by Anne Stevens
“Get down, you dog!” Zeke Longbutt steps forward, and brandishes his cleaver. “I have already killed for you, woman. Now, come to me, or I will not baulk at killing again!”
“Is that proof enough, Sherriff?”
“Enough to hang the fellow, Master Examiner,” Sir Walter says, emerging from a clump of shrubbery. Other men break cover, and point their weapons at the beast, Zeke Longbutt. “Will you come quietly, or must we carry you back on a pole, like the monster you pretend to be?”
“I love you,” the man says, and something in his voice makes John Beckshaw react. He draws his pistol, and cocks it, even as the big butcher lunges at them. Both he, and Sir Walter fire together, and the beast screams, and twists away. He is wounded, and is now at his most dangerous. The townsmen come at him, screams in rage. The men circle him, wary of the arms he still wields, and he rushes onto their short pikes and knives. They thrust, in concert, and he finally goes down, in a tumble of arms and legs. In one , last, defiant act, he throws back his head, and howls. The blood curdling death cry has his tormentors cross themselves in superstitious horror, and several fall to their knees, and offer up a prayer.
John Beckshaw holsters his pistol, and slips a free arm about the shivering girl. There is to be no trial, or execution, and he can set off, back to London, without further delay. The girl half closes her eyes, and smiles in relief.
“The veil is lifted,” Pru Wells says. “Now, I can see the way ahead.”
“Does your future involve me?” John asks.
“You know it does,” Pru replies, happily. “We will go to London, and I shall live in a big, empty house. I see a child, but no mother, and I see you travelling, without me.”
“We will live at Draper’s House, at first,” John Beckshaw agrees. “There is a young child … little Gwyllam … and an absent mother.”
“You must travel, to help make things well,” Pru says. Then she frowns, and closes her eyes. Dark thoughts begin to crowd, unbidden, into her head. “Oh, God save us, John, my love. You will leave me, and I shall not see you again … until Hell freezes over.”
“It will take more than the pit of Hell to keep me from your side,” Beckshaw says. He is a modern man, and does not believe in such things, he tells himself. “Besides, from what you say, Will Draper must be by my side, and I trust him with my very life.”
“Your path will lead you into the valley of death,” Pru Wells mutters, “and you must fear no evil.”
6 Meetings
Will Draper throws his bundle over one shoulder, and slips over the side of the cog which has brought him, swiftly, from England. The cobbles of the Calais dockside are firm underfoot, and he is pleased to be on dry land once again. Since leaving Adolphus Theophrasus in London, he has had no further news of his wife, and he is almost sick with worry.
It is a short walk from the dockside to the huge gate of Calais’ fortress, and he is challenged, almost at once by alert guards, who expect an attack from any quarter. The sergeant at arms, a big, broad-chested fellow, bars his way, and demands that he declare himself at once.
“Colonel Draper, the King’s Examiner,” he replies. “I have papers to prove my…”
“No need, sir. The Duke of Suffolk has warned us of your coming, and you are expected, sir,” the man says, as he gestures for his men to throw open the gate. “My Lord Suffolk is within, and has left orders for him to be awoken, whenever you arrive.”
“Is there any news of my wife, sergeant?”
“Your wife, sir?” The man shrugs his broad shoulders. “I am not privy to what is afoot, sir, but Lord Suffolk and his men were in a running fight earlier. We had to rush out, drive off a gang of ruffians, and bring them all to safety. There is no woman amongst them… though they have found a strange priest.”
“A priest?” Will Draper is puzzled. “Then you must take me to Lord Suffolk, at once, so that I may find out what is going on.”
“At your command, sir.” The big sergeant leads him inside the huge keep. He enters a narrow, stone-walled corridor, then pauses, and turns to Will, diffidently. “Begging your pardon, Colonel Draper, sir, but I was wondering if you might have need of a few good men. If so, myself and some of the others are looking for something more than this shit-hole garrison duty.”
