by Anne Stevens
“Bastard!” he says for the second time that night. He leans into the single oar, two handed, to keep him away from the northern bank, and lets the river take him back where it will. The current is in his favour, and the little craft bobs away from the scene of his crime, and carries him back to the looming shape of London Bridge. John Beckshaw, Deakes’ young Nemesis in the night is left far behind.
The boat sweeps on, until it comes to the arch of the bridge, where the water is most turbulent. Deakes uses the oar to fend the boat off from the stone pillars, and fails to see a snag of fallen tree trunk, and accumulated debris just ahead. The prow strikes it, and the boat judders and swings about, pitching Deakes into the choppy water. He clings onto the oar, and scrabbles at the stone foundations of the bridge. If he can get a good grip on the rough stones, he should be able to climb up the arch, and work himself onto solid ground.
He is just coming to this happy conclusion, when the boat swings back with the tide, and smashes into the bridge twice, in rapid succession. Deakes is caught between solid stone, and wooden prow. The first blow crushes his chest, and the second knocks his brains out. His lifeless corpse gets snagged on the bridge’s roughly hewn masonry, whilst the small craft breaks loose, and swirls off into the night.
Back on the river bank, people in the surrounding houses are waking up, and rushing out to see what can be done. They stand, and watch, as the entire building is consumed. One kind soul sees John Beckshaw standing aside, as if in a shocked state, and fetches him a blanket. As he is wrapped in it, he begins to cry.
“Sweet Jesus, what will the master say?” he cries. “He left me in charge, and I have let him down. God curse the day I ever came to this wicked town!”
“Hey, Jenkins!” the merchant who lives several doors down calls. “This fellow has a pistol shot in the head!”
The kindly Master Jenkins eases the spent pistols from John’s grasp, and leads him off. He must find someone in authority, and let them know what has come about.
“I shot him down,” John Beckshaw admits, with his hands shaking. “There is another one, dead, under the rubble. “I shot him too. The third escaped. Had I another pistol, I might have shot him also.”
“Dear God, man, hush,” Master Jenkins, who is a friend to the Drapers says. “Keep silent, until Thomas Cromwell is informed of the way of things. We do not want you hanged over this, boy!”
“Hanged?” Beckshaw is confused. “But one was burning down the house, and another came at me with a knife.”
“That’s it, lad. Self defence,” Jenkins advises. “That is the way to go for now. Master Kelly, can you set up a chain of buckets, to get the flames under control? We do not want them to spread, and burn down the whole of London, do we?”
“God forbid,” Kelly says, as he crosses himself, and starts organising the crowd.
“What is it, Crompton?” Henry has been playing cards into the late hours, and wonders why courtiers are running about all over the palace. “Why are they packing my treasures?”
“Fire, Your Majesty,” the courtier reports. “The City Guard report a huge conflagration, down river. We do not have any details yet, but it is better to be safe now, rather than sorry, later. All your best possessions will be loaded onto barges, and rowed into mid river, if the flames become too menacing.”
“Oh, I see. We have a plan then?” Henry throws aside his cards, and calls for his outside clothes to be brought to his bed chamber. “I would ride out, and see this fire, Crompton.”
“I doubt that is a possibility, sire,” the grovelling courtier tells the king. “Though we could take the royal barge down river, and have a better view?”
“See to it. I enjoy a good blaze. Whose property is it… do we know?”
“No, sire. It is a stretch of river where no nobility live. I believe it is owned by a few rich merchants, who seek to build their tawdry houses by the river.”
“Then no-one of any importance lives there?”
“Apart from Colonel Draper, of course,” George Boleyn’s wife says from the bed, where she is slipping on a stocking. “George is always going on about ‘those rats who inhabit the river bank’. His wife bought a great big house there, last year, I think.”
“Have George found, and taken to Westminster Palace,” Henry says, as casually as he can to Sir Edward Crompton. “He has been dunning poor Colonel Draper for some weeks, and I hope he has not arranged for something foolish to be done.”
