July 1540
Cromwell sat in the dark. It was growing late and his cell was facing away from the dying sunlight; he could hardly see beyond his fingertips.
He could have gotten up and lit a candle but it would mean moving from the spot he had sat motionlessly in for the past six hours, and besides, what did he need to see for? He had grown used to the dingy stone walls over the past month, and he was sure they still looked the same as the last time he had seen them. They weren’t about to change any time soon.
He was being held in the bell tower. The irony was not lost upon him that this was the same tower Thomas More had been held in before he was executed by the king. More was another of Henry's closest friends and advisors that had met the block. That they shared a name struck Cromwell as a bad omen.
His back against the wall, he rolled his eyes upwards until they were looking at the ceiling. He idly wondered who was languishing in the Tower with him, and who had occupied this room before him. What crime did they commit? Theft? Murder? …Treason?
Catching sight of his guard through the small window in the cell door, Cromwell immediately sat up.
“Oi!” He called. The common lad inside him was beginning to emerge, his years of refinement at court beginning to fall to the wayside with every passing hour spent within Tower walls. The guard was surprised to be addressed in such a manner, but nevertheless turned back and glanced through the iron bars covering the gap.
“Yeah?” He answered back in a thick London accent.
“I wish to have some paper and something to write with. I have important correspondence to send to the king.” Cromwell said.
The guard squinted at the former minister, but eventually conceded.
He left and returned swiftly, paper and quill in hand. He opened the door to the cell, and Cromwell saw for the first time in two days real sunlight. Dust danced in the air as the light struck it, and the golden glow made even the hard stone walls of the bell tower look pleasant.
The man placed on the small, wobbly-legged table the parchment and a small pot of ink. Cromwell thanked him in words that were almost mumbled. The guard said nothing and departed, closing the door heavily behind him.
Cromwell heard the key being placed in the lock, and the bolts sliding shut. He merely glanced at the door as it was locked again, and then focussed on the parchment before him.827Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ7fbSnlAI4b
Knowing that this was the last chance to save his life, Cromwell began to write.
The king held the paper before him.
It was hastily written, and Henry could hardly read his former privy seal’s scrawl. Cromwell's hand had always been so steady, so neat... the king was somewhat startled to see what it had been reduced to after just over a month behind bars. The words were barely legible.
Henry had been hesitant to receive the letter when it had been delivered that morning. Once he was informed it had been sent from the cell of Thomas Cromwell the previous night, he had thrown the letter onto a table with a growing pile of other unread correspondences, determined to let it stay there unopened.
It had lain there all day, but no matter how much Henry tried to forget about it, he could not. He had a burning anticipation to discover what it was Cromwell had written to him about… after all, Cromwell was too far above begging and pleading for it to be a letter requesting pitifully that the king spare his life. But then, why else would the man have written to him from the Tower?
He opened it that night. It was already dark, and Henry had sent away all of the men in his chambers. He had settled into a chair by the fire, and had held the letter between his chubby fingers for quite some time before opening it. He studied it, turning it over in his hands.827Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ9xb01eGDVh
At long last he cracked the wax seal and unfolded the grubby paper. It was a piteous attempt at earning the king's forgiveness, Cromwell offering full support of a divorce from Anne of Cleves. It did nothing to change the king's decision.
Henry read, feeling nothing, until the very last line:
Most gracious Prince, I cry for mercy, mercy, mercy.
He read the words and tossed the letter into the fire, content to watch it burn.
Anne of Cleves sniffed in the early morning light.827Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡeGKigcGkN4
Henry had asked her for an annulment, and though she was more than happy to give it to him (she had hardly found any joy in the marriage), she could not shake the fear of going back to her homeland. Her brother, the duke of Cleves, was sure to detest her for what he was sure to see as her failings. The humiliation she would encounter there, she was sure, would be far worse than anything she had already experienced here in England.
She stood by her window, watching the birds flying overhead. She stood peacefully, watching the trees sway in the wind and the clouds move above, until the voice of a herald broke her silence to announce the arrival of the king. The feeling of dread in her stomach that had started since that last conversation with Cromwell suddenly intensified, and she was sure that the king was coming to tell her that she was to join Cromwell in the Tower. After all, he had sent his last Anne to the Tower, just like he had both his Thomases.
“My lady,” Henry said when he arrived. He immediately sat down in one of her chairs, his leg unable to support him for very long. Anne noted with disdain that he was limping more than usual, and that could only mean that his mood was bound to be a dreadful one.
