by Anne Stevens
“Ah, that would be telling,” Mary says, drawing him towards her bed. “Might you not try to loosen my tongue with your lover’s wiles, my sweet. You called me ‘my love’ just now.”
“A slip of the tongue,” Mush tells her, and Mary Boleyn smiles at how his words can mean another thing. “I do not love you, Mary.”
“I do not ask you to,” she replies. “I ask only that two lonely people spend a few hours consoling one another. You may be gone with the dawn, and I will ask nothing more of you.”
“Is it so easy?” Mush can smell the woman’s perfume, and her body is but a touch away.
“Let me show you,” she says, and slips an arm around his neck. Their faces are drawn together, and they kiss. “There. Now we are friends again, Mush, and I for one, am glad of it.”
“I am too,” Mush replies, easing her back onto the bed. Like most men, he can keep love and ardour apart within himself. Whilst honouring Gwen’s memory in his heart, he can indulge his lusts where he may.
Mary Boleyn closes her eyes, and moans softly, as his deft fingers begin their clever work upon her white skin. Of all her previous lovers, the young Jew is the most considerate, and will not take his pleasure without giving it in return. For his part, Mush likes this woman who, though ten years his senior, treats him as a loving friend. She has the power to make him laugh, and allows him rare insights into her damaged soul.
When he thinks of Henry’s vile misuse of her, and how he still bars her from finding a new husband to love, his heart aches with regret. Had he been born earlier, they might have met, and life been better for them both. He does not love Lady Mary Boleyn, but he knows he could have, and the thought saddens him.
“What is it, my love?” Mary asks, as he has become still beside her. “Would you rather we just lay together, entwined in my bed?”
Mush nods, and begins to undress. Mary smiles, and steps out of the reminder of her own clothes. Naked, they slip under the covers, and embrace. Sometime in the night, Mush stirs, and moves across her. Mary senses his arousal, and moves to accommodate him. He presses into her, and she wraps her arms and legs about him, and gasps at the sudden urgency.
“Gwen,” Mush mutters in the dark.
“Yes, dearest,” Mary says, stroking his hair. “Sleep now. All is well.”
“Well?” George Boleyn demands, as soon as his sister walks into his chambers. “Is it done?”
“It is. Henry and I will mark down all who must take the oath, and see where the traitors lie. Sir Thomas More’s name will be foremost on the list.”
“Will he take the oath?”
“He cannot. The oath is sworn, and places Henry above all others. Take the oath, and you must obey the king before Rome, without reservation. More , if he is really so moral, must refuse.”
“Then he dies?”
“That is the idea, brother.”
“We must talk of those we wish to mark down. I have a few names of my own to suggest.”
George Boleyn slips his arms about his sister’s waist, and draws her to him. Their lips touch, then their tongues dart out, into one another’s mouths. She sighs, and lets herself press into him. He runs a free hand up from her waist, and cups a breast. She gasps, and moans, as his mouth roams down her neck, in search of a bare shoulder.
“No!” She pulls back, and holds out a restraining hand. “This is not proper, brother. I am to be wed soon.”
“It was proper enough once,” George replies, lewdly. “I can not forget when both you and Mary danced around my tender Maypole, madam.”
“Enough, you will be overheard,” Anne snaps.
“What happens after you marry your fat old man?”
“Henry is not the robust young buck he imagines,” Anne replies, with a crooked smile. “I doubt his Maypole will be of much use to me, and I might wish to dance about another’s.”
“I long for the day,” George says. “That shrew of a wife of mine is telling all who will listen that I like humping young boys.”
“That is also what Thomas Cromwell believes,” Lady Anne tells him. “It is safer than the truth. Can you not hold back your revulsion, and swive the stupid bitch now and then?”
“She is not you, dear sister.”
“Then find her some fellow to rut with,” Anne says. “Once she is under another, she will forget her wifely demands. What about Mush Draper… he seems a lively sort.”
“He is married.”
“Widowed.”
“Really?” George smiles. “Then I will have a word with him, tomorrow. The rogue is a Cromwell man, and his sort will do anything for money.”
