The Condottiero: A Tudor Deceit (Tudor Crimes Book 4)

by Anne Stevens

  “You come to the point well, Mistress Draper. I have come to London in the hope of furthering my family’s business.”

  “Please, call me Miriam… and I shall call you Edward.”

  “My friends call me Ned, Miriam. I hope that you will too.” He cannot help smile at the girl. She is a rare beauty, and he has a heart, like any other man.

  “Very well, Ned. To business. How did you come upon me?”

  “It was not hard,” Ned Small replies. “I wish to sell my wares in London, so visited all the markets I could find. At each one, there was mention of Miriam Draper, and her market stalls. So, I sought you out, thinking to find a clever lady, much like my mother. Imagine my surprise when I find a goddess of wit and beauty.”

  “A married goddess,” Miriam says, and blushes at the thought that he needs to be told. “My husband is away … in Italy. With my brother… to see … the Pope.”

  “And he leaves you here, alone?”

  “I have Master Cromwell,” Miriam says, feeling foolish. “He is like a guardian angel.”

  “Thomas Cromwell?” Ned Small’s demeanour changes. He is suddenly on his guard. “The king’s man?”

  “The same. He is a good man.”

  “Then we must speak of different men. I hear he is not a man to cross, and can be a dangerous enemy.”

  “But a good friend,” Miriam replies. “Are we going to talk business, or not, sir?”

  “I have offended you,” he says. “I should not listen to idle street gossip.”

  “No, Ned, I am not offended,” Miriam tells him, “but Master Cromwell is slandered mercilessly by the Lord Chancellor, and high church men.”

  “You move in very heady circles,” Ned Small says. “Let us begin again. Hello, my name is Ned Small, and my family make cheese. Cheshire cheese is smooth, and rich flavoured, and not readily available in London. There, that is what I needed to say, from the first.”

  “I sell goat’s cheese,” Miriam says. “How many rounds can you supply?”

  “I am prepared to open a warehouse nearby, and hold three months worth at a time, that you may draw from, as required.”

  “Will your cheese last?” Miriam asks. “The stuff I sell, turns inside a couple of weeks.”

  “We wrap them in cloth, and wax them, tight shut,” Ned explains. “They will keep for two, or even three years, without drying out.”

  “I see, and what of my end of the bargain?”

  “You must undertake to sell my cheeses on your stalls, and pay me within a month.”

  “I will pay, cash on the nail, Ned,” Miriam says, “ if you give me a keener price.”

  “I will reduce my price by a shilling a round for cash, providing your people collect. They are weighty, and you will need a carter.”

  “And what profit will I make?”

  “Sold by the wedge, you will make six, or seven shillings a round,” Ned says, persuasively. “Say you sell a cheese a week on your stalls … which number a dozen, I believe … then you will profit by three pounds twelve shillings, less cartage costs.”

  “I have fifteen stalls now,” Miriam says. She closes her eyes, and calculates. “That comes to two hundred and thirty pounds, for we do not trade on holy days. When can we start?”

  “We can be ready within the month.” Ned holds out his hand, and they shake. Miriam feels the warmth travel up her arm, and into her cheeks, making them blush under the olive skin. “Now we have shaken on it.”

  “Good… you can let go of my hand now, Ned.”

  “My apologies,” he says, looking into her eyes, and finally, releasing her hand. “Shall we have a lawyer draw up a legal document?”

  “Why?” Miriam says. “Either we trust each other , or we do not.” She thinks how the venture will improve her profits two fold, and of how pleased her husband will be. “What else do you do, Ned?”

  “The family make cheese,” he says, “but I have friends who make various things that you might sell.”

  “Then we can increase our business even more,” Miriam says. “If you bring the produce south, I will open more stalls, and accommodate each supplier… through you. In that way, we each make a profit.”

  “That sounds good. We must discuss it at length.”

  “Of course. You must come to dinner, tonight.” The words are out, before she can think properly, betraying her interest in him. He smiles, and agrees.

  “I dare say you set a better table than the tavern I am staying in,” Ned says. “I will bring a sample of my cheese. Shall I bring some wine too?”