“Majesty,” She said in reply with a curt nod. He motioned for her to sit in the chair opposite him. She complied, and he nodded in approval.
“I have heard that you do not wish to leave England.” He said casually. Anne paused for a moment before nodding.
“I much prefer England to my native country.” She said, looking into the king’s eyes.827Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ7f5bIjksJa
Henry nodded.
“I am not surprised.” He said with a smug little grin. “I would like to offer you a place here in England should you decide to remain here. I shall not force you to return to Cleves.”
Anne could hardly believe her ears. She was dumbfounded; the man that so many had called a tyrant, a wife-killer... granting her permission to stay instead of return to Cleves? Allowing her to stay? Paying heed to her wishes? Surely this was a different man to the one she had married.
“Your majesty… I do not know what to say.” She said slowly. “I should very much like to stay in England.” She said with a gentle smile as she began to comprehend. Henry nodded pompously.
“Then you shall have lands and a castle… Hever, perhaps.” He asked with a raised eyebrow. Anne nodded and Henry smiled, interlacing his fingers and placing them over his chest.
“Anything your grace would give me is more than I can ask for. I thank you.” She said graciously. Henry was pleased, thinking himself altogether too generous and kind.
“Hever, my lady?” One of Anne’s ladies asked after the king had gone.
Anne of Cleves nodded.
“Yes.” She said with a smile. “What is wrong?” She said, seeing the expression on her lady’s face drop.
“It’s just… Hever was the home of Anne Boleyn.” She said tentatively.
Anne's eyebrows furrowed, but before long she concluded that anything was better than returning to her brother’s care. Biting the inside of her lip, she shrugged off her unease at moving into the former home of her former husband’s former wife.
“It is better than Cleves, I suppose.” She said with a shrug.
28th July 1540
Cromwell awoke at daybreak.
His last letter to the king begging for mercy had achieved exactly nothing. He hadn't even received a reply. He should have known it was futile asking Henry to spare his life. Henry had only ever spared one person - Anne Boleyn - and that was only because Cromwell pushed him to. Henry didn't spare anyone from the scaffold if he could help it; he enjoyed it too much, Cromwell thought.
Now it was the morning of his execution and he felt... odd. By the end of the day, he would be dead. It was a strange concept to consider. So many people spend so long wondering how much longer they have left, and what will eventually get them in the end, but Cromwell knew for certain. He would meet the end in a mere couple of hours, and it would be the sharp edge of the axe that dispatched him from this world.
His eyes were burning from a lack of sleep, and his mind was racing. What if his years of service to the king, of turning away from Catholicism, landed him in Purgatory - or worse - when the axe fell?
There were all the people he had stepped on to get to his position.827Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡBn73445Ckp
There was Katherine of Aragon... poor Katherine, who had died cold and alone in exile when all she wanted was to have her daughter by her side. He supposed he had learnt his lesson and made sure Anne Boleyn had access to her daughter - he had even contributed to Elizabeth's upkeep - but it could not be denied that he had done wrong by her, had effectively ruined the life she had worked for, and it was not a fact that weighed lightly on his conscience.
And then there were the hundreds of monks and nuns that he had helped to displace. Old men and women with no desire for the material world, thrust out onto the streets in order to the line the king’s pockets, watching as their abbeys and convents were torn down, everything including the lead roof panels sold for profit.827Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡm7RQBizE0G
Cromwell shook his head in shame.
All too soon the guard arrived at his door. It was time.
Cromwell blinked and suppressed a gulp.827Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡEvfSIDY12C
He forced himself to stand before his guards pulled him to his feet. Two of them took an arm each, and he was led from his cell out to Tower Hill. Two more were waiting outside; one went before him and the other behind him.827Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡkmuErQYLnu
His legs had forgotten what it was like to walk and he found himself tripping over his own feet too frequently.827Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡh5tpD2XcgF
His eyes were not used to the brightness of the sun’s natural glare and he had to squint in order to see. He could discern a crowd before a scaffold, and as he passed them, some spat at the floor and hurled insults at him, but others patted his arm and offered prayers of salvation.
He was lead up the steps of the scaffold and stood before the block. He looked at the executioner holding a sharp axe, and thought bitterly how Anne Boleyn had been offered the expert French swordsman for execution. He had no swordsman, but he had been granted a more "private" execution within the walls of the Tower instead of a more common execution across the way, outside of the Tower walls. It was supposed to be a kindness on the king's part. Henry had a funny idea of mercy.
