by Anne Stevens
“How so, Sir Thomas?” Cromwell says, playing up to the grand master of obfuscation.
“Well, had but one of you come, he might have reported back that which his master wants to hear, rather than the actual truth of the matter.”
“You insult me, sir,” says Richard Rich.
“Do I?” More shakes his head. “It is interesting that of the two of you, it is you who thinks himself slighted. Why could I not think that poor old Cromwell would perjure himself, for some small, royal, favour? After all, he has always been such a rascal … even as a small boy.”
“Then you will not read the oath?” Rich demands, and Thomas Cromwell grips his shoulder, tightly.
“You really must listen, Richard,” he says. “Sir Thomas is eager, not only to read the oath, but to agree to it, if he can. To establish whether he can read the oath, he needs to see the supporting documentation. No lawyer goes into court without knowing the evidence, lad. Tell Queen Anne that the matter is progressing at a goodly pace, and tell the king that the letter of the law is being followed. Do you understand, Richard?”
“Yes… sir.” Rich pulls himself free, bows, and turns to leave. Cromwell nods to More, and follows the younger man outside, where the servants wait. He beckons for his man to come over, and the fellow stands between Rich, and the path he must take.
“Richard, this is Master Joe Douglas. Those who know him call him Black Dog, because of his temper.” Thomas Cromwell steps close, and whispers in the young lawyer’s ear. “See how he marks your features, like a hound sniffing at his meat? If you stray from the truth, and say Sir Thomas spoke treasonably, he will come for you. I do not use Black Dog to chastise, but to punish. He can make the very pains of Hell seem like a stroll in the countryside.”
“You threaten a servant of the king, sir.” Rich tries to sound unaffected, but his heart is now racing in fear. Cromwell is not one to make idle threats.
“You are too fond of the queen, Master Rich,” Thomas Cromwell says. “Stand too close to the fire, and you will be scorched for sure.”
“I will report, truthfully, what Sir Thomas has said, and have the documents he wants sent along.” Rich places his right hand over his heart, and bows. It is his pledge to keep the faith, and binds him as tightly as any legal writ. Cromwell terrifies the young lawyer, and he knows that to go back on his word will invite a painful retribution.
“Good man. Though you need not hurry about the business” Thomas Cromwell concludes. “It is in our favour, if you are a little tardy. By the time Sir Thomas is ready to give his views on the great oath, they may be quite superfluous. The king has a provincial sort of a conscience, and it will not take much for him to reconsider the situation. He will see how it will make him look, and he will waver from his course.”
“You think so?” Richard Rich feels as though he must say something in retaliation. “The queen is wearing Henry out in the bed chamber, and is sure to be with child again, soon. She will only have to bear a son, and your conscientious Henry will give her More’s head on a spike, and yours too, if she but asks.”
“In that event, Richard, feel free to throw your lot in with the Boleyns,” Cromwell advises the young lawyer. “Though you must time your actions well. To switch your sworn allegiance, too soon, might well be the death of you. Good night, and sleep well, Master Rich.”
8 The Last Vendetta.
Stephen Vaughan’s sudden appearance at the gates of Calais, with a young woman, in an advanced state of pregnancy, causes some surprise, and when his companion’s name is known, the surprise turns to wild rejoicing throughout the town. The young roving ambassador has infiltrated Amiens, the French stronghold of Cardinal Angelo Baglioni, and emerged with the greatest prize imaginable.
It is left to Mush to find Will Draper, and tell him the unexpected news. He is poring over maps of the locality, and hardly looks up. Mush joins him at the table, and sees that two tears, one at the corner of each eye, which betray his suppressed emotions.
“Go to her at once, Will,” the swarthy young Jew says to his brother-in-law. “I will search these maps, from corner to corner, and find what you seek.”
“It must be higher land, and with a river, or stream, to the fore.” Will straightens up, and smiles, as he wipes the teardrops away. “We also need …”
“Enough,” mush says, soothingly. “I know how to pick our battle ground, almost as well as you, brother-in-law. Go to my sister, and show her how relieved you are. Let me stay here, and see to our plotting and planning.”
