The Cromwell Enigma: A Tudor Mystery

By Derek Wilson

July 1540. The courts of Europe are stunned to hear that Henry VIII has executed his all-powerful minister, Thomas Cromwell.

Poet and classicist Nicholas Bourbon is sent from the cultured court of Queen Marguerite of Navarre to investigate. Thrust into a turbulent world of religious, political and personal rivalries, his travels take him far and wide. He endures perils at sea, incarceration in a monastic prison and poisonous intrigue in the Tudor court. Yet this retiring scholar cannot abandon a quest which steadily becomes an obsession, drawing him ever deeper into the beliefs and motivations of his mysterious quarry.

Only after facing many hazards does he discover the astonishing secret that unlocks the Cromwell enigma.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Marylebone House
• Release date: Sep 17, 2020
• ISBN: 9781910674536

Derek Wilson

Popular historian Derek Wilson came to prominence 40 years ago with A Tudor Tapestry. He is the highly acclaimed author of over 50 books and has written and presented numerous television and radio programmes. He lives and writes in Devon.

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Introduction

Over the last few years numerous works of fact and fiction have been published about Thomas Cromwell. No, let me rephrase that: over the last few years numerous works of fact and fiction have been published about the last two dec­ades of the life of Thomas Cromwell. This remarkable man (the most important non-royal Englishman of the first half of the sixteenth century) lived from c. 1485 to 1540. Yet historians and novelists have been hard put to it to tell us anything about the years before he entered the service of Cardinal Wolsey in the early 1520s and began his ­meteoric rise to power. The reason is simple: we have virtually no written evidence to draw on. Cromwell himself is largely to blame for this dearth. He was very reticent about his origins and formative years. To his contemporaries Cromwell was an infuriating enigma. How could a nobody from ­Putney sever England from obedience to the Pope, pull down all the monasteries, reallocate most of the nation’s landed wealth among the nobility and gentry, strip the Church of tradition-hallowed adornments, make the Bible available to all the king’s subjects in their mother tongue and nudge ­England politically towards the heretical regimes in ­Germany? And not only ‘how’ but ‘why’.

The answers to that must lie in the hidden years – years during which a teenage Cromwell left England for Renaissance Italy, gained hands-on experience of ­international commerce and commercial law, established himself as a widely travelled, self-employed merchant-cum-advocate and brought himself to the attention of the great Cardinal Wolsey. By then he was already in his late thirties, his political and religious convictions well formed and deeply felt. Who was this man? What made him tick? We do not know. We can only speculate. But speculation is part of the novel­ist’s stock-in-trade. What follows, therefore, is an exercise in guesswork, a completely fictional account of what might have happened to turn the Putney runaway into the primary architect of the English Reformation. It is a made-up story and, as such, its primary objective is to entertain; to persuade you, the reader, to willingly suspend disbelief and enter into the adventures and misadventures of its characters.

However, to provide some points of contact with real history I have sprinkled the narrative with a few salient quotations from contemporary documents. They are enclosed in boxes to make them distinct from the main text. They might, perhaps, be thought of as signposts along the road travelled by the main characters, pointing to other events happening at the time – events of which they would have been aware. I hope they will not be seen as irritating interruptions to the story. Readers are, of course, at liberty to ignore them. I have also included at the end of the book some notes on historical characters, so that readers may be clear about who is real and who is made up.

1

How it came to pass

On Nicholas Bourbon

Beside you I am lowly and humble,

Just as lead is duller than silver,

Which is more resonant.

(Clément Marot)

There were three of us there when the news first arrived. Three of us – all poets. Well, Claude d’Ebret thinks himself a poet and Clément Marot and I humour him. ’Tis useful to keep him sweet. As palace chamberlain he has easy ­access to Queen Marguerite. There we were then, that languid, breathless afternoon, sitting in the courtyard of the Auberge des Larmes d’Or at Nérac, enjoying the shade of the great mulberry tree and solemnly debating what had become of the sestina. Clément was incensed by the Italian ‘whoremongers’ who had debased this verse form perfected by our troubadours. Claude thought Clément oversensitive. And I? Well, it was too hot to argue. Even Alphonse, usually busy keeping his territory free from avarian intruders, lacked the energy to strut. He loitered by the water trough and merely glanced at the doves who fluttered down from the branches. Alphonse? Oh, he is the innkeeper’s prize cockerel.

