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

by Anne Stevens

  Thomas Cromwell is coming out of his library, with one of his agents, when he hears the commotion. The sound of horses, and raised voices does not bode well for a quiet day. He goes out into the chill morning air, and demands to know what is afoot.

  “Master Thomas,” Will shouts. “We must leave London, at once. There is great danger, if we tarry. John’s wife, Prudence, has seen a terrible thing coming.”

  “And you believe her?” Cromwell knows about the various prophesies, and, despite being a rational thinker, he cannot explain the girl’s strange gift. “I cannot run the realm on the say so of a girl, Will, no matter how pretty she is!”

  “Our families are packing, even as we speak,” Will tells his old master. “Pru says that to stay in London means certain death. It only remains for us to decide where to go.”

  Thomas Cromwell considers various courses of action, and decides on the one which will cause the least upset amongst his friends. A wasted day outside the city, until the perceived threat is past will do less harm than rejecting Will Draper’s judgement, and insulting those who believe in Pru Beckshaw’s divine powers. He claps his hands to summon the servants.

  “Hampton Court,” Cromwell says. “The king is already there, hunting. We shall pay an impromptu visit to His Majesty. Our unexpected early arrival will gladden his heart.”

  “Or make him think we are all mad,” Richard Cromwell mumbles. “I shall start packing. What of Rafe and his family?”

  “Notify all who we love,” Will says. “I do not know what comes, but it spares no one, according to John’s wife.”

  “Does she ever foretell anything good?” Barnaby Fowler says, as he starts shouting orders to the servants. “Might she not, for once, foresee a surfeit of hot pies that must be eaten?”

  “I feel like such a fool, Tom,” Cromwell mutters to the man standing next to him. They are both dressed as chickens, and are flanked by others in even stranger garbs. Tom Wyatt, the author of the piece, says they represent the abundance of the realm.

  “The king will be amused,” Archbishop Thomas Cranmer replies through his yellow painted beak. “See the cow, yonder? It is poor Lord Suffolk to the front, and young George Boleyn at the rear end.”

  “Playing the arse again,” Stephen Gardiner, Archbishop of Winchester sneers. He is masked, and dressed in Lincoln Green. He is, for his pains, playing the part of an English meadow. “How come we to be here, like this?”

  “Why, summoned by Thomas Cromwell, of course,” the Duke of Norfolk says. He is a tree, and has a speaking part in the king’s newly written mummery, which he has quite forgotten. “Are we not all here, at either your command, or your request, Master Blacksmith’s Boy?”

  “Grown men, playing the fool for Henry,” the back end of the brown milking cow sneers.

  “Ho!” Tom Wyatt declares. “Does that cow fart treason?”

  “Bastard,” George Boleyn mutters. He is tired of being the butt of their jests, and thinks that, now Anne is queen, they should be more respectful to him. The return to his court chambers of his wife, whom the king has now tired of, does not make matters any easier either. His only consolation are the evenings spent with his adored sister in her chambers, but since becoming with child again, she invites him less and less.

  From the high minstrel’s gallery, a dozen court musicians begin to play, and the various costumed courtiers begin to sway from side to side, like flora, or imitate the animals they depict. The rear of the cow tries to turn right, as Charles Brandon, the front end, swings left, and they collide with Norfolk’s tree, which explodes with a string of foul language, picked up from his time as a land locked admiral.

  “You arse faced dog turd!” Norfolk snarls. “get out of my damned way.”

  “You old bastard … ouch!” Tom Howard takes advantage of Boleyn’s exposed rear end, and kicks him up the backside, hard.

  “Peace,” Archbishop Cranmer says.

  “Go swive yourself,” another courtier calls.

  “Get off my foot, you pox ridden slut!” Stephen Gardiner snarls at a cowering lady-in-waiting, who is sheathed in the sheerest silk, and represents the westerly wind.

  “If I am, then it is from you,” the girl replies, sweetly. The archbishop squints, and tries to peer through the narrow slit left for his eyes.

  “Judith?” he asks, and gets a slap for his erroneous guess.

