by Anne Stevens
The Alchemist
Royal
A Courtier’s Fall
(Book Seven in the Tudor Crimes Series)
by
Anne Stevens
TightCircle Publications
Dedicated to Elizabeth G … For her support, and encouragement.
Foreword
*
The year 1533 dawns on an England that is yet to wake up to the immense upheavals that lie ahead. King Henry has, without a word of warning, gone through a form of wedding ceremony in the Port of Calais, and returns to his realm with his new wife, Anne Boleyn. They wed, officially, on the 25th of January, 1533.
The keys to the kingdom seem to be within her grasp, and it only remains to be seen how she will respond to her new found status. Thomas Cromwell countenances a firm, but benign hand, gently guiding Henry, rather than attempting to bully him into her ways of doing things.
The marriage, though yet to be made official, with a visit to Westminster for the great bishops to sanctify it,is like a weapon placed in the hands of those who do not know how best to weild it.
Thomas Boleyn, the father of the new dynasty, immediately declares himself to be the Earl of Wiltshire, and affects the title of ‘Monsignour’, to raise him above lesser nobles, such as Norfolk, and Suffolk. His son, George, is soon to find himself with almost continuous access to both the king, and his sister, and his standing amongst the court ‘braves’ will never be higher.
The King’s Oath is making its steady, unstoppable way into the English statute books, and will help drive a wedge between kings, and commoners, that will culminate in civil war, and tear the country apart. In the short term it will allow for the removal of any who oppose the new regime.
Thomas Cromwell, and Queen Anne, once allies, are estranged over how the confiscated wealth of the Roman church is to be spent, and pass their days trying to win some small advantage in the struggle. For Anne, it is about power, but for the Privy Councillor, it is much more. He understands that he is becoming locked in a life or death struggle with the queen, and that there can be but one victor.
News of Anne’s pregnancy moves her into the ascendancy, and all at Austin Friars hold their breaths in trepidation. For once she has a son to show Henry, Anne Boleyn’s power will become absolute….
1 The Waiting
“What is it now?” The girl curtseys, and holds out her basket, as if in explanation. Thomas Cromwell sighs, and puts down his penning knife. The sun is already up, and he has yet to start the day’s work. “Where are you from, child?”
“Draper’s House, if you please, Master Tom,” the girl replies, adding a second curtsey. “Mistress Miriam says I’m not to leave until you’ve eaten something.”
“Away with you, girl,” Cromwell barks, “before I eat you!”
“Mistress says you can be an old bear, and I was to bid you cease your noise, and eat. Look see, there is a custard, and some fresh bread rolls with cheese and…”
“Enough!” Cromwell stands, crosses the room, and takes the basket. He tries to shoo the girl away, but she stands her ground. At last, he snatches up the custard pie, and takes a bite. It is delicious, and he crams the remainder into his mouth, and chews. “There. Tell your mistress that I have eaten.”
“Good job,” the girl says, and turns to leave.
“Stay a moment,” Cromwell says. “How is little Gwyllam?”
“Running us all ragged, sir,” the girl tells him, with a happy smile. “Mistress says you should visit more often.”
“I will,” Cromwell says, waving the girl away. “Leave the food on the table. It will save me a visit to my own kitchen.”
The girl finally leaves, and Cromwell returns to the task in hand. He is trying to write a plea in mitigation for some northerners, who say that the making, and the taking of oaths is against their religious beliefs. They quote from a Tyndale bible, and he fears for their safety. The king has no love for the man, and believes him to be against the monarchy.
“He is against stupidity,” Cromwell mutters, and picks up his quill once more. “Is it not enough to rule, without being constantly pandered to?”
“You called, master?” Rafe, never far away these days, is in the door. “Can I be of service?”
“You are supposed to be the king’s man,” Cromwell tells him. “Who is advising him so badly these days?”
“George Boleyn is always there,” Rafe replies. “Then the monsignor struts about like a peacock, demanding his rights and uttering rubbish into the king’s ear.”
