by Anne Stevens
“Master Cromwell’s swift justice,” Will says. “No great plots to look into then?”
“Nothing. Although there was the business with Martell a few weeks ago,” Mush recalls. “Master Thomas took it into his head that this fellow, Sir Peregrine Martell was up to something, and had us investigate him. In the end, it came to nothing.”
“No treason then?”
“Nothing. Rafe and I traced him back to the north country, where he seems to have vanished. He might have been the son of a small land owner. Then Barnaby Fowler continued the search. There was little to find, and Barnaby reported back to Cromwell. From what I heard, he inherited fifty acres from a dead uncle. With that as a base, God knows how, he was able to parley things up to a knighthood.”
“A clever sort then?” Will understands that anyone with any spirit can get on in Henry’s England these days, and thinks of his own advancement. From bounty hunter to an agent of Cromwell in so short a time.
“Master Cromwell was the son of a blacksmith, and Charles Brandon went from playmate of a king, to being Duke of Suffolk in one bound. The man is no longer being investigated … at least, not by us. I think Cromwell might have our man in Chester take a last look. Though, in truth, he seems to have grown cold on the idea now.”
“Then I will be kicking my heels.” Will thinks he might be exchanging one kind of indolence for another, and does not much like the prospect.
“Probably, but within Austin Friars, rather than without,” the young Jew confirms. “Now, put on a happy smile, Will, for here we are, and the master will want to take you in his arms.” They enter through the main gate, and pass a small boy who is set to guard the front door, but is fast asleep. Once inside, Will feels as if he is coming home again, and all is well. The library door opens, and Thomas Cromwell is there, filling the opening. He is wrapped in warm furs, and seems to have put on a little more weight.
“Ah, Master Mush Draper returns. I see you have brought the Captain with you,” he says, neutrally.
“Good day to you, sir,” Will says, executing a shallow bow.
“Are you ready for work, Captain?”
“If it be goodly, useful toil,” Will replies, rather stiffly.
“Oh, it is, sir.” Cromwell steps back, and beckons Will into his inner sanctum. “For I have something for you that you cannot refuse.”
“You think not?”
“I know not, Captain,” Cromwell replies, “for you are to have a new position. One that shall bring you a hundred a year, and give you a place in court.”
“And who must I kill for you, sir?”
“Not for me,” Cromwell says. “I am done with paying you twelve pounds a year, and have passed you on to another.”
“I am not a commodity, Master Cromwell.” Will can hardly believe what he is being told. “Nor am I a book, to be handed from one to another, on a whim.”
“No, you are not,” Cromwell says, smiling for the first time at the ex soldier of fortune. “You are the new King’s Examiner, and answer to none but he, from now onwards. Is that more to your liking, sir?”
“I don’t understand.” Will is wrong footed, and instead of having to find a way to work with Cromwell, he finds he is now the king’s man. “What is an examiner?”
“The king wishes to formalise your position within his court,” Cromwell tells him. “He thinks he should have a special examining agent, to look into the darker, murkier corners for him. I suggested you, of course, and he thought it a splendid idea. You will have a hundred a year, and another hundred to employ two others. You, and your new staff, will be called upon whenever the king has a problem that requires special talents for investigating, and solving problems. I accepted on your behalf, and the position commences tomorrow.”
“Must I attend the king?” Will asks, expecting long, dreary days sitting in the outer court, waiting to be remembered.
“No, he will pass his instructions through me, or some other council member.” Thomas Cromwell closes the library door behind them, and waves Will to a seat by the fire. “I can never get warm these days. Old bones, you see. Though they do say we are in for a terrible winter again. How is Miriam?”
“Keeping very well, sir. I beg her to rest, of course, but it is not in her nature. Perhaps you might call on us, one evening, for dinner?”
“Tonight then,” Cromwell says. “I shall send around a cut of the venison my Lord Norfolk sent me yesterday.”
“How many shall I tell Miriam to cater for?”