“George cannot arrange a swive in a whore house, Hal,” the woman says. “Come back to bed, for you won the last hand, and I must pay the price… in the French way.” Henry considers the delightful offer, but he has had his fill of the lady, for now, and would much prefer to see a good fire.
“Have the barge ready at once,” he declares. “Let us see if we can be of some assistance.”
“From afar, sire,” Crompton begs. “You must not endanger yourself, for the queen’s sake. She is close to her time, and must not be given any sudden shocks. She must remain calm.”
“Then tell her to stop moaning about this lady and I,” the king says. “A man cannot go without creature comforts for more than a week or two. Does she want me to suffer some internal hurt?”
“Queen Anne is unreasonable, sire,” Crompton agrees, “but it is the way with these things. Ladies who are in this condition, cannot control their feelings.”
“Nor can I, My Lord,” George’s wife simpers from the huge bed. “Will you leave me unsatisfied?”
“Shut up, and get dressed, at once, Lady Jane,” the king tells her. “We are going to watch a fire!”
The dining room of Austin Friars is stunned into silence, at Thomas Cromwell’s admission. He cannot find seventy thousand pounds, and it will ruin him with the king. Chapuys is horrified, because he has come to think of his friend as being almost invincible, and cannot see what England will do without such a man at the helm. Will drains his wine glass, and bangs it down o the table. Everyone jumps, and turns to look at him his face is set into a contemptuous smile.
“Very well. I see you will not speak up,” he says, “so I will do it for you, gentlemen. My story is almost finished. I rather hoped that it would not be necessary to tell all, but I see that there is a certain lack of moral courage abroad. Last chance.”
All eyes remain riveted on Will Draper.
“Then you leave me no choice,” he says. “I must accuse, where I may.”
12 The Gordian Knot
“Once, when I was faced with a difficult problem, Master Cromwell showed me one of his books. It was in Latin … a language I am familiar with … and it was about a man who lived, even before the great Roman emperors. His name was Alexander of Macedon, and he conquered the whole world, from Greece to Italy, and from Africa to India. He even trounced the mighty Persians.”
“You remember your history,” Tom Wyatt says. “I prefer Greek love poems.”
“From which you steal all your best lines,” Rafe Sadler says, rather sharply. “Go on, Will, I for one, wish to hear this tale out.”
“He was presented with the Gordian Knot, which tied a cart to a post, and was said to be an unfathomable puzzle. The one who could unravel the knot, would rule all Asia, it was said.” Will pauses, for Richard to keep up. “Some claim he cut the knot, but that was no real answer, was it? The intricate knot would not have been unravelled. One who lived at the time, claims that Alexander solved the problem, and unfastened it, quite easily. He did this by removing the pin which secures the yoke to the pole of the chariot, then pulling out the yoke itself. The knot, thus removed of its central core, falls apart.”
“Then you know how to unravel your own particular Gordian Knot, Will?” Mush asks. He has listened to all that has been said, and perceives that there is one amongst them, who is not a true friend.
“As do you, Mush,” Will replies. “Think on what I set you to do, those months ago. I was being banished from London, and told you of my fears. Of how I thought my place w
as being taken in Master Cromwell’s affections.”
“Of course. You asked me to keep an eye on Digby. You thought him to be up to no good.”
“And did you?”
“I did, and soon found out that it was he who wrote the slogans, at the master’s instigation. Then I found out that he was meeting up with George Boleyn, and even the father, several times a week. I went straight to Cromwell, who assured me that he knew all about it. Digby was working for Boleyn, at our request, and was instructed to get into their favour.”
“Which you did, Digby.” Will says.
“Very well indeed, if I may say so myself,” Digby Weller responds. “They suspected nothing. I was able to get them to trust me, and so fall for Master Cromwell’s plot.”
“Yes, my friend. You were excellent at playing a double game. That is why you are the solution to my Gordian Knot!”
“I am?” Digby smiles and shrugs his shoulders. “I regret that I do not have your learning, Colonel Draper, so do not understand all this nonsense about Greek kings, and knots. If you mean I was the link that tied Boleyn to Cromwell, then yes, I freely admit it.”
