by Anne Stevens
“Martell did not send the invitation,” Will says. “It seems you are lured here under false pretences. Perhaps another hand is at play.”
“Why sir?”
“They might wish to set you against the man, and do him some harm,” Will replies, though he is not at all sure about this line of thought. “Are you sure it is Peregrine Martell who owns your gaming markers?”
“I was told so, by one of those I owed most to,” the seaman confirms. “He swears that an agent, claiming to be a representative of Martell, bought the entire debt at nine shillings on the pound. Any fool would know that he will not see anything more than six pennies in the pound from my estate.”
“Who was this?” Thomas Cromwell asks. Will glances across, and the lawyer shrugs an apology.
“The merchant, Barton Loxley, of the Northern Weaver’s Guild,” Sir Roderick says.
“I know the Guild,” says Cromwell, with a tight little smile on his lips. “They lend money from Bristol to Chester.”
“They do,” Travis confirms. “Investing in my venture seemed like a good enough thing to him, four years ago, but it cost him dearly. The Guild lost half their money.”
“And you say Martell now owns you?” Will asks.
“To the last penny, it seems,” Travis replies. “Which is about what I have left to my name!”
“What use is a penniless sailor?” Will asks. Cromwell spreads his hands, as if to show his lack of an answer. “A stolen girl, and an impoverished mariner. Then there is Lady Agnes to consider. How can anyone profit from the plight of a poor widow?”
“I am as mystified as you, Will,” Cromwell says. “Perhaps the last of them might have the key to this. Shall I have him come in?”
“Why not?” Will Draper shakes his head, tiredly. “Master Richard Pound does not seem the sort of fellow to fall prey to anyone. I wager he has an account book mind, and a bulging purse.”
Thomas Cromwell agrees with this summation of the merchant, and calls for him to come forward. He fills the room with his presence, and is not cowed by Will’s fancy sounding rank.
“King’s Examiner … never heard of you,” he growls. “What foolery is afoot?”
“That is what we are trying to find out,” Will replies.
“Then you can do it without me,” Pound replies. “I came because this Peregrine Martell promises me a fat profit, and if that is a lie, I will be on my way again.”
“Not without telling me about yourself,” Will tells him.
“Would you seek to delay me?”
“On the point of my dagger, should it be needed,” Will says, smiling coldly at the hefty bully. “Refuse me, and you refuse the king, sir. Now, who are you, and why are you here?”
“I am Richard Pound, of the County of Chester. I deal in wool, and other trade goods, across the North West of England. My uncle died when I was twenty, and left me a small fortune, which I have played up into a larger one. I pay my taxes when asked, and give to my church. My interests are varied, and when I received this invitation, I took it at face value.”
“You knew of Sir Peregrine Martell?” Will asks.
“Never heard of him,” Richard Pound replies. “I made enquiries, and found out only that he is some newcomer, who has the king’s ear. That was enough to convince me of his intent. He was obviously looking for suitable investors in some business venture, and I was very interested.”
“And the others?”
“Never met them before,” Pound confirms. “I met the Frog on the road, and Captain Travis joined us as we rode here.”
“Captain?”
“Yes, he is a sea captain, is he not?” Pound asks. “Or did he tell us false?”
“No, he is a sailor,” Will Draper says. “What about Master Cromwell, or Lady Agnes?”
“Would that I did know you, Master Cromwell,” Richard Pound says. “We might do each other some good. The lady… I know not, though she is of a pleasing enough aspect. Is she a widow?”
“That will be all for now, Master Pound,” Thomas Cromwell snaps. “Be so good as to wait outside until you are needed again.”
Will holds his tongue until the merchant is gone, then reminds Cromwell that he is supposed to keep his peace.
“My apologies, Will,” Cromwell replies, with a twinkle in his eye. “Had you another question for the rogue?”
“No, I was quite finished, but…” Will stops in mid sentence, and stares at Cromwell. “Rogue, you say?”
“Only my humble opinion,” Thomas Cromwell says, waving a dismissive hand in the air. “My observations might be utterly wrong.”
