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

by Anne Stevens

  “How so?”

  “A Jewess… an outcast… feeding the very people who despise her religion.” More smiles. “We live in an upside down world, do we not, my friend?”

  “Meg , and the rest of your family, are well.”

  “Abroad?” More asks, more in hope than certainty. His daughter is a wilful woman, and will do exactly as the mood takes her. “Somewhere safe from the queen’s spite?”

  “No.”

  “They must leave.”

  “Your words tell me the answer to my question.” Cromwell sits at the small table. “You wish them to be safely away, because you will not take the oath.”

  “That is so.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I will not.”

  “Can you tell me your reasons?”

  “Yes, but I will not do that, either,” More says. “Suffice it to say, that I cannot see my way clear to go with you on this matter, my dear old friend.”

  “I will report back, but the council will not accept what you say,” Cromwell tells him. “We have strung this out to the limit, Tom, and now, we must pay the piper his price. Either you take the bloody oath, or you refuse. I am instructed to say that we do not need a reason for your refusal. The very act of refusal is to be considered treason.”

  “Then I am a dead man,” Sir Thomas More says, and shrugs his shoulders.

  “I tried,” Cromwell says. “Meet me, part way. Tell me that you are considering things, and could well change your mind, given another week, or two.”

  “Why stretch things out any longer?” More says. “I will not take the oath, and that is final.”

  “Then you will die,” says Cromwell.

  “If I must, but I will go to the bosom of my maker with a clear conscience.” Sir Thomas holds out a hand, and Thomas Cromwell clasps it, tightly.

  “Come with me, Tom,” he begs.

  “And lose my soul?” More pulls his hand back, as if it is scalded.

  “Men who are as good as you have sworn,” Thomas Cromwell says. He knows this is a ridiculous thing to say, for if they wear to save their lives, above their souls, how can they be better? Sir Thomas More is, the Privy Councillor realises, the last good man in England.

  “That is their concern, Thomas,” More replies. “They put their rightful king before Almighty God, so as to validate an invalid marriage.”

  “Henry wants a divorce.” Cromwell’s words hang in the damp air, like a spectre at the feast, and More almost laughs in his face.

  “From Anne Boleyn?”

  “Yes. He tires of her, and wants to re-marry.”

  “Then Henry is the King of Cloud Cuckoo Land,” More tells his friend. It is a popular theme for ribald stories that in the land of Cockayne, or Cuckoo Land, even the most absurd things can happen on an everyday basis. Kings serve paupers, the sad laugh, and the happy ones cry. “He seeks to turn about the well ordered running of a world that does not need, or want, his cockayed ways.”

  “Then horses shall lay eggs, cows fly, and Henry have his way,” Cromwell says. “He will have you dead, Anne gone, and Jane Seymour as his queen, before Christmas next.”

  “What… little Jane Seymour?” Sir Thomas finally allows mirth to gain the better of him, and he laughs. Cromwell sees there is no more to be said, and stands to leave. The cell door swings open, almost too fast, and a grim faced guard lets him out.

  “See that Sir Thomas’s lodgings are improved,” he tells the man, “and make sure his food is plentiful, and hot.”

  “I cannot do that sir.”

  “What is that?” Cromwell thinks he has misheard. That a common guard might refuse a command from him, is not something he has ever considered to be a possibility.

  “Orders, Master Cromwell.” The guard actually steps back, so black is the look he receives. “Forgive me, sir. I would not cross you, if it can be avoided, but the orders are directly from the king.”

  “Given to you?” Cromwell almost knocks the man off his feet with a well aimed thump to his ear. “In writing, you insolent dolt? Can you even read? Who dares to issue orders, using the king‘s name?”

  “Sir Richard Rich, sir,” the man gasps out. “He has a sealed document, and says that he is in charge of the prisoner, from this day onwards.”

  “Rich, you say? See Sir Thomas is kept warm, and well fed, and there is a bag of silver in it for you,” Thomas Cromwell snaps. “Ignore me, and Colonel Draper will call to see that you understand better. I shall deal with Richard Rich!”

  “He is in the White Tower, sir,” the guard offers. He is caught between two powerful forces, and cannot do right for doing wrong. “I seek only to do my duty … yet it is always us common men who must be kicked up the arse, sir.”

