by Anne Stevens
“My name is Marius De Groote,” the Englishman tells his new acquaintance. “How do you make your living, Pierre?”
“This and that.”
“I thought so. You wear a dagger at your waist, and another tucked into your boot,” Vaughan observes, dropping his voice to little more than a whisper. “ You are a killer of men, my friend, and it is written in your eyes. Soldier or assassin, I have known your sort before. Now, why do you choose to sit with me?”
“Curiosity.” Pierre grins at his companion. “I have a need to know certain things.”
“Which I have now satisfied … so, bugger off.”
“Why so prickly, Marius?” Pierre says. “It is just that you have the look of a man who can handle himself.”
“Push it, and you will find out.”
“I am not your enemy,” the Frenchman replies. “I might even be able to offer you some work.”
“What kind of work?”
“Fighting, and killing work, my friend.”
“Yet you claim there is no war here abouts.”
“It is coming, Marius… it is coming.”
“Whom do I have to kill, and how much does it pay?” Stephen Vaughan is relieved, for he has visited a dozen taverns in the last couple of days, hoping to attract the attention of Cardinal Baglioni. Ever since he first heard about him raising men, he has been trying to make contact.
“Some Englishmen.” Pierre Caudron shrugs, as if to say ‘who cares’. He earns his bread by killing, and one nationality is much the same as the next. “Fighting work, not murder.”
“Where?” Vaughan asks. He cannot seem too willing, and no real mercenary would ever entertain landing in England, since Thomas Cromwell’s stern lesson. “I hear King Henry’s man hangs my kind from oak trees, by the dozen. I fear I must steer clear of English shores.”
“They are coming to us,” Pierre answers, with a winning smile. “My master pays well, with golden Italian Ducati, and he can protect us from both King Françoise, and Emperor Charles. The French, and Spanish will turn a blind eye to us, and let us get on with our task.”
“What about numbers?” Vaughan asks, allowing himself to be gently persuaded. “I do not like fighting alongside peasants with pitchforks, or farm boys who cannot use a pike. English soldiers are the best in the world, and would soon dispense with some rag tag band of half trained yokels.”
“The cardinal has hired mercenaries from Rome, France, and the Holy Roman empire. I mean real soldiers, my friend. We have a company of Swiss pike men, and a host of soldiers of fortune, adept with pistols, swords, and crossbows.”
“And King François allows this army to march through his lands?” Stephen Vaughan shakes his head in disbelief. “A foreign army marching where it will, and the French leaving it alone… how can this be?”
“My master is a man of great influence in Rome. Cardinal Angelo Baglioni, has a Papal dispensation, allowing him free passage, with his entourage. The king cannot oppose the Pope, or he will risk excommunication, like that bastard Henri, in England. That is why he, and the emperor, will turn a blind eye.”
“Then I am contracted to fight for a cardinal,” Stephen says, and smiles at the big Frenchman. “When do we get to it, my friend?”
“Soon. The English are gathering their forces, and will try to raid, once they know where we are.”
“And where are we?”
“Why, here, of course,” Pierre smirks. “Our men are billeted within Amiens. The English cannot attack a walled French city, so we are safe, until we choose the moment to sally forth. The cardinal says he wants the English general to be sick with worry, before we ride out, and destroy them.”
“Why would he be sick with worry?” Vaughan asks the boastful Frenchman. He has two tasks: firstly he must find the enemy, and secondly, he must try to find Miriam Draper. The Frenchman is full of self importance, and wants to display his wealth of knowledge, and how much he is trusted by the rich Paduan cardinal.
“We have the man’s wife,” Pierre says. “She is a damned pretty girl, though swelling with child. The Englishman, a man called Draper, will make mistakes because of it. A real soldier would shrug, and find another jade to hump. She must be a special kind of woman.”
“A woman is just a woman, my friend,” the Englishman tells the bearded Frenchman. He asks, as casually as he can; “Is she in Amiens too?”
“Of course. Cardinal Baglioni wants her close by. He has rooms within the great cathedral’s cloisters, and he keeps her locked up there. Now, let us find you a room for the night, Marius De Groote, and tomorrow, we will test your metal.”