  “We are but God’s creatures,” Tom Wyatt intones, “but hark, here is the sun, come to shine on us.” Thomas Cromwell can hardly suppress a snigger, as Henry rolls in, wrapped in yellow silk. Being stuck at Hampton Court is beginning to have its advantages, he thinks. The king takes centre stage, and is about to launch into a long soliloquy, when a page bursts into the huge chamber.

  “Your Majesty!” the boy cries. “News from London. The sweating sickness has struck, and the city is being ravaged from end to end!”

  Mistress Pru Beckshaw’s prediction? The king’s councillor wonders. Thomas Cromwell is not convinced, but still offers up a silent prayer. His people are scattered about the countryside, his son is in Cambridge, and the majority of the royal court is spared, by the happy chance of a girl’s disquieting dreams.

  It takes more than a month for the last strain of the mysterious sickness to leave the city, by which time, almost a third of those who remained behind, are dead. The illness does not discriminate, and strikes down the young, as readily as the old and infirm. In the morning, you shiver, and by dinner, you are either better, or dead. Half of London are infected, and one third die.

  “How do I explain your Pru to the king?” Thomas Cromwell says. “If he believes what I tell him, he will want to reward her, and the bishops will want to burn her, for being a witch.”

  “Pray, say nothing, sir,” John Beckshaw begs. “We seek no advancement. My wife mourns for all those she could not warn, and rejoices that all at Austin Friars still live.”

  “By listening to your wife, we have saved the king, and most of the nobility of England,” Will says. “Now, we can return to the city, and prepare for Christmas. Austin Friars celebrates the season, like no other house. This year, there will be small children again, and the halls will tinkle with their laughter.”

  “We can do our Christmas pageant,” Richard declares, happily. The good old days, he thinks, are coming back. There shall be presents, feasting, and silly jests. The children will be given wooden toys, and the poor shall be fed like lords. “An Austin Friars Christmas is a joy for all to be a part of.”

  “Then let us be merry,” Cromwell says. “We shall spare no expense. It is as if this sickness has made us all forget the bad things that happen, and I can look forward to a peaceful new year.”

  “Master,” Rafe Sadler is standing in the frame of the door, like a, ginger haired, harbinger of doom. “His Majesty demands your immediate presence.”

  Thomas Cromwell arrives at the door to the throne room, just as Anne Boleyn is leaving. He bows, and mutters a polite greeting, but she sweeps past him, as if he were invisible. He sees the smug smile on her face, and fears that he is about to hear something which he would rather not wish to know.

  “It is not my doing, Tom,” Henry says, as soon as Cromwell enters the lavishly furnished chamber. “Would that I could have it any other way.”

  “What is it, Your Majesty?” Cromwell asks. “What troubles Your Majesty so?”

  “It is Her Majesty.”

  “The queen is unwell?” For a moment, Thomas Cromwell’s hopes are raised, only to be dashed into pieces.

  “She is not,” Henry admits. “Her mind has turned, once more to the great oath, and those who might refuse to take it.”

  “None have refused, sire,” Cromwell says, carefully.

  “Sir Thomas More has.”

  “No, sire, he is but studying the complicated legislation, to ensure its complete legality. Only then will he turn to the wording of the oath itself. If it is at fault, he fears perjuring himself over a misplaced comma, or a wrongly phrase
d codicil. The man loves you, sire, and does not wish you to be misrepresented to your people.”

  “Yes, yes, I know all that,” Henry replies. “I have tried to tell the queen, but she is adamant. The oath must be sworn, and within the next few months.”

  “But sire…”

  “Enough, Thomas. You have fought his corner well, and I applaud your loyalty to the man, but it is your loyalty to me that is now in question.”

  “By you, My Lord?” Cromwell can feel the ground shifting under his feet.

  “By Queen Anne. She sees how you cosset my old Lord Chancellor, and she says you must now prove where you stand.”

  “How, sire?”

  “I am putting you in charge of the entire business,” Henry tells his leading Privy Councillor. “You must question Sir Thomas, at once, then frame charges against him. The queen will accept nothing less than treason.”

  “That might be hard to prove.”

  “I have faith in you, Thomas,” the king says. “Do this for me, and your position will be secure again. The queen is in a delicate state, and must not be upset in any way. More must be charged, tried, and executed, by summer.”