“Yes, I might need some reliable men. Fellows who can handle weapons.” Will sees that the big soldier is hard muscled, and has the appearance of a tough, no nonsense fellow. The man is a well trained professional, and is quite wasted by being posted to a garrison town. “Name yourself, sergeant.”
“Edward Wesley, sir,” the sergeant replies. “Though folk do call me Big Ned, on account of Corporal Ned Foskett being a small sort of a chap. Folk calls him Little Ned, because of it, but he is the dirtiest fighter I ever did come across. We would suit you very well, Colonel Draper.”
“Have any of you ever been to war?”
“Little Ned did a year in Ireland, and me and the other lads spent the summer before last, killing Scots raiders. Lord, but they took some beating. The duke almost gave up.”
“Northumberland?”
“Cumberland, sir.” Big Ned smiles. “Harry Cumberland is a fighter, sir, whilst Lord Percy, beggin’ your pardon, is a drunken arse wipe. No offence meant.“
“None taken,“ Will replies, and suppresses the wish to laugh out loud. “Keep yourselves ready Ned, and I will send for you, when I am ready.” Big Ned raps his knuckles on a low linteled door, and throws it back. Several men are slumped in chairs, asleep, or half asleep. One of them stands upon Will’s entrance, and holds out a welcoming hand.
“God be with you, my son.”
“What in Christ’s sweet name are you doing here, Father Ignatius?” Will asks. “What news of my wife?”
“It is a long, depressing story, my friend,” Ignatius Loyola replies. “Though I must tell you, at once, that we have no bad news of Miriam.”
“Will?” Mush is awake now, and rousing the rest from their various slumbers. “Get up, you laggards. Will has need of us!”
“Thank God you are here,” Tom Wyatt says, yawning. “For we are in sore need of a guiding hand.”
“Then tell me everything you know of events,” Will Draper demands, “so that I might find a way forward. Has there been a ransom demand yet?”
“Calm yourself, Will Draper,” the Spanish priest says. “It is a half brother of Malatesta Baglioni behind all of this, and his motive is vengeance.”
“I thought that accursed family died out with the death of the condottiero,” says Will.
“No, Malatesta has a bastard brother,” Richard Cromwell replies. “Calls himself a bloody cardinal, he does … and murders women and children.”
“Then we know our enemy,” Will mutters. “That is half the battle won, my friends. Tell me it all, no matter how trivial it may seem, and we shall see what is to be done. For come what may, this foul creature must be brought low.”
“This is a most pleasant surprise, old friend,” Sir Thomas More says, as he gestures for the archbishop to take a hard seat by the fire.
“I was passing,” Archbishop Cranmer replies, and he sees how lame an opening he has made. “I was on my way to Westminster, and thought I might just … drop in.”
“After eight months?” More gives out a small, cackling little laugh, and closes the book on his knee. “You walk slowly, Archbishop. Can not the diocese afford you a horse, or a palanquin to ride in?”
“Still mocking me, old friend,” Cranmer responds. “Can I not visit an old mentor anymore?”
“And ask after his health?” More shakes his head. “The king frowns on me. You would not dare come here, without his express permission.”
“Henry asks after your health.”
“I fear I will not die of natural causes,” Thomas More says.
“Cromwell tells the king that your heart is weak, and that you might not last out the winter. Is this true?” Cranmer asks because, were it true, Henry need take no
further action against the ex Lord Chancellor of England. The king can leave him to die in peace, and avoid offending the intelligentsia, and nobility, of Europe.
“My heart is sick, Cranmer,“ More says, slyly. “Though I hear yours is even sicker. Is it true what I hear? Must you avoid embarrassing confrontations with other high churchmen, lest they refute your rather unexpected appointment?” Cranmer has to swallow this from More, because it is the truth. He has had to avoid men like the bishops Stokesley and Longland, who are conservative, and resent his sudden elevation.
“I was in Rome when the call came,” Cranmer replies. He is suddenly the one being questioned, and does not know how to return to the topic in hand. “It was a surprise to me, also. Before being made archbishop, I have held only minor posts in the church.”