“Action, at last,” Stephen Vaughan says. He wonders how soon he can slip away, and confirm where Miriam Draper is being kept. Tom Cromwell’s mouser has sniffed out his prey, and needs only let the men waiting in Calais know what is afoot. “Am I to billet in Amiens too?”
“You can share my rooms. I am on duty tonight, and must attend the cardinal whilst he dines. Then it is my turn to stand guard duty. I have to keep an eye on the sentinels, who doze asleep, if I am not there to kick their arses for them.”
“Then we are well met, Pierre,” Stephen Vaughan says. “Let us stroll around the walls, and you can point out your men. I can leave kick a rump as well as the next man.”
“Well said, friend,” Pierre replies. He is pleased to have found so willing a recruit, and looks forward to putting his new acquaintance to work. With luck, he might have the eager Marius take some of his own duties on, and have more time to carouse in the taverns of Amiens. “Let us see if we can surprise them, shall we?”
They climb up to the ramparts of the high wall which surrounds the cathedral, and Pierre approaches each guard in turn. The men acknowledge him, and salute Stephen Vaughan as another man to obey. They obviously fear the big mercenary, who slaps them heartily on the back, and tries to sound friendly. They do not fall for it, and remember how he beat the last man who disobeyed him half to death.
“Good men,” Stephen Vaughan remarks. “Have you anyone in the far tower?”
“No, but I take your point. It has a commanding view across the city.” Pierre is annoyed that the newcomer has picked out a weakness. “I will see a man is posted there.”
“Can I take a look?” the Englishman asks. Pierre shrugs, and leads the way. The door to the tower is unlocked, and a narrow flight of stone steps leads up to the upper chamber. The single window looks out across the city, and the river runs at its base. “Some view, my friend. Why look, I can see into the convent!”
“Where?” Pierre pushes Vaughan aside, and looks out, hoping to see some nuns. It is a thing he often thinks about, and he wonders if the priests enjoy visiting. “I cannot see…”
“Peace, brother,” Stephen Vaughan says. He steps close up behind, and drives his dagger up, through the left side, and into the Frenchman’s heart. The man shudders, and slumps down. The Englishman sighs at what he has done, and heaves the dead weight up, and out of the window. It is a risk, and a guard might hear a splash, but Pierre must vanish, if Vaughan’s plan is to work.
“You must eat.” Angelo Baglioni is annoyed at the stubbornness of his enemy’s woman, and wonders if she will ever show a sign of weakness. Since the first day of her capture, she has fought him at every turn. “I cannot taunt your husband, if he sees you have staved yourself to death.”
“Then he is coming.” Miriam smiles, and picks up a piece of bread, which she softens in the vinegary wine. “I knew he would. In a few days, he will kill you all.”
“What can he do against the walls of Amiens?” the cardinal sneers. “Even if he finds where you are, he can do nothing, except wait for me to pick my time. Each day, more men flock to my banner, draw by either gold, or love of God. This morning, my captains could muster almost five hundred men. Hard men.”
“They will need to be,” Miriam replies, softly. “For Will Draper does not fight like any other man. Even your brother could not defeat him.”
“Treachery brought Malatesta down, not force of arms,” the cardinal snaps. “He was tricked out of his castle, and ambushed by your husband, and his Venetian scum. Had he managed to unite his forces, Malatesta would have swept them aside, and marched on Venice.”
“Your brother was a better soldier than you.”
“Eat, woman, or I will forget my carefully laid plan, and hand you over to my soldiers. You will not be so stiff necked, after a dozen of them have used you.”
“If you should happen to come face to face with my husband, he will kill you,” Miriam says, coldly. “If he thinks you have done me harm, he will not let you die easily.”
“I shall choose the time, and the place,” Angelo Baglioni tells her. “My men will engulf the few Englishmen who are foolish enough to follow your husband, and the last thing he shall see, is you… crucified before his very eyes.”
“You are a true Christian,” Miriam replies.
“Guard, take her back to her cell,” Baglioni commands. “Make sure she is locked in, and the door is guarded.”