  “Summer?”

  “Sooner, if possible,” Henry says. “My son is due in April, or May, and it will be a gift for his mother.”

  “As you wish, sire,” Thomas Cromwell says, and bows to the king. There is nothing else to do, or say. He must warn Margaret Roper, so that she and her family can leave the country. As for Sir Thomas, he fears it is far too late. No fancy lawyer’s words can save him now.

  “Will you lead the interrogation?” Rafe asks.

  “I will.” Cromwell looks up from his book. “There is to be absolutely no coercion.”

  “Then he will not swear.” Rafe sighs. He likes Sir Thomas, and once had hopes of courting his daughter, Margaret, but cannot see any escape from the inevitable. “He will continue to refuse, but not give any reason. If we charge him, he will refuse to plead, and challenge the legitimacy of the court.”

  “Quite rightly, for the jury will be packed with all those who hate him. Norfolk will preside, Boleyn will sit on the jury, and I must prosecute.” Cromwell scratches his chin. “You must warn Will Draper to be ready. I want More’s family on a fast boat to France, before Anne thinks to extend her wicked spite. Meg will refuse, no doubt.”

  “I will talk to her,” Rafe offers. “Roper is a sensible sort, and will argue our cause.”

  “What is he, this week?”

  “He goes about, swearing that Tyndale is the truth, and the way ahead,” Rafe replies. “He condemns the Bishop of Rome as a dissolute old rué, and demands that the king sweeps all the Catholic priests into the sea.”

  “He is constant, if nothing else,” Cromwell says, and they both laugh. “Is the ambassador here yet?”

  “Senõr Chapuys is waiting outside,” Rafe Sadler confirms. The little Savoyard wishes to thank Cromwell for warning him to move out of London, and has brought him a gift of oranges, and a rare book on Irish mythology. “I shall bid him enter. Shall I stay, or do you wish to speak to him in private?”

  “You can be about your business, Rafe,” Cromwell tells him, “but I have no secrets from you, and you may just as well stay, if you wish.” Rafe acknowledges the compliment, calls Chapuys in, and goes off on an errand for Henry.

  “Eustace, my dear old friend!” Cromwell embraces the little man, who insists on kissing both of his cheeks, in the way of the French.

  “Some oranges for you, Thomas,” Chapuys says. “I have also brought you this small gift, as a thank you, for your timely advice. It is written by an Irish monk, and tells of the time when giants ruled in Ireland, and the word of God was unknown. Not unlike present day England, I think.”

  “Then Henry is our giant,” Cromwell jests. “We know God, my friend, but His words are better in English. Why, even Our Lord Jesus Christ did not speak in Latin, and the testaments were put down in Hebrew.”

  “Am I here for a lesson in religion, Thomas?” Eustace Chapuys asks.

  “You are here to question me about Sir Thomas More,” Cromwell replies. “You will ask me what the king intends, and I will obfuscate. You will continue to ask me things, until I make a slip of the tongue, which will lead you to believe that we mean to prosecute him, unto death, if need be.”

  “Dear God, but this cannot be,” Chapuys says. “The man is renowned, throughout the whole of the Holy Roman Empire, and Pope Clement considers him to be a personal friend.”

  “Damn, I had no intention of letting you draw this information from me, Eustace. I must hope that you do not write to your emperor, the Bishop of Rome, Erasmus, and every learned man in Christendom, to rally them to More’s cause. For, if you did that, the king might find himself being called a tyrant.”

  “Rightly so!” Chapuys is indignant. “Now the truth is out, I must invoke popular outrage, and demand that Henry leaves Sir Thomas alone.”

  “I fear your actions might not be enough to save poor Tom More,” Cromwell says, “but the weight of public opinion might slow down the legal process. Henry does not wish to lose his honour, for the sake of a shrewish woman’s desires.”

  “Then Anne Boleyn is behind this?” the little Savoyard asks.

  “I did not mean to impugn the queen’s good name,” Cromwell tells his friend. “Pray, forget my slip. I would not like the whole of Europe to blame Queen Anne for this prosecution. Nor would I dream of suggesting that Emperor Charles might wish to offer the Mores, and the Ropers, sanctuary from her most vile vindictiveness.”