“Anything?” Mary settles the palm of her hand on her brother’s straining codpiece. “Perhaps that is why Mary courts him so ardently.”
“Dear Christ,” George Boleyn closes his eyes, and licks his lips. “If you start … I will finish.”
“Then I will save you … for later,” Anne says. “Once I am queen, I will have the world to pick from.”
“You mean all those eager fellows about the court?” her brother says, snidely. “I doubt they could satisfy you, as I can.”
“Hush, George. Do not become jealous,” Anne tells him. “You will always be my first love.”
“Swear?”
“I swear … on my oath.” Anne giggles, and begins to dance around the room, as if with a partner. “Though Weston and Wyatt might wish to break it… or even dear Norris.”
“Are you mad?” George Boleyn crosses to the door, and pulls it open. One of Anne’s ladies-in waiting is asleep in a chair, tired of waiting for a summons. She stirs, and he closes the door on her. “Stop this, sister. Must you always dally with fire? Your wit, and sharp humour befit a mistress, but sit badly on a queen. You must appear the perfect mate to Henry, else we are all finished.”
“Henry would crawl across the floor to lay with me properly,” Anne says. “I shall wed him, and bed him. Then he will dance to my tune.”
“Have it as you wish,” George replies, gruffly. “Now, about our little list. Who shall we put, apart from More?”
“Why, Thomas Cromwell and his precious followers, of course.” Anne is jesting, as she knows Cromwell and his people will be first to swear the oath. No, the Privy Councillor must be dealt with in another way. “Only the end shall be the same.”
“What is that you say?” George does not understand his sister’s last words. “Only what end?”
“Enough,” Anne says. “Come and dance with me, brother. It does me well to feel a real man against me.”
5 Too Many Guests
“Has Sir Peregrine left?”
“First light, sir,” Will Draper replies. “I saddled him a horse myself, and saw him on the road to St. Albans. If he has fair weather, he will be back before dark. Did Lady Agnes sleep well?”
“How would I know that?” Cromwell is defensive, and wonders if Draper has been awake all night. “Her room is far from mine, and I did not hear her stir.”
Will accepts this, but knows that the pair spent until past midnight playing cards by the well banked fire in the main hall. He listened as they made their goodnights, but does not know their sleeping arrangements. He finishes slicing a loaf into pieces with his dagger, and puts a thick chunk on each platter, along with some cheese, and cold mutton slices.
“There. Not an Austin Friars breakfast, but it will suffice.”
“Is there milk?” Cromwell asks. “Fresh milk is supposed to be good for a chronic cough. Lady Agnes is not too well, at the moment.”
“All the more reason to hurry along with your courtship,” Will says, smiling benignly at his ex master. “A day to court, a day to wed, and a day to bed.”
“Very good. One of Tom Wyatt’s silly little ditties, I suppose?”
“Here is your lady now, Master Cromwell,” Will continues. “Shall I serve her, or will you?”
“Be gone, you rogue,” Cromwell says, taking a good natured swipe at Will, “or I will have the king make you his collector of stoo
ls instead.”
“A fine, dry day, Thomas,” Lady Agnes says as she approaches. “You have made breakfast for me … how sweet of you.”
“It is nothing,” Cromwell says, waving Will to the further end of the long table. “Did you sleep well, dear lady?”
“Eventually, you naughty man,” she replies. “Keeping me up, turning cards so late!”
Will stifles a chuckle, and goes in search of fresh milk. He is in the kitchen, when he hears the clatter of horses hooves on the cobbles of the courtyard. He is unarmed, save for the dagger he keeps tucked in his belt, but dos not have time to fetch his sword, or pistol, before three men are pushing through the back door.
“You, fellow, bring us ale. We are dry from the road.” The man appears unarmed, and his two companions carry only knives at their belts. “Then bid your master attend on us. We have business with him.”
“Business sir?”
“Yes. I am Richard Pound of Chester, and I am here at Sir Peregrine Martell’s invitation.”
