by Anne Stevens
“Not today, Meg,” Rafe replies. “You know Mush, do you not?”
“I know his wife better,” Margaret replies. “Gwen did often deliver Cromwell’s rations to us, and… What is it… what have I said?” Mush steps back, almost as if slapped, and Rafe silently curses at the unexpected remark.
“Mistress Gwen was taken from us, a few weeks since,” he explains. “Some foreign sickness.”
“May God have mercy on her poor, young soul,” Margaret says, crossing herself. “We never have visitors, and news is very scarce. I found your wife to be quite charming, sir, and so full of the joys of life. Come in, and I will fetch some mulled wine to take away the chill of the morning.”
“We come to see your father, Meg.” Rafe sees her head slump into her shoulders, as she leads them into the great hall. There is no fire in the grate, and he makes a note to increase the supplies, now winter is coming upon them. “There will be more fire wood, and victuals here later today. Why do you let yourselves run so low?”
Rafe is the only other man to call her Meg, apart from her father, and it goes back to their childhood days, when they often chased about the orchard playing tag. Once, he had hoped to marry her, but Sir Thomas had found her a more suitable match in William Roper.
“Father does not know Master Cromwell keeps us, Rafe. If we seem too well off, he will demand to know how it can be afforded. His friends are few, since his retirement, and he will not accept anything from your master.”
“Master Cromwell loves your father well, Meg, and that is why we are here.” Margaret Roper nods, and sighs. It is the moment she has been dreading for many months now, and does not know what to do now the time has come.
“Then the oath is finally coming?”
“It is.”
“We knew it would. I even asked him to leave England. He has many supporters abroad,” Margaret says.
“That is what the king fears,” Mush tells her. “Once abroad, men would flock to your father in their thousands, and they cannot allow that. The French Whore hates Sir Thomas, and will have him dead, if she can.”
“Your words are not unexpected, young fellow,” Sir Thomas More says, as he limps into the hall. He is shrunken, and has a grey, death-like pallor. The past months have worn him down to a shadow of the once great man he was.
“Sir, the oath is almost ready to go before parliament.” Rafe Sadler cannot find the words to sway the man, now he is in his presence.
“How can that affect me, Master Rafe?”
“It must be sworn.”
“By all of the nobles, of course … and by various government ministers,” More replies. “Such an oath cannot be all encompassing.”
“The king demands the oath, and Anne Boleyn demands the right to list all who must swear. It is in my mind that she will add the names of those men in private life, whom she fears, or hates.”
“Then I will be on her list.” More shakes his head, dismayed at how the law, and men’s rights can be so easily corrupted. “You must leave England, Meg. Take everyone with you, and stay away, until this evil is passed.”
“No, father.” Margaret Roper will not be swayed, or ordered, against her will. “What if this oath can be sworn?”
“You think like a lawyer, Meg,” Rafe Sadler says. “Until we know otherwise, you may be able to take it, and still keep your conscience clear.”
“Then I must read the thing, word for word,” More replies, a glimmer of hope in his eye. “For if I can swear, I will. If there be any small hole, even enough for a mouse to squeeze through, I will swear.”
“When will the legislation be made public, Rafe?” Margaret asks. “My father must have the wording, as soon as he can.”
“Pray, let us sit, and drink our mulled wine, Mistress Roper,” Mush Draper says, in an off hand way. “I will place my documents on your table, but must not forget them. Were I to do so, then I might have to return on the morrow to retrieve them.”
“Thank you, Mush,” Margaret replies. “Let us hope our memories do not fail us.”
They take refreshment, and chat about the happenings at court for a good hour, before returning to their boat. It is not until they are well downstream that Mush utters a curse.
“By God’s Holy Bollocks,” he says. “I have forgotten my copy of the great oath. Shall we turn about, Rafe?”
“Tomorrow will do, my friend,” Rafe replies. “And thank you for it, my friend.”
