by Anne Stevens
“A splendid idea. See to it, Thomas. Now, what of the queen? I have been forbidden her company for some days.”
“My daughter, the Queen of England, is quite near her time, cousin,” the older Boleyn says. He has taken to calling Henry ‘cousin’ at every opportunity, not realising how it annoys the king, who dislikes too much familiarity, even from his father-in-law, and his family. “It is best that she remain in close confinement, until your son is born.”
“Very well. I suppose I must make my own entertainment then,” the king tells them. “Let us have a joust, George. I have not had a good joust since …”
“Since poor Charles Brandon struck such an unlucky blow, sire,” Cromwell tells his king. “We thought you dead. Perhaps you might prefer a day hawking, or we could have my son bring his new greyhounds for you to examine?”
“You have a son, Thomas?” Henry often forgets the niceties of those who serve him, and does not recall Cromwell even being married. “Not a bastard, is he?”
“No, sire. Gregory’s mother died, some years ago.”
“Ah, yes. I recall it now. Did not your daughter die also?”
“Both, sire.”
“A pity. But the boy … Gregory … is well?”
“A fine young man, sire. I hope to present him at court next year. If Your Majesty permits.”
“Permits? I positively demand it, Thomas.” The king suddenly throws his head back, and roars laughing at a sudden thought. “Why, he can join me in our joust, Thomas. Have him suited out in armour, and I will try him out.”
“Sire, he is my only son,” Cromwell says, somewhat alarmed. “The boy cannot stand up to such a man as you.”
“Bosh, I will treat him kindly, old friend. Now, let us make plans, for I am growing bored!”
“Father, the king wants me to joust against him,” Gregory says, almost falling over with excitement. “Can there be a greater honour in all the wide world?”
“Gregory, my son,” Cromwell replies. “The king’s armourer has a suit small enough for you, and will hire it to me for twenty pounds. The sword, mace, and gauntlets, I must buy, for another forty three pounds. Your day’s fun will cost me the best part of a hundred pounds!”
“It will come back ten fold, when I am accepted at court, father,” Gregory replies, happily. “Any post, working with the king, will bring me in easily that much, each year.”
“You are not yet fourteen,” Cromwell says. “Any of the gentlemen who joust today, could cut you down in a moment.”
“Oh, I will take my knocks, and give back more,” Gregory tells his father. Though he has his mother’s fine looks, he lacks Cromwell’s brains, and is destined to be little more than an entertaining courtier.
“Not to the king,” Cromwell says. “Whatever you do, do not strike His Majesty. Ten years ago, Charles Brandon ran a lance into the king’s visor, and almost killed him. Lord Suffolk was distraught, and swore never to joust against Henry again. The king forgave him, saying that it was his own fault, for not putting down his visor.”
“These things happen, father.”
“Then about a year ago, Brandon landed an unlucky blow to Henry’s head, and he almost died. He was addled for days, and the doctors feared his brain fever might claim his life. Charles Brandon is the king’s best friend, but he escaped being killed by the king’s men, only because I intervened.”
“That was bad luck.”
“Yes, imagine then if some grandson of a blacksmith hurt the king?” Cromwell raises a finger, and runs it across his throat. We are, despite our wealth and power, peasants, my son, and that means we do not get royal pardons. So, if the king comes at you, let him tap you, and fall down. Understood?”
“But I could easily… ouch!”
“That is the first time I have ever slapped you, boy … let it be the last. Now, do as I tell you.”
“The king is holding an impromptu melee,” Will Draper tells his wife. “I am back but a day, and he wishes me to play with him.”
“Then play. The king thinks to honour you, Will,” Miriam says.
“He wishes to test my prowess.”
“No, you must not fight him.” Miriam knows her husband’s mind. He is not one to back down, even from the king. “Find some lesser noble to thrash.”
“It is just a mummery, my love,” Will says. “These lords, and fine gentlemen wave their swords about, and shout silly things, just to make the ladies swoon.”
