by Anne Stevens
The King’s Examiner
A Tudor Felony
By Anne Stevens
Tudor Crimes: Book 6
TightCircle Publishing
Foreword
This is the sixth volume of the ‘Tudor Crimes’ series, and it is set between the middle of November, 1532, and January, 1533.
Whilst everyday life must continue, with the usual quota of births, deaths and marriages, those closer to the ruling Tudors cannot help but be involved in the dangerous affairs of state.
Sir Thomas More has fallen from grace, and hovers about Utopia, hoping for a change in fortune. Despite his stiff necked refusal to accept Henry as Head of the English Church, he still has friends, eager to save what they can for him.
Thomas Cromwell is a practical man, and realises that men of power can be destroyed, without resorting to the axe. It is enough to have brought them down, and to go further than this will only bring the rest of Europe’s contempt down on them.
Great power blocs are beginning to form, and each have their own agendas. The Boleyns wish to rule England through Anne and any children she produces for the king. George Boleyn makes enemies as easily as he collects friends, and his forthright ways are a threat to everyone.
Norfolk seeks to hold his position as Henry’s most trusted noble, and will cast aside any who get in his way. Suffolk’s position is precarious again, since the death of his wife, the king’s sister, and he flounders around court, hoping to find his niche.
Stephen Gardiner, Arch Bishop of Winchester is keeping himself to one side, worrying about the prospective ‘Great Oath’ that Henry wants them all to swear.
Thomas Cromwell is beset with domestic problems, whilst trying to juggle each warring faction in the air. He must placate Lady Anne, watch George Boleyn, keep Norfolk happy, save Sir Thomas More, and give the king what he wants.
It is inevitable that even the best of jugglers will take his eye off one ball, and something will come crashing down. Cromwell knows he cannot satisfy everybody, and the time is coming when he must decide which balls to keep in the air, and which the must drop.
1 A Bill of Divorce
“God’s bloody teeth, man,” the king roars across the breadth of the throne room. “Where have you been hiding, Master Cromwell? Did you not receive my summons?”
“Forgive me, sire,” Cromwell says, bowing himself into the ornately decorated room. I was unavoidably detained.”
“From your king, sir?” Henry is in a foul mood, caused by the almost constant harping of Lady Anne. She feels herself no nearer to marriage than when Cromwell first promised her a divorce.
“I fear so, Your Majesty, but it was for the very best of causes. You see, I have it.”
“Have what, you rascal?” Henry spies the parchments under his councillor’s arm, and holds out an imperious hand. “Show me.”
He takes the documents, and unrolls them. The Latin is closely scripted, and contains a bewildering array of legal terminology. The king pretends to absorb the text, then thrusts the papers back at Cromwell.
“Give me the gist of it, Cromwell,” he blusters.
“The gist, sire,” Thomas Cromwell replies, smiling, “is that your bill of divorce is finally drawn up, and ready to enact. I thought it prudent to finish the final legal codices, before coming to court. A job half done, is a job undone, Your Majesty.”
“My very sentiments,” Henry says. He touches his temple with a shaking forefinger, and frowns. It has been so long, and so many men have made excuses, that he can scarce believe the moment has come. “Then these few pages are the end of it?”
Thomas Cromwell nods, and smiles benignly. The great matter that has soured relations with the Holy Roman Empire, caused a rift with the pope, and alienated half of Europe’s wisest men, is close to being resolved.
“These enactments need only be ratified by your parliament, both lords and commons, and Your Majesty is a free man,” Cromwell says. It has been a long, arduous journey, but every obstacle has finally been removed, and the king will have his way, legally. “What is more, you have the power of English law to support you, and none may dispute it.”
Henry looks as if he is about to engulf Cromwell in one of his huge bear hugs, but the chamber’s doors are thrown open at that moment, and Anne Boleyn sweeps in, unannounced. She takes in the scene, and almost cries out in joy.