Mush shrugs. It is all he can do for More, and his lovely daughter for the moment. Perhaps, if things go sour, he might be able to get them on a swift boat. Regrettably, passes to travel out of London, by sea, is down to George Boleyn, and his spies are almost the equal of Cromwell’s men in this respect.
“I hope Sir Thomas finds his mouse hole,” the swarthy young Hebrew says.
“If not, he is a dead man.” Rafe cannot think of it without feeling sick. As a very young man, he would sit at the feet of both More and Cromwell, listening to the most learned discourse then to be had in all of England.
Even though he has conspired with Cromwell to push the man aside, neither of them ever wished his death. Would that Henry was in love with a kinder woman, he thinks. One whom might allow an honourable old man the peace to die in his own bed.
“We will spirit him away.” Mush knows a hundred ways to get the family to France, where they will be accepted at the court of Francois.
“We will not.” Rafe hates what will happen, but events move on, despite his every effort to slow, or divert them. “If he escapes, La Boleyn will demand vengeance, and her wrath will fall on Cromwell, and all at Austin Friars. If Master Cromwell falls, so do we all. The best we can manage is to take More’s family out of harms way.”
“He is a great man,” Mush replies. “Even Henry will not dare kill him.”
“No, but Anne will dare anything.” Rafe spits out across the murky river. “There is the canker that must be cut from England’s flesh.”
“Is she truly so wicked?” Mush asks. He is not long from her elder sister’s bed, and cannot believe the two are from the same bloodline. “Lady Mary says she wishes to give the new found church money to charitable causes.”
“And that Tom Cromwell wishes to keep it all for the treasury?” Rafe says, and laughs. “Our master has raised over two million pounds, and wishes to build a navy, and fortify our coastal fortresses with the latest canon. This will give work to the poor, and make England great. Boleyn wishes to endow schools in her name, and fund charities under her own supervision.”
“Is that so bad?”
“With two million, Anne can buy all the friends she needs to keep her safe. If some lord wishes to fund a university, he must ask Anne for the money. Starving peasants will be able to apply for Queen Anne’s largess, and love her for it. Yes, Mush, it is as bad as can be. She must not win.”
“Then More must die?”
“Unless he finds his mouse hole … then, yes.”
6 Sad Tales
“What is this all about?” the French Count demands, as soon as the study door is closed behind him. Thomas Cromwell holds up his hands, as if to signify his own lack of involvement, and gestures to an empty chair.
“Please, be seated,” he says. “This is Colonel Will Draper, the King’s Examiner, and he has things he wishes to ask of you.”
“I have no time for any of this,” the Frenchman curses. “My daughter is still missing, and this Martell knows her whereabouts. I demand that he is brought forth, at once!”
“Sit down.” Will Draper uses his military voice, and the stern air of command makes Jean Carnet catch his breath. He fights with his own desires for a moment, then sits down on the very edge of the wooden chair. “Thank you, M’sieu le Compte.”
“I do not use the title anymore,” the Frenchman replies, sullenly. “You English do not trust foreign nobles. I am simply Jean Carnet, and I live in England now.”
“We have a mystery, sir,” Will tells him. “I must hear your st
ory, and see what I can divine from it. You are here for some reason, and I do not know what that is yet. Pray, start from when you first touched these shores.”
Jean Carnet nods his assent, and explains how, twelve years before, he had acted as a junior minister for the French king. His function was simple enough, and his position in court was low. Each month, it was his allotted task to meet with the various money lenders to the king, and rearrange loans.
He had failed to read one document thoroughly enough, and committed the crown to an exorbitant rate of interest, for a period of ten years. In a rage, the king, a distant cousin, had banished him from the realm, for the duration of the loan. To stay meant imprisonment, or even death, and the loss of the modest family fortune.
Jean Carnet had been forced to sell his Breton farmlands for half their worth, and flee to the relative safety of England. Having settled in Norwich, with his wife and daughter, he kept himself to himself, and avoided drawing any untoward attention to his French background. He established a small ship’s chandlery business in Folkestone, and made a comfortable living for several years. From this small beginning, he had grown a business worth over five hundred pounds a year.
