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CHAPTER 1

Roses Have Thorns

He, Henry, King of England, touched the rose; yellow, blooming, bright. A rose without a thorn he had called Katherine, his queen. Now, his fingers reaching for the stem, he asked: Had he betrayed himself in thought, believing beauty came without a price? He pressed the prickle, thinking, a rose without a thorn is a rose made in heaven, yet we, here on earth, kings though we be, have thorns to make us bleed. He saw the blood form and wiped his finger on the rose. As he pulled the petals one by one, he watched them drop and drift, fragmented and bloodstained, like pieces of his heart.

He turned from the garden, away from the row of roses and the unrelenting sun that fed them, finished with flowers. Looking toward the Great Gatehouse and beyond to his private rooms at Hampton Palace, he wanted Archbishop Cranmer, who had caused him his present grief, having given Henry the letter, inconspicuously, in apparent anonymity, while he sat in the chapel royal at the All Souls' mass, his eyes closed in prayer for the express purpose, ironic as it now seemed, to give thanks for his wondrous marriage so late in life, making him believe he possessed both youth and virility.

How could the clergyman write such a letter, damning his queen, accusing her of unchaste behavior before their marriage? What insolence to rob from him the image he held of her: the jewel of his age, his ... no, he could not say it. When he dropped those petals, he shed all illusion. Roses have thorns! Even his young wife. Though had he been unreasonable believing her the human exception? Only fifteen years old when he took up with her, she appeared as pure as the first light of day. Look at the point of her breasts, he would have said. Did they not prove her maidenhead? What did Cranmer, a clergyman, know, he who believed the reading of the Bible in English an ejaculation of faith?

The archbishop had motives, certainly, for all men had them hidden beneath the not-so-subtle arrangements of their faces, be it smirk or smile, and their well-intended words, spoken and written. Men emulated foxes, and if Henry didn't hunt them, they would, with cunning, outwit him. That could never happen to one who fashioned himself king of the predators; a creed he had followed in governing his people, even those he had trusted, such as Cranmer. Where, now, was that trust? Where, in fact, was the archbishop, when Henry had called for him after reading the letter?

Henry had earlier met with Dr. Butts, telling his trusted advisor he had a troubled mind, though not specifying its relation to his marriage since the allegations from Cranmer were not as yet substantiated. Dr. Butts told Henry the troubles he endured resulted from the great weight he bore. Henry wanted to know if the doctor meant the great weight he bore as king. The doctor looked askance, as many do when they are caught between truth and lies, that delicate balance in the determination of one's fate. Yes, the great weight he bore as king, of course. What other weight did he think he meant? What other weight? Do not give me pretense, doctor. You know what weight we're talking about. This weight! This mass I carry in excess of over four hundred pounds! And do not look askance, for that only confirms your pretense. The doctor apologized for confusing the words great weight with great responsibilities. Oh, really, is that what I'm carrying in my gut, four hundred pounds of responsibilities? I have not lived fifty years in a state of ignorance, failing to understand the difference between responsibilities and weight, and you, dear doctor, clearly used the words great weight. You cannot take those words back, no matter how much you look askance.

He asked Dr. Butts to find Cranmer. He would know where to look, for they were fellow heretics. Oh, sure, they preferred the word reformists, though Henry wasn't fooled. They were Cambridge men from long ago, in bed with Luther; revolutionaries, wanting to rewrite Church matters, such as the Bible and the practice of worship. Why couldn't they have left matters alone? If only Henry hadn't divorced Katherine, his first queen, the divorce from Rome would have never happened, and he would be able to hear mass and take the Host in peace, without someone whispering in his ear: We don't do that anymore; we don't believe bread becomes the flesh of God; it's just bread; if you want to receive God, just put out your hands and look up; you need no mass, no Host, no crucifix or images. What hogwash! As were the allegations about the queen! Did not their time together on progress prove that? They rode and hunted during the day and feasted on meats at night, with fine ales, wines and custards, while, afterwards, the queen danced with her ladies, much to the amusement of the king, who loved watching her laugh with little care for decorum. How many times did she rush to him with a hug, pressing her nose to his hairy cheek, calling him my big Harry? He liked that name. Never once did he consider it an insult. He considered only what he possessed; a fifteen-year-old queen, a pearl set among the rocks of England; his reason to pray and give thanks for his fifth marriage, his best, for none other had made him believe he started life anew, wherein he could forget what needed to be forgotten; his failing eyesight, his headaches, his ulcerous leg wound that rendered him unable to walk, ride and joust as he once did.

Why did Cranmer place the letter in the chapel, of all places? The chapel where his beloved Jane's heart rested beneath the altar, where his coat of arms appeared on the ceiling he had designed years earlier for ... an earlier queen, whose name he refused to say. How was it possible that in the few minutes between his closing his eyes and again opening them the letter had appeared? He wondered: Who would act so insidiously as to sneak up on him, while in a posture of prayer, with eyes closed? He would never have believed Cranmer the culprit until he read the letter and saw the archbishop's signature at the bottom of the page.

