For
Alison
and
Paul
Contents
Prologue
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Epilogue
Prologue
William Somers to Catherine Carey Knollys:
Kent, England. April 10, 1557.
My dear Catherine:
I am dying. Or, rather, about to die—there is a slight (though unconsoling) difference. It is this: the dying can no longer write letters, whereas those about to die can and sometimes do. As this letter proves. Dear Catherine, spare me your protestations to the contrary. You have not seen me in many years (how many since you went into exile to Basle?); you would not recognize me now. I am not sure I recognize myself, whenever I am so ill-advised as to actually look at myself in a mirror—proving that vanity lives at least as long as we do. It is the first faculty to come and the last to go. And I, I who have made my livelihood at court mocking others’ vanity—I look in the mirror, like all the rest. And see a strange old man who looks decidedly unsavoury.
But I was already twenty-five when old King Harry (who was young then, himself) took me into his household. And he has been dead ten years now, and that is what I am writing about. Let us come directly to business. You know I have never been sentimental. (I think Harry liked that best in me, being so incorrigibly sentimental himself.) I have a small legacy for you. It is from your father. I knew him rather well, even better than you yourself did. He was a magnificent man, and sorely missed today, even by his enemies, so I should think.
I live quietly in the country, in Kent. It is far enough from London to afford one some protection from false accusations, but not so far that one cannot hear the false accusations against others. There have been more burnings at Smithfield; and as you have most likely heard yourself, Cranmer and Ridley and Latimer were roasted. How Mary must have hated Cranmer, all those years! Think of the times when she had to stand near him in some religious ceremony or other . . . such as Edward’s christening, where they actually had her bearing gifts! Dear Cranmer—Henry’s compliant churchman. If ever there were anyone who seemed an unlikely candidate for martyrdom, it was he. I always assumed the man had no conscience at all. I see I was wrong. Did you hear that first he recanted his Protestantism, in a typically Cranmerian fashion, and then—oh, marvellous!—recanted his recantation? It would have been humourous were it not so deadly.
But then, you and those of your . . . persuasion . . . sensed that early, and had the prudence to clear out of England. I will ask you a question, knowing full well you will not answer it, not on paper if you hope ever to return here. Just how Protestant are you? You know the old King never saw himself as a Protestant at all, but merely as a Catholic who fell out with the Pope and refused to recognize him. A neat trick, but then Harry had some odd turns of mind. Then his son Edward, that pious little prig, was Protestant. But not the wild sort, the Anabaptist variety. Are you that sort? If you are, there will be no place for you in England. Not even Elizabeth will welcome you, should she ever become Queen. You should know that, and not pin your hopes on things that are unlikely to be. Some day you can return home. But not if you are Anabaptist or the like.
England will never again be Catholic. Queen Mary has seen to that, with her persecutions for the True Faith and her Spanish obsession. Harry never punished anyone for anything save disloyalty to the King. As long as you signed the Oath of Succession you could believe what you liked, provided you were gentlemanly about it and did not run about in a sweating fervour, one way or the other. Thomas More wasn’t beheaded for being a Catholic (although the Catholics would like people to think that and have nearly succeeded), but for refusing to take the Oath. The rest of his household took it. But More did long for martyrdom and went to . . . heroic? . . . lengths to achieve it. He literally forced the King to kill him. And got that so-called heavenly crown he lusted after as old Harry had lusted after Anne Boleyn. Harry found the object of his lust not as palatable as he had imagined; let us hope More was not similarly disillusioned once he attained his desire.
I forget. I must not make such jests with you. You believe in that Place too. Believers are all alike. They seek—what was More’s book title?—Utopia. It means No Place, you know.
As I said, I live quietly here in my sister’s household in Kent, along with my niece and her husband. They have a small cottage, and Edward is . . . I hesitate to write it . . . a gravedigger and tombstone carver. He makes a good living at it. (Just such puns used to be my living.) But he tends his garden as others do (we had wonderful roses last year), plays with his children, enjoys his meals. There is nothing the least death-like about him; perhaps only that sort can stomach such a profession. Although I think being a jester is equally bound up with death. Or providing a scent to cover it, anyway.
I came here before Edward had his coronation. The boy-King and his p
ious advisers had no need of a jester, and I would have stood about like a loose sail luffing in the wind. Neither is Queen Mary’s court the sort of place where one makes jokes.
