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

by Anne Stevens

  “See what I mean, Mush? She mutters through the rolling tears. “You never look back!”

  Miriam is blindfolded and gagged, and someone, a strong man, drags her across a wooden floor, to a chair. He pushes her down, until she sits, then removes the cloth from her eyes, only to tie it across her mouth instead. She blinks in the dim, candle light, and tries to identify her captor. He is as big as Richard Cromwell, has a shaved head, and the expression of someone who is little more than a simpleton.

  “You may look,” a voice says, from the gloom, but I will not tolerate your petty mewling. Nod if you promise to remain silent, unless you have something important to say.”

  “Why am I here?” Miriam asks the question, as soon as the big fellow removes the gag. There is nothing but silence. “When they realise I have been taken, you will be hunted down, and punished. Let me go now, and spare yourself the gibbet, or the headsman’s axe!”

  “Let them hunt,” the voice replies.

  “I am with child,” Miriam says.

  “That is more of a factor in my favour,” the hidden voice tells her. “It will add a little salt to the meat. How much does your husband love you, Mistress Miriam Draper? A thousand Ducats, or ten thousand?”

  “We are not rich.”

  “You lie. You own a dozen boats, a warehouse, and enough market stalls and shops, to sell all your trade goods.” The voice sounds as if he is reading from a prepared document. “I am told that a ransom of fifty thousand golden Ducats is not a problem.”

  “My husband will pay,” Miriam says. “Though it will take a little while.”

  “He has a week, then I shall have Hugo here snap off a finger of yours, and sent it to him,” the voice explains. “Each delay will result in a further mutilation. After a month, there will be no more fingers, and we will start with your toes.”

  “He will pay, without delay,” Miriam bargains, “but it is I who am in charge of the finances.”

  “Poor Colonel Will.” The man steps out into the light, and Miriam is disappointed that she does not recognise him. He is tall, and has the air of a soldier about him. “How comes he to be a man of such high rank? Did he buy it, with his woman’s money, or did he spin enough lies to make himself into a hero?”

  “He is the King of England’s Examiner, and the rank goes with the gravity of the position,” Miriam replies. She refuses to be baited by her captors, and will defend her husband’s honour to her last breath. “Soon, he will be investigating you, sire, and coming to some conclusions.”

  “His wife leaves a cog in Calais harbour, and vanishes from sight,” the man says. “My agent is not known in the town, and is already safe in Flanders. He can search Calais from top to bottom, and shall find no sign of his lovely wife. Let him ask, or set a reward, if he will, but he will find no trail to follow … save the one I set for him.”

  “Why not name your price, and be damned with it,” Miriam spits. “He will pay good gold for my safe return.”

  “Gold?” Her captor laughs out loud. “Is that how your people see the world … Mistress ben Mordecai? Do you sit around, counting your money, and thinking that you own men’s souls?”

  “You dislike Jews?” Miriam asks. It might be that she is taken for another reason … rather than for ransom. “Do you wish me harm?”

  “No, and yes,” the man replies. “No, I do not dislike Christ Killers, I loathe them, and yes, I most certainly do wish you harm. I want to see you crawling on the floor, begging the pain to stop, with your husband on his knees, with my knife at his throat.”

  “Thirty thousand golden Ducats.”

  “The money means nothing.”

  “Sixty thousand.” Miriam says, softly. Hugo, the giant guard makes a funny sucking noise with his teeth, and glances across at his master.

  “Sixty thousand Ducats, Master Baglioni,” the man says. “It will pay for a new…”

  “Shut up, Hugo,” the man snarls. “We will have every piece of gold Draper possesses, and we will have even better than that. We will have him, his gold, and his wife.”

  “But the gold…”

  “Enough!” Baglioni touches a hand to the hilt of his sword, and starts pacing the room. “Did you leave the message, as I instructed?”

  “Yes, master,” Hugo replies. “It shall be delivered to the Warden of the Fortress, by one who does not know what he does.”

  “Like you, Hugo,” Baglioni says. “Each fragile link will lure your husband closer to me. First, he must leave the safety of England, then he must forsake the high walls of Calais. Once he is outside your king’s realm, we are on equal terms.”

