The King's Curse Read online

  “My son! Oh, my son!”

  “Lady Mother, blessings of the season.”

  “Happy Christmas, Montague. Have you just come from the North?”

  “I rode down with Robert Aske himself,” he says.

  “He’s here? The pilgrims are in London?”

  “He’s bidden to court. He is the king’s guest at the Christmas feast. He is honored.”

  I hear his words but I cannot believe them. “The king has asked Robert Aske, the leader of the pilgrims, to court for Christmas?”

  “As a loyal subject, as an advisor.”

  I put out my hand to my son. “The pilgrim leader and the king?”

  “It is peace. It is victory.”

  “I can’t believe that our troubles are over.”

  “Amen,” he says. “Who would have believed it?”

  L’ERBER, LONDON, JANUARY–FEBRUARY 1537

  Montague goes to court himself the next day, taking Harry with him, who trots in his train, very solemn and serious, and when he comes back at the end of the twelve days of Christmas he comes straight to my private rooms to tell me about the meeting between the king and the pilgrim.

  “He spoke to the king with unbelievable frankness. You would not think it possible.”

  “What did he say?”

  Montague glances around, but only my granddaughters are with me, and a couple of ladies, and besides, the time for fearing spies is over.

  “He told His Majesty to his face that he was there only to tell him the hearts of the people, and that they cannot tolerate Cromwell as an advisor.”

  “Was Cromwell there, listening to this?”

  “Yes. That’s what made it so brave. Cromwell was furious, swore that all northern men were traitors—and the king looked from one to the other and put his arm around Robert Aske’s shoulders.”

  “The king favored Aske over Cromwell?”

  “In front of everyone.”

  “Cromwell must be beside himself.”

  “He’s afraid. Think of what happened to his master, Wolsey! If the king turns against him, he has no friends. Thomas Howard would see him hanged on his own scaffold tomorrow. He has invented laws that can be bent to catch anyone. If he is caught in his own net, none of us would lift a hand to save him.”

  “And the king?”

  “Gave Aske his own jacket, scarlet satin. Gave him the gold chain from his neck. Asked him what he wanted. My God, but he’s a brave man, that Yorkshireman! He bent the knee but he lifted his head and he spoke to the king without fear. He said that Cromwell was a tyrant and the men he had thrown out of the monasteries were good men, thrown into poverty by Cromwell’s greed, and the people of England could not live without the abbeys. He said that the Church is the heart of England; it cannot be attacked without hurting us all. The king listened to him, listened to every word, and at the end of it he said that he would make him one of the council.”

  I break off to look at Harry’s bright face. “Did you see him? Did you hear this?”

  He nods. “He’s very quiet and you don’t notice him at first, but then you see that he’s the most important person there. And he is nice to look at though he’s blinded in one eye. He’s quiet and smiling. And he’s really brave.”

  I turn back to Montague. “I see he’s very taking. But—a privy councillor?”

  “Why not? He’s a Yorkshire gentleman, a kin to the Seymours, better born than Cromwell. But anyway, he refused. Think of it! He bowed and said that it wasn’t necessary. What he wants is a free Parliament, and that the council should be governed by the old lords, not new upstarts. And the king said that he will hold a free Parliament at York to show his goodwill, and the queen will be crowned there, and the Church convocation will meet there to declare their learning.”

  For a moment I am stunned at this change, then, at Montague’s quiet certainty, I make the sign of the cross and I bow my head for a moment. “Everything we have ever asked for.”

  “More,” my son confirms. “More than we dreamed of asking, more than we imagined the king would ever grant.”

  “What more?” I ask.

  Montague beams at me. “Reginald is waiting to be called. He’s in Flanders, a day’s sail away. The moment that the king sends for him, he will come and restore the Church to England.”

  “The king will send for him?”

  “He will appoint him as the cardinal for the restoration.”

  I am so amazed at the thought of Reginald coming home with honor, to put everything to rights, that I close my eyes for a moment and give thanks to God who has allowed me long enough life to see this. “How has this come about?” I ask Montague. “Why is the king doing this, and so easily?”

  Montague nods; he has thought about this too. “I think that he finally understands that he has gone too far. I think Aske told him of the numbers of the pilgrim army and their simple hopes. Aske said that they love the king but blame Cromwell, and the king wants to be loved more than anything. In Aske he sees a good man, a man of principle who is representing good men. He sees a good Englishman, ready to love and follow a good king, driven to rebellion by intolerable changes. When he met Aske, he saw another way to be beloved, he saw another way to be kingly. He can throw Cromwell’s reputation to them as a sop, he can restore the monasteries. He loves the Church himself, he loves the pilgrim ways. He’s never stopped his observance of the liturgy or the rituals. It’s as if he suddenly sees a new part in a masque—the king who makes everything well again.”

  Montague pauses for a moment, puts a gentle hand on his little son’s shoulder. “Or perhaps, Lady Mother, it’s even better than this. Perhaps I am speaking bitterly when I should see a miracle has happened in my lifetime. Perhaps the light has shone on the king, perhaps at last God really has spoken to him, and he has truly changed his mind. Then God be praised, for He has saved England.”

  I am normally melancholy in the cold days after the feast of Christmas. The thought of the long winter stretches before me, and I cannot imagine spring. Even when the snow melts on the roof and drips into the gutters I don’t think of warmer weather, but gather my furs around me and know that there are many days and weeks of damp and gray mornings before the weather lifts. The thick ice melts and releases the river which is gray and angry, the deep snow clouds roll away from the sky to leave a light which is cold and hard. Normally, at this time of year I huddle indoors and complain if anyone leaves a door open anywhere in the house. I can feel the draft, I tell them. I can feel it on my ankles, chilling my feet.

  But this year I am contented, like a spoiled cat, soothed by the fire, watching the sleet patter against the window where my grandson Harry draws in the mist on the windowpanes. This year I imagine Robert Aske riding north, greeted at every inn and house along the way by people wanting to know the news, and him telling them that the king has come to his senses, that the queen is to be crowned in York, that the king has promised a free Parliament, and that the abbeys are to be restored to the faithful.

  I imagine the monks who hang around the old buildings, begging where they once served, gathering around his horse and asking him to tell them again, to swear that it is true. I think of them opening the doors of the chapel, kneeling before the space where the altar was, promising that they will start again, tolling the bell for the first service. And I think of Robert showing them his golden chain and telling them the king took it from his own neck to put around his shoulders, and told him it was a sign of his favor and offered him a seat on the Privy Council.

  But then we hear of odd reports. Some of the pilgrims who had taken a general pardon seem to have broken the terms of their truce, and are in arms again. Thomas Howard arrests half a dozen ill doers and sends their names to Thomas Cromwell—and Thomas Cromwell is still in office.

  Some of the gentlemen and most of the northern lords go to talk with Thomas Howard, Duke of Norfolk, and share their concerns about the North becoming unruly in this feast of freedom. Robert Aske assures them