The Alchemist Royal: A Courtier's Fall (Tudor Crimes Book 7)

by Anne Stevens

  “And I, uncle?” Richard is not the most quick witted of his followers, but he gets there in the end. “What am I to do?”

  “What do you think has happened?”

  “An attack on one of our own,” Richard guesses. “Houses made of brick do not burn for no reason. They must be torched.”

  “Then who must we suspect?”

  “One of the Boleyns,” Richard says.

  “Not Tom Boleyn. The old man is in my pocket, for the moment. Nor would Queen Anne attack in this way. She would whisper to Henry, and turn him against us. It is that idiot, George Boleyn.”

  “What are my orders then?”

  “Take these remaining men, and any other of our agents you can raise, and scour London for him.” Tom Cromwell thinks for a moment. “It can only be him. Find him, and take him.”

  “Am I to dispose of the man?”

  “No, we dare not kill the queen’s brother,” Thomas Cromwell replies. “Though I am sorely tempted to it.”

  “I can have him disappear,” Richard explains. “My men can strip his house, and make it look as if he has fled. Then I will cut his throat, and sink his body to the bottom of the Thames.”

  “I am tempted,” Cromwell says, “but, no. Find him, and lock him away in an Austin Friars cellar, or a damp cupboard.

  “As you wish, uncle.” Richard pauses before leaving. “You know, do you not, that of us all, I am the one who will never question you?”

  “I know, Richard,” Cromwell replies, smiling at the huge bear of a man. “We are of the same blood.” Then a thought comes, unbidden to him. “What if it is not just Will Draper whom they wish to strike against? Where is Gregory?”

  “Why, he was staying the night at … the Drapers!”

  “Sweet Christ,” Cromwell curses, “what has become of the boy?”

  13 A King’s Fault

  The flames are under control, and there is little more than an orange coloured glow coming from the ruin next door. Miriam has ordered fires to be lit in the eating hall, and whatever fresh food there is to be brought out of the pantry. The long table is laid out with several roasted fowl, two game pies, assorted breads and cakes, and a dozen large custard tarts.

  The king thinks it is a wonderful, impromptu picnic, and refuses a chair. He will stride up and down the hall, talking to whom he may, and picked up food as he wishes it. Sir Edward Crompton, who has spent several years as a professional fawner to the king, is worried that he might mix too freely with the common herd, and so become less dependant on his coterie of hangers on.

  “The fellow does not quite know how to treat Miriam, and her household,” Henry confides to the handsome young man at his side. “See how the old fool simpers, and shivers in fear. He thinks I will stop loving him, and find him a more menial task than agreeing with me, all the time.”

  “Does that not tire you out, sire?”

  “Sometimes.” Henry scowls at the young fellow, and tries to recall where they have met before. “Have you been named to me, sir?”

  “I am Gregory, Your Majesty. He who almost overcame you at the joust, with Will Draper.”

  “Almost, yes… and there were two of you,” Henry remembers his own truth, and slaps Gregory on the shoulder. “You are Cromwell’s son. Is he educating you well enough, boy?”

  “I live in Cambridge, sire, during school times, where I am being taught Latin, writing, and my mathematics. I shall come home when I am fifteen, and be put to the law, my father says.”

  “I think not,” Henry says. “That would be a waste. I shall speak with your father, and tell him that you must be presented at court, once educated, and that your further education … at tilting, swordsmanship, and courtly behaviour, shall be entirely at my own expense.”

  “You are too kind, sire,” Gregory says. “Though I would just as soon join the army, and fight your foes in Ireland, and France.”

  “We are not at war with the French.”

  “Not yet, sire,” Gregory says, with the openness of youth. “My father says that they will not wish to see your greatness grow much more, and will contrive to fight us.”

  “Does he, by God!” Henry laughs. “Master Cromwell, the statesman, advises me that commerce is better than warfare.”

  “And so it is, sire,” Gregory replies, trying to put his father’s words into some sort of order. “I think war is the last resort, in his eyes. Though that does not mean he will not fight. As a young man, he fought the French, in Italy.”