  “I want for nothing,” Miriam replies. “Might we say, eight o’clock?”

  “That will be … quite splendid,” he says, then notices the board. “Oh, your husband is a chess player?”

  “It is mine, sir,” Miriam replies, tartly. “My poor brain can just about master the moves.”

  “Then let me teach you, after dinner,” Ned says, happily. “For I have never been bested yet!”

  Miriam escorts him out, and sends one of the small boys who loiter, to take him safely back to his lodgings. It is only when he is gone that she realises the enormity of what she has done. Then she pulls herself up, sharply. Where is the sin. She thinks? It is, after all is said and done, just dinner, with a future business partner. So, what if her husband has been gone seven weeks, and what if Ned Small is almost as handsome as Will?

  “God have mercy,” she says to the fast flowing Thames, “what is wrong with me?”

  “Yes, mistress?” Young Jonah Scully, a new waif, who has taken to hanging about the place, is squatting by the river’s edge, hoping for a bowl of soup, or a coin to run an errand. “Do you have need of me?”

  Like half of Stepney, he has heard about the benevolent Cromwell clan, and their generosity to the poor. His friend, who tends the horses at Austin Friary, tells him that the new house, run by Mistress Miriam Draper is of the same mind, and will always find a use for a willing lad.

  “Boy, do you know where Austin Friars is?”

  “Me and half of England, lady,” he replies, getting quickly to his feet. “It’s back from the river, near where the old monks live.”

  “Good. You must run there, and ask to speak with Master Cromwell. If anyone tries to turn you away, tell them that Mistress Draper sends you. Understood?”

  “I’m poor, lady, not a natural fool.”

  “Here is a penny. Tell the master you come with an invitation to dinner. If he can’t come tonight, at eight, you are to go on to the Chapuys house, next door, and beg the ambassador to come.”

  “Shall I ask both, if the first ‘un agrees?”

  “Yes, do that.”

  “And what then if they both say no?” the boy asks, sharply. “Am I to keep a knockin’ ‘til some bugger says yes?”

  “Yes, even if it’s Old Hob from Hell,” Miriam tells him, and shoos him on his way. Scully smiles to himself, and sets off at a steady trot. He has a penny in his pocket, and will almost certainly be offered something for his trouble by the Austin Friars lot. Things, since he ran away from home, are looking up.

  “At eight, you say?” Thomas Cromwell is perplexed. He does not know the lad, and is surprised at so peremptory an invitation from Miriam Draper. Anything else?”

  “Only that I am to go on to the Spanisher’s place, and ask him too. The lady is fair desperate for company, an’ no mistake, guv’nor!”

  “Don’t be cheeky, boy,” Cromwell snaps, but relents at once. He can recall his own impoverished youth, and knows the boy is only trying to make his way. “Here, a shilling for you, child. Use it wisely, and it might save you from the gallows.” The boy is overcome at so lavish a gift, and goes down on one knee.

  “I thank you, sir. Master Cromwell is known for his loving kindness to us waifs an’ strays. Can I speak, wiv’ out you beating me?” Cromwell cannot help but smile at the lad’s behaviour, and beckons him to rise.

  “What do they call you?”

  “Scully, sir.”r />
  “I knew a Branwell Scully once.”

  “My father, sir. A bully, and a bastard, if ever there is one.”

  “Does he still go about hooking?” The art of hooking, or lifting goods from open windows, and doorways with a shepherd’s crook is rife amongst houses in the better neighbourhoods, and is punishable, like most things, by hanging. “I knew him, as lads together, and yes, he is as you claim him to be.”

  “He runs a couple of bawdy rooms, over in Putney, and won’t miss me, sir.”

  “Do you sleep at the Draper house?”

  “Nah, I kip out under God’s tiles, Master Cromwell.”

  “Then you shall sleep in my stables tonight. Now, what would you tell me, child?”

  “The girl … Mistress Draper,” the boy says. “I was sitting out by her door, and hears this sharp looking coxcomb talking to her, as though she were some buxom maid, instead of one as has made her vows. For once a young woman promises to ‘be bonaire, in bed and board’ to a man, she should be left, unassailed.”

