by Anne Stevens
“What about Tobias Chanley?” Sam asks. “Was he not topped?”
“No, the judge wants to save him for the fair, next Saturday.” Jonah says, then smiles. “Why I suppose you might call him a murderer, though he only stabbed his friend in a tavern brawl.”
“Will he hang?”
“Well, he swore to kill the fellow, then followed him into this tavern, see,” Jonah explains. “The other fellow has his back turned, so Tobias plunged a knife into him. The landlord, a dozen customers, and the tarts who work upstairs all watched him as he did it. What do you think?”
“Then I must speak with him,” Will says.
“The judge will not like it,” Jonah moans. “You must not give him any hope, for the dead man was the judge’s cousin. Tobias will swing, no matter what.”
“Perfect,” Will says. “Lead me to him.”
“For an angel?” the Gaoler shakes his head. “Do you know what a terrible job this is? The pay is beggarly, and there are seldom any bribes to be had. I work from sun up to sun down, and the food is nothing more than slop.”
“Then why do it?”
“No choice. It was either take the job, or face the drop myself.” Jonah sighs. “Some sheep wandered into my field by mistake, and Appleton would not believe it an accident. I wonder if hanging is any worse than this life?”
“I fear it is, Master Jonah,” Will Draper says, hefting his purse. “What say you to a pound?”
“I say it is a goodly amount, but two would be better,” Jonah replies. “With two pounds, I could buy a share in Sam’s smithy.”
“Very well, two pounds, you scoundrel,” Will says. He presses his sleeve over his nose and mouth. “Get on with it.”
It is early evening at Broome Hall, and its guests are becoming fractious, and demanding their freedom. The days are long, and there are a couple of cold corpses but yards away from them. Once the snow has gone, they will begin to rot, and stink out the entire house. The Under Sherriff is facing up to constant grumbles from the men, and Cromwell wishes to keep Lady Agnes away from the pestilence that often accompanies sudden death, for her cough seems to have worsened.
“I cannot release you, gentlemen,” Sir Walter says. “Not until the King’s Examiner is done here. He will return soon.”
“Quickly!” Jean Carnet calls. “Look there!”
They crowd to the window, but all they can see is melting snow. Cromwell looks where Carnet is pointing, and shakes his head.
“What was it?” he asks.
“Two people, I think, standing on the hill, and watching us.”
“Then they are gone now,” Thomas Cromwell says. “I expect you want to resume your search for your daughter. She will be much changed, if you ever find her.”
“That does not matter, sir. My daughter might be grown, and even married, for all I know, but it does not matter. She is a Carnet, and I want her to know that I love her.”
“Finely said, sir,” Cromwell says. “I wish you luck. Ah, I see something now. A horse, I think. Yes. It is Moll, and Colonel Draper is back, at the gallop. I must welcome him.”
Will Draper dismounts, wearily, and leads Moll into the stable. He throws handfuls of fodder down for her, and the other horses within, and checks that the water trough is full. Almost at once, Cromwell is there, behind him, his face glowing in anticipation.
“You have it?” he asks.
“I do.” Will draws the folded paper from his doublet, and holds it out for Cromwell to inspect. He clutches at it eagerly, as if it were precious jewels.
“The seals are broken.” Cromwell feels a numbing chill clutch at his heart. “Dear God, Will… how many people know what is written within?”
“One,” Will Draper says, flatly. “Two, if you dare take a look.”
“You broke the seals?” Cromwell is surprised at his friend’s action. “Why would you do that, Will. It might possibly jeopardise your life.”
“I had to know if the contents had anything to do with these murders,” Will says. “What is within might have drawn us hither, but it does not need to be put forward as evidence … in my humble opinion.”
“Evidence?” Cromwell snatches the paper, and clutches it to his chest. “Are you utterly mad? You cannot use things from the king’s private life for evidence!”
