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

by Anne Stevens

  “Then we have saved him, for a few weeks longer.”

  “Precious, golden weeks, my dear Margaret,” Thomas Cromwell says. “In twelve, or fifteen weeks, almost anything can happen. Imagine if Queen Anne fell from grace, or that the king found his mislaid scruples, or regained his long lost courage? Under those circumstances, there might well be reprieves, or even pardons handed around. Putting heads on spikes is not the way to go about running a country.”

  “Then you know of something, do you not, Master Cromwell?” Margaret is hopeful, for the first time in months.

  “Only that those weeks give us all hope,” Thomas Cromwell replies, evasively. “Do not press me. Go to your father now, and urge him to keep silent on the matter of the king’s oath.”

  “He will not listen to me,” Margaret says. “That is the main reason I come to you as I do.”

  “Ah, I see.” Thomas Cromwell smiles, and shakes his head at his own gullibility. “You want more than a short audience, my dear. You want me to convince your father for you. I cannot. I will be watched, every step of the way.”

  “Perhaps, but no one watches your nephew, Richard, or your cook, or your…”

  “Enough!” Cromwell is beaten by the cleverness of a woman, and his love for an old friend. Rafe, and Margaret, will have him disguised as a servant, and smuggled into Utopia in the blink of an eye. “I refuse to impersonate Richard… for he is much bigger than I, and my cook has no reason to go to Utopia.”

  “Master Oakley visits us once a fortnight, with a gift of food, authorised by yourself, sir,” Margaret says. “You need only pull down a cap, and swathe yourself in his clothes. A basket of pies and bread, and a jug of ale, will complete the mummery!”

  “God’s teeth,” Thomas Cromwell mutters. “Even then, should I escape my watchers, and arrive, safely, at Utopia, your father will refuse to see me. Since I drew up the laws to help the king re-marry, we have not exchanged a single civil word.”

  “No, but you have fed us, out of your own pocket,” Margaret Roper reminds him. “Rafe explained about the deliveries of firewood in the winter months, the odd cask of ale, and the loaves of bread. I also know that Miriam Draper, who is a Jewess, is most Christian of all. She sends pies, and fresh caught fish, twice a week. Her fellow says that they are surplus, and would be thrown away, as Miriam only sells the freshest products.”

  “She, like you, has an answer for everything,” Cromwell says. “Miriam can afford such gifts, as can I.”

  “Then it is time my father stopped being so arrogant,” the young woman says. “He never asks where our generous bounty comes from, but surely he suspects. It is only fair that he grants you an audience.”

  “Your father might see it otherwise, and have me thrown out,” the Privy Councillor replies. “He can be so … stiff necked.”

  “I am relying on his curiosity,” Margaret says. “He will wish to know why you aid us… and mere charity is not an answer for it. You must give him a reason for your generosity. Then you can broach the subject of the oath. That is when he might throw you out.”

  “Perhaps I should send Mistress Miriam to plead my case,” Cromwell jests. “She might fare better than I fear I will.”

  “I thought of that,” Margaret says, “but she is travelling.”

  “Yes, she is abroad,” Cromwell replies. He does not like the idea of Miriam, who is only several months from giving birth again, trying to deal with wily French merchants. “She has been offered a deal that seems far too good to miss.”

  “Then let us hope my father thinks what you have to say is also ‘too good to miss’, sir!”

  2 Comings and Goings

  The sturdy cog is under full sail, almost as soon as she clears Dover’s deep harbour. Miriam has been on board since arriving with a cargo of wool from Sudbury. Once the captain secures his precious load, they navigate their way up the coast, before turning out into the gently heaving Channel. It is a fine day, and the crew expect a smooth, uneventful crossing.

  “Your first trip to Calais, Mistress Draper?” Jake Timmins, the ship’s master asks. He still finds it difficult to understand how a mere girl can own a fleet of cogs, and run a successful trading business, but he likes her, and enjoys being one of her ships masters.