Cranmer couldn't have been surprised when he entered Henry's chamber and saw the king holding the letter in his hand, his face flushed and sweating.

'Why?' Henry shouted.

'Why?' whispered Cranmer.

'Is there something wrong with your hearing, Cranmer?'

'I hear fine, Your Majesty.'

'Then answer my question.'

'You asked only, why?'

'Did you expect me to say, good evening, Cranmer, how are you?'

'I would not be displeased to hear that.'

'Well, you're not going to hear from me good evening or how do you do after having written this letter to me. I should have your head for this. Do you understand that, or do you wish to say, why, Your Majesty?'

'I wish to apologize.'

'I don't want your apology. I want your explanation!'

Henry slammed the letter on Cranmer's chest. The clergyman fell into a chair, the letter in his hands. Henry stood over him, suppressing an urge to squeeze his head, for fear he might rip it open like a ripened melon. He walked away, doing his best, as Dr. Butts had so many times advised him, to control his temper. Remember, the doctor would say, how much worse your headaches and the wound on your leg after your fits of rage. Take a breath, consider thoughtfully and choose your words from your brain, not your heart. If it were anyone but Cranmer, Henry would have forgotten the doctor's words and beat the man with his fists.

The truth is he needed Cranmer, as he had years earlier when he wished to divorce one wife and marry another; when, in 1529, Cranmer lived with the Boleyn family and came to Henry by way of Anne, who, at the time, held sway over the king for she had something he wanted, and until he got it her word rang loud and clear as the only word. He must overlook that Cranmer might have associations with the White Horse Tavern in Cambridge, known to those in London as Little Germany, the hotbed hangout, where revolutionaries adopted Luther's ideas.

Look past that, Henry, Anne would have said, for here is a man, Thomas Cranmer his name, who can help you. Ask Stephen Gardiner and Edward Foxe, his colleagues and your appointed theologians, who seek to rule in favor of your divorce. They have heard him speak. Listen to his words.

What right had the pope to command a divinely appointed king?

The King was under God's authority, not that of Rome.

Do not look to Roman canon law.

Win the support of the great theologians at the universities.

Cranmer came to Henry a savior, his own personal Jesus, to save him from Pope Clement and Katherine, his stubborn first wife, and to open up the gates of Henry's mind, where he could find the Promised Land.

Become the leader of your own church.

Grant yourself a divorce and marry whom you wish to marry.

Thank you, Henry would have said. Now, go with your ally, Thomas Boleyn, to the courts of Europe and seek out the academics and theologians in furtherance of my cause.

Cranmer straightened himself in the chair. 'It was not my intent to make you unhappy, Your Grace.'

Henry banged his fist against a wall and leaned his head against it. When he spoke, his words seemed directed to himself.

'Why, at this point in my life? Have I not suffered enough through four previous marriages? Am I not entitled to love?'

He turned back to Cranmer, who faced the floor.

'Well, answer me. Am I not entitled to love?'

Cranmer stood and faced the king. 'You are, Your Grace.'

Henry took the letter back from the clergyman's hands. 'To make such allegations about the queen is treasonous, as you are aware.'

'I thought Your Grace would want to know.'

'A man doesn't need to know what he doesn't know if in the knowing of what he didn't previously know the knowing causes him grief.'

Cranmer didn't respond.

'Does that make sense to you, Cranmer?'

'Perfect sense, Your Grace.'

'Why, then?'

'To find the truth.'

'I only want the truth if it serves my needs. Otherwise give me a lie and make it appear as true. Isn't that what all men do in conversation?'

'I am not all men. I am a clergyman.'

'You are a coward for having written this letter and then disappearing from my sight.'

'I am here now.'

'Still, you do not speak and explain yourself.'

'What can I add that I haven't already written?'

Henry read the letter aloud, squinting as he did.

Your Grace, as your subject and servant, I write this letter, with much hardship, knowing what I have to confer upon you will alter your mood, though if I kept this information from you I would be, in effect, betraying you with my silence and my secret. Therefore, for the benefit of both you and your kingdom, I write the following: While you were away on your northern progress, I received a visit from a man named John Lascelles. You may remember him. He served the former Master Secretary, Thomas Cromwell, and for a time I believe he performed as a table waiter at court. He wished to speak about something of grave importance to you, the King of England, and to the sanctity of the kingdom you ruled. He informed me he came to me as a God-fearing, Christian man, with no intent to harm or displease anyone. He had received information recently, and this information bothered his mind to such an extent that he could no longer sleep at night or work and think peacefully during the daytime. Wishing to put the man at ease, I asked him to sit and offered him a drink, which he gladly accepted. Suffice it to say, the drink calmed his nerves, wherein he began to discharge the thoughts on his mind.