“As am I,” the second man says, in a heavy French accent. “Tell him that Jean Carnet, le Compte de Breveton is here.”
“And I am Sir Roderick Travis, of Chepstow,” the third, older man says. “It seems we are all expected guests.”
“Guests, yes,” Will says. “Expected … no. Might I trouble you gentlemen to come with me, and speak with Master Thomas Cromwell, the king’s Privy Councillor.”
“What is this nonsense?” Travis demands.
“Master Cromwell will explain,” Draper says, more in hope than belief. Five strangers, each with a forged invitation to Broome Hall, and an absent landowner. This has the makings of a fine mystery, he thinks, and one that will be difficult to unravel.
He leads the new arrivals through the house, and brings them into the great hall, where Thomas Cromwell and Lady Agnes are picking at the food Will has laid out for them all.
“More guests, Master Cromwell,” he announces, and names each to the other. It is plain that they do not know one another, and that the new arrivals have only just now met on the road.
“I am a busy man,” Richard Pound growls. “I have business interests in Chester, and cannot spare time for this. Sir Peregrine wrote, saying he has something in the way of trade, that should be of value for me.”
“And you, sir?” Cromwell asks the Frenchman.
“I reside in Norwich,” he replies, warily. “My invitation spoke of my daughter being found. She vanished five years ago, when she was twelve. The letter hints that her fate is known to Martell. I search, but in vain, for her.”
“A sad tale, sir,” Cromwell says. “Might I ask why you are here, Sir Roderick?”
“A private matter.”
“I see. A matter so private that you would refuse the King’s Examiner knowledge of it?”
“King’s Examiner?” Travis looks uncertain.
“Colonel Draper is the King’s Examiner, and has the right to question anyone he sees fit.” Cromwell is making up the rules as he progresses, but is brooking no refusal. “I suggest you answer, sir.”
“A private matter, concerning gambling debts,” Sir Roderick confesses. “I am a seafaring man, and have been abroad, with my ship. Whilst away, Martell, whomsoever he may be, has bought up my debts, and demands my presence.”
“A stolen child, gambling debts, and the promise of wealth has brought us together.” Cromwell glances at Lady Agnes. “Lady O’Cahan is here over an affair of the heart, and I am here because I wished to meet up with Martell.”
“Where is our host?” the Frenchman asks.
“St. Albans,” Will tells them. “He has no knowledge of these invitations. I am investigating, and hope to find an answer soon. Do you each have your invitation? Let me have them. Help yourselves to food and drink, gentlemen, whilst I think this matter through.”
Will Draper retires to the hall’s small study, and ponders over the five invitations. Each is worded slightly differently, and each bears an authentic seal. Martell himself has examined the seal, and declares it to be genuine. He looks at the tidy scrawl of writing on each document, and perceives that each hand is the same.
“See here,” he tells Cromwell later. “The rascal loops his aitches just so, and slopes his script the same way. We are after but one man, sir.”
“A clever one,” Cromwell replies. “See how neatly he writes, and his grammar is as fine as any scholar’s. I do not think we are looking for a great noble. Most of them can scarcely make their own mark.”
“Then a clergyman of sorts?” Will guesses.
“Perhaps. There are enough of those about, these days. I have closed a hundred monasteries, and another fifty abbeys, this last six months alone. Though where is the benefit?”
“How do you mean?”
“How might this fellow benefit from gathering we five people here?” Cromwell says. “Blackmail, robbery, murder? I do not see his plan.”
“Kidnap,” Will says. “The Frenchman’s daughter was abducted, was she not?”
“Then he must demand a ransom,” Cromwell replies, shaking his head. “The merchant is worth something, and I am too, but Lady Agnes, and Travis? One is penniless, and the other owes a fortune in gambling debts.”
“Never the less, the answers we seek must lie within their purview. Perhaps each holds but one part of the mystery, and those parts must be entwined. Only then might we know the truth.”
“I should interrogate each one,” Cromwell says, starting to rise from his chair, as if the matter were settled.
“You shall not, Master Cromwell,” Will tells him, firmly. “It is for me to speak with you all. Can you not see that you are a part of this, sir? Five people, with five invitations. You are not the solution, but you may be the cause.”