  “My first trip abroad,” Miriam replies. This is not strictly true, as her father and mother brought her to England from Spain, almost twenty years before. Her parents, long deceased, were of the Jewish Mordecai family, but it does not do to boast of such a connection in London. Jews are hated in England, and they are banned from living in Henry’s realm, on pain of death. So, she and her brother Moshe, known by all within Austin Friars as Mush, pretend to be English born. It is a fiction supported by legal documents ‘uncovered’ by Thomas Cromwell, and certified as real.

  “Calais is a filthy hole,” the captain tells her. “Will you have someone to protect you, once we land?”

  “Master Cromwell has kindly asked for his agent in Calais to meet me,” Miriam informs him. “Once you land me, I have arranged for some passengers to join you, for the return journey. A Spanish doctor and his family. See they are as comfortable as you can manage, and do not let the crew meddle with them.”

  “I run a tight cog, mistress,” Jake Timmins tells her. “My crew know what I will do to any who disobey. This is the best run boat in your fleet, madam.”

  Miriam smiles. That she has enough cogs to warrant them being called a ‘fleet’ pleases her. Twelve cobs, and two sea going ships is not something to be sneezed at. If this new business deal works out, she will become an agent for a powerful group of wine growing families in Portugal, and Northern Spain, and the Draper fortune will swell to marvellous proportions.

  “ I have no complaints, Master Jake,” she replies. “You have the lowest spillage of all my captains, and I trust your excellent mariner’s skills. I will be three days over my business, and will be ready to re-cross the Channel on this coming Saturday.”

  “Tides willing, mistress,” Jake says. “How is your stomach?”

  “Full, and ready to bring forth more fruit,” she says. “Or do you mean something else, sir?”

  “Oh, I have seen many a sturdy fellow throwing up his dinner, mistress,” the captain replies. “I wonder only if your condition causes you to feel any sicker?”

  “Not at all, captain,” Miriam tells him, as she takes in a great breath of fresh, salty sea air. “I must have good sea legs.”

  “Then will you share our food?” Jake Timmins asks. “You are welcome to a slice off our roast.”

  “Thank you, but no,” Miriam replies. “I will wait until we are in Calais, and Cromwell’s agent comes for me.”

  “Any reports?” Will Draper asks, as he comes into the bare stone room he has requisitioned from the Keeper of the Tower. It is little more than ten feet by twelve, and contains a desk, two old chairs flanking the fireplace, and a chest for papers. Captain John Beckshaw looks up from the paperwork in front of him, and jumps to attention. Draper waves him back into his seat, and wonders when the young Yorkshireman will cease being so deferential towards him.

  “Nothing of note, sir,” the young man replies. “I have made arrangements for the Spanish doctor and his family to be sent on to Exeter. I also have documents, sent from Austin Friars, which show them to be from Toledo. It is a strange business sir. Why should we be confirming these people are …”

  “Yes, captain?”

  “Nothing, sir.” John Beckshaw is slow to realise, but sees now that it is another Jewish family who are being resettled by Miriam Draper. He has no evil in his heart for Jews, and actually admires Will Draper’s wife. “Forget I spoke.”

  “Very well. Then we have no other business?”

  “Nothing from the king, sir,” Beckshaw replies, “but I have a rather strange letter from someone claiming to be the Sheriff of Hertfordshire.”

  “Oh, does the fellow have a name?”

  “Sir Walter Beasley. He claims to be a long st
anding friend of yours, sir.” John Beckshaw holds out the letter.

  “That is putting it strongly,” Will replies. “Sir Walter used to be an Under Sherriff of St. Albans. Our paths crossed a couple of times, and I was able to secure him a promotion. Sherriff of Hertfordshire now, is he… I wonder what he wants?”

  “Help. It seems he did you a favour, and hopes you will remember him with kindness.”

  “I owe him nothing,” Will protests. “The fellow presumes too much.”

  “He is beset by a monster,” John Beckwith says. “Though he does not specify what kind.”

  “Oh, there are many different kinds then?” Will smiles at the credulity of his young recruit, who he has made a King’s Examiner, and raised to the rank of Captain of Horse.