  “The man has hidden depths,” Henry says, and crushes a whole custard tart into his mouth. He starts to choke, and Gregory, untutored in such matters, slaps his back, overly hard. The king coughs out a few morsels, and is able to breath again. “Well done, my dear little fellow. I must appoint you to be my royal back slapper!”

  “At your service, sire,” Gregory Cromwell says. “Did you see how John Beckshaw killed those scoundrels?”

  “Alas, I was here too late. Lady Crompton did dither too long at getting my barge ready. I should have rode here.”

  “I saw, from my bedroom window,” Gregory confesses. “I woke up, and looked out, to see three men torching the building site next door. Then John was there, a brace of pistols at the ready. Two shots, and two men down. Then the whole house fell down on the wounded one, and the last man made off in a boat. The last I saw, he was being swept towards the bridge.”

  “Are you sure, Gregory?” Will Draper is suddenly there, with others from Austin Friars rushing about, looking where they might best help. “He went upriver, you say?”

  “He did, sir,” Gregory affirms. “I saw the boat, taken by the swell, and one man, fighting with the oar.”

  “Will Draper!” Henry is enjoying every moment. “We have saved your house from these rogues, and driven them away. Pray, as my Examiner, look into things, and see the king’s justice is done.”

  “As you command, sire,” Will says, wondering who has been fool enough to let the king become involved in things. “Now, you must be taken to a safe place.”

  “Not I, sir!” Henry is in full flow. “I am with you. What shall we do?”

  “Was anyone else hurt?” Will asks.

  “No. I came upon your lovely wife, and her people, and ordered them here, to a place of safety.”

  “My thanks, sire.” Will Draper almost laughs out loud with relief. By the morning, Henry will have driven off the arsonists single handed, and saved Miriam from certain death. “The last felon was being swept away, and did not have control of his boat. I think we might find him past the bridge.”

  “Exactly my thinking, Colonel Will,” Henry says. “Then we must find horses and …”

  “There are boats tied up at the jetty, sire,” Gregory informs him. “Perhaps we could take one of them, or even board your royal barge?”

  “Ah, yes. My barge is here. I forget, in the excitement of the times,” Henry says. “Come, we will give chase.”

  “Sire!” Sir Edward Crompton comes bustling up, arms flailing around, and fingers fluttering. “We must think of Your Majesty’s safety. This man might be dangerous.”

  “Then fetch me a dagger, and be damned to you … you shivering …custard. Come Will, let us get on. Gregory, fetch young Master Beckshaw, for he is also one of my Examiners, I believe.”

  “Get off, husband,” Miriam urges, as she makes an appearance from the kitchens. “It seems I must feed half of the city, at our own cost. See to the king.”

  “Well said, Mistress Miriam.”

  “I shall keep your friend safe by my side,” she replies, with a cheeky grin. “Until you have need of her again.”

  “Oh, yes. I forgot. Yes, see to the lady, I pray. It was mere chance that we met, of course. The queen need not know of it, Mistress Miriam.”

  “Sire, this household is for God, and the king,” Miriam says, as she curtseys. “The lady is called Jane. She is a friend of mine, and was merely visiting for the evening.”

  “Excellent. Will, your wife is …
a female Cromwell. She is not his daughter, by any chance, is she?”

  “Who can tell, sire,” Will replies, ushering them all towards the jetty. “Master Cromwell travelled the world in his youth, and knows how to sew his seeds, like any good farmer.” He catches Miriam’s eye, and she winks at him.

  It takes a half hour to get Henry back on the royal barge, and a while longer to urge the twelve rowers into action. It is only when Will draws his sword, and starts tapping a beat with its hilt, that they pick up the stroke, and send the huge barge back towards the mighty span of London Bridge.

  “Harder over, you buggers,” the shipmaster commands, “else we will ram into the arch. Aha, look there!” He holds up a lantern, and points, eagerly at the huge stone bulwark, that is rearing out of the darkness at them. “See, some poor wretch has done just that!”

  Will crosses to the port side, and examines the crushed remains, which have become snagged on the masonry. He leans out of the boat, and is about to cut the shattered corpse free, when Henry comes up alongside him.

  “What is it?” the king demands. “Is the rascal taken?”

