by Anne Stevens
“I said you would be displeased,” Henry confesses. “Then Boleyn tricked me by asking, who rules England, me or you.”
“To doubt the king’s right to rule this realm, is an act of treason, sire,” Cromwell explains. “It is in our new laws. Which Boleyn spoke thus?”
“Young George,” says Henry. “We cannot have him arrested, Thomas. It will upset Lady Anne terribly. Besides, he sought only to help me.”
“On the eleventh day of February, this year of Our Lord, fifteen thirty one, the great Convocation granted you the title of Singular Protector, Supreme Lord, and even, so far as the law of Christ allows, Supreme Head of the English Church, and all of its clergy. George Boleyn, Lord Rochford, was there, and helped push the legislation through. He should have known better than to interfere.”
“Lady Anne was most pleased,” Henry says. “Though I explained that it was only as far as Christ’s law allowed.”
Cromwell shakes his head. Lady Anne understands the politics of it all better than the King of England, and knows that ‘as far as the law of Christ allows’ is a sop to the English bishops, and means nothing in law. Whether he knows it or not, Henry is poised to become the supreme head of the church in England, and has complete power over every monastery, abbey, nunnery, and church, in the kingdom.
“Now we are stuck with a Bishop of Westminster, who cannot decide which way to jump,” Cromwell replies. “With William Warham holding Canterbury, and being for the Dowager Princess…”
“Dowager?”
“She is the widow of your brother, sire. Thus, she is the Dowager Princess of Wales, and your sister, in the eyes of English law. That is why your marriage must be set aside. It is illegal. You must be free to marry, at your own discretion.”
“Of course. What can I do?”
“Arch Bishop Warham is old, and feeble, sire,” Rafe Sadler says. “He will not last out another twelve months. Then you must choose the right man to succeed.”
“You must guide me, Thomas,” Henry says.
“Then you must be rid of young George.”
“My God, what do you suggest?” Henry is becoming scared.
“Grant him title to several Irish estates, and put him in charge of the army. That will keep him from under our feet.”
“An excellent solution,” Henry says. It means he does not have to upset Anne, and can even make it look as if he is rewarding her family. “See to it, Thomas… and do not forget to reward young Sadler. A peacock, indeed. Master Wyatt does well to be abroad, for his reputation is in tatters. We must meet with him, some time soon, and discuss his poetry. I might be able to suggest a few improvements.”
“He will be most grateful, sire,” Rafe replies, suppressing a smile. “For I know he is ever open to constructive criticism, from a better muse.”
“Quite so, and what of Warham? Who shall I appoint?”
“Fisher is a good man, sire,” Cromwell says, “or perhaps young Sadler - he might jolly things up somewhat.”
“Well said, Thomas,” Henry replies. “Though his Latin might not be up to it.” He laughs at his own joke, and waves them away.
They bow, and drift out of his orbit, nodding to various acquaintances, until their escape is barred by George Boleyn, who is accompanied by Sir Francis Weston, and Sir Henry Norris. They block the doorway, and seem intent on tackling Cromwell and his young man.
“Good day to you, Master Blacksmith,” George Boleyn says.
“And to you, my Lord Rochford,” Cromwell replies. “How goes the family millinery business? And you, Francis, were not your great relatives sheep farmers in Derbyshire? Then we have Henry Norris, whose father’s father was a brewer in Norwich, and made his money running a bawdy establishment.”
“That’s a lie. He was an honest brewer!” Norris snaps, then realises he has only made things worse.
“You bar my way, sir.” Cromwell says, and goes to push past Lord Rochford.
“Stay sir. I wish to tell you how things will be from this day forward,” George Boleyn says. “I have Henry’s ear, and he will appoint as I suggest. Stephen Gardiner is now Bishop of Winchester, at my request.”
“A bad day’s work,” Rafe Sadler snaps. “You think he will support your sister, but he will not. He will set up endless committees, and groups of knowledgeable men to investigate the marriage. It will take at least five years, and your sister will be spoiled goods by then.”