“Excellent, Will replies. “Then let me remove the pin from the yoke, and see how this knot unravels.”
“Row me ashore!” Henry demands. Sir Edward Crompton fusses about, begging the king to take care, but Henry is on an adventure, and intends seeing it out. Less than thirty feet away, there is a smouldering ruin, and a crowd milling about, damping down the last of the flames. “Can you not see that there are bodies, sir? Look there, under sheets. Then that lad, who the City Watch seem to have hold of, and there … that person is known to me. Ashore, now, you dogs, or I will have you all flogged.”
“Does he never give it a bloody rest?” one of the royal oarsmen mutters. “He treats us like galley slaves.”
“Yes,” his companion replies, softly, “though the money is pretty good, and we get to go to all the big events.”
The barge grounds, and Henry jumps out, into a foot of muddy water. He is fond of doing this, as he believes it makes him look heroic, rather than like a big man with muddy shoes. Henry splashes ashore, with Crompton, and a half dozen armed guards, following. They too must ruin their boots in the thick Thames mud, and yet get no allowance for it.
“Good citizens!” Henry’s voice blasts out, and everyone turns to stare. “Your king is amongst you. Have no fear. Now, what is going on here.”
“Going on?” a beautiful young woman emerges from the crowd, and waves her fists in fury. “Are you some kind of buffoon? I will tell you what is going on …er… if it please Your Majesty, I mean.”
“We have met,” Henry says, staring down into Miriam‘s blushing face. He never forgets a pretty girl, and this one, olive skinned and fine, is prettier than most he has seen.
“Mistress Miriam Draper, sire,” she says, with a swift curtsey. “My husband is your royal Examiner. Will Draper, sire.”
“Of course. Dear Will.” The king wonders at how often the man, or his name, is cropping up, of late. “He is my strong right arm. Now, what is afoot, my poor girl?”
“Arson, sire,” Miriam replies, waving her arms at the bodies under the sheets. “These rogues came ashore before midnight, with torches, and lamp oil. Then they set about burning down the house I was having built next door to our own. Our guest, John Beckshaw came upon the felons, even as they set to their task. He shot down one, and the second came at him with a knife. So, John shot him also. Then he chased the third rogue into the river, where he escaped.”
“Three against one,” Henry mutters. He does love to hear of such heroism. “Why, I once rode into the entire French army, four thousand against twenty four thousand, and scattered them to the winds. Bring the lad here!”
“They have arrested him … for murder, sire,” Crompton splutters.
“Then un-arrest him,” Henry commands, and the four City Watchmen melt away. “Come here fellow. I see you have won the fray, but did not save Mistress Miriam’s house from burning.”
“Alas no, sire,” John Beckshaw bows, almost down to the ground. “Though I an grateful those wicked fools did not see their mistake. They burned down an empty shell of brick and timber. Had they reached Colonel Draper’s home, twenty people, or more, would have perished.”
“Crompton, bring a bag of gold for this fellow, at once!” The king is delighted, and demands to hear every detail of the fight, then personally gives the young Yorkshireman a purse, with ten pounds in it. “I am sure Draper will reward you too.”
“Sire, he already has. The colonel has inducted me into his office, and I am to be a King’s Examiner … after suitable training, of course.”
“Damned fine show,” Henry says. “Where is your husband hiding, madam?”
“Dining with Master Cromwell, sire, at Austin Friars,” Miriam replies. “Has Your Majesty dined?”
“Not since dinner,” he says, and I have exercised since.”
“Then you must come in, dry your feet, and try some of my pies and tarts,” the girl says. “I make the best tarts in London.”
“Do you deliver them with a kiss, Mistress Miriam?” the king says, like an adolescent boy.
“Why, sire, I see you have brought along a lady for that part of the business,” Miriam replies, saucily. “Lady Jane Boleyn is welcome in my house, though I would not allow her slack jawed husband to cross my threshold, lest I take a stick to his back.”
“Oh, yes, I almost forgot,” Henry grumbles. “Crompton, pay heed to me. When they have George Boleyn, take him to the Tower of London instead, where we shall speak with him anon. It will throw a fright into the little fool.”