  “By God, sire,” Will mutters. “Would you have me drag him on board, or cut him loose?”

  “Have one of my fellows tie a rope around the thing, and hoist it on deck,” Henry says. “Then, have all three of the bodies taken to Hever, in Kent, and hanged from the ramparts of the castle.”

  “Hever, sire?” Will Draper sees that the king is of a like mind. “Then you have solved this particular investigation before me?”

  “It is only that I am a little quicker witted than you, Colonel Will,” Henry replies, seriously. “That is how I was able to best you in the joust the other day. It does not reflect badly on you, being the second cleverest man in England. I knew, at once, that it was down to someone who bore you a great grudge. George Boleyn has been cursing you for months. So, the bodies are a reminder to the Boleyns, that I married the daughter, and not the whole damnable family.”

  “Well said, sire.” Gregory is beside them. “Can I pull the body in, Will? I have never seen an arsonist before… not even a dead one!”

  “What of George Boleyn, Your Highness?” Will asks. He already knows the answer, and he must steel himself to it. “Master Cromwell will guess too, and have men out seeking the fellow.”

  “As have I,” Henry replies. “You know I cannot punish George, as I would any other who dares to harm you, and yours. He has the profound good luck to be married to the queen, and she has the even profounder good luck to be married to me. I dare not upset her at this moment. She is about to give birth to my child, and a sudden shock might cause untold harm.”

  “Then afterwards?” Gregory asks, and they all turn to see what the child means. “Once your child is delivered, might we not punish him?”

  “I fear not,” Henry says. He is unused to the sort of frank approach that Gregory uses. “By then, he will have covered his tracks, I think. What had you in mind?”

  “Haskins,” Gregory replies, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “He is the Boleyn steward, and George uses him to do his dirty work. My father says he is a dangerous man, and has his name in his bad book. Might we not take him up, and punish him for this?”

  “I see,” Henry smiles. “If I hang this fellow, it will send a stronger message to Thomas Boleyn.”

  “A warning,” Gregory says, warming to the business of political intrigue. “It will say ‘I know you have crossed me, and here is a sign of my great wrath.’ I think they will understand what is meant.”

  “Excellent. Where is Crompton?”

  “We left him behind, sire.” Will waves Gregory away, and joins him amidships. “Well, Master Gregory, how does it feel to condemn a man to death?”

  “It was a jest,” Gregory says, white faced. “I did not think he would agree to …”

  “Hang a man without trial?” Will Draper shakes his head in disgust. “You stupid boy. By tomorrow, Henry will have convinced himself that this Haskins fellow was the true guilty one, not the Boleyns, and our task will become harder.”

  “Our task?”

  “To entirely destroy Queen Anne, and all of her kin folk,” Will explains, sotto voce. “For if we do not, they will do the same to us!”

  “Turn about, you bastards!” Henry is slapping the oarsmen about their heads, and urging them to swing the huge royal barge about. “I want Crompton. He has someone to hang for me!”

  Thomas Cromwell, and Eustace Chapuys arrive, just as most of the neighbours are leaving. They have beaten down the last, glowing embers, and eaten their fill of Miriam‘s food, in the company of King Henry, his courtiers, and his noble friends. It is, purely by chance, the most egalitarian feast ever seen in Tudor times. The little Savoyard seeks out Miriam, who is holding the baby, Gwyllam, and confirms that she, and the rest, are unhurt.

  “It is those who came against us who came off the worst, dear Eustace,” she tells him. “They mistook the house, and burned down my new construction. It was only timber and a brick façade which was lost. A few hundred pounds will put things aright again.”

  “I have enough, if you need a loan,” he says, then smiles. He recalls how Cromwell treats her and her family, and knows she is under no hardship.

  “Your continued friendship is all we want,” she says. “Here, hold my boy for me, whilst I assure Master Tom that we are well.”

  “What of Will?”

  “Already on the river, chasing down the last of them,” Miriam replies. “Master Beckshaw was good enough to dispose of the first two. He tells me that he has only ever fired a pistol three times, and has hit his mark on each occasion. Though he does confess it to be more by fool’s luck, than intention.”