Do you remember, Catherine, that summer when you and I and all your Boleyn family and the King gathered at Hever? You and your brother Henry were brought to see your Boleyn grandparents. Hever is delightful in the summer. It was always so green, so cool. And the gardens had truly the best musk-roses in England. (Do you perchance remember the name of your grandparents’ gardener? I am not far from Hever now, and perhaps could consult with him . . . assuming he is still living.) And it was an easy day’s ride from London. Do you remember how the King used to stand on that hill, the first one from which you could glimpse Hever, and blow his hunting horn? You used to wait for that sound, and then go running to meet him. He always brought you something, too. You were the first Boleyn grandchild.
Remember your uncle George that summer? He was trying so hard to be the gentil parfit knight. He practised riding about in his armour, ran lists against trees, and fell in love with that sloppy girl at The White Hart. She gave her favours to every man who frequented the tavern, except George, I think. She knew that to do so would stop the flow of sonnets he wrote exalting her purity and beauty, and she enjoyed laughing at them.
Your mother Mary and her husband were also there, of course. I always thought your mother more than her sister Anne’s equal in beauty. But of a different sort. She was sun and honey; the other was the dark of the moon. We were all there that summer before everything changed so horribly. The tide has indeed gone out, leaving that little time as a brave clump of ground projecting above the muddy, flat rest of it.
I am rambling. No, worse, I grow romantic and sentimental, something I abhor in others and will not tolerate in myself. Now, to return to the important thing: the legacy. Tell me how I may get it safely into your hands across the Channel. It is, unfortunately, a rather awkward size: too large to be successfully concealed on a person, too small to be its own protection against destruction. In fact, it can all too easily be destroyed by any number of things—sea, fire, air, or even neglect.
I pray you make haste with your reply. I am distinctly less curious to discover at first hand the shape and disposition of my Maker than are you and others of your sect, but I fear I may be honoured with a celestial interview in the near future. The Deity is notoriously capricious in his affections.
Ever your
Will Somers
Catherine Carey Knollys to William Somers:
June 11, 1557. Basle.
My dearest Will:
I beg your forgiveness in taking so long to place this answer in your hands. Messengers who will openly carry things from England to us here in exile are few in these times; the Queen makes sure of that. However, I trust this carrier and equally trust your discretion in destroying this letter once you have read it.
I am distressed to hear of your ill health. But you, as King Henry’s favorite jester, were ever prone to exaggeration in your talk, and I pray God this is but a further example of your art. Francis and I have prayed for you nightly. Not in the idolatrous Mass, which is worse than worthless, it is a travesty (O, if the Queen should see this!), but in our private devotions. We do not do badly here in Basle. We have enough clothes to keep us warm, enough food to keep us fit but not fat; more would be an affront to God, many of whose poor creatures are in bodily need. But we are rich in the only thing worth having—the freedom to follow our consciences. You no longer have that in England. The Papalists would take it all away. We pray daily for that tyranny to be lifted from your shoulders, and a Moses to arise to lead you from spiritual bondage.
But about the legacy. I am curious. My father died in 1528, when I was but six. Why should you wait near thirty years to hand it on? It could not have been scurrilous or treasonous. And that is another thing that puzzles me. You spoke of his “enemies.” He had no enemies. William Carey was a good friend to the King, and a gentle man. I know this not only from my mother, but from others. He was well regarded at court, and his death from the plague saddened many. I am grateful that you remember now to do it, but if I had had it earlier . . . No, I do not blame you. But I would have known my father better, and sooner. It is good to meet one’s father before one becomes an adult oneself.
Yes, I remember Hever in the summer. And my uncle George, and you, and the King. As a child I thought him handsome and angelic. Certainly he was beautifully made (the Devil did it) and had a certain presence about him, of majesty I should say. Not all kings have it; certainly Edward never did, and as for the present Queen . . .
I regret to say I cannot remember the name of the gardener. Something with a J? But I do remember that garden, the one beyond the moat. There were banks of flowers, and he (of the forgotten name) had arranged it so that there was always something in bloom, from mid-March to mid-November. And great quantities, too, so that the little manor of Hever could always be filled with masses of cut flowers. Strange that you should mention musk-roses; my favourites were the hollyhocks, with their big heavy bells.
Your news about Cranmer saddened me. So he was one of us after all. I, too, had thought him merely a creature of whoever was in power. I am sure he has attained his crown and is (in the poor misguided Thomas More’s phrase) “merry in heaven.” More may be there as well, but in spite of his mistaken allegiance, not because of it. If he had trimmed his sails to the wind and survived until now, I doubt not that he would have been among the judges that condemned Cranmer. More was a vicious enemy of so-called dissenters; he is not honoured by us. His death diminished the ranks of our persecutors by one. Naturally there are many remaining, but time is our friend and we shall prevail.