“Then it is done, my love?” she says, crossing to the king’s side. “Master Cromwell has kept his promise?”
“To the letter, My Lady,” Thomas Cromwell replies, bowing to Henry’s intended wife. “I swore that you would be free to marry by Christmas, and it is so. Might I be the first to congratulate you on your forthcoming nuptials, sire?”
“You may, Thomas,” Henry crows. “At last, my dear. Once the parliaments have ratified it, I am a divorced man.”
Anne’s eyes become hooded, and her entire demeanour changes in an instant. The clear cut divorce is suddenly something that must be agreed on further, by a bunch of commoners, and secret papist lords.
“Ratified?” she snarls. “What trick is this, Cromwell? You give with one hand, and take away with another. You ungrateful dog!”
“My Lady!” Henry is shocked at her sudden change. “Master Cromwell says it is a formality. Is that not so, sir?”
“Yes, sire.” Cromwell gives an inward sigh, as he finds himself having to explain the way of things once more. He is a dog now, yet can remember when the Boleyn father crawled to him for favours. “You will recall that it is Parliament who is demanding your divorce. They demand that you give England a male heir. It is for you to submit to their wishes, as a king who wants nothing but the best for his realm.”
“Am I… I mean, yes. I am. I must obey Parliament in this matter,” Henry says, remembering his role. “The Emperor Charles cannot call me a tyrant if I seem to be bowing to the will of the people.”
“Quite so. It will also give him a sharp lesson in humility, sire,” Cromwell says. “You will be seen as a truly modern prince, and no blame will attach to you in this matter. As for our parliamentary masters … there will be no opposition.”
“Why so sure, Cromwell?” Anne Boleyn must have it all, if she is to trust the devious fellow. “My own uncle remains a devout Catholic, and mutters with his cronies. Half of them still resent us closing down the monastic houses. They cross themselves in secret, and send little notes to the Bishop of Rome, still addressing the old scoundrel as Pope Clement,”
“The Duke of Norfolk is a complete pragmatist, Lady Anne,” Cromwell explains. “On the day the bill is presented, I assure you, your old uncle will be at home, nursing a sudden toothache. His followers will understand, and vote for us. Of the rest, a third are in debt to either myself, or Your Majesty. They fear losing their places at court, and will comply. The rest are loyal subjects, and will do your bidding, no matter what you ask of them.”
“Then all will be for us?” Lady Anne begins to cheer up.
“Except me,” Thomas Cromwell tells them. “I shall let it be known that I must abstain, just as the vote is called.”
“What do you mean by this?” Henry snaps. “You will not vote for the divorce?”
“I will make some paltry excuse. Perhaps say that I am still unsure of the wording and it’s legality.”
“Good God, man… why?” Henry is close to striking his Privy Councillor.
“To see whom amongst them might seize on the opportunity, and abstain too,” Cromwell replies. “I will hang back until the last, then change my mind, and vote for the bill. My man, Rafe Sadler will be on hand to prick out all of the
ir names, for later attention. To oppose you is nothing short of treason, sire, so to abstain must, surely, mark them down as untrustworthy.”
“You wicked minded old devil,” Henry says. “I thank God you are my creature, and not working against me. These abstainers may not utter treason, but it is in their hearts.”
“Just so, sire. Rest assured, I and my young men will work diligently to protect you, and those you hold dear.”
“Count yourself amongst that number, Thomas,” Henry tells his minister. “For we love you, do we not, Lady Anne?”
“Indeed,” Lady Anne says, nodding to Cromwell. “You must forgive my little show of temper, Thomas. I know how well you seek to serve us in all things.”
“There is nothing to forgive,” Cromwell tells her. This is true, because the councillor is not a forgiving sort of a man. In his study, he has two ledgers, filled with the names of friends, and enemies. As a friend, there is none better, and as an enemy, none more implacable than he. “Once the divorce is finalised, we can get on to the important matters of state.”