“Then let them swoon, but not over you,” Miriam replies, with a stern look. “I want you jousting with me this night!”
“Master Armourer, a word with you?” George Boleyn drops a bag of silver onto the oak table, where various swords and pieces of armour are laid out. “I would play a jest on my friend today, and seek your help.”
“How so, My Lord?”
“The mêlée is a noisy, confused fight, is it not?”
“It is.”
“Yet the king always ends up fighting his friend?”
“The Duke of Suffolk is the best jouster in Europe, sir,” the armourer replies. “It is only fitting that they should meet. Though in all their fights, I have only ever known the king lose twice. Once when he forgot to lower his visor, and last year, when Suffolk landed a lucky blow.”
“Then the king is good?”
“One of the best I have ever trained, with a sword, and a master with the lance.”
“My friend boasts that he can thrash both of them.”
“Does he now?” The armourer shakes his head, and smiles in disbelief. “Who is this fool?”
“Colonel Draper.”
“I know of the fellow,” the armourer replies. “He has a reputation for fighting bare arsed, badly armed, Irish rebels, does he not?”
“He does, and thinks it makes him a champion,” Boleyn sniggers. “It might be fun to see the fellow shown up. Can it be done?”
“It depends on how I order the battles,” the man explains. “If I line them up in the right way, the king always meets Suffolk at the last. If I alter the starting positions, this Draper will have to meet either Suffolk, or the king. Either one will soon knock the shit out of him, Your Lordship.”
“Then let it be so,” Boleyn tells the armourer. “Another purse when the fellow is grovelling under Henry’s sword.”
“My pleasure, sir. You are sure… are you not …. that the fellow will lose? If he bests the king …”
“Worry not,” George Boleyn says, smirking. “Colonel Will Draper is fit only for killing Irishmen, and murdering priests.”
“Sweet Christ, he killed a man of God?” The armourer forgets he is of the new faith, and fervently crosses himself. It is common knowledge that it is bad luck to kill a priest, and the man wonders what possessed this Draper fellow to do such a thing.
“Cut his damned head clean off,” George Boleyn replies, allowing his spite full reign. “Whilst this priest fellow’s back was turned, I hear!”
“Then he is already cursed,” the armourer says, knowingly. “The one thing you must never do, is kill a priest. No good ever comes of it!”
“Amen,” George says, with a sanctimonious nod of the head. He forgets that he has been helping to close down the Roman church in England, and has countenanced many such deaths. As these royally approved murders are not by his own hand, he does not count them as sins in the eyes of God.
“Proper bad luck, that.”
“Then you will arrange matters?”
“Why not?” the armourer says. “Why, ’tis only a jest, and the money will come in handy. The wife wants a new thatch for the cottage. She has her eye on that expensive Suffolk reed. Bloody woman thinks I make my own gold!”
“What?” George is struck by the casual remark. “Make your own gold? What do you know of that?”
“Know?” the man asks. “Why that pigs cannot fly, hags curdle milk, and you cannot spin gold from straw. What is there to know, sir? Why, I doubt even that new magician can make gold.”
�
��Mercurius?”
“Yes, the one who has vanished.”
“Yes, the king was most disappointed at not meeting him,” George Boleyn replies. “Vanished, you say?”
“Poof!” The man waves his hands about, and chuckles. “I expect he has taken himself off to Yorkshire, where they are damned fool enough to admire his heathen tricks.”
“I expect so,” George Boleyn concludes. “Let us enjoy our little jest, this day, Master Armourer, and I shall drop off another bag of coins, after Colonel Draper is brought low, and made to know his place.”
“That’s the trouble with young folk, these days,” the man agrees. “Not enough of us, knows our places. Why, in my day, a gentleman like you would have sent a servant to do his dirty work. I do not say you are at fault, sir, but it does encourage over familiarity.”