Was it the wine? The innkeeper’s cousin produced the best Buzet in the whole region. Was it Clément’s sonorous voice? Or just the July heat? Whatever it was, I fought a losing ­battle with drowsiness. It was the clatter of hooves and the shouts of muleteers that prodded me back into consciousness. A train of some dozen beasts had entered the yard, led by two merchants who wearily dismounted from their ­horses. Brushing the dust from their jerkins and breeches, they bustled into the inn, eager to slake their thirst.

‘Parisians!’ Claude sniffed his disapproval.

‘How do you know?’ I asked.

Clément laughed. ‘He can smell ’em with that big nose of his.’

Claude ignored the jibe. ‘I know because I recognize the tall one. Deals in silks and satins. Comes here this time every year with the latest fashions for the queen and her ladies.’

Clément stood up and swung his leg over the bench. ‘Then it behoves us to give them a warm Aquitanian welcome.’ He made to follow the strangers inside. In the doorway he turned. ‘And to catch up on the latest gossip from the north.’

And so it was we heard the extraordinary news. The seemingly all-powerful Englishman, Lord Cromwell, was fallen from power and imprisoned by his king. Clément brought the travellers to our table and we plied them with questions.

‘When was this?’

‘We think around midsummer, though the news has been slow coming, thanks to storms in the Narrows.’ The tall Frenchman, introduced to us as Pierre Tracard, thumped his empty beer tankard on the table and nodded to Claude for a refill.

‘You’re sure that ’tis not a mere rumour put about by his enemies?’ I asked.

‘Jesus knows he has those in plenty.’ Tracard’s companion, whose name I do not recall after this passage of time, eased the supple kid gloves from his fingers. ‘The nobility of the court have always resented him.’

‘Norfolk,’ I muttered.

‘Aye, him above all. They say he’s dangling another of his nieces before King Harry as marriage bait.’

‘But sure he’s wed to the German princess from Cleves,’ I protested.

‘Some say she’ll not last the summer.’ The smaller man reinforced the statement with a loud belch.

‘In the devil’s name!’ Clément exclaimed. ‘How many wives does that barrel-belly want?’

‘Well,’ Claude said, ‘he relies on Cromwell too much to leave him long out of favour.’

Tracard shrugged. ‘Haply you know the king better. ’Tis many a year that I was in London. What I can say is that I had the news from one of Cromwell’s intimates, a priest who fled England fearing a new wave of heresy-hunting.’

We plied the visitors with more questions but there was nothing else of moment they could add.

When our informants had left to see to the unpacking of their merchandise the three of us sat for some moments in thoughtful silence. It was Clément who spoke the question in all our minds. ‘I wonder if she’s heard. I think she will not lament the news. Is that not so, Nicholas?’

But my mind was elsewhere. At a well-spread table in a fine London mansion some five years earlier at the end of 1534. I recalled seven or so earnest men gathered around it: courtiers, clerics, merchants, lawyers – but scholars all. Scholars and Bible men. For it was God’s word we discussed and our stocky, genial chairman skilfully presided over the debate, drawing contributions from all. Only occasionally did royal secretary Thomas Cromwell proffer an observation of his own, but when he did so it was crisp and to the point.

‘What say you, Nicholas?’

My mind returned to the present moment and faces turned towards me awaiting a response.

‘My pardon, Clément. I was just reflecting—’

‘I suggested that the queen would not be overly dismayed to hear of Cromwell’s fall.’

‘Because of his part in the Boleyn girl’s death?’

