by Anne Stevens
The King’s Angels
By Anne Stevens
High Treason in Henry’s Court
TightCircle Publishing 2015
Foreword
It is 1532, and Will Draper is back from Italy. He returns home to England, to find it a subtly different place from the country he left, but the year before. Henry now realises, thanks to Thomas Cromwell’s machinations, that Pope Clement will never grant his freedom from Queen Katherine, and is disposed to gain his desires by any means open to him, as king.
He is hedged in, on all sides, by men willing to offer him advice. Those closest to the king are Cromwell, Norfolk, Charles Brandon, the dissolute Duke of Suffolk, George Boleyn, Stephen Gardiner, the Bishop of Winchester, and Sir Thomas More, Lord Chancellor of England.
These men are like the king’s ‘guardian angels’, drawn together to provide help and support to the increasingly wayward monarch. He uses them, instead, like birds of prey; each, in turn must fly, stoop, and hunt for him. Each man moves in, and out of favour on a seemingly weekly basis, and each must look to their own devices, if they are to survive these turbulent times
Thomas Cromwell, the son of a blacksmith, is the least privileged of Henry’s band of angels, and must fight hard for his place at the high table. He is, at heart, more of a Protestant reformer, and he wishes the church, and the state, to change for the better.
Norfolk, and the Boleyn family support Cromwell, but for their own ends, and Suffolk is deep in his debt. Stephen Gardiner and Thomas More are his two oldest, and dearest friends, yet pose a terrible threat to his grand design.
Since being declared ‘Head of the Church in England ~ for as far as the law of Christ allows’ in 1531, Henry’s deep distrust, and hatred of the Papacy has grown apace, and he sees intrigue and treason around every corner.
The king can be a generous master to his guardian angels, but demands, in return, their unwavering loyalty. Sometimes, they must remember their own limitations and, deep in their hearts they know one stark truth. Even angels may fall.
1 A New Task
Will Draper opens one eye, and groans. The sounds of the house on the river are reminding him that he is back home, and that he must conform to Miriam’s way of life with a goodwill born out of his love for her. She is, after all is said and done, the true head of the household, and runs it with a passion and dedication unusual in so young a woman.
He works, when required, for Master Thomas Cromwell, the Privy Councillor, and earns a good, though sporadic income from his adventures. Just a few months before, he returned from Venice with over seven hundred pounds in gold ducats, only to find that Miriam has outdone him. She has increased her market business two fold, and opened a large new warehouse in Putney, from where she distributes an ever widening list of goods.
He rolls over, and stands. His clothes are laid out on a nearby chair, and a good breakfast will be waiting for him below. On a working day, his wife is up at five, and about her business by six, at the latest. She runs market stalls, and imports both Dutch and North Country cheeses, rope from Derbyshire, lamp oil from Bristol, salted herrings from Lowestoft’s fish markets, fresh eels from the Thames, and casks of mace from Venice.
Their combined income is well above fifteen hundred pounds a year, which is close to the two thousand a year that Norfolk’s estates bring him in. Folk in the neighbourhood have taken to calling their ever growing household, Draper’s Hall, much to the amusement of Tom Cromwell, who admires their thrift, and hard work.
“The girl is an angel, sent from Heaven above,” he tells Will, when they meet, later in the morning. “She will make a lord of you inside ten years.”
“I do not wish to be a lord, Master Thomas … as neither do you. How often do you tell me to keep to the shadows, else we attract greedy, dangerous men to us?”
“True enough.” Cromwell sighs. He sighs a lot these days, and is more prone to introspection than he once was. It is his age, he suspects. “Let the girl make you rich, Will, and I will keep you from under her feet.”
“Ah, you have a task for me?” Will Draper tries to sound as if he is annoyed, but in truth, is happy for something to do. His wife is making him look like an indolent oaf, and he needs to be employed. “Not another trip to Italy, I hope?”