“Most unlikely,” Will Draper replies, pointedly. “What makes you call him so?”
“He profits from the death of a rich relative, his business flourishes far too quickly, and he will come to call on a total stranger, at the hint of a financial gain. His remark, about wishing to know me better was, I suspect, a hint to me that I might do well by him. Together, that makes him a sly old rogue in my eyes.”
“Perhaps he is, but we are no further on,” Will Draper says. “Please ask Lady Agnes to come in, Master Cromwell.”
“It will avail you nought, and only upset the poor woman,” Cromwell replies, casually.
“Shall I call her myself then?” The lawyer shakes his head, and goes to fetch the only female in their group. Will cannot help but smile at how protective Tom Cromwell is to her, and how quickly he is smitten by her charms. It is touching, and he hopes something will come from their apparent friendship. After a moment, Lady Agnes appears, with Cromwell leading her by the hand. The young man is struck by the fine lines of her figure, and the unlined beauty of her face. Twenty years before, he muses, she would have rivalled Miriam in looks.
“Lady Agnes, pray be seated by the fire.” Will stands, and pulls the best chair closer to the flames. He would take her hand to guide her to it, but Cromwell is there, between them, helping her to sit, and fussing like a mother hen. “I regret the need to bother you with questions, but fear that I must…”
“Do not apologise,” she replies, smiling at his touching discomfort. “Dear Tom has explained all, and I will tell you my story willingly enough.”
“My thanks, My Lady,” Will says. “Have you been in England long?”
“I am as English as can be,” Lady Agnes replies. “At least, I was born here, near Coventry, thirty seven years ago. My father was a very successful merchant, who traded with the wilder of the Irish provinces. When I was fifteen, I begged him to let me see something of the wide world. I was his youngest child, and he liked to spoil me where he could. So, he took me with him on a trip to Dublin.
“The Earl of Leinster was a patron of my father’s, and this kept us safe from the local bandits. My father contracted to ship cut peat to Bristol on a commission basis. Because of this, the earl soon owed my father a great deal of money. He had invested his profits, rather unwisely, and could not pay the debt with ready cash. Instead, he proposed a different sort of a settlement.
“The earl suggested a marriage, between his youngest brother, Rory … a half brother really … and myself. I was already turned fifteen, and of marriageable age, so my father agreed. It linked him with Irish nobility, and he convinced himself that it was for the best.
“I became an Irish Lady, of middling nobility, and acquired a wastrel of a man, Rory, who was either drunk and incapable, or getting himself in debt. Damaged goods, you might say.”
“A sorry fate, madam,” Cromwell mutters, angrily. “Your father chose badly for you.”
“It was all a very long time ago now,” Lady Agnes says, wistfully. “Within six months, my father died. Rory hoped to inherit, but everything went to my older brothers. He brought me back to England anyway, and we spent some years living off one relative or another. At last, he died, leaving me penniless. I was at my wits end, and was about to succumb to my debts, when Sir Peregrine Martell’s invitation came. I thought it was, as I have already said, something to do with La
dy Anne Boleyn, and she had taken a hand in things. Marriage is catching, and I thought she meant to infect Henry all the quicker.”
“Is that all?” Will asks.
“It is.”
“And you have never met Martell before?”
“The name Martell was known to me,” Lady Agnes tells Will. “It was mentioned about court, when I could afford to stay there, but we were never presented to one another. Odd, is it not, that I would rush to marry the fellow?”
“You must have felt strongly driven to it, My Lady,” Will Draper replies. “It is a hard world for an unprotected woman. I am pleased that Master Cromwell seems happy to show you some small kindness.”
“Yes, his knowing about this pension will save me from a poor end, Colonel Draper.”
“I suspect we will be seeing more of one another, once back in London, Lady Agnes, so please, call me Will. Master Cromwell is my dearest friend, and he will do well by you.”
“Do stop matchmaking,” Thomas Cromwell says. “Forgive him, Agnes, but he is an incurable romantic.”
“Not I, sir, but Miriam will have you wed before you can draw breath.” Will bows to Lady Agnes. “I am still in the dark as to why you were lured here, madam. Can you think of anything else that might account for your presence here?”
