John Longland is a cautious, rigid, unsmiling man, who helped the king to get free from his first marriage: not popular on that account, in his own see or through the realm. The upset is worse than Cranmer knows. In Horncastle – it is well-witnessed – one of Longland’s men has been bludgeoned to death, the parish clergy cheering as he gasped his life out; and a man who calls himself Captain Cobbler is strutting with the victim’s coat on his back.
‘My lord archbishop, you should know that I am in the songs too,’ Richard Riche says. ‘I hear my name is reviled.’
‘It would be,’ Richard Cromwell says. ‘It’s a fine name for a rhyme.
He says to Cranmer, ‘Perhaps withdraw to the country for a week or two?’
‘Well, if the country were safe,’ Cranmer murmurs. ‘I am afraid there are papists in my own household. If they travel about with me, where shall I go? But London is your business, my lord. If this contagion is spreading, you must look to it.’
‘
‘Hush,’ Fitzwilliam says. ‘The king is here.’
Mr Wriothesley is a pace behind the king; he has a new doublet of sea-green satin, in which he glows like a Venetian, and delicately he edges aside the quills and penknives of smaller men, to mark out a place for himself. Rafe Sadler, harassed in his old grey riding coat, nudges himself onto a bench end.
‘My lord archbishop!’ the king says. ‘No, do not kneel! It is I should kneel to you.’
‘Why?’ Richard Cromwell whispers. ‘What sin has he done now?’
He suppresses a smile. King and prelate tussle; Cranmer is set on his feet. ‘Well, gentlemen,’ the king says, ‘the news is poor hearing. I would incline to mercy if this brawl were to end now, with no further harm to gentlemen’s property nor insult to the crown.’ He sighs: Henry the Well-Beloved. ‘They fear the winter, poor devils. Reassure them that should there be scarcities, no one will profit from their distress. Proclaim a fixed price for grain if you must. Set up a commission to investigate hoarding. My lord Privy Seal knows what to do, he will remember how the cardinal used to deal with such matters in his day. Offer the malcontents a free pardon, but only if they disperse now.’
‘I counsel you against leniency,’ Fitzwilliam says. ‘If this should spread to Yorkshire, and north to the border, we are all in peril.’
He leans forward. ‘May I alert my lord of Norfolk? He could turn out his tenants and quiet the eastern shires.’
‘Keep Thomas Howard away from me,’ the king says.
Riche says, ‘With respect, Majesty, it is towards the rebels we would send him. Not towards your sacred person.’
The king is annoyed. ‘I think I can rely on my officers in those parts. If need be, my lord of Suffolk has a sufficient power.’
Wriothesley holds up a dispatch. ‘It is stated here that wherever they gather they are chanting, “Bread or Blood”. They have sworn oaths. What oaths,’ he consults his papers, ‘we await advisement.’
Fitzwilliam says, ‘Saving your Majesty, the reason for these riots – it is not just about filling their bellies. They want their monks back.’
‘Their monks are not gone,’ Richard Riche says. ‘I wish to God they were, and the revenue from the great houses free to use.’
Under the table, he – Lord Cromwell – kicks Riche’s ankle.
Fitzwilliam says, ‘They ask for the old worship to be restored. The Pope to have his primacy.’
‘They ask for all things to be as they were in times past,’ Wriothesley says. ‘And God knows, even my lord cardinal would have found that outwith his powers, to make time flow backwards.’
‘But their saints are eternal,’ Fitzwilliam says, ‘or so they think. They want them back, those our injunctions have taken away. They are asking for St Wilfred. They want Crispin and Crispianus, and the virgin Agatha. They want Giles and Swithin, and all the harvest saints. They would rather have a holiday than get the crops in, and they would rather parade with banners than set the winter wheat.’ He says, ‘They believe that if you harvest on saints’ days, your hands drop off. The fruits of learning may one day be seen in England, but let me advertise you, they are not seen yet.’
Cranmer says, ‘I understand they are burning books.’
‘Poor men do not rise without leaders,’ he says. ‘Let no man tell me they do.’
Letters come in. The seals are broken. The king tosses the papers down as he reads: ‘Here, Wriothesley. Give my lord Cromwell sight of this.’
Call-Me is reading over the king’s shoulder. ‘As you say, Lord Cromwell, certain gentlemen are leading the
‘But the gentlemen protest they are enforced?’
‘Haled out of bed in the middle of the night,’ Wriothesley says. ‘Nightcaps on their heads.’