Henry put the letter down. 'I cannot read any longer. My eyesight is failing me. Did you consider my health and well-being before you wrote this letter?'

'Your health has always been of my greatest concern.'

'This letter I hold proves you wrong.'

He handed it to Cranmer. 'Read aloud from where I ended. Your eyesight is better, and I wish to hear your voice, since the words on the page are yours.'

Cranmer complied. Henry sat down, facing away from the archbishop, his heavy hand upon his cheek, as he listened.

Wishing to be brief, he made clear to me what he heard from his sister, Mary Hall, who had lived with the queen, years before she was queen, at the age of twelve and thirteen, in the houses, both in Horsham and in Lambeth, of Agnes Norfolk, the Dowager Duchess and stepmother of the 3rd Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Howard. It was there Katherine had illicit affairs with two men, one her music teacher, Henry Manox, and a good-for-nothing upstart (her words, not mine) named Francis Dereham. When Katherine became queen, Master Lascelles, knowing his sister had lived in the same household, asked his sister why she didn't seek employment at court since the two had been close years earlier. Lady Hall said she couldn't because she knew too much about the queen when she was younger, and she didn't like what she knew. She didn't want to be around someone, albeit a queen, whose morals were loose. When I asked for further details, Master Lascelles said it was best if I talked to his sister, for she was the primary source of the information and much better equipped at conversing than him. I asked him to send his sister to me for further inquiry into the matter, though at the present his sister is visiting with family in the northern provinces. While I am awaiting her return, I thought it best to convey to Your Majesty what I heard and learned first in letter form, for I couldn't think how to speak these words to you. I thought best to allow you to digest this information alone until such time, after you gain your bearings, we can discuss it in the privacy of your rooms. I hope, in the end, this matter will be resolved and the queen exonerated from any unchaste behavior. I am, as always, here to serve you, Archbishop Thomas Cranmer.

Henry turned in his chair to face Cranmer, who laid the letter on a table.

'You mean to tell me on the basis of one man, you are wishing to ruin my marriage and thus my life?'

'I thought ...'

'You thought wrong, whatever it is you thought! She was ... I cannot say what she was. It is too hurtful.'

'Then do not say it.'

'I shall say what I damn please!'

Henry stood and walked to the window, where he looked out toward the gardens. His voice quieted, his tone more reflective.

'She was to me a rose without a thorn.'

'All roses have thorns, Your Majesty.'

He wheeled around and shouted, 'I don't need you to tell me that.'

Cranmer held his ground and said, matter-of-factly, 'Lucky is the man who plucks the rose and doesn't bleed.'

'Well, I bleed. Shall I show you the cuts on my finger?' Henry held his finger to Cranmer's face.

'All men bleed, Your Majesty.'

'Kings should be excepted.'

'I agree, but ...'

'But, what?'

'It is God's decision, not ours.'

'I will not argue with God. He is too formidable an opponent. You, on the other hand ... I wish to take issue with you. Why didn't this man, this John Lascelles, come forward with his information earlier?'

'I asked the same question of him.'

'And I am asking it of you. The answer, please.'

'He feared the information would start a scandal.'

'And yet he turned his mind, it appears.'

'He said he wrestled with his conscience until he could conceal no more.'

'Ah, yes, the conscience. It gets a man every time.'

Henry sat down again and asked Cranmer to do the same, across from him. The king leaned close to the archbishop's face, staring him in the eyes, where he thought he detected a smile deep within.

'You believe this letter a fitting note to write to the King of England, informing him, without proof or evidence, that his wife had been unchaste?'

'Master Lascelles believes his sister spoke the truth.'

'What is his motive?'

'His motive?'

'Are you hard of hearing, Cranmer?'

'No, Your Majesty.'

'I asked, what is his motive? You know the word well, I presume, for you have motives as well for writing this letter to me.'

'To protect your feelings is my only motive.'

'So you wish to be the caretaker of my heart, as well as my soul?'

'I wish as your loyal servant to inform you of matters critical to you and your kingdom. I believe the queen's behavior fits that criteria.'

'Don't be evasive with me, Cranmer. The man came to you with a motive. Now tell me what that was.'

'He came, he said, as a loyal subject to the throne.'

'That's hogwash. He came as one reformist to another, isn't that true?'

'The topic of religion did not arise.'

'You are a clergyman. The topic of religion, especially the reforming of it, always arises when one is in your company.'

'The issue of her alleged behavior has no denomination. It belongs in the realm of human behavior, outside the sphere of faith and how one worships.'

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Excerpted from "Thorns in a Realm of Roses"
by .
Copyright © 2018 Thomas Crockett.
Excerpted by permission of John Hunt Publishing Ltd..
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