“Sire, Lord Wiltshire will be most annoyed,” Crompton says, without thinking.
“Lord Wiltshire can kiss my arse,” Henry snaps. “Now, ladies… shall we sample these tarts?”
“You are the pin, Master Weller,” Will says. “You saw how well you were able to tie together both Cromwell, and Boleyn. You used your position to trick the one, and gain prestige with the other.”
“Why not?” Digby Weller asks. “A man must make his way in the world.”
“Not as fast as you do, sir,” Will replies. “You ruin Queen Anne’s reputation for fun, then profit by it, when Cromwell comes a-calling. You see that you can get on, and become friends with all at Austin Friars. Then you go to Master Cromwell, and suggest that you try to infiltrate the Boleyn camp. It was that way about, was it not, Master Tom?”
“Well … yes, now I think on it. It was Digby who first suggested it, and volunteered, because he was unknown to them,” Cromwell agrees. “I thought it a cunning idea.”
“It was. Digby Weller was the lynchpin that held you together. He could see who was going to come out on top, and side with the winner. Had Boleyn outsmarted you, he would have been his man.”
“I see.” Cromwell feels like a fool.
“Once he saw the trick worked, and men would believe his winning talk, and open smile, the next step was easier. How to steal seventy thousand pounds, and get away with it.”
“What, Digby has the money?” Richard growls. “Why, he never even stands a round of drinks!”
“No, Richard, he does not have the money,” Will says. “How could a fellow of such low birth hope to conceal such vast wealth?”
“He could not,” Richard says.
“Correct. He knew when the money was to change hands, and how many men it would take to rob the entourage. Because he was trusted by both sides, Digby Weller even knew that he would remain unsuspected. All he needed, was an accomplice, with enough power to raise a strong, well armed, band of men, and the ability to hide the money away, until the hue and cry dies down.” Will Draper sighs, and shakes his head in sorrow. “There was such a man, of course. A man in a high position, trusted by all those around about him; but would he remain loyal to his friends, or would he fall in with the plan, and help steal the money?”
“Name him, Will” Rafe Sadler demand
s. “Let us know who the rascal is.”
“Who here is desperate enough to try and cheat Thomas Cromwell?” Will replies. “Oh, they might claim that it was only against the Boleyns that they acted, but they have not offered to return the seventy thousand, have they? Even now they know the difficulty that Cromwell finds himself in, he remains silent.”
“You have no proof of this,” Digby Weller snaps. “The robbers are long gone.”
“Yes, but not far,” Will says. “For they are local Folkestone men, raised by their master, at short notice… are they not, My Lord Suffolk?” Charles Brandon is white with fright, and does not know what to do. At last, he sees that he is undone. The duke decides to confess to a slight misjudgement, and lay the real blame elsewhere.
“I was taken unawares,” Brandon stutters. “Digby Weller came to me, and said there was the chance to ruin Boleyn. I did not think it would hurt you, Master Cromwell. I swear, on my life. I found the men, and set up the robbery, thinking that the Boleyns would be made to look like fraudsters in Henry’s eyes.”
“I gave you the chance to confess,” Will Draper tells him. “I asked if any wished to say anything. You chose to keep silent, hoping I had no proof. Well, I have. You paid off your wine merchant, and your tailor this afternoon. They were owed over eight hundred pounds. You even boasted that there was plenty more where that came from. The harbour master in Folkestone is in my wife’s employ, and reports that you have been settling other debts too. I do hope you have not spent too much of Master Cromwell’s money, My Lord!”
“About two thousand,” Brandon confesses.
“You damned fool, Charles,” Tom Wyatt says. “Did you not realise that you would be found out?”
“Weller swore that no one would ever realise,” Suffolk confesses. “He talked me into it. I was to hold his share, until he could arrange for it to be taken over to France. Once I took the first, stupid step, I could not turn back from the allotted course. I am truly sorry, Master Cromwell, but I meant you no harm at all … rather, I wished to help you, by ruining the Boleyns.”
