Twilight of Queens: A Tudor Tragedy (Tudor Crimes Book 8)

by Anne Stevens

  Twilight

  of Queens

  †

  A Tudor Tragedy

  By Anne Stevens

  Tudor Crimes: Book 8

  TightCircle Publications 2016

  This book is dedicated to Boffin.

  Foreword

  The rivalries between the great of the court continue to fester. The year will see unfold, the struggle for power between Thomas Cromwell, and his arch rival, Queen Anne.

  Having helped to bring down one queen, Cromwell is now compelled to go up against another, much more powerful consort. The King sways, like a rowan tree in the wind, waiting for his secret wishes to be guessed at, and then fulfilled.

  Anne Boleyn holds the fate of all of England in her two hands, and struggles to give the king that which he most craves - a son. She is ready to do her duty, if only the king can manage to do his. Men are fickle in love, and kings are the most fickle of all.

  Even as Thomas Cromwell’s faction, and the supporters of Anne Boleyn prepare for the final conflict, Henry is prepared to throw everything out of kilter, because of one small whim. In a dangerous age, one smile, and the touch of a soft hand, can change a country forever. The smile, from Jane Seymour, may be all it takes to throw England into turmoil.

  There are some who await the outcome of the struggle in eager anticipation, for their lives depend on it. A victory for Anne will mean death for all who have ever stood in her way. Margaret Roper is the keenest observer, for her father, Sir Thomas More, is in the most imminent danger.

  He has read the oath to the king a thousand times, and has come to the one, and only conclusion a man such as he can reach. He cannot take it. Margaret, his daughter, is acknowledged to be the cleverest woman in England, and can stand up to a hundred lawyers. She is not prepared to give up the struggle.

  There is, surely, a small chink of light, and she thinks she has found it. There is a possible way out of her father’s situation, but she must enlist the help of a man whom her father roundly detests: Thomas Cromwell.

  When you sup with the Devil, it is advisable to take a long spoon, and Margaret Roper must engage with Cromwell at his own time of greatest danger. The blacksmith’s boy hopes to save a realm, and the lives of all his people, and he wonders if the sparing of his old friend is beyond even his great capabilities.

  1 The Audience

  “I have given my word, Master Cromwell.” Rafe Sadler does not know where he has found the courage to approach his old master, but he is here, in the lion’s den, tweaking the, less than benign, beast’s tale. “I have promised her,” he adds, lamely.

  “Then bloody well un-promise the girl,” Thomas Cromwell shouts back at his most favoured young lieutenant. “You have no right trying to arrange such a meeting for me. Why, you are not even in my service, since the king stole you away. What are you thinking of, man?”

  Rafe Sadler is not one to beg favours from Thomas Cromwell, and is now demanding something that might bring grave danger to the door of Austin Friars. He wishes Thomas Cromwell, the king’s most respected councillor, to meet with Rafe’s childhood friend, Margaret Roper. The woman, who Rafe admired when he was a young boy, is the daughter of Sir Thomas More.

  “She seeks only to save her father, sir.”

  “If I am seen to be favouring More’s cause, just now, I lay myself open to attack from the Boleyn faction,” Cromwell explains to Sadler. “You know the queen wants poor old More’s head, and will have it, the moment he refuses to take the oath. If I interfere with her plan, she will whisper to Henry, and say that I am against the monarchy.”

  “The meeting need not be in public,” Rafe explains. “What if it is kept secret, and you, and she, are the only two present?”

  “Then that leaves only one to tell these hypothetical secrets to the world,” Cromwell snaps. “One word from her, about anything I may, or may not, say about her father, and the fat is, well and truly, in the fire. Queen Anne will see us as a bevy of ravens, turning on her.”

  “An unkindness,” Rafe Sadler mutters.

  “I do not mean it to be.” Cromwell does not wish to fall out with his right hand man, and looks for consoling words.