“Just me,” Thomas Cromwell says, relieved that Will‘s demeanour seems to be softening. “That way we can talk about family matters, without fear of interruption. The child must be provided for, you see. Education is so very important these days, and I will send him to my old friend at Cambridge. I also wish to set up an endowment, which will provide for all of the children in later life. Rafe will know how to best go about that aspect of things.”
“Miriam will be happy to see you, sir, even if you came empty handed,” Will says, pointedly. He might forgive the lawyer, but he will not allow him an easy time of things. “We do not expect expensive presents, and nor are they needed.”
“Of course not. It is just my nature, Will. I think everything, even love, has a price. Forgive my haste, and accept only that from me which you think suitable from an avuncular old man.”
“Calm yourself, Master Thomas,” Will says. “ No doubt Miriam will insist on you being Godfather to our new arrival, whatever I may say. It is enough, for me, that you have invited me here today, with no hidden motive.”
“Ah.” Cromwell has the good grace to colour up, and cough uncomfortably. “There is one small matter.”
“I see,” Will says, and starts to grin. The same old Cromwell, with the same old needs. “Must I kill someone for my new position then, sir?”
“Do not mock me, Will,” Cromwell tells him. “It is a very small matter, and will not require you to draw a sword. It is just that I have received an invitation to visit someone, and find that I am at a loss, as what to do about it.”
“Accept, and enjoy a break from Austin Friars,” Will says.
“Would that it were so … uncomplicated.” Cromwell crosses to the desk, and picks up a parchment. “I am invited to Broome Hall, in Hertfordshire, by Sir Peregrine Martell, where I will find out something to my immediate advantage, according to this letter.”
“Martell… the man Mush was investigating?”
“A minor matter.” Cromwell sees he must explain a little more. “I wished only to confirm the man’s integrity, before the king ennobled him in the new year.”
“Ennobled?” Will raises an eyebrow. “The king must love him dearly.”
“Perhaps. Though we choose our friends based on many strange criteria, do we not?” Cromwell frowns, like an owl, deep in contemplation. “I want you to come along to Broome Hall with me, my friend. It will only be for a few days - two or three nights, at the most - and I will feel much happier with the king’s new Royal Examiner by my side. Will you do it, for old times sake, Will?”
“If this fellow is so well in with King Henry, I think I must make his acquaintance anyway,” Will Draper says in an off hand manner. “When do we leave for Hertfordshire?”
“Two days hence,” Cromwell replies. “Then we can investigate this Sir Peregrine Martell’s motives, and find out why he wants my company so urgently.”
“Yes, Master Thomas, that is rather odd,” Will says, smirking. “Why would anyone willingly invite you to their home?”
Thomas Cromwell takes the remark in a good temper, as he sees it for what it is, a jest between friends. He knows things will never be quite the same again, but contents himself that Will shall be reconciled to some degree, with both himself, and Richard Cromwell.
It is for his nephew that Cromwell feels the most guilt, as it was he whom he used to execute the Dutch soldier for hire, Gruyer and his paroled followers. To allow them to live was a risk he had not been prepared t
o take and, given the same circumstances, the Privy Councillor would do the same again, even if it meant alienating a hundred Will Drapers.
“Tell Miriam that venison goes best with a strong juniper sauce,” the lawyer says, as if he had not heard the barbed retort. “My cook has a ready supply, and will send some along with the meat. Tell her to slow roast it, for the best results.”
“That is two things you wish me to tell my wife, sir,” Will says, shaking his head ruefully. “How brave do you think I am?”
“Have courage, Will, and hide behind your excellent new rank. It seems that Henry cannot be seen discoursing with a mere captain. I suggested he grant you something better, to go with the huge increase in salary. He therefore grants you the rank, and privileges, of a Colonel of the King’s Horse.”
“Colonel you say?” Will smiles, and recalls how he went to fight the Irish as a foot soldier, and became a captain almost overnight. Now, he is promoted again without a word of warning. “Might I then raise my own regiment, Master Cromwell?”
“I think two agents to start with,” Cromwell replies. “Let us not run before we have learned how to walk, Colonel Draper.”
“Miriam will be pleased.”