“He wants to burn some townspeople, up in Carlisle.”
“Ah, that will be Boleyn senior, I fear,” Rafe says. “He has fallen out with Harry Percy over something, and causes trouble in his lands, whenever he can. Henry thinks it all a great jest.”
“What, that men burn?” Cromwell shakes his head.
“That Lord Percy, and old Tom Boleyn, fight like cat and dog,” Rafe explains. “He thinks of nothing beyond the present, not now he has his precious son on the way.”
“Yes, that was quick work,” Cromwell says. He still scolds himself for not acting sooner when he had the chance. Before Christmas, he could have brought the Boleyn clan down, but he left it too late, and they flourish now, like a tree in full blossom. “I hear that Queen Anne prays thrice a day for a male heir.”
“I pay the bishop to pray four times a day that it is a girl,” Rafe says, and they both laugh. It is a light moment in an otherwise dark day.
“What am I to do about these people?” Cromwell waves at the document on his desk. “Must they burn?”
“Monsignor wants Carlisle,” says Rafe. “So, he stirs up dissent, to show Percy up for the fool he is.”
“Then there is our answer,” Cromwell replies. “We must stop poor Harry Percy being a fool. Have him put an order of restraint on Thomas Boleyn, saying he is formenting sedition. Have our people draft it, and make sure Boleyn hears of it.”
“He will be horrified.” Rafe knows the power of fear, and the idea that Henry might hear of it, will scare Boleyn. “I suspect he will run to me, as Henry’s pet lawyer.”
“Then you must advise him to be wary. Have him withdraw his threat against Lord Percy, and have the duke write to Henry, confirming that all who must, will swear the new oath.” Cromwell nods at his own cleverness. “Warn Thomas Boleyn that there is room at the king’s table for all, and that upsetting the other lords will do him no good. Tell him I said so.”
“He will hate you.”
“He already does.”
“Then he will hate you more.”
“I have a strong back,” Cromwell tells his protégé. “Let them all hate me, as long as I do right.”
“Queen Anne wants the princess declared a bastard.”
“I was expecting as much,” Cromwell replies. “What does Henry think about that?”
“I fear he will agree.” Rafe spends a lot of his time close to the king, and picks up almost his every nuance. “Anne presses him at every opportunity.”
“It is for fear that the child in her belly is a girl.” Cromwell knows how these matters work, and sees, quite plainly, what the new queen is up to. “She wants it to rule, no matter what the sex, and that cannot be, if Mary is legitimate. She has not thought it through. Henry’s divorce was because his marriage to Katherine was declared invalid. If the marriage is false, then the offspring cannot ascend the throne.”
“Then she will win, whatever happens.” Rafe sees a bleak future, with Queen Anne outliving Henry, and ruling through her children It is a dark sounding time, and he wonders how those no
w falling out of favour will survive.
“No, she will not,” Cromwell says. “If she fails to give him a son, Henry will tire of her. He will find another, and throw Anne aside.”
“And if she has a boy?”
“Then the king is happy. He has a son, and we will have no need for Queen Anne.” Cromwell can see the way ahead, and is beginning to feel better for it. “You recall how we were going to play George Boleyn?”
“I do. You were going to discredit him with the king, by making him out to be a lover of catamites. Though that might be harder to achieve than we thought.”
“How so?”
“He has been swiving Charles Brandon’s new mistress, and is on the most intimate terms with several of Anne’s ladies.” Rafe ponders for a moment. “Though I do believe such men can stand with a foot in each camp. Perhaps, if he was taken, whilst actually…”
“That is not necessary,” Cromwell tells him. “A man can be discredited in many ways. It does not have to be over a woman, or a boy. Is Brandon at court these days?”
“Only when he is tupping George’s wife,” Rafe replies, sniggering. “Otherwise, he lies low in Suffolk, dodging his numerous creditors.”