“Then read, and see for yourself.” Thomas Cromwell sees that he has no other choice. He cannot simply burn the damned thing, for Will Draper already knows what the secret is. For his own protection, he must see the secret for himself. He unfolds the document and reads. For a moment he does not understand. It is nothing but the details of a marriage, contracted in the parish church of Nantwich. Then he sees the names, and he is struck rigid with the horror of the thing.
“Dear Christ, this cannot be.” He folds the paper, and stuffs it into his cloak, where it seems to be burning a black hole into his heart. “What was he thinking?”
“It does not have to be,” Will Draper says, softly, to his old master. Now the secret is shared, there are two minds available to sort out the awful dilemma. “Throw it onto the fire, and it never happened. Henry never went on a northern progress those fourteen years ago, and he never took his mistress, Elizabeth Blount along with him. Burn it, and he was never so madly in love with his dear Bessie, that he paid an unscrupulous priest to secretly wed them. Burn it, and the king never contracted a bigamous marriage behind Queen Katherine’s back.”
“Would that it were so easy,” Thomas Cromwell says. “Can Henry have really been so mad? This Martell must have found out, somehow, and taken the document. No wonder the king favoured him so much. It was like a dagger pointed at the king‘s heart.”
“He could not have him killed,” Will explains. “For then the document might surface, and his foolish deed come to light. Imagine how much trouble it would cause. Married to Katherine, yet divorcing her to marry Anne, whilst still bigamously wed to Elizabeth Blount, the mother of his bastard son, Harry Fitzroy. His honour will be gone in a moment, and he shall become the laughing stock of Europe‘s courts. The people will throw aside his assertion to be the true defender of the new faith, and turn back to Rome in droves.”
“Then we must find a way out of this,” Cromwell says. “If we burn the thing, Henry will think we have read it.”
“And Henry will be right,” Will says. “Our lives will be forfeit, to keep us silent. The priest, Father Ambrose, died by Martell’s hand, so that he had exclusive knowledge. Henry must be given the paper, still sealed, so that he can burn it for himself.”
“You have broken the seal.”
“Yes, I have, haven’t I?” Will folds his arms, and stares Tom Cromwell down. At length the Privy Councillor shrugs his shoulders, as if in defeat, and smiles.
“Then you know?”
“I do.”
“From when?”
“From when I saw the other invitations.” Will is tired, and hungry. He does not want this conversation now, or ever, but it must be said. “They were clever forgeries.”
“That much, we guessed.” Cromwell is still fencing with words, unsure exactly what Will Draper knows.
“No, sir. You did not have to guess, for you knew.” Will unfastens Moll’s girth, and heaves the heavy leather saddle off her back. That is what he needs, he thinks. Unsaddling of all that is on his mind. The heavy burden must be laid down, or, at least, shared.
“How so?”
“The writing was well disguised, and might be anyone’s hand,” Will Draper tells Cromwell. “The ink was alike, but again could come from any pot. Our clever forger made one mistake. It was when I compared the invitations that I recognised the fineness of the paper. It is of a make that I handle often, and is used amongst the inns of law. There is a ready supply kept at Austin Friars.”
“Ah, a simple error.” Cromwell nods his head in understanding.
“The invitations came from one source,” Will Draper concludes. “All were written by the same hand, in Austin Friars.”
“That is a great assumption, Will. They might have come from some other legal establishment.” Cromwell is curious as to how the new King’s Examiner has come to his conclusion.
“Not so. Who, in the law courts, even knew of Peregrine Martell, and his blackmail of Henry? Not one soul. Only you knew, and only you could safely arrange for a duplicate of Martell’s seal to be made. You wrote, and sent an invitation to yourself, and the others.”
“For what reason?” Cromwell spreads his hands wide, as if to invite Will’s further explanation.
“I have no proof.”
“Then spin me a tale, Master King’s Examiner.”
“Very well, I will,” Draper replies. “Let us get indoors, where I might warm my hands, and tell everyone my story.”
“Omit the part about the king’s bigamy, I pray,” Cromwell says. “The document will be resealed, and passed to Henry. I shall insist that he reads it, in private, then burns it. You and I shall never speak of this again.”
