually accept defeat. More thought himself indispensable.

"Worse for More, he believed his political skills superior to Cromwell’s. He was certain he would be able to out-maneuver his chief rival. But Cromwell knew the King. To insure his power-base, Cromwell aligned himself with Thomas Howard, Duke of Norfolk, who was determined to marry his niece, Anne Boleyn, to King Henry.

It took an additional two years of Cromwell’s whispering into the King’s ear but eventually More sealed his own fate. After dismissal as Lord Chancellor, a sensible man would have retired into silence but not More.

I interrupted, Your retirement has been very silent.

And the success of that strategy is apparent. Look at your brother’s prominent position in Her Majesty’s court. Our family owns over 60 estates in Essex. The school is very popular. The income from the Smithfield properties and the annual Fair alone more than provide for our comforts. I would have gained nothing if I’d been as open with my thoughts as More or Fisher.

Did you agree with them?

There were no improprieties in King Henry’s first marriage, but a male heir was mandatory. Look at the chaos that followed King Edward’s death. The majority of the monasteries were ripe for reforming and King Henry needed their wealth to pay for his wars. But, I believe that if Pope Clement had allowed the divorce we’d all still be praying in Latin.

Still? I stupidly wondered aloud.

Our eyes met and without word we dropped the subject.

More’s own words cost him his head, not what I said. What the King already knew.

Rich squirmed in his bed. I helped him adjust the pillows until he was sitting more comfortably. After I returned to my chair, he leaned forward and stared into my eyes. I’ll never forget how he called me a liar in front of the entire Court. I hear his words, ‘I am more sorry for your perjury than for my own peril … neither I nor no man else to my knowledge ever took you to be a man of credit … you were always esteemed very light of tongue …’ How I hated him, despised his condescending attitude. I made certain I was at the Tower for his execution. I followed him up Tower Hill, to the scaffold. To the end he was determined to demonstrate his intellectual superiority with what he believed were humorous remarks. More even sneered at Humphrey Monmouth, a man More himself had falsely imprisoned! God’s name! When that axe fell -

I said, Roper’s written that you lied at the trial. That More never admitted out loud that he denied the Supremacy of the King as Head of the Church.

Rich waved his hand in dismissal, "More fell back on the old, ‘He that holds his tongue is taken to consent’. He said he’d never spoken against the Oath of Supremacy to any living man. Prevarication on a grand scale!

Everyone knew More was in the Tower for not taking the Oath. Just like John Fisher. Both knew it was high treason to refuse. At least Fisher admitted that he firmly believed that the King was not the Supreme Head on Earth of the Church of England. Said it out loud to me.

I asked, Did Bishop Fisher think he was saying it to the King using you simply as the messenger?

Rich snorted, Fisher knew the King would have his head as soon as Pope Paul sent Fisher the Cardinal’s hat. The Pope sealed Fisher’s fate. Fisher said what he believed. More believed it but thought he could save his head by equivocation. Audley, Howard, Fitzjames, all the rest of the Court saw through More’s game and finally forced the truth from his lips. More denied Parliament had the authority to transfer Papal powers to the King. He declared the Act of Supremacy to be unlawful, that after seven years of study he never could find any way that a layman could be the Head of the Church. Said it was unfounded in Scripture. The man’s arrogance was unbounded!

At this point Rich became very pale and trembled violently. He accepted my recommendation that we stop our conversation and rest.

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Last February I wrote to Mary Mildmay asking if I might visit on my next trip into London. The Mildmay’s house is in the old frater and cloister of what once was the Priory of St. Bartholomew’s, across from our family’s townhouse, the old Prior’s residence.

I’d warned her in my letter that I was trying to understand my father’s