“Watch your tongue, Blacksmith’s boy,” Boleyn says, and finds a dagger pressed against his side. The speed of it, and the sheer audacity, leaves him shocked into silence.
“Now then, grandson of a hat maker,” Cromwell says, “this is how it will be from this day on. Norris and Weston, you will return to your roles as panderers to the Lady Anne, and her ladies in waiting. You may even swive one or two, if the king allows it. You, Lord Rochford, will receive patents of ownership for three huge estates tomorrow. They total over fifteen thousand acres, and must be worth over eighty thousand pounds a year.”
“What nonsense is this?” Boleyn cannot master his greed, and is eager to see what Cromwell proposes.
“The king wishes you to visit your new estates, at once, and take possession. He will finance the expedition to the tune of five thousand pounds.”
“Expedition?” George Boleyn is confused.
“Yes, did I not mention, My Lord? The estates are in Wicklow, in Ireland, and must be subdued. I believe the current incumbent is a notorious outlaw, and rebel. Perhaps Norris and Weston might join your expedition. What say you, gentlemen?”
“I have duties in court,” Norris says, at once.
“And I,” Weston tells them. “I must wait on Lady Anne and her ladies, in case they need a gentleman’s protection.”
“Of course,” Cromwell says. “Do put your knife away, Rafe. I am sure Lord Rochford wishes to tend to his packing. Good day, George, I’ll see you in six months, or so. Good hunting!”
They brush the three stunned men aside, and walk through to the outer court. Several ladies curtsey, or nod their heads at the two men. To Cromwell they do it to acknowledge his position, and to Rafe Sadler, his attractiveness to them. It is known that he is Cromwell’s main man, and therefore a person to attach oneself to.
“Master Rafe, it is good to see you again,” a pretty, blonde lady says, laying her hand on his forearm. “Is there any news of your friend, Mush?”
“Alas, Lady Mary,” Rafe says, “I have heard nothing. I fear it may be many more weeks before we have news.”
“You do know that Mush married, just before he left England, My Lady?” Cromwell says.
“I do, but men are fickle,” Mary Boleyn replies. “The king is still married, yet he shares his bed with other ladies.”
“Idle gossip,” Cromwell tells her. “Do you have names?”
“I have one. I know of a dalliance of Henry’s from when he was but twenty years old. Will that earn me a present of silk gloves, or a purse of gold, Master Thomas?”
“You speak in riddles,” says Cromwell. “The king’s affairs from his youthful years are of no concern to us, these days.”
“The lady spoke out of bitterness,” Mary says, ignoring Cromwell. “She felt as though my sister was slighting her, and, in a fit of pique, said ‘I have done something that your sister has yet to do’. What is that, I asked, and she smiled, and said she bedded Henry years before, and made her husband a cuckold.”
“This is history, madam,” Rafe tells her.
“Yes, it is family history.”
“Sweet Christ!” Thomas Cromwell pulls Lady Mary to one side. “Have a care, lady , for such talk might be the death of you. How sure are you of this?”
“My mother tells me that she was thirty one, and Henry somewhat younger,” Mary explains. “She was visiting her great uncle, the old Duke of Norfolk, and the king came upon her, and took her aside. She claims he was inflamed with lust, and threw her dress over her head. He went to it like a bull, she claims, and accomplish
ed the task three times, in short order. Then, he arranged for my father to stay in court, with the promise of a post abroad.”
“A plausible story,” Rafe says.
“Henry came to my mother’s chambers each night for a full month, and stormed her, as if she were Dover castle. At last, he tired of her. The queen was at the end of a confinement, and I think he needed to sate his lust. My father is aware, but grateful for the way our family has prospered since. Once Anne opens her legs for him, Henry will have had every female in the family, and we will be related to royalty.”
“It accounts for why your father received such rapid preferment,” Thomas Cromwell says. “How old were you girls then?”
“Put your mind at rest, Master Cromwell. Anne was about ten, and I was two years older.” Mary touches the gold crucifix at her throat. “Henry came back to the well twelve years later, and made me his new whore. A family tradition, you might say.”