Three years into their exile, Norwich was swept by a deadly illness, which claimed hundreds of lives within days. His wife was one of those taken by the dreaded sweating sickness, and he was left with a young daughter, whom he doted on. At the age of twelve, Marie Carnet was a pretty young girl, and Carnet considered where her future lay.
“I had two choices,” he explains. “Either return to France, and have her placed at court, or have her educated further in England, and find her a decent Englishman of good birth to marry in a couple of years. I chose the latter … and may God curse me for it.”
“What happened?”
“I sent her off to be refined into a lady, by the wife of a rich merchant I knew.” Carnet’s eyes are filling with tears. “She was to teach her courtly ways, then return her to me in Norwich. On the way there, her coach was stopped, and the driver and his companion, together with my poor, sweet daughter kidnaped.”
“What, all three taken?” Will frowns at this. Why take Marie’s companions? Better to simply cut their throats, and be done with it.
“A hue and cry was raised across three counties,” Carnet tells him. “I even offered a reward, but to no avail. All three were gone. I waited for someone to come to me, and demand a ransom.”
“Did they?”
“No.”
“And in all these years, never a word about your daughter?”
“Until now. Is she found?”
“Not to my knowledge, Master Carnet,” Will says. “I think your daughter’s sad story was used to lure you here.”
“Why?” Jean Carnet seems genuinely confused. “Why would anyone be so cruel?”
“You claim never to have met Sir Peregrine Martell before?”
“The name means nothing to me. Bring him forth, and let me look into his eyes. Only then I will truly know.” Jean Carnet tells Will.
“On his return, I promise you two shall meet, sir.” Will ponders what he has been told. A young girl, stolen many years ago, along with her two companions, and no ransom demand. It does not make sense to him. Nor can he see how Thomas Cromwell and the rest can be connected to it.
“Is that all?” the Frenchman asks. Will, cannot help but glance over at Cromwell who has kept his word, and remained totally silent throughout the interrogation. His old master raises a finger, as if to seek permission to speak.
“Yes?” Will asks, warily. He wonders what Thomas Cromwell sees that he does not, but the question, when the lawyer puts it, seems quite innocuous.
“Pray tell me, sir,” Cromwell asks, “where was your poor daughter journeying to when she was taken?”
“To the home of Master Andrew Godwin, a wool merchant of very good character, and a man of the most considerable moral rectitude,” Jean Carnet replies. “The poor man was distraught at the time, and still writes with anything he thinks might help in my search. I know that he has expended a small fortune on his own search.”
“I do not doubt what you say, sir,” Cromwell replies, “but it is not what I asked of you. Where does this fellow reside?”
“Oh, yes. He lives in Nantwich, a village in…”
“Cheshire,” Thomas Cromwell says, nodding. “A pretty enough place, as I recall. Thank you, sir. I regret such sad memories are being stirred up again, but cannot see how it could be avoided.”
“Then you have no knowledge of my daughter, Master Cromwell?”
“This investigation is in the hands of Colonel Draper, sir, and he will make all plain, eventually.”
“Thank you for that,” Will says, after the Frenchman leaves them alone again. “You give hope, where there is none, and then appoint me as some kind of miracle worker. The girl is probably dead. Her companions are probably the guilty pair, under false names … and they too are long gone. They meant to kidnap her, perhaps, but killed her by mistake. They have only to bury the body, and drop out of sight. It is really that simple, Master Thomas, unless you know contrariwise?”
“I know nothing,” Tom Cromwell says. Will is struck by how odd this sounds, coming from a man who usually knows everything. “Indeed, I think I may still be a suspect in your eyes.”
“Of course not,” Will tells him, though he is sure of nothing himself. “You are simply an unknowing part of some plot, and I will get to its heart. Whom shall we have in next?”
