‘I am confused,’ I said. ‘If His Majesty was so opposed to Tyndale, why did he send agents to intercede for him with the imperial authorities?’
‘There are two things you should know about our king. The first is that he is a great hater. He takes any kind of disagreement personally, as proof of disloyalty. You saw what happened to Queen Anne. God alone knows what she did to turn his passionate love into frenzied hatred. There was a time when the king was an admirer of Tyndale. He praised him to the heavens as a wise and godly scholar — as long as he thought this genius could be useful to him in his battle with the pope. I once carried a message from Cromwell begging Tyndale to come back and produce books supporting Henry’s governorship of the Church. He was promised a generous pension and every facility for his work. Then Tyndale committed the unforgivable crime.’
‘What was that?’
‘He had the effrontery to disagree with the king over his reading of Scripture,’ Augustine said bitterly. ‘Henry’s case for having his first marriage annulled was that the Bible declared it unlawful. Tyndale knew that this was wishful thinking; the king was twisting the meaning for his own benefit. Now a prudent man — or a coward — would have kept silent. Not Tyndale. He was too much a stickler for the truth of Holy Scripture. He pointed out that Henry had misinterpreted the text and that, therefore, his marriage to Queen Catherine was valid. After that Henry’s supposed love and admiration turned to black hatred. Without this Bible “proof” the king had no case. That was why he joined the baying pack screaming out that Tyndale was a heretic. After that there was no possibility of his ever returning to England. He was, and would always be, an outlaw. He had no citizenship, except, as he once said to me, “in heaven”. And this great saint’s last prayer was for the man who had abandoned him to his enemies!’
I considered Augustine’s angry words. ‘And what is the second thing I need to know about His Majesty?’
‘That he is a master dissembler. Unless I am very much mistaken you will see that when you discover what happens to this Aske fellow. His visit is all the talk at court this Christmas. He was the chief instigator of the northern rebellion but now he is welcomed here like the Prodigal Son. All is forgiven. Aske is showered with gifts. Henry walks with him in the privy garden with an arm round his shoulder. Well, we will see how long this supposed friendship lasts. I’ll lay you a hundred gold sovereigns that we see this little lawyer’s head on a pole before Easter.’
My mind rebelled against this cynicism. ‘No, Augustine, the picture you paint is of a capricious, feckless monster. I cannot believe such things of our lawful king. How could the realm possibly be governed if what you say is true?’
‘We must praise God that Lord Cromwell is at His Majesty’s right hand. He understands — ’
‘Master Treviot!’ My name was called by the secretary and I went over to the table. ‘His Lordship will see you now.’ The man waved me towards the doorway behind him.
Cromwell’s office was not large but its window commanded the same wide view as that of the anteroom. The king’s secretary had placed his table in such a way as to make most use of the winter light. Like its counterpart in His Lordship’s London house, it was topped with papers, letters and books in tidy piles. Cromwell was attired in an expensive black robe with a fur collar over which he wore a gold chain of office. As I entered, he set aside the document he was working on and drew towards him another sheaf of papers.
‘Ah, Thomas.’ He looked up, all affability. ‘I wish you a good Christmas.’ If I had been an old and trusted friend, his welcome could hardly have been warmer.
‘And I you, My Lord. I see you are no less busy in the festal season.’
‘If His Majesty is to enjoy celebrating the Nativity, some of us must lift the cares of state from his shoulders. And what of you, young man? Free of the worries that beset you when last we met, I hope.’
‘I am thankful that the Lollards’ Tower is no more than an occasional nightmare, My Lord.’
‘Good, good… and your personal quest to discover the murderer of our dear friend, Robert Packington?’
‘I am glad to say that I have reached a conclusion on that matter. The culprit’s name — ’
Cromwell held up a hand. ‘In time, in time, Thomas. First I need to hear your report of what passed in Antwerp. Please, take a seat.’
I had rehearsed several times the narrative of my visit to the English House. It seemed to me that I had discovered little that could be of interest to Cromwell and I was anxious lest he should think me completely incompetent. Someone in Antwerp had described His Lordship as possessing a mind like the workings of a mechanical clock. As such a timepiece ticked its way with relentless precision from minute to minute, so Master Secretary’s thinking moved, in an orderly fashion, from fact to fact, detail to detail, spurning the irrelevant in its logical pursuit of the inevitable conclusion. I tried, therefore, to set out my account in an orderly fashion. Cromwell listened with total concentration.
I had scarcely begun when he interrupted. ‘Did Robert deliver the message entrusted to him to the Regent of the Netherlands, the Emperor’s representative in Brussels?’
‘I believe so, but it distressed him greatly that Your Lordship’s appeal for clemency was ignored. He seems to have blamed himself for that and become convinced that he had failed.’
Cromwell shook his head. ‘Robert did not fail. No one could have saved Master Tyndale. All we can do is save his work and complete it. How goes the Bible printing?’
I reported my visit to Mistress de Keyser’s printworks and Rogers’ optimism about the progress of the translation. Again, he listened intently and I had the feeling that my words were being dissected minutely, as a surgeon explores a cadaver.
‘Good, good!’ For the first time real enthusiasm broke through the surface of logical calculation, like bubbles in a cauldron of pottage. ‘That is a fine work and, praise God, we have excellent scholars like Master Coverdale to bring it to a conclusion.’
‘Then we are to have an official Bible?’ I asked.
His face became expressionless once more. ‘If the king wishes it.’
‘Would it not be ironical,’ I ventured, ‘if His Majesty were to give his blessing to the work of a man he had come to hate?’
‘Omnia mutantur nos et mutamur in illis.’
‘I’m sorry, My Lord, my father never put me to Latin.’
Cromwell smiled. ‘Well, it is not too late for you to learn. I picked it up when I was about your age, travelling in Italy and elsewhere. That little piece of ancient wisdom might be translated, “Everything changes and we must be adaptable.” He rose from his chair, stretching his arms and stifling a yawn. He stepped across to the window. ‘Now here is a timely case in point,’ he said, beckoning me to join him.
We looked down at the palace quay. A royal barge had just pulled alongside and the king was disembarking with his band of attendants.
‘You see that small fellow.’ Cromwell pointed out the man with whom Henry was deep in conversation. ‘Two weeks ago he was the biggest traitor in England. Now he is His Majesty’s honoured guest and special entertainments have been laid on for him. He has just been to Deptford for a tour of the Henri Grace à Dieu, the pride and joy of the English fleet. Situations change and His Majesty is wise enough to change with them.’
‘So the rebels’ demands are to be accepted,’ I said.
For some moments the king’s minister stood watching the royal party making its way towards the river gate. ‘If only politics were that simple.’ He sighed, then turned to me. ‘It grieves me that Robert felt a burden of guilt over Tyndale’s end. He knew that Phillips was part of a papist conspiracy. I had hoped that he would be able to gather useful information about those in the plot.’