“The Doge wrote to me but the other day, Will,” Thomas Cromwell replies. “He still speaks glowingly of how you smashed the condottiero’s army … with but thirty men at your back. I would pay a thousand pounds in gold to have been alongside you that day, my boy.”
Will believes him. Cromwell has always longed for the far off days when he was a freebooting mercenary, fighting on the wrong side of every battle, and escaping scrapes by the skin of his teeth. The fight, outside San Gemini, in Umbria had been no more than a skirmish. Still, it was a close run thing, with a desperate last charge turning the affair.
The forces of Malatesta Baglioni, the infamous condottiero, had been on the brink of breaking the Doge’s Swiss guards and the young men of Venice, when he and Mush had charged into the enemy’s rear. So violently had they struck home, that the condottiero’s men had believed them to be a relieving army, and scattered to the four winds.
With hundreds dead on each side, Will could hardly call it a great victory - more a pyrrhic one. Still, the Doge of Venice had been grateful, sending him and his friends home laden with sacks of gold, and a valuable import licence for mace, which Miriam has taken up with great gusto. London is buying her imported spice at a good price, and all is going well.
“What would you have me do?” Will asks, in a not unkindly voice. Cromwell is a good, and fair minded master, and seldom leaves him unrewarded.
“I need you to go to Calais, and find a man for me.”
“Is he in hiding?” Will understands this kind of a job, and slips into the right frame of mind.
“Not from us,” Cromwell replies, evasively.
“Please, define ‘us’, master.” Will Draper knows Thomas Cromwell has a foot in many camps, and does not want to make a fundamental mistake.
“I mean, not from me,” Cromwell says. “He has been in a place called Augsburg for many months past, on the king’s diplomatic business. Then he was called home at the end of his mission. In Bruges, he was waylaid by several villains, who tried to kill him. He fought them off, made good his escape, and is now hiding out in Calais. I want him safely home, and under my roof, Will. Can you do it?”
“I’ll need some help. Mush will come, of course.”
“Take Tom Wyatt.”
“I cannot. He is still in Portugal.” Will is on thin ice now, as he does not wish to speak of why Wyatt was knocked out, and put on a Lisbon bound cargo vessel.
“I cannot imagine why the boy would want to go there,” Cromwell says, rubbing his chin. “He has no family over there, or business interests. Did he give any clue?”
“None,” Will replies. He does not like lying to Cromwell, but the truth, that Wyatt needed to be kept away from England, is too dangerous to know. The handsome poet is wildly infatuated with Anne Boleyn, and cannot be trusted to keep his mouth shut, and his head on his shoulders. King Henry is a powder keg, where his future wife is concerned, and Tom Wyatt’s lovelorn poetry is the tinder that might light the fuse.
“I worry about the fellow too much,” says Cromwell. It is only a few weeks since an inflammatory pamphlet about a French trained whore, and a poet named as Tom Whatnot has come to the attention of the king, and the matter is still being investigated by Sir Thomas Audley, leader of the House of Commons, and a close friend of
Austin Friars’ master. “For ‘tis only that I know his father, and did make a foolish promise to the old man, that I will keep him safe.”
“God looks after all his fools,” Will tells him, smiling. “Now, who is it I must find for you?”
“Stephen Vaughan. When not abroad, on the king’s business, he is a merchant … of sorts.”
“Sweet Christ, sir, but you know some choice fellows.” Will exclaims. “On my return from Italy, I heard some tale around your breakfast table, concerning the man. Was he not almost taken up, and burnt at the stake?”
“That would be that wicked business with the priest, George Constantine,” Cromwell replies. “Sir Thomas More took the fellow up, and accused him of being a heretic. The man broke, as soon as the Lord Chancellor’s men started to stretch his bones. He named two of his friends, and another priest, as conspirators in the distribution of certain texts by William Tyndale.”