  “You mean to kill him, and me,” Miriam says. “The name Baglioni, means something to me. My husband often tells the tale of how he destroyed the power of the condottiero, and saved Venice from being sacked. You are a Baglioni, are you not?”

  “I am.” the swarthy looking man admits. “I am Angelo Baglioni, a cousin of the greatest condottiero in Italy. In time, I was to become one of his most trusted tenentes, and form my own condottiere. We would have conquered the whole of Italy, and made it into a mighty empire.”

  “My husband called Malatesta Baglioni ‘a clever bandit’, and often boasts of how easily he was brought down.”

  “Murdered.”

  “What?”

  “Murdered, by your husband’s mistress, a young, very beautiful courtesan, called Pippa Micheletto,” Angelo Baglioni tells her. “Did he not mention that part of the heroic tale to you then, Mistress Miriam? He took her as his whore, and she killed my brother to please him.”

  “You are a liar!” Miriam’s conviction comes from the strength of her love for Will, and the assurance, from her brother, that her husband was the only man in Venice who resisted the charms of the attractive Italian courtesans.

  “Then why do you not know her name?” Baglioni asks, sensing another way to hurt the family he is sworn to destroy. She wonders at the girl’s omission from the story, when it would be a simple matter to name her, and jest about how all the lads fancied her. “Is someone keeping secrets from you, poor Miriam?”

  “My husband is faithful,” Miriam states. “He is a man of his word, and when he finds out about this, he will swear to kill you. It is a simple fact, Angelo Baglioni. Will Draper will come for me, and kill any man who stands in his path!”

  “I hate boats,” Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk explains, between bouts of retching over the side of the little cog. “Why cannot they build a bridge across this troublesome sea, so that we might ride in comfort?”

  “The wind is too strong, and there is not enough stone and timber in England,” Tom Wyatt replies, nonchalantly. “That is why they are going to build a tunnel underground.”

  “What?” says Suffolk. “A tunnel, between England and France? I have heard nothing about such a grand scheme.”

  “Of course not,” Barnaby Fowler puts in. It is a wonderful jest, and he can see great merriment in so ridiculous an idea. “The lawyers are still trying to buy up the coast in Suffolk, and France, before the price of land goes too high.”

  “Suffolk is mine!” Brandon says.

  “Exactly,” Tom Wyatt tells his friend. “Your sandy coast is worth but a pound an acre, but the moment they wish to build a tunnel from France, they need a place to come up. Good coastal land will be fetching a thousand pounds an acre!”

  “Dear Christ!” Suffolk realises that he shall soon be a rich man. “They must buy my land then.”

  “No, friend,” Richard Cromwell says, picking up on the jest at last. “Set up a toll at the tunnel mouth, and charge every wagon five shillings, and every man, woman and child a florin, to use the gateway to England. You might even charge the Frogs a little more. Why, inside a year, you would be as rich as Uncle Thomas.”

  “Who is running this venture?” Suffolk asks. “Be it us, or the French?”

  “Neither,” Tom Wyatt explains. “For the part in the middle belongs to King Neptune, and he has his own ideas
!” The small company can restrain themselves no longer, and burst into laughter.

  “Blast your poet’s eyes, Tom Wyatt,” Charles Brandon curses. “How can you jest about such an important thing? Why, someone should dig a tunnel… for it would save me getting sick every time!”

  “Damn, but I wish Will was with us,” Mush curses. “How could he go off, and not leave word of his whereabouts?”

  “Doctor Theophrasus will track him down,” Richard Cromwell tells them. “He has the use of all our agents, and will have Will in Calais, the moment he is found.”

  “What manner of beast is it that can rip a man’s head off so cleanly?” John Beckshaw asks, as he studies the dismembered remains of the Burgess, Gabriel Haddow. Will Draper shrugs his shoulders. The colonel is standing back from the rough wooden table that has been set up in the castle, where Sir Walter has his office. “See the body, where the claw marks are evenly spaced here, and more ragged here. It is not the work of a wolf, or even a bear, master.”