7 The Tournament
“Who is in the List, Charles?” Henry is being suited up, piece by piece, into the most splendid armour ever made. The Italian designed equipment has cost him almost a thousand pounds, and it fits him to perfection.
“The usual,” Brandon replies, fiddling with one of his gauntlets. “Harry Norris of course, though he is as knock kneed as can be. Then there is Cromwell’s boy. He is a plucky lad. Only thirteen, I believe.”
“We must give him quarter, and not beat him about too much, Charles.”
“Yes sire.”
“Who else?”
“Crompton, Darcy, Wyatt, the Boleyns, Sir Roderick Travis, Master Rich, who has found enough to buy armour, and another few, who wish to try their hand against the best.”
“Travis, do I know the fellow?”
“The privateer, Hal. He is to be your new admiral. Cromwell recommended him. You must remember, when poor Martell ended up dead. That was an odd business.”
“It was Cromwell’s to sort out,” Henry says, carefully. He does not want his dark secret to come out, and looking into Martell’s murder again, might just upset things. “What about Colonel Will Draper, Charles … we simply must have Draper. Let us see how the fellow stands up to some real fighting. Did you hear this latest rumour, about him murdering a priest?”
“Stuff and nonsense, Hal,” the Duke of Suffolk says. “He killed the fellow in a fair fight. For ’twas an Irishman, intent on rebellion. He was as priestly as my arse … which is the only part of me with which I address the Bishop of Rome.”
“Ha! Your wit is priceless, my dear old friend,” Henry has an image in his mind of Brandon, flatulating at Pope Clement, in Rome. “Then my King’s Examiner is beyond reproach?”
“Without a doubt, dear Hal,” Suffolk insists. “This silly story comes from one who dislikes him, and envies his success.”
“Do we know whom misuses my man in so foul a manner?”
“We do, but we do not speak of such things … lest your wife becomes upset.”
“Oh, I see.” Henry frowns. “George Boleyn is a shifty little bastard, as is his father, but I cannot upset the queen.”
“Quite so, sire. Oh, I almost forgot … Uncle Norfolk is also taking the field. I tried to dissuade him, but he has a young mistress to impress.”
“She is well worth impressing, Charles,” Henry says with a dirty wink. “Why, her baubies almost jump out at you. If only the Boleyn men would let me have a moments freedom, I would like to swive the girl. I hear she is willing.”
“More than, Hal. More than.”
“You dog … have you? Now, tell me true.”
“Not I, my friend. I cannot think of any other women, not with my dear wife … your sister … so close to …” Suffolk forces a tear to come, and Henry slaps him on the back.
“Damn it all, Charles, but you have been a better husband than I thought you would. Dear Mary would not begrudge you a few hours in another’s arms. A man must have … relief.”
“I understand,” Suffolk tells his friend. “Even a king must seek his manly desires, lest his health suffers. You must not let that happen, Hal, for the sake of England.”
“You are right. I was thinking of bringing Mary Boleyn back to court.”
“That might be unwise, at the moment,” says Brandon. “It would be better to bed another. Some well respected, married lady, whose husband does not give her enough attention.”
“Is there such a one?”
“Well, I am told, by the lady herself, that her husband has not swived her for these last three years, and she respects Your Majesty, ever so much.”
“Really?” Henry tries to think who it might be. “Is she known to me?”
“Related.”
“What? How so?” The king is intrigued.
“She is your sister-in-law.”
“George’s wife?” Henry strokes his beard, and smiles. “Are you sure she would…?”
“Like a rabbit, sire,” Suffolk says, and they both laugh.
“Send her to me, tonight,” the king says. “I will give young George’s filly a gallop, and turn her into a mare.”
“She will be pleased,” Suffolk tells the king. “She itches to make up for lost time.”
“Then we shall compare notes, afterwards,” Henry declares. “For I cannot believe that you have not been in the lady’s saddle.”
“Once or twice,” Suffolk admits. “Though she is still as sweet as a virgin. I wager she is a better swive than Norfolk’s trollop.”