“Had Katherine died, sooner,” Will starts, but Tom Cromwell hushes him into silence. He knows only too well the possible disaster that would follow. The young Harry Fitzroy’s claim to the throne would become very real, and the whole country would be up in arms, either for the boy king, or his legitimate sister, Mary. One would champion the new faith and the other, the Roman dogma.
“Let it lie, my dear King’s Examiner,” he says. “History is written by those who win, and it does not need to be rearranged at this late stage. Come, and we will warm ourselves by the fire, as we listen to your fanciful tale.”
11 The Comforting Lie
Sir Walter Beasley has thrown several more cords of wood onto the fire, and Will feels its radiating heat, even as he walks through the door. Lady Agnes takes a poker from the flames, and dips it into a huge pewter mug, full of wine, mixed with herbs. She waits until the liquor bubbles, then does the same with a second mug.
“Come and drink, gentlemen” she commands them both. “The thickest fur mantles in England cannot keep this cold out. Sup it down, whilst still hot.” She goes to pick up the mugs, but is taken with a sudden coughing fit. “See, even my own chest protests at the terrible weather!”
“Here let me,” Cromwell says, as he passes one of the mugs to Will, and swigs at the other. “Sit down, my love. It was travelling so far in that freezing coach. I shall never forgive myself.”
“Nonsense, what had you to do with that?” Lady Agnes replies. “Now, what have you two been plotting out of our ken?”
“Master Draper, the scourge of villainy, has a wonderful tale to tell, my dear.” Cromwell gestures, as if to say the young man must be humoured. “Though I fear it will lack any substance.”
“Colonel Draper seems a most ingenious sort to me,” the Frenchman says, quite unexpectedly. “He is the…Quel est le renard?”
“The word is ‘fox’, M’sieu,” Lady Agnes says. “And it is an apt one, I think. He is like a statue, but he listens, and he sees.”
“Just so,” Carnet replies, nodding his thanks. “All is still, then … he is in the hen house.”
“Damn all this idle talk … my pardon again, My Lady… for my uncouth curse, but I wish to hear Will out,” Sir Walter Beasley says. “Pray, let us pay heed to him.”
“Come now, Will,” says Thomas Cromwell. “we are all here present … those of us who still live … and would hear you out.”
“As you wish, Master Thomas,” Will replies. Sir Roderick, Jean Carnet and Sir Walter step closer, eager to hear what he has to say. “It concerns why we are all here, and explains why we were watched from yonder hill. I came upon the shepherd and his companion as I rode back today. They are making their way here now, and will lodge in the stable, until I call for them.”
“Then you have your murderers?” Jean Carnet asks. “And they come to you without duress?”
“Not they, sir,” Will continues. “They are but two parts of the greater whole. My tale starts with a man called Peter Martin, who lived in Chester, many years ago. As a young man, he was constantly in trouble, and only escaped gaol, or worse, because of the influence of his uncle, an unmarried man who doted on his only living relative.
“After the untimely death of his uncle, Master Martin began to make his fortune. It was quite easy for him, as he had no morals, and no scruples. His first venture was into running a bawdy house in the town.”
“I do not understand what this has to do with …”
“Patience, Sir Walter,” Thomas Cromwell advises. “This sounds like a good tale, and I can only hope it has a happy ending.”
“Without proof, I fear it must,” Will replies, as he takes a gulp of the mulled wine. “This is a better vintage than last nights sad concoction.”
“Tell us more about this Master Martin.” Lady Agnes is sitting by the fire again, and her face is drawn and grey once more.
“A very bad sort, madam,” Will says. “After a few years, he owned six whore houses, with a partner. To stock these establishments, Peter Martin would scour the poorer parts of Chester, hoping to find some unfortunate girl, for his customers. This was not always successful, so he and his partner, Richard Pound, started to steal young girls. This was cheaper than buying peasant girls from their families, and allowed for them to pick girls of a more gentle upbringing. Such girls are highly prized, and can earn their masters a fortune. Often, a particularly fine looking girl might be sold abroad, to a rich French nobleman, for instance, or a well to do Flanders merchant.”