‘Be not so sure.’ Claude shook his head. ‘She admires his tenacity in defence of true religion, particularly since the bringing-out of the English Bible last year.’

‘That may be so but either way she should be told this latest news before wild rumours start flying around the palace.’

‘Aye,’ Claude agreed, ‘and told by someone who knows the Tudor court well.’

I looked up to see my friends once more looking expectantly at me. I was not so rash as to claim familiarity with the English royal household but I had spent ­several ­happy months as the guest of Queen Anne before her ­sudden fall from power. My name is Nicholas Bourbon, subject of Francis, King of France, and currently serving in the court of his sister Marguerite, Queen of the small kingdom of Navarre. My principal responsibility was as tutor to ­Princess Jeanne, but the queen, who could justly boast the most enlightened salon north of the Alps, liked to include me among her retinue in her court at Nérac.

Marguerite, Queen of Navarre, wife to Henry II of the house of Alba, was sitting in the bower she had had built against the low wall bordering this part of the chateau garden. She prized solitude and often dismissed her ladies to come to this retreat. Her only companions now were the two ­lapdogs that lay together at her feet. No sounds intruded on this peaceful scene, save the buzzing of insects, ­occasional birdsong and the languid rippling of the River Baïse beyond the wall. I crossed the lawn and paused several paces from the arbour. The queen sat still, her intense gaze fixed on something beyond the garden. It was as though, far from occupying a place in a peaceful setting, Marguerite herself radiated tranquillity. The moment did not last. One of her dogs raised its head towards me with a protective bark.

The queen turned, smiling with her cornflower eyes. ‘Ah, and here is my poet, come to make all complete. Sit by me, Nicholas. I’ve been watching the young trout hiding and foraging down there among the stones on the river bed. I will point them out to you and you shall write a sonnet about them.’

There was something almost girlish about this mature and still beautiful woman in her simple green gown with its matching hood. She pointed towards a spot close to the far bank. ‘Look, there, by that rock that stands up like a rearing horse. They like the shade. And the reeds. See how their markings merge with the plants. Oh, what a clever God we have, Nicholas.’

Then, on the instant, her tone changed. She peered at me with a questioning frown. ‘But you are distrait – troubled, perhaps. Has our daughter been trying your patience? You must be firm with her. Keep her to her Latin.’

‘No, Highness, I assure you Jeanne is an apt pupil. A mite headstrong, perhaps, now that she is on the verge of woman­hood, but—’

‘Then it must be that you come bearing some other news – news I think that does not please you.’

‘News that puzzles me, Highness. I know not what to make of it.’ Briefly I passed on what the Parisians had reported.

She made no immediate response, either by word or by gesture, her face expressionless.

Then, a long sigh. ‘When the moth comes too close to the candle. What was it our friend Thomas Wyatt wrote – circa regna tonat*? He was thinking then of poor Anne Boleyn.’

‘You were very fond of her,’ I ventured.

‘A great loss to us and a gain to heaven.’ The reply was immediate, readily to hand from her casket of consolations. She turned to gaze once more at the slow-moving river. ‘So spirited. So intelligent. Of all the girls who have passed through the French court . . . How long is it since she left and won the heart of a king – fifteen years? No, eighteen. Yet I still see her vividly, as though she was standing beside you. A bright butterfly. A lively dancer. Such an infectious laugh. But not empty-headed, like so many English girls sent here to be trained. She read widely. Her conversation was always stimulating. And she was devout. I missed her when she went to Henry’s court. Would to God the ship carrying her had foundered in mid-Channel.’ She clenched her eyes and shook her head violently. ‘No, I should not say that or even think it. We must believe that in the divine Providence she played the part ordained for her.’

‘She touched many lives for good. I am just one of them. Were it not for her intervention, hers and Cromwell’s . . .’ I saw again the water-stained walls of my Paris cell, felt my wrists, sore from being bound by the ecclesiastical tormentors, knew once more the fear pangs in my stomach at the prospect of the heretics’ fire. ‘That was before their falling-­out. If they had not both intervened from distant London to you and His Majesty . . .’