“Norfolk… yes, he is not the man he once was.”
“The silly old fool will end up getting battered again.”
“Put him next to me, Charles,” Henry decides. “It will keep the worst of the blows off him.”
“Then let us get to it, Hal, for I seem to recall besting you last time … even though it was a lucky blow.” It is always a lucky blow, Brandon thinks. What he would give to show the king his true talent, and buff His Majesty black and blue. What he would give for a real fight, with any man worthy enough.
“I could not get you out of it, Will,” Cromwell says. “I am sorry. These toy soldiers do not know what it is to fight.”
“Then I shall show them,” Will Draper says, solemnly.
“If you come upon Gregory, treat him lightly, I beg, and if he is being beaten down, too harshly, try and protect him.”
“You do not need to ask, Master Cromwell,” Will Draper replies. “I would sooner cut off my own arm, than hurt any of your family. I owe you so much, and wish we could be …”
“What, Will?”
“Like it is with you, and Digby Waller.”
“No, my friend. Our friendship will never be like how I am with Digby,” Cromwell replies. “You will understand, one day.”
“Then let me get to it. This armour is borrowed, and I must return it in a fit state. I shall defeat any who come at me.”
“Bar the king,” Cromwell says, then feels a cold clutch at his heart. “Dear Christ, Will… not the king. It will be your ruin!”
“I have never flinched from a fight, Master Cromwell,” Will Draper tells his old friend. “Nor have I ever lost.”
“Please, Will… for Miriam’s sake.”
“I fight, or I stand down,” Will says. “If I stand down, the king will scorn me, and I will be ruined. If I fight, I shall fight to my best ability.”
The Master of Arms moves back and forth, arranging the twenty main combatants, into their rightful places. Certain knights hold grudges, and are faced off with one another, whilst others are of too low a rank to fight a lord, and are paired against those of similar rank. The force is filled out with any servants who can wave a cudgel, and take a thumping, for a few coins.
Only by disposing of your equals, can you hope to face a man of greater stature. Defeat him, and your honour is much enhanced. On rare occasions, a young buck has fought his way into a confrontation with a younger Norfolk, or a Suffolk in his prime, and been thrashed for their trouble. It is much safer to avoid doing too well, lest you find yourself against the king.
To do so puts you at a disadvantage, for you must make a show,
yet fail to land a blow, whilst Henry will belabour you until your bones break, then congratulate you for your bravery, and send along a bag of gold, to pay the doctor’s fees.
Today, the well bribed armourer places Will Draper amongst the lowest of the low, who must contend with a bevy of servants, decked out with spears, clubs, and shields, whose job it is to provide numbers, before they can engage in single combat. To be treated so is bordering on being a mortal insult to a trained soldier.
Will is about to grab the fellow, and force him to move him forward in rank, when he sees that young Gregory has also been placed by his side. He taps the boy on the helmet, and signals for him to raise his visor.
“Keep it up, boy, until we are clear of this rabble,” he advises Thomas Cromwell’s only child. “Once we come up against armoured men, close it, and keep close by my side. I intend going for Suffolk, or the king, and we may win through, together.”
“You honour me, Master Will,” Gregory says. “Now I am here, I am shaking like a leaf.”
“I am afraid too,” Will tells him. “Only a fool actually likes to fight, and they seldom live long. Remember what you have been taught. Do not overreach, Keep your shield up, and guard your left flank. Ready?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“Remember how you rode through those rogues who sought to kidnap the old queen?” Will says, bolstering the boy’s courage.
“By God, yes, I did, did I not? They scattered to the winds before me.”
“Quite.” Will Draper smiles, and watches for the tournament pennant to be waved. He turns to the nearest badly armed servant, and grins an evil grin. “By God,” he says, almost conversationally, “my friend and I intend cutting all those who stand in our way to pieces. No quarter, and to the death!”