“What are you saying?” Lady Agnes asks.
“That Martin, who became Martell, was the worst kind of fiend imaginable. I believe he wronged each and every one of you in some way.” Will turns to Sir Roderick. “You, sir, he deliberately drew into deeper and deeper debt, with the intention of turning you to piracy. He thought you might be coerced, and so seek out, and sink ships of all nations, to pay him off.”
“The swine,” the seafarer curses. “Though he did not speak of it. Nor did he acknowledge me in any way.”
“He dared not. As it was not he who invited you, he had to wait and see. For his plan was going awry. Even as he tried to buy up your markers, a more benevolent hand was at work. Our mystery man has bought your debts, in their entirety, and will, no doubt, approach you at some future time, to make you a more acceptable offer.”
“Indeed, sir,” Thomas Cromwell says, as if the thought had just crossed his mind. “Why, the king has instructed me to commission another six great men o’ war, to strengthen our navy, and will need competent admirals for such a fleet. I have a mind that this is your destiny.”
“I pray so, Master Cromwell. For I will serve Henry with all my heart, and crush all who might sail against England.”
“Well said, sir. I will inform the king of your loyalty, and remind him of your maritime expertise.” Cromwell turns from his little pantomime, and urges Will to continue.
“It was Richard Pound that Martell knew. Pound was out of the same mould, and had also prospered by a relatives untimely death. They made a fine pair of villains. Then, many years ago, Peter Martin stole everything for himself, and left Pound without a penny of their ill gained profits. He fled south, changing his name several times, and always leaving a trail of perfidy behind him.”
“Their sudden meeting must have been a shock for both men,” Cromwell says, with a crooked smile.
“Yes, it was. Unfortunately, that is where our mysterious host miscalculated. You see, the man who sent the invitations forth expected Pound, a strong, violent man, thirsting still for revenge, to recognise Peregrine Martell, and either kill him, or reveal his lurid past.”
“The cunning devil,” Cromwell puts in.
“Martell was always the cleverer of the two, and hinted to Pound that he would recompense him, if he stayed silent. You may recall his odd offer, couched in a way that suggested a business deal concerning sheep? No matter … it worked, and Richard Pound kept his peace, expecting a large bribe to keep quiet.
That night, Martell drugged Pound with a flask of brandy, and killed him the following morning, in a way that almost threw me off the scent.”
“Then Peregrine Martell is our killer,” Sir Walter Beasley says. He pauses, and scratches his head in consternation. “Then who, pray tell, killed him?”
“Tobias Chanley.” Will announces the name, as if it explains everything, and the room is suddenly silent. Even Thomas Cromwell, who until now has been smiling, and urging Will on, is struck dumb. This is something he knows nothing about, and he feels at a definite disadvantage. The King’s Examiner has wrong footed the cleverest man in England.
“Tobias Chanley?” Sir Walter repeats. The name is familiar to him, but he cannot quite place it.
“Yes, Walt… Tobias Chanley. I see your eyes light up with sudden realisation. For he is a most wicked fellow, and is notorious all about Hertfordshire, is he not.”
“Well… yes, I believe I do know the scoundrel.”
“A big, brawling sort of a fellow,” Will prompts. “Often found drinking his pay away in the Cock and Spur, in St. Albans. You once arrested him for fighting with Sam Troughton.”
“The blacksmith,” Walt says. “I recall a brute of a man, picking up the anvil, and waving it about as if it were a feather. Is that the one?”
“The same. Troughton tells me that it took you, him, and four others to haul him into the town gaol.”
“Yes, Tobias Chaney. I know the scoundrel well.”
“Chanley.”
“Chanley… yes. A big, nasty brute,” Walt confirms, sure now that he has the man fixed firmly in his mind’s eye. “Is he taken then? Has he confessed?”
“Yes. Taken, my friend, but not for our murder,” Will tells his incredulous audience. “It seems that our Tobias murdered a man, in front of witnesses, and escaped. He realised that he would hang, once caught, and he was determined to settle another old score, before he died.”