  Cromwell understands the boys reference to the part of the marriage vow that binds a woman to chastity, save with her true husband, and realises that Miriam is sending him an unspoken message.

  “Master Scully, go to the back door, and ask for Rafe Sadler,” the Privy Councillor tells the boy. “Tell him that you are to be suited out in my livery, and put to work as a court runner. A shilling a week, a bed, and regular meals. What say you?”

  “What says I?” Scully cannot believe his luck. “I’m your man, sir … from dawn to cockshut!”

  6 The Field of Mars

  Will Draper is aching from head to toe, and wonders when he started to become so unfit. He has been drilling, and training his Swiss giants all day, trying to make them into a real fighting company, rather than a splendid spectacle on the parade ground. He wishes to teach them how to swing, in formation, without breaking ranks, and is being helped by Richard who has insisted on helping.

  The manoeuvres are designed to turn the Swiss into a huge battering ram in battle, but it is hard to be dainty with twelve foot halberds. It is not until the heat of the afternoon is at his worst, that Richard comes up with a sensible idea.

  “Why must they be twelve feet long?” he asks, after much pondering. “Cannot they manage with six feet, or eight?” The answer, of course is, yes, they can shorten the staffs. It means the horsemen might be able to get a couple of feet closer, but Will does not think that is a problem. The shafts are shortened, and by the evening, the Swiss are handling them like experts, and can do a volte-face, or execute a pivot turn on command. Richard feels it is a personal triumph, and swaggers about like a newly promoted General.

  “Your men seem to like my friend,” Will asks one of the Swiss sergeants. The man, a big, broken nosed creature with twenty years service under his belt nods, sagely.

  “He is like us,” the man admits. “Rickhard Krummel is a giant, and loves to fight. Put him over us, and we will charge Satan for him!”

  “Then it is so,” Will Draper decides. “Krummel shall be your officer, from now onwards.”

  Mush is with the young bucks, who flock to join the rag tag army that is to fight under no-one’s banner, except their own. Word travels fast, and by lunchtime there are almost three hundred and twenty mounted men, keen to do battle. The young Englishman splits them into two companies, and has them each choose a captain, and two lieutenants.

  They are all armed with swords and daggers, and some have a small, circular shield, no bigger than a dinner plate, strapped onto their left forearms. Although the Swiss are armed with breastplates, and steel Cabasset helmets, the gentlemen scorn them, and wear feathered caps, and woollen doublets. Mush sees one man with a strange contraption hanging from the pommel of his saddle, and calls him over, eager to see this latest design in firearms.

  “My father bought it for me,” the young man boasts. “The longer barrel makes my musket more accurate. I have brought down birds in flight, whilst out hunting in the marshes.”

  “They are not like the usual arquebus,” Mush says, examining the strange, narrow barrel of the gun. “Can I see how you load it up?”

  “Surely, signor,” the young man says, proud to be singled out to give a demonstration. He produces an array of wadding, lead shot, and black powder in a small flask, and goes through the motions at a laboriously slow pace. At last, he draws back the heavy hammer, and raising the gun to his shoulder, discharges it into the warm air. The flash, and resultant crack of sound makes both men and horses turn about in consternation.

  “One ball of lead?” Mush asks.

  “It is enough to bring down a large animal, signor.”

  “Have you ever shot at a man?”

  “No, of course not,” the young man admits.

  “Then we must teach you how to kill, properly,” Mush tells him.

  “We are at your command, Signor Mush,” he replies.

  “Who else has these muskets?” Mush asks, and is pleased to find a dozen more have them, and another twenty have the more cumbersome arquebus. He details them off to join Will’s group, and also sends another six who have powerful hunting crossbows, and profess to be wonderful marksmen. The young Jew is beginning to understand that all Venetian men consider themselves perfect at most things. He admires their arrogance, but hopes it does not get them killed, one day.