Marguerite laid a hand on mine. ‘Would that we could have done the same for Anne at her time of need.’ ­Another silence. Then the queen continued. ‘We failed Anne. ­Perhaps we may do better for Thomas. He is in Henry’s infamous London Tower, you say?’

‘The story may be exaggerated, Highness. The King of England is unpredictable. People readily believe anything about him. We may learn tomorrow that Lord Cromwell is back in favour.’

‘God a mercy!’ The queen’s oath startled me. She was a stranger to profanity. ‘Politics and truth. The wolf and the lamb – will they ever lie together?’

On Human Folly

We lack understanding – fearing civil laws,

Popes and kings and town councils,

Tortures, gibbets and prison fetters,

As long as our fear stifles the truth.

If we lift our eyes to our [divine] election

We shall not fear the condemnation

That men can pronounce upon us.

Death marks but the end of torment

Grasping the truth that the eternal God

Has cancelled death in us

Must bring us peace

He who knows how to live truly understands:

Believing that the power of men

Is powerless against the will of God.

(Marguerite of Navarre)

‘Only in the last days, according to the prophet Isaiah.’

She nodded and breathed a long sigh. ‘Socrates.’ The word was no more than a whisper, so that I was sure I must have misheard it. She read my bewilderment. ‘Think you Socrates was right to be condemned?’ Before I could compose a reply, she stood abruptly. ‘The evening chill is upon us. We will go inside.’

As we made our way across the wide lawn the queen said, ‘I think you are surprised that I wish this man no harm because of his part in Anne Boleyn’s death.’

‘A little.’

‘Yet you have always spoken highly of him.’

‘In the brief months I knew him all those years ago I thought him a zealous man of faith. A man with many God-given gifts. Perhaps he sinned greatly by intriguing against Queen Anne, but there are other things I would set in the balance on his behalf – worldly monks turned out of their cloisters; preferment found for many godly men; the Bible given to all Englishmen to read in their own tongue. And not least that I owe him my freedom – and, perhaps, my life. To be overthrown by his enemies now—’

‘He is fortunate to have friends like you, Nicholas. Come, let us pray for him. That much we can do.’

The queen’s little oratory was, like Marguerite’s mind, bright-lit and uncluttered. Candles in sconces lined the walls but the altar itself carried only a silver crucifix on a plain linen cloth. A dozen velvet-covered chairs with kneeling cushions were the only other furnishings. No statues. No stained glass. Nothing to distract those who came here to meet with their Creator. Marguerite went and knelt at her prayer desk. I took a position close to the door, thinking of what she had said – and what she had not said. She has an extraordinary talent, not just for reading your thoughts, but for . . . well . . . directing them, leading them, as though they are attached to invisible thread which she can pull. A word, a flickering smile, a glance from those searching eyes and you find yourself taking a new viewpoint, questioning your certainties, confronting new possibilities.

She had received the news about Thomas Cromwell not with gratification nor with dismay, but yet not with emotionless indifference. The Englishman’s fate had brought to her mind the condemnation of Socrates. Why? Did she align Cromwell in her thinking with the great sage of ­Athens? The ancient philosopher was condemned – ­officially – for corrupting the youth of the city state and for heresy. What had he done to merit the ire of the Athenian rulers? Socrates had taught his students to question the actions of the ­ruling oligarchs and the omnipotence of the city’s gods. He had not opposed the authorities, but urging open-­mindedness was, for the tyrants, sufficient evidence of treason and heresy.