  “Why yes,” Beckshaw replies, solemnly. “There are great wolves in the far northern reaches, bears, both black and white kinds, huge snakes, and tusked pigs. Then there are the kind who infest the seas. There are behemoths of the deep, and fish with daggers for noses, and things with many tentacles, I am told. Finally, there are the beasts that are conjured up from the bottom of a wine bottle. Sir Walter appears to be suffering from the latter.”

  Will Draper peruses the letter, and frowns. Sir Walter, a gruff, no nonsense sort of a man, in his late fifties, lacks anything like an imagination, yet he writes about ‘creatures with burning coals for eyes’, that slither through the forest, and devour anything that crosses their paths. The closing lines speak of a local man, ripped apart, as if by a huge beast.

  “Whatever the cause, Sir Walter mentions a man who has been killed, in a most hideous way.” Will considers his options. The Sherriff of Hertfordshire has no influence in the royal court, and there is no possibility of profit from such a case, but letting young John Beckshaw investigate will be good practice. “Stories about monsters unsettle people, and can disturb the king’s peace.”

  “Then we will investigate?” John’s face lights up at the prospect of action.

  “I think we must,” Will says. He has nothing to keep him home, with Miriam away, and such a diversion might prove entertaining. “The king leaves these things to my discretion. Have two horses made ready, and draw enough supplies for five days. We will set off at once.”

  “Shall I reply to Sir Walter?”

  “There is no point,” Will says. “Even if we use a royal messenger, he will only forewarn the Sherriff by a few hours. No, let our involvement be a surprise for all concerned. It is strange how news of our coming often makes people become tight lipped.”

  “What about arms, sir?” John asks. Will sees that the young man is perfectly serious.

  “Well, I do hear of seamen, hunting great whales, with barbed spears,” he says, suppressing the need to grin. “Or we might prevail on the Keeper of the Tower to loan us a pair of canon from the ramparts.”

  “We would need at least a dozen horses to pull … ah, you jest, sir.” John blushes. He is yet to grow used to his commander’s quirksome humour, and often finds himself the butt of gentle jokes by the Austin Friars young men. “My slow Yorkshire wit fails me again, I fear.”

  “It does well enough for me, John,” Will replies, trying to make light of the young fallow’s dour nature. “I am coming with you, purely so that I might watch how you proceed. This investigation is yours.”

  “Really?” John says, a little surprised. “Then I shall have the shire horses made ready, and arrange for the canon.”

  “No, I meant…” Will tumbles into the trap, and shakes his head at his own stupidity. “Well played, John. I walked into that, did I not?”

  “My humour seems to grow apace with my rank,” John says, smirking. “Perhaps swords, and a couple of pistols will suffice, after all?”

  Mary Boleyn is tired of life in the depths of Sussex, and yearns to have news from the royal court. It is months since her sister has banished her, and she spends her days running the small house, and few acres of farmland given her by a reluctant, and parsimonious king.

  “Jem Potter, have you fed the pigs?”

  “Nah, mistress.”

  “Why not?”

  “Du nah, mistress.” the dolt replies. The servants are the laziest people she has ever come across, and they know that, with no master on the land, they can get away with whatever they please. “It don’t seem long since last yah asked me.”

  “And did you do it then?”

  “Nah, mistress.” The fellow ambles off, intent on catching the milk maid in the barn. Lady Mary Boleyn might be important in London, but that is a world away, and if she was held in such good stead, why has she now been banished to a tiny village on the high Sussex weald?

  Mary stands, trembling with impotent rage, and wonders how she is ever to get through the next few months. The land is left untended, and the livestock are seldom looked after as they should be. She lives in a state of chaos, and does not know how to cope from one day to the next. She can feel the tears welling up in her eyes, when a horseman comes into view. He is still a half mile distant, when she recognises the familiar shape, and almost cries out in joy.

  Mush Draper has been riding most of the morning, and, after several wrong turns, he has found his destination. He slows the horse to a canter, and waves at the small figure in the distance. She begins to jump up and down, and wave her arms at him. He reigns in his mount, and slips from the saddle. Mary is in his arms before he can draw breath.

  “Mush!” She crushes into him, and pushes her lips against his, with frantic longing. “You have come, at last. What took you so long to seek me out?”