  “Miriam, my dear girl,” Thomas Cromwell is almost in tears as he sees her. “We will rebuild. Do not worry. I have a good mind to add the cost to Boleyn’s debt. In fact, I will. Damn them all to Hell. Boleyn shall repay you, and with interest. That is if Will lets them live after tonight.”

  “It was an empty shell,” she reminds him.

  “My dear,” Eustace Chapuys interrupts. “They meant to burn you, your child, Will, and all others under this roof to death. Do not take it so lightly.”

  “My God, yes.” Miriam’s eyes well with tears at the very idea. “Dear Gwyllam … God rot their souls!”

  “Your king has been greatly at fault in this matter,” Chapuys tells them.

  “Have a care,” Cromwell cautions. “Were you English, you would be speaking treason, my friend.”

  “I speak as I find,” Chapuys replies, earnestly. “He enjoys playing his courtiers off, one against the other, and thinks he is being a great diplomat. When all he does is create enmities, where trust should be. He supports Boleyn, and lets him think it acceptable to attack another man’s family. In this way, he believes he is strengthening his court, instead of weakening it. Boleyn against Suffolk, Norfolk against Percy, and all of them against Cromwell!”

  “It is the way of things,” Thomas Cromwell tells him. “The Tudors come from a long line of Welsh lordlings, whose power was derived from raiding, and plotting. It is in the blood, you see. Henry cannot understand that men can rise above petty politics, and create a strong realm. He thinks that, should we unite, his power will diminish… and he is probably right.”

  “Then God help you all,” Chapuys says, “for Anne Boleyn is about to gain the ultimate power over your Henry. The birth of a son will make her family untouchable, and signal the end of your dream, Thomas. If the worse happens, you must take ship to anywhere within the Holy Roman Empire, where my master will offer you shelter from the tyrannical storm that shall come.”

  “Emperor Charles will not want a thorn like me in his side,” Thomas Cromwell replies. “Besides, I have no intention of losing this particular fight. The king must have a prince, but he does not need a queen. I will fight my corner, when the moment comes.”

  “And perish?”

  “Perhaps. Then
you might wish to offer shelter to all those of mine who wish to leave.” Cromwell calls to his servants, and gives instructions to them. Miriam’s home is a mess, and must be put in good order, whilst her husband is off, about the king’s business. By the time he is back, Draper’s House must be, once more, in the usual sort of order.

  “I had nothing to do with that,” Digby Weller says, as they step aboard one of Miriam’s light boats. It bobs, gently on the Thames, and strains against its mooring.

  “I know,” Mush Draper replies. “The Boleyns are behind it, I suspect. It is the sort of half arsed tomfoolery that would appeal to George. We will attend to him anon. Sit in the stern, and steer, whilst I row.”

  “Where do we head?” Weller sits at the tiller, and unties the thick mooring rope from the peg on the jetty.

  “Shoreditch, on the farther shore. The tide is still with us, and the rowing should not be too hard.” Mush sits, and takes an oar in each hand. Three strokes sends them away from the shore, and into the tidal pull. “What made you do it, Digby?”

  “What?” Digby Weller manoeuvres the boat towards the midstream. “Steal the money, or go against Cromwell?”

  “Both.” Mush wants to understand. “In a year or two, Cromwell would have made you into a gentleman, with a good income, and your own house.”

  “I did not wish to wait two years,” Weller explains.

  “He trusted you.”

  “And I did not play him false … until I had to.” Digby sees he must explain more fully. “I will play the part, as long as nothing better comes along. I was willing to trick Boleyn, and give my loyalty to Cromwell, as long as nothing better came knocking on my door. Seventy thousand pounds, Mush. Think of it, my friend. Enough money to last a man two lifetimes.”

  “Then it was just the money?”

  “I suppose so.” Weller considers. “I like Cromwell, and dislike George Boleyn, but that does not profit me, other than by a hundred a year. Once I saw how to gain the money, I could not remain loyal to anyone, save myself.”

  “You have no morality.” Mush hears himself saying the words, and almost laughs. For too many morals can get you killed, he thinks. Weller’s crime was getting found out. “What of our own friendship?”