  “No, I mean that it is an unkindness of ravens, master … as you would say a herd of cattle, a gaggle of geese, or a …”

  “Bastard of Boleyns?” Thomas Cromwell says, and they both smile at the dangerous jest. “I cannot see how I can meet with young Margaret, without anyone knowing. The Boleyns watch my every move.”

  “They do, but they do not watch the comings and goings of my wife.”

  “And what has my poor, sweet Ellen Barré got to do with all of this?” Thomas Cromwell smells trouble, and wonders if it is too late to avoid unpleasantness, or worse.

  “She comes and goes all day long,” Rafe explains. “If, just once, she were to change dresses with Margaret Roper, and have her come back to Austin Friars instead… who would notice? Why, they even look alike. Same hair, same features, and same…”

  “I do see what you mean, Rafe,” Cromwell replies, “but I doubt it would work.”

  “It did.”

  “What?” Cromwell is stunned by the audacity of the man. Rafe Sadler is the steadiest of all his young men, and would never enact a plan without involving Cromwell, and first seeking his permission. “It worked?”

  “Like a charm, master.”

  “When?”

  “Just now,” Rafe says. “Did you not see Ellen passing the door to your study, with a bale of washing on her shoulder?”

  “Dear Christ in Heaven, you have done all of this without asking me?” Cromwell is horrified at the prospect of the Roper girl being under his roof, and wonders if, even as they speak, Boleyn agents are watching.

  “I did, sir. It is just that Margaret has put it into practice, a little earlier than I said. Will you see her?”

  “I doubt I can do anything about it,” Thomas Cromwell pleads. “Must I be forced to tell her, to her face, that her father is already a dead man?”

  “If need be, sir,” Rafe says. “After all, two ravens must make an unkindness.”

  “This is no time to jest,” says Thomas Cromwell. “Have your washer woman come to me, here, but do not let the servants see her. I will listen to her pleading, take a deep breath, and break her heart. Sir Thomas More was my friend, once. I …oh, never mind. Bring the girl down, Rafe, and damn you for your idiotic kindness to her.” He positions himself, back to the fireplace, and facing the solid oak door. The damage is done, he thinks, but he still smiles at the simple ruse. His assumption that it was Ellen Barré passing his door, reminds him that keeping things simple is often the best way. Had he wished it, Rafe Sadler could just as easily have smuggled in King François of France, dressed up as a plump, rather ugly, kitchen maid.

  He hears muted voices on the landing, then the sound of daintier feet than Rafe’s descending to the hall. There is a gentle tap at the door, even though it is a little ajar.

  “Come!” He tries to make his gruff voice sound gentler, and a little more inviting. Cromwell is becoming a very gentle lion, to those he loves, or admires. In this case, he feels both emotions, and recognises that he is on very dangerous ground.

  “Master Cromwell, I thank you for this kindness,” Margaret Roper says, as she enters, and curtseys, prettily, to him. She is wearing the Spanish style of hat, which frames her triangular features, perfectly. High cheekbones, a thin nose, and cupid lips, are but adornments to her eyes. The eyes are large, and have an intelligent, knowing look, that penetrates your soul. The king once remarked that were she a man, he would have her on his
Privy Council, rather than waste her to marriage. She is a very beautiful young woman, and he can see how easily she can sway men to do her bidding.

  “It is an unkindness, or so Rafe tells me,” Thomas Cromwell replies. “Queen Anne is set on bringing your father down, my dear girl, not I.” He offers her a chair near the fire. “I knew your father when he was a student, at university. I was a ragged little boy, and would run errands for him, and the other gentlemen, for a penny a time. Once, he threw me a shilling, instead. I held it out, and waited for him to see his mistake, but he just smiled at me, and asked my name. Then he said to me, ‘Take it, Tom, and may it help to keep you honest.”

  “Ever the optimist, my father,” Margaret replies, tartly. “Perhaps he should have slipped you a golden angel or two, instead?”

  “You come to insult me, Margaret?” Cromwell says, smiling at the clever, unexpected, riposte. “I used to dangle you on my knee, when your father and I were dear friends. What do you want of me now?”