“Sit, please.” Will gestures to the chair, and the middle aged sea captain obeys. He looks every inch the corsair, with his weather beaten skin, and single gold earring, which he tugs at, nervously.
“About time,” the seaman snaps. He is used to giving orders, and does not like to dance to another man’s tune. “The Frenchman did not look any too happy as I passed him. Have you caught him in a lie, Cromwell?”
“I am but an observer,” Cromwell reiterates. “Pray attend to whatever Colonel Draper has to ask.”
“Oh, this sounds all rather official,” the sailor mutters, and sits, with arms folded across his chest.
“Sir Roderick Travis,” Will says, and receives a cold stare in return. “I must ask you something about yourself, and you must answer me truthfully.”
“Where I can, sir, I will,” Travis replies. “Though if I care not for the question, I will not answer at all.”
“I am the King’s Examiner, sir, and you will answer to me, or else some other, more persuasive form of inquisition.”
“You threaten me?” Travis looks about him, as if expecting Cromwell to object to such threatening talk. Cromwell shrugs, and holds his peace.
“I give you the facts, Sir Roderick,” Will tells him, coldly. “If I suspect treason…”
“Treason? Dear God, man, there is no treason,” the seaman gasps out in horror. He is expecting questions about his financial worries, not affairs of state. “It is about nought but money.”
“Then speak, sir.”
Sir Roderick Travis has been, some years before, a noted mariner, hailing from Plymouth. He quickly explains how, as a young man, he applied to the king for a corsair’s licence, and was granted permission to raid in far away seas. Travis, scorned the usual hunting grounds off northern Africa and took a ship across the great Western Sea to the Spanish New World.
The younger Travis, not wishing to toil in mines, or fight wild eyed natives, found a better way to gain his wealth. Waiting off the coast of Spanish islands, with his sleek sixteen gunner, he and his crew would pounce on unsuspecting ships, making for Europe. Most were lightly armed, wallowing cargo vessels, unable to offer much resistance. It was a simple matter to board these treasure laden ships, and rob them.
His share of this fabulous wealth was enough to last any man a dozen lifetimes. The portion paid over to the crown treasury, some thirty thousand pounds, earned him a knighthood. The sudden, almost unimaginable, wealth ultimately led to his downfall.
&
nbsp; Never one to avoid a wager, or refuse a game of cards, Travis’s gold had melted away. In an effort to regain his position, he outfitted more raiders, with what he had left, and some borrowed funds, and set off for the Americas again. The fabulous gold of the Americas seemed to be mined from a bottomless pit, and Travis thought his old tricks would work again.
In the intervening years, however, the Spanish had learned valuable lessons, and now loaded their ships with more canon, and trained fighters. Time after time, the English corsairs would be out sailed, or out gunned, and Travis’ small fleet was battered and torn in every confrontation. After twelve frustrating months, he came home to England, with his one remaining ship, empty handed, and deep in debt.
“Since then, I have held off my creditors by moving about the country, keeping one pace ahead of the lawyers, and Sherriff’s men. It seems that, one by one, my debts were being bought by someone … probably this Martell. His agents, no doubt, will have taken my house in Plymouth, my possessions, and anything else they can get hold of. The invitation, though nicely worded is, I believe, to make me his creature.”
“Then you have met?”
“Never.” Sir Roderick Travis seems agitated. “I believe it is his intention to set me up as a pirate. Not a licensed corsair, sailing against the New World, but along the Channel, where I would have to prey on English, French and Spanish shipping alike.”
“Then you would hang,” Will tells him, bluntly. “You tell a sordid tale, sir, but it does not explain our mysterious gathering. Do you mean to accept a life of piracy, if it is offered to you?”
“I do not, sir.” Sir Roderick lurches to his feet, and clenches his big fists in anger. “It is my intention to confront the fellow, and demand to know his thinking. I am no traitor, and will not fall in with such a plot. I would kill any man who sought to so defame my honour!”