  “My name is Will. You must begin to call me by my given name, John. It will make for a better working relationship. I agree that it is not a wolf, and we have not seen bears in this part of these islands for two, or three hundred years.”

  “Then what?”

  “You are in charge, John,” Will Draper reminds the younger man. “Think back to Skipton, when the mad Irish priest was fomenting rebellion against the crown. You thought matters through, and came to a well reasoned decision. This is no different. Take all that you know, and separate it into two: that which you actually know, and that which you think you know.”

  “You confuse me, sir… I mean, Will.” John Beckshaw is a decently educated country fellow, who just needs his mind sharpening in the ways of investigation, and the art of smelling out lies.

  “When you wake up in the morning, you know it is day, but you do not know it is a good day, until you open the window and establish the facts.” Will tries to make it as simple as he can for his new recruit. “It is not enough to think the sun is shining, John, you must look up, and see it hanging in the sky.”

  “Then I must take nothing on trust?” the Yorkshireman asks.

  “Unless you have no other choice,” Will says, smiling. “If the king says it is raining frogs outside … we have no option, but to accept his word. Otherwise, doubt everything, until it can be proven, or discarded.”

  “What of gossip?” John asks. He has been in the town, and about the taverns in cognito, and has heard enough tittle tattle to fill a bible.

  “The same applies,” Will replies. “Listen, and sift out the useful parts. Sometimes, two casually uttered phrases, from different sources, will corroborate that which you suspect. Enough drips of gossip can turn into a lake of truth. The important thing is… think!”

  “What about any talk of unnatural things?” John asks his comrade. “I know you sneer at monsters, and evil spirits, but what of witches?”

  “Hush, John, that is a dangerous word.” Will Draper has had dealings with Irish witches, banshees, and talk of spirits before, and knows how frightened the locals can become. Many an innocent woman has burnt for her odd way of looking. “Witchcraft is apt to cause panic amongst those less educated than we.”

  “Not here,” John explains. “Prudence Wells lives in the town, and she is well thought of, as a healer, and a foreteller of things not yet happened. I spoke to her.”

  “Did you now?” The King’s Examiner can tell from John’s slight blush that she is not the usual wizened old hag of folklore. “Is she old … or young?”

  “In her twenties, I would guess,” says John. “She came to me, and said that I would find that which I seek. No one knew I was with you, and I was shaken. Then she said a funny thing.”

  “What?”

  “She said ‘an angel has gone before a prophet’, and sat by my side.”

  “Lucky boy,” Will Draper says. “Anything else?”

  “Yes, she spoke of you. She said, ‘there is another man with you … and he must know that what was here is now there, and shall not come back here, until Hell freezes over.’ It scared me, and no mistake.”

  “Cleverly phrased words,” Will says. “They can be interpreted in a dozen ways, to suit her needs afterwards. Unless she can give you some hard facts, have nothing more to do with the woman, John ... No matter how pretty she is!”

  At that moment Sir Walter Beasley erupts into their presence, leading Timothy Stay, a tired looking Austin Friars messenger by the elbow. The Sheriff is red faced, as if he has run all the way from London himself. He pushes the bedraggled fellow towards Will Draper, like a sacrificial offering.

  “Tell the colonel, you damned fool!” Sir Walter demands. “The oaf has been riding all about the town, asking after you, Will, instead of coming to the proper authorities. I found him just now, about to ride on to St. Albans!”

  “You have a message for me, lad?” Will asks. The young man nods, and takes a deep breath. It is memorised, and he has been warned to deliver it, word for word.

  “From the Greek doctor, Master Will,” he says. “He bids me say: Come at once. Mistress Miriam is further abroad than we wish, and your attendance is urgently needed.”

  “This does not bode well,” Will says, glancing at Sir Walter, who has no idea what the message may mean. “I must return to London at once, John. You shall remain here, and conclude the investigation.”

  “Who would dare?” John asks. He understands the cryptic spoken message to mean Miriam is held abroad, and cannot understand how anyone could benefit from such an act. “Is it for money?”