  “I am from the same stock as you, fellow,” Thomas Cromwell admits. “Forgive my anger, and do as I bid of you. Master Rich will be along presently, to confirm my wishes.” He is almost out of the room when what the man has said sinks home. “Hold, fellow. You say Sir Richard Rich?”

  “Yes, sir. Did you not know?”

  “That the king has knighted the fool?” Cromwell shakes his head in surprise.

  “No, sir … that he has, just yesterday, appointed him to the position of Attorney General.”

  “Dear Christ, then we do truly live in Cloud Cuckoo Land!”

  Richard Rich is dining with the Warden of the Tower, and the Master of the Royal Mint who has quarters in the fortress. His position in life seems to become more elevated with each passing day, and well placed people now seek him out as a friend. The king now gives him direct orders, and Queen Anne flirts with him, and begs for him to pass on small items of gossip from the court. Even the Holy Roman Emperor’s ambassador, Eustace Chapuys, sends him small gifts of money.

  Only the day before, Henry has made him into his leading lawyer, and placed him above every other legal mind in England. It is what he has been working towards, and gives him the protection he needs from the likes of Cromwell and his cronies. With the full force of the law behind him, he can begin the steady rise to the top of the political dung heap.

  He is sipping his second glass of wine, and extolling the great beauty, and regal virtue of Anne Boleyn, when the door is kicked open, and a towering angel of retribution fills the opening. The Warden of the Tower leaps to his feet, and bows to Cromwell. The man is a good friend of Colonel Will Draper, and knows where his true loyalties must lie.

  “Master Cromwell … this is such a pleasant surprise,” he gushes. “You must join us in our simple repast. This is our new Master of the Mint, Sir Arthur….”

  “I know he is new,” Cromwell growls. “I had the last one hanged from an orange tree. Good day, Rich, I see you have forgotten your manners. It is customary to stand, when a better enters the room.” Richard Rich stands, and offers a slight bow.

  “I think ’equal’ might be a better term, sir,” Rich sneers. “For I am now the king’s new Attorney General.” His two companions move a half step further away from him, as if not wishing to be involved with whatever is about to happen.

  Thomas Cromwell smiles, and takes Rich’s seat at the well laden table. He notes the haunch of venison, and the plentiful supply of hard cheeses, fresh baked bread, and wine. Richard Rich moves down, and goes to sit at the next empty place.

  “I see that the wide spread famine is yet to reach His Majesty’s Tower,” Cromwell mutters. “I do not recollect giving you permission to sit in my presence, Master Rich.”

  Sir Richard Rich hovers, his backside an inch off the chair, and his face flushes with embarrassment. Despite his recent elevation, Thomas Cromwell is still the leader of the Privy Council, and none take precedence over him, unless it is the king, or a full earl of the realm. So, being a coward at heart, he stands, and waits for permission to sit. Cromwell cuts himself a piece of venison, and tears off a lump of bread, before gesturing for the Warden of the Tower of London, and the Master of the Royal Mint to be seated.

  “How goes the
new position, Sir Arthur?” Cromwell says, as if to demonstrate his total power. “The king asked me who to appoint, and I thought of you at once.”

  “Well, Master Cromwell,” Sir Arthur replies. “I am grateful for your patronage, and must ever be in your debt.”

  “Think nothing of it. It gives me pleasure to help an old friend, as easily as I break an enemy. And how stands the Tower, sir? Has the king any need to worry?”

  “The Tower stands fast, sir,” the Warden reports. “The ordinance is in good working order, our ‘guests’ are all accounted for, and even the ravens are loyal to their king.”

  “Now, Richard,” Cromwell says to the, still standing, young man. “What is this I hear about your breeches?”

  “Breeches, sir?” Rich is caught off guard, and does not expect this sort of treatment.

  “Why, yes.” Thomas Cromwell chews his meat, and one can imagine that it is Sir Richard Rich in his maw, being slowly masticated. “It seems that you are outgrowing them. You seek to give orders, concerning Sir Thomas More?”