He gave his speech, though his brain did not register what his mouth was saying. His jaw kept moving and words kept coming out that seemed to form a coherent sentence, but his mind was elsewhere and did not recognise what he spoke.
And then the blindfold was placed over his eyes and he was pushed gently to his knees. His fists clenched, stray thoughts about pain and judgment pushing themselves to the forefront of his mind. He took a deep breath.
The last thing that crossed Thomas Cromwell’s mind was the nature of the wheel of fortune, and how it would never again turn to raise him up.
Thomas Wyatt watched from the crowd. He stood towards the back, since he did not think he could stomach to stand too near. It was too perilously close to what he had himself once nearly experienced. Without Cromwell, Thomas would have lost his own head when George Boleyn lost his.
Thomas held his breath as he watched. The executioner was blundering. Perhaps it was nerves over executing a great lord and member of the king’s council, or perhaps it was the size of the crowd that had gathered to witness the grim act. Or perhaps he was simply incompetent and the king had not cared enough to employ a decent executioner for one of his most loyal subjects. Tom grimaced as the axe came down again and again, missing the neck each time but dealing blows instead to his shoulders and his skull.827Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡUuoc5FJ8w6
Thomas shut his eyes tight and turned his head from the scene on the scaffold. Cromwell had to be already dead, but with each swing the axeman still failed to separate his head cleanly from his neck. He was like a butcher, and the whole scene made Tom sick to the stomach. If, Thomas thought, Cromwell had not been killed with the first blow, he had remained quiet and endured the ordeal silently.
It took a while, but at last, it was over. Cromwell's head was wrapped in a sheet and extra straw was thrown down to soak up the blood. 827Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡWjiKSYxSYB
Thomas remained still and immobile whilst the crowds filed past him. He stood in shock, wondering how many other loyal servants the king was going to send to the block before he was satisfied.
King Henry received the news of Cromwell’s successful execution and merely nodded.827Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡpEZirAgowQ
He had other, much more pressing things to do today. Today was the day he would marry for the fifth time, and however insensitive it made the king seem, Henry cared remarkably little.827Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡciEfeAteVI
He wanted Catherine Howard as his wife, and so he would have her.
He sat at his wedding feast, certainly no stranger to the celebrations that followed a matrimonial union, and glanced at his new bride.827Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡKmXgSTLMWH
She was young, only nineteen, and her pretty dark hair hung down her back in gentle waves. She laughed delicately, and the sound of it almost made Henry happy enough to forget all the wives that had gone before. She turned to her husband and blinked slowly, a soft smile on her lips.827Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡrydupDP2Ax
Henry drank another goblet of wine, and suppressed a moan of pain at the twinging in his leg. If Catherine Howard noticed the smell of his leg, or even found her new husband anything less than a perfect English Adonis, she gave nothing away.
When Henry stood up and motioned that the couple were to go to their bedchamber, Catherine smiled prettily and took her husband’s hand.
“That girl does not strike me as a nervous newlywed, ey Tom?” Thomas Tallis said at Thomas Wyatt’s side. Tallis was a composer, and only a few years younger than Tom himself. Tom shook his head, a nervous laugh escaping his lips.
“Watch what you say, Tallis. If the king should overhear you he would most certainly send you to the block.” He said lightly.
Tallis' expression grew grave and his voice turned into a whisper.
“I heard Cromwell was positively butchered this morning.”
Thomas Wyatt nodded slowly.
“Aye.” He said with a pause. “It was… difficult… to watch."
Tallis looked at him sympathetically.
“I am sorry. I know you and he were friends.”
“I owe him my life.” Thomas said simply. Tallis nodded, growing silent as the king and his new bride passed them on their way out of the great hall. The two men bowed their heads in respect as the king passed.
“She’s no stranger to a marital bed, I’d wager.” Tallis said grimly.
“I hope you’re wrong,” Thomas replied. “Else the Tower will soon be running out of cells to fill with the king’s wives and courtiers.”
Tallis raised one eyebrow, drank deeply from his goblet and clapped Thomas on the shoulder.
“Good night, Tom.” He said as he turned to leave
Thomas Wyatt watched Tallis leave through the tall, heavy wooden doors that were already growing congested. He shook his head as he watched the slim-built composer slip through the crowds and hoped to God he had been wrong about Catherine Howard. After all, she was the queen now, and he shuddered to think of the consequences should Henry be dissatisfied with her, too.
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