London - Edward Rutherfurd [311]
At last, after the long months during which he had quietly threatened all those who dared to oppose him, King Henry of England had struck with pinpoint accuracy. Only three men – the prior of the London Charterhouse and the priors of the two other houses – had been arrested for refusing to take the oath admitting his supremacy. The oath had not even been administered to the rest of the Charterhouse monks yet. Yesterday, in a private hearing in Westminster Hall, the three priors had been tried, with Cromwell presiding. Cranmer had pleaded for them, the jury had been unwilling to convict, but Cromwell had brushed their objections roughly aside and by noon all London knew: “They’ve been taken to the Tower. They’ll be executed in five days.”
But what, Dan wondered, would this mean for him? Would Henry pursue the rest of the Charterhouse monks too? He guessed he would. And would they buckle when they saw the horror that was to come? He thought of Peter Meredith and suspected they would not. And if that happened, what would become of old Will?
With a vague sense of misgiving, therefore, Daniel Dogget rowed the king to Hampton Court.
He should not have entered the garden. He should have walked past when he heard the laughter. He had not realized that King Henry had arrived.
He had kept his head down recently. He had attended to his duties assiduously; Cromwell had praised him. He had seen little of King Henry but was glad that few if anybody at court had been aware that his brother Peter had joined the offensive Charterhouse. As for the trial that day, word of the result had yet to reach Hampton Court. So it was with shock that he now beheld the king.
There were only a few courtiers with King Henry. Wanting to stretch his legs after the long river journey, he had summoned them to attend upon him and Cromwell as they walked through the orchard. For no particular reason, he had turned into the quiet garden behind its high hedges only moments before Thomas entered.
The king was in a jovial mood. He had been bringing order to his life recently. First there had been the queen. If Anne Boleyn was sometimes moody and jealous of his other loves, time spent with her recently, in the royal business of making an heir, had cured these domestic troubles. Indeed, he suspected she had already conceived. And now this business of the monks. He had just told the courtiers about the forthcoming executions and he could see that behind their polite faces there was a hint of fear. Good. Courtiers should be afraid of the king. Indeed, on the journey from London, he had been discussing whether he should apply the oath again more widely, to seek out any other opponents of his supremacy and strike them down too; but Cromwell had urged caution. “The fewer we have to destroy, the less opposition you will appear to have,” he had pointed out. He supposed it was true.
But partly to irritate Cromwell, and partly to watch the courtiers tremble, he had just that moment returned to the theme. “Are you sure, Master Cromwell, that we should not demand the oath again? Why,” he allowed his eyes to wander round the little group, “there may be traitors even here, lurking in our midst.” He gave a great guffaw of laughter as his hard eye watched the courtiers blanch. And then he saw young Meredith.
Henry liked Meredith. He remembered his father; Cromwell spoke well of his work. He remembered beating the young fellow at tennis, too. Seeing him now, therefore, hesitating bashfully at the garden entrance, he beckoned to him.
“Come closer, Thomas Meredith,” he called with a smile. “We are discussing traitors.”
The young man went deathly pale. Now why should he do that?
From the labyrinth of Henry’s suspicious mind came a memory, of another encounter in this very garden; which, since it had