“It is time to find you another husband, Lady Mary,” Cromwell says, “or send you down to the country. Your mother’s admission is enough to ruin your sister’s chances of marrying Henry.”
“So, what do I care?”
“If Henry is humiliated, he will lash out. That means the end of you, your mother, and your father’s career. Why, I doubt he would ever marry Anne. No, My Lady, seal your lips, and I will ensure that your mother keeps her mouth tight closed too.”
“I quite fancy a place in the country,” Mary tells him. “Perhaps with a few hundred acres, and servants?”
“Lady Mary, are you trying to coerce an officer of the crown?” Cromwell says, chuckling at her effrontery.
“Of course,” she replies, with a neat curtsey. “After all, I am a Boleyn!”
Cromwell cannot help but smile. The girl is a vixen. She lacks the refined looks of her sister, but in taking a different course, she has managed to entice a king into her bed, and seems able to ensnare any young man she wishes. He will find her some land, and a few eligible young fellows to choose from. For all he likes the girl, she will be safer up in the north, or living in a backwater of Dorset.
“Good day to you, mistress,” he says. “May God seal your lovely lips, until we meet again. Lest I have to!”
10 The Gates of Rimini
The ochre and honey coloured Umbrian countryside rolls away into the distance, and Pippa Micheletto is touched by its almost perfect beauty. It seems hard for her to believe that it can be such a violent, and unforgiving land.
“Pippa?” The priest touches her arm, and brings her back to the present. “You must be brave. Your father would want you to stay strong, now we are close to our final intent.” During the last three days, Father Geraldo has listened to her story, and become disgusted with the man she calls the condottiero.
“I’ll be strong, father,” she replies. “What is that town?”
“Rimini,” the priest tells her. “Those must be Duke Baglioni’s men.” There is a column of horse, about a thousand strong, making its way towards the small sea port, with banners fluttering in the soft breeze.
“And they?” Pippa points to the horizon, where a cloud of dust denotes a second band of men. The priest shrugs. It is a time of strife, and there are columns of soldiers marching all over Umbria and, no doubt, the Veneto. Even as he shrugs, the men riding towards Rimini wheel about, and start to advance on the newcomers.
“I fear we are about to witness a confrontation, my dear,” the priest mutters. “Let us stay on our little hill, and await the outcome.”
“Let us pray for these newly come soldiers,” Pippa says, “for surely, they must be against Baglioni. See how they spread out, as if preparing for battle. The priest un-slings the bag at his shoulder, opens it, and rummages inside. After a moment, he produces a soft leather hat, with a wide brim. He puts it on his head, and turns, so that the brim acts as a shade from the bright sunlight.
“They are pike men,” Father Geraldo reports, as he squints into the distance. He slips one hand to the hilt of his concealed sword, as if to comfort himself. “There is a great cloud of dust behind them, which must mean mounted men.”
“An army?” Pippa wants it to be the fabled Venetian thirty thousand, come to sweep Baglioni into the sea, but knows it cannot be. “Will they fight, Father Geraldo?”
“Perhaps.” He frowns, and thinks. “We cannot go to Rimini, for it is held by the condottiero’s men already. Perhaps we should make for these newcomers, and hope they are friends.”
“Too late, I fear,” Pippa says, gesturing to the two forces, who seem to have spotted one another. The troop of Baglioni’s horsemen is fanning out, forming three lines. They advance on the pike men, who number but a couple of hundred, at a brisk trot.
“May God protect them, Father Geraldo says, crossing himself. “Unless God wills it otherwise, they will be engulfed.”
“God cannot support Baglioni,” Pippa snarls. “He cannot be so cruel.”
“Hush child,” the priest says. “What will be, will be. It is not for us to question His great plan.”
“Cavalry!” Mush says, as he reigns in his mount. “About a mile off, and advancing slowly. They have seen our pike men, and mean to swallow them up, Will.”
“Muskets,” Will Draper calls. “Form a skirmish line behind the pike men. We have no time for ought else.” With more warning, the Englishman intended to form a square, bristling with pikes, and manned, within, by musketry. “Tom, can you bring your ordinance to bear?”