“Send for him,” Cromwell says. “Let Mush deliver the invitation, with a bag of gold to stave off the more urgent claims, and bring him to see me. He shall be my guest at dinner tomorrow night. In fact, I will invite a few old friends. Austin Friars will light up, as in the old days.”
“As you wish, master,” Rafe says. “Who do you have in mind?”
“We will have Eustace Chapuys round, and ask Uncle Norfolk. He likes a free dinner. Oh, and invite George Boleyn and his father, the Monsignor.”
“What?” Rafe Sadler can hardly believe his ears, and thinks Cromwell is indulging in a rare jest. “They hate you.”
“They hate everybody,” Cromwell says with a huge grin on his face. “How it must stick in George’s throat, every time he sees how well his enemy, Will Draper is doing. We must ask him too, and my dear Miriam. How many is that?”
“Er… let me see… seven, I think.” Rafe crosses to the desk, and picks up a quill to make notes. “What about your nephew Richard?”
“Excellent. Then you must come, with your lovely wife to be, Ellen Barré, of course.” The ageing lawyer claps his hands in pleasure. “Have the cook prepare a feast for twelve. I will find another worthy pair, who will eat at my expense. If he cannot cope, have him ask Mistress Miriam for help. I hear she caters for gentlemen these days.”
“Indeed she does,” Rafe says, sniffing at the idea of such an extraordinary practice. “Lord’s pay her, and she supplies all the food, and the servants for the night. I believe she makes a tidy profit.”
“She will make almost fifty thousand this year,” Cromwell says. “Who else in England can command such revenue, save the king?”
“Norfolk is worth a hundred thousand.”
“Yes, but it is not earned,” Cromwell tells him. “I doubt he earns four thousand a year, yet borrows ten from me. Miriam’s is revenue. Year on year. She will be the richest woman in England, before she is twenty three.”
“Then I hope she hides it well.”
“What, and cheat the king’s revenue?” Cromwell chuckles. “She pays her taxes, and still makes a fortune. Now, be off, and let me make my dinner plans.”
“Did he eat?” Miriam is just sending off the last boat to market, when her housemaid, Nora, returns. The girl holds up the empty basket for her to see.
“He fair gobbled down your custard, Mistress Miriam,” the girl reports, “and he swears he’ll eat the rest for his noon meal.”
“The man does not look after himself,” Miriam Draper mutters. “Still, he has eaten something, and that will have to do. Put the basket back in the kitchen, then come and help me. I must peg out the land for Master Griffiths, and his gang of builders.”
Before her untimely death Gwen Draper, Miriam’s sister-in-law bought the next plot of riverside land along from Draper’s House, and Miriam is set on building a grand house on it. It will be larger, and better built than Draper’s House, and she will move into it, once it is finished. As for the old house, she already has a buyer for the property. A rich merchant has offered twice what she paid for it, less than two years before. Her talent for making money is almost beyond belief, and she already counts herself, and her husband, as being amongst the richest folk in London - if not all England.
She has set her pegs, and is explaining her needs to the builder, when the invitation from Austin Friars arrives. She tucks the note into her bodice, and smiles at what it means. Master Thomas is coming out of his black mood. It is almost four months since he lost his precious Lady Agnes, and the hurt must have run deep within him.
“Now, where was I?” she says to Griffiths, the burly master builder.
“Some daft idea about wanting me to put in a cellar,” the man grumbles. “It cannot be done.”
“Of course it can,” Miriam replies, firmly. “You see the pegs? I want your men to dig down … ten or twelve feet should suffice.”
“Might I draw your attention to the river?” Master Griffiths says, pointing to the fast flowing Thames, less than thirty paces away. “Any hole you dig here, will fill up with water at high tide.”
“Then dig it at low tide, and line it with split timbers,” she replies. “My husband saw some such done in Venice. There, the city sits on a wide lagoon, and is built on stilts.”
“More fool them. It will never last.”
“It has stood for six hundred years, to date, Master Griffiths,” Miriam snaps. “That will be quite long enough for my humble house, thank you!”