“Miriam will not be pleased until you are a member of parliament, a Baron, or the master of the Tower of London,” Cromwell says. “It is her way. She craves a shilling, then must turn it into an angel, and then into a pound. It will never stop, my friend, until there is no higher place to climb to.”
“Climb high, fall far,” Will quotes.
“Wyatt?” Cromwell asks.
“Yes, but I think he was writing about bedroom windows at the time,” Will says. “Not ambition.”
“Ambition is a fine thing,” says Cromwell. “I often wish Henry could have it, but what can a king aspire to? He has the world, so must pick baubles from it, like a certain woman, or a certain faith. How sad it must be, to be a king.”
3 Cromwell’s Fancy
The city of London is growing fast, thanks to the new mercantile adventurers, and England’s new found dominance of the Channel, and the northern seas. This makes for an urban sprawl of closely packed houses, in narrow streets, crammed onto valuable building land.
Captain Will Draper is forced to dismount, and proceed on foot, leading his horse through the narrower parts, until he reaches the old city wall. There he is pleased to see Thomas Cromwell waiting for him, with Rafe Sadler, and his nephew, Richard. Will raises a hand in salute, and leads his reliable Welsh cob, Moll over to them.
“A very good morning to you, Rafe … Richard. Are you coming with us?” Will values the two men as friends, but knows their loyalty is with Cromwell, no matter what he asks of them. As such, he will never be able to fully trust them again.
“I fear not,” Rafe replies, testily. “It seems Master Cromwell has his secrets, and wishes only your company, wherever you may be going.”
“Is it not always so, Rafe?” Will says. “What is in Cromwell’s mind, stays there, until he sees fit. If he is close mouthed, then so must I be, and refrain from mentioning our destination.”
“How do we reach you, if the need arises?” Richard asks.
“Send word to Rob Buffery, the keeper of the Angel Inn, near Cambridge. He will pass on anything urgent.”
“And if there is danger?”
“Then I will protect Master Thomas,” Will says, coldly. “He is under my wing, Richard, and shall be safe enough there.”
“Then you are for Cambridge?” Rafe asks.
“Enough of your wheedling,” Cromwell says, coming over to them. “I asked Will to set up Buffery as a staging post for mail. He knows not where we will be, but has the name of a man who will ride to us, if need arises.”
“Why cannot you just tell us where you are?”
“It is for your own protection,” Cromwell explains. “If the king has need of me, he will ask where I am. Would you lie to the king?”
“I would do as you instruct me, sir,” Rafe replies.
“Then you are a fool, Rafe. Lie to Henry, and you lose everything. Put your hand on the bible, and swear you do not know, and he will accept your word.”
“To what end, master?” Rafe is unconvinced.
“If I cannot be found, he will listen to other council. When he does, it must be yours.” Thomas Cromwell pulls on a leather riding glove. “I will be gone but a few days. Keep Henry in play until I return, lads. Pamper him, surround him with merry, jesting fellows, and pretty girls, until I return. That is all I ask.”
“I will.” Rafe can say nothing else. Since becoming one of the king’s army of advisers, he sees more of Henry than his master, but remains loyal to the Austin Friars ethos.
“Shall we get off?” Will asks. “This unseasonably dry weather may not last, and heavy rain, or snow, will make the roads impassable.”
“Poor Rafe,” Cromwell says, as they ride north at a steady gait. “He must serve two masters with equal loyalty. Perhaps my absence will encourage him to make a few of his own decisions.”
“And if he makes the wrong ones?” Will knows Cromwell, and how he likes to see initiative. Be bold, but not too bold, is one of the many Austin Friars maxims.
“Then he pays the price we all would,” Cromwell replies. “You know that Henry cherishes you, until he does not. It is the same with La Boleyn and her crew. They all wait for us to slip up, yet lack the ability to fill our shoes. Rafe will fare well enough. Do not worry, my friend.”
“Miriam enjoyed your company at dinner.” Will smiles to himself, recalling how, after a sumptuous feast, she brought out her precious chess pieces and ivory board, and defeated Cromwell twice in succession. After Thomas More, and Erasmus, he is thought to be the best player in England, and Draper wonders what that makes his wife. “The venison was as tender as a maiden’s heart.”