  “Do you all have powder and shot?” Will asks, and finds that they are well provided for. It seems, Bartolommeo tells him, that an unknown benefactor has bought them a butt full of the newest, course ground gunpowder, and donated fifty horses to those young men too impoverished to own their own. Will smiles, recognising the benevolent hand of the Doge, and explains why those with guns are now with him. Mush has recognised their worth, and wasted no time in letting his comrade know.

  “Our Swiss pike men are a formidable force,” he says, “but are a defensive, rather than an offensive company. With you men, we are now a pike and shot regiment. It is a tried and tested way of fighting, and, with God’s help, we will win out.”

  For the next two days, Will drills his men, teaching them this new method of warfare, and tries to instil into them the belief that they can overcome the infamous condottiero and his mercenary army. Mush grins at his mixture of English, Italian and French phrases, as he forges the men into a better, more cohesive company.

  “I doubt I can fight like that,” Bartolommeo observes, watching the close drilled square, with its heart of musketry.

  “You won’t have to,” Mush tells him. “You gentlemen are our light cavalry. I will teach you how to keep your horses abreast in the charge, and how to hold your swords.”

  “I have no problem with my blade,” one of the men says, executing a quick left and right cut. “My sword master counts me amongst his best pupils, Signor.”

  “Can you do that on horseback, good sir?” Mush is grateful for a chance to demonstrate, rather than have to drill them all individually. “Do you know how to charge a man down?”

  “Surely, they always run from a man on horseback,” the young man says, likening warfare to fox hunting.

  “Hush, Paolo,” says Bartolommeo Rinaldi, but Mush waves him into silence.

  “Come, Signor Paolo,” he says, goading. “Mount up, and ride me down. I wager you one of your ducats that I am the better man.”

  “You will run, and have me chase you all over the training field.” Paolo suspects some sort of a trick. “I have no wish to play the fool, sir.”

  “If I step back, or aside, you win,” Mush tells him. “Come now, all your friends are watching. What will they say about you to the ladies. Oh, little Paolo was afraid to fight a man on foot!”

  Paolo curses, springs into the saddle, and crouches over, sword pointed ahead. He kicks the horse into a gallop, and surges forward at the young Hebrew. Afterwards, opinion will be divided as to what actually happens, as it was so quickly over as to deceive the naked eye.

  As the rider approaches, Mush
goes down onto one knee, draws his dagger, and dips his head under the point of the man’s blade. At the same time, he slashes through the saddle’s cinch. Paolo looks foolish, as he misses his quarry, then even more so as his saddle slips to one side, and tumbles him to the ground.

  The young Venetian is winded, and angry. He grips his sword, intent on running Mush through. Before he can rise, the lithe Englishman is on him, tapping his chest with the tip of his knife.

  “Master Paolo, I think you are dead,” he says, and the others burst into applause. Mush offers his hand, and helps to pull the young man to his feet. He slaps him on the back, and puts away his dagger. “Listen to me, Paolo, and I will teach you how to charge, and when not to. I will show you how to turn an opposing horseman, and kill him. Yes, gentlemen, kill him. That is why you are all here.”

  “Well said, Master Mush,” Bartolommeo says. “Kill or be killed, eh? I hear this condottiero, Baglioni, is a wolf.”

  “Really? Well, my friend, wolves can be skinned, can they not?” Mush knows that a man’s reputation can be a powerful weapon, and wishes to deflate his enemy. “I hear that he uses poison, rather than a sword, and treachery, rather than a crossbow. A man such as that has no honour left, and should not be feared in battle. All I can tell you is, face him without fear, but do not eat mushrooms with him!”

  They all laugh, and the process of bonding together, almost as brothers, is underway. Mush will turn them into competent soldiers, but he cannot make them kill. That is something that must come from inside yourself. He keeps them working, regaling them with tales of violence, until they stop thinking that it is all an adventure.

  “How did you feel, after you killed your first man, Signor?” one of the more timid of them asks. Mush frowns, and tries to recall his emotions. He was fourteen, and a footpad had sprung out on his family, on the Norwich road. Without thinking, the young Hebrew had drawn, and thrown his knife, meaning only to scare the man away. Instead, he had scored a hit, and the man was down on the ground, spewing blood from his throat, and mouth.