A/N: Goodness - it's Friday again; where does the week go? More thanks for your kind comments, always appreciated.
Now that they've started the closures in earnest, it's time to find out how well they're going to go down with the English populace...
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
A Parade of Pilgrims
Thomas Wriothesley is seated at a heavy desk surrounded by mountains of papers, his expression very grim. Much as the work with which he has been tasked suits his methodical mind and skills of organisation, it grieves him nonetheless, for his adherence to reform is cosmetic only: a mask he wears to win greater rewards for himself. But then, who does not do so in this place?
The Commissioners are reporting sums of wealth, plate, jewels and fine fabrics that are truly shocking. While many houses are suffering somewhat as the numbers of brothers entering their cloisters continues to fall, the lands and holdings of most are sufficient to keep them in good repair even if the number of tonsured men within them is less than half that of the population a hundred years ago.
There is, however, one matter over which he does not feel comfortable making pronouncements, and he looks up as Cromwell approaches him, relieved to not have to go in search of the man.
Cromwell's eyes widen at the sheer volumes of papers upon the Chancellor's desk, "Merciful heavens, Mr Wriothesley, that is a fearsome accumulation of work. Perhaps I should assign more clerks to aid you?"
In spite of his dislike of the Treasurer, Wriothesley is not a man to look a gift horse in the mouth, "That would be appreciated, Mr Cromwell. As quickly as I work my way though the reports that are delivered to me, ten more arrive for each one that I complete."
"I shall see to it immediately. Her Majesty the Regent is keen to know how matters proceed in terms of wealth confiscated for restoration to those more deserving of it."
Wriothesley conceals a scowl at such an interpretation of what he still considers - at least in part - to be theft, "I should appreciate it. But I think it best to ask - the Commissioners are finding reliquaries in large numbers, for each of the Monasteries seems to house at least one relic."
Cromwell shakes his head in disgust; items doubtless of dubious origin used solely to persuade the gullible and desperate that they should waste what little coin they have in hopes of benedictions from a dead saint, "Have them gather the items together in a suitable space. Given the reverence held for them, it is best to use somewhere consecrated to avoid public anger. Once we have gathered them all, we can decide what is to be done with them."
Wriothesley nods, relieved that Cromwell has not demanded that everything be cast upon a bonfire, "I shall set aside the nave of St Margaret's at Westminster."
He is entirely unaware that, were he not required to answer for his actions to the Regent, Cromwell would almost certainly have done exactly that.
Retiring to his own desk, Cromwell muses over the thought. Henry would have expected it, of course - probably in retaliation for that deferred excommunication - but Anne is not Henry, and is less keen to inspire anger and ire by acting punitively and without good reason. Her position, while far stronger than it was two years ago, remains balanced upon a very fine edge - it would serve her daughter most ill were she to topple herself through a foolish act of spite. Thank God she knows it.
Sadleir approaches, a paper in hand, "News from Sweden, Mr Cromwell."
Intrigued, Cromwell takes the paper and breaks the seal, showing it to be from the English embassy, and reads, "Damnation. Another miscarriage."
"Another?" Sadleir stares, shocked. Twice now, Mary has conceived, and twice that hoped for child has died - this one flooded from her womb in a torrent of bloody matter. Just as happened with her mother, it seems, "What is Gustav's view?"
"He has not expressed one, other than to state that they shall try again. Elsewhere, however, there are rumours amongst the more highly placed courtiers that she is deliberately ending her pregnancies in hopes of gaining an annulment so that she can leave Sweden and flee to a country still steeped in popery." Cromwell mutters as he peruses the document.
"That is rank nonsense - a woman as pious and devout as she would never do such a thing!" Sadleir is quite scandalised at the suggestion.
"We know from our own experiences that that is so, Mr Sadleir, for her mother was as keen to bear a boy for Henry as he was to gain one. Did not our own Majesty suffer such a cruel loss twice?" Cromwell sighs, "No, I think as you do. Mary would never deliberately end the life of a child in her womb. Even were she not a dutiful wife - as she was taught to be - her piety would forbid it."