“It was only a matter of time before Sir Thomas retaliated, sir. You have dealt him one or two blows, of late.” Will knows that, for his betrayal, Constantine was allowed to flee to France, and save himself from the fire. His comrades had fared worse, and were quickly condemned, and burnt at the stake, before Cromwell could sway the king to mercy. “Those men will become martyrs to the greater cause.”
“That will console their widows, and their five fatherless children,” Cromwell says, sarcastically. “I have made provision for them, but cannot keep everyone whose husband goes to the stake for their beliefs. Our Father Constantine will burn in Hell for his treachery. It was after naming his friends, that More played him false, saying that he must name the greatest culprit … Stephen Vaughan. Though the two have never met, Constantine denounced him, as a friend of Tyndale, and a known heretic.”
“I see.” Will Draper wonders why the man is still alive, and asks the question.
“Because of me.” Cromwell rings a bell, and orders wine. He is taking more these days, and usually un-watered. “I went to the king, and showed him that this cowardly priest, Constantine must have lied. Henry accepted my word, but demanded that Stephen be removed from court, until the Lord Chancellor’s men had ceased searching for him.”
“So, you sent him to Augsburg,” Will says, “where, no doubt, you found a number of things for him to do for you.”
“So young, and so cynical.” Cromwell pours two glasses of rich red wine for them. “And so right. The king has exhausted his banker friends, across Europe. He drives away the rich Jews, threatens the Lombards, and upsets the Medici house. That leaves only the Fuggers of Augsburg.”
“They are bankers?” Will has little experience of the world of high finance, and thinks of bankers as men who stroll around with sacks of money tied to their belts.
“Perhaps the richest in the world,” Cromwell explains. “They have the contract with Emperor Charles to handle all the gold and silver that comes out of the New World mines, and have been quietly absorbing the Medici business. Anton Fugger is a year younger than I, and worth more than a thousand Thomas Cromwells.”
“Was Master Vaughan successful?”
“Partially.” Cromwell likes to win, and the thought that the Fugger clan have the best of the deal so far, disquiets him. “Vaughan has negotiated a loan of two hundred and fifty thousand pounds for the realm, providing we can present them with favourable accounts. Herr Anton Fugger wishes to know his money is safe.”
“And is it?”
“It is. Our current national income is just over one million, and the income from the coming church reformation will double that, but we do not have it yet. In the meantime, we are looking at the possibility of a costly war with France. Once that starts, the Scots will join in, and we will need two armies.”
“Then let us ride on the Scots at once, and so stop their threat,” Will says, speaking like a true soldier. “With ten thousand men, and a few canon, a good general will take Stirling in a week, and bring them to their senses. Once they are beaten, Francois will think twice before he raises his banner. He will remember his history …. For Agincourt and Crecy still scare them.”
“Ah, the military mind at work,” Cromwell replies. “We cannot simply attack the Scots, Will. There must be a valid reason for it, or the world and all its armies might turn on us. No, we must wait, and prepare. The king is building war ships, but too few, and too slowly.”
“So, Henry must have his loan,” Will says. “Then we can raise our army, and arm our ships well, the better to withstand a war that might never happen?”
“You begin to see, my boy.” Thomas Cromwell pours a second glass of wine, and offers the jug to Draper, who refuses. “We must show that we can afford the Fugger loan. Master Vaughan was forced to agree to these terms, and their people will visit in a couple of months to take a look at us.”
“Is that a problem?”
“Until a few hours ago, I’d have said not,” Cromwell tells his agent, “but there are complications. Vaughan’s secondary mission was to call in to visit William Tyndale, and ask him to cease printing his English bible. The king thought the idea up, and thinks Tyndale will listen to Vaughan, because they were once friends.”
“I wager that did not go down any too well,” Will says, smiling at the naivety of the plan. “Master Tyndale is a fanatic, and nothing will stop him, except death. What then?”
“William refused, of course, and Vaughan continued on his way. A message came, just this morning, from Calais. It was in code, and hurriedly written. Stephen writes that he is in hiding, and that he has become aware of a secret that might ruin our plans.”