“Do you wonder then that some of the bishops might seek to make an embarrassing personal challenge to your authority?” the wily More continues. “Why, even dear old Stephen Gardiner does not support you. He sits on the fence, and waits for Henry to tire of your failures.”
“I shall not fail the king. Or is that what you wish… that Henry does not get his way?” Cranmer hopes More will forget himself, and utter some slander against Henry, but the old Lord Chancellor is no fool. He smiles, and shakes his head, as if instructing some recalcitrant schoolboy.
“What if, by doing the king’s bidding, you fail Anne Boleyn?” More says. “Can a dog have two masters, old friend? What if one does not like the way you bark?”
“You seek to anger me,” Cranmer says. “I came, but to ask after your health.”
“And I have told you. My heart is sick, Cranmer. Are you not sick of the way your fellow high ranking prelates object to the power and title you have been given, or of how they argue that the Act of Supremacy does not define your role?”
“They accept me, now,” Archbishop Cranmer states. “I am now acknowledged as the supreme churchman within the realm.”
“They accept you, because Tom Cromwell has taken on the office of the vicegerent. That makes him the deputy supreme head of ecclesiastical affairs, second only to His Majesty.”
“Cromwell is a lawyer,” Cranmer says, evasively. It is true that only Cromwell is strong enough to bring the other bishops to heel, and that he is creating another set of institutions that will give a clear structure to the royal supremacy. “I bear no resentment to Vicegerent Cromwell.”
“That is fortunate, for though you are an exceptional scholar, you do lack any political ability. It is a poor statesman who cannot even outface a few clerical opponents. You do well to leave those tasks to Tom Cromwell.”
“The man is a useful servant,” Cranmer says, coldly.
“Thomas Cromwell is an eternal optimist,” More tells his visitor. “He sees an opportunity under every stone. I think he might have made rather a good Archbishop of Canterbury.”
“Again, you mock me.” Cranmer says. “I am not here to listen to your political and religious observations. The king charges me to put certain questions to you.”
“Then get on with it,” More snaps. “What do you wish to ask of me… old comrade?”
“The king wishes to know if you will take the oath?” There, it is said, and Tom Cranmer can breath again. He does, in truth, lack the courage to face up to things, and finds it hard to displease anyone, without support. It is up to Sir Thomas More now, to give either a yea, or a nay to it.
“What oath?”
“The oath!” Cranmer’s throat constricts, and he can hardly spit out the words. He feels as if he has been drawn into a trap, but cannot yet see what it is. “The Oath of Obedience to His Majesty, King Henry, of course.”
“Ah, that oath.” Sir Thomas More smiles, benignly at the increasingly confused prelate. “We are in the backwoods, here in Utopia, Your Excellency, and did not realise … this oath you speak of has been passed into law then?”
“Of course. Two days ago.”
“Then how could I express an opinion?” More says. “Why, I doubt the printers have yet run off enough copies for one to reach old Tom More in Chelsea.”
“You have not yet read the oath?” Cranmer begins to see how he is to be tricked, and is annoyed at his own stupidity.
“I have not yet received an official copy of the new oath,” More tells him, springing the trap. “How can I pass comment? What if this oath is badly written? What if there is something in it that goes against the king, and it has not been noticed by all the other lawyers?”
“I shall have a copy sent to you, at once, my dear Sir Thomas,” Archbishop Cranmer says, with a slight smile playing about his lips. “After all, how can I expect a man to swear to an oath, when he has not yet read an official copy?”
“Will you stay, and pass on what gossip you have?” More asks. “How is the king keeping? What news of the queen?”
“Which one?” Cranmer asks.
“Ah, I see you still wish to gain something from our conversation, my friend.” More nods his head, and considers his answer. “Why, is this not what all this is about, Cranmer? Then let me say this, without embellishment … there is but one queen.”
“Ambiguity,” Cranmer replies. “Forget I even asked. Instead, let me make a general observation that Queen Anne is well, but that the Dowager Princess of Wales is not.”
“Then I am glad for one, and sorry the other,” Sir Thomas tells the churchman. “And what of King Henry?”