“Yes, Your Eminence.” The waiting soldier bows, and moves forward, out of the shadows. “I shall see to it, personally.”
“Where is Captain Rombard tonight?”
“Pierre cannot take his drink,” the man replies. His French is good, but is delivered with a thick, Flemish accent. “Though he claims it was the two dozen oysters he ate at midday.”
“The fool,” Baglioni curses. “I will have his rank for such dereliction… Captain…?”
“De Groote, Your Eminence.” The young soldier bows again to the cardinal. “I am fresh from the war in Savoy, where my French masters lost their courage.”
“Then you are ready for some real fighting,” Angelo Baglioni replies. “You shall have Rombard’s troop of horse, if he does not recover in time.”
“I fear his malaise will keep him out of things,” Stephen Vaughan explains, straight faced. The bearded Frenchman, having told the Englishman all he knew, has succumbed to the point of a knife, and is, even now, floating down the River Somme, on his way to the storm tossed Channel. The Englishman turns to Miriam, and reaches for her elbow. “Come, wench. Do not give me any trouble, for I have no time for Jews!”
Miriam, who until now has been studiously ignoring the soldier, glances up, and sees a face she knows. Stephen Vaughan has been a dinner guest twice at Draper’s House, and his close shaved head, and twinkling eyes are a welcome, if unexpected, sight. She stands, and lets the Flemish mercenary lead her off.
Stephen Vaughan understands the military mind, and knows that he must look as though he is obeying orders, as he marches Miriam Draper past several sets of guards, and out into the cold night air. They are several streets away from the cathedral, before the simple subterfuge is discovered, and they are able to disappear into the warren of the city, before a serious chase can be commenced.
“It is late, for visitors, sir.” Margaret Roper will not open the front door of Utopia after dark, and speaks from the first floor window, that is her bedroom.
“I am on the king’s business, madam.” The man steps back from his hammering on the door, into the pool of light coming from his servant’s burning torch. She sees that it is Richard Rich, a clever lawyer, who often carries out Henry’s dirtier tasks. “I must demand entry, at once.”
“Demand all you like, sir,” Margaret replies, sharply, “but Utopia’s door remains closed, unless you have a warrant, signed by a council member, and with the king’s seal upon it.”
“I have just such a thing,” Richard Rich announces, pompously. “See, here it is!” He holds up a piece of parchment. Margaret shrugs her shoulders, and starts to close the window.
“That could be anything at all,” she tells the confounded lawyer. “I cannot see it from here.”
“Then come down, and open the damned door, madam!”
“I will not open the door, unless I see a warrant.”
“It is here.”
“I cannot see it from here.”
“Then open the …” Richard Rich turns on his heel, at the sound of laughter, coming from the jetty behind him. “Who dares jest at the king’s expense?”
“At your own expense, Master Rich,” Thomas Cromwell says, as he steps from his own boat. The oarsman follows, and takes the torch from Rich’s servant. He holds it up, so that Margaret Roper can see everything, clearly. “Why do you come calling on Sir Thomas More, at night, like some skulking thief?”
“Master Cromwell, you wrong me. I am merely following instructions,” Rich blusters, but he is afraid of the older man, and does not want to cause too much offence. “The king bids me question Sir Thomas.”
“At night?” Cromwell looks up at Margaret’s concerned face, and gives her a cheery wave. “There is nothing to fear, Mistress Roper. Master Rich is merely an over zealous messenger. It might be best to allow him entry, even at this late hour.”
“As you wish, Master Thomas,” Margaret says. “Roper will come down, and unlock the door. Will you come in, and join us?”
“Why not?” Cromwell replies. He lowers his voice to Richard Rich. “Speak plainly, Rich. Was it the queen who bade you come at night?” Rich contemplates a lie, but decides it is safer to keep to the truth, where he must. Besides, Cromwell’s arrival is no accident. Rich realises that he must have been watched by his agents for just such a moment.
“It was, sir.”
“And did she tell you to be cruel, and press Sir Thomas for certain answers?” Cromwell knows how these things are done, and is perturbed that Queen Anne is pushing matters along so quickly.