“With pleasure,” Tom Wyatt says, and gallops over to the two ox carts which carry his old canon. They are lashed to the beds of the carts, and his gunners are well drilled. They begin to pack the barrels with coarse grained black powder, and the new English chain shot. The poet has the carts dragged into position, on the right flank.
“Let canon roar, and muskets loose … de dah de dah…” he mutters, then decides the lines must have more work put into them on another day. His great ode to war must wait.
“Richard, join your Swiss,” Will instructs. “Have them form up in two lines, a hundred abreast. Put our musketry, and the rest of the footmen behind. Mush and I will split the cavalry, and position ourselves on your flanks.”
“I will do that,” Richard says, hefting a pike over his shoulder. “My boys will thrust them back into yon sea.”
“Hold your ranks,” Mush says. “Let yourselves be drawn out of position, and their horse will cut you down.”
“Be off, pipsqueak,” Richard says. “I will do my duty, if only you can do yours.”
“Are there no footmen amongst the enemy?” Will asks of Mush, who has been riding ahead.
“None that I can see. I think they are little more than an advance guard,” Mush says. “If their commander has any sense, he will hold off, and wait for the main army to come up. Though, God knows where they are. What would you have me do?”
“Keep to the left flank, with your two hundred riders, and hold your position, until you see me move with mine on the right. I have a mind to let them up close. They might break ranks, and attack our centre. If they do, we have a chance of winning.”
“Then let us pray their general is a damned fool,” Mush says, trotting off to his own, small command.
“Right lads,” Richard Cromwell says, “we present arms, and hold our ground. Front rank will kneel. I want an unbroken line of steel tips, holding off their horses. Remember, no horse will ride onto pikes and spears. Hold fast, and they will be powerless.” The tall Swiss sergeant at his side shouts a hurried translation for Cromwell, and the Doge’s guard give a quick hurrah in return. “That’s it, boys. We’ll give the bastards hell!”
“And us, mate?” one of the English sailors shouts. “Do we stand here, and play with our selves?” A rough burst of laughter erupts from the crowd of seamen.
“Stay behind my pikes,” Richard calls. “Can you boys throw a knife?”
“We’ll take the bung out o’er a barrel at twenty paces,” the sailor replies.
; “Then wait until their horses stop before my pikes, and throw over my men’s heads. Aim for the beasts, for the men wear steel breastplates.”
“As will we, after this day!” the sailor shouts, and a great roar goes up again.
Father Geraldo has seen military confrontations before. In his lifetime, he has been a corn mill owner, a gentleman, and a soldier, before becoming a priest. He has fought against the French, and the Dutch in his day, and still knows how to lead a company. He can handle a sword and a spear with equal dexterity. He has killed many men, and is ashamed for it.
“Are they going to fight?” Pippa asks, her heart beating in anticipation..
“Yes.” The priest points away to his right. “Baglioni’s man sees only the infantry, and means to encircle them. It must seem like an easy victory for him. Once he sees the Venetian cavalry, it will be too late to break off. If he has any sense, he will send his first and second waves right and left, to engage the enemy horse. Once they are drawn into battle, the third wave can surround the pike men, and hack them down. It will be a swift victory, if he keeps his head.”
“And if he is a fool?” Pippa asks. She has a vested interest in the other side coming out victorious. As if in answer, the condottiero cavalry, led by Ando Baldini, a captain of great courage, but little imagination, spurs his mount, and charges, head on.
“He charges!” the priest shouts, and offers up a prayer of thanks. “Now all is in the melting pot.”
Then the world seems to quake beneath them. Two flat bedded carts, to the right of the charging horsemen erupt in flame, and a thunderous noise shakes the heavens. Tom Wyatt’s two canon speak, and belch out their deadly loads. The priest gasps in horror, as lengths of chain, weighted at each end, fly forth, and scythe through the Perugian left flank.
The chains cut through everything in their paths, and leave a swathe of broken horses, and screaming men. Thirty or more horses are thrashing about, and a dozen men have been killed, and as many more horribly maimed. Those closest to the canon swerve to the centre, away from the sudden carnage.