  “I was…”

  “Silence!” The word slices through the room, and pins poor Rich into his place. “The guard tells me you have a warrant of some sort? Show me.” Rich fumbles in his purse, and produces a folded document. Cromwell sees that it bears, not the king’s seal, but the white falcon of Queen Anne. He holds out a hand, and makes Rich walk over to him with it.

  “This is from the Attorney General’s Office, yet sealed by the Boleyn woman,” Cromwell says, and the two onlookers gasp in surprise. The Privy Councillor is offering a most blatant insult to the queen. “You might as well wipe it on your arse, for all the strength it possesses. My charter is from someone named Henry, and bears his royal seal.”

  “Queen Anne wishes matters hurried along,” says a nervous Rich. “And as I am Attorney General, it is my sworn duty.” Thomas Cromwell nods, sagaciously at the cowering young lawyer, and waves Rich into a chair.

  “Yes, she wants things hurried along … as does the king, Richard. Though there is a world of difference. The queen seeks her callow revenge, whilst King Henry wishes only to avoid any embarrassing criticism from the finest legal brain in Europe. The king does not wish More dead, at all costs. You understand me, fellow?”

  “Queen Anne…”

  “Is a dangerous, and wilful woman,” Cromwell insists. “Yet she is only a woman. Go against me, Richard, and you will fall with her. I seem to have had this conversation with you before, have I not?”

  “I am torn between two camps, Master Cromwell.” Richard Rich has even less courage than morality, and wishes he could work his wiles unseen. “You treat me badly, and try to keep me from advancement, whilst the queen promises me things, if only I do as she bids.”

  “I can have you executed for perjury,” Cromwell replies. It is a shot in the dark, but the effect on young Rich is most gratifying. His face drains of colour, and his hands begin to shake.

  “I do not mean to … do not wish to….”

  “Tell me what she asks of you, Richard, and I will try to spare you.” Cromwell’s voice is cold, and promises an evil end for the young lawyer, if he makes a wrong move.

  “She merely wonders if I might overhear something.”

  “Said by More?”

  “Yes.”

  “What?”

  “She only wondered.”

  “What words would she have you hear, Richard?” Cromwell stands, and towers over the frightened man.

  “That I might ask More to take the oath, and that he refuses me, saying that the king does not have the right to ask. That it is for God, to decide … not a mere man.”

  “And Sir Thomas, who has spoken to no one, all these months, would suddenly say this to you?”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you are a liar, a thief, a scoundrel, and a creature of such low esteem, that I might tread in you, rather than on you. If it comes to a trial, and you utter your perjured words, I will see that you are ruined, Sir Richard Rich.”

  “How can I refuse the queen?”

  “The Boleyn name will not save you,” Cromwell tells the young lawyer. “Even were the king to order you to lie, I would still take my revenge on you. Let it be my oath. I, Thomas Cromwell do swear to utterly destroy, and confound my enemies, wherever they might seek to hide. Now, my dear Warden, shall we dine?”

  “I will say nothing.” Richard Rich speaks the words, but knows he is lying to himself. If threatened, he would condemn his own mother, and if paid, betray God himself.

  “Hush, Richard,” Thomas Cromwell tells him. “No more lies. As our new Attorney General you will be expected to lead the prosecution. Once Sir Thomas More is on trial, no power in Heaven, or on Earth, can save him. Your paltry lies will make no difference to the outcome.” He raises a glass, and proposes a toast to the company. “Gentlemen, here is to the last good man in England. God save his immortal soul.”

  13 Fleas Upon Fleas

  “Ah, here comes the Duke of Norfolk, and poor Suffolk is behind him.” Cromwell frowns, and tells Rafe Sadler to stay close enough to hear what transpires. “For they do not know how to placate the king, without my advice. He rages, almost daily at them, and swears he is surrounded by traitors.”

  “He is in a foul mood, because of Bishop Fisher’s death, three weeks ago,” Rafe says. “He seeks to lay blame.”

  “He ordered it,” Cromwell replies, with a shrug. “The man died for his beliefs, and it has made him a saint, amongst those who still follow the old Roman Catholic ways. What did he expect the world to do … applaud him?”

  “Fisher broke down, and recanted. Then he swore the oath, and begged for forgiveness,” Rafe reports.

