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

by Anne Stevens

  “What about an ally of Sir Thomas More?” Mush voices what is but a mild suspicion in his mind.

  “Too honest,” Charles Brandon replies. The Duke of Suffolk speaks with the conviction of a dissolute waster, who understands other men’s morals, even if he cannot abide by them. He shakes his head. “Why, he would have to pray for a year if he ever thought of such a wicked thing. besides, he does love Cromwell, almost like a brother, despite everything. Nor would the fellow strike in Calais. His power, or what remains, lies in London, and the Low Countries.”

  “Then we are looking for a foreign hand?” Barnaby Fowler says, then realises that they are going over the same old ground, yet again. “Some powerful rogue, who does not yet know to fear our power… and … but, of course, why did I not think of the damned fellow sooner … Anton Fugger!”

  “What?” Suffolk has never had any dealings with foreign bankers, and has not heard of the rich Germanic financier.

  “Anton Fugger,” Barnaby repeats. “He is very rich, and the master humiliated him once. We stole a wagon load of treasure from him, when he sought to forge English money, and ruin our economy.”

  “The banker most certainly has the man power,” Richard Cromwell agrees. “He sent mercenaries against us in East Anglia, and has the wealth of a hundred Spanish gold mines in the New World to draw against.”

  “Is he the sort of man who would seek such a winding path to revenge?” Tom Wyatt asks. “Surely, he is more the sort of fellow who will pay a gang to set upon his foe, and hack him down.”

  “True, but he must remain a consideration,” Barnaby insists. “Men will behave in odd ways, if they feel their honour has been slighted, or they have been made to look foolish, and Fugger was the laughing stock of the Holy Roman Empire, after we finished our dealings with him.”

  “Is he an old man?” Suffolk asks. In his mind, all bankers are miserly and old. They huddle over counters, and stack neat piles of silver coins all day long.

  “Not at all,” Barnaby Fowler responds. “Why, I doubt he is much above forty. He loaned money to Emperor Charles, against the prospects of gold in the Americas, and struck lucky. The wealth of Peru, and the Caribbean Islands flows into his coffers. It is said that he will choose the next pope, and has enough influence over the emperor to dictate his foreign policy.”

  “He sounds like our own, dear, Cromwell.” Suffolk sees his remark is not well taken, and decides to keep his mouth closed for the time being. He understands that he is not a member of their exclusive band, and that he is there only on sufferance.

  “Uncle Thomas has the measure of Fugger,” Richard tells them. “He knows how easily we can get at him, should the need arise.”

  “Ah, then the dagger story is true?” Tom Wyatt asks. He is a collector of gossip, and is not adverse to weaving what he hears into his more risqué poetry. “I thought it a silly tale, put about to frighten little children.”

  “Not children,” Mush replies. “The story goes that Fugger went to bed, in one of his many castles, surrounded by a small army of bodyguards, sworn to keep him safe. He awoke, to find a dagger driven into the top of a nearby table. ‘See,’ said the message, ‘we can reach you, no matter where you may be’, and the shock almost killed Fugger. Or so they say.”

  “Then the man would be a fool to kidnap one of our people,” Barnaby Fowler says. “Perhaps we are trying to be too clever. What if it is just some rogue, who saw a chance to grab off a pretty girl.”

  “How did he know to present himself as Cromwell’s agent?” says Mush. “No, this smacks of a well planned business. They took Miriam to get at … whom? Apart from Cromwell, and Will Draper, who else would care?”

  “You,” Tom Wyatt offers. “Could it be you, Mush, who he seeks to punish? What if you have hurt someone on your travels, and they have decided to revenge themselves on you now?”

  “Am I that important?” Mush is aghast at the thought. His only recent visit to the continent was his disastrous decision to journey to the Holy Land. He was no more than half way across France, when his beloved wife, Gwen was stricken with some sudden illness. Within days, his wife was dead, and Mush was on his way back, broken hearted. “I met no one on my trip across France. Nor, to my certain knowledge, did I offer offence to any person going. I was in no fit state, coming back, to hurt any living soul.”