I summoned up five-year-old memories of those stimulating evenings spent at Cromwell’s house in London’s old Austin friary. Discussion had always been free once the servants had withdrawn and the doors were closed against prying ears. In those troubled times a man soon learned to guard his tongue – as I had learned in Paris all those years ago. But somehow in Cromwell’s sanctum visitors felt safe to speak their mind. It was said of Socrates that he wandered the market-places, not proffering wisdom for sale but asking questions and prompting men to find the answers within themselves. That, I now analysed, was Cromwell’s favoured technique. Sitting there in the hallowed silence of the chapel I realized, I think for the first time, that I had never heard Cromwell identify himself ­unequivocally with any disputed point of doctrine, but had drawn out from others what they believed; had encouraged us to find truth within ourselves. Could it be that his circumspection had, at last, failed him; that he had given voice to some conviction King Harry had chosen to regard as heresy – that could be construed as treason? Well, of course, there was the English Bible. Did it taste too much of heresy for King Harry’s stomach? Yet now—

A sudden hubbub interrupted my thoughts. Raised ­voices in the adjoining anteroom. I slipped out quickly and was confronted by a strange scene. Two of the palace guards – burly men armed with pikes – were defending themselves against a small countrywoman wielding a threshing flail. She was swinging the stick above her head with a circular motion, setting the swipple end humming through the air.

‘Let me through! Let me through!’ she cried over and again. In her hands the tool made a formidable weapon and the soldiers were having difficulty ducking beneath to grapple their assailant. At last one of them, casting his pike aside, was able to duck beneath the swirling flail and grab the woman round the waist. He held her firmly. His colleague brought the point of his pike to within a handspan of her stomach.

I strode up to him. ‘What’s to do? An assassin?’

The woman, straggle-haired and cheeks tear-stained, stared at me, imploring. ‘Sir, Sir, in God’s name tell the queen I must see her. ’Tis urgent!’

‘You must come in the morning with all the others.’ The guard was, with some difficulty, restraining his wriggling captive. ‘That is when Her Majesty holds audience.’

‘Too late! Too late,’ the woman screamed. ‘Best you should thrust home and kill me now!’ She tried to leap forward.

‘Tell me the matter,’ I demanded. ‘And, in sweet Jesu’s name, lower your voice. Would you disturb Her Majesty’s prayers?’

‘She’ll forgive that when she hears my story. Oh, Sir, beg her come forth. She’s my only hope and there’s so little time.’

‘Then tell me and I will report to Her Majesty as soon as she is free.’

But I did not have to play the role of messenger. I heard the door behind me open. The woman fell to her knees and let fall her flail. All our eyes turned to Marguerite.

‘What is your name?’ the queen asked softly.

‘Yvette de Somery, Majesty.’

‘Then come with me, Yvette, and explain your distress.’ Marguerite nodded to the guards, who allowed the ­intruder to stand but watched her closely.

For the first time I was able to look at her properly. A slim goodwife in her mid-twenties. Her clothes, though dishevelled, were not of coarse, peasant cloth. A craftsman’s wife then, or perhaps the spouse of a merchant of modest means. I turned to the queen. ‘Shall I attend, Your Highness?’

Marguerite shook her head. ‘No, Nicholas, thank you. This is women’s talk. I will think more of what you have told me and decide what can be done.’ She held out her hand to Yvette, who grasped it and held it to her lips.

The two of them went into the chapel and the guards closed the door behind them.

The summons was not slow in coming. I had scarcely broken my fast the following day when a page arrived with a note requesting my presence after the queen’s morning audience. He conveyed me to the Italian garden with its gravelled walks, hedged avenues and fountains.

‘All this Euclidean precision.’ The queen pointed to the box hedges arranged in their geometrical patterns. ‘Do you not find it helps you to think?’

‘I had not considered, Highness, but yes—’

‘And clear thinking is what we need. That and accurate information. What does this latest news mean? Is it just ­another of Harry England’s tantrums, or is Cromwell ­being discarded as a sop to the Emperor? What am I to tell my brother?’

‘To be sure, His Majesty will be well informed by the ambassador.’

‘Marillac?’ She gazed heavenwards. ‘If that young man was twice as clever as he thinks he is, he would still be a lubberwort. He only reports what the English want him to report. We need a better source of intelligence.’ She frowned and drummed her fingers on the low stone wall beside her.