  “And they sentenced him to an easier death?” Cromwell has heard the tale, but wonders if Rafe knows something more.

  “They did. Fisher thought he was to be spared, you see. When they told him how he had been tricked by Richard Rich, he withdrew his confession, begged forgiveness of God, and denied the king’s right to rule the English church.”

  “And so they killed him anyway,” Cromwell says. “Did they not think of the consequences?”

  “It seems not. The king’s closest advisors all agreed, and told Henry that Fisher was a traitor, and will be forgotten in a month.”

  “More fool them,” Cromwell replies. “For here we are, already in July, and his fame as a martyr spreads across the civilised world. The Pope will canonise the poor man, before long. Now, hush, and move a little away from me, Rafe.”

  “Master Cromwell, a word, if you please!” Tom Howard, the Duke of Norfolk calls. He tries to sound affable, and smiles a feral smile ay the Privy Councillor.

  “I could give him two,” Cromwell sighs. “Though I doubt he would respond to them. Yes, My Lord Norfolk? Are you well? How is the king today?”

  “Ranting,” Charles Brandon replies, as he catches up with his fellow noble. “He is beset with complaints, and wonders why he is so ill served by those about him. What can we do to reassure His Majesty of our continued devotion, Master Cromwell?”

  “Do not be an ass, Brandon,” Norfolk snarls. “England is falling to pieces, because its first minister is tied up in legal proceedings, day and night. Henry needs you by his side, Cromwell, as much as I hate to admit it. It was a black day when we brought Cardinal Wolsey down, and a blacker day when Henry made you Sir Thomas’s tormentor in chief.”

  “I cannot fulfil both roles,” Cromwell says, though, in truth, he has distanced himself from the affairs of state for a few weeks, because there are some nasty pitfalls to be avoided. The king in France threatens war, because Admiral Travis has done more than just raid his shipping, whilst the emperor demands the immediate release of Sir Thomas More. The Pope is busy excommunicating everyone who even thinks of helping Henry’s cause, and his own wife spends her time nagging at him. “Either I am a prosecutor of political prisoners, or a Privy Councillor. It is for the king, in his wisdom, to decide.”

  “
Well, he has,” Norfolk informs Cromwell. “He has told me to have Richard Rich put More on trial, at once, and bid you attend him now, as his chief councillor. I will have our new Attorney General press ahead. He must have Sir Thomas tried, and executed, within the week, and you will return England to its former good standing.”

  “There is no evidence against Sir Thomas, gentlemen” Cromwell says. “I have questioned him, for weeks on end, and he does not utter a single damning phrase. He professes his love for the king, and wants nothing but the best for his country.”

  “A trivial matter,” Suffolk says. “It seems that More has been cursing the king, and saying he is not fit to rule. My own steward heard him, and so did Sir Richard Rich… though he now, strangely enough, says otherwise.”

  “I shall twist Master Rich by the balls, and have the truth out of him,” Norfolk avows. “Then, More must make his peace, for friend or not, I shall have to take his head.”

  “Then there is nothing else to be done,” Cromwell says. “We live in sad times, My Lords, when a king can be swayed by his queen in this way.”

  “Have a care,” Norfolk growls. “My niece is queen, and is mother to the heir.”

  “The female heir, sir,” Cromwell replies, softly. “The king would do anything for a son. You are both wise men, and I hope you understand what I mean. Good day.” The Privy Councillor is needed by the king, and he leaves the two men gaping after him.

  “Sadler, come to me,” Norfolk demands. “What does Cromwell mean by that?”

  “I cannot say for sure, sir, as I am the king’s man.”

  “Then guess,” Suffolk says. “For I know where your love lies, Rafe.”

  “Very well. The king wants a boy. This queen does not seem to be able to provide one. The king needs a queen who can deliver a male heir.”

  “Henry would never dare,” Norfolk says. “It is one thing to put aside your brother’s wife … that was legal … but he cannot divorce Anne. The church would never agree.”

  “No, My Lord. She must stand aside for the good of the realm,” Rafe concludes. “That is what Master Cromwell thinks, and that is what the king will think. Now, if you have no further need of me, I must attend the king, in case he needs my legal expertise.”