  “We all still grieve for her,” Richard says, sincerely. “My father was Welsh, as you well know, Mush, and Gwen and I would gossip for hours, in our mother tongue.”

  “It is not I they want,” Mush insists. “I spent my early childhood in Spain, and then England, these last few years. Apart from that I … sweet God … I went to Venice. How could I overlook such a thing?”

  “We had a good time there,” Richard replies, with a rueful smile. “Tom Wyatt spent his time with the Pope’s pretty whores, whilst we had to fight off half of Italy.”

  “I stood with you at the final battle,” Wyatt complains. “I still do not understand how we overcame such odds. Their condottiero was too rash. Had he hung back, and outflanked us, he would have won the day.”

  “Instead, he ended up as our prisoner,” Mush says.

  “He would make a strong suspect,” Barnaby Fowler tells them, “had he not died in such a horrible way. Will Draper was actually talking to him, when a courtesan gave him poison to drink.”

  “Not so,” Mush replies, as he recalls the aftermath of the fight, near Perugia. “Her name was Pippa Micheletto, and she was not some expensive whore. Her father was a spy for the Doge of Venice. Her family were murdered, right before her eyes, by Malatesta Baglioni.”

  “A pretty young thing,” Richard murmurs. “Baglioni saved her, for his own amusement, but she escaped, and came to warn us.”

  “Yes, with that strange priest,” Mush says. “He held a cross in one hand, and a double edged axe in the other. The men followed him into battle, as if he were a saint.”

  “Father Geraldo,” Tom Wyatt confirms. “Though he was not as he seemed. He was a soldier, once, and was intent on raising an army of faithful priests, to take Christianity to the New World. His real name was Ignatius… something or other.”

  “Father Ignatius Loyola, my son.” The poet swings about on his stool, and peers into the darkness of the next booth. A tough looking set of eyes gleam back at him. Then the man who has spoken leans forward, into the light of the single candle on his table.

  “You!” Wyatt stands, and almost crosses himself. “Where, in Hell’s name did you spring from?”

  “May I join you?” Ignatius Loyola stands, and comes around, into their private booth. Barnaby Fowler notes the gleam of a lethal looking dagger at the priest’s rope belt. He is dressed in a black smock, and has leather sandals on his feet.

  “Gentlemen,” the poet says, gesturing to the middle aged priest. “Father Ignatius Loyola, late of Italy. You know Richard Cromwell, and Mush Draper, I recall, and this is Master Fowler, our lawyer, and Charles Brandon, our very own Earl of Suffolk. Now, I repeat… what are you doing here?”

  “Trying to right a terrible wrong,” Loyola says. His voice is sonorous, and seems to reach right into a man’s soul. “It has been a long journey, and I have come close to stopping all of this twice, but Baglioni is a wily devil, and has evaded me, each time. Now, he is on his guard, and his men seek me out. I have become the hunted, my friends, just as all of you, and Will Draper, have.”

  “How came you to know we are here?” Mush asks. He is suspicious of this new development, and does not hold the same reverence for priests that seems to be affecting the rest. “You speak of Baglioni, as if he still lives. Will Draper watched him die an agonising death, and we buried him, and those of his men who fell in battle, in the red Umbrian earth. Is he then a vengeful spirit?”

  “God, but I hate spirits,” Richard mutters.

  “I was drawn here,” the priest replies. “You must have many questions, and I will try to answer them all, but for the moment, you must trust me.” />
  “Why?” Barnaby asks.

  “Because there are four armed men sitting by the door, watching us, and another two outside. This foul place has a privy, at the back, but they will have men watching there too. You are not the hunters, gentlemen, but the hunted.”

  “He speaks the truth,” Mush mutters. “The two by the far window also seem overly interested in us. That makes them about ten or twelve to our five.”

  “Six,” Ignatius Loyola says, as he fingers the hilt of the broad bladed knife at his hip. “They will not try anything inside, but once we make to go out…”

  “They might think to take us, as we leave,” Tom Wyatt guesses. “A sudden mêlée, and a few strangers are dead, killed by men who melt away into the night.”