“It is a long time since I beheld one of those,” Cromwell jests, and gives a comical sigh. Will has never seen Cromwell with a woman, and wonders if he ever has the urge, these days. As if in answer the older man sighs again.
“After my wife, all other women paled into insignificance,” he says. “Can you understand that, Will?”
“Of course. I see how Mush is, over his poor, sweet Gwen.”
“Yes. He is young, and time will heal his heart,” Cromwell says, “but he will never forget. We never do.”
“Might you not find a nice widow to marry?” Will thinks his question to be audacious, but cannot help but wonder. The nights are long, and cold, when you do not share a bed.
“One of the merchant class, you mean?” Cromwell smiles at the easy way Will accepts such social distinctions.
“Why not?” Will Draper shrugs. “A good woman to keep you well fed, and warm in the night. A woman who can keep house, and hold her tongue.”
“I see. I was asked once, by a great lady.”
“Asked?”
“To wed her, and save her from her life of indolence.”
“One of the ladies at court?” Will is fascinated. Though Thomas Cromwell is one of the most powerful, and richest men in England, he is only the son of a blacksmith. Social position comes before love, he thinks, recalling his own childhood, brought up by his mother, and a man who stood as his father. Though it is far too late to establish the truth of things, Will has long suspected that his true father was the village priest, a man of middle years, who taught him to read, write, and speak Latin.
“Yes, I know. A lady married to Cromwell, son of a drunken blacksmith,” Cromwell says. “She was desperate. After I declined, she took Mush to her bed, and then tried to seduce poor old Chapuys.”
“My God, you mean Lady Mary Boleyn?”
“None other.”
“Then I must confess, she also set her bonnet at me,” Will says, almost laughing out loud. “The poor woman must be desperate to get away from her sister. It is as if she wishes to be…”
“Distanced?” Cromwell finishes for Will. “As though she wants to be hidden
away from any future trouble.”
“That means she must know of something worth running from,” says Will. “Perhaps Lady Anne has a secret?”
“I am sure she has many,” the lawyer replies. “Though I can think of only one that might put her sister in fear. Have you heard from Tom Wyatt lately?”
“Not since we foiled the plot against Henry’s angels.” Will ponders. “He has taken to drinking and whoring, south of the river, and seldom ventures to our side. I doubt his presence in court would go down well, as he has an unhappy way of bedding bored, married, ladies. ”
“Let us hope he stays south of the Thames,” Thomas Cromwell mutters. The young poet is a constant worry for him, and all because of a foolish promise made to the man’s father. Wyatt is in love with Anne Boleyn, and is prone to writing poetry about her. A harmless enough pastime, of course, unless she enjoys the attention, whereupon Henry will fall on Tom Wyatt, as a falcon does on its prey.
“Rein in, Master Thomas,” Will Draper says. “We have company ahead. It looks like a coach, and four outriders.”
“Do you know their livery?” Cromwell asks, peering into the distance. “Perhaps it is Norfolk or Suffolk on their travels.”
“And perhaps it is some rogue who might mean us some harm,” the newly made up Colonel of Horse responds. “Wait here, and I will make some enquiries. I will beckon you on, if they be friends.”
“And if not?”
“Then I will hold them off, whilst you turn and gallop for yonder woods,” Will says. “Once in the trees, you will be harder to find.”
“They are four to your one.”
“Then the odds are quite even.” Will pats the brace of pistols hanging from his saddle, and loosens his sword in its scabbard. “Did I ever tell you how I broke five thousand men in Tuscany?”
“Yes, and I have the truth of it from the Venetian Doge too,” Cromwell replies, raising an eyebrow. “ Shout, and I will ride to you, waving my dagger. Be very careful, my friend.”
Will spurs Moll into a quick trot, and descends into the shallow valley. Cromwell watches as he rides straight up to the coach, and demands the occupants name themselves. Will is every inch a colonel, and his military bearing, and fierce aspect, must make the right impression, for he turns in the saddle, and beckons Cromwell down.