“Are we all clear upon our parts?” Will Draper asks the question, but already knows the answer. He has been through much with these men, and trusts each one, for varying reasons.
“You worry like an old maid,” Richard Cromwell says. “You know each of us will either do, or die.”
“I am glad that Miriam is safe amongst us, again,” Rafe Sadler says, “and wonder why we still seek a battle that could have an uncertain outcome. We risk defeat, when we could just slip back to England.”
“Stephen Vaughan has earned my everlasting gratitude,” Will Draper replies, “but the Baglioni vendetta is still in force. This Cardinal Angelo has murdered people whom I have called friends, and still seeks my blood. He must be stopped.”
“Why here?” Tom Wyatt asks. “I mean to say, we are less than a hundred and fifty, against two or three times that number. Might it not be better to lure him to England?”
“He will not do that,” Father Ignatius Loyola puts in. “If we flee to England, he will send assassins after us. Clever men, and women, who know how to kill, silently, or poison secretly. We will know no rest, until Baglioni is in Hell. I have a dozen brothers, in Calais, who will fight for us.”
“Brothers?” Mush says, with a sceptical smile.
“Converts, from our last meeting, my friend,” Father Loyola replies. “They were once men of the Venetian Doge’s own Swiss Guard, but they now do their soldiering for God.”
“Swiss pike men?” Richard Cromwell remembers the tenacity with which the big mountain men fight, and nods his head in approval. “One could not die with better men,” he says.
“Nor live with better,” the priest replies with a gentle reproof. “to squire death is a vanity, my son. God will make those sort of decisions, not mortal men.”
“Well said, Father Ignatius,” Will says. “I, for one, have no intention of dying. Not with Miriam safe, and my second child almost here. I must have her safely back in England soon, lest my child is born on French soil. Now, my friends, are we ready for the task ahead?”
“Of course we are,” Tom Wyatt confirms. “It is only that we are going into the unknown … and on such an inauspicious day.”
“How so?” Richard Cromwell is superstitious, and frowns on taking chances on a day of ill omen. “Are the stars against us, Master Poet?”
“It is March the Fifteenth today,” Mush explains. “The Ides of March… Julius Caesar.”
“Who?”
“The Roman emperor, who was stabbed to death on this very day,” Tom Wyatt explains. “Though that must mean the day is well starred for us … for Baglioni is of the same race, is he not?”
“Then let him fall too,” Will Draper pronounces. “I ride to Amiens within the hour. You must remain behind, Tom, as discussed, and you also, Father Ignatius. I will take Mush, Richard, and twenty well mounted horsemen.”
“What of I, sir?” John Beckshaw asks. “My place is by your side, is it not?”
“Your place is back here,” Will tells his assistant. “You are to obey Tom Wyatt, in all things. If we are destined to lose, you must escort my wife back to Calais, and get her on a boat to England.”
“As you wish.” The young Yorkshire man can see the sense of it, but still wants to be in the thick of things, for as long as he can. “I’ll find a good trumpeter, from amongst the men.”
“A trumpeter?” Richard asks.
“Of course,” Beckshaw replies. “How else will the citizen
s of Amiens know that the English army are at their gate?”
“Your Eminence, the Englishman is here.” Angelo Baglioni glances up from his meal, and frowns.
“Here?”
“At the gate of the city, sir,” the soldier replies. “He has about twenty men with him. He has a trumpeter, riding back and forth, and demands your presence.”
“The dog!” Baglioni has expected something, since losing his hostage, but hardly this. “What does he want?”
“To meet you, in single combat.”
“The fool. With twenty men at his back, he knows he cannot fight us. Send out a company of horse. He will turn tail, and withdraw. Have the men follow, and try to stop him getting back to Calais. I will follow with the main army.”
“As you wish, sir, but…” the captain is about to ask why they are letting themselves be drawn out of the city, so easily, when he sees the look on his master’s face. His hatred for the Englishman is so palpable, that it is pointless offering advice. The mercenary is content in the knowledge that the English colonel has only a hundred and fifty men under him, at most. Even if they are all trained soldiers, they are outnumbered four or five fold, and will not have any heavy cavalry.