  “You are the absolute soul of discretion, Thomas,” Chapuys replies. “I shall ascribe everything I know to an anonymous, but reliable, source. Now, let me peel you an orange. They are from Seville, and have a sweetness that is somewhat missing in your sour faced queen!”

  Miriam takes her place in the carriage, with the baby, Thomas, in her arms, whilst one of her girls looks to the comfort of little Gwyllam. The boy is very sweet natured, and will be easy to entertain on the trip back to Draper’s House. Will has sent men on ahead, to open up the big, new house, and get the fires going in every grate.

  “You must follow on, soon,” Miriam tells her husband. He kisses her, and the children, and promises to be there by nightfall, in time for supper. She accepts that he and John Beckshaw have business, and contents herself with inviting Pru to take the last seat, and so keep her company. She often thinks of Mush’s deceased wife, and wonders if Pru will become as good a friend.

  “I only have to arrange transport, my love,” he says. “Master Cromwell bids me do it, as an act of friendship.”

  “Save your efforts, Master Will,” Pru says. Her eye lids flutter, and she seems almost asleep. “More shall become less, no matter what the eagle does, and the falcon will fall from the sky, and lie with the black lion.”

  “What is that you say?” Will is shocked by the girl’s words, and looks around, to ensure no one has overheard. Pru opens her eyes, and stares at him, blankly.

  “Say, sir?”

  “Never mind. Do not repeat it,” Will Draper tells her. “Now, on your way, wife, and may God keep you all safe on the road.”

  “Driver, take the westerly road,” Pru says. “For the top road is blocked by a fallen tree.” Miriam nods her agreement to the driver, convinced that her new found friend will be right. She comes from a different culture, and can accept the art of prophesy, more easily than the western educated mind.

  “Are you sure of the words?” Thomas Cromwell asks.

  “More shall become less,” Will Draper tells his old master. “I take that to be about Sir Thomas, and it does not bode well.”

  “I think I am meant to be the eagle, but the falcon, and the lion?” Cromwell muses over the strange utterance. Since becoming queen, Anne Boleyn has adopted the image of a falcon as her personal badge, and the Boleyn family crest bears a rampant black lion on it. “Mistress Pru is seldom wrong. It seems that she predicts doom for Tom More, and
a fall from grace for the entire Boleyn clan. She must keep this to herself, lest the queen gets to hear of it.”

  “She forgets, almost as soon as she speaks the words,” Will confirms. “Miriam will keep her safe, and see she does not repeat the treasonable phrases.”

  “It is how you interpret them,” Cromwell says. “If she means to infer the end of More, Anne will love her for it. By the same rule, if Pru is saying Anne and the Boleyns’ will fail, the queen will wish to burn her, as a witch.”

  “We live in very dangerous times, Master Tom,” Will Draper says. “When will you have to move against poor Sir Thomas?”

  “I cannot put it off too long,” Cromwell replies. “Anne will have her spies watching for any delays. I must act, as soon as I am back at Austin Friars.”

  As fate would have it, it is Queen Anne who extends Sir Thomas More a stay of execution. As her ladies-in-waiting prepare for the return to Whitehall, Anne starts to shiver. Within the hour, she is delirious, and the physician, Adolphus Theophrasus is sent for by a worried Duke of Norfolk. The Boleyns, father and son, are already on their way back to London, and Tom Howard assumes responsibility for the health of the queen.

  “I dare not visit her,” Henry says, pathetically. “Lest I am infected with the sickness.”

  “Quite so, sire,” Thomas Cromwell says. “The king must be kept safe, at all costs. I will speak with the doctor, once he is done, and bring you word of the queen.”

  “And the child, Thomas,” Henry says. “The queen is almost five months along, and he must live. England cannot afford to lose its future king.” Cromwell bows, and almost runs to meet the physician, before he can speak with anyone else.

  “Adolphus, old friend,” he says, drawing the big man to one side. “How goes it?”

  “It is not the sweating sickness.”

  “Hush, man. I do not wish to know what it is not,” Cromwell tells him. “Rather, I would know what it is.”