“Ah, you are going to bring up this nonsense about bibles again,” Henry says, shaking his head from side to side, like a red bearded polar bear. “For such a clever fellow, you seem to have a blind spot. How many of my people can even read or write, Thomas? Your English bible will have no effect on their beliefs.”
“It will make them into better subjects,” Anne says. She leans towards the teachings of Luther and Tyndale, and cannot see why an English bible is such a bad idea. “Bishop Gardiner says they will understand the teachings of Christ better, and act accordingly.”
“The English people love me, and have no need of another to lend their affections to, madam,” Henry replies, a little too sharply. Cromwell senses an argument is in the making between the two, and steps in to avert any unkind words.
“It will allow those that can read English to understand the word of God better, rather than some roman priest feeding them lies about purgatory. I have read the bible from end to end, sire, and the holy book does not mention the place once. If it exists, then it in Stephen Gardiner’s dining room.”
“Well said, Thomas,” Henry chuckles. “What worse purgatory than eating with him, or at Utopia?”
“It is nothing but a childish fiction, served up to scrape money from poor folks hands,” Cromwell insists.
“Then we are done with purgatory?” Henry asks. Until now, he was unsure, and often fears how long his own stay in the place would be.
“Done and gone, sire,” Cromwell tells him. “Instead, honest Englishmen will be encouraged to donate their spare pennies to your own church. The funds will be used to print more books, open more schools, and provide succour for the needy.”
“Then the poor will be supporting the poorer,” Anne says, sniggering. “That will save us alms, sir.”
“The church, with decent ministers, will spread education, and knowledge,” Cromwell continues. “Our people will become better able to earn a decent wage, and live a better life. This will mean more taxes, sire. Not for Rome, but for our own exchequer. In the years to come, we will build noble edifices, strong fortresses, and great ships, not for Rome, but for ourselves. Through education of our poor, England will master the world.”
“You paint a pretty picture, Thomas,” Henry says. He is fast losing interest. “Let me think on it. Draw up some proposals.”
“I sent you some last week, sire.”
“Some other proposals. Ones that allow us to walk before we run.” Henry half turns, as if to signify the end of the discussion, then thinks better of it. “Oh, there is one more thing, Thomas. I have a mind to find something for Martell.”
“Sir Peregrine Martell, sire?” Cromwell’s interest is suddenly aroused. “If Your Majesty will cast his mind back to a couple of months ago, you will recall that you had him knighted.”
“Was that only months ago?” Henry seems vague.
“Your Majesty instructed me to find him a good living, not too far from London.”
“And did you?”
“Of course I did, sire. I had the deeds to Broome Hall in Buckinghamshire granted to him, back in September, on a twenty year lease.” Thomas Cromwell closes his eyes, and recalls the finer details of the transaction to his mind. “The estate encompasses two small villages, a travellers inn, two low taverns, a derelict monastery, one late Saxon church, a water mill, and three hundred and thirty four acres of fine sheep pastures. The parkland extends to eighty three acres, and has a small herd of deer within its bounds. The previous owner was a rich abbot who failed to pay his taxes, and was expelled. The yearly income, if well managed, will amount to a little over one hundred and fifty seven pounds.”
“I was thinking more in the way of an earldom, or, at least, a baronetcy.” The words hang heavily in the room, and Henry’s Privy Councillor is, for once, stuck for words. “See to it as soon as you are able, Master Cromwell.”
“Your Majesty, an earldom?” Anne Boleyn is shocked, and cannot believe her ears. It takes her all of her persuasive power to scratch out titles for her own family and friends, and Henry wants to bestow one of the most prestigious titles there are, on a complete nobody. “The fellow comes from nowhere. He has no noble lineage, and cannot even account for himself further than a few years back.”
“Be still, woman.” The words are spoken before their effect has been considered, and Henry almost growls at his own thoughtlessness. “Martell is a fine fellow. He is a friend of Charles Brandon, and knows how to keep a soul merry.”