Sadleir sinks into a chair, his expression sad, "That poor woman. To be robbed of a longed for babe is a cruel thing."
Cromwell sighs, and nods, "Indeed. Even though it would trap her in Sweden for the rest of her days, she would not look for a pregnancy to fail. She was raised - at least at first - as a princess of the Blood, and taught that her duty, nay, her very existence was created entirely for the bearing of sons to a King. She was never promised the love of a husband - or the right to refuse her chosen spouse. Thus she would have done her duty without hesitation. And this, it seems, is her reward."
Anne reads the paper, and sighs as Cromwell did, "The poor girl. No matter how I despised her when she was set against me; no matter how deeply she generated spite in my heart, I would not wish this upon her - for I, too, know the agony of a lost babe."
"King Gustav has not indicated that he would do so - indeed he has stated quite the opposite - but it is whispered amongst his courtiers that he should repudiate her, annul their marriage and seek a more fertile Queen." Cromwell admits, quietly, "As Sweden has also abjured the Pope, his own Archbishop could do it - though it would not be easy, for their marriage is legally valid, and the failure of the pregnancies indicates that it has been consummated. The days when Kings could simply set aside a wife are past - and I am not sure that such things happened outside of legends as it is. The institution of marriage remains sacrosanct even for those of us who no longer prostrate ourselves towards Rome. He cannot set her aside - and thus they shall, as he has stated, try again."
Anne rises from her chair, "I think I shall take a turn around the Privy Gardens, Mr Cromwell. Walk with me." She turns and nods to Margery and Nan, who also rise in order to follow behind at a discreet distance.
"What are we to do if she continues to fail to produce an heir?" she asks, quietly, as they crunch their way along a gravelled path between fragrant roses, "While repudiation is no longer likely, there is still the risk that matters shall be expedited through assassination. What if she were to be poisoned, and her death given out as being of a fever?"
"Forgive me for saying so, Majesty, but would that not settle our problems at a stroke? Even though she is in Sweden, and far from us; were she to be sent from there, she would be likely to travel amongst the Courts of Europe in hopes of securing support to invade England for the Roman Church and end all heresy and apostasy. Given that he has now declared against you, Majesty, there is a greater likelihood that he would agree to such an enterprise. Were she to die, that would not happen."
Anne stops, and stares at him, "You would wish such a thing upon her?"
"As God is my witness, Majesty, I would not." He says, shaking his head with a slight frown, "I merely state that, were another to do so independently of our interests, it would serve us well in that context. It would not, however, serve us well in terms of our alliance with Sweden - for it would end it at a stroke, and our allies are too few in number to risk the loss should our neighbours decide that our time of apostasy should end, and send armies to bring us back into the fold. No, it serves us best that she be alive. More so if she can bring a child to term. I think it best that we do not pray for an assassin - nay, we pray fervently for a son."
They resume their walk, "How strange." Anne muses, "There was a time when I longed for her death - even thought perhaps that I might order it - but now I pray not only that she lives, but that she prospers and brings forth a son for her Kingdom. When she was a thorn in my side, I could not have imagined such a thing."
"Life has a strange habit of driving us to act in so contrary a fashion." Cromwell agrees.
"Mary, Mary, quite contrary. Even now she guides my actions in one way or another." Anne looks at him again, "And what of the stone that Paul threw in the Pool of England when he issued that Bull against me? Do the ripples subside, or continue to travel?"
He pauses, gathering his thoughts, "It is difficult to say, Majesty. In the weeks that have passed since it was made public, there has been little comment that I have been able to discover. Those men that I have watching the more sizeable congregations in London have not reported discussions upon it: those who might be driven to do so are less willing, for they know that they are permitted to practise their faith without interference, and that it is at your command. Thus they are content to worship as they have always done, and leave the arguments over who is right to other, more highly placed individuals. That they are free to celebrate the Roman rite without fear of censure or punishment seems to have tempered their desire to remove you from the Throne. Besides," he adds, smiling slightly, "It is hard for an Englishman to obey the demands of a foreigner."
"It is not that simple, is it?"