  “Does anyone have a good idea?” Barnaby Fowler asks. It is true that he stood alongside his friends in the great Welsh fight, and received a stab in the leg for his trouble, but he is a lawyer, rather than a fighting man. He also knows that Suffolk, though handy at jousting, has never been in a murderous street brawl before. As for the strange priest, who has come out of thin air, well, he might run at the first hint of trouble. “Only three of us know how to fight, hand to hand. I fear the worst, my friends.”

  “God will protect us,” the priest says. “For he is the burning light that …” Ignatius Loyola closes his eyes, and nods, as if in answer to an unheard voice. “Yes, Lord… I see… the light is the way!” He opens his eyes, and mutters for them all to be ready.

  Once out of the confines of the low tavern, they must fight their way to either the fortress, where troops are stationed, or back to their inn, which can be easily guarded against attack. Tom Wyatt sees that they must act in concert, or die, piecemeal.

  “Once outside, we form up into a tight wedge, with blades at the ready. We turn to the left, and make our way to the fortress’s main gate. The guards will see, and come to us. Once inside, we are safe, for a while.”

  “I helped bury Baglioni,” Richard grumbles. “Must we now kill the bastard all over again?”

  John Beckshaw, Lieutenant of the King’s Horse, and presiding King’s Examiner, is feeling cold, and stiff. It is well past midnight and, against his better judgement, he has agreed to stand watch on the broad heath. Sir Walter Beasley, and a dozen others are positioned in key areas, so that they can confront, and kill, the ravenous Beast of Hertford.

  “It is a cold night, Master Beckshaw.” The young man almost leaps out of his skin. The woman is suddenly beside him, and he has not heard her approach. Prudence Wells is a slight, very pretty young woman, and Beckshaw is able to quiet his nerves quickly.

  “You should not be abroad, Mistress Prudence,” he says. “If there is a beast abroad, you would make a most satisfying meal.”

  “Do you seek to devour me then, John?” she replies, kneeling down beside him. “I can read men’s eyes.”

  “I could never hurt you, mistress,” Beckshaw replies, truthfully. He has spoken to the girl but once, and finds that he has a strange affinity to her. “You hold a strange attraction for me.”

  “There, that was not so hard to say, was it?” Prudence says, softly. “I have been waiting for you, these twelve months gone, and had almost given up hope.”

  “Waiting for me?” the young man is confused, but can tell she is speaking in earnest. “How can that be?”

  “I ‘saw’ it. I saw a young man coming from the north, and I knew that he would save me. I saw it, as clear as day, and I saw hints of the beast.”

  “You have seen this beast?”

  “Not with my eyes,” she replies, seriously. “In my head. It is a darkness, that moves about, feeding on fear. It wants something, and I am not sure what.”

  “Can you describe it to me, Prudence?”

  “Please, call me Pru… as we are to be married.”

  “What nonsense is this?” John demands. “You and I are to be married?”

  “Yes, if you stop the beast,” Pru says. “That is all I can see, in my mind. It is up to you, John… stop it, or lose me.”

  “You speak in riddles.”

  “What did Master Draper think?” she says. “He has lost that which he most loves, and will not see her again, until Hell freezes over. I do not understand what comes over me, but I am seldom wrong, John. We will wed, after the beast is …” She breaks off, as a gunshot echoes from the darkness.

  In a moment, men are running from cover, and making for the sound of the pistol shot. John Beckshaw and Pru are first there, and find Sir Walter standing, and pointing into some nearby hawthorn bushes.

  “It was there!” he cries. “Blood red eyes, coming closer, and closer. The beast was almost upon me, sir. It is huge, and… dear God, I think I might have hit the creature.”

  John Beckshaw waves for the rest to stay back, draws his own pistol, cocks it, and moves into the bushes. Almost at once, he stumbles on a hunched form, and kneels to examine the corpse. After a moment, he stands, and returns to Sir Walter and the others.

  “A fine shot, sir,” he reports. “Right between the creature’s ‘burning’ eyes. You seem to have bagged a sheep!”

  “Then we are no better off,” Sir Walter growls. “Damned sheep should be in a pen. Right, you fellows, that is it for the night. I doubt any beast would stay within a mile of us now. Master Grey, see the men are fed and … Master Grey, damn it, where are you?