“He loves you, above all men,” Cranmer says. “He charges me, in secret, to say this to you. If you can see your way clear to taking the oath, privately, he will not mention it again. All shall be as it was before.”
“Oh, dear,” More says. “If it is kept secret, men will think I have not sworn. They will whisper against the king, and abuse his good name. I cannot allow that.”
“For the love of God, Thomas… take the damned thing!”
“Goodbye, old friend.” More opens his book, and resumes reading from where he left off.
John Beckshaw is impatient to be off, and does not want to hang about the front door of Austin Friars, waiting for an audience with Thomas Cromwell. He is the king’s man, and not one of the Privy Councillor’s lackeys, he thinks. At that moment, a great, barrel bellied, oriental looking man appears, and holds out a welcoming hand.
“I am Doctor Theophrasus, physician to the king, and a friend of Master Cromwell, young man.”
“John Beckshaw, at your service, sir,” the young man says. “I wish to speak with Cromwell, at once.”
“He is not at home. I hear the good folk of Hertford can sleep easily in their beds again, Lieutenant Beckshaw,” Adolphus Theophrasus asks. “It seems their fabled beast was but a man.”
“I do not believe in terrible monsters, sir … unless they are men,” John Beckshaw replies. “I am here to join the expedition to Calais, which is leaving soon.”
“How can you know that?” The doctor’s left eyebrow goes up in involuntary surprise. “It is being arranged in the strictest secrecy. Why, even I do not know…”
“Three cogs, each filled with supplies, soldiers, and Master Cromwell’s most trusted young men,” John replies. “I need only know the departure point.”
“If the secret is out…”
“Only I, and my betrothed know,” the young King’s Examiner says. He does not wish to explain the truth, because he does not really believe it himself. “She… sees things.”
“Oh, a diviner, is she?” the doctor takes the news with a pinch of salt. “They are few, and far between, in this backward country, but in the far off East, almost every province has such a one. Is she very pretty?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“Then that is why they have not burned her yet,” Adolphus tells him with a wry smile. “You must have her keep her power secret, if she is to live into old age, my friend. Now, I will have my servant take you to the assembly point.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Your woman… did she foresee the outcome of th
is business, at all? The doctor has had many experiences with seers, and knows that their insights can vary from the odd clever guess, right up to detailed information, but it is seldom clear, until afterwards.
“Only that I must go, and there will be bloodshed. She also says that neither I, nor Will Draper shall come home, until Hell is frozen over.”
“That is unfortunate,” Adolphus replies. “We do not know yet who the enemy is, nor do we know his numbers. It rather sounds to me as if there is going to be some great conflict. Perhaps an Armageddon?”
“Come the next tide, Colonel Draper shall have over a hundred men at his back,” John Beckshaw says, staunchly. “One way, or another, he will find a way to bring his Miriam home.”
“Then let me summon my servant, and speed you on your way,” the doctor tells him. “For the tide will soon be in our favour!”
“I am bored, Charnley,” Henry declares, stomping across the throne room floor. Sir Paul, a relatively new hanger on, and a friend of George Boleyn’s, tries to think of something to lighten the king’s mood. He sees Thomas Cromwell, hovering by the door, as if eager to escape, and whispers to the king.
“Cards, sire, but with a difference,” he says.
“How so?”
“Let us draw in some old stick, who does not usually play, and frighten him with huge wagers.”
“Splendid. Who shall we…”
“Cromwell is over there.”
“Not Cromwell,” Henry says. “He is not likely to…”
“He would not refuse, Your Majesty, would he?” Charnley knows how much Anne Boleyn hates Cromwell, and sees a chance to score against the king’s favourite councillor.
“No, but…”
“Master Cromwell, come and join the king, and I, in a friendly game of cards.” Sir Paul Charnley produces a hand painted deck of cards, and gestures to the table, set up in the light of the window. “He would see how brave you are in a game of chance, sir.”
“Then I must surrender to His Majesty’s wishes,” Cromwell says. “Though I must warn you, in advance, Sir Paul, that I cannot possibly lose.”