Seldom had I seen her so troubled. To distract her I tried a change of subject. ‘The woman who was here last evening – were you able to offer her any comfort?’

‘Poor Yvette. Her husband, an honest weaver of Colignac, is in prison – victim of a prying, heresy-hunting priest. I have given her a letter ordering the authorities to release the prisoner into my custody.’

‘Then he will be safe.’

The queen shook her head. ‘I know not. These Pope’s spawn are growing daily more arrogant. They have friends at the French court. Nicholas, I have great fears for what lies ahead. That is why I need to know . . .’ She paused, staring at me intently. ‘If this news about Cromwell is true, does it mean that Henry is breaking off his alliance with the ­German Lutheran princes?’

‘The common word is that he is upset because the ­German princess does not . . . satisfy him.’

‘Pah!’ The queen scowled. ‘And that is cause enough to break faith with Duke William of Cleves-Jülich and abandon the anti-imperial league we have been striving for? All Christendom knows the King of England keeps his brains in his codpiece, but surely even he cannot be that foolish.’

‘You fear that if Henry returns to his old alliance with the Emperor we will all be dragged into another war?’

‘Not another war, Nicholas. A different kind of war. The ultimate blasphemy – a religious war.’

‘Oh, but surely . . .’

Marguerite stood up and continued her walk along the gravel path. ‘At times I wonder whether I am the only one who can see the abyss we are rushing towards like Gadarene swine. Fanaticism pours across Europe like searing streams of volcanic lava. Pope Paul confronts it with law courts and bonfires – as though a wall of murdered heretics could withstand it. Only the kings and princes have the power to avert catastrophe. We must ensure a balance of forces – France, England and the German Lutherans counterweighing Pope and Emperor.’

She turned abruptly. ‘Nicholas, that is why you must go to England as my secret envoy.’

I know not how long I stood there with my mouth open and no sound forthcoming. When I did find my voice I could only splutter incoherent protest. ‘I . . . envoy . . . I? Highness, I am no diplomat. Surely—’

‘Exactly!’ Her blue eyes had never blazed more ­intently. ‘You will simply be a traveller come to England to renew ­acquaintance with old friends. It will be only natural for you to enquire about Lord Cromwell’s situation. Please God you find him safe and free. Then you can discover from him exactly what the situation is.’

‘And if he is not safe and free?’

‘Then we will at least know which way King Henry’s grasshopper mind is jumping.’

‘Highness . . .’ I made a last attempt to free myself from the queen’s will. ‘There are surely others better suited to this mission. Clément Marot is here at the moment. He travels widely. He understands politics.’

‘And is known as a supposed heretic who has had to ­abjure his beliefs. England might not be safe for him at this time. No, you must go – and immediately. The task will only take a few days – weeks at most. I will have letters of introduction for you, and money for your journey. If you need more, Marillac will see to it. Come to me at this time tomorrow.’ She set off briskly along the path back to the chateau.

It was as I was about to follow that I heard a voice behind me. ‘She lies!’

I turned to see Princess Jeanne stepping from behind a laurel bush. She was slight and tall for her age. She came forward, tossing her head so that the uncoiffed, harvest-­coloured hair brushed her shoulders.

I put on my sternest voice, ‘Mistress, you offend in three ways. You must not speak so of your mother. It is wrong to eavesdrop. And you should be at your books.’

She pouted. ‘I knew you were talking about me. I have a right to know what you were saying.’

‘Then you must be disappointed. We were not talking about you.’

‘Oh yes, you were – but you know not that you were.’

‘Mistress, I am in no mood for riddles. Come, we will to the classroom and continue with our Ovid.’

Jeanne stood her ground. ‘You think my mother wants you in England to learn about the fate of this Cromwell. What she is really interested in is the king’s marriage to Anne of Cleves-Jülich.’

‘Since you know anyway, I need not deny that we spoke briefly of King Henry’s latest