  “That is for me to find out,” Will Draper says. The message tells him what he needs to know, and the details are for him to uncover later. For the time being, he must reach London, speak with Thomas Cromwell and Adolphus Theophrasus, and make his plans.

  “But Will,” John Beckshaw says, white faced. “Is not that what Mistress Prudence foretold to me? Miriam was here, and is now there … and may not return, until Hell freezes over!”

  “Ah, you have met Pru Wells?” Sir Walter Beasley says, oblivious of the sudden shift in the chain of events. “She foretells happenings with the most amazing success, and is a damned pretty wench, what?”

  4 The Searchers

  “Every single, stinking hovel in Calais has been searched,” Richard Cromwell says, as he throws himself down onto a long bench. “Bring me ale, girl.”

  “Then we must widen our range, and seek my sister in the outer Calaisis area,” Mush replies. “There must be many hiding holes in the Calais hinterland. Will may arrive on the very next tide, and I cannot tell him we have found nothing out.”

  “We cannot invent anything,” Suffolk says. “Colonel Draper must know nothing else can be done, until we receive a ransom demand.”

  “Three days, and two nights have passed, without a word,” says Barnaby Fowler, dourly. He is a practical, hard headed lawyer, and speaks as he thinks. “Any ransom demand would, surely, have been delivered by now. The Warden of the Fortress is holding enough of Master Cromwell’s gold to buy Calais, twice over, but no-one yet asks for it. I am beginning to get a bad feeling about this whole business.”

  “My sister is alive,” Mush snaps.

  “I suggest nothing otherwise, Mush,” Barnaby replies. “My thinking is that the abductors have Miriam for other reasons. Do not jump to the wrong conclusion, my friend, I merely say that they do not want our English gold.”

  “Then what, in Hell’s name, are they after?” Charles Brandon, the Duke of Suffolk asks. He is in constant, chronic debt, and cannot think of anything more important than gold.

  “What if they have taken the wrong woman?” Richard Cromwell says, from behind a huge mug of strong ale.

  “The wrong Miriam Draper?” Mush asks. “How many rich women named Miriam, married to men called Draper do you think there are in Calais?”

  “Not many, granted,” Richard admits. “I only meant that they mistook her for another woman a
ltogether.”

  “Then why not release her… or cut her throat, and dump the body?” Barnaby Fowler asks. He sees Mush’s discomfort at the thought, and reassures him, again, that Miriam is alive. “The abductor asked for your sister by name, my friend. There is no mistaken identity here. Whomsoever has taken her wants something from one of us. Either they seek to force Master Cromwell into a certain course of action, or they want Will to pay the price.”

  “They must know how strong we are,” Mush offers. “Why, we can put a hundred men on their trail. We have agents across France, Flanders, and all of the Holy Roman territories. There is nowhere for them to hide, for any length of time.”

  “Peace, friend,” Suffolk advises. “We must do as Will Draper does. Think it through. Though I am not as good at it as he, I must confess. If they do not want money…”

  “Then they want something else,” Tom Wyatt says, as he strolls into the low tavern. “They want attention. They wish the might of Austin Friars to be directed here. They want Master Cromwell worried, and Will Draper frightened for the life of his sweet wife. They want everything they hate to be in one place, so that they might destroy it. There, is that clear enough reasoning, my friends?”

  “Then it is not an enemy of Will’s, but of us all?” Suffolk asks. “I do not understand. What have I to do with these mysterious foes, Wyatt?”

  “Nothing,” the poet replies. “You chose to involve yourself, if only to recompense Thomas Cromwell for your previous poor behaviour, and so, you have become one with us. All that remains is to puzzle out who wants us hurt, or even destroyed.”

  “Pope Clement?” Richard Cromwell asks, and the others all laugh aloud. The Roman Catholic church’s supreme head on Earth is a dissolute old scoundrel, who has the most complete lack of morals anyone could imagine. He is interested in wealth and debauchery, not revenge. Besides, how has Thomas Cromwell ever really hurt him, other than in some ephemeral, political, way?

  “Clement is a worthless arse,” Tom Wyatt says, “but he would never stoop to kidnap. His cardinals might, I suppose, but which one of them could be bothered, and for what possible reason?”