Lady Agnes shrugs, and rises from the chair. Thomas Cromwell takes her by the elbow, and escorts her to the door, like a doting husband. It is clear that he is quite smitten with her, and does not seem to care who knows it.
“I must discourse with Colonel Draper now, my dear, but I will return to keep you company, anon. Pray, do not mingle with our fellow guests, save the Frenchman, whom I truly believe is nothing more than a poor, much wronged soul.”
“Goodness, Tom, you make such a mystery of things,” she says. “You will have me fearing for my life at this pace!”
“Will Draper will protect us,” Cromwell says, with a simple conviction that touches Will, and reminds him of how much he loves the man, despite his shortcomings.
“I will, but from whom?” the young colonel mutters. “For all seem to be victims, and each knows as little as I.”
The day passes slowly, with the three latest guests pointedly avoiding one another’s company. They each suspect some sort of trick, or trap, will be sprung, and are careful over what they say. Will Draper watches them all, and wonders how such a diverse group can have anything in common, other than an invitation to visit Broome Hall.
This late in the year, night falls swiftly, and it is just as the last light fades, that Sir Peregrine Martell returns, with a companion riding by his side. Will Draper goes out with a blazing torch, to light them in, and fancies he sees a dark shape on the crest of a distant, low hill. It is two people, he thinks, one of whom is carrying a shepherd’s crook, and they seem to be watching the house from afar.
Thomas Cromwell watches from the open door, and recognises Sir Walter Beasley, the elderly Under Sherriff of St. Albans. The two men dismount, and hurry inside, out of the bitingly cold wind.
“A raw evening, Sir Walter,” Thomas Cromwell says, retreating to the comfort of the huge fireplace. “Come in, good sir. Draw closer to the fire, and warm your hands.”
“Ah, Master Cromwell, Sir Peregrine told me of your presence here, and your mysterious invitation. Is all still well?”
“As well as it was when he left,” Will Draper says.
“Captain Draper!” the Under Sherriff says, warmly. “I had no idea you were here too.”
“Colonel now,” Will replies, shaking the older man’s hand, when it is proffered. They have met but twice, concerning Cromwell business, but he likes the tough old thief taker, and knows him to be an honest sort. “I am pleased to see you, Walt … as I am still at a loss as to what is going on.”
“Sir Peregrine has told me all he can,” Sir Walter replies. “It seems to us that you have all been made the butt of some perverse jest, aimed at him.”
“At him?” Tom Cromwell raises his eyes from the flames, and is surprised at this perverse explanation. “How can you say that?”
“Simple enough.” The Under Sherriff expounds his theory to a captive audience. “I have much experience in these matters, and can spot a malicious hand at work. Sir Peregrine has wronged someone … at least, in their eyes … and they seek to upset him.”
“By inviting a group of perfect strangers to visit him in his new home?” Will Draper asks.
“Of course. The culprit knows that common decency will force him to offer bed and board to you all, at some expense. This rogue is watching, and laughing at his puerile little prank, whilst Sir Peregrine must count the cost of this enforced generosity.”
“What about the vanished servants, and the watchers on the hill?” Will demands. “Is he our jester, and did he buy off the hired help? Does he gain his revenge by staying out on a cold night, and bribing servants? Then again, who had the coachman, and Lady Agnes’s bodyguard ride off, without a word of warning? No sir, this is not just a jest being played out.”
“Well, I think it is.” Sir Peregrine Martell throws off his heavy fur lined cloak, turns about, and sees the other three guests for the first time. For a moment, he is thunderstruck “God’s teeth! I know not what is going on here, but stay calm, and all shall be resolved. Might someone name these three gentlemen to me?”
“More invitations,” Cromwell says, calmly. “Sir Roderick Travis, M’sieu Jean Carnet, and Master Richard Pound. Do you know any of them, Sir Peregrine?”
“No.” He seems deep in thought for a moment. “Though I have a mind that Sir Roderick’s name is known to me. Are you not the man who sank the Spanish gold ships, sir?”