“The man flaunts his trollops about court, and has the manners of a ditch digger,” Anne says, stiffly. She turns, and before Henry can answer, stalks out of the chamber.
“Fetch her back, Thomas,” Henry says.
“Forgive me, sire, but I would need a dozen soldiers to do such a thing,” Cromwell advises. “Let a boiling pot cool before you try to handle it. Lady Anne will simmer, then seek your forgiveness for her abrupt departure.”
“Always there with the right words,” the king says. He is aware of his growing temper, and realises that he must surround himself with cooler heads. “Ask Rafe Sadler to buy her something nice. Have it presented on a velvet cushion. Yellow velvet, of course.”
“Your Majesty knows the lady’s taste so well,” Cromwell replies. “There is a dress maker I know, who might make a dress from yellow silk. Perhaps Master Sadler can let slip that you mean it for a surprise. He will say you want her painted wearing it.”
“You rogue, Thomas,” Henry says. “I wager you were a man for the ladies when in your youth. Is Holbein in court?”
“For you, sire, Hans Holbein would swim the Channel.”
“Then see to it.” Henry is placated, and already thinks the idea is his own. “As for the business with Martell… leave it for a week or two. Then find the fellow something suitable.”
“You honour him, sire.”
“I do. Let that be the end of the matter. Once he is made noble, find him a post in the north. Away from court.”
“As you wish, sire.” Thomas Cromwell needs to know no more. The king has told him all that he wishes, and he excuses himself, in order that he might summon a council of war.
“Martell,” he says, once back at Austin Friars. He has several official houses now, but is constantly drawn back to the house where he lived with his wife and daughters. “Sir Peregrine Martell, gentlemen. Mark the name well, and have him investigated to the greatest degree.”
“To what end, master?” Rafe asks. “He is in the king’s favour, is he not?”
“He is… too much so, Rafe. The king does not speak of him as a dear friend, but as an encumbrance. If you were king, and did not like a man, would you make him into a great lord?”
“Of course not.”
“No, and nor would Henry, usually. This man has some sort of a hold over the king, and I will have knowledge of it.”
“He sounds dangerous,” Mush says from behind the huge form of Richa
rd Cromwell. “Shall I kill him for you, master?” The young Jew is in a dark mood, and has been since his aborted trip to the Holy Land. He set off, with high hopes, and a loving young wife as companion, and reached Avignon, where a pestilence struck Gwen down. Her death has shocked them all. The young man is back now, and needs something to blot her memory from his mind.
“I dare not have him removed,” Cromwell replies. “We must know what he has that so frightens the king, and bury it with him. If we strike, and he has left damaging documents, Henry will be furious. No, we must investigate.”
“Do we know where he comes from?” Richard asks.
“The name is French, but his way of speaking reminds me of Miriam’s cheese maker in Cheshire,” Cromwell tells his nephew. “I want this done discreetly. Only use the most trusted of my young men, Rafe. Have them paired up, and send them north. Track this fellow down, and find out all that there is to know.”
“Then can I kill him?” Mush asks, and the inner circle of Thomas Cromwell’s Austin Friars cabal laugh. They think the swarthy young Hebrew is jesting.
“Killing is a final resort,” Cromwell replies. “Where is Captain Draper?”
“With my sister, in Cambridge,” Mush tells him. “He is taking more of an interest in her business, these days.”
“Have I offended him so deeply?” Cromwell asks, but he knows the answer, and hopes that time will heal the rift between them.
“He places great store on his word of honour,” says Mush, “and he gave parole to the Dutchman, Gruyer, and his men.”
“Then he should not have,” Cromwell snaps back. “They were consorting with traitors, and might have hurt this country beyond repair.”
“And they might just have boarded a skiff, and sailed back to Flanders,” Mush points out. “They were soldiers, and they fought well against us. Will was in command, and gave them all quarter, to avoid further killing.”
“Watch your mouth, Mush,” Richard growls. “My uncle did what he thought best.”