  “I want to try and save my father.”

  “A noble sentiment,” Thomas Cromwell responds. “Then that is simple, my dear. It is just a matter of his uttering a few words, with his fingers crossed behind his back, if need be. Tell him to do as lesser men do, and take the damned oath.”

  “He will not.” Margaret states this, as if it is an obvious, and unalterable fact of life.

  “You mean he cannot, because of his religious faith?” Thomas Cromwell says.

  “No.”

  “Then what?”

  “I cannot say.”

  “You talk in riddles, Meg!” Cromwell cannot help but admire the girl’s obvious courage, and wonders what game she is about. “Will he take the king’s great oath?”

  “No.”

  “Then he is condemned to death, as a traitor.”

  “How so?” Margaret asks. “For he has not given any reason why he refuses the oath.”

  “By God, who thought this little idea up?” Thomas Cromwell says.

  “It is my idea, sir.” Margaret does not flinch from his studious gaze, and he is forced to pull his eyes away from hers, first.

  “Of course. I always knew you were a clever one,” Cromwell tells her. “I see where you are going with this, my dear girl. The king will not condemn your father or, indeed, any man, without some proof. If a man refuses the oath, yet gives no reason, it can be supposed that a part of it offends him.”

  “Just so,” Margaret says. “But which part, pray tell?”

  “No sir, I will not answer to you,” Cromwell replies, playing his part in the little mummery. “It is simply that I will not take the oath. I will not answer any further.”

  “Then what do you object to?” Margaret asks, smiling.

  “I stand on what I say,” Cromwell tells her. “I will not take the oath, and I will not say why. The clever simplicity of it frightens me, girl.”

  “Will it work?” Margaret asks.

  “No. They will find a way around it, if they think hard enough.” Thomas Cromwell watches the flash of despair cross her face. “Though it will surely give his earliest inquisitors some pause for thought.”

  “Who will they use?” Margaret asks.

  “In the first instance, they will send Archbishop Cranmer, who is a dear old friend, along. He will speak with your father at Utopia, in a casual way, and try to get him to either take the royal oath, or condemn it. Though he will be as fair to your father as he can, it is in his best interest to appease both Henry, and his vengeful queen. Cranmer must be considered an enemy … though a benign one, who will not twist your father’s words.”

  “Archbishop Cranmer has visited Utopia, and eaten at our table many times,” Margaret says.

  “He will not hold that against your father,” Cromwell jests, and recalls how poor the fare is at Utopia, even in times of great bounty. “He is but the opening gambit, and Sir Thomas must not be drawn out of position. He must deflect any questions about the oath, and if pressed on the matter, shrug, and say it is not something he has yet thought of. You have to understand that the oath is yet to be made public knowledge. Have your father deny having even read it, officially.”

  “Yes, how can you possibly comment on something which you have not yet officially read?” Margaret Roper asks. “So, the old archbishop is gently rebuffed by us. He will go back and explain the situation. What next, Master Thomas?”

  “Anne will be furious, of course. The queen will push for the text to be made available to all, and have a copy hand delivered to Utopia,” Cromwell says. “That will take about a month. Then, he will be approached again. It could be by any of the clever young fellows we are surrounded by. They might send Richard Rich, who is a devious toad, Thomas Dacre, a man of no morals, or even our own Rafe Sadler. Whomsoever is chosen, he will be told to demand an answer to the king’s great question: Will your father take the oath?”

  “Then he will refuse.” Margaret wonders if she can get her father to remain silent over his reasons. “He will turn them aside, even if they come at him by the dozen.”

  “He must. They will try to trick him into some reply which, as lawyers do, can be twisted into a weapon against him. He must simply refuse the oath, without giving a single reason. That will eat away another couple of weeks … more if they send Rafe Sadler, who can be devilishly slow, in matters of law.” Thomas Cromwell explains. “Queen Anne will become more and more irate, and urge the king to much firmer action. He will, eventually, seek me out, as his best advisor, and ask for my advice.”