“Then question me,” Cromwell says. “I know as much as you, Will. To be honest, I thought Martell was trying to ingratiate himself into my good books.”
“Have you ever met any of these people before now?”
“Only Martell. I saw him about court, and we once bowed to one another as he left, and I entered the king’s chambers.”
“Why was he with Henry?”
“Who knows?” Cromwell sighs, and thinks for a moment. “Though the king was in a bad mood that day. As he was when we discussed Martell’s ennoblement a while back.”
“What does that tell you?”
“Nothing, other than that the king does not like the man.
“Yet he advances him,” Will says. “Has he some hold on Henry? Some document that might …. No, that is too fanciful. Henry would simply speak with you, and the man would cease to exist.”
“You are a cruel Examiner Royal, sir,” Cromwell says. “The king never asked for any such service. I swear, on my life, I have never met any of the others.”
“Though you find Lady Agnes to be good company.”
“Am I still being questioned, Will,” Cromwell replies, “or are you simply nosing into my private life?”
“I am pleased that you have one, Master Thomas,” Will says, honestly. “You are too much the hermit.”
“I am surrounded by friends and servants at Austin Friars.”
“True enough. Though you never let them get too close to you. A good woman in your bed will make a better man of you.”
“Touching a lady’s elbow does not make for a marriage,” the older man says. “Though I must admit to certain feelings about Lady Agnes.”
“Admit them to her, sir, not to me.” Will stands, and opens the study door. “Please ask the Frenchman to come in, sir.”
“I will, but might I not stay and listen?”
“In silence?”
“Agreed. I will admire your examination methods, and stay silent.” Will nods his agreement, and Cromwell calls the Frenchman in to face the King’s Examiner’s questions.
You are far too late for breakfast,” Rafe Sadler says, as he pulls on a fur lined glove. The weather is turning bitterly cold, and he does not intend fre
ezing to death whilst about his master’s business.
“I have eaten.” Mush stands by the great hearth, and allows the flames to lick dangerously close to his hands. The short walk from Whitehall to Austin Friars, without the benefit of a warm cloak has cooled his ardour, and he is ready for work. “What are we about today, Rafe? Something that heats the blood will do nicely.”
“Did not Lady Mary Boleyn heat it sufficiently, last night?” Rafe does not expect an answer, but means his remark to be taken as a warning. The king still considers Mary to be his plaything, and would not take kindly to another man drinking from his own well.
“A man must feed his desires,” Mush replies, grinning at his friend. “Now, what have you for me?”
“I am off to Chelsea, to visit with Sir Thomas More in Utopia.”
“Ah.” Mush holds his tongue, knowing that Rafe cannot be deflected from this. Cromwell wishes More to live, and his young men are sworn to help in any way they can.
“Will you come?”
“Have you a spare cloak?” Mush thinks the mission is futile, but cannot refuse his friend’s request.
“Take one from the stand in the front hall,” Rafe tells him. “I think there might be one small enough to fit. Perhaps Chapuys has left one of his fancy gowns?”
Mush takes the jesting about his lack of height in good part, and searches amongst the garments hanging , until he finds one suitable for his needs.
“This will do, “ he says.
“A fine choice,” Rafe says, straight faced. “You left it here a week ago. Now, shall we be off, before it snows?”
They stroll down to the river, where they pay a penny to be rowed upstream. The prow of the sturdy boat makes a strange cracking sound, as it pushes through the ice flecked water.
Landing, almost at the foot of the old Lord Chancellor’s garden, they walk up the lawn, to Utopia. The house is drab, and has that air of sadness about it that often descends on those under a cloud. There are no longer any servants left to greet them, and they are met by Sir Thomas More’s daughter, Margaret, who is, as always, ready for a fight.
“What, only two of you, to murder so great a man?” she snaps. Rafe removes his cap and raises his face for her to see. She is immediately contrite, and steps aside to let them in. “My apologies, Master Rafe, but I expect an assassin at every moment.”
