That, at least, was my first impression. Late evening light still entered through tall windows and the lamps had not yet been lit. The room had its shadows and dim corners, into which I peered. It was some moments before I became aware of shuffling sounds coming from behind a large table on which stood a stack of books. Drawing closer, I came upon the Primate of all England on all fours beside a coffer and unloading more volumes which he added to the pile.
After some moments he looked up. ‘Ah, Master Treviot, my apologies. I’m looking for my copy of Jerome’s Dialogus contra Pelagianos. My roguish servants at Lambeth Palace never pack my books properly. Every time I move it takes hours to locate everything I need.’ He stood up and held out his hand across the desk. I stooped to kiss his ring.
‘Thank you for coming so promptly,’ Cranmer continued.
I thought but did not say, I had no option. Instead, I responded, ‘I am anxious to know the reason for Your Grace’s urgent summons.’
‘Grave matters. Grave matters.’ He shook his head. He took his seat behind the desk and for some moments seemed distracted by solemn thoughts.
His brow was care-lined, his eyes searching and cautious. Then, with a sudden change of mood, he smiled. ‘You have come from Ightham, have you not? Who’s the vicar there? Ah, yes, Stimson, isn’t it. The man’s an idiot. Now, let me see, have you eaten?’
‘Not since breakfast, Your Grace.’
‘Then we must attend to that first.’ He rang a handbell. The obsequious little cleric entered immediately. ‘Take Master Treviot to the hall and see him properly fed,’ Cranmer ordered. To me he said, ‘One should never discuss matters of state on an empty stomach.’
When I returned to the archbishop’s study an hour or so later, replete with venison, carp, marchpane cake and muscadel, I was no less confused or anxious than when I first arrived. Apparently I was not to be accused of some unwitting offence and detained at his grace’s pleasure but his talk of grave affairs of state was unnerving. By now the candles had been lit and a good fire blazed on the hearth. The archbishop sat to one side of the chimney in a high-backed chair and bade me be seated opposite. Between us was a low table on which were letters and other documents.
Cranmer gazed at the burning logs. ‘Would you go to the fire for your faith, Master Treviot?’
I knew not how to answer such an unexpected question and eventually made some sort of protest about believing what the Church said and not being guilty of any heresy for which I needed to fear being sent to the stake.
He looked up with a smile that somehow was not a smile. ‘There are men who would like to bum the Archbishop of Canterbury.’
‘Merely a few unrepentant papist traitors who would have the king bow his neck again under the pope’s authority,’ I suggested.
Cranmer shook his head. ‘Not few and, by no means, only those who owe secret allegiance to the Bishop of Rome.’
There was a long silence before the archbishop spoke again. He seemed uncertain about how to proceed, like someone outside a house looking for the entrance. At last he sat back and said, ‘You are familiar, I believe, with Master Johannes Holbein, his majesty’s painter.’
I replied cautiously. ‘He has done design work for me – jewellery, tableware, altar furnishings – that sort of thing.’
‘To be sure, he is a fine craftsman.’
‘Beyond doubt,’ I agreed. ‘In my opinion there is none better.’
There was another long silence.
‘Would you go so far as to call Johannes Holbein a friend?’
My reply was carefully considered. ‘I think I would, Your Grace.’
‘Then you will know that he is in some danger,’ Cranmer said, watching closely for my reaction.
My hopes rose. Perhaps from this unexpected source I might be able to learn who the painter’s enemies were or gain some other information that would help Bart. ‘I thought as much,’ I said. ‘I haven’t been able to make contact with him recently and, a few days ago-’
‘You are about to tell me about the unpleasant incident at Holbein’s house.’
‘Do you know who was responsible for it, Your Grace? Is that why you have summoned me here? I shall be most grateful for any information-’
He held up a hand to interrupt me. ‘What I am about to tell you must not go beyond these walls. Will you swear to keep silence?’
I nodded. Cranmer went to his desk and returned with a large, heavily bound book. It was easily recognisable as the English Bible, the one commonly known as ‘Cromwell’s Bible’. He set it on the table between us. ‘Place your hand on it and make your solemn oath.’
It was with a feeling of rising apprehension that I did as the archbishop insisted.
‘Good. God keep you true to your word.’ Cranmer resumed his seat. ‘You do not need me to remind you what happened, three years ago, to Lord Cromwell. There was a plot against him and he was brought down by men opposed to what they sneeringly called the “New Learning”. A foolish expression. What he … what we … stood for was a new commonwealth, a godly commonwealth. And we had begun to see the realisation of our dream. We had got rid of the pope and replaced his authority with that of the word of God.’ He tapped a finger on the Bible. ‘Old learning, Master Treviot. We closed down the abbeys, those bastions of papal error, and began the assault on superstition. Para kurion egeneto aute: “This was the Lord’s doing and it was marvellous in our eyes”.’
Cranmer’s caution had fallen away from him; he was speaking with a preacher’s fervour. ‘Of course, there were those who could not or would not share our vision. They spun a web of lies. They produced paid informers. They managed to persuade his majesty to abandon the most faithful minister he had ever had, or was ever likely to have. They had him shut up in the Tower and, once there …’ Cranmer shrugged. ‘Perhaps I should have stood by him; urged the king to clemency.’ He sighed. ‘But I fear to say that l am not the stuff of which martyrs are made. Of course, I visited my friend in prison. He urged me to continue the work and he gave me this – in strict secrecy.’ The archbishop indicated a folded sheet of paper.
‘What is it, Your Grace?’
‘A list of men Lord Cromwell knew to be faithful to our cause; men who, in various ways, had served him and served the Gospel. One name on that list is “Johannes Holbein”.’
‘Even so, Your Grace? Holbein? I know he has Lutheran friends and tends in that direction but he is a mere painter. How could he have been of service to Lord Cromwell?’
Cranmer smiled wistfully. ‘A mere painter? Yes, that is the point. Think for a moment. Everyone wants to be portrayed by him. He is in fashion … though, perhaps, not as much as he was. Anyway, the point is that he was welcomed into the houses of the greatest in the land. He made some charcoal sketches or set up his easel in a corner and worked away silently. All the time his keen eyes took in every detail of his surroundings. He went to the kitchen and had meals with the servants. They talked in friendly style of this and that. No man guarded his tongue strictly. After all, this gruff little German was only a painter.’