“Yes.” Richard Rich cannot hide anything from Cromwell, and in a contest between the Privy Councillor, and Anne Boleyn, he thinks the former will still win out, and he wishes to be on the winning side. “She hinted that I might embellish his words somewhat.”
“You mean lie?” Cromwell smiles. “Really, Richard. You would commit perjury for the woman?”
“She can be most persuasive, sir.”
“Ah, did she offer money, power, or something of herself?”
“She mentioned only that Audley cannot live forever,” Rich confesses. “The position of Lord Chancellor would then be free, and available to a loyal supporter.”
“Then you did not know her?” Cromwell is not sure why he asks such an outrageous question, but it makes Richard Rich’s face contort in horror.
“Dear Christ above, Master Cromwell!” He steps back a pace, as if the man has slapped his face. “Do not draw me into that matter. If you wish to go down that route, you must speak to other men than I.”
“Such as?” Thomas Cromwell is becoming desperate to find a weapon to use against the queen, before she destroys him, and all of his people.
“There was talk of Northumberland, a few years ago.”
“That is old news,” Cromwell snaps. “What of now?”
“Tread carefully,” Rich replies, as the door opens. “For you might be using poetic licence.”
There it is again, Cromwell thinks. Northumberland, who has sworn an oath that he has not tupped Anne, and Tom Wyatt, who writes poems about her milk white breasts, and moons after her, like a cast off lover. Neither prospect appeals to him, and he wonders where else to cast his net, before the queen is pregnant again.
“Come in,” Roper growls. “It is a sad day, Master Cromwell, when a lawyer’s clerk can beard a great man, and in his own home.”
“Master Rich will be brief,” Cromwell says. “It is fortunate that I was passing, and saw the light outside Utopia. Is Sir Thomas still awake?”
“In the library.”
“I have a copy of the oath for him.” Richard Rich produces a rolled document. “He is to read it, whilst I am here, and answer but one question.”
“Then come this way, and ask,” Roper says, sullenly. He leads them down the passage, and into a book lined room. Sir Thomas More looks up from the heavy tome on his lap, and smiles at his guests.
“Why,
Richard Rich, is it not?” he asks. “I have not seen you since … since you scurried away from my employ, and sought crumbs from the king’s table.”
“I must find work where I can, sir,” Rich replies. “The king bids me give you this. It is a copy of the oath.”
“Put it on the desk,” More says, vaguely waving his hand to the corner of the room. “I really must finish this first. Have you read Agricola’s De Inventione Dialectica libri tres, yet, Thomas?”
“Ah, I knew a copy had been brought from Antwerp, but did not know whom it was for,” Cromwell replies. “Might I borrow it, after you have finished with it?”
“Of course, my friend. Has Meg offered you some refreshment, Master Rich?”
“Sir, I must insist that you read the oath.”
“Of course.” Sir Thomas More smiles. “I trust you have brought the other relevant documentation?”
“What is this?” Richard Rich stares at the frail old man, and senses a lawyers trap about to snap on him.
“Rafe Sadler, Tom Cromwell, old Audley, Archbishop Cranmer, and a dozen other fine minds have drawn up this oath, have they not?”
“We have,” Thomas Cromwell mutters, subduing the urge to laugh at Rich‘s plight. More is a wily old dog, and has not yet lost his vicious bite. “Each of us submitted our reasoning, and observations to a parliamentary committee, for scrutiny.”
“Then I wish to read their findings, before I read the actual oath,” More says. “For these deliberations might convince me that the oath is sound.”
“You say it is not?” Rich says, and almost bites his tongue.
“I can say nothing, until I have read the supporting evidence, Master Rich.” Sir Thomas smiles at Cromwell. “Perhaps you can have copies drawn up by your people, and sent to me, Tom?”
“Of course,” Cromwell replies, and executes a small, deferential bow to the cleverest man in Europe. “Though it might well take a week, or even two to collect them all.”
“No hurry,” Sir Thomas More says, with a soft sigh. “I am not going anywhere. You know, Tom, I think it a stroke of great happenchance that you came along when you did.”