"No, Majesty." Cromwell admits, "I do not doubt that there are some who would do so out of a desire to stamp out all forms of heresy, even in the face of acceptance that the souls of men are theirs to do with as they will in communication with God. The Church has held great power for many generations, and to be obliged to relinquish that power to Princes is a bitter meal to swallow. For there to be no fight to keep what it has held seems impossible - even for those who claim to be subservient to God, and servants of man. None are immune to the insidious pleasure of holding power over the lives of others, and dictating all aspects of their lives."
"Even you?" Anne smiles at him.
"Even me."
"And me." She admits, then, "It is hard to hold power, and not to be seduced by it. Each day, I still continue to remind myself when I wake that my duty is limited in time. Even as I speak my morning devotions, I beseech God to remind me at all times that I am but the Regent - and it is Elizabeth who is the true Queen of this realm. For I know that, as long as the power is in my hands, the desire to relinquish it to another - even my own flesh and blood - is weak, and is weakened as my strength grows. There is an ever present danger that I shall decide to cling to it: I cannot allow that to happen. There are still men alive who fought in the wars that broke out when a man sought power that lay in the hands of another."
"The law that governs Elizabeth's succession precludes such a thing, Majesty. As does your Coronation Oath."
"Do not think that I could not be a tyrant, Mr Cromwell. Until you have held power such as this, you cannot imagine the strength of its call upon you. It was that call that drove Mary to attempt to raise England against me, and it speaks in my ear each day - telling me to protect Elizabeth from the burden, to let her wear the Crown as but a mere bauble. Remember that I have told you this, Mr Cromwell. Remind me of it each and every day." Her expression is fearful now, "Its call is strong - dangerously strong, and I am not immune from it - but the day when I believe that I am grows ever nearer, and I must fight to ensure that day never comes."
"If that is your wish, Majesty."
"And what of the ongoing works to close the religious houses?" Anne resumes her swifter stride, clearly intent upon changing the subject.
"We are receiving reports from the commissioners on a daily basis, Majesty. The number of relics that are being recovered shall be something of an issue, I think. His late Majesty would have certainly had them destroyed - but we were not sure of your view. Thus they are being removed from the Houses and brought to London, to reside within the walls of the Church of St Margaret, alongside the Abbey Church at Westminster."
"On consecrated ground." Anne murmurs, "A wise choice - even if they are mouldering items of clothing, and pieces of bones?"
He nods, "What is your intention for them?"
"That all remains that are human be interred with appropriate deference, while any remains that are from animals shall be incinerated. Items shall be evaluated for their worth, and any monies raised from their sale shall be given to the poor."
"Yes, Majesty."
"The reliquaries should also be sold."
"As you wish, Majesty."
"I do." She smiles at him, "If only such items could work miracles as people hope. But I have never seen a miracle inspired by a finger bone."
Cromwell pauses, "There is…one…shrine that we have not considered yet."
She does not need to ask which one, "Becket."
"I think it shall be easier to consign the Confessor to a proper grave than a man martyred by the angry demands of a King." He admits, "To despoil any shrine carries an element of risk that it shall inflame those who would approach it as a pilgrim - but Canterbury is at the centre of England's Church. If we are to close the shrine, then we must do so with great care, and suitable deference to the mortal remains of the late Archbishop. While I do not consider his bones capable of intercession, I equally do not think it right that they should be removed from the tomb as though they were the remains of a beast."
"Nor do I, Mr Cromwell." Anne agrees, "Ensure that his remains are interred in a suitable grave within the precincts of the Cathedral, but equally ensure that there is no great tomb raised atop them. They are the mortal remains of a mere man, nothing more, nothing less."
"I shall see to it."
She smiles as he bows and withdraws. If she must tolerate the Roman faith within her realm, then so be it - but there shall be no more idolatry. Let the dead be dead - and grant miracles back to the One from whom they come. Pleased that matters are progressing so well, she turns and makes her own way back to her apartments.
The light coming in from the great east window of the church of St Margaret is alive with colours courtesy of a Flemish artisan - whose work was installed barely thirty years ago. Beneath are rows and rows of objects, fabrics and boxes, all brought to this place from across England and Wales, items that drew pilgrims to the Abbeys, and filled their coffers in the process. No religious house, after all, is complete without something of holy origin to encourage visitors to empty their scrips.