“For my sins,” Travis bows.
“Then you are wealthy, beyond my poor standards.”
“Would that I were, sir. I am worse than destitute, and believe you have bought up my markers, to the amount of three thousand pounds.”
“I have about five hundred a year, sir,” Martell replies. “Why would I buy up worthless markers?”
“To possess me.”
“You speak in riddles,” Martell says. “I have no interest in you sir, other than as an unannounced, but still welcome guest. I care not what any letter says, I do not own your markers.”
“Then some other fate must still await me,” the seafarer says. “For someone owns my very soul, and I am not worth a single golden ducat.”
“It seems I am also brought here under false pretences, Sir Peregrine.” Richard Pound puts in. “The name Martell meant nothing to me, of course. I am pleased to make your acquaintance now, sir. I am, for my sins, a merchant, in the wool trade.”
“Then we might well do business, sir,” Martell replies. “For I am suddenly rich in sheep, and will need a reliable agent to market their fleeces in France, or the Duchy of Brabant. We will speak later, and come to an understanding. An understanding by which we shall both prosper.”
“Then I am pleased for the deception,” Richard Pound says, bowing. “They say good often comes from an evil deed. Let us wait and see, shall we, Sir Peregrine?”
“I have never seen this fellow before,” Jean Carnet says, bitterly. “Once more, my hopes are dashed.”
“Forgive the count’s upset, sir,” Will Draper says. “He came, seeking news of his lost daughter.”
“Lost daughter?” Martell’s face drains of colour. “Am I accused now of stealing children?”
“His daughter was twelve… some years ago, sir,” Cromwell tells Martell. “She was taken, and never seen again. He searches the country, in vain.”
“Then you have my sincere condolences, sir,” Martell replies, gruffly. “Forgive my cruel response, but I am beset on all sides by worrisome things. Have you no answer to this strange conundrum yet, Master Cromwell?”
“That is for the King’s Examiner to find, Sir Peregrine.” Cromwell gestures to the table, which is laid out with flasks of wine, and whatever food they could find in the kitchen larder. “I will underw
rite the complete cost of our unexpected visit, sir. Draw up a reckoning, after we leave, and submit it to the Privy Council office in Whitehall Palace. Address it to Master Richard Rich, and he will make ample restitution. Come now, and eat. How was the ride from St. Albans?”
“A couple of easy hours,” Sir Walter says, dismissing any hint of hardship. “The road is good, and the weather dry, though damnably cold. Pardon my crude soldier’s language, madam.”
“Ah, a soldier, Sir Walter,” Lady Agnes says. “I had you down for such, the moment you strode into the hall. You have that sort of a bearing, sir.”
“A Captain of Horse for twelve years, My Lady,” he preens, though his service has never taken him far from home, and the rank is more honoris causa than ought else. Lady Agnes smiles, and pours out two beakers of mulled wine. She gives one to Sir Walter, and takes a second across to Sir Peregrine.
“Drink sir,” she says, warmly. He takes the wine, and they stare into one another’s eyes for a moment. As she turns away, Cromwell watches her face. She glances at him, and smiles. He nods, and gestures for her to come to sit down by the fire.
“Stay warm, my dearest lady,” he mumbles. “I fear it is going to be a bad night.”
“Are there enough beds for us all, Martell?” Sir Walter asks, throwing aside his heavy cloak.
“Ample,” Martell replies. “Though two of us must sleep in the tower rooms. I shall take the smaller, lower chamber, and put Master Pound above me, in the larger, more comfortable master chamber. He seems like a sensible fellow.”
“What does that matter?” Jean Carnet asks, wondering at the point of such a peculiar remark.
“The tower room is supposed to be haunted by a lady dressed in white,” Martell replies. “A previous owner murdered his lover in it. He strangled the girl, and threw her body from the high window. Or so my absent servants were wont to say.”
“I have no truck with ghosts,” Richard Pound says, sticking a thumb into his broad leather belt, and effecting a swaggering stance. “If it be that of a pretty girl, I will invite her into my bed, in the hope of keeping myself all the warmer.”