  “They would not tell me where you were sent,” Mush replies, truthfully. “Then I overheard the Duke of Norfolk talking to that wastrel of a son of his. The boy was complaining that you were on his land. That narrowed it down a little, to Surrey, and half of Sussex. I got the lad into a drinking bout, and he told all, before passing out. So, here I am.”

  “Yes, so you are.”

  “Who be this?” Jem Potter, the steward, appears from the direction of the milking shed. “There ain’t enough food to feed another mouth.”

  Mush smiles at Mary, and perceives, at once, that she is the butt of a bully, who thinks himself the cock of his own small dung heap. He bows to her, as if in court.

  “With your permission, My Lady,” he says. “The king, and his queen, your sister, sends their warmest regards, and ask that I assure myself of your wellbeing. You, fellow… what are you here?”

  “Steward.”

  “Sir … or master.” Will steps close up to the big, brute of a man, and stares up into his pig-like eyes.

  “What?”

  “What … sir!” Mush hardly moves. A slight inclination of the head, and the man staggers back, holding the bridge of his nose.

  “Ugh!” he grunts. “You bastard!”

  “Oh, dear,” Mush says to the man. “Manners, I fear, must be taught.” He gives Jem Potter a sharp, back handed slap with his leather gloved hand. “When your better is present, you say ‘sir’, ‘mistress’, or ‘master’. Clear?”

  “Why, you dirty…” The steward reels back from two more slaps. “I’ll have the Sherriff on you!” Mush hits the man, hard, in the stomach, and he doubles up in agony.

  “One more word, and I will gut you like a fish, Master Dog,” Mush snaps. “Now, you have my permission to get off this land. The Earl of Surrey deeded it to me after a game of cards, last evening, and I am the master here.”

  The big oaf cannot believe what he hears, but is too scared to refute what the olive skinned young man is saying. He bows, and begs the master’s pardon.

  “I bin’ at the cider too much, sir,” he grovels. “Dunno wha’ cum over me.”

  “A bucket of slop, if you are not off my land, at once. Or would you rather argue?”

  The big man backs off, then turns and starts running. He makes for the ramshackle barn, and grabs up a long handled pitchfork. He returns, waving it at Mush, who simply draws his sword, and prepares to m
eet an attack.

  “You can’t throw me off of here,” Potter growls. “I got my rights.”

  “You have raised your hand against the lawful master of this land,” Mush says, coldly. “The choice is clear. Either fight, or hang.”

  “Hang?” Jem Potter falters. It is beginning to dawn on him that he has overstepped the bounds, once to often. “You didn’t say about no hangin’ … master. I jus’ wanted my rights.”

  “You have the right to live… if you drop the fork, and run, now.” Mush steps forward, and points the sword at the cowering bully. “Come back, and I will have the Sherriff hang you from the nearest tree.”

  The man drops the pitchfork, and runs. This time, he heads across the cow pasture, towards the nearest village, where he will spend what few copper pennies he has getting roaring drunk. In the morning, he will understand what he has lost, and move on, in the hope of finding another position.

  “Thank you, kind sir,” Mary says, curtseying to him.

  “I will find you a decent, new steward, tomorrow,” Mush tells her. “Are the other servants capable?”

  “The milk maid is a slut, and the two field hands feared Potter too much to say anything against him.”

  “Then they may stay,” Mush says. “I have Surrey’s paper, and will sign the land over to you, as soon as I can find a sober enough magistrate. I will arrange for you to have a reasonable pension, until the place is making enough money.”

  “And in return?” Lady Mary Boleyn asks. Mush is ten years her junior, yet is treating her as a father would his daughter.

  “A bed for the night?”

  “There is but one in the main house, sir.”

  “That is inconvenient,” Mush replies. “Though I am sure we can come to some, mutually beneficial accommodation.”

  “You are a wag, sir,” Mary says, smiling. She has not been happy for months, and Mush’s arrival seems to bode well for her immediate future. “Perhaps, if we squeeze in, closely…?”

  “Ahoy, aboard!” The tall young man hails from the dockside, and starts up the narrow gangplank. “I come for Mistress Draper.”