  “What will that be?”

  “Why, the same as what it was over Cardinal Wolsey, and what it was over his divorce,” the Privy Councillor says. “I shall preach caution, pointing out that the rest of Europe are waiting for him to become a bloody tyrant. Henry hates not being adored, and will listen to me, for a little while, at least. Queen Anne, however, will make his life more and more unbearable, until he demands action against all those who still refuse to take the oath.”

  “Is that when they shall come for him?” Margaret asks him.

  “The king will demand that I ‘do something’, and there will be nowhere to hide,” says Cromwell, with a twinkle in his eye. “I will inform His Majesty that your father should be arrested, on suspicion of treason. It is then that Sir Thomas might consider a deal.”

  “A deal?” Margaret is immediately suspicious. “What kind of a deal, Master Cromwell?”

  “You used to call me Uncle Thomas, as a small child, Meg,” Cromwell says to her.

  “I am wiser now, sir,” she replies. “What deal?”

  “First, they will ask him to swear the oath, but only in writing.”

  “Ha! Do they think him a fool?” Margaret asks. “Why, if he either swore, or refuted the oath in writing, he is lost. One way, he writes his own death warrant, and the other has him refute his faith, and put Henry above God the Almighty, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. He will not write a single word!”

  “Of course not.” Thomas Cromwell is calculating each stage in his head, and thinks that, by now, ten or twelve weeks have passed. “Once he refuses to speak his mind, they will take him from Chelsea, down river to the Tower of London. Then they will row him inside, through the Traitor’s Gate, and place him in a small, quite uncomfortable cell, with a high window, and a slatted wooden bed. On the way, they will let him pass the torture room, as if by chance, where the rack, and hot braziers are to be seen. Men have been known to break down and cry at this point.”

  “A wasted ploy,” Margaret Roper mutters.

  “Quite so, my dear. They will not be able to torture him,” Thomas Cromwell explains to her. “Henry cannot let the King of France, or the Holy Roman Emperor, think that so illustrious a man as your father is being broken on the rack. No, they will take away all of his books, yet leave him with as many writing materials as he wishes.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. I will order it to be so, in the hope that Sir Thomas commit’s the folly of writing
about his position, and his inability to take the oath. I am, after all, the king’s councillor, and Henry will expect me to do as much. Warn him of my duplicity, and tell him to write nothing contentious.”

  “Then my father languishes in a damp, cold cell?” Margaret Roper wonders how her frail, ageing father can stand up to such harsh treatment.

  “Not so damp, and not so very cold,” Thomas Cromwell replies. “Colonel Will Draper is a close friend to many who work in the Tower, and shall see to whatever creature comforts your father may ask for. By now, we will have gained, at least, three precious months.”

  “Gained?” Margaret is beginning to perceive a distant light of hope, and it is a torch, held aloft by Thomas Cromwell, and his Austin Friars young men. “You keep my father alive for three more months?”

  “Oh, no.” Thomas Cromwell pours a glass of wine, and offers Margaret some. She shakes her head. Her husband, William Roper is a staunch Roman Catholic… this week, at least … and he frowns on strong drink, outside of the Communion. “We have just started. The king will wish to appoint someone to destroy Sir Thomas, without any international fuss. He will try to give the task to me, and I will, regretfully, refuse him. As a man of the law, I must point out that the only man for the job … investigating the previous Lord Chancellor … is the current encumberant.”

  “Sir Thomas Audley?” Margaret Roper shakes her head in bewilderment. “The man does not have the wit, or the courage, to conduct such an important interrogation. Does this really suit our purpose, Master Thomas?”

  “Yes, dear Tom Audley,” says Cromwell. “I suggested him for the post, of course, and we are now the greatest of friends. He will see that the inquisition of your father is carried out in as gentle a manner as can be, and goes on for as long as possible. He will restrict the questioning to one hour a day, at my request, and ask questions I suggest to him. They will be designed to be deflected easily by your father.”