The worst exhibits are, naturally, the ones that are clearly intended to deceive those who come to see them. So far, Cromwell has found twelve reliquaries that contain supposedly incorrupt, holy blood that is not even the blood of a man, but instead the blood of some animal or other, five vials of oil supposedly exuded from saint's corpses that seem to have no corpse to provide the contents, and even a skull in a box that moves only when a man standing to the rear turns a small handle. How is it that the Church can truly have so utterly abandoned the second commandment? How can they truly pretend that these items are not graven images? To the pilgrims, they are tangible evidence of that which is entirely intangible. Surely faith can be placed in something that is not set before them in a gold-girded box?
He sighs to himself. There is a reason for such ignorance, of course: who amongst the peasantry has ever been taught to read, or to think for themselves? No - they are not permitted to learn, or to read the word of God. It is no surprise to him that the poorest of folk rely upon such things as these in the absence of true understanding. At least that can be changed.
"What are we to do with all of this?" The recently appointed Rector, a nervous looking man with a kindly countenance is fidgeting with the lace of his surplice, looking around worriedly at the enormous collection of items, "Has her Majesty decreed their fate?"
Cromwell nods, "The human remains shall be re-buried with appropriate deference, while the animal remains - of which there seem to be rather more than even I expected - shall be buried in a pit. The items of value shall be sold, and the proceeds donated to the poor of the parishes of least means. The wealth that these items generated for the Houses that contained them was never granted to those most in need. The people of England deserve to know it."
The Rector shuffles slightly, and then indicates that Cromwell join him in a small alcove, "I have already been approached by representatives from several sources - the Emperor, Rome, even some Houses in France. All seek to retrieve these items and store them in their own houses."
Cromwell's eyebrows rise in surprise, "I presume they expect these items to be donated?"
"Yes, Mr Cromwell. I believe the King of France has also expressed an interest in the most valuable items for his personal collection."
"I think not." Cromwell shakes his head, "To grant these items to others suggests that we regard them to be greater than they are. Most of the items in this building cannot be demonstrated to be what they are claimed to be - and I shall not be party to ongoing deception of innocent burghers who exchange their hard-earned wages for false benedictions. I suspect that her Majesty would be equally shocked at such behaviour."
"Yes, Mr Cromwell."
Emerging from the alcove, Cromwell continues to wander along the rows of tables, examining the items retrieved from the Houses that are claimed to be of holy origin. Supposed thorns from the Crown of Thorns, fragments of wood that are claimed to come from the True Cross. A saint's vestment, finger bones, toe bones - even fragments of ribs or skulls. He has engaged a learned doctor to examine the bones, and already he has set aside a holy thigh-bone that originally belonged to a calf, a rib that was probably from the chest of a pig, and a piece of skull that is too flattened to belong to a man - but instead is likely to have come from the skull of a horse.
Oh, there are human remains, of course - plenty of them. Additional to the extraordinary number of desiccated body parts, bones and vials of fluid, more than ten coffins lie within the Chancel, each draped with a black cloth out of respect for the occupant. Holy or not, they were living souls once - but instead of being laid to rest, they were enclosed in a box and set out for people to reach in and touch in hopes of blessings or cures. In all of his years of life, he has met many pilgrims - but never once met any that were cured by the saint to whom they presented themselves. Somehow, those miracles always happened to other people.
Shuddering, he turns and makes his way back along the nave to where Wriothesley is consulting a long, long list, "Is this everything?"
"No, Mr Cromwell. Far from it - there are still a number of houses yet to be visited, and closed. His Grace of Canterbury is currently being petitioned by the congregation to spare the shrine of Becket, and thus asks that we wait until he can resolve the matter."
He can understand that. While not the holiest; of all the shrines of England, Canterbury is the seat of the English Church and is venerated as such. To remove Becket's bones from their resting place shall inflame a great number of people, not to mention stir the ire of overseas powers who are ever eager for an excuse to claim England for their own.
