respect her reserve. She must not suffer—nor the King through her—the pain and scandal of divorce. How did one rid oneself of a wife one no longer wants, if not by divorce?
Cromwell knew a great deal about the peculiar burden of the King’s—his conscience. Cromwell knew that it was capable of unexpected twists and turns; Cromwell knew that it must always be placated, and how comparatively easy it was to placate it; how one turned a subject to show the side which the conscience might like and approve; how one carefully covered that which was unpleasant. The conscience was obliging; it could be both blind and deaf when the need arose; therefore, he did not propose to lose much sleep over that accommodating creature.
Cromwell decided to favor alliance with Spain. The Emperor was a better ally than Francis; alliance with the French had never brought gain to England. Henry had been very difficult at the meeting—which had seemed to Cromwell and to most of the counsellors deplorable. It showed cunning Cromwell one thing—the King was still under the influence of Anne. In spite of Jane Seymour, he would listen to Anne; in spite of her failure to give him an heir, he still hankered after her. It was an alarming state of affairs; Cromwell knew his master well enough to realize that if something was not soon done, he would have Henry throwing aside Jane Seymour, buying fresh holy relics, reconciling himself to his black-browed witch, in one more effort to get himself a son. Were the Queen secure again, what would happen to Thomas Cromwell? What had happened to Thomas Wolsey! It was not so long ago that one could forget.
There must be alliance with Spain, for it meant the downfall of Anne; how disconcerting therefore, when the King must abuse the Emperor before Chapuys himself, must recall all he had done to delay the divorce, must announce here and now that not for a hundred alliances would he give way to Rome! He had made himself head of the Church, and head of the Church he would stay. If there was any humility to be shown, then Emperor Charles must show it. He even went so far as to tell Chapuys that he believed Francis had first claim on Burgundy and Milan.
This seemed to Cromwell sheer folly. The King was not acting with that shrewdness a statesman must always display. Henry was smarting under insults which he had received from Clement and Paul and Charles. He was not thinking of the good of England; he could only think: “They want my friendship—these people who have been against me, who have worked against me, who have humiliated me for years!”
Anne had said: “Ah! So you would be friends with your enemies as soon as they whistle for you, would you! Have you forgotten the insults of Clement? And why did he insult us? Would Clement have dared, had he not been supported? And by whom was he supported? By whom but this Charles who now comes and asks for your friendship, and in a manner that is most haughty! Oh, make friends, accept your humble role, remember not the insults to your kingship, to your Queen!”
He had ever been afraid of her tongue; it could find his weakness. Well he knew that she feared alliance with Spain more than anything, for it would mean her personal defeat; they had humiliated him and her, and as he had made her Queen, insults to her were insults to him. They had doubly insulted him!
This he remembered as he paced the floor with Chapuys, as he talked to Cromwell and Audley—that chancellor who had followed More—both of whom were urging him to sink his grievances and snatch a good thing while he could. But no! It was the Emperor who must come humbly to him. The egoist was wounded; he needed the sweet balm of deference from one he feared to be more mighty than himself, to lay upon his wounds.
Cromwell, for the first time in a long obsequious association, lost his temper; his voice cracked as he would explain; Cromwell and the King shouted at each other.
“Danger, Cromwell! Danger!” said a small voice inside the man, and he had to excuse himself and move away that he might regain control of his temper. He was trembling from head to foot at his folly; he was sick with fear and anger. How simple to abandon his quarrel with Rome! What need to continue it now Katharine was dead. Only the gratification of Henry’s personal feelings came into this. Anne and her supporters were at the bottom of it; they would keep alive the King’s anger. Could it be that Anne’s falling into disfavor really was but a temporary thing? Such thoughts were fraught with great terror for Thomas Cromwell. For the first time in his career with the King, he must act alone; thus he feigned sickness that he might shut himself away from the King, that he might make a plan, study its effect, its reverberations, from all sides before daring to put it into practice.
He emerged from his isolation one mild April day, and asked for permission to see the King.
The King scowled at him, never liking him, liking him less remembering the man’s behavior when he had last seen him. He, who had ever been meek and accommodating, daring to shout at him, to tell him he was wrong! Was this secretary—whom he had made his vicar-general—was humble Thomas Cromwell a spy of Chapuys!
“Sir,” said Thomas Cromwell, “I am perplexed.”
His Majesty grunted, still retaining his expression of distaste.
“I would have Your Majesty’s permission to exceed the powers I now enjoy.”
Henry regarded his servant with some shrewdness. Why not? he wondered. He knew his Cromwell—cunning as a fox, stealthy as a cat; since he had attained to great power, he had his spies everywhere; if one wanted to know anything, the simplest way was to ask Cromwell; with speed and efficiency he would bring the answer. He was the most feared man at court. A good servant, thought Henry, though a maddening one; and there’ll come a day, was the royal mental comment, when he’ll anger me so much by his uncouth manners and his sly, cunning ways, that I’ll have his head off his shoulders . . . and doubtless be sorry afterwards, for though he creeps and crawls and is most wondrous sly, I declare he knows what he is about.
Cromwell should have his special powers. Cromwell bowed low and retired well pleased.
A few nights later, he asked Mark Smeaton to come up to dinner at his house at Stepney.
When Mark Smeaton received an invitation to dine at the house of the King’s secretary, he was delighted. Here was great honor indeed. The Queen had shown him favor, and now here was Master Secretary Thomas Cromwell himself seeking his company!
It must be, thought Mark, my exceptional skill at music—though he had not known that Master Cromwell was fond of music. He knew very little of Cromwell; he had seen him now and then at the court, his cold eyes darting everywhere, and he had shivered a little for he had heard it said that none was too insignificant to be of interest to that man. He would know a good deal of most people, and usually of matters they would prefer to keep secret; and every little piece of information he gathered, he would store, cherishing it until he might lay it beside another bit of information, and so make up a true picture of what was happening at court.
Mark had never been so happy as he had this last year or so. He had begun life most humbly in his father’s cottage; he had watched his father at work on his bench, mending chairs and such things as people brought to him to be mended. He had heard music in his father’s saw and plane; he had heard music in his mother’s spinning wheel. Mark had been born with two great gifts—beauty and a love of music. He had a small pointed face with great luminous dark eyes, and hair that hung in curls about his face; his hands were delicate, his fingers tapering; his skin was white. He had danced gracefully from the time he was a small boy, though he had never been taught to dance.
