The Autobiography of Henry VIII_ With Notes by His Fool, Will Somers - Margaret George [242]
CXVI
The summer dragged to its weary, wilted conclusion. By late August here were droughts in Warwickshire and Northamptonshire, and certain priests wanted to form “Mary processions,” as they had done in times past, imploring the Virgin’s intercession. Should I forbid them or not? Were they Popish or not? Cranmer and I conferred and reached the decision that a procession in Mary’s honour was permissible, while one in any saint’s name was not. After all, Christ Himself had honoured Mary from the cross.
“And how is your Book of Common Prayer progressing?” I asked him. He had been working on it for so long.
“It progresses. It progresses. And your Primer?”
I had set my hand to composing prayers to be said in the vernacular—or, if the person felt more at home in it, in Latin—and I would issue it with my own Imprima="3">“It is almost done,” I said. “I think next year it shall be printed.”
Cranmer shook his head. “Your industry and speed are truly gifts. Ones that I envy.”
“As I envy yours, Thomas.” I spoke true. For his way with words and his purity of heart were rare things.
Others envied Cranmer, not only his gifts but his friendship with me. They sought to bring him down, out of sheer spite and malice. Others saw him as a danger, a gangplank leading to rampant Protestantism. They thought if they tossed that gangplank down into the sea, no radical would ever board the secure ship of England. But Cranmer, who was so naive about the Original Sin in men’s natures (although he described it poetically in his Book of Common Prayer), never thought to be on guard against his enemies, or even acknowledged that he had enemies.
“I have but one garden to tend, the Church. You have many. How can you oversee the coming war with the French and write prayer books and education books at the selfsame time?”
He referred to my ABC’s as Set Forth by the King’s Majesty, a little reading-instruction book I had prepared.
I could not answer him honestly, for I knew not how I was able to think and attend to many things at once. Only that one gave surcease to the other, and while I laboured on Englishmen’s prayers I did not think of how many tents would be needed for a European campaign. “I know not,” I admitted. “But it is fortunate I can, else England would need six kings.”
Six kings. A council of kings. That is what I was forced to consider, for Edward’s minority. My pang of fear with Elizabeth had made me face the worry that had been lurking for some time: Would I live until 1555, when Edward would be eighteen, the same age I had been when I became King? He was only five years old now. And Mary and Elizabeth were tall, rooted plants that threatened my Edward. Mary was a grown woman and could yet be made much of in Catholic circles, in spite of her formal capitulation to me. Elizabeth was clearly clever and winsome, and might harbour secret ambitions for herself. Edward was not safe; no, he was not safe.
I must protect him, must make sure that, even in my absence, he could grow to maturity unmolested. There was no denying that the “New Men,” the gentlemen of learning and service whom I had honoured and titled, leaned toward Protestantism. Certainly Edward would have to understand the new ways, the New Learning, in order to deal with those men. And so, with some misgivings but with resignation, I appointed Dr. Richard Cox and John Cheke—Humanistic scholars—to be his tutors.
I also began secretly to draw up a list of those I would appoint as councillors to govern for and with Edward, until he was a man. I knew already that I must leave no Lord Protector, such as Richard Plantagenet had been, for I knew what fate Protectors dealt out to those they “protected.” My Council would be composed of equals. My will would insist on that. My will ...
The idea of my not surviving another thirteen years was chilling to consider. I did not like it, did not care for the queasy,