"Very well. I think that I shall travel there and consult with him. There may be a means of achieving compromise, in that the closure of the shrine is undertaken with a degree of deference that shall calm those who still believe that dust-strewn bones can work wonders."
"As you wish." Wriothesley bows deferentially, then returns to his list.
It is only a short walk back to Whitehall, and thus he has not come on horseback. Not on a fine day such as this, the last of the summer bathing the walls of the church in warmth that is most pleasant. Instead, he makes his way back to the palace, making plans for his journey to Canterbury. It shall take a day, of course, and he shall need accommodation. Better, then to write first and warn Cranmer that he is coming, rather than be obliged to seek a bed for the night in whatever rude inn he can find.
Rich is hovering near his desk when he returns, once again wringing his hands and looking distinctly nervous. Oh God - now what?
"Mr Rich? How long have you been standing there?"
"It is of no matter - we have received word from Sevenoaks, one of the Sheriffs has observed growing numbers of people travelling through with the intention of attending the shrine at Canterbury. It seems that they intend to give their lives to protect it."
Cromwell stares at him, "Pilgrims?"
"In growing numbers."
"Then I shall not travel there alone. You shall join me, and Ralph. I shall seek an audience with her Majesty. Sent word to York - I do not wish to see this contagion spread. Ask Ralph to send word to the appropriate contacts to investigate the degree of existing infection. He shall know who to approach."
"I shall see to it." It seems that orders to act are always helpful in stirring Rich from his fears. A mind as active as his is always keen to become over-anxious, and the best way to combat it is to give him something to do.
Now he must ensure he does not end up in the same state.
"They call themselves pilgrims?" Anne asks, frowning slightly.
"Yes, Majesty. Though I am yet to witness a pilgrimage that carries sharpened farm implements. It seems that they are more an army, and wish to defend the bones of Becket with their own lives."
"How far has this spread?" She rises from her chair and begins to pace back and forth, though at least she has not slapped him. Henry would certainly have done so by now.
"It is difficult to say, Majesty. We have only just received word that it is taking place. I have set Mr Sadleir to work upon investigating, while Mr Rich shall contact York to ensure that there is no equal activity in the North."
"We must not act punitively, Mr Cromwell. The people do this out of a misguided desire to protect a skeleton." She turns, "To whom do they apportion blame for this?"
Cromwell looks uncomfortable, "I fear I do not know, Majesty. I suspect that it shall be men such as I, however. We shall be accused of giving false counsel to a woman who should not be blamed for her ignorance." At least, that is his hope - they have worked so hard to end the perception of the Regent as a godless whore.
"What is your intention?"
"I had planned to go to Canterbury myself - taking Mr Rich and Mr Sadleir; but I begin to wonder if that is wise. Perhaps a force of armed men might be more appropriate."
"Did I not say we must not act punitively? No. Unless it is inevitable, I shall not ask Englishmen to take up arms against their brothers. First we must identify those who speak for these 'pilgrims' and then speak to them. I shall take action against them only if they are truly traitors."
Cromwell swallows, "Forgive me, Majesty - but it may not be possible to do so. If they refuse to accept that the shrine must be closed, then they shall inevitably be traitors in the eyes of the law. There may be no alternative but to treat them as such."
She stares at him, a little helplessly, "So, if I accede to their demands, I weak - but if I do not, I must destroy them and make martyrs of them."
He does not answer. It was going to happen eventually - a situation in which there is no resolution that shall serve to suit all parties. She must act resolutely, and with absolute determination - but if she accedes to the demands of these men in the face of opposition to her policy to reform the English Church, then she is weakened. But if she does not, then she turns against her policy of religious acceptance - and also creates martyrs.
"Then I must also go."
"No, Majesty. Not at this time - I do not recommend that you…"
"I have no choice, Mr Cromwell. I must face this myself, and speak to these people myself. I cannot deal with such men through intermediaries - not in a matter such as this." She looks at his expression, "Oh do not think I am fool enough to stand before a crowd - even I am not so naïve as that. I shall take up residence in the Archbishop's Palace and meet the leaders of this pilgrimage there. Southampton proved more than capable of operating the government in my absence on progress, and he can do so again. I shall travel with you, and the Lord Privy Seal, as my advisers. Mr Sadleir shall be my Secretary."