The moment Cardinal Baglioni’s cavalry emerge from the main gate, Will Draper and his small band turn tail, and gallop off towards the nearest crossing of the River Somme. They keep to a steady trot, and draw the cardinal’s men steadily on.
“There are only a hundred, or so,” Richard says. “We could turn on them, and cut half of them down, before they realise what is happening.”
“And Cardinal Baglioni remains, safely inside Amiens,” Mush replies. “With the rest of his force. No, we must retreat, slowly.”
The snail like chase continues into the morning, and, just before midday, they come to the place found by Mush, and chosen by Will, to be the final battleground. The main English force are drawn up in a straggled line, between two enormous haystacks. To the fore are an assortment of Swiss pike men, Big Ned Wesley, and thirty foot soldiers from the Calais garrison. Behind are a motley assembly of mounted men, armed with pistols, swords, crossbows, and lances.
Will and his small force splash across the ford of the stream, gallop up the slight incline, and join the main body of men. Father Loyola’s men step aside, and allow them to ride to the rear. The King’s Examiner knows that the following cavalry force will not attack. Instead, they will wait for the rest of Baglioni’s army to materialise. They will have numbers heavily in their favour, and might expect an easy victory.
“Tell the men to eat, quickly,” Will commands. “Baglioni will only be an hour behind.”
“Are you sure they will fight?” Tom Wyatt asks.
“Would not you?” Will replies. “We are a sorry looking bunch, and he has three, or even four times our numbers. He will send his heavy knights against us, to smash through our pikes, then pour in with his light horse. Once our line breaks, it is simply a matter of encircling us, and ending it.”
“You fill me with confidence, Will,” Wyatt mutters.
“We will stand, Tom,” Richard says. “Just make sure you do your part!”
“I shall lift more enemy purses than you do this day, you marrow head,” Wyatt tells his friend.
“Marrow head?” Mush sniggers. “Why, you really are a poet, Tom Wyatt, after all!”
“Captain Paulio, heavy horse to the fore!” Cardinal Baglioni commands. The huge war horses are twice the size of the usual cavalry mounts, and are specially bred in the wilds of Romania. Their riders are encased in heavy armour, as are the horses, and they can smash through even a bank of levelled pikes. The mercenary force is a hundred strong, and have never been bested in the field of battle.
“As you command, Your Eminence.” Paulio approves. He can see the lines of pikes, but they are not nearly dense enough to deter a single charge. “Then might I suggest a flanking movement, to either side of the haystacks? We can…”
“No!” Baglioni knows such a manoeuvre can allow time for a few to escape, before the cordon is tightened. “Allow the heavy horses a fifty pace start, then follow with the light cavalry. I shall lead the second wave, and we will ride straight for them. Tell the men to ride through them, then swing about, and come back. I do not want any of the English to live. Is that clear?”
“What about Draper?”
“Take him alive, if possible,” Baglioni says. “Also, search to see if his slut is with him. If so, she shall suffer first, before I kill my brother’s murderer.”
“The land they stand on is inside the Calais jurisdiction,” Captain Paulio tells his master. “The English will complain to King François about our actions, and demand he do something.”
“François has a dispensation, waiting to be signed by me, on behalf of Pope Clement,” Cardinal Baglioni replies. He smiles, knowing that the French king will express shock at such an outrage, and swear to detain the cardinal. Then, regrettably, the man, and his army will cross into the lands of the Holy Roman Empire. Another complaint, to Charles V will result in a similar response, by which time, Baglioni will be back in Lombardy, and on his way to Rome.
“Then God is with us?”
“Can you doubt it?” Angelo Baglioni slaps his favoured captain on the shoulder. In two hours, the English will all be dead, and my army will be rich men. I have enough Ducati, waiting in Rome, to make every man comfortable for the rest of his natural days… unless…”
“Unless, sir?”