  There is a quick head count, and all are accounted for, except Sir Walter’s steward. On the way back to the town, they find, hanging from a low tree branch, a freshly severed arm.

  “The beast has outwitted us,” John Beckshaw says, as he examines the gruesome discovery. He has them split into pairs, and search the immediate locality. After a half hour, they find enough hacked about body parts to know that Master Gray has, unlike them that night, met the terrible Beast of Hertford. “Have the men bring what we have of poor Master Grey back to town,” John Beckshaw commands. “Then tell them all to get some rest. We are at a disadvantage in the dark, Sir Walter, and must restrict our searches to the daylight hours.”

  “The beast roams at night.”

  “Yes, but must lay low, during the day. If we put a line of men with sticks across the heath, and beat out anything hiding there, our quarry might take flight. Whatever this thing is, it cannot turn invisible, can it?”

  “You saw what happened,” one of the men calls. “We were all armed, and stationed to block every path through the heath. If the beast was on all fours, it would have had to go through the undergrowth … like Sir Walter’s sheep.”

  “True enough,” another adds. “Grey must have seen the thing, and should have either shot at it, or screamed for help.”

  “A bad business,” says a third man, and they disperse, grumbling, to their various houses.

  “The men will not want to go out again,” Sir Walter tells the young King’s Examiner. “This beast has us all frightened. Why, if it can move, without making a sound, what will stop it coming into the town, and feeding on us, as we sleep?”

  “You must stop all that talk,” Pru says, sharply. “John Beckshaw will save us. I have seen it, Sir Walter.”

  “Will not your father wonder where you are, Mistress Wells,” the Sherriff of Hertfordshire asks. “It is late, and he will be missing you.”

  “He is asleep, by the fire,” Pru replies. “In a moment, a hot ember will fall, and land on his bare foot. I must dash!”

  “Strange girl,” Sir Walter says, as Pru vanishes down a narrow alley. “She has the sight, of course, but that does not make her a witch. Her father should get her married off, rather than refusing perfectly good suitors.”

  “Then she is betrothed?” John Beckshaw is curiously disappointed. For a while, back on the heath, he almost believed her wild claims, and he still finds her to be a most attractive girl.

  “No, not as such. There are, or rather were, two who press her, and each is comfortably off, but she refuses them both. She claims some fellow is going to sweep he
r onto his saddle, and ride away to a land of wonderment. We all think she is just a little mad, of course … but there is not a better looking wench in all of Hertfordshire!”

  “You may be right, Sir Walter,” John Beckshaw replies. The girl is like no other he has ever known, and he almost wishes that what she ‘sees’ in her mind, is true, for a pretty wife is an asset to any man. It is only when he is back in his own room, and drifting off to sleep, that a half formed thought comes to him. It emerges from the darkness of his own mind, and skips about, like some untamed satyr in the woods. At one point, he almost grasps it, but it eludes him, until the light of dawn comes in through the window, once more.

  He sits up in his narrow bed, and smiles. The solution has come to him in the night, and he can see the whole, sordid thing, laid out before him. He is in no hurry to dress, and he takes his time over a sumptuous, and leisurely breakfast, whilst the town of Hertford awakens, and starts another day. There is no mad rush to find Sir Walter Beasley, for John Beckshaw is certain of one thing, and one thing alone. The ‘Beast of Hertford’ will not go out hunting again, until darkness has fallen.

  “Ready, Master Beckshaw?” Sir Walter asks, when he finally decides to call on the King’s Examiner. He finds him, washing down the last of his repast with a half flagon of watered down beer. “I thought you were going to stay abed all the long day.”

  “Not I, sir,” John Beckshaw replies. He is almost unable to suppress his pleasure at the resolving of his first investigation. “For I have a terrible beast to catch, today!”

  “In daylight?”

  “Why not?” the young Examiner says, with an enigmatic smile. “For the monster must have a lair, and we have but to track him down.”

  “Him, sir?”

  “Oh, yes, Sir Walter,” Beckshaw concludes. “It is a ‘he’ we seek, and no mistake!”

  5 Revelations