C. Sansom - Lamentation

‘And I have given them a second,’ the Queen said bleakly. ‘Placed myself and all those I care for in jeopardy.’

This time neither her uncle nor the Archbishop sought to reassure her. The Queen smiled, not the gently humorous smile that in happier times was ever ready to appear on her face, but a sad, angry grimace. She said, ‘It is time for you to know what I have done.’

We all looked at her. She spoke quietly. ‘Last winter, it seemed the King was moving in the direction of reform. He had made Parliament pass the bill that gave him control of the chantries; another bastion of popish ceremony had fallen. I had published my Prayers and Meditations that summer, and felt the time was safe for me to write another book, a declaration to the world of my beliefs, as Marguerite of Navarre has done. And so I wrote my little volume. I knew it might be — controversial — so I composed it in secret, in my bedroom. A confession — of my life; my sins, my salvation, my beliefs.’ She looked at me intently; the light of conviction shone in her eyes now. ‘It is called the Lamentation of a Sinner . I speak in it of how, when I was young, I was mired in superstition, full of vanity for the things of this world; of how God spoke to me but I denied His voice, until eventually I accepted His saving grace.’ Her voice had risen with passion; she looked at Lord Parr and the Archbishop, but they had cast their eyes down. She continued, more quietly. ‘It was God who brought me to realize it was my destiny to marry the King.’ She cast her own head down, and I wondered if she was thinking of her old love for Thomas Seymour. ‘In my Lamentation I speak in the most plain terms of my belief that salvation comes through faith and study of the Bible, not vain ceremonies.’ I closed my eyes. I knew of books like this, confessions by radical Protestants of their sinfulness and salvation. Some had been seized by the authorities. The Queen had been foolish to write such a thing in these faction-ridden times, even in secret. She must have known it; but for once her emotions had overridden her political sense. And her hope that the times were shifting in favour of reform had again proved disastrously wrong.

‘Who has seen the book, your majesty?’ I asked quietly.

‘Only my Lord Archbishop. I finished it in February, but then in March the trouble with Gardiner began. And so I hid it in my private coffer, telling nobody.’ She added bitterly, ‘You see, Matthew, I can still be sensible sometimes.’ I saw that she was torn between conflicting emotions: her desire to spread her beliefs amongst the people, her acute awareness of the political dangers of doing so, and her fear for her own life. ‘The book stayed locked in my coffer until last month, when I resolved to ask the Archbishop for his opinion. He came to me, here, and read it one evening with me.’ She looked at Cranmer, smiling wistfully. ‘We have spoken much on matters of faith, these last three years. Few know how much.’

The Archbishop looked uneasy for a moment, then said, his voice composed, ‘That was on the ninth of June. A little over a month ago. And I advised her majesty that on no account should the book be circulated. It said nothing about the Mass, but the condemnation of dumb Roman ceremonies, the argument that prayer and the Bible are the only ways to salvation — those could be read, by our enemies, as Lutheran.’

‘Where is the manuscript now?’ I asked.

‘That is our problem,’ Lord Parr said heavily. ‘It has been stolen.’

The Queen looked me in the eye. ‘And if it finds its way to the King’s hands, then likely I am dead and others, too.’

‘But if it does not deny the Mass-’

‘It is too radical for the King,’ the Queen said. ‘And that I should be its author, and have kept it secret from him. .’ Her voice faltered.

Cranmer spoke quietly. ‘He would see that as disloyalty. And that is the most dangerous thing of all.’

‘I can understand that,’ the Queen said sadly. ‘He would feel — wounded.’

My head reeled. I clasped my hands together in my lap to force my mind to focus, realizing the others were waiting for me to respond. ‘How many copies are there?’ I asked.

The Queen answered, ‘Only one, in my own hand. I wrote it in my bedchamber, secretly, with my door locked.’

‘How long is it?’

‘Fifty pages of small writing. I kept it secure, in the strong chest in my bedchamber. I alone have the key and I keep it round my neck. Even when I sleep.’ She put her hand to her bodice and lifted out a small key. Like the teardrop pearl, it was on the end of a fine chain.

Cranmer said bluntly, ‘I advised her majesty to destroy the book. Its very existence was a danger.’

‘And that was on the ninth of June?’ I asked.

The Queen answered, ‘Yes. I could not, of course, meet with the Archbishop in my bedchamber, so I brought it to this room. It was the only time it has left my bedchamber. I asked all the ladies and servants to leave so our discussion could be private.’

‘And you told nobody about your meeting?’

‘I did not.’

They were all looking at me now. I had slipped into the question-and-answer mode of the investigating lawyer. There was no pulling back from this. But I thought, if this goes wrong, it could be the fire for me as well as for them.

The Queen continued. ‘My Lord Archbishop told me the book must be destroyed. And yet — I believed, and still believe, that such a work, written by a Queen of England, could bring people to right faith.’ She looked at me pleadingly, as though to say: see, this is my soul, this is the truth I have learned, and you must listen. I was moved, but lowered my gaze. The Queen clasped her hands together, then looked between the three of us, her voice quietly sombre now. ‘Very well. I know. I was wrong.’ She added wearily, ‘Such faith in my own powers is itself a token of vanity.’

I asked, ‘Did you return the manuscript directly to your chest?’

‘Yes. Almost every day I would look at it. For a full month. Many times I nearly called you, Uncle.’

‘Would that you had,’ Lord Parr said feelingly.

‘Had it not been summer, had there been fires lit in the grate, once, twice, I would have burned it. But I hesitated, and days lengthened into weeks. And then, eleven days ago, the day after that scene with Wriothesley, I opened the chest and the book was gone. It was gone.’ She shook her head. I realized what a shock that moment must have been to her.

‘When had you last seen it?’ I asked gently.

‘That afternoon I looked over the manuscript again, wondering whether there were changes I might make that would render it safe to publish. Then, in the early evening, the King called me to his private chamber, and I was with him, talking and playing cards, till near ten. His legs were paining him; he needed distraction. Then, when I came to bed, I went to take it out, to look at it, to guide my prayers, and it was gone.’

‘Was there any sign the lock had been tampered with?’

‘No,’ she answered. ‘None at all.’

‘What else was in the chest, your majesty?’

‘Some of my jewels. Legacies from my second husband, and his daughter, dear Margaret Neville, who died this spring.’ A spasm of sadness crossed her face.

Lord Parr said, ‘All those jewels were of considerable value. But nothing apart from the manuscript was removed.’

I considered. ‘And this was the day following the incident with Wriothesley?’

‘Yes. The sixth of July. I have cause to remember recent days very well.’

Lord Parr said, ‘My niece contacted me at once. I was horrified to learn of the existence of the book, and what had happened to it.’