“Once in Rome, we will have enough force to ensure the next papal election. Clement is an ailing old man, and will not last much longer. With so much gold, and an army behind me, I might well become the next Pope. Then you, my friend, would be the first general of the Papal Army, and all of Italy would tremble before us.”
“Your brother sought to conquer Venice,” Paulio replies. “It is only fitting that you complete his great work.”
“Well said, my friend,” Cardinal Baglioni tells him, “but first, we must exterminate these English vermin.” Captain Paulio nods, and spurs his mount to the front line. The solid, terrifying, line of gigantic warhorses, each with a completely armoured man on its back, stands like a living fortress. Once it begins to move, no man, on foot, or mounted, can withstand it.
From a steady walk, the heavy cavalry will break into a strong gallop, and hit home with devastating effect. The order is given, and the unwavering line sets off to cover the scant three hundred yards that separates them from the feeble line of English pike men, and gentlemen with swords. The horses are trained to snap, and rip flesh with their teeth, and stamp on fallen men. The only, faint, chance of survival, is to turn, and run.
“Great Christ!” Barnaby Fowler mutters. “Those beasts look more like armoured elephants than horses.”
“Calm yourself, friend,” Tom Wyatt replies. “Just be ready, on my command, and hope that Master Beckshaw is also prepared.”
“I hope so,” the lawyer says. “For I am still aching from dragging these bastards all this way!”
“Stand fast, lads,” Will Draper says. He is leading his horse up and down the thin line of men, encouraging them to hold their ground. “Another hundred paces, and they are ours. Now, Father Loyola, you must leave some of these evil bastards for us to send to Hell.” The men laugh at the jest, and the priest steps out of the ranks, and gives a final blessing.
“God, protect these brave men … even the protestants, and unbelievers, for we have need of their strong arms this day. Amen.”
“Amen!” The shout comes from a hundred and fifty lips, and about half cross themselves. A single Jew mutters a small imprecation to his own, personal God, whom he cannot name, and draws his sword.
“Riders,” Mush calls. “You will stand fast, until I give the order. Then, we ride straight for their centre. If we can cut their line in two, they will break.” He sounds confident, but the enemy are trained mercenaries, and his men know they are not likely to flee, like frightened farm boys.
The ominous wall of gigantic horses is within a hundred and fifty paces, and they start to cross the narrow stream. Richard Cromwell and a party of men have been busy, all morning, digging potholes under the shallow water, and hammering in short, well sharpened, wooden stakes. It is a small hindrance, but might cause a few moments delay.
Colonel Will Draper sees the steady row of massive war horses enter the water, and decides that it is time to make his own opening move. It has taken all his persuasive powers to convince the Governor of Calais to lend his unofficial help, and several days of back breaking toil, but it has been worth it to give them a secret advantage. Will draws his sword, and glances to right and left. His line is unflinching, and ready for battle.
“Now!” he cries into the still air. As if by magic, the outer walls of the two huge haystacks fall away, and reveal Will Draper’s deadly surprise. The six twelve pounder canon, that usually adorn the citadel walls in Calais, have been mounted on wheels, and dragged across fifteen miles of rutted roads to this, the carefully chosen field of battle. Tom Wyatt is in charge of the left hand battery, whilst a professional English canoneer, George Westernall commands the three huge pieces to the right.
There needs to be no further order to give fire from Will Draper. Each canon is loaded with the latest horrific weapon to grace the bloody battlefields of Europe. The dreaded chain shot has turned the canon from a defensive, or siege weapon, into an offensive gun, capable of the greatest destruction. Six flashes are followed by six long spurts of flame, and the unfamiliar rushing noise that betokens the trajectory of the new missiles. Each hollowed out canon ball splits into two as it flies, and stretches wide, the six foot length of heavy chain that joins the half spheres.
The widths of hurtling chains scythe through the air, and slice through everything in their paths. The fearsome heavy horses who have been slowed to a walk by Richard’s obstacles are, almost at once, reduced to a pile of screaming, writhing, and dismembered animals, crushing their hapless riders as they fall.