“What?”
“He would not commit it to paper,” Cromwell concludes. “Whatever it is, it is far too dangerous to be put down in any message. You must travel at once, and find Stephen Vaughan, even if you must tear Calais apart.”
“For that, I must have a giant,” Will replies. “May I take your nephew with me?”
“You may, but I implore you not to get him killed, Will, lest his mother descends on me in a fury. My sister is a most fearsome woman, and I fear her more than any Scottish army!”
“We have enough to take our own house now,” Gwen Draper says, happily, and Mush’s face clouds over. She is almost sixteen years old, and eager to start a family with her new husband. Since coming out of Wales, the girl and her man have been lodging with Mush’s sister, and brother-in-law, Will.
“Don’t you like living here?” he asks.
“Yes, but Miriam and Will might wish us gone, so that they might have some privacy.” Gwen has seen a small house, less than a hundred yards further down towards the estuary, and longs to become a home maker. “Master Gough, the boat maker, says we can have it for six pounds a year.”
“Six pounds!” Mush cannot believe how the price of leasing a house has gone up these last twelve months.
“It is always dearer in London, my love,” she says, soothingly. “Or we might buy it outright, for sixty pounds.”
“The bloody thief, I ought to slit his throat.” Mush ben Mordecai, who is now known as Draper, can scarcely believe what he hears. “I risk my life to earn gold, and these fellows make it by sitting at home, building houses.”
“Mush, we have almost a thousand pounds invested by Master Cromwell, at four percent a year. I asked him what that means, and he tells me we have a yearly income of thirty nine pounds eight shillings. Add that to what Miriam pays me, and we can afford it with ease.”
“Miriam pays you?” Mush still thinks of himself as a single man in many ways, and has yet to learn that he must take an interest in the doings of his wife. “What for?”
“I help with her market stalls,” Gwen replies. “I told you I would keep busy whilst you were in Venice, did I not?”
“Well … yes.”
“What did you take it to mean?” Gwen asks, becoming irritated with his casual approach to life. “Did I sit at home sewing, or take a lover? No, I did not. I work for Miriam. She pays me two shillings a week.”
/> “What?” Mush is surprised at his wife’s revelation. “A brick maker only earns sixpence a day. My sister is generous indeed!”
“She must have about her those she can trust,” Gwen explains. “Miriam is going to be a great lady one day, and I think it meet that her family are drawn along with her. I shall help her to the best of my ability.”
“Then you must have the trappings of a fine lady,” Mush replies. He adores his new Welsh wife, and shall deny her nothing he can afford. “Tell Master Gough that we will buy his house, for fifty pounds. If he accepts, explain to him that he may call on my services, if ever he has need of them.”
“How will that help?” Gwen asks. She is new to the Cromwell way of doing things, and cannot see how a favour from Mush might influence a boat builder.
“He will see that I am an Austin Friars man, and that I have Thomas Cromwell behind me.” Mush does not mean this as a threat, but a promise. If the boat builder ever has a problem with the law courts, or from some violent competitor, it will be sorted out for him, the Cromwell way.
“Then I shall speak with him at once,” Gwen Draper says. She neglects to mention that Miriam is guiding her hand, and that her sister-in-law has promised them a new bed, and some choice pieces of furniture. “For who can tell when we will need the extra space?”
Mush is slow to pick up the inference, but suddenly pales with a mixture of surprise, and mild shock.
“You don’t mean …?” he stutters.
“No, not yet,” Gwen replies. “But now you are home, we have much time to catch up. If you have the inclination.”
Mush is more than inclined, he is eager. Though any children born from their union will not, in the strict sense, be Jewish, he wants nothing more than to sire a brood of olive skinned children in the heart of London. He slips an arm about Gwen’s slim waist, and pulls her close to him. Gwen kisses him, and wonders at her good fortune. A few months before, and she was a wild thing, surviving in a welsh forest, on her wits alone.