“They must have better timbers, or drier water, mistress.”
“Dig it out, line it with timber, and tar the seams. Then build a double layer of red brick within,” she says. “It will stay dry enough, and I will have my cellars.”
“It might work, I suppose.” The builder nods his head. “Though, if it does not…”
“I will indemnify you against failure,” Miriam explains. “If you do exactly as I wish, and the water still comes in, I will accept my own stupidity, and still pay you, in full.”
“Then I cannot refuse you, Mistress Draper,” Griffiths says. “You shall have your cellar … wet or dry, and on time.”
“And I want the house to stand alone.”
“It will be cheaper to build it up against next door,” Griffin says, ringing his hands in exasperation. “That’s the usual way.”
“Then I must find an unusual builder,” Miriam snaps. “It will stand alone, with a cellar, and three further floors above. The whole to be built out of brick.”
“Do you know how much that will cost?” Griffiths can hardly believe what he hears. “You build a wooden timber frame, and wattle and daub it. You only use bricks for show. This is not a cathedral, my girl!”
“Shall I find another builder?”
“There are none as good.”
“Then build me what I want.”
“My way, it will cost two hundred,” he says. “Yours will need clever buttressing, and may cost nearer five hundred.”
“I’ll have my lawyer draw up a contract,” Miriam Draper says, offering her hand. “I use Master Sadler.”
“What, Rafe Sadler?” Griffiths groans inwardly. Sadler is a Cromwell man, and rubs shoulders with nobility. There will be no room for cutting corners on this job.
“Yes, he is a family friend.” Miriam smiles. She knows the price of bricks, and the cost of labour, and knows it can be done for three hundred and fifty. “I will send him four hundred for the job. Three hundred and fifty is for the build, and you will get the other fifty pounds, if you finish before the end of July. Deal?”
“Deal, Mistress Draper… but mark my words … it’ll flood!”
George Boleyn holds the dinner invitation, as if it were a scorpion. He reads it a second time, then goes in search of his father, who is usually to be found stru
tting about with the ladies, in the garden. He comes upon him just as the older man is trying to entice Lady Alice Weathers into a leafy arbour.
“Come, my child, let me whisper words of love into that soft, white ear.” The old man has stolen words from Tom Wyatt, the current poet of choice, and they seldom fail to woo a lady.
“Father, I must speak with you,” George says, his voice full of urgency. “Forgive me Alice, but it is important.”
Lady Alice curtseys, and wanders off to find another diversion. Thomas Boleyn is twice her age, after all, and she fancies someone with more life in them. She has heard the rumour that Tom Wyatt the dashing, handsome young poet is back in court, and wonders how to go about meeting him.
“Really, George,” Monsignor complains. “I was just about to pick the fruit.”
“The lady’s tree has been well plucked already, father,” George says, petulantly. “They say that Henry is the only man in court who has not tasted that one. I spat out the pips last season!”
“At least she is not as over ripe as your mother,” the older Boleyn retorts. “The damned woman refuses to stay down in the country, at one of her brother’s castles.”
“Uncle Norfolk will not thank you for that,” George says. “She has the tongue of a viper, and a temper to match. Now, you must tell me what this is all about.” He flourishes the dinner invitation in his father’s face.
“Oh, how dreary.” Monsignor pulls his own from his tunic sleeve. “I thought to be spared your company for one evening. It seems Master Cromwell cannot avoid courting our family. He must be quaking in his boots, now my daughter is queen.”
“Thomas Cromwell shivers at nothing, father,” George replies. “I remember him kicking your arse out of Cardinal Wolsey’s chambers, when you tried to wed Anne to that oaf, Harry Percy. I thought he would, as easily, cut your throat.”
“You do well to remind me of the incident, my son,” Thomas Boleyn sneers. “We will see what his little game is, and cut him down to size. By the time I have had done with Cromwell, it will be his arse that smarts.”