This is hard for you to comprehend as you are of the Old Order, and cautiousness has always been your watchword. But as Gamaliel, the Pharisee lawyer, said in regard to the persecution of the first Christians: “For if this council or this work be of men, it will come to nought: But if it be of God, ye cannot overthrow it; lest haply ye be found even to fight against God.” It is written in the fifth chapter of Acts. If you have no translation of the Scriptures available to you (as I believe the Queen has had them destroyed), I can arrange to have one brought to you. A trusted friend has business in London, and sees that we can receive things. My messenger here will give you his name, and we can exchange our things. Although I believe that, whatever the legacy prove to be, it cannot be so valuable as the Scriptures.
Ever your servant in Christ,
Catherine Carey Knollys
Will Somers to Catherine Knollys:
July 21, 1557. Kent.
Sweet Catherine:
Your prayers must have had some salubrious effect, as I have made a partial recovery. God has evidently rescheduled our meeting for a more mutually convenient time. As you know, I shun the offices of all doctors as well as priests. Neither has meddled with me in over forty years. To this I attribute my survival. I have never been bled, never had ground-pearl ointments (of which Harry was so inordinately fond), nor have I cared what vestments the current high priest wore. I do not mean to offend you, Catherine. But I am not a believer in anything save the swift passing of things. Religion, too, has its fashions. Yesterday it was five Masses a day—yes, Harry did that!—and pilgrimages to Our Lady of Walsingham; next Bibles and sermons; now, Masses again, with burnings added; next, who knows? By all means pray to that Geneva God you have created in your own image. He is mighty for now. Perhaps there is something that is constant above and beyond mere fashions in worship. I do not know. My job has been always, and merely, to turn people’s faces away from change, loss, dissolution; to distract them while the scenery was being changed backstage.
Catherine: do not send me any Scriptures, or translations. I do not wish to receive them, nor to be associated with them in any way. Are you unaware of what danger that would place me in? And for nothing. I have read them already (indeed, I had to, in order to banter with King Harry in public
, and in private, to fill in whenever Cranmer or his last Queen was unavailable for his favourite pastime: a robust theological discussion). I have remained unconverted and singularly uninterested in being converted. As it is extraordinarily difficult to smuggle in these scriptures, give someone else the rewards of your efforts.
I will, however, speak with your man about the transportation of the legacy. I must cease the mystery and tell it plain. The thing is a journal. It was written by your father. It is extremely valuable, and many people would like to destroy it. They know of its existence but so far have confined their efforts to asking the Duke of Norfolk about it, the remnants of the Seymour family, and even Bessie Blount’s widower, Lord Clinton. Sooner or later they will sniff their way to me here in Kent.
There, I have told it all, except the last thing. The journal was written not by William Carey, your supposed father, but by your true father: the King.
Catherine Knollys to Will Somers:
September 30, 1557. Basle.
Will:
The King was not—is not!—my father. How dare you lie so, and insult my mother, my father, myself? So you would rake up all those lies from so long ago? And I thought you my friend! I do not wish to see the journal. Keep it to yourself, along with all your other misguided abominations of thought! No wonder the King liked you so. You were of one mind: low-minded and full of lies. You will not muddy my life with your base lies and insinuations. Christ said to forgive, but He also told us to shake the dust off our feet from towns filled with liars, blasphemers, and the like. Just so do I shake you from mine.
Will Somers to Catherine Knollys:
November 14, 1557. Kent.
Catherine, my dear:
Restrain yourself from tearing this letter to pieces in lieu of reading it. I do not blame you for your outburst. It was magnificent. A paradigm of outraged sensibility, morality, and all the rest. (Worthy of the old King himself! Ah, what memories it brought back!) But now admit it: the King was your father. This have you known always. You speak of dishonouring your father. Will you dishonour the King by your refusal to admit what is? That was perhaps his cardinal virtue (yes, my lady, he had virtues) and genius: always to recognize the thing as it was, not as it was generally assumed to be. Did you not inherit that from him? Or are you like your half-sister Queen Mary (I, too, regret your relationship with her), blind and singularly unable to recognize even things looming right before her weak eyes? Your other half-sister, Elizabeth, is different; and I supposed you were also. I supposed it was the Boleyn blood, added to the Tudor, that made for a uniquely hard, clear vision of things, not muddied by any Spanish nonsense. But I see I was wrong. You are as prejudiced and stupid and full of religious choler as the Spanish Queen. King Harry is dead indeed, then. His long-sought children have seen to that.