"Then at least permit me to investigate how much this has spread, Majesty. If it is not safe for you to emerge, then it is better that we identify the ringleaders and bring them to you here."
"And have rumours spread that I have dispatched them to the block without even seeing them? No, Mr Cromwell. I must confront this myself. I shall not have my will interpreted by others, not when the stakes are as high as this. It is my intention to grant the remains of Becket a proper, decent funeral with appropriate Christian rites - not to destroy them. They do not warrant veneration - that belongs to God."
There is no arguing with her. He can see that - not now that her mind is truly made up. Sighing, Cromwell bows, "Yes, Majesty. I shall investigate the spread of this…pilgrimage, and advise you as soon as I am more able to ascertain how safe it shall be for you to travel."
"Thank you, Mr Cromwell."
He returns to the offices in a state of anxiety not that dissimilar to that which he observed in Rich upon his return to the Palace. Damnation - much as he admires her determination to confront this matter, to do so herself is an act of madness. She is the Regent - standing in the stead of God's anointed Queen. There is a lustre of monarchy about those who reside within these walls that sets them apart from those who walk outside them - and to stand before them can do nothing more than wither that sheen away…
Sadleir is present, of course - and now Rochford has arrived, summoned no doubt by the rumours that are almost certainly already circulating, "What is happening? Is it an insurrection?"
"At this time, it is impossible to say." Cromwell admits, suddenly very, very tired, "Those who speak of it call it a pilgrimage."
"Of course it is." Rochford snorts, dismissively.
"Indeed. A pilgrimage that is most well armed." Sadleir agrees, "Another messenger arrived while you were gone, Mr Cromwell - it seems that many are also congregating at St Albans, seeking the blessing of England's first Martyr to protect the remains of Becket."
Cromwell sinks into his chair, "And have any of them sought the blessing of God?"
"I imagine they consider that to follow as equally as that of the saint."
"Visiting a grave to persuade themselves of the virtue of protecting a skeleton. Such is the wonder of no education." He snaps, "Would they do something so foolish if they looked beyond the words of priests and sought out God's word for themselves?"
"Probably." Rich grunts, looking up from some papers, "Education can give men the means to learn for themselves, but it cannot give them the will to do it." He ignores Cromwell's glare, "For most men, life is a time of hard, unremitting work with little reward - thus they look for that reward in the next world, for they shall never find it in this one. If all they have is the word of priests, and the example of saints, what is to stop them seeking out those saints to intercede for them?"
"And all they need do is set themselves before the risen Christ and ask Him to do so. Did He tell us to travel for miles and pay all that we have to a gathering of monks in hopes of God's benediction and blessing through visiting a pile of bones? If He did so, I have yet to see it set down in scripture."
Rochford snorts with amusement, "That, Gentlemen, is why the Church does not want men to be allowed anywhere near the word of God. They might read it, and then where would the priests be?"
Rich shrugs, resuming his perusal of documents, "We shall need an escort of men at arms."
"Then you can see to its assembly." Cromwell grouches.
"I shall do it." Rochford volunteers, "I am as yet unemployed in this enterprise, it seems appropriate to participate."
"I shall aid you, my Lord." Sadleir adds, "I have lists of those men who are most likely to offer us such troops."
As they depart, Rich raises his head again, the anxiety back once more, "We might be talking of an armed escort - but I fear that it may be more appropriate to raise an army. These pilgrims are bent upon battle to save that shrine - they will die before they agree to its dissolution."
Rather than snap at him, Cromwell sighs, for he is right. All that has gone before is nothing in comparison to this - no matter how he frames it, this is the first true test of Anne's rule. Should she falter now, then all that they have achieved thus far shall come to naught.
A/N: A quick note of an historical bent. As stated in the text, Canterbury is not the holiest shrine in England (it's actually Walsingham in Norfolk - to which both Katherine and Anne made pilgrimages in during their reigns - which is still happily welcoming pilgrims of both Catholic and Anglican faiths); but given its importance as the seat of England's church both before and after the Reformation, I opted to use Canterbury instead.